The Hundredth Chance

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."