One of the maids broke into a keening cry, shrill and wild as a gull’s,
but the wind whipped it from her lips.
A great wave broke in thunder on the beach. They could scarcely hear it:
they felt the shock in the earth they stood on. The wind snatched the
foam from the crest, tore the foam into mist, and drove the mist through
the garden. When they cleared the salt from their eyes they saw a young
fir-seedling, growing just outside the lower terrace, heel over in a
slow arc and vanish.
The old shepherd turned a white face to Simmons. “Th’ water’s o’er the
beach road.”
“Lord ha’ mercy on ’em.”
Gradually they one and all drew to the head of the stone steps where the
master stood, and huddled behind him, silent now. He did not heed them.
He was as still as the little faun, who lay smiling and sleeping in the
storm; the pale light gleamed on the marble till it had the likeness of
a body from which the life had gone like a flown bird.
Launce looked at his uncle fearfully, and his face, colourless and
streaming with spray, was like the face of a drowned man. The child
looked away trembling, and would not look back. And he it was at last
who pointed and screamed: “I see them! They’re there—”
“Where, then?”
“The boy’s dreaming. ’Tis too late—”
“There’s naught but the scud and the driving weed.”
But William stooped his face to the child’s. “Where did you see them,
laddie?” His face was torn with pain and dripping with foam, but it was
no longer dead. The boy did not fear it.
“There—oh, Uncle Will, quite close—for a minute—when the spindrift
cleared—”
They all surged forward. His uncle was down on the lower step with a
leap, and as he stood the sea broke to his knee. There was nothing but
the flying spray and the sting of the sand.
“He saw naught at all.”
“Back, I tell ye. Keep hold of the child. He’s all crazy-like—”
Launce was sobbing and screaming to follow his uncle. “I saw them, I
tell you—quite close—”
The maid who had cried before tossed her arms and shrieked against the
wind, her face white and wild. “Master Geoffrey—he’s there—”
“What’s got the silly wench?”
“Maybe she’s right. And her ladyship, you fool?”
“Aye, there’s two—”
And in a moment they saw them, clear and close under the wall of the
lower terrace, fighting forward foot by foot. The horses huddled so near
together they could not see one from the other, but Geoffrey rode on the
outside, sheltering Lucia, and it seemed that his arm was round her,
either to hold her in the saddle or to catch her from it if need were.
Then the scud hid them.
Another great wave rose, and the wild-eyed maid shrieked terribly. The
cook laid a hand over her mouth, but she suddenly slid down in a heap on
the gravel and was quiet. But no one heeded her. The younger men were
down on the lowest step with their master, their arms interlaced. And
the great wave broke and buried them to the waist.
“Where are they to get up?”
“The drive’s gone and the road’s gone, and the surf breaks on the wall.
’Tis all sliding sand—”
“Here, here.” Suddenly as an apparition, the riders showed from the
gloom but a few yards from the steps. Geoffrey had the mare by the
bridle, and the waves broke on the great bay. Both horses were reeling
on their legs, the surf creaming at their withers and the sand sucking
under their hooves. Monseigneur’s nostrils were blood-bright, his eyes
dreadful. On the steps, the men were holding their master back by main
force.
“Wait an instant, sir—”
“Give Mr. Geoffrey a chance, sir. He knows what he’s doing—”
“Ah, look!” Monseigneur’s shoulder, Geoffrey’s strength were thrusting
the mare at the steps. Her head was almost within their reach. She saw
safety and flung forward, with the last of her strength, up and away
from the water. A dozen hands were at her bridle. They had her up four
steps before she crumpled forward and fell, and William leaped back with
Lucia.
He gave no more than a look at the life in her beautiful dazed face, and
let them take her, and turned to his friend. But it was long enough.
Heard even above the storm, there was a great cry.
The men on the steps, waiting with arms locked for Monsiegneur as they
had waited for the mare, were up to the waist in surf. But a dozen
strong hands were ready for the bridle as the horse rose pawing for an
instant at the lowest stair. Someone screamed: “Jump for it, Master
Geoff.” But Geoffrey stayed in the saddle, the backwash scoured the sand
from beneath Monseigneur’s hooves, and somehow the ready hands fell
short. Half the sea seemed to raise itself and hang poised above the
beach and the gardens, a grey wall curbed and ramparted with running
white. They saw them an instant clear—the dreadful straining head of
the great horse; Geoffrey with his hand up and his face raised. It was
not pale or lost, but flushed with the very fulness of life, the face of
one who looks on a thing that is good. His lips moved. It seemed that
something went past them on the wind, a voice and a cry—“Lucia—”
Then the great wave fell.
Launce flung face down on the gravel like the kitchen-maid. The world
went out. Voices and wild words passed him.
“He reined him back, I tell you, as I’m a living man!”
“What d’ye mean?”
“There, at the foot of the steps. We’d a’ had Monseigneur as we had the
mare. Sim’s hand was on the bridle. But Master Geoff reined him back.”
“For God’s sake, don’t say so to the master, then. He’s like mad down
there. We had to hold him, or he’d have killed Sim that caught him out
of the rush.”
“He reined Monsiegneur back, or we’d a’ had him up the steps before the
wave fell. We’d a’ saved him.” The groom seemed to be sobbing.
“Not against his will, lad. He’s al’ays took his will, has our Master
Geoff—”
“And her ladyship—?”
“Hush. None’ll know that—”
Someone picked Launce up, and carried him indoors and put him to bed;
but the world did not come back. The house was silently astir. Mrs.
Annerley, weeping, sat by the child all day, her prayer-book in her
hand. The storm was full of voices—the voice of a man who walked up and
down the terrace calling openly for his friend, and the voice that cried
for ever in the wind, would cry for evermore—“Lucia, Lucia—”
At night the wind lulled and he could hear Mrs. Annerley reading
softly—“Graciously look upon our afflictions. Pitifully behold the
sorrows of our hearts. Mercifully forgive the sins of Thy people.” He
fell asleep, and awoke to the world again. But it was a changed world.
The wind was still, the sky blown cold and clear. A great swell broke in
silver on the beach. All the wall and the lower terrace was gone, the
flowers and the young larches were gone, and the sleeping faun was gone
also, swept away and buried in the ruin of the sand. All along the line
of the breakers, men moved quietly, searching.
Launce took the white mice and ran to the stables. He found old Simmons
sitting on a bucket in Monseigneur’s empty stall, his hands over his
ears, and Launce knew that both listened to the same thing. He would
have no need to explain. He spoke with a sob. “I can’t bear it any more.
Take me home, Simmons, take me home.”
So the old man took him home, to the dove-house and the brown rabbit and
Pansy and the kind, mild faces he knew best, which should presently heal
him and set him at rest.
But he was a child no more.