OFFER OF FREEDOM
Slowly the dreary winter days gave place to spring. March came with
gusty rain-storms that swept over sea and downs; lashing the waves to
fury, blotting the countryside like a torn veil. March went, smiling
and wonderful, with a treacherous graciousness that deceived all nature
into imagining that the winter was really gone.
At Burchester Castle, Bunny, lying perpetually flat on his back by the
doctor's unalterable decree, alternated between fits of bitter
complaining and fits of black despair. He suffered more from tedium and
weariness than from any definite pain, and Maud found herself fully
occupied once more with the care of him. The nurse was thankful to have
her at hand, for Bunny was at all times a difficult patient. And to be
in attendance upon him was Maud's greatest joy in those days. She
watched over him with such a wealth of devotion as she had never
displayed before, a devotion at which even the boy himself sometimes
marvelled.
Jake came and went, but he was never with him at night. The nurse slept
in his room and Maud in the one adjoining. Jake went back to his home to
sleep.
He and Maud saw but little of each other. They met daily, but she
avoided all intercourse with him so strenuously that only the most
ordinary commonplaces ever passed between them.
She saw much more of Saltash, though he was often away. His comings and
goings were never known beforehand, and he never intruded himself upon
her. Only when she went in the afternoons or evenings to the music-room
and, propping the door wide, played and sometimes sang to Bunny, he had
a fashion of coming lightly in upon her, dropping as it seemed from
nowhere, and lying outstretched upon the settee near her while he smoked
his endless cigarettes, and occasionally criticized.
How he entered she never discovered; he was always there before she
knew, and he never came in by the door. When she asked him, he would
only jest.
"Some day I will show you my secret chamber, _ma belle reine_. But not
yet--not yet."
No intimate conversation took place at these times. They were seldom
really alone, being always within call of Bunny's imperious voice.
Saltash was very good to Bunny, but his company was considered by the
nurse to be too lively for her patient, and she would not permit him to
stay long in the sick-room. Her orders regarding Bunny were very strict.
He was to be kept quiet,--contented also, if possible, but always quiet.
For that reason his mother's visits were also very brief. She did not
often come to the Castle. It seemed to Maud that her plump face was
beginning to wear a harassed look, but there never had been any
confidence between them, and she did not like to question her. She knew
herself quite powerless to assist in the bearing of her mother's
burdens.
During that final month of devotion to Bunny she gave herself up to him
so completely that even her own problems grew remote and almost unreal.
She was upon the usual friendly terms with Charlie; but he was very far
from occupying her first attention. So absorbed indeed was she that the
memory of their brief conversation on the day of Bunny's operation,
together with his mad, characteristic suggestion, had faded altogether
into the background of her mind. It seemed somehow impossible that
Bunny could ever cease to be the centre and aim of her whole conscious
existence, impossible that Capper and his miracles could so alter the
trend of her life's destiny.
Her feeling for Saltash seemed to be lying dormant, very far below the
surface. She was not thinking of herself at all just then. She was too
fully occupied. Her feeling for Jake also was almost a blank. Now that
he no longer attempted to play any part in her life but that of passive
spectator, she treated him without conscious effort as a comparative
stranger. But all the time deep down in her heart she smothered that
nameless dread of the man that once had been so active. She did not
want to think of him; she instinctively restrained herself from thinking
of him. She had schooled herself to meet him without agitation. She had
thrust him unresisting into the furthest background of her
consciousness. And now she lived for Bunny, and for Bunny alone.
So that last month slipped away.
April came, but no word from Capper. A faint, new hope began to dawn in
her heart. Was it possible that the sacrifice might not after all be
demanded of her? Was it possible that the miracle might even yet be
worked out with much patience at Burchester? Bunny did not seem to be
making much progress, but at least she was sure he was not losing
ground. He did not suffer so much as formerly, though his chafing
irritability sometimes seemed to her to be even greater than before. He
talked incessantly of Capper, urging Jake to write to him.
But Jake would not be persuaded. "Capper knows his own business, my
son. You leave him alone!" he said.
And Bunny had perforce to accept the fiat. He never seriously attempted
to resist Jake. Their friendship was too near for that. Jake's
influence over him was practically boundless.
But he could not check the boy's fierce impatience which grew
perceptibly from day to day.
It was on a warm afternoon towards the middle of the month that Maud was
sitting at the piano, trying to soothe him with the music he loved,
during the absence of the nurse, when the sound of a footfall in the
room made her turn. Saltash had been away for a few days, but she was
half-expecting him. He never remained away for long.
"Why, Charlie,--" she began, with a quick smile of welcome, and broke
off sharply. It was Capper.
Her face must have displayed something more than surprise, she reflected
later, for his first words, albeit he smiled whimsically as he uttered
them, were words of apology.
"So sorry, Mrs. Bolton. I shouldn't have taken you off your guard like
this, only I had a notion that being somewhat over-due, you might be
more or less prepared to see me."
She left the piano, and went with outstretched hand to meet him. "You
at last!" she said.
Her welcome was cordial, but it was wholly without eagerness. Her heart
was beating wildly, uncontrollably. She felt suddenly cold, as if she
had stepped into a stone vault.
Capper bent a little over her hand; she saw his eyes flash over her. "I
don't find the frog in attendance," he remarked. "Has he been shunted
for a spell?"
She felt her colour come again. "Don't you want to hear about Bunny?"
she said.
He smiled at her. "I know my own business so well, madam, that I know
all I need to know about Bunny," he told her dryly. "The boy is just
mad to be allowed to try his strength, and between you and me he'll have
about the biggest disappointment of his life when he does. It won't do
him any harm though, so don't you worry any!" He suddenly held up her
hand to the light and surveyed it critically. "Say, Mrs. Bolton," he
said, "what do you live on? Just monkey-nuts?"
She laughed in spite of herself. "I live very well, I assure you. But
I could never get fat. It's not my nature."
He grunted and pulled at his yellow beard. "Do you realize that you've
lost pounds of flesh since it was first my privilege to meet you?"
She shook her head protestingly. "Oh no, really. It is your
imagination."
Capper shook his head also. "My imagination feeds on facts only. Jake
is not looking after you properly. It's my belief he is treating you to
slow starvation."
"Oh indeed--indeed," she broke in with vehemence, "Jake has had nothing
to do with me lately. I have been much too busy with Bunny, and he has
had the good sense not to interfere."
"Is that good sense?" said Capper, in the tone of one who does not
require an answer.
"Besides," she went on rather breathlessly, "it's not Jake's business to
look after me."
"I thought that was what husbands were for," said Capper, with his
whimsical smile. "It's a fool policy anyway to leave a woman to look
after herself, and you're just a living illustration of that fact."
Her hands clasped his arm almost unconsciously. "Please--please don't
ever discuss me again with Jake!" she begged in tones of distress.
He patted her hand with fatherly reassurance and passed the matter by.
"What are you going to do when Bunny is gone?" he asked.
Her face paled again. "You are really going to take him away?" she
said.
"To-morrow," said Capper.
She removed her hands with a gesture that was piteous, she said nothing
whatever.
Capper turned aside. "Maybe you'll take up housekeeping," he said
practically. "If I dare to venture upon the suggestion, you would make
a charming hostess."
She was silent still.
He glanced at her. "Say, Mrs. Bolton," he said, "I guess you'll think
me several kinds of a nuisance; but your husband has offered me his
hospitality for to-night. And I,--well, I have accepted it
provisionally, that is, on the condition that he can supply me with a
hostess."
She looked at him in blank dismay. "But I sleep here!" she said. "I--I
must be always at hand in case Bunny should want me."
"Isn't the nurse in attendance?" asked Capper, with a touch of
sharpness.
"Oh, of course," she answered. "But--but----"
"And how often in the night does she generally call you?"
Maud was silent.
Capper's hand patted her shoulder again, paternally, admonishingly.
"Guess he could spare you for to-night," he said. "Pack your grip and
come home! Jake will be pleased to see you, sure."
She shivered. "It isn't home to me," she said.
"What?" said Capper. "Not your husband's house?"
The hot colour rushed up over her face. She turned from him. "Come and
see Bunny!" she said.
A few minutes later she stood alone in the music-room, gazing forth from
the western window with eyes that seemed to search the horizon for help.
Capper was occupied with Bunny. The nurse had returned, and she was not
needed. The certainty of this was upon her, a dead weight pressing her
down. Bunny's need of her was past forever. Duty, stark and
implacable, was all that remained in life.
Ah! A step behind her! She turned swiftly. "Charlie!"
He came to her, a smile on his swarthy face, a gleam of wickedness in
his eyes. He took the hands that almost involuntarily she stretched to
him. "You summoned me!" he said.
Something in his look warned her of danger. His clasp was electric in
its tenseness.
She stood a moment before replying; then: "I didn't so much as know you
were in the house," she said.
She left her hands in his. An odd recklessness was upon her, the
recklessness born of despair.
He laughed into her eyes. "Yet you summoned me, most tragic queen of
the roses," he said. "You weren't so much as thinking of me, perhaps?
Yet subconsciously your spirit cried to mine, and behold--I am here."
He had drawn her close to him, holding her hands against his breast, so
that the quick, ardent beat of his heart came to her, sending a curious,
half-reluctant thrill through her own.
She looked into his face of mocking subtleties. "No, I wasn't thinking
of you, Charlie," she said. "I was thinking of myself, hating the life
before me--hating everything!"
The concentrated bitterness of her speech was almost like a challenge.
She spoke passionately, as one goaded, not caring what came of it.
Saltash was bending slowly towards her, still laughing, ready to take
refuge in a joke if refuge were needed, yet daring also, warily marking
his game. "Why don't you think of me--for a change?" he said.
She turned her face swiftly aside. Her lips were suddenly quivering.
"No one--not even you--can help me now," she said.
"You are wrong," he answered instantly. "I can help you. It's just
what I'm here for."
She glanced at him again. "As a friend, Charlie?" she said.
He bent his dark head over her hands. "Yes, a friend," he said.
"But--" She began to tremble; the old dread was upon her, the old
instinctive recoil, the old ache of distrust. She set her hands against
him, holding him from her. "How can you help me?" she said.
He did not lift his head. "I can't keep you out of the furnace
altogether," he said. "But I can save you from living in bondage to a
man you loathe. You will have to trust me--to a certain extent. Do you
trust me?"
"I don't know." Her voice was low, quivering with an agitation she
could not repress. "Tell me what you are thinking of! Tell me
how--how----"
"I will tell you," he said, "when you have made up your mind as to my
trustworthiness."
She controlled her agitation with an effort. "Oh, don't play with me,
Charlie!" she besought him. "Don't you see I'm cornered--desperate? Of
course I will trust you."
He looked up at her with a wry lift of one eyebrow. "Being a case of
needs must," he observed dryly. "Well, my dear girl, the case is simple
enough. You are ready to trust me because you must. No one else is
under the same obligation. Everyone else--the worthy cow-puncher
included--knows my fascinating reputation. Disappear with me for a week
or so--we'll run away and hide--and all charitably-minded folks will
jump to the obvious conclusion. The result will be an undefended divorce
suit, and I shall pay the damages." His smile became a grimace. "That
is your road to freedom, _ma belle reine_," he said. "And think on me, I
pray thee, when that freedom shall be achieved! There are sunnier lands
than England where lovely ladies may be wooed by wandering cavaliers.
And surely, surely," his smile flashed forth again, "having thus made
such atonement for past offences as lies in my power, my queen would
stoop to be gracious to me at last!"
He bent again over her hands, holding them pressed to his lips.
Maud stood mute. The audacity of the suggestion seemed to deprive her
of the power of speech. None but Charlie could ever have evolved such a
plan. None but Charlie--who loved her!
The sudden realization of his love went through her like a sword-thrust
in her heart. She actually gasped with the pain of it. What he
suggested was impossible of course--of course! But how gallantly, and
withal how tenderly, he had laid the offer before her, urging no claim,
merely--out of the love he still had for her--offering her deliverance!
But she must find an answer for him. He was waiting, bent in courtly
fashion, with that kinglike carelessness of pose that marked him out
from all other men.
She looked at the bowed head that could be poised so arrogantly, and
suddenly her eyes were full of tears. She made a movement to withdraw
her hands.
"Oh, Charlie," she said, in a broken, passionate whisper, "if I were
only free!"
He raised his head on the instant. "But you can be free. I am offering
you freedom. A little courage, a little confidence! Can't you face it
with me? Are you afraid?"
His voice was eager, his eyes were shining and boyishly persuasive. His
hands still clasped hers with a pressure so vital and insistent that she
felt impelled to suffer it.
She shook her head. "No, Charlie. It isn't that. But--but--my
promise!"
"Oh, what of that?" he said impetuously. "A promise made under
compulsion is no bond at all. You can't keep it and yet be true to
yourself. The mistake lay in making it. But to stick to it would be
worse than madness. Listen; Maud! You must listen! Your marriage is
an abomination, and you must rid yourself of it, whatever the cost. I
can see--I have seen all along--that it is an absolute violation of your
whole nature. You shrink from the man. I believe in your soul you abhor
him. You did it on impulse. He knows that. And you have repented ever
since. Your heart was never in it. I think I know where your heart
is,"--his voice suddenly softened, and his hand began subtly to draw her
back to him. "But we won't discuss that now. It isn't the time. I am
concerned only to deliver you. And I am offering you such deliverance
as you can accept, a deliverance that you can safely contemplate without
shrinking. The publicity of the thing need never touch you personally.
You can live in seclusion till it is all forgotten. Maud, my Maud,
won't you--can't you--trust an old friend?" His hands were drawing her
closer. His dark face, aglow with the ardour of his quest, was close to
hers. "You want to be free," he urged. "And--my darling,--I want you
free, I want you free!"
His voice throbbed into silence. He was drawing her--drawing her. In
another moment he would have had her in his arms, but she held back from
him with quivering, desperate strength. "No, Charlie! No!" she said
gaspingly.
He released her hands at once, and abruptly. With a species of royal
indifference curiously characteristic of him, he veiled his ardour. "It
is for you to choose," he said. "I don't take. I offer." Then, as she
covered her face, he softened again, took her suddenly, very lightly, by
the shoulders. "Have I gone too far, queen of the roses?" he whispered.
"Yet he will go further still. It is that that I want to save you from.
You must forgive me, sweet, if I seem too anxious. I am hard pressed
myself. I want you badly enough, it's true. But that isn't my main
reason for urging this. If you had married a man you cared for, I could
have borne it. But this,--this is intolerable. There! I have done.
Only remember, that I am ready--I am always ready. I shall wait for you
by day and by night. Sooner or later--sooner or later, I know you will
come. Don't be afraid to come, Queen Maud! I will be to you whatever
you wish always. I only ask to serve you."
Rapidly he uttered the low words, still holding her with a touch that
was scarcely perceptible, but of which she was so vividly conscious that
she quivered from head to foot, every nerve stretched and vibrant,
burningly alive, chafing to respond.
The wild impulse to yield herself to his arms, casting away all
shackles, was for the moment almost overpowering. Her spirit leapt to
the call of his, beating fiercely for freedom like a caged bird viewing
its mate in the open sky. How she restrained it she knew not. Perhaps
it was fear, perhaps it was that old, instinctive sense of fitness that
had influenced her long ago. But the moment passed, and she remained
motionless.
Saltash turned aside.
He betrayed no sign of disappointment. That also was characteristic of
him. He saw no defeat in failure. He regarded it only as victory
postponed.
And his attitude said as much when after a moment or two he began to
speak in a light and careless strain of matters indifferent to them
both. If he had not squarely hit his mark, he was not far therefrom,
and with that he was content. He knew her to be nearer to his level
than she had ever been before. The Maud of old days would have viewed
his suggestion with the shrinking horror of a spirit that had never
known temptation. The Maud of to-day was different, more human, more
truly woman. She had suffered, and her dainty pride had ceased to
uphold her. He had offered himself to her in the light of deliverer, and
as such he believed he would win her. The odds were at last in his
favour.
As for Jake, he might be formidable, but Saltash was no coward. He
fancied that when the time came, Jake would accept the inevitable. In
any case he was far too keen upon the chase to be deterred by the
thought of an outsider like Jake. If any element of danger existed, he
welcomed it. If a thing were worth having, it was worth fighting for,
Saltash never had in any one of his rash intrigues paused to count the
cost, and certainly it was not often that the cost had been borne by
him. He snatched his pleasures, and he drank deep thereof; but the
dregs he was wont to throw away. Once only--or possibly twice--had he
ever been made to drink to the bottom of the cup. And he did not stop
now to consider that on each of those occasions the cup had been firmly
held in the hand of Jake Bolton.