'And feyther was taken up, and all for setting some free as t'
press-gang had gotten by a foul trick; and he were put i' York
prison, and tried, and hung!--hung! Charley!--good kind feyther was
hung on a gallows; and mother lost her sense and grew silly in
grief, and we were like to be turned out on t' wide world, and poor
mother dateless--and I thought yo' were dead--oh! I thought yo' were
dead, I did--oh, Charley, Charley!' By this time they were in each other's arms, she with her head on
his shoulder, crying as if her heart would break.
Philip came forwards and took hold of her to pull her away; but
Charley held her tight, mutely defying Philip. Unconsciously she was
Philip's protection, in that hour of danger, from a blow which might
have been his death if strong will could have aided it to kill.
'Sylvie!' said he, grasping her tight. 'Listen to me. He didn't love
yo' as I did. He had loved other women. I, yo'--yo' alone. He loved
other girls before yo', and had left off loving 'em. I--I wish God
would free my heart from the pang; but it will go on till I die,
whether yo' love me or not. And then--where was I? Oh! that very
night that he was taken, I was a-thinking on yo' and on him; and I
might ha' given yo' his message, but I heard them speaking of him as
knew him well; talking of his false fickle ways. How was I to know
he would keep true to thee? It might be a sin in me, I cannot say;
my heart and my sense are gone dead within me. I know this, I've
loved yo' as no man but me ever loved before. Have some pity and
forgiveness on me, if it's only because I've been so tormented with
my love.' He looked at her with feverish eager wistfulness; it faded away into
despair as she made no sign of having even heard his words. He let
go his hold of her, and his arm fell loosely by his side.
'I may die,' he said, 'for my life is ended!' 'Sylvia!' spoke out Kinraid, bold and fervent, 'your marriage is no
marriage. You were tricked into it. You are my wife, not his. I am
your husband; we plighted each other our troth. See! here is my half
of the sixpence.' He pulled it out from his bosom, tied by a black ribbon round his
neck.
'When they stripped me and searched me in th' French prison, I
managed to keep this. No lies can break the oath we swore to each
other. I can get your pretence of a marriage set aside. I'm in
favour with my admiral, and he'll do a deal for me, and back me out.
Come with me; your marriage shall be set aside, and we'll be married
again, all square and above-board. Come away. Leave that damned
fellow to repent of the trick he played an honest sailor; we'll be
true, whatever has come and gone. Come, Sylvia.' His arm was round her waist, and he was drawing her towards the
door, his face all crimson with eagerness and hope. Just then the
baby cried.