AT THE END OF THE STORM
“This is very nice--but it won’t exactly contribute towards finishing
the picture!”
As she spoke Magda leaned back luxuriously against her cushions and
glanced smilingly across at Michael where he sat with his hand on
the tiller of the _Bella Donna_, the little sailing-yacht which Lady
Arabella kept for the amusement of her guests rather than for her own
enjoyment, since she herself could rarely be induced to go on board.
It had been what Magda called a “blue day”--the sky overhead a deep
unbroken azure, the dimpling, dancing waters of the Solent flinging
back a blue almost as vivid--and she and Quarrington had put out from
Netherway harbour in the morning and crossed to Cowes.
Here they had lunched and Magda had purchased one or two of the
necessities of life (from a feminine point of view) not procurable in
the village emporia at Netherway. Afterwards, as there was still ample
time before they need think of returning home, Michael had suggested an
hour’s run down towards the Needles.
The _Bella Donna_ sped gaily before the wind, and neither of its
occupants, engrossed in conversation, noticed that away to windward a
bank of sullen cloud was creeping forward, slowly but surely eating up
the blue of the sky.
“Of course it will contribute towards finishing the picture.”
Quarrington answered Magda’s laughing comment composedly. “A blow like
this will have done you all the good in the world, and I shan’t have you
collapsing on my hands again as you did a week ago.”
“Oh, then, you brought me out on hygienic grounds alone?” derided Magda.
She was feeling unaccountably happy and light-hearted. Since the day
when she had fainted during the sitting Michael seemed to have changed.
He no longer gave utterance to those sudden, gibing speeches which had
so often hurt her intolerably. That sense of his aloofness, as though
a great wall rose between them, was gone. Somehow she felt that he had
drawn nearer to her, and once or twice those grey, compelling eyes had
glowed with a smothered fire that had set her heart racing unsteadily
within her.
“Haven’t you enjoyed to-day, then?” he inquired, responding to her
question with another.
“I’ve loved it,” she answered simply. “I think if I’d been a man I
should have chosen to be a sailor.”
“Then it’s a good thing heaven saw to it that you were a woman. The
world couldn’t have done without its Wielitzska.”
“Oh, I don’t know”--half-indifferently, half-wistfully. “It’s
astonishing how little necessary anyone really is in this world. If
I were drowned this afternoon the Imperial management would soon find
someone to take my place.”
“But your friends wouldn’t,” he said quietly.
Magda laughed a little uncertainly.
“Well, I won’t suggest we put them to the test, so please take me home
safely.”
As she spoke a big drop of rain splashed down on to her hand. Then
another and another. Simultaneously she and Michael glanced upwards to
the sky overhead, startlingly transformed from an arch of quivering blue
into a monotonous expanse of grey, across which came sweeping drifts of
black cloud, heavy with storm.
“By Jove! We’re in for it!” muttered Quarrington.
His voice held a sudden gravity. He knew the danger of those unexpected
squalls which trap the unwary in the Solent, and inwardly he cursed
himself for not having observed the swift alteration in the weather.
The _Bella Donna_, too, was by no means the safest of craft in which to
meet rough weather. She was slipping along very fast now, and Michael’s
keen glance swept the gray landscape to where, at the mouth of the
channel, the treacherous Needles sentinelled the open sea.
“We must bring her round--quick!” he said sharply, springing up. “Can
you take the tiller? Do you know how to steer?”
Magda caught the note of urgency in his voice.
“I can do what you tell me,” she said quietly.
“Do you know port from starboard?” he asked grimly.
“Yes. I know that.”
Even while they had been speaking the wind had increased, churning the
sea into foam-flecked billows that swirled and broke only to gather
anew.
It was ticklish work bringing the _Bella Donna_ to the wind. Twice she
refused to come, lurching sickeningly as she rolled broadside on to
the race of wind-driven waves. The third time she heeled over till her
canvas almost brushed the surface of the water and it seemed as though
she must inevitably capsize. There was an instant’s agonised suspense.
Then she righted herself, the mainsail bellied out as the boom swung
over, and the tense moment passed.
“Frightened?” queried Quarrington when he had made fast the mainsheet.
Magda smiled straight into his eyes.
“No. We almost capsized then, didn’t we?”
“It was a near shave,” he answered bluntly.
They did not speak much after that. They had enough to do to catch
the wind which seemed to bluster from all quarters at once, coming in
violent, gusty spurts that shook the frail little vessel from stem to
stern. Time after time the waves broke over her bows, flooding the deck
and drenching them both with stinging spray.
Magda sat very still, maintaining her grip of the wet and slippery
tiller with all the strength of her small, determined hands. Her limbs
ached with cold. The piercing wind and rain seemed to penetrate
through her thin summer clothing to her very skin. But unwaveringly she
responded to Michael’s orders as they reached her through the bellowing
of the gale. Her eyes were like stars and her lips closed in a scarlet
line of courage.
“Port your helm! _Hard_! . . . Hold on!”
Then the thudding swing of the boom as the _Bella Donna_ slewed round on
a fresh tack.
The hurly-burly of the storm was bewildering. In the last hour or so
the entire aspect of things had altered, and Magda was conscious of
a freakish sense of the unreality of it all. With the ridiculous
inconsequence of thought that so often accompanies moments of acute
anxiety she reflected that Noah probably experienced a somewhat similar
astonishment when he woke up one morning to find that the Flood had
actually begun.
It seemed as though the storm had reached out long arms and drawn the
whole world of land and sea and sky into its turbulent embrace. Driving
sheets of rain blurred the coastline on either hand, while the wind
caught up the grey waters into tossing, crested billows and flung them
down again in a smother of angry spume.
Overhead, it screamed through the rigging of the little craft like a
tormented devil, tearing at the straining canvas with devouring fingers
while the slender mast groaned beneath its force.
Suddenly a terrific gust of wind seemed to strike the boat like an
actual blow. Magda saw Michael leap aside, and in the same instant came
a splitting, shattering report as the mast snapped in half and a tangled
mass of wood and cordage and canvas fell crash on to the deck where he
had been standing.
Magda uttered a cry and sprang to her feet. For an instant her heart
seemed to stop beating as she visioned him beneath the mass of tackle.
Or had he been swept off his feet--overboard into the welter of grey,
surging waters that clamoured round the boat?
The moment of uncertainty seemed endless, immeasurable. Then Michael
appeared, stepping across the wreckage, and came towards her. The relief
was almost unendurable. She stretched out shaking hands.
“Oh, Michael! . . . Michael!” she cried sobbingly.
And all at once she was in his arms. She felt them close about her,
strong as steel and tender as love itself. In the rocking, helpless
boat, with the storm beating up around them and death a sudden, imminent
hazard, she had come at last into haven.
An hour later the storm had completely died away. It had begun to abate
in violence almost immediately after the breaking of the _Bella Donna’s_
mast. It was as though, having wreaked its fury and executed all the
damage possible short of absolute destruction, it was satisfied. With
the same suddenness with which it had arisen it sank away, leaving a
sulky, sunless sky brooding above a sullen sea still heaving restlessly
with the aftermath of tempest.
The yacht had drifted gradually out of mid-channel shorewards, and after
one or two unsuccessful efforts Quarrington at last succeeded in
casting anchor. Then he turned to Magda, who had been assisting in the
operation, with a smile.
“That’s about all we can do,” he said. “We’re perfectly helpless till
some tug or steamer comes along.”
“Probably they’ll run us down,” she suggested. “We’re in the fairway,
aren’t we?”
“Yes--which is about our best hope of getting picked up before night.”
Then, laying his hand on her arm: “Are you very cold and wet?”
Magda laughed--laughed out of sheer happiness. What did being cold
matter, or wet either, if Michael loved her? And she was sure now
that he did, though there had been but the one moment’s brief embrace.
Afterwards he had had his hands full endeavouring to keep the _Bella
Donna_ afloat.
“I think the wind has blown my things dry,” she said. “How about you?”
“Oh, I’m all right--men’s clothing being adapted for use, not ornament!
But I must find something to wrap you up in. We may be here for hours
and the frock you’re wearing has about as much warming capacity as a
spider’s web.”
He disappeared below into the tiny, single-berthed cabin, and presently
returned armed with a couple of blankets, one of which he proceeded to
wrap about Magda’s shoulders, tucking the other over her knees where she
sat in the stern of the boat.
“I don’t want them both,” she protested, resisting. “You take one.”
There was something rather delightful in this unconventional comradeship
of discomfort.
“You’ll obey orders,” replied Michael firmly. “Especially as you’re
going to be my wife so soon.”
A warm flush dyed her face from brow to throat. He regarded her
with quizzical eyes. Behind their tender mockery lurked something
else--something strong and passionate and imperious, momentarily held in
leash. But she knew it was there--could feel the essential, imperative
demand of it.
“Well? Does the prospect alarm you?”
Magda forced herself to meet his glance.
“So soon?” she repeated hesitantly.
“Yes. As soon as it can be accomplished,” he said triumphantly.
He seated himself beside her and took her in his arms, blankets and all.
“Did you think I’d be willing to wait?” he said.
“I didn’t think you wanted to marry me at all!” returned Magda, the
words coming out with a little rush. “I thought you--you disapproved of
me too much!”
His mouth twisted queerly.
“So I did. I’m scrapping the beliefs of half a lifetime because I love
you. I’ve fought against it--tried not to love you--kept away from you!
But it was stronger than I.”
“Saint Michel, I’m so glad--glad it was stronger,” she said tremulously,
a little break in her voice.
He bent his head and kissed her lips, and with the kiss she gave him
back she surrendered her very self into his keeping. She felt his arms
strain about her, and the fierce pressure of their clasp taught her the
exquisite joy of pain that is born of love.
She yielded resistlessly, every fibre of her being quivering responsive
to the overwhelming passion of love which had at last stormed and broken
down all barriers--both the man’s will to resist and her own defences.
Somewhere at the back of her consciousness Diane’s urgent warning:
_“Never give your heart to any man. Take everything, but do not give!”_
tinkled feebly like the notes of a worn-out instrument. But even had
she paused to listen to it she would only have laughed at it. She knew
better.
Love was the most wonderful thing in the world. If it meant anything at
all, it meant giving. And she was ready to give Michael everything she
had--to surrender body, soul, and spirit, the threefold gift that a man
demands of his mate.
She drew herself out of his arms and slipped to her knees beside him.
“Saint Michel, do you believe in me now?”
“Believe in you? I don’t know whether I believe in you or not. But I
know I love you! . . . That’s all that matters. I love you!”
“No, no!” She resisted his arms that sought to draw her back into his
embrace. “I want more than that. I’m beginning to realise things. There
must be trust in love. . . . Michael, I’m not really hard--and selfish,
as they say. I’ve been foolish and thoughtless, perhaps. But I’ve
never done any harm. Not real harm. I’ve never”--she laughed a little
brokenly--“I’ve never turned men into swine, Michael. . . . I’ve hurt
people, sometimes, by letting them love me. But, I didn’t know, then!
Now--now I know what love is, I shall be different. Quite different.
Saint Michel, I know now--love is self-surrender.”
The tremulous sweetness of her, the humble submissiveness of her appeal,
could not but win their way. Michael’s lingering disbelief wavered and
broke. She had been foolish, spoilt and thoughtless, but she had never
done any real harm. Men had loved her--but how could it be otherwise?
And perhaps, after all, they were none the worse for having loved her.
Deliberately Michael flung the past behind him and with it his last
doubt of her. He drew her back into his arms, against his heart, and
their lips met in a kiss that held not only love but utter faith and
confidence--a pledge for all time.
“Beloved!” he whispered. “My beloved!”