He took his cap and was gone, not heeding Alice’s shrill inquiry as to his clothes and his ruffled shirt.  Coulson sat still, penitent and ashamed; at length he stole a look at Hester.  She was playing with her teaspoon, but he could see that she was choking down her tears; he could not choose but force her to speak with an ill-timed question.

‘What’s to do, Hester?’ said he.

She lifted up those eyes, usually so soft and serene; now they were full of the light of indignation shining through tears.

‘To do!’ she said; ’Coulson, I’d thought better of thee, going and doubting and envying Philip, as niver did thee an ill turn, or said an ill word, or thought an ill thought by thee; and sending him away out o’ t’ house this last night of all, may-be, wi’ thy envyings and jealousy.’

She hastily got up and left the room.  Alice was away, looking up Philip’s things for his journey.  Coulson remained alone, feeling like a guilty child, but dismayed by Hester’s words, even more than by his own regret at what he had said.

Philip walked rapidly up the hill-road towards Haytersbank.  He was chafed and excited by Coulson’s words, and the events of the day.  He had meant to shape his life, and now it was, as it were, being shaped for him, and yet he was reproached for the course it was taking, as much as though he were an active agent; accused of taking advantage over Coulson, his intimate companion for years; he who esteemed himself above taking an unfair advantage over any man!  His feeling on the subject was akin to that of Hazael, ’Is thy servant a dog that he should do this thing?’

His feelings, disturbed on this one point, shook his judgment off its balance on another.  The resolution he had deliberately formed of not speaking to Sylvia on the subject of his love till he could announce to her parents the fact of his succession to Fosters’ business, and till he had patiently, with long-continuing and deep affection, worked his way into her regard, was set aside during the present walk.  He would speak to her of his passionate attachment, before he left, for an uncertain length of time, and the certain distance of London.  And all the modification on this point which his judgment could obtain from his impetuous and excited heart was, that he would watch her words and manner well when he announced his approaching absence, and if in them he read the slightest token of tender regretful feeling, he would pour out his love at her feet, not even urging the young girl to make any return, or to express the feelings of which he hoped the germ was already budding in her.  He would be patient with her; he could not be patient himself.  His heart beating, his busy mind rehearsing the probable coming scene, he turned into the field-path that led to Haytersbank.  Coming along it, and so meeting him, advanced Daniel Robson, in earnest talk with Charley Kinraid.  Kinraid, then, had been at the farm:  Kinraid had been seeing Sylvia,