Chapter 47

On the beach at Sidmouth, about noon one day in the last week of
November, a day of almost brilliant sunshine despite the season, with a
light dry west wind crinkling the surface of the sea, Mary and Constance,
with Fan between them, were seated on a heap of shingle sheltered from
the wind by a sloping bank. Constance, with hands folded over the closed
book on her lap, sat idly gazing on the blue expanse of water, watching
the white little wave-crests that formed only to vanish so quickly. The
quiet restful life she had experienced since Merton's death had had its
effect; her form had partially recovered its roundness, her face
something of that rich brown tint that had given a peculiar character to
her beauty; the melancholy in her tender eyes was no longer "o'erlaid
with black," but was more like the clear dark of early morning that tells
of the passing of night and of the long day that is to be. She was like
the Constance of the old days at Eyethorne, and yet unlike; something had
been lost, something gained; for Nature, archaeologist and artist, is
wiser than man in her restorations, restoring never on the old vanished
lines. She was changed, but unhappy experience had left no permanent
bitterness in her heart, nor made her world-weary, nor cynical, nor
discontented; life's unutterable sadness had only served to deepen her
love and widen her sympathies. And this was pure gain, compensation for
the loss of that which had vanished and would not return--the virgin
freshness when the tender early light is in the eye, and the lips are
dewy, and no flower has yet perished in the heart.

To Fan at her side, interested in her novel, yet glancing up from time to
time to see what her friends were doing, and perhaps make a random guess
at their thoughts, these weeks of country and seaside life with those she
loved had added a new brightness to her refined and delicate face. The
autumn sunshine had not embrowned the transparent skin, but the red of
the lips seemed deeper, and the ethereal almond-blossom tint on the
cheeks less uncertain.

Mary was not reading, nor thinking apparently, but sat idly humming a
tune and picking up pebbles only to throw them from her. She appeared to
have no care at her heart, to be satisfied with the mere fact of
existence while the sun shone as it did to-day, and wind and waters made
music. That beautiful red colour that seldom failed her looked richer
than ever on her cheeks; her abundant black hair hung loose on her back
to dry in the wind. For she was a great sea-bather, and while the wintry
cold of the water repelled her companions, she enjoyed her daily swim,
sometimes creating alarm by her boldness in going far out to battle with
the rough waves.

First there