came through his thin suit and roamed about all over him in a manner that caused him exquisite discomfort. He began to jump to keep himself warm.
He was leaping heavenwards for the hundredth time, when, chancing to glance to one side, he perceived Mary again returning. By this time his physical misery had so completely overcome the softer emotions in his bosom that his only feeling now was one of thorough irritation. It was not fair, he felt, that she should jockey at the start in this way and keep him hanging about here catching cold. He looked at her, when she came within range, quite balefully.
‘It is impossible,’ she said, ‘to get round that way either.’
One grows so accustomed in this world to everything going smoothly, that the idea of actual danger had not yet come home to her. From where she stood in the middle of the cove, the sea looked so distant that the fact that it had closed the only ways of getting out was at the moment merely annoying. She felt much the same as she would have felt if she had arrived at a station to catch a train and had been told that the train was not running.
She therefore seated herself on a rock, and contemplated the ocean. Wilton walked up and down. Neither showed any disposition to exercise that gift of speech which places Man in a class of his own, above the ox, the ass, the common wart-hog, and the rest of the lower animals. It was only when a wave swished over the base of her rock that Mary broke the silence.
‘The tide is coming
She looked at the sea with such altered feelings that it seemed a different sea altogether.
There was plenty of it to look at. It filled the entire mouth of the little bay, swirling up the sand and lashing among the rocks in a fashion which made one thought stand out above all the others in her mind—the recollection that she could not swim.
‘Mr Wilton!’
Wilton bowed coldly.
‘Mr Wilton, the tide. It’s coming IN.’
Wilton glanced superciliously at the sea.
‘So,’ he said, ‘I perceive.’
‘But what shall we do?’
Wilton shrugged his shoulders. He was feeling at war with Nature and Humanity combined. The wind had shifted a few points to the east, and was exploring his anatomy with the skill of a qualified surgeon.
‘We shall drown,’ cried Miss Campbell. ‘We shall drown. We shall drown. We shall drown.’
All Wilton’s resentment left him. Until he heard that pitiful wail his only thoughts had been for himself.
‘Mary!’ he said, with a wealth of tenderness in his voice.
She came to him as a little child comes to its mother, and he put his arm around her.
‘Oh, Jack!’
‘My darling!’
‘I’m frightened!’
‘My precious!’
It is in moments of peril, when the chill breath of fear blows upon our souls, clearing them of pettiness, that we find ourselves.
She looked about her wildly.
‘Could we climb the cliffs?’
‘I doubt it.’
‘If we called for help—’
‘We could do that.’
They raised their voices, but the only answer was the crashing of the waves and the cry of the sea-birds. The water was swirling at their feet, and they drew back to the shelter of the cliffs. There they stood in silence, watching.
‘Mary,’ said Wilton in a low voice, ‘tell me one thing.’
‘Yes, Jack?’
‘Have you forgiven me?’
‘Forgiven you! How can you ask at a moment like this? I love you with all my heart and soul.’
He kissed her, and a strange look of peace came over his face.
‘I am happy.’
‘I, too.’
A fleck of foam touched her face, and she shivered.
‘It was worth it,’ he said quietly. ‘If all misunderstandings are cleared away and nothing can come between us again, it is a small price to pay—unpleasant as it will be when it comes.’
‘Perhaps—perhaps it will not be very unpleasant. They say that drowning is an easy death.’
