The Hundredth Chance

"She'll have to decide on something soon," he observed.

Maud bit her lip. The thought of going to her mother again was wholly repugnant to her. She marvelled that he did not see it.

"I am sure she won't come and live in this place," she said, after a moment,

"She can please herself," said Jake imperturbably.

That was to be his attitude then. They were to please themselves. He had withdrawn his control over her actions. An evil spirit suddenly whispered to her that he would even have left her in Saltash's keeping had she not called to him to deliver her. She shook off the poisonous thought; but it had been there. He had been kind-more than kind-to her. She forced herself to dwell upon his kindness. But his present indifference was even more obvious. He was engrossed in his work. He had thought only for his animals. Plainly it was a matter of small importance to him if she went or stayed.

He finished his breakfast and got up. "Well, so long!" he said. "I may not get back before nightfall. I have to go over to Graydown."

She scarcely acknowledged his words, and he did not wait for any acknowledgment. He took up his riding-whip and went out. Chops looked round at her doubtfully and followed him.

The door closed upon them. And suddenly Maud leaned upon the table and hid her face. This was to be her life then-the unspeakable dreariness of a loveless home. She had thought he loved her. She had thought! She had thought! And now she saw that it began and ended with mere kindness, and possibly a sense of duty. His passion for her-that fiery, all-mastering desire-had burnt itself out, and there was nothing left. An unutterable weariness came upon her. Oh, she was tired-she was tired of life!

It was then that in some mystic fashion that voice which she had once heard spoke again in her soul. "The spark is ours for the kindling-the power to love-the power to create love…"

Was she indeed capable of kindling this lamp in the desert? Out of those dead ashes of passion, could Love the Immortal indeed be made to rise?

She sat for a long time and pondered-pondered.

When, an hour later, she went down the hill to the town, the day was brilliant and the sky without a cloud. The sea was one glorious sheet of blue that seemed to stretch away limitless into Infinity.

Down by the quay a white yacht rocked at her moorings. She marked it with a throbbing heart. Why, oh why, did he linger? She yearned to thrust him for ever out of her life.

She reached the Anchor Hotel and entered. The bareness of the place smote cold upon the senses. She passed through it quickly and went up to her mother's room.

"Oh, my dear, at last!" Querulously Mrs. Sheppard greeted her. "Shut the door and come in! Charlie is watching for you. He will be over directly."

She was clad in an old pink wrapper, and kneeling before a half-filled trunk.

Maud stood still in the doorway, every spark of animation gone out of her. "Mother, what are you doing? What do you mean?"

Her voice sounded frozen and devoid of all emotion. Her fingers were clenched rigidly upon the handle of the door. She stared at her mother with eyes that were suddenly stony.

"What do you mean?" she repeated.

Mrs. Sheppard looked up at her smiling. "I mean, dear, that while you go for your Mediterranean cruise, I am going back to London. Dear me, why did I ever leave it? I have never been happy since. Fairharbour never suited me. I was saying so to Charlie only last night. He told me all about it, dear. Poor child, I hope that horrible cowboy person wasn't very cruel to you. I couldn't help letting out where you had gone yesterday afternoon. He came in only a few minutes after you left, and was so insistent. But, thank goodness, you've broken away. You had Charlie's letter, did you? I told him I was sure you would come directly you knew he was waiting. Dear Charlie! He really is very good. I quite see his point of view about the poor old 'Anchor,' and I really think it is all for the best. Giles is gone anyway, and I am released from any obligations in that direction. Charlie hated Giles for some reason, though I can't discover that he ever met him. Come in, child! Why do you stand there looking so tragic? Surely all's well that ends well?"

Maud turned stiffly as though her limbs had become automatic. "I am going," she said. "I am going."

"Oh, wait till Charlie comes for you, dearest! Don't be too impetuous! I am sure he will come immediately. He would be watching the shore from the yacht. Such a lovely morning for a cruise too! You will be wanting a few little necessaries, dear. I have put them up for you in that leather bag. I knew you would never think of that for yourself. I believe he means to take you straight to Paris, you lucky child. The yacht will go round and wait for you at Marseilles. Charlie always does things so royally, doesn't he? He has been most kind, most generous, to me."

Mrs. Sheppard was talking into the trunk, a smile of happy anticipation about her lips that made her almost comely again.

"Really," she said, "it is quite wonderful how things always turn out for the best. I only wish I had known a year ago how happy you and dear little Bunny were going to be. It would have saved me so much anxiety. When you are Lady Saltash, of course you will make a home for him at the Castle. And there may be just a corner sometimes for me too, darling. What a happy party we shall all be!"

She threw a smile over her shoulder, and then suddenly turned and stared. The door was closed, and she was alone.

Down the wide staircase Maud ran like a wild thing seeking freedom, down into the bare, echoing hall. But the moment she reached it, she stopped-stopped dead as one suddenly turned to stone.

He was waiting for her, there in the sunny open doorway, a smile of arrogant satisfaction on his ugly face, and triumph, open triumph, in his eyes.

He came to meet her like a king, carelessly gracious, royally self-assured.

"Ah, Maud of the roses!" he said. "Free at last!"

He reached her where she stood, rigidly waiting. He opened his arms to take her. And then-as though there had been the flash of a dagger between them-he stopped.

She had not moved. She did not move. But the blazing blue of her eyes gave him check. For the space of many seconds they stood, not breathing, not stirring; and in those seconds, as by the light of a piercing torch, each read the other's soul.

It was Saltash who gave ground at last, but insolently with a smile of bitter mockery. "This scene is called 'The Unmasking of the Villain,'" he observed. "The virtuous heroine, having descended from her pedestal to expose his many crimes, now gathers her mud-stained garments about her and climbs back again, in the confident hope that the worthy cow-puncher who owns her will conclude that she has never left her exalted position and that the mud was all thrown by the villain. Now, I wonder if the worthy cow-puncher is quite such a fool as that."

Her face was quite colourless, but she heard his gibe without a sign of shrinking. Only as he ceased to speak, she lifted one hand and pointed to the open door.

"Go!" she said.

Just the one word, spoken with a finality more crushing than any outburst of anger! If it expressed contempt, it was involuntary, she uttered only what was in her soul.

He looked at her, and suddenly the derision in his eye flamed into fierce malignancy. "Oh, I am going," he said. "You will never kick me from your path again. You shall tread it alone-quite alone except for the cow-puncher who no doubt will see to it that you walk on the stony side of the way. And I warn you it will be-very stony, especially when he comes to realize that his lady wife has been his ruin. A tramp across the world with Jake Bolton under those conditions will at least destroy all illusions as to the stuff of which he is made. And I wish you joy of the journey." He made her a deep, ironical bow, and swung upon his heel.

But as he went she spoke, suddenly, passionately, as though the words leaped forth, compelling her. "Jake Bolton is a man-a white man!"

Saltash laughed aloud, lifting his shoulders as he sauntered away. "With the heart of a beast, chère reine," he said. "For that cause also, I wish you joy."

He went. The sun smote through the empty doorway. She put up both hands to her eyes as though to blot out some evil vision.

And presently-like a creature that has been sorely wounded-she also crept away, fleeing ashamed by another door, that no one might observe her going.

No, Jake was no fool. He saw only what he chose to see, believed only what he willed to believe. He had been generous to her-ay, generous past all understanding. But he was no fool. He had refused the mute offer of her lips only that morning. Wherefore? Wherefore?

The answer lay in Saltash's mocking words, and all her life she would remember them. The poison plant had borne its bitter fruit indeed, and she had been forced to eat thereof. It burned her now with a cruel intensity, consuming her like a darting flame. But she knew by its very fierceness that it could not last. Very soon her heart-her soul-would all be burnt away; and there would be only dead ashes left-only dead ashes from which no living spark could ever be kindled again.

No, Jake was no fool-no fool! He would not blame her, that was all; because she was a woman.

CHAPTER XXII

THE LOSER

"Why doesn't Maud come back?" said Bunny discontentedly. "It's beastly mean of her to stay away over the holidays."

"You can go to her if you like, my son," said Jake, between whiffs at his pipe.

"Oh, I know. But it isn't the same thing. And besides, I'm not going to leave you alone for Christmas, so there! Say, Jake, I wonder you put up with it. Why shouldn't we go-the two of us-and fetch her back?"

"She's better where she is," said Jake. "And as to my going away, it's out of the question. I'm a fixture-so long as there's anything left to do."

Something in the last words caught Bunny's attention. He looked at him with sudden shrewdness. "What do you mean, Jake? What's up?"

Jake was silent. He sat moodily smoking and staring into the fire. His chin was sunk on his chest. He looked older than his years.

Bunny on the other side of the hearth gazed at him for several seconds with close attention. Finally he got up, went to him, slipped down on to the arm of his chair.

"What is it, Jake, old feller? Tell me!"

Jake looked up, met the warm sympathy in the boy's eyes, and in a moment thrust a kindly arm about the slim young figure.

"Don't you worry about me, little pard!" he said. "There ain't anything the matter that I can't face out by myself."

"Oh, but that's rot, Jake." Bunny's cheek went down against the man's bronze head and pressed it hard. "What's the good of bottling it up? 'Sides, you know, Jake, I don't count. I'd die before I'd split."

"Guess I know that," Jake said.

He hugged Bunny to him as if there were comfort in mere contact, but he said no more.

Bunny hugged him in return, and after a brief silence began to probe for the enlightenment he desired. "Why do you say Maud is better where she is, Jake? After all, she is your wife and no one else's, isn't she?"

Jake puffed at his pipe for a few seconds as if considering his reply. At last, "I say it because it is so," he said. "Your Uncle Edward wanted her, and I reckon that's just the silver lining to my cloud. He's a rich man, I gather. He can look after the two of you-if I go under."

"Jake! You aren't going under!" Horrified incredulity sounded in Bunny's voice. He leaned swiftly forward to look into Jake's face.

A queer, dogged smile showed upon it for an instant and was gone. "Don't you worry any, sonny! I shall come up again," said Jake. "I've been under before, practically down and out. But it hasn't killed me. It ain't going to kill me this time. So long as you and Maud are provided for, I can fend for myself."

"But Jake, what's it mean? You haven't lost money?" urged Bunny in bewilderment.

"No. I've got a little money. There are plenty of poor devils worse off than I." Jake leaned his head back against Bunny's wiry arm. There was a fighting gleam in his eyes. "But it ain't enough to keep me going. If it had been, I reckon I shouldn't have waited for notice to quit."

"Is that what you've got? Jake, you aren't in earnest! Charlie wouldn't be such a blackguard!"

Jake uttered an abrupt laugh; his teeth were clenched on his lower lip. "Oh, Charlie's a blackguard all right-blackguard enough for anything. Don't you ever make any mistake about that! But I presume it's up to him to sell the stud if he feels so disposed. There ain't anything specially blackguardly in that. It's just his polite way of telling me to git."

"Sell the stud! Is that what he's going to do? Oh, Jake, old feller! Jake!" Shocked sympathy was in Bunny's voice.

Jake hugged him harder. "I hadn't meant to tell you on your first night. But you're such a shrewd little chap. And you've got to know sooner or later. Don't make an all-fired fuss about it anyway!"

"All right, Jake." Bunny sounded a little breathless, but there was resolution in his voice. "It's you I'm thinking of. When-when's it going to be?"

"The sale? Early in the year I expect. I haven't any definite instructions as to that. I'm expecting 'em every day. All I've been told officially at present is to cancel all engagements. Of course I guessed what was in the wind then. I tackled old Bishop the Agent about it the other day; and he had to confirm it. Ah, well!" Jake heaved an abrupt sigh that seemed to catch him unawares, and became silent.

"P'raps he won't sell 'em all, Jake," said Bunny hesitatingly. "He couldn't-surely-sell The Hundredth Chance!"

Jake's pipe suddenly cracked between his teeth. He sat up sharply, and took it out of his mouth. It fell in twain between his fingers. He sat staring at it, then with a curious reverence he stooped forward and dropped the pieces into the heart of the fire.

"Yes," he said heavily. "I reckon The Hundredth Chance will go with all the rest."

He looked at Bunny, and there was desolation in his eyes; but he gave it no verbal expression. And Bunny also found that the subject demanded silence; it was beyond words.

"Does Maud know?" he asked at length, speaking rather doubtfully, as if not quite sure of his ground.

"No. I didn't want to worry her before I need." Jake's eyes went back to the fire, gazing into it, dumbly troubled. "I fancy there's no doubt that the old man will provide for her-for both of you. That's what I'm counting on anyway."

Bunny made an abrupt movement of impatience. "Oh, damn all that, Jake! What of you?"

For the first time his strong language went unrebuked. Jake's eyes remained fixed upon the fire where burned the remains of his treasure. He spoke slowly, as one reading words but dimly discerned.

"Reckon I shall go back to America. I shall find my feet again there. There's no call for you to be anxious about me. Guess I shan't starve."

"Jake!" Bunny's arm went round his shoulders, gripping them hard. He spoke into Jake's ear, a rapid, nervous whisper. "Jake, if you're going to America, I reckon I'm coming too. There's no one worth speaking to after you. I just won't be left behind. I'll work, Jake. I'll work like a nigger. I won't be a drag on you. But I can't stay behind-not after all you've been to me. Jake, Jake, old feller, say you'll have me! I'm as strong as a horse. And I'd sooner starve along with you than be left without you. I-I-Jake, old feller, please!" He suddenly bowed his head upon Jake's shoulder with a hard sob.

"Little pard!" Jake said, and pulled him down beside him. "Don't act the fool now! That ain't like you!"

Bunny clung to him almost fiercely. "You shan't lose everything, Jake. First Maud, and then the animals, and then the home, – and-and-me too. You like me a bit, don't you, Jake?"

"Just a bit," said Jake, ruffling the black head.

"Then let me come with you, Jake! I'll do whatever you tell me. I-I'll black your boots for you every day. I'll do anything under the sun. Only don't leave me behind! I miss you badly enough at school. But I can't stick it-without you-altogether."

"Shucks! Shucks!" said Jake very softly.

He was holding Bunny in his arms in the old brotherly way. They were too close to one another for any boyish dignity to come between. The bond that linked them had been forged in the fires of adversity, and adversity served but to strengthen it.

"I can't!" Bunny reiterated. "You don't know what you are to me, Jake. You've just made me. And I-I feel as if I'll all come undone again if you go right away."

"I haven't gone yet," Jake said, in a drawl that was slightly unsteady. "But if it is to be, Bunny lad, – and God knows it's more than likely-you can do a bigger thing for me by staying back here-along with Maud-than if you came along and roughed it with me. You'll be the link between us, boy, when-all the other links are gone."

He became silent, gently smoothing the hair that he had ruffled.

Bunny was silent also for a space. It was as if something sacred had come into their communion. At last with his head still pillowed on Jake's shoulder he spoke.

"Say, Jake!"

Jake's arm tightened almost as if he would silence him, but he said nothing.

And Bunny persisted. "Jake, old chap, it doesn't take a prophet to see that things aren't as they should be between you two. I'm beastly sorry. I know jolly well it's not your fault."

"It ain't hers," Jake said, almost under his breath.

"No. I guess it's that blackguard Charlie. I wish I were a man. I'd shoot him!" said Bunny vindictively.

"I guess you wouldn't," Jake said, faint humour in his voice. "Besides, there's nothing to shoot him for now. He's as much a loser as I am."

"What! They've quarrelled?" questioned Bunny. "Where is he? At the Castle?"

"No. Heaven knows where he is. He's been gone for the last six weeks and more."

"It's twice that since Maud went away," observed Bunny uneasily. "Why on earth doesn't she come back, Jake? She's not-not-afraid of you?"

"She has been back once in that time," Jake said quietly. "She stayed one night with your mother at 'The Anchor.' The place is shut up now, and your mother has gone back to London. I thought possibly that she would have settled down here a bit with Maud. But she didn't quite see it. And it was as well, for the old uncle wrote asking Maud to go back to him, and she went."

"Without consulting you?" asked Bunny quickly.

"She didn't consult me certainly, but she knew I was willing for her to go." Jake spoke with a touch of restraint.

Bunny raised his head and looked at him with sudden shrewdness. "Who did she want to get away from? You? Or Charlie?"

A flicker that was scarcely humorous crossed Jake's face. "Maybe both," he said.

"And you-you quarrelled with Charlie?"

"No. Seeing he was a loser, I let him go in peace. It was the only thing to do."

"And he has got his knife into you on that account?" questioned Bunny.

"Maybe," Jake admitted.

"Then he's a low hound, and I'd love to tell him so."

"Where's the use? Reckon he knows it all right," said Jake dryly.

"I hope Maud knows it too!"

"She does," said Jake.

Bunny looked slightly mollified. "That's something anyway. Say, Jake?"

"What is it, my son?" Jake's red-brown eyes looked at him with a tenderness that only Bunny was ever allowed to see.

Bunny's head went back to its resting-place against his shoulder swiftly, endearingly. "Jake, Jake, old man, why don't you go back to her? Maybe she's wanting you-and hasn't the pluck to say so. Women are like that, you know."

Jake was silent.

"Give her the chance, Jake!" Bunny urged. "You don't know her like I do. She always was shy. Lots of people thought her proud, but it was mostly shyness. Give her the chance, Jake, old fellow! Just this one chance! It may make all the difference."

"Think so?" said Jake.

"Course I do. I know Maud. She'd sooner die than show you her feelings. But she's got 'em all the same. Maybe she's wanting you-quite a lot, Jake. You can't tell."

"And maybe she's not," said Jake.

"Oh don't-don't be an ass, Jake! Come along and find out anyway! It's-it's up to you, Jake. And there's no one else in the running."

A whimsical smile touched Jake's grim mouth. "Guess that's just what makes it so difficult," he said. "Is anyone at all in the running? I'd sooner draw a loser than a blank."

Bunny lifted a hot, earnest face. "Don't be an ass, Jake!" he urged again. "Go in, man! Go in and win! You love her, don't you?"

It was a straight shot, and it found its mark. Something fiery, something wholly untamed, leaped into Jake's eyes. They shone like a flame upon which spirit has been poured. Bunny pulled himself free with a sound that was almost a whoop of triumph. "You silly coon! Go and tell her so!" he said. "I'll bet you never have yet!"

And Jake uttered a laugh that was curiously broken. "You're getting too damn' clever, my son," he said.

CHAPTER XXIII

THE STORM WIND

"It'll be real sport to take her by surprise," said Bunny, with a chuckle of anticipation. "But what a beast of a journey it's been!"

They had been travelling practically all day, and a black night of streaming rain had been their welcome.

They had found accommodation at the hotel in which Maud had once spent a night, and having dined there they splashed through the muddy streets in search of their goal.

They found it, a tall, gaunt house standing back in a dark, dripping garden, unlighted, forsaken.

"It can't be the place!" said Bunny, for the first time feeling his ardour for the adventure slightly damped.

"We'll soon find out," said Jake.

They groped their way to a flight of steps and with the aid of a match found the bell. It rang desolately through the building.

"The house is empty!" declared Bunny.

But after a considerable pause a step sounded within, and a white-faced maid-servant opened to them.

"Come in!" she said, in a hollow voice. "You're very late."

"Mrs. Bolton here?" asked Jake, as he stepped on to the mat.

She nodded as if in agitation. "Yes, I'll tell her."

She shut the door behind them and went away, leaving them in the narrow, dimly-lighted hall.

"What a rum go!" said Bunny.

Jake said nothing. He was gazing into the shadows in front of him with intent, searching eyes. How would she greet him? Would she be glad? Would she be sorry? He watched for her face, and the first instinctive expression it would wear at sight of him.

There came the rustle of a dress, a footfall that was light and yet somehow sounded weary. She came through the dim hall with a slow, tired gait.

"Good evening!" she said. "Will you come upstairs?"

Bunny's fist suddenly prodded Jake in the back. He went forward a step almost involuntarily.

"Maud!" he said.

"Jake!" She stood as one transfixed.

And in that moment he forgot to notice how she looked at him, forgot everything in the one overwhelming thought that he was with her. He strode forward, and somehow her two cold hands were in his before he knew whether he had taken or she had offered them.

"My girl!" he said, and again huskily, "My girl!"

She lifted a quivering face. "Jake, thank you for coming! I-I hardly thought you could have got here so soon."

He drew her to him and kissed her. "You've been wanting me?" he said.

She nodded. "I sent for you, yes. I-I didn't feel as if I could-face it all-by myself."

His hold was warm, full of sustaining strength. "You'll have to tell me what has happened," he said. "I didn't get your message."

"You didn't?" She looked momentarily startled. "Then why are you here?"

"I came-" he hesitated, glanced over his shoulder. "Bunny's here too," he said.

"Thought we'd just look you up," said Bunny, emerging from the background, "Hullo, Maud! What's the matter? Is the old man ill?"

She turned to greet him. "He died yesterday," she said.

"Great Scott!" said Bunny.

Jake said nothing. He was watching her closely, closely.

She kissed Bunny lingeringly, but without emotion. "He was only ill five days," she said. "It was a chill and then pneumonia. I nursed him right up to the last. He wouldn't have anyone else. In fact he wouldn't let me out of his sight." Her face quivered again, and she paused. Then drearily, "I was expecting the undertaker when you came in," she said. "I've had to arrange everything. The funeral will be the day after to-morrow. Will you come into the dining room? There's a fire there."