The Hundredth Chance

Up in the room above, Maud lay, white and still, her dark hair all about her, her eyes closed, an aloofness that was almost like the shadow of Death wrapping her round.

Mrs. Wright sat by her side, very alert and watchful. It was growing late, but she had long ago signified her intention of remaining for the night. Very practical and sure of herself was Mrs. Wright. She and Dr. Capper were already firm allies.

The night was close, and the windows were flung wide. The door into the adjoining room was wide open also, and a faint current of air eddied about the room, stirring now and again the chintz hangings of the old-fashioned bed, rustling occasionally the white muslin curtains at the window. The wash of the sea came up vaguely from the dark distance. It sounded like the far splashing of mighty oars.

Near at hand, down in the dim garden there came sometimes the mysterious movements of some small creature creeping stealthily through the bushes, and once or twice down in the orchard an owl hooted its weird, half-human signal.

Mrs. Wright did not like the voice of the owl. She shivered whenever she heard it; but Maud lay as one oblivious of all things, drifting, drifting, on a great lonely sea on which no sun ever rose or star shone.

Someone came into the adjoining room and stood in the open doorway. Mrs. Wright looked swiftly round.

Jake's eyes met hers, he made a brief sign for silence. Then, without sound, he crept in and stood against the bed-curtain, looking down mutely at his wife's still face.

Several seconds of complete silence followed, then, quite suddenly, as though someone had called her, she opened her eyes wide and turned her head.

He drew back behind the curtain on the instant ere she could catch sight of him, standing motionless as a statue, not seeming so much as to breathe.

A troubled frown gathered on Maud's face; she made a restless movement.

At once Mrs. Wright bent to her from the other side of the bed. "What is it, my dearie? You're not in pain?"

Maud was panting a little. She tried to raise herself, but was gently checked by a motherly hand. She took and held it with trembling fingers.

"Mrs. Wright, – please-you won't go!" she begged.

"Surely not, my dear." Stoutly Mrs. Wright made answer. "I'm going to take care of you all night long."

But Maud was not wholly reassured. She clung faster to the plump, soothing hand. "If Jake comes in, he-he will want to send you away. Don't let him, Mrs. Wright! I-I can't be alone with Jake to-night."

She was becoming agitated, but Mrs. Wright gently hushed her. "You shan't be, dearest. Jake wants me to be with you to-night. He is very unhappy about you, is poor Jake. Dear knows you needn't be afraid of him."

"Oh, how can I help it after what he did to Charlie? Did you see? Did you see? Is Charlie very badly hurt?"

"Charlie?" questioned Mrs. Wright.

"Charlie Burchester-Lord Saltash. Didn't you see what-what Jake did to him? Oh, it was terrible-terrible!" A great shudder shook her at the remembrance of what she had seen.

"My dear! My dear!" Mrs. Wright leaned to her, smoothing her pillow. "Why, what a mistake to be sure! And to think you've put yourself out like this all for nothing! Dear, dear, dear, to be sure! That wasn't Lord Saltash, darling. Whatever made you think it was? It was just one of them pesky stable-boys as he was giving a jacketing to; and richly he deserved it, I'll be bound."

"Oh, Mrs. Wright!" Maud's voice was suddenly eager. "Are you sure? Are you sure?"

Her dark eyes, wide and beseeching, were raised in earnest questioning to her old friend's kindly face. She clung to the sustaining hand.

"My dear, of course I'm sure. I came along behind you. I saw it all. It was that young dog, Dick Stevens. I know him well, never did like him; and I'm sure he deserved all he got, probably more. Now you mustn't worry yourself any longer. Leave it all to old Mother Wright and go to deep! Will you, my dearie?"

"You're sure Charlie is safe?" Maud said quiveringly. "He-he was coming-don't tell Jake! – to see me to-day. But he didn't come. And I thought-I thought-Oh, are you sure Jake isn't listening?"

She broke off in sudden terror, starting up as if she would tear aside the curtain. But Mrs. Wright was swift to interpose.

"My dear, you mustn't upset yourself like this. It's very wrong. What if Jake did know? Surely he would understand. He would know that there could be no reason why Lord Saltash should not drop in and see you in a friendly way now and then. Didn't you tell me you were old friends?"

"Oh, you don't know Jake!" moaned Maud. "He is so terrible-so terrible. He would shoot Charlie-if he knew!"

"My dear!" Mrs. Wright was genuinely shocked. She threw a sharp glance towards the curtain. "But there is no reason! There can be no reason! You're talking wildly. You can't know what you're saying."

Maud had sunk back upon her pillows, white-lipped, exhausted. "There is a reason," she whispered. "There is a reason! I love Charlie. I have loved him for years. And Jake-Jake would kill him if he knew. He does know-a little. That's why-why I am so-afraid. Oh, I wish-I wish I were-dead!"

She ceased to speak, and a dreadful pallor crept up over her face. Mrs. Wright, anxiously watching, saw that she was slipping into unconsciousness, and across the bed she issued a sharp command.

"Quick, Jake! Go and fetch the doctor!"

The shadow behind the curtain vanished. Mrs. Wright reached for a fan. The heat was intense. The darkness hung before the window like a pall. And the good woman trembled a little in spite of herself. She felt as if the Angel of Death had suddenly entered the quiet room to share her watch.

CHAPTER XII

REFUGE

"So you've come to see your old uncle at last! Dear me, you've been a precious long time about it. Tut, tut, child, what a clothes-peg to be sure! Sit down. Sit down! You don't look fit to stand."

Old Uncle Edward pulled out a chair from his dining-room table and almost thrust his visitor into it. Then he turned, seized a decanter, and poured some wine into a large old-fashioned glass goblet.

"You drink this! It's good stuff-older than you are. It'll turn to blood in your veins, and a good thing too. You look as if you hadn't got more than a thin half-pint in the whole of your constitution. There! That's better. Don't be afraid of it! Don't be afraid of it! Take another dose before you start talking! I know what you women are once your tongues get going. Take another dose, I say! You're looking half-dead. What have they been doing to you? Starving you?"

His grey whiskers seemed to bristle with indignation as he asked the question; his eyes glared at her like the eyes of a terrier on the hunt. Maud sat in the red velvet chair with a feeling of vast unreality. It was true that she was feeling almost too weak to stand, and her weakness imparted to her an odd desire to cry. The gruff kindliness of her reception made her feel like a lost child brought home to a kind but somewhat severe parent. She drank the wine in almost unbroken silence.

Uncle Edward stood looking on, sternly critical. "So you've been ill, have you? I can see you have. Poor girl, poor girl! Well, we must see what we can do, to get you strong again. And you haven't brought your young brother along? How is he? Quite cured?"

"Yes, quite cured." Maud put out a hesitating hand and somewhat shyly slipped it into her uncle's. "He is quite cured," she said, forcing a difficult smile. "And he would have come too-it was so good of you to ask him-only it is September, and the school will soon be opening; and it seemed a pity not to let him go at the beginning of the term. We all thought so."

Uncle Edward grunted as if not wholly pleased. But his old knotted fingers closed very kindly about her own. "So your good husband is going to pay for his schooling, is he? That's very generous of him-very generous, indeed. He's a man of property, is he, – your Jake?"

A quick flush rose in Maud's upturned face; she averted it swiftly. "I don't know. He seems to be able to do anything he likes. He-he is very kind to Bunny."

Uncle Edward grunted again. "Well, and how do you amuse yourself, now that the all-important Bunny is off your hands? I suppose you play the busy housewife, do you?"

Maud uttered a faint laugh as forced as her smile had been. "Oh no. I don't do anything. There is an old woman who cooks and does everything. I really can't think of anything that I do. Of course lately-just lately-I haven't been able to do things. But everything goes very well without me."

Uncle Edward squeezed her hand and released it. "You've too humble an opinion of yourself, my dear. Most women get uppish when they marry. I don't as a rule like young married women for that reason. They think all the world stands still to admire 'em. But you-well, you're different. You and I will get on together."

He smiled upon her so suddenly and so genially that she felt as if a burst of sunshine had warmed her tired soul. She lifted her face with a gesture that was half-instinctive, and he stooped at once and kissed it.

"You're a very pretty young woman," he said, patting her cheek paternally. "At least you might be, if you weren't so painfully thin. You've been very ill, I can see. You're hardly fit to travel alone now. Why didn't you tell me? I'd have come and fetched you if I'd known."

"Oh, I didn't travel alone," she said. "I had Dr. Capper with me. I shouldn't have come so soon but for him. He was going to the docks, and he offered to bring me and take care of me. He knew how dreadfully I wanted to get away."

"And who may Dr. Capper be?" Uncle Edward demanded grimly.

"He is a very great American surgeon-a friend of Jake's. He was with us when-when I began to be ill. And-and I have been in his hands ever since." Maud spoke haltingly. "He is a very kind man," she said. "I don't think I should have lived if it hadn't been for him. He made me live."

"Oh, he's one of your quacks, is he?" Uncle Edward spoke with a mighty contempt. "Well, I thank Heaven I've never called in a doctor all my life, and I consider it's one of the chief reasons why I've lived so long. People think a deal too much about their health nowadays. The world is getting neurotic. Plenty of fresh air and exercise, and good wholesome food. That's my motto. No beastly doctors' messes for me. Now that man of yours, he's a healthy animal, I'll be bound. I liked the looks of him, and the ways of him too. A bit off-hand, but straight and clean. He's been good to you, has he?"

He shot the question with an abruptness that found Maud wholly unprepared. She made an involuntary movement of shrinking.

"Oh, that's it, is it?" said Uncle Edward. "He's been high-handed, I gather. Just what I expected. If a man doesn't make love to a woman before he marries her, he'll never be bothered to after. Silly fool! Silly fool! Still, you might have done worse. Don't take him too seriously, my dear! Tip him off his perch if he crows too loud!"

Maud smiled her faint sad smile and rose. "I am not complaining of anyone, Uncle Edward. You mustn't jump to conclusions. And you mustn't call Dr. Capper a quack, for he has healed Bunny. Now, may I please go up to my room? I know you are busy, and I shall be glad to rest for a little if I may."

"Go by all means!" said Uncle Edward. "You're to do exactly as you like in this house. Consider the whole show at your disposal! Come and go exactly as you will!" He drew her to him abruptly and kissed her a second time. "Be happy, my dear!" he said. "Be happy! You won't be young always, and there's not much fun to be had when you're old-specially if you're alone. But you'll never be that, please Heaven. You'll have your children and your children's children growing up around you-even when you're old."

He paused, holding her, for Maud had suddenly hidden her face against his shoulder. "I can't look forward-like that," she whispered. "I often think-that I'd rather-live alone."

There was a pathos in her words that bordered upon tragedy. Uncle Edward thrust a protecting arm about her, rasping his throat as if something had made it smart. "Tut, tut!" he said. "You wouldn't enjoy it for long. There's precious little fun in the lonely life, I can tell you, for I know. I sit here on a Sunday and listen to the quiet till even the racket of a dog-fight would be welcome. We're all the same, I expect; wanting what we haven't got instead of making the best of what we have. I should think the Almighty must smile sometimes at the very contrariness of us."

He patted her shoulder as she lifted her head, looking at her with his keen grey eyes that held humour as well as sympathy.

"You'll have plenty of solitude in this establishment, anyhow," he said. "You can soak yourself in it all day long. There's a library that may amuse you, but that's all I can offer in the way of entertainment."

"Oh, I don't want entertainment," Maud assured him.

"You're singularly unlike your mother," was Uncle Edward's comment.

He did not ask her how her mother was faring, and she did not feel that the moment for speaking of her affairs had arrived. There was a touch of the formidable about the old man, all his kindness to her notwithstanding; and she felt too tired and ill for a difficult discussion. She wanted to lie down and rest for a long, long time.

This visit to Uncle Edward meant deliverance to her from a yoke too heavy to be borne. All through her illness she had yearned for, striven for, this escape; and because of this intense longing of hers, Capper, realizing that disappointment could but retard her progress, had set himself to further her desire.

Jake had offered no opposition to it. She had scarcely seen Jake since the night of the races, and not once had they been alone together. He had bidden her farewell that morning in Capper's presence briefly, almost coldly. There had not been even so much as a touch of hands between them at parting. He had got into the carriage after them, it was true, and had wrapped a rug about her knees; but he had done it without any personal solicitude or show of sympathy. Only at the very last, just as the train started, had he looked her in the face; and then as it were half against his will he had turned his eyes upon her.

And the memory of that look had gone with her throughout the journey; it was to haunt her for many days with a strange poignancy. For the red-brown eyes had held no mastery, no passion, only a dumb misery that had somehow gone to her heart. Why had he looked at her like that? Why was he so unhappy? Had he wanted to speak to her and failed for lack of words? Did he blame himself at all for what had happened? Did he desire in any way to make amends?

She had thought that to escape from his proximity would have been sheer relief, but now that she actually found herself free from all possibility of seeing him she was curiously perturbed by the thought of him. She had an odd little regret that she had not waved a hand to him as the train had borne her away. Just a friendly wave to show him that she harboured no resentment any longer! She might have done it, but for an overpowering shyness that had prevented any expression of farewell. Ill though she was, ill and weary, she could have made him that sign of friendship and been none the worse for it.

But reserve had held her back. It towered between them, a barrier more insurmountable than it had ever been before. And behind that reserve her whole being crouched in fear. For she had begun to tell herself over and over, over and over, like a panic-stricken child, that once away from him she could never return, never, face again that which she had faced.

Possibly he had begun to realize this also; possibly that was why he had looked at her so. Would he accept it as inevitable, she wondered? Would he, now that she had dragged herself free for a space from a bondage unendurable, be merciful and let her go altogether?

There was her promise. Oh yes, there was her promise. But might not that promise now be regarded as fulfilled? She had striven to do her duty, but it had proved too hard for her. Surely he must see that now! Surely he could not wish to hold her any longer against her will! The thought tortured her. She was like a hunted creature in a temporary refuge all exits from which were barred. If she made a final dash for freedom and the open, she would almost certainly be trapped.

Against her will the thought of Charlie went through her like a flaming sword; – Charlie who had sworn to be a friend to her-Charlie from whom she had not heard one single word since that awful day that she had awaited him in vain. No one had spoken to her of him, but that he was no longer at the Castle she was fairly convinced. He had, as it were, darted like a fire-fly into her ken and out of it again. But he would return. She was sure he would return. And when he came-what then? What then?

She did not ask herself why he had gone in that sudden fashion. It was so characteristic of the man that she saw nothing in it. That there had been no encounter between him and Jake she was now certain. Perhaps he had gone away for her sake in order to avert Jake's suspicion. His complete silence seemed to point to this. But it was quite useless to speculate. His ways were past understanding, so vague was her knowledge of the motive that governed his actions.

Meanwhile the problem of her mother's difficulties remained and was becoming more and more acute. The place had been mortgaged by Sheppard to Saltash's predecessor who had had a fancy for possessing the whole of Fairharbour; and the affairs of the landlord of the Anchor Hotel had been on the downward trend ever since. Occasionally a good season would arrest this decline for a space; but good seasons were becoming more and more rare. Giles Sheppard sought consolation too often in his cellars, and the management was no longer what it had been. Regular visitors were beginning to desert him in consequence, and the downward slope was rapidly becoming precipitous. Saltash's man of business was tightening his hold, and Sheppard's tenure of the place was becoming week by week more uncertain.

All of this Maud knew. Her mother was growing desperate. Her life, it seemed, had been nothing but a series of misfortunes, and this threatened to be the greatest of them all. Giles had deceived her outrageously, and now that he had secured her he cared for her no longer, save when his frequent libations rendered him tipsily amorous. Something of a vixenish nature was beginning to develop in Mrs. Sheppard. She was no more the gentle, plaintive creature she had been. She had once-and only once-approached Jake on the subject of financial help. Maud was unaware of this. Jake's reply had been perfectly courteous but uncompromisingly firm. He would give Mrs. Sheppard shelter, if she ever needed it, but he would have nothing to do with her husband or his affairs. Mrs. Sheppard had turned from him with a bitter look that had said more than words. And since that day she had steadily avoided all intercourse even with her daughter, declaring herself far too busy to get as far as the Stables.

Maud had not needed her; but none the less she was uneasy about her. She wished she knew where Charlie was; but she could not risk sending a letter to the Castle. There seemed to be nothing more she could do. She had begun to tell him of her trouble. He knew she needed help. Possibly even he might without further persuasion refrain from carrying matters to extremes. She had mentioned her mother to him. He must have understood. He would surely remember her distress.

And yet whenever her thoughts turned towards him the memory of Jake's words awoke within her, tormented her: "Trust him, and he will let you down, – sure." Why had he spoken so certainly? What did he know of Saltash and his ways? Was it possible-could it be-that he knew a side of Charlie's whimsical nature that had never been presented to her? Or was she so blind that she had failed to perceive it? It was true that in the old days he had failed her, he had wavered in his allegiance. But he had come back. He had come back. Always she remembered that. And because he had come back, her heart had warmed to him again, against her will, against her judgment, even in spite of every instinct. He belonged to her; that was the thought that flashed with such a burning intensity through her soul, the thought that refused utterly to be stifled or put away. He belonged to her and to none other, trifle or intrigue as he might. She was his fate. How often he had said it! And so he would return. She was sure he would return. And when he came-what then? Ah, what then?

CHAPTER XIII

THE LAMP BEFORE THE ALTAR

Life at Uncle Edward's was as he had predicted a very quiet affair indeed, but Maud slipped into it very easily, with a sense of comfort at her heart. It had a healing effect upon her. It stilled the fevered unrest of her spirit. It was all so well-ordered, so methodical. It soothed her, gave her a sense of normality and peace. Her physical strength came back to her with a rapidity that surprised herself, and with its return she found herself beginning to look upon the world with new eyes, found herself able to thrust dark thoughts and problems into the background, found herself at rest.

At Uncle Edward's suggestion, she wrote once a week to Jake. It was not easy to write, but when her uncle remarked that the young man would probably come tearing hell-for-leather across England to find out what was the matter if she didn't, she deemed it the wiser course to follow. Her letters were very brief, very formal, and the letters she received in reply were equally so. She was sure that they were penned in that cheerless little den of his that faced north and overlooked the stable-yard.

Bunny's letters were very few and far between. He was completely engrossed with the thought of the new life at school upon which he was about to enter, and it was very plain to Maud that he missed her not at all. The fact had ceased to hurt her as poignantly as when she first discovered it. Empty though her life was, she had learned by degrees to do without him. She was learning day by day to endure that emptiness with patience, for by some secret instinct she knew that it would not be her portion for ever.

Not far from her uncle's house, at the corner of a busy street, there stood an old grey church. The doors were always open, and one day she dropped in to rest.

It was the first visit of many. The place was infinitely peaceful, full of silence and soft shadows. A red light burned ever before the altar, and there were always beautiful flowers upon it, white lilies that never seemed to fade. She loved to draw near and smell the incense of those flowers, to gaze upon their shining purity, to feel with awe that the ground beneath her feet was holy.

She did not often turn her eyes upon the lamp that burned so still and red. It was always the flowers that drew her, the fragrance of them that comforted her soul.

Once, on a golden afternoon in mid-September, she came in late and stayed for the evening service; and then it was that, sitting in the body of the church, she found herself gazing, gazing, not at the flowers, but at the red, mystic flame that burned unflickering before the altar. It reminded her of something, that still red flame, – something that made her want to flee away and hide. It came between her and her prayers. It lay in wait for her in her dreams.

And yet when Sunday evening came and Uncle Edward prepared to sally forth alone, she put forward a tentative suggestion that she should accompany him.

He was delighted with the proposal, and as they fared forth together, his horny old hand was on her arm, making her glad that she was with him.

They sat near the door, and she was secretly relieved. In the glare of many lights all down the body of the church, the gleam of that one red light was swallowed up and she saw only the flowers. It was a beautiful service-a harmonious whole in which no individual note was struck. The man who officiated was young and very quiet, and not till he ascended the pulpit was she aware of anything out of the ordinary in his personality. It came to her then instantaneously, like a flash-light piercing her soul. He struck no attitudes, made no visible attempt to gain the attention of his audience; but it was fully his from the moment he began to speak. He preached, not as one delivering a discourse, but with the absolute simplicity of a man who speaks from his heart. "Let your lights be burning," were the words he first uttered, and then without preamble he began to talk of Love-Love Divine, Unconquerable, Eternal-Love that stoops but is never small-Love that soars, but is never out of reach. He spoke of the great warfare of the spirit, of the thousand difficulties holding back the soul. And he declared that Love was the one great weapon to meet and overcome them all. "We do not know the power of Love," he said. "We only know that it is invincible and undying-the very Essence of God." He spoke of spiritual blindness, and swept it aside as nought. "We may not all of us be able to believe; but we can all have Love. Nothing counts in the same way. However blind we may be, we can keep that one lamp burning in the darkness, burning in the desert, giving light to the outcast, and guiding the feet of the wanderers."