Sylvia's Lovers

Autumn brought back the whaling-ships. But the period of their

return was full of gloomy anxiety, instead of its being the annual

time of rejoicing and feasting; of gladdened households, where brave

steady husbands or sons returned; of unlimited and reckless

expenditure, and boisterous joviality among those who thought that

they had earned unbounded licence on shore by their six months of

compelled abstinence. In other years this had been the time for new

and handsome winter clothing; for cheerful if humble hospitality;

for the shopkeepers to display their gayest and best; for the

public-houses to be crowded; for the streets to be full of blue

jackets, rolling along with merry words and open hearts. In other

years the boiling-houses had been full of active workers, the

staithes crowded with barrels, the ship-carpenters' yards thronged

with seamen and captains; now a few men, tempted by high wages, went

stealthily by back lanes to their work, clustering together, with

sinister looks, glancing round corners, and fearful of every

approaching footstep, as if they were going on some unlawful

business, instead of true honest work. Most of them kept their

whaling-knives about them ready for bloody defence if they were

attacked. The shops were almost deserted; there was no unnecessary

expenditure by the men; they dared not venture out to buy lavish

presents for the wife or sweetheart or little children. The

public-houses kept scouts on the look-out; while fierce men drank

and swore deep oaths of vengeance in the bar--men who did not

maunder in their cups, nor grow foolishly merry, but in whom liquor

called forth all the desperate, bad passions of human nature.

Indeed, all along the coast of Yorkshire, it seemed as if a blight

hung over the land and the people. Men dodged about their daily

business with hatred and suspicion in their eyes, and many a curse

went over the sea to the three fatal ships lying motionless at

anchor three miles off Monkshaven. When first Philip had heard in

his shop that these three men-of-war might be seen lying fell and

still on the gray horizon, his heart sank, and he scarcely dared to

ask their names. For if one should be the Alcestis; if Kinraid

should send word to Sylvia; if he should say he was living, and

loving, and faithful; if it should come to pass that the fact of the

undelivered message sent by her lover through Philip should reach

Sylvia's ears: what would be the position of the latter, not merely

in her love--that, of course, would be hopeless--but in her esteem?

All sophistry vanished; the fear of detection awakened Philip to a

sense of guilt; and, besides, he found out, that, in spite of all

idle talk and careless slander, he could not help believing that

Kinraid was in terrible earnest when he uttered those passionate

words, and entreated that they might be borne to Sylvia. Some

instinct told Philip that if the specksioneer had only flirted with

too many, yet that for Sylvia Robson his love was true and vehement.

Then Philip tried to convince himself that, from all that was said

of his previous character, Kinraid was not capable of an enduring

constant attachment; and with such poor opiate to his conscience as

he could obtain from this notion Philip was obliged to remain

content, until, a day or two after the first intelligence of the

presence of those three ships, he learned, with some trouble and

pains, that their names were the Megoera, the Bellerophon, and

the Hanover.