Harold threw on his coat, extinguished the large stable lantern, and
passing out, locked the door of the summer-house and started down the
mount at a trot. The wind had risen steadily during his hours of work,
and was now blowing a furious gale. It was about a quarter to four in
the morning and the stars shone brightly in the hard clean-blown sky.
By their light and that of the waning moon he struggled on in the
teeth of the raging tempest. As he passed under one of the oaks he
heard a mighty crack overhead, and guessing what it was ran like a
hare. He was none too soon. A circular gust of more than usual
fierceness had twisted the top right out of the great tree, and down
it came upon the turf with a rending crashing sound that made his
blood turn cold. After this escape he avoided the neighbourhood of the
groaning trees.
George lived in a neat little farmhouse about a quarter of a mile
away. There was a shot cut to it across the fields, and this he took,
breathlessly fighting his way against the gale, which roared and
howled in its splendid might as it swept across the ocean from its
birthplace in the distances of air. Even the stiff hawthorn fences
bowed before its breath, and the tall poplars on the skyline bent like
a rod beneath the first rush of a salmon.
Pages:
427
428
429
430
431
432
433
434
435
436
437
438
439
440
441
442
443
444
445
446
447
448
449
450
451