Sylvia's Lovers

'It were dayleet then,' quoth one woman; 'a could see their faces,

they were so near. They were as pale as dead men, an' one was

prayin' down on his knees. There was a king's officer aboard, for I

saw t' gowd about him.' 'He'd maybe come from these hom'ard parts, and be comin' to see his

own folk; else it's no common for king's officers to sail in aught

but king's ships.' 'Eh! but it's gettin' dark! See there's t' leeghts in t' houses in

t' New Town! T' grass is crispin' wi' t' white frost under out feet.

It'll be a hard tug round t' point, and then she'll be gettin' into

still waters.' One more great push and mighty strain, and the danger was past; the

vessel--or what remained of her--was in the harbour, among the

lights and cheerful sounds of safety. The fishermen sprang down the

cliff to the quay-side, anxious to see the men whose lives they had

saved; the women, weary and over-excited, began to cry. Not Sylvia,

however; her fount of tears had been exhausted earlier in the day:

her principal feeling was of gladness and high rejoicing that they

were saved who had been so near to death not half an hour before.

She would have liked to have seen the men, and shaken hands with

them all round. But instead she must go home, and well would it be

with her if she was in time for her husband's supper, and escaped

any notice of her absence. So she separated herself from the groups

of women who sate on the grass in the churchyard, awaiting the

return of such of their husbands as could resist the fascinations of

the Monkshaven public houses. As Sylvia went down the church steps,

she came upon one of the fishermen who had helped to tow the vessel

into port.

'There was seventeen men and boys aboard her, and a navy-lieutenant

as had comed as passenger. It were a good job as we could manage

her. Good-neet to thee, thou'll sleep all t' sounder for havin' lent

a hand.' The street air felt hot and close after the sharp keen atmosphere of

the heights above; the decent shops and houses had all their

shutters put up, and were preparing for their early bed-time.

Already lights shone here and there in the upper chambers, and

Sylvia scarcely met any one.

She went round up the passage from the quay-side, and in by the

private door. All was still; the basins of bread and milk that she

and her husband were in the habit of having for supper stood in the

fender before the fire, each with a plate upon them. Nancy had gone

to bed, Phoebe dozed in the kitchen; Philip was still in the

ware-room, arranging goods and taking stock along with Coulson, for

Hester had gone home to her mother.