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.