Sylvia's Lovers

To-night he would have her sit by him while Philip told his stories,

or heavily answered questions put to him. Sylvia sat on a stool by

her father's knee, holding one of his hands in both of hers; and

presently she laid down her head upon them, and Philip saw her sad

eyes looking into the flickering fire-light with long unwinking

stare, showing that her thoughts were far distant. He could hardly

go on with his tales of what he had seen, and what done, he was so

full of pity for her. Yet, for all his pity, he had now resolved

never to soothe her with the knowledge of what he knew, nor to

deliver the message sent by her false lover. He felt like a mother

withholding something injurious from the foolish wish of her

plaining child.

But he went away without breathing a word of his good fortune in

business. The telling of such kind of good fortune seemed out of

place this night, when the thought of death and the loss of friends

seemed to brood over the household, and cast its shadow there,

obscuring for the time all worldly things.

And so the great piece of news came out in the ordinary course of

gossip, told by some Monkshaven friend to Robson the next market

day. For months Philip had been looking forward to the sensation

which the intelligence would produce in the farm household, as a

preliminary to laying his good fortune at Sylvia's feet. And they

heard of it, and he away, and all chance of his making use of it in

the manner he had intended vanished for the present.

Daniel was always curious after other people's affairs, and now was

more than ever bent on collecting scraps of news which might

possibly interest Sylvia, and rouse her out of the state of

indifference as to everything into which she had fallen. Perhaps he

thought that he had not acted altogether wisely in allowing her to

engage herself to Kinraid, for he was a man apt to judge by results;

and moreover he had had so much reason to repent of the

encouragement which he had given to the lover whose untimely end had

so deeply affected his only child, that he was more unwilling than

ever that his wife should know of the length to which the affair had

gone during her absence. He even urged secrecy upon Sylvia as a

personal favour; unwilling to encounter the silent blame which he

openly affected to despise.

'We'll noane fret thy mother by lettin' on how oft he came and went.

She'll, may-be, be thinkin' he were for speakin' to thee, my poor

lass; an' it would put her out a deal, for she's a woman of a stern

mind towards matteremony. And she'll be noane so strong till

summer-weather comes, and I'd be loath to give her aught to worrit

hersel' about. So thee and me 'll keep our own counsel.' 'I wish mother had been here, then she'd ha' known all, without my

telling her.' 'Cheer up, lass; it's better as it is. Thou'll get o'er it sooner

for havin' no one to let on to. A myself am noane going to speak

on't again.' No more he did; but there was a strange tenderness in his tones when

he spoke to her; a half-pathetic way of seeking after her, if by any

chance she was absent for a minute from the places where he expected

to find her; a consideration for her, about this time, in his way of

bringing back trifling presents, or small pieces of news that he

thought might interest her, which sank deep into her heart.