CHAPTER XXV
COMING TROUBLES
The morning brought more peace if it did not entirely dissipatefear. Daniel seemed to have got over his irritability, and wasunusually kind and tender to wife and daughter, especially strivingby silent little deeds to make up for the sharp words he had saidthe night before to the latter.
As if by common consent, all allusion to the Saturday night'sproceedings was avoided. They spoke of the day's work before them;of the crops to be sown; of the cattle; of the markets; but each onewas conscious of a wish to know more distinctly what were thechances of the danger that, to judge from Philip's words, hung overthem, falling upon them and cutting them off from all these placesfor the coming days.
Bell longed to send Kester down into Monkshaven as a sort of spy tosee how the land lay; but she dared not manifest her anxiety to herhusband, and could not see Kester alone. She wished that she hadtold him to go to the town, when she had had him to herself in thehouse-place the night before; now it seemed as though Daniel wereresolved not to part from him, and as though both had forgotten thatany peril had been anticipated. Sylvia and her mother, in likemanner, clung together, not speaking of their fears, yet eachknowing that it was ever present in the other's mind.
So things went on till twelve o'clock--dinner-time. If at any timethat morning they had had the courage to speak together on thethought which was engrossing all their minds, it is possible thatsome means might have been found to avert the calamity that wascoming towards them with swift feet. But among the uneducated--thepartially educated--nay, even the weakly educated--the feelingexists which prompted the futile experiment of the well-knownostrich. They imagine that, by closing their own eyes to apprehendedevil, they avert it. The expression of fear is supposed toaccelerate the coming of its cause. Yet, on the other hand, theyshrink from acknowledging the long continuance of any blessing, inthe idea that when unusual happiness is spoken about, it disappears.So, although perpetual complaints of past or present grievances andsorrows are most common among this class, they shrink from embodyingapprehensions for the future in words, as if it then took shape anddrew near.
They all four sate down to dinner, but not one of them was inclinedto eat. The food was scarcely touched on their plates, yet they weretrying to make talk among themselves as usual; they seemed as thoughthey dared not let themselves be silent, when Sylvia, sittingopposite to the window, saw Philip at the top of the brow, runningrapidly towards the farm. She had been so full of the anticipationof some kind of misfortune all the morning that she felt now as ifthis was the very precursive circumstance she had been expecting;she stood up, turning quite white, and, pointing with her finger,said,--
'There he is!'
Every one at table stood up too. An instant afterwards, Philip,breathless, was in the room.
He gasped out, 'They're coming! the warrant is out. You must go. Ihoped you were gone.'
'God help us!' said Bell, and sate suddenly down, as if she hadreceived a blow that made her collapse into helplessness; but shegot up again directly.
Sylvia flew for her father's hat. He really seemed the most unmovedof the party.
'A'm noane afeared,' said he. 'A'd do it o'er again, a would; an'a'll tell 'em so. It's a fine time o' day when men's to be trappedand carried off, an' them as lays traps to set 'em free is to be puti' t' lock-ups for it.'
'But there was rioting, beside the rescue; t' house was burnt,'continued eager, breathless Philip.
'An' a'm noane goin' t' say a'm sorry for that, neyther; tho',mebbe, a wouldn't do it again.'
Sylvia had his hat on his head by this time; and Bell, wan andstiff, trembling all over, had his over-coat, and his leather pursewith the few coins she could muster, ready for him to put on.
He looked at these preparations, at his wife and daughter, and hiscolour changed from its ruddy brown.
'A'd face lock-ups, an' a fair spell o' jail, but for these,' saidhe, hesitating.
'Oh!' said Philip, 'for God's sake, lose no time, but be off.'
'Where mun he go?' asked Bell, as if Philip must decide all.
'Anywhere, anywhere, out of this house--say Haverstone. Thisevening, I'll go and meet him there and plan further; only be offnow.' Philip was so keenly eager, he hardly took note at the time ofSylvia's one vivid look of unspoken thanks, yet he remembered itafterwards.
'A'll dang 'em dead,' said Kester, rushing to the door, for he sawwhat the others did not--that all chance of escape was over; theconstables were already at the top of the little field-path nottwenty yards off.
'Hide him, hide him,' cried Bell, wringing her hands in terror; forshe, indeed they all, knew that flight would now be impossible.Daniel was heavy, rheumatic, and, moreover, had been pretty severelybruised on that unlucky night.
Philip, without another word, pushed Daniel before him upstairs,feeling that his own presence at Haytersbank Farm at that hour ofthe day would be a betrayal. They had just time to shut themselvesup in the larger bed-room, before they heard a scuffle and theconstables' entry down-stairs.
'They're in,' said Philip, as Daniel squeezed himself under the bed;and then they held quite still, Philip as much concealed by thescanty, blue-check curtain as he could manage to be. They heard aconfusion of voices below, a hasty moving of chairs, a banging ofdoors, a further parley, and then a woman's scream, shrill andpitiful; then steps on the stairs.
'That screech spoiled all,' sighed Philip.
In one instant the door was opened, and each of the hiders wasconscious of the presence of the constables, although at first thelatter stood motionless, surveying the apparently empty room withdisappointment. Then in another moment they had rushed at Philip'slegs, exposed as these were. They drew him out with violence, andthen let him go.
'Measter Hepburn!' said one in amaze. But immediately they put twoand two together; for in so small a place as Monkshaven every one'srelationships and connexions, and even likings, were known; and themotive of Philip's coming out to Haytersbank was perfectly clear tothese men.
'T' other 'll not be far off,' said the other constable. 'His platewere down-stairs, full o' victual; a seed Measter Hepburn a-walkingbriskly before me as a left Monkshaven.'
'Here he be, here he be,' called out the other man, dragging Danielout by his legs, 'we've getten him.'
Daniel kicked violently, and came out from his hiding-place in aless ignominious way than by being pulled out by his heels.
He shook himself, and then turned, facing his captors.
'A wish a'd niver hidden mysel'; it were his doing,' jerking histhumb toward Philip: 'a'm ready to stand by what a've done. Yo'vegetten a warrant a'll be bound, for them justices is grand atwritin' when t' fight's over.'
He was trying to carry it off with bravado, but Philip saw that hehad received a shock, from his sudden look of withered colour andshrunken feature.
'Don't handcuff him,' said Philip, putting money into theconstable's hand. 'You'll be able to guard him well enough withoutthem things.'
Daniel turned round sharp at this whisper.
'Let-a-be, let-a-be, my lad,' he said. 'It 'll be summut to think oni' t' lock-up how two able-bodied fellys were so afeared on t' chapas reskyed them honest sailors o' Saturday neet, as they mun put himi' gyves, and he sixty-two come Martinmas, and sore laid up wi' t'rheumatics.'
But it was difficult to keep up this tone of bravado when he was leda prisoner through his own house-place, and saw his poor wifequivering and shaking all over with her efforts to keep back allsigns of emotion until he was gone; and Sylvia standing by hermother, her arm round Bell's waist and stroking the poor shrunkenfingers which worked so perpetually and nervously in futileunconscious restlessness. Kester was in a corner of the room,sullenly standing.
Bell quaked from head to foot as her husband came down-stairs aprisoner. She opened her lips several times with an uneasy motion,as if she would fain say something, but knew not what. Sylvia'spassionate swollen lips and her beautiful defiant eyes gave her facequite
a new aspect; she looked a helpless fury.
'A may kiss my missus, a reckon,' said Daniel, coming to astandstill as he passed near her.
'Oh, Dannel, Dannel!' cried she, opening her arms wide to receivehim. 'Dannel, Dannel, my man!' and she shook with her crying, layingher head on his shoulder, as if he was all her stay and comfort.
'Come, missus! come, missus!' said he, 'there couldn't be more adoif a'd been guilty of murder, an' yet a say again, as a said afore,a'm noane ashamed o' my doings. Here, Sylvie, lass, tak' thy motheroff me, for a cannot do it mysel', it like sets me off.' His voicewas quavering as he said this. But he cheered up a little and said,'Now, good-by, oud wench' (kissing her), 'and keep a good heart,and let me see thee lookin' lusty and strong when a come back.Good-by, my lass; look well after mother, and ask Philip forguidance if it's needed.'
He was taken out of his home, and then arose the shrill cries of thewomen; but in a minute or two they were checked by the return of oneof the constables, who, cap in hand at the sight of so much grief,said,--
'He wants a word wi' his daughter.'
The party had come to a halt about ten yards from the house. Sylvia,hastily wiping her tears on her apron, ran out and threw her armsround her father, as if to burst out afresh on his neck.
'Nay, nay, my wench, it's thee as mun be a comfort to mother: nay,nay, or thou'll niver hear what a've got to say. Sylvie, my lass,a'm main and sorry a were so short wi' thee last neet; a ax thypardon, lass, a were cross to thee, and sent thee to thy bed wi' asore heart. Thou munnot think on it again, but forgie me, now a'mleavin' thee.'
'Oh, feyther! feyther!' was all Sylvia could say; and at last theyhad to make as though they would have used force to separate herfrom their prisoner. Philip took her hand, and softly led her backto her weeping mother.
For some time nothing was to be heard in the little farmhousekitchen but the sobbing and wailing of the women. Philip stood bysilent, thinking, as well as he could, for his keen sympathy withtheir grief, what had best be done next. Kester, after some growlsat Sylvia for having held back the uplifted arm which he thoughtmight have saved Daniel by a well-considered blow on his captors asthey entered the house, went back into his shippen--his cell formeditation and consolation, where he might hope to soothe himselfbefore going out to his afternoon's work; labour which his masterhad planned for him that very morning, with a strange foresight, asKester thought, for the job was one which would take him two orthree days without needing any further directions than those he hadreceived, and by the end of that time he thought that his masterwould be at liberty again. So he--so they all thought in theirignorance and inexperience.
Although Daniel himself was unreasoning, hasty, impulsive--in aword, often thinking and acting very foolishly--yet, somehow, eitherfrom some quality in his character, or from the loyalty of nature inthose with whom he had to deal in his every-day life, he had madehis place and position clear as the arbiter and law-giver of hishousehold. On his decision, as that of husband, father, master,perhaps superior natures waited. So now that he was gone and hadleft them in such strange new circumstances so suddenly, it seemedas though neither Bell nor Sylvia knew exactly what to do when theirgrief was spent, so much had every household action and plan beenregulated by the thought of him. Meanwhile Philip had slowly beenarriving at the conclusion that he was more wanted at Monkshaven tolook after Daniel's interests, to learn what were the legalprobabilities in consequence of the old man's arrest, and to arrangefor his family accordingly, than standing still and silent in theHaytersbank kitchen, too full of fellow-feeling and heavy forebodingto comfort, awkwardly unsympathetic in appearance from the veryaching of his heart.
So when his aunt, with instinctive sense of regularity andpropriety, began to put away the scarcely tasted dinner, and Sylvia,blinded with crying, and convulsively sobbing, was yet trying tohelp her mother, Philip took his hat, and brushing it round andround with the sleeve of his coat, said,--
'I think I'll just go back, and see how matters stand.' He had amore distinct plan in his head than these words implied, but itdepended on so many contingencies of which he was ignorant that hesaid only these few words; and with a silent resolution to see themagain that day, but a dread of being compelled to express his fears,so far beyond theirs, he went off without saying anything more. ThenSylvia lifted up her voice with a great cry. Somehow she hadexpected him to do something--what, she did not know; but he wasgone, and they were left without stay or help.
'Hush thee, hush thee,' said her mother, trembling all over herself;'it's for the best. The Lord knows.'
'But I niver thought he'd leave us,' moaned Sylvia, half in hermother's arms, and thinking of Philip. Her mother took the words asapplied to Daniel.
'And he'd niver ha' left us, my wench, if he could ha' stayed.'
'Oh, mother, mother, it's Philip as has left us, and he could ha'stayed.'
'He'll come back, or mebbe send, I'll be bound. Leastways he'll begone to see feyther, and he'll need comfort most on all, in a fremdplace--in Bridewell--and niver a morsel of victual or a piece o'money.' And now she sate down, and wept the dry hot tears that comewith such difficulty to the eyes of the aged. And so--first onegrieving, and then the other, and each draining her own heart ofevery possible hope by way of comfort, alternately trying to cheerand console--the February afternoon passed away; the continuous rainclosing in the daylight even earlier than usual, and adding to thedreariness, with the natural accompaniments of wailing winds, comingwith long sweeps over the moors, and making the sobbings at thewindows that always sound like the gasps of some one in great agony.Meanwhile Philip had hastened back to Monkshaven. He had noumbrella, he had to face the driving rain for the greater part ofthe way; but he was thankful to the weather, for it kept menindoors, and he wanted to meet no one, but to have time to think andmature his plans. The town itself was, so to speak, in mourning. Therescue of the sailors was a distinctly popular movement; thesubsequent violence (which had, indeed, gone much further than hasbeen described, after Daniel left it) was, in general, considered asonly a kind of due punishment inflicted in wild justice on thepress-gang and their abettors. The feeling of the Monkshaven peoplewas, therefore, in decided opposition to the vigorous steps taken bythe county magistrates, who, in consequence of an appeal from thenaval officers in charge of the impressment service, had called outthe militia (from a distant and inland county) stationed within afew miles, and had thus summarily quenched the riots that werecontinuing on the Sunday morning after a somewhat languid fashion;the greater part of the destruction of property having beenaccomplished during the previous night. Still there was little doubtbut that the violence would have been renewed as evening drew on,and the more desperate part of the population and the enragedsailors had had the Sabbath leisure to brood over their wrongs, andto encourage each other in a passionate attempt at redress, orrevenge. So the authorities were quite justified in the decidedsteps they had taken, both in their own estimation then, and now, inours, looking back on the affair in cold blood. But at the timefeeling ran strongly against them; and all means of expressingitself in action being prevented, men brooded sullenly in their ownhouses. Philip, as the representative of the family, the head ofwhich was now suffering for his deeds in the popular cause, wouldhave met with more sympathy, ay, and more respect than he imagined,as he went along the streets, glancing from side to side, fearful ofmeeting some who would shy him as the relation of one who had beenignominiously taken to Bridewell a few hours before. But in spite ofthis wincing of Philip's from observation and remark, he neverdreamed of acting otherwise than as became a brave true friend. Andthis he did, and would have done, from a natural faithfulness andconstancy of disposition, without any special regard for Sylvia.
He knew his services were needed in the shop; business which he hadleft at a moment's warning awaited him, unfinished; but at this timehe could not bear the torture of giving explanations, and allegingreasons to the languid intelligence and slow sympathies of Coulson.
He went to the offices of Mr. Donkin, the oldest established and mostrespected attorney in Monkshaven--he who had been employed to drawup the law papers and deeds of partnership consequent on Hepburn andCoulson succeeding to the shop of John and Jeremiah Foster,Brothers.
Mr. Donkin knew Philip from this circumstance. But, indeed, nearlyevery one in Monkshaven knew each other; if not enough to speak to,at least enough to be acquainted with the personal appearance andreputation of most of those whom they met in the streets. It sohappened that Mr. Donkin had a favourable opinion of Philip; andperhaps for this reason the latter had a shorter time to wait beforehe obtained an interview with the head of the house, than many ofthe clients who came for that purpose from town or country for manymiles round.
Philip was ushered in. Mr. Donkin sate with his spectacles pushed upon his forehead, ready to watch his countenance and listen to hiswords.
'Good afternoon, Mr. Hepburn!'
'Good afternoon, sir.' Philip hesitated how to begin. Mr. Donkinbecame impatient, and tapped with the fingers of his left hand onhis desk. Philip's sensitive nerves felt and rightly interpreted theaction.
'Please, sir, I'm come to speak to you about Daniel Robson, ofHaytersbank Farm.'
'Daniel Robson?' said Mr. Donkin, after a short pause, to try andcompel Philip into speed in his story.
'Yes, sir. He's been taken up on account of this affair, sir, aboutthe press-gang on Saturday night.'
'To be sure! I thought I knew the name.' And Mr. Donkin's face becamegraver, and the expression more concentrated. Looking up suddenly atPhilip, he said, 'You are aware that I am the clerk to themagistrates?'
'No, sir,' in a tone that indicated the unexpressed 'What then?'
'Well, but I am. And so of course, if you want my services or advicein favour of a prisoner whom they have committed, or are going tocommit, you can't have them, that's all.'
'I am very sorry--very!' said Philip; and then he was again silentfor a period; long enough to make the busy attorney impatient.
'Well, Mr. Hepburn, have you anything else to say to me?'
'Yes, sir. I've a deal to ask of you; for you see I don't rightlyunderstand what to do; and yet I'm all as Daniel's wife and daughterhas to look to; and I've their grief heavy on my heart. You couldnot tell me what is to be done with Daniel, could you, sir?'
'He'll be brought up before the magistrates to-morrow morning forfinal examination, along with the others, you know, before he's sentto York Castle to take his trial at the spring assizes.'
'To York Castle, sir?'
Mr. Donkin nodded, as if words were too precious to waste.
'And when will he go?' asked poor Philip, in dismay.
'To-morrow: most probably as soon as the examination is over. Theevidence is clear as to his being present, aiding andabetting,--indicted on the 4th section of 1 George I., statute 1,chapter 5. I'm afraid it's a bad look-out. Is he a friend of yours,Mr. Hepburn?'
'Only an uncle, sir,' said Philip, his heart getting full; more fromMr. Donkin's manner than from his words. 'But what can they do tohim, sir?'
'Do?' Mr. Donkin half smiled at the ignorance displayed. 'Why, hanghim, to be sure; if the judge is in a hanging mood. He's been eithera principal in the offence, or a principal in the second degree,and, as such, liable to the full punishment. I drew up the warrantmyself this morning, though I left the exact name to be filled up bymy clerk.'
'Oh, sir! can you do nothing for me?' asked Philip, with sharpbeseeching in his voice. He had never imagined that it was a capitaloffence; and the thought of his aunt's and Sylvia's ignorance of thepossible fate awaiting him whom they so much loved, was like a stabto his heart.
'No, my good fellow. I'm sorry; but, you see, it's my duty to do allI can to bring criminals to justice.'
'My uncle thought he was doing such a fine deed.'
'Demolishing and pulling down, destroying and burningdwelling-houses and outhouses,' said Mr. Donkin. 'He must have somepeculiar notions.'
'The people is so mad with the press-gang, and Daniel has been atsea hisself; and took it so to heart when he heard of mariners andseafaring folk being carried off, and just cheated into doing whatwas kind and helpful--leastways, what would have been kind andhelpful, if there had been a fire. I'm against violence and riotsmyself, sir, I'm sure; but I cannot help thinking as Daniel had adeal to justify him on Saturday night, sir.'
'Well; you must try and get a good lawyer to bring out all that sideof the question. There's a good deal to be said on it; but it's myduty to get up all the evidence to prove that he and others werepresent on the night in question; so, as you'll perceive, I can giveyou no help in defending him.'
'But who can, sir? I came to you as a friend who, I thought, wouldsee me through it. And I don't know any other lawyer; leastways, tospeak to.'
Mr. Donkin was really more concerned for the misguided rioters thanhe was aware; and he was aware of more interest than he cared toexpress. So he softened his tone a little, and tried to give thebest advice in his power.
'You'd better go to Edward Dawson on the other side of the river; hethat was articled clerk with me two years ago, you know. He's aclever fellow, and has not too much practice; he'll do the best hecan for you. He'll have to be at the court-house, tell him,to-morrow morning at ten, when the justices meet. He'll watch thecase for you; and then he'll give you his opinion, and tell you whatto do. You can't do better than follow his advice. I must do all Ican to collect evidence for a conviction, you know.'
Philip stood up, looked at his hat, and then came forward and laiddown six and eightpence on the desk in a blushing, awkward way.
'Pooh! pooh!' said Mr. Donkin, pushing the money away. 'Don't be afool; you'll need it all before the trial's over. I've done nothing,man. It would be a pretty thing for me to be feed by both parties.'
Philip took up the money, and left the room. In an instant he cameback again, glanced furtively at Mr. Donkin's face, and then, oncemore having recourse to brushing his hat, he said, in a low voice--
'You'll not be hard upon him, sir, I hope?'
'I must do my duty,' replied Mr. Donkin, a little sternly, 'withoutany question of hardness.'
Philip, discomfited, left the room; an instant of thought and MrDonkin had jumped up, and hastening to the door he opened it andcalled after Philip.
'Hepburn--Hepburn--I say, he'll be taken to York as soon as may beto-morrow morning; if any one wants to see him before then, they'dbetter look sharp about it.'
Philip went quickly along the streets towards Mr. Dawson's, ponderingupon the meaning of all that he had heard, and what he had betterdo. He had made his plans pretty clearly out by the time he arrivedat Mr. Dawson's smart door in one of the new streets on the otherside of the river. A clerk as smart as the door answered Philip'shesitating knock, and replied to his inquiry as to whether Mr. Dawsonwas at home, in the negative, adding, after a moment's pause--
'He'll be at home in less than an hour; he's only gone to make MrsDawson's will--Mrs. Dawson, of Collyton--she's not expected to getbetter.'
Probably the clerk of an older-established attorney would not havegiven so many particulars as to the nature of his master'semployment; but, as it happened it was of no consequence, theunnecessary information made no impression on Philip's mind; hethought the matter over and then said--
'I'll be back in an hour, then. It's gone a quarter to four; I'll beback before five, tell Mr. Dawson.'
He turned on his heel and went back to the High Street as fast as hecould, with a far more prompt and decided step than before. Hehastened through the streets, emptied by the bad weather, to theprincipal inn of the town, the George--the sign of which wasfastened to a piece of wood stretched across the narrow street; andgoing up to the bar with some timidity (for the inn was frequentedby the gentry of Monkshaven and the neighbourhood, and wasconsidered as a touch above such customers as Philip), he asked ifhe could have a tax-cart made ready in a quarter of an hour, andsent up to the door of his shop.
br /> '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 HaytersbankFarm; they'll have to wait there for some as are coming.'
'They must not wait long such an evening as this; standing in suchrain 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 ofan hour, mind.'
He now went back to the shop, beating against the storm, which wasincreasing as the tide came in and the night hours approached.
Coulson had no word for him, but he looked reproachfully at hispartner for his long, unexplained absence. Hester was putting awaythe ribbons and handkerchiefs, and bright-coloured things which hadbeen used to deck the window; for no more customers were likely tocome this night through the blustering weather to a shop dimlylighted by two tallow candles and an inefficient oil-lamp. Philipcame up to her, and stood looking at her with unseeing eyes; but thestrange consciousness of his fixed stare made her uncomfortable, andcalled the faint flush to her pale cheeks, and at length compelledher, as it were, to speak, and break the spell of the silence. So,curiously enough, all three spoke at once. Hester asked (withoutlooking 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 gadall 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 handswhen he spoke, and then followed him into the room behind the shopbefore spoken of.
Philip set down on the table the candle which he had brought out ofthe shop, and turning round to Hester, took her trembling hand intoboth 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 andchoke her, before she answered.
'Anything, thou knows, Philip.'
'Yes, yes, I know. Thou sees the matter is this: Daniel Robson--hewho married my aunt--is taken up for yon riot on Saturday night att' Mariners' Arms----'
'They spoke on it this afternoon; they said the warrant was out,'said Hester, filling up the sentence as Philip hesitated, lost foran instant in his own thoughts.
'Ay! the warrant is out, and he's in t' lock-up, and will be carriedto York Castle to-morrow morn; and I'm afeared it will go bad withhim; and they at Haytersbank is not prepared, and they must see himagain before he goes. Now, Hester, will thou go in a tax-cart aswill be here in less than ten minutes from t' George, and bring themback here, and they must stay all night for to be ready to see himto-morrow before he goes? It's dree weather for them, but they'llnot mind that.'
He had used words as if he was making a request to Hester; but hedid 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 inreference to them, not to her. A cold shadow passed over her heart,though it was nothing more than she already knew--that Sylvia wasthe 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 overspreadhim.
'Thou's a real good one, God bless thee!' said he. 'Thou must takecare 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 benone the worse for once wearing at such a time as this; and wrapthee well up, and take shawls and cloaks for them, and mind as theyput 'em on. Thou'll have to get out at a stile, I'll tell t' driverwhere; and thou must get over t' stile and follow t' path down twofields, and th' house is right before ye, and bid 'em make haste andlock up th' house, for they mun stay all night here. Kester 'll lookafter things.'
All this time Hester was hastily putting on her hat and cloak, whichshe had fetched from the closet where they usually hung through theday; 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'sto be tried for 's life. They know not it's so serious; and,Hester,' said he, going on in his search after sympathy, 'she'slike as if she was bound up in her father.'
His lips quivered as he looked wistfully into Hester's face at thesewords. No need to tell her who was _she_. No need to put into wordsthe fact, told plainer than words could have spoken it, that hisheart was bound up in Sylvia.
Hester's face, instead of responding to his look, contracted alittle, and, for the life of her, she could not have helpedsaying,--
'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, andiver so much to do, and they've niver a man friend but me to do itall. You'll tell her,' said Philip, insinuatingly, as if a freshthought 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,--mindyo' say because of th' lawyer. I'd be loath for her to think I wasminding 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 comfortto make a clean breast to a friend at times. God bless thee, Hester. Idon't know what I should ha' done without thee,' said he, as hewrapped her well up in the cart, and placed the bundles of cloaksand things by her side.
Along the street, in the jolting cart, as long as Hester could seethe misty light streaming out of the shop door, so long was Philipstanding bareheaded in the rain looking after her. But she knew thatit was not her own poor self that attracted his lingering gaze. Itwas the thought of the person she was bound to.