One afternoon, a Friday, and two days before Deborah was to return to the plantation, while the doctor was at his counting-house near the wharves, and the two little sisters sat together spinning in the sitting-room, their guest, panting with the heat inside the house, and wishing also to escape young Charles, who would presently be relieved from his Horace, sought out her largest hat and crept out of doors, passing down the street in the direction of the Vawse inn. She had not seen de Mailly for nearly twenty-four hours, and, as a consequence, her day was empty. She had small hopes of encountering him now, but was too restless to remain any longer in the room with the two old maids and their whirring wheels. She passed the quaintly gabled tavern, whose door, contrary to custom, was closed. Evidently Miriam was out. There was no sign of life about the windows. Claude himself was probably not there. Deborah walked on, disappointedly, as far as the court-house, and, still not wishing to admit to herself that she had come out simply with the hope of encountering de Mailly, turned down Green Street and followed it to the water's edge. The Stewart quay was deserted, and she halted there to look over the smooth, warm stretch of water. It was very still. The idle swash of the ripples against the pier was the only sound that reached her ears. The atmosphere was hazy with heat. It seemed as though it was the very weight and thickness of the air which gradually formed a solid arch of purple storm-clouds above the river to the west. Presently the sun was obscured. Still Deborah stood, heedlessly watching the bay, and breathing slowly in the stifling heat. Suddenly some one appeared beside her.
"Mademoiselle—mademoiselle—you will surely be wet."
Deborah turned her head towards him with a smile of pleasure which she would have repressed if she could. "Did you fall from the clouds, sir?"
"No. I have myself been wandering by the water this afternoon; and for the past quarter of an hour I have been watching the gathering storm—and you. Come, mademoiselle, we must seek shelter—and quickly."
"Let us try to reach Miriam's. We can run."
He took her arm as she spoke, and they started together down Hanover Street to Charles, which ran straight up for five blocks to Gloucester Street and the Vawse tavern. As they passed the Reynolds ordinary a deafening clap of thunder broke over them. Deborah shivered, and de Mailly put an arm about her to help her faster on their way. The street was empty. The heat had not yet broken, and beads of perspiration stood on their faces as they went. A long hiss of lightning glided like a snake through the storm-cloud. The town was almost dark. Deborah had begun to pant, and her companion could feel the beating of her heart shake her whole frame.
"C'est rien, mademoiselle. Nous sommes presque là. L'orage sera vraiment énorme!" he muttered rapidly.
A moment more and, as a new thunder-clap rattled down the sky, a sudden cold breath struck the city. With the wind, which blew like a hurricane down the river, came a pelting rain. The two reached their destination barely in time. Claude flung open the door of the tavern, and Deborah was blown over its threshold in a gush of water.
It was with some difficulty that Claude shut and bolted the door in the face of the wind. When he turned about his companion lay back on a wooden settle in a state of exhaustion. While the gale howled without and the thunder crashed down the heavens; he lit a candle with his tinder-box, brought a glass of strong waters for Deborah, and helped her gently to a more comfortable chair. He took the hat from her tumbled hair, chafed her hands till her nails grew pink again, and then stood back regarding her anxiously.
"Oh, I'm quite recovered. It was a long run. Where—where is Miriam?"