Along the wavering path which followed the twisting summit of the
cliffs toiled a little figure. His face was tanned, and from under a
brown tangle of hair looked eyes blue and fearless.
He had walked a mile, and home lay a mile further, where white-painted
cottages glowed against the close green velvet of the hills. The way
ran staggeringly, and the boy was tired.
A group of ragged children tossed up their caps and shouted from the
cluster of fishermen’s huts set further back from the sea; he did not
heed them, but seated himself on the tufted panic-grass and turned
his eyes seaward. The hot sun slanted silver-bright flashes from the
moody water, and whistling swallows, beyond the cliff-edge, soared and
dropped against the blue of the sky, like black balls from a juggler’s
hands. A light breeze, lifting, ruffled with a million ripples the gray
surge, played along the path in scurrying dust-whorls and cooled his
hot cheeks.
On its heels came stealthily a yellowish dimness; a sullen bank of
cloud crept swiftly along the northern horizon. From a thin, black
line, it grew to a pall, rising ominous and threatening. Quick flashes
pricked its jagged edge. Beneath it the sea turned to a weight of
liquid lead.
The boy Richard rose fascinated, his eyes upon the advancing squall,
his ears open to the rising breathing of the waves, troubled by
under-dreams. His lips were parted eagerly, and his browned hands
clutched at the brim of his hat. Often and often, from his window, he
had seen the power of the storm; now its near and intimate presence
throbbed through him.
The foremost gust struck him with sudden fury, turning him about as
though with strong hands upon his shoulders, and tearing his hat from
his grasp. He caught his breath with a sense of outraged dignity; then,
bending his head resolutely to the onslaught, he stumbled forward. The
air was full of scudding mist-streaks, and twisted roots caught at his
feet in the half-darkness. The fierce wind tore with its claws at the
little jacket, buttoned bravely, and tossed the damp, rebellious hair.
The fishermen’s huts lay just behind him, a dry and beckoning shelter;
before him, for a few paces, stretched the path leading into ghostly
obscurity. The boy bent low, bracing his legs doggedly against the
stubble, and foot by foot went on along that lone mile into the storm.
On a sudden the blurred sea-view was swallowed up. The wind swooped,
grasping at his ankles. It picked up pebbles and flung them, howling,
against his body. They stung like heavy hail. It snapped off unwilling
twigs from the cringing bushes and dashed them into the childish face.
But he did not retreat. What was the wind that it should force him
back! A mighty determination was in his little soul. His teeth were
tight clenched, and his legs ached with the strain. The blast caught
away his breath and he turned his back to it. At the moment it seemed
to lull, tempting him to go its way, but he would not yield.
Then the tempest gathered all its forces and hurled them spitefully,
hatefully against him, barring, lashing him cruelly, thrusting him
backward. He dropped upon his knees in the path, giving not an inch.
The wind, sopped with heavy rain, fell upon him bodily. He stretched
himself flat, winding his fingers among the roots of the wiry grasses,
struck down, bruised, but still unconquered.
A lone, pied gull, careening sidelong through the wind-rifts, roused
in him a helpless frenzy of anger and resentment. He clenched his tiny
fist and shook it at the sky, choking, gasping, sobbing, great tears of
impotent rage and mortification blown across his cheeks.