Chapter XXI: The Poison Fruit

It was curiously like the old days to see Jake enter the parlour on the following morning with Chops the red setter at his heels. But for Chops' delighted welcome of her, Maud could almost have felt that the intervening weeks had been no more than a dream.

She sat in her accustomed place and fondled him. Them, as Jake passed her, she put out a detaining hand.

"Good morning, Jake!"

Her face was burning; yet she lifted it. He stood a second, only a second, behind her chair; then bent and touched her forehead with his lips.

"You're down early," he said. "Have you slept?"

She nodded, feeling her agitation subside with thankfulness. "How is--The Hundredth Chance?"

Jake went to the fire. "I think he'll be all right; but I won't trust anyone else to look after him. By the way, here's a letter for you!"

He held it out to her behind his back. She took it. Her fingers closed upon a crest.

She got up sharply, went to his side, and with a passionate movement dropped it straight into the flames.

"Shall we have breakfast now?" she said.

"Here's another letter!" said Jake.

The grim smile was hovering about his mouth; but he made no comment whatever upon her action.

She took the second letter. "Is this all?"

"That's all," said Jake.

"It's from Uncle Edward." She opened it, and began to read.

Suddenly she glanced up and found his eyes upon her. They fell instantly.

"You can read it too," she said, and held the letter so that he might share it with her.

He stood at her shoulder and read.

It was a very brief epistle, written in evident distress of mind.

"MY DEAR GRAND-NIECE,

"Will you permit me to tender to you my very humble apology for the gross behaviour by which I drove you from the shelter of my roof? The fact that you have returned to your husband's house convinces me of the base injustice of my suspicions. I ought to be old enough to know that a woman cannot be judged by her friends. If you find that you possess sufficient magnanimity to extend a free pardon to a very lonely and penitent old sinner, will you of your charity return--for however brief a period--and give him an opportunity to demonstrate his penitence?

"Yours humbly and hopefully,
"EDWARD WARREN."

"Oh, poor old man!" Maud looked up quickly. "But how did he know I was here?"

"I wired to him of your safe arrival," Jake said, "in reply to a wire from him which I didn't read. I thought he might come posting down here if I didn't."

"Poor old man!" she said again. And after a moment, "Thank you, Jake."

He looked at her. "For keeping my word? I generally do that. Say, what are you going to do?"

"I'll write to him," she said.

He moved round to his place at the breakfast-table. "You're not wanting to go back then?"

She hesitated.

"What is it?" he said. "Money? I can let you have some if you're short of it."

She flushed. "No, Jake, no! I think--I think I'll stay here for the present. I will make him understand."

"Please yourself!" said Jake, and opened the morning paper.

A faint sense of disappointment went through her. She had fancied her decision would have evoked approval if not open pleasure from him. She poured out his coffee in silence.

As she brought it to him, he glanced up at her. "Don't stay on my account if you feel you'd sooner go!" he said. "I get along very well alone."

She stiffened ever so slightly. "Thank you," she said. "I'll think about it."

Jake fell to work upon his breakfast with his usual business-like rapidity. She did not attempt to keep pace with him. Somehow the idea that he really wished her to go had robbed her of all desire to eat.

After a time he glanced across at her again. "Are you going down to see your mother?"

She answered him somewhat listlessly. "Yes, I suppose so."

"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, _chere 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.