Philip was as close to Sylvia as he could possibly get without
giving her offence, when they came in. Her manner was listless and
civil; she had lost all that active feeling towards him which made
him positively distasteful, and had called out her girlish
irritation and impertinence. She now was rather glad to see him than
otherwise. He brought some change into the heavy monotony of her
life--monotony so peaceful until she had been stirred by passion out
of that content with the small daily events which had now become
burdensome recurrences. Insensibly to herself she was becoming
dependent on his timid devotion, his constant attention; and he,
lover-like, once so attracted, in spite of his judgment, by her
liveliness and piquancy, now doted on her languor, and thought her
silence more sweet than words.
He had only just arrived when master and man came in. He had been to
afternoon chapel; none of them had thought of going to the distant
church; worship with them was only an occasional duty, and this day
their minds had been too full of the events of the night before.
Daniel sate himself heavily down in his accustomed chair, the
three-cornered arm-chair in the fireside corner, which no one
thought of anybody else ever occupying on any occasion whatever. In
a minute or two he interrupted Philip's words of greeting and
inquiry by breaking out into the story of the rescue of last night.
But to the mute surprise of Sylvia, the only one who noticed it,
Philip's face, instead of expressing admiration and pleasant wonder,
lengthened into dismay; once or twice he began to interrupt, but
stopped himself as if he would consider his words again. Kester was
never tired of hearing his master talk; by long living together they
understood every fold of each other's minds, and small expressions
had much significance to them. Bell, too, sate thankful that her
husband should have done such deeds. Only Sylvia was made uneasy by
Philip's face and manner. When Daniel had ended there was a great
silence, instead of the questions and compliments he looked to
receive. He became testy, and turning to Bell, said,-'My nephew looks as though he was a-thinking more on t' little
profit he has made on his pins an' bobs, than as if he was heeding
how honest men were saved from being haled out to yon tender, an'
carried out o' sight o' wives and little 'uns for iver. Wives an'
little 'uns may go t' workhouse or clem for aught he cares.
Philip went very red, and then more sallow than usual. He had not
been thinking of Charley Kinraid, but of quite another thing, while
Daniel had told his story; but this last speech of the old man's
brought up the remembrance that was always quick, do what he would
to smother or strangle it. He did not speak for a moment or two,
then he said,-'To-day has not been like Sabbath in Monkshaven. T' rioters, as
folks call 'em, have been about all night. They wanted to give
battle to t' men-o'-war's men; and it were taken up by th' better
end, and they've sent to my Lord Malton for t' militia; and they're
come into t' town, and they're hunting for a justice for t' read th'
act; folk do say there'll be niver a shop opened to-morrow.' This was rather a more serious account of the progress of the affair
than any one had calculated upon. They looked grave upon it awhile,
then Daniel took heart and said,-'A think we'd done a'most enough last neet; but men's not to be
stopped wi' a straw when their blood is up; still it's hard lines to
call out t' sojers, even if they be but militia. So what we seven
hatched in a dark entry has ta'en a lord to put a stop to 't!'
continued he, chuckling a little, but more faintly this time.