In and out of the caverns the sea rushed and bellowed and roared, driving the air in before it, till the earth seemed to quiver, and the confined air escaped with a report like that of some explosion. Then the gale passed over, the stars came out, and in the morning, save that the sea looked muddy instead of crystal clear and pure, all was sunshine and joy.
During the storm there had been an inquest, and with rain pouring down till there were inches of water in the grave, the body of the unfortunate man was laid to rest.
Duncan Leslie had been busy for a couple of hours in a restless, excited way, till, happening to look down from up by his engine-house, he caught sight of a grey-looking figure seated upon a stone by the cliff path. Giving a few orders, he hurried along the track.
Uncle Luke saw him coming, out of the corner of one eye, but he did not move, only sat with his hands resting upon his stick gazing out at the fishing-boats, which seemed to be revelling in the calm and sunshine, and gliding out to sea.
“Good morning.”
“Bah! nothing of the kind,” said Uncle Luke, viciously. “There isn’t such a thing.”
“No?” said Leslie, smiling sadly.
“Nothing of the kind. Life’s all a mistake. The world’s a round ball of brambles with a trouble on every thorn. Young Harry has the best of it, after all. Get wet?”
“Yesterday, at the funeral? Yes, very.”
“Hah! Saw you were there. Horrible day. Well, good job it’s all over.”