The wet pavement reflected the flickering gas-lamps. One by one the lights in the windows were put out, and late visitors hurried home. She clung to the policeman's solid tramp with a lingering hope, but she was growing desperate; and over everything was the fine rain, coming in gusts from a cloudy sky, wetting her hair, her face, and soaking her skirts. It was a miserable night, and the police inspector deeply sympathized with her. He went along the town road and cross-examined the policeman. He made inquiries and issued orders, and took upon himself to beg the pale, tired lady to go home and wait and see what turned up. But Mrs. Beauchamp felt that to sit at home doing nothing would be intolerable. She shook her head and turned again on to the Parade, and with her went Susie's light feet, so real, so active, that she almost saw the red jersey on a level with her shoulder, and those brown, defiant eyes. For it was of Susie that her mind was full—poor Susie, who had "often and often not wanted to go," but who had gone.
It was easier for little Dickie; all his life it would be easier for Dick than for this eager, forgetful, repentant daughter, whose passionate sorrow always came too late.
Mrs. Beauchamp leaned over the railing at the top, and looked down on to the sands, debating whether it was worth another effort. The group of fishermen still stood close under the shelter of the cliff; their gruff voices floated up to her, and gave her a feeling of companionship. She ran down on to the beach, but when she stood in front of them she felt it impossible to speak. One by one they rose awkwardly, and gazed at her in an embarrassing silence, but making no suggestion, so that it was she who spoke first.
"I have not found them; I cannot trace them anyhow. Can none of you help me?"
Her sweet, impatient voice appealed to them rather hopelessly, and there was no response.
"I'm willing to do what I can," one of them said at last. "At daylight I'll bring round my boat and go over the rocks. It's an ebb tide."
"Oh no," she said, and shuddered. "I can't sit still till daylight—indeed I cannot. It is only ten o'clock now."
"It's a fair offer, lady," said the man.
"But it is going to be a fine night," she pleaded. "The rain is over. If I could find the twins of whom my children speak! Can you not help me? You are at least men."
"Why, ma'am"—it was a new voice that answered her—"if it's children you want, I'll find them fast enough if they are on shore; it's only the sea that keeps her own. A set of lubberly men that can't help a lady in distress! That's not how the Royal Navy acts. And don't you cry, lady. Lads and lasses don't get mislaid as easy as that; bad halfpennies come back to their moorings. We'll knock at every door in the town before we give up."