on a
reading-party. Rodney and Jim were playing a game of chess that had
lasted since breakfast and showed every sign of lasting till bed-time;
Neville and Mrs. Hilary were talking, and Grandmama was upstairs, having
her afternoon nap.
2
They tramped along, waterproofed and bare-headed, down the sandy road.
The rain swished in Gerda's golden locks, till they clung dank and limp
about her cheeks and neck; it beat on Barry's glasses, so that he took
them off and blinked instead. The trees stormed and whistled in the
southerly wind that blew from across Merrow Downs. Barry tried to whistle
down it, but it caught the sound from his puckered lips and whirled it
away.
Through Merrow they strode, and up onto the road that led across the
downs, and there the wind caught them full, and it was as if buckets of
water were being flung into their faces. The downs sang and roared; the
purple-grey sky shut down on the hill's shoulder like a tent.
"Lord, what fun," said Barry, as they gasped for breath.
Gerda was upright and slim as a wand against the buffeting; her white
little face was stung into shell-pink; her wet hair blew back like yellow
seaweed.
Barry thought suddenly of Nan, who revelled in storms, and quickly shut
his mind on the thought. He was schooling himself to think away from Nan,
with her wild animal grace and her flashing mind and her cruel, careless
indifference.
Gerda would have walked like this forever. Her wide blue eyes blinked
away the rain; her face felt stung and lashed, yet happy and cold; her
mouth was stiff and tight. She was part of the storm; as free, as fierce,
as singing; though outwardly she was all held together and silent, only
smiling a little with her shut mouth.
As they climbed the downs, the wind blew more wildly in their faces.
Gerda swayed against it, and Barry took her by the arm and half pushed
her.
So they reached Newlands Corner, and all southern Surrey stormed below
them, and beyond Surrey stormed Sussex, and beyond Sussex the angry,
unseen sea.
They stood looking, and Barry's arm still steadied Gerda against the
gale.
Gerda thought "It will end. It will be over, and we shall be sitting at
tea. Then Sunday will be over, and on Monday he will go back to town."
The pain of that end of the world turned her cold beneath the glow of the
storm. Then life settled itself, very simply. She must go too, and work
with him. She would tell him so on the way home, when the
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