Winefred had returned to the cottage on the Undercliff along with her mother.

Her departure had been hurried. She had spoken a few words to Mrs. Tomkin-Jones in explanation of her departure, and had promised to return in a fortnight.

Mrs. T.-J. was troubled in mind. She had entered into negotiations with a butler to be maintained at Winefred's expense. She was vastly alarmed lest the sudden whim to go to Bindon should be a prelude to entire withdrawal, in which event the lady would be obliged to pay the butler a month's wage for having engaged him prematurely.

Moreover, the loss of Winefred would mean stinting in other ways.

As she departed, Winefred said, 'I shall not forget my promise about the choughs.'

At the Undercliff the cottage looked small, the fittings poor after the house at Bath; and the girl was at once aware that her mother's mode of speech differed from that of the society into which she had been introduced. And yet there was a grandeur and force, and even an approximation to culture in her mother's speech, due—she knew not to what—perhaps to the Bible, to the books it had been Winefred's wont to read aloud to her mother every evening.

She was glad to be back. Her mother's happiness at having her there had something pathetic in it, and Winefred was touched to the quick.

It was a pleasure to her to scramble about the cliffs, walk on the pebbles, revisit old haunts.

Little did she suspect that her arrival had filled Olver Dench with alarm. He had heard sufficient to cause him considerable uneasiness. Winefred had met her father in Bath. What had passed between them? What had been divulged?

When she came to the ferry to be put across to Seaton, he seized the opportunity to question her.

'So—you have been with your father?'

'Yes.'

'And what does he think of you?'

'That is a question to be put to him, not to me.'

'I suppose he wonders that your mother should go to such expense about you.'

'I do not see how he can wonder, when he finds the money.'

'Oh! he finds the money, does he?'

'Certainly.' Winefred coloured with anger. 'You do not dare to insinuate that she got the money in any other way?'

'Dear me, no. Very natural that he should provide the blunt. It will be a lot. Have you talked with him about the matter? Said that it did not suffice? Your expenses are piling up?'

'He knows what they are, and provides. I have not spoken with him about them. But really, Mr. Dench, this does not concern you.'

'Certainly not. But we are old friends and neighbours. So I like to know that you are in deep water.'

After a pause, Winefred said, 'I want to obtain a couple of young choughs. Can you help me?'

'No,' he replied. 'All the birds have abandoned the cliffs on the Bindon side. But there are some in the White Cliff; yet I will not adventure my life there.'

'I will pay,' said Winefred.

'A hundred pounds would be no good to me if I lay at the foot with every bone in my body broken.'

Then she stepped out of the boat.

Olver, so far, was satisfied.

No suspicion had crossed the minds of Mr. Holwood or of Winefred, as far as he could judge, that the remittances had been embezzled.

But was it likely that his proceedings should remain undiscovered? The presence of Winefred in Bath with her father was a menace to him. He did not anticipate a reconciliation between Jane Marley and Mr. Holwood, but he did fear lest the father should cease to pay the annuity through his hands, and especially lest his fraudulent conduct during many years should come to light and entail his transportation.

He had laid by the accumulations with the object of taking an inn. His highest ambition was to end his days as a publican.

His future was secure, should he not be found out, and he had already his eye on a suitable tavern, and had opened negotiations with the owner.

Now discovery of his malpractices threatened from the side of Bath.

He had not slept soundly since he had heard through Mrs. Jose that Mr. Holwood had recognised his daughter and was much in her society. He sought to stifle his anxieties by having recourse to spirits; but when he drank himself to sleep he found that his dreams were more terrifying than his waking fears.

All would be well, he thought, could Holwood and his daughter be kept apart. That nothing as yet had transpired did not content him. Holwood was almost certain now to take it into his head to rearrange his expenditure, and in so doing to take account of what had already been paid to Jane, and then the exposure would ensue.

Hitherto he had not entertained any fear of Winefred, but now he not only mistrusted her, but regarded her with animosity.

If she could be kept away from Bath, and retained at Axmouth, all might be well. Her father was affectionately disposed towards her, but not very likely to desire to renew relations with her mother.

Then he considered that he had seen Winefred on the edge of the cliff, walking unconcernedly where a false step would precipitate her to the shore. Why had not her foot slipped? Why had not the crumbling chalk yielded beneath her weight? He recalled tales of persons who had turned giddy when on an edge, and he cursed his folly in telling her that the birds had deserted the chalk cliffs on the Bindon side of the estuary, for otherwise she would have leaned over the edge and pried after their nests, and might have overbalanced; she might even have ventured to climb to their places of breeding, and in doing this have fallen.

A fog came on, enveloping everything as in cotton wool, obscuring all sights, deadening all sounds.

Presently Winefred would be on her way back from Seaton, to be put across, and then she would ascend the steep hill opposite and strike across the down to the cottage of her mother.

In such a mist, what more likely than that she should lose her way, stumble over some obstruction, go over the cliff? And yet—no—likely it was not, seeing how familiar the girl was with every inch of the way.

There was a jetty from which a passenger stepped into the ferry-boat. It consisted of planks sustained on poles driven into the mud. The planks were slippery with the distilling vapour. The stage was not particularly secure, as Olver had noticed that morning.

In another half hour the tide would be racing out, swirling about the piles on which the footway rested. It was precisely the swirl that had loosened one of them and made the planks incline and become infirm.

When a passenger arrived and asked to be ferried across, it was Olver's wont to extend a hand and help him into the boat.

But what if the step were missed and there ensued a fall into the water?

In the fog, at the rate at which the tide would be sweeping out, that person who was submerged would be carried away, and the veil of vapour would make it difficult, if not impossible, to recover him.

Olver sat in his boat musing and motionless, with the oar poised in his hand.

The mist condensed on his glazed cap, and formed a chain of drops about the rim. His brows, his beard were beaded. His jersey became sodden. The seat in the boat ran over with water. But all these discomforts he regarded not. The fog became thicker as day declined. It lost its white opacity and became brown as coal-smoke, it deepened from that into darkness that was black-grey.

In the meantime Winefred had been in Seaton. She had gone there to inquire about choughs, and knowing where to learn something about what she desired, make her way at once to the Red Lion, where she was certain to find the young boatmen congregated. She was not disappointed in her expectation, but to her vexation she saw that Jack Rattenbury was there, one whom she particularly desired to avoid. On her appearing, he started up, and would have addressed her, but she turned her head aside and would not notice him.

'I have come, lads,' said she, 'to know if any of you will procure me a pair of young choughs. I will pay a guinea for them.'

'They are not so easily got,' answered one of those addressed. 'It is a bit late in the spring, and, besides, choughs are becoming yearly more scarce.'

'I know that they are scarce, that is why I offer for them twenty-one shillings.'

'There are none to be found except in the face of the White Cliff,' said another.

'Well then, get them from the White Cliff.'

'Easier said than done,' was the retort. 'The brow overhangs.'

'Sailor lads should not shirk a climb,' said Winefred impatiently.

'That is not rigging,' said a boy; 'you want a land-lubber for that cliff.'

'Here, get Jack Rattenbury,' shouted one, 'he has cut the sea, and taken to the land.'

The sally was greeted with a laugh.

'I do not care who procures the birds; so long as I have what I want, I am content,' said Winefred.

'If the choughs are to be had, I will get them for you,' said Jack quietly.

'And you shall receive a guinea.'

'I will not take the money.'

'And I refuse them as a present.'

'Settle the terms later,' called a young sailor. 'I would bargain for a kiss.'

'I will get them,' said Jack.

'And I shall hold you to your promise,' returned Winefred, and left the room and the tavern.

A moment later Jack went out, and, walking quickly, overtook her.

'I will see you to the ferry,' he said quietly.

'I can find the way by myself,' was her reply.

They paced side by side in silence. Presently she said:

'Remember, I hold you to your undertaking, unless what you offered were mere idle brag. Have you come after me to beg off?'

'I have not. You shall have the choughs.'

'And you shall have the guinea.'

'I will not touch it. All I ask, if I bring you the pair, is that you will think of me with less bitterness.'

Again a pause ensued.

The chill of the evening, the heavy vapour clogged their tongues.

Presently, feeling the irksomeness, she said, 'When will you go after them—unless your heart fails?'

'My heart will not fail. I will try to-morrow at sunrise.'

Again she was silent. Their steps in the wet mud was like the sound of children eating.

After a while she said hesitatingly, 'I do not yet believe that you will venture. If you do, I am not responsible for your safety.'

'I risk it of my own free choice.'

In the dense mist and gathering darkness sat Olver. With his oar and a boat-hook he had been working for some time at the loose pile that sustained the landing-stage, and he had succeeded in making it doubly insecure. The planks were greasy.

He put the blade of his oar against the footway and with the pressure it declined.

Then he sat motionless.

Suddenly he lifted his head and listened. He thought that he heard steps.

He was not mistaken. The pebbles sounded under the tread of feet.

He stood up, and balanced himself in the boat on his oar, and drew his brows together and set his teeth.

He peered into the fog, but saw no one.

But—was that the sound of one pair of feet that approached?

Then he uttered an angry, disappointed growl. He had distinguished voices.

Next moment from out the envelope of vapour emerged Winefred and Jack Rattenbury.

'Take my hand,' said the latter. 'The wood is slippery.'

'I can steady myself, unassisted,' answered the girl; and she went forward on the plank.

Then it yielded; she uttered an exclamation and caught Jack's hand.

'But for this,' said he, 'you would have been soused in the tide.'

'Then Dench would have drawn me out. I have been in no real danger,' was her ungracious reply; and, without a parting salutation, she stepped into the boat.

Jack remained on the insecure stage.

'Will you not say "Good-night"? he asked.

She was silent.

Presently relenting, she said, 'I will call "Good-night" from the further side, when safe over the water.'

He waited.

Presently, muffled by the fog, from the further shore, 'Good-night!'

Then, only, did Jack turn and retire.