CHAPTER XTHE MISTAKEThe day fixed for the race for the Burchester Cup was inclined to be showery. Jake was up at an early hour, and when he was gone Maud rose also. But she felt too languid to bestir herself very greatly. She sat by the open window, breathing the pure morning air, and wondering, wondering, what the day would bring forth.Since the receipt of Saltash's letter, she had been making up her mind. That she must see him alone that day was inevitable, but she had formed a strong determination that for the future she would put bounds to their intercourse. It could but lead in the one hopeless direction. Moreover, open friendship between them had become, owing to Jake's prohibition, impossible.She did not blame Saltash for what had happened, but bitterly she blamed herself. She had been carried away by the moment's madness. Her feet had slipped. But the determination to retrace that false step was strong within her. For Charlie's sake, as well as for her own, she knew that they must not go on. With fatal clearness she realized that it was the downward path leading to destruction. It had never attracted her before her marriage, that downward path. The care of Bunny had absorbed her life. But now that her life was empty of all but the bondage she hated, she faced the fact that her resolution had begun to waver. She could no longer trust herself to stand firm.Sitting there, drinking in the refreshing coolness of the rain-washed air, feeling the sweet morning chill all about her, something of that innate purity of hers seemed to revive. Some of the bitterness went from her soul. She was very, very tired; but after long meditation she had begun to see her way more clearly. Perhaps dimly the future had begun to draw her. Yes, her life was empty now. But in a little while--a little while-- A deep, deep breath escaped her. The memory of Mrs. Wright and her confident words of wisdom came to her. Her life would not be always a dreary wandering in a desert land. Prisoner she might be, but even so, the flowers might bloom around her, within her reach.A little tremor went through her. Ah yes, it might be there were compensations in store, even for her. Her life would not be always empty.A kind of waking dream came upon her. It was as though a soothing hand had been laid upon her, stilling her wild rebellion, giving her hope. The kaleidoscope of life was changing every day. Why should she despair?When she descended to breakfast, she was calmer, more at peace with herself, than she had been for long.She found Capper waiting alone. He gave her his quick, keen look, but characteristically he made no comment upon what he saw."I am wondering how I shall catch the boat-train to-night," he said."Must you do so?" she asked.He nodded vigorously. "Indeed I must. I have trespassed upon your hospitality quite long enough. And there is work waiting across the Atlantic that only Maurice Capper can do."She smiled at him. "How indefatigable you are! Won't it wait a little longer?""Not a day!" declared Capper.And neither of them dreamed that that same work would have to wait many days ere Maurice Capper was at liberty to handle it.They sat down alone to breakfast. Jake and Bunny had had their meal long before."There's no holding the boy this morning," Capper observed. "It will be a good thing now when you can get him off to school, Mrs. Bolton. He'll grow quicker there than anywhere."Maud looked up quickly. "You think so?"He smiled. "I have told Jake so. He, I believe, is waiting till these all-absorbing races are over to consult you on the subject."Maud's eyes fell. "He won't do that," she said, in a low voice. "He and Bunny will settle it between them, and I shall be told afterwards.""That so?" said Capper. "Then, if I may take the liberty to advise you, madam, I should consult them first."She shook her head in silence. How could she even begin to tell Capper of the utter lack of sympathy between herself and Jake?"And you really think he is fit to go to school, and fend for himself?" she asked, after a moment."Do him all the good in the world," said Capper. He added kindly: "Guess you'll miss him some, my dear; but believe me you won't be sorry when you see what it does for him.""Oh no, I shall never be sorry on his account," she said.And there the subject ended, but before she left the breakfast table she found an opportunity to acquaint him with her decision to remain at home that day.He expressed regret but not surprise. "You are wise not to overtire yourself," he said.She became aware again of the green eyes surveying her for a moment, and coloured. "I--am not sleeping very well," she said, with an effort.He nodded as one who fully understood. "Take things easily!" he said. "Don't fret over 'em! Let the world go by!"She got up, moved by an impulse curiously insistent. "Dr. Capper," she said, "it--it's rather a difficult world, isn't it?"Her voice had a quiver of wistfulness in it. He reached out a hand at once that sought and held hers. "My dear Mrs. Bolton," he said, "we live too hard--all of us. That's nine-tenths of the trouble. It's because we won't trust the Hand on the helm. We're all so mighty anxious to do our own steering, and we don't know a thing about it."The hold of the thin yellow fingers was full of kindly comfort. There was nothing disconcerting in the shrewd green eyes that looked into hers."I think you'll be happier presently, you know," he said. "It seems to me that two people I'm mighty fond of have got wandering off their bearings in the wilderness. They'll find each other presently and then, I guess, that same wilderness will blossom into a garden and they'll settle down in comfort and enjoy themselves."He pressed her hand, and released it, making it evident that he had no intention of pursuing the matter further without definite encouragement. And Maud gave him none. Something in her shrank from doing so. He was Jake's friend before he was hers.The day seemed very long. It was oppressive also, gleams of sunshine alternating with occasional heavy thunder showers.She was lying in a hammock-chair under the trees in the orchard with Chops at her feet when Jake came striding through at the last moment to find her."Capper tells me you don't feel up to coming," he said.She barely glanced up from the book in her lap, she did not want to meet his eyes. "I didn't tell him so," she said."But it is so?" insisted Jake."I have decided not to come, certainly," she said, feeling her heart jerk apprehensively as she made the statement.He stood a moment in silence, then bent unexpectedly, took her by the chin, and turned her face up to his own. It was flooded with scarlet on the instant; her eyes flinched away from his.He held her so for several seconds, looking at her, mercilessly watching that agonizing blush, till it faded under his eyes, leaving her white to the lips. Then, without another word, he let her go.She heard the jingle of his spurs as he went away, and for a long time after she lay as he had left her, too unnerved to move. What could he know? How much did he suspect? She felt cold to the very heart of her, stricken and sick with fear. He had not so much as kissed her in his brutal, domineering way, and that fact disquieted her more than any other. Though she hated the touch of his lips she would have welcomed it thankfully in that hour of sickening apprehension only to feel reassured and safe.The patter of rain roused her to activity and drove her back to the house, in time to meet Mrs. Lovelace hastening forth with an umbrella to her rescue."You shouldn't be sitting out there, ma'am, on a day like this," the old woman said. "And, lawk-a-massy, you do look bad!"Maud tried to smile. "I am not bad, Mrs. Lovelace. It's only the heat."Mrs. Lovelace pursed her lips and looked severely incredulous. "You'd best lie down, ma'am," she said. "I'll bring your lunch immediately."She bustled away, and Maud sank on the couch in the parlour and strove to compose herself. But she could not with that awful fear coiled like a snake about her heart. A terrible restlessness possessed her. It was impossible to remain still.If she could only send a message to Charlie, warning him not to come! But that was impossible. She knew that no message could reach him now. He would have to come, and Jake would know of it. Manoeuvre as she might, those lynx-eyes would wrest from her the secret. She knew herself powerless to withstand them.She made scarcely any pretence to eat the luncheon that Mrs. Lovelace brought her. She had never before been in such a ferment of disquietude. Those few awful moments of Jake's silent scrutiny had shaken her to the very foundations of her being. She felt that he had ruthlessly forced his way past her defences and looked upon her naked soul. And she realized that he had spoken the truth when he had said that she could not deceive him. He could tear her reserve from her like a garment and expose her most secret thoughts.She spent most of the afternoon in pacing to and fro, for she could not rest. Her feet were soaked with the drenched orchard grass, but she did not know it. Her limbs were strung to a feverish activity. There were times when she thought she would go mad.The hours crawled by leaden-footed. She did not know in the least when Charlie would come, but she began to expect him long before he could possibly arrive, and the waiting became a torment that chafed her intolerably. If he would only come soon--so that she might make her petition and let him go!Back and forth, back and forth, she wandered, conscious sometimes of a dreadful, physical sinking, but for the most part too torn with anxiety to be aware of anything else. And Chops paced with her in mute sympathy with her distress.The afternoon was beginning to wane towards evening when Mrs. Lovelace came forth once more in search of her--Mrs. Lovelace with prim, set lips, sternly disapproving."You'll make yourself bad if you go on, ma'am," she said. "And if you please, Mrs. Wright is here, and I'm laying the cloth for tea.""Mrs. Wright!" Maud looked at her with dazed eyes, bringing her thoughts back as it were from afar."There she is!" said Mrs. Lovelace.And even as she spoke Maud caught sight of the comfortable, portly figure standing on the steps.She gave a gasp that was almost a cry, and began to hasten towards her.Mrs. Wright on her part bustled down to meet her. "Don't hurry, my dear, don't! I've only just come. Why, how tired and white you look! There! Run along, Sarah, and get the tea, like a good soul! I'll take care of Mrs. Bolton."Her arm was already around Maud's waist; she looked up at her with round eyes full of kindly concern.Maud bent to kiss her. "How--good of you to come!" she said.She herself was divided between relief and dismay; but the relief predominated. It would not matter now if Charlie came. She would have to write to him on her mother's behalf. It was the only way. She believed she could evade Jake's vigilance with a letter--so long as Charlie did not write to her. The anguish through which she had passed had made her realize that she must not, could not, take such a risk again.She clung to Mrs. Wright as to a deliverer. "Thank you for coming!" she said.Mrs. Wright had begun to steer sturdily for the house. "Lor' bless you, dear, I'm as pleased as anything to come," she said. "Jake dropped in this morning casual-like, and happened to pass the remark as they was all going to the races but you. So I sent down to Tom's young lady to be so kind as to come and mind the shop for me this afternoon, and after dinner I dressed myself and came along to keep you company. I could have got here an hour ago, but I thought as you'd be resting, and I knew as Sarah would be busy."So it was Jake's doing! He had taken this step to circumvent her. Maud was conscious of a throb of anger against him, but her visitor's guileless chatter made her stifle it. Mrs. Wright was so obviously unsuspecting.They ascended the steps together, Mrs. Wright's arm stoutly assisting her. Then in the parlour she turned and looked at Maud."If I was you, my dearie, I should lie right down and have a rest. And I'll give you a drop of brandy in your tea."She sank upon the sofa without protest. The reaction from those hours of feverish suspense was upon her. She felt exhausted in mind and body.Mrs. Wright attended upon her with the utmost kindness. She did not talk a great deal, for which forbearance Maud was mutely thankful. She was so unutterably tired, too tired even to protest against that drop of brandy in her tea upon which Mrs. Wright insisted.Another hour went by, but there was no sign of Saltash's coming. The evening was turning dark and wet. Maud lay on her sofa, sometimes dozing, sometimes talking abstractedly to her visitor. For Mrs. Wright was determined to remain till Jake returned, and briskly said so. Maud did not want to combat the decision. She was glad to have her there. It seemed that Charlie was not coming after all. Something had detained him. Her anxiety had spent itself, but she felt terribly weak. The comfort of the old woman's tender care was too great to refuse.She scarcely knew how the time went, so overpowering was the languor that possessed her. The rainy sky brought down an early dusk long before the setting of the sun. A brooding stillness hung upon all things through which the patter of the rain sounded with unvarying monotony."Deary me! They will get wet," sighed Mrs. Wright.Slowly the heavy clouds gathered and hung! Slowly the darkness deepened.Suddenly Maud raised herself, sat up, tensely listened. "What is that?" she said.Mrs. Wright looked at her. "I hear nothing but the rain, dear."Maud broke in upon her impatiently. "Yes, that--that--that! Don't you hear? What is it? O God, what is it?"Her voice rose wildly. In a moment she had sprung from her couch and was standing with caught breath, listening."My dearie, it's only the rain," said Mrs. Wright soothingly. "Don't let yourself get jumpy! There's nothing there."But Maud paid no attention to her. With a movement incredibly swift she reached the door and threw it open.Then indeed Mrs. Wright heard sounds, muffled but undeniable, of some commotion in the stable-yard. "I expect they've just got home, dear," she said. "And very wet they'll be. Hadn't you better tell Sarah to get a nice hot brew of tea ready for 'em? Little Sir Brian will be sure to want his tea."But the rush of Maud's feet along the oaken passage was her only answer. The girl went like the wind, urged by the most awful fear she had ever known.The front door was open. Bunny was on the step. But she brushed past him without so much as seeing him, tearing forth bare-headed, ashen-faced, into the rain.For there in the murky twilight, terrible as a lion newly roused, stood Jake, gripping by the collar a struggling, writhing figure, the while he administered to it as sound a horse-whipping as his great strength could accomplish. His right arm moved slowly, with a deliberate regularity unspeakably horrible to behold. She had a glimpse--only a glimpse--of his face, and the savage cruelty of it was such that it seemed no longer human. Of his victim she saw very little, but of his identity not the smallest doubt existed in her mind; and as the sound of those awful blows reached her, the last shred of her endurance was torn away. She shrieked and shrieked again as she ran.Those shrieks reached Jake as the cry of its mate in distress might reach an animal intent upon its prey. He flung the prey from him on the instant and wheeled. He met her a full ten yards from the spot, just as her feet slipped on the wet stones of the yard. He caught her--she almost fell against him--and held her hard in his arms.She was sobbing terribly, utterly unstrung, hysterical. She struggled for speech, but the wild sounds that left her lips were wholly unintelligible. She struggled to free herself, but her strength was gone. In the end, her knees suddenly gave way under her. She collapsed with a gasping cry. And Jake, stooping, raised her, and bore her in senseless out of the drenching rain.CHAPTER XITHE REASON"You've only yourself to thank," said Capper. He tugged irritably at his pointed yellow beard. His eyes were moody under brows that frowned. "You might have known what to expect if you had an ounce of sense.""Guess I always was an all-fired fool," said Jake.The great doctor looked down at him from his post on the hearth, and his eyes softened a little. For Jake's dejection was very thorough. He sat as it were in dust and ashes."Not always, my son," he said. "But I guess you've surpassed yourself on this occasion. Well, it's done. She may get over it, but she won't love you any the better for it. It'll be up to you to make a fresh start presently."Jake was silent. He was not smoking. He sat with bent head and lowered eyes.Capper contemplated him awhile, till at length a faint glint of humour began to shine in his green eyes. He moved, and laid a long, wiry hand upon Jake's shoulder."Say, Jake!" he said. "Don't take it too hard, man! Let it be a lesson to you, that's all. And the next time you want to whip a stable-boy, do it on the quiet, and there'll be no misunderstandings. Guess you'll have to sing small for a bit, but it's not a hanging matter. She'll forgive you by and by.""Why should she?" Jake did not move his head or respond in any way to the friendly touch."Because she's that sort." Capper spoke with stout conviction. "She won't hold out against you when she sees you're sorry. Don't be afraid to tell her so, Jake! Don't hide your soul!"Jake raised his head suddenly, looking full up at Capper with eyes that glowed red and sombre. "You don't quite grasp the situation, Doc," he said. "She won't be sorry for this when she comes to herself. She never wanted to bear a child of mine. She loathes the very ground I walk on. She'd do most anything--most anything--to get quit of me. No, I reckon she won't be sorry any. She'll be--sort of--glad!""Oh, shucks!" Capper's hand suddenly smote him hard. "You don't know women. I tell you, you don't know 'em!""I know one!" Jake's voice was deadly calm. His eyes shone like a still, hot fire. "I thought I could win her, though the odds were dead against me. I staked all on the chance--the hundredth chance--and it's gone. I've lost. There's no sense in pretending otherwise. Now that this has happened I shan't hold her any longer, unless it's by brute force; and I reckon there's more lost than gained that way. And yet I know--I know--" his voice suddenly took a deeper note--"that where I've failed, no other man has ever yet succeeded. No one else has ever got to the heart of her. That I know."He spoke with grim force, as though challenging incredulity on Capper's part, but Capper made no attempt to contradict him. He even nodded as if he held the same opinion."Then I guess it's up to you to find the way," he said. "There's a better way for all of us than brute force, my son. There is a power that all the violence in the world can't beat. It's greater than all the devils. And you'll win out--you'll win out--on the strength of it."He paused. Jake's eyes had kindled a little. He set his hands on the arms of his chair as though about to rise."You get me?" Capper asked.A faint smile came over his face. "You speak as one who knows," he said."I do know." Capper's voice was very emphatic. "It's not an easy world to live in. It's a mighty difficult one. But we've been given a compass to steer by--a Divine compass, Jake, my lad. Guess it's our own fault in the main if we fail to get there."He waited. The light was gradually growing in Jake's eyes. He had a speculative, half-doubtful look."And yet you advised me to jump the hedge," he said.Capper smiled somewhat ruefully. "I didn't tell you to burst your way through, did I?" he said. "You didn't take it the right way, my son. You blundered, and it's left a nasty breach. It's not beyond repair, mind you. But it'll take some patience and some faith before it's all filled up. Set to work on it right now! You've got the materials. Use 'em--all you know! Show her what Love--real Love--is worth! She's a woman. She'll soon understand."Jake got to his feet with the quiet, purposeful movement of a man who has work before him. He gripped Capper's hand for a moment, and looked him straight in the face."I reckon you're right, sir," he said, speaking rather heavily. "I've made a damn' muddle of the whole show. I was nearer to her--several lengths nearer--in the old days when we were just friends--just friends--" his voice quivered slightly--"than I am now. Well, I reckon I must get back to the old footing. We'll be--just friends--again."He turned from Capper with the words, went to the mantelpiece and took up his pipe.The doctor watched him for awhile silently. There was a greatness about the man's simplicity that commanded his respect. There was even an element of the superb in it."I take off my hat, to you, Jake," he said at length "You're a white man."Jake's head was bent over his pipe. He made a brief, contemptuous sound, and rammed it into his mouth. "We don't all think alike," he said. "Well, I must be going anyway. So long, Doc!""Where are you off to?" Capper asked.He made a gesture as of one who contemplates an unpleasant task. "I must go up to the Castle. I said I would. I've got to tell Lord Saltash how the Albatross failed this afternoon.""But, man, he knows!" exclaimed Capper. "He was there!"Jake turned round. His pipe was alight. He puffed at it grimly. "Maybe he does. But it's my duty to tell him all the same. It may interest him also to hear that Stevens won't be fit for the saddle again for a week or two. I'd have marked the young blackguard for life if I hadn't been stopped." His brows suddenly met fiercely. "I'd have got out of him what he did it for too--though I guess I know. When a hot favourite like the Albatross gets left behind like that there's always a reason--a damn' substantial reason--at the bottom of it. Oh, it's a foul business," he said bitterly. "I ought to have scratched sooner than run the chance of having him pulled. I never trusted Stevens--never. I'll see him drawn and quartered before he ever rides another horse of mine!""But you've no evidence?" suggested Capper."I've the evidence of my own eyes," said Jake bluntly. "And there'll be further evidence presently, or I'm a nigger.""What do you mean? He'll never own it.""No." Jake spoke with a savage disdain. "He won't have the spunk for that. And he won't have the spunk either to take out a summons for assault. He'll just take it all lying down. I know. I know."He swung round on his heel to go, went as far as the door, then suddenly wheeled and came back."Say, Capper!" he said, and all the savagery was gone from his voice; it held a note of pleading. "She'll get over it, sure?"Capper's yellow face was full of kindness. He reached forth a hand that gripped hard. "Please God she'll live to be the mother of your children yet, Jake!" he said.Jake drew a sharp breath. "God knows I don't want her--just for that," he said, with husky vehemence.And then abruptly, as if ashamed, he pulled his hand free and departed.Capper's fingers sought his beard as the door closed. "You're learning, Jake," he said. "You're learning. Wonder how soon she'll begin to find out that there's another man in the place where her husband used to be!"He coiled himself down into a chair, bending and cracking his long fingers with meditative zest. But the frown remained between his brows. If Capper the man was satisfied, Capper the doctor was very much the reverse. He was not dismayed, but he was anxious, more anxious than he deemed it necessary for anyone to know."She'll pull through," he muttered to himself once. And again: "She must pull through."But in his heart he knew that it was more than possible that his patient's life might ebb out on the bitter tide of disappointment and misery even when the worst danger seemed to be over. She was so lonely in her trouble, so piteously bereft of all desire or incentive to live.Up in the room above, Maud lay, white and still, her dark hair all about her, her eyes closed, an aloofness that was almost like the shadow of Death wrapping her round.Mrs. Wright sat by her side, very alert and watchful. It was growing late, but she had long ago signified her intention of remaining for the night. Very practical and sure of herself was Mrs. Wright. She and Dr. Capper were already firm allies.The night was close, and the windows were flung wide. The door into the adjoining room was wide open also, and a faint current of air eddied about the room, stirring now and again the chintz hangings of the old-fashioned bed, rustling occasionally the white muslin curtains at the window. The wash of the sea came up vaguely from the dark distance. It sounded like the far splashing of mighty oars.Near at hand, down in the dim garden there came sometimes the mysterious movements of some small creature creeping stealthily through the bushes, and once or twice down in the orchard an owl hooted its weird, half-human signal.Mrs. Wright did not like the voice of the owl. She shivered whenever she heard it; but Maud lay as one oblivious of all things, drifting, drifting, on a great lonely sea on which no sun ever rose or star shone.Someone came into the adjoining room and stood in the open doorway. Mrs. Wright looked swiftly round.Jake's eyes met hers, he made a brief sign for silence. Then, without sound, he crept in and stood against the bed-curtain, looking down mutely at his wife's still face.Several seconds of complete silence followed, then, quite suddenly, as though someone had called her, she opened her eyes wide and turned her head.He drew back behind the curtain on the instant ere she could catch sight of him, standing motionless as a statue, not seeming so much as to breathe.A troubled frown gathered on Maud's face; she made a restless movement.At once Mrs. Wright bent to her from the other side of the bed. "What is it, my dearie? You're not in pain?"Maud was panting a little. She tried to raise herself, but was gently checked by a motherly hand. She took and held it with trembling fingers."Mrs. Wright,--please--you won't go!" she begged."Surely not, my dear." Stoutly Mrs. Wright made answer. "I'm going to take care of you all night long."But Maud was not wholly reassured. She clung faster to the plump, soothing hand. "If Jake comes in, he--he will want to send you away. Don't let him, Mrs. Wright! I--I can't be alone with Jake to-night."She was becoming agitated, but Mrs. Wright gently hushed her. "You shan't be, dearest. Jake wants me to be with you to-night. He is very unhappy about you, is poor Jake. Dear knows you needn't be afraid of him.""Oh, how can I help it after what he did to Charlie? Did you see? Did you see? Is Charlie very badly hurt?""Charlie?" questioned Mrs. Wright."Charlie Burchester--Lord Saltash. Didn't you see what--what Jake did to him? Oh, it was terrible--terrible!" A great shudder shook her at the remembrance of what she had seen."My dear! My dear!" Mrs. Wright leaned to her, smoothing her pillow. "Why, what a mistake to be sure! And to think you've put yourself out like this all for nothing! Dear, dear, dear, to be sure! That wasn't Lord Saltash, darling. Whatever made you think it was? It was just one of them pesky stable-boys as he was giving a jacketing to; and richly he deserved it, I'll be bound.""Oh, Mrs. Wright!" Maud's voice was suddenly eager. "Are you sure? Are you sure?"Her dark eyes, wide and beseeching, were raised in earnest questioning to her old friend's kindly face. She clung to the sustaining hand."My dear, of course I'm sure. I came along behind you. I saw it all. It was that young dog, Dick Stevens. I know him well, never did like him; and I'm sure he deserved all he got, probably more. Now you mustn't worry yourself any longer. Leave it all to old Mother Wright and go to deep! Will you, my dearie?""You're sure Charlie is safe?" Maud said quiveringly. "He--he was coming--don't tell Jake!--to see me to-day. But he didn't come. And I thought--I thought--Oh, are you sure Jake isn't listening?"She broke off in sudden terror, starting up as if she would tear aside the curtain. But Mrs. Wright was swift to interpose."My dear, you mustn't upset yourself like this. It's very wrong. What if Jake did know? Surely he would understand. He would know that there could be no reason why Lord Saltash should not drop in and see you in a friendly way now and then. Didn't you tell me you were old friends?""Oh, you don't know Jake!" moaned Maud. "He is so terrible--so terrible. He would shoot Charlie--if he knew!""My dear!" Mrs. Wright was genuinely shocked. She threw a sharp glance towards the curtain. "But there is no reason! There can be no reason! You're talking wildly. You can't know what you're saying."Maud had sunk back upon her pillows, white-lipped, exhausted. "There is a reason," she whispered. "There is a reason! I love Charlie. I have loved him for years. And Jake--Jake would kill him if he knew. He does know--a little. That's why--why I am so--afraid. Oh, I wish--I wish I were--dead!"She ceased to speak, and a dreadful pallor crept up over her face. Mrs. Wright, anxiously watching, saw that she was slipping into unconsciousness, and across the bed she issued a sharp command."Quick, Jake! Go and fetch the doctor!"The shadow behind the curtain vanished. Mrs. Wright reached for a fan. The heat was intense. The darkness hung before the window like a pall. And the good woman trembled a little in spite of herself. She felt as if the Angel of Death had suddenly entered the quiet room to share her watch.CHAPTER XIIREFUGE"So you've come to see your old uncle at last! Dear me, you've been a precious long time about it. Tut, tut, child, what a clothes-peg to be sure! Sit down. Sit down! You don't look fit to stand."Old Uncle Edward pulled out a chair from his dining-room table and almost thrust his visitor into it. Then he turned, seized a decanter, and poured some wine into a large old-fashioned glass goblet."You drink this! It's good stuff--older than you are. It'll turn to blood in your veins, and a good thing too. You look as if you hadn't got more than a thin half-pint in the whole of your constitution. There! That's better. Don't be afraid of it! Don't be afraid of it! Take another dose before you start talking! I know what you women are once your tongues get going. Take another dose, I say! You're looking half-dead. What have they been doing to you? Starving you?"His grey whiskers seemed to bristle with indignation as he asked the question; his eyes glared at her like the eyes of a terrier on the hunt. Maud sat in the red velvet chair with a feeling of vast unreality. It was true that she was feeling almost too weak to stand, and her weakness imparted to her an odd desire to cry. The gruff kindliness of her reception made her feel like a lost child brought home to a kind but somewhat severe parent. She drank the wine in almost unbroken silence.Uncle Edward stood looking on, sternly critical. "So you've been ill, have you? I can see you have. Poor girl, poor girl! Well, we must see what we can do, to get you strong again. And you haven't brought your young brother along? How is he? Quite cured?""Yes, quite cured." Maud put out a hesitating hand and somewhat shyly slipped it into her uncle's. "He is quite cured," she said, forcing a difficult smile. "And he would have come too--it was so good of you to ask him--only it is September, and the school will soon be opening; and it seemed a pity not to let him go at the beginning of the term. We all thought so."Uncle Edward grunted as if not wholly pleased. But his old knotted fingers closed very kindly about her own. "So your good husband is going to pay for his schooling, is he? That's very generous of him--very generous, indeed. He's a man of property, is he,--your Jake?"A quick flush rose in Maud's upturned face; she averted it swiftly. "I don't know. He seems to be able to do anything he likes. He--he is very kind to Bunny."Uncle Edward grunted again. "Well, and how do you amuse yourself, now that the all-important Bunny is off your hands? I suppose you play the busy housewife, do you?"Maud uttered a faint laugh as forced as her smile had been. "Oh no. I don't do anything. There is an old woman who cooks and does everything. I really can't think of anything that I do. Of course lately--just lately--I haven't been able to do things. But everything goes very well without me."Uncle Edward squeezed her hand and released it. "You've too humble an opinion of yourself, my dear. Most women get uppish when they marry. I don't as a rule like young married women for that reason. They think all the world stands still to admire 'em. But you--well, you're different. You and I will get on together."He smiled upon her so suddenly and so genially that she felt as if a burst of sunshine had warmed her tired soul. She lifted her face with a gesture that was half-instinctive, and he stooped at once and kissed it."You're a very pretty young woman," he said, patting her cheek paternally. "At least you might be, if you weren't so painfully thin. You've been very ill, I can see. You're hardly fit to travel alone now. Why didn't you tell me? I'd have come and fetched you if I'd known.""Oh, I didn't travel alone," she said. "I had Dr. Capper with me. I shouldn't have come so soon but for him. He was going to the docks, and he offered to bring me and take care of me. He knew how dreadfully I wanted to get away.""And who may Dr. Capper be?" Uncle Edward demanded grimly."He is a very great American surgeon--a friend of Jake's. He was with us when--when I began to be ill. And--and I have been in his hands ever since." Maud spoke haltingly. "He is a very kind man," she said. "I don't think I should have lived if it hadn't been for him. He made me live.""Oh, he's one of your quacks, is he?" Uncle Edward spoke with a mighty contempt. "Well, I thank Heaven I've never called in a doctor all my life, and I consider it's one of the chief reasons why I've lived so long. People think a deal too much about their health nowadays. The world is getting neurotic. Plenty of fresh air and exercise, and good wholesome food. That's my motto. No beastly doctors' messes for me. Now that man of yours, he's a healthy animal, I'll be bound. I liked the looks of him, and the ways of him too. A bit off-hand, but straight and clean. He's been good to you, has he?"He shot the question with an abruptness that found Maud wholly unprepared. She made an involuntary movement of shrinking."Oh, that's it, is it?" said Uncle Edward. "He's been high-handed, I gather. Just what I expected. If a man doesn't make love to a woman before he marries her, he'll never be bothered to after. Silly fool! Silly fool! Still, you might have done worse. Don't take him too seriously, my dear! Tip him off his perch if he crows too loud!"Maud smiled her faint sad smile and rose. "I am not complaining of anyone, Uncle Edward. You mustn't jump to conclusions. And you mustn't call Dr. Capper a quack, for he has healed Bunny. Now, may I please go up to my room? I know you are busy, and I shall be glad to rest for a little if I may.""Go by all means!" said Uncle Edward. "You're to do exactly as you like in this house. Consider the whole show at your disposal! Come and go exactly as you will!" He drew her to him abruptly and kissed her a second time. "Be happy, my dear!" he said. "Be happy! You won't be young always, and there's not much fun to be had when you're old--specially if you're alone. But you'll never be that, please Heaven. You'll have your children and your children's children growing up around you--even when you're old."He paused, holding her, for Maud had suddenly hidden her face against his shoulder. "I can't look forward--like that," she whispered. "I often think--that I'd rather--live alone."There was a pathos in her words that bordered upon tragedy. Uncle Edward thrust a protecting arm about her, rasping his throat as if something had made it smart. "Tut, tut!" he said. "You wouldn't enjoy it for long. There's precious little fun in the lonely life, I can tell you, for I know. I sit here on a Sunday and listen to the quiet till even the racket of a dog-fight would be welcome. We're all the same, I expect; wanting what we haven't got instead of making the best of what we have. I should think the Almighty must smile sometimes at the very contrariness of us."He patted her shoulder as she lifted her head, looking at her with his keen grey eyes that held humour as well as sympathy."You'll have plenty of solitude in this establishment, anyhow," he said. "You can soak yourself in it all day long. There's a library that may amuse you, but that's all I can offer in the way of entertainment.""Oh, I don't want entertainment," Maud assured him."You're singularly unlike your mother," was Uncle Edward's comment.He did not ask her how her mother was faring, and she did not feel that the moment for speaking of her affairs had arrived. There was a touch of the formidable about the old man, all his kindness to her notwithstanding; and she felt too tired and ill for a difficult discussion. She wanted to lie down and rest for a long, long time.This visit to Uncle Edward meant deliverance to her from a yoke too heavy to be borne. All through her illness she had yearned for, striven for, this escape; and because of this intense longing of hers, Capper, realizing that disappointment could but retard her progress, had set himself to further her desire.Jake had offered no opposition to it. She had scarcely seen Jake since the night of the races, and not once had they been alone together. He had bidden her farewell that morning in Capper's presence briefly, almost coldly. There had not been even so much as a touch of hands between them at parting. He had got into the carriage after them, it was true, and had wrapped a rug about her knees; but he had done it without any personal solicitude or show of sympathy. Only at the very last, just as the train started, had he looked her in the face; and then as it were half against his will he had turned his eyes upon her.And the memory of that look had gone with her throughout the journey; it was to haunt her for many days with a strange poignancy. For the red-brown eyes had held no mastery, no passion, only a dumb misery that had somehow gone to her heart. Why had he looked at her like that? Why was he so unhappy? Had he wanted to speak to her and failed for lack of words? Did he blame himself at all for what had happened? Did he desire in any way to make amends?She had thought that to escape from his proximity would have been sheer relief, but now that she actually found herself free from all possibility of seeing him she was curiously perturbed by the thought of him. She had an odd little regret that she had not waved a hand to him as the train had borne her away. Just a friendly wave to show him that she harboured no resentment any longer! She might have done it, but for an overpowering shyness that had prevented any expression of farewell. Ill though she was, ill and weary, she could have made him that sign of friendship and been none the worse for it.But reserve had held her back. It towered between them, a barrier more insurmountable than it had ever been before. And behind that reserve her whole being crouched in fear. For she had begun to tell herself over and over, over and over, like a panic-stricken child, that once away from him she could never return, never, face again that which she had faced.Possibly he had begun to realize this also; possibly that was why he had looked at her so. Would he accept it as inevitable, she wondered? Would he, now that she had dragged herself free for a space from a bondage unendurable, be merciful and let her go altogether?There was her promise. Oh yes, there was her promise. But might not that promise now be regarded as fulfilled? She had striven to do her duty, but it had proved too hard for her. Surely he must see that now! Surely he could not wish to hold her any longer against her will! The thought tortured her. She was like a hunted creature in a temporary refuge all exits from which were barred. If she made a final dash for freedom and the open, she would almost certainly be trapped.Against her will the thought of Charlie went through her like a flaming sword;--Charlie who had sworn to be a friend to her--Charlie from whom she had not heard one single word since that awful day that she had awaited him in vain. No one had spoken to her of him, but that he was no longer at the Castle she was fairly convinced. He had, as it were, darted like a fire-fly into her ken and out of it again. But he would return. She was sure he would return. And when he came--what then? What then?She did not ask herself why he had gone in that sudden fashion. It was so characteristic of the man that she saw nothing in it. That there had been no encounter between him and Jake she was now certain. Perhaps he had gone away for her sake in order to avert Jake's suspicion. His complete silence seemed to point to this. But it was quite useless to speculate. His ways were past understanding, so vague was her knowledge of the motive that governed his actions.Meanwhile the problem of her mother's difficulties remained and was becoming more and more acute. The place had been mortgaged by Sheppard to Saltash's predecessor who had had a fancy for possessing the whole of Fairharbour; and the affairs of the landlord of the Anchor Hotel had been on the downward trend ever since. Occasionally a good season would arrest this decline for a space; but good seasons were becoming more and more rare. Giles Sheppard sought consolation too often in his cellars, and the management was no longer what it had been. Regular visitors were beginning to desert him in consequence, and the downward slope was rapidly becoming precipitous. Saltash's man of business was tightening his hold, and Sheppard's tenure of the place was becoming week by week more uncertain.All of this Maud knew. Her mother was growing desperate. Her life, it seemed, had been nothing but a series of misfortunes, and this threatened to be the greatest of them all. Giles had deceived her outrageously, and now that he had secured her he cared for her no longer, save when his frequent libations rendered him tipsily amorous. Something of a vixenish nature was beginning to develop in Mrs. Sheppard. She was no more the gentle, plaintive creature she had been. She had once--and only once--approached Jake on the subject of financial help. Maud was unaware of this. Jake's reply had been perfectly courteous but uncompromisingly firm. He would give Mrs. Sheppard shelter, if she ever needed it, but he would have nothing to do with her husband or his affairs. Mrs. Sheppard had turned from him with a bitter look that had said more than words. And since that day she had steadily avoided all intercourse even with her daughter, declaring herself far too busy to get as far as the Stables.Maud had not needed her; but none the less she was uneasy about her. She wished she knew where Charlie was; but she could not risk sending a letter to the Castle. There seemed to be nothing more she could do. She had begun to tell him of her trouble. He knew she needed help. Possibly even he might without further persuasion refrain from carrying matters to extremes. She had mentioned her mother to him. He must have understood. He would surely remember her distress.And yet whenever her thoughts turned towards him the memory of Jake's words awoke within her, tormented her: "Trust him, and he will let you down,--sure." Why had he spoken so certainly? What did he know of Saltash and his ways? Was it possible--could it be--that he knew a side of Charlie's whimsical nature that had never been presented to her? Or was she so blind that she had failed to perceive it? It was true that in the old days he had failed her, he had wavered in his allegiance. But he had come back. He had come back. Always she remembered that. And because he had come back, her heart had warmed to him again, against her will, against her judgment, even in spite of every instinct. He belonged to her; that was the thought that flashed with such a burning intensity through her soul, the thought that refused utterly to be stifled or put away. He belonged to her and to none other, trifle or intrigue as he might. She was his fate. How often he had said it! And so he would return. She was sure he would return. And when he came--what then? Ah, what then?
CHAPTER X
THE MISTAKE
The day fixed for the race for the Burchester Cup was inclined to be showery. Jake was up at an early hour, and when he was gone Maud rose also. But she felt too languid to bestir herself very greatly. She sat by the open window, breathing the pure morning air, and wondering, wondering, what the day would bring forth.
Since the receipt of Saltash's letter, she had been making up her mind. That she must see him alone that day was inevitable, but she had formed a strong determination that for the future she would put bounds to their intercourse. It could but lead in the one hopeless direction. Moreover, open friendship between them had become, owing to Jake's prohibition, impossible.
She did not blame Saltash for what had happened, but bitterly she blamed herself. She had been carried away by the moment's madness. Her feet had slipped. But the determination to retrace that false step was strong within her. For Charlie's sake, as well as for her own, she knew that they must not go on. With fatal clearness she realized that it was the downward path leading to destruction. It had never attracted her before her marriage, that downward path. The care of Bunny had absorbed her life. But now that her life was empty of all but the bondage she hated, she faced the fact that her resolution had begun to waver. She could no longer trust herself to stand firm.
Sitting there, drinking in the refreshing coolness of the rain-washed air, feeling the sweet morning chill all about her, something of that innate purity of hers seemed to revive. Some of the bitterness went from her soul. She was very, very tired; but after long meditation she had begun to see her way more clearly. Perhaps dimly the future had begun to draw her. Yes, her life was empty now. But in a little while--a little while-- A deep, deep breath escaped her. The memory of Mrs. Wright and her confident words of wisdom came to her. Her life would not be always a dreary wandering in a desert land. Prisoner she might be, but even so, the flowers might bloom around her, within her reach.
A little tremor went through her. Ah yes, it might be there were compensations in store, even for her. Her life would not be always empty.
A kind of waking dream came upon her. It was as though a soothing hand had been laid upon her, stilling her wild rebellion, giving her hope. The kaleidoscope of life was changing every day. Why should she despair?
When she descended to breakfast, she was calmer, more at peace with herself, than she had been for long.
She found Capper waiting alone. He gave her his quick, keen look, but characteristically he made no comment upon what he saw.
"I am wondering how I shall catch the boat-train to-night," he said.
"Must you do so?" she asked.
He nodded vigorously. "Indeed I must. I have trespassed upon your hospitality quite long enough. And there is work waiting across the Atlantic that only Maurice Capper can do."
She smiled at him. "How indefatigable you are! Won't it wait a little longer?"
"Not a day!" declared Capper.
And neither of them dreamed that that same work would have to wait many days ere Maurice Capper was at liberty to handle it.
They sat down alone to breakfast. Jake and Bunny had had their meal long before.
"There's no holding the boy this morning," Capper observed. "It will be a good thing now when you can get him off to school, Mrs. Bolton. He'll grow quicker there than anywhere."
Maud looked up quickly. "You think so?"
He smiled. "I have told Jake so. He, I believe, is waiting till these all-absorbing races are over to consult you on the subject."
Maud's eyes fell. "He won't do that," she said, in a low voice. "He and Bunny will settle it between them, and I shall be told afterwards."
"That so?" said Capper. "Then, if I may take the liberty to advise you, madam, I should consult them first."
She shook her head in silence. How could she even begin to tell Capper of the utter lack of sympathy between herself and Jake?
"And you really think he is fit to go to school, and fend for himself?" she asked, after a moment.
"Do him all the good in the world," said Capper. He added kindly: "Guess you'll miss him some, my dear; but believe me you won't be sorry when you see what it does for him."
"Oh no, I shall never be sorry on his account," she said.
And there the subject ended, but before she left the breakfast table she found an opportunity to acquaint him with her decision to remain at home that day.
He expressed regret but not surprise. "You are wise not to overtire yourself," he said.
She became aware again of the green eyes surveying her for a moment, and coloured. "I--am not sleeping very well," she said, with an effort.
He nodded as one who fully understood. "Take things easily!" he said. "Don't fret over 'em! Let the world go by!"
She got up, moved by an impulse curiously insistent. "Dr. Capper," she said, "it--it's rather a difficult world, isn't it?"
Her voice had a quiver of wistfulness in it. He reached out a hand at once that sought and held hers. "My dear Mrs. Bolton," he said, "we live too hard--all of us. That's nine-tenths of the trouble. It's because we won't trust the Hand on the helm. We're all so mighty anxious to do our own steering, and we don't know a thing about it."
The hold of the thin yellow fingers was full of kindly comfort. There was nothing disconcerting in the shrewd green eyes that looked into hers.
"I think you'll be happier presently, you know," he said. "It seems to me that two people I'm mighty fond of have got wandering off their bearings in the wilderness. They'll find each other presently and then, I guess, that same wilderness will blossom into a garden and they'll settle down in comfort and enjoy themselves."
He pressed her hand, and released it, making it evident that he had no intention of pursuing the matter further without definite encouragement. And Maud gave him none. Something in her shrank from doing so. He was Jake's friend before he was hers.
The day seemed very long. It was oppressive also, gleams of sunshine alternating with occasional heavy thunder showers.
She was lying in a hammock-chair under the trees in the orchard with Chops at her feet when Jake came striding through at the last moment to find her.
"Capper tells me you don't feel up to coming," he said.
She barely glanced up from the book in her lap, she did not want to meet his eyes. "I didn't tell him so," she said.
"But it is so?" insisted Jake.
"I have decided not to come, certainly," she said, feeling her heart jerk apprehensively as she made the statement.
He stood a moment in silence, then bent unexpectedly, took her by the chin, and turned her face up to his own. It was flooded with scarlet on the instant; her eyes flinched away from his.
He held her so for several seconds, looking at her, mercilessly watching that agonizing blush, till it faded under his eyes, leaving her white to the lips. Then, without another word, he let her go.
She heard the jingle of his spurs as he went away, and for a long time after she lay as he had left her, too unnerved to move. What could he know? How much did he suspect? She felt cold to the very heart of her, stricken and sick with fear. He had not so much as kissed her in his brutal, domineering way, and that fact disquieted her more than any other. Though she hated the touch of his lips she would have welcomed it thankfully in that hour of sickening apprehension only to feel reassured and safe.
The patter of rain roused her to activity and drove her back to the house, in time to meet Mrs. Lovelace hastening forth with an umbrella to her rescue.
"You shouldn't be sitting out there, ma'am, on a day like this," the old woman said. "And, lawk-a-massy, you do look bad!"
Maud tried to smile. "I am not bad, Mrs. Lovelace. It's only the heat."
Mrs. Lovelace pursed her lips and looked severely incredulous. "You'd best lie down, ma'am," she said. "I'll bring your lunch immediately."
She bustled away, and Maud sank on the couch in the parlour and strove to compose herself. But she could not with that awful fear coiled like a snake about her heart. A terrible restlessness possessed her. It was impossible to remain still.
If she could only send a message to Charlie, warning him not to come! But that was impossible. She knew that no message could reach him now. He would have to come, and Jake would know of it. Manoeuvre as she might, those lynx-eyes would wrest from her the secret. She knew herself powerless to withstand them.
She made scarcely any pretence to eat the luncheon that Mrs. Lovelace brought her. She had never before been in such a ferment of disquietude. Those few awful moments of Jake's silent scrutiny had shaken her to the very foundations of her being. She felt that he had ruthlessly forced his way past her defences and looked upon her naked soul. And she realized that he had spoken the truth when he had said that she could not deceive him. He could tear her reserve from her like a garment and expose her most secret thoughts.
She spent most of the afternoon in pacing to and fro, for she could not rest. Her feet were soaked with the drenched orchard grass, but she did not know it. Her limbs were strung to a feverish activity. There were times when she thought she would go mad.
The hours crawled by leaden-footed. She did not know in the least when Charlie would come, but she began to expect him long before he could possibly arrive, and the waiting became a torment that chafed her intolerably. If he would only come soon--so that she might make her petition and let him go!
Back and forth, back and forth, she wandered, conscious sometimes of a dreadful, physical sinking, but for the most part too torn with anxiety to be aware of anything else. And Chops paced with her in mute sympathy with her distress.
The afternoon was beginning to wane towards evening when Mrs. Lovelace came forth once more in search of her--Mrs. Lovelace with prim, set lips, sternly disapproving.
"You'll make yourself bad if you go on, ma'am," she said. "And if you please, Mrs. Wright is here, and I'm laying the cloth for tea."
"Mrs. Wright!" Maud looked at her with dazed eyes, bringing her thoughts back as it were from afar.
"There she is!" said Mrs. Lovelace.
And even as she spoke Maud caught sight of the comfortable, portly figure standing on the steps.
She gave a gasp that was almost a cry, and began to hasten towards her.
Mrs. Wright on her part bustled down to meet her. "Don't hurry, my dear, don't! I've only just come. Why, how tired and white you look! There! Run along, Sarah, and get the tea, like a good soul! I'll take care of Mrs. Bolton."
Her arm was already around Maud's waist; she looked up at her with round eyes full of kindly concern.
Maud bent to kiss her. "How--good of you to come!" she said.
She herself was divided between relief and dismay; but the relief predominated. It would not matter now if Charlie came. She would have to write to him on her mother's behalf. It was the only way. She believed she could evade Jake's vigilance with a letter--so long as Charlie did not write to her. The anguish through which she had passed had made her realize that she must not, could not, take such a risk again.
She clung to Mrs. Wright as to a deliverer. "Thank you for coming!" she said.
Mrs. Wright had begun to steer sturdily for the house. "Lor' bless you, dear, I'm as pleased as anything to come," she said. "Jake dropped in this morning casual-like, and happened to pass the remark as they was all going to the races but you. So I sent down to Tom's young lady to be so kind as to come and mind the shop for me this afternoon, and after dinner I dressed myself and came along to keep you company. I could have got here an hour ago, but I thought as you'd be resting, and I knew as Sarah would be busy."
So it was Jake's doing! He had taken this step to circumvent her. Maud was conscious of a throb of anger against him, but her visitor's guileless chatter made her stifle it. Mrs. Wright was so obviously unsuspecting.
They ascended the steps together, Mrs. Wright's arm stoutly assisting her. Then in the parlour she turned and looked at Maud.
"If I was you, my dearie, I should lie right down and have a rest. And I'll give you a drop of brandy in your tea."
She sank upon the sofa without protest. The reaction from those hours of feverish suspense was upon her. She felt exhausted in mind and body.
Mrs. Wright attended upon her with the utmost kindness. She did not talk a great deal, for which forbearance Maud was mutely thankful. She was so unutterably tired, too tired even to protest against that drop of brandy in her tea upon which Mrs. Wright insisted.
Another hour went by, but there was no sign of Saltash's coming. The evening was turning dark and wet. Maud lay on her sofa, sometimes dozing, sometimes talking abstractedly to her visitor. For Mrs. Wright was determined to remain till Jake returned, and briskly said so. Maud did not want to combat the decision. She was glad to have her there. It seemed that Charlie was not coming after all. Something had detained him. Her anxiety had spent itself, but she felt terribly weak. The comfort of the old woman's tender care was too great to refuse.
She scarcely knew how the time went, so overpowering was the languor that possessed her. The rainy sky brought down an early dusk long before the setting of the sun. A brooding stillness hung upon all things through which the patter of the rain sounded with unvarying monotony.
"Deary me! They will get wet," sighed Mrs. Wright.
Slowly the heavy clouds gathered and hung! Slowly the darkness deepened.
Suddenly Maud raised herself, sat up, tensely listened. "What is that?" she said.
Mrs. Wright looked at her. "I hear nothing but the rain, dear."
Maud broke in upon her impatiently. "Yes, that--that--that! Don't you hear? What is it? O God, what is it?"
Her voice rose wildly. In a moment she had sprung from her couch and was standing with caught breath, listening.
"My dearie, it's only the rain," said Mrs. Wright soothingly. "Don't let yourself get jumpy! There's nothing there."
But Maud paid no attention to her. With a movement incredibly swift she reached the door and threw it open.
Then indeed Mrs. Wright heard sounds, muffled but undeniable, of some commotion in the stable-yard. "I expect they've just got home, dear," she said. "And very wet they'll be. Hadn't you better tell Sarah to get a nice hot brew of tea ready for 'em? Little Sir Brian will be sure to want his tea."
But the rush of Maud's feet along the oaken passage was her only answer. The girl went like the wind, urged by the most awful fear she had ever known.
The front door was open. Bunny was on the step. But she brushed past him without so much as seeing him, tearing forth bare-headed, ashen-faced, into the rain.
For there in the murky twilight, terrible as a lion newly roused, stood Jake, gripping by the collar a struggling, writhing figure, the while he administered to it as sound a horse-whipping as his great strength could accomplish. His right arm moved slowly, with a deliberate regularity unspeakably horrible to behold. She had a glimpse--only a glimpse--of his face, and the savage cruelty of it was such that it seemed no longer human. Of his victim she saw very little, but of his identity not the smallest doubt existed in her mind; and as the sound of those awful blows reached her, the last shred of her endurance was torn away. She shrieked and shrieked again as she ran.
Those shrieks reached Jake as the cry of its mate in distress might reach an animal intent upon its prey. He flung the prey from him on the instant and wheeled. He met her a full ten yards from the spot, just as her feet slipped on the wet stones of the yard. He caught her--she almost fell against him--and held her hard in his arms.
She was sobbing terribly, utterly unstrung, hysterical. She struggled for speech, but the wild sounds that left her lips were wholly unintelligible. She struggled to free herself, but her strength was gone. In the end, her knees suddenly gave way under her. She collapsed with a gasping cry. And Jake, stooping, raised her, and bore her in senseless out of the drenching rain.
CHAPTER XI
THE REASON
"You've only yourself to thank," said Capper. He tugged irritably at his pointed yellow beard. His eyes were moody under brows that frowned. "You might have known what to expect if you had an ounce of sense."
"Guess I always was an all-fired fool," said Jake.
The great doctor looked down at him from his post on the hearth, and his eyes softened a little. For Jake's dejection was very thorough. He sat as it were in dust and ashes.
"Not always, my son," he said. "But I guess you've surpassed yourself on this occasion. Well, it's done. She may get over it, but she won't love you any the better for it. It'll be up to you to make a fresh start presently."
Jake was silent. He was not smoking. He sat with bent head and lowered eyes.
Capper contemplated him awhile, till at length a faint glint of humour began to shine in his green eyes. He moved, and laid a long, wiry hand upon Jake's shoulder.
"Say, Jake!" he said. "Don't take it too hard, man! Let it be a lesson to you, that's all. And the next time you want to whip a stable-boy, do it on the quiet, and there'll be no misunderstandings. Guess you'll have to sing small for a bit, but it's not a hanging matter. She'll forgive you by and by."
"Why should she?" Jake did not move his head or respond in any way to the friendly touch.
"Because she's that sort." Capper spoke with stout conviction. "She won't hold out against you when she sees you're sorry. Don't be afraid to tell her so, Jake! Don't hide your soul!"
Jake raised his head suddenly, looking full up at Capper with eyes that glowed red and sombre. "You don't quite grasp the situation, Doc," he said. "She won't be sorry for this when she comes to herself. She never wanted to bear a child of mine. She loathes the very ground I walk on. She'd do most anything--most anything--to get quit of me. No, I reckon she won't be sorry any. She'll be--sort of--glad!"
"Oh, shucks!" Capper's hand suddenly smote him hard. "You don't know women. I tell you, you don't know 'em!"
"I know one!" Jake's voice was deadly calm. His eyes shone like a still, hot fire. "I thought I could win her, though the odds were dead against me. I staked all on the chance--the hundredth chance--and it's gone. I've lost. There's no sense in pretending otherwise. Now that this has happened I shan't hold her any longer, unless it's by brute force; and I reckon there's more lost than gained that way. And yet I know--I know--" his voice suddenly took a deeper note--"that where I've failed, no other man has ever yet succeeded. No one else has ever got to the heart of her. That I know."
He spoke with grim force, as though challenging incredulity on Capper's part, but Capper made no attempt to contradict him. He even nodded as if he held the same opinion.
"Then I guess it's up to you to find the way," he said. "There's a better way for all of us than brute force, my son. There is a power that all the violence in the world can't beat. It's greater than all the devils. And you'll win out--you'll win out--on the strength of it."
He paused. Jake's eyes had kindled a little. He set his hands on the arms of his chair as though about to rise.
"You get me?" Capper asked.
A faint smile came over his face. "You speak as one who knows," he said.
"I do know." Capper's voice was very emphatic. "It's not an easy world to live in. It's a mighty difficult one. But we've been given a compass to steer by--a Divine compass, Jake, my lad. Guess it's our own fault in the main if we fail to get there."
He waited. The light was gradually growing in Jake's eyes. He had a speculative, half-doubtful look.
"And yet you advised me to jump the hedge," he said.
Capper smiled somewhat ruefully. "I didn't tell you to burst your way through, did I?" he said. "You didn't take it the right way, my son. You blundered, and it's left a nasty breach. It's not beyond repair, mind you. But it'll take some patience and some faith before it's all filled up. Set to work on it right now! You've got the materials. Use 'em--all you know! Show her what Love--real Love--is worth! She's a woman. She'll soon understand."
Jake got to his feet with the quiet, purposeful movement of a man who has work before him. He gripped Capper's hand for a moment, and looked him straight in the face.
"I reckon you're right, sir," he said, speaking rather heavily. "I've made a damn' muddle of the whole show. I was nearer to her--several lengths nearer--in the old days when we were just friends--just friends--" his voice quivered slightly--"than I am now. Well, I reckon I must get back to the old footing. We'll be--just friends--again."
He turned from Capper with the words, went to the mantelpiece and took up his pipe.
The doctor watched him for awhile silently. There was a greatness about the man's simplicity that commanded his respect. There was even an element of the superb in it.
"I take off my hat, to you, Jake," he said at length "You're a white man."
Jake's head was bent over his pipe. He made a brief, contemptuous sound, and rammed it into his mouth. "We don't all think alike," he said. "Well, I must be going anyway. So long, Doc!"
"Where are you off to?" Capper asked.
He made a gesture as of one who contemplates an unpleasant task. "I must go up to the Castle. I said I would. I've got to tell Lord Saltash how the Albatross failed this afternoon."
"But, man, he knows!" exclaimed Capper. "He was there!"
Jake turned round. His pipe was alight. He puffed at it grimly. "Maybe he does. But it's my duty to tell him all the same. It may interest him also to hear that Stevens won't be fit for the saddle again for a week or two. I'd have marked the young blackguard for life if I hadn't been stopped." His brows suddenly met fiercely. "I'd have got out of him what he did it for too--though I guess I know. When a hot favourite like the Albatross gets left behind like that there's always a reason--a damn' substantial reason--at the bottom of it. Oh, it's a foul business," he said bitterly. "I ought to have scratched sooner than run the chance of having him pulled. I never trusted Stevens--never. I'll see him drawn and quartered before he ever rides another horse of mine!"
"But you've no evidence?" suggested Capper.
"I've the evidence of my own eyes," said Jake bluntly. "And there'll be further evidence presently, or I'm a nigger."
"What do you mean? He'll never own it."
"No." Jake spoke with a savage disdain. "He won't have the spunk for that. And he won't have the spunk either to take out a summons for assault. He'll just take it all lying down. I know. I know."
He swung round on his heel to go, went as far as the door, then suddenly wheeled and came back.
"Say, Capper!" he said, and all the savagery was gone from his voice; it held a note of pleading. "She'll get over it, sure?"
Capper's yellow face was full of kindness. He reached forth a hand that gripped hard. "Please God she'll live to be the mother of your children yet, Jake!" he said.
Jake drew a sharp breath. "God knows I don't want her--just for that," he said, with husky vehemence.
And then abruptly, as if ashamed, he pulled his hand free and departed.
Capper's fingers sought his beard as the door closed. "You're learning, Jake," he said. "You're learning. Wonder how soon she'll begin to find out that there's another man in the place where her husband used to be!"
He coiled himself down into a chair, bending and cracking his long fingers with meditative zest. But the frown remained between his brows. If Capper the man was satisfied, Capper the doctor was very much the reverse. He was not dismayed, but he was anxious, more anxious than he deemed it necessary for anyone to know.
"She'll pull through," he muttered to himself once. And again: "She must pull through."
But in his heart he knew that it was more than possible that his patient's life might ebb out on the bitter tide of disappointment and misery even when the worst danger seemed to be over. She was so lonely in her trouble, so piteously bereft of all desire or incentive to live.
Up in the room above, Maud lay, white and still, her dark hair all about her, her eyes closed, an aloofness that was almost like the shadow of Death wrapping her round.
Mrs. Wright sat by her side, very alert and watchful. It was growing late, but she had long ago signified her intention of remaining for the night. Very practical and sure of herself was Mrs. Wright. She and Dr. Capper were already firm allies.
The night was close, and the windows were flung wide. The door into the adjoining room was wide open also, and a faint current of air eddied about the room, stirring now and again the chintz hangings of the old-fashioned bed, rustling occasionally the white muslin curtains at the window. The wash of the sea came up vaguely from the dark distance. It sounded like the far splashing of mighty oars.
Near at hand, down in the dim garden there came sometimes the mysterious movements of some small creature creeping stealthily through the bushes, and once or twice down in the orchard an owl hooted its weird, half-human signal.
Mrs. Wright did not like the voice of the owl. She shivered whenever she heard it; but Maud lay as one oblivious of all things, drifting, drifting, on a great lonely sea on which no sun ever rose or star shone.
Someone came into the adjoining room and stood in the open doorway. Mrs. Wright looked swiftly round.
Jake's eyes met hers, he made a brief sign for silence. Then, without sound, he crept in and stood against the bed-curtain, looking down mutely at his wife's still face.
Several seconds of complete silence followed, then, quite suddenly, as though someone had called her, she opened her eyes wide and turned her head.
He drew back behind the curtain on the instant ere she could catch sight of him, standing motionless as a statue, not seeming so much as to breathe.
A troubled frown gathered on Maud's face; she made a restless movement.
At once Mrs. Wright bent to her from the other side of the bed. "What is it, my dearie? You're not in pain?"
Maud was panting a little. She tried to raise herself, but was gently checked by a motherly hand. She took and held it with trembling fingers.
"Mrs. Wright,--please--you won't go!" she begged.
"Surely not, my dear." Stoutly Mrs. Wright made answer. "I'm going to take care of you all night long."
But Maud was not wholly reassured. She clung faster to the plump, soothing hand. "If Jake comes in, he--he will want to send you away. Don't let him, Mrs. Wright! I--I can't be alone with Jake to-night."
She was becoming agitated, but Mrs. Wright gently hushed her. "You shan't be, dearest. Jake wants me to be with you to-night. He is very unhappy about you, is poor Jake. Dear knows you needn't be afraid of him."
"Oh, how can I help it after what he did to Charlie? Did you see? Did you see? Is Charlie very badly hurt?"
"Charlie?" questioned Mrs. Wright.
"Charlie Burchester--Lord Saltash. Didn't you see what--what Jake did to him? Oh, it was terrible--terrible!" A great shudder shook her at the remembrance of what she had seen.
"My dear! My dear!" Mrs. Wright leaned to her, smoothing her pillow. "Why, what a mistake to be sure! And to think you've put yourself out like this all for nothing! Dear, dear, dear, to be sure! That wasn't Lord Saltash, darling. Whatever made you think it was? It was just one of them pesky stable-boys as he was giving a jacketing to; and richly he deserved it, I'll be bound."
"Oh, Mrs. Wright!" Maud's voice was suddenly eager. "Are you sure? Are you sure?"
Her dark eyes, wide and beseeching, were raised in earnest questioning to her old friend's kindly face. She clung to the sustaining hand.
"My dear, of course I'm sure. I came along behind you. I saw it all. It was that young dog, Dick Stevens. I know him well, never did like him; and I'm sure he deserved all he got, probably more. Now you mustn't worry yourself any longer. Leave it all to old Mother Wright and go to deep! Will you, my dearie?"
"You're sure Charlie is safe?" Maud said quiveringly. "He--he was coming--don't tell Jake!--to see me to-day. But he didn't come. And I thought--I thought--Oh, are you sure Jake isn't listening?"
She broke off in sudden terror, starting up as if she would tear aside the curtain. But Mrs. Wright was swift to interpose.
"My dear, you mustn't upset yourself like this. It's very wrong. What if Jake did know? Surely he would understand. He would know that there could be no reason why Lord Saltash should not drop in and see you in a friendly way now and then. Didn't you tell me you were old friends?"
"Oh, you don't know Jake!" moaned Maud. "He is so terrible--so terrible. He would shoot Charlie--if he knew!"
"My dear!" Mrs. Wright was genuinely shocked. She threw a sharp glance towards the curtain. "But there is no reason! There can be no reason! You're talking wildly. You can't know what you're saying."
Maud had sunk back upon her pillows, white-lipped, exhausted. "There is a reason," she whispered. "There is a reason! I love Charlie. I have loved him for years. And Jake--Jake would kill him if he knew. He does know--a little. That's why--why I am so--afraid. Oh, I wish--I wish I were--dead!"
She ceased to speak, and a dreadful pallor crept up over her face. Mrs. Wright, anxiously watching, saw that she was slipping into unconsciousness, and across the bed she issued a sharp command.
"Quick, Jake! Go and fetch the doctor!"
The shadow behind the curtain vanished. Mrs. Wright reached for a fan. The heat was intense. The darkness hung before the window like a pall. And the good woman trembled a little in spite of herself. She felt as if the Angel of Death had suddenly entered the quiet room to share her watch.
CHAPTER XII
REFUGE
"So you've come to see your old uncle at last! Dear me, you've been a precious long time about it. Tut, tut, child, what a clothes-peg to be sure! Sit down. Sit down! You don't look fit to stand."
Old Uncle Edward pulled out a chair from his dining-room table and almost thrust his visitor into it. Then he turned, seized a decanter, and poured some wine into a large old-fashioned glass goblet.
"You drink this! It's good stuff--older than you are. It'll turn to blood in your veins, and a good thing too. You look as if you hadn't got more than a thin half-pint in the whole of your constitution. There! That's better. Don't be afraid of it! Don't be afraid of it! Take another dose before you start talking! I know what you women are once your tongues get going. Take another dose, I say! You're looking half-dead. What have they been doing to you? Starving you?"
His grey whiskers seemed to bristle with indignation as he asked the question; his eyes glared at her like the eyes of a terrier on the hunt. Maud sat in the red velvet chair with a feeling of vast unreality. It was true that she was feeling almost too weak to stand, and her weakness imparted to her an odd desire to cry. The gruff kindliness of her reception made her feel like a lost child brought home to a kind but somewhat severe parent. She drank the wine in almost unbroken silence.
Uncle Edward stood looking on, sternly critical. "So you've been ill, have you? I can see you have. Poor girl, poor girl! Well, we must see what we can do, to get you strong again. And you haven't brought your young brother along? How is he? Quite cured?"
"Yes, quite cured." Maud put out a hesitating hand and somewhat shyly slipped it into her uncle's. "He is quite cured," she said, forcing a difficult smile. "And he would have come too--it was so good of you to ask him--only it is September, and the school will soon be opening; and it seemed a pity not to let him go at the beginning of the term. We all thought so."
Uncle Edward grunted as if not wholly pleased. But his old knotted fingers closed very kindly about her own. "So your good husband is going to pay for his schooling, is he? That's very generous of him--very generous, indeed. He's a man of property, is he,--your Jake?"
A quick flush rose in Maud's upturned face; she averted it swiftly. "I don't know. He seems to be able to do anything he likes. He--he is very kind to Bunny."
Uncle Edward grunted again. "Well, and how do you amuse yourself, now that the all-important Bunny is off your hands? I suppose you play the busy housewife, do you?"
Maud uttered a faint laugh as forced as her smile had been. "Oh no. I don't do anything. There is an old woman who cooks and does everything. I really can't think of anything that I do. Of course lately--just lately--I haven't been able to do things. But everything goes very well without me."
Uncle Edward squeezed her hand and released it. "You've too humble an opinion of yourself, my dear. Most women get uppish when they marry. I don't as a rule like young married women for that reason. They think all the world stands still to admire 'em. But you--well, you're different. You and I will get on together."
He smiled upon her so suddenly and so genially that she felt as if a burst of sunshine had warmed her tired soul. She lifted her face with a gesture that was half-instinctive, and he stooped at once and kissed it.
"You're a very pretty young woman," he said, patting her cheek paternally. "At least you might be, if you weren't so painfully thin. You've been very ill, I can see. You're hardly fit to travel alone now. Why didn't you tell me? I'd have come and fetched you if I'd known."
"Oh, I didn't travel alone," she said. "I had Dr. Capper with me. I shouldn't have come so soon but for him. He was going to the docks, and he offered to bring me and take care of me. He knew how dreadfully I wanted to get away."
"And who may Dr. Capper be?" Uncle Edward demanded grimly.
"He is a very great American surgeon--a friend of Jake's. He was with us when--when I began to be ill. And--and I have been in his hands ever since." Maud spoke haltingly. "He is a very kind man," she said. "I don't think I should have lived if it hadn't been for him. He made me live."
"Oh, he's one of your quacks, is he?" Uncle Edward spoke with a mighty contempt. "Well, I thank Heaven I've never called in a doctor all my life, and I consider it's one of the chief reasons why I've lived so long. People think a deal too much about their health nowadays. The world is getting neurotic. Plenty of fresh air and exercise, and good wholesome food. That's my motto. No beastly doctors' messes for me. Now that man of yours, he's a healthy animal, I'll be bound. I liked the looks of him, and the ways of him too. A bit off-hand, but straight and clean. He's been good to you, has he?"
He shot the question with an abruptness that found Maud wholly unprepared. She made an involuntary movement of shrinking.
"Oh, that's it, is it?" said Uncle Edward. "He's been high-handed, I gather. Just what I expected. If a man doesn't make love to a woman before he marries her, he'll never be bothered to after. Silly fool! Silly fool! Still, you might have done worse. Don't take him too seriously, my dear! Tip him off his perch if he crows too loud!"
Maud smiled her faint sad smile and rose. "I am not complaining of anyone, Uncle Edward. You mustn't jump to conclusions. And you mustn't call Dr. Capper a quack, for he has healed Bunny. Now, may I please go up to my room? I know you are busy, and I shall be glad to rest for a little if I may."
"Go by all means!" said Uncle Edward. "You're to do exactly as you like in this house. Consider the whole show at your disposal! Come and go exactly as you will!" He drew her to him abruptly and kissed her a second time. "Be happy, my dear!" he said. "Be happy! You won't be young always, and there's not much fun to be had when you're old--specially if you're alone. But you'll never be that, please Heaven. You'll have your children and your children's children growing up around you--even when you're old."
He paused, holding her, for Maud had suddenly hidden her face against his shoulder. "I can't look forward--like that," she whispered. "I often think--that I'd rather--live alone."
There was a pathos in her words that bordered upon tragedy. Uncle Edward thrust a protecting arm about her, rasping his throat as if something had made it smart. "Tut, tut!" he said. "You wouldn't enjoy it for long. There's precious little fun in the lonely life, I can tell you, for I know. I sit here on a Sunday and listen to the quiet till even the racket of a dog-fight would be welcome. We're all the same, I expect; wanting what we haven't got instead of making the best of what we have. I should think the Almighty must smile sometimes at the very contrariness of us."
He patted her shoulder as she lifted her head, looking at her with his keen grey eyes that held humour as well as sympathy.
"You'll have plenty of solitude in this establishment, anyhow," he said. "You can soak yourself in it all day long. There's a library that may amuse you, but that's all I can offer in the way of entertainment."
"Oh, I don't want entertainment," Maud assured him.
"You're singularly unlike your mother," was Uncle Edward's comment.
He did not ask her how her mother was faring, and she did not feel that the moment for speaking of her affairs had arrived. There was a touch of the formidable about the old man, all his kindness to her notwithstanding; and she felt too tired and ill for a difficult discussion. She wanted to lie down and rest for a long, long time.
This visit to Uncle Edward meant deliverance to her from a yoke too heavy to be borne. All through her illness she had yearned for, striven for, this escape; and because of this intense longing of hers, Capper, realizing that disappointment could but retard her progress, had set himself to further her desire.
Jake had offered no opposition to it. She had scarcely seen Jake since the night of the races, and not once had they been alone together. He had bidden her farewell that morning in Capper's presence briefly, almost coldly. There had not been even so much as a touch of hands between them at parting. He had got into the carriage after them, it was true, and had wrapped a rug about her knees; but he had done it without any personal solicitude or show of sympathy. Only at the very last, just as the train started, had he looked her in the face; and then as it were half against his will he had turned his eyes upon her.
And the memory of that look had gone with her throughout the journey; it was to haunt her for many days with a strange poignancy. For the red-brown eyes had held no mastery, no passion, only a dumb misery that had somehow gone to her heart. Why had he looked at her like that? Why was he so unhappy? Had he wanted to speak to her and failed for lack of words? Did he blame himself at all for what had happened? Did he desire in any way to make amends?
She had thought that to escape from his proximity would have been sheer relief, but now that she actually found herself free from all possibility of seeing him she was curiously perturbed by the thought of him. She had an odd little regret that she had not waved a hand to him as the train had borne her away. Just a friendly wave to show him that she harboured no resentment any longer! She might have done it, but for an overpowering shyness that had prevented any expression of farewell. Ill though she was, ill and weary, she could have made him that sign of friendship and been none the worse for it.
But reserve had held her back. It towered between them, a barrier more insurmountable than it had ever been before. And behind that reserve her whole being crouched in fear. For she had begun to tell herself over and over, over and over, like a panic-stricken child, that once away from him she could never return, never, face again that which she had faced.
Possibly he had begun to realize this also; possibly that was why he had looked at her so. Would he accept it as inevitable, she wondered? Would he, now that she had dragged herself free for a space from a bondage unendurable, be merciful and let her go altogether?
There was her promise. Oh yes, there was her promise. But might not that promise now be regarded as fulfilled? She had striven to do her duty, but it had proved too hard for her. Surely he must see that now! Surely he could not wish to hold her any longer against her will! The thought tortured her. She was like a hunted creature in a temporary refuge all exits from which were barred. If she made a final dash for freedom and the open, she would almost certainly be trapped.
Against her will the thought of Charlie went through her like a flaming sword;--Charlie who had sworn to be a friend to her--Charlie from whom she had not heard one single word since that awful day that she had awaited him in vain. No one had spoken to her of him, but that he was no longer at the Castle she was fairly convinced. He had, as it were, darted like a fire-fly into her ken and out of it again. But he would return. She was sure he would return. And when he came--what then? What then?
She did not ask herself why he had gone in that sudden fashion. It was so characteristic of the man that she saw nothing in it. That there had been no encounter between him and Jake she was now certain. Perhaps he had gone away for her sake in order to avert Jake's suspicion. His complete silence seemed to point to this. But it was quite useless to speculate. His ways were past understanding, so vague was her knowledge of the motive that governed his actions.
Meanwhile the problem of her mother's difficulties remained and was becoming more and more acute. The place had been mortgaged by Sheppard to Saltash's predecessor who had had a fancy for possessing the whole of Fairharbour; and the affairs of the landlord of the Anchor Hotel had been on the downward trend ever since. Occasionally a good season would arrest this decline for a space; but good seasons were becoming more and more rare. Giles Sheppard sought consolation too often in his cellars, and the management was no longer what it had been. Regular visitors were beginning to desert him in consequence, and the downward slope was rapidly becoming precipitous. Saltash's man of business was tightening his hold, and Sheppard's tenure of the place was becoming week by week more uncertain.
All of this Maud knew. Her mother was growing desperate. Her life, it seemed, had been nothing but a series of misfortunes, and this threatened to be the greatest of them all. Giles had deceived her outrageously, and now that he had secured her he cared for her no longer, save when his frequent libations rendered him tipsily amorous. Something of a vixenish nature was beginning to develop in Mrs. Sheppard. She was no more the gentle, plaintive creature she had been. She had once--and only once--approached Jake on the subject of financial help. Maud was unaware of this. Jake's reply had been perfectly courteous but uncompromisingly firm. He would give Mrs. Sheppard shelter, if she ever needed it, but he would have nothing to do with her husband or his affairs. Mrs. Sheppard had turned from him with a bitter look that had said more than words. And since that day she had steadily avoided all intercourse even with her daughter, declaring herself far too busy to get as far as the Stables.
Maud had not needed her; but none the less she was uneasy about her. She wished she knew where Charlie was; but she could not risk sending a letter to the Castle. There seemed to be nothing more she could do. She had begun to tell him of her trouble. He knew she needed help. Possibly even he might without further persuasion refrain from carrying matters to extremes. She had mentioned her mother to him. He must have understood. He would surely remember her distress.
And yet whenever her thoughts turned towards him the memory of Jake's words awoke within her, tormented her: "Trust him, and he will let you down,--sure." Why had he spoken so certainly? What did he know of Saltash and his ways? Was it possible--could it be--that he knew a side of Charlie's whimsical nature that had never been presented to her? Or was she so blind that she had failed to perceive it? It was true that in the old days he had failed her, he had wavered in his allegiance. But he had come back. He had come back. Always she remembered that. And because he had come back, her heart had warmed to him again, against her will, against her judgment, even in spite of every instinct. He belonged to her; that was the thought that flashed with such a burning intensity through her soul, the thought that refused utterly to be stifled or put away. He belonged to her and to none other, trifle or intrigue as he might. She was his fate. How often he had said it! And so he would return. She was sure he would return. And when he came--what then? Ah, what then?