The Hundredth Chance. Ethel M. Dell
a happy, sheltered life in your own sphere--that might have been a reason for me to hold off. You might with justice have scorned my offer. But--as things are--as things are--" he spoke with strong insistence. "Is it taking advantage of your position to want to deliver you from it? It's a beastly position--it's a humiliating position. And I gather you've no prospect of deliverance. Well, I offer you a way of escape. It mayn't be the way you would choose, but--there are worse, many worse. I'm not a bad sort, and I've got a soft spot in my heart for that little brother of yours. Say, Miss Brian, do you despise me so badly that you can't even give the idea your impartial consideration?"
He spoke whimsically, but there was a rough dignity about him nevertheless which had an undeniable effect upon her. She could no longer spurn him with contempt, though neither could she yield a single inch to his persuasion.
"It would be quite useless for me to consider it," she said. "I am sorry if I was rude to you just now, but your suggestion rather took my breath away. Please understand that it is quite, quite impossible!"
"All right," he said. "Still you won't dismiss it quite entirely from your mind? That is to say, you'll hold it in reserve just in case a way of escape becomes essential to you. I shan't break my heart about it, but neither shall I change my mind. The offer remains open day and night just in case the emergency might arise which would make you willing to avail yourself of it."
He took his hand from her arm, and she felt that the interview was over.
Yet he walked beside her as she began to move away, and crossed the road again with her to the entrance of the hotel.
"And one thing more," he said, as they reached it. "I have no wish or intention to force myself upon you, so if--to please Bunny--you can bring yourself to accompany the pair of us on the Sunday expedition to see the stud, you need not be afraid that I shall attempt to take advantage of your position again."
The colour flamed up in her face at the few, leisurely words. He seemed to possess the power of calling it up at will.
She stood on the first step, looking down at him, uncertain whether to be haughty or kind.
He moved close to her, and by the lamplight that streamed through the glass doors she saw his frank, disarming smile.
"And look here!" he said. "Don't fling cold water on that other scheme for Bunny that I broached to you, yet! You never know what may turn up."
The smile decided her. She held out her hand to him. "But, you know, I couldn't--I really couldn't--" she said rather incoherently.
He gave the hand a firm grip and released it. "No. All right. I understand. But think about it! And don't run away with the idea that I planned it just for your sake! I'd like jolly well to be of use to you. But--in the main--it's the lad I'm thinking of. You do the same! After all, it's second nature with you to put him first, isn't it?"
"He always will come first, with me," she said. "But I couldn't--I can't--incur such an obligation--even for him."
"All right," said Jake, unmoved. "Class it with the impossibles--but, all the same, think about it!"
He was gone with the words, striding away down the street without a backward glance.
Maud was left alone with the warm blood still in her cheeks and an odd feeling of uncertainty at her heart. She felt baffled and uneasy like a swimmer in deep waters, aware of a strong current but still not wholly at its mercy, nor wholly aware of its force and direction. She did not mean to let herself be drawn into that current. She hung on the edge of it, trying to strike out and avoid it. But all the time it drew her, it drew her. And--though she would not admit it even to herself--she knew it and was afraid.
CHAPTER IX
THE REAL MAN
That Sunday of their visit to the Burchester Stables was a marked day with Maud for the rest of her life.
The Stables were situated on the side of a splendid down about a mile from the sea. Lord Saltash's estate stretched for miles around, and he practically owned the whole of Fairharbour. Burchester Castle was the name of the seat, an ancient pile dating from Saxon times that had belonged to the Burchester family since the days of the Tudors. Charlie Burchester had inherited it from his uncle five years before; but he did not live in it. He had occasional wild house-parties there, especially for the event of the Graydown Races. And he sometimes spent a night or two when the mood took him to visit the stud. But for the most part the house stood in empty grandeur, its rooms shuttered and shrouded, its stately gardens deserted save for the gardeners who tended them.
Exquisite gardens they were. Maud had a glimpse of them from the height of the down--terraced gardens with marble steps and glistening fountains, yew-walks, darkly mysterious, quaintly fashioned, pines that rustled and whispered together. The house was securely hidden from view among its trees.
"It used to be a nunnery," said Jake. "Its inhabitants had a chaste objection to publicity. It's an interesting old place, about a mile from the Stables. I'd like to show it to you some time. You'd enjoy it."
"Not to-day," said Bunny quickly.
Jake smiled at his tone. "No, not to-day, lad. We'll go and see the animals to-day."
He had brought them up the long, winding private road which, though smooth enough, was a continual ascent. Maud had wanted to help with the invalid-chair, but he had steadily refused any assistance. She marvelled at the evident ease with which he had accomplished the journey, never hurrying, never halting, not even needing to pause for breath, untiring as a wild animal in its native haunts. She remembered the nickname he bore on the Turf, and reflected that it fitted him in more than one respect. He was so supple, so tough, so sure.
Suddenly those bright eyes flashed round on her. "Say, you're tired," he said, in his queer, lilting voice. "We'll have tea first."
"No!" cried Bunny on the instant. "We'll do the Stables first, Jake. It's not time for tea. Besides, tea can wait."
Jake's brown hand came over the back of the chair and filliped the boy's cheek. "Shut up, my son!" said Jake.
Maud stared at the action. Bunny turned scarlet.
Jake unconcernedly continued his easy progress. "Reckon the animals won't die if we don't inspect 'em till after tea," he said. "What's your idea, Miss Brian?"
"If Bunny wishes to go straight to the Stables--" she began.
He interrupted. "Bunny has changed his mind. Ain't that so, Bunny?"
"I don't care," said Bunny rather sullenly.
"All right then," said Jake. "Tea first!"
He wheeled the chair into a great gateway that led into a wide stone courtyard. White-washed stables were on each side of them and at regular intervals large green tubs containing miniature fir-trees. At the further end of the courtyard stood a square, white-washed house.
"That's my shanty," said Jake.
It was a very plain building; in former days it had been a farm. There was a white railing in front and a small white gate flanked by another pair of toy firs. The whole effect was one of prim cleanliness.
"There's a bit of garden at the back," said Jake. "And a summer-house--quite a decent little summer-house--that looks right away to the sea. Now, Bunny lad, there's a comfortable sofa inside for you. Think I can carry you in?"
"Can't you take in the chair?" Maud asked nervously.
Jake looked at her. "Oh yes, I can. But the passage is a bit narrow. It's not very easy to turn."
"Of course he can carry me, Maud. Let him carry me!" broke in Bunny, in an aggrieved tone. "You make such a stupid fuss always."
Jake had thrown open the door of his home. "You go in, Miss Brian!" he said. "Turn to the right at the end of the passage, and it's the door facing you."
She went in reluctantly. The passage was small and dark, oak-panelled, low-ceiled.
"Go right in!" said Jake.
She