"Hullo!" said Bunny. "Hullo, Maud!"

He moved to meet his sister with a curious new shyness. She looked pale,

aloof, very sad.

"Jake has been telling you?" she said.

Bunny nodded. "It's rather great, isn't it?" he said.

She came slowly forward, not looking at Jake. "It's too great," she

said. "I might have been glad of it once. But now--now--" She broke

off.

Jake drew forward a chair. "Reckon you'll find it just as useful now as

then," he said.

She glanced at him quickly, and a tinge of colour rose in her face.

"Oh, I daresay we shall all find it useful," she said.

Jake's expression was enigmatical. He stood up squarely, looking

straight before him. "You'll be able to buy anything and everything you

want," he said, "to live where and how you like; in short you'll be in a

position to create your own atmosphere. Money is freedom; remember

that! If you choose to buy a team of camels and trundle off into the

desert, there's no one can prevent you."

She shivered as if a cold blast had struck her, and leaned towards the

fire. "I'm not particularly fond of the desert," she said, in a low

voice.

"Oh, you needn't go alone," Jake said. "You'll be able to buy your

friends by the score and populate all the lonely places."

There was no sound of scoffing in his voice. It was even not without a

hint of kindliness. But she shook her head in silence.

And suddenly Bunny knelt down beside her, thrusting an impetuous arm

about her waist. "Say, Maud, he's only rotting. We'll have a ripping

time together presently. Don't be so down in the mouth, old girl!

There's plenty of fun to be got out of life."

She smiled with lips that trembled. "I'm afraid I'm getting rather old,

Bunny," she said wistfully, "old enough anyhow to know that money

doesn't bring happiness."

"Depends how you spend it," maintained Bunny stoutly. "Of course it is a

downright curse to the people who hoard it--like that beast who buried

his talent. But you can make any amount of happiness out of it if you

try. Think of the crowds you can reach with it! That's where the fun

comes in. Why, you reap as fast as you sow!"

Maud made a sudden quick gesture. "Bunny! How curious that you should

say that!"

"Why?" Bunny opened his eyes in surprise.

"Oh, never mind! It reminded me of something--something rather big--I

once heard in a church here." Maud gently passed on as though it were a

matter too sacred for discussion. "Perhaps you're right, dear. Perhaps

there is happiness to be got out of it. Anyhow we'll try, won't we?

Won't we, Jake?"

There was almost a note of entreaty in her voice; but she received no

answer. She turned sharply. Jake had gone.

"Never mind!" said Bunny, quick to console. "He's busy. Letters or

something. But you've got me. Say, Maud, you'll be able to keep the

mother above water now. That's rather a mercy anyway."

He almost forced her into the channel of his own cheery speculations

with the reflection that if it wasn't decent at least it was wholesome.

But when he looked back upon that talk with her later, he could not

remember that she had made a single suggestion of her own, or displayed

the smallest spark of enthusiasm in connection with the great fortune

that had come to her. She was tired of course and sad. No doubt she

would change her mind; but for the present she seemed to regard it only

in the light of a new and heavy burden that had been laid upon her.

Bunny could not understand it, but an uneasy wonder awoke and stirred in

his heart. Was it because she was married to Jake that she felt it had

come too late? If so--if so--well, if so, poor old Jake!

CHAPTER XXV

THE BLOW

"Home for Christmas. Motoring from Graydown. Three cheers, Bunny."

The ecstatic message stood on the mantelpiece in the old parlour above a

roaring fire, and Jake stood in front of it, grimly patient, while the

old grandfather clock ticked monotonously in the corner.

It was Christmas Eve, still and frosty. The glass door into the garden

was wide open so that he could hear the first hoot of a motor, and he

was listening for it with a lynx-like intensity, a concentration that

had in it something almost terrible. It was nearly a fortnight since he

had left her, and all his veins were on fire at the thought of having

her again. He yearned for her with a fierce hunger that tore at the

very soul of him, a hunger that he knew he must suppress, crush down out

of sight, ere he met her.

Because in her desolation she had turned to him for comfort, he must not

take it for granted that she needed him still. She had had time to

recover, time possibly to be amazed, to be shocked, at her own yielding.

He dreaded to see that instinctive recoil from him which he had learned

to know so cruelly well in the summer that was dead. Those words of

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

him. And he remembered how once in bitterness of soul she had told him

that she hated him.

He clenched his hands over the memory, cursing himself for the passion

that even now leaped so fiercely within him. She had changed towards him

since those days; that he knew. But even though she turned to him she

was half afraid of him still, and he dared not show her his heart. He

must be calm and temperate, taking only what she offered, lest he should

drive her away again. It might be she would never offer very much.

Possibly it did not lie in her power. She had given her whole love to

another man, and it had been crushed into the mud. It might be that it

still lived there in quivering shame, a thing to be hidden if it could

not be utterly destroyed. He could not tell. But he did not feel that

his chance of winning to the heart of her was very great. It might be

that when she came to realize the practically boundless power with which

this great fortune endowed her, it would vanish altogether. True, he

might put up a fight for his rights. He might insist upon his

ownership. But--had he not already done that? And what had it brought

him? Nothing but emptiness. The desire of the flesh was nothing to the

aching longing of the spirit, and that could never be satisfied by such

means. And she did not so much as know that it existed!

He had dreamed once that a child might draw them together. But now--but

now--a curiously wistful smile drew his mouth. Poor girl! She wanted a

child to comfort her desolation. But if she had her wish, he knew that

she would never turn to him again for comfort. His last chance would be

gone.

Someone knocked at the open door that led into the garden. He turned

sharply and saw Sam Vickers' good-humoured countenance looking up at

him.

"Post just in, sir," he remarked. "I was comin' round so brought your

letter along."

"Oh, thanks! Come in!"

Jake remained before the fire, and after an instant's hesitation Sam

mounted the steps and entered. He was carrying a huge bunch of

mistletoe in one hand.

"Thought you'd like a bit, sir," he said, with a cheery smile. "You

haven't got any decorations, I see."

"Thanks!" Jake said again. "I don't know where you'll fix it."

"Over the front door, sir, if you ask me," said Sam promptly.

"Oh, no, not there, Sam! It's a bit too public. Over this door if you

like." Jake smiled a little and began to open his letter.

"All right, sir. I'll get a nail," said Sam.

He departed, and Jake, with a face grown stern, proceeded to read his

letter.

When Sam returned, the letter had disappeared, and Jake was grinding at

the fire with the poker with his head down and a deep red flush on his

face. Sam noticed nothing. He was too much engrossed with the matter

in hand.

Mounted on a wooden chair and whistling softly he applied himself to the

task of hanging the mistletoe at the most inviting angle.

"Like a bit for your cap, sir?" he enquired, with an impudent grin, when

he had finished.

Jake made no reply.

Sam threw him a glance, and found that he had turned and was standing

with his back to the fire, gazing out before him with eyes that shone

like two pieces of red quartz.

Sam was momentarily disconcerted. "No offence meant, sir," he said,

picking up his own cap, and hastening somewhat clumsily to conceal the

decoration it bore.

Jake's eyes came to him, regarded him for a moment fiercely without

seeing him; then abruptly softened and took him in. "Sam," he said, "I

trust you, and I'm going to tell you something. Shut that door!"

Sam obeyed. He looked straight at Jake with sunny, honest eyes.

"Hadn't you better think it over first, sir?" he suggested.

"No." Jake held out his hand suddenly. "I trust you," he repeated, a

dogged note in his voice.

Sam's hand gripped his like a vice. "Right you are, sir," he said

cheerily.

Jake went on, as if impelled. "You remember what happened in the summer

at the Graydown Meeting when I thrashed young Stevens?"

"Quite well, sir." Sam's reply came brisk and smart. He held himself

like a soldier on parade.

"You know why I thrashed him?" Jake proceeded.

"Yes, sir. Thrashed him and kicked him out, sir. I was never more

pleased in my life," said Sam.

"He's been employed at the Castle stables ever since," Jake said very

bitterly. "I was a fool! a damn' fool--not to expose him. But Lord

Saltash knew that he pulled the Albatross. I told him so. He now says

that he has proof that I aided and abetted--proof enough to get me

warned off the Turf."

"Proof be damned, sir!" said Sam warmly. "That ain't a good enough

story for anyone with a head on his shoulders to swallow."

"No, Sam. You're right. And Lord Saltash knows it. I can't go to him

and demand to see his proof because he's on the other side of the world.

But there's no scotching a lie of that sort. It'll have spread like the

plague long before he gets back. And meantime he has decided that

horse-racing and breeding are no longer his fancy, and he is going to

sell the Stud--and me along with it."

Jake's mouth took a bitter, downward curve with the last words.

Sam's jaw dropped. "Going to sell the Stud, sir?"

Jake nodded. "Yes, before the Spring meetings. You'll be all right,

Sam. Anyone would be glad to get you. The Stewards know you all

right."

"Oh, I wasn't thinking of that, sir. I was thinking of you." Sam's

blue eyes were gravely troubled. "You've got a wife, sir."

"My wife inherits her uncle's money. She is not dependent upon

me--fortunately for her." Jake was speaking through set teeth. "I knew

it was coming," he added. "I've known it for some weeks." His eyes

suddenly glittered afresh. "It ain't a knock-out blow, Sam," he said.

"Don't you make any mistake as to that!"

Sam's eyes sparkled in response. "It's you that's the knock-out, sir,"

he said, with eager partisanship. "He hits below the belt, but he won't

down you that way. You're better known than I am. And no one will

believe as you're not straight. If I was to hear any chap say a single

word against you, why, I'd crack his skull for him. I would that--if it

was Saltash himself!"

Jake uttered a brief laugh. "No. You steer clear of Saltash! He's one

too many for honest men."

"He's a dirty swab!" said Sam, and spat into the fire with fervour. "He

ain't fit to employ anyone except Dick Stevens and the likes of him. I

often wondered who squared Dick that time, but it wouldn't surprise me

now if--" He paused, looking at Jake interrogatively.

But the latter's face had changed, changed magically, as though some

transforming hand had touched it, wiping all the bitterness away.

He looked at Sam with a dawning smile in his eyes. "Good night, my lad!"

he said. "I must go."

He went to the door with the words and opened it. There came the sound

of a motor-horn without, the gay whoop of a boyish voice. Jake's spurs

went jingling down the passage.

And Sam turned to leave by the garden-door by which he had entered. He

crammed his cap down over his eyes as he did so. "Poor old boss!" he

said. "Poor--old--boss!"

CHAPTER XXVI

THE DEED OF GIFT

"Oh, isn't it good to be home again?" said Bunny. "Isn't it just good?"

They sat before the blazing fire in the parlour after a late supper,

drinking Mrs. Lovelace's rhubarb wine and enjoying the glow.

Maud's cheeks were flushed and her eyes very bright. She did not look at

her husband very often, and there was that about her manner that seemed

to suggest that she was striving against considerable odds to appear at

her ease.

"How are the animals, Jake?" she asked. "How is The Hundredth Chance?"

Jake on the other side of the fire was lying back in his chair with a

cigarette between his lips. His gaitered legs were stretched out before

him, and eyes fixed downwards as if he were half-asleep. He did not

stir from this attitude as he made reply.

"They're all going strong. You must see them for yourself in the

morning."

His words did not seem to invite any further development of the subject.

Perhaps he really was sleepy. Maud bent to fondle Chops who lay on the

hearth at her feet, and asked no more.

But Bunny at once plunged into the silence. He had not permitted any

silences during supper, having plainly determined that the evening

should not drag. He also was a little fevered in his animation, a fact

which made Jake's absolute calmness of demeanour all the more marked. He

had been getting quieter and quieter ever since the removal of the

supper things.

Bunny fought against this quietness, talking with a nervous excitement

that elicited only occasional low replies from Maud and none at all from

Jake.

But it was Jake who finally at the striking of the clock broke in upon

his insistent chatter. "Time you went to bed, my son. Say good night

and go!"

A quick word sprang at once to Bunny's lips, but Jake's hand abruptly

gripped his knee hard and he swallowed it unspoken. He got up with a

somewhat wry smile.

"Yes, all right. I'll go. But I don't generally clear out before

eleven, do I, Maud?"

"You do in my house, whatever you do in Maud's," said Jake

imperturbably. "Good night, my son! pleasant dreams to you!"

He looked up at Bunny with a sudden, kindly smile, and Bunny bent

impulsively to him.

"Say, Jake, come and see me presently, when--when you come up yourself!"

The request was proffered in an undertone with unmistakable nervousness.

Jake looked him straight in the eyes.

"All right," he said.

The door closed upon Bunny, and there fell a silence.

Maud sat very still, her hands clasped in her lap. But there was no

repose in her attitude, only a dumb tension that seemed to indicate

suspense.

Jake leaned forward slowly, at length, took the cigarette from his mouth

and dropped it into the heart of the fire. Then, without looking at her,

he spoke.

"What's the matter with the little chap?"

She looked across at him quickly, from beneath eyelids that slightly

fluttered. "Is there anything the matter with him? I didn't notice."

"He was nearly crying when he said good night, anyway," said Jake.

"Oh, was he! Perhaps he thought--perhaps he thought--you were vexed

with him," murmured Maud.

"Why should he think that?" Jake's eyes, piercingly bright, suddenly

met hers.

She winced involuntarily, as one might wince from the glare of a

searchlight. Then, with a visible effort, she met them. "Jake," she

said, "I--want to talk to you."

Jake's eyes fell away from her. They went with a sombre directness to

the fire and became fixed. "About your affairs, my girl?" he said.

She hesitated momentarily; then: "Our affairs, Jake," she said, her

voice very low.

He jerked his head as if to indicate attention, but he said nothing

further. It remained for her to proceed, and she did so, slowly, as if

carefully weighing each word.

"You have left me a free hand in the settling of Uncle Edward's affairs,

and Mr. Craven is a very clever business man. I know Uncle Edward

trusted him implicitly. But I should like you to know everything that

has been done--that is, if you care to know." She paused a moment.

"You do care, don't you, Jake?" she said.

"I care for your welfare, my girl," he made answer. "Not being your

trustee, it's not essential that I should be told every detail."

"I wish you were a trustee," she said.

He bent his head. "Thanks. But I don't know that I am especially well

suited to be. It's better for you, I reckon, to have--a free hand. And

it's a mighty lot better that you should have a man of education to

attend to your business affairs."

"Jake!" There was quick pain in her voice, pain that he could not fail

to note. She leaned forward, stretching a hand to him across the

hearth. "Jake!" she said again very earnestly. "Do you think

that--that I shall ever forget--that I owe you--everything?"

He took her hand, but with a curious doggedness he kept his eyes

averted. "I guess we're quits," he said. "You don't owe me anything.

I took my payment for all I ever gave you."

There was no bitterness in his voice, no emotion of any sort. The clasp

of his fingers was no more than kind. His mouth looked stubborn.

But a strange sort of stubbornness seemed to have entered into Maud

also. She kept her hand in his.

"I take--another view," she said. "I don't think any man--has ever

done--more for a woman--than you have done--for me." Haltingly the

words came, but she spoke them bravely. "It's a big, big debt,

Jake--immeasurably big,--a personal debt that can never be repaid. I

feel--contemptible--whenever I think of it." Her voice shook.

Jake's fingers closed upon hers with a quiet strength. "You've no call

to feel like that," he said.

Her hand clung to his suddenly, desperately. "You--believe in me,

Jake?" she whispered.

His face did not vary. "I guess I've proved that," he said very

steadily.

She uttered a sharp, catching sigh. "Yes--yes! That is another debt.

But till--till that night you came to me at Uncle Edward's--I was

never--quite--sure."

"Why weren't you sure?" He put the question abruptly, with an

insistence that demanded an instant reply. But still he did not look at

her. His eyes gazed ever straight into the fire.

Tremulously she answered him. "I met Charlie--Lord Saltash--the morning

after--down at 'The Anchor.' He said--he said--you wouldn't be--such a

fool. That was why I went away."

"Damn him!" The words burst from Jake with terrific violence. He

sprang to his feet as a man goaded beyond all bearing. "Curse him!" he

said, his face gone white with passion. "May his soul rot in----"

"Jake!" The name was a cry, breaking through the fierce rush of his

fury. Maud was on her feet also. She held him by the shoulders, in a

vital, quivering hold. "You are not to say it!" she said and her face

was close to his, compelling him to silence. "You are not to curse him!

A curse comes back--comes back!"

She put one hand on his mouth, for he seemed on the verge of breaking

forth afresh. She looked him full in the eyes.

"You're not to, Jake!" she said. "I won't have it. You who have

been--so splendidly generous--can afford to leave a beaten enemy alone.

Ah,--Jake!"

For his arms were round her, gripping her. The naked soul of the man

was looking into hers. With a supreme impulse, she took her hand away

and gave her lips to his, surrendered herself wholly to the fiery

passion that had suddenly blazed forth upon her.

But in a moment his arms were loosened. He went back against the

mantelpiece as though he had been struck a blow between the eyes. He

stood motionless, his mouth working but uttering no word.

She stood before him, pale to the lips but not without a certain

strength. She had offered, and he had not taken. But yet her doubts

were set at rest. Perhaps for the first time in her life she faced him

wholly unafraid.

"So--we will leave him out of it," she said, breathing fast. "He

has--ceased to count."

Jake moved, pulled himself together. "You must forgive me," he said.

"Maybe you'd be wise to leave me I shall be--saner--presently."

She put one hand against his breast. "No, Jake, no. You're going to be

sane now. Sit down again! Let us finish our talk!"

He looked at her with the red light still smouldering in his eyes.

After a moment he took her wrist with a grip in which passion lingered.

"I'm trying to act fair by you, my girl," he said, with a faint smile

that somehow touched her heart. "It seems to me you've never had a

chance--not a real chance--all your life. What with Bunny--and

me--and--and--Saltash"--his mouth twisted over the name--"you've been

handicapped right and left. That's why I've sworn to myself that I

won't interfere with you anymore. You shall have a free hand--a free

hand. This money of yours makes it possible. Play with it, spend it,

enjoy yourself! Be happy, my girl, be happy! I won't step in to

prevent it."

Maud's eyes were suddenly full of tears, yet she laughed. "You've sworn

to give me a free hand?" she said.

He nodded. "Sure."

Her other hand clasped his quickly, pleadingly. "Then, Jake, you won't

be angry if--if--I decide to do something that--that you may

not--altogether--like?"

"It's your money," said Jake doggedly.

"Yes--yes. And--I have your permission--your unreserved consent--to--to

do what I like with it?"

Her voice quivered. She was clinging to him almost unconsciously.

He stood steadily facing her. He had forced his passion down again, but

there was tension about him still. "My girl," he said, "if you want to

turn it all into paper and make a bonfire of it,--I shan't object."

"Oh, I don't want to do that," she said, and again she faintly laughed

though in her laughter there was a sound of tears. "I felt just at

first--just at first--that I didn't want it. But I've got over that,

though I've come to the conclusion that there's no fun to be got out of

money unless there's someone to enjoy it with you. And so--and so--"

she became a little breathless and her hands pressed his in

agitation--"I'm making over half of it to you--by deed of gift. Please,

Jake, please--you don't mind?"

"What?" said Jake. He raised his tawny brows, staring at her for an

instant in sheer, overwhelming amazement; then they came down

uncompromisingly in a thick straight line above his eyes. He put her

hands away from him gently but with the utmost decision. He turned

himself from her and bent to pick up the poker. Then, as he stirred the

fire, with his face in the glow he spoke briefly, almost roughly. "I

don't know if you're joking or in earnest; but that's the one thing that

I can't--and won't--consent to. So I reckon that's all there is to it."

"Jake!" There was consternation in her voice, bitter disappointment,

keen pain. "Oh, Jake," she said, "you can't mean to refuse--like that!"

"How did you expect me to refuse?" said Jake, without turning.

She answered him chokingly. "Not as if--as if--I had insulted you."

He dropped the poker and straightened himself. "Maybe you didn't intend

any insult," he said. "But you don't credit me with an over-allowance

of self-respect, do you?"

She did not answer him, for she could not. She stood fighting for

self-control, striving to collect her scattered forces, but so

overwhelmingly distressed that she could not attempt to withstand him.

He turned round to her slowly at length. "Say, Maud," he said,

something of the old kindliness in his tone, "we won't talk any more

about it. Guess it's an impossible subject. You'll know me better next

time."

She struggled for utterance with lips that trembled piteously; her eyes

were brimming with tears. Finally, with a small, hopeless gesture, she

turned away, moved across the room blindly, found the door and

fumblingly opened it.

"Good night!" she whispered then in a voice that was scarcely audible,

and in another moment the door closed without sound behind her.

She was gone. Jake's mouth set itself in a hard, straight line. He

squared his shoulders with the instinctive movement of a man facing

odds. He began to feel with brutal deliberation for his cigarette-case.

The rasp of his match made a short, indignant sound in the quiet room.

It was like a sharp protest. The smell of his tobacco began to dominate

the atmosphere. He smoked furiously.

Suddenly there came a check. The cigarette had ceased to draw. He

ground his teeth on it, turned, and spat it into the flames. It hissed

and vanished.

Then Jake abruptly lifted his clenched hands above, his head and swore a

frightful oath that comprehended himself, the world, and all things in

it, in one vast anathema.

CHAPTER XXVII

THE IMPOSSIBLE

"Say, Jake, are you going to spend the night downstairs?" Bunny's thin,

eager face peered round the door with the words. He slipped into the

room clad in pyjamas, his hair all ruffled on his forehead.

Jake was sitting before a burnt-out fire. He looked round at Bunny with

heavy eyes.

"Were you asleep?" said Bunny.

"No." He got up stiffly. "Just--thinking. What have you come down

for?"

Bunny glanced at the clock. "Why, you said you'd come and see me in

bed, and it's long past midnight. I've been lying awake for ages." He

pressed close to Jake, reproach mingling with a touch of apprehension in

his eyes. "Fact is,--I--wanted to tell you something. But I've got cold

now. I don't know that I shall, after all."

Jake put a hand on his shoulder. "I shouldn't, my son," he said. "I

should cut back to bed if I were you. I give you a free pardon,

whatever it is. There! Good night!"

But Bunny refused to be dismissed thus perfunctorily. "You treat me like

a child, Jake," he grumbled. "It's not fair. I'd sooner be pitched

into than that."

Jake smiled faintly. "Well, what's the matter?" he said.

Bunny's eyes gleamed a little. "It's just this. I expect you'll be

savage, but you've got to know. Maud knows all about the Stud and

everything. She was bound to know sooner or later, so I don't see that

it greatly matters. But I'd no right to tell her. And I did."

He ended on a note of defiance. His penitence had plainly not survived

his long-drawn-out suspense.

But Jake heard him without any sign of displeasure. "Betrayed my

confidence, eh?" he said. "Well, I reckon that's a matter for your

conscience, not mine."

Bunny bit his lip. "You ought to have told her yourself, Jake," he

said.

Jake nodded. He seemed to be past all feeling that night. "I know that.

But she had plenty to think of without worrying herself about my

affairs. Anyway she knows now."

"Yes. Knows you're thinking of going to America, Jake." Eagerly Bunny

broke in. "And she's jolly sick about it, I can tell you. She doesn't

want you to go."

"Oh, doesn't she?" said Jake.

Bunny seized his arm and shook it. "Jake, surely you won't go! She's

rich enough to keep us all. She wants to share everything with you."

"Oh, yes." Jake's voice was dead level. His eyes looked at Bunny, but

they saw beyond him. "I know all about that. I know--just what she

wants. She wants a watchdog, one that'll fetch and carry and accept all

benefits with humility. She's lonely now; but she won't be lonely long.

She'll have a crowd round her--a set of fashionable, gibbering monkeys,

who will sneer at the watch-dog, the meek and patient hanger-on, the

adjunct at every party, who lives on his mistress's smile and doesn't

object to her kick. That's what she wants. And that, my son, is the

one thing she's not going to get."

"But what on earth do you want, Jake?" burst from Bunny, half-startled,

half-exasperated. "You needn't be that. You never could be that. Her

idea was to make you independent."

"Oh yes, I know." Jake's mouth twisted a little. "She is mighty

generous. She figured to hand over half her fortune by deed of gift."

"And you wouldn't have it?" Bunny almost gasped.

"I wouldn't touch it," Jake said, with a sound that was oddly like a

suppressed laugh in his throat.

"But why in wonder not?" Bunny stared at him as if he thought he had

gone suddenly mad. "We've taken oceans of things from you."

"That's different," said Jake.

"How different? Make me understand, Jake! I've a right to understand."

Bunny's voice was imperious.

Jake looked at him. There was actually a smile in his eyes, but it was

a smile of self-ridicule. "You asked me just now what I wanted," he

said. "I'll tell you. I want a woman who loves me well enough to chuck

up everything--everything, mind you--and follow me barefoot to the other

end of the world." He broke into a laugh that seemed to hurt him. "And

that," he said, "is the one thing I'm not going to get. Now do you

understand?"

"Not quite, Jake. Not quite." Bunny spoke almost diffidently. He

looked back at Jake with awe in his eyes. "You think she doesn't love

you well enough. Is that it?"

Jake nodded, still with that smile of self-mockery about his mouth.

"You've hit it, my son," he said. "We're not a pair, that's the

trouble. She means to be kind, but I'd sooner go empty than be fed on

husks. I didn't offer either of you that. It was the real thing I gave

you. But she--she hasn't the real thing to offer. And so--I'll do

without."

He turned squarely to put out the waning lamp as though the discussion

were ended, but Bunny stayed him with a nervous hand.

"Jake, suppose you're wrong, old boy? Suppose she does care--care

badly?" His voice quivered with earnestness. "Women are queer fishes,

you know, Jake. Suppose you've made a mistake?"

"Where's the use of supposing the impossible?" asked Jake sombrely. Yet

he paused, his hand rubbing the boy's rough head caressingly.

"Ah, but just for a moment," Bunny insisted. "If she loved you, Jake,

you wouldn't refuse then to--to do what she wanted?"

"If she loved me," Jake said, and stopped suddenly. He moved abruptly to

the lamp and extinguished it. Then in the dim light that filtered

through the blinds from a full moon of frosty radiance, he spoke,

deeply, slowly, solemnly. "If she loved me, I would accept anything

under the sun from her. Everything she had would be mine. Everything

of mine would be hers. And--before God--I would make her happy--if she

loved me." He drew a great breath that seemed to burst from the very

heart of him. Then in a moment he turned aside. "But that's the

impossible, Bunny," he said. "And now good night!"

They went upstairs together, and parted in the passage. Bunny seemed too

awed for speech. Only he hugged Jake hard for a moment before he went

to his own room.

Jake passed on to his. Utter silence reigned there. He lighted a

candle, and went softly to the door that led into his wife's room. It

was shut. Softly he turned the handle, pressed a little; softly he

turned it back. The door was locked.

Then he threw off his clothes, blew out the candle, and lay down alone.

And all through the night he was listening to words uttered over and

over above his head, like evil spirits whispering together.

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

He realized now that she had been right. It was better not to pretend!

It was better not to pretend!

CHAPTER XXVIII

THE FIRST OF THE VULTURES

Christmas Day was a farce in which Jake, Maude and Bunny each played

their appointed parts with somewhat dreary zest. The brother and sister

had drawn much closer to each other during the past fortnight in which

they had been thrown together. The old quick understanding, the old

comradeship, had revived between them, and on Bunny's part there was

added to it a certain protectiveness that created a new and even more

intimate element in their intercourse. In a fashion their positions

were reversed. Maud leaned upon him as he once had leaned upon her, and

his sturdy support comforted her sick heart.

As for Jake, he went his way among his animals, spending his time almost

exclusively with them during that day and the days that followed. He

was very quiet, invariably kind, but there was about him a suggestion of

strain behind his composure, a hint of something terrible, as of a man

hiding a mortal wound. He never talked about the animals now, and he

did not welcome even Bunny in the stables.

"He's fretting his heart out over them," the boy said, and Maud knew

that he spoke the truth. The thought of the coming parting with them

hurt him to the soul.

Sam Vickers knew this also, and watched him in mute sympathy. He would

have given all he had to avert this bitter blow from the boss, but he

could only stand and look on.

It was on the last day in the year, a biting, sunless day, that he

sought him late in the afternoon with a visiting card in his hand.

Jake was leaning on the half-door of the loose-box in which was lodged

the black colt of his dreams--The Hundredth Chance. The animal's head

was nuzzled against his shoulder. There seemed to be a perfect

understanding between them.

But at sight of Sam the colt started back. He was suspicious of all the

world but Jake.

Jake looked round, his face grey in the failing light. "Hullo! What is

it?"

Sam came forward and gave him the card. "Mrs. Bolton was out, sir, and

he asked for you; said he'd wait in the yard, sir."

Jake bent his brows over the card. It bore a name that seemed vaguely

familiar to him though in what connection he could not for the moment

recall:--Monterey W. Rafford. Jake looked up. "He's no friend of mine.

Do you know what he wants?"

"Said he was a friend of Dr. Capper, sir," said Sam.

"Oh, that American chap! I remember now. All right, Sam. I'll see

him." Jake gently pushed back the colt's enquiring nose, closed the

upper half of the door, and strode off down the stone passage that led

to the yard.

The visitor was standing under a lamp, a slim young man with a dark,

keen face that broke into a smile at Jake's approach. He moved to meet

him, speaking in a voice that betrayed his nationality at the first

word.

"I am very pleased to meet you again, sir, though no doubt you have

forgotten me."

They shook hands. Jake was looking at him with steady eyes. "No," he

said, in his slow way, "I think you are the sort of man that doesn't get

forgotten very easily."

Rafford laughed. He had an easy, well-bred laugh. "Capper doesn't

believe in me," he said. "He declares I'll never get there. P'raps

he's right. It doesn't concern me very much either way. Anyway, I've

given up sending sick people to sleep for the present. I'm out on my

own this journey. How is your young brother-in-law? Cure complete?"

"Absolutely." Jake was still looking at him hard. "If it's not a rude

question," he said deliberately, "is that what brought you?"

The American met his look with a flicker of the eyes that betrayed a

hint of wariness. "It's not a rude question, Mr. Bolton," he said.

"And it is not what brought me. I'm after art treasures at the present

moment. To be particular, I'm after Saltash's wonder in marble, _The

Fallen Woman_. We did a deal over that marble, he and I, in New York

the other day. He was showing me a card-trick, and--I--spotted--the

knave."

Rafford suddenly drawled, and Jake's eyes grew brighter.

"Come inside!" he said.

But Rafford shook his head. "No, not right away if you don't mind.

There's a little light left. Will you show me the animals?"

Jake's right hand clenched on his whip. "Have you done a deal over them

too?" he said, sinking his voice very low.

"No. But I've got an idea," Rafford said. "I'll tell you what it is

presently. You've got some valuable stock here, I'm told. Say, Mr.

Bolton, you don't object to showing me round?"

His smile was disarming. Jake swung round on his heel without another

word.

They went from stable to stable, inspecting one after another of Jake's

treasures, Jake himself reciting the record of each. He began the tour

almost in silence, speaking only words of bare necessity, but in some

magnetic fashion Rafford broke through his reserve. His quiet

enthusiasm reached and fired Jake. Gradually the glow kindled, the

bitterness passed from him, he became himself in his own element, he

opened his heart to the stranger because it seemed that he understood.

It was a long inspection, and darkness was upon them before it ended.

They came last of all to the home of The Hundredth Chance, and here with

his favourite's nose tucked confidingly into his arm Jake told his

hopes, his dreams.

Rafford listened with a sympathy that was scarcely perceptible in his

speech yet of which Jake was very strongly aware, or he had not so

expanded. Later he marvelled himself at his own candour, but at the

time it seemed wholly natural, even inevitable. By that mysterious

force which makes men know each other as comrades even from afar, he

recognized in Rafford the one quality that his soul demanded.

Circumstance had flung them together for an hour, circumstance would

part them again, but for that hour the bond of sympathy between them was

complete.

In the end he remembered again the coming loss, the crushing failure of

all his plans, and the bitterness came down upon him afresh, an

overwhelming burden forcing him down. He fondled the colt, and with a

gentle hand closed the door upon him. "Yes," he said heavily, "given

fair treatment he'll turn out a winner, but I shan't be here to see it."

"What's come to Saltash?" Rafford questioned. "He seems ready to throw

up everything."

"Yes, that's him," Jake said. "But then he hasn't had the working up of

the Stud as I have. It's nothing to him to part with the animals. They

were no more than a pastime."

"And not always a creditable pastime at that?" suggested Rafford. "I

guess you're too straight for him, Mr. Bolton. He's a crooked devil--but

a curiously likable one." He smiled as if at some reminiscence. "Well,

what's your opinion? Do you think he could be persuaded to sell this

show privately if he got a good offer?"

Jake's reserve came down upon him like a mask. "I can't say. You'd

better go to his agent, Bishop."

Rafford was still faintly smiling. "I've just come from him. He

practically sent me to you. I've just paid him Saltash's price for the

statue. She will be on her way to America with me in a fortnight. But

I'd like to bring off this deal before we go."

"It doesn't rest with me," Jake said, doggedness in every line.

"No, I know. But I'd like to feel that I've got you behind me. My

patron would like to know that."

"Who is your patron?" Jake asked.

"His name is Ruse. You mayn't have heard of him, but he's quite well

known in a good many circles--specially on our side. He has taken a

fancy for horse-racing and he will probably drop a lot of money over it

before he's done; that is, unless he's lucky enough to retain you for

his trainer."

A hot gleam suddenly kindled in Jake's eyes, and as suddenly died. "I

reckon that won't be possible," he said, "Lord Saltash will see to

that."

"Saltash may not be able to prevent it," Rafford observed quietly.

"Ruse will want a trainer, and when I tell him how your heart's in the

job, it wouldn't surprise me if he persuaded you to keep it on. You

wouldn't be very hard to persuade, I take it?"

Jake hesitated momentarily, then passed the question by. "Is your friend

in England?" he asked.

"He will be in England very soon after the deal is completed--if it is

completed," Rafford answered.

"Won't he want to see the Stud first?" Jake's voice was quietly

business-like. He seemed to have put all personal considerations away.

"I doubt it." Rafford said. "The value of the Stud is well-known,

and--to let you into a secret--he is mad keen on securing it. You won't

tell Saltash that of course, or Bishop, who, I understand, is empowered

to act on his behalf. But I think Saltash will get his price without

much haggling. My patron is particularly anxious to prevent the Stud

coming on the market. He is prepared to offer something better than a

market price to make sure of it."

"He must be a very remarkable man," observed Jake.

"He is, sir; a very remarkable man, a man who never misses his

opportunities. And in consequence he is on the whole very seldom a

loser. It would be a great mistake to let him slip through your

fingers--a very great mistake."

Rafford spoke with earnestness. His dark face was alight with

eagerness.

Jake looked at him, faintly smiling. "You have an interest at stake?"

he suggested.

"Only the interest that makes me want to push a thing to success. I

have full powers though." Rafford's face reflected his smile. "When my

patron got news of this thing, shall I tell you what he said to me?

Just 'Clinch!' I shall go to Bishop to-morrow, and carry oat those

instructions, if I can, to the letter."

"You won't do it in a day," Jake said. "Maybe you'd like to put up at

my place pending negotiations."

Rafford's hand came out to him with impulsive friendliness. "No, sir.

You're more than kind, but I won't do that. I've seen the animate and

I've seen you. That's enough. You and I mustn't get too intimate over

this deal. You know what Saltash is. When we've pulled it off, I'll be

delighted--if there's still time." He gripped Jake's hand hard, looking

him straight in the face. "You've given me a real happy hour, Mr.

Bolton," he said. "And I shan't forget it. It was mighty generous of

you, considering you regarded me as the first of the vultures. Well, I

hope I shall be the last. So long!"

"So long!" Jake said. "I hope you will."

He accompanied the young man to the gate, and watched him go.

Then squarely he came back again, walked straight up the middle of the

yard, looking neither to right nor left, went into his own house, and

shut the door.

Late that night when Maud rose to go upstairs, he came out of what had

apparently been a heavy doze before the fire and spoke for the first

time of his own affairs.

"Bunny told you some time ago that the Stud was to be sold, I believe?"

he said.

Maud stood still on the hearth, looking down at him. The question

evidently startled her, for her breath came suddenly faster. "Yes, he

told me," she said.

"Why didn't you tell me you knew?" said Jake. And then he saw that his

abruptness had agitated her and leaned forward to take her hand.

She suffered him to take it, but she was trembling from head to foot.

"I didn't think--you wished me to know," she said.

He bent his head slightly so that only the shining copper of his hair

met her look. "It wasn't--that," he said slowly. "At least not at

first. Just at first I didn't want to bother you. Afterwards,--well, I

guess I'm an independent sort of cuss and I was afraid you'd want to

finance me when you knew I was to be kicked out."

"I did want to, Jake," she said quickly.

He nodded. "I know. I was mighty ungracious over it. I've been sorry

since."

"Jake!" She stooped a little, a quick dawning of hope in her pale face;

but he kept his head bent.

"No," he said. "The answer is still No. I don't want to hurt your

feelings any, but I can't live on any one's charity. If there's

anything under the sun that I can do to serve you, I'll do it. But I

can't do the pet-dog business. For one thing I'm not ornamental enough.

And for another, it ain't my nature."

He paused a moment, but Maud made no attempt to speak. Only the hope

had all died out of her face, and she looked unutterably tired.

Jake went on. "Just when your uncle died, you were feeling extra

lonely, and--" his voice sank a little--"you turned to me for comfort.

But I didn't flatter myself that I had become permanently necessary to

you. I knew you never intended me to think that. I saw it directly we

met again. You fancied yourself under an obligation to me. You were

willing--because of that--to give me anything I wanted. But it's come

to this. What I really want is not in your power to give, and I can't

accept less. For that reason, I've got to live in my own house, not in

yours. I don't want you to feel bound to live with me, I know my

setting never was good enough for you either. You can come to me just

sometimes, and I shall be honoured to receive you. But I'd like you to

know that you are absolutely free to come or go. I'm not insisting on

my rights, just because I've learnt that it doesn't make for happiness

on either side."

Again he paused, but still she did not speak.

Quietly he resumed. "That brings me to what I set out to tell you about

the Stud. There is a chance--I think it's a good one--that it may be

kept together after all. There is also a chance--a less promising

one--that I may be retained as trainer. If I am offered the post, I

shall accept it. If I am not offered the post, well, I shall have to

start again at the beginning. I shall have to rough it. So if that

happens, you will have to go your way and I mine."

He ceased to speak, and his hand relinquished hers.

Maud stood up. She was no longer trembling, but she was very pale.

"I hope you will get the post," she said, after a moment. "You--I think

you would feel it if you had to part with the horses. They mean--so

much to you."

"I belong to 'em," Jake said simply.

She smiled a little with lips that quivered. "Then I hope you will have

them always," she said. "Good night--and thank you for being

so--explicit." She looked at his bent head, stretched a hand above it

almost as if she would touch it, then drew it swiftly back and turned to

go.

A few seconds later she was ascending the stairs, still piteously

smiling, with the tears running down her face.

CHAPTER XXIX

THE DUTIFUL WIFE

"Well, my dearie, this is the biggest treat I've had for I don't know

how long. Sit you down and tell me all your news! Is it true, what my

Tom tells me, as you've come into a pot of money? Well, there now, I am

pleased! Put your feet on the fender, my dear! There's a cruel wind

blowing to-day. We'll have some hot buttered toast for tea."

"I hope you're not busy, Mrs. Wright." Maud clasped the round, dumpy

form very closely for a minute.

"Lor' no, my dear; not a bit. It's early closing to-day. Fancy your

thinking of that now! And fancy your coming to see me of all people!

Why, I feel just as if a princess had stepped out of a fairy-tale."

"I don't feel a bit like a princess," Maud said.

She sat down before the cheery little fire in Mrs. Wright's back parlour

and stretched out her hands to the blaze.

The old woman hovered over her tenderly. "You look like one, my dear,"

she said. "I think it's just wonderful that you should condescend to be

friendly with the likes of me."

"Oh, Mrs. Wright, don't--please--put it like that!" Maud leaned quickly

back, turning up a face of flushed protest. "I don't like that aspect

of myself at all," she said. "I don't think I am that sort of person

indeed."

"I always think of you as Jake's princess, dear," Mrs. Wright

maintained. "I don't see why it should distress you. I like to think

of you so."

Maud laughed a little. "I wish you wouldn't. And I wish Jake wouldn't

either. Perhaps once I was foolish and proud, but really I have got

over that now. I am very humble, nowadays."

"Are you happy, dearie? That's the great thing," said Mrs. Wright.

Maud stooped again over the fire. "I'm--trying to be," she said. "I

don't succeed perhaps all the time. But--" She stopped. "Don't let us

talk about my affairs till I have heard all yours!" she said. "How is

Tom? When is he going to be married?"

It was the signal for Mrs. Wright to plunge into personal gossip, and

she did so with zest. But she kept a motherly eye upon her visitor

notwithstanding, missing no detail of her appearance and general

demeanour. There was plenty to be said, Mrs. Wright was always voluble,

but she was not a selfish talker. She did not monopolize the

conversation, and she never lost sight of her listener.

Maud's sympathy was quite unfeigned. She liked to hear about Mrs.

Wright's various interests, and there was a genial warmth in the

atmosphere that did her good.

"Let me come into the kitchen with you and help you make the toast!" she

begged at length.

And after a brief demur, Mrs. Wright consented. Tom was out and there

would be no one to disturb them. She would not have dreamed of

permitting Tom to sit down in the kitchen with Jake's princess.

So to the kitchen they went, and finding it cosier than the parlour,

decided to remain there to partake of the meal they had prepared, Mrs.

Wright, albeit sorely against her will occupying the wooden armchair of

state, while Maud sat close to her knees on the fender.

"You're looking very thin, dear," Mrs. Wright checked her chatter to

observe, as she put down her final cup of tea.

"It's my nature to be thin," Maud said.

Mrs. Wright permitted herself a more critical survey. "I wonder what

Jake thinks," she said. "I shouldn't feel happy about you if I were

Jake."

Maud smiled faintly into the fire and said nothing.

Mrs. Wright's plump hand stole down to her shoulder. "I hope as he's

being good to you, dearie," she murmured.

Maud leaned back against her knee. "He is trying to be," she said.

"You know that the Stud has been sold?"

"It really has?" said Mrs. Wright.

"Yes, it really has. The animals were to have been sent to

Tattersall's, but a man we know--an American--came at the very beginning

of the year and made an offer on behalf of a friend of his that Lord

Saltash's agent thought too good to refuse. He has gone back to America

now, and no doubt his principal will make his appearance soon. The idea

is to build new Stables nearer to Graydown. Jake is negotiating about

some land there. It's such a pretty part, and there will have to be a

house for him too. We shall probably be allowed to stay on at the

Burchester Stables till it is all ready. Jake is hoping that it may all

be done in a year, I think," she smiled again with a hint of

wistfulness. "I think Jake is going to enjoy himself."

"And you, dearie?" whispered Mrs. Wright, tenderly persistent.

Maud reached up a hand to clasp hers. "I have been lost in the desert

for a long, long time, dear Mrs. Wright," she said. "But I am just

beginning to find myself."

Mrs. Wright stooped impulsively and carried the soft hand to her lips.

"May it please the dear Lord to guide you, dear!" she said.

"He is guiding me," Maud said with simplicity. "But I've some way to

travel yet before I reach my goal. And--it's very sandy travelling

sometimes, Mother Wright." She lifted her face with its sweet quivering

smile. "And there are stones too, sometimes," she said. "But--I'd like

you to know that I've passed the worst. I've left off yearning

for--for--the mirage. It doesn't draw me any more--at all. I've left

it all behind me,--like an evil dream and I can never, never, never be

deceived by it again."

"My darling!" murmured Mrs. Wright very tenderly. "My darling!"

Maud suddenly clung to her closely. "I'm beginning to find out," she

whispered tremulously, "that the thing I took for a rank weed growing

beside my path is the one flower I have always wanted in my garden.

I've tried for ever so long to uproot it, but now--but now--I'm trying

to make it grow. I want it--but this is a secret!--more than anything

else on earth."

Mrs. Wright's own eyes were full of tears. "I am sure you will have it,

darling," she said. "I am sure--quite sure--your want will be

satisfied."

She kissed the quivering face on her bosom and fondled the soft dark

hair. They remained so for a space not speaking; then very gently Maud

withdrew herself.

"Did I tell you that Bunny is allowed to play hockey this term? It is

horribly dangerous--I went up to watch it last Saturday--but he enjoys

it tremendously; and they say it will do him good. He is growing fast,

getting quite a man."

"I am very pleased to hear it," Mrs. Wright said warmly. "Dearie me,

just to think of the poor little weakly thing he was a year ago! Do you

remember that day I first looked in on you, and how you gave me them

violets? I've never forgotten it."

Maud flushed a little. "You were so good to me, and I had been so

ungracious. I wonder you ever forgave me."

"What rubbish, dear! What rubbish!" softly interpolated Mrs. Wright.

"I loved you from the first moment I set eyes on you that night at Giles

Sheppard's. And that reminds me. How is your mother doing now?"

"She is living in London," Maud said. "I believe Giles Sheppard went to

Canada. She doesn't seem to trouble about him, but has settled down

quite happily in a boarding-house in Bayswater. I invested some of

Uncle Edward's money in an annuity for her. It seemed the best plan."

"I am so glad you have got that money, dear," said Mrs. Wright simply.

"Thank you," Maud said. "But--you know--I could have been quite happy

without it. At least I think I could. We should have had to emigrate.

And I--" she smiled momentarily, "I suppose I should have been a

cow-puncher's wife in earnest."

"You wouldn't have liked that," said Mrs. Wright with conviction.

"Shouldn't I? I wonder. I am beginning to think that external

circumstances haven't much to do with happiness." Maud spoke

thoughtfully. "Still--now I am used to the idea--I am glad to have the

money. Uncle Edward left all his affairs in such perfect order that

they will probably be wound up very soon now. Mr. Craven, the

solicitor, said it was one of the simplest matters he had ever had to

deal with, which is all the better for me. He is in a position to raise

almost any amount for me even now." Maud was smiling again, that faint,

half-wistful smile that had become hers. "It will be useful when it

comes to furnishing the new house, won't it?" she said.

"My dear, you will just love that," said Mrs. Wright. "And what does

Jake say to it all? Isn't he pleased to know as you and little Sir

Bernard are provided for as befits your rank and station?"

Maud's smile became a laugh. "Dear Mother Wright, you are

incorrigible!" she declared. "No, Jake is not over and above pleased.

I think he has a lurking fear that I want to take him away from his

horses and make him lead a life of elegant idleness. He doesn't guess

how thankful I was to know that he would not have to give them up after

all. For he loves his animals as he loves nothing else on earth."

"Oh, tut, tut, dearie!" remonstrated Mrs. Wright. "And it really is

settled for him to keep on in his present position?"

"Practically settled. He says he must wait and see his boss before he

regards it as a sure thing. Meantime, he is carrying out Mr. Rafford's

instructions as far as possible. He has gone over to Graydown to-day

about the building-site for the new stables. I hope he will secure it.

It is on a southern slope. It would be splendid for the animals."

"Why, you are getting quite enthusiastic!" said Mrs. Wright, with a

chuckle.

"I believe I am," Maud admitted. "I never thought so much of them till

it seemed that we were going to lose them. I think it would almost have

broken Jake's heart."

"He don't keep his heart in the stables," said Mrs. Wright wisely, "nor

yet in the training-field. What, my dear, you're not thinking of going

yet? Why, it's quite early!"

"Yes, I ought to be going," Maud said. "I like to be in first, to give

him his tea and so on. He is much too polite to say so, but I fancy he

likes it."

"Of course he likes it, dear. And I think he's a very, very lucky man."

Mrs. Wright spoke with great emphasis.

Maud was on her feet. She looked down at her half-laughing. "Oh, do

you? I wonder why."

"To have such a dutiful wife, dear," said Mrs. Wright. "I hope you're

not going to spoil him, now. It would be a pity to do that."

Maud uttered a funny little sigh. "Oh no, I shan't spoil him. He is

most careful not to take anything for granted. In fact, I sometimes

wonder--" She paused.

"What, darling?" Mrs. Wright looked up at her with loving admiration.

Maud's face was flushed. "Oh, nothing very much. I was only going to

say that I sometimes wonder if he has any real use for the dutiful wife

after all. I try to please him, but all he seems really to want me to

do is to please myself."

Mrs. Wright rose up in her own resilient fashion. "Oh, there now! How

like a man!" she said. "They're as cussed as mules, my dear. But never

you mind! You'll catch him off his guard one of these days if you keep

on. And then'll be your time. You step in and take possession before

he can turn round and stop you. It's only a question of patience, dear.

It'll come. It'll come."

Maud smiled again as she bent to kiss her. "You're such a good friend

to me," she said. "I'll be sure to take your advice--if I can."

"God bless you, my darling!" said Mrs. Wright, with great fervour.

CHAPTER XXX

THE LANE OF FIRE

An icy wind was blowing as Maud climbed the steep road by the church.

It whirled down on her with a fierceness that made quick progress out of

the question. Nevertheless, she fought valiantly against it, fearing

that Jake would have returned before her.

It was not dark. The tearing wind had chased all clouds from the sky,

and the daylight still lingered. Ahead of her the North Star hung like

a beacon, marvellously bright. There was a smell of smoke in the air

that seemed to accentuate the bitter coldness.

The church clock struck six as she passed it, and she sought to quicken

her steps, she did not want Jake to come in search of her. For some

reason she did not greatly want to tell him how she had been spending

the afternoon.

Round the bend of the road the wind caught her mercilessly. She had to

battle against it with all her might to make any progress at all. It

was while she was struggling round this bend that there suddenly came to

her the sound of galloping hoofs and a man's voice wildly shouting. She

drew to one side, and stood against the hedge; and in a moment a

horseman dashed into view and thundered past her. He was lying forward

on the animal's neck, urging him like a jockey.

He was gone like a whirlwind into the dusk, and Maud was left with a

throbbing heart that seemed to have been touched by a hand that was

icy-cold. She was nearly sure that the animal had come from the Stables

and that the man was Sam Vickers. He was not a furious rider as a rule.

What had induced him to ride like that to-night? Something was

wrong--something was wrong! The certainty of it stabbed her like a

knife. What could it be? What? What? Had Jake met with an accident?

Was Sam tearing thus madly down to Fairharbour to find the doctor?

The strength of a great fear entered into her. She began to run up the

hill in the teeth of the wind. She had only half a mile to go. She

would soon know the worst.

But she had not gone twenty yards before her progress was checked. She

became aware of a drifting mist all about her, a mist that made her gasp

and choke. She ran on in the face of it, but it was with failing

progress, for the further she went the more it enveloped her like the

smoke of a vast bonfire.

The coldness at her heart became a tangible and ever-growing fear. She

tried to tell herself that the suffocating vapour blowing down on her

came from a group of ricks that stood not far from the entrance to the

Stables. Some mischievous person had fired them, and Sam had discovered

it and gone to raise the alarm. But deep within her there clamoured an

insistent something that refused to be reassured. Struggling on through

the blinding, ever-thickening smoke, the conviction forced itself upon

her that no hayricks were responsible for that headlong gallop of Sam's.

He had gone as a man going for his life. His progress had been winged

by tragedy.

Gasping, stumbling, with terror in her soul, she fought her way on, till

a further bend in the road revealed to her the driving smoke all lurid

with the glare of flames behind. By that curve she escaped from the

direct drift of it and found herself able to breathe more freely. The

shoulder of the hill protected her at this point in some degree from the

wind also. She covered the ground more quickly and with less effort.

It was here that there first came to her that awful sound as of a

rending, devouring monster--the fierce crackling and roaring of fire.

The horror of it set all her pulses leaping, but its effect upon her

senses was curiously stimulating. Where another might have been

paralysed by fear, she was driven forward as though goaded irresistibly.

It came to her--whence she knew not--that something immense lay before

her. A task of such magnitude as she had never before contemplated had

been laid upon her; and strength--such strength as had never before been

hers--had been given to her for its accomplishment.

She did not know exactly when her fear became certainty, but when that

happened all personal fear passed utterly away from her. She forgot

herself completely. All her being leapt to the fulfilment of the

unknown task.

The last curve in the uphill road brought her within view of the red

flames rushing skyward and curling over like fiery waves before the

wind. Through the roar of the furnace there came to her the shouting of

men's voices and the wild stampeding of horses. And twice ere she

reached the gates she heard the terrible cry of a horse. Then as though

she moved on wings, she was there in the stable-yard in the thick of the

confusion, with the fire roaring ahead of her and the red glare all

around.

The whole stone-paved space seemed crowded with men and horses, and for

the first few seconds the noise and movement bewildered her. Then she

grasped the fact that only one side of the double row of stables was

alight and that in consequence of the driving north wind the other side

was in comparative safety.

They were leading the terrified animals out through a passage that led

to further buildings on this safe side. But the task was no light one,

for they were all maddened by fear and almost beyond control.

As she drew nearer however Maud saw that the men themselves were

grappling with the situation with energy and resolution, and there was

no panic among them. One--a mere lad--gripping a plunging horse by the

forelock, recognized her and shouted a warning through the din.

She came to him, unheeding the trampling hoofs. "Is Mr. Bolton back?"

she cried.

He shook his head, striving to back the animal away from her. He had a

halter flung over his shoulder which he had not stopped to adjust.

Maud took it from him, and between them, with difficulty, they slipped

it over the terrified creature's head. Then, obtaining a firmer hold,

the boy shouted further information.

"No, the boss ain't back yet. He'll be in any minute now. Sam's gone

for the fire-engine. He thinks the house will be safe if the wind don't

veer. But the other side'll be burnt out before he gets back at this

rate. We've got most all the animals out now though."

"Not all?" Maud cried the words with a momentary wild misgiving.

The boy yelled back again, still wrestling with the struggling horse.

"All but The Hundredth Chance. He's gone by this time. We couldn't

save 'im. It's like an open furnace along there."

Then she knew what it was that lay before her, the task for which this

great new strength had been bestowed. She left the boy and ran up the

yard in the rear of that raging fire. She did not feel the stones under

her feet. The seething crowd of men and horses became no more than

shadows on the wall. Twice as she went she narrowly escaped death from

the plunging hoofs, and knew it not....

The heat was terrific, but the smoke was all blown away from her. She

felt no suffocation. But when she reached the stone passage that led to

the group of loose-boxes where once she had stood horror-stricken and

listened to Jake reprimanding Dick Stevens in the language of the

stables, she realized the truth of what the boy had said. It was like

an open furnace.

Yet there seemed a chance--the faintest chance--that that one loose-box

at the southern corner, the best loose-box in the whole of the

Stables--might yet be untouched by the devouring flames. The block of

buildings was alight and burning fiercely, but it was not yet alight

from end to end. It looked like a lane of fire at the end of that stone

passage, but she could see the line of loose-boxes beyond, fitfully

through wreaths of smoke. All the doors stood open as far as she could

see. They had evidently taken the animals in order, and it had been the

fate of The Hundredth Chance to be left till last.

And how to reach him! It had baffled his rescuers. For the moment it

baffled her also. She stood at the entrance to the stone passage

looking through, feeling the stones under her feet hot like a grid,

seeing the red flames leaping from roof to roof.

Then the driving wind came swirling behind her, and she felt as if a

hand had pushed her. She plunged into the passage and ran before it.

She emerged in that lane of fire. It roared all around her. She felt

the heat envelop her with a fiery, blistering intensity, but ever that

unseen hand seemed to urge her. She hesitated no more, though she rushed

into a seething cauldron of flame.

And ever the thought of Jake was with her, Jake who loved his animals as

he loved nothing else on earth.

She reached that line of boxes, how she knew not. The roof was burning

now from end to end, but as she tore past the open doors there came to

her an awful cry, and she knew that the colt still lived.

The smoke came down on her here, blinding her, but though it stopped her

breath it could not stop her progress. It seemed as though no power on

earth could do that now until she had reached her goal. Crouching, with

lungs that felt like bursting, she forced a way over those last

desperate yards.

Every door was open save that one, and against that one there came a

maddened wild tattoo. The Hundredth Chance was fighting for life.

She reached the door through swirling smoke. The flames were shooting

over her head. She caught at the bolt. It was burning hot as the door

of an oven; but she knew no pain. She dragged it back.

Again there came that fearful shriek and the battering of heels against

the wood. The animal was plunging about his prison like a mad thing.

She mustered all her strength and pushed upper and lower doors inwards

at the same moment.

Instantly there came the rush of hoofs. She was flung violently

backwards, falling headlong on the stones. The Hundredth Chance

galloped free; and she was left shattered, inert, with the fire raging

all around her.

But the deed was done, the great task accomplished. And nothing mattered

any more. Jake loved his animals as he loved nothing else on earth....

CHAPTER XXXI

THE NEW BOSS

What was that red light burning? Symbol of undying Love! Symbol of the

Immortal! The Lamp that burns for ever before the High Altar of Heaven!

Over the wide, sandy desert it shone, the only light in leagues and

leagues of darkness. A great many wayfarers were drawing towards it,

but they were very far away from it and from each other. Billows and

billows of sandy waste stretched between. But they could all see the

lamp. It shone like a red, still beacon, giving light to the outcast,

guiding the feet of the wanderers.

Ah, the long sandy ridges--how weary for the feet! Who could have faced

the journey if God had not lifted up that lamp in the desert? Who could

ever have hoped to reach the goal? Even as it was, the journey was

long--so long, and the light so far away!

Who was that speaking? Was it the Voice that had not sounded in tempest

or fire, but only at the very last, when all other things were past?

"Love is only gained by Love,--by the complete renunciation of self.

Love is a joyful sacrifice,--to give and give without measure, not

counting the cost, rejoicing only in the power to give, till it all

comes back a thousand-fold--Love the Invincible. Love the Divine, Love

the Perfect Gift."

Surely it was Love Itself that spoke those words--Love that had raised

that eternal beacon--Love that drew the pilgrims out of the long, dark

night! And the sandy desert faded and became a garden where white

lilies bloomed--lilies that faded not, such lilies as decked the High

Altar of Heaven.

There were no wayfarers here. There was no journeying for tired feet.

Only a peace ineffable, beyond the power of words to describe. The

lilies grew tall and white, unspeakably pure, fairer than any earthly

flowers, dazzling in splendour, decked in holiness. Very peaceful was

that quiet garden, with no song of birds to break the stillness, no

whisper of fountains, no faintest echo of voices. Perfect rest was

there, a calm as the calm of still waters, a hush that was Divine. Like

a veil the solitude lay spread, stretching into the great spaces of

eternity. And the lilies stood waiting, waiting, to be laid upon the

Altar of God.

How long had they stood waiting thus? Were they yet not pure enough?

How long had they still to wait? Would the gates of that garden never

open and the angel that served the Altar come to gather the flowers?

Ah! Surely they were opening now! There came a waft of air, the scent

and sound of the earth. But no one entered, and the lilies never

stirred. Only the gates remained open, and the peace that wrapt the

garden quivered like a filmy veil.

Very far away from that quiet place someone was calling, calling. At

first it was suggestion rather than sound, a vague murmur from the old,

sad world so many millions of miles away. But gradually it grew till it

seemed the echo of a cry, and at last the cry itself became

articulate,--a cry of anguish rising from the void.

"Come back! Come back! O God, send her back to me! Send her back!"

The lilies were moving now. They seemed to be listening, whispering

together. The wind that blew through the open gates rustled among their

ranks. Someone was lost then. Someone was wanted. Someone was sought

through the great spaces of eternity. Was it a sod that had drifted

free too soon? Would the searcher ever find that drifting soul? Did

the one great Bond that nought could ever sever hang between them,

linking each to each? It was only by the drawing closer of this Bond

that they would ever find each other.

And the way back was long and dark and stormy. Other worlds were there,

other worlds and other voices. And once there came a great sound of

singing as of men and angels praising God before the High Altar of

Heaven.

Then the darkness of earth rushed upwards like the smoke from a mighty

furnace, and all was blotted out....

Someone was holding her. Someone was whispering her name. She opened

her eyes upon the old world of cloud and sunshine, and knew that the

Bond had brought her back. Through all the great spaces of Eternity he

bad drawn her to his side. She looked into his face, and it was the

face of a man who had suffered agony.

"Thank God!" he said. "O thank God!"

Then she remembered in what cause she had spent herself. "What of--The

Hundredth Chance?" she said.

He caught his breath. His lips were quivering. "He's safe enough.

But--my girl--what made you do it?"

She looked at him wonderingly. "But it was all I could do," she said.

He bent his head over something that he was holding, and it came to her

with a little start of surprise that it was her own hand swathed in

bandages.

"Oh, Jake," she said, "am I ill? Have I been hurt?"

He did not look at her. "Thank God, not seriously," he said, speaking

with an odd jerkiness. "The colt knocked you down. You were stunned.

You scorched your hands over that infernal bolt. But the wind blew the

fire away from you. You weren't actually burnt."

"Is the fire out?" she asked anxiously. "Tell me what happened!"

Jake's head was still bent. She thought that he suppressed a shudder.

"Yes, they soon got it under. There wasn't much left to burn that side.

It was a good thing the wind held, or the whole show might have been

gutted. It's all safe now."

Maud's eyes wandered round the panelled parlour and came back to his

bent head. "I feel so strange," she said, "as if I had been a long,

long journey, and as if it had all happened ages and ages ago. Is it so

very long ago, Jake?"

"About four hours," said Jake. "Dr. Burrowes has been in. He chanced

to be passing in his dog-cart. He was on his way to a case, and

couldn't stay except to give you first aid. He is coming back

presently."

"And you have been here with me ever since?" she said, with a touch of

shyness. "Didn't you want to be looking after the animals?"

He shook his head, gazing steadily downwards.

"Have you been--anxious about me, Jake?" she whispered.

"Yes." Just the one word spoken with an almost savage emphasis.

"But Dr. Burrowes must have known if--if I were in any danger," she

said.

He answered her with what she felt to be a great effort. "Burrowes was

anxious too. He was afraid of the shock for you. He thought there

was--danger."

She moved her hand a little, and in a moment, as though he feared to

hurt her, he laid it gently down.

"I am so sorry you have been worried about me," she said.

"It doesn't matter now," said Jake. He reached out for a glass that

stood on the table. "Burrowes left this for you. Can you manage to

drink it?"

He held it to her lips with a hand that was not so steady as usual. She

drank and felt revived.

Her brain was becoming more active. There was something in Jake's

attitude that required explanation. "I am better now," she said. "Tell

me a little more! How did I get here? Who found me?"

"I found you. The Hundredth Chance came tearing out. We had some

trouble to catch him. And then one of the boys suddenly said--" Jake

stopped and swallowed hard--"said--said you had been in the yard, and

must have set him free. I--got to you--just in time."

"You saved me?" she said swiftly.

He nodded.

She raised herself, leaning towards him. "Jake! Were you hurt?"

"No." He kept his eyes stubbornly lowered.

"No one has been hurt?" she persisted.

"No one but you." His tone was almost surly.

But something urged her on. "Jake," she said wistfully, "aren't you

glad your animals are all safe?"

"They belong to the new boss," he said doggedly. "They don't belong to

me."

Her face changed a little. "I think they belong to you first, Jake,"

she said. "You love them so."

He made a sharp gesture. "It's quite likely the new boss will tell me

to shunt."

"Oh, he won't do that, Jake!" she protested quickly. "I'm sure he won't

do that. You--you are one of the best trainers in England."

His mouth twitched a little; she thought he wryly smiled. "One of the

best blackguards too, my girl," he said grimly.

She opened her eyes in surprise. "Jake, what do you mean? Are people

saying hateful things against you?"

He gripped his hands between his knees. "It ain't that I meant. People

can say what they damn please. No, it's just my own estimate of myself.

I'm going to chuck the animals. They've come near costing me too dear.

I'm going to give in to you now. You can do what you like with me.

I'll serve you to the best of my ability, fetch and carry and generally

wait around on you till you're tired of me. Then I'll go."

"Jake! Jake!" She was half-laughing, but there was remonstrance in her

voice. "But I never wanted you to give up the animals. Why, I don't

believe you could live without them, could you?"

He gave himself an odd, half-angry shake. "I've done with 'em!" he

declared almost fiercely. "I can't serve two masters. If the new boss

don't chuck me, I shall chuck him."

"But the horses, Jake!" she urged. "And The Hundredth Chance! You

can't be in earnest. You--you have always loved them better than

anything else in the world!"

He winced sharply. "You're wrong! And I am in earnest. If--if you had

lost your life over the colt, I'd have shot him first and myself after.

What sort of brute do you take me for? Do you think I'm without any

heart at all? All animal and no heart?"

The question was passionate, but yet he did not look at her as he

uttered it. He was gazing downwards at his clenched hands.

He was formidable at that moment, but she did not shrink from him.

Rather she drew nearer. "Of course I don't think so," she said.

"But--but--am I first with you, Jake? Am I really first?"

He made a choked sound in his throat as if many emotions struggled for

utterance. Then, almost under his breath, "An easy first!" he muttered.

"An easy first!"

Her bandaged hand slipped on to his arm. Her eyes were shining. "Oh,

Jake, thank you for telling me that," she said. "You--I know you didn't

want to tell me. And--now--I've got to tell you something--that I don't

want to tell you either--that I don't know how to tell you. Oh, Jake,

do help me! Don't--don't be angry!"

He turned towards her, but he did not lift his eyes. He seemed almost

afraid to look her in the face. "My girl, you've no call to be afraid

of me," he said.

But there was constraint in his tone, constraint in his attitude, and

her heart sank.

"I'm so--horribly afraid--of hurting you," she said.

A faint, faint gleam of humour crossed his face. "Oh, I guess I'm

down," he said. "You needn't be afraid of that either."

She tried to clasp his arm. "Jake, if--if I really come first with you,

perhaps--perhaps--you'll be able to forgive me. It's because you came

first with me too--a very, very long way first--" her voice shook--"that

I was able to do it. It's because I wanted you to have what you wanted

without--without feeling under an obligation to me or anyone. It's

because--because your happiness is more to me--a thousand times

more--than anything else in the world!" Her breast began to heave;

Jake's eyes were suddenly upon her, but it was she who could not, dared

not meet their look. "Ah, I haven't told you yet!" she said brokenly.

"How shall I tell you? It's--it's the animals, Jake. It's the Stud!"

"What about the Stud?" he said. His voice was sunk very low, it sounded

stern.

With a great effort she mastered her agitation and answered him. "It's

yours, Jake, all yours. The new boss is--is just an invention of Mr.

Rafford's. You--you are--the new boss."

"What?" he said.

He got up suddenly, with a movement that verged upon violence, and stood

over her, she felt, almost threateningly.

Through quivering distress she answered him again.

"I've played a double game. I met Mr. Rafford first at Liverpool and

then I chanced to meet him again here after--after you had refused to

have my money. And he was kind and sympathetic and offered to help me.

I wanted you so to have the horses. And I couldn't bear to think that

you should lose them through me. Oh, Jake, don't look so--so terrible!"

She sank back panting on her cushions. That one brief glimpse of his

face had appalled her. He had the look of a man hard pressed and

nearing the end of his strength. She saw that his hands were clenched.

He spoke after several tense seconds. "Why have you done this thing?"

She made a piteous gesture. "Oh, Jake, only--only because I loved you."

"Only!" he said, and with the word she saw his hand unclench.

For a moment a wild uncertainty possessed her, and then it was gone.

Jake dropped down on his knees beside her and took her into his arms.

"Maud--" he said, and again "Maud!"

But no further words would come. His voice broke. He hid his face

against her breast with a great sob.

Her arms were round his neck in an instant, her cheek was pressed

against his hair. All doubts were gone forever. "My darling!" she

whispered. "My darling!"

And through the great storm of emotion that shook Jake, she said the

soft words over and over, holding his head against her heart, kissing

the cropped hair above his temple, drawing him nearer, ever nearer, to

the inner sanctuary of her soul, till at length by the shattering of her

own reserve she broke down the last of his also. He lifted his face to

her with no attempt to hide his tears, and in the long, long kiss that

passed between them they found each other at last where the sand of the

desert turns to gold.

CHAPTER XXXII

OLD SCORES

Someone was whistling on the garden-path below the parlour-window.

Someone had sauntered up by way of the orchard through an April night of

radiant moonlight, and was softly whistling an old, old love-song with a

waltz-refrain.

There was a light burning in the parlour, and at the table a woman sat

with bent head working. She did not look up as the sweet, rhythmic

sound reached her. She worked steadily on.

The waltz-refrain came to an end. There fell a step outside the window.

A wicked, mischievous face peered in.

"What! All alone, queen of the roses? Will you grant me admittance?"

She looked across at him then, but she did not rise. "Come in,

certainly, if you wish!" she said.

He came in with the air of one conferring a royal favour. He moved round

the table to her side, bent, and lightly kissed her hand.

She suffered him with an enigmatic smile, scarcely pausing in her work.

"And where is the worthy cow-puncher?" he said.

She raised her brows ever so slightly. "Are you speaking of Jake--my

husband?"

He smiled briefly, derisively. "Even so. Of Jake--your husband."

She smiled also, but her smile was wholly sweet. "He will be in soon.

He has gone round to see that all is well. Sit down, won't you, and wait

till he comes?"

"Oh ho!" said Saltash. He sat down facing her, closely watching her

every movement with his queer, restless eyes. "Do you think he will be

pleased to see me?" he asked.

She glanced at him. "As pleased as I am," she said.

"Are you pleased?" He flung the question as though he scarcely expected

an answer.

But she answered it with serenity. "Yes, I am quite pleased to see you,

Charlie. I have been half-expecting you all day."

"Really!" he said.

She bent her head. "Ever since I heard of your return to the Castle.

It was kind of you to come round so soon. And we want to thank you--Jake

and I--for letting us use the stables till the new ones at Graydown are

leady."

"Really!" Saltash said again. He added, "As half are already demolished

and the other half will be pulled down as soon as the Stud goes, it was

not much of a favour to grant. Do I understand that Jake is to continue

in command under the new regime?"

She smiled again as she answered, "In absolute command."

He frowned momentarily. "A fortunate thing for Jake!"

"He thinks so too," she said.

He began to finger his cigarette case. "Do you mind if I smoke?"

"Not in the least." She raised her eyes suddenly and fully to his.

"Please remember that you are in the house of friends!" she said, with a

slight emphasis on the last word.

"You amaze me!" said Saltash.

She laid aside her work with heightened colour. "Charlie, I have some

rather serious things to say to you."

"My dear girl," he protested, "must you?"

"Yes, I must, and you must listen." She spoke with resolution. "I will

be as brief as I possibly can, but I must speak. Smoke--please

smoke--if you want to!"

He laughed a little, leaning towards her. "On second thoughts, I don't.

This promises to be interesting, after all. Do you know when I came in

just now you looked so prim that I was nearly frightened quite away?"

She was looking him straight in the face. "Charlie, why did you come?"

He shrugged his shoulders. "Ask the needle why it follows the magnet!"

he said.

His eyes caressed her, but she steadily faced them. "I ought to hate

you," she said. "But I don't. I think of you always--in spite of

myself--as a friend. I suppose that is a woman's way--to be tricked and

to forgive. Anyhow, I forgave you a long while ago. I believe I have

even begun to forget. Charlie, I know that you are capable of a sincere

friendship. I can't help knowing it."

"You deceive yourself," he said lightly. His eyes still dwelt upon her,

but it was with a half-tender mockery, as one who smiles at the

make-believe of a child.

Her lips quivered a little. "No," she said. "It is the truth. You are

pleased to wear a mask--but I know--the real man. I know that you are

often crooked in your dealings, often cruelly malicious and vindictive;

but at the back of it all there is a man capable of big things, of

chivalry, generosity, and honest kindness of heart. Charlie, I appeal

to that man!"

"What do you want of him?" said Saltash. And still he looked at her,

but again his look had changed. The mockery had given place to a

species of dispassionate curiosity. His ugly face had the odd

melancholy as of something longed for but hopelessly lost which may be

seen on the face of a monkey.

Because of that look she suddenly stretched out her hands to him

impulsively, generously.

"I want fair play," she said. "Perhaps I don't deserve it. I haven't

always treated you fairly. But I want you to put the past away from

you--as I have done. I want to trust you again."

There were tears in her eyes as she spoke. He held her hands hard

pressed in his.

"A dangerous experiment, Maud of the roses," he said. "But if you will

you must. What more do you want?"

She answered him quickly, pleadingly. "Charlie, you have a grudge

against--my husband! I want it put right away--right away. I don't

think you have the power to hurt him, but even if you had, I want to

know that you wouldn't use it. He has always served you faithfully. I

want fair play for him."

Saltash's dark face showed a faint, twisted smile. "You certainly

credit me with considerable generosity," he said.

"He deserves fair play from you," she insisted. "You have tried to

undermine his reputation, and you have failed. But you might have

succeeded, although you know, as well as I do--that he is a white man."

"Do I?" said Saltash.

"You do! You do!" she said with conviction. "You have no right to

cherish a grudge against him. He has done nothing to deserve it."

"And how do you know that?" said Saltash.

"I know him," she said with simplicity.

"I see." His smile became a little more marked. "Did he ever tell you

the funny story of my double?" he asked.

She gave a great start, and in a moment her face was burning.

"I see," he said again. "You needn't answer. And you tell me that I

have no right to cherish a grudge against him."

She spoke with difficulty. "He did not accuse you of anything."

Saltash laughed. "Left you to draw your own conclusions, eh? Score

number one! And after that, when he knew that I was coming home, when

he knew that you were mine for the asking, didn't he race you into

marriage with him before you had time to find your breath?"

Her face burned more hotly. "Wouldn't you have done the same?" she

said.

He looked sardonic. "You must remember that I am not--a white man, my

queen of the roses. My standards won't compare with his. Score number

two then! And hasn't he baulked me at every turn ever since? When have

I ever got back any of my own--except once when I made you see him as he

wasn't--a drunkard, and except when one night of moonshine I held you in

my arms and you gave your lips to mine?" His voice suddenly thrilled.

She caught her breath sharply. "I was mad!" she said. "I was mad!"

She would have withdrawn her hands from his, but he frustrated her. A

gleam of mischief flashed in his eyes. "No, Maud of the roses, it was

just--a dream. Have you never said to yourself, That was the happiest

dream of my life?"

She shook her head. "That part of my life is over--quite over. I have

come into reality, and--Charlie--it is better than any dream. That is

why I want all that is evil to be taken away. If Jake has ever wronged

you, then I have wronged you. And I appeal to your kindness of heart,

your generosity, for forgiveness."

The mischief died out of the eyes that watched her. Saltash bent a

little over the hands he held. "But why should you take that

trouble--if I have ceased to count?" he said.

"You do count," she answered quickly and earnestly.

"Surely not if--as you say--it is out of my power to hurt him." There

was a hint of banter in the words, but they held no venom.

"It isn't that," she said. "I want to know that the hatchet is buried,

that there will be no more ill feeling. Jake is his own master, and I

know he will make his mark. But I want him to have a fair chance, free

from all handicap."

"What do you mean by that?" Saltash suddenly broke in. "I presume he is

still a paid servant though it may no longer be my privilege to employ

him."

She lifted her head a little. "No. Jake is his own master. The Stud

was bought with my money. It belongs to him."

Saltash's brows went up. "Your money? You never had any!"

"Never before last winter," she said. "I inherited a very large fortune

from my uncle in the North. It came to me--just in time."

Saltash's brows were working up and down like a monkey's. "And

you--bought the Stud? Then all this American business was bunkum! Did

my agent know of this?"

She shook her head. "No; no one knows yet except Jake, Bunny, and me."

He let her hands go abruptly, and began to pace the room.

She stood motionless, watching him. "Even Jake did not know till it had

all gone through," she said, after a moment. "I told him--on the night

of the fire."

"What did he say?" Saltash tossed the words over his shoulder. His

dark face was drawn, almost distorted.

Maud hesitated. Then: "He asked me why I had done it," she said, in a

low voice.

He paused in his walk. "And you struck a bargain with him? He was to

let you go your own way for all time, please yourself, live your own

life! Wasn't that it?"

Her eyes fell involuntarily before the sudden fire in his. "Oh no!" she

said quickly. "Oh no! I didn't want that."

"What then?" He wheeled and came to her, stood before her. "Surely you

didn't give him all that for nothing!"

She faced him again steadily. "He wouldn't have taken it," she said.

"Then--" he was standing close to her; his odd eyes gazed, deeply

craving, into hers.

But she did not flinch. "I gave it to him--for love," she said.

He made a sudden movement; his features were for a moment convulsed.

Then swiftly he controlled himself. "You--love the man!" he said.

She clasped her hands together tightly. Her eyes never wavered for an

instant from his. "Yes, I love him," she said.

He flung violently away from her. "Why didn't I destroy him long ago?"

he said.

Again he paced the room with sharp, jerky movements. Suddenly he flung

two questions over his shoulder. "That was why you changed your mind

after sending me that ring? That was what you came to me to the Castle

to tell me?"

She bent her head. "I believe that was the reason. But I couldn't have

told you that then. I didn't know it myself."

"How long have you known it?"

He was not looking at her, and very piteously she smiled. "It came to

me--quite suddenly--in the hall at 'The Anchor' when you told me--you

told me--that he wouldn't be such a fool as to believe in me. I left

him without seeing him again. And then--and then--just when my uncle

died--he came to me. And I knew that he did believe in me after all."

Saltash broke into a laugh--the laugh of a man who hides pain. "It was

my doing then! Come, you owe me something after all. But it seems I

have been misspending my energies ever since. I thought you wanted to

be rid of him."

Again abruptly he came back to her, stopped in front of her. "And so it

all came out on the night of the fire," he said.

She looked at him, and her blue eyes shone. "Yes," she said softly.

"There have been no misunderstandings since then."

He smiled a little with twisted brows. "Do you know who was responsible

for that fire?"

She started. "No!"

"A certain scoundrel named Stevens," he said. "The same scoundrel who

pulled the Albatross at the Cup Meeting, and was thrashed for it by the

virtuous cow-puncher. Do you know who was at the back of that

scoundrel?"

Her eyes fell before the grim bitterness of his. "Charlie!" she

faltered.

"Yes, Charlie," he said. "Charles Burchester, Lord Saltash, another

scoundrel blacker than the first who had suffered a similar punishment

for a somewhat similar offence from the same virtuous hands. Scoundrel

number one won't trouble you again. I have shipped him off to

Australia. Scoundrel number two is awaiting his orders to go

to--another place."

Her lips suddenly quivered. She put out a trembling hand. "Charlie, I

don't believe it of you!"

"Believe it or not," he said, "it's true. I'm a spiteful devil. You

said so yourself a minute ago." But he held her hand almost as one

pleading for clemency.

She raised her eyes to his. The fascination of the man drew her,

but--possibly for the first time--not against her better judgment. "Let

us forget it all!" she said. "Let us be friends!"

He laughed in a fashion that moved her to pity, and bending kissed her

hand. "If Jake agrees--Amen!" he said.

And then sharply, like an animal trapped, he turned towards the window

and met Jake face to face.

They stood for a moment so, confronting each other in dead silence.

Then lightly Saltash spoke.

"Caught trespassing, but not poaching!" he said. "Your wife and I have

been settling--old scores."

Jake's eyes went past him to his wife's face. She made no sign of any

kind, save that she met the look.

Jake came quietly forward. "You are very welcome, my lord," he said,

and held out a steady hand.

A gleam of surprise crossed Saltash's dark face. He took the hand,

looking at Jake whimsically. "You are the fellow who is not accustomed

to being beaten at the winning-post," he said. "Well, you were a bad

starter and the odds were dead against you, but you've got there. I

congratulate you."

"You are very good, my lord." Jake's eyes, red-brown and resolute,

looked into his.

Saltash shrugged his shoulders, with a slight grimace. "The _role_ is

thrust upon me. I wonder if I shall be able to sustain it."

Something in the word reached Jake. His lips parted in a sudden smile

that banished all the hardness from his face. His hand squarely gripped

and held. For a second--just a second--there was a gleam of comradeship

in his eyes. "I guess it's up to you, my lord," he said.

The moment passed and Saltash turned aside, laughing with a certain

royal graciousness that was all his own. "The odds are ninety-nine to

one, Bolton," he said. "But you are too accustomed to that to be

dismayed."

"I put my money on the hundredth chance," Jake answered in his slow,

sure fashion. "And I reckon I shan't lose it."

EPILOGUE

THE FINISH

"The black colt leads! The black colt leads! He wins! He wins! He

wins!"

A great shout went up from the straining multitude as The Hundredth

Chance, ridden by Sam Vickers, shot past the winning-post three lengths

ahead of the horse behind. It was a sensational victory, for it was his

maiden race, and the crowd yelled themselves hoarse over it, cheering

and cheering again till the black colt came forth in a welter of sweat

and foam to gather his laurels, still carrying his jockey and led by his

owner, Jake Bolton.

He bore himself proudly, as if fully conscious of the distinction he had

won. Jake looked proud too. He stuffed some sugar between the wet lips

as he came, and his hand caressed the streaming neck. It was a popular

meeting, and it was plainly a popular victory, though the favourite had

not proved the winner. Jake Bolton's name went from mouth to mouth, and

the throng cheered him to the echo. He smiled his open, pleasant smile

in answer. He had been looking to this moment for the past two years,

he had worked hard for it; and his trust in The Hundredth Chance had

been vindicated, his labour rewarded. He knew that yet greater

victories lay before his favourite. The Hundredth Chance was a born

winner. He would be famous.

Back in the paddock a slim, boyish figure leaped to meet him. "Jake,

he's a stunner! Let me hold him a minute, Jake! Well done, Sam! Well

done!"

Sam grinned from ear to ear as he dropped from the saddle. "Pretty

sight, weren't it, Sir Bernard?"

"Best I've ever seen!" declared Bunny enthusiastically. He led the black

colt proudly after his jockey for a few paces, then gave him up and went

back to Jake. "Old feller, I'm so jolly bucked," he said, hugging his

arm, "I want to dance on my head. Do you know what I heard a chap say

of you just now--a chap who knew too? He said, 'There goes the

Lynx--one of the straightest men on the Turf.' It sounded just fine. I

wanted to go and shake hands with him."

Jake laughed, a quiet satisfied laugh. "Was Maud pleased?"

"Oh! rather! She's going home now, said I was to tell you; said she'd

save up and congratulate you in private."

"That so?" said Jake.

He disengaged himself from Bunny and went about his business, but the

smile lingered in his eyes for the rest of the afternoon. And it was

the smile of a man who grasps his heart's desire.

There was a white house on one of the great rolling downs behind the

Graydown race-course, a low, white house with gabled roofs and dark

green shutters. There were woodland trees about it, and a terraced

garden bright with many spring flowers.

Behind it lay the racing-stables, also white,--model stables, the pride

of Jake's heart. He seldom approached the house by any other route.

But as he passed between the long, orderly buildings on that particular

evening after his horse's victory, he did not linger. Straight to the

house he went, and straight within, pausing only in the wide, square

hall to threw down hat and whip ere he passed on, guided by the notes of

a piano, to a room that overlooked the garden and the whole sweep of

hill-side beyond.

She did not hear him enter, albeit she was playing softly, a dreamy

melody that had in it something of dawning gladness and of infinite

hope. Only Chops, the red setter, lying by the open French window,

looked up and wagged a noiseless welcome. Then as he reached her, she

caught the jingle of his spurs and in a moment she had turned to meet

him with a vivid smile of eagerness.

"Oh, Jake, I am so glad--so glad!"

He put his arms about her as she sat, holding the flushed face upturned

to his. "What's that you're playing, my girl? Not a paean of

thanksgiving!"

Her eyelids fluttered under his look. She laughed faintly. She offered

him her lips with just a hint of shyness. He kissed her, but he

continued to look at her with an intent glitter in his eyes. "You're

glad, are you?" he said. "Real glad?"

Her arms clung about his neck. "Yes, real glad, Jake. I know you call

The Hundredth Chance your luck. I was horribly anxious lest--lest he

should lose after all."

He smiled a little. "What if he had? Think I can't stand up to a

loss?"

She lifted her eyes to his for a moment, but they fell almost

immediately. "No. To use your own language, I think you're just fine.

But--but all the same, I've been saving up a little consolation for you

in case you needed it."

"That so?" said Jake. He spoke very softly through lips that were

suddenly tender. "Well, let's imagine I'm in need of consolation! I'd

enjoy to be consoled by you."

She laughed again that faint, shy laugh, and, freeing one hand, began to

feel over the keys of the piano, striking a soft chord here and there.

Jake stood for a moment or two, then squarely bent, bringing his face on

a level with hers.

She made a slight gesture of protest, and then very suddenly, as if

compelled, she raised her eyes fully to his.

"You once told me you'd enjoy--something quite different," she said.

The red-brown eyes gazed deeply into hers. "And--good land--how shocked

you were!" he said. "You didn't view yourself as a plain man's wife in

those days, my princess. Reckon you hated the plain man pretty badly

for teaching you the meaning of the word."

She laid one hand against his breast. Her eyes were of that intense

blueness that comes from the heart of a sapphire. "And now," she said,

"I love him better every day--every night."

His big hand closed upon her wrist. He drew a great breath. "Ah!" he

said.

She went on, albeit her lips were quivering. "I don't need to tell you

that, do I? You know it so well. I don't think I really need to tell

you--of this other thing either--of this big, big gift that is coming to

us. Oh, Jake, dear Jake, I have so hoped--so hoped!"

He held her closer. "My own girl! Guess you'll be happy now!" he

whispered.

She smiled at him through tears. "No, not for my own sake,--for

yours--for yours!"

"For mine!" he said. "Haven't you given me all the world and then

some?"

She uttered a trembling laugh. "I've given you lots that you didn't

want to take--things that have cost me nothing. But this--this is

different. And--it's the thing you wanted."

He clasped her to him almost fiercely. "My girl, I want nothing--no

one--but you!"

She clung to him with a tenseness that was passionate. "That is what I

wanted to say to you, my darling. You will always be

first--first--first. Dr. Capper once told me that--that my frog would

turn into a prince some day. And--dear--he was right. You are the

prince of my heart--for ever. I love you as--as I never thought it was

humanly possible to love."

"Maybe it's not--all human," he whispered, with lips that moved against

her own.

"You are right," she whispered back. "It is Divine. The perfect Gift.

But it only comes to those who give--without measure--not counting the

cost--rejoicing only in the power to give--till it all comes back a

thousandfold--a thousandfold." Her voice thrilled, her arms clung

closer. "I once heard a man preach about that. And at the end he said,

'It is then that the ploughman overtakes the reaper, for ploughman and

reaper are one.' Jake, I think that man spoke a great truth. You and I

have done some heavy ploughing, but we are beginning to be reapers now."

Her lips suddenly pressed his closely, lingeringly. Her tears were

gone. "It's good to reap our own harvest, isn't it, Jake?" she

murmured. "Yours and mine together?"

And Jake answered her in his own language, his voice very soft and slow,

his eyes gazing straight into hers, seeing her soul. "Sure!" he said.

"Sure!"

THE END