Yes, the ground was hard, and was but little likely to give way under the wheels; so, in the midst of the blinding drift and wind-whirled ice-dust, he drew off the road and formed as comfortable a pitch as was possible under the trying circumstances. The large caravan was positioned close to the little one to shelter it, the wagon was located handy, a stable-tent erected under the rocks with poles and canvas, to harbour the hardy horse that dragged the 'Silver Queen.' With this horse the groom was to sleep.
After things were made fairly snug, the coachman and his four good nags were sent off to fight their way to the distant hotel, the groom going along with orders to return if possible, and if it were not too dangerous, as soon as the horses were stabled and their comfort secured. Then, as the wind might change at any moment and wreck the 'Gipsy Queen,' Antony quickly got out his four strong iron pegs, and the ropes which were as thick as the painter of Lotty's yacht, and in less than an hour had the huge caravan safely anchored. She might and she would roll and toss and tug at her anchors, but hardly a hurricane itself would be strong enough to pull her from her moorings.
'Yes, Mrs Pendlebury, a good idea. We'll be glad to have dinner an hour earlier, even if we have to get some supper later on!'
After dinner, and as there was no chance of the groom returning that night, for darkness had already fallen, Antony went down the back steps to have another interview with his housekeeper, and to see that the one horse was snug for the night. He was nearly blown off his feet and half-suffocated with the choking ice-dust raised by the whirling blizzard before he was able to reach the back door of the little caravan. Being in comparative shelter, she was rocking far less than the large house-on-wheels; but Antony was glad enough to get inside.
'Sit down, Mrs Pendlebury; this is not a night to stand upon ceremony.' He held up his forefinger. 'Hark!' he said, almost solemnly.
Rising and falling in mournful cadence was the shriek of the wind. Hungry wolves howling on lonely Russian steppes, wild beasts in forest jungle, these seemed to be the voices that fell now on the listening ear. Anon they would lull a little, only to increase next minute with redoubled rage and force, while frozen moss torn from the rocks and mixed with snow was blown against the window-panes, threatening every moment to dash them in. It was difficult even to hear each other talking.
'I greatly fear, Mary, that we may be storm-stayed for days. I came to ask how we are off for stores and oil.'
Mary was understood to report as follows: Two gallons of oil in the kettle under the big caravan, groceries (including butter) enough for a week, milk (only condensed, but plenty of that), eggs a dozen; item, a leg of mutton uncooked; item, two cold roast-fowls (if Mary had said frozen she would have been nearer the mark); item, a roast-goose that the kindly proprietor at the Spa had insisted on putting inside the little caravan just as she started.
'And fixings, Mary?'
'Plenty of potatoes and green kale, and oat-cakes galore.'