Sylvia's Lovers - Page 258/290

Now she must go and ask Philip; and till she held her baby to her

breast, she bitterly wished that she were free from the duties and

chains of matrimony. But the touch of its waxen fingers, the hold of

its little mouth, made her relax into docility and gentleness. She

gave it back to Nancy to be dressed, and softly opened the door of

Philip's bed-room.

'Philip!' said she, gently. 'Philip!' He started up from dreams of her; of her, angry. He saw her there,

rather pale with her night's watch and anxiety, but looking meek,

and a little beseeching.

'Mother has had such a bad night! she fancied once as some balm-tea

would do her good--it allays used to: but my dried balm is all gone,

and I thought there'd be sure to be some in t' old garden at

Haytersbank. Feyther planted a bush just for mother, wheere it

allays came up early, nigh t' old elder-tree; and if yo'd not mind,

I could run theere while she sleeps, and be back again in an hour,

and it's not seven now.' 'Thou's not wear thyself out with running, Sylvie,' said Philip,

eagerly; 'I'll get up and go myself, or, perhaps,' continued he,

catching the shadow that was coming over her face, 'thou'd rather go

thyself: it's only that I'm so afraid of thy tiring thyself.' 'It'll not tire me,' said Sylvia. 'Afore I was married, I was out

often far farther than that, afield to fetch up t' kine, before my

breakfast.' 'Well, go if thou will,' said Philip. 'But get somewhat to eat

first, and don't hurry; there's no need for that.' She had got her hat and shawl, and was off before he had finished

his last words.

The long High Street was almost empty of people at that early hour;

one side was entirely covered by the cool morning shadow which lay

on the pavement, and crept up the opposite houses till only the

topmost story caught the rosy sunlight. Up the hill-road, through

the gap in the stone wall, across the dewy fields, Sylvia went by

the very shortest path she knew.

She had only once been at Haytersbank since her wedding-day. On that

occasion the place had seemed strangely and dissonantly changed by

the numerous children who were diverting themselves before the open

door, and whose playthings and clothes strewed the house-place, and

made it one busy scene of confusion and untidiness, more like the

Corneys' kitchen in former times, than her mother's orderly and

quiet abode. Those little children were fatherless now; and the

house was shut up, awaiting the entry of some new tenant. There were

no shutters to shut; the long low window was blinking in the rays of

the morning sun; the house and cow-house doors were closed, and no

poultry wandered about the field in search of stray grains of corn,

or early worms. It was a strange and unfamiliar silence, and struck

solemnly on Sylvia's mind. Only a thrush in the old orchard down in

the hollow, out of sight, whistled and gurgled with continual shrill

melody.