CHAPTER 14 PARTNERSHIP As darkness closed in, and the New Year's throng became scarce, Philip's hesitation about accompanying Coulson faded away. He was more comfortable respecting Sylvia, and his going to see her might be deferred, and after all, he felt that the wishes of his masters ought to be attended to, and the honour of an invitation to the private house of Jera Maia not to be slighted for anything short of a positive engagement. Besides, the ambitious man of business existed strongly in Philip. It would never do to slight advances towards the second great earthly object in his life, and also on which the first depended. So when the shop was closed, the two set out down Bridge Street to cross the river to the house of Jera Maia Foster. They stood a moment on the bridge to breathe the keen fresh sea air after their busy day. The waters came down swollen, full and dark, with rapid rushing speed from the snow-fed springs high upon the moorland above. The closed packed houses in the old town seemed a cluster of white roofs irregularly piled against the more unbroken white of the hillside. Lights twinkled here and there in the town, and were slung from stern and bow of the ships in the harbour. The air was very still, settling in for a frost, so still that all distant sounds seemed near. The rumble of a returning cart in the high street, the voices on board ship, the closing of shutters and barring of doors in the new town to which they were bound. But the sharp air was filled, as it were, with saline particles in a freezing state, little pungent crystals of sea salt burning lips and cheeks with their cold keenness. It would not do to linger here in the very centre of the valley, up which passed the current of atmosphere coming straight with the rushing tide from the icy northern seas. Besides, there was the unusual honour of a supper with Jera Maia Foster awaiting them. He had asked each of them separately to a meal before now, but they had never gone together, and they felt that there was something serious in the conjucture. They began to climb the steep heights leading to the freshly built rows of the new town of Munchshaven, feeling as if they were rising into aristocratic regions where no shop profane the streets. Jera Maia Foster's house was one of six, undistinguished in size or shape or colour, but noticed in the daytime by all passes by for its spotless cleanliness of lintel and doorstep, window and window-frame. The very brick seemed as though they came in for the daily scrubbing which brightened handle-knocker all down to the very scraper. The two young men felt as shy of the interview with their master under such unusual relations of guest and host, as a girl does of her first party. Each rather drew back from the decided step of knocking at the door, but with a rebuffing shake at his own folly, Philip was the one to give a loud, single wrap. As if they had been waited for, the door flew open, and a middle-aged servant stood behind, as spotless and neat as the house itself, and smiled a welcome to the familiar faces. "'Let me dust your bit,' William, said she, suiting the action to the word. "'You've been leaning against some whitewash, I'll be bound. "'Hi, Philip,' continued she, turning him round with motherly freedom, "'you'll do if you'll but gear-shoot a polish-wipe on your the mat. This is for taking roughest mud off, Mastalla's polish is on that.' In the square parlour the same precise order was observed. Every article of furniture was free from speck of dirt or particle of dust, and everything was placed either in a parallel line or at exact right angles with every other. John and Jeremiah sat in symmetry on opposite sides of the fireplace, the very smiles on their honest faces seemed drawn to a line of exactitude. Such formality, however admirable, was not calculated to promote ease. It was not until after supper, until a good quantity of Yorkshire pie had been swallowed, and washed down, too, with the best and most generous wine in Jeremiah's cellar, that there was the least geniality among them, in spite of the friendly kindness of the host and his brother. The long silence, during which mute thanks for the meal were given, having come to an end, Jeremiah called for pipes, and three of the party began to smoke. Politics in those days were tickle subjects to meddle with, even in the most private company. The nation was in a state of terror against France, and against any at home who might be supposed to sympathise with the enormities she had just been committing. The oppressive act against seditious meetings had been passed the year before, and people were doubtful to what extremity of severity it might be construed. Even the law authorities forgot to be impartial, but either their alarms or their interests made too many of them vehement partisans instead of calm arbiters, and thus destroyed the popular confidence in what should have been considered the supreme tribunal of justice. Yet, for all this, there were some who dared to speak of reform of parliament as a preliminary step to fair representation of the people, and to a reduction of the heavy war taxation that was imminent, if not already imposed. But these pioneers of 1830 were generally obnoxious. The great body of the people gloried in being Tories and haters of the French, with whom they were on tender hooks to fight, almost unaware of the rising reputation of the young Corsican warrior whose name would be used ere a dozen years had passed to hush English babies with a terror such as that of Marlborough once had for the French. At such a place as Munch's Haven, all these opinions were held in excess. One or two might, for the mere sake of argument, dispute on certain points of history or government, but they took care to be very sure of their listeners before such arguments touched on anything of the present day, for it had been not unfrequently found that the public duty of prosecuting opinions not your own overrode the private duty of respecting confidence. Most of the Munch's Haven politicians combine themselves, therefore, to such general questions as these. Could an Englishman lick more than four Frenchmen at a time? What was the proper punishment for members of the corresponding society, correspondence with the French directory, hanging and quartering or burning? Would the forthcoming child of the Princess of Wales be a boy or a girl? If a girl, would it be more loyal to call it Charlotte or Elizabeth? The fosters were quite secure enough of their guests this evening to have spoken freely on politics had they been so inclined. And they did begin on the outrages which had been lately offered to the King in Crossings and James's Park to go and open the House of Lords, but soon so accustomed were their minds to caution and restraint, the talk dropped down to the high price of provisions, bread at one shilling and three pence, the court and loaf according to the London Test, wheat at a hundred and twenty shillings per quarter as the home-baking Northerners viewed the matter, and then the conversation died away to an ominous silence. John looked at Jeremiah as if asking him to begin. Jeremiah was the host and had been a married man. Jeremiah returned the luck with the same meaning in it. John, though a bachelor, was the elder brother. The great church bell, brought from the Monkshaven Monastery centuries ago, high upon the opposite hillside, began to ring nine o'clock. It was getting late. Jeremiah began. It seems a bad time for starting anyone on business, with prices and taxes and bread so dear, but John and I are getting into years, and with no children to follow us. Yet we would feign draw out of some of our worldly affairs. We would like to give up the shop, and stick to banking, to which there seemeth a blame-path. But first there is the stock-and-good will the shop to be disposed on. A dead pause. This opening was not favourable to the hopes of the two moneyless young men who had been hoping to succeed their masters by the more gradual process of partnership. But it was only the kind of speech that had been agreed upon by the two brothers with a view of impressing upon Hepburn and Coulson the great and unusual responsibility of the situation into which the fosters wished them to enter. In some ways the talk of many was much less simple and straightforward in those days than it is now. The study of effect shown in the London diners out of the last generation who prepared their conversation beforehand was not without its parallel and humblest spheres, and for different objects in self-display. The brothers' fosters had all but rehearsed the speeches they were about to make this evening. They were aware of the youth of the parties to whom they were going to make a most favourable proposal, and they dreaded that if that proposal was too lightly made it would be too lightly considered, and the duties involved in it too carelessly entered upon. So the role of one brother was to suggest that of the other to repress. The young men, too, had their reserves. They fussed all and had long foreseen what was coming that evening. They were impatient to hear it in distinct words, and yet they had to wait as if unconscious during all the long preamble. Do age and youth never play the same parts now? To return John Foster replied to his brother, The stock and good will. That would take much wealth, and there will be fixtures to be considered. Philip? Canstly tell me the exact amount of stock in the shop at present. It had only just been taken. Philip had it at his fingers' ends. One thousand nine hundred and forty-one pounds, thirteen shillings and tuppence. Coulson looked at him, in a little dismay, and could not repress a sigh. The figures put into words and spoken aloud seemed to indicate so much larger an amount of money than when quickly written down in numerals. But Philip read the countenances, nay, by some process of which he was not himself aware. He read the minds of the brothers, and felt no dismay at what he saw there. And the fixtures? Asked John Foster. The appraiser valued them at four hundred and thirty-five pounds, three and six pence when father died. We have added to them since, but we will reckon them at that. How much does that make with the value of the stock? Two thousand one hundred and seventy-six pounds, sixteen shillings and eight pence. Said Philip. Coulson had done the sum quicker, but was too much disheartened by the amount to speak. And the goodwill? Asked the pittiless John. What dost they set that at? I think, brother, that that would depend on who came forward with the purchase money of the stock and fixtures. To some folks we might make it so easy, if they were known to us, and those as we wished well to. If Philip and William here, for instance, said they'd like to purchase the business, I reckon they and me would not ask him so much as we should ask Millers. Millers was an upstart petty rival shop at the end of the bridge in the new town. I wish Philip and William was to come after us, said John. But that's out of the question. He continued knowing all the while that, far from being out of the question, it was the very question, and that it was as good as settled at this very time. No one spoke. Then Jeremiah went on. It's out of the question, I reckon. He looked at the two young men. Coulson shook his head. Philip more bravely said, I have fifty-three pounds, seven and four pence in your hands, Master John, and it's all I have in world. It's a pity, said John, and again they were silent. Half past nine struck, it was time to be beginning to make an end. Perhaps, brother, they have friends who could advance some of the money. We might make it sit light to them, for the sake of their good service. Philip replied, there's no one who can put forwards a penny for me. I have put few kin, and they have little to spare beyond what they need. Coulson said, my father and mother have nine on us. Let alone, let alone, said John relenting fast, for he was weary of his part of cold stern prudence. Brother, I think we have enough of this world's goods to do what we like, we're our own. Jeremiah was a little scandalised at the rapid melting away of assumed character, and took a good pull at his pipe before he replied. Upwards of two thousand pounds, as a large sum to set on the well-being and well-doing of two lads, the elder of whom is not three and twenty, I feel we must look farther afield. Why, John, replied Jeremiah, it was but yesterday, they said, they would rather have Philip and William than any men of fifty that they knowed, and now to bring up their youth again them. Well, well, tough on it is thine, and thou shalt do even as thou wilt, but I think as I must have security for my moiety, for it's a risk, a great risk. Have you any security to offer, in expectations, any legacies, as the folk of a life interesting at present? No, neither of them had. So Jeremiah rejoined, then, I suppose, am undo as thee, dost, John, and take the security of character. And it's a great security, two lads, and best of all, and one that I couldn't have done without. No, not if you'd pay me down five thousand for goodwill and stock and fixtures. For John Foster and son has been a shopping monk saving this eighty years and more, and I do not think there's a man living, nor dead for that matter, as can say Foster's wronged him of a penny, or gave short measure to a child or a cousin betty. They all four shook hands round with the same heartiness as if it had been a legal ceremony necessary to the completion of the partnership. The old men's faces were bright with smiles, the eyes of the young ones sparkled with hope.  He took down a folded piece of paper from the mantel shelf, put on his horn spectacles and began to read aloud, occasionally peering over his glasses to note the effect on the countenances of the young men. The only thing he was in the habit of reading aloud was a chapter in the Bible daily to his housekeeper servant, and, like many, he reserved a peculiar tone for that solemn occupation, a tone which he unconsciously employed for the present enumeration of pounds, shelling and pence. Average returns of the last three years, one hundred and twenty-seven pounds, three shellens and seven penny and one six a week. Is there upon thirty-four percent, and there may be, clear profits of the concern after deducting all expenses except rent, for the house is our own, one thousand two hundred and two pounds a year. This was far more than either Hepburn or Coulson had imagined it to be, and a look of surprise almost unmounting to dismay crept over their faces in spite of their endeavour to keep simply motionless and attentive. It's a deal of money, lads, and the Lord give you grace to guide it, said Jeremiah, putting down his paper for a minute. Amen, said John, shaking his head to give effect to his word. Now, what we propose is this, continued Jeremiah, beginning afresh to refer to his paper. We will cult value of stock and fixtures, two thousand one hundred and fifty. You may have John Olden, a brazen auctioneer in, to set a price on them, if you will, or you may look over books and bills, or better still do both. And so check one against other, but for sake of making the ground of the bargain, I state the sum was above, and I reckon it's so much capital left in your hands, for the use of which you're bound to pay us five percent quarterly, that's one hundred and seven pound ten per annum, at least for first year. And after it will be reduced by the gradual payment on our money, which must be at the rate of twenty percent, thus paying us our principal back in five years, when the rent, including all backyards, right to wharfage, warehouse and premises, is reckoned by us to be sixty-five pound per annum. So you're, well after pay us, John and Jeremiah Foster, brothers, six hundred and twelve pound ten of the profits of the first year, leaving at the present rate of profits, about five hundred and eighty-nine pound ten, for the share to be divided between you. The plan had, in all its details, been carefully arranged by the two brothers. They were afraid lest Hepburn and Coulson should be dazzled the amount of profits, and had so arranged the sliding scale of payment as to reduce the first year's income to what the elder men thought to be very moderate sum, but what to the younger ones, appeared in amount of wealth such as they, who would neither have ever owned more than fifty pounds, considered almost inexhaustible. It was certainly a remarkable instance of prosperity and dessert, meeting together so early in life. For a moment or two, the brothers were disappointed at not hearing any reply from either of them. Then Philip stood up, for he felt as if anything he could say sitting down would not be sufficiently expressive of gratitude, and William instantly followed his example. Hepburn began in a formal manner, something the way in which he had read in the York newspapers that honourable members returned thanks when their health was given. I can hardly express my feelings, Coulson urged him. His feelings, too, of gratitude. Oh, Master John, Master Jerry Meyer, I thought it might come in time. Yeah, I thought it might come in for long, but I never thought it would be so much, or made so easy. We've got good kind friends. We have, have we not, William, and we'll do our best, and I hope as we shall come up to their wishes. Philip's voice quivered a little, but some remembrance prassed across his mind. At this unusual moment of expansion out it came, I wish mother could have seen this day. She shall see a better day, my lad, when our name and Williams is painted over at shop door, and J. and J. Foster blacked out. Name, Master, said William, that will never be. I'd almost sooner not come in for business. Anyhow, it must be late, J. and J. Foster. I'm not sure as I can stomach that. Well, well, William, said J. Foster highly gratified. There'd be time enough to talk over that. There was one thing more to be said, was there not, Brother Jeremiah? We do not wish to have this talked over in muck-saving until shortly before the time when you were sent on the business. We have our own arrangements to make with regard to banking concern, and there'll be lawyers' work to do after you've examined books, looked over at stock again together. Maybe we've overstated it, but fixtures aren't worth so much as we said. Anyhow, you must each on your give-us-your-word for to keep for naming this night's conversation to anyone. Meantime, Jeremiah and I will have to pay accounts and take a kind of farewell of the merchants and manufacturers within Foster's have had dealings this 70 or 80 year. And when and where it seems fitting to us, we will take one of you to introduce as our successors and friends, but all that's to come. But you must each give-us-your-word, not to name what's past here to anyone till further speech on the subject has passed between us. Coulson immediately gave the promise. Philip's assent came lagging. He had thought of Sylvia living almost as much as of the dead mother, whose last words had been a committal of her child to the father of the friendless. Now that a short delay was placed between the sight of the cup and his enjoyment of it, there was an impatient chafing in the mind to the composed and self-restrained Philip, and then repentance, quick as lightning, effaced the feeling, and he pledged himself to the secrecy which was enjoined. Some few more details as to their mode of procedure, of verifying the Foster's statements, which to the younger men seemed a perfectly unnecessary piece of business, of probable journeys and introductions, and then farewell was bidden, and Hepburn and Coulson were in the passage donning their raps, and rather to their indignation being assisted therein by Martha, who was accustomed to the office with their own master. Suddenly they were recalled into the parlour. John Foster was fumbling with the papers a little nervously. Jeremiah spoke, We have not thought it necessary to commend Esther Rose to you. If she had been a lad, she would have had a third at business along with you.  Better give her a fixed salary till such time she marries. He looked a little knowingly and curiously at the faces of the young men he addressed. William Coulson seemed sheepish and comfortable, but said nothing, leaving it as usual to Philip to be spokesman. If we aren't cared for Esther for a cell-master, we should have cared for her as being for spork and buyer. Your master, John, shall fix what we ought to pay her, and I think I may make bold to say that as our income rises, hers shalls too. Eh, Coulson! A sound of assent quite distinct enough. For we both look on her as a sister and on Alice like a mother, as I told her on this very day. End of chapter 14 Chapter 15 of Sylvia's Lovers This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Caff Guard. Sylvia's Lovers by Elizabeth Gaskell. Chapter 15, A Difficult Question Philip went to bed with that kind of humble, penitent gratitude in his heart, which we sometimes feel after a sudden revulsion of feeling from despondency to hope. The night before, it seemed as if all events were so arranged as to thwart him in his dearest wishes. He felt now as if his discontent and repining, not 24 hours before, had been almost in pious, so great was the change in his circumstances for the better. Now all seemed promising for the fulfilment of what he most desired. He was almost convinced that he was mistaken in thinking that Kinraid had had anything more than a sailor's admiration for a pretty girl with regard to Sylvia. At any rate, he was going away tomorrow in all probability, not to return for another year. For Greenland ships left for the Northern Seas, as soon as there was a chance of the ice being broken up. And ere then he himself might speak out openly, laying before her parents all his fortunate prospects, and before her all his deep, passionate love. So this night his prayers were more than the mere form that they had been the night before. They were a vehement expression of gratitude to God for having, as it were, interfered on his behalf, to grant him the desire of his eyes and the lust of his heart. He was like too many of us. He did not place his future life in the hands of God and only asked for grace to do his will in whatever circumstances might arise. But he yearned in that terrible way after a blessing which, when granted under such circumstances, too often turns out to be equivalent to a curse. And that spirit brings with it the material and earthly idea that all events that favour our wishes are answers to our prayer. And so they are in one sense, but they need prayer in a deeper and higher spirit to keep us from the temptation to evil which such events invariably bring with them. Philip little knew how Sylvia's time had been past that day. If he had, he would have laid down this night with even a heavier heart than he had done on the last. Charlie Kinraid accompanied his cousins as far as the spot where the path to haters' bank farm diverged. Then he stopped his merry talk and announced his intention of going to see Farmer Robson. Bessie Corny looked disappointed and a little sulky. But her sister Molly Brunton laughed and said, Tell truth lad, Daniel Robson never have a call for a thee if he hadn't a pretty daughter. Indeed, but he would, replied Charlie, rather annoyed. When I've said a thing, I'd do it. I promised last night to go see him. Besides, I like the old man. Well, when shall we tell Molly you're coming home? Toward eight o'clock, maybe sooner. Why, it's bear five now, blessed lad. Does he think of staying there neat? And they up so late last night and Mrs Robson ailing beside. Mother will not think it kind on you either, will she Bess? I don't know, Charlie wonders he likes. I dare say no one will miss him if he does bind away till eight. Well, well, I can't tell what I shall do. But you best not stop lingering here for it's getting on and there'll be a keen frostbite look at stars. Haters' bank was closed for the night as far as it ever was closed. There were no shutters to the windows nor did they care to draw the inside curtains so few were the passes by. The house door was fastened, but the shipping door a little on in the same long, low block of buildings stood open and a dim light made an oblong upon the snowy ground outside. As Kinray drew near, he heard talking there and a woman's voice. He threw a passing glance through the window into the fire lit house place and seeing Mrs. Robson asleep by the fireside in her easy chair, he went on. There was the intermittent sound of the sharp whistling of milk into the pail and Kester sitting on a three-legged stool cajoling a capricious cow into letting her fragrant burden flow. Sylvia stood near the father window ledge on which a horn lantern was placed pretending to knit at a grey-wasted stocking but in reality laughing at Kester's futile endeavours and finding quite enough to do with her eyes in keeping herself untouched by the whisking tail or the occasional kick. The frosty air was mellowed by the warm and odorous breath of the cattle, breath that hung about the place in faint misty clouds. There was only a dim light, such as it was. It was not deely defined against the dark heavy shadow in which the old black rafters and manger and partitions were enveloped. As Charlie came to the door, Kester was saying, quiet with your wench, there now she's a beauty if she'll stand still. There's never such a cow it's riding if she'll only behave herself. She's a bonny lass, she is. Let down the milk, there's a pretty. Why, Kester, laughed Sylvia, that asking her for her milk, we as many pretty speeches as thou weret wooing a wife.  And how does they know how a man wooes a wife, that they talk so knowing about it? That's telling. Someone's been trying it on thee. There's never a one been so impudent, said Sylvia, reddening and tossing her head a little. I'd like to see him try me. Will will, said Kester, willfully misunderstanding her meaning. Thou must be patient, wench, and if thou's a good lass, maybe thy turn will come and they'll try it. I wish thou'd talk of what thou some knowledge on, Kester, is steady that silly way, replied Sylvia. Then a man talked no more about women for their past knowing and drove Ian King Solomon silly. At this moment, Charlie stepped in. Sylvia gave a little start and dropped a ball of Worcester. Kester made as though absorbed in his task of cooch-joling black nail, but his eyes and ears were both vigilant. I was going into the house, but I saw your mother asleep and I didn't want to wake her, so I just came on here. Is your father to the fore? No, said Sylvia, hanging down her head a little, wondering if he could have heard the way in which she and Kester had been talking and thinking over her little foolish jokes with anger against herself. Father is gone to Winthrop about some pigs as he's erred on. He'll not be back till seven o'clock or so. It was but half past five and Sylvia in the irritation of the moment believed that she wished Kinraid would go, but she would have been extremely disappointed if he had. Kinraid himself seemed to have no thought of the kind. He saw with his quick eyes, not unaccustomed to women, that his coming so unexpectedly had fluttered Sylvia and anxious to make her quiet at her ease with him and not unwilling to conciliate Kester. He addressed his next speech to him with the same kind of air of interest in the old man's pursuit that a young man of a different class sometimes puts on when talking to the chaperone of a pretty girl in a ballroom. That's a handsome beast you've just been milking, master. Aye, but handsome is as handsome does. It were only yesterday as she aimed her leg, right at pale whipped afterings in. She knowed it were afterings as well as any Christian and more to mischief, it's better she likes it. And if I hadn't been too quick for her, it would have gone swash down in tip litter. This is a far better cow in the long run. She's just a steady goer. As the milky downpour came musical and even from the stall next to black nails. Sylvia was knitting away vigorously, thinking all the while that it was a great pity she had not put on a better gown or even a cap with brighter ribbon and quite unconscious how very pretty she looked standing against the faint light. Her head a little bent down. Her hair catching bright golden touches as it fell from under her little linen cap. Her pink bed gown confined by her apron string giving a sort of easy grace to her figure. Her dark full Lindsey Petticoke short above her trim ankles looking far more suitable to the place where she was standing than her long gown of the night before would have done. Kinraid was wanting to talk to her and to make a talk but was uncertain how to begin. In the meantime, Kester went on with the subject last spoken about. Black nails at her fourth cow now.  Not but what I like milking a better nor a steady goer a man has always summoned to be watching for and I'm kinda set up when I'm asked to do it last. Still miss is there. She's mighty fond of coming to see Black Nail at her tantrums. She'd never come near me if a cow's like this. Do you often come and see the cows milked? Ask Kinraid. Many a time said Sylvia smiling a little. Why when we're throng, I help Kester. But now we've only Black Nail and Daisy giving milk. Kester knows as I can milk Black Nail quite easy. She continued. Our facts that Kester had not named this accomplishment. I when she's in a good frame of mind as she is sometimes but difficulty is to milk her at all times. I wish it come a bit sooner. I should like to see new milk Black Nail addressing Sylvia. Yo better come tomorrow in and see what a hand shall make on her. Said Kester. Tomorrow night I shall be far on my road back to Shields. Tomorrow, said Sylvia, suddenly looking up at him and then dropping her eyes as she found he had been watching for the effect of his intelligence on her. I won't be back at Dweller where I'm engaged, continued he. She's fitting up after a fresh fashion. And as I've been one as wanted new ways, I won't be on the spot but to look after her. Maybe I shall take a run down here for sailing in March. I'm sure I shall try. There was a good deal meant and understood by these last few words. The tone in which they were spoken gave them a tender intensity not lost upon either of the hearers. Kester cocked his eye once more but with his little obtrusiveness as he could and pondered the sailor's looks and ways. He remembered his coming about the place the winter before and how the old master had then appeared to have taken to him. But at that time Sylvia had seemed to Kester too little removed from a child to have either art or part in Kinraid's visits. Now however the case was different. Kester in his sphere among his circle of acquaintance, narrow though it was had heard with much pride of Sylvia's bearing away the bell at church and at market wherever girls of her age were congregated. He was a North countryman so he gave out no further sign of his feelings than his mistress and Sylvia's mother had done on a like occasion. To lass his wheel enough said he but he grinned to himself and looked about and listened to the hearsay of every lad wondering who was handsome and brave and good enough to be Sylvia's mate. Now of late it had seemed to the canny farm servant pretty clear that Philip Hepburn was after her and to Philip Kester had an instinctive objection a kind of natural antipathy such as has existed in all ages between the dwellers in a town and those in the country between agriculture and trade. So while Kinraid and Sylvia kept up their half tender half jesting conversation Kester was making up his slow persistent mind as to the desirability of the young man then present as a husband for his darling. As much from his being other than Philip in every respect as from the individual good qualities he possessed Kester's first opportunity of favouring Kinraid's suit consisted in being as long as possible over his milking. So never were cows that required such stripping or were expected to yield such afterings as Blacknell and Daisy that night. But all things must come to an end and at length Kester got up from his three-legged stool on seeing what the others did not that the dip candle in the lantern was coming to an end and that in two or three minutes more the shipping would be in darkness and so his pales of milk be endangered. In an instant Sylvia had started out of her delicious dreamland her drooping eyes were raised and recovered their power of observation. Her ready arms were freed from the apron in which she had enfolded them as a protection from the gathering cold and she had seized and adjusted the wooden yoke across her shoulders ready to bear the brimming milk pales to the dairy. Look out her! exclaimed Kester to Charlie as he adjusted the fragrant pales on the yoke. She thinks she's Mrs. already and she's eyes for carrying it milk since Drumatis crouched my shoulder back end and when she says yeah it's as much as my head's worth to see it near and along the wall around the corner down the round slippery stones of the rambling farmyard behind the buildings did Sylvia trip safe and well poised though the ground wore all one coating of white snow and in many places was so slippery as to oblige Kinray to linger near Kester the lantern bearer. Kester did not lose his opportunity though the cold misty night air provoked his asthmatic cough whenever he breathed and often interrupted his words. She's a good wench, a good wench as ever was and come on a good stock and that summit whether in a cow or a woman I've known her from a baby. She's a reeked down gooden. By this time they had reached the back kitchen door just as Sylvia had unladen herself and was striking a light with flint and tinder. The house seemed warm and inviting after the piercing outer air although the kitchen and to which they entered contained only a reeked and slumbering fire at one end over which on a crook hung the immense pan of potatoes cooking for the evening meal of the pigs. To this pan Kester immediately addressed himself swinging it round with ease owing to the admiral simplicity of the old fashioned machinery. Kid raid stood between Kester and the door into the dairy through which Sylvia had vanished with the milk. He half wished to conciliate Kester by helping him but he seemed also attracted by a force which annihilated his will to follow her wherever she went. Kester read his mind. Let alone, let alone said he. Pig's fiddle takes no one such dainty carry in his milk and may set it down and never spill a drop. She's no unfit fit to serve swine. No you're the master, better help at deemed milk. So Kin raid followed the light, his light into the icy chill of the dairy where the bright polished tin cans were quickly dimmed with a warm sweet smelling milk that Sylvia was emptying out into the brown pans. In his haste to help her, Charlie took up one of the pails. Hey that ends to be strained. You have the cow's hair in mother's very particular and cannot abide her hair. So she went over to her awkward dairy maid and before she, but not before he was aware of the sweet proximity, she was adjusting his happy awkward arms to the new office of holding a milk strainer over the bowl and pouring the white liquid through it. There she said looking up for a moment and half blushing. Now you'll know how to do it next time. I wish next time was to come now said Kin raid but she had returned to her own pale and seemed not to hear him. He followed her to her side of the dairy. I've but a short memory. Can you not show me again how to hold strainer? No, she said half laughing but holding her strainer fast in spite of his insinuating efforts to unlock her fingers. Well there's no need to tell me you've gotten a short memory. Why, what have I done? How don't you know it? Last night she began and then she stopped and turned away her head pretending to be busy in her dairy duties of rinsing and such like. Well said he, half conjecturing her meaning and flattered by it if his conjecture were right. Last night what? Oh you know said she as if impatient at being both literally and metaphorically followed about and driven into a corner. No, tell me, persisted he. Well said she, if you will have it. I think you showed your but a short memory when you didn't know me again and you were five times at this house last winter and that's not so long sin. But I suppose you'll see a vast of things on your voyages by land of Icy and then it's but natural you should forget. She wished she could go on talking but could not think of anything more to say just then. For in the middle of her sentence the flattering interpretation he might put upon her words on her knowing so exactly the number of times he had been to haters bank flashed upon her and she wanted to lead the conversation a little farther afield to make it a little less personal. This was not his wish however. In a tone which thrilled through her even in her own despite he said, do you think that can ever happen again Sylvia? She was quite silent almost trembling. He repeated the question as if to force her to answer. Driven to bay she equivocated. What happened again? Let me go, I've done a while talking about and I'm almost numbed with cold. For the frosty air came sharp in through the open lattice window and the ice was already forming on the milk. Kinred would have found a ready way of keeping his cousins or indeed most young women warm. But he paused before he dared put his arm round Sylvia. She had something so shy and wild in her look and manner and to very innocence of what her words spoken by another girl might lead to inspired him with respect and kept him in check. So he contented himself with saying I'll let you go into warm kitchen. If you'll tell me if you'll think I can ever forget you again. She looked up at him defiantly and set her red lips firm. He enjoyed her determination not to reply to this question. It showed she felt its significance. Her pure eyes looked steadily into his nor was the expression in his such as to daunt her or make her afraid. They were like two children defying each other each determined to conquer. At last she unclosed her lips and nodding her head as if in triumph said she folded her arms once more in her check apron. You'll have to go home sometime. Not for a couple of hours yet said he and you'll be frozen first. So you better say if I can ever forget you again without more ado. Perhaps the fresh voices breaking on the silence. Perhaps the tones were less modulated than they had been before. But anyhow Bell Robson's voice was heard calling Sylvia through the second door which opened from the dairy to the house place in which her mother had been till this moment to sleep. Sylvia darted off in obedience to the call glad to leave him. As at that moment Kinraid resentfully imagined. Through the open door he heard the conversation between mother and daughter almost unconscious of its meaning so difficult did he find it to wrench his thoughts from the ideas he had just been forming with Sylvia's bright lovely face right under his eyes. Sylvia said her mother, who's yonder? Bell was sitting up in the attitude of one startled out of slumber into intensity of listening. Her hands on each of the chair arms as if just going to rise. There's a friend man at the house, I heard his voice. It's only, it's just Charlie Kinraid. He was a talking to me at dairy. At dairy lass, and how come it in dairy? He come to see feather.  There feathers out, how come thee it dairy, persevered Bell. He come past this window and saw you asleep and didn't like it to wake in you so he come out on to shipping and when her character milking but now Kinraid came in feeling the awkwardness of the situation a little. Yet with an expression so pleasant and manly in his open face and in his exculpatory manner that Sylvia lost his first words in a strange kind of pride of possession in him about which she did not reason or care to define the grounds but her mother rose from her chair somewhat formally as if she did not intend to sit down again while he stayed yet was too weak to be kept in that standing attitude long. I'm afraid sir Sylvia hasn't told you that my master's out and not like to be in till late. He'll be main and sorry to have missed you. There was nothing for it after this but to go. His only comfort was that on Sylvia's rosy face he could read unmistakable signs of regret and dismay. His sailor's life in bringing him suddenly face to face with unexpected events had given him something of that self-possession which we consider the attribute of a gentleman and with an apparent calmness which almost disappointed Sylvia who construed it into a symptom of indifference as to whether he went or stayed. He bade her mother good night and only said in holding her hand a minute longer than was absolutely necessary, I'm coming back here I sail and then maybe you'll answer young question. He spoke low and her mother was rearranging herself in her chair how Sylvia would have had to repeat the previous words as it was with soft thrilling ideas ringing through her. She could get her wheel and sit down to her spinning by the fire waiting for her mother to speak first. Sylvia dreamt her dreams. Belle Robson was partly aware of the state of things as far as it lay on the surface. She was not aware how deep down certain feelings had penetrated into the girl's heart who sat on the other side of the fire with a little sad air diffused over her face and figure. Belle looked upon Sylvia as still a child to be warned off forbidden things by threats of danger but the forbidden thing was already tasted and possible danger in its full acquisition only served to make it more precious sweet. Belle sat upright in her chair gazing into the fire. Her milk white linen mob cap fringed around and softened her face from which the usual apple red was banished by illness and the features from the same cause rendered more prominent and stern. She had a clean buff kerchief round her neck and stuffed into the bosom of her Sunday woollen gown of dark blue. If she had been in working trim she would have worn a bed gown like Sylvia's. Her sleeves were pinned back at the elbows and her brown arms and hardworking hands lay crossed in unwanted idleness on her check apron. Her knitting was by her side and if she had been going through any accustomed calculation or consideration she would have had it busily clicking in her fingers but she had something quite beyond common to think about and perhaps to speak about and for the minute she was not equal to knitting. Sylvie, she began at length, Did I tell the unantiality as I knew when I was a child? I'm thinking a deal on her tonight. Maybe it's because I've been dreaming on young old times. She was a bonny lass as every were seen, I've heard folks say, but that were a four I knew her. When I knew her she was crazy poor wench.  Alice crying out for pity, though never a word she spoke, but he once was here. Just that, over and over again. Whether she were cold or hot, full or hungry, he once was here. We're all a speech. She had been farm servant to my mother's brother, James Hepburn, that great uncle as was. She were a poor, friendless wench, a parish apprentice, but honest and gaum-like, till a lad as nobody know'd, come o'er the hills, one sheep shearing fro' Whitehaven. He had some it to do with, see, they're not rightly to be called a sailor, and he made a deal on Nancy Hartley just to be gal the time like. And he went away, and they sent a thought after him o'er. It's the ways lads have. And there's no holding him when there's fellas as nobody knows, neither where they come from nor what they've been doin' o'er the lives, till they come with thoughts on poor wench like Nancy Hartley. She were but a softie after all, for she left off doin' her work in a proper manner. I've heard my aunt say she found out if something was wrong with Nancy as soon as milk turned bingy, for there ne'er had been such a clean lass about a milk can to fool that. And from bad it grew to worse, and she would sit and do nothing but play with her fingers from morn till night. And if they asked her what elder, she'd just said, he once was here. And if they bid her go about her work, it were all the same. And when they scolded her, and pretty sharp too, she would stand up and put her hair from her eyes and look about her like a crazy thing, searching for her wits and ne'er finding them for all she could think on was just, he once was here. It were a caution to me again, thinking a man took me what he says when he's a talking to a young woman. But what became a poor Nancy, as Sylvia? What should be come on her, or on any last it gives herself up to thinking on a man who cares now for her?  She were crazed and my aunt couldn't keep her on, could she? She did keep her a long weary time, thinking that she would maybe come to herself. And anyhow, she were a motherless wench. But at length she had to go where she came from, back to Keswick Workhouse. And when last I heard on her, she were chained to the great kitchen dresser in Workhouse. They'd beat an head till she were taught to be silent and quiet in the day time, but at night when she were left alone, she would take up her cry till it rung their heart, so they'd many a time to come down and beat her again to get any peace. It were a caution to me, as I said before, to keep her thinking on men as thought now to me. Poor crazy Nancy, said Sylvia.  End of chapter 15. Chapter 16 of Sylvia's Lovers. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Lauren McCullough. Sylvia's Lovers by Elizabeth Gaskell, chapter 16. As the day lengthens, so the cold strengthens. It was so that year, the hard frost, which began on New Year's Eve lasted on and on until late February, black and bitter, but welcome enough to the farmers as it kept back the too early growth of the autumn sown wheat and gave them the opportunity of leading manure. But it did not suit the invalids as well, and Bell Robson, though not getting worse to not make any progress towards amendment. Sylvia was kept busy notwithstanding that she had the assistance of a poor widow woman in the neighborhood on cleaning or washing or churning days. Her life was quiet and monotonous, although hardworking. And while her hands mechanically found and did their accustomed labor, the thoughts that rose in her head always centered on Charlie Kinraid. His ways, his words, his looks, whether they all meant what she would fain believe they did and whether meaning love at the time, such a feeling was likely to endure. Her mother's story of crazy Nancy had taken hold of her, but not as a caution, rather as a parallel case to her own. Like Nancy and borrowing the poor girl's own words, she would say softly to herself, he once was here. But all along, she believed in her heart he would come back again to her, though it touched her strangely to imagine the agonies of forsaken love. Philip knew little of this. He was very busy with facts and figures, doggedly fighting through the necessary business, and only now and then allowing himself the delicious relaxation of going to Hader's Bank in an evening to inquire about his aunt's health and to see Sylvia. For the two fosters were punctuously anxious to make their shopman test all their statements, insisting on an examination of the stock as if Hepburn and Coulson were strangers to the shop, having the monk shave an auctioneer in to appraise the fixtures and necessary furniture, going over the shop books for the last 20 years with their successors, an employment which took up evening after evening and not unfrequently taking one of the young men on the long commercial journeys which tediously made in a gig. By degrees, both Hepburn and Coulson were introduced to distinct manufacturers and wholesale dealers. They would have been willing to take the fosters word for every statement the brothers had made on New Year's Day, but this, it was evident, would not have satisfied their masters, who were scrupulous and insisting that whatever advantage there was should always fall on the side of the younger men. When Philip saw Sylvia, she was always quiet and gentle, perhaps more silent than she had been a year ago, and she did not attend so briskly to what was passing around her. She was rather thinner and paler, but whatever change there was in her was always an improvement in Philip's eyes so long as she spoke graciously to him. He thought she was suffering from long-continued anxiety about her mother or that she had too much to do, and either cause was enough to make him treat her with a grave regard and deference, which had a repressed tenderness in it, of which she, otherwise occupied, was quite unaware. She liked him better too than she had done a year or two before, because he did not show her any of the eager attention which teased her then, although its meaning was not fully understood. Things were much in this state when the frost broke and milder weather succeeded. This was the time so long looked forward to by the invalid and her friends, as favoring the doctor's recommendation of change of air, her husband was to take her to spend a fortnight with a kindly neighbor who lived near the farm they had occupied 40 miles or so inland before they came to Hader's Bank. The widow woman was to come and stay in the house to keep Sylvia company during her mother's absence. Daniel indeed was to return home after conveying his wife to her destination, but there was so much to be done on the land at this time of the year that Sylvia would have been alone all day had it not been for the arrangement just mentioned. There was an active stirring in Monkshaven Harbor as well as on shore. The whalers were finishing their fittings out for the Greenland seas. It was a closed season. That is to say there would be difficulty in passing the barrier of ice which lay between the ships and the whaling grounds. And yet these must be reached before June or the year's expedition would be of little avail. Every blacksmith shop rung with the rhythmical clang of busy hammers beating out old iron such as horseshoes, nails or stubs into the great harpoons. The keys were thronged with busy and important sailors brushing hither and thither conscious of the demand in which they were held at this season of the year. It was wartime too. Many captains unable to procure men in Monkshaven would have to complete their crews in the Shetlands. The shops in the town were equally busy. Stores had to be purchased by the whaling masters. Warm clothing of all sorts to be provided. These were the larger wholesale orders but many a man and woman too brought out their small hordes to purchase extra comforts or precious keepsakes for some beloved one. It was the time of the great half yearly traffic of the place. Another impetus was given to business when the whalers returned in the autumn and the men were flush of money and full of delight at once more seeing their homes and their friends. There was much to be done in Foster's shop and later hours were kept than usual. Some perplexity or other was occupying John and Jeremiah Foster. Their minds were not so much on the alert as usual being engaged on some weighty matter of which they had not yet spoken to no one. But it thus happened that they did not give the prompt assistance they were accustomed to render at such times. And Coulson had been away on some of the new expeditions devolving on him and Philip as future partners. One evening after the shop was closed while they were examining the goods and comparing the sales with the entries in the daybook, Coulson suddenly inquired. By the way Hester, does they know where the parcel of the best bandanas is gone? There was full left as I'm pretty sure when I set off to Sandsend and today Mark Alderson came in and would have faint have had one and I could not find none nowhere. I sell to last today to Jan Seller, the spec senior who fought the press gang same time as poor Dali was killed. He took it in three yards of young pink ribbon with it, black and yellow crosses on it as Philip could never abide. Philip has got them into book if you only look. Is he here again? Said Philip. I didn't see him. What brings him here? Where's he no one wanted? To shut wrong with folks said Hester and he knew his own mind about the Henkeche and didn't carry along. Just as he was leaving, his eye caught on to ribbon and he came back for it. It were when you were serving Mary Daba and there was a vast of folk around you. I wish I had seen him, said Coulson. I had given him a word in a look not had forgotten in a hurry. Why, what's up? Said Philip, surprised at William's unusual manner and at the same time rather gratified to find a reflection of his own feelings about Kinraid. Coulson's face was pale with anger but for a moment or two he seemed uncertain whether he would reply or not. Up, he said at length. It's just this. He came after my sister for better nor two year and a better lass. No, nor a prettier in my eyes, never broke bread and then my master saw another girl that he liked better. William almost choked in his endeavor to keep down all appearance of violent anger and the wind on and that he played the same game with as I'd heard tell. And how did thy sister take it? Said Philip eagerly. She died in a six month, said William. She forgived him but it's beyond me. I thought it were him that I heard of to work about Darley, Kinraid, in coming from Newcastle, where Annie lived Prentice and I made inquiry and it were the same man and I'll say no more about him for it stirs to old Adam more than I like or as fitting. Out of respect to him, Philip asked no more questions, although there were many things that he faint would have known. Both Coulson and he went silently and grimly through the remainder of their day's work, independent of any personal interest which either or both of them had or might have in Kinraids being a light of love. This fault of his was one with which the two graves sedate young men had no sympathy. Their hearts were true and constant, whatever else might be their failings and it is no new thing to dam the faults we have no mind to. Philip wished that it was not so late or that very evening he would have gone to keep guard over Sylvia in her mother's absence. Nay, perhaps he might have seen reason to give her a warning of some kind. But if he had done so, it would have been locking the stable door after the steed was stolen. Kinraid had turned his steps towards Hader's bank farm as soon as ever he had completed his purchases. He had only come that afternoon to Monkshaven and for the sole purpose of seeing Sylvia once more before he went to fulfill his engagement as spectsineer in the Urania, a whaling vessel that was to sail from North Shields on Thursday morning and this was Monday. Sylvia sat in the house place, her back to the long low window in order to have all the light the afternoon hour afforded for her work. A basket of her father's amended stockings was on the little round table beside her and one was on her left hand which she supposed herself to be mending but from time to time she made long pauses and looked in the fire and yet there was but little motion of flame or light in it out of which to conjure visions. It was read up for the afternoon covered with a black mass of coal over which the equally black kettle hung on the crook. In the back kitchen, Dolly Reed Sylvia's assistant during her mother's absence chanted a lugubrious ditty befitting her condition as a widow while she cleaned tins and cans and milking pails. Perhaps these bustling sounds prevented Sylvia from hearing approaching footsteps coming down the brow with swift advance. At any rate, she started and suddenly stood up as someone entered the open door. It was strange she should be so much startled for the person who entered had been in her thoughts all during these long pauses. Charlie Kenrayd and the story of crazy Nancy had been the subjects for her dreams for many a day and many a night. Now he stood there, bright and handsome as ever with just that much timidity in his face. That anxiety as to his welcome which gave his accost and added charm could she but have perceived it. But she was so afraid of herself so unwilling to show what she felt and how much she had been thinking of him in his absence that her reception seemed cold and still. She did not come forward to meet him. She went crimson to the very roots of her hair but that in the waning light he could not see. And she shook so that she felt as if she could hardly stand. But the tremor was not visible to him. She wondered if he remembered the kiss that had passed between them on New Year's Eve. The words that had been spoken in the dairy on New Year's Day. The tones, the looks that had accompanied those words. But all she said was, I didn't think to see you. I thought you had sailed. I told you I'd come back, didn't I? Said he, still standing with his hat in his hand waiting to be asked to sit down. And she and her bashfulness forgetting to give the invitation but instead pretending to be attentively mending the stockings she held. Neither could keep quiet and silent long. She felt his eyes were upon her watching every motion and grew more and more confused in her expression and behavior. He was a little taken aback by the nature of his reception and was not sure at first whether to take the great change in her manner from what it had been when he last saw her as a favorable symptom or otherwise. By and by, luckily for him, and some turn of her arm to reach the scissors on the table, she caught the edge of her work basket and down it fell. She stooped to pick up the scattered stockings and ball of worsted and so did he. And when they rose up, he had fast hold of her hand and her face was turned away, half ready to cry. What ails you at me, he said beseechingly. You might have forgotten me and yet I thought we made a bargain against forgetting each other. No answer, he went on. You've never been out of my thoughts, Sylvia Robson. And I've come back to Monkshaven for not but to see you once and again afore I go away to the northern seas. It's not two hours since I landed at Monkshaven and I've been near neither Kith nor Kin as yet. And now I'm here, you won't speak to me. I don't know what to say. She said in a low, almost inaudible tone, then hardening herself and resolving to speak as if she did not understand his only half-expressed meaning. She lifted up her head and all but looking at him while she wrenched her hand out of his. She said, mother's gone to Middleham for a visit and follows out into Ploughfield with Kester. He'll be under for long. Charlie did not speak for a minute or so. Then he said, you're not as dull as to think I've come all this way to see either your father or your mother. I've great respect for them both but I'd hardly have come all this way to see him and me bound to be back in shields if I walk every step of the way by Wednesday night. It's that you won't understand my meaning. Sylvia, it's not that you don't or that you can't. He made no effort to repossess himself on her hand. She was quite silent and in spite of herself she drew long, hard breaths. I may go back to where I came from, he went on. I thought to go to sea with the blessed hope to cheer me up in a knowledge of someone as loved me as I left behind. Someone as loved me half as much as I did her for the measure of my love to her is so great and mighty I'd be content with half as much from her till I thought her to love me more. But if she's a cold heart and cannot care for an honest seller why then I'd best go back at once. He made for the door. He must have been pretty sure from some sign or other or he would never have left it to her womanly pride to give way and for her to make the next advance. He had not taken two steps when she turned quickly towards him and said something. The echo of which rather the words themselves reached him. I didn't know you cared for me, you never said so. In an instant he was back at her side.  Say it again and look into my face while you say it if you can. I last thought you'd be such a woman when you come to be as one and I never looked upon. And this year ever since I saw you in the kitchen corner sitting crouching by my uncle, I as good as swallows I have you for wife or never wed at all. And it was not long air you noted for all you was so coy and now you have the face. No, you have not the face. Come my darling, what is it? For she was crying and on his turning her wet blushing face towards him, the better to look at it. She suddenly hid it in his breast. He lulled and soothed her in his arms as if she was a weeping child and he her mother and then they sat down on the settle together. And when she was more composed they began to talk. He asked her about her mother, not sorry in his heart at Bell Robson's absence. He had intended if necessary to acknowledge his wishes and desires with regard to Sylvia to her parents but for various reasons he was not sorry that circumstances had given him the chance of seeing her alone and obtaining her promise to marry him without being obliged until either her father or her mother at present. I had spent my money pretty free, he said and I've narrowed a penny to the four and your parents may look for something better for you, my pretty. But when I come back for this voyage I shall stand a chance of having a share in the uranium and maybe I shall be in a meet as well as a spectonia. I can get a matter of from 70 to 20 pound of voyage but alone the half guineas for every well I stake and six shilling a gallon to the oil and if you keep steady with Forbes and company they'll make me a master in time for I've had good schooling and can work a ship as well as any man and I'll leave you with your parents or take a cottage for your nigh at hand but I would like to have something to the full and that I shall have, please God when we come back in the autumn. I shall go to see happy now thinking I've your word you're not one to go back from it, I'm sure else it's a long time to leave but the pretty girl is your and they're a chance of a lot of reaching you just to tell you once again how I love you and to bid you not forget your true love. There'll be no need of that, murmured Sylvia. She was too dizzy with happiness to have attended much to his details of his worldly prospects but at the sound of his tender words of love her eager heart was ready to listen. I don't know, he said wanting to draw her out into more confession of her feelings.  Not he, said Sylvia with some contempt in her tone.  I, I about perhaps when he gets a rich man he'll come and ask my Sylvia to be his wife and what will she say then? He'll never come asking such a foolish question. She said a little impatiently. He knows what to answer her get if he did. Kin Ray almost said to himself your mother faves him though but she weary of a subject she cared nothing about and eager to identify herself with all his interests asked him about his plans almost at the same time that he said these last words. And they went on as lovers do intermixing a great many tender expressions with a very little conversation relating to facts. Dolly Reed came in and went out softly unheeded by them but Sylvia's listening ears caught her father's voice as he and Kester returned homewards from their day's work in the plow field and she started away and fled upstairs in shy fright leaving Charlie to explain his presence in the solitary kitchen to her father. He came in not seeing that anyone was there at first for they had never thought of lighting a candle. Kin Ray stepped forward into the firelight his purpose of concealing what he had said to Sylvia quite melted away by the cordial welcome her father gave him the instant that he recognized him. Bless the lad who had thought of seeing thee why'd if ever thought of thee at all it would halfway to Davis streets. To be sure to winter's been a dry season and thou art maybe interate on to make a late start. Day to start day for I've made when nine through March and we struck 13 wells that year. I have something to say to you said Charlie and hesitating voice so different to his usual hearty way that Daniel gave him a keen look of attention before he began to speak and perhaps the elder man was not unprepared for the communication that followed. At any rate, it was not unwelcome. He liked Kin Ray and had strong sympathy not merely with what he knew of the young sailors character but with the life he led and the business he followed. Robson listened to all he said with approving nods and winks till Charlie had told him everything he had to say and then he turned and struck his broad horny palm into Kin Ray's as if concluding a bargain when he expressed in words his hearty consent to their engagement.  I'm known so sure as to Mrs. O'Laggett, he said. For what the ever shall have to say reganted, mischief on my nose. But she's no one keen on metharamony. Though I have met her a good as man as ever there is not the writings. Anyhow, I'm a master and that she knows. But there may be for the sake of peace and quietness though shall never rest golden tongue, that I will say for her. We invest keep this matter to ourselves till thou comes into port again to last upstairs are like naught better than to curl herself around the secret and pearl over it. Just as the old cat does over her blind kitten. But thou will be wanting to see to last all be a browned. An old man like me isn't as good a company as the pretty lass. Laughing a low rich laugh over his own wit. Daniel went to the bottom of the stairs and called, Serovi, Serovi, come down lass. Asreet, come down. For a time there was no answer. Then a door was unbolted and Sylvia said, I can't come down again. I'm no one coming down again tonight. Daniel laughed the more at this. Especially when he caught Charlie's look of disappointment. How can I she bolted her door? Show no one and come near us this night.  And she's been our only one and when mostly let her have her own way. But we'll have a pipe in the glass. And that to my thinking is as good a company as every woman in Yorkshire. End of chapter 16, recording by Lauren McCullough. www.laurenmccullough.com. Chapter 17 of Sylvia's Lovers. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Lauren McCullough. Sylvia's Lovers by Elizabeth Gaskell, chapter 17. 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 and a light male cart, who took the better part of the 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 Kinrade, the fosters seemed unusually anxious to obtain their letters. Several times Jeremiah came out of the parlor in which his brother, John, was sitting in expectant silence and passing through the shop looked up and down the marketplace in search of the old lame woman who was charitably employed to deliver letters and who must have been lammer 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 a special 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 parlor shutting the door and drawing the green silk curtain clothes, 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 the 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 parlor door and half doubtedly 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 and 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. Nonnée de ferraise John, but to not call the young man in till we have feather 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 Spidalfields, 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 and 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 letter 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 risks 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 in commercial position of the man whose creditors, not a month ago, they had esteemed it an honor 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 until 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 and 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 Harderpool 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 behavior there, the brothers overwhelmed him with directions and advice, nor did they fail to draw out the strongbox 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 50 years ago looms 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 the 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 delegate negotiation, gnawed at his heart and spoiled any enjoyment he might have anticipated from gratified curiosity or even from the consciousness of being trusted by those whose trust in regard he valued, the sense of what he was leaving grew upon him the longer he thought on the subject. He almost wished 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 tasks 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 to no one else could they entrust so difficult and delicate a matter. Several times that day as he perceived Coulson's jealous sulleness, he thought in his heart that the consequence of the excess's 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 London, exclaimed Alice, Hester said nothing. Well, some folks have all the luck, said Coulson. Luck, said Alice, turning sharp round on him. Never let me hear such a vain word out of thy mouth the laddie again. It's the Lord's doing and the luck's the devil's way of putting it. Maybe it's to try Philip he's sent there. Happen it might be a fiery furnace to him for I've heard tell it's full of temptations and he may fall into sin and then where be the luck on it? But why art to go in? And the morning sayest thou why thy best shirts is in the suds and no time to stash an eye on it. What in the great haste should take thee to London without thy ruffled shirt? It's none of 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 without that ruffled shirt if I sit up and eat, said Alice resolutely. Never fret by self, mother, about the shirt, said Philip. If I need a shirt, London's not what I take it for if I can't buy myself one ready-made. Hurkin to him, said Alice. He speaks as if buying already-made shirts were not to him and he with a good half dozen as I made myself. Eh lad, but if that's the frame of mind thou art in London is like for to be a sore place or temptation. There's pitfalls for men and traps for money in every turn, as I've heard say. It would have been better if John Foster sent an older man on his business would there ever be. This seems to make a deal of Philip all of a sudden, said Coulson. He's sent for and talked to in privacy while Hester and me is left out into shop to bear the brunt of 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 and the responsibility which had involved and his unwillingness to leave Munch Shaven. He said, Coulson, I'd give a deal it were thou that were going and not me. At least there's many a time I'd give a deal. I'll not deny but that other times I'm pleased at the thought on it, but if I could, I'd change places with thee at this moment. It's fun talking, said Coulson half-mullified and yet not caring to show it. I make no doubt it were an even chance betrixed us two at first, which on us was to go but somehow thou got the start and thou was stuck to it till it's too late for all to but to say thou 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 winches or are each a bit of pleasure or what thou fancies to be pleasure as falls into way of either on us. I've said truth to thee and played thee fair and I've got to go to Harrisbank for to wish him good-bye so I'll not stay longer here to be misdoubbed 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, pentadent 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 forced 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 thought better of thee going and doubting and envying Philip as never did thee an ill-turn or said an ill-word or thought an ill-thought by thee and sending him away out onto house this last night of all, maybe with thy envying's 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 towards Hader's Bank. He was chafed and excited by Coulson's words and the events of the day. He 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 taken 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 Haseel, 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 Foster's business. Until 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 in 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 Hatersbank. Coming along it and so meeting him, advanced Daniel Robson in earnest talk with Charlie Kinrade. Kinrade then had been at the farm. Kinrade had been seeing Sylvia, her mother away. The thought of poor dead Annie Coulson flashed into Phillip's mind. Could he be playing the same game with Sylvia? Phillip 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 and going to Hatersbank had been to bid his uncle farewell. Kinrade took him by surprise from the hearty greeting he gave him, in which Phillip would feign have avoided. But the spectator was full of kindness towards all the world, especially towards all Sylvia's friends. And convinced of her great love towards himself had forgotten any previous jealousy of Phillip. Secure and exultant, his broad-handsome, weather-bronst face was as great a contrast to Phillip's long, thoughtful, shallow continents 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 an intrusive stranger. But as Kinrade seemed to have no idea of going on, as there really wasn't a reason why he and all the world should not know of Phillip'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. Don't ever tell me this hasn't been brewing longer nor 12 hours. Darl's a sly, close job, and we hadn't seen thee this midnight. Darl had been thinking on this, and then, in conjugating it to maybe, at that time. Nay, said Phillip, I knew not about it last night. It's not on my doing. Going for I'd leave her has stayed where I am. You'll like it when once you're there, said Kinrade, with the traveled air of superiority, as Phillip fancied. No, I shan't, he replied shortly, liking has not to do with it. Aye, you knew not about it last night, continued Daniel musingly. Well, I've soon over, else when I was a young fella, folks made their wills a foregoing to London. Yet, I'll be bound to say you never made a will before going to sea, said Phillip, half smiling. Nah, nah, but that's quite another make or thing. Going to sea comes natural to a man, but going to London hour once there and we're near deafened with the trong and the sound. I were about two hours into place, though our ship lay afort neat of Graveson. Kinrade now seemed in a hurry, but Phillip was stung with curiosity to ascertain his movements and suddenly addressed him. I heard you were in these parts, are you staying here for long? There was a certain abruptness in Phillip's tone, if not in his words, which made Kinrade look in his face with surprise and answer with equal curtness. I'm off in the morning and sail for the North Sea's day after. He turned away and began to whistle, as if he did not wish for any further conversation with his interrogator. Phillip indeed had nothing more to say to him. He had learned all he wanted to know. I'd like to bid goodbye to Sylvia. Is she at home? He asked of her father. I'm tinkered out not find her. She'll be off to Yesterbaro to see if she'd get to set another eggs. Her gray speckled hand is clucking and not'll serve a Sylvia, but the eggs to set her upon, but for that she may not be gone yet. Let's go and see for myself. So they parted, but Phillip had not gone many steps before his uncle called him back. Kinrade 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 Phillip, to plows in a bad way, gear in and a, and focus talking on a new kind I'll make. And if that was bound for York, I'm not going by York. I'm going by a new castle smack. No castle, no castle. It's pretty much the same. Here lad, that can read print easy. It's a bit as was cut out of a paper. There's a new castle in York and Durham, in a vast motowns named, where a folk can learn a about a new make or plow. I see, said Phillip. Robinson side new castle, can give all requisite information. Aye aye, said Robson. There'll sit tomorrow on tomato. Now if that ought a new castle, that can learn on about it. That ought a little better know a woman for sure being mainly acquainted with the ribbons. But they'll tell thee, they'll tell thee lad. And write down what they're saying and what's to be to place and look sharp as to what kind of folk there are as sells them. And write and let me know. That'll be a new castle tomorrow, maybe. Well then, I reckon to hear from thee in a week or may have less. For to land is backward and I like to know about the plows. At a month's mind, write to Brunton as Mary Molly Cummy. But the writing is more in Thai way and tosses no mine. And if thou sells ribbons, Brunton sells jeez, and that's no better. Phillip promised to do his best and to write word to Robson, who's satisfied with his willingness to undertake the commission. Bade him go on and see if you could not find the last. Her father was right in saying that she might not have set out for Yesterbaro. She had talked about it to Kinraid and her father in order to cover her regret at her lovers 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 sat down to meditate and dream about her great happiness and being beloved by her hero, Charlie Kinraid. No gloomy dread of his long summer's absence, no fear of the cold, glittering icebergs bearing mercilessly down on the uranium, 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, in which was unwelcome now as disturbing her in the one blessed subject of thought in which alone she cared to indulge. Well, Philip, and what brings you here was her rather ungracious greeting. Why, Sylvie, I just sorry to see me, said Philip reproachfully, but she turned it off with assumed lightness. Oh, yes, said she. I've been wanting you this week past to match to my blue ribbon. You said you'd get and bring me the next time you came. I've forgotten, Sylvie. It's clean gone out of my mind, said Philip, with true regret. But I've had a great deal to think on, he continued, penitently, as if anxious to be forgiven. Sylvie 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 to telling you all about it, just now I'm not afraid to do it. And when a man's mind is full of business, most particular when it's other folk says, trusted to him, he seems to lose count of the very things he had most care for at another time. He paused a little. Sylvie'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, well, and I'm off to London in Timonin. He said, 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 London, she said with some surprise. You never think you're going to live there 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 not of a going away, she said rather petulantly. Them as go to 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, kinderade with your father just now. He'll have 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?  He's no company for such as thee, at no time, Sylvie. That there I mean chooses our own company without ever asking leave of yuh, said Sylvie, 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 with other lasses. He'll be playing the false some of these days if thou let's him come about thee. He went on with Annie Coulson, William's sister, till he broke her heart, and sinned then he's been on with others. I do not believe a word on it, said Sylvie, standing up all aflame. I never tell to lie in my life, said Philip, almost choking with grief at her manner to him, in the regard for his rival which she betrayed. It what Willie Coulson has told 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 made his own game with young women.  Philip tried to calm his voice and to explain. It were your own mother, Sylvie, as knowed you had no brother, or any one to see after you. And you're so pretty, so pretty, Sylvie, he continued shaking his head sadly, that men run after you against the will as one may say, and your mother bade me watch over ye and see what company you kept, and who was following after you, and to warn you, if need were. My mother never bade you to come spying after me, and blaming me for seeing a lad as my feather thinks well on. And I don't believe a word about Danny Coulson, and I'm not going to suffer you to come with your tails to me. Say them out to his face, and hear what he'll say to you. 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 the unsealed rafters.  He sat 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 Sylvie on 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 Sylvie's room. Sylvie, I'm going away. Say goodbye. 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 never come back at all. Here he bitterly thought of an unregarded death. Say goodbye. No answer, he waited patiently. Can she be wearied out and gone to sleep, he wondered? Yet once again. Goodbye, Sylvie.  No reply. With a heavy, heavy heart, he creaked down the stairs, felt for his cap and left the house. She's warned me. Anyway, thought he. Just at that moment, the little casement window of Sylvie's room was opened and she said, Goodbye, Philip. 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 relight hope, to quench, reproach, or blame. She's but a young lassie, he said to himself, and kindred has been playing with her, as such as he can't help doing once they get them among the women. And I came down to sudden on her about Danny Coulson and touched her pride, maybe too. It were ill-advised to tell her how her mother had feared for her. I couldn't have left the place tomorrow if he'd been biding her, but he's off for half a year or so. And I'll be home again as soon as ever, I can. In half a year, such as he forgets, if ever he's thought serious about her, but in my lifetime, if I lived full score, I can never forget. God bless her for saying goodbye, Philip. He repeated the words aloud and fond mimicry of her tones. Goodbye, Philip. End of chapter 17, recording by Lauren McCullough. www.larnmccullough.com. www.larnmccullough.com