Launce dreamed in the early dawn that he was on board ship, and that the
little faun of the garden had the wheel, and was steering the ship
through a sea of dried rose-leaves. When Mrs. Annerley came in to wake
him, he realized that Great House was creaking and straining like a ship
in the battle of heavy seas. But the battle was of the winds.
“Is it a storm, Mrs. Annerley?” Launce sat up in bed awestruck. He could
see the leaded panes of the window all blurred with driven sand, but he
could not hear it. There was no lull in the wind.
“Come up this last hour, it has, my lamb.” The old lady looked very pale
and troubled. “Such a tempest I never did see in so short a while. ’Twas
gusty, so to say, all night, and this gale came up with the sun.”
“Which way is it blowing?”
“Straight in from the sea, oh dear, and driving the waves before it like
the roaring lions seeking what they may devour in the Scriptures.”
“But there’s nothing to devour here, Mrs. Annerley.”
“There’s Great House and the lives of it, my lamb. You pick up white
shells in the onion-beds, don’t you, dearie? Where the sea has been
once, the sea will be again. And they two—my lovely ladyship and him I
used to give jam to for love of his fair face when he shouldn’t have had
it, and he two feet high—oh dear, oh dear. I hope I know my place, but
tides may deal the judgments of the Almighty no less than thunderbolts.”
Launce dressed quickly and ran downstairs, wild with excitement. At the
door of the breakfast-room he stopped. It was empty save for his uncle,
who sat at the head of the table, staring out of the window into the
grey fury of the day. He moved no more than a man of stone, and his face
had the bleak colour of stone.
Launce slipped silently into his place. A pale servant attended to him,
but the man’s eyes were all the time covertly on his master.
Presently Uncle Will spoke, without turning his head. “Send for Simmons
again,” he said, in a dead voice.
Old Simmons was there so quickly he must have been waiting outside. He
was very wet. His eyes also were on his master with that look Launce
could not read, nor see without fear.
“What time did you say they started?” Was that indeed Uncle Will’s
voice?
“Soon after daylight, sir, quite early. Mr. Geoffrey, he had the horses
ready, and her ladyship came down the side stairs.”
“And you heard them say nothing—as to where they were going?”
“Nothing at all, sir. Mr. Geoffrey said nothing. They turned down the
beach road—”
A sound of despair was in the room, yet the master had not spoken.
“—down the beach road. The weather was not near so bad then, but, such
as it was, they gave no heed to it.”
“I see. They gave no heed to it. Could they shelter in the dunes?”
“Hardly, sir. Mr. Geoffrey would not risk her ladyship near the
quicksands, and the dunes will be moving.”
“Could they shelter anywhere?”
“No, sir. Old Bassey, the shepherd, is downstairs, and he says the North
road and the Marshcotes road are not to be passed. The walls and the
dyke at Cotes will be gone by this, and the roads swept away.” He and
the waiting servant exchanged a look so swift it was almost
imperceptible.
“Well?” Uncle Will did not move nor turn his head. A carving-fork lay on
the table, and he picked it up idly, snapping the spring-guard with the
click of a trigger.
“The best thing to do will be to run back for it, sir.”
“Run back?”
“Yes. Gallop for home before the sea gets over the beach. And that’s
what Master Geoff’s doing, I’ll wager.” Simmons’ face was that of the
well-trained servant, but his voice betrayed it. It broke at “Master
Geoff.” “You can trust Master Geoff, sir,” he went on.
“Trust him?” repeated Uncle Will, snapping the guard. “Thank you,
Simmons, that will do. You had better change your wet coat.” He got up
and strode out of the room; they heard him open the outer door, heard
the wind leap in like a waiting enemy.
“He’s gone to the terraces,” said Simmons quickly to the other man, and
followed him.
Launce ran and thrust his hand into the old man’s. “I must go too,” he
said piteously.
Simmons wrapped a shawl round him and they went out into the gardens.
The wind and the sand were almost more than sight and breath could bear.
Launce felt that the life must be blown out of his body. Another old
man, Bassey, the shepherd, staggered up to them, caught his other arm,
and the three struggled to the lower terrace where nearly all the
household were gathered. Uncle Will was standing at the head of the
stone steps; the others stayed apart from him. Only their eyes never
left him, except to look along the lost and blinded road for Geoffrey
and Lucia.
Sheltered by the other, Launce could catch breath and think. He longed
to go to his uncle, but dared not. He was so sorry for Uncle Will, so
fond of him. But oh, the others, the others—
“D’ye think he’ll bring her back?” shouted one of the grooms. He
shouted, but it came as a whisper.
“There’ll be naught else to do—”
“Nay, I didn’t mean that. Will he get her through?”
“If Master Geoffrey had the mind, Simmons, he’d get her through hell.”
The cook broke in angrily. “Bad luck to you, and Master Launce at your
very gaiters, and he but a child.”
“The surf’s at the edge of the road.”
“And the tide far from the full. Never was such a sea, Simmons. The
whole garden’ll go, and the terraces. Looky. There’s the drive gone—”
The long drive that wound down by easy levels to the beach road ended
now in a crumbling little cliff of gravel. Cries broke out from the
group of servants.
“The shake of the waves—”
“’Tis like as if the land were falling of itself.”
“Lord ha’ mercy on them.”
Uncle Will strode over to the group. “Is it any good going out?”
“Not any use, sir. What two can’t do, twenty couldn’t do. And there’s
not a horse in the stables that’s devil enough to fight with this except
the old blood-mare and Monseigneur, and that’s the truth, sir.”
“Yes, sir, that’s the truth.”