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Through the bewilderment of the running water on the panes she looked abroad on the tempest-riven sea a slate-colored waste of hurrying waves with wind-swept streaks of foam on them and on the lowering and ever-changing clouds. The fuchsia-bushes on the lawn tossed and bent before the wind; the few orange-lilies, wet as they were, burned like fire in this world of cold greens and grays.
By this time they had climbed well up the cliff; and presently they came on the open plateau on which stood Castle Dare, with its gaunt walls and its rambling courtyards, and its stretch of damp lawn with a few fuchsia-bushes and orange-lilies, that did not give a very ornamental look to the place.
Here was the very picture he had so often desired that she should see the wind-swept Atlantic; the glad blue skies with their drifting clouds of summer white; the Erisgeir rocks; the green shores of Ulva; and Colonsay and Gometra and Staffa all shining in the sunlight; with the sea-birds calling, and the waves breaking, and the soft west wind stirring the fuchsia-bushes below the windows of Castle Dare.
Between the Vicar's fuchsia-bushes we looked down on it, we three the Vicar, the Senior Tutor and I. I think the twilit hour exactly accorded with our mood, and it did not need the scent of the Vicar's ten-week stocks, wafted across the garden, to touch a nerve of memory. There had been daughters, too, in the old days. . . . But they had married, and the Vicarage nest was empty long since.
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