We reached a large grey stone house fronting the street.  Miss Moyat laid her hand upon the handle of the door and motioned to me to enter.

I shook my head.

“Not to-night,” I shouted.  “I am drenched.”

She endeavoured to persuade me.

“For a few moments, at any rate,” she pleaded.  “The others will not be home yet, and I will make you something hot.  Father is expecting you to supper.”

I shook my head and staggered on.  At the corner of the street I looked behind.  She was holding on to the door handle, still watching me, her skirts blowing about her in strange confusion.  For a moment I had half a mind to turn back.  The dead loneliness before me seemed imbued with fresh horrors—­the loneliness, my fireless grate and empty larder.  Moyat was at least hospitable.  There would be a big fire, plenty to eat and drink.  Then I remembered the man’s coarse hints, his unveiled references to his daughters and his wish to see them settled in life, his superabundance of whisky and his only half-veiled tone of patronage.  The man was within his rights.  He was the rich man of the neighbourhood, corn dealer, farmer, and horse breeder.  I was an unknown and practically destitute stranger, come from Heaven knew where, and staying on—­because it took a little less to keep body and soul together here than in the town.  But my nerves were all raw that night, and the thought of John Moyat with his hearty voice and slap on the shoulder was unbearable.  I set my face homewards.

From the village to my cottage stretched a perfectly straight road, with dykes on either side.  No sooner had I passed the last house, and set my foot upon the road, than I saw strange things.  The marshland, which on the right reached to the sea, was hung here and there with sheets of mist driven along the ground like clouds before an April tempest.  White flakes of spray, salt and luminous, were dashed into my face.  The sea, indriven up the creeks, swept the road in many places.  The cattle, trembling with fear, had left the marshland, and were coming, lowing, along the high path which bordered the dyke.  And all the time an undernote of terror, the thunder of the sea rushing in upon the land, came like a deep monotonous refrain to the roaring of the wind.

Through it all I battled my way, hatless, soaked to the skin, yet finding a certain wild pleasure in the storm.  By the time I had reached my little dwelling I was exhausted.  My hair and clothes were in wild disorder, my boots were like pulp upon my feet.  My remaining strength was expended in closing the door.  The fire was out, the place struck cold.  I staggered towards the easy chair, but the floor seemed suddenly to heave beneath my feet.  I was conscious of the fact that for two days I had had little to eat, and that my larder was empty.  My limbs were giving way, a mist was before my eyes, and the roar of the sea seemed to be in my ears, even in my brain.  My hands went out like a blind man’s, and I suppose broke my fall.  There was rest at least in the unconsciousness which came down like a black pall upon my senses.