CHAPTER XXXVI

THE BOND

"I have called him The Hundredth Chance," said Jake. "But I guess he is

going to be a winner."

He was stooping over a tiny black foal that stood with trembling legs

pressed against its mother's flank. She was looking round at the master

with questioning eyes. Even he was only allowed in the loose-box on

suffrance.

"You're very hopeful," said Capper.

He stood leaning on the half-door, looking in upon Jake's latest

treasure.

Maud was standing with him, but slightly apart, fondling the red setter

Chops who fawned about her knees. Chops had been unfeignedly delighted

to see her again, and he could not desist from telling her so. She had

bid good-bye to Bunny till the morrow, but she had made no definite

arrangements for leaving the Castle, and even yet she was wondering if

she might not manage to return for that one last night of her brother's

sojourn there.

Jake had received her without comment when she had arrived with Capper

half an hour before. She fancied his manner was somewhat guarded, but

he treated her as if he had expected her and her coming had caused him

no surprise.

Upon an ordinary occasion she would have been charmed with the sight of

the week-old foal that Jake had brought them thither to see, but at the

moment she was too stiff with shy reserve to enjoy it. So she stood

apart instead while Jake talked in his soft voice to the doctor,

striving to hide her embarrassment in murmured endearments to Chops.

"Oh yes, the dam's a blood mare," Jake was saying, "the most valuable

animal we have. She's a mass of nerves, unfortunately. We've had a lot

of trouble with her."

He stretched a fondling hand to the creature's enquiring muzzle. She

laid her ears for a moment, but the next her tongue came out and softly

licked first his fingers and then the wistful black face of her

offspring.

Jake smiled and stood up. "She's a good mother, Doctor. I like a good

mother," he said.

His eyes fell on Maud, bending low with flushed face over the dog. A

momentary shadow crossed his face. He had counted upon a greater

enthusiasm on her part. Never before had she failed to take a keen

interest in the animals. "Reckon we'd better go in and get some supper,"

he said.

They went in. The spring twilight was falling and with it a brief

shower that pattered awhile and was stayed. Down in the orchard the

blackbirds were singing in a wonderful chorus that seemed to fill all

the world with music. The scents that rose from the rain-steeped earth

were of that wondrous fragrance that holds the senses spellbound in the

magic of Spring.

From somewhere near the open French window there came the breath of

violets, and from a little further away, subtly mingling with it, the

incense of wallflowers, all wet and luscious from the damp, sweet earth.

"A wonderful season," said Capper.

Jake smiled somewhat grimly. "A stormy May," he said.

The meal was of the simplest, served by Mrs. Lovelace in her best gown

of black sateen. Her plump face wore a pursed look of peculiar

severity. Maud, very pale and still, at the end of the table, gave her

a murmured greeting which called forth a very grim response.

Jake was apparently at his ease, but he made no attempt to draw his wife

into the conversation. He talked to Capper or was silent. He was still

wearing the riding-costume with which she always associated him. She

heard the clink of his spurs whenever he moved.

Capper was very gentle with her, full of kindly consideration. There

were no difficult pauses. To a casual observer there would have been no

evidence of strain. Only to the girl, sitting there at her husband's

table, a stranger, was it almost insupportable. She did not know how

she came through the meal, nor was she aware of eating anything. When it

was over at last, she was thankful to rise and go.

She took refuge upstairs in the room that had been Bunny's, standing

there in darkness, striving with herself, fighting desperately for

composure. What was expected of her she did not know, whether to go or

to remain. The impulse to go strongly urged her, but she held it back.

There was the morrow to be thought of, the morrow to be faced, and she

had a feeling--a dreadful, growing suspicion--that Jake was drawing to

the end of his patience. Not that he had betrayed it by word or look;

only he seemed to be waiting, waiting with an iron determination that no

action of hers could baulk. She felt that if she fled from him

to-night, she would never dare to face him again.

The thought of Charlie arose within her, Charlie, careless, debonair,

gay of soul. He had offered her his protection. Should she go to

him--even now? Could she? Dared she?

The temptation drew her, drew her. She knew Charlie so well. She was

sure he would be chivalrous. She was sure she could count upon him.

But his protection--what was it worth?

Now that she had seen Jake, had felt the primitive force of the man

anew, her heart misgave her. She was possessed by the appalling

conviction that in the matter of lawlessness Jake could outdo Charlie

many times over, if once roused. No trammels of civilization would hold

him. He would go straight for his prey, and no power on earth would

turn him aside, or make him relinquish his hold till he had wreaked his

vengeance.

For the first time it occurred to her that it might not be upon herself

alone that that vengeance would fall. A great shudder went through her.

She quivered all over, and turning crept to the bed and crouched beside

it. She was terrified, unnerved, despairing. Her own wickedness

frightened her, so that she could not even pray for help. She knew not

which way to turn.

A long time passed thus; then there came a step upon the stair, a

steady, quiet step. A hand pushed open the door.

"Say, Maud, are you here?" Jake said.

She tried to answer him, but could not. She knew that the moment she

spoke, she would betray herself.

He came forward into the room. She saw his square figure against the

light outside the door.

"Capper has gone back," he said. "He wouldn't stay any longer."

That startled her to a tragic activity. She sprang up in wild dismay.

"Dr. Capper--gone! I--I thought he was spending the night!"

"I wanted him to," said Jake. "He wouldn't. He said I was to wish you

good-night, and thank you for your hospitality."

Maud stood still, her hands at her throat. For the moment she was too

electrified for speech. Then anger--bitter, furious resentment--came to

her aid.

"So you brought me here by--a trick!" she said, her voice pitched very

low but full of a quivering abhorrence that must have reached him where

he stood.

"I don't know what you mean," said Jake. His voice was curt and cool;

he spoke without the smallest evidence of indignation or constraint. "I

never asked you to come, nor did I ask Capper to bring you. I presume

you were a free agent so far as that goes. But since you are here there

is not much point in running away again. It's here that you belong."

The finality of his speech came upon her with stunning force. It had

the dead level of absolute assurance. As he made it, he came forward

into the room, and she heard the rattle of his matchbox as he drew it

forth.

She stood and waited tensely while he deliberately struck a match and

lighted one of the candles upon the mantel-piece. All the blood in her

body seemed to be throbbing at her throat. She had not been alone with

him for weeks. She had never been alone with him as she was to-night.

The light from the candle showed her the room prepared as for a guest.

The chintz covers were all newly-starched, and from the bed there seemed

to come a subtle scent of lavender. The lattice-window was wide to the

night, and from far away there rose the long deep roar of the sea.

Jake turned from the lighted candle, and pointed to a low chair by the

bed. "Sit down!" he said. "There's something I've got to say to you."

She looked at him with hunted eyes. She thought his face was very grim,

but the dim flickering light threw strange shadows upon it, baffling

her.

He came to her as she still remained upon her feet, took her between his

hands, and held her so, facing him.

"Say, now," he said, and a hint of half-coaxing kindliness softened the

measured resolution of his speech, "where's the sense of fighting when

you know you can't win? You're not a very good loser, my girl. But I

reckon it's just a woman's way. I won't be hard on you on that

account."

She drew back from him swiftly, with the old, instinctive shrinking from

the man's overwhelming force of personality.

"Oh, need we talk about that now?" she said hurriedly. "I--there is

still Bunny to think of. It is his last night, and--and--and----"

She broke off with a sound half-choked that was almost a cry. For

Jake's hands were holding her, drawing her, compelling her. She

realized that in another moment she would be in his arms. She set her

quivering hands against his shoulders, pushing him from her with all her

strength.

He set her free then, with a gesture half-contemptuous. "So it's to be

the same old fool game to the bitter end, is it?" he asked, and she

caught in his voice a new note as of anger barely held in check. "Well,

I reckon it's up to you to make good sooner or later. It was not my

intention to hold you down to that bargain of ours; but if you must have

it, you shall. I want to know when you propose to make good."

She shrank away from him in quivering disgust. "Oh, never, never!" she

said.

The words rushed out almost against her will, and the moment they were

uttered she wished them back. For Jake's eyes leapt into sudden furious

flame, such flame as seemed to scorch her from head to foot. He did not

speak at once, but stood looking at her, looking at her, while the awful

seconds crept away.

At last, "It's rather--rash of you to put it that way," he said, and

there was a faintly humorous sound in his voice as though he restrained

a laugh. "So you're not--a woman of your word after all? That's

queer--damn' queer. I could have sworn you were."

She wrung her hands hard together in a desperate effort at self-control.

"Oh, Jake," she said piteously, "it isn't my fault that we're not made

of the same stuff, indeed--indeed! You--you wouldn't ask the impossible

of me!"

"P'raps not," said Jake, and now he spoke in the old soft drawl that she

knew well as a cloak to unwavering determination. "But has it never

occurred to you that I might leave asking and just--take?"

She recoiled further from him. The man's deadly assurance appalled her.

She had no weapon to oppose against it. And his eyes were as a red-hot

furnace into which she dared not look.

"Now, listen to me!" he suddenly said. "There's been enough of this

fooling around--more than enough. I've put up with it so far, but

there's a limit to everything. The time has come for you to remember

that you are my wife, I am your husband. We may not be over well suited

to one another, as you have pointed out. But the bond exists and we

have got to make the best of it. And so you will not go back to the

Castle to-night. You will stay here under your husband's roof, and fill

your rightful place by my side. Is that understood?"

He spoke with the utmost decision; and Maud, white to the lips,

attempted no reply. She had made her appeal, and he had not heard it.

She knew with sure intuition that further resistance would be useless.

She had staked all, and she had lost. In that moment she saw her life a

heap of ruins, blasted by a devastating tempest that had scattered to

the four winds all that she had ever held precious. And nothing was left

to her. Nothing of value could ever be hers again. Only out of the

smoking ruins there presently arose one thing--a poison plant--that was

to flourish in the midst of desolation. Out of the furnace of a man's

unshackled passion it sprang to full growth in a single night ready to

bear its evil fruit when time should have made it ripe.

The seed of it had been sown by Saltash. The tropical raising of it was

the work of Jake Bolton. The nourishing of it was left to Maud. But

the final ingathering of that bitter harvest was to fall to the lot of

all three.

PART II

THE RACE

CHAPTER I

HUSKS

Chops the setter was puzzled.

He had been following his mistress about in his faithful way throughout

the whole of that hot July afternoon, and he had fathomed the fact that

she was preparing for a visitor. He even half-suspected that he knew

who the visitor would prove to be. But none the less was he puzzled by

her attitude. For to Chops' plain and honest mind the coming of a guest

was a cause for undiluted joy. But it was evident that to Maud the

advent of this one was a matter of anxiety, even almost of dread.

Jake's old bedroom facing the Stables had been assigned to the newcomer.

She had spent hours of loving care upon it, yet on this, the great day

of arrival, she did not seem happy or by any means content.

A great restlessness possessed her, and Chops in consequence was uneasy

also. He had conceived a vast affection for his young mistress that was

in some fashion vaguely mingled with pitying concern. She had a

disconcerting way of weeping in private when only Chops might see, and

he had a feeling that such consolation as he was able to proffer, though

quite whole-hearted, was never altogether equal to the occasion. The

tears she shed were so piteously hopeless, and even her smiles were

hopeless too. Chops often mourned over the sadness of his idol.

She had just come in from the garden with a great handful of sweet peas.

It was a glorious sunny morning, and she had put on an old blue

sunbonnet that had done duty down on the sea-shore in previous summers

to protect her from the glare. She was holding the flowers up to her

face as she mounted the steps to the parlour, and such was her

absorption that she did not notice what Chops, following close behind,

perceived on the instant,--the strong, square figure of her husband

waiting in the entrance of the glass door.

She was actually within touch of him before she was aware of his

presence, and then with a great start she lowered her flowers, while

over her face there came a look that was like the sudden donning of a

mask.

"I thought you had gone," she said.

"Not quite," said Jake.

He bent slightly as she entered, stretched out a hand, took her by the

chin, and kissed her mask-like face.

She endured his action with the most complete show of indifference,

neither returning nor avoiding his caress. A faint, faint tinge of

colour showed in her cheeks as with scarcely a pause she passed on into

the room; that was all.

"It is getting late," she observed. "I think you had better go."

Jake's eyes, red-brown and shining, followed her with a masterful

expression as she moved to the table and laid down her flowers, marking

the queenly bend of her neck, the cold majesty of her pose.

He said nothing for the moment, merely took his pipe out of his pocket

and began to fill it.

Maud went to the sideboard for a vase. Her movements were very

measured, very stately. She did not so much as glance towards the man

who watched her. The old quick nervousness of manner had gone utterly

from her. She was like a marble statue endued with a certain icy

animation.

"You don't look exactly--excited," remarked Jake, as he finally stuck

his pipe into his mouth.

She smiled, a cold, aloof smile, saying nothing.

He lighted his pipe, his eyes still upon her. "Say, Maud," he said,

between the puffs, "why don't you come too?"

She raised her beautiful brows a little at the question and slightly

shrugged her shoulders.

"You don't want to?" pursued Jake.

Her blue eyes met his for a single instant. They were dark and remote

as a deep mountain tarn. "Not in the least," she said.

He swung round with a jingle of spurs and came to the table by which she

stood.

"What if I wish you to come?" he said.

The faint, cold smile still drew her lips. She had begun already to

arrange her flowers.

"Of course your wish is law," she said.

He leaned towards her, laying an abrupt hand upon hers. "Maud!" he

said.

She became still on the instant, but she did not look at him or attempt

to avoid the tobacco smoke that curled between them.

"Maud," he said again, and there was a hint of pleading in his voice,

"why can't you be friends with me? Surely I'm not all that hard to get

on with!"

She kept her eyes lowered. The pale composure of her face did not vary

as she made reply. "I am sorry if you are not satisfied. I thought you

had got--all you wanted."

He pulled the pipe from his mouth and laid it on the table. "Do you

think any man is satisfied with husks?" he said.

Her lip curled a little. She said nothing.

He took her by the arms, not violently but with firmness. "Maud," he

said, and there was urgency in his voice, "where's the use of behaving

like this? Do you think it's going to make life easier, happier? Is it

doing God's work in the world to be always fighting the inevitable? I'm

rough, I know; but I'm white. Why can't you take me as I am, and make

the best of me?"

He had never thus appealed to her before. She stood stiffly between his

hands. But still she did not look at him. Her eyes were upon the

flowers on the table that lay scorching and slowly shrivelling under his

pipe.

"I really don't know what you want," she said, in a tone of cold

aloofness.

"And don't care!" said Jake, with sudden vehemence. "On my soul, I

sometimes think to myself that if you treated Sheppard as you treat me,

he had some reason for giving you a hiding."

Her eyelids quivered sharply at the rough allusion, but she did not

raise them. "You are rather--hard to please," she said, in a low voice.

"Am I?" said Jake. "And do you ever try to please me by any chance?"

A slight tremor went through her. "I give you submission--obedience,"

she said. "You have--all that you married me for."

"Have I?" said Jake. His voice was suddenly ironical. "Ah, my girl, you

know a mighty lot about that, don't you? And have I also your

confidence, your goodwill, your--friendship?"

Her eyes flashed him a look of swift protest. "They were not a part of

the bargain," she said.

"Damn the bargain!" said Jake, with force. "If I didn't want them, what

did I want?"

Her eyes comprehended him and fell again. She said nothing.

He held her by the shoulders and gave her a sharp shake as if to bring

her to her senses.

"P'raps you think I'm brutal," he said. "But you treat me as I wouldn't

treat any brute in creation. Why do you never speak to me? Why do you

never kiss me? On my oath, you starve me of all that's good in life and

yet expect me to remain civilized."

She made no attempt to free herself, nor did she utter remonstrance of

any kind. If the grip of his hands hurt her, she did not show it. She

stood in utter silence.

Slowly Jake's hold relaxed. The fierceness went out of it. He stood

for a few seconds watching her, a deep frown between his brows.

"I don't seem able to get hold of you somehow," he said at length. "And

yet it ain't for want of trying. Say, Maud, can't you be decent to me

for a bit now the little chap is coming? He'll notice, sure, if you're

not. Guess we don't either of us want him pestering around with

questions."

There was a species of half-grudging persuasion in his voice. He held

her as though at the faintest sign of encouragement he would have drawn

her into his arms.

But Maud made no such sign. She stood motionless. Without looking at

him she spoke.

"I can't pretend to love you. You see,--I don't."

He made a sharp gesture--such a gesture as a man might make if stabbed

in the back. A very bitter look came into his eyes. It was as if an

evil spirit looked gibing forth. They glittered like the red flare of a

torch.

"All right, my girl," he said, and his voice was soft and slow and

wholly without emotion. "Then I continue my meal of husks."

With the words he let her go, took up his pipe from the table, and left

her. Mutely she watched him go. Then, as the sound of his footsteps

died away, she sank on her knees by the table, burying her face upon the

scorched and ruined flowers; and so she remained for a long, long time.

Even the sympathy of Chops was lacking. He had followed his master and

the dog-cart to the station to welcome the visitor for whom such loving

preparations had been made. And he was being compelled to fly like the

wild to keep pace with the flying wheels.

CHAPTER II

THE POISON PLANT

The wheels of the dog-cart clattered back over the stone paving of the

yard, and a wild whoop of welcome echoed through the place. A small,

boyish figure leapt impetuously to the ground to be caught and fast held

in Maud's straining arms.

"Hullo, Maud! Hullo, Maud!" cried Bunny.

He hugged her none the less ardently, hugged and kissed her. They had

not seen each other for three months.

Maud's greeting was quite inaudible; she could only hold him

passionately close, feeling the abounding activity of his light young

frame, and realizing with a great throb of rejoicing that the miracle

had been wrought indeed. Bunny had been made whole.

"I say, isn't it fine?" the boy cried eagerly. "I've been doing

gymnastics and physical exercises to any amount. I can swim too, and Dr.

Capper says I may learn to ride. Jake's going to teach me, aren't you,

Jake? Oh, isn't it fine, Maud? Isn't it fine?"

She held him a little from her, gazing at him fondly ere she gathered

him close again. He was very slight and thin but he was taller than she

had thought possible. The deep hollows about his eyes were far less

marked than before, though his whole face bore that indelible stamp of

suffering which had always made him older than his years.

He gave her another hearty hug. "I'm as fit as a fiddler," he declared.

"But I still have to do four hours flat on the floor every day. I told

Jake I wasn't going to do it any more, but he swears he'll tie me down

to the table-legs if I don't. You're a sport, aren't you, Jake?"

He left his sister abruptly to attach himself to Jake whose threats of

violence were plainly a huge attraction to his boyish mind.

Jake thrust an arm about the narrow shoulders. "We've got to make a man

of you somehow, my son," he said. "And Capper is very emphatic about

keeping up the treatment for another six weeks."

"Yes, and after that I'm going to school," said Bunny, with the

assurance of a man who holds the ruling of his own destiny. "There's

Fairhaven College up on the hill, Jake. That'll do for me. And I'll be

a weekly boarder, and you'll take me to races on Saturdays."

But Jake shook his head. "Not at your time of life, young feller. No,

when you go to school you'll stay there. You've got to make up for lost

time. P'raps in the holidays we'll see. But I make no rash promises.

Now, Mrs. Bolton, what about tea?"

They went within to the meal prepared in the sunny parlour with its door

thrown open to the garden.

They sat at the table, Bunny alert, excited, radiant; Jake cheery and

indulgent, bestowing his exclusive attention upon him; Maud, very quiet

and reserved but watching the boy with eyes of shining affection that

scarcely left him for a moment.

He had so much to tell them of this treatment and of that, how at the

beginning of things he had found it so hard to bear, and how the doctors

had helped him through.

"They were so awfully decent," he said. "There was one of 'em--Dr.

Wyndham, who was no end of a swell. He used to come twice a week and put

me through the most ghastly drill that rolled me out quite flat. He

made me think of you, Jake. He was such a chap for getting his own way.

Somehow I never could get ratty with him, though I used to dread the

sight of him for ever so long. He soon got to know it, and he'd sit down

by my side, and talk in a reassuring sort of way till he'd worked me up

to it. He seemed to have no end of time to waste, and yet he was always

ready; used to come in with his hands in his pockets and a funny smile

on his face, and send the nurse packing because he knew I hated anyone

looking on. I got to like him no end. You'd have liked him too, Maud.

He was just our sort." And there he stopped suddenly, for the first

time gazing fully at her. "Great Scott!" he said. "How queer you

look!"

"I?" said Maud, slightly startled.

Bunny was looking at her hard. He turned abruptly to Jake. "Why does

she lock like that? She hasn't been ill, has she?"

Jake's eyes went to his wife's face. He regarded her critically for a

moment.

But before he could speak Maud hastily broke in. "Bunny! How absurd!

Of course not! I am never ill. Jake, pass up his cup!"

He obeyed in silence, and she received it with a hand that trembled.

Her face was burning.

"You look better now," said Bunny. "P'raps it's the heat. How do you

amuse yourself nowadays? Is Saltash at the Castle?"

She shook her head. "No. He left on the same day that you did. I have

scarcely seen him since."

"You have heard from him," said Jake, in the tone of one making a casual

statement.

She was silent for a second or two while she poured out Bunny's tea;

then, without lifting her eyes, "Yes," she said. "I have heard from

him."

"Where is he?" asked Bunny. "Does he write often?"

"Not often," said Maud. She suddenly looked across at Jake with eyes

that seemed to fling a challenge. "I expect you know where he is," she

said.

"He is in town," said Jake.

He met her look with the utmost deliberation, and almost at once she

looked away.

"I expect he'll be going to Scotland next month," said Bunny. "But I

hope he'll come here first. I'd like to see him. Aren't there some big

races at Graydown soon, Jake? Won't he come for them?"

"I can't say what he'll do," said Jake, pulling out his pipe. "The

Burchester Cup will be run in a fortnight."

"Oh, Jake, old chap, do--do let me see that!" urged Bunny, with shining

eyes. "Is the Mascot going to run again?"

"No, not the Mascot this time,--the Albatross. You remember him?

Reckon he ought to carry it off if his jockey is good enough." Jake

spoke with something of a frown.

Bunny was all eagerness. "The Albatross! Wasn't he the chap you were

forcing into the water that day you first spoke to us? Yes, I remember

him, of course--a beauty. Who's up, Jake? Isn't he any good?"

"I wanted Vickers to ride him," Jake said. "He's been training. But he

has just broken his thumb, confound him. That leaves it to Dick

Stevens, and I don't feel just sure of him. He may pull it off; but

he's not like Sam Vickers. The animals haven't the same faith in

him,--any more than I have."

He got up from the table as he spoke, and went to the mantelpiece for a

match. Bunny gulped down his tea and sprang up also.

"Say, Jake, I'm coming round the Stables with you," he said. "I won't

be in the way."

Jake, his clay pipe between his teeth, puffed forth a cloud of smoke,

and turned. "Not to-night, my son. You've got another two hours'

floor-drill before you. You go and do it!"

Bunny's face fell. "Oh, damn it, Jake! Not to-night!"

Jake's hand shot forth and grasped his shoulder. "Who taught you to say

that?" he demanded.

Bunny stared. "I don't know. Lots of fellows say it. Charlie often

does."

"I do myself," said Jake grimly. "But you're not to, savvy? I mean it.

It ain't a mite clever, my son. It's beastly ugly. And you--you've got

to be a gentleman if you do live under the roof of a bounder. Now you

go and do as you're told, quick march! I shall know if you don't, and I

shall know the reason why too. Take him upstairs, Maud; and if he don't

behave himself, undress him and put him to bed!"

He would have gone with the words, but Bunny with a red face stayed him.

"I'll do as you tell me, Jake," he said, "but I won't be managed by

anyone else. And I'm not a bit afraid of you. See?"

Jake stopped, and the old kind smile that once had been so much more

frequent lighted his face. "That's right, little pard; you've no call

to be," he said. "But I won't have it said that you were brought up in

a stable. And I won't have you hanging around with the boys in the yard

either. Our language is not your language, and you're not to learn it.

Now go and do your duty! I'll take you round the Stables to-morrow."

He bestowed a kindly pat upon Bunny's shoulder, and departed.

Bunny turned round to Maud. "What's the matter with him?" he said.

She sat with her face to the window, her eyes fixed unseeingly upon the

sunlit garden. "Nothing that I know of," she said, without moving.

Bunny came to her side. "But, Maud, he isn't always like that, at least

he used not to be."

"Like what?" she said.

Bunny was looking at her hard. "You used not to be like this either,"

he said. "What's happened to you both?"

She gave herself a sharp shake--it was almost like a shudder

suppressed--and came out of her reverie. She met Bunny's questioning

eyes with a smile.

"My dear boy, nothing has happened. Don't look so suspicious! There!

Come and let me look at you! Do you know I hardly know you? You seem

so young."

Bunny pushed an arm about her neck, and gave the kiss for which she

yearned. "You look years older than you did," he said, with brotherly

candour. "I thought you'd get on like a house on fire when you hadn't

me to worry you, but you look more down in the mouth than ever."

"I shan't now I've got you," she whispered, clinging to him. "I've

missed you--horribly, dear."

"I thought you would," said Bunny with complacence. "I missed you too at

first. When they gave me that beastly massage, I used to howl for you."

"Was it so terribly bad?" she murmured, holding him faster.

"It was--unspeakable," said Bunny. "I shouldn't have stuck to it if

you'd been there. As it was,--well, I couldn't help myself. But they

were awfully kind too. No one ever pitched into me for behaving badly.

They all seemed to take it for granted that I should. And when I began

to get better, they were so jolly encouraging. But I'd rather be

flogged every day for a year," ended Bunny, "than go through it all

again."

"Dr. Capper didn't tell me it would be so bad," said Maud.

"No. Capper's a deep one. He didn't tell me either. He laughs about it

now," said Bunny, "and says the end has fully justified the means. He's

rather a card, but he's a fine chap. He is coming to see us before he

leaves England. I made him promise. He'll be off before the end of

August." Bunny stretched himself luxuriously. "How's the mother

getting on?" he enquired.

"I haven't seen her for quite a long time. I believe she is very busy,"

Maud said. "They have discharged some of the servants at 'The Anchor.'

I don't believe it answers. She was looking rather worried the last time

we met. But she didn't tell me anything, except that times were bad."

"They always are with some people," said Bunny. "I suppose Jake is

quite prosperous, is he?"

"Oh, quite, I think," she said in surprise. "Of course he is Charlie's

paid man. Why do you ask?"

"He looks a bit bothered," said Bunny. "P'raps it isn't that though.

Come along! Let's go upstairs!"

He twined his arm in hers. They went up side by side.

A little later they separated, and Maud went to her own room. Down in

the training-field below the orchard a solitary horseman was riding a

young, untamed animal that fought savagely against his mastery, striving

by every conceivable artifice to unseat him. She paused at the casement

window and watched the struggle, marked the man's calm assurance, his

inflexible strength of purpose, his ruthless self-assertion. And, as

she watched, that evil thing that she nourished in her heart opened its

first poisonous flowers and bloomed in rank profusion. She hoped with a

sickening intensity that the animal would win the day, and that Jake

Bolton would be killed.

CHAPTER III

CONFIDENCES

Three days after Bunny's return, Maud drove him down in the dog-cart one

afternoon to see their mother. She herself would not go into the Anchor

Hotel. She had never entered it since that bitter day in the winter when

she had thrown herself upon Jake's protection, nor had she exchanged a

single word with her step-father since her wedding-day.

Her mother seemed to have grown completely away from them, and would

seldom be persuaded to visit her daughter even though Jake himself

offered to fetch her. She had become fretful and irritable, and was in

a certain measure vexed with Maud who had not apparently made the most

of her opportunities. There was no denying the fact that they were

drifting further and further apart, and to neither of them did the

other's presence afford the smallest pleasure. Now that Lord Saltash had

quitted the scene, Mrs. Sheppard took no further interest in her

daughter's doings. She strongly suspected that it was in response to

Maud's insistence that he had gone, and she was inclined to regard his

absence as a personal grievance against her in consequence.

Emphatically, Mrs. Sheppard was not improved by adversity. Her looks

were fading, and her placid temperament had vanished. Giles was such a

trial, life was so difficult. She had always acted for the best, but

she never reaped any benefit therefrom. In fact, Fate had never been

kind to her, and she was beginning to cherish a grudge in consequence.

Bunny was by no means anxious to pay her a visit; it was only by Jake's

commands that he went. Maud was a little surprised to find that he was

developing a scrupulous regard for Jake's wishes. She drove the

dog-cart into the stable-yard of "The Anchor" and left it there with a

promise to return for him in an hour. Then she herself wandered down to

the shore to pass the time.

The day was sultry with a brooding heat. The sea lay wrapped in mist

like a steaming sheet of molten lead. There was no sound of waves; only

now and then the wailing cry of a sea-gull floated across the water, and

sometimes there throbbed upon the heavy air the paddle of an unseen

steamer beating through that silent waste of greyness.

She had no sunshade, and the glare was intense, albeit the sun was

veiled. Half-mechanically she turned her steps towards the shelter in

which--how long ago!--Jake had made his astounding proposal of marriage.

She felt miserable, depressed, sick at heart. The close weather did not

agree with her. She was limp and listless, and she could neither eat

nor sleep.

She dropped wearily down upon the seat and leaned back with her eyes

half-closed. Her head was aching dully, as if a heavy weight pressed

upon it.

There was no one in sight. That end of the parade was little

frequented. The gay crowd preferred the vicinity of the

bathing-machines where a little troupe of Pierrots were making merry.

Now and then the raucous voice of the funny man of the party reached

her, but it was too far away to disturb her. She was thankful for the

attraction that kept the people away.

Chops lay at her feet, snapping at the flies, grave, sympathetic,

watchful. He was feeling the heat too, but he took it philosophically,

with the wisdom of experience. He knew better than to chafe at the

inevitable.

Half-an-hour crawled away thus in dumb oppression while the atmosphere

grew imperceptibly thicker, gradually extinguishing the sun-rays,

darkening the world. At length a long ridge rose with ghostly

suddenness on that flat desert of waters and swept shorewards, bursting

upon the beach with a startling roar.

Maud started and opened her eyes. In a moment she was on her feet,

dismayed, irresolute. One glance at the ominous sky and sullen, glassy

water told her that a storm was imminent. She could not stay in that

exposed place. She would not contemplate taking refuge at "The Anchor."

Whither could she go?

She began to walk swiftly along the parade, Chops pacing sedately

behind. The Pierrots were gone, the crowd scattered. She was sure that

in a few moments there would be a terrific downpour.

Another long swell showed like the back of a swift-moving monster on the

face of the waters. It travelled landwards with incredible rapidity; it

burst in thunder just below her. A great swirl of surf rushed up to the

wall and receded to rejoin the inky water. And suddenly the blast of

the storm caught her.

Almost before she realized it, she was fleeing before it down the

deserted road. Eddies of dust rose up under her feet, and sand whipped

up from the beach stung her face. She raced the tempest, making for the

nearest side-road to escape the unbroken fury with which it raged along

the shore.

As she tore across to the sheltering houses there came a blinding flash

of lightning, and instantly overhead a splitting explosion that seemed

to shatter the whole world. For a second or two she was checked in her

wild career. She felt stunned. Then in a sweeping torrent the rain was

upon her, and she stumbled towards the nearest doorway.

Before she reached it, however, a voice called to her, a stout figure

came running forth with amazing lightness, and two plump hands seized

one of hers.

"Come in, my dear, come in!" panted a wheezy voice. "Why, whatever

brought you out in such a storm? You look scared to death. Come and

sit down in my back parlour behind the shop! It's all right, dearie,

all right. Don't be upset!"

Gasping and unnerved, Maud tottered into the little shop, groping,

clinging to her guide. The gloom without made almost impenetrable

darkness within. She had not the faintest idea as to whither she was

being led. But there was no hesitation about her companion. She

pressed her forward till a glimmer of light revealed a window in a dingy

little room beyond the shop, and here she deposited her with friendly

firmness upon a horse-hair sofa, making her lean against a cushion sewn

with beads while she recovered her breath.

"Don't you be frightened any more, my dear!" she admonished her.

"You're quite safe. Trust the dear Lord for that! The wind and storm

are only fulfilling His Will. Poor child, you're all of a tremble!

There, let's take your hat off! And I'll get you a cup of tea, dear.

You'll be better then."

Tenderly she removed the hat while Maud, panting and spent, lay limply

against the cushion. Chops sat pressed against her, his silken head on

her knee.

"Why, look at him! It's just as if he's trying to tell you not to take

on," said her rescuer. "There's a deal of soul in a dog, I always say.

Now you know who I am, Mrs. Bolton, my dear, don't you? You don't feel

as if you're taking shelter with a stranger?"

"You are--Mrs. Wright," Maud said, speaking with an effort.

"That's right, my dear. I felt sure you'd remember me. Now will you be

quite comfortable if I run into the kitchen and make the tea? Or will

you come along with me? I often think company is a good thing in a

storm."

Maud was recovering herself. She sat up with something of her usual

quiet demeanour, though her heart was still beating unpleasantly fast.

"Please don't trouble to get any tea for me!" she said. "If I may stay

till the worst is over, I shall be very grateful. But I must go

directly it gets better. My brother is waiting for me at 'The Anchor.'"

Another terrible flash pierced the gloom, and she shrank involuntarily,

one hand covering her face while the thunder crashed above them with a

force that shook the house.

As the dreadful echoes died away, she awoke to the fact that Mrs. Wright

was kneeling stoutly beside her, one kindly arm pressing her close.

"It's all right, darling. Don't shiver so!" she murmured maternally.

"We're quite safe in the Lord's good keeping. He won't let us be harmed

if we trust in Him."

Maud made a slight gesture as though she would withdraw herself, and

then the comfort of that motherly arm overcame her shyness. Very

suddenly she let herself go into the old woman's embrace. She hid her

face on the ample shoulder.

"I'm not really frightened," she whispered piteously. "But oh, I'm so

tired--I'm so tired!"

"Poor lamb!" said Mrs. Wright compassionately.'

She gathered her to her bosom rocking her softly in her arms as one who

soothes a hurt child, and whispering endearing words from time to time,

while Maud, spent and weary, wept silently there till with the shedding

of tears some measure of relief came to her aching soul.

She forgot the storm that raged around them; she forgot that Mrs. Wright

was a comparative stranger to her; she forgot the passage of time and

all besides in the blessed consciousness of another woman's sympathy

compassing her round, sustaining, comprehending, lifting her up from the

depths of despair into which she had lately sunk so low.

"There then! There! You're better now," murmured Mrs. Wright at last.

"Would you like to talk a bit, darling? Or shall we just pretend as

there's nothing to talk about?"

h But Maud was clinging to her, as a drowning person clings to a spar.

"You're very good to me," she whispered tremulously.

It was enough for Mrs. Wright. She proceeded with boldness. "It didn't

become me to take the first step, dearie, you being a lady like you are,

and me only a clumsy old woman. But I've had troubles myself, and I'm

not blind. You aren't well, dear; you aren't happy. I was afraid that

day in the winter, and I've been much more afraid since. I was wanting

to step up and see you again; but then I wasn't sure as you 'd want me.

But I've thought of you often and often, and poor Jake too."

Maud shivered. "Life is horrible--horrible!" she said, and there was a

quiver of passion in the words.

"Ah, dear!" Mrs. Wright held her closer. "Maybe that's because you're

not taking things just as you should. No, I don't suppose as it's your

fault. I wouldn't presume. But there's ways and ways of looking at

things. And sometimes, when a girl is hurried into marrying, like you

were, she's likely to be a bit taken aback when she comes to realize

what it means. And it is then maybe that she gets a wrong impression of

men and their ways which is like to interfere with all happiness. But,

you know, dearie, men are only a pack of children. Any woman can manage

a man if she puts her mind to it, and he'll like her the better for it

too. But if once a man gets the whip-hand, and knows it, that's fatal.

A spoilt child soon becomes a tyrant."

"Jake is no child!" Low and bitter the words came; Maud's face was

buried deep in her new friend's shoulder. "He is nothing but--a brute!"

"Lord love me!" ejaculated Mrs. Wright. And then very tenderly her hand

began to smooth the girl's tumbled hair. "Has he been--that--to you?"

she said. "Ah, dear, dear, dear! And what's going to happen, I wonder,

when he knows what you're going to give him? No, don't shrink, darling!

There's nothing to be ashamed of. Would you be ashamed if God sent an

angel to lay a baby in your arms? For it's just that, darling. It is

His gift. Aren't you going to thank Him for it? The first is so much

the most wonderful. Think, dear, think of the little wee thing that

will cling to you, cry to you, depend on only you!"

Maud was shivering violently. She did not lift her head or speak.

Mrs. Wright's hand did not cease to caress and soothe. "I am right,

dear, am I?" she asked softly.

And Maud's silence answered her.

Thereafter there came an interval during which the loud patter of the

rain was the only sound. Maud's tears had ceased. She sat bowed upon

the old woman's breast as though she lacked the strength to lift

herself.

But presently, without moving, she spoke. "I suppose I am very wicked;

but I don't feel like--that about it. I can't. I don't want it.

You'll be dreadfully shocked, I'm afraid. I've never spoken my mind to

anyone before. But--the fact is--I've never felt really married to Jake.

I don't in my heart belong to him. And that makes everything wrong."

"My dear! My dear!" said Mrs. Wright. "But he is your husband all the

same. And you--you are the one woman in the world to him. He loves you

as his own soul."

Maud shook her head hopelessly. "Oh no, indeed he doesn't! He doesn't

know the meaning of the word. If he did--things would be very

different."

"Dear heart, that's just where you go wrong--the beginning and end of

the whole trouble," declared Mrs. Wright. "I knew he loved you that

night last year at your mother's wedding-party. Why, it was shining in

his eyes for all to see. Was he such a dunderhead then that he never

told you so?"

But at that Maud raised herself. She met the old woman's eyes in the

gloom, her own heavy with bitterness.

"Mrs. Wright, that was not love," she said, "or anything approaching to

love." She paused a moment, as though the tragic words had cost her all

her strength; then piteously she ended, "He told me he had a fancy for

me; that was all. So for Bunny's sake--and partly for my own--I married

him. And now I am the slave of that fancy."

"Oh dear, dear, dear!" Mrs. Wright said again. "And has he never made

love to you at all? What a silly fellow, to be sure! Men don't know

anything; upon my word, they don't!"

"I didn't like his methods of making love." Maud spoke with growing

bitterness. "And I never suffered them. Oh yes, I have to endure them

now. He takes whatever he wants. But every spark of affection or

respect that I ever had for him went out one night in the winter when he

came home the worse for drink."

"Sakes alive!" exclaimed Mrs. Wright. "Not Jake!"

"Yes, Jake." Maud spoke with tragic vehemence. "I saw him, and so did

Charlie. We both knew it."

"Who is Charlie?" questioned Mrs. Wright.

A faint tinge of colour rose in the girl's pale face. "Lord Saltash.

He is an old family friend of ours. He was always Charlie Burchester to

us in the old days."

"And he told you Jake was drunk?" demanded Mrs. Wright, with round,

indignant eyes.

Maud made a gesture of weary indifference. "He didn't actually tell me

so. I think he didn't want me to know. But he couldn't deny it when I

put it to him."

"Then, my dear, he was very grievously mistaken," declared Mrs. Wright,

with stout emphasis. "Jake was not drunk. He never drinks. Why, look

at the man! His eyes are as clear as the day. Oh, believe me, dear,

you've wronged him. You've wronged him cruelly. And that's maybe what's

brought about all your trouble. For men can't put up with injustice.

It's the one thing they can't abide, and I don't blame 'em."

She paused. Maud was listening, but not as one convinced, or even

greatly interested.

"It doesn't really alter anything, whether it's true or not," she said.

"I had begun even before that to know what sort of a man he was. I

heard him using the most appalling language one day. That opened my

eyes."

"Not to you, dear, surely?" urged Mrs. Wright, looking momentarily

shocked.

"Oh no, not to me. I overheard it accidentally. But," Maud shivered

again, "I've never forgotten it. Sometimes the memory of it turns me

nearly sick!"

"Oh, dearie me! What a pity! What a pity! And he loving you so!"

Mrs. Wright put up a very tender hand, and stroked her cheek. "Poor

little hurt princess!" she said. "If I could but open your eyes and

show you how much true love there is behind his roughness! You'll see

it some day. I'm sure of that. Please God some day quite soon! You're

tired and heart-sick now, dear. But that'll get better as time goes on.

And if you'll take an old woman's advice, you'll tell him soon of the

little one that's coming. It'll maybe make all the difference to you

both."

But Maud drew back sharply at the bare suggestion. "I couldn't possibly

tell him yet. I--I couldn't tell anyone."

Mrs. Wright looked at her with eyes of motherly wisdom. "You'll feel

different--presently," she said. "I know, dear, I know."

"You don't know! You can't know!" Maud's voice was strangled. She

seemed to be striving for self-control.

"I do know." Very firmly Mrs. Wright made the assertion. "Just you

listen a minute, dearie, and I'll tell you something that I've never

told to mortal being before. I'm only just an ordinary old woman; but I

am a woman, and I know what it means to--love the wrong man." She spoke

impressively, but she did not seem to notice Maud's quick start. "When

I was a girl, I was something of a belle. It seems funny now, don't it?

But I attracted the attention of a good many young men, and I got a bit

uppish in consequence. My poor Tom was the best of the bunch, and I

always knew it, though I led him a fine dance before we came to walking

out together. And then a young doctor's assistant came to the place,

and--well, I'll not deny it now--we was both young and a bit flighty. We

got larking together on them roundabouts one night at a fair, and after

that we took to meeting one another on the sly, till, to cut it short, I

fell in love with him--very badly in love. I ought to have known

better, of course, for gentlemen like him don't marry little farmers'

daughters like me. But I was young and inexperienced, and I thought his

intentions were honest, till one night I found as they weren't. I've

never ceased to thank the Almighty that I had the strength to send him

about his business then and there. And I got engaged to Tom the

following Sunday, and tried to forget it all. I wasn't in love with

him, but I knew he was a good sort; and the match pleased my people who

weren't too well-to-do. Well, I thought I was going to be happy in a

home of my own, and I let everything be arranged, and I deceived myself

into thinking that it was going to be all right. And then--when the

wedding was over--I felt, quite sudden-like, sick, just sick, to think

what I'd done. I didn't let on to Tom. He was such a good, solid man.

I'd have died of shame if I had. I didn't let on to anybody. But I was

that miserable. There were times, on and off, when I almost hated him.

And then--well, then--I began to have hopes. It didn't help me a bit at

first, but gradually, very gradually, the thought of poor Tom's baby

purified me. And when I'd come through my trouble and little Tom was

born, I felt as if I had been born again too, and all my regrets were

gone. I never had 'em any more, dear, after that. And I got that fond

of poor Tom, he never guessed. I thank the Almighty he didn't, for the

morning as he died he told me so simple-like that I'd been the sunshine

of his life from the very first day he ever met me." Mrs. Wright paused

to wipe her eyes. "Poor Tom! I was never good enough for him," she

said. "He was such a good, kind soul, and--luckily for me--he never saw

an inch beyond his nose."

She got up with the words, dismissing the subject with practical common

sense.

"Now I'm going to get you some tea, dear, and by that time it'll have

left off raining. See! It's getting lighter already. I'm so glad you

came this way. Maybe, you'll come again now, and if there's ever

anything I can do, why, you've only to let me know, and it's as good as

done."

She bent, in response to Maud's silent gesture, and kissed her tenderly.

"Try not to fret any more, darling! Everything will come right. I'm

sure of it. I know Jake so well. You only know the rough side of him

at present. There's a whole lot of reserve in Jake. He won't show you

his heart so long as he thinks you've no use for it. Maybe, he's shy

too. I've sometimes thought so."

Maud turned from the subject with a sigh. In some subtle fashion old

Mrs. Wright's confidences had helped her, but she felt as if the matter

would not bear further discussion. "I shall never forget your kindness,"

she said rather wistfully. "I wish I had come to see you long ago. I

did mean to. And then there came Bunny's operation; and after

that--after that--I felt too miserable."

Mrs. Wright shook her head in gentle chiding. "Don't ever again stay

away on that account, dear!" she said. "And do you know I've got a

feeling that maybe he is miserable too? Why don't you try a little

kindness, my dear? Do now! It's wonderful what a difference to sore

hearts a little kindness makes."

She bustled away with the words. She also knew that for the moment

there was no more to be said. Yet there was a smile on her face as she

closed the door--a wise, mother-smile that turned its plainness into

beauty.

"Poor children!" she murmured to herself. "They'll find each other some

day. And then--dear Lord--how happy they'll be!"

She permitted herself a little chuckle as she set the kettle to boil.

Things always came right in the end.

CHAPTER IV

THE LETTER

Maud drove home with Bunny after the storm through an atmosphere washed

clean of cloud and golden with evening sunshine. She found him very

silent, and concluded that he had not greatly enjoyed himself.

She asked few questions about his visit, and Bunny did not seem inclined

to volunteer anything, till as they reined in to a walk at the steep

hill by the church, he turned abruptly towards her and spoke.

"I told the mother you were corresponding with Saltash."

Maud started a little. "Really, Bunny!" she said, in a tone of protest.

Bunny's face was red. He looked at her with a species of dogged

defiance. "I didn't mean to tell her. It just came out. I don't see

why she shouldn't know anyway. Jake knows."

"There is not the faintest reason." Maud's tone was cold. She stared

straight between the horse's ears with eyes that were fixed and hard.

"I don't see why it should interest her, that's all. Charlie is such an

old friend that surely there is nothing very surprising about it."

"Or anything to get ratty about," said Bunny, with a touch of warmth.

"That wasn't what I set out to tell you; but you do jump down a fellow's

throat so. Of course the mother didn't see anything in it. Why should

she?"

"What were you going to tell me?" Maud's voice still sounded cold but

she forced herself to smile. She had no desire to give offence to Bunny

who was not always easy to conciliate.

Bunny considered a moment. "Well, it has to do with Charlie. You know,

he owns 'The Anchor.'"

Maud's attitude relaxed. She turned towards him. "Yes, I know he does.

He holds the mortgage, at least."

"Yes, that's it; the mortgage." Bunny's face wore a troubled frown.

"Well, it seems that the place isn't answering and they can't go on

paying interest. In fact, they are badly in arrears already, and he--or

his agent--is tightening the reins and threatening to sell them up. The

mother is pretty desperate about it, but she was very particular that I

wasn't to tell anybody but you. She says it means ruin, and no one can

prevent it but Charlie--unless someone came along with a little money,

which is the last thing likely to happen. She wants you to get hold of

Charlie; says he will do anything for you, though I don't know how she

knows that. In fact, she went on as if it was a matter of life and

death. Say, Maud, do you really think they are going to be ruined?

What would happen if they were?"

Bunny looked at her with worried eyes. Evidently Mrs. Sheppard had

succeeded in impressing him with the urgency of the situation.

Maud shook her head. She had not the least idea. "How much money do

they want to tide them over?" she asked.

"Rather a lot," said Bunny uneasily. "Four hundred pounds at least, she

said. I suppose it would be no good to write to Uncle Edward? He

wouldn't do it for the mother, I know, but he might for you."

"I couldn't ask him," Maud said. "I might if it were for you or myself.

But not for Mother. I am sure he wouldn't do it."

"It's a beastly mess," said Bunny gloomily. "You'll have to get round

Charlie, there's no other way."

"I must think," Maud said.

They reached the top of the hill, and she shook the reins. In sober

silence they trotted home.

Jake was in the yard when they turned in. He came to meet them.

"I've had a fine scare about you," he said, as he helped Bunny to

descend. "Were you caught in the storm?"

Sam Vickers came to the horse's head, and Maud followed her brother

down. Jake did not offer to assist her. He was wearing neither coat

nor waistcoat, only a white canvas shirt with rolled up sleeves,

unbuttoned at the neck and displaying a good deal of brawny chest. His

clay pipe was between his teeth, and the pungent scent of his tobacco

seemed even more nauseating than usual.

"No, we weren't caught," Bunny made answer. "I was at 'The Anchor,' and

Maud took refuge with that old Wright woman who came here in the

winter."

"What? Old Mother Wright?" Jake turned to his wife with a smile of

approval. "Been having tea with her, have you? I'm real pleased to

hear it. You couldn't be in better company."

Maud stiffened a little. Somehow his approval nettled her. "I took the

first shelter within reach," she said coldly.

Bunny stared at her as though astonished at something in her tone.

Sharply Jake turned on him.

"You trot in, my son, and do your floor-drill!" he said. "You've got

just two hours before supper."

Bunny coloured and flung away. "Oh, damn!" he said.

He was on the step with Maud immediately behind him when Jake's voice

arrested him. "Bunny!"

It was a perfectly quiet voice, but it was the voice of authority.

Bunny stopped short. "Well?"

"You will do an extra half-hour for that after supper," Jake said.

Bunny faced round, his face crimson. "Oh, I say, Jake! That's too bad.

I didn't mean to say it, and anyway I can't do any extra time. It's

beastly enough as it is."

"I have said it," remarked Jake.

Bunny clenched his hands. "Dash it all, you can't make me!" he said,

his voice low and defiant.

"No, no, you can't." Impulsively Maud broke in, her hand through

Bunny's arm. "It's ridiculous and tyrannical. I won't have him bullied,

Jake. You are to leave him alone."

She spoke with vehemence, carried away by a gust of indignation. But

the moment she had spoken, she realized that she had made a mistake.

Jake said nothing whatever. He did not so much as look at her. But he

did look at Bunny hard and straight, and in a moment the boy's attitude

changed.

He unclenched his hands with a gesture half-shamed, half-deprecatory.

"All right, Jake," he said, in a tone of sullen submission; and to his

sister curtly, "Shut up, Maud! You always make a mess of things."

With the words he pulled himself from her hold and went within.

She turned to follow him upstairs, but was checked by the knowledge that

Jake was entering the house behind her.

He did not speak, but it was certainly not of her own free will that she

passed on to the parlour instead. Angry as she was, she yet would have

avoided the encounter had it been possible.

It was not possible. Jake followed her, grim as Fate, and in

desperation she turned and faced him the moment she was in the room.

"Jake," she said, in a voice that quivered in spite of her, "I can't

have you interfering with Bunny--punishing him--like this. It's too

much."

Jake closed the door and stood against it. The sheer brute strength of

the man had never been more forcibly apparent to her than at that

moment; the thick, powerful neck and broad chest, the red-brown,

lynx-like eyes, the merciless mouth, all seemed to mock her openly,

exulting over her, dominating her.

Like Bunny she clenched her hands, meeting the straight gaze of those

glittering eyes with the defiance born of conscious impotence. "And

another thing!" she said. "I wish you wouldn't come into the house in

that horrible wild West attire. You look worse than any stable-hand. I

don't know how you can expect Bunny to be civilized with such an example

before him."

She paused a moment, but, as he said nothing, rushed blindly on, finding

silence intolerable.

"You come in at all hours in the day with your horrible clay pipe and

vile tobacco. You behave like a farm labourer; you use hateful language

to the men; and still you take it upon you to--to mete out punishment to

Bunny, because he has picked up, doubtless from you, an expression that

is a household word in your daily life!"

She stopped, for Jake had made an abrupt movement as if her fierce words

had somehow pierced a joint in his armour.

He came squarely forward, took his pipe from his mouth and knocked out

the half-burned contents into the grate. She turned to watch him,

feeling her heart racing like a runaway engine. And, so turning, her

eyes fell upon a letter that lay upon the table. She could not read the

address, but in a flash she recognized the handwriting, and suddenly the

mad racing of her heart died down, so that it did not seem to be beating

at all.

Swiftly, while Jake was still intent upon his pipe, she reached across

the table and picked up the letter. Her fingers felt the crest on the

back of the envelope as she slipped it into her dress. She had fallen

into the habit of walking to meet the postman of late, but to-day the

storm had made her miss him. She hoped--earnestly she hoped--that Jake

had not chanced to see the letter. She was sure his eyes had not rested

upon the table.

Her heart began to beat again with great leaps as Jake turned from the

fireplace. She felt as if she had over-taxed her strength in opposing

him, and yet now that she had begun she must go on,--she must!

But still he did not speak, and, fascinated, she stood and watched him,

saw him thrust the offending pipe deep into his breeches pocket, unroll

the sleeves of his shirt, and button it at the neck.

Then at last he came and stood before her and spoke. "I'm sorry I've

offended you," he said.

The words were so utterly unexpected that Maud literally gasped. She

drew back before him as if he had threatened her. There was something

about him at that moment that made her feel infinitesimally small and

mean. She stood silent, dismayed, ashamed.

Jake was looking straight at her with a steady intentness that seemed to

search and search her soul. There was no anger in his face. She almost

wished there had been.

He waited for her to speak, but as she did not, broke the silence again

himself. "I know my ways are not exactly polished. I'll try and mend

'em. As for my language, I didn't know you had ever heard me in full

swing. You were never meant to, anyway. As for Bunny, I guess he's

your brother, and you've a right to stick up for him if you think he

needs it. But I give you my word of honour--my oath if you like--that

he'll never be one cent the worse for anything I may do to him. You can

tell him from me that if he don't do that extra half-hour, I shan't say

a word."

Maud's lips quivered. She strove for dignity in the face of

overwhelming defeat. He had beaten her as it were with his hands behind

him. "He won't take it from me," she said. "You know that quite well."

"That so?" said Jake. "Well, I reckon he'd better go through with it

then. It won't hurt him. It'll do him good." He paused a moment,

then, "Are you still feeling mad with me?" he asked.

Her eyes fell before his. She did not understand his tone. It held a

note of gentleness which she had not heard since the day of Bunny's

operation. It was almost as if he were pleading with her, striving to

pierce through her resentment. She found it very difficult to reply.

"I--don't want to quarrel with you, Jake," she said at last, with an

effort.

Jake's intent look deepened, became for a moment almost intolerable.

Then it passed. He even faintly smiled, albeit his smile had a touch of

irony. "All right, my girl," he said. "Don't you worry any about that!

I like you for being open with me. It's an almighty mistake to keep

things back."

He moved to the window with the words, stood a moment or two as if to

give her an opportunity to call him back, then, as she remained silent,

went down the steps into the garden and passed out of sight round the

house.

Maud was left with a stinging sensation of discomfiture that was

compounded of doubt, indignation, and shame.

She was relieved to think he had not seen the letter, but she hated the

impulse that had moved her to conceal it.

CHAPTER V

REBELLION

That letter from Saltash, written in French, contained the announcement

of his approaching return. It was at her urgent written request that he

had gone three months before. Somehow the very thought of him at the

Castle had been intolerable after what had passed between them on the

day of her return to her husband. But they had corresponded ever since.

She could not refuse to receive and answer his letters. Her intimacy

with Charlie was like a gem with many facets. He had an adroit fashion

of flashing it before her hither and thither till, dazzled, she wondered

if she had ever truly grasped its full value. Sometimes it seemed to her

that it had been cut from the very bedrock of friendship, and at such

times the realization of the sympathy that ever pulsed between them was

a pure joy to her. At other times, remembering the strange impulses of

the man, his sudden gusts of passion, swift misgiving would assail her

and she would tell herself that she was making a terrible mistake. And

then again she would catch a glimpse of his careless, butterfly

temperament, and her doubts would vanish almost in spite of her. How

could she take him seriously? His gay inconsequence made the hare

notion seem ridiculous. They were pals, no more. True, he had offered

to help her; but, knowing him through and through as she did, he was the

last man in the world to whom she would really turn for help. And since

she was so sure of herself, what had she to fear? Charlie was before all

things a gentleman. There was nothing coarse or brutal about him. In

his own words, where women were concerned, he did not take; he offered.

For that very reason he was the harder to resist.

But she knew him to be safe. That was the foundation of her confidence.

She had no fear of him; he had always set her at her ease. Without

virtue he might be, yet was he not without a certain code of honour. He

tempted; therein lay the subtle attraction of the man; but he never

compelled. He was selfish; oh yes, he was selfish, but he was also

strangely, whimsically kind at heart. In all her experience of him, she

had never found him merciless.

And so she did not see why she should wholly deny herself the friendship

which seemed to her to be the only good thing left in her life now. She

had not wanted to see him, but now that he wrote to announce his return

she found that she was glad. The first meeting with him might be a

little difficult, but Charlie always knew how to deal with difficulties.

He understood her; it would not be really hard. They would be friends

again--just friends.

She slipped the letter away with a smile. He always allowed himself a

little more latitude when he wrote in French. It was but natural. It

meant nothing, she knew. How could anyone take him really seriously?

His soul was as elusive as thistledown. It was only in the realms of

music that she ever really saw his soul.

He did not say on what day he would return. She wondered if Jake knew,

wondered if she could induce Bunny to ask him without betraying any

interest in the subject herself. She was a little afraid of Bunny. His

shrewdness embarrassed her. It was like a microscope, discovering

things that otherwise would have escaped notice. She did not want to

come under that microscope very often. There were some parts of her

existence that would not bear it. She suspected that Bunny was already

beginning to find out. She was sure that he was aware of a lack of

sympathy between herself and Jake, and she wished she could have kept it

from him.

With regard to her mother's affairs also, she would have been glad if

the boy had not been drawn into the discussion. It was characteristic of

Mrs. Sheppard to fling her burden upon the first shoulder that offered,

but Maud was fashioned otherwise, and she wanted Bunny to throw off his

precocities and become like other boys. The thought of his education

was beginning to weigh upon her. She wanted to talk about it to Jake,

but somehow she did not know how to broach the subject. She wondered if

she should write to Uncle Edward, but hesitated to do so. Letters were

never satisfactory.

She was pondering this matter as she undressed that night when a sudden

thought struck her--a thought that darted through her like a flash,

leaving a shining trail of possibilities behind. Why should they not

accept the old man's invitation and go to him for a little while? He

would be glad to see them, she was sure; and she would be glad--oh,

unspeakably glad--to get away for a time. Face to face with him, she

might even plead for her mother. She would infinitely rather be under an

obligation to him than to Charlie.

The idea drew her more and more. She wondered it had not occurred to

her before. In the end, finding it still early, she sat down at the

table and began to scribble a hasty note. She determined that she would

not tell Jake until Uncle Edward's reply reached her. She felt

convinced that it would contain the invitation she was soliciting.

Feverishly she penned her appeal. Would he invite them to spend a few

days? Bunny was well, or nearly so; she herself was feeling the heat,

and would like a change. Jake--, no, she found she could not mention

Jake. With trembling fingers she brought the note to an end.

She had scarcely finished addressing the envelope when she heard Jake's

step on the stairs. Startled, she caught up letter and writing-case,

and pushed them into a drawer. He seldom retired late, but she had not

expected him so early as this. Swiftly she turned, shut the door that

led into his room, blew out her lamp and slipped into bed.

But he did not pass on to his own room. He stopped at the door of hers,

paused a second, then quietly opened it. She heard the creak of his

gaiters as he entered. He had a candle in one hand; he put up the other

to shield it from the draught, and the door blew gently to behind him.

Maud leaned against her pillow and watched him. Her heart was beating

very fast. She wondered if he had heard her hasty movements of the past

few moments.

He came to her side and set down his candle. "Say, Maud," he said, "I

saw your light go out, so I guessed you weren't asleep."

Maud's eyes, blue-black and sombre, looked up to his. "What do you

want?" she asked him coldly.

He stood squarely beside her. "I wanted just to speak to you," he said,

"and I thought if I waited to undress, maybe you'd be asleep."

With the words he sat down rather heavily in the chair by her side, and

there fell a silence, a dragging, difficult silence. Maud's heart was

beating very fast. Had he come to talk about that letter from Saltash?

Was he about to make a scene?

His stillness began to act upon her nerves. She turned towards him

restlessly. "Oh, what is it?" she said, veiling her doubt with a show

of impatience.

He stretched out a strong hand and took one of hers. "It's you, my

girl," he said, and in his voice was a note of anxiety that partly

reassured her. "You've not been yourself lately. Guess there's

something the matter."

"There is nothing the matter," she said hastily.

He held her hand closely. "You've no call to be afraid of me," he said

gently. "Maybe, I've been rough and rude at times. I've never meant

it, my princess. I can't live up to you always; but I try,--God knows I

try!"

A sudden tremor sounded in his voice; he became abruptly silent.

Maud's hand was hard clenched in his. She did not look at him; but the

beating of her heart rose up between them--a hard, insistent drumming

that she was powerless to control.

After a brief space he spoke again, his voice quite steady and

controlled. "Reckon you're not happy. Reckon you're not well either.

I've been thinking maybe you'd like to go away for a spell--you and the

boy. If so, I'm willing to manage it. It'll be a bit of a rest for

you."

He paused. The clenched hand he held had made a sharp, convulsive

movement as if at a sudden twinge of pain. Maud lay breathing rapidly,

her eyes fixed upon the flame of the candle.

He waited a few moments; then, "What do you think of the proposition, my

girl?" he asked.

She turned her head slowly towards him. "Bunny and I alone?" she said.

"That's the idea," said Jake.

Her eyes met his resolutely, with a certain challenging directness. "As

a matter of fact, I had thought myself that we might go to Uncle Edward

for a little," she said.

He showed no surprise. "You would like that?" he asked.

"Yes." She spoke with instant decision.

"Then go!" said Jake. He set her hand free with the words, but he

remained seated as if he had something further on his mind. "By the

way," he said, after a moment, "I had a letter this evening."

She started. "A letter?"

"Yes." Very deliberately he answered her. "I met the postman and took

it from him at the door."

"Ah!" It was scarcely more than a whisper. She shrank against her

pillow with a gesture wholly involuntary.

Jake's eyes were upon her, alert, unswerving, dominating. "My letter

came from Capper," he said quietly. "He is coming to us in a few days;

he wants to see Bunny again before he leaves England."

"Oh, surely we needn't wait for him!" With a sudden rush the words

came; she spoke with feverish vehemence. "If we really are going away,

let us go soon!" she urged. "Why should we wait?"

"I thought maybe you'd like to say 'Thank you' to Capper before he

goes," said Jake.

"But I needn't see him for that," she said, in growing agitation. "I'll

write."

Jake was silent.

"He will very likely sail from Liverpool," she went on. "Be could come

and see Bunny there."

Jake bent towards her. "Say, Maud," he said in his soft slow way,

"don't be upset any. If you're not wanting to meet Capper, it's all one

to me. But, my girl, there ain't anything he could tell me about you

that I don't know already."

Her face flamed scarlet. For the moment she was furious with an

indignation that burned intolerably. Her very soul felt on fire. It

was more than she could bear.

"Oh, go away!" she cried out fiercely. "Go, I say! Go! You make me

hate you more and more every day--every night!" He rose on the instant.

For a few quivering moments she thought she had roused him to anger, for

his eyes glowed in the dimness like a slow-burning fire. And then in

utter silence he turned away. He went into his own room, and softly

closed the door.

CHAPTER VI

THE PROBLEM

"He's going to be a winner, is he?" asked Saltash, flicking the ash from

his cigarette as he stood in the training-field with Jake.

"That depends how he's ridden, my lord," said Jake dryly. "He is a hot

favourite."

"Pity you can't ride him yourself," observed Saltash, watching the

Albatross with a critical eye as he cantered down the field. "Who is in

the saddle? Not Vickers?"

"No. Vickers is incapacitated. I have put Stevens up. He seems keen

for the chance, though I'm not so keen to give it him," Jake spoke with

grimness.

"He ought to pull it off," said Saltash.

"He ought, my lord." Jake's tone lacked conviction notwithstanding.

Saltash turned. "What's the matter with the lad? You don't seem over

enthusiastic about him."

Jake flicked at a clump of nettles with his riding-whip. "I've done my

best to shape him, but he's a bit of a cur. The animals don't trust

him."

Saltash uttered a careless laugh. "Oh, you always were an adept at

reading the equine mind. Come along and show me the latest offspring!

What was it you called him? The Hundredth Chance? A curious name to

choose!"

Jake's grim face relaxed to a smile. "Oh, he's in the paddock along

with his mother. He promises to be the most valuable animal in the

Stables. He'll carry everything before him when the time comes."

"Is that why you've given him such a hopeful name?" asked Saltash.

Jake uttered a brief laugh. "Even so, my lord. He carries my luck with

him wherever he goes."

"You're a queer fish, Bolton," observed Saltash, turning to leave the

field.

The paddock lay on the further side of the orchard, and here they found

the pride of Jake's heart, a frisky black foal who kicked up his heels

and scampered at the sight of him.

"He'll take some taming presently," commented Saltash.

"And he'll knock spots off any animal I have ever had to tame," said

Jake.

Saltash laughed again with nonchalant interest. "If ever there were the

right man in the right place, it is you," he said. "Can we go back

through the garden? I believe that's the shortest way." He spoke with

a wary glance in the direction whither he wished to go. A white figure

was visible on the steps that led into the parlour. "I hear Mrs. Bolton

is away," he added, immediately averting his eyes.

Jake turned in his sturdy fashion, and began to walk towards the house.

"No, she is at home for the present," he said. "We are expecting

Capper. In fact the lad has gone to the station to meet him."

"What! Bunny? Is he really all right? Capper must be a magician!"

ejaculated Saltash.

"He is the biggest man I know," said Jake simply.

They approached the house. The white figure had disappeared.

Saltash chatted inconsequently, strolling along with a cigarette between

his lips, and a confident smile on his dark face. He had come down as

usual unexpectedly, but she was probably aware of his advent. His car

was awaiting him in the stable-yard. He did not think she would suffer

him to pass the window unnoticed.

Yet as he drew near she made no sign. Chops came smiling down the steps

to greet him, and he paused at once to fondle the dog.

Jake paused also, but he did not invite him to enter. He stood pulling

at the lash of his riding-whip, stolidly patient, awaiting his patron's

pleasure.

Suddenly Saltash looked up. "I believe your guest has arrived, Bolton.

You'd better go. Never mind me!"

There came undoubtedly the sound of wheels from the other side of the

house. Jake glanced towards the gate that led thither. Saltash bent

again over the dog.

"You'd better go," he reiterated. "I won't show. Don't let me keep

you!"

Jake raised a hand to his cap and turned away.

Instantly Saltash straightened himself. He uttered a low, clear

whistle, and almost immediately Maud, clad in white, came to the window.

He sprang up the steps in a single bound and caught her hands into his

own.

"I had your letter," he said. "Quick! When can you meet me?"

Maud was gasping a little. Her face was deeply flushed. "Charlie! You

are so sudden! I only want--a few minutes alone with you."

He held her hands. "When?" he said.

His eyes were gazing into hers freely, ardently; but he was laughing as

he always laughed, ready to turn his ardour into a joke at a moment's

notice.

She hesitated.

"Quick!" he said. "They are coming, and I must go. Come down to the

orchard-gate after dinner to-night! Jake and Capper will be smoking. No

one will know, Queen Rose. That is settled then. I shall be at the

gate alone." He laughed under his breath, lifted her hands to his lips,

made a wide gesture as if he would clasp her in his arms, laughed again

as she drew back, and wheeling, sprang down the steps and was gone in a

moment round the side of the house.

Maud's cheeks were burning. She turned to meet the visitor with the

feeling of one who has had a sudden rapid fall through space. She was

not sure of the ground beneath her feet.

She did not know how she greeted Capper, but somehow the difficult

moment passed. She was convinced afterwards that her manner had been

perfectly normal, for the atmosphere was quite natural and free from

strain. In a very few minutes they were all seated round the tea-table,

and to her relief Bunny, and not she, was the centre of observation and

general topic of their talk.

She feared that when tea was over Capper would seek her out; but he did

not. He went round the Stables with Jake.

She went to her own room to rest and recover her composure. It was true

that she had wanted to see Charlie alone; in fact it had become

essential to her mother's interests that she should do so. But she had

not altogether expected so prompt a reply to her request. She wished

she could have made some more ordinary arrangement. She wished with all

her heart that she had had the presence of mind to veto his suggestion.

It had never been her intention to meet him secretly and at night. Not

that she cared personally how or when she met him. Their friendship was

too old for that. But she did not like secrecy. Small as was the

confidence she extended to her husband, she yet had no desire to exclude

him deliberately from the knowledge of her doings. She did not wish to

commit any act, however innocent, which might appear suspicious in his

eyes.

The thing was unavoidable, however, the appointment was made. She could

not leave Charlie to wait in vain. For this once she must run the risk

and trust to luck to bring her through. It would not be a long

interview; she was fully determined upon that point. And she would

never agree to another on the same clandestine lines. She must assert

her independence, and meet him openly. Jake must learn to trust her.

She must not suffer him to interfere with her liberty of action. If he

were ridiculous enough to be jealous, that was his affair. She would

not allow herself to be influenced by such an absurd attitude. She never

questioned his doings; she must not suffer him to question hers. So she

sought to reassure herself the while her uneasiness grew.

She put on a dress of black lace when the supper-hour drew near. It

made her look even paler than her wont, but she gave scarcely a thought

to her appearance. Her mind was weighed down by far more serious

matters.

Even the prospect of a _tete-a-tete_ with Dr. Capper hardly disquieted

her, and when she discovered him on the garden-steps of the parlour she

went forward to join him without hesitation.

His greeting of her was full of kindness; there was nothing

disconcerting about his attitude.

"I was just thinking about my friend Rafford," he said. "You remember

him? And how mad he went over that piece of statuary at Burchester

Castle? But, strange to say, it's not the anatomy that interests him

any longer. It's the face."

She felt herself colour a little. "If it bears any resemblance to me,

it is purely accidental," she said.

"Or rather, a coincidence," amended Capper. "It's a fine piece of work

anyway. But he is nothing of a judge. Guess it's just the humanity of

the thing that gets him."

"It's rather a painful study," Maud said.

"Ah, but it leaves endless possibilities. That is where the genius of

the sculptor displays itself. Rafford saw that. 'The hotter the

furnace, the purer the gold,' he said to me; 'if I had the naming of

that work I'd call it _The Crucible or Seven Times Purified_.'"

"What a peculiar point of view!" Maud exclaimed, almost in spite of

herself.

Capper assented. "Raff is highly imaginative. He has a very long

perspective. A bit of a dreamer too. If it weren't for that, I should

prophesy a great future for him. But there's no time for dreaming in

this world. You must either hustle through or be content to stand aside.

You can't do both."

"I don't like hustling," Maud said, with a smile.

He made her a bow. "No, you are English. But Raff has not that excuse.

That's why I doubt if he ever gets there. He needs to be up against a

thing before he considers it worth while. That's not the way to win out

handsomely. It's the way to get whipped off the field."

"Always make for the crest of the wave!" said Jake's voice behind them.

"You may get there--some day--if you're lucky; though it's more likely

you'll be dragged under and swamped."

Capper turned to him. "Not you, Jake!" he said. "You're a born winner.

I'm sure Mrs. Bolton will bear me out there."

Jake's hand descended upon his wife's shoulder. "Mrs. Bolton doesn't

know my capabilities in that respect at present," he remarked dryly.

"She has only witnessed the start."

Maud did not turn her head. "You are all invincible, of course," she

said.

Bunny's advent diverted the conversation. He could think and talk of

nothing but the forthcoming races at Graydown which had been fixed for

the end of the week, and which he had prevailed upon Jake to allow him

to attend.

Capper, though not particularly enthusiastic, was to remain for them,

"just to see Jake come out on top," as he expressed it. It was taken

for granted by all that Maud would go too, and she supposed she would do

so; but she took no part in the conversation which Bunny found so

all-absorbing. She was too occupied with the thought of Charlie.

There was no need for her to talk. She sat silent and abstracted while

the protracted discussion went on around her. Bunny had learned more

about the animals in ten days than she had discovered in as many weeks,

and Capper listened with amused indulgence. It all went over her head,

and no one seemed to notice her aloofness.

Bunny would gladly have sat up till late, but Jake would not permit

this. He ordered him off to bed on the stroke of nine, and Bunny went

without demur. He was learning to obey his brother-in-law without any

thought of rebellion. Maud noted the fact bitterly. It was another

proof to her of the despotic mastery of Jake's personality. He ruled

them all.

She herself rose from the table upon Bunny's departure, and as she did

so she was for the first time conscious of Capper's critical scrutiny.

It passed almost immediately as he sprang to his feet to open the door.

"I shall have the pleasure of seeing you again?" he asked.

She bent her head. "I am only going to fetch a wrap for the garden."

He smiled and bowed her out.

Jake was in the act of lighting a cigarette when he returned to the

table. He proffered the end of it to Capper, and as the latter stooped

to kindle his own their eyes met. Capper's held a question that could

scarcely be ignored.

Half-reluctantly Jake removed his cigarette and spoke. "It's the biggest

problem I've ever been up against."

Capper puffed forth a cloud of smoke. "What's troubling you?"

Jake sat down heavily. "She ain't pleased--not any. Life is damnably

difficult. I thought I was going to make her happy, but I've made an

almighty failure of it. She used to just tolerate me in the old days;

but now--she hates the very sight of me. The mere thought of bearing me

a child seems to drive her clean crazy."

He ceased to speak and sat bowed in his chair, his chin on his breast,

his eyes gazing sombrely forth under bent brows.

Capper was still on his feet. He stood cracking his fingers one after

the other with meditative regularity. His eyes, very green and shrewd,

rested upon Jake's head that shone like copper in the lamplight.

There fell a silence of several seconds; then at length with another

great puff of smoke he spoke. "Guess it's just a case for patience,

Jake, my lad. These things right 'emselves, you know, when the time

comes. It's wonderful how childbearing softens a woman. And you love

her. That'll make a difference too--when the time comes."

Jake did not look up. "God knows I do," he said slowly. "But you know,

Doc--" he seemed to be speaking with something of an effort--"I don't

fancy she knows it."

"Oh, shucks!" Capper exclaimed. "She wouldn't be a woman if she

didn't."

Jake shook his head despondently. "I suppose I'm just a brute beast.

She thinks so, and I can't show her anything different now. Maybe I am

more flesh than spirit; but for all that she is the one woman I want,

and none other could ever satisfy me now. But I haven't got her. Even

when I hold her in my arms, she ain't there. And she has never kissed

me, never once."

Again he ceased to speak, and Capper pulled at his beard and said

nothing.

There fell a long silence between them through which the grandfather

clock in the corner ticked with a melancholy beat. It was like the

heart of a tired man.

Jake's cigarette hung neglected between his fingers which almost trailed

on the floor. His eyes still stared before him as though they saw one

thing, and only one.

Capper smoked with scarcely a pause. His yellow face was very

thoughtful His cigarette came to an end, and he dropped it smouldering

on to a plate. Then he turned and laid a kindly hand upon Jake's

shoulder.

"Keep a stiff upper lip, my son! I guess she's yours for the winning,

or she will be. It's no good trying to understand a woman's moods. You

never will do that as long as you live. But she'll come to you in the

end, sure. Give her all the rope you can! If she hasn't any use for you

at present, it'll come."

"Will it?" said Jake rather bitterly. "I reckon I'm further away from

winning her now than I've ever been. Once--it's ages ago--she came to me

and cried out her troubles on my shoulder. She'd no more dream of doing

that now than she'd dream of flying. She'd be more likely to--" He

broke off short.

"What?" said Capper.

Jake sat slowly up. His eyes still seemed to be fixed upon some

definite object. "I was going to say," he said, in a voice that had

become peculiarly soft and deliberate, "that she'd be more likely to

carry her troubles to Saltash. But I don't think exactly that. He's too

crooked to hold a woman's confidence. No woman with any sense would

trust him."

He grasped Capper's hand and looked up with a curious smile.

"It would be a pity to have to shoot a freak like Saltash; wouldn't it?"

he said. "Reckon a good many women would miss him."

His eyes shone red for a moment, then he uttered a laugh that seemed to

dismiss the subject.

"Come into the garden and see the moon rise!" he said.

CHAPTER VII

THE LAND OF MOONSHINE

The dew was thick on the orchard grass as Maud ran down under the trees.

An orange moon was rising behind them and the shadows lay deep and

mysterious across her path. The wind blew fresh from the sea, sweeping

the wide down, bringing relief after the heat of the day.

She was trembling as she went, yet as she neared the trysting-place she

checked herself and walked with some dignity. She did not want to

arrive in a state of agitation. She was sure he would be waiting for

her. She was sure, she was sure!

Yes, he was there. They saw each other simultaneously, and in a moment

he had sprung to meet her with the ardour she knew so well. Her hands

were in his almost in the same instant. He held them closely,

lingeringly.

"At last!" he said.

Rather breathlessly she made response. "Yes, but I can't stay. I want

to speak to you--only to speak to you--about my mother."

"Good heavens!" said Saltash. His hold relaxed for a second, then

tightened again. "My dear girl, how absurdly prosaic of you to come to

me on such a night as this and talk about anybody or anything on earth

besides ourselves! I won't allow it and that's a fact."

She laughed a little unsteadily. "But it is just that I have come for,

Charlie; and nothing else. And I can't stay either. You must let me

say what I have to say quickly, and then go."

He drew her gently through the gate and led her to the summer-house

close by that overlooked the down. The moonlight filtered in upon them

through a lattice-work of leaves.

"Don't tremble, _ma belle reine_!" he said. "You shall go whenever you

will. But need we waste to-night? I will call upon you formally in the

morning if you desire it and talk about anything you wish."

She sat down with the feeling of one who moves beneath a spell, and

after a moment he sat beside her, still lightly holding her hand. Yes,

she was at liberty to go whenever she would; and yet she could not, she

could not!

The witchery of the hour was upon her. It was not the first time that

they had sat thus, he and she, hand in hand, wrapped in the mystery and

romance of a summer night. Her thoughts went back with a bitter pang to

the old dear dream. Ah, why had she sent him from her? She had obeyed

the instincts of her soul, perchance; but she had wrecked her life to do

it. Why? Why?

He was speaking, leaning to her, his swarthy face against her shoulder.

"Maud, let us forget the world to-night! Never mind what brought you!

Just remember that you are here--in the land of moonshine--with me!"

She turned at his voice; she yielded ever so slightly to the subtle

drawing of his hand. "But let me speak, Charlie!" she whispered. "I am

so troubled. I want your help."

"It is yours for ever," he made answer. "You have but to command."

"That is a promise?" she urged.

"My solemn promise," said Saltash. "Now--shall we forget?"

His voice was full of a tenderness that stirred her to the depths. A

piteous sob caught her throat; she put up a swift, silencing hand. "Oh,

if I only could!" she said.

"You can," said Saltash. He moved also, slid a gentle arm about her.

"Close your eyes, dear heart, and forget all your troubles!" he

whispered. "I can charm them all away."

She shook her head. Her eyes were full of tears. "I am caught in the

whirlpools, Charlie," she whispered back. "I shall never get away. All

the romance is gone out of my life--for ever."

"I can bring it back," he said.

Her tears overflowed. She could not hold them back. "I wish I were

dead!" she said.

The arm that encircled her grew gradually tense like the tightening of a

coil. "Come to me!" he murmured. "Listen to your own heart and come!

What does it matter what lies behind? Put it all away from you--and

come!"

She suffered his arm, but she yielded herself no further to it. "I

can't," she said hopelessly. "I--can't."

"Why not?" he urged. "Haven't I waited long enough? Are you afraid?"

She bent her head, covering her face. "Oh yes, I am afraid--afraid.

Life is so dreadful. It is full of--terrible consequences."

It had come upon her so suddenly. She had as it were stepped out of

prison into a world of seething temptation with the passing of that

gate. Never before had she felt so lured and drawn by that which was

evil. The swift spell had caught her in a moment, and it held,--how it

held her!

His arms were about her. He drew her to his breast. "What do I care for

consequences?" he whispered passionately. "Come to me, queen of my

heart! I have been cheated of my right long enough. Yes, my right--my

right! You have belonged to me always, and you know it. Oh, what are we

to fight against destiny? Do you think I don't know how you have

suffered? Do you think I haven't suffered too? All because you loved

me--and sent me away! You will never do that again, queen of the roses.

You have called me back to you. You are mine. Turn your face to me,

sweetheart! There is no love in all the world like ours. How can we

resist it? It is greater than we ourselves."

But she kept her face covered, hidden low against the throbbing of his

heart.

His words went into silence--a silence that was stark and cold--the very

shadow of Despair. It bound them both for a while; then shudderingly

she spoke.

"It is no good, Charlie. I can't do it--now. If I had known--three

months ago--what was before me--I think I would have come. But the

whirlpools caught me--drew me down. I realized too late--too late. I

can't come now. I am bound--hand and foot--in outer darkness."

"I can deliver you," he said.

"No one can deliver me." The bitter conviction of her voice silenced

even him. "It is what you foretold. I am a slave, and I have got to

bear the yoke of my slavery. I shall never be free now, never as long

as I live. I am bound to the oar by chain that--even you--could never

break."

She moved in his arms; she raised her head at last.

"Say good-bye to me, Charlie!" she whispered, "and--go!"

He caught her to him. He looked closely into her quivering face. "You

love me still?" he whispered, with passionate insistence. "Tell me you

love me still!"

She seemed to hesitate as if reluctant or irresolute. She seemed about

to draw back. And then something magnetic in his face or his touch must

haw moved her; or was it the weird enchantment of the night? She gave

him her lips without a word, and so he had his answer....

There came the click of the orchard-gate, the sound of a quiet voice.

"Come round to the summer-house, Doc! There's a fine view from there."

Maud stiffened in Saltash's arms as if turned to stone.

He set her free with the utmost coolness and rose. The next instant she

was sitting alone in the chequered moonlight. He had vanished without

sound round the side of the arbour furthest from the orchard-gate.

She sat with a thumping heart, waiting. There had been something almost

eerie in his disappearance. She knew he must be standing pressed

against the wall by which she sat, but yet his going had been so silent

that--even though her lips still burned with the memory of his kiss--she

felt curiously as though the whole episode were as incredible as a

dream.

She made no attempt to move. Her limbs felt like lead. Only her heart

raced so madly that she gasped for breath.

She heard again the quiet, drawling voice. "The gate was open. Very

likely my wife is here."

A great shiver went through her. She felt suddenly cold from head to

foot. She clasped her hands tightly together, striving with all her

strength for self-control.

There fell the tread of feet upon the grass, and Capper's tall thin form

came round the side of the arbour. He saw her in a moment, for the

moonlight was on her face. She stared at him with hunted eyes. Where

was Jake?

He accosted her at once. "Ah, Mrs. Bolton, so here you are! Say, do

you think you're wise to sit here with the frogs? It's cold, you know.

Where's that wrap you were going to fetch?"

She stretched out a hand to him instinctively. "Yes, I am cold," she

said, and her teeth chattered upon the words. "Is--is--Jake there?"

Capper glanced over his shoulder. "He was there. But--Columbus!--how

cold you are, child! You will be sick if you stay here. Come! Let me

take you in!"

He drew her to her feet; then, as she tottered, leaning upon him, passed

a wiry arm about her. As he did so, she saw Jake come round the other

corner of the arbour and stop upon the threshold.

She turned suddenly giddy and clung weakly to Capper. He had seen; he

must have seen! But why had there been no encounter--no challenge of

any sort? Where--where was Charlie?

She went through an agony of apprehension during those few moments. She

thought the awful suspense would kill her.

Then Jake's square figure advanced, blocking the opening. His voice

pierced through her agitation.

"So you have found her, Doc. I thought she would be hereabouts. I see

there is a mist coming up. We had better go in."

There was nothing in the words, but she shivered uncontrollably at the

sound of them. That slow soft speech was as a veil that hid unutterable

things. With a great effort she mastered her weakness and spoke.

"Yes, it has turned quite cold. I think it is the dew. Did you come

here to admire the view, Dr. Capper? It is one of the best in the

neighbourhood. I often think I should like to come and camp out here on

these summer nights."

"You would want plenty of blankets," said Capper. "There is a creepy

chill in the atmosphere that reminds one of the fall." He took his arm

from about her, and drew her hand through it. "Come, we must go. It

isn't right for you to take risks. A glass of wine before you turn in

is what I should recommend."

She made an attempt to laugh, but she did not feel it to be a success.

"That is Jake's invariable remedy for all ills," she declared. "But I

thought it had ceased to be popular with your profession."

She emerged from the summer-house, holding his arm, but a new strength

born of terrible expediency seemed to have entered into her. She moved

without effort, Jake stepping back to let her pass.

"Do admire the beauties of it before we go!" she urged. "It is so

romantic by this light. The Brethaven lighthouse is over there. It has

a revolving light. Do you see it?" She turned and spoke over her

shoulder. "Jake, come and show Dr. Capper all the different points of

interest."

But Capper would have none of it. "I shan't be satisfied till I've got

you indoors," he said. "What have you got on your feet? Nothing but

light slippers? Say, Mrs. Bolton, you ought to take more care of

yourself."

"Oh, but I never have," she protested. "I am wonderfully strong. Jake

will tell you that."

"I think as Dr. Capper thinks," Jake said. "You ought to be more

careful."

She felt herself flush. Now that her agitation had subsided, she was

capable of feeling resentment once more, and there was that in the quiet

utterance that stung her.

She made no rejoinder, but her face burned hotter and hotter as they

began to walk back. She was sure--quite sure--that she had been made a

subject of discussion between her husband and Dr. Capper.

Jake walked on her other side. She had the feeling of being a prisoner

between two warders. And she wondered if Charlie were watching with

that mocking humour in his eyes.

She set her teeth as the memory of his voice, his touch, went through

her. She wondered with a sinking heart what she would have to tell him

when they met again....

CHAPTER VIII

THE WARNING

Half an hour later Maud stood in her bedroom, waiting. The window was

wide open, and the night-air blew in cold and pure, with a scent of

dew-drenched roses and the salt of the sea behind. There was a large

moth in the room. It had been attracted thither by the light of the

candles, but it seemed to be dashing to and fro now in a wild search for

freedom. She watched its futile efforts with a vague pity. But she was

powerless to help it. Every moment it was circling closer and closer to

the flame and would probably perish there in the end. She supposed it

didn't matter. It was born to die in any case, and surely death was

kinder than life. She had often thought so.

If she could have chosen death in that moment instead of this numb

waiting for an ordeal which she felt would be beyond her strength, she

believed she would not have hesitated. This continual battling against

a will so immeasurably stronger than her own was wearing her down. The

bare thought of an open conflict made her sick. And that an open

conflict was before her she felt convinced. He had not chosen to

confound her in the presence of Capper, but she knew that the reckoning

was only deferred. She had come to know him as a man of unerring

justice, and she had long ceased to hope for mercy from him.

Ah! She heard his step at last, and turned, bracing herself. The moth

was flitting dizzily round and round the candle. Her eyes followed it

fascinated.

Suddenly it made a headlong dash for the flame, there came a sharp

crackle, and then the dull thud of its fall upon the floor. A great

shudder caught her, almost convulsed her. And in the same instant the

door that intervened between her room and Jake's opened; and he stood

before her.

She faced him stiffly in utter silence. One glimpse she had of his

face, and only one; for she could not look again. The red-brown eyes

were alight with a fire that seemed to consume her even from afar. She

stood and numbly waited.

He came straight to her. "So," he said, "you have decided to make a

fool of me, have you?"

His voice was very low, but it had in it the sound as of an angry

animal. There was something of the animal in his pose also, something

from which her whole being shrank affrighted.

Yet she was not without courage. She forced herself to a certain

calmness. "Will you tell me what you mean?" she said.

He made a slight gesture that seemed to cry aloud of a savagery scarcely

restrained. "I guess you can do that," he said. "What do I mean? Tell

me!"

She drew back from him with an instinctive movement of recoil, but on

the instant, as though she had stepped into a trap, his hands came out

and caught her by the wrists. He held her firmly before him.

"Tell me!" he reiterated.

But she took refuge in silence. She had no words.

He held her so for many seconds, and she knew that during those seconds

his eyes remained immovably fixed upon her. She made no attempt to

resist him. She knew beyond all question that resistance would be worse

than useless. But she refused with mute determination to meet his eyes.

Crush her, conquer her, as he would, he should not force his way past

every barrier unopposed. Her submission was physical but not mental.

She had always held back from him her soul.

He spoke at length, and still in his voice she heard that terrible, deep

menace as of a savage force that gathered and gathered under the

thinning surface of his civilization. "I reckon you think I'm easier to

fool than I am. Old friends must have their privileges. Ain't that so?

And if they include a little genteel love-making, where's the harm? Who

is to raise any objection? Not the husband who has been too big an oaf

ever to make love to you in his life! The husband who just takes what he

wants and leaves what's over for the lover! He should be the last

person to interfere, I reckon. Ain't that so?"

She shivered in his hold, but she spoke no word. Had they not always

been utterly at variance with one another? How could she hope to make

him see anything but evil now that his brutal passions were aroused?

How could she ever attempt to convince him that he alone was responsible

for the fact that temptation had become even possible to her?

And so she stood in silence while the dreadful force of the man mounted

and mounted, menacing her.

He waited for several seconds for some response from her; then, at last,

as she made none, he moved, drew her locked wrists behind her, forcing

her slowly back till her face was turned up to his gaze.

She felt the scorching fire of the eyes she would not meet, and in a

moment her whole body seemed to burn in a furnace of shame. The hot

blood stung her from head to foot, pricking every vein. Crimson and

quivering, she hung there in his hold, waiting.

"So you won't speak to me?" he said. "Won't even try to defend

yourself? Well, maybe you're wise. Maybe explanations would do more

harm than good. I know well enough how it is with you. You've got to

the pitch of enduring me like a loathsome but incurable disease. You

never reflected, did you, that in so doing you were making your own

hell? You hate me, but you don't realize that the thing you hate is not

me at all but a brute of your own creation. And because of that--p'raps

it's a natural consequence--you've come to prefer another man's love to

mine."