He fell asleep to the unaccustomed music, and he awoke to music—the bleak music of the wind and the sea.
He was late for breakfast, but Geoffrey was even later, strolling in imperturbably after the eggs, his curly hair still sleek from the sea.
“To-day,” Uncle Will announced, “we’re going to unpack wedding presents.”
Unpack—a happy word. Launce awoke from a dream of Lucia’s morning face behind the urn.
“Well, boy?”
“I have a new knife, sir. If I might cut the strings—?”
“Come into the hall. They are all there. And you shall cut all the strings.”
The grey old hall was littered with packages and cases and straw; the wind shook the curtains, and drove along the floor a fine dust that was not dust of the earth, but sand of the sea. Launce was sent for Lucia’s red cloak, a happy errand. And when he came back they had knocked a wooden case apart and stood above the swathed contents, waiting with a smile for the offices of the new knife.
There were many strings to be cut, but at last the packing and the sackcloth fell away. And Launce cried out suddenly and was silent. He felt again that flutter as of wings in his heart.
Yesterday he had looked his first on beauty living and mortal. Now he looked his first on beauty dead and all but immortal.