There was nothing of the midsummer charm about the scene to-night.  Sheer below them the sea, driven by tide and wind, rushed upon the huge masses of rock or beat direct upon the cave-indented cliffs.  The spray leapt high into the air, to be caught up by the wind in whirlpools, little ghostly flecks, luminous one moment and gone forever the next.  Far away across the pitchy waters they could see at regular intervals a line of white where the breakers came rushing in, here and there the agitated lights of passing steamers; opposite, the twin flares on the Welsh coast, and every sixty seconds the swinging white illumination from the Lynmouth Lighthouse, shining up from behind the headland.  Jane slipped one hand through his arm and stood there, breathless, rapturously watchful.  “This is wonderful,” she murmured.  “It is the one thing we have always lacked at Woolhanger.  We get the booming of the wind—­wonderful it is, too, like the hollow thunder of guns or the quick passing of an underground army—­but we miss this.  I feel, somehow, as though I knew now why it tears past us, uprooting the very trees that stand in its way.  It rushes to the sea.  What a meeting!” Her hand tightened upon his arm as a great wave broke direct upon the cliff below and a torrent of wind, rushing through the trees and downwards, caught the spray and scattered it around them and high over their heads.

“We humans,” he whispered, “are taught our lesson.”

“Do we need it?” she asked, with sudden fierceness.  “Do you believe that because some mysterious power imposes restraint upon us, the passion isn’t there all the while?”

She was suddenly in his arms, the warm wind shrieking about them, the darkness thick and soft as a mantle.  Only he saw the anguished happiness in her eyes as they closed beneath his kisses.

“One moment out of life,” she faltered, “one moment!”

Another great wave shook the ground beneath them, but she had drawn away.  She struggled for breath.  Then once more her hand was thrust through his arm.  He knew so well that his hour was over and he submitted.

“Back, please,” she whispered, “back through the plantation—­quietly.”

An almost supernatural instinct divined and acceded to her desire for silence.  So they walked slowly back towards the long, low house whose faint lights flickered through the trees.  She leaned a little upon him, the hand which she had passed through his arm was clasped in his.  Only the wind spoke.  When at last they were en the terraces she drew a long breath.

“Dear friend,” she said softly, “see how I trust you.  I leave in your keeping the most precious few minutes of my life.”

“This is to be the end, then?” he faltered.

“It is not we who have decided that,” she answered.  “It is just what must be.  You go to a very difficult life, a very splendid one.  I have my smaller task.  Don’t unfit me for it.  We will each do our best.”