The post arrived at Monkshaven three times in the week; sometimes, indeed, there were not a dozen letters in the bag, which was brought thither by a man in a light mail-cart, who took the better part of a day to drive from York; dropping private bags here and there on the moors, at some squire’s lodge or roadside inn. Of the number of letters that arrived in Monkshaven, the Fosters, shopkeepers and bankers, had the largest share.
The morning succeeding the day on which Sylvia had engaged herself to Kinraid, the Fosters seemed unusually anxious to obtain their letters. Several times Jeremiah came out of the parlour in which his brother John was sitting in expectant silence, and, passing through the shop, looked up and down the market-place in search of the old lame woman, who was charitably employed to deliver letters, and who must have been lamer than ever this morning, to judge from the lateness of her coming. Although none but the Fosters knew the cause of their impatience for their letters, yet there was such tacit sympathy between them and those whom they employed, that Hepburn, Coulson, and Hester were all much relieved when the old woman at length appeared with her basket of letters.
One of these seemed of especial consequence to the good brothers. They each separately looked at the direction, and then at one another; and without a word they returned with it unread into the parlour, shutting the door, and drawing the green silk curtain close, the better to read it in privacy.
Both Coulson and Philip felt that something unusual was going on, and were, perhaps, as full of consideration as to the possible contents of this London letter, as of attention to their more immediate business. But fortunately there was little doing in the shop. Philip, indeed, was quite idle when John Foster opened the parlour-door, and, half doubtfully, called him into the room. As the door of communication shut the three in, Coulson felt himself a little aggrieved. A minute ago Philip and he were on a level of ignorance, from which the former was evidently going to be raised. But he soon returned to his usual state of acquiescence in things as they were, which was partly constitutional, and partly the result of his Quaker training.
It was apparently by John Foster’s wish that Philip had been summoned. Jeremiah, the less energetic and decided brother, was still discussing the propriety of the step when Philip entered.
‘No need for haste, John; better not call the young man till we have further considered the matter.’
But the young man was there in presence; and John’s will carried the day.
It seemed from his account to Philip (explanatory of what he, in advance of his brother’s slower judgment, thought to be a necessary step), that the Fosters had for some time received anonymous letters, warning them, with distinct meaning, though in ambiguous terms, against a certain silk-manufacturer in Spitalfields, with whom they had had straightforward business dealings for many years; but to whom they had latterly advanced money. The letters hinted at the utter insolvency of this manufacturer. They had urged their correspondent to give them his name in confidence, and this morning’s letter had brought it; but the name was totally unknown to them, though there seemed no reason to doubt the reality of either it or the address, the latter of which was given in full. Certain circumstances were mentioned regarding the transactions between the Fosters and this manufacturer, which could be known only to those who were in the confidence of one or the other; and to the Fosters the man was, as has been said, a perfect stranger. Probably, they would have been unwilling to incur the risk they had done on this manufacturer Dickinson’s account, if it had not been that he belonged to the same denomination as themselves, and was publicly distinguished for his excellent and philanthropic character; but these letters were provocative of anxiety, especially since this morning’s post had brought out the writer’s full name, and various particulars showing his intimate knowledge of Dickinson’s affairs.
After much perplexed consultation, John had hit upon the plan of sending Hepburn to London to make secret inquiries respecting the true character and commercial position of the man whose creditors, not a month ago, they had esteemed it an honour to be.
Even now Jeremiah was ashamed of their want of confidence in one so good; he believed that the information they had received would all prove a mistake, founded on erroneous grounds, if not a pure invention of an enemy; and he had only been brought partially to consent to the sending of Hepburn, by his brother’s pledging himself that the real nature of Philip’s errand should be unknown to any human creature, save them three.
As all this was being revealed to Philip, he sat apparently unmoved and simply attentive. In fact, he was giving all his mind to understanding the probabilities of the case, leaving his own feelings in the background till his intellect should have done its work. He said little; but what he did say was to the point, and satisfied both brothers. John perceived that his messenger would exercise penetration and act with energy; while Jeremiah was soothed by Philip’s caution in not hastily admitting the probability of any charge against Dickinson, and in giving full weight to his previous good conduct and good character.
Philip had the satisfaction of feeling himself employed on a mission which would call out his powers, and yet not exceed them. In his own mind he forestalled the instructions of his masters, and was silently in advance of John Foster’s plans and arrangements, while he appeared to listen to all that was said with quiet business-like attention.
It was settled that the next morning he was to make his way northwards to Hartlepool, whence he could easily proceed either by land or sea to Newcastle, from which place smacks were constantly sailing to London. As to his personal conduct and behaviour there, the brothers overwhelmed him with directions and advice; nor did they fail to draw out of the strong box in the thick wall of their counting-house a more than sufficient sum of money for all possible expenses. Philip had never had so much in his hands before, and hesitated to take it, saying it was more than he should require; but they repeated, with fresh urgency, their warnings about the terrible high prices of London, till he could only resolve to keep a strict account, and bring back all that he did not expend, since nothing but his taking the whole sum would satisfy his employers.
When he was once more behind the counter, he had leisure enough for consideration as far as Coulson could give it him. The latter was silent, brooding over the confidence which Philip had apparently received, but which was withheld from him. He did not yet know of the culminating point — of Philip’s proposed journey to London; that great city of London, which, from its very inaccessibility fifty years ago, loomed so magnificent through the mist of men’s imaginations. It is not to be denied that Philip felt exultant at the mere fact of ‘going to London.’ But then again, the thought of leaving Sylvia; of going out of possible daily reach of her; of not seeing her for a week — a fortnight; nay, he might be away for a month — for no rash hurry was to mar his delicate negotiation — gnawed at his heart, and spoilt any enjoyment he might have anticipated from gratified curiosity, or even from the consciousness of being trusted by those whose trust and regard he valued. The sense of what he was leaving grew upon him the longer he thought on the subject; he almost wished that he had told his masters earlier in the conversation of his unwillingness to leave Monkshaven for so long a time; and then again he felt that the gratitude he owed them quite prohibited his declining any task they might impose, especially as they had more than once said that it would not do for them to appear in the affair, and yet that to no one else could they entrust so difficult and delicate a matter. Several times that day, as he perceived Coulson’s jealous sullenness, he thought in his heart that the consequence of the excessive confidence for which Coulson envied him was a burden from which he would be thankful to be relieved.
As they all sat at tea in Alice Rose’s house-place, Philip announced his intended journey; a piece of intelligence he had not communicated earlier to Coulson because he had rather dreaded the increase of dissatisfaction it was sure to produce, and of which he knew the expression would be restrained by the presence of Alice Rose and her daughter.
‘To Lunnon!’ exclaimed Alice.
Hester said nothing.
‘Well! some folks has the luck!’ said Coulson.
‘Luck!’ said Alice, turning sharp round on him. ‘Niver let me hear such a vain word out o’ thy mouth, laddie, again. It’s the Lord’s doing, and luck’s the devil’s way o’ putting it. Maybe it’s to try Philip he’s sent there; happen it may be a fiery furnace to him; for I’ve heerd tell it’s full o’ temptations, and he may fall into sin — and then where’d be the “luck” on it? But why art ta going? and the morning, say’st thou? Why, thy best shirt is in t’ suds, and no time for t’ starch and iron it. Whatten the great haste as should take thee to Lunnon wi’out thy ruffled shirt?’
‘It’s none o’ my doing,’ said Philip; ‘there’s business to be done, and John Foster says I’m to do it; and I’m to start tomorrow.’
‘I’ll not turn thee out wi’out thy ruffled shirt, if I sit up a’ neet,’ said Alice, resolutely.
‘Niver fret thyself, mother, about t’ shirt,’ said Philip. ‘If I need a shirt, London’s not what I take it for if I can’t buy mysel’ one ready-made.’
‘Hearken to him!’ said Alice. ‘He speaks as if buying o’ ready-made shirts were nought to him, and he wi’ a good half-dozen as I made mysel’. Eh, lad? but if that’s the frame o’ mind thou’rt in, Lunnon is like for to be a sore place o’ temptation. There’s pitfalls for men, and traps for money at ivery turn, as I’ve heerd say. It would ha’ been better if John Foster had sent an older man on his business, whativer it be.’
‘They seem to make a deal o’ Philip all on a sudden,’ said Coulson. ‘He’s sent for, and talked to i’ privacy, while Hester and me is left i’ t’ shop for t’ bear t’ brunt o’ t’ serving.’
‘Philip knows,’ said Hester, and then, somehow, her voice failed her and she stopped.
Philip paid no attention to this half-uttered sentence; he was eager to tell Coulson, as far as he could do so without betraying his master’s secret, how many drawbacks there were to his proposed journey, in the responsibility which it involved, and his unwillingness to leave Monkshaven: he said —
‘Coulson, I’d give a deal it were thou that were going, and not me. At least, there is many a time I’d give a deal. I’ll not deny but at other times I’m pleased at the thought on’t. But, if I could I’d change places wi’ thee at this moment.’
‘It’s fine talking,’ said Coulson, half mollified, and yet not caring to show it. ‘I make no doubt it were an even chance betwixt us two at first, which on us was to go; but somehow thou got the start and thou’st stuck to it till it’s too late for aught but to say thou’s sorry.’
‘Nay, William,’ said Philip, rising, ‘it’s an ill look-out for the future, if thee and me is to quarrel, like two silly wenches, o’er each bit of pleasure, or what thou fancies to be pleasure, as falls in t’ way of either on us. I’ve said truth to thee, and played thee fair, and I’ve got to go to Haytersbank for to wish ’em good-by, so I’ll not stay longer here to be misdoubted by thee.’
He took his cap and was gone, not heeding Alice’s shrill inquiry as to his clothes and his ruffled shirt. Coulson sat still, penitent and ashamed; at length he stole a look at Hester. She was playing with her teaspoon, but he could see that she was choking down her tears; he could not choose but force her to speak with an ill-timed question.
‘What’s to do, Hester?’ said he.
She lifted up those eyes, usually so soft and serene; now they were full of the light of indignation shining through tears.
‘To do!’ she said; ‘Coulson, I’d thought better of thee, going and doubting and envying Philip, as niver did thee an ill turn, or said an ill word, or thought an ill thought by thee; and sending him away out o’ t’ house this last night of all, may-be, wi’ thy envyings and jealousy.’
She hastily got up and left the room. Alice was away, looking up Philip’s things for his journey. Coulson remained alone, feeling like a guilty child, but dismayed by Hester’s words, even more than by his own regret at what he had said.
Philip walked rapidly up the hill-road towards Haytersbank. He was chafed and excited by Coulson’s words, and the events of the day. He had meant to shape his life, and now it was, as it were, being shaped for him, and yet he was reproached for the course it was taking, as much as though he were an active agent; accused of taking advantage over Coulson, his intimate companion for years; he who esteemed himself above taking an unfair advantage over any man! His feeling on the subject was akin to that of Hazael, ‘Is thy servant a dog that he should do this thing?’
His feelings, disturbed on this one point, shook his judgment off its balance on another. The resolution he had deliberately formed of not speaking to Sylvia on the subject of his love till he could announce to her parents the fact of his succession to Fosters’ business, and till he had patiently, with long-continuing and deep affection, worked his way into her regard, was set aside during the present walk. He would speak to her of his passionate attachment, before he left, for an uncertain length of time, and the certain distance of London. And all the modification on this point which his judgment could obtain from his impetuous and excited heart was, that he would watch her words and manner well when he announced his approaching absence, and if in them he read the slightest token of tender regretful feeling, he would pour out his love at her feet, not even urging the young girl to make any return, or to express the feelings of which he hoped the germ was already budding in her. He would be patient with her; he could not be patient himself. His heart beating, his busy mind rehearsing the probable coming scene, he turned into the field-path that led to Haytersbank. Coming along it, and so meeting him, advanced Daniel Robson, in earnest talk with Charley Kinraid. Kinraid, then, had been at the farm: Kinraid had been seeing Sylvia, her mother away. The thought of poor dead Annie Coulson flashed into Philip’s mind. Could he be playing the same game with Sylvia? Philip set his teeth and tightened his lips at the thought of it. They had stopped talking; they had seen him already, or his impulse would have been to dodge behind the wall and avoid them; even though one of his purposes in going to Haytersbank had been to bid his uncle farewell.
Kinraid took him by surprise from the hearty greeting he gave him, and which Philip would fain have avoided. But the specksioneer was full of kindliness towards all the world, especially towards all Sylvia’s friends, and, convinced of her great love towards himself, had forgotten any previous jealousy of Philip. Secure and exultant, his broad, handsome, weather-bronzed face was as great a contrast to Philip’s long, thoughtful, sallow countenance, as his frank manner was to the other’s cold reserve. It was some minutes before Hepburn could bring himself to tell the great event that was about to befall him before this third person whom he considered as an intrusive stranger. But as Kinraid seemed to have no idea of going on, and as there really was no reason why he and all the world should not know of Philip’s intentions, he told his uncle that he was bound for London the next day on business connected with the Fosters.
Daniel was deeply struck with the fact that he was talking to a man setting off for London at a day’s notice.
‘Thou’ll niver tell me this hasn’t been brewin’ longer nor twelve hours; thou’s a sly close chap, and we hannot seen thee this se’nnight; thou’ll ha’ been thinkin’ on this, and cogitating it, may-be, a’ that time.’
‘Nay,’ said Philip, ‘I knew nought about it last night; it’s none o’ my doing, going, for I’d liefer ha’ stayed where I am.’
‘Yo’ll like it when once yo’re there,’ said Kinraid, with a travelled air of superiority, as Philip fancied.
‘No, I shan’t,’ he replied, shortly. ‘Liking has nought to do with it.’
‘Ah’ yo’ knew nought about it last neet,’ continued Daniel, musingly. ‘Well, life’s soon o’er; else when I were a young fellow, folks made their wills afore goin’ to Lunnon.’
‘Yet I’ll be bound to say yo’ niver made a will before going to sea,’ said Philip, half smiling.
‘Na, na; but that’s quite another mak’ o’ thing; going’ to sea comes natteral to a man, but goin’ to Lunnon — I were once there, and were near deafened wi’ t’ throng and t’ sound. I were but two hours i’ t’ place, though our ship lay a fortneet off Gravesend.’
Kinraid now seemed in a hurry; but Philip was stung with curiosity to ascertain his movements, and suddenly addressed him:
‘I heard yo’ were i’ these parts. Are you for staying here long?’
There was a certain abruptness in Philip’s tone, if not in his words, which made Kinraid look in his face with surprise, and answer with equal curtness.
‘I’m off i’ th’ morning; and sail for the north seas day after.’
He turned away, and began to whistle, as if he did not wish for any further conversation with his interrogator. Philip, indeed, had nothing more to say to him: he had learned all he wanted to know.
‘I’d like to bid good-by to Sylvie. Is she at home?’ he asked of her father.
‘A’m thinking thou’ll not find her. She’ll be off to Yesterbarrow t’ see if she’d get a settin’ o’ their eggs; her grey speckled hen is cluckin’, and nought ‘ll serve our Sylvia but their eggs to set her upon. But, for a’ that, she mayn’t be gone yet. Best go on and see for thysel’.’
So they parted; but Philip had not gone many steps before his uncle called him back, Kinraid slowly loitering on meanwhile. Robson was fumbling among some dirty papers he had in an old leather case, which he had produced out of his pocket.
‘Fact is, Philip, t’ pleugh’s in a bad way, gearin’ and a’, an’ folk is talkin’ on a new kind o’ mak’; and if thou’s bound for York ——’
‘I’m not going by York; I’m going by a Newcastle smack.’
‘Newcassel — Newcassel — it’s pretty much t’ same. Here, lad, thou can read print easy; it’s a bit as was cut out on a papper; there’s Newcassel, and York, and Durham, and a vast more towns named, wheere folk can learn a’ about t’ new mak’ o’ pleugh.’
‘I see,’ said Philip: ‘“Robinson, Side, Newcastle, can give all requisite information.”’
‘Ay, ay,’ said Robson; ‘thou’s hit t’ marrow on t’ matter. Now, if thou’rt i’ Newcassel, thou can learn all about it; thou’rt little better nor a woman, for sure, bein’ mainly acquaint wi’ ribbons, but they’ll tell thee — they’ll tell thee, lad; and write down what they sayn, and what’s to be t’ price, and look sharp as to what kind o’ folk they are as sells ’em, an’ write and let me know. Thou’ll be i’ Newcassel tomorrow, may-be? Well, then, I’ll reckon to hear fro’ thee in a week, or, mayhap, less — for t’ land is backward, and I’d like to know about t’ pleughs. I’d a month’s mind to write to Brunton, as married Molly Corney, but writin’ is more i’ thy way an’ t’ parson’s nor mine; and if thou sells ribbons, Brunton sells cheese, and that’s no better.’
Philip promised to do his best, and to write word to Robson, who, satisfied with his willingness to undertake the commission, bade him go on and see if he could not find the lass. Her father was right in saying that she might not have set out for Yesterbarrow. She had talked about it to Kinraid and her father in order to cover her regret at her lover’s accompanying her father to see some new kind of harpoon about which the latter had spoken. But as soon as they had left the house, and she had covertly watched them up the brow in the field, she sate down to meditate and dream about her great happiness in being beloved by her hero, Charley Kinraid. No gloomy dread of his long summer’s absence; no fear of the cold, glittering icebergs bearing mercilessly down on the Urania, nor shuddering anticipation of the dark waves of evil import, crossed her mind. He loved her, and that was enough. Her eyes looked, trance-like, into a dim, glorious future of life; her lips, still warm and reddened by his kiss, were just parted in a happy smile, when she was startled by the sound of an approaching footstep — a footstep quite familiar enough for her to recognize it, and which was unwelcome now, as disturbing her in the one blessed subject of thought in which alone she cared to indulge.
‘Well, Philip! an’ what brings yo’ here?’ was her rather ungracious greeting.
‘Why, Sylvie, are yo’ sorry to see me?’ asked Philip, reproachfully. But she turned it off with assumed lightness.
‘Oh, yes,’ said she. ‘I’ve been wanting yo’ this week past wi’ t’ match to my blue ribbon yo’ said yo’d get and bring me next time yo’ came.’
‘I’ve forgotten it, Sylvie. It’s clean gone out of my mind,’ said Philip, with true regret. ‘But I’ve had a deal to think on,’ he continued, penitently, as if anxious to be forgiven. Sylvia did not want his penitence, did not care for her ribbon, was troubled by his earnestness of manner — but he knew nothing of all that; he only knew that she whom he loved had asked him to do something for her, and he had neglected it; so, anxious to be excused and forgiven, he went on with the apology she cared not to hear.
If she had been less occupied with her own affairs, less engrossed with deep feeling, she would have reproached him, if only in jest, for his carelessness. As it was, she scarcely took in the sense of his words.
‘You see, Sylvie, I’ve had a deal to think on; before long I intend telling yo’ all about it; just now I’m not free to do it. And when a man’s mind is full o’ business, most particular when it’s other folk’s as is trusted to him, he seems to lose count on the very things he’d most care for at another time.’ He paused a little.
Sylvia’s galloping thoughts were pulled suddenly up by his silence; she felt that he wanted her to say something, but she could think of nothing besides an ambiguous —
‘And I’m off to London i’ t’ morning,’ added he, a little wistfully, almost as if beseeching her to show or express some sorrow at a journey, the very destination of which showed that he would be absent for some time.
‘To Lunnon!’ said she, with some surprise. ‘Yo’re niver thinking o’ going to live theere, for sure!’
Surprise, and curiosity, and wonder; nothing more, as Philip’s instinct told him. But he reasoned that first correct impression away with ingenious sophistry.
‘Not to live there: only to stay for some time. I shall be back, I reckon, in a month or so.’
‘Oh! that’s nought of a going away,’ said she, rather petulantly. ‘Them as goes to t’ Greenland seas has to bide away for six months and more,’ and she sighed.
Suddenly a light shone down into Philip’s mind. His voice was changed as he spoke next.
‘I met that good-for-nothing chap, Kinraid, wi’ yo’r father just now. He’ll ha’ been here, Sylvie?’
She stooped for something she had dropped, and came up red as a rose.
‘To be sure; what then?’ And she eyed him defiantly, though in her heart she trembled, she knew not why.
‘What then? and yo’r mother away. He’s no company for such as thee, at no time, Sylvie.’
‘Feyther and me chooses our own company, without iver asking leave o’ yo’,’ said Sylvia, hastily arranging the things in the little wooden work-box that was on the table, preparatory to putting it away. At the time, in his agitation, he saw, but did not affix any meaning to it, that the half of some silver coin was among the contents thus turned over before the box was locked.
‘But thy mother wouldn’t like it, Sylvie; he’s played false wi’ other lasses, he’ll be playing thee false some o’ these days, if thou lets him come about thee. He went on wi’ Annie Coulson, William’s sister, till he broke her heart; and sin then he’s been on wi’ others.’
‘I dunnot believe a word on ‘t,’ said Sylvia, standing up, all aflame.
‘I niver telled a lie i’ my life,’ said Philip, almost choking with grief at her manner to him, and the regard for his rival which she betrayed. ‘It were Willie Coulson as telled me, as solemn and serious as one man can speak to another; and he said it weren’t the first nor the last time as he had made his own game with young women.’
‘And how dare yo’ come here to me wi’ yo’r backbiting tales?’ said Sylvia, shivering all over with passion.
Philip tried to keep calm, and to explain.
‘It were yo’r own mother, Sylvia, as knowed yo’ had no brother, or any one to see after yo’; and yo’ so pretty, so pretty, Sylvia,’ he continued, shaking his head, sadly, ‘that men run after yo’ against their will, as one may say; and yo’r mother bade me watch o’er ye and see what company yo’ kept, and who was following after yo’, and to warn yo’, if need were.’
‘My mother niver bade yo’ to come spying after me, and blaming me for seeing a lad as my feyther thinks well on. An’ I don’t believe a word about Annie Coulson; an’ I’m not going to suffer yo’ to come wi’ yo’r tales to me; say ’em out to his face, and hear what he’ll say to yo’.’
‘Sylvie, Sylvie,’ cried poor Philip, as his offended cousin rushed past him, and upstairs to her little bedroom, where he heard the sound of the wooden bolt flying into its place. He could hear her feet pacing quickly about through the unceiled rafters. He sate still in despair, his head buried in his two hands. He sate till it grew dusk, dark; the wood fire, not gathered together by careful hands, died out into gray ashes. Dolly Reid had done her work and gone home. There were but Philip and Sylvia in the house. He knew he ought to be going home, for he had much to do, and many arrangements to make. Yet it seemed as though he could not stir. At length he raised his stiffened body, and stood up, dizzy. Up the little wooden stairs he went, where he had never been before, to the small square landing, almost filled up with the great chest for oat-cake. He breathed hard for a minute, and then knocked at the door of Sylvia’s room.
‘Sylvie! I’m going away; say good-by.’ No answer. Not a sound heard. ‘Sylvie!’ (a little louder, and less hoarsely spoken). There was no reply. ‘Sylvie! I shall be a long time away; perhaps I may niver come back at all’; here he bitterly thought of an unregarded death. ‘Say good-by.’ No answer. He waited patiently. Can she be wearied out, and gone to sleep, he wondered. Yet once again —‘Good-by, Sylvie, and God bless yo’! I’m sorry I vexed yo’.’
With a heavy, heavy heart he creaked down the stairs, felt for his cap, and left the house.
‘She’s warned, any way,’ thought he. Just at that moment the little casement window of Sylvia’s room was opened, and she said —
The window was shut again as soon as the words were spoken. Philip knew the uselessness of remaining; the need for his departure; and yet he stood still for a little time like one entranced, as if his will had lost all power to compel him to leave the place. Those two words of hers, which two hours before would have been so far beneath his aspirations, had now power to re-light hope, to quench reproach or blame.
‘She’s but a young lassie,’ said he to himself; ‘an’ Kinraid has been playing wi’ her, as such as he can’t help doing, once they get among the women. An’ I came down sudden on her about Annie Coulson, and touched her pride. Maybe, too, it were ill advised to tell her how her mother was feared for her. I couldn’t ha’ left the place tomorrow if he’d been biding here; but he’s off for half a year or so, and I’ll be home again as soon as iver I can. In half a year such as he forgets, if iver he’s thought serious about her; but in a’ my lifetime, if I live to fourscore, I can niver forget. God bless her for saying, “Good-by, Philip.”’ He repeated the words aloud in fond mimicry of her tones: ‘Good-by, Philip.’
Last updated Sunday, March 27, 2016 at 11:55