Sylvia's Lovers

'Alice Rose is a Friend, if that is what you mean,' said Philip.

'Well, well! some folk's so particular. Is William Coulson a Quaker,

by which a mean a Friend?' 'Yes; they're all on 'em right-down good folk.' 'Deary me! What a wonder yo' can speak to such sinners as Sylvia and

me, after keepin' company with so much goodness,' said Molly, who

had not yet forgiven Philip for doubting Kinraid's power of killing

men. 'Is na' it, Sylvia?' But Sylvia was too highly strung for banter. If she had not been one

of those who went to mock, but remained to pray, she had gone to

church with the thought of the cloak-that-was-to-be uppermost in her

mind, and she had come down the long church stair with life and

death suddenly become real to her mind, the enduring sea and hills

forming a contrasting background to the vanishing away of man. She

was full of a solemn wonder as to the abiding-place of the souls of

the dead, and a childlike dread lest the number of the elect should

be accomplished before she was included therein. How people could

ever be merry again after they had been at a funeral, she could not

imagine; so she answered gravely, and slightly beside the question: 'I wonder if I was a Friend if I should be good?' 'Gi' me your red cloak, that's all, when yo' turn Quaker; they'll

none let thee wear scarlet, so it 'll be of no use t' thee.' 'I think thou'rt good enough as thou art,' said Philip, tenderly--at

least as tenderly as he durst, for he knew by experience that it did

not do to alarm her girlish coyness. Either one speech or the other

made Sylvia silent; neither was accordant to her mood of mind; so

perhaps both contributed to her quietness.

'Folk say William Coulson looks sweet on Hester Rose,' said Molly,

always up in Monkshaven gossip. It was in the form of an assertion,

but was said in the tone of a question, and as such Philip replied

to it.

'Yes, I think he likes her a good deal; but he's so quiet, I never

feel sure. John and Jeremiah would like the match, I've a notion.' And now they came to the stile which had filled Philip's eye for

some minutes past, though neither of the others had perceived they

were so near it; the stile which led to Moss Brow from the road into

the fields that sloped down to Haystersbank. Here they would leave

Molly, and now would begin the delicious tete-a-tete walk, which

Philip always tried to make as lingering as possible. To-day he was

anxious to show his sympathy with Sylvia, as far as he could read

what was passing in her mind; but how was he to guess the multitude

of tangled thoughts in that unseen receptacle? A resolution to be

good, if she could, and always to be thinking on death, so that what

seemed to her now as simply impossible, might come true--that she

might 'dread the grave as little as her bed'; a wish that Philip

were not coming home with her; a wonder if the specksioneer really

had killed a man, an idea which made her shudder; yet from the awful

fascination about it, her imagination was compelled to dwell on the

tall, gaunt figure, and try to recall the wan countenance; a hatred

and desire of revenge on the press-gang, so vehement that it sadly

militated against her intention of trying to be good; all these

notions, and wonders, and fancies, were whirling about in Sylvia's

brain, and at one of their promptings she spoke,-'How many miles away is t' Greenland seas?--I mean, how long do they

take to reach?' 'I don't know; ten days or a fortnight, or more, maybe. I'll ask.' 'Oh! feyther 'll tell me all about it. He's been there many a time.' 'I say, Sylvie! My aunt said I were to give you lessons this winter

i' writing and ciphering. I can begin to come up now, two evenings,

maybe, a week. T' shop closes early after November comes in.' Sylvia did not like learning, and did not want him for her teacher;

so she answered in a dry little tone,-'It'll use a deal o' candle-light; mother 'll not like that. I can't

see to spell wi'out a candle close at my elbow.' 'Niver mind about candles. I can bring up a candle wi' me, for I

should be burning one at Alice Rose's.' So that excuse would not do. Sylvia beat her brains for another.