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She bent, in response to Maud's silent gesture, and kissed her tenderly. "Try not to fret any more, darling! Everything will come right. I'm sure of it. I know Jake so well. You only know the rough side of him at present. There's a whole lot of reserve in Jake. He won't show you his heart so long as he thinks you've no use for it. Maybe, he's shy too. I've sometimes thought so."

Maud turned from the subject with a sigh. In some subtle fashion old Mrs. Wright's confidences had helped her, but she felt as if the matter would not bear further discussion. "I shall never forget your kindness," she said rather wistfully. "I wish I had come to see you long ago. I did mean to. And then there came Bunny's operation; and after that-after that-I felt too miserable."

Mrs. Wright shook her head in gentle chiding. "Don't ever again stay away on that account, dear!" she said. "And do you know I've got a feeling that maybe he is miserable too? Why don't you try a little kindness, my dear? Do now! It's wonderful what a difference to sore hearts a little kindness makes."

She bustled away with the words. She also knew that for the moment there was no more to be said. Yet there was a smile on her face as she closed the door-a wise, mother-smile that turned its plainness into beauty.

"Poor children!" she murmured to herself. "They'll find each other some day. And then-dear Lord-how happy they'll be!"

She permitted herself a little chuckle as she set the kettle to boil. Things always came right in the end.

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.

CHAPTER V
REBELLION

That letter from Saltash, written in French, contained the announcement of his approaching return. It was at her urgent written request that he had gone three months before. Somehow the very thought of him at the Castle had been intolerable after what had passed between them on the day of her return to her husband. But they had corresponded ever since. She could not refuse to receive and answer his letters. Her intimacy with Charlie was like a gem with many facets. He had an adroit fashion of flashing it before her hither and thither till, dazzled, she wondered if she had ever truly grasped its full value. Sometimes it seemed to her that it had been cut from the very bedrock of friendship, and at such times the realization of the sympathy that ever pulsed between them was a pure joy to her. At other times, remembering the strange impulses of the man, his sudden gusts of passion, swift misgiving would assail her and she would tell herself that she was making a terrible mistake. And then again she would catch a glimpse of his careless, butterfly temperament, and her doubts would vanish almost in spite of her. How could she take him seriously? His gay inconsequence made the hare notion seem ridiculous. They were pals, no more. True, he had offered to help her; but, knowing him through and through as she did, he was the last man in the world to whom she would really turn for help. And since she was so sure of herself, what had she to fear? Charlie was before all things a gentleman. There was nothing coarse or brutal about him. In his own words, where women were concerned, he did not take; he offered. For that very reason he was the harder to resist.

But she knew him to be safe. That was the foundation of her confidence. She had no fear of him; he had always set her at her ease. Without virtue he might be, yet was he not without a certain code of honour. He tempted; therein lay the subtle attraction of the man; but he never compelled. He was selfish; oh yes, he was selfish, but he was also strangely, whimsically kind at heart. In all her experience of him, she had never found him merciless.

And so she did not see why she should wholly deny herself the friendship which seemed to her to be the only good thing left in her life now. She had not wanted to see him, but now that he wrote to announce his return she found that she was glad. The first meeting with him might be a little difficult, but Charlie always knew how to deal with difficulties. He understood her; it would not be really hard. They would be friends again-just friends.

She slipped the letter away with a smile. He always allowed himself a little more latitude when he wrote in French. It was but natural. It meant nothing, she knew. How could anyone take him really seriously? His soul was as elusive as thistledown. It was only in the realms of music that she ever really saw his soul.

He did not say on what day he would return. She wondered if Jake knew, wondered if she could induce Bunny to ask him without betraying any interest in the subject herself. She was a little afraid of Bunny. His shrewdness embarrassed her. It was like a microscope, discovering things that otherwise would have escaped notice. She did not want to come under that microscope very often. There were some parts of her existence that would not bear it. She suspected that Bunny was already beginning to find out. She was sure that he was aware of a lack of sympathy between herself and Jake, and she wished she could have kept it from him.

With regard to her mother's affairs also, she would have been glad if the boy had not been drawn into the discussion. It was characteristic of Mrs. Sheppard to fling her burden upon the first shoulder that offered, but Maud was fashioned otherwise, and she wanted Bunny to throw off his precocities and become like other boys. The thought of his education was beginning to weigh upon her. She wanted to talk about it to Jake, but somehow she did not know how to broach the subject. She wondered if she should write to Uncle Edward, but hesitated to do so. Letters were never satisfactory.

She was pondering this matter as she undressed that night when a sudden thought struck her-a thought that darted through her like a flash, leaving a shining trail of possibilities behind. Why should they not accept the old man's invitation and go to him for a little while? He would be glad to see them, she was sure; and she would be glad-oh, unspeakably glad-to get away for a time. Face to face with him, she might even plead for her mother. She would infinitely rather be under an obligation to him than to Charlie.

The idea drew her more and more. She wondered it had not occurred to her before. In the end, finding it still early, she sat down at the table and began to scribble a hasty note. She determined that she would not tell Jake until Uncle Edward's reply reached her. She felt convinced that it would contain the invitation she was soliciting.

Feverishly she penned her appeal. Would he invite them to spend a few days? Bunny was well, or nearly so; she herself was feeling the heat, and would like a change. Jake-, no, she found she could not mention Jake. With trembling fingers she brought the note to an end.

She had scarcely finished addressing the envelope when she heard Jake's step on the stairs. Startled, she caught up letter and writing-case, and pushed them into a drawer. He seldom retired late, but she had not expected him so early as this. Swiftly she turned, shut the door that led into his room, blew out her lamp and slipped into bed.

But he did not pass on to his own room. He stopped at the door of hers, paused a second, then quietly opened it. She heard the creak of his gaiters as he entered. He had a candle in one hand; he put up the other to shield it from the draught, and the door blew gently to behind him.

Maud leaned against her pillow and watched him. Her heart was beating very fast. She wondered if he had heard her hasty movements of the past few moments.

He came to her side and set down his candle. "Say, Maud," he said, "I saw your light go out, so I guessed you weren't asleep."

Maud's eyes, blue-black and sombre, looked up to his. "What do you want?" she asked him coldly.

He stood squarely beside her. "I wanted just to speak to you," he said, "and I thought if I waited to undress, maybe you'd be asleep."

With the words he sat down rather heavily in the chair by her side, and there fell a silence, a dragging, difficult silence. Maud's heart was beating very fast. Had he come to talk about that letter from Saltash? Was he about to make a scene?

His stillness began to act upon her nerves. She turned towards him restlessly. "Oh, what is it?" she said, veiling her doubt with a show of impatience.

He stretched out a strong hand and took one of hers. "It's you, my girl," he said, and in his voice was a note of anxiety that partly reassured her. "You've not been yourself lately. Guess there's something the matter."

"There is nothing the matter," she said hastily.

He held her hand closely. "You've no call to be afraid of me," he said gently. "Maybe, I've been rough and rude at times. I've never meant it, my princess. I can't live up to you always; but I try, – God knows I try!"

A sudden tremor sounded in his voice; he became abruptly silent.

Maud's hand was hard clenched in his. She did not look at him; but the beating of her heart rose up between them-a hard, insistent drumming that she was powerless to control.

After a brief space he spoke again, his voice quite steady and controlled. "Reckon you're not happy. Reckon you're not well either. I've been thinking maybe you'd like to go away for a spell-you and the boy. If so, I'm willing to manage it. It'll be a bit of a rest for you."

He paused. The clenched hand he held had made a sharp, convulsive movement as if at a sudden twinge of pain. Maud lay breathing rapidly, her eyes fixed upon the flame of the candle.

He waited a few moments; then, "What do you think of the proposition, my girl?" he asked.

She turned her head slowly towards him. "Bunny and I alone?" she said.

"That's the idea," said Jake.

Her eyes met his resolutely, with a certain challenging directness. "As a matter of fact, I had thought myself that we might go to Uncle Edward for a little," she said.

He showed no surprise. "You would like that?" he asked.

"Yes." She spoke with instant decision.

"Then go!" said Jake. He set her hand free with the words, but he remained seated as if he had something further on his mind. "By the way," he said, after a moment, "I had a letter this evening."

She started. "A letter?"

"Yes." Very deliberately he answered her. "I met the postman and took it from him at the door."

"Ah!" It was scarcely more than a whisper. She shrank against her pillow with a gesture wholly involuntary.

Jake's eyes were upon her, alert, unswerving, dominating. "My letter came from Capper," he said quietly. "He is coming to us in a few days; he wants to see Bunny again before he leaves England."

"Oh, surely we needn't wait for him!" With a sudden rush the words came; she spoke with feverish vehemence. "If we really are going away, let us go soon!" she urged. "Why should we wait?"

"I thought maybe you'd like to say 'Thank you' to Capper before he goes," said Jake.

"But I needn't see him for that," she said, in growing agitation. "I'll write."

Jake was silent.

"He will very likely sail from Liverpool," she went on. "Be could come and see Bunny there."

Jake bent towards her. "Say, Maud," he said in his soft slow way, "don't be upset any. If you're not wanting to meet Capper, it's all one to me. But, my girl, there ain't anything he could tell me about you that I don't know already."

Her face flamed scarlet. For the moment she was furious with an indignation that burned intolerably. Her very soul felt on fire. It was more than she could bear.

"Oh, go away!" she cried out fiercely. "Go, I say! Go! You make me hate you more and more every day-every night!" He rose on the instant. For a few quivering moments she thought she had roused him to anger, for his eyes glowed in the dimness like a slow-burning fire. And then in utter silence he turned away. He went into his own room, and softly closed the door.