The air was curiously clear and still, and the sea the same; yet there was a sullen booming sound far below that sounded threatening and rather awful.
“You are weather-wise, Lady Monica?” he asked with a smile.
“I ought to be,” she answered, turning away at length with a long drawn breath. “I know our sea so well, so very well.”
And then she walked on and entered the church by her own little door, leaving Randolph musing alone without.
He, too, lunched with the Pendrills that day. He had been over several times to see them since his arrival at Trevlyn, and had made his way in that house as successfully as he had done at the Castle.
Tom walked with him to church for the afternoon service. He spoke of Monica with great frankness.
“I have always likened her to a sort of Undine,” he remarked, “though not in the generally accepted sense. There are latent capacities within her that might make her a very remarkable woman; but half her nature is sleeping still. According to the tradition, love must awake the slumbering soul. I often think it is that which wanted to transform and humanise my Lady Monica.”
Randolph was silent. The smallest suspicion of criticism of Monica jarred upon him. Tom saw this, and smiled to himself.
They reached the little cliff church long before the rustic congregation had begun to assemble. The sound of the organ was audible from within.
Tom laid his fingers on his lips and made a sign to his companion to follow him. They softly mounted a little quaint stairway towards the organ loft, and reached a spot where, hidden themselves by the dark shadows, they could watch the player as she sat before the instrument.