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

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He relinquished his hold with the words, and would have withdrawn his hand, but she made a sharp movement to stay him.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


CHAPTER XIV

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