The Hundredth Chance

But she saw these details but vaguely. That voice she had heard had made all else of no importance. It had spoken close to her, but it was not in the room with her, and she could not for the moment tell whence it had come. She could only listen with caught breath for more, listen with starting eyes fixed on the stuffed skin of a cobra poised on a small table near as if ready to strike. She even fancied for a moment that the thing was alive, and then realized with a passing relief that it had been converted into the stem of a reading-lamp.

Again the voice came. It was counting slowly, with the utmost regularity.

But it was not allowed to continue. Saltash's voice; quick and imperious, broke in upon it. "Be quiet, you damn' fool! If you murder me, you'll only be sorry afterwards. I have told you I don't know where she is."

"You have told me a lie, my lord." Grim as fate came the answer, and following it a movement that turned her sick with fear.

She sprang to her feet with a wild cry. "Jake! Jake! I am here! Jake, – come to me!"

She threw herself against the panelling of the wall in a frenzy of terror, and beat upon it fiercely, frantically. There was a door behind her, but instinct warned her that it did not lead whither she desired to go. It was through the panelling that those sinister words had reached her.

But it resisted her wild efforts. She beat in vain. "Oh, Jake!" she cried again, and broke into agonized sobbing. "Jake, where are you?"

And then she heard his voice again, short this time and commanding. "Let her out, my lord! The game is up."

"Trust a woman to give it away!" said Saltash, and laughed a cold, hard laugh.

The panelling against which she stood suddenly yielded, slid back. She found herself standing on the threshold of the music-room, close to one of the carved fireplaces. And there, face to face with her, one hand thrust deep into his breeches-pocket, stood her husband, stood Jake. All her life she was to remember the look he wore.

Saltash was nearer still, but she scarcely saw him. She went past him, sobbing, inarticulate, unnerved. She stretched out trembling, beseeching hands to the man in whose eyes she read the lust of murder. She cried aloud to him in her agony!

"Come away! Oh, come away! Be merciful this once-only this once! Jake! Jake!"

She reached him, she clung to him; she would have knelt to him. But he thrust his left arm around her, forcibly holding her up.

He did not speak to her, did not, she believed, so much as look at her. His eyes were fixed with a terrible intensity upon the man beyond her. His attitude was strained and unyielding. The untamed ferocity of the wilds was in every line of him, in every tense muscle. Ruthlessness, lawlessness, savagery unshackled, fiercely eager, beat in every pulse, every sinew of his frame. She felt as if she were holding back a furious animal from his prey, as if at any moment he would burst free, and rend and tear till the demon that possessed him was satisfied.

But she clung to him faster and faster, seeking to pinion the murderous right hand that was thrust so deeply away out of her reach. She heard another laugh from Saltash, but she did not dare to turn. And then came a sound like the click of a spring-trap.

The tension went suddenly out of Jake. He relaxed and with a certain cowboy roughness took his hand from his pocket and grasped her by the shoulders. His eyes came from beyond her, and looked straight into hers. And she knew without turning her head that her own hour of reckoning had come. They were alone.

For many, many seconds he looked at her so with a red-hot glow in his eyes that seemed as though it would burn its way to her most secret soul. She endured it with a desperate courage. If he had caught her by the throat she would not have flinched. But his hold, though insistent, was without violence. And at last very, very slowly he let her go.

"I guess that ends it," he said.

"What do you mean?" Through quivering lips she asked the question. She felt as if an icy wind had suddenly caught her. She was cold from head to foot.

He made a slight gesture as of one indicating the obvious, and turned away. She saw his square figure moving away from her, and a terrible fear went through her. Her very heart felt frozen within her. She tried to speak, to utter his name; but her throat only worked spasmodically, making no sound.

He reached the door, opened it, and then-as if he could not help it-he looked back at her. And in that moment with frantic effort she burst the bonds that held her. She threw out her arms in wild entreaty.

"Jake!" she gasped. "Jake! Don't-don't leave me!"

He stopped, but he did not return. There was a curious look on his face. He seemed to stand irresolute.

She began to move towards him, but found herself trembling too much to walk. She tottered to the mantel-piece for support. But she still looked towards him, still tremulously entreated him.

"Jake, you-you don't understand! You never will understand if you leave me now. I'm going under-I'm going under! Jake, – save me!"

She bowed her head suddenly upon her hands, and stood quivering. She had made her last piteous effort to escape from the toils that held her. Nothing but a miracle could save her now. Nothing but the power of that love that dieth not.

Seconds passed. She thought that he had gone, had abandoned her to her fate, left her to the mercy of a man who would compass her ruin. And she wondered in her agony if she could muster sufficient strength to flee from that evil place and snatch her own deliverance down on the dark, lonely shore, where no one could ever drag her back again.

And then very suddenly a hand touched her, closed upon her arm. It was as if a current of electricity ran through her. She turned with a great start.

Jake's eyes, very level, quite inscrutable, looked straight into hers. "I guess we'll be getting along home," he said.

His hand urged her steadily, indomitably. He led her speechless from the room, supporting her when she faltered, but never hesitating or suffering her to pause.

They came out at the top of the great, branching staircase. The hall below them was lighted only by the soft glow that surrounded Saltash's favourite statue. The hand that held Maud's arm tightened to a grip. They went down the stairs together, and passed the tragic figure by.

As they moved down the long hall, a man stepped suddenly out from behind the statue, and looked after them with eyes that shone derisively. He did not utter a word, and his movements were without sound.

Neither of the two was aware of his presence. Only as they paused at the outer door, Maud glanced back and saw the arc of light about the statue vanish.

She uttered a quick exclamation, for it was as if the marble itself had come to life and fled from her gaze. And then she was aware of Jake's hands fastening her waterproof about her, and she forgot all but her longing to escape-to escape.

A few seconds more, and she heard the heavy door shut behind them. She was out in the gathering darkness with Jake, and the rain was beating in her face.

It was then that her weakness came back to her, a sense of terrible exhaustion that gave her the feeling of dragging heavy chains. She fought against it desperately, dreading every instant lest he should misinterpret her dragging steps and leave her. An overwhelming drowsiness was creeping over her, numbing all her facilities. She struggled to fling it off, but could not. It crowded upon her like an evil dream. She staggered, stumbled, almost fell.

Jake stopped. "Reckon you're tired," he said.

She answered him with a rush of tears. "I can't help it! Really, I can't help it! I-I believe I must be ill."

She tried to cling to his supporting arm, but her hands slipped weakly away. She felt herself sinking, sinking into a black sea of oblivion, and knew it was futile to struggle any longer.

Yet a vague sense of comfort came to her with the consciousness of his arms tightening around her. She gave herself to him like a tired child. She even feebly thanked him as he lifted her.

And then for a long, long space she knew nothing. Billows and billows of unfathomable nothingness were over her, under her, all about her. Sometimes her drugged brain stirred as if about to register an impression, but no actual impression reached it. The things of earth had faded utterly away. She was as one vaguely floating in a nebulous cloud through which now and then, now and then, a dim star shone for a moment and then went out.

After a time even this slender link was snapped. She went into a deeper darkness, and there for awhile her troubled wanderings were stayed. She slept as she had never slept before. It was as if for a long, long space she ceased to be…

Out of the silence at last came a fearful dream. Out of a great emptiness she entered another world, a world of demon shapes and demon voices, of faces that jeered and vanished, a world of terrible, outer darkness, in which she seemed to be bereft of all things, to stand as it were naked and alone. She dreamed that the statue had come to life indeed, and behold, it was herself! In horror unutterable, in shame that was agony she went her appointed way, – a fallen woman who could never rise again.

And ever a voice within seemed urging her to soar, to soar; but she could not. Wings had been given her, but she could not use them. One wing had been broken, how she knew not. Perhaps it was in beating against the bars of a cage. Some such struggle hovered vaguely in her memory, but all struggling was over now. All hope of escape was dead.

Again the demon-faces came all about her, demon-hands clutched at her, pulling her down. And every face was the face of Charlie Burchester, every hand wore the ring which twice over he had given to her. And still she heard his laugh, that cruel, bitter laugh with which he had left her alone in the music-room with Jake.

At last she knew that she cried aloud to die, but instantly she realized the futility of her prayer. There was no God to hear her in this awful place. And there was no Death.

Yet it was then that it seemed to her that a door was opened somewhere very far above her, and a gracious breath of purity came down. Crushed as she was, over-whelmed with evil, grossly besmirched and degraded, it came to her like a puff of morning wind from the clean, open spaces of the earth. She turned her face upwards. She gasped and opened her eyes.

And then all in a moment the dreadful vision passed away from her, and she saw Jake's face gazing, gazing into hers.

CHAPTER XX

DELIVERANCE

She stared at him vaguely for a space half in wonder, half in fear. His look was very intent, but it was without anger. She wondered hazily what had happened, why he was watching her so.

"Where am I?" she murmured at length.

He made answer very quietly, as if he had expected the question. "You are here in the old parlour with me. I brought you here."

"Oh?" She gazed around her doubtfully. Her brain felt clogged and dull. "Have I been away then?" she said. "Where is Bunny?"

He rose and moved across the room to the fire. "Bunny is at school," he said, and stooped to lift off a saucepan. "Yes, you have been away. You came back from Liverpool yesterday."

"Ah!" She gave a quick gasp. The mists were beginning to clear a little. She became dimly conscious that there was something terrible behind. She raised herself on her elbow, but was instantly assailed by a feeling of sickness so intense that she sank back again.

She was lying with closed eyes when Jake came back to her. He bent over her with a steaming cup in his hand.

"Try a little of this!" he said.

She looked up with an effort. "I don't think I can. Jake, what has happened? Am I ill again?"

"Guess you'll remember presently if you drink this," he said.

She drew back shuddering. "What is it? Not brandy?"

"No. It's beef-tea." He sat down beside her with a resolute air, and she suddenly realized that resistance was useless.

He was very gentle with her, feeding her spoonful by spoonful; and gradually as she swallowed it she revived. Her brain stirred and seemed to awake. Memory came crowding back. Long ere the cup was finished, that last scene in the music-room hung before her like a lurid picture from which she could not tear her gaze.

Quietly Jake set aside the cup. "Maybe you'll sleep better now," he said.

She lifted her heavy eyes to his. "No, I don't want to sleep any longer. Jake, you-you are not going away!"

He seemed on the point of rising. She stretched out a beseeching hand and laid it on his arm.

"Jake, I-I want to tell you something. Will you listen to me? Please, will you listen to me?"

His arm grew tense as a stretched wire under her touch. She thought there was a glitter of hardness in the red-brown eyes as he said, "There is no call for you to tell me anything unless you wish."

She sat up slowly, compelling herself to face him, "But I want you to-understand," she said.

He laid his hand abruptly upon hers with a gesture that almost seemed as if he would restrain her. "You needn't fret any about that," he said. "Reckon I-do understand."

The vital force of the man was in that free grip of his. She looked to see the awful flare of savage passion leap back into his eyes. But she looked in vain. His eyes baffled her. They seemed to hold her back like a sword in the hand of a practised fencer.

The words she had thought to utter died upon her lips. There was to be no reckoning then. And yet she could not feel reassured. He did not look like a man who would forego his revenge.

"What-what are you going to do?" she faltered at last.

"I shouldn't want to know too much if I were you," said Jake, softly drawling. "Not at this stage anyway."

His hand still held hers. He looked her hard and straight in the face, and she was conscious of something fiery, something elementary, wholly uncivilized, behind his look. There was a suggestion of violence about him. She saw him as a man tracking his enemy through an endless wilderness, breasting mighty rivers, hewing his way through pathless forests, conquering every obstacle with fixed determination, mercilessly riding him down.

She braced herself and rose, drawing her hand free. Her head still swam, but she controlled herself resolutely. She stood before him like a prisoner upon trial.

"Jake," she said, "I am going to tell you something that will make you terribly angry; but it's something that you must know."

She paused, but he sat in silence, grimly watching her. She found her resolution wavering and gripped it with all her strength.

"When I came back here from Liverpool, it was not-not to see my mother as I gave you to understand. It was to-to-" She faltered under his look, found she could not continue, and suddenly threw out her hands in piteous appeal. "Jake, don't make it impossible for me to tell you!"

He rose also. They stood face to face. "Are you going to tell me that you lied to me?" he said.

She drew back from him sharply. The question felt like a blow. "I am telling you the truth now," she said.

"And for whose sake?" He flung the words brutally, as a man goaded beyond endurance. But the moment they were uttered he drew a hard breath as though he would recall them. He came to her, took her by the shoulders. "You take my advice!" he said. "Leave the whole miserable business alone! You've been tricked-badly tricked. You have appealed to me to protect you, and that's enough. I don't want any more than that. I reckon I understand the situation better than you think. You are trying to tell me that it was your original intention to elope with Saltash. Well, maybe it was. But you had given up the notion before you went to him at the Castle, and he knew you had given it up. If he hadn't known it, he wouldn't have taken the trouble to drug you. It's an old device-old as the hills. He's probably done it a score of times, and with more success than he had to-day. Yes, that makes you sick. I guessed it would. And that's what he's going to answer to me for, – what he'll ask your pardon for on his knees before I've done with him."

"Oh no, Jake, no!" She broke in upon him with a cry of consternation. "For pity's sake, no! Jake, I can't bear it! I cannot bear it! Jake, I beseech you, leave him alone now! Oh, do leave him alone! You-you can punish me in any other way. I'll bear anything but that-anything but that!"

Piteously she besought him, shaken to the soul by the grim purport of his speech. She did not flinch from him now. Rather she appealed to him as one in sore straits, pouring out her entreaty with all that remained of her quivering strength.

And her words made an impression upon him of which she was instantly aware. His hands still held her, but the tension went out of his grasp. He looked at her with eyes that were no longer hard, eyes that held a dawning compassion.

"Reckon you're the last person that deserves punishing," he said at length, and in his voice she fancied she caught an echo of the old frank kindliness. "You've been the victim all through. Reckon you've suffered more than enough already."

She hid her face from him with a sudden rush of tears. Something in his words pierced straight to her heart.

"You don't know me!" she sobbed. "Oh, you don't know me!"

She drew herself away and sank down in the chair by the fire where once she had poured out all her troubles to him.

He did not kneel beside her now. He stood in silence, and as he stood his hands slowly clenched and he thrust them into his pockets.

He spoke at last, but it was with a restraint that made the words sound cold. "Maybe I know you better than you think. I know you've cared for the wrong man ever since I first met you. Guess I've known it all along, and it hasn't made things extra easy for either of us, more especially as he was utterly unworthy of you. But you're not to blame for that. It's just human nature. And you'd never have fallen in love with me anyway." He paused a moment. "I don't see you're to blame any for that either," he said, and she knew by his voice that he had turned away from her. "Anyway, I'm not blaming you. And if-if punishing Saltash means punishing you too-well, – even though he's a skunk and a blackguard-I reckon-I'll let him go."

He was moving to the door with the words. They came half-strangled as if something within rebelled fiercely against their utterance.

He reached the door and stopped with his back to her.

"You'd better get your mother to join you here to-morrow," he said. "I'm sleeping with The Hundredth Chance to-night. He's been below par lately, and I'm kind of worried about him."

He opened the door. He was on the point of squarely passing through when quickly, tremulously, she stopped him.

"Jake, please-please wait a moment! I must-I must-Jake!"

He closed the door again and turned round, but he did not come back or even look at her. There was a hint of doggedness about him, almost as though he waited against his will.

She stood up. Something in his attitude made it difficult, painfully difficult, to speak. She strove for self-control. "You-are going to-to forgive me?" she said quiveringly.

He glanced up momentarily, a grim flicker as of a smile about his mouth. "For what you haven't done, and never could do? It would be mighty generous of me, wouldn't it?" he said.

She moved a step towards him. "I-might have done it. I-so nearly-did it," she said, in distress. "I don't deserve any kindness from you, Jake. I-don't know how to thank you for it."

He made a sharp gesture with one hand. "If I've given you more than bare justice," he said, "put it to my credit! Make allowance for me next time!"

Something rose in her throat. She stood for a moment battling with it. Bare justice! Had she ever given him so much as that? And he rewarded her with this blind generosity that would not even be aware of her sin.

Trembling, she drew nearer to him. She stretched out a quivering hand. "Jake," she said, and the tears were running down her face. "I-will try-to be worthy of your-goodness to me."

He took the hand, gripping it with a force that made her wince. "Shucks, my girl!" he said, with a gruffness oddly uncharacteristic of him. "That's nothing. Be worthy of yourself!"

And with that abruptly he let her go, turned and left her. She knew by the finality of his going that she would see him no more that night.

CHAPTER XXI

THE POISON FRUIT

It was curiously like the old days to see Jake enter the parlour on the following morning with Chops the red setter at his heels. But for Chops' delighted welcome of her, Maud could almost have felt that the intervening weeks had been no more than a dream.

She sat in her accustomed place and fondled him. Them, as Jake passed her, she put out a detaining hand.

"Good morning, Jake!"

Her face was burning; yet she lifted it. He stood a second, only a second, behind her chair; then bent and touched her forehead with his lips.

"You're down early," he said. "Have you slept?"

She nodded, feeling her agitation subside with thankfulness. "How is-The Hundredth Chance?"

Jake went to the fire. "I think he'll be all right; but I won't trust anyone else to look after him. By the way, here's a letter for you!"

He held it out to her behind his back. She took it. Her fingers closed upon a crest.

She got up sharply, went to his side, and with a passionate movement dropped it straight into the flames.

"Shall we have breakfast now?" she said.

"Here's another letter!" said Jake.

The grim smile was hovering about his mouth; but he made no comment whatever upon her action.

She took the second letter. "Is this all?"

"That's all," said Jake.

"It's from Uncle Edward." She opened it, and began to read.

Suddenly she glanced up and found his eyes upon her. They fell instantly.

"You can read it too," she said, and held the letter so that he might share it with her.

He stood at her shoulder and read.

It was a very brief epistle, written in evident distress of mind.

"MY DEAR GRAND-NIECE,

"Will you permit me to tender to you my very humble apology for the gross behaviour by which I drove you from the shelter of my roof? The fact that you have returned to your husband's house convinces me of the base injustice of my suspicions. I ought to be old enough to know that a woman cannot be judged by her friends. If you find that you possess sufficient magnanimity to extend a free pardon to a very lonely and penitent old sinner, will you of your charity return-for however brief a period-and give him an opportunity to demonstrate his penitence?

"Yours humbly and hopefully,

"EDWARD WARREN."

"Oh, poor old man!" Maud looked up quickly. "But how did he know I was here?"

"I wired to him of your safe arrival," Jake said, "in reply to a wire from him which I didn't read. I thought he might come posting down here if I didn't."

"Poor old man!" she said again. And after a moment, "Thank you, Jake."

He looked at her. "For keeping my word? I generally do that. Say, what are you going to do?"

"I'll write to him," she said.

He moved round to his place at the breakfast-table. "You're not wanting to go back then?"

She hesitated.

"What is it?" he said. "Money? I can let you have some if you're short of it."

She flushed. "No, Jake, no! I think-I think I'll stay here for the present. I will make him understand."

"Please yourself!" said Jake, and opened the morning paper.

A faint sense of disappointment went through her. She had fancied her decision would have evoked approval if not open pleasure from him. She poured out his coffee in silence.

As she brought it to him, he glanced up at her. "Don't stay on my account if you feel you'd sooner go!" he said. "I get along very well alone."

She stiffened ever so slightly. "Thank you," she said. "I'll think about it."

Jake fell to work upon his breakfast with his usual business-like rapidity. She did not attempt to keep pace with him. Somehow the idea that he really wished her to go had robbed her of all desire to eat.

After a time he glanced across at her again. "Are you going down to see your mother?"

She answered him somewhat listlessly. "Yes, I suppose so."