But I was dissatisfied with the preceding chapter, and, as usual, went for inspiration to Nature.
It was late by the time I reached the upland, but I was rewarded for my climb.
Far away under the flaring sunset the long lines of tidal river and sea stretched tawny and sinister, like drawn swords in firelight, between the distant woods and cornfields. The death-like stillness and smallness of the low-lying rigid landscape made the contrast with the rushing enormity and turmoil of the heavens almost terrific.
Great clouds shouldered up out of the sea, blotting out the low sun, darkening the already darkened earth, and then towered up the sky, releasing the struggling sun only to extinguish it once more, in a new flying cohort.
I do not know how long I stood there, spellbound, the woman lost in the artist, scribbling frantically in my notebook, when an onslaught of rain brought me to my senses and I looked round for shelter.
Then I became aware that I had not been watching alone. A desolate-looking figure, crouching at a little distance, half hidden by a gorse-bush, was watching too, watching intently. She got up as I turned and came towards me, her uncouth garments whipped against her by the wind.
The rain plunged down upon us, enveloping us both as in a whirlwind.
"There is an empty cottage under the down," I shouted to her, and I began to run towards it. It was a tumbledown place, but "any port in such a storm."
"It is not safe," she shouted back; "the roof is falling in."
The squall of rain whirled past as suddenly as it had come, leaving me gasping. She seemed to take no notice of it.