THE OFFER
In many respects the change from their lodgings up the hill to the
Anchor Hotel by the fishing-quay was for the better, and as the days
went on and winter drew near Maud realized this. Bunny's room had a
southern aspect, and it was only on dull days that they needed a fire
before evening. It possessed a French window also, which was an immense
advantage; for it was perfectly easy to wheel him out on to the stone
verandah outside it, and here he would lie in his own sheltered corner
for hours; watching the sea and the shore and the passers-by, and
sometimes talking to the very infrequent visitors who came at that
season to "The Anchor."
He and Maud lived their lives apart from the rest of the establishment,
an arrangement which Mrs. Sheppard deplored although she knew it to be
an eminently wise one. Her husband, who never lost an opportunity to
revile the girl who always treated him with the same aloof distance of
manner, bitterly resented the circumstance that so limited his chances
of what he styled "taking her down a peg." He hated her with the
rancorous and cruel hatred of conscious inferiority, savagely repenting
his undertaking to provide for her. They did not often clash because
Maud steadfastly avoided him. And this also he resented, for he was in
effect simply biding his time to drive her away. She was a perpetual
thorn in his side, and he seized every chance that presented itself of
inflicting some minor humiliation upon her. His antipathy had become
almost an obsession, and he never saw her without flinging some gibing
taunt in her direction.
And those taunts of his rankled deep. Maud's feelings towards him were
of a very deadly order. If she had not avoided him, she knew that she
could not have remained. But for Bunny's sake she endured his insults
when contact with him became inevitable. She could not be separated
from Bunny, and she knew of no other haven.
Towards Bunny, Sheppard displayed no ill feeling. He had small cause to
do so, for the boy was kept rigorously out of his way, and his mother
was more than willing to leave the entire care of him to Maud. In fact
there were sometimes whole days on which she scarcely saw him. The
change that Maud had foretold on her wedding-day had already begun in
her. She had quitted her own world without a pang, and was sunning
herself in the warmth of her husband's rough devotion. As she herself
expressed it, she was getting really fond of Giles, whose brutish
affection for her was patent to all.
Maud suppressed a shudder whenever she encountered any evidence of it,
and as a result he was always noisier and coarser in his demonstrations
before her face of white disgust. What wonder that she rigidly avoided
him and insisted upon taking all her meals with Bunny?
In this way she avoided his loud-voiced friends also,--another frequent
cause for offence!--all, that is, save one. That one was Jake Bolton;
and, since Bunny had so decreed it, this man came and went exactly as he
chose.
She never raised the smallest objection to his presence, but she
certainly never welcomed him. In fact she generally took advantage of
his coming to leave Bunny for a space and it even became a recognized
thing between them that she should avail herself of the leisure thus
provided to run down to the shore for the brief recreation which was
never obtainable in any other way.
Very often she would not return until after Jake's departure, and so on
the whole, though they met so frequently, she actually saw but little of
him. He was Bunny's pal, and--obedient to the inner warning--she was
firmly determined that he should never become hers.
He did not seem inclined to combat this determination, but on the other
hand he never relinquished by a hair's breadth the position he had taken
up at the beginning of their acquaintance. It was impossible to snub
him. He never heard a snub. He never advanced, and he never retreated.
He simply stood firm, so that after a time her uneasiness began to die
down almost in spite of her, and she even came to look upon him in a
very guarded way as a friend in need. He could do anything in the world
with Bunny, and though she was half-suspicious of his influence she
could not deny that he invariably exercised it in the right direction.
He had even begun to implant in Bunny a wholly novel and sometimes
almost disconcerting consideration for herself. Bunny was more
tractable just then than he had ever been before. It was the only
bright spot in her sky.
It was on an afternoon in late November that she went down to the shore
during one of Jake Bolton's visits to her brother, and watched the
fishing-fleet come in through a blur of rain. The beach looked dank and
sodden and there were trails of mist in the air. Dusk was just
beginning to fall, and it would be a wet night. But the air blew in off
the water sweet and southerly, and it did her good to breath it.
She walked the length of the parade twice, and finally, as the
fishing-smacks dropped one by one into the harbour on the further side
of the quay, turned homewards, feeling invigorated and considerably the
happier for the brief exercise.
She wondered if Jake meant to stay to tea. He did not often do so,
only, on the very rare occasions when she added her invitation to
Bunny's. She supposed she would have to ask him to-day if she found him
still there when she returned. But she hoped she would not. She liked
him best when he was not there.
Regretfully she turned her back upon the heaving waters, and crossed the
road to the Anchor Hotel. It was growing rapidly dusk.
She reached the entrance, and was stretching out a hand towards the
swing-doors when one of them opened abruptly from within and Jake
stepped out. He was smoking a cigarette, and he did not in the first
moment perceive her. She drew back in an instinctive effort to escape
notice.
But he stopped short almost immediately and accosted her.
"Ah! Is that you? I was just wondering where you were."
Her thoughts flew to Bunny. "Am I wanted?" she asked quickly.
He checked her with a gesture. "No, the lad's all right. It's I who
want you. Can you spare me a minute?"
It was impossible to refuse, but she did not yield graciously. Somehow
she never could be gracious to Jake Bolton.
"I ought to go in," she said. "It is getting late."
"I shan't keep you long," he said, and she noticed that it was plainly a
foregone conclusion with him that she would grant him what he asked.
She turned back into the misty darkness with a short sigh of impatience.
"Walk to the end of the parade with me!" he said, and fell in beside
her.
Later she wondered why she did not lodge a more energetic protest, for
it was beginning to rain in earnest; but at the time it seemed
inevitable that she should do as he desired.
She re-crossed the road with him, and turned to walk to the nearest end
of the parade. They approached the spot where he had once laid
peremptory hands upon her and drawn her out of danger. It was as they
neared it that he suddenly spoke.
"I am sorry to have brought you out again into the wet. Will you come
into the shelter?"
She acquiesced. The shelter was empty. She stepped within it and stood
waiting.
He took out his cigarette and after a moment dropped it and set his heel
upon it.
"I want to speak to you about your brother," he said. "And, by the way,
before I forget it, I've promised to trundle him up to the Stables next
Sunday to show him the animals. You will come too, won't you? I can
give you tea at my house. It's close by."
Maud's eyes opened a little. The suggestion somewhat startled her, and
she resented being startled. "You are very kind," she said coldly.
"But I don't think we can either of us do that."
"I am not in the least kind," said Jake. "And will you tell me why you
are offended with me for suggesting it?"
"I am not--offended," she said, feeling herself grow uncomfortably hot
over the assertion. "But--I think you might have proposed this to me
before mentioning it to Bunny."
"But what's the matter with the proposal?" he said. "The boy was
delighted with it."
"That may be," Maud said; and then she paused, feeling suddenly that she
was being absurdly unreasonable. She blushed still more hotly in the
gloom, and became silent.
Jake stretched out one steady finger and laid it on her arm. "Don't
take fright at nothing!" he said, in an admonitory tone. "If you're
going to shy at this, I reckon you'll kick up your heels, and bolt at my
next suggestion."
She drew herself away from his touch, standing very erect. "Perhaps you
would be wiser not to make it," she said.
"Very likely," agreed Jake. "But--as you object to my mentioning things
to your brother first--I don't see how you can refuse to listen."
This was unanswerable. She bit her lip. "I am listening," she said.
"And the answer is 'No,' whatever it is," rejoined Jake, with a
whimsical note in his soft voice. "Say, Miss Brian, play fair!"
She felt somewhat softened in spite of herself. "I have said I will
listen," she said.
"With an unbiassed mind?" he said.
"Of course." She spoke impatiently; she wanted to get the interview
over, and she more and more resented his attitude towards her. There
was something of the superior male about him that grated on her nerves.
"All right," said Jake. "I'll go ahead. If you will condescend to come
up to my place on Sunday, I will show you a man--one of our jockeys--who
was injured in just the same way that your brother is injured, and who
is now as sound as I am. He was operated upon by an American doctor
called Capper--one of the biggest surgeons in the world. It was a bit
of an experiment, but it succeeded. Now what has been done once can be
done again. I chance to know Capper, and he is coming to London next
spring. He makes a speciality of spinal trouble. Won't you let him try
his hand on Bunny? There would be a certain amount of risk of course.
But wouldn't it be worth it? Say, wouldn't it be worth it, to see that
boy on his legs, living his life as it was meant to be lived instead of
dragging out a wretched existence that hardly deserves to be called life
at all?"
He stopped abruptly, as if realizing that he had suffered his eagerness
to carry him away. But to Maud who had begun to listen in icy aloofness
that same eagerness was as the kindling of a fire in a place of utter
desolation.
For the moment she forgot to be cold. "Oh, if it were only possible!"
she said. "If it only could be!"
"Why can't it be?" said Jake.
She came back with something of a shock to the consciousness of his
personality. She drew back from the warmth that he had made her feel.
"Because," she said frigidly, "doctors--great surgeons--don't perform
big operations for nothing."
"I don't think Capper would charge an out-of-the-way amount if he did it
for me," said Jake.
"Perhaps not." Maud spoke in the dead tone of finality.
He leaned slightly towards her. "Say, Miss Brian, aren't you rather
easily disheartened? Wouldn't your people scrape together something for
such a purpose?"
"No," she said.
"Are you quite sure?" he urged. "Won't you even ask 'em?"
She turned from him. "It's no good asking," she said, her voice low and
reluctant. "The only relation we possess who might help won't even
answer when I write to him."
"Why don't you go and see him?" said Jake. "Put the thing before him!
He couldn't refuse."
She shook her head. "It wouldn't be any good," she said, with dreary
conviction. "Besides, I couldn't get to Liverpool and back in a day,
and I couldn't leave Bunny for longer. And--in any case--I know--I know
it wouldn't be any good," she ended, with half-angry vehemence.
"I wish the little chap were my brother," said Jake.
Maud was silent. Somehow her vehemence had upset her; she had an
outrageous desire to cry.
Jake was silent too for a few seconds; then abruptly he squared his
shoulders and spoke with aggressive decision. "Miss Brian, a good friend
is nearer than a dozen beastly relations. With your permission--I'll
see this thing through."
"Oh no, no!" she said quickly. "No, no!"
"For the boy's sake!" he said.
"No!" she said again.
There fell a sudden silence. Then, in an odd voice Jake said, "Bunny
told me--only to-day--with pride--that there was nothing in the world
that you wouldn't do for him."
She made a sharp movement of protest. "I can't take--what I could never
repay," she said, speaking almost below her breath. "Neither shall
Bunny."
"There are more ways than one of paying a debt," said Jake.
He looked almost formidable standing there in the twilight with his legs
well apart and unabashed resolution in every line of his sturdy figure.
She faced him with a sinking sense of her own inferior strength. His
self-assertion seemed to weigh her down. She felt puny and insignificant
before it. As usual she sought refuge in stately aloofness. She had no
other weapon, and at least it covered the beating of her heart.
"I am afraid I don't understand you," she said.
"Shall I explain?" said Jake; and then, as she was silent: "Can't you
see I'm making a bid for your friendship?"
She froze at the effrontery of the words.
"Oh yes," said Jake. "I quite understand. I'm only tolerated for
Bunny's sake. Isn't that so? You're too proud to associate with a clod
like me. But for all that--though you'll never look at me--I'm not
afraid to let you know that I've taken a fancy to you. You've never
contemplated such a fool idea as marriage with me, I know: but you go
home and contemplate it right now! Ask yourself if you wouldn't find a
husband like me less nauseating than a step-father like Giles Sheppard!
Ask yourself if the little chap wouldn't stand a better chance all round
if you brought him along to me! I reckon we'd make his life easier
between us even if Capper couldn't make him walk. He's too heavy a
burden for you to carry alone, my girl. You weren't created for such a
burden as that. Let me lend a hand! I give you my solemn oath I'll be
good to you both!"
A tremor of passion ran through his last words, and his voice took a
deeper note. Maud, upright and quivering, felt the force of the man
like the blast of a tearing gale carrying all before it. She would have
left him at the commencement of his speech, but he blocked the way. She
stood imprisoned in a corner of the shelter, steadying herself against
the woodwork, while the full strength of his individuality surged around
her. She felt physically exhausted, as though she had been trying to
stand against a tremendous wind.
Several seconds throbbed away ere she could trust herself to speak
without faltering. Then: "Please let me pass!" she said.
He stood back instantly and she was conscious of a lessening of that
mysterious influence which had so overwhelmed her.
"Are you angry--or what?" he said.
She gathered her strength, and stepped forth, though she was trembling
from head to foot.
"Yes, I am angry," she said, forcing her voice to a certain measure of
calmness notwithstanding. "I have never been so insulted in my life!"
"Insulted!" He echoed the word in unfeigned astonishment; then, as she
would have left him, put a detaining hand upon her arm. "Say, Miss
Brian! Since when has a proposal of marriage constituted an insult in
your estimation?"
He spoke with something of a drawl, but it compelled attention. She
stopped, resisting the desire to shake herself free from his touch.
"A proposal of marriage from you could be nothing else," she said very
bitterly. "You take advantage of my position, but you know full well
that we are not equals."
"Oh yes, I know that," he said. "But--is any man your equal?"
"I meant socially of course," she said, beginning to recover her
composure and her dignity.
"I see." Jake's voice was very level. "And that is why you are
upset--angry?"
"It is a very sufficient reason," she said.
"Yes, but is it--as things now are? There is another point of view to
that problem. If you had been leading a happy, sheltered life in your
own sphere--that might have been a reason for me to hold off. You might
with justice have scorned my offer. But--as things are--as things
are--" he spoke with strong insistence. "Is it taking advantage of your
position to want to deliver you from it? It's a beastly position--it's
a humiliating position. And I gather you've no prospect of deliverance.
Well, I offer you a way of escape. It mayn't be the way you would
choose, but--there are worse, many worse. I'm not a bad sort, and I've
got a soft spot in my heart for that little brother of yours. Say, Miss
Brian, do you despise me so badly that you can't even give the idea your
impartial consideration?"
He spoke whimsically, but there was a rough dignity about him
nevertheless which had an undeniable effect upon her. She could no
longer spurn him with contempt, though neither could she yield a single
inch to his persuasion.
"It would be quite useless for me to consider it," she said. "I am
sorry if I was rude to you just now, but your suggestion rather took my
breath away. Please understand that it is quite, quite impossible!"
"All right," he said. "Still you won't dismiss it quite entirely from
your mind? That is to say, you'll hold it in reserve just in case a way
of escape becomes essential to you. I shan't break my heart about it,
but neither shall I change my mind. The offer remains open day and
night just in case the emergency might arise which would make you
willing to avail yourself of it."
He took his hand from her arm, and she felt that the interview was over.
Yet he walked beside her as she began to move away, and crossed the road
again with her to the entrance of the hotel.
"And one thing more," he said, as they reached it. "I have no wish or
intention to force myself upon you, so if--to please Bunny--you can
bring yourself to accompany the pair of us on the Sunday expedition to
see the stud, you need not be afraid that I shall attempt to take
advantage of your position again."
The colour flamed up in her face at the few, leisurely words. He seemed
to possess the power of calling it up at will.
She stood on the first step, looking down at him, uncertain whether to
be haughty or kind.
He moved close to her, and by the lamplight that streamed through the
glass doors she saw his frank, disarming smile.
"And look here!" he said. "Don't fling cold water on that other scheme
for Bunny that I broached to you, yet! You never know what may turn up."
The smile decided her. She held out her hand to him. "But, you know, I
couldn't--I really couldn't--" she said rather incoherently.
He gave the hand a firm grip and released it. "No. All right. I
understand. But think about it! And don't run away with the idea that
I planned it just for your sake! I'd like jolly well to be of use to
you. But--in the main--it's the lad I'm thinking of. You do the same!
After all, it's second nature with you to put him first, isn't it?"
"He always will come first, with me," she said. "But I couldn't--I
can't--incur such an obligation--even for him."
"All right," said Jake, unmoved. "Class it with the impossibles--but,
all the same, think about it!"
He was gone with the words, striding away down the street without a
backward glance.
Maud was left alone with the warm blood still in her cheeks and an odd
feeling of uncertainty at her heart. She felt baffled and uneasy like a
swimmer in deep waters, aware of a strong current but still not wholly
at its mercy, nor wholly aware of its force and direction. She did not
mean to let herself be drawn into that current. She hung on the edge of
it, trying to strike out and avoid it. But all the time it drew her, it
drew her. And--though she would not admit it even to herself--she knew
it and was afraid.