The Odds - Ethel May Dell (read full novel .TXT) 📗

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.


CHAPTER XII

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!


CHAPTER XIII

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