All at once, just near the
shore, a great black whirlwind of waves clutched her back to her
pursuer; she threw Leonard on to land, which was safety; but
whether he reached it or no, or was swept back like her into a
mysterious something too dreadful to be borne, she did not know,
for the terror awakened her. At first the dream seemed yet a
reality, and she thought that the pursuer was couched even there,
in that very room, and the great boom of the sea was still in her
ears. But as full consciousness returned, she saw herself safe in
the dear old room--the haven of rest--the shelter from storms. A
bright fire was glowing in the little old-fashioned, cup-shaped
grate, niched into a corner of the wall, and guarded on either
side by whitewashed bricks, which served for bobs. On one of
these the kettle hummed and buzzed, within two points of boiling
whenever she or Leonard required tea. In her dream that home-like
sound had been the roar of the relentless sea, creeping swiftly
on to seize its prey. Miss Benson sat by the fire, motionless and
still; it was too dark to read any longer without a candle; but
yet on the ceiling and upper part of the walls the golden light
of the setting sun was slowly moving--so slow, and yet a motion
gives the feeling of rest to the weary yet more than perfect
stillness. The old clock on the staircase told its monotonous
click-clack, in that soothing way which more marked the quiet of
the house than disturbed with any sense of sound.
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