In the limp figure with its upturned face and the
purple shadows which fatigue had painted below the
closed eyelids, there was an irresistible appeal.
She looked so young, so helpless, and the knowledge
that she had done this for him—forced her
limbs into agonised subjection until at last conscious
endurance had failed her—moved him indescribably.
Surely this was a new Magda! Or else he had never
known her. Had he been too hard—hard
to her and pitilessly hard to himself—when
he had allowed the ugly facts of her flirtation with
Kit Raynham to drive him from her?
Eighteen months ago! And in all those eighteen
months no word of gossip, no lightest breath of scandal
against her, had reached his ears. Had he been
merely a self-righteous Pharisee, enforcing the penalty
of old sins, bygone failings? A grim smile twisted
his lips. If so, and he had made her suffer,
he had at least suffered equally himself!
He stooped over the prone figure on the divan.
Lower, lower still, till a tendril of dark hair that
had strayed across her forehead quivered beneath his
breath. Then suddenly he drew back, jerking himself
upright. Striding across the room he pealed the
bell and, when a neat maidservant appeared in response,
ordered sharply:
“Bring some brandy—quick! And
ask Mrs. Grey to come here. Mademoiselle Wielitzska
has fainted.”
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.”
