During the months which he spentin Vienna, Jack heard almost nothing of his sister. He had parted from her at Padding-ton Station with a lingering hope that the friendship born during her visit to London would live and grow; but from the moment of her return to Porthcarrick she had slipped back into the old, stiff relationship. Her letters, rare and short, seemed to have been written by a school-girl, with the governess looking over her shoulder. After some time they stopped altogether.
The bitterness of his disappointment was all the keener for the short bright month of mutual confidence. He had seen enough of the girl's inner self to have no doubt that she was wasting fine powers in the cramped Porthcarrick life, and that she herself was conscious of its narrowness, its petty, jarring hypocrisy. The look on her face was alone enough to show that she was restless and unhappy; and he had more evidence than that. Perhaps, but for Theo, he might have been able to help her, to win her away from the stultifying influences of the Vicarage, or at least to support her in her unequal struggle for a little personal freedom, for a wider, more useful, more self-respecting life. But poor Theo, the gentlest, sunniest-natured thing alive, had innocently ruined all. He seemed to have aroused in her some shrinking, fierce antipathy; Theo, who made friends with every stray dog in the street; who surely had never before, in all his careless, beautiful life, been disliked by anything that breathed.
When Jack left Vienna he went to Edinburgh to take his degree. This accomplished, creditably, but without special honours, he returned to London and applied for hospital work, which he at once obtained. There was, indeed, not much fear of his lacking employment; several professors who had known him as a student had promised to recommend him in case of his applying for a vacancy. He was offered the choice of two posts, and chose the one with the smaller salary, as it gave him better opportunities for study, and had the further advantage of being non-resident.
He settled down in shabby Bloomsbury lodgings, and worked like a cart-horse, trying to fill up every moment with vehement effort or deadening fatigue, that he might not feel the dread and blankness of his isolation. He was as one who enters from black passages into a lighted room, and shuts the door in haste because of the outer darkness whose ragged fringes would trail in behind him. Helen had saved him from the domination of fear; and in her healing presence he had forgotten to be accurst; but now that she had left him alone, the horror of his childhood stretched out chill finger-tips of memories and dreams to touch him unaware. While at work he was never afraid; but he still dared not face leisure and loneliness together.
Lonely, indeed, he was exceedingly. Theo was on a concert tour in America, and from there was to go on to Australia and New Zealand; he would be away a year. For that matter, had he been in London, his presence would have been small help to Jack. A kind of cloud had fallen upon their friendship; neither less affectionate nor less sincere than before, it had of late been disturbed and darkened, on Theo's side by a certain nervous irritability, on Jack's by a deep and melancholy sense, steadily growing within him, of his incapacity to understand a nature so different from his own. With Helen he had always been able to understand.
Early in March violent storms of wind and rain swept over London, with a sudden fall of temperature which caused much sickness and distress and, in consequence, very heavy work at the hospital. One evening, as Jack struggled home, late and weary, through a blinding downpour whose parallel slanting threads gleamed wickedly in the flickering lamp-light, he caught sight of a woman's figure clinging to an area railing, the cape of a drenched cloak flapping round head and shoulders. He crossed the street to offer help against the savage wind; but when he reached the opposite pavement the woman had turned a corner and disappeared.
He got home at last, changed his wet clothes, and sat down by a smoky fire to wait for dinner. Possibly because he was tired and cold, he found it to-night more difficult than usual to shake off the depression which always lay in wait to spring upon him whenever he was off his guard. He sat idle, a rare thing with him, and listened to the angry hissing of rain-drops falling down the chimney on to the hot coals.
"A woman has been here enquiring for you," said the landlady, bringing in the tray.
"In this weather? Who is it?"
"She wouldn't give her name; said she'd call again. She's been walking up and down the street waiting for you. She looks very bad."
"A patient, walking up and down on such a night! What was she like?"
"I couldn't see; she was so muffled up, and drenched to the skin. She's queer somehow, — all draggled and shivering and splashed with mud, and her hair half tumbling down, and yet dressed like a lady. I should think she's a bit crazed."
"Or else in trouble. It must be something serious for her to..."
Some one knocked at the street door, evidently with a shaking hand.
"There she is," said the landlady. "Shall she come in, sir?"
"Of course."
The woman came in with a swishing sound of wet skirts dragging round her feet, and stopped short in the half-light near the door. The landlady, after one quick, suspicious glance, went away, shaking her head.
"I'm sorry I was out when you called," Jack began, rising.
He could not see what his visitor was like, for she had put up an arm before her eyes as though the lamp-light dazzled her; but he recognised the cloak which he had seen flapping by the area gate.
"You must be wet through," he said. "You wished to see me..?"
There he broke off and drew back a step.
The woman came towards him slowly, with a stumbling, swaying movement as though she were blindfolded. Little streams of water trickled from her skirt, from her cloak, from the tumbled mass of hair that had slipped down on to her shoulder. The hood of her cloak was drawn over her head; but as she dropped her arm he saw that the half-hidden face was white and wild and haggard, and that the brow was broad and very level.
"Molly!" he cried.
She pushed back her hood and stared at him vacantly. She made two or three efforts to speak before any sound came from her lips.
"Yes," she said; "you were quite right."
"Molly! How did you..?"
"Uncle has turned me out of the house. You said he would. I came to you... I hadn't anywhere else to go. Will you put me up for a night or two... till I can think... of something... make some... arrangement... I'm tired... sleepy... I can't... see..."
Her voice was sinking into an unintelligible murmur. He caught her by the arm.
"Sit down. You shall tell me about it afterwards. You must get off these wet things and..."
His touch seemed to rouse her; she shook her arm free.
"I won't sit down till you understand. How do I know you'll take me in?.. I tell you, he has turned me out because..."
"Good God, child, what do I care why! Take this cloak off; one could wring a gallon of water out of it."
He was unbuttoning the cloak. She flung it off suddenly and stepped into the light.
"Look," she said.
He stood still, looking at her figure; a moment passed before the truth flashed on him. She turned away with a slow, grave gesture, and stooped to pick up the wet heap lying on the floor; but he snatched it out of her hand with a cry.
"Oh, my poor little girl... and at uncle's mercy!"
He caught her up in a sudden passion of tenderness, and, laying her on the sofa, covered her hands with kisses. His vehement emotion roused no responding thrill in her; she only shivered faintly, passive in his arms. He came to his senses after a moment.
"How cold you are! You must get off all these things at once. Wait, I'll lock the door and go into the bedroom while you change by the fire. I'll fetch you some clean things; you'll have to manage with underclothes of mine and the blankets. Let me get your boots off first; I must cut them, I think."
When he had drawn the sofa to the fire and laid her on it, rolled up in the rug from his bed, he ran downstairs for hot-water bottles, boiling milk, and brandy. Coming back he found her in a kind of stupor, neither fainting nor asleep, but too much dazed with cold and fatigue to understand when spoken to. After some time a faint tinge of natural colour came back into her blue lips. She opened her eyes and looked at him gravely.
"Jack," she said, "did you understand?"
He was sitting on the edge of the sofa, chafing her hands. He bent down and kissed first one and then the other.
"Yes, my darling."
"And you... will take me in?"
He pushed the damp hair back from her forehead.
"Why, you little goose! Drink some hot milk and don't talk nonsense."
"No — no!" She drew herself away from him and sat up, her eyes glittering. "You want to be merciful, like Aunt Sarah. She tried to interfere yesterday — talked to uncle about the woman taken in adultery and the one sinner that repenteth... I've nothing to repent of: I'm not ashamed. You have to understand that before you take me in. My life is my own to keep or give away; and if I choose to ruin it and pay the cost..."
"You shall tell me all that afterwards, dear. Theories will keep, and your supper won't. Take this while it's hot."
She took the cup eagerly and tried to drink. Then, for the first time, she broke down. He knelt beside the sofa, holding her close against him; and it seemed to him that hours passed while she sobbed on his neck. When she had grown quiet at last, he forced a little food on her with gentle persistence.
"When did you last have anything to eat?"
"I... forget. Some time yesterday. They found out in the afternoon... I think; or was it evening?.. Ah, yes; it was dark. I tried to find some water in the night;...it was so cold on the moor, and my throat burned... I suppose it was the gale... I found a rain-pool... but the water smelt of graves. Everything smelt of graves... and the sleet made me giddy... I fell so many times... That's why my hands are cut about this way..."
"Were you out on the moor all night?" He spoke in a suppressed voice, harsh and low.
"Yes... I... I got to Penrhyn in the morning and caught the early train... you know, the cheap one. I was lucky, wasn't I? I shouldn't have had money enough for the express."
"Do you mean that he turned you out on to the moor alone, at night, in the storm, with no money?"
"It was because I wouldn't answer his questions. Aunt Sarah gave me a few shillings that she had over from something. She cried so bitterly, poor thing. And I had half a sovereign. I was threepence short for the railway ticket, but I had some postage-stamps..."
"Where did you get that bruise on your forehead?" he interrupted. Her left temple was cut and swollen; the blow, an inch lower, might have killed her.
She hesitated a moment, then silently bared her right arm. It was stamped below the elbow with blue finger-marks.
"I... don't think he meant it," she said softly; and drew the sleeve down again.
"He struck you?" Jack asked in the same dead voice.
"He was trying to make me speak. I had refused to tell him... who the father is. He seemed to lose his senses bit by bit. He kept on repeating: 'Who?' and wrenching my arm harder and harder... Then Aunt Sarah tried to stop him... and he knocked me down..."
"There, that's enough."
She turned at the strange sound of her brother's voice; and looked at him. She had never seen before how he looked when he was angry; and the sight chilled her into silence.
"You'd better not tell me any more about uncle," he said presently, with his habitual quiet manner. "We came pretty near to killing each other once, you know; and I have you to look after now. Suppose we make a compact not to mention him again. I think I must get your bed ready now, dear; and tomorrow we'll talk over our plans."
"But where will you sleep if I take your room? "
"Here, on the sofa, of course. We'll fit in this way for a week or two, and then get other lodgings. As soon as you are well enough, you must see about some clothes."
"But, Jack, I can't stay here, on your hands. It's all very well for one night, but I must find some work to-morrow."
"Dearest, work is not so easy to find all at once; and you're not in a state to do it, if it were. Rest a few days and then well see."
"Oh, you don't understand! There are more than two months still... and when the time comes... Do you think they'll take me in at any hospital, Jack?"
He turned round, shaken with mortal fear.
"Molly, you're not going to leave me?"
"You wouldn't have me stay here and be a burden on you till the child is born? No, no; not for the world."
"Why not? Have they made you hate me so that you can't come to me when you want help?"
"You see, I came; I don't know why. I... thought, somehow, you wouldn't turn me away. If you had, I should have..."
"Do you think I have so many joys in life that I can afford to turn away the sunlight when it comes in at my door? Molly, Molly! I've had to live without you all these years. Now you're here, and your first thought is to go away again. I can't give you up. Stay till it's over, anyhow; if you must go then, at least I shall have had you for a little while."
"You want me, really? For yourself? Not just out of pity? I don't want anybody's pity."
He laughed, and clasped her in his arms.
"Then you'll stay?"
"Wait a minute!" She pushed him back, and her face grew suddenly hard. "If I am to stay with you, you must promise me never to ask who the man is, never to ask any questions at all."
"Molly, I shan't look a gift-horse in the mouth! If ever he takes you from me, I shall know him then; and if not..."
"That will never happen. He has forgotten me."
His eyes darkened again.
"Forgotten? And left you to bear it alone..."
"Stop!" she cried with gleaming eyes. "I love him."
He bent his head, silenced, but raging inwardly.
"You shall not say a word against him; it was my own choice. He wanted me, and I gave myself; I never haggled or bargained or asked that he should marry me. He has had his joy, and I pay the cost of it. Why not, if I'm content? It was a free gift."
She stopped and put her hand up to the bruised temple.
"Oh, this pain in my head! I'm half blind... Listen, Jack; if I am a coward at the end, and turn against him when I'm not my real self, you're to remember always that any thing I say will be a lie, I have nothing to complain of — nothing."
Suddenly her eyes filled with tears. She threw her arms round his neck.
"See what a brute I am! I come to you like a starving dog begging for shelter; and when you take me in I do nothing but make conditions."
"My treasure, you shall make all the conditions you like if you'll only stay with me."
"Then let me make one more; a fearful one."
She took both his hands; her own were burning.
"Promise that if I die next May, and the child lives, you'll adopt it, kill it, — any thing you will; but save it from uncle somehow."
He kissed her forehead solemnly. "There was no need to ask that promise."
"It's one that you probably won't be called on to keep. There's not..."
She broke off; then finished the sentence deliberately. "Not much hope of that. We're frightfully strong, we Raymonds."
"And frightfully lonely too, sometimes. Keep alive if you can, Molly."
Her eyes were fixed upon him, wide and wistful.
"Are you so utterly alone? I thought... you had some friends."
"I have Theo. But Theo is..."
He left the sentence unfinished, and stared absently into the fire. Presently he recovered himself with a start.
"Molly, darling, how you shiver! What was I thinking of not to send you to bed at once!"