Kitabı oku: «The Hundredth Chance», sayfa 30

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."

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.