Sylvia's Lovers

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 Jeremiah 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; one 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 Jeremiah 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 up on the moorland above. The

close-packed houses in the old town seemed a cluster of white roofs

irregularly piled against the more unbroken white of the hill-side.

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 Jeremiah 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 conjuncture.

They began to climb the steep heights leading to the freshly-built

rows of the new town of Monkshaven, feeling as if they were rising

into aristocratic regions where no shop profaned the streets.

Jeremiah Foster's house was one of six, undistinguished in size, or

shape, or colour; but noticed in the daytime by all passers-by for

its spotless cleanliness of lintel and doorstep, window and window

frame. The very bricks seemed as though they came in for the daily

scrubbing which brightened handle, knocker, all down to the very

scraper.