Sylvia's Lovers

Many such old people set out betimes, on the Sunday afternoon to

which Sylvia had been so looking forward, to scale the long flights

of stone steps--worn by the feet of many generations--which led up

to the parish church, placed on a height above the town, on a great

green area at the summit of the cliff, which was the angle where the

river and the sea met, and so overlooking both the busy crowded

little town, the port, the shipping, and the bar on the one hand,

and the wide illimitable tranquil sea on the other--types of

life and eternity. It was a good situation for that church.

Homeward-bound sailors caught sight of the tower of St Nicholas, the

first land object of all. They who went forth upon the great deep

might carry solemn thoughts with them of the words they had heard

there; not conscious thoughts, perhaps--rather a distinct if dim

conviction that buying and selling, eating and marrying, even life

and death, were not all the realities in existence. Nor were the

words that came up to their remembrance words of sermons preached

there, however impressive. The sailors mostly slept through the

sermons; unless, indeed, there were incidents such as were involved

in what were called 'funeral discourses' to be narrated. They did

not recognize their daily faults or temptations under the grand

aliases befitting their appearance from a preacher's mouth. But they

knew the old, oft-repeated words praying for deliverance from the

familiar dangers of lightning and tempest; from battle, murder, and

sudden death; and nearly every man was aware that he left behind him

some one who would watch for the prayer for the preservation of

those who travel by land or by water, and think of him, as

God-protected the more for the earnestness of the response then

given.

There, too, lay the dead of many generations; for St. Nicholas had

been the parish church ever since Monkshaven was a town, and the

large churchyard was rich in the dead. Masters, mariners,

ship-owners, seamen: it seemed strange how few other trades were

represented in that great plain so full of upright gravestones. Here

and there was a memorial stone, placed by some survivor of a large

family, most of whom perished at sea:--'Supposed to have perished

in the Greenland seas,' 'Shipwrecked in the Baltic,' 'Drowned off

the coast of Iceland.' There was a strange sensation, as if the cold

sea-winds must bring with them the dim phantoms of those lost

sailors, who had died far from their homes, and from the hallowed

ground where their fathers lay.

Each flight of steps up to this churchyard ended in a small flat

space, on which a wooden seat was placed. On this particular Sunday,

all these seats were filled by aged people, breathless with the

unusual exertion of climbing. You could see the church stair, as it

was called, from nearly every part of the town, and the figures of

the numerous climbers, diminished by distance, looked like a busy

ant-hill, long before the bell began to ring for afternoon service.

All who could manage it had put on a bit of black in token of

mourning; it might be very little; an old ribbon, a rusty piece of

crape; but some sign of mourning was shown by every one down to the

little child in its mother's arms, that innocently clutched the

piece of rosemary to be thrown into the grave 'for remembrance.'

Darley, the seaman shot by the press-gang, nine leagues off St.

Abb's Head, was to be buried to-day, at the accustomed time for the

funerals of the poorer classes, directly after evening service, and

there were only the sick and their nurse-tenders who did not come

forth to show their feeling for the man whom they looked upon as

murdered. The crowd of vessels in harbour bore their flags half-mast

high; and the crews were making their way through the High Street.

The gentlefolk of Monkshaven, full of indignation at this

interference with their ships, full of sympathy with the family who

had lost their son and brother almost within sight of his home, came

in unusual numbers--no lack of patterns for Sylvia; but her

thoughts were far otherwise and more suitably occupied. The unwonted

sternness and solemnity visible on the countenances of all whom she

met awed and affected her. She did not speak in reply to Molly's

remarks on the dress or appearance of those who struck her. She felt

as if these speeches jarred on her, and annoyed her almost to

irritation; yet Molly had come all the way to Monkshaven Church in

her service, and deserved forbearance accordingly. The two mounted

the steps alongside of many people; few words were exchanged, even

at the breathing places, so often the little centres of gossip.

Looking over the sea there was not a sail to be seen; it seemed

bared of life, as if to be in serious harmony with what was going on

inland.