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.