Still they stood there in the dark hall, clasped in each other's arms—stood there for many minutes without realising the lapse of time, thinking not of Mrs Desmond nor the storm that raged outside, but of the storm they were weathering together with the lightning racing through their veins, thunder in their heart-beats.
A footstep in the hall. Frederic looked up, dazed, bewildered. Jones, the butler, was retreating through a door near by, having come upon them unexpectedly.
“I—I beg pardon, sir. I———”
“Oh, Jones! Listen! My raincoat—and father's, quick. And Miss Lydia's things. Yes, yes, it's all right, Jones. It's quite all right.” Frederic was calling out the sentences jerkily.
“Quite all right,” repeated Jones, his throat swelling, his eyes suddenly dim. “Quite, sir. Yes, yes!” He rushed into the closet at the end of the hall, more grievously upset than he ever had been in all his life before.
“You will come with me, Freddy?” she was whispering, clinging to him as one in panic.
“Yes, yes. Don't be frightened, Lyddy. I—I know everything is all right now. I'm sure of it.”
“Oh, I am sure, too, dear. I have always been sure,” she cried, and he understood, as she had understood.
Despite the protests of Jones they dashed out into the blighting thunderstorm. The rain beat down in torrents, the din was infernal. As the door closed behind them Lydia, in the ecstasy of freedom from restraint bitterly imposed, gave vent to a shrill cry of relief. Words, the meaning of which he could not grasp, babbled from her lips as they descended the steps. One sentence fell vaguely clear from the others, and it puzzled him. He was sure that she said:
“Oh, I am so glad, so happy we are out of that house—you and I together.”