So intent was their gaze and they so motionless
that the air seemed to stand still and wait for the sweep of their
wings. Mr. Rickman, whom youth made reckless, lay flat on his stomach
and peered over the edge of the cliff. He was fascinated, breathlessly
absorbed. He pressed the turf a little closer in his eagerness, and so
loosened a large stone that rolled down, starting a cataract of sand
and rubble. He had just time to throw himself back sideways, as the
hollow fringe of turf gave way and plunged down the cliff-side. So far
from taking his escape with becoming seriousness, he amused himself by
trying to feel as he would have felt if he had actually gone over the
cliff. He found that his keenest emotion was a thrill of horror, as he
imagined Miss Harden a possible spectator of the ridiculous evolutions
performed by his person in its passage through the air.
After an hour of dipping and climbing he reached a small fishing
village. Here he dined and rested, and it was mid-afternoon before he
turned again towards Harmouth. There was no chance of missing his way;
he had nothing to do but follow the coast-line as he had done before.
There were signs in the valley of the white fog that sometimes, even
in April, comes in before sunset; already a veil of liquid air was
drawn across the hills, and when he crossed Easton Down (if it was
Easton Down) again the sea's face was blurred with mist.
As he went on westwards the mist kept pace with him, gradually
diminishing the view he had hoped to see.
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