Chapter X: The Mistake

The day fixed for the race for the Burchester Cup was inclined to be showery. Jake was up at an early hour, and when he was gone Maud rose also. But she felt too languid to bestir herself very greatly. She sat by the open window, breathing the pure morning air, and wondering, wondering, what the day would bring forth.

Since the receipt of Saltash's letter, she had been making up her mind. That she must see him alone that day was inevitable, but she had formed a strong determination that for the future she would put bounds to their intercourse. It could but lead in the one hopeless direction. Moreover, open friendship between them had become, owing to Jake's prohibition, impossible.

She did not blame Saltash for what had happened, but bitterly she blamed herself. She had been carried away by the moment's madness. Her feet had slipped. But the determination to retrace that false step was strong within her. For Charlie's sake, as well as for her own, she knew that they must not go on. With fatal clearness she realized that it was the downward path leading to destruction. It had never attracted her before her marriage, that downward path. The care of Bunny had absorbed her life. But now that her life was empty of all but the bondage she hated, she faced the fact that her resolution had begun to waver. She could no longer trust herself to stand firm.

Sitting there, drinking in the refreshing coolness of the rain-washed air, feeling the sweet morning chill all about her, something of that innate purity of hers seemed to revive. Some of the bitterness went from her soul. She was very, very tired; but after long meditation she had begun to see her way more clearly. Perhaps dimly the future had begun to draw her. Yes, her life was empty now. But in a little while--a little while-- A deep, deep breath escaped her. The memory of Mrs. Wright and her confident words of wisdom came to her. Her life would not be always a dreary wandering in a desert land. Prisoner she might be, but even so, the flowers might bloom around her, within her reach.

A little tremor went through her. Ah yes, it might be there were compensations in store, even for her. Her life would not be always empty.

A kind of waking dream came upon her. It was as though a soothing hand had been laid upon her, stilling her wild rebellion, giving her hope. The kaleidoscope of life was changing every day. Why should she despair?

When she descended to breakfast, she was calmer, more at peace with herself, than she had been for long.

She found Capper waiting alone. He gave her his quick, keen look, but characteristically he made no comment upon what he saw.

"I am wondering how I shall catch the boat-train to-night," he said.

"Must you do so?" she asked.

He nodded vigorously. "Indeed I must. I have trespassed upon your hospitality quite long enough. And there is work waiting across the Atlantic that only Maurice Capper can do."

She smiled at him. "How indefatigable you are! Won't it wait a little longer?"

"Not a day!" declared Capper.

And neither of them dreamed that that same work would have to wait many days ere Maurice Capper was at liberty to handle it.

They sat down alone to breakfast. Jake and Bunny had had their meal long before.

"There's no holding the boy this morning," Capper observed. "It will be a good thing now when you can get him off to school, Mrs. Bolton. He'll grow quicker there than anywhere."

Maud looked up quickly. "You think so?"

He smiled. "I have told Jake so. He, I believe, is waiting till these all-absorbing races are over to consult you on the subject."

Maud's eyes fell. "He won't do that," she said, in a low voice. "He and Bunny will settle it between them, and I shall be told afterwards."

"That so?" said Capper. "Then, if I may take the liberty to advise you, madam, I should consult them first."

She shook her head in silence. How could she even begin to tell Capper of the utter lack of sympathy between herself and Jake?

"And you really think he is fit to go to school, and fend for himself?" she asked, after a moment.

"Do him all the good in the world," said Capper. He added kindly: "Guess you'll miss him some, my dear; but believe me you won't be sorry when you see what it does for him."

"Oh no, I shall never be sorry on his account," she said.

And there the subject ended, but before she left the breakfast table she found an opportunity to acquaint him with her decision to remain at home that day.

He expressed regret but not surprise. "You are wise not to overtire yourself," he said.

She became aware again of the green eyes surveying her for a moment, and coloured. "I--am not sleeping very well," she said, with an effort.

He nodded as one who fully understood. "Take things easily!" he said. "Don't fret over 'em! Let the world go by!"

She got up, moved by an impulse curiously insistent. "Dr. Capper," she said, "it--it's rather a difficult world, isn't it?"

Her voice had a quiver of wistfulness in it. He reached out a hand at once that sought and held hers. "My dear Mrs. Bolton," he said, "we live too hard--all of us. That's nine-tenths of the trouble. It's because we won't trust the Hand on the helm. We're all so mighty anxious to do our own steering, and we don't know a thing about it."

The hold of the thin yellow fingers was full of kindly comfort. There was nothing disconcerting in the shrewd green eyes that looked into hers.

"I think you'll be happier presently, you know," he said. "It seems to me that two people I'm mighty fond of have got wandering off their bearings in the wilderness. They'll find each other presently and then, I guess, that same wilderness will blossom into a garden and they'll settle down in comfort and enjoy themselves."

He pressed her hand, and released it, making it evident that he had no intention of pursuing the matter further without definite encouragement. And Maud gave him none. Something in her shrank from doing so. He was Jake's friend before he was hers.

The day seemed very long. It was oppressive also, gleams of sunshine alternating with occasional heavy thunder showers.

She was lying in a hammock-chair under the trees in the orchard with Chops at her feet when Jake came striding through at the last moment to find her.

"Capper tells me you don't feel up to coming," he said.

She barely glanced up from the book in her lap, she did not want to meet his eyes. "I didn't tell him so," she said.

"But it is so?" insisted Jake.

"I have decided not to come, certainly," she said, feeling her heart jerk apprehensively as she made the statement.

He stood a moment in silence, then bent unexpectedly, took her by the chin, and turned her face up to his own. It was flooded with scarlet on the instant; her eyes flinched away from his.

He held her so for several seconds, looking at her, mercilessly watching that agonizing blush, till it faded under his eyes, leaving her white to the lips. Then, without another word, he let her go.

She heard the jingle of his spurs as he went away, and for a long time after she lay as he had left her, too unnerved to move. What could he know? How much did he suspect? She felt cold to the very heart of her, stricken and sick with fear. He had not so much as kissed her in his brutal, domineering way, and that fact disquieted her more than any other. Though she hated the touch of his lips she would have welcomed it thankfully in that hour of sickening apprehension only to feel reassured and safe.

The patter of rain roused her to activity and drove her back to the house, in time to meet Mrs. Lovelace hastening forth with an umbrella to her rescue.

"You shouldn't be sitting out there, ma'am, on a day like this," the old woman said. "And, lawk-a-massy, you do look bad!"

Maud tried to smile. "I am not bad, Mrs. Lovelace. It's only the heat."

Mrs. Lovelace pursed her lips and looked severely incredulous. "You'd best lie down, ma'am," she said. "I'll bring your lunch immediately."

She bustled away, and Maud sank on the couch in the parlour and strove to compose herself. But she could not with that awful fear coiled like a snake about her heart. A terrible restlessness possessed her. It was impossible to remain still.

If she could only send a message to Charlie, warning him not to come! But that was impossible. She knew that no message could reach him now. He would have to come, and Jake would know of it. Manoeuvre as she might, those lynx-eyes would wrest from her the secret. She knew herself powerless to withstand them.

She made scarcely any pretence to eat the luncheon that Mrs. Lovelace brought her. She had never before been in such a ferment of disquietude. Those few awful moments of Jake's silent scrutiny had shaken her to the very foundations of her being. She felt that he had ruthlessly forced his way past her defences and looked upon her naked soul. And she realized that he had spoken the truth when he had said that she could not deceive him. He could tear her reserve from her like a garment and expose her most secret thoughts.

She spent most of the afternoon in pacing to and fro, for she could not rest. Her feet were soaked with the drenched orchard grass, but she did not know it. Her limbs were strung to a feverish activity. There were times when she thought she would go mad.

The hours crawled by leaden-footed. She did not know in the least when Charlie would come, but she began to expect him long before he could possibly arrive, and the waiting became a torment that chafed her intolerably. If he would only come soon--so that she might make her petition and let him go!

Back and forth, back and forth, she wandered, conscious sometimes of a dreadful, physical sinking, but for the most part too torn with anxiety to be aware of anything else. And Chops paced with her in mute sympathy with her distress.

The afternoon was beginning to wane towards evening when Mrs. Lovelace came forth once more in search of her--Mrs. Lovelace with prim, set lips, sternly disapproving.

"You'll make yourself bad if you go on, ma'am," she said. "And if you please, Mrs. Wright is here, and I'm laying the cloth for tea."

"Mrs. Wright!" Maud looked at her with dazed eyes, bringing her thoughts back as it were from afar.

"There she is!" said Mrs. Lovelace.

And even as she spoke Maud caught sight of the comfortable, portly figure standing on the steps.

She gave a gasp that was almost a cry, and began to hasten towards her.

Mrs. Wright on her part bustled down to meet her. "Don't hurry, my dear, don't! I've only just come. Why, how tired and white you look! There! Run along, Sarah, and get the tea, like a good soul! I'll take care of Mrs. Bolton."

Her arm was already around Maud's waist; she looked up at her with round eyes full of kindly concern.

Maud bent to kiss her. "How--good of you to come!" she said.

She herself was divided between relief and dismay; but the relief predominated. It would not matter now if Charlie came. She would have to write to him on her mother's behalf. It was the only way. She believed she could evade Jake's vigilance with a letter--so long as Charlie did not write to her. The anguish through which she had passed had made her realize that she must not, could not, take such a risk again.

She clung to Mrs. Wright as to a deliverer. "Thank you for coming!" she said.

Mrs. Wright had begun to steer sturdily for the house. "Lor' bless you, dear, I'm as pleased as anything to come," she said. "Jake dropped in this morning casual-like, and happened to pass the remark as they was all going to the races but you. So I sent down to Tom's young lady to be so kind as to come and mind the shop for me this afternoon, and after dinner I dressed myself and came along to keep you company. I could have got here an hour ago, but I thought as you'd be resting, and I knew as Sarah would be busy."

So it was Jake's doing! He had taken this step to circumvent her. Maud was conscious of a throb of anger against him, but her visitor's guileless chatter made her stifle it. Mrs. Wright was so obviously unsuspecting.

They ascended the steps together, Mrs. Wright's arm stoutly assisting her. Then in the parlour she turned and looked at Maud.

"If I was you, my dearie, I should lie right down and have a rest. And I'll give you a drop of brandy in your tea."

She sank upon the sofa without protest. The reaction from those hours of feverish suspense was upon her. She felt exhausted in mind and body.

Mrs. Wright attended upon her with the utmost kindness. She did not talk a great deal, for which forbearance Maud was mutely thankful. She was so unutterably tired, too tired even to protest against that drop of brandy in her tea upon which Mrs. Wright insisted.

Another hour went by, but there was no sign of Saltash's coming. The evening was turning dark and wet. Maud lay on her sofa, sometimes dozing, sometimes talking abstractedly to her visitor. For Mrs. Wright was determined to remain till Jake returned, and briskly said so. Maud did not want to combat the decision. She was glad to have her there. It seemed that Charlie was not coming after all. Something had detained him. Her anxiety had spent itself, but she felt terribly weak. The comfort of the old woman's tender care was too great to refuse.

She scarcely knew how the time went, so overpowering was the languor that possessed her. The rainy sky brought down an early dusk long before the setting of the sun. A brooding stillness hung upon all things through which the patter of the rain sounded with unvarying monotony.

"Deary me! They will get wet," sighed Mrs. Wright.

Slowly the heavy clouds gathered and hung! Slowly the darkness deepened.

Suddenly Maud raised herself, sat up, tensely listened. "What is that?" she said.

Mrs. Wright looked at her. "I hear nothing but the rain, dear."

Maud broke in upon her impatiently. "Yes, that--that--that! Don't you hear? What is it? O God, what is it?"

Her voice rose wildly. In a moment she had sprung from her couch and was standing with caught breath, listening.

"My dearie, it's only the rain," said Mrs. Wright soothingly. "Don't let yourself get jumpy! There's nothing there."

But Maud paid no attention to her. With a movement incredibly swift she reached the door and threw it open.

Then indeed Mrs. Wright heard sounds, muffled but undeniable, of some commotion in the stable-yard. "I expect they've just got home, dear," she said. "And very wet they'll be. Hadn't you better tell Sarah to get a nice hot brew of tea ready for 'em? Little Sir Brian will be sure to want his tea."

But the rush of Maud's feet along the oaken passage was her only answer. The girl went like the wind, urged by the most awful fear she had ever known.

The front door was open. Bunny was on the step. But she brushed past him without so much as seeing him, tearing forth bare-headed, ashen-faced, into the rain.

For there in the murky twilight, terrible as a lion newly roused, stood Jake, gripping by the collar a struggling, writhing figure, the while he administered to it as sound a horse-whipping as his great strength could accomplish. His right arm moved slowly, with a deliberate regularity unspeakably horrible to behold. She had a glimpse--only a glimpse--of his face, and the savage cruelty of it was such that it seemed no longer human. Of his victim she saw very little, but of his identity not the smallest doubt existed in her mind; and as the sound of those awful blows reached her, the last shred of her endurance was torn away. She shrieked and shrieked again as she ran.

Those shrieks reached Jake as the cry of its mate in distress might reach an animal intent upon its prey. He flung the prey from him on the instant and wheeled. He met her a full ten yards from the spot, just as her feet slipped on the wet stones of the yard. He caught her--she almost fell against him--and held her hard in his arms.

She was sobbing terribly, utterly unstrung, hysterical. She struggled for speech, but the wild sounds that left her lips were wholly unintelligible. She struggled to free herself, but her strength was gone. In the end, her knees suddenly gave way under her. She collapsed with a gasping cry. And Jake, stooping, raised her, and bore her in senseless out of the drenching rain.