Angels' Shoes, and Other Stories. Marjorie L. C. Pickthall

      “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.”

      William turned in silence and went back to his post

      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