Sylvia's Lovers

'I'm ready to see Haytersbank to-night, master!' said Kinraid, with

easy freedom--a freedom which Philip envied, but could not have

imitated, although he was deeply disappointed at the loss of his

walk with Sylvia, when he had intended to exercise the power his

aunt had delegated to him of remonstrance if her behaviour had been

light or thoughtless, and of warning if he saw cause to disapprove

of any of her associates.

After the Robsons had left, a blank fell upon both Charley and

Philip. In a few minutes, however, the former, accustomed to prompt

decision, resolved that she and no other should be his wife.

Accustomed to popularity among women, and well versed in the

incipient signs of their liking for him, he anticipated no

difficulty in winning her. Satisfied with the past, and pleasantly

hopeful about the future, he found it easy to turn his attention to

the next prettiest girl in the room, and to make the whole gathering

bright with his ready good temper and buoyant spirit.

Mrs. Corney had felt it her duty to press Philip to stay, now that,

as she said, he had no one but himself to see home, and the new year

so near coming in. To any one else in the room she would have added

the clinching argument, 'A shall take it very unkind if yo' go now';

but somehow she could not say this, for in truth Philip's look

showed that he would be but a wet blanket on the merriment of the

party. So, with as much civility as could be mustered up between

them, he took leave. Shutting the door behind him, he went out into

the dreary night, and began his lonesome walk back to Monkshaven.

The cold sleet almost blinded him as the sea-wind drove it straight

in his face; it cut against him as it was blown with drifting force.

The roar of the wintry sea came borne on the breeze; there was more

light from the whitened ground than from the dark laden sky above.

The field-paths would have been a matter of perplexity, had it not

been for the well-known gaps in the dyke-side, which showed the

whitened land beyond, between the two dark stone walls. Yet he went

clear and straight along his way, having unconsciously left all

guidance to the animal instinct which co-exists with the human soul,

and sometimes takes strange charge of the human body, when all the

nobler powers of the individual are absorbed in acute suffering. At

length he was in the lane, toiling up the hill, from which, by day,

Monkshaven might be seen. Now all features of the landscape before

him were lost in the darkness of night, against which the white

flakes came closer and nearer, thicker and faster. On a sudden, the

bells of Monkshaven church rang out a welcome to the new year, 1796.

From the direction of the wind, it seemed as if the sound was flung

with strength and power right into Philip's face. He walked down the

hill to its merry sound--its merry sound, his heavy heart. As he

entered the long High Street of Monkshaven he could see the watching

lights put out in parlour, chamber, or kitchen. The new year had

come, and expectation was ended. Reality had begun.