'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.