A hot, windless August day had settled down into a dull, brooding evening,presageful of a coming storm. It was nearly dark by the time Lionel Dering wasready to turn his face homeward. The tide was coming in with an ominous muffledroar; the wind, unfelt all day, was now blowing in fitful puffs from variouspoints of the compass, so that the weathercock on the green, in front of theSilver Lion, was more undecided than usual, and did not know its own mind fortwo minutes at a time. The boatmen were busy with their tiny craft, makingeverything fast for the night; and the bathing men were dragging their machineshigh and dry beyond reach of the incoming tide. Many of theexcursionists—those with families chiefly—were already making theirway towards the railway station; but others there were who seemed bent onkeeping up their merriment to the last moment. These latter could be seenthrough the wide-open windows of the Silver Lion, footing it merrily on theclub-room floor, to the music of two wheezy fiddles. A few minutes later therecomes a warning whistle from the engine. The music stops suddenly; thecountry-dance is left unfinished; pipes are laid aside; glasses are quicklyemptied; and the lads and lasses, with many a shout and burst of laughter, rushhelter-skelter across the green, to find their places in the train.
“We shall have a rough night, Ben,” said Mr. Dering to a man whowas coming up from the beach.
“Yes, sir, there’s a storm brewin’ fast,” answered Ben,carrying a finger to his forehead. “If I was you, Mr. Dering,” headded, “I wouldn’t go over the cliffs to-night. It ain’t safeafter dark, and the storm’ll break afore you get home.” But Mr.Dering merely shook his head, laughed, bade Ben good-night, and kept on hisway.
The old boatman’s words proved true. The first flash of lightning camejust as the last houses of Melcham were lost to view behind a curve of theroad, and when Lionel had two miles of solitary walking still before him. Thethunder and the rain, however, were still far out at sea.