As it grew dark, lights twinkled out ashore—­lights rocked here and there on passing ships and barges:  tubes of light projected themselves out from the portholes on to the blackening water, that swished and washed past the sides with a sound of desolation; to the landward an uncoiled serpent glittered out into the water and then seemed to cover itself in a grey veil of darkness as the Oriana passed the pier of some little watering-place.  Marcella went slowly along the deck, climbed the fo’c’sle steps and sat down on the anchor.  At Lashnagar she had always seen ghosts walking on the sea at nightfall.  Now they rose out of the swirling water, passed in and out swaying among the lights of the ship.  From under her feet in the crew’s quarters came the tinkle of a mandoline playing “La Donna e Mobile.”

She had seen ships pass in the darkness at home, out on the horizon, a glimmering blur of light.  She had pictured them by daylight, shining in the sunlight with snowy decks and glittering engines; she had no idea that this spirit of desolation would rise out of the waves and possess her.  For an hour she sat, dreaming of grey things, for her dreams could admit of no colour.  After a while, cold and cramped, she went to her cabin for her coat.  She noticed Mr. Peters and the little widow sitting on two deck-chairs in a corner, their faces two blurs in the darkness, the widow’s tinkling laugh an oversong to his deep voice.  Around the bar some dozen men were laughing and talking loudly; in the dining saloon a few people were playing cards, a few more writing letters, to post in Plymouth next day.  The thin girl sat with her elbows on the table, her chin on her hands, crying.  The tears were running down her cheeks, over her fingers and dropping on to the table.  It seemed less lonely on the dark fo’c’sle, so Marcella went back.

It was quite dark now; the mandoline had stopped.  From a ventilator shaft close by came a deep murmur of conversation from the crew’s quarters that mingled with her dreams.  Aunt Janet, her father, Wullie, Dr. Angus, the restless London crowds came and went like pictures crossing a screen.  Jimmy, the thin girl, Ole Fred and Louis Farne followed them, passing on.  Suddenly out of the darkness at the other end of the great anchor came a sound that was entangled with the wash of the waves against the bows of the ship.  It was a sob, choked back quickly and bursting out again.  She crept along the anchor softly.  A huddled figure was there, looking out to the black sea.

“What’s the matter now?  It’s you, isn’t it, Louis?” she said, for she was quite sure it was he, even in the darkness.  “I could sit and cry too, it’s so lonely, isn’t it?”

“Oh, you’re everywhere!  And you only poke fun at me,” he said in a strangled voice.

“I didn’t poke fun at you.  I only laughed at your trying to pretend you were such an exalted person you couldn’t travel steerage.”