Sylvia's Lovers

Philip knew this quite well; his doom of disgrace lay plain before

him, if only Kinraid spoke the word. His head was bent down while he

thus listened and reflected. He half resolved on doing something; he

lifted up his head, caught the reflection of his face in the little

strip of glass on the opposite side, in which the women might look

at themselves in their contemplated purchases, and quite resolved.

The sight he saw in the mirror was his own long, sad, pale face,

made plainer and grayer by the heavy pressure of the morning's

events. He saw his stooping figure, his rounded shoulders, with

something like a feeling of disgust at his personal appearance as he

remembered the square, upright build of Kinraid; his fine uniform,

with epaulette and sword-belt; his handsome brown face; his dark

eyes, splendid with the fire of passion and indignation; his white

teeth, gleaming out with the terrible smile of scorn.

The comparison drove Philip from passive hopelessness to active

despair.

He went abruptly from the crowded shop into the empty parlour, and

on into the kitchen, where he took up a piece of bread, and heedless

of Phoebe's look and words, began to eat it before he even left the

place; for he needed the strength that food would give; he needed it

to carry him out of the sight and the knowledge of all who might

hear what he had done, and point their fingers at him.

He paused a moment in the parlour, and then, setting his teeth tight

together, he went upstairs.

First of all he went into the bit of a room opening out of theirs,

in which his baby slept. He dearly loved the child, and many a time

would run in and play a while with it; and in such gambols he and

Sylvia had passed their happiest moments of wedded life.

The little Bella was having her morning slumber; Nancy used to tell

long afterwards how he knelt down by the side of her cot, and was so

strange she thought he must have prayed, for all it was nigh upon

eleven o'clock, and folk in their senses only said their prayers

when they got up, and when they went to bed.

Then he rose, and stooped over, and gave the child a long,

lingering, soft, fond kiss. And on tip-toe he passed away into the

room where his aunt lay; his aunt who had been so true a friend to

him! He was thankful to know that in her present state she was safe

from the knowledge of what was past, safe from the sound of the

shame to come.

He had not meant to see Sylvia again; he dreaded the look of her

hatred, her scorn, but there, outside her mother's bed, she lay,

apparently asleep. Mrs. Robson, too, was sleeping, her face towards

the wall. Philip could not help it; he went to have one last look at

his wife. She was turned towards her mother, her face averted from

him; he could see the tear-stains, the swollen eyelids, the lips yet

quivering: he stooped down, and bent to kiss the little hand that

lay listless by her side. As his hot breath neared that hand it was

twitched away, and a shiver ran through the whole prostrate body.

And then he knew that she was not asleep, only worn out by her

misery,--misery that he had caused.