That night the weather became stormy; a roaring wind swept the Channel, and when day broke nothing could be seen but cloud and rain. Widdowson, who had rested little, was in a heavy, taciturn mood; Monica, on the other hand, talked gaily, seeming not to observe her companion’s irresponsiveness. She was glad of the wild sky; now they would see another aspect of island life—the fierce and perilous surges beating about these granite shores.
They had brought with them a few books, and Widdowson, after breakfast, sat down by the fire to read. Monica first of all wrote a letter to her sister; then, as it was still impossible to go out, she took up one of the volumes that lay on a side-table in their sitting-room, novels left by former lodgers. Her choice was something or other with yellow back. Widdowson, watching all her movements furtively, became aware of the pictured cover.
“I don’t think you’ll get much good out of that,” he remarked, after one or two efforts to speak.
“No harm, at all events,” she replied good-humouredly.
“I’m not so sure. Why should you waste your time? Take “Guy Mannering,” if you want a novel.”
“I’ll see how I like this first.”
He felt himself powerless, and suffered acutely from the thought that Monica was in rebellion against him. He could not understand what had brought about this sudden change. Fear of losing his wife’s love restrained him from practical despotism, yet he was very near to uttering a definite command.
In the afternoon it no longer rained, and the wind had less violence. They went out to look at the sea. Many people were gathered about the harbour, whence was a fine view of the great waves that broke into leaping foam and spray against the crags of Sark. As they stood thus occupied, Monica heard her name spoken in a friendly voice—that of Mrs. Cosgrove.
“I have been expecting to see you,” said the lady. “We arrived three days ago.”
Widdowson, starting with surprise, turned to examine the speaker. He saw a woman of something less than middle age, unfashionably attired, good-looking, with an air of high spirits; only when she offered her hand to him did he remember having met her at Miss Barfoot’s. To be graceful in a high wind is difficult for any man; the ungainliness with which he returned Mrs. Cosgrove’s greeting could not have been surpassed, and probably would have been much the same even had he not, of necessity, stood clutching at his felt hat.