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.

On the horizon lay a long, low shape that might have been mistaken for cloud, though it resembled land. It was the Isle of Man. In an hour or two the outline had grown much clearer; the heights and hollows were no longer doubtful. In the north became visible another remote and hilly tract, it was the coast of Scotland beyond Solway Firth.

These distant objects acted as incentives to Rhoda’s imagination. She heard Everard Barfoot’s voice as he talked of travel — of the Orient Express. That joy of freedom he had offered her. Perhaps he was now very near her, anxious to repeat his offer. If he carried out the project suggested at their last interview, she would see him today or tomorrow morning — then she must make her choice. To have a day’s walk with him among the mountains would be practically deciding. But for what? If she rejected his proposal of a free union, was he prepared to marry her in legal form? Yes; she had enough power over him for that. But how would it affect his thought of her? Constraining him to legal marriage, would she not lower herself in his estimation, and make the endurance of his love less probable? Barfoot was not a man to accept with genuine satisfaction even the appearance of bondage, and more likely than not his love of her depended upon the belief that in her he had found a woman capable of regarding life from his own point of view — a woman who, when she once, loved, would be scornful of the formalities clung to by feeble minds. He would yield to her if she demanded forms, but afterwards — when passion had subsided —.

A week had been none too long to ponder these considerations by themselves; but they were complicated with doubts of a more disturbing nature. Her mind could not free itself from the thought of Monica. That Mrs. Widdowson was not always truthful with her husband she had absolute proof; whether that supported her fear of an intimacy between Monica and Everard she was unable to determine. The grounds of suspicion seemed to her very grave; so grave, that during her first day or two in Cumberland she had all but renounced the hopes long secretly fostered. She knew herself well enough to understand how jealousy might wreck her life — even if it were only retrospective. If she married Barfoot (forms or none — that question in no way touched this other), she would demand of him a flawless faith. Her pride revolted against the thought of possessing only a share in his devotion; the moment that any faithlessness came to her knowledge she would leave him, perforce, inevitably — and what miseries were then before her!

Was flawless faith possible to Everard Barfoot? His cousin would ridicule the hope of any such thing — or so Rhoda believed. A conventional woman would of course see the completest evidence of his untrustworthiness in his dislike of legal marriage; but Rhoda knew the idleness of this argument. If love did not hold him, assuredly the forms of marriage could be no restraint upon Everard; married ten times over, he would still deem himself absolutely free from any obligation save that of love. Yet how did he think of that obligation? He might hold it perfectly compatible with the indulgence of casual impulse. And this (which she suspected to be the view of every man) Rhoda had no power of tolerating. It must be all or nothing, whole faith or none whatever.

In the afternoon she suffered from impatient expectancy. If Barfoot came today — she imagined him somewhere in the neighbourhood, approaching Seascale as the time of his appointment drew near — would he call at her lodgings? The address she had not given him, but doubtless he had obtained it from his cousin. Perhaps he would prefer to meet her unexpectedly — not a difficult thing in this little place, with its handful of residents and visitors. Certain it was she desired his arrival. Her heart leapt with joy in the thought that this very evening might bring him. She wished to study him under new conditions, and — possibly — to talk with him even more frankly than ever yet, for there would be opportunity enough.

About six o’clock a train coming from the south stopped at the station, which was visible from Rhoda’s sitting-room window. She had been waiting for this moment. She could not go to the station, and did not venture even to wait anywhere in sight of the exit. Whether any passenger had alighted must remain uncertain. If Everard had arrived by this train, doubtless he would go to the hotel, which stood only a few yards from the line. He would take a meal and presently come forth.

Having allowed half an hour to elapse, she dressed and walked shoreward. Seascale has no street, no shops; only two or three short rows of houses irregularly placed on the rising ground above the beach. To cross the intervening railway, Rhoda could either pass through the little station, in which case she would also pass the hotel and be observable from its chief windows, or descend by a longer road which led under a bridge, and in this way avoid the hotel altogether. She took the former route. On the sands were a few scattered people, and some children subdued to Sunday decorum. The tide was rising. She went down to the nearest tract of hard sand, and stood there for a long time, a soft western breeze playing upon her face.

If Barfoot were here he would now be coming out to look for her. From a distance he might not recognize her figure, clad as she was in a costume such as he had never seen her wearing. She might venture now to walk up towards the dry, white sandheaps, where the little convolvulus grew in abundance, and other flowers of which she neither knew nor cared to learn the names. Scarcely had she turned when she saw Everard approaching, still far off, but unmistakable. He signalled by taking off his hat, and quickly was beside her.

‘Did you know me before I happened to look round?’ she asked laughingly.

‘Of course I did. Up there by the station I caught sight of you. Who else bears herself as you do — with splendid disdain of common mortals?’

‘Please don’t make me think that my movements are ridiculous.’

‘They are superb. The sea has already touched your cheeks. But I am afraid you have had abominable weather.’

‘Yes, rather bad; but there’s hope today. Where do you come from?’

‘By train, only from Carnforth. I left London yesterday morning, and stopped at Morecambe — some people I know are there. As trains were awkward today, I drove from Morecambe to Carnforth. Did you expect me?’

‘I thought you might come, as you spoke of it.’

‘How I have got through the week I couldn’t tell you. I should have been here days ago, but I was afraid. Let us go nearer to the sea. I was afraid of making you angry.’

‘It’s better to keep one’s word.’

‘Of course it is. And I am all the more delighted to be with you for the miserable week of waiting. Have you bathed?’

‘Once or twice.’

‘I had a swim this morning before breakfast, in pouring rain. Now you can’t swim.’

‘No. I can’t. But why were you sure about it?’

‘Only because it’s so rare for any girl to learn swimming. A man who can’t swim is only half the man he might be, and to a woman I should think it must be of even more benefit. As in everything else, women are trammelled by their clothes; to be able to get rid of them, and to move about with free and brave exertion of all the body, must tend to every kind of health, physical, mental, and mortal.’

‘Yes, I quite believe that,’ said Rhoda, gazing at the sea.

‘I spoke rather exultantly, didn’t I? I like to feel myself superior to you in some things. You have so often pointed out to me what a paltry, ineffectual creature I am.’

‘I don’t remember ever using those words, or implying them.’

‘How does the day stand with you?’ asked Everard in the tone of perfect comradeship. ‘Have you still to dine?’

‘My dining is a very simple matter; it happens at one o’clock. About nine I shall have supper.’

‘Let us walk a little then. And may I smoke?’

‘Why not?’

Everard lit a cigar, and, as the tide drove them back, they moved eventually to the higher ground, whence there was a fine view of the mountains, rich in evening colours.

‘To-morrow you leave here?’

‘Yes,’ Rhoda answered. ‘I shall go by railway to Coniston, and walk from there towards Helvellyn, as you suggested.’

‘I have something else to propose. A man I talked to in the train told me of a fine walk in this neighbourhood. From Ravenglass, just below here, there’s a little line runs up Eskdale to a terminus at the foot of Scawfell, a place called Boot. From Boot one can walk either over the top of Scawfell or by a lower track to Wastdale Head. It’s very grand, wild country, especially the last part, the going down to Wastwater, and not many miles in all. Suppose we have that walk tomorrow? From Wastdale we could drive back to Seascale in the evening, and then the next day — just as you like.’

‘Are you quite sure about the distances?’

‘Quite. I have the Ordnance map in my pocket. Let me show you.’

He spread the map on the top of a wall, and they stood side by side inspecting it.

‘We must take something to eat; I’ll provide for that. And at the Wastdale Head hotel we can have dinner — about three or four, probably. It would be enjoyable, wouldn’t it?’

‘If it doesn’t rain.’

‘We’ll hope it won’t. As we go back we can look out the trains at the station. No doubt there’s one soon after breakfast.’

Their rambling, with talk in a strain of easy friendliness, brought them back to Seascale half an hour after sunset, which was of a kind that seemed to promise well for the morrow.

‘Won’t you come out again after supper?’ Barfoot asked.

‘Not again to-night.’

‘For a quarter of an hour,’ he urged. ‘Just down to the sea and back.’

‘I have been walking all day. I shall be glad to rest and read.’

‘Very well. To-morrow morning.’

Having discovered the train which would take them to Ravenglass, and connect with one on the Eskdale line, they agreed to meet at the station. Barfoot was to bring with him such refreshment as would be necessary.

Their hopes for the weather had complete fulfilment. The only fear was lest the sun’s heat might be oppressive, but this anxiety could be cheerfully borne. Slung over his shoulders Barfoot had a small forage-bag, which gave him matter for talk on the railway journey; it had been his companion in many parts of the world, and had held strange kinds of food.

The journey up Eskdale, from Ravenglass to Boot, is by a miniature railway, with the oddest little engine and a carriage or two of primitive simplicity. At each station on the upward winding track — stations represented only by a wooden shed like a tool-house — the guard jumps down and acts as booking-clerk, if passengers there be desirous of booking. In a few miles the scenery changes from beauty to grandeur, and at the terminus no further steaming would be possible, for the great flank of Scawfell bars the way.

Everard and his companion began their climb through the pretty straggling village of Boot. A mountain torrent roared by the wayside, and the course they had marked upon the map showed that they must follow this stream for some miles up to the tarn where it originated. Houses, human beings, and even trodden paths they soon left behind, coming out on to a vast moorland, with hill summits near and far. Scawfell they could not hope to ascend; with the walk that lay before them it was enough to make a way over one of his huge shoulders.

‘If your strength fails,’ said Everard merrily, when for an hour they had been plodding through grey solitudes, ‘there is no human help. I should have to choose between carrying you back to Boot or on to Wastdale.’

‘My strength is not likely to fail sooner than yours,’ was the laughing reply.

‘I have chicken sandwiches, and wine that maketh glad the heart of man. Tell me when hunger overcomes you. I should think we had better make our halt at Burmoor Tarn.’

That, indeed, proved to be the convenient resting-place. A wild spot, a hollow amid the rolling expanse of moorland, its little lake of black water glistening under the midday sun. And here stood a shepherd’s cottage, the only habitation they had seen since leaving Boot. Somewhat uncertain about the course to be henceforth followed, they made inquiry at this cottage, and a woman who appeared to be quite alone gave them the needful direction. Thus at ease in mind they crossed the bridge at the foot of the tarn, and just beyond it found a spot suitable for repose. Everard brought forth his sandwiches and his flask of wine, moreover a wine-glass, which was for Rhoda’s use. They ate and drank festively.

‘Now this is just what I have enjoyed in imagination for a year or more,’ said Barfoot, when the luncheon was over, and he lay propped upon his elbow, gazing at Rhoda’s fine eyes and her sun-warmed cheeks. ‘An ideal realized, for once in one’s life. A perfect moment.’

‘Don’t you like the scent of burning peat from that cottage?’

‘Yes. I like everything about us, in heaven and earth, and most of all I like your companionship, Rhoda.’

She could not resent this first use of her Christian name; it was so natural, so inevitable; yet she moved her head as if with a slight annoyance.

‘Is mine as agreeable to you?’ he added, stroking the back of her hand with a spray of heather. ‘Or do you just tolerate me out of good-nature?’

‘I have liked your companionship all the way from Seascale. Don’t disturb my enjoyment of it for the rest of the way.’

‘That would be a misfortune indeed. The whole day shall be perfect. Not a note of discord. But I must have liberty to say what comes into my mind, and when you don’t choose to answer I shall respect your silence.’

‘Wouldn’t you like to smoke a cigar before we start again?’

‘Yes. But I like still better not to. The scent of peat is pleasanter to you than that of tobacco.’

‘Oblige me by lighting the cigar.’

‘If you command —’ He did her bidding. ‘The whole day shall be perfect. A delightful dinner at the inn, a drive to Seascale, an hour or two of rest, and then one more quiet talk by the sea at nightfall.’

‘All but the last. I shall be too tired.’

‘No. I must have that hour of talk by the sea. You are free to answer me or not, but your presence you must grant me. We are in an ideal world remember. We care nothing for all the sons and daughters of men. You and I will spend this one day together between cloudless heaven and silent earth — a memory for lifetime. At nightfall you will come out again, and meet me down by the sea, where you stood when I first saw you yesterday.’

Rhoda made no reply. She looked away from him at the black, deep water.

‘What an opportunity,’ he went on, raising his hand to point at the cottage, ‘for saying the silliest of conceivable things!’

‘What might that be, I wonder?’

‘Why, that to dwell there together for the rest of our lives would be supreme felicity. You know the kind of man that would say that.’

‘Not personally, thank goodness!’

‘A week — a month, even — with weather such as this. Nay, with a storm for variety; clouds from the top of Scawfell falling thick about us; a fierce wind shrieking across the tarn; sheets and torrents and floods of rain beating upon our roof; and you and I by the peat-fire. With a good supply of books, old and new, I can picture it for three months, for half a year!’

‘Be on your guard. Remember “that kind of man”.’

‘I am in no danger. There is a vast difference between six months and all one’s life. When the half-year was over we would leave England.’

‘By the Orient Express?’

They laughed together, Rhoda colouring, for the words that had escaped her meant too much for mere jest.

‘By the Orient Express. We would have a house by the Bosphorus for the next half-year, and contrast our emotions with those we had known by Burmoor Tarn. Think what a rich year of life that would make! How much we should have learnt from nature and from each other!’

‘And how dreadfully tired of each other we should be!’

Barfoot looked ke............