# Lesbia Newman (1889)/Chapter 28

CHAPTER XXVIII.
‘But It Shall Not Come Nigh Thee.’
Monday the 13th of October 189— rose a calm, lovely, sunny morning, with a light warm air from the W.N.W. breathing soft over the placid blue sea.
‘Good-morning, Lesbia, and many happy returns of the day to you, dear,’ said Mrs Whyte, meeting and kissing the young girl on her way downstairs, as she herself was coming in from the terrace garden about eight o’clock, or an hour before their usual breakfast time. ‘Not having anything more costly to present you with in this out-of-the-way place, I’ve made up this simple autumnal bouquet, hoping you’ll take the will for the deed.’
‘Oh thanks, my dear Mrs Whyte, how very pretty! one or two rich colours like those please me better than common variety; I'll put it in water at once in my room. And then do you think I could get to Stratton and back on my bicycle, without keeping breakfast waiting for me? I should so like to get Mr Whyte his paper the first thing this morning, as I saw he was in a fidget for it yesterday. I think I could be back a few minutes past nine.’
‘Well, since you’re ready dressed for it, I suppose I must let you go; it’s really very thoughtful of you; but don’t ride as if you were racing. We shall none of us starve to death, even if you should be a quarter of an hour late.’
‘Besides, after all, Mrs Whyte, you needn’t wait. If I ​should be a little behind time, pray begin breakfast without me; I shall feel less hurried, if you will.’
‘All right, we will then; take care of yourself,’ said Mrs Whyte.
Lesbia ran upstairs again to deposit her flowers, then led out her machine; and Mrs Whyte watched her mount and rapidly disappear out of sight along the Stratton road.
Nine o’clock came, and, as Mrs Whyte had promised, she and her husband sat down to breakfast. It was more than half-past before Lesbia opened the door with the newspaper packet in her hand, looking more tired than a mere scurry would have made her, with her clothes all dusty and somewhat torn on one side, and the same side of her forehead bruised and badly scratched.
‘Hallo, you’ve been down!’ exclaimed Mr Whyte. ‘Hope you're not much hurt?’
‘Nothing to signify, thanks, Mr Whyte, only a little shaken, and a trifling headache. It was a bit of carelessness; I turned my head to listen to something I couldn’t make out and don’t understand now, and I rode right on to a big piece of brick and went a cropper over the handles. It was my own fault; bicyclists should have their eyes about them.’
‘Whereabouts did it happen?’ he inquired.
‘On my way back, not a mile from here. I didn’t feel up to mounting again, so I led my bike the rest of the way, and made it do crutch to support me as I crawled by its side. That is why I am so late: I should have been here twenty minutes ago.’
‘Did anyone see you fall?’ asked Mrs Whyte.
‘Yes, a small boy carrying a bundle, who holloaed out,—‘'Ulloa, guv’nor! ’s that as ’ow yer stops yer express?’’
‘Well, tell me now,’ said Mr White, ‘what was it you were listening to so intently as not to see the stone?’
​For reply, Lesbia inquired with curiosity,—
‘I say, have you a steam mill, or factory, or anything of that sort in this neighbourhood?’
‘Steam mill or factory!’ exclaimed Mr Whyte. ‘No. Not unless one has sprung up during the night. Why?’
Because, as I rode along coming back, I heard distinctly a curious sort of vibrating hum which at first I thought might be the buzz of a hornet close to my ear, but that illusion didn’t last long; I then supposed it must be that slow, monotonous musical grind, which is sometimes, you know, the effect to the ear of very large machinery clattering at a distance. But since you say there is none hereabouts, I can’t divine what the noise was, nor where it came from; it seemed to come from all sides at once and to stick to me all the way here. Anyhow, it was by giving my attention to that I got thrown over. So much is certain.’
Mrs Whyte opened her eyes very wide at Lesbia, and an uneasy expression came over her face; but her husband burst out laughing.
‘Bless your heart, my dear girl,’ he said, ‘that’s the surf. If you lived at Bude all the year round, as we do, you’d hear that often enough. It’s a particular set of the wind does it.’
‘But, Mr Whyte, there’s no surf this morning,’ Lesbia objected. ‘The sea’s as smooth as glass, and, what’s more, the tide’s far out. It’s only just beginning to flow now.’
‘H’m, that’s true, but I don’t see what else can account for your humming sound, unless it was a sort of singing in the ears, a sound that had its source no farther off than your own head. Meanwhile, you can’t breakfast on what the wild waves are saying. Here, I put down your cocoa, and your herrings, and eggs, and muffins, and all into the fender, for I thought you’d hardly do it by nine, in any case. It was ​very kind of you to go though, and I feel quite guilty. If it hadn’t been for my insensate news-hunger, you wouldn't have had a spill. Now then, you can set to; I am sure you must be famished.’
Lesbia set to with a good appetite, after her ride and tumble. Presently she said,—
‘Now, Mr Whyte, pray don’t stand on ceremony with me; do open your paper—I know you're longing to.’
‘Yes, do, John,’ assented his wife; ‘we should all like to hear what’s going on, especially since this report about the French and Americ— ‘There now, what on earth is making the windows rattle? Good gracious!’
‘They're not rattling, Bessie dear,’ said her husband; ‘what’s the matter, are you getting steam mill on the brain too?’
Then turning to Lesbia as he unfolded the paper,—
‘Going to bathe this fine day, I suppose?’
‘Yes, in the afternoon,’ she replied, ‘when the tide flows up. I shall wait till it fills my old pool behind the rocks, where I can get a good depth without having to struggle against currents, which is not very safe. I’m sorry it'll be my last dip, in all probability, I’ve enjoyed my swims in the ocean water, and feel the benefit of them; they’ve quite washed London out of me. Well, like all good things, they must—’
‘Must what, you were going to say?’ asked Mr Whyte, as Lesbia broke off her sentence and looked round.
‘Surely,’ she said, ‘I heard that same noise again; didn’t you hear something, Mrs Whyte?’
‘I was just thinking so,’ she answered; ‘but I suppose John’s right, it’s only fancy. Anyhow, there can be no harm in taking a peep out of doors, just to satisfy my mind. I won't be a second.’
Before Mr Whyte could get his uncut sheet turned ​over to the telegram side, his wife came in again in a flutter.
‘I’ll just trouble you, John. Be so good as to come out on the terrace with me for a moment, and listen to your surf. All I have to say is, that if the surf at Bude is going to take to this sort of thing, I don’t wish to live here any longer.’
Mr Whyte instantly dropped his Daily Twaddler in his arm-chair, and followed his wife and Lesbia to the terrace. There was no mistake. A dull, deep, throbbing boom, that was not at all like the plash and murmur of breakers, but had something peculiarly terrible about it, was filling the air and giving a sensation of making the ground tremble. They could not say whether it came from any particular quarter, or from overhead, or from underneath.
‘The devil!’ exclaimed Mr Whyte, now the most amazed of the party.
‘I hope to goodness it’s not an earthquake,’ said his wife; ‘one is so utterly helpless against an earthquake!’
‘I hope not indeed,’ answered Mr Whyte. ‘I hardly think so—there’s no upheaval or rocking. Still we had better stay where we are for the present, in case a shock should come and shake the house down; and we ought to call the servants out too until the crisis is past.’
The servants had already taken fright, and were coming toward the inmates on the terrace. Many other households along the Cornish coast grouped together out of doors, through fear of the earthquake. Some early excursionists who had mounted Hartland Point, hurried down and went inland, lest a sudden commotion might cause the point to fall bodily on the rocky shore. The lighthouse keeper on Lundy Island, some dozen miles north of Hartland Point, in the chops of the Bristol Channel, ran away clear of his tower and stood expecting it every minute to topple down in ruins. ​Southwards, at Tintagel and beyond, people on the cliff got away from them as fast as they could, not knowing how soon a great landslip might occur; for the fearful sound was growing sensibly louder. Our group on the terrace at the Bude Villa had ceased conversation, because no one felt inclined for levity, and there was nothing to the purpose to be said.
A sudden thought struck Lesbia; the Dream recurred to her mind in startling significance: and before anyone could remonstrate, she ran into the house, and came out again with the newspaper from her host’s chair held open before her.
‘Good heavens, Mr Whyte!’ she exclaimed, pointing to the special despatch, ‘this explains it all; it’s not an earthquake—it’s a battle! They are fighting already, fighting in the south of Ireland; and I know the place; I’ve been there. There! there! read about the landing of the allies near Cork Harbour, while I ride again into Stratton and get the very latest reports. Don’t mind if I miss lunch, I couldn’t eat any this awful day; you don’t know how interested I feel about it.’
And, without waiting for reply, she had her bicycle out again, of which the handle-bar and one of the treadle-pins were slightly bent, and the steerage shaken very loose; but regardless of the state of her machine, or of her own bruises, in half a minute she was mounted and pedalling away again for Stratton as hard as she could.