“Like a storm!”
“You were admiring the grandeur of the sea just now.”
“Ah, you do not understand!” she said, and gazed out before her, a far-away look in her eyes. Presently she spoke again, looking at him for a moment with a world of sadness in her eyes, and then away over the tossing sea. “It is all very grand, very beautiful, very wonderful; but oh, so cruel, so pitiless in its strength and beauty! Think of the sailors, the fishermen out on the sea on a night like this, and the wives and mothers and little children, waiting at home for those who, perhaps, will never come back again. You do not understand. You belong to another world. You are not one of us. I have been down amongst them on wild, stormy nights. I have paced the beach with weeping women, watching, waiting for the boats that never came back, or came only to be dashed in pieces against the cruel rocks before our very eyes.” She paused a moment, and he felt her shudder in every limb; but her voice was still low and quiet, just vibrating with the depth of her feelings, but very calm and even. “I have seen boats go down within sight of home, within sound of our voices, almost within reach of our outstretched hands—almost, but not quite; and I have seen brave men, men I have known from childhood, swept away to their death, whilst we—their wives, their mothers, and I—have stood at the water’s edge, powerless to succour them. Ah, you do not, you cannot understand! I have seen all that, and more—and you ask me if I like a storm at sea!”
She stood very still for a few seconds, and then took his arm again.
“Let us go home,” she said, drooping a little as the wind met them once more. “I am so tired.”
He sheltered her all he could against the fury of the gale, and presently they were able to seek the shelter of the pine wood as they neared the Castle. Monica’s face was very pale, and he looked at her with a gentle concern that somehow in no wise offended her.
“You are very tired,” he said, compassionately. “The walk has been too much for you.”
“Not the walk exactly,” answered Monica, with a little falter in her voice; “it was the music and the storm together, I think. I am glad we sung the hymn for those at sea to-night.”
He looked down at her earnestly.
“And yet the sea is your best friend, Lady Monica. You have told me so yourself.” She looked at him with strange, wistful intensity.