CHAPTER XXIX
WEDDING RAIMENT
Philip and Sylvia were engaged. It was not so happy a state ofthings as Philip had imagined. He had already found that out,although it was not twenty-four hours since Sylvia had promised tobe his. He could not have defined why he was dissatisfied; if he hadbeen compelled to account for his feeling, he would probably havealleged as a reason that Sylvia's manner was so unchanged by her newposition towards him. She was quiet and gentle; but no shyer, nobrighter, no coyer, no happier, than she had been for months before.When she joined him at the field-gate, his heart was beating fast,his eyes were beaming out love at her approach. She neither blushednor smiled, but seemed absorbed in thought of some kind. But sheresisted his silent effort to draw her away from the path leading tothe house, and turned her face steadily homewards. He murmured softwords, which she scarcely heard. Right in their way was the stonetrough for the fresh bubbling water, that, issuing from a roadsidespring, served for all the household purposes of Haytersbank Farm.By it were the milk-cans, glittering and clean. Sylvia knew sheshould have to stop for these, and carry them back home in readinessfor the evening's milking; and at this time, during this action, sheresolved to say what was on her mind.
They were there. Sylvia spoke.
'Philip, Kester has been saying as how it might ha' been----'
'Well!' said Philip.
Sylvia sate down on the edge of the trough, and dipped her hotlittle hand in the water. Then she went on quickly, and lifting herbeautiful eyes to Philip's face, with a look of inquiry--'He thinksas Charley Kinraid may ha' been took by t' press-gang.'
It was the first time she had named the name of her former lover toher present one since the day, long ago now, when they hadquarrelled about him; and the rosy colour flushed her all over; buther sweet, trustful eyes never flinched from their steady,unconscious gaze.
Philip's heart stopped beating; literally, as if he had come to asudden precipice, while he had thought himself securely walking onsunny greensward. He went purple all over from dismay; he dared nottake his eyes away from that sad, earnest look of hers, but he wasthankful that a mist came before them and drew a veil before hisbrain. He heard his own voice saying words he did not seem to haveframed in his own mind.
'Kester's a d--d fool,' he growled.
'He says there's mebbe but one chance i' a hundred,' said Sylvia,pleading, as it were, for Kester; 'but oh! Philip, think yo' there'sjust that one chance?'
'Ay, there's a chance, sure enough,' said Philip, in a kind offierce despair that made him reckless what he said or did. 'There'sa chance, I suppose, for iverything i' life as we have not seen withour own eyes as it may not ha' happened. Kester may say next asthere's a chance as your father is not dead, because we none on ussaw him----'
'Hung,' he was going to have said, but a touch of humanity came backinto his stony heart. Sylvia sent up a little sharp cry at hiswords. He longed at the sound to take her in his arms and hush herup, as a mother hushes her weeping child. But the very longing,having to be repressed, only made him more beside himself withguilt, anxiety, and rage. They were quite still now. Sylvia lookingsadly down into the bubbling, merry, flowing water: Philip glaringat her, wishing that the next word were spoken, though it might stabhim to the heart. But she did not speak.
At length, unable to bear it any longer, he said, 'Thou sets a dealo' store on that man, Sylvie.'
If 'that man' had been there at the moment, Philip would havegrappled with him, and not let go his hold till one or the otherwere dead. Sylvia caught some of the passionate meaning of thegloomy, miserable tone of Philip's voice as he said these words. Shelooked up at him.
'I thought yo' knowed that I cared a deal for him.'
There was something so pleading and innocent in her pale, troubledface, so pathetic in her tone, that Philip's anger, which had beenexcited against her, as well as against all the rest of the world,melted away into love; and once more he felt that have her for hisown he must, at any cost. He sate down by her, and spoke to her inquite a different manner to that which he had used before, with aready tact and art which some strange instinct or tempter 'close athis ear' supplied.
'Yes, darling, I knew yo' cared for him. I'll not say ill of himthat is--dead--ay, dead and drowned--whativer Kester maysay--before now; but if I chose I could tell tales.'
'No! tell no tales; I'll not hear them,' said she, wrenching herselfout of Philip's clasping arm. 'They may misca' him for iver, andI'll not believe 'em.'
'I'll niver miscall one who is dead,' said Philip; each newunconscious sign of the strength of Sylvia's love for her formerlover only making him the more anxious to convince her that he wasdead, only rendering him more keen at deceiving his own conscienceby repeating to it the lie that long ere this Kinraid was in allprobability dead--killed by either the chances of war or tempestuoussea; that, even if not, he was as good as dead to her; so that theword 'dead' might be used in all honest certainty, as in one of itsmeanings Kinraid was dead for sure.
'Think yo' that if he were not dead he wouldn't ha' written ere thisto some one of his kin, if not to thee? Yet none of his folkNewcassel-way but believe him dead.'
'So Kester says,' sighed Sylvia.
Philip took heart. He put his arm softly round her again, andmurmured--
'My lassie, try not to think on them as is gone, as is dead, but t'think a bit more on him as loves yo' wi' heart, and soul, and might,and has done iver sin' he first set eyes on yo'. Oh, Sylvie, my lovefor thee is just terrible.'
At this moment Dolly Reid was seen at the back-door of thefarmhouse, and catching sight of Sylvia, she called out--
'Sylvia, thy mother is axing for thee, and I cannot make her mindeasy.'
In a moment Sylvia had sprung up from her seat, and was running into soothe and comfort her mother's troubled fancies.
Philip sate on by the well-side, his face buried in his two hands.Presently he lifted himself up, drank some water eagerly out of hishollowed palm, sighed, and shook himself, and followed his cousininto the house. Sometimes he came unexpectedly to the limits of hisinfluence over her. In general she obeyed his expressed wishes withgentle indifference, as if she had no preferences of her own; onceor twice he found that she was doing what he desired out of thespirit of obedience, which, as her mother's daughter, she believedto be her duty towards her affianced husband. And this last motivefor action depressed her lover more than anything. He wanted the oldSylvia back again; captious, capricious, wilful, haughty, merry,charming. Alas! that Sylvia was gone for ever.
But once especially his power, arising from whatever cause, wasstopped entirely short--was utterly of no avail.
It was on the occasion of Dick Simpson's mortal illness. Sylvia andher mother kept aloof from every one. They had never been intimatewith any family but the Corneys, and even this friendship hadconsiderably cooled since Molly's marriage, and most especiallysince Kinraid's supposed death, when Bessy Corney and Sylvia hadbeen, as it were, rival mourners. But many people, both inMonkshaven and the country round about, held the Robson family ingreat respect, although Mrs. Robson herself was accounted 'high' and'distant;' and poor little Sylvia, in her heyday of beautiful youthand high spirits, had been spoken of as 'a bit flighty,' and 'aset-up lassie.' Still, when their great sorrow fell upon them, therewere plenty of friends to sympathize deeply with them; and, asDaniel had suffered in a popular cause, there were even more who,scarcely knowing them personally, were ready to give them all themarks of respect and friendly feeling in their power. But neitherBell nor Sylvia were aware of this. The former had lost allperception of what was not immediately before her; the latter shrankfrom all encounters of any kind with a sore heart, and sensitiveavoidance of everything that could make her a subject of remark. Sothe poor afflicted people at Haytersbank knew little of Monkshavennews. What little did come to their ears came through Dolly Reid,when she returned from selling the farm produce of the week; andoften, indeed, even then she found Sylvia too much absorbed in oth
ercares or thoughts to listen to her gossip. So no one had ever namedthat Simpson was supposed to be dying till Philip began on thesubject one evening. Sylvia's face suddenly flashed into glow andlife.
'He's dying, is he? t' earth is well rid on such a fellow!'
'Eh, Sylvie, that's a hard speech o' thine!' said Philip; 'it givesme but poor heart to ask a favour of thee!'
'If it's aught about Simpson,' replied she, and then she interruptedherself. 'But say on; it were ill-mannered in me for t' interruptyo'.'
'Thou would be sorry to see him, I think, Sylvie. He cannot get overthe way, t' folk met him, and pelted him when he came back fra'York,--and he's weak and faint, and beside himself at times; andhe'll lie a dreaming, and a-fancying they're all at him again,hooting, and yelling, and pelting him.'
'I'm glad on 't,' said Sylvia; 'it's t' best news I've heered formany a day,--he, to turn again' feyther, who gave him money fo t'get a lodging that night, when he'd no place to go to. It were hisevidence as hung feyther; and he's rightly punished for it now.'
'For a' that,--and he's done a vast o' wrong beside, he's dying now,Sylvie!'
'Well! let him die--it's t' best thing he could do!'
'But he's lying i' such dree poverty,--and niver a friend to go nearhim,--niver a person to speak a kind word t' him.'
'It seems as yo've been speaking wi' him, at any rate,' said Sylvia,turning round on Philip.
'Ay. He sent for me by Nell Manning, th' old beggar-woman, whosometimes goes in and makes his bed for him, poor wretch,--he'slying in t' ruins of th' cow-house of th' Mariners' Arms, Sylvie.'
'Well!' said she, in the same hard, dry tone.
'And I went and fetched th' parish doctor, for I thought he'd ha'died before my face,--he was so wan, and ashen-grey, so thin, too,his eyes seem pushed out of his bony face.'
'That last time--feyther's eyes were starting, wild-like, and as ifhe couldn't meet ours, or bear the sight on our weeping.'
It was a bad look-out for Philip's purpose; but after a pause hewent bravely on.
'He's a poor dying creature, anyhow. T' doctor said so, and told himhe hadn't many hours, let alone days, to live.'
'And he'd shrink fra' dying wi' a' his sins on his head?' saidSylvia, almost exultingly.
Philip shook his head. 'He said this world had been too strong forhim, and men too hard upon him; he could niver do any good here, andhe thought he should, maybe, find folks i' t' next place moremerciful.'
'He'll meet feyther theere,' said Sylvia, still hard and bitter.
'He's a poor ignorant creature, and doesn't seem to know rightly whohe's like to meet; only he seems glad to get away fra' Monkshavenfolks; he were really hurt, I am afeared, that night, Sylvie,--andhe speaks as if he'd had hard times of it ever since he were achild,--and he talks as if he were really grieved for t' part t'lawyers made him take at th' trial,--they made him speak, againsthis will, he says.'
'Couldn't he ha' bitten his tongue out?' asked Sylvia. 'It's finetalking o' sorrow when the thing is done!'
'Well, anyhow he's sorry now; and he's not long for to live. And,Sylvie, he bid me ask thee, if, for the sake of all that is dear tothee both here, and i' th' world to come, thou'd go wi' me, and justsay to him that thou forgives him his part that day.'
'He sent thee on that errand, did he? And thou could come and askme? I've a mind to break it off for iver wi' thee, Philip.' She keptgasping, as if she could not say any more. Philip watched and waitedtill her breath came, his own half choked.
'Thee and me was niver meant to go together. It's not in me toforgive,--I sometimes think it's not in me to forget. I wonder,Philip, if thy feyther had done a kind deed--and a right deed--and amerciful deed--and some one as he'd been good to, even i' t' midstof his just anger, had gone and let on about him to th' judge, aswas trying to hang him,--and had getten him hanged,--hanged dead, sothat his wife were a widow, and his child fatherless forivermore,--I wonder if thy veins would run milk and water, so thatthou could go and make friends, and speak soft wi' him as had causedthy feyther's death?'
'It's said in t' Bible, Sylvie, that we're to forgive.'
'Ay, there's some things as I know I niver forgive; and there'sothers as I can't--and I won't, either.'
'But, Sylvie, yo' pray to be forgiven your trespasses, as youforgive them as trespass against you.'
'Well, if I'm to be taken at my word, I'll noane pray at all, that'sall. It's well enough for them as has but little to forgive to usethem words; and I don't reckon it's kind, or pretty behaved in yo',Philip, to bring up Scripture again' me. Thou may go about thybusiness.'
'Thou'rt vexed with me, Sylvie; and I'm not meaning but that itwould go hard with thee to forgive him; but I think it would beright and Christian-like i' thee, and that thou'd find thy comfortin thinking on it after. If thou'd only go, and see his wistfuleyes--I think they'd plead wi' thee more than his words, or mineeither.'
'I tell thee my flesh and blood wasn't made for forgiving andforgetting. Once for all, thou must take my word. When I love Ilove, and when I hate I hate; and him as has done hard to me, or tomine, I may keep fra' striking or murdering, but I'll niver forgive.I should be just a monster, fit to be shown at a fair, if I couldforgive him as got feyther hanged.'
Philip was silent, thinking what more he could urge.
'Yo'd better be off,' said Sylvia, in a minute or two. 'Yo' and mehas got wrong, and it'll take a night's sleep to set us right. Yo'vesaid all yo' can for him; and perhaps it's not yo' as is to blame,but yo'r nature. But I'm put out wi' thee, and want thee out o' mysight for awhile.'
One or two more speeches of this kind convinced him that it would bewise in him to take her at her word. He went back to Simpson, andfound him, though still alive, past the understanding of any wordsof human forgiveness. Philip had almost wished he had not troubledor irritated Sylvia by urging the dying man's request: theperformance of this duty seemed now to have been such a uselessoffice.
After all, the performance of a duty is never a useless office,though we may not see the consequences, or they may be quitedifferent to what we expected or calculated on. In the pause ofactive work, when daylight was done, and the evening shades came on,Sylvia had time to think; and her heart grew sad and soft, incomparison to what it had been when Philip's urgency had called outall her angry opposition. She thought of her father--his sharppassions, his frequent forgiveness, or rather his forgetfulness thathe had even been injured. All Sylvia's persistent or enduringqualities were derived from her mother, her impulses from herfather. It was her dead father whose example filled her mind thisevening in the soft and tender twilight. She did not say to herselfthat she would go and tell Simpson that she forgave him; but shethought that if Philip asked her again that she should do so.
But when she saw Philip again he told her that Simpson was dead; andpassed on from what he had reason to think would be an unpleasantsubject to her. Thus he never learnt how her conduct might have beenmore gentle and relenting than her words--words which came up intohis memory at a future time, with full measure of miserablesignificance.
In general, Sylvia was gentle and good enough; but Philip wanted herto be shy and tender with him, and this she was not. She spoke tohim, her pretty eyes looking straight and composedly at him. Sheconsulted him like the family friend that he was: she met himquietly in all the arrangements for the time of their marriage,which she looked upon more as a change of home, as the leaving ofHaytersbank, as it would affect her mother, than in any moredirectly personal way. Philip was beginning to feel, though not asyet to acknowledge, that the fruit he had so inordinately longed forwas but of the nature of an apple of Sodom.
Long ago, lodging in widow Rose's garret, he had been in the habitof watching some pigeons that were kept by a neighbour; the flockdisported themselves on the steep tiled roofs just opposite to theattic window, and insensibly Philip grew to know their ways, and onepretty, soft little dove was somehow perpetually associated in hismind with his idea of his cousin Sylvia. The pig
eon would sit in oneparticular place, sunning herself, and puffing out her featheredbreast, with all the blue and rose-coloured lights gleaming in themorning rays, cooing softly to herself as she dressed her plumage.Philip fancied that he saw the same colours in a certain piece ofshot silk--now in the shop; and none other seemed to him so suitablefor his darling's wedding-dress. He carried enough to make a gown,and gave it to her one evening, as she sate on the grass justoutside the house, half attending to her mother, half engaged inknitting stockings for her scanty marriage outfit. He was glad thatthe sun was not gone down, thus allowing him to display the changingcolours in fuller light. Sylvia admired it duly; even Mrs. Robson waspleased and attracted by the soft yet brilliant hues. Philipwhispered to Sylvia--(he took delight in whispers,--she, on thecontrary, always spoke to him in her usual tone of voice)--
'Thou'lt look so pretty in it, sweetheart,--o' Thursday fortnight!'
'Thursday fortnight. On the fourth yo're thinking on. But I cannotwear it then,--I shall be i' black.'
'Not on that day, sure!' said Philip.
'Why not? There's nought t' happen on that day for t' make me forgetfeyther. I couldn't put off my black, Philip,--no, not to save mylife! Yon silk is just lovely, far too good for the likes ofme,--and I'm sure I'm much beholden to yo'; and I'll have it made upfirst of any gown after last April come two years,--but, oh, Philip,I cannot put off my mourning!'
'Not for our wedding-day!' said Philip, sadly.
'No, lad, I really cannot. I'm just sorry about it, for I seethou'rt set upon it; and thou'rt so kind and good, I sometimes thinkI can niver be thankful enough to thee. When I think on what wouldha' become of mother and me if we hadn't had thee for a friend i'need, I'm noane ungrateful, Philip; tho' I sometimes fancy thou'rtthinking I am.'
'I don't want yo' to be grateful, Sylvie,' said poor Philip,dissatisfied, yet unable to explain what he did want; only knowingthat there was something he lacked, yet fain would have had.
As the marriage-day drew near, all Sylvia's care seemed to be forher mother; all her anxiety was regarding the appurtenances of thehome she was leaving. In vain Philip tried to interest her indetails of his improvements or contrivances in the new home to whichhe was going to take her. She did not tell him; but the idea of thehouse behind the shop was associated in her mind with two times ofdiscomfort and misery. The first time she had gone into the parlourabout which Philip spoke so much was at the time of the press-gangriot, when she had fainted from terror and excitement; the secondwas on that night of misery when she and her mother had gone in toMonkshaven, to bid her father farewell before he was taken to York;in that room, on that night, she had first learnt something of thefatal peril in which he stood. She could not show the bright shycuriosity about her future dwelling that is common enough with girlswho are going to be married. All she could do was to restrainherself from sighing, and listen patiently, when he talked on thesubject. In time he saw that she shrank from it; so he held hispeace, and planned and worked for her in silence,--smiling tohimself as he looked on each completed arrangement for her pleasureor comfort; and knowing well that her happiness was involved in whatfragments of peace and material comfort might remain to her mother.
The wedding-day drew near apace. It was Philip's plan that afterthey had been married in Kirk Moorside church, he and his Sylvia,his cousin, his love, his wife, should go for the day to RobinHood's Bay, returning in the evening to the house behind the shop inthe market-place. There they were to find Bell Robson installed inher future home; for Haytersbank Farm was to be given up to the newtenant on the very day of the wedding. Sylvia would not be marriedany sooner; she said that she must stay there till the very last;and had said it with such determination that Philip had desistedfrom all urgency at once.
He had told her that all should be settled for her mother's comfortduring their few hours' absence; otherwise Sylvia would not havegone at all. He told her he should ask Hester, who was always sogood and kind--who never yet had said him nay, to go to church withthem as bridesmaid--for Sylvia would give no thought or care toanything but her mother--and that they would leave her atHaytersbank as they returned from church; she would manage MrsRobson's removal--she would do this--do that--do everything. Suchfriendly confidence had Philip in Hester's willingness and tenderskill. Sylvia acquiesced at length, and Philip took upon himself tospeak to Hester on the subject.
'Hester,' said he, one day when he was preparing to go home afterthe shop was closed; 'would yo' mind stopping a bit? I should liketo show yo' the place now it's done up; and I've a favour to ask onyo' besides.' He was so happy he did not see her shiver all over.She hesitated just a moment before she answered,--
'I'll stay, if thou wishes it, Philip. But I'm no judge o' fashionsand such like.'
'Thou'rt a judge o' comfort, and that's what I've been aiming at. Iwere niver so comfortable in a' my life as when I were a lodger atthy house,' said he, with brotherly tenderness in his tone. 'If mymind had been at ease I could ha' said I niver were happier in allmy days than under thy roof; and I know it were thy doing for themost part. So come along, Hester, and tell me if there's aught moreI can put in for Sylvie.'
It might not have been a very appropriate text, but such as it wasthe words, 'From him that would ask of thee turn not thou away,'seemed the only source of strength that could have enabled her to gopatiently through the next half-hour. As it was, she unselfishlybrought all her mind to bear upon the subject; admired this, thoughtand decided upon that, as one by one Philip showed her all hisalterations and improvements. Never was such a quiet little bit ofunconscious and unrecognized heroism. She really ended by such aconquest of self that she could absolutely sympathize with the proudexpectant lover, and had quenched all envy of the beloved, insympathy with the delight she imagined Sylvia must experience whenshe discovered all these proofs of Philip's fond consideration andcare. But it was a great strain on the heart, that source of life;and when Hester returned into the parlour, after her deliberatesurvey of the house, she felt as weary and depressed in bodilystrength as if she had gone through an illness of many days. Shesate down on the nearest chair, and felt as though she never couldrise again. Philip, joyous and content, stood near her talking.
'And, Hester,' said he, 'Sylvie has given me a message for thee--shesays thou must be her bridesmaid--she'll have none other.'
'I cannot,' said Hester, with sudden sharpness.
'Oh, yes, but yo' must. It wouldn't be like my wedding if thouwasn't there: why I've looked upon thee as a sister iver since Icame to lodge with thy mother.'
Hester shook her head. Did her duty require her not to turn awayfrom this asking, too? Philip saw her reluctance, and, by intuitionrather than reason, he knew that what she would not do for gaiety orpleasure she would consent to, if by so doing she could render anyservice to another. So he went on.
'Besides, Sylvie and me has planned to go for our wedding jaunt toRobin Hood's Bay. I ha' been to engage a shandry this very morn,before t' shop was opened; and there's no one to leave wi' my aunt.Th' poor old body is sore crushed with sorrow; and is, as one maysay, childish at times; she's to come down here, that we may findher when we come back at night; and there's niver a one she'll comewith so willing and so happy as with thee, Hester. Sylvie and me hasboth said so.'
Hester looked up in his face with her grave honest eyes.
'I cannot go to church wi' thee, Philip; and thou must not ask meany further. But I'll go betimes to Haytersbank Farm, and I'll do mybest to make the old lady happy, and to follow out thy directions inbringing her here before nightfall.'
Philip was on the point of urging her afresh to go with them tochurch; but something in her eyes brought a thought across his mind,as transitory as a breath passes over a looking-glass, and hedesisted from his entreaty, and put away his thought as a piece ofvain coxcombry, insulting to Hester. He passed rapidly on to all thecareful directions rendered necessary by her compliance with thelatter part of his request, coupling Sylvia's name with hisperpetu
ally; so that Hester looked upon her as a happy girl, aseager in planning all the details of her marriage as though no heavyshameful sorrow had passed over her head not many months ago.
Hester did not see Sylvia's white, dreamy, resolute face, thatanswered the solemn questions of the marriage service in a voicethat did not seem her own. Hester was not with them to notice theheavy abstraction that made the bride as if unconscious of herhusband's loving words, and then start and smile, and reply with asad gentleness of tone. No! Hester's duty lay in conveying the poorwidow and mother down from Haytersbank to the new home inMonkshaven; and for all Hester's assistance and thoughtfulness, itwas a dreary, painful piece of work--the poor old woman crying likea child, with bewilderment at the confused bustle which, in spite ofall Sylvia's careful forethought, could not be avoided on this finalday, when her mother had to be carried away from the homestead overwhich she had so long presided. But all this was as nothing to thedistress which overwhelmed poor Bell Robson when she enteredPhilip's house; the parlour--the whole place so associated with thekeen agony she had undergone there, that the stab of memorypenetrated through her deadened senses, and brought her back tomisery. In vain Hester tried to console her by telling her the factof Sylvia's marriage with Philip in every form of words thatoccurred to her. Bell only remembered her husband's fate, whichfilled up her poor wandering mind, and coloured everything; insomuchthat Sylvia not being at hand to reply to her mother's cry for her,the latter imagined that her child, as well as her husband, was indanger of trial and death, and refused to be comforted by anyendeavour of the patient sympathizing Hester. In a pause of MrsRobson's sobs, Hester heard the welcome sound of the wheels of thereturning shandry, bearing the bride and bridegroom home. It stoppedat the door--an instant, and Sylvia, white as a sheet at the soundof her mother's wailings, which she had caught while yet at adistance, with the quick ears of love, came running in; her motherfeebly rose and tottered towards her, and fell into her arms,saying, 'Oh! Sylvie, Sylvie, take me home, and away from this cruelplace!'
Hester could not but be touched with the young girl's manner to hermother--as tender, as protecting as if their relation to each otherhad been reversed, and she was lulling and tenderly soothing awayward, frightened child. She had neither eyes nor ears for any onetill her mother was sitting in trembling peace, holding herdaughter's hand tight in both of hers, as if afraid of losing sightof her: then Sylvia turned to Hester, and, with the sweet gracewhich is a natural gift to some happy people, thanked her; in commonwords enough she thanked her, but in that nameless manner, and withthat strange, rare charm which made Hester feel as if she had neverbeen thanked in all her life before; and from that time forth sheunderstood, if she did not always yield to, the unconsciousfascination which Sylvia could exercise over others at times.
Did it enter into Philip's heart to perceive that he had wedded hislong-sought bride in mourning raiment, and that the first soundswhich greeted them as they approached their home were those ofweeping and wailing?