Chapter IV: The Letter

Maud drove home with Bunny after the storm through an atmosphere washed clean of cloud and golden with evening sunshine. She found him very silent, and concluded that he had not greatly enjoyed himself.

She asked few questions about his visit, and Bunny did not seem inclined to volunteer anything, till as they reined in to a walk at the steep hill by the church, he turned abruptly towards her and spoke.

"I told the mother you were corresponding with Saltash."

Maud started a little. "Really, Bunny!" she said, in a tone of protest.

Bunny's face was red. He looked at her with a species of dogged defiance. "I didn't mean to tell her. It just came out. I don't see why she shouldn't know anyway. Jake knows."

"There is not the faintest reason." Maud's tone was cold. She stared straight between the horse's ears with eyes that were fixed and hard. "I don't see why it should interest her, that's all. Charlie is such an old friend that surely there is nothing very surprising about it."

"Or anything to get ratty about," said Bunny, with a touch of warmth. "That wasn't what I set out to tell you; but you do jump down a fellow's throat so. Of course the mother didn't see anything in it. Why should she?"

"What were you going to tell me?" Maud's voice still sounded cold but she forced herself to smile. She had no desire to give offence to Bunny who was not always easy to conciliate.

Bunny considered a moment. "Well, it has to do with Charlie. You know, he owns 'The Anchor.'"

Maud's attitude relaxed. She turned towards him. "Yes, I know he does. He holds the mortgage, at least."

"Yes, that's it; the mortgage." Bunny's face wore a troubled frown. "Well, it seems that the place isn't answering and they can't go on paying interest. In fact, they are badly in arrears already, and he--or his agent--is tightening the reins and threatening to sell them up. The mother is pretty desperate about it, but she was very particular that I wasn't to tell anybody but you. She says it means ruin, and no one can prevent it but Charlie--unless someone came along with a little money, which is the last thing likely to happen. She wants you to get hold of Charlie; says he will do anything for you, though I don't know how she knows that. In fact, she went on as if it was a matter of life and death. Say, Maud, do you really think they are going to be ruined? What would happen if they were?"

Bunny looked at her with worried eyes. Evidently Mrs. Sheppard had succeeded in impressing him with the urgency of the situation.

Maud shook her head. She had not the least idea. "How much money do they want to tide them over?" she asked.

"Rather a lot," said Bunny uneasily. "Four hundred pounds at least, she said. I suppose it would be no good to write to Uncle Edward? He wouldn't do it for the mother, I know, but he might for you."

"I couldn't ask him," Maud said. "I might if it were for you or myself. But not for Mother. I am sure he wouldn't do it."

"It's a beastly mess," said Bunny gloomily. "You'll have to get round Charlie, there's no other way."

"I must think," Maud said.

They reached the top of the hill, and she shook the reins. In sober silence they trotted home.

Jake was in the yard when they turned in. He came to meet them.

"I've had a fine scare about you," he said, as he helped Bunny to descend. "Were you caught in the storm?"

Sam Vickers came to the horse's head, and Maud followed her brother down. Jake did not offer to assist her. He was wearing neither coat nor waistcoat, only a white canvas shirt with rolled up sleeves, unbuttoned at the neck and displaying a good deal of brawny chest. His clay pipe was between his teeth, and the pungent scent of his tobacco seemed even more nauseating than usual.

"No, we weren't caught," Bunny made answer. "I was at 'The Anchor,' and Maud took refuge with that old Wright woman who came here in the winter."

"What? Old Mother Wright?" Jake turned to his wife with a smile of approval. "Been having tea with her, have you? I'm real pleased to hear it. You couldn't be in better company."

Maud stiffened a little. Somehow his approval nettled her. "I took the first shelter within reach," she said coldly.

Bunny stared at her as though astonished at something in her tone. Sharply Jake turned on him.

"You trot in, my son, and do your floor-drill!" he said. "You've got just two hours before supper."

Bunny coloured and flung away. "Oh, damn!" he said.

He was on the step with Maud immediately behind him when Jake's voice arrested him. "Bunny!"

It was a perfectly quiet voice, but it was the voice of authority. Bunny stopped short. "Well?"

"You will do an extra half-hour for that after supper," Jake said.

Bunny faced round, his face crimson. "Oh, I say, Jake! That's too bad. I didn't mean to say it, and anyway I can't do any extra time. It's beastly enough as it is."

"I have said it," remarked Jake.

Bunny clenched his hands. "Dash it all, you can't make me!" he said, his voice low and defiant.

"No, no, you can't." Impulsively Maud broke in, her hand through Bunny's arm. "It's ridiculous and tyrannical. I won't have him bullied, Jake. You are to leave him alone."

She spoke with vehemence, carried away by a gust of indignation. But the moment she had spoken, she realized that she had made a mistake.

Jake said nothing whatever. He did not so much as look at her. But he did look at Bunny hard and straight, and in a moment the boy's attitude changed.

He unclenched his hands with a gesture half-shamed, half-deprecatory. "All right, Jake," he said, in a tone of sullen submission; and to his sister curtly, "Shut up, Maud! You always make a mess of things."

With the words he pulled himself from her hold and went within.

She turned to follow him upstairs, but was checked by the knowledge that Jake was entering the house behind her.

He did not speak, but it was certainly not of her own free will that she passed on to the parlour instead. Angry as she was, she yet would have avoided the encounter had it been possible.

It was not possible. Jake followed her, grim as Fate, and in desperation she turned and faced him the moment she was in the room.

"Jake," she said, in a voice that quivered in spite of her, "I can't have you interfering with Bunny--punishing him--like this. It's too much."

Jake closed the door and stood against it. The sheer brute strength of the man had never been more forcibly apparent to her than at that moment; the thick, powerful neck and broad chest, the red-brown, lynx-like eyes, the merciless mouth, all seemed to mock her openly, exulting over her, dominating her.

Like Bunny she clenched her hands, meeting the straight gaze of those glittering eyes with the defiance born of conscious impotence. "And another thing!" she said. "I wish you wouldn't come into the house in that horrible wild West attire. You look worse than any stable-hand. I don't know how you can expect Bunny to be civilized with such an example before him."

She paused a moment, but, as he said nothing, rushed blindly on, finding silence intolerable.

"You come in at all hours in the day with your horrible clay pipe and vile tobacco. You behave like a farm labourer; you use hateful language to the men; and still you take it upon you to--to mete out punishment to Bunny, because he has picked up, doubtless from you, an expression that is a household word in your daily life!"

She stopped, for Jake had made an abrupt movement as if her fierce words had somehow pierced a joint in his armour.

He came squarely forward, took his pipe from his mouth and knocked out the half-burned contents into the grate. She turned to watch him, feeling her heart racing like a runaway engine. And, so turning, her eyes fell upon a letter that lay upon the table. She could not read the address, but in a flash she recognized the handwriting, and suddenly the mad racing of her heart died down, so that it did not seem to be beating at all.

Swiftly, while Jake was still intent upon his pipe, she reached across the table and picked up the letter. Her fingers felt the crest on the back of the envelope as she slipped it into her dress. She had fallen into the habit of walking to meet the postman of late, but to-day the storm had made her miss him. She hoped--earnestly she hoped--that Jake had not chanced to see the letter. She was sure his eyes had not rested upon the table.

Her heart began to beat again with great leaps as Jake turned from the fireplace. She felt as if she had over-taxed her strength in opposing him, and yet now that she had begun she must go on,--she must!

But still he did not speak, and, fascinated, she stood and watched him, saw him thrust the offending pipe deep into his breeches pocket, unroll the sleeves of his shirt, and button it at the neck.

Then at last he came and stood before her and spoke. "I'm sorry I've offended you," he said.

The words were so utterly unexpected that Maud literally gasped. She drew back before him as if he had threatened her. There was something about him at that moment that made her feel infinitesimally small and mean. She stood silent, dismayed, ashamed.

Jake was looking straight at her with a steady intentness that seemed to search and search her soul. There was no anger in his face. She almost wished there had been.

He waited for her to speak, but as she did not, broke the silence again himself. "I know my ways are not exactly polished. I'll try and mend 'em. As for my language, I didn't know you had ever heard me in full swing. You were never meant to, anyway. As for Bunny, I guess he's your brother, and you've a right to stick up for him if you think he needs it. But I give you my word of honour--my oath if you like--that he'll never be one cent the worse for anything I may do to him. You can tell him from me that if he don't do that extra half-hour, I shan't say a word."

Maud's lips quivered. She strove for dignity in the face of overwhelming defeat. He had beaten her as it were with his hands behind him. "He won't take it from me," she said. "You know that quite well."

"That so?" said Jake. "Well, I reckon he'd better go through with it then. It won't hurt him. It'll do him good." He paused a moment, then, "Are you still feeling mad with me?" he asked.

Her eyes fell before his. She did not understand his tone. It held a note of gentleness which she had not heard since the day of Bunny's operation. It was almost as if he were pleading with her, striving to pierce through her resentment. She found it very difficult to reply.

"I--don't want to quarrel with you, Jake," she said at last, with an effort.

Jake's intent look deepened, became for a moment almost intolerable. Then it passed. He even faintly smiled, albeit his smile had a touch of irony. "All right, my girl," he said. "Don't you worry any about that! I like you for being open with me. It's an almighty mistake to keep things back."

He moved to the window with the words, stood a moment or two as if to give her an opportunity to call him back, then, as she remained silent, went down the steps into the garden and passed out of sight round the house.

Maud was left with a stinging sensation of discomfiture that was compounded of doubt, indignation, and shame.

She was relieved to think he had not seen the letter, but she hated the impulse that had moved her to conceal it.