



Produced by Al Haines.


[Illustration: WITH THE UTMOST GENTLENESS HE LAID HIS HAND AGAIN UPON
HERS.  "ARE YOU AFRAID TO SAY IT?" HE SAID. Drawn by E. L. Crompton.
(_See page_ 98)]




                                  The
                            Hundredth Chance


                                   BY

                             ETHEL M. DELL

                               AUTHOR OF
                        THE LAMP IN THE DESERT,
                           THE SWINDLER, ETC.


                            FRONTISPIECE BY
                             EDNA CROMPTON



                                NEW YORK
                            GROSSET & DUNLAP
                               PUBLISHERS

                  Made in the United States of America




                            COPYRIGHT. 1917
                                   BY
                             ETHEL M. DELL



                          The Way of an Eagle
                         The Knave of Diamonds
                          The Rocks of Valpre
                              The Swindler
                         The Keeper of the Door
                              Bars of Iron
                               Rosa Mundi
                          The Hundredth Chance
                           The Safety Curtain
                               Greatheart
                         The Lamp in the Desert
                             The Tidal Wave
                          The Top of the World
                           The Obstacle Race


      This edition is issued under arrangement with the publishers
                G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS, NEW YORK AND LONDON



                   The Knickerbocker Press, New York




                          I Dedicate This Book
                                   to
                             My Old Friend
                                W. S. H.
             In Affectionate Remembrance of Many Kindnesses




    "The plowman shall overtake the reaper,
    And the treader of grapes him that soweth seed."
      Obadiah 9-13.




                                CONTENTS

                                _PART 1_

                               THE START

I.--Beggars
II.--The Idol
III.--The New Acquaintance
IV.--The Accepted Suitor
V.--In the Dark
VI.--The Unwilling Guest
VII.--The Magician
VIII.--The Offer
IX.--The Real Man
X.--The Head of the Family
XI.--The Declaration of War
XII.--The Reckoning
XIII.--The Only Port
XIV.--The Way of Escape
XV.--The Closed Door
XVI.--The Champion
XVII.--The Wedding Morning
XVIII.--The Wedding Night
XIX.--The Day After
XX.--A Friend of the Family
XXI.--The Old Life
XXII.--The Faithful Widower
XXIII.--The Narrowing Circle
XXIV.--Brothers
XXV.--Misadventure
XXVI.--The Word Unspoken
XXVII.--The Token
XXVIII.--The Visitor
XXIX.--Her Other Self
XXX.--The Rising Current
XXXI.--Light Relief
XXXII.--The Only Solution
XXXIII.--The Furnace
XXXIV.--The Sacrifice
XXXV.--The Offer of Freedom
XXXVI.--The Bond


                               _PART II_

                                THE RACE

I.--Husks
II.--The Poison Plant
III.--Confidences
IV.--The Letter
V.--Rebellion
VI.--The Problem
VII.--The Land of Moonshine
VIII.--The Warning
IX.--The Invitation
X.--The Mistake
XI.--The Reason
XII.--Refuge
XIII.--The Lamp before the Altar
XIV.--The Open Door
XV.--The Downward Path
XVI.--The Revelation
XVII.--The Last Chance
XVIII.--The Whirlpool
XIX.--The Outer Darkness
XX.--Deliverance
XXI.--The Poison Fruit
XXII.--The Loser
XXIII.--The Storm Wind
XXIV.--The Great Burden
XXV.--The Blow
XXVI.--The Deed of Gift
XXVII.--The Impossible
XXVIII.--The First of the Vultures
XXIX.--The Dutiful Wife
XXX.--The Lane of Fire
XXXI.--The New Boss
XXXII.--Old Scores
Epilogue: The Finish




                          The Hundredth Chance



                                 PART I

                               THE START


                               CHAPTER I

                                BEGGARS


"My dear Maud, I hope I am not lacking in proper pride.  But it is an
accepted--though painful--fact that beggars cannot be choosers."

Lady Brian spoke with plaintive emphasis the while she drew an elaborate
initial in the sand at her feet with the point of her parasol.

"I cannot live in want," she said, after a thoughtful moment or two.
"Besides, there is poor little Bunny to be considered."  Another
thoughtful pause; then: "What did you say, dear?"

Lady Brian's daughter made an abrupt movement without taking her eyes
off the clear-cut horizon; beautiful eyes of darkest, deepest blue under
straight black brows that gave them a somewhat forbidding look.  There
was nothing remarkable about the rest of her face.  It was thin and
sallow and at the moment rather drawn, not a contented face, and yet
possessing a quality indefinable that made it sad rather than bitter.
Her smile was not very frequent, but when it came it transfigured her
utterly. No one ever pictured that smile of hers beforehand.  It came so
brilliantly, so suddenly, like a burst of sunshine over a brown and
desolate landscape, making so vast a difference that all who saw it for
the first time marvelled at the unexpected glow.

But it was very far from her face just now.  In fact she looked as if
she could never smile again as she said: "Bunny would sooner die of
starvation than have you do this thing.  And so would I."

"You are so unpractical," sighed Lady Brian.  "And really, you know,
dear, I think you are just a wee bit snobbish too, you and Bunny.  Mr.
Sheppard may be a self-made man, but he is highly respectable."

"Oh, is he?" said Maud, with a twist of the lips that made her look
years older than the woman beside her.

"I'm sure I don't know why you should question it," protested Lady
Brian.  "He is extremely respectable. He is also extremely kind,--in
fact, a friend in need."

"And a beast!" broke in her daughter, with sudden passionate vehemence.
"A hateful, familiar beast!  Mother, how can you endure the man?  How
can you for a single moment demean yourself by the bare idea of--of
marrying him?"

Lady Brian sighed again.  "It isn't as if I had asked you to marry him,"
she pointed out.  "I never even asked you to marry Lord Saltash,
although--as you must now admit--it was the one great chance of your
life."

Again Maud made that curious, sharp movement of hers that was as if some
inner force urged her strongly to spring up and run away.

"We won't discuss Lord Saltash," she said, with lips that were suddenly
a little hard.

"Then I don't see why we should discuss Giles Sheppard either," said
Lady Brian, with a touch of querulousness. "Of course I know he doesn't
compare well with your poor father.  Second husbands so seldom do--which
to my mind is one of the principal objections to marrying twice. But--as
I said before--beggars cannot be choosers and something has got to be
sacrificed, so there is an end of the matter."

Maud turned her eyes slowly away from the horizon, swept with them the
nearer expanse of broad, tumbling sea, and finally brought them to rest
upon her mother's face.

Lady Brian was forty-five, but she looked many years younger.  She was a
very pretty woman, delicate-featured, softly-tinted, with a species of
appealing charm about her that all but the stony-hearted few found it
hard to resist. She put her daughter wholly in the shade, but then Maud
never attempted to charm anyone.  She had apparently no use for the
homage that was as the very breath of life to her mother's worldly
little soul.  She never courted popularity.  All her being seemed to be
bound up in that of her young brother who had been a helpless <DW36>
from his babyhood, and dependent upon her care.  The ten years that
stretched between them were as nought to these two. They were pals; and
if the boy tyrannized freely over her, she was undoubtedly the only
person in the world for whom he entertained the smallest regard.  She
had lavished all a mother's love upon him during the whole of his
fifteen years, and she alone knew how much had been sacrificed before
the shrine of her devotion.  He filled all the empty spaces in her
heart.

But now--now that they were practically penniless--the great question
arose: Who was to provide for Bunny?  Lady Brian had lived more or less
comfortably upon credit for the past five years.  It was certainly not
her fault that this bruised reed had broken at last in her hand.  She
had tried every device to strengthen it.  And then too there had always
been the possibility that Maud might marry Lord Saltash, who was
extremely wealthy and--by fits and starts--very sedulous in his
attentions.

It was of course very unfortunate that he should have been connected
with that unfortunate scandal in the Divorce Court; but then everyone
knew that he had led a somewhat giddy life ever since his succession to
the title. Besides, nothing had been proved, and the unlucky affair had
fallen through in consequence.  It was really too absurd of Maud to
treat it seriously, if indeed she had treated it seriously.  Not being
in her daughter's confidence, Lady Brian was uncertain on this point.
But, whatever the circumstances, Charlie Saltash had obviously abandoned
his allegiance.  And Maud--poor girl!--had no one else to fall back
upon.  Of course it was very sweet of her to devote herself so
unsparingly to dear little Bunny, but Lady Brian was privately of the
opinion that she wasted a good deal of valuable time in his service.
She was twenty-five already, and--now that the crash had come--little
likely to find another suitor.

They had come down to this cheery little South Coast resort to recruit
and look around them.  Obviously something would have to be done, and
done very quickly, or they would end their days in the workhouse.

Lady Brian had relations in the North, but, as she was wont to express
it, they were not inclined to be kind to her. Her runaway marriage with
Sir Bernard Brian in her irresponsible girlhood had caused something of
a split between them.  The wild Irish baronet had never been regarded
with a favourable eye, and her subsequent sojourn in Ireland had
practically severed all connection with them.

Sir Bernard's death and her subsequent migration to London had not
healed the breach.  She was regarded as flighty and unreliable.  There
was no knowing what her venture might be, and, save for a very
occasional correspondence with an elderly bachelor uncle who was careful
not to betray too keen an interest in her affairs, she was left severely
alone.

Therefore she had too much pride to ask for help, sustaining herself
instead upon the kindness of friends till even this prop at length gave
way; and she, Maud and poor little Bunny (whose very empty title was all
he possessed in the world) found themselves stranded at Fairharbour at
the dead end of the season with no means of paying their way even there.

Not wholly stranded, however!  Lady Brian had stayed at Fairharbour
before at the Anchor Hotel down by the fishing-quay--"the Anchovy Hotel"
Bunny called it on account of its situation.  It was not a very
high-class establishment, but Lady Brian had favoured it on a previous
occasion because Lord Saltash had a yacht in the vicinity, and it had
seemed such a precious opportunity for dear Maud.  He also had large
racing-stables in the neighbourhood of the downs behind the little town,
and there was no knowing when one or other of his favourite pastimes
might tempt him thither.

Nothing had come of the previous visit, however, save a pleasant,
half-joking acquaintance with Mr. Sheppard, the proprietor of the Anchor
Hotel, during the progress of which Lady Brian's appealing little ways
had laid such firm hold of the worthy landlord's rollicking fancy that
she had found it quite difficult to tear herself away.

Matters had not then come to such a pass, and she had finally extricated
herself with no more than a laughing promise to return as soon as the
mood took her.  Maud had been wholly unaware of the passage between them
which had been of a very slight and frothy order; and not till she found
herself established in some very shabby lodgings within a stone's throw
of the Anchor Hotel did the faintest conception of her mother's reason
for choosing Fairharbour as their city of refuge begin to dawn in her
brain.

She was very fully alive to it now, however, and hotly, furiously
resentful, albeit she had begun already to realize (how bitterly!) that
no resentment on her part could avert the approaching catastrophe.  As
Lady Brian pathetically said, something had got to be sacrificed.

And there was Bunny!  She could not leave Bunny to try to earn a living.
He was utterly dependent upon her--so dependent that it did not seem
possible that he could live without her.  No, she could see no way of
escape.  But it was too horrible, too revolting!  She was sure, too,
that her mother had a sneaking liking for the man, and that fact
positively nauseated her.  That awful person! That bounder!

"So, you see, dear, it really can't be helped," Lady Brian said, rising
and opening her sunshade with a dainty air of finality.  "Why his fancy
should have fallen upon me I cannot imagine.  But--all things
considered--it is perhaps very fortunate that it has.  He is quite ready
to take us all in, and that, even you must admit, is really very
generous of him."

Maud's eyes travelled again to the far sky-line.  They had a look in
them as of a caged thing yearning for freedom.

"It is getting late," said Lady Brian.

Sharply she turned.  "Mother," she said, "I shall write to Uncle Edward.
This is too much.  I am sure he will not condemn us to this."

Lady Brian sighed a trifle petulantly.  "You will do as you like, dear,
no doubt.  But pray do not write on my account!  Whatever he may be
moved to do or say can make no difference to me now."

"Why not?"  Curtly her daughter put the question. The beautiful brows
were painfully drawn.

"Because," said Lady Brian plaintively, "it will be too late--so far as
I am concerned."

"What do you mean?"  Again, almost like a challenge, the girl flung the
question.

Lady Brian began to walk along the beach.  "I mean, dear, that I have
promised to give Mr. Sheppard his answer to-night."

"But--but--Mother--" there was almost a cry in the words, "you
can't--you can't have quite decided upon what the answer will be!"

Lady Brian sighed again.  "Oh, do let us have a little common-sense!"
she said, with just a touch of irritation. "Of course I have decided.
The decision has been simply thrust upon me.  I had no choice."

"Then you mean to say Yes?"  Maud's voice fell suddenly flat.  She
turned her face again to the open sea, a glint of desperation in her
eyes.

"Yes," said Lady Brian very definitely.  "I mean to say Yes."

"Then Heaven help us!" said Maud, under her breath.

"My dear, don't be profane!" said Lady Brian.




                               CHAPTER II

                                THE IDOL


"I say, Maud, what a dratted long time you've been! What on earth have
you and the mother been doing?"  Young Bernard Brian turned his head
towards his sister with the chafing, impatient movement of one bitterly
at variance with life.  "You swore you wouldn't be long," he said.

"I know.  I'm sorry."  Maud came to his side and stooped over him.  "I
couldn't help it, Bunny," she said. "I haven't been enjoying myself."

He looked up at her suspiciously.  "Oh, it's never your fault," he said,
with dreary sarcasm.

Maud said nothing.  She only laid a smoothing hand on his crumpled brow,
and after a moment bent and kissed it.

He jerked his head away from her caress, opening and shutting his hands
in a nervous way he had acquired in babyhood.  "I've had a perfectly
sickening time," he said. "There's a brute with a gramophone upstairs
been driving me nearly crazy.  For goodness' sake, see if you can put a
stop to it before to-night comes!  I shall go clean off my head if you
don't!"

"I'll do my best, dear," Maud promised.

"I wish to goodness we could get away from this place," the boy said
restlessly.  "Even the old 'Anchovy' was preferable.  I loathe this
hole."

"Oh, so do I!" said Maud, with sudden vehemence. And then she checked
herself quickly as if half-ashamed. "Of course it might be worse, you
know, Bunny," she said.

Bunny curled a derisive lip, and looked out of the window.

"Did you really like 'The Anchor' better?" Maud asked, after a moment.

He drew his brows together--beautiful brows like her own, betraying a
sensitive, not too well-balanced temperament.  "It was better," he said.

Maud sat down beside his sofa with a slight gesture of weariness.  "You
would like to go back there?" she asked.

He looked at her sharply.  "We are going?"

She met his look with steady eyes.  "Mr. Sheppard has offered to take us
in," she said.

The boy frowned still more.  "What!  For nothing?" he said.

"No; not for nothing."  The girl was frowning too--the frown of one
confronted with a difficult task.  "Nobody ever does anything for
nothing," she said.

"Well?  What is it?"  Bunny's eyes suddenly narrowed and became shrewd.
"He doesn't want you to marry him, I suppose?"

"Good gracious, Bunny!"  Maud gasped the words in sheer horror.  "What
ever made you think of that?"

Bunny laughed--a cracked, difficult laugh.  "Because he's bounder enough
for anything; and you're so beastly fond of him, aren't you?"

"Oh, don't!" Maud said.  "Really don't, Bunny!  It's too horrible to
joke about.  No, it isn't me he wants to marry.  It's--it's----"

"The mother?" queried Bunny, without perturbation. "Oh, he's quite
welcome to her.  It's a pity he's been such a plaguey time making up his
mind.  He might have known she'd jump at him."

"But, Bunny--"  Maud was gazing at him in utter amazement.  There were
times when the working of her young brother's brain was wholly beyond
her comprehension.  "You can't be--pleased!" she said.

"I'm never pleased," said Bunny sweepingly.  "I hate everything and
everybody--except you, and you don't count.  The man's a brute of
course; but if the mother has a mind to marry him, why on earth
shouldn't she? Especially if it's going to make us more comfortable!"

"Comfortable on his money!"  There was scorn unutterable in Maud's
voice.  Her eyes were tragically proud.

"But, why not?" said Bunny, with cynical composure. "We shall never be
comfortable on our own, that's certain. If the man is fool enough to
want to lay out his money in that way, why, let him!"

"Live on his--charity!" said Maud very bitterly.

The boy's mouth twisted.  "We've got to live on someone's," he said.
"There's nothing new in that.  I think you're rather an ass, Maud.  It's
no good being proud when you can't afford it.  We can't earn a living
for ourselves, so someone must do it for us, that's all."

"Bunny!"  There was passionate protest in the exclamation; but he passed
it by.

"What's the good of arguing?" he said irritably.  "We can't help
ourselves.  If the mother would rather marry that bawling beast Sheppard
than starve on a doorstep with us, who's to blame her?  I suppose we're
included in the bargain for good, are we?"

Maud nodded mutely, her fingers locked and straining against each other.

Bunny screwed his face up for a moment.  Then: "There's that filthy
gramophone again!" he suddenly exclaimed.  "Go and stop it, I say!  I
can't bear the noise! I won't bear it!  It's--it's--it's infernal!
That's what it is!"  He flung his arms up frenziedly above his head, and
then suddenly uttered an anguished cry of pain.

Maud was on her feet on the instant.  She caught the arms, drew them
firmly down again.  "Oh, don't, dear, don't!" she said.  "You know you
can't!"

The boy's face was convulsed.  "I didn't know!  I can sometimes!  Oh,
Maud, I hate life!  I hate it!  I hate it!"

His voice choked, became a gasping moan, ceased altogether.

Maud stooped over him.  His eyes were shut, his face white as death.
"Bunny, Bunny darling!" she whispered passionately.  "I would give--all
the world--to make it better for you!"

There fell a silence, while gradually the awful paroxysm began to pass.

Then very abruptly Bunny opened his eyes.  "No, you wouldn't!" he said
unexpectedly.

"Indeed I would!" she said very earnestly.

"You wouldn't!" he reiterated, with the paralysing conviction that
refuses to hear any reasoning.  "If you would, you'd have married Lord
Saltash years ago, and been rich enough to pay one of the big men to put
me right."

She winced sharply.  "Bunny!  You're not to talk to me of Lord Saltash.
It isn't kind.  He is the one man in the world I--couldn't marry."

"Rot!" said Bunny.  "You know you're in love with him."

"I know I couldn't marry him," she said, a piteous quiver in her voice.
"It is cruel to--to--"  She broke off.

"All right," said Bunny waiving the point.  "Find some other rich man
then!  I don't care who it is.  You'll have to pretty soon.  We shall
neither of us stand this Sheppard person for long."

"If I could only--somehow--make a living for the two of us!" the girl
said.

"You can't!"  Again deadly conviction swept aside argument.  "You're not
clever enough, and you haven't time--unless you propose to leave me to
the tender mercies of the Sheppard.  It would be a quick way out of the
difficulty so far as I am concerned anyway."

"Of course I could never leave you!" Maud said quickly.

"All right then.  Marry--and be quick about it!" said Bunny.

He turned his drawn, white face to the window--a face of unconscious
pathos that often stirred his sister to the depths.  Youth--and the
gladness of youth--had never existed for Bunny Brian.  Life for so long
as he could remember had always been a long, dreary round of pain and
disappointment, of restless nights and dragging, futile days. Only Maud,
who shared them all, knew to the uttermost the woeful bitterness of the
lad's existence.  It hurt her cruelly, that bitterness, moving her to a
perpetual self-sacrifice, of the extent of which even Bunny had small
conception.

She identified herself completely with him, and had so done since the
tenth year of her life when he had come--a puny, wailing baby--into the
world to fill the void of her childish heart.  She had, as it were,
grown up in his service, worn and sallow and thin, with the sharp edges
of nerves that were always strung up to too high a pitch--the nerves of
one who scarcely ever knew a whole night of undisturbed rest.  They had
told upon her, those years of anxiety and service; they had shorn away
her youth also.  Only once--and that for how short a time!--had life
ever seemed desirable in her eyes.  A brief and splendid dream had been
hers, spreading like a golden sunrise over her whole horizon. But the
dream had faded, the sunrise had been extinguished in heavy clouds that
had never again parted.  She knew life now for a grey, grey dreariness
on which no light could ever shine again.  She was tired--tired to the
soul of her; and she was only twenty-five.

"Maud!"  Bunny's voice half-irritable, half-eager, broke in upon her.
"See that fellow down there trying to make his nag go into the sea?
It's going to be a big job.  Let's go down and see it done!"

Bunny's long chair was in a corner of the room.  It was no light task to
get it in and out of the house; but Maud was used to the management of
it.  The weight of it went in with the other burdens of life.  She was
used also to lifting Bunny's poor little wasted body, and no wish of his
that she could gratify was ever left neglected.  Moreover, the offensive
clamour of the gramophone overhead added to her alacrity to obey his
behests.  And the day was bright and warm, with a south wind blowing
over a sparkling sea.

It would do Bunny good to go out, especially if he desired to go.  It
was not always that he would consent to do so after a sleepless night.
But there was an extraordinary vitality in the meagre frame, a fevered,
driving force that never seemed to be wholly exhausted.  There were
times when inaction was absolute torture to him, and Maud was ready to
go until she dropped if only she could in some measure alleviate that
chafing restlessness.  She counted it luck indeed if these moods of fret
and turmoil raged during the day.  She was better able to cope with them
then, and it gave the night a better chance.  Poor lad!  He could fight
his own way through the days, but the long-drawn-out misery of nights of
incessant pain broke him down--how completely only Maud ever knew.

So, gladly she wheeled him forth on that afternoon of late October, down
the hill to the sun-bathed shore.

That hill taxed her physical powers to the uttermost. Secretly she
dreaded the ascent, but not for worlds would she have had Bunny know
it--Bunny who depended solely upon her for the very few pleasures that
ever came his way. To the last ounce of her strength she was dedicated
to the service of her idol.




                              CHAPTER III

                          THE NEW ACQUAINTANCE


They reached the sunny stretch of parade in time to see the young
chestnut that had excited Bunny's interest being coaxed along the edge
of the water by his rider.  The animal was covered with froth, and
evidently in a ferment of nervous excitement.  The man who rode him sat
loosely in the saddle as if the tussle in progress were of very minor
importance in his estimation.  He kept the fretting creature's head
turned towards the water, however, and at intervals he patted the
streaming neck and spoke a few words of encouragement.

At Bunny's request his chair was drawn to the edge of the parade, and
from here he and Maud watched the progress of the battle.  A battle of
wills it undoubtedly was, though there was nothing in the man's attitude
to indicate any strain.  He was obviously one who knew how to bide his
time, thick-set, bull-necked, somewhat bullet-headed, with a face of
even redness and a short, blunt nose that looked aggressively confident.

"Wonder if he'll do it," said Bunny.

Maud wondered too, realizing that the task would be no easy one.  The
horse was plainly on edge with apprehension, and her sympathies went out
to him.  Somehow she did not want to see him conquered.  In fact, not
greatly admiring the physiognomy of his rider, she hoped the horse would
win.

Stepping with extreme daintiness, as if he expected the ground to open
and swallow him, the animal sidled past, and she caught the gleam of a
wicked eye as he went. There was mischief mingled with his fear.  He
evidently was not feeling particularly kindly disposed towards the man
who rode him.  The loose seat of the latter made her wonder if he were
wholly aware of this.

"He'll be thrown if he isn't careful," she said, half to herself and
half to Bunny, who was watching with the keenest interest.

"Hope he'll tumble into the water," said Bunny, who enjoyed dramatic
situations.

The pair had passed them and were continuing their sidling progress
along the beach.  The man still appeared preoccupied, the horse still
half-frightened, half-mischievous. Some fifty yards they covered thus;
then the figure in the saddle slowly stiffened.  Aware of an impending
change of treatment, the animal began to jib with his head in the air.
An odd little thrill went through Maud, a feeling as of electricity in
the air.  It was almost a sensation of foreboding.  And then clean and
grim as a pistol-shot, she heard the crack of a whip on the creature's
quivering flank.

It was a well-earned correction, deliberately administered, one stinging
cut, delivered with a calculation that knew exactly where to strike.
But the horse, a young animal, leapt into the air as if he had been shot
indeed, and landing again almost on the same spot began forwith to
buck-jump in frenzied efforts to free himself of the task-master whose
lash was so unerring.

The whip descended again with absolute precision.  It looked almost like
a feat of jugglery to Maud's fascinated eyes.  The horse uttered a
furious squeal.  He was being forced, literally forced, into the hated
water, and he knew it, set himself with all the fiery unreason of youth
to resist, and incidentally to receive a punishment none the less
painful on account of its extreme deliberation.

As for his rider, he kept his seat without apparent effort. He kept his
temper also to all outward appearance.  He even in the thick of the
struggle abandoned force and tried coaxing again.  It was only when this
failed that it seemed to the watching girl that a certain quality of
implacability began to manifest itself.  His movements were no less
studied, but they seemed to her to become relentless.  From that moment
she knew with absolute certainty that there could be but one end to the
struggle.

Some dim suspicion of the same thing must have penetrated the animal's
intelligence also, for almost from the same moment he seemed to lose
heart.  He still bucked away from the water and leapt in futile frenzy
under the unsparing whip; but his fury was past.  He no longer tried to
fling his rider over his head.  He seemed to be fighting to save his
pride rather than for any other reason.

But his pride had to go.  Endurance had its limits, and his smooth,
clipped flanks were smarting intolerably.  Very suddenly he gave in and
walked into the water.

It foamed alarmingly round his legs, and he started in genuine terror
and tried to turn; but on the instant a hand was on his neck, a square,
sustaining hand that patted and consoled.

"Now, don't be a fool horse any longer!" said his conqueror.  "Don't you
know it's going to do you good? Go on and face it!"

He went on, splashing his rider thoroughly, first in sheer nervousness,
later in undisguised content.

He came out of the water some five minutes later, a wiser and
considerably less headstrong youngster than he had entered it, and
walked serenely along the edge as if he had been accustomed to it all
his life.  When the spreading foam washed round his hoofs, he did not so
much as lay an ear.  He had surrendered his pride, and he did not seem
to feel the sacrifice.

"A beastly tame ending!" said Bunny in frank disappointment. "I hoped
the fellow was going to break his neck."

The horseman was passing immediately below them. He looked up, and Maud
 a guilty scarlet, realizing that he had overheard the remark.
He had the most startlingly bright eyes she had ever seen.  They met
hers with a directness that seemed to pierce straight through her, and
passed on unblinkingly to the boy in the long chair. There was something
lynx-like in the straight regard, something so deliberately intent that
it seemed formidable.  His clean-shaven, weather-beaten face had an
untamed, primitive look about it, as of one born in the wilderness.  His
mouth was rugged rather than coarse, but it was not the mouth of
civilization.

Bunny, who was not easily daunted, looked hard back at him, with the
brazen expression of one challenging a rebuke.  But the horseman refused
the challenge, passing on without a word.

"I'm tired," said Bunny, in sudden discontent.  "Let's go back!"

When he spoke in that tone, he was invariably beyond coaxing.  Maud
turned the chair without protest, and prepared to make that exhausting
ascent.

"How slow you are to-day!" said Bunny peevishly.  "I hate this beastly
hill.  You make me go up it on my head!"

The slant was certainly acute.  Maud murmured sympathy.  "I would pull
you up if I could," she said.

"You've never even tried," said Bunny.

He was plainly in an exacting mood.  Her heart sank a little lower.
"It's no use trying, darling," she said.  "I know I can't.  But I won't
take a minute longer over it than I can help."

"You never do anything decently," said Bunny in disgust.

Maud made no rejoinder.  She bent in silence to her task.

Bunny could not see her face, and she strove desperately to control her
panting breath.

"You puff like a grampus," the boy said discontentedly.

There came the quick fall of a horse's hoofs behind them, and Maud bent
her flushed face a little lower.  She did not want to meet that piercing
regard again.  But the hoof-beats slackened behind her, and a voice
spoke--a voice so curiously soft that at the first sound she almost
believed it to be that of a woman.

"Say!  That's too heavy a job for you."

She paused--it was inevitable--and looked round.

In the same moment he slid to the ground--a square, sturdy figure,
shorter than she had imagined him when he was in the saddle, horsey of
aspect, clumsy of build, possessing a breadth of chest that seemed to
indicate vast strength.

Again those extremely bright eyes met hers, red-brown, intensely alive.
She felt as if they saw too much; they made her vividly conscious of her
hot face and labouring heart. They embarrassed her, made her resentful.

She was too breathless to speak; perhaps she might not have done so in
any case.  But he did not wait for that. He pushed forward till he stood
beside her.

"You take my animal!" he said.  "He's quiet enough now."

She might have refused, had she had time to consider. But he gave her
none.  He almost thrust the bridle into her hands, and the next moment
he had taken her place behind the invalid-chair and begun briskly to
push it up the hill.

Maud followed, leading the now docile horse, divided between annoyance
and gratitude.  Bunny seemed struck dumb also, though whether with
embarrassment or merely surprise she could not tell.

At the top of the steep ascent the stranger stopped and faced round.
"Thanks!" he said briefly, and took his horse back into his own keeping.

Maud stood, feeling shy and awkward, while he set his foot in the
stirrup.  Then, ere he mounted, with a desperate effort she spoke.

"It was very kind of you.  Thank you very much."

Her voice sounded coldly formal by reason of her extreme discomfiture.
She would have given a good deal to have avoided speaking altogether.
But the man stopped dead and looked at her as though she had attempted
to detain him.

"You've nothing to thank me for," he said, in that queer, soft voice of
his.  "As I said before, it's too heavy a job for you.  You'll get a
groggy heart if you keep on with it."

There was no intentional familiarity in the speech; but it made her
stiffen instinctively.

"It was very kind of you," she repeated, and with a bow that was even
more freezingly polite than her words she turned to the chair and
prepared to walk on.

But at this point Bunny suddenly found his voice in belated
acknowledgment of the service rendered.  "Hi! You!  Stop a minute!
Thanks for pushing me up this beastly hill!"

The stranger was still standing with his foot in the stirrup; but at the
sound of Bunny's voice he took it out again and came to the boy's side,
leading his horse.

"What a beauty!" said Bunny, admiringly.  "Let me touch him, I say!"

"Oh, don't!" Maud said nervously.  "He looked so savage just now."

"He's not savage," said the horse's owner, and pulled the animal's nose
down to Bunny's eager, caressing hand.

The creature was plainly suspicious.  He tried to avoid the caress, but
his master and Bunny were equally insistent, and he finally submitted.

"He's not savage," his rider said again.  "He's only young and a bit
heady; wants a little shaping--like all youngsters."

Bunny's shrewd eyes flashed him a rapid glance, meeting the red-brown
eyes deliberately scrutinizing him. With a certain blunt courage that
was his, he tackled the situation.

"I say, did you hear what I said down on the parade?"

The man smiled a little, still watching Bunny's red face.  "Did you mean
me to hear?" he enquired.

"No," said Bunny, staring back, half-fascinated and half-defiant.

"All right then.  I didn't," the horseman said.

Bunny's expression changed.  He smiled; and when he smiled his lost
youth looked out of his worn face.  "Good for you!" he said.  "I say, I
hope we shall see you again some time."

"If you are here for long, you probably will," the man made answer.

"Do you live here?"  Bunny's voice was eager.  His eyes sparkled with
interest.

The man nodded.  "Yes, I'm a fixture.  And you?"

"Oh, we're going to be fixtures too," said Bunny.  "This is my sister
Maud.  I am Sir Bernard Brian."

Maud's ready blush rose burningly.  She fidgeted to be gone.  Bunny's
swaggering announcement made her long to sink through the earth.  She
dreaded to hear his listener laugh, even looked up in surprise when no
laugh came.

He was surveying Bunny with that same unblinking regard that had
disconcerted her.  The slight smile was still on his face, but it was
not a derisive smile.

After a moment he said, "My name is Bolton--Jake Bolton.  Think you can
remember that?"

"What are you?" said Bunny, with frank curiosity.

"I?"  The faint smile suddenly broadened, showing teeth that were large
and very white.  "I am a groom," the horseman said.

"Are you?" The boy's eyes opened wide.  "Then you're not a mister!" he
said.

"Oh no, I'm not a mister!"  There was certainly a laugh in the womanish
voice this time, but it held no open ridicule. "I'm plain Jake Bolton.
You can call me Bolton or Jake--which ever you like.  Good day, Sir
Bernard!"

He backed his horse with the words, and mounted.

Maud did not look at him.  She felt too overwhelmed. Moreover, she was
sure--painfully sure--that he looked at her, and she thought there must
be at least amusement in his eyes.

With relief she heard him turn his horse and trot down the hill.  He had
not even been going their way, then.  Her face burned afresh.

"What a queer fish!" said Bunny.  "Hullo!  What are you so red about?"

"I wish you wouldn't tell people your title," she said. "They only
laugh."

"He didn't laugh when I told him," said Bunny.  "And why shouldn't I?
I've a right to it."

He would not see her point she knew.  But she made an attempt to
explain.  "He would have liked to call himself a gentleman," she said.
"But--he didn't."

"That's quite different," said Bunny loftily.  "He knows he isn't one."

Maud abandoned the argument then, because--though it was against her
judgment--she found that she wanted to agree.




                               CHAPTER IV

                          THE ACCEPTED SUITOR


"Hark to the brute!" said Bunny.

A long, loud peal of laughter was echoing through the house.  Maud
shuddered at the sound.  The noisy wooing of her mother's suitor made
her feel physically sick. But for Bunny, she would have fled
incontinently from the man's proximity.  Because of Bunny, she sat at a
rickety writing-table in a corner of the room and penned an urgent,
almost a desperate, appeal to the bachelor uncle in the North to deliver
them from the impending horror.  No other consideration on earth would
have forced such an appeal from her.  She felt literally distraught that
night. She was being dragged, a helpless prisoner, to the house of
bondage.

Again came that loud, coarse laugh, and with it the opening of a door on
the other side of the passage.

"Watch out!" warned Bunny.  "They're coming!"

There was a hint of nervousness in his voice also.  She heard it, and
swiftly rose.  When their own door opened, she was standing beside him,
very upright, very pale, rigidly composed.

Her mother entered, flushed and smiling.  Behind her came her accepted
lover,--a large, florid man, handsome in ascertain coarse style, with a
dissipated look about the eyes which told its own tale.  Maud quivered
in impotent resentment whenever she encountered those eyes.  They could
not look upon a woman with reverence.

He strolled into the room in her mother's wake, fondling a dark
moustache, in evident good humour with himself and all the world.

Lady Brian ran to her daughter with all a girl's impetuosity. "My dear,
it's all settled!" she declared.  "Giles and I are going to be married,
and we're all going to live at "The Anchor" with him.  And dear little
Bunny is to have the best ground-floor rooms.  Now, isn't that kind?"

It was kind.  Yet Maud stiffened to an even icier frigidity at the news,
and dear little Bunny's nose turned up to an aggressive angle.

After a distinct pause, Maud bent her long neck and coldly kissed her
mother's expectant face.  "I hope you--and Mr. Sheppard will be very
happy," she said.

The happy suitor broke into his loud, self-satisfied laugh.  "Egad, what
an enthusiastic reception!" he cried. "Have you got a similar chaste
salute for me?"

He swaggered towards her, and Maud froze as she stood. Her eyes shot a
blue flare of open enmity at him; and--almost in spite of himself--Giles
Sheppard paused.

"By Jove!" he said.  "You've got a she-wolf here, madam."

Lady Brian turned.  "Oh, Giles, don't be absurd!  Maud is not like me,
you know.  She was never demonstrative as a child.  She was always shy
and quiet.  They are not quite used to the idea of you yet.  You must
give them time.  Bunny darling, won't you give Mother a kiss?"

"What for?" said Bunny.

He was tightly gripping Maud's cold hand with fingers that were like
tense wire.  His eyes, very wide and bright, defied the whole world on
her behalf.

"I'm not going to kiss anyone," he said.  "Neither is Maud.  I don't
know what there is to make such a fuss about.  You've both been married
before."

The landlord of "The Anchor" gave a great roar of laughter.  "Not bad
for a bantling, eh, Lucy?  Didn't know I was to have a sucking cynic for
a step-son.  You're quite right, my boy; there is nothing to make a fuss
about. And so we shan't ask you to dance at the wedding.  Not that you
could if you tried, eh?  And my Lady Disdain there won't be invited.  We
are going to be married by special licence to-morrow afternoon, and you
can take possession of your new quarters while the knot is being tied.
How's that appeal to you?"

Bunny looked at him with a certain grim interest.  "It'll suit me all
right," he said.  "But I'm hanged if I can see where you come in."

Giles Sheppard laughed again with his tongue in his cheek.  "Oh, I shall
have my picking at the feast, old son," he declared jovially.  "I've had
my eye on your mother for a long time.  Pretty piece of goods she is
too.  You're neither of you a patch on her.  They don't do you credit,
Lucy, my dear.  Sure they're your own?"

"The man's drunk!" said Maud suddenly and sharply.

"My dear!  My dear!" cried Lady Brian, in dismayed protest.

The girl bit her lip.  The words had escaped her, she knew not how.

Giles Sheppard however only laughed again, and seated himself on the
edge of the table to contemplate her.

"We shall have to try and find a husband for you, young woman," he said,
"a husband who'll know how to bring you to heel.  It'll be a tough job.
I wonder who'd like to take it on.  Jake Bolton might do the trick.
We'll have Jake Bolton to dine with us to-morrow.  He knows how to tame
wild animals, does Jake.  It's a damn' pretty sight to see him do it
too.  Gosh, he knows how to lay it on--just where it hurts most."

He chuckled grimly with his eyes on Maud's now crimson face.

"Now, Giles," protested Lady Brian, "you've promised to be good to my
two children.  I'm sure we shall all shake down comfortably presently.
Dear Maud has a good deal to learn yet, so you must be patient with her.
We were foolish ourselves at her age, I have no doubt."

"Oh, no doubt," said her fiance, with his thick-lidded eyes still
mocking the girl's face of outraged pride.  "We've all been foolish in
our time.  But there's only one treatment for that complaint in the
female species, my lady; and that is a sound good spanking.  It does a
world of good, takes the stiffening out of a woman in no time.  I've had
a daughter of my own--a decent little filly she was too. Married now and
gone to Canada.  But I had to keep her in order, I can tell you, before
she went.  I gave her many a slippering, and she thought the better of
me for it too.  She knew I wouldn't stand any of her nonsense."

"Oh, well," smiled Lady Brian, "we are not all alike, you know; and that
sort of treatment doesn't suit everybody. Now I think we all know each
other, and my little Bunny is looking rather tired.  I think we won't
stay any longer.  It means a bad night if he gets excited."

"Wait a minute!" interposed Bunny.  "That man you were talking about
just now--Jake Bolton.  Who is he? Where does he live?"

"Who is he?"  Giles Sheppard slapped his thigh and rose. "He's one of
the best-known fellows about here--a bit of a card, but none the worse
for that.  He's the trainer up at the stables--Lord Saltash's place.
Never heard of him? He's known as 'The Lynx' on the turf, because he's
so devilish shrewd.  Oh yes, he's quite a card.  And to see him break
one of them youngsters--well, it's a fair treat."

Mr. Sheppard's grammar was apt to lapse somewhat when his enthusiasm was
kindled.  Maud shivered a little. Lady Brian smiled indulgently.  Poor
Giles!  He was a rough diamond.  She would have to do a little
polishing; but she was sure he would become quite a valuable gem when
polished.

"Oh, he's Lord Saltash's trainer is he?" she said.  "Lord Saltash is a
very old friend of ours.  Is he--does he ever come down here?"

"Who?  Lord Saltash?  He has a place here.  You couldn't have been very
intimate with him if you didn't know that.  Just as well p'raps with a
man of his tendencies."  Sheppard laughed in a fashion that sent the hot
blood back to Maud's face.  "A bit too fond of his neighbour's
wife--that young man.  Lucky thing for him that he didn't have to pay
heavy damages.  More luck than judgment, to my thinking."

"Oh, Giles!" protested Lady Brian.  "How you do run on!  I did know that
he had an estate here.  That was why I asked if he still came down.  You
really mustn't blacken the young man's character in that way.  We are
all very fond of him."

"Are you though!"  Sheppard's laugh died; he looked at Maud with a hint
of venom.  "Like the rest of your charming sex, eh?  Well, we don't see
much of the gay Lothario in these parts.  If that was your little game,
you'd better have stopped in town."

Maud's lips said, "Cad!", but her voice made no sound.

He bowed in ironical acknowledgment and turned to her mother.  "Now, my
lady, having received these cordial congratulations, I move an
adjournment.  As you have foretold, we shall doubtless all shake down
together very comfortably in the course of a few weeks.  But in the
meantime I should like to inform all whom it may concern that I am
master in my own house, and I expect to be treated as such."

Again his insolent eyes rested upon Maud's proud face, and her slight
form quivered in response though she kept her own rigidly downcast.

"Of course that is understood," said Lady Brian, with a pacific hand on
his arm.  "There!  Let us go now!  I am sure we are all going to be as
happy as the day is long."

She looked up at him with persuasive coquetry, and he at once succumbed.
He pulled her to him roughly and bestowed several resounding kisses upon
her delicate face, not desisting until with laughing remonstrance she
put up a protesting hand.

"Giles, really--really--you mustn't be greedy!" she said, and drew him
to the door with some urgency.

He went, his malignancy for the moment swamped by a stronger emotion;
and brother and sister were left alone.

"What a disgusting beast!" said Bunny, as the door closed.

Maud said nothing.  She only went to the window, and flung it wide.




                               CHAPTER V

                              IN THE DARK


Black night and a moaning sea!  Now and then a drizzle of rain came on a
gust of wind, sprinkling the girl's tense face, damping the dark hair
that clustered about her temples.  But she did not so much as feel it.
Her passionate young spirit was all on fire with a fierce revolt against
the destinies that ruled her life.  She paced the parade as one
distraught.

Only for a brief space could she let herself go thus,--only while Bunny
and their mother played their nightly game of cribbage.  They did not so
much as know that she was out of the house.  She would have to return
ere she was missed, and then would follow the inevitable ordeal of
putting Bunny to bed.  It was an ordeal that seemed to become each night
more difficult.  In the morning he was easier to manage; but at night
when he was tired out and all his nerves were on edge she sometimes
found the task almost beyond her powers.  When he was in pain--and this
was not infrequently--it took her hours to get him finally settled.

She was sure that it would be no easy task to-night.  He had had bouts
of severe neuralgia during the day, and his flushed face and irritable
manner warned her that there was a struggle in store.  She had sometimes
sat waiting till the small hours of the morning before he would permit
her to move or undress him.  She felt that some such trial was before
her now, and her heart was as lead.

The house had seemed to stifle her.  She had run out for a breath of
air; and then something about that moaning shore had seemed to draw her.
She had run down to the parade, and now she paced along it, staring down
into the fathomless dark below her where the deep water rose and fell
with a ceaseless moaning, thumping the well beneath in sullen impotence.

There was no splash of waves, only that dumb striving against a power it
could not overthrow.  It was like her own mute rebellion, she thought to
herself miserably, as persistent and as futile.

She reached the end of the parade.  The hour was late; the place
deserted.  There was a shelter here.  She was sure it would be empty,
but it did not attract her.  She wanted to get as close as possible to
that moaning, mysterious waste of water.  It held a stark fascination
for her. It drew her like a magnet.  She stood on the very edge of the
parade, facing the drift of rain that blew in from the sea. How dark it
was!  The nearest lamp was fifty yards away! The thought came to her
suddenly, taking form from the formless deep: how easy to take one
single false step in that darkness!  How swift the consequence, and how
complete the deliverance!

A short, inevitable struggle in the dark--in the dark; and then a
certain release from this hateful chain called life. It would be
terrible, but so quickly over!  And this misery that so galled her would
be for ever past.

She beat her foot on the edge with a passionate impatience. What a fool
she was to suffer so--when there was nothing (never had been any thing)
in life worth living for!

Nothing?  Well, yes, there was Bunny.  She was an absolute necessity to
him.  That she knew.  She was firmly convinced that he would die without
her.  And though he would be far, far happier dead, poor darling, she
couldn't leave him to die alone.

She lifted her clenched hands above her head in straining impotence.
For one black moment she almost wished that Bunny were dead.

And then very suddenly, with staggering unexpectedness she received the
biggest shock of her life.  Two hands closed simultaneously upon her
wrists, and she was drawn into two encircling arms.

She uttered a startled outcry, and in the same moment began a wild and
flurried struggle for freedom.  But the arms that held her closed like
steel springs.  A man's strength forced her steadily away from the
yawning blackness that stretched beyond the parade.

"It's no good kicking," a soft voice said.  "You won't get away."

Something in the voice reassured her.  She ceased to struggle.  "Oh, let
me go!" she said breathlessly. "You--you don't understand.
I--I--only----"

"Came out for a breath of air?" he suggested.  "Of course--I gathered
that."

He took his arms away from her, but he still kept one of her wrists in a
strong grasp.  She could not see his face in the darkness, only his
figure, which was short and stoutly built.

"Do you know," he said, "when people take the air like that, I always
have to hold on to 'em tight till they've had all they want.  It's damn'
cheek on my part, as you were just going to remark.  But, my girl, it's
easier than mucking about in a dark sea looking for 'em after they've
lost their balance."

He had led her to the shelter.  She sat down rather helplessly,
wondering if it would be possible to conceal her identity from him since
it was evident that so far he had not recognized her.

He stood in front of her, squarely planted, his hand still locked upon
her wrist.  She had known him from the first word he had spoken, and,
remembering those startling lynx eyes of his, she felt decidedly uneasy.
She was sure they could see in the dark.

She spoke after a moment with slight hesitation.  "I shouldn't have lost
my balance.  And if I had meant to jump over, as you imagined, I
shouldn't have stood so long thinking about it."

"Sure you're not thinking about it now?" he said.

"Quite sure," she answered.

He bent down, and she was sure--quite sure--that his eyes scrutinized
her and took in every detail.

The next moment he released her wrist also.  "All right, my girl," he
said.  "I believe you.  But--don't do it again!  Accidents happen, you
know.  You might have had one then; and I should still have had to
flounder around looking for you."

Something in his tone made her want to smile, and yet she felt so
sure--so sure--that he knew her all the time. And she wanted to resent
his familiarity at the same moment. For if he knew her, it was rank
presumption to address her so.

She rose at length and faced him with such dignity as she could muster.
"I am obliged to you," she said, "but I fail to see why your
responsibility should extend so far.  If I had fallen over, the chances
are that you could never have found me--or saved me if you had."

"Ninety-nine to one!" he said coolly.  "But, do you know, I rather count
on the hundredth chance.  I've taken it--and won on it--before now."

He was not to be disconcerted, it was evident.  He was plainly a
difficult man to rout, one accustomed to keep his head in any emergency.
And she--she was but a slip of a girl in his estimation, and he had her
at a disadvantage already.

She felt her face begin to burn in the darkness.  She shifted her
ground.  "I don't see why anyone should be made to live against his
will," she said, "why it should be anyone's business to interfere."

"That's because you're young," he said.  "You haven't yet got the proper
hang of things.  It only comes with practice--that."

Her face burned more hotly.  He was actually patronizing her!

She turned abruptly.  "Good evening," she said, and began to walk away.

But he fell in beside her at once.  "I'm going your way," he observed.
"May as well see you past the bar of 'The Anchor.'  They get a bit
lively there sometimes at this end of the day."

He walked with the slight roll of a man accustomed to much riding.  She
imagined that he never appeared in anything but breeches and gaiters.
But his tread was firm and purposeful.  Quite obviously it never entered
his head that she might not desire his company.

For that reason she had to submit to the arrangement though she felt
herself grow more and more rigid as they neared the circle of light cast
by the street-lamp.  Of course he was bound to recognize her now.

But they reached and passed the lamp, and he tramped straight ahead
without looking at her, after the square fashion that she had somehow
begun to associate with him.

They reached and passed "The Anchor" also, with its lighted bar and
coarse voices and lounging figures.  They began the steep ascent up
which he had pushed Bunny that afternoon.  It was dark enough here at
least, and her self-confidence began to revive.  She would put him to
the test. She would pass the gate that he had seen her enter earlier in
the day.  If he displayed surprise or hesitation she would know that he
had recognized her.

But yet again he baffled her.  He tramped steadily on.

She began to get a little breathless.  There was another lamp at the top
of the road.  She did not want to reach that.

In desperation she paused.  "Good evening!" she said again.

He stopped at once, and she thought she caught the glitter of his eye,
seeking her own in the darkness.

"You're going in now?" he asked.

"Yes," she said.

He came a step nearer, and laid one finger on her arm. "Look here, my
girl!  You take a straight tip from me! If you're in any sort of
trouble, go and tell someone!  Don't bottle it in till it gets too big
for you!  And above all, don't go step-dancing on the edge of the parade
in the dark! It's a fool thing to do."

He emphasized his points with impressive taps upon her arm.  She felt
absurdly small and meek.

"Suppose I haven't anyone to tell?" she said, after a moment.

He rose to the occasion instantly.  "I'm sound," he said.  "Tell me!"

She had not expected that.  He seemed to disconcert her at every turn.

"Thank you," she said, taking refuge in extreme frigidity.  "I think
not."

"As you like," he said.  "I daresay I shouldn't in your place.  I only
suggested it because I can't see a girl in trouble and pass by on the
other side."

He spoke quite quietly, but there was a quality in the soft voice that
stirred her very strangely, something that made her for the moment
forget the man's dominant personality, and feel as if a woman had
uttered the words.

She put out a groping hand to him, obeying a curious impulse that would
not be denied.

"Thank you," she said again.

He kept her hand for a second or two, holding it squarely, almost as if
he were waiting for something.

Then, without a word, he let it go.  She turned back; and he went on.




                               CHAPTER VI

                          THE UNWILLING GUEST


"But, my dear child, you must appear!" urged the bride, with a piteous
little twist of the lips.  "I can't go unsupported into that dreadful
crowd."

"Oh, Mother!" Maud said.  And that was all; for what was the good of
saying more?  Her mother had made the choice, and there was no turning
back.  They could only go forward now along the new course,
whithersoever it led. "I'll come," she said, after a moment.

Her mother's smile was full of pathos.  "We must all make sacrifices for
one another, darling," she said.  "I have made a very big one for you
and Bunny.  He--poor little lad--isn't old enough to understand.  But
surely, you, at least can appreciate it."

She looked so wistful as she spoke that in spite of herself Maud was
moved to a very unusual show of tenderness. She turned and kissed her.
"I do hope you will be happy," she said.  "I expect you will, you know,
when you are used to it."

She spoke out of a very definite knowledge of her mother's character.
She knew well the yielding adaptability thereof. Giles Sheppard's
standards would very soon be hers also, and she would speedily cease to
find anything wanting in his friends.

She turned with a sigh.  "Let's go and get it over!" she said.  "But I
can't stay long.  I shall have to get back to Bunny."

She and Bunny had spent all the afternoon and evening settling into
their new quarters at the Anchor Hotel, and it had been a tiring task.
The bride and bridegroom had gone straight from the registry-office
where the ceremony had been performed to the county town some thirty
miles distant, in the one ramshackle little motor that the hotel
possessed, and had returned barely in time to receive the guests whom
Sheppard had invited to his wedding-feast.

Neither Maud nor her mother had been told much of the forthcoming
festivity, and the girl's dismay upon learning that she was expected to
attend it was considerable.  She was feeling tired and depressed.  Bunny
was in a difficult mood, and she knew that another bad night lay before
them. Still it was impossible to refuse.  She could only yield with as
good a grace as she could muster.

"Make yourself pretty, won't you, dear?" said Mrs. Sheppard as, her
point gained, she prepared smilingly to depart.  "Wear your white silk!
You look charming in that."

Maud had not the faintest wish to look charming, but yet again she could
not refuse to gratify a wish so amiably expressed.  She donned the white
silk, therefore, though feeling in any but a festive mood, and prepared
herself for the ordeal with a grim determination to escape from it as
soon as possible.

She was not tall, but her extreme slenderness gave her a decidedly regal
pose.  She held her head proudly and bore herself with distinction.  Her
eyes--those wonderful blue-violet eyes--had the aloof expression of one
whose soul is far away.

Giles Sheppard watched her enter the drawing-room behind her mother, and
a bitter sneer crossed his bloated face.  He was utterly incapable of
appreciating that innate pride of race that expressed itself in every
line of her.  He read only contempt for him and his in the girl's still
face, and the deep resentment kindled the night before began to smoulder
within him with an ever-increasing heat.  How dared she show her airs
and graces here?--  She, a penniless minx dependent now upon his charity
for the very bread she ate!

He turned with an ugly jest at her expense upon his lips to the man with
whom he had been talking at her entrance; but the jest was checked
unuttered.  For the man, square, thickset as a bulldog, abruptly left
his side and moved forward.

The quick blood mounted in Maud's face as he intercepted her.  She
looked at him for a second as if she would turn and flee.  But he held
out a steady hand to her, and she had to place hers within it.

In a moment his peculiar voice accosted her.  "You remember me, Miss
Brian?  I'm Jake Bolton--the horse breaker.  I had the pleasure of doing
your brother a small service yesterday."

Both hand and voice reassured her.  She had an absurd feeling that he
was meting out to her such treatment as he would have considered
suitable for a nervous horse.  She forced herself to smile upon him; it
was the only thing to do.

He smiled in return--his pleasant open smile.  "Remember me now?" he
said.

"Quite well," she answered.

"Good!" he said briefly.  "Let me find you a chair!  I don't suppose you
know many of the people here."

She did not know any of them, and as Sheppard had seized upon his bride,
and was presenting her in rude triumph to each in turn with much noisy
laughter and coarse joking it was not difficult to slip into a corner
with Jake Bolton without attracting further attention.

He stood beside her for a space while covertly she took stock of him.

Yes, he actually had discarded his gaiters and was wearing evening
dress.  It did not seem a natural garb for him, but he carried it better
than she would have expected.  He still reminded her very forcibly of
horses, though she could not have definitely said wherein this strong
suggestion lay.  His ruddy face and short, dominant nose might have
belonged to a sailor.  But the brilliant chestnut eyes with their
red-brown lashes were somehow not of the sea.  They made her think of
the reek of leather and the thud of galloping hoofs.

Suddenly he turned and caught her critical survey.  She dropped her eyes
instantly in hot confusion, while he, as if he had just made up his
mind, sat down beside her.

"So you and your brother are going to live here?" he said.

She answered him in a low voice; the words seemed to leap from her
almost without her conscious volition.  "We can't help ourselves."

He gave a short nod as of a suspicion confirmed, and sat in silence for
a little.  The loud laughter of Giles Sheppard's guests filled in the
pause.

Maud held herself rigidly still, repressing a nervous shiver that
attacked her repeatedly.

Suddenly the man beside her spoke.  "What's the matter with that young
brother of yours?"

With relief she came out of her tense silence.  "It is an injury to the
spine.  He had a fall in his babyhood.  He suffers terribly sometimes."

"Nothing to be done?" he asked.

She shook her head.  "No one very good has seen him. He won't let a
doctor come near him now."

"Oh rats!" exclaimed Jake Bolton unexpectedly.

She felt her colour rise as he turned his bright eyes upon her.

"You don't say that a kid like that can get the better of you?" he said.

She resented the question; yet she answered it.  "Bunny has a strong
will.  I never oppose it."

"And why not?"  He was looking directly at her with a comical smile as
if he were inspecting some quaint object of interest.

Again against her will she made reply.  "I try to give him all he wants.
He has missed all that is good in life."

He wrinkled his forehead for a moment as if puzzled, then broke into a
laugh.  "Say, what a queer notion to get!" he said.

She stiffened on the instant, but he did not seem to notice it.  He
leaned towards her, and laid one finger--a short, square fore-finger--on
her arm.

"Tell me now--what are the good things in life?"

She withdrew her arm from his touch, and regarded him with a hauteur
that did not wholly veil her embarrassment.

"You don't know!" said Jake.  "Be honest and say so!"

But Maud only retired further into her shell.  "I think we have wandered
rather far from the subject," she said coldly.  "My brother is
unfortunately the victim of circumstance, and no discussion can alter
that fact."

He accepted the snub without a sign of discomfiture. "Is he here now?"
he asked.

She bent her head.  "In this house--yes."

"Will you let me see him presently?" he pursued.

Distantly she made reply.  "I am afraid that is impossible."

"Why?" he said.

She raised her dark brows.

"Tell me why!" he insisted.

Calmly she met his look.  "It is not good for him to see strangers at
night.  It upsets his rest."

"You think it would be bad for him to see me?" he questioned.

His voice was suddenly very deliberate.  He was looking her full in the
face.

A curious little tremor went through her.  She felt as if he had
pinioned her there before him.

Her reply astounded herself.  "I don't say it would be bad for
him,--only--inadvisable.  He is rather excited already."

"Will you ask him presently if he would cane to see me?" said Jake
Bolton steadily.

She bit her lip, hesitating.

"I shan't upset him," he said.  "I won't excite him. I'll quiet him
down."

She did not want to yield--yet she yielded.  "I will ask him--if you
wish," she said.

He smiled.  "Thank you, Miss Brian.  You didn't want to give in, did
you?  But I undertake that you will not be sorry."

"Hullo, Jacob!" blared Sheppard's voice suddenly across the room.  "What
are you doing over there, you rascal? Thought I shouldn't see you, eh?
Ah, you're a deep one, you are!  I daresay now you've made up your mind
that that young woman is a princess in disguise.  She isn't. She's just
my step-daughter, and a very cheap article, I assure you, Jake,--very
cheap indeed!"

The roar of laughter that greeted this sally filled the room, drowning
any further remarks.  Sheppard stood in the centre, swaying a little,
looking round on the assembled company with a facetious grin.

Jake Bolton rose and went to him.  He stood with him for a moment, and
Maud, shivering in her corner, marvelled that he did not look mean and
insignificant beside the other's great bulk.  She wondered what he said.
It was only a few words, and they were not apparently uttered with much
urgency.  But Sheppard's grin died away, and she fancied that for a
moment--only for a moment--he looked a little sheepish.  Then he clapped
a great hand upon Bolton's shoulder.

"All right.  All right.  It's for you to make the running. Come along,
ladies and gentlemen!  Let us feed!"

There was a general move, and a tall, lanky young man with a white face
and black hair that shone like varnish slouched up to Maud.

"I don't see why Bolton should have all the plums," he said.  "May I
have the honour of conducting you to the supper table?"

She was on her feet.  She looked at him with a disdain so withering that
the young man wilted visibly before her.

"No offence meant, I'm sure," he said, shuffling his feet.  "But I
thought--as you were being so pally with Jake Bolton--you wouldn't
object to being pally with me."

Maud said nothing.  She was in fact so quivering with rage that speech
would have been difficult.

A very stout elderly lady, with a neck and arms that were hardly
distinguishable from the red silk dress she wore, sailed up to them.
"Come, come, Miss!" she said, beaming good-temperedly upon Maud's pale
face.  "We're not standing on ceremony to-night.  We're all friends
here. You won't mind going in with my boy Tom, I'm sure.  He's
considered quite the ladies' man, I can assure you."

"Oh, excuse me, Mrs. Wright?  Miss Brian is going in with me," said Jake
Bolton's smooth voice behind her. "Tom, you git!"

Somehow--before she knew it--the black-haired young man was gone from
her path, and her hand lay trembling within Bolton's arm.

She did not utter a word, she could not.  She felt choked.

Jake Bolton said nothing either.  He only piloted her through the crowd
with the smile of the winner curving the corners of his mouth.

They readied the dining-room, and people began to seat themselves around
a long centre table.  There was no formal arrangement, and some
confusion ensued in consequence.

"Fight it out among yourselves!" yelled Sheppard above the din of
laughter and movement.  "Make yourselves at home!"

Bolton glanced round.  "There's a table for two in that alcove," he
said.  "Shall we make for that?"

"Anywhere!" she said desperately.

He elbowed a way for her.  The table was near a window, the alcove
draped with curtains.  He put her into a chair where she was screened
from the eyes of those at the centre table.  He seated himself opposite
to her.

"Don't look so scared!" he said.

She smiled at him faintly in silence.

"I gather you don't enjoy this sort of bear-fight," he said.

She remained silent.  The man disconcerted her.  She was burningly
conscious that she had not been too discreet in taking him even so far
into her confidence.

He leaned slowly forward, fixing her with those relentless, lynx-like
eyes.  "Miss Brian," he said, his voice very level, faultlessly
distinct.  "I'm rough, no doubt, but please believe I'm white!"

She looked at him, startled, unhappy, not knowing what to say.

He nodded, still watching her.  "Don't you forget it!" he said.  "There
are plenty of beasts in the world, but I'm not one of 'em.  You'll drink
champagne, of course."

He got up to procure it, and Maud managed in the interval to recover
some of her composure.

When he came back, she mustered a smile and thanked him.

"You look fagged out," he said, as he filled her glass. "What have you
been doing?"

"Getting straight in our new quarters here," she answered. "It takes
some time."

"Where are your rooms?" he asked.

She hesitated momentarily.  "It is really only one room," she said.
"But it is a fine one.  I have another little one upstairs; but it is a
long way off.  Of course I shall sleep downstairs with Bunny."

"Do you always sleep with him?" he asked.

She  a little.  "Yes."

"Is he a good sleeper?"  He had moved round and was filling his own
glass.

She watched his steady hand with a touch of envy.  She would have given
much for as cool a nerve just then.

"Is he a good sleeper?"  He repeated the question as he set down the
bottle.

She answered it at once.  "No; a very poor one."

"And you look after him night and day?"  Bolton's eyes suddenly
comprehended her.  "I guess that accounts for it," he said, in a tone of
enlightenment.

"For what?"  She met his look haughtily, determined to hold her own.

But he smiled and refused the contest.  "For much," he said.  "Now, what
will you eat?  Lobster?  That's right.  I want to see you started.  What
a filthy racket they are making!  I hope it won't upset your appetite
any."

She had never felt less hungry in her life, but out of a queer sensation
of gratitude she tried to eat what he put before her.  He had certainly
done his best to shield her from that objectionable crowd, but she was
still by no means certain that she liked the man.  He was too much
inclined to take her friendship for granted, too ready to presume upon a
very short acquaintance.  And she was sure--quite sure now--that he had
recognized her from the very first moment, down on the parade the night
before.  The knowledge was very disquieting.  He was kind--oh, yes, he
was kind.  But she felt that he knew too much.

And so a certain antagonism warred against her gratitude, and prevented
any gracious expression thereof.  She only longed--oh, how
desperately!--to flee away from this new and horrible world into which
she had been so ruthlessly dragged and to see no more of its inhabitants
for ever.

Vain longing!  Even then she knew, or shrewdly suspected, that her lot
was to be cast in that same world for the rest of her mortal life.




                              CHAPTER VII

                              THE MAGICIAN


"Oh, Maud!  I thought you were never coming!"

Bunny's face, pale and drawn, wearing the irritable frown so habitual to
it, turned towards the opening door.

"I have brought you a visitor," his sister said.

Her voice was low and nervous.  She looked by no means sure of Bunny's
reception of the news.  Behind her came Jake Bolton the trainer, alert
and self-assured.  It was quite evident that he had no doubts whatever
upon the subject.  His thick mat of chestnut hair shone like copper in
the brilliant electric light, such hair as would have been a woman's
glory, but that Jake kept very closely cropped.

"What on earth for?" began Bunny querulously; and then magically his
face changed, and he smiled.  "Hullo! You?" he said.

Bolton came to his side and took the small, eager hand thrust out to
him.  "Yes, it's me," he said.  "No objection, I hope?"

"I should think not!"  The boy's face was glowing with pleasure.  "Sit
down!" he said.  "Maud, get a chair!"

Bolton turned sharply, found her already bringing one and took it
swiftly from her.

He sat down by Bunny's side, and took the little thin hand back into
his.  "Do you know, I've been thinking a lot about you," he said.

Bunny was vastly flattered.  He liked the grasp of the strong fingers
also, though he would not probably have tolerated such a thing from any
but this stranger.

"Yes," pursued Jake, in his soft, level voice.  "I reckon I've taken a
fancy to you, little chap--I beg your pardon--Sir Bernard.  How have you
been to-day?"

"Don't call me that!" said Bunny, turning suddenly red.

"What?" Jake smiled upon him, his magic, kindly smile. "Am I to call you
Bunny--like your sister--then?"

"Yes.  And you can call her Maud," said Bunny autocratically.  "Can't
he, Maud?"

Jake turned his head and looked at her.  She was standing before the
fire, the red glow all about her, very slim, very graceful, very
stately.  She did not so much as glance at Jake, only bent a little
towards the blaze so that he could not see her face.

"I don't think I dare," said Jake.

"Maud!"  Peremptorily Bunny's voice accosted her. "Come over here!  Come
and sit on my bed!"

It was more of a command than an invitation.  Maud straightened herself
and turned.

But as she did so, their visitor intervened.  "No, don't!" he said.
"Sit down right there, Miss Brian, in that easy-chair, and have a rest!"

His voice was peremptory too, but in a different way. Bunny stared at
him wide-eyed.

Jake met the stare with an admonitory shake of the head.  "Guess Bunny's
not wanting you," he said.  "Don't listen to anything he says!"

Bunny's mouth opened to protest, remained open for about five seconds,
and finally he said, "All right, Maud. You can stay by the fire while we
talk."

And Maud, much to her own surprise, sat down in the low chair on the
hearth and leaned her aching head back upon the cushion.

She had her back to Bunny and his companion, and the soft murmur of the
latter's voice held nought disturbing. It seemed in fact to possess
something of a soothing quality, for very soon her heavy eyelids began
to droop and the voice to recede into ever growing distance.  For a
space she still heard it, dim and remote as the splash of the waves on
the shore; then very softly it was blotted out.  Her cares and her
troubles all fell away from her.  She sank into soundless billows of
sleep.

It was a perfectly dreamless repose, serene as a child's and it seemed
to last indefinitely.  She lay in complete content, unconscious of all
the world, lapped in peace and blissfully free from the goading anxiety
that usually disturbed her rest.  It was the calmest slumber she had
known for many years.

From it she awoke at length with a guilty start.  The fall of a piece of
coal had broken the happy spell.  She sat up, to find herself in
firelight only.

Her first thought was for Bunny, and she turned in her chair and looked
across the unfamiliar room.  He was lying very still in the shadows.
Softly she rose and stepped across to him.

Yes, he was asleep also, lying among his pillows.  The chair by his side
was empty, the visitor vanished.

Very cautiously she bent over him.  He had been lying dressed outside
the bed.  Now--with a thrill of amazement she realized it--he was
undressed and lying between the sheets.  He was breathing very quietly,
and his attitude was one of easy rest.  Surely some magic had been at
work!

On a chest of drawers near stood a glass that had contained milk.  He
always had some hot milk last thing, but she had not procured it for
him.  She had in fact been wondering how she would obtain it to-night.

Another coal fell, and she crept back to replace it. Stooping she caught
sight of another glass in the fender, full of milk.  It must have been
there a long time, for it was barely warm.  Clearly it had been intended
for her.  She put it to her lips and drank.

Who could have put it there?  Her mother?  No; she was sure that her
mother would have roused her from her sleep if she had entered.  She was
moreover quite incapable of getting Bunny to bed now that he had grown
out of childhood.

The house was very quiet.  She wondered if the guests had all gone.  The
room was situated at the end of a long passage, so that the noise of the
party had scarcely reached it.  But the utter silence without as well as
within made her think that it was very late.

She dared not switch on the light, but as the fire burned up again she
held her watch to the blaze.  Half-past two!

In utter amazement she began to undress.

There was no second bed in the room; only a horse-hair sofa that was far
less comfortable than the chair by the fire.  She lay down upon it,
however, pulling over her an ancient fur travelling-rug belonging to her
mother, and here she lay dozing and waking, turning over the mystery in
her mind, while another quiet hour slipped away.

Then there came a movement from Bunny, and she sat up.

"Are you awake, Maud?" asked his voice out of the shadows.  "Has Jake
gone?"

"Yes, darling," she made answer.  "Are you wanting anything?"

She was by his side with the words; she bent over him. He wanted his
pillows rearranged, and when she had done it he said, "I say, when did
you wake up?"

"About an hour ago," she said.

He chuckled a little.  "Weren't you surprised to find me in bed?"

"Yes, I was," she said.  "How did you get there?"

Bunny seemed to regard the matter as a joke.  "That fellow Jake--he went
over and looked at you, came back and said you were fast asleep, asked
what I generally had done, and if he couldn't do it for me.  He managed
very well and was jolly quick about it too.  I thought you would be sure
to wake, but you didn't.  And when I was settled, he asked if I didn't
want anything, and I said, 'Yes, hot milk', and he crept off and got it.
He brought a glass for you too.  He stuck it in the fender.  Have you
had it?"

"Yes," Maud said.  "But Bunny, didn't he hurt you at all?  You nearly
always cry out when you're lifted."

"I didn't that time," said Bunny proudly.  "I told him I should probably
squeal, and he said if I so much as squeaked he'd throttle me.  He's a
brick, do you know, Maud.  And he seemed to know how to get hold of me
without being told."

Maud's amazement was growing.  The man must be a genius indeed to manage
Bunny in that fashion.

"After that," said Bunny, "he sat down by me and got hold of my hand and
said, 'Now I'm going to send you to sleep.'  I told him I never slept
the first part of the night, and he grinned and said, 'You'll be asleep
in five minutes from now if you let yourself go.'  And I said, 'Rats!'
And he said, 'Shut up!'  So I did.  And he held my hand tight and sat
staring across the room like a mute till somehow he got all blurred up
and then I suppose I went to sleep.  I never knew when he went.  Did
you?"

"No," said Maud.  She had an uncanny feeling that Jake had somehow left
his influence behind him in the atmosphere.  His personality seemed to
dominate it still. She was sure he had meant to be kind, but a queer
sense of antagonism made her resent his kindness.  She did not like
Bunny's whole-hearted admiration.

"He's a brick," the boy said again, "and do you know he's done almost
everything under the sun?  He's been a sailor, and he's dug for gold,
and he's kept a Californian store, and he's been a cow-boy on a ranch.
He says the last suited him best because he's so keen on the wilds and
horses.  It was out in the wilds somewhere that Lord Saltash came on him
and brought him home to be his trainer.  But he's British-born all the
same.  I knew he was that the first time I saw him."

He was evidently a paragon of all the virtues in Bunny's estimation, and
Maud did not attempt to express her own feelings, which were, in fact,
somewhat complex.

Very deep down in her woman's soul a warning voice had begun to make
itself heard, but she could not tell Bunny that.  Scarcely even to
herself dared she admit that the straight, free gaze of those red-brown
eyes possessed the power to set her heart a-fluttering in wild rebellion
like the wings of a captive bird.




                              CHAPTER VIII

                               THE OFFER


In many respects the change from their lodgings up the hill to the
Anchor Hotel by the fishing-quay was for the better, and as the days
went on and winter drew near Maud realized this.  Bunny's room had a
southern aspect, and it was only on dull days that they needed a fire
before evening.  It possessed a French window also, which was an immense
advantage; for it was perfectly easy to wheel him out on to the stone
verandah outside it, and here he would lie in his own sheltered corner
for hours; watching the sea and the shore and the passers-by, and
sometimes talking to the very infrequent visitors who came at that
season to "The Anchor."

He and Maud lived their lives apart from the rest of the establishment,
an arrangement which Mrs. Sheppard deplored although she knew it to be
an eminently wise one. Her husband, who never lost an opportunity to
revile the girl who always treated him with the same aloof distance of
manner, bitterly resented the circumstance that so limited his chances
of what he styled "taking her down a peg."  He hated her with the
rancorous and cruel hatred of conscious inferiority, savagely repenting
his undertaking to provide for her.  They did not often clash because
Maud steadfastly avoided him.  And this also he resented, for he was in
effect simply biding his time to drive her away. She was a perpetual
thorn in his side, and he seized every chance that presented itself of
inflicting some minor humiliation upon her.  His antipathy had become
almost an obsession, and he never saw her without flinging some gibing
taunt in her direction.

And those taunts of his rankled deep.  Maud's feelings towards him were
of a very deadly order.  If she had not avoided him, she knew that she
could not have remained. But for Bunny's sake she endured his insults
when contact with him became inevitable.  She could not be separated
from Bunny, and she knew of no other haven.

Towards Bunny, Sheppard displayed no ill feeling.  He had small cause to
do so, for the boy was kept rigorously out of his way, and his mother
was more than willing to leave the entire care of him to Maud.  In fact
there were sometimes whole days on which she scarcely saw him.  The
change that Maud had foretold on her wedding-day had already begun in
her.  She had quitted her own world without a pang, and was sunning
herself in the warmth of her husband's rough devotion.  As she herself
expressed it, she was getting really fond of Giles, whose brutish
affection for her was patent to all.

Maud suppressed a shudder whenever she encountered any evidence of it,
and as a result he was always noisier and coarser in his demonstrations
before her face of white disgust.  What wonder that she rigidly avoided
him and insisted upon taking all her meals with Bunny?

In this way she avoided his loud-voiced friends also,--another frequent
cause for offence!--all, that is, save one. That one was Jake Bolton;
and, since Bunny had so decreed it, this man came and went exactly as he
chose.

She never raised the smallest objection to his presence, but she
certainly never welcomed him.  In fact she generally took advantage of
his coming to leave Bunny for a space and it even became a recognized
thing between them that she should avail herself of the leisure thus
provided to run down to the shore for the brief recreation which was
never obtainable in any other way.

Very often she would not return until after Jake's departure, and so on
the whole, though they met so frequently, she actually saw but little of
him.  He was Bunny's pal, and--obedient to the inner warning--she was
firmly determined that he should never become hers.

He did not seem inclined to combat this determination, but on the other
hand he never relinquished by a hair's breadth the position he had taken
up at the beginning of their acquaintance.  It was impossible to snub
him.  He never heard a snub.  He never advanced, and he never retreated.
He simply stood firm, so that after a time her uneasiness began to die
down almost in spite of her, and she even came to look upon him in a
very guarded way as a friend in need.  He could do anything in the world
with Bunny, and though she was half-suspicious of his influence she
could not deny that he invariably exercised it in the right direction.
He had even begun to implant in Bunny a wholly novel and sometimes
almost disconcerting consideration for herself.  Bunny was more
tractable just then than he had ever been before.  It was the only
bright spot in her sky.

It was on an afternoon in late November that she went down to the shore
during one of Jake Bolton's visits to her brother, and watched the
fishing-fleet come in through a blur of rain.  The beach looked dank and
sodden and there were trails of mist in the air.  Dusk was just
beginning to fall, and it would be a wet night.  But the air blew in off
the water sweet and southerly, and it did her good to breath it.

She walked the length of the parade twice, and finally, as the
fishing-smacks dropped one by one into the harbour on the further side
of the quay, turned homewards, feeling invigorated and considerably the
happier for the brief exercise.

She wondered if Jake meant to stay to tea.  He did not often do so,
only, on the very rare occasions when she added her invitation to
Bunny's.  She supposed she would have to ask him to-day if she found him
still there when she returned.  But she hoped she would not.  She liked
him best when he was not there.

Regretfully she turned her back upon the heaving waters, and crossed the
road to the Anchor Hotel.  It was growing rapidly dusk.

She reached the entrance, and was stretching out a hand towards the
swing-doors when one of them opened abruptly from within and Jake
stepped out.  He was smoking a cigarette, and he did not in the first
moment perceive her. She drew back in an instinctive effort to escape
notice.

But he stopped short almost immediately and accosted her.

"Ah!  Is that you?  I was just wondering where you were."

Her thoughts flew to Bunny.  "Am I wanted?" she asked quickly.

He checked her with a gesture.  "No, the lad's all right. It's I who
want you.  Can you spare me a minute?"

It was impossible to refuse, but she did not yield graciously.  Somehow
she never could be gracious to Jake Bolton.

"I ought to go in," she said.  "It is getting late."

"I shan't keep you long," he said, and she noticed that it was plainly a
foregone conclusion with him that she would grant him what he asked.

She turned back into the misty darkness with a short sigh of impatience.

"Walk to the end of the parade with me!" he said, and fell in beside
her.

Later she wondered why she did not lodge a more energetic protest, for
it was beginning to rain in earnest; but at the time it seemed
inevitable that she should do as he desired.

She re-crossed the road with him, and turned to walk to the nearest end
of the parade.  They approached the spot where he had once laid
peremptory hands upon her and drawn her out of danger.  It was as they
neared it that he suddenly spoke.

"I am sorry to have brought you out again into the wet. Will you come
into the shelter?"

She acquiesced.  The shelter was empty.  She stepped within it and stood
waiting.

He took out his cigarette and after a moment dropped it and set his heel
upon it.

"I want to speak to you about your brother," he said. "And, by the way,
before I forget it, I've promised to trundle him up to the Stables next
Sunday to show him the animals.  You will come too, won't you?  I can
give you tea at my house.  It's close by."

Maud's eyes opened a little.  The suggestion somewhat startled her, and
she resented being startled.  "You are very kind," she said coldly.
"But I don't think we can either of us do that."

"I am not in the least kind," said Jake.  "And will you tell me why you
are offended with me for suggesting it?"

"I am not--offended," she said, feeling herself grow uncomfortably hot
over the assertion.  "But--I think you might have proposed this to me
before mentioning it to Bunny."

"But what's the matter with the proposal?" he said. "The boy was
delighted with it."

"That may be," Maud said; and then she paused, feeling suddenly that she
was being absurdly unreasonable. She blushed still more hotly in the
gloom, and became silent.

Jake stretched out one steady finger and laid it on her arm.  "Don't
take fright at nothing!" he said, in an admonitory tone.  "If you're
going to shy at this, I reckon you'll kick up your heels, and bolt at my
next suggestion."

She drew herself away from his touch, standing very erect.  "Perhaps you
would be wiser not to make it," she said.

"Very likely," agreed Jake.  "But--as you object to my mentioning things
to your brother first--I don't see how you can refuse to listen."

This was unanswerable.  She bit her lip.  "I am listening," she said.

"And the answer is 'No,' whatever it is," rejoined Jake, with a
whimsical note in his soft voice.  "Say, Miss Brian, play fair!"

She felt somewhat softened in spite of herself.  "I have said I will
listen," she said.

"With an unbiassed mind?" he said.

"Of course."  She spoke impatiently; she wanted to get the interview
over, and she more and more resented his attitude towards her.  There
was something of the superior male about him that grated on her nerves.

"All right," said Jake.  "I'll go ahead.  If you will condescend to come
up to my place on Sunday, I will show you a man--one of our jockeys--who
was injured in just the same way that your brother is injured, and who
is now as sound as I am.  He was operated upon by an American doctor
called Capper--one of the biggest surgeons in the world.  It was a bit
of an experiment, but it succeeded. Now what has been done once can be
done again.  I chance to know Capper, and he is coming to London next
spring. He makes a speciality of spinal trouble.  Won't you let him try
his hand on Bunny?  There would be a certain amount of risk of course.
But wouldn't it be worth it? Say, wouldn't it be worth it, to see that
boy on his legs, living his life as it was meant to be lived instead of
dragging out a wretched existence that hardly deserves to be called life
at all?"

He stopped abruptly, as if realizing that he had suffered his eagerness
to carry him away.  But to Maud who had begun to listen in icy aloofness
that same eagerness was as the kindling of a fire in a place of utter
desolation.

For the moment she forgot to be cold.  "Oh, if it were only possible!"
she said.  "If it only could be!"

"Why can't it be?" said Jake.

She came back with something of a shock to the consciousness of his
personality.  She drew back from the warmth that he had made her feel.

"Because," she said frigidly, "doctors--great surgeons--don't perform
big operations for nothing."

"I don't think Capper would charge an out-of-the-way amount if he did it
for me," said Jake.

"Perhaps not."  Maud spoke in the dead tone of finality.

He leaned slightly towards her.  "Say, Miss Brian, aren't you rather
easily disheartened?  Wouldn't your people scrape together something for
such a purpose?"

"No," she said.

"Are you quite sure?" he urged.  "Won't you even ask 'em?"

She turned from him.  "It's no good asking," she said, her voice low and
reluctant.  "The only relation we possess who might help won't even
answer when I write to him."

"Why don't you go and see him?" said Jake.  "Put the thing before him!
He couldn't refuse."

She shook her head.  "It wouldn't be any good," she said, with dreary
conviction.  "Besides, I couldn't get to Liverpool and back in a day,
and I couldn't leave Bunny for longer.  And--in any case--I know--I know
it wouldn't be any good," she ended, with half-angry vehemence.

"I wish the little chap were my brother," said Jake.

Maud was silent.  Somehow her vehemence had upset her; she had an
outrageous desire to cry.

Jake was silent too for a few seconds; then abruptly he squared his
shoulders and spoke with aggressive decision. "Miss Brian, a good friend
is nearer than a dozen beastly relations.  With your permission--I'll
see this thing through."

"Oh no, no!" she said quickly.  "No, no!"

"For the boy's sake!" he said.

"No!" she said again.

There fell a sudden silence.  Then, in an odd voice Jake said, "Bunny
told me--only to-day--with pride--that there was nothing in the world
that you wouldn't do for him."

She made a sharp movement of protest.  "I can't take--what I could never
repay," she said, speaking almost below her breath.  "Neither shall
Bunny."

"There are more ways than one of paying a debt," said Jake.

He looked almost formidable standing there in the twilight with his legs
well apart and unabashed resolution in every line of his sturdy figure.

She faced him with a sinking sense of her own inferior strength.  His
self-assertion seemed to weigh her down. She felt puny and insignificant
before it.  As usual she sought refuge in stately aloofness.  She had no
other weapon, and at least it covered the beating of her heart.

"I am afraid I don't understand you," she said.

"Shall I explain?" said Jake; and then, as she was silent: "Can't you
see I'm making a bid for your friendship?"

She froze at the effrontery of the words.

"Oh yes," said Jake.  "I quite understand.  I'm only tolerated for
Bunny's sake.  Isn't that so?  You're too proud to associate with a clod
like me.  But for all that--though you'll never look at me--I'm not
afraid to let you know that I've taken a fancy to you.  You've never
contemplated such a fool idea as marriage with me, I know: but you go
home and contemplate it right now! Ask yourself if you wouldn't find a
husband like me less nauseating than a step-father like Giles Sheppard!
Ask yourself if the little chap wouldn't stand a better chance all round
if you brought him along to me!  I reckon we'd make his life easier
between us even if Capper couldn't make him walk.  He's too heavy a
burden for you to carry alone, my girl.  You weren't created for such a
burden as that.  Let me lend a hand!  I give you my solemn oath I'll be
good to you both!"

A tremor of passion ran through his last words, and his voice took a
deeper note.  Maud, upright and quivering, felt the force of the man
like the blast of a tearing gale carrying all before it.  She would have
left him at the commencement of his speech, but he blocked the way. She
stood imprisoned in a corner of the shelter, steadying herself against
the woodwork, while the full strength of his individuality surged around
her.  She felt physically exhausted, as though she had been trying to
stand against a tremendous wind.

Several seconds throbbed away ere she could trust herself to speak
without faltering.  Then: "Please let me pass!" she said.

He stood back instantly and she was conscious of a lessening of that
mysterious influence which had so overwhelmed her.

"Are you angry--or what?" he said.

She gathered her strength, and stepped forth, though she was trembling
from head to foot.

"Yes, I am angry," she said, forcing her voice to a certain measure of
calmness notwithstanding.  "I have never been so insulted in my life!"

"Insulted!"  He echoed the word in unfeigned astonishment; then, as she
would have left him, put a detaining hand upon her arm.  "Say, Miss
Brian!  Since when has a proposal of marriage constituted an insult in
your estimation?"

He spoke with something of a drawl, but it compelled attention.  She
stopped, resisting the desire to shake herself free from his touch.

"A proposal of marriage from you could be nothing else," she said very
bitterly.  "You take advantage of my position, but you know full well
that we are not equals."

"Oh yes, I know that," he said.  "But--is any man your equal?"

"I meant socially of course," she said, beginning to recover her
composure and her dignity.

"I see."  Jake's voice was very level.  "And that is why you are
upset--angry?"

"It is a very sufficient reason," she said.

"Yes, but is it--as things now are?  There is another point of view to
that problem.  If you had been leading a happy, sheltered life in your
own sphere--that might have been a reason for me to hold off.  You might
with justice have scorned my offer.  But--as things are--as things
are--" he spoke with strong insistence.  "Is it taking advantage of your
position to want to deliver you from it?  It's a beastly position--it's
a humiliating position.  And I gather you've no prospect of deliverance.
Well, I offer you a way of escape.  It mayn't be the way you would
choose, but--there are worse, many worse.  I'm not a bad sort, and I've
got a soft spot in my heart for that little brother of yours.  Say, Miss
Brian, do you despise me so badly that you can't even give the idea your
impartial consideration?"

He spoke whimsically, but there was a rough dignity about him
nevertheless which had an undeniable effect upon her.  She could no
longer spurn him with contempt, though neither could she yield a single
inch to his persuasion.

"It would be quite useless for me to consider it," she said.  "I am
sorry if I was rude to you just now, but your suggestion rather took my
breath away.  Please understand that it is quite, quite impossible!"

"All right," he said.  "Still you won't dismiss it quite entirely from
your mind?  That is to say, you'll hold it in reserve just in case a way
of escape becomes essential to you. I shan't break my heart about it,
but neither shall I change my mind.  The offer remains open day and
night just in case the emergency might arise which would make you
willing to avail yourself of it."

He took his hand from her arm, and she felt that the interview was over.

Yet he walked beside her as she began to move away, and crossed the road
again with her to the entrance of the hotel.

"And one thing more," he said, as they reached it.  "I have no wish or
intention to force myself upon you, so if--to please Bunny--you can
bring yourself to accompany the pair of us on the Sunday expedition to
see the stud, you need not be afraid that I shall attempt to take
advantage of your position again."

The colour flamed up in her face at the few, leisurely words.  He seemed
to possess the power of calling it up at will.

She stood on the first step, looking down at him, uncertain whether to
be haughty or kind.

He moved close to her, and by the lamplight that streamed through the
glass doors she saw his frank, disarming smile.

"And look here!" he said.  "Don't fling cold water on that other scheme
for Bunny that I broached to you, yet! You never know what may turn up."

The smile decided her.  She held out her hand to him. "But, you know, I
couldn't--I really couldn't--" she said rather incoherently.

He gave the hand a firm grip and released it.  "No. All right.  I
understand.  But think about it!  And don't run away with the idea that
I planned it just for your sake!  I'd like jolly well to be of use to
you.  But--in the main--it's the lad I'm thinking of.  You do the same!
After all, it's second nature with you to put him first, isn't it?"

"He always will come first, with me," she said.  "But I couldn't--I
can't--incur such an obligation--even for him."

"All right," said Jake, unmoved.  "Class it with the impossibles--but,
all the same, think about it!"

He was gone with the words, striding away down the street without a
backward glance.

Maud was left alone with the warm blood still in her cheeks and an odd
feeling of uncertainty at her heart. She felt baffled and uneasy like a
swimmer in deep waters, aware of a strong current but still not wholly
at its mercy, nor wholly aware of its force and direction.  She did not
mean to let herself be drawn into that current.  She hung on the edge of
it, trying to strike out and avoid it.  But all the time it drew her, it
drew her.  And--though she would not admit it even to herself--she knew
it and was afraid.




                               CHAPTER IX

                              THE REAL MAN


That Sunday of their visit to the Burchester Stables was a marked day
with Maud for the rest of her life.

The Stables were situated on the side of a splendid down about a mile
from the sea.  Lord Saltash's estate stretched for miles around, and he
practically owned the whole of Fairharbour.  Burchester Castle was the
name of the seat, an ancient pile dating from Saxon times that had
belonged to the Burchester family since the days of the Tudors. Charlie
Burchester had inherited it from his uncle five years before; but he did
not live in it.  He had occasional wild house-parties there, especially
for the event of the Graydown Races.  And he sometimes spent a night or
two when the mood took him to visit the stud.  But for the most part the
house stood in empty grandeur, its rooms shuttered and shrouded, its
stately gardens deserted save for the gardeners who tended them.

Exquisite gardens they were.  Maud had a glimpse of them from the height
of the down--terraced gardens with marble steps and glistening
fountains, yew-walks, darkly mysterious, quaintly fashioned, pines that
rustled and whispered together.  The house was securely hidden from view
among its trees.

"It used to be a nunnery," said Jake.  "Its inhabitants had a chaste
objection to publicity.  It's an interesting old place, about a mile
from the Stables.  I'd like to show it to you some time.  You'd enjoy
it."

"Not to-day," said Bunny quickly.

Jake smiled at his tone.  "No, not to-day, lad.  We'll go and see the
animals to-day."

He had brought them up the long, winding private road which, though
smooth enough, was a continual ascent. Maud had wanted to help with the
invalid-chair, but he had steadily refused any assistance.  She
marvelled at the evident ease with which he had accomplished the
journey, never hurrying, never halting, not even needing to pause for
breath, untiring as a wild animal in its native haunts. She remembered
the nickname he bore on the Turf, and reflected that it fitted him in
more than one respect.  He was so supple, so tough, so sure.

Suddenly those bright eyes flashed round on her.  "Say, you're tired,"
he said, in his queer, lilting voice.  "We'll have tea first."

"No!" cried Bunny on the instant.  "We'll do the Stables first, Jake.
It's not time for tea.  Besides, tea can wait."

Jake's brown hand came over the back of the chair and filliped the boy's
cheek.  "Shut up, my son!" said Jake.

Maud stared at the action.  Bunny turned scarlet.

Jake unconcernedly continued his easy progress.  "Reckon the animals
won't die if we don't inspect 'em till after tea," he said.  "What's
your idea, Miss Brian?"

"If Bunny wishes to go straight to the Stables--" she began.

He interrupted.  "Bunny has changed his mind.  Ain't that so, Bunny?"

"I don't care," said Bunny rather sullenly.

"All right then," said Jake.  "Tea first!"

He wheeled the chair into a great gateway that led into a wide stone
courtyard.  White-washed stables were on each side of them and at
regular intervals large green tubs containing miniature fir-trees.  At
the further end of the courtyard stood a square, white-washed house.

"That's my shanty," said Jake.

It was a very plain building; in former days it had been a farm.  There
was a white railing in front and a small white gate flanked by another
pair of toy firs.  The whole effect was one of prim cleanliness.

"There's a bit of garden at the back," said Jake.  "And a
summer-house--quite a decent little summer-house--that looks right away
to the sea.  Now, Bunny lad, there's a comfortable sofa inside for you.
Think I can carry you in?"

"Can't you take in the chair?" Maud asked nervously.

Jake looked at her.  "Oh yes, I can.  But the passage is a bit narrow.
It's not very easy to turn."

"Of course he can carry me, Maud.  Let him carry me!" broke in Bunny, in
an aggrieved tone.  "You make such a stupid fuss always."

Jake had thrown open the door of his home.  "You go in, Miss Brian!" he
said.  "Turn to the right at the end of the passage, and it's the door
facing you."

She went in reluctantly.  The passage was small and dark, oak-panelled,
low-ceiled.

"Go right in!" said Jake.

She did not want to turn her back on Bunny, but she knew that the boy
would resent any lingering on her part. She passed down the passage and
turned as Jake had directed.

The door that faced her stood open, and she entered a long, low room,
oak-panelled like the passage, with a deep, old-fashioned fireplace in
which burned a cheery wood fire. Two windows, diamond-paned, and a door
with the upper panels of glass occupied the whole of the further side of
the room, and the western sunshine slanting in threw great bars of gold
across the low window-seats.

Tea had been set on a table in the middle of the room, to the corner of
which a sofa had been drawn.  There were bed-pillows as well as cushions
on the sofa.  Evidently Jake had ransacked the house to provide comfort
for Bunny.

Maud stood just within the doorway listening, dreading to hear the
indignant outcry that generally attended any movement of the poor little
crippled body.  But she heard nothing beyond Jake's voice murmuring
unintelligibly, and in a few seconds the steady tread of his feet as he
entered the house.

Then, while she stood listening, the feet drew near and there came a
pleased chuckle from Bunny.  Jake came squarely in, carrying him like an
infant, and deposited him with infinite care among the cushions that
Maud hastily adjusted for his reception.

"There you are, my son," he said.  "Make yourself as much at home as you
can!"

Bunny looked about him with keen interest.  "Oh, I say, what a jolly
room!  What a ripping room!  You're beastly lucky to live here, Jake."

"Oh, yes, it's a decent little crib," said Jake.  "Those doorsteps were
just made for an evening pipe."

He indicated the closed glass-panelled door.  Maud went to it and found
that the ground sloped sharply away from this side of the house,
necessitating a flight of several steps.  They led down into a sunny
space that was more orchard than garden,--fruit-trees and grass
spreading down the side of the hill towards the magic, pine-screened
grounds of Burchester Castle.

Jake came and stood beside her for a moment.  He was being studiously
impersonal that day, an attitude which curiously caused her more of
uneasiness than relief.

"The arbour is at the end by those apple-trees," he said. "You can just
see the roof from here.  It looks over the field where we train.  It's
sport to watch the youngsters learning to run.  Lord Saltash calls it
the grand stand."

"Do you know Lord Saltash?" broke in Bunny.  "He used to be a great pal
of ours once."

"Oh, that was years ago--in London," said Maud quickly.  "No doubt he
has quite forgotten our existence by this time."

She spoke with unwitting sharpness, hotly aware that the lynx-like eyes
of her host were upon her.

Bunny took instant offence.  "I'm sure it wasn't years ago, Maud; and
you know it wasn't.  It isn't more than two since we saw him last--if
that.  As to forgetting all about us, that isn't very likely,
considering the mother was one of his bad debts."

"Bunny!"  Maud began in rare anger.

But in the same moment Jake swung calmly round. "Say, Bunny, do you like
shrimps?" he asked.  He moved to Bunny's side and stood looking down at
him.  "I got some in case.  Miss Brian, I hope shrimps are good for him,
are they?"

"She doesn't know," said Bunny irritably.  "What's the good of asking
her?  Of course I like shrimps!  Aren't we going to begin soon?  I want
to go and see the horses."

"You seem to be in an all-fired hurry," observed Jake. "Left your
manners behind, haven't you?"  He took out his watch.  "Half-past three!
All right, my son. We'll go at four, Miss Brian, do you mind pouring
out?"

He set a chair for her facing the window, and sat down himself next to
Bunny.

It seemed to Maud that, seated there in his own house, she saw him under
a new aspect.  He played the host with ability and no small amount of
tact.

He talked mainly about the stud, interesting her in a subject which she
had never before viewed at close quarters. He described various events
in which some of his charges had won distinction, and presently, to
Bunny's keen delight; he began a brief but stirring description of an
attempt to tamp with one of the animals two summers before on the eve of
one of the Graydown Races.  Some inkling of the intended attempt had
reached him, and he himself had lain in wait to frustrate it.

"But how?" cried Bunny breathlessly.

"I decided to spend the night in the loose-box," said Jake.  "There's no
hardship in sleeping alongside a good horse.  I've done it many a time.
I wasn't so intimate with Lord Saltash then as I am now, but I knew
enough not to be altogether surprised when he came sliding into the
stable-yard a little after midnight in a two-seated car and made
straight for the loose-box where I was.  The top half of the door was
ajar, and there was a dim lamp burning in the yard, but his head-lights
showed up everything like day.  He pushed the top half right back and
leaned his arms on the lower and said, 'That you, Bolton?'  I got up and
went to him.  There was no one else about.  'I've put myself in charge
this trip,' I told him.  'You needn't be nervous.'  He grinned in a
sickly sort of fashion and said, 'I am nervous--deuced nervous, and I'll
tell you why. If that brute runs to-morrow I'm a ruined man.'  And then
he started jawing about some fool wager he'd made, said he was under the
thumb of some rascally booky, and actually began to try and talk me into
spoiling the animal's chances."

Jake paused.  He was looking at Maud as if he expected something.

She looked back at him, her head very high, her eyes shining defiantly
bright.  "Lord Saltash has a double apparently?" she said.

"Now, that's real clever of you!" said Jake, with a smile. "Yes, that is
the key to the mystery, and I soon grasped it. He offered me a large sum
of money to prevent Pedro running.  Pedro was listening to the
transaction with his head on my shoulder.  I said yes to everything, and
then I suggested that we should settle the details outside where there
was no chance of witnesses.  He agreed to that, and I picked up my whip
and got into his car after him, and we slipped out and ran about
half-a-mile into the Park where I stopped him."

Jake paused again, still looking expectantly at the girl facing him.
She was flushed but evidently not greatly moved.

"What a thrilling recital!" she said.

And, "Go on!" urged Bunny impatiently.

Jake laughed a little.  "I felt rather a skunk myself. He was so sweetly
unsuspicious, till I used the cowboy clutch on him and tied up his arms
in his own coat.  That opened his eyes, but it was a bit too late.  He
was in for a cowhiding, and he realized it, scarcely showed fight, in
fact.  I didn't let him off on that account, and I don't suppose he has
forgotten it to this day.  I didn't quite flay him, but I made him feel
some."

"And you let him go afterwards?" questioned Bunny.

"Yes, I let him go."  Jake took up his cup and drank in a contemplative
fashion.  "After that," he said, in his slow way, "I went back to Pedro,
and we finished the night together.  But--I don't know whether having
his rest disturbed upset his nerves any--he only managed to come in
second after all."

"And Lord Saltash?" said Maud abruptly.  "Did you ever tell him what had
happened?"

"Oh yes," said Jake.  "I told him the following evening, and he laughed
in his jolly way and said, 'Well, I'm glad you weren't taken in, but I'm
glad too that you let the poor devil go.  A leathering from you couldn't
have been any such joke.'  It wasn't," added Jake grimly.  "It was as
unlike a joke as a blue pill is unlike raspberry jam."

"But what became of the real man?" questioned Bunny. "Did he get clean
away?"

"Clean away," said Jake.  "And now--if you're ready--we'll go and see
the hero of that episode."

"Who was the hero?" asked Maud, with a hint of sarcasm as she rose.

He looked at her with a faint smile.  "Why, Dom Pedro, of course," he
said.  "Come along and make his acquaintance!"




                               CHAPTER X

                         THE HEAD OF THE FAMILY


It was among the horses that Maud at length saw Jake Bolton in his true
element.  They were all plainly very dear to his heart.  He introduced
them as friends. His pockets were stuffed with sugar which both she and
Bunny helped to distribute, and not till dusk came upon them did they
realize the lateness of the hour.

It was at the last minute that Jake suddenly summoned a little man who
was lounging in the gateway.  "Here, Sam!  I've been telling the lady
about your tumble and how they put you together again.  It interested
her."

Sam approached with a sheepish grin.  "I thought I was a goner," he
said.  "But Mr. Bolton--" he looked at Jake and his grin widened--"he's
one of the Never-say-die sort.  And the Yankee doctor, well, he was a
regular knock-out, he was.  Mended me as clean--well, there, you
wouldn't never have known I'd had a smash."

One eye wandered down to Bunny in his long chair as he spoke; but he
discreetly refrained from comment, and it was Bunny who eagerly broke in
with: "What happened to you?  Was it your spine?  Let's hear!"

Sam was only too willing to oblige.  He settled down to his story like a
horse into its stride, and for nearly a quarter of an hour Maud stood
listening to the account of the miracle which, according to Sam Vickers,
the great American doctor had performed.

Bunny drank it all in with feverish avidity.  Maud did not like to watch
his face.  The look it wore went to her heart.

She did not want to glance at Jake either though after a time she felt
impelled to do so.  His eyes were fixed upon Bunny, but on the instant
they came straight to hers as if she had spoken.  She avoided them
instinctively, but she felt them none the less, as though a dazzling
searchlight had suddenly and mercilessly been turned upon her, piercing
straight to her soul.

It was soon after this that he quietly intervened to put an end to Sam's
reminiscences.  It was growing late, and they ought to be moving.

Maud agreed; Bunny protested, and was calmly overruled by Jake.  They
started back through a pearly greyness of dusk that heralded the rising
of the moon.  They spoke but little as they went.  Bunny seemed suddenly
tired, and it did not apparently occur to either of his companions to
attempt to make conversation.

Only, as they descended the winding road that led down to Fairharbour
and a sudden clamour of church-bells arose through the evening mist,
Jake glanced again at the girl who was walking rather wearily by Bunny's
side, and said, "Wouldn't you like to go to Church now?  I'll see to the
youngster."

She shook her head.  "Thank you very much; I don't think so."

"Oh, go on, Maud!" exclaimed Bunny, emerging from his reverie.  "I don't
want you if Jake will stay.  I'd sooner have Jake.  He doesn't fuss like
you."

"I'll get him to bed," Jake went on, as if he had not spoken.  "You can
trust me to do that, you know.  I won't let him talk too much either.
Say, Miss Brian, it's a good offer; you'd better close with it."

She heard the smile in the words; and because of it she found she could
not refuse.  "But I don't like to give you so much trouble," she said.

"You give me pleasure," he answered simply.

At the gate of the churchyard he stopped.  "I'll say good-bye," he said.
"But don't hurry back!  I shall stay as long as I am wanted."

She knew that she could rely upon him in that respect as upon no one
else in the world.  She gave him her hand with another low word of
thanks.

"May I walk to the door with you?" he said, and drew Bunny's chair to
one side.

It would have been churlish to refuse.  She suffered him in silence.

The church was on an eminence that overlooked the harbour.  Reaching the
porch, the whole wide view of open sea lay spread before them, flooded
in moonlight. The clanging bells above them had sunk to stillness.  A
peace that seemed unearthly wrapped them round.  They stood for the
moment quite alone, gazing out to the far, dim sky-line.

And suddenly Maud heard the beating of her heart in the silence, and was
conscious of an overwhelming sense of doom.

With an effort that seemed to tear at the very foundations of her being,
she turned and walked down a narrow path between the tombstones.  He
followed her till in breathless agitation she turned again.

"Mr. Bolton!"

Her voice was no more than a whisper.  She was thankful that her face
was in shadow.

He stood silently, his eyes, alert and bright, fixed intently upon her.

"I must ask you," she said, "--I must beg you--to regard what I said the
other day as final.  If I am friendly with you, I want you to understand
that it is solely for Bunny's sake--no other reason."

"That is understood," said Jake.

She drew the quick breath of one seeking relief.  "Then you will forget
that--that impossible notion?  You will let me forget it too?"

"I shan't remind you of it," said Jake.

"And you will forget it yourself?" she insisted.

He lowered his eyes suddenly, and it was as if a light had unexpectedly
gone out.  She waited in the dark with a beating heart.

And then with a great clash the bells broke out overhead and further
speech became impossible.  Jake wheeled without warning, and walked
away.

She stood and watched him go, still with that sense of coming fate upon
her.  Her heart was leaping wildly like a chained thing seeking to
escape.

As for Jake, he rejoined Bunny and squarely resumed the journey back to
the town, without the smallest sign of discomposure.

He seemed somewhat absent, however, trudging along in almost unbroken
silence; and it was not until he laid the boy down at length in his own
room that he said, "Now, look here, youngster!  If you can't be decently
civil to your sister, I've done with you.  Understand?"

Bunny turned impulsively and buried his face in Jake's sleeve.  "All
right.  Don't jaw!" he begged in muffled accents.

Jake remained unmoved.  "I've been wanting to punch your head most of
the afternoon," he remarked severely.

"You can do it now if you like," muttered Bunny, burrowing a little
deeper.

Jake did not respond to the invitation.  "Why can't you behave yourself
anyway?" he said.

He settled Bunny's pillows with a sure hand, and laid him gently back
upon them.  But Bunny clung to him still.

"You aren't really savage with me, Jake?" he said.

"All right.  I'm not," said Jake.  "But I won't have it all the same;
savvy?"

He put his hand for a moment on Bunny's head and rumpled the dark hair.
Bunny's lips quivered unexpectedly.

"It's so--beastly--being managed always by women," he said.

"You don't know when you're lucky," said Jake.

Bunny's emotion passed.  He looked at his friend shrewdly.  "I suppose
you're in love with her," he remarked after a moment.

Jake's eyes met his instantly and uncompromisingly. "Well?" he said.

"Nothing," said Bunny.  "Of course she's my sister."

"And so you think you're entitled to a voice in the matter?"  Jake's
tone was strictly practical.

Bunny's fingers slipped into his.  "I'm the head of the family, you
know, Jake," he said.

The man's face softened to a smile.  "Yes, I reckon that's so," he said.
"Well?  What has the head of the family to say to the notion?"

Bunny turned rather red.  "You see,--you're not a mister, are you?" he
said.

"Not a gentleman, you mean?" suggested Jake.

Bunny's uneasiness increased.  He squeezed Jake's hand very hard in
silence.

"All right, little chap," said Jake.  "Don't agitate yourself!  I'm not
what you call a gentleman,--not even a first-class imitation.  Let's go
on from there!  Any other objections?"

"I don't want to be a cad, Jake!" burst from Bunny. "But you know--you
know--she might have done a lot better for herself.  She might have
married Charlie Burchester."

"Who?" said Jake.

"Lord Saltash," explained Bunny.  "We thought--everyone thought--five
years ago--that they were going to get married.  He was awfully keen on
her, and she of course was in love with him.  And then there was that
row with the Cressadys.  Lady Cressady got him into a mess, and Sir
Philip always was an obnoxious beast.  And afterwards Charlie Burchester
sheered off and went abroad.  He came back after he succeeded, but
Maud--she's awfully proud, you know,--she wouldn't look at him, vows she
never will again--though I'm not so sure she won't.  He's sure to come
back some day.  He's such a rattling good sort, and he's jolly fond of
her."

"And the rest," said Jake drily.

"No, really, Jake, he isn't a rotter.  He's an awfully nice chap.  You'd
say so if you really knew him."

"I do know him," said Jake.

"And you don't like him?"  Bunny's eyes opened wide in astonishment.

"Yes, I like him."  Jake's tone was enigmatical.  "But I shouldn't call
him a marrying man.  Anyway, he won't marry your sister, so you can make
up your mind to that! Any other gentlemen in the running?"

"You couldn't prevent their being married if--if Maud changed her mind,"
said Bunny.

Jake smiled.  "Anyone else?" he persisted.

"No, no one.  She never sees anybody now."

"Except me," said Jake.  "And I'm not genteel enough, hey?"

"You're a brick!" said Bunny with enthusiasm.  "But, you know, women
don't see that sort of thing.  They only care about whether a man opens
the door for 'em or takes off his glove to shake hands."

Jake broke into a laugh.  "Say, sonny, what a thundering lot you know
about women!" he said.  "Anyway, I conclude I am right in surmising that
you personally could swallow me as a brother-in-law?"

Bunny's eyes began to shine.  "You're the best fellow I know," he said.
"If--if it weren't for Lord Saltash, I wouldn't say a word!"

"Well," said Jake very deliberately, "I refuse to be warned off on his
account.  That's understood, is it?"

Bunny hesitated.  The red-brown eyes were looking full and unwaveringly
into his.  "I'm not thinking of myself, Jake," he said, with sudden
pleading.

Jake's hand closed squarely upon his.  "All right, old chap, I know; and
I like you for it.  But I'm taking odds. It's ninety-nine to one.  If I
win on the hundredth chance, you'll take it like a sport?"

Bunny's hand returned his grip with all the strength at his command.  He
was silent for a moment or two; then, impulsively: "I say, Jake," he
said, "--you--you're such a sport yourself!  I think I'll back you after
all."

"Right O!" said Jake.  "You won't be sorry."

He dismissed the subject then with obvious intention, and Bunny seemed
relieved to let it go.  He turned the conversation to Sam Vickers,
asking endless questions regarding the American doctor and his miracles.

"I wish he'd come and have a look at me, Jake," he said wistfully at
length.

"Thought you didn't like doctors," said Jake.

"Oh, a man like that is different.  I'd put up with a man like that,"
said Bunny, with a sigh.

"You might have to put up with more than you bargained for," said Jake.

Bunny moved his head wearily on the pillow.  "I don't think anything
could be worse than this," he said.

"I'm glad to hear you say so," said Jake, with sudden force; and then,
pulling himself up as suddenly, "No, we won't get talking on that
subject.  Capper's in America, and you've got to sleep to-night.  But
you keep a stiff upper lip, old chap!  I'm in with you from start to
finish. Maybe, some day, we'll work a change."

"You're no end of a trump!" said Bunny with tears in his eyes.




                               CHAPTER XI

                         THE DECLARATION OF WAR


For three weeks after that Sunday visit to Jake's home, life went on as
usual, and a certain measure of tranquillity returned to Maud.

She found herself able to meet the man without any show of
embarrassment, and, finding him absolutely normal in his behaviour
towards her, she began to feel a greater confidence in his presence.  He
had promised that he would not force himself upon her, and it was
evident that he had every intention of keeping his word.  That he might
by imperceptible degrees draw nearer to her, become more intimate, was a
possibility that for a time troubled her; but he was so absolutely
considerate in all his dealings with her that this fear of hers at
length died away.  If he were playing a waiting game he did it with a
patience so consummate that his tactics were wholly hidden from her.  He
had to all appearances accepted her decision as final, and put the
notion away as impracticable.

Christmas was drawing near, and several visitors had already arrived.
There was generally a short season at Christmas, during which the Anchor
Hotel had its regular patrons.  Its landlord was in an extremely
variable state of mind, sometimes aggressive, sometimes jovial,
frequently not wholly sober.  Maud avoided all contact with him with
rigorous persistence, her mother's protests notwithstanding.

"He can't be civil to me," she said, "and he shall not have the
opportunity of being anything else."

And no persuasion could move her from this attitude. Mrs. Sheppard was
obliged reluctantly to abandon the attempt.  She herself was seldom out
of favour with her husband, whatever his condition, and that after all
was what mattered most.

But the state of affairs was such as was almost bound to lead to a
climax sooner or later.  Giles Sheppard's hectoring mood was not of the
sort to be satisfied for long with passive avoidance.  Every glimpse he
had of the girl, who ate his bread but disdained to do so in his company
or the company of his friends, inflamed him the more hotly against her.
It needed but a pretext to set his wrath ablaze, and a pretext was not
far to seek.

One day about a week before Christmas he unexpectedly presented himself
at the door of Bunny's room.

The weather was damp and raw, and a cheerful fire burned there.  Bunny
was lying among pillows on the sofa.  He had had a bad night, and his
face, as he turned it to the intruder, was white and drawn.

"What on earth--" he began querulously.

Sheppard entered with arrogance, leaving the door wide open behind him.
"Look here!" he said harshly. "You've got to turn out of this.  The room
is wanted."

Maud, who was dusting the room as was her daily custom, turned swiftly
round with something of the movement of a tigress.  Her face was pale
also.  She had slept even less than Bunny the previous night.  Her blue
eyes shone like two flames under her knitted brows.

"What do you mean?" she said.

He looked at her with insult in his eyes.  "I mean just that, my fine
madam," he said.  "This room is wanted. The boy will have to go with the
rest of the lumber--at the top of the house."

It was brutally spoken, but the brutality was aimed at her, not Bunny.
Maud realized that fact, and curbed her resentment.  She could
endure--or so she fancied--his personal hostility with fortitude.  But
his announcement was sufficiently disquieting in itself.

"I understood that we were not to be disturbed at any time," she said,
meeting his look with that icy pride of hers that was the only weapon at
her command.  "Surely some other arrangement can be made?"

Sheppard growled out a strangled oath; she always made him feel at a
disadvantage, this slip of a girl whom he could have picked up with one
hand had he chosen.

"I tell you, this room is wanted," he reiterated stormily. "You'd better
clear out at once."

"Bunny can't possibly be moved to-day," Maud said quickly and decidedly.
"He is in pain.  Can't you see for yourself how impossible it is?  I am
quite sure no visitor who knew the facts of the case would wish to turn
him out."

Sheppard stamped a furious foot.  He was getting up his fury; and
suddenly she saw that he had been drinking. The knowledge came upon her
in a flash of understanding, and with it a disgust so complete that it
overwhelmed every other consideration.

She pointed to the door.  "Go!" she said, in tense, frozen accents.  "Go
at once!  How dare you come in here in this state?"

Before her withering disdain he drew back, as it were involuntarily.  He
even half turned to obey.  Then, suddenly some devil prompted him, and
he swung back again.  With one gigantic stride he reached the sofa; and
before either brother or sister knew what he intended to do he had
roughly seized upon the boy's slight body and lifted it in his great
arms.

Bunny's agonized outcry at the action mingled with his sister's, but it
ceased almost immediately.  He collapsed in the giant grip like an empty
sack, and Sheppard, now wrought to a blind fury that had no thought for
consequences, carried him from the room and along the passage to the
stairs, utterly unheeding the fact that he had fainted.

Maud, nearly beside herself, went with him, striving to support the limp
body where long experience had taught her support was needed.  They went
up the stairs so, flight after flight, Sheppard savage and stubborn, the
girl in a dumb agony of anxiety, seeking only to relieve the dreadful
strain that had bereft Bunny of his senses.

They reached at length a room at the top of the house, a bare garret of
a place with sloping ceiling and uncarpeted floor.  There was a bed
under the skylight, and on this the man deposited his burden.

Then he turned and looked at Maud with eyes of cruel malevolence.  "This
is good enough for you and yours," he said.

Over Bunny's body she flung her fruitless defiance. "You drunken brute!"
she said.  "You loathsome coward! You hateful, tipsy bully!"

The words pierced him like the stabs of a dagger too swift to evade.  He
was sober enough to be cowed.

From the door he looked back at her, where she stood at the bedside,
upright, quivering, a dart-like creature full of menace despite her
delicacy of form and fibre.  Again he knew himself to be at a
disadvantage.  He had not drunk enough to be intrepid.  Swearing and
malignant, he withdrew like a savage beast.  But as he went, the madness
of hatred rose in a swirl to his brain.  She had defied him, had she?
Her bitter words rang again and again in his ears.  She had proclaimed
him a drunkard, a coward, a bully!  And she thought he would put up with
it.  Did she?  Did she?  Thought she could insult him with impunity in
his own house!  Thought he would tamely endure her impertinences for all
time!  He ground his teeth as he went down to the bar.  He would have a
reckoning with her presently.  Yes, there should be a reckoning.  He had
borne with her too long--too long! Now matters had come to a head.  She
would either have to humble herself or go.

He had tried to be patient.  He had hoped that Jake Bolton would soon
relieve him of the unwelcome burden he had taken upon himself.  Jake
could tame her; he was quite sure of that.  But Jake seemed to be making
no headway.  He had even begun to wonder lately if Jake meant business
after all.

In any case he was at the end of his patience; and when his wife came to
him with tears to remonstrate on behalf of poor little Bunny he hardened
himself against her and refused to discuss the subject.

As for Maud, she spent the rest of the day in trying to make Bunny's new
quarters habitable.  She hoped with all her heart that Jake would come
in the evening so that they could move him into the room she occupied, a
floor lower, which had at least a fireplace.  But for once Jake
disappointed her, and so the whole day passed in severe pain for Bunny
and vexation of spirit for her.

Towards evening to her relief he began to doze.  She watched beside him
anxiously.  He had been very plucky, displaying an odd protective
attitude towards herself that had gone to her heart; but she knew that
at times he had suffered intensely and the fact had been almost more
than she could bear.  She knew that it would be days before he would
shake off the effects of the rough handling he had received, and she
dreaded the future with a foreboding that made her feel physically sick.

Now that Sheppard's animosity had developed into active hostility, she
knew that the situation could not last much longer, but how to escape it
remained a problem unsolved. Her uncle had made no reply to her letter.
She could not write to him again.  And there was no one else to whom she
could appeal.  Alone, she could have faced the world and somehow made a
way for herself; but with Bunny--  She clenched her hands in impotent
anguish.  There was only one person in the world willing to lift the
burden from her, only one person besides herself who really cared for
Bunny.  She suddenly began to tremble.  That sense of approaching doom
was upon her again.  The current had caught her surely, surely, and was
whirling her away.

Bunny stirred--as though somehow caught in the net of her
emotions--stirred and came out of uneasy slumber.

"I say, Maud!"

"What is it, darling?  Are you uncomfortable?"  There was a wealth of
mother-love in her low voice as she bent above him.

Bunny put out a cold, moist hand.  "I say, Maud," he said again, "Jake's
a good sort.  You like Jake, don't you?"

"Yes, darling," she answered soothingly.

He turned his head on the pillow; she could feel his fingers opening and
closing in the restless way he had. "I like him too," he said.  "I like
him awfully. He's--the real thing.  I wish----"

"What, Bunny?"  There was constraint in her voice, and she knew it, but
it was a subject upon which she could not bring herself to speak freely.
She dreaded his answer more than she could have said.

Possibly he divined the fact, for he heaved a sharp sigh and said,
"Nothing," in a tone that told her that he was very far from satisfied.

But she could not pursue the matter.  Thankfully she let it drop.

The evening wore away.  There was only one candle in the room.  By it
she and Bunny ate the supper which Maud herself had fetched from the
kitchen.  No one had time to wait upon them.  The boy was still trying
to make the best of things, and she marvelled at his courage.

When the meal was over he looked at her with a faint smile under his
drawn brows.  "Look here, Maud!  There's that bed in the corner.  Can't
you make it comfortable and get a good night for once?"

She looked at him in surprise.  It was very unusual for Bunny to give a
thought to her comfort.

"Yes, I want you to," he said.  "Go and undress, and then bring your
blankets up here!  You can't sit up all night in a straight-backed
chair, so you may as well be comfortable.  Don't stare!  Go and do it!"

The bed in the corner was a thing of broken springs and crippled
frame-work, but it had a mattress of straw albeit bedclothes were
lacking.  Bunny's suggestion seemed feasible, and since it was plain
that he would not be content unless she followed it she yielded without
demur.  Her own room was only a flight of stairs away, and she had
already fetched several things from it for his comfort.  She hoped to
get him down to it on the following day, if only Jake would come.  It
was neither warm nor spacious, but it was preferable to this fireless
attic.

She brought the blankets, and arranged the bed.  "I don't think I'll
undress, Bunny," she said.

"You are to," said Bunny.  "Jake says no one can possibly rest properly
without."

She was inclined to resent this assertion of Jake's teaching, but again
she yielded.  Bunny was in a mood to work himself into a fever if his
behests were not obeyed.

She went down and undressed therefore, and presently slipped up to him
again, hoping to find him asleep.  But he was wide-eyed and restless.

"It's so beastly cold," he said.  "I can't sleep.  My feet are like
stones.  Where's the fur rug?"

She looked round for it.  "Oh, Bunny, I'm so sorry. I must have left it
in your room downstairs.  Never mind! Here's a blanket instead!"

She was already pulling it off her bed when Bunny asserted himself once
more.

"Maud, I won't have it!  I will not have it!  Do you hear?  Put it back
again!  Why can't you go and fetch the fur rug?"

"My dear, I can't go down like this," she objected.

"Rot!" said Bunny.  "Everyone's gone to bed by now. If you don't get it,
they'll be turning the room out in the morning, and it'll get lost.
Besides, you look all right."

She was wearing no more than a light wrap over her night-dress; but, as
Bunny said, it was probable that everyone had retired, for the hour was
late.  Only a few dim lights were left burning in the passages.  There
would be no one about, and it would not take two minutes to slip down
and get the rug.  She dropped the blanket he had refused, and went
softly out.




                              CHAPTER XII

                             THE RECKONING


The whole house was in silence as noiselessly she stole down the stairs.
It was close upon midnight, and she did not meet or hear anyone.  The
place might have been empty, so still was it.

The long, long roar of the sea came to her as she groped her way down
the winding, dark passage that led to the room from which Bunny had been
so rudely ejected a few hours before.  There was no light here, but she
knew her way perfectly, and, finding the door, softly opened it and
turned on the electric light.

The room was just as she had left it, the sofa drawn up by the burnt-out
fire.  She had collected all Bunny's things earlier in the evening, but,
since the rug had been forgotten, she thought it advisable to take the
opportunity of ascertaining if anything else had been left behind.  She
found the rug, pushed the sofa back against the wall, and began a quiet
search of all the drawers and other receptacles the room contained.

She had almost finished her task, and was just closing the writing-table
drawer when a sudden sound made her start.  A creaking footstep came
from the passage beyond the open door.  She turned swiftly with a
jerking heart to see her step-father, bloated and malignant, standing on
the threshold.

For a single instant he stood there looking at her, and a great throb of
misgiving went through her at the savage triumph in his eyes.  He had
been drinking, drinking heavily she was sure; but he did not seem to be
intoxicated, only horribly sure of himself, brutally free from any
trammels of civilization.  He closed the door with decision, and moved
forward.

In the same moment she moved also towards the sofa over which she had
thrown the rug she had come to fetch. Her heart was beating hard and
fast, but she would not address a single word to him, would not so much
as seem to see him.  Supremely disdainful, she prepared to gather up her
property and go.

But as she turned to the door she found him barring the way.  He spoke,
thickly yet not indistinctly.

"Not so fast, my fine madam!  I've got to have a reckoning with you."

She drew herself up to the utmost of her slim height, and gave him a
single brief glance of disgust.  "Be good enough to let me pass!" she
said, in tones of clear command.

But Sheppard did not move.  He had been fortifying himself against any
sudden strain such as this all day long.

"Not so fast!" he said again, with a gleam of teeth under his dark
moustache.  "You made a mistake this morning, young woman; a very big
mistake.  Don't make another to-night!"

Maud froze to an icier contempt.  The steady courage of her must have
shamed any man in his sober senses.

"Stand aside instantly," she said, "or I shall ring the bell and rouse
the house!"

He laughed at that, a cruel, vindictive laugh.  "Oh, you don't come over
me that way!  You mean to have your lesson, I see, and p'raps it's as
well.  It's been postponed too long already.  There's a deal too much
spirit about you, and too much lip too.  You think I'll put up with
anything, don't you?  Think yourself much too high and mighty to
associate with the likes of me?  Think you can call me any darn' names
you please, and I'll bear 'em like a lamb?"

His voice rose.  Obviously his temper was already beyond control.  He
was in fact lashing it on to fury. Maud knew the process well.

It was enough for her, and she waited for no more.  She stepped quietly
to the bell.

She was nearer to it than he, and she did not for a moment imagine that
he would dare to molest her.  But she had not realized the maddened
condition to which he had wrought himself; and even when he suddenly and
violently strode forward she did not draw back or dream that he would
touch her.

Only as his hand caught her outstretched arm did the knowledge that he
was as utterly beyond control as a wild beast burst upon her.  She
uttered a desperate cry, and began a sharp, instinctive struggle to
escape.

It was a very brief struggle, so taken by surprise and utterly
unprepared was she.  One moment she was fighting wildly for freedom; the
next he had her at his mercy.

"Oh, you may scream!" he gibed.  "No one will hear you!  Now--do you
know what I am going to do to you?"

"Let me go!" she panted, crimson and breathless.

He locked her two wrists together in one iron hand. His strength was
utterly irresistible.  She was as a pigmy in the grip of a giant.

"I'll let you go when I've done with you," he said, gloating openly over
her quivering helplessness.  "But first you will have your lesson.  I'm
going to give you the trouncing of your life!"

With the words he suddenly wrenched her round and forced her, almost
flung her, face downwards over the sofa-head.

"You've been spoiling for this for a long time," he said, "and--being
your step-father--I'll see that you get it. Never had a good spanking
before in all your life, I daresay? Well, well see how you like this
one!"

And therewith he pulled off one of his down-at-heel carpet slippers and
proceeded to flog her with it, as if she had been a boy.

What she went through during that awful chastisement Maud never forgot.
She fought at first like a mad creature till she was suddenly aware of
the light wrap she wore ripping in all directions, and from that moment
she resisted no more, standing passive in an agony of apprehension while
he wreaked upon her all the pent malice of the past few weeks.

It was a brutal punishment, administered with the savage intention of
breaking down the stark silence with which she sought to meet it.  And
even when he succeeded at last, even when the girl's strength went from
her and she collapsed as he held her with a wild burst of hysterical
crying and broken, unnerved entreaties, he did not stay his hand.  Now
was his grand opportunity for vengeance, and he might never get another.
He did not spare her until he had inflicted the utmost of which he was
capable.

Then at last roughly he set her free.  "That's right! Blub away!" he
jeered.  "I've taken all the stiffening out of you at last, and a damn'
good job too.  P'raps you'll keep a civil tongue in your head for the
future, and give me no more of your dratted impudence.  There's nothing
like a sound drubbing to bring a woman to her senses.  But I don't
advise you to qualify for another."

He put on his slipper, breathing somewhat heavily after his exertions,
then stood up and wiped his forehead.  His fury had exhausted itself.
His mood had become one of semi-malicious elation.

He looked at the girl still crouched over the sofa-head, sobbing and
convulsed, utterly broken, utterly conquered.

"Come!" he said.  "Don't let us have any more nonsense! You won't give
me any more of your airs after this, and we shall be all the better
friends for it.  Stand up and say you're sorry!"

She gasped and gasped again, but no words could she utter.  The hateful
callousness of the man could not so much as rouse her scorn.  Her pride
was in the dust.

He took her by the arm and pulled her roughly up, making her stand
before him though she was scarcely capable of standing.

"Come!" he began again, and broke off with a brutal laugh, staring at
her.

A flame of fierce humiliation went through her, burning her from head to
foot as she realized that her night-dress had been rent open across her
bosom.  She caught it together in her trembling fingers, shrinking in an
anguish of shame from the new devil that had begun to gibe at her out of
his bloodshot eyes.

He laughed again.  "Well, my fine madam, we seem to have pitched the
proprieties overboard quite completely this time.  All your own fault,
you know.  Serves you jolly well right.  You aren't going to say you're
sorry, eh? Well, well, I'd give you another spanking if I felt equal to
it, but I don't.  So I'll have the kiss of peace instead."

He caught her to him with the words, gripped her tightly round the body,
tilted her head back; and for one unspeakable moment the heavy moustache
was crushed suffocatingly upon her panting lips.

In that moment the strength of madness entered into Maud, such strength
as was later wholly beyond her own comprehension.  With frenzied force
she resisted him, fighting as if for her very life, and so suddenly, so
unexpectedly, that in sheer astonishment his grip relaxed.

It was her one chance of escape, and she seized it.  With a single
furious wrench she tore herself from him, not caring how she did it,
found herself free, and fled, fled like a mad thing, panting,
dishevelled, frantic, from the room.

His laugh of half-tipsy derision followed her, and all the devils of
hatred, malice, and bitter cauterizing shame went with her as she fled.




                              CHAPTER XIII

                             THE ONLY PORT


It was a rainy, squally morning, and Jake returning from the Stables
after an early ride, looked down at his muddy gaiters with momentary
hesitation.  Mrs. Lovelace, his cook and housekeeper, objected very
strongly to muddy gaiters in what she was pleased to call "her parlour."
They generally meant disaster to a clean table-doth, though Jake himself
could never be made to see why, since he was the only person to use it
and never noticed its condition, this should be regarded as a matter of
vital importance.

On the present occasion, Mrs. Lovelace being out of sight and hearing,
he decided to risk detection, and, leaving his cap on a peg in the dark
oak passage, he passed on to the room overlooking the downs and the
distant sea in which he had once entertained Bunny and his sister.

Breakfast would be awaiting him, he knew; and he was more than ready for
breakfast.  In fact he was ravenously hungry, and he hastened to hide
the offending gaiters under the spotless table-doth as soon as he had
rung the bell for the dish which was being kept hot for him.

When Mrs. Lovelace came stoutly in, he greeted her with a smile.  "I'm
late this morning.  Been having a tussle with one of the youngsters.
No, don't put that whip away!  It wants a new lash.  What a cussed
nuisance this rain is!  The ground is a quagmire, and the animals can
hardly keep their feet.  Any letters?"

"One, sir," said Mrs. Lovelace, and laid it before him. Then she looked
at him searchingly.  "Did you get very muddy?" she enquired.

"What?" said Jake.  He took up his letter.  "Yes, you can take the
cover.  No, leave the coffee!  I'll pour that out when I'm ready.
Muddy?  Look out of the window, my good woman, if you want to know!
Don't wait! Time's precious, and I guess you're busy."

Again he smiled upon Mrs. Lovelace, his pleasant, candid smile; and Mrs.
Lovelace had perforce to smile back and withdraw.

Jake heaved a sigh of relief, and began his breakfast. His letter,
bearing a purple crest of a fox's head and under it the motto: _Sans
Vertu_, lay on the table before him. He eyed it as he ate, and presently
took it up.  It bore a Swiss stamp.

Jake opened it and read:

"DEAR BOLTON,

"I meant to winter in Cairo, and heaven alone knows why I am here.  It
is fiendishly cold, and blowing great guns.  There was skating when I
arrived, but that is a dream of the oast.  We now slop about knee-deep
in slush or play cat's cradle in the _salon_ during the day.  We dance
or cuddle in corners practically all night.  Some of the female portion
of the community are quite passably attractive, but I always preferred
one goddess to a crowd, and she is not to be found here.  Unless it
freezes within the next forty-eight hours, I shall come back to beastly
old England and look for her.  So if I should turn up at Burchester
within the next few days, please accept this (the only) intimation and
have the stud ready for inspection.

"Yours sincerely,
       "SALTASH."

Jake's face wore a curious expression as he folded the letter and
returned it to the envelope.  It was what Bunny called his "cowboy"
look--a look in which humour and sheer, savage determination were very
oddly mingled.  There was a good deal of the primitive man about him at
that moment.  He continued his breakfast with business-like rapidity and
presently helped himself to coffee with a perfectly steady hand.

The cup, however, was still untasted beside him when Mrs. Lovelace once
more made her appearance, her plump face looking somewhat startled.

"Miss Brian has called, sir.  Wishes to see you for a moment.  Shall I
show her in?"

Jake's chair scraped back and he was on his feet in a single movement.
"Of course!  Where is she?  No, I'll fetch her myself.  Out of the way,
my good woman!"

He removed her from his path without the smallest ceremony, and was gone
before she could protest.

In the passage he almost ran into his visitor.  "Miss Brian!  Is that
you?  Come right in!  Snakes!  You're wet.  Come along to the fire!"

He had her by it before his greeting was fully uttered. A man of action
at all times, was Jake.  And Maud, still panting from her recent
struggle with the elements, found herself in an easy-chair, holding
numbed fingers to the blaze almost before she realized how she came to
be there.  He knelt beside her, unbuttoning her streaming waterproof.
She saw the glint of the firelight on his chestnut hair.

"Thank you," she said, with an effort.  "You are very kind."

He looked at her with those lynx-like eyes of his.  "Say, you're
perished!" he said, in his soft, easy drawl.

She smiled quiveringly at the concern in his face.  She had expected a
precipitate enquiry about Bunny, but it was evident that he had thoughts
only for her at that moment. And she was very badly in need of human
kindness and consideration just then.

She sat huddled over the fire, all the queenliness gone out of her,
tried to speak to him twice and failed; finally, shook her head and sat
in silence.

He got up and reached across the table for the coffee he had just poured
out.

"Drink a little!" he said, holding it to her.  "You need it."

She made a small gesture of impotence.  Somehow the warmth and comfort
of the room after the cheerless cold without had upset her.  She still
smiled, but it was a puckered, difficult smile, and her eyes were full
of tears. She could not take the cup.  Her throat worked painfully.
Again she shook her head.

Jake stood beside her for a moment or two looking down at her, then with
swift decision he set down the coffee, stepped to the door and quietly
turned the key.

He came back to her with the steady purpose of a man quite sure of
himself, knelt again by her side, put his arm about her.

"You lean on me, my girl!" he said softly.  "Don't be afraid!"

She gave him a quick look.  The tears were running down her face.  She
covered it suddenly with both hands and sobbed.

He drew her to him so gently that she was hardly aware of the action
till her head came to rest on his shoulder. His free hand, strong and
purposeful, took possession of one of hers and sturdily held it.

"It's all right," he murmured to her soothingly.  "It's all right."

She wept for awhile without restraint, her nerves completely shattered,
her pride laid low.  And while she wept, Jake held her, strongly,
sustainingly, his red-brown eyes staring unblinkingly full into the
heart of the fire.

At the end of a long interval she grew a little calmer, made as if she
would withdraw herself.  But very quietly he frustrated her.

"No, not while you're feeling so badly.  Say, now, let me take off your
hat!  Guess I can do it without you moving."

She was not in a condition to forbid him, and he removed it with
considerable dexterity, while she still hid her quivering face against
him with an instinctive confidence that paid a dumb tribute to the man's
complete mastery of himself.

"I'm dreadfully sorry--to have behaved like this," she whispered at
last.

"You needn't be sorry for that," said Jake.  "No one will know except
me.  And I don't count."

"I think you do," she faltered, and made a more decided effort to free
herself.

He let her go with a kindly pat on the shoulder.  "Say, now, if that
coffee ain't cold, p'raps you'll try a sip."

He reached for it and held it to her without rising. She lifted the cup
in both her trembling hands while he held the saucer, and slowly drank.

Jake's eyes went with abrupt directness to her wrists as she did it.  He
did not speak at the moment.  Only as she returned the cup he put it
quietly aside and laid his hand over hers.

"What's that skunk Sheppard been doing to you?" he asked.

She shrank at the straight question "How--how did you know----"

He lifted his hand and pushed back her sleeves without speaking.  There
was something dreadful about him as he regarded the bruises thus
exposed.

A quick fear went through her.  "Jake," she said sharply, "that--is no
affair of yours.  You are not to--interfere."

His eyes came up to hers and the hardness went from him on the instant.
"I reckon you're going to make some use of me," he said.

She trembled a little and turned her face away.  She had used his
Christian name spontaneously, and now suddenly she found that all
formality had gone from between them.  It disconcerted her, frightened
her, made her uncertain as to his attitude as well as her own.

Jake waited a few seconds; then with the utmost gentleness he laid his
hand again upon hers.  "Are you afraid to say it?" he said.

"To say--what?"  Her hands moved agitatedly beneath his till strangely,
unexpectedly, they turned and clasped it with convulsive strength.
"Yes, I am afraid," she said, with a sob.

"But I asked you to marry me weeks ago," said Jake.

Her head was bowed.  She sought to avoid his look. "I know you did."

"And you are going to marry me," he said, in a tone that was scarcely a
question.

She turned desperately and faced him.  "I must have a clear
understanding with you first," she said.

"I--see," said Jake.

He met her eyes with the utmost directness, and before his look hers
wavered and fell.  "Please!" she whispered. "You must agree to that."

He did not speak for a moment, but his fingers wound themselves closely
about her own.

"I don't want you to be scared," he said finally. "But--that's a mighty
big thing you've asked of me."

Maud's face was burning.  "I knew it isn't for me to make--conditions,"
she said, under her breath.

A gleam of humour crossed Jake's face.  "I guess it's up to me to accept
or refuse," he said.  "But--suppose I refuse--what are you going to do
then?  Will you marry me--all the same?"

She shook her head instantly.  "I don't know what I shall do, Jake.
I--I must go back and think."

She mustered her strength and made as if she would rise, but he checked
her.

"Wait!" he said.  "I haven't refused--yet.  Lean back and rest a bit!
I've got to do some thinking too."

She obeyed him because it seemed that he must be obeyed.  He got to his
feet.

"Poor girl!" he said gently.  "It hasn't been easy for you, has it?
Reckon you've just been driven to me for refuge.  I'm the nearest port,
that's all."

"The only port," Maud answered, with a shiver.

"All right," he said.  "It's a safe one.  But--"  He left the sentence
unfinished and turned to the window.

She lay back with closed eyes, counting the hard throbs of her heart
while she waited.  He was very quiet, standing behind her with his face
to the storm-driven clouds.  She longed to know what was passing in his
mind, but she could not break the silence.  It held her like a spell
while the clock on the mantelpiece ticked the dragging minutes away. She
whispered to her racing heart that the moment he moved she would rise
and go.  But while the silence lasted she could not bring herself to
stir.  She was worn out physically and mentally, almost too weary for
thought.

He moved at length rather suddenly, wheeled round before she was aware,
and came back to the fire.

"Don't get up!" he said.  "You look ready to drop, and you may just as
well hear what I have to say sitting. It won't make a mite of
difference."

She raised her eyes to his in unconscious appeal.  "I am afraid I have
made a mistake," she said.

She saw his smile for a moment.  "No, you haven't made a mistake, my
girl.  You're safe with me.  But I wonder if you have the faintest idea
now why I want you for my wife."

The simple directness of his speech touched her as she did not want to
be touched.  She sat silent, her hands clasped tightly together.

"You haven't," he said.  "And p'raps this isn't the time to tell you.
You've come to me for refuge--as I hoped you would--and I shan't abuse
your confidence. But, you know, I had a reason."

He paused, but she still said nothing.  Only she could not meet his eyes
any longer.  She looked away into the fire, waiting for him to continue.

"Say, now," he said, after a moment, "if I make a bargain with you, you
won't accuse me of taking advantage of your position?"

She winced a little.  "I wish you--to forget--that I ever said that."

"All right.  It is forgotten," said Jake.  "I'll go ahead. We haven't
mentioned Bunny though I take it he is a fairly big factor in the case.
That is to say, if it hadn't been for Bunny, you would never have taken
this step."

Maud's eyes went swiftly up to his.  "But of course I shouldn't!" she
said quickly.  "I thought you understood that."

"I quite understand," said Jake.  "I assure you I'm not taking anything
for granted.  But now--I want to put it to you--supposing the impossible
happened, supposing Bunny were cured,--yes, it's only the hundredth
chance, I know--still, just for a moment, suppose it!  Bunny cured, able
to look after himself like other lads.  You would be married to me.
What then?"

"What then?"  She repeated the words, still with an effort meeting his
look.

He made a slight gesture with one hand.  "You would stick to me?"

The hot colour flooded her face and neck.  "Of course," she said, her
voice very low.  "That goes without saying."

He bent slowly towards her.  "Maud, if we ever live alone together, it
must be as man and wife."

His voice was low too, but she heard in it a deep note that seemed to
pierce through and through her.  His eyes drew and held her own.  She
wanted to avoid them but could not.  They burned like the red, inner
heart of a furnace.

The blood receded from her face.  She felt it go.  "We--need never live
alone," she said faintly.

He held out a quiet hand to her.  "P'raps not.  But I should like your
promise to that, all the same."  He paused a moment; then added: "I have
sworn already to be good to you, remember."

She laid her hand in his.  She could not do otherwise. He held it and
waited.

"Very well," she said at last, her voice almost a whisper. "I--agree."

He let her go, and straightened himself.  "It's a deal, then," he said.
"And now for more immediate details. You've decided to marry me, and I
gather you don't mind how soon?"

He picked up a clay pipe from the mantelpiece, and knocked out some ash
against the fireplace.

Maud watched him with a curious species of fascination. There was
something in the man's serenity of mien that puzzled her, something that
did not go with those fiery, possessive eyes.

He looked at her with a smile that was half-quizzical, half-kindly, and
her heart began to beat more freely.

"We must somehow get away from 'The Anchor' to-day," she said.  "I have
a little money.  Perhaps if you would help me to move Bunny, we could go
into lodgings again until----"

"I have a little money too," said Jake.  "And I will certainly help you.
But first,--do you object to telling me what has been happening at 'The
Anchor'?"

She  again vividly, painfully, but he was fully engrossed with
the filling of his pipe and did not notice her embarrassment.

"To begin with," she said with difficulty, "he--Mr. Sheppard--has turned
us out of the room downstairs.  He carried Bunny off himself to an attic
under the roof, and hurt him horribly.  I was driven nearly mad at the
time."  She broke off, shuddering at the remembrance.

Jake frowned.  "Go on!" he said briefly.

She went on with increasing difficulty.  "That happened yesterday.  I
hoped you would come round in the afternoon or evening, but you didn't."

"I couldn't get away," he interpolated.  "Yes?  And then?"

"Then--in the evening--that is, late at night--" Maud stumbled like a
nervous child--"I went down to fetch something and he--he came in after
me, half-tipsy; and--and--he--"  She halted suddenly.  "I can't go on!"
she said, with quivering lips.

Jake laid aside his pipe and stooped over her.  "Did he beat you, or did
he make love to you?  Which?" he said.

There was a sound in his voice like the growl of an angry beast.  She
could not look him in the face.

"Tell me!" he said, and laid an imperative hand on her shoulder.  "You
need never tell anyone else."

She shrank a little.  "I don't see why I should tell you," she said
reluctantly.

"You must tell me," said Jake with decision.

And, after brief hesitation, miserably, with face averted, she yielded
and told him.  After all, why should he not know?  Her dainty pride was
crushed for ever.  She could sink no lower.

"He held me down and thrashed me--with his slipper.  I was in my
night-dress, and--and it was rather a brutal thrashing.  Perhaps some
women wouldn't have minded it much; but I--I am not used to that kind of
treatment.  I hope you will never beat me, Jake.  I don't bear it very
heroically."

She tried to laugh, but it was a piteous little sound that came from her
quivering throat.

Jake's hand closed upon her shoulder.  She seemed to feel the whole man
vibrate behind it like a steel spring. Yet he made no comment whatever.
"Go on!" he said, his voice short and stern.  "Tell me everything!"

She braced herself to finish.  "He went on till he was tired.  I believe
I was wailing like a baby, but no one heard.  And then--and then--he
suddenly discovered that I was a woman and not a naughty child, and
he--he--kissed me."  She shuddered suddenly and violently. "That's
nearly all," she ended.  "I got away from him, heaven knows how.  And I
got back to Bunny.  I didn't tell him everything, but I couldn't help
him knowing I was upset.  We neither of us slept all night.  And the
night before was a bad one too.  That's how I came to be so idiotic just
now."

She leaned slowly back in her chair till she rested against the hand he
had laid upon her.

"Do you know," she said tremulously, after a moment, "I think it has
actually done me good to tell you?  You are very kind to me, Jake."

He withdrew his hand and turned away.  "That may be," he said
enigmatically.  "And again it may not. Thanks anyway for telling me."
He picked up the horsewhip that he had flung down on entering, and began
with his square, steady fingers to remove the lash.  "You are right.
You can't spend another night at 'The Anchor.'  If you will allow me, I
will find some comfortable rooms where you and Bunny can stay till we
can get married. I will go up to-morrow and get a special licence.  The
marriage might be arranged for Sunday--if that will suit you."

"Next Sunday?"  Maud started round and looked at him with startled eyes.

He nodded.  "In church.  After the eight o'clock service if there is
one.  Your mother must give you away. Afterwards, we will come on here
with the boy."  He glanced round at her.  "He shall have this room for
the daytime, and the one over it to sleep in.  I'm sorry there are not
two ground-floor rooms for him; but I know how to carry him in comfort.
Of course, if necessary this room could be used as a bedroom as well."

He threw down the worn lash and went to a drawer for a new one.  Maud
still watched him in silence.

"Does that meet with your approval?" he asked at length.

"I think you are--more than good," she said, a tremor of feeling in her
voice.

He kept his eyes lowered over his task.  "I am not hustling you too
much?" he enquired.

She smiled wanly.  "I am asking myself if I ought to let you do it," she
said.  "It doesn't seem very fair to you."

"It chances to be the thing I want," said Jake, his fingers still busy.
"And I reckon you won't disappoint me--won't draw back?  I can count on
you?"

She rose, turning fully towards him.  "You can certainly count on me,"
she said.  "But are you really sure you meant it?  It isn't going to
spoil your life?"

Jake stood upright with a jerk.  She met the extraordinary brightness of
his eyes with an odd mixture of boldness and reluctance.

"My girl," he said, in his queer, anomalous drawl, "there ain't a man
anywhere in God's universe who knows what he wants better than I do.  If
I didn't want this thing I shouldn't ask for it.  See?"  He came to her
with the words, and laid one finger on her arm.  "Don't you know it's
your friendship I'm after?" he said, with a touch of aggressiveness.
"Why, I've been after it ever since that night I found you down in the
dark alone on the edge of the parade.  You were up against it that
night, weren't you? And didn't like me over much for butting in.  Do you
know what you made me think of?  A forlorn princess of the Middle Ages.
There's a mediaeval flavour about you. I don't know where you keep it.
But it makes me feel mediaeval too."

She drew back a little, stiffened ever so slightly.  Something in her
resented the freedom of his speech.  Something rose in swift revolt and
clamoured to be gone.

He must have seen her gesture, her quick, protesting blush; for he
turned almost instantly and jerked the whip-lash through his fingers,
testing it.

A fitful gleam of sunshine suddenly pierced the clouds behind him and
shone on his bent head.  His hair gleamed like burnished copper.  The
tawny glint of it made her think of an animal--a beast of prey, alert,
merciless, primeval.

She put on her hat.  "I must be getting back to Bunny," she said.

"I am coming with you," said Jake.

She looked at him sharply.  "You will walk?"

"Yes, I shall walk."

She pointed with nervous abruptness to the whip he held. "Then you won't
want that."

Jake smiled, and tested the whip again without speaking.

Maud waited a moment; then steadily she spoke.  "You realized of course,
that when I told you about Mr. Sheppard's behaviour of last night, it
was in strict confidence?"

Jake squared his broad shoulders.  "All right, my girl.  It's safe with
me," he said.  "There shan't be any scandal."

Maud was very white, but quite resolute.  "Jake," she said, "you are not
to do it."

He raised his brows.

"You are not to do it!" she said again, with vehemence. "I mean it!  I
mean it!  The quarrel is not yours.  You are not to make it so."  She
paused, and suddenly caught her breath.  "Oh, don't look at me like
that!  You make me--afraid!"

Jake turned and tossed the whip down on the window-seat. "You've nothing
to be afraid of," he said rather curtly.  "You're making your own
bugbear.  P'raps it's natural," he added, with abrupt gentleness.
"You've had a lot to bear lately.  There!  I've done what you asked.  We
had better get back while it's fine."

He unlocked and opened the door, standing back for her to pass.

He kept his eyes downcast as she went through, and she knew that it was
in response to her appeal that he did so. She tingled with a burning
embarrassment, which vanished all in a moment as he said: "Say, now, do
you mind if I light my pipe before I follow you?  Don't wait!  I'll
catch you up."

And she made her way out into the fleeting sunlight and racing wind with
a strong sense of relief.  The pipe was not a particularly aristocratic
feature of Jake's existence, but it was an extremely characteristic one,
and it placed matters on a normal footing at once.  Jake was never
disconcerting or formidable when he was smoking a pipe.  She consented
to it gladly.

And Jake turned back into the room with a grim smile on his lips, picked
up a letter from the table, and thrust it deep into the fire.

After that he lighted his pipe with the charred remnants thereof, and
followed Maud into the open.




                              CHAPTER XIV

                           THE WAY OF ESCAPE


The sun shone out again as they went down the hill, and the sea gleamed
below them like a sheet of silver.

"You like this place?" asked Jake.

"I could like it," she made answer.

He smiled.  "Then I reckon you shall.  Say, does Bunny know about your
coming up here to me?"

She  deeply.  "He knew I came, yes.  He did not know why."

Jake was still smiling.  "Guess he'll be pleased," he said.  He added,
between puffs at his pipe: "We'll make him happy between us.  We'll give
him the time of his life."

She drew a deep breath.  Surely no sacrifice was too great for that!

They passed the church on the hill, and descended the steep road to the
town.

"There are some rooms I know of along this road," said Jake.  "Kept by
the wife of one of our stable-men.  Shall we go in and have a look at
'em?"

She hesitated.  "Bunny will wonder where I am."

He glanced at her.  "Well, look here!  You leave me to see to it.  I'll
fix up something, and then I'll come on after you and we'll get the boy
away."

She met his look somewhat doubtfully.

"Why not?" said Jake.

She answered him with an effort.  "You do understand, don't you, that I
couldn't--I can't--accept help from you before--before--our marriage?"

"Why not?" he said again.  "Reckon you mean to stick to your bargain?"

"Oh, it isn't that," she said painfully.  "Of course--of course--I shall
keep my word with you.  But I have a little pride left--just a
little--and----"

"And I'm to humour it, eh?" said Jake.  "Well, you shall have it your
own way.  But let me do the fixing for you!  I know just what you want.
It's only for a few days either."

He smiled at her, and she yielded.

But when they separated at length she paused uneasily. "Jake!"

"Your servant!" said Jake promptly.

She stretched a nervous hand towards him.  "Jake, if you meet--my
step-father, you will not--not----"

"Most unfortunately I can't," said Jake.  He held her hand for a moment,
and let it go.  "There!  Good-bye!  I won't do anything indiscreet, I
promise you.  There is too much at stake.  Now you get back to Bunny as
quick as you can!  I shan't be long after you."

And Maud went with a feeling at the heart of relief and dread oddly
mingled.  She knew that Jake would keep his word.  There was a rocklike
strength about him that nothing could ever shake.  For good or ill, he
would stick to a bargain, be the price what it might.  But she saw him
overriding every obstacle to attain his purpose.  He would never flinch
from possible consequences; of that she was certain.  What he had said
he would do, that he would do, and no power on earth would divert him
therefrom.

She shivered suddenly and violently as she walked.  The relentless force
of the man had in it an element that was terrible.  What had she done?
What had she done?

She encountered her mother as she mounted the hotel stairs.

"Oh, my dear, here you are at last!" was her greeting. "I have been so
worried about you.  Come into my room!"

But Maud resisted her.  "I must go to Bunny.  He has been alone for so
long."

"No, dear, no!  Bunny's all right for the present.  I've been to see.
He doesn't want anything.  He told me so. Come into my room--just for a
moment, dear child!  We can't talk in the passage."

As Mrs. Sheppard was plainly bent upon talking, Maud concluded she had
something to say; and followed her.

"Shut the door, my darling!  That's right.  How white you look this
morning!  Dearie, I am more sorry than I can say for what happened last
night.  Giles told me about it.  But he says he is quite willing now to
let bygones be bygones.  So you won't bear malice, darling; will you? Of
course I know he ought not to have done it," with a slightly uneasy
glance at her daughter's rigid face.  "I told him so.  But he assured me
he only did it for your good, dear.  And he seems to think that you were
rather rude to him earlier in the day.  He is old-fashioned, you know.
He thinks a whipping clears the air, so to speak.  It's better anyhow
than saving up grievance after grievance, isn't it, dear?  You'll start
afresh now, and be much better friends. At least it won't be his fault
if you're not.  He is quite ready to treat you as his own daughter."

She paused for breath.

Maud was standing stiff and cold against the door.  "Is that what you
called me in here to say?" she asked.

Mrs. Sheppard still looked uneasy though she tried to laugh it off.
"Not quite all, dear.  But I really should go and make friends with him
if I were you.  He isn't a bit angry with you any more.  In fact he has
been joking about it, says his arm is so stiff this morning he can
hardly use it.  You couldn't possibly keep it up if you heard him."

"I shall not hear him," said Maud.

White and proud she faced her mother, and the latter's half-forced
merriment died away.

"Child, don't look so tragic!  What is it?  Come, he didn't hurt you so
badly surely!  Can't you forgive and forget?"

"No," Maud said.  "I shall never do either.  I am going away with Bunny
to-day.  And I hope--with all my heart--that I shall never see his face
again."

"Going away?"  Mrs. Sheppard opened startled eyes. "But, Maud----"

"I am going to marry Jake Bolton," Maud said, her voice very deep and
quiet.  "He will take me and Bunny too."

"Oh, my dear.  That man!"  Her mother gazed at her in consternation.
"He--he is infinitely rougher than Giles," she said.

"I know he is rough.  But he cares for Bunny.  That matters most," said
Maud.  "In fact, I believe he likes Bunny best!"

"My dear, it's you he wants--not Bunny," said Mrs. Sheppard, with a rare
flash of insight.  "I saw that at the very beginning of things--at our
wedding-party.  He looked at you as if he could devour you."

Maud put out a quick hand of protest.  "Mother, please! That doesn't
prove he cares about me--any more than I care for him.  It--it's just
the way with men of his sort. He--he has been very kind, and he is
genuinely fond of Bunny, and--and--in fact it's the only thing to be
done. I can't--possibly--stay here any longer."

Her lip quivered unexpectedly.  She turned to go.  But her mother
intercepted her quickly, endearingly.

"Maud, darling, wait a minute!  I haven't finished.  You took my breath
away.  But listen a moment!  This sacrifice won't be necessary, I am
sure, I am sure.  You couldn't marry that horsey creature.  You would
never bear life with him.  You are not adaptable enough nor experienced
enough.  You could never endure it.  It would be infinitely worse than
poor Giles and his tantrums. No, but listen, dear!  If you really feel
you must go, I think a way of escape is going to be offered to you and
poor little Bunny too.  I have had a letter from your Uncle Edward, and
he is coming expressly to see you both."

"Mother!"  Maud almost tore herself free, gazing at her with that in her
eyes that was to haunt Mrs. Sheppard for many days.  "Oh, why, why, why
didn't you tell me before? When did the letter come?"

"It was last night, darling.  You were such a long way off--right at the
top of the house--and I was too tired to go after you--I meant to tell
you first thing, dear; but when I went to look for you after breakfast,
you had gone.  I am very sorry, but really it wasn't my fault.  Still,
you won't want to marry that vulgar person now, for I am sure your uncle
means to make provision for you.  He can well afford it.  He is very
wealthy."

But Maud resolutely put her mother's clinging arms away from her.  "Jake
is not vulgar," she said in a voice that sounded flat and tired.  "And I
have promised to marry him.  Nothing can make any difference to that
now."

"My dear!  What nonsense!  I will get Giles to talk to him.  How can you
dream of such a thing, you who might have married Lord Saltash--and may
yet!  There is no knowing.  Maud, dearest, you must be reasonable.  You
must indeed.  This Jake Bolton may be a very excellent man, a very
worthy man, but as a husband for you he would be utterly unsuitable.
Surely you can see that for yourself! I can't imagine what possessed you
to entertain such an idea for a moment.  It was rank presumption on his
part to dare to lift his eyes to you.  Why, my dear, if you were to
marry him your life would be an absolute thraldom. You mustn't think of
it, dear child.  You mustn't indeed. Why, he is not much better than a
stable-boy.  And his speech----"

"He has spent a good deal of his time among cowboys."  Maud was still
firmly trying to disengage herself.  "His speech is more or less
acquired.  In any case--in any case--I have given him my promise.  And
you had better not let Mr. Sheppard interfere.  It would be wise of him
to keep out of Jake's way in fact.  Jake knows exactly why I am prepared
to marry him."

"My dear!  You actually made a confidant of that dreadful person!  How
could you?"

"I wanted a man to protect me," Maud said very bitterly, "from the
vindictive savagery of a brute!"

"Maud!  How can you talk so?  And I am sure Jake Bolton is much more of
a brute than poor Giles.  Why, look at the man!  Look at his mouth, his
eyes!  They absolutely stamp him.  Oh, dear, you're very headstrong and
difficult. I begin to think Giles had some excuse after all.  Perhaps
your uncle will be able to manage you.  You are quite beyond me."

Maud almost laughed.  "When does he arrive?" she asked.

"This evening.  He has asked us to reserve a room for him."  Mrs.
Sheppard had speedily developed a proprietary interest in the management
of the hotel.  Its welfare had become far more engrossing than that of
her children.

Maud opened the door.  "We shall be gone by that time. Jake's finding us
rooms somewhere in the town."

Mrs. Sheppard held up her hands.  "Jake finding rooms! Maud!
how--scandalous!  How do you know--you don't know!--that he is to be
trusted?"

Maud made a brief gesture as of one who submits to the inevitable.  "I
trust him," she said, with that in her voice that stilled all further
protest.

And with the words she passed with finality out of her mother's room,
and went away upstairs without a backward glance.

Mrs. Sheppard sat down and shed a few petulant tears over her child's
waywardness.  "She never would listen to advice," was the burden of her
lament.  "If she had, she would have been happily married to Lord
Saltash by now, and I might have had my house in London to-day.  Oh
dear, oh dear!  Children are a bitter disappointment. They never can be
made to see what is for their own good. She'll rue the day.  I know she
will.  That trainer man has a will of iron.  He'll break her to it like
one of his horses. My poor, proud Maud!"




                               CHAPTER XV

                            THE CLOSED DOOR


A way of escape!  A way of escape!  How often during the hours of that
endless day were those words in Maud's mind.  They pursued her, they
mocked her, whichever way she turned.

To Jake she merely very briefly imparted the news of her uncle's
expected advent, and he received it without comment.

Bunny was much more speculative.  He had been somewhat carried out of
himself by the trend of events.  It was Jake who whispered to him the
amazing information of his sudden conquest, together with a very
strenuous injunction not to talk to Maud about it unless she started the
subject.  And Maud, for some reason, could not start it. She went
through all the necessary arrangements for their removal as one in a
dream, scarcely speaking at all, responding very occasionally to Bunny's
eager surmises respecting the unknown great-uncle who had never before
taken the faintest interest in them, or shown himself so much as aware
of their existence.  His coming did not seem to matter to her.  If
indeed he were about to offer her a way of escape, it could not matter
to her now.  The door that led thither had closed, closed in the night,
because her mother had been too tired to seek her out and tell her. The
irony of it!  The bitter cruel irony!  She dared not pause to think.

Jake spent a great part of the day with them, working with a will to get
them comfortably settled in their new quarters before the fall of the
early dusk.  After that, he remained to tea; but he devoted almost the
whole of his attention to Bunny, who had in fact come to regard it as
his right.

He left soon after, refusing to remain for the game of chess for which
the lad earnestly pleaded.

"Not to-night, my son!  Your brain has got to settle down.  It's a deal
too lively at present."

He bent over Bunny at parting, and whispered a few words that were
inaudible to Maud.  Then he turned to go.

She followed him to the outer door.  The evening air smote chill and
salt upon her, and she shivered involuntarily.  Jake stopped to light a
cigarette.

"I shan't be coming round to-morrow," he remarked then.  "I shall be too
busy.  But I'll look in on Saturday, and tell you what I've fixed up.
Will Sunday morning do all right if I can fix it?"

She shivered again.  "Yes," she said.

"Say, you're cold," said Jake gently.  "I mustn't keep you standing
here.  But you really meant that Yes?"

He looked at her, and she saw that his eyes were kindly. She held out
her hand with a desperate little smile.

"Yes, I meant it."

His hand closed strongly, sustainingly, upon hers. "Guess there's
nothing to be scared of," he said.  "I'll take care of you, sure."

She felt a sudden lump rise in her throat, and found she could not
speak.

"You're tired," said Jake softly.  "Go and get a good night!  It's what
you're wanting."

"Yes, I am tired," she managed to say.

He still held her hand, looking at her with those strange, glittering
eyes of his that seemed to pierce straight through all reserve and enter
even the hidden inner sanctuary of her soul.

"What's this relative of yours like now?" he asked unexpectedly.

She shook her head.  "I don't know.  I've never seen him."

"Think he's coming along to offer you a home?" asked Jake.

Her face burned suddenly and hotly.  For some reason she resented the
question.  "I don't know.  How can I possibly know?"

"All right," said Jake imperturbably.  "But in case he does, I'd like
you to know that you are at liberty to do as you please in the matter.
He'll tell you, maybe, that I'm not the man for you.  That, I gather, is
your mother's attitude.  I sensed it from the beginning.  If he does,
and if you feel inclined to agree with him, you're free to do so,--free
as air.  But at the same time, I'd like you to remember that if you
should accept anything from him and then not find it to your liking, you
can still come along to me and follow out the original programme.  I'm
only wanting to make you comfortable."

He stopped; and in the pause that followed, Maud's other hand came out
to him, shyly yet impulsively.  "You are--such a good fellow!" she said
with a catch in her voice.

"Oh, bunkum!" said Jake, in a tone of almost indignant remonstrance.

He held her two hands, and turning, spat forth his cigarette into the
night; an action of primitive simplicity that filled Maud with a
grotesque kind of horrified mirth, mirth so intense that she had a
sudden, hysterical desire to laugh. She restrained herself with a
desperate effort.

"Good night!" she said, with something of urgency in her voice.  "It
isn't bunkum at all.  It's the truth. You--I think you are the best
friend I ever had.  But--but----"

"But--" said Jake.

She freed her hands with a little gasp.  "Nothing," she said.  "Good
night!"

It was a final dismissal, and as such he accepted it.  She heard the
steady fall of his feet as he went away, and with his going she managed
to recover her composure.

There was an undeniable greatness about him that seemed to dwarf all
criticism.  She realized that to measure him by ordinary standards was
out of the question, and as she reviewed all that he had done for her
that day a gradual warmth began to glow in her.  There was no other
friend in all her world who would have extended to her so firm or so
comforting a support in her hour of adversity.  And if her face burned
at the memory of her own utter collapse in his presence, she could but
recall with gratitude and with confidence the steadfast kindness with
which he had upheld her.  She had gone to him in anguished despair, and
he had offered her the utmost that he had to offer.  As to his motives
for so doing, she had a feeling that he had deliberately refrained from
expressing them.  He wanted her and he wanted Bunny.  Perhaps he was
lonely.  Perhaps years of wandering had created in him a longing for
home and domestic comfort.

But she did not speculate very deeply upon that subject. She felt that
she could not.  There was something in the man's nature, something
colossal of which she was but dimly aware, and which she had no means of
gauging, that checked her almost at the outset.  She found herself
standing before a closed door, a door which she had neither the audacity
nor the desire to attempt to open.  She was even a little fearful lest
one day that door should open to her of its own accord and she should be
constrained to enter whether she would or not.

But on the whole that talk with Jake had calmed her. The man was so
temperate, so completely master of himself, and withal so staunch in the
friendship he had established with her, that she could not but feel
reassured.  There was a delicacy in his consideration for her that
warmed her heart.  She knew by every instinct of her being that he would
take care of her as he had promised.  And she wanted someone to take
care of her so badly, so badly.

She was so deadly tired of fending for herself.

She found Bunny in a mood of remarkable docility, and she managed to get
him to bed without much trouble. He also was worn out after two nights
of restlessness, and he fell asleep earlier than usual.

She herself sat for awhile in the little sitting-room with a book, but
she found she could not read.  She was too tired to fix her attention,
and the thought of Jake kept intruding itself whenever she attempted to
do so.  It was wonderful how she had come to rely upon him, knowing so
little of him.  He had always been far more to Bunny than to her.

She was drifting into a kind of semi-doze, still with the memory of him
passing and repassing through her brain, when there came the sound of a
bell in the house, and almost immediately after, the opening of the
sitting-room door.

She started up in surprise to see her landlady usher in a little, spare
grey-whiskered man who walked with a strut and cleared his throat as he
came with a noise like the growling of a dog.  He made her think
irresistibly of a Scotch terrier bristling for a fight.

He halted in the middle of the room, and banged with his umbrella on the
floor, as one demanding a hearing.

"Hullo!" he said.  "My name's Warren.  You, I take it, are Maud Brian.
If so, I'm your Uncle Edward."

Maud came forward, still feeling a little dazed.  Since Jake's departure
she had almost forgotten the approaching advent of this relative of
hers.

"How do you do?" she said.  "Yes, I am Maud Brian. Come and sit down!"

He took her hand, looking at her with small grey eyes that were keenly
critical.

"How old are you?" he demanded.

"I am twenty-five," said Maud, faintly smiling.

He uttered a grunting growl and sat down with a jerk. "I've come
straight from your mother to talk to you. She's a fool, always was.  I
hope you're not another."

"Thank you," said Maud sedately.

He brought his shaggy grey brows together.  "I've come the length of
England to see you, but I haven't any time to waste.  I'm going back
to-morrow.  That letter of yours--I meant to answer it, but business
pressed, and it had to stand over.  Then I decided to come and see what
sort of young woman you were before I did anything further. I couldn't
stand a replica of your mother in my house. But--thank goodness--you're
not much like her.  She tells me you're thinking of making a marriage of
convenience to get away from your step-father.  Now, that's a very
serious step for a young woman to contemplate.  It seems to me I've
turned up in the nick of time."

Maud, sitting facing him with her hands folded in her lap, still faintly
smiled.  The bluntness with which he tackled the situation appealed more
to her sense of humour than to any other emotion.  She realized that he
was actually about to offer her a way of escape, but, curiously, she no
longer felt any desire to avail herself of it.  By his generous
assurance that she was at liberty to do as she would, Jake had somehow
managed to range her on his side.  She did not want to escape any more.
Moreover, there was Bunny to be thought of.  She knew well in what
direction his desires--and his welfare also--lay.

"It was very kind of you to come," she said.  "But, as regards my
marriage, my mind is quite made up.  He--the man I am going to
marry--understands everything.  I have been quite open with him.  He has
been most kind, most generous.  I could not think of drawing back now."

"Pshaw!" said Mr. Warren.  He sat forward in his chair, his hands
gripping the knob of his umbrella and surveyed her with growing
disapproval.  "You're prepared to sell yourself to a man you don't love
in return for a home, hey?" he asked.

She winced sharply, and in a moment her tired young face was flooded
with colour.  "Certainly not!" she said, her voice very low.  "Most
certainly not!"

"Looks uncommonly like it," he maintained.

"It is not so!" she said, with low-toned vehemence. "I have told
you--he--understands."

"And is prepared to give all and receive nothing for his pains?" pursued
the old man relentlessly.  "If so, he's a very remarkable young man; and
let me tell you for your comfort, it's an attitude he won't keep up for
long, not--that is--unless he's a blithering idiot?  Is he an idiot?"

Maud almost laughed.  "No, that he is not!  But really--really--you are
wasting your time.  If you had come this time yesterday, I would have
listened to you.  To-night it is impossible."

"Why impossible?"

"Because I have promised."

"Tut! tut!  He must release you."

"He would release me," Maud said slowly.  "That is just it."

"Just what?  Talk sense if you can!"  It was evident that patience was
not Uncle Edward's strong point.  He fidgeted his umbrella testily.

She looked at him with her clear, straight eyes.  "That is just why I
will not ask for my release.  In fact, I--don't want it."

"Don't want it!  Then, young woman, you're in love with him.  I've come
on a fool's errand, and I'll wish you good night."

He was on his feet with the words.  Maud rose too.  She laid a hand of
half-timid restraint upon his arm.

"I am not--in love with him, Uncle Edward," she said, her voice not
wholly steady.  "Such a thing would be impossible.  But at the same
time--though I can't give him everything--he shall not repent his
bargain.  We are going to be--friends."

"Pshaw!" said Uncle Edward again.  He gripped her hand unexpectedly,
staring up at her with his keen eyes. "Do you know how old I am?" he
said.

She shook her head.

"I'm eighty," he said.  "I've seen a little of men in my time, and I've
been a man myself.  So let me tell you this! There's not a man on this
earth who could be satisfied for long with that kind of farce.  You've
got him on the leash now.  He's tame and good.  But there's a ravening
wolf inside us all, my dear, when we're thwarted, and the longer we're
thwarted the more savage we get.  You can't bring up a wolf--not the
tamest wolf in the world--on bread and butter.  Sooner or later he'll
begin to feel a bit empty, and whine for the real thing.  And if you
still go on starving the brute till he's famished, he'll either break
away and go elsewhere for food, or else he'll round on you one day and
tear you in pieces.  You'll be the sufferer either way.  It's nature I
tell you, it's nature.  You'll have to give all or drive him away at the
outset.  There can't be half-measures with a man who is a man.  If you
offer them you must expect trouble.  And remember, it's always the woman
who pays in the end,--always the woman who pays."

He repeated the words with the impressiveness of a judge pronouncing
sentence.

Maud was trembling, though she tried to conceal the fact.  "And then
there is Bunny to be thought of," she said.

"Bunny?  Who is Bunny?  Oh, your brother, is it?  And he's a hopeless
<DW36>, I understand?  Is it for his sake that you've hatched this mad
scheme?"

"In a great measure.  You see, he and--and Jake Bolton are very fond of
one another."

"Pshaw!" the old man exclaimed.  "So this Jake Bolton is to have the
boy, with you thrown in as a makeweight; is that it?  And you think
you're all going to be happy together, do you?  Never heard such a
tomfool scheme in my life.  Where does this Jake Bolton hang out?  I'll
go and have a talk to him."

"Oh, please don't!" Maud begged.  "He'll think I sent you.  And
really--really there is nothing to discuss."

"We'll see about that," he rejoined grimly.  "Seems to me it's high time
somebody came along and interfered. Now, look here, what's your
name?--Maud!  I'm going to get you out of this mess.  You shan't marry a
man you don't love just because there was no other way out.  There is
another way out, and you're to take it.  You're to come and live with
me, do you hear?  You and your precious Bunny too!  And when I die, I'll
leave you both provided for.  See?  Come, I can't say fairer than that."

He was still gripping her hand, and looking at her with shrewd eyes
under their beetling brows as though prepared to beat down all
opposition.  There was a look of Bunny about those eyes, Bunny in a
difficult mood.  She recognized it with a sigh.  It seemed her fate to
be continually doing battle with someone, and she felt wholly unfitted
for it.  All she asked of life was peace and quietness.

"My home is a dingy one," said her uncle, "but you may be able to make
it more cheerful.  I shan't interfere with either of you.  Come, now,
you're going to be a sensible girl, hey?  I'm sorry I didn't turn up
before.  But the knot isn't tied, so I'm not too late.  We must explain
the situation to the young man.  Unless he's an absolute bounder, he'll
be amenable to reason."

But Maud shook her head.  "I can't do it, Uncle Edward. I know you mean
to be kind.  I am very grateful.  But--I can't."

He rasped his throat aggressively.  "That's nonsense," he said with
decision.  "Plainly the man is beneath you. You say you don't love him,
and never could."

"I am not--altogether--sure that he is beneath me," she said rather
wistfully.

"But you don't love him?" her uncle insisted, scanning her piercingly.

She bent her head with an instinctive desire to avoid his eyes.  "No."

"Or anyone else?" he pursued.

She made a small movement of protest.

"Ha!" he exclaimed, in the tone of one who has discovered something.
"Your mother hinted as much.  And you think you're going to make things
better for yourself by marriage with a rank outsider.  Is that it?  Is
that it? Then take my word for it, you're going to make the biggest
mistake of your life.  And if you persist in it, I've done with you.  At
least, no, I haven't done; for I'm going straight to that young man of
yours to tell him the sort of bargain he's going to make."

He paused, for suddenly Maud had drawn herself up very straight and
proud.  "If you wish to do so, you must," she said, and her pale face
was very regal and composed.  "But it will not make the smallest
difference to either of us. Jake has my promise.  I have his."

It was at this point that the door opened again to admit the landlady
with a note on a salver.

"Mr. Bolton's compliments," she said, "and will you be good enough to
send back an answer?"




                              CHAPTER XVI

                              THE CHAMPION


Maud took the note with a glance at her uncle.

"Open it!" he said.  "Don't mind me!" and stumped irately to the
bay-window and pulled aside the blind.

Maud opened the note.  Her hands were not very steady. The envelope
contained a half-sheet of notepaper with a few words scrawled thereupon,
and a short length of string.

"Sorry to trouble you," ran the note.  "But will you tie a knot in the
enclosed to show me the size of your wedding finger?  Yours, Jake."

She looked up from the note as her uncle came tramping back.  "Is it the
young man himself?" he demanded.

"It's Mr. Bolton, sir," said the landlady.

"Then show him in!" ordered the old man autocratically. "Show him in,
and we'll get it over!  No time like the present."

A swift remonstrance rose to Maud's lips, but she did not utter it.  The
landlady looked to her for confirmation of the order, but she did not
utter a single word.

"Get along!" commanded Uncle Edward.  "Or I'll fetch him in myself!"

A whiff of tobacco-smoke came in through the open door. Maud stood very
still, listening.  A moment later there came the sound of a pipe being
tapped on the heel of a boot, and then the firm, quiet tread of Jake's
feet in the passage.

He entered.  "I didn't mean to disturb you again, but I'd forgotten this
little detail and I've got to catch an early train."  He turned with no
sign of surprise and regarded Maud's visitor.  "Good evening, sir!" he
said.

Mr. Warren gave him a brief nod.  Maud still stood mute, Jake's note
with the piece of string dangling therefrom in her hand.

He went quietly to her.  "Say!  Let me fix that for you!" he said.

She suffered him to take her hand.  It lay cold and quivering in his.
He wound the string round her third finger and knotted it.  Then he
slipped it off, and took the hand closely and warmly into his own.

"I hope you haven't come to forbid the banns," he said, calmly returning
the grim scrutiny that the old man had levelled at him from the moment
of his entrance.

Uncle Edward uttered a sound indicative of intense disgust.  "I?  Oh,
I've no authority," he said.  "I disapprove--if that's what you mean.
Any decent person would disapprove of the sort of alliance you two are
determined to make.  But I don't expect my opinion to be deferred to. If
you choose to marry a woman who doesn't care two straws about you, it's
your affair, not mine."

Jake turned in his deliberate fashion to Maud.  "Your uncle, I presume?"
he said.

"Yes," she made answer.

His face wore a smile that baffled her, as he said: "It's my opinion
that we should get on better alone together, though it's for you to
decide."

She looked at him rather piteously, and as if in answer to that look
Jake slipped a steady arm about her.

"What about the head of the family?" he said, speaking softly almost as
if to a child.  "Reckon he'll be wanting you.  Won't you go to him?"

The slight pressure of his arm directed her towards the door.  She
yielded to it instinctively, with an abrupt feeling that the matter had
been taken out of her hands.

He went with her into the passage, and they stood for a moment together
under the flickering lamp.

"Bunny in bed?" he asked.

"Yes," she said.

He was still faintly smiling.  "You go to bed too, my girl!" he said.
"I'll settle this old firebrand."

"Don't--quarrel with him, Jake!" she said nervously.

"What should I quarrel about?" said Jake.  "Good night, forlorn
princess!"

His voice had a note in it that was almost motherly. She went, from him
with a distinct sense of comfort.  His touch had been so strong and
withal so gentle.

As for Jake, he turned back into the room with the utmost confidence and
shut himself in with an air of decision.

"Now, sir," he said, "if you've any complaint to make, p'raps you'll be
good enough to mention it to me right now, and I'll deal with the same.
I'm not going to have my girl bullied any more."

His voice was quiet, even slightly drawling, but his eyes shone with
something of a glare.  He came straight to the old man, who still leaned
on his umbrella, and stood before him.

The latter gazed at him ferociously, and for a space they remained thus,
stubbornly fixing each other.  Then abruptly the old man spoke.

"You're very masterful, young fellow-my-lad.  I suppose you think
yourself one of the lords of creation, good enough for anybody, hey?"

Jake's stern face relaxed slowly.  "I don't claim to be a prince of the
blood," he said, "but I reckon I've got some--points."

"And you reckon you're good enough to marry my niece?" snapped Uncle
Edward.

Jake squared his shoulders.  "I shall make her a better husband than
some," he said.

The old man smote the floor with his umbrella.  "Shall you?  And has she
told you that she's in love with another man?"

Jake's right hand went suddenly deep into his pocket and remained there.
"I am aware that she was once," he said, speaking very deliberately.
"But that is over.  Also, he was not the man for her."

"A scoundrel, hey?  Not a sound man like yourself?"  There was a
malicious note in the query, but Jake ignored it.

"He does not count anyway," he said, with finality. "If he did, your
niece wouldn't have come to me for protection.  I believe she appealed
to you first, but you had more important things to attend to.  With me
it was otherwise, and so I consider that I have a greater right to be
her protector than anyone else in the world."

"Do you?" said Uncle Edward.  "That means you're in love with her, I
suppose?"

Jake's eyes fenced with his.  "You may take it to mean that if it
pleases you to do so," he said.

The old man raked his throat pugnaciously.  "It's damn' presumption.  I
tell you that," he said.

"That may be," said Jake, unmoved.

"But it doesn't alter your intentions, hey?  You're one of the cussed
sort, I can see.  Well, look here, young man! I'll make you a proposal.
You seem to think I've neglected my duty, though heaven knows these
Brians have no claims on me.  But I've taken a fancy to the girl.  She's
gentle, which is more than can be said for most of your modern young
women.  So you just listen to me for a minute! You're on a wrong tack
altogether.  Courting should come before marriage, not after.  You may
marry first and you may think for a time that all is going to be well
between you, but there'll come a day when you'll wake up and find that
in spite of all you haven't won her.  And that'll mean misery for you
both.  Don't you do it, young man!  You'll find the game's not worth the
candle.  You have a little patience!  Let the girl come to me for a bit!
I may be old, but I'll protect her.  And if you care to come after her,
and do a little courting now and then, well--it's not a very brilliant
match for her, but I shan't forbid it."

He ceased to speak.  There seemed to be a smile in the eyes that watched
him, but there was no suggestion of it about Jake's mouth, which was
slightly compressed.

"That's all very well, sir," he said in his slow quiet way. "But have
you laid this proposal of yours before Miss Brian herself?"

Uncle Edward made a sound of impatience.  "She can think of no one but
her brother.  She'll agree fast enough when she realizes that it's the
only thing to do."

"Will she?" said Jake.  "And have you put it to her in that light?"

The old man coughed and made no reply.

Jake went on with the utmost composure.  "You offer her a home where she
can continue to be a slave to her brother.  You don't propose to lift
the burden at all, to ease her life, to make her happy.  You wouldn't
know where to begin.  You are ready and anxious to deliver her from me.
But there your goodness starts and finishes.  You talk of my damnable
presumption."  A ruddy glitter like the flicker of a flame dispelled the
hint of humour from the lynx-like eyes.  "That is just your point of
view.  But I reckon I'm nearer to her--several lengths nearer--than you
or any other man.  She hasn't brought all her troubles to you and cried
her heart out in your arms, has she? No,--nor ever will--now!  You've
come too late, sir,--too late by just twelve hours!  You may keep your
money and your home to yourself!  The girl is mine."

A deep note suddenly sounded in the man's voice, and Uncle Edward was
abruptly made aware of a lion in his path.

He backed at once.  He had not the smallest desire for an encounter with
the savage beast.

"Tut, tut!" he said.  "You talk like a Red Indian.  I wasn't proposing
to deprive you of her; only to give the girl a free hand and you the
chance of winning her.  If you take her without, there'll be the devil
to pay sooner or later; I can tell you that.  But, if you won't take the
chance I offer, that's your affair entirely.  I have no more to say."

"I am taking a different sort of chance," Jake said. "And I have a
suspicion that it's less of a gamble than the one you suggest.  In any
case, I've put my money on it, and there it'll stay."

He looked Uncle Edward straight in the eyes a moment, and then broke
into his sudden, disarming smile.

"Can't you stop over the week-end now and give her away?" he asked
persuasively.  "Her mother seems to shy at the notion."

"Her mother always was a fool," said Uncle Edward irascibly.  Here at
least was a safe object upon which to vent his indignation!  "The
biggest fool that ever lived! What on earth men found to like in her I
never could understand. Oh yes, I'll give the girl away.  If you're so
set on getting married at once, I'd better stop and see that it's done
properly.  Lucy never did anything properly in her life."

"Thank you," said Jake.  "You are most kind--and considerate."

"Mark you, that doesn't mean that I approve," warned the old man.  "It's
a hare-brained scheme altogether, but I suppose I owe it to my family to
see that it's done on the square."

Jake had suddenly become extremely suave.  "That is very benevolent of
you, sir," he said.

"I regard it as my duty," said Uncle Edward gruffly.

He had never been called benevolent before, and the term was not
altogether to his liking.  It seemed safer to accept it, however,
without question.  There was an unknown element about this young man
that was in some fashion formidable.  An odd respect mingled with his
first contempt.  The fellow might be a bounder,--he was not absolutely
decided upon that head--but, as he himself had modestly stated, he had
some points.  By marrying him, his young niece was about to commit a
very rash act, but it was possible--just possible--that it might not
lead to utter disaster.  It was not a marriage of which he could
approve, but the man seemed solid, and certainly he himself had no
urgent desire to take in the girl and her <DW36> brother.  Altogether,
though he did not like to think that his advice had been ignored, and
though at the back of his mind there lurked a vague uneasiness not
unmixed with self-reproach, it seemed that matters might have been
considerably worse.

"Don't you tyrannize over her now!" he said to Jake at parting.  "You've
got a fighting face, young fellow-my-lad. But you bear in mind, she's a
woman, and--unless I am much mistaken--she is not the sort to stand it."

"I don't fight with women, sir," said Jake somewhat curtly.  "I've other
things to do."

Uncle Edward smiled a dry smile.  "And you've a few things to
learn--yet," he remarked enigmatically.




                              CHAPTER XVII

                          THE WEDDING MORNING


It was very dark and draughty in the church.  Maud was shivering from
head to foot.  Her heart felt as if it were encased in ice.  Now and
then it beat a little, feebly, as if trying to break free, but the awful
cold was too much for it.  She did not know how to keep her teeth from
chattering.  Her hands lay in her lap, numbed and nerveless. She
wondered if she would ever manage to walk as far as the dimly lit altar
where Jake would be awaiting her.

It was evidently draughty there also.  The candles flickered fitfully.
Uncle Edward was eyeing the candles with obvious disapproval.  She hoped
he would manage to suppress it at close quarters.  She was sure she
would have to laugh if he didn't, and laughter, she felt, would be
fatal.

How different this from the wedding-day which once she had dared to
picture for herself!  It was like a mocking fantasy, a dreadful travesty
of that which might have been. Like an arc of prismatic colours it hung
before her--the vision of that other wedding--the wedding of her dreams;
the sunshine and the laughter and the flowers!  The shining altar, the
waiting bridegroom, his flashing smile of welcome!  She saw it all--she
saw it all!

How dear he had been to her!  How, unutterably dear! And she remembered
how in those far-off days he had always called her his Queen Rose.

Her heart gave a swift throb that was anguish.  She stood up with a
quick, involuntary movement.  She had not dreamed that this long-past
trouble possessed the power to hurt her so.  She cast a desperate glance
around her. This waiting in the cold and the dark had become
intolerable. A wild impulse to flee--to flee--was upon her.  The door
was quite near.  She turned towards it.

But in that moment Uncle Edward cleared his throat and rose.

"Here comes your precious bridegroom!" he said.  "I suppose they're
ready at last.  We had better get moving."

And then it was that Maud's knees abruptly refused to support her, and
she sank down again white and powerless on the chair by the door.

Jake's sturdy figure was coming down the aisle.  She watched it with
eyes that were wide and fixed.

He came straight to her, bent over her.  "I'm real sorry you've been
kept waiting," he said, in his womanly drawl. "It's the parson's doing.
He forgot all about us.  And there was no fire either.  I had to force
the door of the stoke shed to light it."

He bent a little lower over her, and suddenly she felt his hand against
the icy cold of her cheek.  She started back from it.

"Jake, I--can't come yet.  I'm so cold."  Stiffly her pale lips
whispered the words; her whole body seemed bound in a very rigour of
cold.  And through it all she still thought she could hear phantom
echoes of that other wedding that once had seemed so near.

"Where is your mother?" said Jake.

There was a hint of sternness in the question.  Uncle Edward answered
it.

"I'm expecting them every minute.  I drove up first to fetch Maud.  Lucy
is a hopeless fool.  She's never in time for anything."

Even as he spoke, there came the rush of wheels on the hard road outside
and the hoot of a motor horn.

The sound as it reached Maud, seemed to galvanize her into sudden
energy.  She rose, white to the lips but resolute.  "I am ready," she
said.

Jake gave her a straight, hard look, and turned without another word.
He went back up the aisle, square, purposeful, steady, and took up his
stand by the waiting clergyman.

Maud's hand pressed her uncle's arm with urgency. "Let us go!  Let us
go!" she said.  "I can see my mother--afterwards."

The old man also gave her a shrewd glance, but he also said no word.
Only as he stumped up the aisle beside her, he took the girlish hand
upon his arm and held it hard in his gnarled fingers.

They had reached the chancel steps where the clergyman awaited them ere
the opening of the door and the sound of fluttering feet announced the
arrival of Maud's mother. A heavier tread and a man's loud whisper and
barely muffled laugh testified to the presence of Giles Sheppard also.

Uncle Edward cleared his throat ferociously, releasing Maud's hand with
a mighty squeeze as Jake came to her side.  Then he turned with
deliberation and scowled upon the advancing couple.

Maud did not turn.  Her face was white and still as the face of a marble
statue.  Her eyes stared blankly at the flickering candles on the altar.
Had Jake lighted those candles, she wondered, as well as the fire in the
stoke shed?

She heard her mother's step behind her, but still she did not move; and
after the briefest pause the clergyman began to read the service.

It was all horribly unreal.  The only thing of which she was vividly and
poignantly conscious was the cold.  She heard Jake's voice beside her,
very calm and steady, and when her turn came she spoke with equal
steadiness, for somehow she seemed to be imbued with his strength.  But
she was too frozen, too ice-bound, to feel any meaning in the words she
uttered.  She spoke them like an automaton, through lips that would
scarcely move.

Jake's hand, warm and purposeful, holding her own, sent a faint, faint
glow through her; but it did not reach her heart.  She thought it had
ceased to beat long ago, and she wondered how soon he would realize that
he was wedded to a dead woman, what he would say when he knew.  For Jake
was so essentially full-blooded, so burningly alive.  He was the most
virile person she had ever met.  Standing there by his side, she could
feel the warmth of him.  She thought it was that alone that kept her
from turning into a solid block of ice.

When she knelt, his hand came under her elbow and supported her; when
she rose, it lifted her.  When the dreadful nightmare service was over
at last, his arm was round her, and by its aid alone she stumbled
stiffly to the vestry.

The young curate who had married them looked at her with nervous
solicitude.  He had been recently married himself, and he had a
painfully vivid memory of the agonies thereof.

He set a chair for her, and Jake put her down into it. Then he stood up
and took command of the situation.

"Get a glass from somewhere!" he said to the curate. "And you, sir," he
turned upon Uncle Edward, "don't let that man come in here!  Her mother
can if she likes, but I won't have anyone else."

He stooped over Maud, looking closely into her deathlike face.  He took
her frozen hands and held them up to his lips, breathing on them.

Her great eyes gazed up at him in mute apology.  She felt he had begun
to find out.

"It's all right, my girl," he said in answer, "all right."

And then her mother came to her, and surprised Maud at least by folding
her close in her arms and fondly kissing her poor numbed lips.

"Why, Maudie, darling," she murmured to her tenderly as though she were
a child again, "what is it, dearie?  What is it?"

The words, the embrace, moved Maud, piercing straight to her frozen
heart.  She turned with a passionate, inarticulate sound and hid her
face on her mother's breast.

"My precious!  My own girlie!" said Mrs. Sheppard; and gathered her
closer still.

There followed a brief, brief interval of peace while she rested in the
sheltering arms that had not held her since her babyhood.  Then she
heard Jake's voice close to her bowed head.

"Maud, I want you to drink this."

She stirred uneasily, and was aware of her mother's tears dropping on
her face.

Then again came Jake's voice, quite courteous but extremely decided.  "I
am afraid I must trouble you, Mrs. Sheppard.  She is half-dead with
cold."

Mrs. Sheppard gave a little sob and relaxed her hold. "Maud--my darling,
here is some brandy and water.  Will you try and drink it?  Mother will
hold the glass."

But it was Jake's hand that held it, guiding it steadily to the cold,
blue lips; and it was in response to his insistence, and not of her own
volition at all, that Maud drank the fiery mixture he had prepared.

She shuddered over it, but it revived her almost immediately. She felt
the blood begin to stir in her veins, her heart begin to beat.

"That's right," said Jake, and she saw his smile for the first time that
wintry morning and felt the better for it. "Now, sit quiet for a minute
or two till you feel well enough to sign the register!  Mrs. Sheppard, I
think your husband wants to speak to you."

"Oh, dear!" sobbed Mrs. Sheppard.  "He's always wanting something."

Maud gently released herself.  "You had better go to him, Mother, dear.
You can bring him in if you like.  I am quite all right now."

Her eyes met Jake's as her mother tearfully departed. Something like a
glance of intimacy passed between them. She held out her hand to him,
and he took it and held it, so that some of his abundant strength seemed
to communicate itself to her.

"I don't want your mother to upset you," he said.

She dismissed the notion with a smile.  "I am quite ready to sign now.
Let us get it over, shall we?  I want to go back to Bunny."

His hand relinquished hers.  He turned to the table. "The sooner the
better," he said, in a tone of cool deliberation.




                             CHAPTER XVIII

                           THE WEDDING NIGHT


It was over.  Maud sat before the open fireplace in Jake's oak-panelled
parlour, gazing into the red heart of the fire with a stunned sense of
finality, a feeling that she had been overtaken and made prisoner by
Fate.  She was terribly tired.  Every limb seemed weighted as if with
iron fetters.  She longed with a sick longing for sleep and oblivion.
She ached for solitude and repose.

Overhead she could hear Jake moving.  He was helping Bunny to prepare
for the night, by Bunny's own decree. Very soon he would come down
again, and she would have to rouse herself and make conversation.  She
wondered wearily how she would do it.

The best room in the house had been given to Bunny. Out of it led a
smaller room in which she could sleep and be within call when he needed
her.  Jake had made every provision he could think of for their comfort.
She felt that she ought to be very grateful to him; but somehow she was
too tired for gratitude.  And she could not concentrate her thoughts;
they wandered so.

Now it was the glint of the firelight on her wedding-ring that drew
them.  It shone with a burning, intolerable sparkle that somehow
reminded her of Jake--and the look in his eyes when he had said--  But
she pulled her mind up short at this point, with a sharp, involuntary
shiver.  She would not dwell on that thought.  She would bury it deep;
deep, far below all others.  For she knew she would never cast it out.

She clenched her hand and covered the ring from sight.

The thought of Uncle Edward presented itself, and she seized upon it
with relief.  He had been with them during the greater part of the day,
and had left but an hour before to catch the night train to town.  He
had been very kind to her, and had taken a shrewd interest in Bunny.
Just at parting he had drawn her aside for a moment, looking at her with
his sharp eyes under their shaggy brows with just the look of a terrier
on the hunt.

"And if at any time you should be in need of a change of air, my dear,"
he had said, "don't forget that you've got an old uncle at Liverpool who
wouldn't be sorry to see you--and the boy too--however busy he happened
to be."

He had meant that as an offer of help, should she ever stand in need of
it.  She had recognized that, though neither he nor she had emphasized
the fact.  He foresaw a possibility of difficulties ahead with which she
might be unable to cope single-handed.  He wanted her to know that she
would never call upon him a second time in vain.  She had thanked him
with simplicity, and now she registered the offer in her mind.  Almost
unconsciously, she had begun already to seek for a way of escape, should
her captivity become at any time unendurable.

For a captive she undoubtedly was.  She had given herself, voluntarily
but completely, into the keeping of a man whom she felt she hardly
knew,--a man who had shown her every consideration in his power, but
upon whom even yet she was half-afraid to lean.  Full of kindness as she
had found him to be she knew instinctively that he possessed other
qualities, was capable of other impulses.  Something of the caged beast,
something of the pirate on shore, there was about him.  He was quiet, he
was considerate, he was kind.  But on his own ground, in his own
element, would he be always thus?  Would he be always the generous
captor; the steadfast friend?  Her heart misgave her a little. Words
that Giles Sheppard had uttered only that morning arose suddenly in her
memory, gibing words that sent the hot blood again to her cheeks.

"Ah, he's a deep one, is Jake.  What he gives with one hand he takes
with the other and more to it.  He's not the man to make a one-sided
bargain.  But he knows how to bide his time.  He hasn't saddled himself
with a penniless wife and a hunchback brother-in-law just for the fun of
the thing.  He'll be getting his own back presently, and I think I can
guess who'll pay the piper."

Bitter words!  Cruel words!  Flung in her face for the malignant
pleasure of seeing her wince!

She had not winced.  She was glad to remember that. She had turned her
back on the man's hateful, sneering face. He had humbled her to the
earth once, but he would never have another opportunity.  Henceforth
Jake stood between her and all the world.  She had bought his protection
at a price, and she knew it for a weapon that would never fail her.  As
to the price, she would pay him in service and obedience.  It might be
he would never ask more of her than these.  Life was short, and she was
very tired.  Why should she fret herself over that which might never
come to pass?  She closed her eyes from the red glow of the fire, and
lay still.

Yet she could not have travelled far along the dim path to oblivion for
the quiet opening of the door a few minutes later brought her back in a
second.  She started up in her chair, alert, nervous, to see Jake enter
in his square fashion and shut the door behind him.

"Don't disturb yourself!" he said.

He came and stood before the fire, and Maud, sinking back into her
chair, strove to calm the unreasonable inner tumult that his entrance
had excited.

"Are you going to sit down and have a smoke?" she suggested.

He gave her a side-glance that had in it a hint of humour. "You don't
object to being smoke-dried?" he asked, in his slow, gentle voice.

"Of course I don't," she said.

He took his clay pipe from his pocket and considered it. It was very
old, blackened, and discoloured with much use. He looked at her again,
doubtfully.

An odd impulse moved her unexpectedly.  She sat up again and held out
her hand.  "Give it to me!  I'll fill it for you."

His hand closed upon it.  She saw surprise in his eyes.

"You!" he said.

She found herself smiling.  He actually looked embarrassed, a fact which
set her wholly at her ease.  "But why not?" she said.  "Is it too great
a treasure to be entrusted to me?"

But he still held it back.  "What do you want to do it for?"

She kept her hand outstretched.  "As a small--very small--return for
your goodness to Bunny," she said.

His face changed a little.  He put the pipe into her hand.  "I don't
want any return," he said.  "Don't do it for that!"

She , but she still smiled.  "Very well.  It is a favour
bestowed gratis.  Where's your tobacco?"

He fetched a pouch--nearly as ancient as the pipe--out of his pocket,
and laid it in her lap.

"You're not to watch me," she said, speaking with a new-found confidence
that surprised herself.  "Sit down and read the paper!  I'll tell you
when it's done."

He sat down opposite to her, and took up the paper. "You'll make a
beastly mess of your hands," he said uneasily.

"Be quiet!" she said.

He opened out the paper, and there fell a silence.

Maud pursued her self-appointed task with mixed feelings. The tobacco
was rank and coarse, and it smelt like mildewed hay.  It was, moreover,
nearly black, and she found herself fingering it with increasing
disgust.  She was determined however not to be beaten, and with
compressed lips she pinched and poked the revolting substance, ramming
it deep into the blackened bowl with a heroic determination to
accomplish the business to the best of her ability, her feelings
notwithstanding.

"You're packing it too tight," observed Jake gravely.

She looked up half-laughing, half-vexed.  "I told you not to watch."

He dropped his paper, and leaned towards her.  "I reckon I can't help
watching you, my girl," he said.  "I've never seen anyone like you
before."

He spoke with absolute simplicity, but his directness struck her like a
blow in the face.  She lowered her eyes swiftly.

"I'm sorry I haven't done it to your satisfaction," she said, in a
small, cold voice, from which all hint of intimacy had fled.  "You had
better do it over again."

She held out the pipe to him, and again the firelight gleamed golden-red
on that new bright ring that he had placed on her finger that day.

He leaned further forward, stretched out a quiet hand that grasped and
held her own.

He took the pipe from her with the utmost gentleness and laid it aside;
but he kept her hand, and after a moment he left his chair and knelt
beside her.

She did not draw back from him, but she stiffened on the instant.  Her
breathing quickened.

There followed a silence, which she found peculiarly hard to bear, and
which she eventually broke.

"Perhaps I ought to go to Bunny for a little.  He will feel neglected."

"He's not expecting you," said Jake.  "Say,--Maud!"

"What is it?" she said.

She strove for composure and attained an aloofness that startled
herself.  He released her hand and began to gather up the litter of
tobacco in her lap.

"I was going to speak to you about Bunny," he said. "I've settled to
sleep with him to-night."

"You?"  She looked at him in quick surprise.

He was not looking at her, being too intent upon his task. The firelight
shone red on his bent head.  "Yes, I," he said.  "You can sleep in my
room.  I've had it got ready for you."

The calm decision with which he spoke nearly took her breath away.  "Oh,
but--but--" she began.

He looked up, and she saw his frank, reassuring smile. It sent a curious
thrill of relief through her.  It was such a smile as would have gained
the confidence of a child.

"That's all right," he said.  "Don't you start making difficulties,
because there aren't any at present.  I've fixed it all.  You're going
to bed to-night without any cares, and you're going to sleep the clock
round.  See?"

"I couldn't sleep--away from Bunny," she said, somewhat breathless
still, notwithstanding the comforting kindliness of his eyes.

"I reckon you'll have to try," he said.  "And if it's any comfort to you
to know it, Bunny is charmed with the idea."

His words sent an odd dismay to her heart.  With this lightening of her
burden, she seemed to see Bunny slipping away from her,--Bunny, who
filled her world.

Jake was on the point of rising from his knees when she laid a detaining
hand upon his arm.  "Jake," she said, with slight hesitation, "it--it is
more than kind of you to think of this.  But do you know I would
rather--really rather--go on in the old way and look after Bunny myself
at night?  You can help me in the daytime if you will. But--but--at
night,--Jake, please, let me take care of him at night!"

There was entreaty in her voice.  Jake remained beside her, his hand
grasping the arm of her chair.  Once more she was conscious of the
warmth of the man as of a force that emanated from him.  Her fingers
closed almost beseechingly upon his sleeve.

"Say," he said slowly at last, "is it for your own sake--or for
Bunny's?"

She quivered at the question.  He was looking past her into the fire.
She had a feeling that he was deliberately compelling himself to do so.

"I have always mothered Bunny," she said rather piteously.
"I--shouldn't feel easy about him if--if I were not within reach."

"Is that quite true?" said Jake.

"True!" she echoed.

He nodded two or three times.  "Is it quite true that you wouldn't feel
easy--absolutely easy--about leaving the boy in my charge?"

She hesitated.

"Now, don't mind me!" he said.  "Be honest!  I'm honest myself."

She hesitated still.

He turned his head slowly and looked at her, "It's not--quite--true, is
it?" he said.

Her eyes fell before his.  "Very well," she said, her voice very low.
"We will say it is entirely for my own sake. I want to be with him at
night."

Jake was silent a moment.  Then: "That's a pity," he said, "because I'm
afraid the matter is practically settled. Of course I'd call you if he
needed you," he added.

She drew her hand from beneath his.  "You have settled it between you, I
see," she said, with a small, pinched smile.

He got up and solidly returned to his chair.  "Yes, that's so.  I don't
say we are going to make a rule of it.  But for to-night anyway----"

She interrupted him suddenly, with the vehemence of an abrupt
resolution.  "No, Jake.  It must be one thing or the other.  I can't
have this discussion over again.  So please understand that after
to-night we shall return to the usual arrangement, which is far the best
for us all."

She spoke with nervous force.  She was for the moment painfully afraid
of being mastered by this man whose strength was still such an unknown
quantity that she braced herself to test it as though she were
challenging a giant.

Jake was digging in the bowl of his pipe with a penknife, and was for
the moment too engrossed with the matter to look up.  At length,
however, he stuck the pipe into his mouth and began to search his
pockets for matches.  He found one loose, and bent to strike it on the
heel of his boot. She watched him with a growing uneasiness.  Would he
never speak?

The rasp of the match set her nerves on edge.  She rose and stood before
the fire, very slim and straight.

Jake puffed at his pipe with immense deliberation, and in a moment the
burning match sped past her into the flames.  He lay back in his chair
with his legs stretched out, his hands in his pockets, and regarded her.

She turned to him at length, meeting the untamed glitter of his eyes
with stern composure.  "Jake!"

"My girl!" said Jake.

She shivered suddenly and uncontrollably.  He spoke as if--as if he had
a proprietary right over her.  She read ownership--and the pride of
ownership--in his look. Abruptly she turned her back upon him.  Just so
might he look upon one of his favourite horses.  It was the look of the
master, admiring, arbitrary, possessive; and with all her soul she
resented it.

She stood a moment gripping the mantelpiece, gathering her strength.
Then without another word she drew herself up and walked out of the
room.

She knew even as she closed the door that by strength she would never
prevail against him.  She might beat her will to atoms against his, but
not by a hair's breadth would she thus turn him from the course upon
which he was set.




                              CHAPTER XIX

                             THE DAY AFTER


When Maud slept that night, it was the deep, deep sleep of exhaustion.
All the pressing cares of the past few months, all the strenuous
efforts, the unremitting anxieties, had culminated in one vast burden
which had at last overweighted her strength.  Against her will the
burden had been lifted from her, but now that it was gone she slept and
slept.  No dreams pierced that intense repose.  She lay without
stirring, as though the ancient spell had been renewed and laid upon
her.

The room in which she lay overlooked the whole stone-paved length of the
stable-yard, but no voice or stamping of hoofs awaked her.  The cheery
sounds of the coming day did not even vaguely penetrate her rest.  Body
and soul were wrapped in complete oblivion while hour after hour went
by.

There had been snow in the night, and the sun arose upon a world of
dazzling whiteness.  The toy fir-trees were mantled in it.  The
stable-roofs gleamed in a thousand sparkles.

She had pulled up the blind before lying down, and the reflection lit up
the room with an ever-growing brightness. She opened her eyes at last
quite suddenly and stared at the oak-beamed ceiling.

The next instant she turned sharply on her side, aware of a furtive
movement in the room.  Someone--a man--was on his knees before the
grate, stealthily coaxing the fire to burn.  She had a glimpse of brown
leggings and a rough tweed suit.  There were spurs on his heels that
shone like silver.  His red-brown head was on a level with the bars at
which he was softly blowing.

As she moved a flame shot up in response to his efforts and he turned,
still kneeling, and looked at her.

"Say, you've had a real good night for once," he said in a voice of soft
approval.  "How do you feel yourself this morning?"

Maud, crimson-faced, searched for words and found none. It was one of
the most difficult moments she had ever had to endure.

Jake glanced at the fire, pushed the poker into it, and got to his feet.
He came to her side.

"Don't be mad with me!" he pleaded humbly.  "Someone had to light the
fire, and old Lovelace is busy."

He smiled as he said it, and when Jake smiled he was hard to resist.
Maud suddenly found the difficulties of the situation swept away.  With
Jake in a docile mood she found it comparatively easy to deal.

"Thank you," she said after a moment, and with slight hesitation
extended a hand to him.  "It was kind of you to light the fire though I
could have done very well without it."

He took the hand very respectfully.  She even had a faint suspicion that
he also was secretly embarrassed. "The room faces due north," he said.
"It had to be done, though I hoped you wouldn't wake."

"Thank you," she said again, and withdrew her hand from his steady,
all-enveloping grasp.  "How--how is Bunny?"

He smiled again with more assurance.  His strong white teeth were very
good to see.  "He had a splendid night. I've got him up and dressed.  He
is downstairs, waiting for you to take him out."

This piece of diplomacy obviously came to Jake as an inspiration.  His
smile broadened at the brightening of her face.

Maud raised herself on her elbow and pushed the thick hair back from her
forehead.  "You are very good," she said gratefully.  "Please, will you
go now, and let me get up?"

He turned at once to the door, but paused as he reached it.  "Say,
Maud," he said tentatively; "there's a breakfast-tray waiting for you.
May I bring it up?"

"Oh, please don't!" she said hurriedly.  "I never breakfast in bed.
Besides----"

"I'll put it outside the door then," said Jake, and was gone.

She heard him clatter down the uncarpeted stairs, whistling as if
well-pleased with himself, and as she reviewed his unceremonious
behaviour she decided to treat it with the simplicity with which he
evidently regarded it himself. There was that advantage in the situation
at least.  His character and his conduct were wholly without
subtleties--or so she imagined.  When he dumped down the breakfast-tray
in the passage a little later she called her thanks to him through the
closed door as though he had been an old and intimate friend.  Perhaps
after all she had been over-fanciful the night before!

She ate her breakfast with a growing sense of reassurance, dressed, and
went downstairs.

Something of an ordeal here awaited her in the form of an encounter with
Mrs. Lovelace, who greeted her deferentially but with a reticence that
certainly did not veil any good-will.  She presented her with the
household keys with the stiff remark that Mr. Bolton had desired her to
do so.

Maud received them with an odd dismay.  Somehow she had not visualized
herself as the mistress of the establishment.

"Mr. Bolton also wished me to take your orders for dinner, ma'am," said
Mrs. Lovelace, with stiff dignity. "He is accustomed to dine in the
middle of the day, but I was to tell you that if you preferred a late
dinner it was all one to him."

The slight emphasis on the last word did not escape Maud, and she saw at
once that Mrs. Lovelace could not be considered equally indifferent on
the subject.

"But of course we will dine in the middle of the day," she said at once,
and was rewarded by a faint flicker of amiability on the old woman's
severe countenance.

"That is as you please, ma'am," she said, with less formality, and Maud
felt that she had scored a point.

She escaped from the interview at length with a sensation of relief, and
hastened to Bunny whom she found awaiting her with some impatience.

The boy was in excellent spirits.  He had enjoyed having Jake in
attendance, and unhesitatingly he let her know it.

"Why, there's no trouble at all in being lifted by him," he said.  "And,
by the way, he says you're not to lift me any more.  It's too much for
you.  I'm ready to go out now, but he will put me in the chair.  He said
you were to call him.  He's somewhere in the stables."

Bunny's fashion of expressing himself was not a diplomatic one.  Maud
did not argue the matter, but as she went in search of Jake a deep
resentment kindled and burned within her.  So this was to be the first
consequence of her rash step--the gradual removal of Bunny from her
care! Bunny--her Bunny--for whose dear sake she had made the sacrifice!

Out in the stable-yard she came upon Sam Vickers sucking a straw the
while he cleaned a saddle.  He greeted her with a smile, and informed
her that the boss was in one of the loose boxes round the corner.

Maud followed his directions, passing down a narrow passage between
stalls to an open stone-paved space beyond that was surrounded by loose
boxes.  Here she paused, catching the sound of voices, and uncertain
whence they proceeded.  A bony red setter came up to her and poked a
friendly nose into her hand.

She bent to fondle him, and as she did so she heard Jake speaking in a
building close to her.  She turned towards the voice with the intention
of joining him; but, so turning, she heard the words he uttered and
stood petrified.  For Jake, albeit with the utmost calmness and
deliberation, was speaking a language that made her blood run cold.  His
words came with a fluency and distinctness that made them all the more
terrible.  If he had been stuttering with rage, she felt it would have
horrified her less.  She stood rooted to the spot, white-faced and
powerless, while the kindly setter fawned about her knees.

She thought the soft voice would never stop.  Someone had done wrong and
was being cursed for it with appalling thoroughness.  Such oaths as Jake
uttered she had never before heard or dreamed of, and the scathing
cruelty of his speech was like a stinging lash.

No remonstrance or protest of any sort was offered in return; but after
what seemed to her an intolerable length of time there came the sound of
heavy, shuffling feet, and a small sandy-haired stable-lad of about
seventeen came blundering out into the yard.  His face was crimson and
screwed up like the face of a crying baby.  He sniffed emotionally as he
went past her.

Maud remained where she was.  She was sick with disgust.  Her whole
being physical and mental was in revolt.  She wanted to turn and go, but
something kept her there.  She stood like an outraged princess, clothed
in a dignity that was wholly unconscious, while Despair, grim,
relentless, forced a way to her quivering heart.  This--this was her
husband!  This coarse-mouthed brute--this monster of evil eloquence!
This was the man to whom she had fled for protection, to whose
chivalrous instincts she had entrusted herself!  Oh, what had she done?

And then suddenly he came out upon her, striding forth, his riding-whip
clenched in his hand, his brows drawn in a ruddy, threatening line.

He saw her and in a moment, magically, his face changed. The cruel,
lynx-like vindictiveness went out of it.  He came to her smiling.

"Hullo, Maud!" he said.

And Maud shrank, shrank visibly, so that he could not fail to see; then
drew herself together, instinctively summoning her pride.

"I came to look for you," she told him, with icy aloofness.  "Bunny is
waiting to be moved."

"Right O!" said Jake.

He moved towards the passage by which she had entered the yard, and she
walked beside him, very pale, very erect, yet tingling with a disgust
that almost amounted to loathing.

They went a few yards in silence, then silence became a burden.  She
spoke.

"It is really quite unnecessary to trouble you.  I am fully capable of
moving him myself."

He turned his head towards her.  "Say, Princess, what's wrong?" he said.

She quivered afresh at his tone; it had the possessive quality that she
so dreaded--was beginning to abhor.

She did not answer, and he passed on with scarcely a pause.  "I know you
can lift the boy; but it's very bad for you, and not over good for him.
Where's the point of it anyway when you've got me at hand to do it for
you?"

"It is quite unnecessary to trouble you," she said again, "unnecessary
and absurd."

"All right, my girl," he said unexpectedly.  "Call it just one of my
whims and--humour it!"

She felt herself flush.  His tone--though perfectly good-tempered--had
been almost one of command.  As they emerged from the stone passage into
the outer yard she gave abrupt rein to her indignation.

"I really cannot submit to any interference in my care of Bunny.  I told
you so last night, and I meant it.  He has always been my especial
charge, and I cannot give him up."

Jake's eyes were upon her, vigilant, intent, dominant. He spoke in a
drawl that sounded to her slightly derisive. "Say, now, what will you do
if Bunny is cured?"

She turned her face sharply from him.  What would she do indeed?  But
the thing was an impossibility.  She put the thought away from her.

"I am not discussing that," she said, speaking with a grim effort at
calmness that cost her all her strength. "It is the present with which I
am dealing now.  I believe you mean to be kind, but----"

"You don't say!" interjected Jake softly.

"But," she said again, with emphasis, "it is a mistaken kindness.  I am
very grateful to you for your help, but really you must let me do my
share."

An involuntary note of wistfulness in the last words softened the look
in Jake's eyes.  He even smiled a little as he said: "Bunny being the
only person in the world for whom you entertain the smallest spark of
affection?"

She looked at him quickly.  "He is all that I have," she said, in a low
tone of protest.

"That so?" said Jake deliberately.  "Well,--I'm sorry."

She felt the flush deepen to crimson in her face, and she quickened her
steps as they neared the house, longing to put an end to an encounter
that had brought her nothing but discomfiture.

Jake lengthened his stride.  He looked no longer at her, but straight
ahead with the eyes of a man who reads the future.  Evidently the
prospect was a pleasing one, for the faint smile still lingered about
his lips.  She was thankful that he had not observed that painful blush
of hers.

At the door of his house he paused and stood back for her to precede
him; and so standing, suddenly and softly he gave utterance to the
thought in his mind.

"Say, Maud," he said into her ear, "some day--when the boy is well and
off your hands--I'd just enjoy to see you with a child of your own in
your arms."

She started away from the whispered words, started and quivered like a
wild thing trapped.  For a single instant her eyes met his in open,
passionate revolt; then swiftly she passed him by.

Jake followed with his lips pursed to a whistle, and a certain hard
glitter replacing the dream in his eyes.




                               CHAPTER XX

                         A FRIEND OF THE FAMILY


Someone was whistling in the stable-yard with elaborate turns and trills
to the accompaniment of a horse's hoofs that danced upon the stones.

It was Christmas Day, and from the church half-way down the hill there
came the gay peal of bells.  The stable-doors were all closed, and the
yard was in perfect order. There was no one about besides the solitary
whistler on horseback; and he, it seemed, had no intention of prolonging
his solitude, for he was heading his horse straight for the spotless
white gate that led to Jake Bolton's dwelling.

He was a young man, with a swarthy face of undeniable ugliness that yet
possessed a monkeyish fascination that was all its own.  His eyes
laughed out of it with a merry wickedness--odd eyes, one black, one
grey, that gave a most fantastic expression to his whole countenance.
They were not trustworthy eyes, but they were full of humour.  He had a
comedian's trick of working the brows above them so that his features
were scarcely ever in repose.

He sat in the saddle as one completely at home there; but there was no
grace about him.  His limbs seemed to be fastened on with wires, like
the limbs of a marionette.

Reaching the closed white gate, he stooped from the saddle, and with the
end of his riding-switch lifted the catch.  On the little finger of the
hand he thus extended he wore a slender gold ring in which was set a
single sapphire surrounded by diamonds.

He walked his horse up the footpath to the door, and on this he beat a
rousing tattoo, still without dismounting.

During the pause that ensued he whistled a few more elaborate bars of
his melody, and then, coming to a break, bent and knocked again.

The door opened in haste as if agitated by the second summons, and Mrs.
Lovelace, red-faced from her kitchen fire, appeared curtseying in the
entrance.

"So sorry to keep you waiting, my lord!  The girl's gone to church.  And
will your lordship be pleased to walk in? We'd only heard this morning
of your lordship's return, and we'd not hardly expected to see your
lordship up so soon."

"A merry Christmas to you, Lovelace!" said his lordship, with that most
engaging grin of his; he leaned towards her confidentially.  "Take this
for love of me, in honour of the occasion!"

He slipped a coin into Mrs. Lovelace's hand that caused her to curtsey
again ecstatically and wish him every blessing she could call to mind on
the spur of the moment.  But he laughed easily and cut her short.

"Hear, hear!  But I can't stop to listen.  Where's Jake Bolton?  Is he
in?"

"Well, no, my lord.  I'm sorry to say Mr. Bolton's gone to church."

"Sorry!  Oh, come, Mother Lovelace, spare my morals! I always thought
going to church was an innocent amusement.  Don't disabuse me of my
childish fancies!  But what's the good of my walking in if the boss is
out and you are cooking the turkey?  Unless you're wanting someone to
come and turn the spit!"

Mrs. Lovelace raised hands of horrified protest.  "How your lordship do
carry on, to be sure!  No, no, my lord! I was only thinking that you'd
maybe fancy a glass of my cherry brandy with the wind in the east as it
is.  I'm sure as Mr. Bolton would be wishful for me to make the
suggestion."

"I should prefer the cherry brandy by itself," said Lord Saltash, with a
mischievous chuckle.  "But I won't stay now, thanks all the same.  I
suppose he'll be back some time?  I've never known Jake go to church
before. Is he courting or what?"

Mrs. Lovelace opened her small round eyes to their widest extent.  "Why,
can it be as your lordship hasn't heard?"

"Heard!  Heard what?  Tell me quickly!" urged his lordship.  "This
suspense is too horrible!"

"About Mr. Bolton's marriage, sir," explained Mrs. Lovelace, looking
suddenly prim.

"What!" ejaculated her listener.  "You don't say Bolton's been caught?"

"The marriage took place last Sunday, my lord," said Mrs. Lovelace,
still looking prim but plainly enjoying her _role_ of informant.

Lord Saltash slapped his thigh with a yell of laughter. "Poor old Jake!
And who is the bride?"

"Mrs. Bolton, my lord, is the step-daughter of Mr. Sheppard of the
Anchor Hotel," said Mrs. Lovelace.

"Is she though?  What's she like?  Pretty?"

Mrs. Lovelace pursed her lips.  "She is a lady, my lord,--own daughter
to a baronet."

"Oh, I say!" protested Lord Saltash.  "You're cramming me!"

Mrs. Lovelace looked shocked but at the same time flattered by the
accusation.  "Indeed, my lord, it's the truth!" she protested.  "And her
brother Sir Bernard Brian is in the house at the present moment.  He,
poor young gentleman, has the misfortune to be afflicted with a
humpback."

"What?  What?  What?  My good woman, do you know what you're talking
about?"  Saltash's mobile brows came suddenly low over his eyes in a
heavy scowl that added years to his appearance.  He leaned nearer to
her.  "What?" he said again.

Mrs. Lovelace paused, debating which of her statements he desired her to
repeat.  But ere she could make up her mind, Lord Saltash dropped with a
thud to the ground.  He threw his horse's bridle over the gate-post, and
turned to enter.

"Just ring up one of the stable-lads, and tell him to walk Moscow up and
down till I come!" he ordered, his voice no longer bland, but curt and
imperious.  "I should like to see this brother-in-law of Bolton's, so
show me in!"

Mrs. Lovelace turned before him and scurried down the passage like a
startled hen.

Lord Saltash strode after--a figure of medium height, sudden of
movement, unimposing of carriage, yet withal possessing that nameless
something that denotes high breeding.  It was said that there was a
strain of royal blood in the Burchester family, and this member of it
had long been dubbed "the merry monarch" by his intimates. There was
about him an inherent arrogance that no one dreamed of resenting, so
essentially was it a part of himself.

He entered Jake's sunny parlour with absolute assurance, though the
frown still drew his forehead.

"Lord Saltash!" announced Mrs. Lovelace.

And "Hullo, Bunny!" came from Lord Saltash in the same moment as he
strode forward to Bunny's sofa with the confidence of one entering the
presence of an old friend.

Bunny's quick cry of "Charlie!" fully justified this attitude, and Mrs.
Lovelace withdrew with a very greatly enhanced opinion of the importance
of the Brian family.

"He might have been greeting his own brother," she said to herself, as
she trotted back to her kitchen.

There was certainly no cordiality lacking in Bunny's reception of the
visitor.  He clung to Lord Saltash's hand with shining eyes upraised.

"I say, what a bounder you are to have stayed away all this time!  I
thought you'd have come back long ago. Maud's married.  I suppose you
know?"

"Married to Jake Bolton?"  There was a peculiar intonation in the
question.  Lord Saltash was smiling as he uttered it, smiling with drawn
brows.

"Yes; and he's the best of good fellows.  But I wanted her to wait for
you all the same," said Bunny, with the candour of the confidant.  "It
was no good talking though. She couldn't wait."

"How long has she been married?"  Lord Saltash's tone was settling into
studied indifference.

"Only a few days," Bunny told him.  "Only since Sunday."

"Was it so urgent as that then?  She isn't generally in such a desperate
hurry."

Bunny looked uncomfortable.  "You see, it was that brute of a Sheppard
at 'The Anchor.'  The mater married him, you know.  Thought she was
going to do a good thing for us all.  I think it has turned out all
right so far as she is concerned.  But he was a perfect beast to Maud
and me."

Lord Saltash nodded comprehension.  "I never did think your mother was
over-endowed with wisdom," he commented.  "And how did you come to know
Bolton?  Is he a friend of Sheppard's?"

"They're in the same lot, though I don't think Jake likes him.  Jake's a
good sort, isn't he?" said Bunny almost pleadingly.  "He's been jolly
decent to us."

Lord Saltash was gazing before him through eyelids that were slightly
contracted.  "I believe he is quite a good sort," he said after a moment
without enthusiasm.  "And Maud?  Is she in love with him?"

"Good gracious, no!" said Bunny.

Lord Saltash turned towards him sharply.  "You're very emphatic.  Why?"

"Well, she isn't," Bunny asserted.  "Jake knows she isn't."

"Oh!  And what may Jake's sentiments be?"

"He's gone on her of course," said Bunny.  "But he isn't nearly so pally
with her as he is with me.  Why, he even smacks my head sometimes!"  He
spoke with genuine pride.

Lord Saltash laughed.  "Oh, Jake's a great disciplinarian," he said, "or
he wouldn't be where he is.  But look here, does he know that I am--so
to speak--a friend of the family?"

"Yes, I told him," said Bunny.

"What did you tell him?"

"Told him that you and Maud were chums, and that if she married anyone
she ought to marry you."  Bunny's tone was blunt, his face somewhat red.

Lord Saltash laughed again.  The drawn look had wholly gone from his
eyes.  He worked his brows up and down with astonishing agility.  "That
pleased him, I'll bet," he remarked flippantly.  "And so he decided to
get married the next day, did he, and damn the consequences?"

"Oh no, it didn't come off then.  We had a big row with the Sheppard
beast first; and it was after that Maud went off and fixed it up with
Jake on her own.  It was a pity you weren't there, Charlie.  She'd have
married almost anyone to get away."

"Any scoundrel?" laughed Lord Saltash.  "Well, old chap, do you know,
between me and you, I'm not sure that she hasn't done better for herself
than if she had waited for me to come along?  Marriage has such a nasty
way of taking the gilt off the gingerbread, and I must admit I always
liked the gilt the best.  Now, Jake,--good soul--prefers the stuff
itself; in fact, I'm not sure that he isn't a bit of a beast in some
ways.  He looks it.  But possibly Maud likes beasts."

"Indeed she doesn't!" said Bunny, with quick warmth. "And as for
Jake--he's a brick.  I see a good deal of him, for he's taken me on at
night now; so I ought to know."

Lord Saltash got up and strolled to the window.  "Yes, he must be rather
a brick," he said, after a moment. "Doesn't Maud think so?"

"No, Maud's furious because Jake won't let her lift me any more.  I
expect she is jealous," said Bunny, with some complacence.  "And she
doesn't like being bossed."

"You don't object apparently?"  Lord Saltash sounded indifferent, even
slightly bored.

"Oh, I'd sooner be bossed by a man than a woman any day," said Bunny.
"Besides, Jake's a sport.  I like him."

"He's a gentleman," said Saltash unexpectedly.

"Not exactly," protested Bunny.  "He doesn't profess to be that."

"My dear chap, a gentleman is born not made.  Jake's sound.  It's more
than most of us can say.  I wouldn't part with him for a thousand
pounds."

Lord Saltash turned from the window with a pleasant smile on his ugly
face, and broke into a careless whistle.

Bunny watched him fidgeting to and fro with a slightly puzzled frown.
He had expected something more dramatic than this easy acquiescence to
the ruling of Fate.  He was sure in his own mind that the Lord Saltash
of to-day loved his sister as much as had the Charlie Burchester of
other days, and he could not understand the serenity of his attitude.

"I suppose you'll wait and see Maud," he said presently.

"I suppose I shall," said Saltash, with a baffling grimace. "Are you
going to eat your Christmas dinner without visitors?"

"Yes.  The mater was coming, but that Sheppard bounder turned awkward at
the last minute, and as we none of us wanted to go there, it fell
through.  They've got some show on at 'The Anchor.'  We're well out of
that."

"And you consider this a change for the better?" questioned Lord
Saltash.

"Rather!  I wouldn't go back for fifty pounds.  Neither would Maud.
It's much nicer up here than down by the sea, too," said Bunny, with
enthusiasm.

"I suppose you haven't been to the Castle," said Lord Saltash, coming
back to the fire to stand before it.

"No.  Jake said something about taking us some day. But it's not much
good my going.  I'm such a log."  The old bitterness suddenly sounded in
Bunny's voice.

Lord Saltash lightly poked him with the end of his riding-switch.  "I'll
take you round myself some day, you and Maud.  I'm off for a ride now
when I've had a look round the stables.  I shall be back in an hour or
so, in time to see the virtuous Jake when he comes back from church."

He turned to the door therewith, and fell to whistling softly the tune
to which he had entered the stable-yard a short time before.  Opening it
he glanced back to wave a careless adieu, then passed whistling out.

"Well, I'm jiggered!" said Bunny.  "Anyone would think he didn't care a
jot!"

Which was precisely the impression that Lord Saltash had intended to
convey.




                              CHAPTER XXI

                              THE OLD LIFE


That Christmas morning was like a dream to Maud.

To find herself in church with Jake by her side was a circumstance that
she had been very far from expecting, and the experience was so unique
that it seemed scarcely real.

It was by his suggestion that they were there, and he had overruled her
hesitation as to leaving Bunny with a masterly skill that had enlisted
Bunny himself on his side.

So they had gone, like a sober married couple, as Maud said to herself,
though the thought of Jake as her husband was somehow one that she
invariably failed utterly to grasp. She herself found it impossible to
give her undivided attention to the service with the perpetual
consciousness of his presence at her side.  She could not tear her mind
from him. He came between her and her devotions.

And yet he himself seemed to be wholly absorbed.  Not once did those
watchful eyes stray in her direction.  He followed the entire service
with reverence and a steady concentration that she envied but could not
emulate.

When it was over and they were walking back, he drew a deep breath and
remarked: "That's the first time I've been in church, except for our
wedding, for twenty years."

Maud looked at him in amazement.  "So long as that?"

He nodded.  "I used to go regularly till my mother died. After that, I
went to sea and got out of the way of it."

There fell a silence upon his words.  The colour that was always so
quick to rise in Maud's cheeks spread upwards to her forehead.

It was with an evident effort that she said finally: "You haven't told
me anything about your mother yet, Jake."

He turned his head slowly towards her.  "It didn't strike me that you
would care to hear," he said, with simplicity.

She conquered her embarrassment with difficulty, but her voice was
curiously devoid of enthusiasm as she said: "I am interested--of
course."

"Really?" said Jake.  "I don't know why you should be. She was a very
fine woman, and she killed herself with hard work when my father failed
as a farmer.  That's about all her story."

"Oh, Jake, how dreadfully sad!"  There was quick sympathy in Maud's
tone.  She put out a shy hand to him as they walked.

He took it, held it fast for a moment, and let it go.  "A woman will
always attempt the impossible," he said, "for the sake of anyone she
cares for.  You would do the same for Bunny.  I saw that the first day I
met you.  I've seen it a hundred times in different parts of the world,
and I guess it's one of the greatest things in life."

Maud uttered a sharp sigh.  "I don't see anything great in doing what
one must," she said rather sadly.  "It is very nice of you to admire
women, but I expect it is chiefly because you don't understand them."

Jake's frank smile appeared at her words.  "I'm not disputing that most
women need a burden of some sort," he said gently.  "I guess that's just
a woman's way.  She wouldn't be happy if she hadn't one."

"And yet you want to take mine away!"  The words were out almost before
she knew it.  She repented them even as they fell.

Jake's smile passed, and an odd, dogged look took its place.  "I reckon
that's different," he said.  "You've carried too heavy a burden all your
life.  Do you know, Maud"--his voice softened though his face remained
unchanged--"that first time I saw you, I recognized that look of
desperate endurance in your eyes that my mother used to have?  It cut
right through me.  And you were so young, which made it worse."

"I don't feel young," she interposed.

"I know," he made answer.  "You've missed it all. But when you're
stronger--happier--you'll find you're not so old.  There are quite a lot
of good things in the world even for middle-aged folk like you and me."

She uttered a little dubious laugh.

"Yes, that's so," he asserted, in that calm, confident drawl of his.
"And that brings me round to what I've been wanting to say to you.  I
don't want to deprive you of anything worth having, but I am
wanting--real badly--to make a sound man of Bunny as soon as may be.
Reckon you're wanting that too?"

Her heart gave a thick, hard throb.  "Of course," she said rather
breathlessly.

"Yes, of course," agreed Jake imperturbably.  "Well, I had a letter last
night from Capper, one of the biggest surgeons in the world.  I had the
good luck to do him a small service, once, and he can't somehow forget
it.  Now he's coming to England in a few weeks, and he'll look me up.
I've told him about Bunny, and he's sort of interested.  Say, Maud, it
would be a mighty big thing to let him examine the little chap and see
what he thinks."

Maud's face was very pale.  She walked in silence.

Jake glanced at her.  "You'd be afraid?" he suggested.

"I don't know," she said, in that same breathless tone. "It--it seems
rather soon.  And suppose--suppose he failed!"

"My dear," Jake said gently.  "Capper won't fail. He'll either tackle
the job and carry it through, or he won't attempt it.  That's the sort
of man he is."

Maud dropped back into silence.  The road at this point was somewhat
steep, and she was gasping for breath.

Suddenly Jake reached out, took her hand, and pulled it through his arm.
"All right, my girl, all right!" he said kindly.  "We won't hustle any.
I shan't say another word to Bunny on the subject till you have made up
your mind what you'd like done.  Now you lean on me!  I'll pull you up."

She did not want to lean on him, but for some reason she could not at
once withdraw her hand.  They mounted the hill side by side.

Jake said no more upon the subject.  He evidently regarded it as closed.
As they turned in at length at the white gates, he said: "I was
wondering if your mother could be persuaded to come up to tea if I went
and fetched her with the dog-cart.  We couldn't squeeze Sheppard into
that if we tried."

She knew that he made the suggestion solely for her pleasure, and a
sudden warmth kindled within her.

"You are good to me, Jake!" she said gratefully.

"Oh, rats!" said Jake.  "Being good to you is all one with being good to
myself.  I'll go then as soon as dinner is over.  Now who in thunder--"
He stopped abruptly gazing straight ahead.

A momentary frown drew his level brows and passed. "Hullo!" he said, in
a soft drawl.

Maud was looking ahead too.  She saw a man's figure moving towards them
over the stones of the yard; she heard the ring of spurs.  And suddenly
she stood still, white to the lips, panting, unnerved.

It could have been only for a second, that pause of hers; for at once
she was aware of Jake's hand pushed lightly through her arm, leading her
forward.

"I guess I don't need to introduce Lord Saltash," he said.  "You've met
before."

Yes, they had met before, met and parted, and the memory of it stabbed
her to the heart.  She moved forward, as it were mechanically, under
Jake's guidance.  She had known that this ordeal would have to be faced,
but it had taken her unawares.  She was unprepared.

But the moment she heard his voice, his laugh, her agitation was gone.
There was a subtle _camaraderie_ in Lord Saltash's greeting that
smoothed the way.  She remembered with a pang that it had ever been his
custom to take the easiest course.

With his hand holding hers, and his ugly face laughing its debonair
welcome into her own, she could not feel tragic or even disconcerted any
longer, even though with his other hand he clapped Jake on the shoulder.

"So you've gone and got married, have you?" he said, his eyebrows
working with monkeyish rapidity.  "How original of you!  I won't be
banal enough to congratulate. It's such a bore to have to reply to that
sort of thing.  Let me wish you a happy Christmas instead!  _Ma belle
reine des roses, je te salue_!  You are more faultily faultless than
ever!"

He made her a sweeping, cavalier's bow, and lightly kissed her hand.

She laughed without effort.  "How odd to meet you like this, Charlie!  I
thought you were still abroad."

She was not even aware of uttering his Christian name, so naturally did
it rise to her lips.  It seemed to her suddenly that the old cruel
barrier had been removed.  Since they could never again be lovers, they
were free now to be friends.

Surely the same thought had struck him also, for his odd eyes smiled
intimately, confidentially, into hers, ere he turned in his lightning
fashion to Jake, standing solidly by her side.

"You knew we were old friends?" he questioned.

Jake's eyes, red-brown, intent, watched the swarthy, mobile face without
the smallest shade of expression.  "Yes," he said, in his slow soft
voice, "I knew."

Maud glanced at him quickly.  How much did he know? Had Bunny ever
confided in him upon the subject?

But his face, absolutely composed and normal, told her nothing.  He
accepted the hand that Lord Saltash extended, looking him full and
straight in the face.  And through her mind unbidden there ran the
memory of that strange story of treachery that Jake had once told to her
and Bunny. Looking at the dark, keen countenance of this man who had
once been so much more to her than friend, she tried to visualize his
double, and failed utterly.  Surely there could be but one Charlie
Burchester in all the world!

"What are you trying to see?" laughed Lord Saltash. "I carry neither my
virtues nor my vices in my face, being long past the ingenuous age.
Have we time to go round the Stables?  Or is your Christmas turkey
clamouring to be eaten?"

Maud shot a swift look at Jake who after a momentary pause said, "I can
go round with you now if you wish, my lord."

Saltash made a quick grimace.  "That's very obliging of you, Bolton.
But don't let me interfere with your domestic arrangements!  I can come
over again later."

It was then that Maud very quietly intervened.  "If you care to join us
at dinner I am sure we shall be very pleased, and you can go and see the
stud afterwards."

"What!  Really?" said Lord Saltash.  "Of course I shall be delighted.
There are to-morrow's events at Graydown, Bolton, I want you to post me
up with the latest. Sure I shan't be in the way?"

He put the question directly to Jake, who replied without haste or
hesitation: "I reckon no guest of ours could be that."

There was nothing in his manner to indicate if he were pleased or
otherwise by the arrangement.  He seemed to be in a mood of extreme
reticence, and Maud wondered as they walked to the house if she had
vexed him by taking upon herself to extend hospitality to his patron.

But then it had been the only course open to her.  Surely he must see
that!  She and Charlie were such old friends; they could not begin to be
strangers now.

Yet the doubt worried her.  Jake was plainly not upon very intimate
terms with Lord Saltash.  Or was it her presence that caused constraint?
She wished she knew, but she had no means of ascertaining.  She could
only do her best, ably seconded by Saltash, to smooth over any slight
difficulties that might arise from a situation that was certainly none
too easy.

Despite her efforts she could not fail to note that Jake was more
self-contained, more unresponsive, than she had ever before seen him,
and for a time she felt her own manner to be strained and unnatural in
consequence.

Lord Saltash plainly noticed nothing.  Throughout that Christmas dinner
he was just as gay, as debonair, as audacious, as he had been in the old
days, complimented her with his usual effrontery, provoked her to
laughter with all his old quick wit.  She found it impossible not to
respond, impossible not to expand in the warmth of his good comradeship.
She seemed to be drawn into a magic circle of gaiety that could not
last, that was all the more precious because it could not last.  Bunny
also was well within that charmed region.  He was full of animation,
eager, excited, even merry.  She had an uneasy fear that he would pay
for his high spirits later, but for the time she had not the heart to
check him.  She understood his feelings so thoroughly.  It was so good
to have Charlie with them again and to bury all the troubles of the
past, so good to see the flower of friendship spring from the dead root
of passion. so good to be on easy terms again with this man whom in
spite of everything, she could not but regard as a kindred spirit.

They had always been sympathetic.  They looked upon much in life with
the same eyes.  They had the same tastes, the same intuitions, often the
same impulses.  Yes, he had shown himself unworthy.  There was a fatal
flaw in his character.  He was wild, lawless, immoral; but he was her
friend.  Somehow she could not feel that anything could ever alter that.
They had been too near, too intimate.  He had become like one of the
family.  She could not regard him in any other light.  He had wounded
her to the heart, but yet, with a woman's odd faithfulness, she forgave
him, pitied him, understood him.  Only upon that one point she had stood
firm.  Her innate purity had arisen as an angel with a flaming sword,
dividing them.  She had not been able to overlook his sins and marry
him.  She had known him too well--too well.  Possibly even she had loved
him too well also.

But all that was over now.  The pain was stifled, the sacrifice was
past.  She could suffer herself to accept his easy friendship with no
dread for the future.  She could let herself be at ease with him once
more, knowing herself to be beyond his reach.  Once very sorely she had
been tempted to yield to him, but that temptation could never occur
again.  Her marriage was a safe anchor from which she could never break
free and drift out to sea.  She could afford now to be kind, since
henceforth no more than kindness could ever be expected from her.  And
it was so good to be with him again.  With all his waywardness and
instability Charlie Burchester was the most satisfying friend she had.
He never wearied her.  He always caught and charmed her mood.  He was so
rarely sensitive, so delicately alive, to every change of feeling.
There was even something almost uncanny sometimes in the way he read her
woman's heart, a feat for which he himself accounted by declaring that
they had been born under the same star.

It all came back to her as they sat at the same board on that Christmas
Day.  It was just as if there had never been any lift in their
friendship.  The memory of the man's passionate pleading and her own
anguished refusal had faded into an evil dream.  They were back once
more in the old happy days of comradeship before he had ever spoken to
her of love.

Only Jake's presence held her to the present, and when at the end of
dinner he rose to carry out his suggestion with regard to fetching her
mother in the dog-cart she felt, as soon as the door closed upon him,
that the old life she knew and loved had wholly returned.  She and Bunny
and Saltash were just children together, and they settled down to enjoy
themselves as such.




                              CHAPTER XXII

                          THE FAITHFUL WIDOWER


Lord Saltash's desire to see the stud evaporated completely during the
afternoon.  He stayed and made himself extremely charming to Mrs.
Sheppard, who returned with Jake, very fluttered and arch, to spend an
hour--only an hour or Giles would be so cross--in her daughter's new
home.  And when she left again under Jake's escort it was already
growing dark.

"I've got to talk business with Jake so I may as well wait till he comes
back," said Lord Saltash comfortably, and they gathered round the
blazing fire and sat in luxurious enjoyment.

Undoubtedly Bunny had enjoyed himself that afternoon, but he had begun
to grow restless and irritable, signs which Maud had learned to
recognize as the heralds of a wakeful night.  She wondered with some
uneasiness if Jake would be able to manage him with his usual success.

"You haven't got a piano here, have you?" asked Saltash in a pause.

She told him, "No."

In the old days they had sung duets together.  She wondered if he
remembered.

He went lightly on.  "You will have to use the one at the Castle.  You
mustn't let your talents run to seed.  Come up any day, you and Bunny.
The place will always be open to you, whether I am there or not."

She thanked him for the thought.  "We should love to come; I have had no
opportunities for playing for months, not since we left London."

"No?" he said.  "I say, what made your mother come to Fairharbour?  It's
a hole of a place to live in."

She felt her face burn in the firelight.  She hesitated, and at once
Bunny cut in.

"The mother always has an eye on the main chance," he said.  "And she is
a great believer in friendship.  When things look black she always likes
to hunt up old friends and give them their opportunity."

His meaning was not obscure.  Maud made a quick movement of protest; but
Lord Saltash's inconsequent laugh covered her discomfiture on the
instant.

"Poor Lady Brian!  I am afraid her luck and mine are made of the same
rotten material.  It tears at a touch. But I should have thought she
might have chosen a sounder man than Sheppard of 'The Anchor' for a
husband."

"Isn't he sound?" asked Maud quickly.

Lord Saltash laughed again.  "I could sell him up--lock, stock, and
barrel--to-morrow if I wanted."

She started.  "Charlie!  You don't mean that!"

He looked at her with a gleam of mischief in his queer eyes.  "Of course
I do!  'The Anchor' belongs to me, and all that is in it.  It's
mortgaged for considerably more than its value, and I hold the mortgage.
Did he never mention that detail?"

Maud sat speechless.

He stretched out a lazy hand.  "It's all right, Queen Maud.  He is quite
safe so long as he behaves decently to you and yours.  He's something of
a brute-beast, I believe? Well, if he needs any salutary correction, you
must let me know."

His ugly face laughed into hers; the light in his eyes was half-mocking,
half-tender.

"It's good to know that there may be something left that I can yet do
for you," he said.  "The worthy Jake may have a stout right arm, but he
is not a Croesus."

He turned the conversation in his easy, well-bred fashion, and her
embarrassment died down.  But the carelessly uttered information dwelt
persistently in her mind, even though she found herself talking of
indifferent things.  It was strange that all her affairs should be so
completely--and it seemed so irrevocably--under the direct control of
this man whom she had once so resolutely driven out of her life. Fate or
chance had thrown them together again.  A little secret tremor went
through her.  What would come of it?

She had not attempted to touch the hand he had stretched forth to her.
It had fastened upon the arm of the chair in which she sat and rested
there.  Presently she looked down at it, her eyes attracted by the gleam
of the ring upon it.

"Your own," murmured Saltash.  "Violets blue as your eyes!"

He moved his hand in the firelight, and the sapphire shone in the midst
of the diamonds like a deep blue flame in the heart of a leaping fire.
He drew a little nearer to her.

"You sent it back to me," he said.  "I have worn it--like a faithful
widower--ever since."

Her heart contracted with an odd little pain.  "Don't wax sentimental,
Charlie!" she pleaded, with a difficult smile.

"Would you prefer me heartless?" he said; but he withdrew his hand, and
the sapphire burned no more.

They began to talk again upon ordinary topics, and the conversation
turned upon the Graydown Steeplechase Races of the morrow.  Two horses
from the Burchester Stud were running.

"Beauties they are too!" said Bunny, with enthusiasm. "Sam Vickers
swears they'll win."  He uttered his quick, impatient sigh.  "What
wouldn't I give to see 'em do it!"

"Why shouldn't you?" said Saltash.  "I'll take you over."

"Will you?" cried Bunny, with shining eyes.

And in the same breath.  "No, no!" said Maud quickly. "Charlie!  Why do
you suggest these impossible things?"

Saltash laughed.  "I never suggest the impossible," he said.
"Bunny--and you too--can come along in the car if you will.  I can make
him quite comfortable with cushions."

But Maud shook her head.  "It isn't so easy as it used to be.  And he
gets tired so soon.  Really--really, it can't be done!"

"Oh, Maud, do shut up!" broke in Bunny.  "You jaw like any old woman!
Of course I'll come, Charlie!  When will you be round?"

Lord Saltash looked at Maud with an impish expression. "I am afraid you
are in the minority, _ma reine_.  But leave it to me!  I'll undertake
that no harm is done."

Maud rose suddenly from her chair.  She stood upright and slender in the
firelight.  "I can't consent to it," she said with resolution.

He sprang instantly to his feet.  "You don't want to come?" he said.

She met his challenging eyes with an effort.  "Don't make things
difficult," she begged in a low voice.

"But if I got your mother to come too!" he urged. "She used to love
race-meetings."

She turned her eyes away.  "Neither Bunny nor I can go," she said
steadily.

"I say I will go!" cried Bunny hotly.  "I'm old enough to do as I like,
and I won't be dictated to by anyone."

Saltash turned back to him.  "I'll take you one day, old chap.  But the
queen's word is law, you know.  We can't go in direct opposition to it.
Moreover," with audacious simplicity, "it wouldn't be great sport for
any one if the queen herself did not deign to accompany us."

"She'll go fast enough if I do," said Bunny.  "She sticks to me like a
leech."

"Lucky beggar!" said Saltash.

He glanced back at Maud.  She was still on her feet, turned partially
from him.  It was evident that she did not mean to renew the friendly
intercourse that his unwelcome suggestion had interrupted.

"I must get back to my lonely castle," said Saltash.

She turned then, as he had known she would.  "No, don't go--why should
you?--till--till Jake comes back!"

He laughed into her eyes.  "Now, don't try to persuade me that you want
me any longer!  I know the signs too well. I am going to walk down and
meet Jake, as I must have a word with him about the animals.  By the
way, why don't you call him Jacob?  The other is too frivolous for your
august lips."

There was a sting in the smiling question of which she alone was aware.
She knew that he had it in him to be malicious at times.  But she would
not seem to notice.

"Are you backing either of the horses running to-morrow?" she asked.

He raised his agile brows.  "But, of course I am.  Who ever went to a
meeting without putting something on? And you don't suppose I would lay
a wager against one of my own beasts, do you?"

"You always back your own before anyone else's?" she said.

"Of course," he made prompt reply.  "We've pulled off a good many events
since Jake took command."

"Yes," she said slowly.  "He is a genius with horses."

"Oh, quite useful," said Saltash carelessly.  "Well, good night to you
both!  Many thanks for your kind hospitality!  Don't forget the piano at
the Castle!  Come and go exactly as you like!  I will give orders to
that effect."

"You are very kind," she said.

But the pleasant intimacy between them was broken. She knew that her
refusal to go with him on the morrow had hurt him.  He was in a mood to
sting at a touch.

She gave him her hand with genuine regret.  "Good-bye, Charlie!" she
said gently.

He took it with a gesture that made her remember that his mother had
been a Frenchwoman.  "Good night, _ma chere_!" he said lightly.  "When
thou art dreaming, think of me!"

Her faint laugh had a note of bitterness.  "But I never dream," she
said.




                             CHAPTER XXIII

                          THE NARROWING CIRCLE


When Jake returned at length, he entered an atmosphere so unmistakably
stormy that he looked instinctively to Maud for an explanation.

The room was lighted and the curtains drawn.  She was sitting in the low
chair by the fire doing some intricate crochet-work with knitted brows.
There was tension in her attitude, tension in the firm compression of
her lips.

Bunny lay on his sofa, hot-cheeked, fiery-eyed, beating an impatient
tattoo with one hand on the table by his side. On the table lay the
presents that he had received that day, a box of paints and sketching
block from his mother, a book from Maud, a small telescope from Jake
himself.  But he was looking at none of them.  His brows too were
closely drawn.  His teeth bit viciously into his lower lip.

Maud did not raise her eyes at Jake's entrance.  She seemed intent upon
her work.  He came and stood beside her.

"I should have been back sooner," he remarked, "but Lord Saltash met me,
and I had to take him back to the Castle in the dog-cart."

Her fingers moved very rapidly.  "I thought perhaps you would dine with
him," she said, in a voice that sounded very cold and aloof.

"Not I," said Jake.  "Give me my own fireside, and my clay pipe that
doesn't go into aristocratic society!"

She raised her eyes momentarily.  "Are you a Socialist?" she asked.

His eyes were unblinkingly upon her.  "I guess not," he said, speaking
with something of a drawl.  "I've seen life--lots of it--that's all.  As
to my politics, well, I reckon they're mine and no one else's.  I think
just what I like of everything and everybody."  He turned those intent
eyes suddenly upon Bunny.  "What's wrong with the head of the family?"
he asked.

At once Bunny burst into speech.  "Jake, it's--it's infernal that I
can't go to the races in Charlie's motor--to-morrow.  He's offered to
take me.  Why shouldn't I go?  Hang it all, I will go!"  He banged his
clenched fist upon the table with the last passionate words.

Maud kept her eyes upon her work.  Her hands though they moved so
rapidly, were not wholly steady.  "He is not fit to go," she said.

"That's not the reason you refused!" flung back Bunny, who was rapidly
working himself up to fever pitch.  "You said No just because you
thought Jake would be jealous if you said you'd go.  You're afraid of
him, that's what's the matter with you,--afraid of his finding out that
you're still in love with Charlie."

He broke into his cracked, painful laugh, stopping abruptly as Jake left
the hearth and stepped quietly to his side.

"Don't touch me!" he said, shrinking sharply back.

Jake stooped.  His face was grim.  "My son, I'm going to touch you," he
said.  "I'm going to carry you straight up to bed.  You've had more than
enough excitement for to-day."

"I'm not going to bed!" cried Bunny, his voice high and defiant.  "I'm
not going for hours yet.  Jake--Jake--leave me alone, do you hear?
You're hurting me!"

"Afraid you've got to be hurt," said Jake.

He was slipping steady hands under the boy's writhing body.  Maud had
risen.  She came swiftly forward.  She touched Jake's shoulder, her face
pale and agitated.

"Don't, please, Jake!" she entreated.  "It does more harm than good."

He did not look at her or pay the smallest attention. Bunny was already
in his arms,--Bunny, purple with rage, waving his arms in blind
impotence.

"P'raps you'd open the door for me!" said Jake, in his slow gentle
voice.

She went to the door.  Somehow it was the only thing left to do.  Jake
followed her with his burden.

As he did so, Bunny ceased to struggle, realizing the mastery of the
steady arms that bore him, and spoke; in a voice of tense hostility.

"You beastly groom!" he said.

Jake said nothing whatever.  He carried him firmly, unfalteringly, from
the room.

Maud closed the door softly behind him, and went back to her chair.

But she did not take up her work again.  She sat gazing into the fire
with wide, troubled eyes.  She was beginning to realize that old
associations, old friends, could be nothing but a disturbing element in
her life, beginning to wish with yearning sadness that Charlie had not
come back into it. She was tired--so tired, so sick at heart.

As for Bunny, he had grown out of hand and would never be the same to
her again.  She was sure of it, she was sure of it.  Nothing ever could
be the same again in this new world that she had entered.  It was a
world of harsh realities, wherein dwelt no softening magic.  The fate
she had dreaded was surely closing in upon her.  Whichever way she
turned, she found a narrowing circle.

A long time passed.  She began to grow anxious.  What was happening
upstairs?  Was it possible that Jake might after all lose his temper and
visit his wrath upon Bunny's rebellious head?  Would he by any chance
make use of that frightful language which she had heard him employ only
a few days before to a negligent stable-boy?  Bunny's bitter epithet
dwelt in her memory.  Surely Jake would be something more than human if
he did not resent it!

And then suddenly she heard his square footfall on the uncarpeted
stairs, and a great wave of agitation went through her.  All her being
quivered at the thought of him, his unyielding mastery, his utter
confidence.  Two eyes, one black, one grey, seemed to flash a mocking
question out of the depths of the fire into which she gazed.  Her heart
gave a little quiver of misgiving that yet was oddly mingled with
satisfaction.  No, she was not wholly sorry that Lord Saltash had come
back into her life.  He was so subtly refreshing.  He sounded deeps in
her of which none other guessed. His gaiety of soul called back her
vanished youth.

Jake entered, and she turned her head, masking her embarrassment with a
resolute effort.  "Oh, Jake, come and sit down!  I am so sorry this has
happened."

He pulled forward a chair and dropped into it.  "The little chap is
overtired," he said.  "He'll be better left to himself for a bit."

He spoke in a quiet, temperate voice.  She realized with relief that he
had not taken Bunny's bitter outburst seriously.  She took up her work
again.

"He is always difficult to manage when he gets caught by one of these
moods," she said.  "And he is apt to say wild things."

Jake began to fill his pipe, making no comment.

Maud worked on for several seconds, still struggling against an uneasy
feeling of shyness.

After a little, in a low voice she spoke again.  "Jake, I think--with
you--that if Dr. Capper will examine Bunny and--and perhaps operate on
him, it had better be done--as soon as possible."

"That so?" said Jake.

She knew that he turned his head to look at her, and a hot sense of
discomfiture surged through her.  She worked with fevered speed, as if
much depended upon it.

"Of course--of course I want him to have--every chance. I am not so
selfish as that.  But--but--the anxiety will be very hard to bear.  I
dread it more than I can possibly say."

Her lips quivered suddenly.  She became silent, still desperately making
stitches that she could hardly see. She had not meant to make any appeal
for sympathy.  It had, as it were, escaped her from sheer embarrassment.
She had never felt more utterly ill at ease in Jake's presence than she
felt that night.

He did not immediately respond though she knew that he continued to
watch her with those lynx-like, brilliant eyes. But after a very decided
pause, his hand, square and steady, came forth and stopped her fevered
working.

"Sit still for a bit, my girl!" he said.  "Give yourself a rest!"

She started sharply at his touch, but gave in at once, suffering him to
draw the work from her hands.

"Say, now," he said, "when you married me, I made myself a vow that you
shouldn't be burdened any more beyond your strength.  This anxiety you
speak of, will it be harder to bear than to see Bunny suffering and not
be able to help?"

She shook her head.  Her eyes were full of tears.

"Guess you're overwrought," he said gently.  "Why don't you lie down on
the sofa?  P'raps you'd get a sleep."

She mastered herself with an effort.  "No, thank you. I am quite all
right.  Of course Bunny's welfare comes before everything and always
will with me.  Do you know, I think I will run up to him and see that he
has all he wants."

"No, my girl, no!  You stay where you are!" said Jake. "I've got him in
hand.  Don't you go making more trouble!"

She glanced at him with quick uneasiness.  "But is he happy?  Is he
comfortable?  I never leave him for long when he is like this.  Once he
dragged himself right out of bed and on to the floor.  He was worse for
weeks after."

"He won't do that to-night," said Jake.

But she was not reassured.  "He may.  How can you tell?  He can be quite
violent sometimes."

"He won't be to-night," said Jake with unmistakable conviction.

"What have you been doing to him?" she said, with quick suspicion.

He put a restraining hand upon her for she seemed on the verge of
rising.  "Now, don't you meddle!" he said. "The boy will be all right;
only leave him alone!  He won't come to any mischief because he can't.
I've tied him down. No, he ain't uncomfortable," as she uttered a sharp
cry of protest.  "I saw to that before I put out the light and left him
to come to his senses.  He won't hurt, I tell you.  You leave him
alone!"

But Maud was already on her feet.  "How could you?" she panted.  "How
dare you?"

He rose with her, still holding her.  "Now be reasonable!" he said, in a
voice of soft persuasion.  "I'm real fond of the little chap, and I'm
trying to make a man of him.  He knows that all right.  It's discipline
he wants and discipline he's going to have.  Don't you get interfering!
You'll do more harm than good."

"Let me go!" breathed Maud.

She was white to the lips as she said it, white and desperate. Her eyes
burned like two stars.  But Jake held her still.

"Say, now!" he drawled.  "Aren't you a bit unreasonable? I've taken a
lot of trouble to bring him into line. And, as I tell you, I haven't
hurt any part of him, except his pride, and that'll soon mend.  Maud, my
girl, now don't act the fool!  Don't, I say, don't!"

She had made a sharp effort to wrest her arm free; but he frustrated it,
taking her two wrists very gently but very decidedly into his square
hold.

"Let me go!" she cried again, her pale lips trembling. "How--how dare
you hold me against my will?  Jake, you--forget yourself!"

He was looking at her with a hint of humour in his red-brown eyes.  They
were shining too, shining with a hot intensity, as though the leaping
flames of the fire were reflected there.  But at her words, he let her
go very abruptly and turned from her.  He took up his pipe again,
standing so that she saw only his broad back and gleaming hair, while
she waited behind him in palpitating silence.

Some seconds passed before he spoke.  And then: "All right, my girl," he
said.  "Have it your own way!  I reckon he's your brother more than
mine, and I know you have his welfare at heart.  If you think it to his
interest to go and undo him--he ain't uncomfortable, mind you!  I saw to
that--I shan't interfere either way.  Do whatever seems good to you!"

So he delivered himself, and having spoken sat squarely down and pulled
out his match-box as though the matter were at an end.

She stood irresolute, facing him.

"Well?  Aren't you going?" he said, after a moment.

And still she stood, feeling the strain to be past yet not daring to
relax her guard.

Jake struck a match and held it to his pipe, looking at her whimsically
between great puffs of smoke.

"There!  Sit down!" he said, after a meanest.  "Leave the child alone
for a bit!  I'll go up to him myself before long."

Casual as was his voice, the force of his personality reached and
dominated her.  It was certainly not of her own volition that she
obeyed.

She sat down again in the low chair before the hearth. "I know he will
have a bad night," she said uneasily.

"It won't be any the worse for this," said Jake, with confidence.  "And,
now, look here, my girl, I want to ask you something--just in a friendly
way."

Maud's hands clasped each other hard.  There was no repose in her
attitude.  "What is it?" she asked, in that aloof voice of hers that
emanated from intense shyness rather than pride.

Jake was smoking steadily.  The heavy odour of his tobacco filled the
room.  "I don't want to give any offence," he said.  "But it seems to me
that Lord Saltash is on a footing of intimacy with you and Bunny that
rather points to your not knowing the sort of person he really is."

Maud's eyes grew suddenly darker.  She looked him full in the face.  "I
know him too well to discuss him with any--outsider," she said.

"That so?" said Jake, slightly drawling.  "Well, that certainly makes
matters rather more complicated.  I know him, too--awfully well,--so
well that I shall have to request you to keep the young man at a
respectful distance; for he certainly won't stay there if you don't."

Maud sat tensely still.  Several moments of utter silence passed away.
Then, almost under her breath, she spoke. "Are you absurd enough to be
jealous?"

Jake's eyes watched her unwaveringly through the smoke.  "Would it be
very absurd of me?" he asked gravely.

"Utterly."  She spoke the one word with a free disdain.

He bent his head slightly.  "Since you say so--it goes. At the same
time, it might be well for you to remember that Lord Saltash invariably
hunts for himself.  He is not a man that any woman can safely trust.  He
has his points, maybe, but--he is not sound."

Very steadily he delivered his verdict, and Maud received it in unbroken
silence.  More or less she knew it to be true, and yet very bitterly did
she resent its utterance.  It was as if he had exposed to her the
worthlessness of a possession which for old sake's sake she treasured
though conscious that in itself it was without value.  For she had never
idealized Charlie Burchester.  Even in the old days of close intimacy
she had always seen the feet of clay, though in her fond woman's way she
had sought to overlook them. It was intolerable to have them pointed out
to her by one whom she still curiously regarded as a comparative
stranger.

She had nothing to say on her friend's behalf.  Reason warned her that
it would be useless to attempt to take up the cudgels in his defence.
And so she sat in silence, inwardly burning, outwardly calm.

Jake smoked on for several minutes, then quietly rose. "I'll go up and
settle the youngster now," he said.  "And you have made up your mind on
the other subject?  I am to write to Capper?"

She did not answer for a moment; her eyes were fixed upon the fire.

He paused beside her, and again there came to her that sense of warmth,
of bodily force, that seemed to reach her from the very centre of the
man's being, rushing out to her, enveloping her.

She made a slight, involuntary movement of withdrawal. "I have said so,"
she said.

He paused no longer.  "Then so be it!" he said, and walked away to the
door.




                              CHAPTER XXIV

                                BROTHERS


"Is that you, Jake?"

Outraged pride and sullen submission combined in the utterance of the
question.  The room was in complete darkness.

"Yes, it's me," said Jake.

He went forward into the darkness, feeling out before him.

"Why don't you strike a match?" said Bunny.

Jake found the bed and stood beside it.  "Going to behave yourself, my
son?" he asked.

There was silence from the bed, a dogged, uncompromising silence.

Jake stooped.  Feeling over the boy's body, he began to undo his bonds.

"Say, Bunny, I reckoned you were a bigger man than this," he said.

Bunny remained silent, stiff and unyielding.

Jake completed his task and stood up.  "If you're wanting to tell me to
go to blazes, you may as well say it as not," he said.

"I'm not," growled Bunny.  "But you've no right to treat me like a dog.
I'm not used to it."

"A damn' good hiding is what you're most in need of," said Jake, in his
soft, imperturbable voice.  "You'd learn a lot that way.  There's too
much pride in your family, my son, and it ain't always the proper sort
of pride either.  It's likely to lead you into difficulties."  He paused
a moment; then bent again, his hand moving lightly upwards over the
bedclothes.  "Say, Bunny, climb down a bit; climb down!" he said.  "I
can't get within a mile of you on that high horse of yours."

There was a hint of coaxing in the words and action to which Bunny taken
by surprise made instant almost involuntary response.  With a swift,
passionate movement, he caught the persuasive hand.

"Old chap--" he said, and stopped, breaking off short.

There followed a few, pulsing seconds, during which Jake's hand was
pressed hard against a burning face.  Then, very suddenly Bunny cast his
pride wholly from him and burst into choking tears.

"Little feller!  Little feller!" said Jake, and gathered him into arms
that were full of motherly comfort.

He sat down on the bed, so holding him, rocking him a little, soothing
him in the darkness that seemed to banish all barriers and link them in
a brotherhood more close than either had anticipated before that moment.

Bunny's surrender was complete and unconditional.  He clung fast to Jake
with whispered words of penitence. "I'm always like that when I feel
bad.  I've had that filthy neuralgia in my back ever since tea.  It
makes me want to bite and kick.  I didn't mean to be a beast to you,
Jake.  I take back all I said.  You'll forget it--say you'll forget it!"

"I have forgotten it," Jake assured him.  "Don't you fret now!"

Bunny burrowed into his shoulder.  "You're so beastly good to a fellow.
But you're right--quite right--about the hiding.  I only wish you could
give me one.  It's just that I want."

"No--no!" Jake said tenderly.  "I wouldn't lay a finger on you."

"You would if I were sound," protested Bunny, strangling a sob.

But Jake shook his head.  "No, sonny, no!  I was wrong.  It ain't the
treatment for a soft-hearted little chap like you.  I've been used to
dealing with roughs, and I'm rough myself.  I try not to be; but there
it is.  You've sensed it, and so has Maud.  But--I say it now, and I'll
stick to it--I'll never use violence to you as long as I live."

"Jake, old boy, that's rot!--I--I like you to smack my head sometimes,"
blurted forth Bunny, still in accents of distress.

Jake laughed a little.  "Well, maybe, I'll do that now and then, seeing
we're brothers."  He was rubbing the head with a caressing hand as he
spoke.  "You know, I've got a sort of liking for you, little pard; and I
want you to grow up a man."

"How can I?" said Bunny very bitterly.

"It ain't the body that makes the man," said Jake gently.  "Physical
conditions don't matter two cents. Reckon if you were to be a <DW36>
all your days, you could still be a great man.  But, please God, you
won't be a <DW36> always.  My friend Capper--you've heard me talk of
him--he's coming over from the States, and maybe he'll be able to put
you right.  We'll give him the chance, eh, Bunny?  We'll get him anyway
to come along and look at you."

Bunny's frail body had begun to tremble.  He held very fast to Jake's
arm.  "Oh, Jake!" he whispered.

"Guess it's a big proposition," said Jake.  "But you've got spunk for
anything.  I'm going to send him a letter right away.  Maud views the
matter as we do.  She says, the sooner the better."

"Whatever made her say that?" said Bunny curiously.

"She was thinking of you," said Jake.  "She thinks more of you than of
anyone else in the world.  Reckon you owe her a mighty lot, Bunny.  Ever
thought of that?"

"Reckon she'd be rather lost without me," said Bunny perversely.

"Not for long," said Jake.

"She would," persisted Bunny.  "If I were to get well, she'd be glad for
my sake, but she'd be utterly miserable for her own."

He spoke with the shrewdness that years of passive observation had
wrought in him--a shrewdness that somehow lifted him above the plane of
ordinary unthinking boyhood. Almost instinctively Jake responded to it.
He spoke to Bunny as though he had been a man.

"She won't be miserable when she has children of her own to look after,"
he said.  "That's what she wants, and what I want too.  They'll make all
the difference in the world to her."

Bunny was momentarily surprised.  This was a possibility that had not
occurred to him.  "Oh, that's the idea, is it?" he said.

"What's the matter with it?" said Jake.

"I don't know," said Bunny.  "Somehow I don't seem to realize that she
actually is married to you."

"She doesn't realize it either," said Jake rather shortly.

"That's because you don't make love to her," said Bunny wisely.  "Why,
you don't even kiss her, do you?"

"I haven't."  Jake's voice was an odd compound of humour and
dissatisfaction.

"Why on earth don't you?" said Bunny.

"You'd better ask her," said Jake somewhat grimly.

"Aren't you friends?"  There was quick sympathy in the boy's voice.  "I
know Maud is a bit difficult to get on with. She was very odd even to
Charlie this evening when he wanted us to go to the races with him.  Why
shouldn't we have gone, Jake?  She knew I wanted to, and she used to
like it herself."

An echo of resentment sounded in the question.  Bunny had plainly not
wholly buried his grievance.

"I'll take you one day, my son, when you're stronger," Jake promised.
"And Maud too--if she's keen.  I didn't know she was.  She didn't tell
me so."

"She doesn't tell you everything, does she?" said Bunny, giving him a
squeeze.

"Reckon she's half afraid of me," said Jake.  "What reason did she give
for not going with Lord Saltash?"

"Oh, none.  She just said we couldn't.  Charlie wasn't best pleased
about it.  Charlie can be rather hot stuff when he isn't pleased."

Jake uttered a dry laugh.  "Did he make himself unpleasant?"

"No.  But he cleared out almost at once.  You see, he always used to be
able to twist Maud round his little finger--till she broke with him."

Jake's arms suddenly grew tense about the slim boyish body he held.
"Say, young feller!  Will you tell me something?" he said.

"Of course!  If I can," said Bunny.

"Just this--only this," said Jake, his voice sunk to a whisper.  "Have
you any real reason--any good reason--for believing that Maud still
cares for this old flame of hers? Honestly now!  Was there any truth in
what you said downstairs?"

"Oh, Jake, I'm beastly sorry I said it!"  Bunny turned a distressed face
upwards, pressing his hot forehead hard against Jake's neck.

"All right.  You needn't answer."  Jake's words seemed to come from
between his teeth.  "It's what I suspected all along.  It won't make any
difference in the end, so you needn't be upset about it.  I always knew
I was taking chances."

"She'd soon forget him if you started making love to her," Bunny assured
him.  "Why don't you, Jake?  Why don't you?"

"Ah!  Why don't I?"  Jake uttered again his dry, somewhat scoffing
laugh.  "P'raps I'm waiting for someone else to make the running.  But
don't you bother your head about that, my son!  I shall get home on the
straight--or perish in the attempt."

He stooped, and laid Bunny gently down on the pillows.

"I'll light your lamp now and leave you.  Maud will be up with your
supper directly."

But Bunny clung to his arm.  "You'll come back, Jake? You--you'll sleep
with me?"

"Oh, yes, I'll sleep with you--if Maud will let me."  Jake's voice held
ironic humour.  "But it's a sore point, I warn you."

"Of course she'll let you.  She can't help herself.  She knows I'm ten
times more comfortable with you to look after me.  It's jolly decent of
you, Jake."  Bunny hugged the arm a little closer.  "Sure you've
forgiven me for being such a beast?"

"Shucks, lad!  Don't think any more about it!  We're all beasts
sometimes, though we don't all take the trouble to be sorry afterwards."
Jake stooped abruptly and kissed his forehead--a token received by Bunny
with a satisfaction as great as his surprise.  "Be decent to Maud,
little chap!" he said.  "Remember, nearly the whole of her life has been
one big sacrifice to you!"

"Oh, I know she's a brick," Bunny said quickly.  "I'm awfully fond of
her of course.  You--I suppose you're fond of her too, Jake?"

He put the question with slight hesitation, not wholly certain as to
whether Jake would welcome it, yet oddly desirous of a reply.

Jake had withdrawn his arm.  He stood by the bed in the darkness, only
dimly visible to Bunny--a square, powerful figure, of rock-like
strength, endued with the hard endurance that springs in the wilderness
and is the natural heritage of beasts and savage tribes, coming but
seldom upon the sons of adoption.

He did not speak at all for several seconds, and Bunny began to wonder
if he had given offence.  Then suddenly he stretched out his arms with a
wide, fierce gesture as of one who would seize and hold in the face of
any odds.

"My God!" he said, and in his voice was a deep throb as of a force that
rose unfettered from the very heart of the man.  "I--worship her!"

In the awed silence that followed the words, his arms fell.  He stood a
second or two as one in a dream striving to grip afresh the realities of
life.  Then, quite calmly he turned aside and crossed the room to light
the lamp.

Bunny, watching him, marvelled that the kindling flame revealed only the
resolute face and steady eyes of the man he knew.  For it seemed to him
that another man had spoken in the darkness.




                              CHAPTER XXV

                              MISADVENTURE


Lord Saltash had the satisfaction of seeing one of his own animals a
winner at the Graydown meeting on the following day, a circumstance
which plainly gave him the keenest pleasure.  He joined his trainer at
the conclusion of the event and warmly congratulated him.

Jake was himself well-pleased.  He had worked hard for the victory, and
the horse was a particular favourite with him.  But he did not betray
any especial gratification at his patron's openly expressed approval,
receiving it with the reticence that Maud had remarked in him the day
before.

Lord Saltash, however, seemed bent upon breaking down all reserve.  He
treated him with easy familiarity, chatted upon a thousand subjects,
received suggestions with cordiality, and finally, when the races were
over, insisted upon motoring him home in the open car which he
invariably drove himself when at Burchester, and which was the terror of
the countryside.

The evening was chill and mist-laden.  "With your permission we'll go
steady," Jake said, as they left the teeming race-course behind.

"What!  Nervous?" laughed Saltash.

"I have a wife to think of," was Jake's unmoved reply.

"Oh, to be sure!"  A hint of mockery ran through the words.  "What an
artful fox you were to go and get married on the sly like that!  If I'd
known, I'd have come to the wedding."

"It wasn't much of an affair," said Jake.  "And it had to take place at
short notice, or I should have told you about it."

"Perhaps it wouldn't have taken place at all if you had," laughed Lord
Saltash.  "You know the legend of Young Lochinvar.  And--" his dark face
screwed up into a comic grimace--"I presume you know my reputation."

"Almost as well as I know you, my lord," said Jake drily.

Saltash sent him a sharp glance through the gathering twilight.  He was
driving swiftly but well.  "Nobody ever really knows anybody in this
world of noughts and crosses," he observed lightly after a moment.
"It's a queer place, Bolton.  And it isn't always the fellows that
gather the fruit that enjoy the eating thereof.  Ever reflected on that
truism?"

"I reckon it couldn't apply to me in any case," drawled Jake, turning up
his collar and settling into it with square deliberation.

"Because you're one of the favoured few?" questioned Saltash.

There was an unmistakably jeering note in his voice this time.  A faint
smile came into Jake's face.  His eyes stared straight before him.

"Maybe so," he said.  "But my opinion is, if a man can't hold his
own,--well, he deserves to lose it."

Saltash laughed aloud.  "It isn't always brute force that counts, most
worthy cow-puncher.  There is such a thing as brains."

"You don't say!" said Jake in a tone of gentle incredulity and, in a
moment: "Do you mind reining in a bit?  We're coming to a cross-roads."

"You're mighty nervous!" gibed Saltash.

"It's safer," said Jake imperturbably.

They dropped into silence with one consent.

Saltash was obviously inclined to recklessness though he seemed for
awhile to be trying to restrain the impulse. They shot through the
gathering darkness with ever-increasing speed.

Jake made no further protest.  He sat sphinx-like, gazing straight ahead
through the misty wind-screen.  The distance from Graydown to
Fairharbour was scarcely ten miles. Lord Saltash chose the shortest
route, bumping through bye lanes, whizzing round unexpected corners,
shooting uphill like a rocket, dropping down again like a thunderbolt.

He drove with a skill that was in its way magnificent, but the entire
run was a series of risks such as only the driver could enjoy.

It was evident that he speedily forgot the presence of his companion,
and Jake did not remind him of it.  Perhaps he deemed it inadvisable to
divert his attention in any way from the task in hand.

For nearly a quarter of an hour of rapid travelling he spoke no word.
Saltash was humming to himself an old tune with a waltz refrain which
seemed to give him considerable pleasure.

They were drawing near the outskirts of Burchester Park when abruptly he
broke off, and spoke.  "I want you to come up to lunch on Sunday, you
and Maud and the boy."

He spoke jerkily, almost curtly.  Jake turned his head.

"Have you put the proposition before--my wife?" he asked.

"Oh, I asked her to come of course," said Saltash carelessly.  "I didn't
mention any particular day.  Why? Have you any reason to suppose she
would refuse?"

He laughed as he said it, but there was a challenging note in his laugh.

Jake passed the question by.  "It is real kind of your lordship to think
of it," he said.  "I can't--of course--answer for my wife or the lad;
but I shall be very pleased to come."

Saltash made a curious sound half of ridicule, half of exasperation.
"If she doesn't come, I shall know whose doing it is," he said, with a
touch of malice.

Jake was silent.

Impatiently Saltash turned towards him.  "Look here, Bolton," he said
aggressively; "it's no manner of use your raising any objection to the
intimacy between us.  It began long before you came on the scene, and
it's going to continue.  Understand?"

"Look where you're going!" said Jake.  "Or else jam on the brake!"

He uttered the words with a sharpness so unexpected that Saltash
started.  As a consequence, the car swerved and instantly skidded in the
mud, jerking the wheel from his hold.  In a moment they were half-way up
a steep bank at the side of the road, and a moment after with a crash of
splintering glass they were over, flung headlong into the roadway.

"Damn!" said Jake.

"Damnation!" cried Lord Saltash with violence.  "It was your fault!
What the devil did you startle me like that for?";

He sprang up with the agility of a monkey, unscathed and furious.

Jake remained seated in the mud.  He was panting a little but his speech
when it came was unhurried.

"What the blazes did you want to drive at that preposterous speed for,
you all-fired fool?" he said.

"Eh?  What?"  Saltash stamped in the mud to relieve his feelings.  "Do
you dare to say it was my fault?"

"I say you're an all-fired fool," said Jake, with the deliberation of
one who has come to an unalterable decision. "You can draw your own
conclusions from that."

He proceeded to get up with an effort so obvious that Saltash's
attention was caught.  "Hullo!  You're hurt, are you?  Where?"

"I reckon that's what I've got to find out," said Jake. "Maybe it's no
worse than a broken head.  What about you?"

"Oh, I'm all right," Saltash declared impatiently.  "I say, are you
really hurt, man?  Curse this dark!  Wait while I strike a match!"

"Curse everything!" said Jake whole-heartedly.  "I wonder if there's a
lamp not smashed."

Saltash struck a match and regarded him by its flare. "Great Scott!" he
ejaculated in dismay.

For the illumination had revealed to him that which he had certainly not
expected to see; one side of Jake's face streaming with blood.

Jake strove ineffectually to staunch the flow with a handkerchief.  "I
don't know where the mischief is exactly," he said.  "Somewhere above
the temple, I fancy.  Don't alarm yourself, my lord.  I always bleed
like a pig.  It's my nature to."

A faint grim smile drew his mouth with the words.  He looked at Saltash
with eyes of steady mastery.  "Let me hold that match!" he said.
"P'raps you wouldn't mind locating the mischief."

Saltash, genuinely disturbed, complied with this suggestion, and
discovered a deep, jagged cut on Jake's forehead.

"I say, this is a bad business!" he said, as the match went out.  "Are
you feeling bad?"

"Oh, not in the least," said Jake drily.  "Sorry to give you so much
trouble."

"My dear fellow, I'm sorrier than you are," declared Saltash
impulsively.  "I've driven for ten years and never had a smash before.
Here, strike another match and let me see what I can do!"

It was no easy matter to bandage adequately under sock conditions, but
Saltash was not without a certain rudimentary skill.  He went to work
with business-like promptitude, and had succeeded in securing a
handkerchief round Jake's head with a firmness calculated at least to
check the flow of blood when the sound of wheels warned them of the
approach of some vehicle.

It proved to be the dog-cart of a farmer known to them both who was
himself returning from the races; and Saltash was relieved beyond
measure to bundle Jake into the cart and see him depart for home.  He
remained with the overturned car till help should arrive from the
Stables.

Jake also was not sorry to find himself jogging homeward, unpleasant
though he found the jogging to be.  He was nearer to collapse than he
would have allowed.

He sat with his head in his hands, struggling desperately against a
deadly sense of weakness that threatened every instant to overcome him.

His companion was full of solicitude.  "Whatever will your missus say?"
he said, as they drew near the Stables.

Jake roused himself.  "Don't drive in!" he said.  "Put me down at the
gates!  I must make myself respectable before I go in."

"Lor' bless you man, if she's a woman of sense she'd sooner know the
worst at once," declared the old farmer. "Don't ever try to hide
anything from your wife!  It don't pay.  I've been married three times,
so I ought to know."

But Jake adhered firmly to his intention of descending at the gates,
resolutely declining all further help; and there his friend left him,
driving away with the reflection that there was sure to be someone about
to give him a hand.

As it chanced, there was no one in the stable-yard when Jake entered it.
He staggered forward over the stones like a drunken man, his cap pulled
forward over his face, feeling vaguely out before him with his hands.
His brain was reeling, and he did not know how he covered the ground or
maintained his balance.  So dazed was he that he did not even realize
that he reached the white railings before his home, and only awoke to
the fact when he had been leaning upon them for some time.

With an immense effort he pulled himself together and made his way to
the door.  Here the thought of Maud made him pause.  She must not see
him like this.  Then, reflecting that she would almost certainly be safe
upstairs with Bunny who had not left his room that day, he fumbled with
the door, opened it, and entered.

All was quiet within with the quiet of a well-ordered household.  The
passage was dimly lit.  Slowly he made his halting way along it, reached
the stairs and stopped at the foot, leaning on the banisters while he
summoned his strength.  At last, heavily, like a man in a trance, he
began to mount.

The stairs seemed endless.  Once or twice he stumbled. At the top he
slipped and came down upon his knees.

"Oh damn!" he ejaculated, with weary vehemence.

At the same moment Bunny's door opened, and he heard the light tread of
a woman's feet close to him.

She was coming towards him, moving swiftly, when suddenly something
seemed to strike her.  She stopped dead, recoiling as from a thing
unclean.

"Jake!" she said.

He heard the frozen horror in her voice and thrust out a groping hand.
"It's all right, my girl.  Don't be scared! I didn't mean you to see
me--like this."

She drew back from him sharply, speaking no word, gazing at him in the
dim light with eyes of wide abhorrence.

"It's--all right," he said again, and with a labouring effort managed to
blunder to his feet.

She drew back still further.  He saw her slim white figure standing
before him erect and rigid against the wall. He caught the blazing scorn
of her blue eyes.

"Say, Maud," he said in confused apology, "you're looking kind of vexed.
It wasn't--any fault of mine.  It was--it was--that fool--Saltash."  He
spoke the name with difficulty.  His tongue felt dry and powerless.
"Guess I want a drink," he said.

She spoke then, briefly and witheringly.  "You had better go to bed and
stay there till you feel better.  There is plenty of water in your room
if you want it."

Her words were icy.  He felt as if she had flung the water of which she
spoke full in his face.  And then suddenly the truth flashed upon him,
and he uttered a laugh.

"Columbus!" he said.  "I believe you think I'm tipsy!"

She did not attempt to contradict him.  "You had better go to bed," she
reiterated.

He put up a trembling hand, but it was only to draw the cap down further
still over his face.  "I reckon I'd better," he said, and staggered past
her to his room.

The door closed behind him, and Maud turned, white and quivering, from
the scene.

"O God!" she whispered passionately.  "What have I done?  What have I
done?"




                              CHAPTER XXVI

                           THE WORD UNSPOKEN


It was late that night when Mrs. Lovelace called Maud out of Bunny's
room with a white, scared face to tell her that Lord Saltash was below
asking for her.

"He wanted Mr. Bolton first," she said, "but I told him as I didn't know
if he was back, and then he said something about a slight motor accident
and seemed surprised like that Mr. Bolton hadn't come home."

"It's all right.  He is home," Maud said.  "There is no need to be
anxious about him."  She hesitated a moment; then: "Tell Lord Saltash
so!" she said.  "I think I won't come down now.  He will understand."

Nevertheless, after she had dismissed the old woman, something prompted
her to go and listen at Jake's door. She was convinced in her own mind
that there had been no accident.  Charlie had seen her husband's
condition and was anxious to know if he had returned home safely.  That
was the explanation, doubtless, and she felt she could not face him.

She listened intently, but she heard no sound.  Jake was sleeping no
doubt, sleeping heavily.  An overwhelming disgust came upon her.  She
turned shuddering away.

Mrs. Lovelace came wheezing back.  Lord Saltash had gone.  Was Mr.
Bolton all right?  Should she fetch him anything?

No, Maud was quite sure he wanted nothing.  He was asleep and Mrs.
Lovelace had better go to bed.

But she herself remained up till long after, in dread of a summons for
Jake from Sam Vickers or some other of the men at the Stables.  Probably
they all suspected what had happened, but she felt that at all costs she
must prevent the shameful certainty reaching them.  It was too horrible,
too lowering to her own personal pride.  Very strangely it was that
overpowering sense of shame that first made her realize the man as her
husband.  He had dragged her into the mire, and though her whole soul
revolted she felt with a sinking despair that she could never be clean
again.  She was bound to him for better for worse, and nothing could
ever set her free.  She was, as it were, identified with him, and the
evil of his nature must lie upon her like a taint. There could be no
escape for her, loathe him as she might.

She lay down at last sick at heart and full of a great bitterness.  Life
was horrible, life was repulsive.  Whichever way she turned some evil
monster crouched across her path.

Bunny was restless and querulous throughout the night. He was deeply
hurt by Jake's desertion, and, though he forebore to say so, he plainly
regarded his sister as a very poor substitute.

"I shan't get up till Jake comes to see me," he announced in the
morning.

And Maud went down to fetch his breakfast with a reluctant promise to
inform Jake of this intention if she saw him.

She hoped very earnestly that she would not see him, but her hope was
not to be fulfilled.  Coming from the kitchen with Bunny's
breakfast-tray, she almost ran into him.  He had evidently just entered
the house, and was hanging up his cap on the rack that stood in the
darkest corner of the passage.

He stood back for her to pass him.  "Good morning!" he said.

Her face was burning.  So great was her agitation for the moment that
she thought she must drop the tray she held.

Jake evidently thought so too, for he reached out and steadily took it
from her.  "I'll take up this," he said.  "I want to see the little
chap.  Do you mind going into the parlour?  I shall be down directly."

He spoke in his customary slightly sing-song drawl.  She longed to
refuse, but could not.  With an inarticulate murmur she turned aside.

In the parlour the fire burned brightly.  She went and stood before it,
striving desperately for composure.  She would have given all she had to
escape the coming interview. But she knew she could not, knew she must
face it, listen to semi-humorous excuses, possibly a good-natured
apology for an offence which she regarded as inexcusable, hideous.

With all her strength she fought for self-control.  She must make it
clear to him, must somehow make him understand that this thing had
raised up a barrier between them that could never be broken down, an
immovable obstacle to all intimacy, a perpetual stumbling-block to
friendship. He had brought it on himself and never--never--never could
it now be otherwise.  They had never been very near, but now they were
as far asunder as the poles.  No kindness from him could ever make her
forget.

She heard him descending the stairs, and braced herself with a throbbing
heart to meet him.  But she was trembling in every limb.

She did not turn to greet him as he entered, but kept her face
resolutely averted.

He came in, closed the door with evident purpose, and drew near to her.
She shrank at his coming.  A quick involuntary shudder went through her.
She stiffened herself instinctively.

He spoke, in his voice a soft, half-wheedling note of remonstrance.
"Say, Maud, it ain't--altogether--reasonable to condemn a man unheard."

Her breath came short.  She would not look at him. With a quivering
effort she spoke.  "I don't see any point in discussing the obvious.  I
am bound to believe the evidence of my own eyes."

"Without doubt," conceded Jake.  "And they testified to my being screwed
last night?"

"You can't--with truth--assert that you were sober," she said.

Jake did not make the assertion.  He stood considering. After a moment:
"Do you object so strongly to the sight of me that you can't bear to
look at me?" he asked.

His tone was faintly humorous.  She resented it on the instant, hotly,
almost fiercely.  It was so exactly the attitude that she had
anticipated.

"I do object--yes," she said, her voice low and vehement. "I can't think
how you can have the effrontery to speak to me until I give you leave."

"That so?" he said.

There was insolence in his tone this time.  She turned and faced him.
Then she saw a large cross of strapping-plaster across his temple.  She
looked at it a moment ere defiantly she met his eyes.

"I suppose you are going to make that your excuse," she said.

"I was," said Jake imperturbably.

She bit her lip.  His utter lack of shame made her pitiless. "If I
hadn't met you on the stairs last night, I might believe you," she said.

"You're real kind," he rejoined.  "As a matter of fact I didn't cut my
head open tumbling upstairs, but I reckon that detail won't interest
you.  You'll think what you want to think, whatever I say.  And p'raps,
as you say, there's not much point in discussing the obvious.  Shall we
have some breakfast?"

His eyes shone with a mocking gleam into hers.  She was sure he was
laughing inwardly, though his mouth was grim.

"I shall breakfast upstairs," she said coldly.

He made a slight movement that passed unexplained. "Oh, I think not," he
said suavely.  "It won't hurt you any to sit at table with me.  I am a
very ordinary sinner, I assure you."

Something in his tone made her flinch.  The colour went out of her face.
She turned without a word to the table.

They sat down, and he helped her to food, she knew not what.  There
followed a silence that she felt to be terrible, a silence through which
it came to her for the first time in her experience that Jake was angry.
She looked at him no longer, but she felt as if his eyes were upon her
unceasingly.

"What about coffee, Mrs. Bolton?" he said suddenly.

She gave a great start.  The coffee-urn was in front of her.  She
proceeded to pour out for him, the cup clattering in the saucer she
held.

He did not move to take it; she rose, as if compelled, and carried it to
him.

As she set it down, his hand suddenly descended upon hers.  He looked up
into her face, faintly smiling.

"Maud, my girl, don't be such a fool!" he said.  "Can't you see you're
making a mistake?"

She froze in his grasp.  "Don't touch me, please!" she said.
"You--I--see things from a different standpoint. It may seem a small
matter to you, but to me--to me--"  She stopped.  "Let me go!" she said,
with a nervous effort to free herself.

But he held her still.  "Say, now, do you think you're wise to treat me
like this?" he said.  "You've got to put up with me, remember.  Wouldn't
it be to your own interest to give me the benefit of the doubt?"

"There is no doubt," she said, speaking quickly, breathlessly. "You
haven't tried to deny it.  As to--to--putting up with you--" the hand he
held clenched convulsively--"I have a little self-respect----"

"Call it pride!" interjected Jake softly.

She looked at him with eyes of burning revolt.  "Very well.  Call it
pride!  And understand that if this shameful thing ever occurs again,
neither Bunny nor I can stay with you any longer!"

Quiveringly the words rushed out.  He had goaded her into uttering an
ultimatum that she had never contemplated addressing to him at the
commencement of the interview and the moment that she had uttered it she
knew that she had done wrong.  The red-brown eyes uplifted to hers
suddenly kindled.  He looked at her with a fiery intensity that sent the
blood to her heart in a wave of wild dismay.

His hand closed like a steel spring upon her wrist.  "So, you think
you'll make a fool of me!" he said, and in his voice there sounded a
deep note that was like the menace of an angry beast.  "All right, my
girl!  You just try it! You'll find it an interesting experiment if a
bit costly."

"Are you--coward enough--to threaten me?" she said, through panting
lips.

"Reckon you've done all the threatening this journey," Jake rejoined,
with a smile that made her shiver.  "It wasn't exactly a wise move on
your part, but p'raps you'll think better of it presently."

He let her go, with the words, and she went back to her place, outwardly
calm, inwardly shaking.

Jake proceeded with his breakfast in a silence so absorbed that it was
almost as if he had forgotten her presence altogether.  It was never a
lengthy meal with him.  He ate and drank with business-like rapidity,
not noticing that she did neither.

Finally he rose.  "I shall come in presently to see if Bunny wants to
come down," he said.  "But the little chap doesn't look up to much this
morning.  He'll have to take it easy."

Maud did not respond.  She sat rigidly gazing towards the window.

Jake stood a moment, waiting for her to turn, but she made no movement.
He came quietly round to her, bent over her chair.

"Say, Maud, you aren't going to keep it up?  That's not like you.  I'll
tell you all that happened last night if you'll listen."

She made a slight gesture of distaste.  Her face was white and cold as
marble.  "I would rather not hear, thank you," she said, without looking
at him.  "I would rather you went away."

Jake stood up.  There was no longer any suggestion of anger or any other
emotion about him.  His eyes glittered like red quartz in the sun; but
his brow was absolutely unruffled.

"Well," he said, in a very pronounced drawl, "I should have some
breakfast if I were you, and see how I felt then. It's wonderful what a
difference breakfast makes."

He turned away with the words; she heard him go with relief.

On the other side of the door was the red setter, Chops. He pushed his
way in with a passing smile at his master, who had conferred the freedom
of the house upon him since Bunny's advent, to Mrs. Lovelace's prim
disgust.

Jake made no attempt to hinder his entrance.  He knew that Chops
possessed privileges of friendship denied to himself.  He closed the
door upon him and departed.

Chops, after a cursory glance round for Bunny, came to the feet of his
mistress.  He looked at her with soft, questioning eyes, then, as she
made no response, sat gravely down before her and rested his red, silken
head upon her lap.

She looked down at him then.  Her hand went forth to caress.  He
snuggled closer, sensing trouble, and breathed wistful greetings through
his nose.  His eyes, clear brown and full of love, looked up to hers.

The rigidity went out of her attitude.  She bent suddenly over him and
kissed him, touched by the honest devotion and sympathy of those eyes.
By the simple method of offering all he had, Chops had managed to convey
a little comfort to her soul.




                             CHAPTER XXVII

                               THE TOKEN


"Why wouldn't you see me last night?" said Saltash.

He sat on the corner of the table, swinging a careless leg the while
under quizzical brows he watched Maud arrange a great bunch of violets
in a bowl.  The violets were straight from the Burchester frames, and he
had ridden over to present them.

Maud was plainly in a reticent mood.  She had accepted the gift indeed,
but with somewhat distant courtesy.

"It was late," she said.  "And I was attending to Bunny."

"Bunny!" He echoed the name with half-mocking surprise. "Does he still
engross the whole of your energies? I thought you would have been more
occupied with Jake."

She stiffened ever so slightly at his words.  "I only saw him for a few
moments," she said.

"What!  Didn't he come to you to tie up his broken head?" said Saltash.
"I nearly killed him, you know. But it was his own fault."

"I am aware of that," Maud said coldly.

"What!" ejaculated Saltash again.  "Did he have the impertinence to tell
you so?"

She raised her eyes momentarily; they shone almost black. "He told
me--nothing," she said, her voice deep with a concentrated bitterness
that made him stare.  "He was not in a condition to do so."

Saltash continued to stare.  "He was talkative enough when he left me,"
he remarked.

Her eyes gazed full into his.  "Why should you try to deceive me?" she
said.  "Really, you needn't take the trouble."

Comprehension dawned on his face.  He laughed a little in an amused
fashion as if to himself.  "What!  Wasn't the rascal sober when he got
back?"

"You know he was not," she said.

"I know he tumbled out of the car and cracked his head," said Saltash.
"I daresay he'd been celebrating the Mascot's victory.  They all do, you
know.  But, my dear girl, what of it?  Don't look so tragic!  You'll get
used to it."

"Don't!" Maud said suddenly in a voice that shook. "You make me--sick."

She bent her face swiftly to the violets, and there was a silence.

Saltash continued to swing his leg, his lips pursed to am inaudible
whistle.  Suddenly he spoke.  "Please remember that this is quite
unofficial!  I don't want a row with Jake!"

"You needn't be afraid," she said, putting the bowl of violets steadily
from her.  "No more will be said on the subject by either of us."

"I'm not afraid."  Saltash was looking at her hard, with a certain
curiosity.  "But with my best friend tied to him for life, it
wouldn't--naturally--be to my interest to quarrel with him."

She flashed him a sudden glance.  "I think you had better not call me
that, Charlie," she said.

He laughed carelessly.  "I'll call you my dearest enemy, if you like.
It would be almost as near the mark."

She was silent.

He bent suddenly towards her, the laugh gone from his face.  "Maud," he
said, and there was a note of urgency in his voice, "you're not wanting
to throw me over?"

She shook her head very slightly.  "I can't be on really intimate terms
with you any more," she said.  "You must see it's impossible."

"No, I don't," he said.  "Why is it impossible?"

She did not answer.

"Come," he said.  "That's unreasonable.  What have I done to forfeit
your friendship?"

She leaned slowly back in her chair, and met his eyes. "I am quite
willing to be friends," she said.  "But--now that I am married--you
mustn't try to flirt with me.  I detest married women's flirtations."

He made a wry grimace.  "My precious prude, you don't even know the
meaning of the word.  Did you ever flirt with anyone in all your pure,
sweet life?  The bare idea is ludicrous."

Maud's eyes held his with severity.  "No, I never flirted with you,
Charlie," she said.  "But I gave you privileges which I can never give
again, which you must never again expect of me.  Is that quite clear?"

He stooped towards her, his hands upon her shoulders; his dark face
deeply glowing.  "O Maud, the sincere!" he said, in a voice that
vibrated with an odd intensity, half-fierce, half-feigned.  "Dare you
look me in the face and tell me that in marrying you have not done
violence to your soul?"

She looked him in the face with absolute steadiness.  "I have nothing
whatever to tell you," she said.

He released as suddenly as he had taken her.  "There is no need," he
said.  "I can read you like a book.  I know that if I had been at hand
when your mother brought you down here--as heaven knows I would have
been if I had known--if I had guessed--you would have been ready enough
to marry even me."  He stopped, and over his ugly, comic face there came
a strangely tragic look.  "You could have dictated your own terms too,"
he said.  "I'm not hard to please."

"Charlie, hush!"  Sharply she broke in upon him. "That is a forbidden
subject.  I told you definitely long ago that I could never marry you.
You know as well as I do that it wouldn't have answered.  You would have
tired very quickly of my prim ways--just as you did tire in the old days
when you fancied you cared for me.  I couldn't have satisfied you.  I am
not the kind of woman you crave for."

"No?"  He laughed whimsically.  "Yet, you know, you are unjust to
me--always were.  I don't know that you can help it, being what you are.
But--if it had been my good luck to marry you--I would have been
faithful to you. It's in my bones to be faithful to one woman.  However,
since she is denied me--" he snapped his fingers with an airy
gesture--"_je m'amuse autrement_.  By the way, are you coming up to
lunch at the Castle on Sunday?"

"I?"  She raised her brows momentarily.  "No, I don't think so," she
said.

"What!  You won't?  Jake's coming."

She lowered her eyes.  "No, Charlie," she said firmly. "Bunny has had
one of his bad attacks.  He won't be well enough for any excitement, and
of course I couldn't dream of leaving him."

"How you do worship that boy!" said Saltash, with a touch of impatience.

Maud was silent.

"Look here!" he said abruptly.  "Why don't you have a proper opinion for
Bunny?  I'll lend you the wherewithal. I'm quite well off just now."

She looked up then with eyes of frank gratitude. "Charlie, that's more
than kind of you!  But as a matter of fact--Jake has the matter in hand.
He knows an American surgeon--a very clever man--a Dr. Capper, who is
coming to England soon.  And he is going to get him to come and examine
Bunny.  He--it is really very good of Jake."

She spoke haltingly, with flushed cheeks.  Saltash was watching her with
critical eyes.

"Oh, so the worthy Jake has the matter in hand, has he?" he said, as she
paused.  "Wise man!  I suppose it is no part of his plans to be hampered
with a helpless brother-in-law all his days."

She broke in upon him swiftly.  "Charlie!  That is ungenerous!"

He laughed.  "My dear girl, it is the obvious.  Were I in Jake's
position, my first thought would be to relieve you of the all-engrossing
care of Bunny.  You don't suppose he married you just to make a home for
Bunny, do you?"

She rose quickly and turned from him.  "Why do you try to make things
harder for me?" she said in a voice of passionate protest.

Saltash remained seated, still swinging an idle leg.  "On the contrary,
I am anxious to make everything as pleasant as possible," he said.

But there was a slightly malicious twist to his smile and his voice was
suavely mocking, notwithstanding.

Maud moved from him to the window and stood before it very still, with a
queenly pose of bearing wholly unconscious, unapproachably aloof.

He watched her for a space, an odd, dancing gleam in his strange eyes.
At length, as she made no movement, he spoke again, not wholly lightly.

"See here, Maud!  As a proof of my goodness of heart where you are
concerned, I am going to make you an offer. This doctor man will
probably want to perform an operation on Bunny, and it couldn't possibly
take place here.  So if it comes to that, will you let it be done at the
Castle?  There's room for an army of nurses there.  The whole place is
at your disposal--and Bunny's.  And I'll undertake not to get in the
way.  Come, be friends with me!  You know I am as harmless as a dove in
your sweet company."

He stood up with the words, came impulsively to her, took her hand and,
bending with a careless grace, kissed it.

She started at his touch, seemed as it were to emerge from an evil
dream.  She met his laughing eyes, and smiled as though in spite of
herself.

"You are going to be friends with me," said Saltash, with pleased
conviction.

She left her hand in his.  "If you don't suggest--impossible things,"
she said.

He laughed carelessly, satisfied that he had scored a point. "Nonsense!
Why should I?  Is life so hard?"

"I think it is," she said sadly.

"It's only your point of view," he said.  "Don't take things too
seriously!  And above all, stick to your friends!"

She looked at him very earnestly.  "Will you be a true friend to me,
Charlie?"

He bent, pressing her hand to his heart.  "None so true as I!" he said.

She caught back a sigh.  "I want a friend--terribly," she said.

"Behold me!" said Saltash.

She drew her hand slowly from him.  "But don't make love to me!" she
urged pleadingly.  "Not even in jest! Let me trust you!  Let me lean on
you!  Don't--don't trifle with me!  I can't bear it!"

Her voice trembled suddenly.  Her eyes filled with tears.

Saltash made a quick gesture as if something had hurt him.  "I am not
always trifling when I jest," he said. "That is the mistake you always
made."

Maud was silent, struggling for self-command.  Yet after a moment she
gave him her hand again in mute response to his protest.

He took it, held it a moment or two, then let it go.

"And you will consider my suggestion with regard to Bunny," he said.

She replied with an effort, "Yes, I will consider it."

"Good!" he said.  "Talk it over with Jake!  If he doesn't view it
reasonably, send him to me!  But I think he will, you know.  I think he
will."

He turned as if to go; but paused and after a moment turned back.  With
an air half-imperious, half-whimsical, he held out upon the palm of his
hand the sapphire and diamond ring which till that moment he had worn.

"As a token of the friendship between us," he said, "will you take this
back?  No, don't shake your head!  It means nothing.  But I wish you to
have it, and--if ever the need should arise--the need of a friend,
remember!--send it to me!"

She looked at him with serious eyes.  "Charlie, I would rather not."

"It isn't sentiment," he said, with a quick lift of the brows.  "It is a
token--just a token whereby you may test my friendship."  Then, as she
still stood dubious: "Here, take it!  He is coming."

He almost thrust it upon her, and wheeled round.  She did not want to
take it, but the thing was in her hand.  Her fingers closed upon it
almost mechanically as Jake opened the door, and as they did so she was
conscious of a great flood of colour that rose and covered face and
neck.  She turned her back to the light as one ashamed.

Jake came in slowly, as if weary.

Saltash greeted him with airy nonchalance.  "Hullo, Bolton!  I came
round to enquire for you.  How's the broken crown?"

Jake's eyes regarded him, bright, unswervingly direct. "I reckon that
was real kind of your lordship," he said. "I had it stitched this
morning.  I am sorry I omitted to send help along last night."

Saltash laughed.  "Oh, that's all right.  I hardly expected it of you.
As a matter of fact the car didn't turn over as you supposed.  I soon
righted her.  You were a bit damaged, eh?"

Jake's eyes were still upon him.  There was something formidable in
their straight survey.  "So the car didn't turn over," he said, after a
moment.

"No.  If you'd hung on a bit tighter, you wouldn't have been pitched
out.  Old Harris brought you safe home, did he?  No further mishaps by
the way?"

"None," said Jake.  He advanced into the room, and stopped by the table.
His riding-whip was in his hand. "I came home too dazed to give an
intelligible account of myself," he said, speaking very deliberately,
wholly without emotion.  "My wife imagined that I was not sober.  Will
your lordship be good enough to convince her that she was mistaken?"

"I?" said Saltash.

"You, my lord."  Jake stood at the table, square and determined.  "I was
in your company.  You can testify--if you will--that up to the time of
the accident I was in a perfectly normal condition.  Will you tell her
so?"

Saltash was facing him across the table.  There was a queer look on his
swarthy face, a grimace half-comic, half-dismayed.

As Jake ended his curt appeal he shrugged and spoke. "You are putting me
in a very embarrassing position."

"I am sorry," said Jake steadily.  "But you are the only witness that I
can call."

"And why should she accept my testimony?" said Saltash. "Evidence given,
so to speak, at the sword's point, my good Bolton, is seldom worth
having.  Moreover, if she had seen my crazy driving last night she might
have been disposed to doubt whether my own condition were above
suspicion."

"I see," said Jake slowly.  He still looked hard into Saltash's face,
and there was that in the look that quelled derision.  "In that case,
there is nothing more to be said."

Saltash made him a slight bow that was not without a touch of hauteur.
"I quite agree with you.  It is an unprofitable subject.  With Mrs.
Bolton's permission I will take my leave."

He turned to her, took and pressed her hand, sent a sudden droll smile
into her grave face, and walked to the door.

Jake held it open for him, but very abruptly Saltash clapped a hand on
his shoulder.  "Come along, man!  I'm going round the Stables.  I'm
sorry you've got a sore head, but I'm off to town this afternoon, so
it's now or never.  By the way, we shall have to postpone the
luncheon-party til a more convenient season.  I've no doubt it's all the
same to you."

He had his way.  Jake went with him, and Maud drew a breath of deep
relief.  She felt that another private interview with her husband just
then would have been unendurable.

She sat down and leaned upon the table, feeling weak and unnerved.  Not
till several minutes had passed did she awake to the fact that she was
holding Saltash's ring--that old dear gift of his--tightly clasped
within her quivering hands.




                             CHAPTER XXVIII

                              THE VISITOR


"I do hope as I don't intrude," said Mrs. Wright, passing her
handkerchief over her shining forehead.  "I didn't mean to take the
liberty of calling, Mrs. Bolton, but your husband met my Tom the other
day, and something he let fall made me think p'raps you'd be finding it
a bit lonely; so I thought I'd come up on the chance."

"It was very kind of you," Maud said.

She sat with her visitor in the little dark front room in which Jake
kept his business books, his whips, and all the paraphernalia of his
calling.  It was a bare, office-like apartment, and reeked horribly of
Jake's tobacco; but Bunny was lying in the parlour and he had
strenuously set his face against admitting the worthy Mrs. Wright there.

It was extremely cold, and Maud felt pinched and inhospitable.  The
grate was full of shavings, the whole place was cheerless and forlorn.
It was a room that she scarcely ever entered, regarding it in fact more
as Jake's office than an alternative sitting-room.

Mrs. Wright, however, stout, red, comfortable, did not feel the cold.
She sat with her umbrella propped against her chair and regarded her
stiff young hostess with much geniality on her homely face.

"You do look like a princess in a cottage, my dear, if you'll allow me
to say so," she said.  "And how are you getting on?  I hope Jake's a
good husband to you.  I feel sure he would be.  He's such an honest
fellow.  I often says to Tom, 'Give me a plain honest man like Jake
Bolton,' I says; 'he's a man in a thousand.'  I'm sure you think so
yourself, Mrs. Bolton."

Maud, not knowing quite what to say, replied with reserve that she had
no doubt he was.  She was wondering if she could possibly offer Mrs.
Wright tea in that dreadful little room of Jake's and if she would ever
get rid of her if she didn't.

Mrs. Wright, serenely unconscious of the troublous question vexing her
soul, went comfortably on.  "I've often thought that if it had pleased
the Almighty to send me a daughter, Jake's just the man I would have
chosen for her. I like them eyes of his.  They're so straight.  But mind
you, I think he has a temper of his own.  Mayhap you've never met with
it yet?"

She looked at Maud slyly out of merry little slits of eyes, and chuckled
at the flush that rose in the girl's face.

"He certainly never loses it in my presence," Maud said stiffly.

Mrs. Wright's chuckle became a laugh.  "Lor', my dear, you needn't be
shy with me.  He worships you; now, don't he?  I saw that the first time
I laid eyes on you.  That was when you was waiting for him to come and
take you in to supper, and my Tom came first.  I said to myself then,
'Ah, Jake, young man, it's plain to see where your fancy lies.'  And I
laughed to myself," said Mrs. Wright, still chuckling.  "For I couldn't
help thinking he was ambitious to lift his eyes to a real lady.  Not
that in my opinion a man who is a man isn't good enough for any woman,
and I'm sure you think the same.  And then, you know, he's that fond of
children, is Jake.  The wonder to my mind is not that he's married now,
but that he stayed single so long."

"He is very fond of my young brother," Maud observed.

"Ah!  Is he now?  The poor little lad is a <DW36>, isn't he?  Many's
the time I've watched you go by my shop-window.  It's the wool shop at
the corner of East Street with one window that looks over the sea.  I
used to wish you'd drop in to buy something, my dear; but you never did.
P'raps now you'll manage to find your way round there some day."

"Thank you," Maud said.  "But I so seldom go anywhere. My brother takes
up all my time."

Mrs. Wright's rubicund face took a look of disappointment, but she still
smiled; it was a face that lent itself to smiles.  "It isn't to be
expected that he'd want to come," she said.  "But I'd be very pleased to
see you both any time.  What a good sister you are to him, my dear!  I
hope as he appreciates you."

Maud's heart smote her suddenly.  She realized that she had been
ungracious.  "Thank you very much, Mrs. Wright," she said, with more of
cordiality than she had yet shown.  "I will try to run in some day."

Mrs. Wright looked enchanted on the instant.  "My dear, I'd be
delighted!  Come any time of day, just when it suits you!  Tom and me,
we live alone now.  He's such a good son.  He keeps a hair-dresser's
saloon, you know, at the side of the shop.  That's how we come to know
Mr. Bolton.  He comes as regular as possible every third week to have
his hair cut.  Such a head of hair it is--hair such as a woman would
give her eyes for.  It's to be hoped he'll get a little daughter some
day, as'll take after him.  Your eyes and his hair--wouldn't she be a
picture!"

Maud's geniality passed like a light extinguished.  She became
statuesque.  "How soon the light goes!" she said, with a glance towards
the darkening window.

"Yes; don't it?" said Mrs. Wright.

There fell a silence most unusual with Mrs. Wright. With an effort Maud
dispelled it.

"We are very much interested in the horses.  You heard of the Mascot's
victory at Graydown?"

Mrs. Wright came out of her silence, shook herself together, as it were,
and smiled again.  "Now, isn't that nice for Jake?  He's that wrapped up
in the animals, and to have you interested in 'em too!  Now I should be
jealous of 'em if it was me!"

It was at this point that Jake himself threw open the door and entered,
stopping short within the room in surprise to find it occupied.

Mrs. Wright laughed aloud.  "There, now!  You didn't expect to find me
in possession, did you?  How de do, Jake?  What's happened to your
head?"

Jake advanced with extended hand.  "Hullo, it's Mother Wright!" he said,
and to Maud's amazement stooped and kissed her.  "If this isn't a real
pleasure!  But what are you doing in here?  My head made a hole in the
road coming home from the races the other night, and it is still too
sore a subject for discussion."

"Now--now, Jake!" protested Mrs. Wright.

"Fact!" he assured her, with the candid smile that Maud had seen but
little of late.  "But now what are you doing in here, I want to know?
This place is like a vault. Come along into the parlour and have some
tea!"

He had not so much as glanced at Maud; she spoke suddenly, with nervous
haste.  "Bunny is in the parlour, Jake.  He may be dozing."

"We'll soon wake him up," said Jake,

He drew Mrs. Wright's tightly-gloved hand through his arm and turned to
the door.  But she held him back, laughing.

"Jake!  Jake!  You've forgotten something."

"What's that?" said Jake.

She told him amid many fat chuckles.  "Why, you've kissed me, and you
haven't kissed your wife.  Come, now, that's not right, and you but just
married.  I know you're wanting to, so don't be shy!  I've been a bride
myself, and I know all about it."

She would have withdrawn her hand from Jake's arm, but he would not
suffer it.

"No, no!" he said, with a careless laugh.  "We don't do our kissing in
public.  Guess it isn't a genial enough atmosphere either.  Come along,
Mother!  You'll perish in here."

He led her from the room, still without glancing in Maud's direction,
and drew her along the narrow passage to the door of the parlour.

Maud followed with a stateliness that veiled a burning embarrassment.

She listened for Bunny's voice at the opening of the door, and instantly
heard it raised in cracked remonstrance.

"Here, I say!  Don't bring anyone in here!  Oh, it's you, Jake!  I
thought it was Maud.  I thought----"

His voice suddenly ended in what she felt to be the silence of disgust,
and Jake's accents very measured, very determined, took up the tale.

"This is my young brother-in-law, Mrs. Wright, Sir Bernard Brian,
commonly called Bunny.  Well, Bunny, my lad, I've brought you a visitor
to tea."

Bunny growled an inarticulate response, and Mrs. Wright covered all
deficiencies with her cheery chuckle.

"So nice to see you so cosy and comfortable, my dear.  I hope as I'm not
intruding too much.  Do you know, Jake, I don't think I'd better stop to
tea?  It's getting dark, and Tom'll be wondering."

"Let him wonder!" said Jake.  "I'll see you home all in good time.  You
know you always have tea when you come to see me.  It's seldom enough
you come too.  Maud," for the first time he addressed her directly, and
in his voice was a new note of authority such as she had never heard
before, "order the tea, will you?  We will have it at once."

It was a distinct command.  Maud's delicate neck stiffened
instinctively.  She crossed the room in silence, and rang the bell.

The summons was answered with unusual promptitude by Mrs. Lovelace, who
entered with the supper-cloth on her arm and was greeted by the visitor
with much joviality.

"How is it I never see you round our way, Sarah?  Have you quite
forgotten your old friends?"

"Not at all, Mrs. Wright, ma'am," said Mrs. Lovelace, dexterously
flinging her cloth over the table.  "But I've been a bit busy, you see,
what with one thing and another, and me time's been occupied."

"What on earth are you spreading that cloth for?" here broke in Bunny,
in irritable astonishment.  "We never have that for tea."

Mrs. Lovelace looked at him with dignity and hitched one shoulder.  "We
always has a good spread when Mrs. Wright comes to see the master," she
said, in a tone that conveyed a distinct reproof for ill-timed
interference.

Bunny subsided into sullen silence, and Mrs. Wright laughed again.  "I
remember as it always used to be a heavy tea," she said.  "But I don't
suppose a young gentleman like you would know what such things mean.
Now, I do hope you won't put yourself out on my account, Mrs. Bolton.
It's true I'm not accustomed to drawing-room meals, never had tea on my
lap in my life.  But there, you might say as I haven't got much lap left
to have it on. Is that sardines you've got there, Sarah?  Ah, you always
remember my pet weakness.  Well, Jake, my dear, I haven't congratulated
you yet on your marriage.  I hope it's going to be a very prosperous
one.  I don't doubt as you've got a wife to be proud of, and I hope
you'll pull together well and make each other happy and comfortable; and
may you have your heart's desire, Jake, which--if I know you
properly--isn't very far to seek!"

"That's real kind of you, Mother," said Jake sombrely.

He had seated himself near Bunny whose brows were drawn in an ominous
scowl.

In spite of the fire that roared up the chimney, the atmosphere was very
far from being a genial one.  Jake's eyes, compellingly bright, were
fixed upon Maud, who though burningly conscious of his regard refused
persistently to raise her own.  She was bitterly resentful of Jake's
attitude.  It placed her in an intolerable position from which she felt
herself powerless to break free.  She had no desire to treat this
impossible old woman churlishly, but somehow Jake forced her to a more
acute realization of the great gulf that stretched between them.  She
could not even pretend to be cordial in his presence.  She sat
tongue-tied.  Mrs. Wright, however, chatted on with the utmost
complacence.  She was plainly quite at her ease with Jake and she kept
the conversation going without an effort, despite Maud's obvious
embarrassment and Bunny's evident impatience.

She made a hearty meal, urged on by Jake who presently bestowed the
whole of his attention upon her, seeming to dismiss his wife and
brother-in-law from his mind.

"I really must be going," she declared at length, having detailed all
the local gossip she could think of for his delectation.  "You shouldn't
encourage me so, Jake.  I'm sure you'll all be tired out."

"I reckon you're just the most welcome visitor that ever darkens my
doors," said Jake, rising with her.  "Now, you're not to hurry.  I'm
going to tell them to put the horse in."

"No, no, Jake, my dear, don't you!  I'd sooner walk. I would indeed.  It
does me good, and it's too cold to-night for driving.  No, and I'm not
going to let you see me home either.  I'd know the way blindfold, and
I'm not that nervous.  Oh, there now!  What's this?"

Mrs. Lovelace had just thrown open the door with some pomp.  She
entered, bearing an enormous bunch of violets which she proceeded to
present to Maud with the ceremonious announcement: "Lord Saltash's
compliments, ma'am, and will you do him the honour to accept these?"

"Oh my!  How lovely!" cried Mrs. Wright.

Maud said nothing.  She took the violets and held them up to her face.

Jake glanced at her momentarily, and thence to Mrs. Lovelace who had
come forward to help Mrs. Wright into her cloak.

"Is Lord Saltash at the door?" he asked.

Mrs. Lovelace gave a start, as if something in the query surprised her.
"No sir, the flowers was brought by a groom," she said.

Jake said no more, but something in his silence sent the ever-ready
colour flooding Maud's face and neck.  She bent a little lower over the
violets, saying no word.

Mrs. Wright came clumsily into the breach.  "But aren't they lovely, to
be sure?  Never did I see such beauties.  And the scent of 'em, why, the
room is full of it!  Isn't that kind of Lord Saltash now?"

"They have a great quantity at the Castle," Maud said in muffled tones.

She held the flowers for Mrs. Wright to smell, and at the same moment
Jake reached forth and took them from her outstretched hand.

"You take 'em if you like 'em, Mother.  We get more of 'em than we
want," he said, in leisurely tones, and thrust the bouquet forthwith
into her astonished grasp.

"Oh, my dear!" cried Mrs. Wright, between dismay and delight.  "But--but
they was a present to Mrs. Bolton. I couldn't really!  No, that I
couldn't!"

"Take 'em!" Jake said.  He was smiling a smile of deadly determination
and his leisurely utterance held something of a fateful quality that
induced Mrs. Wright to hush her remonstrances and turn appealingly to
Maud.

The latter was standing erect and still with eyes of burning blue fixed
steadily upon emptiness.  She made no response whatever to her visitor's
unspoken appeal, it seemed that she did not even see it.

"It's all right, Mother," smiled Jake.  "You take 'em home and enjoy
'em.  As a matter of fact, Maud and I are getting a bit fed up with 'em
ourselves.  Yes, I'm going to see you home.  I'd rather."

"And I'd rather not, Jake," Mrs. Wright asserted with sudden decision.
An odd expression of sternness had come into her jolly countenance.  It
sat very strangely there. She came close to Maud, and as the girl
extended a stiff hand in farewell she took it and pressed the flowers
into it. "They're not Jake's to give," she said, "and I'm not going to
deprive you of 'em.  Thank you kindly for a very good tea, Mrs. Bolton,
my dear.  And now I'll wish you good-bye.  If there's ever anything as I
can do for you, you must let me know."

The words, the tone, were full of kindly comprehension, a sympathy too
subtle for outward expression.  Maud looked into eyes of shining
friendliness, and as if a sudden shaft of sunlight had caught her heart,
her bitterness melted into something that was near akin to gratitude.

She held up the violets with a smile.  "Wait a moment!" she said.  "I
would like you to have some of them."

She untied them with the words, divided the great bunch, and gave back a
generous half into Mrs. Wright's plump hand.

"Now, that's very good of you, dear," said Mrs. Wright. "I shall just
treasure them violets.  They'll make me think of you whenever I look at
'em.  They're just the colour of your eyes.  Good-bye, and thank you
most kindly."

It was then that Maud did a thing that amazed herself, impelled thereto
by that subtle sympathy which she had so little expected to meet.  She
bent her stately neck and kissed the red, smiling face uplifted in such
honest admiration to hers.  "Good-bye, Mrs. Wright," she said.  "And
thank you for coming.  I shall try to come and see you one day--when I
can make time."

"Any time, dear, any time!" beamed Mrs. Wright. "Drop in just whenever
you feel inclined!  I'm most always there."  She gave her a hearty hug
with the words, and then, as if afraid that this demonstration had been
too ardent, she turned and trotted to the door.

"Good-bye, Jake!  Good-bye!  There, now, I've forgotten Sir Brian.  You
must excuse me for being so stupid."

"Oh, don't trouble!" said Bunny, with ironical courtesy. "Pray don't
come back on my account!"

She looked back at him from the threshold, a very motherly compassion on
her jolly face.

"Poor little lad!" she murmured pityingly.  "How sadly he looks, to be
sure!  Good-bye, then, Sir Brian!  I won't come back.  Now, Jake, I'll
let you see me to the door-step--no further.  The moon's up, and Tom'll
be sure to come and meet me."  She started down the passage with Jake
behind her, her voice dwindling as she went.  "I'm so glad as I've seen
your princess, Jake.  I think she's lovely. Mind you're very good to
her!  She's high born, you know, Jake, my boy; better-class than you and
me.  I never see anyone so proud and so dainty.  You be kind to her, my
lad, and see you treat her like the lady she is!"

Jake's reply, if he made one, was inaudible.

"Common old hag!" growled Bunny from his sofa.

Maud said nothing at all.  Her face was hidden in her violets, and she
was as one who heard not.




                              CHAPTER XXIX

                             HER OTHER SELF


It was on an afternoon in mid-January that Maud found herself for the
first time in the precincts of Burchester Castle.  She had heard nothing
of Lord Saltash since his departure for town, though gifts of flowers
arrived at regular intervals from his hot-houses; and it seemed that his
absence was to be indefinitely prolonged.  She almost hoped that it
would be so, for though he was practically her only friend his presence
was not an unalloyed pleasure.  She felt more at ease when he was away.

On this particular afternoon she had left Bunny wrapped up in his long
chair and lying in the summer-house that overlooked the field where Jake
was occupied in breaking in a wild young colt.  The day was fine and
unusually warm.  Bunny was in a contented mood and, since Jake was close
at hand, she did not see why she should not leave him for a space.  He
had been needing her less and less of late, and though his behaviour
towards herself had undoubtedly undergone a considerable improvement, it
was becoming very evident to her that he vastly preferred Jake's
masculine companionship to her own.  He was in fact so devoted to Jake
that he would endure correction from him without a murmur, a state of
affairs that Maud vaguely resented, without knowing why.  They were such
close allies that she often felt herself to be superfluous.  Neither by
day nor by night was her presence any longer essential.

She knew that she ought not to regret this, for it meant that Bunny's
health was very materially improving; but yet at the heart of her there
often came a pang.  She missed his dependence upon her with a poignancy
that was very hard to bear.

And so for the first time that afternoon she decided to avail herself of
Lord Saltash's permission to use the piano at the Castle.  She had an
intense love of music and a natural gift for it which she had never been
able to develop very freely.

Charlie was musical too.  Some of her happiest hours had been spent at
the piano with him in the old days.  He was an accomplished musician
himself, and he had given her many a lesson and valuable hint.  She
sometimes thought that it was over the piano that her heart had first
gone out to his.

She did not want to recall those happy times they had had together.
They lay far behind her with her buried youth.  But the longing to make
music was strong upon her.  It had risen out of her loneliness like a
fiery thirst in the desert, and she yearned to gratify it.

And after all why should she not?  Charlie was away. There was no one to
know or care how she spent her time. It was obviously and unquestionably
her own.

Jake had wholly ceased to take any interest in her doings. He treated
her as the most casual acquaintance.  When he greeted her, he never so
much as touched her hand.  He was everything to Bunny, he was nothing to
her; and every day it seemed to her that he drew a little further away
from her.  She had tried to make overtures more than once, but he never
seemed to understand.  He would look at her in his straight,
impenetrable way, and pass deliberately on to some other matter, whether
with intention or not she could never wholly decide.  He had never tried
to be kind to her since the day that she had refused to hear his
proffered explanation.

A great bitterness was growing up within her.  She felt as if he had
deprived her of all she cared for, and given her nothing in return.  It
was in part this bitterness of spirit that drove her to Burchester
Castle that day, and, added thereto, an intense and feverish desire to
escape if only for an hour from the atmosphere of her daily existence.
She felt as if it were crushing out her individuality, and she longed
desperately to be herself, her best and happiest self, if only for an
hour.

So, with no word to any but Bunny of her intention, she passed up the
long fir avenue to the Castle with the winter sun sinking red behind
her.

The great stone building frowned upon her as she drew near.  She
approached it with a certain awe.  The dark windows seemed to gaze at
her.  The massive entrance yawned to receive her.

She stepped into the echoing Gothic porch, and found herself confronted
by a massive oak door.  The electric bell at the side of this, however,
was reassuring, and she rang it without hesitation.

While she waited for the door to open she amused herself by examining
the gargoyles that surmounted the pillars of the porch,--jeering, demon
faces that made her shiver. There was about the place an ecclesiastical
dignity at which those faces seemed to mock.  The thought of Saltash
went through her.  Saltash in a derisive mood was strikingly like one of
these.

The door opened with noiseless state, and an ancient man-servant stood
before her.  He looked at her with grave enquiry, and with a touch of
nervousness she explained her presence.

"I am Mrs. Bolton.  Lord Saltash is away, I know; but he has given me
permission to use his piano.  I thought I should like to do so this
afternoon."

The old man stood back and bowed before her.  "Come in, madam!" he said.

She entered with a curious sensation of unreality, and found herself in
an immense stone hall, carpeted with rich Persian rugs, and splendidly
warmed by a great fire that roared in an open fireplace.  The sense of
ecclesiastical austerity completely vanished as soon as the door closed
behind her.  The whole atmosphere became luxurious, sensuous, Eastern.
There were some wonderful pieces of statuary, some in marble and some in
bronze, placed here and there, that were of anything but monastical
design. One in particular in a niche in the stone wall caught Maud's
eyes as she followed her guide--a nude, female figure with wings, one of
which was spread like an eagle's pinion as though to soar, while the
other trailed back, broken, drooping, powerless.  It was a wonderful
marble, and she paused before it almost involuntarily.  The arms of the
figure were outstretched and straining upwards, the head flung back, and
in the face such anguish, such longing, such passionate protest as
thrilled her through and through.

The old butler paused also.  "That," he said in his decorous monotone,
"is Spentoli's _Fallen Woman_.  His lordship prefers to call it _The
Captured Angel_.  A very valuable piece of sculptury, I believe, madam.
Quite one of the features of the place.  His lordship sets great store
by it, and it is universally admired by all visitors."

"It is wonderful," Maud said.  But yet she turned her eyes away almost
immediately.  There was something about that mute, agonized figure of
womanhood that she felt she could not bear to look upon except in
solitude.

The butler stumped on down the great hall, and she followed, to a grand
oak staircase that divided into two half-way up and led to a panelled
gallery that ran along three sides of the hall.  Solemnly they mounted.
A high oak door confronted them at the top which the old man threw open
with much ceremony.

"The grand piano, madam, is over by the west window," he said, and with
another deep bow withdrew, closing the door without sound behind her.

Maud went forward into the room.  The first impression she received was
of great loftiness.  It was a huge apartment, oak-panelled, and with a
floor of polished oak.  The whole of one side of the room was lighted by
south windows that looked out over terraced gardens to the pine-woods of
the park.  At the end was a turret in the western angle of the wall, and
here stood the piano, full in the glow of the sinking sun.  There were
two fireplaces in the room, and in the one nearer to the piano a red
still fire was burning. A low couch stood before it, and a great
tiger-skin--the only rug in the whole vast place--was spread on the
hearth. There were other couches and strangely-shaped divans in the
room, but no chairs, and only one small table.  The whole effect was
spacious and Eastern, curiously attractive to the senses and yet
curiously elusive.

Maud went over the uncovered floor, treading lightly, with a feeling of
having entered an enchanted land,--a feeling not wholly pleasant of
being caught in a fairy web of subtleties from which she might not find
it easy to escape.

The whole atmosphere breathed of Saltash.  She was sure that he had
designed every elusive detail.

The piano was thrown invitingly open.  A French song was on the rack.
It had the appearance of having been placed there but a moment before.
A sudden doubt assailed her, a sensation as of having walked unwittingly
into a trap.  Some force had drawn her hither, some magnetism had surely
been at work.

The impulse came to her then to turn and go, yet she resisted it.
Later, it seemed to her that she had lacked the motive power to do aught
but move straight to the piano and drop onto the music-stool before the
keys.  Her hands went out to them, and suddenly she was playing, at
first very softly, then with gathering tone as she felt the instrument
respond to her touch, till at length all sense of strangeness left her,
and she began to sing the little French ditty that once had been one of
her favourites! She had never heard her own voice to greater advantage
than in that lofty music-room.  It was a mezzo, sweet rather than
powerful, with a ringing, bell-like quality that Charlie had been wont
to compare to the tentative notes of a bullfinch.  He had always
declared that she was afraid of the sound of it, but this was certainly
not the case to-day.  The glad notes left her lips, true and free and
birdlike.  The heart within her had suddenly grown light.

The song came to an end.  Her fingers began to wander idly over the
keys.  She played a dreamy air with an old-world waltz refrain, too lost
in her trance of delight to realize what she played, and again
half-unconsciously she was singing, as she had sung long ago before the
gates of youth.

    "There has fall'n a splendid tear,
    From the passion flower at the gate,
    She is coming, my dove, my dear;
    She is coming, my life, my fate.
    The red rose cries, 'She is near, she is near';
    And the white rose weeps, 'She is late';
    The larkspur listens, 'I hear, I hear';
    And the lily whispers, 'I wait.'"


Softly, sweetly, the notes stole through the room, wandered awhile, and
ceased.  There fell a pause, and the girl's eyes rested dreaming on the
long dark line of pine-trees red-flushed in the glow of sunset.

Then, still following her dream, she sang on.

    "She is coming, my own, my sweet,
    Were it ever so airy a tread
    My heart would hear her and beat
    Were it earth in an earthy bed;
    My dust would hear her and beat,
    Had I lain for a century dead;
    Would start and tremble under her feet,
    And blossom in purple and red."

And then she was singing the refrain, and while she sang it she awoke.

    "Come into the garden, Maud,
    For the black bat night has flown;
    Come into the garden, Maud,
    I am here at the gate alone,
    I am here at the gate alone."

She stopped suddenly with the conviction that a man's voice had joined
hers in the singing of that refrain.  Yet, if this had been so, the
accompanying voice ceased as abruptly as her own.  She found herself
sitting in absolute silence, with every pulse racing, every nerve
strained to listen.

No sound came to her.  The whole great chamber was as still as death.
The fire burned red and silent.  There was not so much as the ticking of
a clock to be heard. And yet it seemed to her that eyes watched her from
some vantage point unseen.  She had a firm conviction that she was not
alone.

She controlled the curious excitement that possessed her, and slowly set
her fingers once more on the keys.  She played the old refrain again,
singing it very softly, listening intently while she sang.  This time
she was sure--quite sure--that a man's voice hummed the air.  She went
on to the end, and suffered her hands to fall.

"Charlie!" she said, without turning.

There came a slight sound behind her, the click as of a spring catch.
She looked round, and saw him standing against the high panelling of the
wall.

"What a childish game to play!" she said, with lips that slightly
trembled.

"We are all children," observed Saltash.  "We may think ourselves mighty
clever, but the fact remains. Greeting, my queen rose!  I am enchanted
to see you."

He came forward, his black brows working comically, his queer ugly face
smiling a welcome.

In spite of herself, Maud smiled in answer.  "But why did you pretend
you weren't at home?" she said, in a voice of protest.

He laughed as he took her hand.  "But I wasn't," he said.  "I motored
down on purpose to receive you.  Are you so disappointed?"

She shook her head, but she still looked at him somewhat dubiously.
"You know, Charlie," she said, "I like people to behave quite
straightforwardly, and to tell the truth."

"Heavens above!" laughed Saltash.  "Why so grievously moral?  Well, look
here, let me be quite, quite honest, and admit that it was wholly by
chance that I came down here to-day.  Chance or the beneficent will of
the gods! Call it what you will!  And, my dear girl, don't be prudish
now you are married!  Remember, that though it is a state of bondage
there are certain liberties attached that are well worth having.  Now,
you are going to play and sing to me while I smoke and admire."

He turned from her and threw himself upon a low settee in the window
embrasure.  The scent of his cigarette came to her, aromatic, Eastern,
fragrant of many subtleties. She breathed it as one who inhales the
magic of the gods.

"Now, play!" he commanded, his strange, restless eyes upon her.  "Play
as the spirit moves you!  Never mind me!  I am of no account."

She had done it often before in the old days.  It was not difficult to
do it now, with the spell of his personality upon her.  Her own spirit
responded instinctively to the call of his.  The sympathy between them
became communion. She began to play, and, playing, lost herself in the
music as one inspired.

Saltash lay without moving, as if half-asleep.  He also seemed as one
under a charm.

And Maud played on and on, seeing visions, steeping her soul in romance,
forgetful wholly of the chain by which she was bound; forgetful also of
her companion, or perhaps so merged in his individuality as to be
unaware of any dividing line.  It was the old, sweet dreamland that had
always held them both.

Time passed, and the red sun with it.  The early dark began to fall, the
shining visions to wane.  She came out of her trance at last with a deep
sigh, and suffered her hands to fall.

Instantly Saltash sat up.  "Bravo, _ma belle reine_!  Your touch is like
velvet to the senses.  You have scarcely sung to me at all.  But no
matter!  You have closed the gates now, and we can't go back.  But
wasn't it good?  Come, be honest and say so."

She lifted her eyes to his with something of her dream still lingering
there.  "It was--very good," she said.

"And you'll come again?" he insinuated.

The dream began to fade.  With her right hand she picked out a nervous
little air on the piano, saying no word.

He leaned towards her.  "Maud," he insisted, "surely you'll come again!"

"I don't know," she said slowly.

"Surely!" he said again.

Her eyes grew troubled.  "Charlie," she said, her fingers still softly
pressing the keys, "I can't come here when you are here.  I like to
come,--oh yes, I like to come.  But I mustn't."

"Why not?" said Saltash.  "Afraid of the cow-puncher?"

She shrank, and struck a sudden discordant chord.  "I am not afraid of
anyone, but I must think of appearances. I owe it to myself.  I should
like to come sometimes and play.  But--with you here--I can't."

"All right," he said abruptly.  "I'll go."

Her eyes flashed up to his.  She took her hand from the piano and gave
it to him.  "You are going to be a true friend to me, Charlie," she
said.

He smiled rather wryly.  "My friendship is to take a somewhat negative
form, it seems to me, but perhaps it will stand the strain.  Have you
heard anything yet about the American doctor?"

She shook her head.  "No, nothing."

"And you have not laid my proposal before Jake, I gather?" he pursued,
boldly keeping her hand in his.

"Not yet," she said.

"Have you given the matter your own august consideration?" he asked.

Her hand began to fidget for freedom.  "I have thought about it,
Charlie.  I have not quite made up my mind. But you mustn't be hurt if I
say No."

"I shan't be hurt," he said, slowly relaxing his hold so that her hand
slipped free.  "But I shall think that your love of propriety somewhat
outweighs your love for Bunny."

She flushed, and turned aside to take up her gloves in silence.

He stood and watched her.  "That is so like you," he said, after a
moment.

She glanced at him.  "What do you mean?"

He laughed lightly, but without mockery.  "Your stately silences!  Do
you know I remember you best by your silences?  It is there that you
differ from all the rest of your charming sex.  Other women, when they
are misjudged, clamour for redress.  You endure in silence, too proud to
complain.  I wonder if Jake has realized your silences yet."

Maud stiffened a little.  "I must be going," she said. "I promised Bunny
I would be back to tea."

"I'll walk back with you," Saltash said.

She shook her head.  "No, I would rather go alone."

"Why don't you tackle the situation boldly and ask me to tea?" he said.

She was walking down the long room, and he sauntered beside her, smoking
a cigarette, careless and debonair.

"I think it wiser not, Charlie," she said.

He laughed.  "As you will.  But remember, life is short.  We may as well
enjoy ourselves, while it lasts. Did old Billings show you up here?  He
is the one respectable feature of this establishment."

"Yes, he certainly is respectable," she agreed, with a smile. "But where
were you when I came in?  You didn't come through this door."

He laughed again in a fashion half-mocking, half-secretive. "That is my
affair, _ma belle reine_.  Some day I may show you--several things; but
that day has not dawned yet."

He threw open the door, and they found the great hall below them ablaze
with electric light.  "I suppose I may accompany you downstairs," he
observed.

"What a wonderful place it is!" Maud said.

Her eyes went almost involuntarily to the statue that had arrested her
attention on entering.  It shone from its niche with a white splendour
that seemed to give forth light.

"My _Captured Angel_ has the place of honour by night and by day," said
Saltash.  "I have been wanting you to see her, or perhaps it would be
more correct to say, I have been wanting to see you together.  Have you
ever met your other self before?"

"My other self?" She looked at him interrogatively.

He made her a quizzical bow.  "Have you never seen that face before?"

She descended the stairs, and approached the statue. They stood together
before it.  She had desired to see it in solitude before, but with
Saltash by her side that desire had left her.  They viewed it from the
same standpoint, in that subtle communion of spirit that had always
characterized their intercourse.

And she saw--as he saw--her own features carved in the marble, piteous,
tragic, alive.

"Poor _Captured Angel_!" murmured Saltash softly.  "So fair of face, so
sad of soul!"

She did not respond.  She felt as if in that recognition something had
pierced her heart.  It was like a revelation of things to come.  So for
awhile she stood, gazing upon that tragic figure of broken womanhood;
and finally in silence turned away.

He went with her to the door, but he did not offer a second time to
accompany her farther.  On the threshold she gave him her hand in
farewell.

"You will come again?" he said.

She met his strange, unstable eyes for a moment and fancied that they
pleaded with her.

"Not to see you, Charlie," she said, and was conscious in a vaguely
troubled way that the words cost her an effort.

His eyes flashed her a laugh.  "No, not to see me," he said lightly.
"Of course not.  Just for your own enjoyment.  You will enjoy that
piano, you know.  And you can have it all to yourself."

She smiled in spite of herself even against her will. "Very well," she
said.  "I will come again some day, And thank you very much."

"Oh, don't do that!" he protested.  "It spoils everything."

She released her hand, and turned from him, still smiling. "Good-bye!"
she said.

"Farewell, Queen of the roses!" he made light response.

She passed through the wide stone porch and out into the dark of the
winter evening.




                              CHAPTER XXX

                           THE RISING CURRENT


It was very dark along the avenue of pine-trees, darker than she had
anticipated.  She almost wished that she had allowed Saltash to
accompany her.  She went as quickly as she dared in the gloom, conscious
that it was growing late.  The road wound considerably, and she could
not see the lamp at the gates.  Overhead a rising wind moaned desolately
through the pines.  They swayed and creaked as though whispering
together.  Very soon the lights of the Castle were obscured behind her,
and she was in almost total darkness.

She pressed on with an uneasy suspicion that it must be later than she
had thought.  Doubtless Jake had wheeled Bunny back to the house long
before.  Bunny knew whither she had gone, so they would not be anxious
about her; but they would wonder why she was so late.  The afternoon had
fled away like a dream.

She began to quicken her steps somewhat recklessly, but the road curved
more abruptly than she realized, and she presently ran into the grassy
bank, nearly falling into the outstretched arms of a fir-tree.  She
recovered herself sharply with a gasp of dismay, and paused to try to
discern more clearly the winding of the way.  It was at this point that
there came to her the sound of advancing footsteps. Someone was
approaching with a slow, purposeful stride that suddenly sent the blood
to her heart in a quick wave of something that was almost apprehension.
She stood quite still and waited.

Nearer and nearer came the leisurely tread.  Instinct, blind and
unreasoning, prompted her to draw back into the shielding recesses of
the tree with a desperate desire to escape notice.  It was a footfall
that she had come to know, and--why she could not have said--she did not
want to meet Jake at that moment.  With a very curious dread at her
heart she stood and waited.

He came to within a couple of yards of her, and stopped. "You can come
out," he remarked dryly.  "It's just you I've come along to fetch."

His voice was perfectly quiet and natural, but there was that in the
words that fired within her a burning indignation. She came forward and
faced him in the gloom.

"Why should you take that trouble?" she said.

She saw his eyes glitter in the darkness, and knew that they were upon
her with a lynx-like intensity.  "I reckon I have the right," he said,
in his slow way.  "You've no objection, I presume?"

Her cheeks burned hotly in the darkness.  She knew that he had her at a
disadvantage.  "I am fully capable of taking care of myself," she said,
beginning to walk on down the dim avenue.

He fell into his easy stride beside her.  "Is that why Lord Saltash left
you to walk home alone?" he said.

She clenched her hands in the darkness.  "What do you mean?"

"I think I am right in concluding that you have spent the afternoon with
him," Jake said, in his measured tones.

Maud stood suddenly still.  She was quivering from head to foot.  "You
are--quite right," she said, in a voice that she strove in vain to
steady.  "I think I have told you before, Lord Saltash and I are old
friends."

"Yes, I am aware of that," Jake said.

He reached out a quiet hand and took her by the arm, leading her calmly
forward.

She went with him because she could not do otherwise, but she would have
given all she had at that moment to wrench herself free.  There was no
escape for her, however; she was forced to endure his touch, forced to
go forward with him along a road that she could not see.

He led her in silence, calmly, unfalteringly, with the utmost
confidence.  She was sure that those lynx-eyes of his could see in the
dark.

But his silence speedily became intolerable.  It seemed to her to
bristle with condemnation.  It goaded her against her will into speech.

"Lord Saltash has given me his permission to use the piano at the
Castle.  I did not know when I went that he had returned."

"I could have told you that," commented Jake.

Again her resentment rose to a flame, burning fiercely. Yet his words
held no insult.  With all her strength she strove for calmness.

"I did not know of it.  In any case, I do not see that it was a matter
of very vital importance.  An hour at the piano is a great treat to me,
and I shall probably go again."

"For an hour?" said Jake.

This time the peculiar intonation of his voice was unmistakable, not to
be ignored.  She flung him instant defiance.

"For as long as I choose.  My time is my own."

He was silent a moment, but she was conscious of the tightening of his
hand.  At length: "All right, my girl," he said.  "But remember, my
claim to it comes before Lord Saltash's.  Some day it may happen that I
shall put in my claim.  I never have been content to be passed at the
winning-post."

Her heart quivered at the deliberate purpose with which he spoke.  She
walked on, saying no word.

They were nearing the gates, and the glare from the two great lamps
shone towards them, lighting the way.  She braced herself, and made a
resolute attempt to free her arm from his hold.

"Easy!  Easy!" said Jake.  "We haven't got there yet. It's dark beyond
those lights."

She abandoned her effort, feeling that she had no choice.  They walked
on together silently.

They reached and passed through the gates.  The road stretched before
them steep and winding.

"We'll cut across the fields," said Jake.

He led her to a stile almost concealed in the hedge, and here his hold
upon her relaxed.  He vaulted the rail, and waited for her.

He did not offer to assist her though the step was high. She mounted in
nervous haste to avoid his touch.

But for the darkness she would have found no difficulty in springing
down, but as it was she misjudged the distance, slipped, and fell.  She
threw out her hands with a cry, and the next moment she was caught in
Jake's arms.  He held her fast, so fast that for a few palpitating
seconds she felt the hard beating of his heart against her own.  Then,
in response to her desperate efforts for freedom, he let her go, without
excuse, without apology, in a deep-breathing silence that somehow
appalled her.  They walked side by side along the field-path, saying no
word.

There was a gate at the further end that led into the training-field
below the little orchard.  As they reached this, Jake paused very
deliberately and spoke.

"I reckon I've got to prepare you for a visitor."

"A visitor!"  She stopped in swift dread of she knew not what.

"A friend of mine," drawled Jake, with an odd touch of aggressiveness.
"You're not precisely dead nuts on my friends as a rule, I know.  But I
guess this one may prove an exception.  Dr. Capper turned up this
afternoon.  I left him having tea with Bunny."

"Dr. Capper!"  Maud gasped the name, scarcely conscious of speaking at
all.

"Dr. Capper from the States," said Jake, unmoved. "He chanced to be just
leaving for this country when my letter reached him, so he thought he'd
answer it in person and look us up first.  He and Bunny are fast pals
already. He's a regular magician, is Dr. Capper."

"But--but--you never expected him so soon!" faltered Maud.  "Surely--he
won't want to--to--examine Bunny yet."

"Not before to-morrow, maybe," said Jake.  "We can't expect to keep him
very long, you know.  He's a busy man. I've heard that people in this
country simply tumble over each other to consult him.  He could make a
score of fortunes over here if he would.  But he won't.  He'll only take
up the cases he fancies, won't waste himself over easy things.  That's
why we're so almighty lucky to get him."

His easy, unhurried speech gave her time to collect herself.  She forced
her first, involuntary dismay into the background, facing the sudden
exigency of the situation with all the strength at her disposal.

"Jake," she said, "this thing has come very suddenly, but curiously
enough Lord Saltash was speaking about it only this afternoon.  If--if
there is to be anything of the nature of an operation, he has offered to
place any part of the Castle at our disposal.  It is a very generous
offer, and it--it would be an excellent thing for Bunny."

"Then you have decided to accept it?" said Jake.

His tone was perfectly quiet and matter-of-fact, but it amazed her.  She
had expected a determined opposition. Disconcerted, she paused before
replying.

"I don't think it is especially generous," Jake said, and again it
seemed to her that he was talking to give her time.  "But it might be a
good thing for Bunny.  If you like, I will go up to-night and see
Saltash about it."

He opened the gate for her with the words, and she passed through with
feelings too mixed to bear any analysis.

"Am I to go?" he asked, as he dropped back into his sturdy stride beside
her.

"Please," she said, in a low voice.

His attitude was a complete puzzle to her.  It seemed so utterly at
variance with the absurdly jealous line he had taken but a few minutes
before.  But she could not ask for an explanation.  The relief of
finding him prepared to act in unison with her on this point was too
great.  She did not understand either his motives or his actions, but
she was thankful to find that there was to be no battle of wills between
them.  After all, his motives were not of paramount importance.

As they walked through the last field, she tried to banish her
embarrassment and recover her normal composure of mien.  But strive as
she would, she could not wholly reassure herself.  Nor could she forget
the fast holding of his arms and the strong, deep throbbing of his heart
against her own.  That moment had been a revelation to her upon which
she dared not dwell.

They reached the dark orchard, and passed up the dim path to the house.
Jake went straight up the steps to the French windows of the parlour
from which a cheery welcoming light shone forth.  He raised a hand to
the catch.

"Wouldn't it be better to go round?" Maud said.

She was suddenly trembling all over in an agitation that seemed to
possess her, body and soul.

Jake did not pause.  Steadily he raised the latch.  "Come right in!" he
said.

The door opened, the light poured out upon them?

There came to her the sound of Bunny's cracked, difficult laugh.  She
entered in front of Jake, dazzled, hesitating, uncertain.

Instantly a man's voice greeted her, a quiet, casual voice with an
unmistakable New York accent.  "Ah, I guess this is the lady of the
house.  I am very pleased to make your acquaintance, madam.  Mr. Bolton
will have told you who I am."

Tall and gaunt and meagre, he bent over the hand she offered him,
holding it in a strong, sustaining clasp.

She looked at him rather piteously, aware of green eyes darting over her
with lizard-like swiftness, eyes that shone intensely in a face that was
the colour of old ivory.  She also saw a yellow pointed beard that for a
moment prejudiced her and the next was forgotten.

"It was so kind of you to come," she said, with a quivering smile.

He smiled in answer, a sudden, transforming smile that warmed her heart.
"I guess I followed my own inclination," he said.  "Say, now, you're
cold.  Bunny and I have been keeping up a good fire for you.  Sit down
and make your husband do the waiting!"

His manner was so kind and withal so courteous that Maud's embarrassment
passed like a cloud.  She came to the fire, pulling off her gloves and
stretching her fingers to the blaze.

Bunny accosted her with eager eyes.  "Maud, he's going to overhaul me
and see if he can do anything for me. Maud, can't he do it to-night?  I
won't sleep a wink if he doesn't."

Her heart sank inexplicably.  She seemed to have stepped into a new
atmosphere that seethed with possibilities that somehow frightened her.
She was as one in the grip of a force indomitable that hurled her
headlong towards a goal she dreaded.

She leaned upon the mantelpiece, looking towards Capper with more of
appeal than she knew.  "You are much too kind," she said.

He pushed up a chair for her.  "Say, now, there's no need to hustle
any," he said.  "I suspect there is no harm in my looking at the lad;
but we don't take any further action at present.  I've a lot to get
through in this old country, and I'd just like to know right now if this
is a case for me or not."

He patted the back of the chair with fatherly insistence, and she sank
into it with a feeling of utter weariness and impotence.  It seemed
futile to battle any longer against the torrent that bore her.  She was
as a straw in the whirlpool of Fate.

"It is so good of you even to think of helping us," she said rather
unsteadily.  "Please make your examination whenever it suits you best!
But Bunny is not a good sleeper.  You will remember that, won't you?"

Capper took up the cup of tea that Jake had prepared, and handed it to
her.  "Let me have the pleasure of seeing you drink this!" he said.  "I
should like to make my examination to-night, if you have no objection.
In fact, I have come down for the purpose.  My time, madam, is more
limited than anyone on this side could ever be made to realize.  I won't
hustle you, but if I didn't hustle myself I guess I'd have to account
some day for a waste of good material."

He sat down in a chair facing her with the words, and fell to cracking
his finger-joints one after the other with absent energy.  It was a way
he had, as Maud was soon to discover.

"You have had tea?" she asked.

He nodded.  "I am ready to get to work.  I shan't want an audience.  If
I want anything I'll let you know. But I've a very decided notion that
my patient and I will get on best alone."

Jake raised his eyes suddenly.  "That so, doctor?" he drawled.  "Then I
guess I'll carry the youngster up right now."

Capper looked at him with a smile, and pulled his beard speculatively.
Bunny beamed approval.

Maud drank her tea in utter silence, feeling as if it would choke her.

The silence became prolonged, but she did not realize that anything was
expected of her till Capper leaned slightly towards her, and spoke.

"Have I your permission, madam?" he asked courteously.

She met his keen eyes and was struck afresh by the kindly reassurance
they held.  "Of course," she said, in a low voice.  "I--am very grateful
to you."

"I hope--some day--you may have cause to be," he rejoined.

Jake went to Bunny's side.  She saw the boy raise his arms as he bent,
and clasp his neck.  A few muttered confidences passed between them;
then Jake's strong arms lifted the frail, impotent body as they alone
knew how to lift.  And in that moment it seemed to Maud that the beloved
burden had been taken finally from her, and she was left to wander alone
in a desert that was very dark and bare.




                              CHAPTER XXXI

                              LIGHT RELIEF


"May I come in?" said Capper.

Maud started.  She had been sitting huddled over the fire for what
seemed like countless ages, listening with straining nerves to every
sound overhead and sometimes shrinking and trembling at what she heard.
Jake had gone out long since to the stables, and she had been thankful
to see him go.  His very presence was intolerable to her just then.

At the sound of Capper's voice she turned an ashen face.  "Say, now," he
said, in a tone of kindly chiding, "you've been scaring yourself, Mrs.
Bolton; and if that's not the silliest game under the sun, you may call
me a <DW65>."

She rose to receive him, trying to force her quivering lips to practical
speech.  But she could only articulate, "I heard him cry out several
times.  Does he want me?"

"Not yet," said Capper.  He laid a very steady hand upon her shoulder.
"Leave him alone for a little!  He'll pull himself together best alone.
He's got the spunk all right."

She stood still under his hand, piteously awaiting the information for
which she could not bring herself to ask. He was looking at her keenly,
she knew; but she could not face his look.  She could have been strong
had strength been essential, but the need for it seemed to have gone.

Bunny no longer leaned upon her sustaining love.

"Come, now, I want a straight talk with you," the great doctor said.  "I
want to understand your point of view if you will be gracious enough to
expound it to me."

She made a pathetic attempt to laugh.  "Do you think you can cure him,
Doctor?" she said.

Capper laughed too with a species of grim exultation. "Is that what
troubles you?  If that's all, I guess I can soon set your mind at rest.
I can cure him absolutely--within three months.  But I shall want your
co-operation. Can I count on that?"

His hand pressed upon her with something of insistence. His yellow face
looked searchingly, with an odd elation into hers.  She met his look
reluctantly, and became dominated by it.

"Of course you can count upon it," she said.

He nodded, pulling restlessly at his beard with his free hand.  "To what
extent, I wonder?  Are you keen?"

"Of course I am keen," she said, almost with indignation. He stood
silent a moment, his hand still upon her shoulder. Then, "Mrs. Bolton,"
he said, "do you know your young brother has got a curious notion into
his head that you don't want him to be made sound?"

"Ah, but that is a mistake!" she said quickly.

"Is it a mistake?" said Capper.  "No, don't answer! Why should you?  But
it's curious that I should have sensed the same myself the moment I saw
you.  However, if you tell me it is not so, I shall take your word for
it.  But at the same time I think I begin to see your point of view.
Without the care of him you would feel lost for a bit.  Life might be
rather difficult.  Isn't that so?"

She laughed somewhat tremulously.  "I think I have always found life
difficult.  But lately--just lately--"  She paused in uncertainty.

"Ah!" said Capper.  "Maybe you're up against it. But you've got solid
ground to stand on.  You may take my word for that, because I happen to
know."

He spoke with a kindness that went straight to her heart.  Almost
involuntarily she put her hand into his, feeling the long, active
fingers close upon it with a sense of security that was infinitely
comforting.

"Did Jake ever tell you the foundation of our friendship?" he asked her
suddenly.

She shook her head.

"It's an interesting story," Capper said.  "P'raps you'd like to hear
it."

Maud was silent.

He proceeded as if she had answered in the affirmative. "It was on a
dark night in the Atlantic ten years ago. Do you remember the wreck of
the _Hyperion_?  No, maybe you wouldn't.  She ran into a submerged
iceberg and was nearly torn in two.  I was knocked down by the shock and
got jammed against a locker in the saloon.  It was a case of every man
for himself, and I was soon left to my fate. But Jake--he was working
his way across as ship's carpenter--came back on his own to see if there
were anyone left below, and found me, wedged there in the wreckage. We
were settling down fast, the water was over our knees, and I told him to
look out for himself; but he wouldn't. I cursed him for a fool, I
remember."  Capper's yellow face was strangely alight; his fingers
gripped hers tensely. "But that didn't make any difference.  He had no
time to go and get any implements to work with, so he just set to with
his hands and ripped and tore at the wood till at last it splintered and
he got me free.  He worked like a Titan.  I've never forgotten.  He got
me out just in time, Heaven knows how.  The water was above his waist
before he'd done, and I was on the verge of drowning. But he did it, and
more also.  He grabbed me up out of that death-trap, as if I had been a
priceless possession of his own.  He dragged me upon deck and roped me
to him because I was too damaged to help myself.  And when we went down,
as we very soon did, we sank together and we came up together, and he
managed at last to get me to a boat.  Now you'll never get him to speak
of that episode, but it's about the finest piece of work I've ever come
across.  The man was utterly unknown to me and I to him.  Yet he never
thought of passing me by, but just kept on till he'd saved my life.  Not
a thought to his own safety, mark you.  He wasn't out for that.  And he
wasn't out for reward either.  When I offered him money later he just
laughed in a purring sort of fashion and told me to keep it for some
chap who had failed.  'We don't all of us win out on the hundredth
chance,' he said.  'Thank the high gods, not me!'  I saw he meant it, so
of course I let him have his way.  But it's been a sort of bond between
us ever since--a bond that stretches but never breaks."

He ceased to speak, ceased also to hold her hand.  Maud's face was
turned towards him, her blue eyes were intently fixed upon his.  She
said nothing whatever, and there fell a silence that was curiously
intimate between them.

Capper broke it at length.  "He's been a bit of a rover, but I've never
quite lost sight of him since that night. When I make a friend like
that, I can't afford to lose him again.  But I've never had a chance of
doing him a service till now.  He's a married man and considerably more
civilized than he was in those days.  But I have a notion that there's a
leaven of the wild ass still in his composition. That's why I'm afraid
you may not realize that he's gold all through--all through."  He paused
a moment, looking at her quizzically; then: "By way of light relief," he
said, "I guess you know the fascinating story of the princess and the
frog.  She had to take the beast as he was, and even give him her pillow
o' nights.  But only when she struck at last and threw him against the
wall did she find out that she'd caught a prince after all.  I guess the
man who wrote that story was a student of human nature. It's a comic
story anyway."

Maud was laughing.  Somehow, inexplicably, the man had eased her burden.
"I don't think you are presumptuous, Doctor," she said.  "I think you
are very kind."

"It's mighty fine of you to take that view," said Capper, with a tug at
his yellow beard.  "I shall do my best to deserve it."




                             CHAPTER XXXII

                           THE ONLY SOLUTION


"Oh, Lord Saltash!  So you're home at last!  What a pity you didn't come
back a little sooner!"

"Am I late for anything, Lady Brian?" smiled Lord Saltash, holding her
hand in his.

She shook her head at him.  "You are hopelessly late. And you mustn't
call me that.  I have renounced my title."

"Really?  How generous of you!"  Saltash began to laugh in his easy,
mocking way.  "Lady Brian has left town for the South Coast, and Mrs.
Sheppard is now in residence at Fairharbour.  I am sorry that I was not
at hand to escort her ladyship; but I am none the less pleased to be
received by Mrs. Sheppard.  Have I missed anything besides the
first-mentioned privilege?"

Mrs. Sheppard threw out her hands with a dainty gesture of despair.  "My
dear Charlie, you've missed--everything! Have you seen my poor Maud?"

He nodded.  "More than once.  I make a point of seeing her whenever I
feel so disposed.  Now that she is in such safe hands, there is no
longer any necessity to hold me at arms' length, I assure you we are on
the best of terms."

Mrs. Sheppard groaned.  "Why, oh, why didn't you come back sooner?  It
would have altered--everything."

He looked at her, the teasing smile still hovering about his swarthy
face.  "It would have been too obvious a solution," he said lightly.
"Don't you know that the unattainable is always the dearest?"

Mrs. Sheppard clasped her hands with a tragic gesture. "You don't
realize--or perhaps you don't care--that she has sold herself to a man
for whom she has not the smallest shadow of affection."

"In pursuit of her illustrious mother's example?" suggested Saltash,
with careless effrontery.  "But why did you allow it?  Wasn't it up to
you to forbid the banns?"

"I?"  Mrs. Sheppard cast up her eyes.  "Do you suppose I have ever had
any control over her?"

"I presume you had the slapping of her in her babyhood," he observed.

She laughed almost hysterically.  "As if I ever did or could!  She was
always so serious and quiet and determined.  No one she didn't love
could ever move her an inch.  And the dear child never loved me, you
know. Somehow we didn't touch.  No, I couldn't prevent the marriage.
Only one person in the world could have done that.  Oh, Charlie, what a
pity!  What a pity!"

The easy tears had risen to her eyes.  She was very appealing in woe.

But Saltash was apparently unmoved.  He sat facing her with his odd eyes
glancing hither and thither, the brows above them jerking continually.
"She certainly married in the deuce of a hurry," he remarked, after a
moment. "What made her do it, eh?  I presume it was the old man? Did he
turn amorous, or what?"

Mrs. Sheppard laughed rather pathetically and dried her eyes.  "Oh,
dear, no!  Giles was rather too severe.  He was always willing to be
friendly, but Maud's attitude was so hostile that at last--it was hardly
to be wondered at--he turned against her.  I was very sorry, but, you
know, Maud always takes things so seriously, poor child, and she
wouldn't hear of making friends when it was over, but must needs go
straight away to Jake Bolton and offer to marry him. He was ready to
take her at any price of course.  So they settled it all between them
with never a word to me."

"But you haven't altogether enlightened me even now," said Saltash,
recalling her with his semi-ironical courtesy. "What was this dire
offence that Maud couldn't bring herself to forgive?  I should like to
know for my own future guidance."

Mrs. Sheppard's laugh had a deprecating note.  "Oh, it was only a little
thing, quite a little thing.  If she hadn't been really spoilt all her
life, I don't think she would have thought so much of it.  I blame
myself of course.  But there, what is the use?  Giles is a plain man,
and he believes in a little wholesome chastisement now and then. It does
a woman good, he says.  And I daresay he is not altogether wrong.  But
in this case----"

"Oh, forgive me for interrupting you!"  Rather lazily he cut her short.
"That term 'a little wholesome chastisement'--does it mean a beating or
what?"

Mrs. Sheppard nodded with some agitation.  "Yes, he gave her a whipping
one night.  It was very unfortunate, but I must say, not wholly
undeserved.  And I am afraid he had rather a heavy hand.  Poor Maud was
very much upset."

"Really!" said Saltash.

"Yes.  He shouldn't have done it of course, but----"

"He probably was not in a state to know what he was doing," suggested
Saltash.

There was a slight frown between his mobile brows, but his voice was
suave.

Mrs. Sheppard eyed him wistfully.  "Poor Giles!" she murmured.

Saltash uttered a sudden sharp laugh and rose.  "Well, I mustn't take up
any more of your valuable time.  No doubt you are busy.  You have heard
about Bunny's prospects, I presume?"

"Oh yes, they have told me about Bunny.  I am sure I hope it will be a
success, but of course I have had no say in the matter," said Mrs.
Sheppard plaintively.  "I don't so much as know when the operation is to
be performed."

"That isn't finally settled," said Saltash.  "It's to be according to
the American doctor man's convenience. I suggested that they might like
to make use of Burchester for the occasion, and Bolton has caught on to
the idea. Very sensible of him!"  Saltash's mouth twisted into a faint
smile.  "How do you get on with your son-in-law?" he enquired
pleasantly.

Mrs. Sheppard shook her head dubiously.  "I never liked him.  There is
something of the wild about him. Maud doesn't like him either.  I am
sure of that.  They are complete strangers, and always will be.  In
fact, if it weren't for Bunny--" she lowered her voice--"I believe she
would very soon desert him."

"What?  Really?" said Saltash, in a peculiar tone.

She met his interrogation with a swift upward glance. "She would never
stand life alone with him.  It would drive her desperate.  I am
sure--quite sure--if it comes to that, she will somehow break free."

"Really!" he said again, subtle encouragement in his voice.

Mrs. Sheppard suddenly clasped her hands against her bosom and went
close to him.  "Oh, Charlie, I do think--sometimes--divorce is the only
way.  You know she has always loved you.  And it isn't your fault you
came too late.  Charlie, if the chance were to come to you again--the
chance to make her your wife--you wouldn't--surely you couldn't--let it
slip again?"

"Again!" said Saltash.  His lip lifted a little.  He was looking at her
fixedly.

She made a small nervous gesture of pleading.  "You would marry her,
Charlie, if you could.  She loves you. You would never--never----"

"Let her down?" suggested Saltash.

His expression was utterly cynical, yet something in those queer eyes of
his emboldened her.  She placed her two hands against his shoulders, and
suffered the tears to run down her face.

"Charlie, I am wretched about her--quite wretched. Save her from that
rough cow-herd, Charlie!  Make her your own--in spite of all!"

She broke down into muffled sobbing, and would have leaned upon him for
support had he permitted it.  But with gentle decision he eluded her,
taking her hands and leading her to a chair.

"Now, Lady Brian, there is no need for this agitation, believe me.  For
the present there is nothing to be done. Bunny occupies the centre of
the stage.  He won't, of course, remain there for ever, but he has got
to have his turn. Till that is over, we can only possess our souls in
patience."

"But afterwards!" wailed Mrs. Sheppard.  "It is the afterwards that
troubles me."

"Afterwards," he said lightly, "I presume it will be someone else's
turn."

"And Maud will be miserable," she protested.

Saltash was silent.  Only after a moment he strolled to the window and
stood looking at the grey, tumbling waves that dashed against the
sea-wall.

Mrs. Sheppard dabbed her eyes and began to recover herself; it was
plainly the only course.  She remembered regretfully that sympathy had
never been dear Charlie's strong point.

When he glanced over his shoulder a few seconds later she mustered a
somewhat piteous smile.  "Life is very difficult sometimes," she said
apologetically.

"Oh, quite damnable," he answered, in his careless, mocking way.  "But
we've got to get through with it somehow, and with as few tumbles as
possible.  I really think I must be going now.  We shall let you know
when anything definite is settled about Bunny.  Don't fret, you know!
Take it easy!"

He came back to her with the words and took her hand with a certain
arrogant kindness characteristic of him.

She looked up at him with quivering lips.  "It is so good of you to let
them have Burchester," she said.

He made her a brief bow.  "I serve my own ends," he said.

Mrs. Sheppard rose.  "And I don't know what will happen when Bunny is
cured," she said pathetically.  "He will have to go to school.  And who
is going to pay for it, I wonder?"

Saltash shrugged his shoulders.  "Perhaps he'll train for a jockey.  Who
knows?"

Mrs. Sheppard sighed.  "I can't think how you can treat everything as a
joke.  I can't myself."

He laughed.  "I don't chance to be gifted with a serious mind, you see.
Besides, _cui bono_?  Does worrying help?"

"I'm sure it ought to," sighed Mrs. Sheppard.

He laughed again derisively.  "Sheer waste of time, believe me.  Either
fight or submit to the inevitable! Personally, I prefer to fight."  He
shut his teeth with a sudden click, and for a single instant his face
was grim. But the next he was laughing again.  "Good-bye, Lady Brian!
In the name of beauty, don't fret!  It can't be done with impunity,
remember!"  He pressed her hand and released it.  "You've given me quite
a lot to think about.  It's been an interesting conversation.  I have
quite enjoyed it.  Good-bye!"

He was gone.  She heard him departing, light-footed as a happy boy,
whistling under his breath an old, old waltz refrain.

Gradually a smile came into her own face as she turned to the glass to
repair the ravages of her recent emotion.

"I wonder whether he will do anything," she murmured to her reflection.
"He isn't a man to sit still.  And really, the circumstances are so
exceptional.  It is the only solution--literally the only one."  She
paused a moment, drew out a hairpin, twisted back a curl and very nicely
readjusted it.  "And when Giles is bankrupt," she added, with a little
nod to the thoughtful gaze that met hers, "there will be a home for me
to go to."  She heaved a pensive sigh.  "I am glad he knows everything,"
she said. "There is nothing like telling the whole truth."

She smiled again with more assurance, and went her way.




                             CHAPTER XXXIII

                              THE FURNACE


It was on a frosty morning in February that Maud stood in one of the
great guest-chambers of Burchester Castle, waiting with Bunny for news
of Dr. Capper's coming.

A nurse was busy in the room, and the hour fixed for the operation was
drawing near.

Bunny was full of pluck that morning.  He had greeted her bravely
smiling.  Yes, he had slept like a top, thanks to Jake, who had held his
hand half the night and scared away the bogies.  Jake was a stunner; he
was going to pay him back some day.  And what a ripping room Charlie had
given him!  Was it true that there was a music-room close by?  That
would be ripping too.  Maud would be able to play to him all day long
while he was getting well. Maud was looking a bit blue this morning;
what was the matter?

She had to admit that she had passed a restless night.

"Silly!" said Bunny, and squeezed her hand.  "Why didn't you come and
sleep in here?  Jake could have looked after you too then."

He chattered on incessantly, making her respond, compelling her
attention, till news was brought to her of Dr. Capper's arrival, and she
went down to receive him.

She found him standing in the great entrance hall with the doctor from
Fairharbour.  He moved forward to greet her as serenely as if he had
come upon pleasure bent.

"Delighted to meet you again, Mrs. Bolton.  I am just admiring this fine
old English castle.  Guess it's the sort of setting that suits you."

He held her hand a moment and looked at her, but he made no comment upon
her appearance.

She faced the green eyes with an odd little feeling of shame.  They
seemed to see so much that she hid from all the world.

"You are very--punctual," she said, with an effort, as she turned to
greet the local doctor.  "I hope you found the car ready at the
station."

"We were driven up by his lordship himself," said Capper.

She gave a great start.  "O!  Has he come down?  I didn't know."

"He joined us at the terminus quite unexpectedly," Capper told her.  "I
have brought my assistant Rafford to administer the anaesthetic.
Rafford, where are you?"

A dark young man, with absolutely black eyes and a high, dominant
forehead, turned sharply from a rapt contemplation of Saltash's
_Captured Angel_, and bowed automatically to Maud.

"I was just trying to make out the anatomy of those wings," he said, in
a very pronounced American accent. "Guess it's a cute addition to the
human frame, but I'd like to know how it's worked from the spinal column
without an extra vertebra or two."

Maud suddenly felt hysterical.  She looked at Capper, who pulled at his
beard and smiled.

"Guess it's up to you to find the solution, Raff," he said.

Rafford bowed again.  "I'd like to make a sketch of that figure if Lady
Saltash will permit me," he said.  "It's an anatomical problem."

The blood rose to Maud's pale face in a great wave. She was about to
speak, when a voice at her shoulder spoke for her.

"I am sure Lady Saltash will be charmed to do so.  But I think the face
must be excluded.  That can scarcely be of any anatomical interest to
you."

Maud started.  Saltash's hand gripped her elbow for a moment and
instantly relaxed.  He did not speak to her. The young American glanced
back at the face of the statue, stared at it for a second, then looked
again at Maud.  She saw his thin black brows rise ever so slightly.

"The face is certainly of interest," he said, speaking with evident
caution; "but not, as you say, my lord, from an anatomical point of
view."

He withdrew himself with the words, seemed as it were to became Capper's
background, while Saltash sauntered forward to offer refreshment.

Capper asked for coffee and smoked a cigarette.  He sat in an ungainly
attitude by the fire while these were in process of consumption, and
spoke scarcely at all.  Maud stood near him in silence, chafing at the
delay, yet dreading unspeakably the moment when it should be at an end.

Saltash lounged smoking on a settee with Dr. Burrowes of Fairharbour,
and chatted cheerily about local matters with one eye on the great
American surgeon who sat cracking his long fingers so abstractedly
before the fire.

Suddenly Capper turned his head and looked up at Maud. "Where is Jake?"

"He is coming," she made answer.

"Coming!  Why?  Does the boy want him?  Is he nervous any?"

"He is being very brave," she said.  "But of course, naturally, he is
nervous."

He nodded.  "Well, I guess we needn't wait for Jake. Let's go up!  He'll
keep a stiff upper lip if you're there."

He got up with the words; his bony, yellow hand closed upon her arm,
kindly, reassuringly, confidently.

The burden of her anxiety grew magically lighter.  She felt immensely
comforted by reason of that friendly pressure.  She prepared to lead the
way.

Capper paused a moment.  "I am going to have five minutes' talk with the
patient," he said to Dr. Burrowes. "Will you be kind enough to follow on
when the time is up?  Raff, you can make your anatomical study right
now, but be at my disposal in five minutes!  Lord Saltash, maybe you
will stay behind and show them the way."

He made his dispositions with the calm air of a man accustomed to
obedience; and then, his hand still upon Maud's arm, he turned with her
to ascend the stairs.

A great shivering fit assailed her as they went.  She fought it
resolutely down.

"Say, you're not worrying any?" he questioned.  "It seems to me that
it's you Jake ought to be thinking about. What have you been doing since
I saw you last?"

"Nothing, nothing," she said hastily.

Capper grunted.  "That's a very unhealthy occupation, especially for a
woman."

She looked at him appealingly.  "Oh, please, Dr. Capper, don't talk
about me!  I--I would so much rather not."

Capper smiled a little.  "You're a true woman.  But I can't have you
worrying to death like this.  Will you believe me when I tell you that
this operation is going to be an almighty success?"

She stopped short.  "Are you sure--quite sure?" she breathed.

He nodded.  "I am willing to stake my reputation on it.  If I weren't
sure, I wouldn't touch it.  I'm past the speculating age."  He led her
gently on along the corridor at the head of the stairs.  "You may bet
your last dollar," he said, "that I shan't mush up this business.  I
never lose my patients when they're young and keen.  It's the older
ones, when they get tired, fed up with life--"  He paused, and a very
human shadow crossed his face, darkening his shrewd eyes.  "That's when
God sometimes interferes," he said.  "So I'm never quite sure of the
older ones.  But the youngsters--He lets me have my own way with them.
There's such a mighty force in what the French call _joie de vivre_."

A quick sigh rose to Maud's lips.  She laid a sudden, impulsive hand
upon the long thin fingers that held her arm.  "You are so good, so very
good," she said tremulously.

Capper smiled.  "Oh, just ordinary, I guess.  Wait till you're up
against me!  You won't like me then.  I'm going to have a straight talk
with Jake presently--about you."

She gave a quick start of dismay.  "Oh no!  Please don't!  Please don't!
It--it's nothing to do with Jake. He wouldn't understand."

"He'll understand me," said Capper inexorably.  "I've a patent way of
expressing myself that leaves no room for misunderstandings.  There!
Now I've given you something more important than your brother to think
about. Suppose you take me to him!"

She would have detained him to protest still further, but he refused to
be detained, and she found herself compelled to yield.  Very quietly he
insisted, and she had no choice.

They entered the room in which Bunny lay; and immediately a square
check-clad figure rose from the boy's side and came forward with hand
outstretched in greeting.

"Hullo, Doc!" said Jake.

Maud gazed at him in astonishment.  "I had no idea you were up here.
When--how did you come?"

Jake was faintly smiling.  "I came just now, by the back way, as is my
custom.  I promised to be here to give him a send-off, Doctor.  Guess
you've no objection?"

"So long as you go when you're told," said Capper rather shortly.

"Reckon I always do that," said Jake.

"Do you?" said Capper, with his sudden smile.  "That's not always been
my experience of you."

"Oh, shucks!" said Jake, turning deep red.

Capper passed him by, and went to Bunny.  Maud saw that he was intent
upon reassuring him as he had reassured her.  She turned away to the
window, and waited.

Jake did not join her there, possibly because his hand was tightly
locked in Bunny's.  But very soon Capper called her back to the bedside,
and drew her into talk, keeping her there till he finally rose and went
out with the nurse.

Maud scarcely knew how she came through the next few minutes, but Jake
and Bunny seemed to feel no strain. Jake was talking of the horses, and
the boy's keenest interest was aroused.

"And you're going to teach me to ride like you do," he said, with an
eagerness that Maud had seldom seen in him. "I'm just mad to begin."

He was picking up Jake's manner of speech in a fashion that his sister
deplored but could not attempt to check; but no evil word had she ever
heard on his lips, nor had she ever heard Jake use bad language in his
presence.

Like one in the mesh of an evil dream she listened to Jake's reply,
marvelling at the easy detachment with which he made it.  And then the
door opened, and the nurse came in with Rafford.  She stood up, her
heart beating as if it would choke her.

Bunny shot a swift glance around.  "You'll stay with me, Jake?" he said
quickly.

"Sure," said Jake.

Bunny drew a hard breath.  "Hang on to me--tight, Jake!" he whispered.

And Maud turned to the door without a word.  He did not need her--he did
not need her!

She had a passing impression of the sympathy in Rafford's eyes as he
held open the door for her, and then she was alone in the passage
outside.

She moved along it uncertainly, almost as if groping her way, found the
door of the music-room ajar, and entered.

A warm fragrance met her on the threshold, a sense of Eastern luxuriance
and delight, soothing her troubled spirit as with a soft, healing hand,
wooing her to a curious peace of mind.  It was as though a misty veil
had been drawn over her troubles, obscuring them, deadening her faculty
for suffering.

She went forward to the fire that burned so mysteriously red and still,
reaching out her cold hands to its comfort. She had a feeling that she
ought to kneel and pray, but somehow in that strangely soothing
atmosphere prayer was an impossibility.  Her brain felt drugged and
powerless, and she was numbly thankful for the respite.

"Come and sit down!" a cool voice said.

She turned with no surprise or agitation and saw Saltash lounging on a
divan behind her.  He had a cigarette between his fingers.  The scent of
it came to her with a strange allurement.  Almost mechanically she
accepted the invitation.

"Have you been here at all in my absence?" he asked, stretching a
careless arm along the cushions behind her.

She shook her head.  "No."

"But why not?  Does Jake think I am not to be trusted?"

She smiled at that.  "Oh no.  Jake never interferes. But--somehow--I
haven't wanted to make music lately."

"You are not happy," said Saltash, with conviction.

She  a little.  "It has been an anxious time, Charlie, and, I am
afraid, yet will be."

"You take things too hard," he said.

She clasped her hands tightly together.  "How can I help it?  Everything
is hard.  Life is hard."

"Only if you choose to have it so," said Saltash.

He leaned a little forward, looking into her face.  She turned her eyes
to his with a vague reluctance.

"Yes," he said.  "You've got the wrong pilot on board. That's why you're
getting dragged into the whirlpools. You'll have to heave him over the
side if you want to ride the seas with a free helm.  My dear girl, what
a frightful mess you've made of things!"

She did not resent his tone.  Somehow in that atmosphere resentment was
difficult.  Moreover, her attention was not wholly given to what he was
saying.

"I had to think of Bunny," she said, after a moment, as one in search of
an excuse.

Saltash laughed.  "And when are you going to begin to think of yourself?
Don't you realize what is going to happen now that Bunny has been taken
off your hands? You, the dainty, the proud, the fastidious, who wouldn't
look at even the man you loved because you thought him unworthy!  On my
soul,--" a sudden tremor of passion ran through his speech--"I think you
were mad.  You must have been mad to have done such a thing.  Have you
looked forward at all?  Can you see yourself a few years hence?  I
can--and it's a sight to make angels weep. Oh, Maud, my love, my fate,
is that to be the end?  I'd sooner see you dead!"

His hand was upon both hers as he ended.  His dark face was burning with
a fierce emotion.

But Maud only shivered, and leaning forward, gazed deep into the heart
of the fire, saying no word.

Saltash watched her, a mocking light in his eyes that shone and slowly
died.  "What are you looking for?" he said.

She shook her head in silence.  He threw his cigarette suddenly into the
deep glow upon which her eyes were fixed.  It leaped at once to flame,
flame that burned ardently for a brief while, and then went out.

"Are you trying to find a way out?" he asked her then very softly.
"There is a way out of every hole, believe me."

She gave him a quick glance as of one hard pressed, but still she did
not speak.

He leaned forward also, pointing to the red heart of the fire that
glowed but never flickered.  "If you have the nerve,--the pluck--to face
the furnace," he said, "it may scorch you a bit, but it shan't consume
you.  And it would be soon over.  Would you be afraid--would you be
afraid--to face it with me?"

His voice was low, stink almost to a whisper; yet it reached her, for he
spoke almost into her ear.

She sat rigidly still, gazing before her.  The fragrance of the burnt
cigarette came out like incense from an altar.

He drew a little closer to her.  "Maud, I am always ready--always ready.
I am willing to offer any sacrifice. I should never count the cost.
Nothing could be too much. I don't say any more that you are
mine--unless you stoop to bestow yourself upon me.  But I am
yours--always--for all time.  Bear that in mind--when the time comes!"
He paused a moment; then: "Let that ring of ours be the sign and
message," he murmured.  "When you need deliverance, I will come to you
from the world's end."

He rose with the words, so suddenly that she was startled; and in a
moment his voice calm and debonair rang across the room.

"Hullo, Bolton!  How long have you been hiding there? Come over here,
and see if you can put a little heart into your wife!  She needs it."

Maud, her white face turned over her shoulder, saw Jake's square
shoulders outlined against the furthest south window.  He was looking
over his shoulder also; their eyes met across the room.  Then he turned
round fully in his solid way and came to them.

He was wearing slippers that he had donned for the sick room, and they
made no sound.

Saltash's lithe form straightened.  He stood ready, almost on guard, at
the other man's approach.  But his face remained debonair still.  There
was even a hint of humour about his mobile brows.  His eyes flashed
wickedly.

"So they've turned you out, have they?" he said, with that hint of regal
haughtiness that usually characterized his speech when addressing an
inferior.

Jake did not answer.  His eyes, red-brown and very still, were upon
Maud.  They did not leave her for a moment.  They seemed to search her
through and through.

There came to her a second of deadly panic, panic that stopped her
heart.  She put up a hand to her throat with a spasmodic effort to
breathe.  And suddenly it seemed to her that she sat engulfed in the
red, red heart of a soundless furnace.  She gave a gasping cry, tried to
rise, and fell forward fainting at her husband's feet.




                             CHAPTER XXXIV

                             THE SACRIFICE


He lifted her.  She knew that he lifted her, but all her powers were
gone.  She hung, a dead weight, in his arms.

Over her head she heard his voice, intensely quiet but deeper than
usual; she thought it held a menacing note.

"I'll take her to the window.  Thanks, I'm not wanting any help from
you."

She felt the strength of the man as he lifted her bodily, and bore her
across the room.  He set her down upon the window-seat, supporting her
with the utmost steadiness while he opened the window.  The wintry air
blew in upon her, and she shivered and came to life.

"Don't move!" he said.

The awful weakness was still upon her; she obeyed him because she had no
choice, lying back against his arm in quivering submission.

"I'm--so sorry," she whispered at length.  "I--I never did anything so
stupid before."

"That so?" said Jake.

She lifted her eyes with a piteous effort to his.  "Please leave me now!
I shall do quite well--by myself."

"That so?" he said again.

His eyes held hers with a piercing, straight regard; but after a moment
his hand came up and rubbed her icy cheek. It was a small act, but it
affected her very curiously.  She turned her face quickly to hide a rush
of tears.

Jake's attitude changed on the instant.  He stooped over her, his arm
about her.  "Say, Maud, my girl, what is it? What is it?" he said.  "The
little chap will be all right. Don't you worry any!"

The old kindness was in his voice; he held her to him just as he had
held her on the morning that she had first gone to him for help.  For
the moment she yielded herself, scarcely knowing what she did; then she
realized his nearness and began to draw herself away.

"I am foolish," she whispered, "just foolish.  Don't take any notice!"

"Guess you're worn out," he said gently.

She shook her head, striving to master herself.  "No, it's not that.  It
isn't anything.  Please leave me alone for a little!  I would rather."

He let her go, but he still remained beside her, looking down at her
bent dark head.  She leaned against the woodwork of the window, panting
a little.

"I am better," she said uneasily, after a moment. "Please don't worry
about me any more!"

"Who else should I worry about?" he said.  "Do you suppose you aren't
first with me every time?"

She quivered at the question, but she made no attempt to answer it.

He went on with a restraint that was somehow eloquent of vehemence
suppressed.  "I know well enough that you aren't happy with me.  It's
not in nature that you should be.  Maybe it's my fault too; maybe it's
not.  I've been a damn' fool; I know that.  But even so, you've no call
to be afraid of me.  You won't come up against me if you play a straight
game."

He paused, and she saw his hands slowly clench.  At the same moment she
became aware of someone approaching, and turned her head to see Saltash
coming towards her with a wine-glass in his hand.

"Oh, that's right; you're better," he said.  "Here, Bolton!  Make her
drink this!  It'll put a little life into her."

He gave the glass to Jake who stood a moment as if undecided as to what
to do with it, then bent over Maud.

She drew back.  "Oh no, thank you!  I never drink brandy.  Besides, I am
quite well again now."

She made as if she would get up to demonstrate this fact, but he stopped
her.  "Take a little!" he drawled. "Lord Saltash has had the trouble of
fetching it."

"I would rather not," she said.  "I would much rather not."

"Let her please herself!" said Saltash sharply.

But Jake's hand, steady as rock, was already holding the glass to her
lips.  She drank as one compelled.

Saltash fidgeted up and down in front of the window in evident
dissatisfaction, his ugly face full of lines.  "I am infernally sorry
this has happened," he said.  "You ought to have had the stuff sooner.
I wish I had ordered champagne.  We'll have some presently.  Ah, that'll
do, Jake, that'll do!  Don't force it on her, for Heaven's sake!  Look
here, you and I will clear out now, and let her rest in front of the
fire.  You'd like that, Maud, wouldn't you?"

Maud murmured an affirmative.

"Sure?" said Jake.

She looked up at him.  "Yes; but not too near the fire. And--and leave
the door open.  I want to hear--to know--"  Her voice failed, sank into
silence.

"All right," Jake said quietly.  "I'm not leaving you till it's over."

The calm decision of his speech silenced all protest. Maud attempted
none.  Saltash shrugged his shoulders and flung round on his heel.  Jake
bent to offer a steady arm.

She accepted his support in silence.  There was that about him that
would not brook resistance just then.  She was sure that Saltash was
aware of it also, for after a very brief pause he began to whistle under
his breath and in a very few moments more sauntered from the room.

Jake, very quiet and determined, led her to a settee.

"I won't lie down," she said restlessly.  "I want to listen."

Jake was looking round for a chair.  Failing to see one, he seated
himself by her side.  "I reckon this is the most respectable piece of
furniture in the place," he observed. "Here is a cushion.  Lean back and
shut your eyes!"

"I wish you wouldn't wait here," she murmured uneasily.

"I've got to wait somewhere," said Jake.

And then his hand descended upon hers and held it.

She started at his touch, seeking instinctively to free herself, but in
the end she yielded, lying back in a tense stillness in which she knew
the beating of her heart to be clearly audible.

What was he going to say to her?  What had he overheard?  What must he
think of the agitation she had displayed upon discovering him?

Her breath quivered through her parted lips.  The dread of the night
before was upon her, but ten times magnified by her present weakness and
the thought of that which he might have overheard.

But Jake sat in unbroken silence, his hand holding hers in a steady,
purposeful grasp; and gradually, very gradually, her fear began to
subside.  He could have heard nothing! Surely he could have heard
nothing!  Surely, if he had, he would have spoken, have questioned--or
accused!

A great shiver went through her.

"Cold?" said Jake.

She opened her eyes.  "No."

His hand closed more firmly about her own.  "Don't be so anxious!" he
said.  "It'll be all right."

His voice was kind, she tried to smile.

"Was he--was he very nervous?" she asked, finding relief in speech.

"Game all through," said Jake.  "Went off like a baby. Say, Maud, he'll
be a fine man some day."

"He'll never be mine any more," she said, and turned her face aside.

Jake said nothing.  He fell into a musing silence that seemed to stretch
and widen to an unknown abyss between them.  She closed her eyes, hoping
that he would think her sleeping.

He remained absolutely still by her side while the silence lengthened
and deepened.  She wondered for a while if ha were watching her,
wondered if he were actually as free from anxiety on Bunny's account as
he appeared, became finally vaguely aware of a curious hushed sense of
repose stealing over her tired nerves.  She drifted away at last into a
state that was not quite slumber, that yet held her trance-like and
unaware of time.  She knew that Jake was beside her, never wholly forgot
his presence, but he had ceased to have a disquieting effect upon her.
Somehow he fitted into the atmosphere of peace that surrounded her. She
was even dimly glad that he had not left her alone. She was tired,
unutterably tired, but her mind had ceased to work at the problems that
so vexed her soul; it had become as it were dormant.  Even the thought
of Bunny did not disturb her any more.  Had not Dr. Capper solemnly
declared that all would be well?

So she sank into an ever-deepening sea of oblivion, unmindful of the
hand that so surely held her own; and so that long, long hour crept by.

When there came at last the opening of a door and the sound of voices
she was too far away in her merciful dreamland to hear.  She knew in a
vague fashion that Jake's hand left hers, even murmured a faint protest,
but she did not attempt to rouse herself.  She had yielded too
completely to the healing magic of rest.

There followed a space during which all consciousness was entirely
blotted out and she slept like a weary child, a space that seemed to
last interminably, and yet was all too short.  Then at length nature or
conscience stirred within her, and her brain began to work once more.
Out of a vague obscurity of dimly registered impressions the light of
understanding began to dawn.  She opened heavy eyes upon the red, still
fire that burned so steadily, so unfailingly.  It put her in mind of
something--that hot, silent fire--but she could not remember what it
was; something that was vigilant, intense, unquenchable, something that
she could never wholly grasp or wholly elude.

She opened her eyes a little wider, and moved her head upon the cushion.
Surely she had slept for a long, long time!

And then she caught the sound of a voice that whispered--a low, clear
whisper.

"Why don't you take her for a honeymoon, my son? It would do you both
all the good in the world."

There was a pause, and then someone--Jake--murmured something
unintelligible.  Maud raised herself slightly and saw him standing
before the fire.  His thick-set figure was turned from her.  His head
leaned somewhat dejectedly against the high mantelpiece.

Capper was standing beside him, lounging against the carved wood in an
ungainly attitude, his hands thrust deep in his pockets.  At Jake's
muttered words he turned and looked at him keenly, with eyes of
semi-quizzical sympathy.

"Say, Jake," he said, "the man who walks his horse along a hedge-side
never gets there.  The hedge has a way of getting higher, moreover,
every step he goes.  Guess being in love has kind of demoralized you.
You'll never win out this way."

Jake moved a little, straightened himself, stood squarely facing the
great doctor.  "I'm going to win out," he said; and with that very
abruptly he wheeled round and came straight to Maud, as though she had
called him.

So sudden was his movement that she was taken wholly by surprise.  He
stooped over her and took her hand before she had time to draw back.

"It's all right, my girl," he said, and she heard a note of reassurance
in his voice.  "The little chap's come through it finely.  There's
nothing to be anxious about.  Capper says so; and whatever Capper says
goes."

"Guess that's so," said Capper.  He remained at his post by the fire, a
smile of keen satisfaction on his parchment face.  "You shall see him
presently; not yet, not for another hour, and then only for a few
seconds.  He's got to be kept as quiet as an infant.  But I've done just
what I figured to do.  In another six weeks he ought to be learning to
walk."

"Bunny--walking!"  Maud spoke the words as one dazed.  The whole of her
world seemed suddenly to have changed.  It was as if she actually
breathed a new atmosphere.  She caught her breath, feeling half afraid.
"Is it--is it true?" she said.

Capper laughed.  "Seems like a miracle, does it?  Never met with a
miracle before?  Yet there's quite a lot of 'em to be seen in this
curious old world.  Maybe you'll come across some more, now you've
started."

He came quietly to her, bent and took her free hand into his.  She felt
his thin, sensitive fingers press her pulse.

"I'm quite well indeed," she said in a tone of protest. "Please tell me
more about Bunny.  I want to hear everything."

"My dear lady, you know practically all there is to know," he made
answer.  "Bunny is going to be one of my proudest successes.  But
there's just one thing to be arranged, I want to have him under my own
eye for a time. It's for his own good, so I know your consent is a
foregone conclusion.  No, not yet of course.  I will give him a month
here, and then I want to fetch him up to London and keep him in a Home
there belonging to my colleague Sir Kersley Whitton until I am able to
discharge him as cured.  Will you agree to that?"

His eyes, shrewd and kindly, looked down into hers.  His hand still held
her wrist.  She felt the magic of his personality, and found it hard to
resist.

But, "To take him away from me!" she said rather piteously.  "Must you
take him away?"

Jake had withdrawn a little as if he did not wish to take part in the
conversation.  Capper sat down beside her.

"Mrs. Bolton," he said, "I guess that young brother of yours is just one
of the biggest factors of your existence. Isn't that so?  You'd do
anything for him, and never count the cost.  Well, here's something you
can do for him, a mighty big thing too.  It'll be a very critical time,
and I want to have him under my own eye.  I also want to have complete
control of him.  I'm not hinting that your influence isn't good.  I know
it is.  But, for all that, he'll do better with comparative strangers
during that critical time than he would with his own people.  I want to
lift him entirely out of the old ruts.  I want to start him on an
entirely new footing, to give him self-reliance, to get him into good,
wholesome habits.  It'll make all the difference in the world to him or
I shouldn't be urging it so strongly.  Say, now, you promised me your
co-operation, you are not going to refuse?"

She could not refuse.  She realized it with a leaden heart. Yet she made
one quivering attempt to pierce through the ever-narrowing circle.

"But the cost," she said.

"It won't cost you a single cent," said Capper.  "It's just for my
private satisfaction that it will be done."

Her last hope faded.  She made a little gesture of helplessness.  "He is
in your hands, Doctor," she said.  "I--I am much more grateful to you
than I seem."

Capper's hand pressed hers.  "You will never regret this sacrifice as
long as you live," he said, looking at her with his keen, kindly eyes.
"I'm even ready to prophesy that you'll one day reap a very considerable
benefit from it."

But Maud's only answer was a dreary little shake of the head.




                              CHAPTER XXXV

                            OFFER OF FREEDOM


Slowly the dreary winter days gave place to spring. March came with
gusty rain-storms that swept over sea and downs; lashing the waves to
fury, blotting the countryside like a torn veil.  March went, smiling
and wonderful, with a treacherous graciousness that deceived all nature
into imagining that the winter was really gone.

At Burchester Castle, Bunny, lying perpetually flat on his back by the
doctor's unalterable decree, alternated between fits of bitter
complaining and fits of black despair.  He suffered more from tedium and
weariness than from any definite pain, and Maud found herself fully
occupied once more with the care of him.  The nurse was thankful to have
her at hand, for Bunny was at all times a difficult patient. And to be
in attendance upon him was Maud's greatest joy in those days.  She
watched over him with such a wealth of devotion as she had never
displayed before, a devotion at which even the boy himself sometimes
marvelled.

Jake came and went, but he was never with him at night. The nurse slept
in his room and Maud in the one adjoining. Jake went back to his home to
sleep.

He and Maud saw but little of each other.  They met daily, but she
avoided all intercourse with him so strenuously that only the most
ordinary commonplaces ever passed between them.

She saw much more of Saltash, though he was often away. His comings and
goings were never known beforehand, and he never intruded himself upon
her.  Only when she went in the afternoons or evenings to the music-room
and, propping the door wide, played and sometimes sang to Bunny, he had
a fashion of coming lightly in upon her, dropping as it seemed from
nowhere, and lying outstretched upon the settee near her while he smoked
his endless cigarettes, and occasionally criticized.

How he entered she never discovered; he was always there before she
knew, and he never came in by the door.  When she asked him, he would
only jest.

"Some day I will show you my secret chamber, _ma belle reine_.  But not
yet--not yet."

No intimate conversation took place at these times. They were seldom
really alone, being always within call of Bunny's imperious voice.

Saltash was very good to Bunny, but his company was considered by the
nurse to be too lively for her patient, and she would not permit him to
stay long in the sick-room. Her orders regarding Bunny were very strict.
He was to be kept quiet,--contented also, if possible, but always quiet.

For that reason his mother's visits were also very brief. She did not
often come to the Castle.  It seemed to Maud that her plump face was
beginning to wear a harassed look, but there never had been any
confidence between them, and she did not like to question her.  She knew
herself quite powerless to assist in the bearing of her mother's
burdens.

During that final month of devotion to Bunny she gave herself up to him
so completely that even her own problems grew remote and almost unreal.
She was upon the usual friendly terms with Charlie; but he was very far
from occupying her first attention.  So absorbed indeed was she that the
memory of their brief conversation on the day of Bunny's operation,
together with his mad, characteristic suggestion, had faded altogether
into the background of her mind.  It seemed somehow impossible that
Bunny could ever cease to be the centre and aim of her whole conscious
existence, impossible that Capper and his miracles could so alter the
trend of her life's destiny.

Her feeling for Saltash seemed to be lying dormant, very far below the
surface.  She was not thinking of herself at all just then.  She was too
fully occupied.  Her feeling for Jake also was almost a blank.  Now that
he no longer attempted to play any part in her life but that of passive
spectator, she treated him without conscious effort as a comparative
stranger.  But all the time deep down in her heart she smothered that
nameless dread of the man that once had been so active.  She did not
want to think of him; she instinctively restrained herself from thinking
of him. She had schooled herself to meet him without agitation. She had
thrust him unresisting into the furthest background of her
consciousness.  And now she lived for Bunny, and for Bunny alone.

So that last month slipped away.

April came, but no word from Capper.  A faint, new hope began to dawn in
her heart.  Was it possible that the sacrifice might not after all be
demanded of her?  Was it possible that the miracle might even yet be
worked out with much patience at Burchester?  Bunny did not seem to be
making much progress, but at least she was sure he was not losing
ground.  He did not suffer so much as formerly, though his chafing
irritability sometimes seemed to her to be even greater than before.  He
talked incessantly of Capper, urging Jake to write to him.

But Jake would not be persuaded.  "Capper knows his own business, my
son.  You leave him alone!" he said.

And Bunny had perforce to accept the fiat.  He never seriously attempted
to resist Jake.  Their friendship was too near for that.  Jake's
influence over him was practically boundless.

But he could not check the boy's fierce impatience which grew
perceptibly from day to day.

It was on a warm afternoon towards the middle of the month that Maud was
sitting at the piano, trying to soothe him with the music he loved,
during the absence of the nurse, when the sound of a footfall in the
room made her turn.  Saltash had been away for a few days, but she was
half-expecting him.  He never remained away for long.

"Why, Charlie,--" she began, with a quick smile of welcome, and broke
off sharply.  It was Capper.

Her face must have displayed something more than surprise, she reflected
later, for his first words, albeit he smiled whimsically as he uttered
them, were words of apology.

"So sorry, Mrs. Bolton.  I shouldn't have taken you off your guard like
this, only I had a notion that being somewhat over-due, you might be
more or less prepared to see me."

She left the piano, and went with outstretched hand to meet him.  "You
at last!" she said.

Her welcome was cordial, but it was wholly without eagerness.  Her heart
was beating wildly, uncontrollably. She felt suddenly cold, as if she
had stepped into a stone vault.

Capper bent a little over her hand; she saw his eyes flash over her.  "I
don't find the frog in attendance," he remarked.  "Has he been shunted
for a spell?"

She felt her colour come again.  "Don't you want to hear about Bunny?"
she said.

He smiled at her.  "I know my own business so well, madam, that I know
all I need to know about Bunny," he told her dryly.  "The boy is just
mad to be allowed to try his strength, and between you and me he'll have
about the biggest disappointment of his life when he does.  It won't do
him any harm though, so don't you worry any!"  He suddenly held up her
hand to the light and surveyed it critically.  "Say, Mrs. Bolton," he
said, "what do you live on?  Just monkey-nuts?"

She laughed in spite of herself.  "I live very well, I assure you.  But
I could never get fat.  It's not my nature."

He grunted and pulled at his yellow beard.  "Do you realize that you've
lost pounds of flesh since it was first my privilege to meet you?"

She shook her head protestingly.  "Oh no, really.  It is your
imagination."

Capper shook his head also.  "My imagination feeds on facts only.  Jake
is not looking after you properly.  It's my belief he is treating you to
slow starvation."

"Oh indeed--indeed," she broke in with vehemence, "Jake has had nothing
to do with me lately.  I have been much too busy with Bunny, and he has
had the good sense not to interfere."

"Is that good sense?" said Capper, in the tone of one who does not
require an answer.

"Besides," she went on rather breathlessly, "it's not Jake's business to
look after me."

"I thought that was what husbands were for," said Capper, with his
whimsical smile.  "It's a fool policy anyway to leave a woman to look
after herself, and you're just a living illustration of that fact."

Her hands clasped his arm almost unconsciously.  "Please--please don't
ever discuss me again with Jake!" she begged in tones of distress.

He patted her hand with fatherly reassurance and passed the matter by.
"What are you going to do when Bunny is gone?" he asked.

Her face paled again.  "You are really going to take him away?" she
said.

"To-morrow," said Capper.

She removed her hands with a gesture that was piteous, she said nothing
whatever.

Capper turned aside.  "Maybe you'll take up housekeeping," he said
practically.  "If I dare to venture upon the suggestion, you would make
a charming hostess."

She was silent still.

He glanced at her.  "Say, Mrs. Bolton," he said, "I guess you'll think
me several kinds of a nuisance; but your husband has offered me his
hospitality for to-night.  And I,--well, I have accepted it
provisionally, that is, on the condition that he can supply me with a
hostess."

She looked at him in blank dismay.  "But I sleep here!" she said.  "I--I
must be always at hand in case Bunny should want me."

"Isn't the nurse in attendance?" asked Capper, with a touch of
sharpness.

"Oh, of course," she answered.  "But--but----"

"And how often in the night does she generally call you?"

Maud was silent.

Capper's hand patted her shoulder again, paternally, admonishingly.
"Guess he could spare you for to-night," he said.  "Pack your grip and
come home!  Jake will be pleased to see you, sure."

She shivered.  "It isn't home to me," she said.

"What?" said Capper.  "Not your husband's house?"

The hot colour rushed up over her face.  She turned from him.  "Come and
see Bunny!" she said.

A few minutes later she stood alone in the music-room, gazing forth from
the western window with eyes that seemed to search the horizon for help.

Capper was occupied with Bunny.  The nurse had returned, and she was not
needed.  The certainty of this was upon her, a dead weight pressing her
down.  Bunny's need of her was past forever.  Duty, stark and
implacable, was all that remained in life.

Ah!  A step behind her!  She turned swiftly.  "Charlie!"

He came to her, a smile on his swarthy face, a gleam of wickedness in
his eyes.  He took the hands that almost involuntarily she stretched to
him.  "You summoned me!" he said.

Something in his look warned her of danger.  His clasp was electric in
its tenseness.

She stood a moment before replying; then: "I didn't so much as know you
were in the house," she said.

She left her hands in his.  An odd recklessness was upon her, the
recklessness born of despair.

He laughed into her eyes.  "Yet you summoned me, most tragic queen of
the roses," he said.  "You weren't so much as thinking of me, perhaps?
Yet subconsciously your spirit cried to mine, and behold--I am here."

He had drawn her close to him, holding her hands against his breast, so
that the quick, ardent beat of his heart came to her, sending a curious,
half-reluctant thrill through her own.

She looked into his face of mocking subtleties.  "No, I wasn't thinking
of you, Charlie," she said.  "I was thinking of myself, hating the life
before me--hating everything!"

The concentrated bitterness of her speech was almost like a challenge.
She spoke passionately, as one goaded, not caring what came of it.

Saltash was bending slowly towards her, still laughing, ready to take
refuge in a joke if refuge were needed, yet daring also, warily marking
his game.  "Why don't you think of me--for a change?" he said.

She turned her face swiftly aside.  Her lips were suddenly quivering.
"No one--not even you--can help me now," she said.

"You are wrong," he answered instantly.  "I can help you.  It's just
what I'm here for."

She glanced at him again.  "As a friend, Charlie?" she said.

He bent his dark head over her hands.  "Yes, a friend," he said.

"But--"  She began to tremble; the old dread was upon her, the old
instinctive recoil, the old ache of distrust.  She set her hands against
him, holding him from her. "How can you help me?" she said.

He did not lift his head.  "I can't keep you out of the furnace
altogether," he said.  "But I can save you from living in bondage to a
man you loathe.  You will have to trust me--to a certain extent.  Do you
trust me?"

"I don't know."  Her voice was low, quivering with an agitation she
could not repress.  "Tell me what you are thinking of!  Tell me
how--how----"

"I will tell you," he said, "when you have made up your mind as to my
trustworthiness."

She controlled her agitation with an effort.  "Oh, don't play with me,
Charlie!" she besought him.  "Don't you see I'm cornered--desperate?  Of
course I will trust you."

He looked up at her with a wry lift of one eyebrow. "Being a case of
needs must," he observed dryly.  "Well, my dear girl, the case is simple
enough.  You are ready to trust me because you must.  No one else is
under the same obligation.  Everyone else--the worthy cow-puncher
included--knows my fascinating reputation.  Disappear with me for a week
or so--we'll run away and hide--and all charitably-minded folks will
jump to the obvious conclusion. The result will be an undefended divorce
suit, and I shall pay the damages."  His smile became a grimace. "That
is your road to freedom, _ma belle reine_," he said. "And think on me, I
pray thee, when that freedom shall be achieved!  There are sunnier lands
than England where lovely ladies may be wooed by wandering cavaliers.
And surely, surely," his smile flashed forth again, "having thus made
such atonement for past offences as lies in my power, my queen would
stoop to be gracious to me at last!"

He bent again over her hands, holding them pressed to his lips.

Maud stood mute.  The audacity of the suggestion seemed to deprive her
of the power of speech.  None but Charlie could ever have evolved such a
plan.  None but Charlie--who loved her!

The sudden realization of his love went through her like a sword-thrust
in her heart.  She actually gasped with the pain of it.  What he
suggested was impossible of course--of course!  But how gallantly, and
withal how tenderly, he had laid the offer before her, urging no claim,
merely--out of the love he still had for her--offering her deliverance!

But she must find an answer for him.  He was waiting, bent in courtly
fashion, with that kinglike carelessness of pose that marked him out
from all other men.

She looked at the bowed head that could be poised so arrogantly, and
suddenly her eyes were full of tears.  She made a movement to withdraw
her hands.

"Oh, Charlie," she said, in a broken, passionate whisper, "if I were
only free!"

He raised his head on the instant.  "But you can be free. I am offering
you freedom.  A little courage, a little confidence!  Can't you face it
with me?  Are you afraid?"

His voice was eager, his eyes were shining and boyishly persuasive.  His
hands still clasped hers with a pressure so vital and insistent that she
felt impelled to suffer it.

She shook her head.  "No, Charlie.  It isn't that. But--but--my
promise!"

"Oh, what of that?" he said impetuously.  "A promise made under
compulsion is no bond at all.  You can't keep it and yet be true to
yourself.  The mistake lay in making it.  But to stick to it would be
worse than madness.  Listen; Maud!  You must listen!  Your marriage is
an abomination, and you must rid yourself of it, whatever the cost.  I
can see--I have seen all along--that it is an absolute violation of your
whole nature.  You shrink from the man. I believe in your soul you abhor
him.  You did it on impulse.  He knows that.  And you have repented ever
since.  Your heart was never in it.  I think I know where your heart
is,"--his voice suddenly softened, and his hand began subtly to draw her
back to him.  "But we won't discuss that now.  It isn't the time.  I am
concerned only to deliver you.  And I am offering you such deliverance
as you can accept, a deliverance that you can safely contemplate without
shrinking.  The publicity of the thing need never touch you personally.
You can live in seclusion till it is all forgotten.  Maud, my Maud,
won't you--can't you--trust an old friend?"  His hands were drawing her
closer. His dark face, aglow with the ardour of his quest, was close to
hers.  "You want to be free," he urged.  "And--my darling,--I want you
free, I want you free!"

His voice throbbed into silence.  He was drawing her--drawing her.  In
another moment he would have had her in his arms, but she held back from
him with quivering, desperate strength.  "No, Charlie!  No!" she said
gaspingly.

He released her hands at once, and abruptly.  With a species of royal
indifference curiously characteristic of him, he veiled his ardour.  "It
is for you to choose," he said. "I don't take.  I offer."  Then, as she
covered her face, he softened again, took her suddenly, very lightly, by
the shoulders.  "Have I gone too far, queen of the roses?" he whispered.
"Yet he will go further still.  It is that that I want to save you from.
You must forgive me, sweet, if I seem too anxious.  I am hard pressed
myself.  I want you badly enough, it's true.  But that isn't my main
reason for urging this.  If you had married a man you cared for, I could
have borne it.  But this,--this is intolerable. There!  I have done.
Only remember, that I am ready--I am always ready.  I shall wait for you
by day and by night.  Sooner or later--sooner or later, I know you will
come.  Don't be afraid to come, Queen Maud!  I will be to you whatever
you wish always.  I only ask to serve you."

Rapidly he uttered the low words, still holding her with a touch that
was scarcely perceptible, but of which she was so vividly conscious that
she quivered from head to foot, every nerve stretched and vibrant,
burningly alive, chafing to respond.

The wild impulse to yield herself to his arms, casting away all
shackles, was for the moment almost overpowering. Her spirit leapt to
the call of his, beating fiercely for freedom like a caged bird viewing
its mate in the open sky.  How she restrained it she knew not.  Perhaps
it was fear, perhaps it was that old, instinctive sense of fitness that
had influenced her long ago.  But the moment passed, and she remained
motionless.

Saltash turned aside.

He betrayed no sign of disappointment.  That also was characteristic of
him.  He saw no defeat in failure.  He regarded it only as victory
postponed.

And his attitude said as much when after a moment or two he began to
speak in a light and careless strain of matters indifferent to them
both.  If he had not squarely hit his mark, he was not far therefrom,
and with that he was content.  He knew her to be nearer to his level
than she had ever been before.  The Maud of old days would have viewed
his suggestion with the shrinking horror of a spirit that had never
known temptation.  The Maud of to-day was different, more human, more
truly woman.  She had suffered, and her dainty pride had ceased to
uphold her. He had offered himself to her in the light of deliverer, and
as such he believed he would win her.  The odds were at last in his
favour.

As for Jake, he might be formidable, but Saltash was no coward.  He
fancied that when the time came, Jake would accept the inevitable.  In
any case he was far too keen upon the chase to be deterred by the
thought of an outsider like Jake.  If any element of danger existed, he
welcomed it.  If a thing were worth having, it was worth fighting for,
Saltash never had in any one of his rash intrigues paused to count the
cost, and certainly it was not often that the cost had been borne by
him.  He snatched his pleasures, and he drank deep thereof; but the
dregs he was wont to throw away.  Once only--or possibly twice--had he
ever been made to drink to the bottom of the cup.  And he did not stop
now to consider that on each of those occasions the cup had been firmly
held in the hand of Jake Bolton.




                             CHAPTER XXXVI

                                THE BOND


"I have called him The Hundredth Chance," said Jake. "But I guess he is
going to be a winner."

He was stooping over a tiny black foal that stood with trembling legs
pressed against its mother's flank.  She was looking round at the master
with questioning eyes.  Even he was only allowed in the loose-box on
suffrance.

"You're very hopeful," said Capper.

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

Maud was standing with him, but slightly apart, fondling the red setter
Chops who fawned about her knees.  Chops had been unfeignedly delighted
to see her again, and he could not desist from telling her so.  She had
bid good-bye to Bunny till the morrow, but she had made no definite
arrangements for leaving the Castle, and even yet she was wondering if
she might not manage to return for that one last night of her brother's
sojourn there.

Jake had received her without comment when she had arrived with Capper
half an hour before.  She fancied his manner was somewhat guarded, but
he treated her as if he had expected her and her coming had caused him
no surprise.

Upon an ordinary occasion she would have been charmed with the sight of
the week-old foal that Jake had brought them thither to see, but at the
moment she was too stiff with shy reserve to enjoy it.  So she stood
apart instead while Jake talked in his soft voice to the doctor,
striving to hide her embarrassment in murmured endearments to Chops.

"Oh yes, the dam's a blood mare," Jake was saying, "the most valuable
animal we have.  She's a mass of nerves, unfortunately.  We've had a lot
of trouble with her."

He stretched a fondling hand to the creature's enquiring muzzle.  She
laid her ears for a moment, but the next her tongue came out and softly
licked first his fingers and then the wistful black face of her
offspring.

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

His eyes fell on Maud, bending low with flushed face over the dog.  A
momentary shadow crossed his face.  He had counted upon a greater
enthusiasm on her part.  Never before had she failed to take a keen
interest in the animals. "Reckon we'd better go in and get some supper,"
he said.

They went in.  The spring twilight was falling and with it a brief
shower that pattered awhile and was stayed. Down in the orchard the
blackbirds were singing in a wonderful chorus that seemed to fill all
the world with music. The scents that rose from the rain-steeped earth
were of that wondrous fragrance that holds the senses spellbound in the
magic of Spring.

From somewhere near the open French window there came the breath of
violets, and from a little further away, subtly mingling with it, the
incense of wallflowers, all wet and luscious from the damp, sweet earth.

"A wonderful season," said Capper.

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

The meal was of the simplest, served by Mrs. Lovelace in her best gown
of black sateen.  Her plump face wore a pursed look of peculiar
severity.  Maud, very pale and still, at the end of the table, gave her
a murmured greeting which called forth a very grim response.

Jake was apparently at his ease, but he made no attempt to draw his wife
into the conversation.  He talked to Capper or was silent.  He was still
wearing the riding-costume with which she always associated him.  She
heard the clink of his spurs whenever he moved.

Capper was very gentle with her, full of kindly consideration. There
were no difficult pauses.  To a casual observer there would have been no
evidence of strain.  Only to the girl, sitting there at her husband's
table, a stranger, was it almost insupportable.  She did not know how
she came through the meal, nor was she aware of eating anything. When it
was over at last, she was thankful to rise and go.

She took refuge upstairs in the room that had been Bunny's, standing
there in darkness, striving with herself, fighting desperately for
composure.  What was expected of her she did not know, whether to go or
to remain.  The impulse to go strongly urged her, but she held it back.
There was the morrow to be thought of, the morrow to be faced, and she
had a feeling--a dreadful, growing suspicion--that Jake was drawing to
the end of his patience. Not that he had betrayed it by word or look;
only he seemed to be waiting, waiting with an iron determination that no
action of hers could baulk.  She felt that if she fled from him
to-night, she would never dare to face him again.

The thought of Charlie arose within her, Charlie, careless, debonair,
gay of soul.  He had offered her his protection. Should she go to
him--even now?  Could she?  Dared she?

The temptation drew her, drew her.  She knew Charlie so well.  She was
sure he would be chivalrous.  She was sure she could count upon him.
But his protection--what was it worth?

Now that she had seen Jake, had felt the primitive force of the man
anew, her heart misgave her.  She was possessed by the appalling
conviction that in the matter of lawlessness Jake could outdo Charlie
many times over, if once roused. No trammels of civilization would hold
him.  He would go straight for his prey, and no power on earth would
turn him aside, or make him relinquish his hold till he had wreaked his
vengeance.

For the first time it occurred to her that it might not be upon herself
alone that that vengeance would fall.  A great shudder went through her.
She quivered all over, and turning crept to the bed and crouched beside
it.  She was terrified, unnerved, despairing.  Her own wickedness
frightened her, so that she could not even pray for help. She knew not
which way to turn.

A long time passed thus; then there came a step upon the stair, a
steady, quiet step.  A hand pushed open the door.

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

She tried to answer him, but could not.  She knew that the moment she
spoke, she would betray herself.

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

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

That startled her to a tragic activity.  She sprang up in wild dismay.
"Dr. Capper--gone!  I--I thought he was spending the night!"

"I wanted him to," said Jake.  "He wouldn't.  He said I was to wish you
good-night, and thank you for your hospitality."

Maud stood still, her hands at her throat.  For the moment she was too
electrified for speech.  Then anger--bitter, furious resentment--came to
her aid.

"So you brought me here by--a trick!" she said, her voice pitched very
low but full of a quivering abhorrence that must have reached him where
he stood.

"I don't know what you mean," said Jake.  His voice was curt and cool;
he spoke without the smallest evidence of indignation or constraint.  "I
never asked you to come, nor did I ask Capper to bring you.  I presume
you were a free agent so far as that goes.  But since you are here there
is not much point in running away again.  It's here that you belong."

The finality of his speech came upon her with stunning force.  It had
the dead level of absolute assurance.  As he made it, he came forward
into the room, and she heard the rattle of his matchbox as he drew it
forth.

She stood and waited tensely while he deliberately struck a match and
lighted one of the candles upon the mantel-piece. All the blood in her
body seemed to be throbbing at her throat.  She had not been alone with
him for weeks. She had never been alone with him as she was to-night.

The light from the candle showed her the room prepared as for a guest.
The chintz covers were all newly-starched, and from the bed there seemed
to come a subtle scent of lavender.  The lattice-window was wide to the
night, and from far away there rose the long deep roar of the sea.

Jake turned from the lighted candle, and pointed to a low chair by the
bed.  "Sit down!" he said.  "There's something I've got to say to you."

She looked at him with hunted eyes.  She thought his face was very grim,
but the dim flickering light threw strange shadows upon it, baffling
her.

He came to her as she still remained upon her feet, took her between his
hands, and held her so, facing him.

"Say, now," he said, and a hint of half-coaxing kindliness softened the
measured resolution of his speech, "where's the sense of fighting when
you know you can't win?  You're not a very good loser, my girl.  But I
reckon it's just a woman's way.  I won't be hard on you on that
account."

She drew back from him swiftly, with the old, instinctive shrinking from
the man's overwhelming force of personality.

"Oh, need we talk about that now?" she said hurriedly. "I--there is
still Bunny to think of.  It is his last night, and--and--and----"

She broke off with a sound half-choked that was almost a cry.  For
Jake's hands were holding her, drawing her, compelling her.  She
realized that in another moment she would be in his arms.  She set her
quivering hands against his shoulders, pushing him from her with all her
strength.

He set her free then, with a gesture half-contemptuous. "So it's to be
the same old fool game to the bitter end, is it?" he asked, and she
caught in his voice a new note as of anger barely held in check.  "Well,
I reckon it's up to you to make good sooner or later.  It was not my
intention to hold you down to that bargain of ours; but if you must have
it, you shall.  I want to know when you propose to make good."

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

The words rushed out almost against her will, and the moment they were
uttered she wished them back.  For Jake's eyes leapt into sudden furious
flame, such flame as seemed to scorch her from head to foot.  He did not
speak at once, but stood looking at her, looking at her, while the awful
seconds crept away.

At last, "It's rather--rash of you to put it that way," he said, and
there was a faintly humorous sound in his voice as though he restrained
a laugh.  "So you're not--a woman of your word after all?  That's
queer--damn' queer.  I could have sworn you were."

She wrung her hands hard together in a desperate effort at self-control.
"Oh, Jake," she said piteously, "it isn't my fault that we're not made
of the same stuff, indeed--indeed! You--you wouldn't ask the impossible
of me!"

"P'raps not," said Jake, and now he spoke in the old soft drawl that she
knew well as a cloak to unwavering determination.  "But has it never
occurred to you that I might leave asking and just--take?"

She recoiled further from him.  The man's deadly assurance appalled her.
She had no weapon to oppose against it. And his eyes were as a red-hot
furnace into which she dared not look.

"Now, listen to me!" he suddenly said.  "There's been enough of this
fooling around--more than enough.  I've put up with it so far, but
there's a limit to everything.  The time has come for you to remember
that you are my wife, I am your husband.  We may not be over well suited
to one another, as you have pointed out.  But the bond exists and we
have got to make the best of it.  And so you will not go back to the
Castle to-night.  You will stay here under your husband's roof, and fill
your rightful place by my side.  Is that understood?"

He spoke with the utmost decision; and Maud, white to the lips,
attempted no reply.  She had made her appeal, and he had not heard it.
She knew with sure intuition that further resistance would be useless.
She had staked all, and she had lost.  In that moment she saw her life a
heap of ruins, blasted by a devastating tempest that had scattered to
the four winds all that she had ever held precious. And nothing was left
to her.  Nothing of value could ever be hers again.  Only out of the
smoking ruins there presently arose one thing--a poison plant--that was
to flourish in the midst of desolation.  Out of the furnace of a man's
unshackled passion it sprang to full growth in a single night ready to
bear its evil fruit when time should have made it ripe.

The seed of it had been sown by Saltash.  The tropical raising of it was
the work of Jake Bolton.  The nourishing of it was left to Maud.  But
the final ingathering of that bitter harvest was to fall to the lot of
all three.




                                PART II

                                THE RACE


                               CHAPTER I

                                 HUSKS


Chops the setter was puzzled.

He had been following his mistress about in his faithful way throughout
the whole of that hot July afternoon, and he had fathomed the fact that
she was preparing for a visitor.  He even half-suspected that he knew
who the visitor would prove to be.  But none the less was he puzzled by
her attitude.  For to Chops' plain and honest mind the coming of a guest
was a cause for undiluted joy. But it was evident that to Maud the
advent of this one was a matter of anxiety, even almost of dread.

Jake's old bedroom facing the Stables had been assigned to the newcomer.
She had spent hours of loving care upon it, yet on this, the great day
of arrival, she did not seem happy or by any means content.

A great restlessness possessed her, and Chops in consequence was uneasy
also.  He had conceived a vast affection for his young mistress that was
in some fashion vaguely mingled with pitying concern.  She had a
disconcerting way of weeping in private when only Chops might see, and
he had a feeling that such consolation as he was able to proffer, though
quite whole-hearted, was never altogether equal to the occasion.  The
tears she shed were so piteously hopeless, and even her smiles were
hopeless too.  Chops often mourned over the sadness of his idol.

She had just come in from the garden with a great handful of sweet peas.
It was a glorious sunny morning, and she had put on an old blue
sunbonnet that had done duty down on the sea-shore in previous summers
to protect her from the glare.  She was holding the flowers up to her
face as she mounted the steps to the parlour, and such was her
absorption that she did not notice what Chops, following close behind,
perceived on the instant,--the strong, square figure of her husband
waiting in the entrance of the glass door.

She was actually within touch of him before she was aware of his
presence, and then with a great start she lowered her flowers, while
over her face there came a look that was like the sudden donning of a
mask.

"I thought you had gone," she said.

"Not quite," said Jake.

He bent slightly as she entered, stretched out a hand, took her by the
chin, and kissed her mask-like face.

She endured his action with the most complete show of indifference,
neither returning nor avoiding his caress.  A faint, faint tinge of
colour showed in her cheeks as with scarcely a pause she passed on into
the room; that was all.

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

Jake's eyes, red-brown and shining, followed her with a masterful
expression as she moved to the table and laid down her flowers, marking
the queenly bend of her neck, the cold majesty of her pose.

He said nothing for the moment, merely took his pipe out of his pocket
and began to fill it.

Maud went to the sideboard for a vase.  Her movements were very
measured, very stately.  She did not so much as glance towards the man
who watched her.  The old quick nervousness of manner had gone utterly
from her.  She was like a marble statue endued with a certain icy
animation.

"You don't look exactly--excited," remarked Jake, as he finally stuck
his pipe into his mouth.

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

He lighted his pipe, his eyes still upon her.  "Say, Maud," he said,
between the puffs, "why don't you come too?"

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

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

Her blue eyes met his for a single instant.  They were dark and remote
as a deep mountain tarn.  "Not in the least," she said.

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

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

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

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

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

She became still on the instant, but she did not look at him or attempt
to avoid the tobacco smoke that curled between them.

"Maud," he said again, and there was a hint of pleading in his voice,
"why can't you be friends with me?  Surely I'm not all that hard to get
on with!"

She kept her eyes lowered.  The pale composure of her face did not vary
as she made reply.  "I am sorry if you are not satisfied.  I thought you
had got--all you wanted."

He pulled the pipe from his mouth and laid it on the table.  "Do you
think any man is satisfied with husks?" he said.

Her lip curled a little.  She said nothing.

He took her by the arms, not violently but with firmness.  "Maud," he
said, and there was urgency in his voice, "where's the use of behaving
like this?  Do you think it's going to make life easier, happier?  Is it
doing God's work in the world to be always fighting the inevitable?  I'm
rough, I know; but I'm white. Why can't you take me as I am, and make
the best of me?"

He had never thus appealed to her before.  She stood stiffly between his
hands.  But still she did not look at him.  Her eyes were upon the
flowers on the table that lay scorching and slowly shrivelling under his
pipe.

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

"And don't care!" said Jake, with sudden vehemence. "On my soul, I
sometimes think to myself that if you treated Sheppard as you treat me,
he had some reason for giving you a hiding."

Her eyelids quivered sharply at the rough allusion, but she did not
raise them.  "You are rather--hard to please," she said, in a low voice.

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

A slight tremor went through her.  "I give you submission--obedience,"
she said.  "You have--all that you married me for."

"Have I?" said Jake.  His voice was suddenly ironical. "Ah, my girl, you
know a mighty lot about that, don't you?  And have I also your
confidence, your goodwill, your--friendship?"

Her eyes flashed him a look of swift protest.  "They were not a part of
the bargain," she said.

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

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

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

"P'raps you think I'm brutal," he said.  "But you treat me as I wouldn't
treat any brute in creation.  Why do you never speak to me?  Why do you
never kiss me? On my oath, you starve me of all that's good in life and
yet expect me to remain civilized."

She made no attempt to free herself, nor did she utter remonstrance of
any kind.  If the grip of his hands hurt her, she did not show it.  She
stood in utter silence.

Slowly Jake's hold relaxed.  The fierceness went out of it.  He stood
for a few seconds watching her, a deep frown between his brows.

"I don't seem able to get hold of you somehow," he said at length.  "And
yet it ain't for want of trying.  Say, Maud, can't you be decent to me
for a bit now the little chap is coming?  He'll notice, sure, if you're
not.  Guess we don't either of us want him pestering around with
questions."

There was a species of half-grudging persuasion in his voice.  He held
her as though at the faintest sign of encouragement he would have drawn
her into his arms.

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

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

He made a sharp gesture--such a gesture as a man might make if stabbed
in the back.  A very bitter look came into his eyes.  It was as if an
evil spirit looked gibing forth.  They glittered like the red flare of a
torch.

"All right, my girl," he said, and his voice was soft and slow and
wholly without emotion.  "Then I continue my meal of husks."

With the words he let her go, took up his pipe from the table, and left
her.  Mutely she watched him go.  Then, as the sound of his footsteps
died away, she sank on her knees by the table, burying her face upon the
scorched and ruined flowers; and so she remained for a long, long time.

Even the sympathy of Chops was lacking.  He had followed his master and
the dog-cart to the station to welcome the visitor for whom such loving
preparations had been made.  And he was being compelled to fly like the
wild to keep pace with the flying wheels.




                               CHAPTER II

                            THE POISON PLANT


The wheels of the dog-cart clattered back over the stone paving of the
yard, and a wild whoop of welcome echoed through the place.  A small,
boyish figure leapt impetuously to the ground to be caught and fast held
in Maud's straining arms.

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

He hugged her none the less ardently, hugged and kissed her.  They had
not seen each other for three months.

Maud's greeting was quite inaudible; she could only hold him
passionately close, feeling the abounding activity of his light young
frame, and realizing with a great throb of rejoicing that the miracle
had been wrought indeed.  Bunny had been made whole.

"I say, isn't it fine?" the boy cried eagerly.  "I've been doing
gymnastics and physical exercises to any amount. I can swim too, and Dr.
Capper says I may learn to ride. Jake's going to teach me, aren't you,
Jake?  Oh, isn't it fine, Maud?  Isn't it fine?"

She held him a little from her, gazing at him fondly ere she gathered
him close again.  He was very slight and thin but he was taller than she
had thought possible.  The deep hollows about his eyes were far less
marked than before, though his whole face bore that indelible stamp of
suffering which had always made him older than his years.

He gave her another hearty hug.  "I'm as fit as a fiddler," he declared.
"But I still have to do four hours flat on the floor every day.  I told
Jake I wasn't going to do it any more, but he swears he'll tie me down
to the table-legs if I don't.  You're a sport, aren't you, Jake?"

He left his sister abruptly to attach himself to Jake whose threats of
violence were plainly a huge attraction to his boyish mind.

Jake thrust an arm about the narrow shoulders.  "We've got to make a man
of you somehow, my son," he said. "And Capper is very emphatic about
keeping up the treatment for another six weeks."

"Yes, and after that I'm going to school," said Bunny, with the
assurance of a man who holds the ruling of his own destiny.  "There's
Fairhaven College up on the hill, Jake.  That'll do for me.  And I'll be
a weekly boarder, and you'll take me to races on Saturdays."

But Jake shook his head.  "Not at your time of life, young feller.  No,
when you go to school you'll stay there. You've got to make up for lost
time.  P'raps in the holidays we'll see.  But I make no rash promises.
Now, Mrs. Bolton, what about tea?"

They went within to the meal prepared in the sunny parlour with its door
thrown open to the garden.

They sat at the table, Bunny alert, excited, radiant; Jake cheery and
indulgent, bestowing his exclusive attention upon him; Maud, very quiet
and reserved but watching the boy with eyes of shining affection that
scarcely left him for a moment.

He had so much to tell them of this treatment and of that, how at the
beginning of things he had found it so hard to bear, and how the doctors
had helped him through.

"They were so awfully decent," he said.  "There was one of 'em--Dr.
Wyndham, who was no end of a swell. He used to come twice a week and put
me through the most ghastly drill that rolled me out quite flat.  He
made me think of you, Jake.  He was such a chap for getting his own way.
Somehow I never could get ratty with him, though I used to dread the
sight of him for ever so long. He soon got to know it, and he'd sit down
by my side, and talk in a reassuring sort of way till he'd worked me up
to it.  He seemed to have no end of time to waste, and yet he was always
ready; used to come in with his hands in his pockets and a funny smile
on his face, and send the nurse packing because he knew I hated anyone
looking on.  I got to like him no end.  You'd have liked him too, Maud.
He was just our sort."  And there he stopped suddenly, for the first
time gazing fully at her.  "Great Scott!" he said.  "How queer you
look!"

"I?" said Maud, slightly startled.

Bunny was looking at her hard.  He turned abruptly to Jake.  "Why does
she lock like that?  She hasn't been ill, has she?"

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

But before he could speak Maud hastily broke in. "Bunny!  How absurd!
Of course not!  I am never ill. Jake, pass up his cup!"

He obeyed in silence, and she received it with a hand that trembled.
Her face was burning.

"You look better now," said Bunny.  "P'raps it's the heat.  How do you
amuse yourself nowadays?  Is Saltash at the Castle?"

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

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

She was silent for a second or two while she poured out Bunny's tea;
then, without lifting her eyes, "Yes," she said.  "I have heard from
him."

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

"Not often," said Maud.  She suddenly looked across at Jake with eyes
that seemed to fling a challenge.  "I expect you know where he is," she
said.

"He is in town," said Jake.

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

"I expect he'll be going to Scotland next month," said Bunny.  "But I
hope he'll come here first.  I'd like to see him.  Aren't there some big
races at Graydown soon, Jake?  Won't he come for them?"

"I can't say what he'll do," said Jake, pulling out his pipe.  "The
Burchester Cup will be run in a fortnight."

"Oh, Jake, old chap, do--do let me see that!" urged Bunny, with shining
eyes.  "Is the Mascot going to run again?"

"No, not the Mascot this time,--the Albatross.  You remember him?
Reckon he ought to carry it off if his jockey is good enough."  Jake
spoke with something of a frown.

Bunny was all eagerness.  "The Albatross!  Wasn't he the chap you were
forcing into the water that day you first spoke to us?  Yes, I remember
him, of course--a beauty.  Who's up, Jake?  Isn't he any good?"

"I wanted Vickers to ride him," Jake said.  "He's been training.  But he
has just broken his thumb, confound him.  That leaves it to Dick
Stevens, and I don't feel just sure of him.  He may pull it off; but
he's not like Sam Vickers.  The animals haven't the same faith in
him,--any more than I have."

He got up from the table as he spoke, and went to the mantelpiece for a
match.  Bunny gulped down his tea and sprang up also.

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

Jake, his clay pipe between his teeth, puffed forth a cloud of smoke,
and turned.  "Not to-night, my son. You've got another two hours'
floor-drill before you.  You go and do it!"

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

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

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

"I do myself," said Jake grimly.  "But you're not to, savvy?  I mean it.
It ain't a mite clever, my son.  It's beastly ugly.  And you--you've got
to be a gentleman if you do live under the roof of a bounder.  Now you
go and do as you're told, quick march!  I shall know if you don't, and I
shall know the reason why too.  Take him upstairs, Maud; and if he don't
behave himself, undress him and put him to bed!"

He would have gone with the words, but Bunny with a red face stayed him.
"I'll do as you tell me, Jake," he said, "but I won't be managed by
anyone else.  And I'm not a bit afraid of you.  See?"

Jake stopped, and the old kind smile that once had been so much more
frequent lighted his face.  "That's right, little pard; you've no call
to be," he said.  "But I won't have it said that you were brought up in
a stable.  And I won't have you hanging around with the boys in the yard
either.  Our language is not your language, and you're not to learn it.
Now go and do your duty!  I'll take you round the Stables to-morrow."

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

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

She sat with her face to the window, her eyes fixed unseeingly upon the
sunlit garden.  "Nothing that I know of," she said, without moving.

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

"Like what?" she said.

Bunny was looking at her hard.  "You used not to be like this either,"
he said.  "What's happened to you both?"

She gave herself a sharp shake--it was almost like a shudder
suppressed--and came out of her reverie.  She met Bunny's questioning
eyes with a smile.

"My dear boy, nothing has happened.  Don't look so suspicious!  There!
Come and let me look at you!  Do you know I hardly know you?  You seem
so young."

Bunny pushed an arm about her neck, and gave the kiss for which she
yearned.  "You look years older than you did," he said, with brotherly
candour.  "I thought you'd get on like a house on fire when you hadn't
me to worry you, but you look more down in the mouth than ever."

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

"I thought you would," said Bunny with complacence. "I missed you too at
first.  When they gave me that beastly massage, I used to howl for you."

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

"It was--unspeakable," said Bunny.  "I shouldn't have stuck to it if
you'd been there.  As it was,--well, I couldn't help myself.  But they
were awfully kind too.  No one ever pitched into me for behaving badly.
They all seemed to take it for granted that I should.  And when I began
to get better, they were so jolly encouraging.  But I'd rather be
flogged every day for a year," ended Bunny, "than go through it all
again."

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

"No.  Capper's a deep one.  He didn't tell me either. He laughs about it
now," said Bunny, "and says the end has fully justified the means.  He's
rather a card, but he's a fine chap.  He is coming to see us before he
leaves England.  I made him promise.  He'll be off before the end of
August."  Bunny stretched himself luxuriously.  "How's the mother
getting on?" he enquired.

"I haven't seen her for quite a long time.  I believe she is very busy,"
Maud said.  "They have discharged some of the servants at 'The Anchor.'
I don't believe it answers. She was looking rather worried the last time
we met.  But she didn't tell me anything, except that times were bad."

"They always are with some people," said Bunny.  "I suppose Jake is
quite prosperous, is he?"

"Oh, quite, I think," she said in surprise.  "Of course he is Charlie's
paid man.  Why do you ask?"

"He looks a bit bothered," said Bunny.  "P'raps it isn't that though.
Come along!  Let's go upstairs!"

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

A little later they separated, and Maud went to her own room.  Down in
the training-field below the orchard a solitary horseman was riding a
young, untamed animal that fought savagely against his mastery, striving
by every conceivable artifice to unseat him.  She paused at the casement
window and watched the struggle, marked the man's calm assurance, his
inflexible strength of purpose, his ruthless self-assertion.  And, as
she watched, that evil thing that she nourished in her heart opened its
first poisonous flowers and bloomed in rank profusion.  She hoped with a
sickening intensity that the animal would win the day, and that Jake
Bolton would be killed.




                              CHAPTER III

                              CONFIDENCES


Three days after Bunny's return, Maud drove him down in the dog-cart one
afternoon to see their mother.  She herself would not go into the Anchor
Hotel. She had never entered it since that bitter day in the winter when
she had thrown herself upon Jake's protection, nor had she exchanged a
single word with her step-father since her wedding-day.

Her mother seemed to have grown completely away from them, and would
seldom be persuaded to visit her daughter even though Jake himself
offered to fetch her.  She had become fretful and irritable, and was in
a certain measure vexed with Maud who had not apparently made the most
of her opportunities.  There was no denying the fact that they were
drifting further and further apart, and to neither of them did the
other's presence afford the smallest pleasure. Now that Lord Saltash had
quitted the scene, Mrs. Sheppard took no further interest in her
daughter's doings. She strongly suspected that it was in response to
Maud's insistence that he had gone, and she was inclined to regard his
absence as a personal grievance against her in consequence.
Emphatically, Mrs. Sheppard was not improved by adversity.  Her looks
were fading, and her placid temperament had vanished.  Giles was such a
trial, life was so difficult.  She had always acted for the best, but
she never reaped any benefit therefrom.  In fact, Fate had never been
kind to her, and she was beginning to cherish a grudge in consequence.

Bunny was by no means anxious to pay her a visit; it was only by Jake's
commands that he went.  Maud was a little surprised to find that he was
developing a scrupulous regard for Jake's wishes.  She drove the
dog-cart into the stable-yard of "The Anchor" and left it there with a
promise to return for him in an hour.  Then she herself wandered down to
the shore to pass the time.

The day was sultry with a brooding heat.  The sea lay wrapped in mist
like a steaming sheet of molten lead. There was no sound of waves; only
now and then the wailing cry of a sea-gull floated across the water, and
sometimes there throbbed upon the heavy air the paddle of an unseen
steamer beating through that silent waste of greyness.

She had no sunshade, and the glare was intense, albeit the sun was
veiled.  Half-mechanically she turned her steps towards the shelter in
which--how long ago!--Jake had made his astounding proposal of marriage.
She felt miserable, depressed, sick at heart.  The close weather did not
agree with her.  She was limp and listless, and she could neither eat
nor sleep.

She dropped wearily down upon the seat and leaned back with her eyes
half-closed.  Her head was aching dully, as if a heavy weight pressed
upon it.

There was no one in sight.  That end of the parade was little
frequented.  The gay crowd preferred the vicinity of the
bathing-machines where a little troupe of Pierrots were making merry.
Now and then the raucous voice of the funny man of the party reached
her, but it was too far away to disturb her.  She was thankful for the
attraction that kept the people away.

Chops lay at her feet, snapping at the flies, grave, sympathetic,
watchful.  He was feeling the heat too, but he took it philosophically,
with the wisdom of experience. He knew better than to chafe at the
inevitable.

Half-an-hour crawled away thus in dumb oppression while the atmosphere
grew imperceptibly thicker, gradually extinguishing the sun-rays,
darkening the world.  At length a long ridge rose with ghostly
suddenness on that flat desert of waters and swept shorewards, bursting
upon the beach with a startling roar.

Maud started and opened her eyes.  In a moment she was on her feet,
dismayed, irresolute.  One glance at the ominous sky and sullen, glassy
water told her that a storm was imminent.  She could not stay in that
exposed place. She would not contemplate taking refuge at "The Anchor."
Whither could she go?

She began to walk swiftly along the parade, Chops pacing sedately
behind.  The Pierrots were gone, the crowd scattered.  She was sure that
in a few moments there would be a terrific downpour.

Another long swell showed like the back of a swift-moving monster on the
face of the waters.  It travelled landwards with incredible rapidity; it
burst in thunder just below her.  A great swirl of surf rushed up to the
wall and receded to rejoin the inky water.  And suddenly the blast of
the storm caught her.

Almost before she realized it, she was fleeing before it down the
deserted road.  Eddies of dust rose up under her feet, and sand whipped
up from the beach stung her face. She raced the tempest, making for the
nearest side-road to escape the unbroken fury with which it raged along
the shore.

As she tore across to the sheltering houses there came a blinding flash
of lightning, and instantly overhead a splitting explosion that seemed
to shatter the whole world.  For a second or two she was checked in her
wild career.  She felt stunned.  Then in a sweeping torrent the rain was
upon her, and she stumbled towards the nearest doorway.

Before she reached it, however, a voice called to her, a stout figure
came running forth with amazing lightness, and two plump hands seized
one of hers.

"Come in, my dear, come in!" panted a wheezy voice. "Why, whatever
brought you out in such a storm?  You look scared to death.  Come and
sit down in my back parlour behind the shop!  It's all right, dearie,
all right. Don't be upset!"

Gasping and unnerved, Maud tottered into the little shop, groping,
clinging to her guide.  The gloom without made almost impenetrable
darkness within.  She had not the faintest idea as to whither she was
being led.  But there was no hesitation about her companion.  She
pressed her forward till a glimmer of light revealed a window in a dingy
little room beyond the shop, and here she deposited her with friendly
firmness upon a horse-hair sofa, making her lean against a cushion sewn
with beads while she recovered her breath.

"Don't you be frightened any more, my dear!" she admonished her.
"You're quite safe.  Trust the dear Lord for that!  The wind and storm
are only fulfilling His Will.  Poor child, you're all of a tremble!
There, let's take your hat off!  And I'll get you a cup of tea, dear.
You'll be better then."

Tenderly she removed the hat while Maud, panting and spent, lay limply
against the cushion.  Chops sat pressed against her, his silken head on
her knee.

"Why, look at him!  It's just as if he's trying to tell you not to take
on," said her rescuer.  "There's a deal of soul in a dog, I always say.
Now you know who I am, Mrs. Bolton, my dear, don't you?  You don't feel
as if you're taking shelter with a stranger?"

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

"That's right, my dear.  I felt sure you'd remember me. Now will you be
quite comfortable if I run into the kitchen and make the tea?  Or will
you come along with me?  I often think company is a good thing in a
storm."

Maud was recovering herself.  She sat up with something of her usual
quiet demeanour, though her heart was still beating unpleasantly fast.
"Please don't trouble to get any tea for me!" she said.  "If I may stay
till the worst is over, I shall be very grateful.  But I must go
directly it gets better.  My brother is waiting for me at 'The Anchor.'"

Another terrible flash pierced the gloom, and she shrank involuntarily,
one hand covering her face while the thunder crashed above them with a
force that shook the house.

As the dreadful echoes died away, she awoke to the fact that Mrs. Wright
was kneeling stoutly beside her, one kindly arm pressing her close.

"It's all right, darling.  Don't shiver so!" she murmured maternally.
"We're quite safe in the Lord's good keeping. He won't let us be harmed
if we trust in Him."

Maud made a slight gesture as though she would withdraw herself, and
then the comfort of that motherly arm overcame her shyness.  Very
suddenly she let herself go into the old woman's embrace.  She hid her
face on the ample shoulder.

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

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

She gathered her to her bosom rocking her softly in her arms as one who
soothes a hurt child, and whispering endearing words from time to time,
while Maud, spent and weary, wept silently there till with the shedding
of tears some measure of relief came to her aching soul.

She forgot the storm that raged around them; she forgot that Mrs. Wright
was a comparative stranger to her; she forgot the passage of time and
all besides in the blessed consciousness of another woman's sympathy
compassing her round, sustaining, comprehending, lifting her up from the
depths of despair into which she had lately sunk so low.

"There then!  There!  You're better now," murmured Mrs. Wright at last.
"Would you like to talk a bit, darling?  Or shall we just pretend as
there's nothing to talk about?"

h But Maud was clinging to her, as a drowning person clings to a spar.
"You're very good to me," she whispered tremulously.

It was enough for Mrs. Wright.  She proceeded with boldness.  "It didn't
become me to take the first step, dearie, you being a lady like you are,
and me only a clumsy old woman.  But I've had troubles myself, and I'm
not blind.  You aren't well, dear; you aren't happy.  I was afraid that
day in the winter, and I've been much more afraid since.  I was wanting
to step up and see you again; but then I wasn't sure as you 'd want me.
But I've thought of you often and often, and poor Jake too."

Maud shivered.  "Life is horrible--horrible!" she said, and there was a
quiver of passion in the words.

"Ah, dear!"  Mrs. Wright held her closer.  "Maybe that's because you're
not taking things just as you should. No, I don't suppose as it's your
fault.  I wouldn't presume. But there's ways and ways of looking at
things.  And sometimes, when a girl is hurried into marrying, like you
were, she's likely to be a bit taken aback when she comes to realize
what it means.  And it is then maybe that she gets a wrong impression of
men and their ways which is like to interfere with all happiness.  But,
you know, dearie, men are only a pack of children.  Any woman can manage
a man if she puts her mind to it, and he'll like her the better for it
too.  But if once a man gets the whip-hand, and knows it, that's fatal.
A spoilt child soon becomes a tyrant."

"Jake is no child!"  Low and bitter the words came; Maud's face was
buried deep in her new friend's shoulder. "He is nothing but--a brute!"

"Lord love me!" ejaculated Mrs. Wright.  And then very tenderly her hand
began to smooth the girl's tumbled hair.  "Has he been--that--to you?"
she said.  "Ah, dear, dear, dear!  And what's going to happen, I wonder,
when he knows what you're going to give him?  No, don't shrink, darling!
There's nothing to be ashamed of.  Would you be ashamed if God sent an
angel to lay a baby in your arms?  For it's just that, darling.  It is
His gift.  Aren't you going to thank Him for it?  The first is so much
the most wonderful.  Think, dear, think of the little wee thing that
will cling to you, cry to you, depend on only you!"

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

Mrs. Wright's hand did not cease to caress and soothe. "I am right,
dear, am I?" she asked softly.

And Maud's silence answered her.

Thereafter there came an interval during which the loud patter of the
rain was the only sound.  Maud's tears had ceased.  She sat bowed upon
the old woman's breast as though she lacked the strength to lift
herself.

But presently, without moving, she spoke.  "I suppose I am very wicked;
but I don't feel like--that about it.  I can't.  I don't want it.
You'll be dreadfully shocked, I'm afraid.  I've never spoken my mind to
anyone before. But--the fact is--I've never felt really married to Jake.
I don't in my heart belong to him.  And that makes everything wrong."

"My dear!  My dear!" said Mrs. Wright.  "But he is your husband all the
same.  And you--you are the one woman in the world to him.  He loves you
as his own soul."

Maud shook her head hopelessly.  "Oh no, indeed he doesn't!  He doesn't
know the meaning of the word.  If he did--things would be very
different."

"Dear heart, that's just where you go wrong--the beginning and end of
the whole trouble," declared Mrs. Wright.  "I knew he loved you that
night last year at your mother's wedding-party.  Why, it was shining in
his eyes for all to see.  Was he such a dunderhead then that he never
told you so?"

But at that Maud raised herself.  She met the old woman's eyes in the
gloom, her own heavy with bitterness.

"Mrs. Wright, that was not love," she said, "or anything approaching to
love."  She paused a moment, as though the tragic words had cost her all
her strength; then piteously she ended, "He told me he had a fancy for
me; that was all. So for Bunny's sake--and partly for my own--I married
him.  And now I am the slave of that fancy."

"Oh dear, dear, dear!" Mrs. Wright said again.  "And has he never made
love to you at all?  What a silly fellow, to be sure!  Men don't know
anything; upon my word, they don't!"

"I didn't like his methods of making love."  Maud spoke with growing
bitterness.  "And I never suffered them.  Oh yes, I have to endure them
now.  He takes whatever he wants.  But every spark of affection or
respect that I ever had for him went out one night in the winter when he
came home the worse for drink."

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

"Yes, Jake."  Maud spoke with tragic vehemence.  "I saw him, and so did
Charlie.  We both knew it."

"Who is Charlie?" questioned Mrs. Wright.

A faint tinge of colour rose in the girl's pale face.  "Lord Saltash.
He is an old family friend of ours.  He was always Charlie Burchester to
us in the old days."

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

Maud made a gesture of weary indifference.  "He didn't actually tell me
so.  I think he didn't want me to know. But he couldn't deny it when I
put it to him."

"Then, my dear, he was very grievously mistaken," declared Mrs. Wright,
with stout emphasis.  "Jake was not drunk.  He never drinks.  Why, look
at the man! His eyes are as clear as the day.  Oh, believe me, dear,
you've wronged him.  You've wronged him cruelly. And that's maybe what's
brought about all your trouble. For men can't put up with injustice.
It's the one thing they can't abide, and I don't blame 'em."

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

"It doesn't really alter anything, whether it's true or not," she said.
"I had begun even before that to know what sort of a man he was.  I
heard him using the most appalling language one day.  That opened my
eyes."

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

"Oh no, not to me.  I overheard it accidentally.  But," Maud shivered
again, "I've never forgotten it.  Sometimes the memory of it turns me
nearly sick!"

"Oh, dearie me!  What a pity!  What a pity!  And he loving you so!"
Mrs. Wright put up a very tender hand, and stroked her cheek.  "Poor
little hurt princess!" she said.  "If I could but open your eyes and
show you how much true love there is behind his roughness!  You'll see
it some day.  I'm sure of that.  Please God some day quite soon!  You're
tired and heart-sick now, dear.  But that'll get better as time goes on.
And if you'll take an old woman's advice, you'll tell him soon of the
little one that's coming.  It'll maybe make all the difference to you
both."

But Maud drew back sharply at the bare suggestion.  "I couldn't possibly
tell him yet.  I--I couldn't tell anyone."

Mrs. Wright looked at her with eyes of motherly wisdom. "You'll feel
different--presently," she said.  "I know, dear, I know."

"You don't know!  You can't know!"  Maud's voice was strangled.  She
seemed to be striving for self-control.

"I do know."  Very firmly Mrs. Wright made the assertion.  "Just you
listen a minute, dearie, and I'll tell you something that I've never
told to mortal being before. I'm only just an ordinary old woman; but I
am a woman, and I know what it means to--love the wrong man."  She spoke
impressively, but she did not seem to notice Maud's quick start.  "When
I was a girl, I was something of a belle.  It seems funny now, don't it?
But I attracted the attention of a good many young men, and I got a bit
uppish in consequence.  My poor Tom was the best of the bunch, and I
always knew it, though I led him a fine dance before we came to walking
out together.  And then a young doctor's assistant came to the place,
and--well, I'll not deny it now--we was both young and a bit flighty. We
got larking together on them roundabouts one night at a fair, and after
that we took to meeting one another on the sly, till, to cut it short, I
fell in love with him--very badly in love.  I ought to have known
better, of course, for gentlemen like him don't marry little farmers'
daughters like me.  But I was young and inexperienced, and I thought his
intentions were honest, till one night I found as they weren't.  I've
never ceased to thank the Almighty that I had the strength to send him
about his business then and there.  And I got engaged to Tom the
following Sunday, and tried to forget it all.  I wasn't in love with
him, but I knew he was a good sort; and the match pleased my people who
weren't too well-to-do.  Well, I thought I was going to be happy in a
home of my own, and I let everything be arranged, and I deceived myself
into thinking that it was going to be all right.  And then--when the
wedding was over--I felt, quite sudden-like, sick, just sick, to think
what I'd done.  I didn't let on to Tom.  He was such a good, solid man.
I'd have died of shame if I had.  I didn't let on to anybody.  But I was
that miserable. There were times, on and off, when I almost hated him.
And then--well, then--I began to have hopes.  It didn't help me a bit at
first, but gradually, very gradually, the thought of poor Tom's baby
purified me.  And when I'd come through my trouble and little Tom was
born, I felt as if I had been born again too, and all my regrets were
gone.  I never had 'em any more, dear, after that.  And I got that fond
of poor Tom, he never guessed.  I thank the Almighty he didn't, for the
morning as he died he told me so simple-like that I'd been the sunshine
of his life from the very first day he ever met me."  Mrs. Wright paused
to wipe her eyes.  "Poor Tom!  I was never good enough for him," she
said.  "He was such a good, kind soul, and--luckily for me--he never saw
an inch beyond his nose."

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

"Now I'm going to get you some tea, dear, and by that time it'll have
left off raining.  See!  It's getting lighter already.  I'm so glad you
came this way.  Maybe, you'll come again now, and if there's ever
anything I can do, why, you've only to let me know, and it's as good as
done."

She bent, in response to Maud's silent gesture, and kissed her tenderly.
"Try not to fret any more, darling! Everything will come right.  I'm
sure of it.  I know Jake so well.  You only know the rough side of him
at present. There's a whole lot of reserve in Jake.  He won't show you
his heart so long as he thinks you've no use for it.  Maybe, he's shy
too.  I've sometimes thought so."

Maud turned from the subject with a sigh.  In some subtle fashion old
Mrs. Wright's confidences had helped her, but she felt as if the matter
would not bear further discussion. "I shall never forget your kindness,"
she said rather wistfully.  "I wish I had come to see you long ago.  I
did mean to.  And then there came Bunny's operation; and after
that--after that--I felt too miserable."

Mrs. Wright shook her head in gentle chiding.  "Don't ever again stay
away on that account, dear!" she said. "And do you know I've got a
feeling that maybe he is miserable too?  Why don't you try a little
kindness, my dear?  Do now!  It's wonderful what a difference to sore
hearts a little kindness makes."

She bustled away with the words.  She also knew that for the moment
there was no more to be said.  Yet there was a smile on her face as she
closed the door--a wise, mother-smile that turned its plainness into
beauty.

"Poor children!" she murmured to herself.  "They'll find each other some
day.  And then--dear Lord--how happy they'll be!"

She permitted herself a little chuckle as she set the kettle to boil.
Things always came right in the end.




                               CHAPTER IV

                               THE LETTER


Maud drove home with Bunny after the storm through an atmosphere washed
clean of cloud and golden with evening sunshine.  She found him very
silent, and concluded that he had not greatly enjoyed himself.

She asked few questions about his visit, and Bunny did not seem inclined
to volunteer anything, till as they reined in to a walk at the steep
hill by the church, he turned abruptly towards her and spoke.

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

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

Bunny's face was red.  He looked at her with a species of dogged
defiance.  "I didn't mean to tell her.  It just came out.  I don't see
why she shouldn't know anyway.  Jake knows."

"There is not the faintest reason."  Maud's tone was cold.  She stared
straight between the horse's ears with eyes that were fixed and hard.
"I don't see why it should interest her, that's all.  Charlie is such an
old friend that surely there is nothing very surprising about it."

"Or anything to get ratty about," said Bunny, with a touch of warmth.
"That wasn't what I set out to tell you; but you do jump down a fellow's
throat so.  Of course the mother didn't see anything in it.  Why should
she?"

"What were you going to tell me?"  Maud's voice still sounded cold but
she forced herself to smile.  She had no desire to give offence to Bunny
who was not always easy to conciliate.

Bunny considered a moment.  "Well, it has to do with Charlie.  You know,
he owns 'The Anchor.'"

Maud's attitude relaxed.  She turned towards him. "Yes, I know he does.
He holds the mortgage, at least."

"Yes, that's it; the mortgage."  Bunny's face wore a troubled frown.
"Well, it seems that the place isn't answering and they can't go on
paying interest.  In fact, they are badly in arrears already, and he--or
his agent--is tightening the reins and threatening to sell them up.  The
mother is pretty desperate about it, but she was very particular that I
wasn't to tell anybody but you.  She says it means ruin, and no one can
prevent it but Charlie--unless someone came along with a little money,
which is the last thing likely to happen.  She wants you to get hold of
Charlie; says he will do anything for you, though I don't know how she
knows that.  In fact, she went on as if it was a matter of life and
death.  Say, Maud, do you really think they are going to be ruined?
What would happen if they were?"

Bunny looked at her with worried eyes.  Evidently Mrs. Sheppard had
succeeded in impressing him with the urgency of the situation.

Maud shook her head.  She had not the least idea. "How much money do
they want to tide them over?" she asked.

"Rather a lot," said Bunny uneasily.  "Four hundred pounds at least, she
said.  I suppose it would be no good to write to Uncle Edward?  He
wouldn't do it for the mother, I know, but he might for you."

"I couldn't ask him," Maud said.  "I might if it were for you or myself.
But not for Mother.  I am sure he wouldn't do it."

"It's a beastly mess," said Bunny gloomily.  "You'll have to get round
Charlie, there's no other way."

"I must think," Maud said.

They reached the top of the hill, and she shook the reins.  In sober
silence they trotted home.

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

"I've had a fine scare about you," he said, as he helped Bunny to
descend.  "Were you caught in the storm?"

Sam Vickers came to the horse's head, and Maud followed her brother
down.  Jake did not offer to assist her.  He was wearing neither coat
nor waistcoat, only a white canvas shirt with rolled up sleeves,
unbuttoned at the neck and displaying a good deal of brawny chest.  His
clay pipe was between his teeth, and the pungent scent of his tobacco
seemed even more nauseating than usual.

"No, we weren't caught," Bunny made answer.  "I was at 'The Anchor,' and
Maud took refuge with that old Wright woman who came here in the
winter."

"What?  Old Mother Wright?"  Jake turned to his wife with a smile of
approval.  "Been having tea with her, have you?  I'm real pleased to
hear it.  You couldn't be in better company."

Maud stiffened a little.  Somehow his approval nettled her.  "I took the
first shelter within reach," she said coldly.

Bunny stared at her as though astonished at something in her tone.
Sharply Jake turned on him.

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

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

He was on the step with Maud immediately behind him when Jake's voice
arrested him.  "Bunny!"

It was a perfectly quiet voice, but it was the voice of authority.
Bunny stopped short.  "Well?"

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

Bunny faced round, his face crimson.  "Oh, I say, Jake! That's too bad.
I didn't mean to say it, and anyway I can't do any extra time.  It's
beastly enough as it is."

"I have said it," remarked Jake.

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

"No, no, you can't."  Impulsively Maud broke in, her hand through
Bunny's arm.  "It's ridiculous and tyrannical. I won't have him bullied,
Jake.  You are to leave him alone."

She spoke with vehemence, carried away by a gust of indignation.  But
the moment she had spoken, she realized that she had made a mistake.

Jake said nothing whatever.  He did not so much as look at her.  But he
did look at Bunny hard and straight, and in a moment the boy's attitude
changed.

He unclenched his hands with a gesture half-shamed, half-deprecatory.
"All right, Jake," he said, in a tone of sullen submission; and to his
sister curtly, "Shut up, Maud! You always make a mess of things."

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

She turned to follow him upstairs, but was checked by the knowledge that
Jake was entering the house behind her.

He did not speak, but it was certainly not of her own free will that she
passed on to the parlour instead.  Angry as she was, she yet would have
avoided the encounter had it been possible.

It was not possible.  Jake followed her, grim as Fate, and in
desperation she turned and faced him the moment she was in the room.

"Jake," she said, in a voice that quivered in spite of her, "I can't
have you interfering with Bunny--punishing him--like this.  It's too
much."

Jake closed the door and stood against it.  The sheer brute strength of
the man had never been more forcibly apparent to her than at that
moment; the thick, powerful neck and broad chest, the red-brown,
lynx-like eyes, the merciless mouth, all seemed to mock her openly,
exulting over her, dominating her.

Like Bunny she clenched her hands, meeting the straight gaze of those
glittering eyes with the defiance born of conscious impotence.  "And
another thing!" she said.  "I wish you wouldn't come into the house in
that horrible wild West attire.  You look worse than any stable-hand. I
don't know how you can expect Bunny to be civilized with such an example
before him."

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

"You come in at all hours in the day with your horrible clay pipe and
vile tobacco.  You behave like a farm labourer; you use hateful language
to the men; and still you take it upon you to--to mete out punishment to
Bunny, because he has picked up, doubtless from you, an expression that
is a household word in your daily life!"

She stopped, for Jake had made an abrupt movement as if her fierce words
had somehow pierced a joint in his armour.

He came squarely forward, took his pipe from his mouth and knocked out
the half-burned contents into the grate. She turned to watch him,
feeling her heart racing like a runaway engine.  And, so turning, her
eyes fell upon a letter that lay upon the table.  She could not read the
address, but in a flash she recognized the handwriting, and suddenly the
mad racing of her heart died down, so that it did not seem to be beating
at all.

Swiftly, while Jake was still intent upon his pipe, she reached across
the table and picked up the letter.  Her fingers felt the crest on the
back of the envelope as she slipped it into her dress.  She had fallen
into the habit of walking to meet the postman of late, but to-day the
storm had made her miss him.  She hoped--earnestly she hoped--that Jake
had not chanced to see the letter. She was sure his eyes had not rested
upon the table.

Her heart began to beat again with great leaps as Jake turned from the
fireplace.  She felt as if she had over-taxed her strength in opposing
him, and yet now that she had begun she must go on,--she must!

But still he did not speak, and, fascinated, she stood and watched him,
saw him thrust the offending pipe deep into his breeches pocket, unroll
the sleeves of his shirt, and button it at the neck.

Then at last he came and stood before her and spoke. "I'm sorry I've
offended you," he said.

The words were so utterly unexpected that Maud literally gasped.  She
drew back before him as if he had threatened her.  There was something
about him at that moment that made her feel infinitesimally small and
mean.  She stood silent, dismayed, ashamed.

Jake was looking straight at her with a steady intentness that seemed to
search and search her soul.  There was no anger in his face.  She almost
wished there had been.

He waited for her to speak, but as she did not, broke the silence again
himself.  "I know my ways are not exactly polished.  I'll try and mend
'em.  As for my language, I didn't know you had ever heard me in full
swing.  You were never meant to, anyway.  As for Bunny, I guess he's
your brother, and you've a right to stick up for him if you think he
needs it.  But I give you my word of honour--my oath if you like--that
he'll never be one cent the worse for anything I may do to him.  You can
tell him from me that if he don't do that extra half-hour, I shan't say
a word."

Maud's lips quivered.  She strove for dignity in the face of
overwhelming defeat.  He had beaten her as it were with his hands behind
him.  "He won't take it from me," she said.  "You know that quite well."

"That so?" said Jake.  "Well, I reckon he'd better go through with it
then.  It won't hurt him.  It'll do him good."  He paused a moment,
then, "Are you still feeling mad with me?" he asked.

Her eyes fell before his.  She did not understand his tone.  It held a
note of gentleness which she had not heard since the day of Bunny's
operation.  It was almost as if he were pleading with her, striving to
pierce through her resentment.  She found it very difficult to reply.

"I--don't want to quarrel with you, Jake," she said at last, with an
effort.

Jake's intent look deepened, became for a moment almost intolerable.
Then it passed.  He even faintly smiled, albeit his smile had a touch of
irony.  "All right, my girl," he said.  "Don't you worry any about that!
I like you for being open with me.  It's an almighty mistake to keep
things back."

He moved to the window with the words, stood a moment or two as if to
give her an opportunity to call him back, then, as she remained silent,
went down the steps into the garden and passed out of sight round the
house.

Maud was left with a stinging sensation of discomfiture that was
compounded of doubt, indignation, and shame.

She was relieved to think he had not seen the letter, but she hated the
impulse that had moved her to conceal it.




                               CHAPTER V

                               REBELLION


That letter from Saltash, written in French, contained the announcement
of his approaching return.  It was at her urgent written request that he
had gone three months before.  Somehow the very thought of him at the
Castle had been intolerable after what had passed between them on the
day of her return to her husband.  But they had corresponded ever since.
She could not refuse to receive and answer his letters.  Her intimacy
with Charlie was like a gem with many facets.  He had an adroit fashion
of flashing it before her hither and thither till, dazzled, she wondered
if she had ever truly grasped its full value. Sometimes it seemed to her
that it had been cut from the very bedrock of friendship, and at such
times the realization of the sympathy that ever pulsed between them was
a pure joy to her.  At other times, remembering the strange impulses of
the man, his sudden gusts of passion, swift misgiving would assail her
and she would tell herself that she was making a terrible mistake.  And
then again she would catch a glimpse of his careless, butterfly
temperament, and her doubts would vanish almost in spite of her.  How
could she take him seriously?  His gay inconsequence made the hare
notion seem ridiculous.  They were pals, no more.  True, he had offered
to help her; but, knowing him through and through as she did, he was the
last man in the world to whom she would really turn for help. And since
she was so sure of herself, what had she to fear? Charlie was before all
things a gentleman.  There was nothing coarse or brutal about him.  In
his own words, where women were concerned, he did not take; he offered.
For that very reason he was the harder to resist.

But she knew him to be safe.  That was the foundation of her confidence.
She had no fear of him; he had always set her at her ease.  Without
virtue he might be, yet was he not without a certain code of honour.  He
tempted; therein lay the subtle attraction of the man; but he never
compelled.  He was selfish; oh yes, he was selfish, but he was also
strangely, whimsically kind at heart.  In all her experience of him, she
had never found him merciless.

And so she did not see why she should wholly deny herself the friendship
which seemed to her to be the only good thing left in her life now.  She
had not wanted to see him, but now that he wrote to announce his return
she found that she was glad.  The first meeting with him might be a
little difficult, but Charlie always knew how to deal with difficulties.
He understood her; it would not be really hard.  They would be friends
again--just friends.

She slipped the letter away with a smile.  He always allowed himself a
little more latitude when he wrote in French.  It was but natural.  It
meant nothing, she knew.  How could anyone take him really seriously?
His soul was as elusive as thistledown.  It was only in the realms of
music that she ever really saw his soul.

He did not say on what day he would return.  She wondered if Jake knew,
wondered if she could induce Bunny to ask him without betraying any
interest in the subject herself.  She was a little afraid of Bunny.  His
shrewdness embarrassed her.  It was like a microscope, discovering
things that otherwise would have escaped notice.  She did not want to
come under that microscope very often.  There were some parts of her
existence that would not bear it.  She suspected that Bunny was already
beginning to find out.  She was sure that he was aware of a lack of
sympathy between herself and Jake, and she wished she could have kept it
from him.

With regard to her mother's affairs also, she would have been glad if
the boy had not been drawn into the discussion. It was characteristic of
Mrs. Sheppard to fling her burden upon the first shoulder that offered,
but Maud was fashioned otherwise, and she wanted Bunny to throw off his
precocities and become like other boys.  The thought of his education
was beginning to weigh upon her.  She wanted to talk about it to Jake,
but somehow she did not know how to broach the subject.  She wondered if
she should write to Uncle Edward, but hesitated to do so.  Letters were
never satisfactory.

She was pondering this matter as she undressed that night when a sudden
thought struck her--a thought that darted through her like a flash,
leaving a shining trail of possibilities behind.  Why should they not
accept the old man's invitation and go to him for a little while?  He
would be glad to see them, she was sure; and she would be glad--oh,
unspeakably glad--to get away for a time. Face to face with him, she
might even plead for her mother. She would infinitely rather be under an
obligation to him than to Charlie.

The idea drew her more and more.  She wondered it had not occurred to
her before.  In the end, finding it still early, she sat down at the
table and began to scribble a hasty note.  She determined that she would
not tell Jake until Uncle Edward's reply reached her.  She felt
convinced that it would contain the invitation she was soliciting.

Feverishly she penned her appeal.  Would he invite them to spend a few
days?  Bunny was well, or nearly so; she herself was feeling the heat,
and would like a change. Jake--, no, she found she could not mention
Jake.  With trembling fingers she brought the note to an end.

She had scarcely finished addressing the envelope when she heard Jake's
step on the stairs.  Startled, she caught up letter and writing-case,
and pushed them into a drawer.  He seldom retired late, but she had not
expected him so early as this.  Swiftly she turned, shut the door that
led into his room, blew out her lamp and slipped into bed.

But he did not pass on to his own room.  He stopped at the door of hers,
paused a second, then quietly opened it. She heard the creak of his
gaiters as he entered.  He had a candle in one hand; he put up the other
to shield it from the draught, and the door blew gently to behind him.

Maud leaned against her pillow and watched him.  Her heart was beating
very fast.  She wondered if he had heard her hasty movements of the past
few moments.

He came to her side and set down his candle.  "Say, Maud," he said, "I
saw your light go out, so I guessed you weren't asleep."

Maud's eyes, blue-black and sombre, looked up to his. "What do you
want?" she asked him coldly.

He stood squarely beside her.  "I wanted just to speak to you," he said,
"and I thought if I waited to undress, maybe you'd be asleep."

With the words he sat down rather heavily in the chair by her side, and
there fell a silence, a dragging, difficult silence.  Maud's heart was
beating very fast.  Had he come to talk about that letter from Saltash?
Was he about to make a scene?

His stillness began to act upon her nerves.  She turned towards him
restlessly.  "Oh, what is it?" she said, veiling her doubt with a show
of impatience.

He stretched out a strong hand and took one of hers. "It's you, my
girl," he said, and in his voice was a note of anxiety that partly
reassured her.  "You've not been yourself lately.  Guess there's
something the matter."

"There is nothing the matter," she said hastily.

He held her hand closely.  "You've no call to be afraid of me," he said
gently.  "Maybe, I've been rough and rude at times.  I've never meant
it, my princess.  I can't live up to you always; but I try,--God knows I
try!"

A sudden tremor sounded in his voice; he became abruptly silent.

Maud's hand was hard clenched in his.  She did not look at him; but the
beating of her heart rose up between them--a hard, insistent drumming
that she was powerless to control.

After a brief space he spoke again, his voice quite steady and
controlled.  "Reckon you're not happy.  Reckon you're not well either.
I've been thinking maybe you'd like to go away for a spell--you and the
boy.  If so, I'm willing to manage it.  It'll be a bit of a rest for
you."

He paused.  The clenched hand he held had made a sharp, convulsive
movement as if at a sudden twinge of pain.  Maud lay breathing rapidly,
her eyes fixed upon the flame of the candle.

He waited a few moments; then, "What do you think of the proposition, my
girl?" he asked.

She turned her head slowly towards him.  "Bunny and I alone?" she said.

"That's the idea," said Jake.

Her eyes met his resolutely, with a certain challenging directness.  "As
a matter of fact, I had thought myself that we might go to Uncle Edward
for a little," she said.

He showed no surprise.  "You would like that?" he asked.

"Yes."  She spoke with instant decision.

"Then go!" said Jake.  He set her hand free with the words, but he
remained seated as if he had something further on his mind.  "By the
way," he said, after a moment, "I had a letter this evening."

She started.  "A letter?"

"Yes."  Very deliberately he answered her.  "I met the postman and took
it from him at the door."

"Ah!"  It was scarcely more than a whisper.  She shrank against her
pillow with a gesture wholly involuntary.

Jake's eyes were upon her, alert, unswerving, dominating. "My letter
came from Capper," he said quietly.  "He is coming to us in a few days;
he wants to see Bunny again before he leaves England."

"Oh, surely we needn't wait for him!"  With a sudden rush the words
came; she spoke with feverish vehemence. "If we really are going away,
let us go soon!" she urged. "Why should we wait?"

"I thought maybe you'd like to say 'Thank you' to Capper before he
goes," said Jake.

"But I needn't see him for that," she said, in growing agitation.  "I'll
write."

Jake was silent.

"He will very likely sail from Liverpool," she went on. "Be could come
and see Bunny there."

Jake bent towards her.  "Say, Maud," he said in his soft slow way,
"don't be upset any.  If you're not wanting to meet Capper, it's all one
to me.  But, my girl, there ain't anything he could tell me about you
that I don't know already."

Her face flamed scarlet.  For the moment she was furious with an
indignation that burned intolerably.  Her very soul felt on fire.  It
was more than she could bear.

"Oh, go away!" she cried out fiercely.  "Go, I say! Go!  You make me
hate you more and more every day--every night!"  He rose on the instant.
For a few quivering moments she thought she had roused him to anger, for
his eyes glowed in the dimness like a slow-burning fire.  And then in
utter silence he turned away.  He went into his own room, and softly
closed the door.




                               CHAPTER VI

                              THE PROBLEM


"He's going to be a winner, is he?" asked Saltash, flicking the ash from
his cigarette as he stood in the training-field with Jake.

"That depends how he's ridden, my lord," said Jake dryly.  "He is a hot
favourite."

"Pity you can't ride him yourself," observed Saltash, watching the
Albatross with a critical eye as he cantered down the field.  "Who is in
the saddle?  Not Vickers?"

"No.  Vickers is incapacitated.  I have put Stevens up.  He seems keen
for the chance, though I'm not so keen to give it him," Jake spoke with
grimness.

"He ought to pull it off," said Saltash.

"He ought, my lord."  Jake's tone lacked conviction notwithstanding.

Saltash turned.  "What's the matter with the lad? You don't seem over
enthusiastic about him."

Jake flicked at a clump of nettles with his riding-whip. "I've done my
best to shape him, but he's a bit of a cur. The animals don't trust
him."

Saltash uttered a careless laugh.  "Oh, you always were an adept at
reading the equine mind.  Come along and show me the latest offspring!
What was it you called him?  The Hundredth Chance?  A curious name to
choose!"

Jake's grim face relaxed to a smile.  "Oh, he's in the paddock along
with his mother.  He promises to be the most valuable animal in the
Stables.  He'll carry everything before him when the time comes."

"Is that why you've given him such a hopeful name?" asked Saltash.

Jake uttered a brief laugh.  "Even so, my lord.  He carries my luck with
him wherever he goes."

"You're a queer fish, Bolton," observed Saltash, turning to leave the
field.

The paddock lay on the further side of the orchard, and here they found
the pride of Jake's heart, a frisky black foal who kicked up his heels
and scampered at the sight of him.

"He'll take some taming presently," commented Saltash.

"And he'll knock spots off any animal I have ever had to tame," said
Jake.

Saltash laughed again with nonchalant interest.  "If ever there were the
right man in the right place, it is you," he said.  "Can we go back
through the garden?  I believe that's the shortest way."  He spoke with
a wary glance in the direction whither he wished to go.  A white figure
was visible on the steps that led into the parlour.  "I hear Mrs. Bolton
is away," he added, immediately averting his eyes.

Jake turned in his sturdy fashion, and began to walk towards the house.
"No, she is at home for the present," he said.  "We are expecting
Capper.  In fact the lad has gone to the station to meet him."

"What!  Bunny?  Is he really all right?  Capper must be a magician!"
ejaculated Saltash.

"He is the biggest man I know," said Jake simply.

They approached the house.  The white figure had disappeared.

Saltash chatted inconsequently, strolling along with a cigarette between
his lips, and a confident smile on his dark face.  He had come down as
usual unexpectedly, but she was probably aware of his advent.  His car
was awaiting him in the stable-yard.  He did not think she would suffer
him to pass the window unnoticed.

Yet as he drew near she made no sign.  Chops came smiling down the steps
to greet him, and he paused at once to fondle the dog.

Jake paused also, but he did not invite him to enter. He stood pulling
at the lash of his riding-whip, stolidly patient, awaiting his patron's
pleasure.

Suddenly Saltash looked up.  "I believe your guest has arrived, Bolton.
You'd better go.  Never mind me!"

There came undoubtedly the sound of wheels from the other side of the
house.  Jake glanced towards the gate that led thither.  Saltash bent
again over the dog.

"You'd better go," he reiterated.  "I won't show. Don't let me keep
you!"

Jake raised a hand to his cap and turned away.

Instantly Saltash straightened himself.  He uttered a low, clear
whistle, and almost immediately Maud, clad in white, came to the window.
He sprang up the steps in a single bound and caught her hands into his
own.

"I had your letter," he said.  "Quick!  When can you meet me?"

Maud was gasping a little.  Her face was deeply flushed. "Charlie!  You
are so sudden!  I only want--a few minutes alone with you."

He held her hands.  "When?" he said.

His eyes were gazing into hers freely, ardently; but he was laughing as
he always laughed, ready to turn his ardour into a joke at a moment's
notice.

She hesitated.

"Quick!" he said.  "They are coming, and I must go. Come down to the
orchard-gate after dinner to-night! Jake and Capper will be smoking.  No
one will know, Queen Rose.  That is settled then.  I shall be at the
gate alone."  He laughed under his breath, lifted her hands to his lips,
made a wide gesture as if he would clasp her in his arms, laughed again
as she drew back, and wheeling, sprang down the steps and was gone in a
moment round the side of the house.

Maud's cheeks were burning.  She turned to meet the visitor with the
feeling of one who has had a sudden rapid fall through space.  She was
not sure of the ground beneath her feet.

She did not know how she greeted Capper, but somehow the difficult
moment passed.  She was convinced afterwards that her manner had been
perfectly normal, for the atmosphere was quite natural and free from
strain.  In a very few minutes they were all seated round the tea-table,
and to her relief Bunny, and not she, was the centre of observation and
general topic of their talk.

She feared that when tea was over Capper would seek her out; but he did
not.  He went round the Stables with Jake.

She went to her own room to rest and recover her composure.  It was true
that she had wanted to see Charlie alone; in fact it had become
essential to her mother's interests that she should do so.  But she had
not altogether expected so prompt a reply to her request.  She wished
she could have made some more ordinary arrangement. She wished with all
her heart that she had had the presence of mind to veto his suggestion.
It had never been her intention to meet him secretly and at night.  Not
that she cared personally how or when she met him.  Their friendship was
too old for that.  But she did not like secrecy. Small as was the
confidence she extended to her husband, she yet had no desire to exclude
him deliberately from the knowledge of her doings.  She did not wish to
commit any act, however innocent, which might appear suspicious in his
eyes.

The thing was unavoidable, however, the appointment was made.  She could
not leave Charlie to wait in vain. For this once she must run the risk
and trust to luck to bring her through.  It would not be a long
interview; she was fully determined upon that point.  And she would
never agree to another on the same clandestine lines. She must assert
her independence, and meet him openly. Jake must learn to trust her.
She must not suffer him to interfere with her liberty of action.  If he
were ridiculous enough to be jealous, that was his affair.  She would
not allow herself to be influenced by such an absurd attitude. She never
questioned his doings; she must not suffer him to question hers.  So she
sought to reassure herself the while her uneasiness grew.

She put on a dress of black lace when the supper-hour drew near.  It
made her look even paler than her wont, but she gave scarcely a thought
to her appearance.  Her mind was weighed down by far more serious
matters.

Even the prospect of a _tete-a-tete_ with Dr. Capper hardly disquieted
her, and when she discovered him on the garden-steps of the parlour she
went forward to join him without hesitation.

His greeting of her was full of kindness; there was nothing
disconcerting about his attitude.

"I was just thinking about my friend Rafford," he said.  "You remember
him?  And how mad he went over that piece of statuary at Burchester
Castle?  But, strange to say, it's not the anatomy that interests him
any longer. It's the face."

She felt herself colour a little.  "If it bears any resemblance to me,
it is purely accidental," she said.

"Or rather, a coincidence," amended Capper.  "It's a fine piece of work
anyway.  But he is nothing of a judge. Guess it's just the humanity of
the thing that gets him."

"It's rather a painful study," Maud said.

"Ah, but it leaves endless possibilities.  That is where the genius of
the sculptor displays itself.  Rafford saw that.  'The hotter the
furnace, the purer the gold,' he said to me; 'if I had the naming of
that work I'd call it _The Crucible or Seven Times Purified_.'"

"What a peculiar point of view!" Maud exclaimed, almost in spite of
herself.

Capper assented.  "Raff is highly imaginative.  He has a very long
perspective.  A bit of a dreamer too. If it weren't for that, I should
prophesy a great future for him.  But there's no time for dreaming in
this world. You must either hustle through or be content to stand aside.
You can't do both."

"I don't like hustling," Maud said, with a smile.

He made her a bow.  "No, you are English.  But Raff has not that excuse.
That's why I doubt if he ever gets there.  He needs to be up against a
thing before he considers it worth while.  That's not the way to win out
handsomely.  It's the way to get whipped off the field."

"Always make for the crest of the wave!" said Jake's voice behind them.
"You may get there--some day--if you're lucky; though it's more likely
you'll be dragged under and swamped."

Capper turned to him.  "Not you, Jake!" he said. "You're a born winner.
I'm sure Mrs. Bolton will bear me out there."

Jake's hand descended upon his wife's shoulder. "Mrs. Bolton doesn't
know my capabilities in that respect at present," he remarked dryly.
"She has only witnessed the start."

Maud did not turn her head.  "You are all invincible, of course," she
said.

Bunny's advent diverted the conversation.  He could think and talk of
nothing but the forthcoming races at Graydown which had been fixed for
the end of the week, and which he had prevailed upon Jake to allow him
to attend.

Capper, though not particularly enthusiastic, was to remain for them,
"just to see Jake come out on top," as he expressed it.  It was taken
for granted by all that Maud would go too, and she supposed she would do
so; but she took no part in the conversation which Bunny found so
all-absorbing.  She was too occupied with the thought of Charlie.

There was no need for her to talk.  She sat silent and abstracted while
the protracted discussion went on around her.  Bunny had learned more
about the animals in ten days than she had discovered in as many weeks,
and Capper listened with amused indulgence.  It all went over her head,
and no one seemed to notice her aloofness.

Bunny would gladly have sat up till late, but Jake would not permit
this.  He ordered him off to bed on the stroke of nine, and Bunny went
without demur.  He was learning to obey his brother-in-law without any
thought of rebellion. Maud noted the fact bitterly.  It was another
proof to her of the despotic mastery of Jake's personality.  He ruled
them all.

She herself rose from the table upon Bunny's departure, and as she did
so she was for the first time conscious of Capper's critical scrutiny.
It passed almost immediately as he sprang to his feet to open the door.

"I shall have the pleasure of seeing you again?" he asked.

She bent her head.  "I am only going to fetch a wrap for the garden."

He smiled and bowed her out.

Jake was in the act of lighting a cigarette when he returned to the
table.  He proffered the end of it to Capper, and as the latter stooped
to kindle his own their eyes met. Capper's held a question that could
scarcely be ignored.

Half-reluctantly Jake removed his cigarette and spoke. "It's the biggest
problem I've ever been up against."

Capper puffed forth a cloud of smoke.  "What's troubling you?"

Jake sat down heavily.  "She ain't pleased--not any. Life is damnably
difficult.  I thought I was going to make her happy, but I've made an
almighty failure of it.  She used to just tolerate me in the old days;
but now--she hates the very sight of me.  The mere thought of bearing me
a child seems to drive her clean crazy."

He ceased to speak and sat bowed in his chair, his chin on his breast,
his eyes gazing sombrely forth under bent brows.

Capper was still on his feet.  He stood cracking his fingers one after
the other with meditative regularity.  His eyes, very green and shrewd,
rested upon Jake's head that shone like copper in the lamplight.

There fell a silence of several seconds; then at length with another
great puff of smoke he spoke.  "Guess it's just a case for patience,
Jake, my lad.  These things right 'emselves, you know, when the time
comes.  It's wonderful how childbearing softens a woman.  And you love
her. That'll make a difference too--when the time comes."

Jake did not look up.  "God knows I do," he said slowly. "But you know,
Doc--" he seemed to be speaking with something of an effort--"I don't
fancy she knows it."

"Oh, shucks!" Capper exclaimed.  "She wouldn't be a woman if she
didn't."

Jake shook his head despondently.  "I suppose I'm just a brute beast.
She thinks so, and I can't show her anything different now.  Maybe I am
more flesh than spirit; but for all that she is the one woman I want,
and none other could ever satisfy me now.  But I haven't got her.  Even
when I hold her in my arms, she ain't there. And she has never kissed
me, never once."

Again he ceased to speak, and Capper pulled at his beard and said
nothing.

There fell a long silence between them through which the grandfather
clock in the corner ticked with a melancholy beat.  It was like the
heart of a tired man.

Jake's cigarette hung neglected between his fingers which almost trailed
on the floor.  His eyes still stared before him as though they saw one
thing, and only one.

Capper smoked with scarcely a pause.  His yellow face was very
thoughtful His cigarette came to an end, and he dropped it smouldering
on to a plate.  Then he turned and laid a kindly hand upon Jake's
shoulder.

"Keep a stiff upper lip, my son!  I guess she's yours for the winning,
or she will be.  It's no good trying to understand a woman's moods.  You
never will do that as long as you live.  But she'll come to you in the
end, sure. Give her all the rope you can!  If she hasn't any use for you
at present, it'll come."

"Will it?" said Jake rather bitterly.  "I reckon I'm further away from
winning her now than I've ever been. Once--it's ages ago--she came to me
and cried out her troubles on my shoulder.  She'd no more dream of doing
that now than she'd dream of flying.  She'd be more likely to--"  He
broke off short.

"What?" said Capper.

Jake sat slowly up.  His eyes still seemed to be fixed upon some
definite object.  "I was going to say," he said, in a voice that had
become peculiarly soft and deliberate, "that she'd be more likely to
carry her troubles to Saltash. But I don't think exactly that.  He's too
crooked to hold a woman's confidence.  No woman with any sense would
trust him."

He grasped Capper's hand and looked up with a curious smile.

"It would be a pity to have to shoot a freak like Saltash; wouldn't it?"
he said.  "Reckon a good many women would miss him."

His eyes shone red for a moment, then he uttered a laugh that seemed to
dismiss the subject.

"Come into the garden and see the moon rise!" he said.




                              CHAPTER VII

                         THE LAND OF MOONSHINE


The dew was thick on the orchard grass as Maud ran down under the trees.
An orange moon was rising behind them and the shadows lay deep and
mysterious across her path.  The wind blew fresh from the sea, sweeping
the wide down, bringing relief after the heat of the day.

She was trembling as she went, yet as she neared the trysting-place she
checked herself and walked with some dignity.  She did not want to
arrive in a state of agitation. She was sure he would be waiting for
her.  She was sure, she was sure!

Yes, he was there.  They saw each other simultaneously, and in a moment
he had sprung to meet her with the ardour she knew so well.  Her hands
were in his almost in the same instant.  He held them closely,
lingeringly.

"At last!" he said.

Rather breathlessly she made response.  "Yes, but I can't stay.  I want
to speak to you--only to speak to you--about my mother."

"Good heavens!" said Saltash.  His hold relaxed for a second, then
tightened again.  "My dear girl, how absurdly prosaic of you to come to
me on such a night as this and talk about anybody or anything on earth
besides ourselves! I won't allow it and that's a fact."

She laughed a little unsteadily.  "But it is just that I have come for,
Charlie; and nothing else.  And I can't stay either.  You must let me
say what I have to say quickly, and then go."

He drew her gently through the gate and led her to the summer-house
close by that overlooked the down.  The moonlight filtered in upon them
through a lattice-work of leaves.

"Don't tremble, _ma belle reine_!" he said.  "You shall go whenever you
will.  But need we waste to-night?  I will call upon you formally in the
morning if you desire it and talk about anything you wish."

She sat down with the feeling of one who moves beneath a spell, and
after a moment he sat beside her, still lightly holding her hand.  Yes,
she was at liberty to go whenever she would; and yet she could not, she
could not!

The witchery of the hour was upon her.  It was not the first time that
they had sat thus, he and she, hand in hand, wrapped in the mystery and
romance of a summer night. Her thoughts went back with a bitter pang to
the old dear dream.  Ah, why had she sent him from her?  She had obeyed
the instincts of her soul, perchance; but she had wrecked her life to do
it.  Why?  Why?

He was speaking, leaning to her, his swarthy face against her shoulder.
"Maud, let us forget the world to-night! Never mind what brought you!
Just remember that you are here--in the land of moonshine--with me!"

She turned at his voice; she yielded ever so slightly to the subtle
drawing of his hand.  "But let me speak, Charlie!" she whispered.  "I am
so troubled.  I want your help."

"It is yours for ever," he made answer.  "You have but to command."

"That is a promise?" she urged.

"My solemn promise," said Saltash.  "Now--shall we forget?"

His voice was full of a tenderness that stirred her to the depths.  A
piteous sob caught her throat; she put up a swift, silencing hand.  "Oh,
if I only could!" she said.

"You can," said Saltash.  He moved also, slid a gentle arm about her.
"Close your eyes, dear heart, and forget all your troubles!" he
whispered.  "I can charm them all away."

She shook her head.  Her eyes were full of tears.  "I am caught in the
whirlpools, Charlie," she whispered back. "I shall never get away.  All
the romance is gone out of my life--for ever."

"I can bring it back," he said.

Her tears overflowed.  She could not hold them back. "I wish I were
dead!" she said.

The arm that encircled her grew gradually tense like the tightening of a
coil.  "Come to me!" he murmured. "Listen to your own heart and come!
What does it matter what lies behind?  Put it all away from you--and
come!"

She suffered his arm, but she yielded herself no further to it.  "I
can't," she said hopelessly.  "I--can't."

"Why not?" he urged.  "Haven't I waited long enough? Are you afraid?"

She bent her head, covering her face.  "Oh yes, I am afraid--afraid.
Life is so dreadful.  It is full of--terrible consequences."

It had come upon her so suddenly.  She had as it were stepped out of
prison into a world of seething temptation with the passing of that
gate.  Never before had she felt so lured and drawn by that which was
evil.  The swift spell had caught her in a moment, and it held,--how it
held her!

His arms were about her.  He drew her to his breast. "What do I care for
consequences?" he whispered passionately.  "Come to me, queen of my
heart!  I have been cheated of my right long enough.  Yes, my right--my
right! You have belonged to me always, and you know it.  Oh, what are we
to fight against destiny?  Do you think I don't know how you have
suffered?  Do you think I haven't suffered too?  All because you loved
me--and sent me away!  You will never do that again, queen of the roses.
You have called me back to you.  You are mine.  Turn your face to me,
sweetheart!  There is no love in all the world like ours.  How can we
resist it?  It is greater than we ourselves."

But she kept her face covered, hidden low against the throbbing of his
heart.

His words went into silence--a silence that was stark and cold--the very
shadow of Despair.  It bound them both for a while; then shudderingly
she spoke.

"It is no good, Charlie.  I can't do it--now.  If I had known--three
months ago--what was before me--I think I would have come.  But the
whirlpools caught me--drew me down.  I realized too late--too late.  I
can't come now. I am bound--hand and foot--in outer darkness."

"I can deliver you," he said.

"No one can deliver me."  The bitter conviction of her voice silenced
even him.  "It is what you foretold.  I am a slave, and I have got to
bear the yoke of my slavery.  I shall never be free now, never as long
as I live.  I am bound to the oar by chain that--even you--could never
break."

She moved in his arms; she raised her head at last.

"Say good-bye to me, Charlie!" she whispered, "and--go!"

He caught her to him.  He looked closely into her quivering face.  "You
love me still?" he whispered, with passionate insistence.  "Tell me you
love me still!"

She seemed to hesitate as if reluctant or irresolute.  She seemed about
to draw back.  And then something magnetic in his face or his touch must
haw moved her; or was it the weird enchantment of the night?  She gave
him her lips without a word, and so he had his answer....

There came the click of the orchard-gate, the sound of a quiet voice.

"Come round to the summer-house, Doc!  There's a fine view from there."

Maud stiffened in Saltash's arms as if turned to stone.

He set her free with the utmost coolness and rose.  The next instant she
was sitting alone in the chequered moonlight. He had vanished without
sound round the side of the arbour furthest from the orchard-gate.

She sat with a thumping heart, waiting.  There had been something almost
eerie in his disappearance.  She knew he must be standing pressed
against the wall by which she sat, but yet his going had been so silent
that--even though her lips still burned with the memory of his kiss--she
felt curiously as though the whole episode were as incredible as a
dream.

She made no attempt to move.  Her limbs felt like lead. Only her heart
raced so madly that she gasped for breath.

She heard again the quiet, drawling voice.  "The gate was open.  Very
likely my wife is here."

A great shiver went through her.  She felt suddenly cold from head to
foot.  She clasped her hands tightly together, striving with all her
strength for self-control.

There fell the tread of feet upon the grass, and Capper's tall thin form
came round the side of the arbour.  He saw her in a moment, for the
moonlight was on her face.  She stared at him with hunted eyes.  Where
was Jake?

He accosted her at once.  "Ah, Mrs. Bolton, so here you are!  Say, do
you think you're wise to sit here with the frogs?  It's cold, you know.
Where's that wrap you were going to fetch?"

She stretched out a hand to him instinctively.  "Yes, I am cold," she
said, and her teeth chattered upon the words.  "Is--is--Jake there?"

Capper glanced over his shoulder.  "He was there. But--Columbus!--how
cold you are, child!  You will be sick if you stay here.  Come!  Let me
take you in!"

He drew her to her feet; then, as she tottered, leaning upon him, passed
a wiry arm about her.  As he did so, she saw Jake come round the other
corner of the arbour and stop upon the threshold.

She turned suddenly giddy and clung weakly to Capper. He had seen; he
must have seen!  But why had there been no encounter--no challenge of
any sort? Where--where was Charlie?

She went through an agony of apprehension during those few moments.  She
thought the awful suspense would kill her.

Then Jake's square figure advanced, blocking the opening. His voice
pierced through her agitation.

"So you have found her, Doc.  I thought she would be hereabouts.  I see
there is a mist coming up.  We had better go in."

There was nothing in the words, but she shivered uncontrollably at the
sound of them.  That slow soft speech was as a veil that hid unutterable
things.  With a great effort she mastered her weakness and spoke.

"Yes, it has turned quite cold.  I think it is the dew. Did you come
here to admire the view, Dr. Capper?  It is one of the best in the
neighbourhood.  I often think I should like to come and camp out here on
these summer nights."

"You would want plenty of blankets," said Capper. "There is a creepy
chill in the atmosphere that reminds one of the fall."  He took his arm
from about her, and drew her hand through it.  "Come, we must go.  It
isn't right for you to take risks.  A glass of wine before you turn in
is what I should recommend."

She made an attempt to laugh, but she did not feel it to be a success.
"That is Jake's invariable remedy for all ills," she declared.  "But I
thought it had ceased to be popular with your profession."

She emerged from the summer-house, holding his arm, but a new strength
born of terrible expediency seemed to have entered into her.  She moved
without effort, Jake stepping back to let her pass.

"Do admire the beauties of it before we go!" she urged. "It is so
romantic by this light.  The Brethaven lighthouse is over there.  It has
a revolving light.  Do you see it?"  She turned and spoke over her
shoulder.  "Jake, come and show Dr. Capper all the different points of
interest."

But Capper would have none of it.  "I shan't be satisfied till I've got
you indoors," he said.  "What have you got on your feet?  Nothing but
light slippers?  Say, Mrs. Bolton, you ought to take more care of
yourself."

"Oh, but I never have," she protested.  "I am wonderfully strong.  Jake
will tell you that."

"I think as Dr. Capper thinks," Jake said.  "You ought to be more
careful."

She felt herself flush.  Now that her agitation had subsided, she was
capable of feeling resentment once more, and there was that in the quiet
utterance that stung her.

She made no rejoinder, but her face burned hotter and hotter as they
began to walk back.  She was sure--quite sure--that she had been made a
subject of discussion between her husband and Dr. Capper.

Jake walked on her other side.  She had the feeling of being a prisoner
between two warders.  And she wondered if Charlie were watching with
that mocking humour in his eyes.

She set her teeth as the memory of his voice, his touch, went through
her.  She wondered with a sinking heart what she would have to tell him
when they met again....




                              CHAPTER VIII

                              THE WARNING


Half an hour later Maud stood in her bedroom, waiting.  The window was
wide open, and the night-air blew in cold and pure, with a scent of
dew-drenched roses and the salt of the sea behind.  There was a large
moth in the room.  It had been attracted thither by the light of the
candles, but it seemed to be dashing to and fro now in a wild search for
freedom.  She watched its futile efforts with a vague pity.  But she was
powerless to help it. Every moment it was circling closer and closer to
the flame and would probably perish there in the end.  She supposed it
didn't matter.  It was born to die in any case, and surely death was
kinder than life.  She had often thought so.

If she could have chosen death in that moment instead of this numb
waiting for an ordeal which she felt would be beyond her strength, she
believed she would not have hesitated.  This continual battling against
a will so immeasurably stronger than her own was wearing her down. The
bare thought of an open conflict made her sick.  And that an open
conflict was before her she felt convinced.  He had not chosen to
confound her in the presence of Capper, but she knew that the reckoning
was only deferred.  She had come to know him as a man of unerring
justice, and she had long ceased to hope for mercy from him.

Ah!  She heard his step at last, and turned, bracing herself.  The moth
was flitting dizzily round and round the candle.  Her eyes followed it
fascinated.

Suddenly it made a headlong dash for the flame, there came a sharp
crackle, and then the dull thud of its fall upon the floor.  A great
shudder caught her, almost convulsed her.  And in the same instant the
door that intervened between her room and Jake's opened; and he stood
before her.

She faced him stiffly in utter silence.  One glimpse she had of his
face, and only one; for she could not look again. The red-brown eyes
were alight with a fire that seemed to consume her even from afar.  She
stood and numbly waited.

He came straight to her.  "So," he said, "you have decided to make a
fool of me, have you?"

His voice was very low, but it had in it the sound as of an angry
animal.  There was something of the animal in his pose also, something
from which her whole being shrank affrighted.

Yet she was not without courage.  She forced herself to a certain
calmness.  "Will you tell me what you mean?" she said.

He made a slight gesture that seemed to cry aloud of a savagery scarcely
restrained.  "I guess you can do that," he said.  "What do I mean?  Tell
me!"

She drew back from him with an instinctive movement of recoil, but on
the instant, as though she had stepped into a trap, his hands came out
and caught her by the wrists. He held her firmly before him.

"Tell me!" he reiterated.

But she took refuge in silence.  She had no words.

He held her so for many seconds, and she knew that during those seconds
his eyes remained immovably fixed upon her.  She made no attempt to
resist him.  She knew beyond all question that resistance would be worse
than useless.  But she refused with mute determination to meet his eyes.
Crush her, conquer her, as he would, he should not force his way past
every barrier unopposed.  Her submission was physical but not mental.
She had always held back from him her soul.

He spoke at length, and still in his voice she heard that terrible, deep
menace as of a savage force that gathered and gathered under the
thinning surface of his civilization.  "I reckon you think I'm easier to
fool than I am.  Old friends must have their privileges.  Ain't that so?
And if they include a little genteel love-making, where's the harm? Who
is to raise any objection?  Not the husband who has been too big an oaf
ever to make love to you in his life! The husband who just takes what he
wants and leaves what's over for the lover!  He should be the last
person to interfere, I reckon.  Ain't that so?"

She shivered in his hold, but she spoke no word.  Had they not always
been utterly at variance with one another? How could she hope to make
him see anything but evil now that his brutal passions were aroused?
How could she ever attempt to convince him that he alone was responsible
for the fact that temptation had become even possible to her?

And so she stood in silence while the dreadful force of the man mounted
and mounted, menacing her.

He waited for several seconds for some response from her; then, at last,
as she made none, he moved, drew her locked wrists behind her, forcing
her slowly back till her face was turned up to his gaze.

She felt the scorching fire of the eyes she would not meet, and in a
moment her whole body seemed to burn in a furnace of shame.  The hot
blood stung her from head to foot, pricking every vein.  Crimson and
quivering, she hung there in his hold, waiting.

"So you won't speak to me?" he said.  "Won't even try to defend
yourself?  Well, maybe you're wise.  Maybe explanations would do more
harm than good.  I know well enough how it is with you.  You've got to
the pitch of enduring me like a loathsome but incurable disease.  You
never reflected, did you, that in so doing you were making your own
hell?  You hate me, but you don't realize that the thing you hate is not
me at all but a brute of your own creation.  And because of that--p'raps
it's a natural consequence--you've come to prefer another man's love to
mine."

His hold was tightening upon her; she felt herself being drawn to him,
felt the warmth of his body like the glow of an open fire.  And a sudden
wild wave of rebellion went through her, goading her into action at
last.  She had never resisted him before; she resisted him now fiercely,
passionately, striving with all her strength to free herself from that
pitiless hold.

"You never offered me love," she panted, straining back from him even
while he mastered her.  "Love--love--is a very different thing!"

Her voice went into a gasp that was almost a cry.  He was holding her
crushed to him in a grip that nearly suffocated her.  His eyes blazed
down into hers, terrible in their intensity, cruelly, appallingly
bright.  The savage in him had leapt free of all shackles at last, and
had her utterly at his mercy.

"Well?" he said, speaking with lips drawn back, showing his set teeth.
"And what is love--as defined by you--and Saltash?  Something peculiarly
holy?"

The taunt pierced her like a knife, with a pain so unbearable that for
the moment she was almost beside herself. For an instant she winced from
that intolerable thrust; but only for an instant.  The next with a
furious wrench she freed one hand and struck him--struck him across his
grim, menacing mouth.

"How dare you say that?" she cried.  "How dare you? How dare you?"

She struck him afresh with each repetition, so stung to frenzy was she
by that sneer.  But when the sudden realization that he stood to endure
her blows without the smallest attempt to check or avoid them came upon
her, the spirit went out of her.  She became passive again, trembling
from head to foot, so that but for his upholding arms she must have
fallen.

"Let me go!" she whispered voicelessly.  "Let me go!"

He was still gazing at her, but his look had changed.  His eyes still
burned, but they no longer threatened.  Rather she read in them a
slow-gathering wonder, as of a man who has picked up some strange
substance of which he does not know the value or properties.

He held her awhile longer, and then very gradually he let her go.

She drew away from him, her bosom heaving, her lips panting, and leaned
upon the dressing-table for support. She had withstood him indeed, but
it had cost her every inch of her strength.

She did not know how she endured his silence.  It seemed to pierce every
nerve, while he still stood observing her, as it were appraising her.

Then at length very slowly he spoke.  "I take back what I said about
Saltash.  I see I was wrong."

He paused a moment.  She had made a sharp gesture of surprise, but she
spoke no word.  He went on.

"I realize--now--that you do not know what love is. If you did, you
wouldn't be so--ashamed.  Maybe you never will know.  It isn't given to
all of us--not that sort. But let me tell you this!  Your friendship--or
whatever you call it--with Saltash must end.  There must be no more
letters--no more secret meetings.  Saltash is not a white man.  I
believe in your own heart you know it.  Trust him, and he will let you
down,--sure."

He spoke with sombre force.  She heard him in utter silence, her head
bent, still striving to call back her vanished strength.

He came a step nearer to her.  "Maybe you think you can hoodwink
me--disobey me, and I shan't know.  You haven't a very great opinion of
my intellect, I guess. But--you may take it from me--I shall know.  And
if you try to deceive me, you will repent it.  You wouldn't fancy life
on a lone ranch with not a soul but me to speak to--and all the dishes
to wash?"  A grim note that was not without a hint of humour crept into
his voice.  "That's what it will mean, my girl, if you don't obey your
husband now.  I'm a man of my word, and I think you know it."

He was standing close to her.  She felt the vitality of the man,
encompassing her, enthralling her.  Her brief resistance was over.  The
very heart of her felt too tired to beat. He had not forcibly quelled
her rebellion, yet in some fashion he had taken from her the power to
rebel.

He waited for her to speak, but still she could not.  Only after a
moment or two she drew back from him again and sat down in a chair by
the table.  He had delivered his ultimatum.  There seemed nothing more
to be said.

She wished dully that he would go.  Surely he could see that the game
was his, that she had ceased to move or to attempt to counter that final
stroke!  Yet he still stood motionless, almost as if he were waiting for
something.

Suddenly he spoke again with an odd, restrained vehemence; she felt that
he spoke in spite of himself.  "That's a prospect that doesn't attract
you, I reckon.  You've no use for me, never have had--save once.  My
love is just an insult to you.  You even call it by another name.  But I
tell you this," his voice deepened with a strong vibration that affected
her very strangely, gripping her close attention, "whatever it is, it's
a driving force that I can't restrain.  It may be an obsession, it may
be a curse; but there is no getting away from it.  It simply is and it
has got to be.  And if any man ever dares to come between us--you had
better mark what I say--I'll shoot him!"

He spoke with a fatalism that sank deep into her soul. It was no savage
threat, but the clear pronouncement of a man who knew exactly what he
would do under given circumstances.  And she was sure in that moment,
absolutely sure, that no dread of consequences would deter him.

She did not answer him; there was nothing to say.  But there swept over
her another dreadful wave of apprehension such as had caught her in the
summer-house an hour before, turning her cold from head to foot.  What
would he say if he knew what had passed between them--if he knew that
their lips had met?

She pictured him selecting his weapon with the deadly determination that
had inspired his words, saw the cruel set of the mouth, the ruthless
glitter of the savage eyes; and she shivered, shivered uncontrollably,
convulsively, as one in the grip of an ague.

He saw the shiver; he could not fail to see it, and his attitude changed
a little.  A measure of softening came into it, even a tinge of
kindliness.

"There, you're overwrought," he said.  "It's time you got to bed.
Reckon you understand me, so we'll give the matter a rest."

He turned with the words, turned in his sturdy, purposeful fashion and
went back to his room.

She did not watch him go, but she listened with straining ears for the
closing of the door between them.  It did not come to her.  There was to
be no relief from his presence that night.  The door remained half-open.

She sat on motionless for a moment or two, listening in a numb, hopeless
fashion to his quiet, methodical movements.

She got up sharply at length and began with quivering speed to undress,
not daring to linger lest she should have to meet again the straight,
unsparing scrutiny of those terribly bright eyes.

Once only, and that just at the last, did she stay a moment and stoop
over a small dark object on the floor--something she fancied she had
dropped.  But the next instant a wild fit of trembling seized her, she
stood up again, feeling giddy, physically sick.  The thing on the floor
was the charred remnant of the moth that had fluttered impotent wings to
escape but so short a time before.  It lay there shrivelled, lifeless,
the wings that had beaten so madly for freedom shattered and consumed in
the flame.

She caught her hand to her throat.  What evil Fate had decreed that such
things should be?  Even the tiniest thread of life could not escape the
seething whirlpool of destruction.

Sick at heart, she turned and extinguished the candle that had wrought
so cruel a doom.  The moonlight shone whitely into the room.  She went
to the window and pulled down the blind; then trembling, she crept to
bed.  And the darkness covered her soul.




                               CHAPTER IX

                             THE INVITATION


Saltash did not come to her on the following day, and for her own sake
she was thankful that he did not. But the problem of her mother's
difficulties had begun to vex her sorely.  Without communicating with
him, she knew that it could not be solved.  He had given his promise to
help her, yet somehow she did not feel the task before her to be a very
easy one.  Charlie was so curiously elusive in some respects.  It was
not always a simple matter to detach him from the whim of the moment.
And she had many a time heard him declare that he was not a business
man.

She watched the post with nervous anxiety, but nothing came for her.
She was relieved to have nothing to conceal, but her mother's anxieties
weighed upon her.  She hesitated to write to Charlie, but told herself
she would have to do so if no word came from him.  It was all highly
unsatisfactory, and behind her uneasiness there lurked a deep sense of
self-reproach, self-distrust.  She had suffered him to go too far, too
far.  It might be difficult to recover a normal footing.  It might be he
was even now planning some deep game, some master-stroke to follow up
the advantage he had gained and win her for his own.

He would not succeed.  He could not succeed.  She would not so much as
allow her thoughts to wander in that direction.  She had been mad that
night.  There had been witchery in the very air.  But now she was awake
to the crude realities of life, awake and sane and bitterly ashamed of
her weakness.  He might plot and intrigue, but he could not overthrow
her reason a second time.  The madness had passed, and it would not
return.  But the necessity for seeing him remained, and it was an urgent
one.  She found it hard to wait in inactivity.

The whole day passed without a sign from him, and her patience began to
wear thin.  Surely, surely he could not fail to keep that solemn promise
of his!  Surely he could not have forgotten--or be waiting for her to
make the first move!

She went for a walk on the down with Capper in the evening.  She did not
greatly want to go.  She was a little afraid of his shrewd insight.  But
she found that she had no cause for fear.  He was full of kindly
commonplace topics, and he touched upon no intimate subject whatever.
She returned from the walk feeling soothed and refreshed.

They went through the training-field on the way back, and here they came
upon Jake, giving Bunny his first riding-lesson.  It was good to see the
boy's eagerness, his flushed face and shining eyes.  He was utterly
fearless and even impatient of Jake's care.

They stood awhile and watched, then turned and walked up through the
garden.

"He is very happy," Maud said.

Capper smiled.  "Jake is an A1 companion for him, Mrs. Bolton.  He is
thrice lucky to be in the care of a man like Jake."

She agreed without enthusiasm.  "Yes, Jake is very kind."

"That's so.  And he won't spoil him either.  Also," Capper spoke with
emphasis, "he'll never learn anything that isn't clean and straight from
Jake.  Guess he'll make a fine man some day."

"Thanks to you, Doctor!" Maud said.

"No, madam.  Thanks to Jake!  My part was a very small one.  I am just a
mechanic; but Jake is a driver of engines--a maker of men."

Maud said nothing, and he changed the subject.

They lingered in the garden till Jake and Bunny joined them; then they
separated, Bunny, contrary to custom, attaching himself to Maud, and
Jake taking possession of Capper.

Brother and sister ascended the steps into the house and entered the
parlour.  Bunny was still flushed and excited. Life was full of
absorbing interest to him.  He had actually been off the leading rein
most of the time,--yes, and he had cantered too.  Jake said he was to go
and have a warm bath and then do his time on the floor.  It was a great
bore, but he supposed he'd have to.  What was Maud looking so sick
about?  Wasn't she well?

This amiable enquiry was made just as Maud's eyes had fallen upon a
letter lying on the table.  She almost snatched it up, and then found
with a mingling of relief and disappointment that it was not from
Saltash.

The crabbed writing was wholly unfamiliar to her. She stood gazing at it
while her sudden agitation subsided.

"Who's it from?" said Bunny, coming to peer over her shoulder.
"Liverpool post-mark.  Why, that's from that queer old codger who was
down here in the winter, I'll bet.  What on earth does he want?"

"To be sure--Uncle Edward," Maud said.

She opened the letter with Bunny looking on.  They read it together.

"MY DEAR GRAND-NIECE,

"I am pleased to acknowledge your letter of the 4th inst., and I write
to inform you that I shall be delighted to receive you and your brother
on whatever date it may suit you to come.  I am glad to hear of the
latter's excellent progress.  I presume you are capable of keeping him
in order.  You will of course be prepared to find your own
entertainment.  Should your worthy husband care to join the party by any
chance, I have room for all.

"Your affectionate uncle,
       "EDWARD WARREN."

"Holy Christopher!" ejaculated Bunny.  "What on earth did you want to
write to him for?  I'm not going there,--jiggered if I am!  And to be
tied to your apron-strings too,--not much!"

Maud folded the letter.  "I thought you might like to go away with me
for a little," she said.

He stared at her.  "What!  Away from Jake?  Not--much!"

She tried to smile.  "You're not very flattering, Bunny."

Bunny was still staring.  "I can't think what's come to you!  Jake's the
best chap in the world, and yet you don't seem to get on with him.  Say,
what the blazes is the matter with you anyway?"

She bit her lip.  "I wish you wouldn't be so horribly imitative, Bunny.
You never used to talk like that."

Bunny flared up on the instant.  "I'll talk as I damn' well please!
It's no affair of yours.  As to leaving Jake, I'm hanged if I will!  You
can jolly well go by yourself!"

"And as to behaving like a beastly bounder, you'll apologize for it
before you leave this room," a soft voice said.

Both started violently.  Jake had come up the steps from the garden.  He
walked over to the mantelpiece, searched for and found a box of matches;
then turned.

"If we were alone, my son, I'd punch your head for you. Maud is quite
right.  You've no call to talk like a cowboy. Now apologize--quick!"

But Bunny stood sullenly silent.

Maud turned to the door.  "Pray don't trouble to make him do that!" she
said.  "I am accustomed to cowboy manners."

The door closed upon her, and in the same instant Jake's hand closed
upon Bunny's shoulder.

"Go after her!" he commanded, "Catch her up, and say you're sorry!"

But Bunny resisted him.  "I won't, Jake.  I'm not sorry.  And I won't go
and stay with Uncle Edward. There!  If you send me, I'll run away."

Jake shook him.  "I'll be mad with you in a minute, my son.  Go after
her, do you hear?  Go after her and make it up before she starts
crying!"

"She won't cry!" said Bunny incredulously.  "She never does."

Jake swung him round to the door.  "Bunny, don't you be a skunk!  If you
don't go, there'll be trouble--bad trouble."

"But it was her fault!" protested Bunny, stung to remonstrance.  "She
set on to me first."

"I don't care whose fault it was," said Jake.  "You're to go."

Bunny writhed in his hold.  "You're beastly unfair, Jake.  If I do go, I
shan't apologize."

"You won't?" said Jake.

"No, I won't!"  There was a faint note of apprehension in Bunny's voice,
notwithstanding its defiance.  He stood up to Jake, but his eyelids
quivered ever so slightly.  His hands opened and shut in the old nervous
fashion.

Jake was holding him fast.  "Think it over!" he said. "Think it over!"

His voice was steady, his grip inflexible.  His eyes never left the
boy's hot face.  They held a stern warning that could not be ignored.

Bunny straightened himself to meet it.  "I suppose you'll thrash me," he
said.  "Well,--you must, that's all."

A faint gleam crossed Jake's face.  It was hardly a smile, and was gone
on the instant.  "No, I shan't thrash you," he said.  "Now, will you
go?"

And Bunny capitulated, struck his colours unconditionally, flung his
arms round his brother-in-law's shoulders. "All right, Jake.  I'll go,
old man.  I'll go.  Don't look so confoundedly grim!"

Jake held him back with one hand on his rough dark head.  "Be off with
you, boy!  I'll see you later--maybe when you're in bed.  Go now!"

He smiled upon Bunny, for there were tears in the boy's eyes, patted him
on the back, and turned to go as he had entered.

Ten seconds later Bunny was beating a rousing tattoo on his sister's
door.  "Say, Maud, let me in--quick--quick!"

He wriggled at the handle, for the door was locked, and, meeting with no
response, beat again.

"Maud, I say, let me in!  I've come to say I'm sorry. Don't be waxy, old
girl!  Open the door!"

There came a lagging footstep.  The key turned, Bunny burst into the
room headlong.

"You're not crying, are you?  I knew you weren't. There!  It's all
right, isn't it?  What makes you so touchy, nowadays?  You never used to
be."

Her arms held him tightly in a mute embrace.  She kissed him with a
yearning tenderness.

Bunny drew back and looked at her with sudden, close attention.  "Maud,
what's the matter?  Tell me what's the matter!"

She was smiling, a strangely drawn smile.  Not for the first time he
became conscious of the veil of reserve that hung between them.  He
strove with it indignantly, seeking to tear it aside.

"Maud, tell me, I say!  You would have told me in the old days."

She caught back an involuntary sigh.  "You were older then, Bunny."

"I wasn't!" he declared.  "What rot!"

"Ah well," she said gently, "things were different in those days."

And suddenly there came to Bunny--Bunny who had lain and watched life so
long that his eyes had grown tired with watching--one of the old shrewd
flashes of enlightenment, solving the mystery.

He held her very tightly, his face burning red.  "Say, Maud--old girl,
is it--is it--I know what it is!"

"Don't, Bunny!" she whispered inarticulately.

He kissed her with the warmth of renewed understanding. "That's why
Jake's so beastly worried about you.  Poor old boy!  He's getting as
lean as Chops.  Have you noticed?"

She had not.  They sat down together on an ottoman near the window,
Bunny's arm protectingly around her.

"He sent me up after you in such a hurry because he was afraid you were
going to cry," he went on.  "He was furious with me for vexing you.
Poor old Jake!"

A curious little pang of resentment went through her. "You seem to think
he is very much to be pitied," she said.

"I do," said Bunny instantly.  "He looks so down in the mouth nowadays.
I saw it directly I came home.  He's got a sort of hurt look at the back
of his eyes, as if he wasn't getting on with himself.  I sometimes wish
you'd be a bit kinder to him, Maud.  I'm sure he mopes."

This was a point of view so new to Maud that she hardly knew how to
regard it.  Somehow it had never occurred to her that Jake could take
her attitude to heart, Jake who trampled down all rebellion with so
merciless a heel.  She had always told herself that Jake had all he
really wanted. That he was aware of any need of the spirit she had never
seriously believed.  Bunny's assertion brought to mind Mrs. Wright's
kindly assurance that there was a whole lot of reserve in Jake; and for
the first time the old woman's words recurred to her.  "He won't show
you his heart so long as he thinks you've no use for it."  Was there a
measure of truth in those words?  She wondered.  She wondered.

"Guess I must be going," said Bunny.  "I've got to have a bath.  You
might turn on the water for me like a brick while I go and undress."

There was subtle tact in the suggestion.  Bunny knew--none better--that
to wait upon him was his sister's dearest privilege, and he judged by
her sad face that it was time to change her thoughts.

When he arrived in the bath-room a few minutes later, he found
everything put ready for his comfort, and Maud waiting to turn off the
water at his command.  He was attired in a large bath towel which he
held artistically draped about his person.  He thrust a bare, warm arm
about her neck.

"Thanks, old girl.  You're jolly decent to me!  I don't know how I
managed to be such a beast.  Guess my temper must have got warped in its
youth.  By the way, there's a letter for you from Charlie on my
dressing-table.  He told me to give it to you when we were alone.  I
suppose it's something to do with the mother's affairs."

"Oh, perhaps," Maud said; and she hoped he did not note her sudden start
or the quick flushing of her face. "When did you see him?"

"He came up the garden way this evening just before I went riding with
Jake.  You were out with Dr. Capper. He was in rather a decent mood,"
said Bunny.  "He gave me half a sovereign.  Not a bad sort--Charlie."

He began to emerge from the enveloping towel, and Maud turned to go.

"You can stay if you like," said Bunny graciously. "I've no wish to make
a stranger of you."

But she smiled and declined the invitation.  "You do better without me
now," she said.

And as the boy's small thin figure slipped down into the bath, she went
out and crossed the passage swiftly to his room.

The letter from Charlie was not on his table, but tossed carelessly on
the bed with his clothes.  She shivered at the thought that Jake, and
not she, might have found it there. The purple crest stood out
conspicuous on the white envelope--a fox's head with the motto: Sans
vertu, underneath. She wondered what wild ancestor of his had designed
the cynical device.

Her hands were trembling as she tore open the flap. She was impatient,
yet half-afraid.  Her heart throbbed hard at sight of the dashing scrawl
once so familiar and so dear.

"_Ma belle reine des roses;_"--her heart throbbed a little faster.  The
old sweet name, how it brought back to her those free, happy days of her
youth!  How she marvelled now at the high, girlish pride that had sent
him away. How cruel had been the cost of that same pride!

She read on.  It was a characteristic epistle, half-mocking,
half-tender, throughout.  Would she meet him again? But of course she
would!  Had she not said that he could serve her?  But they would not
risk another interruption. Would she be going to the Graydown races?  If
not, he would manage to return early and come to her by the garden way.
They would thus be sure of at least half an hour together before anyone
else got back.  He seemed confident that she would not refuse, and she
knew, even as she read, that she could not.  She must see him somehow.
She must somehow get back to normal relations with him. She could not
sacrifice his friendship to that one night's madness.  Besides, there
was her mother.

A trampling of hoofs in the yard below drew her to the window.  She
looked forth.

It was the Albatross being led out of his stable for the evening canter.

Dick Stevens held the bridle.  He wore a heavy, glowering look.  She
remembered--and the memory seemed to scorch her--that morning after her
wedding-day when she had stood and listened in petrified horror to Jake
pouring forth terrible invective upon the lad's head.

He was standing by now, watching with a frown, as though the boy's
movements displeased him; and even as she looked he went forward and
took the bridle into his own hand.

Stevens stood aside sullenly, while he readjusted the bit with set lips.
The Albatross nozzled against him, and after a few moments Jake's hand
went to his pocket and brought forth a piece of sugar.

Then, while the animal munched it, he turned round upon the sulky
stable-boy and spoke.

"If any harm comes to him through any damn' carelessness of yours, I
warn you,--and I'm a man of my word--I'll leather you to a jelly, if it
costs me fifty pounds."

His words were quiet, but absolutely distinct.  His right hand was hard
gripped on his riding-whip.

Stevens slunk back a step, not speaking, his face crimson and defiant.

Maud at the upper window clasped her hands suddenly and very tightly
upon the letter they held.  Yes, he was a man of his word.  And what if
he kept that other promise he had made to her?  Life alone on a ranch
with Jake! Her whole being rose in revolt at the thought.  She turned
away with a shudder.




                               CHAPTER X

                              THE MISTAKE


The day fixed for the race for the Burchester Cup was inclined to be
showery.  Jake was up at an early hour, and when he was gone Maud rose
also.  But she felt too languid to bestir herself very greatly.  She sat
by the open window, breathing the pure morning air, and wondering,
wondering, what the day would bring forth.

Since the receipt of Saltash's letter, she had been making up her mind.
That she must see him alone that day was inevitable, but she had formed
a strong determination that for the future she would put bounds to their
intercourse. It could but lead in the one hopeless direction.  Moreover,
open friendship between them had become, owing to Jake's prohibition,
impossible.

She did not blame Saltash for what had happened, but bitterly she blamed
herself.  She had been carried away by the moment's madness.  Her feet
had slipped.  But the determination to retrace that false step was
strong within her.  For Charlie's sake, as well as for her own, she knew
that they must not go on.  With fatal clearness she realized that it was
the downward path leading to destruction. It had never attracted her
before her marriage, that downward path.  The care of Bunny had absorbed
her life.  But now that her life was empty of all but the bondage she
hated, she faced the fact that her resolution had begun to waver.  She
could no longer trust herself to stand firm.

Sitting there, drinking in the refreshing coolness of the rain-washed
air, feeling the sweet morning chill all about her, something of that
innate purity of hers seemed to revive.  Some of the bitterness went
from her soul.  She was very, very tired; but after long meditation she
had begun to see her way more clearly.  Perhaps dimly the future had
begun to draw her.  Yes, her life was empty now.  But in a little
while--a little while--  A deep, deep breath escaped her.  The memory of
Mrs. Wright and her confident words of wisdom came to her.  Her life
would not be always a dreary wandering in a desert land. Prisoner she
might be, but even so, the flowers might bloom around her, within her
reach.

A little tremor went through her.  Ah yes, it might be there were
compensations in store, even for her.  Her life would not be always
empty.

A kind of waking dream came upon her.  It was as though a soothing hand
had been laid upon her, stilling her wild rebellion, giving her hope.
The kaleidoscope of life was changing every day.  Why should she
despair?

When she descended to breakfast, she was calmer, more at peace with
herself, than she had been for long.

She found Capper waiting alone.  He gave her his quick, keen look, but
characteristically he made no comment upon what he saw.

"I am wondering how I shall catch the boat-train to-night," he said.

"Must you do so?" she asked.

He nodded vigorously.  "Indeed I must.  I have trespassed upon your
hospitality quite long enough.  And there is work waiting across the
Atlantic that only Maurice Capper can do."

She smiled at him.  "How indefatigable you are!  Won't it wait a little
longer?"

"Not a day!" declared Capper.

And neither of them dreamed that that same work would have to wait many
days ere Maurice Capper was at liberty to handle it.

They sat down alone to breakfast.  Jake and Bunny had had their meal
long before.

"There's no holding the boy this morning," Capper observed.  "It will be
a good thing now when you can get him off to school, Mrs. Bolton.  He'll
grow quicker there than anywhere."

Maud looked up quickly.  "You think so?"

He smiled.  "I have told Jake so.  He, I believe, is waiting till these
all-absorbing races are over to consult you on the subject."

Maud's eyes fell.  "He won't do that," she said, in a low voice.  "He
and Bunny will settle it between them, and I shall be told afterwards."

"That so?" said Capper.  "Then, if I may take the liberty to advise you,
madam, I should consult them first."

She shook her head in silence.  How could she even begin to tell Capper
of the utter lack of sympathy between herself and Jake?

"And you really think he is fit to go to school, and fend for himself?"
she asked, after a moment.

"Do him all the good in the world," said Capper.  He added kindly:
"Guess you'll miss him some, my dear; but believe me you won't be sorry
when you see what it does for him."

"Oh no, I shall never be sorry on his account," she said.

And there the subject ended, but before she left the breakfast table she
found an opportunity to acquaint him with her decision to remain at home
that day.

He expressed regret but not surprise.  "You are wise not to overtire
yourself," he said.

She became aware again of the green eyes surveying her for a moment, and
.  "I--am not sleeping very well," she said, with an effort.

He nodded as one who fully understood.  "Take things easily!" he said.
"Don't fret over 'em!  Let the world go by!"

She got up, moved by an impulse curiously insistent. "Dr. Capper," she
said, "it--it's rather a difficult world, isn't it?"

Her voice had a quiver of wistfulness in it.  He reached out a hand at
once that sought and held hers.  "My dear Mrs. Bolton," he said, "we
live too hard--all of us.  That's nine-tenths of the trouble.  It's
because we won't trust the Hand on the helm.  We're all so mighty
anxious to do our own steering, and we don't know a thing about it."

The hold of the thin yellow fingers was full of kindly comfort.  There
was nothing disconcerting in the shrewd green eyes that looked into
hers.

"I think you'll be happier presently, you know," he said.  "It seems to
me that two people I'm mighty fond of have got wandering off their
bearings in the wilderness. They'll find each other presently and then,
I guess, that same wilderness will blossom into a garden and they'll
settle down in comfort and enjoy themselves."

He pressed her hand, and released it, making it evident that he had no
intention of pursuing the matter further without definite encouragement.
And Maud gave him none.  Something in her shrank from doing so.  He was
Jake's friend before he was hers.

The day seemed very long.  It was oppressive also, gleams of sunshine
alternating with occasional heavy thunder showers.

She was lying in a hammock-chair under the trees in the orchard with
Chops at her feet when Jake came striding through at the last moment to
find her.

"Capper tells me you don't feel up to coming," he said.

She barely glanced up from the book in her lap, she did not want to meet
his eyes.  "I didn't tell him so," she said.

"But it is so?" insisted Jake.

"I have decided not to come, certainly," she said, feeling her heart
jerk apprehensively as she made the statement.

He stood a moment in silence, then bent unexpectedly, took her by the
chin, and turned her face up to his own. It was flooded with scarlet on
the instant; her eyes flinched away from his.

He held her so for several seconds, looking at her, mercilessly watching
that agonizing blush, till it faded under his eyes, leaving her white to
the lips.  Then, without another word, he let her go.

She heard the jingle of his spurs as he went away, and for a long time
after she lay as he had left her, too unnerved to move.  What could he
know?  How much did he suspect?  She felt cold to the very heart of her,
stricken and sick with fear.  He had not so much as kissed her in his
brutal, domineering way, and that fact disquieted her more than any
other.  Though she hated the touch of his lips she would have welcomed
it thankfully in that hour of sickening apprehension only to feel
reassured and safe.

The patter of rain roused her to activity and drove her back to the
house, in time to meet Mrs. Lovelace hastening forth with an umbrella to
her rescue.

"You shouldn't be sitting out there, ma'am, on a day like this," the old
woman said.  "And, lawk-a-massy, you do look bad!"

Maud tried to smile.  "I am not bad, Mrs. Lovelace. It's only the heat."

Mrs. Lovelace pursed her lips and looked severely incredulous.  "You'd
best lie down, ma'am," she said.  "I'll bring your lunch immediately."

She bustled away, and Maud sank on the couch in the parlour and strove
to compose herself.  But she could not with that awful fear coiled like
a snake about her heart. A terrible restlessness possessed her.  It was
impossible to remain still.

If she could only send a message to Charlie, warning him not to come!
But that was impossible.  She knew that no message could reach him now.
He would have to come, and Jake would know of it.  Manoeuvre as she
might, those lynx-eyes would wrest from her the secret.  She knew
herself powerless to withstand them.

She made scarcely any pretence to eat the luncheon that Mrs. Lovelace
brought her.  She had never before been in such a ferment of
disquietude.  Those few awful moments of Jake's silent scrutiny had
shaken her to the very foundations of her being.  She felt that he had
ruthlessly forced his way past her defences and looked upon her naked
soul. And she realized that he had spoken the truth when he had said
that she could not deceive him.  He could tear her reserve from her like
a garment and expose her most secret thoughts.

She spent most of the afternoon in pacing to and fro, for she could not
rest.  Her feet were soaked with the drenched orchard grass, but she did
not know it.  Her limbs were strung to a feverish activity.  There were
times when she thought she would go mad.

The hours crawled by leaden-footed.  She did not know in the least when
Charlie would come, but she began to expect him long before he could
possibly arrive, and the waiting became a torment that chafed her
intolerably. If he would only come soon--so that she might make her
petition and let him go!

Back and forth, back and forth, she wandered, conscious sometimes of a
dreadful, physical sinking, but for the most part too torn with anxiety
to be aware of anything else. And Chops paced with her in mute sympathy
with her distress.

The afternoon was beginning to wane towards evening when Mrs. Lovelace
came forth once more in search of her--Mrs. Lovelace with prim, set
lips, sternly disapproving.

"You'll make yourself bad if you go on, ma'am," she said.  "And if you
please, Mrs. Wright is here, and I'm laying the cloth for tea."

"Mrs. Wright!"  Maud looked at her with dazed eyes, bringing her
thoughts back as it were from afar.

"There she is!" said Mrs. Lovelace.

And even as she spoke Maud caught sight of the comfortable, portly
figure standing on the steps.

She gave a gasp that was almost a cry, and began to hasten towards her.

Mrs. Wright on her part bustled down to meet her. "Don't hurry, my dear,
don't!  I've only just come. Why, how tired and white you look!  There!
Run along, Sarah, and get the tea, like a good soul!  I'll take care of
Mrs. Bolton."

Her arm was already around Maud's waist; she looked up at her with round
eyes full of kindly concern.

Maud bent to kiss her.  "How--good of you to come!" she said.

She herself was divided between relief and dismay; but the relief
predominated.  It would not matter now if Charlie came.  She would have
to write to him on her mother's behalf.  It was the only way.  She
believed she could evade Jake's vigilance with a letter--so long as
Charlie did not write to her.  The anguish through which she had passed
had made her realize that she must not, could not, take such a risk
again.

She clung to Mrs. Wright as to a deliverer.  "Thank you for coming!" she
said.

Mrs. Wright had begun to steer sturdily for the house. "Lor' bless you,
dear, I'm as pleased as anything to come," she said.  "Jake dropped in
this morning casual-like, and happened to pass the remark as they was
all going to the races but you.  So I sent down to Tom's young lady to
be so kind as to come and mind the shop for me this afternoon, and after
dinner I dressed myself and came along to keep you company.  I could
have got here an hour ago, but I thought as you'd be resting, and I knew
as Sarah would be busy."

So it was Jake's doing!  He had taken this step to circumvent her.  Maud
was conscious of a throb of anger against him, but her visitor's
guileless chatter made her stifle it.  Mrs. Wright was so obviously
unsuspecting.

They ascended the steps together, Mrs. Wright's arm stoutly assisting
her.  Then in the parlour she turned and looked at Maud.

"If I was you, my dearie, I should lie right down and have a rest.  And
I'll give you a drop of brandy in your tea."

She sank upon the sofa without protest.  The reaction from those hours
of feverish suspense was upon her.  She felt exhausted in mind and body.

Mrs. Wright attended upon her with the utmost kindness. She did not talk
a great deal, for which forbearance Maud was mutely thankful.  She was
so unutterably tired, too tired even to protest against that drop of
brandy in her tea upon which Mrs. Wright insisted.

Another hour went by, but there was no sign of Saltash's coming.  The
evening was turning dark and wet.  Maud lay on her sofa, sometimes
dozing, sometimes talking abstractedly to her visitor.  For Mrs. Wright
was determined to remain till Jake returned, and briskly said so. Maud
did not want to combat the decision.  She was glad to have her there.
It seemed that Charlie was not coming after all.  Something had detained
him.  Her anxiety had spent itself, but she felt terribly weak.  The
comfort of the old woman's tender care was too great to refuse.

She scarcely knew how the time went, so overpowering was the languor
that possessed her.  The rainy sky brought down an early dusk long
before the setting of the sun.  A brooding stillness hung upon all
things through which the patter of the rain sounded with unvarying
monotony.

"Deary me!  They will get wet," sighed Mrs. Wright.

Slowly the heavy clouds gathered and hung!  Slowly the darkness
deepened.

Suddenly Maud raised herself, sat up, tensely listened. "What is that?"
she said.

Mrs. Wright looked at her.  "I hear nothing but the rain, dear."

Maud broke in upon her impatiently.  "Yes, that--that--that!  Don't you
hear?  What is it?  O God, what is it?"

Her voice rose wildly.  In a moment she had sprung from her couch and
was standing with caught breath, listening.

"My dearie, it's only the rain," said Mrs. Wright soothingly.  "Don't
let yourself get jumpy!  There's nothing there."

But Maud paid no attention to her.  With a movement incredibly swift she
reached the door and threw it open.

Then indeed Mrs. Wright heard sounds, muffled but undeniable, of some
commotion in the stable-yard.  "I expect they've just got home, dear,"
she said.  "And very wet they'll be.  Hadn't you better tell Sarah to
get a nice hot brew of tea ready for 'em?  Little Sir Brian will be sure
to want his tea."

But the rush of Maud's feet along the oaken passage was her only answer.
The girl went like the wind, urged by the most awful fear she had ever
known.

The front door was open.  Bunny was on the step. But she brushed past
him without so much as seeing him, tearing forth bare-headed,
ashen-faced, into the rain.

For there in the murky twilight, terrible as a lion newly roused, stood
Jake, gripping by the collar a struggling, writhing figure, the while he
administered to it as sound a horse-whipping as his great strength could
accomplish. His right arm moved slowly, with a deliberate regularity
unspeakably horrible to behold.  She had a glimpse--only a glimpse--of
his face, and the savage cruelty of it was such that it seemed no longer
human.  Of his victim she saw very little, but of his identity not the
smallest doubt existed in her mind; and as the sound of those awful
blows reached her, the last shred of her endurance was torn away.  She
shrieked and shrieked again as she ran.

Those shrieks reached Jake as the cry of its mate in distress might
reach an animal intent upon its prey.  He flung the prey from him on the
instant and wheeled.  He met her a full ten yards from the spot, just as
her feet slipped on the wet stones of the yard.  He caught her--she
almost fell against him--and held her hard in his arms.

She was sobbing terribly, utterly unstrung, hysterical. She struggled
for speech, but the wild sounds that left her lips were wholly
unintelligible.  She struggled to free herself, but her strength was
gone.  In the end, her knees suddenly gave way under her.  She collapsed
with a gasping cry.  And Jake, stooping, raised her, and bore her in
senseless out of the drenching rain.




                               CHAPTER XI

                               THE REASON


"You've only yourself to thank," said Capper.  He tugged irritably at
his pointed yellow beard.  His eyes were moody under brows that frowned.
"You might have known what to expect if you had an ounce of sense."

"Guess I always was an all-fired fool," said Jake.

The great doctor looked down at him from his post on the hearth, and his
eyes softened a little.  For Jake's dejection was very thorough.  He sat
as it were in dust and ashes.

"Not always, my son," he said.  "But I guess you've surpassed yourself
on this occasion.  Well, it's done.  She may get over it, but she won't
love you any the better for it.  It'll be up to you to make a fresh
start presently."

Jake was silent.  He was not smoking.  He sat with bent head and lowered
eyes.

Capper contemplated him awhile, till at length a faint glint of humour
began to shine in his green eyes.  He moved, and laid a long, wiry hand
upon Jake's shoulder.

"Say, Jake!" he said.  "Don't take it too hard, man! Let it be a lesson
to you, that's all.  And the next time you want to whip a stable-boy, do
it on the quiet, and there'll be no misunderstandings.  Guess you'll
have to sing small for a bit, but it's not a hanging matter.  She'll
forgive you by and by."

"Why should she?"  Jake did not move his head or respond in any way to
the friendly touch.

"Because she's that sort."  Capper spoke with stout conviction.  "She
won't hold out against you when she sees you're sorry.  Don't be afraid
to tell her so, Jake! Don't hide your soul!"

Jake raised his head suddenly, looking full up at Capper with eyes that
glowed red and sombre.  "You don't quite grasp the situation, Doc," he
said.  "She won't be sorry for this when she comes to herself.  She
never wanted to bear a child of mine.  She loathes the very ground I
walk on.  She'd do most anything--most anything--to get quit of me.  No,
I reckon she won't be sorry any.  She'll be--sort of--glad!"

"Oh, shucks!"  Capper's hand suddenly smote him hard.  "You don't know
women.  I tell you, you don't know 'em!"

"I know one!"  Jake's voice was deadly calm.  His eyes shone like a
still, hot fire.  "I thought I could win her, though the odds were dead
against me.  I staked all on the chance--the hundredth chance--and it's
gone.  I've lost. There's no sense in pretending otherwise.  Now that
this has happened I shan't hold her any longer, unless it's by brute
force; and I reckon there's more lost than gained that way.  And yet I
know--I know--" his voice suddenly took a deeper note--"that where I've
failed, no other man has ever yet succeeded.  No one else has ever got
to the heart of her.  That I know."

He spoke with grim force, as though challenging incredulity on Capper's
part, but Capper made no attempt to contradict him.  He even nodded as
if he held the same opinion.

"Then I guess it's up to you to find the way," he said. "There's a
better way for all of us than brute force, my son.  There is a power
that all the violence in the world can't beat.  It's greater than all
the devils.  And you'll win out--you'll win out--on the strength of it."

He paused.  Jake's eyes had kindled a little.  He set his hands on the
arms of his chair as though about to rise.

"You get me?" Capper asked.

A faint smile came over his face.  "You speak as one who knows," he
said.

"I do know."  Capper's voice was very emphatic.  "It's not an easy world
to live in.  It's a mighty difficult one. But we've been given a compass
to steer by--a Divine compass, Jake, my lad.  Guess it's our own fault
in the main if we fail to get there."

He waited.  The light was gradually growing in Jake's eyes.  He had a
speculative, half-doubtful look.

"And yet you advised me to jump the hedge," he said.

Capper smiled somewhat ruefully.  "I didn't tell you to burst your way
through, did I?" he said.  "You didn't take it the right way, my son.
You blundered, and it's left a nasty breach.  It's not beyond repair,
mind you. But it'll take some patience and some faith before it's all
filled up.  Set to work on it right now!  You've got the materials.  Use
'em--all you know!  Show her what Love--real Love--is worth!  She's a
woman.  She'll soon understand."

Jake got to his feet with the quiet, purposeful movement of a man who
has work before him.  He gripped Capper's hand for a moment, and looked
him straight in the face.

"I reckon you're right, sir," he said, speaking rather heavily.  "I've
made a damn' muddle of the whole show.  I was nearer to her--several
lengths nearer--in the old days when we were just friends--just
friends--" his voice quivered slightly--"than I am now.  Well, I reckon
I must get back to the old footing.  We'll be--just friends--again."

He turned from Capper with the words, went to the mantelpiece and took
up his pipe.

The doctor watched him for awhile silently.  There was a greatness about
the man's simplicity that commanded his respect.  There was even an
element of the superb in it.

"I take off my hat, to you, Jake," he said at length "You're a white
man."

Jake's head was bent over his pipe.  He made a brief, contemptuous
sound, and rammed it into his mouth. "We don't all think alike," he
said.  "Well, I must be going anyway.  So long, Doc!"

"Where are you off to?" Capper asked.

He made a gesture as of one who contemplates an unpleasant task.  "I
must go up to the Castle.  I said I would.  I've got to tell Lord
Saltash how the Albatross failed this afternoon."

"But, man, he knows!" exclaimed Capper.  "He was there!"

Jake turned round.  His pipe was alight.  He puffed at it grimly.
"Maybe he does.  But it's my duty to tell him all the same.  It may
interest him also to hear that Stevens won't be fit for the saddle again
for a week or two. I'd have marked the young blackguard for life if I
hadn't been stopped."  His brows suddenly met fiercely.  "I'd have got
out of him what he did it for too--though I guess I know.  When a hot
favourite like the Albatross gets left behind like that there's always a
reason--a damn' substantial reason--at the bottom of it.  Oh, it's a
foul business," he said bitterly.  "I ought to have scratched sooner
than run the chance of having him pulled.  I never trusted
Stevens--never.  I'll see him drawn and quartered before he ever rides
another horse of mine!"

"But you've no evidence?" suggested Capper.

"I've the evidence of my own eyes," said Jake bluntly. "And there'll be
further evidence presently, or I'm a <DW65>."

"What do you mean?  He'll never own it."

"No."  Jake spoke with a savage disdain.  "He won't have the spunk for
that.  And he won't have the spunk either to take out a summons for
assault.  He'll just take it all lying down.  I know.  I know."

He swung round on his heel to go, went as far as the door, then suddenly
wheeled and came back.

"Say, Capper!" he said, and all the savagery was gone from his voice; it
held a note of pleading.  "She'll get over it, sure?"

Capper's yellow face was full of kindness.  He reached forth a hand that
gripped hard.  "Please God she'll live to be the mother of your children
yet, Jake!" he said.

Jake drew a sharp breath.  "God knows I don't want her--just for that,"
he said, with husky vehemence.

And then abruptly, as if ashamed, he pulled his hand free and departed.

Capper's fingers sought his beard as the door closed. "You're learning,
Jake," he said.  "You're learning. Wonder how soon she'll begin to find
out that there's another man in the place where her husband used to be!"

He coiled himself down into a chair, bending and cracking his long
fingers with meditative zest.  But the frown remained between his brows.
If Capper the man was satisfied, Capper the doctor was very much the
reverse. He was not dismayed, but he was anxious, more anxious than he
deemed it necessary for anyone to know.

"She'll pull through," he muttered to himself once. And again: "She must
pull through."

But in his heart he knew that it was more than possible that his
patient's life might ebb out on the bitter tide of disappointment and
misery even when the worst danger seemed to be over.  She was so lonely
in her trouble, so piteously bereft of all desire or incentive to live.

Up in the room above, Maud lay, white and still, her dark hair all about
her, her eyes closed, an aloofness that was almost like the shadow of
Death wrapping her round.

Mrs. Wright sat by her side, very alert and watchful. It was growing
late, but she had long ago signified her intention of remaining for the
night.  Very practical and sure of herself was Mrs. Wright.  She and Dr.
Capper were already firm allies.

The night was close, and the windows were flung wide. The door into the
adjoining room was wide open also, and a faint current of air eddied
about the room, stirring now and again the chintz hangings of the
old-fashioned bed, rustling occasionally the white muslin curtains at
the window. The wash of the sea came up vaguely from the dark distance.
It sounded like the far splashing of mighty oars.

Near at hand, down in the dim garden there came sometimes the mysterious
movements of some small creature creeping stealthily through the bushes,
and once or twice down in the orchard an owl hooted its weird,
half-human signal.

Mrs. Wright did not like the voice of the owl.  She shivered whenever
she heard it; but Maud lay as one oblivious of all things, drifting,
drifting, on a great lonely sea on which no sun ever rose or star shone.

Someone came into the adjoining room and stood in the open doorway.
Mrs. Wright looked swiftly round.

Jake's eyes met hers, he made a brief sign for silence. Then, without
sound, he crept in and stood against the bed-curtain, looking down
mutely at his wife's still face.

Several seconds of complete silence followed, then, quite suddenly, as
though someone had called her, she opened her eyes wide and turned her
head.

He drew back behind the curtain on the instant ere she could catch sight
of him, standing motionless as a statue, not seeming so much as to
breathe.

A troubled frown gathered on Maud's face; she made a restless movement.

At once Mrs. Wright bent to her from the other side of the bed.  "What
is it, my dearie?  You're not in pain?"

Maud was panting a little.  She tried to raise herself, but was gently
checked by a motherly hand.  She took and held it with trembling
fingers.

"Mrs. Wright,--please--you won't go!" she begged.

"Surely not, my dear."  Stoutly Mrs. Wright made answer.  "I'm going to
take care of you all night long."

But Maud was not wholly reassured.  She clung faster to the plump,
soothing hand.  "If Jake comes in, he--he will want to send you away.
Don't let him, Mrs. Wright! I--I can't be alone with Jake to-night."

She was becoming agitated, but Mrs. Wright gently hushed her.  "You
shan't be, dearest.  Jake wants me to be with you to-night.  He is very
unhappy about you, is poor Jake.  Dear knows you needn't be afraid of
him."

"Oh, how can I help it after what he did to Charlie? Did you see?  Did
you see?  Is Charlie very badly hurt?"

"Charlie?" questioned Mrs. Wright.

"Charlie Burchester--Lord Saltash.  Didn't you see what--what Jake did
to him?  Oh, it was terrible--terrible!"  A great shudder shook her at
the remembrance of what she had seen.

"My dear!  My dear!"  Mrs. Wright leaned to her, smoothing her pillow.
"Why, what a mistake to be sure! And to think you've put yourself out
like this all for nothing! Dear, dear, dear, to be sure!  That wasn't
Lord Saltash, darling.  Whatever made you think it was?  It was just one
of them pesky stable-boys as he was giving a jacketing to; and richly he
deserved it, I'll be bound."

"Oh, Mrs. Wright!"  Maud's voice was suddenly eager. "Are you sure?  Are
you sure?"

Her dark eyes, wide and beseeching, were raised in earnest questioning
to her old friend's kindly face.  She clung to the sustaining hand.

"My dear, of course I'm sure.  I came along behind you. I saw it all.
It was that young dog, Dick Stevens.  I know him well, never did like
him; and I'm sure he deserved all he got, probably more.  Now you
mustn't worry yourself any longer.  Leave it all to old Mother Wright
and go to deep!  Will you, my dearie?"

"You're sure Charlie is safe?" Maud said quiveringly. "He--he was
coming--don't tell Jake!--to see me to-day. But he didn't come.  And I
thought--I thought--Oh, are you sure Jake isn't listening?"

She broke off in sudden terror, starting up as if she would tear aside
the curtain.  But Mrs. Wright was swift to interpose.

"My dear, you mustn't upset yourself like this.  It's very wrong.  What
if Jake did know?  Surely he would understand. He would know that there
could be no reason why Lord Saltash should not drop in and see you in a
friendly way now and then.  Didn't you tell me you were old friends?"

"Oh, you don't know Jake!" moaned Maud.  "He is so terrible--so
terrible.  He would shoot Charlie--if he knew!"

"My dear!"  Mrs. Wright was genuinely shocked. She threw a sharp glance
towards the curtain.  "But there is no reason!  There can be no reason!
You're talking wildly. You can't know what you're saying."

Maud had sunk back upon her pillows, white-lipped, exhausted.  "There is
a reason," she whispered.  "There is a reason!  I love Charlie.  I have
loved him for years. And Jake--Jake would kill him if he knew.  He does
know--a little.  That's why--why I am so--afraid.  Oh, I wish--I wish I
were--dead!"

She ceased to speak, and a dreadful pallor crept up over her face.  Mrs.
Wright, anxiously watching, saw that she was slipping into
unconsciousness, and across the bed she issued a sharp command.

"Quick, Jake!  Go and fetch the doctor!"

The shadow behind the curtain vanished.  Mrs. Wright reached for a fan.
The heat was intense.  The darkness hung before the window like a pall.
And the good woman trembled a little in spite of herself.  She felt as
if the Angel of Death had suddenly entered the quiet room to share her
watch.




                              CHAPTER XII

                                 REFUGE


"So you've come to see your old uncle at last!  Dear me, you've been a
precious long time about it.  Tut, tut, child, what a clothes-peg to be
sure!  Sit down.  Sit down!  You don't look fit to stand."

Old Uncle Edward pulled out a chair from his dining-room table and
almost thrust his visitor into it.  Then he turned, seized a decanter,
and poured some wine into a large old-fashioned glass goblet.

"You drink this!  It's good stuff--older than you are. It'll turn to
blood in your veins, and a good thing too. You look as if you hadn't got
more than a thin half-pint in the whole of your constitution.  There!
That's better. Don't be afraid of it!  Don't be afraid of it!  Take
another dose before you start talking!  I know what you women are once
your tongues get going.  Take another dose, I say!  You're looking
half-dead.  What have they been doing to you?  Starving you?"

His grey whiskers seemed to bristle with indignation as he asked the
question; his eyes glared at her like the eyes of a terrier on the hunt.
Maud sat in the red velvet chair with a feeling of vast unreality.  It
was true that she was feeling almost too weak to stand, and her weakness
imparted to her an odd desire to cry.  The gruff kindliness of her
reception made her feel like a lost child brought home to a kind but
somewhat severe parent.  She drank the wine in almost unbroken silence.

Uncle Edward stood looking on, sternly critical.  "So you've been ill,
have you?  I can see you have.  Poor girl, poor girl!  Well, we must see
what we can do, to get you strong again.  And you haven't brought your
young brother along?  How is he?  Quite cured?"

"Yes, quite cured."  Maud put out a hesitating hand and somewhat shyly
slipped it into her uncle's.  "He is quite cured," she said, forcing a
difficult smile.  "And he would have come too--it was so good of you to
ask him--only it is September, and the school will soon be opening; and
it seemed a pity not to let him go at the beginning of the term.  We all
thought so."

Uncle Edward grunted as if not wholly pleased.  But his old knotted
fingers closed very kindly about her own. "So your good husband is going
to pay for his schooling, is he?  That's very generous of him--very
generous, indeed.  He's a man of property, is he,--your Jake?"

A quick flush rose in Maud's upturned face; she averted it swiftly.  "I
don't know.  He seems to be able to do anything he likes.  He--he is
very kind to Bunny."

Uncle Edward grunted again.  "Well, and how do you amuse yourself, now
that the all-important Bunny is off your hands?  I suppose you play the
busy housewife, do you?"

Maud uttered a faint laugh as forced as her smile had been.  "Oh no.  I
don't do anything.  There is an old woman who cooks and does everything.
I really can't think of anything that I do.  Of course lately--just
lately--I haven't been able to do things.  But everything goes very well
without me."

Uncle Edward squeezed her hand and released it. "You've too humble an
opinion of yourself, my dear. Most women get uppish when they marry.  I
don't as a rule like young married women for that reason.  They think
all the world stands still to admire 'em.  But you--well, you're
different.  You and I will get on together."

He smiled upon her so suddenly and so genially that she felt as if a
burst of sunshine had warmed her tired soul. She lifted her face with a
gesture that was half-instinctive, and he stooped at once and kissed it.

"You're a very pretty young woman," he said, patting her cheek
paternally.  "At least you might be, if you weren't so painfully thin.
You've been very ill, I can see. You're hardly fit to travel alone now.
Why didn't you tell me?  I'd have come and fetched you if I'd known."

"Oh, I didn't travel alone," she said.  "I had Dr. Capper with me.  I
shouldn't have come so soon but for him.  He was going to the docks, and
he offered to bring me and take care of me.  He knew how dreadfully I
wanted to get away."

"And who may Dr. Capper be?" Uncle Edward demanded grimly.

"He is a very great American surgeon--a friend of Jake's.  He was with
us when--when I began to be ill. And--and I have been in his hands ever
since."  Maud spoke haltingly.  "He is a very kind man," she said.  "I
don't think I should have lived if it hadn't been for him. He made me
live."

"Oh, he's one of your quacks, is he?"  Uncle Edward spoke with a mighty
contempt.  "Well, I thank Heaven I've never called in a doctor all my
life, and I consider it's one of the chief reasons why I've lived so
long.  People think a deal too much about their health nowadays.  The
world is getting neurotic.  Plenty of fresh air and exercise, and good
wholesome food.  That's my motto.  No beastly doctors' messes for me.
Now that man of yours, he's a healthy animal, I'll be bound.  I liked
the looks of him, and the ways of him too.  A bit off-hand, but straight
and clean.  He's been good to you, has he?"

He shot the question with an abruptness that found Maud wholly
unprepared.  She made an involuntary movement of shrinking.

"Oh, that's it, is it?" said Uncle Edward.  "He's been high-handed, I
gather.  Just what I expected.  If a man doesn't make love to a woman
before he marries her, he'll never be bothered to after.  Silly fool!
Silly fool!  Still, you might have done worse.  Don't take him too
seriously, my dear!  Tip him off his perch if he crows too loud!"

Maud smiled her faint sad smile and rose.  "I am not complaining of
anyone, Uncle Edward.  You mustn't jump to conclusions.  And you mustn't
call Dr. Capper a quack, for he has healed Bunny.  Now, may I please go
up to my room?  I know you are busy, and I shall be glad to rest for a
little if I may."

"Go by all means!" said Uncle Edward.  "You're to do exactly as you like
in this house.  Consider the whole show at your disposal!  Come and go
exactly as you will!"  He drew her to him abruptly and kissed her a
second time. "Be happy, my dear!" he said.  "Be happy!  You won't be
young always, and there's not much fun to be had when you're
old--specially if you're alone.  But you'll never be that, please
Heaven.  You'll have your children and your children's children growing
up around you--even when you're old."

He paused, holding her, for Maud had suddenly hidden her face against
his shoulder.  "I can't look forward--like that," she whispered.  "I
often think--that I'd rather--live alone."

There was a pathos in her words that bordered upon tragedy.  Uncle
Edward thrust a protecting arm about her, rasping his throat as if
something had made it smart.  "Tut, tut!" he said.  "You wouldn't enjoy
it for long.  There's precious little fun in the lonely life, I can tell
you, for I know.  I sit here on a Sunday and listen to the quiet till
even the racket of a dog-fight would be welcome.  We're all the same, I
expect; wanting what we haven't got instead of making the best of what
we have.  I should think the Almighty must smile sometimes at the very
contrariness of us."

He patted her shoulder as she lifted her head, looking at her with his
keen grey eyes that held humour as well as sympathy.

"You'll have plenty of solitude in this establishment, anyhow," he said.
"You can soak yourself in it all day long.  There's a library that may
amuse you, but that's all I can offer in the way of entertainment."

"Oh, I don't want entertainment," Maud assured him.

"You're singularly unlike your mother," was Uncle Edward's comment.

He did not ask her how her mother was faring, and she did not feel that
the moment for speaking of her affairs had arrived.  There was a touch
of the formidable about the old man, all his kindness to her
notwithstanding; and she felt too tired and ill for a difficult
discussion.  She wanted to lie down and rest for a long, long time.

This visit to Uncle Edward meant deliverance to her from a yoke too
heavy to be borne.  All through her illness she had yearned for, striven
for, this escape; and because of this intense longing of hers, Capper,
realizing that disappointment could but <DW44> her progress, had set
himself to further her desire.

Jake had offered no opposition to it.  She had scarcely seen Jake since
the night of the races, and not once had they been alone together.  He
had bidden her farewell that morning in Capper's presence briefly,
almost coldly.  There had not been even so much as a touch of hands
between them at parting.  He had got into the carriage after them, it
was true, and had wrapped a rug about her knees; but he had done it
without any personal solicitude or show of sympathy.  Only at the very
last, just as the train started, had he looked her in the face; and then
as it were half against his will he had turned his eyes upon her.

And the memory of that look had gone with her throughout the journey; it
was to haunt her for many days with a strange poignancy.  For the
red-brown eyes had held no mastery, no passion, only a dumb misery that
had somehow gone to her heart.  Why had he looked at her like that? Why
was he so unhappy?  Had he wanted to speak to her and failed for lack of
words?  Did he blame himself at all for what had happened?  Did he
desire in any way to make amends?

She had thought that to escape from his proximity would have been sheer
relief, but now that she actually found herself free from all
possibility of seeing him she was curiously perturbed by the thought of
him.  She had an odd little regret that she had not waved a hand to him
as the train had borne her away.  Just a friendly wave to show him that
she harboured no resentment any longer!  She might have done it, but for
an overpowering shyness that had prevented any expression of farewell.
Ill though she was, ill and weary, she could have made him that sign of
friendship and been none the worse for it.

But reserve had held her back.  It towered between them, a barrier more
insurmountable than it had ever been before.  And behind that reserve
her whole being crouched in fear.  For she had begun to tell herself
over and over, over and over, like a panic-stricken child, that once
away from him she could never return, never, face again that which she
had faced.

Possibly he had begun to realize this also; possibly that was why he had
looked at her so.  Would he accept it as inevitable, she wondered?
Would he, now that she had dragged herself free for a space from a
bondage unendurable, be merciful and let her go altogether?

There was her promise.  Oh yes, there was her promise. But might not
that promise now be regarded as fulfilled? She had striven to do her
duty, but it had proved too hard for her.  Surely he must see that now!
Surely he could not wish to hold her any longer against her will!  The
thought tortured her.  She was like a hunted creature in a temporary
refuge all exits from which were barred.  If she made a final dash for
freedom and the open, she would almost certainly be trapped.

Against her will the thought of Charlie went through her like a flaming
sword;--Charlie who had sworn to be a friend to her--Charlie from whom
she had not heard one single word since that awful day that she had
awaited him in vain.  No one had spoken to her of him, but that he was
no longer at the Castle she was fairly convinced.  He had, as it were,
darted like a fire-fly into her ken and out of it again.  But he would
return.  She was sure he would return.  And when he came--what then?
What then?

She did not ask herself why he had gone in that sudden fashion.  It was
so characteristic of the man that she saw nothing in it.  That there had
been no encounter between him and Jake she was now certain.  Perhaps he
had gone away for her sake in order to avert Jake's suspicion.  His
complete silence seemed to point to this. But it was quite useless to
speculate.  His ways were past understanding, so vague was her knowledge
of the motive that governed his actions.

Meanwhile the problem of her mother's difficulties remained and was
becoming more and more acute.  The place had been mortgaged by Sheppard
to Saltash's predecessor who had had a fancy for possessing the whole of
Fairharbour; and the affairs of the landlord of the Anchor Hotel had
been on the downward trend ever since. Occasionally a good season would
arrest this decline for a space; but good seasons were becoming more and
more rare. Giles Sheppard sought consolation too often in his cellars,
and the management was no longer what it had been. Regular visitors were
beginning to desert him in consequence, and the downward <DW72> was
rapidly becoming precipitous.  Saltash's man of business was tightening
his hold, and Sheppard's tenure of the place was becoming week by week
more uncertain.

All of this Maud knew.  Her mother was growing desperate.  Her life, it
seemed, had been nothing but a series of misfortunes, and this
threatened to be the greatest of them all.  Giles had deceived her
outrageously, and now that he had secured her he cared for her no
longer, save when his frequent libations rendered him tipsily amorous.
Something of a vixenish nature was beginning to develop in Mrs.
Sheppard.  She was no more the gentle, plaintive creature she had been.
She had once--and only once--approached Jake on the subject of financial
help.  Maud was unaware of this.  Jake's reply had been perfectly
courteous but uncompromisingly firm.  He would give Mrs. Sheppard
shelter, if she ever needed it, but he would have nothing to do with her
husband or his affairs. Mrs. Sheppard had turned from him with a bitter
look that had said more than words.  And since that day she had steadily
avoided all intercourse even with her daughter, declaring herself far
too busy to get as far as the Stables.

Maud had not needed her; but none the less she was uneasy about her.
She wished she knew where Charlie was; but she could not risk sending a
letter to the Castle. There seemed to be nothing more she could do.  She
had begun to tell him of her trouble.  He knew she needed help.
Possibly even he might without further persuasion refrain from carrying
matters to extremes.  She had mentioned her mother to him.  He must have
understood. He would surely remember her distress.

And yet whenever her thoughts turned towards him the memory of Jake's
words awoke within her, tormented her: "Trust him, and he will let you
down,--sure."  Why had he spoken so certainly?  What did he know of
Saltash and his ways?  Was it possible--could it be--that he knew a side
of Charlie's whimsical nature that had never been presented to her?  Or
was she so blind that she had failed to perceive it?  It was true that
in the old days he had failed her, he had wavered in his allegiance.
But he had come back.  He had come back.  Always she remembered that.
And because he had come back, her heart had warmed to him again, against
her will, against her judgment, even in spite of every instinct.  He
belonged to her; that was the thought that flashed with such a burning
intensity through her soul, the thought that refused utterly to be
stifled or put away.  He belonged to her and to none other, trifle or
intrigue as he might.  She was his fate.  How often he had said it!  And
so he would return.  She was sure he would return.  And when he
came--what then?  Ah, what then?




                              CHAPTER XIII

                       THE LAMP BEFORE THE ALTAR


Life at Uncle Edward's was as he had predicted a very quiet affair
indeed, but Maud slipped into it very easily, with a sense of comfort at
her heart.  It had a healing effect upon her.  It stilled the fevered
unrest of her spirit.  It was all so well-ordered, so methodical.  It
soothed her, gave her a sense of normality and peace. Her physical
strength came back to her with a rapidity that surprised herself, and
with its return she found herself beginning to look upon the world with
new eyes, found herself able to thrust dark thoughts and problems into
the background, found herself at rest.

At Uncle Edward's suggestion, she wrote once a week to Jake.  It was not
easy to write, but when her uncle remarked that the young man would
probably come tearing hell-for-leather across England to find out what
was the matter if she didn't, she deemed it the wiser course to follow.
Her letters were very brief, very formal, and the letters she received
in reply were equally so.  She was sure that they were penned in that
cheerless little den of his that faced north and overlooked the
stable-yard.

Bunny's letters were very few and far between.  He was completely
engrossed with the thought of the new life at school upon which he was
about to enter, and it was very plain to Maud that he missed her not at
all.  The fact had ceased to hurt her as poignantly as when she first
discovered it.  Empty though her life was, she had learned by degrees to
do without him.  She was learning day by day to endure that emptiness
with patience, for by some secret instinct she knew that it would not be
her portion for ever.

Not far from her uncle's house, at the corner of a busy street, there
stood an old grey church.  The doors were always open, and one day she
dropped in to rest.

It was the first visit of many.  The place was infinitely peaceful, full
of silence and soft shadows.  A red light burned ever before the altar,
and there were always beautiful flowers upon it, white lilies that never
seemed to fade. She loved to draw near and smell the incense of those
flowers, to gaze upon their shining purity, to feel with awe that the
ground beneath her feet was holy.

She did not often turn her eyes upon the lamp that burned so still and
red.  It was always the flowers that drew her, the fragrance of them
that comforted her soul.

Once, on a golden afternoon in mid-September, she came in late and
stayed for the evening service; and then it was that, sitting in the
body of the church, she found herself gazing, gazing, not at the
flowers, but at the red, mystic flame that burned unflickering before
the altar.  It reminded her of something, that still red
flame,--something that made her want to flee away and hide.  It came
between her and her prayers.  It lay in wait for her in her dreams.

And yet when Sunday evening came and Uncle Edward prepared to sally
forth alone, she put forward a tentative suggestion that she should
accompany him.

He was delighted with the proposal, and as they fared forth together,
his horny old hand was on her arm, making her glad that she was with
him.

They sat near the door, and she was secretly relieved. In the glare of
many lights all down the body of the church, the gleam of that one red
light was swallowed up and she saw only the flowers.  It was a beautiful
service--a harmonious whole in which no individual note was struck. The
man who officiated was young and very quiet, and not till he ascended
the pulpit was she aware of anything out of the ordinary in his
personality.  It came to her then instantaneously, like a flash-light
piercing her soul.  He struck no attitudes, made no visible attempt to
gain the attention of his audience; but it was fully his from the moment
he began to speak.  He preached, not as one delivering a discourse, but
with the absolute simplicity of a man who speaks from his heart.  "Let
your lights be burning," were the words he first uttered, and then
without preamble he began to talk of Love--Love Divine, Unconquerable,
Eternal--Love that stoops but is never small--Love that soars, but is
never out of reach.  He spoke of the great warfare of the spirit, of the
thousand difficulties holding back the soul.  And he declared that Love
was the one great weapon to meet and overcome them all.  "We do not know
the power of Love," he said.  "We only know that it is invincible and
undying--the very Essence of God."  He spoke of spiritual blindness, and
swept it aside as nought.  "We may not all of us be able to believe; but
we can all have Love.  Nothing counts in the same way.  However blind we
may be, we can keep that one lamp burning in the darkness, burning in
the desert, giving light to the outcast, and guiding the feet of the
wanderers."

It was while he was speaking thus that the lights in the body of the
church went down and the red flame before the altar shone clear and
unchanging in the gloom.  Maud's eyes were drawn instantly to it, became
riveted upon it. She sat with bated breath, almost as one who watched a
miracle.  And by some strange telepathy the man in the pulpit became
aware of it also.  He turned towards it.

"Look at that light!" he said.  "It is kept burning perpetually, the
symbol of undying worship, undying Love. Everyone may keep such a light
as that burning always. The spark is ours for the kindling.  It may be
placed before the Altar of an Unknown God.  But none the less is it
offered to His Glory and immortal.  It is not faith or hope that the
soul needs above all things.  It is Love, the power to love, and the
power to create love--the will to offer love perpetually before the
Altar of Love.  It is only love that counts in the long run, only love
that survives.  There may be a thousand other things around us when we
die, good and evil, but the only thing we shall carry with us beyond is
that lamp that we have always kept burning before the altar and never
suffered to go out.  It is no easy thing to keep it always burning in
this world of many failures.  It is bound to flicker sometimes, even to
die down; but while we live, the power to revive it is still ours, the
power to worship God with love."  He paused a moment, turned slowly back
to face the dim nave, and then very quietly he gave utterance to words
that Maud was never to forget.  "We all want Love, hunger for it, starve
for it.  Our lives are mere ash-heaps without it.  But do we all realize
that love is only gained by love, that we must pour out all we have to
win it, that we must purge our hearts of all selfish desire, sanctify
ourselves by self-sacrifice, by the complete renunciation of self,
before the perfect gift can be ours?  Love is a joyful sacrifice.  There
are people whom everyone loves.  They are the people who realize what
Love means, who give and give, without measure, not counting the cost,
rejoicing only in the power to give, till it all comes back to them a
thousandfold.  It is then that the ploughman overtakes the reaper, for
ploughman and reaper are one."

When Maud lay down that night, those words were still running in her
mind.  That unstinted giving, that measureless pouring out, that utter
sacrifice, were these indeed the means by which the desert could be made
to blossom--even for her?

She slept sooner than usual, but the echoes of that quiet voice still
followed her down through the deeps of slumber, till she dreamed that
she was back before that shining altar of flowers.  And a radiance that
was not of earth was all about her--a radiance unimaginable that was
warmth as well as light; and looking up she saw that it came from the
red lamp above her--the symbol of undying Love.

As in a trance she waited, for the wonder of the thing held her
spellbound.  And while she waited, she became aware of someone else in
the holy place, someone who moved stealthily, as if half-afraid.  And
turning, by the light of that revealing glow, she saw her husband with
that look of silent misery in his eyes.

It pierced her then as it had not pierced her before.  She was conscious
of an almost fierce impulse to comfort, an impulse that urged her to
him, banishing all hesitation, all doubt.  She went near to him, she
gave him both her hands. And even as she did so, the look in his eyes
changed.  She saw a deep, still fire come into them.  It seemed to be
reflected from the red lamp above.  He moved forward with her into the
glow.

And suddenly her own eyes were opened and she knew that he loved her--he
loved her....

Then she awoke with a palpitating heart and realized that it was a
dream.




                              CHAPTER XIV

                             THE OPEN DOOR


Not till she had been in her uncle's house for close upon four weeks did
Maud brace herself to speak to him of her mother.  She had been on the
verge of doing so many times, but always, in his bluff fashion, he had
managed to convey to her that the subject was not to be broached.

But for an urgent letter from Mrs. Sheppard herself, she would scarcely
have summoned the courage to break through what was almost a
prohibition, for Uncle Edward was not an easy man to resist; and even as
she did so, she knew with absolute conviction that her effort was
foredoomed to failure.  She scarcely knew how to make it, so
uncompromising was the old man's attitude, and when at last it was made,
when in desperation she forced herself to tell him of her mother's
pitiable plight, she regretted it almost immediately so curtly was her
information received.  She saw that Uncle Edward was really angry though
he said but little.  She also saw that what she said on her mother's
behalf made not the smallest impression upon his will. He heard her out
indeed, but so grimly that at length, feeling that she was presenting
the matter quite inadequately in face of his total lack of sympathy, she
gave him her mother's hysterical appeal to read.

He shook his head at first, but finally, as she pressed it upon him
almost tearfully, he took and read the letter. Then, while anxiously she
watched him, he tore it across and across and flung it back to her over
the table.

"Pshaw!" he said.  "The woman's a hypocrite--a confounded impostor.  I
know her.  You don't.  Leave her alone, and let her sink!"

And with that he stumped angrily from the room with beetling brows and
fiery eyes.

Maud sat very still after his departure.  She had known in her heart
that it was hopeless to appeal to him, but now that the appeal had
failed she was utterly nonplussed. There was no doubt in her mind that
matters were desperate. Her mother had made her realize that, and she
felt she could not write and tell her that she could do nothing. Slight
as was the bond of sympathy between them, still were they mother and
daughter, and she could not fling her off as Uncle Edward recommended.
In a fashion the old man's anger reacted in her mother's favour; for she
was conscious of indignation on her behalf.  Whatever Mrs. Sheppard's
faults might be--and it was quite possible that insincerity was among
them--he had no right to abuse her to her daughter.  It aroused her own
anger, and it aroused also that protective instinct which was never very
far below the surface with her.  When she rose at length, her face was
very pale and determined.  She had not wanted to write to Charlie, but
it seemed that she had no choice.

It was a still, warm afternoon in October.  She went into the
drawing-room, a stiff apartment upholstered in gold brocade, and sat
down at a writing-table in a window-recess to write.

It was the most difficult letter she had ever composed, and yet she had
never experienced the smallest difficulty in writing to him before.  She
could not express herself freely. Words would not come.  She desired to
avoid all reference to what had passed between them on that night of
witchery on which they had last met.  She wanted to blot it out of her
mind and heart, to address him, to regard him, as only a friend.  Ever
since that Sunday evening, now nearly a week ago, she had kept her
thoughts rigidly from straying in his direction.  Had it been possible
she would have put him altogether out of her life.  It was not possible,
and she knew it.  But it was with the greatest reluctance that she set
herself to write to him, and her reluctance displayed itself in every
sentence.

She sat over that letter for the greater part of the afternoon, and when
it was finished at last she felt utterly dissatisfied with it.  She had
an urgent desire to tear it up. But she could not face the writing of
another.  With a weary sigh she closed and stamped the envelope.

It was then that there fell a step outside the drawing-room door, and
Uncle Edward's discreet, elderly maidservant peeped in.

Maud turned in her chair.  "What is it, Martha?"

Martha was about to explain, but broke off with a gasp and drew back.
There was a muttered word in the doorway, and the next moment Martha had
disappeared, and a man's figure stood in the opening.

"Hullo!" said Charlie, with a smile of gay effrontery. "May I come in?"

Maud sat for a second or two as one in a trance and stared at him.  It
was as if the afternoon's labour had suddenly taken concrete form.

He did not wait for her greeting, but came lightly forward with hands
outstretched.  "Ah, queen of the roses," he said, "what a peculiarly
unbecoming setting you have chosen for yourself!  Why--why--what is
that?  A letter to me?  How many times a day do you write them?"

With a lithe, elastic movement, he drew her to her feet, held her a
moment, looking at her, then bent his smiling, swarthy face to hers.

"Greeting, queen of the roses!" he said.

She awoke then, came out of her trance, drew swiftly back from him.
"Oh, Charlie, is it--is it really you?" she said rather incoherently.
"You--how you startled me!"

He let her go, as always, at her desire, but with a faint, monkeyish
grimace of disapproval.  "You were always easily shocked," he said.
"But on this occasion I assure you there is no need.  I found myself in
the neighbourhood, and thought it would be the correct thing to pay you
a morning call."

His queer eyes mocked her openly as he made the explanation.  She felt
discomfited, painfully embarrassed, and withal conscious of an almost
desperate longing to tell him to go.

But she knew she could not do that.  Too much hung in the balance.

"Sit down!" she said, mustering her dignity with an immense effort.
"And I will tell you why I have been writing to you."

"Wouldn't it save trouble to show me the letter?" he suggested, with
easy audacity.  "Or have you decided--now that you have had a further
opportunity of considering my personal charms--that you really can't?"

She flushed at the implied suggestion.  "You can read the letter if you
like," she said somewhat stiffly.  "It is on business."

She held it out to him, and he sank upon one knee to receive it.

"_Merci, ma belle reine_!  Do you wish me to read it in your august
presence?"

"Please!" she said.

He sat facing her, and read it.

She watched his mobile brows as his eyes travelled over the page.  She
saw amusement turn to humour and humour to merriment on his face.  When
he looked up at her at length he was laughing.

"You write as a serf appealing to a feudal lord," he said.  "Did you
mean to write like that?"

She shook her head at him gravely.  "It is not a laughing matter," she
said.

"What I am laughing at is," he rejoined, still smiling with a hint of
derision.  "By the way, have you heard from our worthy cow-puncher
lately?"

She flinched sharply, before she was aware.  Her whole body tingled with
a sudden, burning blush.

And Saltash laughed again wickedly.  "I saw him yesterday.  He was in a
fiendish temper for some reason or other.  Naturally I asked after you,
when he was expecting you back.  What do you think he said?"

"What?"  Maud breathed the word through lips that panted.  Her heart was
beating violently she knew not why.

Saltash's dark face seemed to exult over her agitation. "He said,--you
know his soft, drawly way--'I guess I shall go--shortly--and fetch her
back, my lord.'  I wondered if you were aware of his amiable intention.
There was the most deadly air of determination about him.  I thought you
might like to know."

Maud's face was no longer burning; she was white to the lips.  But she
turned from the subject with composure. "How did you know where to find
me?"

He laughed teasingly.  "You are curiously curious, Maud of the roses.
Don't you yet realize that I always know everything?  For instance, I
know exactly why you are treating me to this wet-blanket reception.  But
you would be angry if I told you; so I won't.  I also know--" he paused
suddenly.  "Shall I say it?  No, perhaps I had better not."

She smiled faintly.  "Perhaps it is beside the point, Charlie.  Do you
mind coming back to the subject of that letter?  It is that that is
troubling me now more than anything else."

"Really?" he said.  "But why should you be troubled? It wouldn't trouble
me to see my arch-enemy in dire straits."

"It is my mother I am anxious about," she said.  "If Giles Sheppard goes
under, she will go too."

Saltash raised his brows in amused interrogation.  "Oh, does that
follow?  I should abandon the sinking ship if I were Mrs. Sheppard.  She
has nothing to gain by sticking to it."

Maud received the remark in silence.  He leaned forward, his dark face
still smiling.

"Do you know I love you for that?" he said.  "_Chere reine des fleurs_,
lady of the golden silences!  Do you ever say what you really think?"

She shook her head.  "Charlie, I am learning--very slowly--a hard
lesson.  Don't--please--make it any harder for me!"

"What?" he said.  "You are really going back to him?"

She put up a hand to her face, almost as if she would hide it from him.
"I don't know--yet--what I shall do. But I do know that it would be
wrong not to go back."

"_Mais vraiment!_" he protested.  "Is life so simple as that?  How do
you arrive at that conclusion?  Do you follow always the easy path of
virtue?"

She looked at him quickly.  "It is not easy!" she said.

He lifted his shoulders.  "No?  But it is--safe at least. And you do not
possess the adventurous soul.  You like to be--safe, _ma belle_, even at
the sacrifice of your very heart. Do you remember that night of
moonshine?  But of course you do.  Do you know that I prowled in the
garden half the night for your sake--just in case you should deem it
worth while to be true to that poor heart of yours?  You went through a
good deal that night, my Maud."  His voice changed subtly; the
half-scoffing note went out of it, a faint warmth of pity took its
place.  "And yet you endured it all in silence.  Why didn't you break
free and come to me?  You knew--and so did he--that I was waiting,--or
you might have known."

Maud's head was bent; she did not attempt to answer him.

He got up abruptly and came to her.  "Good-bye, Maud of the roses!"

She started slightly.  "You are going?"

"Yes, I am going.  I have received my discharge.  My faithful service is
at end--unless--or may I say until?--that message comes to call me
back."  He bent towards her.  "Even I cannot wait for ever."  he said.
"Do you know I stood by the orchard-gate in the rain for two hours on
the day of the races?  You had a visitor, and so I would not intrude
upon you.  But you, _chere reine_,--you knew I was going to be there.
And yet you never came."

She raised her head sharply, moved by something in his tone.  "But how
could I?  How could I?" she said. "Besides,--Jake knew."

He laughed.  "Yes, Jake knew.  He saw me that night of moonshine.  He
nearly challenged me.  And then he changed his mind and passed on.  I
conclude it didn't suit him to quarrel with me.  But what of that?  He
was bound to know some day."

She clasped her hands tightly together.  "If he knew all--he would shoot
you," she said, with a sudden hard shudder.

But Saltash only laughed again, and touched a wisp of her hair.  "Oh, I
don't think so, queen of the roses.  I think he would have pity on my
innocence--if he knew all.  But that isn't the point, you know.  The
point is that you choose bondage with him rather than freedom with me.
And that being so, I can only bow to your ruling.  Once more--good-bye!"

She parted her hands with an effort, and gave him one of them.  "What
about--my mother, Charlie?" she said.

He pressed her fingers lightly.  "I commend her to the kind care of her
worthy son-in-law."

She raised her eyes to his almost incredulously.  "You are going to--to
let them be ruined?"

He smiled at her, flashing his strange eyes.  "It wouldn't do for you to
be under an obligation--a personal obligation--to me, would it?
Jake--you know--Jake might object."

She rose quickly and stood facing him.  "Charlie, please don't jest!"
she urged him, her voice low and very earnest.

His smile became a grimace.  "It rests with you," he said, "whether I
jest my way to the devil or whether I live a godly, righteous and sober
life for evermore.  If it is to be the latter, then I am quite prepared
to fulfil my virtuous devoirs to my prospective mother-in-law.  But if
the former is to be my portion--well, I don't think even St. Peter
himself would have saddled himself with anyone else's.  That is the
position, _chere reine.  Tu comprends maintenant_?"

Yes, she understood.  There was nothing complex in the situation.  She
stood looking at him her hand still in his.

"Then I cannot look upon you as--a friend?" she said at last, almost
under her breath.

He smiled upon her--a sudden, baffling smile.  "But ask yourself that
question, Maud of the roses!" he said. "You will find the answer there
in your own heart, if you seek for it."

She quivered at the words, feeling the subtle attraction of the man even
against her will.

"You have refused to help me," she said.

He bent towards her, his dark face glowing.  "I offer you--all I have,"
he said.  "It is your own, to do with as you will.  But you must take
all or leave all.  Maud, Maud," his speech quickened to sudden
vehemence, "you love me!  Why do you cling to your prison when the door
is standing wide?  Now is your time to escape, if ever.  I will take all
your cares--all your burdens.  You shall be free as air.  Only--now that
the door is open--come!"

"Yes.  I should shut the door another time if I were you," a gruff voice
commented behind them.  "It's a rash thing, young man, to leave the door
open when you're talking confidences.  What are you doing in this house,
I wonder?  Did you come in at the door?"

Both Maud and Saltash had faced round at the first sentence, she with a
sharp exclamation, he with a laugh.

Uncle Edward, his eyes very bright under the beetling brows, stumped up
to them with the air of an old watchdog investigating the presence of a
suspicious stranger. He rasped his throat ferociously as he came.

"Who may you be?" he demanded.

"I?"  Saltash was laughing still, facing the situation with his hands in
his pockets, the soul of careless effrontery. "I don't suppose you have
ever heard my name before.  I am Saltash."

"Who?"  Uncle Edward turned for explanation towards his niece.

"Lord Saltash," she said, in a low voice.

"Oh!  Lord Saltash!"  The old man turned back to him with a sound like a
snarl.  "Yes, I have heard of you before.  You were co-respondent in the
Cressady divorce case a few years back."

Saltash laughed again with easy nonchalance.  "You have a good memory,
sir.  If it serves you as it should, you will also recall the fact that
the case was dismissed."

"I remember--all the facts," said Uncle Edward, with ominous
deliberation, "And as it is not my custom to admit men of your stamp
into my house, you will oblige me by quitting it without delay."

Saltash turned to Maud.  "I am sorry you have been caught in such bad
company," he said.  "Pray explain that I came uninvited!  I shall be at
Burchester for the present.  When you come back, you and your husband
must come and dine.  Good-bye!"

With the unabashed smile still on his ugly face, he turned to go, moving
with the easy arrogance of the ruling race, royally incapable of
discomfiture.

Uncle Edward followed him to the door, and grimly watched his exit.
Then still more grimly he came tramping back.  "And now to pick a bone
with you, my niece!" he said.




                               CHAPTER XV

                           THE DOWNWARD PATH


She stood erect, facing him.  Her face was very pale, but her eyes were
quite unflinching.  There was about her a majesty of demeanour that
might have deterred a less determined man than Uncle Edward.  But he
stood upon his own ground and grappled with the situation quite
undismayed.  He was moreover very angry.

"You young hussy!" he said, bringing out his words with immense
emphasis.  "How dare you have your lover here? Thought you were safe,
eh?  Thought I shouldn't know? Oh, you're like the rest of 'em, crafty
as an eel.  What's the meaning of it, eh?  What have you got to say for
yourself?"

She did not attempt to answer him.  Where her mother would have been
loud in self-justification, she uttered not a word.  Only, after a
moment or two, she turned slowly and sat down at the writing-table,
leaning her chin on her hand as one spent.  Even so, there was an
aloofness in her attitude that conveyed to the wrathful old man beside
her an unpleasant sense of being at a disadvantage.

He stood looking down at her, grievously resentful, striving to select a
weapon sharp enough to pierce her calm.

"I thought you were to be trusted," he said.  "Goodness knows why!  You
didn't seem to have any leaven of your mother about you.  But I see now
I was wrong.  You are just your mother over again.  But if you think you
are going to pursue an intrigue with that aristocratic blackguard in my
house, you're very much mistaken.  No doubt I'm very old-fashioned and
strait-laced.  But there it is.  I object.  I object strongly.  The
man's a liar and a thief and a scoundrel.  Don't you know it, eh?
Haven't you found him out yet?"

He stopped so pointedly for an answer that she could not maintain her
silence longer.  She moved a little, turned her head slightly, without
raising her eyes, and spoke.

"I know him very well.  But--forgive me, Uncle Edward!--I can't discuss
him with you.  I--I am sorry you thought it necessary to insult him."

"Insult him!"  Uncle Edward's anger boiled afresh. "Didn't I catch the
hound making love to you?  Here in my house where I have lived decently
and respectably for over fifty years!  Didn't I catch him, I say--he a
well-known profligate and you a married woman?  Didn't I actually hear
him trying to tempt you from your husband and your duty?  And you were
calmly permitting it.  Look here, young woman!  I've been too kind to
you.  That's the fact of the matter.  You've had too much liberty, too
much indulgence, too much of your own way.  You married in a hurry
against my judgment.  But--by heaven--since you are married, you shall
stick to your bargain! You take a pen now--do you hear?--and a sheet of
paper, and write to your husband this minute, and ask him to come and
join you here!  I won't be surety for you any longer.  Tell him to come
to-morrow!"

But Maud only stiffened as she sat making no movement to comply.  She
looked like a marble statue of Despair.

Uncle Edward came a little nearer to her.  He was not accustomed to
being set at nought.  Most people regarded him as formidable even when
he was in a comparatively genial mood.

"Are you going to do as I tell you?" he said.

She glanced up at him momentarily.  "I think," she said, "we will wait
till to-morrow."

He stamped a furious foot.  "Will we, indeed, madam! Well, you may wait
as long as you please; but I tell you this: If you don't write that
letter--instantly, I shall go straight to the post-office found the
corner and send your husband a telegram to summon him at once.  He will
be here by the morning, if I know him.  And then I shall tell him
exactly why I sent for him.  So now you can take your choice.  Which is
it to be?"

He had moved her at last.  Maud rose to her feet with a suddenness that
was almost suggestive of panic.  "You would never do such a thing!" she
said.  "You could not be so--so wickedly cruel!"

He snapped his jaws like an angry terrier.  "Oh, that would be wicked,
would it?  You have some odd ideas of morals; that's all I can say.  But
wicked or cruel, it's what I mean to do.  So take your choice, and be
quick about it!  For I shan't go back on what I've said.  When a woman
starts on the downward path, she usually takes it at a run; and I won't
be responsible.  So which is it to be? Your letter or my telegram?  Make
up your mind!  Which?"

His manner was almost menacing.  She stood facing with an awful sense of
impotence growing at her heart. To summon Jake herself was a proceeding
that she could not for a moment contemplate, but the bare thought of
Uncle Edward's alternative pierced like a poisoned knife. She felt again
that dreadful trapped feeling of former days.  The liberty she had
enjoyed of late made it all the more terrible.

"I can't decide anything just now," she said at last, and she knew that
her voice trembled painfully.  "Please--please let us wait a little!
There is really no need to send for Jake.  Lord Saltash has gone, and he
will not come back."

"Don't tell me!" said Uncle Edward truculently.  "Even if he doesn't,
how am I to be sure that you won't take it into your head to go to him?
No, my niece, I've heard too much.  Why, he'd have had his arm round you
in another second.  I know--I saw.  If I'd waited another three seconds,
he'd have been kissing you.  And not for the first time, I'll be bound."

The hot colour rushed to Maud's face; she turned sharply aside.

"Ha!  That touches you, does it?" snarled Uncle Edward, with ferocious
triumph.  "I guessed as much. Now which is it to be?  Are you going to
write that letter?"

It was hopeless to carry the discussion further.  A burning wave of
anger went through her, anger that buoyed her up above despair,
stimulating her to a fierce rebellion. She drew herself to her full
height and faced him with supreme defiance.

"I will not write that letter!" she said.  "I will not be forced into a
false position.  If you are tired of me, I will go.  I will not stay--in
any case--to be insulted!"

And with that boldly, with the carriage of an outraged princess, she
swept by him and out of the room, leaving him staring after her in a
fury too great to express itself before the closing of the door.

Up to her room she went, outwardly calm, inwardly raging.  All the old
hot rebellion against destiny had awaked within her.  It had died down
of late, soothed into quiescence by the peaceful solitude in which she
had been living.  But now it had sprung afresh to quivering life. Her
freedom from bondage had given her new strength. She would not be bound
again hand and foot, and thrust back into the old bitter slavery.  It
was too much, too much.  She had her life to live.  It was hers, not
Jake's. She had a right to do with it as she would.

With hands that trembled she began to pack.  Uncle Edward had made it
impossible for her to stay.  If he had not set her feet upon the
downward path, he had sped her upon it with an impetus that drove her
irresistibly.  She worked in a fever, not pausing for thought, conscious
but of the one urgent desire to be gone, to escape--she had scarcely
begun to think whither.

No one came near her during those evening hours. The daylight waned, and
she realized that it was nearing the dinner hour.  Then suddenly it came
to her that she could not face her uncle again.  She must make some
excuse.

Her work was done; she rang the bell.

After a pause Martha came to her.  There was a scared look on the
woman's face.  She seemed half-afraid to meet Maud's eyes.

"Did you ring, ma'am?" she enquired.

"Yes."  With an effort Maud made reply.  "Is--is my uncle in?"

"He's just come in and gone upstairs to dress for dinner, ma'am," Martha
told her.

"Ah!"  Maud's heart contracted a little.  "He has been out some time?"
she said.

"Yes, ma'am, a long time.  He seems a bit out of temper about
something," Martha's round eyes suddenly conveyed sympathy that shone
out to Maud like a beacon in the darkness.  "I shouldn't take much
notice of him, ma'am," she said.  "He often says what he don't mean when
he's in one of his tantrums.  He'll be better in the morning."

Again that awful sense of impotence assailed Maud. She leaned her head
against the door-post, closing her eyes for a second.  What would the
morning bring forth? The thought turned her sick.

"Is there anything as I can do, ma'am?" asked Martha.

"Yes."  Abruptly Maud pulled herself together.  A sudden resolution had
sprung up within her.  She could not face another storm such as that
through which she had just come.  Above all she could not face the
morrow and its possibilities in this house.  She turned back into the
room, and took half a sovereign from the table.  "Martha," she said, "I
have packed everything up, and I am going away.  I want you, please, to
call a cab now, at once, to take me away before my uncle comes
downstairs.  I will write him a note while you are gone.  Please,
please, Martha, be as quick as you can!"

The sympathy in Martha's eyes became a sort of tragic friendliness.  "I
knew as you wouldn't stay, ma'am," she said, "not after the way he
hollered at you.  I wouldn't myself in your place, ma'am; no, that I
wouldn't.  But you see, I've been with him so long.  I don't mind his
rough ways.  I'll go at once, and thank you kindly, ma'am. It won't take
me five minutes.  But, mind you, I think he'll be sorry to lose you."

"I can't help that," Maud made answer.  "It is quite impossible for me
to stay.  He will know why.  But I will write him a note all the same."

And when Martha had gone, she sat down and scribbled two notes.

The first she addressed to her uncle:

"DEAR UNCLE EDWARD,

"I do not think you will be greatly surprised at my leaving you.  After
what has passed, I could not stay.  I am very sorry for what has
happened, but I suppose it had to be.  I wish I could thank you for all
your kindness to me, but I know this is not the time.  So I will only
say good-bye.

"Yours,
       "MAUD."

The second note consisted of one sentence only, "I am going to my
mother.  Maud."  And when she had written it she picked up a tiny packet
of tissue-paper that lay beside her and dropped it into the envelope
with the note.  She addressed the envelope to Lord Saltash, Burchester
Castle, and later she sealed and registered it, stopping at a
post-office to send it on its way.  She believed it would reach its
destination almost as soon as he did.  And that packet--that tiny object
wrapped in tissue-paper--would convey its own message.  No further words
were needed.

She herself went for the night to a small hotel in a back-street that
was not far from her uncle's house.  There would be a train in the early
morning.  She would not travel by night.  Something held her back, some
instinct she did not attempt to fathom.  But she believed that Charlie
would travel by the night-train, and she did not want to see him again
until he had received that packet.  Afterwards--well, the afterwards
would rest with him.

Her sleep was fitful and troubled that night, broken repeatedly by the
persistent chime of a church-clock. Towards morning she slept and
dreamed again that strangely haunting dream of the flower-decked altar
and the red, shining lamp above.  For a space she held herself aloof
from the dream, refusing to yield to it.  But at length it seemed to her
that someone came and took her hand, drawing her forward, and she had no
choice.

Straight into the wondrous glow she went, and presently she knelt before
those flowers of dazzling purity.  The quiet hand still held hers in a
calm and comforting grasp. She felt that she would have been frightened
but for that sustaining hold.

And then suddenly she saw that the candles also were burning upon the
altar, knew that she was kneeling there with Jake, heard a voice above
their heads very low and clear that seemed to be speaking to their
hearts:--"Those whom God hath joined together, let no man put asunder."
...

And turning she found Jake's eyes upon her, alight with adoration....

She awoke with a gasping cry to a seething, passionate regret.  Because
in those first wild moments she knew with an awful certainty that her
feet were set upon the downward path, and she could never turn back
again.




                              CHAPTER XVI

                             THE REVELATION


The autumn dusk was falling as the Fairharbour train crawled at length
into the station.  A sea-fog hung clammily along the shore, and a smell
of burning weeds was in the air.

Maud shivered with cold and weariness as she descended to the platform.
It had been a long, long journey.  Her whole body ached with fatigue.

There were not many travellers, and they had all disappeared before she
had collected her luggage and made her way out into the dank chill of
the station-yard where a rickety cab stood waiting.

She shivered afresh as she got into it.  The dampness and the cold
seemed to penetrate to her very bones.  She sat huddled in a corner.

"Where to, miss?"  The porter thrust a cheery face in upon her, and,
albeit she was veiled, she shrank back with an instinctive desire to
avoid recognition.

"The Anchor Hotel," she said, through teeth that chattered in spite of
her.

She heard him give the order, and in a moment the ramshackle conveyance
was on its way.  They clattered forth over the stones into the clinging
billows of mist.

The cold caught and pierced her anew as they neared the dreary front.
She heard the muffled roar of the sea splashing dully against the wall.
The mist became a wet drizzle beating in through the window.  She tried
to close it, but the strap was broken.  She could only draw her wrap
more closely about her.

The cab horse stumbled, and was dragged up by his driver with a curse.
They were nearing the Anchor Hotel.  She wished she had prepared her
mother for her advent.  She had not dared to do so in case--just in
case--it should come to Jake's knowledge, though she believed that Jake
must be well on his way to Liverpool by now, if he had not already
arrived there.  It was possible that he had not been able to leave at a
moment's notice, and she had not dared to take the chance of any rumour
of her coming reaching him. But now that she was so nearly at the end of
her journey, she wished earnestly that her mother were expecting her.
The thought of meeting Giles Sheppard, asking his hospitality, was
hateful to her.

It would not be for more than that one night.  Of that she was
convinced.  Charlie would be swift to answer her summons, if indeed he
had returned to the Castle.  But he was so erratic in all his ways that
she had some doubt on this point.  If he had not returned--!  But she
could not think of that possibility.  She turned from it with a sick
foreboding.  Surely Fate could not play her so hideous a trick!

They lumbered on.

Suddenly the light from the swinging lamp that hung in the porch of "The
Anchor" burst across their path.  The horse stumbled again, recovered
itself, jolted on a few yards, stopped.  They had arrived.

Maud gathered her energies for one supreme effort though she felt almost
too stiff with cold to move.  The cabman shambled down and opened the
door.

"No one about seemin'ly," he remarked.

She controlled her quivering nerves.  "Perhaps you will get down my
trunk," she said.  "You can leave it in the porch."

The man grumbled to himself, but proceeded to comply, she standing on
the step to watch him.

The mist was beating in from the sea.  Her face was wet with it.  And
yet her dread of entering that house was such that she could hardly
bring herself to open the swing door, debating with herself if even then
she might not run up the hill to the house in which they had lodged a
year before--only a year before--and obtain shelter for the night there.

The darkness and the rain deterred her.  Her courage seemed to have
quite left her.  In the end she turned with a species of dreary
desperation and pushed back the heavy door.

The entrance-hall was empty, vaguely lit by one flaring gas-jet round
which the fog-wreaths curled and drifted in the draught, cold as a
vault, and smelling of stale tobacco-smoke.  The place looked bare and
poverty-stricken, almost squalid.  The rugs were gone from the floor,
the pictures from the walls.

The door swung closed behind her, and she felt as if she stood inside a
prison.  The office-window was shut, and no sound came from any quarter.
Only through the desolate silence there came the sullen thump of the sea
against the wall, like the waning struggle of a giant grown impotent
with long and fruitless striving.

The utter solitude of the place began to possess her like an evil dream.
She stood as one under a spell, afraid to move.  And then, quite
suddenly, she heard a step.

The impulse came to her then to flee, but she did not obey it.  She
stood stiffly waiting.  Even if it were Giles Sheppard himself, she
would meet him before she went out into the dripping dark outside.

It was not Giles Sheppard.  A man in a tweed suit and black gaiters,
square-shouldered, rather short than tall,--a man of bull-dog
strength--came suddenly upon her from the interior of the house.  She
heard the jingle of spurs upon the stones of the hall, caught one glance
of a sunburnt, dominant face and hair that shone like burnished copper
in the light; and then she was tottering blindly backwards, groping,
groping for the door by which she might escape.

He came to her ere she could open it, and in a moment she became rigid,
as one fascinated into passivity.  He took her ice-cold hands and held
them.

"Why, Maud!  Maud!" he said, in the tone of one who would comfort a
child.

A great shiver went through her at his touch; but she stood speechless.
His face swam before her shrinking vision.  She felt sick and faint.

"Snakes!" he said.  "You're perished with cold.  Say, why didn't you
tell me you were coming?"  Then, as still she could not speak: "Come
along into the office! There's no one there; and I'll soon have a fire
for you. You lean on me, my girl!  It'll be all right."

His arm went round her; he supported her strongly. The warmth of his
body sent a faint glow through her. Almost without knowing it, she
leaned upon him.

He took her into the deserted office, put her into a chair by the empty
fireplace, lighted the gas, then knelt to kindle the fire.  The wood was
damp; he coaxed it to burn, blowing at the unwilling flame, his head in
the smoke.

"Say, that's better," he said softly at length.  "Now I'm going to give
you something you'll hate, but I reckon you'll take it to please me.
Won't you?"

He still knelt beside her, but there was no hint of authority, no
possessiveness, in his bearing.  Rather there was about him a curious
something that was almost like humility.

She watched him dumbly as he pulled a small glass flask out of his
pocket and withdrew the cork.  He turned to her as he did it, and for an
instant she met his eyes. The old hot glow was wholly gone from them.
She missed it with an odd sense of shock.  Only kindness shone out at
her; only friendliness was in the clasp of the hand he laid on hers.

"You'll take it?" he said, in his voice of soft persuasion, "It's raw
spirit; but it's not going to do you any harm. Just a drop, and then
I'll feel easier about you!  There now, if that's not real good of you!"

He was pressing it gently upon her; and she could not refuse.  She took
the flask from him and drank a burning drain.

"Has it gone?" said Jake.

She nodded silently, feeling the glow of the spirit spreading through
her veins and the deadly coldness at her heart giving place to it.

He smiled upon her, his pleasant, sudden smile, and took the flask back
into his own keeping.  Then he bent again to the fire, blowing at it
persistently, patiently, till it shot up into a blaze.

She watched him as one in a dream--a dream from which all nightmare
horror had been magically banished. This--this was the old Jake to whom
she had once turned in trouble, in whose arms she had sobbed out her
misery and despair.  This was Jake the friend into whose keeping she had
given her life.

He straightened himself again, coughing a little.  She caught again the
gleam of the red-brown eyes, seeking hers.

"Better now?" he asked her.

She bent her head.  "Yes, I am all right now. You--you--I didn't expect
to see you here."

"Guess it was a mutual surprise," said Jake.  "What brought you anyway?"

Her heart gave a sudden quick throb of dismay.

Actually she had forgotten the desperate resolution that had urged her
for so long.  She turned her face quickly from him.  "I--came--to--to
see my mother," she faltered.

He raised his brows momentarily.  "She wasn't expecting you, sure," he
commented.

"No," she felt her cheeks burning, and strove still further to avoid his
look.  "No.  It--it was a--surprise visit."

There fell a brief silence upon her words, and while it lasted, she sat
in tense suspense, waiting--waiting for him to pounce upon her secret
and drag it to the light. She dared not look at him kneeling there
beside her, dared not meet the awful scrutiny of those lynx-eyes. Such
was her agitation that she scarcely dared even to breathe.

And then an amazing thing happened.  Jake's hand was suddenly laid upon
her knee, pressing it reassuringly. "Well," he said in his casual drawl,
"I reckon you've come in the nick of time so far as your mother is
concerned. Your amiable step-father has cleared out bag and baggage, and
left her to face the music.  He pawned everything he could lay his dirty
hands on first, and the place is empty except for the old ostler who is
serving behind the bar till further orders."

"Oh Jake!"  Startled, Maud turned back to him.  "And what is my mother
doing?"

There was a faintly humorous twist about Jake's lips as he made reply.
"Your mother has gone to bed in hysterics.  I can't get out of her what
exactly she means to do.  P'raps you will be more successful.  I came
down this morning as soon as I got the news of Sheppard's departure, and
tried to persuade her to come along to the Stables; but she wouldn't
hear of it.  She's got some idea at the back of her mind, I gather; or
maybe the Stables aren't aristocratic enough.  Anyway, there was no
moving her.  I've been up at Tattersall's all day. Only got back half an
hour ago.  I thought I'd look in again here, and see how things were
going before I went home.  But they haven't moved any since this
morning, and she is still in bed with hysterics."

He had not been home all day; he had received no message.  The thought
darted through Maud with a suddenness that nearly made her gasp with
relief.  He did not know of Uncle Edward's summons.  And then she
remembered that it must be awaiting him, and her heart sank again.

"You're shivering still," said Jake gently.

"It's nothing," she made answer.  "It's nothing."  And then desperately:
"You--you didn't get--a telegram from Uncle Edward--last night?"

"I?" said Jake.  "No.  What should he wire to me for?"

She hesitated a second, then feverishly faced the danger that menaced
her.  "You--I expect you will find a message waiting for you.  We--we
had a disagreement yesterday.  That's why I came away."

Jake's brows met abruptly.  "Hasn't he been treating you properly?"

"Oh, it's not that.  I--I can't tell you what it was. But--he said he
should wire to you--to go to Liverpool."

Maud's hands clasped each other very tightly.  She was striving with all
her strength for composure.  But she could not bring herself to look him
in the face.

"And so you came away," Jake said slowly.

She nodded, swallowing down her agitation.  "I didn't want to meet
you--like that.  I didn't know what was in the telegram."

Jake's fingers patted her knee gently.  "And so you came back here for
refuge!  All right, my girl!  You needn't be afraid.  Uncle Edward may
go to blazes.  I shan't read that telegram."

He stooped with the words, picked up a fragment of burning stick that
had fallen at her feet, and tossed it back into the flames.

Maud uttered a sharp exclamation.  "Jake!  You'll be burnt!"

He looked up at her with a smile.  "I guess not," he said. "And now that
that matter is disposed of, you'll maybe like to go and see your
mother."

She met his eyes with a feeling that she could do no less. "You're very
good," she said, with an effort.

His smile broadened.  "Then it's the cheapest form of goodness I know,"
he said.  "If your Uncle Edward were a little younger, I'd give myself
the pleasure of accepting his invitation just for the sake of
administering the kicking he deserves.  However, we won't waste time
discussing him.  Are you going to spend the night here along with your
mother?"

He seemed bent upon making things easy for her.  His attitude amazed
her.  She kept asking herself again and again if this could be the man
from whom she had fled in bitterness of spirit all those weeks ago.

She hesitated to answer his question.  She was painfully uncertain of
the ground beneath her feet.  Almost she expected it to cleave asunder
at any moment and reveal the raging fires that once had scorched her
soul.

But Jake did not suffer her to remain in suspense.  Very quietly he
filled in her hesitation.  "Maybe you'd sooner stay here," he said, in
his soft, rather sing-song voice.  "It's up to you to decide.  Guess I
shan't interfere any with your movements."

His one hand still lay on her knee.  It pressed upon her a little as
though seeking to convey something that she was slow to grasp.

Her doubt subsided under the steady touch.  She suddenly knew beyond all
questioning that she stood on solid ground.  Yet it was not without
difficulty that she answered him.  "I think--perhaps--for to-night--I
will stay with her."

Jake nodded with his face to the flames.  "It's up to you," he said
again.

She looked at his bent head, conscious of a new distress. How was she
going to repay him for this his goodness to her?  He was trusting her
blindly.  He had refused to let his eyes be opened.  For she knew he
would keep his word about that telegram.  Jake always kept his word.

Her distress grew, became almost unbearable.  She saw herself in a new
and horrible light, and shrank in anguish of soul from the revelation.
It was as if upon that downward path she had suddenly caught a glimpse
of the precipice at the end, the cruel rocks, the dreadful fall, the
black, seething whirlpool below.  And her whole being revolted.  All
that was pure in her made swift outcry.

If Jake--Jake--had climbed back to the old high ground, surely she could
do the same!  Surely she could do no less.  He trusted her--he trusted
her!  How could she go on?

The wild tempest of feeling rushed through her, and passed.  She was
left very cold, striving desperately to suppress a fit of shuddering
that threatened to overwhelm her.

Jake was not looking at her.  He seemed unaware of her agitation.  After
a moment he took his hand away, and rose.

He began to feel in his pockets, produced his clay pipe and
tobacco-pouch; then suddenly paused.  "Do you mind if I light up?  I'm
just going."

"Oh, please do!" she said.

He began to fill the pipe with minute care.  "Don't let your mother take
too much out of you!" he said.  "Have a meal and turn in as early as you
can!  Guess you're needing a good rest."

She leaned her head on her hand.  "Yes.  I am tired."

Jake was silent again for a space.  Finally he put the pipe into his
mouth and shook the tobacco back into his pouch.  Then in a curiously
hesitating voice, he spoke. "Say,--Maud!"

She gave a start, and raised her head.  He was looking down at her with
a faint smile in his eyes, a smile that struck her as being whimsical
and yet curiously wistful also.

"I just want to tell you, my girl," he said, "that you're not to be
scared of me any more.  Reckon you've had a hell of a time all your
life, but it's to come to an end right now.  For the future, you do the
asking and I the giving. You're boss, and don't you forget it!  I'm your
man, not your master, and I'll behave accordingly.  Guess I'll even lie
down and let you kick me if it'll make you happy any."

Maud was gazing at him in open amazement long before he had finished his
astounding speech.  The slow utterance, half-sad, half-humorous, was
spoken with the full weight of the man's strength of purpose.  Every
word came with the steady force of unwavering resolution.  There was a
touch of the superb about him even with that unlighted pipe between his
teeth.  And every word seemed to pierce her with a deeper pain, pain
that was well-nigh unendurable.

As he uttered the last deliberate sentence, she rose quickly with a
gesture of protest.  She could bear no more.

"Jake, you--you--you hurt me!" she stammered incoherently.

He put out a hand to her.  "No--no!" he said.  "That was not my
intention."

It was almost as though he pleaded with her for some species of
clemency.  She was sure she read entreaty in the red-brown eyes.  But
she could not lay her hand in his. She could not--she could not!  She
stood before him panting, speechless, shaken to the very foundations of
her being.

His hand fell.  "I just want you to be happy, my girl, that's all," he
said gently; "happy after your own notions of happiness.  Maybe there
ain't room for me in the general scheme of things.  If that's so,--I
reckon I'll stay outside."

He turned aside with the words and struck a match to kindle his pipe
with the air of a man who has said his say. Then while she still watched
him, he puffed a great cloud of smoke into the air, straightened
himself, and made her an odd, clumsy bow.

"I'm going now.  So long!" he said.

And so, without further parley, he left her, striding away in his
square, purposeful fashion without a backward glance.

Only when he was gone did it flash upon her that this--this--was her
dream come true.  All unknowing, wholly without intention, he had opened
her eyes.  And she knew that he loved her--he loved her!




                              CHAPTER XVII

                            THE LAST CHANCE


"It's a cruel world," complained Mrs. Sheppard. "Nothing ever goes
right, and no one ever thinks of anybody but themselves."  She wiped her
eyes pathetically. "I'm sure I've always tried to consider others.  And
this is the result.  In my hour of need I am forsaken by everybody."

"It's no good fretting," Maud said very wearily.  "We must think what is
best to be done."

She realized that her mother was in her most unreasonable mood, and she
felt herself powerless to cope with it.  Yet the situation had to be
faced, and with a heavy heart she faced it.

"My dear, I've thought and thought till my brain refuses to work," said
Mrs. Sheppard plaintively.  "What is the good of it?  You know as well
as I that if Charlie refuses to help, all hope is gone.  And you say he
has refused."

"Yes."  Maud was stooping over the kettle that she was boiling in her
mother's bedroom.  "He has refused."

"Unconditionally?"  Mrs. Sheppard sent a sudden keen glance across at
the slim, drooping figure and noted the weariness of its pose.  "Maud,
tell me!  Unconditionally?"

Maud remained bent.  "I am not going to accept his conditions," she
said, after a moment.

"Then he made conditions?"  The question came sharp and querulous from
the bed.

"One condition."  Maud bent a little lower.

"What was it?  My child, you must tell me.  I have a right to know."
Mrs. Sheppard raised herself to a sitting position.  "What was this
condition?"

Maud did not turn.  "What does it matter what it was as I am not going
to accept it," she said.

"You have refused?"

"I am going to refuse."  There was utter weariness in her voice.  She
spoke as one to whom nothing mattered any more.

"Maud!  Then you haven't actually refused him yet?"  Mrs. Sheppard
suddenly flung out her arms. "Maud--darling, come and tell me all about
it!" she urged. "There is something behind that you haven't told me yet.
Come here, dearest!  Come to me!"

Maud turned an unwilling face over her shoulder.  "I am too tired
to-night, Mother," she said.  "Besides, there is really nothing to tell.
Charlie made me a certain proposal which--which I thought for a little
that I might accept.  I now realize that I can't and--and--" a faint
quiver of vehemence crept into her voice,--"I want to forget that I ever
thought I could.  Please let me forget!"

"My dear child!  Do you mean that he made you a proposal of marriage?"
The eagerness of Mrs. Sheppard's query was scarcely veiled.  Her eyes
had the look of one in search of treasure.

"Yes; just that."  The emotion had gone out of Maud's voice again.  It
sounded flat and mechanical.  She leaned her arm upon the mantelpiece
for support.  "I ought not to have suffered it.  I was to blame more
than he.  He has always been--that sort.  I--haven't."

"But, my dear, you have always loved each other.  Why should either of
you be to blame?  The fault was certainly yours in the first place for
sending him away long ago; but now--now----"

"Now I am married to another man," Maud said.

Mrs. Sheppard clapped her hands together in a sudden access of
impatience.  "A man for whom you have not the smallest respect or
affection!  A man of intemperate habits who took advantage of a weak
moment to marry you, who has made you utterly miserable, and deserves
nothing from you but the utmost contempt!  My dear Maud, I always
thought that you were proud and fastidious. Didn't Charlie always call
you his queen rose?  How can you--how can you--regard that farcical
marriage of yours as binding?  How can you contemplate ruining your own
life and Charlie's also now that another chance has been given you?  It
is sheer wilful folly.  It is madness.  Or is it that you are
just--afraid?"

Maud shook her head.  "I don't suppose you would ever really understand,
Mother," she said.  "Anyhow I don't know how to explain.  But I can't do
it--now.  I thought I could.  I came back because I thought I could. But
now I am here--now I have seen Jake--I find I can't."

"That is because you are afraid," declared Mrs. Sheppard, "He has
terrorized you.  But, oh, my dear, do try to break away from that!  Do
think of yourself--and of Charlie who has loved you all these years!
One great effort--only one--and you will be free from this horrible,
unnatural bond.  I know that Charlie will be true to you. You are the
one woman so far as he is concerned.  And he--he is the one man, dear,
isn't he?  You can't--surely you can't--bear to disappoint him now!
Think of the years to come!  Think of the life-happiness waiting for you
if you only muster the strength now to grasp it!  Maud, my darling, my
own girlie, can't you be brave just this once when so much hangs upon
it?  He will take you away in his yacht, and you will be all in all to
each other.  You will find all the good things you have missed till now;
and this dreadful year will fade away like a dream.  Oh, darling, surely
you will make this one great effort to gain so much!  The chance will
never come again to you.  It is the one chance of your life,--the last.
How can you bear to throw it away?"

"And what of Jake?"  Maud spoke the words as though uttering her thought
aloud.  She was gazing downwards at the steaming kettle and the red-hot
glow of the fire.

"Jake!"  Mrs. Sheppard's reply was instant and contemptuous. "He will
marry a girl in his own station who will satisfy all his desires.  You
can't honestly imagine that you have done that, that he regards his
marriage with you as a success!  He may be annoyed at your preference,
but he will be as glad as you are to be rid of his bargain. It will be
the greatest kindness you can do him--if you want to be kind.  You know
you hate him from the bottom of your heart."

"Mother!  You're wrong!"  Sharply--as though stung to action--Maud
turned.  "I don't hate Jake.  He--he is too good a man--too upright a
man--to hate.  It is true I haven't been happy with him, but that has
not been his fault.  Our ideas of happiness are not the same, that's
all."

Mrs. Sheppard stared in momentary discomfiture at this sudden display of
strength.  She had not expected serious resistance in this quarter.  But
she was quick to rally her forces.

"Oh, I don't blame him entirely," she said.  "As you say, you are
utterly unsuited to each other.  But it is sheer nonsense to call him a
good man.  I know that he is often the worse for drink.  I have seen him
myself flogging his horses down on the beach as no man in his sober
senses would dream of doing.  He is an utter brute at heart.  There is
no getting away from that fact.  He may not be a wholly bad man.  I have
not said that he is.  But he is a man of violent impulses.  He knows
nothing of the refinements of life.  He is a brute."

Mrs. Sheppard paused.  Maud was standing mute and motionless with tragic
eyes fixed before her.

After a moment or two to give her words time to sink in, Mrs. Sheppard
continued on a note of pathos.

"You may say to me that I have made exactly the same mistake myself.
But then, I did it for you children.  And it was not the whole of my
life that I had to offer.  But you,--you are young.  Your good time is
yet to come.  And think, dear, think how much depends upon you!  If
Charlie dies unmarried, there will be no one to succeed him.  He is the
last of the Burchesters.  And if he doesn't marry you, I am sure he will
never marry any other woman.  He loves you so devotedly.  Through all
his peccadilloes, he has always remembered you, come back to you.  Are
you going to let him be lonely always because of his love for you?  He
has laid the greatest gift in the world at your feet, dear.  Oh, grasp
it while you can!  Don't let the whole of his manhood, your womanhood,
be one long and fruitless regret!"

It was the climax of her pleading.  The tears were running down her face
as she reached it, and she did not check them too readily though she
knew that she had made an impression.  Victory would not come at once,
she fully realized.  The stony immobility of Maud's attitude told her
that.  But she had laid her plans with craft.  She believed that by the
exercise of extreme patience victory might ultimately be achieved.

"There, darling!  You're very tired," she said, as she slowly dried her
eyes; "much too tired to see anything in its proper light to-night.  You
must go to bed and sleep.  You will see things much more clearly in the
morning.  And shall I tell you a secret?"  She smiled, a wistful, loving
smile.  "Charlie will be at the Castle to-morrow afternoon."

"How do you know, Mother?"  Maud spoke quickly as one suddenly awakened.

"How do I know?  But everyone knows," Mrs. Sheppard answered vaguely.
"The yacht is in the harbour, and they are getting her ready for a trip.
Darling, the kettle is boiling at last.  Mind how you take it off!  Oh
dear, I'm very tired.  I hope I shan't end my days in the workhouse. So
trying to have to make one's bed every day.  Good night, darling!  No
tea for me, thank you.  I haven't the heart to drink it.  There's a bed
made up in the room next to this.  I hope you will find it comfortable.
Good night, dear!  Good night!"

The words went into a deep sigh.  Mrs. Sheppard sank down upon her
pillow.  And Maud turned with a set face, and prepared to leave her for
the night.

Yes, her mother's words had made an impression upon her.  They had
voiced all the doubt and turmoil in her own sad heart.  But they had not
blotted out that vision of the precipice, the rocks, and the black,
black whirlpool that awaited her at the end of the downward path.

Neither had they wholly taken from her the memory of a man's eyes,
straight and honest and strangely appealing, that had looked into hers
only a couple of hours before.

Above her mother's warnings, above all the trouble and the tumult of her
soul, she heard a voice within, clear, insistent, indomitable: "Love is
only gained by love.  We must pour out all we have to win it, purge our
hearts of all selfish desire, sanctify ourselves by the complete
renunciation of self, before the perfect gift can be ours."

The perfect gift!  The perfect gift!  She had almost ceased to believe
in it.  But that night she dreamed that she had it in her grasp.




                             CHAPTER XVIII

                             THE WHIRLPOOL


"Well, Billings, you're looking as cadaverously blooming as ever.  How
do you do it, man?  Did someone give you an over-dose of respectability
in your youth?"

Saltash leaned back in his chair smiling up at his wry-faced servitor
with insolent humour.

Billings, the decorous, betrayed not the smallest sign of surprise or
resentment.  It was said of him that when Saltash had once in a fit of
anger flung a wine-glass at his head, he had knelt and collected the
fragments and mopped up the wine before he had dreamed of retiring to
attend to the cut on his face that the glass had inflicted.

On the present occasion he made response with the utmost gravity.  "I
can't say, my lord.  Shall I light the fire, my lord?"

"Oh yes, it's a filthy day, typical of a filthy climate. Yes, light the
fire, and pull down the blinds, and let's be comfortable!"

"It won't be dark yet, my lord," observed Billings, with a glance at the
clock.

Saltash's eyes went in the same direction.  It was not quite three
o'clock.  "What of that, good Billings?  I please myself," he said.  "By
the way, you might take coffee up to the music-room.  Leave it to brew
up there! And when Mrs. Bolton calls tell her I'm out, but I shall be
back in a very short time!  Ask her to wait in the music-room, and pour
her out some coffee!  Light the red lamp by the piano, but leave the
rest!  Is that quite clear, Billings?"

"Quite clear, my lord."

Billings was on his knees before the fire.  Saltash leaned forward in
his chair.

"Be sure you get her to have some coffee, Billings!" he said.  "Tell her
I specially recommend it."

"Very good, my lord."  Billings spoke with his head nearly touching the
logs of wood he was seeking to kindle. "I quite understand, my lord."

Saltash got to his feet.  "I'll give you a gold watch if you succeed,
Billings," he said.

"You're very good, my lord," said Billings.

Saltash wandered down the hall.  He had a cigarette between his lips,
but he was not smoking.  He reached the marble statue near the grand
staircase and pressed a switch that flooded it with light.  Then he
stood before it, silent and intent.  White and wonderful the anguished
figure shone, but it was rather a figure of death than life.  Its purity
was almost dazzling.  Its very agony was unearthly.

Saltash frowned abruptly and switched off the light. Then for a space he
stood in the gloom, staring at the vague outline.

Billings came up behind him soft-footed, unobtrusive. "The rose light,
my lord, was placed on the other side according to your lordship's
orders," he said deferentially, and passed on as if he had not spoken.

Saltash glanced over his shoulder momentarily, and resumed his silent
contemplation of the figure in the shadows.

Several seconds passed.  Then very suddenly he moved again, bent swiftly
and pressed another switch.  In a moment the figure was fully visible
again, but no longer did it dazzle the eyes with its whiteness.  A soft
rose radiance surrounded it.  It glowed into life, pulsing, palpitating
flesh and blood.

And the man's eyes suddenly kindled as they passed over the naked,
straining form.  "I have you now, my Captured Angel," he murmured.

He stood and feasted upon the vision.  Once he stretched a hand to touch
the faultless curve of the breast, but checked himself with an odd,
flickering smile as though he did reverence whimsically to a sacred
element in which he had no faith.  The agonized shame of the thing,
poignant, arresting, though it was, seemed wholly to pass him by.  His
queer, glancing eyes saw only the unveiled voluptuousness of the form,
the perfect contour of the limbs, the exquisite moulding of each full
and gracious line.  He dwelt upon them all with the look of an epicure.
He moved again at length, drew near to the statue, reached a hand to the
dark panelling of the recess behind.  It slipped inwards noiselessly,
disclosing a narrow doorway.  In a moment he had passed through, and the
great hall was empty; empty save for that figure of tragic womanhood,
rose-lighted, piteously alive, standing out against the shadows.

It was nearly half an hour later that an electric bell sounded through
the silence, and Billings, the respectable, came noiselessly through the
hall.  He swung the great door open with a well-bred flourish.

A woman's figure clad in a streaming waterproof stood on the step, and
in a low voice asked for Lord Saltash. Billings stood back with a deep
bow.  "Will you walk in, madam?"

She entered and stood on the mat.  He took her umbrella and set it
aside.

"Will you permit me to remove your waterproof, madam?" he suggested.

She seemed to hesitate, but in a moment yielded.  "But I can only stay a
few moments," she said.  "Please tell him so!"

"Quite so, madam!"  Billings was deftly removing the wet garment.  "Up
in the music-room, if you please, madam."

She suffered his ministrations in silence; only as he turned to lead the
way she shivered suddenly and uncontrollably.

She followed him up the dim hall.  They approached the rose-lit statue.
Her eyes were drawn to it.  She stopped as though involuntarily, stopped
and caught her breath as if in sudden surprise or dismay.  Then quickly
she passed on.

They ascended the grand staircase in solemn procession, and reached the
music-room door.

Again Billings stood back for her to enter, but when she had done so, he
closed the door, remaining within.

The great room was dim and shadowy, heavy with some mysterious Eastern
fragrance that hung in the air like incense.  It was lighted by two red
fires that burned without flame and a red-shaded lamp that shed a
mysterious arc of light far away by the piano.

There was a small table by the further fire, and on this a silver
coffee-pot hissed over a spirit-lamp.  A low divan--so low that it
looked a mere pile of luxurious cushions--stood invitingly close.
Billings deferentially led the way thither.

"If you will be pleased to take a seat, madam," he said. "His lordship
will not keep you waiting long."

"Is he out?" Maud asked quickly.

"He has been out, madam.  He came in wet through and is changing.  He
begged very particularly that you would drink a cup of coffee while you
awaited him."

He indicated the divan, but Maud remained on her feet. The atmosphere of
the place disturbed her.  It seemed to be charged with subtleties that
baffled her, making her vaguely uneasy.

She had come in answer to a message accompanying a great bunch of
violets that had reached her that morning. She had not wanted to come;
but for this once it seemed imperative that she should meet him face to
face, and explain that which she felt no written words could ever
express.  She had sent him her rash summons, and he had replied by that
bunch of violets and the request that she would come to him since he did
not wish to risk interruption from "_madame la mere_."  On this point
she had been fully in accord with him, and she had sent back word that
she would come in the afternoon, just to speak with him for a few
minutes. She had hoped that he would gather from that that since the
sending of her summons she had repented of her madness. It would not be
an easy interview, she was sure; but she was not afraid of Charlie.  She
hated the thought of hurting him all the more because she did not fear
him.  He would let her go; oh yes, he would let her go.  He had never
sought to hold her against her will.  But that very fact would make the
parting the more bitter.  His half-whimsical chivalry was somehow harder
to face than any fury of indignation.  He had hurt her at their last
interview, hurt and disappointed her.  But yet the man's fascination
overpowered all thought of his shortcomings. Already she had almost
forgotten them.

She stood before the fire, absently watching the servant as he busied
himself over the coffee, till the aromatic scent of it suddenly brought
her out of her reverie.

"Oh, thank you," she said.  "I don't think I will have any.  I have only
come for five minutes' talk with Lord Saltash."

"His lordship particularly desired that you would take a cup, madam,"
the man replied.  "It is a very special Egyptian brew."  He turned round
with a small silver cup on a salver which he decorously presented.  "It
is supposed to be particularly pleasing to a lady's palate, madam," he
said.

She did not want the coffee, but it seemed ungracious to refuse it.  She
took the cup and set it on the mantelpiece.

"It should be drunk very hot, madam," said Billings persuasively.  "Will
you be so very kind, madam, as to taste it, and tell me if it is to your
liking?"

She hesitated momentarily, but it was too small a matter to refuse.  She
took the cup by its slender handle and put it to her lips.  Instantly it
was as if a warm current of life went through her, a fine, golden thread
of delight.

She looked at Billings and smiled.  "It is--delicious," she said.

Billings looked gratified.  "The second cup is generally considered even
better than the first, madam," he said.

"Oh, I won't take more than one, thank you," she said.

And Billings retired, closing the door soundlessly behind him.

Maud lifted the cup again to her lips.  Its fragrance pervaded all her
senses.  It was unlike anything she knew, and yet in some subtle fashion
it made her think of palms and orange-groves, and the strong sunshine of
the East.  It presented before her mind a vivid picture of beauties that
she had never seen.  She drank again; and again that strange sense of
dawning bliss came to her. It was like the coming of a tropic morning
after a long, black night.  Her anxiety was magically lifted from her; a
sensation of pure gladness, of warmth of soul and body began to possess
her.  It was like drinking in the pure essence of sunshine.  All things
seemed easy, all difficulties were smoothed away.  She was sure that
Charlie would understand and be content.  Had he not promised to be to
her whatever she wished?

She drained the cup, and set it down.  It seemed a little strange to her
that her hand should be trembling as she did so; for all her misgivings
had vanished.  She had stepped as it were into a garden of delight.  A
strange, unearthly happiness was hers.  It was as if her life had been
suddenly and mysteriously filled to the brim with all that she could
desire.

The only thing lacking was music.  She looked across at the grand piano
lighted with that one red lamp, and a haunting memory came to her--came
to her.  She saw the altar and the glow of the undying flame before it;
but the flowers--the white lilies of purity--where were they?

A vague distress came to her, filtering as it were through locked
senses, dispelling the golden rapture, dimming her dream.  She moved
over the polished floor, drawn by that red arc of light.  She reached
the piano.  She stood before it.  And then her dream changed.

The vision of the altar faded, faded.  She slipped down before the
gleaming keys.  She struck a soft, sweet chord. And with it the former
magic took her.  The sun and the orange-groves were hers again, and a
blue, blue gleam of sea came into the picture like the last touch of
romance into a fairy-tale.  As one beneath a spell she sat and wove her
vision into such music as she had never contemplated before....

As of old, she never knew quite when he came to her. She only realized
very suddenly that he was there.  His dark face gleamed down at her in
the lamplight.  His odd eyes sent a mocking invitation into hers.

Again her vision was swept away.  Her hands fell from the piano, and
were caught in the same instant into his.

"Oh, Charlie!" she gasped incoherently.

He drew her close, laughing at her with half-teasing tenderness.  "Oh,
Maud!" he said.  "O queen of all the roses!"

But she hung back from him.  It was almost as if something dragged her
back.  "I--I have something to say to you," she faltered confusedly.  "I
came to say it.  What was it?  Oh, what was it?"

His swarthy face was bending nearer, nearer.  She saw the humorous lift
of his black brows.  "You have said it," he told her softly.  "There is
nothing left to say.  There will never again be any need for words
between us two."

He laughed at her again with a kind of kingly indulgence. His arms went
round her, pressing her to him, ignoring her last, quivering effort to
resist.  His lips suddenly found her own.

And then it was that her eyes were opened, and her memory came back.  In
a flash of anguished understanding she was brought face to face with the
realities of life.  She knew that she had been enmeshed in a dream of
evil delight, drawn unaccountably, by some hidden, devilish strategy to
the very edge of that precipice that she had striven so desperately to
avoid.

In that moment she would have torn herself free, but her strength was
gone.  Her body felt leaden and powerless; her throat too numb to utter
any protest.  Her visions had all fallen away from her, but she thought
she heard the roar of the whirlpool below.  And through all she was
madly conscious of the lips that pressed her own, the arms that drew her
closer, always closer, to the gulf.

She thought that her senses were leaving her, so utterly helpless had
she become.  An awful cloud seemed to be hanging over her,--slowly,
slowly descending.  Faintly she tried to pray for deliverance, but his
lips stilled the prayer. Against her will, as one horribly compelled,
she knew that she returned his kiss.

And then she was lying on the low divan with Charlie beside her, holding
her, calling her his queen, his captured angel--his wife.

She did not know exactly what happened afterwards, for a great darkness
took her.  She only knew that she was suddenly lifted and borne away.
She only heard the rush of the whirlpool as it closed over her head.




                              CHAPTER XIX

                           THE OUTER DARKNESS


Something was waking her.  Someone seemed to be knocking on the outer
door of her brain.  She came back to consciousness as one returning from
a far, far journey that yet had occupied but a very brief space of time.
An inner sense of urgency awoke and responded to that outer knocking.
As through a maze of disconnected impressions she heard a voice.

"I give you ten seconds, my lord," it said.  "Just--ten--seconds!"

The words were absolutely quiet, they sounded almost suave; but the
deadly determination of them smote upon her like the call of a trumpet.
She started up.

The next instant she was staring about her in utter bewilderment.  She
was lying on a deep couch in a room she had never seen before, a
strange, conical chamber, oak-panelled, lighted by a domed skylight.  It
was furnished with bizarre Eastern luxury.  The couch on which she lay
was a nest of tiger-skins.

But she saw these details but vaguely.  That voice she had heard had
made all else of no importance.  It had spoken close to her, but it was
not in the room with her, and she could not for the moment tell whence
it had come. She could only listen with caught breath for more, listen
with starting eyes fixed on the stuffed skin of a cobra poised on a
small table near as if ready to strike.  She even fancied for a moment
that the thing was alive, and then realized with a passing relief that
it had been converted into the stem of a reading-lamp.

Again the voice came.  It was counting slowly, with the utmost
regularity.

But it was not allowed to continue.  Saltash's voice; quick and
imperious, broke in upon it.  "Be quiet, you damn' fool!  If you murder
me, you'll only be sorry afterwards.  I have told you I don't know where
she is."

"You have told me a lie, my lord."  Grim as fate came the answer, and
following it a movement that turned her sick with fear.

She sprang to her feet with a wild cry.  "Jake!  Jake! I am here!
Jake,--come to me!"

She threw herself against the panelling of the wall in a frenzy of
terror, and beat upon it fiercely, frantically. There was a door behind
her, but instinct warned her that it did not lead whither she desired to
go.  It was through the panelling that those sinister words had reached
her.

But it resisted her wild efforts.  She beat in vain.  "Oh, Jake!" she
cried again, and broke into agonized sobbing. "Jake, where are you?"

And then she heard his voice again, short this time and commanding.
"Let her out, my lord!  The game is up."

"Trust a woman to give it away!" said Saltash, and laughed a cold, hard
laugh.

The panelling against which she stood suddenly yielded, slid back.  She
found herself standing on the threshold of the music-room, close to one
of the carved fireplaces. And there, face to face with her, one hand
thrust deep into his breeches-pocket, stood her husband, stood Jake.
All her life she was to remember the look he wore.

Saltash was nearer still, but she scarcely saw him.  She went past him,
sobbing, inarticulate, unnerved.  She stretched out trembling,
beseeching hands to the man in whose eyes she read the lust of murder.
She cried aloud to him in her agony!

"Come away!  Oh, come away!  Be merciful this once--only this once!
Jake!  Jake!"

She reached him, she clung to him; she would have knelt to him.  But he
thrust his left arm around her, forcibly holding her up.

He did not speak to her, did not, she believed, so much as look at her.
His eyes were fixed with a terrible intensity upon the man beyond her.
His attitude was strained and unyielding.  The untamed ferocity of the
wilds was in every line of him, in every tense muscle.  Ruthlessness,
lawlessness, savagery unshackled, fiercely eager, beat in every pulse,
every sinew of his frame.  She felt as if she were holding back a
furious animal from his prey, as if at any moment he would burst free,
and rend and tear till the demon that possessed him was satisfied.

But she clung to him faster and faster, seeking to pinion the murderous
right hand that was thrust so deeply away out of her reach.  She heard
another laugh from Saltash, but she did not dare to turn.  And then came
a sound like the click of a spring-trap.

The tension went suddenly out of Jake.  He relaxed and with a certain
cowboy roughness took his hand from his pocket and grasped her by the
shoulders.  His eyes came from beyond her, and looked straight into
hers.  And she knew without turning her head that her own hour of
reckoning had come.  They were alone.

For many, many seconds he looked at her so with a red-hot glow in his
eyes that seemed as though it would burn its way to her most secret
soul.  She endured it with a desperate courage.  If he had caught her by
the throat she would not have flinched.  But his hold, though insistent,
was without violence.  And at last very, very slowly he let her go.

"I guess that ends it," he said.

"What do you mean?"  Through quivering lips she asked the question.  She
felt as if an icy wind had suddenly caught her.  She was cold from head
to foot.

He made a slight gesture as of one indicating the obvious, and turned
away.  She saw his square figure moving away from her, and a terrible
fear went through her.  Her very heart felt frozen within her.  She
tried to speak, to utter his name; but her throat only worked
spasmodically, making no sound.

He reached the door, opened it, and then--as if he could not help it--he
looked back at her.  And in that moment with frantic effort she burst
the bonds that held her.  She threw out her arms in wild entreaty.

"Jake!" she gasped.  "Jake!  Don't--don't leave me!"

He stopped, but he did not return.  There was a curious look on his
face.  He seemed to stand irresolute.

She began to move towards him, but found herself trembling too much to
walk.  She tottered to the mantel-piece for support.  But she still
looked towards him, still tremulously entreated him.

"Jake, you--you don't understand!  You never will understand if you
leave me now.  I'm going under--I'm going under!  Jake,--save me!"

She bowed her head suddenly upon her hands, and stood quivering.  She
had made her last piteous effort to escape from the toils that held her.
Nothing but a miracle could save her now.  Nothing but the power of that
love that dieth not.

Seconds passed.  She thought that he had gone, had abandoned her to her
fate, left her to the mercy of a man who would compass her ruin.  And
she wondered in her agony if she could muster sufficient strength to
flee from that evil place and snatch her own deliverance down on the
dark, lonely shore, where no one could ever drag her back again.

And then very suddenly a hand touched her, closed upon her arm.  It was
as if a current of electricity ran through her.  She turned with a great
start.

Jake's eyes, very level, quite inscrutable, looked straight into hers.
"I guess we'll be getting along home," he said.

His hand urged her steadily, indomitably.  He led her speechless from
the room, supporting her when she faltered, but never hesitating or
suffering her to pause.

They came out at the top of the great, branching staircase.  The hall
below them was lighted only by the soft glow that surrounded Saltash's
favourite statue.  The hand that held Maud's arm tightened to a grip.
They went down the stairs together, and passed the tragic figure by.

As they moved down the long hall, a man stepped suddenly out from behind
the statue, and looked after them with eyes that shone derisively.  He
did not utter a word, and his movements were without sound.

Neither of the two was aware of his presence.  Only as they paused at
the outer door, Maud glanced back and saw the arc of light about the
statue vanish.

She uttered a quick exclamation, for it was as if the marble itself had
come to life and fled from her gaze. And then she was aware of Jake's
hands fastening her waterproof about her, and she forgot all but her
longing to escape--to escape.

A few seconds more, and she heard the heavy door shut behind them.  She
was out in the gathering darkness with Jake, and the rain was beating in
her face.

It was then that her weakness came back to her, a sense of terrible
exhaustion that gave her the feeling of dragging heavy chains.  She
fought against it desperately, dreading every instant lest he should
misinterpret her dragging steps and leave her.  An overwhelming
drowsiness was creeping over her, numbing all her facilities.  She
struggled to fling it off, but could not.  It crowded upon her like an
evil dream.  She staggered, stumbled, almost fell.

Jake stopped.  "Reckon you're tired," he said.

She answered him with a rush of tears.  "I can't help it!  Really, I
can't help it!  I--I believe I must be ill."

She tried to cling to his supporting arm, but her hands slipped weakly
away.  She felt herself sinking, sinking into a black sea of oblivion,
and knew it was futile to struggle any longer.

Yet a vague sense of comfort came to her with the consciousness of his
arms tightening around her.  She gave herself to him like a tired child.
She even feebly thanked him as he lifted her.

And then for a long, long space she knew nothing.  Billows and billows
of unfathomable nothingness were over her, under her, all about her.
Sometimes her drugged brain stirred as if about to register an
impression, but no actual impression reached it.  The things of earth
had faded utterly away.  She was as one vaguely floating in a nebulous
cloud through which now and then, now and then, a dim star shone for a
moment and then went out.

After a time even this slender link was snapped.  She went into a deeper
darkness, and there for awhile her troubled wanderings were stayed.  She
slept as she had never slept before.  It was as if for a long, long
space she ceased to be....

Out of the silence at last came a fearful dream.  Out of a great
emptiness she entered another world, a world of demon shapes and demon
voices, of faces that jeered and vanished, a world of terrible, outer
darkness, in which she seemed to be bereft of all things, to stand as it
were naked and alone.  She dreamed that the statue had come to life
indeed, and behold, it was herself!  In horror unutterable, in shame
that was agony she went her appointed way,--a fallen woman who could
never rise again.

And ever a voice within seemed urging her to soar, to soar; but she
could not.  Wings had been given her, but she could not use them.  One
wing had been broken, how she knew not.  Perhaps it was in beating
against the bars of a cage.  Some such struggle hovered vaguely in her
memory, but all struggling was over now.  All hope of escape was dead.

Again the demon-faces came all about her, demon-hands clutched at her,
pulling her down.  And every face was the face of Charlie Burchester,
every hand wore the ring which twice over he had given to her.  And
still she heard his laugh, that cruel, bitter laugh with which he had
left her alone in the music-room with Jake.

At last she knew that she cried aloud to die, but instantly she realized
the futility of her prayer.  There was no God to hear her in this awful
place.  And there was no Death.

Yet it was then that it seemed to her that a door was opened somewhere
very far above her, and a gracious breath of purity came down.  Crushed
as she was, over-whelmed with evil, grossly besmirched and degraded, it
came to her like a puff of morning wind from the clean, open spaces of
the earth.  She turned her face upwards. She gasped and opened her eyes.

And then all in a moment the dreadful vision passed away from her, and
she saw Jake's face gazing, gazing into hers.




                               CHAPTER XX

                              DELIVERANCE


She stared at him vaguely for a space half in wonder, half in fear.  His
look was very intent, but it was without anger.  She wondered hazily
what had happened, why he was watching her so.

"Where am I?" she murmured at length.

He made answer very quietly, as if he had expected the question.  "You
are here in the old parlour with me.  I brought you here."

"Oh?"  She gazed around her doubtfully.  Her brain felt clogged and
dull.  "Have I been away then?" she said.  "Where is Bunny?"

He rose and moved across the room to the fire.  "Bunny is at school," he
said, and stooped to lift off a saucepan. "Yes, you have been away.  You
came back from Liverpool yesterday."

"Ah!"  She gave a quick gasp.  The mists were beginning to clear a
little.  She became dimly conscious that there was something terrible
behind.  She raised herself on her elbow, but was instantly assailed by
a feeling of sickness so intense that she sank back again.

She was lying with closed eyes when Jake came back to her.  He bent over
her with a steaming cup in his hand.

"Try a little of this!" he said.

She looked up with an effort.  "I don't think I can. Jake, what has
happened?  Am I ill again?"

"Guess you'll remember presently if you drink this," he said.

She drew back shuddering.  "What is it?  Not brandy?"

"No.  It's beef-tea."  He sat down beside her with a resolute air, and
she suddenly realized that resistance was useless.

He was very gentle with her, feeding her spoonful by spoonful; and
gradually as she swallowed it she revived. Her brain stirred and seemed
to awake.  Memory came crowding back.  Long ere the cup was finished,
that last scene in the music-room hung before her like a lurid picture
from which she could not tear her gaze.

Quietly Jake set aside the cup.  "Maybe you'll sleep better now," he
said.

She lifted her heavy eyes to his.  "No, I don't want to sleep any
longer.  Jake, you--you are not going away!"

He seemed on the point of rising.  She stretched out a beseeching hand
and laid it on his arm.

"Jake, I--I want to tell you something.  Will you listen to me?  Please,
will you listen to me?"

His arm grew tense as a stretched wire under her touch. She thought
there was a glitter of hardness in the red-brown eyes as he said, "There
is no call for you to tell me anything unless you wish."

She sat up slowly, compelling herself to face him, "But I want you
to--understand," she said.

He laid his hand abruptly upon hers with a gesture that almost seemed as
if he would restrain her.  "You needn't fret any about that," he said.
"Reckon I--do understand."

The vital force of the man was in that free grip of his. She looked to
see the awful flare of savage passion leap back into his eyes.  But she
looked in vain.  His eyes baffled her.  They seemed to hold her back
like a sword in the hand of a practised fencer.

The words she had thought to utter died upon her lips. There was to be
no reckoning then.  And yet she could not feel reassured.  He did not
look like a man who would forego his revenge.

"What--what are you going to do?" she faltered at last.

"I shouldn't want to know too much if I were you," said Jake, softly
drawling.  "Not at this stage anyway."

His hand still held hers.  He looked her hard and straight in the face,
and she was conscious of something fiery, something elementary, wholly
uncivilized, behind his look.  There was a suggestion of violence about
him. She saw him as a man tracking his enemy through an endless
wilderness, breasting mighty rivers, hewing his way through pathless
forests, conquering every obstacle with fixed determination, mercilessly
riding him down.

She braced herself and rose, drawing her hand free.  Her head still
swam, but she controlled herself resolutely.  She stood before him like
a prisoner upon trial.

"Jake," she said, "I am going to tell you something that will make you
terribly angry; but it's something that you must know."

She paused, but he sat in silence, grimly watching her. She found her
resolution wavering and gripped it with all her strength.

"When I came back here from Liverpool, it was not--not to see my mother
as I gave you to understand.  It was to--to--"  She faltered under his
look, found she could not continue, and suddenly threw out her hands in
piteous appeal.  "Jake, don't make it impossible for me to tell you!"

He rose also.  They stood face to face.  "Are you going to tell me that
you lied to me?" he said.

She drew back from him sharply.  The question felt like a blow.  "I am
telling you the truth now," she said.

"And for whose sake?"  He flung the words brutally, as a man goaded
beyond endurance.  But the moment they were uttered he drew a hard
breath as though he would recall them.  He came to her, took her by the
shoulders. "You take my advice!" he said.  "Leave the whole miserable
business alone!  You've been tricked--badly tricked. You have appealed
to me to protect you, and that's enough. I don't want any more than
that.  I reckon I understand the situation better than you think.  You
are trying to tell me that it was your original intention to elope with
Saltash. Well, maybe it was.  But you had given up the notion before you
went to him at the Castle, and he knew you had given it up.  If he
hadn't known it, he wouldn't have taken the trouble to drug you.  It's
an old device--old as the hills. He's probably done it a score of times,
and with more success than he had to-day.  Yes, that makes you sick.  I
guessed it would.  And that's what he's going to answer to me for,--what
he'll ask your pardon for on his knees before I've done with him."

"Oh no, Jake, no!"  She broke in upon him with a cry of consternation.
"For pity's sake, no!  Jake, I can't bear it!  I cannot bear it!  Jake,
I beseech you, leave him alone now!  Oh, do leave him alone!  You--you
can punish me in any other way.  I'll bear anything but that--anything
but that!"

Piteously she besought him, shaken to the soul by the grim purport of
his speech.  She did not flinch from him now.  Rather she appealed to
him as one in sore straits, pouring out her entreaty with all that
remained of her quivering strength.

And her words made an impression upon him of which she was instantly
aware.  His hands still held her, but the tension went out of his grasp.
He looked at her with eyes that were no longer hard, eyes that held a
dawning compassion.

"Reckon you're the last person that deserves punishing," he said at
length, and in his voice she fancied she caught an echo of the old frank
kindliness.  "You've been the victim all through.  Reckon you've
suffered more than enough already."

She hid her face from him with a sudden rush of tears. Something in his
words pierced straight to her heart.

"You don't know me!" she sobbed.  "Oh, you don't know me!"

She drew herself away and sank down in the chair by the fire where once
she had poured out all her troubles to him.

He did not kneel beside her now.  He stood in silence, and as he stood
his hands slowly clenched and he thrust them into his pockets.

He spoke at last, but it was with a restraint that made the words sound
cold.  "Maybe I know you better than you think.  I know you've cared for
the wrong man ever since I first met you.  Guess I've known it all
along, and it hasn't made things extra easy for either of us, more
especially as he was utterly unworthy of you.  But you're not to blame
for that.  It's just human nature.  And you'd never have fallen in love
with me anyway."  He paused a moment.  "I don't see you're to blame any
for that either," he said, and she knew by his voice that he had turned
away from her.  "Anyway, I'm not blaming you. And if--if punishing
Saltash means punishing you too--well,--even though he's a skunk and a
blackguard--I reckon--I'll let him go."

He was moving to the door with the words.  They came half-strangled as
if something within rebelled fiercely against their utterance.

He reached the door and stopped with his back to her.

"You'd better get your mother to join you here to-morrow," he said.
"I'm sleeping with The Hundredth Chance to-night.  He's been below par
lately, and I'm kind of worried about him."

He opened the door.  He was on the point of squarely passing through
when quickly, tremulously, she stopped him.

"Jake, please--please wait a moment!  I must--I must--Jake!"

He closed the door again and turned round, but he did not come back or
even look at her.  There was a hint of doggedness about him, almost as
though he waited against his will.

She stood up.  Something in his attitude made it difficult, painfully
difficult, to speak.  She strove for self-control.  "You--are going
to--to forgive me?" she said quiveringly.

He glanced up momentarily, a grim flicker as of a smile about his mouth.
"For what you haven't done, and never could do?  It would be mighty
generous of me, wouldn't it?" he said.

She moved a step towards him.  "I--might have done it.  I--so
nearly--did it," she said, in distress.  "I don't deserve any kindness
from you, Jake.  I--don't know how to thank you for it."

He made a sharp gesture with one hand.  "If I've given you more than
bare justice," he said, "put it to my credit! Make allowance for me next
time!"

Something rose in her throat.  She stood for a moment battling with it.
Bare justice!  Had she ever given him so much as that?  And he rewarded
her with this blind generosity that would not even be aware of her sin.

Trembling, she drew nearer to him.  She stretched out a quivering hand.
"Jake," she said, and the tears were running down her face.  "I--will
try--to be worthy of your--goodness to me."

He took the hand, gripping it with a force that made her wince.
"Shucks, my girl!" he said, with a gruffness oddly uncharacteristic of
him.  "That's nothing.  Be worthy of yourself!"

And with that abruptly he let her go, turned and left her.  She knew by
the finality of his going that she would see him no more that night.




                              CHAPTER XXI

                            THE POISON FRUIT


It was curiously like the old days to see Jake enter the parlour on the
following morning with Chops the red setter at his heels.  But for
Chops' delighted welcome of her, Maud could almost have felt that the
intervening weeks had been no more than a dream.

She sat in her accustomed place and fondled him.  Them, as Jake passed
her, she put out a detaining hand.

"Good morning, Jake!"

Her face was burning; yet she lifted it.  He stood a second, only a
second, behind her chair; then bent and touched her forehead with his
lips.

"You're down early," he said.  "Have you slept?"

She nodded, feeling her agitation subside with thankfulness. "How
is--The Hundredth Chance?"

Jake went to the fire.  "I think he'll be all right; but I won't trust
anyone else to look after him.  By the way, here's a letter for you!"

He held it out to her behind his back.  She took it.  Her fingers closed
upon a crest.

She got up sharply, went to his side, and with a passionate movement
dropped it straight into the flames.

"Shall we have breakfast now?" she said.

"Here's another letter!" said Jake.

The grim smile was hovering about his mouth; but he made no comment
whatever upon her action.

She took the second letter.  "Is this all?"

"That's all," said Jake.

"It's from Uncle Edward."  She opened it, and began to read.

Suddenly she glanced up and found his eyes upon her. They fell
instantly.

"You can read it too," she said, and held the letter so that he might
share it with her.

He stood at her shoulder and read.

It was a very brief epistle, written in evident distress of mind.

"MY DEAR GRAND-NIECE,

"Will you permit me to tender to you my very humble apology for the
gross behaviour by which I drove you from the shelter of my roof?  The
fact that you have returned to your husband's house convinces me of the
base injustice of my suspicions.  I ought to be old enough to know that
a woman cannot be judged by her friends.  If you find that you possess
sufficient magnanimity to extend a free pardon to a very lonely and
penitent old sinner, will you of your charity return--for however brief
a period--and give him an opportunity to demonstrate his penitence?

"Yours humbly and hopefully,
       "EDWARD WARREN."

"Oh, poor old man!"  Maud looked up quickly.  "But how did he know I was
here?"

"I wired to him of your safe arrival," Jake said, "in reply to a wire
from him which I didn't read.  I thought he might come posting down here
if I didn't."

"Poor old man!" she said again.  And after a moment, "Thank you, Jake."

He looked at her.  "For keeping my word?  I generally do that.  Say,
what are you going to do?"

"I'll write to him," she said.

He moved round to his place at the breakfast-table. "You're not wanting
to go back then?"

She hesitated.

"What is it?" he said.  "Money?  I can let you have some if you're short
of it."

She flushed.  "No, Jake, no!  I think--I think I'll stay here for the
present.  I will make him understand."

"Please yourself!" said Jake, and opened the morning paper.

A faint sense of disappointment went through her.  She had fancied her
decision would have evoked approval if not open pleasure from him.  She
poured out his coffee in silence.

As she brought it to him, he glanced up at her.  "Don't stay on my
account if you feel you'd sooner go!" he said. "I get along very well
alone."

She stiffened ever so slightly.  "Thank you," she said. "I'll think
about it."

Jake fell to work upon his breakfast with his usual business-like
rapidity.  She did not attempt to keep pace with him.  Somehow the idea
that he really wished her to go had robbed her of all desire to eat.

After a time he glanced across at her again.  "Are you going down to see
your mother?"

She answered him somewhat listlessly.  "Yes, I suppose so."

"She'll have to decide on something soon," he observed.

Maud bit her lip.  The thought of going to her mother again was wholly
repugnant to her.  She marvelled that he did not see it.

"I am sure she won't come and live in this place," she said, after a
moment,

"She can please herself," said Jake imperturbably.

That was to be his attitude then.  They were to please themselves.  He
had withdrawn his control over her actions.  An evil spirit suddenly
whispered to her that he would even have left her in Saltash's keeping
had she not called to him to deliver her.  She shook off the poisonous
thought; but it had been there.  He had been kind--more than kind--to
her.  She forced herself to dwell upon his kindness.  But his present
indifference was even more obvious. He was engrossed in his work.  He
had thought only for his animals.  Plainly it was a matter of small
importance to him if she went or stayed.

He finished his breakfast and got up.  "Well, so long!" he said.  "I may
not get back before nightfall.  I have to go over to Graydown."

She scarcely acknowledged his words, and he did not wait for any
acknowledgment.  He took up his riding-whip and went out.  Chops looked
round at her doubtfully and followed him.

The door closed upon them.  And suddenly Maud leaned upon the table and
hid her face.  This was to be her life then--the unspeakable dreariness
of a loveless home.  She had thought he loved her.  She had thought!
She had thought!  And now she saw that it began and ended with mere
kindness, and possibly a sense of duty.  His passion for her--that
fiery, all-mastering desire--had burnt itself out, and there was nothing
left.  An unutterable weariness came upon her.  Oh, she was tired--she
was tired of life!

It was then that in some mystic fashion that voice which she had once
heard spoke again in her soul.  "The spark is ours for the kindling--the
power to love--the power to create love...."

Was she indeed capable of kindling this lamp in the desert?  Out of
those dead ashes of passion, could Love the Immortal indeed be made to
rise?

She sat for a long time and pondered--pondered.

When, an hour later, she went down the hill to the town, the day was
brilliant and the sky without a cloud. The sea was one glorious sheet of
blue that seemed to stretch away limitless into Infinity.

Down by the quay a white yacht rocked at her moorings. She marked it
with a throbbing heart.  Why, oh why, did he linger?  She yearned to
thrust him for ever out of her life.

She reached the Anchor Hotel and entered.  The bareness of the place
smote cold upon the senses.  She passed through it quickly and went up
to her mother's room.

"Oh, my dear, at last!"  Querulously Mrs. Sheppard greeted her.  "Shut
the door and come in!  Charlie is watching for you.  He will be over
directly."

She was clad in an old pink wrapper, and kneeling before a half-filled
trunk.

Maud stood still in the doorway, every spark of animation gone out of
her.  "Mother, what are you doing?  What do you mean?"

Her voice sounded frozen and devoid of all emotion. Her fingers were
clenched rigidly upon the handle of the door.  She stared at her mother
with eyes that were suddenly stony.

"What do you mean?" she repeated.

Mrs. Sheppard looked up at her smiling.  "I mean, dear, that while you
go for your Mediterranean cruise, I am going back to London.  Dear me,
why did I ever leave it?  I have never been happy since.  Fairharbour
never suited me.  I was saying so to Charlie only last night.  He told
me all about it, dear.  Poor child, I hope that horrible cowboy person
wasn't very cruel to you.  I couldn't help letting out where you had
gone yesterday afternoon.  He came in only a few minutes after you left,
and was so insistent.  But, thank goodness, you've broken away.  You had
Charlie's letter, did you?  I told him I was sure you would come
directly you knew he was waiting.  Dear Charlie!  He really is very
good.  I quite see his point of view about the poor old 'Anchor,' and I
really think it is all for the best.  Giles is gone anyway, and I am
released from any obligations in that direction.  Charlie hated Giles
for some reason, though I can't discover that he ever met him.  Come in,
child!  Why do you stand there looking so tragic?  Surely all's well
that ends well?"

Maud turned stiffly as though her limbs had become automatic.  "I am
going," she said.  "I am going."

"Oh, wait till Charlie comes for you, dearest!  Don't be too impetuous!
I am sure he will come immediately. He would be watching the shore from
the yacht.  Such a lovely morning for a cruise too!  You will be wanting
a few little necessaries, dear.  I have put them up for you in that
leather bag.  I knew you would never think of that for yourself.  I
believe he means to take you straight to Paris, you lucky child.  The
yacht will go round and wait for you at Marseilles.  Charlie always does
things so royally, doesn't he?  He has been most kind, most generous, to
me."

Mrs. Sheppard was talking into the trunk, a smile of happy anticipation
about her lips that made her almost comely again.

"Really," she said, "it is quite wonderful how things always turn out
for the best.  I only wish I had known a year ago how happy you and dear
little Bunny were going to be.  It would have saved me so much anxiety.
When you are Lady Saltash, of course you will make a home for him at the
Castle.  And there may be just a corner sometimes for me too, darling.
What a happy party we shall all be!"

She threw a smile over her shoulder, and then suddenly turned and
stared.  The door was closed, and she was alone.

Down the wide staircase Maud ran like a wild thing seeking freedom, down
into the bare, echoing hall.  But the moment she reached it, she
stopped--stopped dead as one suddenly turned to stone.

He was waiting for her, there in the sunny open doorway, a smile of
arrogant satisfaction on his ugly face, and triumph, open triumph, in
his eyes.

He came to meet her like a king, carelessly gracious, royally
self-assured.

"Ah, Maud of the roses!" he said.  "Free at last!"

He reached her where she stood, rigidly waiting.  He opened his arms to
take her.  And then--as though there had been the flash of a dagger
between them--he stopped.

She had not moved.  She did not move.  But the blazing blue of her eyes
gave him check.  For the space of many seconds they stood, not
breathing, not stirring; and in those seconds, as by the light of a
piercing torch, each read the other's soul.

It was Saltash who gave ground at last, but insolently with a smile of
bitter mockery.  "This scene is called 'The Unmasking of the Villain,'"
he observed.  "The virtuous heroine, having descended from her pedestal
to expose his many crimes, now gathers her mud-stained garments about
her and climbs back again, in the confident hope that the worthy
cow-puncher who owns her will conclude that she has never left her
exalted position and that the mud was all thrown by the villain.  Now, I
wonder if the worthy cow-puncher is quite such a fool as that."

Her face was quite colourless, but she heard his gibe without a sign of
shrinking.  Only as he ceased to speak, she lifted one hand and pointed
to the open door.

"Go!" she said.

Just the one word, spoken with a finality more crushing than any
outburst of anger!  If it expressed contempt, it was involuntary, she
uttered only what was in her soul.

He looked at her, and suddenly the derision in his eye flamed into
fierce malignancy.  "Oh, I am going," he said. "You will never kick me
from your path again.  You shall tread it alone--quite alone except for
the cow-puncher who no doubt will see to it that you walk on the stony
side of the way.  And I warn you it will be--very stony, especially when
he comes to realize that his lady wife has been his ruin.  A tramp
across the world with Jake Bolton under those conditions will at least
destroy all illusions as to the stuff of which he is made.  And I wish
you joy of the journey."  He made her a deep, ironical bow, and swung
upon his heel.

But as he went she spoke, suddenly, passionately, as though the words
leaped forth, compelling her.  "Jake Bolton is a man--a white man!"

Saltash laughed aloud, lifting his shoulders as he sauntered away.
"With the heart of a beast, _chere reine_," he said. "For that cause
also, I wish you joy."

He went.  The sun smote through the empty doorway. She put up both hands
to her eyes as though to blot out some evil vision.

And presently--like a creature that has been sorely wounded--she also
crept away, fleeing ashamed by another door, that no one might observe
her going.

No, Jake was no fool.  He saw only what he chose to see, believed only
what he willed to believe.  He had been generous to her--ay, generous
past all understanding.  But he was no fool.  He had refused the mute
offer of her lips only that morning.  Wherefore?  Wherefore?

The answer lay in Saltash's mocking words, and all her life she would
remember them.  The poison plant had borne its bitter fruit indeed, and
she had been forced to eat thereof.  It burned her now with a cruel
intensity, consuming her like a darting flame.  But she knew by its very
fierceness that it could not last.  Very soon her heart--her soul--would
all be burnt away; and there would be only dead ashes left--only dead
ashes from which no living spark could ever be kindled again.

No, Jake was no fool--no fool!  He would not blame her, that was all;
because she was a woman.




                              CHAPTER XXII

                               THE LOSER


"Why doesn't Maud come back?" said Bunny discontentedly.  "It's beastly
mean of her to stay away over the holidays."

"You can go to her if you like, my son," said Jake, between whiffs at
his pipe.

"Oh, I know.  But it isn't the same thing.  And besides, I'm not going
to leave you alone for Christmas, so there! Say, Jake, I wonder you put
up with it.  Why shouldn't we go--the two of us--and fetch her back?"

"She's better where she is," said Jake.  "And as to my going away, it's
out of the question.  I'm a fixture--so long as there's anything left to
do."

Something in the last words caught Bunny's attention. He looked at him
with sudden shrewdness.  "What do you mean, Jake?  What's up?"

Jake was silent.  He sat moodily smoking and staring into the fire.  His
chin was sunk on his chest.  He looked older than his years.

Bunny on the other side of the hearth gazed at him for several seconds
with close attention.  Finally he got up, went to him, slipped down on
to the arm of his chair.

"What is it, Jake, old feller?  Tell me!"

Jake looked up, met the warm sympathy in the boy's eyes, and in a moment
thrust a kindly arm about the slim young figure.

"Don't you worry about me, little pard!" he said. "There ain't anything
the matter that I can't face out by myself."

"Oh, but that's rot, Jake."  Bunny's cheek went down against the man's
bronze head and pressed it hard.  "What's the good of bottling it up?
'Sides, you know, Jake, I don't count.  I'd die before I'd split."

"Guess I know that," Jake said.

He hugged Bunny to him as if there were comfort in mere contact, but he
said no more.

Bunny hugged him in return, and after a brief silence began to probe for
the enlightenment he desired.  "Why do you say Maud is better where she
is, Jake?  After all, she is your wife and no one else's, isn't she?"

Jake puffed at his pipe for a few seconds as if considering his reply.
At last, "I say it because it is so," he said. "Your Uncle Edward wanted
her, and I reckon that's just the silver lining to my cloud.  He's a
rich man, I gather.  He can look after the two of you--if I go under."

"Jake!  You aren't going under!"  Horrified incredulity sounded in
Bunny's voice.  He leaned swiftly forward to look into Jake's face.

A queer, dogged smile showed upon it for an instant and was gone.
"Don't you worry any, sonny!  I shall come up again," said Jake.  "I've
been under before, practically down and out.  But it hasn't killed me.
It ain't going to kill me this time.  So long as you and Maud are
provided for, I can fend for myself."

"But Jake, what's it mean?  You haven't lost money?" urged Bunny in
bewilderment.

"No.  I've got a little money.  There are plenty of poor devils worse
off than I."  Jake leaned his head back against Bunny's wiry arm.  There
was a fighting gleam in his eyes.  "But it ain't enough to keep me
going.  If it had been, I reckon I shouldn't have waited for notice to
quit."

"Is that what you've got?  Jake, you aren't in earnest! Charlie wouldn't
be such a blackguard!"

Jake uttered an abrupt laugh; his teeth were clenched on his lower lip.
"Oh, Charlie's a blackguard all right--blackguard enough for anything.
Don't you ever make any mistake about that!  But I presume it's up to
him to sell the stud if he feels so disposed.  There ain't anything
specially blackguardly in that.  It's just his polite way of telling me
to git."

"Sell the stud!  Is that what he's going to do?  Oh, Jake, old feller!
Jake!"  Shocked sympathy was in Bunny's voice.

Jake hugged him harder.  "I hadn't meant to tell you on your first
night.  But you're such a shrewd little chap. And you've got to know
sooner or later.  Don't make an all-fired fuss about it anyway!"

"All right, Jake."  Bunny sounded a little breathless, but there was
resolution in his voice.  "It's you I'm thinking of.  When--when's it
going to be?"

"The sale?  Early in the year I expect.  I haven't any definite
instructions as to that.  I'm expecting 'em every day.  All I've been
told officially at present is to cancel all engagements.  Of course I
guessed what was in the wind then.  I tackled old Bishop the Agent about
it the other day; and he had to confirm it.  Ah, well!"  Jake heaved an
abrupt sigh that seemed to catch him unawares, and became silent.

"P'raps he won't sell 'em all, Jake," said Bunny hesitatingly.  "He
couldn't--surely--sell The Hundredth Chance!"

Jake's pipe suddenly cracked between his teeth.  He sat up sharply, and
took it out of his mouth.  It fell in twain between his fingers.  He sat
staring at it, then with a curious reverence he stooped forward and
dropped the pieces into the heart of the fire.

"Yes," he said heavily.  "I reckon The Hundredth Chance will go with all
the rest."

He looked at Bunny, and there was desolation in his eyes; but he gave it
no verbal expression.  And Bunny also found that the subject demanded
silence; it was beyond words.

"Does Maud know?" he asked at length, speaking rather doubtfully, as if
not quite sure of his ground.

"No.  I didn't want to worry her before I need."  Jake's eyes went back
to the fire, gazing into it, dumbly troubled. "I fancy there's no doubt
that the old man will provide for her--for both of you.  That's what I'm
counting on anyway."

Bunny made an abrupt movement of impatience.  "Oh, damn all that, Jake!
What of you?"

For the first time his strong language went unrebuked. Jake's eyes
remained fixed upon the fire where burned the remains of his treasure.
He spoke slowly, as one reading words but dimly discerned.

"Reckon I shall go back to America.  I shall find my feet again there.
There's no call for you to be anxious about me.  Guess I shan't starve."

"Jake!"  Bunny's arm went round his shoulders, gripping them hard.  He
spoke into Jake's ear, a rapid, nervous whisper.  "Jake, if you're going
to America, I reckon I'm coming too.  There's no one worth speaking to
after you. I just won't be left behind.  I'll work, Jake.  I'll work
like a <DW65>.  I won't be a drag on you.  But I can't stay behind--not
after all you've been to me.  Jake, Jake, old feller, say you'll have
me!  I'm as strong as a horse.  And I'd sooner starve along with you
than be left without you. I--I--Jake, old feller, please!"  He suddenly
bowed his head upon Jake's shoulder with a hard sob.

"Little pard!" Jake said, and pulled him down beside him.  "Don't act
the fool now!  That ain't like you!"

Bunny clung to him almost fiercely.  "You shan't lose everything, Jake.
First Maud, and then the animals, and then the home,--and--and--me too.
You like me a bit, don't you, Jake?"

"Just a bit," said Jake, ruffling the black head.

"Then let me come with you, Jake!  I'll do whatever you tell me.
I--I'll black your boots for you every day.  I'll do anything under the
sun.  Only don't leave me behind! I miss you badly enough at school.
But I can't stick it--without you--altogether."

"Shucks!  Shucks!" said Jake very softly.

He was holding Bunny in his arms in the old brotherly way.  They were
too close to one another for any boyish dignity to come between.  The
bond that linked them had been forged in the fires of adversity, and
adversity served but to strengthen it.

"I can't!" Bunny reiterated.  "You don't know what you are to me, Jake.
You've just made me.  And I--I feel as if I'll all come undone again if
you go right away."

"I haven't gone yet," Jake said, in a drawl that was slightly unsteady.
"But if it is to be, Bunny lad,--and God knows it's more than
likely--you can do a bigger thing for me by staying back here--along
with Maud--than if you came along and roughed it with me.  You'll be the
link between us, boy, when--all the other links are gone."

He became silent, gently smoothing the hair that he had ruffled.

Bunny was silent also for a space.  It was as if something sacred had
come into their communion.  At last with his head still pillowed on
Jake's shoulder he spoke.

"Say, Jake!"

Jake's arm tightened almost as if he would silence him, but he said
nothing.

And Bunny persisted.  "Jake, old chap, it doesn't take a prophet to see
that things aren't as they should be between you two.  I'm beastly
sorry.  I know jolly well it's not your fault."

"It ain't hers," Jake said, almost under his breath.

"No.  I guess it's that blackguard Charlie.  I wish I were a man.  I'd
shoot him!" said Bunny vindictively.

"I guess you wouldn't," Jake said, faint humour in his voice.  "Besides,
there's nothing to shoot him for now. He's as much a loser as I am."

"What!  They've quarrelled?" questioned Bunny. "Where is he?  At the
Castle?"

"No.  Heaven knows where he is.  He's been gone for the last six weeks
and more."

"It's twice that since Maud went away," observed Bunny uneasily.  "Why
on earth doesn't she come back, Jake?  She's not--not--afraid of you?"

"She has been back once in that time," Jake said quietly.  "She stayed
one night with your mother at 'The Anchor.'  The place is shut up now,
and your mother has gone back to London.  I thought possibly that she
would have settled down here a bit with Maud.  But she didn't quite see
it.  And it was as well, for the old uncle wrote asking Maud to go back
to him, and she went."

"Without consulting you?" asked Bunny quickly.

"She didn't consult me certainly, but she knew I was willing for her to
go."  Jake spoke with a touch of restraint.

Bunny raised his head and looked at him with sudden shrewdness.  "Who
did she want to get away from?  You? Or Charlie?"

A flicker that was scarcely humorous crossed Jake's face.  "Maybe both,"
he said.

"And you--you quarrelled with Charlie?"

"No.  Seeing he was a loser, I let him go in peace.  It was the only
thing to do."

"And he has got his knife into you on that account?" questioned Bunny.

"Maybe," Jake admitted.

"Then he's a low hound, and I'd love to tell him so."

"Where's the use?  Reckon he knows it all right," said Jake dryly.

"I hope Maud knows it too!"

"She does," said Jake.

Bunny looked slightly mollified.  "That's something anyway.  Say, Jake?"

"What is it, my son?"  Jake's red-brown eyes looked at him with a
tenderness that only Bunny was ever allowed to see.

Bunny's head went back to its resting-place against his shoulder
swiftly, endearingly.  "Jake, Jake, old man, why don't you go back to
her?  Maybe she's wanting you--and hasn't the pluck to say so.  Women
are like that, you know."

Jake was silent.

"Give her the chance, Jake!" Bunny urged.  "You don't know her like I
do.  She always was shy.  Lots of people thought her proud, but it was
mostly shyness.  Give her the chance, Jake, old fellow!  Just this one
chance! It may make all the difference."

"Think so?" said Jake.

"Course I do.  I know Maud.  She'd sooner die than show you her
feelings.  But she's got 'em all the same. Maybe she's wanting
you--quite a lot, Jake.  You can't tell."

"And maybe she's not," said Jake.

"Oh don't--don't be an ass, Jake!  Come along and find out anyway!
It's--it's up to you, Jake.  And there's no one else in the running."

A whimsical smile touched Jake's grim mouth.  "Guess that's just what
makes it so difficult," he said.  "Is anyone at all in the running?  I'd
sooner draw a loser than a blank."

Bunny lifted a hot, earnest face.  "Don't be an ass, Jake!" he urged
again.  "Go in, man!  Go in and win! You love her, don't you?"

It was a straight shot, and it found its mark.  Something fiery,
something wholly untamed, leaped into Jake's eyes. They shone like a
flame upon which spirit has been poured. Bunny pulled himself free with
a sound that was almost a whoop of triumph.  "You silly <DW53>!  Go and
tell her so!" he said.  "I'll bet you never have yet!"

And Jake uttered a laugh that was curiously broken. "You're getting too
damn' clever, my son," he said.




                             CHAPTER XXIII

                             THE STORM WIND


"It'll be real sport to take her by surprise," said Bunny, with a
chuckle of anticipation.  "But what a beast of a journey it's been!"

They had been travelling practically all day, and a black night of
streaming rain had been their welcome.

They had found accommodation at the hotel in which Maud had once spent a
night, and having dined there they splashed through the muddy streets in
search of their goal.

They found it, a tall, gaunt house standing back in a dark, dripping
garden, unlighted, forsaken.

"It can't be the place!" said Bunny, for the first time feeling his
ardour for the adventure slightly damped.

"We'll soon find out," said Jake.

They groped their way to a flight of steps and with the aid of a match
found the bell.  It rang desolately through the building.

"The house is empty!" declared Bunny.

But after a considerable pause a step sounded within, and a white-faced
maid-servant opened to them.

"Come in!" she said, in a hollow voice.  "You're very late."

"Mrs. Bolton here?" asked Jake, as he stepped on to the mat.

She nodded as if in agitation.  "Yes, I'll tell her."

She shut the door behind them and went away, leaving them in the narrow,
dimly-lighted hall.

"What a rum go!" said Bunny.

Jake said nothing.  He was gazing into the shadows in front of him with
intent, searching eyes.  How would she greet him?  Would she be glad?
Would she be sorry?  He watched for her face, and the first instinctive
expression it would wear at sight of him.

There came the rustle of a dress, a footfall that was light and yet
somehow sounded weary.  She came through the dim hall with a slow, tired
gait.

"Good evening!" she said.  "Will you come upstairs?"

Bunny's fist suddenly prodded Jake in the back.  He went forward a step
almost involuntarily.

"Maud!" he said.

"Jake!"  She stood as one transfixed.

And in that moment he forgot to notice how she looked at him, forgot
everything in the one overwhelming thought that he was with her.  He
strode forward, and somehow her two cold hands were in his before he
knew whether he had taken or she had offered them.

"My girl!" he said, and again huskily, "My girl!"

She lifted a quivering face.  "Jake, thank you for coming! I--I hardly
thought you could have got here so soon."

He drew her to him and kissed her.  "You've been wanting me?" he said.

She nodded.  "I sent for you, yes.  I--I didn't feel as if I could--face
it all--by myself."

His hold was warm, full of sustaining strength.  "You'll have to tell me
what has happened," he said.  "I didn't get your message."

"You didn't?"  She looked momentarily startled. "Then why are you here?"

"I came--" he hesitated, glanced over his shoulder. "Bunny's here too,"
he said.

"Thought we'd just look you up," said Bunny, emerging from the
background, "Hullo, Maud!  What's the matter?  Is the old man ill?"

She turned to greet him.  "He died yesterday," she said.

"Great Scott!" said Bunny.

Jake said nothing.  He was watching her closely, closely.

She kissed Bunny lingeringly, but without emotion.  "He was only ill
five days," she said.  "It was a chill and then pneumonia.  I nursed him
right up to the last.  He wouldn't have anyone else.  In fact he
wouldn't let me out of his sight."  Her face quivered again, and she
paused.  Then drearily, "I was expecting the undertaker when you came
in," she said.  "I've had to arrange everything.  The funeral will be
the day after to-morrow.  Will you come into the dining room?  There's a
fire there."

She led the way to that stiff and cheerless apartment. Bunny pressed
close to her and pushed his hand through her arm.

"Say, Maud, old girl, you're ill yourself," he said.

She looked at him out of deeply shadowed eyes.  "No. I'm not ill; only
tired, too tired to sleep.  There is some wine in that cupboard, dear.
Do you mind getting it out? You and Jake must have some."

She went over to the fire almost as one moving in a dream, and stood
before it silently.

Jake came to her, put a kindly arm about her.  "You must go to bed, my
dear," he said.  "You're worn out."

She shook her head with a rather piteous smile.  "Oh no, I can't go for
a long while yet.  I must get some rooms ready for you and Bunny."

"You won't need to do that," he said.  "Bunny is putting up at the hotel
round the corner.  And I can sleep just anywhere."

She let herself lean against him.  "Thank you for coming, Jake," she
said again.

She was plainly worn out, and from that moment Jake took command.  He
made her sit in one of the stiff velvet chairs in front of the fire,
made her drink some wine, and finally left her there with Bunny in
charge.

She was absolutely docile, gladly relinquishing all responsibility.  To
Bunny she gave a few halting details of the old man's death, but she
could not talk much.  The strain of those days and nights of constant
watching had brought her very near to a complete breakdown.  She was so
tired, so piteously tired.

She dozed presently, sitting there before the fire with him, holding his
hand.  It was so good to have him there, so good to feel that there was
someone left to love her, to think for her, so good to know that
Bunny--though he had ceased to be the one aim and end of her
existence--had not drifted wholly out of her life.

It must have been more than an hour later that she was aroused by a few
whispered words over her head, and sat up to see Bunny on his feet,
preparing to take his departure.

She looked up in swift distress.  "Oh, are you going? Must you go?"

"Yes, he must go," Jake said gently.  "He'll get locked out if he
doesn't.  And the little chap's tired, you know, Maud.  He's been
travelling all day and wants a good night's rest."

That moved her.  Though Bunny disclaimed fatigue she saw that he had
been sleeping also.  All the mother in her rose to the surface.

"Yes, of course, dear.  You must go," she said.  "I wish you could have
slept here, but perhaps it's better you shouldn't.  Can you find your
way alone?  Jake, won't you go with him?"

But Bunny strenuously refused Jake's escort.  He bade her good night
with warmth, and she saw that he hugged Jake at parting.  And then the
door closed upon him, and Jake's square figure came back alone.

He came straight to her, and bent over her.  "My dear," he said, "you're
tired to death.  You must go to bed."

She shook her head, wanly smiling.  "It's no good going to bed, Jake.
I'm much happier here.  Directly I lie down I am wide awake.  Besides,
I'm too tired to get there."

"All right.  I'll put you there," he said.

"No, no, Jake."  She stretched out a quick hand of protest; but there
was no holding him off.

His arm was already about her; he lifted her to her feet. His face wore
the old dominant look, yet with a subtle difference.  His eyes held
nought but kindness.

She yielded herself to him almost involuntarily.  "I haven't been to bed
for nearly a week," she said.  "I've slept of course in snatches.  I
used to lie down in Uncle Edward's room.  Poor dear old man!  He wanted
me so."  Her eyes were full of tears.  "I--I was with him when he died,"
she whispered.  "We had arranged to have a nurse this morning, but the
end came rather quickly.  We knew his heart was weak.  The doctor
said--it was better for him really--that he went like that."

"Why didn't you send for me sooner?" Jake said.

Her pale face flushed.  She turned it from him.

"I didn't think--you would want to come.  It wasn't till--till I got
frightened at the dreadful emptiness that--that--"  She broke off,
fighting with herself.

"All right.  Don't try to tell me!  I understand," he said soothingly.
He went up the long, dim staircase with her, still strongly supporting
her.  He entered her room as one who had the right.

The tears were running down her face, for she could not check them.  She
attempted no remonstrance, suffering him like a forlorn child.  And as
though she had been a child, he ministered to her, waiting upon her,
helping her, with a womanly intuition that robbed the situation of all
difficulty, meeting her utter need with a simplicity and singleness of
purpose that could not but achieve its end.

"You treat me as if--as if I were Bunny," she said once, smiling faintly
through her tears.

And Jake smiled in answer.  "A man ought to be able to valet his own
wife," he said.

The words were simply uttered, but they sent the blood to her cheeks.
"You--you are very good to me," she murmured confusedly.  "I--ought not
to let you."

"Don't you worry any about that!" said Jake.  "The main idea is to get
you to bed."

"I am sure I shall never sleep again," she said.

Yet as she sank down at last upon the pillow there was a measure of
relief in her eyes.

"Now you're going to lie quiet till morning," Jake said, tucking in the
bedclothes with motherly care.  "Good night, my girl!  Is that
comfortable?"

He kissed her for the second time, lightly, caressingly, exactly as he
might have kissed a child.

She tried to answer him, to thank him, but could not. He smoothed the
hair from her temples, and turned away.

But in that moment her hands came out to him with a gesture that was
almost convulsive, caught and held his sleeve.  "Oh, Jake!" she said.
"Jake!  I'm so lonely!" and suddenly began to sob--"I want you more than
Bunny does.  Don't go!  Don't go!"

It was a cry of utter desolation.  He turned back to her on the instant.
He stooped over her, his face close to hers.  "Do you mean that?" he
said, and in his voice, low as it was, there sounded a deep note as of
something forcibly suppressed.

She clung to him, hiding her face against the rough tweed coat.  "I've
no one else," she sobbed.

"Ah!" Jake said.  A very strange look came into his face.  His mouth
twitched a little as if in self-ridicule. "But, my girl," he said, "I
reckon you'd say that to anyone to-night."

"No--no!"  Quiveringly she answered him.  "I say it to you--to you!
I'm--so terribly--alone,--so--so--empty. Uncle Edward used to tell
me--what it meant to be lonely.  But I never knew it could be--like
this."

"Poor girl!" Jake murmured softly.  "I know--I know."

The look of faint irony still hovered about his lips, but his voice, his
touch, conveyed nothing but tenderness.  He was stroking the dark hair
with a motherliness that was infinitely soothing.

She was holding his other hand tightly, tightly, against her breast, and
it was wet with her tears.  "I've been--so miserable," she told him
brokenly.  "I know it's been--no one's fault--but my own.  But life is
so difficult--so difficult.  I've treated you badly--badly.  I haven't
done--my duty.  I've always yearned for the things out of reach. And
now--and now--oh, Jake, my world is a desert.  I haven't a friend left
anywhere."

"That's wrong," Jake said in his voice of soft decision. "You've got me.
I mayn't be the special kind of friend you're wanting.  But--as you
say--I reckon I'm better than nothing.  And I'm your husband anyway."

"My husband--yes.  That's why--I sent for you, Jake," she hid her face
lower, deeper into his coat, "if--if I had had--a child, would it--would
it--have made you happy?"

"Oh, that!"  Jake laid his head down suddenly on the pillow above hers.
He spoke into the thick darkness of her hair.  "My girl, don't cry so!
I wanted it--yes!"

She moved slightly, stretched a hesitating hand upwards, touched his
face, his neck.  "Jake, it--it would make me happy--too."

He put his arm about her as she lay, and gathered her close to him, not
speaking.

She was trembling all over, her face was still hidden. But she yielded
to the drawing of his arm, clinging to him blindly, desperately.

He held her so for a little space, then with steady insistence he moved
his other hand, beginning to turn her face upwards to his own.  She
tried to resist him, but he would not be resisted.  In the end panting,
quivering, she yielded very suddenly.  She lifted her face voluntarily
to his.  She offered him her lips.  But her eyes were closed. She
palpitated like a trapped thing in his hold.

Yet when his lips met hers, she returned his kiss; and it was for the
first time in her life.

She slept that night in the shelter of his arms, safe from the desolate
emptiness of her desert.  And if she dreamed that she had gone back into
the house of bondage for the sake of the fire that burned there, the
dream did not distress her, nor did the fire scorch.  Rather the warmth
of it filled her lonely spirit with such comfort as she had long ceased
to hope for.  And the steady beat of a man's heart lulled her to a
deeper rest.

When the dim dawnlight came filtering in, Jake's eyes turned to meet it
with a lynx-like watchfulness as of an animal on guard.  There was no
sleep in them.  He had not slept all through the night.  His face was
grim and still, and there was a hint of savagery--or was it
irony?--about his mouth.  For the second time in their lives Fate had
driven her to him for refuge.  Like a bird out of the storm she had come
to him, perchance but for that one night's shelter.  Already a contrary
wind was blowing that might sunder them forever.  With the coming of the
day, they might drift apart and meet no more at all, so slender was the
bond between them, so transient their union.  For he knew that she loved
him not, had never loved him.

His eyes grew harder, brighter.  They shone with a great and bitter
hunger.  He turned them upon her sleeping face.  And then magically they
softened, grew pitiful, grew tender.  For though she slept, the veil was
lifted, and he read the sadness of her soul.

His lips suddenly trembled as he looked upon her, and the irony went out
of him like an evil spirit.  Whether she loved him or loved him not, she
was his, she was his, till the storm wind drove her from him.

And she needed him as she needed no one else on earth.

His arms clasped her.  He gathered her closer to his breast.




                              CHAPTER XXIV

                            THE GREAT BURDEN


"By Jove!" said Bunny, in a voice of awe.  "I never thought of that!
Then--Maud--will be rich, will she?  Rich as Croesus!  Just think of it!
Maud!"  He drew a deep breath that ended in a whistle.  "Puts a
different complexion on things, eh, Jake, old feller?" he said.

"Quite different," said Jake.

He stood at the window, gazing forth into the murky atmosphere with his
brows drawn.  He looked like a man searching the far distance.

Bunny glanced at him questioningly.  "What does she say to it?  Was it a
great shock?"

"I don't know.  I think it was.  She said he once offered to provide for
the two of you, and leave you provided for at his death.  But that was
before her marriage."

"And now he's gone and left her the whole caboodle! Say, Jake, what's it
come to?  Did the lawyer chap give you any idea?"

"No one knew what the old man was worth," Jake said, with his eyes still
fixed steadily ahead.  "He wasn't very great at spending money.  But he
owned a large factory, and had a vested interest in several others,
besides some thousands in other concerns.  The lawyer put it down at not
less than two hundred and fifty thousand."

"Jake!"  Bunny began to execute an ecstatic war dance behind him.

Jake wheeled sharply.  "Don't do that here, Bunny! It's not decent."

Bunny stopped.  "Oh, sorry, Jake!  I forgot.  But aren't you pleased,
old feller?  You don't look it.  Or is it just decency on your part?"

"I'm pleased she's got enough to live on, yes," Jake said.  "I don't
know that a whole pile is specially good for anyone.  And now look here,
young chap!  I'm going back directly after the funeral--I've got to
go--and you're to stay and take care of her."

Bunny's face fell.  "Oh, I say, Jake, I'd sooner come with you."

"That may be."  Jake smiled momentarily.  "But you've got to do as
you're told.  See?"

Bunny looked mutinous.  "But she won't want me, Jake. She'll be much too
busy.  And this is such a beastly hole.  And there's the hunting.  You
promised I might hunt these holidays.  Oh, I can't stick here.  I shall
only be in the way."  His eyes flashed sudden rebellion.  "Can't and
won't, Jake!" he said boldly, "so that's settled."

He stood and defied Jake openly for an instant, then flung round with a
dogged air and walked away.

Jake remained motionless watching him.  "Say, Bunny!" he said after a
moment, his voice very soft and drawling.

Bunny came to a stand before the fire which he poked with considerable
violence.  He did not turn his head.

"Put that thing down!"  The order came from the further end of the room,
but he obeyed it.

There fell a brief silence, then from his post by the window Jake spoke.
"You can do as you like about it.  You can come back with me to the
Stables.  But you'll do all your riding on a leading-string if you do.
And if you hunt, it'll be on foot."

Bunny's face flamed scarlet.  "Jake, you're a beast!" he said.

"Oh, I can do beastlier things than that," Jake said.  "I can give you
one hell of a time, my son.  I'm dashed ingenious in that respect when I
give my mind to it."

Bunny growled something deep in his throat, and kicked the coals with a
savage foot.

Jake turned deliberately round, and looked at him, watched him with the
utmost patience till he desisted; then,

"Come here now," he said, "and have your head punched!"

Bunny growled again less articulately, more ferociously.

Jake left the window.  The boy wheeled to meet him with the glare of a
tiger.  "Touch me if you dare!" he exclaimed.

There was a faint, relentless smile on Jake's face.  He took Bunny by
the shoulders, and looked him full and straight in the eyes.

Bunny stood before him for a space, with clenched hands. Then he dropped
his own eyes sullenly before that stern regard--slowly lowered his head.
There fell a tense silence; then: "Get on with it, Jake!" he said in a
voice half-sulky, half-submissive.  And Jake abruptly moved, struck him
twice lightly on the side of the head.  "That's for using the forbidden
language," he said.  "And that's for general fooling around.  A taste of
the leather would do you good, only I can't leather a jolly little
cock-sparrow like you. Don't you think you're rather a fool, Bunny?  I
do."

"I'm a damn' cad!" Bunny said with shaky vehemence, and pulled himself
away with the words.  "I can't help it. I don't see much of you now.
And I do hate being left behind."

He turned his back on Jake and leaned dejectedly against the high
mantelpiece.  But Jake's arm went round his shoulders, giving him a
comforting squeeze.

"Don't you know I'm trying to make a partner of you, my son?" he said in
his soft voice.  "You needn't be so mighty difficult to handle.  What
I'm on to now is more than a one-man job.  I'm wanting all the help I
can get."

Bunny laid a hot cheek against his hand.  "You know I'd do anything for
you, Jake," he said.  He swallowed once or twice hard and faced round.
"Anything under the sun," he said.

Jake's hand smote him the blow of good-fellowship.  "I'm counting
on--just that, sonny," he said.

He turned round with the words.  Someone was entering the room.

"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 <DW72>.  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






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