It was the last week of the Thorhaven season, and a gale from the south-west tore across the little town, blowing away all the remaining visitors excepting a few barnacles who had moved into the cheap rooms or furnished houses, and intended to stay for the winter.

Miss Ethel heard the familiar sounds of windows rattling and chimneys roaring as they do in an old house, but she was so used to them that she never heeded; they formed part of the background of her life without which, she vaguely apprehended, she would appear as baldly incomplete as a figure cut out with sharp scissors from an old print.

But as she stood there on the landing she became gradually aware of another noise with which she was not familiar, for the simple reason that Ellen had never set the maid’s door and window sufficiently wide open in a high wind to produce a gale rushing through the house with such a flap and clatter of blinds and curtains.

Miss Ethel frowned as she marched into the room for she saw the casement window set wide, banging to and fro on the metal fastener. A little more, and it would be blown clear out, to lie shattered on the path below. But when she had closed it, she was suddenly struck by the entire absence of that peculiar close odour which had always been present when the room was occupied by the immaculate Ellen and her predecessors. Now there was only the fresh feeling of salt air, mingled with a very faint fragrance of violets which came either from the soap or from the powder on the toilet table. A nail-polisher lay on the looking-glass, hastily thrown down; and that also witnessed to that bodily self-respect which Caroline shared with nearly all those other girls in Thorhaven who would have been in domestic service ten years ago, but now went daily to shops and offices. They meant to be the equal of any girls in the world, and they began by being personally “nice” in those secret ways, which are only apparent in the general effect. You could meet them anywhere up and down clear skins sometimes too heavily powdered bright hair pink fingers with delicately tended finger-nails.

Caroline had gone off hurriedly that morning, because she wanted to do as much housework as she could before leaving for the promenade. She was sorry for Miss Ethel, who did not look at all well, though this feeling was blunted by her pre-occupation with her own troubles for it had become quite plain that Godfrey was deliberately avoiding her.

At this moment she was walking quickly along the road, head to the wind; then, turning, found herself sheltered from west and south to some extent by the houses opposite the promenade. But once in the little pay-box she had to listen all day while the little window rattled unceasingly, and the boards creaked as the gale swept across them.

The weather remained like that during the whole week, and Caroline was on duty all day excepting for her meal-times. Occasionally a gleam of sun touched the white crests of the breakers, but immediately afterwards a sharp spatter of rain would drive in the faces of the few who were tempted out.

The hours seemed endless to Caroline as she sat there listening to the howl and rattle of the wind, and the roaring of the sea, without knowing that she listened to them. But very gradually she began to feel in her spirit the effect of that deep, endless booming, and of the tremendous procession of the breakers that came on and on all day long. It made her almost dizzy, but when she turned for relief to the land, the promenade and the little town itself seemed only like leaves swept together by chance for a moment on the edge of a torrent. A horrid sense of the shortness of life assailed Caroline now, as it will sometimes assail young people when they are dispirited. She felt that cold breath from the immense spaces of eternity to which the young are still sensitive.

But the week would soon be over She consoled herself by that thought as she sat before the little window knitting a woollen coat to wear when she went to office in Flodmouth. Every now and then she glanced drearily at the grey waves with the white crests, coming on and on It was a rotten world, and she didn’t care. What was the good of it all, anyway?

Then a subscriber passed through to the promenade; but her reply to his remark about the weather was as mechanical as her release of the iron turnstile. Directly he was gone she looked out to sea again, thinking now of a girl who had been drowned farther along the coast not long before. Well, she only wished the waves would come over the promenade and take her with them, then she’d be out of it all.

But she did not mean that really; because certain qualities she inherited from her sturdy Yorkshire ancestors would always prevent her from choosing the way of the neurotic. She would be brave enough to live out her life, though she had ceased to expect happiness as a right.

A sharp gust of rain on the window made her look down the promenade. Now the stray figures would come scurrying through again to their homes or lodgings, and she automatically prepared to release the turnstile quickly to oblige people in haste. Then, with a little leap of the pulses, she saw Aunt Creddle. It was Aunt Creddle, out at half-past eleven on baking-day, with her print, working dress ballooning under that old coat and the hair straggling over her face. Caroline jumped up and ran out of the pay-box, her knitting still in her hand, the shower of cold, sharp drops driving across her.

“What’s the matter?” she cried. “Has one of the children got hurt?”

Mrs. Creddle so panted for breath that she could only sign with a toil-scarred hand for Caroline to go back into shelter, but on reaching a little protection from the wind she managed to gasp out:

“Nobody’s ill. There’s nothing the matter. Not in a manner of speaking. Can I come inside there?”

Caroline took her arm and put her into the chair, then shut the door in the side of the little wooden turret. They two seemed very close together in the midst of the storm and wind.

“Why, whatever made you come out like this?” said Caroline, removing the wet cloak. “You must have wanted a job, aunt.”

Mrs. Creddle shook her head, her hand on her heart for she was a stout woman and upset by her tussle with the elements. “You may be sure that it was something that wouldn’t keep,” she said at last. Then she burst forth: “Carrie, your uncle has been to Mr. Wilson! He’s been and told him that if he ever catches you together again he’ll break a stick over his back. He lost a couple of hours this morning, and he went and told him. Now he’s gone to his work, and I come on here.”

“What!” gasped Caroline, her eyes black in a face as white as death. “Uncle’s dared to insult me by doing a thing like that? What made him do it?”

“He was at the Buffaloes last night, and when they came away he heard one man say to another that you was Wilson’s fancy lady” She paused and added in a low tone: “They said you’d been stopping out all night.”

“Uncle knows I didn’t,” said Caroline, beginning to tremble. “What beasts men are! Didn’t uncle tell them?”

“Oh yes; he told ’em right enough. But he come home in a fine rage, I can tell you. He said he wasn’t going to have no more of it: and I believe he would have gone straight to Miss Temple only she has always behaved very decent to us, and he didn’t like to make mischief, seeing she is so set on the feller.”

“Why didn’t uncle come to me?” said Caroline. “Why didn’t you make him, aunt?”

Mrs. Creddle shook her head. “When you know as much about men as I do

“But what was his reason?” asked Caroline.

“He said it was no good saying anything to you, because when a lass gets feller-fond there’s no doing nothing with her. He said he couldn’t use the strap to you now, but he wasn’t going to have any lass belonging to him talked about in that way.”

There was a moment’s silence. “Did uncle tell you what Mr. Wilson said?” Then she threw up her head. “But I expect he threatened to go for uncle.”

“Go for him!” echoed Mrs. Creddle. “Not he. He only wanted to get away and not have a scandal in the place.”

“I don’t believe that,” said Caroline. “Uncle can say what he likes, but I don’t believe that.”

“It’s true, my lass,” said Mrs. Creddle kindly. “I ran along to tell you now, for fear you should come across Wilson or your uncle before you knew. He promised on his honour to have naught no more to do with you.”

“Did he?” said Caroline, her blazing eyes very near to her aunt’s in that tiny place. “Then he is a day too late for the fair and uncle too. You may tell uncle that. I haven’t seen Mr. Wilson for ten days or more, and I’ll never enter uncle’s house again as long as I live.”

“You mustn’t talk like that, honey,” said Mrs. Creddle. “Uncle took it to heart because he thinks such a lot of you. But you’ll soon find some nice young feller in your own station of life next time: don’t go hankering after a gentleman, my dear. You would never get one of the best sort, and the other sort’s no good to you.” She sighed. “But you always had high notions, Carrie, though I don’t know where you get them from. I suppose they’re going about.” With that Mrs. Creddle opened the little door of the pay-box, and let in a blast of air that nearly blew her hat from her head; then she hurried down the wind-swept road in order to get her husband’s dinner ready before that already irritated breadwinner should return.

But Caroline sat down again on her chair and threw open the little window so that the salt air could blow across her face. She did not want to cry, because at any minute some one might want to come through the barrier; but after a minute or two she had no fear of that. She began to burn so with outraged pride that she could not yet feel the deeper ache of wounded love. Over and over again the words formed of themselves on the surface of the whirling storm in her mind: “I aren’t going to give in! I aren’t going to be pitied!”

Then a member of the promenade band came along, fighting with the gale, obliged to fetch some music which he had left in the hall the night before. “Wild morning! Can’t say I’m sorry we close to-morrow,” he said.

Caroline answered him, but he still lingered, though he had never taken any particular notice of her before, and did not know why he felt inclined to stop to-day. He suddenly felt that Caroline was interesting, though he was not actually aware of that odd shining of the spirit through the flesh like a lamp in an alabaster vase which was characteristic of Caroline in moments of supreme, passionate emotion. All he thought was, that there was something unusual about the girl, and that he was sorry he had not noticed it before.

Still, as a decent married man with a wife and children, he took such pleasures as talking to the girl on the promenade in strict moderation, so very soon he went off with his mackintosh flapping.

A few minutes later Lillie came to relieve guard, her woollen tam o’ shanter wet and her front hair blown out of curl.

“I’ve had about enough of this,” she said. “I’m going to find another job before next summer.”

“Oh, I expect your job will be putting your boy’s slippers before the fire and getting his tea ready,” said Caroline, still speaking from the very top of her thoughts as careful as if she were treading on very thin ice, not to risk the depths.

The prospective bride giggled, gratified, and Caroline went out; but the next minute she was startled to hear Lillie call shrilly from the little window: “Carrie! Carrie! You’ve forgotten your umbrella, and on a day like this! You must be in love!”

Caroline took the umbrella, but said nothing; she was at the end of her powers.