THE WORD UNSPOKEN
It was late that night when Mrs. Lovelace called Maud out of Bunny's
room with a white, scared face to tell her that Lord Saltash was below
asking for her.
"He wanted Mr. Bolton first," she said, "but I told him as I didn't know
if he was back, and then he said something about a slight motor accident
and seemed surprised like that Mr. Bolton hadn't come home."
"It's all right. He is home," Maud said. "There is no need to be
anxious about him." She hesitated a moment; then: "Tell Lord Saltash
so!" she said. "I think I won't come down now. He will understand."
Nevertheless, after she had dismissed the old woman, something prompted
her to go and listen at Jake's door. She was convinced in her own mind
that there had been no accident. Charlie had seen her husband's
condition and was anxious to know if he had returned home safely. That
was the explanation, doubtless, and she felt she could not face him.
She listened intently, but she heard no sound. Jake was sleeping no
doubt, sleeping heavily. An overwhelming disgust came upon her. She
turned shuddering away.
Mrs. Lovelace came wheezing back. Lord Saltash had gone. Was Mr.
Bolton all right? Should she fetch him anything?
No, Maud was quite sure he wanted nothing. He was asleep and Mrs.
Lovelace had better go to bed.
But she herself remained up till long after, in dread of a summons for
Jake from Sam Vickers or some other of the men at the Stables. Probably
they all suspected what had happened, but she felt that at all costs she
must prevent the shameful certainty reaching them. It was too horrible,
too lowering to her own personal pride. Very strangely it was that
overpowering sense of shame that first made her realize the man as her
husband. He had dragged her into the mire, and though her whole soul
revolted she felt with a sinking despair that she could never be clean
again. She was bound to him for better for worse, and nothing could
ever set her free. She was, as it were, identified with him, and the
evil of his nature must lie upon her like a taint. There could be no
escape for her, loathe him as she might.
She lay down at last sick at heart and full of a great bitterness. Life
was horrible, life was repulsive. Whichever way she turned some evil
monster crouched across her path.
Bunny was restless and querulous throughout the night. He was deeply
hurt by Jake's desertion, and, though he forebore to say so, he plainly
regarded his sister as a very poor substitute.
"I shan't get up till Jake comes to see me," he announced in the
morning.
And Maud went down to fetch his breakfast with a reluctant promise to
inform Jake of this intention if she saw him.
She hoped very earnestly that she would not see him, but her hope was
not to be fulfilled. Coming from the kitchen with Bunny's
breakfast-tray, she almost ran into him. He had evidently just entered
the house, and was hanging up his cap on the rack that stood in the
darkest corner of the passage.
He stood back for her to pass him. "Good morning!" he said.
Her face was burning. So great was her agitation for the moment that
she thought she must drop the tray she held.
Jake evidently thought so too, for he reached out and steadily took it
from her. "I'll take up this," he said. "I want to see the little
chap. Do you mind going into the parlour? I shall be down directly."
He spoke in his customary slightly sing-song drawl. She longed to
refuse, but could not. With an inarticulate murmur she turned aside.
In the parlour the fire burned brightly. She went and stood before it,
striving desperately for composure. She would have given all she had to
escape the coming interview. But she knew she could not, knew she must
face it, listen to semi-humorous excuses, possibly a good-natured
apology for an offence which she regarded as inexcusable, hideous.
With all her strength she fought for self-control. She must make it
clear to him, must somehow make him understand that this thing had
raised up a barrier between them that could never be broken down, an
immovable obstacle to all intimacy, a perpetual stumbling-block to
friendship. He had brought it on himself and never--never--never could
it now be otherwise. They had never been very near, but now they were
as far asunder as the poles. No kindness from him could ever make her
forget.
She heard him descending the stairs, and braced herself with a throbbing
heart to meet him. But she was trembling in every limb.
She did not turn to greet him as he entered, but kept her face
resolutely averted.
He came in, closed the door with evident purpose, and drew near to her.
She shrank at his coming. A quick involuntary shudder went through her.
She stiffened herself instinctively.
He spoke, in his voice a soft, half-wheedling note of remonstrance.
"Say, Maud, it ain't--altogether--reasonable to condemn a man unheard."
Her breath came short. She would not look at him. With a quivering
effort she spoke. "I don't see any point in discussing the obvious. I
am bound to believe the evidence of my own eyes."
"Without doubt," conceded Jake. "And they testified to my being screwed
last night?"
"You can't--with truth--assert that you were sober," she said.
Jake did not make the assertion. He stood considering. After a moment:
"Do you object so strongly to the sight of me that you can't bear to
look at me?" he asked.
His tone was faintly humorous. She resented it on the instant, hotly,
almost fiercely. It was so exactly the attitude that she had
anticipated.
"I do object--yes," she said, her voice low and vehement. "I can't think
how you can have the effrontery to speak to me until I give you leave."
"That so?" he said.
There was insolence in his tone this time. She turned and faced him.
Then she saw a large cross of strapping-plaster across his temple. She
looked at it a moment ere defiantly she met his eyes.
"I suppose you are going to make that your excuse," she said.
"I was," said Jake imperturbably.
She bit her lip. His utter lack of shame made her pitiless. "If I
hadn't met you on the stairs last night, I might believe you," she said.
"You're real kind," he rejoined. "As a matter of fact I didn't cut my
head open tumbling upstairs, but I reckon that detail won't interest
you. You'll think what you want to think, whatever I say. And p'raps,
as you say, there's not much point in discussing the obvious. Shall we
have some breakfast?"
His eyes shone with a mocking gleam into hers. She was sure he was
laughing inwardly, though his mouth was grim.
"I shall breakfast upstairs," she said coldly.
He made a slight movement that passed unexplained. "Oh, I think not," he
said suavely. "It won't hurt you any to sit at table with me. I am a
very ordinary sinner, I assure you."
Something in his tone made her flinch. The colour went out of her face.
She turned without a word to the table.
They sat down, and he helped her to food, she knew not what. There
followed a silence that she felt to be terrible, a silence through which
it came to her for the first time in her experience that Jake was angry.
She looked at him no longer, but she felt as if his eyes were upon her
unceasingly.
"What about coffee, Mrs. Bolton?" he said suddenly.
She gave a great start. The coffee-urn was in front of her. She
proceeded to pour out for him, the cup clattering in the saucer she
held.
He did not move to take it; she rose, as if compelled, and carried it to
him.
As she set it down, his hand suddenly descended upon hers. He looked up
into her face, faintly smiling.
"Maud, my girl, don't be such a fool!" he said. "Can't you see you're
making a mistake?"
She froze in his grasp. "Don't touch me, please!" she said.
"You--I--see things from a different standpoint. It may seem a small
matter to you, but to me--to me--" She stopped. "Let me go!" she said,
with a nervous effort to free herself.
But he held her still. "Say, now, do you think you're wise to treat me
like this?" he said. "You've got to put up with me, remember. Wouldn't
it be to your own interest to give me the benefit of the doubt?"
"There is no doubt," she said, speaking quickly, breathlessly. "You
haven't tried to deny it. As to--to--putting up with you--" the hand he
held clenched convulsively--"I have a little self-respect----"
"Call it pride!" interjected Jake softly.
She looked at him with eyes of burning revolt. "Very well. Call it
pride! And understand that if this shameful thing ever occurs again,
neither Bunny nor I can stay with you any longer!"
Quiveringly the words rushed out. He had goaded her into uttering an
ultimatum that she had never contemplated addressing to him at the
commencement of the interview and the moment that she had uttered it she
knew that she had done wrong. The red-brown eyes uplifted to hers
suddenly kindled. He looked at her with a fiery intensity that sent the
blood to her heart in a wave of wild dismay.
His hand closed like a steel spring upon her wrist. "So, you think
you'll make a fool of me!" he said, and in his voice there sounded a
deep note that was like the menace of an angry beast. "All right, my
girl! You just try it! You'll find it an interesting experiment if a
bit costly."
"Are you--coward enough--to threaten me?" she said, through panting
lips.
"Reckon you've done all the threatening this journey," Jake rejoined,
with a smile that made her shiver. "It wasn't exactly a wise move on
your part, but p'raps you'll think better of it presently."
He let her go, with the words, and she went back to her place, outwardly
calm, inwardly shaking.
Jake proceeded with his breakfast in a silence so absorbed that it was
almost as if he had forgotten her presence altogether. It was never a
lengthy meal with him. He ate and drank with business-like rapidity,
not noticing that she did neither.
Finally he rose. "I shall come in presently to see if Bunny wants to
come down," he said. "But the little chap doesn't look up to much this
morning. He'll have to take it easy."
Maud did not respond. She sat rigidly gazing towards the window.
Jake stood a moment, waiting for her to turn, but she made no movement.
He came quietly round to her, bent over her chair.
"Say, Maud, you aren't going to keep it up? That's not like you. I'll
tell you all that happened last night if you'll listen."
She made a slight gesture of distaste. Her face was white and cold as
marble. "I would rather not hear, thank you," she said, without looking
at him. "I would rather you went away."
Jake stood up. There was no longer any suggestion of anger or any other
emotion about him. His eyes glittered like red quartz in the sun; but
his brow was absolutely unruffled.
"Well," he said, in a very pronounced drawl, "I should have some
breakfast if I were you, and see how I felt then. It's wonderful what a
difference breakfast makes."
He turned away with the words; she heard him go with relief.
On the other side of the door was the red setter, Chops. He pushed his
way in with a passing smile at his master, who had conferred the freedom
of the house upon him since Bunny's advent, to Mrs. Lovelace's prim
disgust.
Jake made no attempt to hinder his entrance. He knew that Chops
possessed privileges of friendship denied to himself. He closed the
door upon him and departed.
Chops, after a cursory glance round for Bunny, came to the feet of his
mistress. He looked at her with soft, questioning eyes, then, as she
made no response, sat gravely down before her and rested his red, silken
head upon her lap.
She looked down at him then. Her hand went forth to caress. He
snuggled closer, sensing trouble, and breathed wistful greetings through
his nose. His eyes, clear brown and full of love, looked up to hers.
The rigidity went out of her attitude. She bent suddenly over him and
kissed him, touched by the honest devotion and sympathy of those eyes.
By the simple method of offering all he had, Chops had managed to convey
a little comfort to her soul.