Читать книгу The Storm Breaks - Arthur Gask - Страница 4

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AT eighteen years of age, Dora was undoubtedly one of the prettiest girls in Bordeaux. With her mother's perfect colouring, she had aristocratic clear-cut features and beautiful serene grey eyes. She carried herself proudly, and from early childhood days there had been a certain dignity about her which discouraged patronage from anyone.

Of a much stronger character than her mother, she had plenty of courage and a determined will. Afraid of no one, upon occasions she did not hesitate to speak her mind, never, however, in any argument losing her temper. With a general contempt for authority and convention, she complied with rules and regulations only because it profited her to do so.

Outwardly of a cold and reserved nature, and making few friends at the convent school where she was a weekly boarder, her outspoken opinions nevertheless carried not a little weight with the other girls, often rather to the distress of the Sisters in charge.

"You know sometimes I am rather afraid for Dora," said one of the teaching Sisters one day to a colleague. "She has great influence with the other girls, but is not always the best example for them. For one thing, she hasn't the reverence she should have for the Fathers, and last week after Monseigneur Herblay's address she said openly in class that he made her feel tired. She asked, too, what could an old and unmarried man like Monseigneur know about the feelings and hopes of young girls. I was very sharp with her, because I could see the others in the class were smiling and giving one another sly nods."

The other Sister sighed deeply. "And she's so pretty," she said, "that if Monseigneur came to learn what she had said he'd probably only smile, too." She sighed again. "I notice all the Fathers who come here take more notice of her than of anyone else."

"But you shouldn't have allowed yourself to imagine you had noticed such things," reproved the first Sister sharply. "Your conscience and your training must have told you you were wrong. To the Fathers, all our girls here are only souls to be guided in the right way. All earthly thoughts about them, however pretty they may be, have no existence at all."

The second Sister sighed again, but, had her vows permitted, it might have been she would have smiled as she had just been told the girls in class had done.

Now if Dora were so admired and looked up to by the other convent girls, she was simply idolised by her mother. From babyhood to childhood and on to girlhood, down all the years she had filled Mary's life, giving to her a happiness she had never thought she would ever experience.

She would gaze and gaze at her for long minutes at a time, thinking fondly what a little aristocrat she was and what a beautiful woman she would one day be. And was it not natural, she told herself, for had not she the best of English blood in her veins? Had not Athol told her that his mother was a daughter of a peer of the realm, with the barony going back for hundreds and hundreds of years?

So Mary's dreams for her daughter's future were full and ambitious ones. When Dane was dead—and, a quickly ageing man with many ailments, she was sure he could not live for very long, she would take her to England, and search out her father so that he could help her to make a good marriage and take a rightful position among his own class of people.

She had never heard from Athol since that morning when he had so hurriedly gone away, but she had hardly expected she would. They had agreed it would be far too dangerous for him to write or attempt to get in touch with her in any way. Still, she often sighed to herself that she was sure had he only become aware that she had borne a child of whom he was the father he would have wanted to risk everything to set eyes upon his own flesh and blood.

Her faith in him had never wavered, and she knew he would never have forgotten her. What a surprise it would be for him when she brought him face to face with Dora! He would know instantly that she was his daughter, as she was very like him, with the same profile, the same eyes and the same beautifully-shaped hands. Why, even that slight crook in one of her little fingers was exactly like the crook in one of his!

Of course, she would sigh again, Athol would have married long ago. She must expect that, but she consoled herself with thinking that no wife, however highly born, could have given him a daughter anything like as beautiful as was Dora.

Then, unbeknown to Dane and paying for them out of the housekeeping money, she began to take in some of the best illustrated English society journals, hoping that one day she might read in them something about Athol or his mother, and perhaps even see their photographs.

She and Dora used to pore over these journals at week-ends, and whisper animatedly together of the wonderful times they would one day have when they went home together and would see, and perhaps speak to, some of these great people. Dora, of course, had no idea how it would come about, but in time the expectation came to form not a small part of her day-dreams.

All along Dora had had a great affection for her mother and never given her any of those cold and distant looks which so often she bestowed upon others. As she had grown older, too, it was as if in her much stronger nature she had thrown a mantle of protection over her, for when she was present it seemed to Mary as if Dane never dared to be quite so unpleasant as when they were by themselves. Undoubtedly he was always a little bit afraid of Dora with her sharp words and contemptuous looks.

Dane had not improved with the passing of the years and, now approaching sixty, was more bad-tempered and crotchety than ever. He never showed the slightest affection or consideration for Mary and, taking as little notice of her as possible, seemed to regard her as only one of the servants to manage the affairs of his house.

Mary hated him with as deep a hate as her weak nature would allow. She had never forgiven him for his treatment of her family. Of them she had never seen anything since her wedding day, as they had all been killed in one of the few bad bombing raids the Germans had made upon London in the first Great War. They had moved from their house in Manor Park to one in a part of East Ham, newly built ones, and one night only a few weeks later a bomb had fallen there and wiped out nearly the whole of the little terrace.

It had been many weeks before Mary had been able to find out what had happened to them, and then only upon writing to the Superintendent of Police in East Ham. He had replied that hers was one of nine families that had been completely wiped out, either by the bomb or the fierce conflagration which had followed. No trace of any of them had ever been found.

Dane's attitude towards Dora had been always a peculiar one. In a way, as his supposed daughter, he could not help feeling proud of her good looks and forceful character, but of real affection for her he had never had any. As a baby, she had always been a source of irritation and annoyance to him, and as she had grown older he had taken little interest in her—it may have been because even as a little child she had never liked him to touch her and had kept as far away from him as possible.

From the earliest days of her coming, too, Mary had been different towards him. Motherhood had given her a little courage, and no longer had she put up with his bullying in the old-time meek and uncomplaining ways. Upon occasions she would answer him back sharply, especially in anything affecting the child, when she put her foot down firmly and took her own line of action.

It was she who had insisted that Dora should go as a weekly boarder to the convent, not because she was of their religious persuasion, but for the purpose of getting her out of the atmosphere of her home where Dane's presence was always a depressing one.

Dora's dislike of Dane had become intensified as the years had gone by, and it was a great but unspoken sorrow for her to think that she should have come from such a father. Often, as she looked at him with his frowning and ill-tempered face and noted how invariably curt and off-hand he was with her mother, she used to wonder whatever the latter could have seen in him to induce her to marry him.

Naturally of an ambitious disposition and with this trait in her character so encouraged by the confident assurance of her mother that a bright future lay before her, a chilling doubt so often took possession of Dora's mind. Herself of a keen intelligence, when she considered both her parents she doubted how any child of theirs could make a success of her life. With all her deep affection for her mother, she knew the latter was anything but clever and with a character that was both yielding and weak. As for her father—with what good and outstanding qualities could he have possibly endowed her? Shallow-minded and of a childish and querulous disposition, outside his own particular work he was most ignorant and ill-informed. Just a very ordinary and common old man!

Every time she looked at him she hated the thought that his blood ran in her veins.

Then one day suddenly a great weight was lifted from her mind, and her hopes for the future went up with a bound. Wishful thinking became a probability, and probability passed quickly into certainty. Dane was not her father, and indeed he was no relation of hers at all.

Under his selfish ruling, no school friends were ever invited to the house. He would not be bothered, he said, by noisy giggling girls, and so few of them had ever set eyes upon him or had any idea what he was like. Her mother, however, many of them knew, as they had seen her when out walking in the streets with Dora and also when she had been present at the breaking-up parties when Dora had received not a few prizes.

Then, one afternoon in mid-week, when Dora and the girl with whom she was probably the most friendly at the convent had been sent upon an errand by the Reverend Mother to a stationer's shop, they ran into Dane, who was inside talking to one of the assistants.

"What are you doing here?" he asked frowningly of Dora, in great surprise.

"Oh, I've come for something for the Reverend Mother," replied Dora in a tone as off-hand as she could make it, not liking the curt way in which he had addressed her in the hearing of her friend.

"But I thought you were never let out alone," went on Dane sharply, as if he only half believed what she had told him.

"I'm not alone," said Dora, equally as sharply. "I have my friend here with me."

"Oh," grunted Dane, "then get back to the convent directly you've got what you've been sent for." He glared nastily. "Mind, no hanging about the streets," and without another word he turned and left the shop, quite ignoring the polite "Good afternoon, Mr. Dane," of the assistant who had been serving him.

"Oh, Dora," exclaimed her friend when a minute or two later they were out in the street again, "is that old man really your father?"

"I suppose so," replied Dora casually, intensely mortified, however, that a fellow pupil had been a witness of his rudeness.

"But are you sure," went on her friend most interestedly, "because," she added emphatically, "you're not a bit like him?"

"Don't be so silly, Marie!" snapped Dora. "Of course I'm sure!" She spoke angrily. "Do you think I would have allowed anyone else to try to order me about like he was doing—without saying anything?"

"So you're sure, are you?" laughed her friend. "Well, I'm not. In fact I'm sure he can't be." She dropped her voice to an excited whisper. "Oh, Dora, dear, can't you see your mother must have had a lover before you were born? That man couldn't be the father of a girl like you. Why—anyone can see the breeding in you, but he's as common as can be. No, your father was an aristocrat, I'm certain of it."

Dora's heart almost stood still. Although, with the precocity of the Latin races, sex matters were freely discussed among the convent girls, and passion and illicit love were the most favoured themes of their whispered conversations, the idea had never for one moment come to her that anything of an unlawful nature would ever touch her or anyone to do with her. Now—the very suggestion that perhaps it might have already done so burst like a thunderclap into her mind.

It might be, oh yes, it surely might be, for had not her mother, as far back as she could remember, always brought her up as if her father were some sort of stranger to her? Had she not all along let her have as little as possible to do with him, and spoken of him to her, the few times she did mention him, in a cold and unsmiling way? Had it not always seemed, too, that there was a barrier between her parents, on her mother's side far greater than could be accounted for by her being tied to a bad-tempered and selfish old man?

Dora's thoughts raced on. A-ah, and another revelation avalanched into her mind! Now she could understand her mother's absorbed interest in those society journals coming from England! Of course she was always on the look-out to read something about her old lover and perhaps even see a photograph of him! If he were an aristocrat, as Marie had suggested, he would be moving in English society circles and——

Her friend's voice broke into her reverie. "Yes, Dora, depend upon it that old man's not your father, and your mother had a lover once."

Dora steadied her voice and spoke casually, as if the matter were of small importance. "And would anyone blame her if she had?" she asked coldly. "Would you?"

"Certainly not!" exclaimed Marie emphatically, and, a true daughter of that country where, in the minds of most people, affairs of sex have always taken precedence over everything else, she went on with all the wisdom of her sixteen years, "Everyone knows there are millions of loveless marriages in the world, and if any woman finds she has made one of course she'll look for love somewhere else."

Dora spoke fiercely. "All the same, Marie, my mother's affairs are no business of yours, and I think I'll almost kill you if you ever say a word of this to the other girls."

"Oh, I won't say anything," returned her friend instantly. "I'll never breathe a word." She laughed meaningly. "But I'm quite certain I'm right."

Deep down in her heart Dora believed it, and a mighty thrill surged through her. Indeed, she could have cried in her relief that the dreadful taint of the Dane blood would no longer haunt her. She was freed for ever of the fear of the horrible qualities he might have passed down to her.

When she went home that week-end she was more affectionate than ever towards her mother and, strange to say considering the strict moral precepts inculcated at the convent, with an added respect for her. To have dared to take a lover, as she now was certain she had, her mother must have had more courage than she had hitherto believed, and she must have been cleverer than she had thought, too, to have succeeded in keeping all knowledge of it from her husband.

Dora was quite certain Dane had never discovered anything, for had he done so he would have been the very man to throw his wife out into the streets, glad in his mean and selfish nature to rid himself of the expense of keeping her.

She would have dearly loved to have brought the matter up and questioned her mother point-blank, but, she told herself, she would never do that, as her mother, notwithstanding her one undoubted moral lapse, was by nature a clean-minded and chaste woman, conventionally inclined.

Still, with a greatly increased interest now in the London periodicals, she did go as far one Sunday as to suggest in all innocence that the photograph of one of the great people she saw there was not unlike her, and, as she made the remark, she noticed her mother's face had gone a little pink.

"But that Lord Hindhead, Mother," she had said, "might be some relation of mine, mightn't he? His nose is something like mine."

"But he's much too dark, darling," had laughed her mother, "and his eyes are quite different, too." She shook her head as if greatly amused. "No, we'll have to look another day for someone else who resembles you."

Approaching eighteen, Dora left the convent, smilingly giving no encouragement to the suggestion of the Reverend Mother that she should become a religious.

"No, Reverend Mother," she said decidedly, "I have not been made that way. I'm much too selfish and, besides, I want to have babies one day."

The Reverend Mother made no attempt to persuade her. "Then the good God be with you, my child," she said, "and be sure and remember all you have learnt while with us here," and Dora, mindful of the many things which, unbeknown to the Reverend Mother, she had learnt, smiled covertly to herself.

Her education over, Dane wanted Dora to take up secretarial work, but neither the latter nor her mother were of his opinion.

"You're going to be a hospital nurse, darling," had said her mother, with her grand ideas for Dora's future. "That is a profession which will provide you with work anywhere, and when we go to England it will bring you in contact with the class of people I intend you shall get to know. A nurse in the sick room is the equal of everyone."

Dora smiled at her mother's eagerness, but the nursing profession appealed to her, too, and so, disregarding all Dane's attempts to prevent her, she was entered as a probationer at a small private hospital, chosen mainly because it was not far from where the Danes lived.

From the very first she was a success. Sharp and thorough in all she did, with her attractive appearance she stood out from among the other girls and soon became a favourite with the matron and sisters. Some of the doctors, too, who came to the hospital, had she in any way encouraged them, would have been most willing to show their interest in her, but with no prudery she yet managed to keep them all at a distance, declining all association with them except when carrying out her nursing duties.

Not that she was not interested in men, for beneath her cold and reserved manner, as a perfectly normal and healthy young woman, she had been endowed with warm and strong feelings. However, in her later years at the convent it had been well drilled into her by the older girls where a woman's power lay and that she would be a foolish creature to part with her treasures lightly, or indeed allow them to be tarnished before she had been safeguarded by the marriage vows.

"After that, dear," had summed up the sophisticated Marie, "it all depends upon the man you marry whether or not you remain what they call a good woman. If he makes you happy you'll probably be content with him, but if he neglects you"—she laughed slyly—"you may, in time, have secrets to hide."

So, accepting these views of life as being probably the correct ones and her ambitions to get on in the world strengthening her resolution, she had determined there should be no weakness upon her part. She had set a price upon herself and, moreover, when the time came would accept payment only from the man she had come to love. With her mother's sad experience before her, she would make no loveless marriage, however tempting the prospects might appear to be.

With Dora's training only partly completed, Birtle Dane died suddenly from an apoplectic seizure, and neither Mary nor Dora, when by themselves, made any pretence of grief. Unmindful of anyone's interest but his own, he had been careless to the last and left no will. The estate was estimated to be worth about seven thousand pounds, and Mary was delighted to think they would be so well-off when she returned to England. Still, to her great disappointment, the lawyer who had always had charge of Dane's affairs stated that as the latter had died intestate there would be some little delay in winding everything up.

So Mary removed into apartments to wait with what patience she could, while Dora continued at the hospital, with the intention that when she did get to London she would finish the training there.

Then, to Dora's dreadful consternation and unutterable grief, two months after Dane's death her mother was stricken down with pneumonia and passed away within the week. She had been nursed at home, Dora hardly ever leaving her side and being with her in her last moments.

It was truly a dreadful position for such a young girl as Dora to find herself in. She had no relations and had practically no friends either. Also, knowing nothing of business matters, she was completely in the hands of Dane's lawyer, whom she speedily came to dislike intensely. A good-looking man about forty, he started to make advances by wanting to hold her hand. Letting him see sharply there was going to be none of that, his manner became at once disagreeable and it seemed to her that of set purpose he was in no hurry to wind up the estate.

Pressing him continually, he kept putting her off, however, with one excuse and another, until at length she became suspicious that everything was not right and, knowing no one else to whom she could go for advice, finally approached the manager of the bank where Dane had had his account and told him the trouble she was in, asking what she had better do.

A grave and quiet man of middle age, the bank manager was touched by her helplessness and promised to go and interview the lawyer with no delay. He told her to call again the following morning. When she did he had the worst of news for her.

"My interview was most unsatisfactory," he said, "and you had better put everything in the hands of another lawyer at once. If you give me a power of attorney I'll have the whole matter gone into thoroughly."

A week later the horrifying news was communicated to Dora that she would get practically nothing from Dane's estate, as the lawyer had all along been gambling unsuccessfully with the securities he had held and now had no assets.

"Of course he'll be punished," said the banker, "but that is all we can do. I am afraid the money is lost irretrievably."

And so, it proved, it was, and Dora found herself in London a month later with just over fifty pounds, all the money she had in the world.

The bank manager had been kindness itself, but, getting to know him better, she had been greatly embarrassed by his attentions. He had taken to expressing his admiration for her and, finally, had wanted to kiss her. Also, he had intimated very delicately that if she would like to remain on in Bordeaux he would be quite agreeable to lend her all the money she needed until she had obtained her certificate and was finally launched into her profession. It had been very unpleasant for her to repulse his advances as, apart from his capable and business-like ways, he had shown himself a charming and most sympathetic man.

"But it is only as Marie said," Dora reflected sadly. "All the men are after the same thing, but once a woman has sold it, if she has sold it badly, she may be poor as a church mouse."

So Dora had realised early that while so much of a woman's happiness in life depended upon how she used her sex, sex was a weapon with a blade of the finest temper and very easily blunted.

Putting up at a women's hostel in King's Cross to which she had been recommended, she lost no time in applying to be taken on at St. Jude's Hospital. Though it was smaller than several of the other hospitals, she had chosen that one in particular because she had remembered reading that Lord Avon's daughter had had her training there.

The matron was very polite to her and said that, while she had no vacancy for the moment, she would certainly be able to take her eventually, though it might not be for two or even three months. However, Dora, liking the look of her and also of what she saw of the hospital, decided she would wait.

In the meantime, with her small reserve of money, she had no intention of remaining idle and so started to find something to do at once.

Then, in the advertisement columns of almost the very first newspaper she looked into, she saw there was a vacancy for a female receptionist at a health institute and, to her great delight, it stated, 'one with some experience of nursing preferred'. Applicants for the position were to call that evening between five and six.

So, well before the time specified, full of high hopes, Dora set out to interview the principal of the institute whose premises were situated in Shaftesbury Avenue.