But after the Robsons settled at Haytersbank, Philip's evenings were
so often spent there that any unconscious hopes Hester might,
unawares, have entertained, died away. At first she had felt a pang
akin to jealousy when she heard of Sylvia, the little cousin, who
was passing out of childhood into womanhood. Once--early in those
days--she had ventured to ask Philip what Sylvia was like. Philip
had not warmed up at the question, and had given rather a dry
catalogue of her features, hair, and height, but Hester, almost to
her own surprise, persevered, and jerked out the final question.
'Is she pretty?' Philip's sallow cheek grew deeper by two or three shades; but he
answered with a tone of indifference,-'I believe some folks think her so.' 'But do you?' persevered Hester, in spite of her being aware that he
somehow disliked the question.
'There's no need for talking o' such things,' he answered, with
abrupt displeasure.
Hester silenced her curiosity from that time. But her heart was not
quite at ease, and she kept on wondering whether Philip thought his
little cousin pretty until she saw her and him together, on that
occasion of which we have spoken, when Sylvia came to the shop to
buy her new cloak; and after that Hester never wondered whether
Philip thought his cousin pretty or no, for she knew quite well.
Bell Robson had her own anxieties on the subject of her daughter's
increasing attractions. She apprehended the dangers consequent upon
certain facts, by a mental process more akin to intuition than
reason. She was uncomfortable, even while her motherly vanity was
flattered, at the admiration Sylvia received from the other sex.
This admiration was made evident to her mother in many ways. When
Sylvia was with her at market, it might have been thought that the
doctors had prescribed a diet of butter and eggs to all the men
under forty in Monkshaven. At first it seemed to Mrs. Robson but a
natural tribute to the superior merit of her farm produce; but by
degrees she perceived that if Sylvia remained at home, she stood no
better chance than her neighbours of an early sale. There were more
customers than formerly for the fleeces stored in the wool-loft;
comely young butchers came after the calf almost before it had been
decided to sell it; in short, excuses were seldom wanting to those
who wished to see the beauty of Haytersbank Farm. All this made Bell
uncomfortable, though she could hardly have told what she dreaded.
Sylvia herself seemed unspoilt by it as far as her home relations
were concerned. A little thoughtless she had always been, and
thoughtless she was still; but, as her mother had often said, 'Yo'
canna put old heads on young shoulders;' and if blamed for her
carelessness by her parents, Sylvia was always as penitent as she
could be for the time being. To be sure, it was only to her father
and mother that she remained the same as she had been when an
awkward lassie of thirteen. Out of the house there were the most
contradictory opinions of her, especially if the voices of women
were to be listened to. She was 'an ill-favoured, overgrown thing';
'just as bonny as the first rose i' June, and as sweet i' her nature
as t' honeysuckle a-climbing round it;' she was 'a vixen, with a
tongue sharp enough to make yer very heart bleed;' she was 'just a
bit o' sunshine wheriver she went;' she was sulky, lively, witty,
silent, affectionate, or cold-hearted, according to the person who
spoke about her. In fact, her peculiarity seemed to be this--that
every one who knew her talked about her either in praise or blame;
in church, or in market, she unconsciously attracted attention; they
could not forget her presence, as they could that of other girls
perhaps more personally attractive. Now all this was a cause of
anxiety to her mother, who began to feel as if she would rather have
had her child passed by in silence than so much noticed. Bell's
opinion was, that it was creditable to a woman to go through life in
the shadow of obscurity,--never named except in connexion with good
housewifery, husband, or children. Too much talking about a girl,
even in the way of praise, disturbed Mrs. Robson's opinion of her;
and when her neighbours told her how her own daughter was admired,
she would reply coldly, 'She's just well enough,' and change the
subject of conversation. But it was quite different with her
husband. To his looser, less-restrained mind, it was agreeable to
hear of, and still more to see, the attention which his daughter's
beauty received. He felt it as reflecting consequence on himself. He
had never troubled his mind with speculations as to whether he
himself was popular, still less whether he was respected. He was
pretty welcome wherever he went, as a jovial good-natured man, who
had done adventurous and illegal things in his youth, which in some
measure entitled him to speak out his opinions on life in general in
the authoritative manner he generally used; but, of the two, he
preferred consorting with younger men, to taking a sober stand of
respectability with the elders of the place; and he perceived,
without reasoning upon it, that the gay daring spirits were more
desirous of his company when Sylvia was by his side than at any
other time. One or two of these would saunter up to Haytersbank on a
Sunday afternoon, and lounge round his fields with the old farmer.
Bell kept herself from the nap which had been her weekly solace for
years, in order to look after Sylvia, and on such occasions she
always turned as cold a shoulder to the visitors as her sense of
hospitality and of duty to her husband would permit. But if they did
not enter the house, old Robson would always have Sylvia with him
when he went the round of his land. Bell could see them from the
upper window: the young men standing in the attitudes of listeners,
while Daniel laid down the law on some point, enforcing his words by
pantomimic actions with his thick stick; and Sylvia, half turning
away as if from some too admiring gaze, was possibly picking flowers
out of the hedge-bank. These Sunday afternoon strolls were the
plague of Bell's life that whole summer. Then it took as much of
artifice as was in the simple woman's nature to keep Daniel from
insisting on having Sylvia's company every time he went down to
Monkshaven. And here, again, came a perplexity, the acknowledgement
of which in distinct thought would have been an act of disloyalty,
according to Bell's conscience. If Sylvia went with her father, he
never drank to excess; and that was a good gain to health at any
rate (drinking was hardly a sin against morals in those days, and in
that place); so, occasionally, she was allowed to accompany him to
Monkshaven as a check upon his folly; for he was too fond and proud
of his daughter to disgrace her by any open excess. But one Sunday
afternoon early in November, Philip came up before the time at which
he usually paid his visits. He looked grave and pale; and his aunt
began,-'Why, lad! what's been ado? Thou'rt looking as peaked and pined as a
Methody preacher after a love-feast, when he's talked hisself to
Death's door. Thee dost na' get good milk enow, that's what it
is,--such stuff as Monkshaven folks put up wi'!' 'No, aunt; I'm quite well. Only I'm a bit put out--vexed like at
what I've heerd about Sylvie.' His aunt's face changed immediately.