CHAPTER XXVII
GLOOMY DAYS
Philip had money in the Fosters' bank, not so much as it might havebeen if he had not had to pay for the furniture in his house. Muchof this furniture was old, and had belonged to the brothers Foster,and they had let Philip have it at a very reasonable rate; but stillthe purchase of it had diminished the amount of his savings. But onthe sum which he possessed he drew largely--he drew all--nay, heoverdrew his account somewhat, to his former masters' dismay,although the kindness of their hearts overruled the harder argumentsof their heads.
All was wanted to defend Daniel Robson at the approaching Yorkassizes. His wife had handed over to Philip all the money or money'sworth she could lay her hands upon. Daniel himself was not one to bemuch beforehand with the world; but to Bell's thrifty imaginationthe round golden guineas, tied up in the old stocking-foot againstrent-day, seemed a mint of money on which Philip might drawinfinitely. As yet she did not comprehend the extent of herhusband's danger. Sylvia went about like one in a dream, keepingback the hot tears that might interfere with the course of life shehad prescribed for herself in that terrible hour when she firstlearnt all. Every penny of money either she or her mother could savewent to Philip. Kester's hoard, too, was placed in Hepburn's handsat Sylvia's earnest entreaty; for Kester had no great opinion ofPhilip's judgment, and would rather have taken his money straighthimself to Mr. Dawson, and begged him to use it for his master'sbehoof.
Indeed, if anything, the noiseless breach between Kester and Philiphad widened of late. It was seed-time, and Philip, in his greatanxiety for every possible interest that might affect Sylvia, andalso as some distraction from his extreme anxiety about her father,had taken to study agriculture of an evening in some old books whichhe had borrowed--_The Farmer's Complete Guide_, and such like; andfrom time to time he came down upon the practical dogged Kester withdirections gathered from the theories in his books. Of course thetwo fell out, but without many words. Kester persevered in his oldways, making light of Philip and his books in manner and action,till at length Philip withdrew from the contest. 'Many a man maylead a horse to water, but there's few can make him drink,' andPhilip certainly was not one of those few. Kester, indeed, lookedupon him with jealous eyes on many accounts. He had favoured CharleyKinraid as a lover of Sylvia's; and though he had no idea of thetruth--though he believed in the drowning of the specksioneer asmuch as any one--yet the year which had elapsed since Kinraid'ssupposed death was but a very short while to the middle-aged man,who forgot how slowly time passes with the young; and he could oftenhave scolded Sylvia, if the poor girl had been a whit less heavy atheart than she was, for letting Philip come so much about her--come,though it was on her father's business. For the darkness of theircommon dread drew them together, occasionally to the comparativeexclusion of Bell and Kester, which the latter perceived andresented. Kester even allowed himself to go so far as to wonder whatPhilip could want with all the money, which to him seemedunaccountable; and once or twice the ugly thought crossed his mind,that shops conducted by young men were often not so profitable aswhen guided by older heads, and that some of the coin poured intoPhilip's keeping might have another destination than the defence ofhis master. Poor Philip! and he was spending all his own, and morethan all his own money, and no one ever knew it, as he had bounddown his friendly bankers to secrecy.
Once only Kester ventured to speak to Sylvia on the subject ofPhilip. She had followed her cousin to the field just in front oftheir house, just outside the porch, to ask him some question shedared not put in her mother's presence--(Bell, indeed, in heranxiety, usually absorbed all the questions when Philip came)--andstood, after Philip had bid her good-by, hardly thinking about himat all, but looking unconsciously after him as he ascended the brow;and at the top he had turned to take a last glance at the place hislove inhabited, and, seeing her, he had waved his hat in gratifiedfarewell. She, meanwhile, was roused from far other thoughts than ofhim, and of his now acknowledged love, by the motion against thesky, and was turning back into the house when she heard Kester's lowhoarse call, and saw him standing at the shippen door.
'Come hither, wench,' said he, indignantly; 'is this a time forcourtin'?'
'Courting?' said she, drawing up her head, and looking back at himwith proud defiance.
'Ay, courtin'! what other mak' o' thing is't when thou's gazin'after yon meddlesome chap, as if thou'd send thy eyes after him, andhe making marlocks back at thee? It's what we ca'ed courtin' i' myyoung days anyhow. And it's noane a time for a wench to go courtin'when her feyther's i' prison,' said he, with a consciousness as heuttered these last words that he was cruel and unjust and going toofar, yet carried on to say them by his hot jealousy against Philip.
Sylvia continued looking at him without speaking: she was too muchoffended for expression.
'Thou may glower an' thou may look, lass,' said he, 'but a'd thoughtbetter on thee. It's like last week thy last sweetheart weredrowned; but thou's not one to waste time i' rememberin' them as isgone--if, indeed, thou iver cared a button for yon Kinraid--if itwasn't a make-believe.'
Her lips were contracted and drawn up, showing her small glitteringteeth, which were scarcely apart as she breathed out--
'Thou thinks so, does thou, that I've forgetten _him_? Thou'd betterhave a care o' thy tongue.'
Then, as if fearful that her self-command might give way, she turnedinto the house; and going through the kitchen like a blind person,she went up to her now unused chamber, and threw herself, facedownwards, flat on her bed, almost smothering herself.
Ever since Daniel's committal, the decay that had imperceptiblybegun in his wife's bodily and mental strength during her illness ofthe previous winter, had been making quicker progress. She lost herreticence of speech, and often talked to herself. She had not somuch forethought as of old; slight differences, it is true, butwhich, with some others of the same description, gave foundation forthe homely expression which some now applied to Bell, 'She'll neverbe t' same woman again.
This afternoon she had cried herself to sleep in her chair afterPhilip's departure. She had not heard Sylvia's sweeping passagethrough the kitchen; but half an hour afterwards she was startled upby Kester's abrupt entry.
'Where's Sylvie?' asked he.
'I don't know,' said Bell, looking scared, and as if she was readyto cry. 'It's no news about him?' said she, standing up, andsupporting herself on the stick she was now accustomed to use.
'Bless yo', no, dunnot be afeared, missus; it's only as a spokehasty to t' wench, an' a want t' tell her as a'm sorry,' saidKester, advancing into the kitchen, and looking round for Sylvia.
'Sylvie, Sylvie!' shouted he; 'she mun be i' t' house.'
Sylvia came slowly down the stairs, and stood before him. Her facewas pale, her mouth set and determined; the light of her eyes veiledin gloom. Kester shrank from her look, and even more from hersilence.
'A'm come to ax pardon,' said he, after a little pause.
She was still silent.
'A'm noane above axing pardon, though a'm fifty and more, and thee'sbut a silly wench, as a've nursed i' my arms. A'll say before thymother as a ought niver to ha' used them words, and as how a'm sorryfor 't.'
'I don't understand it all,' said Bell, in a hurried and perplexedtone. 'What has Kester been saying, my lass?' she added, turning toSylvia.
Sylvia went a step or two nearer to her mother, and took hold of herhand as if to quieten her; then facing once more round, she saiddeliberately to Kester,--
'If thou wasn't Kester, I'd niver forgive thee. Niver,' she added,with bitterness, as the words he had used recurred to her mind.'It's in me to hate thee now, for saying what thou did; but thou'redear old Kester after all, and I can't help mysel', I mun needsforgive thee,' and she went towards him. He took her little headbetween his horny hands and kissed it. She looked up with tears inher eyes, saying softly,--
'Niver say things like them again. Niver speak on----'
'A'll bite my tongue off first,' he i
nterrupted.
He kept his word.
In all Philip's comings and goings to and from Haytersbank Farm atthis time, he never spoke again of his love. In look, words, manner,he was like a thoughtful, tender brother; nothing more. He could benothing more in the presence of the great dread which loomed largerupon him after every conversation with the lawyer.
For Mr. Donkin had been right in his prognostication. Government tookup the attack on the Rendezvous with a high and heavy hand. It wasnecessary to assert authority which had been of late too oftenbraved. An example must be made, to strike dismay into those whoopposed and defied the press-gang; and all the minor authorities whoheld their powers from Government were in a similar manner severeand relentless in the execution of their duty. So the attorney, whowent over to see the prisoner in York Castle, told Philip. He addedthat Daniel still retained his pride in his achievement, and couldnot be brought to understand the dangerous position in which he wasplaced; that when pressed and questioned as to circumstances thatmight possibly be used in his defence, he always wandered off toaccounts of previous outrages committed by the press-gang, or topassionate abuse of the trick by which men had been lured from theirhomes on the night in question to assist in putting out an imaginaryfire, and then seized and carried off. Some of this very naturalindignation might possibly have some effect on the jury; and thisseemed the only ground of hope, and was indeed a slight one, as thejudge was likely to warn the jury against allowing their naturalsympathy in such a case to divert their minds from the realquestion.
Such was the substance of what Philip heard, and heard repeatedly,during his many visits to Mr. Dawson. And now the time of trial drewnear; for the York assizes opened on March the twelfth; not muchabove three weeks since the offence was committed which took Danielfrom his home and placed him in peril of death.
Philip was glad that, the extremity of his danger never having beenhinted to Bell, and travelling some forty miles being a most unusualexertion at that time to persons of her class, the idea of going tosee her husband at York had never suggested itself to Bell's mind.Her increasing feebleness made this seem a step only to be taken incase of the fatal extreme necessity; such was the conclusion thatboth Sylvia and he had come to; and it was the knowledge of thisthat made Sylvia strangle her own daily longing to see her father.Not but that her hopes were stronger than her fears. Philip nevertold her the causes for despondency; she was young, and she, likeher father, could not understand how fearful sometimes is thenecessity for prompt and severe punishment of rebellion againstauthority.
Philip was to be in York during the time of the assizes; and it wasunderstood, almost without words, that if the terrible worstoccurred, the wife and daughter were to come to York as soon asmight be. For this end Philip silently made all the necessaryarrangements before leaving Monkshaven. The sympathy of all men waswith him; it was too large an occasion for Coulson to be anythingbut magnanimous. He urged Philip to take all the time requisite; toleave all business cares to him. And as Philip went about pale andsad, there was another cheek that grew paler still, another eye thatfilled with quiet tears as his heaviness of heart became more andmore apparent. The day for opening the assizes came on. Philip wasin York Minster, watching the solemn antique procession in which thehighest authority in the county accompanies the judges to the Houseof the Lord, to be there admonished as to the nature of theirduties. As Philip listened to the sermon with a strained and beatingheart, his hopes rose higher than his fears for the first time, andthat evening he wrote his first letter to Sylvia.
'DEAR SYLVIA,
'It will be longer first than I thought for. Mr. Dawson says Tuesdayin next week. But keep up your heart. I have been hearing the sermonto-day which is preached to the judges; and the clergyman said somuch in it about mercy and forgiveness, I think they cannot fail tobe lenient this assize. I have seen uncle, who looks but thin, butis in good heart: only he will keep saying he would do it over againif he had the chance, which neither Mr. Dawson nor I think is wise inhim, in especial as the gaoler is by and hears every word as issaid. He was very fain of hearing all about home; and wants you torear Daisy's calf, as he thinks she will prove a good one. He bademe give his best love to you and my aunt, and his kind duty toKester.
'Sylvia, will you try and forget how I used to scold you about yourwriting and spelling, and just write me two or three lines. I thinkI would rather have them badly spelt than not, because then I shallbe sure they are yours. And never mind about capitals; I was a foolto say such a deal about them, for a man does just as well withoutthem. A letter from you would do a vast to keep me patient all thesedays till Tuesday. Direct--
'Mr. Philip Hepburn,
'Care of Mr. Fraser, Draper, 'Micklegate, York. 'My affectionate duty to my aunt. 'Your respectful cousin and servant, 'PHILIP HEPBURN.
'P.S. The sermon was grand. The text was Zechariah vii. 9, "Executetrue judgment and show mercy." God grant it may have put mercy intothe judge's heart as is to try my uncle.'
Heavily the days passed over. On Sunday Bell and Sylvia went tochurch, with a strange, half-superstitious feeling, as if they couldpropitiate the Most High to order the events in their favour bypaying Him the compliment of attending to duties in their time ofsorrow which they had too often neglected in their prosperous days.
But He 'who knoweth our frame, and remembereth that we are dust,'took pity upon His children, and sent some of His blessed peace intotheir hearts, else they could scarce have endured the agony ofsuspense of those next hours. For as they came slowly and wearilyhome from church, Sylvia could no longer bear her secret, but toldher mother of the peril in which Daniel stood. Cold as the Marchwind blew, they had not felt it, and had sate down on a hedge bankfor Bell to rest. And then Sylvia spoke, trembling and sick forfear, yet utterly unable to keep silence any longer. Bell heaved upher hands, and let them fall down on her knees before she replied.
'The Lord is above us,' said she, solemnly. 'He has sent a fear o'this into my heart afore now. I niver breathed it to thee, mylass----'
'And I niver spoke on it to thee, mother, because----'
Sylvia choked with crying, and laid her head on her mother's lap,feeling that she was no longer the strong one, and the protector,but the protected. Bell went on, stroking her head,
'The Lord is like a tender nurse as weans a child to look on and tolike what it lothed once. He has sent me dreams as has prepared mefor this, if so be it comes to pass.
'Philip is hopeful,' said Sylvia, raising her head and lookingthrough her tears at her mother.
'Ay, he is. And I cannot tell, but I think it's not for nought asthe Lord has ta'en away all fear o' death out o' my heart. I thinkHe means as Daniel and me is to go hand-in-hand through thevalley--like as we walked up to our wedding in Crosthwaite Church. Icould never guide th' house without Daniel, and I should be fearedhe'd take a deal more nor is good for him without me.'
'But me, mother, thou's forgetting me,' moaned out Sylvia. 'Oh,mother, mother, think on me!'
'Nay, my lass, I'm noane forgetting yo'. I'd a sore heart a' lastwinter a-thinking on thee, when that chap Kinraid were hanging aboutthee. I'll noane speak ill on the dead, but I were uneasylike. Butsin' Philip and thee seem to ha' made it up----'
Sylvia shivered, and opened her mouth to speak, but did not say aword.
'And sin' the Lord has been comforting me, and talking to me many atime when thou's thought I were asleep, things has seemed to reddtheirselves up, and if Daniel goes, I'm ready to follow. I couldniver stand living to hear folks say he'd been hung; it seems sounnatural and shameful.'
'But, mother, he won't!--he shan't be hung!' said Sylvia, springingto her feet. 'Philip says he won't.'
Bell shook her head. They walked on, Sylvia both disheartened andalmost irritated at her mother's despondency. But before they wentto bed at night Bell said things which seemed as though themorning's feelings had been but temporary, and as if she wasreferring every decision to the period of her husband's return.'Wh
en father comes home,' seemed a sort of burden at the beginningor end of every sentence, and this reliance on his certain comingback to them was almost as great a trial to Sylvia as the absence ofall hope had been in the morning. But that instinct told her thather mother was becoming incapable of argument, she would have askedher why her views were so essentially changed in so few hours. Thisinability of reason in poor Bell made Sylvia feel very desolate.
Monday passed over--how, neither of them knew, for neither spoke ofwhat was filling the thoughts of both. Before it was light onTuesday morning, Bell was astir.
'It's very early, mother,' said weary, sleepy Sylvia, dreadingreturning consciousness.
'Ay, lass!' said Bell, in a brisk, cheerful tone; 'but he'll, maybe,be home to-night, and I'se bound to have all things ready for him.'
'Anyhow,' said Sylvia, sitting up in bed, 'he couldn't come hometo-night.'
'Tut, lass! thou doesn't know how quick a man comes home to wife andchild. I'll be a' ready at any rate.'
She hurried about in a way which Sylvia wondered to see; till atlength she fancied that perhaps her mother did so to drive awaythought. Every place was cleaned; there was scarce time allowed forbreakfast; till at last, long before mid-day, all the work was done,and the two sat down to their spinning-wheels. Sylvia's spirits sanklower and lower at each speech of her mother's, from whose mind allfear seemed to have disappeared, leaving only a strange restlesskind of excitement.
'It's time for t' potatoes,' said Bell, after her wool had snappedmany a time from her uneven tread.
'Mother,' said Sylvia, 'it's but just gone ten!'
'Put 'em on,' said Bell, without attending to the full meaning ofher daughter's words. 'It'll, maybe, hasten t' day on if we getdinner done betimes.'
'But Kester is in t' Far Acre field, and he'll not be home tillnoon.'
This seemed to settle matters for a while; but then Bell pushed herwheel away, and began searching for her hood and cloak. Sylvia foundthem for her, and then asked sadly--
'What does ta want 'em for, mother?'
'I'll go up t' brow and through t' field, and just have a look downt' lane.'
'I'll go wi' thee,' said Sylvia, feeling all the time theuselessness of any looking for intelligence from York so early inthe day. Very patiently did she wait by her mother's side during thelong half-hour which Bell spent in gazing down the road for thosewho never came.
When they got home Sylvia put the potatoes on to boil; but whendinner was ready and the three were seated at the dresser, Bellpushed her plate away from her, saying it was so long after dinnertime that she was past eating. Kester would have said somethingabout its being only half-past twelve, but Sylvia gave him a lookbeseeching silence, and he went on with his dinner without a word,only brushing away the tears from his eyes with the back of his handfrom time to time.
'A'll noane go far fra' home t' rest o' t' day,' said he, in awhisper to Sylvia, as he went out.
'Will this day niver come to an end?' cried Bell, plaintively.
'Oh, mother! it'll come to an end some time, never fear. I've heerdsay--"Be the day weary or be the day long,At length it ringeth to even-song."'
'To even-song--to even-song,' repeated Bell. 'D'ye think now thateven-song means death, Sylvie?'
'I cannot tell--I cannot bear it. Mother,' said Sylvia, in despair,'I'll make some clap-bread: that's a heavy job, and will while awayt' afternoon.'
'Ay, do!' replied the mother. 'He'll like it fresh--he'll like itfresh.'
Murmuring and talking to herself, she fell into a doze, from whichSylvia was careful not to disturb her.
The days were now getting long, although as cold as ever; and atHaytersbank Farm the light lingered, as there was no near horizon tobring on early darkness. Sylvia had all ready for her mother's teaagainst she wakened; but she slept on and on, the peaceful sleep ofa child, and Sylvia did not care to waken her. Just after the sunhad set, she saw Kester outside the window making signs to her tocome out. She stole out on tip-toe by the back-kitchen, the door ofwhich was standing open. She almost ran against Philip, who did notperceive her, as he was awaiting her coming the other way round thecorner of the house, and who turned upon her a face whose import sheread in an instant. 'Philip!' was all she said, and then she faintedat his feet, coming down with a heavy bang on the round pavingstones of the yard.
'Kester! Kester!' he cried, for she looked like one dead, and withall his strength the wearied man could not lift her and carry herinto the house.
With Kester's help she was borne into the back-kitchen, and Kesterrushed to the pump for some cold water to throw over her.
While Philip, kneeling at her head, was partly supporting her in hisarms, and heedless of any sight or sound, the shadow of some onefell upon him. He looked up and saw his aunt; the old dignified,sensible expression on her face, exactly like her former self,composed, strong, and calm.
'My lass,' said she, sitting down by Philip, and gently taking herout of his arms into her own. 'Lass, bear up! we mun bear up, and beagait on our way to him, he'll be needing us now. Bear up, my lass!the Lord will give us strength. We mun go to him; ay, time'sprecious; thou mun cry thy cry at after!'
Sylvia opened her dim eyes, and heard her mother's voice; the ideascame slowly into her mind, and slowly she rose up, standing still,like one who has been stunned, to regain her strength; and then,taking hold of her mother's arm, she said, in a soft, strangevoice--
'Let's go. I'm ready.'