The ecstatic message stood on the mantelpiece in the old parlour above a roaring fire, and Jake stood in front of it, grimly patient, while the old grandfather clock ticked monotonously in the corner.
It was Christmas Eve, still and frosty. The glass door into the garden was wide open so that he could hear the first hoot of a motor, and he was listening for it with a lynx-like intensity, a concentration that had in it something almost terrible. It was nearly a fortnight since he had left her, and all his veins were on fire at the thought of having her again. He yearned for her with a fierce hunger that tore at the very soul of him, a hunger that he knew he must suppress, crush down out of sight, ere he met her.
Because in her desolation she had turned to him for comfort, he must not take it for granted that she needed him still. She had had time to recover, time possibly to be amazed, to be shocked, at her own yielding. He dreaded to see that instinctive recoil from him which he had learned to know so cruelly well in the summer that was dead. Those words of hers--"I can't pretend to love you. You see--I don't,"--still haunted him. And he remembered how once in bitterness of soul she had told him that she hated him.
He clenched his hands over the memory, cursing himself for the passion that even now leaped so fiercely within him. She had changed towards him since those days; that he knew. But even though she turned to him she was half afraid of him still, and he dared not show her his heart. He must be calm and temperate, taking only what she offered, lest he should drive her away again. It might be she would never offer very much. Possibly it did not lie in her power. She had given her whole love to another man, and it had been crushed into the mud. It might be that it still lived there in quivering shame, a thing to be hidden if it could not be utterly destroyed. He could not tell. But he did not feel that his chance of winning to the heart of her was very great. It might be that when she came to realize the practically boundless power with which this great fortune endowed her, it would vanish altogether. True, he might put up a fight for his rights. He might insist upon his ownership. But--had he not already done that? And what had it brought him? Nothing but emptiness. The desire of the flesh was nothing to the aching longing of the spirit, and that could never be satisfied by such means. And she did not so much as know that it existed!
He had dreamed once that a child might draw them together. But now--but now--a curiously wistful smile drew his mouth. Poor girl! She wanted a child to comfort her desolation. But if she had her wish, he knew that she would never turn to him again for comfort. His last chance would be gone.
Someone knocked at the open door that led into the garden. He turned sharply and saw Sam Vickers' good-humoured countenance looking up at him.
"Post just in, sir," he remarked. "I was comin' round so brought your letter along."
"Oh, thanks! Come in!"
Jake remained before the fire, and after an instant's hesitation Sam mounted the steps and entered. He was carrying a huge bunch of mistletoe in one hand.
"Thought you'd like a bit, sir," he said, with a cheery smile. "You haven't got any decorations, I see."