SON CHRISTOPHER.
AN HISTORIETTE. BY HARRIET MARTINEAU.
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CHAPTER VIII. CONSPIRACY EN ROUTE.
Elizabeth could never have enough of the sea breezes, and their salt and their savour. While the old park and mansion in which she had passed her life had been going to ruin in the king’s service, there had been no money to spare for such an extravagance as travelling was in those days; and, except when visiting Aunt Alice at Winchester, she had scarcely slept from home in all her days. She had seen the sea from the high points of the Downs, on sporting excursions; but she had never till now lived within sound of its voice, or within view of its margin. She had rather at any time steal down the cliff-path,—rough, steep, and narrow,—to the sands, than ascend the grassy slope to the glorious downs, where she could see miles inland. She was on the Cob early every morning, with Arabella or the boys, to watch the fishing-boats putting off; and in the evening she loved to walk to the end of that ancient pier, to see the moonlight on the heavy billows as they rolled in, and think of the old centuries when the very same stones were trodden by Englishmen who called the opposite coast of the Channel their country too.
The sky was cloudy, and the sea cold and grey, one morning in June, when Arabella and Elizabeth leaned over the end of the Cob, as they did every day. They were not watching the fishermen putting out to sea; for the boats were not launched, for the most part; and some which had been a little way out had returned; and the men stood in groups on the shore, talking together, and occasionally condescending to make a remark to their wives. It was strange; but on this calm morning in June, particularly favour-