She lifted her beautiful face to the failing light; even the lantern on the "Brill" had disappeared now; the dark sea was almost clear of sail, the horizon was obscured in part by the passing of the vanguard, but for the rest was silver white, a line of radiance fast being obscured by the overwhelming threatening clouds.
In silence Mary turned and rode back to The Hague; the other ladies whispered together, but she said nothing until they reached the 'huis ten bosch'; then the rain was falling in cold drops and the heavy wind was casting down the snapped branches along the wide bare avenue.
They dismounted, and Mary turned impulsively to the little quiet group.
"You are extraordinarily kind to me," she said, "and I must thank you all."
She smiled a little and went from them to her chamber, and then walked straight to the window embrasure and stood listening to the growing sound of the wind that lashed the darkness with spreading fury.
She would not come down to supper or even change her clothes, though she was usually very careful not to disturb the routine of her well-ordered life; yet, in this little intimate court where every one was her friend, she felt she might allow herself this solitude.
With the increasing darkness the storm rose to fierce height; the rain dashed against the window-pane, making the glass shiver, and the wind was tearing through the wood as if every tree must break before it. Mary took off her hat and cloak and called for candles; when they were brought she sent for Lady Sunderland.
The Countess came, looking wan and old; she wore no rouge, and the fair, carelessly dressed hair showed the grey locks unconcealed.
Mary turned to her dry-eyed.
"Do you hear the storm?" she said. She was seated on a low red stool by the window and held a Prayer Book in her right hand.