The Hundredth Chance

by Ethel M. Dell

"Then, my dear, he was very grievously mistaken," declared Mrs. Wright, with stout emphasis. "Jake was not drunk. He never drinks. Why, look at the man! His eyes are as clear as the day. Oh, believe me, dear, you've wronged him. You've wronged him cruelly. And that's maybe what's brought about all your trouble. For men can't put up with injustice. It's the one thing they can't abide, and I don't blame 'em."

She paused. Maud was listening, but not as one convinced, or even greatly interested.

"It doesn't really alter anything, whether it's true or not," she said. "I had begun even before that to know what sort of a man he was. I heard him using the most appalling language one day. That opened my eyes."

"Not to you, dear, surely?" urged Mrs. Wright, looking momentarily shocked.

"Oh no, not to me. I overheard it accidentally. But," Maud shivered again, "I've never forgotten it. Sometimes the memory of it turns me nearly sick!"

"Oh, dearie me! What a pity! What a pity! And he loving you so!" Mrs. Wright put up a very tender hand, and stroked her cheek. "Poor little hurt princess!" she said. "If I could but open your eyes and show you how much true love there is behind his roughness! You'll see it some day. I'm sure of that. Please God some day quite soon! You're tired and heart-sick now, dear. But that'll get better as time goes on. And if you'll take an old woman's advice, you'll tell him soon of the little one that's coming. It'll maybe make all the difference to you both."

But Maud drew back sharply at the bare suggestion. "I couldn't possibly tell him yet. I--I couldn't tell anyone."

Mrs. Wright looked at her with eyes of motherly wisdom. "You'll feel different--presently," she said. "I know, dear, I know."

"You don't know! You can't know!" Maud's voice was strangled. She seemed to be striving for self-control.

"I do know." Very firmly Mrs. Wright made the assertion. "Just you listen a minute, dearie, and I'll tell you something that I've never told to mortal being before. I'm only just an ordinary old woman; but I am a woman, and I know what it means to--love the wrong man." She spoke impressively, but she did not seem to notice Maud's quick start. "When I was a girl, I was something of a belle. It seems funny now, don't it? But I attracted the attention of a good many young men, and I got a bit uppish in consequence. My poor Tom was the best of the bunch, and I always knew it, though I led him a fine dance before we came to walking out together. And then a young doctor's assistant came to the place, and--well, I'll not deny it now--we was both young and a bit flighty. We got larking together on them roundabouts one night at a fair, and after that we took to meeting one another on the sly, till, to cut it short, I fell in love with him--very badly in love. I ought to have known better, of course, for gentlemen like him don't marry little farmers' daughters like me. But I was young and inexperienced, and I thought his intentions were honest, till one night I found as they weren't. I've never ceased to thank the Almighty that I had the strength to send him about his business then and there. And I got engaged to Tom the following Sunday, and tried to forget it all. I wasn't in love with him, but I knew he was a good sort; and the match pleased my people who weren't too well-to-do. Well, I thought I was going to be happy in a home of my own, and I let everything be arranged, and I deceived myself into thinking that it was going to be all right. And then--when the wedding was over--I felt, quite sudden-like, sick, just sick, to think what I'd done. I didn't let on to Tom. He was such a good, solid man. I'd have died of shame if I had. I didn't let on to anybody. But I was that miserable. There were times, on and off, when I almost hated him. And then--well, then--I began to have hopes. It didn't help me a bit at first, but gradually, very gradually, the thought of poor Tom's baby purified me. And when I'd come through my trouble and little Tom was born, I felt as if I had been born again too, and all my regrets were gone. I never had 'em any more, dear, after that. And I got that fond of poor Tom, he never guessed. I thank the Almighty he didn't, for the morning as he died he told me so simple-like that I'd been the sunshine of his life from the very first day he ever met me." Mrs. Wright paused to wipe her eyes. "Poor Tom! I was never good enough for him," she said. "He was such a good, kind soul, and--luckily for me--he never saw an inch beyond his nose."