CHAPTER XII
REFUGE
"So you've come to see your old uncle at last! Dear me, you've been aprecious long time about it. Tut, tut, child, what a clothes-peg to besure! Sit down. Sit down! You don't look fit to stand."
Old Uncle Edward pulled out a chair from his dining-room table andalmost thrust his visitor into it. Then he turned, seized a decanter,and poured some wine into a large old-fashioned glass goblet.
"You drink this! It's good stuff--older than you are. It'll turn toblood in your veins, and a good thing too. You look as if you hadn't gotmore than a thin half-pint in the whole of your constitution. There!That's better. Don't be afraid of it! Don't be afraid of it! Takeanother dose before you start talking! I know what you women are onceyour tongues get going. Take another dose, I say! You're lookinghalf-dead. What have they been doing to you? Starving you?"
His grey whiskers seemed to bristle with indignation as he asked thequestion; his eyes glared at her like the eyes of a terrier on the hunt.Maud sat in the red velvet chair with a feeling of vast unreality. Itwas true that she was feeling almost too weak to stand, and her weaknessimparted to her an odd desire to cry. The gruff kindliness of herreception made her feel like a lost child brought home to a kind butsomewhat severe parent. She drank the wine in almost unbroken silence.
Uncle Edward stood looking on, sternly critical. "So you've been ill,have you? I can see you have. Poor girl, poor girl! Well, we must seewhat we can do, to get you strong again. And you haven't brought youryoung brother along? How is he? Quite cured?"
"Yes, quite cured." Maud put out a hesitating hand and somewhat shylyslipped it into her uncle's. "He is quite cured," she said, forcing adifficult smile. "And he would have come too--it was so good of you toask him--only it is September, and the school will soon be opening; andit seemed a pity not to let him go at the beginning of the term. We allthought so."
Uncle Edward grunted as if not wholly pleased. But his old knottedfingers closed very kindly about her own. "So your good husband is goingto pay for his schooling, is he? That's very generous of him--verygenerous, indeed. He's a man of property, is he,--your Jake?"
A quick flush rose in Maud's upturned face; she averted it swiftly. "Idon't know. He seems to be able to do anything he likes. He--he isvery kind to Bunny."
Uncle Edward grunted again. "Well, and how do you amuse yourself, nowthat the all-important Bunny is off your hands? I suppose you play thebusy housewife, do you?"
Maud uttered a faint laugh as forced as her smile had been. "Oh no. Idon't do anything. There is an old woman who cooks and does everything.I really can't think of anything that I do. Of course lately--justlately--I haven't been able to do things. But everything goes very wellwithout me."
Uncle Edward squeezed her hand and released it. "You've too humble anopinion of yourself, my dear. Most women get uppish when they marry. Idon't as a rule like young married women for that reason. They thinkall the world stands still to admire 'em. But you--well, you'redifferent. You and I will get on together."
He smiled upon her so suddenly and so genially that she felt as if aburst of sunshine had warmed her tired soul. She lifted her face with agesture that was half-instinctive, and he stooped at once and kissed it.
"You're a very pretty young woman," he said, patting her cheekpaternally. "At least you might be, if you weren't so painfully thin.You've been very ill, I can see. You're hardly fit to travel alone now.Why didn't you tell me? I'd have come and fetched you if I'd known."
"Oh, I didn't travel alone," she said. "I had Dr. Capper with me. Ishouldn't have come so soon but for him. He was going to the docks, andhe offered to bring me and take care of me. He knew how dreadfully Iwanted to get away."
"And who may Dr. Capper be?" Uncle Edward demanded grimly.
"He is a very great American surgeon--a friend of Jake's. He was withus when--when I began to be ill. And--and I have been in his hands eversince." Maud spoke haltingly. "He is a very kind man," she said. "Idon't think I should have lived if it hadn't been for him. He made melive."
"Oh, he's one of your quacks, is he?" Uncle Edward spoke with a mightycontempt. "Well, I thank Heaven I've never called in a doctor all mylife, and I consider it's one of the chief reasons why I've lived solong. People think a deal too much about their health nowadays. Theworld is getting neurotic. Plenty of fresh air and exercise, and goodwholesome food. That's my motto. No beastly doctors' messes for me.Now that man of yours, he's a healthy animal, I'll be bound. I likedthe looks of him, and the ways of him too. A bit off-hand, but straightand clean. He's been good to you, has he?"
He shot the question with an abruptness that found Maud whollyunprepared. She made an involuntary movement of shrinking.
"Oh, that's it, is it?" said Uncle Edward. "He's been high-handed, Igather. Just what I expected. If a man doesn't make love to a womanbefore he marries her, he'll never be bothered to after. Silly fool!Silly fool! Still, you might have done worse. Don't take him tooseriously, my dear! Tip him off his perch if he crows too loud!"
Maud smiled her faint sad smile and rose. "I am not complaining ofanyone, Uncle Edward. You mustn't jump to conclusions. And you mustn'tcall Dr. Capper a quack, for he has healed Bunny. Now, may I please goup to my room? I know you are busy, and I shall be glad to rest for alittle if I may."
"Go by all means!" said Uncle Edward. "You're to do exactly as you likein this house. Consider the whole show at your disposal! Come and goexactly as you will!" He drew her to him abruptly and kissed her asecond time. "Be happy, my dear!" he said. "Be happy! You won't beyoung always, and there's not much fun to be had when you'reold--specially if you're alone. But you'll never be that, pleaseHeaven. You'll have your children and your children's children growingup around you--even when you're old."
He paused, holding her, for Maud had suddenly hidden her face againsthis shoulder. "I can't look forward--like that," she whispered. "Ioften think--that I'd rather--live alone."
There was a pathos in her words that bordered upon tragedy. UncleEdward thrust a protecting arm about her, rasping his throat as ifsomething had made it smart. "Tut, tut!" he said. "You wouldn't enjoyit for long. There's precious little fun in the lonely life, I can tellyou, for I know. I sit here on a Sunday and listen to the quiet tilleven the racket of a dog-fight would be welcome. We're all the same, Iexpect; wanting what we haven't got instead of making the best of whatwe have. I should think the Almighty must smile sometimes at the verycontrariness of us."
He patted her shoulder as she lifted her head, looking at her with hiskeen grey eyes that held humour as well as sympathy.
"You'll have plenty of solitude in this establishment, anyhow," he said."You can soak yourself in it all day long. There's a library that mayamuse you, but that's all I can offer in the way of entertainment."
"Oh, I don't want entertainment," Maud assured him.
"You're singularly unlike your mother," was Uncle Edward's comment.
He did not ask her how her mother was faring, and she did not feel thatthe moment for speaking of her affairs had arrived. There was a touchof the formidable about the old man, all his kindness to hernotwithstanding; and she felt too tired and ill for a difficultdiscussion. She wanted to lie down and rest for a long, long time.
This visit to Uncle Edward meant deliverance to her from a yoke tooheavy to be borne. All through her illness she had yearned for, strivenfor, this escape; and because of this intense longing of hers, Capper,realizing that disappointment could but retard her progress, had sethimself to further her desire.
Jake had offered no opposition to it. She had scarcely seen Jake sincethe night of the races, and not once had they been alone together. Hehad bidden her farewell that morning in Capper's presence briefly,almost coldly. There had not been even so much as a touch of handsbetween them at parting. He had got into the carriage aft
er them, itwas true, and had wrapped a rug about her knees; but he had done itwithout any personal solicitude or show of sympathy. Only at the verylast, just as the train started, had he looked her in the face; and thenas it were half against his will he had turned his eyes upon her.
And the memory of that look had gone with her throughout the journey; itwas to haunt her for many days with a strange poignancy. For thered-brown eyes had held no mastery, no passion, only a dumb misery thathad somehow gone to her heart. Why had he looked at her like that? Whywas he so unhappy? Had he wanted to speak to her and failed for lack ofwords? Did he blame himself at all for what had happened? Did hedesire in any way to make amends?
She had thought that to escape from his proximity would have been sheerrelief, but now that she actually found herself free from allpossibility of seeing him she was curiously perturbed by the thought ofhim. She had an odd little regret that she had not waved a hand to himas the train had borne her away. Just a friendly wave to show him thatshe harboured no resentment any longer! She might have done it, but foran overpowering shyness that had prevented any expression of farewell.Ill though she was, ill and weary, she could have made him that sign offriendship and been none the worse for it.
But reserve had held her back. It towered between them, a barrier moreinsurmountable than it had ever been before. And behind that reserveher whole being crouched in fear. For she had begun to tell herselfover and over, over and over, like a panic-stricken child, that onceaway from him she could never return, never, face again that which shehad faced.
Possibly he had begun to realize this also; possibly that was why he hadlooked at her so. Would he accept it as inevitable, she wondered?Would he, now that she had dragged herself free for a space from abondage unendurable, be merciful and let her go altogether?
There was her promise. Oh yes, there was her promise. But might notthat promise now be regarded as fulfilled? She had striven to do herduty, but it had proved too hard for her. Surely he must see that now!Surely he could not wish to hold her any longer against her will! Thethought tortured her. She was like a hunted creature in a temporaryrefuge all exits from which were barred. If she made a final dash forfreedom and the open, she would almost certainly be trapped.
Against her will the thought of Charlie went through her like a flamingsword;--Charlie who had sworn to be a friend to her--Charlie from whomshe had not heard one single word since that awful day that she hadawaited him in vain. No one had spoken to her of him, but that he wasno longer at the Castle she was fairly convinced. He had, as it were,darted like a fire-fly into her ken and out of it again. But he wouldreturn. She was sure he would return. And when he came--what then?What then?
She did not ask herself why he had gone in that sudden fashion. It wasso characteristic of the man that she saw nothing in it. That there hadbeen no encounter between him and Jake she was now certain. Perhaps hehad gone away for her sake in order to avert Jake's suspicion. Hiscomplete silence seemed to point to this. But it was quite useless tospeculate. His ways were past understanding, so vague was her knowledgeof the motive that governed his actions.
Meanwhile the problem of her mother's difficulties remained and wasbecoming more and more acute. The place had been mortgaged by Sheppardto Saltash's predecessor who had had a fancy for possessing the whole ofFairharbour; and the affairs of the landlord of the Anchor Hotel hadbeen on the downward trend ever since. Occasionally a good season wouldarrest this decline for a space; but good seasons were becoming more andmore rare. Giles Sheppard sought consolation too often in his cellars,and the management was no longer what it had been. Regular visitors werebeginning to desert him in consequence, and the downward slope wasrapidly becoming precipitous. Saltash's man of business was tighteninghis hold, and Sheppard's tenure of the place was becoming week by weekmore uncertain.
All of this Maud knew. Her mother was growing desperate. Her life, itseemed, had been nothing but a series of misfortunes, and thisthreatened to be the greatest of them all. Giles had deceived heroutrageously, and now that he had secured her he cared for her nolonger, save when his frequent libations rendered him tipsily amorous.Something of a vixenish nature was beginning to develop in Mrs.Sheppard. She was no more the gentle, plaintive creature she had been.She had once--and only once--approached Jake on the subject of financialhelp. Maud was unaware of this. Jake's reply had been perfectlycourteous but uncompromisingly firm. He would give Mrs. Sheppardshelter, if she ever needed it, but he would have nothing to do with herhusband or his affairs. Mrs. Sheppard had turned from him with a bitterlook that had said more than words. And since that day she had steadilyavoided all intercourse even with her daughter, declaring herself fartoo busy to get as far as the Stables.
Maud had not needed her; but none the less she was uneasy about her.She wished she knew where Charlie was; but she could not risk sending aletter to the Castle. There seemed to be nothing more she could do. Shehad begun to tell him of her trouble. He knew she needed help.Possibly even he might without further persuasion refrain from carryingmatters to extremes. She had mentioned her mother to him. He must haveunderstood. He would surely remember her distress.
And yet whenever her thoughts turned towards him the memory of Jake'swords awoke within her, tormented her: "Trust him, and he will let youdown,--sure." Why had he spoken so certainly? What did he know ofSaltash and his ways? Was it possible--could it be--that he knew a sideof Charlie's whimsical nature that had never been presented to her? Orwas she so blind that she had failed to perceive it? It was true thatin the old days he had failed her, he had wavered in his allegiance.But he had come back. He had come back. Always she remembered that.And because he had come back, her heart had warmed to him again, againsther will, against her judgment, even in spite of every instinct. Hebelonged to her; that was the thought that flashed with such a burningintensity through her soul, the thought that refused utterly to bestifled or put away. He belonged to her and to none other, trifle orintrigue as he might. She was his fate. How often he had said it! Andso he would return. She was sure he would return. And when hecame--what then? Ah, what then?
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