He turned on his heel and went back to the High Street as fast as he could, with a far more prompt and decided step than before. He hastened through the streets, emptied by the bad weather, to the principal inn of the town, the George—the sign of which was fastened to a piece of wood stretched across the narrow street; and going up to the bar with some timidity (for the inn was frequented by the gentry of Monkshaven and the neighbourhood, and was considered as a touch above such customers as Philip), he asked if he could have a tax-cart6 made ready in a quarter of an hour, and sent up to the door of his shop.
‘To be sure he could; how far was it to go?’
Philip hesitated before he replied—
‘Up the Knotting Lane, to the stile leading down to Haytersbank Farm; they'll have to wait there for some as are coming.’
‘They must not wait long such an evening as this; standing in such rain and wind as there'll be up there, is enough to kill a horse.’
‘They shan't wait long,’ said Philip, decisively: ‘in a quarter of an hour, mind.’
He now went back to the shop, beating against the storm, which was increasing as the tide came in and the night hours approached.
Coulson had no word for him, but he looked reproachfully at his partner for his long, unexplained absence. Hester was putting away the ribbons and handkerchiefs, and bright-coloured things which had been used to deck the window; for no more customers were likely to come this night through the blustering weather to a shop dimly lighted by two tallow candles and an inefficient oil-lamp. Philip came up to her, and stood looking at her with unseeing eyes; but the strange consciousness of his fixed stare made her uncomfortable, and called the faint flush to her pale cheeks, and at length compelled her, as it were, to speak, and break the spell of the silence. So, curiously enough, all three spoke at once. Hester asked (without looking at Philip)—
‘Yo're sadly wet, I'm feared?’
Coulson said—
‘Thou might have a bit o' news to tell one after being on the gad all afternoon.’
Philip whispered to Hester—
‘Wilt come into t' parlour? I want a word wi' thee by oursel's.’
Hester quietly finished rolling up the ribbon she had in her hands when he spoke, and then followed him into the room behind the shop before spoken of.
Philip set down on the table the candle which he had brought out of the shop, and turning round to Hester, took her trembling hand into both of his, and gripping it nervously, said—
‘Oh! Hester, thou must help me—thou will, will not thou?’
Hester gulped down something that seemed to rise in her throat and choke her, before she answered.
‘Anything, thou knows, Philip.’
‘Yes, yes, I know. Thou sees the matter is this: Daniel Robson—he who married my aunt—is taken up for yon riot on Saturday night at t' Mariners' Arms——’
‘They spoke on it this afternoon; they said the warrant was out,’ said Hester, filling up the sentence as Philip hesitated, lost for an instant in his own thoughts.
‘Ay! the warrant is out, and he's in t' lock-up, and will be carried to York Castle to-morrow morn; and I'm afeared it will go bad with him; and they at Haytersbank is not prepared, and they must see him again before he goes. Now, Hester, will thou go in a tax-cart as will be here in less than ten minutes from t' George, and bring them back here, and they must stay all night for to be ready to see him to-morrow before he goes? It's dree weather for them, but they'll not mind that.’
He had used words as if he was making a request to Hester; but he did not seem to await her answer, so sure was he that she would go. She noticed this, and noticed also that the rain was spoken of in reference to them, not to her. A cold shadow passed over her heart, though it was nothing more than she already knew—that Sylvia was the one centre of his thoughts and his love.
‘I'll go put on my things at once,’ said she, gently.
Philip pressed her hand tenderly, a glow of gratitude overspread him.
‘Thou's a real good one, God bless thee!’ said he. ‘Thou must take care of thyself, too,’ continued he; ‘there's wraps and plenty i' th' house, and if there are not, there's those i' the shop as 'll be none the worse for once wearing at such a time as this; and wrap thee well up, and take shawls and cloaks for them, and mind as they put ‘em on. Thou'll have to get out at a stile, I'll tell t' driver where; and thou must get over t' stile and follow t' path down two fields, and th' house is right before ye, and bid ‘em make haste and lock up th' house, for they mun stay all night here. Kester 'll look after things.’
All this time Hester was hastily putting on her hat and cloak, which she had fetched from the closet where they usually hung through the day; now she stood listening, as it were, for final directions.
‘But suppose they will not come,’ said she; ‘they dunnot know me, and mayn't believe my words.’
‘They must,’ said he, impatiently. ‘They don't know what awaits 'em,’ he continued. ‘I'll tell thee, because thou 'll not let out, and it seems as if I mun tell some one—it were such a shock—he's to be tried for ‘s life. They know not it's so serious; and, Hester,’ said he, going on in his search after sympathy, ‘she's like as if she was bound up in her father.’
His lips quivered as he looked wistfully into Hester's face at these words. No need to tell her who was she. No need to put into words the fact, told plainer than words could have spoken it, that his heart was bound up in Sylvia.
Hester's face, instead of responding to his look, contracted a little, and, for the life of her, she could not have helped saying,—
‘Why don't yo' go yourself, Philip?’
‘I can't, I can't,’ said he, impatiently. ‘I'd give the world to go, for I might be able to comfort her; but there's lawyers to see, and iver so much to do, and they've niver a man friend but me to do it all. Yo'll tell her,’ said Philip, insinuatingly, as if a fresh thought had struck him, ‘as how I would ha' come. I would fain ha' come for ‘em, myself, but I couldn't, because of th' lawyer,—mind yo' say because of th' lawyer. I'd be loath for her to think I was minding any business of my own at this time; and, whatever yo' do, speak hopeful, and, for t' life of yo‘, don't speak of th' hanging, it's likely it's a mistake o' Donkin's; and anyhow—there's t' cart—anyhow I should perhaps not ha' telled thee, but it's a comfort to make a clean breast to a friend at times. God bless thee, Hester. I don't know what I should ha' done without thee, said he, as he wrapped her well up in the cart, and placed the bundles of cloaks and things by her side.
Along the street, in the jolting cart, as long as Hester could see the misty light streaming out of the shop door, so long was Philip standing bareheaded in the rain looking after her. But she knew that it was not her own poor self that attracted his lingering gaze. It was the thought of the person she was bound to.
CHAPTER XXVI
A Dreary Vigil
Through the dark rain, against the cold wind, shaken over the rough stones, went Hester in the little tax-cart. Her heart kept rising against her fate; the hot tears came unbidden to her eyes. But rebellious heart was soothed, and hot tears were sent back to their source before the time came for her alighting.
The driver turned his horse in the narrow lane, and shouted after her an injunction to make haste as, with her head bent low, she struggled down to the path to Haytersbank Farm. She saw the light in the window from the top of the brow, and involuntarily she slackened her pace. She had never seen Bell Robson, and would Sylvia recollect her? If she did not, how awkward it would be to give the explanation of who she was, and what her errand was, and why she was sent. Nevertheless, it must be done; so on she went, and standing within the little porch, she knocked faintly at the door; but in the bluster of the elements the sound was lost. Again she knocked, and now the murmur of women's voices inside was hushed, and some one came quickly to the door, and opened it sharply.
It was Sylvia. Although her face was completely in shadow, of course Hester k
new her well; but she, if indeed she would have recognized Hester less disguised, did not know in the least who the woman, muffled up in a great cloak, with her hat tied down with a silk handkerchief, standing in the porch at this time of night, could be. Nor, indeed, was she in a mood to care or to inquire. She said hastily, in a voice rendered hoarse and arid with grief:
‘Go away. This is no house for strangers to come to. We've enough on our own to think on;’ and she hastily shut the door in Hester's face, before the latter could put together the right words in which to explain her errand. Hester stood outside in the dark, wet porch discomfited, and wondering how next to obtain a hearing through the shut and bolted door. Not long did she stand, however; some one was again at the door, talking in a voice of distress and remonstrance, and slowly unbarring the bolts. A tall, thin figure of an elderly woman was seen against the warm fire-light inside as soon as the door was opened; a hand was put out, like that which took the dove into the ark, and Hester was drawn into the warmth and the light, while Bell's voice went on speaking to Sylvia before addressing the dripping stranger—
‘It's not a night to turn a dog fra' t' door; it's ill letting our grief harden our hearts. But oh! missus (to Hester), yo' mun forgive us, for a great sorrow has fallen upon us this day, an' we're like beside ourselves wi' crying an' plaining.’
Bell sate down, and threw her apron over her poor worn face, as if decently to shield the signs of her misery from a stranger's gaze. Sylvia, all tear-swollen, and looking askance and almost fiercely at the stranger who had made good her intrusion, was drawn, as it were, to her mother's side, and, kneeling down by her, put her arms round her waist, and almost lay across her lap, still gazing at Hester with cold, distrustful eyes, the expression of which repelled and daunted that poor, unwilling messenger, and made her silent for a minute or so after her entrance. Bell suddenly put down her apron.
‘Yo're cold and drenched,’ said she. ‘Come near to t' fire and warm yo'rsel; yo' mun pardon us if we dunnot think on everything atonest.’
‘Yo're very kind, very kind indeed,’ said Hester, touched by the poor woman's evident effort to forget her own grief in the duties of hospitality, and loving Bell from that moment.
‘I'm Hester Rose,’ she continued, half addressing Sylvia, who she thought might remember the name, ‘and Philip Hepburn has sent me in a tax-cart to t' stile yonder, to fetch both on yo' back to Monkshaven.’ Sylvia raised her head and looked intently at Hester. Bell clasped her hands tight together and leant forwards.
‘It's my master as wants us?’ said she, in an eager, questioning tone.
‘It's for to see yo'r master,’ said Hester. ‘Philip says he'll be sent to York to-morrow, and yo'll be fain to see him before he goes; and if yo'll come down to Monkshaven to-night, yo'll be on t' spot again' the time comes when t' justices will let ye.’
Bell was up and about, making for the place where she kept her out-going things, almost before Hester had begun to speak. She hardly understood about her husband's being sent to York, in the pos-session of the idea that she might go and see him. She did not understand or care how, in this wild night, she was to get to Monkshaven; all she thought of was, that she might go and see her husband. But Sylvia took in more points than her mother, and, almost suspiciously, began to question Hester.
‘Why are they sending him to York? What made Philip leave us? Why didn't he come hissel'?’
‘He couldn't come hissel’, he bade me say; because he was bound to be at the lawyer's at five, about yo'r father's business. I think yo' might ha' known he would ha' come for any business of his own; and, about York, it's Philip as telled me, and I never asked why. I never thought on yo'r asking me so many questions. I thought yo'd be ready to fly on any chance o' seeing your father.’ Hester spoke out the sad reproach that ran from her heart to her lips. To distrust Philip! to linger when she might hasten!
‘Oh!’ said Sylvia, breaking out into a wild cry, that carried with it more conviction of agony than much weeping could have done. ‘I may be rude and hard, and I may ask strange questions, as if I cared for t' answers yo' may gi' me; an’, in my heart o' hearts, I care for nought but to have father back wi' us, as love him so dear. I can hardly tell what I say, much less why I say it. Mother is so patient, it puts me past mysel’, for I could fight wi' t' very walls, I'm so mad wi' grieving. Sure, they'll let him come back wi' us to-morrow, when they hear from his own sel' why he did it?’
She looked eagerly at Hester for an answer to this last question, which she had put in a soft, entreating tone, as if with Hester herself the decision rested. Hester shook her head. Sylvia came up to her and took her hands, almost fondling them.
‘Yo' dunnot think they'll be hard wi' him when they hear all about it, done yo'? Why, York Castle's t' place they send a' t' thieves and robbers to, not honest men like feyther.’
Hester put her hand on Sylvia's shoulder with a soft, caressing gesture.
‘Philip will know,’ she said, using Philip's name as a kind of spell—it would have been so to her. ‘Come away to Philip,’ said she again, urging Sylvia, by her looks and manner, to prepare for the little journey. Sylvia moved away for this purpose, saying to herself,—
‘It's going to see feyther: he will tell me all.’
Poor Mrs Robson was collecting a few clothes for her husband with an eager, trembling hand, so trembling that article after article fell to the floor, and it was Hester who picked them up; and at last, after many vain attempts by the grief-shaken woman, it was Hester who tied the bundle, and arranged the cloak, and fastened down the hood; Sylvia standing by, not unobservant, though apparently absorbed in her own thoughts.
At length, all was arranged, and the key given over to Kester. As they passed out into the storm, Sylvia said to Hester,—
‘Thou's a real good wench. Thou's fitter to be about mother than me. I'm but a cross-patch at best, an' now it's like as if I was no good to nobody.’
Sylvia began to cry, but Hester had no time to attend to her, even had she the inclination: all her care was needed to help the hasty, tottering steps of the wife who was feebly speeding up the wet and slippery brow to her husband. All Bell thought of was that ‘he' was at the end of her toil. She hardly understood when she was to see him; her weary heart and brain had only received one idea—that each step she was now taking was leading her to him. Tired and exhausted with her quick walk up hill, battling all the way with wind and rain, she could hardly have held up another minute when they reached the tax-cart in the lane, and Hester had almost to lift her on to the front seat by the driver. She covered and wrapped up the poor old woman, and afterwards placed herself in the straw at the back of the cart, packed up close by the shivering, weeping Sylvia. Neither of them spoke a word at first; but Hester's tender conscience smote her for her silence before they had reached Monkshaven. She wanted to say some kind word to Sylvia, and yet knew not how to begin. Somehow, without knowing why, or reasoning upon it, she hit upon Philip's message as the best comfort in her power to give. She had delivered it before, but it had been apparently little heeded.
‘Philip bade me say it was business as kept him from fetching yo' hissel’—business wi' the lawyer, about—about yo'r father.’
‘What do they say?’ said Sylvia, suddenly, lifting her bowed head, as though she would read her companion's face in the dim light.
‘I dunnot know,’ said Hester, sadly. They were now jolting over the paved streets, and not a word could be spoken. They were now at Philip's door, which was opened to receive them even before they arrived, as if some one had been watching and listening. The old servant, Phœbe, the fixture in the house, who had belonged to it and to the shop for the last twenty years, came out, holding a candle and sheltering it in her hand from the weather, while Philip helped the tottering steps of Mrs Robson as she descended behind. As Hester had got in last, so she had now to be the first to move. Just as she was moving, Sylvia's cold little hand was laid on her arm.
‘I am
main and thankful to yo’. I ask yo'r pardon for speaking cross, but, indeed, my heart's a'most broken wi' fear about feyther.’
The voice was so plaintive, so full of tears, that Hester could not but yearn towards the speaker. She bent over and kissed her cheek, and then clambered unaided down by the wheel on the dark side of the cart. Wistfully she longed for one word of thanks or recognition from Philip, in whose service she had performed this hard task; but he was otherwise occupied, and on casting a further glance back as she turned the corner of the street, she saw Philip lifting Sylvia carefully down in his arms from her footing on the top of the wheel, and then they all went into the light and the warmth, the door was shut, the lightened cart drove briskly away, and Hester, in rain, and cold, and darkness, went homewards with her tired sad heart.
Philip had done all he could, since his return from lawyer Dawson's, to make his house bright and warm for the reception of his beloved. He had a strong apprehension of the probable fate of poor Daniel Robson; he had a warm sympathy with the miserable distress of the wife and daughter; but still at the back of his mind his spirits danced as if this was to them a festal occasion. He had even taken unconscious pleasure in Phœebe's suspicious looks and tones, as he had hurried and superintended her in her operations. A fire blazed cheerily in the parlour, almost dazzling to the travellers brought in from the darkness and the rain; candles burned—two candles, much to Phœbe's discontent. Poor Bell Robson had to sit down almost as soon as she entered the room, so worn out was she with fatigue and excitement; yet she grudged every moment which separated her, as she thought, from her husband.
‘I'm ready now,’ said she, standing up, and rather repulsing Sylvia's cares; ‘I'm ready now,’ said she, looking eagerly at Philip, as if for him to lead the way.
‘It's not to-night,’ replied he, almost apologetically. ‘You can't see him to-night; it's to-morrow morning before he goes to York; it was better for yo' to be down here in town ready; and beside I didn't know when I sent for ye that he was locked up for the night.’