Sylvia's Lovers — Complete

  CHAPTER XIX

  AN IMPORTANT MISSION

  Philip was too late for the coach he had hoped to go by, but therewas another that left at night, and which reached Newcastle in theforenoon, so that, by the loss of a night's sleep, he might overtakehis lost time. But, restless and miserable, he could not stop inHartlepool longer than to get some hasty food at the inn from whichthe coach started. He acquainted himself with the names of the townsthrough which it would pass, and the inns at which it would stop,and left word that the coachman was to be on the look-out for himand pick him up at some one of these places.

  He was thoroughly worn out before this happened--too much tired togain any sleep in the coach. When he reached Newcastle, he went toengage his passage in the next London-bound smack, and then directedhis steps to Robinson's, in the Side, to make all the inquiries hecould think of respecting the plough his uncle wanted to know about.

  So it was pretty late in the afternoon, indeed almost evening,before he arrived at the small inn on the quay-side, where heintended to sleep. It was but a rough kind of place, frequentedprincipally by sailors; he had been recommended to it by DanielRobson, who had known it well in former days. The accommodation init was, however, clean and homely, and the people keeping it wererespectable enough in their way.

  Still Hepburn was rather repelled by the appearance of the sailorswho sate drinking in the bar, and he asked, in a low voice, if therewas not another room. The woman stared in surprise, and only shookher head. Hepburn went to a separate table, away from the roaringfire, which on this cold March evening was the great attraction, andcalled for food and drink. Then seeing that the other men wereeyeing him with the sociable idea of speaking to him, he asked forpen and ink and paper, with the intention of defeating their purposeby pre-occupation on his part. But when the paper came, the new pen,the unused thickened ink, he hesitated long before he began towrite; and at last he slowly put down the words,--

  'DEAR AND HONOURED UNCLE,'----

  There was a pause; his meal was brought and hastily swallowed. Evenwhile he was eating it, he kept occasionally touching up the lettersof these words. When he had drunk a glass of ale he began again towrite: fluently this time, for he was giving an account of theplough. Then came another long stop; he was weighing in his own mindwhat he should say about Kinraid. Once he thought for a second ofwriting to Sylvia herself, and telling her---how much? She mighttreasure up her lover's words like grains of gold, while they werelighter than dust in their meaning to Philip's mind; words whichsuch as the specksioneer used as counters to beguile and lead astraysilly women. It was for him to prove his constancy by action; andthe chances of his giving such proof were infinitesimal in Philip'sestimation. But should the latter mention the bare fact of Kinraid'simpressment to Robson? That would have been the natural course ofthings, remembering that the last time Philip had seen either, theywere in each other's company. Twenty times he put his pen to thepaper with the intention of relating briefly the event that hadbefallen Kinraid; and as often he stopped, as though the first wordwould be irrevocable. While he thus sate pen in hand, thinkinghimself wiser than conscience, and looking on beyond the next stepwhich she bade him take into an indefinite future, he caught somefragments of the sailors' talk at the other end of the room, whichmade him listen to their words. They were speaking of that veryKinraid, the thought of whom filled his own mind like an actualpresence. In a rough, careless way they spoke of the specksioneer,with admiration enough for his powers as a sailor and harpooner; andfrom that they passed on to jesting mention of his power amongstwomen, and one or two girls' names were spoken of in connection withhim. Hepburn silently added Annie Coulson and Sylvia Robson to thislist, and his cheeks turned paler as he did so. Long after they haddone speaking about Kinraid, after they had paid their shot, andgone away, he sate in the same attitude, thinking bitter thoughts.

  The people of the house prepared for bed. Their silent guest took noheed of their mute signs. At length the landlord spoke to him, andhe started, gathered his wits together with an effort, and preparedto retire with the rest. But before he did so, he signed anddirected the letter to his uncle, leaving it still open, however, incase some sudden feeling should prompt him to add a postscript. Thelandlord volunteered the information that the letter his guest hadbeen writing must be posted early the next morning if it was goingsouth; as the mails in that direction only left Newcastle everyother day.

  All night long Hepburn wearied himself with passionate tossings,prompted by stinging recollection. Towards morning he fell into adead sound sleep. He was roused by a hasty knocking at the door. Itwas broad full daylight; he had overslept himself, and the smack wasleaving by the early tide. He was even now summoned on board. Hedressed, wafered his letter, and rushed with it to the neighbouringpost-office; and, without caring to touch the breakfast for which hepaid, he embarked. Once on board, he experienced the relief which italways is to an undecided man, and generally is at first to any onewho has been paltering with duty, when circumstances decide for him.In the first case, it is pleasant to be relieved from the burden ofdecision; in the second, the responsibility seems to be shifted onto impersonal events.

  And so Philip sailed out of the mouth of the Tyne on to the greatopen sea. It would be a week before the smack reached London, evenif she pursued a tolerably straight course, but she had to keep asharp look-out after possible impressment of her crew; and it wasnot until after many dodges and some adventures that, at the end ofa fortnight from the time of his leaving Monkshaven, Philip foundhimself safely housed in London, and ready to begin the delicatepiece of work which was given him to do.

  He felt himself fully capable of unravelling each clue toinformation, and deciding on the value of the knowledge so gained.But during the leisure of the voyage he had wisely determined tocommunicate everything he learnt about Dickinson, in short, everystep he took in the matter, by letter to his employers. And thus hismind both in and out of his lodgings might have appeared to havebeen fully occupied with the concerns of others.

  But there were times when the miserable luxury of dwelling upon hisown affairs was his--when he lay down in his bed till he fell intorestless sleep--when the point to which his steps tended in hiswalks was ascertained. Then he gave himself up to memory, and regretwhich often deepened into despair, and but seldom was cheered byhope.

  He grew so impatient of the ignorance in which he was kept--for inthose days of heavy postage any correspondence he might have had onmere Monkshaven intelligence was very limited--as to the affairs atHaytersbank, that he cut out an advertisement respecting some newkind of plough, from a newspaper that lay in the chop-house where heusually dined, and rising early the next morning he employed thetime thus gained in going round to the shop where these new ploughswere sold.

  That night he wrote another letter to Daniel Robson, with a longaccount of the merits of the implements he had that day seen. With asick heart and a hesitating hand, he wound up with a message ofregard to his aunt and to Sylvia; an expression of regard which hedared not make as warm as he wished, and which, consequently, fellbelow the usual mark attained by such messages, and would haveappeared to any one who cared to think about it as cold and formal.

  When this letter was despatched, Hepburn began to wonder what he hadhoped for in writing it. He knew that Daniel could write--or ratherthat he could make strange hieroglyphics, the meaning of whichpuzzled others and often himself; but these pen-and-ink signs wereseldom employed by Robson, and never, so far as Philip knew, for thepurpose of letter-writing. But still he craved so for news ofSylvia--even for a sight of paper which she had seen, and perhapstouched--that he thought all his trouble about the plough (to saynothing of the one-and-twopence postage which he had prepaid inorder to make sure of his letter's reception in the frugal householdat Haytersbank) well lost for the mere chance of his uncle's caringenough for the intelligence to write in reply, or even to get somefriend to write an answer; for in such case, perhaps, Philip mightsee her name mentioned in s
ome way, even though it was only that shesent her duty to him.

  But the post-office was dumb; no letter came from Daniel Robson.Philip heard, it is true, from his employers pretty frequently onbusiness; and he felt sure they would have named it, if any ill hadbefallen his uncle's family, for they knew of the relationship andof his intimacy there. They generally ended their formal letterswith as formal a summary of Monkshaven news; but there was never amention of the Robsons, and that of itself was well, but it did notsoothe Philip's impatient curiosity. He had never confided hisattachment to his cousin to any one, it was not his way; but hesometimes thought that if Coulson had not taken his presentappointment to a confidential piece of employment so ill, he wouldhave written to him and asked him to go up to Haytersbank Farm, andlet him know how they all were.

  All this time he was transacting the affair on which he had beensent, with great skill; and, indeed, in several ways, he was quietlylaying the foundation for enlarging the business in Monkshaven.Naturally grave and quiet, and slow to speak, he impressed those whosaw him with the idea of greater age and experience than he reallypossessed. Indeed, those who encountered him in London, thought hewas absorbed in the business of money-making. Yet before the timecame when he could wind up affairs and return to Monkshaven, hewould have given all he possessed for a letter from his uncle,telling him something about Sylvia. For he still hoped to hear fromRobson, although he knew that he hoped against reason. But we oftenconvince ourselves by good argument that what we wish for need neverhave been expected; and then, at the end of our reasoning, find thatwe might have saved ourselves the trouble, for that our wishes areuntouched, and are as strong enemies to our peace of mind as ever.Hepburn's baulked hope was the Mordecai sitting in Haman's gate; allhis success in his errand to London, his well-doing in worldlyaffairs, was tasteless, and gave him no pleasure, because of thisblank and void of all intelligence concerning Sylvia.

  And yet he came back with a letter from the Fosters in his pocket,curt, yet expressive of deep gratitude for his discreet services inLondon; and at another time--in fact, if Philip's life had beenordered differently to what it was--it might have given this man anot unworthy pleasure to remember that, without a penny of his own,simply by diligence, honesty, and faithful quick-sightedness as tothe interests of his masters, he had risen to hold the promise ofbeing their successor, and to be ranked by them as a trusted friend.

  As the Newcastle smack neared the shore on her voyage home, Hepburnlooked wistfully out for the faint gray outline of Monkshaven Prioryagainst the sky, and the well-known cliffs; as if the masses ofinanimate stone could tell him any news of Sylvia.

  In the streets of Shields, just after landing, he encountered aneighbour of the Robsons, and an acquaintance of his own. By thishonest man, he was welcomed as a great traveller is welcomed on hisreturn from a long voyage, with many hearty good shakes of the hand,much repetition of kind wishes, and offers to treat him to drink.Yet, from some insurmountable feeling, Philip avoided all mention ofthe family who were the principal bond between the honest farmer andhimself. He did not know why, but he could not bear the shock offirst hearing her name in the open street, or in the roughpublic-house. And thus he shrank from the intelligence he craved tohear.

  Thus he knew no more about the Robsons when he returned toMonkshaven, than he had done on the day when he had last seen them;and, of course, his first task there was to give a long _viva voce_account of all his London proceedings to the two brothers Foster,who, considering that they had heard the result of everything byletter, seemed to take an insatiable interest in details.

  He could hardly tell why, but even when released from the Fosters'parlour, he was unwilling to go to Haytersbank Farm. It was late, itis true, but on a May evening even country people keep up till eightor nine o'clock. Perhaps it was because Hepburn was still in histravel-stained dress; having gone straight to the shop on hisarrival in Monkshaven. Perhaps it was because, if he went this nightfor the short half-hour intervening before bed-time, he would haveno excuse for paying a longer visit on the following evening. At anyrate, he proceeded straight to Alice Rose's, as soon as he hadfinished his interview with his employers.

  Both Hester and Coulson had given him their welcome home in theshop, which they had, however, left an hour or two before him.

  Yet they gave him a fresh greeting, almost one in which surprise wasblended, when he came to his lodgings. Even Alice seemed gratifiedby his spending this first evening with them, as if she had thoughtit might have been otherwise. Weary though he was, he exertedhimself to talk and to relate what he had done and seen in London,as far as he could without breaking confidence with his employers.It was something to see the pleasure he gave to his auditors,although there were several mixed feelings in their minds to producethe expression of it which gratified him. Coulson was sorry for hisformer ungenerous reception of the news that Philip was going toLondon; Hester and her mother each secretly began to feel as if thisevening was like more happy evenings of old, before the Robsons cameto Haytersbank Farm; and who knows what faint delicious hopes thisresemblance may not have suggested?

  While Philip, restless and excited, feeling that he could not sleep,was glad to pass away the waking hours that must intervene beforeto-morrow night, at times, he tried to make them talk of what hadhappened in Monkshaven during his absence, but all had gone on in aneventless manner, as far as he could gather; if they knew ofanything affecting the Robsons, they avoided speaking of it to him;and, indeed, how little likely were they ever to have heard theirnames while he was away?