“I’m coming in a minute.”
Then suddenly she sat up, put on her hat, scrambled to her feet, took a glance round the sea, and made for the dinghy.
“Shove in the water jar,” said Jude. He put the jar in, seized the opposite gunnel, and ran her down.
In a minute they were afloat, the sail spread to the wind, Jude steering and holding the sheet. Gulls chased them out, and the beam wind meeting tide and current sent boosts of spray on board. It was a rougher passage coming than going, and a more silent one. Ratcliffe, squatting in the bottom of the boat, had little else to do than smoke and watch Jude. Jude, engaged with her own thoughts, and with her eyes keened for the indications of Lone Reef, seemed absolutely to have forgotten him.
There was no indication of the companion who had slept with her arm round him, who had sat almost lovingly, half-forgetfully, with her arm across his shoulder and his arm round her waist.
It came to him suddenly and with a curious pang that Jude would never be more than that,—a warm companion if cast alone together, just as she might be with Satan, or any stranger her fancy approved of.
Instinctively he felt that there was a barrier,—a curious barrier, he seemed to have broken through that night he took her part, and when, for the first time in her life, she had confessed herself at fault; a barrier, that had, however, mended itself. It was as though he had injured her independence. Yet Satan was injuring her independence all day long with his orders and what not. Ay, but Satan was her brother, almost part of herself. She would not have banged Satan on the head for kissing her.
He gave up thinking, watching her and how well she handled the boat. The crying of the gulls round the spit had died down; nothing remained but the voice of the sea, silent as dumb death from the blue horizon to the planking of the dinghy when it spoke.
“That’s her!” suddenly said Jude.
“What?”