Sylvia's Lovers

Long ago, lodging in widow Rose's garret, he had been in the habit

of watching some pigeons that were kept by a neighbour; the flock

disported themselves on the steep tiled roofs just opposite to the

attic window, and insensibly Philip grew to know their ways, and one

pretty, soft little dove was somehow perpetually associated in his

mind with his idea of his cousin Sylvia. The pigeon would sit in one

particular place, sunning herself, and puffing out her feathered

breast, with all the blue and rose-coloured lights gleaming in the

morning rays, cooing softly to herself as she dressed her plumage.

Philip fancied that he saw the same colours in a certain piece of

shot silk--now in the shop; and none other seemed to him so suitable

for his darling's wedding-dress. He carried enough to make a gown,

and gave it to her one evening, as she sate on the grass just

outside the house, half attending to her mother, half engaged in

knitting stockings for her scanty marriage outfit. He was glad that

the sun was not gone down, thus allowing him to display the changing

colours in fuller light. Sylvia admired it duly; even Mrs. Robson was

pleased and attracted by the soft yet brilliant hues. Philip

whispered to Sylvia--(he took delight in whispers,--she, on the

contrary, always spoke to him in her usual tone of voice)-'Thou'lt look so pretty in it, sweetheart,--o' Thursday fortnight!' 'Thursday fortnight. On the fourth yo're thinking on. But I cannot

wear it then,--I shall be i' black.' 'Not on that day, sure!' said Philip.

'Why not? There's nought t' happen on that day for t' make me forget

feyther. I couldn't put off my black, Philip,--no, not to save my

life! Yon silk is just lovely, far too good for the likes of

me,--and I'm sure I'm much beholden to yo'; and I'll have it made up

first of any gown after last April come two years,--but, oh, Philip,

I cannot put off my mourning!' 'Not for our wedding-day!' said Philip, sadly.

'No, lad, I really cannot. I'm just sorry about it, for I see

thou'rt set upon it; and thou'rt so kind and good, I sometimes think

I can niver be thankful enough to thee. When I think on what would

ha' become of mother and me if we hadn't had thee for a friend i'

need, I'm noane ungrateful, Philip; tho' I sometimes fancy thou'rt

thinking I am.' 'I don't want yo' to be grateful, Sylvie,' said poor Philip,

dissatisfied, yet unable to explain what he did want; only knowing

that there was something he lacked, yet fain would have had.

As the marriage-day drew near, all Sylvia's care seemed to be for

her mother; all her anxiety was regarding the appurtenances of the

home she was leaving. In vain Philip tried to interest her in

details of his improvements or contrivances in the new home to which

he was going to take her. She did not tell him; but the idea of the

house behind the shop was associated in her mind with two times of

discomfort and misery. The first time she had gone into the parlour

about which Philip spoke so much was at the time of the press-gang

riot, when she had fainted from terror and excitement; the second

was on that night of misery when she and her mother had gone in to

Monkshaven, to bid her father farewell before he was taken to York;

in that room, on that night, she had first learnt something of the

fatal peril in which he stood. She could not show the bright shy

curiosity about her future dwelling that is common enough with girls

who are going to be married. All she could do was to restrain

herself from sighing, and listen patiently, when he talked on the

subject. In time he saw that she shrank from it; so he held his

peace, and planned and worked for her in silence,--smiling to

himself as he looked on each completed arrangement for her pleasure

or comfort; and knowing well that her happiness was involved in what

fragments of peace and material comfort might remain to her mother.