"Sounds pretty damnable," said Jake.
Saltash grimaced like a weary monkey. "It's dust and ashes, my good Jake. But we won't discuss it. Let's come to business! You know Larpent—my captain—quite one of the best?"
Jake nodded. "I've met him—yes."
Saltash flung himself back in his chair smoking rapidly. "He was damaged when the yacht went down. He's in a nursing home in town, getting better. He's got a daughter—a girl called Antoinette. She's been at school in France, and Larpent was bringing her home in the yacht when we went down. She's nineteen—a jolly little thing—half French. Larpent doesn't know what to do with her. He has no people. She—quite properly—wants to earn her own living. But she's too young yet to fight the world. Larpent's a rover, he'll never settle on land. She's never had any home life, poor kid. And she wants it. You'll say it's like my damned cheek to come to you, but on my life you and Maud are the only people I can think of. There's my old friend Lady Jo—Mrs. Green as she prefers to be called—but she isn't very strong just now. I can't bother her. Besides she hasn't got a home like yours. She's up in town."
The jerky utterance came to an end. Saltash turned his head towards Jake, watching him half furtively through the smoke.
There followed a silence of some duration. Jake's brows were slightly drawn. He spoke at last, slowly and softly as his manner was. "Are you suggesting that—Captain Larpent's daughter—should come to us?"
"She'd be useful enough," said Saltash in his quick, vehement way. "She'd help Maud with the children. There's nothing she wouldn't do. It would be a kindness on your part, and you wouldn't regret it. She's a taking little thing. I'd like you to have her for a month, and if you don't want to keep her after that—well—shunt her back on to Larpent. He'll be well by that time. If he isn't—I'll look after her till he is."
"Who's looking after her now?" said Jake. "Where is she?"
Saltash pushed back his chair with a movement of impatience. "Did you think I'd bring her to Burchester for all the county to blab about? She's under my protection—and she's safe." He spoke with a certain fierceness, and in a moment was pacing the room, his face arrogantly lifted. "I know very well the sort of story that's going round, but if you're a white man you'll help me to give it the lie. I know I'm a blackguard, Jake,—never pretended to be anything else. But I hope I'm a gentleman as well—at least where women are concerned. That child is none the worse in mind or body for being thrown on my hands. You've got to believe that."
"All right," said Jake.
Saltash paced jerkily on, his hands behind him. "I want you to have her because you're straight, and she'll come to no harm with you. You never even parley with the devil, do you, Jake? Remember that time—it's ten years ago, more—when a man tried to tempt you to tamper with one of your horses and you horsewhipped him for his baseness."
"I prefer not to remember it, my lord," said Jake.
Saltash stopped suddenly by his chair and gripped his shoulder with a wiry hand. "I've liked you ever since," he said. "Look here, Jake! I'm not tempting you to do anything wrong now. I'm asking you to do something that doesn't appeal to you; but if you do it, it'll be one of the most decent actions of your life. That child is quite alone just now—except for me. Will you take her—like a good chap—till something else safe turns up?"
Jake sat slowly forward. "I'll have to talk it over with Maud," he said.
Saltash's grip shifted impatiently. "You know very well what Maud will say. Don't be an ass about it! Say No—if you mean to say No—at once!"
There came the quiet tread of approaching feet on the gravelled terrace and the sound of low voices talking together. Jake lifted his head. His face was grim. He looked Saltash straight in the eyes.
"You've told me the plain truth about her. You swear it?"
Saltash's swarthy countenance was in shadow, but those strange eyes of his gleamed oddly, with the sort of fitful shining that comes from a coat of mail in an uncertain light. They did not flinch from Jake's straight regard, neither did they wholly meet it.
"Is my oath really more valuable than my word, Jake?" he said, with a wry twist of the lips. "Most people don't find it so."
Jake stood up, a figure square and forceful. For a moment he facedSaltash with a level scrutiny that—possibly—pierced the coat of mail.Then abruptly he smiled. "I will take your word, my lord," he said.
"And the child?" said Saltash.
Jake nodded. "The child too—if Maud agrees."
"Thanks," said Saltash, and smiled back at Jake—the smile that gave his ugly face so great a charm. "I am obliged to you, Jake. I think Maud will agree."
"Shall we go to her?" said Jake.
They joined the two on the terrace, and presently they were all laughing together at Saltash's drolleries. He knew how to bring effervescence to the very quietest waters. They sat for a space on a seat in the soft spring starlight, while below them on the down there thrilled the unspeakable music of nightingales singing far and near. Then after a while Jake strolled away for his nightly inspection of the stables, taking Bunny with him, and Saltash and Maud were left alone.
He moved close to her at once, his arm stretched behind her along the back of the seat. At their feet lay an old red setter, Chops, who had belonged to Jake before his marriage and had devoted himself to Maud ever since.
"By Jove, this is peaceful!" said Saltash, and stopped to caress the old dog with a gentle hand. "Do you know, Maud, it's a good thing you never married me if this sort of thing makes you happy."
She smiled her quiet, contented smile. "I think it is a good thing too,Charlie. It certainly would never have satisfied you."
"Nothing does," he declared restlessly. "I'm a wanderer on the face of the earth, and I don't pick up much as I go along. I'm getting old, you know. Life isn't what it was."
Maud was silent for a few moments, the starlight in her eyes. "I sometimes wonder," she said at length, "if you have ever really lived yet."
He laughed on a mocking note. "My dear girl, I—who have done everything!"
She shook her head. "No, not everything, Charlie."
"Everything that's bad," he suggested recklessly.
She put out a hand to him that went into his quick hold and lay there with perfect confidence. "I don't think you're really old," she said. "I think you're just beginning to grow up. No, don't laugh! I am quite serious. You are just beginning to discriminate between the things that are worth while and those that are not."
"Is anything worth while?" said Saltash.
"Yes, yes. Heaps of things. But not the things you care for,—not just the wild pleasures of life. Charlie, I'm not good at expressing things, and I'm afraid—just a little—of trespassing, even though we are such old friends."
Her voice had a wistful note. He carried her hand to his lips. "Ma belle reine, is it possible? You?"
Her fingers closed upon his. "I hate you to be world-tired and lonely.But I would rather have you that than feeding on husks."
"I'm not doing that at the present moment," he said. "I'm living like a beastly hermit—except that I cut my nails and brush my hair occasionally. You've heard about the woman on the yacht, of course?"
Her silence answered him, and he laughed again.
"A lie,chère reine! There was no woman."
"Oh, Charlie!" she said impulsively. "Forgive me for believing it!"
He made a royal gesture. "I forgive you. Moreover, the lie was not without foundation. There was a child on board of the female species,—very small and badly frightened. We saved her between us, Larpent and I. She belongs to Larpent—not to me."
"You mean she is his daughter?" questioned Maud.
"That is exactly what I mean. Dull explanation, isn't it? Larpent was badly damaged. He is undergoing repairs in a nursing home, and the child—well, I've got to look after the child.Figurez-vous, ma chère!I—a protector of infants!Un peu comique, n'est-ce pas?"
"Ah!" Maud said, with compassion. "The poor little thing must come to us.I will take care of her. When will you bring her?"
"You think her present plight is not to be endured for another moment?" laughed Saltash. "Bien!I will send her to you tomorrow."
"Ah! I don't mean she is not in safe keeping," protested Maud. "How old is she? Older than Eileen?"
"A little older than that," said Saltash. "She's nineteen."
"Oh!" said Maud.
"Perhaps you do mean it now!" gibed Saltash, getting up in his sudden fashion.
Maud rose also, facing him in the starlight. "No, Charlie I don't! Because I know that the big things are in you and always have been, I would trust you—with my most precious possession."
He laughed again. "But when I gave it back to you, you would look all round it to make sure it hadn't been broken and stuck together again, wouldn't you, Maud of the Roses?"
"No," she said. "I wouldn't. I know—Charles Rex—better than that."
He made her a sweeping bow. "Most fair and gracious lady, do not forget that my crest is a fox's head and the motto thereupon, 'Sans vertu!'"
She smiled, looking at him with steadfast eyes. "I will give you another motto, Charlie," she said. "Those we love—we trust."
He made an abrupt movement. It was almost a protest. "For how long? Do you really love me, Maud of the Roses?"
She gave him both her hands without drawing any nearer. Her eyes were shining as stars that shine through mist. "Yes, I love you, Charlie," she said, "so much that I can't go on being happy till I know that you are too."
He bent very low, so that his dark face was wholly hidden from her. "I've never been—really happy—since the day I lost you," he said.
Her hands clasped his very tightly. There was a brief silence before—with a touch of shyness—she spoke again. "You have never been—really happy—all your life. You don't know the meaning of the word—yet."
"Don't I?" He stood up, still holding her hands. "I thought I'd sampled everything."
"No," she said. "No. There is—one thing left."
"What is that?" he said.
She stood again in silence, looking at him. Then, slowly, "You have never yet touched the joy of loving someone better—far better—than you love yourself," she said. "I think that is the greatest joy that God can send."
He bent towards her with a certain eagerness. "Maud, I could have loved you like that—once."
She shook her head and her smile was sad. "No, my dear, believe me! I couldn't have inspired it in you. I was too selfish myself in those days. Some other woman will teach you that now."
"I wonder," said Charles Rex, half-mocking and half-touched.
She slipped her hand through his arm, turning from the subject with a faint sigh. "Well, come and see the baby! He's very lovely."
"From your point of view or Jake's?" questioned Saltash.
She laughed. "From mine of course. He is going to be just like Jake."
"Heavens above! I pity you!" ejaculated Saltash. "You'll never cope with two of 'em! They'll crush you flat."
She drew him from the terrace into the quiet house. "Don't be absurd,Charlie! This boy of ours is to be the prop of our old age."
He went with her jesting, but when they entered the silent nursery in which the two youngest children lay sleeping, his trifling ceased and he trod with reverence.
They stood together in the dim light beside the baby's cot, and Saltash looked down upon the flushed baby face with a faintly rueful smile upon his own.
"There is something in being married and done for after all," he said.
Over the old baby, Betty, now two years old, he stooped and lightly touched the fair silken hair, but he did not kiss her though the child was sleeping deeply.
Later he went alone into the adjoining room where slept the two elder children, Eileen aged five, and Molly who was not yet four. Maud did not follow him, and presently he came back, treading softly, the flickering night-light throwing odd shadows on his ugly face, and they left the room together.
In the passage he turned to her abruptly. "Then I may send that child to you tomorrow?" he said.
"Why not bring her?" said Maud smiling.
He shook his head. "No. I'll come over one day—on Sunday perhaps—and see you all again. I won't—handicap her—by bringing her."
She understood him, and gave him her hand, but the fervour with which he received and kissed it surprised her into drawing it away more quickly than she had intended.
He laughed at the action. "I am only saluting motherhood," he explained.
But she shook her head and passed on. There were moments when even she who knew him so well was not wholly sure of him.
They descended again and Saltash turned towards the drawing-room.
"Let's have some music!" he said, and dropped down before Maud's piano."You are tired,ma chère. You shall listen."
He began to play an old Frenchchansonthat once they had sung together, and Maud leaned back on a deep settee near him and dreamily surrendered herself to its charm.
Charlie's touch had always been a sheer delight to her. It held her now with the old sweet spell. His spirit spoke to hers with an intimacy which ordinary converse had never attained. It was by his music that he first had spoken to her soul. In music they were always in complete accord.
She was half-asleep in her corner with the old dog lying at her feet when Jake and Bunny came in, and Saltash very swiftly, with muffled chords, brought his performance to an end.
He sprang to his feet. "I've been making love to your wife, Jake," he said, "and she has been heroically but quite ineffectually trying to keep me at a distance. I'd better go before I'm kicked out, eh?"
"Don't go on my account!" said Jake.
Saltash's brows twitched comically. "Generous as ever! But I'm a rotten villain, Jake. I never could keep it up, and your virtuous presence is the last straw. Good-bye—and many thanks!"
He held Maud's hand in his right and stretched his left to Jake with a smile half whimsical and half derisive.
"There's nothing like banking on the hundredth chance," he said. "I shall try it myself one of these days."
"Say!" said Jake in his soft drawl. "I wish you luck!"
Saltash laughed and turned away, to be instantly seized upon by Bunny.
"I say you are a good chap! The boss has been telling me. You're going to put me up to a job."
"If you'll take it," said Saltash.
Bunny thrust a hand through his arm and squeezed it impulsively. "I'll take anything from you, Charlie. Hope I shall be man enough for you, that's all."
"Oh, you're man enough," said Saltash kindly. "Just the sort I want. Look here, I can't stop now. But I'll come over on Sunday and talk things over—if Jake permits."
"Any day," said Jake.
Saltash nodded. "Good. I'll ring you up tomorrow, Maud. You're sure you mean tomorrow?"
"Quite sure," she said with a smile.
He swept her a bow and went out with Bunny.
Maud turned instantly to her husband. "Jake, I've got something to tell you—to consult you about."
He stopped her with that smile of his that was so good to see. "Oh, I guess not. You've fixed it all up without my help. But his lordship for once had the diplomacy to ask me first."
"Oh, did he?" She looked confused for a moment. "Jake, you don't mind, do you? I did the only thing possible."
He put his arm around her and led her to the door. "I'll tell whether I mind a week from now. You're looking worn out, my girl. You go to bed!"
She leaned against him. "Jake, I'm—horribly sorry for Charlie."
"Wasted sentiment!" said Jake.
"No, it isn't—it isn't—because he is just beginning—to be sorry for himself. Jake, it haunts me."
"Well, you're not to lie awake over it," said Jake unsympathetically."I shall know if you do, and I shall keep you in bed tomorrow. Got that?"He looked at her with determination glittering in his eyes.
"You're very horrid," she said.
"Yes, I know. Somebody's got to be. It's a world of contrasts, and we can't all be kings and queens. Go to bed now! I'll say good night to Bunny for you."
But Maud lingered still. "What is Charlie going to do for him?"
Jake led her with firmness into the hall. "It's the Agency. He's going to help old Bishop. I think the life will be good for him—if there isn't too much Saltash about it."
"Oh, how good of Charlie!" Maud said.
"Yes, he means well this time." Jake's arm impelled her up the shallow stairs. "Hope he'll keep it up, but it won't surprise me any if he doesn't. He's never been a stayer, and he's not the sort to begin now."
"You really don't understand him," Maud said.
"Maybe not," Jake's tone was faintly grim. It indicated that he had no intention of arguing the matter further.
Maud abandoned it and they mounted the stairs together in silence. At the door of her room she turned without words and put her arms around his neck.
He held her closely still supporting her. "Shall I come and put you to bed, my girl?"
She answered him softly. "No, darling, no! Don't be late yourself, that's all! And—Jake—thank you for all your goodness to me!"
"Oh, shucks—shucks!" he said.
She raised her hands, holding the bronze head between them, gazing straight into the free, dominant eyes with all her soul laid open to their look. "There is no one like you in all the world," she said. "You are greater than kings."
"That's just your way of putting it," said Jake. "You're not exactly an impartial judge, I reckon. Barring the fact that I'm your mate, I'm a very ordinary sinner. Moreover, Saltash tells me I'm getting fat."
"How dare he?" said Maud.
He laughed in her indignant face. "Now I'm getting my own back! There! Don't get excited! No doubt he meant well! And I certainly ride heavier than I did. Shall you love me when I'm fat, Maud?"
She drew the laughing, sunburnt face to hers. "Don't be—absurd!" she said.
Her lips met his and were caught in a long, long kiss.
"Guess you're just as moon-struck as I am," said Jake softly.
And, "I guess I am," she whispered back.
Jake carried out his threat the following day, and Maud remained in bed. A violent headache deprived her of the power to protest, and she lay in her darkened room too battered to think, while with characteristic decision he assumed the direction of the household, provoking unwilling admiration from Mrs. Lovelace, the housekeeper, who was somewhat given to disparage men as "poor things who never did a hand's turn for 'emselves if they could get the women to do it for 'em."
He took up a breakfast tray himself to his wife's room, sternly removing his two small daughters Molly and Betty, whom he found tussling like kittens on her bed, and installing Eileen the eldest, who crept down like a bright-eyed mouse from the big chair by the pillow at his coming, as her mother's keeper. Eileen was his darling; a shy child, gentle but curiously determined, protective in her attitude towards Maud, reserved towards himself. Jake was wont to say with a laugh that he was by no means sure that his eldest daughter approved of him, but he knew in his heart that her love for him was the strongest force in her small being. Bunny was wont to be impatient with her because she was afraid of the horses, with the result that she would never go near them in his company, but she would follow her father wherever he went among them without a question. It was very rarely that she confided in him, but she always liked to hold his hand.
She stood beside him now in silence while he waited upon Maud, and presently, while Maud drank the strong tea he had brought her, her small hand found its way into his. He looked down at her, squeezing it kindly. "We must take care of the mother today, little 'un. She's been working too hard."
"I'll take care of her, Daddy," said Eileen.
"And keep out Molly and Betty," pursued Jake.
"Yes, Daddy, I'll do that."
Maud smiled from her pillows. "My little policeman!" she said.
"I believe she'd keep her daddy out too if she thought it advisable," laughed Jake.
Eileen's fingers tightened about his, but she did not contradict him. Only the violet eyes so like her mother's looked up at him very pleadingly, and he stooped in a moment and kissed her.
"All right. Daddy understands."
And Eileen smiled a shy, pleased smile without words.
The sound of the telephone-bell in the hall made Maud start with a swift contradiction of the brows.
"That's probably Charlie, Jake, I ought to answer him."
"Don't you worry yourself!" said Jake, turning to the door. "I'll answer him myself."
He was gone before she could say anything further, moving without haste but with a decision there was no gainsaying, and Maud heaved a sigh and relaxed against her pillows. It was certainly a relief to leave it to him.
He returned a few minutes later, faintly smiling, sat down by her side and drew Eileen between his knees.
"Well," he said. "I guess it's all fixed up. We're going to give you a nursery governess, Innocence. I hope you'll treat her with respect."
"Oh, but, Jake—" protested Maud.
He turned to her. "Yes, she's going to make herself useful. I don't believe in anyone living in idleness. We'll begin as we mean to go on, and she's got to help. I told his lordship so. If she doesn't suit,—well, I guess she'll go back where she came from. I told him that too."
"What did he say?" questioned Maud.
"He agreed of course." Jake's tone was ironical. "Said she was nothing but a child herself. He was very emphatic on that point."
"Don't you believe him?" asked Maud with a hint of sharpness.
"Not as a rule," said Jake. "Mostly never—when he's emphatic. However, time will prove. She will be here to lunch, and I've told Bunny to meet her with the dog-cart."
"Are we going to have lessons?" asked Eileen.
He looked into the soft eyes and the irony went out of his smile. "I don't know if I can bear to have you taught anything, Innocence," he said. "You're just right as you are."
It was his own especial name for her and he always uttered it with tenderness. Eileen smiled up at him, and pressed against his knee.
"I would like to learn some lessons, Daddy," she said. "I'm sure I'm big enough, and I'm growing too."
"Maybe you are," said Jake. "But don't grow too fast, little 'un! Don't get so big that you look down on your poor old daddy!"
"She'll never do that!" said Maud quickly. "No child of mine will ever do that, Jake."
He smiled at her whimsically. "Oh, I guess I'll hold my own among 'em whatever they do. Now you go to sleep, my girl, and put all worries out of your head! I must be moving, but I'll look in presently to see how you are. So long!"
He bent and laid his cheek for a moment against her hand, then turned and softly left her.
Maud watched the door close behind him, then spoke to the child beside her. "Eileen darling, always remember that your daddy is the best and dearest man who ever lived!"
"Yes, Mummy, I know," said Eileen, with earnest shining eyes.
Jake went out to the stables and immersed himself in the day's work. He had always been a busy man, and time passed swiftly with him. He and his right-hand man, Sam Vickers, had brought the stud to a pitch of perfection that had earned for his animals a high place in the opinion of the racing community. He had, moreover, a reputation for straightness so unimpeachable that it had become almost a proverb up and down the country. Men said of Jake Bolton that his honour was such that it could stand by itself. Certainly no one ever questioned it.
One of his horses was running at Graydown that afternoon, and at the end of the morning he returned to the house for a hasty lunch before leaving for the race-course. All memory of Saltash'sprotégéhad left him, but it returned to his mind as he saw the extra place laid at the table. He looked at his watch and realized that she ought to have arrived half an hour before. Bunny was also absent, presumably waiting for her.
He paid Maud a brief visit before departing, and found her better. She was half dressed and lying on a couch in her room. He extracted a promise from her that she would not go down before tea, though she demurred somewhat on the score of the expected visitor.
"Leave her to Bunny!" said Jake. "He's quite capable of looking after her for an hour or two."
"I think Bunny meant to go to the races," she said.
Jake frowned. "Well, he can't for once. Don't you fret now! She'll be all right."
"Well, tell them to bring her straight up to see me when she arrives!"Maud begged him. "I shan't be asleep, and really I am much better."
"All right," he conceded. "I'll do that."
He went out and there fell the deep shining peace of a spring afternoon. Somewhere in the distance a cuckoo was calling softly, monotonously, seductively. A thrush was warbling in the terraced garden, and from her window Maud could see old Chops the setter curled up in a warm corner asleep. The children were all out on the downs, and the house was very quiet.
Her thoughts turned dreamily to Saltash. What a pity he did not find some nice girl to marry! Her faith in him, often shaken and as often renewed, had somehow taken deeper root since their talk of the night before. Charlie was beginning to tire of his riotous living. He was beginning to want the better things. But in his present mood she saw a danger. He had come to a critical point in his career, and he would either go up or down. There would be no middle course with him. Knowing him as she did, she realized that a very little pressure would incline him either way. She felt as if his very life hung in the balance. It depended so vitally—upon whence the pressure came.
"If only some decent woman would fall in love with him!" she sighed, and then found herself smiling wistfully at the thought that Saltash's heart would not be an easy thing to capture. He was far too accustomed to adulation, wherever he went. "Besides, he's such a flirt," she reflected. "One never knows whether he is in earnest till the mischief is done."
The cuckoo's soft persistence began somehow to seem like a penance. "When he has said it just like that four hundred and fifty times he'll be absolved and allowed to change his tune," was her thought. "I wonder if poor Charles Rex has said the same thing as often as that, and if that is why he is tired."
A mist began to rise in her brain, making vague the cuckoo's call, blurring even the clear sweet notes of the thrush. A delicious drowsiness crept over her. She gave herself to it with conscious delight. It was so exquisite to feel the grim band that had bound her brow with such cruel tightness relax at last and fall away. Very blissfully she drifted into slumber.
It was nearly two hours later that she became somewhat suddenly aware of feet sauntering under her window and young voices talking together.
"Hullo!" said one abruptly, it was Bunny's speaking with careless friendliness. "Stand still a minute! There's an immense green caterpillar waving to me from your hat-brim."
A voice that was like a boy's, dear, bell-like, made instant response."Oh hell! Do take it off!"
Maud started wide awake with involuntary shrinking.
There came a chuckle from Bunny and, after a pause and the eloquent crunch of a heel on the gravel, his voice on a note of laughter. "I didn't say it!"
"Great Scott!" ejaculated the clear boyish tones. "Do you mean you're shocked?"
"Not at all," said Bunny courteously.
"Well then, what does it matter who said it?" demanded the other.
"It doesn't matter," said Bunny, still suppressing merriment. "Except that it isn't said in this house."
"Oh damn!" said the newcomer disconsolately. "Then I shall soon be sent back in disgrace."
"Cheer up!" said Bunny. "We don't convict on a first offence as a rule in this country."
"But I shall never remember!" groaned the other, and for the first time the words held a note that was not wholly boyish, it sounded wistful, even rather piteous. "People's ways are all so different. It's rather infernal—trying to please everybody, you know, Bunny."
"Never mind!" said Bunny, in a brotherly tone. "I'll kick you every timeI see it coming if you like."
"Will you really? That would be jolly decent of you." The wistfulness vanished in a laugh that was quick and musical, wholly spontaneous.
"You bet I will!" said Bunny.
"Right O! Mind you do! Now get out of the way and see me jump that rose tree!"
There followed the light scamper of feet, and Maud raised herself swiftly and leaned forth in time to see an athletic little figure in navy blue wearing a jaunty Panama hat, skim like a bird over a sweeping Dorothy Perkins just coming into bloom and alight on one leg with the perfect poise of a winged Mercury on the other side.
Bunny's lanky form followed and also cleared the rose-tree with infinitely less grace, and again the girl laughed, her wide blue eyes alight with mirth.
"What an antic! I thought you were going to pull up the rose bush with your heels! What are you doing that for?"
Bunny's hands were on her shoulders. He was plainly enjoying himself thoroughly. "I'm feeling for the wings," he explained. "I'll swear you never jumped it. Where do you keep 'em?"
She drew herself away from his touch. "No, I haven't got any. They don't grow on people like me. Don't let's stay here! I feel as if we're being watched."
It was then that Maud spoke from her window in her quiet gentle voice that yet held a certain authority.
"Bunny, bring our visitor up to see me!"
Both Bunny and his companion started and looked up, and Maud saw the girl's face fully for the first time—a nervous little face with haunting wide blue eyes made more intense by the short thick black lashes that surrounded them, eyes that seemed to plead for kindness. There was charm about the pointed chin and a good deal of sweetness about the moulding of the mouth. But it was the eyes that held Maud's attention. They were the eyes of a creature who has known the wild agony of fear and is not easily reassured. Yet the face was the face of a child.
She leaned out a little further on her sill and addressed the stranger. "Come up and speak to me!" she said very kindly. "Bunny will show you the way."
A shy flickering smile answered her. She cast a questioning look atBunny.
"Yes, that's Maud—my sister," said Bunny. "Come along! This way!"
They entered the house by a French window, and Maud drew back into her room. What was there in that childish face that appealed so tremendously to her womanhood—wholly banishing her first involuntary sense of recoil? She could not have said, she was only conscious of the woman in her throbbing with a deep compassion. She stood and waited for the child's coming with a strangely poignant expectation.
She heard Bunny's voice talking cheerily on the stairs, but his words provoked no response. She went to the door and opened it.
Bunny was leading the way; in fact his companion seemed to be lagging very considerably in the rear.
Maud moved out into the passage, and Bunny stood to one side with a courteous gesture. "Mademoiselle Antoinette Larpent!" he announced.
The small figure in blue drew itself together with a certain bravado and came forward.
Maud held out her hands. "My dear child," she said, "I expected you long ago."
The hands she clasped were very small and cold. They did not cling to her as she had half expected. The blue eyes flashed her a single nervous glance and fell.
"I'm sorry I'm late, madam," said the visitor in a low, punctilious voice.
Maud felt amused and chilled in the same moment. "Come and sit down!" she said. "We will have some tea upstairs. Bunny, go and order it, will you?"
"With pleasure," said Bunny. "And may I return?"
She smiled at him as she passed an arm about the girl's narrow shoulders. "Yes, you can come back when it's ready. Come in here, dear! You will like to take off your things. How long have you been here?"
"Only five minutes," came the murmured answer; she thought it had a deprecating sound.
"You must be tired," she said kindly. "You came from town? How is it you are so late? Did you miss your train?"
"No, madam." Very nervously came the reply. The contrast between this and the boyish freedom of manner on the terrace a few seconds before would have been ludicrous if it had not been somehow pathetic.
She passed on, too considerate to press for details. "Take off your hat and coat, won't you? When we have had some tea I will take you to your room."
She was pleased to see that Charlie'sprotégéwas garbed with extreme simplicity. Her fair hair, which had been closely shorn, was beginning to curl at the ends. She liked the delicate contrasting line of the black brows above the deep blue of the eyes. She noticed that the veins on the white temples showed with great distinctness.
"Sit down!" she said. "And now you must tell me what to call you. Your name is Antoinette, isn't it?"
"I'm generally called Toby," said the visitor in a very shy voice. "But you will call me—what you like."
"Would you like me to call you Toby?" Maud asked.
"Yes, please," said Toby with unexpected briskness.
Maud smiled. "Very well, my dear. Then that is settled. We are not going to be strangers, you and I. I expect you know that Lord Saltash and I are great friends—though I have never met your father."
Toby's pale young face flushed suddenly. She was silent for a moment.Then: "Lord Saltash has been very good to me," she said in her shy voice."He—saved me from drowning. Wasn't it—wasn't it nice of him to—takethe trouble?"
"Quite nice of him," Maud agreed. "You must have been very frightened, weren't you?"
Toby suppressed a shudder. "I was rather. And the water was dreadfully cold. I thought we should never come up again. It was like—it was like—" She stopped herself. "He said I was never to talk about it—or think about it—so I won't, if you don't mind."
"Tell me about your father!" said Maud sympathetically.
For the second time the blue eyes flashed towards her. "Oh, he is still ill in a nursing home and not allowed to see anyone." There was a hint of recklessness in her voice. "They say he'll get well again, but—I don't know."
"You are anxious about him," Maud said.
"No, I'm not." Recklessness became something akin to defiance. "I don't like him much. He's so surly."
"My dear!" said Maud, momentarily disconcerted.
"Well, it's no good pretending I do when I don't, is it?" said Toby, and suddenly smiled at her with winning gracelessness. "It isn't my fault We're not friends—never have been. Why," she made a little gesture of the hands, "we hardly know each other. I'd never been onThe Night Mothbefore."
"And you'll never go again," commented Bunny, entering at the moment, "Maud, do you know I took—Miss Larpent—" he turned deliberately to Toby who snapped her fingers in airy acknowledgment—"to see the races instead of coming straight back—according to the boss's instructions."
"Oh! So that's where you've been!" said Maud.
"Exactly so." Bunny pulled up a chair and disposed his long legs astride it. "We saw several events, and made a bit. Then Forest Fire let us down badly and we lost the lot. After that we went into the paddock to cool ourselves and met the boss, who at once—somewhat rudely—ordered us home. I have an impression he's feeling waxy with me for some reason," Bunny ended, stroking his chin reflectively. "Daresay I shall get over it, however."
"What a pity you went!" said Maud.
"Not at all," said Bunny. "We enjoyed it. It's fun doing naughty things sometimes, isn't it,—er—Miss Larpent?"
"Don't be an ass!" said Toby tersely.
Maud raised her brows, but Bunny grinned with delight. "Thank you Toby! I take the hint. There shall be no more ceremony between us. Ah! There come the children along the path by the summerhouse!" he sprang to the window and sent forth a yell, turning back almost instantly to say, "Sorry, Maud! I'm afraid I forgot your head. How is it?"
He did not wait for her reply, but leaned out again immediately to address the advancing children with noisy gayety.
Toby looked up at Maud, hesitated, and rose. "Let us go and have tea with the children!" she said. "It will be quieter for you."
Maud put out a gentle hand to her. "No, dear. You stay with me. Bunny may if he likes!"
This time Toby's fingers closed tightly upon her own. "Sure?" said Toby.
"Quite sure," said Maud, smiling at her.
Toby turned sharply and pinched Bunny's elbow as he leaned from the window. He drew himself in and stared at her.
"You're making too much noise," she told him curtly. "You go and racket downstairs!"
Bunny's eyes widened for a second in indignant amazement, then abruptly he threw up his chin and laughed. "I like you!" he declared. "You're the cockiest thing in girls I've ever seen!"
Toby pulled at his elbow like a small, persistent dog. "Go on!" she commanded. "Go down to them! Mrs. Bolton and I want to have our tea alone. I'll come and play with you presently—if you're good."
It was spoken wholly without coquetry, much as an elder brother might speak to a younger. It was plain that she meant to have her way, though Maud, who knew that there was a very strong mixture of stubbornness in Bunny, wondered much if she would get it. Amusement, however, kept the upper hand with him. Toby's treatment evidently appealed strongly to his sense of humour. Perhaps her determination also made its impression upon him, for after a little more chaff on his part and brisk insistence on hers he departed, laughing, to join the children.
Toby saw him to the door and returned calm and triumphant.
"Well done!" said Maud. "You know how to deal with spoilt children evidently."
Toby looked at her sharply as she sat down, almost as if she expected a double meaning to the words.
"Do you mean men?" she said, and for an instant her childish face wore a look of contempt. "Oh, anyone can manage men—given a fair chance. There's not much cleverness needed for that."
She spoke with the decision of one who knew, and in spite of the difference of years between them Maud could not question her confidence. She had a curious feeling that—either by experience or intuition—this girl knew more than she.
She made no comment therefore, and after a moment Toby spoke her last word on the subject with characteristic brevity.
"There's only one rule to follow with men—that is, if you want any peace at all. Make up your mind and stick to it! If they don't like it, let 'em go to—" She checked suddenly, and coloured deeply under Maud's eyes—"I mean, let 'em do the other thing," she ended, on a note that somehow seemed to ask for pardon.
"I see," said Maud gently, in a tone that conveyed it.
Toby threw her a little smile, half-grateful and half-mischievous; and curiously in that moment a bond was formed between them which was destined to endure.
There was undoubtedly a frown on Jake's usually serene countenance when he walked up the great stable-yard a little later that evening and came upon Bunny lounging in a doorway with his hands in his pockets talking to one of the men.
"Look here, young feller, I want a word with you," he said, with his customary directness, and laid a somewhat peremptory hand upon the boy's shoulder.
Bunny, with a cigarette between his lips, turned and laughed at him without a hint of discomfiture. "All right, boss. I'll come," he said, and linked his arm in Jake's with boyish friendliness.
He was half-a-head taller than Jake, but the look of power that was so apparent in the older man was wholly absent in him. He moved his long limbs with a loose swing that lacked energy though it seemed to denote a certain restlessness.
"Wonder what you'll do without me here when I go to Charlie," he remarked, as Jake did not immediately speak.
"I should say the sooner you go the better," said Jake rather brutally, "if I were only sure you were going to the right place."
"Have a smoke!" said Bunny with unruffled amiability, proffering his case.
Jake pushed it from him with a curt sound of dissatisfaction.
"All right. Don't!" said Bunny, with instant haughtiness, and returned it to his pocket.
He would have withdrawn his hand from his brother-in-law's arm, but Jake retained it there forcibly, steering for his own private office at the end of the stable-yard.
Bunny submitted, but his face grew ominously dark as they passed in silence between the long rows of loose-boxes in the soft spring twilight. As they neared Jake's room he drew himself together with the action of a man who braces his muscles for a sudden strain, and in a moment he was older, less defiant, more dignified.
"That's better," Jake said, making him enter first. "There are times, Sir Bernard Brian, when I want to lick you, as you never—unfortunately—were licked in your early youth. Other times—like the present—when the breed gets the better of me, and I can only stand outside—and admire."
"Oh, don't be a blithering idiot, Jake!" said Bunny in hot discomfiture. Jake's hand grasped his shoulder. "Sit down, and bring yourself to my level for a minute! Maybe I am a blithering idiot, maybe I'm not. But I could take you by the heels and dip you in the horse-pond round the corner if I felt that way. So you'd better keep as civil as possible. It won't make a mite of difference to me, but it may to you."
Bunny sat down, breathing hard. His cigarette fell to the ground and he stooped for it, but Jake, still holding his shoulder, stooped also, picked it up and flung it straight out of the window.
"You smoke too many of 'em," he said, as he did it.
"Damn you!" said Bunny in a voice of concentrated fury.
He would have sprung to his feet, but Jake's hands were upon him like iron clamps and kept him seated.
He spoke, his voice soft, unhurried, even humorous. "I'm only a beastly groom, you know, Bunny. You don't expect good manners from me, do you?"
Bunny shrank a little, as if something in the words pierced him. Jake's eyes, very bright but wholly free from anger looked straight into his. For some reason he ceased to strain against the compelling hands and sat passive.
There followed a somewhat tense silence before he said, "Well, go on! I knew you wanted to row me about something. What's it all about?"
His voice was sullen but his attitude was no longer hostile. He looked ashamed.
Jake sat down suddenly on the edge of the writing-table. "Say, Bunny!" he said gently. "Do you know you're the only man in the world that can send me to perdition and not have his teeth knocked down his throat for his officiousness?"
Bunny looked up at him, and in a moment, like the flash of sunshine from behind a cloud, he was smiling. "Oh, get out, Jake. I suppose you're going to wipe the floor with me now. I didn't mean it and I'm sorry. Let's get on from there!"
His hand gripped Jake's hard. There was something very winning about him at the moment, something that appealed strongly to the older man though he did not instantly reply. He kept the boy's hand in his for a moment, and his eyes were very kindly as he looked into the thin young face.
"Guess you know I'm pretty fond of you, my son," he said at length, "butI don't figure to let you go to the devil unhindered on that account."
Bunny whistled. "Who's going? Oh, don't be an ass, Jake, will you?"
"No, I won't," said Jake, "at least not the soft variety. Reckon I've been too soft with you, Bunny, as long as I've known you."
Bunny stirred restlessly in his chair. "Think so?" he said. "Well, it's a good fault, old chap. I can't stand bullying from anyone—makes me see red at once."
"I know," Jake said. "I've never bullied you anyway. But I'm on the war-path now, and you've got to take your physic whether you like it or not. Say, Bunny, how much money did you drop at the races this afternoon?"
"What's that to you?" said Bunny.
Jake's face hardened a little. "Well, I expected that," he said. "Afraid to tell me, eh?"
"Not in the least afraid," said Bunny. "I dispute your right to know, that's all."
"I see." Jake regarded him with a very direct scrutiny. "I'm to be kept in my place, is that it?"
Bunny coloured. "That's the fourth time you've called me a bounder since we came in. What do you mean by it, Jake?"
"What do I mean?" Jake spoke rather sadly. "Well, maybe that's just whatI do mean, Bunny. You're beginning to bound."
"Rot!" said Bunny, though he coloured more deeply than before. "You know there isn't another fellow anywhere that I respect as I respect you. But—dash it, Jake!—you must let me grow."
"I want you to," said Jake. "But for the Lord's sake, grow straight!" He reached out and took Bunny by the shoulder. "I'm going to ask a big thing of you, sonny, but I guess I shall know by the way you take it how much your respect for me is worth."
"What is it?" said Bunny.
"Just this." Jake leaned forward; there was speculation in his look. "I want you to chuck racing—altogether—for a year. There!"
"Chuck racing!" Bunny sat up very straight. "Jake! Why on earth shouldI?"
Jake's hand closed upon him. He was smiling a little but there was something relentless behind his smile. "Oh, just to please me," he said. "That's all."
Bunny stared at him. "Chuck racing!" he said again. "Jake, you're mad!"
"No, I guess not," said Jake imperturbably. "I'm not arguing any against racing. Played straight, it's the best game in the world. I'm just asking a personal favour of you. There's nothing to be hurt about in that."
There was an ominous gleam in Bunny's eyes. He looked as if he were on the verge of open rebellion, but with his last words Jake's steady arm suddenly went round his shoulders and gave him a hard, brotherly squeeze.
"Don't do it if you're going to hate me for it!" he said. "Reckon I can't afford that. I knew it was a gamble when I started. If I can't win, I'll back out right now."
"Jake!" Quick feeling sounded in Bunny's voice. He turned sharply, and for an instant his cheek was against the kindly hand with the old boyish gesture of affection. Then he looked Jake full in the eyes and laughed. "Jake, I say, don't be a beast! You know I'll do anything under the sun to please you."
"You'll do this?" said Jake.
"Tell me why first!" said Bunny.
"Because I want to know if you've got the grit for one thing. And for another—that girl who has just come here is a gambler to the backbone, and I won't have her encouraged."
"How on earth do you know that?" said Bunny. "Did Charlie tell you?"
"No." Jake's voice was grim. "You don't suppose I'd take his word for anything, do you? I saw it in her face this afternoon. I know that gambling fever, and she—well, I'm inclined to think she's had it in one form or another all her life."
"She's quite a nice kid," said Bunny condescendingly.
Jake smiled, but the firmness remained. "She's not your sort, Sir Bernard Brian," he remarked. "And I rather guess she could teach you more than you could teach her."
"What do you mean?" said Bunny.
Jake turned aside to shut the window in preparation for departure. "Well, sonny," he said in a marked drawl, "I guess I mean just that. If you aren't sharp enough to draw your own conclusions, that's none of my business." He turned round and looked at Bunny with absolute directness. "And that other proposition of mine,—did I understand you to fall in with it?"
"Chuck racing for a year, you mean?" Bunny got up. His face was still red, but it showed no resentment. "It's rather much, isn't it, Jake?"
"Too much?" questioned Jake.
Bunny hesitated. "Well, a year! Make it three months!" he said coaxingly.
Jake came to him, square and resolute. "I'll make it six months, Bunny," he said, "if you can tell me you didn't drop more than fifty pounds this afternoon."
Bunny turned crimson. "This afternoon was an exception," he said hastily.
"I thought so," said Jake dryly.
"But—damn it!—it's rather a heavy penalty to pay," protested Bunny. He thrust out an impulsive hand. "I say, let me off, old feller! I won't do it again."
Jake's fingers closed and held. He said nothing, merely waited.
And very suddenly—after his own headlong fashion—Bunny made unconditional surrender. "Oh, get out, you beastly groom!" he said, and wrung Jake's hand with all the force he could muster. "All right! It's done!"
Jake made an odd movement as of tension relaxed though none had been apparent in his bearing. He struck Bunny on the shoulder the blow of a friend.
"That's the biggest thing you've ever done for me, pard," he said with a smile. "Reckon I shan't forget it. Take it out of me next time!"
"You bet I will!" said Bunny.
He linked his arm through Jake's and gripped it hard. His eyes were shining as they passed out together into the gathering dusk. He had made a considerable sacrifice, but Jake had the gift of making him realize that it was worth while.
A squeal of childish laughter echoed down the long passage that led from the nurseries, followed by a shuffling sound along the floor.
"Hold tight!" cried a voice, a gay, boyish voice, "I'm going to gallop!"
There followed a tremendous scrambling along the corridor and shrieks of delight from three excited children. Jake, who had just mounted the stairs, paused in his progress; but in a moment there came a dramatic sound indicative of collapse, and immediately there arose cries of dismay. He turned an intervening corner and came upon the newly-arrived guest quite prone upon the floor with his three little girls scuffling in delighted agitation over her inert body.
He hesitated to interrupt the game, but in an instant Betty the youngest had spied him and uttered a shrill cry of welcome. The heap upon the floor swiftly resolved itself into four separate beings, and the newcomer sprang up with the litheness of a squirrel and met him with a free grace that was not without a suggestion of defiance.
He held out his hand to her. He understood the defiance and replied to it with characteristic directness.
"Guess you thought me a rough sort of animal when we met in the paddock this afternoon," he said. "I'm sorry. It was Bunny I was up against—not you."
"Not me?" said Toby, her wide eyes lifted quite openly to his. "Sure?"
He pinched the slim young hand without ceremony. Somehow she took him by storm—this girl with the open brow and curiously pathetic face. "Well, not so much you," he said. "Bunny knows that gambling on a big scale is against the law for children of his age."
"Oh, I see," said Toby. She smiled and slipped her hand free. "Well, I'm years older than he is, so that doesn't apply to me. Bunny wasn't doing any gambling either."
"I gathered that," said Jake.
She stopped and lifted Molly the second child, partially veiling her own face with the little girl's soft curls. "Then you are up against me," she said.
"No, I'm not," Jake's voice held a queer, compassionate note. "We won't quarrel till we know each other better anyway. I see you're pretty intimate with the youngsters already."
"Oh, that's easy, isn't it?" said Toby. "Babies always take you at your face value. They are never prejudiced beforehand. There's never any handicap of that sort with babies."
Betty was clamouring at her knees. She bent and lifted her also, bracing her slight form to a double burden of which Jake instantly relieved her, gathering both children into his own strong arms.
"You're not to do that ever again," he said, with the authority of the man accustomed to obedience. "Understand?"
"Why not?" said Toby.
He turned to carry the two babies to the nursery. "Because I say it," he said briefly.
"Oh, but that's no reason," said Toby, with light assurance.
Eileen at her side looked up in shocked amazement. "Not if Daddy says so?" she questioned.
Toby stooped and swung her up to her shoulder. "You little featherweight!Daddy's only a man!" she said.
"Quite true," said Jake deliberately. "The sort of man who means what he says—always, and sees that he gets it."
"What a frightful undertaking!" laughed Toby. "Then if you told me to go to blazes you'd see that I went?"
There was a pause. Eileen's little hands locked themselves nervously under Toby's chin. Perhaps she was aware of a certain electricity in the atmosphere. She was plainly not at her ease.
Jake's voice sounded, very quiet and distinct, from the nursery door as he entered. "I reckon that's just one of the things I've learnt not to say."
"Oh glory!" said Toby, "There goes the odd trick!"
It was several minutes later, after a wild final romp that they left the room together. There was certainly no ceremony left between them. They came out as comrades, laughing at the same joke, their brief passage-at-arms apparently forgotten.
Toby, however, reverted to it very suddenly as they walked along the passage. "Mr. Bolton, I'm sorry I got Bunny into hot water this afternoon. It was all my fault. And I'm sorry I said blazes in front of the babies just now. You'll have to kick me when I do these things, and then I'll remember."
Jake paused and looked at her. "Say! Are you a boy or a girl?" he said.
She smiled, a faintly dubious smile, but her reply was prompt. "Mostly boy, sir. That's what makes it so difficult."
He put his hand on her shoulder. "Look here! Call me Jake, see? Are you keen on horses?"
Toby's eyes shone. "Like mad," she said.
"I'll see you ride tomorrow," said Jake.
Toby whooped with delight. "But I'll have to borrow some breeches from someone. You don't want me to ride in a skirt do you?"
"Not specially," said Jake. "What do you generally ride in?"
"Tights," said Toby, and then suddenly clapped her hand to her mouth in dismay. "There! Now I've done it! You won't tell—you'll never tell, will you? Promise!"
"Sure!" said Jake. He was smiling a little, but there was compassion in his eyes.
And Toby's hand came out to him in sudden confidence. "I like you," she said. "You're a friend."
Jake's grasp was strong and kindly. "I guess I shan't let you down," he said.
Toby nodded. "You've been a cow-boy, haven't you? I knew that directly I saw you."
"I've been a good many things," said Jake.
She nodded again. "And always the right sort. I wish—" She broke off abruptly.
"What?" said Jake.
"Oh, nothing," said Toby, with a rather wistful little laugh.
"Let's have it!" said Jake.
Her hand lay in his, and this time she left it there. Her blue eyes met his courageously. "Only that I'd met you before," she said.
"Before when?" said Jake. "Before you met Saltash?"
"Oh no!" Very swiftly, she answered him. "Oh no! Lord Saltash is among the kings. I'd have been dead by now but for him!" Her eyes kindled as with a sudden glowing memory, she flushed like an eager child. "You know him?" she said. "Isn't he—isn't he—fine?"
She spoke with reverence, even with a certain awe. The man's face changed a little, hardening almost imperceptibly.
"Guess he's no great hero of mine," he said. "But maybe he has his points."
"He has!" Toby assured him with fervor. "You don't know him like I do.He's a—he's a masterpiece."
"That so?" said Jake.
Perhaps Toby felt a lack of sympathy in his tone; she quitted the subject abruptly. "No, that wasn't what I meant. I only wish I'd met you long ago—years and years ago—when you were a cow-boy."
"You were a babe in arms then," said Jake.
She shook her head, quaintly smiling. "I wasn't ever that. I think I must have been born old—began at the wrong end somehow. Some people do, you know."
"I know," said Jake. "When that happens, there's only one thing to be done."
"What?" queried Toby.
His eyes were watching her intently, but there was nothing alarming in their scrutiny. He made reply with absolute gentleness. "Begin again."
"Ah!" A little sound that was more than a sigh escaped her, and then quite suddenly her other hand came out to him; she lifted a quivering face. "You going to help me?" she said.
The action touched him. He took her by the shoulders as he might have taken a boy. "I'll help you," he said.
"You'll be good to me?" Her voice was quivering also, it had a sound of tears.
"Sure!" said Jake, laconic and forceful.
"Keep me straight and pull me up when I go wrong?" pursued Toby tremulously.
"Yes, I'll do that," he said.
"And you won't—you won't—you won't—talk to anybody about me?" she pleaded.
"No," said Jake briefly.
"Not to Lord Saltash? Not to anyone?"
"No," he said again, a hint of sternness in the curt word.
Toby gulped down her distress, was silent for a moment or two, then suddenly smiled upon him—a sunny inconsequent smile. "Guess I've got you on my side now," she said with satisfaction. "You're nice and solid, Mr. Jake Bolton. When you've been picked up from the very bottom of the sea, it's good to have someone big and safe to hold on to."
"That so?" said Jake.
"Yes, I know now why Lord Saltash sent me here—just because you're big—and safe."
"Oh, quite safe," said Jake with his sudden smile.
It came to him—as it had come to Saltash—that there was something piteously like a small animal, storm-driven and seeking refuge, about her. Even in her merriest moments she seemed to plead for kindness.
He patted her shoulder reassuringly as he let her go. "I'll look after you," he said, "if you play the game."
"What game?" said Toby unexpectedly.
He looked her squarely in the eyes. "The only game worth playing," he said. "The straight game."
"Oh, I see," said Toby with much meekness. "Not cheat, you mean? LordSaltash doesn't allow cheating either."