CHAPTER XXVI

STORMS

There came a time then of blessed and grateful unconsciousness. The tumult of the storm was reduced to a mere singing in my ears, and darkness seemed to have closed in around me. When I opened my eyes, I was resting in his arms, and a delicious sense of happiness was stealing through me. Sensation had overpowered memory, and I was happy. Ah! if life could have ended then—that was how I felt. If only the future and that shrunken relentless figure pointing me on to tragedy—if only they could have melted away! Alas! alas!

He had become bold at my mute self-yielding, and at something which he must have seen in my face. I felt him bending down over me, and suddenly my lips partly opened to frame the feeblest of protests were closed in a long passionate kiss, and his arms drew me toward him. Still I made no effort to release myself. A desperate self-abandonment had crept in upon me. The happiness of that moment should recompense me for the misery to come. Time took to itself wings then; I had no power or will to measure it. If hell itself had been yawning at my feet, I was content.

It was he who spoke at last, still clasping my hands, and looking eagerly into my face.

"Margharita, my love, I have come back to you. How shall I bless this storm!"

"Have you been in danger?" I asked softly.

"Nothing to speak of," he laughed. "We ran for Yarmouth harbor directly we saw what was coming, and only lost a few spars. What a sea it was, though. Wave after wave broke over our bows and swept the deck. It was a miracle we lost no men."

"And how is it that you are home so quickly?"

"I took the first train from Yarmouth, and wired for a special from the junction. I knew that my mother would be anxious, and they told me that there was very little chance of telegrams being delivered safely; so much damage had been done to the wires."

"You thought of no one but your mother?" I whispered, a little reproachfully.

"My darling! how was I to know that any one else cared?"

"Ah!"

The sense of relief in my heart was over-powering, I seemed to have no desire for speech. The sound of his voice was like music to me, and I preferred to listen.

"It seems to me that I have had no thought save of you, Margharita," he went on slowly. "In all that storm, when flying clouds and spray and driving rain shut us in on every side, I thought of nothing else save of you. No one knows the boat so well as I, and for the last four hours I was lashed to a board, steering. Margharita, all that time, and all the time I stood on the bridge, I seemed to see you always. Sometimes it was the mist of rain and spray which opened to let you through; and sometimes—sometimes I almost fancied that you were by my side. Think of you, Margharita! Why, I was a haunted man. In all that thunder of sea and wind, when I had to use a speaking trumpet to make my men hear me a few yards away, I could only hear your voice in my ears as distinctly as you hear me now. They say that when one is in danger, or near death, that the imagination is quickened. It must have been so with me, for your presence and the sound of your voice were very real to me."

"How did you find me here?" I asked.

"Well, as soon as I could decently get away from my people, I asked for you. They sent to your room, and could not find you. Then one of the servants thought that she had seen you leave the house and come this way. So I started off in search."

"It was foolish of me to come out. I could not rest indoors."

"Why?" eagerly.

"The storm was so dreadful."

"And so you came out into it. A bad reason. Was there no other?"

"I was anxious, too, I think. I wanted to see what the sea looked like."

"Why were you anxious; what about?"

"Somebody was in danger."

"My darling!"

His lips met mine again. My strength seemed altogether gone. I made no effort to escape.

"I didn't say who 'somebody' was," I protested weakly.

He laughed gaily.

"But I know."

"Sure?"

"Quite sure."

"I may have relatives who are sailors."

"You may have, but you haven't."

I considered for a moment.

"It was purely a matter of responsibility, you know. I felt that I had something to do with your going away. I was disagreeable last night, and you were offended. See?"

"Not a bit."

"You are very stupid."

"I am not now; I was last night."

"What do you mean?"

"I will answer you by asking a question. Will you promise to reply to it?"

"Cela dépend. I won't be rash."

"Do you care for me—just a little?" he asked, tenderly but hopefully.

Oh, horrible! A vision seemed to float suddenly before my eyes. The darkness faded away, to be replaced by a little whitewashed chamber in a distant land. I saw an old man dying, with his eyes fixed upon me full of mute reproach, his trembling fingers pointed at me with scorn, and his lips framing a feeble curse. Suddenly his look changed, his arm fell, his face grew suddenly bright and joyful, and the curse changed into a fervent blessing. Then the room widened, and the little figure under that spotless coverlet faded away. It was a chamber in a palace, and I saw Lady St. Maurice, also on her death-bed. Her husband and her son knelt by her side with bared heads, and the air was laden and heavy with the sound of their sobs. She alone did not weep, and her pale, spiritualized face glowed like the face of a martyred saint. And as I watched I seemed to hear one word constantly escaping from those who watched by her side, and caught up and echoed a thousand times by the sad wailing wind until it rang in my ears unceasingly—and the word was "Murderess!"

It passed away—vanished in a phantom of mist, like some weird morbid fancy, but the joy of those last few minutes was quenched. I drew myself from his arms, and pressed my hand to my side. There was a sharp pain there.

"We must go back to the house," I said. "I have been a little mad, I think, and I am very wet."

He looked at me, amazed.

"Won't you answer my question first?" he pleaded. "Margharita, make me very happy. Be my wife."

His wife. Oh, the grim grotesque agony of it all. My strength would never be sufficient to carry me through all this. My heart was faint, and my speech was low; yet it was as cold and resolute as I could make it.

"Never! never! I would sooner die than that. Let us go back at once—at once!"

He caught me by the wrist, and forced me to look into his face. It was unwise of him to touch me against my will, for the fire flashed into my eyes, and my anger gave me strength.

"Margharita, what does this mean? You do care for a me a little, don't you?"

"No!"

I lied, God knows, and all in vain.

"Perhaps not so very much now," he said, with a little sigh, "but you will some day. I know that you will. Be generous, Margharita, give me a little hope."

I laid my hand upon his arm. How could I convince him. Anger, lies, reasoning, all seemed so weak and ineffective; and he was so strong—strong in his own love, strong unconsciously in mine.

"Lord Lumley, I can only give you one answer, and that is—'No.' Nothing can change me. I would sooner throw myself from these cliffs than become your wife."

He considered for a moment, while I watched him anxiously.

"I have a right to know your reason for that speech," he said in a low but firm tone. "Give me your hands for one moment, Margharita—so! Now, look me in the eyes, and tell me that you do not care for me!"

I was a fool to try. I might have known that, after all I had passed through that day, it was beyond my strength. I got as far as the first three words, and then I burst into tears. His whole face lit up with joy at my failure.

"I am satisfied!" he said, drawing my hand through his arm. "Come! we will go back to the house. I must not have you catch cold!"

He spoke with an air of fond proprietorship which made my heart tremble, but I had no more words left with which to fight my battle. My strength was gone; I did not even try to withdraw my hand.

We walked away, and I did my best to choke the hysterical sobs which threatened me. Directly we left the shelter of the pine grove, speech became impossible. We had to fight our way along, step by step, with the wind and rain beating in our faces. I was thankful for it, for the physical effort seemed to stimulate and calm me.

When at last we reached the house and stood inside the hall, he turned to me and spoke for the first time.

"That walk was quite an event, wasn't it? Let me feel how wet you are."

He ran his fingers down my arm and back, and then rang the hall bell violently.

"You are wet through," he said gravely. "And it is my fault. Instead of bringing you home at once, as I ought to have done, I kept you out there talking. Run upstairs at once, Margharita, please, and change all your things. I will send up hot water."

He had been hurrying me to the stairs all the time, and I began slowly to ascend them. He stood down in the white stone hall, watching me anxiously.

"You won't be long, will you?" he said, as I reached the corner. "I want to talk to you before dinner."

I answered him mechanically, and turning away, went along the corridor to my room, and flung myself upon the bed. I had scarcely been there five minutes when there was a knock at the door.

"Who is there?" I asked, sitting up and hastily drying my eyes.

A servant's voice answered, and I recognized Cecile, the Countess's own maid.

"Her ladyship has sent you a cup of tea, miss, and hopes you will be sure to change all your clothes. There is a letter for you, too, miss."

I bade the girl come in and put the tea down. When she had gone, I stretched out my hand, and took up the letter with trembling fingers. It was from my uncle, and the postmark was Rome.