Again he felt ashamed. He found it impossible to keep up a conversation with the girl. To attempt to do so was like throwing a stone into the sand—no echo, no response.
Only once did Bessie say anything for herself. She was walking on the landward side of the path, and seeing an old man, with a pair of horses, grubbing a hungry-looking field, with a cloud of sea-gulls swirling behind him, she said it was dirty land, full of scutch, and the farmer was laying it open to the frosts of winter.
Stowell was feeling the sweat on his forehead. How was it possible to lift up a girl like this? She would be the farm girl to the last. Good Lord, what magic was there in marriage to change people and ensure their happiness?
Ballamoar? That lonesome place inside the tall trees! He might shut out her family, but would not she—illiterate, uninteresting, inadequate—shut out his friends? And then, he and she together there, with nothing in common, alone, in the long nights of winter .... Oh God!
Ashamed of thinking like that of the girl, and having reached the lighthouse by this time, he drew her arm through his and turned to go back. The warmth of the contact revived a little of the former thrill, and he laughed and talked.
The voice of the sea was low that day, and across the bay came shouts and cheers in fresh young voices—the boys of King William's were playing football. That brought memories to both of them and he began to talk about Gell.
"Dear old Alick, he's such a good fellow, isn't he?"
"'Deed he is," said Bessie.
"By the way, he's a sort of old flame of yours, I believe," said Stowell, looking sideways at the girl, and Bessie blushed and laughed, but made no answer.
Those black eyes, those full red lips. Yes, this was the girl who....