to as an oracle. I had been chairman at the grand annual dinner, and in many ways had deference shown to the weaker part of my nature, so that I might very well have considered myself in the front rank of the élite of Delsthorpe. The course of true love was running in its usual channel, and the lads of the village “so merrily” one day were so drearily the next, and the wise women of Delsthorpe were as much at fault as ever as to whom Amy Ellis should marry. Fred Wilson was merry and sad by turns, like the rest of the youths. One day he was in ecstasies and the next vowing vengeance against his rivals and pursuing them all with homicidal glances. I was as much in his confidence as in that of his enslaver, and preserved a prudent silence, leaving time to work out his own scheme upon the couple. Everything good, to be thoroughly enjoyed, must be worked for, striven for, or fought for; the apple that falls into our lap, dead ripe, bears no comparison with the sour, acrid, wooden-fleshed pippin that we knocked of old off the parson’s tree, and afterwards secured by climbing over the glass-bottled wall; and I dare say if our little Amy had “thrown herself” at her admirers they would have called her a forward chit, and gone mad after Polly Brown, whose nose was as red as her cheeks, and whose hands were always rough and chappy. And they might have done worse than this, for when they arrived at years of discretion and had got over the romantic part of their married life, they would have been as well able to appreciate Polly’s cooking as I was, for I lodged with Mrs. Brown and could appreciate the excellences of the tidy little manager, her daughter. Poor Polly's nose would not have been noticed then, nor the roughness of her hands felt, any more than Amy’s beauty would be, when it had grown “familiar to the eye,” as the moral copy-slips used to say.
I had only another day to spend at Delsthorpe and felt rather reluctant to part from the quiet village and the hospitable friends I had met with. I felt, too, that I should regret much the salt sea-breeze which had given me back my health—richest pearl that the sea can produce. My last day was a fête day—“Delsthorpe Dancing,” a day annually looked forward to as the reunion of friends and relations. Probably in bygone days there may have been Terpsichorean exercises carried on upon the greensward, but now the dancing was but in name; the generality of those met together enjoying themselves to the top of their bent with eating and drinking, for which pastime the preparations during the last few days had been on an extensive scale, the evident determination of all being to live well upon that day, even if they fasted afterwards. The parties in some of the farm-houses mustered rather strongly, and it fell to my lot to be under the same roof as Amy Ellis and Fred Wilson. Cross purposes were rife; flirting was in the ascendant, and a dark cloud hovered over Fred’s brow, glowing blacker as the evening wore on.
At last, tired of the heated room, I made my escape to enjoy an evening walk upon the sands, and had hardly reached the intervening bank when I started as a heavy hand was laid upon my shoulder, the thick sand having muffled the footsteps of my follower. I found on turning that it was my young friend Wilson, and I could just see by the dusky twilight that he wore anything but a pleasant aspect. I knew his complaint so well that I would not revert to it, but pulled out my cigar-case, and, lighting up, we climbed the sea bank and sat down in silence. It was a warm, close, heavy autumn night, thick clouds hung overhead, and the darkness was fast closing round. The sullen wash of the water upon the piles, and the constant heavy roll of the waves upon the shingle added to the gloominess of the evening, while a sighing breeze which kept coming in puffs and dying away again seemed to my shore-going weather-wisdom to portend a storm. As the waves broke upon the shore their crests seemed, as it were, on fire, and the phosphorescent light wore the appearance of the tail of some huge rocket rushing along the sands. Fred’s thoughts were evidently with the party we had left, and he smoked on in silence, while I watched the peculiar phenomenon before me. At length I broke the silence and said, “Is not this very much like a storm coming on, Fred?” But before he could reply a rough voice at my elbow exclaimed, “Storm it is, as sure as guns is guns; glass has been going down ever since one o’clock, and what with this heavy tide and the blow that’s coming on, I reckon we shall have the bank pretty well shaved before morning.”
Our informant was one of the revenue men, who, with his glass under his arm, had come up unobserved and given us the unasked benefit of his opinion on the weather. He touched his hat and walked on, and we could just see that he was busying himself with striking the top spar of the signal mast, which stood on the highest part of the sandbank.
“Tell you what,” said Fred, “there’s a rum one coming on, or else old Snodger would never be letting down the flag-staff, for he doesn’t do that for a capfull of wind. It’s odd, too, you were saying you would like to see one of our storms, and here it is coming the very night before you leave; for come it will, that’s certain.