CHAPTER XXIII
THE STORM WIND
"It'll be real sport to take her by surprise," said Bunny, with achuckle of anticipation. "But what a beast of a journey it's been!"
They had been travelling practically all day, and a black night ofstreaming rain had been their welcome.
They had found accommodation at the hotel in which Maud had once spent anight, and having dined there they splashed through the muddy streets insearch of their goal.
They found it, a tall, gaunt house standing back in a dark, drippinggarden, unlighted, forsaken.
"It can't be the place!" said Bunny, for the first time feeling hisardour 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 matchfound 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-facedmaid-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 withintent, searching eyes. How would she greet him? Would she be glad?Would she be sorry? He watched for her face, and the first instinctiveexpression it would wear at sight of him.
There came the rustle of a dress, a footfall that was light and yetsomehow sounded weary. She came through the dim hall with a slow, tiredgait.
"Good evening!" she said. "Will you come upstairs?"
Bunny's fist suddenly prodded Jake in the back. He went forward a stepalmost involuntarily.
"Maud!" he said.
"Jake!" She stood as one transfixed.
And in that moment he forgot to notice how she looked at him, forgoteverything in the one overwhelming thought that he was with her. Hestrode forward, and somehow her two cold hands were in his before heknew 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 hardlythought 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--faceit all--by myself."
His hold was warm, full of sustaining strength. "You'll have to tell mewhat 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 thebackground, "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 illfive days," she said. "It was a chill and then pneumonia. I nursed himright up to the last. He wouldn't have anyone else. In fact hewouldn't let me out of his sight." Her face quivered again, and shepaused. Then drearily, "I was expecting the undertaker when you camein," she said. "I've had to arrange everything. The funeral will bethe day after to-morrow. Will you come into the dining room? There's afire there."
She led the way to that stiff and cheerless apartment. Bunny pressedclose 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; onlytired, 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 stoodbefore it silently.
Jake came to her, put a kindly arm about her. "You must go to bed, mydear," he said. "You're worn out."
She shook her head with a rather piteous smile. "Oh no, I can't go fora 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 hotelround the corner. And I can sleep just anywhere."
She let herself lean against him. "Thank you for coming, Jake," shesaid again.
She was plainly worn out, and from that moment Jake took command. Hemade 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 incharge.
She was absolutely docile, gladly relinquishing all responsibility. ToBunny she gave a few halting details of the old man's death, but shecould not talk much. The strain of those days and nights of constantwatching had brought her very near to a complete breakdown. She was sotired, so piteously tired.
She dozed presently, sitting there before the fire with him, holding hishand. It was so good to have him there, so good to feel that there wassomeone left to love her, to think for her, so good to know thatBunny--though he had ceased to be the one aim and end of herexistence--had not drifted wholly out of her life.
It must have been more than an hour later that she was aroused by a fewwhispered 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 hedoesn't. And the little chap's tired, you know, Maud. He's beentravelling all day and wants a good night's rest."
That moved her. Though Bunny disclaimed fatigue she saw that he hadbeen sleeping also. All the mother in her rose to the surface.
"Yes, of course, dear. You must go," she said. "I wish you could haveslept here, but perhaps it's better you shouldn't. Can you find yourway alone? Jake, won't you go with him?"
But Bunny strenuously refused Jake's escort. He bade her good nightwith warmth, and she saw that he hugged Jake at parting. And then thedoor 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'retired 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 therewas no holding him off.
His arm was already about her; he lifted her to her feet. His face worethe old dominant look, yet with a subtle difference. His eyes heldnought but kindness.
She yielded herself to him almost involuntarily. "I haven't been to bedfor nearly a week," she said. "I've slept of course in snatches. Iused to lie down in Uncle Edward's room. Poor dear old man! He wantedme 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 theend came rather quickly. We knew his heart was weak. The doctorsaid--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 gotfrightened 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 supportingher. He entered her room as one who had the right.
The tears were running down her face, for she could not check them. Sheattempted no remonstrance, suffer
ing him like a forlorn child. And asthough she had been a child, he ministered to her, waiting upon her,helping her, with a womanly intuition that robbed the situation of alldifficulty, meeting her utter need with a simplicity and singleness ofpurpose that could not but achieve its end.
"You treat me as if--as if I were Bunny," she said once, smiling faintlythrough her tears.
And Jake smiled in answer. "A man ought to be able to valet his ownwife," 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 notto let you."
"Don't you worry any about that!" said Jake. "The main idea is to getyou 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 ofrelief in her eyes.
"Now you're going to lie quiet till morning," Jake said, tucking in thebedclothes with motherly care. "Good night, my girl! Is thatcomfortable?"
He kissed her for the second time, lightly, caressingly, exactly as hemight have kissed a child.
She tried to answer him, to thank him, but could not. He smoothed thehair from her temples, and turned away.
But in that moment her hands came out to him with a gesture that wasalmost convulsive, caught and held his sleeve. "Oh, Jake!" she said."Jake! I'm so lonely!" and suddenly began to sob--"I want you more thanBunny 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?" hesaid, and in his voice, low as it was, there sounded a deep note as ofsomething forcibly suppressed.
She clung to him, hiding her face against the rough tweed coat. "I'veno one else," she sobbed.
"Ah!" Jake said. A very strange look came into his face. His mouthtwitched a little as if in self-ridicule. "But, my girl," he said, "Ireckon 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 tellme--what it meant to be lonely. But I never knew it could be--likethis."
"Poor girl!" Jake murmured softly. "I know--I know."
The look of faint irony still hovered about his lips, but his voice, histouch, conveyed nothing but tenderness. He was stroking the dark hairwith a motherliness that was infinitely soothing.
She was holding his other hand tightly, tightly, against her breast, andit was wet with her tears. "I've been--so miserable," she told himbrokenly. "I know it's been--no one's fault--but my own. But life isso difficult--so difficult. I've treated you badly--badly. I haven'tdone--my duty. I've always yearned for the things out of reach. Andnow--and now--oh, Jake, my world is a desert. I haven't a friend leftanywhere."
"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 yousay--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 facelower, deeper into his coat, "if--if I had had--a child, would it--wouldit--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 hisface, 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, notspeaking.
She was trembling all over, her face was still hidden. But she yieldedto the drawing of his arm, clinging to him blindly, desperately.
He held her so for a little space, then with steady insistence he movedhis other hand, beginning to turn her face upwards to his own. Shetried to resist him, but he would not be resisted. In the end panting,quivering, she yielded very suddenly. She lifted her face voluntarilyto his. She offered him her lips. But her eyes were closed. Shepalpitated like a trapped thing in his hold.
Yet when his lips met hers, she returned his kiss; and it was for thefirst time in her life.
She slept that night in the shelter of his arms, safe from the desolateemptiness of her desert. And if she dreamed that she had gone back intothe house of bondage for the sake of the fire that burned there, thedream did not distress her, nor did the fire scorch. Rather the warmthof it filled her lonely spirit with such comfort as she had long ceasedto hope for. And the steady beat of a man's heart lulled her to adeeper rest.
When the dim dawnlight came filtering in, Jake's eyes turned to meet itwith a lynx-like watchfulness as of an animal on guard. There was nosleep in them. He had not slept all through the night. His face wasgrim and still, and there was a hint of savagery--or was itirony?--about his mouth. For the second time in their lives Fate haddriven her to him for refuge. Like a bird out of the storm she had cometo him, perchance but for that one night's shelter. Already a contrarywind was blowing that might sunder them forever. With the coming of theday, they might drift apart and meet no more at all, so slender was thebond between them, so transient their union. For he knew that she lovedhim not, had never loved him.
His eyes grew harder, brighter. They shone with a great and bitterhunger. He turned them upon her sleeping face. And then magically theysoftened, grew pitiful, grew tender. For though she slept, the veil waslifted, and he read the sadness of her soul.
His lips suddenly trembled as he looked upon her, and the irony went outof him like an evil spirit. Whether she loved him or loved him not, shewas 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.