which the fog-wreaths curled and drifted in the draught, cold as a
vault, and smelling of stale tobacco-smoke. The place looked bare and
poverty-stricken, almost squalid. The rugs were gone from the floor,
the pictures from the walls.
The door swung closed behind her, and she felt as if she stood inside a
prison. The office-window was shut, and no sound came from any quarter.
Only through the desolate silence there came the sullen thump of the sea
against the wall, like the waning struggle of a giant grown impotent
with long and fruitless striving.
The utter solitude of the place began to possess her like an evil dream.
She stood as one under a spell, afraid to move. And then, quite
suddenly, she heard a step.
The impulse came to her then to flee, but she did not obey it. She
stood stiffly waiting. Even if it were Giles Sheppard himself, she
would meet him before she went out into the dripping dark outside.
It was not Giles Sheppard. A man in a tweed suit and black gaiters,
square-shouldered, rather short than tall,--a man of bull-dog
strength--came suddenly upon her from the interior of the house. She
heard the jingle of spurs upon the stones of the hall, caught one glance
of a sunburnt, dominant face and hair that shone like burnished copper
in the light; and then she was tottering blindly backwards, groping,
groping for the door by which she might escape.
He came to her ere she could open it, and in a moment she became rigid,
as one fascinated into passivity. He took her ice-cold hands and held
them.
"Why, Maud! Maud!" he said, in the tone of one who would comfort a
child.
A great shiver went through her at his touch; but she stood speechless.
His face swam before her shrinking vision. She felt sick and faint.
"Snakes!" he said. "You're perished with cold. Say, why didn't you
tell me you were coming?" Then, as still she could not speak: "Come
along into the office! There's no one there; and I'll soon have a fire
for you. You lean on me, my girl! It'll be all right."
His arm went round her; he supported her strongly. The warmth of his
body sent a faint glow through her. Almost without knowing it, she
leaned upon him.
He took her into the deserted office, put her into a chair by the empty
fireplace, lighted the gas, then knelt to kindle the fire. The wood was
damp; he coaxed it to burn, blowing at the unwilling flame, his head in
the smoke.
"Say, that's better," he said softly at length. "Now I'm going to give
you something you'll hate, but I reckon you'll take it to please me.
Won't you?"
He still knelt beside her, but there was no hint of authority, no
possessiveness, in his bearing. Rather there was about him a curious
something that was almost like humility.
She watched him dumbly as he pulled a small glass flask out of his
pocket and withdrew the cork. He turned to her as he did it, and for an
instant she met his eyes. The old hot glow was wholly gone from them.
She missed it with an odd sense of shock. Only kindness shone out at
her; only friendliness was in the clasp of the hand he laid on hers.
"You'll take it?" he said, in his voice of soft persuasion, "It's raw
spirit; but it's not going to do you any harm. Just a drop, and then
I'll feel easier about you! There now, if that's not real good of you!"
He was pressing it gently upon her; and she could not refuse. She took
the flask from him and drank a burning drain.
"Has it gone?" said Jake.
She nodded silently, feeling the glow of the spirit spreading through
her veins and the deadly coldness at her heart giving place to it.
He smiled upon her, his pleasant, sudden smile, and took the flask back
into his own keeping. Then he bent again to the fire, blowing at it
persistently, patiently, till it shot up into a blaze.
She watched him as one in a dream--a dream from which all nightmare
horror had been magically banished. This--this was the old Jake to whom
she had once turned in trouble, in whose arms she had sobbed out her
misery and despair. This was Jake the friend into whose keeping she had
given her life.
He straightened himself again, coughing a little. She caught again the
gleam of the red-brown eyes, seeking hers.
"Better now?" he asked her.
She bent her head. "Yes, I am all right now. You--you--I didn't expect
to see you here."
"Guess it was a mutual surprise," said Jake. "What brought you anyway?"
Her heart gave a sudden quick throb of dismay.
Actually she had forgotten the desperate resolution that had urged her
for so long. She turned her face quickly from him. "I--came--to--to
see my mother," she faltered.
He raised his brows momentarily. "She wasn't expecting you, sure," he
commented.
"No," she felt her cheeks burning, and strove still further to avoid his
look. "No. It--it was a--surprise visit."
There fell a brief silence upon her words, and while it lasted, she sat
in tense suspense, waiting--waiting for him to pounce upon her secret
and drag it to the light. She dared not look at him kneeling there
beside her, dared not meet the awful scrutiny of those lynx-eyes. Such
was her agitation that she scarcely dared even to breathe.
And then an amazing thing happened. Jake's hand was suddenly laid upon
her knee, pressing it reassuringly. "Well," he said in his casual drawl,
"I reckon you've come in the nick of time so far as your mother is
concerned. Your amiable step-father has cleared out bag and baggage, and
left her to face the music. He pawned everything he could lay his dirty
hands on first, and the place is empty except for the old ostler who is
serving behind the bar till further orders."
"Oh Jake!" Startled, Maud turned back to him. "And what is my mother
doing?"
There was a faintly humorous twist about Jake's lips as he made reply.
"Your mother has gone to bed in hysterics. I can't get out of her what
exactly she means to do. P'raps you will be more successful. I came
down this morning as soon as I got the news of Sheppard's departure, and
tried to persuade her to come along to the Stables; but she wouldn't
hear of it. She's got some idea at the back of her mind, I gather; or
maybe the Stables aren't aristocratic enough. Anyway, there was no
moving her. I've been up at Tattersall's all day. Only got back half an
hour ago. I thought I'd look in again here, and see how things were
going before I went home. But they haven't moved any since this
morning, and she is still in bed with hysterics."
He had not been home all day; he had received no message. The thought
darted through Maud with a suddenness that nearly made her gasp with
relief. He did not know of Uncle Edward's summons. And then she
remembered that it must be awaiting him, and her heart sank again.
"You're shivering still," said Jake gently.
"It's nothing," she made answer. "It's nothing." And then desperately:
"You--you didn't get--a telegram from Uncle Edward--last night?"
"I?" said Jake. "No. What should he wire to me for?"
She hesitated a second, then feverishly faced the danger that menaced
her. "You--I expect you will find a message waiting for you. We--we
had a disagreement yesterday. That's why I came away."
Jake's brows met abruptly. "Hasn't he been treating you properly?"
"Oh, it's not that. I--I can't tell you what it was. But--he said he
should wire to you--to go to Liverpool."
Maud's hands clasped each other very tightly. She was striving with all
her strength for composure. But she could not bring herself to look him
in the face.
"And so you came away," Jake said slowly.
She nodded, swallowing down her agitation. "I didn't want to meet
you--like that. I didn't know what was in the telegram."
Jake's fingers patted her knee gently. "And so you came back here for
refuge! All right, my girl! You needn't be afraid. Uncle Edward may
go to blazes. I shan't read that telegram."
He stooped with the words, picked up a fragment of burning stick that
had fallen at her feet, and tossed it back into the flames.
Maud uttered a sharp exclamation. "Jake! You'll be burnt!"
He looked up at her with a smile. "I guess not," he said. "And now that
that matter is disposed of, you'll maybe like to go and see your
mother."
She met his eyes with a feeling that she could do no less. "You're very
good," she said, with an effort.
His smile broadened. "Then it's the cheapest form of goodness I know,"
he said. "If your Uncle Edward were a little younger, I'd give myself
the pleasure of accepting his invitation just for the sake of
administering the kicking he deserves. However, we won't waste time
discussing him. Are you going to spend the night here along with your
mother?"
He seemed bent upon making things easy for her. His attitude amazed
her. She kept asking herself again and again if this could be the man
from whom she had fled in bitterness of spirit all those weeks ago.
She hesitated to answer his question. She was painfully uncertain of
the ground beneath her feet. Almost she expected it to cleave asunder
at any moment and reveal the raging fires that once had scorched her
soul.
But Jake did not suffer her to remain in suspense. Very quietly he
filled in her hesitation. "Maybe you'd sooner stay here," he said, in
his soft, rather sing-song voice. "It's up to you to decide. Guess I
shan't interfere any with your movements."
His one hand still lay on her knee. It pressed upon her a little as
though seeking to convey something that she was slow to grasp.
Her doubt subsided under the steady touch. She suddenly knew beyond all
questioning that she stood on solid ground. Yet it was not without
difficulty that she answered him. "I think--perhaps--for to-night--I
will stay with her."
Jake nodded with his face to the flames. "It's up to you," he said
again.
She looked at his bent head, conscious of a new distress. How was she
going to repay him for this his goodness to her? He was trusting her
blindly. He had refused to let his eyes be opened. For she knew he
would keep his word about that telegram. Jake always kept his word.
Her distress grew, became almost unbearable. She saw herself in a new
and horrible light, and shrank in anguish of soul from the revelation.
It was as if upon that downward path she had suddenly caught a glimpse
of the precipice at the end, the cruel rocks, the dreadful fall, the
black, seething whirlpool below. And her whole being revolted. All
that was pure in her made swift outcry.
If Jake--Jake--had climbed back to the old high ground, surely she could
do the same! Surely she could do no less. He trusted her--he trusted
her! How could she go on?
The wild tempest of feeling rushed through her, and passed. She was
left very cold, striving desperately to suppress a fit of shuddering
that threatened to overwhelm her.
Jake was not looking at her. He seemed unaware of her agitation. After
a moment he took his hand away, and rose.
He began to feel in his pockets, produced his clay pipe and
tobacco-pouch; then suddenly paused. "Do you mind if I light up? I'm
just going."
"Oh, please do!" she said.
He began to fill the pipe with minute care. "Don't let your mother take
too much out of you!" he said. "Have a meal and turn in as early as you
can! Guess you're needing a good rest."
She leaned her head on her hand. "Yes. I am tired."
Jake was silent again for a space. Finally he put the pipe into his
mouth and shook the tobacco back into his pouch. Then in a curiously
hesitating voice, he spoke. "Say,--Maud!"
She gave a start, and raised her head. He was looking down at her with
a faint smile in his eyes, a smile that struck her as being whimsical
and yet curiously wistful also.
"I just want to tell you, my girl," he said, "that you're not to be
scared of me any more. Reckon you've had a hell of a time all your
life, but it's to come to an end right now. For the future, you do the
asking and I the giving. You're boss, and don't you forget it! I'm your
man, not your master, and I'll behave accordingly. Guess I'll even lie
down and let you kick me if it'll make you happy any."
Maud was gazing at him in open amazement long before he had finished his
astounding speech. The slow utterance, half-sad, half-humorous, was
spoken with the full weight of the man's strength of purpose. Every
word came with the steady force of unwavering resolution. There was a
touch of the superb about him even with that unlighted pipe between his
teeth. And every word seemed to pierce her with a deeper pain, pain
that was well-nigh unendurable.
As he uttered the last deliberate sentence, she rose quickly with a
gesture of protest. She could bear no more.
"Jake, you--you--you hurt me!" she stammered incoherently.
He put out a hand to her. "No--no!" he said. "That was not my
intention."
It was almost as though he pleaded with her for some species of
clemency. She was sure she read entreaty in the red-brown eyes. But
she could not lay her hand in his. She could not--she could not! She
stood before him panting, speechless, shaken to the very foundations of
her being.
His hand fell. "I just want you to be happy, my girl, that's all," he
said gently; "happy after your own notions of happiness. Maybe there
ain't room for me in the general scheme of things. If that's so,--I
reckon I'll stay outside."
He turned aside with the words and struck a match to kindle his pipe
with the air of a man who has said his say. Then while she still watched
him, he puffed a great cloud of smoke into the air, straightened
himself, and made her an odd, clumsy bow.
"I'm going now. So long!" he said.
And so, without further parley, he left her, striding away in his
square, purposeful fashion without a backward glance.
Only when he was gone did it flash upon her that this--this--was her
dream come true. All unknowing, wholly without intention, he had opened
her eyes. And she knew that he loved her--he loved her!
CHAPTER XVII
THE LAST CHANCE
"It's a cruel world," complained Mrs. Sheppard. "Nothing ever goes
right, and no one ever thinks of anybody but themselves." She wiped her
eyes pathetically. "I'm sure I've always tried to consider others. And
this is the result. In my hour of need I am forsaken by everybody."
"It's no good fretting," Maud said very wearily. "We must think what is
best to be done."
She realized that her mother was in her most unreasonable mood, and she
felt herself powerless to cope with it. Yet the situation had to be
faced, and with a heavy heart she faced it.
"My dear, I've thought and thought till my brain refuses to work," said
Mrs. Sheppard plaintively. "What is the good of it? You know as well
as I that if Charlie refuses to help, all hope is gone. And you say he
has refused."
"Yes." Maud was stooping over the kettle that she was boiling in her
mother's bedroom. "He has refused."
"Unconditionally?" Mrs. Sheppard sent a sudden keen glance across at
the slim, drooping figure and noted the weariness of its pose. "Maud,
tell me! Unconditionally?"
Maud remained bent. "I am not going to accept his conditions," she
said, after a moment.
"Then he made conditions?" The question came sharp and querulous from
the bed.
"One condition." Maud bent a little lower.
"What was it? My child, you must tell me. I have a right to know."
Mrs. Sheppard raised herself to a sitting position. "What was this
condition?"
Maud did not turn. "What does it matter what it was as I am not going
to accept it," she said.
"You have refused?"
"I am going to refuse." There was utter weariness in her voice. She
spoke as one to whom nothing mattered any more.
"Maud! Then you haven't actually refused him yet?" Mrs. Sheppard
suddenly flung out her arms. "Maud--darling, come and tell me all about
it!" she urged. "There is something behind that you haven't told me yet.
Come here, dearest! Come to me!"
Maud turned an unwilling face over her shoulder. "I am too tired
to-night, Mother," she said. "Besides, there is really nothing to tell.
Charlie made me a certain proposal which--which I thought for a little
that I might accept. I now realize that I can't and--and--" a faint
quiver of vehemence crept into her voice,--"I want to forget that I ever
thought I could. Please let me forget!"
"My dear child! Do you mean that he made you a proposal of marriage?"
The eagerness of Mrs. Sheppard's query was scarcely veiled. Her eyes
had the look of one in search of treasure.
"Yes; just that." The emotion had gone out of Maud's voice again. It
sounded flat and mechanical. She leaned her arm upon the mantelpiece
for support. "I ought not to have suffered it. I was to blame more
than he. He has always been--that sort. I--haven't."
"But, my dear, you have always loved each other. Why should either of
you be to blame? The fault was certainly yours in the first place for
sending him away long ago; but now--now----"
"Now I am married to another man," Maud said.
Mrs. Sheppard clapped her hands together in a sudden access of
impatience. "A man for whom you have not the smallest respect or
affection! A man of intemperate habits who took advantage of a weak
moment to marry you, who has made you utterly miserable, and deserves
nothing from you but the utmost contempt! My dear Maud, I always
thought that you were proud and fastidious. Didn't Charlie always call
you his queen rose? How can you--how can you--regard that farcical
marriage of yours as binding? How can you contemplate ruining your own
life and Charlie's also now that another chance has been given you? It
is sheer wilful folly. It is madness. Or is it that you are
just--afraid?"
Maud shook her head. "I don't suppose you would ever really understand,
Mother," she said. "Anyhow I don't know how to explain. But I can't do
it--now. I thought I could. I came back because I thought I could. But
now I am here--now I have seen Jake--I find I can't."
"That is because you are afraid," declared Mrs. Sheppard, "He has
terrorized you. But, oh, my dear, do try to break away from that! Do
think of yourself--and of Charlie who has loved you all these years!
One great effort--only one--and you will be free from this horrible,
unnatural bond. I know that Charlie will be true to you. You are the
one woman so far as he is concerned. And he--he is the one man, dear,
isn't he? You can't--surely you can't--bear to disappoint him now!
Think of the years to come! Think of the life-happiness waiting for you
if you only muster the strength now to grasp it! Maud, my darling, my
own girlie, can't you be brave just this once when so much hangs upon
it? He will take you away in his yacht, and you will be all in all to
each other. You will find all the good things you have missed till now;
and this dreadful year will fade away like a dream. Oh, darling, surely
you will make this one great effort to gain so much! The chance will
never come again to you. It is the one chance of your life,--the last.
How can you bear to throw it away?"
"And what of Jake?" Maud spoke the words as though uttering her thought
aloud. She was gazing downwards at the steaming kettle and the red-hot
glow of the fire.
"Jake!" Mrs. Sheppard's reply was instant and contemptuous. "He will
marry a girl in his own station who will satisfy all his desires. You
can't honestly imagine that you have done that, that he regards his
marriage with you as a success! He may be annoyed at your preference,
but he will be as glad as you are to be rid of his bargain. It will be
the greatest kindness you can do him--if you want to be kind. You know
you hate him from the bottom of your heart."
"Mother! You're wrong!" Sharply--as though stung to action--Maud
turned. "I don't hate Jake. He--he is too good a man--too upright a
man--to hate. It is true I haven't been happy with him, but that has
not been his fault. Our ideas of happiness are not the same, that's
all."
Mrs. Sheppard stared in momentary discomfiture at this sudden display of
strength. She had not expected serious resistance in this quarter. But
she was quick to rally her forces.
"Oh, I don't blame him entirely," she said. "As you say, you are
utterly unsuited to each other. But it is sheer nonsense to call him a
good man. I know that he is often the worse for drink. I have seen him
myself flogging his horses down on the beach as no man in his sober
senses would dream of doing. He is an utter brute at heart. There is
no getting away from that fact. He may not be a wholly bad man. I have
not said that he is. But he is a man of violent impulses. He knows
nothing of the refinements of life. He is a brute."
Mrs. Sheppard paused. Maud was standing mute and motionless with tragic
eyes fixed before her.
After a moment or two to give her words time to sink in, Mrs. Sheppard
continued on a note of pathos.
"You may say to me that I have made exactly the same mistake myself.
But then, I did it for you children. And it was not the whole of my
life that I had to offer. But you,--you are young. Your good time is
yet to come. And think, dear, think how much depends upon you! If
Charlie dies unmarried, there will be no one to succeed him. He is the
last of the Burchesters. And if he doesn't marry you, I am sure he will
never marry any other woman. He loves you so devotedly. Through all
his peccadilloes, he has always remembered you, come back to you. Are
you going to let him be lonely always because of his love for you? He
has laid the greatest gift in the world at your feet, dear. Oh, grasp
it while you can! Don't let the whole of his manhood, your womanhood,
be one long and fruitless regret!"
It was the climax of her pleading. The tears were running down her face
as she reached it, and she did not check them too readily though she
knew that she had made an impression. Victory would not come at once,
she fully realized. The stony immobility of Maud's attitude told her
that. But she had laid her plans with craft. She believed that by the
exercise of extreme patience victory might ultimately be achieved.
"There, darling! You're very tired," she said, as she slowly dried her
eyes; "much too tired to see anything in its proper light to-night. You
must go to bed and sleep. You will see things much more clearly in the
morning. And shall I tell you a secret?" She smiled, a wistful, loving
smile. "Charlie will be at the Castle to-morrow afternoon."
"How do you know, Mother?" Maud spoke quickly as one suddenly awakened.
"How do I know? But everyone knows," Mrs. Sheppard answered vaguely.
"The yacht is in the harbour, and they are getting her ready for a trip.
Darling, the kettle is boiling at last. Mind how you take it off! Oh
dear, I'm very tired. I hope I shan't end my days in the workhouse. So
trying to have to make one's bed every day. Good night, darling! No
tea for me, thank you. I haven't the heart to drink it. There's a bed
made up in the room next to this. I hope you will find it comfortable.
Good night, dear! Good night!"
The words went into a deep sigh. Mrs. Sheppard sank down upon her
pillow. And Maud turned with a set face, and prepared to leave her for
the night.
Yes, her mother's words had made an impression upon her. They had
voiced all the doubt and turmoil in her own sad heart. But they had not
blotted out that vision of the precipice, the rocks, and the black,
black whirlpool that awaited her at the end of the downward path.
Neither had they wholly taken from her the memory of a man's eyes,
straight and honest and strangely appealing, that had looked into hers
only a couple of hours before.
Above her mother's warnings, above all the trouble and the tumult of her
soul, she heard a voice within, clear, insistent, indomitable: "Love is
only gained by love. We must pour out all we have to win it, purge our
hearts of all selfish desire, sanctify ourselves by the complete
renunciation of self, before the perfect gift can be ours."
The perfect gift! The perfect gift! She had almost ceased to believe
in it. But that night she dreamed that she had it in her grasp.
CHAPTER XVIII
THE WHIRLPOOL
"Well, Billings, you're looking as cadaverously blooming as ever. How
do you do it, man? Did someone give you an over-dose of respectability
in your youth?"
Saltash leaned back in his chair smiling up at his wry-faced servitor
with insolent humour.
Billings, the decorous, betrayed not the smallest sign of surprise or
resentment. It was said of him that when Saltash had once in a fit of
anger flung a wine-glass at his head, he had knelt and collected the
fragments and mopped up the wine before he had dreamed of retiring to
attend to the cut on his face that the glass had inflicted.
On the present occasion he made response with the utmost gravity. "I
can't say, my lord. Shall I light the fire, my lord?"
"Oh yes, it's a filthy day, typical of a filthy climate. Yes, light the
fire, and pull down the blinds, and let's be comfortable!"
"It won't be dark yet, my lord," observed Billings, with a glance at the
clock.
Saltash's eyes went in the same direction. It was not quite three
o'clock. "What of that, good Billings? I please myself," he said. "By
the way, you might take coffee up to the music-room. Leave it to brew
up there! And when Mrs. Bolton calls tell her I'm out, but I shall be
back in a very short time! Ask her to wait in the music-room, and pour
her out some coffee! Light the red lamp by the piano, but leave the
rest! Is that quite clear, Billings?"
"Quite clear, my lord."
Billings was on his knees before the fire. Saltash leaned forward in
his chair.
"Be sure you get her to have some coffee, Billings!" he said. "Tell her
I specially recommend it."
"Very good, my lord." Billings spoke with his head nearly touching the
logs of wood he was seeking to kindle. "I quite understand, my lord."
Saltash got to his feet. "I'll give you a gold watch if you succeed,
Billings," he said.
"You're very good, my lord," said Billings.
Saltash wandered down the hall. He had a cigarette between his lips,
but he was not smoking. He reached the marble statue near the grand
staircase and pressed a switch that flooded it with light. Then he
stood before it, silent and intent. White and wonderful the anguished
figure shone, but it was rather a figure of death than life. Its purity
was almost dazzling. Its very agony was unearthly.
Saltash frowned abruptly and switched off the light. Then for a space he
stood in the gloom, staring at the vague outline.
Billings came up behind him soft-footed, unobtrusive. "The rose light,
my lord, was placed on the other side according to your lordship's
orders," he said deferentially, and passed on as if he had not spoken.
Saltash glanced over his shoulder momentarily, and resumed his silent
contemplation of the figure in the shadows.
Several seconds passed. Then very suddenly he moved again, bent swiftly
and pressed another switch. In a moment the figure was fully visible
again, but no longer did it dazzle the eyes with its whiteness. A soft
rose radiance surrounded it. It glowed into life, pulsing, palpitating
flesh and blood.
And the man's eyes suddenly kindled as they passed over the naked,
straining form. "I have you now, my Captured Angel," he murmured.
He stood and feasted upon the vision. Once he stretched a hand to touch
the faultless curve of the breast, but checked himself with an odd,
flickering smile as though he did reverence whimsically to a sacred
element in which he had no faith. The agonized shame of the thing,
poignant, arresting, though it was, seemed wholly to pass him by. His
queer, glancing eyes saw only the unveiled voluptuousness of the form,
the perfect contour of the limbs, the exquisite moulding of each full
and gracious line. He dwelt upon them all with the look of an epicure.
He moved again at length, drew near to the statue, reached a hand to the
dark panelling of the recess behind. It slipped inwards noiselessly,
disclosing a narrow doorway. In a moment he had passed through, and the
great hall was empty; empty save for that figure of tragic womanhood,
rose-lighted, piteously alive, standing out against the shadows.
It was nearly half an hour later that an electric bell sounded through
the silence, and Billings, the respectable, came noiselessly through the
hall. He swung the great door open with a well-bred flourish.
A woman's figure clad in a streaming waterproof stood on the step, and
in a low voice asked for Lord Saltash. Billings stood back with a deep
bow. "Will you walk in, madam?"
She entered and stood on the mat. He took her umbrella and set it
aside.
"Will you permit me to remove your waterproof, madam?" he suggested.
She seemed to hesitate, but in a moment yielded. "But I can only stay a
few moments," she said. "Please tell him so!"
"Quite so, madam!" Billings was deftly removing the wet garment. "Up
in the music-room, if you please, madam."
She suffered his ministrations in silence; only as he turned to lead the
way she shivered suddenly and uncontrollably.
She followed him up the dim hall. They approached the rose-lit statue.
Her eyes were drawn to it. She stopped as though involuntarily, stopped
and caught her breath as if in sudden surprise or dismay. Then quickly
she passed on.
They ascended the grand staircase in solemn procession, and reached the
music-room door.
Again Billings stood back for her to enter, but when she had done so, he
closed the door, remaining within.
The great room was dim and shadowy, heavy with some mysterious Eastern
fragrance that hung in the air like incense. It was lighted by two red
fires that burned without flame and a red-shaded lamp that shed a
mysterious arc of light far away by the piano.
There was a small table by the further fire, and on this a silver
coffee-pot hissed over a spirit-lamp. A low divan--so low that it
looked a mere pile of luxurious cushions--stood invitingly close.
Billings deferentially led the way thither.
"If you will be pleased to take a seat, madam," he said. "His lordship
will not keep you waiting long."
"Is he out?" Maud asked quickly.
"He has been out, madam. He came in wet through and is changing. He
begged very particularly that you would drink a cup of coffee while you
awaited him."
He indicated the divan, but Maud remained on her feet. The atmosphere of
the place disturbed her. It seemed to be charged with subtleties that
baffled her, making her vaguely uneasy.
She had come in answer to a message accompanying a great bunch of
violets that had reached her that morning. She had not wanted to come;
but for this once it seemed imperative that she should meet him face to
face, and explain that which she felt no written words could ever
express. She had sent him her rash summons, and he had replied by that
bunch of violets and the request that she would come to him since he did
not wish to risk interruption from "_madame la mere_." On this point
she had been fully in accord with him, and she had sent back word that
she would come in the afternoon, just to speak with him for a few
minutes. She had hoped that he would gather from that that since the
sending of her summons she had repented of her madness. It would not be
an easy interview, she was sure; but she was not afraid of Charlie. She
hated the thought of hurting him all the more because she did not fear
him. He would let her go; oh yes, he would let her go. He had never
sought to hold her against her will. But that very fact would make the
parting the more bitter. His half-whimsical chivalry was somehow harder
to face than any fury of indignation. He had hurt her at their last
interview, hurt and disappointed her. But yet the man's fascination
overpowered all thought of his shortcomings. Already she had almost
forgotten them.
She stood before the fire, absently watching the servant as he busied
himself over the coffee, till the aromatic scent of it suddenly brought
her out of her reverie.
"Oh, thank you," she said. "I don't think I will have any. I have only
come for five minutes' talk with Lord Saltash."
"His lordship particularly desired that you would take a cup, madam,"
the man replied. "It is a very special Egyptian brew." He turned round
with a small silver cup on a salver which he decorously presented. "It
is supposed to be particularly pleasing to a lady's palate, madam," he
said.
She did not want the coffee, but it seemed ungracious to refuse it. She
took the cup and set it on the mantelpiece.
"It should be drunk very hot, madam," said Billings persuasively. "Will
you be so very kind, madam, as to taste it, and tell me if it is to your
liking?"
She hesitated momentarily, but it was too small a matter to refuse. She
took the cup by its slender handle and put it to her lips. Instantly it
was as if a warm current of life went through her, a fine, golden thread
of delight.
She looked at Billings and smiled. "It is--delicious," she said.
Billings looked gratified. "The second cup is generally considered even
better than the first, madam," he said.
"Oh, I won't take more than one, thank you," she said.
And Billings retired, closing the door soundlessly behind him.
Maud lifted the cup again to her lips. Its fragrance pervaded all her
senses. It was unlike anything she knew, and yet in some subtle fashion
it made her think of palms and orange-groves, and the strong sunshine of
the East. It presented before her mind a vivid picture of beauties that
she had never seen. She drank again; and again that strange sense of
dawning bliss came to her. It was like the coming of a tropic morning
after a long, black night. Her anxiety was magically lifted from her; a
sensation of pure gladness, of warmth of soul and body began to possess
her. It was like drinking in the pure essence of sunshine. All things
seemed easy, all difficulties were smoothed away. She was sure that
Charlie would understand and be content. Had he not promised to be to
her whatever she wished?
She drained the cup, and set it down. It seemed a little strange to her
that her hand should be trembling as she did so; for all her misgivings
had vanished. She had stepped as it were into a garden of delight. A
strange, unearthly happiness was hers. It was as if her life had been
suddenly and mysteriously filled to the brim with all that she could
desire.
The only thing lacking was music. She looked across at the grand piano
lighted with that one red lamp, and a haunting memory came to her--came
to her. She saw the altar and the glow of the undying flame before it;
but the flowers--the white lilies of purity--where were they?
A vague distress came to her, filtering as it were through locked
senses, dispelling the golden rapture, dimming her dream. She moved
over the polished floor, drawn by that red arc of light. She reached
the piano. She stood before it. And then her dream changed.
The vision of the altar faded, faded. She slipped down before the
gleaming keys. She struck a soft, sweet chord. And with it the former
magic took her. The sun and the orange-groves were hers again, and a
blue, blue gleam of sea came into the picture like the last touch of
romance into a fairy-tale. As one beneath a spell she sat and wove her
vision into such music as she had never contemplated before....
As of old, she never knew quite when he came to her. She only realized
very suddenly that he was there. His dark face gleamed down at her in
the lamplight. His odd eyes sent a mocking invitation into hers.
Again her vision was swept away. Her hands fell from the piano, and
were caught in the same instant into his.
"Oh, Charlie!" she gasped incoherently.
He drew her close, laughing at her with half-teasing tenderness. "Oh,
Maud!" he said. "O queen of all the roses!"
But she hung back from him. It was almost as if something dragged her
back. "I--I have something to say to you," she faltered confusedly. "I
came to say it. What was it? Oh, what was it?"
His swarthy face was bending nearer, nearer. She saw the humorous lift
of his black brows. "You have said it," he told her softly. "There is
nothing left to say. There will never again be any need for words
between us two."
He laughed at her again with a kind of kingly indulgence. His arms went
round her, pressing her to him, ignoring her last, quivering effort to
resist. His lips suddenly found her own.
And then it was that her eyes were opened, and her memory came back. In
a flash of anguished understanding she was brought face to face with the
realities of life. She knew that she had been enmeshed in a dream of
evil delight, drawn unaccountably, by some hidden, devilish strategy to
the very edge of that precipice that she had striven so desperately to
avoid.
In that moment she would have torn herself free, but her strength was
gone. Her body felt leaden and powerless; her throat too numb to utter
any protest. Her visions had all fallen away from her, but she thought
she heard the roar of the whirlpool below. And through all she was
madly conscious of the lips that pressed her own, the arms that drew her
closer, always closer, to the gulf.
She thought that her senses were leaving her, so utterly helpless had
she become. An awful cloud seemed to be hanging over her,--slowly,
slowly descending. Faintly she tried to pray for deliverance, but his
lips stilled the prayer. Against her will, as one horribly compelled,
she knew that she returned his kiss.
And then she was lying on the low divan with Charlie beside her, holding
her, calling her his queen, his captured angel--his wife.
She did not know exactly what happened afterwards, for a great darkness
took her. She only knew that she was suddenly lifted and borne away.
She only heard the rush of the whirlpool as it closed over her head.
CHAPTER XIX
THE OUTER DARKNESS
Something was waking her. Someone seemed to be knocking on the outer
door of her brain. She came back to consciousness as one returning from
a far, far journey that yet had occupied but a very brief space of time.
An inner sense of urgency awoke and responded to that outer knocking.
As through a maze of disconnected impressions she heard a voice.
"I give you ten seconds, my lord," it said. "Just--ten--seconds!"
The words were absolutely quiet, they sounded almost suave; but the
deadly determination of them smote upon her like the call of a trumpet.
She started up.
The next instant she was staring about her in utter bewilderment. She
was lying on a deep couch in a room she had never seen before, a
strange, conical chamber, oak-panelled, lighted by a domed skylight. It
was furnished with bizarre Eastern luxury. The couch on which she lay
was a nest of tiger-skins.
But she saw these details but vaguely. That voice she had heard had
made all else of no importance. It had spoken close to her, but it was
not in the room with her, and she could not for the moment tell whence
it had come. She could only listen with caught breath for more, listen
with starting eyes fixed on the stuffed skin of a cobra poised on a
small table near as if ready to strike. She even fancied for a moment
that the thing was alive, and then realized with a passing relief that
it had been converted into the stem of a reading-lamp.
Again the voice came. It was counting slowly, with the utmost
regularity.
But it was not allowed to continue. Saltash's voice; quick and
imperious, broke in upon it. "Be quiet, you damn' fool! If you murder
me, you'll only be sorry afterwards. I have told you I don't know where
she is."
"You have told me a lie, my lord." Grim as fate came the answer, and
following it a movement that turned her sick with fear.
She sprang to her feet with a wild cry. "Jake! Jake! I am here!
Jake,--come to me!"
She threw herself against the panelling of the wall in a frenzy of
terror, and beat upon it fiercely, frantically. There was a door behind
her, but instinct warned her that it did not lead whither she desired to
go. It was through the panelling that those sinister words had reached
her.
But it resisted her wild efforts. She beat in vain. "Oh, Jake!" she
cried again, and broke into agonized sobbing. "Jake, where are you?"
And then she heard his voice again, short this time and commanding.
"Let her out, my lord! The game is up."
"Trust a woman to give it away!" said Saltash, and laughed a cold, hard
laugh.
The panelling against which she stood suddenly yielded, slid back. She
found herself standing on the threshold of the music-room, close to one
of the carved fireplaces. And there, face to face with her, one hand
thrust deep into his breeches-pocket, stood her husband, stood Jake.
All her life she was to remember the look he wore.
Saltash was nearer still, but she scarcely saw him. She went past him,
sobbing, inarticulate, unnerved. She stretched out trembling,
beseeching hands to the man in whose eyes she read the lust of murder.
She cried aloud to him in her agony!
"Come away! Oh, come away! Be merciful this once--only this once!
Jake! Jake!"
She reached him, she clung to him; she would have knelt to him. But he
thrust his left arm around her, forcibly holding her up.
He did not speak to her, did not, she believed, so much as look at her.
His eyes were fixed with a terrible intensity upon the man beyond her.
His attitude was strained and unyielding. The untamed ferocity of the
wilds was in every line of him, in every tense muscle. Ruthlessness,
lawlessness, savagery unshackled, fiercely eager, beat in every pulse,
every sinew of his frame. She felt as if she were holding back a
furious animal from his prey, as if at any moment he would burst free,
and rend and tear till the demon that possessed him was satisfied.
But she clung to him faster and faster, seeking to pinion the murderous
right hand that was thrust so deeply away out of her reach. She heard
another laugh from Saltash, but she did not dare to turn. And then came
a sound like the click of a spring-trap.
The tension went suddenly out of Jake. He relaxed and with a certain
cowboy roughness took his hand from his pocket and grasped her by the
shoulders. His eyes came from beyond her, and looked straight into
hers. And she knew without turning her head that her own hour of
reckoning had come. They were alone.
For many, many seconds he looked at her so with a red-hot glow in his
eyes that seemed as though it would burn its way to her most secret
soul. She endured it with a desperate courage. If he had caught her by
the throat she would not have flinched. But his hold, though insistent,
was without violence. And at last very, very slowly he let her go.
"I guess that ends it," he said.
"What do you mean?" Through quivering lips she asked the question. She
felt as if an icy wind had suddenly caught her. She was cold from head
to foot.
He made a slight gesture as of one indicating the obvious, and turned
away. She saw his square figure moving away from her, and a terrible
fear went through her. Her very heart felt frozen within her. She
tried to speak, to utter his name; but her throat only worked
spasmodically, making no sound.
He reached the door, opened it, and then--as if he could not help it--he
looked back at her. And in that moment with frantic effort she burst
the bonds that held her. She threw out her arms in wild entreaty.
"Jake!" she gasped. "Jake! Don't--don't leave me!"
He stopped, but he did not return. There was a curious look on his
face. He seemed to stand irresolute.
She began to move towards him, but found herself trembling too much to
walk. She tottered to the mantel-piece for support. But she still
looked towards him, still tremulously entreated him.
"Jake, you--you don't understand! You never will understand if you
leave me now. I'm going under--I'm going under! Jake,--save me!"
She bowed her head suddenly upon her hands, and stood quivering. She
had made her last piteous effort to escape from the toils that held her.
Nothing but a miracle could save her now. Nothing but the power of that
love that dieth not.
Seconds passed. She thought that he had gone, had abandoned her to her
fate, left her to the mercy of a man who would compass her ruin. And
she wondered in her agony if she could muster sufficient strength to
flee from that evil place and snatch her own deliverance down on the
dark, lonely shore, where no one could ever drag her back again.
And then very suddenly a hand touched her, closed upon her arm. It was
as if a current of electricity ran through her. She turned with a great
start.
Jake's eyes, very level, quite inscrutable, looked straight into hers.
"I guess we'll be getting along home," he said.
His hand urged her steadily, indomitably. He led her speechless from
the room, supporting her when she faltered, but never hesitating or
suffering her to pause.
They came out at the top of the great, branching staircase. The hall
below them was lighted only by the soft glow that surrounded Saltash's
favourite statue. The hand that held Maud's arm tightened to a grip.
They went down the stairs together, and passed the tragic figure by.
As they moved down the long hall, a man stepped suddenly out from behind
the statue, and looked after them with eyes that shone derisively. He
did not utter a word, and his movements were without sound.
Neither of the two was aware of his presence. Only as they paused at
the outer door, Maud glanced back and saw the arc of light about the
statue vanish.
She uttered a quick exclamation, for it was as if the marble itself had
come to life and fled from her gaze. And then she was aware of Jake's
hands fastening her waterproof about her, and she forgot all but her
longing to escape--to escape.
A few seconds more, and she heard the heavy door shut behind them. She
was out in the gathering darkness with Jake, and the rain was beating in
her face.
It was then that her weakness came back to her, a sense of terrible
exhaustion that gave her the feeling of dragging heavy chains. She
fought against it desperately, dreading every instant lest he should
misinterpret her dragging steps and leave her. An overwhelming
drowsiness was creeping over her, numbing all her facilities. She
struggled to fling it off, but could not. It crowded upon her like an
evil dream. She staggered, stumbled, almost fell.
Jake stopped. "Reckon you're tired," he said.
She answered him with a rush of tears. "I can't help it! Really, I
can't help it! I--I believe I must be ill."
She tried to cling to his supporting arm, but her hands slipped weakly
away. She felt herself sinking, sinking into a black sea of oblivion,
and knew it was futile to struggle any longer.
Yet a vague sense of comfort came to her with the consciousness of his
arms tightening around her. She gave herself to him like a tired child.
She even feebly thanked him as he lifted her.
And then for a long, long space she knew nothing. Billows and billows
of unfathomable nothingness were over her, under her, all about her.
Sometimes her drugged brain stirred as if about to register an
impression, but no actual impression reached it. The things of earth
had faded utterly away. She was as one vaguely floating in a nebulous
cloud through which now and then, now and then, a dim star shone for a
moment and then went out.
After a time even this slender link was snapped. She went into a deeper
darkness, and there for awhile her troubled wanderings were stayed. She
slept as she had never slept before. It was as if for a long, long
space she ceased to be....
Out of the silence at last came a fearful dream. Out of a great
emptiness she entered another world, a world of demon shapes and demon
voices, of faces that jeered and vanished, a world of terrible, outer
darkness, in which she seemed to be bereft of all things, to stand as it
were naked and alone. She dreamed that the statue had come to life
indeed, and behold, it was herself! In horror unutterable, in shame
that was agony she went her appointed way,--a fallen woman who could
never rise again.
And ever a voice within seemed urging her to soar, to soar; but she
could not. Wings had been given her, but she could not use them. One
wing had been broken, how she knew not. Perhaps it was in beating
against the bars of a cage. Some such struggle hovered vaguely in her
memory, but all struggling was over now. All hope of escape was dead.
Again the demon-faces came all about her, demon-hands clutched at her,
pulling her down. And every face was the face of Charlie Burchester,
every hand wore the ring which twice over he had given to her. And
still she heard his laugh, that cruel, bitter laugh with which he had
left her alone in the music-room with Jake.
At last she knew that she cried aloud to die, but instantly she realized
the futility of her prayer. There was no God to hear her in this awful
place. And there was no Death.
Yet it was then that it seemed to her that a door was opened somewhere
very far above her, and a gracious breath of purity came down. Crushed
as she was, over-whelmed with evil, grossly besmirched and degraded, it
came to her like a puff of morning wind from the clean, open spaces of
the earth. She turned her face upwards. She gasped and opened her eyes.
And then all in a moment the dreadful vision passed away from her, and
she saw Jake's face gazing, gazing into hers.
CHAPTER XX
DELIVERANCE
She stared at him vaguely for a space half in wonder, half in fear. His
look was very intent, but it was without anger. She wondered hazily
what had happened, why he was watching her so.
"Where am I?" she murmured at length.
He made answer very quietly, as if he had expected the question. "You
are here in the old parlour with me. I brought you here."
"Oh?" She gazed around her doubtfully. Her brain felt clogged and
dull. "Have I been away then?" she said. "Where is Bunny?"
He rose and moved across the room to the fire. "Bunny is at school," he
said, and stooped to lift off a saucepan. "Yes, you have been away. You
came back from Liverpool yesterday."
"Ah!" She gave a quick gasp. The mists were beginning to clear a
little. She became dimly conscious that there was something terrible
behind. She raised herself on her elbow, but was instantly assailed by
a feeling of sickness so intense that she sank back again.
She was lying with closed eyes when Jake came back to her. He bent over
her with a steaming cup in his hand.
"Try a little of this!" he said.
She looked up with an effort. "I don't think I can. Jake, what has
happened? Am I ill again?"
"Guess you'll remember presently if you drink this," he said.
She drew back shuddering. "What is it? Not brandy?"
"No. It's beef-tea." He sat down beside her with a resolute air, and
she suddenly realized that resistance was useless.
He was very gentle with her, feeding her spoonful by spoonful; and
gradually as she swallowed it she revived. Her brain stirred and seemed
to awake. Memory came crowding back. Long ere the cup was finished,
that last scene in the music-room hung before her like a lurid picture
from which she could not tear her gaze.
Quietly Jake set aside the cup. "Maybe you'll sleep better now," he
said.
She lifted her heavy eyes to his. "No, I don't want to sleep any
longer. Jake, you--you are not going away!"
He seemed on the point of rising. She stretched out a beseeching hand
and laid it on his arm.
"Jake, I--I want to tell you something. Will you listen to me? Please,
will you listen to me?"
His arm grew tense as a stretched wire under her touch. She thought
there was a glitter of hardness in the red-brown eyes as he said, "There
is no call for you to tell me anything unless you wish."
She sat up slowly, compelling herself to face him, "But I want you
to--understand," she said.
He laid his hand abruptly upon hers with a gesture that almost seemed as
if he would restrain her. "You needn't fret any about that," he said.
"Reckon I--do understand."
The vital force of the man was in that free grip of his. She looked to
see the awful flare of savage passion leap back into his eyes. But she
looked in vain. His eyes baffled her. They seemed to hold her back
like a sword in the hand of a practised fencer.
The words she had thought to utter died upon her lips. There was to be
no reckoning then. And yet she could not feel reassured. He did not
look like a man who would forego his revenge.
"What--what are you going to do?" she faltered at last.
"I shouldn't want to know too much if I were you," said Jake, softly
drawling. "Not at this stage anyway."
His hand still held hers. He looked her hard and straight in the face,
and she was conscious of something fiery, something elementary, wholly
uncivilized, behind his look. There was a suggestion of violence about
him. She saw him as a man tracking his enemy through an endless
wilderness, breasting mighty rivers, hewing his way through pathless
forests, conquering every obstacle with fixed determination, mercilessly
riding him down.
She braced herself and rose, drawing her hand free. Her head still
swam, but she controlled herself resolutely. She stood before him like
a prisoner upon trial.
"Jake," she said, "I am going to tell you something that will make you
terribly angry; but it's something that you must know."
She paused, but he sat in silence, grimly watching her. She found her
resolution wavering and gripped it with all her strength.
"When I came back here from Liverpool, it was not--not to see my mother
as I gave you to understand. It was to--to--" She faltered under his
look, found she could not continue, and suddenly threw out her hands in
piteous appeal. "Jake, don't make it impossible for me to tell you!"
He rose also. They stood face to face. "Are you going to tell me that
you lied to me?" he said.
She drew back from him sharply. The question felt like a blow. "I am
telling you the truth now," she said.
"And for whose sake?" He flung the words brutally, as a man goaded
beyond endurance. But the moment they were uttered he drew a hard
breath as though he would recall them. He came to her, took her by the
shoulders. "You take my advice!" he said. "Leave the whole miserable
business alone! You've been tricked--badly tricked. You have appealed
to me to protect you, and that's enough. I don't want any more than
that. I reckon I understand the situation better than you think. You
are trying to tell me that it was your original intention to elope with
Saltash. Well, maybe it was. But you had given up the notion before you
went to him at the Castle, and he knew you had given it up. If he
hadn't known it, he wouldn't have taken the trouble to drug you. It's
an old device--old as the hills. He's probably done it a score of times,
and with more success than he had to-day. Yes, that makes you sick. I
guessed it would. And that's what he's going to answer to me for,--what
he'll ask your pardon for on his knees before I've done with him."
"Oh no, Jake, no!" She broke in upon him with a cry of consternation.
"For pity's sake, no! Jake, I can't bear it! I cannot bear it! Jake,
I beseech you, leave him alone now! Oh, do leave him alone! You--you
can punish me in any other way. I'll bear anything but that--anything
but that!"
Piteously she besought him, shaken to the soul by the grim purport of
his speech. She did not flinch from him now. Rather she appealed to
him as one in sore straits, pouring out her entreaty with all that
remained of her quivering strength.
And her words made an impression upon him of which she was instantly
aware. His hands still held her, but the tension went out of his grasp.
He looked at her with eyes that were no longer hard, eyes that held a
dawning compassion.
"Reckon you're the last person that deserves punishing," he said at
length, and in his voice she fancied she caught an echo of the old frank
kindliness. "You've been the victim all through. Reckon you've
suffered more than enough already."
She hid her face from him with a sudden rush of tears. Something in his
words pierced straight to her heart.
"You don't know me!" she sobbed. "Oh, you don't know me!"
She drew herself away and sank down in the chair by the fire where once
she had poured out all her troubles to him.
He did not kneel beside her now. He stood in silence, and as he stood
his hands slowly clenched and he thrust them into his pockets.
He spoke at last, but it was with a restraint that made the words sound
cold. "Maybe I know you better than you think. I know you've cared for
the wrong man ever since I first met you. Guess I've known it all
along, and it hasn't made things extra easy for either of us, more
especially as he was utterly unworthy of you. But you're not to blame
for that. It's just human nature. And you'd never have fallen in love
with me anyway." He paused a moment. "I don't see you're to blame any
for that either," he said, and she knew by his voice that he had turned
away from her. "Anyway, I'm not blaming you. And if--if punishing
Saltash means punishing you too--well,--even though he's a skunk and a
blackguard--I reckon--I'll let him go."
He was moving to the door with the words. They came half-strangled as
if something within rebelled fiercely against their utterance.
He reached the door and stopped with his back to her.
"You'd better get your mother to join you here to-morrow," he said.
"I'm sleeping with The Hundredth Chance to-night. He's been below par
lately, and I'm kind of worried about him."
He opened the door. He was on the point of squarely passing through
when quickly, tremulously, she stopped him.
"Jake, please--please wait a moment! I must--I must--Jake!"
He closed the door again and turned round, but he did not come back or
even look at her. There was a hint of doggedness about him, almost as
though he waited against his will.
She stood up. Something in his attitude made it difficult, painfully
difficult, to speak. She strove for self-control. "You--are going
to--to forgive me?" she said quiveringly.
He glanced up momentarily, a grim flicker as of a smile about his mouth.
"For what you haven't done, and never could do? It would be mighty
generous of me, wouldn't it?" he said.
She moved a step towards him. "I--might have done it. I--so
nearly--did it," she said, in distress. "I don't deserve any kindness
from you, Jake. I--don't know how to thank you for it."
He made a sharp gesture with one hand. "If I've given you more than
bare justice," he said, "put it to my credit! Make allowance for me next
time!"
Something rose in her throat. She stood for a moment battling with it.
Bare justice! Had she ever given him so much as that? And he rewarded
her with this blind generosity that would not even be aware of her sin.
Trembling, she drew nearer to him. She stretched out a quivering hand.
"Jake," she said, and the tears were running down her face. "I--will
try--to be worthy of your--goodness to me."
He took the hand, gripping it with a force that made her wince.
"Shucks, my girl!" he said, with a gruffness oddly uncharacteristic of
him. "That's nothing. Be worthy of yourself!"
And with that abruptly he let her go, turned and left her. She knew by
the finality of his going that she would see him no more that night.
CHAPTER XXI
THE POISON FRUIT
It was curiously like the old days to see Jake enter the parlour on the
following morning with Chops the red setter at his heels. But for
Chops' delighted welcome of her, Maud could almost have felt that the
intervening weeks had been no more than a dream.
She sat in her accustomed place and fondled him. Them, as Jake passed
her, she put out a detaining hand.
"Good morning, Jake!"
Her face was burning; yet she lifted it. He stood a second, only a
second, behind her chair; then bent and touched her forehead with his
lips.
"You're down early," he said. "Have you slept?"
She nodded, feeling her agitation subside with thankfulness. "How
is--The Hundredth Chance?"
Jake went to the fire. "I think he'll be all right; but I won't trust
anyone else to look after him. By the way, here's a letter for you!"
He held it out to her behind his back. She took it. Her fingers closed
upon a crest.
She got up sharply, went to his side, and with a passionate movement
dropped it straight into the flames.
"Shall we have breakfast now?" she said.
"Here's another letter!" said Jake.
The grim smile was hovering about his mouth; but he made no comment
whatever upon her action.
She took the second letter. "Is this all?"
"That's all," said Jake.
"It's from Uncle Edward." She opened it, and began to read.
Suddenly she glanced up and found his eyes upon her. They fell
instantly.
"You can read it too," she said, and held the letter so that he might
share it with her.
He stood at her shoulder and read.
It was a very brief epistle, written in evident distress of mind.
"MY DEAR GRAND-NIECE,
"Will you permit me to tender to you my very humble apology for the
gross behaviour by which I drove you from the shelter of my roof? The
fact that you have returned to your husband's house convinces me of the
base injustice of my suspicions. I ought to be old enough to know that
a woman cannot be judged by her friends. If you find that you possess
sufficient magnanimity to extend a free pardon to a very lonely and
penitent old sinner, will you of your charity return--for however brief
a period--and give him an opportunity to demonstrate his penitence?
"Yours humbly and hopefully,
"EDWARD WARREN."
"Oh, poor old man!" Maud looked up quickly. "But how did he know I was
here?"
"I wired to him of your safe arrival," Jake said, "in reply to a wire
from him which I didn't read. I thought he might come posting down here
if I didn't."
"Poor old man!" she said again. And after a moment, "Thank you, Jake."
He looked at her. "For keeping my word? I generally do that. Say,
what are you going to do?"
"I'll write to him," she said.
He moved round to his place at the breakfast-table. "You're not wanting
to go back then?"
She hesitated.
"What is it?" he said. "Money? I can let you have some if you're short
of it."
She flushed. "No, Jake, no! I think--I think I'll stay here for the
present. I will make him understand."
"Please yourself!" said Jake, and opened the morning paper.
A faint sense of disappointment went through her. She had fancied her
decision would have evoked approval if not open pleasure from him. She
poured out his coffee in silence.
As she brought it to him, he glanced up at her. "Don't stay on my
account if you feel you'd sooner go!" he said. "I get along very well
alone."
She stiffened ever so slightly. "Thank you," she said. "I'll think
about it."
Jake fell to work upon his breakfast with his usual business-like
rapidity. She did not attempt to keep pace with him. Somehow the idea
that he really wished her to go had robbed her of all desire to eat.
After a time he glanced across at her again. "Are you going down to see
your mother?"
She answered him somewhat listlessly. "Yes, I suppose so."
"She'll have to decide on something soon," he observed.
Maud bit her lip. The thought of going to her mother again was wholly
repugnant to her. She marvelled that he did not see it.
"I am sure she won't come and live in this place," she said, after a
moment,
"She can please herself," said Jake imperturbably.
That was to be his attitude then. They were to please themselves. He
had withdrawn his control over her actions. An evil spirit suddenly
whispered to her that he would even have left her in Saltash's keeping
had she not called to him to deliver her. She shook off the poisonous
thought; but it had been there. He had been kind--more than kind--to
her. She forced herself to dwell upon his kindness. But his present
indifference was even more obvious. He was engrossed in his work. He
had thought only for his animals. Plainly it was a matter of small
importance to him if she went or stayed.
He finished his breakfast and got up. "Well, so long!" he said. "I may
not get back before nightfall. I have to go over to Graydown."
She scarcely acknowledged his words, and he did not wait for any
acknowledgment. He took up his riding-whip and went out. Chops looked
round at her doubtfully and followed him.
The door closed upon them. And suddenly Maud leaned upon the table and
hid her face. This was to be her life then--the unspeakable dreariness
of a loveless home. She had thought he loved her. She had thought!
She had thought! And now she saw that it began and ended with mere
kindness, and possibly a sense of duty. His passion for her--that
fiery, all-mastering desire--had burnt itself out, and there was nothing
left. An unutterable weariness came upon her. Oh, she was tired--she
was tired of life!
It was then that in some mystic fashion that voice which she had once
heard spoke again in her soul. "The spark is ours for the kindling--the
power to love--the power to create love...."
Was she indeed capable of kindling this lamp in the desert? Out of
those dead ashes of passion, could Love the Immortal indeed be made to
rise?
She sat for a long time and pondered--pondered.
When, an hour later, she went down the hill to the town, the day was
brilliant and the sky without a cloud. The sea was one glorious sheet of
blue that seemed to stretch away limitless into Infinity.
Down by the quay a white yacht rocked at her moorings. She marked it
with a throbbing heart. Why, oh why, did he linger? She yearned to
thrust him for ever out of her life.
She reached the Anchor Hotel and entered. The bareness of the place
smote cold upon the senses. She passed through it quickly and went up
to her mother's room.
"Oh, my dear, at last!" Querulously Mrs. Sheppard greeted her. "Shut
the door and come in! Charlie is watching for you. He will be over
directly."
She was clad in an old pink wrapper, and kneeling before a half-filled
trunk.
Maud stood still in the doorway, every spark of animation gone out of
her. "Mother, what are you doing? What do you mean?"
Her voice sounded frozen and devoid of all emotion. Her fingers were
clenched rigidly upon the handle of the door. She stared at her mother
with eyes that were suddenly stony.
"What do you mean?" she repeated.
Mrs. Sheppard looked up at her smiling. "I mean, dear, that while you
go for your Mediterranean cruise, I am going back to London. Dear me,
why did I ever leave it? I have never been happy since. Fairharbour
never suited me. I was saying so to Charlie only last night. He told
me all about it, dear. Poor child, I hope that horrible cowboy person
wasn't very cruel to you. I couldn't help letting out where you had
gone yesterday afternoon. He came in only a few minutes after you left,
and was so insistent. But, thank goodness, you've broken away. You had
Charlie's letter, did you? I told him I was sure you would come
directly you knew he was waiting. Dear Charlie! He really is very
good. I quite see his point of view about the poor old 'Anchor,' and I
really think it is all for the best. Giles is gone anyway, and I am
released from any obligations in that direction. Charlie hated Giles
for some reason, though I can't discover that he ever met him. Come in,
child! Why do you stand there looking so tragic? Surely all's well
that ends well?"
Maud turned stiffly as though her limbs had become automatic. "I am
going," she said. "I am going."
"Oh, wait till Charlie comes for you, dearest! Don't be too impetuous!
I am sure he will come immediately. He would be watching the shore from
the yacht. Such a lovely morning for a cruise too! You will be wanting
a few little necessaries, dear. I have put them up for you in that
leather bag. I knew you would never think of that for yourself. I
believe he means to take you straight to Paris, you lucky child. The
yacht will go round and wait for you at Marseilles. Charlie always does
things so royally, doesn't he? He has been most kind, most generous, to
me."
Mrs. Sheppard was talking into the trunk, a smile of happy anticipation
about her lips that made her almost comely again.
"Really," she said, "it is quite wonderful how things always turn out
for the best. I only wish I had known a year ago how happy you and dear
little Bunny were going to be. It would have saved me so much anxiety.
When you are Lady Saltash, of course you will make a home for him at the
Castle. And there may be just a corner sometimes for me too, darling.
What a happy party we shall all be!"
She threw a smile over her shoulder, and then suddenly turned and
stared. The door was closed, and she was alone.
Down the wide staircase Maud ran like a wild thing seeking freedom, down
into the bare, echoing hall. But the moment she reached it, she
stopped--stopped dead as one suddenly turned to stone.
He was waiting for her, there in the sunny open doorway, a smile of
arrogant satisfaction on his ugly face, and triumph, open triumph, in
his eyes.
He came to meet her like a king, carelessly gracious, royally
self-assured.
"Ah, Maud of the roses!" he said. "Free at last!"
He reached her where she stood, rigidly waiting. He opened his arms to
take her. And then--as though there had been the flash of a dagger
between them--he stopped.
She had not moved. She did not move. But the blazing blue of her eyes
gave him check. For the space of many seconds they stood, not
breathing, not stirring; and in those seconds, as by the light of a
piercing torch, each read the other's soul.
It was Saltash who gave ground at last, but insolently with a smile of
bitter mockery. "This scene is called 'The Unmasking of the Villain,'"
he observed. "The virtuous heroine, having descended from her pedestal
to expose his many crimes, now gathers her mud-stained garments about
her and climbs back again, in the confident hope that the worthy
cow-puncher who owns her will conclude that she has never left her
exalted position and that the mud was all thrown by the villain. Now, I
wonder if the worthy cow-puncher is quite such a fool as that."
Her face was quite colourless, but she heard his gibe without a sign of
shrinking. Only as he ceased to speak, she lifted one hand and pointed
to the open door.
"Go!" she said.
Just the one word, spoken with a finality more crushing than any
outburst of anger! If it expressed contempt, it was involuntary, she
uttered only what was in her soul.
He looked at her, and suddenly the derision in his eye flamed into
fierce malignancy. "Oh, I am going," he said. "You will never kick me
from your path again. You shall tread it alone--quite alone except for
the cow-puncher who no doubt will see to it that you walk on the stony
side of the way. And I warn you it will be--very stony, especially when
he comes to realize that his lady wife has been his ruin. A tramp
across the world with Jake Bolton under those conditions will at least
destroy all illusions as to the stuff of which he is made. And I wish
you joy of the journey." He made her a deep, ironical bow, and swung
upon his heel.
But as he went she spoke, suddenly, passionately, as though the words
leaped forth, compelling her. "Jake Bolton is a man--a white man!"
Saltash laughed aloud, lifting his shoulders as he sauntered away.
"With the heart of a beast, _chere reine_," he said. "For that cause
also, I wish you joy."
He went. The sun smote through the empty doorway. She put up both hands
to her eyes as though to blot out some evil vision.
And presently--like a creature that has been sorely wounded--she also
crept away, fleeing ashamed by another door, that no one might observe
her going.
No, Jake was no fool. He saw only what he chose to see, believed only
what he willed to believe. He had been generous to her--ay, generous
past all understanding. But he was no fool. He had refused the mute
offer of her lips only that morning. Wherefore? Wherefore?
The answer lay in Saltash's mocking words, and all her life she would
remember them. The poison plant had borne its bitter fruit indeed, and
she had been forced to eat thereof. It burned her now with a cruel
intensity, consuming her like a darting flame. But she knew by its very
fierceness that it could not last. Very soon her heart--her soul--would
all be burnt away; and there would be only dead ashes left--only dead
ashes from which no living spark could ever be kindled again.
No, Jake was no fool--no fool! He would not blame her, that was all;
because she was a woman.
CHAPTER XXII
THE LOSER
"Why doesn't Maud come back?" said Bunny discontentedly. "It's beastly
mean of her to stay away over the holidays."
"You can go to her if you like, my son," said Jake, between whiffs at
his pipe.
"Oh, I know. But it isn't the same thing. And besides, I'm not going
to leave you alone for Christmas, so there! Say, Jake, I wonder you put
up with it. Why shouldn't we go--the two of us--and fetch her back?"
"She's better where she is," said Jake. "And as to my going away, it's
out of the question. I'm a fixture--so long as there's anything left to
do."
Something in the last words caught Bunny's attention. He looked at him
with sudden shrewdness. "What do you mean, Jake? What's up?"
Jake was silent. He sat moodily smoking and staring into the fire. His
chin was sunk on his chest. He looked older than his years.
Bunny on the other side of the hearth gazed at him for several seconds
with close attention. Finally he got up, went to him, slipped down on
to the arm of his chair.
"What is it, Jake, old feller? Tell me!"
Jake looked up, met the warm sympathy in the boy's eyes, and in a moment
thrust a kindly arm about the slim young figure.
"Don't you worry about me, little pard!" he said. "There ain't anything
the matter that I can't face out by myself."
"Oh, but that's rot, Jake." Bunny's cheek went down against the man's
bronze head and pressed it hard. "What's the good of bottling it up?
'Sides, you know, Jake, I don't count. I'd die before I'd split."
"Guess I know that," Jake said.
He hugged Bunny to him as if there were comfort in mere contact, but he
said no more.
Bunny hugged him in return, and after a brief silence began to probe for
the enlightenment he desired. "Why do you say Maud is better where she
is, Jake? After all, she is your wife and no one else's, isn't she?"
Jake puffed at his pipe for a few seconds as if considering his reply.
At last, "I say it because it is so," he said. "Your Uncle Edward wanted
her, and I reckon that's just the silver lining to my cloud. He's a
rich man, I gather. He can look after the two of you--if I go under."
"Jake! You aren't going under!" Horrified incredulity sounded in
Bunny's voice. He leaned swiftly forward to look into Jake's face.
A queer, dogged smile showed upon it for an instant and was gone.
"Don't you worry any, sonny! I shall come up again," said Jake. "I've
been under before, practically down and out. But it hasn't killed me.
It ain't going to kill me this time. So long as you and Maud are
provided for, I can fend for myself."
"But Jake, what's it mean? You haven't lost money?" urged Bunny in
bewilderment.
"No. I've got a little money. There are plenty of poor devils worse
off than I." Jake leaned his head back against Bunny's wiry arm. There
was a fighting gleam in his eyes. "But it ain't enough to keep me
going. If it had been, I reckon I shouldn't have waited for notice to
quit."
"Is that what you've got? Jake, you aren't in earnest! Charlie wouldn't
be such a blackguard!"
Jake uttered an abrupt laugh; his teeth were clenched on his lower lip.
"Oh, Charlie's a blackguard all right--blackguard enough for anything.
Don't you ever make any mistake about that! But I presume it's up to
him to sell the stud if he feels so disposed. There ain't anything
specially blackguardly in that. It's just his polite way of telling me
to git."
"Sell the stud! Is that what he's going to do? Oh, Jake, old feller!
Jake!" Shocked sympathy was in Bunny's voice.
Jake hugged him harder. "I hadn't meant to tell you on your first
night. But you're such a shrewd little chap. And you've got to know
sooner or later. Don't make an all-fired fuss about it anyway!"
"All right, Jake." Bunny sounded a little breathless, but there was
resolution in his voice. "It's you I'm thinking of. When--when's it
going to be?"
"The sale? Early in the year I expect. I haven't any definite
instructions as to that. I'm expecting 'em every day. All I've been
told officially at present is to cancel all engagements. Of course I
guessed what was in the wind then. I tackled old Bishop the Agent about
it the other day; and he had to confirm it. Ah, well!" Jake heaved an
abrupt sigh that seemed to catch him unawares, and became silent.
"P'raps he won't sell 'em all, Jake," said Bunny hesitatingly. "He
couldn't--surely--sell The Hundredth Chance!"
Jake's pipe suddenly cracked between his teeth. He sat up sharply, and
took it out of his mouth. It fell in twain between his fingers. He sat
staring at it, then with a curious reverence he stooped forward and
dropped the pieces into the heart of the fire.
"Yes," he said heavily. "I reckon The Hundredth Chance will go with all
the rest."
He looked at Bunny, and there was desolation in his eyes; but he gave it
no verbal expression. And Bunny also found that the subject demanded
silence; it was beyond words.
"Does Maud know?" he asked at length, speaking rather doubtfully, as if
not quite sure of his ground.
"No. I didn't want to worry her before I need." Jake's eyes went back
to the fire, gazing into it, dumbly troubled. "I fancy there's no doubt
that the old man will provide for her--for both of you. That's what I'm
counting on anyway."
Bunny made an abrupt movement of impatience. "Oh, damn all that, Jake!
What of you?"
For the first time his strong language went unrebuked. Jake's eyes
remained fixed upon the fire where burned the remains of his treasure.
He spoke slowly, as one reading words but dimly discerned.
"Reckon I shall go back to America. I shall find my feet again there.
There's no call for you to be anxious about me. Guess I shan't starve."
"Jake!" Bunny's arm went round his shoulders, gripping them hard. He
spoke into Jake's ear, a rapid, nervous whisper. "Jake, if you're going
to America, I reckon I'm coming too. There's no one worth speaking to
after you. I just won't be left behind. I'll work, Jake. I'll work
like a nigger. I won't be a drag on you. But I can't stay behind--not
after all you've been to me. Jake, Jake, old feller, say you'll have
me! I'm as strong as a horse. And I'd sooner starve along with you
than be left without you. I--I--Jake, old feller, please!" He suddenly
bowed his head upon Jake's shoulder with a hard sob.
"Little pard!" Jake said, and pulled him down beside him. "Don't act
the fool now! That ain't like you!"
Bunny clung to him almost fiercely. "You shan't lose everything, Jake.
First Maud, and then the animals, and then the home,--and--and--me too.
You like me a bit, don't you, Jake?"
"Just a bit," said Jake, ruffling the black head.
"Then let me come with you, Jake! I'll do whatever you tell me.
I--I'll black your boots for you every day. I'll do anything under the
sun. Only don't leave me behind! I miss you badly enough at school.
But I can't stick it--without you--altogether."
"Shucks! Shucks!" said Jake very softly.
He was holding Bunny in his arms in the old brotherly way. They were
too close to one another for any boyish dignity to come between. The
bond that linked them had been forged in the fires of adversity, and
adversity served but to strengthen it.
"I can't!" Bunny reiterated. "You don't know what you are to me, Jake.
You've just made me. And I--I feel as if I'll all come undone again if
you go right away."
"I haven't gone yet," Jake said, in a drawl that was slightly unsteady.
"But if it is to be, Bunny lad,--and God knows it's more than
likely--you can do a bigger thing for me by staying back here--along
with Maud--than if you came along and roughed it with me. You'll be the
link between us, boy, when--all the other links are gone."
He became silent, gently smoothing the hair that he had ruffled.
Bunny was silent also for a space. It was as if something sacred had
come into their communion. At last with his head still pillowed on
Jake's shoulder he spoke.
"Say, Jake!"
Jake's arm tightened almost as if he would silence him, but he said
nothing.
And Bunny persisted. "Jake, old chap, it doesn't take a prophet to see
that things aren't as they should be between you two. I'm beastly
sorry. I know jolly well it's not your fault."
"It ain't hers," Jake said, almost under his breath.
"No. I guess it's that blackguard Charlie. I wish I were a man. I'd
shoot him!" said Bunny vindictively.
"I guess you wouldn't," Jake said, faint humour in his voice. "Besides,
there's nothing to shoot him for now. He's as much a loser as I am."
"What! They've quarrelled?" questioned Bunny. "Where is he? At the
Castle?"
"No. Heaven knows where he is. He's been gone for the last six weeks
and more."
"It's twice that since Maud went away," observed Bunny uneasily. "Why
on earth doesn't she come back, Jake? She's not--not--afraid of you?"
"She has been back once in that time," Jake said quietly. "She stayed
one night with your mother at 'The Anchor.' The place is shut up now,
and your mother has gone back to London. I thought possibly that she
would have settled down here a bit with Maud. But she didn't quite see
it. And it was as well, for the old uncle wrote asking Maud to go back
to him, and she went."
"Without consulting you?" asked Bunny quickly.
"She didn't consult me certainly, but she knew I was willing for her to
go." Jake spoke with a touch of restraint.
Bunny raised his head and looked at him with sudden shrewdness. "Who
did she want to get away from? You? Or Charlie?"
A flicker that was scarcely humorous crossed Jake's face. "Maybe both,"
he said.
"And you--you quarrelled with Charlie?"
"No. Seeing he was a loser, I let him go in peace. It was the only
thing to do."
"And he has got his knife into you on that account?" questioned Bunny.
"Maybe," Jake admitted.
"Then he's a low hound, and I'd love to tell him so."
"Where's the use? Reckon he knows it all right," said Jake dryly.
"I hope Maud knows it too!"
"She does," said Jake.
Bunny looked slightly mollified. "That's something anyway. Say, Jake?"
"What is it, my son?" Jake's red-brown eyes looked at him with a
tenderness that only Bunny was ever allowed to see.
Bunny's head went back to its resting-place against his shoulder
swiftly, endearingly. "Jake, Jake, old man, why don't you go back to
her? Maybe she's wanting you--and hasn't the pluck to say so. Women
are like that, you know."
Jake was silent.
"Give her the chance, Jake!" Bunny urged. "You don't know her like I
do. She always was shy. Lots of people thought her proud, but it was
mostly shyness. Give her the chance, Jake, old fellow! Just this one
chance! It may make all the difference."
"Think so?" said Jake.
"Course I do. I know Maud. She'd sooner die than show you her
feelings. But she's got 'em all the same. Maybe she's wanting
you--quite a lot, Jake. You can't tell."
"And maybe she's not," said Jake.
"Oh don't--don't be an ass, Jake! Come along and find out anyway!
It's--it's up to you, Jake. And there's no one else in the running."
A whimsical smile touched Jake's grim mouth. "Guess that's just what
makes it so difficult," he said. "Is anyone at all in the running? I'd
sooner draw a loser than a blank."
Bunny lifted a hot, earnest face. "Don't be an ass, Jake!" he urged
again. "Go in, man! Go in and win! You love her, don't you?"
It was a straight shot, and it found its mark. Something fiery,
something wholly untamed, leaped into Jake's eyes. They shone like a
flame upon which spirit has been poured. Bunny pulled himself free with
a sound that was almost a whoop of triumph. "You silly coon! Go and
tell her so!" he said. "I'll bet you never have yet!"
And Jake uttered a laugh that was curiously broken. "You're getting too
damn' clever, my son," he said.
CHAPTER XXIII
THE STORM WIND
"It'll be real sport to take her by surprise," said Bunny, with a
chuckle of anticipation. "But what a beast of a journey it's been!"
They had been travelling practically all day, and a black night of
streaming rain had been their welcome.
They had found accommodation at the hotel in which Maud had once spent a
night, and having dined there they splashed through the muddy streets in
search of their goal.
They found it, a tall, gaunt house standing back in a dark, dripping
garden, unlighted, forsaken.
"It can't be the place!" said Bunny, for the first time feeling his
ardour for the adventure slightly damped.
"We'll soon find out," said Jake.
They groped their way to a flight of steps and with the aid of a match
found the bell. It rang desolately through the building.
"The house is empty!" declared Bunny.
But after a considerable pause a step sounded within, and a white-faced
maid-servant opened to them.
"Come in!" she said, in a hollow voice. "You're very late."
"Mrs. Bolton here?" asked Jake, as he stepped on to the mat.
She nodded as if in agitation. "Yes, I'll tell her."
She shut the door behind them and went away, leaving them in the narrow,
dimly-lighted hall.
"What a rum go!" said Bunny.
Jake said nothing. He was gazing into the shadows in front of him with
intent, searching eyes. How would she greet him? Would she be glad?
Would she be sorry? He watched for her face, and the first instinctive
expression it would wear at sight of him.
There came the rustle of a dress, a footfall that was light and yet
somehow sounded weary. She came through the dim hall with a slow, tired
gait.
"Good evening!" she said. "Will you come upstairs?"
Bunny's fist suddenly prodded Jake in the back. He went forward a step
almost involuntarily.
"Maud!" he said.
"Jake!" She stood as one transfixed.
And in that moment he forgot to notice how she looked at him, forgot
everything in the one overwhelming thought that he was with her. He
strode forward, and somehow her two cold hands were in his before he
knew whether he had taken or she had offered them.
"My girl!" he said, and again huskily, "My girl!"
She lifted a quivering face. "Jake, thank you for coming! I--I hardly
thought you could have got here so soon."
He drew her to him and kissed her. "You've been wanting me?" he said.
She nodded. "I sent for you, yes. I--I didn't feel as if I could--face
it all--by myself."
His hold was warm, full of sustaining strength. "You'll have to tell me
what has happened," he said. "I didn't get your message."
"You didn't?" She looked momentarily startled. "Then why are you here?"
"I came--" he hesitated, glanced over his shoulder. "Bunny's here too,"
he said.
"Thought we'd just look you up," said Bunny, emerging from the
background, "Hullo, Maud! What's the matter? Is the old man ill?"
She turned to greet him. "He died yesterday," she said.
"Great Scott!" said Bunny.
Jake said nothing. He was watching her closely, closely.
She kissed Bunny lingeringly, but without emotion. "He was only ill
five days," she said. "It was a chill and then pneumonia. I nursed him
right up to the last. He wouldn't have anyone else. In fact he
wouldn't let me out of his sight." Her face quivered again, and she
paused. Then drearily, "I was expecting the undertaker when you came
in," she said. "I've had to arrange everything. The funeral will be
the day after to-morrow. Will you come into the dining room? There's a
fire there."
She led the way to that stiff and cheerless apartment. Bunny pressed
close to her and pushed his hand through her arm.
"Say, Maud, old girl, you're ill yourself," he said.
She looked at him out of deeply shadowed eyes. "No. I'm not ill; only
tired, too tired to sleep. There is some wine in that cupboard, dear.
Do you mind getting it out? You and Jake must have some."
She went over to the fire almost as one moving in a dream, and stood
before it silently.
Jake came to her, put a kindly arm about her. "You must go to bed, my
dear," he said. "You're worn out."
She shook her head with a rather piteous smile. "Oh no, I can't go for
a long while yet. I must get some rooms ready for you and Bunny."
"You won't need to do that," he said. "Bunny is putting up at the hotel
round the corner. And I can sleep just anywhere."
She let herself lean against him. "Thank you for coming, Jake," she
said again.
She was plainly worn out, and from that moment Jake took command. He
made her sit in one of the stiff velvet chairs in front of the fire,
made her drink some wine, and finally left her there with Bunny in
charge.
She was absolutely docile, gladly relinquishing all responsibility. To
Bunny she gave a few halting details of the old man's death, but she
could not talk much. The strain of those days and nights of constant
watching had brought her very near to a complete breakdown. She was so
tired, so piteously tired.
She dozed presently, sitting there before the fire with him, holding his
hand. It was so good to have him there, so good to feel that there was
someone left to love her, to think for her, so good to know that
Bunny--though he had ceased to be the one aim and end of her
existence--had not drifted wholly out of her life.
It must have been more than an hour later that she was aroused by a few
whispered words over her head, and sat up to see Bunny on his feet,
preparing to take his departure.
She looked up in swift distress. "Oh, are you going? Must you go?"
"Yes, he must go," Jake said gently. "He'll get locked out if he
doesn't. And the little chap's tired, you know, Maud. He's been
travelling all day and wants a good night's rest."
That moved her. Though Bunny disclaimed fatigue she saw that he had
been sleeping also. All the mother in her rose to the surface.
"Yes, of course, dear. You must go," she said. "I wish you could have
slept here, but perhaps it's better you shouldn't. Can you find your
way alone? Jake, won't you go with him?"
But Bunny strenuously refused Jake's escort. He bade her good night
with warmth, and she saw that he hugged Jake at parting. And then the
door closed upon him, and Jake's square figure came back alone.
He came straight to her, and bent over her. "My dear," he said, "you're
tired to death. You must go to bed."
She shook her head, wanly smiling. "It's no good going to bed, Jake.
I'm much happier here. Directly I lie down I am wide awake. Besides,
I'm too tired to get there."
"All right. I'll put you there," he said.
"No, no, Jake." She stretched out a quick hand of protest; but there
was no holding him off.
His arm was already about her; he lifted her to her feet. His face wore
the old dominant look, yet with a subtle difference. His eyes held
nought but kindness.
She yielded herself to him almost involuntarily. "I haven't been to bed
for nearly a week," she said. "I've slept of course in snatches. I
used to lie down in Uncle Edward's room. Poor dear old man! He wanted
me so." Her eyes were full of tears. "I--I was with him when he died,"
she whispered. "We had arranged to have a nurse this morning, but the
end came rather quickly. We knew his heart was weak. The doctor
said--it was better for him really--that he went like that."
"Why didn't you send for me sooner?" Jake said.
Her pale face flushed. She turned it from him.
"I didn't think--you would want to come. It wasn't till--till I got
frightened at the dreadful emptiness that--that--" She broke off,
fighting with herself.
"All right. Don't try to tell me! I understand," he said soothingly.
He went up the long, dim staircase with her, still strongly supporting
her. He entered her room as one who had the right.
The tears were running down her face, for she could not check them. She
attempted no remonstrance, suffering him like a forlorn child. And as
though she had been a child, he ministered to her, waiting upon her,
helping her, with a womanly intuition that robbed the situation of all
difficulty, meeting her utter need with a simplicity and singleness of
purpose that could not but achieve its end.
"You treat me as if--as if I were Bunny," she said once, smiling faintly
through her tears.
And Jake smiled in answer. "A man ought to be able to valet his own
wife," he said.
The words were simply uttered, but they sent the blood to her cheeks.
"You--you are very good to me," she murmured confusedly. "I--ought not
to let you."
"Don't you worry any about that!" said Jake. "The main idea is to get
you to bed."
"I am sure I shall never sleep again," she said.
Yet as she sank down at last upon the pillow there was a measure of
relief in her eyes.
"Now you're going to lie quiet till morning," Jake said, tucking in the
bedclothes with motherly care. "Good night, my girl! Is that
comfortable?"
He kissed her for the second time, lightly, caressingly, exactly as he
might have kissed a child.
She tried to answer him, to thank him, but could not. He smoothed the
hair from her temples, and turned away.
But in that moment her hands came out to him with a gesture that was
almost convulsive, caught and held his sleeve. "Oh, Jake!" she said.
"Jake! I'm so lonely!" and suddenly began to sob--"I want you more than
Bunny does. Don't go! Don't go!"
It was a cry of utter desolation. He turned back to her on the instant.
He stooped over her, his face close to hers. "Do you mean that?" he
said, and in his voice, low as it was, there sounded a deep note as of
something forcibly suppressed.
She clung to him, hiding her face against the rough tweed coat. "I've
no one else," she sobbed.
"Ah!" Jake said. A very strange look came into his face. His mouth
twitched a little as if in self-ridicule. "But, my girl," he said, "I
reckon you'd say that to anyone to-night."
"No--no!" Quiveringly she answered him. "I say it to you--to you!
I'm--so terribly--alone,--so--so--empty. Uncle Edward used to tell
me--what it meant to be lonely. But I never knew it could be--like
this."
"Poor girl!" Jake murmured softly. "I know--I know."
The look of faint irony still hovered about his lips, but his voice, his
touch, conveyed nothing but tenderness. He was stroking the dark hair
with a motherliness that was infinitely soothing.
She was holding his other hand tightly, tightly, against her breast, and
it was wet with her tears. "I've been--so miserable," she told him
brokenly. "I know it's been--no one's fault--but my own. But life is
so difficult--so difficult. I've treated you badly--badly. I haven't
done--my duty. I've always yearned for the things out of reach. And
now--and now--oh, Jake, my world is a desert. I haven't a friend left
anywhere."
"That's wrong," Jake said in his voice of soft decision. "You've got me.
I mayn't be the special kind of friend you're wanting. But--as you
say--I reckon I'm better than nothing. And I'm your husband anyway."
"My husband--yes. That's why--I sent for you, Jake," she hid her face
lower, deeper into his coat, "if--if I had had--a child, would it--would
it--have made you happy?"
"Oh, that!" Jake laid his head down suddenly on the pillow above hers.
He spoke into the thick darkness of her hair. "My girl, don't cry so!
I wanted it--yes!"
She moved slightly, stretched a hesitating hand upwards, touched his
face, his neck. "Jake, it--it would make me happy--too."
He put his arm about her as she lay, and gathered her close to him, not
speaking.
She was trembling all over, her face was still hidden. But she yielded
to the drawing of his arm, clinging to him blindly, desperately.
He held her so for a little space, then with steady insistence he moved
his other hand, beginning to turn her face upwards to his own. She
tried to resist him, but he would not be resisted. In the end panting,
quivering, she yielded very suddenly. She lifted her face voluntarily
to his. She offered him her lips. But her eyes were closed. She
palpitated like a trapped thing in his hold.
Yet when his lips met hers, she returned his kiss; and it was for the
first time in her life.
She slept that night in the shelter of his arms, safe from the desolate
emptiness of her desert. And if she dreamed that she had gone back into
the house of bondage for the sake of the fire that burned there, the
dream did not distress her, nor did the fire scorch. Rather the warmth
of it filled her lonely spirit with such comfort as she had long ceased
to hope for. And the steady beat of a man's heart lulled her to a
deeper rest.
When the dim dawnlight came filtering in, Jake's eyes turned to meet it
with a lynx-like watchfulness as of an animal on guard. There was no
sleep in them. He had not slept all through the night. His face was
grim and still, and there was a hint of savagery--or was it
irony?--about his mouth. For the second time in their lives Fate had
driven her to him for refuge. Like a bird out of the storm she had come
to him, perchance but for that one night's shelter. Already a contrary
wind was blowing that might sunder them forever. With the coming of the
day, they might drift apart and meet no more at all, so slender was the
bond between them, so transient their union. For he knew that she loved
him not, had never loved him.
His eyes grew harder, brighter. They shone with a great and bitter
hunger. He turned them upon her sleeping face. And then magically they
softened, grew pitiful, grew tender. For though she slept, the veil was
lifted, and he read the sadness of her soul.
His lips suddenly trembled as he looked upon her, and the irony went out
of him like an evil spirit. Whether she loved him or loved him not, she
was his, she was his, till the storm wind drove her from him.
And she needed him as she needed no one else on earth.
His arms clasped her. He gathered her closer to his breast.
CHAPTER XXIV
THE GREAT BURDEN
"By Jove!" said Bunny, in a voice of awe. "I never thought of that!
Then--Maud--will be rich, will she? Rich as Croesus! Just think of it!
Maud!" He drew a deep breath that ended in a whistle. "Puts a
different complexion on things, eh, Jake, old feller?" he said.
"Quite different," said Jake.
He stood at the window, gazing forth into the murky atmosphere with his
brows drawn. He looked like a man searching the far distance.
Bunny glanced at him questioningly. "What does she say to it? Was it a
great shock?"
"I don't know. I think it was. She said he once offered to provide for
the two of you, and leave you provided for at his death. But that was
before her marriage."
"And now he's gone and left her the whole caboodle! Say, Jake, what's it
come to? Did the lawyer chap give you any idea?"
"No one knew what the old man was worth," Jake said, with his eyes still
fixed steadily ahead. "He wasn't very great at spending money. But he
owned a large factory, and had a vested interest in several others,
besides some thousands in other concerns. The lawyer put it down at not
less than two hundred and fifty thousand."
"Jake!" Bunny began to execute an ecstatic war dance behind him.
Jake wheeled sharply. "Don't do that here, Bunny! It's not decent."
Bunny stopped. "Oh, sorry, Jake! I forgot. But aren't you pleased,
old feller? You don't look it. Or is it just decency on your part?"
"I'm pleased she's got enough to live on, yes," Jake said. "I don't
know that a whole pile is specially good for anyone. And now look here,
young chap! I'm going back directly after the funeral--I've got to
go--and you're to stay and take care of her."
Bunny's face fell. "Oh, I say, Jake, I'd sooner come with you."
"That may be." Jake smiled momentarily. "But you've got to do as
you're told. See?"
Bunny looked mutinous. "But she won't want me, Jake. She'll be much too
busy. And this is such a beastly hole. And there's the hunting. You
promised I might hunt these holidays. Oh, I can't stick here. I shall
only be in the way." His eyes flashed sudden rebellion. "Can't and
won't, Jake!" he said boldly, "so that's settled."
He stood and defied Jake openly for an instant, then flung round with a
dogged air and walked away.
Jake remained motionless watching him. "Say, Bunny!" he said after a
moment, his voice very soft and drawling.
Bunny came to a stand before the fire which he poked with considerable
violence. He did not turn his head.
"Put that thing down!" The order came from the further end of the room,
but he obeyed it.
There fell a brief silence, then from his post by the window Jake spoke.
"You can do as you like about it. You can come back with me to the
Stables. But you'll do all your riding on a leading-string if you do.
And if you hunt, it'll be on foot."
Bunny's face flamed scarlet. "Jake, you're a beast!" he said.
"Oh, I can do beastlier things than that," Jake said. "I can give you
one hell of a time, my son. I'm dashed ingenious in that respect when I
give my mind to it."
Bunny growled something deep in his throat, and kicked the coals with a
savage foot.
Jake turned deliberately round, and looked at him, watched him with the
utmost patience till he desisted; then,
"Come here now," he said, "and have your head punched!"
Bunny growled again less articulately, more ferociously.
Jake left the window. The boy wheeled to meet him with the glare of a
tiger. "Touch me if you dare!" he exclaimed.
There was a faint, relentless smile on Jake's face. He took Bunny by
the shoulders, and looked him full and straight in the eyes.
Bunny stood before him for a space, with clenched hands. Then he dropped
his own eyes sullenly before that stern regard--slowly lowered his head.
There fell a tense silence; then: "Get on with it, Jake!" he said in a
voice half-sulky, half-submissive. And Jake abruptly moved, struck him
twice lightly on the side of the head. "That's for using the forbidden
language," he said. "And that's for general fooling around. A taste of
the leather would do you good, only I can't leather a jolly little
cock-sparrow like you. Don't you think you're rather a fool, Bunny? I
do."
"I'm a damn' cad!" Bunny said with shaky vehemence, and pulled himself
away with the words. "I can't help it. I don't see much of you now.
And I do hate being left behind."
He turned his back on Jake and leaned dejectedly against the high
mantelpiece. But Jake's arm went round his shoulders, giving him a
comforting squeeze.
"Don't you know I'm trying to make a partner of you, my son?" he said in
his soft voice. "You needn't be so mighty difficult to handle. What
I'm on to now is more than a one-man job. I'm wanting all the help I
can get."
Bunny laid a hot cheek against his hand. "You know I'd do anything for
you, Jake," he said. He swallowed once or twice hard and faced round.
"Anything under the sun," he said.
Jake's hand smote him the blow of good-fellowship. "I'm counting
on--just that, sonny," he said.
He turned round with the words. Someone was entering the room.