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SYLVIA’S LOVERS
Long ago, lodging in widow Rose’s garret, he had been in the
habit of watching some pigeons that were kept by a neighbour; the
fl ock disported themselves on the steep tiled roofs just opposite to
the attic window, and insensibly Philip grew to know their ways,
and one pretty, soft little dove was somehow perpetually associated
in his mind with his idea of his cousin Sylvia. The pigeon would
sit in one particular place, sunning herself, and puffi ng out her
feathered breast, with all the blue and rose-coloured lights gleaming in the morning rays, cooing softly to herself as she dressed her
plumage. Philip fancied that he saw the same colours in a certain
piece of shot silk – now in the shop; and none other seemed to
him so suitable for 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 just outside the house, half attending to her mother, half engaged in knitting stockings for her scanty marriage outfi t. He was
glad that the sun was not gone down, thus allowing him to display
the changing colours in fuller light. Sylvia admired it duly; even
Mrs. Robson was pleased and attracted by the soft yet brilliant hues.
Philip whispered to Sylvia – (he took delight in whispers, – she, on
the contrary, 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 cannot wear 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
forget feyther. I couldn’t put off my black, Philip, – no, not to save
my life! Yon silk is just lovely, far too good for the likes of me, – and
I’m sure I’m much beholden to yo’; and I’ll have it made up fi rst 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.
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ELIZABETH Cleghorn GASKELL
‘No, lad, I really cannot. I’m just sorry about it, for I see thou’rt
set upon it; and thou’rt so kind and good, I sometimes think I can
niver be thankful enough to thee. When I think on what would
ha’ 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’rt
thinking I am.’
‘I don’t want yo’ to be grateful, Sylvie,’ said poor Philip, dissatisfi ed, yet unable to explain what he did want; only knowing that
there was something he lacked, yet fain would have had.
As the marriage-day drew near, all Sylvia’s care seemed to be
for her mother; all her anxiety was regarding the appurtenances
of the home she was leaving. In vain Philip tried to interest her in
details of his improvements or contrivances in the new home to
which he was going to take her. She did not tell him; but the idea
of the house behind the shop was associated in her mind with two
times of discomfort and misery. The fi rst time she had gone into the
parlour about which Philip spoke so much was at the time of the
press-gang riot, when she had fainted from terror and excitement;
the second was on that night of misery when she and her mother
had gone in to Monkshaven, to bid her father farewell before he
was taken to York; in that room, on that night, she had fi rst learnt
something of the fatal peril in which he stood. She could not show
the bright shy curiosity about her future dwelling that is common
enough with girls who are going to be married. All she could do
was to restrain herself from sighing, and listen patiently, when he
talked on the subject. In time he saw that she shrank from it; so he
held his peace, and planned and worked for her in silence, – smiling to himself as he looked on each completed arrangement for
her pleasure or comfort; and knowing well that her happiness was
involved in what fragments of peace and material comfort might
remain to her mother.
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SYLVIA’S LOVERS
The wedding-day drew near apace. It was Philip’s plan that after
they had been married in Kirk Moorside church, he and his Sylvia,
his cousin, his love, his wife, should go for the day to Robin Hood’s
Bay, returning in the evening to the house behind the shop in the
market-place. There they were to fi nd Bell Robson installed in her
future home; for Haytersbank Farm was to be given up to the new
tenant on the very day of the wedding. Sylvia would not be married
any sooner; she said that she must stay there till the very last; and
had said it with such determination that Philip had desisted from
all urgency at once.
He had told her that all should be settled for her mother’s comfort during their few hours’ absence; otherwise Sylvia would not
have gone at all. He told her he should ask Hester, who was always
so good and kind – who never yet had said him nay, to go to church
with them as bridesmaid – for Sylvia would give no thought or
care to anything but her mother – and that they would leave her
at Haytersbank as they returned from church; she would manage
Mrs Robson’s removal – she would do this – do that – do everything. Such friendly confi dence had Philip in Hester’s willingness
and tender skill. Sylvia acquiesced at length, and Philip took upon
himself to speak to Hester on the subject.
‘Hester,’ said he, one day when he was preparing to go home
after the shop was closed; ‘would yo’ mind stopping a bit? I should
like to show yo’ the place now it’s done up; and I’ve a favour to ask
on yo’ 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’ fashions
and such like.’
‘Thou’rt a judge o’ comfort, and that’s what I’ve been aiming at.
I were niver so comfortable in a’ my life as when I were a lodger
at thy house,’ said he, with brotherly tenderness in his tone. ‘If my
mind had been at ease I could ha’ said I niver were happier in all
383
ELIZABETH Cleghorn GASKELL
my days than under thy roof; and I know it were thy doing for the
most part. So come along, Hester, and tell me if there’s aught more
I can put in for Sylvie.’
It might not have been a very appropriate text, but such as it was
the words, ‘From him that would ask of thee turn not thou away,’
seemed the only source of strength that could have enabled her
to go patiently through the next half-hour. As it was, she unselfishly brought all her mind to bear upon the subject; admired this,
thought and decided upon that, as one by one Philip showed her
all his alterations and improvements. Never was such a quiet little
bit of unconscious and unrecognized heroism. She really ended by
such a conquest of self that she could absolutely sympathize with
the proud expectant lover, and had quenched all envy of the beloved, in sympathy with the delight she imagined Sylvia must experience when she discovered all these proofs of Philip’s fond consideration and care. But it was a great strain on the heart, that source
of life; and when Hester returned into the parlour, after her deliberate survey of the house, she felt as weary and depressed in bodily
strength as if she had gone through an illness of many days. She sate
down on the nearest chair, and felt as though she never could rise
again. Philip, joyous and content, stood near her talking.
‘And, Hester,’ said he, ‘Sylvie has given me a message for thee –
she says 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 thou
wasn’t there: why I’ve looked upon thee as a sister iver since I came
to lodge with thy mother.’
Hester shook her head. Did her duty require her not to turn
away from this asking, too? Philip saw her reluctance, and, by intuition rather than reason, he knew that what she would not do for
gaiety or pleasure she would consent to, if by so doing she could
render any service to another. So he went on.
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SYLVIA’S LOVERS
‘Besides, Sylvie and me has planned to go for our wedding jaunt
to Robin 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 may
say, childish at times; she’s to come down here, that we may fi nd
her when we come back at night; and there’s niver a one she’ll
come with so willing and so happy as with thee, Hester. Sylvie and
me has both 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
me any further. But I’ll go betimes to Haytersbank Farm, and I’ll do
my best to make the old lady happy, and to follow out thy directions in bringing her here before nightfall.’
Philip was on the point of urging her afresh to go with them
to church; but something in her eyes brought a thought across his
mind, as transitory as a breath passes over a looking-glass, and he
desisted from his entreaty, and put away his thought as a piece of
vain coxcombry, insulting to Hester. He passed rapidly on to all the
careful directions rendered necessary by her compliance with the
latter part of his request, coupling Sylvia’s name with his perpetually; so that Hester looked upon her as a happy girl, as eager in
planning all the details of her marriage as though no heavy shameful sorrow had passed over her head not many months ago.
Hester did not see Sylvia’s white, dreamy, resolute face, that
answered the solemn questions of the marriage service in a voice
that did not seem her own. Hester was not with them to notice
the heavy abstraction that made the bride as if unconscious of her
husband’s loving words, and then start and smile, and reply with a
sad gentleness of tone. No! Hester’s duty lay in conveying the poor
widow and mother down from Haytersbank to the new home in
Monkshaven; and for all Hester’s assistance and thoughtfulness, it
was a dreary, painful piece of work – the poor old woman crying
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ELIZABETH Cleghorn GASKELL
like a child, with bewilderment at the confused bustle which, in
spite of all Sylvia’s careful forethought, could not be avoided on
this fi nal day, when her mother had to be carried away from the
homestead over which she had so long presided. But all this was
as nothing to the distress which overwhelmed poor Bell Robson
when she entered Philip’s house; the parlour – the whole place
so associated with the keen agony she had undergone there, that
the stab of memory penetrated through her deadened senses, and
brought her back to misery. In vain Hester tried to console her by
telling her the fact of Sylvia’s marriage with Philip in every form of
words that occurred to her. Bell only remembered her husband’s
fate, which fi lled up her poor wandering mind, and coloured everything; insomuch that 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 in danger of trial and death, and refused to be
comforted by any endeavour of the patient sympathizing Hester.
In a pause of Mrs Robson’s sobs, Hester heard the welcome sound
of the wheels of the returning shandry, bearing the bride and
bridegroom home. It stopped at the door – an instant, and Sylvia,
white as a sheet at the sound of her mother’s wailings, which she
had caught while yet at a distance, with the quick ears of love, came
running in; her mother feebly rose and tottered towards her, and
fell into her arms, saying, ‘Oh! Sylvie, Sylvie, take me home, and
away from this cruel place!’
Hester could not but be touched with the young girl’s manner
to her mother – as tender, as protecting as if their relation to each
other had been reversed, and she was lulling and tenderly soothing a wayward, frightened child. She had neither eyes nor ears for
any one till her mother was sitting in trembling peace, holding her
daughter’s hand tight in both of hers, as if afraid of losing sight of
her: then Sylvia turned to Hester, and, with the sweet grace which
is a natural gift to some happy people, thanked her; in common
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SYLVIA’S LOVERS
words enough she thanked her, but in that nameless manner, and
with that strange, rare charm which made Hester feel as if she had
never been thanked in all her life before; and from that time forth
she understood, if she did not always yield to, the unconscious fascination which Sylvia could exercise over others at times.
Did it enter into Philip’s heart to perceive that he had wedded his long-sought bride in mourning raiment, and that the fi rst
sounds which greeted them as they approached their home were
those of weeping and wailing?
387
CHAPTER XXX
HAPPY DAYS
And now Philip seemed as prosperous as his heart could desire.
The business fl ourished, and money beyond his moderate wants
came in. As for himself he required very little; but he had always
looked forward to placing his idol in a befi tting shrine; and means
for this were now furnished to him. The dress, the comforts, the
position he had desired for Sylvia were all hers. She did not need to
do a stroke of household work if she preferred to ‘sit in her parlour
and sew up a seam’. Indeed Phoebe resented any interference in
the domestic labour, which she had performed so long, that she
looked upon the kitchen as a private empire of her own. ‘Mrs Hepburn’ (as Sylvia was now termed) had a good dark silk gown-piece
in her drawers, as well as the poor dove-coloured, against the day
when she chose to leave off mourning; and stuff for either gray or
scarlet cloaks was hers at her bidding.
What she cared for far more were the comforts with which it
was in her power to surround her mother. In this Philip vied with
her; for besides his old love, and new pity for his aunt Bell, he never
forgot how she had welcomed him to Haytersbank, and favoured
his love to Sylvia, in the yearning days when he little hoped he
should ever win his cousin to be his wife. But even if he had not
had these grateful and affectionate feelings towards the poor woman, he would have done much for her if only to gain the sweet, rare
smiles which his wife never bestowed upon him so freely as when
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SYLVIA’S LOVERS
she saw him attending to ‘mother,’ for so both of them now called
Bell. For her creature comforts, her silk gowns, and her humble
luxury, Sylvia did not care; Philip was almost annoyed at the indifference she often manifested to all his efforts to surround her with
such things. It was even a hardship to her to leave off her country
dress, her uncovered hair, her linsey petticoat, and loose bed-gown,
and to don a stiff and stately gown for her morning dress. Sitting
in the dark parlour at the back of the shop, and doing ‘white work,’
was much more wearying to her than running out into the fi elds
to bring up the cows, or spinning wool, or making up butter. She
sometimes thought to herself that it was a strange kind of life where
there were no out-door animals to look after; the ‘ox and the ass’
had hitherto come into all her ideas of humanity; and her care and
gentleness had made the dumb creatures round her father’s home
into mute friends with loving eyes, looking at her as if wistful to
speak in words the grateful regard that she could read without the
poor expression of language.
She missed the free open air, the great dome of sky above the
fi elds; she rebelled against the necessity of ‘dressing’ (as she called
it) to go out, although she acknowledged that it was a necessity
where the fi rst step beyond the threshold must be into a populous
street.
It is possible that Philip was right at one time when he had
thought to win her by material advantages; but the old vanities
had been burnt out of her by the hot iron of acute suffering. A
great deal of passionate feeling still existed, concealed and latent;
but at this period it appeared as though she were indifferent to
most things, and had lost the power of either hoping or fearing
much. She was stunned into a sort of temporary numbness on most
points; those on which she was sensitive being such as referred to
the injustice and oppression of her father’s death, or anything that
concerned her mother.
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ELIZABETH Cleghorn GASKELL
She was quiet even to passiveness in all her dealings with Philip; he would have given not a little for some of the old bursts of
impatience, the old pettishness, which, naughty as they were, had
gone to form his idea of the former Sylvia. Once or twice he was
almost vexed with her for her docility; he wanted her so much to
have a will of her own, if only that he might know how to rouse her
to pleasure by gratifying it. Indeed he seldom fell asleep at nights
without his last thoughts being devoted to some little plan for the
morrow, that he fancied she would like; and when he wakened in
the early dawn he looked to see if she were indeed sleeping by his
side, or whether it was not all a dream that he called Sylvia ‘wife.’
He was aware that her affection for him was not to be spoken
of in the same way as his for her, but he found much happiness in
only being allowed to love and cherish her; and with the patient
perseverance that was one remarkable feature in his character, he
went on striving to deepen and increase her love when most other
men would have given up the endeavour, made themselves content with half a heart, and turned to some other object of attainment. All this time Philip was troubled by a dream that recurred
whenever he was over-fatigued, or otherwise not in perfect health.
Over and over again in this fi rst year of married life he dreamt
this dream; perhaps as many as eight or nine times, and it never
varied. It was always of Kinraid’s return; Kinraid was full of life in
Philip’s dream, though in his waking hours he could and did convince himself by all the laws of probability that his rival was dead.
He never remembered the exact sequence of events in that terrible
dream after he had roused himself, with a fi ght and a struggle, from
his feverish slumbers. He was generally sitting up in bed when he
found himself conscious, his heart beating wildly, with a conviction of Kinraid’s living presence somewhere near him in the darkness. Occasionally Sylvia was disturbed by his agitation, and would
question him about his dreams, having, like most of her class at
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