But round some corner in the streets of life
They on a sudden clasp us with a smile.”
And now Margery was his wife—his very own; there was none to claim her, none to share the treasure of her love. Was not this blessing too great? His earnest eyes, dark with tenderness, were never tired of watching her lovely, unconscious face as she sat buried in her memories of the past, the look of unutterable sadness that had touched him in their earlier acquaintance seeming to him now caused but by the recollection of her childhood’s history, her mother’s death.
At last the sunshine died, the sea’s calm was gone, the tiny rippling movement was changed into gigantic rolling waves, crested with white foam, and dashing on to the beach in angry majesty, with a sound as of thunder. Margery loved the sea in its fury; she would sit and watch it for hours, her heart beating fast, and her nerves thrilling at the rage in its fierce waves and dashing spray. The anger, the wildness of the elements, relieved her overwrought mind, and the very tumult brought her peace.
She stood at the window one afternoon gazing at the expanse of dull, leaden-green water. There were no waves; it was as if a titanic movement from below agitated the surface and caused the heavy, sudden motion. As she stood thus, her husband approached her.
“Not tired of the sea yet, my darling?” he said, with a smile. “I shall be afraid to suggest a migration if this devotion lasts much longer.”
“It is so wonderful,” Margery answered, dreamily. “I can see such strange pictures, imagine such things, as I watch it. I have never seen it as it is to-day.”
“There will be a storm to-night. I have just seen one of the fishermen, and he says they expect very rough weather.”
“It looks an angry, discontented sea,” Margery said, still dreamily, “as if its passion would be terrible when it did break forth.”
“Look at the foot of the Templar’s Rock! It is beginning already; the foam is as white as snow. There is, as you say, Margery, sullen discontent in its look; but there is also a wildness of despair. It reminds me, looking at that whirling rush round the rock, of Tennyson’s words: