Front matter (continued 6)

For that reason his mother's visits were also very brief. She did not often come to the Castle. It seemed to Maud that her plump face was beginning to wear a harassed look, but there never had been any confidence between them, and she did not like to question her. She knew herself quite powerless to assist in the bearing of her mother's burdens.

During that final month of devotion to Bunny she gave herself up to him so completely that even her own problems grew remote and almost unreal. She was upon the usual friendly terms with Charlie; but he was very far from occupying her first attention. So absorbed indeed was she that the memory of their brief conversation on the day of Bunny's operation, together with his mad, characteristic suggestion, had faded altogether into the background of her mind. It seemed somehow impossible that Bunny could ever cease to be the centre and aim of her whole conscious existence, impossible that Capper and his miracles could so alter the trend of her life's destiny.

Her feeling for Saltash seemed to be lying dormant, very far below the surface. She was not thinking of herself at all just then. She was too fully occupied. Her feeling for Jake also was almost a blank. Now that he no longer attempted to play any part in her life but that of passive spectator, she treated him without conscious effort as a comparative stranger. But all the time deep down in her heart she smothered that nameless dread of the man that once had been so active. She did not want to think of him; she instinctively restrained herself from thinking of him. She had schooled herself to meet him without agitation. She had thrust him unresisting into the furthest background of her consciousness. And now she lived for Bunny, and for Bunny alone.

So that last month slipped away.

April came, but no word from Capper. A faint, new hope began to dawn in her heart. Was it possible that the sacrifice might not after all be demanded of her? Was it possible that the miracle might even yet be worked out with much patience at Burchester? Bunny did not seem to be making much progress, but at least she was sure he was not losing ground. He did not suffer so much as formerly, though his chafing irritability sometimes seemed to her to be even greater than before. He talked incessantly of Capper, urging Jake to write to him.

But Jake would not be persuaded. "Capper knows his own business, my son. You leave him alone!" he said.

And Bunny had perforce to accept the fiat. He never seriously attempted to resist Jake. Their friendship was too near for that. Jake's influence over him was practically boundless.

But he could not check the boy's fierce impatience which grew perceptibly from day to day.

It was on a warm afternoon towards the middle of the month that Maud was sitting at the piano, trying to soothe him with the music he loved, during the absence of the nurse, when the sound of a footfall in the room made her turn. Saltash had been away for a few days, but she was half-expecting him. He never remained away for long.

"Why, Charlie,--" she began, with a quick smile of welcome, and broke off sharply. It was Capper.

Her face must have displayed something more than surprise, she reflected later, for his first words, albeit he smiled whimsically as he uttered them, were words of apology.

"So sorry, Mrs. Bolton. I shouldn't have taken you off your guard like this, only I had a notion that being somewhat over-due, you might be more or less prepared to see me."

She left the piano, and went with outstretched hand to meet him. "You at last!" she said.

Her welcome was cordial, but it was wholly without eagerness. Her heart was beating wildly, uncontrollably. She felt suddenly cold, as if she had stepped into a stone vault.

Capper bent a little over her hand; she saw his eyes flash over her. "I don't find the frog in attendance," he remarked. "Has he been shunted for a spell?"

She felt her colour come again. "Don't you want to hear about Bunny?" she said.

He smiled at her. "I know my own business so well, madam, that I know all I need to know about Bunny," he told her dryly. "The boy is just mad to be allowed to try his strength, and between you and me he'll have about the biggest disappointment of his life when he does. It won't do him any harm though, so don't you worry any!" He suddenly held up her hand to the light and surveyed it critically. "Say, Mrs. Bolton," he said, "what do you live on? Just monkey-nuts?"

She laughed in spite of herself. "I live very well, I assure you. But I could never get fat. It's not my nature."

He grunted and pulled at his yellow beard. "Do you realize that you've lost pounds of flesh since it was first my privilege to meet you?"

She shook her head protestingly. "Oh no, really. It is your imagination."

Capper shook his head also. "My imagination feeds on facts only. Jake is not looking after you properly. It's my belief he is treating you to slow starvation."

"Oh indeed--indeed," she broke in with vehemence, "Jake has had nothing to do with me lately. I have been much too busy with Bunny, and he has had the good sense not to interfere."

"Is that good sense?" said Capper, in the tone of one who does not require an answer.

"Besides," she went on rather breathlessly, "it's not Jake's business to look after me."

"I thought that was what husbands were for," said Capper, with his whimsical smile. "It's a fool policy anyway to leave a woman to look after herself, and you're just a living illustration of that fact."

Her hands clasped his arm almost unconsciously. "Please--please don't ever discuss me again with Jake!" she begged in tones of distress.

He patted her hand with fatherly reassurance and passed the matter by. "What are you going to do when Bunny is gone?" he asked.

Her face paled again. "You are really going to take him away?" she said.

"To-morrow," said Capper.

She removed her hands with a gesture that was piteous, she said nothing whatever.

Capper turned aside. "Maybe you'll take up housekeeping," he said practically. "If I dare to venture upon the suggestion, you would make a charming hostess."

She was silent still.

He glanced at her. "Say, Mrs. Bolton," he said, "I guess you'll think me several kinds of a nuisance; but your husband has offered me his hospitality for to-night. And I,--well, I have accepted it provisionally, that is, on the condition that he can supply me with a hostess."

She looked at him in blank dismay. "But I sleep here!" she said. "I--I must be always at hand in case Bunny should want me."

"Isn't the nurse in attendance?" asked Capper, with a touch of sharpness.

"Oh, of course," she answered. "But--but----"

"And how often in the night does she generally call you?"

Maud was silent.

Capper's hand patted her shoulder again, paternally, admonishingly. "Guess he could spare you for to-night," he said. "Pack your grip and come home! Jake will be pleased to see you, sure."

She shivered. "It isn't home to me," she said.

"What?" said Capper. "Not your husband's house?"

The hot colour rushed up over her face. She turned from him. "Come and see Bunny!" she said.

A few minutes later she stood alone in the music-room, gazing forth from the western window with eyes that seemed to search the horizon for help.

Capper was occupied with Bunny. The nurse had returned, and she was not needed. The certainty of this was upon her, a dead weight pressing her down. Bunny's need of her was past forever. Duty, stark and implacable, was all that remained in life.

Ah! A step behind her! She turned swiftly. "Charlie!"

He came to her, a smile on his swarthy face, a gleam of wickedness in his eyes. He took the hands that almost involuntarily she stretched to him. "You summoned me!" he said.

Something in his look warned her of danger. His clasp was electric in its tenseness.

She stood a moment before replying; then: "I didn't so much as know you were in the house," she said.

She left her hands in his. An odd recklessness was upon her, the recklessness born of despair.

He laughed into her eyes. "Yet you summoned me, most tragic queen of the roses," he said. "You weren't so much as thinking of me, perhaps? Yet subconsciously your spirit cried to mine, and behold--I am here."

He had drawn her close to him, holding her hands against his breast, so that the quick, ardent beat of his heart came to her, sending a curious, half-reluctant thrill through her own.

She looked into his face of mocking subtleties. "No, I wasn't thinking of you, Charlie," she said. "I was thinking of myself, hating the life before me--hating everything!"

The concentrated bitterness of her speech was almost like a challenge. She spoke passionately, as one goaded, not caring what came of it.

Saltash was bending slowly towards her, still laughing, ready to take refuge in a joke if refuge were needed, yet daring also, warily marking his game. "Why don't you think of me--for a change?" he said.

She turned her face swiftly aside. Her lips were suddenly quivering. "No one--not even you--can help me now," she said.

"You are wrong," he answered instantly. "I can help you. It's just what I'm here for."

She glanced at him again. "As a friend, Charlie?" she said.

He bent his dark head over her hands. "Yes, a friend," he said.

"But--" She began to tremble; the old dread was upon her, the old instinctive recoil, the old ache of distrust. She set her hands against him, holding him from her. "How can you help me?" she said.

He did not lift his head. "I can't keep you out of the furnace altogether," he said. "But I can save you from living in bondage to a man you loathe. You will have to trust me--to a certain extent. Do you trust me?"

"I don't know." Her voice was low, quivering with an agitation she could not repress. "Tell me what you are thinking of! Tell me how--how----"

"I will tell you," he said, "when you have made up your mind as to my trustworthiness."

She controlled her agitation with an effort. "Oh, don't play with me, Charlie!" she besought him. "Don't you see I'm cornered--desperate? Of course I will trust you."

He looked up at her with a wry lift of one eyebrow. "Being a case of needs must," he observed dryly. "Well, my dear girl, the case is simple enough. You are ready to trust me because you must. No one else is under the same obligation. Everyone else--the worthy cow-puncher included--knows my fascinating reputation. Disappear with me for a week or so--we'll run away and hide--and all charitably-minded folks will jump to the obvious conclusion. The result will be an undefended divorce suit, and I shall pay the damages." His smile became a grimace. "That is your road to freedom, ma belle reine," he said. "And think on me, I pray thee, when that freedom shall be achieved! There are sunnier lands than England where lovely ladies may be wooed by wandering cavaliers. And surely, surely," his smile flashed forth again, "having thus made such atonement for past offences as lies in my power, my queen would stoop to be gracious to me at last!"

He bent again over her hands, holding them pressed to his lips.

Maud stood mute. The audacity of the suggestion seemed to deprive her of the power of speech. None but Charlie could ever have evolved such a plan. None but Charlie--who loved her!

The sudden realization of his love went through her like a sword-thrust in her heart. She actually gasped with the pain of it. What he suggested was impossible of course--of course! But how gallantly, and withal how tenderly, he had laid the offer before her, urging no claim, merely--out of the love he still had for her--offering her deliverance!

But she must find an answer for him. He was waiting, bent in courtly fashion, with that kinglike carelessness of pose that marked him out from all other men.

She looked at the bowed head that could be poised so arrogantly, and suddenly her eyes were full of tears. She made a movement to withdraw her hands.

"Oh, Charlie," she said, in a broken, passionate whisper, "if I were only free!"

He raised his head on the instant. "But you can be free. I am offering you freedom. A little courage, a little confidence! Can't you face it with me? Are you afraid?"

His voice was eager, his eyes were shining and boyishly persuasive. His hands still clasped hers with a pressure so vital and insistent that she felt impelled to suffer it.

She shook her head. "No, Charlie. It isn't that. But--but--my promise!"

"Oh, what of that?" he said impetuously. "A promise made under compulsion is no bond at all. You can't keep it and yet be true to yourself. The mistake lay in making it. But to stick to it would be worse than madness. Listen; Maud! You must listen! Your marriage is an abomination, and you must rid yourself of it, whatever the cost. I can see--I have seen all along--that it is an absolute violation of your whole nature. You shrink from the man. I believe in your soul you abhor him. You did it on impulse. He knows that. And you have repented ever since. Your heart was never in it. I think I know where your heart is,"--his voice suddenly softened, and his hand began subtly to draw her back to him. "But we won't discuss that now. It isn't the time. I am concerned only to deliver you. And I am offering you such deliverance as you can accept, a deliverance that you can safely contemplate without shrinking. The publicity of the thing need never touch you personally. You can live in seclusion till it is all forgotten. Maud, my Maud, won't you--can't you--trust an old friend?" His hands were drawing her closer. His dark face, aglow with the ardour of his quest, was close to hers. "You want to be free," he urged. "And--my darling,--I want you free, I want you free!"

His voice throbbed into silence. He was drawing her--drawing her. In another moment he would have had her in his arms, but she held back from him with quivering, desperate strength. "No, Charlie! No!" she said gaspingly.

He released her hands at once, and abruptly. With a species of royal indifference curiously characteristic of him, he veiled his ardour. "It is for you to choose," he said. "I don't take. I offer." Then, as she covered her face, he softened again, took her suddenly, very lightly, by the shoulders. "Have I gone too far, queen of the roses?" he whispered. "Yet he will go further still. It is that that I want to save you from. You must forgive me, sweet, if I seem too anxious. I am hard pressed myself. I want you badly enough, it's true. But that isn't my main reason for urging this. If you had married a man you cared for, I could have borne it. But this,--this is intolerable. There! I have done. Only remember, that I am ready--I am always ready. I shall wait for you by day and by night. Sooner or later--sooner or later, I know you will come. Don't be afraid to come, Queen Maud! I will be to you whatever you wish always. I only ask to serve you."

Rapidly he uttered the low words, still holding her with a touch that was scarcely perceptible, but of which she was so vividly conscious that she quivered from head to foot, every nerve stretched and vibrant, burningly alive, chafing to respond.

The wild impulse to yield herself to his arms, casting away all shackles, was for the moment almost overpowering. Her spirit leapt to the call of his, beating fiercely for freedom like a caged bird viewing its mate in the open sky. How she restrained it she knew not. Perhaps it was fear, perhaps it was that old, instinctive sense of fitness that had influenced her long ago. But the moment passed, and she remained motionless.

Saltash turned aside.

He betrayed no sign of disappointment. That also was characteristic of him. He saw no defeat in failure. He regarded it only as victory postponed.

And his attitude said as much when after a moment or two he began to speak in a light and careless strain of matters indifferent to them both. If he had not squarely hit his mark, he was not far therefrom, and with that he was content. He knew her to be nearer to his level than she had ever been before. The Maud of old days would have viewed his suggestion with the shrinking horror of a spirit that had never known temptation. The Maud of to-day was different, more human, more truly woman. She had suffered, and her dainty pride had ceased to uphold her. He had offered himself to her in the light of deliverer, and as such he believed he would win her. The odds were at last in his favour.

As for Jake, he might be formidable, but Saltash was no coward. He fancied that when the time came, Jake would accept the inevitable. In any case he was far too keen upon the chase to be deterred by the thought of an outsider like Jake. If any element of danger existed, he welcomed it. If a thing were worth having, it was worth fighting for, Saltash never had in any one of his rash intrigues paused to count the cost, and certainly it was not often that the cost had been borne by him. He snatched his pleasures, and he drank deep thereof; but the dregs he was wont to throw away. Once only--or possibly twice--had he ever been made to drink to the bottom of the cup. And he did not stop now to consider that on each of those occasions the cup had been firmly held in the hand of Jake Bolton.

CHAPTER XXXVI

THE BOND

"I have called him The Hundredth Chance," said Jake. "But I guess he is going to be a winner."

He was stooping over a tiny black foal that stood with trembling legs pressed against its mother's flank. She was looking round at the master with questioning eyes. Even he was only allowed in the loose-box on suffrance.

"You're very hopeful," said Capper.

He stood leaning on the half-door, looking in upon Jake's latest treasure.

Maud was standing with him, but slightly apart, fondling the red setter Chops who fawned about her knees. Chops had been unfeignedly delighted to see her again, and he could not desist from telling her so. She had bid good-bye to Bunny till the morrow, but she had made no definite arrangements for leaving the Castle, and even yet she was wondering if she might not manage to return for that one last night of her brother's sojourn there.

Jake had received her without comment when she had arrived with Capper half an hour before. She fancied his manner was somewhat guarded, but he treated her as if he had expected her and her coming had caused him no surprise.

Upon an ordinary occasion she would have been charmed with the sight of the week-old foal that Jake had brought them thither to see, but at the moment she was too stiff with shy reserve to enjoy it. So she stood apart instead while Jake talked in his soft voice to the doctor, striving to hide her embarrassment in murmured endearments to Chops.

"Oh yes, the dam's a blood mare," Jake was saying, "the most valuable animal we have. She's a mass of nerves, unfortunately. We've had a lot of trouble with her."

He stretched a fondling hand to the creature's enquiring muzzle. She laid her ears for a moment, but the next her tongue came out and softly licked first his fingers and then the wistful black face of her offspring.

Jake smiled and stood up. "She's a good mother, Doctor. I like a good mother," he said.

His eyes fell on Maud, bending low with flushed face over the dog. A momentary shadow crossed his face. He had counted upon a greater enthusiasm on her part. Never before had she failed to take a keen interest in the animals. "Reckon we'd better go in and get some supper," he said.

They went in. The spring twilight was falling and with it a brief shower that pattered awhile and was stayed. Down in the orchard the blackbirds were singing in a wonderful chorus that seemed to fill all the world with music. The scents that rose from the rain-steeped earth were of that wondrous fragrance that holds the senses spellbound in the magic of Spring.

From somewhere near the open French window there came the breath of violets, and from a little further away, subtly mingling with it, the incense of wallflowers, all wet and luscious from the damp, sweet earth.

"A wonderful season," said Capper.

Jake smiled somewhat grimly. "A stormy May," he said.

The meal was of the simplest, served by Mrs. Lovelace in her best gown of black sateen. Her plump face wore a pursed look of peculiar severity. Maud, very pale and still, at the end of the table, gave her a murmured greeting which called forth a very grim response.

Jake was apparently at his ease, but he made no attempt to draw his wife into the conversation. He talked to Capper or was silent. He was still wearing the riding-costume with which she always associated him. She heard the clink of his spurs whenever he moved.

Capper was very gentle with her, full of kindly consideration. There were no difficult pauses. To a casual observer there would have been no evidence of strain. Only to the girl, sitting there at her husband's table, a stranger, was it almost insupportable. She did not know how she came through the meal, nor was she aware of eating anything. When it was over at last, she was thankful to rise and go.

She took refuge upstairs in the room that had been Bunny's, standing there in darkness, striving with herself, fighting desperately for composure. What was expected of her she did not know, whether to go or to remain. The impulse to go strongly urged her, but she held it back. There was the morrow to be thought of, the morrow to be faced, and she had a feeling--a dreadful, growing suspicion--that Jake was drawing to the end of his patience. Not that he had betrayed it by word or look; only he seemed to be waiting, waiting with an iron determination that no action of hers could baulk. She felt that if she fled from him to-night, she would never dare to face him again.

The thought of Charlie arose within her, Charlie, careless, debonair, gay of soul. He had offered her his protection. Should she go to him--even now? Could she? Dared she?

The temptation drew her, drew her. She knew Charlie so well. She was sure he would be chivalrous. She was sure she could count upon him. But his protection--what was it worth?

Now that she had seen Jake, had felt the primitive force of the man anew, her heart misgave her. She was possessed by the appalling conviction that in the matter of lawlessness Jake could outdo Charlie many times over, if once roused. No trammels of civilization would hold him. He would go straight for his prey, and no power on earth would turn him aside, or make him relinquish his hold till he had wreaked his vengeance.

For the first time it occurred to her that it might not be upon herself alone that that vengeance would fall. A great shudder went through her. She quivered all over, and turning crept to the bed and crouched beside it. She was terrified, unnerved, despairing. Her own wickedness frightened her, so that she could not even pray for help. She knew not which way to turn.

A long time passed thus; then there came a step upon the stair, a steady, quiet step. A hand pushed open the door.

"Say, Maud, are you here?" Jake said.

She tried to answer him, but could not. She knew that the moment she spoke, she would betray herself.

He came forward into the room. She saw his square figure against the light outside the door.

"Capper has gone back," he said. "He wouldn't stay any longer."

That startled her to a tragic activity. She sprang up in wild dismay. "Dr. Capper--gone! I--I thought he was spending the night!"

"I wanted him to," said Jake. "He wouldn't. He said I was to wish you good-night, and thank you for your hospitality."

Maud stood still, her hands at her throat. For the moment she was too electrified for speech. Then anger--bitter, furious resentment--came to her aid.

"So you brought me here by--a trick!" she said, her voice pitched very low but full of a quivering abhorrence that must have reached him where he stood.

"I don't know what you mean," said Jake. His voice was curt and cool; he spoke without the smallest evidence of indignation or constraint. "I never asked you to come, nor did I ask Capper to bring you. I presume you were a free agent so far as that goes. But since you are here there is not much point in running away again. It's here that you belong."

The finality of his speech came upon her with stunning force. It had the dead level of absolute assurance. As he made it, he came forward into the room, and she heard the rattle of his matchbox as he drew it forth.

She stood and waited tensely while he deliberately struck a match and lighted one of the candles upon the mantel-piece. All the blood in her body seemed to be throbbing at her throat. She had not been alone with him for weeks. She had never been alone with him as she was to-night.

The light from the candle showed her the room prepared as for a guest. The chintz covers were all newly-starched, and from the bed there seemed to come a subtle scent of lavender. The lattice-window was wide to the night, and from far away there rose the long deep roar of the sea.

Jake turned from the lighted candle, and pointed to a low chair by the bed. "Sit down!" he said. "There's something I've got to say to you."

She looked at him with hunted eyes. She thought his face was very grim, but the dim flickering light threw strange shadows upon it, baffling her.

He came to her as she still remained upon her feet, took her between his hands, and held her so, facing him.

"Say, now," he said, and a hint of half-coaxing kindliness softened the measured resolution of his speech, "where's the sense of fighting when you know you can't win? You're not a very good loser, my girl. But I reckon it's just a woman's way. I won't be hard on you on that account."

She drew back from him swiftly, with the old, instinctive shrinking from the man's overwhelming force of personality.

"Oh, need we talk about that now?" she said hurriedly. "I--there is still Bunny to think of. It is his last night, and--and--and----"

She broke off with a sound half-choked that was almost a cry. For Jake's hands were holding her, drawing her, compelling her. She realized that in another moment she would be in his arms. She set her quivering hands against his shoulders, pushing him from her with all her strength.

He set her free then, with a gesture half-contemptuous. "So it's to be the same old fool game to the bitter end, is it?" he asked, and she caught in his voice a new note as of anger barely held in check. "Well, I reckon it's up to you to make good sooner or later. It was not my intention to hold you down to that bargain of ours; but if you must have it, you shall. I want to know when you propose to make good."

She shrank away from him in quivering disgust. "Oh, never, never!" she said.

The words rushed out almost against her will, and the moment they were uttered she wished them back. For Jake's eyes leapt into sudden furious flame, such flame as seemed to scorch her from head to foot. He did not speak at once, but stood looking at her, looking at her, while the awful seconds crept away.

At last, "It's rather--rash of you to put it that way," he said, and there was a faintly humorous sound in his voice as though he restrained a laugh. "So you're not--a woman of your word after all? That's queer--damn' queer. I could have sworn you were."

She wrung her hands hard together in a desperate effort at self-control. "Oh, Jake," she said piteously, "it isn't my fault that we're not made of the same stuff, indeed--indeed! You--you wouldn't ask the impossible of me!"

"P'raps not," said Jake, and now he spoke in the old soft drawl that she knew well as a cloak to unwavering determination. "But has it never occurred to you that I might leave asking and just--take?"

She recoiled further from him. The man's deadly assurance appalled her. She had no weapon to oppose against it. And his eyes were as a red-hot furnace into which she dared not look.

"Now, listen to me!" he suddenly said. "There's been enough of this fooling around--more than enough. I've put up with it so far, but there's a limit to everything. The time has come for you to remember that you are my wife, I am your husband. We may not be over well suited to one another, as you have pointed out. But the bond exists and we have got to make the best of it. And so you will not go back to the Castle to-night. You will stay here under your husband's roof, and fill your rightful place by my side. Is that understood?"

He spoke with the utmost decision; and Maud, white to the lips, attempted no reply. She had made her appeal, and he had not heard it. She knew with sure intuition that further resistance would be useless. She had staked all, and she had lost. In that moment she saw her life a heap of ruins, blasted by a devastating tempest that had scattered to the four winds all that she had ever held precious. And nothing was left to her. Nothing of value could ever be hers again. Only out of the smoking ruins there presently arose one thing--a poison plant--that was to flourish in the midst of desolation. Out of the furnace of a man's unshackled passion it sprang to full growth in a single night ready to bear its evil fruit when time should have made it ripe.

The seed of it had been sown by Saltash. The tropical raising of it was the work of Jake Bolton. The nourishing of it was left to Maud. But the final ingathering of that bitter harvest was to fall to the lot of all three.

PART II

THE RACE

CHAPTER I

HUSKS

Chops the setter was puzzled.

He had been following his mistress about in his faithful way throughout the whole of that hot July afternoon, and he had fathomed the fact that she was preparing for a visitor. He even half-suspected that he knew who the visitor would prove to be. But none the less was he puzzled by her attitude. For to Chops' plain and honest mind the coming of a guest was a cause for undiluted joy. But it was evident that to Maud the advent of this one was a matter of anxiety, even almost of dread.

Jake's old bedroom facing the Stables had been assigned to the newcomer. She had spent hours of loving care upon it, yet on this, the great day of arrival, she did not seem happy or by any means content.

A great restlessness possessed her, and Chops in consequence was uneasy also. He had conceived a vast affection for his young mistress that was in some fashion vaguely mingled with pitying concern. She had a disconcerting way of weeping in private when only Chops might see, and he had a feeling that such consolation as he was able to proffer, though quite whole-hearted, was never altogether equal to the occasion. The tears she shed were so piteously hopeless, and even her smiles were hopeless too. Chops often mourned over the sadness of his idol.

She had just come in from the garden with a great handful of sweet peas. It was a glorious sunny morning, and she had put on an old blue sunbonnet that had done duty down on the sea-shore in previous summers to protect her from the glare. She was holding the flowers up to her face as she mounted the steps to the parlour, and such was her absorption that she did not notice what Chops, following close behind, perceived on the instant,--the strong, square figure of her husband waiting in the entrance of the glass door.

She was actually within touch of him before she was aware of his presence, and then with a great start she lowered her flowers, while over her face there came a look that was like the sudden donning of a mask.

"I thought you had gone," she said.

"Not quite," said Jake.

He bent slightly as she entered, stretched out a hand, took her by the chin, and kissed her mask-like face.

She endured his action with the most complete show of indifference, neither returning nor avoiding his caress. A faint, faint tinge of colour showed in her cheeks as with scarcely a pause she passed on into the room; that was all.

"It is getting late," she observed. "I think you had better go."

Jake's eyes, red-brown and shining, followed her with a masterful expression as she moved to the table and laid down her flowers, marking the queenly bend of her neck, the cold majesty of her pose.

He said nothing for the moment, merely took his pipe out of his pocket and began to fill it.

Maud went to the sideboard for a vase. Her movements were very measured, very stately. She did not so much as glance towards the man who watched her. The old quick nervousness of manner had gone utterly from her. She was like a marble statue endued with a certain icy animation.

"You don't look exactly--excited," remarked Jake, as he finally stuck his pipe into his mouth.

She smiled, a cold, aloof smile, saying nothing.

He lighted his pipe, his eyes still upon her. "Say, Maud," he said, between the puffs, "why don't you come too?"

She raised her beautiful brows a little at the question and slightly shrugged her shoulders.

"You don't want to?" pursued Jake.

Her blue eyes met his for a single instant. They were dark and remote as a deep mountain tarn. "Not in the least," she said.

He swung round with a jingle of spurs and came to the table by which she stood.

"What if I wish you to come?" he said.

The faint, cold smile still drew her lips. She had begun already to arrange her flowers.

"Of course your wish is law," she said.

He leaned towards her, laying an abrupt hand upon hers. "Maud!" he said.

She became still on the instant, but she did not look at him or attempt to avoid the tobacco smoke that curled between them.

"Maud," he said again, and there was a hint of pleading in his voice, "why can't you be friends with me? Surely I'm not all that hard to get on with!"

She kept her eyes lowered. The pale composure of her face did not vary as she made reply. "I am sorry if you are not satisfied. I thought you had got--all you wanted."

He pulled the pipe from his mouth and laid it on the table. "Do you think any man is satisfied with husks?" he said.

Her lip curled a little. She said nothing.

He took her by the arms, not violently but with firmness. "Maud," he said, and there was urgency in his voice, "where's the use of behaving like this? Do you think it's going to make life easier, happier? Is it doing God's work in the world to be always fighting the inevitable? I'm rough, I know; but I'm white. Why can't you take me as I am, and make the best of me?"

He had never thus appealed to her before. She stood stiffly between his hands. But still she did not look at him. Her eyes were upon the flowers on the table that lay scorching and slowly shrivelling under his pipe.

"I really don't know what you want," she said, in a tone of cold aloofness.

"And don't care!" said Jake, with sudden vehemence. "On my soul, I sometimes think to myself that if you treated Sheppard as you treat me, he had some reason for giving you a hiding."

Her eyelids quivered sharply at the rough allusion, but she did not raise them. "You are rather--hard to please," she said, in a low voice.

"Am I?" said Jake. "And do you ever try to please me by any chance?"

A slight tremor went through her. "I give you submission--obedience," she said. "You have--all that you married me for."

"Have I?" said Jake. His voice was suddenly ironical. "Ah, my girl, you know a mighty lot about that, don't you? And have I also your confidence, your goodwill, your--friendship?"

Her eyes flashed him a look of swift protest. "They were not a part of the bargain," she said.

"Damn the bargain!" said Jake, with force. "If I didn't want them, what did I want?"

Her eyes comprehended him and fell again. She said nothing.

He held her by the shoulders and gave her a sharp shake as if to bring her to her senses.

"P'raps you think I'm brutal," he said. "But you treat me as I wouldn't treat any brute in creation. Why do you never speak to me? Why do you never kiss me? On my oath, you starve me of all that's good in life and yet expect me to remain civilized."

She made no attempt to free herself, nor did she utter remonstrance of any kind. If the grip of his hands hurt her, she did not show it. She stood in utter silence.

Slowly Jake's hold relaxed. The fierceness went out of it. He stood for a few seconds watching her, a deep frown between his brows.

"I don't seem able to get hold of you somehow," he said at length. "And yet it ain't for want of trying. Say, Maud, can't you be decent to me for a bit now the little chap is coming? He'll notice, sure, if you're not. Guess we don't either of us want him pestering around with questions."

There was a species of half-grudging persuasion in his voice. He held her as though at the faintest sign of encouragement he would have drawn her into his arms.

But Maud made no such sign. She stood motionless. Without looking at him she spoke.

"I can't pretend to love you. You see,--I don't."

He made a sharp gesture--such a gesture as a man might make if stabbed in the back. A very bitter look came into his eyes. It was as if an evil spirit looked gibing forth. They glittered like the red flare of a torch.

"All right, my girl," he said, and his voice was soft and slow and wholly without emotion. "Then I continue my meal of husks."

With the words he let her go, took up his pipe from the table, and left her. Mutely she watched him go. Then, as the sound of his footsteps died away, she sank on her knees by the table, burying her face upon the scorched and ruined flowers; and so she remained for a long, long time.

Even the sympathy of Chops was lacking. He had followed his master and the dog-cart to the station to welcome the visitor for whom such loving preparations had been made. And he was being compelled to fly like the wild to keep pace with the flying wheels.

CHAPTER II

THE POISON PLANT

The wheels of the dog-cart clattered back over the stone paving of the yard, and a wild whoop of welcome echoed through the place. A small, boyish figure leapt impetuously to the ground to be caught and fast held in Maud's straining arms.

"Hullo, Maud! Hullo, Maud!" cried Bunny.

He hugged her none the less ardently, hugged and kissed her. They had not seen each other for three months.

Maud's greeting was quite inaudible; she could only hold him passionately close, feeling the abounding activity of his light young frame, and realizing with a great throb of rejoicing that the miracle had been wrought indeed. Bunny had been made whole.

"I say, isn't it fine?" the boy cried eagerly. "I've been doing gymnastics and physical exercises to any amount. I can swim too, and Dr. Capper says I may learn to ride. Jake's going to teach me, aren't you, Jake? Oh, isn't it fine, Maud? Isn't it fine?"

She held him a little from her, gazing at him fondly ere she gathered him close again. He was very slight and thin but he was taller than she had thought possible. The deep hollows about his eyes were far less marked than before, though his whole face bore that indelible stamp of suffering which had always made him older than his years.

He gave her another hearty hug. "I'm as fit as a fiddler," he declared. "But I still have to do four hours flat on the floor every day. I told Jake I wasn't going to do it any more, but he swears he'll tie me down to the table-legs if I don't. You're a sport, aren't you, Jake?"

He left his sister abruptly to attach himself to Jake whose threats of violence were plainly a huge attraction to his boyish mind.

Jake thrust an arm about the narrow shoulders. "We've got to make a man of you somehow, my son," he said. "And Capper is very emphatic about keeping up the treatment for another six weeks."

"Yes, and after that I'm going to school," said Bunny, with the assurance of a man who holds the ruling of his own destiny. "There's Fairhaven College up on the hill, Jake. That'll do for me. And I'll be a weekly boarder, and you'll take me to races on Saturdays."

But Jake shook his head. "Not at your time of life, young feller. No, when you go to school you'll stay there. You've got to make up for lost time. P'raps in the holidays we'll see. But I make no rash promises. Now, Mrs. Bolton, what about tea?"

They went within to the meal prepared in the sunny parlour with its door thrown open to the garden.

They sat at the table, Bunny alert, excited, radiant; Jake cheery and indulgent, bestowing his exclusive attention upon him; Maud, very quiet and reserved but watching the boy with eyes of shining affection that scarcely left him for a moment.

He had so much to tell them of this treatment and of that, how at the beginning of things he had found it so hard to bear, and how the doctors had helped him through.

"They were so awfully decent," he said. "There was one of 'em--Dr. Wyndham, who was no end of a swell. He used to come twice a week and put me through the most ghastly drill that rolled me out quite flat. He made me think of you, Jake. He was such a chap for getting his own way. Somehow I never could get ratty with him, though I used to dread the sight of him for ever so long. He soon got to know it, and he'd sit down by my side, and talk in a reassuring sort of way till he'd worked me up to it. He seemed to have no end of time to waste, and yet he was always ready; used to come in with his hands in his pockets and a funny smile on his face, and send the nurse packing because he knew I hated anyone looking on. I got to like him no end. You'd have liked him too, Maud. He was just our sort." And there he stopped suddenly, for the first time gazing fully at her. "Great Scott!" he said. "How queer you look!"

"I?" said Maud, slightly startled.

Bunny was looking at her hard. He turned abruptly to Jake. "Why does she lock like that? She hasn't been ill, has she?"

Jake's eyes went to his wife's face. He regarded her critically for a moment.

But before he could speak Maud hastily broke in. "Bunny! How absurd! Of course not! I am never ill. Jake, pass up his cup!"

He obeyed in silence, and she received it with a hand that trembled. Her face was burning.

"You look better now," said Bunny. "P'raps it's the heat. How do you amuse yourself nowadays? Is Saltash at the Castle?"

She shook her head. "No. He left on the same day that you did. I have scarcely seen him since."

"You have heard from him," said Jake, in the tone of one making a casual statement.

She was silent for a second or two while she poured out Bunny's tea; then, without lifting her eyes, "Yes," she said. "I have heard from him."

"Where is he?" asked Bunny. "Does he write often?"

"Not often," said Maud. She suddenly looked across at Jake with eyes that seemed to fling a challenge. "I expect you know where he is," she said.

"He is in town," said Jake.

He met her look with the utmost deliberation, and almost at once she looked away.

"I expect he'll be going to Scotland next month," said Bunny. "But I hope he'll come here first. I'd like to see him. Aren't there some big races at Graydown soon, Jake? Won't he come for them?"

"I can't say what he'll do," said Jake, pulling out his pipe. "The Burchester Cup will be run in a fortnight."

"Oh, Jake, old chap, do--do let me see that!" urged Bunny, with shining eyes. "Is the Mascot going to run again?"

"No, not the Mascot this time,--the Albatross. You remember him? Reckon he ought to carry it off if his jockey is good enough." Jake spoke with something of a frown.

Bunny was all eagerness. "The Albatross! Wasn't he the chap you were forcing into the water that day you first spoke to us? Yes, I remember him, of course--a beauty. Who's up, Jake? Isn't he any good?"

"I wanted Vickers to ride him," Jake said. "He's been training. But he has just broken his thumb, confound him. That leaves it to Dick Stevens, and I don't feel just sure of him. He may pull it off; but he's not like Sam Vickers. The animals haven't the same faith in him,--any more than I have."

He got up from the table as he spoke, and went to the mantelpiece for a match. Bunny gulped down his tea and sprang up also.

"Say, Jake, I'm coming round the Stables with you," he said. "I won't be in the way."

Jake, his clay pipe between his teeth, puffed forth a cloud of smoke, and turned. "Not to-night, my son. You've got another two hours' floor-drill before you. You go and do it!"

Bunny's face fell. "Oh, damn it, Jake! Not to-night!"

Jake's hand shot forth and grasped his shoulder. "Who taught you to say that?" he demanded.

Bunny stared. "I don't know. Lots of fellows say it. Charlie often does."

"I do myself," said Jake grimly. "But you're not to, savvy? I mean it. It ain't a mite clever, my son. It's beastly ugly. And you--you've got to be a gentleman if you do live under the roof of a bounder. Now you go and do as you're told, quick march! I shall know if you don't, and I shall know the reason why too. Take him upstairs, Maud; and if he don't behave himself, undress him and put him to bed!"

He would have gone with the words, but Bunny with a red face stayed him. "I'll do as you tell me, Jake," he said, "but I won't be managed by anyone else. And I'm not a bit afraid of you. See?"

Jake stopped, and the old kind smile that once had been so much more frequent lighted his face. "That's right, little pard; you've no call to be," he said. "But I won't have it said that you were brought up in a stable. And I won't have you hanging around with the boys in the yard either. Our language is not your language, and you're not to learn it. Now go and do your duty! I'll take you round the Stables to-morrow."

He bestowed a kindly pat upon Bunny's shoulder, and departed.

Bunny turned round to Maud. "What's the matter with him?" he said.

She sat with her face to the window, her eyes fixed unseeingly upon the sunlit garden. "Nothing that I know of," she said, without moving.

Bunny came to her side. "But, Maud, he isn't always like that, at least he used not to be."

"Like what?" she said.

Bunny was looking at her hard. "You used not to be like this either," he said. "What's happened to you both?"

She gave herself a sharp shake--it was almost like a shudder suppressed--and came out of her reverie. She met Bunny's questioning eyes with a smile.

"My dear boy, nothing has happened. Don't look so suspicious! There! Come and let me look at you! Do you know I hardly know you? You seem so young."

Bunny pushed an arm about her neck, and gave the kiss for which she yearned. "You look years older than you did," he said, with brotherly candour. "I thought you'd get on like a house on fire when you hadn't me to worry you, but you look more down in the mouth than ever."

"I shan't now I've got you," she whispered, clinging to him. "I've missed you--horribly, dear."

"I thought you would," said Bunny with complacence. "I missed you too at first. When they gave me that beastly massage, I used to howl for you."

"Was it so terribly bad?" she murmured, holding him faster.

"It was--unspeakable," said Bunny. "I shouldn't have stuck to it if you'd been there. As it was,--well, I couldn't help myself. But they were awfully kind too. No one ever pitched into me for behaving badly. They all seemed to take it for granted that I should. And when I began to get better, they were so jolly encouraging. But I'd rather be flogged every day for a year," ended Bunny, "than go through it all again."

"Dr. Capper didn't tell me it would be so bad," said Maud.

"No. Capper's a deep one. He didn't tell me either. He laughs about it now," said Bunny, "and says the end has fully justified the means. He's rather a card, but he's a fine chap. He is coming to see us before he leaves England. I made him promise. He'll be off before the end of August." Bunny stretched himself luxuriously. "How's the mother getting on?" he enquired.

"I haven't seen her for quite a long time. I believe she is very busy," Maud said. "They have discharged some of the servants at 'The Anchor.' I don't believe it answers. She was looking rather worried the last time we met. But she didn't tell me anything, except that times were bad."

"They always are with some people," said Bunny. "I suppose Jake is quite prosperous, is he?"

"Oh, quite, I think," she said in surprise. "Of course he is Charlie's paid man. Why do you ask?"

"He looks a bit bothered," said Bunny. "P'raps it isn't that though. Come along! Let's go upstairs!"

He twined his arm in hers. They went up side by side.

A little later they separated, and Maud went to her own room. Down in the training-field below the orchard a solitary horseman was riding a young, untamed animal that fought savagely against his mastery, striving by every conceivable artifice to unseat him. She paused at the casement window and watched the struggle, marked the man's calm assurance, his inflexible strength of purpose, his ruthless self-assertion. And, as she watched, that evil thing that she nourished in her heart opened its first poisonous flowers and bloomed in rank profusion. She hoped with a sickening intensity that the animal would win the day, and that Jake Bolton would be killed.

CHAPTER III

CONFIDENCES

Three days after Bunny's return, Maud drove him down in the dog-cart one afternoon to see their mother. She herself would not go into the Anchor Hotel. She had never entered it since that bitter day in the winter when she had thrown herself upon Jake's protection, nor had she exchanged a single word with her step-father since her wedding-day.

Her mother seemed to have grown completely away from them, and would seldom be persuaded to visit her daughter even though Jake himself offered to fetch her. She had become fretful and irritable, and was in a certain measure vexed with Maud who had not apparently made the most of her opportunities. There was no denying the fact that they were drifting further and further apart, and to neither of them did the other's presence afford the smallest pleasure. Now that Lord Saltash had quitted the scene, Mrs. Sheppard took no further interest in her daughter's doings. She strongly suspected that it was in response to Maud's insistence that he had gone, and she was inclined to regard his absence as a personal grievance against her in consequence. Emphatically, Mrs. Sheppard was not improved by adversity. Her looks were fading, and her placid temperament had vanished. Giles was such a trial, life was so difficult. She had always acted for the best, but she never reaped any benefit therefrom. In fact, Fate had never been kind to her, and she was beginning to cherish a grudge in consequence.

Bunny was by no means anxious to pay her a visit; it was only by Jake's commands that he went. Maud was a little surprised to find that he was developing a scrupulous regard for Jake's wishes. She drove the dog-cart into the stable-yard of "The Anchor" and left it there with a promise to return for him in an hour. Then she herself wandered down to the shore to pass the time.

The day was sultry with a brooding heat. The sea lay wrapped in mist like a steaming sheet of molten lead. There was no sound of waves; only now and then the wailing cry of a sea-gull floated across the water, and sometimes there throbbed upon the heavy air the paddle of an unseen steamer beating through that silent waste of greyness.

She had no sunshade, and the glare was intense, albeit the sun was veiled. Half-mechanically she turned her steps towards the shelter in which--how long ago!--Jake had made his astounding proposal of marriage. She felt miserable, depressed, sick at heart. The close weather did not agree with her. She was limp and listless, and she could neither eat nor sleep.

She dropped wearily down upon the seat and leaned back with her eyes half-closed. Her head was aching dully, as if a heavy weight pressed upon it.

There was no one in sight. That end of the parade was little frequented. The gay crowd preferred the vicinity of the bathing-machines where a little troupe of Pierrots were making merry. Now and then the raucous voice of the funny man of the party reached her, but it was too far away to disturb her. She was thankful for the attraction that kept the people away.

Chops lay at her feet, snapping at the flies, grave, sympathetic, watchful. He was feeling the heat too, but he took it philosophically, with the wisdom of experience. He knew better than to chafe at the inevitable.

Half-an-hour crawled away thus in dumb oppression while the atmosphere grew imperceptibly thicker, gradually extinguishing the sun-rays, darkening the world. At length a long ridge rose with ghostly suddenness on that flat desert of waters and swept shorewards, bursting upon the beach with a startling roar.

Maud started and opened her eyes. In a moment she was on her feet, dismayed, irresolute. One glance at the ominous sky and sullen, glassy water told her that a storm was imminent. She could not stay in that exposed place. She would not contemplate taking refuge at "The Anchor." Whither could she go?

She began to walk swiftly along the parade, Chops pacing sedately behind. The Pierrots were gone, the crowd scattered. She was sure that in a few moments there would be a terrific downpour.

Another long swell showed like the back of a swift-moving monster on the face of the waters. It travelled landwards with incredible rapidity; it burst in thunder just below her. A great swirl of surf rushed up to the wall and receded to rejoin the inky water. And suddenly the blast of the storm caught her.

Almost before she realized it, she was fleeing before it down the deserted road. Eddies of dust rose up under her feet, and sand whipped up from the beach stung her face. She raced the tempest, making for the nearest side-road to escape the unbroken fury with which it raged along the shore.

As she tore across to the sheltering houses there came a blinding flash of lightning, and instantly overhead a splitting explosion that seemed to shatter the whole world. For a second or two she was checked in her wild career. She felt stunned. Then in a sweeping torrent the rain was upon her, and she stumbled towards the nearest doorway.

Before she reached it, however, a voice called to her, a stout figure came running forth with amazing lightness, and two plump hands seized one of hers.

"Come in, my dear, come in!" panted a wheezy voice. "Why, whatever brought you out in such a storm? You look scared to death. Come and sit down in my back parlour behind the shop! It's all right, dearie, all right. Don't be upset!"

Gasping and unnerved, Maud tottered into the little shop, groping, clinging to her guide. The gloom without made almost impenetrable darkness within. She had not the faintest idea as to whither she was being led. But there was no hesitation about her companion. She pressed her forward till a glimmer of light revealed a window in a dingy little room beyond the shop, and here she deposited her with friendly firmness upon a horse-hair sofa, making her lean against a cushion sewn with beads while she recovered her breath.

"Don't you be frightened any more, my dear!" she admonished her. "You're quite safe. Trust the dear Lord for that! The wind and storm are only fulfilling His Will. Poor child, you're all of a tremble! There, let's take your hat off! And I'll get you a cup of tea, dear. You'll be better then."

Tenderly she removed the hat while Maud, panting and spent, lay limply against the cushion. Chops sat pressed against her, his silken head on her knee.

"Why, look at him! It's just as if he's trying to tell you not to take on," said her rescuer. "There's a deal of soul in a dog, I always say. Now you know who I am, Mrs. Bolton, my dear, don't you? You don't feel as if you're taking shelter with a stranger?"

"You are--Mrs. Wright," Maud said, speaking with an effort.

"That's right, my dear. I felt sure you'd remember me. Now will you be quite comfortable if I run into the kitchen and make the tea? Or will you come along with me? I often think company is a good thing in a storm."

Maud was recovering herself. She sat up with something of her usual quiet demeanour, though her heart was still beating unpleasantly fast. "Please don't trouble to get any tea for me!" she said. "If I may stay till the worst is over, I shall be very grateful. But I must go directly it gets better. My brother is waiting for me at 'The Anchor.'"

Another terrible flash pierced the gloom, and she shrank involuntarily, one hand covering her face while the thunder crashed above them with a force that shook the house.

As the dreadful echoes died away, she awoke to the fact that Mrs. Wright was kneeling stoutly beside her, one kindly arm pressing her close.

"It's all right, darling. Don't shiver so!" she murmured maternally. "We're quite safe in the Lord's good keeping. He won't let us be harmed if we trust in Him."

Maud made a slight gesture as though she would withdraw herself, and then the comfort of that motherly arm overcame her shyness. Very suddenly she let herself go into the old woman's embrace. She hid her face on the ample shoulder.

"I'm not really frightened," she whispered piteously. "But oh, I'm so tired--I'm so tired!"

"Poor lamb!" said Mrs. Wright compassionately.'

She gathered her to her bosom rocking her softly in her arms as one who soothes a hurt child, and whispering endearing words from time to time, while Maud, spent and weary, wept silently there till with the shedding of tears some measure of relief came to her aching soul.

She forgot the storm that raged around them; she forgot that Mrs. Wright was a comparative stranger to her; she forgot the passage of time and all besides in the blessed consciousness of another woman's sympathy compassing her round, sustaining, comprehending, lifting her up from the depths of despair into which she had lately sunk so low.

"There then! There! You're better now," murmured Mrs. Wright at last. "Would you like to talk a bit, darling? Or shall we just pretend as there's nothing to talk about?"

h But Maud was clinging to her, as a drowning person clings to a spar. "You're very good to me," she whispered tremulously.

It was enough for Mrs. Wright. She proceeded with boldness. "It didn't become me to take the first step, dearie, you being a lady like you are, and me only a clumsy old woman. But I've had troubles myself, and I'm not blind. You aren't well, dear; you aren't happy. I was afraid that day in the winter, and I've been much more afraid since. I was wanting to step up and see you again; but then I wasn't sure as you 'd want me. But I've thought of you often and often, and poor Jake too."

Maud shivered. "Life is horrible--horrible!" she said, and there was a quiver of passion in the words.

"Ah, dear!" Mrs. Wright held her closer. "Maybe that's because you're not taking things just as you should. No, I don't suppose as it's your fault. I wouldn't presume. But there's ways and ways of looking at things. And sometimes, when a girl is hurried into marrying, like you were, she's likely to be a bit taken aback when she comes to realize what it means. And it is then maybe that she gets a wrong impression of men and their ways which is like to interfere with all happiness. But, you know, dearie, men are only a pack of children. Any woman can manage a man if she puts her mind to it, and he'll like her the better for it too. But if once a man gets the whip-hand, and knows it, that's fatal. A spoilt child soon becomes a tyrant."

"Jake is no child!" Low and bitter the words came; Maud's face was buried deep in her new friend's shoulder. "He is nothing but--a brute!"

"Lord love me!" ejaculated Mrs. Wright. And then very tenderly her hand began to smooth the girl's tumbled hair. "Has he been--that--to you?" she said. "Ah, dear, dear, dear! And what's going to happen, I wonder, when he knows what you're going to give him? No, don't shrink, darling! There's nothing to be ashamed of. Would you be ashamed if God sent an angel to lay a baby in your arms? For it's just that, darling. It is His gift. Aren't you going to thank Him for it? The first is so much the most wonderful. Think, dear, think of the little wee thing that will cling to you, cry to you, depend on only you!"

Maud was shivering violently. She did not lift her head or speak.

Mrs. Wright's hand did not cease to caress and soothe. "I am right, dear, am I?" she asked softly.

And Maud's silence answered her.

Thereafter there came an interval during which the loud patter of the rain was the only sound. Maud's tears had ceased. She sat bowed upon the old woman's breast as though she lacked the strength to lift herself.

But presently, without moving, she spoke. "I suppose I am very wicked; but I don't feel like--that about it. I can't. I don't want it. You'll be dreadfully shocked, I'm afraid. I've never spoken my mind to anyone before. But--the fact is--I've never felt really married to Jake. I don't in my heart belong to him. And that makes everything wrong."

"My dear! My dear!" said Mrs. Wright. "But he is your husband all the same. And you--you are the one woman in the world to him. He loves you as his own soul."

Maud shook her head hopelessly. "Oh no, indeed he doesn't! He doesn't know the meaning of the word. If he did--things would be very different."

"Dear heart, that's just where you go wrong--the beginning and end of the whole trouble," declared Mrs. Wright. "I knew he loved you that night last year at your mother's wedding-party. Why, it was shining in his eyes for all to see. Was he such a dunderhead then that he never told you so?"

But at that Maud raised herself. She met the old woman's eyes in the gloom, her own heavy with bitterness.

"Mrs. Wright, that was not love," she said, "or anything approaching to love." She paused a moment, as though the tragic words had cost her all her strength; then piteously she ended, "He told me he had a fancy for me; that was all. So for Bunny's sake--and partly for my own--I married him. And now I am the slave of that fancy."

"Oh dear, dear, dear!" Mrs. Wright said again. "And has he never made love to you at all? What a silly fellow, to be sure! Men don't know anything; upon my word, they don't!"

"I didn't like his methods of making love." Maud spoke with growing bitterness. "And I never suffered them. Oh yes, I have to endure them now. He takes whatever he wants. But every spark of affection or respect that I ever had for him went out one night in the winter when he came home the worse for drink."

"Sakes alive!" exclaimed Mrs. Wright. "Not Jake!"

"Yes, Jake." Maud spoke with tragic vehemence. "I saw him, and so did Charlie. We both knew it."

"Who is Charlie?" questioned Mrs. Wright.

A faint tinge of colour rose in the girl's pale face. "Lord Saltash. He is an old family friend of ours. He was always Charlie Burchester to us in the old days."

"And he told you Jake was drunk?" demanded Mrs. Wright, with round, indignant eyes.

Maud made a gesture of weary indifference. "He didn't actually tell me so. I think he didn't want me to know. But he couldn't deny it when I put it to him."

"Then, my dear, he was very grievously mistaken," declared Mrs. Wright, with stout emphasis. "Jake was not drunk. He never drinks. Why, look at the man! His eyes are as clear as the day. Oh, believe me, dear, you've wronged him. You've wronged him cruelly. And that's maybe what's brought about all your trouble. For men can't put up with injustice. It's the one thing they can't abide, and I don't blame 'em."

She paused. Maud was listening, but not as one convinced, or even greatly interested.

"It doesn't really alter anything, whether it's true or not," she said. "I had begun even before that to know what sort of a man he was. I heard him using the most appalling language one day. That opened my eyes."

"Not to you, dear, surely?" urged Mrs. Wright, looking momentarily shocked.

"Oh no, not to me. I overheard it accidentally. But," Maud shivered again, "I've never forgotten it. Sometimes the memory of it turns me nearly sick!"

"Oh, dearie me! What a pity! What a pity! And he loving you so!" Mrs. Wright put up a very tender hand, and stroked her cheek. "Poor little hurt princess!" she said. "If I could but open your eyes and show you how much true love there is behind his roughness! You'll see it some day. I'm sure of that. Please God some day quite soon! You're tired and heart-sick now, dear. But that'll get better as time goes on. And if you'll take an old woman's advice, you'll tell him soon of the little one that's coming. It'll maybe make all the difference to you both."

But Maud drew back sharply at the bare suggestion. "I couldn't possibly tell him yet. I--I couldn't tell anyone."

Mrs. Wright looked at her with eyes of motherly wisdom. "You'll feel different--presently," she said. "I know, dear, I know."

"You don't know! You can't know!" Maud's voice was strangled. She seemed to be striving for self-control.

"I do know." Very firmly Mrs. Wright made the assertion. "Just you listen a minute, dearie, and I'll tell you something that I've never told to mortal being before. I'm only just an ordinary old woman; but I am a woman, and I know what it means to--love the wrong man." She spoke impressively, but she did not seem to notice Maud's quick start. "When I was a girl, I was something of a belle. It seems funny now, don't it? But I attracted the attention of a good many young men, and I got a bit uppish in consequence. My poor Tom was the best of the bunch, and I always knew it, though I led him a fine dance before we came to walking out together. And then a young doctor's assistant came to the place, and--well, I'll not deny it now--we was both young and a bit flighty. We got larking together on them roundabouts one night at a fair, and after that we took to meeting one another on the sly, till, to cut it short, I fell in love with him--very badly in love. I ought to have known better, of course, for gentlemen like him don't marry little farmers' daughters like me. But I was young and inexperienced, and I thought his intentions were honest, till one night I found as they weren't. I've never ceased to thank the Almighty that I had the strength to send him about his business then and there. And I got engaged to Tom the following Sunday, and tried to forget it all. I wasn't in love with him, but I knew he was a good sort; and the match pleased my people who weren't too well-to-do. Well, I thought I was going to be happy in a home of my own, and I let everything be arranged, and I deceived myself into thinking that it was going to be all right. And then--when the wedding was over--I felt, quite sudden-like, sick, just sick, to think what I'd done. I didn't let on to Tom. He was such a good, solid man. I'd have died of shame if I had. I didn't let on to anybody. But I was that miserable. There were times, on and off, when I almost hated him. And then--well, then--I began to have hopes. It didn't help me a bit at first, but gradually, very gradually, the thought of poor Tom's baby purified me. And when I'd come through my trouble and little Tom was born, I felt as if I had been born again too, and all my regrets were gone. I never had 'em any more, dear, after that. And I got that fond of poor Tom, he never guessed. I thank the Almighty he didn't, for the morning as he died he told me so simple-like that I'd been the sunshine of his life from the very first day he ever met me." Mrs. Wright paused to wipe her eyes. "Poor Tom! I was never good enough for him," she said. "He was such a good, kind soul, and--luckily for me--he never saw an inch beyond his nose."

She got up with the words, dismissing the subject with practical common sense.

"Now I'm going to get you some tea, dear, and by that time it'll have left off raining. See! It's getting lighter already. I'm so glad you came this way. Maybe, you'll come again now, and if there's ever anything I can do, why, you've only to let me know, and it's as good as done."

She bent, in response to Maud's silent gesture, and kissed her tenderly. "Try not to fret any more, darling! Everything will come right. I'm sure of it. I know Jake so well. You only know the rough side of him at present. There's a whole lot of reserve in Jake. He won't show you his heart so long as he thinks you've no use for it. Maybe, he's shy too. I've sometimes thought so."

Maud turned from the subject with a sigh. In some subtle fashion old Mrs. Wright's confidences had helped her, but she felt as if the matter would not bear further discussion. "I shall never forget your kindness," she said rather wistfully. "I wish I had come to see you long ago. I did mean to. And then there came Bunny's operation; and after that--after that--I felt too miserable."

Mrs. Wright shook her head in gentle chiding. "Don't ever again stay away on that account, dear!" she said. "And do you know I've got a feeling that maybe he is miserable too? Why don't you try a little kindness, my dear? Do now! It's wonderful what a difference to sore hearts a little kindness makes."

She bustled away with the words. She also knew that for the moment there was no more to be said. Yet there was a smile on her face as she closed the door--a wise, mother-smile that turned its plainness into beauty.

"Poor children!" she murmured to herself. "They'll find each other some day. And then--dear Lord--how happy they'll be!"

She permitted herself a little chuckle as she set the kettle to boil. Things always came right in the end.

CHAPTER IV

THE LETTER

Maud drove home with Bunny after the storm through an atmosphere washed clean of cloud and golden with evening sunshine. She found him very silent, and concluded that he had not greatly enjoyed himself.

She asked few questions about his visit, and Bunny did not seem inclined to volunteer anything, till as they reined in to a walk at the steep hill by the church, he turned abruptly towards her and spoke.

"I told the mother you were corresponding with Saltash."

Maud started a little. "Really, Bunny!" she said, in a tone of protest.

Bunny's face was red. He looked at her with a species of dogged defiance. "I didn't mean to tell her. It just came out. I don't see why she shouldn't know anyway. Jake knows."

"There is not the faintest reason." Maud's tone was cold. She stared straight between the horse's ears with eyes that were fixed and hard. "I don't see why it should interest her, that's all. Charlie is such an old friend that surely there is nothing very surprising about it."

"Or anything to get ratty about," said Bunny, with a touch of warmth. "That wasn't what I set out to tell you; but you do jump down a fellow's throat so. Of course the mother didn't see anything in it. Why should she?"

"What were you going to tell me?" Maud's voice still sounded cold but she forced herself to smile. She had no desire to give offence to Bunny who was not always easy to conciliate.

Bunny considered a moment. "Well, it has to do with Charlie. You know, he owns 'The Anchor.'"

Maud's attitude relaxed. She turned towards him. "Yes, I know he does. He holds the mortgage, at least."

"Yes, that's it; the mortgage." Bunny's face wore a troubled frown. "Well, it seems that the place isn't answering and they can't go on paying interest. In fact, they are badly in arrears already, and he--or his agent--is tightening the reins and threatening to sell them up. The mother is pretty desperate about it, but she was very particular that I wasn't to tell anybody but you. She says it means ruin, and no one can prevent it but Charlie--unless someone came along with a little money, which is the last thing likely to happen. She wants you to get hold of Charlie; says he will do anything for you, though I don't know how she knows that. In fact, she went on as if it was a matter of life and death. Say, Maud, do you really think they are going to be ruined? What would happen if they were?"

Bunny looked at her with worried eyes. Evidently Mrs. Sheppard had succeeded in impressing him with the urgency of the situation.

Maud shook her head. She had not the least idea. "How much money do they want to tide them over?" she asked.

"Rather a lot," said Bunny uneasily. "Four hundred pounds at least, she said. I suppose it would be no good to write to Uncle Edward? He wouldn't do it for the mother, I know, but he might for you."

"I couldn't ask him," Maud said. "I might if it were for you or myself. But not for Mother. I am sure he wouldn't do it."

"It's a beastly mess," said Bunny gloomily. "You'll have to get round Charlie, there's no other way."

"I must think," Maud said.

They reached the top of the hill, and she shook the reins. In sober silence they trotted home.

Jake was in the yard when they turned in. He came to meet them.

"I've had a fine scare about you," he said, as he helped Bunny to descend. "Were you caught in the storm?"

Sam Vickers came to the horse's head, and Maud followed her brother down. Jake did not offer to assist her. He was wearing neither coat nor waistcoat, only a white canvas shirt with rolled up sleeves, unbuttoned at the neck and displaying a good deal of brawny chest. His clay pipe was between his teeth, and the pungent scent of his tobacco seemed even more nauseating than usual.

"No, we weren't caught," Bunny made answer. "I was at 'The Anchor,' and Maud took refuge with that old Wright woman who came here in the winter."

"What? Old Mother Wright?" Jake turned to his wife with a smile of approval. "Been having tea with her, have you? I'm real pleased to hear it. You couldn't be in better company."

Maud stiffened a little. Somehow his approval nettled her. "I took the first shelter within reach," she said coldly.

Bunny stared at her as though astonished at something in her tone. Sharply Jake turned on him.

"You trot in, my son, and do your floor-drill!" he said. "You've got just two hours before supper."

Bunny coloured and flung away. "Oh, damn!" he said.

He was on the step with Maud immediately behind him when Jake's voice arrested him. "Bunny!"

It was a perfectly quiet voice, but it was the voice of authority. Bunny stopped short. "Well?"

"You will do an extra half-hour for that after supper," Jake said.

Bunny faced round, his face crimson. "Oh, I say, Jake! That's too bad. I didn't mean to say it, and anyway I can't do any extra time. It's beastly enough as it is."

"I have said it," remarked Jake.

Bunny clenched his hands. "Dash it all, you can't make me!" he said, his voice low and defiant.

"No, no, you can't." Impulsively Maud broke in, her hand through Bunny's arm. "It's ridiculous and tyrannical. I won't have him bullied, Jake. You are to leave him alone."

She spoke with vehemence, carried away by a gust of indignation. But the moment she had spoken, she realized that she had made a mistake.

Jake said nothing whatever. He did not so much as look at her. But he did look at Bunny hard and straight, and in a moment the boy's attitude changed.

He unclenched his hands with a gesture half-shamed, half-deprecatory. "All right, Jake," he said, in a tone of sullen submission; and to his sister curtly, "Shut up, Maud! You always make a mess of things."

With the words he pulled himself from her hold and went within.

She turned to follow him upstairs, but was checked by the knowledge that Jake was entering the house behind her.

He did not speak, but it was certainly not of her own free will that she passed on to the parlour instead. Angry as she was, she yet would have avoided the encounter had it been possible.

It was not possible. Jake followed her, grim as Fate, and in desperation she turned and faced him the moment she was in the room.

"Jake," she said, in a voice that quivered in spite of her, "I can't have you interfering with Bunny--punishing him--like this. It's too much."

Jake closed the door and stood against it. The sheer brute strength of the man had never been more forcibly apparent to her than at that moment; the thick, powerful neck and broad chest, the red-brown, lynx-like eyes, the merciless mouth, all seemed to mock her openly, exulting over her, dominating her.

Like Bunny she clenched her hands, meeting the straight gaze of those glittering eyes with the defiance born of conscious impotence. "And another thing!" she said. "I wish you wouldn't come into the house in that horrible wild West attire. You look worse than any stable-hand. I don't know how you can expect Bunny to be civilized with such an example before him."

She paused a moment, but, as he said nothing, rushed blindly on, finding silence intolerable.

"You come in at all hours in the day with your horrible clay pipe and vile tobacco. You behave like a farm labourer; you use hateful language to the men; and still you take it upon you to--to mete out punishment to Bunny, because he has picked up, doubtless from you, an expression that is a household word in your daily life!"

She stopped, for Jake had made an abrupt movement as if her fierce words had somehow pierced a joint in his armour.

He came squarely forward, took his pipe from his mouth and knocked out the half-burned contents into the grate. She turned to watch him, feeling her heart racing like a runaway engine. And, so turning, her eyes fell upon a letter that lay upon the table. She could not read the address, but in a flash she recognized the handwriting, and suddenly the mad racing of her heart died down, so that it did not seem to be beating at all.

Swiftly, while Jake was still intent upon his pipe, she reached across the table and picked up the letter. Her fingers felt the crest on the back of the envelope as she slipped it into her dress. She had fallen into the habit of walking to meet the postman of late, but to-day the storm had made her miss him. She hoped--earnestly she hoped--that Jake had not chanced to see the letter. She was sure his eyes had not rested upon the table.

Her heart began to beat again with great leaps as Jake turned from the fireplace. She felt as if she had over-taxed her strength in opposing him, and yet now that she had begun she must go on,--she must!

But still he did not speak, and, fascinated, she stood and watched him, saw him thrust the offending pipe deep into his breeches pocket, unroll the sleeves of his shirt, and button it at the neck.

Then at last he came and stood before her and spoke. "I'm sorry I've offended you," he said.

The words were so utterly unexpected that Maud literally gasped. She drew back before him as if he had threatened her. There was something about him at that moment that made her feel infinitesimally small and mean. She stood silent, dismayed, ashamed.

Jake was looking straight at her with a steady intentness that seemed to search and search her soul. There was no anger in his face. She almost wished there had been.

He waited for her to speak, but as she did not, broke the silence again himself. "I know my ways are not exactly polished. I'll try and mend 'em. As for my language, I didn't know you had ever heard me in full swing. You were never meant to, anyway. As for Bunny, I guess he's your brother, and you've a right to stick up for him if you think he needs it. But I give you my word of honour--my oath if you like--that he'll never be one cent the worse for anything I may do to him. You can tell him from me that if he don't do that extra half-hour, I shan't say a word."

Maud's lips quivered. She strove for dignity in the face of overwhelming defeat. He had beaten her as it were with his hands behind him. "He won't take it from me," she said. "You know that quite well."

"That so?" said Jake. "Well, I reckon he'd better go through with it then. It won't hurt him. It'll do him good." He paused a moment, then, "Are you still feeling mad with me?" he asked.

Her eyes fell before his. She did not understand his tone. It held a note of gentleness which she had not heard since the day of Bunny's operation. It was almost as if he were pleading with her, striving to pierce through her resentment. She found it very difficult to reply.

"I--don't want to quarrel with you, Jake," she said at last, with an effort.

Jake's intent look deepened, became for a moment almost intolerable. Then it passed. He even faintly smiled, albeit his smile had a touch of irony. "All right, my girl," he said. "Don't you worry any about that! I like you for being open with me. It's an almighty mistake to keep things back."

He moved to the window with the words, stood a moment or two as if to give her an opportunity to call him back, then, as she remained silent, went down the steps into the garden and passed out of sight round the house.

Maud was left with a stinging sensation of discomfiture that was compounded of doubt, indignation, and shame.

She was relieved to think he had not seen the letter, but she hated the impulse that had moved her to conceal it.

CHAPTER V

REBELLION

That letter from Saltash, written in French, contained the announcement of his approaching return. It was at her urgent written request that he had gone three months before. Somehow the very thought of him at the Castle had been intolerable after what had passed between them on the day of her return to her husband. But they had corresponded ever since. She could not refuse to receive and answer his letters. Her intimacy with Charlie was like a gem with many facets. He had an adroit fashion of flashing it before her hither and thither till, dazzled, she wondered if she had ever truly grasped its full value. Sometimes it seemed to her that it had been cut from the very bedrock of friendship, and at such times the realization of the sympathy that ever pulsed between them was a pure joy to her. At other times, remembering the strange impulses of the man, his sudden gusts of passion, swift misgiving would assail her and she would tell herself that she was making a terrible mistake. And then again she would catch a glimpse of his careless, butterfly temperament, and her doubts would vanish almost in spite of her. How could she take him seriously? His gay inconsequence made the hare notion seem ridiculous. They were pals, no more. True, he had offered to help her; but, knowing him through and through as she did, he was the last man in the world to whom she would really turn for help. And since she was so sure of herself, what had she to fear? Charlie was before all things a gentleman. There was nothing coarse or brutal about him. In his own words, where women were concerned, he did not take; he offered. For that very reason he was the harder to resist.

But she knew him to be safe. That was the foundation of her confidence. She had no fear of him; he had always set her at her ease. Without virtue he might be, yet was he not without a certain code of honour. He tempted; therein lay the subtle attraction of the man; but he never compelled. He was selfish; oh yes, he was selfish, but he was also strangely, whimsically kind at heart. In all her experience of him, she had never found him merciless.

And so she did not see why she should wholly deny herself the friendship which seemed to her to be the only good thing left in her life now. She had not wanted to see him, but now that he wrote to announce his return she found that she was glad. The first meeting with him might be a little difficult, but Charlie always knew how to deal with difficulties. He understood her; it would not be really hard. They would be friends again--just friends.

She slipped the letter away with a smile. He always allowed himself a little more latitude when he wrote in French. It was but natural. It meant nothing, she knew. How could anyone take him really seriously? His soul was as elusive as thistledown. It was only in the realms of music that she ever really saw his soul.

He did not say on what day he would return. She wondered if Jake knew, wondered if she could induce Bunny to ask him without betraying any interest in the subject herself. She was a little afraid of Bunny. His shrewdness embarrassed her. It was like a microscope, discovering things that otherwise would have escaped notice. She did not want to come under that microscope very often. There were some parts of her existence that would not bear it. She suspected that Bunny was already beginning to find out. She was sure that he was aware of a lack of sympathy between herself and Jake, and she wished she could have kept it from him.

With regard to her mother's affairs also, she would have been glad if the boy had not been drawn into the discussion. It was characteristic of Mrs. Sheppard to fling her burden upon the first shoulder that offered, but Maud was fashioned otherwise, and she wanted Bunny to throw off his precocities and become like other boys. The thought of his education was beginning to weigh upon her. She wanted to talk about it to Jake, but somehow she did not know how to broach the subject. She wondered if she should write to Uncle Edward, but hesitated to do so. Letters were never satisfactory.

She was pondering this matter as she undressed that night when a sudden thought struck her--a thought that darted through her like a flash, leaving a shining trail of possibilities behind. Why should they not accept the old man's invitation and go to him for a little while? He would be glad to see them, she was sure; and she would be glad--oh, unspeakably glad--to get away for a time. Face to face with him, she might even plead for her mother. She would infinitely rather be under an obligation to him than to Charlie.

The idea drew her more and more. She wondered it had not occurred to her before. In the end, finding it still early, she sat down at the table and began to scribble a hasty note. She determined that she would not tell Jake until Uncle Edward's reply reached her. She felt convinced that it would contain the invitation she was soliciting.

Feverishly she penned her appeal. Would he invite them to spend a few days? Bunny was well, or nearly so; she herself was feeling the heat, and would like a change. Jake--, no, she found she could not mention Jake. With trembling fingers she brought the note to an end.

She had scarcely finished addressing the envelope when she heard Jake's step on the stairs. Startled, she caught up letter and writing-case, and pushed them into a drawer. He seldom retired late, but she had not expected him so early as this. Swiftly she turned, shut the door that led into his room, blew out her lamp and slipped into bed.

But he did not pass on to his own room. He stopped at the door of hers, paused a second, then quietly opened it. She heard the creak of his gaiters as he entered. He had a candle in one hand; he put up the other to shield it from the draught, and the door blew gently to behind him.

Maud leaned against her pillow and watched him. Her heart was beating very fast. She wondered if he had heard her hasty movements of the past few moments.

He came to her side and set down his candle. "Say, Maud," he said, "I saw your light go out, so I guessed you weren't asleep."

Maud's eyes, blue-black and sombre, looked up to his. "What do you want?" she asked him coldly.

He stood squarely beside her. "I wanted just to speak to you," he said, "and I thought if I waited to undress, maybe you'd be asleep."

With the words he sat down rather heavily in the chair by her side, and there fell a silence, a dragging, difficult silence. Maud's heart was beating very fast. Had he come to talk about that letter from Saltash? Was he about to make a scene?