From that hour forward, Stephanie was no longer a close prisoner. She
was free to wander wherever she would about the yacht, but she never
penetrated very far. The vessel was no mere pleasure boat, and there was
much that might have interested her, had she been disposed to take an
interest therein. But she shrank with a morbid dread from the eyes of
the Spanish sailors. She longed unspeakably to hide herself away in
unbroken seclusion.
Her wound healed rapidly, so rapidly that Pierre soon ceased to treat
it, but it took much longer for her to recover from the effects of that
terrible night at Maritas. The horror of it was with her night and day.
Pierre's treatment of her never varied. He saw to her comfort with
unfailing vigilance and consideration, but he never attempted to obtrude
himself upon her. He seldom spoke to her unless she addressed him. He
never by word or look referred to the compact between them. Her fear of
him had sunk away into the background of her thoughts. Furtively she
studied him, but he gave her no cause for fear. When she sat on the
deck, he never joined her. He did not so much as eat with her till one
day, not without much inward trepidation, she invited him to do so. And
she marvelled, again and again she marvelled, at his forbearance.
Calmly and uneventfully the endless summer days slipped by. Her strength
was undoubtedly returning to her, the youth in her reviving. The long
rest was taking effect upon her. The overstrung nerves were growing
steady again. Often she would sit and ponder upon the future, but she
had no definite idea to guide her. At first she shrank unspeakably from
the bare thought of the end of the voyage, but gradually she became
accustomed to it. It seemed too remote to be terrible, and her reliance
upon Pierre's good faith increased daily. Somehow, unaccountably, she
had wholly ceased to regard him as an enemy. Possibly her fears and even
her antagonism were only dormant, but at least they did not torment her.
She did not start at the sound of his voice, or shrink from the straight
regard of those hard eyes. She knew by that instinct that cannot err
that he meant to keep his word.
They left the regions of endless summer behind at last, and the cooler
breezes of the north swept the long, blue ridges over which they
travelled. They came into a more frequented, less dreamlike sea, but
though many vessels passed them, they were seldom near enough for
greeting. And Stephanie came to understand that it was not Pierre's
desire to hold much converse with the outer world. Yet she knew that
they were heading straight for England, and their isolation was bound
ere long to come to an end.
It was summer weather even in England just then, summer weather in the
blue Atlantic, summer everywhere. She spent many hours of each day in a
sheltered corner of the deck, watching the leaping waves, green and
splendid, racing from the keel. And a strange content was hers while she
watched, born of the unwonted peace which of late had wrapped her round.
She was as one come into safe harbourage after long and futile tossing
upon the waters of strife. She did not question her security. She only
knew that it was there.
But one day there came a change--a grey sky and white-capped waves.
Suddenly and inexplicably, as is the way of the northern climate, the
sunshine was withdrawn, the summer weather departed, and there came
desolation.
Stephanie's corner on deck was empty. She crouched below, ill, shivering
with cold and wretchedness. All day long she listened to the howling
wind and pitiless, lashing rain, rising above the sullen roar of the
waves. All day long the vessel pitched and tossed, flinging her back and
forth while she clung in desperation to the edge of her berth.
Pierre waited upon her from time to time, but he could do little to
relieve her discomfort, and he left her for the most part alone.
As evening drew on, the gale increased, and Stephanie, lying in her
cabin, could hear the great waves breaking over the deck with a violence
that grew more awful with every moment. Her nerves began to give way
under the strain. It was a long while since Pierre had been near her,
and the loneliness appalled her.
She could endure it no longer at last, and arose with a wild idea of
going on deck. The narrow walls of her cabin had become unendurable.
With difficulty, grabbing at first one thing, then another for support,
she made her way to the saloon. The place was empty, but a single lamp
burned steadily by the door that led to the companion, and guided her
halting steps.
The floor was at a steep upward angle when she started, but before she
had accomplished half the distance it plunged suddenly downwards, and
she was flung forward against the table. Bruised and frightened, she
dragged herself up, reached the farther door at a run, only to fall once
more against it.
Here she lay for a little, half-stunned, till that terrible slow
upheaval began again. Then, with a sharp effort, she recalled her
scattered senses and struggled up, clinging to the handle. Slowly she
mounted, slowly, slowly, till her feet began to slip down that awful
slant. Then at the last moment, when she thought she must fall headlong,
there came that fearful plunge again, and she knew that the yacht was
deep in the trough of some gigantic wave.
The loneliness was terrible. It seemed like the forerunner of
annihilation. She felt that whatever the danger on deck, it must be
easier to face than this fearful solitude. And so at last, in a brief
lull, she opened the door.
A great swirl of wind and water dashed down upon her on the instant. The
lamp behind her flickered and went out, but there was another at the
head of the steps to light her halting progress, and, clinging with both
hands to the rail, she began to ascend.
The uproar was deafening. It deprived her of the power to think. But she
no longer felt afraid. She found this limbo of howling desolation
infinitely preferable to the awful loneliness of her cabin. Slowly and
with difficulty she made her way.
She had nearly reached the top when a man's figure in streaming oilskins
sprang suddenly into the opening. Above the storm she heard a hoarse
yell of warning or of anger, she knew not which, and the next instant
Pierre was beside her, holding her imprisoned against the hand-rail to
which she clung.
She stood up and faced him, still gripping the rail.
"Take me on deck!" she cried to him. "I shall not be afraid."
She had flung her cloak about her, but the hood had blown back from her
head, and her hair hung loose. Pierre looked at her in stern silence,
holding her fast. She fancied he was displeased with her for leaving the
cabin, and she reiterated her earnest request that he would suffer her
to come up just for a little to breathe the fresh air.
"It is so horrible below," she told him. "It frightens me."
Pierre was frowning heavily.
"Do you think you would not be my first care?" he demanded, bracing
himself as the vessel plunged to support her with greater security.
She did not answer. There was a touch of ferocity in the question that
silenced her. The pitching of the yacht threw her against him the next
moment, and her feet slipped from beneath her.
Unconsciously almost she turned and clung to the arms that held her up.
They tightened about her to a grip that made her gasp for breath. He
lifted her back to the foothold she had lost. His face was more grimly
set than she had ever seen it.
She wondered if he was secretly afraid. For they seemed to be sinking
down, down, down into the depths of destruction, and only his close
holding kept her where she was.
She thought that they were going straight to the bottom, and
involuntarily her clinging hands held faster. Involuntarily, too, she
raised her eyes to his, seeking, as the human soul is bound to seek, for
human comradeship in face of mortal danger.
But the next instant she knew that no thought of danger was in his mind,
or if it existed it was obscured by something infinitely greater.
His eyes saw her and her only. The fierce flame of his passion blazed
down upon her, searing its terrible way to her soul, dazzling her,
hypnotising her, till she could see nought else, could feel nought but
the burning intensity of the fire that had kindled so suddenly about
her.
A dart of wild dismay went through her as keen as physical pain, but in
a moment it was gone. For though he held her caught against his breast
and covered her face with kisses that seemed to scorch her, it was not
fear that she felt so much as a gasping wonder that she was unafraid.