Front matter (continued 5)

The latter was standing erect and still with eyes of burning blue fixed steadily upon emptiness. She made no response whatever to her visitor's unspoken appeal, it seemed that she did not even see it.

"It's all right, Mother," smiled Jake. "You take 'em home and enjoy 'em. As a matter of fact, Maud and I are getting a bit fed up with 'em ourselves. Yes, I'm going to see you home. I'd rather."

"And I'd rather not, Jake," Mrs. Wright asserted with sudden decision. An odd expression of sternness had come into her jolly countenance. It sat very strangely there. She came close to Maud, and as the girl extended a stiff hand in farewell she took it and pressed the flowers into it. "They're not Jake's to give," she said, "and I'm not going to deprive you of 'em. Thank you kindly for a very good tea, Mrs. Bolton, my dear. And now I'll wish you good-bye. If there's ever anything as I can do for you, you must let me know."

The words, the tone, were full of kindly comprehension, a sympathy too subtle for outward expression. Maud looked into eyes of shining friendliness, and as if a sudden shaft of sunlight had caught her heart, her bitterness melted into something that was near akin to gratitude.

She held up the violets with a smile. "Wait a moment!" she said. "I would like you to have some of them."

She untied them with the words, divided the great bunch, and gave back a generous half into Mrs. Wright's plump hand.

"Now, that's very good of you, dear," said Mrs. Wright. "I shall just treasure them violets. They'll make me think of you whenever I look at 'em. They're just the colour of your eyes. Good-bye, and thank you most kindly."

It was then that Maud did a thing that amazed herself, impelled thereto by that subtle sympathy which she had so little expected to meet. She bent her stately neck and kissed the red, smiling face uplifted in such honest admiration to hers. "Good-bye, Mrs. Wright," she said. "And thank you for coming. I shall try to come and see you one day--when I can make time."

"Any time, dear, any time!" beamed Mrs. Wright. "Drop in just whenever you feel inclined! I'm most always there." She gave her a hearty hug with the words, and then, as if afraid that this demonstration had been too ardent, she turned and trotted to the door.

"Good-bye, Jake! Good-bye! There, now, I've forgotten Sir Brian. You must excuse me for being so stupid."

"Oh, don't trouble!" said Bunny, with ironical courtesy. "Pray don't come back on my account!"

She looked back at him from the threshold, a very motherly compassion on her jolly face.

"Poor little lad!" she murmured pityingly. "How sadly he looks, to be sure! Good-bye, then, Sir Brian! I won't come back. Now, Jake, I'll let you see me to the door-step--no further. The moon's up, and Tom'll be sure to come and meet me." She started down the passage with Jake behind her, her voice dwindling as she went. "I'm so glad as I've seen your princess, Jake. I think she's lovely. Mind you're very good to her! She's high born, you know, Jake, my boy; better-class than you and me. I never see anyone so proud and so dainty. You be kind to her, my lad, and see you treat her like the lady she is!"

Jake's reply, if he made one, was inaudible.

"Common old hag!" growled Bunny from his sofa.

Maud said nothing at all. Her face was hidden in her violets, and she was as one who heard not.

CHAPTER XXIX

HER OTHER SELF

It was on an afternoon in mid-January that Maud found herself for the first time in the precincts of Burchester Castle. She had heard nothing of Lord Saltash since his departure for town, though gifts of flowers arrived at regular intervals from his hot-houses; and it seemed that his absence was to be indefinitely prolonged. She almost hoped that it would be so, for though he was practically her only friend his presence was not an unalloyed pleasure. She felt more at ease when he was away.

On this particular afternoon she had left Bunny wrapped up in his long chair and lying in the summer-house that overlooked the field where Jake was occupied in breaking in a wild young colt. The day was fine and unusually warm. Bunny was in a contented mood and, since Jake was close at hand, she did not see why she should not leave him for a space. He had been needing her less and less of late, and though his behaviour towards herself had undoubtedly undergone a considerable improvement, it was becoming very evident to her that he vastly preferred Jake's masculine companionship to her own. He was in fact so devoted to Jake that he would endure correction from him without a murmur, a state of affairs that Maud vaguely resented, without knowing why. They were such close allies that she often felt herself to be superfluous. Neither by day nor by night was her presence any longer essential.

She knew that she ought not to regret this, for it meant that Bunny's health was very materially improving; but yet at the heart of her there often came a pang. She missed his dependence upon her with a poignancy that was very hard to bear.

And so for the first time that afternoon she decided to avail herself of Lord Saltash's permission to use the piano at the Castle. She had an intense love of music and a natural gift for it which she had never been able to develop very freely.

Charlie was musical too. Some of her happiest hours had been spent at the piano with him in the old days. He was an accomplished musician himself, and he had given her many a lesson and valuable hint. She sometimes thought that it was over the piano that her heart had first gone out to his.

She did not want to recall those happy times they had had together. They lay far behind her with her buried youth. But the longing to make music was strong upon her. It had risen out of her loneliness like a fiery thirst in the desert, and she yearned to gratify it.

And after all why should she not? Charlie was away. There was no one to know or care how she spent her time. It was obviously and unquestionably her own.

Jake had wholly ceased to take any interest in her doings. He treated her as the most casual acquaintance. When he greeted her, he never so much as touched her hand. He was everything to Bunny, he was nothing to her; and every day it seemed to her that he drew a little further away from her. She had tried to make overtures more than once, but he never seemed to understand. He would look at her in his straight, impenetrable way, and pass deliberately on to some other matter, whether with intention or not she could never wholly decide. He had never tried to be kind to her since the day that she had refused to hear his proffered explanation.

A great bitterness was growing up within her. She felt as if he had deprived her of all she cared for, and given her nothing in return. It was in part this bitterness of spirit that drove her to Burchester Castle that day, and, added thereto, an intense and feverish desire to escape if only for an hour from the atmosphere of her daily existence. She felt as if it were crushing out her individuality, and she longed desperately to be herself, her best and happiest self, if only for an hour.

So, with no word to any but Bunny of her intention, she passed up the long fir avenue to the Castle with the winter sun sinking red behind her.

The great stone building frowned upon her as she drew near. She approached it with a certain awe. The dark windows seemed to gaze at her. The massive entrance yawned to receive her.

She stepped into the echoing Gothic porch, and found herself confronted by a massive oak door. The electric bell at the side of this, however, was reassuring, and she rang it without hesitation.

While she waited for the door to open she amused herself by examining the gargoyles that surmounted the pillars of the porch,--jeering, demon faces that made her shiver. There was about the place an ecclesiastical dignity at which those faces seemed to mock. The thought of Saltash went through her. Saltash in a derisive mood was strikingly like one of these.

The door opened with noiseless state, and an ancient man-servant stood before her. He looked at her with grave enquiry, and with a touch of nervousness she explained her presence.

"I am Mrs. Bolton. Lord Saltash is away, I know; but he has given me permission to use his piano. I thought I should like to do so this afternoon."

The old man stood back and bowed before her. "Come in, madam!" he said.

She entered with a curious sensation of unreality, and found herself in an immense stone hall, carpeted with rich Persian rugs, and splendidly warmed by a great fire that roared in an open fireplace. The sense of ecclesiastical austerity completely vanished as soon as the door closed behind her. The whole atmosphere became luxurious, sensuous, Eastern. There were some wonderful pieces of statuary, some in marble and some in bronze, placed here and there, that were of anything but monastical design. One in particular in a niche in the stone wall caught Maud's eyes as she followed her guide--a nude, female figure with wings, one of which was spread like an eagle's pinion as though to soar, while the other trailed back, broken, drooping, powerless. It was a wonderful marble, and she paused before it almost involuntarily. The arms of the figure were outstretched and straining upwards, the head flung back, and in the face such anguish, such longing, such passionate protest as thrilled her through and through.

The old butler paused also. "That," he said in his decorous monotone, "is Spentoli's Fallen Woman. His lordship prefers to call it The Captured Angel. A very valuable piece of sculptury, I believe, madam. Quite one of the features of the place. His lordship sets great store by it, and it is universally admired by all visitors."

"It is wonderful," Maud said. But yet she turned her eyes away almost immediately. There was something about that mute, agonized figure of womanhood that she felt she could not bear to look upon except in solitude.

The butler stumped on down the great hall, and she followed, to a grand oak staircase that divided into two half-way up and led to a panelled gallery that ran along three sides of the hall. Solemnly they mounted. A high oak door confronted them at the top which the old man threw open with much ceremony.

"The grand piano, madam, is over by the west window," he said, and with another deep bow withdrew, closing the door without sound behind her.

Maud went forward into the room. The first impression she received was of great loftiness. It was a huge apartment, oak-panelled, and with a floor of polished oak. The whole of one side of the room was lighted by south windows that looked out over terraced gardens to the pine-woods of the park. At the end was a turret in the western angle of the wall, and here stood the piano, full in the glow of the sinking sun. There were two fireplaces in the room, and in the one nearer to the piano a red still fire was burning. A low couch stood before it, and a great tiger-skin--the only rug in the whole vast place--was spread on the hearth. There were other couches and strangely-shaped divans in the room, but no chairs, and only one small table. The whole effect was spacious and Eastern, curiously attractive to the senses and yet curiously elusive.

Maud went over the uncovered floor, treading lightly, with a feeling of having entered an enchanted land,--a feeling not wholly pleasant of being caught in a fairy web of subtleties from which she might not find it easy to escape.

The whole atmosphere breathed of Saltash. She was sure that he had designed every elusive detail.

The piano was thrown invitingly open. A French song was on the rack. It had the appearance of having been placed there but a moment before. A sudden doubt assailed her, a sensation as of having walked unwittingly into a trap. Some force had drawn her hither, some magnetism had surely been at work.

The impulse came to her then to turn and go, yet she resisted it. Later, it seemed to her that she had lacked the motive power to do aught but move straight to the piano and drop onto the music-stool before the keys. Her hands went out to them, and suddenly she was playing, at first very softly, then with gathering tone as she felt the instrument respond to her touch, till at length all sense of strangeness left her, and she began to sing the little French ditty that once had been one of her favourites! She had never heard her own voice to greater advantage than in that lofty music-room. It was a mezzo, sweet rather than powerful, with a ringing, bell-like quality that Charlie had been wont to compare to the tentative notes of a bullfinch. He had always declared that she was afraid of the sound of it, but this was certainly not the case to-day. The glad notes left her lips, true and free and birdlike. The heart within her had suddenly grown light.

The song came to an end. Her fingers began to wander idly over the keys. She played a dreamy air with an old-world waltz refrain, too lost in her trance of delight to realize what she played, and again half-unconsciously she was singing, as she had sung long ago before the gates of youth.

"There has fall'n a splendid tear,

From the passion flower at the gate,

She is coming, my dove, my dear;

She is coming, my life, my fate.

The red rose cries, 'She is near, she is near';

And the white rose weeps, 'She is late';

The larkspur listens, 'I hear, I hear';

And the lily whispers, 'I wait.'"

Softly, sweetly, the notes stole through the room, wandered awhile, and ceased. There fell a pause, and the girl's eyes rested dreaming on the long dark line of pine-trees red-flushed in the glow of sunset.

Then, still following her dream, she sang on.

"She is coming, my own, my sweet,

Were it ever so airy a tread

My heart would hear her and beat

Were it earth in an earthy bed;

My dust would hear her and beat,

Had I lain for a century dead;

Would start and tremble under her feet,

And blossom in purple and red."

And then she was singing the refrain, and while she sang it she awoke.

"Come into the garden, Maud,

For the black bat night has flown;

Come into the garden, Maud,

I am here at the gate alone,

I am here at the gate alone."

She stopped suddenly with the conviction that a man's voice had joined hers in the singing of that refrain. Yet, if this had been so, the accompanying voice ceased as abruptly as her own. She found herself sitting in absolute silence, with every pulse racing, every nerve strained to listen.

No sound came to her. The whole great chamber was as still as death. The fire burned red and silent. There was not so much as the ticking of a clock to be heard. And yet it seemed to her that eyes watched her from some vantage point unseen. She had a firm conviction that she was not alone.

She controlled the curious excitement that possessed her, and slowly set her fingers once more on the keys. She played the old refrain again, singing it very softly, listening intently while she sang. This time she was sure--quite sure--that a man's voice hummed the air. She went on to the end, and suffered her hands to fall.

"Charlie!" she said, without turning.

There came a slight sound behind her, the click as of a spring catch. She looked round, and saw him standing against the high panelling of the wall.

"What a childish game to play!" she said, with lips that slightly trembled.

"We are all children," observed Saltash. "We may think ourselves mighty clever, but the fact remains. Greeting, my queen rose! I am enchanted to see you."

He came forward, his black brows working comically, his queer ugly face smiling a welcome.

In spite of herself, Maud smiled in answer. "But why did you pretend you weren't at home?" she said, in a voice of protest.

He laughed as he took her hand. "But I wasn't," he said. "I motored down on purpose to receive you. Are you so disappointed?"

She shook her head, but she still looked at him somewhat dubiously. "You know, Charlie," she said, "I like people to behave quite straightforwardly, and to tell the truth."

"Heavens above!" laughed Saltash. "Why so grievously moral? Well, look here, let me be quite, quite honest, and admit that it was wholly by chance that I came down here to-day. Chance or the beneficent will of the gods! Call it what you will! And, my dear girl, don't be prudish now you are married! Remember, that though it is a state of bondage there are certain liberties attached that are well worth having. Now, you are going to play and sing to me while I smoke and admire."

He turned from her and threw himself upon a low settee in the window embrasure. The scent of his cigarette came to her, aromatic, Eastern, fragrant of many subtleties. She breathed it as one who inhales the magic of the gods.

"Now, play!" he commanded, his strange, restless eyes upon her. "Play as the spirit moves you! Never mind me! I am of no account."

She had done it often before in the old days. It was not difficult to do it now, with the spell of his personality upon her. Her own spirit responded instinctively to the call of his. The sympathy between them became communion. She began to play, and, playing, lost herself in the music as one inspired.

Saltash lay without moving, as if half-asleep. He also seemed as one under a charm.

And Maud played on and on, seeing visions, steeping her soul in romance, forgetful wholly of the chain by which she was bound; forgetful also of her companion, or perhaps so merged in his individuality as to be unaware of any dividing line. It was the old, sweet dreamland that had always held them both.

Time passed, and the red sun with it. The early dark began to fall, the shining visions to wane. She came out of her trance at last with a deep sigh, and suffered her hands to fall.

Instantly Saltash sat up. "Bravo, ma belle reine! Your touch is like velvet to the senses. You have scarcely sung to me at all. But no matter! You have closed the gates now, and we can't go back. But wasn't it good? Come, be honest and say so."

She lifted her eyes to his with something of her dream still lingering there. "It was--very good," she said.

"And you'll come again?" he insinuated.

The dream began to fade. With her right hand she picked out a nervous little air on the piano, saying no word.

He leaned towards her. "Maud," he insisted, "surely you'll come again!"

"I don't know," she said slowly.

"Surely!" he said again.

Her eyes grew troubled. "Charlie," she said, her fingers still softly pressing the keys, "I can't come here when you are here. I like to come,--oh yes, I like to come. But I mustn't."

"Why not?" said Saltash. "Afraid of the cow-puncher?"

She shrank, and struck a sudden discordant chord. "I am not afraid of anyone, but I must think of appearances. I owe it to myself. I should like to come sometimes and play. But--with you here--I can't."

"All right," he said abruptly. "I'll go."

Her eyes flashed up to his. She took her hand from the piano and gave it to him. "You are going to be a true friend to me, Charlie," she said.

He smiled rather wryly. "My friendship is to take a somewhat negative form, it seems to me, but perhaps it will stand the strain. Have you heard anything yet about the American doctor?"

She shook her head. "No, nothing."

"And you have not laid my proposal before Jake, I gather?" he pursued, boldly keeping her hand in his.

"Not yet," she said.

"Have you given the matter your own august consideration?" he asked.

Her hand began to fidget for freedom. "I have thought about it, Charlie. I have not quite made up my mind. But you mustn't be hurt if I say No."

"I shan't be hurt," he said, slowly relaxing his hold so that her hand slipped free. "But I shall think that your love of propriety somewhat outweighs your love for Bunny."

She flushed, and turned aside to take up her gloves in silence.

He stood and watched her. "That is so like you," he said, after a moment.

She glanced at him. "What do you mean?"

He laughed lightly, but without mockery. "Your stately silences! Do you know I remember you best by your silences? It is there that you differ from all the rest of your charming sex. Other women, when they are misjudged, clamour for redress. You endure in silence, too proud to complain. I wonder if Jake has realized your silences yet."

Maud stiffened a little. "I must be going," she said. "I promised Bunny I would be back to tea."

"I'll walk back with you," Saltash said.

She shook her head. "No, I would rather go alone."

"Why don't you tackle the situation boldly and ask me to tea?" he said.

She was walking down the long room, and he sauntered beside her, smoking a cigarette, careless and debonair.

"I think it wiser not, Charlie," she said.

He laughed. "As you will. But remember, life is short. We may as well enjoy ourselves, while it lasts. Did old Billings show you up here? He is the one respectable feature of this establishment."

"Yes, he certainly is respectable," she agreed, with a smile. "But where were you when I came in? You didn't come through this door."

He laughed again in a fashion half-mocking, half-secretive. "That is my affair, ma belle reine. Some day I may show you--several things; but that day has not dawned yet."

He threw open the door, and they found the great hall below them ablaze with electric light. "I suppose I may accompany you downstairs," he observed.

"What a wonderful place it is!" Maud said.

Her eyes went almost involuntarily to the statue that had arrested her attention on entering. It shone from its niche with a white splendour that seemed to give forth light.

"My Captured Angel has the place of honour by night and by day," said Saltash. "I have been wanting you to see her, or perhaps it would be more correct to say, I have been wanting to see you together. Have you ever met your other self before?"

"My other self?" She looked at him interrogatively.

He made her a quizzical bow. "Have you never seen that face before?"

She descended the stairs, and approached the statue. They stood together before it. She had desired to see it in solitude before, but with Saltash by her side that desire had left her. They viewed it from the same standpoint, in that subtle communion of spirit that had always characterized their intercourse.

And she saw--as he saw--her own features carved in the marble, piteous, tragic, alive.

"Poor Captured Angel!" murmured Saltash softly. "So fair of face, so sad of soul!"

She did not respond. She felt as if in that recognition something had pierced her heart. It was like a revelation of things to come. So for awhile she stood, gazing upon that tragic figure of broken womanhood; and finally in silence turned away.

He went with her to the door, but he did not offer a second time to accompany her farther. On the threshold she gave him her hand in farewell.

"You will come again?" he said.

She met his strange, unstable eyes for a moment and fancied that they pleaded with her.

"Not to see you, Charlie," she said, and was conscious in a vaguely troubled way that the words cost her an effort.

His eyes flashed her a laugh. "No, not to see me," he said lightly. "Of course not. Just for your own enjoyment. You will enjoy that piano, you know. And you can have it all to yourself."

She smiled in spite of herself even against her will. "Very well," she said. "I will come again some day, And thank you very much."

"Oh, don't do that!" he protested. "It spoils everything."

She released her hand, and turned from him, still smiling. "Good-bye!" she said.

"Farewell, Queen of the roses!" he made light response.

She passed through the wide stone porch and out into the dark of the winter evening.

CHAPTER XXX

THE RISING CURRENT

It was very dark along the avenue of pine-trees, darker than she had anticipated. She almost wished that she had allowed Saltash to accompany her. She went as quickly as she dared in the gloom, conscious that it was growing late. The road wound considerably, and she could not see the lamp at the gates. Overhead a rising wind moaned desolately through the pines. They swayed and creaked as though whispering together. Very soon the lights of the Castle were obscured behind her, and she was in almost total darkness.

She pressed on with an uneasy suspicion that it must be later than she had thought. Doubtless Jake had wheeled Bunny back to the house long before. Bunny knew whither she had gone, so they would not be anxious about her; but they would wonder why she was so late. The afternoon had fled away like a dream.

She began to quicken her steps somewhat recklessly, but the road curved more abruptly than she realized, and she presently ran into the grassy bank, nearly falling into the outstretched arms of a fir-tree. She recovered herself sharply with a gasp of dismay, and paused to try to discern more clearly the winding of the way. It was at this point that there came to her the sound of advancing footsteps. Someone was approaching with a slow, purposeful stride that suddenly sent the blood to her heart in a quick wave of something that was almost apprehension. She stood quite still and waited.

Nearer and nearer came the leisurely tread. Instinct, blind and unreasoning, prompted her to draw back into the shielding recesses of the tree with a desperate desire to escape notice. It was a footfall that she had come to know, and--why she could not have said--she did not want to meet Jake at that moment. With a very curious dread at her heart she stood and waited.

He came to within a couple of yards of her, and stopped. "You can come out," he remarked dryly. "It's just you I've come along to fetch."

His voice was perfectly quiet and natural, but there was that in the words that fired within her a burning indignation. She came forward and faced him in the gloom.

"Why should you take that trouble?" she said.

She saw his eyes glitter in the darkness, and knew that they were upon her with a lynx-like intensity. "I reckon I have the right," he said, in his slow way. "You've no objection, I presume?"

Her cheeks burned hotly in the darkness. She knew that he had her at a disadvantage. "I am fully capable of taking care of myself," she said, beginning to walk on down the dim avenue.

He fell into his easy stride beside her. "Is that why Lord Saltash left you to walk home alone?" he said.

She clenched her hands in the darkness. "What do you mean?"

"I think I am right in concluding that you have spent the afternoon with him," Jake said, in his measured tones.

Maud stood suddenly still. She was quivering from head to foot. "You are--quite right," she said, in a voice that she strove in vain to steady. "I think I have told you before, Lord Saltash and I are old friends."

"Yes, I am aware of that," Jake said.

He reached out a quiet hand and took her by the arm, leading her calmly forward.

She went with him because she could not do otherwise, but she would have given all she had at that moment to wrench herself free. There was no escape for her, however; she was forced to endure his touch, forced to go forward with him along a road that she could not see.

He led her in silence, calmly, unfalteringly, with the utmost confidence. She was sure that those lynx-eyes of his could see in the dark.

But his silence speedily became intolerable. It seemed to her to bristle with condemnation. It goaded her against her will into speech.

"Lord Saltash has given me his permission to use the piano at the Castle. I did not know when I went that he had returned."

"I could have told you that," commented Jake.

Again her resentment rose to a flame, burning fiercely. Yet his words held no insult. With all her strength she strove for calmness.

"I did not know of it. In any case, I do not see that it was a matter of very vital importance. An hour at the piano is a great treat to me, and I shall probably go again."

"For an hour?" said Jake.

This time the peculiar intonation of his voice was unmistakable, not to be ignored. She flung him instant defiance.

"For as long as I choose. My time is my own."

He was silent a moment, but she was conscious of the tightening of his hand. At length: "All right, my girl," he said. "But remember, my claim to it comes before Lord Saltash's. Some day it may happen that I shall put in my claim. I never have been content to be passed at the winning-post."

Her heart quivered at the deliberate purpose with which he spoke. She walked on, saying no word.

They were nearing the gates, and the glare from the two great lamps shone towards them, lighting the way. She braced herself, and made a resolute attempt to free her arm from his hold.

"Easy! Easy!" said Jake. "We haven't got there yet. It's dark beyond those lights."

She abandoned her effort, feeling that she had no choice. They walked on together silently.

They reached and passed through the gates. The road stretched before them steep and winding.

"We'll cut across the fields," said Jake.

He led her to a stile almost concealed in the hedge, and here his hold upon her relaxed. He vaulted the rail, and waited for her.

He did not offer to assist her though the step was high. She mounted in nervous haste to avoid his touch.

But for the darkness she would have found no difficulty in springing down, but as it was she misjudged the distance, slipped, and fell. She threw out her hands with a cry, and the next moment she was caught in Jake's arms. He held her fast, so fast that for a few palpitating seconds she felt the hard beating of his heart against her own. Then, in response to her desperate efforts for freedom, he let her go, without excuse, without apology, in a deep-breathing silence that somehow appalled her. They walked side by side along the field-path, saying no word.

There was a gate at the further end that led into the training-field below the little orchard. As they reached this, Jake paused very deliberately and spoke.

"I reckon I've got to prepare you for a visitor."

"A visitor!" She stopped in swift dread of she knew not what.

"A friend of mine," drawled Jake, with an odd touch of aggressiveness. "You're not precisely dead nuts on my friends as a rule, I know. But I guess this one may prove an exception. Dr. Capper turned up this afternoon. I left him having tea with Bunny."

"Dr. Capper!" Maud gasped the name, scarcely conscious of speaking at all.

"Dr. Capper from the States," said Jake, unmoved. "He chanced to be just leaving for this country when my letter reached him, so he thought he'd answer it in person and look us up first. He and Bunny are fast pals already. He's a regular magician, is Dr. Capper."

"But--but--you never expected him so soon!" faltered Maud. "Surely--he won't want to--to--examine Bunny yet."

"Not before to-morrow, maybe," said Jake. "We can't expect to keep him very long, you know. He's a busy man. I've heard that people in this country simply tumble over each other to consult him. He could make a score of fortunes over here if he would. But he won't. He'll only take up the cases he fancies, won't waste himself over easy things. That's why we're so almighty lucky to get him."

His easy, unhurried speech gave her time to collect herself. She forced her first, involuntary dismay into the background, facing the sudden exigency of the situation with all the strength at her disposal.

"Jake," she said, "this thing has come very suddenly, but curiously enough Lord Saltash was speaking about it only this afternoon. If--if there is to be anything of the nature of an operation, he has offered to place any part of the Castle at our disposal. It is a very generous offer, and it--it would be an excellent thing for Bunny."

"Then you have decided to accept it?" said Jake.

His tone was perfectly quiet and matter-of-fact, but it amazed her. She had expected a determined opposition. Disconcerted, she paused before replying.

"I don't think it is especially generous," Jake said, and again it seemed to her that he was talking to give her time. "But it might be a good thing for Bunny. If you like, I will go up to-night and see Saltash about it."

He opened the gate for her with the words, and she passed through with feelings too mixed to bear any analysis.

"Am I to go?" he asked, as he dropped back into his sturdy stride beside her.

"Please," she said, in a low voice.

His attitude was a complete puzzle to her. It seemed so utterly at variance with the absurdly jealous line he had taken but a few minutes before. But she could not ask for an explanation. The relief of finding him prepared to act in unison with her on this point was too great. She did not understand either his motives or his actions, but she was thankful to find that there was to be no battle of wills between them. After all, his motives were not of paramount importance.

As they walked through the last field, she tried to banish her embarrassment and recover her normal composure of mien. But strive as she would, she could not wholly reassure herself. Nor could she forget the fast holding of his arms and the strong, deep throbbing of his heart against her own. That moment had been a revelation to her upon which she dared not dwell.

They reached the dark orchard, and passed up the dim path to the house. Jake went straight up the steps to the French windows of the parlour from which a cheery welcoming light shone forth. He raised a hand to the catch.

"Wouldn't it be better to go round?" Maud said.

She was suddenly trembling all over in an agitation that seemed to possess her, body and soul.

Jake did not pause. Steadily he raised the latch. "Come right in!" he said.

The door opened, the light poured out upon them?

There came to her the sound of Bunny's cracked, difficult laugh. She entered in front of Jake, dazzled, hesitating, uncertain.

Instantly a man's voice greeted her, a quiet, casual voice with an unmistakable New York accent. "Ah, I guess this is the lady of the house. I am very pleased to make your acquaintance, madam. Mr. Bolton will have told you who I am."

Tall and gaunt and meagre, he bent over the hand she offered him, holding it in a strong, sustaining clasp.

She looked at him rather piteously, aware of green eyes darting over her with lizard-like swiftness, eyes that shone intensely in a face that was the colour of old ivory. She also saw a yellow pointed beard that for a moment prejudiced her and the next was forgotten.

"It was so kind of you to come," she said, with a quivering smile.

He smiled in answer, a sudden, transforming smile that warmed her heart. "I guess I followed my own inclination," he said. "Say, now, you're cold. Bunny and I have been keeping up a good fire for you. Sit down and make your husband do the waiting!"

His manner was so kind and withal so courteous that Maud's embarrassment passed like a cloud. She came to the fire, pulling off her gloves and stretching her fingers to the blaze.

Bunny accosted her with eager eyes. "Maud, he's going to overhaul me and see if he can do anything for me. Maud, can't he do it to-night? I won't sleep a wink if he doesn't."

Her heart sank inexplicably. She seemed to have stepped into a new atmosphere that seethed with possibilities that somehow frightened her. She was as one in the grip of a force indomitable that hurled her headlong towards a goal she dreaded.

She leaned upon the mantelpiece, looking towards Capper with more of appeal than she knew. "You are much too kind," she said.

He pushed up a chair for her. "Say, now, there's no need to hustle any," he said. "I suspect there is no harm in my looking at the lad; but we don't take any further action at present. I've a lot to get through in this old country, and I'd just like to know right now if this is a case for me or not."

He patted the back of the chair with fatherly insistence, and she sank into it with a feeling of utter weariness and impotence. It seemed futile to battle any longer against the torrent that bore her. She was as a straw in the whirlpool of Fate.

"It is so good of you even to think of helping us," she said rather unsteadily. "Please make your examination whenever it suits you best! But Bunny is not a good sleeper. You will remember that, won't you?"

Capper took up the cup of tea that Jake had prepared, and handed it to her. "Let me have the pleasure of seeing you drink this!" he said. "I should like to make my examination to-night, if you have no objection. In fact, I have come down for the purpose. My time, madam, is more limited than anyone on this side could ever be made to realize. I won't hustle you, but if I didn't hustle myself I guess I'd have to account some day for a waste of good material."

He sat down in a chair facing her with the words, and fell to cracking his finger-joints one after the other with absent energy. It was a way he had, as Maud was soon to discover.

"You have had tea?" she asked.

He nodded. "I am ready to get to work. I shan't want an audience. If I want anything I'll let you know. But I've a very decided notion that my patient and I will get on best alone."

Jake raised his eyes suddenly. "That so, doctor?" he drawled. "Then I guess I'll carry the youngster up right now."

Capper looked at him with a smile, and pulled his beard speculatively. Bunny beamed approval.

Maud drank her tea in utter silence, feeling as if it would choke her.

The silence became prolonged, but she did not realize that anything was expected of her till Capper leaned slightly towards her, and spoke.

"Have I your permission, madam?" he asked courteously.

She met his keen eyes and was struck afresh by the kindly reassurance they held. "Of course," she said, in a low voice. "I--am very grateful to you."

"I hope--some day--you may have cause to be," he rejoined.

Jake went to Bunny's side. She saw the boy raise his arms as he bent, and clasp his neck. A few muttered confidences passed between them; then Jake's strong arms lifted the frail, impotent body as they alone knew how to lift. And in that moment it seemed to Maud that the beloved burden had been taken finally from her, and she was left to wander alone in a desert that was very dark and bare.

CHAPTER XXXI

LIGHT RELIEF

"May I come in?" said Capper.

Maud started. She had been sitting huddled over the fire for what seemed like countless ages, listening with straining nerves to every sound overhead and sometimes shrinking and trembling at what she heard. Jake had gone out long since to the stables, and she had been thankful to see him go. His very presence was intolerable to her just then.

At the sound of Capper's voice she turned an ashen face. "Say, now," he said, in a tone of kindly chiding, "you've been scaring yourself, Mrs. Bolton; and if that's not the silliest game under the sun, you may call me a nigger."

She rose to receive him, trying to force her quivering lips to practical speech. But she could only articulate, "I heard him cry out several times. Does he want me?"

"Not yet," said Capper. He laid a very steady hand upon her shoulder. "Leave him alone for a little! He'll pull himself together best alone. He's got the spunk all right."

She stood still under his hand, piteously awaiting the information for which she could not bring herself to ask. He was looking at her keenly, she knew; but she could not face his look. She could have been strong had strength been essential, but the need for it seemed to have gone.

Bunny no longer leaned upon her sustaining love.

"Come, now, I want a straight talk with you," the great doctor said. "I want to understand your point of view if you will be gracious enough to expound it to me."

She made a pathetic attempt to laugh. "Do you think you can cure him, Doctor?" she said.

Capper laughed too with a species of grim exultation. "Is that what troubles you? If that's all, I guess I can soon set your mind at rest. I can cure him absolutely--within three months. But I shall want your co-operation. Can I count on that?"

His hand pressed upon her with something of insistence. His yellow face looked searchingly, with an odd elation into hers. She met his look reluctantly, and became dominated by it.

"Of course you can count upon it," she said.

He nodded, pulling restlessly at his beard with his free hand. "To what extent, I wonder? Are you keen?"

"Of course I am keen," she said, almost with indignation. He stood silent a moment, his hand still upon her shoulder. Then, "Mrs. Bolton," he said, "do you know your young brother has got a curious notion into his head that you don't want him to be made sound?"

"Ah, but that is a mistake!" she said quickly.

"Is it a mistake?" said Capper. "No, don't answer! Why should you? But it's curious that I should have sensed the same myself the moment I saw you. However, if you tell me it is not so, I shall take your word for it. But at the same time I think I begin to see your point of view. Without the care of him you would feel lost for a bit. Life might be rather difficult. Isn't that so?"

She laughed somewhat tremulously. "I think I have always found life difficult. But lately--just lately--" She paused in uncertainty.

"Ah!" said Capper. "Maybe you're up against it. But you've got solid ground to stand on. You may take my word for that, because I happen to know."

He spoke with a kindness that went straight to her heart. Almost involuntarily she put her hand into his, feeling the long, active fingers close upon it with a sense of security that was infinitely comforting.

"Did Jake ever tell you the foundation of our friendship?" he asked her suddenly.

She shook her head.

"It's an interesting story," Capper said. "P'raps you'd like to hear it."

Maud was silent.

He proceeded as if she had answered in the affirmative. "It was on a dark night in the Atlantic ten years ago. Do you remember the wreck of the Hyperion? No, maybe you wouldn't. She ran into a submerged iceberg and was nearly torn in two. I was knocked down by the shock and got jammed against a locker in the saloon. It was a case of every man for himself, and I was soon left to my fate. But Jake--he was working his way across as ship's carpenter--came back on his own to see if there were anyone left below, and found me, wedged there in the wreckage. We were settling down fast, the water was over our knees, and I told him to look out for himself; but he wouldn't. I cursed him for a fool, I remember." Capper's yellow face was strangely alight; his fingers gripped hers tensely. "But that didn't make any difference. He had no time to go and get any implements to work with, so he just set to with his hands and ripped and tore at the wood till at last it splintered and he got me free. He worked like a Titan. I've never forgotten. He got me out just in time, Heaven knows how. The water was above his waist before he'd done, and I was on the verge of drowning. But he did it, and more also. He grabbed me up out of that death-trap, as if I had been a priceless possession of his own. He dragged me upon deck and roped me to him because I was too damaged to help myself. And when we went down, as we very soon did, we sank together and we came up together, and he managed at last to get me to a boat. Now you'll never get him to speak of that episode, but it's about the finest piece of work I've ever come across. The man was utterly unknown to me and I to him. Yet he never thought of passing me by, but just kept on till he'd saved my life. Not a thought to his own safety, mark you. He wasn't out for that. And he wasn't out for reward either. When I offered him money later he just laughed in a purring sort of fashion and told me to keep it for some chap who had failed. 'We don't all of us win out on the hundredth chance,' he said. 'Thank the high gods, not me!' I saw he meant it, so of course I let him have his way. But it's been a sort of bond between us ever since--a bond that stretches but never breaks."

He ceased to speak, ceased also to hold her hand. Maud's face was turned towards him, her blue eyes were intently fixed upon his. She said nothing whatever, and there fell a silence that was curiously intimate between them.

Capper broke it at length. "He's been a bit of a rover, but I've never quite lost sight of him since that night. When I make a friend like that, I can't afford to lose him again. But I've never had a chance of doing him a service till now. He's a married man and considerably more civilized than he was in those days. But I have a notion that there's a leaven of the wild ass still in his composition. That's why I'm afraid you may not realize that he's gold all through--all through." He paused a moment, looking at her quizzically; then: "By way of light relief," he said, "I guess you know the fascinating story of the princess and the frog. She had to take the beast as he was, and even give him her pillow o' nights. But only when she struck at last and threw him against the wall did she find out that she'd caught a prince after all. I guess the man who wrote that story was a student of human nature. It's a comic story anyway."

Maud was laughing. Somehow, inexplicably, the man had eased her burden. "I don't think you are presumptuous, Doctor," she said. "I think you are very kind."

"It's mighty fine of you to take that view," said Capper, with a tug at his yellow beard. "I shall do my best to deserve it."

CHAPTER XXXII

THE ONLY SOLUTION

"Oh, Lord Saltash! So you're home at last! What a pity you didn't come back a little sooner!"

"Am I late for anything, Lady Brian?" smiled Lord Saltash, holding her hand in his.

She shook her head at him. "You are hopelessly late. And you mustn't call me that. I have renounced my title."

"Really? How generous of you!" Saltash began to laugh in his easy, mocking way. "Lady Brian has left town for the South Coast, and Mrs. Sheppard is now in residence at Fairharbour. I am sorry that I was not at hand to escort her ladyship; but I am none the less pleased to be received by Mrs. Sheppard. Have I missed anything besides the first-mentioned privilege?"

Mrs. Sheppard threw out her hands with a dainty gesture of despair. "My dear Charlie, you've missed--everything! Have you seen my poor Maud?"

He nodded. "More than once. I make a point of seeing her whenever I feel so disposed. Now that she is in such safe hands, there is no longer any necessity to hold me at arms' length, I assure you we are on the best of terms."

Mrs. Sheppard groaned. "Why, oh, why didn't you come back sooner? It would have altered--everything."

He looked at her, the teasing smile still hovering about his swarthy face. "It would have been too obvious a solution," he said lightly. "Don't you know that the unattainable is always the dearest?"

Mrs. Sheppard clasped her hands with a tragic gesture. "You don't realize--or perhaps you don't care--that she has sold herself to a man for whom she has not the smallest shadow of affection."

"In pursuit of her illustrious mother's example?" suggested Saltash, with careless effrontery. "But why did you allow it? Wasn't it up to you to forbid the banns?"

"I?" Mrs. Sheppard cast up her eyes. "Do you suppose I have ever had any control over her?"

"I presume you had the slapping of her in her babyhood," he observed.

She laughed almost hysterically. "As if I ever did or could! She was always so serious and quiet and determined. No one she didn't love could ever move her an inch. And the dear child never loved me, you know. Somehow we didn't touch. No, I couldn't prevent the marriage. Only one person in the world could have done that. Oh, Charlie, what a pity! What a pity!"

The easy tears had risen to her eyes. She was very appealing in woe.

But Saltash was apparently unmoved. He sat facing her with his odd eyes glancing hither and thither, the brows above them jerking continually. "She certainly married in the deuce of a hurry," he remarked, after a moment. "What made her do it, eh? I presume it was the old man? Did he turn amorous, or what?"

Mrs. Sheppard laughed rather pathetically and dried her eyes. "Oh, dear, no! Giles was rather too severe. He was always willing to be friendly, but Maud's attitude was so hostile that at last--it was hardly to be wondered at--he turned against her. I was very sorry, but, you know, Maud always takes things so seriously, poor child, and she wouldn't hear of making friends when it was over, but must needs go straight away to Jake Bolton and offer to marry him. He was ready to take her at any price of course. So they settled it all between them with never a word to me."

"But you haven't altogether enlightened me even now," said Saltash, recalling her with his semi-ironical courtesy. "What was this dire offence that Maud couldn't bring herself to forgive? I should like to know for my own future guidance."

Mrs. Sheppard's laugh had a deprecating note. "Oh, it was only a little thing, quite a little thing. If she hadn't been really spoilt all her life, I don't think she would have thought so much of it. I blame myself of course. But there, what is the use? Giles is a plain man, and he believes in a little wholesome chastisement now and then. It does a woman good, he says. And I daresay he is not altogether wrong. But in this case----"

"Oh, forgive me for interrupting you!" Rather lazily he cut her short. "That term 'a little wholesome chastisement'--does it mean a beating or what?"

Mrs. Sheppard nodded with some agitation. "Yes, he gave her a whipping one night. It was very unfortunate, but I must say, not wholly undeserved. And I am afraid he had rather a heavy hand. Poor Maud was very much upset."

"Really!" said Saltash.

"Yes. He shouldn't have done it of course, but----"

"He probably was not in a state to know what he was doing," suggested Saltash.

There was a slight frown between his mobile brows, but his voice was suave.

Mrs. Sheppard eyed him wistfully. "Poor Giles!" she murmured.

Saltash uttered a sudden sharp laugh and rose. "Well, I mustn't take up any more of your valuable time. No doubt you are busy. You have heard about Bunny's prospects, I presume?"

"Oh yes, they have told me about Bunny. I am sure I hope it will be a success, but of course I have had no say in the matter," said Mrs. Sheppard plaintively. "I don't so much as know when the operation is to be performed."

"That isn't finally settled," said Saltash. "It's to be according to the American doctor man's convenience. I suggested that they might like to make use of Burchester for the occasion, and Bolton has caught on to the idea. Very sensible of him!" Saltash's mouth twisted into a faint smile. "How do you get on with your son-in-law?" he enquired pleasantly.

Mrs. Sheppard shook her head dubiously. "I never liked him. There is something of the wild about him. Maud doesn't like him either. I am sure of that. They are complete strangers, and always will be. In fact, if it weren't for Bunny--" she lowered her voice--"I believe she would very soon desert him."

"What? Really?" said Saltash, in a peculiar tone.

She met his interrogation with a swift upward glance. "She would never stand life alone with him. It would drive her desperate. I am sure--quite sure--if it comes to that, she will somehow break free."

"Really!" he said again, subtle encouragement in his voice.

Mrs. Sheppard suddenly clasped her hands against her bosom and went close to him. "Oh, Charlie, I do think--sometimes--divorce is the only way. You know she has always loved you. And it isn't your fault you came too late. Charlie, if the chance were to come to you again--the chance to make her your wife--you wouldn't--surely you couldn't--let it slip again?"

"Again!" said Saltash. His lip lifted a little. He was looking at her fixedly.

She made a small nervous gesture of pleading. "You would marry her, Charlie, if you could. She loves you. You would never--never----"

"Let her down?" suggested Saltash.

His expression was utterly cynical, yet something in those queer eyes of his emboldened her. She placed her two hands against his shoulders, and suffered the tears to run down her face.

"Charlie, I am wretched about her--quite wretched. Save her from that rough cow-herd, Charlie! Make her your own--in spite of all!"

She broke down into muffled sobbing, and would have leaned upon him for support had he permitted it. But with gentle decision he eluded her, taking her hands and leading her to a chair.

"Now, Lady Brian, there is no need for this agitation, believe me. For the present there is nothing to be done. Bunny occupies the centre of the stage. He won't, of course, remain there for ever, but he has got to have his turn. Till that is over, we can only possess our souls in patience."

"But afterwards!" wailed Mrs. Sheppard. "It is the afterwards that troubles me."

"Afterwards," he said lightly, "I presume it will be someone else's turn."

"And Maud will be miserable," she protested.

Saltash was silent. Only after a moment he strolled to the window and stood looking at the grey, tumbling waves that dashed against the sea-wall.

Mrs. Sheppard dabbed her eyes and began to recover herself; it was plainly the only course. She remembered regretfully that sympathy had never been dear Charlie's strong point.

When he glanced over his shoulder a few seconds later she mustered a somewhat piteous smile. "Life is very difficult sometimes," she said apologetically.

"Oh, quite damnable," he answered, in his careless, mocking way. "But we've got to get through with it somehow, and with as few tumbles as possible. I really think I must be going now. We shall let you know when anything definite is settled about Bunny. Don't fret, you know! Take it easy!"

He came back to her with the words and took her hand with a certain arrogant kindness characteristic of him.

She looked up at him with quivering lips. "It is so good of you to let them have Burchester," she said.

He made her a brief bow. "I serve my own ends," he said.

Mrs. Sheppard rose. "And I don't know what will happen when Bunny is cured," she said pathetically. "He will have to go to school. And who is going to pay for it, I wonder?"

Saltash shrugged his shoulders. "Perhaps he'll train for a jockey. Who knows?"

Mrs. Sheppard sighed. "I can't think how you can treat everything as a joke. I can't myself."

He laughed. "I don't chance to be gifted with a serious mind, you see. Besides, cui bono? Does worrying help?"

"I'm sure it ought to," sighed Mrs. Sheppard.

He laughed again derisively. "Sheer waste of time, believe me. Either fight or submit to the inevitable! Personally, I prefer to fight." He shut his teeth with a sudden click, and for a single instant his face was grim. But the next he was laughing again. "Good-bye, Lady Brian! In the name of beauty, don't fret! It can't be done with impunity, remember!" He pressed her hand and released it. "You've given me quite a lot to think about. It's been an interesting conversation. I have quite enjoyed it. Good-bye!"

He was gone. She heard him departing, light-footed as a happy boy, whistling under his breath an old, old waltz refrain.

Gradually a smile came into her own face as she turned to the glass to repair the ravages of her recent emotion.

"I wonder whether he will do anything," she murmured to her reflection. "He isn't a man to sit still. And really, the circumstances are so exceptional. It is the only solution--literally the only one." She paused a moment, drew out a hairpin, twisted back a curl and very nicely readjusted it. "And when Giles is bankrupt," she added, with a little nod to the thoughtful gaze that met hers, "there will be a home for me to go to." She heaved a pensive sigh. "I am glad he knows everything," she said. "There is nothing like telling the whole truth."

She smiled again with more assurance, and went her way.

CHAPTER XXXIII

THE FURNACE

It was on a frosty morning in February that Maud stood in one of the great guest-chambers of Burchester Castle, waiting with Bunny for news of Dr. Capper's coming.

A nurse was busy in the room, and the hour fixed for the operation was drawing near.

Bunny was full of pluck that morning. He had greeted her bravely smiling. Yes, he had slept like a top, thanks to Jake, who had held his hand half the night and scared away the bogies. Jake was a stunner; he was going to pay him back some day. And what a ripping room Charlie had given him! Was it true that there was a music-room close by? That would be ripping too. Maud would be able to play to him all day long while he was getting well. Maud was looking a bit blue this morning; what was the matter?

She had to admit that she had passed a restless night.

"Silly!" said Bunny, and squeezed her hand. "Why didn't you come and sleep in here? Jake could have looked after you too then."

He chattered on incessantly, making her respond, compelling her attention, till news was brought to her of Dr. Capper's arrival, and she went down to receive him.

She found him standing in the great entrance hall with the doctor from Fairharbour. He moved forward to greet her as serenely as if he had come upon pleasure bent.

"Delighted to meet you again, Mrs. Bolton. I am just admiring this fine old English castle. Guess it's the sort of setting that suits you."

He held her hand a moment and looked at her, but he made no comment upon her appearance.

She faced the green eyes with an odd little feeling of shame. They seemed to see so much that she hid from all the world.

"You are very--punctual," she said, with an effort, as she turned to greet the local doctor. "I hope you found the car ready at the station."

"We were driven up by his lordship himself," said Capper.

She gave a great start. "O! Has he come down? I didn't know."

"He joined us at the terminus quite unexpectedly," Capper told her. "I have brought my assistant Rafford to administer the anæsthetic. Rafford, where are you?"

A dark young man, with absolutely black eyes and a high, dominant forehead, turned sharply from a rapt contemplation of Saltash's Captured Angel, and bowed automatically to Maud.

"I was just trying to make out the anatomy of those wings," he said, in a very pronounced American accent. "Guess it's a cute addition to the human frame, but I'd like to know how it's worked from the spinal column without an extra vertebra or two."

Maud suddenly felt hysterical. She looked at Capper, who pulled at his beard and smiled.

"Guess it's up to you to find the solution, Raff," he said.

Rafford bowed again. "I'd like to make a sketch of that figure if Lady Saltash will permit me," he said. "It's an anatomical problem."

The blood rose to Maud's pale face in a great wave. She was about to speak, when a voice at her shoulder spoke for her.

"I am sure Lady Saltash will be charmed to do so. But I think the face must be excluded. That can scarcely be of any anatomical interest to you."

Maud started. Saltash's hand gripped her elbow for a moment and instantly relaxed. He did not speak to her. The young American glanced back at the face of the statue, stared at it for a second, then looked again at Maud. She saw his thin black brows rise ever so slightly.

"The face is certainly of interest," he said, speaking with evident caution; "but not, as you say, my lord, from an anatomical point of view."

He withdrew himself with the words, seemed as it were to became Capper's background, while Saltash sauntered forward to offer refreshment.

Capper asked for coffee and smoked a cigarette. He sat in an ungainly attitude by the fire while these were in process of consumption, and spoke scarcely at all. Maud stood near him in silence, chafing at the delay, yet dreading unspeakably the moment when it should be at an end.

Saltash lounged smoking on a settee with Dr. Burrowes of Fairharbour, and chatted cheerily about local matters with one eye on the great American surgeon who sat cracking his long fingers so abstractedly before the fire.

Suddenly Capper turned his head and looked up at Maud. "Where is Jake?"

"He is coming," she made answer.

"Coming! Why? Does the boy want him? Is he nervous any?"

"He is being very brave," she said. "But of course, naturally, he is nervous."

He nodded. "Well, I guess we needn't wait for Jake. Let's go up! He'll keep a stiff upper lip if you're there."

He got up with the words; his bony, yellow hand closed upon her arm, kindly, reassuringly, confidently.

The burden of her anxiety grew magically lighter. She felt immensely comforted by reason of that friendly pressure. She prepared to lead the way.

Capper paused a moment. "I am going to have five minutes' talk with the patient," he said to Dr. Burrowes. "Will you be kind enough to follow on when the time is up? Raff, you can make your anatomical study right now, but be at my disposal in five minutes! Lord Saltash, maybe you will stay behind and show them the way."

He made his dispositions with the calm air of a man accustomed to obedience; and then, his hand still upon Maud's arm, he turned with her to ascend the stairs.

A great shivering fit assailed her as they went. She fought it resolutely down.

"Say, you're not worrying any?" he questioned. "It seems to me that it's you Jake ought to be thinking about. What have you been doing since I saw you last?"

"Nothing, nothing," she said hastily.

Capper grunted. "That's a very unhealthy occupation, especially for a woman."

She looked at him appealingly. "Oh, please, Dr. Capper, don't talk about me! I--I would so much rather not."

Capper smiled a little. "You're a true woman. But I can't have you worrying to death like this. Will you believe me when I tell you that this operation is going to be an almighty success?"

She stopped short. "Are you sure--quite sure?" she breathed.

He nodded. "I am willing to stake my reputation on it. If I weren't sure, I wouldn't touch it. I'm past the speculating age." He led her gently on along the corridor at the head of the stairs. "You may bet your last dollar," he said, "that I shan't mush up this business. I never lose my patients when they're young and keen. It's the older ones, when they get tired, fed up with life--" He paused, and a very human shadow crossed his face, darkening his shrewd eyes. "That's when God sometimes interferes," he said. "So I'm never quite sure of the older ones. But the youngsters--He lets me have my own way with them. There's such a mighty force in what the French call joie de vivre."

A quick sigh rose to Maud's lips. She laid a sudden, impulsive hand upon the long thin fingers that held her arm. "You are so good, so very good," she said tremulously.

Capper smiled. "Oh, just ordinary, I guess. Wait till you're up against me! You won't like me then. I'm going to have a straight talk with Jake presently--about you."

She gave a quick start of dismay. "Oh no! Please don't! Please don't! It--it's nothing to do with Jake. He wouldn't understand."

"He'll understand me," said Capper inexorably. "I've a patent way of expressing myself that leaves no room for misunderstandings. There! Now I've given you something more important than your brother to think about. Suppose you take me to him!"

She would have detained him to protest still further, but he refused to be detained, and she found herself compelled to yield. Very quietly he insisted, and she had no choice.

They entered the room in which Bunny lay; and immediately a square check-clad figure rose from the boy's side and came forward with hand outstretched in greeting.

"Hullo, Doc!" said Jake.

Maud gazed at him in astonishment. "I had no idea you were up here. When--how did you come?"

Jake was faintly smiling. "I came just now, by the back way, as is my custom. I promised to be here to give him a send-off, Doctor. Guess you've no objection?"

"So long as you go when you're told," said Capper rather shortly.

"Reckon I always do that," said Jake.

"Do you?" said Capper, with his sudden smile. "That's not always been my experience of you."

"Oh, shucks!" said Jake, turning deep red.

Capper passed him by, and went to Bunny. Maud saw that he was intent upon reassuring him as he had reassured her. She turned away to the window, and waited.

Jake did not join her there, possibly because his hand was tightly locked in Bunny's. But very soon Capper called her back to the bedside, and drew her into talk, keeping her there till he finally rose and went out with the nurse.

Maud scarcely knew how she came through the next few minutes, but Jake and Bunny seemed to feel no strain. Jake was talking of the horses, and the boy's keenest interest was aroused.

"And you're going to teach me to ride like you do," he said, with an eagerness that Maud had seldom seen in him. "I'm just mad to begin."

He was picking up Jake's manner of speech in a fashion that his sister deplored but could not attempt to check; but no evil word had she ever heard on his lips, nor had she ever heard Jake use bad language in his presence.

Like one in the mesh of an evil dream she listened to Jake's reply, marvelling at the easy detachment with which he made it. And then the door opened, and the nurse came in with Rafford. She stood up, her heart beating as if it would choke her.

Bunny shot a swift glance around. "You'll stay with me, Jake?" he said quickly.

"Sure," said Jake.

Bunny drew a hard breath. "Hang on to me--tight, Jake!" he whispered.

And Maud turned to the door without a word. He did not need her--he did not need her!

She had a passing impression of the sympathy in Rafford's eyes as he held open the door for her, and then she was alone in the passage outside.

She moved along it uncertainly, almost as if groping her way, found the door of the music-room ajar, and entered.

A warm fragrance met her on the threshold, a sense of Eastern luxuriance and delight, soothing her troubled spirit as with a soft, healing hand, wooing her to a curious peace of mind. It was as though a misty veil had been drawn over her troubles, obscuring them, deadening her faculty for suffering.

She went forward to the fire that burned so mysteriously red and still, reaching out her cold hands to its comfort. She had a feeling that she ought to kneel and pray, but somehow in that strangely soothing atmosphere prayer was an impossibility. Her brain felt drugged and powerless, and she was numbly thankful for the respite.

"Come and sit down!" a cool voice said.

She turned with no surprise or agitation and saw Saltash lounging on a divan behind her. He had a cigarette between his fingers. The scent of it came to her with a strange allurement. Almost mechanically she accepted the invitation.

"Have you been here at all in my absence?" he asked, stretching a careless arm along the cushions behind her.

She shook her head. "No."

"But why not? Does Jake think I am not to be trusted?"

She smiled at that. "Oh no. Jake never interferes. But--somehow--I haven't wanted to make music lately."

"You are not happy," said Saltash, with conviction.

She coloured a little. "It has been an anxious time, Charlie, and, I am afraid, yet will be."

"You take things too hard," he said.

She clasped her hands tightly together. "How can I help it? Everything is hard. Life is hard."

"Only if you choose to have it so," said Saltash.

He leaned a little forward, looking into her face. She turned her eyes to his with a vague reluctance.

"Yes," he said. "You've got the wrong pilot on board. That's why you're getting dragged into the whirlpools. You'll have to heave him over the side if you want to ride the seas with a free helm. My dear girl, what a frightful mess you've made of things!"

She did not resent his tone. Somehow in that atmosphere resentment was difficult. Moreover, her attention was not wholly given to what he was saying.

"I had to think of Bunny," she said, after a moment, as one in search of an excuse.

Saltash laughed. "And when are you going to begin to think of yourself? Don't you realize what is going to happen now that Bunny has been taken off your hands? You, the dainty, the proud, the fastidious, who wouldn't look at even the man you loved because you thought him unworthy! On my soul,--" a sudden tremor of passion ran through his speech--"I think you were mad. You must have been mad to have done such a thing. Have you looked forward at all? Can you see yourself a few years hence? I can--and it's a sight to make angels weep. Oh, Maud, my love, my fate, is that to be the end? I'd sooner see you dead!"

His hand was upon both hers as he ended. His dark face was burning with a fierce emotion.

But Maud only shivered, and leaning forward, gazed deep into the heart of the fire, saying no word.

Saltash watched her, a mocking light in his eyes that shone and slowly died. "What are you looking for?" he said.

She shook her head in silence. He threw his cigarette suddenly into the deep glow upon which her eyes were fixed. It leaped at once to flame, flame that burned ardently for a brief while, and then went out.

"Are you trying to find a way out?" he asked her then very softly. "There is a way out of every hole, believe me."

She gave him a quick glance as of one hard pressed, but still she did not speak.

He leaned forward also, pointing to the red heart of the fire that glowed but never flickered. "If you have the nerve,--the pluck--to face the furnace," he said, "it may scorch you a bit, but it shan't consume you. And it would be soon over. Would you be afraid--would you be afraid--to face it with me?"

His voice was low, stink almost to a whisper; yet it reached her, for he spoke almost into her ear.

She sat rigidly still, gazing before her. The fragrance of the burnt cigarette came out like incense from an altar.

He drew a little closer to her. "Maud, I am always ready--always ready. I am willing to offer any sacrifice. I should never count the cost. Nothing could be too much. I don't say any more that you are mine--unless you stoop to bestow yourself upon me. But I am yours--always--for all time. Bear that in mind--when the time comes!" He paused a moment; then: "Let that ring of ours be the sign and message," he murmured. "When you need deliverance, I will come to you from the world's end."

He rose with the words, so suddenly that she was startled; and in a moment his voice calm and debonair rang across the room.

"Hullo, Bolton! How long have you been hiding there? Come over here, and see if you can put a little heart into your wife! She needs it."

Maud, her white face turned over her shoulder, saw Jake's square shoulders outlined against the furthest south window. He was looking over his shoulder also; their eyes met across the room. Then he turned round fully in his solid way and came to them.

He was wearing slippers that he had donned for the sick room, and they made no sound.

Saltash's lithe form straightened. He stood ready, almost on guard, at the other man's approach. But his face remained debonair still. There was even a hint of humour about his mobile brows. His eyes flashed wickedly.

"So they've turned you out, have they?" he said, with that hint of regal haughtiness that usually characterized his speech when addressing an inferior.

Jake did not answer. His eyes, red-brown and very still, were upon Maud. They did not leave her for a moment. They seemed to search her through and through.

There came to her a second of deadly panic, panic that stopped her heart. She put up a hand to her throat with a spasmodic effort to breathe. And suddenly it seemed to her that she sat engulfed in the red, red heart of a soundless furnace. She gave a gasping cry, tried to rise, and fell forward fainting at her husband's feet.

CHAPTER XXXIV

THE SACRIFICE

He lifted her. She knew that he lifted her, but all her powers were gone. She hung, a dead weight, in his arms.

Over her head she heard his voice, intensely quiet but deeper than usual; she thought it held a menacing note.

"I'll take her to the window. Thanks, I'm not wanting any help from you."

She felt the strength of the man as he lifted her bodily, and bore her across the room. He set her down upon the window-seat, supporting her with the utmost steadiness while he opened the window. The wintry air blew in upon her, and she shivered and came to life.

"Don't move!" he said.

The awful weakness was still upon her; she obeyed him because she had no choice, lying back against his arm in quivering submission.

"I'm--so sorry," she whispered at length. "I--I never did anything so stupid before."

"That so?" said Jake.

She lifted her eyes with a piteous effort to his. "Please leave me now! I shall do quite well--by myself."

"That so?" he said again.

His eyes held hers with a piercing, straight regard; but after a moment his hand came up and rubbed her icy cheek. It was a small act, but it affected her very curiously. She turned her face quickly to hide a rush of tears.

Jake's attitude changed on the instant. He stooped over her, his arm about her. "Say, Maud, my girl, what is it? What is it?" he said. "The little chap will be all right. Don't you worry any!"

The old kindness was in his voice; he held her to him just as he had held her on the morning that she had first gone to him for help. For the moment she yielded herself, scarcely knowing what she did; then she realized his nearness and began to draw herself away.

"I am foolish," she whispered, "just foolish. Don't take any notice!"

"Guess you're worn out," he said gently.

She shook her head, striving to master herself. "No, it's not that. It isn't anything. Please leave me alone for a little! I would rather."

He let her go, but he still remained beside her, looking down at her bent dark head. She leaned against the woodwork of the window, panting a little.

"I am better," she said uneasily, after a moment. "Please don't worry about me any more!"

"Who else should I worry about?" he said. "Do you suppose you aren't first with me every time?"

She quivered at the question, but she made no attempt to answer it.

He went on with a restraint that was somehow eloquent of vehemence suppressed. "I know well enough that you aren't happy with me. It's not in nature that you should be. Maybe it's my fault too; maybe it's not. I've been a damn' fool; I know that. But even so, you've no call to be afraid of me. You won't come up against me if you play a straight game."

He paused, and she saw his hands slowly clench. At the same moment she became aware of someone approaching, and turned her head to see Saltash coming towards her with a wine-glass in his hand.

"Oh, that's right; you're better," he said. "Here, Bolton! Make her drink this! It'll put a little life into her."

He gave the glass to Jake who stood a moment as if undecided as to what to do with it, then bent over Maud.

She drew back. "Oh no, thank you! I never drink brandy. Besides, I am quite well again now."

She made as if she would get up to demonstrate this fact, but he stopped her. "Take a little!" he drawled. "Lord Saltash has had the trouble of fetching it."

"I would rather not," she said. "I would much rather not."

"Let her please herself!" said Saltash sharply.

But Jake's hand, steady as rock, was already holding the glass to her lips. She drank as one compelled.

Saltash fidgeted up and down in front of the window in evident dissatisfaction, his ugly face full of lines. "I am infernally sorry this has happened," he said. "You ought to have had the stuff sooner. I wish I had ordered champagne. We'll have some presently. Ah, that'll do, Jake, that'll do! Don't force it on her, for Heaven's sake! Look here, you and I will clear out now, and let her rest in front of the fire. You'd like that, Maud, wouldn't you?"

Maud murmured an affirmative.

"Sure?" said Jake.

She looked up at him. "Yes; but not too near the fire. And--and leave the door open. I want to hear--to know--" Her voice failed, sank into silence.

"All right," Jake said quietly. "I'm not leaving you till it's over."

The calm decision of his speech silenced all protest. Maud attempted none. Saltash shrugged his shoulders and flung round on his heel. Jake bent to offer a steady arm.

She accepted his support in silence. There was that about him that would not brook resistance just then. She was sure that Saltash was aware of it also, for after a very brief pause he began to whistle under his breath and in a very few moments more sauntered from the room.

Jake, very quiet and determined, led her to a settee.

"I won't lie down," she said restlessly. "I want to listen."

Jake was looking round for a chair. Failing to see one, he seated himself by her side. "I reckon this is the most respectable piece of furniture in the place," he observed. "Here is a cushion. Lean back and shut your eyes!"

"I wish you wouldn't wait here," she murmured uneasily.

"I've got to wait somewhere," said Jake.

And then his hand descended upon hers and held it.

She started at his touch, seeking instinctively to free herself, but in the end she yielded, lying back in a tense stillness in which she knew the beating of her heart to be clearly audible.

What was he going to say to her? What had he overheard? What must he think of the agitation she had displayed upon discovering him?

Her breath quivered through her parted lips. The dread of the night before was upon her, but ten times magnified by her present weakness and the thought of that which he might have overheard.

But Jake sat in unbroken silence, his hand holding hers in a steady, purposeful grasp; and gradually, very gradually, her fear began to subside. He could have heard nothing! Surely he could have heard nothing! Surely, if he had, he would have spoken, have questioned--or accused!

A great shiver went through her.

"Cold?" said Jake.

She opened her eyes. "No."

His hand closed more firmly about her own. "Don't be so anxious!" he said. "It'll be all right."

His voice was kind, she tried to smile.

"Was he--was he very nervous?" she asked, finding relief in speech.

"Game all through," said Jake. "Went off like a baby. Say, Maud, he'll be a fine man some day."

"He'll never be mine any more," she said, and turned her face aside.

Jake said nothing. He fell into a musing silence that seemed to stretch and widen to an unknown abyss between them. She closed her eyes, hoping that he would think her sleeping.

He remained absolutely still by her side while the silence lengthened and deepened. She wondered for a while if ha were watching her, wondered if he were actually as free from anxiety on Bunny's account as he appeared, became finally vaguely aware of a curious hushed sense of repose stealing over her tired nerves. She drifted away at last into a state that was not quite slumber, that yet held her trance-like and unaware of time. She knew that Jake was beside her, never wholly forgot his presence, but he had ceased to have a disquieting effect upon her. Somehow he fitted into the atmosphere of peace that surrounded her. She was even dimly glad that he had not left her alone. She was tired, unutterably tired, but her mind had ceased to work at the problems that so vexed her soul; it had become as it were dormant. Even the thought of Bunny did not disturb her any more. Had not Dr. Capper solemnly declared that all would be well?

So she sank into an ever-deepening sea of oblivion, unmindful of the hand that so surely held her own; and so that long, long hour crept by.

When there came at last the opening of a door and the sound of voices she was too far away in her merciful dreamland to hear. She knew in a vague fashion that Jake's hand left hers, even murmured a faint protest, but she did not attempt to rouse herself. She had yielded too completely to the healing magic of rest.

There followed a space during which all consciousness was entirely blotted out and she slept like a weary child, a space that seemed to last interminably, and yet was all too short. Then at length nature or conscience stirred within her, and her brain began to work once more. Out of a vague obscurity of dimly registered impressions the light of understanding began to dawn. She opened heavy eyes upon the red, still fire that burned so steadily, so unfailingly. It put her in mind of something--that hot, silent fire--but she could not remember what it was; something that was vigilant, intense, unquenchable, something that she could never wholly grasp or wholly elude.

She opened her eyes a little wider, and moved her head upon the cushion. Surely she had slept for a long, long time!

And then she caught the sound of a voice that whispered--a low, clear whisper.

"Why don't you take her for a honeymoon, my son? It would do you both all the good in the world."

There was a pause, and then someone--Jake--murmured something unintelligible. Maud raised herself slightly and saw him standing before the fire. His thick-set figure was turned from her. His head leaned somewhat dejectedly against the high mantelpiece.

Capper was standing beside him, lounging against the carved wood in an ungainly attitude, his hands thrust deep in his pockets. At Jake's muttered words he turned and looked at him keenly, with eyes of semi-quizzical sympathy.

"Say, Jake," he said, "the man who walks his horse along a hedge-side never gets there. The hedge has a way of getting higher, moreover, every step he goes. Guess being in love has kind of demoralized you. You'll never win out this way."

Jake moved a little, straightened himself, stood squarely facing the great doctor. "I'm going to win out," he said; and with that very abruptly he wheeled round and came straight to Maud, as though she had called him.

So sudden was his movement that she was taken wholly by surprise. He stooped over her and took her hand before she had time to draw back.

"It's all right, my girl," he said, and she heard a note of reassurance in his voice. "The little chap's come through it finely. There's nothing to be anxious about. Capper says so; and whatever Capper says goes."

"Guess that's so," said Capper. He remained at his post by the fire, a smile of keen satisfaction on his parchment face. "You shall see him presently; not yet, not for another hour, and then only for a few seconds. He's got to be kept as quiet as an infant. But I've done just what I figured to do. In another six weeks he ought to be learning to walk."

"Bunny--walking!" Maud spoke the words as one dazed. The whole of her world seemed suddenly to have changed. It was as if she actually breathed a new atmosphere. She caught her breath, feeling half afraid. "Is it--is it true?" she said.

Capper laughed. "Seems like a miracle, does it? Never met with a miracle before? Yet there's quite a lot of 'em to be seen in this curious old world. Maybe you'll come across some more, now you've started."

He came quietly to her, bent and took her free hand into his. She felt his thin, sensitive fingers press her pulse.

"I'm quite well indeed," she said in a tone of protest. "Please tell me more about Bunny. I want to hear everything."

"My dear lady, you know practically all there is to know," he made answer. "Bunny is going to be one of my proudest successes. But there's just one thing to be arranged, I want to have him under my own eye for a time. It's for his own good, so I know your consent is a foregone conclusion. No, not yet of course. I will give him a month here, and then I want to fetch him up to London and keep him in a Home there belonging to my colleague Sir Kersley Whitton until I am able to discharge him as cured. Will you agree to that?"

His eyes, shrewd and kindly, looked down into hers. His hand still held her wrist. She felt the magic of his personality, and found it hard to resist.

But, "To take him away from me!" she said rather piteously. "Must you take him away?"

Jake had withdrawn a little as if he did not wish to take part in the conversation. Capper sat down beside her.

"Mrs. Bolton," he said, "I guess that young brother of yours is just one of the biggest factors of your existence. Isn't that so? You'd do anything for him, and never count the cost. Well, here's something you can do for him, a mighty big thing too. It'll be a very critical time, and I want to have him under my own eye. I also want to have complete control of him. I'm not hinting that your influence isn't good. I know it is. But, for all that, he'll do better with comparative strangers during that critical time than he would with his own people. I want to lift him entirely out of the old ruts. I want to start him on an entirely new footing, to give him self-reliance, to get him into good, wholesome habits. It'll make all the difference in the world to him or I shouldn't be urging it so strongly. Say, now, you promised me your co-operation, you are not going to refuse?"

She could not refuse. She realized it with a leaden heart. Yet she made one quivering attempt to pierce through the ever-narrowing circle.

"But the cost," she said.

"It won't cost you a single cent," said Capper. "It's just for my private satisfaction that it will be done."

Her last hope faded. She made a little gesture of helplessness. "He is in your hands, Doctor," she said. "I--I am much more grateful to you than I seem."

Capper's hand pressed hers. "You will never regret this sacrifice as long as you live," he said, looking at her with his keen, kindly eyes. "I'm even ready to prophesy that you'll one day reap a very considerable benefit from it."

But Maud's only answer was a dreary little shake of the head.

CHAPTER XXXV

OFFER OF FREEDOM

Slowly the dreary winter days gave place to spring. March came with gusty rain-storms that swept over sea and downs; lashing the waves to fury, blotting the countryside like a torn veil. March went, smiling and wonderful, with a treacherous graciousness that deceived all nature into imagining that the winter was really gone.

At Burchester Castle, Bunny, lying perpetually flat on his back by the doctor's unalterable decree, alternated between fits of bitter complaining and fits of black despair. He suffered more from tedium and weariness than from any definite pain, and Maud found herself fully occupied once more with the care of him. The nurse was thankful to have her at hand, for Bunny was at all times a difficult patient. And to be in attendance upon him was Maud's greatest joy in those days. She watched over him with such a wealth of devotion as she had never displayed before, a devotion at which even the boy himself sometimes marvelled.

Jake came and went, but he was never with him at night. The nurse slept in his room and Maud in the one adjoining. Jake went back to his home to sleep.

He and Maud saw but little of each other. They met daily, but she avoided all intercourse with him so strenuously that only the most ordinary commonplaces ever passed between them.

She saw much more of Saltash, though he was often away. His comings and goings were never known beforehand, and he never intruded himself upon her. Only when she went in the afternoons or evenings to the music-room and, propping the door wide, played and sometimes sang to Bunny, he had a fashion of coming lightly in upon her, dropping as it seemed from nowhere, and lying outstretched upon the settee near her while he smoked his endless cigarettes, and occasionally criticized.

How he entered she never discovered; he was always there before she knew, and he never came in by the door. When she asked him, he would only jest.

"Some day I will show you my secret chamber, ma belle reine. But not yet--not yet."

No intimate conversation took place at these times. They were seldom really alone, being always within call of Bunny's imperious voice.

Saltash was very good to Bunny, but his company was considered by the nurse to be too lively for her patient, and she would not permit him to stay long in the sick-room. Her orders regarding Bunny were very strict. He was to be kept quiet,--contented also, if possible, but always quiet.