The Hundredth Chance

CHAPTER XVII

THE WEDDING MORNING

It was very dark and draughty in the church. Maud was shivering from head to foot. Her heart felt as if it were encased in ice. Now and then it beat a little, feebly, as if trying to break free, but the awful cold was too much for it. She did not know how to keep her teeth from chattering. Her hands lay in her lap, numbed and nerveless. She wondered if she would ever manage to walk as far as the dimly lit altar where Jake would be awaiting her.

It was evidently draughty there also. The candles flickered fitfully. Uncle Edward was eyeing the candles with obvious disapproval. She hoped he would manage to suppress it at close quarters. She was sure she would have to laugh if he didn't, and laughter, she felt, would be fatal.

How different this from the wedding-day which once she had dared to picture for herself! It was like a mocking fantasy, a dreadful travesty of that which might have been. Like an arc of prismatic colours it hung before her-the vision of that other wedding-the wedding of her dreams; the sunshine and the laughter and the flowers! The shining altar, the waiting bridegroom, his flashing smile of welcome! She saw it all-she saw it all!

How dear he had been to her! How, unutterably dear! And she remembered how in those far-off days he had always called her his Queen Rose.

Her heart gave a swift throb that was anguish. She stood up with a quick, involuntary movement. She had not dreamed that this long-past trouble possessed the power to hurt her so. She cast a desperate glance around her. This waiting in the cold and the dark had become intolerable. A wild impulse to flee-to flee-was upon her. The door was quite near. She turned towards it.

But in that moment Uncle Edward cleared his throat and rose.

"Here comes your precious bridegroom!" he said. "I suppose they're ready at last. We had better get moving."

And then it was that Maud's knees abruptly refused to support her, and she sank down again white and powerless on the chair by the door.

Jake's sturdy figure was coming down the aisle. She watched it with eyes that were wide and fixed.

He came straight to her, bent over her. "I'm real sorry you've been kept waiting," he said, in his womanly drawl. "It's the parson's doing. He forgot all about us. And there was no fire either. I had to force the door of the stoke shed to light it."

He bent a little lower over her, and suddenly she felt his hand against the icy cold of her cheek. She started back from it.

"Jake, I-can't come yet. I'm so cold." Stiffly her pale lips whispered the words; her whole body seemed bound in a very rigour of cold. And through it all she still thought she could hear phantom echoes of that other wedding that once had seemed so near.

"Where is your mother?" said Jake.

There was a hint of sternness in the question. Uncle Edward answered it.

"I'm expecting them every minute. I drove up first to fetch Maud. Lucy is a hopeless fool. She's never in time for anything."

Even as he spoke, there came the rush of wheels on the hard road outside and the hoot of a motor horn.

The sound as it reached Maud, seemed to galvanize her into sudden energy. She rose, white to the lips but resolute. "I am ready," she said.

Jake gave her a straight, hard look, and turned without another word. He went back up the aisle, square, purposeful, steady, and took up his stand by the waiting clergyman.

Maud's hand pressed her uncle's arm with urgency. "Let us go! Let us go!" she said. "I can see my mother-afterwards."

The old man also gave her a shrewd glance, but he also said no word. Only as he stumped up the aisle beside her, he took the girlish hand upon his arm and held it hard in his gnarled fingers.

They had reached the chancel steps where the clergyman awaited them ere the opening of the door and the sound of fluttering feet announced the arrival of Maud's mother. A heavier tread and a man's loud whisper and barely muffled laugh testified to the presence of Giles Sheppard also.

Uncle Edward cleared his throat ferociously, releasing Maud's hand with a mighty squeeze as Jake came to her side. Then he turned with deliberation and scowled upon the advancing couple.

Maud did not turn. Her face was white and still as the face of a marble statue. Her eyes stared blankly at the flickering candles on the altar. Had Jake lighted those candles, she wondered, as well as the fire in the stoke shed?

She heard her mother's step behind her, but still she did not move; and after the briefest pause the clergyman began to read the service.

It was all horribly unreal. The only thing of which she was vividly and poignantly conscious was the cold. She heard Jake's voice beside her, very calm and steady, and when her turn came she spoke with equal steadiness, for somehow she seemed to be imbued with his strength. But she was too frozen, too ice-bound, to feel any meaning in the words she uttered. She spoke them like an automaton, through lips that would scarcely move.

Jake's hand, warm and purposeful, holding her own, sent a faint, faint glow through her; but it did not reach her heart. She thought it had ceased to beat long ago, and she wondered how soon he would realize that he was wedded to a dead woman, what he would say when he knew. For Jake was so essentially full-blooded, so burningly alive. He was the most virile person she had ever met. Standing there by his side, she could feel the warmth of him. She thought it was that alone that kept her from turning into a solid block of ice.

When she knelt, his hand came under her elbow and supported her; when she rose, it lifted her. When the dreadful nightmare service was over at last, his arm was round her, and by its aid alone she stumbled stiffly to the vestry.

The young curate who had married them looked at her with nervous solicitude. He had been recently married himself, and he had a painfully vivid memory of the agonies thereof.

He set a chair for her, and Jake put her down into it. Then he stood up and took command of the situation.

"Get a glass from somewhere!" he said to the curate. "And you, sir," he turned upon Uncle Edward, "don't let that man come in here! Her mother can if she likes, but I won't have anyone else."

He stooped over Maud, looking closely into her deathlike face. He took her frozen hands and held them up to his lips, breathing on them.

Her great eyes gazed up at him in mute apology. She felt he had begun to find out.

"It's all right, my girl," he said in answer, "all right."

And then her mother came to her, and surprised Maud at least by folding her close in her arms and fondly kissing her poor numbed lips.

"Why, Maudie, darling," she murmured to her tenderly as though she were a child again, "what is it, dearie? What is it?"

The words, the embrace, moved Maud, piercing straight to her frozen heart. She turned with a passionate, inarticulate sound and hid her face on her mother's breast.

"My precious! My own girlie!" said Mrs. Sheppard; and gathered her closer still.

There followed a brief, brief interval of peace while she rested in the sheltering arms that had not held her since her babyhood. Then she heard Jake's voice close to her bowed head.

"Maud, I want you to drink this."

She stirred uneasily, and was aware of her mother's tears dropping on her face.

Then again came Jake's voice, quite courteous but extremely decided. "I am afraid I must trouble you, Mrs. Sheppard. She is half-dead with cold."

Mrs. Sheppard gave a little sob and relaxed her hold. "Maud-my darling, here is some brandy and water. Will you try and drink it? Mother will hold the glass."

But it was Jake's hand that held it, guiding it steadily to the cold, blue lips; and it was in response to his insistence, and not of her own volition at all, that Maud drank the fiery mixture he had prepared.

She shuddered over it, but it revived her almost immediately. She felt the blood begin to stir in her veins, her heart begin to beat.

"That's right," said Jake, and she saw his smile for the first time that wintry morning and felt the better for it. "Now, sit quiet for a minute or two till you feel well enough to sign the register! Mrs. Sheppard, I think your husband wants to speak to you."

"Oh, dear!" sobbed Mrs. Sheppard. "He's always wanting something."

Maud gently released herself. "You had better go to him, Mother, dear. You can bring him in if you like. I am quite all right now."

Her eyes met Jake's as her mother tearfully departed. Something like a glance of intimacy passed between them. She held out her hand to him, and he took it and held it, so that some of his abundant strength seemed to communicate itself to her.

"I don't want your mother to upset you," he said.

She dismissed the notion with a smile. "I am quite ready to sign now. Let us get it over, shall we? I want to go back to Bunny."

His hand relinquished hers. He turned to the table. "The sooner the better," he said, in a tone of cool deliberation.

CHAPTER XVIII

THE WEDDING NIGHT

It was over. Maud sat before the open fireplace in Jake's oak-panelled parlour, gazing into the red heart of the fire with a stunned sense of finality, a feeling that she had been overtaken and made prisoner by Fate. She was terribly tired. Every limb seemed weighted as if with iron fetters. She longed with a sick longing for sleep and oblivion. She ached for solitude and repose.

Overhead she could hear Jake moving. He was helping Bunny to prepare for the night, by Bunny's own decree. Very soon he would come down again, and she would have to rouse herself and make conversation. She wondered wearily how she would do it.

The best room in the house had been given to Bunny. Out of it led a smaller room in which she could sleep and be within call when he needed her. Jake had made every provision he could think of for their comfort. She felt that she ought to be very grateful to him; but somehow she was too tired for gratitude. And she could not concentrate her thoughts; they wandered so.

Now it was the glint of the firelight on her wedding-ring that drew them. It shone with a burning, intolerable sparkle that somehow reminded her of Jake-and the look in his eyes when he had said- But she pulled her mind up short at this point, with a sharp, involuntary shiver. She would not dwell on that thought. She would bury it deep; deep, far below all others. For she knew she would never cast it out.

She clenched her hand and covered the ring from sight.

The thought of Uncle Edward presented itself, and she seized upon it with relief. He had been with them during the greater part of the day, and had left but an hour before to catch the night train to town. He had been very kind to her, and had taken a shrewd interest in Bunny. Just at parting he had drawn her aside for a moment, looking at her with his sharp eyes under their shaggy brows with just the look of a terrier on the hunt.

"And if at any time you should be in need of a change of air, my dear," he had said, "don't forget that you've got an old uncle at Liverpool who wouldn't be sorry to see you-and the boy too-however busy he happened to be."

He had meant that as an offer of help, should she ever stand in need of it. She had recognized that, though neither he nor she had emphasized the fact. He foresaw a possibility of difficulties ahead with which she might be unable to cope single-handed. He wanted her to know that she would never call upon him a second time in vain. She had thanked him with simplicity, and now she registered the offer in her mind. Almost unconsciously, she had begun already to seek for a way of escape, should her captivity become at any time unendurable.

For a captive she undoubtedly was. She had given herself, voluntarily but completely, into the keeping of a man whom she felt she hardly knew, – a man who had shown her every consideration in his power, but upon whom even yet she was half-afraid to lean. Full of kindness as she had found him to be she knew instinctively that he possessed other qualities, was capable of other impulses. Something of the caged beast, something of the pirate on shore, there was about him. He was quiet, he was considerate, he was kind. But on his own ground, in his own element, would he be always thus? Would he be always the generous captor; the steadfast friend? Her heart misgave her a little. Words that Giles Sheppard had uttered only that morning arose suddenly in her memory, gibing words that sent the hot blood again to her cheeks.

"Ah, he's a deep one, is Jake. What he gives with one hand he takes with the other and more to it. He's not the man to make a one-sided bargain. But he knows how to bide his time. He hasn't saddled himself with a penniless wife and a hunchback brother-in-law just for the fun of the thing. He'll be getting his own back presently, and I think I can guess who'll pay the piper."

Bitter words! Cruel words! Flung in her face for the malignant pleasure of seeing her wince!

She had not winced. She was glad to remember that. She had turned her back on the man's hateful, sneering face. He had humbled her to the earth once, but he would never have another opportunity. Henceforth Jake stood between her and all the world. She had bought his protection at a price, and she knew it for a weapon that would never fail her. As to the price, she would pay him in service and obedience. It might be he would never ask more of her than these. Life was short, and she was very tired. Why should she fret herself over that which might never come to pass? She closed her eyes from the red glow of the fire, and lay still.

Yet she could not have travelled far along the dim path to oblivion for the quiet opening of the door a few minutes later brought her back in a second. She started up in her chair, alert, nervous, to see Jake enter in his square fashion and shut the door behind him.

"Don't disturb yourself!" he said.

He came and stood before the fire, and Maud, sinking back into her chair, strove to calm the unreasonable inner tumult that his entrance had excited.

"Are you going to sit down and have a smoke?" she suggested.

He gave her a side-glance that had in it a hint of humour. "You don't object to being smoke-dried?" he asked, in his slow, gentle voice.

"Of course I don't," she said.

He took his clay pipe from his pocket and considered it. It was very old, blackened, and discoloured with much use. He looked at her again, doubtfully.

An odd impulse moved her unexpectedly. She sat up again and held out her hand. "Give it to me! I'll fill it for you."

His hand closed upon it. She saw surprise in his eyes.

"You!" he said.

She found herself smiling. He actually looked embarrassed, a fact which set her wholly at her ease. "But why not?" she said. "Is it too great a treasure to be entrusted to me?"

But he still held it back. "What do you want to do it for?"

She kept her hand outstretched. "As a small-very small-return for your goodness to Bunny," she said.

His face changed a little. He put the pipe into her hand. "I don't want any return," he said. "Don't do it for that!"

She coloured, but she still smiled. "Very well. It is a favour bestowed gratis. Where's your tobacco?"

He fetched a pouch-nearly as ancient as the pipe-out of his pocket, and laid it in her lap.

"You're not to watch me," she said, speaking with a new-found confidence that surprised herself. "Sit down and read the paper! I'll tell you when it's done."

He sat down opposite to her, and took up the paper. "You'll make a beastly mess of your hands," he said uneasily.

"Be quiet!" she said.

He opened out the paper, and there fell a silence.

Maud pursued her self-appointed task with mixed feelings. The tobacco was rank and coarse, and it smelt like mildewed hay. It was, moreover, nearly black, and she found herself fingering it with increasing disgust. She was determined however not to be beaten, and with compressed lips she pinched and poked the revolting substance, ramming it deep into the blackened bowl with a heroic determination to accomplish the business to the best of her ability, her feelings notwithstanding.

"You're packing it too tight," observed Jake gravely.

She looked up half-laughing, half-vexed. "I told you not to watch."

He dropped his paper, and leaned towards her. "I reckon I can't help watching you, my girl," he said. "I've never seen anyone like you before."

He spoke with absolute simplicity, but his directness struck her like a blow in the face. She lowered her eyes swiftly.

"I'm sorry I haven't done it to your satisfaction," she said, in a small, cold voice, from which all hint of intimacy had fled. "You had better do it over again."

She held out the pipe to him, and again the firelight gleamed golden-red on that new bright ring that he had placed on her finger that day.