The Storm Breaks

Chapter I.—Recompense-3

So things went on for a fortnight. They met every afternoon somewhere, but with no apparent warming up of their relations. Of course, by now she had told him all about her unhappy marriage, but to all appearances he had only the deepest sympathy for her loveless life.

As for Mary—she had apparently no deeper feelings for him than he had for her. It had just been a relief to her to tell her troubles to someone who she was sure would feel sorry for her. She knew it must be that he would quickly pass out of her life again, but it would remain for ever an abiding and cherished memory that someone had once been so kind and understanding.

Thus was everything upon the surface, but underneath and in their reality things were very different. In no way a philanderer and never having had much to do with the other s*x, for this lonely and unhappy little woman Athol had come to conceive a deep and passionate regard, and he longed to take her in his arms and comfort her in the way only a lover could.

As for Mary, she made no pretence to herself that she was not deeply in love with this good-looking and kindly-natured boy. Regardless of all conventions and her marriage vows, she would have given herself to him with no care of any consequences. He was in her thoughts night and day, and she was dreading the time that must so soon come when he would be leaving her. She felt as she imagined a condemned criminal would feel when awaiting the morning of his execution. Back she would go to misery and loneliness, and her unhappiness, she was sure, would now be the more poignant as she had at last learnt what love really meant for such a few short hours before it was going to be snatched from her.

One afternoon a fierce thunderstorm came over the city and, as they were near a big church at the time, they took refuge in it until the rain was over. The light was very dim inside and they appeared to be the only persons present. They seated themselves in one of the pews and started whispering together.

Presently a verger appeared from the direction of the vestry, and as he passed by several times Athol thought he eyed them curiously. So slipping a couple of francs into his hand, he asked him what time evensong was held. The man told him and then, with a pleasant smile, suggested they should go and sit in the lady chapel. “You will be out of the draughts there, Monsieur,” he said, “and can whisper as much as you want to without disturbing anybody.”

So they moved their seats to where he led them behind a big pillar, and directly he had gone Athol remarked carelessly, “A very understanding man that”—his voice shook ever so little—“and at last I've got you all to myself.” He gave a quick glance round to make sure that no one could see them and then, without a moment's hesitation, put his arm round Mary and, drawing her to him, gave her a long and lingering kiss full upon the lips.

There was no drawing back on Mary's side, and she was as ready with her kiss as he was with his. For many minutes no words passed between them. Time stood still and they were just man and woman in the first ecstasies of the avowal of their passion.

All about them so lent itself to their mood. The dark church was so hushed and still that they might almost have been alone in the world together. They had no thoughts except about each other. Past and future meant nothing to them and they lived only in the present.

Soon the soft notes of the organ broke through their dreams, and hand in hand they sat through the evening service. When it was over they left the building with the friendly verger giving them a farewell beaming smile.

The next morning Dane announced he had caught a chill. His temperature was slightly up and he stayed in bed. Mary had a hurried meeting with Athol, which she snatched upon going out to the chemist's.

Athol had bad news for her and she thought her heart would stop beating when she heard it. He had received a telegram and would have to leave for home by the early morning's boat on the morrow.

“But I must say good-bye to you, darling,” he pleaded. “Couldn't you get out and meet me to-night? I have such a lot of things I want to say to you.”

For a long moment Mary hesitated. “I might,” she replied, feeling very frightened at the thought, “but it'll have to be very late. He's always ringing his bell for me, and I can't come until he's well asleep. I shall have to wait, too, until the maids are in bed. Then it mustn't be far away, as I can't be out for more than ten minutes.”

So it was arranged they should meet on one of the quays only about three hundred yards distant from the house, at eleven o'clock, and he was to wait for her until one. If she were not there by then he'd know something had prevented her getting out.

She had a terribly anxious time all the evening, and thought her husband would never drop off to sleep, but at last, after well doping himself with his tablets, he did, and at nearly half-past eleven, muffling her head in a shawl lest she might be recognised, she slipped out, leaving the catch of the street door up so that she could get in again.

Then it seemed as if all possible ill-fortune was dogging the lovers, for a boat was coming up the river and there were a lot of people about. Added to that a heavy rain storm set in and there was no place where they could take shelter and be alone. Their clothes were soon wet through.

So, very reluctantly and in great disappointment, Mary decided she could not stay out any longer and must return home. Athol insisted upon accompanying her to the door so that he might be able to snatch a last kiss.

At the very moment, however, when they reached the door, they saw two men coming up the street from the opposite direction and Mary exclaimed in great fright, “Oh, I'm sure that big one there is our porter! Quick, come inside! He mustn't see us standing here,” and, hurriedly opening the door, she dragged Athol in and closed the door behind him.

For a few moments they stood in the darkness with bent heads and holding their breath, listening. The footsteps and voices passed and Athol whispered gleefully, “Just what we wanted! It couldn't be better,” and he made to take Mary in his arms.

“No, not here,” she whispered back. Her voice shook. “Wait—let me think.”

Her thinking, however, was very short, and she felt for his hand in the darkness and pulled at it to lead him up the passage. “I know it's very wicked,” she choked, “but I don't care what happens now you're leaving me. But oh, do tread so carefully on the stairs. We'll have to pass his room—and the door's open—to get to mine.”

It was a fearsome journey and both their hearts were in their mouths, but at length they reached the safety of Mary's room. She pushed the door to very quietly. “I dare not shut it,” she whispered, “in case his bell rings. But reach up and take out that globe. Then we shall feel safer,” and with hands that trembled violently, she began stripping off her wet clothes.

Mary awoke with a start. The faint glow of dawn was stealing through the window. She flung Athol's arm from her. “Oh, darling,” she exclaimed in terrified tones, “we've slept much too long. Look—it's nearly five o'clock! Quick, quick, you haven't a second to spare. The girls will be about any moment now. No, don't stop to kiss me. Quick, put on your clothes. I'll help you.”

It was a merciful ending to those wonderful hours. Not a moment of time given them to grieve that they were parting, and no harrowing agony in a last long lingering embrace. Just action, quick decisive action, every moment.

She bustled him into his clothes, stuffed his tie and collar in his pocket and laced up one shoe while he laced up the other. Then, throwing a dressing-gown over her night-dress and still in her bare feet, she preceded him out of the room.

They passed down the stairs meeting no one, but then at the bottom and just as they were both drawing in deep breaths of relief—Jeanne came into the passage and caught them.

“N'ayez-pas peur, ma cherie,” she exclaimed emphatically. “Je ne sais rien. N'ayez-pas peur,” and then, for the benefit of Athol whom she realised at first glance was not a countryman of hers and therefore probably English, she added beamingly, “No, I say nussing, Monsieur. I not speak a word.”

Athol beamed back at her. “Good girl!” he exclaimed fervently in fluent French, and he was putting his hand in his breast pocket to feel for his wallet when the indignant look upon the girl's face stopped him.

“No, Monsieur,” she said, drawing herself up with dignity, “nothing of that.” Her face was at once all smiles again. “I rejoice that Madame is having a little happiness”—she pointed with her thumb to the floor above—“away from that old ogre up there.”

A hurried kiss, and Athol had gone.

Strangely enough in the succeeding days Mary was not nearly so depressed as it might have been thought she would have been. She had experienced a great happiness, and the memory of it she determined should last her all her life. In some strange way, however, she was sure she would one day meet her lover again. She had no fear that she was now going to have a baby by him, as nothing had happened before from her husband and she felt sure she must be a woman who was never intended to have a family.

Still, in the week which followed she had good cause to be worried, and then, all suddenly, her fears that her husband would learn she had not been true to him were swept away. He was ordered by his firm to go to Bayonne on business and, though he had long since ceased to be interested in her, his jealous temperament made him take her with him.

They were away a fortnight, and, the change seeming to do him good, he was much more agreeable to her, with one of his old moods of tenderness actually taking possession of him again. His attentions were a great trial to Mary, but she realised sadly they had their good side, and shortly after their return home she told him she was sure she was going to have a baby.

He received the news with something of an incredulous frown and at first was obviously more annoyed than pleased. However, upon consideration it was evident he realised there would be some recompense for him in his coming fatherhood.

When those three years back he had returned with a wife, he had been made the butt of many sly jokes among his acquaintances, and in his hearing they had talked about the foolishness of people buying good books which their sight was not good enough for them to read. Also, there had been casual mention of the undesirability of mating old roosters with young hens.

Now, however, he had the laugh of them and, throwing out his chest, he strutted about as if he had suddenly become a clever and very important man.

Jeanne and her sister were kinder than ever to Mary, with the former never referring to the meeting that morning with the handsome stranger upon the stairs.

So in due time was born Dora Jacqueline Dane, as lovely a baby as anyone could have wished, and who will say it was not sent by heaven as some recompense for the tragic marriage of her poor little mother?

For the first time since her wedding day Mary was supremely happy.