'Up the Knotting Lane, to the stile leading down to Haytersbank Farm; they'll have to wait there for some as are coming.'
'They must not wait long such an evening as this; standing in such rain and wind as there'll be up there, is enough to kill a horse.'
'They shan't wait long,' said Philip, decisively: 'in a quarter of an hour, mind.'
He now went back to the shop, beating against the storm, which was increasing as the tide came in and the night hours approached.
Coulson had no word for him, but he looked reproachfully at his partner for his long, unexplained absence. Hester was putting away the ribbons and handkerchiefs, and bright-coloured things which had been used to deck the window; for no more customers were likely to come this night through the blustering weather to a shop dimly lighted by two tallow candles and an inefficient oil-lamp. Philip came up to her, and stood looking at her with unseeing eyes; but the strange consciousness of his fixed stare made her uncomfortable, and called the faint flush to her pale cheeks, and at length compelled her, as it were, to speak, and break the spell of the silence. So, curiously enough, all three spoke at once. Hester asked (without looking at Philip)—
'Yo're sadly wet, I'm feared?'
Coulson said—
'Thou might have a bit o' news to tell one after being on the gad all afternoon.'
Philip whispered to Hester—
'Wilt come into t' parlour? I want a word wi' thee by oursel's.'