CHAPTER XIII
PERPLEXITIES
Coulson and Philip were friendly, but not intimate. They never hadhad a dispute, they never were confidential with each other; intruth, they were both reserved and silent men, and, probably,respected each other the more for being so self-contained. There wasa private feeling in Coulson's heart which would have made a lessamiable fellow dislike Philip. But of this the latter wasunconscious: they were not apt to exchange many words in the roomwhich they occupied jointly.
Coulson asked Philip if he had enjoyed himself at the Corneys', andPhilip replied,--
'Not much; such parties are noane to my liking.'
'And yet thou broke off from t' watch-night to go there.'
No answer; so Coulson went on, with a sense of the duty laid uponhim, to improve the occasion--the first that had presented itselfsince the good old Methodist minister had given his congregation thesolemn warning to watch over the opportunities of various kindswhich the coming year would present.
'Jonas Barclay told us as the pleasures o' this world were likeapples o' Sodom, pleasant to look at, but ashes to taste.'
Coulson wisely left Philip to make the application for himself. Ifhe did he made no sign, but threw himself on his bed with a heavysigh.
'Are yo' not going to undress?' said Coulson, as he covered him upin bed.
There had been a long pause of silence. Philip did not answer him,and he thought he had fallen asleep. But he was roused from hisfirst slumber by Hepburn's soft movements about the room. Philip hadthought better of it, and, with some penitence in his heart for hisgruffness to the unoffending Coulson, was trying not to make anynoise while he undressed.
But he could not sleep. He kept seeing the Corneys' kitchen and thescenes that had taken place in it, passing like a pageant before hisclosed eyes. Then he opened them in angry weariness at the recurringvision, and tried to make out the outlines of the room and thefurniture in the darkness. The white ceiling sloped into thewhitewashed walls, and against them he could see the fourrush-bottomed chairs, the looking-glass hung on one side, the oldcarved oak-chest (his own property, with the initials of forgottenancestors cut upon it), which held his clothes; the boxes thatbelonged to Coulson, sleeping soundly in the bed in the oppositecorner of the room; the casement window in the roof, through whichthe snowy ground on the steep hill-side could be plainly seen; andwhen he got so far as this in the catalogue of the room, he fellinto a troubled feverish sleep, which lasted two or three hours; andthen he awoke with a start, and a consciousness of uneasiness,though what about he could not remember at first.
When he recollected all that had happened the night before, itimpressed him much more favourably than it had done at the time. Ifnot joy, hope had come in the morning; and, at any rate, he could beup and be doing, for the late wintry light was stealing down thehill-side, and he knew that, although Coulson lay motionless in hissleep, it was past their usual time of rising. Still, as it was newyear's Day, a time of some licence, Philip had mercy on hisfellow-shopman, and did not waken him till just as he was leavingthe room.
Carrying his shoes in his hand, he went softly downstairs for hecould see from the top of the flight that neither Alice nor herdaughter was down yet, as the kitchen shutters were not unclosed. Itwas Mrs. Rose's habit to rise early, and have all bright and cleanagainst her lodgers came down; but then, in general, she went torest before nine o'clock, whereas the last night she had not gonetill past twelve. Philip went about undoing the shutters, and tryingto break up the raking coal, with as little noise as might be, forhe had compassion on the tired sleepers. The kettle had not beenfilled, probably because Mrs. Rose had been unable to face the stormof the night before, in taking it to the pump just at the entranceof the court. When Philip came back from filling it, he found Aliceand Hester both in the kitchen, and trying to make up for lost timeby hastening over their work. Hester looked busy and notable withher gown pinned up behind her, and her hair all tucked away under aclean linen cap; but Alice was angry with herself for her latesleeping, and that and other causes made her speak crossly toPhilip, as he came in with his snowy feet and well-filled kettle.
'Look the' there! droppin' and drippin' along t' flags as wascleaned last night, and meddlin' wi' woman's work as a man has nobusiness wi'.'
Philip was surprised and annoyed. He had found relief from his ownthoughts in doing what he believed would help others. He gave up thekettle to her snatching hands, and sate down behind the door inmomentary ill-temper. But the kettle was better filled, andconsequently heavier than the old woman expected, and she could notmanage to lift it to the crook from which it generally hungsuspended. She looked round for Hester, but she was gone into theback-kitchen. In a minute Philip was at her side, and had heaved itto its place for her. She looked in his face for a moment wistfully,but hardly condescended to thank him; at least the sound of thewords did not pass the lips that formed them. Rebuffed by hermanner, he went back to his old seat, and mechanically watched thepreparations for breakfast; but his thoughts went back to the nightbefore, and the comparative ease of his heart was gone. The firststir of a new day had made him feel as if he had had no sufficientcause for his annoyance and despondency the previous evening; butnow, condemned to sit quiet, he reviewed looks and words, and sawjust reason for his anxiety. After some consideration he resolved togo that very night to Haytersbank, and have some talk with eitherSylvia or her mother; what the exact nature of this purposedconversation should be, he did not determine; much would depend onSylvia's manner and mood, and on her mother's state of health; butat any rate something would be learnt.
During breakfast something was learnt nearer home; though not allthat a man less unconscious and more vain than Philip might havediscovered. He only found out that Mrs. Rose was displeased with himfor not having gone to the watch-night with Hester, according to theplan made some weeks before. But he soothed his conscience byremembering that he had made no promise; he had merely spoken of hiswish to be present at the service, about which Hester was speaking;and although at the time and for a good while afterwards, he hadfully intended going, yet as there had been William Coulson toaccompany her, his absence could not have been seriously noticed.Still he was made uncomfortable by Mrs. Rose's change of manner; onceor twice he said to himself that she little knew how miserable hehad been during his 'gay evening,' as she would persist in callingit, or she would not talk at him with such persevering bitternessthis morning. Before he left for the shop, he spoke of his intentionof going to see how his aunt was, and of paying her a new year's dayvisit.
Hepburn and Coulson took it in turns week and week about to go firsthome to dinner; the one who went first sate down with Mrs. Rose andher daughter, instead of having his portion put in the oven to keepwarm for him. To-day it was Hepburn's turn to be last. All morningthe shop was full with customers, come rather to offer good wishesthan to buy, and with an unspoken remembrance of the cake and winewhich the two hospitable brothers Foster made a point of offering toall comers on new year's day. It was busy work for all--for Hesteron her side, where caps, ribbons, and women's gear were exclusivelysold--for the shopmen and boys in the grocery and draperydepartment. Philip was trying to do his business with his mind faraway; and the consequence was that his manner was not such as torecommend him to the customers, some of whom recollected it as verydifferent, courteous and attentive, if grave and sedate. One buxomfarmer's wife noticed the change to him. She had a little girl withher, of about five years old, that she had lifted up on the counter,and who was watching Philip with anxious eyes, occasionallywhispering in her mother's ear, and then hiding her face against hercloak.
'She's thought a deal o' coming to see yo', and a dunnot think asyo' mind her at all. My pretty, he's clean forgotten as how he saidlast new year's day, he'd gi' thee a barley-sugar stick, if thou'dhem him a handkercher by this.'
The child's face was buried in the comfortable breadth of duffle atthese words, while the little outstretched hand held a small squareof
coarse linen.
'Ay, she's noane forgotten it, and has done her five stitches a day,bless her; and a dunnot believe as yo' know her again. She's PhoebeMoorsom, and a'm Hannah, and a've dealt at t' shop reg'lar thisfifteen year.'
'I'm very sorry,' said Philip. 'I was up late last night, and I'm abit dazed to-day. Well! this is nice work, Phoebe, and I'm sure I'mvery much beholden to yo'. And here's five sticks o' barley-sugar,one for every stitch, and thank you kindly, Mrs. Moorsom, too.'
Philip took the handkerchief and hoped he had made honourable amendsfor his want of recognition. But the wee lassie refused to be lifteddown, and whispered something afresh into her mother's ear, whosmiled and bade her be quiet. Philip saw, however, that there wassome wish ungratified on the part of the little maiden which he wasexpected to inquire into, and, accordingly, he did his duty.
'She's a little fool; she says yo' promised to gi'e her a kiss, andt' make her yo'r wife.'
The child burrowed her face closer into her mother's neck, andrefused to allow the kiss which Philip willingly offered. All hecould do was to touch the back of the little white fat neck with hislips. The mother carried her off only half satisfied, and Philipfelt that he must try and collect his scattered wits, and be morealive to the occasion.
Towards the dinner-hour the crowd slackened; Hester began toreplenish decanters and bottles, and to bring out a fresh cakebefore she went home to dinner; and Coulson and Philip looked overthe joint present they always made to her on this day. It was a silkhandkerchief of the prettiest colours they could pick out of theshop, intended for her to wear round her neck. Each tried topersuade the other to give it to her, for each was shy of the act ofpresentation. Coulson was, however, the most resolute; and when shereturned from the parlour the little parcel was in Philip's hands.
'Here, Hester,' said he, going round the counter to her, just as shewas leaving the shop. 'It's from Coulson and me; a handkerchief foryo' to wear; and we wish yo' a happy New Year, and plenty on 'em;and there's many a one wishes the same.'
He took her hand as he said this. She went a little paler, and hereyes brightened as though they would fill with tears as they methis; she could not have helped it, do what she would. But she onlysaid, 'Thank yo' kindly,' and going up to Coulson she repeated thewords and action to him; and then they went off together to dinner.
There was a lull of business for the next hour. John and Jeremiahwere dining like the rest of the world. Even the elder errand-boyhad vanished. Philip rearranged disorderly goods; and then sate downon the counter by the window; it was the habitual place for the onewho stayed behind; for excepting on market-day there was little orno custom during the noon-hour. Formerly he used to move the draperywith which the window was ornamented, and watch the passers-by withcareless eye. But now, though he seemed to gaze abroad, he sawnothing but vacancy. All the morning since he got up he had beentrying to fight through his duties--leaning against a hope--a hopethat first had bowed, and then had broke as soon as he really triedits weight. There was not a sign of Sylvia's liking for him to begathered from the most careful recollection of the past evening. Itwas of no use thinking that there was. It was better to give it upaltogether and at once. But what if he could not? What if thethought of her was bound up with his life; and that once torn out byhis own free will, the very roots of his heart must come also?
No; he was resolved he would go on; as long as there was life therewas hope; as long as Sylvia remained unpledged to any one else,there was a chance for him. He would remodel his behaviour to her.He could not be merry and light-hearted like other young men; hisnature was not cast in that mould; and the early sorrows that hadleft him a lonely orphan might have matured, but had not enlivened,his character. He thought with some bitterness on the power of easytalking about trifles which some of those he had met with at theCorneys' had exhibited. But then he felt stirring within him a forceof enduring love which he believed to be unusual, and which seemedas if it must compel all things to his wish in the end. A year or soago he had thought much of his own cleverness and his painfullyacquired learning, and he had imagined that these were the qualitieswhich were to gain Sylvia. But now, whether he had tried them andhad failed to win even her admiration, or whether some true instincthad told him that a woman's love may be gained in many ways soonerthan by mere learning, he was only angry with himself for his pastfolly in making himself her school--nay, her taskmaster. To-night,though, he would start off on a new tack. He would not even upbraidher for her conduct the night before; he had shown her hisdispleasure at the time; but she should see how tender and forgivinghe could be. He would lure her to him rather than find fault withher. There had perhaps been too much of that already.
When Coulson came back Philip went to his solitary dinner. Ingeneral he was quite alone while eating it; but to-day Alice Rosechose to bear him company. She watched him with cold severe eye forsome time, until he had appeased his languid appetite. Then shebegan with the rebuke she had in store for him; a rebuke the motivesto which were not entirely revealed even to herself.
'Thou 're none so keen after thy food as common,' she began. 'Plainvictuals goes ill down after feastin'.'
Philip felt the colour mount to his face; he was not in the mood forpatiently standing the brunt of the attack which he saw was coming,and yet he had a reverent feeling for woman and for age. He wishedshe would leave him alone; but he only said--'I had nought but aslice o' cold beef for supper, if you'll call that feasting.'
'Neither do godly ways savour delicately after the pleasures of theworld,' continued she, unheeding his speech. 'Thou wert wont to seekthe house of the Lord, and I thought well on thee; but of latethou'st changed, and fallen away, and I mun speak what is in myheart towards thee.'
'Mother,' said Philip, impatiently (both he and Coulson called Alice'mother' at times), 'I don't think I am fallen away, and any way Icannot stay now to be--it's new year's Day, and t' shop is throng.'
But Alice held up her hand. Her speech was ready, and she mustdeliver it.
'Shop here, shop there. The flesh and the devil are gettin' hold onyo', and yo' need more nor iver to seek t' ways o' grace. New year'sday comes and says, "Watch and pray," and yo' say, "Nay, I'll seekfeasts and market-places, and let times and seasons come and gowithout heedin' into whose presence they're hastening me." Time was,Philip, when thou'd niver ha' letten a merry-making keep thee fra't' watch-night, and t' company o' the godly.'
'I tell yo' it was no merry-making to me,' said Philip, withsharpness, as he left the house.
Alice sat down on the nearest seat, and leant her head on herwrinkled hand.
'He's tangled and snared,' said she; 'my heart has yearned afterhim, and I esteemed him as one o' the elect. And more nor me yearnsafter him. O Lord, I have but one child! O Lord, spare her! But o'erand above a' I would like to pray for his soul, that Satan might nothave it, for he came to me but a little lad.'
At that moment Philip, smitten by his conscience for his hard mannerof speech, came back; but Alice did not hear or see him till he wasclose by her, and then he had to touch her to recall her attention.
'Mother,' said he, 'I was wrong. I'm fretted by many things. Ishouldn't ha' spoken so. It was ill-done of me.'
'Oh, my lad!' said she, looking up and putting her thin arm on hisshoulder as he stooped, 'Satan is desiring after yo' that he maysift yo' as wheat. Bide at whoam, bide at whoam, and go not afterthem as care nought for holy things. Why need yo' go to Haytersbankthis night?'
Philip reddened. He could not and would not give it up, and yet itwas difficult to resist the pleading of the usually stern old woman.
'Nay,' said he, withdrawing himself ever so little from her hold;'my aunt is but ailing, they're my own flesh and blood, and as goodfolks as needs be, though they mayn't be o' our--o' your way o'thinking in a' things.'
'Our ways--your ways o' thinking, says he, as if they were no longerhis'n. And as good folks as need be,' repeated she, with returningseverity. 'Them's Satan's words, tho' yo' spok
e 'em, Philip. I cando nought again Satan, but I can speak to them as can; an' we'll seewhich pulls hardest, for it'll be better for thee to be riven andrent i' twain than to go body and soul to hell.'
'But don't think, mother,' said Philip, his last words ofconciliation, for the clock had given warning for two, 'as I'm boun'for hell, just because I go t' see my own folks, all I ha' left o'kin.' And once more, after laying his hand with as much of a caressas was in his nature on hers, he left the house.
Probably Alice would have considered the first words that greetedPhilip on his entrance into the shop as an answer to her prayer, forthey were such as put a stop to his plan of going to see Sylvia thatevening; and if Alice had formed her inchoate thoughts into words,Sylvia would have appeared as the nearest earthly representative ofthe spirit of temptation whom she dreaded for Philip.
As he took his place behind the counter, Coulson said to him in alow voice,--
'Jeremiah Foster has been round to bid us to sup wi' him to-night.He says that he and John have a little matter o' business to talkover with us.'
A glance from his eyes to Philip told the latter that Coulsonbelieved the business spoken of had something to do with thepartnership, respecting which there had been a silent intelligencefor some time between the shopmen.
'And what did thou say?' asked Philip, doggedly unwilling, even yet,to give up his purposed visit.
'Say! why, what could a say, but that we'd come? There was summatup, for sure; and summat as he thought we should be glad on. I couldtell it fra' t' look on his face.'
'I don't think as I can go,' said Philip, feeling just then as ifthe long-hoped-for partnership was as nothing compared to his plan.It was always distasteful to him to have to give up a project, or todisarrange an intended order of things, such was his nature; butto-day it was absolute pain to yield his own purpose.
'Why, man alive?' said Coulson, in amaze at his reluctance.
'I didn't say I mightn't go,' said Philip, weighing consequences,until called off to attend to customers.
In the course of the afternoon, however, he felt himself more easyin deferring his visit to Haytersbank till the next evening. CharleyKinraid entered the shop, accompanied by Molly Brunton and hersisters; and though they all went towards Hester's side of the shop,and Philip and Coulson had many people to attend to, yet Hepburn'ssharpened ears caught much of what the young women were saying. Fromthat he gathered that Kinraid had promised them new year's gifts,for the purchase of which they were come; and after a little morelistening he learnt that Kinraid was returning to Shields the nextday, having only come over to spend a holiday with his relations,and being tied with ship's work at the other end. They all talkedtogether lightly and merrily, as if his going or staying was almosta matter of indifference to himself and his cousins. The principalthought of the young women was to secure the articles they mostfancied; Charley Kinraid was (so Philip thought) especially anxiousthat the youngest and prettiest should be pleased. Hepburn watchedhim perpetually with a kind of envy of his bright, courteous manner,the natural gallantry of the sailor. If it were but clear thatSylvia took as little thought of him as he did of her, to allappearance, Philip could even have given him praise for manly goodlooks, and a certain kind of geniality of disposition which made himready to smile pleasantly at all strangers, from babies upwards.
As the party turned to leave the shop they saw Philip, the guest ofthe night before; and they came over to shake hands with him acrossthe counter; Kinraid's hand was proffered among the number. Lastnight Philip could not have believed it possible that such ademonstration of fellowship should have passed between them; andperhaps there was a slight hesitation of manner on his part, forsome idea or remembrance crossed Kinraid's mind which brought a keensearching glance into the eyes which for a moment were fastened onPhilip's face. In spite of himself, and during the very action ofhand-shaking, Philip felt a cloud come over his face, not alteringor moving his features, but taking light and peace out of hiscountenance.
Molly Brunton began to say something, and he gladly turned to lookat her. She was asking him why he went away so early, for they hadkept it up for four hours after he left, and last of all, she added(turning to Kinraid), her cousin Charley had danced a hornpipe amongthe platters on the ground.
Philip hardly knew what he said in reply, the mention of that passeul lifted such a weight off his heart. He could smile now, afterhis grave fashion, and would have shaken hands again with Kinraidhad it been required; for it seemed to him that no one, caring everso little in the way that he did for Sylvia, could have borne fourmortal hours of a company where she had been, and was not; least ofall could have danced a hornpipe, either from gaiety of heart, oreven out of complaisance. He felt as if the yearning after theabsent one would have been a weight to his legs, as well as to hisspirit; and he imagined that all men were like himself.