The Odds / And Other Stories

To Mona fell the task of making preparation for Nan's departure, for Nan herself did not raise a finger to that end. Three days only remained to her of the old free life—three days in which to bid farewell to everybody and everything she knew and loved.

Her husband did not attempt to obtrude his presence upon her during those three days. The man's patience was immense, cloaking him as with a garment of passive strength. He was merely a guest in Colonel Everard's house, and a silent guest at that.

No one knew what had passed between him and his young wife on the night of the Hunt Ball, but it was generally understood that he had asserted his authority over her after a fashion that admitted of no resistance. Only Mona could have told of the white-faced, terrified girl who had lain trembling in her arms all through the dark hours that had followed their interview, but Mona knew when to hold her peace, though it was no love for her brother-in-law that sealed her lips.

So, with a set face, she packed her sister's belongings, never faltering, scarcely pausing for thought, till on the very last day she finished her task, and then sat musing alone in the darkness of the winter evening.

Nan had been out all the afternoon, no one knew exactly where, though it was supposed that she was paying farewell visits. The Colonel, whose courteous instincts would not suffer him to neglect a guest, had been out shooting with his son-in-law all day long. Mona heard them come tramping up the drive and enter the house, as she sat above in the dark. She listened without moving, and knew that one of her sisters was giving them tea in the hall.

Two hours passed, but Nan did not return. Mona rose at last to dress for dinner. Her face shone pale as she lighted her lamp, but her eyes were steadfast; they held no anxiety.

Descending the stairs at length she found Piet waiting below before the fire. He looked round as she came down, looked up the stairs beyond her, and gravely rose to give her his chair.

Mona was generally regarded as hostess in her father's house, though she was not his eldest daughter. She possessed a calmness of demeanour that was conspicuously lacking in all the rest.

She sat down quietly, her hands folded about her knees. "Have you had good sport?" she asked, her serene eyes raised to his.

There was a slight frown between Piet's brows. Hitherto he had always regarded this girl as his friend. To-night, for the first time, she puzzled him. There was something hostile about her something he felt rather than saw, yet of which from the very moment of her coming, he was keenly conscious.

He scarcely answered her query. Already his wits were at work.

Suddenly he asked her a blunt question. "Has Anne come in yet?"

She answered him quite as bluntly, almost as if she had wished for his curt interrogation. "No."

He raised his brows for an instant, then in part reassured by her absolute composure, he merely commented: "She is late."

Mona said nothing. She turned her quiet eyes to the blaze before her. There was not the faintest sign of agitation in her bearing.

"Do you know what she is doing?" He asked the question slowly, half reluctantly it seemed.

Again she looked at him. Clear and contemptuous, her eyes met his.

"Yes, I know."

The words, the look, stabbed him with a swift suspicion. He bent towards her, his hand gripped her wrist.

"What do you mean? Where is she?"

She made no movement to avoid him. A faint, grim smile hovered about her calm mouth.

"I can tell you what I mean," she said quietly. "I cannot tell you where she is."

"Then tell me what you mean," he said between his teeth.

His face was close to hers, and in that moment it was terrible. But Mona did not flinch. The small, bitter smile passed, that was all.

"I mean," she said, speaking very steadily and distinctly, "that you will go back to South Africa without her after all. I mean that by your hateful and contemptible brutality you have driven her from you for ever. I mean that you have forced her into taking a step that will compel you to set her free from your tyranny. I mean that simply and solely to escape from you she has run away with—another man."

A quiver of pain went over her face as she ended. With a swift, passionate movement she rose, flinging her mask of composure aside. The hand that gripped her wrist was bruising her flesh, but she never felt it.

"Yes," she said, with abrupt vehemence. "That is what you have done—you—you! You would not stoop to win her. You chose to take her by force, and force is the one thing in the world that she will never tolerate. You bullied her, frightened her, humiliated her. You drove her to do this desperate thing. And you face me now, you dare to face me, because I am a weak woman. If I were a man, I would kick you out of the house. I—I believe I would kill you! Even Nan cannot hate you or despise you one-tenth as much as I do!"

She ceased, but her eyes blazed their hatred at him as her heart cursed him. She was furious as a tigress that defends her young.

As for the man, his hand was still clenched upon her wrist, but no violent outburst escaped him. He was white to the lips, but he was absolutely sane. If he heard her wild reproaches, he passed them over.

"Who is the man?" he said, and his voice fell like a word of command, arresting, controlling, compelling.

It was not what she had expected. She had been prepared for tempestuous, for overwhelming, wrath. The absence of this oddly disconcerted her. Her own tornado of indignation was checked. She answered him almost involuntarily.

"Jerry Lister."

He frowned as if trying to recall the owner of the name, and again without her conscious will she explained.

"You saw him that night at the ball. They were together all the evening."

The frown passed from his face.

"That—cub!" he said slowly. "And"—his eyes were searching hers closely; he spoke with unswerving determination—"where have they gone?"

She withstood his look though she felt its compulsion.

"I refuse to tell you that."

"You know?" he questioned.

"Yes, I know."

"Then you will tell me." He spoke with conviction. She felt as if his eyes were burning her.

"Then you will tell me," he repeated, as if she had not heard him.

"I refuse," she said again; but she said it with a wavering resolution. Undoubtedly there was something colossal about this man. She began to feel the grip of his fingers upon her wrist. The pain of it became intense, yet she knew that he was not intentionally torturing her.

"You are hurting me," she said, and instantly his hold relaxed. But he did not let her go.

"Answer me!" he said.

"Why should I answer you?" It was the last resort of her weakening will.

He betrayed no impatience.

"You will answer me for your sister's sake," he told her grimly.

"What do you mean? You will follow her?"

"I shall follow her."

"And bring her back?"

"Back here? No, certainly not."

"You will hurt her, bully her, terrify her!" The words were quick with agitation.

He ignored them. "Tell me where she is."

She made a last effort.

"If I tell you—will you take me with you?"

"No," he said, "I will not."

"Then—then—" She was looking straight into those pitiless eyes. It seemed she could not help herself. "I will tell you," she said at last. "But you will be kind to her? You will remember how young she is, and that—that you drove her to it?"

Her voice was piteous, her resistance was dead.

"I shall remember," he said very quietly, "one thing only."

"Yes?" she murmured. "Yes?"

"That she is my wife," he said, in the same level tone. "Now—answer me."

And because there was no longer any alternative course, she yielded.

Had he shown himself a raging demon she could have resisted him, and rejoiced in it. But this man, with his rigid self-control, his unswerving resolution, his deadly directness, dominated her irresistibly.

Without argument he had changed her point of view. Without argument or protestation of any sort, he had convinced her that it was no passing fancy of his that had prompted him to choose Nan for his wife. She had vaguely suspected it before. Now she knew.

It was very dark over the moors. The solitary lights of a cab crawling almost at a foot pace along the lonely road shone like a will-o'-the-wisp through the snow. It had been snowing for hours, steadily, thickly, and the cold was intense. The dead heather by the roadside had long been completely hidden under that ever-increasing load. It lay in great billows of white wherever the carriage lamps revealed it, stretching away into the darkness, an immense, untrodden desert, wrapped in a deathly silence, more terrible than any sound.

It seemed to Nan, shivering inside that cheerless cab, as if the world had stopped like a run-down watch, and that she alone, with her melancholy equipage, retained in all that vast stillness the power to move.

She wished heartily that she had permitted Jerry to come to the station to meet her, but for some reason not wholly intelligible to herself she had prohibited this. And he, ever obedient to her behests, had sent the conveyance to fetch her, remaining behind himself to complete the preparations for her reception upon which he had been engaged for the past two days at the tiny, incommodious shooting-box which his father had bequeathed to him, and of which not very valuable piece of landed property he was somewhat inordinately proud.

It had been a tedious cross-country journey, and the five miles from the station seemed to Nan interminable. Already deep down in her heart were stirring ghastly doubts regarding the advisability of this mad expedition of hers. Jerry, as she well knew, was fully prepared to enjoy the situation to the utmost. He was a trusty friend in need to her, no more, and she had not the smallest misgiving so far as he was concerned.

He would be to her what he had ever been, breezy comrade, merry friend—romantic cavalier, perhaps, but in such a fashion as to convince her that he was only playing at romance. It had always been his attitude towards her, and she anticipated no change. The boy's natural chivalry had moved her to accept his help, though she well knew that the step she had taken was a desperate one, even for one of the wild Everards. That it would fulfil its purpose she did not doubt. Her husband, she was fully convinced, would take no further steps to deprive her of her liberty. Her notions of legal procedure in such a case were of the haziest, but she had not the faintest doubt that this last, wildest escapade of hers would sooner or later procure her her freedom from the chain that so galled her.

And yet she started and shivered at every creak of the crazy vehicle that was bearing her to the haven of her emancipation. She was horribly, unreasonably afraid, now that she had taken this rash step. Would it upset her father very greatly, she wondered? But surely he would not think badly of her for making a way of escape for herself. He had been powerless to deliver her. Surely, surely he would understand!

The cab jolted to a standstill, and out of the darkness came an eager, boyish voice, bidding her welcome. An impetuous hand wrenched open the door, and she and Jerry were face to face.

She never recalled afterwards crossing the threshold of his little abode. She was numbed and weary in mind and body. But she found herself at length seated before a bright fire, with a cup of steaming tea in her hand, and Jerry hovering about her in high delight; and the comfort of his welcome revived her at length to an active realization of her surroundings.

Clearly the adventure, mad, lawless as it undoubtedly was, was nothing but a picnic to him. He was enjoying himself immensely without a thought of any possible consequences, and it was plain that this was the attitude in which he expected her to regard the matter.

With an effort she responded to his mood, but she could not shake off the burden of doubt and foreboding that oppressed her. She felt as if the long, bitter journey had in some fashion aged her. Jerry's gaiety was as the prattle of a child to her now. They had been children together till that day, but she felt that they could never be so again. Never before had she stopped in her headlong course to look ahead, to count the cost! Now, for the first time, misgivings arose within her upon Jerry's score. What if this boy who had lent himself so lightly, so absolutely freely, to her scheme for deliverance, were made in any way to suffer for his reckless generosity? For this it had been with him—and this only—as she well knew.

With sheer, boyish gallantry, he had offered his protection; with sheer, girlish recklessness, she had accepted it. And now—now she had in a few hours crossed the boundary between childhood and womanhood and she stood aghast, asking herself what she had done!

By what means understanding had come to her she did not stay to question. The tragic force of it overwhelmed all reasoning. She knew beyond all doubting that she had made the most ghastly mistake of her life. She had done it in blindness, but the veil had been rent away; and, horror-struck, she now beheld the accursed quicksand into which they had blundered.

"I say," said Jerry, "you're awfully tired, aren't you? You're positively haggard. I've got quite a decent little dinner for you, and I've done every blessed thing myself. There isn't a soul in the house except us two. I thought you'd like it best."

She smiled at him wanly, and thanked him. He was watching her with friendly, anxious eyes.

"Yes; well, drink that up and have some more. I'm afraid you'll think the accommodation rather poor. It's only a pillbox, you know. I'll show you round when you're ready. I've got my kennel in the kitchen. Best place for a watch-dog, eh? But you've only got to thump on the floor if you want anything. There, that's better. You don't look quite so frozen as you did. Come, it's rather a lark, isn't it?"

His boyish eyes pleaded with her, and again she made a valiant effort to respond. She knew what stupendous efforts he had been making to secure her comfort.

"Everything is perfect," she declared, "and you're the nicest boy in the world. I'm quite warm now. What a dear little hall, to be sure!"

"Hall!" said Jerry. "It's the living-room! But there's another one upstairs that you can sit in. I thought you would like the upper regions all to yourself. We can call on each other, you know, now and then. I say, it's rather a lark, isn't it? Come and see my preparations for dinner."

She went with him into the little bare kitchen, and bestowed lavish praise upon everything she saw.

Jerry's cooking was an accomplishment of which he had some reason to be proud. He was roasting a pheasant for his visitor's delectation.

"I always do the cooking when we camp out," he explained. "Just sit down while I finish peeling the potatoes."

He pointed to a truckle bedstead in the corner; and Nan seated herself and made a determined effort to banish her depression.

Jerry's preparations for his own comfort were anything but elaborate.

"Oh, I could sleep on bare boards," he lightly said, when she commented upon the hardness of his couch. "I know the furniture isn't up to much, but it isn't a bad little shanty when you're used to it. My pater and mater spent their honeymoon here years ago, and I stayed here with two other fellows for three weeks' grouse-shooting a couple of years back. Rare sport we had, too. Do you mind passing over that saucepan? Thanks! I say, Nan, I hope you don't mind it being a bit rough."

"My dear boy," Nan said impulsively, "if it were a palace I shouldn't like it half so well."

Jerry grinned serenely.

"Yes, it's snug, anyhow, and I think you'll like that pheasant. There's another one in the larder, so we shall have something to eat if we're snowed up. That cupboard leads upstairs. Perhaps you would like to go and explore. Dinner in half an hour."

Nan availed herself of this suggestion. She was frankly curious to know what Jerry's ideas of feminine comfort might be. She ascended the steep cottage stairs that wound up to the first floor, looking about her with considerable interest. The narrow staircase was lighted from above, and she finally emerged into a little room in which a fire burned brightly. A sofa had been drawn in front of it, and was piled with cushions. There were one or two basket-chairs, and a small square table bearing a paper-shaded lamp, and a newspaper, a "Punch," Jerry's banjo, and a cigarette case.

The window was covered with a red curtain, and the cosy warmth of the place sent a glow of comfort through Nan. Jerry's efforts had not been in vain.

From this apartment she passed into another beyond, the door of which stood half open, and found herself in a bedroom. A small stove burned in a corner of this, and upon it a kettle steamed merrily. There was room for but little furniture besides the bed, but the general effect was exceedingly comforting to the girl's oppressed soul. She sat down on the edge of the bed and leaned her aching head against the back.

What was happening at home she wondered? Her departure must be known by this time. Mona would have told Piet. She tried to picture the man's untrammelled wrath when he heard. How furious he would be! She shivered a little. She was quite sure he would never want to see her again.

And yet, curiously, there still ran in her brain those words he had uttered on that night that she had defied him—that dreadful night when he had held her in his arms and forced her to endure his hateful kisses!

She could almost hear his deep voice speaking: "Anne, fight against me and you will be miserable, for I am bound to conquer you. But come to me—come to me of your own free will—and I swear before Heaven that I will make you happy!" Make her happy! He! She could not imagine it. And yet it was true that, fighting against him, she was miserable.

With a great sigh, she rose at last and began to remove her outdoor things. It was done—it was done. What was the use of stopping on the wrong side of the hedge to think? She had taken the leap. There could never be any return for her. The actual mistake had been committed long, long ago, when she had married this man for his money. That had been monstrous, contemptible! She realized it now. But that, too, was beyond remedy. Her only hope left was that in his fury he would set her free, and that without injury to Jerry. She had not the faintest notion how he would set about it; but doubtless he would not keep her long in ignorance. He would be more eager now than she had ever been to snap asunder the chain that bound them to each other. Yes, she was quite, quite sure that he would never want to see her again.

Jerry's dinner was not, for some reason, quite the success he had anticipated.

Nan made no complaint of the cooking, but she ate next to nothing, to the grief of his hospitable soul. She was tired, of course, but there was something in her manner that he could not fathom. She was silent and unresponsive. There was almost an air of tragedy about her that made her so unfamiliar that he felt as if he were entertaining a stranger. He did not like the change. His old domineering, impetuous playfellow was infinitely easier to understand. He did not feel at ease with this quiet, white-faced woman, who treated him with such wholly unaccustomed courtesy.

"I say," he said, when the meal was ended, "let's go upstairs and have a smoke. I can clear away after you have gone to bed. Or do you want to go to bed now? It's nearly nine, so you may if you like."

She thanked him, and declined.

"I shouldn't sleep if I did," she said with a shiver. "No; I will help you wash up, and then we will go upstairs and have some music."

Jerry fell in eagerly with this idea. He loved his banjo. He demurred a little at accepting her assistance in the kitchen, but finally yielded, for she would not be refused. She seemed to dread the thought of solitude.

When they went upstairs at length, she made a great effort to shake off her depression. She even sang a little to one or two of Jerry's melodies, but her customary high spirits remained conspicuously absent, and after a while Jerry became impatient, and laid the instrument down.

"What's the matter?" he asked bluntly.

Nan was sitting with her feet on the fender, her eyes upon the flames. His question did not seem to surprise her.

"You wouldn't understand," she said, "if I were to tell you."

"Well, you might as well give me the chance," he responded. "My intelligence is up to the average, I dare say."

She looked round at him with a faint smile.

"Oh, don't be huffy, dear boy! Why should you? You want to know what is the matter? Well, I'll tell you. I'm afraid—I'm horribly afraid—that I've made a great mistake."

"You have?" said Jerry. "How? What do you mean?"

"I knew you would ask that," she said, with a little, helpless gesture of the shoulders. "And it is just that that I can't explain to you. You see, Jerry, I've only just begun to realize it myself."

Jerry was staring at her blankly.

"Do you mean, that you wish you hadn't come?" he said.

She nodded, rising suddenly from her chair.

"Oh, Jerry, don't be vexed, though you've a perfect right. I've made a ghastly, a perfectly hideous mistake. I—I can't think how I ever came to do it. But—but I wouldn't mind so frightfully if it weren't for you. That's what troubles me most—to have made a horrible mess of my life, and to have dragged you into it." Her voice shook, and she broke off for a moment, biting her lips. Then: "Oh, Jerry," she wailed, "I've done a dreadful thing—a dreadful thing! Don't you see it—what he will think of me—how he will despise me?"

The last words came muffled through her hands. Her head was bowed against the chimney-piece.

Jerry was nonplussed. He rose somewhat awkwardly, and drew near the bowed figure.

"But, my dear girl," he said, laying a slightly hesitating hand upon her shoulder, "what the devil does it matter what he thinks? Surely you don't—you can't care—care the toss of a half-penny?"

But here she amazed him still further.

"I do, Jerry, I do!" she whispered vehemently. "He's horrid—oh, he's horrid. But I can't help caring. I wanted him to think the very worst possible of me before I came. But now—but now—Then too, there's you," she ended irrelevantly. "What could they do to you, Jerry? Could they put you in prison?"

"Great Scott, no!" said Jerry. "You needn't cry over me. I always manage to fall on my feet. And, anyhow, it isn't a hanging matter. I say, cheer up, Nan, old girl! Don't you think you'd better go to bed? No? Well, let me play you something cheerful, then. I've never seen you in the dumps before. And I don't like it. I quite thought this would be one of our red-letter days. Look up, I say! I believe you're crying."

Nan was not crying, but such was the concern in his voice that she raised her head and smiled to reassure him.

"You're very, very good to me, Jerry," she said earnestly. "And oh, I do hope I haven't got you into trouble!"

"Don't you worry your head about me," said Jerry cheerfully. "You're tired out, you know. You really ought to go to bed. Let's have something rousing, with a chorus, and then we'll say good-night."

He took up his banjo again, and dashed without preliminary into the gay strains of "The Girl I Left Behind Me."

He sang with a gaiety that even Nan did not imagine to be feigned, and, lest lack of response should again damp his spirits, she forced herself to join in the refrain. Faster and faster went Jerry's fingers, faster and faster ran the song, his voice and Nan's mingling, till at last he broke off with a shout of laughter, and sprang to his feet.

"There! That's the end of our soirée, and I'm not going to keep you up a minute longer. I wonder if we're snowed up yet. We'll have some fun to-morrow, if we are. I say, look at the time! Good-night! Good-night!"

He advanced towards her. She was standing facing him, with her back to the fire. But something—something in her eyes—arrested him, sending his own glancing backwards over his shoulder. She was looking, not at him, but beyond him.

The next instant, with a sharp oath, Jerry had wheeled in his tracks. He, too, stood facing the door, staring wide-eyed, dumbfounded.

There, at the head of the stairs, quite motionless, quite silent, facing them both, stood Piet Cradock.

Nan was the first to free herself from the nightmare paralysis that bound her. Swiftly, as though in answer to a sudden inner urging, she moved forward. She almost pushed past Jerry in her haste. She was white, white to the lips with fear, but she never faltered till she stood between her husband and the boy she had chosen to protect her. The first glimpse of Piet had revealed to her in what mood he had come. In his right hand he was gripping her father's heaviest hunting-crop.

He came slowly forward, ignoring her. His eyes were upon Jerry, who glared back at him like a young panther. He did not appear to be aware of Nan.

Suddenly he spoke, briefly, grimly every word clean as a pistol-shot.

"I suppose you are old enough to know what you are doing?"

"What do you mean?" demanded Jerry, in fierce response. "What are you doing here? And how the devil did you get in? This place belongs to me!"

"I know." Piet's face was contemptuous. He seemed to speak through closed lips. "That is why I came. I wanted you."

"What do you want me for?" flashed back Jerry, with clenched hands. "If you have anything to say, you'd better say it downstairs."

"I have nothing whatever to say." There was a deep sound in Piet's voice that was something more than a menace. Abruptly he squared his great shoulders, and brought the weapon he carried into full view.

Jerry's eyes blazed at the action.

"You be damned!" he exclaimed loudly. "I'll fight you with pleasure, but not before—"

"You will do nothing of the sort!" thundered Piet, striding forward. "You will take a horse-whipping from me here and now, and in my wife's presence. You have behaved like a cur, and she shall see you treated as such."

The words were like the bellow of a goaded bull. Another instant, and he would have been at hand grips with the boy, but in that instant Nan sprang. With the strength of desperation, she threw herself against him, caught wildly at his arms, his shoulders, clinging at last with frenzied fingers to his breast.

"You shan't do it!" she gasped, struggling with him. "You shan't do it! If—if you must punish anyone, punish me! Piet, listen to me! Oh listen! I am to blame for this! You can't—you shan't—hurt him just because he has stood by me when—when I most wanted a friend. Do you hear me, Piet? You shan't do it! Beat me, if you like! I deserve it. He doesn't!"

"I will deal with you afterwards," he said, sweeping her hands from his coat at a single gesture.

But she caught at the hand that sought to brush her aside, caught and held it, clinging so fast to his arm that without actual violence he could not free himself.

He stood still, then, his eyes glowering ruddily over her head at Jerry, who stamped and swore behind her.

"Anne," he said, and the sternness of his voice was like a blow, "go into the next room!"

"I will not!" she gasped back. "I will not!"

Her face was raised to his. With her left hand she sought and grasped his right wrist. Her whole body quivered against him, but she stood her ground.

"I shall hurt you!" he said between his teeth.

"I don't care!" she cried back hysterically. "You—you can kill me, if you like!"

He turned his eyes suddenly upon her, flaming them straight into hers mercilessly, scorchingly. She felt as though an electric current had run through her, so straight, so piercing was his look. But she met it fully, with wide, unflinching eyes, while her fingers still clutched desperately at his iron wrists.

"Nan! Nan! For Heaven's sake go, and leave us to fight it out!" implored Jerry. "This can't be settled with you here. You are only making things worse for yourself. You don't suppose I'm afraid of him, do you?"

She did not so much as hear him. All her physical strength was leaving her; but still, panting and quivering, she met those fiery, searching eyes.

Suddenly she knew that her hold upon him was weaker than a child's. She made a convulsive effort to renew it, failed, and fell forward against him with a gasping cry.

"Piet!" she whispered, in nerveless entreaty. "Piet!"

He put his arm around her, supporting her; then as he felt her weight upon him he bent and gathered her bodily into his arms. She sank into them, more nearly fainting than she had ever been in her life; and, straightening himself, he turned rigidly, and bore her into the inner room.

He laid her upon the bed there, but still with shaking, powerless fingers she tried to cling to him.

"Don't leave me! Don't go!" she besought him.

He took her hands and put them from him. He turned to leave her, but even then she caught his sleeve.

"Piet, I—I want to—to tell you something," she managed to say.

He wheeled round and bent over her. There was something of violence in his action.

"Tell me nothing!" he ordered harshly. "Be silent! Anne, do you hear me? Do you hear me?"

Under the compulsion of his look and voice she submitted at last. Trembling she hid her face.

And in another moment she heard his step as he went out, heard him close the door and the sharp click of the key as he turned it in the lock.

For many, many seconds after his departure she lay without breathing, exactly as he had left her, listening, listening with all the strength that remained to her for the sounds of conflict.

But all she heard was Piet's voice pitched so low that she could not catch a word. Then came Jerry's in sharp, staccato tones. He seemed to be surprised at something, surprised and indignant. Twice she heard him fling out an emphatic denial. And, while she still listened with a panting heart, there came the tread of their feet upon the stairs, and she knew that they had descended to the lower regions.

For a long, long while she still crouched there listening, but there came to her straining ears no hubbub of blows—only the sound of men's voices talking together in the room below her, with occasional silences between. Once indeed she fancied that Jerry spoke with passionate vehemence, but the outburst—if such it were—evoked no response.

Slowly the minutes dragged away. It was growing very late. What could be happening? What were they saying to each other? When—when would this terrible strain of waiting be over?

Hark! What was that? The tread of feet once more and the sound of an opening door. Ah, what were they doing? What? What?

Trembling afresh she raised herself on the bed to listen. There came to her the sudden throbbing of a motor-engine. He had come in his car, then, and now he was going, going without another word to her, leaving her alone with Jerry. The conviction came upon her like a stunning blow, depriving her for the moment of all reason. She leapt from the bed and threw herself against the door, battering against it wildly with her fists.

She must see him again! She must! She must! She would not be deserted thus! The bare thought was intolerable to her. Did he hold her so lightly as this, then—that, having followed her a hundred miles through blinding snow, he could turn his back upon her and leave her thus?

That could only mean but one thing, and her blood turned to fire as she realized it. It meant that he would have no more of her, that he deemed her unworthy, that—that he intended to set her free!

But she could not bear it! She would not! She would not! She would escape. She would force Jerry to let her go. She would follow him through that dreadful wilderness of snow. She would run in the tracks of his wheels until she found him.

And then she would force him—she would force him—to listen to her while she poured out to him the foolish, the pitiably foolish truth!

But what if he would not believe her? What then? What then? She had sunk to her knees before the door, still beating madly upon it, and crying wildly at the keyhole for Jerry to come and set her free.

In every pause she heard the buzzing of the engine. It seemed to her to hold a jeering note. The outer door was open, and an icy draught blew over her face as she knelt there waiting for Jerry. She broke off again to listen, and heard the muffled sounds of wheels in the snow. Then came the note of the hooter, mockingly distinct; and then the hum of the engine receding from the house. The outer door banged, and the icy draught suddenly ceased.

With a loud cry she flung herself once more at the unyielding panels, bruising hands and shoulders against the senseless wood.

"Jerry! Jerry!" she cried, and again in anguished accents, "Jerry! Come to me, quick, oh, quick! Let me out! Let me out!"

She heard a step upon the stairs. He was coming.

In a frenzy she beat and shook the door to make him hasten. She was ready to fly forth like a whirlwind in the wake of the speeding motor. For she must follow him, she must overtake him; she must—Heaven help her! She must somehow make him understand!

Oh, why was Jerry so slow? Every instant was increasing the distance between her and that buzzing motor. She screamed to him in an agony of impatience to hurry, to hurry, only to hurry.

He did not call in answer, but at last, at last, his hand was on the door.

She stumbled to her feet as the key grated in the lock, and dragged fiercely at the handle. It resisted her, for there was another hand upon it, and with an exclamation of fierce impatience she snatched her own away.

"Oh, be quick!" she cried hysterically. "Be quick! He is miles away by this time. I shall never catch him, and I must, I must!"

The door opened. She dashed forward. But a man's arm barred her progress, and with a cry she drew back. The next moment she reeled as she stood, reeled gasping till she slipped and slid to the floor at his feet. The man upon the threshold was her husband!

In silence he lifted her and laid her again upon the bed. His touch was perfectly gentle, but there was no kindness in it, no warmth of any sort. And Nan turned her face into the pillow and sobbed convulsively. How could she tell him now?

He began to walk up and down the tiny room, still maintaining that ominous silence. But she sobbed on, utterly unstrung, utterly hopeless, utterly spent.

He paused at last, and poured some water into a glass.

"Drink this," he said, stopping beside her. "And then lie quiet until I speak to you."

But she could neither raise herself nor take the glass. He stooped and lifted her, holding the water to her trembling lips. She leaned against him with closed eyes while she drank. She was painfully anxious to avoid his look. And yet when he laid her down, the sobbing began again, though she struggled feebly to repress it.

He fetched a chair at last and sat down beside her, gravely waiting till her breathing became less distressed. Then, finding her calmer, he finally spoke:

"You need not be afraid of me, Anne. I shall not hurt you."

"I am not afraid," she whispered back.

He sat silent for a space, not looking at her. At last:

"Can you attend to me now?" he asked her formally.

She raised herself slowly.

"May I say something first?" she said.

He turned his brooding eyes upon her.

"If you can say it quietly," he said.

She pressed her hand to her throat.

"You—will listen to me, and—and believe me?"

"I shall know if you lie to me," he said.

She made a sharp gesture of protest.

"I don't deserve that," she said. "You know it."

His grim lips relaxed a very little.

"I shouldn't talk about deserts if I were you," he said.

His tone scared her again, but she made a valiant effort to compose herself.

"You say that," she said, "because you are very angry with me. I don't dispute your right to be angry. I know I've made a fool of you. But—but after all"—her voice began to shake uncontrollably; she forced out the words with difficulty—"I've made a much bigger fool of myself. I think you might consider that."

He did consider it with drawn brows.

"Does that improve your case?" he asked at length.

She did not answer him. She was trying hard to read his face, but it told her nothing. With a swift movement she slipped to her feet and stood before him.

"I don't know," she said, speaking fast and passionately, "what you have in your mind. I don't know what you think of me. But I suppose you mean to punish me in some way, to—to give me a lesson that will hurt me all my life. You have me at your mercy, and—and I shall have to bear it, whatever it is. But before—before you make me hate you, let me say this: I am your wife. Hadn't you better remember that before you punish me? I—I shan't hate you so badly so long as I know that you remember that."

She stopped. She was wringing her hands fast together to subdue her agitation.

Piet had risen with her, but she could no longer search his face. She had said that she did not fear him, but in that moment she was more horribly afraid than she had ever been in her life.

She thought that he would never break his silence. Had she angered him even further by those words of hers, she wondered desperately? And if so—oh! if so—Suddenly he spoke, and every pulse in her body leaped and quivered.

"Since when," he said, "have you begun to remember that?"

"I have never forgotten it," she said, in a voiceless whisper.

He took her hands, separated them, held up the left before her eyes.

"Never?" he said. "Be careful what you say to me."

She looked up with a flash of the old quick pride.

"I have spoken the truth," she said. "Why should I be careful?"

He dropped her hand.

"What have you done with your wedding-ring?"

"I—lost it." Nan's voice and eyes sank together. "It was an accident," she said. "We dropped it in the lake."

"We?" said Piet.

She made a little hopeless gesture.

"Yes, Jerry and I. It's no good telling you how it happened. You won't believe me if I do."

He made no comment. Only after a moment he put his hand on her shoulder.

"Have you anything else to say?" he asked.

She shook her head without speaking. She was shivering all over.

"Very well, then," he said. "Come into the other room—you seem cold."

She went with him submissively. The fire had sunk low, and he replenished it. The hunting crop that he had brought from her father's house lay on the table with Jerry's banjo. He picked it up and put it away in a corner.

"Sit down," he said.

She sank upon the sofa, hiding her face. He took up his stand on the rug, facing her.

"Now," he said quietly, "do you remember my telling you that you had married a savage? I see you do. And you are afraid of me in consequence. I am a savage. I admit it. I hurt you that night. I meant to hurt you. I meant you to see that I was in earnest. I meant you to realize that you were my wife. I meant—I still mean—to master you. But I did not mean to terrify you as you were terrified, as you are terrified now. I made a mistake, and for that mistake I desire to apologize."

He stooped and drew one of her hands away from her face.

"You defied me," he said. "Do you remember? And I am not accustomed to defiance. Nor will I bear it from anyone—my wife least of all. I am not threatening you; I am simply showing you what you must learn to expect from me, from the savage you have married. It is not my intention to frighten you. I am no longer angry with either you or the young fool whom you call your friend. By the way, I have not done him any violence. He has merely gone to find a lodging for himself and for the motor in the village. Yes, I turned him out of his own house, but I might have done worse. I meant to do much worse."

"Yes?" murmured Nan. "Why—why didn't you?"

"Because," he answered grimly, "I found that I had only fools to deal with."

He paused a moment.

"Well, now for your punishment," he said. "As you remarked just now, I have you absolutely at my mercy. How much mercy do you expect—or deserve? Answer me—as my wife."

But she could not answer him. She only bowed her head speechlessly against the strong hand that still held hers.

She could feel his fingers tightening to a grip. And she knew herself beaten, powerless.

"Listen to me, Anne!" he said suddenly; and in his voice was something that she had only heard once before, and that but vaguely. "I am going to give you a fair chance, in spite of your behaviour to me. I am willing to believe—I do believe—that, to a certain extent, I drove you to this course. I also believe that you and your friend Jerry are nothing but a pair of irresponsible children. I should like to have caned him, but I had nothing but a loaded horse-whip to do it with, so I was obliged to let him off. Now listen! I am going downstairs and I shall stay there for exactly half an hour. If between now and the end of that half-hour you come to me with any good and sufficient reason for letting you go back and live apart from me in your father's house, I will let you go. You have asked me to remember that you are my wife. Precisely what you meant by that you have left me to guess. You will make that request of yours quite plain to me within the next half-hour."

He relinquished his hold with the words, and would have withdrawn his hand, but she made a sharp movement to stay him.

"Do you—really—mean that?" she asked him, a catch in her voice, her head still bent.

"I have said it," he said.

But still with nervous fingers she sought to detain him.

"What—what would you consider a good and sufficient reason?"

The hand she held clenched slowly upon itself.

"If you can convince me," he said, his voice very deep and steady, "that to desert me would be for your happiness, I will let you go for that."

"But how can I convince you?" she said, her face still hidden from him, her hands closed tightly upon his wrist.

"You will be able to do so," he said, "if you know your own mind."

"And if—if I fail to satisfy you?" she faltered.

He was silent. After a moment he deliberately freed himself, and turned away.

"Those are my terms," he said. "If you do not come to me in half an hour I shall conclude that you leave the decision in my hands—in short, that you wish to remain my wife. Think well, Anne, before you take action in this matter. I do not seek to persuade you to either course. Only let me warn you that, whatever your choice, I shall treat it as final. You must realize that fully before you choose."

He was at the head of the stairs as he ended. Without a pause he began to descend, and she counted his footsteps with a wildly beating heart till they ceased in the room below.

She was alone. In a silence intense she lifted her head at last, and knew that for half an hour she was safe from interruption.

Far away over the snow she heard a distant church clock tolling midnight. It ceased, and in the silence she thought she heard her stretched nerves cracking one by one. Soon—very soon—she would have to go down to him and fight the final battle for her freedom. But she would wait till the very last minute. She would spend the whole of the brief time accorded to her in mustering all her strength. He had swept her pride utterly out of her reach. But surely that was not her only weapon.

What of her hatred—that hatred that had driven her to this mad flight with Jerry? Surely out of that she could fashion a shield that all his savagery could not pierce. Moreover, he had given her his word to abide by her decision whatever it might be, so long as she could convince him of that same hatred that had once blazed so fiercely within her.

But what had happened to it, she wondered? It had wholly ceased to nerve her for resistance. How was it? Was she too physically exhausted to fan it into flame, or had he torn this also from her to wither underfoot with her dead pride? Surely not! With all his boasts of mastery, he had not mastered her yet. She would never submit to him—never, never! Crush her, trample her as he would, she would never yield herself voluntarily to him. It was only when he began to spare her that she found herself wavering. Why had he spared her? she asked herself. Why had he given her that single chance of escape?

Or, stay! Had he, after all, been generous? Had he but affected generosity that he might the more completely subjugate her? He had said that she must convince him that freedom from her chain would mean happiness to her. And how could she ever convince him of this? How? How? Would he ever see himself as she saw him—a monster of violence whose very presence appalled her? The problem was hopeless, hopeless! She knew that she could never make him understand.

Swiftly the time passed, and with every minute her resolution grew weaker, her agitation more uncontrollable. She could not do it. She could not face him with another challenge. It would kill her to resist him again as she had resisted him on Jerry's behalf. And yet she must do something. For, if she did not go to him, he would come to her. The half-hour he had given her was nearly spent. If she did not make up her mind soon it would be too late. It might be that already he was repenting his brief generosity, if generosity it had been. It might be that at any moment she would hear his tread upon the stairs.

She started up in a panic, fancying that she heard it already. But no sound followed her wild alarm, and she knew that her quivering nerves had tricked her. Shuddering from head to foot, she stood listening, debating with herself.

Her time was very short now; only three minutes to the half-hour—only two—only one!

With a gasp, she gathered together all the little strength she had left. But she could not descend those gloomy stairs. She dared not go to him. She stood halting at the top.

Ah, now he was moving! She heard his step in the room below, and she was conscious of an instant's wild relief that the suspense was past.

Then panic rushed back upon her, blotting out all else. She saw his shadow on the stairs, and she cried to him to stop.

"I am coming down to you! Wait for me! Wait!"

He stepped back, and she stumbled downwards, nearly falling in her haste. At the last stair she tripped, recovering herself only by the arm he flung out to catch her.

"I was coming!" she gasped incoherently. "I would have come before, but the stairs were dark—so dark, and I was frightened!"

"There is nothing to frighten you," he said gravely.

"I can't help it!" she wailed like a child. "Oh, Piet—Piet, be kind to me—just this once—if you can! I—I'm terrified!"

He put his arm round her.

"Why?" he said.

She could not tell him. But in a vague fashion his arm comforted her; and that also was beyond explanation.

"You are not angry?" she whispered.

"No," he said.

"You will be," she said, shivering, "when I have told you my decision."

"What is your decision?" he asked.

She did not answer him; she could not.

He moved, and very gently set her free. There was a chair by the table from which he had evidently just risen. He turned to it and sat down, watching her under his hand.

"What is your decision?" he asked again.

She shook her head. Her agony of fear was passing, but still she could not tell him yet.

He waited silently, his face so shaded by his hand that she could not read its expression.

"Why don't you answer me?" he said at last.

"I—can't!" she said, with a sob.

"You leave the decision to me?" he questioned.

She did not answer.

He straightened himself slowly, without rising.

"My decision is made," he said. "Give me your hand; not that one—the left."

She obeyed him trembling. He had taken something from his pocket. With a start she saw what it was.

"Oh, no, Piet—no!" she cried.

But he had his way, for he would not suffer her resistance to thwart him. Very gravely and resolutely he slipped a gold ring on to her finger.

"And you will give me your word to keep it there," he said, looking up at her.

Her lips were quivering; she could not speak.

"Never mind," he said; "I can trust you."

He released her hand with the words, and there followed a brief silence while Nan stood struggling vainly for self-control.

Failing at length, she sank suddenly down upon her knees at the table hiding her face and crying as if her heart would break.

"My dear Anne!" he said. And then in a different tone, his hand upon her bowed head: "What is it child? Don't cry, don't cry! Is it so hard for you to be my wife?"

She could not answer him. His kindness was so strange to her. She could only sob under that gentle, comforting hand.

"Hush!" he said. "Hush! Don't be so distressed. Anne, listen! I will never be a savage to you again. I swear it on my honour, on my faith in you, and on the love I have for you. What more can I do?"

Still she could not answer him, but her tears were ceasing. Yielding to the pressure of his hand, she had drawn nearer to him. But she did not raise her head.

After a long, quivering silence she spoke.

"Piet, I—I want you to—forgive me; not just for this, but for—a thousand things. Piet, I—I didn't know you really loved me."

"I have always loved you, Anne," he said, in his deep, slow voice.

"And you—forgive me," she said faintly.

"I have forgiven you," he answered gravely.

She made a slight, shy movement, and he took his hand from her head. But in an instant impulsively she caught at it, drawing it down against her burning face.

"And you are not angry with me any more?" she murmured.

"No," he said again.

She was silent for a space, not moving, still tightly holding his hand.

He could not see her face, nor did he seek to do so. Perhaps he feared to scare away her new-found courage.

At length, in a very small voice, she broke the silence.

"Piet!"

He leaned forward.

"What is it, Anne?"

He could feel her breath quick and short upon his hand. She seemed to be making a supreme effort.

"Piet!" she said again.

"I am listening," he responded, with absolute patience.

She turned one cheek slightly towards him.

"If I loved anybody," she said, rather incoherently, "I—I'd find some way of letting them know it."

He leaned his head once more upon his hand.

"I am a rough beast, Anne," he said sadly. "My love-making only hurts you."

Nan was silent again for a little, but she still held fast to his hand.

"Were you," she asked hesitatingly at length, "were you—making love to me—that night?"

"After my own savage fashion," he said.

"Well," she said, a slight quiver in her voice, "it didn't hurt me, Piet."

Piet was silent.

"I mean," she said, gathering courage, "if—if I had known that it meant just that, I—well, I shouldn't have minded so much."

Still Piet was silent. His hand shaded his eyes, but she knew that he was watching her.

"Do you understand?" she asked him doubtfully.

"No," he said.

"Don't you—don't you know what I want you to do?" she said, rather Breathlessly.

"No," he said again.

"Must I—tell you?" she asked, with a gasp.

"I think you must," he said, in his grave way.

She lifted her head abruptly. Her eyes were very big and shining. She stretched her hands out to him with a little, quivering laugh.

"I hate you for making me say it!" she declared, with a vehemence half passionate, half whimsical. "Piet, I—I want you—to—to—take me in your arms again, and—and—kiss me—as you did—that night."

The last words were uttered from his breast, though she never knew how she came to be there. It was as though a whirlwind had caught her away from the earth into a sunlit paradise that was all her own—a paradise in which fear had no place. And the chain against which she had chafed so long and bitterly had turned to links of purest gold.