The Odds, Ethel May Dell [pdf to ebook reader .txt] 📗

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.


CHAPTER X

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 soiree, 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.


CHAPTER XI

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