The Hundredth Chance

  CHAPTER III

  CONFIDENCES

  Three days after Bunny's return, Maud drove him down in the dog-cart oneafternoon to see their mother. She herself would not go into the AnchorHotel. She had never entered it since that bitter day in the winter whenshe had thrown herself upon Jake's protection, nor had she exchanged asingle word with her step-father since her wedding-day.

  Her mother seemed to have grown completely away from them, and wouldseldom be persuaded to visit her daughter even though Jake himselfoffered to fetch her. She had become fretful and irritable, and was ina certain measure vexed with Maud who had not apparently made the mostof her opportunities. There was no denying the fact that they weredrifting further and further apart, and to neither of them did theother's presence afford the smallest pleasure. Now that Lord Saltash hadquitted the scene, Mrs. Sheppard took no further interest in herdaughter's doings. She strongly suspected that it was in response toMaud's insistence that he had gone, and she was inclined to regard hisabsence as a personal grievance against her in consequence.Emphatically, Mrs. Sheppard was not improved by adversity. Her lookswere fading, and her placid temperament had vanished. Giles was such atrial, life was so difficult. She had always acted for the best, butshe never reaped any benefit therefrom. In fact, Fate had never beenkind to her, and she was beginning to cherish a grudge in consequence.

  Bunny was by no means anxious to pay her a visit; it was only by Jake'scommands that he went. Maud was a little surprised to find that he wasdeveloping a scrupulous regard for Jake's wishes. She drove thedog-cart into the stable-yard of "The Anchor" and left it there with apromise to return for him in an hour. Then she herself wandered down tothe shore to pass the time.

  The day was sultry with a brooding heat. The sea lay wrapped in mistlike a steaming sheet of molten lead. There was no sound of waves; onlynow and then the wailing cry of a sea-gull floated across the water, andsometimes there throbbed upon the heavy air the paddle of an unseensteamer beating through that silent waste of greyness.

  She had no sunshade, and the glare was intense, albeit the sun wasveiled. Half-mechanically she turned her steps towards the shelter inwhich--how long ago!--Jake had made his astounding proposal of marriage.She felt miserable, depressed, sick at heart. The close weather did notagree with her. She was limp and listless, and she could neither eatnor sleep.

  She dropped wearily down upon the seat and leaned back with her eyeshalf-closed. Her head was aching dully, as if a heavy weight pressedupon it.

  There was no one in sight. That end of the parade was littlefrequented. The gay crowd preferred the vicinity of thebathing-machines where a little troupe of Pierrots were making merry.Now and then the raucous voice of the funny man of the party reachedher, but it was too far away to disturb her. She was thankful for theattraction that kept the people away.

  Chops lay at her feet, snapping at the flies, grave, sympathetic,watchful. He was feeling the heat too, but he took it philosophically,with the wisdom of experience. He knew better than to chafe at theinevitable.

  Half-an-hour crawled away thus in dumb oppression while the atmospheregrew imperceptibly thicker, gradually extinguishing the sun-rays,darkening the world. At length a long ridge rose with ghostlysuddenness on that flat desert of waters and swept shorewards, burstingupon the beach with a startling roar.

  Maud started and opened her eyes. In a moment she was on her feet,dismayed, irresolute. One glance at the ominous sky and sullen, glassywater told her that a storm was imminent. She could not stay in thatexposed place. She would not contemplate taking refuge at "The Anchor."Whither could she go?

  She began to walk swiftly along the parade, Chops pacing sedatelybehind. The Pierrots were gone, the crowd scattered. She was sure thatin a few moments there would be a terrific downpour.

  Another long swell showed like the back of a swift-moving monster on theface of the waters. It travelled landwards with incredible rapidity; itburst in thunder just below her. A great swirl of surf rushed up to thewall and receded to rejoin the inky water. And suddenly the blast ofthe storm caught her.

  Almost before she realized it, she was fleeing before it down thedeserted road. Eddies of dust rose up under her feet, and sand whippedup from the beach stung her face. She raced the tempest, making for thenearest side-road to escape the unbroken fury with which it raged alongthe shore.

  As she tore across to the sheltering houses there came a blinding flashof lightning, and instantly overhead a splitting explosion that seemedto shatter the whole world. For a second or two she was checked in herwild career. She felt stunned. Then in a sweeping torrent the rain wasupon her, and she stumbled towards the nearest doorway.

  Before she reached it, however, a voice called to her, a stout figurecame running forth with amazing lightness, and two plump hands seizedone of hers.

  "Come in, my dear, come in!" panted a wheezy voice. "Why, whateverbrought you out in such a storm? You look scared to death. Come andsit down in my back parlour behind the shop! It's all right, dearie,all right. Don't be upset!"

  Gasping and unnerved, Maud tottered into the little shop, groping,clinging to her guide. The gloom without made almost impenetrabledarkness within. She had not the faintest idea as to whither she wasbeing led. But there was no hesitation about her companion. Shepressed her forward till a glimmer of light revealed a window in a dingylittle room beyond the shop, and here she deposited her with friendlyfirmness upon a horse-hair sofa, making her lean against a cushion sewnwith beads while she recovered her breath.

  "Don't you be frightened any more, my dear!" she admonished her."You're quite safe. Trust the dear Lord for that! The wind and stormare only fulfilling His Will. Poor child, you're all of a tremble!There, let's take your hat off! And I'll get you a cup of tea, dear.You'll be better then."

  Tenderly she removed the hat while Maud, panting and spent, lay limplyagainst the cushion. Chops sat pressed against her, his silken head onher knee.

  "Why, look at him! It's just as if he's trying to tell you not to takeon," said her rescuer. "There's a deal of soul in a dog, I always say.Now you know who I am, Mrs. Bolton, my dear, don't you? You don't feelas if you're taking shelter with a stranger?"

  "You are--Mrs. Wright," Maud said, speaking with an effort.

  "That's right, my dear. I felt sure you'd remember me. Now will you bequite comfortable if I run into the kitchen and make the tea? Or willyou come along with me? I often think company is a good thing in astorm."

  Maud was recovering herself. She sat up with something of her usualquiet demeanour, though her heart was still beating unpleasantly fast."Please don't trouble to get any tea for me!" she said. "If I may staytill the worst is over, I shall be very grateful. But I must godirectly it gets better. My brother is waiting for me at 'The Anchor.'"

  Another terrible flash pierced the gloom, and she shrank involuntarily,one hand covering her face while the thunder crashed above them with aforce that shook the house.

  As the dreadful echoes died away, she awoke to the fact that Mrs. Wrightwas kneeling stoutly beside her, one kindly arm pressing her close.

  "It's all right, darling. Don't shiver so!" she murmured maternally."We're quite safe in the Lord's good keeping. He won't let us be harmedif we trust in Him."

  Maud made a slight gesture as though she would withdraw herself, andthen the comfort of that motherly arm overcame her shyness. Verysuddenly she let herself go into the old woman's embrace. She hid herface on the ample shoulder.

  "I'm not really frightened," she whispered piteously. "But oh, I'm sotired--I'm so tired!"

  "Poor lamb!" said Mrs. Wright compassionately.'

  She gathered her to her bosom rocking her softly in her arms as one whosoothes a hurt child, and whispering endearing words from time to time,while Maud, spent and weary, wept silently there till with the sheddingof tears some measure of relief came to her aching soul.


  She forgot the storm that raged around them; she forgot that Mrs. Wrightwas a comparative stranger to her; she forgot the passage of time andall besides in the blessed consciousness of another woman's sympathycompassing her round, sustaining, comprehending, lifting her up from thedepths of despair into which she had lately sunk so low.

  "There then! There! You're better now," murmured Mrs. Wright at last."Would you like to talk a bit, darling? Or shall we just pretend asthere's nothing to talk about?"

  h But Maud was clinging to her, as a drowning person clings to a spar."You're very good to me," she whispered tremulously.

  It was enough for Mrs. Wright. She proceeded with boldness. "It didn'tbecome me to take the first step, dearie, you being a lady like you are,and me only a clumsy old woman. But I've had troubles myself, and I'mnot blind. You aren't well, dear; you aren't happy. I was afraid thatday in the winter, and I've been much more afraid since. I was wantingto step up and see you again; but then I wasn't sure as you 'd want me.But I've thought of you often and often, and poor Jake too."

  Maud shivered. "Life is horrible--horrible!" she said, and there was aquiver of passion in the words.

  "Ah, dear!" Mrs. Wright held her closer. "Maybe that's because you'renot taking things just as you should. No, I don't suppose as it's yourfault. I wouldn't presume. But there's ways and ways of looking atthings. And sometimes, when a girl is hurried into marrying, like youwere, she's likely to be a bit taken aback when she comes to realizewhat it means. And it is then maybe that she gets a wrong impression ofmen and their ways which is like to interfere with all happiness. But,you know, dearie, men are only a pack of children. Any woman can managea man if she puts her mind to it, and he'll like her the better for ittoo. But if once a man gets the whip-hand, and knows it, that's fatal.A spoilt child soon becomes a tyrant."

  "Jake is no child!" Low and bitter the words came; Maud's face wasburied deep in her new friend's shoulder. "He is nothing but--a brute!"

  "Lord love me!" ejaculated Mrs. Wright. And then very tenderly her handbegan to smooth the girl's tumbled hair. "Has he been--that--to you?"she said. "Ah, dear, dear, dear! And what's going to happen, I wonder,when he knows what you're going to give him? No, don't shrink, darling!There's nothing to be ashamed of. Would you be ashamed if God sent anangel to lay a baby in your arms? For it's just that, darling. It isHis gift. Aren't you going to thank Him for it? The first is so muchthe most wonderful. Think, dear, think of the little wee thing thatwill cling to you, cry to you, depend on only you!"

  Maud was shivering violently. She did not lift her head or speak.

  Mrs. Wright's hand did not cease to caress and soothe. "I am right,dear, am I?" she asked softly.

  And Maud's silence answered her.

  Thereafter there came an interval during which the loud patter of therain was the only sound. Maud's tears had ceased. She sat bowed uponthe old woman's breast as though she lacked the strength to liftherself.

  But presently, without moving, she spoke. "I suppose I am very wicked;but I don't feel like--that about it. I can't. I don't want it.You'll be dreadfully shocked, I'm afraid. I've never spoken my mind toanyone before. But--the fact is--I've never felt really married to Jake.I don't in my heart belong to him. And that makes everything wrong."

  "My dear! My dear!" said Mrs. Wright. "But he is your husband all thesame. And you--you are the one woman in the world to him. He loves youas his own soul."

  Maud shook her head hopelessly. "Oh no, indeed he doesn't! He doesn'tknow the meaning of the word. If he did--things would be verydifferent."

  "Dear heart, that's just where you go wrong--the beginning and end ofthe whole trouble," declared Mrs. Wright. "I knew he loved you thatnight last year at your mother's wedding-party. Why, it was shining inhis eyes for all to see. Was he such a dunderhead then that he nevertold you so?"

  But at that Maud raised herself. She met the old woman's eyes in thegloom, her own heavy with bitterness.

  "Mrs. Wright, that was not love," she said, "or anything approaching tolove." She paused a moment, as though the tragic words had cost her allher strength; then piteously she ended, "He told me he had a fancy forme; that was all. So for Bunny's sake--and partly for my own--I marriedhim. And now I am the slave of that fancy."

  "Oh dear, dear, dear!" Mrs. Wright said again. "And has he never madelove to you at all? What a silly fellow, to be sure! Men don't knowanything; upon my word, they don't!"

  "I didn't like his methods of making love." Maud spoke with growingbitterness. "And I never suffered them. Oh yes, I have to endure themnow. He takes whatever he wants. But every spark of affection orrespect that I ever had for him went out one night in the winter when hecame home the worse for drink."

  "Sakes alive!" exclaimed Mrs. Wright. "Not Jake!"

  "Yes, Jake." Maud spoke with tragic vehemence. "I saw him, and so didCharlie. We both knew it."

  "Who is Charlie?" questioned Mrs. Wright.

  A faint tinge of colour rose in the girl's pale face. "Lord Saltash.He is an old family friend of ours. He was always Charlie Burchester tous in the old days."

  "And he told you Jake was drunk?" demanded Mrs. Wright, with round,indignant eyes.

  Maud made a gesture of weary indifference. "He didn't actually tell meso. I think he didn't want me to know. But he couldn't deny it when Iput it to him."

  "Then, my dear, he was very grievously mistaken," declared Mrs. Wright,with stout emphasis. "Jake was not drunk. He never drinks. Why, lookat the man! His eyes are as clear as the day. Oh, believe me, dear,you've wronged him. You've wronged him cruelly. And that's maybe what'sbrought about all your trouble. For men can't put up with injustice.It's the one thing they can't abide, and I don't blame 'em."

  She paused. Maud was listening, but not as one convinced, or evengreatly interested.

  "It doesn't really alter anything, whether it's true or not," she said."I had begun even before that to know what sort of a man he was. Iheard him using the most appalling language one day. That opened myeyes."

  "Not to you, dear, surely?" urged Mrs. Wright, looking momentarilyshocked.

  "Oh no, not to me. I overheard it accidentally. But," Maud shiveredagain, "I've never forgotten it. Sometimes the memory of it turns menearly sick!"

  "Oh, dearie me! What a pity! What a pity! And he loving you so!"Mrs. Wright put up a very tender hand, and stroked her cheek. "Poorlittle hurt princess!" she said. "If I could but open your eyes andshow you how much true love there is behind his roughness! You'll seeit some day. I'm sure of that. Please God some day quite soon! You'retired and heart-sick now, dear. But that'll get better as time goes on.And if you'll take an old woman's advice, you'll tell him soon of thelittle one that's coming. It'll maybe make all the difference to youboth."

  But Maud drew back sharply at the bare suggestion. "I couldn't possiblytell him yet. I--I couldn't tell anyone."

  Mrs. Wright looked at her with eyes of motherly wisdom. "You'll feeldifferent--presently," she said. "I know, dear, I know."

  "You don't know! You can't know!" Maud's voice was strangled. Sheseemed to be striving for self-control.

  "I do know." Very firmly Mrs. Wright made the assertion. "Just youlisten a minute, dearie, and I'll tell you something that I've nevertold to mortal being before. I'm only just an ordinary old woman; but Iam a woman, and I know what it means to--love the wrong man." She spokeimpressively, but she did not seem to notice Maud's quick start. "WhenI was a girl, I was something of a belle. It seems funny now, don't it?But I attracted the attention of a good many young men, and I got a bituppish in consequence. My poor Tom was the best of the bunch, and Ialways knew it, though I led him a fine dance before we came to walkingout together. And then a young doctor's assistant came to the place,and--well, I'll not deny it now--we was both young and a bit flighty. Wegot larking together on them roundabouts one night at a fair, and afterthat we took to meeting one another on the sl
y, till, to cut it short, Ifell in love with him--very badly in love. I ought to have knownbetter, of course, for gentlemen like him don't marry little farmers'daughters like me. But I was young and inexperienced, and I thought hisintentions were honest, till one night I found as they weren't. I'venever ceased to thank the Almighty that I had the strength to send himabout his business then and there. And I got engaged to Tom thefollowing Sunday, and tried to forget it all. I wasn't in love withhim, but I knew he was a good sort; and the match pleased my people whoweren't too well-to-do. Well, I thought I was going to be happy in ahome of my own, and I let everything be arranged, and I deceived myselfinto thinking that it was going to be all right. And then--when thewedding was over--I felt, quite sudden-like, sick, just sick, to thinkwhat I'd done. I didn't let on to Tom. He was such a good, solid man.I'd have died of shame if I had. I didn't let on to anybody. But I wasthat miserable. There were times, on and off, when I almost hated him.And then--well, then--I began to have hopes. It didn't help me a bit atfirst, but gradually, very gradually, the thought of poor Tom's babypurified me. And when I'd come through my trouble and little Tom wasborn, I felt as if I had been born again too, and all my regrets weregone. I never had 'em any more, dear, after that. And I got that fondof poor Tom, he never guessed. I thank the Almighty he didn't, for themorning as he died he told me so simple-like that I'd been the sunshineof his life from the very first day he ever met me." Mrs. Wright pausedto wipe her eyes. "Poor Tom! I was never good enough for him," shesaid. "He was such a good, kind soul, and--luckily for me--he never sawan inch beyond his nose."

  She got up with the words, dismissing the subject with practical commonsense.

  "Now I'm going to get you some tea, dear, and by that time it'll haveleft off raining. See! It's getting lighter already. I'm so glad youcame this way. Maybe, you'll come again now, and if there's everanything I can do, why, you've only to let me know, and it's as good asdone."

  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'msure of it. I know Jake so well. You only know the rough side of himat present. There's a whole lot of reserve in Jake. He won't show youhis heart so long as he thinks you've no use for it. Maybe, he's shytoo. I've sometimes thought so."

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

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

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

  "Poor children!" she murmured to herself. "They'll find each other someday. 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.