Toby could not tell him. He only, after a moment, slipped down in a sitting position by Saltash's side and rested with more assurance against the encircling arm.
"Come! I didn't hurt you much," said Saltash.
"No, sir. You didn't hurt me—at all." Toby stammered a little."You—you—you meant—not to hurt me, didn't you?"
"I must hit harder next time evidently," observed Saltash, with a squeeze of the narrow shoulders.
"No, sir—no, sir! There shan't be—a next time!" Toby assured him with nervous vehemence. "I only did it just to see—just to see—I'll never do it again, sir."
"Just to see what?" asked Saltash curiously.
But again Toby could not explain himself, and he did not press him.
"Well, you didn't do it at all well," he remarked. "I shouldn't certainly make a profession of it if I were you. It's plainly not yourmétier."
He paused, but with the air of having something more to say. Toby waited silently.
It came with a jerk and a grimace, as if some inner force compelled. "I can't talk pi-jaw—on this subject or any other. You see—I'm a rotter myself."
"You, sir!" Toby lifted his head suddenly and stared at him with eyes that blazed passionately blue in the starlight. "Don't believe it!" he said. "It isn't true."
Saltash grinned a little. His face had the dreary look of something lost that a monkey's sometimes wears. "You needn't believe it, son, if you don't want to," he said. "But it's true all the same. That's why I gave you that licking, see? Just to emphasize the difference between us."
"It isn't true!" Toby asserted again almost fiercely. "I'd kill anyone else that said so."
"Oh, you needn't do that!" said Saltash, with kindly derision. "Thanks all the same, my turkey-cock! If I ever need your protection I'll be sure to ask for it." He flicked the young face with his finger. "But you're not to follow my example, mind. You've got to run straight. You're young enough to make it worth while, and—I'll see you have a chance."
"But you'll keep me with you, sir," said Toby swiftly. "You'll keep me—always—with you!"
"Ah!" Saltash's brows twisted oddly for a second. He seemed to ponder the matter. "I can't say off-hand what I'm going to do with you," he said. "You're—a bit of a problem, you know, Toby."
"Yes, sir. I know. I know." Toby's voice was quick with agitation. "But you won't send me away from you! Promise you won't send me away!"
"Can't promise anything," said Saltash. "Look here! I think there's been enough of this. You'd better go to bed."
But Toby was clinging fast to his hand. He spoke between quivering lips. "Please, sir, you said you'd bought me body and soul. You can't mean to chuck me away—after that! Please, sir, I'll do anything—anything under the sun—for you. And you—you can kick me—do anything to me—and I'll never say a word. I'm just yours—for as long as I live. Please, sir—please, sir—don't send me away! I—I'd rather die than that."
He laid his head suddenly down upon the hand he held so tenaciously and began to sob, fighting desperately to stifle all sound.
Saltash sat for a few moments in utter silence and immobility. Then, abruptly, in a tense whisper, he spoke:
"Toby, you little fool, stop it—stop it, do you hear?—and go below!"
The words held a queer urgency. He raised himself as he uttered them, seeking to free his hand though with all gentleness from the clinging clasp.
"Get up, boy!" he said. "Get up and go to bed! What? Oh, don't cry! Pull yourself together! Toby, do you hear?"
Toby lifted a white, strained face. His eyes looked enormous in the dim light. "Yes, sir. All right, sir," he jerked out, and stumbled trembling to his feet. "I know I'm a fool, sir. I'm sorry. I can't help it. No one was ever decent to me—till you came. I—shall just go under now, sir."
"Oh, stop it!" Saltash spoke almost violently. "Can't you see—that's just what I want to prevent? You don't want to go to the devil, I suppose?"
Toby made a passionate gesture that was curiously unboylike. "I'd go to hell and stay there for ever—if you were there!" he said.
"Good God!" said Saltash.
He got up in his sudden fashion and moved away, went to the rail and stood there for a space with his face to the rippling sheen of water. Finally he turned and looked at the silent figure waiting beside his chair, and a very strange smile came over his dark features. He came back, not without a certain arrogance, and tapped Toby on the shoulder.
"All right," he said. "Stay with me and be damned if you want to! I daresay it would come to the same thing in the end."
Toby drew himself together with a swift movement. "That means you'll keep me, sir?"
His eyes, alight and eager, looked up to Saltash with something that was not far removed from adoration in their shining earnestness.
The strange smile still hovered about Saltash's face; a smile in which cynicism and some vagrant, half-stifled emotion were oddly mingled.
"Yes, I'll keep you," he said, and paused, looking at him oddly.
Toby's eyes, very wide open, intensely bright, looked straight back. "For good, sir?" he said anxiously.
And Saltash laughed, a brief, mocking laugh. "For better, for worse, myToby!" he said. "Now—go!"
He smote him a light friendly blow on the shoulder and flung round on his heel.
Toby went, very swiftly, without looking back.
They sighted the English shore a few days later on an evening of mist and rain. The sea was grey and dim, the atmosphere cold and inhospitable.
"Just like England!" said Saltash. "She never gushes over her prodigals."
He was dining alone in the saloon with Toby behind his chair, Larpent being absent on the bridge.
"Don't you like England, sir?" said Toby.
"I adore her," said Saltash with his most hideous grimace. "But I don't go to her for amusement."
Toby came forward to fill his glass with liqueur. "Too strait-laced, sir?" he suggested with the suspicion of a smile.
Saltash nodded with a sidelong glance at the young face bent over the decanter. "Too limited in many ways, my Toby," he said. "But at the same time useful in certain emergencies. A stern mother perhaps, but a wise one on the whole. You, for instance—she will be the making of you."
A slight tremor went through Toby. He set down the decanter and stepped back. "Of me, sir?" he said.
Saltash nodded again. He was fingering the stem of his glass, his queer eyes dancing a little. "We've got to make a respectable citizen of you—somehow," he said.
"Do you think that matters, sir?" said Toby.
Saltash raised his glass. "You won't always be a boy of sixteen, you know, Toby," he said lightly. "We've got to think of the future—whether we want to or not."
"I don't see why, sir," said Toby.
"You see, you're young," said Saltash, and drank with the air of one who drinks a toast.
Suddenly he turned in his chair, the glass still in his hand.
"Our last night on board!" he said, with a royal gesture of invitation."You shall drink with me."
Toby's face flushed burningly. He hung back. "Not—not—from your glass, sir!" he said. "Not—liqueur!"
"Why not? Afraid?" mocked Saltash.
Toby was silent. His hand closed involuntarily upon the back of his master's chair. The flush died out of his face.
Saltash sat and looked at him for a few seconds, still with that dancing gleam in his eyes. Then abruptly he moved, rose with one knee upon the chair, lifted the glass to Toby's lips.
"Afraid?" he said again, speaking softly as one speaks to a frightened child.
Toby raised a hand that sought to take the glass but closed instead nervously upon Saltash's wrist. He drank in response to Saltash's unspoken insistence, looking straight at him the while.
Then oddly he smiled. "No, not afraid, sir," he said. "Only—lest I might not bring you luck."
"Oh, don't fret yourself on that account!" said Saltash. "I'm not used to any luck."
Toby's eyes widened. "I thought you had—everything, sir," he said.
Saltash laughed and set down the empty glass. "Au contraire, mon cher," he said. "I am no richer than you are. Like Tantalus, I can never quench my thirst. Like many a better man than I, I see the stars, but I never reach them."
"Does anybody?" said Toby in the tone of one not expecting an answer.
Saltash laughed briefly, enigmatically. "I believe some people soar. But they generally come down hard in the end. Whereas those who always crawl on the earth haven't far to fall. Now look here, Toby, you and I have got to have a talk."
"Yes, sir," said Toby, blinking rather rapidly.
Saltash was watching him with a faint smile in his eyes, half-derisive and half-tender. "What are you going to be, Toby?" he said. "It all turns on that."
Toby's hand still gripped the back of his chair. He stood up very straight, facing him. "That is for you to decide, sir," he said.
"Is it?" said Saltash, and again his eyes gleamed a little. "Is it for me to decide?"
"Yes, sir. For you alone." There was no flinching in Toby's look now. His eyes were wide and very steady.
Saltash's mouth twitched as if he repressed some passing emotion. "You mean—just that?" he asked, after a moment.
"Just that, sir," said Toby, with a slight quickening of the breath. "I mean I am—at your disposal alone."
Saltash took him suddenly by the shoulder and looked at him closely."Toby!" he said. "Aren't you making—rather a fool of yourself?"
"No, sir!" Swiftly, with unexpected vehemence, Toby made answer. "I'm doing—the only thing possible. But if you—if you—if you—"
"Well?" Saltash said. "If I what?"
"If you want to get rid of me—at any time," Toby said, commanding himself with fierce effort, "I'll go, sir—I'll go!"
"And where to?" Saltash's eyes were no longer derisive; they held something that very few had ever seen there.
Toby made a quick gesture of the hands, and dropped them flat at his sides. "I'll get rid of myself—then, sir," he said, with sudden chill pride. "That won't be very difficult. And I'll do it—so that you won't even know."
Saltash stood up abruptly. "Toby, you are quite unique!" he said. "Superb too in your funny little way. Your only excuse is that you're young. Does it never occur to you that you've attached yourself to the wrong person?"
"No, sir," breathed Toby.
"You're not afraid to stake all you've got on a bad card?" pursuedSaltash, still curiously watching him.
"No, sir," he said again; and added with his faint, unboyish smile, "I haven't much to lose anyway."
Saltash's hand tightened upon him. He was smiling also, but the gleam in his eyes had turned to leaping, fitful flame. "Well," he said slowly, "I have never yet refused—a gift from the gods."
And there he stopped, for suddenly, drowning all speech, there arose a din that seemed to set the whole world rocking; and in a moment there came a frightful shock that pitched them both headlong to the floor.
Saltash fell as a monkey falls, catching at one thing after another to save himself, landing eventually on his knees in pitch darkness with one hand still gripped upon Toby's thin young arm. But Toby had struck his head against a locker and had gone down stunned and helpless.
The din of a siren above them filled the world with hideous clamour as Saltash recovered himself. "Damn them!" he ejaculated savagely. "Do they want to deafen us as well as send us to perdition?"
Then very suddenly it stopped, leaving a void that was instantly filled with lesser sounds. There arose a confusion of voices, of running feet, a hubbub of escaping steam, and a great rush of water.
Saltash dragged himself up in the darkness, sought to drag Toby also, found him a dead weight, stooped and lifted him with wiry strength. He trod among broken glass and plates as he straightened himself. The noise above them was increasing. He flung the limp form over his shoulder and began desperately to claw his way up a steep slant towards the saloon-door and the companion-way. Sound and instinct guided him, for the darkness was complete. But he was not the man to die like a trapped animal while the most slender way of escape remained. Hampered as he was, he made for the open with set teeth and terrible foreign oaths of which he was utterly unconscious.
Whether that fierce struggle for freedom could ever have ended in success single-handed, however, was a point which he was not destined to decide, for after a space of desperate effort which no time could measure, there suddenly shone the gleam of an electric torch in front of him, and he saw the opening but a few feet away.
"Saltash!" cried a voice, piercing the outer din, "Saltash!"
"Here!" yelled back Saltash, still fighting for foothold and finding it against the leg of the table, "That you, Larpent? How long have we got?"
"Seconds only!" said Larpent briefly. "Give me the child!"
"No! Just give me a hand, that's all! Hang on tight! It'll be a pull."
Saltash flung himself forward again, his free hand outstretched, slipped and nearly fell on his face, then was caught by a vice-like grip that drew him upward with grim strength. In a moment he was braced against the frame of the door, almost standing on it, the saloon gaping below him—a black pit of destruction. Larpent's torch showed the companion stairs practically perpendicular above them.
"Go on!" said Larpent. "Better give me the child. It's you that matters."
"Get out, damn you!" said Saltash, and actually grinned as he began to climb with his burden still hanging upon his shoulder.
Larpent came behind him, holding his torch to light the way. They climbed up into a pandemonium indescribable, a wild torrent of sound.
There was light here that shone in a great flare through billows of fog, showing the monster form of a great vessel towering above them with only a few yards of mist-wreathed water between. The deck on which they stood sloped upwards at an acute angle, and still from below there came the clamour of escaping steam accompanied by a spasmodic throbbing that was like the futile beating of giant wings against Titanic bars.
A knot of men were struggling to lower a boat by the ghostly glare that lit the night about them, clambering and slipping against the rails, while a voice from beyond the fog-curtain yelled through a megaphone unintelligible commands.
All these things were registered upon Saltash's brain, his quick perception leaping from point to point with a mental agility that was wholly outside all conscious volition on his part. He was driven by circumstance as a bird is driven by storm, and he went before it undismayed, missing no chance of refuge.
A life-buoy hanging beside the hatch caught his eye as he glanced swiftly around and in a second he pounced upon it. Toby slipped from his shoulder as he bent, and slipping awoke. But he only lay and stared with dazed eyes at the man frantically unlashing the rope, as one who looked on from afar.
Then Larpent was with them again. He dragged Toby to his feet, and in a flash Saltash turned, the life-buoy on his arm.
"What the devil are you doing?"
Larpent pointed. "They've got the boat free. Go—while you can!"
But Saltash barely glanced across. He put the life-buoy over Toby's head and shoulders, and began to wind the rope around him. It did not need a glance to know that the boat would never get away.
At his action Toby gasped, and sudden understanding awoke in his eyes. He dragged one arm free, and made as if he would cling to Saltash.
"Keep me with you, sir!" he cried out wildly. "Don't make me go alone!"
Saltash gripped the clutching hand, dropping the end of rope. It trailed down, and Larpent caught it, flung it round Saltash's body, and knotted it while he was lifting Toby over the rail.
Then for a second Saltash hung, one hand still gripping Toby's, the other holding to the rail of his sinking yacht, the two of them poised side by side above the abyss.
"You'll save yourself, Larpent!" he cried. "I shall want you."
And with that he turned suddenly to his shivering companion and actually smiled into the terrified eyes. "Come on, Toby!" he said. "We go—together!"
He flung his leg over with the words, and leapt straight downwards.
Toby's shriek sounded through the tumult as they went into the grey depths.
The sinking ofThe Night Mothafter being in collision with the liner,Corfe Castle, bound for Brazil, was an event of sufficient importance to be given a leading place in the newspapers of the following day. Lord Saltash was well-known as a private yachtsman, and the first account which reported him amongst the drowned was received with widespread regret throughout that circle in which he was a familiar figure. Then at a later hour came its contradiction, and his friends smiled and remarked that he had the facility of an eel for getting out of tight corners, and that they would never believe him dead till they had been to his funeral.
Long before the publication of the second report, Saltash was seated in the captain's cabin on board theCorfe Castle, with a strong brandy and soda before him, giving a brief and vigorous account of himself and his company. Yes, he was Charles Burchester, Viscount Saltash, owner of the private yacht,The Night Moth. He was returning from Valrosa alone with his captain and his crew. They had been cruising in the Atlantic with the idea of going south, but he had recently changed his mind and decided to go home. He had not expected such damnable luck as to be run down in home waters, but he supposed that Fate was against him. He only asked now to be put ashore as soon as possible, being for the moment heartily sick of sea-travel. This with his most rueful grimace which Captain Beaumont of theCorfe Castlereceived with gravely official sympathy.
"Well, I hope you don't blame us for your bad luck," he said. "We might have been sunk ourselves."
"I never blame anyone but the devil for that," said Saltash generously. "And as you managed to pick us all up I am glad on the whole that you weren't."
And then he turned sharply at a knock on the door behind him to see a lean, lank man enter who peered at him curiously through screwed-up eyes as though he had never seen anything like him before.
Captain Beaumont introduced him. "This is Dr. Hurst. He has come to report. Well, doctor? I hope you bring good news."
Dr. Hurst came forward to the table, still looking very attentively atSaltash.
The latter's odd eyes challenged him with royal self-assurance. "Well? What is the news?" he questioned. "Fished for a sprat and caught a whale—or is it t'other way round?"
The doctor cleared his throat and turned to the captain. "Yes, my report is good on the whole," he said. "None of the men are seriously injured, thanks to your prompt rescue measures. Captain Larpent is still unconscious; he is suffering from concussion. But I believe he will recover. And—and—" he hesitated, looking again at Saltash—"the—the person whose life you saved—"
Saltash leaned back in his chair, grinning mischievously. "To be sure!The person—whose life I saved! What of that person, Dr. Hurst?"
"Had you a passenger?" interrupted the captain. "I understood you saved a cabin-boy."
"Pray continue!" he said lightly. "What of the cabin-boy? None the worse,I hope?"
The doctor's lank figure drew together with a stiff movement of distaste. "I see," he said, "that you are aware of a certain fact which I must admit has given me a somewhat unpleasant surprise."
Saltash turned abruptly to the captain. "You ask me if I had a passenger," he said, speaking briefly, with a hint of hauteur. "Before you also begin to be unpleasantly surprised, let me explain that I had a child on board who did not belong to the ship's company."
"A child?" Captain Beaumont looked at him in astonishment. "I thought—I understood—Do you mean the boy?"
"Not a boy, no,—a girl!" Saltash's voice was suddenly very suave; he was smiling still, but there was something rather formidable about his smile. "A young girl, Captain Beaumont, but amply protected, I assure you. It was our last night on board. She was masquerading in the state-cabin in a page's livery when you struck us. But for Larpent we should have been trapped there like rats when the yacht went down. He came and hauled us out, and we saved the child between us." He turned again to the doctor, his teeth gleaming fox-like between his smiling lips. "Really, I am sorry to disappoint you," he said. "But the truth is seldom as highly-coloured as our unpleasant imaginings. The child is—Larpent's daughter." He rose with the words, still suavely smiling. "And now, if she is well enough, I am going to ask you to take me to her. It will be better for her to hear about her father from me than from a stranger."
Though courteously uttered, his words contained a distinct command. The doctor looked at him with the hostility born of discomfiture, but he raised no protest. Somehow Saltash was invincible at that moment.
"Certainly you can see her if you wish," he said stiffly. "In fact, she has been asking for you."
"Ah!" said Saltash, and turned with ceremony to the captain. "Have I your permission to go, sir?"
"Of course—of course!" the captain said. "I shall hope to see you again later, Lord Saltash."
"Thank you," said Saltash, and relaxed into his sudden grin. "I should have thought you would be glad to get rid of me before my bad luck spreads any further."
TheCorfe Castle, herself slightly damaged, was putting back to Southampton to land the victims of the disaster, and to obtain some necessary repairs. The weather was thickening, and progress was slow, but they expected to arrive before mid-day. Saltash, carelessly sauntering in the doctor's wake, found himself the object of considerable interest on the part of those passengers who were already up in the murk of the early morning. He was stopped by several to receive congratulations upon his escape, but he refused to be detained for long. He had business below, he said, and the doctor was waiting. And so at last he came to a cabin at the end of a long passage, at the door of which a kind-faced stewardess met them and exchanged a few words with his guide.
"Can I go in?" said Saltash, growing impatient.
The woman looked at him with wonder and compassion in her eyes. "The poor little thing is very upset," she said. "She lies and trembles, and has hardly spoken at all except to ask for you."
"Well, let me in!" said Saltash, suddenly imperious. "I've got something to tell her."
He had his way, for there was something about him that compelled just then. He entered the cabin as a king might enter the apartment of a slave, and he shut the door with decision upon those without.
Then for a second—just for a second—he hesitated. "Toby!" he said.
A meagre form sprang upright in the bunk at the sound of his voice. Two bare, skinny arms reached out to him. Then with a single stride Saltash was beside the bunk and was holding tightly to him a small, whimpering creature that hid its face very deeply against his breast and clutched at him piteously whenever he sought to raise it.
Saltash bent his dark head over the fair one and spoke very gently, yetwith authority. "It's all right, child. I know. I've known all along!Don't fret yourself! There's no need. I've got you under my protection.You're safe."
"You—know!" whispered the muffled voice—Toby's voice, but strangely devoid of Toby's confidence. "What must you—think?"
"I!" Saltash laughed a little. "I never think. I give everyone—always—the benefit of the doubt; which is considerably more than anyone ever gives me."
"And—you saved my life!" gasped Toby "Why did you? Why did you?"
"I wanted it," said Saltash promptly. "Now listen a moment! We've done with this show. It's played out. We'll ring up on another. You've got to change your name again. I'm telling everyone you're Larpent's daughter."
That brought the fair head upwards very swiftly. The blue eyes with their short black lashes looked straight up to his. "But—but—Captain Larpent—"
"Oh, never mind Larpent! I'll square him." Saltash's look flashed over the pale, tear-stained face. His hold, though close, no longer compelled. "Leave it all to me! Don't you fret! I'll square Larpent. I'll square everybody. You lie low till they put us ashore! After that—do you think you can—trust me?"
He spoke with comically twisted eyebrows and a smile half-kindly and half-quizzical. And the forlorn little creature in his arms turned with a swooping, passionate movement, caught one of his hands and pressed it to quivering lips.
"I'll live—or die—for your sake!" the trembling voice told him. "I'm just—yours."
Saltash stopped abruptly and laid his face for a moment against the shorn, golden head. Just for that moment a hint of emotion showed in his strange eyes, but it was gone instantly.
He raised himself again with a grimace of self-ridicule. "Well, look here! Don't forget to play the game! Larpent—your daddy—is knocked out, remember. He is unconscious for the present, but the doctor chap seems to think he'll be all right. A nasty suspicious person that doctor, so watch out! And let me see! What is Toby short for? I'd better know."
"Antoinette," whispered the lips that still caressed his hand.
"Antoinette!" Saltash's hand closed softly upon the pointed chin, softly lifted it. "I thinkMignonettewould suit you better," he said, in his quick, caressing way. "It's time I chose a name for you,ma chère. I shall call you that."
"Or just Nonette of Nowhere," breathed the red lips, piteously smiling."That would suit me—best of all."
"No—no!" said Saltash, and gently relinquished his hold. "Don't forget that you are a favourite of the gods! That counts for something, my Toby. They don't take up with everybody."
"They haven't done much for me so far," said Toby, suddenly rebellious.
"Hush!" said Saltash, with semi-comic warning. "You are too young to say that."
"I am—older than you think, sir," said Toby, colouring painfully and turning from his look.
"No, you're not!" Swiftly, with a certain arrogance, Saltash made answer. "I know—how old you are, child. It is written in your eyes. They have always told me—all I need to know." Then, very tenderly, as Toby's hands covered them from his look: "Mais, Mignonette, they have never told me anything that you could wish me not to know."
He slipped his arm again about the slender shoulders and pressed them closely for a moment. Then he stood up and turned to go.
He was smiling as he passed out—the smile of the gambler who knows that he holds a winning card.
It was a week after the sinking ofThe Night Moththat Saltash, very immaculately dressed, with field-glasses slung over his shoulder, made his first appearance since the disaster at a meeting on the Graydown Race-course, a few miles from his ancient castle of Burchester. He was looking very well pleased with himself and certainly none the worse for the adventure as he sauntered among his friends, of whom a good many were present. His ugly face and wiry figure were well-known at Graydown, and he seemed sure of his welcome wherever he went.
There had been a time years before when he had kept his own stud, and racing had been his hobby. It had not held him for long. He was not the man to pursue any one object for any length of time. With characteristic volatility he had thrown up this amusement to follow others, but he had never wholly abandoned his interest in the stud which had once been his.
It was owned by one, Jake Bolton, a man of rugged exterior whose integrity had become a proverb on the Turf. This man was Saltash's erstwhile trainer, and a very curious bond existed between them. Utterly unlike in every respect, the one as subtle as the other was simple, yet the two men were friends. How it had come about neither of them quite knew. When Saltash had been his employer, Jake Bolton had distrusted and despised him, but by some means this attitude of his had become very materially modified. He greeted Saltash now with the hand of friendship which Saltash on his part was always ready to accept with a baffling smile that was not wholly without irony. He was wont to say that any man could make an enemy of him, but no man could keep him as such. Perhaps it was that very volatility of his which made anything of the nature of prolonged enmity an impossibility. He possessed also that maddening sense of humour that laughs at deadly things. A good many people had tried to take him seriously and had failed. He was never serious. As he used to say with his mocking laugh, life was difficult enough without complications of that sort. All he ever asked of it was a certain mead of enjoyment. It was utterly unreasonable to expect anything else. Happiness! What was it. A bursting bubble, no more. No lasting joy had ever come his way, and he was fain to believe that such a thing did not exist outside the covers of a book.
Jake Bolton could have told him otherwise, but he and Saltash never spoke of abstract things. Saltash might have seen the deep content in the man's eyes, but if he had, he would probably have scoffed at it. In any case there was certainly no denying that he and Bolton had been cast in different moulds, and that which gave life-long satisfaction to the latter would have held the former for possibly but a very brief period. As a woman friend who knew him well had once said of him, Charles Rex was too rapid a traveller to gather much upon the way. For though keen for pleasure, he was too restless for its enjoyment when attained. But even that friend had not fathomed all the possibilities of that strange personality. Perhaps there was only one woman in the world who would ever do that.
It was a showery spring day, and the turf of the race-course shone with a fresh greenness. Saltash strolled through the paddock to find Jake Bolton, whistling a careless air as he went. Several stable-boys saluted him as he passed, and finally a man he knew, Sam Vickers, Bolton's right-hand man, came up and accosted him.
"Are you looking for Mr. Bolton, my lord? He's round by the boxes with Sir Bernard Brian. We've got our best two-year-old round there—Prince Charlie his name is. He's by the old Hundredth Chance and Queen of the Earth. Your lordship ought to see him. He is a royalty and no mistake; tame as a dog too, and that knowing—well, there, you'd hardly believe it, but we have to talk in French sometimes so as he shan't know what we say!"
Saltash chuckled. "You must let me hear you, Sam. All right. I'll go round. Ah! Here is Sir Bernard! Hullo, Bunny, my boy! You, is it? Where's the boss?"
A black-haired, black-eyed lad of about three-and-twenty, handsome, spare, and very upright, had come suddenly round the corner of a building. He greeted Saltash with enthusiasm.
"Why, Charlie! I'm awfully pleased to see you! We all thought you were done for. How are you, I say? It was rotten luck for you to lose the poor oldNight Mothlike that. Hope she was decently insured. And you're none the worse?"
"Not a mite!" laughed Saltash. "How are you? As skimpy a bag of bones as ever?"
"Oh, dash it! I've grown!" protested Bunny. "I'm as tall as you are anyway."
"Oh, you're long enough," chaffed Saltash. "But you're too damn slim! I should think Maud could get you through her wedding-ring if she tried."
"Shut up!" growled Bunny who was somewhat sensitive on the point of physical shortcomings. "I'm well enough, so what does it matter? Are you coming round to see Maud when this show is over?"
"Depends," grinned Saltash.
"What's it depend on?" Bunny linked an arm in his and drew him forward; they were friends of many years' standing.
Saltash looked at him with his odd eyes that always seemed to be speculating like a monkey's, as to how far his next jump would carry him. "Depends upon Jake of course. Your good brother-in-law doesn't always invite the wolf into the fold,mon cher."
"As if you needed an invitation!" ejaculated Bunny impatiently. "Well, I invite you anyway. I know Maud will be awfully disappointed if you don't come and tell her all about your adventure. We were talking about you only this morning."
"Really!" said Saltash. "Would it be rude to ask what you were saying?"
Bunny's thin face flushed. "You're welcome to know so far as I'm concerned," he said bluntly. "I always stick up for you, Charlie."
"Do you?Mais vraiment!" protested Saltash. "I am touched beyond words.And what says Brother Jake to that?"
"Oh, Jake says I'm an ass, but he's quite decent about you, Charlie,—rather fond of you in fact. Don't run away with that idea!" begged Bunny, turning still redder. "Only people jaw a lot about you, you know. No one ever can be content to mind their own business."
"He'd be a fool who was," said Saltash. "There's no such thing as independent action in this world. We all hang to each other like swarming bees. So you've been sticking up for me, have you? And what says Sister Maud?"
Bunny broke into a sudden laugh. "Oh, she's decided to reserve judgment. You'll have to come and see her. You really must. And the kids too—four of 'em now. The eldest is a darling."
"Eileen! Oh, I know Eileen," said Saltash. "I was actually allowed to have her to tea once at the Castle. I am not supposed to have such a venomous effect upon quite small girls as upon young men of two or three and twenty."
"Oh, shut up!" Bunny growled again. "There's Jake, look! Come and speak to him!"
There was nothing ornamental about Jake Bolton. Short, thick-set, powerful as a bull and with something of a bull's unswerving contempt for all obstacles in his path, with red-brown eyes that were absolutely level in their regard and mercilessly keen, such was the man who had married Maud Brian eight years before, practically in the teeth of Saltash who had wooed her in her girlhood. There was no feud between them. Their enmity was long since dead and buried. Saltash could be intolerably malicious and even vindictive when the mood took him, but his moods never lasted. And as for Bolton, since he had won and still possessed his heart's desire, he could afford to be generous.
His greeting was generous now, but it was not wholly without reserve. He gave Saltash a square hand-grip before he uttered a word.
Then: "Glad you're safe and sound, my lord," he said, in a voice that was curiously soft and deliberate.
"That's uncommon kind of you, Jake," laughed Saltash, with his royal air of graciousness. "I share the sentiment. I know you would all have been heart-broken if I hadn't turned up again. How is Maud?"
"Very well—if she doesn't work too hard. I have to keep her in order in that respect," said Jake Bolton with a sudden smile that swept all the somewhat dominant lines from his face.
Saltash grinned in sympathy. "You always were a bully, but I'll bet she gets her own way all the same. So you've got a boy at last! Hope it's a good one!"
"He'd better be, hadn't he, Jake?" struck in Bunny. "The imp is six months old now and goes for a canter on The Hundredth Chance every day when I'm at home. You actually haven't seen him yet, Charlie? What a rotter you were to be away all the winter!"
"Well, I'm home now anyway," said Saltash, with a comical glance at Jake."Am I to be allowed to call and view the latest acquisition?"
Jake was looking straight at him. "Are you—alone at the Castle, my lord?" he asked after a moment.
Saltash began to laugh. "Of course I'm alone! What did you expect? Ah, I see!" His glance flashed to Bunny. "Yes, I am quite alone—most conspicuously and virtuously unaccompanied. Come and see for yourself! Search the Castle from turret-chamber to dungeon! You will find nothing but the most monastic emptiness. I've turned into a hermit. Haven't they made that discovery yet? My recent deliverance from what I must admit was a decidedly awkward predicament in the Channel has sobered me to such an extent that on my life I begin to doubt if I shall ever be anything but a dull dog again. Yes, that's the truth, Jake. You can take it or leave it. But I'm coming to see Maud in any case. When is my presence least likely to cause you inconvenience?"
"Oh, damn it, Jake!" broke in Bunny with sudden heat. "You know Maud said you were to ask him to dine if he turned up."
"You shut up, my son!" commanded Jake with absolute serenity. "It's not any business of yours anyway. We'll send you to bed before dinner if you aren't mighty careful."
Bunny laughed at the threat, but his sallow boyish face coloured sensitively notwithstanding.
Saltash laughed also. "Oh, you needn't do that, Jake. I'm as harmless as any sucking dove, I assure you. You'll have to put up with me now. When shall I come?"
"Come tonight!" said Jake with quiet decision. "Eight o'clock if that suits you. Afraid I must go now. Bunny, take his lordship to see Prince Charlie!"
He lifted a hand in salute and turned away—a man of no pretensions either social or intellectual, yet who knew how to hold his own with high and low alike.
"Keeps you in order still, does he?" gibed Saltash, as he watched him go."You're getting too old to be on a leading-string,mon cher."
Bunny frowned at the careless words. "You don't know him. He's not that sort of ass. We're pals, Jake and I, and I'm proud of it."
"Of course you are!" said Saltash comfortably. "Didn't I tell you long ago that he was a gentleman? It's the way he's made. Hewn out of raw material, but the real thing and no mistake. You must never quarrel with him on my account, Bunny, my lad. It would be very poor economy on your part."
"I shan't do that," said Bunny. "But he's got to do you justice. Maud says the same."
Saltash laughed aloud. "But, my dear chap, nobody ever does that! I don't myself!"
Bunny looked at him with affection. "You always have tried to make yourself out a worse rotter than you really are, haven't you, Charlie? I always tell Jake so."
"No, it's not my doing," said Saltash lightly. "That's the rest of the world,mon ami. They like their pictures highly coloured. So—pourquoi pas?"
He snapped his fingers and laughed, and they passed on together with careless jesting and friendly chaff. Saltash had always been kind to young Bernard Brian. The boy had been a helpless cripple in his childhood, and he had developed a keen appreciation for all kindness during those days which nothing could now efface. Whatever Saltash's morals, he was a friend, and as such Bunny never failed to treat him. They spent the rest of the afternoon together in and out of the enclosure, and when amidst wild enthusiasm Prince Charlie won his maiden race, the two were waiting side by side to congratulate Jake as he led the victor in. Saltash departed soon afterwards and motored back to Burchester Castle to dress. And then Bunny, half-laughing, half-apologetic, turned to his brother-in-law.
"I can't help being decent to Charlie, Jake. I don't care a damn what they say."
Jake gave him a straight look from under his rough red brows. "I'm not blaming you," he said.
Someone was singing a baby lullaby very softly in the beautiful room with the bay window that looked straight over the rolling down. It was a very sweet voice that sang, and sometimes the low notes were a little tremulous as though some tender emotion thrilled through the song. The singer was lying back in a rocking-chair close to the bay-window with her baby in her arms.
Beyond the long, undulating slope there stretched a silver line of sea that gleamed with a still radiance in the light of the dying day. And Maud Bolton, who once had been that proud and desolate girl Maud Brian, gazed out upon it with happy, dreaming eyes. It had been a hot spring day and she was tired, but it was a pleasant weariness, and the little body that nestled on her breast brought sheer rapture to her woman's heart. It was the baby boy for whom for years she had longed in vain.
There came a slight sound at an open door behind her that led to another room. She turned her head with a quick smile.
"Jake!"
He came, treading softly, and stood beside her. The failing light on his rugged face showed it strangely softened, almost transformed.
He stooped after a moment and kissed her. "Why isn't the little 'un in bed?" he said, with his eyes on the sleeping baby-face.
The smile still lingered about her lips. "I thought he and I would both of us have a little treat tonight. Do you know he is six months old today?"
Jake's square fingers caressed the baby's placid forehead. "Yes, I know," he said.
Maud uttered a faint sigh. "And so—according to the law of the Medes and Persians—he is not going to sleep with his mother any longer. He is to be banished to the nursery. But I thought I would put him to sleep first."
Jake's look came to her face. "There's no law that I know of," he said in his slow way. "Keep him in here if you want to!"
She lifted her eyes to his—beautiful eyes, deeply violet. "Thank you,Jake. But it's all settled, and he won't mind."
"He doesn't matter so much," said Jake.
She smiled and laid her cheek against his arm. "No, it's all right. Nurse understands him. I won't have him again unless he's ill. I should have to then."
"Of course," said Jake. He bent down. "Let me have him! I'll take him to the nursery."
"Ah, don't wake him!" she said.
Jake's arms encompassed the little bundle and lifted it from her. The baby made a small noise that sounded like a protest, but he did not open his eyes.
"Don't you come!" said Jake. "I'll fix him."
And with light tread he bore his son away. Maud looked after him with a touch of wistfulness, but she did not move, and in a few minutes he came back to her, knelt beside her, and gathered her strongly into his arms.
"My girl!" he said softly. "My own girl!"
She clasped him round the neck, laying her head against him without words.
"Tired?" he said.
"No—no—not really! Too happy to complain anyway." She spoke in a whisper as if unwilling to break her silence.
"You want more help," he said.
She lifted her face and kissed his neck. "No, Jake dear. I don't want the children taken out of my hands entirely. Whatever should I do without them?"
"Look after me for a change," suggested Jake.
She laughed a muffled laugh with her lips raised to his. "Do I neglect you, Jake?"
"No," he said. "You're the best wife a man ever had. I believe I'm first with you—even now."
"Always—always first," she whispered against the lips that pressed her own.
He held her very closely to him for a space in silence. He had loved her with a fiery worship from the first moment of their meeting, but the wealth of her answering love still filled his soul with wonder. Over and over again he would tell himself that he was not her sort, but when he held her thus throbbing against his heart, he knew beyond all questioning that they were one.
"You haven't told me a single thing about today's meeting," she murmured presently.
Jake began to smile. "On my soul I had forgotten all about it. PrinceCharlie has gained his first laurels. He won by two and a half lengths."
"Oh, Jake, how splendid! How proud you must be! I'm tremendously glad. And what about Charlie? Was he there to see his namesake carry all before him?"
"Saltash, do you mean? Yes, he was there." Jake's tone was somewhat dry.
Maud drew back a little to look at him. "I hope you asked him to dine," she said.
"Oh yes," said Jake, with a touch of grimness. "Bunny saw to that on your behalf. He considers—and with reason—that you have a right to ask whoever you like to your own house."
"Jake!" Maud suddenly sat upright, her eyes burning like stars. "If Bunny said that—"
"He didn't," said Jake.
"Or hinted it even—it was perfectly hateful of him! I shall go and tell him so!"
Maud made as if she would release herself from his hold, but he restrained her.
"No—no, my girl! You keep calm! I can hold my own with Bunny, and he didn't mean any harm. I asked Saltash all right, and he's coming."
"Against your will," said Maud.
"No. Against my judgment, maybe. Not against my will. I've no objection to entertaining him if you wish it. You and I don't quarrel over trifles like Saltash."
Jake's tone was humorously tender. He patted her flushed cheek in a conciliatory fashion. She turned very swiftly and kissed his hand.
"Thank you, Jake—darling. But—you are master in this house, remember.No one enters it without your consent."
"Not even Saltash?" smiled Jake.
"Not even—Bunny!" said Maud, still breathing resentment.
He took her gently by the shoulder. "Look here, my girl! I won't have you say a word to the boy about this, see? I didn't know you'd flare up like that or I shouldn't have spoken. He didn't mean it that way. If he had, I'd have punched his head. And after all," his eyes smiled suddenly into hers, "I do live on my wife's bounty, don't I? Wouldn't I be driving cows on the other side of the Atlantic without it?"
"No," Maud said. "You'd be owning your own ranch by this time, and—and—and generally licking creation, Jake, as only you know how."
"Oh, shucks!" said Jake softly, and kissed her again upon the lips. "I'd sooner be here anyway. Well, Saltash is coming, so we've got to make the best of it. I shouldn't care a cuss if it weren't for young Bunny. But he's always been keener on his lordship's company than I've thought advisable."
"Oh, Jake," she said, colouring a little, "I don't believe Charlie would do him any harm."
"Not intentionally perhaps," said Jake. "I've no ill feeling for him, heaven knows, but I can't say I think his society likely to have a very improving effect upon anyone."
"I don't think you quite understand him," Maud said thoughtfully.
Whereat Jake laughed so suddenly that she looked at him with raised brows. He got to his feet, still laughing.
"Very likely not. We've had a good many misunderstandings, he and I, from the day I cowhided him for a scoundrel to the day I nearly shot him for a blackguard."
"Oh, but that was all so long ago," Maud said quickly. "He wasn't much more than a boy in those days. He has grown a lot since then."
Jake grunted. "Which way, think you? Well, I must dress. He may be here before we're ready for him."
He turned to go back to his own room, but Maud stayed him for a moment. "Jake," she said almost wistfully, "you know—with all his faults—he always had—possibilities."
"I know," Jake said, looking down at her. "He's made the most of 'em too."
Her face quivered. "Don't," she said. "It—isn't it rather ungenerous to condemn a man unheard?"
Jake made a faint sound of contempt or scepticism, but no reply in words.
She drew herself up out of her chair by his arm. "Jake, I want you to do something for me."
"Well?" said Jake uncompromisingly.
She met his look unswervingly. "Let me be a friend to him tonight! Let me be alone with him and find out—if he will tell me—whether there is any truth in this rumour that there was a woman on board the yacht."
"And when you've found out?" said Jake.
She made a little gesture of appeal. "Will you leave that to me? I have sometimes felt that I might be—a help to him if ever there came an opportunity. Jake, you don't mind my trying to help him? I have a feeling that I understand him better than most people do."
"I think it's a wasted sentiment," Jake said. "But—do what seems good to you, my girl! I shan't interfere."
"And you won't be vexed?" she pleaded.
He smiled his sudden, illumining smile. "No, I reckon you'll never vex me any that way again," he said.
She went close to him. "Indeed—no, Jake! But—don't you understand? I hate to go against your wishes—your prejudices—in anything."
He put out a hand to her. "You needn't be afraid of that either," he said. "If you do it—it's right."
She clasped the strong hand tightly in both her own. "That's the best thing you've ever said to me," she said. "Are you quite sure you mean it?"
"Sure," said Jake, and pulled her to him to kiss her once again.
When Saltash arrived that evening he found Bunny and Jake sauntering together in the sunset glow along the gravelled terrace in front of the house. He shot towards them in his car with that characteristic suddenness of his, swerving and coming to a stand before the porch with the confident ease of an alighting bird. And here, seated in the porch and screened by white clematis, he found Maud.
She rose to greet him, her eyes alight with pleasure. "Oh, Charlie," she said, "I have wanted to shake hands with you ever since I heard of your escape."
He bent and kissed the hand she gave him. "Gracious as ever!" he commented lightly. "Had you begun to wear mourning for me, I wonder? It was a very cold bath, I assure you. We didn't enjoy it, any of us."
"I am sure you didn't." Her eyes still dwelt upon the dark face with its half-mocking smile with a species of maternal tenderness. "And you lost your yacht too! That was desperately unlucky."
He made a comic grimace. "I am past the age for crying over spilt milk, Maud of the Roses." He uttered his old name for her with daring assurance. "I have had worse losses than that in my time."
"And still you smile," she said.
He bowed. "A smile can conceal so much." He turned to his host as he came up behind him. "Well, Jake, I've taken you at your word, you see, and intruded into your virtuous household. How are Eileen and Molly and Betty and—last but not least—the son and heir?"
Maud laughed softly. "Well done, Charlie! How clever of you to remember them all!"
"Oh yes, I am quite clever," said Saltash, as again his hand met Jake's. "Too clever sometimes. I needn't ask if all goes well with you, Jake. Your prosperity is obvious, but don't wax fat on it. Bunny now—he's as lean as a giraffe. Can't you do something to him? He looks as if he'd melt into thin air at a touch."
"Oh, don't be an ass!" protested Bunny. "I'm as strong as a horse anyway.Jake, tell him not to be an ass!"
"No good, I'm afraid," said Jake, with his sudden smile. "Come inside, my lord! The children are all flourishing, but in bed at the present moment. The baby—"
"Oh, I must see the baby!" declared Saltash, turning back to Maud.
She laid a hand on his arm. "I will take you to see him after dinner."
"Will you?" He smiled into her eyes. "I shall like that. But I shall probably want to shoot Jake when I come down again. Think it's safe?"
She smiled back at him with confidence. "Yes, I think so. Anyhow, I'm not afraid."
"Come and feed!" said Jake.
They sat down in the pretty oak-panelled dining-room with its windows opening upon the terrace and the long dim line of down. Saltash talked freely of Valrosa, of his subsequent voyaging, of the wreck ofThe Night Moth, but no word did he utter of the gift that had been flung to him on that night of stars in the Mediterranean. He was always completely at his ease in Jake's household, but it was not his way to touch at any time in Maud's presence upon any matter that could not be openly discussed before her. Their intimacy was not without its reservations.
Maud in her quiet happiness detected no hint of restraint in his manner. But he had always been elusive, often subtle. She did not look for candour from Charles Rex—unless she asked for it.
Watching him on that spring evening in the soft glow of the candles, marking the restless play of feature, the agile readiness of his wit, she asked herself, not for the first time, what manner of soul he had behind the mask. Somehow she did not wholly believe in that entity which so often looked jibing forth. Though she could ascribe no reason for it, she had a strong suspicion that the real self that was Saltash was of a different fibre altogether—a thing that had often suffered violence it might be, but nevertheless possessed of that gift of the resurrection which no violence can destroy.
"Why are you dissecting me tonight?" he asked her once and laughed and changed the subject before she could reply.
When dinner was over and she rose, he sprang to open the door for her with that royalbonhomieof his which somehow gave him the right to enter where others waited for permission.
"Take Bunny with you!" he murmured. "I want to talk to Jake."
She lifted her eyes with a flash of surprise. He bent towards her.
"And afterwards to you, Queen Rose. I shall not forget to claim my privileges in that respect."
She laughed a little, but she obeyed his behest as a matter of course. "Come for a turn in the garden with me, Bunny!" she said. "I've hardly seen you today."
The boy got up, passing Jake with a careless slap on the shoulder that testified to the excellent good fellowship that existed between them.
Saltash turned back into the room, and threw himself down by his host."That's right," he said as the door closed upon the brother and sister."Now we can talk."
Jake pushed a box of cigars to him. His keen eyes took Saltash in with the attention of the man accustomed to probe beneath the surface. There were not many who could hide from Jake Bolton anything he desired to know.
Saltash flicked an eyelid under his direct scrutiny as he chose his cigar. He was never more baffling than in his moments of candour.
"There are several things I've come to consult you about, Jake," he said easily, as Jake leaned across with a match.
"I'm listening," said Jake.
Saltash sent him a quizzical glance as his cigar kindled. "Prepared to turn me down at all points?" he suggested.
Jake's mouth relaxed a little. "Prepared to listen anyway," he said."It's to do with young Bunny, I take it."
Saltash leaned back in his chair with a laugh. "Very smart of you! Bunny certainly is my first proposition. What are you going to do with him?"
Jake also leaned back, and smoked for several seconds in silence. Saltash watched him with semi-comic curiosity.
"Something of a problem, eh?" he said, after a pause.
Jake's eyes came to him and remained upon him with steady insistence. "He's not going to turn into a fancy-dress loafer, my lord," he said at length in his soft, deliberate voice. "I'll see to that anyway."
"Don't be nasty, Jake!" protested Saltash with a smile. "I'm not proposing to adopt him. But I can give him employment, if that's what he's wanting. What do you want to make of him?"
Jake's steady look remained upon him. "Just an honest man, I reckon," he said.
"Ah! Quite so!" Open mockery gleamed back at him from Saltash's half-closed eyes. "All contaminating influences to be kept away. Is that it?"
Jake was silent.
Saltash sent a cloud of smoke upwards before he spoke again. Then: "I agree with you, Jake," he said. "We mustn't spoil the boy. He shan't learn any naughty ways from me. Come! That's a promise. And I'm not such a blackguard as I used to be."
"Sure?" said Jake.
Again Saltash's smile flashed across at him. "Quite sure, my worthy philosopher," he made light reply. "I don't set up for a model of virtue of course, but at least—now-a-days—I never take what I can't pay for."
"That so?" said Jake. He considered the matter for a few moments, then slowly took the cigar from between his lips and spoke. "It's certainly true; Bunny is a problem. He's not strong; and though he's got grit, he hasn't got what I call punching power. He's been ordered an out-door life, and he wants to join me in running the stud. I could do with him of course, but I've a strong feeling against it, anyway till he's older. It's not the right atmosphere for him, and it doesn't bring him in contact with the right people. He ought to be in the Army, but he wasn't strong enough. It's a big grievance with him for there's nothing radically wrong; just weak tendencies that he may outgrow if he leads a healthy life and doesn't strain himself. We're just marking time at present, so if you have anything to suggest—well, I've no doubt he'll be something more than grateful."
"And you?" questioned Saltash, with a grimace at the ceiling.
"I too," said Jake, "if it's for the boy's good."
"You needn't hold a pistol at my head," protested Saltash. "I shan't put him in the way of any short cuts to the devil. All I have to offer him is the post of bailiff at Burchester Castle, as old Bishop has got beyond his job. I can't turn the old beggar out, but I want a young man to take the burden off his shoulders. Do you think that sort of thing would be beneath Bunny's dignity, or likely to upset his morals?"
"He'd probably jump at the chance," said Jake.
"Which is more than his worthy brother-in-law does on his behalf," grinned Saltash.
"No," Jake's steady eyes met the gibe unfaltering. "I know it's a chance that doesn't come every day, and I know you mean well by him. I shan't put any hindrance in the way."
"Then it's done," said Saltash. "Bunny's fate is sealed."
"I hope not." Jake still gravely watched him, but not as if he sought for anything in the baffling, mobile countenance. "What do you want him for anyway?"
Saltash flicked the ash from his cigar. "Perhaps I'm turning philanthropist, Jake. Do you know the symptoms? I've been anxious about myself several times lately."
"Come on rather suddenly, hasn't it?" suggested Jake.
Saltash nodded. "It's old age, I fancy. Anyhow I've a notion for doing Bunny a good turn. The boy can have play as well as work. He can join the polo-club at Fairharbour. I'll introduce him."
"And where will he live?" asked Jake.
"With the old Bishops of course. He'll be safe enough with them and within reach of you and Maud at the same time. It's time you eased the leading string a bit, you know. He'll start kicking if you don't."
"I don't think so," said Jake. "He goes his own way already quite as much as is good for him. I don't need to hold him in very tight either. He's not the bolting sort."
"You mean you've trained him well," laughed Saltash. "I congratulate you. You've a genius for that sort of thing, Jake. The boy will probably answer to your lightest touch and never even know he does it."
"What was the other thing you wanted to say to me?" said Jake.
"Oh that!" Saltash's eyes fell suddenly to his empty wine glass. He fingered the stem of it for a few seconds with a curiously irresolute air. "Do you know I think I'll put it to Maud first!" he said at length, with a smile that was faintly shamefaced.
"It'll come to the same thing," said Jake.
Saltash's eyes flashed upwards. He met Jake's look almost with defiance. "Doubtless you are master in your own house, Jake," he said. "Far be it from me to question it."
"I didn't mean that," said Jake. "What I meant was," the red-brown eyes began to smile, "that Maud and I are friends—and we generally want the same thing."
Saltash nodded. "Not so bad after eight years," he said.
"No. It's pretty great," said Jake. "You'd think we were an ill-matched pair, wouldn't you? But we've learnt to plough as straight a furrow as anyone."
"No, I don't think you ill-matched," said Saltash unexpectedly. "You've always been about the same height and breadth, my friend. I saw that a long time ago. The luckiest day that ever dawned for Maud was the one on which you cut me out."
"Think so?" said Jake. "Well, it wasn't a very lucky one for you, I'm afraid."
"I got over it," said Saltash lightly. "I'm too great a rotter, you know, Jake, to take things much to heart. I've loved heaps of women since—even some good ones. But they never take me seriously; so I presume I shall continue to rot."
"Thought you'd turned sober," suggested Jake.
Again Saltash's look dwelt upon the ruby drain in his wine-glass. For a moment the restlessness of his face deepened to something very nearly approaching melancholy.
"I'm tired, Jake," he said abruptly. "I've run through the whole gamut of amusements, and I'm bored to the soul. I want to do a good turn to somebody—just for a change—to see what it feels like. Perhaps—who knows—it may take the taste of rottenness out of my mouth. You fellows who lead a decent, orderly life don't know what it is when the wine turns to vinegar and all the sweets of life to gall."