The Hundredth Chance

She led the way to that stiff and cheerless apartment. Bunny pressed close to her and pushed his hand through her arm.

"Say, Maud, old girl, you're ill yourself," he said.

She looked at him out of deeply shadowed eyes. "No. I'm not ill; only tired, too tired to sleep. There is some wine in that cupboard, dear. Do you mind getting it out? You and Jake must have some."

She went over to the fire almost as one moving in a dream, and stood before it silently.

Jake came to her, put a kindly arm about her. "You must go to bed, my dear," he said. "You're worn out."

She shook her head with a rather piteous smile. "Oh no, I can't go for a long while yet. I must get some rooms ready for you and Bunny."

"You won't need to do that," he said. "Bunny is putting up at the hotel round the corner. And I can sleep just anywhere."

She let herself lean against him. "Thank you for coming, Jake," she said again.

She was plainly worn out, and from that moment Jake took command. He made her sit in one of the stiff velvet chairs in front of the fire, made her drink some wine, and finally left her there with Bunny in charge.

She was absolutely docile, gladly relinquishing all responsibility. To Bunny she gave a few halting details of the old man's death, but she could not talk much. The strain of those days and nights of constant watching had brought her very near to a complete breakdown. She was so tired, so piteously tired.

She dozed presently, sitting there before the fire with him, holding his hand. It was so good to have him there, so good to feel that there was someone left to love her, to think for her, so good to know that Bunny-though he had ceased to be the one aim and end of her existence-had not drifted wholly out of her life.

It must have been more than an hour later that she was aroused by a few whispered words over her head, and sat up to see Bunny on his feet, preparing to take his departure.

She looked up in swift distress. "Oh, are you going? Must you go?"

"Yes, he must go," Jake said gently. "He'll get locked out if he doesn't. And the little chap's tired, you know, Maud. He's been travelling all day and wants a good night's rest."

That moved her. Though Bunny disclaimed fatigue she saw that he had been sleeping also. All the mother in her rose to the surface.

"Yes, of course, dear. You must go," she said. "I wish you could have slept here, but perhaps it's better you shouldn't. Can you find your way alone? Jake, won't you go with him?"

But Bunny strenuously refused Jake's escort. He bade her good night with warmth, and she saw that he hugged Jake at parting. And then the door closed upon him, and Jake's square figure came back alone.

He came straight to her, and bent over her. "My dear," he said, "you're tired to death. You must go to bed."

She shook her head, wanly smiling. "It's no good going to bed, Jake. I'm much happier here. Directly I lie down I am wide awake. Besides, I'm too tired to get there."

"All right. I'll put you there," he said.

"No, no, Jake." She stretched out a quick hand of protest; but there was no holding him off.

His arm was already about her; he lifted her to her feet. His face wore the old dominant look, yet with a subtle difference. His eyes held nought but kindness.

She yielded herself to him almost involuntarily. "I haven't been to bed for nearly a week," she said. "I've slept of course in snatches. I used to lie down in Uncle Edward's room. Poor dear old man! He wanted me so." Her eyes were full of tears. "I-I was with him when he died," she whispered. "We had arranged to have a nurse this morning, but the end came rather quickly. We knew his heart was weak. The doctor said-it was better for him really-that he went like that."

"Why didn't you send for me sooner?" Jake said.

Her pale face flushed. She turned it from him.

"I didn't think-you would want to come. It wasn't till-till I got frightened at the dreadful emptiness that-that-" She broke off, fighting with herself.

"All right. Don't try to tell me! I understand," he said soothingly. He went up the long, dim staircase with her, still strongly supporting her. He entered her room as one who had the right.

The tears were running down her face, for she could not check them. She attempted no remonstrance, suffering him like a forlorn child. And as though she had been a child, he ministered to her, waiting upon her, helping her, with a womanly intuition that robbed the situation of all difficulty, meeting her utter need with a simplicity and singleness of purpose that could not but achieve its end.

"You treat me as if-as if I were Bunny," she said once, smiling faintly through her tears.

And Jake smiled in answer. "A man ought to be able to valet his own wife," he said.

The words were simply uttered, but they sent the blood to her cheeks. "You-you are very good to me," she murmured confusedly. "I-ought not to let you."

"Don't you worry any about that!" said Jake. "The main idea is to get you to bed."

"I am sure I shall never sleep again," she said.

Yet as she sank down at last upon the pillow there was a measure of relief in her eyes.

"Now you're going to lie quiet till morning," Jake said, tucking in the bedclothes with motherly care. "Good night, my girl! Is that comfortable?"

He kissed her for the second time, lightly, caressingly, exactly as he might have kissed a child.

She tried to answer him, to thank him, but could not. He smoothed the hair from her temples, and turned away.

But in that moment her hands came out to him with a gesture that was almost convulsive, caught and held his sleeve. "Oh, Jake!" she said. "Jake! I'm so lonely!" and suddenly began to sob-"I want you more than Bunny does. Don't go! Don't go!"

It was a cry of utter desolation. He turned back to her on the instant. He stooped over her, his face close to hers. "Do you mean that?" he said, and in his voice, low as it was, there sounded a deep note as of something forcibly suppressed.

She clung to him, hiding her face against the rough tweed coat. "I've no one else," she sobbed.

"Ah!" Jake said. A very strange look came into his face. His mouth twitched a little as if in self-ridicule. "But, my girl," he said, "I reckon you'd say that to anyone to-night."

"No-no!" Quiveringly she answered him. "I say it to you-to you! I'm-so terribly-alone, – so-so-empty. Uncle Edward used to tell me-what it meant to be lonely. But I never knew it could be-like this."

"Poor girl!" Jake murmured softly. "I know-I know."

The look of faint irony still hovered about his lips, but his voice, his touch, conveyed nothing but tenderness. He was stroking the dark hair with a motherliness that was infinitely soothing.

She was holding his other hand tightly, tightly, against her breast, and it was wet with her tears. "I've been-so miserable," she told him brokenly. "I know it's been-no one's fault-but my own. But life is so difficult-so difficult. I've treated you badly-badly. I haven't done-my duty. I've always yearned for the things out of reach. And now-and now-oh, Jake, my world is a desert. I haven't a friend left anywhere."

"That's wrong," Jake said in his voice of soft decision. "You've got me. I mayn't be the special kind of friend you're wanting. But-as you say-I reckon I'm better than nothing. And I'm your husband anyway."

"My husband-yes. That's why-I sent for you, Jake," she hid her face lower, deeper into his coat, "if-if I had had-a child, would it-would it-have made you happy?"

"Oh, that!" Jake laid his head down suddenly on the pillow above hers. He spoke into the thick darkness of her hair. "My girl, don't cry so! I wanted it-yes!"

She moved slightly, stretched a hesitating hand upwards, touched his face, his neck. "Jake, it-it would make me happy-too."

He put his arm about her as she lay, and gathered her close to him, not speaking.

She was trembling all over, her face was still hidden. But she yielded to the drawing of his arm, clinging to him blindly, desperately.

He held her so for a little space, then with steady insistence he moved his other hand, beginning to turn her face upwards to his own. She tried to resist him, but he would not be resisted. In the end panting, quivering, she yielded very suddenly. She lifted her face voluntarily to his. She offered him her lips. But her eyes were closed. She palpitated like a trapped thing in his hold.

Yet when his lips met hers, she returned his kiss; and it was for the first time in her life.

She slept that night in the shelter of his arms, safe from the desolate emptiness of her desert. And if she dreamed that she had gone back into the house of bondage for the sake of the fire that burned there, the dream did not distress her, nor did the fire scorch. Rather the warmth of it filled her lonely spirit with such comfort as she had long ceased to hope for. And the steady beat of a man's heart lulled her to a deeper rest.

When the dim dawnlight came filtering in, Jake's eyes turned to meet it with a lynx-like watchfulness as of an animal on guard. There was no sleep in them. He had not slept all through the night. His face was grim and still, and there was a hint of savagery-or was it irony? – about his mouth. For the second time in their lives Fate had driven her to him for refuge. Like a bird out of the storm she had come to him, perchance but for that one night's shelter. Already a contrary wind was blowing that might sunder them forever. With the coming of the day, they might drift apart and meet no more at all, so slender was the bond between them, so transient their union. For he knew that she loved him not, had never loved him.

His eyes grew harder, brighter. They shone with a great and bitter hunger. He turned them upon her sleeping face. And then magically they softened, grew pitiful, grew tender. For though she slept, the veil was lifted, and he read the sadness of her soul.

His lips suddenly trembled as he looked upon her, and the irony went out of him like an evil spirit. Whether she loved him or loved him not, she was his, she was his, till the storm wind drove her from him.

And she needed him as she needed no one else on earth.

His arms clasped her. He gathered her closer to his breast.

CHAPTER XXIV

THE GREAT BURDEN

"By Jove!" said Bunny, in a voice of awe. "I never thought of that! Then-Maud-will be rich, will she? Rich as Croesus! Just think of it! Maud!" He drew a deep breath that ended in a whistle. "Puts a different complexion on things, eh, Jake, old feller?" he said.

"Quite different," said Jake.

He stood at the window, gazing forth into the murky atmosphere with his brows drawn. He looked like a man searching the far distance.

Bunny glanced at him questioningly. "What does she say to it? Was it a great shock?"

"I don't know. I think it was. She said he once offered to provide for the two of you, and leave you provided for at his death. But that was before her marriage."

"And now he's gone and left her the whole caboodle! Say, Jake, what's it come to? Did the lawyer chap give you any idea?"

"No one knew what the old man was worth," Jake said, with his eyes still fixed steadily ahead. "He wasn't very great at spending money. But he owned a large factory, and had a vested interest in several others, besides some thousands in other concerns. The lawyer put it down at not less than two hundred and fifty thousand."

"Jake!" Bunny began to execute an ecstatic war dance behind him.

Jake wheeled sharply. "Don't do that here, Bunny! It's not decent."

Bunny stopped. "Oh, sorry, Jake! I forgot. But aren't you pleased, old feller? You don't look it. Or is it just decency on your part?"

"I'm pleased she's got enough to live on, yes," Jake said. "I don't know that a whole pile is specially good for anyone. And now look here, young chap! I'm going back directly after the funeral-I've got to go-and you're to stay and take care of her."

Bunny's face fell. "Oh, I say, Jake, I'd sooner come with you."

"That may be." Jake smiled momentarily. "But you've got to do as you're told. See?"

Bunny looked mutinous. "But she won't want me, Jake. She'll be much too busy. And this is such a beastly hole. And there's the hunting. You promised I might hunt these holidays. Oh, I can't stick here. I shall only be in the way." His eyes flashed sudden rebellion. "Can't and won't, Jake!" he said boldly, "so that's settled."

He stood and defied Jake openly for an instant, then flung round with a dogged air and walked away.

Jake remained motionless watching him. "Say, Bunny!" he said after a moment, his voice very soft and drawling.

Bunny came to a stand before the fire which he poked with considerable violence. He did not turn his head.

"Put that thing down!" The order came from the further end of the room, but he obeyed it.

There fell a brief silence, then from his post by the window Jake spoke. "You can do as you like about it. You can come back with me to the Stables. But you'll do all your riding on a leading-string if you do. And if you hunt, it'll be on foot."

Bunny's face flamed scarlet. "Jake, you're a beast!" he said.

"Oh, I can do beastlier things than that," Jake said. "I can give you one hell of a time, my son. I'm dashed ingenious in that respect when I give my mind to it."

Bunny growled something deep in his throat, and kicked the coals with a savage foot.

Jake turned deliberately round, and looked at him, watched him with the utmost patience till he desisted; then,

"Come here now," he said, "and have your head punched!"

Bunny growled again less articulately, more ferociously.

Jake left the window. The boy wheeled to meet him with the glare of a tiger. "Touch me if you dare!" he exclaimed.

There was a faint, relentless smile on Jake's face. He took Bunny by the shoulders, and looked him full and straight in the eyes.

Bunny stood before him for a space, with clenched hands. Then he dropped his own eyes sullenly before that stern regard-slowly lowered his head. There fell a tense silence; then: "Get on with it, Jake!" he said in a voice half-sulky, half-submissive. And Jake abruptly moved, struck him twice lightly on the side of the head. "That's for using the forbidden language," he said. "And that's for general fooling around. A taste of the leather would do you good, only I can't leather a jolly little cock-sparrow like you. Don't you think you're rather a fool, Bunny? I do."

"I'm a damn' cad!" Bunny said with shaky vehemence, and pulled himself away with the words. "I can't help it. I don't see much of you now. And I do hate being left behind."

He turned his back on Jake and leaned dejectedly against the high mantelpiece. But Jake's arm went round his shoulders, giving him a comforting squeeze.

"Don't you know I'm trying to make a partner of you, my son?" he said in his soft voice. "You needn't be so mighty difficult to handle. What I'm on to now is more than a one-man job. I'm wanting all the help I can get."

Bunny laid a hot cheek against his hand. "You know I'd do anything for you, Jake," he said. He swallowed once or twice hard and faced round. "Anything under the sun," he said.

Jake's hand smote him the blow of good-fellowship. "I'm counting on-just that, sonny," he said.

He turned round with the words. Someone was entering the room.

"Hullo!" said Bunny. "Hullo, Maud!"

He moved to meet his sister with a curious new shyness. She looked pale, aloof, very sad.

"Jake has been telling you?" she said.

Bunny nodded. "It's rather great, isn't it?" he said.

She came slowly forward, not looking at Jake. "It's too great," she said. "I might have been glad of it once. But now-now-" She broke off.

Jake drew forward a chair. "Reckon you'll find it just as useful now as then," he said.

She glanced at him quickly, and a tinge of colour rose in her face. "Oh, I daresay we shall all find it useful," she said.

Jake's expression was enigmatical. He stood up squarely, looking straight before him. "You'll be able to buy anything and everything you want," he said, "to live where and how you like; in short you'll be in a position to create your own atmosphere. Money is freedom; remember that! If you choose to buy a team of camels and trundle off into the desert, there's no one can prevent you."

She shivered as if a cold blast had struck her, and leaned towards the fire. "I'm not particularly fond of the desert," she said, in a low voice.

"Oh, you needn't go alone," Jake said. "You'll be able to buy your friends by the score and populate all the lonely places."

There was no sound of scoffing in his voice. It was even not without a hint of kindliness. But she shook her head in silence.

And suddenly Bunny knelt down beside her, thrusting an impetuous arm about her waist. "Say, Maud, he's only rotting. We'll have a ripping time together presently. Don't be so down in the mouth, old girl! There's plenty of fun to be got out of life."

She smiled with lips that trembled. "I'm afraid I'm getting rather old, Bunny," she said wistfully, "old enough anyhow to know that money doesn't bring happiness."

"Depends how you spend it," maintained Bunny stoutly. "Of course it is a downright curse to the people who hoard it-like that beast who buried his talent. But you can make any amount of happiness out of it if you try. Think of the crowds you can reach with it! That's where the fun comes in. Why, you reap as fast as you sow!"

Maud made a sudden quick gesture. "Bunny! How curious that you should say that!"

"Why?" Bunny opened his eyes in surprise.

"Oh, never mind! It reminded me of something-something rather big-I once heard in a church here." Maud gently passed on as though it were a matter too sacred for discussion. "Perhaps you're right, dear. Perhaps there is happiness to be got out of it. Anyhow we'll try, won't we? Won't we, Jake?"

There was almost a note of entreaty in her voice; but she received no answer. She turned sharply. Jake had gone.

"Never mind!" said Bunny, quick to console. "He's busy. Letters or something. But you've got me. Say, Maud, you'll be able to keep the mother above water now. That's rather a mercy anyway."

He almost forced her into the channel of his own cheery speculations with the reflection that if it wasn't decent at least it was wholesome.

But when he looked back upon that talk with her later, he could not remember that she had made a single suggestion of her own, or displayed the smallest spark of enthusiasm in connection with the great fortune that had come to her. She was tired of course and sad. No doubt she would change her mind; but for the present she seemed to regard it only in the light of a new and heavy burden that had been laid upon her. Bunny could not understand it, but an uneasy wonder awoke and stirred in his heart. Was it because she was married to Jake that she felt it had come too late? If so-if so-well, if so, poor old Jake!

CHAPTER XXV

THE BLOW

"Home for Christmas. Motoring from Graydown. Three cheers, Bunny."

The ecstatic message stood on the mantelpiece in the old parlour above a roaring fire, and Jake stood in front of it, grimly patient, while the old grandfather clock ticked monotonously in the corner.

It was Christmas Eve, still and frosty. The glass door into the garden was wide open so that he could hear the first hoot of a motor, and he was listening for it with a lynx-like intensity, a concentration that had in it something almost terrible. It was nearly a fortnight since he had left her, and all his veins were on fire at the thought of having her again. He yearned for her with a fierce hunger that tore at the very soul of him, a hunger that he knew he must suppress, crush down out of sight, ere he met her.

Because in her desolation she had turned to him for comfort, he must not take it for granted that she needed him still. She had had time to recover, time possibly to be amazed, to be shocked, at her own yielding. He dreaded to see that instinctive recoil from him which he had learned to know so cruelly well in the summer that was dead. Those words of hers-"I can't pretend to love you. You see-I don't," – still haunted him. And he remembered how once in bitterness of soul she had told him that she hated him.

He clenched his hands over the memory, cursing himself for the passion that even now leaped so fiercely within him. She had changed towards him since those days; that he knew. But even though she turned to him she was half afraid of him still, and he dared not show her his heart. He must be calm and temperate, taking only what she offered, lest he should drive her away again. It might be she would never offer very much. Possibly it did not lie in her power. She had given her whole love to another man, and it had been crushed into the mud. It might be that it still lived there in quivering shame, a thing to be hidden if it could not be utterly destroyed. He could not tell. But he did not feel that his chance of winning to the heart of her was very great. It might be that when she came to realize the practically boundless power with which this great fortune endowed her, it would vanish altogether. True, he might put up a fight for his rights. He might insist upon his ownership. But-had he not already done that? And what had it brought him? Nothing but emptiness. The desire of the flesh was nothing to the aching longing of the spirit, and that could never be satisfied by such means. And she did not so much as know that it existed!

He had dreamed once that a child might draw them together. But now-but now-a curiously wistful smile drew his mouth. Poor girl! She wanted a child to comfort her desolation. But if she had her wish, he knew that she would never turn to him again for comfort. His last chance would be gone.

Someone knocked at the open door that led into the garden. He turned sharply and saw Sam Vickers' good-humoured countenance looking up at him.

"Post just in, sir," he remarked. "I was comin' round so brought your letter along."

"Oh, thanks! Come in!"

Jake remained before the fire, and after an instant's hesitation Sam mounted the steps and entered. He was carrying a huge bunch of mistletoe in one hand.

"Thought you'd like a bit, sir," he said, with a cheery smile. "You haven't got any decorations, I see."

"Thanks!" Jake said again. "I don't know where you'll fix it."

"Over the front door, sir, if you ask me," said Sam promptly.

"Oh, no, not there, Sam! It's a bit too public. Over this door if you like." Jake smiled a little and began to open his letter.

"All right, sir. I'll get a nail," said Sam.

He departed, and Jake, with a face grown stern, proceeded to read his letter.

When Sam returned, the letter had disappeared, and Jake was grinding at the fire with the poker with his head down and a deep red flush on his face. Sam noticed nothing. He was too much engrossed with the matter in hand.

Mounted on a wooden chair and whistling softly he applied himself to the task of hanging the mistletoe at the most inviting angle.

"Like a bit for your cap, sir?" he enquired, with an impudent grin, when he had finished.

Jake made no reply.

Sam threw him a glance, and found that he had turned and was standing with his back to the fire, gazing out before him with eyes that shone like two pieces of red quartz.

Sam was momentarily disconcerted. "No offence meant, sir," he said, picking up his own cap, and hastening somewhat clumsily to conceal the decoration it bore.

Jake's eyes came to him, regarded him for a moment fiercely without seeing him; then abruptly softened and took him in. "Sam," he said, "I trust you, and I'm going to tell you something. Shut that door!"

Sam obeyed. He looked straight at Jake with sunny, honest eyes. "Hadn't you better think it over first, sir?" he suggested.

"No." Jake held out his hand suddenly. "I trust you," he repeated, a dogged note in his voice.

Sam's hand gripped his like a vice. "Right you are, sir," he said cheerily.

Jake went on, as if impelled. "You remember what happened in the summer at the Graydown Meeting when I thrashed young Stevens?"

"Quite well, sir." Sam's reply came brisk and smart. He held himself like a soldier on parade.

"You know why I thrashed him?" Jake proceeded.