For Uncle Richard appeared with a ready-lit lantern and the keys.
“We shall have to go out by the front door, Tom; the wind’s worse on the other side of the house.”
“I’m ready, uncle.”
“Pray take care, sir,” said Mrs Fidler. “If one of the sails of that mill is blown off—oh, dear, dear, what am I thinking about?”
“What indeed, Mrs Fidler! Be ready to close the door after us, for the wind has tremendous force.—Come along, Tom.”
He led the way, opened the door, and the wind rushed in, banging others, setting pictures swinging, whisking a couple of hats off their pegs, and rushing up into the house with a roar.
Mrs Fidler strove to close the door as they passed out, but failed, and Tom had to help, holding on by the handle, and dragging the door to.
Outside, the evergreens were beaten down, and the loose strands of the different creepers were flogging wall and trellis-work in a way which forbode destruction to both tree and trellis. Twice over Tom had to turn his back to get his breath, and in the darkness he could see the ornamental conifers of the garden bent over like grass; while from a short distance away, where the pine-wood commenced, there was a tremendous roar, as of breakers during a storm. Fir-trees in a soft breeze murmur like the sea; in a gale the resemblance is startling.
Half-way to the yard gate Tom was caught by a sudden blast, buffeted, and, staggering hard, had again to turn his back before he could get his breath; while as the gate was reached, another blast caught the lantern, swung it against the post, the glass was broken, and puff, the light went out.
“We must go back,” said Uncle Richard, with his lips close to Tom’s ear.