On the first opportunity Widdowson took like refuge from the rain, and was driven in the same direction.  He alighted not far from Mrs. Conisbee’s house.  That Monica had come hither he felt no doubt, but he would presently make sure of it.  As it still rained he sought shelter in a public-house, where he quenched a painful thirst, and then satisfied his hunger with such primitive foods as a licensed victualler is disposed to vend.  It was nearing eleven o’clock, and he had neither eaten nor drunk since luncheon.

After that he walked to Mrs. Conisbee’s, and knocked at the door.  The landlady came.

‘Will you please to tell me,’ he asked ’whether Mrs. Widdowson is here?’

The sly curiosity of the woman’s face informed him at once that she saw something unusual in these circumstances.

‘Yes, sir.  Mrs. Widdowson is with her sister,’

‘Thank you.’

Without another word he departed.  But went only a short distance, and until midnight kept Mrs. Conisbee’s door in view.  The rain fell, the air was raw; shelterless, and often shivering with fever, Widdowson walked the pavement with a constable’s regularity.  He could not but remember the many nights when he thus kept watch in Walworth Road and in Rutland Street, with jealousy, then too, burning in his heart, but also with amorous ardours, never again to be revived.  A little more than twelve months ago!  And he had waited, longed for marriage through half a lifetime.

CHAPTER XXV

THE FATE OF THE IDEAL

Rhoda’s week at the seashore was spoilt by uncertain weather.  Only two days of abiding sunshine; for the rest, mere fitful gleams across a sky heaped with stormclouds.  Over Wastdale hung a black canopy; from Scawfell came mutterings of thunder; and on the last night of the week—­when Monica fled from her home in pelting rain—­tempest broke upon the mountains and the sea.  Wakeful until early morning, and at times watching the sky from her inland-looking window, Rhoda saw the rocky heights that frown upon Wastwater illuminated by lightning-flare of such intensity and duration that miles of distance were annihilated, and it seemed but a step to these stern crags and precipices.

Sunday began with rain, but also with promise of better things; far over the sea was a broad expanse of blue, and before long the foam of the fallen tide glistened in strong, hopeful rays.  Rhoda wandered about the shore towards St. Bees Head.  A broad stream flowing into the sea stopped her progress before she had gone very far; the only way of crossing it was to go up on to the line of railway, which here runs along the edge of the sands.  But she had little inclination to walk farther.  No house, no person within sight, she sat down to gaze at the gulls fishing by the little river-mouth, their screams the only sound that blended with that of the subdued breakers.