“Ugh!” muttered the evil genius of the sea, “I hate lovers; an’ they drown not, they shall have a wet wooing.”  And he came and touched them all over with the clamminess of his deathly hand, and breathed upon them the thick, cold breath of his damp old soul.  But he could do nothing against such love as that, and the lovers burned him and laughed him to scorn.

She was very silent as she kissed him and laid her head on his breast.  And he could only repeat what was nearest, the credo of his love, and while his arms were about her they were strong, but when he tried to take them away, they were as tremulous as the veriest aspen.

The great tidal wave comes rolling in, once in every lifetime that deserves to be called a lifetime, and sweeps away every one of our landmarks, and changes all our coast-line.  But though the waters do not subside, yet the crest of them falls rippling away into smoothness after the first mad rush, else should we all be but shipwrecked mariners in the sea of love.  And so, after a time, Margaret drew away from Claudius gently, finding his hands with hers as she moved, and holding them.

“Come,” said she, “let us go.”  They were her first words, and Claudius thought the deep voice had never sounded so musical before.  But the words, the word “go,” sounded like a knell on his heart.  He had forgotten that he must sail on the morrow.  He had forgotten that it was so soon over.

They went away, out of the drizzling fog and the mist, and the evil sea-breath, up to the cliff walk and so by the wet lanes homewards, two loving, sorrowing hearts, not realising what had come to them, nor knowing what should come hereafter, but only big with love fresh spoken, and hot with tears half shed.

“Beloved,” said Claudius as they stood together for the last time in the desolation of the great, dreary, hotel drawing-room—­for Claudius was going—­“beloved, will you promise me something?”

Margaret looked down as she stood with her clasped hands on his arm.

“What is it I should promise you—­Claudius?” she asked, half hesitating.

Claudius laid his hand tenderly—­tenderly, as giants only can be tender, on the thick black hair, as hardly daring, yet loving, to let it linger there.

“Will you promise that if you doubt me when I am gone, you will ask of the Duke the ‘other reason’ of my going?”

“I shall not doubt you,” answered Margaret, looking proudly up.

“God bless you, my beloved!”—­and so he went to sea again.

CHAPTER XVI.

When Mr. Barker, who had followed the party to Newport, called on the Countess the following morning, she was not visible, so he was fain to content himself with scribbling a very pressing invitation to drive in the afternoon, which he sent up with some flowers, not waiting for an answer.  The fact was that Margaret had sent for the Duke at an early hour—­for her—­and was talking with him on matters of importance at the time Barker called.  Otherwise she would very likely not have refused to see the latter.