Sitting watching the long, rolling waves breaking up against the white cliffs, or the sea-birds winging their way above the foam, May told herself again and again that her life was done—that is, her life of happiness and hope. There remained but for her a cold and colorless existence, toiling for her daily bread. Yet she did not shrink from her fate. She accepted it as inevitable, and, after the first bitterness was passed, bore herself with a certain amount of heroism and calmness.
“I was mad that night, and but for Mr. Webster—” she sometimes thought, and would shudder as she did so.
“I wonder he has never been down to see us?” at last one day said Sister Margaret, at the very moment when May was vaguely thinking of the past.
The two were sitting together on the pier, in a bright, fresh day in the early winter time, when Sister Margaret made this remark. All around them was the deep blue sea, white-crested and sparkling in the sun. Visitors were strolling about, and the whole scene was cheerful and invigorating. May roused herself from her sad day-dreams to answer Sister Margaret.
“You mean Mr. Webster?” she said. “I dare say he is too busy to come.”
She looked up as she spoke, looked across the pier, and with a little start the next moment she recognized Ralph Webster. He was leaning back against the railing watching the two women he had come to see, and when his eyes met May’s he raised his hat and crossed over to speak to them.
“Good gracious, Mr. Webster!” cried Sister Margaret, when she saw him. “What a start you gave us! we were just speaking of you.”
“Were you?” he answered, and he shook hands with them both, and then sat down by May’s side.
“May I sit beside you?” he said, as he did so.
“I have been wondering,” he went on the next moment, smiling, “how long I should stand opposite to you without your seeing me? Do you know I’ve been quite five minutes over there?”