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Title: The gate marked "Private"
Author: Ethel M. Dell
Release date: September 12, 2026 [eBook #79556]
Language: English
Original publication: New York: Grosset & Dunlap, 1928
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/79556
Credits: Al Haines
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE GATE MARKED "PRIVATE" ***
THE GATE MARKED
"PRIVATE"
BY
ETHEL M. DELL
AUTHOR OF
THE LAMP IN THE DESERT,
THE BLACK KNIGHT,
GREATHEART, ETC.
GROSSET & DUNLAP
PUBLISHERS NEW YORK
THE GATE MARKED "PRIVATE"
Copyright, 1928
by
Ethel Mary Savage
The Way of an Eagle
Charles Rex
The Knave of Diamonds
Tetherstones
The Rocks of Valpré
The Unknown Quantity
The Keeper of the Door
The Swindler, and Other Stories
Bars of Iron
The Safety Curtain, and Other Stories
The Hundredth Chance
The Odds, and Other Stories
Greatheart
The Passerby, and Other Stories
The Lamp in the Desert
A Man Under Authority
The Tidal Wave
The Black Knight
The Top of the World
The House of Happiness, and Other Stories
Rosa Mundi
Peggy by Request
The Obstacle Race
The Gate Marked "Private"
This edition is issued under arrangement with the publishers
G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS, NEW YORK AND LONDON
The Knickerbocker Press, New York
CONTENTS
PART I
CHAPTER
I.--A COCK PHEASANT
II.--STAPLE FARM
III.--LITTLE STAPLE
IV.--CONCERNING PIGS
V.--MATILDA
VI.--ROSEMARY
VII.--THE REAL REASON
VIII.--ORIGINAL SIN
IX.--MARY
X.--THE DISCOVERY
XI.--DICK DYNAMO
PART II
I.--THREE FRIENDS
II.--AN AFFAIR OF PARTNERSHIP
III.--RAVENCOMBE
IV.--GRIEVANCES
V.--PUNISHMENT
VI.--YOUTH
VII.--PERCY
VIII.--CHRISTMAS
IX.--THE DREAM
X.--THE BARRIER
XI.--THE EMPTY ROOM
PART III
I.--BOXING NIGHT
II.--THE CAPTURE
III.--THE PRINCE
IV.--THE OLD BEAN
V.--THE CALL OF A FRIEND
VI.--A HEAP OF ASHES
VII.--ARCADIA
VIII.--THE MIRROR
IX.--"I WILL ARISE..."
X.--THE ESCORT
XI.--THE VICTOR
PART IV
I.--PETER AND MARY
II.--THE MEETING
III.--THE CONFLICT
IV.--THE FAITHFUL FRIEND
V.--THE AMBASSADOR
VI.--THE RETURN
VII.--FORGIVENESS
VIII.--THE INDOMITABLE
IX.--THE OPEN DOOR
THE GATE MARKED "PRIVATE"
PART I
CHAPTER I
A COCK PHEASANT
There came the whir of wings from the edge of the Long Copse on the
northern boundary of Staple Farm, followed immediately by the sharp
report of a gun, and a bird came hurtling down through the deepening
dusk of the November day and fell with a thud on the ploughed land
that stretched away from the copse to the sky-line in a low even
rise. The man with the gun spoke to his dog who plunged forward in a
hustle of swift obedience and brought the dead bird to his master's
feet. There was a movement in the copse as he stooped to pick it up,
and another man came out into the open and moved over the heavy
ground towards him.
"A fine cock pheasant that!" he remarked, as he drew near. "I
thought you'd get him."
"It wasn't much of a shot," said the man with the gun.
"I've seen worse," said the other. He took the bird and turned to
mount the rise. "I suppose you'll knock off now."
"I'd have liked a brace," said the man with the gun.
"Can't always have what you want," observed his companion, beginning
to trudge up the hill.
The man with the gun turned to his dog. "Just you remember that,
Nero!" he said.
Nero, a pleasant cocker-spaniel of superlative intelligence and
almost unimaginable greed, shook his ears with vehemence in obvious
disagreement. His master stooped and patted his head. "You're
nothing but an earth-worm, my boy," he said. "You've never wanted
the moon."
Nero had not. He was of a generally contented disposition
notwithstanding his rapacity for food, and beyond this a walk-up with
the gun was all he asked of life. He considered Silas Hickory the
supreme It of existence. So far as Nero was concerned, he controlled
the whole world, and Nero was completely satisfied with the way he
did it.
He followed him now very closely through the November twilight, still
keenly alert to obey his slightest bidding though aware that the
shooting was over for the day.
They reached the top of the rise and found the other man awaiting
them, with the evening's sport--a couple of rabbits and the
pheasant--slung on his shoulder.
"I'll take the rabbits," said Hickory. "You take the pheasant round
to Little Staple, Peter, and leave it with my compliments!"
"Right O!" said Peter.
He turned to go by way of a stile that led through the copse, but was
detained by Silas Hickory's voice. "And by the way, Peter, if you
should see Miss Bobby, tell her I'll be pleased to give her a lift
into Bode market to-morrow if she cares for one! Got that?"
Peter stood with his hand on the rail, considering. "It seems to
me," he said slowly, "that as you've got such a lot to say to her it
wouldn't be altogether unreasonable to go and say it yourself."
Silas Hickory threw up his head with a gesture which, though wholly
unconscious, had in it a hint of arrogance. It was the action of a
well-bred animal resenting the spur.
"You get on with the job!" he said curtly, and turned on his heel in
the other direction.
Peter got over the stile with thoughtful movements and walked away
along the little winding path that led through the Long Copse.
There was another stile at the further end, and when he reached it he
paused again and made a grave remark into the bleak silence around
him. It was the summing-up of his meditation.
"And he's not such a damn' fool neither!" he said.
Silas, walking quietly along the ridge with his dog behind him, was
also deep in thought. The winter day was closing in with a cold,
misty rain and his boots squelched drearily over the muddy ground.
But it was obvious that the weather had no sort of effect upon him.
His progress had something irresistible, even fateful about it. His
big square form moved with machine-like steadiness. His square face
with its blunt features and somewhat blue chin had the massive look
of a carving in bronze. Whatever the end he had in view, Silas
Hickory was not the man to be lightly turned aside from it. He had a
long bare upper lip, also rather blue, that betokened an obstinate
will. His eyes were hard and direct under black brows of exceeding
abundance. Undoubtedly a black beard should have completed his
equipment, but this was denied expression in spite of unceasing
efforts to assert itself. It was said of him by village wags, behind
his back, that Silas was covered with hair wherever he could not
reach to shave. There was certainly no denying that his shaving was
of a very rigorous and drastic description and was sometimes
performed twice a day--a fact of which his step-sister and
housekeeper, Mary Flight, strongly disapproved. She said that hairy
men were the pick of the race and it was a pity that Silas did not
make the best of himself. But no criticisms ever made any difference
to Silas who continued doggedly to refuse to countenance the beard
that thrust itself upon him. If Mary liked beards, why didn't she
get a husband with one? He wasn't standing in her way.
Not that he regarded her as one of the marrying sort in the least!
Somehow he never had, probably on account of her five years'
seniority which had always given her a middle-aged status in his
eyes. In any case she was well over forty now and looked it. Her
stout comeliness allowed of no misunderstanding on that point. She
had managed for Silas and Peter for the past twelve years, and seemed
likely to do so for the rest of her life. It was an oddly-assorted
household, and the curious part of it was that though they all passed
as brothers and sister, there was no actual blood-relationship
between any of them. Mary Flight was the step-daughter of Peter
Garnet's mother who in her turn had become the stepmother of Silas
Hickory. Silas and Peter were foster-brothers as well as
step-brothers, the marriage between their respective parents having
been accomplished as a pure matter of convenience some eighteen
months after Silas's mother had died in giving him birth. Not much
was known of Silas's mother beyond the fact that she was of high
birth and had married his father after a holiday spent in the West of
England in face of the most strenuous opposition from her family. Of
his father everyone knew everything. A great John Bull of a man had
been Silas Hickory the elder, black-bearded, loud-voiced and
assertive as a prize-fighter, jealous of his yeoman stock and
yielding pride of place to none. His wife, very gentle and retiring,
had made no very lasting impression upon anyone, and her memory had
quickly died. Mrs. Garnet, Peter's mother, the wife of one of Silas
Hickory's labourers, had been requisitioned for the nurture and care
of his motherless babe, and had filled the gap with a cheery
efficiency which on the death of her own husband a little later had
induced Farmer Silas, as they called him over at Bode, to install her
in his first wife's place as mistress of Staple Farm. The two boys
and Mary had grown up together, and save for the fact that Silas had
been given a sound Grammar School education whereas the other two
children had received the usual tuition at the local Board School,
there had been small difference in their general upbringing.
Yet, now that both the elder Hickory and his wife were gone and the
three who had been children together lived on in the old home, there
was between them a difference of which all who knew them were aware.
Though they were universally regarded as belonging to the same
family, Silas Hickory was never classed in the same category as Mary
and Peter. They were plain country-folk, and Peter, though
recognized as being something better than a mere farm-hand, was
certainly something very much less than the foster-brother for whom
he worked. Peter belonged to the soil, and no other career than that
of farming had ever presented itself to him. He was slow and very
sure, like one of his own plodding cart-horses, laconic of speech yet
not without a certain humour upon occasion, possessing for Silas a
dumb devotion which seldom found expression but which was one of his
most salient characteristics none the less.
It had always been the same, his attitude to Silas. Even as lads, it
had existed in the form of a mute, instinctive deference which no
adventures or pursuits shared in common had ever eradicated. And
even Mary, who had mothered them both from infancy, manifested it in
a modified degree. An invisible line was drawn between them which
placed Silas apart. He was the master, and by a law as rigid as
Court etiquette he was invariably treated as such. What was good
enough for the two others was emphatically not good enough for Silas,
and though he never made any stand on his own account Mary was
strenuous in her observance of this ceremonial preferment.
Moreover, their friends were not his friends though to the outward
eye they might appear to be. Silas had his own sittingroom at the
Farm, and here he was quite undisturbed at all times, by Mary's
unalterable decree. If she had company in the kitchen with which she
deemed that he might not desire to mix, she brought his meal to him
here herself. Like Peter, she never expressed her devotion in words,
but her vigilance for his comfort had an eagle-like quality that
never failed. Emphatically, Silas was not to be bothered by trivial
things.
On ordinary occasions they lived and ate together, but Silas was
never allowed to wait upon himself, still less upon Mary. Peter
might help her sometimes in the evenings if she were hard pressed,
but Silas never. He was the king of that household, and he was kept
rigidly within his royal limits, so far as Mary was concerned. If he
elected to spend a night with a sick animal, that was a different
matter, though even then Peter was usually hanging round until
express command drove him away. But that was work within his
province which any gentleman-farmer might undertake; but nothing of a
menial nature, such as carrying a bucket of water or a scuttle of
coal, was ever countenanced by Mary.
"Leave that for them whose work it is!" she would say, and Silas,
realizing that to transgress her rules of etiquette gave her actual
pain, was usually goodnatured enough to observe them, at least when
her eye was upon him.
He was very fond of Mary, whose buxom presence was always full of
good cheer. If he found her a little obvious and downright in her
ways, he knew her for the soul of honesty and valued her accordingly.
She did not profess to be intellectual, but she was an excellent
housekeeper and her cooking left nothing to be desired. All that she
did was well done.
Yet, though he knew that hot tea and a blazing fire awaited him on
his return from the dripping fields on that chill November evening,
Silas did not hasten his steps or display any eagerness to reach
those physical comforts. His gait was thoughtful and his head bent.
Staple Farm stood in a hollow up a narrow lane that led off the old
turnpike road to Bode. No traffic ever passed it except the
farm-carts, for beyond it lay only fields and woods. But between the
farm and the main road another lane, grass-grown, scarcely more than
a winding track between hedges, led up a steep slope, and it was near
the entrance of this that he eventually found himself upon descending
the hill.
A rough stile gave access to it from the sodden field he had just
traversed, and this he crossed almost without checking his stride,
then stood abruptly still, staring up through the darkness as though
he listened for something.
There was no sound however, beyond the drip of the branches overhead
and the faint tinkle of a hidden spring that ran down a ditch near
by. Night had fallen, and it was one of inexpressible desolation.
He stood motionless for several seconds, Nero waiting, forlornly
patient, at his heels. Then he heaved a sigh of which he was plainly
unconscious and wheeled in the other direction.
"Yes, I wish it had been a brace, Nero," he said.
CHAPTER II
STAPLE FARM
Mary Flight looked up at his entrance with a smile of welcome on her
broad comely face. The fire was roaring up the open chimney, and a
covered dish stood on an iron stand of Peter's contrivance before it.
"Come along in!" she said. "How late you are! I'm sure you couldn't
have seen to shoot anything for the last half-hour."
"I've brought back a couple of rabbits," said Silas.
An old leathern chair with wooden arms awaited him on one side of the
fire, and a pair of carpet-slippers was placed conveniently near it
in the glow. He moved forward and dropped down rather heavily.
"There now!" said Mary. "Take off your boots and be comfortable! I
thought you'd have been in long ago. Just look at the wet on your
coat! Take it off, and I'll go and get you another!"
She was on her feet with the words, pushing the stocking she was
knitting into a corner of her chair; but Silas stopped her.
"No, Mary, leave me alone! I'm not wet through. I'll go and get a
bath presently."
That was one of his idiosyncracies which Mary could never understand,
though she saw to it that the water was hot whenever he was likely to
need it. She yielded the point of the coat and turned to the table
instead.
"Well, I'll make the tea now. You'll be ready for it after messing
about all this time in those muddy fields. Do take off your boots,
Silas! You'll be ever so much more comfortable."
But Silas ignored the friendly admonition. "Better wait a few
minutes for Peter," he said, stretching out his gaitered legs to the
glow.
"And where's Peter?" said Mary, pausing teapot in hand.
Silas replied with his eyes on the fire. "I sent him round to Little
Staple with a cock pheasant. He'll be in directly."
Mary's pause lengthened into a definite silence ere she turned and
quietly set down the teapot.
When finally she spoke, her voice sounded a little strained. "I saw
Miss Rosemary this afternoon. She was on her way back from the
village and dropped in for a chat."
"Alone, was she?" said Silas.
He did not turn his head to ask the question. The red glow of the
fire gave his features more than ever a look as of having been carved
in bronze.
"Yes, she was alone," said Mary. "Miss Roberta was much too busy to
leave home, and Miss Matilda is in bed."
"What's the matter with Miss Matilda?" said Silas.
Mary slightly shrugged her plump shoulders. "She always is a poor
thing," she remarked not very sympathetically. "As often in bed as
out of it, it seems to me."
Silas grunted acquiescence. "And what had Miss Rosemary got to say
for herself?" he asked, after a moment.
"Oh, she was just as cheery as ever." Mary chuckled a little.
"Ready to laugh at everything and nothing, the little rogue! She's
getting very pretty, Silas, and actually eighteen next birthday. One
can hardly believe it."
"Yes, she's growing up," said Silas.
"But that's just it," said Mary. "She never will grow up. She
doesn't look a day more than fourteen. I can hardly believe she is."
"She was that when they came here," said Silas.
"Yes, and that's three years ago. It seems like yesterday, except
that the old gentleman was with them, and Miss Roberta wasn't quite
so thin as she is now. He was a fine old gentleman was old Colonel
Wendholme."
"Yes," said Silas. "He kept Rosemary in order, which is more than
anyone else has since he went on. The child is as wild as a hawk.
There'll be trouble with her one of these days if they don't look
out."
"Oh, but she's so warmhearted," pleaded Mary, "and simply devoted to
her Aunt Bobby, as she calls her. Besides, Silas, she's so young.
Why, she doesn't know good from evil yet."
"That's just it. Time she learnt!" said Silas. "Girls of eighteen
ought to be beginning to have a little sense. Rosemary is like a
colt that has never felt the lash. Miss Bobby is much too gentle
with her."
"Oh, Silas, she's very strict sometimes," protested Mary. "Too much
so, I almost think. Do you know, last August Bank Holiday when
Rosemary broke away and went to the Fair at Bode with that young
Hudson from Oxford her Aunt Bobby waited up for her and kept her
locked in her room the whole day afterwards? Rosemary herself told
me of it. She said she could have let herself down from the window
easily, but she didn't because she knew her Aunt Bobby was crying in
the dairy, and she couldn't have faced that, she said."
Silas uttered a sound that was like a growl. "I should like the
breaking in of that young woman," he said.
"Oh, but she's so tenderhearted!" pleaded Mary again. "Doesn't that
show how tractable the child is? And anyhow, crying or not, her aunt
never went near her except to take her bread and milk for her meals
until the very last thing at night. Poor little Miss Rosemary didn't
tell me what happened then. She only threw up her hands and said,
'My hat!' and added that she never slept a wink afterwards."
Silas growled again more emphatically. "That girl wants whipping,"
he said. "Why doesn't she turn to and lend a hand with the animals
instead of always tearing about enjoying herself? I've a very strong
suspicion that she's been riding Leader again lately. He's limping
worse than he was."
"Good gracious, Silas! She wouldn't do a thing like that!" Mary
gazed at him, round-eyed. "Where is Leader?"
"Up in the field behind the big barn, two fields off Little Staple.
I know she has been on him since he's been turned out. Old Joe Brant
saw her over a week ago, and I've been on the look-out for her ever
since. But she dodges me, the young baggage!"
"Oh, Silas, don't call her that!" Mary exclaimed in horror. "There's
no vice in her, that I'm sure there isn't. If you really know that
she's been on Leader--though I can't believe she'd do such a
thing--why don't you step round and have a talk to her about it? I'm
sure she would never do it again."
"She won't--if I catch her," said Silas grimly.
"Yes, but, Silas, if you'd only speak to her!" said Mary.
"She'd lie to me," said Silas.
"Oh, Silas!" Mary's voice held real pain.
"I tell you she'd lie," he repeated, stooping forward to throw a
stick into the fire. "And I'm not going to risk hurting Miss Bobby
over it. The only person that's going to be hurt is Rosemary,--and
Miss Bobby won't know anything at all about it."
He thrust out his chin with the words, and Mary almost automatically
shifted her ground.
"Oh, dear, dear, dear!" she said. "Why don't you move Leader to the
field at the back here? He'd do just as well and be out of harm's
way, and then she wouldn't have the temptation waiting for her, so to
speak."
"I don't believe in removing temptation from people's paths," said
Silas. "And look here, Mary! You're not to warn her. Understand?
I shall catch her one of these days, so let the young imp do her
worst--and take her gruel afterwards!"
Mary yielded the point, according to her invariable custom. "I won't
say anything, of course," she said. "It's not my business. But do
remember that she's not a baby nor yet a boy, Silas! She's a lady
born."
"She's a mischievous little devil," said Silas with decision. "I'm
not likely to forget that, anyhow."
The entrance of Peter at this juncture put a timely end to a
discussion which Mary had begun to find somewhat distressing. She
turned to him with relief on her homely face.
"Ah, now we can have tea! Are you very wet, Peter? Come along to
the fire!"
She picked up the teapot again and made room for him to pass her, but
he stopped and sat down at the table.
"I'm warm enough, but wanting a good feed badly. Got something nice?"
"Ham and eggs," said Mary. "And there are some sausage-rolls too.
Come along, Nero! Here's a bone for you! Eat it in the corner,
there's a good dog! Won't you get your boots off, Silas, before you
begin?"
But Silas elected to turn his chair round to the table as he was.
His face had a harsh look as though his thoughts were occupied with
something very far removed from the good cheer that awaited him.
Mary served him first, that being one of the rules of the etiquette
she had instituted, and he began to eat in silence.
They followed his lead for a space, then she and Peter began to
exchange a few commonplace remarks that left the head of the house
entirely to his own meditations. This also was etiquette as Mary had
devised it. Silas talked or did not talk according to his
inclination.
On the present occasion he was half-way through his meal before he
uttered another word. Then abruptly he addressed Peter. "Did you
see Miss Bobby when you left the pheasant?"
"Yes," said Peter, munching. "I did. She was up with Miss Matilda,
but I waited while Miss Rosemary fetched her. She said I was to
thank you very much for the bird, but she won't want a lift to-morrow
as she's arranged to send her pigs over in Everett's cart, and he's
going to sell them for her."
"What on earth is that for?" said Silas. "She'll have to pay the man
commission on everything he sells and probably cartage too."
"Can't say," said Peter, still munching. "Suppose she knows her own
business best. Anyhow, that's what she's going to do."
"Why isn't she going in herself?" demanded Silas.
Peter shrugged his shoulders and grinned. "Got Matilda in bed with a
chill."
Silas made a violent movement of exasperation. "And what does
Rosemary do? Can't she lend a hand?"
Peter's grin broadened. "Rosemary probably has other fish to fry,"
he said.
"She's but a child," said Mary extenuatingly.
Silas relapsed into heavy silence and drank his tea with the air of
one who swallows with difficulty.
There followed a pause, then, as it became evident that Silas had
nothing more to say, Mary and Peter resumed their commonplaces,
talking together as though they were alone.
Silas was the first to finish, and pushed back his chair. "Do you
mind if I go?" he said perfunctorily to Mary.
She opened her kindly eyes in surprise. "Of course not! But, Silas,
you're not going out again--not now, all wet as you are?"
His look became dogged. Even in childhood he had never endured any
dictation from Mary. "Yes, I am. I'm going up to Little Staple.
It's absurd when I'm going in to Bode half-empty and taking Brant too
that she should pay Everett to cart her stock."
He spoke with a certain savagery, as if Mary were the aggressor, and
she wisely forebore to make any further protest.
A cloud came over her usually contented face, but she merely said,
"It seems a pity not to let folks go their own way if they want to."
To which Silas replied by turning with something more than his usual
decision of movement and walking out of the room.
"Don't you worry yourself!" said Peter, as the door closed. "She
isn't taking any, or I'm much mistaken."
Mary gave a sigh. "I do wish he'd just be happy at home," she said.
"He's getting so restless and easily upset. And there's little Miss
Rosemary makes a regular laughing-stock of him, and I can't stop her.
It fairly worries me, Peter. We can keep order in our own sphere of
life, but not beyond it."
"Oh, don't you fret!" said Peter goodnaturedly. "She'll laugh once
too often, that kid. I'm not afraid of her getting the upper hand
with Silas. What I am afraid of is----"
He broke off, as abruptly the door opened and Silas poked his head
round it. "You might clean my gun for me, Peter," he said. "Come
on, Nero!" And he was gone again with Nero eagerly scrabbling on the
oak floor at his heels.
Mary waited till the sounds of their departure ended in the banging
of a door. Then she spoke in a lowered voice.
"What are you afraid of, Peter?"
Peter finished his cup of tea and took his pipe before he answered.
Then, with a frown on his goodlooking countenance he made reply.
"I'm afraid, Mary, that he's after something that won't bring him any
good,--even if he gets it, which I doubt."
"I know what you mean," said Mary, with another sigh.
CHAPTER III
LITTLE STAPLE
It was beginning to rain heavily as Silas went up the track on which
he had stood listening about half-an-hour before. He had put on an
oilskin mackintosh, and the drops pattered drearily on his shoulders
as he trudged along the narrow way. The murmur of the spring in the
ditch had become a definite chatter. The mud was thick and clinging,
but he tramped through it without pause, the faithful Nero closely
following. There was more than fatefulness about him now; there was
fighting determination. It was very dark by this time, and he
carried a hurricane-lamp that shone with a fitful gleaming upon the
puddles as he went.
The track seemed to wind endlessly, though it was in reality barely
half-a-mile from the Staple Farm lane that it widened out to a
duck-pond on one side and an open space in front of a small garden on
the other. Silas turned into this garden, admitting himself by a
little white gate. A row of uneven flagstones led to a cottage, also
white and thatched, smelling of wood-smoke. It was an ancient place,
with lattice-windows from two of which on the ground floor a light
shone through red blinds. He reached a whitewashed porch and set his
lantern upon a seat at the side. Then he knocked with his knuckles
somewhat imperiously upon the stout wooden door.
For a moment or two there was no sound within, and then suddenly a
merry childish voice began to sing a ditty with an impudent lilt.
"Hickory dickory dock!
Whose is that terrible knock?
Oh, don't stay to rile us, but run away, Silas
Hickory dickory dock!"
The words were spoken with great directness close to the keyhole, and
they ended in a laugh so gay and spontaneous that most people would
have found it hard not to laugh also. Not so Silas Hickory! His
face darkened as he listened, and ere the ditty was well over he was
rattling the latch.
"Let me in, please!" he commanded. "I want to speak to Miss Roberta."
Another burst of laughter greeted this announcement. The door showed
no signs of yielding. The impudent voice chanted another verselet
through the keyhole as soon as mirth permitted.
"Oh, we get so sickery
Of Hick-Hick-Hickory,
And we wish he'd go-o away."
At this point Silas lost his temper and delivered a prolonged volley
of such thundering knocks that the ribald vocalist could make no
headway in the din.
His attack ended with somewhat disconcerting suddenness in the sudden
swinging open of the door, a _coup_ which nearly precipitated him
headlong upon the threshold.
A gay voice greeted him. "Hullo, landlord! Hold up--hold up! Where
have you been entertaining yourself this evening?"
He found himself face to face with a laughing imp of a girl,
blue-eyed, golden-haired, bewitchingly pretty, dressed in a white
shirt and brown breeches with boots to the knee. Laughter quivered
in every line of her. She looked like a saucy lad of fourteen.
Silas, ten inches above her head, looked down on her with complete
disapproval. "I want to speak to your aunt," he said.
She stooped with careless grace to caress Nero. "_Ça va!_" she
remarked. "But he can't always have what he wants, can he, Nero?
Aunt Bobby is busy," she announced, standing up again. "But I'll
give her a message if you like."
"Thanks. I don't," said Silas grimly. "I'll wait."
"I expect she'll be busy all night now," said the girl, making an
impertinent grimace at him. "Will you take a seat on the mat?"
"I'll stand, thanks," said Silas.
Again laughter burst from her; it seemed impossible to keep it in.
"Bronze statue of a ferocious cave-man masquerading in the fustian of
a British farmer!" she observed to the oak rafters. "Price of raw
material alone--five and threepence, clothes--shocking misfit,
artistry--too atrocious to mention. Would make a good background to
a prehistoric film--minus the clothes of course, which completely
fail to disguise the violent and very unattractive temperament of the
man!"
Silas spoke, with difficulty restraining himself. "I won't detain
you, Miss Rosemary. Will you kindly mention to your aunt that I am
here?"
She held up her hands in mock astonishment. "Kindly mention you are
here! My good man, if I could only mention that you had gone again,
I might be giving her an unexpected piece of good news. As to your
arrival, she must be only too well aware of it. I suppose that as
the house is your own, you are at liberty to knock it down whenever
the fancy takes you. But after all, we do pay our rent regularly,
don't we?"
It was Silas's opportunity and he seized it. "I don't think you
personally ever do anything beyond getting up to mischief," he said.
She put out her tongue at him; then spoke compassionately. "Yes, I
daresay a very limited intelligence might take that point of view,
and clodhoppers seldom manage to develop anything more. Cave-men too
are guided only by the most primitive instincts, so perhaps it would
be unkind to expect too much. Ah! Your dignified entrance has had
the unlooked-for effect of rousing the household. Guess who it is,
Aunt Bobby!"
She turned to a dark corner behind her whence a winding oak staircase
led steeply upwards, to meet a slight hurrying figure that swiftly
reached the uneven floor and came running over the rough matting to
join them.
"Mr. Hickory, I am so sorry you should have been kept waiting," the
new-comer said.
She had a sweet clear voice, and her movements were quick and
bird-like. In appearance she might have been the elder sister of the
taunting imp in riding-breeches, so light a mark had the twenty years
that divided them made upon her. A little taller than Rosemary and
exquisitely formed was Miss Roberta Wendholme. She had a soft gay
laugh, but there was a decision about her straight blue eyes and
delicate chin that gave undeniable force to her personality. Her
hands were small and dainty, but firm in every gesture.
She gave Silas one of them with a smile of welcome. "And you have
come up in all this horrible rain! Do come in to the fire!
Rosemary, you should have asked him in."
"He came in without," laughed Rosemary. "And you'd better be very
careful, Aunt Bobby, for he's feeling rather prehistoric."
"Foolish child!" said Aunt Bobby, turning to a half-open door on her
left whence came the cosy glow of lamplight and firelight combined.
"Come in here, Mr. Hickory! How very kind of you to have sent us up
another bird! It is such a treat, especially for my sister in her
poor state of health."
She led the way into her little parlour with the words where a peat
fire burned with a steadfast redness beneath a wide-mouthed chimney.
There were a good many books on shelves along the walls and a few
good oil-colours. An ancient oak dresser with some china stood at
one end, and at the side of it a door led into the kitchen. There
were rose-coloured curtains at the windows and rose cushions on the
chairs. A leopard-skin rug covered the shabbiness of the settee that
was drawn up to the fire. The whole effect was one of comfort oddly
mingled with penury.
"Sit down!" said Aunt Bobby, pointing to the settee.
Silas hesitated for a moment, for Rosemary was dancing on her toes
behind him softly humming her impromptu nursery rhyme; then with an
air of determination he pulled off his wet mackintosh, dropped it on
the back of a chair and complied.
"Afraid I'm rather muddy," he said.
"What does that matter?" said Aunt Bobby tranquilly. "Everybody is
now-a-days."
She sat in an old rickety armchair, and Rosemary came and perched on
the arm, her vivid face alight with mocking merriment.
"Dear Aunt Bobby!" she said, twining a warm arm round her as she sat.
"You've given up the unequal contest, haven't you? The snow-boots
have gone by the board and top-boots have taken their place. It'll
be breeches too before the year is out."
Bobby lifted a slightly flushed face to the child's laughing eyes.
"Rosemary darling," she said, "there is one rule which I think you
have forgotten. Outdoor clothes are always changed as soon as we
come in for the evening."
"Oh, but I'm going out again," said Rosemary, unabashed. "I've got
to take Jess her supper. Yes, darling, I know I ought to have done
it before, but I was busy, and then Peter Garnet came, and after that
I forgot. She won't hurt, you know. I expect with all those puppies
to look after she's forgotten too.
"Go and do it at once, dear!" said Bobby. "It's very unkind to keep
her waiting."
"A few minutes more or less can't matter now," responded Rosemary.
"By the way, Nero is in the hall. Shall I lake him along to see her?
He doesn't know he is the happy father of five, does he? He was only
a bridegroom last time he came."
"Go, dear!" said Bobby, gently patting her hand. "But leave Nero
where he is!"
"Oh, there's plenty of time," protested Rosemary. "I want to hear
what Mr. Hickory has come for this time I'm sure it's something to do
with pigs. I can feel it in my bones."
She laughed across at Silas with eyes of roguish effrontery and swung
a careless leg in his direction.
Silas said nothing with conspicuous determination. There was
something about him suggestive of a colossal force strongly pent at
the moment. He did not even look at Rosemary, but stared straight at
the fire.
Bobby spoke, with firmness. "Rosemary dear, go now! Please don't
let me have to speak again!"
Rosemary jumped lightly to her feet. She looked more than ever like
a very winning young boy as she stood facing Silas,--daring him, it
almost seemed.
"I went round to see Mary to-day," she observed. "She told me quite
a lot about you, and all about your funny little ways when you were a
child. She seems absolutely devoted to you. I can't think why you
don't marry her. She'd make you a jolly suitable wife."
She shot the words at him with supreme impertinence Silas stiffened
at the sudden attack. She had pierced his armour at last, and he
opened his mouth to reply. But before he could do so, Aunt Bobby
swooped like an angry bird upon the offender.
"Rosemary," she said, "you annoy me very much. Please go at once!"
It was a very definite command. Rosemary whizzed round on her heels
to face her, and brought her hand to her forehead in a smart salute.
Her eyes sparkled with wicked gaiety as she tramped to the door.
Reaching it, she threw Silas a look over her shoulder that challenged
and disdained him in the same moment. Then she was gone, whistling
with great emphasis the tune to which she had sung her ditty through
the keyhole a few minutes earlier, breaking into song as she pulled
the door behind her.
"Oh, don't stay to rile us, but run away, Silas
Hickory dickory dock."
CHAPTER IV
CONCERNING PIGS
A marked silence followed her departure, and when it had lasted
several seconds Bobby got up and began with rather fluttering
movements to put the fire together.
Silas got up also, his great figure towering above her.
"That's all right, Miss Roberta," he said. "Don't you get worried
over nothing!"
She laid down the poker and straightened herself. There were tiny
lines about her eyes and mouth which only showed when she was
troubled.
"It's very nice of you to say that," she said. "But it isn't all
right. The child gets more unruly and out of hand every day. It's
no good my apologizing on her behalf, for she always does it again."
A faint smile showed through the grimness of Silas's face. "You
haven't whipped her enough," he said.
"Oh, but I have!" protested Bobby, her mouth quivering a little. "I
used to have a theory that if you kept a child in hand from the very
earliest it would never get beyond you. And I have been very strict
with her always. But--I seem to have failed somehow. I suppose it
is the fashion for girls of the present day to behave like spoilt
children."
"They are spoilt children, most of 'em," said Silas. "And they ought
to be treated as such." He spoke dogmatically. "You mustn't let her
defy you, you know."
"I really don't know what to do," sighed the older generation.
"Punishments never have any effect. I am afraid only responsibility
will ever bring her wisdom. I suppose we were the same when we were
young."
"Except that we grew up sooner," said Silas. "But you needn't talk
about when you were young. You don't look more than five years older
than she is."
She laughed, and again slightly coloured. Her fair skin was wont to
betray her thus in moments of embarrassment. As a girl she had
battled furiously against this habit which she had regarded as
contemptible but which had very completely mastered her in earlier
days none the less.
She turned aside and changed the subject quickly, as had been her
invariable remedy in her effort to overcome it.
"Well, what about the pigs?" she said, and then, realizing her
blunder, turned quite crimson and laughed. "Do forgive me! You'll
think I have pigs on the brain."
He smiled openly, and in a moment his sombre countenance was
completely transformed. There was something about Silas's smile
which somehow did not seem to belong to his type. Mary always said
that anyone could see he was a born gentleman when he smiled.
Perhaps it was that smile of his, rare as it was, which had made
Bobby regard him as a friend rather than a mere neighbour of the
farmer class.
"No, I don't think you have pigs on the brain, Miss Roberta," he
said, "but at the present moment, I have. I got your message from
Peter, and I've come up to tell you that there's no need for you to
employ a man like Everett to sell them for you. I'll sell 'em myself
with pleasure, if you'll trust me to that extent."
"How like you!" said Bobby. "Of course I would gladly trust them to
you, but you are so kind that I don't like to be always taking
advantage of it."
"Why not?" said Silas.
She faced him with absolute sincerity. "You won't take payment for
it," she said, "and--I don't like taking things for which I can't
pay."
"Not even from friends?" said Silas, his dark eyes freely meeting
hers.
"Not from anyone," said Bobby firmly.
"Oh!" said Silas. "And--don't you ever give things to anyone
yourself?"
"That is quite different," she said.
"And do they throw it back at you because you won't let 'em pay?"
proceeded Silas with rather stolid persistence.
"That is different," she said again, countering him with his own
weapon.
He abandoned the brief contest with startling abruptness. "Well, you
can pay me if you like," he said. "I'll undertake to do you better
than Everett will even then."
"But--but why should you?" said Bobby, disconcerted.
"Why shouldn't I?" said Silas, and again his smile was apparent.
"You are my tenant here. It's all to my interest that you should
make a success of things."
She shook her head. "Mr. Hickory, I am very sorry, but I don't think
that is your real reason."
"But we're not talking about reasons, are we?" said Silas. "We're
talking about pigs, and who is going to sell 'em."
She laughed, and something that had been rather like distress
vanished from her demeanour as she did so. "I'm afraid it's no
good," she said. "It's all fixed up now."
"It can be unfixed," said Silas.
"No, it can't. I shouldn't like to upset Mr. Everett."
"Damn Everett!" said Silas. "I'd upset him every day of the week if
I got the chance."
"How very vindictive!" said Bobby.
"Well, but you know the man is a sodden brute that's sure to swindle
you if he can, so why give him the opportunity?" argued Silas, not
without heat.
She made a small gesture of appeal. "Please don't be so severe! I
must paddle my own canoe, you know. I am really not doing too badly
on the whole."
"Women are all alike," said Silas.
"So are men," said Bobby with a funny little smile, "when they want
something they can't get. That sounds ungrateful, I am afraid," she
added apologetically, "but I've got to hold my own somehow. It isn't
that I think my way is always the best; only I have got to take it,
that's all."
"And make a mess of things!" said Silas.
She nodded. "And make a mess of things. Anyhow, I do come to you
for advice about the pigs, even if I am pigheaded about selling them."
"You haven't done even that lately," said Silas.
"Because I haven't needed it just lately," said Bobby courageously.
"Is that the real reason?" said Silas.
She laughed, her gay laugh that was like Rosemary's, only sweeter.
"But we're not talking about reasons, are we?" she said. "We're
talking about pigs."
"And you won't accept my help over them?" said Silas.
"Not this time, thank you," she said.
"All right." Silas became determined again. "I shall keep an eye on
them all the same and see that you're not swindled."
She raised her hands comically. "Oh, please don't! It will be more
trouble than if you sold them for me yourself."
"Much more trouble," said Silas.
"Aren't you difficult?" she said with a sigh.
"I suppose I can do what I like," he said rather aggressively.
"Oh, of course!" she agreed. "I am sure you always do."
"I don't, then," said Silas. "There are lots of things I should like
to do that I can't."
"That's life, isn't it?" said Bobby.
He turned upon her. "If you're going to tell me that I can't always
have what I want, I'm going!" he said. "It'll be the third time that
I've been told it in the last half-hour."
"Oh, what a shame!" laughed Bobby. "No wonder you are feeling
aggrieved! No, I shouldn't dream of saying that to you, Mr. Hickory.
I shouldn't dare in the first place."
"You--wouldn't dare?" he said, his voice suddenly sunk very low.
"I leave all the daring to Rosemary," she said lightly. "I am sure
she was one of the brave people who said that to you. And the
other--let me see, the other--must have been Peter."
"It was," said Silas. "But you--Miss Roberta, surely you always say
what you like!"
"No. I stop first, as a rule, and count the cost." She spoke with a
quaint, half-pleading humour. "It really is safer, you know. One
has less to regret in the long run."
"It will never cost you anything to say what you like to me," said
Silas.
She threw him a little smile. "Thank you. That is kind. Now do you
know I think I ought to run back to my sister as she has been alone
nearly all day, and that is so depressing for an invalid. You will
understand, won't you, and excuse me?"
"There's no excuse necessary," said Silas rather gloomily. "I always
understand."
"I suppose I can't offer you anything?" she said. "You have had tea?"
"Yes, thanks. I'm sorry your sister is ill." He picked up his
mackintosh and began to put it on. "I can't hope to see you again
for a long time, then?"
"Oh, I expect so," said Bobby, with pleasant vagueness. "It was very
good of you to come."
He faced her squarely. "When may I come again?"
A sudden burst of song from outside the window, which was not quite
closed, startled them both.
"This year, next year, some time, never!" chanted a merry voice.
Bobby made a sharp movement and coloured again all over her fair
face. Silas turned abruptly to the window and pulled up the blind.
There came a peal of laughter and the sound of retreating feet,
leaving only the patter of the rain beating upon the panes.
Silas fastened the window, pulled down the blind and readjusted the
curtain with care.
Then he turned round again to Miss Roberta. "Good-bye!" he said
rather curtly.
"Please forgive her!" said Bobby, holding out a hand that seemed to
plead. "She is very young and headstrong, but she has a very loving
heart."
"It's none of my business," said Silas bluntly. "I don't care what
she does or is so long as she keeps out of my way."
"I am afraid it is you who will have to keep out of hers," said
Bobby, shaking her head.
"That," said Silas, his voice suddenly so quiet that it sounded
ominous, "I shall never do." He let her hand go with the words.
"Not, that is, so long as she remains anywhere near you. Good-bye!
I'll see that Everett gets you a decent price for the pigs. Nothing
else I can do?"
"Nothing, thank you," said Bobby. "Not even that, I hope, if it's a
great nuisance."
"It won't be," said Silas, going out. "And I'll drop in and let you
know about it. Good-bye!"
He was gone. She left him to let himself out and remained standing
before the fire with an expression half-whimsical and half-sad on her
delicate face.
There was no stopping him. His tactics were of the steamroller type
that might be eluded for a time but not permanently checked. She had
known for a long while that she was powerless in that respect.
Sooner or later, Silas Hickory would hem her in and make his solemn
bid for the future. Quite in vain of course! She had no more
intention of marrying him than he had of marrying Rosemary. But all
the same she liked him, and his honest devotion touched her. Bobby
was one of those who, being sensitive themselves, shrink almost
morbidly from the prospect of inflicting pain. Perhaps this was the
reason that her efforts at avoidance had not so far been
conspicuously successful.
"I suppose I am not rude enough," she said with a sigh. "If I could
only behave like Rosemary----"
But at this thought she stiffened. Rosemary had behaved atrociously,
even more so than usual. Her open rudeness to Silas was becoming
intolerable. It must be checked somehow, and it was for her to check
it.
She straightened herself with a little jerk of determination. If she
could not check Silas, at least she would not be overridden by
Rosemary! Child of her heart as she was, she must not--and would
not--allow her to grow completely beyond her control. At Little
Staple there was so much to do and to think of that perhaps she had
not given sufficient attention to Rosemary of late, and so she had
begun to get out of hand.
"And she used to be so docile," she said to herself with a sigh.
"Well, well, I shall have to be firm."
Meantime, there was the invalid awaiting her ministrations upstairs
and she really must not neglect her any longer. She gathered up her
energies with a conscious effort and thrusting Silas from her mind,
she went about her task.
CHAPTER V
MATILDA
She went quickly up the dark oak stairs, moving with the ready energy
which Silas knew as one of her main characteristics. That energy of
Bobby's was never allowed to flag. Rosemary always declared that she
was never tired, but it would have been more accurate to have said
that she was never idle. The whole burden of Little Staple Farm hung
upon her shoulders, and she never showed any sign of flinching. When
Silas had once asked her what would happen if she were ill, she had
answered, "How absurd! Why, I never have time to be ill!"
It was not so, however, with her sister Matilda. Mary's
compassionate description of her as "a poor thing" was a very
appropriate one. Matilda was one of those, who though seldom
seriously ill, are never really well. She was barely two years
Bobby's senior, but her dependence upon the younger sister was as
complete as if many generations separated them. Rosemary used to
wonder sometimes rather scornfully if Aunt Matilda had ever been
young enough to do anything for herself, for Bobby waited upon her
hand and foot with unremitting devotion. She herself never attempted
to join in the good work, but for this aloofness she was not to
blame, nor was it surprising that lack of sympathy had been its
direct consequence. From her babyhood upwards Rosemary had always
been given definitely to understand that she must never worry Aunt
Matilda, and in the course of years she had arrived at the very
natural conclusion that Aunt Matilda very greatly preferred her room
to her company. It had never been a sore point with Rosemary. Aunt
Bobby's affection was of so warm and sustaining a character that she
had never felt the need of anything further. Of her grandfather, old
Colonel Wendholme, she had stood actively in awe, but she had never
loved him or pretended to mourn his death. For Matilda she had no
respect of any kind, and the deference towards her instilled by Aunt
Bobby was of a purely superficial nature. She adored Aunt Bobby, and
in her very waywardness she was wont to spare her as much as
possible. In her early childhood to be whipped by Aunt Bobby for
some fault had always broken her, because even a mild chastisement
from the one and only beloved one was agonizing. The same punishment
from her grandfather produced nothing but furious resentment if not
rebellion, but Bobby--Bobby suffered so intensely herself in
inflicting pain that punishment from her was altogether too
heartrending to be incurred lightly.
When she was only nine Rosemary had made a solemn vow in church that
she would never, never hurt Aunt Bobby again in that respect, and
somehow she had managed to keep her vow to the extent of evading any
further corporal punishment until she was judged to be too big for
it. But her high-spirited escapades were many and daring, and often
in the midst of her pressing duties Bobby would utter a swift
involuntary sigh over the growing responsibility that each year laid
upon her. Rosemary with her enchanting youth and beauty on the one
hand--Matilda with her failing health and pathetic dependence on the
other! But she was never seriously depressed about it. As she would
have said again with brisk commonsense, there was no time for that.
Entering her sister's bedroom on that dark November evening, her step
was as light as though the day's work were before her instead of
nearly past.
"I am afraid I have been a very long time," she said. "You must have
finished your tea long ago. I hope it was nice?"
"Oh, do take it away!" came the immediate fretful rejoinder. "You
know how I hate to have the remains of a meal lying about in my room.
I suppose it was Farmer Hickory again, was it? What did he want?"
It was Matilda's contemptuous habit always to refer to Silas in this
way. Their landlord was the only subject upon which she and Rosemary
thought alike.
Bobby came to the bedside and whisked the offending tea-tray from the
table.
"He only came to see if he could be of any help in selling the pigs
at Bode Market to-morrow," she said, "as he heard you were ill and
that I couldn't get over myself."
Matilda made a scornful sound. She was lying among her pillows in a
kind of elegant disorder. She too had once possessed beauty, of a
more classical and less arresting type than that which was developing
in Rosemary; but years of discontent and bitterness had completely
marred its gracious contours. Her features remained refined and
chiselled, but the fretful lines of forehead and mouth had become too
apparent for beauty to hold its own any longer. The years had scored
her heavily, and she looked at least ten years older than Bobby.
Her night attire was of the daintiest description. The whole of
Matilda's life, when she was not being ill, was devoted to the
maintenance of her wardrobe. As she said, it was right that one of
them should have the style and appearance of a lady, even though they
were condemned to lead a life of squalor and penury on a farm in the
wilds. She had a wonderful taste in dress; it was her one asset.
And her clothes were always faultless in cut and condition. She had
a regal bearing also, and she knew how to wear them.
Even in bed, her dainty shell-pink _négligée_ struck a note of
fastidious and not wholly incongruous refinement in the plain room
with its simple furniture and threadbare carpet. She had sufficient
personality to make her surroundings, and not herself, the
incongruous part of the picture. The coarse sheets in which she lay
somehow merely enhanced her rarity. Only the tragic lines of her
face matched the sombre background.
"And what will be his excuse to-morrow?" she demanded languidly,
reaching a delicate hand for a small mirror that stood on a table by
her side.
"Probably the pigs," said Bobby with tranquillity. "What would you
like for supper?"
Matilda made a face into the glass she held. "Oh, really, Bobby,"
she said, "your mind like your body seems to feed on meals! Whenever
I see you, you ask me something of the sort."
"My dear, it is no good my bringing you up something that you won't
eat," said Bobby, unperturbed. "I have done that too often. Would
you like some aspic jelly? I have made some for you if you care for
it."
Matilda was pulling her hair into becoming waves on her forehead.
"Oh, anything you like!" she said without transferring her attention.
"Please give me the thermometer before you go! If I have a
temperature, you will have to send for Bellamy. I'm not going to lie
here and die of neglect."
"I shouldn't think you have a temperature to-night," observed Bobby.
"Wouldn't you like me to do your hair for you?"
"No, thanks. You do it so badly. I've been looking a positive
scarecrow all day, but I haven't had the strength to alter it."
Matilda's voice took a plaintive note. "It's all very well for you,"
she said. "You don't know what it is to lie here hour after hour. I
honestly believe you would never think of sending for the doctor
until I was at death's door."
"Oh, I hope I should," said Bobby briskly. "But you haven't come to
that yet, have you? Now let me just put this tray outside, and then
I'll come back and make up a nice fire that you can sit by while I
make your bed."
"I don't want my bed made to-night," said Matilda. "Come and sit by
me and talk instead! It won't take you any longer."
Bobby looked a little doubtful on this point, but she had the wisdom
not to dispute it. She opened the door and set down the tray on a
slab outside, then came back and attended to the fire.
"Give me my powder-box and manicure set!" said Matilda.
Bobby brought them, and adjusted the lamp by the bedside for her
sister's comfort. Then she sat down in a wicker-chair, and though
she never betrayed any signs of fatigue there was something that
indicated relief in the manner in which she sank into the worn
cushions.
"Such a pity you don't sit down a little oftener!" said Matilda.
"You are getting so scraggy. But you always were a restless
creature."
"It seems to be my lot in life," said Bobby, with a smile.
"Do you remember how you used to fidget poor old Father?" said
Matilda. "He always said you didn't know how to rest."
Bobby made no reply. She knew, as well as did Matilda, that she had
been her father's favourite and the sole comfort of his last years.
"And Rosemary is just like you," went on Matilda, beginning to powder
her nose. "Such a wild, harum-scarum thing! She whistles about the
place like a boy. It's such a pity to encourage her, I think. But
you always said I was to leave her to you, and so I do. I wish you
joy of her, that's all."
"And she is a joy too!" said Bobby, with sudden warmth.
Matilda raised her eyebrows a little. "I'm glad you think so," she
said briefly. "I think you've completely ruined her, that's all."
Once again Bobby said nothing. Matilda really did not try her
patience very severely, since her opinion mattered so little. As
Rosemary had been rebuked for saying, poor Aunt Matilda just buzzed
on and no one ever took any notice of her.
Matilda shut her powder-box with a snap after a few moments and
looked up. "And so Farmer Hickory is going to sell your pigs for
you, is he?" she said.
"No, dear," said Bobby. "I have got Mr. Everett down at Holtwood to
take them over for me. He is calling for them early to-morrow."
"But you have to pay him, don't you?" said Matilda.
"Of course," said Bobby.
Matilda opened her eyes wide. "Then why on earth don't you let
Hickory do it for love?"
"Because I would rather not," said Bobby.
Her sister began to laugh. "I really don't see why you shouldn't
derive some benefit from his ridiculous infatuation. The man's quite
daft--obviously; but I don't see why he shouldn't do something useful
for once."
Bobby got up. "I don't like to take what I can never repay," she
said. "Well, I am afraid I must go and see to the supper. You would
like the aspic jelly, would you?"
Matilda's face became petulant again; "Oh, anything will always do
for me!" she said. "I don't suppose I shall touch it. If there's
any junket and cream, I don't mind trying that."
"Very well, dear." Bobby turned to the door. "Yes, there is some
cream left. We saved it for you."
"Well, I shouldn't think that was any great sacrifice," remarked
Matilda. "You must loathe the very sight of it working in the dairy
from morning till night as you do. I'm sure I should."
The soft closing of the door was her only answer, and she took up her
manicure-case with a sigh.
"Poor Bobby! She isn't as goodtempered as she used to be," was her
comment. "She quite resented that little joke about Farmer Hickory.
But she can't--surely she can't--take him seriously!" The idea
suddenly presented a disquieting aspect; she paused in her task with
dilated eyes. Then: "Oh no, it's impossible!" she decided finally.
"She couldn't lower herself to that extent even though she does run a
farm!"
She began to trim her nails with fastidious care, and the subject
dropped from her mind. Matilda Wendholme possessed the immense
advantage of being able to concentrate her whole thought upon herself
to the exclusion of all minor subjects practically at will. And no
one could maintain that Bobby's drab existence could be a matter of
especial importance to anyone for long. Ever since Bobby had elected
to turn farmer and bury herself and the rest of the family at Little
Staple, Matilda had ceased to take the faintest interest in her
doings. She had deeply resented the step, though she had been quite
incapable of suggesting any other means of eking out what otherwise
could hardly have been described as a livelihood. On that point
Bobby had been immovable, and Matilda had been obliged to yield. But
it had remained a sore point ever since. She had never fully
forgiven Bobby for making that determined stand, and though she had
since more than vindicated her decision, the bitterness remained and
Matilda's attitude of perpetual disapproval had never altered. Bobby
had chosen a life of slavery and degradation, and she, Matilda
refused to take any part in it. She had never washed a cup or boiled
an egg since they had become inmates of Little Staple. It was Bobby
who had brought them there, and therefore, as a natural consequence,
it was Bobby's business to do the work. That she lived a life of
comfort at Bobby's expense she would never have admitted. She was
one of the unlucky ones of the earth. Her health was poor and life
had used her hardly. That she made her own clothes and occasionally
arranged flowers on the parlour-table were matters for considerable
self-satisfaction. Not many with her limited powers would have done
as much. In fact, Matilda always marvelled at her own grit and
energy when she rose from a week in bed. There was nothing to get up
for, very little to live for. It was only out of consideration for
Bobby, who never considered her, that she did not suffer herself to
go under altogether. So she sometimes said.
CHAPTER VI
ROSEMARY
"And do I still annoy you very much?" asked Rosemary.
She had discarded her riding-breeches and donned a short navy-blue
skirt that while proclaiming her sex did not succeed in making her
look any older. She smiled at Bobby audaciously as she joined her by
the kitchen fire. There was something very sweet and childish about
her as she paused, awaiting her welcome.
Bobby, who was busy frying eggs and bacon for their supper, did not
turn her head.
"You might get the dish out of the oven," she said. "Take the cloth!
It's very hot."
Rosemary complied with an assiduity that testified to her desire for
favourable treatment. "You run along and wash!" she said. "I'll
finish the eggs."
It was her invariable habit to try to coax Aunt Bobby into
overlooking an offence by being especially helpful in domestic
matters. On ordinary occasions she took small interest in them.
Bobby, however, refused to desert her post. "No, I'll finish them
now," she said. "Go and make up the parlour fire, dear! I shall be
in directly."
Rosemary turned to obey; then abruptly paused. The endearing word
had emboldened her. She suddenly sprang to Bobby's side and closely
embraced her.
"Darling--darling Aunt Bobby!" she said.
Bobby did not resist her, but she made not the faintest response.
She stood quite passive, enduring the warm kisses pressed upon her.
"Run along now, Rosemary!" she said. "It is getting late."
"Won't you kiss me?" pleaded Rosemary, still holding her.
"Not now," said Bobby, with quiet decision.
"Why won't you?" urged the girl. "I haven't been horrid to you. You
can't really mind how I treat a man like Silas Hickory who is always
out of place whenever he comes here."
"I mind your behaving rudely to anyone," said Bobby, on the same
decided note. "It doesn't matter who it is in the least."
"But you've got to be protected somehow," protested Rosemary. "If we
all receive him with open arms, he'll come and take up his abode here
for good."
"Now you are being ridiculous," said Bobby. "Please go and see to
the parlour fire and try to behave sensibly!"
"You won't kiss me?" said Rosemary.
"No," said Bobby.
A gleam of mutiny shone unexpectedly in the girl's eyes. "I believe
you're in a rage," she said. "You'd like to beat me. But I warn
you, Aunt Bobby, I'm getting too old to be treated like a baby of
three. What I did this evening, I did for you. And I shall do it
again if I get the chance."
"Thank you for warning me," said Bobby with composure. "My only
answer is that in behaving like a baby of three, you lay yourself
open to being treated like one. That is all I have to say to you on
the subject."
She closed her lips with the words, and, having extricated herself
from Rosemary's relaxed hold, bent resolutely over the frying-pan.
Rosemary stood and watched her for a second or two with smouldering
resentment, then swung round and walked from the room with her head
held high.
A faint sigh escaped Bobby as the door closed, but the bacon had
begun to hiss and she gave no other sign of depression.
When a little later she entered the parlour with the dish in her
hand, her face was quite serene and free from strain.
Rosemary was sitting before the fire with a book. She did not offer
to fetch the plates, and Bobby went back for them herself.
"Come along!" she said then, as Rosemary did not move. "We'll have
it while it's hot."
The girl looked up, the cloud still on her brow. "Aunt Bobby!" she
said.
"My dear," said Bobby quietly, "we are not going to discuss anything
more for the moment. When you are ready to admit, what you know to
be the case, that you have done wrong, I will listen to you, but not
before. Now come and have supper! Will you cut the bread?"
Rosemary got up. Her girlish face looked drawn and worried. "I'm
not at all sure that I have done wrong," she said.
"Cut the bread, dear!" said Bobby.
She complied and sat down at the table. "What about Aunt Matilda?"
she said, after a moment.
"I have taken her tray up," said Bobby.
Rosemary made a small sound that expressed self-depreciation. "I'd
have done that. Why didn't I think?" she said.
"I had to go up," said Bobby.
"I'm sorry," said Rosemary.
Supper when the fastidious Matilda was not present was always a very
brief affair notwithstanding Rosemary's very healthy appetite. It
was especially so to-night, for they ate in almost unbroken silence.
Bobby spoke once to inquire after Jess and her pups, but after
receiving a satisfactory though preoccupied answer she said no more.
Her brow remained completely unruffled, and there was nothing about
her to indicate that her mind was not wholly at rest.
Not so Rosemary! She ate rapidly, almost as if she did not know what
she was doing, and there was an impatient frown above her eyes. Once
or twice she bolted a mouthful as though on the verge of impetuous
speech, but each time she checked herself and the words remained
unuttered.
When the meal was over, she pushed back her chair and got up as
though finding relief in action.
"You go to Aunt Matilda! I'll see to things," she said.
Bobby went quietly from the room without remark.
In her absence Rosemary clattered the supper-things together
promiscuously and cleared the table by armfuls, bearing everything
into the kitchen where she began to wash up with fierce velocity.
The crash of a broken plate soon interrupted her labours, however,
and when Bobby descended a little later she came upon her lying
half-across the kitchen-table in a storm of tears.
"My precious baby!" said Bobby, and gathered her to her heart where
Rosemary wept for several seconds with a fierce abandonment.
Bobby finally drew her back into the parlour, and they sat on the old
settee together while Rosemary gradually recovered.
"I'm so sorry about the plate," were her first words, as Bobby dried
her tears with a tender hand.
"Never mind about the plate, darling!" said Aunt Bobby.
"I didn't do it on purpose," said Rosemary, assuming the task of
drying her own tears with more vigour. "It wasn't because I was in a
temper either. The beastly thing simply jumped out of my hand."
"I understand, darling," said Bobby.
The girl turned impulsively and wound coaxing arms about her. "Aunt
Bobby, will you kiss me now?"
Bobby hesitated for a single instant, then, as though she had it not
in her heart to do otherwise, she complied.
Rosemary nestled down against her shoulder caressingly. "Thank you,
Aunt Bobby darling! That was very sweet of you--just like you, in
fact. I know I've been a pig and I'm dreadfully sorry to have upset
you. But I can't help it--I simply can't help it when that awful
lantern-jawed man comes round here. You--you--I don't think you
realize what he's after. Aunt Bobby, can't you--can't you keep him
at arm's length?"
"My dear," said Aunt Bobby, "if you are referring to Mr. Hickory, he
has never been a single inch nearer than that, so far as I know."
Rosemary writhed. "He will be--at this rate. I know it! I know the
signs. He is one of those horrible dog creatures that keep coming on
however hard one may try to shoo them away. And I don't think you do
try very hard, Aunt Bobby. You--you are so dreadfully nice to
everybody. And I'm sure that makes him worse. It's getting a
positive nightmare with me."
"But what are you afraid of?" said Bobby.
The girl's arms tightened about her. "Afraid of his getting a hold
on you," she whispered, "and--dragging you away from us whether you
will or not. Oh, Aunt Bobby, you don't understand these
people--these primitive sort of animal men that live on the land.
They are just like their own carthorses. They plod on and on and on
till they get there. That's what Silas Hickory is doing. That's
what frightens me."
"My dear silly child!" said Bobby.
"It isn't silly," breathed Rosemary. "It's the very fact that you
can call it so that shows what a big danger it is. You don't know
what you're reckoning with. Every time--every time he comes here, he
manages somehow to strengthen his position. Oh, it isn't fancy!
Indeed it isn't! I know what he is after. Mary knows too. I've
seen it in her face though she has never spoken of it. I used to
think that it was screamingly funny that a man like that should dare
to lift his eyes to you. But I don't now, Aunt Bobby. I don't now.
I think it's somehow dreadful."
"My dear child!" Bobby said again. Over Rosemary's bowed head she
was faintly smiling, though her smile had in it more of sadness than
of mirth.
Rosemary went on in the same hushed, rather desperate voice. "I do
my best to drive him away and he knows it. But you--when you reprove
me in front of him--apologize for me--" she writhed again--"you
simply encourage him, and so he always comes again for more. He'll
come again to-morrow. I know he will. He--he's rather like a tramp
that sets his foot inside the door so that you can't shut it. Aunt
Bobby, don't you think--oh, can't you see--that the time has come to
try and shut the door? You are always so sweet to everybody, but you
won't be able to keep on. You'll have to do it in the end. You'll
simply have to shut him out soon."
"I don't see why," said Bobby quietly.
Something in her tone made Rosemary raise her head swiftly and gaze
at her. "Aunt Bobby! Aunt Bobby!" she gasped. "You must see!"
Bobby checked her with a steady hand upon her arm. "Rosemary," she
said, "listen to me! I have never wanted to discuss this subject
with you, but for once I will. You have behaved very badly, but I
know that your motive was not wholly bad, so I will not go into that
any further except to tell you that there must be no more of it. I
insist upon your treating Mr. Hickory from to-day forward as the
gentleman that he is."
"Gentleman!" ejaculated Rosemary.
"Yes, gentleman!" Very emphatically Bobby repeated the word. "I am
not speaking of birth or upbringing. I am simply speaking of the man
himself. Silas Hickory is a gentleman, and as such he is always
welcome wherever I have any voice in the matter. I have a great
regard for him, and I am very pleased to reckon him as a friend as
well as a neighbour. More than that of course he is not, and never
can be. I have given him no reason whatever for thinking otherwise.
But he is not to be insulted upon that account. He has always
treated me with the utmost courtesy, and I know him well enough to be
certain that he will always do so. Now that, Rosemary, is all that I
have to say upon the matter. And I hope very earnestly that I shall
never have to re-open the subject of your behaviour towards him
again. There is nothing in the situation that could ever warrant
such rudeness as you have shown. If you are right in your rather
wild surmise, then all the greater consideration should be shown him.
But right or wrong, my child, there is only one thing for you to do,
and that is to behave with courtesy and dignity to him as to everyone
else who comes to this house. You too, Rosemary, are born to a
certain estate, and do not degrade yourself and me by forgetting it!"
She ceased to speak, and Rosemary, who had more than once restrained
herself with difficulty from interrupting, broke into vehement speech.
"I don't forget, Aunt Bobby! And it's to save you from being
degraded that I do it. Not that it would matter one jot if I did
forget! There's no reason that I can see for remembering. If we're
going to be treated as equals by all the yokels of the country-side
we may as well descend to their level at once, and treat them in the
way they can best understand."
"Rosemary!" said Bobby, and there was deep pain in her voice.
Rosemary paused, gazing at her. "Oh, why--" she began, and then
suddenly, quite inexplicably, her resistance collapsed. She laid her
head down upon Bobby's shoulder. "Oh, all right!" she said. "All
right! Don't look like that! You've won! I'll--" she choked a
little and swallowed hard---"I'll be ever so nice to him to-morrow."
Bobby's hand came up and stroked her cheek. "Dear child, don't think
I don't understand!" she said with a sigh.
Rosemary's arms were strained fast about her. "Aunt Bobby darling,
don't--don't sigh like that! I'll be whatever you want to everyone.
There! I promise. I'd do anything for you--anything. Nothing would
be too hard. That's all right now, isn't it? You're not vexed or
hurt or anything? Please, Aunt Bobby, say you're not! Do smile
again!"
"Look up, darling!" said Bobby.
Rosemary hesitated a little, then very cautiously raised her head and
took a glance at the beloved face.
"Thank goodness!" she said with relief. "I thought you were going to
cry. I did really. But you're not, are you? You won't, will you?
It simply tears my heart when you do."
She was looking straight into Bobby's eyes now with something very
nearly approaching worship in her own.
Bobby took the fair head between her hands and looked back very
fondly. All pain and vexation were put to flight. After a moment or
two she bent forward and kissed the vivid, adoring face so like her
own.
"Bless you, my sweet one!" she said.
CHAPTER VII
THE REAL REASON
Rosemary's prediction that her bugbear would come again on the morrow
was fulfilled, but she herself was absent when he did so, having been
considerately despatched to the Vicarage by Bobby with some eggs.
Bobby supplied a good many of the surrounding houses with eggs. She
had the gift, Rosemary said, of persuading her hens to lay when those
of other people were on strike. If unremitting care and attention
were the secret of her success, then she certainly earned it to the
utmost. At five o'clock every morning she was always up and about,
first lighting the kitchen-fire and making a cup of tea for herself
and for Cox the cowman, then heating up food for the poultry while
she swept and dusted the parlour and hall; then out to the pigs and
the chickens, returning at seven to call Rosemary and put the kettle
on for Matilda's early tea. At half-past-seven she and Rosemary
breakfasted, though Matilda, even when in normal health, never came
down before nine. Bobby had latterly, from motives of convenience,
begun to take it up to her as soon as her own was finished, and
though Matilda grumbled at the unearthly hour at which she was thus
forced to eat it she suffered the arrangement. There were times when
Bobby achieved results of this kind without any apparent effort,
simply by quiet and unwavering insistence.
After the breakfast-things were cleared and washed up by herself and
Rosemary, she went to the dairy to make the butter while Rosemary
attended to the old cart-horse and her dog Jess who at the present
time was occupied with a litter of puppies. Butter was another
commodity which Bobby sold to her neighbours. She had but three
cows, and such milk as was over went to Staple Farm in part payment
of the rent. There were many ways in which Silas Hickory proved
himself a friend and adviser worth having. He bought her calves and
relieved her of many minor anxieties and difficulties. Only her pigs
and poultry went to market, and it was usually under his guidance
that these were sold. For Silas always had business at Bode Market
when Bobby had to go. It was almost an understood thing, though she
generally tried to hire Everett's cart for transport before he could
persuade her to make use of his. Bobby was of a very independent
nature, and, though never ungracious, she liked to stand upon her own
feet. There was never any danger of the cross-grained Everett
placing her under an obligation.
The dairy-work over, there was always work to be done in house or
garden and the midday dinner to be cooked. On washing-days this was
usually a cold meal, to Matilda's outspoken disgust. In the
afternoon for an hour she superintended Rosemary's studies, which had
been her most particular care since the death of her father had
deprived the girl of a more leisured teacher. Rosemary was supposed
to study alone for part of the morning, but since the advent of
Jess's pups this arrangement had lapsed somewhat; but Bobby still
insisted that the afternoon reading should continue. She was very
strict on this point, and if Rosemary's attention ever waned, then
her chances of liberty for the rest of the day were small. If, on
the other hand, she applied herself, she was free to roam where she
would by three o'clock, and, to give her her due, she very often
spent the time either in helping with the cows or in running errands
for Bobby, who was then busy till tea-time with pigs and poultry.
On the present occasion she departed gladly to the Vicarage with the
eggs, for the prospect of having to keep her impetuous promise of the
previous evening to be ever so nice to the detested Silas was
anything but an attractive one. And after all, funny old Mrs.
Hudson, the Vicar's wife, was quite a dear even if a trifle prim. As
for the Vicar, well, of course he was everybody's friend and
generally to be found anywhere except at the Vicarage. Certainly it
was much more fun when Percy was at home, even if he did get her into
occasional hot water, as on the last Bank Holiday when he had taken
her to Bode Fair on the back of his motor-cycle unknown to Aunt
Bobby, bringing her back at eleven to meet the wrath of the gods.
That had been Rosemary's last serious scrape. She usually had about
three a year, she reflected, as she made her way nimbly between the
puddles in the misty November sunshine, and she could hardly hope to
keep the slate clean much longer. Last night had been a near thing.
Aunt Bobby had very nearly assumed her magisterial authority against
which there was no appeal. Only her timely surrender had saved the
situation, and she had a strong feeling that even yet there were
breakers ahead. It was really impossible to keep an even course.
Life would become too deadly a thing without these ructions, even
though they always ended in acute suffering. She did not mean to be
wicked and wayward, but, as Silas had said, she was like an untamed
colt, and the necessity to run wild was sometimes too paramount to be
resisted. It was no vice that urged her, merely the fact that she
was young and hotblooded and had no other vent for the natural
effervescence of her spirits. They simply boiled up within her and
could not be contained. She had no amusements save those of her own
devising, and perhaps she was hardly to be blamed that these were
usually of the nature of escapades. If they brought punishment in
their wake, well, that of course was unfortunate, but one must do
something to relieve the monotony. To remain good in order to keep
out of trouble seemed to Rosemary rather craven. Besides, she simply
had to have her fling.
She had discarded the riding-breeches which she always wore in the
farmyard in deference to Mrs. Hudson's primness, but she walked with
a boyish swing nevertheless. No one could have seen her sunburnt
healthy face with its startlingly blue eyes without realizing that
she was essentially a child of the open air. And there was that in
her erect carriage which proclaimed her a fearless horse-woman also,
though it was largely due to the kindly veterinary-surgeon and
riding-master at Bode that she had become one. Some of the best days
that she had ever known had been spent in the saddle with old Roper
as companion and mentor, and one of the sharpest punishments that
Aunt Bobby could inflict was to refuse to allow her to avail herself
of the offer of a free gallop over the moors with him. It was only
now and then that Roper could spare the time, but he and Rosemary had
been fast friends for years and he never forgot her when occasion
offered. He called her his prize-pupil and declared, in answer to
Aunt Bobby's scruples, that her riding was more than sufficient
payment for him. He was, in fact, very proud of her and, strange to
say, he never found her hard to manage.
"Don't be afraid to give her her head sometimes!" he would say to
Aunt Bobby. "Don't ride her too much on the curb, ma'am! Good
breeding always tells in the long run. She'll never come to grief."
And though Aunt Bobby would shake her head and declare that he spoilt
her, Rosemary knew that she did not despise old Roper's advice. He
had a shrewd perception which he did not keep entirely for horses and
cattle.
"If only Silas Hickory were more like him instead of trying to be a
gentleman!" was Rosemary's thought. "I should simply die of shame if
he dared to ask Aunt Bobby to marry him!"
Some unaccountable wave of telepathy must have wafted this thought to
her at that particular moment, for it was just then, as the sun sank
behind the elms of the churchyard and Rosemary turned in at the
Vicarage gate, that Silas Hickory, looking peculiarly stubborn and
rather ungainly, waylaid Bobby as she came from her chicken-runs to
tell her that the pigs had fetched a good price and he had personally
brought her the money from Everett.
"You can let him have a receipt any time," he said. "I thought you
wouldn't mind my bringing it. He didn't want to come round, and I
did."
Bobby paused, a little confused, a bucket in one hand and a can in
the other. She was bareheaded, and the pale sunshine behind her
turned her fair hair into a gleaming halo. Her face had a girlish,
almost appealing look.
"It was very good of you to take the trouble," she said rather weakly.
He bent and took the utensils from her. "This is what I should
always like to do for you," he told her bluntly; "carry your burdens."
"I am very glad the pigs sold well," said Bobby.
He turned towards the granary, and she paused in the yard and waited
for him while he put her things away. When he joined her again, he
was no longer openly awkward, but the stubbornness remained. Cox was
milking the cows in an adjoining shed. He glanced in with an
experienced eye as he passed.
"Such a lovely evening after the rain!" said Bobby, moving on. "It
might almost be September."
Silas glanced about him. The farm-yard had a well-swept, orderly
look. A white pigeon was sunning itself on the roof of the barn. A
misty atmosphere of peace lay upon the whole scene.
"Are you fond of it?" said Silas.
"Very," said Bobby simply.
He looked at her. "But you never have any time to enjoy it."
"I just enjoy as I go along," she said.
She led the way from the farm-yard to the grassy space in front of
the old house, and there she paused.
"Will you come in and have some tea?" she said.
He stood facing her, his burly frame massively outlined against the
white of the farmhouse wall.
"I'll come if I shan't be in the way," he said.
She smiled faintly, a trifle wistfully. "You won't be in mine," she
said. "Rosemary is out and Matilda is still upstairs."
A gleam of satisfaction shone in Silas's eyes at the news. "In that
case I'll come, thank you very much," he said.
Bobby turned to the narrow flagged path that led to the porch. He
followed her with a kind of heavy-footed persistence.
"You go and sit down in the parlour!" she said, glancing back as she
entered. "I have just got to boil up the kettle in the kitchen."
"Can't we have tea in the kitchen?" said Silas. "I'm sure you
wouldn't have it in the parlour if I weren't here."
She did not contradict him, merely went straight through to the
kitchen; and again Silas followed with the level tread of one not
easily turned aside.
The kettle was already singing over the fire. Bobby busied herself
with laying the table for two and cutting thin bread and butter for
Matilda.
He did not offer to help her. He simply stood and waited with a
certain large patience until she could attend to him again. Bobby
pursued her tasks with serene deftness. The presence of Silas did
not embarrass her. Perhaps the man's absolute simplicity of purpose
was a reassuring factor in her eyes.
She made the tea and prepared Matilda's tray exactly as if she had
been alone. When that was done, she brought a home-made cake from
the cupboard and set it on the table with the loaf and the farm
butter.
"I shan't be a minute," she said, taking up the tray.
"I can wait," said Silas, holding open the door for her.
She passed out with a little smile and nod, and he turned back into
the room.
It was much smaller than the kitchen at Staple Farm, and perhaps for
that reason its spotless orderliness was more apparent. The rose
curtains at the windows gave it a simple, old-world look. He
remembered for the first time that Mary Flight's curtains were of
heavy red serge. Also, Mary had never dreamed of cushions on the
window-seats. In Bobby's kitchen there were window-cushions to match
the curtains. There were flowers too on the dresser, some dahlias
and Michaelmas daisies, arranged with a lightness of touch which
honest Mary could never have attained. Mary's flowers were always
placed in a handful in a Toby jug on the mantelpiece. There was a
general atmosphere of cheeriness in Bobby's kitchen, and though it
was low and oak-raftered it was light. He noticed that the windows
were open. Mary seldom opened hers as she found that too much
draught did not suit the fire and interfered with her cooking. The
result was that the mustiness of centuries clung about the place.
There was no mustiness here. Everything was sweet and fresh and
dainty, like Bobby herself. The charm of her presence seemed to
linger everywhere. It was a home without affectation or artistic
conceits of any kind, and for that very reason it held a more direct
and personal appeal for the man who stood and waited for his
hostess's return. It did not speak to him of anyone but her.
He heard her light step in the room overhead and her clear voice
talking while he took note of these things; then came the closing of
the door and the sound of her feet on the stairs.
She entered, smiling. "Now we will have some tea. Cox won't be in
for his cup for half-an-hour yet. He likes it stewed."
She sat down at the end of the table and he took the chair on her
right, facing the window and the garden--Bobby's garden where
everything that was old-fashioned grew.
She gave him his tea without talking. Her serene silences were in
tune with her surroundings, supremely natural and unaffected.
It was Silas who spoke first, and that with no idea of making
conversation. The laws of convention meant nothing to him, and their
relations had always been formal.
"Are you happy here?" he said.
The question came almost involuntarily, though it was one that he had
often longed to ask. He was by no means sure that she would answer
it, but he knew her well enough to be confident that she would not
resent it.
She did not. She even laughed a little, as one who contemplates
something rather humorous. Then she said, without looking at him, "I
am quite content to live here, Mr. Hickory, if that is what you
mean--unless you turn me out."
It was not what he had expected; somehow she seldom gave him that,
though he imagined that he knew her so intimately that there was
little more to know.
He made a sharp movement, for her reply pierced him, how deeply he
did not for the moment know.
"Turn you out!" he said. "Do you think I am ever likely to do that?"
"I think you might," said Bobby.
He recovered himself. "You don't know me very well if you think
that," he said. "I would sooner think of turning out myself!"
"Thank you," said Bobby.
Her blue eyes rested upon him for an instant, and though their glance
was absolutely kind, it seemed to convey some sort of warning; and
Silas stirred again uneasily.
"Miss Roberta," he said, "you are quite wrong if you imagine that I
could ever bear to see you leave this place. Why, if you never paid
another quarter's rent, I'd still beg you to stay."
"What bad business!" murmured Bobby confidentially into her cup.
"That's my affair," said Silas bluntly.
She glanced at him again, and then turned her attention to cutting
the cake.
As she handed it to him she spoke quietly, with a hint of repression.
"I have always felt that I could be happy here. From the moment I
first saw the place I felt that."
"Did you?" he said. He took some cake clumsily, his fingers not
wholly steady. "I am very glad to hear you say it. I've sometimes
wondered if with all this hard work, you mightn't get tired of it."
"Oh, I don't mind work," said Bobby. "In fact, I think work is the
only way to be happy. Don't you?"
"No," said Silas rather grimly. "I don't."
She lifted her brows with a slightly quizzical expression and waited
for him to continue.
He did so somewhat dogmatically. "There are all sorts of ways of
being happy. But working isn't one of them--unless you get results."
"Oh yes, I think you're right there," said Bobby with her cheery
smile. "Working without results must be rather like being in prison."
"It is," said Silas gloomily.
"That almost sounds as if you have been there," said Bobby.
His dark eyes met hers. "I'm there now," he said.
Her smile lingered, but it held more of kindness than mirth. "I
expect you can find a way out," she said.
"That's just it," said Silas. "Can I?"
Bobby drank her tea thoughtfully. "I think we can all get out of
that sort of prison," she said, "if we work hard enough."
"I've done nothing but work all my life," said Silas. "It hasn't led
me very far."
"I should think a great many people might think you very lucky," said
Bobby.
He made a sound expressive of contemptuous disagreement, but the
contempt was for himself, not for her. "Well, I suppose I am lucky
from one point of view," he said, after a moment. "I'm making a
living. But what's the good of that if it's never going to lead to
anything worth having? Do you think winning prizes at Cattle Shows
makes up the whole sum and aim of existence?"
"I should love to win prizes at Cattle Shows," said Bobby. "I was
looking at that new shorthorn bull of yours only the other day.
Isn't he a beauty? You ought to do great things with him."
"I daresay I shall," said Silas. "But what's the good of it? Peter
will care much more than I shall."
"Oh, surely not?" protested Bobby. "You have always been so keen."
He threw back his head with an almost fierce gesture of repudiation.
"I may have been keen once, before I knew anything better. But
now--well, the taste has gone out of everything for me, and I can't
somehow care whether I win or lose."
"What a pity!" said Bobby.
He drank his tea with indignant gulps. "I wouldn't care if it
weren't so damn' foolish," he said. "I've always said to myself that
I'd never suffer any woman butting into my scheme of things. If I
ever took a wife, she would have to understand that and be content.
But now," he glared at her with quite unconscious savagery, "I'm all
upside down for the sake of a woman. And I want to kick myself for
it."
"Oh, don't do that!" pleaded Bobby.
She stretched out her hand for his cup, but he did not pass it.
Instead he pounced upon the hand and held it fast.
"You know what I mean!" he said almost accusingly. "You've known all
along. It's your doing! I've seen pity in those great soft eyes of
yours over and over again. You've been so decent to me all this
time--just because you were sorry. That was it, wasn't it?
Just--pity!"
"Oh, please!" said Bobby gently.
There was a ring on the hand he held, and he was driving it into her
flesh. He looked down suddenly and realized it though she had given
no sign. He relaxed his hold sharply and laid his face down upon the
crushed fingers with something like a groan.
"I know you'd never be happy with a clodhopper like me," he said.
"But--I want you so."
There was something piteous in the words--something of the appeal of
a child realizing the unattainable for the first time. Bobby looked
down upon the bowed black head, and her eyes filled with tears.
"Don't--please don't put it like that!" she said.
"How else could one put it?" He looked up at her and saw the tears.
"Oh, don't cry for the love of heaven!" he said. "It's not your
fault. I'll get through somehow. I'll get through." He spoke
between his teeth. "I knew I hadn't a dog's chance. I've always
known. But I couldn't stop myself. And even now--though I know you
won't stoop to look at me--I can't do without the sight of you!"
"Oh, don't say that!" said Bobby. "Don't--ever--say that! I have no
reason to look down on you. I am proud--as well as sorry--to know
that you care for me like that."
"Proud!" said Silas. He stared at her. "You don't mean that! You
are only saying it out of decency."
"I do mean it," said Bobby. "I think your love is a wonderful thing,
and though I can't accept it, I do hope you will let me keep your
friendship. For I value it--much more than you think."
He continued to gaze at her with a kind of searching wonder. "I do
believe you are in earnest," he said.
"But of course I am!" said Bobby simply. "I do value your
friendship, and I always have. I should be very, very sorry if this
were to deprive me of it."
She slipped her hand gently free with the words, and though his face
fell at her action he suffered it to go.
"That's so like you," he said after a moment. "So kind to everyone!
I've never seen anyone like you before. You can say the very hardest
thing without hurting."
Bobby smiled with obvious relief. "I am so glad you are not hurt,"
she said. "I do hope you won't encourage yourself to think any more
about it. Just put it behind you and be happy again!"
His face reflected her smile though somewhat wryly. "Would you be
able to do that, I wonder?" he said.
She met his look with steady eyes. "I should certainly try," she
said.
"Yes," he agreed, "you would try. I wonder if you would succeed.
Somehow--I don't believe you would."
"Let me give you some more tea!" said Bobby.
He passed his cup and she filled it while he watched her.
"Then you don't consider I have taken a very great liberty?" he said
at length.
"Certainly not," said Bobby.
There was a hint of pathos in his eyes as they dwelt upon her. "You
know," he said abruptly, "I could offer you a better show than this.
If you were the mistress of Staple Farm, you wouldn't have to slave
as you do now. I'd make everything easy for you. You would live the
life of a lady. No whitewashing of sheds or butter-making or
anything of that kind!"
"I like doing those things!" said Bobby whimsically. "They appeal to
me--much more than the life of a lady. I am really fond of little
pigs."
"You would do exactly as much or as little as you felt inclined for,"
said Silas.
"But I shouldn't like to feel it didn't matter what I did," pointed
out Bobby. "I admit that the work here at Little Staple is hard, but
it is at least necessary. One likes to feel that one is necessary."
"And what would happen if you were ill?" said Silas.
She laughed at that. "That is another advantage. One simply can't
be ill."
"We are all human," he observed.
"Oh yes, I know," said Bobby. "That is what makes it so interesting.
If one weren't fighting against odds, there'd be nothing to fight
for, would there?"
"Then you don't want any help?" he said.
"I have never despised the help of a friend," said Bobby. "But, as I
told you yesterday, I must stand on my own feet, even if I make a
mess of things. And you know," she smiled again, "it may sound very
conceited, but really they couldn't do without me here."
"I realize that," said Silas. "But I wouldn't let that stand in the
way. I'd take 'em all in, if only you would come."
"Would you?" said Bobby, with obvious surprise.
"Of course I would! You know I would!" He spoke with force. "Do
you suppose anything else in the world would matter so long as I had
you? I'd make your sister comfortable, and I'd put up with Rosemary
even. The only thing I wouldn't do would be to let you go on slaving
for them as you're slaving now."
"Ah!" Bobby said with a comical shake of the head. "You would try to
be a fairy godfather to us all. But I'm afraid it wouldn't
answer--even if it were possible, which it isn't. Still, I do
appreciate your generosity. You mustn't think I don't. No man could
offer more. I just can't accept it, that's all."
"Why can't you?" said Silas.
The question seemed to burst from him almost involuntarily. He even
looked for a moment as if he had not meant to utter it, and then
abruptly he hardened himself to await her answer. For Bobby's deep
flush had risen and spread like a signal of distress to her temples.
She had not flushed like that before, when pleading for his
friendship.
She did not speak for some seconds. But for his dogged silence she
would hardly have spoken at all.
"I have told you some of the reasons," she said in a low voice.
"Yes," said Silas. "You don't like me well enough, for one. But you
haven't told me that you never could."
"Oh, don't make me tell you that!" she said.
He went on somewhat ruthlessly. "And you think there would be
ructions with your sister and Rosemary, for another. But let me tell
you this, that isn't any reason at all. At least, it wouldn't deter
me, nor, so far as I am concerned, would there be any ructions.
Somehow, I don't believe it would deter you either if it were
possible for you to like me well enough. Miss Roberta, I don't
believe you've told me your real reason at all."
Bobby was smiling rather wanly. There was no recalling the flush
that had betrayed her.
"But I have!" she protested. "There may be others as well, but----"
"And I am not to know them?" he said.
"The answer would have to be 'No' in any case," she said.
Silas pushed back his chair and got up. His black head was barely a
foot from the rafters, and he looked gigantic.
"I think this is rather a child's game," he said. "You either
despise me or don't trust me. I don't know which."
"Neither," said Bobby quickly.
She looked up at him with almost unconscious pleading, the distressed
flush still covering her fair face.
"Indeed neither!" she reiterated with emphasis. "I honour you, and I
would trust you with everything I have."
"Not everything!" said Silas.
"Yes, everything." She repeated the word with a hint of his own
obstinacy. "But--Mr. Hickory--it is not always possible to lay bare
one's soul even to one's most intimate friends. And I--and I--"
Sudden confusion overcame her and she ceased to speak.
Silas stood motionless, looking down at her. His attitude had
changed during those last few moments. The half-fierce look of
humiliation had gone from him. He was as a man who had suddenly
found a footing on very difficult ground.
When he spoke, it was slowly and with a hint of mastery. "I will
tell you one thing," he said. "You may have a perfect right to mark
Private on your gate, but you can't prevent me looking over. I'll
never come through it without your permission, but I've a very shrewd
idea as to what is on the other side."
"Oh, don't!" Bobby said.
It was almost like a cry wrung from her, and with the utterance she
bowed her face upon her hand as she sat.
Silas stooped over her on the instant in swift contrition. "Miss
Roberta--Bobby--don't! I didn't mean it; or if I did, it wouldn't
make any damn' difference! Listen to me! No, don't shiver! Be your
own brave self! You needn't tell me a single thing about the other
fellow if you don't want to. I've always known he was there. You
needn't mind my knowing. You've called me your friend, haven't you?"
His big hand was on her shoulder, stroking it with clumsy solicitude.
All his assertiveness had melted into a tenderness that was like a
warm glow surrounding her. Bobby sat very still within that kindly
circle for several seconds. Then at last she raised her head and
looked straight up at him.
"Silas," she said, "the gate marked Private leads to a sanctuary that
belongs to others as well as to me. That--my friend--is why I can't
open it to you. And please--of your charity--" she faintly smiled
with the words--"don't look over! You won't find--the other fellow,
as you call him, there."
"Where is he?" said Silas.
She shook her head. "I don't know."
"Is he ever coming back to you?" The hand on her shoulder had ceased
to stroke; it pressed a little.
"I don't know," Bobby said again.
He bent a little nearer, looking hard into her upturned face. The
colour had all died out of it now, leaving her with a sad, faded look
very different from her usual cheerful serenity.
"Do you want him back?" said Silas.
She did not speak in answer. Only a long deep sigh came from her.
He stood up again and his hand fell. "All right, my dear," he said
very steadily. "It's all right. You've called me your friend, and
that's what I'm going to be."
She smiled with lips that quivered. "My dear friend!" she said under
her breath.
He went to the window and stood there for a space while she sat
passively waiting at the table.
When he came back his expression was absolutely normal. He sat down
again in his chair.
"May I have some more tea?" he said. "And then we'll enter up the
sale of the pigs in the accounts."
CHAPTER VIII
ORIGINAL SIN
As Bobby had anticipated, Rosemary was kept at the Vicarage for tea
by good Mrs. Hudson who, though she could not always honestly approve
of the child, was yet very genuinely fond of her. Everyone in the
little village of Stapleton regarded her in the same light. She had
a winning way with her.
The Vicar, a round-faced man with a jolly laugh, always had a ready
welcome for her. Rosemary's escapades generally amused him, though
he did his best not to let her know it.
He came in late for tea just as she was getting up to depart, and at
once put her back into her chair with paternal insistence.
"No, no! You mustn't go yet. I'm coming your way myself to see old
Mrs. Everett. We'll walk back together."
"Well, you mustn't be long," said Rosemary. "Aunt Bobby will start
fussing if I'm out after dark, and I've got Jess to see to."
"It won't be dark yet," said the Vicar. "You just sit still while I
have my tea! How is Aunt Bobby? All right?"
Rosemary opened her blue eyes wide. "Of course she's all right!
She's never anything else. Aunt Matilda is in bed though."
"What, again?" said the Vicar with a tragic gesture. "What's the
matter with her?"
Rosemary laughed hardheartedly. "Nothing so far as I know. She
likes bed, I suppose."
"Rosemary, my dear!" remonstrated Mrs. Hudson.
Rosemary turned mocking eyes upon her. "Really, Mrs. Hudson, she
does! She is always at her best in bed. Some people are, you know.
I suppose it rests their tempers."
"Have you ever tried it?" asked the Vicar with a twinkle.
She met the thrust with complete good humour. "Yes, it's Aunt
Bobby's invariable remedy for mine, but it doesn't always have the
desired effect with me. I'm usually grumpy for days afterwards."
"I'll believe that when I see it," said the Vicar.
She nodded gaily. "You will one of these days. I know I'm going to
kick over the traces again before long. When is Percy coming back?"
Mrs. Hudson's upper lip, always inclined to be long, lengthened
perceptibly at the airy question. "I hope, my dear," she said, "that
you will not turn his home-coming into an occasion for any wild
doings which may vex your aunt. We expect him in about three weeks."
"Three weeks! Oh, I can't stay good till then," laughed Rosemary.
"I only just escaped going off the deep end yesterday. I wish old
Roper would come along and give me a run after the hounds."
"Can you not find something useful to occupy your mind, dear?"
suggested the Vicar's wife. "It seems such a pity to invent
distractions when there is so much for all of us to do. Your dear
aunt for example--how hard she works! Can you not give yourself up
to helping her?"
Rosemary looked at her, and her eyes grew a shade darker. "I do what
I can," she said briefly. "She won't let me do much."
"Could you not devote yourself to making your poor Aunt Matilda's
life a little brighter?" went on worthy Mrs. Hudson who believed in
preaching the cause of righteousness in season and out of season.
"Think how much you might do for her!"
A curious darting light shone fitfully in Rosemary's intent eyes as
she listened. "So I might!" she said musingly. "So I might!"
Mrs. Hudson pursued her theme. "Remember, dear child, it is only the
idle hands which Satan can persuade to do mischief. And, alas, how
often now-a-days the hands of youth are idle! But at least yours
need never be that. You have your task waiting for you, and such a
happy task! To bring sunshine into the life of an invalid! Could
anything be more beautiful for a young girl to accomplish?"
"I don't know," said Rosemary. She looked suddenly across at the
Vicar, and then without warning burst into a peal of laughter. "I
only hope that when Satan does find some mischief for me to do, it'll
be something really new," she said. "I'm tired of all the old
scrapes; they're getting monotonous. People talk about original sin,
but there's no such thing. It's all as stale and old as last year's
rubbish-heap. You can put that in your sermon next Sunday."
Mrs. Hudson drew in her breath with a shocked sound. The outburst
both astonished and pained her. She had always regarded Rosemary as
a tractable child, if somewhat impetuous.
The Vicar on the contrary gave no sign of perturbation. He set down
his cup and took out his pocket-book.
"Thank you, Rosemary," he said, and began to write. "Anything else?"
Rosemary stretched her arms above her head with a rebellious gesture.
"Oh, lots of things!" she said. "But it's no use talking. That's
unoriginal too. I often wish I were just one of the animals. They
do at least go to market and change hands, see different pastures
before they die. And they can kick up their heels and run amuck
without being rated for it too. Why, it isn't even wicked. An
animal can't be wicked. And it can't be good either--which is better
still. It can go to perdition its own way, and nobody cares."
"My dear," said Mrs. Hudson, "your remarks are almost profane, and I
really cannot listen to them. George, what is that you are writing?"
The Vicar smiled without looking up. "Please don't interfere, Maria!
There is nothing profane about it. It may not be wholly original,
eh, Rosemary? But it's good of its kind."
"You find it amusing!" said Rosemary with sudden scorn.
He shook his head. "No, I don't. I find it interesting--very. You
were tilting with the windmill of ignorance, my child, but I think
you will have the sense to give it up before you break your lance."
"You don't understand!" said Rosemary hotly.
He looked up at her and his eyes were very kindly. "Nobody
understands, Rosemary," he said. "We've got to do without
understanding. We've got to work in the dark, and remember, that's a
bigger thing than doing a cushy job in broad daylight."
"It isn't!" declared Rosemary. "It's simply shutting off our
reasoning powers and living like an animal. If we were never meant
to use them, why have we got them? What's the good of being a human
being at all?"
"Ah," the Vicar said, "'Shall the thing formed say to Him Who formed
it, Why hast Thou made me thus?' I am afraid it very often does, my
child. But no answer has ever been given. We are made thus, and
that's all there is to it."
"Well, I can't see the good of it," said Rosemary. "I call it a
silly world. All the jolly things are wrong and all the virtuous
ones are beastly." She jumped to her feet. "I'm going home."
"All right. I'm coming," said the Vicar. "You'd better wait for me.
It'll keep you out of mischief for one more day."
She laughed and yielded. "But I'm not idle really," she said. "I
work quite hard. Ask Aunt Bobby if I don't! It's only--only that I
never get any legitimate play. That's why I get so mad."
The Vicar gulped his tea and got up. "Rosemary," he said, and his
jolly face was grave, "you're quite right. Your life is humdrum, and
all you do may seem to you quite futile. But--I have just one thing
to say. It is duty; and only by doing your duty can you fit yourself
for the wider life that you crave for. It will come to you some day,
and if you're not ready for it,--well, you'll fail."
Rosemary's eager eyes searched his. "How do you know it will come?"
she asked breathlessly. "You can't really know."
He put his hand on her shoulder. "I do know, child," he said, "But
don't let it catch you unawares! And above all, don't try to force
the gates! Or there may come a time when you will say, 'O God, let
me go back! I never knew how happy I was.' And the gates will be
shut behind you, and there will be no return."
Rosemary's eyes were wide and dark. She looked like a child gazing
upon some wonderful scene never beheld before.
Mrs. Hudson had taken up her knitting and was plying her needles with
pursed lips. Her silence was not sympathetic, and after a brief
pause this fact seemed to reach Rosemary's consciousness; for she
turned and looked down at her. Her own expression flashed from grave
to gay in a moment, and she uttered a merry reckless laugh.
"Now I've swallowed my medicine without any jam, so let's go!" she
said. "Good-bye, Mrs. Hudson! I'll be a better girl next time.
Thank you so much for having me to tea." She bent and flung
impetuous arms round the rather unbending neck of the Vicar's wife.
"You'll have me again, won't you? I'm sorry if I've been profane.
It's all the Vicar's fault. I never am when he isn't here."
It was impossible to remain unsympathetic. Mrs. Hudson tried and
failed.
"Ah, Rosemary, my dear," she said, yielding to the warm embrace, "you
know you may come as often as you like. You will be older and wiser
some day."
"Heaven forbid!" said Rosemary; and then in haste,
"No, I didn't mean that. That's profane too, isn't it? I meant
Excelsior, or something like that. You know what I meant, don't
you?" appealing to the Vicar.
He laughed tolerantly. "Yes, I know what you meant," he said. "Come
along, scaramouche! We had better be moving."
Mrs. Hudson detained Rosemary and kissed her again. "Let Excelsior
be your motto, dear child!" she said.
"Right ho!" said Rosemary.
CHAPTER IX
MARY
The Vicar preached upon original sin on the following Sunday morning,
being the Sunday before Advent, and Mary Flight said that it was the
best sermon she had ever listened to. It was so full of kindness and
human sympathy, though, as she also said, he was the last person in
the world that one would credit with any tendencies to evil.
"He's probably the same as the rest of us," said Peter. "Only he's
finished sowing his wild oats, that's all."
"Oh, I wouldn't put it like that," said Mary whose reverence for the
cloth was of the same quality as her regard for Silas's rank. "I
should say that he was just being broad-minded and understanding. I
could see that little Miss Rosemary was deeply interested. She was
listening with all her ears."
"She doesn't often," said Peter.
"It isn't every subject that appeals to a child like that," said Mary.
Silas put in a dry remark. "P'raps she thought she'd learn some new
sin that she'd never heard of before."
Mary shook her head in remonstrance. "Now, now, Silas! You're not
quite fair to the child, never have been. Good gracious me, I should
think Rosemary knows as much about sin as that old china dog on the
shelf."
"She's got as much inside her ready made as most of us, I'll be
bound," said Peter judicially. "But she's none the worse for that.
She's only human."
"I know," said Mary, brightening. "That's just it, Peter. She is
human, and so engaging with it all. I do believe she gets prettier
every day. And if young Mr. Percy Hudson manages not to fall in love
with her these holidays, well, he's something less than human, that's
all."
Silas scraped back his chair on the floor and reached for the
matches. "I don't agree with you, Mary," he said. "She's much too
raw and undeveloped, too like a boy herself, to attract any deep
feelings in anyone. Young Percy Hudson wouldn't be such a fool."
Mary's face fell again. To be in open disagreement with Silas was a
state of affairs which had always appeared to her unseemly.
Nevertheless, in defence of her absent favourite, she sought to hold
her own.
"She's growing up, you know, Silas," she pleaded. "And she's getting
really beautiful. I'm not the only one as thinks so. There's no one
in the least bit like her hereabouts, and the young men are bound to
take notice. I'm sure I hope it will be Mr. Percy, for he's the only
gentleman she knows."
She looked at Silas deprecatingly with the words, as if she expected
to be crushed the next moment under the heel of his contempt. But
something in what she said seemed to strike him as reasonable, for
after lighting nis pipe he leaned back in his chair in silence.
It was Peter who took up the discussion. He was usually on Mary's
side.
"Yes, I see what you mean," he said. "She is rather a rare specimen,
is Miss Rosemary. Of course she's the image of Miss Roberta. They
might have come out of the same mould, only Miss Roberta has got a
bit set with time, and Miss Rosemary is still plastic."
Silas took his pipe out of his mouth, and Mary spoke rather hastily,
her tone slightly propitiatory.
"Oh, I shouldn't put it quite like that, Peter. What you mean is
that Miss Rosemary now must be very like what Miss Roberta was as a
girl. But it's only a family resemblance really. They are not much
alike in character."
"I'm not so sure," said Peter, who was not averse to an argument with
Mary when Silas was taking no part. "I should say that when Miss
Bobby was Rosemary's age she was exactly the same, just wild and
merry and taking; in fact, I'd say she might even have been more so.
It's time that has changed her,--time and adversity. She's sobered
down now--same as we all do. But you may take it from me, she wasn't
always sober--not with those eyes. Why, I shouldn't wonder but what
even she may have sown a wild oat or two in her time."
Peter began to chuckle at his own logical conclusions, but the sudden
smart rapping of the tin match-box on the table checked him.
"Peter," said Silas briefly and sternly, "you're talking bunkum.
Shut up!"
Both Peter and Mary looked startled. It was not often that the
master of the house thus expressed himself.
Peter was the first to recover. "Why, what's the matter?" he said.
"They do, you know--they do sow their wild oats--even the gentry
sometimes. Not Miss Matilda; I wouldn't say that she's ever done
much in that line. She's a bit too vain and finicky to let herself
go very far. But Miss Roberta,--well, anyone can see she's been one
of the lively ones. I wouldn't put her down as too old for an
occasional spree even now if it came her way."
"Then you're a damn' fool!" said Silas.
"Silas!" gasped Mary.
Peter said nothing. He merely looked very hard at Silas and waited.
Silas waited also, his eyes under their beetling brows alight with a
dangerous glow. But as Peter remained silent, this gradually died
down.
"No," he said. "I'm wrong. I'm sorry, Peter. But you'll be good
enough not to speak lightly of Miss Roberta. She is a woman whom
neither you nor I are fit to speak of at all."
He got up with the words and turned to the door. Mary and Peter
watched him go in unbroken silence.
Then Mary rose to clear the table. "He's very touchy these days,"
she said sadly.
"Durned unreasonable, I call it," growled Peter. "I was only joking.
He ought to have seen that."
"He did see it," said Mary. "But he won't listen to a joke of that
kind. It's my belief, Peter, that he's been to her and offered
himself and she's sent him away."
"Oh, rot!" said Peter. "He can't have got that far yet. Why,
they've never been out walking together even!"
"And I don't think they will," said Mary. "They're not like that,
Peter. They'd do their love-making on the quiet, like gentle-folks."
"I don't believe it," said Peter stoutly. "He'll never propose to
her. She won't let him. She isn't taking any, I tell you, neither
she nor Miss Rosemary. He's a fool if he doesn't see it; but I think
he does."
"I think he does too," said Mary. "But he won't accept it. And why
should he, after all? He comes of a good stock. There's blue blood
in his veins." She spoke with pride. "His mother was a Thorgrave,
and everybody for miles round knows what his father was. I'm sure
any woman--any woman--ought to be honoured."
She spoke with such feeling that the tears rose in her eyes. Peter,
looking up, saw them. He patted her arm with a clumsy hand.
"Don't you fret, old Mary!" he said. "You can't do anything. He'll
just have to go his own way."
Mary turned her face aside. It was not often that she was betrayed
into any show of emotion.
"Well, I will do something one of these days," she said. "I'll tell
her how high-born he is. And p'raps then she'll give him his proper
place."
"But you don't want her to marry him," Peter pointed out. "I think
it would be a dashed nuisance myself. I shouldn't butt in if I were
you. Let things take their course!"
Mary paused to consider, and brushed her eyes with the back of her
hand. "But he ought to marry," she argued. "Think of the old name
dying out! Think of----"
"Do you suppose she'd ever give him children?" said Peter bluntly.
"I don't know how old she is, but she's no chicken. Why, look at
Miss Rosemary!"
"Yes, but she may have been only a child herself when Rosemary was
born," objected honest Mary. "It doesn't follow, does it, that----"
"She may have been," said Peter. "But--well, I don't much think she
was. Do you?"
"Peter!" Mary went back a step in shocked astonishment. "What ever
are you saying? Why, she--she--little Rosemary is the child of their
dead brother! Didn't you know? Didn't I ever tell you?"
"You may have told me," said Peter, rising to knock out his pipe.
"But I don't know that I believed it. You always take everything you
hear for gospel. I don't."
"Goodness gracious unto me!" said poor Mary, gasping. "Don't you
ever let Silas hear you say that! Why, he'd--he'd--I don't know what
he'd do."
"I daresay he would," said Peter with grimness. "But he's got a very
shrewd suspicion on that point himself, or I'm a Dutchman. You
needn't be upset about it. It's not going to make any difference one
way or the other. But I wouldn't try and teach Miss Roberta anything
she doesn't know about Silas if I were you. Just you leave it alone,
and it won't come to anything."
"Oh, but you can't be right!" protested Mary. "She's a lady born.
She'd never do such."
"That's all you know about 'em," said Peter. "We're all of us human,
as we said before. But if she's a mind to turn down Silas, for the
love of heaven let her! We don't want other people's rubbish dumped
down on our muck-heap."
"Peter!" Mary spoke with her hand to her side. "You've made me feel
quite bad. I'm sure there's nothing in it. I'm sure it isn't true.
What ever makes you think them things I don't know. But all men have
got dirty minds, and I suppose you're no exception--though I've
sometimes thought you were. Now will you please stop talking any
more nastiness to me, for I've no use for it!"
The remonstrance was not without dignity, and it had its effect upon
Peter. He looked rebuked.
"Well, I didn't mean any offence," he said. "If you and Silas choose
to stick up for someone who doesn't deserve it, well, it's no affair
of mine. Everybody's got a right to his own opinion, so we'll agree
to differ."
He sat down before the fire and began to fill his pipe again. Mary
continued her interrupted task of clearing the table with a very
furrowed brow, finally withdrawing to the scullery and shutting the
door. It was not often that she did this.
Peter smoked out this second pipe before at length he went in search
of her. He found her to his amazement nearly blinded with crying,
feverishly scouring an already spotless sink the while her tears
dripped into it.
"Oh, goodness, woman!" said Peter. "What on earth's the matter now?"
Mary could not tell him. She could only continue her desperate
efforts until he forcibly deprived her of the sink-brush and himself
dried her shaking hands on the roller-towel behind the door.
"You silly old thing!" he said. "Why, I've never seen you cry like
this since you were fifteen and the yard-dog bit you because I'd been
teasing him. Oh, dry your eyes and be sensible, do! What's it
matter if Silas does make a fool of himself for once? The world
won't stop!"
"I know--I know!" sobbed Mary. "I'm very stupid. But I've always so
wanted him to be happy. I'm that fond of him. And I don't see how
he ever can be now."
"Oh, stop it, woman!" said Peter. He put his arm round her shoulders
in a rough caress. "He won't come to any harm. Leave him alone to
manage his own affairs! He'll be all right."
Mary choked back a sob. "And Miss Roberta too! I've always loved
Miss Roberta. I'd even thought that maybe I'd stay and serve her if
she were to marry Silas."
"What?" said Peter. He wheeled her round to look at her. "And
where'd I be, I'd like to know?"
"I thought p'raps you'd stay too," said Mary, feeling in her
apron-pocket for her handkerchief.
"Oh, did you?" said Peter. "Well, you were wrong for once. I
wouldn't. And I wouldn't let you either. So now you know."
He spoke with a force with which Mary was not familiar. She opened
her swollen eyes a little. "You wouldn't let me! But why ever not?"
Peter growled something which he had too much respect for his
companion to say aloud. For some reason not quite clear to himself
he was angry.
"Well, I wouldn't, so that's that!" he said. "Now stop this nonsense
and come and sit by the fire! I don't know now what you've got to
cry about."
Mary dried her eyes obediently. "It's just that we've all been so
happy together," she said, "and I don't want ever to be any
different. It's been like a cloud hanging over me all this time--the
fear of losing Silas."
"Oh, stop it!" said Peter. "Why, damn it, girl, you've got me,
haven't you? How many more do you want?"
Something in his rough voice pierced her. She turned and slipped her
arm round his neck.
"Yes, I've got you, dear Peter," she said tremulously. "Thank God
for that!"
"Oh, don't be so durned foolish!" said Peter.
Nevertheless, he bestowed a brief kiss somewhere near her ear to
soften the remark, and Mary remembered it later with a little wonder.
The last time he had kissed her had been when she was a girl of
fifteen and had wept because the yard-dog had bitten her instead of
Peter who had been teasing him.
CHAPTER X
THE DISCOVERY
It was growing dusk as Silas went forth into his rickyard, and there
was a chill in the air which might turn to frost in the early
morning. He moved slowly, with heavy feet. He was vexed with
himself for having lost his temper with Peter who, he fully realized,
had had no intention of being offensive. What he had said had been
outrageous of course and not to be tolerated for a moment, but only a
fool would have tackled the matter as he had. They were probably
laughing at him now, Peter and Mary, calling him all those facetious
names which are usually bestowed upon a man in love. He clenched his
hands at the thought. Wasn't it enough to suffer hideously, as he
was suffering, without being laughed at?
It was five days since he had seen her, except for just one glimpse
that morning in church of her pure face outlined against the old
stone pillar by which she always sat. For five long days he had
resolutely starved himself of the sight of her, and during that time
he had hardly slept at all. Night after night he had lain staring
into the dark with her image before him, ineradicable, almost as if
seared upon his brain.
He had said that he would be her friend, but he had not been able to
bring himself even to attempt to play the _rôle_. He wanted her so
desperately, so unspeakably, for his own. The thought of that other
man who had won her heart and left her was torture to him. It set
him on fire. He could not cope with it.
There was another thought behind which was even more intolerable.
This was a spectre that came to him only in the night watches. By
day he had the strength of will to fling it from him. But at night,
like a poisonous serpent it crept upon him, wound its foul coils
about him, held him in agonized helplessness. That gate marked
Private through which he might not pass, what was it that lay beyond?
Who was it that sheltered there? Over and over again he turned from
the problem, only to be faced with it from another angle. Why had
she cared so terribly when he had suggested the possibility of
discovering the truth? If she were not concerned with it, why should
she mind? She had said that he would not find the other man behind
that gate, but was that literally the truth? His soul revolted at
the doubt, but was it wholly without justification. Why had she been
so urgent that he should not seek to know?
And then would come the vision of her, as he had seen it that
morning--pure, steadfast, yet withal so sweetly human, and he would
break free, casting the evil thing away. Could anyone with eyes like
hers have any guilty secret to hide? It was monstrous, incredible,
the evil phantom of his own diseased imagination. If he could only
sleep, he would be able to trample it underfoot for good and all.
But sleep would not come to him. It eluded him always, often at the
last moment when blessed unconsciousness seemed to be almost at hand.
At such times it was not the vision of Bobby that brought him back;
but that of Rosemary with her vivid laughing beauty, seeming to taunt
him, seeming to block the way. There were times when he almost hated
her, times when he felt that he could have seized her between his
hands and hurled her from his path. But always she eluded him,
escaping as it were by a hair's breadth, and always she came again
just out of reach to mock his fever.
And now he had seen them both again, Roberta and Rosemary, side by
side in church, and it seemed to him that the fever had leapt
well-nigh to madness. He could not have rested indoors even had
those few ill-advised remarks of Peter's not driven him forth. What
the devil did Peter mean by his insinuations? Whose vile tongue had
first dared to link slander with Miss Roberta's name? But no! Peter
had not given voice to slander in his hearing. He had only spoken
lightly of the woman whom Silas worshipped. Possibly he had been
overready to translate those careless remarks into calumny--such
calumny as Peter had never dreamed of uttering. In any case he had
been a fool to take him seriously, and had made a laughing-stock of
himself to no purpose.
He dug his heel into the ground as he reached the gate that led from
the rickyard into the lane. Yes, he was a fool--a fool. All the
sense he had ever had seemed to have gone under during the past few
days, swamped by this obsession, this mad longing for the
unattainable. None but a fool would have gone to church that morning
and risked awaking this fiery torment that was like an unslakable
thirst within him. It had been like a drain of moisture to parched
lips, renewing the anguish a thousand-fold, turning that which had
been just endurable into a nightmare of pain.
He tramped through the gate and shut it behind him. Then he stood
still in the lane, in the mist-laden quiet of the falling night, and
took himself to task. "I've got to do something," he said. "I can't
stand much more of this."
A faint, throbbing sound came to him through the stillness, but he
did not heed it. His misery was too acute to be penetrated by
outward things. Had he stood in a raging storm just then, he would
hardly have been aware of it.
Yet something must have reached him, for after the passage of many
heavy seconds he turned to walk down the lane. Nero had followed him
out and accompanied him closely along the narrow way; but he had no
thought for Nero. Scarcely did he know that he was moving in the
direction of Little Staple. He might have been walking through one
of those endless mazes of trouble in which his spirit wandered
throughout the night.
He came to the junction of the lanes, and here something made him
pause. Then with a sudden pang of bitter self-contempt he awoke to
his surroundings. What was the good of going to her? Had he not
suffered enough?
With an almost violent movement he swung aside to the stile that led
into his fields and crossed it, turning his back upon the track that
would have led him to her.
Drearily he trudged up the hill through the wet grass, past the big
barn where the bulk of his winter fodder was stored, on to the open
down behind Little Staple, above the field where Bobby kept her cows.
Nearing the summit of the hill, there came again to him that
throbbing sound which he had not heeded, and then suddenly through
the quiet, clear as a bell, came a girl's voice.
"Steady, Leader! Steady, old fellow! You mustn't have a swollen
hock in the morning, or there'll be trouble. Come along, old Hoss!
One more straight gallop and good night!"
Silas stopped as if a thunderbolt had arrested him. "Damnation!" he
said.
All the blood in his body seemed to go to his head. Everything about
him went red. In that moment an anger that amounted almost to a lust
for murder took possession of him. He quivered all over with the
fury of it, quivered and waited like an animal straining on the leash.
The throbbing sound had resolved itself into the definite thudding of
hoofs. There was a flat stretch along the top of the hill, and a
horse was cantering over it towards him. He knew the tread of those
hoofs. It was his own horse, Leader, who had gone lame and been
turned out to grass some weeks before. He had had his suspicions for
a long time that Leader was not being left to the life of
tranquillity which had been prescribed for him. Old Roper at Bode
had hinted as much, and suspected mischievous urchins of mounting the
animal; but Silas knew better. Silas knew that old Roper had not had
time to ride with Rosemary lately, and he drew his own
conclusions--conclusions which Mary had not been able to refute.
Rosemary loved a gallop--a headlong, break-neck gallop--as she loved
nothing else on earth. And as the pace of the cantering animal above
him quickened, Silas realized that he had caught the culprit
red-handed.
He turned and took a slanting course up the rise to the corner above
the barn where he knew that she must draw rein. He went hard, with a
wild violence of effort that suited his mood. Not often in his life
had so fierce a tempest of wrath raged within him. It burned like a
furnace, and he was not conscious of any physical effort. Everything
he did seemed part of that tremendous storm, just as those galloping
hoofs seemed a part. It was as if they hammered on his brain.
Then, almost before he knew it, he had reached the top, and was
standing against the railing as Leader dashed up. The animal saw him
first, and swerved. His rider kept her seat with an effort and a
laughing protest. She had no saddle and her only bridle was the rope
of his halter. She carried a riding-switch, however, and she struck
the horse lightly with it by way of admonition.
"What did you do that for, Leader? Do you want to throw me, you old
rotter?"
The fact that she had not been thrown was one which testified to the
excellence of her horsemanship. Even Silas conceded that as he
strode forward into the open.
She recognized him in a moment, and made Leader back before him,
pawing the ground like a circus-horse. "Hullo!" she said coolly.
"You, is it?"
"Yes, me!" said Silas between his teeth. "What are you doing on that
horse? Don't you know he's lame?"
"He isn't when I ride him," said Rosemary, unabashed. "He doesn't
mind featherweights, do you, Leader?"
As Leader stood about seventeen hands high, it seemed an unnecessary
question; but it failed to propitiate the incensed Silas.
He took one more gigantic stride and seized the animal by the
forelock. "Get down, do you hear?" he said thickly. "I'll have no
more of these damned tricks. Get down!"
Rosemary jerked the horse back again in angry astonishment. That
anyone--even the redoubtable Silas--could fail to appreciate her
prowess seemed incredible. Clinging on with her knees, she raised
her riding-whip, "Let go! Let go!" she cried furiously. "I've done
no harm to you or Leader either. I won't get down just because you
say so!"
"You will!" said Silas.
He kept his grip upon the horse, and Leader, recognizing him, tried
to submit. But the girl on his back suddenly turned into a little
tornado of fury which upset his nervous balance. He found himself a
bone of contention and began to dance and rear.
She clung to her perch like a limpet, but it was only a matter of
seconds ere she realized that the man who hung on so stubbornly to
Leader's head was master of the situation. When that knowledge came
to her, the last shred of her self-control evaporated. She leaned
well forward over Leader's neck and brought her riding-switch down
straight and hard upon his grim, uplifted face.
She had the satisfaction of hearing him exclaim, but there all cause
for elation ended. For--what happened she never quite knew--there
followed such a turmoil of movement that she found it impossible to
maintain her balance. She felt herself slipping, clutched
desperately at Leader's mane; and then she had lost all hold and
seemed to be suspended in mid-air in the grip of a giant.
The next thing she knew was the squelch of Leader's hoofs as he
blundered away and the sense of finding her feet on the muddy ground
after a breathless struggle to save herself from falling.
When she was able finally to take a steadier view of things, she
discovered that the whirlwind had passed, and she was standing face
to face with Silas in the gloaming. Her blouse was torn at the neck
and her breeches were covered with mud. She realized that he had
just set her on her feet after holding her dangling as though she had
been a kitten, and very bitterly she resented the fact. She felt
like a boy caught raiding an orchard.
She had dropped her switch in the _mêlée_, and after a hasty glance
around she discovered it in Silas's grasp.
"Give that to me!" she commanded, pointing.
He answered her in a voice that seemed to come from the very depths
of him, like the growl of an angry beast.
"Yes, I will give it to you, you little varmint! You've asked for
it, and you shall have it!"
The deadly intention with which he uttered the words was almost as
forcible as a blow in itself. Rosemary recoiled in spite of herself,
then gamely she returned to the attack.
"Oh, you think you'll threaten me, do you?" she said. "It's the sort
of thing one would expect from a man like you. But if you think I'm
afraid of you, you're jolly well mistaken. Hand over that whip and
don't waste my time!"
"Your--time!" said Silas. For the moment her effrontery nearly bore
him backwards. Then red rage gained the upper hand again. "You
think I'm to be trampled on like that, do you?" he said. "Think you
can trespass on my field, ride my horse, and hit me over the head,
all for nothing! A damned little baggage like you that has never
done anything to justify existence yet!"
He took a furious step forward, but Rosemary did not give ground a
second time. She confronted him with a courage that scorned retreat.
"I shouldn't have hit you if you hadn't interfered with me," she
said. "As to trespassing in your field, that's rot! We all do it.
As to riding your horse, I challenge you to prove that I have done
him any harm. Now--give me my property and I'll go!"
She stretched out her hand for it and even grasped it, but in a
second he had wrenched it from her. He would have thrust it behind
him, but she sprang at him like a little panther in a futile effort
to snatch it from him.
It was childish and undignified, and in that moment she lost all that
she had gained. For he gripped her extended arm and flung her round,
holding her for chastisement as if she had been a boy.
"You've asked for it!" he said again. "You shall have it!"
She made a frantic struggle, but her feet slipped on the wet earth
and she lost her balance. She went down on her face, still
struggling, and as he pulled her up again the blouse she wore which
was already torn ripped like a rag, exposing her white shoulders and
bosom, and the dainty cambric underwear which Bobby always insisted
upon for her darling.
It was a sight that brought Silas very suddenly to a stop. It was as
if he turned a mental somersault. Hitherto he had regarded Rosemary
as a being without sex, but more nearly resembling the male than the
female. Now, abruptly, he realized his mistake. He drew in his
breath hissing between his teeth, and in that breath his violence was
quenched, as though water had been flung upon fire. He let her go.
"You get along home!" he commanded gruffly. "And don't come this way
again!"
She drew away from him, burningly aware of the fact to which she owed
her deliverance, shaking also from head to foot and unable to control
herself.
Silas thrust out the switch to her. His look avoided hers. "Here
you are! Now run along home!" he said. Then, abruptly, "Damn! It's
raining. Have this!"
He dragged off his coat and held it out for her. But she stood,
still trembling, making no effort to move.
"Come on!" said Silas. He was still angry, but--oddly--not with her.
He took her arms, first one then the other, and pushed them into the
sleeves of his coat. Then he wrapped it over her bare shoulders and
buttoned it in front.
"There!" he said. "That better?"
The switch had fallen from her nerveless fingers. He picked it up
and gave it to her again. An urgent desire to put an end to the
situation had come upon him. He had never in his life before felt at
so hopeless a disadvantage.
That Rosemary could be feeling the same did not occur to him, and
when her wild trembling abruptly ended in a burst of tears he was
both shocked and perplexed.
"Oh, damn it!" he said. "You're not hurt. What is it! What's the
matter?"
Then, as she failed to tell him but continued to sob forlornly like a
lost child, desperation came upon him.
He bent and took her, almost seized her, into his arms, and started
down the hill with her through the darkness and falling rain.
She uttered a small cry at his action, but made no fight for freedom.
And so he bore her, weeping, to the stile, which he crossed in one
great stride, and then up the sodden track from which he had turned
in his misery a sort time before, Nero plodding patiently behind him
as though he saw nothing extraordinary in his master's conduct.
When they reached the open space and the duck-pond in front of Little
Staple, Rosemary spoke for the first time, in a very small voice.
"May I use your hanky? I've lost mine."
"All right," said Silas. "You'll find it in the pocket."
He pushed open the gate and went up the flagged path. "Please wait a
minute!" said Rosemary.
But the door opened while she was speaking, and Bobby's figure
appeared on the threshold, outlined against the lamplight behind.
"Oh, Rosemary--my darling!" she said, and ran out to meet them.
"It's all right," said Silas. "She isn't hurt."
He made as if he would have transferred his burden to her, then,
realizing that Rosemary weighed more than an ordinary infant,
straightened again and carried her into the house himself.
"Bring her into the parlour!" said Bobby. "What has happened?
Rosemary--darling--you are crying!"
"No, I'm not," said Rosemary, with a sob. "I'm--I'm quite all right.
Please put me down now!" to Silas. "Don't let's make a fuss!"
He placed her solemnly upon the sofa, but she was off it in a moment
and laughing rather desperately at Bobby's distress. "I'm quite all
right, dear Aunt Bobby. Can't you see? I've--I've been riding
Leader, and--and----"
"I pulled her off," said Silas.
"No, he didn't!" Fiercely she interrupted. "I fell off, and he
picked me up. It--it was jolly decent of him. I was rather dazed
just at first, and he brought me home. That's all, dear Aunt Bobby!
Don't make a fuss! I'm really quite all right. Won't you--won't you
ask Mr. Hickory to sit down a minute while I change and dry his coat?"
"Of course sit down!" said Bobby, turning to him. "But you--" with a
start--"you have had an accident, too!"
There was a red weal straight across Silas's face, and one eye was
nearly closed.
Rosemary spoke with resolution. "That was my doing, Aunt Bobby. I
struck him with my whip."
"No, she didn't!" said Silas flatly. "It was the horse she was
hitting. He reared, and everyone knows it's the only thing to do. I
got in the way. It was my own fault."
He made the statement with a square insistence that would not be
gainsaid. Bobby looked, bewildered, from one to the other.
"You both look rather the worse for wear," she said finally.
"Rosemary, it was very wrong of you to ride Leader at all. You had
better go straight to bed as a punishment. Yes, I mean it," as
Rosemary opened her mouth to protest. "You deserve a far worse
penalty than that, and I may decide to give you one. I will think it
over. But go now, dear! Go at once!"
Her voice of quiet authority took effect. Rosemary turned to obey;
but at the door she paused, stood a moment, then came back to Silas
with extended hand.
"Good night, Mr. Hickory!" she said.
He shook hands with her, standing in his shirt-sleeves on the
hearth-rug. The smile that lighted his face at her action was that
rare smile which Mary so loved to see.
"Good night, Miss Rosemary!" he said. "Don't bother to dry the coat!
It'll only get wet again going home."
"Right ho!" said Rosemary.
She went out, pulling the door after her. A moment later she thrust
a bare arm into the room with the coat held out. "Here you are!" she
said. "And many thanks!"
It was Bobby who took it from her with a murmured rebuke, and a
moment later they heard her scamper up the oak stairs like a boy
released from school.
"Oh dear, oh dear!" said Bobby, half-vexed, half-laughing, and wholly
ill at ease. "What shall I do with her?"
"I'll tell you one thing you'll have to do pretty soon," said Silas,
taking his coat from her and putting it on.
"What's that?" said Bobby anxiously.
He answered with uncompromising bluntness. "Stop treating her like a
child that doesn't know any better, and treat her as a reasonable
being who does."
"But don't I?" said Bobby in distress. "I thought--I hoped--"
Silas interrupted with an unexpected laugh. "I know. But it's no
good. I've had the bump of my life to-day, but it was my fault--not
hers. I thought she was just a mischievous child. She isn't. She's
a woman."
Bobby looked at him almost in consternation. "Oh, do you think so?
She's not eighteen yet."
"And you treat her as if she were eight," said Silas. "I'm only
telling you for your information. Don't look so shocked!"
"But only the other day--only the other day," protested Bobby, "you
told me she was a spoilt child!"
"Did I?" said Silas. "Well, I was wrong. I should let her come down
to supper if I were you. It'll be pleasanter for you both."
"You think she is too old to be punished any longer?" said Bobby, and
in her eyes was the yearning look of the woman who realizes that her
treasure is exclusively her own no more.
Silas saw it and a species of rather stern pity shone in his own eyes
for a moment. "I think," he said quietly, "that life will probably
take on that job for you, and nothing else will make any difference."
He held out his hand. "Good-bye! I'm going now."
"Must you go?" said Bobby, still rather flustered. "Won't you stay
for a little? I haven't seen anything of you for a long time."
"Exactly a week to-morrow," said Silas.
"Oh, is it?" The colour rushed up over her face. "I thought it was
longer." She broke off, paused to master her sudden embarrassment,
and then spoke more collectedly. "I am sure your eye is hurting you.
Won't you let me do something for it?"
"No, thanks," said Silas. "I can't feel it at all. Was there
anything you wanted to talk to me about? Shall I--" he looked at her
with abrupt directness--"shall I come round in the morning?"
Bobby hesitated, then with a faint smile yielded. "One of the pigs
isn't very well. I don't think it's anything really serious. But
perhaps if you could spare a few minutes in the morning-- It isn't
asking too much of you, is it?" she said, with sudden compunction.
"Don't come if you are busy in the other direction! I can get Mr.
Roper."
"I am never busy in the other direction," said Silas squarely. "I'll
be round about eleven. Don't get Roper till I've been! Good-bye!"
His big hand enveloped hers for a moment, and something like a sigh
of relief escaped them both. The old footing was re-established. He
went away exactly as he had always gone--without ceremony--a reliable
friend who would return.
"Thank goodness for that!" murmured Bobby to herself as she heard the
front-door close.
Yes, it had certainly seemed a very long time.
CHAPTER XI
DICK DYNAMO
Rosemary's escapade on Leader was followed by an interval of the most
exemplary behaviour on her part. For one thing Aunt Bobby had
treated the affair leniently and had not demanded to know
embarrassing details. Beyond exacting a promise readily given by
Rosemary that she would not repeat the offence, she had apparently
deemed it wiser to let the matter slip into the background of
forgotten sins, and Rosemary was more than willing to let her do so.
Her own impression of that evening's happenings was a rather
bewildered one, and her feelings regarding Silas's share therein were
of a very mixed character. The fact that he had taken her part in
Aunt Bobby's presence was one which excited her alternate gratitude
and resentment. There was no doubt that her pride had suffered
considerably, but yet in fairness--and Rosemary was very fair--she
had to admit that she herself was largely responsible for this. She
had put herself completely in the wrong and had thus given him the
opportunity to display a generosity of which she had not believed him
capable. She even thought to herself sometimes that the whipping
which he had barely refrained from administering would have been
preferable. But on the other hand the fact that he had realized her
womanhood in time to respect it was gratifying. On the whole, though
somewhat reluctantly, she was inclined to accord to him a certain
measure of admiration. He was not quite the country oaf that she had
believed him to be. He had shown a sporting spirit, and Rosemary was
of the age and type to be more strongly swayed by that than by
anything else. She had no intention of relinquishing her hostile
attitude towards him in the matter of his friendship with Aunt Bobby.
That was rank presumption and no more to be tolerated now than
heretofore. But for the man himself her feelings had undergone a
change. He was a sportsman.
It seemed that the honours of war had been divided, and she was well
aware that she owed this to his chivalry--a quality of which she had
imagined him to be wholly devoid. Therefore some degree of deference
was due to him, and Rosemary, being fair-minded, was not the sort of
girl to deny it.
She avoided Staple Farm for some days, but it was rather from a sense
of embarrassment than one of antagonism. But when she finally came
face to face with Silas one evening in their own farmyard nearly a
week later her attitude was wholly impersonal and free from strain.
She had recovered her equilibrium. She knew that he had been in to
see her aunt several times, and she had purposely kept out of the
way. But now her free pose announced that she had returned to the
old footing. While not actively disliking him, he was an interloper
and she did not want him.
She was riding old Dobbin the cart-horse in from the plough, and as
Silas opened the gate for her she looked down upon him with a good
deal of dignity.
"Thank you," she said. "If you are waiting for my aunt, I think she
has gone to see old Mrs. Everett and may be some time."
She walked Dobbin on to his stable with the words. Silas turned and
followed, and waited for her at the door.
Rosemary did not hurry. She dismounted and proceeded to give Dobbin
a rub-down, whistling the while. When she had finished, she fed him
with oats and hay, and came out to draw a bucket of water.
"I'll do that," said Silas, taking the bucket from her.
"Thank you," said Rosemary again, and allowed him to make himself
useful.
But when Dobbin was served and finally tucked up for the night, she
faced the visitor with a touch of hauteur.
"Perhaps you would like to give me a message for Aunt Bobby. She
won't be back yet."
"I'd sooner wait," said Silas, taking out his pipe.
Rosemary looked at him for a moment, then a sudden gleam lighted her
blue eyes. She led the way across the yard. "Certainly. Come in!"
she said hospitably.
He slipped his pipe back into his pocket and followed her. There was
something about this girl that amused him. Her very animosity was in
its fashion entertaining.
She opened the door into the hall and paused, listening.
"Yes, Aunt Matilda is down," she said, nodding towards the parlour.
"Come into the kitchen!"
The tact thus displayed somewhat surprised him. The Rosemary of
other days would have taken a malicious pleasure in inflicting upon
him society for which she knew he had little liking. Yet he did not
make the mistake of thinking that it was dictated by any kindness on
her part. She evidently had an end in view, and he became curious to
know what it was. He followed her across the hall as she lightly
preceded him and entered the kitchen behind her.
The fire was burning cheerily and the kettle hissed upon it in
readiness for tea. Bobby had set everything in order before going
out. Teapot and tea-caddy stood side by side on the table with the
tray.
"Sit down!" said Rosemary, pointing to a wooden armchair beside the
open hearth.
Silas complied with a certain wariness. She slipped off her coat and
prepared to make the tea; but in a moment moved across to the dresser
to light the lamp.
Silas watched her. Her lithe quick movements had the same daintiness
as had those of Roberta Wendholme, her form in its boyish garb the
same delicacy of outline. Her face, seen in the fitful light of the
fire, might have been that of Bobby herself, except for that little
mocking smile about the lips which with Bobby would have been merely
whimsical. A more complete resemblance could scarcely have existed.
As Peter had said, they might have been cast in the same mould. Time
alone had traced the difference between them. Roberta at Rosemary's
age must have been exactly the same.
Silas's heart stirred within him with a strange intensity of feeling.
Notwithstanding her pride of bearing, the girl before him had a
pathos which banished any lingering sense of hostility. He pitied
her with a deep compassion that somehow had its root in his love for
Bobby. In that moment there arose within him a force of devotion
that embraced them both. Do what she might to frustrate him,
Rosemary would never provoke him to enmity again.
She turned from lighting the lamp and opened a drawer of the old
dresser. "Here's something here I think you would like to see!"
"What is it?"
He saw that she was holding a book. She crossed the room to his
side. "It's Aunt Bobby's album of snaps," she explained. "She
hardly ever takes any now. There is no time. These were nearly all
done before we came to Stapleton. Perhaps you would like to look at
them while I get the tea." She placed it in his hands and turned
away.
He opened the book towards the end and found one or two recent
photographs of herself, but it was not full and he turned to the
beginning.
On the first page was a full-length portrait of a man in
hunting-dress on horseback.
He sat and stared at it, arrested by some inner prompting that moved
him to take in every detail. The picture was one of those amateur
inspirations which occasionally beat all the art of the professional.
The pose of both horse and rider was superb. The man's whole air was
patrician, but not arrogantly so. His bearing was military and
supremely confident. He had the daring look of one accustomed to
override all obstacles. His features were clean-cut and purposeful
as his limbs were lean and strong, essentially a man of great
personal attraction, a man to whom women would accord almost
instinctive homage.
"Who is this?" said Silas.
There was a deep interrogation in his voice that caused Rosemary to
set down the kettle in the act of pouring out.
She came and looked over his shoulder. "That? Oh, that's Aunt
Bobby's _fiancé_! He rode in the Grand National when he was in the
Army, and he was always called Dick Dynamo. Jolly fine, isn't he?
No wonder Aunt Bobby fell in love with him!"
Silas remained absolutely motionless, his attention fixed. She
looked down at his black head, the dancing light of mischief still in
her eyes, and continued, airily communicative.
"He went to California. He wanted her to go too, but she wouldn't.
But he is coming back to fetch her some day, and I shall be jolly
glad when he does, for I'm tired of this hole."
"Oh, you would go too, would you?" said Silas.
"Of course I should go!" she declared with emphasis. "I don't know
what would happen to Aunt Matilda, but anyhow I wouldn't be left
behind. Aunt Bobby would never go anywhere without me." She spoke
with complacence. "I shouldn't wonder if it wasn't because of me
that she didn't go with him in the first place. But of course
Grandpa was alive then too, and Aunt Matilda never could be trusted
to look after anybody."
She returned to her tea-making as she spoke, still with one eye upon
Silas. He had not moved, but she noticed that one powerful hand was
hard clenched upon the arm of his chair.
After a considerable pause he asked another question in that deep,
insistent voice of his. "Does she ever hear from him?"
Rosemary hesitated. She had hoped he would not ask her that. Strict
truth, however, had been inculcated in her from her cradle and she
found herself compelled to cling to its fringe.
"Well, not often; at least not lately. That's what makes me wonder
sometimes if perhaps he may be on his way back to find her. I am
sure she will never send him away again. She is very, very, very
fond of him. She wears his ring always."
"On her right hand," said Silas with a sudden stab of memory.
"Yes. It ought to be on her left as they're engaged, oughtn't it?"
said Rosemary. "I have often thought so myself, and I shall tell her
you say so."
Silas stirred at that, lifted his head for the first time. It was a
good thing for Rosemary that she had returned the kettle to the hob,
or she would certainly have dropped it.
"You needn't do that," he said briefly. "I haven't said it. Now
tell me! Did she tell you all this--or did you make it up?"
Rosemary faced him with kindling wrath. To be called to account for
telling the truth was not to be tolerated for a moment. "I don't
know what you mean," she said. "Of course I didn't make it up. You
can ask her if you don't believe me. Or no! You had better not!
She can't bear to talk of him--to strangers."
"I see," said Silas. His sternness died down, and he quietly closed
the album and laid it aside. "That's enough for to-night. I think
I'll go."
He got up without anger, and again his look comprehended Rosemary
with an odd compassion.
She met it with defiant surprise. In some fashion she felt as if he
had defeated her in the very moment of success.
"I can tell you some more about him," she said, "if you'd like to
hear it. I don't mind talking about him. I only wish he'd come
back."
"I shouldn't wish too hard if I were you," said Silas. "You're
happier as you are. Good night!"
He turned to go and Rosemary made no effort to stay him. Somehow,
though her ruse had succeeded, she did not feel wholly satisfied with
the trend events had taken.
As he went out, she picked up the album and opened it again upon the
portrait of the gallant figure on horseback.
"Oh, I do wish you'd come back!" she said with a sigh. "I've never
seen you--but I know I'd love you!"
PART II
CHAPTER I
THREE FRIENDS
Percy Hudson sprawled in an old wicker-chair in the room which was
still known as the nursery and smoked a pipe of disreputable tobacco
while his college friend, affectionately known to all and sundry as
The Old Bean, sat cross-legged on the floor and oiled his
shooting-boots. His real name was Donald Ross, but Mrs. Hudson was
the only person at the Vicarage who ever remembered the fact. Even
the servants knew him as "Mr. Bean."
The friendship between himself and Percy Hudson was one which no one
could understand, for Percy was of a most energetic and restless
temperament while The Old Bean was supremely quiet and
self-contained. He never did anything in a hurry, though as Percy
ungrudgingly admitted, he always got there in the end. One of his
main characteristics was that he knew exactly what he wanted to do
and therefore he never wasted his time in futile effort. There were
some who thought him lazy, but Percy would never allow this.
"He's just economical by nature, that's all," he said. "What's the
good of running after things you've no use for? He's game enough
when he's keen."
This natural economy was a trait which in himself was conspicuously
lacking. Unless at the end of the day he could feel that he had been
"all out," as he expressed it, then the day, as far as he was
concerned, had been a failure. He had an absolute passion for sport
of all kinds, and spent much of his time in training. The Old Bean
on the contrary merely took sport--as he took wine--when it came his
way, made the most of it and thoroughly enjoyed it. He was a little
older than Percy and a man of independent means. He had chosen to go
to the University because a certain amount of learning seemed to him
worth while and, since he had become a close friend of the turbulent
Percy, a certain amount of sport also attracted him. He never
overdid things in either direction while acquitting himself with fair
credit in both.
"I want," he would say, "to feel that I could earn my own living if I
ever had to, and so I shall take my degree as that carries a certain
amount of prestige. I shall also study game-keeping as I believe I
could make a success of it if I had to. And engineering as a matter
of course, though I know the trade is hopelessly overcrowded."
Engineering was his hobby. Nothing in the world appealed to him so
much. But, as he said, engineers were a glut in the market and he
could regard it as no more than a pastime. He had not the genius for
invention, and he could scarcely hope to make his mark as an
engine-driver, but he could drive an engine at a pinch. A long line
of Scotch ancestry had induced this line of reasoning. He had
inherited an ancient castle in the Highlands and a good many acres of
forest that were quite useless for anything but stag-hunting. He was
not rich, but he had no need to work. He worked merely out of that
sense of natural economy for which Percy respected him.
Percy on the other hand did not work. He spent himself to the utmost
in a fever of occupation. But it was not work. He did nothing from
the valid motive of rendering himself independent. To his father's
grief he displayed no aptitude for matters clerical. The only desire
he had ever expressed was to become a professional boxer. He
supposed he would have to scrape into the Church some day, but he
avoided the thought at all times. He wanted to enjoy himself. Life
in his eyes was a priceless gift that must on no account be
squandered. He had an immense capacity for enjoyment, and an almost
fierce resentment against anything that threatened to interfere with
its indulgence.
"Dash it all! We're only young once!" he would exclaim if The Old
Bean ever ventured to expostulate, which was not often, being waste
of time and effort. "It's a damn' shame if we mayn't enjoy ourselves
while we can. We'll never get the chance later in life. What's the
good of saving up for mouldy old age?"
The Old Bean might then point out mildly that to die in the workhouse
was not an enviable end to a glorious beginning, but Percy never
listened. He had a horror of death and old age and refused
point-blank to contemplate either.
"Time enough for them!" he would say. "And all the more reason to
enjoy ourselves while we may!"
And The Old Bean, despite the fact that he was of a far more
philosophical turn, would yield the point without demur. He was very
fond of Percy in a calm and unobtrusive fashion and he seldom raised
objection to anything that he did or said.
Mrs. Hudson regarded him as an excellent companion for her boy, and
so in the matter of solid worth he was. But--if she had only known
it--he was too economical to throw himself away in fruitless
exhortations, and Percy always went his own way in his company. It
was generally Percy who did most of the talking.
He was talking now in between whiffs at his execrable tobacco which
mingling with the odour of the oil with which The Old Bean was
treating his boots rendered the atmosphere practically unfit for
human consumption.
"It's all very fine for you, Old Bean," he was saying somewhat
moodily, being tired after five hours' tramp with the guns and a
meagre bag. "You've got everything in life that you want. You don't
need even to walk up your game if you don't feel like it."
"I like walking 'em up," observed The Old Bean. "Better fun I always
think."
"It's the fashion to say that," said Percy discontentedly.
The Old Bean smiled a little over his job. He had sandy hair and
eyebrows and a red face of many freckles. "Oh, I'm nothing if not
fashionable," he said.
Percy laughed, half against his will. "You look it, tinkering up
those old boots. P'raps you'd like to have a go at mine when they're
finished. They need it quite as much."
"I will if I feel like it," said The Old Bean placidly. "You might
stick a cigarette in my mouth and light it for me! I'm a mass of
oil."
Percy complied. "Can't think why you don't smoke a pipe," he said,
as he did so. "Much better value."
"Yes, I believe it is," said The Old Bean. "But I'm waiting till I
get married. I shall have more time then."
"You'll never get married," said Percy scathingly. "You're much too
stuffy and middle-aged."
"To the casual observer--perhaps," said The Old Bean.
"Why, you can't even dance," said Percy.
"I try," said The Old Bean.
Percy laughed again with more good-will. "Would you like to learn,
my dear old stodger?"
"Not from you, thank you very much," said The Old Bean, with
courteous decision.
"You'll never get anyone else to teach you unless you pay for it,"
observed Percy unkindly.
"Never mind!" said The Old Bean.
The sudden opening of the door disturbed the discussion, and both
young men started at the intrusion of a laughing face surrounded by a
shiny black sou'-wester.
"Anybody at home?" asked a gay voice.
Percy leaped to his feet with a whoop of welcome. "Hullo,
scaramouche! Come right in! How ripping of you to look us up!"
"I didn't," said Rosemary, entering. "I brought the eggs, and as
everyone seemed out, I thought I'd have a look round. What a filthy
smell! Hullo! Here's The Old Bean! Don't get up for goodness'
sake! You'll only spread it. How do you both manage to breathe?"
"Oh, we don't bother about breathing," said Percy. "It's a waste of
time in any case. Don't say you've turned hygienic since I saw you
last!"
"Oh no!" said Rosemary. "Nobody turns anything but mouldy in these
parts. Do give me one of your cigarettes, Old Bean! I haven't
smoked one since I saw you last."
"Here! Have one of mine!" said Percy jealously. "They're much nicer
than his."
"Oh no, they're not!" declared Rosemary. "The Scotch laddie knows
what's what. Where are they, Old Bean? In your pocket? Hoots, mon,
don't disturb yourself! I can find them."
She thrust a hand into his jacket-pocket without ceremony and drew
forth his cigarette-case with the words.
"All I have is yours," murmured The Old Bean, continuing his
loathsome occupation with scarcely a pause.
"You here for Christmas?" asked Rosemary, choosing her cigarette.
"Hullo! Here's a snap of someone in the lid! Who is it? Why--why,
it's me!"
"Yes, it is you," said The Old Bean, without looking up. "I got you
at the meet. Don't you remember? It must have been last Easter
Monday, for I wasn't here in the summer."
"What cheek!" said Rosemary.
"Tear it up if you don't like it!" said The Old Bean pacifically.
"You grow so fast. It isn't a bit like you now."
"Tear it up yourself if you want to!" retorted Rosemary. "Isn't he
an ass, Percy?"
"A. One. Outsize!" said Percy. "A braw Hieland loon, in short.
Want a match? You can sit in that chair if you like. It's more
dependable than the rest."
He lighted her cigarette for her, and returned the case with the
snapshot still intact to The Old Bean's pocket.
Rosemary subsided in the chair he had just vacated. "Do open the
window!" she pleaded, "or I shall die!"
"Oh, don't do that!" said Percy, complying. "You're the only bright
spot in the universe at the present moment. Now tell us all the
news! Stapleton is the same giddy whirl of frivolous activities, I
suppose?"
"Oh, rather!" said Rosemary. "And you're home just in time for the
Rummage Sale. Is that what The Old Bean is disguising his boots for?"
"Not only his boots," laughed Percy. "He's going to sell himself as
a scarecrow for Silas Hickory's crops this time."
"Is he really?" said Rosemary, interested. "What price is he going
to ask?"
"That's the point under consideration!" declared Percy. "What do you
think he'd fetch?"
Rosemary considered. "I don't believe Silas would give much for him.
He's much too keen on a good bargain."
"What would you give?" suggested The Old Bean amicably.
Rosemary pulled the pockets of her mackintosh inside out with an
eloquent gesture.
"He means what would you give if you had it," said Percy, seating
himself on the arm of her chair.
"I don't know," said Rosemary. "I don't think he'd be much good to
me in that capacity."
"Perhaps you could suggest another," said The Old Bean.
She shook her head. "You're not adaptable enough, I'm afraid."
"You'd better be nice to him," said Percy. "He's brought his car
this time. When he's not oiling his boots, he's oiling her. She's
rather a beauty. You'll have to learn to drive her."
"Oh, I should like that!" exclaimed Rosemary, dropping her cigarette
in her enthusiasm. "Will you teach me, Old Bean? Will you? It
would be ripping of you."
The Old Bean looked up at her, blinking a little. He was
short-sighted, and usually wore glasses. "I'll try if you like," he
said.
Percy uttered a rude laugh. "Isn't he flattering? The woman driver,
you must know, does not hold a very strong appeal for The Old Bean.
He maintains that the driving-bump is lacking."
"I prefer her as a mascot certainly," murmured The Old Bean.
"Pig!" said Rosemary tersely. "Well, I refuse to be your mascot or
anyone else's. Talking of meets, there's one at Ravencombe next
Saturday, Percy. Shall we go?"
"Rather!" said Percy. "I'll call for you, shall I? It's a good five
miles. We shall have to start early. No, dash it, we'll motor! The
Old Bean can take us."
"Delighted, I'm sure!" said The Old Bean. "Is there anywhere where
one can leave the car?"
"Oh, yes," said Rosemary. "You can put it in the yard at The
Ravencombe Arms. It's almost at the gates. We'll all take our lunch
and make a day of it."
"Is old Ravencombe still alive?" said Percy. "He must be at least a
hundred."
"More, I should think," said Rosemary. "He looked like an Egyptian
mummy the last time I saw him. They say he's quite mad, has been for
years."
"Rum old bird!" commented Percy. "Who's his heir?"
"Goodness knows! Don't think he's got one. Probably outlived them
all," laughed Rosemary. "How awful it must be to get old like that!
Oh, bother! My fag's gone out. Light it again for me, there's a
dear!"
"Oh, I'm always that!" declared Percy. "All right then! We'll go to
Ravencombe on Saturday. And I say! What about one of those
subscription dances at Bode Town Hall some evening? There's going to
be a regular swell affair on Boxing Day. Can't you come to it?"
"With you?" said Rosemary, with dancing eyes. "My hat! How I should
love to!"
"Well, can't you?" said Percy. "I'll look after you and see you
don't dance with the wrong people."
"How I should love it!" said Rosemary. "But--" she heaved a big
sigh--"I'm sure Aunt Bobby would never let me. Besides,--I've
nothing to wear."
"Fancy dress is optional," he said lightly, "so you can come in any
old thing, you like--or nothing at all if it pleases you."
"Be quiet, and let me think!" said Rosemary.
"Wear a red shirt and riding-breeches and come as Garibaldi!" he
suggested.
"Yes, that's an idea! But I couldn't dance in top-boots, could I?"
she objected.
"Bare feet would be better and more realistic," he assured her.
She made a face at him. "And have them trodden on by you! No, thank
you very much! I think I'll come as an old gipsy woman and tell all
your fortunes."
"Oh rot! You can't come as anything old! I won't allow it," said
Percy. "Can't you think of something really jolly?"
"Wait!" cried Rosemary suddenly. "I've got an idea! I know where I
can get a dress and shoes and everything! It'll be very long and
old-fashioned, but it'll fit. But I shall have to creep away without
being seen and bring the things with me. I shan't be able to dress
at home."
"Oh, that doesn't matter," said Percy. "We'll stop at _The King's
Head_ and you can change there. It's close to the Town Hall. I say,
this is ripping! What do you say to the scheme, Old Bean?"
The Old Bean looked up. There was a streak of oil smeared down one
side of his face and his general appearance was thoroughly
dishevelled. But there was a certain quality in his green-brown eyes
that discounted any suggestion of rakishness.
He looked straight at Rosemary as he said, "I don't know if it's a
good scheme or not, but if it comes off, I shall be there."
"Hear, hear!" cried Rosemary gaily. "The more the merrier!"
CHAPTER II
AN AFFAIR OF PARTNERSHIP
"It seems to me," said Matilda, "that Rosemary is getting more and
more spoilt every day. Why don't you keep her more to her lessons?"
"She is getting beyond them," said Bobby thoughtfully. "It would be
the holidays in any case now. But, you know, she will be eighteen in
January."
"Oh, you needn't remind me of that!" said Matilda pettishly. "I'm
sure I don't care how old or how young she is so long as she behaves
herself. But she never does nowadays. She is always rude and
off-hand. I can't think why you don't keep her in better order."
"Don't you think," said Bobby gently, "that she has a right to grow
up?"
Matilda made an impatient sound. "You are always on her side and
ready to make excuses for her. I don't dispute her right to grow up.
I only wish she would do it quickly and cease to behave like a spoilt
child. I am always wondering what mad thing she will do next. The
present craze seems to be to run after Percy Hudson at every possible
moment. I can't think why you allow it."
"She needs young companionship," said Bobby, bending her flushed face
over her ironing. "I do not think I ought to deprive her of it."
"You have changed your views lately, then," commented Matilda, "for
you used to be much more particular."
Bobby said nothing. It had always been impossible to argue with
Matilda. Moreover, what she said was not without reason. She had
made repeated efforts in the past to curb the child which of late she
had allowed to lapse. To tell Matilda that this had been due to
advice from Silas Hickory was out of the question. Therefore she
remained silent.
"I suppose you know that she has gone off to the meet at Ravencombe
with Percy Hudson and his friend?" pursued Matilda, not to be
discouraged.
Bobby glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. "Yes, I know," she
said. "She took some lunch with her. I expect she will be back
before long."
"It wouldn't surprise me in the least if she ran off one of these
days and did not come back," remarked Matilda.
Bobby turned upon her with a flash of unwonted anger. "You have no
right whatever to suggest such a thing as that! She is far too open
and candid to be capable of it. And thank heaven that she is!"
"Dear me!" said Matilda with a brief laugh. "I should have thought
that I had every justification for expressing an opinion. I really
don't see how you can claim to know her better than I do. In fact I
should imagine that I am a far more impartial judge of her character.
For you have always made an idol of her, and I--have not."
Bobby returned to her ironing with compressed lips. Matilda had been
even more exasperating than usual of late, but she always blamed
herself for being exasperated. For, after all, Matilda's opinion did
not really count with anyone. Even when apparently, as now, she got
the better of an argument, it did not signify in the least. She
carried no weight. It was almost absurd to be angry with anyone who
could never be anything but peevish in return.
Also, it was not in Bobby's sunny nature to be angry for long, and
presently she was smiling again and talking of the forthcoming
Rummage Sale at the Parish Room at which she had rashly promised to
assist.
"I think you are very foolish to go," said Matilda. "You always say
you are so pressed for time."
"Cox will have to lend a hand," said Bobby serenely. "I really
couldn't miss the Rummage Sale. It's the most amusing event of the
year."
"Then you are very easily amused, that's all I can say," observed
Matilda.
She retired with the words into the parlour and pushed the door
behind her to indicate that she was not in the mood for further
conversation. A faint sigh of relief escaped Bobby, but she
continued her task without looking up. It was quite true that time
was short.
Her thoughts turned, as often, to Rosemary, and a sigh of a different
nature escaped her. Was she going to the other extreme and allowing
the child too much liberty? She wished there were someone to
consult, and as if in answer to the wish there came the tread of
heavy boots past the window and she looked up and saw Silas Hickory.
She could not check the quick sense of pleasure that arose within her
at the sight of him. He did not come as often now as formerly, and
never without a very sufficient reason, but his attitude towards her
had undergone no apparent change. He was what he had declared he
would be--a friend upon whom she could count.
She went swiftly to the back-door to meet him, and intercepted him in
the act of passing.
"Why aren't you coming in?" she said.
He stopped short and his hand went to his cap. His smile sent a glow
through her that surprised and even faintly disconcerted her.
"I just came round to see Cox about the red cow's calf," he said.
"Is he anywhere about?"
"You can see me instead," said Bobby with an answering smile.
He came straight to her without delay. "Busy as usual!" he said, as
he entered.
"Yes, ironing," said Bobby. "I don't often iron on a Saturday, but I
got behind this week on account of poor old Mrs. Everett. I am
afraid she won't live very long."
"And you go to see her?" said Silas.
"When I can," she answered. "There is so little one can do."
"Little!" He echoed the word on a note almost of indignation. "When
you spend your whole life working for other people!"
"Oh, don't!" said Bobby. "I never do anything I don't want to."
"To be sure! I forgot that," said Silas.
The quiet but decided shutting of the door that communicated with the
parlour attracted his attention and he glanced towards it and back to
Bobby.
"Sit down!" she said, ignoring it. "I am just finishing."
But Silas remained on his feet. "I can't sit down while you work,"
he said. "Can't you give me something to do?"
She bent again to her ironing, pushing the soft hair back from her
hot forehead. "Life is very difficult, Silas," she said.
It was the first time she had ever addressed him by his Christian
name, but he accepted it with absolute simplicity. It was part of
the _rôle_ he had assigned to himself.
"What's troubling you?" he asked after a moment.
She replied without looking up. "I took your advice about Rosemary,
but I am not sure that letting her run wild is a good thing. There
is so little young companionship for her here."
"What does she want more than you?" said Silas.
She uttered a sad little laugh. "Heaps and heaps of things. And I
am not really young. When I was her age, I had lots of gaiety. Poor
little Rosemary never has any. She hasn't even got a girl friend."
"She's got you," maintained Silas stubbornly.
"I am getting old," said Bobby.
"How dare you say that?" said Silas.
She sent him a quick glance and turned away to change her iron in
silence.
He watched her rather aggressively for a space, then spoke abruptly,
on a different note. "You've no right to be getting old. It's only
care that makes you so. Look here! I've been thinking
lately,--thinking a lot. I'm not going back over old ground. That's
finished. But I want to know--want very much to know--if you'd
consider another proposition with me. It's a scheme that I've often
thought might be worked with advantage between farmers in this
country. As things now are, the small ones nearly always go to the
wall. And it's mighty hard that it should be so, for in my opinion
they needn't,--not, that is, if they are prepared to work half as
hard as you do."
"I like work," said Bobby.
"I know you do. That's what makes you so fine. But overworking--"
Silas spoke forcibly--"overworking means destruction sooner or later.
You like running your own show. You like to be independent. So do
I. But, you may take it from me, a one-horse show in farming is a
big risk. It may answer for a time, but not for ever. And then if a
run of bad luck comes, you're dished. You've no reserve. And you
can't prevent bad luck either. It just comes."
"What a depressing thought!" said Bobby.
"It's a maddening thought," said Silas, "but you can't get away from
it. Bad luck doesn't always stick to those who deserve it."
"It's no good looking on the dark side," said Bobby.
"It's no good refusing to face the inevitable either," retorted
Silas. "There's a limit to everything, especially when you work
beyond your strength. It may take some years to reach it, but it
will be reached some day. Who's going to look after this show when
you're finished? Tell me that!"
"I'm not looking so far ahead as that," said Bobby resolutely.
"You ought to look ahead," he said. "Anyone with responsibilities
ought to look ahead. What were you telling me just now? That
Rosemary was getting beyond you. And why, I should like to know?
Simply because you haven't the time to look after her."
"It's no good saying that," said Bobby.
"No good!" He caught her up almost angrily. "If it isn't going to
make any difference, I agree with you, it's waste of time talking.
But if it is,----"
"Well, but how can it?" said Bobby.
She spoke rather wearily. It had been a tiring day, and though she
was pleased to see Silas, she was not prepared for a battle of wills.
He was inclined to be somewhat overwhelming when once he had set
himself to the task of quelling objections.
He heard the note of wistfulness in her voice, and his manner
changed. "I really didn't mean to start on this subject," he said.
"You're very tired, and perhaps it isn't the time. Let's talk it
over another day!"
But a spirit of perversity moved Bobby to refuse the respite. "I
hate putting off the evil hour," she said. "I think I'd better hear
it now."
"So that you can sleep on it and turn it down in the morning!"
observed Silas, with grim humour. "Well, you shall if you want to.
My suggestion is simply this. I have made a good thing of my farm as
my father did before me. You have so far made a good thing of yours.
Why can't we enter into partnership together? It's been one concern
before. It could be made so again, and it would be a mutual benefit."
"Oh!" said Bobby, turning very red. She paused with her iron
uplifted, and stared at him. "What--what an extraordinary idea!" she
said.
"It isn't a bit extraordinary," declared Silas. "I've had it in my
mind for some time. I'm interested in Little Staple, always have
been."
"You want to buy us out!" she said quickly.
"Now don't!" said Silas. "I don't want to do anything of the sort,
or I shouldn't have suggested partnership to you. That's not logic,
is it?"
She set down her iron. "No, I'm not very logical," she said.
"But--it is rather a surprising idea, isn't it? You knew I wasn't
expecting it."
"Oh yes, I knew that," said Silas, with a smile. "But now I've put
it to you, will you think it over? It would have to be put on a
strictly business footing of course. There's a lawyer over at Bode
who could see to that. But there's no hurry. Take time to decide!
All I ask is that you will try to realize exactly what it would mean
before you begin to refuse."
"I know already," said Bobby.
Again she pushed back the hair from her damp forehead, and there was
something oddly pathetic in the gesture. But she said no more though
her silence also had its appeal.
"No, you don't know," said Silas. "If you think you do, you're
simply jumping to conclusions. I'm not suggesting anything that can
in any way offend your pride or your love of independence. I honour
you far too much. If you were a bad manager, I shouldn't think of
it. I loathe bad management. And you needn't think I'd try to make
it a stepping-stone to matrimony either. I'm not that sort of man
any more than you're that sort of woman." He paused.
"Thank you," murmured Bobby faintly.
He continued. "It would be an absolute business arrangement from
every point of view. The two farms would amalgamate, that's all.
You would be the junior partner. I should be the senior. The stock
would become all one, and we should run it together. The same with
the hands. Your man Cox would go in with Brant and the rest. Are
you getting the idea?"
Bobby was standing at the end of the table, looking at him. Her
flushed face showed no signs of distress, but her eyes had a
steadfastness that seemed in some remote sense to hold him away from
her.
"Yes," she said slowly, "I'm beginning to see. But--if you want a
partner--why not Peter?"
"Peter!" said Silas. "Peter's in my employ. I should never make a
partner of Peter."
"He would probably be of much more use to you," said Bobby.
"You don't understand the position," said Silas. "Probably Peter
could explain better than I can."
"Oh, I know he is not your equal," she said. "But--from a business
point of view at any rate--neither am I. And it is the business
point of view that we are considering, isn't it?"
"It is," said Silas. "I have already said that if you were a bad
manager I shouldn't think of it. And I mean that. You are a good
manager, and an arrangement of this sort ought to appeal to you,
because it would give you opportunities that you don't now possess.
It would also give you something you're badly in need of--more
leisure."
"Ah!" said Bobby, in the tone of one who has arrived at the kernel of
things.
"Yes, just so," said Silas. "But will you please remember that in
saying that, I am trying to safeguard my interests as well as yours?
It isn't to my interest to let Little Staple turn out a failure."
"A failure!" Bobby opened her eyes in swift protest.
But Silas refused to be impressed. "Yes, a failure." He repeated
the word doggedly. "Oh, I know you'd kill yourself first. But
there's no point in killing yourself, and it isn't fair to other
people. It isn't a failure, but it isn't a roaring success, and it
can be, it ought to be, if we work it together. One-horse shows
don't answer nowadays. There's too much hustle required. And you're
always talking about stock. You'd like to go in for stock with me,
wouldn't you?"
He had struck the right note. Her eyes kindled in spite of her.
"I thought so!" he said, sternly exultant. "Well, can't you see what
a show we could make of it? Your share would only be a small one at
first, but it'd grow--in the natural course of things; you couldn't
prevent it. And think what that'd mean to those dependent on you!
To yourself too! You'd be able to afford a holiday now and then and
look after the child and give her a few treats. Doesn't that appeal
to you?"
"Oh, I mustn't let it," said Bobby, turning away to the fire.
"You can't help it," said Silas. "You know you'd love the farm a
thousand times more if it didn't mean such drudgery. The balance of
work would have to be readjusted. I for instance--I detest accounts.
And I know you are good at 'em. I should hand all that part over to
you."
"You always pretended you liked them," murmured Bobby, testing an
iron near her cheek.
Silas took no notice. "And another thing I want is to build some
more sheds along the lane here," he proceeded. "That's your ground,
and I couldn't do it as things are at present. But when we are
partners----"
"Oh, but we're not yet!" said Bobby.
"No, not yet." He conceded the point with his sudden smile. "You've
got to sleep on it first I know. But there's one thing I promise
you, Miss Roberta, and I'll write it down in my heart's blood if you
like. If this deal goes through, you and I will never quarrel."
"Oh, don't do anything so conclusive as that!" said Bobby. "I'm not
at all easy to get on with. You see, I always get my own way here."
"And you'll always continue to get it," said Silas with finality.
"I'll write that instead, shall I?"
She made a gesture of remonstrance. "No, please! I expect I shall
refuse when I've thought it over. In fact, I'm nearly sure I shall,
though you mustn't think I'm not tremendously grateful to you, for I
am."
"I'm nearly sure you will too," said Silas. "But there are always
second thoughts. I shall count on them."
She smiled a little. "How persistent you are!"
"It's the only way to get what you want," said Silas.
CHAPTER III
RAVENCOMBE
The return of Rosemary, eager and excited over the day's happenings,
put an end to the discussion. She burst in upon them like a child
just home from school, though her expression at sight of Silas was
not of a very flattering description.
"I made them hurry back," she said to Bobby, "because I thought you'd
be alone. But I suppose I might have known you wouldn't be."
"Aunt Matilda is in the next room," said Bobby tranquilly. "Darling,
will you please take off those boots before you go upstairs? And
don't forget that Mr. Hickory is here!"
Rosemary turned towards him with obvious reluctance. "How do you
do?" she said distantly, and sat down to remove her boots.
"Can I help?" said Silas unexpectedly.
She looked at him with grudging acknowledgment. "I can manage,
thanks."
But Silas, with his own peculiar air of refusing to be beaten,
approached and, as it were, took her feet from her.
Rosemary leaned back at once. "Oh, if you want to, you can. I'm dog
tired. Please, Aunt Bobby, can I have my tea?"
"You can," said Bobby, "when you have washed and made yourself
respectable. Thank you very much, Mr. Hickory, for taking the
trouble."
"No trouble, I assure you! It's a pleasure," declared Rosemary
airily. "Don't interrupt him on any account! By the way, Mr.
Hickory, I met a friend of yours--a very dear friend--to-day. Can
you guess who it was?"
"Haven't a notion," said Silas.
Rosemary laughed mischievously. "I'll give you a hundred guesses--"
she made a playful kick at him with the foot he had just released,
and met Bobby's frown with an impish wink--"and you'll never get
there."
Silas took no notice whatever, but continued his self-imposed task
much as he would have continued to groom a skittish animal.
"I'll tell you," said Rosemary, as he loosened the second boot, "not
because you want to know, but because it would be good for you. It
was--Lord Ravencombe!"
"Rosemary!" said Bobby sharply.
Silas said nothing until he had removed the boot and set it beside
its fellow. Then he looked full at her from under his beetling brows
and said briefly, "he's no friend of mine."
"No, I gathered that," said Rosemary smoothly. "The poor old thing
is a bit balmy, of course, as we all know; but he seemed quite
rational on that point. He hates you like poison."
Aunt Bobby very suddenly took a share in the conversation, her tone
quick and decided. "Rosemary, if you can't speak courteously, I
won't have you speak at all. Thank you, Mr. Hickory! Thank you very
much!"
She stooped to pick up the discarded boots, but he prevented her, his
own hand upon them. "Oh, don't stop her!" he said. "I know what she
means. Who generally cleans these?"
Bobby evaded the question. "They must be dried first," she said.
"Please let me have them!"
"They're all mud. You shan't touch 'em!" said Silas with
determination.
Rosemary leaped abruptly to her feet. "Here, give them to me!" she
said, and whisked them from his hold. "Whoever cleans them, you
won't! That's quite certain. Aunt Bobby won't either. So you
needn't trouble yourself about that."
She strode across the brick floor in her stockings, and dumped them
down in the chimney-corner. Then she faced round upon Silas with an
electric sparkle in her eyes.
"If you want to know what Lord Ravencombe said, I'll tell you," she
said. "I went through a gate marked Private and came face to face
with him in his bath-chair. He looked awful, like a man that's been
dead and buried and dug up again. He said I was trespassing, and
asked where I came from. And when I said Little Staple, next to
Staple Farm, he raved, and said wasn't that where Silas Hickory lived
and why wasn't he in hell where he ought to have been for the past
twenty years or more. I couldn't answer that question, so I came
away. But he called you quite a lot of choice names while I was
going. I'll tell you some of them if you like."
"Rosemary!" For once Bobby's voice sounded actually harsh. "If you
say another word upon this subject, you will learn the whole of one
of Schiller's plays by heart during the holidays."
"My hat!" said Rosemary. "But, Aunt Bobby, I really think he ought
to know. Besides, he wants to, so it's only kind to tell him. I
didn't understand all the old thing's remarks. He was too indignant
to be very distinct, and his attendant was trying to shut him up.
But he did manage to call him a crawling, poisonous snake and a
damned dirty scoundrel who seduced women whose shoes he wasn't fit to
black. That's why he isn't going to clean mine," she ended on a
virtuous note. "I hope you like your description, Mr. Hickory. I'm
going upstairs to change now. Good night!"
She was at the door before Bobby spoke again, this time very quietly.
"Rosemary, I shall set you that task, and you will not come down
again to-night."
"Right ho!" said Rosemary lightly. She was in one of her dare-devil
moods in which nothing mattered. "But I had to tell him. He asked
for it. The old fellow is quite mad of course, but I expect he had
some reason for his hatred. No smoke without some fire, eh, Mr.
Hickory? I've never seen anyone quite so consumed by rage before.
He literally writhed with it. It's a pity you weren't there to see.
Percy and The Old Bean were in the background and they thought he was
having a fit."
"Very edifying for all concerned," said Silas.
"It was," she agreed. "I wouldn't have missed it for anything. Yes,
Aunt Bobby, I'm going. Don't look so severe! I'll learn a dozen
Schiller plays if you like,--that is, if I live long enough which I
doubt." She opened the door with the words. "You will let me have
some tea, won't you? Or I really shall die without further notice."
She was gone, and somehow the kitchen seemed empty and still.
Bobby's faint sigh as she set the irons on the hearthstones to cool
was scarcely enough to break the silence.
Silas, watching her, was in no haste to do so. His dark face showed
a deep absorption. Perhaps he was scarcely thinking even of her in
that moment.
He spoke as she stood up again. "Yes, it's true, old Ravencombe is
not keen on our family. He's no particular cause to be. But he's
been raving mad for the past forty years, so they say. So perhaps
his opinion isn't of much importance."
"None whatever, I should imagine," said Bobby. "I didn't know that
anyone ever saw him."
"No one does as a rule. But there has always been one meet held
there every season from time immemorial. He probably likes to see
it, and they take him to some place where he can see without being
seen." Silas still spoke thoughtfully, as if half to himself. "Poor
old fellow! It's a bit hard to be made to go on living in that
state. I saw him once, and he did look exactly like a man who had
been buried and dug up again."
Bobby shivered a little. "Rosemary's descriptions are so vivid, but
really she is not so unfeeling as she sounds. She always hides her
real self from everyone but me." She paused a moment, then: "It was
good of you to bear with her so patiently," she said.
"Oh, I don't mind Rosemary now," said Silas. "In fact, I think I'm
on her side. I hope you'll let her off her task. There's no need to
punish her on my account."
Bobby shook her head resolutely. "No, she will have to pay the
penalty this time. I have tried to take your advice, but she only
grows wilder and more unruly every time. I must get her back under
control. I am very uneasy about her."
"Pulling her in won't help," said Silas. "And after all, what did
she do? Merely repeated a sentence or two spoken by a lunatic.
There's nothing to take seriously there."
"I am afraid I don't agree with you," said Bobby firmly. "I am very
sorry. But I think her behaviour was outrageous."
"You are unreasonable," said Silas. "Why shouldn't she repeat it?
Most people know the reason for Lord Ravencombe's objection to my
family. There's nothing in it to be ashamed of, that I can see."
"I don't think I know it," said Bobby. "But please don't imagine
that I am asking to know!"
"There's nothing about me that I wouldn't like you to know," said
Silas with simplicity. "His grudge began with my father who married
a cousin of his--the daughter of a younger branch--in the teeth of
her family. Lord Ravencombe was saner in those days than he is now,
but he never got over it."
"That was your mother?" asked Bobby.
"My mother, yes. I never saw her. She died when I was born. But I
survived. That was an almost worse offence, I imagine." A grim note
of humour sounded in Silas's voice. "However, I still survive."
"Then he is--a sort of cousin?" questioned Bobby.
"A thousand times removed, thank heaven!" said Silas. "It's a very
distant relationship. My mother was the daughter of his first cousin
whom--tradition says--he was wild to marry in his early days. And he
adopted my mother when her mother died and brought her up as his own
daughter."
"And she failed him, too!" said Bobby. "That was sad."
He looked at her. "Yes, you would see it like that. It was sad, I
suppose. But I fancy she was not unhappy while it lasted. My father
worshipped her. He only married Peter's mother for convenience,
though I suppose you would have said that she was a more suitable
wife for him than Betty Thorgrave."
"Betty who?" said Bobby, and suddenly, unexpectedly, a great wave of
colour that was like the glow of a flame spread over her as she stood
facing him.
"Thorgrave," he said, "Thorgrave. Do you know the name?"
She spoke rather breathlessly. "Yes, I know it! But I didn't
know--I never knew--they were related to Lord Ravencombe." She
paused a moment; then: "It's all very long ago now," she said more
quietly. "It was only the name that rather surprised me. It must
have been another branch of the family that we used to know. So you
are related to Lord Ravencombe!"
"I have that honour," said Silas very grimly. "But it is not one of
which I am at all proud."
Her clear eyes expressed sympathy. "He is quite mad, I believe," she
said. "I don't know much about him."
"Nor I," said Silas. He looked at her very directly. "Tell me what
you know of the Thorgraves!" he said.
Bobby made a small movement as of backing away. "Oh, very little
really," she said. "There was a man of that name in my father's
regiment. He may not have been any relation at all. It's very long
ago--nearly twenty years. He went abroad and we lost sight of him.
I think," her voice dropped a little, "he is probably dead." She
turned with the words to lay her ironing on the dresser.
Silas was watching her, but he said nothing. There was something
about her that pleaded for silence at that moment.
When she turned round again, she was smiling. "It would be funny,
wouldn't it," she said, "if by any chance you stepped into the title?"
"I!" said Silas. A sudden growling note sounded in his voice. "Do
you think I'd touch it--or anything whatever to do with it--after
being despised all my life for being my father's son?"
"Oh, no, I don't indeed!" said Bobby, distressed. "Please forgive me
for saying that! I didn't mean to hurt you."
His grimness passed. "I know that all right," he said. "You never
mean to hurt anyone. That's the lovely part of you. Well," he
picked up his cap, "I must be going. But I want you to consider that
partnership question really seriously. You will, won't you?"
"Yes. I will--consider it," said Bobby dubiously.
His sudden smile showed itself. "Don't worry about it!" he said.
"Just consider it! I shall stick to what I've said. I'll never
pester you. It's business only. Everything will be on a legal
basis. But don't forget you'll have much more time to look after
Rosemary and keep her out of mischief if you consent!"
"Oh dear!" exclaimed Bobby. "And she's waiting for her tea! I'd
forgotten!"
"Tea and a lecture!" said Silas at the door. "But if I were you, I'd
make her get the one for herself and let her off the other."
He tramped away, slamming the door behind him, and Bobby was left
with a very thoughtful face to prepare the tea.
CHAPTER IV
GRIEVANCES
It might have been due to Silas's advice or to some other influence,
but Rosemary escaped everything in the form of a lecture that night.
She was sent to bed, it is true, but being heartily tired after her
day's adventures, that was not to be regarded in the light of a
hardship. And though her meal consisted only of bread and butter,
she ate it with relish and was quite content. Bobby brought the
tray, but she did not remain with her. She seemed preoccupied.
"I wonder what that farmer creature has been putting into her head
now," was Rosemary's reflection as she nestled luxuriously into bed.
But she was too sleepy to wonder for long, and when Bobby returned
she was sunk in serene slumber, her golden head pillowed boyishly on
her arm.
Bobby paused to look at her, her eyes tenderly shining. Rosemary
awake was a vivid and arresting picture of youth and beauty.
Rosemary asleep was a dream of loveliness well nigh unsurpassable.
The elder woman caught her breath as she bent over her, and a curious
prayer came softly from her lips. "O God, don't let her get too
lovely!"
There was a deep shadow on her own face, such a shadow as the world
never saw, as she watched the sleeping girl; but when Rosemary
stirred, she drew back swiftly, and it was gone. She collected the
tea-things deftly and crept away.
Matilda glanced up from a paper-pattern she was putting together on
the parlour-table as she entered a little later. "Has that tiresome
girl come back yet?" she asked.
"Yes, Rosemary is back," said Bobby. "I sent her to bed. She has
been going hard all day."
"That's a good thing," said Matilda with satisfaction. "I can't bear
her chattering round when I'm trying to think. Now look here, Bobby!
Should you say this was part of the collar? They've numbered it all
wrong."
Bobby came and gave her advice with her usual cheery sympathy, though
the matter was one which did not hold the faintest interest for her.
In the days of their childhood, she and Matilda had been inseparable
companions and neither had been happy without the other. Bobby
thought of those days sometimes with a pang.
"And what had Farmer Hickory got to say this time?" enquired Matilda
presently.
Bobby hesitated for a second; then: "He came round to talk about the
red cow's calf," she said.
"Then what on earth did you ask him in for?" said Matilda
suspiciously. "He wasn't talking calves when I heard him."
"No?" said Bobby indifferently.
Her sister turned unexpectedly upon her. "You think you can put me
off with anything, don't you, Bobby?" she said. "But you can't. How
much longer are you going to degrade yourself and me with this most
humiliating flirtation?"
Bobby looked at her, her blue eyes very bright. "I hope I am not
degrading anyone," she said. "And I object to the term 'flirtation'.
However, the whole subject is one which I refuse to discuss, so we
need not argue about terms."
"You always refuse to discuss," grumbled Matilda. "But it doesn't
alter facts. You know very well what that man is after, and you are
secretly encouraging him."
Bobby picked up her work and began to stitch vigorously, her pretty
mouth closed more firmly than usual.
But Matilda was not to be silenced. "I knew what would happen," she
said, "when we came here and began to mix with that class of person.
It is bound to tell in the end. They always take advantage."
Bobby maintained her silence.
Matilda continued. "I always told you we should lose caste, and we
have. What prospects has Rosemary of ever getting a standing among
people of her own class? None. There is only that Hudson boy who
will never have a penny to bless himself with, and that extraordinary
friend of his who might be anything on earth."
She paused, but still Bobby said nothing.
Matilda took up the tale again. "And now that objectionable Farmer
Hickory comes here every day, and you let him in and treat him as an
equal. Upon my word, Bobby, I sometimes wonder how much longer I can
possibly stand it."
There was a tremor of tears in her voice. Bobby looked up from her
work.
"Matilda," she said very quietly, "you are making a great mistake.
Silas Hickory may seem rough to you, but, as I have told Rosemary, he
is a gentleman."
Matilda made a scornful sound.
"Yes, I know," said Bobby. "Because he farms his own land and is not
ashamed of work, you despise him. But--for your comfort--" a note of
unwonted irony rang in her voice--"let me tell you this! He is
related through his mother to old Lord Ravencombe."
"Good gracious!" said Matilda. And then with a half-laugh, "Not
legitimately of course!"
"Yes, legitimately," said Bobby, regarding her steadily. "The girl
his father married was a cousin of Lord Ravencombe."
"Good gracious!" said Matilda again. "Are you going to tell me that
he is the missing heir?"
"I know nothing about that," said Bobby. "There is probably someone
closer. But the relationship exists, so will you please remember
that Silas Hickory has as good a right as you or I to be treated with
courtesy and consideration?"
Again the note of irony was in her voice, but Matilda passed it by.
"It's very interesting," she said. "Who told you?"
"He told me," said Bobby, adding with sudden compunction, "I am not
at all sure that I had any right to repeat it, so please keep it to
yourself! It makes no difference whatever to my regard for him. I
have always liked him and known him to be a gentleman."
"Oh, you!" said Matilda. "I quite realize you have got to justify
yourself somehow. I don't of course flatter myself that anything I
say will have any effect upon you, but if you were anyone else, I
should say that your intentions were painfully obvious. As it is, I
only say that you are very foolish and indiscreet. All the
neighbourhood will get talking about you unless you are careful."
Bobby stiffened as she sat. "I am not afraid of that," she said.
"You're never afraid of anything till it happens," retorted Matilda.
"I knew that this farming idea was a mad scheme. I always said so,
but you would not listen."
"It's a living anyhow," said Bobby shortly.
"A living! You call it that!" The long-nourished bitterness of
years was in Matilda's rejoinder. "If we took a house on the
sea-shore and had lodgers it would be that. You have no pride left
at all. I am not sure that you ever had much, but dealing with pigs
and cattle has had a lowering effect upon you. You simply live for
the farm and nothing else. As for me, I am a mere nonentity. No one
ever treats me as anything else."
There was more than a grain of truth in this, and Bobby could not
deny it. She said nothing as Matilda shed a few tears and resumed
her work.
"I am sure I am not idle," pursued Matilda. "I am always busy at
something when my wretched health will let me. I should probably be
stronger and able to do much more if we did not live in this horrible
damp place where there are no comforts of any description. Oh, why
did I ever consent to come here, I wonder? I always knew it was a
mistake, and the worst thing possible for Rosemary."
She flung the last sentence like a challenge, peevishly aware that
Rosemary's fate meant considerably more to Bobby than her own.
Bobby, however, maintained her rather stoical attitude. These
complaints of Matilda's were of periodical occurrence and had to be
borne with. She would talk herself out eventually if left alone. It
was the only common-sense treatment for her. For to argue was to
prolong the trial indefinitely, besides being a complete waste of
time and effort.
She resigned herself therefore to silent endurance, and it was an
unexpected relief when a few minutes later there came the sound of
footsteps outside and someone knocked upon the outer door.
She got up to answer it.
"Don't bring anyone in here!" said Matilda.
"I will see who it is," said Bobby.
She went to the door and discovered the cross-grained Everett who
lived along the road to Bode.
"Oh, it's you, Miss Roberta!" he said. "I'm in bad trouble to-night.
The missis is took worse and the doctor's been sent for to
Ravencombe, so there's no one to help. Could you come along and see
her? She's mortal bad."
"I'll come of course," said Bobby instantly. "Come inside, Mr.
Everett!"
She herself returned to the parlour and the cosy picture of Matilda
with her feet in the fender for a moment.
"I'm just going round to poor old Mrs. Everett," she said. "She's
worse, and they can't get hold of the doctor. I'll take the key with
me. There are some sausage-rolls in the larder for supper in case
I'm late back. Don't bother about Rosemary! She's asleep."
"So I'm to get the supper, am I?" said Matilda. "I must say,
Bobby----"
Bobby interrupted her, kindly but firmly. "Only your own supper, my
dear. You can manage that, can't you? I will make up the fire
before I go, and I daresay I shan't be very long. But don't wait up
for me! One never knows. Good night!"
She passed on into the kitchen, closing the door behind her.
Matilda sat and listened to her rapid movements with aggrieved
attention. How like Bobby to go off in that way! Always ready to
look after outsiders, but her own sister never! She wondered if it
were worth while to get up and lodge a protest, but decided that it
was not. Bobby would certainly not heed her. She never heeded her
now. She also looked back across the long span of years that
separated them from their childhood, and remembered how once they had
been the closest friends. A petulant sigh escaped her. Why had
Bobby grown away from her thus?
She listened for her departure, and when she heard her go, she gave
herself up to a weak fit of resentment. Here was she, scarcely
better than an invalid, condemned to get her own supper!
"I've a very good mind not to have any," she told herself tearfully.
"If I died of starvation no one would care. As for Rosemary--is it
likely I should bother about her?"
It was not in the least likely, and Bobby had been well aware that
the injunction was superfluous when making it. Rosemary was the last
person in the world for whom Matilda would have taken any trouble
whatsoever. The only feeling she entertained for her was one of
jealous irritation. And somehow her beauty was an added grievance.
Beauty was completely wasted upon girls like Rosemary, and it would
probably lead her into mischief sooner or later.
"Well, it's no affair of mine," said Matilda, drawing her chair
nearer to the fire. "Bobby has made herself responsible for her, and
I wish her joy."
With which kindly reflection she dismissed both Bobby and Rosemary
from her mind and concentrated once more upon the arduous
dress-making task upon which she was engaged.
CHAPTER V
PUNISHMENT
It was as well that Bobby took the key, for she did not get home
again till after one o'clock, and Matilda had long since gone to bed.
It would not have gratified the latter to have known that Bobby was
content to take her welfare for granted, but could not pass
Rosemary's room without peeping in to make sure that her darling
slept.
Having satisfied herself on this point, she retired to her own
room--the smallest and meanest of them all, and went swiftly to bed.
She was in fact almost too tired to undress, but she compelled
herself to do so, being methodical in all her ways. She had said her
prayers for the night long since while watching by Mrs. Everett's
bed, and only the one petition remained to be whispered into the
darkness as she lay down. They were always the last words upon her
lips at the close of each day. "O God, bless my Rosemary, and keep
her safe from all evil!" Then she sank into the three hours' rest
which was all that remained to her.
She was up at her usual time in the morning, ready as ever for her
daily task, betraying no signs of weariness, bent only upon
fulfilling her work in time to accompany Rosemary to church, as had
been her invariable custom every Sunday since they had come to Little
Staple.
Rosemary awoke in a repentant mood, and came down earlier than usual
to help her. When she heard of Bobby's vigil with Mrs. Everett, she
was full of solicitude on her behalf.
"You must be frightfully tired," she said. "Darling Aunt Bobby, I
wish I'd known. I'd have come too."
"That you certainly wouldn't, dear," said Bobby. "It wasn't such a
bad attack this time, but they always get more frightened at night.
I was glad to be with them, and it wasn't hard work at all."
"You always say that," said Rosemary, frankly incredulous. "Well,
you must leave the farmyard to me this afternoon, and get in a rest.
Yes, I insist upon that, dearest," borrowing Bobby's magisterial
manner with chuckling effrontery. "I shall simply lock you in your
room until you do."
Bobby did not smile at this piece of levity. Perhaps she was
somewhat over-serious that morning as the result of the fatigue to
which she would not own.
"Rosemary dear," she said, "if you really want to help me, you can do
so only by submission and good behaviour. You were very headstrong
and disobedient yesterday, and though Mr. Hickory was kind enough to
intercede for you, I could not possibly pass over such conduct as
yours."
Rosemary's eyes grew wide and dark. "He dared to intercede for me,
did he?" she commented. "I always knew he had the cheek of the
devil. (No, dear, I'm sorry. I ought to have said Old Nick, I
know.) Well, I'd sooner do a dozen punishments than be let off at
his request. Don't ever do anything he asks you, Aunt Bobby! I'm
not wanting you to pass over anything. I'll learn the beastly old
Schiller. It'll keep me out of mischief in the long winter evenings,
won't it?" A sudden dimple made its appearance at the corner of her
mouth.
"I hope so," said Bobby, gravely overlooking it. "But you will not
begin to-day of course, as it is Sunday."
"All right, Aunt Bobby." Rosemary spoke with sweet docility. "What
would you like me to do to-day?"
"You may help me to-day," said Bobby, aware that a weak spot had been
found in her armour. "But to-morrow----"
"Oh, don't let's talk about to-morrow!" begged Rosemary, smiling
openly and winding a persuasive arm round her neck. "To-morrow never
comes, does it? And it's such fun pretending it never will. Just
fancy in twenty years' time, Aunt Bobby, how funny it will be if I'm
still being naughty to Silas Hickory and you're still making me learn
dear old Schiller!"
Bobby did not think the idea at all a funny one. "You are talking
nonsense, dearest," she said. "You will be a very different person
in twenty years--and so shall I."
"Heaven forbid!" said Rosemary, clasping her closely. "You may want
to alter me, but I wouldn't have you different for all the world."
It was impossible not to soften to her. Bobby softened, and peace
descended.
But it was very short-lived. Returning from church that morning,
they found old Roper, the veterinary surgeon, red-faced and
chubby-cheeked, awaiting them in the lane on his lanky grey who had
the reputation for being able to jump every five-barred gate in the
county.
"Ah, there you are!" was his greeting. "I had to come round this way
on business so thought I'd mix in a little pleasure with it. How
d'ye do, Miss Roberta? Well, Miss Rosemary, and what's your latest
mischief?"
Rosemary went straight to the grey whom she knew and clasped his long
head fondly in her hands.
Bobby paused. "How nice of you to look us up, Mr. Roper!" she said.
"I hope you are well?"
"Very well indeed, ma'am," said old Roper. "And I trust you're the
same. Have you heard the latest?"
"What is the latest?" asked Bobby.
"Why, old Ravencombe!" said Roper. "He's dead at last! It's all
over the countryside. Mean to say you've been to church and not
heard that?"
"My hat!" said Rosemary, turning a little pale. "Why, I saw him only
yesterday--for the first time. He was raving like mad. And now he's
dead, is he? My hat!"
"What? You seen him?" said old Roper. "Where was that, then? I
didn't think anybody was ever allowed to."
"At the meet," explained Rosemary. "I went trespassing up a
side-path, and there he was in a chair--with his keeper. He was
raving like anything. He looked as if he ought to have died
centuries ago. How old was he?"
"Somewhere about ninety, I believe," said Roper. "Fancy you seeing
him, little missie! Hope he didn't cast the evil eye at you. They
do say he was possessed."
Rosemary shivered and laughed. "He looked as if he were. What'll
happen now? Who's the heir?"
Old Roper shook his head. "Ask me another! There is an heir
somewhere. That's all I know."
"Well, he won't inherit much," said Rosemary. "The place has simply
gone to rack and ruin. It must have been very fine once. You know
it, Aunt Bobby."
"No, dear, I have never seen it," said Bobby.
She spoke absently, as though her thoughts were elsewhere.
Rosemary turned back to the grey who was nuzzling against her coat.
"And what were you doing over there?" questioned Roper. "Went to the
meet, eh? It was a long way for you."
"I got a lift in a car," said Rosemary. "We followed on foot, but we
didn't see anything. The going was too fast."
"Ah!" said the old riding-master, smiling at her. "It's time you had
another scamper after the hounds on horseback, Miss Rosemary.
They're meeting over the other side of Bode on Saturday. Would you
like a mount?"
"Oh, shouldn't I?" said Rosemary, with shining eyes. "Do you really
mean it, Mr. Roper? I'll come like a shot."
Bobby suddenly came to earth and spoke with decision. "No, Rosemary
dear. I am sorry, but I cannot allow any more all-day hunting until
that task is finished."
"Aunt Bobby!" Rosemary turned upon her in amazement. "But, Aunt
Bobby, not with Mr. Roper? Why, I shan't get another chance this
season!"
"I am sorry," Bobby said again. "But I have said it, and I mean it.
Thank you very much, Mr. Roper, for thinking of it. I wish it had
been possible."
"But it is possible!" cried Rosemary, divided between wrath and
dismay. "Oh, Aunt Bobby, you can't refuse me this! You simply
can't! I haven't been out with Mr. Roper for ages, while as for a
gallop after the hounds----"
"My dear," said Bobby, "nothing will alter my decision. You have
brought it upon yourself. I cannot give my consent after what passed
yesterday. So will you thank Mr. Roper and say good-bye?"
"No, I won't!" stormed Rosemary, suddenly losing all dignity and
self-control. "I'm going--I'll go whatever happens! So there!" She
actually stamped in her fever of rebellion. "It's too absurd. It
really is. Mr. Roper, I'll come with you! What time will you be
round on Saturday?"
Roper shook his head at her and turned appealingly to Bobby.
"Couldn't you think again--just for once, ma'am?" he said pleadingly.
"I'll answer for it she don't get into any mischief. Come now!
Couldn't you?"
But Bobby was adamant. "It is quite impossible," she said with
resolution, and there was nothing in face or voice to show what that
resolution cost. "Please do not think of coming round! It would be
quite useless. My niece is very busy just now, Mr. Roper, and she
will not have time. Thank you once more for the thought. Come,
Rosemary dear, we must be getting home."
But Rosemary stood motionless, her face suddenly hidden against the
face of the grey.
"There now!" said Roper. "Don't you take on, my dear! We'll manage
something later on when you've more time. The skies won't fall just
because you miss a run with the hounds, you know. Come, Miss
Rosemary, let's see that pretty smile of yours! Your aunt knows
best. Come!"
"Rosemary!" said Bobby.
Rosemary lifted her head with a jerk. She was very white, but she
sent a quivering smile upwards into Roper's face of kindly concern.
"Thank you, Mr. Roper! You're a brick," she said, and turned away
very swiftly, almost running past Bobby in the rapidity of her escape.
Roper looked after her sympathetically; then he turned to Bobby. But
something in the latter's face made him check the words he was about
to utter. He put a hasty hand to his hat and averted his eyes.
"Good morning to you, Miss Roberta!" he said.
Bobby's reply was almost inaudible as she acknowledged his salute and
went on up the muddy track after Rosemary's flying figure.
She did not overtake her, and when she reached Little Staple she was
nowhere to be seen.
She went herself to the kitchen to put on the potatoes, then she
looked into the parlour to see Matilda.
"What on earth is the matter with that tiresome child?" was her
greeting. "She came into the house just now like a tornado. I
thought there was something terrible the matter. But she tore
upstairs to her room and banged the door, so I couldn't ask."
"Leave her alone!" said Bobby. "She will be better presently. Don't
take any notice when you see her!"
"Have you had a quarrel?" asked Matilda curiously.
"No, dear, of course not. I have had to punish her for a fault,
that's all." A faint note of weariness sounded in Bobby's voice with
the words though she smiled reassuringly at her sister as she uttered
them.
"It's a pity you can't give her a good whipping," said Matilda rather
viciously. "If anyone ever deserved it. she does."
"I am afraid this is hurting her much more," said Bobby.
She began to lay the cloth, and Matilda took up a book.
"It's very cold," she remarked after a moment or two. "I wish you
would break the coal a little smaller. It takes such ages to burn
through. Put some on, will you, please? I can't do without a decent
fire at least."
Bobby complied in silence, and finished setting the table.
"Are you going to take Rosemary's up to her?" asked Matilda.
"No. I am going to fetch her down," said Bobby, and turned to the
door. "It is too cold for her to stay upstairs to-day."
"Ridiculous!" said Matilda. "Children don't know what cold means."
Bobby went up the oak stairs and paused outside Rosemary's door.
She heard sounds of her immediately. Rosemary was walking up and
down like a caged animal with a wild and desperate sobbing that
stabbed Bobby to the heart. She tried to open the door and found it
locked.
She called softly. "Rosemary, let me in, darling! Open the door!"
Rosemary's tramping and sobbing ceased on the instant, and there fell
a stillness that pierced Bobby's heart a little deeper.
"Unlock the door, child!" she urged. "I want to talk to you."
Rosemary's voice, rather high and intensely clear, came in answer.
"No, thank you, Aunt Bobby. I'd rather be alone." She paused a
moment, then added, "I don't want any dinner, thanks. Please don't
bother to bring it!"
There was such finality in her speech that Bobby judged it best to
take her at her word. She went away without further argument, but
she felt as if her heart were bleeding. Rosemary had never locked
the door against her before.
Matilda smiled somewhat sarcastically at the empty place at the table
when they sat down. "She'll be tame enough presently," she said.
Bobby said nothing and scarcely touched the meal before her.
When it was over, she went to the kitchen to discharge her various
duties while Matilda settled down for the nap before the fire so
necessary to her health.
The day was cold and cheerless with a biting wind from the east and
an overcast sky. The blast seemed to cut right through Bobby as she
went out to feed the pigs, but she faced it bravely with her head up.
It was no good doing anything else after all. But she carried a
heavier burden than usual as she went about her work.
Returning from the poultry-field, an almost overwhelming lassitude
came upon her so that she hardly knew how to drag one foot after the
other. She fought it with all the strength that remained to her, but
when she reached the barn she realized that her heart was beating
oddly and she could go no further. Mechanically she set down her
bucket and can, and sank on to the corn-bin to rest.
CHAPTER VI
YOUTH
For how long she sat there crouched in complete exhaustion she did
not know. It was not sleep that came upon her, but a kind of stupor
through which she was aware of that curious unevenness of her
heart-beats and a strange sense of oppression that seemed to develop
therefrom. But at length gradually the burden began to lift, and she
raised her head with a guilty feeling of having suffered herself to
give way. She could not remember that she had ever yielded thus
weakly before and she was thoroughly ashamed. Wearily she got up
from her lowly seat, but the next moment she reeled dizzily with
closed eyes against the whitewashed wall. Her brain seemed to have
turned fluid and she could not steady it. For a space she leaned
there helpless; then with a supreme effort she gathered up the reins
of her self-control. This was absurd. She took herself seriously to
task. There was nothing whatever the matter, save that she was
perhaps a trifle over-tired. She must get to bed early to make up
for the previous night's shortage of sleep. Meantime she must go in
and get the tea.
With this resolution firmly fixed she put away her things and left
the barn.
Her limbs felt oddly weak and inclined to double under her; but she
compelled them to bear her. Such weakness was not to be permitted
for another instant. Nevertheless, her progress was a somewhat
unsteady one, and when she reached the gate that led from the
farmyard to the garden she was glad to lean upon it for a brief
respite. She had a basket of eggs in one hand, and this she
deposited upon the ground; for she was shivering uncontrollably and
could not trust herself to hold it.
The wind was cruelly keen in this particular spot, and she felt
chilled to the bone. But she knew within herself that she lacked the
strength to open the gate and go in. So for a further space she hung
upon it, battling with the overwhelming inertia that held her.
It must have been nearly ten minutes later that a man's feet suddenly
sounded in the yard behind her, and she started out of what was very
nearly a state of semi-consciousness and began to fumble at the gate.
He came up through the dusk of the late afternoon and was close to
her almost before she had realized his presence.
"I just walked down through the fields," he said, "to see if I could
lend a hand as it's Sunday. What's the matter? Is the gate stuck?"
Then he reached her, and in a second his tone changed.
"Why, Miss Roberta--Bobby! What on earth's the matter? Are you ill?"
She answered him through lips that felt paralysed. "It--it's just
the cold that has got hold of me. Could you--could you open the
gate? It's so heavy."
"My dear!" said Silas. She felt the warmth of his body against her
and had an odd little spasm of relief as he thrust his arm about her.
"Oh, I am cold!" she said.
"I'll take you in," said Silas, and pushed open the gate with a blow
from his free hand.
"Mind my eggs!" said Bobby.
He gathered up the basket, still strongly upholding her. "Now walk!"
he said. "Just walk! Don't think about anything else!"
She obeyed him blindly, leaving direction and all other
considerations to him. Again it seemed to her that her knees would
not bear her, but this time she was urged by a power greater than her
own. As he guided her, so she went, till the farmhouse door rose up
before her, and he lifted her over the doorstep into her kitchen.
And then she found herself sitting in a chair before the fire while
he poked it vigorously into a blaze. By its light she saw his dark
face almost forbidding in its gravity, and had a strange thought that
he was rather like the Pluto of her childish fancies--a presence that
could be sinister and yet in its way pathetic also.
He turned round to her and kneeling before her, his shoulders
gigantic against the firelight, began to rub her hands. The awful
rigour of cold that bound her relaxed as he did so, and she knew that
her strength was returning.
"Thank you so much," she murmured gratefully; and a moment later,
"Don't--please--let anyone know!"
Silas said nothing whatever. He only gathered up those frozen hands
and pressed them against his neck, the while his dark eyes dwelt upon
her with a kind of smouldering heat.
"I'm better now," whispered Bobby after a few moments. "Please don't
worry about me any more! It was very kind of you to come round, but
I've finished everything. Cox can lock up when he comes."
He still held her hands, and she felt that he was quivering with some
emotion that she had never seen in him before.
"Please!" she said softly.
He spoke, under his breath. "So I'm to go away and leave you to kill
yourself, am I?"
She smiled at that; it was the only way to treat it. "Oh, don't be
silly!" she said. "You mustn't, you know. I am quite all right. It
was only the cold, and being a little tired."
She drew her hands gently from him with the words and prepared to
rise. But he made a sudden movement that checked her. Still
kneeling before her, he took her by the shoulders. His face was
sterner than she had ever seen it, and there was that in his eyes
which she found she could not meet.
"Bobby," he said, "how long is this tomfoolery to go on? When will
you see reason?"
"I don't know," said Bobby rather weakly. He made her feel weak,
holding her thus like a culprit before him.
"It's downright madness," Silas said, and though his voice was low,
the force of him was like a storm-blast against which it was
impossible to stand. "You'll have to give in. Bobby, why don't you?
Why go on till you breakdown? It won't cost you anything. I have
said it. Don't you believe me? Can't you trust me?"
"I don't know," she said again. She was not exactly frightened, but
she felt at a disadvantage, overwhelmed, helpless.
"Who is going to benefit?" he pursued relentlessly. "You say you
can't afford to be ill? But what if you are ill already? You're
overtaxing your strength every single day, and it won't last. What's
going to happen then? If you won't let me lend a hand, who else is
going to? Tell me that!"
"I don't know," whispered Bobby for the third time.
Her heart was beating strangely again, and she felt oddly scared and
uncertain of herself. Silas in this mood was a formidable
proposition, almost impossible to reckon with.
"Listen!" he said suddenly. "If you'll only agree to this thing,
you'll be just as free as you are now. I'll never ask to know any of
your secrets. Every woman has 'em, I suppose, and I've no wish or
intention to pry. I shall never want to go beyond that private gate
of yours. If it's that that's holding you back, wash it out! I'll
never trespass, that I swear to you. Whatever you keep there, it's
safe, so far as I'm concerned."
"Ah!" said Bobby. That moved her, seemed to pierce her. She put her
hand to her side, and slowly the painful colour came up over her
face, though she sought bravely to smile. For a moment or two, she
sat so, as one on the verge of speech, yet holding back. Then a
sound overhead attracted her attention, and she turned her head
sharply to listen. "Oh, please will you go?" she said then, panting
a little in her urgency. "Rosemary is coming down, and I can't--I
can't have another scene with you here. Please, Silas, please will
you go now? Forgive me for asking you to!"
"Forgive you!" said Silas. "Oh, you poor little soul! Poor
little--martyr!"
He spoke the last word under his breath and with it his hands
tightened upon her as though he would draw her to him. Then abruptly
he checked himself. There was the sound of a step on the stairs. He
released her and stood up.
For a second he seemed too moved for further speech, then he bent
over her, and she saw that the fire that shone in his eyes was
lighted by sheer devotion.
"Don't forget I'm here!" he said rather hurriedly. "Always here and
willing to help! Nothing on earth can make any difference to that as
long as I live!"
There was emotion in the low-spoken words, such emotion as stirred
her deeply. It was as though he had uttered a solemn oath before her.
She reached forward and touched his hand in answer. There was no
time for more, Rosemary was almost at the door, but ere she entered
he had swung away and gone by the outer door through which he had
come.
Bobby commanded herself and got up, still panting slightly. When
Rosemary came in, she was busy over the fire.
The girl moved slowly, as if tired out. She reached Bobby's side and
stood still.
"Aunt Bobby!" she said.
"Well, dear?" said Bobby.
It was in her heart at the sound of that spent voice to turn and put
her arms round her, but she refrained. Rosemary must be conquered
this time.
"I want to tell you something," pursued Rosemary. "Will you listen
to me a minute?"
Bobby turned towards her. They stood and faced one another in the
firelight. "What is it, dear?" she said.
Rosemary's eyes were heavy with weeping. She looked like a
broken-hearted child, and Bobby's own heart urged her again to
tenderness. But she would not yield.
"Well, Rosemary?" she said.
"I just want to say this," said Rosemary. "You have hurt
me--terribly."
"My dear," said Bobby, stifling those inner promptings with desperate
effort. "I meant to hurt you."
Rosemary winced. "You have no right--" she began, and checked
herself abruptly. "No, I shouldn't say that, I suppose. Everyone
who brings up children thinks they have a right to go on controlling
them after they are grown up. But--"
"You are not grown up, darling," said Bobby with gentle conviction.
"You will never allow that I am," said Rosemary in the same dead
tone. "But I have got to be allowed to grow up some time. I shall
be eighteen very soon, and I can't stand being treated as if I were
only eight any longer. You left off whipping me because I got too
big, not because I never deserved it any more. You will have to
leave off punishing me for the same reason."
"My dear," said Bobby very decidedly, "I shall punish you as often as
you deserve it. Now, will you move and let me get the tea?"
But Rosemary stood motionless. "I haven't finished," she said.
"Aunt Bobby, you're making a mistake. You're doing it out of love, I
daresay, but that doesn't make it any better. I've got to grow up,
whether you try to hold me back or not. I've got to have room to
grow, freedom of action and thought. Girls of my age--heaps of
them--are out in the world, making their own living. I have never
seen the world yet. I've got to see it. I mean to see it!" A
sudden quiver of passion forced itself through the dreary flatness of
her voice. "I'm going out into it to make my own living like the
rest."
"You are talking great nonsense, dear," said Bobby patiently. "In
another six or seven years perhaps we will discuss this question.
But certainly not yet."
"We are going to discuss it now!" said Rosemary, and what had been a
mere quiver in her voice rang out in open challenge. "In another six
or seven years, the best time for work--the starting time--will be
over. I won't wait till I'm twenty-five before I begin to live. I'm
going to live now! If you try to hold me in, well, I shall break
away, that's all. I shall simply have to. And--and it won't be my
fault, Aunt Bobby. It'll be yours!"
The words were spoken--words over which she had been brooding for
hours. She stood pulsing with excitement, all her girlish face aglow
with it--the impassivity dropped from her like a garment.
"Rosemary!" said Bobby.
Her voice held a deep reproach, but she said no more than that. It
was not the moment for speech, and she realized it. This quivering
eager child was all alive for the sparkling draught of life, and
though she knew she must withhold it, she would not face an open
conflict just then. She saw that Rosemary was strung up for
conflict, and for that very reason she forebore. By patient
insistence when the fire had died down, not by a desperate battle of
wills, could she hope to gain the day.
Rosemary winced again at the pain in the beloved voice. She had
known that the struggle would cost a good deal, but to yield now was
to lose everything. She dared not give ground.
"I can't help it," she said. "I don't want to hurt you. It's
hurting me too. But it's got to be faced somehow. I'm not a child
any longer. I'm a woman. You were not a child at my age, and I know
you didn't wait till you were twenty-five to grow up. Why, you--you
were engaged when you were nineteen,--just a year older than I am
now."
"Rosemary!" Bobby's voice was no longer tender; it had a ring of
sternness. "I will not have this from you. I don't know what has
come to you during these last few days, but I will have no more of
it. When you are sorry, I will listen to you; but not before."
"Sorry!" flung back Rosemary. Her slender figure stiffened with the
word, and in the leaping firelight her eyes shone like blue flames.
"Sorry--when I'm fighting for my freedom and for everything in life
worth having! Oh, Aunt Bobby, how can you misunderstand so
hopelessly? Surely you are not so old that you have forgotten?"
Bobby was facing her, but as a new strength seemed to enter into
Rosemary, her own strength seemed to wane. She went back a step and
leaned her hands upon the wooden back of the chair from which she had
just risen.
She did not speak at once, and when she did, her voice came almost in
a whisper. "My dear," she said, "I don't think I can discuss this
any further now. Perhaps you are right. Perhaps I am getting old.
Anyhow--" her voice had a piteous note--"I can't go on."
"Aunt Bobby!" Rosemary was close to her in an instant. "What is it?
Aren't you well?"
Bobby drew back from her. It was her final effort. "I am not ill,"
she said, "but I am tired. Light the lamp, dear, and we will have
tea."
"You are tired!" said Rosemary, compunction mingling with
half-startled doubt in her voice. She had never heard such an
admission from Bobby before. "But of course you are tired after last
night."
"After to-day!" corrected Bobby gently.
"I know," said Rosemary hastily. "I've been a beast. But--Aunt
Bobby--it isn't all beastliness that has made me say what I have. Do
believe that, won't you? Don't--don't be angry with me for growing
up!"
Bobby's arms came out to her. She could no longer deny the impulse.
But as Rosemary went into them with a passionate warmth and clasped
her fiercely close, she murmured soft words over her that went
straight to the girl's heart.
"My darling, don't be angry with me either for wanting to keep you
safe! My precious baby girl! My Rosemary!"
CHAPTER VII
PERCY
The days that followed were singularly quiet. To Bobby's great
relief, Rosemary made no attempt to re-open the discussion which had
so distressed her on that dark Sunday afternoon. She herself
returned to her normal ways, and though she realized that the girl
was subdued and unusually silent she judged it to be the result of a
supreme effort to be good and to make amends for her wild outburst.
The brief rebellion was evidently over, and Bobby was very thankful.
She had no time or energy to spare for these devastating struggles;
and though her heart ached over the necessity to curb and discipline
her darling, she would not appear to notice her lack of spirits lest
the flame should rekindle. She went back into her groove of daily
pressing cares and duties and became apparently engrossed in them,
the while Rosemary with outward submission accepted her punishment.
She spent hours every evening poring over her German play, and often
her eyes were heavy with fatigue and misery, but Bobby would not see.
She was very gentle with her at all times, but she would not remit
the sentence. She dared not show weakness in this respect. Rosemary
must be made to learn obedience and self-control. Only so could she
be made fit to encounter the trials and temptations of life. That
her methods were severe she fully realized, but they sprang from the
desperate desire to safeguard her treasure--a motive around which her
whole life seemed to be bent. She would not suffer Rosemary to go to
bed until her task for the day was finished, but neither would she go
herself. She would sit with her, silently mending, till the
appointed portion was mastered and could be repeated without a
mistake.
They had no time for intimate talk in those days, and that also was
in a way a relief to Bobby. Her intense physical weakness had
subsided, but she found it very difficult to maintain her usual
cheery energy. Like Rosemary, she was the victim of unwonted
depression, and her sleep had become fitful and unrefreshing. There
were times when a heavy sense of foreboding weighed her down, for
which there was no accounting. Tiny lines which had never shown
before had begun to gather about her eyes and brow. In repose her
face was no longer serene, but wistful and sometimes anxious. She
looked as if some secret trouble were gnawing at her soul. Neither
Rosemary nor Matilda noticed the change in her, both being too deeply
engrossed in their own affairs. But undeniably it was there,--a
subtle creeping change not to be defined.
Silas would have noted it, but his opportunities had been curtailed
by a note written by Bobby on the evening of that self-same Sunday
which had been so severe a trial to her strength.
"Dear Mr. Hickory," (thus ceremoniously it ran) "I want to thank you
for your great kindness to me to-day, and for your more than kind
offer of partnership. I have considered it very carefully, as you
desired, but I find it quite impossible to avail myself of it.
Please do not think me ungracious or in any way unappreciative when I
say that I feel that my only course is to go on as I am now doing,
and I do beg that you will not attempt to dissuade me from it, for my
decision is quite final. I am of course always pleased to discuss
farm matters with you, but please when we meet let it be for business
only, and not more often than business demands. I hope this request
will not seem to you unreasonable. I feel compelled by circumstances
to make it.
With my renewed thanks,
Yours sincerely,
ROBERTA WENDHOLME."
Silas's reply to this had been contained in one sentence, wholly
unceremonious.
"I accept your decision without reservation till further notice. S.
H."
Bobby had puckered her brow over that sentence, as if something in it
had pained or bewildered her, and the tiny crumple had remained like
a shadowy cloud on her bright face. She had seen nothing of Silas
Hickory since.
Mary had come up one day, and had sat in the kitchen and talked, but
her conversation had been completely commonplace and she had scarcely
mentioned Silas. Peter was much more of an every-day topic with her,
and Peter had only just escaped being tossed by the big bull. He
said it was only play, but she was by no means sure that he was right.
When she had gone again, Bobby found that she had left her
handkerchief behind, and in the morning she sent Rosemary down with
it. Whenever the sun shone now, she made Rosemary go out on one
pretext or another, for she could not bear that white, imprisoned
look that came over her face at night. The strange part was that
Rosemary did not seem to want to go out, and her interest in Jess and
her pups had waned to nothingness.
"I will go if you like, Aunt Bobby," was all she ever said when Bobby
devised some errand to take her out into the sunshine.
On the day of the Rummage Sale, which was the Saturday on which Roper
had invited her to hunt, Bobby took her down with her to the Parish
Room to help in the great sorting of rubbish which annually took
place there. Rosemary went without enthusiasm, but she made herself
quite useful in a detached and uninterested fashion, until Percy
Hudson came suddenly upon the scene and greeted her with a derisive
whoop of welcome.
"I say, you're not going to waste your time over selling this mouldy
collection, are you?" he questioned as he reached her. "Oh, chuck it
and come out with us for a spin! The Old Bean's just outside."
Rosemary's face lighted up as Bobby had not seen it for days, but it
sobered again almost immediately. "Afraid I'm busy, Percy," she said.
"Rats!" said Percy. "It is rats, isn't it, Miss Wendholme?"
appealing to Bobby. "You don't want her here, now do you?"
He spoke coaxingly, waylaying Bobby as she lifted an armful of old
clothes out of a box.
She gave him a smile. Everyone smiled at Percy. "I think it is too
cold for motoring in the open," she said.
"I'll wrap her up," said Percy. "I've got a spare coat. At least,
The Old Bean has. He always takes spares of everything. Do let her
come, I say! I'll bring her back in good condition, I promise."
Rosemary said nothing. She was bent over some price-tickets.
Bobby set down her bundle and looked at her. "Would you like to go,
Rosemary?" she said.
Rosemary stood up. The eagerness flashed back into her face. "I
should love it!" she said.
"Come on then!" said Percy. "Leave all this rubbish and come along!"
"May I, Aunt Bobby?" said Rosemary.
Bobby felt a swift pang at her heart. There was something of the
caged bird about the throbbing appeal. She could not have refused it
had she tried.
"Yes, go, darling!" she said. "It'll do you good. Wear the extra
coat and be back for lunch!"
Rosemary flung her arms impulsively round her neck. "Oh, thank you!"
she breathed. "Good-bye!"
She was gone like an arrow as though she feared the permission might
be rescinded if she lingered, Percy looking back to promise to take
care of her, in answer to Bobby's earnest request.
Outside the Parish Room, The Old Bean, standing by his two-seater
car, greeted Rosemary with a beaming face. "This is slap-up!" he
declared with enthusiasm. "What on earth have you been doing all
this week? We nearly came to look for you, but didn't quite dare."
"Native caution prevailing," laughed Percy. "Here, give us that coat
of yours, Old Bean! Not the one you've got on, silly! The other
one--the spare! Where is it?"
The Old Bean, however, divested himself of the one he was wearing,
which was of the heavy blanket variety, and held it for Rosemary to
put on.
"You have this one!" he said. "It's better than the one in the back."
She accepted without protest, anxious only to be gone.
"Who's going to drive?" said Percy.
"I am," said The Old Bean, pulling on the dilapidated "spare." "You
jump into the dickey, unless you want to be left behind!"
"Well, I got her, anyway," maintained Percy, as he complied. "I bet
you'd never have faced all that crowd of old women by yourself."
"Oh, do let's start!" cried Rosemary, literally dancing with
impatience. "Get in, Old Bean! You can think of what to say
afterwards."
He got in obediently and she swiftly followed. In another five
seconds, they were splashing in and out of the puddles down the
village street and Rosemary was laughing merrily for the sheer joy of
freedom.
"It's been a rotten week," she said. "Thank goodness it's over!"
But when The Old Bean wanted to know in what its rottenness had
consisted she would not tell him. She was bent upon enjoying her
liberty to the utmost while it lasted.
They ran through the market-town of Bode and on through Foley Down
where the hounds had met that morning.
"We're too late for the meet," said The Old Bean, "but we may see
something of them."
"Oh, don't let's bother about the hounds!" begged Rosemary. "Let's
just go as far as ever we can before we have to turn back!"
He looked at her through his glasses which made his eyes seem greener
than they actually were. Then he pressed the accelerator without
comment, and they shot forward over the shining wet road, while
Rosemary laughed again in sheer, delirious enjoyment.
It was Percy presently who called a halt when they were several miles
on the other side of Bode. He did not feel that he was getting his
fair share of their guest, especially as his acquaintance with
Rosemary was of considerably longer standing than The Old Bean's.
They came to a stand on a wide furze-covered common over which the
sea-gulls were flying in the fitful sunshine with plaintive cries.
"What a heavenly place!" said Rosemary. "And it smells of the sea
too. We can't be very far away from it."
"We're not," said The Old Bean. "Foley Beacon is only about six
miles farther on. I thought perhaps we might get as far if we stuck
to it."
"We can't, then," said Percy. "She's got to be back to lunch,
haven't you, Rosemary?"
"Afraid I have," she said reluctantly.
"There's some chocolate in one of those pockets," said The Old Bean.
"I suppose that wouldn't do instead?"
"Oh, it isn't that," said Rosemary. "I'd go without lunch and tea
and supper too if I could stay out. But I mustn't. Aunt Bobby would
be fussing."
"Well, let's have the chocolate anyway!" said Percy. "I'm famished.
It's beastly draughty at the back here, Old Bean. You can have it
going home."
"Very well," said The Old Bean, "if Rosemary has no objection to your
driving."
Rosemary objected to nothing. She was thoroughly enjoying herself.
There was a subtle pleasure also in feeling that they were vying with
each other to get the most of her. It was a novel experience and a
very gratifying one.
They all sat in the sunshine and ate The Old Bean's chocolate with a
good deal of merriment; then The Old Bean climbed into the
dickey-seat and Percy took his place at the wheel.
She realized at once that he was a far less experienced driver than
The Old Bean, and for a little while she was inclined to regret the
exchange. But, like Percy, she exulted in speed, and very soon his
recklessness had her spell-bound. The Old Bean, huddled in the
background, blue with cold, wholly ceased to count.
All that had been pent up in her during the past week seemed to find
vent in that wild rush homewards. The very blood was singing in her
veins when, awaking to the fact that they were nearing Bode and the
end of their run, she begged Percy to slow down lest they should get
in before their time.
"Better be ten minutes late than early!" she urged.
"Right ho!" said Percy, reducing speed obligingly.
It was just as well, for to have rushed through Bode at that pace
would have been to ask for trouble. As it was, their progress
through the town was as sedate as the most exacting could have
desired and they reached the open country again without incident.
"What are you going to do for Christmas?" asked Percy suddenly.
"Do?" Rosemary looked at him with round eyes of scorn. "Same as
usual, I suppose. What do we ever do besides breathe?"
He laughed. Rosemary's retorts always amused him. "Well, what about
this Boxing Day show at Bode? It'll be something of an event, I
hear. And if you're still game----"
"Of course I'm game!" said Rosemary.
He leaned slightly towards her. "Well, don't tell The Old Bean,
because he's off it. He's a bit of an aunt, you know. We'll do as
we said. I'll come round and pick you up--about nineish, what? I'll
wait for you at the end of the lane. And then we'll go off and have
an almighty spree. How's that?"
Rosemary's eyes had the living fire of jewels. "Percy!" she
breathed. "How--heavenly!"
He laughed again at her. Her vivid, arresting eagerness lent spice
to the adventure.
"Right ho!" he said. "Then that's settled. To-day week, isn't it?"
"To-day week!" cried Rosemary, and her laughter had the wild
sweetness of a stringed instrument touched unawares.
Percy gave her a swift side-glance and drove on.
CHAPTER VIII
CHRISTMAS
Christmas that year was, as Matilda said, a failure. To begin with,
she herself was in bed, this time with a cold that really did
threaten to become serious. Dr. Bellamy of Bode, summoned by Cox on
Christmas Eve, warned Bobby that an absolutely warm and even
temperature must be maintained in her room, and this necessitated
Bobby sleeping on a couch at the foot of the invalid's bed to keep
the fire alight. This she did with complete good temper though it
meant that her own night must of necessity be a very broken one. For
Matilda was not of those who hesitate to take full advantage of such
a situation, and her demands upon Bobby's services were much more
frequent and imperious than those of the fire. Time after time her
querulous voice summoned the uncomplaining sister to her side, to
pour out the medicine at her elbow, to bathe her forehead, to
rearrange the bedclothes, till even when reluctantly she fell asleep
herself, all desire for slumber had deserted the patient Bobby, and
she merely lay wide-eyed, watching the fire, until morning broke
chill and grey to bring her another day of work.
It was pitilessly wet and cold, and she shivered as she crept
downstairs to light the kitchen fire. Her own face, reflected in one
of her shining dish-covers, looked pinched and blue, but there was no
one about to notice that, and a cup of tea made a lot of difference.
She had planned to go to an early service, but with Matilda on her
hands she knew that this was out of the question, and, since Rosemary
never went without her, she did not go up to call her any earlier
than usual. Matilda was sleeping quite comfortably, but she could
not trust her to do so for any length of time and she knew that she
would be bitterly reproached if she were not at hand when she awoke.
But she slipped out, nevertheless, to feed the pigs and poultry,
shivering afresh as she went forth into the wet gloom of the early
morning upon her errand.
The last thing she expected upon reaching the barn was to encounter
the burly figure of Silas Hickory very obviously waiting for her.
He came to meet her with a purposeful stride and spoke before she had
time to protest.
"I want the keys, please. I'll see to everything. It's what I've
come for. And the hot chicken-food! Thanks! Now will you go
straight back into the house and stay there!"
It was not a request. It was a definite command, and while he spoke
he was taking everything she held from her with a rock-like intention
to which she fully realized that it was useless to oppose herself.
"I haven't come to see you," he said. "I've come to do the work,
that's all, and I shall be round this afternoon to do it too. Now
please go straight in! You're looking rotten. And there's no sense
in your getting ill too. As you say, you can't afford to."
His grim speech was quite irresistible. Bobby abandoned all attempts
to assert herself. Meekly she surrendered everything to his
management.
"It's very, very kind of you," was all she found to say.
To which remark Silas made no response of any description.
When she was back in her own kitchen she remembered that it was
Christmas Day and wished that she had given him a suitable greeting,
but reflected that his appearance had been so forbidding that she
would scarcely have dared to offer it. She laughed to herself rather
weakly over the episode since she discovered that for some unknown
reason she would have preferred to cry, but the unexpected leisure
gave her time to pull herself together, and when she went up to
Rosemary's room she had quite regained her self-command.
She found the girl already up and dressing and eager to help. She
was surprised to hear that the outside work was finished, but Bobby
gave no explanation. She was not answerable to Rosemary. They had
an early breakfast together and she gave her a trifling gift of
handkerchiefs to mark the day. She was somewhat touched when
Rosemary responded with a cake of scented soap which she had bought
out of her very slender monthly allowance because Aunt Bobby never
indulged in such a luxury herself. No gifts ever passed between
Rosemary and Matilda, but Bobby had kept up old custom and when she
carried up her breakfast-tray it was decorated with a dainty
lavender-sachet of her own making. Of course, as Matilda remarked,
it was rather a farce to keep Christmas at all out in the wilds. She
was not attempting to do so herself since it only made her feel more
wretched, but if it gave Bobby any gratification she would certainly
put her little offering among her linen.
"That is just what it is meant for," said Bobby with her cheery smile.
There was no question of going to church in the morning, for Matilda
would not hear of being left for so long, and Rosemary fought so hard
against being sent alone that Bobby gave up the contest with a sigh.
Somehow, though she severely blamed herself for her slackness, it did
not seem worth a struggle. She was sure that Rosemary would not come
back any the better for having been sent against her will. She could
not, however, be with her much, for Matilda was in one of her most
exacting moods, and the only way of pacifying her was to give in.
And so the whole of her morning was spent between the sick-room and
the kitchen, and she scarcely knew how Rosemary was employing her
time. She attended to Dobbin and to Jess and her family, but beyond
that Bobby somewhat lost sight of her.
"It is dull for the child," she said to herself as she laid the table
for their midday meal together. "Just when everyone else is having
such a gay time!"
Silas' offer of partnership came before her, and for a few minutes
she reviewed the possibilities he had suggested. To have time to be
with her Rosemary, to give her those opportunities for amusement
which till then had been so completely inaccessible, to be a real
companion to the child so that those wild outbursts which were simply
the result of an eager nature thrown upon itself might never occur
again, to mould her day by day until she grew up into a gracious and
happy womanhood, to watch over her and guide her till all danger was
past, perhaps to see her at last happily settled in life! A great
sigh burst from Bobby, and again she was acutely conscious of a
longing to sit down and cry. For it was all hopelessly out of reach.
She could not accept this thing from Silas, even though he had made
that rugged promise that he would not seek thereby to further his
suit. She could not place herself thus under his care. She ought
not even to allow him to feed her pigs for her. It was true that she
could not very well help it, but the sense of guilt remained. In so
doing, she was taking that which she could never repay and violating
one of the leading principles of her life.
Resolutely she turned her thoughts away. Not even for Rosemary could
she incur any further obligation. Silas was a man of iron will, and
she knew already that that will of his ringed her round, even though
it might never close upon her. She believed that he was supremely
honest, and that he had every intention of keeping his promise to
her, but she had a curious feeling that it was not with Silas alone
that she had to reckon. That strange physical weakness which had
troubled her of late had made her begin to doubt herself. She had
barely held her own with Rosemary. How would it be if circumstances
combined to weaken her still further? She had always thought that
she could stand alone, but now--oddly she asked herself the
question--was she really such a tower of strength as to be
invulnerable to all attack? Could she really expect always to be
able to cope with the ever-increasing burden of responsibility thrust
upon her? Might not a time come, be even now approaching, when her
powers would begin to falter and at length to fail? Something was
happening to her already. Perhaps it was old age! She smiled wanly
at the thought. It was one of the contingencies that she had never
allowed for. But she realized it now as a definite possibility. She
had recognized for a long time that life had been much easier when
Rosemary was a child, and had ascribed the growing difficulties of
late years to her inevitable development. But was it not equally the
fact that she herself had left the golden morning-time behind her?
Could she ever summon now even a faint afterglow of the radiant youth
which once had been hers? Was she not in truth growing old, tired,
jaded?
The vision of Silas came back upon her suddenly, like a weapon of
defence swiftly grasped. She saw again the fire in his eyes--the
impulsive movement, sternly checked, to draw her nearer. And she was
conscious of a warmth spreading through her with the memory. But yet
again resolutely she turned her thoughts aside. She had no right to
view his devotion thus. He probably saw in her something that was
wholly invisible to everyone else, something which quite probably
existed in his imagination alone. He did not know--how could
he?--that the thing he sought to grasp was but a shadow, that no
answering fire could ever kindle in response to his, that the relish
of life had utterly gone from her with the long, long drudgery of the
years and the pitiful weariness of a waiting that had been in vain.
A great lump rose unexpectedly in her throat, and she stood up
quickly and turned her back to the window, for her eyes were full of
tears. Desperately she fought for self-control, knowing even while
she fought that her powers of resistance were not what they had been,
feeling as if some hidden opponent were beating them down. But in
the end she mastered herself; for Rosemary must not find her thus.
Rosemary had never come into actual touch with this unaccountable
weakness, and it must of necessity be kept from her at all costs.
All hope for the future seemed to hang upon that.
And so when Rosemary came in a little later she found her bravely
smiling and no suspicion that any cloud had arisen to dim that sunny
serenity entered her head. As a matter of fact she did not give much
thought to Bobby. Her thoughts were wrapped up deep within herself,
as was so often now the case, and when she spoke it was absently and
without interest. Like Matilda she regarded Christmas as a farce to
be ignored as far as possible. It was useless to pretend to a
jollity she did not feel. She even, when the meal was over, took out
her Schiller and sat down in the chimney-corner to con her task,
though Bobby sought to stay her with a loving hand upon her shoulder.
"What, to-day, dearest! Surely not to-day!"
Rosemary did not raise her eyes. "I may as well," she said. "Why
not? There's nothing else to do."
True beyond disputing! Bobby turned away without further words. In
earlier years they would have played some childish game together, and
the hours would have flown unnoticed. But childish games were over
now. She could not even suggest them. Rosemary had grown up.
Also, there was Matilda to be thought of,--poor, grumbling Matilda
lying alone upstairs. It came to her with a pang that Matilda's need
of her was greater than Rosemary's.
She quietly set the kitchen in order and went upstairs to sit with
her.
CHAPTER IX
THE DREAM
Even Bobby breathed a sigh of relief when that Christmas Day came to
an end and she settled down to another night on the couch in
Matilda's room. She had not seen Silas again though she had heard
his step in the yard and had known that he was attending to her
duties according to his promise. Somehow it had seemed best to leave
him alone and let him have his way. She had no strength for argument.
Matilda's cold was better, and the bronchial symptoms had almost
subsided. She was thankful that this was so, but for some reason
Matilda was not. She observed peevishly that she supposed now she
would be left to her own devices to get over the attack as best she
could, and for a good hour Bobby had to lie and listen to her
plaints. But she talked herself to sleep at last, and peace
descended. Bobby also sank into slumber.
She awoke very suddenly about one o'clock with a curious feeling of
having been aroused, though she was not aware of any sound which
could have disturbed her. The fire was burning evenly and slowly;
she had stoked it scientifically before lying down, and it would not
need attention for some time. Matilda was sleeping peacefully as she
had slept for the past two hours, and the whole house seemed quiet
and normal. Yet she found herself fully awake and conscious
throughout her whole being that something had happened to make her
so. Some influence--it might have been telepathy--had stirred her
sleeping brain, and she was alert and listening, just as though a
voice had spoken in the room.
She sat up, gazing all about her into the shadows. The nightlight on
the table beside Matilda's bed threw a small ghostly circle of light.
By it she saw her sister's sleeping face, its beautiful outline
flawless against the pillow, unmarred by the fretting seams of her
daily life; and for many moments she remained motionless, watching it
with eyes of deep compassion. Was it something in Matilda that had
called to her--some memory of their past fashioned by a dream?
She could not tell, yet as she watched, memories arose within her of
those girlish days that they had shared together, inseparable
companions and confidantes, and something of the old devotion stirred
in her heart. Had she begun to grow hard of late in her dealings
with Matilda? Was the strenuous life she led making her curt and
unsympathetic? With Rosemary also, was she so sacrificing herself to
supply the needs of the body as to have no time left to provide for
those of the soul?
A sharp pang that was like a physical stab went through her, and she
put a hand to her throat. Had she indeed failed them both, while
giving them all that she had?
Her thoughts left Matilda to return to her younger and infinitely
more precious charge. She lay down again in the dimness, brooding
tenderly over her beloved one, striving with anxious foreboding to
pierce the future. But weariness came upon her as she lay, and her
thoughts grew confused and fantastic. She drifted once more into
sleep.
For a space she seemed to hover on the edge of a deep repose, then
those thoughts of hers became active again, and as though a fire had
kindled at the back of her brain she saw them take monstrous shape,
like shadows flung upon a wall. Vivid yet strangely distorted, her
vision grew, till the face of Rosemary rose before her, and she gazed
spell-bound, as one who looks into the future. Such was her dream,
she saw naught but that girlish face; yet was she tragically aware of
other things about it and beyond, shapes that came and went in
indistinguishable confusion upon that lurid screen, voices that
seemed to mock and die away ere she could grasp their meaning.
But through it all remained the clear vision of her darling's face,
and on that face she read the interpretation of her dream as though
it had been words upon a scroll.
At first, it was the Rosemary she knew, the gay, careless girl with
the laughing eyes that looked down upon her, but very gradually it
changed. She saw a curious troubled wonder dawn, an incredulous
expression of disillusionment through which the laughter still sought
to linger. Trembling, she watched the laughter fade, wiped out as it
were by an unseen, ruthless hand. And in its place she saw fear--a
startled, swift-rising horror--grow, dilating the innocent eyes,
driving out the last lingering gaiety of youth.
When that happened she tried to rise and go to her, but, as though
iron fetters bound her, she was powerless to move. She could only
lie and watch,--see the horror turn to anguish, to a tortured
fruitless striving to escape, finally fading to a dreadful grey ness
of despair more terrible than suffering itself.
And through it all she was conscious of forms and voices, sometimes
near, sometimes far, never wholly distinguishable, like the
scarcely-seen background of a tapestry upon which a vivid tragedy was
portrayed.
In the end came darkness, and with it the urgent need to fight
against her bonds. The awful inertia was still upon her, but she
struggled against it in a sort of frenzy, freeing first one limb and
then another, until at last she burst upwards like a diver rising to
the surface, and found herself on her feet and gasping in the middle
of the room.
At the same instant came Matilda's voice, fretfully distinct,
banishing her terrors. "Oh dear, oh dear, Bobby! What is the
matter? Are you quite mad, I wonder?"
With a swift effort Bobby collected herself; but she was cold from
head to foot and trembling violently.
"It's quite all right, Matilda. I am so sorry. Go to sleep again!"
"I haven't been asleep yet," complained Matilda. "You've been
moaning in your sleep in the most horrible way. I do wish you would
show a little more consideration. It really is most unfair."
"I'm sorry, dear," Bobby reiterated meekly. "I'll make up the fire,
shall I, and then you won't be disturbed again?"
But Matilda, now that she was aroused, wanted more than that in the
way of attention. The bed needed a thorough rearranging. She must
have _eau-de-cologne_ for her head. Her feet were cold. Would Bobby
please reheat the water in her bottle? Also, a little warm milk
might be a help to her since it was so evidently going to be a
sleepless night.
Without a word, Bobby set herself to satisfy these various needs,
well knowing that it was the only way to secure peace. For nearly
half-an-hour she busied herself with ministrations to her sister, and
though her trembling ceased her heart was icy-cold within her. She
felt as though it were a vision and not a dream upon which she had
gazed.
When all was done at length, and Matilda, unable to think of any
further needs, was actually growing drowsy again, she sat down before
the newly-replenished fire and tried to draw a little warmth into her
being.
But the inner coldness persisted. Her very soul felt ice-bound. And
when presently Matilda's quiet breathing announced the fact that she
slept, she rose very stealthily and crept to the door. She knew that
she would never melt that awful chill until she had satisfied herself
that Rosemary was safe.
The door creaked on its hinges as she opened it, but Matilda did not
awake. She left it unlatched and stole out into the dark passage.
Rosemary's room was at the end, and as she felt her way towards it,
she had a sudden shock. There was a faint streak of light visible
under the door.
For a moment the discovery almost overwhelmed her. She stopped,
unconsciously clutching at her heart. Then, controlling herself, she
crept on again. The child must have fallen asleep with her light
still burning. She would slip into the room and put it out without
disturbing her.
She reached the door and felt for the latch. Softly she raised it
and pushed. The door resisted her. Once again it was locked against
her.
She lowered the latch again and paused, uncertain. What should she
do? There was no movement to be heard in the room. Or stay! Was
there the sound of a caught breath--a stealthy rustle--the faint
creak of a board pressed by a bare foot?
It was possible that she imagined these things. She knew that her
nerves were wrought up to a pitch that might easily cause
self-deception. But the locked door troubled her. She felt she
could not go back to her own couch without satisfying herself that
Rosemary slept. And there was the danger of a flickering candle also
to be considered. Rosemary was often careless in little things, and
it might be close to the bed.
The thought tortured her; yet still she stood in the icy passage,
hesitating, unwilling to take action, unwilling to retreat. She had
begun to shiver uncontrollably again. A gust of wind blew whistling
round the old house and she felt chilled to the bone.
"I must go," she whispered to herself, but still she lingered, the
memory of her vision holding her.
Finally, rousing herself to effort, she raised her hand in the
darkness and softly tapped.
In that instant the light in the room went out. There was no sound
save that very faint tapping of hers and the distant moan of the wind
as it passed. But she stood in total blackness. The streak had
vanished.
For a space she remained there motionless, straining every nerve to
listen. But utter silence reigned beyond that locked door, and she
even began to ask herself at length if her senses had tricked her
after all and the light had been but an illusion. She knew in her
heart that it was not so, but she had no proof to offer. In any case
it seemed that Rosemary slept, and the light--if indeed it had been
there--must have been extinguished by the draught. Again she became
aware of intense cold--such cold as preyed upon her very vitality
itself--the cold that had gripped her that day in the yard when Silas
had come to the rescue. The thought of him swept over her with a
rush of feeling for which she could not account, and suddenly her
eyes were full of tears.
"I must go," she said to herself again, and turning began to grope
her way back.
There was nothing to keep her there. Rosemary evidently slept, and
it would not be kind to disturb her. She would speak to her in the
morning about the locking of her door, but till then she must be
content. She went back to the fire and huddled over it, shivering
intermittently, until at length utter weariness overcame the cold,
and she crept to her couch and slept.
CHAPTER X
THE BARRIER
A leaden weariness hung upon Bobby in the morning, a weariness so
great that for the first time in many years she would have overslept;
but Matilda, calling to her to make up the fire again, roused her.
She got up and dressed and went downstairs. She took up a cup of tea
to Matilda, since she was awake, before starting upon the usual round
of duties; and then, hearing a step in the yard, she went down to
unlock the door.
She expected to find Cox upon the threshold, though it was somewhat
early still. But it was not Cox who greeted her out of the raw dark
of the winter morning.
"Good morning, Miss Roberta!" said Silas. "I want the keys, please,
and the hot stuff for the hens. Is it ready?"
She gave ground before him, her hand oddly pressed to her heart. He
came in, took the keys from the nail himself, and then passed on to
the kitchen-fire in search of the food.
Bobby followed and joined him there. "You really shouldn't," she
began.
He interrupted her sternly. "Miss Roberta, I am the best judge of
that. Anyhow, we won't stop to discuss it now. You've got something
better to do, and so have I."
He lifted the hot meal off the fire with the words, took up the
wooden spoon from the table, and turned to go.
"Won't you have some tea?" she suggested as he reached the door.
He threw her an abrupt smile over his shoulder. "No, thanks. Mary's
seen to that. Have another cup yourself! I'll be back presently
with the eggs."
He was gone. The door clanged behind him, and Bobby was left
standing before the fire.
"What ever shall I do?" she said. "There's no stopping him."
Which was true. Silas's steam-roller tactics completely outmatched
her subtler methods. To stand in his way was to be flattened out.
It seemed safer to step on one side and leave his progress unopposed.
She took his advice and drank some more tea, which considerably
revived her. When he came in some time later with the eggs, she had
mastered her weariness and was deep in the morning's work.
He set down the basket and looked at her. "Is that how you're going
on all day?" he said.
She was cleaning the grate in the parlour. She glanced up at the
bulky figure filling the doorway without rising from her knees.
"I never mind anything when once the fires are lighted," she said.
"They just make all the difference."
"Then I'll come round and light your fires for you too," said Silas.
She laughed, though he remained serious. "Indeed you won't do
anything more for me! You are already doing much too much. I ought
not to let you do it, only----"
"You can't help it," said Silas, turning on his heel.
It was quite true, but she felt she should not have let it pass
unchallenged He was gone, however, while she was still searching for
a suitable reply.
She returned to her work with more vigour. Somehow the encounter had
done her good, even though she had had the worst of it. She
determined that as soon as Matilda was about again, she would
re-assert her independence.
She went up to call Rosemary at her usual hour, and found her already
up and dressing. The girl's greeting of her was just as loving as
usual, but it seemed to Bobby that the reserve of the past few days
was made almost more palpable in consequence. Or was it her own
state of mind that made her suspicious? She tried to think so as she
gazed at the fresh young face which had so tortured her in her dream.
Not until they were seated at breakfast together did she broach the
subject of her night adventure, and then it was with a curious sense
of reluctance that was almost dread.
"Rosemary darling," she said, "I saw your light burning in the middle
of the night. Did you leave it alight by mistake?"
Rosemary's eyes came straight to hers with unfaltering directness.
"No, I didn't, Aunt Bobby," she said. "I lighted it on purpose."
"Why, darling?" Bobby was aware of a faint note of distress in her
voice, though she tried to keep it normal.
"I didn't feel sleepy," said Rosemary. "It's not much fun lying in
the dark when one is wide awake."
"You shouldn't have been wide awake, dear," said
Bobby. "What was the matter? You weren't startled, were you?"
Rosemary's eyes remained unflinchingly direct, but they seemed to
grow a little darker. "No, I wasn't frightened at anything," she
said. "Why?"
With a conscious effort Bobby made reply. "Because when I tried to
come in to you, I found your door locked."
"Oh!" said Rosemary in a tone of enlightenment. "I thought I heard
something just as I was settling down, but the wind was making such a
noise one couldn't be sure."
"But, darling, the door!" said Bobby almost in a voice of pleading.
"Why was it locked?"
A gleam of revolt shone suddenly in Rosemary's eyes. "Because I
locked it, I suppose," she said with brevity.
Bobby gathered her forces. "I would rather you didn't lock it,
dear," she said quietly. "It is unnecessary and it might be
dangerous. Please don't lock it again!"
Rosemary's eyes took fire. She sat for a moment quite motionless,
then with a hard breath she spoke. "Am I to be denied even privacy,
Aunt Bobby? Do you call that quite fair?"
It was not the words but the tone that told Bobby that a struggle was
before her. She sought to avert it, albeit with a sinking heart.
"You will do as I say, please, Rosemary, or----"
"Or what?" demanded Rosemary.
"Or I shall have to take away the key," said Bobby.
Rosemary stiffened as she sat. Her face went slowly white, but her
eyes remained fiercely alight, flaming.
It was a swift sense of expediency that moved Bobby to continue ere
she could give utterance to the seething rebellion within her. "You
see, darling, it really is a very unreasonable thing to do. Who do
you want to lock out? Surely not me! And I am the only person who
ever enters your room besides yourself."
Again there was pleading in her voice, but she felt even as she spoke
that she spoke in vain. The gathering storm of revolt could scarcely
be quelled by any but stern measures at this stage. She summoned all
her strength for a battle. And then to her amazement she found it
was not needed.
Rosemary spoke, almost under her breath. "You know best, Aunt
Bobby," she said, and with the words she dropped her lids over those
burning eyes and resumed her breakfast.
It was the strangest submission that she had ever accorded to Bobby's
authority, and for the moment the latter was almost breathless with
surprise. She watched her covertly as she resumed her own meal, but
she detected no faintest sign of emotion in Rosemary's bearing and
behaviour. She acted precisely as though there had been no
discussion of any sort between them, and to Bobby who so well knew
her tempestuous moods there appeared to be something ominous in her
calm acceptance of defeat. Though she realized that the struggle was
definitely over, she could not feel any genuine relief. Somehow it
seemed to her that a battle, however arduous, would have been more
satisfactory in the end.
When the meal was over, she put her arm round Rosemary and kissed
her. Instantly she was aware of a curious sense of withdrawal wholly
indefinite in the girl. Rosemary accepted her embrace, even returned
it, but there was no spontaneity in her action. Bobby felt chilled
to the heart, though there was nothing whatever in her conduct to
which to take exception.
Perhaps she was getting over-critical, she told herself as she went
about her work. Perhaps she expected too much. But the fact
remained, and could not be ignored, that Rosemary had somehow made
her feel that a barrier even stronger than the oak door upstairs had
been raised against her, and no effort of hers would avail to break
it down.
The day was grey and very cold. There was a hint of snow in the air,
and no glint of sunshine penetrated the clouds. The coming of Dr.
Bellamy was the only bright spot in the general monotony. Bobby
welcomed him because he cheered Matilda, who was never irritable or
difficult in his presence. He was essentially a cheery individual of
perennial youth and vigour in spite of the fact that he had been
twice widowed. Bobby never had much time for him, but Matilda was
wont to declare that he was the only person worth knowing in the
wilderness in which they lived.
He spent some time cracking jokes with her upstairs while Bobby was
preparing the lunch, and when he descended he told her that her
sister would soon be able to come down again.
"You'll have to take care of her," he said. "Don't let her do too
much! You energetic people who keep going all day don't always
realize that it isn't everyone who can."
Bobby smiled upon him--such a smile as she would have bestowed upon
an over-intelligent child. "Oh, I'm not quite so energetic as that,"
she said.
Dr. Bellamy peered shortsightedly about him. "And where is
Rosemary?" he said.
"I think she is in the stable," said Bobby. "She is busy outside,
anyway."
He rubbed his hands together. "Splendid, Miss Roberta! You have a
wonderful gift for making people work. And how goes the farm?
Flourishing as usual?"
"Much as usual," smiled Bobby.
He went to the window that looked across the yard. "Hullo! Hullo!
A visitor! Young Hudson, isn't it? Aha! Miss Rosemary has found a
helper!"
Bobby glanced out. The stable-door was open, and just within it she
saw a grey figure which she also recognized as that of Percy Hudson,
though his back was towards her. Rosemary was out of sight, but a
shout of merry laughter testified to her presence inside, and Bobby
turned away with a sharp pang. She had not heard her laugh like that
for weeks.
Dr. Bellamy continued his facetious remarks. "You'll have to look
after that young lady. She's getting to the saucy stage. And she's
got looks enough to trail all the unmarried men in the county at her
heels. Which reminds me. The new Lord Ravencombe is expected down,
I hear, and he is one of them. He has only just arrived in England.
No, he won't be staying at the Abbey. The place is still shut up,
and it'll want some rebuilding before it's habitable. But rumour has
it that he is going to take it in hand. It'll brighten things up
considerably locally if he does."
"It's five miles away," observed Bobby. "I hardly think it would
make much difference to Stapleton."
"Don't you be too sure!" laughed Dr. Bellamy. "The property includes
the greater part of Bode. You had better secure his custom for eggs,
my dear lady. Yours are the only hens I know that do their duty in
the winter."
She laughed with him. It was his chief recommendation in her eyes
that he never expected anything else. She sometimes thought that he
prided himself on being able to raise a laugh wherever he went,
though he did not always know how he did it. One thing was certain.
In a social sense he never required more than half her attention.
"Well, well," he said, "I must be going. You keep an eye on that
young fledgling of yours or you'll have her spreading her wings
before you know where you are!"
Bobby bade him a smiling farewell, and wondered as she did so if he
had ever made an original remark in his life.
After letting him out at the front door, she turned to the back to
summon Rosemary to lunch, and met her just coming in.
"Was that Percy Hudson I saw just now?" she asked. "Won't he come
in?"
Rosemary entered. Her face was all aglow with the exertion of
sweeping the stable, and even Bobby was for an instant startled by
the sheer beauty of her. She had an arresting look. Yet her voice
sounded wholly indifferent as she made reply.
"Yes, it was Percy. He's gone again. He was passing this way and
looked in."
Careless words spoken with the utmost carelessness while she surveyed
herself in one of Bobby's shining dish-covers! Why did Bobby's
anxious heart sink a little lower as she heard them?
"What a guy I look!" was Rosemary's conclusion. "I'd better go and
get decent. I'll be down by the time you've taken up Aunt Matilda's
tray."
She departed, and Bobby stifled a sigh. Was it merely youth, or was
it artifice, that had raised that barrier against her?
CHAPTER XI
THE EMPTY ROOM
Something told Bobby that as it was Boxing Day and Cox was working
short hours, she would not be left unassisted that afternoon. But
for some reason Rosemary was determined to do the feeding for her,
and when she heard the familiar step in the yard, she went out
quickly to intercept the second helper.
"Rosemary is doing it all," she told him rather nervously. "Thank
you so much for coming up. But please don't come again!"
He looked down at her oddly, half-whimsically. "I've come on
business only," he said.
She understood the reference and coloured. "I know. You are more
than kind. But you see--I really don't need your help this time."
"And when you do need it," said Silas, "I suppose you won't dream of
letting me know."
She raised her eyes steadily to his. "I think I would," she said,
"if I needed it very badly."
"But would you?" said Silas.
For one moment she hesitated. Then she held out her hand to him. "I
would," she said simply.
It was the action of a friend, no more, and his answering grasp was
exactly what she desired it to be. He was learning by rigorous
self-discipline to meet her need.
"Thank you for that," he said.
She laughed rather tremulously. "How nicely you put things! Won't
you come in for a minute? I am all alone."
"Are you ever anything else?" he said. "No, I won't come in, thanks.
I've plenty to do. Everything going all right?"
"Oh yes," said Bobby.
She knew his eyes were upon her, and she met their scrutiny with a
conscious effort, feeling that in spite of her they saw too much.
He made no comment, however, upon what he saw. "I shall be round in
the morning," he remarked briefly, and went his way without looking
back.
The dusk swallowed him, and she went back to her kitchen with a
half-sigh. For a reason wholly unaccountable she felt as if she were
fighting against heavier odds than usual that day. She asked herself
for the first time what life would be without that strong friend of
hers waiting within reach to help her. It was being gradually but
very strongly borne in upon her that the burden she carried was
beyond her strength.
Nevertheless, when Rosemary returned for tea she managed to present
her usual serene front. She dared not seem to flag in her presence.
There was too much at stake.
But Rosemary was too abstracted to notice anything beyond the
ordinary in her aunt's demeanour. She had her tea with scarcely a
word, and immediately took up her Schiller thereafter while Bobby
washed up and then went to sit with Matilda.
The night fell with an icy rain which soon turned to snow--the first
of the season.
"It'll be deep in the morning," said Bobby.
"I certainly shall not come down if it is," said Matilda.
"I expect a good night will make all the difference," said Bobby.
"Well, I earnestly hope you will allow me to have a good night this
time," remarked Matilda. "I can assure you that being awakened by
anyone in a wild nightmare is anything but helpful to a poor invalid.
What on earth did you think was the matter last night, I wonder?"
"I really can't tell you," said Bobby. "But I will sleep in my own
room to-night if you like, and then you will be undisturbed."
"With a deep snow and the fire going out!" said Matilda. "You really
are the most inconsiderate person I have ever met. You would
probably find me dead in the morning, and I don't suppose you would
mind if you did."
"Don't be ridiculous, dear!" said Bobby.
"Well, I often think I am nothing but a burden to you," said Matilda
pathetically. "You would be much happier with only Rosemary to look
after, and it's absurd to pretend otherwise. You have never thought
of anyone but that child ever since she made her unfortunate
appearance in this world."
"Well, I don't think we need quarrel about that," said Bobby, bending
lower over her work.
"Quarrel! I never want to quarrel," declared Matilda. "I am sure no
one can say I am hard to live with. It is you who make all the
difficulties. Dr. Bellamy was saying only to-day what a splendid
patient I am. He knows what poor health I have, far better than you
do. But even he never guesses what trials I have to bear as well.
You get more and more heartless every day."
She ended on a doleful note that was not without a suggestion of
tears, but Bobby did not look up.
She only murmured the word, "Heartless!" over her work.
Matilda pursued her theme with rising emotion. "Ever since you took
to this horrible farm-work, I've seen you changing. You used to be
so warm-hearted and quick of perception. Why, I remember--even
now--how on the day I was to have been married, you put your arms
round me and comforted me and promised--yes, promised--you would
never leave me." She paused to wipe away her tears. "And now you
lightly talk of letting me sleep alone and make up my own fire when I
am ill and needing attention. You would never have done that in
those days."
"Ah!" Bobby almost whispered the words with her head still bent.
"Perhaps--we have both changed--since then."
"I haven't," declared Matilda. "I am just the same loving, credulous
creature that I was as a girl. How I used to believe in
everybody--especially you--and your devotion----"
She began to choke over the words; her tears were flowing freely.
Bobby looked up at last, and then with quiet suddenness rose and came
to the side of the bed.
"Matilda," she said, "stop crying! It won't do you any good, and
you've nothing to cry about. Matilda, are you listening? Stop!"
There was no harshness in her voice, but it held indisputable
authority. Matilda changed her tactics and began to cough. Much can
be expressed by a coughing-fit. When she was quiet again, the tears
had ceased.
"You are very unkind," she said to the rigid figure standing by her
bedside.
"I don't think I am," said Bobby, and, stooping, rearranged her
pillows and kissed her. "But we must be sensible, you and I. We
can't afford to be anything else."
"Oh, don't use that horrid verb!" protested Matilda. "Have we ever
afforded to do anything except lead a life of complete drudgery? I
often wonder what on earth Dr. Bellamy would say if he knew all."
"Does Dr. Bellamy matter?" said Bobby, faint irony in her voice.
Matilda evaded the question. "Not to you, I am sure. You consult
nobody but Silas Hickory, and much good it does. Now I suppose you
are going down, and I shan't see any more of you till bedtime."
"I must go and see to the supper, dear," said Bobby gently.
"It's always something," fretted Matilda.
Bobby said nothing. She merely turned and laid her work together,
then softly left the room.
Downstairs Rosemary was poring over her book and did not raise her
eyes. Bobby passed through to the kitchen and began her preparations
for the evening meal. Her heart was very heavy. An atmosphere of
discontent seemed to meet her whichever way she turned, and she did
not know how to cope with it. She knew herself to be unequal to the
contest and an overwhelming presentiment of failure weighed her down.
She was in the middle of her task when Rosemary came to her, book in
hand.
"Aunt Bobby, I've got to the end of the first act. I should like you
to hear me say it to-night," she said.
Bobby turned towards her. She wanted to throw her arms around her
and tell her of her own aching need for help, but something about
Rosemary restrained her. She stood so straight and coldly
unresponsive.
"Oh, never mind about it, darling, to-night!" she said. "Couldn't we
sit cosily by the fire for a little while presently and have one of
our talks?"
"There won't be time," said Rosemary. "Aunt Matilda will be wanting
you. Besides, I should like you to hear it to-night if you don't
mind."
Bobby had no arguments. She felt chilled and helpless. "Very well,
dear, if you really wish it," she said.
And so, when Matilda had been served, they sat together at the
supper-table and had their meal, while all that passed between them
was Rosemary reciting German in a low voice and her own occasional,
equally low corrections. She looked back upon that evening later
with a wrung heart.
It was a relief to them both when it was over. Rosemary had a quick
memory, and she acquitted herself well. As Bobby closed the book,
she suffered herself to utter a word of praise.
"That is very good, dear. You have worked harder than I expected."
"I am glad you are satisfied," said Rosemary.
"I am more than satisfied, dear child," Bobby said fondly. "Don't
slave at it too much! I will let you go out with Mr. Roper the next
time he asks you."
A curious look flashed across Rosemary's face. It was almost a look
of pain, Bobby thought, but it was gone ere she had time to be sure.
"Thank you very much," said Rosemary sedately.
She took back the book and began to glance through it.
"You won't do any more to-night, dear," said Bobby half-wistfully.
Rosemary shook her head. "No, I don't think so. Are you going up to
Aunt Matilda? Then perhaps I'd better say good night."
"I may manage to come down again," said Bobby.
"Oh, I shouldn't, dear," said Rosemary. "You're very tired. Go to
bed early and sleep as long as you can!"
She put her arms round her and kissed her with the words.
Bobby strained the young body close to her heart for a few moments,
and again she wondered sorrowfully if it were her fancy or if she
actually sensed an impulse of withdrawal on Rosemary's part--a
reluctance to surrender herself to any act of intimacy that might
lead to confidences.
She released her and turned away, but as she reached the door
Rosemary was by her side, and she found herself caught in one of the
great bear-hugs of former days.
"Good night, Aunt Bobby darling!" whispered Rosemary into her ear.
"Do sleep well to-night, and don't worry any more about me!"
As she went upstairs after that huge embrace, tears that she could
not check were in her eyes. She knew that Rosemary had spoken the
truth and she was very tired. Yet as she lay down in Matilda's room
a little later she was not unhappy. For it seemed to her that the
barrier had been swept away in that instant, and though it might be
raised again it was no longer insurmountable.
Late that night or in the very early hours of the morning, a voice
called her--Rosemary's voice. She arose in the dimness of firelight
and nightlight, thrust her feet into slippers, threw on her
dressing-gown, and went from the room in answer to the call, leaving
Matilda sleeping.
She groped her way along the dark passage to Rosemary's door and
found it flung wide. She entered, softly whispering her darling's
name. She found the bed and felt it over. There was no form lying
there.
A sudden agony caught at her heart. Instinctively she turned to the
little table by the bed and groped for a box of matches. She found
it and struck a light. It flickered in the icy draught and went out.
But she had seen all she needed to see--the smooth pillow and
untouched bedclothes--the starkly empty room. She also saw the
little paper-backed Schiller lying on the table....
Half-an-hour later there came a frantic knocking at the door of
Staple Farm. It aroused Silas, whose room was immediately over it,
and he got up and put his head out of the open window to find it was
snowing heavily.
"Hullo!" he called. "Hullo! What is it?"
A woman's voice, sharp with anguish, answered him. "Silas! Silas!
It's me!"
That voice was enough for Silas. He lighted a candle, dragged on a
coat, and went down to her. Barefooted on the stones, he drew back
the bolts and pulled open the door.
She stumbled in upon him, herself barefooted, clad only in a
dressing-gown over her night attire. The snow was shining in her
hair. Her eyes wildly implored him.
"Oh, Silas!" she gasped. "Silas! I've lost my Rosemary! Find her
for me--find her--and I will give you--all I have!"
She fell forward with the words. His arms upheld her. As he lifted
her, he knew by the deadness of the weight he bore that she was
senseless.
PART III
CHAPTER I
BOXING NIGHT
The Boxing Night Ball at Bode was in full swing. It was regarded by
a good many as one of the most important local functions of the
season, scarcely indeed second to the Hunt Ball which took place a
little later. The subscription was a high one which kept it select,
and since it was in aid of the Bode Cottage Hospital, there were a
good many county families who brought house-parties to dance at it.
The fact that fancy-dress was worn was a considerable attraction, and
a military band from a not-far-distant depôt combined with an
excellent dancing-floor to make it what Percy had described as a
"regular swell affair."
Every year saw the Boxing Night Ball increase in magnificence. All
the local magnates attended it, and in many circles it was the chief
topic under discussion for weeks beforehand. It was the one night in
the year in which the whole of Bode awoke to life and became
transformed from a normal and somewhat sleepy market-town to a
buzzing hive of excitement. Hotels and inns were full, and the Town
Hall itself was elaborately illuminated and threw a blaze of light
over the whole of the market-place which was turned for the occasion
into a parking-ground for cars.
The whole atmosphere was one of general festivity of the type that
penetrates through closed doors, refusing to be ignored. _The King's
Head_ in particular seemed to have caught the Boxing Night fever,
probably on account of the fact that it stood practically next-door
to the Town Hall. Market-day was usually its only busy time, but
that Boxing Night more than eclipsed the busiest market-day that had
ever happened. The place was full from attic to cellar, and a state
of merry confusion prevailed which was almost reminiscent of the
departed glory of old coaching-days. The fact that snow was falling
thickly and promised to be deep ere morning was mainly accountable
for this, and, as old Bill Roper the landlord, brother of the
veterinary-surgeon, said, it had come just in the nick of time. It
did not often fall to his lot to turn would-be guests from his doors,
but on this occasion if he had displayed a notice of "House Full"
quite early in the evening it would have saved a considerable amount
of trouble.
He said as much, chuckling, to the only guest who had engaged a room
for more than that one hectic night, one Richard Graves whom Bill
Roper regarded as "something of a card," mainly because he did not
know what he was. Of course he might have been an artist. They were
always queer fish, but it was not the time of year for artists. And
this man had an unfamiliar hang about him. He really might have been
anything. A dark man with iron-grey hair and reticent manner, yet
not without a hint of humour when the merry-faced landlord claimed
his sympathy!
"You'd better make hay while the sun shines," was his comment. "Put
up your prices!"
"And I'd get it too, sir," said Bill Roper, still chuckling. "But I
dunno. I says to the missis, 'It's making capital out of the
weather,' I says. 'And that's a thing I don't hold with. You never
know but what your turn may come next.'"
"That's an idea," said Richard Graves. "But I don't see why you
should stick at taking advantage of the weather, even if your turn
does come next."
"Well, I dunno, sir," said Bill Roper, puckering his honest forehead.
"But it's handed straight out to us from God Almighty, and I don't
think He'd like me for to put my prices up in consequence. It's a
matter of opinion as you might say, sir. But that's how it appears
to me."
"A very decent point of view!" said his guest. "And all the better
for me, I suppose. What time does this hurly-burly begin?"
"Lor' bless you, sir, it began nearly an hour ago," said Bill Roper.
"But people keeps on coming. Why, there's a young gentleman
downstairs now, brought a young lady with him, and she wants
somewhere to dress in. I don't know where to put 'em, but it seems
un-Christian-like to turn 'em away just for that. It isn't as if
they wanted to sleep. That I couldn't do. I'm sleeping in the
kitchen myself to-night."
"Have you turned them away?" said Graves.
"No, sir. Haven't even seen 'em. They were talking to Jim at the
door as I came upstairs. He may think of some corner where she could
get into her finery. I don't like disappointing people, you know,
sir. But what am I to do? The house isn't made of elastic, as you
might say. And I'd be afraid of its busting if it was, for it's
stretched as full as it can go now."
"Oh, look here!" said Graves abruptly. "If it's only to dress in,
the lady can have this room. I'll come down to the parlour. You go
and tell them while I clear my things out of the way!"
"Well, there now, sir," said the landlord. "That is a kind act if
you like. And a nice fire burning too! I'll tell her she isn't to
take more than twenty minutes, and you can get back to it."
He spoke with feeling, for his guest had rather a pinched, gaunt look
as if the severe weather were not exactly such as he enjoyed.
But Graves pulled him up. "You won't do anything of the kind," he
said. "She can take as long as she likes."
"Which won't be very long with all that clatter going on in the Town
Hall!" chuckled the landlord. "D'yer hear it, sir? Funny noise,
isn't it, what they calls dance-music nowadays?"
Graves smiled somewhat sardonically. "Doubtless it suits the
mentality of those for whom it was created," he observed. "You go
and find those would-be dancers while I tidy up!"
Roper departed, still chuckling. He had conceived a liking for "that
Mr. Graves," and he thoroughly enjoyed his rather caustic remarks
which appealed to a vein of humour within himself which was seldom
reached in every-day life.
At the end of about a couple of minutes a tap came upon the door of
Graves's room, and going to it he discovered a chambermaid with some
hot water.
"The young lady is just coming upstairs now, sir," she announced.
He gave a final glance around. "All right. I'll go. Tell her
there's no hurry!"
He walked out into the passage with the words and deliberately turned
in the opposite direction to the stairs to avoid meeting the late
arrival for whose benefit he was sacrificing his comfort. The
sardonic look still lingered about his thin lips as he went. He had
not the air of a man who would do much for his fellow-beings.
When he deemed the coast was clear, he turned about and went back.
Down in the hall a fire was burning and a few dilapidated chairs
stood about. He pulled one of them up to the hearth and picked up a
paper. There was a cheery noise in the bar that mingled with the
machine-like music of the fox-trot that was wafted from the Town
Hall. There was the raw cold of falling snow in the atmosphere.
Only one other person was in the hall--a young man clad in a heavy
overcoat who sat near the entrance smoking a cigarette with a kind of
restless alertness and glancing now and then with impatient eyes
towards the stairs.
He paid no attention to Graves who was presently joined by the
landlord who came to the fire, rubbing his hands.
"It's a bitter cold night," he observed. "There'll be a deep fall by
morning. Thought you were going into the parlour, sir. There's a
decent fire in there."
"This is good enough for me, thanks," said Graves.
Bill Roper continued to rub his hands for a space; then he stood up
and looked across at the young man near the door.
"Won't you come and get warm?" he said genially.
The new-comer remained in his seat. "I'm all right, thanks. It'll
probably be too hot dancing. Anyhow, I'm warm enough."
He spoke with the faintest hint of hauteur, as though he did not
desire to encourage attention. The man in the chair threw him a
brief glance over his shoulder.
Bill Roper was wholly undiscouraged. "I suppose you're in
fancy-dress, sir," he remarked tentatively. "It's optional of
course, but I expect all the young ones are."
His curiosity was not gratified. The object thereof merely lit
another cigarette without replying.
Bill Roper turned back to the fire. "I wonder you don't go in for a
fling, sir," he said to Graves. "If it's only to watch, they say
it's worth seeing."
"I think your fireside is more attractive," said Graves.
Bill Roper warmed his hands for a little longer and went back to the
bar. Graves studied his paper in complete silence, and his companion
continued to smoke with suppressed energy.
Suddenly there came a sound close at hand--the tap of a light foot on
the winding oak stair. The young man by the door sprang up; the
other half-grudgingly turned in his chair.
A figure came into view--an eager, swift-moving figure, clad in white
from head to foot with a bridal veil of heavy lace completely
covering the face and held in place by a band of seed pearls worn
like a wreath.
"By Jove!" ejaculated Percy Hudson, throwing away his cigarette.
A peal of merry laughter answered him. She advanced, trailing a long
satin train behind her.
"Do you like me?" she said ingenuously. "It's fearfully old of
course, but rather pretty, don't you think?"
"Like you!" said Percy. "You're exquisite!"
There was an odd, unexpected tremor in his voice. He stood staring
at her, as if he hardly believed his senses.
The other man had risen, and he also was staring at the dainty,
veiled bride who stood laughing in the middle of the hall. Something
of incredulity was on his face also, a wonder that was almost pain;
but he spoke not a word, merely stood and watched the little drama
that was being enacted before him, so motionless that the actors
therein scarcely realized his presence.
"Lift up that veil thing!" the boy was saying. "I want to see you."
But the bride only laughed tantalizingly and held the thick folds
about her.
"No, no, Percy! They never used to turn it back till after the
ceremony. It was the sign for the kissing to begin. Now come along!
We've wasted enough time as it is. You'll have to carry me if the
snow is thick. I've got nothing but satin slippers."
"Oh, I'll carry you all right," he laughed back. "But that train is
going to be a nuisance. You'll never dance in it."
"Oh yes, I shall carry it over my arm," said the bride, with cheery
unconcern. "Do let's go! I'm longing to get there. Just listen to
that music! Isn't it gorgeous? You are ready, aren't you, Percy?"
She spoke with some impatience, for he still seemed inclined to stand
and gaze at her rather than ring up the curtain and let the fun begin.
"Yes, yes, I'm ready," he said. "But I say, I'm not living up to
this. I'm not in bridegroom kit."
"Silly! You're not the bridegroom," she retorted light-heartedly.
He took fire at her challenge, carelessly as it was uttered. "Ho!
Don't you be too sure of that! I'm in command of this expedition
anyhow."
Her laughter rang through the hall with reckless gaiety. "My dear
Percy, you're only the juvenile lead! What are you wearing, by the
way? I hope you've got something decent under that ugly old coat of
yours."
"Oh, don't bother about that! I'm decent enough," he declared. "And
look here, Rosemary, none of your pranks with me to-night! You've
just got to stick to me. See?"
"'Till death us do part'," mocked Rosemary. "What a dreadful
thought, Percy! Fancy you and me going on and on and on together for
the rest of our lives!"
She suddenly became aware of the silent attention of the stranger
standing on the hearth, and returned his scrutiny for a second or two
with a dainty bravado. Then with a swing she wheeled back to her
cavalier, who was meditating a suitable _riposte_ for her latest
thrust, and pushed her hand through his arm.
"Come along! Let's go! Do let's go! Isn't it a shame to waste time
like this? And I expect there's a prince waiting if we only knew it.
Let's go and find him!"
"We'll stick him under the fifth rib if we do," declared Percy not
wholly in jest, pulling open the door.
An icy wind rushed in with some glittering flakes of snow. The bride
gave a cry of mingled delight and dismay.
"You'll have to carry me! I said you would! Percy, look out!
Percy, I'm not ready!"
The door clanged on her protest followed a laughing struggle, sounds
of which came back to the motionless watcher for a few seconds, and
then ceased. There remained only the jigging music of the distant
band and the savage whistling of the wind.
He moved at last, stiffly, almost like a man coming out of a trance,
walked across the hall to the stairs, paused a moment, then went
quietly up and back to the room he had vacated.
CHAPTER II
THE CAPTURE
When Rosemary first entered the great ball-room she halted in
bewilderment. Never before had she seen anything in the least like
it. It was like a step into the most fantastic fairyland that she
had ever pictured.
The place was a blaze of light, and the crowds that thronged the
floor made a dazzling kaleidoscope of colour that seemed to go to her
head. Without knowing it, she uttered a breathless laugh of sheer
delirious excitement.
"I believe it's a dream," she said.
The heavy veil she wore became suddenly cumbersome, obstructing her
vision. She lifted it impulsively and threw it back.
"Is that a sign for the kissing to begin?" said Percy's voice in her
ear.
She flung him a look that had in it a hint of resentment though she
still laughed. Now that she had really reached the goal of her
desire, she had no special use for Percy. He had been a means to an
end. He was now merely an interruption. She wanted to go straight
forward and lose herself in that laughing, amazing throng. Like a
child that clutches at a glittering bauble, she could think of
nothing else.
The music too, now heard at close quarters, had in it an intoxicating
element, a subtle attraction like a will-o'-the-wisp that beckoned
and fled before her. But, curiously enough, in those first wonderful
seconds, she did not think of dancing. Just to absorb the light and
wonder of it all was what she needed.
Then again there came Percy's voice, quick and urgent, close to her.
"Come on! Who's wasting time now? Hitch up that train of yours and
let's get going!"
She thought to herself, as somewhat mechanically she complied, that
Percy Hudson was the least romantic part of the whole thing. He was
dressed in an old-fashioned labourer's smock, but he quite failed to
look anything but an up-to-date youth in a very inadequate disguise.
There were other figures moving around her which held a far greater
appeal, figures in mediæval costume and resplendent old-world
uniforms, ladies in exquisite brocades and laces who ought to have
been dropping curtsey a and dancing the minuet. As she slid out on
to the shining floor with Percy she felt almost like an intruder
though something whispered to her that her own bridal dress of twenty
years ago was as charming as any there.
It had the merit of originality also, and it was not long before she
began to realize that she was attracting attention. She was still
too unspoilt to imagine that her beauty was in any way extraordinary.
She ascribed it all to the fact that there was no other bride in the
room. But Percy knew better, and though he appreciated the fact that
his partner was the belle of the ball, he was inclined to regard with
some disfavour the admiration that she excited.
Another factor with which he had not reckoned was that he was bound
to meet acquaintances at such a function. He would have preferred to
devote himself exclusively to Rosemary, but this was not to be. When
the dance was over, he was accosted by several people whom he knew,
and he was obliged to introduce Rosemary albeit with extreme
reluctance. He tried to maintain a proprietary air, but Rosemary did
not second his efforts. She wanted the utmost that life could give
that night, and both hands were stretched out to receive it.
She accepted an invitation to dance with a man with whom Percy was
not very intimate, and deserted him light-heartedly for several
dances thereafter.
When eventually she returned to him, he led her to a quiet corner and
took her to task.
"It's rotten bad form," he said. "I brought you, after all."
"Oh, give me a cigarette," said Rosemary, "and don't be silly!"
Then as he still looked unappeased she wound a coaxing arm in his and
laughed into his discontented face.
"Dear old Percy, don't spoil things!" she urged. "I know you brought
me, and I'm everlastingly grateful. But do let me enjoy things now
I'm here!"
There was no resisting her appeal. His face cleared in spite of him.
He bent towards her. "Of course you shall!" he said. "But let me
enjoy it too! I hate standing and watching you dance."
"Well, go and dance with someone else!" cried Rosemary gaily. "There
are heaps to be had."
"I don't want anyone but you," he said.
The ardour of his voice and eyes held her. She also was moved,
scarcely knowing why.
"Of course I love dancing with you," she said. "Only don't you see I
want to do everything."
She had not as a matter of fact greatly enjoyed her change of
partners though she deemed it wiser not to flatter him by telling him
so. She had a curious feeling as of being on the edge of a volcano
while in his company that night--such a feeling as she had never
before experienced--and it was in part to avoid this that she had
deserted him. But her late partner had not been a very inspiring
dancer, and she was not sorry on the whole to return.
"I wonder if The Old Bean has found out yet," she said, by way of
turning the conversation.
Percy was holding the hand she had slipped through his arm. His
grasp became a little closer as he made reply.
"Not he! He always sleeps like an ox. Besides, he couldn't find
out. He thinks I went in the other direction to the Ransoms'."
"Did you tell him so?" asked Rosemary.
Percy chuckled. "Not exactly! I told him I'd been asked to go
round, and asked if he minded my using the car to go. I also let him
infer that to-night's show was off as I was sure your aunt wouldn't
let you go."
"That was quite ingenious," laughed Rosemary. "But he wouldn't
expect you to make a night of it at the Ransoms', would he? What if
he waited up?"
"Oh, rats!" said Percy. "There's nothing would keep that Scotchman
from his sleep. You bet he tucked himself up long ago."
"I wonder," said Rosemary. "Anyway, he couldn't follow us here,
could he? Unless he took your old motor-bike which is always
breaking down."
"Oh, he won't follow us," declared Percy. "Not that it would matter
much if he did. He couldn't do anything."
Rosemary gave a little shiver. "Oh, I shouldn't like him to turn up
here," she said. "He would spoil everything."
"He won't turn up," Percy assured her. "Don't you worry! Even if he
did, he hasn't any authority. He couldn't forbid the banns."
"Don't be absurd!" said Rosemary.
He looked at her. "I'm not absurd. And if I were, it would be your
own fault. What made you think of coming as a bride? And where did
you get that priceless turn-out?"
Rosemary surveyed her finery with a complacent air. "It isn't too
bad, is it? I can't help thinking it was made for Aunt Matilda when
she was young. She got very near being married once, and then
something happened and she was let down. I found it one day in an
old trunk in the attic quite by accident, and tried it on just for
fun. It fitted beautifully, and everything was there, shoes and
stockings and veil. I nearly came down in it, and then I thought I
might get into a row, so I just put it away again and didn't tell
anyone. I'm glad you like it. It seemed a pity that it should never
see the light of day."
"I love it," said Percy. "And I'll tell you what I'd love better
still, and that is to see you married in it."
"Oh, don't be absurd!" said Rosemary again, but she said it a little
uneasily for there was something about Percy--the close clasp of his
hand, the fiery intentness of his eyes--which, though it thrilled
her, made her feel vaguely uncertain of him. It was like riding a
restive horse which must on no account be allowed to obtain the
mastery.
"Do you think me absurd?" he said, leaning nearer to her.
Rosemary leaned away, laughing. "Of course I do--utterly! We both
are. It's what we came out for, isn't it?"
He thrust his free arm round her. "Rosemary!" he said.
She was on her feet in a moment, still laughing, the glow of
excitement on her face. "Come on!" she cried. "Let's dance it off!
Let's enjoy every minute! We may never get another chance!"
She was exquisite standing there. Her loveliness had a radiance
which seemed to set his blood on fire. He gazed at her as though he
had never seen her before, then as she turned he followed, closely,
touching her, as though drawn by a magnetic attraction which was
beyond all resistance.
When they were dancing together again he held her supple young body
pressed close to his own in a kind of ecstasy of possession, and
Rosemary, surrendering herself wholly to the enchantment of the hour,
forgot her brief uneasiness and suffered all her senses to merge into
the magic of a great delight.
It was her first taste, and perhaps it was not surprising that it
completely intoxicated her. The whole atmosphere was like a
sparkling draught to her which never left her lips. She drank and
drank more deeply still, finding the cup as inexhaustible as her
desire. She even began to forget that that amazing evening could
ever come to an end. The rapture of it thrilled her through and
through.
When her previous partner--a young solicitor of Bode called
Raymond--came to her for another dance, she refused him with smiling
nonchalance. Percy was an excellent dancing-partner after all, and
she needed nothing else just then.
The evening was beginning to wear away when the climax of the
entertainment arrived. The lights were suddenly turned low, and
paper streamers, coloured balls, and feathers were tossed from the
gallery among the dancers. The music quickened to a wild medley of
sound, and a wave of feverish excitement seemed to sweep through the
hall. The lights went out one by one until the sole illumination
left was that which filtered down from two great festoons of Chinese
lanterns that hung high above the throng.
They continued to dance in the dimness to that mad rush of sound
which was somehow like a torrent, and it was to Rosemary as though
she hovered on the edge of a whirling vortex into which sooner or
later she was bound to be drawn. The crowd was dense, and there was
considerable confusion and noise. Everyone was laughing and throwing
some sort of missile. She found herself as it were waist-deep in
paper which wound around her whichever way she turned. She heard
Percy laughing with the rest, and in the reckless fever of the moment
she knew that she was laughing also, albeit with that curious sense
of something irresistible drawing her.
And then--how it happened she never knew, but she fancied that Percy
must have stopped to fling back one of those coloured balls which
were flying in all directions--suddenly she was swept from him. An
arm that was like a steel spring encircled her. Her feet slid
helplessly over the glassy floor. She had a sensation as of falling
and yet being held up by a subtle strength that compelled as it were
without force, while as she was borne through the confusion a voice
whispered into her ear:
"Ah, Cinderella! Caught at last!"
CHAPTER III
THE PRINCE
Often later Rosemary wondered why she made no attempt to free herself
and return to Percy, but at the time such an action would have seemed
out of place and completely unnatural. She had as it were shot the
rapids, and now she floated without effort in calm water under the
guidance of one who undoubtedly knew how to steer. She felt no fear.
The spell that bound her had eliminated that. Even surprise had
died. And, oddly enough, she had not the faintest desire to go back
to her recognized partner.
This man was an infinitely better dancer. There was poetry, romance,
in his every movement. He held her lightly, but--she knew it within
herself--quite irresistibly, not by physical strength but by a
strange magnetism of personality which she had never before
experienced, a fascination so potent that even the will to resist was
absent.
She could barely see him in the dim light, but he seemed to find no
difficulty in avoiding the crowd. She was no longer aware of the
flying missiles or the winding streamers which had seemed to fetter
her. The music had died down, though the throb of fever still seemed
to linger in its rhythm. It was as though she danced in a dream.
She did not speak. She seemed to have left the world of speech.
This man--or being--who danced so divinely might have been the
inhabitant of another sphere. In all that he did he was wholly
different from anyone that she had ever before encountered. There
was something foreign about him, something quick and vitalizing which
warmed her blood, awaking an answer scarcely conscious yet
overwhelmingly spontaneous within herself. She felt as if until that
moment she had never lived, and now all that there was of her was
awake and pulsing. Dream or no dream, she was more vividly aware of
the life within her than she had ever been before.
On and on they danced, and sometimes the music seemed to fade and
sometimes to burst into strains so fiery that her very soul was
singing. She no longer saw the thronging figures about them. They
had faded into the background; they might never have been. All she
knew was this marvellous, almost miraculous personality which with a
king-like completeness absorbed her whole consciousness.
And then--again she never knew how it happened--suddenly she was on a
staircase and being drawn upwards, still by that strength which
compelled without forcing. The dimly-lit dance-hall faded away, and
other lights dawned upon her. She went unquestioningly, even with
eagerness, half-expecting a new world to open out before her, still
throbbing with the wonder and delight of this great experience.
She scarcely felt the ground beneath her feet as she passed rapidly
with her unknown partner down corridor after corridor, all deserted,
until they came to a door which he opened and which closed with a
catch when they had passed through, shutting out all sounds of the
music and dancing far behind them.
She found herself in what appeared to be the end of a long and
somewhat narrow passage, very poorly lighted by a distant lamp.
There were dark oak doors at intervals, and the walls were panelled
to the ceiling. They were not unlike the walls at Little Staple, and
for a second or two an odd sense of dread assayed her. She thought
that the spell was broken and she was just awaking to find herself
back in the humdrum drabness of her daily life. Then she caught
sight of herself in a long narrow mirror which had been fastened to
the door through which they had just passed, and the vision reassured
her. Those bridal robes had no place in Little Staple. She smiled
to herself as she realized that she had half-expected that glance to
reveal a boyish figure in riding-breeches.
She turned to the man beside her and looked up at him, a faint frown
of perplexity on her child-like face. "Where have I seen you
before?" she said.
His face with its dark thin features smiled back at her, and she
found his smile entrancing. He was attired in a black Court dress,
and his princely carriage impressed her deeply. "It must have been
in another star," he said, "where kindred spirits meet."
But she continued to gaze at him, unconvinced. "I am certain I have
seen you somewhere," she said; and then, after a moment's rapid
thought, "Yes, of course! I saw you downstairs at _The King's Head_.
You were standing on the hearth when I went through."
"Quite true," he admitted. "I heard you laugh and I had to follow
you."
"But that wasn't the first time," persisted Rosemary, still looking
puzzled. "I've seen you before somewhere."
"'We met, 'twas in a crowd,'" he chanted softly. "Do you know I had
the same feeling myself when I first saw you? It must have been in
that other star."
He was bending towards her with the gallantry of one accustomed to
move in high places. An odd tremor went through Rosemary.
"Are you a prince, I wonder?" she said.
He took her hand. "Not quite so near to a prince as you to a bride,"
he said. "Do you know that you are the loveliest bride I have ever
seen--and that is saying much!"
"Oh, am I?" she whispered, deeply colouring. "Was that why you
danced with me?"
He laughed--a low, baffling laugh. "Was it against your will?" he
said.
"Oh no!" said Rosemary. "I loved it. It--was the most wonderful
thing that ever happened."
"Ah, Cinderella!" he said. "What will you do when the clock strikes
twelve?"
She started somewhat guiltily. "It must be long past twelve," she
said. "I suppose--I ought to go back."
"Oh, why do that?" he said. "It is much more interesting to go on."
Her hand lay in his. She looked up at him with a child's gay
confidence. "I don't want to go at all," she said. "I wish you had
come sooner."
"What! Am I too late?" he jested. "Suppose the gates are shut
behind you, and there is no return!"
"Oh!" gasped Rosemary. "What made you say that?"
She saw herself standing in the shabby room at the Vicarage, with the
Vicar just finishing his tea and Mrs. Hudson sitting stiffly by,
clicking her knitting-needles. She heard the Vicar's kindly,
commonplace voice uttering the very warning which had fallen so
differently from this stranger's lips.
"There is always a way back," she said, as one asserting an
incontrovertible truth.
"For those who lack the courage to go on?" he questioned.
Her eyes darkened. "I don't know what you mean," she said rather
quickly. "Of course, one would always rather go on. It's so much
more interesting."
"Much," he agreed. "But to-night's fire will be to-morrow's ashes.
And you can't be always a bride."
"I've never been one yet," she said, and again she glanced
half-wistfully at the wedding draperies that clothed her. "You
wouldn't know me if you were to see me as I am every day."
"I should know you anywhere," he declared, "just as I knew you in
that other star. You are too lovely to forget."
She glowed at his words, though if Percy had uttered them she would
have scoffed. Quite suddenly, almost without her own volition, she
found herself answering him in his own vein. "I know now why I
came--why I had to come--why I don't want to go back."
"Ah!" he said softly. "So I don't need to tell you that!" He lifted
the hand he held and put it to his lips. "I was looking for a
bride," he said. "But I hardly expected to find her quite so soon."
He was drawing her to him, and she did not resist. All the normal
boundaries of her life were withdrawn that night. She was utterly
without experience in the ways of men, and the glamour of the unknown
dazzled her. It seemed that everything that had hitherto been denied
her was held out to her in that hour, and like a child before whom a
glittering mass of gems is spread she sought to grasp and hold it all.
With his arms about her she sensed again that power which was more
magnetic than actual, and she gave herself up to it because she could
do no other. He held her conquered, dominated, at a touch.
It was only when his lips found hers that sharp misgiving smote her
and she shrank, seeking to avoid them. She might as well have tried
to avoid her own soul, for his kiss was so close, so intimate, so
deeply compelling, that it was as if a flame went through her whole
being, setting every nerve aglow. For the first time she was aware
of a mastery that permitted no evasion and would not even recognize
her half-shamed withdrawal. Burning from head to foot she stood as
it were locked to him, unable to resist, unable to move, until that
kiss was over. Then, gasping, she hid her face, feeling that
something had gone from her which would never be hers again.
He kept his arm around her, holding her pressed against his shoulder.
"What is it?" he whispered after a moment. "Frightened--or only shy?"
She could not answer him, could not tell him that she was
overwhelmingly ashamed, any more than she could have explained why
that sense of shame so possessed her. But when he tried to lift her
face again to his own, she resisted him definitely for the first time.
"I think--if you don't mind--I'll go back now," she said.
"What is it?" he said again. "Have I hurt you--offended you?"
"Oh no!" she said. "No! Please don't think that! Only--only----"
"Only," he mocked softly, "you want to keep the gates open behind you
just in case of accidents. I know--I know! Well, you needn't be
afraid. They are still open, and only your hand can close them."
She had begun to draw herself away, but at that she paused. Somehow
he had made her feel childish and absurd.
"I am not afraid," she said. "But I think we have gone far enough
for to-night."
"For to-night!" Again he repeated her words. "Is that what you
always say after the first kiss?"
The hot colour flooded her face anew, proclaiming more forcibly than
any words that no man had ever kissed her before.
He laughed softly at the sight. "I thought so," he said. "But every
bride expects to be kissed, you know. You ought to have thought of
that before."
Again she knew that he was drawing her, and she was as clay in his
hands to do with as he would. For the second time she yielded,
knowing within herself that as she did so he took more than he had
previously taken, practically stamping out her powers of resistance.
It even seemed for a few seconds as though she lost consciousness in
that fiery clasp, only opening her eyes again when she felt it relax.
"Ah, that's better!" he whispered. "Poor little shy rose that has
never been kissed before! What a lot you have to learn!"
She was panting a little though she sought to hide it, to look and
speak naturally. "It is only for to-night," she said, as if in
self-defence. "I don't suppose--we shall ever meet
again--afterwards."
"Oh, don't you?" he said. "Don't you? What about that other star?
Why should we never meet again? Tell me that!"
"I--don't know," she faltered, still half-startled and half-attracted
by his ardour.
"Shall I tell you why we should?" he said.
She nodded, but her eyes were downcast.
"Look at me!" he said.
She hesitated, then slowly complied. His eyes looked deeply into
hers--dark eyes that drew and held. She noted for the first time a
long scar down the side of his face, stretching from temple to chin,
which must once have been a terrible wound. Again she had that
haunting feeling that she had seen those features before, but the
scar baffled her. That was unfamiliar.
He bent towards her without speaking, and she suddenly realized that
he was waiting for something--waiting for something. And as she
faced him, it passed from his mind to hers--a clear message which
there was no mistaking. Till that moment she had not kissed him. He
was waiting for her kiss.
Why she withheld it she could not have said, since she had already
given him so much. But some influence was at work within her,
strongly urging her. She drew back from him, quivering.
"You won't?" he said.
She turned her face aside. "I can't--yet," she faltered.
"Yet!" he echoed. "Well, well! Doesn't that mean that we shall meet
again?"
He laughed at her with the words, and she felt an odd sense of
relief. She had almost expected him to be angry.
"Yes--yes! Another time!" she said. "When we know each other
better."
"Must we wait for another time?" he said.
She was catching at a straw. "Oh, I think so," she said. "We--don't
even know each other's names yet."
"That is soon remedied," he said.
But she clung to her straw. "No--no! Don't let us know! It would
spoil everything. I am Cinderella and you are the prince--for
to-night."
"And you are going to run away from me," he said, "and leave me only
one little shoe to find you by?"
Was there a strange wistfulness in his voice? She did not know. But
there was certainly something in it that appealed to her very
strongly, and that night of emancipation had carried her beyond all
known rules. She stood wavering.
"Are you?" he said.
She looked into the half-arrogant, half-pleading face so near her
own, and her brief resistance died. Yet she glanced around her
uneasily, for the inner voice would not be stilled.
"Someone might find us here," she whispered. "Percy is sure to be
looking somewhere."
He straightened himself. "He won't look here," he said. "You don't
know where you are? Come! I will show you."
With his arm about her he led her down the passage between the rows
of doors, turned a corner at the end and paused on the threshold of a
room.
"Oh!" said Rosemary in astonishment. There was a glow of firelight
within. She stood, looking up at him. "This is the room someone
lent me to change in," she said.
He made a courteous gesture. "Yes, mine," he said. "And yours for
as long as you care to make it so."
But she still stood on the threshold. "How did we get here?" she
said.
He indicated the way he had led her. "There is a connecting door
with the Town Hall, not generally used."
"Oh!" said Rosemary again. "Then--you meant to bring me here!"
He smiled enigmatically. "I knew you would have to come sooner or
later."
He was waiting for her to enter. She went slowly forward. The
firelight invited her. She had dressed in such haste a few hours
before that she had hardly noticed it. Now with a feeling of
physical weariness she welcomed the cheery glow.
She stood before it, her bridal draperies falling all around her, and
felt the comforting warmth creeping all about her.
From behind her came the soft shutting of the door and the shooting
of a bolt. "That will make everything safe," he said.
She heard him come up to her, but she did not turn. Did she realize
in those few seconds that the gates were closing and that there would
be no return? Impossible to say, but it was no unwilling prisoner
who waited in the red glow of the fire. Her heart was beating fast
and hard. As he reached her, she turned, throbbing, to give him what
he had asked.
But the next moment with a gasp she drew back. The fitful firelight
playing on his face had shown her something--something which made her
catch her breath and gasp. Its hard lines were eliminated. She saw
only the straight, patrician features with their look of high daring
and command. The burden of years was lifted from him, and in that
moment she saw him as a being from another world--a being whom she
had long known and worshipped from afar.
"Oh!" she said. "It is you!"
He was looking at her oddly, as though the firelight had revealed
something to him also.
"Why didn't I recognize you before?" he said in a puzzled tone. "You
are just as you used to be--not a day older!"
She caught back a laugh that had a hysterical sound even to herself.
"You couldn't recognize me. You have never seen me before. But I
ought to have known you. You--are Dick Dynamo!"
"Dick what?" he said sharply.
"Dick Dynamo!" She repeated the name with absolute conviction, but
she had begun to tremble. "Aunt Bobby is still waiting for you," she
said.
"Who?" he said almost violently; and then, controlling himself as she
shrank: "Oh, don't be frightened, child! Come here and tell me what
you mean!"
She went, still trembling. He put out his hand and drew her close to
him, looking at her searchingly.
"Why do you tell me I have never seen you before?" he said. "You are
Bobby, aren't you? You couldn't be anyone else. You must forgive me
for not knowing you. But it's a good many years ago since you threw
me over, isn't it?"
His voice rang cold. She turned her face from his look. "She never
threw you over," she whispered almost inarticulately. "She is
waiting for you still."
"What do you mean?" he said.
With quivering lips she told him. "Bobby is my aunt. I--I am only
Rosemary."
"Ah! Rosemary!" He caught at the name. "I used to call her that.
It means Remembrance."
"She is my aunt," Rosemary told him again. "She has never forgotten
you. We live near here--at Little Staple Farm--she and Aunt Matilda
and I."
"Matilda!" he said. "Yes, I remember Matilda. But you--I don't
quite see where you come in. Whose child are you?"
She lifted her head. "I was their brother's child," she said. "He
died before I was born. My mother is dead too."
"Their brother!" said Dick Dynamo. "But--they never had a brother.
It was the old man's one regret--'two lovely daughters but never a
son.'"
"Oh, you're wrong!" Rosemary said quickly. "My father's name was
Robert. He was Aunt Bobby's twin."
But the man beside her shook his head, and his face was set like
granite. "There never was a son," he said.
"But I know it!" she persisted. "I am his child, I tell you! Oh,
why do you look like that?" She drew herself away from him with
swift misgiving. "Why do you?" she repeated. "Why do you? You--you
couldn't have known them all."
"Oh yes, I knew them," he said. "I knew them very well. It may
interest you to hear that Bobby--your aunt as you call her--ruined my
life. I see why now. Well, well!" He stopped abruptly and was
silent for a space.
Rosemary bent down over the fire with the realization that she was
very cold. His silence was like a stone wall, repelling her. She
stretched her chill fingers to the blaze, feeling curiously shaken
and unsure of herself.
The tension became unbearable at last. She forced herself to speak.
"Why do you say that of Aunt Bobby? I'm sure she never gave you up.
Why, she still wears your ring."
"Yes, she kept the ring," he said.
Something in his voice pierced her. She stood up and faced him.
"And she has been true to you all these years!" she maintained. "Why
have you kept her waiting so long? Why didn't you come back sooner?"
He made a sharp movement. His hand closed on her shoulder. "I'll
tell you the truth," he said harshly, "because nothing but the truth
will serve. Bobby was engaged to me long ago, but she wouldn't come
abroad with me, and after I went she wrote and threw me over. She
gave as her reason that she didn't care enough. And God knows anyway
that was the truth. For now I came back and find--you!"
"Me!" gasped Rosemary in bewilderment.
"Don't you understand?" he said. "I always knew I had plenty of
rivals, but I believed in her--I always believed in her. I thought
at least she was virtuous! I didn't think her capable of--that!"
"Oh!" said Rosemary. She went backwards as though he had dealt her a
stunning blow, groping for the mantel-piece for support; but her eyes
remained on his face, searching it by the leaping firelight with an
agonized intensity. "Do you mean--do you mean--" she said--"that I
am her--her--her child?"
Her voice failed on the last word; she could utter no more. She
stood, white to the lips, waiting.
The man's face changed. He went to her, drew her very gently to him
and held her.
"Oh, poor child!" he said. "Poor little Cinderella! That's broken
the spell with a vengeance. Yes, I'm afraid that is what I mean.
But lean on me! I'll help you--I'll see you through."
His voice and touch held nothing but kindness. She turned on the
instant, turned and clung to him convulsively with a wild rush of
tears.
"Oh, take me away!" she implored him brokenly. "Take me away! I can
never go back. I'd rather go with you--anywhere."
CHAPTER IV
THE OLD BEAN
When the lights went up again in the ball-room there was a general
shout of laughter, for there were several who by accident or design
had changed partners in the gloom and confusion, and the sorting that
ensued caused a good deal of amusement. But there was one in that
crowded hall who waited in vain for his partner to return to him.
When the next dance started and couples began to drift to the
supper-room, Percy Hudson was still threading his way backwards and
forwards in search of her. Failing to find her, he lost his temper
and solaced himself with another partner for a time--the young sister
of the man with whom Rosemary had danced earlier in the evening,
little Cecily Raymond who was deeply flattered by his attentions. He
watched covertly for the return of Rosemary meanwhile in the hope
that she would reappear in time to realize that he was by no means
inconsolable. But still he watched in vain.
Eventually he proposed supper to his new partner who eagerly agreed.
The Boxing Night Ball under her brother's chaperonage had not till
then been a great success from her point of view, and she was just
beginning to enjoy herself.
She was not a critical companion, and did not notice Percy's obvious
abstraction during the meal that followed, but she did say to him
when they finally returned to the ball-room, "I suppose you'll have
to go and dance with someone else now."
Percy glanced around him, failed to see the defaulter and, inwardly
vowing vengeance upon her, made kind reply. "No, I can spare you a
little longer if you like."
Cecily did like, and told him so artlessly, with flushed cheeks and
shining eyes. It was so nice to have found a cavalier for herself.
Curiosity, however, prompted her to enquire if his former
partner--"that pretty girl in the lovely bride's dress"--had gone
home.
"Very likely," said Percy nonchalantly. "I really don't know. It
doesn't much matter. You're a better dancer than she is, and look
quite as nice."
Cecily swelled with pride. She herself was dressed in a dainty fairy
costume of spangled muslin over which she had spent much thought, and
it was gratifying to meet with appreciation, especially from one from
whom she had expected no notice at all.
They continued to dance together, and Percy's bad temper began to
pass under the influence of his young partner's obvious enjoyment.
He ceased to search the room for Rosemary and, deciding that the time
had come to give her a lesson, dismissed her from his mind as not
worth worrying about. He found that Cecily was more than willing to
continue to fill the gap, and the time passed quite pleasantly in her
society. She did not have the disturbing effect that Rosemary had
had upon him, and he felt no desire to make love to her or even to
flirt; but, as he expressed it to himself, she was quite amusing for
a kid, and her dancing suited his.
Thus engaged, he scarcely noticed the passing of the hours, and it
came as a surprise to him when Cecily's brother approached at the end
of a dance and observed that they ought to be thinking of going.
Cecily uttered a moan of regret. "It has been such fun," she said.
"Oh, dash it!" Percy protested. "We can't stop yet!"
Cecily turned appealingly to her brother. "Can't we have one more
go, Harry?" she said.
But he shook his head. "We really ought to get back. People are
leaving. There's a deep snow, you know. Thank goodness, we haven't
far to go!"
"You have!" said Cecily, turning back to Percy. "It's miles to
Stapleton. How are you going to get back all that way? Or perhaps
you are putting up in the town?"
"No, I'm not. I motored," said Percy, and his thoughts turned again
to Rosemary. "I brought Miss Wendholme over. I wonder where she's
got to. You seen her anywhere, Raymond?"
Raymond grinned. "No, she hasn't shown since supper. I've been
watching out for her. She's given you the slip, what?"
Percy clenched his teeth. Rosemary certainly had behaved
outrageously. "Well, she can't be far away," he said. "I can't go
back without her."
"Perhaps she's gone back with someone else!" said Cecily
comfortingly. "She may have left word at the door."
"There's no one to go with," said Percy.
Nevertheless he thought the idea worth following up, and was about to
make his way to the entrance when she stayed him with a shy, "We
shan't see you again, then?"
He turned back. "Well, I don't know. If I can't find her, I shall
try and get a bed in the town and go back in the morning. It's no
fun negotiating those lanes in the dark in deep snow."
At this point Cecily prodded her brother and remarked, "I don't
believe you'll get a bed anywhere in the town. They say the hotels
are all full."
"You'd better come with us," said Harry Raymond, responding to the
prod. "We can put you up and give you a bit of breakfast."
Cecily's bright eyes were on Percy's face, and perhaps they
influenced him, for he replied with some enthusiasm. "I say, that's
awfully decent of you! As a matter of fact, we very nearly broke
down coming, and I'm not specially keen on trusting myself to that
old bus again in a snow-storm. But I must just have a look round,
and see if there's any sign of Miss Wendholme."
He departed with the words, while Cecily breathed, "Oh, I do hope he
won't find her!"
"Well, we can't put them both up," remarked Harry Raymond.
"Oh no! I expect she's gone," said Cecily hopefully.
Percy was beginning to think the same, though why Rosemary should
have deserted him thus was beyond his understanding. Fuming
somewhat, he strode through the crowd of departing revellers, but she
was not among them. He reached the outer door at length and had a
glimpse of the white mantle of snow which had fallen during the
earlier part of the night. There was a hubbub of departing cars
below him, while above was a confusion of voices that laughed and
shouted incessantly.
He looked for one of the doorkeepers, but they were occupied in
summoning the cars and were out of reach.
He went down the steps into the still falling snow, and there at the
foot he came upon a thick-set figure in an oil-stained leather coat
and motor-goggles that struck him abruptly as familiar.
"Hullo!" he said.
Sharply the figure turned, and recognition was mutual.
"Hullo!" said The Old Bean. "I thought I should find you here. I've
been waiting for you."
"What on earth for?" said Percy.
He spoke irritably, resentfully aware of a humiliating sense of guilt.
The Old Bean pushed up his goggles. People were jostling him on all
sides, but he paid no attention to them. His green eyes looked
steadily into Percy's.
"I just thought I'd come along on the old bike," he said. "Had a
devil of a journey--only just managed to kick her along. Where's
Rosemary?"
Percy's irritation increased. He had an urgent desire to turn on his
heel and leave The Old Bean to his own devices. Convention, however,
constrained him to make surly reply. "How should I know where she
is?"
"Didn't you bring her here?" asked The Old Bean.
There was no evading the steady searching of his eyes or the
perfectly reasonable insistence of his voice. Percy found himself
compelled to make reply.
"Yes, she came with me certainly. But I lost sight of her ages ago.
I haven't a notion where she is now."
"But aren't you going to take her back again?" questioned The Old
Bean.
He spoke with absolute moderation, yet Percy turned on him with
sudden savagery. "Yes, if I can find her. I can't if I can't, can
I? I don't know what you wanted to turn up for anyhow."
"I'll tell you if you like," said The Old Bean still temperately.
"Just because I was a bit doubtful whether you were quite up to
looking after her, and so on. Apparently you weren't, since she's
given you the slip. How did you manage to lose sight of her?"
It was not often that Percy responded to the voice of authority
without any effort at self-assertion, but on this occasion curiously
he found himself compelled.
"We got separated--dancing," he growled. "It's hours ago now. She
probably went off with another fellow. You know what she is."
"Oh yes, I know." The Old Bean spoke almost soothingly. "It's just
what I expected. And haven't you done anything about finding her
since?"
"No, I haven't," said Percy. "I didn't come here to play
hide-and-seek. I came to dance."
"Oh, quite," said The Old Bean. "But I suppose you've finished now."
"Yes, and I'm going!" declared Percy defiantly. "She's no affair of
mine. I tried to keep her with me and she wouldn't stay. She can
jolly well look after herself, now, and get herself home again. I'm
not going to hang about any longer."
"What are you going to do?" asked The Old Bean mildly.
Percy hesitated a moment during which shame and anger struggled for
the mastery. Then anger triumphed.
"I'm going to look after myself," he said. "And I advise you to do
the same. It was a pity you took the trouble to come on this
wild-goose chase, for it's ten to one against your getting back again
to-night in this snow, and there isn't a bed to be had in the place."
"I don't want one, thanks," said The Old Bean. "I only want my car.
Do you mind telling me where it is?"
Percy's flare of wrath died down again. "It's in the garage at _The
King's Head_," he said. "You'll probably have to sleep in it. I'm
going to the Raymonds' for the night."
"Have you got the ticket?" asked The Old Bean practically.
Percy produced it sullenly.
"Thanks!" said The Old Bean. "Well now, don't you worry any more
about me! You'll find your old bike up against the market-cross. I
don't suppose anyone will bother to pinch it, and you may want it to
get home on in the morning. I'm just going to make sure she isn't
still here, and after that I shall go round to _The King's Head_."
"You won't get in there," said Percy. "We had the greatest
difficulty even in getting a room for her to change in. Someone had
to lend it."
"Oh, really!" said The Old Bean, looking interested. "Do you know
who?"
"How should I know?" growled Percy again. The Old Bean had never
been so polite to him before, and for some reason he did not like it.
"All right," said The Old Bean equably. "One more thing, though.
What was she wearing?"
For some reason Percy's anger flared forth afresh. "I don't see what
business it is of yours. She isn't here now, so you are not likely
to see her. She may have gone back and changed by this time."
"So she may," said The Old Bean mildly. "That's what I'm going to
find out. How did you say she was dressed?"
"I said it was no damn' business of yours," fumed Percy.
"Yes, I heard you say that." Suddenly the politeness left The Old
Bean's voice. His broad unromantic figure in the oil-stained coat
seemed to grow taller. "But it doesn't matter what you say, because
it is my business and I mean to know. So if you don't want to be
rolled in the gutter you'd better answer."
Percy gave a gasp of utter astonishment. To be hectored by The Old
Bean--of all people The Old Bean!--was an experience so novel that he
felt as if some part of his mental adjustment must have turned
turtle. He stared at him, too amazed to be angry.
"Go on!" commanded The Old Bean. "How was she dressed? Anything
special?"
His face seemed to have changed also, to have grown older and harder.
He looked at Percy with grim determination.
And Percy abandoned the contest, he could not have said wherefore.
"She was dressed as a bride if you must know," he said. "But I don't
know what you've got to lose your rag about. She's nothing to you."
"There you make a mistake," said The Old Bean sternly. "But it
doesn't matter, as I said before. You can get along now to your
friends, and go to bed in comfort."
The words were a dismissal. Percy turned and went up the steps,
wondering why he had allowed himself thus tamely to be overridden.
He also wondered what The Old Bean had got to be angry about. It
wasn't his fault that Rosemary had elected to leave him in the lurch,
and even if it had been he could not see that The Old Bean had any
right to be indignant with him. He felt in fact that he had been
very badly treated, and vowed viciously as he went to rejoin the
Raymonds that he would never again act the part of a cavalier to a
girl of Rosemary's flighty tendencies. Cecily would certainly never
have behaved like that.
As for The Old Bean, he abandoned his fruitless quest at the Town
Hall forthwith, since it was quite obvious that the object thereof
must eventually return to _The King's Head_, and thither he now
turned his steps through the trampled snow with the dour resolve to
spend every ounce of his substance if need be in finding her.
CHAPTER V
THE CALL OF A FRIEND
"O God, bring her back to me! Bring her back!"
Through nights and days of fruitless wandering that prayer hung upon
Bobby's lips, and while her body agonized in fiery suffering such as
she had never before dreamed of, her spirit went from one darkness to
another on its eternal quest. Of the physical pain that racked her
she took small note. It was all part of that hell of vain endeavour
to which it seemed she had been condemned. Sometimes indeed, she
fought it with all her strength, struggling against overwhelming odds
to overthrow the barrier that separated her from her darling. But
always there were arms of pitiless strength, holding her back. At
other times, brokenly and with tears, she would entreat to be allowed
her freedom to pursue that endless search.
"I must go myself," she would plead wistfully to that compelling
force that restrained her. "She might hide from anyone but me. But
I know--I know she would come to me when once I was within reach. My
little baby-girl! My Rosemary!"
But all her prayers and strivings were in vain. She could not pass
the barrier.
Sometimes there came periods of exhaustion when she could not strive,
long spaces of nerveless inertia when pain alone held sway. At such
times as these, when life was at its lowest ebb, there would come to
her the long heave and roll of the Eternal as it were a sea of
infinite blankness waiting to engulf her, and all she had ever known
of life and all she had believed of immortality hovered on the edge
of an immense and terrifying abyss into which her very individuality
was about to be hurled. Stark terror held her then because she knew
that in that awful void she might wander for ever and ever in anguish
of soul and never again find the remotest link that could re-connect
her with the world she knew--the world in which Rosemary would some
day so sorely need her.
In those terrible hours of blind weakness, prayer was an
impossibility to her; but sometimes, feebly aware of a human presence
vaguely near her, she would gasp a piteous request that someone would
pray in her stead. For a long time that plea of hers went
unanswered, but in the end out of the darkness there came a voice
that prayed and hands that gathered and held her own.
"Nearer, my God, to Thee,
Nearer to Thee,
E'en though it be a Cross
That raiseth me...."
Sometimes the voice would tremble a little, but it always went
bravely on again:
"Still all my song shall be,
Nearer, my God, to Thee,
Nearer to Thee!"
In all her anguish those words never failed to reach and comfort
Bobby--to open out the way to her, as it were. Struggling on like
the wanderer in the darkness, some faint gleam of light would come
like a far-distant torch shining dimly over the desert of her night,
and the awful void would recede before it, leaving her a measure of
peace.
It was possible that at these times she slept, but it was never for
long, and with the first feeble renewal of strength the old futile
striving would return, the restlessness that nothing could still, the
eternal urging within her to search the length and breadth of the
world for her lost treasure. And so on again from one darkness to
another in a fiery anguish of yearning that nothing could ever
satisfy or quench.
It wore her down, that wandering, until at last the power to struggle
further went from her, and there came a time when for a space all
conscious existence ceased. That time was for Bobby the dividing of
two eras in her life. When it passed, all illusions passed with it.
She came to herself as one emptied of all that she had ever
possessed, completely weak, helpless as an infant, but aware--in some
ways acutely aware--of all that was passing around her. She could
neither move nor speak, such was the state to which her long agony
had brought her. Neither could she suffer intensely any more. She
could only lie helpless, feebly breathing, feeling that even that was
beyond her strength, an exertion that caused her the most deadly
weariness she had ever known.
Very near to death was Bobby in those days, and she knew it, but was
no longer afraid. For her the darkness was past. Suffering had
taught her that even the grief she had endured was but a "light
affliction." By a means wholly unfathomable but beyond all question,
she knew herself to be nearer to God. It was as though a door had
been opened to her tired soul, admitting her to a quiet sanctuary,
and loss and pain had been shut outside. She did not mind the
thought of death any more. She did not grieve for Rosemary. She
knew in the depths of her being that in some fashion inexplicable to
her all would be well. She viewed life no longer by ordinary
standards; but as from an immense height and as though by a
flashlight from the Eternal suddenly thrown upon the little span of
mortality in which she still lingered, she saw the ultimate end of
pain and sin--the gradual but certain renewal of all things into
which God had breathed the Breath of Life. She saw the fires of
suffering producing the perfect gold....
Someone came to her and knelt beside her, clasping the hand she was
too weak to raise. She looked into the dark, rough-hewn face of
Silas Hickory, and very feebly smiled a recognition. She was glad to
have Silas near her. She would never forget that trusty friend of
hers.
He did not speak, only knelt there watching her with eyes of grave
intentness. There were lines on his face which she had never noticed
before. He looked as if he had not slept for a very long time, and a
strange impulse to comfort him arose within her. With a great effort
she stirred the fingers that he held and weakly pressed his hand.
In a moment his expression changed. His eyes softened, and she saw
his smile. The next instant he stooped and laid his face down upon
her wrist.
When he looked up again she saw that his lips were oddly trembling.
He spoke to her in a whisper.
"Hold on, Bobby!--Hold on--for God's sake!"
She knew what he meant. Her brain was crystal-clear just then. She
knew that he was imploring her to cling to the chain that bound her
to mortal life--that chain that had worn so thin in the long
struggle. For some reason which for the moment eluded her, he did
not want her to go. He could not see what she saw--the complete
insignificance of worldly things. He had not reached the heights on
which she stood--or realized the wonders that lay beyond.
She wanted to tell him so, but she lacked the strength for speech.
Already she was turning from the fading vista that lay behind her to
the infinitely greater prospect that lay before. She had no desire
to linger. She wanted to go on into the vast Eternity unhampered by
earthly burdens. Her spirit was slowly but surely freeing itself
from all restraining shackles, like a bright-winged insect newly-born
to the sunlight out of depths unknown.
The thought of turning back was repugnant to her, yet like a rising
cloud it grew and spread upon her horizon, dimming the glory that had
begun to dawn upon her. She had the feeling of someone calling to
her, desperately holding her back, frantically needing her. Silas it
was--not Rosemary! Had it been Rosemary she would have turned
without question and left the heights to minister to her. But
Silas--surely Silas had no right to hamper her thus!
Yet there he was, kneeling beside her, clasping her cold hand,
brokenly praying her to hold on to the little futile mortal existence
of which she was so weary.
"Only try!" he was saying. "I'll help you. See! I am holding you.
I will take all your troubles and burdens, and you shall never suffer
again."
Vain promises! She knew them as such, yet she did not smile. Who
could smile at the anguish of a child wildly offering up everything
within its scope of thought that it might not be deprived of the only
thing that mattered? Only pity and that growing desire to comfort
stirred in answer to his cry, and again very weakly she pressed his
hand. If only--oh, if only--she might have gone into peace!
But--the cloud grew and spread--the distant peaks of Eternity began
to fade. The hand that clung, the voice that called, gradually
filled her consciousness with the knowledge that something yet
remained for her to do ere the Vision could be fulfilled. Slowly,
with an unspeakable regret, she turned back to the shadows she had so
nearly left behind.
"You will try to get better!" urged the low voice beside her. "You
will stay!"
It came upon her, listening to that earnest entreaty, that perhaps
after all he had some right to ask--her staunch and loyal friend who
had never before asked aught of her save to be allowed to serve her.
And he did not know what he was asking of her, never would realize
until his own time came how great was the sacrifice to her.
The habit of service was very strong upon her. For many years she
had surrendered herself to it. Through an apprenticeship which had
not been without its bitterness she had attained the measure of ease
which comes from long practice. It had become second nature with her
to serve the needs of others, and her own needs had been put aside.
It was that habit which influenced her now. The cry for help had
never been passed unheeded by her. She could not pass it now.
Inexplicable as it might be, here was someone who needed her, and
from such she could not turn away. Certainly he had the right to
ask. He was the only friend who had ever offered her help in all the
long hard years.
Because of that, her spirit stirred in answer. Because of that, she
put away her own desire and faced the darkness again.
Feebly, with fluttering breath, she spoke. "Yes--Silas--I
will--stay."
He would never know what it cost her, and that glimpse of the Eternal
had already taught her that life and death were so merged together
that the Infinite was but "a step into the open air." Regret faded
with the glory that had barely begun to dawn as she turned back again
at the call of a friend.
CHAPTER VI
A HEAP OF ASHES
In after days it seemed to Bobby that the way back was infinitely the
hardest part, even though active suffering had ceased. The awful
weakness that hampered her--grim toll of many years of working beyond
her strength--was very often more than her brave spirit could
support, and she would lie with the tears running down her face, not
knowing why she wept.
It was at such times that Mary--dear, wholesome Mary Flight--was so
invaluable. A cup of tea was her usual remedy, accompanied by a few
commonplace words of encouragement. Mary never pried into causes and
effects. She took things exactly as they came. The poor soul was
feeling down; well, well, she would be better presently. It was only
natural after all she had gone through. And having administered the
tea and seen the flow of tears temporarily checked, she would go off
to her kitchen to give a bottle of milk to the motherless lamb that
Peter had placed under her care.
Presently she would come back again with a half-knitted stocking and
sit beside Bobby's bed for a spell, commenting on the lamb's progress
or the way Peter wore out his heels which was enough in itself to
keep any woman busy. A comfortable chuckle always accompanied this
remark. To work for Silas and Peter had been Mary's dearest
privilege for as long as she could remember. But Peter was a more
constant theme than Silas, mainly because he was a more ordinary
person. Of Silas she always spoke with a certain reverent reticence.
Bobby used to reflect whimsically that if Mary owned Peter, as from
her talk she certainly appeared to do, Silas was supreme owner of
them both. In fact from the tiny radius of her bedside it almost
seemed as if he owned the universe. She had never realized before
the far-reaching importance of his personality. He seemed to
dominate the whole atmosphere. And this she gathered rather from
Mary's silences than from her general confidences. It was very
evident that her respect for Silas was one of the guiding rules of
her life.
She never spoke of Bobby's affairs, and for a time Bobby lacked the
strength to open the matter. She was utterly incapable of effort,
and Dr. Bellamy's fussy visits were usually as much as she could bear
without any added agitation. He told her that Matilda was well and
asking after her; but of Rosemary he said no word, and Bobby could
not bring herself to question him. She generally lay inert for a
long time after his departure, feeling that every spark of vitality
was quenched. And it was lying thus that there came to her one day
the memory of the strong hand that had supported her through the long
hours of darkness, and she exerted herself to ask a pathetic question
of placid, round-faced Mary, sewing by her side.
"Why does Silas never come to see me now?"
"Do you want him?" said Mary, on her feet in a moment. "Why, of
course he'll come; I'll go and get him."
Bobby would have stayed her, but she was already gone. Evidently her
orders on this point had been very explicit.
In a few minutes she heard a step that was not Mary's, and lifted her
heavy eyes to meet Silas's grave look. He sat down beside her and
took her hand, and a warmth went through her at his touch that seemed
to impart strength to her tired spirit.
"Thank you for coming," she murmured.
"I will always come when you want me," he said.
"Thank you," she said again; and then, with an effort, "May I ask you
a few things?"
There was a brief pause before he replied, and she had a vague
impression that he was bracing himself for some ordeal. Yet, when he
answered, his voice was perfectly steady and assured.
"I will tell you everything in my power," he said.
She knew that he would be true to his word, and that she need fear no
subterfuge from him; but--perhaps it was that very
knowledge--something deterred her from taking immediate advantage of
the fact. It may have been that, aware of her own weakness, she
instinctively sought to spare herself.
"I want to know," she said, "first, what Dr. Bellamy thinks about me."
Silas's big hand closed more firmly around her wasted one. "He says
that you ought to be getting well by now," he said. "But of course
that's bunkum, and I told him so. You've had too much to bear."
His voice had a resentful note, and she faintly smiled. "He always
thought I had the strength of ten," she said.
"I believe you thought so too--once," said Silas.
She turned her wan face to him. "It was only--make-believe," she
said very sadly.
He bent towards her. "That's over now," he said. "Don't ever forget
that!"
"Thank you," she whispered again, and there fell a silence between
them while she gathered her strength for further effort.
"Don't let me stay too long!" said Silas gently at length.
Her fingers stirred in his, softly clasping. "Please don't go!" she
said. "I want to know--much more."
But still she did not ask the question which of all others she had
sent for him to answer. She could not.
"There's plenty of time," said Silas.
She became aware of the pity in his eyes, and flinched a little.
"Tell me about--Matilda!" she said.
The pity vanished in a second, and a certain sternness took its
place. "I believe she is as well as usual," he said. "She is
staying at the Vicarage."
"Ah!" murmured Bobby. "That is good of them."
"I don't think they had much choice," remarked Silas dryly. "I would
have had her here, but that didn't appeal to her."
"You have done too much for us without that," said Bobby. And after
a pause: "I shall try to get well quickly now. We can't go
on--living on our friends like this."
There was more of her old spirit in her speech than in any of her
previous utterances. Perhaps it was for that reason that he suffered
it to pass unchallenged.
"Get well--yes!" was all he said.
Bobby's eyes were lifted to his with a wistful gratitude. "I shall
never forget what you have done for me, Silas," she said.
He leaned nearer to her. She saw that he was deeply moved. "You've
nothing whatever to thank me for," he said. "I don't even know if
I've done right."
She understood his meaning and smiled at him. "Yes, it was right,"
she said. "I am glad now that I came back. There is still work for
me to do."
"You're not going to slave to support Matilda any longer," he said
with blunt force.
"I wasn't thinking of her just then," she said. "I was thinking--I
was thinking----"
"I know what you were thinking," he said, as she halted. "And that's
why I tell you that I don't know that I did right. Bobby, you asked
me that night to find her for you. My dear, I didn't--because I
couldn't. I wouldn't have left you in that state in any case. Will
you ever manage to forgive me, I wonder?"
"There--is nothing to forgive," she said, but she spoke faintly and
her breathing became suddenly very rapid.
The deathly pallor of her face alarmed him. He got up and went to
the table for a restorative. But when he came back she made a brave
attempt to smile at him.
"Please--please--" she said, "finish! Tell me--all you know!"
"Drink this first!" he said, stooping over her. "I will then, I
promise."
She obeyed him without protest; but while she drank, her eyes were
raised to his, beseeching him. When she had finished, he set down
the glass and sat beside her again to answer their entreaty.
"This is all I know," he said, and as he spoke her hand came weakly
to his again, as though seeking strength. "Rosemary went with Percy
Hudson to the Boxing Night Ball at Bode. She got separated from him
in some sort of revel and disappeared. He spent the night with the
Raymonds and came back the day after without seeing her again."
"Is that all?" gasped Bobby.
"No. That isn't quite all. There was a man staying at _The King's
Head_ who lent his room for her to change in." Silas's voice was
grimly unemotional. "That man also disappeared that night. No one
saw him go, but he left a note for the landlord to tell him to apply
to his solicitor for the settlement of his bill. He also left a note
of instructions for his solicitor--young Raymond of Bode. Whether
Rosemary was with him or not is not definitely known. The police
have not been asked to trace her, as your sister would not authorize
it and you were too ill to ask. But it is evident that she returned
to the room to change as the dress she had worn at the ball was found
there packed in a suit-case addressed to your sister."
"To Matilda!" interjected Bobby. "But why?"
"I presume it was her property," said Silas.
"But how could it have been?" said Bobby. "Matilda has no
ball-dress."
"I heard from the landlord of _The King's Head_ that she went to the
ball with young Hudson, dressed as a bride," said Silas.
"Ah!" A light seemed to break upon Bobby. "Yes--yes, that was
Matilda's," she murmured. And then, with resolution, "is that all
you know? Can't you tell me the name of the man?"
"Yes, I can tell you that," Silas said, but he spoke with reluctance.
His grasp of Bobby's hand was very firm.
"But remember, she may not be in his company at all! We may be on a
wrong scent."
"Tell me!" whispered Bobby faintly.
Very steadily he complied. "The man had been staying at _The King's
Head_ under a feigned name--so it now transpires. I believe he
called himself Graves. In reality he was the new Lord Ravencombe,
just home from Mexico."
"Lord Ravencombe!" The name was scarcely audible on Bobby's lips.
"Yes. Young Raymond let it out." Gravely Silas brought his story to
a finish. "He knows very little about him. He never expected to
succeed or to return to England. But there seem to have been a good
many deaths in the family, and he is almost the last of the race."
"Didn't you tell me you were--one of them?" questioned Bobby. Her
brows were drawn as though by physical pain and she spoke with
difficulty.
"I believe I may describe myself as quite the last," said Silas
briefly.
"And you know--nothing of him?" Her low voice held a pleading note.
"Nothing whatever beyond his name," said Silas. "I have never met
him. I am afraid that side of the family has never interested me."
"And has nobody--done--anything?" whispered Bobby piteously.
"Yes." Silas spoke with a measure of relief. It had been no light
task to answer those low questions of hers. "There is one person who
is trying to trace her, and from what I have heard of him he will
probably succeed. Young Ross--a friend of Percy Hudson's--you
probably know him----"
"Ah! That Scotch boy!" Breathlessly she caught at the news. "Is
his name Ross? They called him The Old Bean. I believe--it is
possible--he was attracted by Rosemary."
"He is looking for her," said Silas. "And I think he means to find
her. From things I've heard, he seems the sort of fellow that
wouldn't stop till he did."
"Oh, Silas!" Bobby's eyes were brimming with tears. "And is there
no other possible chance of finding her? Must she be left to a
comparative stranger like that?"
"I don't know," Silas said, and for the first time his eyes avoided
hers. "It's difficult to know what else to do. She may be at the
other side of the world by now."
"Silas!" Bobby's voice was barely audible, yet something in its tone
brought his eyes back to hers. "Help me--to sit up!" she said.
He put his arm behind her pillows, raising her.
"Thank you," she whispered, and with the word her other hand came out
and clasped his. "Silas," she said, "I have--something to say to
you--a great favour to ask."
Her eyes looked straight into his; they seemed to be burning in their
deep hollows.
"I will do it," said Silas steadily.
Her fingers closed with a convulsive pressure. "Wait!" she said.
"You wanted me for a partner once, and I refused. I offer myself to
you now as a servant, and everything I have in Little Staple as well
as myself to be unconditionally yours, if you will help me--if you
will only help me--to find my Rosemary. When once she is found I
will never ask anything more of you. I will only serve you
faithfully as long as I live, and not even for her sake will I ever
turn aside from that."
"Oh, stop!" Silas said; his voice was deep, it sounded almost rough.
"Stop! Don't you know I will do everything in my power for you
without that?"
"You shan't do everything for nothing," she made answer. "Silas, do
you realize I have no money? Only the farm produce to sell, and that
is half Matilda's!"
"That doesn't matter," he said. "I have money put by, and I can make
more. You shall have every penny of it."
She caught her breath. "Oh, you shouldn't!" she said. "You
shouldn't!" And suddenly she was crying against his shoulder with a
piteous helplessness, the while she still clung to his hand.
"Silas,--you shouldn't!"
"Don't--don't!" he said. "You'll be ill. Shouldn't what? I don't
understand."
"Shouldn't give so much--care so much," she sobbed incoherently. "It
isn't fair--or right! You lose--every time!"
"Lose!" Silas's voice came muffled but very deep as he held the
little wasted form close. "Do you think if I lost everything I have
in the world and gained you--I could be--a loser?"
"Oh yes!" she breathed. "Yes! What am I? A burnt-out fire! A heap
of ashes!"
"You are--more than my own life to me," he said.
And there he stopped, for it seemed there were no words to carry him
further. Only in the silence that followed he took out his own
handkerchief and with infinite tenderness he dried her tears.
When he spoke again, his voice was normal, even matter-of-fact.
"When you are well enough," he said, "we will go together and look
for her. I shall set everything in order and leave Peter in charge.
Now I am going to fetch Mary."
He laid her gently back and stood up. There was a curious
wistfulness in his gaze to which almost instinctively she found
herself making reply. "I shall soon be well enough," she said, and
her own brave smile showed for an instant with the words.
His look scarcely altered as he turned away. "Get well--yes," he
said again.
CHAPTER VII
ARCADIA
"Yes, it's very wonderful," said Rosemary. "Just like a dream--only
I never dreamt of anything like this."
"One has to see it first," said the man beside her lazily.
He was lying stretched out at full length on the short grass with his
hat so arranged over his face as to shield it from the hot sun and
enable him to watch his companion at the same time.
She was not looking at him. Her eyes were fixed upon the almost
indigo blue of the sea far below them. From somewhere in the magic
distance there came the sound of mule-bells, tinkling fitfully along
the precipitous road which wound above the shore but which was
entirely hidden by cypress-trees from her high perch on the hill.
Her blue eyes had a brooding intent look, as though they searched for
something which they did not expect to find. She wore a
broad-brimmed hat, and under it her face was deeply flushed with a
peach-like bloom that intensified her beauty astoundingly. The
Rosemary of Little Staple had been a vision to remember--exquisite as
an opening bud; but the Rosemary who sat on the hill above the sunlit
Italian shore glowed with a dazzling loveliness that was very near to
perfection. The warm vitality of her was like an aura spreading
outwards in sheer radiance. Yet her eyes gazed forth to the horizon
as if they sought the unattainable.
On the dark face of the man who watched her there rested a whimsical
half-speculative look. It held conscious power and yet a certain
hesitancy. He might have been a hunter in possession of a priceless
trophy which he preferred to tame rather than to destroy. It was
always thus that he regarded her, sometimes appraisingly, sometimes
even with compassion, but he never seemed to tire of the vision.
"I wonder what you are looking for," he said presently.
He had said it to her before and she had not answered. A certain
reticence had developed in her since that night, now three weeks ago,
when the gates of childhood had closed behind her and she had fared
forth into an unknown world with an unknown companion to guide her.
She had never asked to go back or spoken of that which lay behind.
But the wistfulness had begun to grow in her eyes of late, and there
were times when she seemed to withdraw into herself as if she would
fain hide her soul from the scrutiny of those eyes which so
perpetually watched her. Her instinct was to avoid all intimate
talk, and during their travels she had no difficulty in doing so. It
was only when they came to a halting-place, as now, that she was
aware of any effort on his part to draw nearer to her. He had never
attempted to make love to her since that night that she had thrown
herself upon his mercy. And yet she knew with an odd certainty that
he was merely biding his time. His absolute and unvarying
self-control did not deceive her on that point. She realized that
some day, when he judged the right moment to have arrived, he would
demand more of her, and that she would have no choice but to yield.
Sometimes the thought brought a knocking of fear to her heart, but
she always put it from her. For she had taken her own road and there
could be no return. And even yet the glamour had not wholly faded.
His personality had a dominant quality which held her as it were in
spite of herself. He was not the prince of her dreams, as for a very
brief period she had imagined. He was Aunt Bobby's rejected lover.
Yet by a strange magnetism he still held her. On the night of the
ball she had been dazzled, and to a certain extent she was dazzled
yet, just as the mind may remain affected by a dream in waking hours.
But he did not stand for romance in her soul. The Dick Dynamo of
other days--the man she had pictured long ago--was of a very
different type, though in some respects possessing the same
characteristics. There had been no cynical disillusionment about
him. He had been of a fiery and ardent temperament, and capable of
kindling ardour in others. This man was world-weary and inclined to
sneer at life. She even pitied him at times; he seemed to have
missed so much. He never talked freely of the years that lay behind
him. Yes, he had been in Mexico, had dabbled in politics and been
badly stung on one or two occasions. Yes, there had been a few
breezes. The Mexican climate was given to that sort of thing. One
lived by one's wits more or less. Sometimes one was in irons and
sometimes in clover. That old scar of his? Oh yes, that had been
quite a decent wound once. He had been able to show his back teeth
like a dog. It had been just one of their little shows, and he
flattered himself he had come out of it rather well. Anyhow the
feminine element had not seemed to consider his charms greatly
impaired thereby. He always spoke of women with a sort of scoffing
indulgence, much as one might speak of jewels of trumpery value;
never with bitterness. The only woman of whom he had uttered a word
of disparagement was Bobby, and since that first night he had never
mentioned her name. The door of memory which had then been opened
for the first time in many years had been closed again and sealed.
And Rosemary would not have dared to tamper with that door even had
she so desired. But her own inclination also was to hold her peace
on that subject, though she sometimes felt as if her heart were
bleeding beneath her silence now that the novelty of this strange
wandering life had begun to wear away. The dream was passing and
reality was coming upon her. Kind as was her new guardian, he did
not fill those inner spaces in which Bobby's tenderness had
flourished. She did not find herself fondly cherished and sheltered
on every side from the faintest shadow of harm. The utter devotion
upon which she had thrived from babyhood was lacking now. He did not
pretend to be in love with her, this care-worn, cynical man of the
world. There might be passion somewhere locked behind that mask-like
front, but not the pure white flame of Love. Aunt Bobby had loved
her, had prayed for her, was probably praying still. This was a
thought which always wrenched at Rosemary's heart. For she had
wholly ceased to pray herself since those gates had closed behind
her. All the foundations of her inner life had seemed to give way
when her faith in Bobby had been shattered. Her dependence upon her
had been as vital to her as the blood in her veins. That Bobby could
possibly be other than she had always professed to be was so amazing,
so staggering, a thought that she had gone down before it. But for
the novelty of her present experiences, there would have been nothing
left to her. The world for Rosemary had become a place of terrible
possibilities and she dared not let herself think too much. She was
as one adrift in great waters, no longer attempting to steer a
course, merely clinging to her raft with a frantic hope that by some
means she might eventually succeed in reaching safety. She fought
desperately to keep herself from thinking of the one beloved who had
so cruelly failed her, but often the result of her efforts was a
despairing flood of tears as soon as she was alone. She would lie in
the dark at night and writhe in bitterness of soul, trying to stem
those tears of agony, fighting as it were for her very life against
the overwhelming grief that could not always be kept at bay. It was
like a gnawing hunger within her, sapping youth and vitality alike--a
hunger that nothing could ever satisfy. She had begun to face the
fact that the sheer unsullied joy of life could never be hers again.
The power of enjoyment seemed to have gone from her, her sky to be
permanently overcast. And so she sat in the radiant Italian sunshine
and brooded, with her eyes upon the horizon. She had given herself
into the hands of a stranger, but everyone--even Aunt Bobby--had
become a stranger to her now. It was useless to attempt to scan the
future. All was dark before her. Equally useless to look back along
the course she had traversed--that course over which there could be
no return! She could only cling to her spar and float till another
storm should arise and--perchance--overwhelm her utterly. It was a
desperate predicament and she tried not to contemplate it too
closely. He had been kind to her hitherto; perhaps he would continue
to be kind. But all feeling of security was gone, and only her
homesick longing for Bobby remained--a tragic sense of loss which
haunted her like a spectre that none other could see.
She became aware that her companion had spoken to her for the third
time, and almost guiltily she turned her eyes away from the
glittering stretch of deep blue sea.
"I am not looking for anything," she said.
"You look like a ship-wrecked mariner on a desert island," he said,
with lazy humour, "searching the skyline for a sail."
She suppressed a shiver. He had an uncanny fashion of expressing her
feelings at times which made her feel like an open book, the pages of
which he turned idly and at random for his own private amusement.
He saw her momentary discomfiture and smiled. "A bull's eye, was it?
Well, after all, the desert island isn't such a bad place. Some
people even might call it Arcadia. And it seems to suit you all
right. You get lovelier every day."
He proffered this compliment much as an indulgent nurse might dangle
a sugar-plum in front of a child who showed signs of fractiousness.
A vague impatience stirred within Rosemary. Why did he always treat
her as a child?
"You don't think much of women, do you?" she said, almost in spite of
herself.
"Nothing whatever," said Dick Dynamo; and then he laughed. There was
something disarming about his laugh which comforted her. "It doesn't
matter what I think, does it?" he said.
"I suppose it does to you," said Rosemary.
"Oh, to me!" She was aware of an edge in his words which made them
less reassuring than his laugh had been. "No, quite honestly, I
don't think anything matters very much to me--not even my own
opinion. It's the penalty of age, you know, Rosemary. You'll come
to it one day."
Rosemary nodded understanding. She felt near to it already. "I
expect I shall," she said. "One lives and learns."
"One does indeed," said Dick Dynamo; and added the next moment, still
half-laughing, "I wonder how much you have learnt in the past three
or four weeks that you never wot of before."
The colour rose in her face. "I don't know," she said, as he waited
for a reply. "It's hard to realize how ignorant I used to be."
"Which do you find the most blissful," he asked, "ignorance or
knowledge?"
"I don't know," she said again. "But one's got to have knowledge,
hasn't one?"
He made a wry face. "Applied with the rod of adversity, eh?"
"I don't suppose all knowledge is like that," said Rosemary.
"Oh no, there is the pleasant variety," he assured her. "Italy for
instance! You are learning Italy under conditions that you never
dreamed of. You can't say that Italy is an altogether unpleasant
proposition."
"Oh no!" said Rosemary, and she spoke with emphasis. "I love Italy.
I wish--I wish I had been born here."
"You wouldn't be nearly so attractive if you had been," he said.
"I should have been much happier," declared Rosemary.
"Ah! You are not very happy now, are you?" he said.
Her colour deepened under his eyes. "That isn't your fault," she
murmured almost under her breath.
"Are you sure it isn't?" he said.
She avoided his look for a moment or two; then with resolution she
met it. "Quite sure," she said.
"Does that mean it isn't in my power to give you happiness?" he
questioned.
She hesitated.
"Don't mind me!" he urged gently. "I haven't started in to try very
hard yet, you know."
Something in his tone moved her. Her eyes filled with tears and she
turned her face away. "It isn't you," she said.
She was bitterly ashamed of her emotion and fought to control it. He
had been kindness itself to her and she felt it was rank ingratitude
to suffer him to imagine that he had not succeeded in giving her
happiness. But for some reason the tears persisted, and in a moment
she got up and moved away, realizing that they must be conquered in
solitude.
He made no attempt to follow her, and though she was thankful that he
did not, she wondered if it meant that he was offended.
The brilliant sunshine seemed to mock her as she wandered down the
hill. The dancing water might have been a mirage. She came to a
spot where the rocky path took a sharp curve, and here in the corner
were some trodden uneven steps that led up to a shrine. Within the
niche was a crucifix rudely carved. Before it was a small pitcher
containing roses. They had evidently been placed there in the early
morning, and now they were wilting in the noonday heat. Their scent
came to her as she paused.
Something drew her, she knew not what. As though a Hand had been
laid upon her, she moved towards that roughly-fashioned shrine.
Reaching the steps, she paused again. This was where the peasants
knelt to pray. Did they go empty away, she wondered? She wished
again, passionately, that she were as one of them. At least they had
a measure of faith. A sudden agony caught at her heart. Why had she
lost hers? In the old days, kneeling by Aunt Bobby's side, no
troublous questionings had ever arisen within her. In a fashion
Bobby's faith had seemed to suffice for them both. She had been so
sure that Bobby's pure spirit was safely anchored in reality. But
now all that was gone, since Bobby had cheated her. She was left
stranded and alone in a world of unimaginable desolation, a world in
which only evil flourished.
Yet still she stood before the Shrine of Suffering, waiting--waiting
for a sign.
She never knew afterwards how it happened. There was no visible
influence at work. No voice or touch or vision came to her. But
after a space of which she had no reckoning, she suddenly found
herself kneeling on the stone. The pitcher was pushed aside, the
roses were fallen from it, and she was bowed forward, weeping, her
two hands clutching desperately at the base of the Cross.
Words--words which Aunt Bobby had tenderly taught her long ago--fell
piteously from her lips. She did not know why she uttered them.
"Nothing in my hand I bring,
Simply to Thy Cross I cling...."
The Cross! The Cross! This was what it meant then to be made
perfect through suffering. Kneeling there in utter helplessness, it
came to her as by a great flash of illumination.
And something else came to her also--something that she had never
known before--was it an actual Presence by her side?--or a still
small Voice that spoke within?
She knew not. Only--when It was past--she lifted her face in
wonderment and knew that the ground whereon she knelt was holy.
Later she picked up the fallen roses and replaced them in their
jar,--smelt them--kissed them--and softly went away.
CHAPTER VIII
THE MIRROR
That afternoon, sitting under the awning that sheltered the _façade_
of a dream hotel, looking forth upon a dream sea of purest, deepest
blue, Rosemary made a suggestion which frankly astounded her
companion.
"I think," she said, "I should like to go into a convent."
"Gracious Heaven!" said Dick Dynamo, and after that said no more
while his cigarette lasted.
Then, having with capable brown fingers removed the end from the
holder, he tossed it away, and spoke.
"You can't do that," he said.
"Why not?" said Rosemary.
He gave her an odd look. "You haven't done anything to deserve it,"
he said.
Her brow contracted a little. "One isn't obliged to be wicked
first," she said. "It's for the people who are tired and want to
hide as well."
"Does that describe your case?" he asked.
She nodded thoughtfully. "I want to learn to be good," she said.
"You haven't learnt to be anything else yet," he pointed out.
"I'm afraid one doesn't want much teaching in that way," said
Rosemary with a sigh.
"You're very young," said Dick Dynamo.
Thereafter he was silent for a space, watching her as was his wont, a
certain shrewd amusement in his eyes.
He spoke at last, but more to himself than to her. "No, I'm not
going to let you bury yourself in a convent. You're too good for
that. I think I know what your trouble is." He addressed her now
definitely. "You're homesick."
She did not contradict him. The very word "home" seemed to bring her
heart into her throat. Aunt Bobby--Little Staple--all that she had
once held so lightly--rose in a flash before her. All that had once
been hers and would never be hers again!
What could he know about it--this man with the iron-grey hair and
cynical, worn features? He had travelled the world for years for his
own amusement. What could the word mean to him?
"Whatever I am," she said, speaking with difficulty as he seemed to
expect some sort of answer to his challenge, "it's no good talking
about it, because I can't go back."
He smiled at that in a way she did not understand. There were many
things she did not understand about him. "You can certainly go back
if you want to," he said.
She felt herself turn scarlet. "Oh no, I couldn't--I couldn't!" she
said.
"Why not?" he questioned lazily. "Do you think I should prevent you?"
"No--no!" She began to stammer in desperate confusion. "You
are--much too kind--to--to want to keep me--against my will. It's
only--what everyone would be saying--and--and--" Bobby's name was on
her lips, but she could not utter it; she plunged into quivering
silence.
He did not seem to notice her agitation; she had noticed before that
he was strangely blind at times. "What would everyone be saying?" he
asked.
Rosemary uttered a half-choked sound of distress. "You must--know,"
she faltered.
"My dear child," he said, "I merely wanted to find out if you did.
You mean that everyone within a radius of ten miles or so of your old
home is suffering from pious shock because you are travelling in my
company unchaperoned. Is that it?"
She nodded. "Yes."
"Do you think they know?" he proceeded.
"They would know--if I went back," she said.
"Not unless you told them," he argued. "It's a very unlikely story,
after all. I rather doubt if they'd believe it if you did."
"They'd probably believe--something worse," said Rosemary, with
burning cheeks.
"They probably would," he agreed. "It's an uncharitable world, isn't
it? But that being the case, why worry? Surely you are happier
where you are!"
"I know I ought to be," said Rosemary, "but--but--" with a great
effort she brought out the words--"it isn't only oneself that counts,
is it? If--if--I went into a convent, I could write to them then,
and say I was safe."
"You can write to them now and say the same, if you so wish," he
remarked somewhat dryly.
"Oh no, I couldn't," she said again. "I couldn't!"
He took out his cigarette-case, and she felt with relief that his
look was no longer upon her. "It would be strictly true," he said.
"I couldn't," she repeated.
He began to smoke again thoughtfully.
"I wonder," he said presently, "excluding the convent idea of course,
what you would most like to do."
"I think I ought to work for my living," said Rosemary. She spoke in
a low voice but with more assurance than before. His manner gave her
a measure of confidence. "You see, I always have worked. I'm used
to it."
He threw her a brief glance. "Yes? What sort of work?" he said.
She hesitated. It was difficult to make him see life as she had
always seen it hitherto.
"One was always busy on the farm, you know," she said.
"Who ran the farm?" asked Dick Dynamo.
It was the first time he had betrayed any interest in her past
existence. She felt as if a definite command had been laid upon her
to lift the curtain and show him the world in which she had moved up
to the time of her amazing flight with him.
She complied with an effort, but as she proceeded she was surprised
to find the task less difficult than she had thought. She knew that
he was listening intently. "Aunt Bobby ran it," she said, and, once
uttered, her lips no longer faltered at the name. "She has done it
for years. Grandpa was alive at first, then he died and we still
went on at Little Staple, she and Aunt Matilda and I."
"Is your Aunt Matilda married?" he put in.
"No, oh no, she never married," said Rosemary, "but she must have
been thinking of it once, for that bride's dress I wore was made for
her. But she never did anything on the farm. She was too delicate,
and besides, she never wanted to. Aunt Bobby did all the work. I
used to help a little, not much; but I had my lessons to do."
"Who taught you?" he said.
"Aunt Bobby." Rosemary's voice quivered a little; the vision of Aunt
Bobby's sweet flushed face bent over her ironing while she sat on the
window-seat and repeated her French poetry rose before her. "She
made me work very hard at them. But she worked much harder herself.
She never rested."
"Was the farm a success?" he asked.
Rosemary was a little vague. "The pigs were, I think," she said. "I
don't know much about the rest. Oh yes, the eggs were too. And she
used to make butter. But there was never any money to spare. I
suppose it all went in rent."
"Oh, she didn't own the farm then?" His voice had a casual ring, yet
she knew that he was interested.
"Oh no. That belonged to Silas Hickory." The old jealous resentment
sounded in the words, and her companion turned his head and surveyed
her. "He was always in and out. I think he helped quite a lot over
the pigs and things. But I didn't like him much."
"Thought he came too often, eh?" he suggested with lazy humour.
She felt the colour rising again. "He was just a common farmer," she
protested.
"Oh, was he?" said Dick Dynamo. "And she was partial to him, I
gather?"
Rosemary winced. Somehow it seemed to her as if the half-malicious
satire had been levelled at herself. "She was always
very--neighbourly to him," she said, and shrank again involuntarily
at the sound of his laugh.
"Well, why aren't they married, then?" he said.
The question seemed to pierce her. She got up quickly. Her face was
crimson. "You've no right to say that," she said. "Of course she
would never marry him! You don't understand--nothing will ever make
you believe--that--that, whatever may have happened when she was
young--she has really been waiting for you--ever since."
His dark eyes came direct to hers. He did not stir in his seat, nor
did the cruel smile leave his face. "And you believe that?" he said.
"You?"
She flinched again, but she answered him bravely. "Yes, I do. There
are lots of things I don't understand. But I know that is true.
I--have seen it."
"Seen what?" he said.
She told him, feeling that she spoke to a mask. "I've seen it--in
her eyes. She didn't often speak of you. Only once--or twice--when
I asked. But she wore your ring always, night and day, on her right
hand. I asked her once--when we were alone--if you were ever coming
back. She said--she said--" suddenly Rosemary began to sob, she
scarcely knew why, save that the memory of Aunt Bobby and all her
loving ways had become too poignant to be borne--"she said, 'If God
wills, darling.' And then--she sighed,--as if she hadn't much hope
left."
She ceased to speak and with a tremendous effort choked back her
emotion. The man in the chair by her side said nothing whatever. He
lay back with a perfectly inscrutable expression on his dark scarred
face, watching the sparkling horizon, almost as if unaware of her.
After a time, becoming more sure of herself, she began to observe him
covertly and saw that his cigarette was out. For a space she sat
motionless, and then oddly a sense of trespass came upon her, and she
rose.
He spoke immediately, an arresting quality in his voice. "Don't go,
Rosemary! I want you."
She sat down again, and he resumed his silence, the quenched
cigarette still between his lips.
At last, with a curious abruptness, he spoke. "I can't reconcile
what you have told me with what actually happened before you were
born. There's a hitch somewhere. Did she think I shouldn't regard
that letter she wrote as conclusive?"
"I never heard about a letter," said Rosemary.
He flashed her a keen look. His dark eyes had a strange deep glow in
them. "You are so like her," he said. "Yet so unlike. Do you
always tell the truth?"
She started at the question, but it was not uttered as an insult, and
the next instant she realized it. He waited for her answer as if
much hung upon it.
"Yes, I do," she said with simplicity.
He took the cigarette from his mouth and flung it away. "Now I'll
tell you something," he said, "something you haven't dreamed of.
I've called myself Graves for convenience sake for a good many years.
But my real name is Thorgrave--Richard Thorgrave, and I have just
come into the Ravencombe title and estates."
"Good gracious!" said Rosemary, startled.
He went on, ignoring her. "It means nothing whatever to me--dust and
ashes. I have no relations left, except a cousin--Silas Hickory, the
rustic farmer you have just mentioned--who is next of kin,--my heir
in short."
"Silas--Hickory!" gasped Rosemary.
He confirmed the statement grimly. "Yes, Silas Hickory, through a
_mésalliance_ on his mother's part. I've never met the fellow, but I
suppose it's up to me to keep the family pride from being vested in
the type of person you describe as 'a common farmer,' and for that
reason I shall have to marry and get another heir." His eyes were
upon her, holding her with an almost fierce dominance. "No woman who
has played me false once--" he spoke between his teeth as though he
clipped off the words one by one--"is ever given another opportunity.
I shall never see your--Aunt Bobby again. But you--I'm sorry for
you. You're only a child. Anyhow, I haven't let you down, haven't
betrayed your trust in me, have I? I've been thinking a good deal
all this time. You're so like her that I didn't know at first if I
could stand it. But I've come to see you lately with different eyes.
You don't remind me of her at every turn as you did. You're getting
a personality of your own. So now--I'm willing to marry you, if
you're willing to be married to me. And I'll look after you and be a
good husband to you--as long as you stick to me."
His hand came out to her with the words and held her own. He looked
at her with eyes from which all hardness had vanished.
"I'll be kind to you, child," he said. "You needn't be afraid."
"Oh stop!" said Rosemary. She had turned very pale, and she met his
look with a kind of desperation. She spoke quickly, her voice sharp
with distress. "Don't you see that's one of the reasons why I
thought I would go into a convent? I don't want to be married. And
even if I did, I couldn't possibly marry you. It wouldn't be right.
It wouldn't be straight. You--you ought to marry Aunt Bobby."
Something in his dark face warned her, and she stopped abruptly. The
hand that held hers had tightened until its grasp was acutely
painful, but she did not flinch, although in that moment she feared
him as she had never feared anyone in her life before. For in his
eyes was something unfathomable, something that made her think of a
soul in torture. His silence appalled her, yet she dreaded to hear
him speak, and when he did so at last her heart was beating so
violently that she could scarcely hear the words.
"Why have you said this to me?" It was an absolutely quiet question,
wholly free from any menace of wrath, but it might have been dead
lips that uttered it. The hand that gripped hers was like cold steel.
She found herself compelled to answer him, compelled to express the
naked truth as she saw it. Her voice sounded odd and strained even
to herself, but the words came without hesitation or faltering.
"Because you love her."
That was all. Just a plain and simple statement of fact! Nothing
had ever before sounded so crude, even brutal, to her ears, but she
had no choice but to utter it. It was as if, at his behest, she had
held up a mirror to his soul to show him the stark reality that dwelt
there. He had demanded it of her, but none the less did she expect
some crushing retribution for what she had done. In that moment she
saw him as a man who had suffered beyond the limit of human
endurance, and it seemed as if human control must fail. But seconds
passed and there came no violent outburst; only that deadly
quiet--only that fixed and mask-like regard!
It continued until her own control began to waver, and finally she
could bear it no longer. She stirred the hand he held, and the next
instant to her surprise she found it free. His own hand fell, and he
lay back in his chair as if he had forgotten her presence. She could
not interpret his attitude, but it seemed almost one of exhaustion.
For a brief space she continued to sit by his side irresolute; then,
summoning her courage, she got up and slipped away.
He did not so much as turn his head to mark her going.
CHAPTER IX
"I WILL ARISE..."
Again, but less poignantly now, that sense of desolation came upon
Rosemary as she walked between the orange-trees in the hotel-garden.
The anguish of soul that had possessed her that morning was over.
That had passed while she had knelt upon the steps of the wayside
Cross, and though complete peace was not yet hers, a certain sense of
security had reached her there and still remained. She knew, quite
inexplicably yet beyond question, that some decision would presently
come to her--a right decision upon which she would be given strength
to act. The amazing revelation regarding himself that her companion
had made had not greatly affected her. In the old days it would have
stirred her to the depths, but so much had happened of late, and she
had known--somehow she had always known--that he was some species of
prince in disguise. The discovery that she herself had made
concerning him went deeper, and now she realized that it was not such
a great discovery after all. She had been more or less aware of it
from the beginning. From the moment of her recognition of him, she
had regarded him as belonging to Aunt Bobby, and--she faced it
now--it was in part that outlook which had induced her in the first
overwhelming revulsion of feeling to give herself into his keeping.
It had been an action of mad, unreasoning impulse made in a moment
when all the values of life had changed for her. In her wild desire
to escape at all costs she had not stopped to ask herself whither
that desperate step might lead. That it had not so far led to
complete shipwreck was due to no effort of hers. It was the
half-cynical, half-compassionate chivalry of her companion that had
been her salvation. Whether through kindness or indifference, he had
given her time to realize the headlong rashness of her action, and to
repent it if she so desired. It came to her as she walked that he
had been astoundingly generous to her. Was it his love for Aunt
Bobby that had made him so?
Again her thoughts returned to the beloved being who had been all the
world to her, and for the first time she tried to bring them into
some sort of order. There was much that she could not know, scarcely
even surmise, but it seemed to her, after a brief review of her own
fantastic situation, that if by some means Aunt Bobby had in the long
ago been betrayed into taking a false step she was possibly not
solely to blame. The bare thought of blaming her renewed the old
pain, but she faced it with greater courage now and with less
bitterness. Allowing for that one terrible fall for which there was
no means of accounting, with what bravery and loyalty she had borne
her burden since! Did she--Rosemary--owe her nothing for that? The
lifelong deception was harder to condone, but it had been conceived
for her own sake; that she clearly saw. And what was she, who had
just acted with such wholesale disregard of consequences, such utter
lack of consideration for others, to stand up in judgment? A strange
humility had begun to awake in Rosemary. She saw herself in a new
light, and by that light she now saw the deeds of others. Certainly
she was in no position to condemn.
Wandering on in the sunshine, with glimpses here and there of a sea
so vividly blue that it seemed as if it could not be real, she came
slowly to the deeper understanding that she sought. So far she had
only thought of herself. She realized the fact with shame. In her
wild dash for freedom, nothing else had mattered. She had suffered
cruelly, but by her action she had caused far greater suffering to
Aunt Bobby. This she knew beyond question, and her sense of shame
increased. Aunt Bobby, the beloved, who had done
everything,--sacrificed everything--for her! What agonies had she
endured as a consequence of this! Rosemary's hands clenched. It was
harder in that moment to think of Aunt Bobby's pain than her own, but
she found herself compelled to think. And this, though she knew it
not, was the first definite upward step she had ever taken.
Self-reproach followed swiftly and overwhelmingly, and presently she
was stumbling blindly among the rocks on the shore of that incredibly
blue sea, heedless of direction, conscious only of the one lacerating
thought that Aunt Bobby--her beloved, her darling--had suffered and
was still suffering through her.
Later, feeling physically exhausted and mentally bewildered, she sat
on one of those dark rocks and gazed before her in a kind of maze of
despair. What was she to do?
Later still--how much later she did not know--words which were
somehow familiar to her began to repeat themselves over and over in
her brain. It was like an inner voice, that would not be denied. "I
will arise--I will arise--and go to my father--and say unto him,
'Father, I have sinned--I have sinned'" ... And then again, more
insistently still: "I will arise--I will arise."
Then at last she knew that the message for which she had been
subconsciously waiting ever since the morning had come to her, and
she must obey. It was the one thing that she had said she could not
do--the one thing that made her shrink with a scorching sense of
shame; but it had been laid upon her, and she would not turn aside.
Whatever the cost, the decision was made and she would not flinch.
She got upon her feet and lifted her face to the sky that had begun
to turn golden towards the west.
"I will do it," she said, and her voice was clear and steadfast. "I
will go back."
The relief of having made that decision was greater than anything she
had ever known. She felt as if a light had suddenly shone in the
darkness, pointing the way, and though it was uphill and difficult
she knew that the strength she needed for the journey would be given.
How it was to be accomplished she knew not, but the will to
accomplish was hers.
And so she turned her face once more towards the orange garden above
the shore to seek her companion and to tell him of the decision she
had made. He would probably be angry, but she faced the possibility
without a falter. Whatever he did or said, she would not be deterred.
She found that she had wandered much further than she had realized,
and already the chill of sunset was in the air. The sea lay like an
immense opal, still and silent, under a sky that was changing from
blue to purest primrose. The sun was sinking rapidly towards the
horizon. The shore looked deeply black.
She quickened her steps. It would be dark before she reached the
hotel. She had not been out alone so late before during their
travels. She was not nervous, but the thought of Dick Dynamo, as she
still called him to herself, agitated her somewhat. She did not want
to upset him unnecessarily; for he had shown her more than once that
he could be formidable.
The way back seemed endless, the curve of the shore interminable.
She wondered what had induced her to come so far. But it was only
the beginning of a much longer journey, and she would not suffer
herself to be discouraged. She had already begun to return.
The sun dipped lower, finally sank. A cold wind swept up from the
west and the whole world turned ashen. The change smote upon
Rosemary's heart almost like a curse. She had the sudden scared
feeling of a lost child. What if return were made impossible for
her? What if she were condemned to wander forever in a world from
which all the sunshine had been withdrawn? Then, away in the
distance ahead of her, a star began to shine, and she took courage
again. Whatever the difficulties ahead of her, she would meet them
bravely. She would not be cast down.
The gloom became darkness as she finally drew near to the steps that
led up from the shore to the hotel-garden. She broke into a run over
the last few yards. It seemed to her that she was leaving an
inexpressible dreariness behind. She stumbled as she ran, for the
ground was rough and stony. The wind was wailing eerily along the
beach.
She reached the steps with relief, began to spring up them; then
suddenly stopped midway, standing with caught breath and wildly
throbbing heart. There at the gate above her, dimly discernible,
stood a figure.
It was not Dick Dynamo; of that she was practically certain. Yet the
impression that it was someone who was awaiting her penetrated deeply
into her consciousness. But if not Dick Dynamo,--and the vague
outline looked too thick-set, altogether too heavily built to be
his--if not he, who could it be?
She could not tell, but in those moments a positive panic of doubt
went through her and she was near to turning in unreasoning terror
and fleeing back along the beach by the way she had come. She
thought later that it was only the desolate sighing of the wind and
the moaning of the sea that deterred her. But many seconds passed
before she nerved herself to continue the ascent to the top of the
steps.
She accomplished it at length, slowly, as if her limbs obeyed her
with difficulty, mounting step by step until she reached the last.
And still the figure above her stood quite motionless, waiting for
her.
She accosted it at last because the silence was unbearable, almost
uncanny.
"Are you wanting anything?" she said. "Are you waiting for me?"
She spoke in English intuitively. Some inner prompting told her that
it could be no Italian standing there, impervious to that icy mistral.
And at once a voice replied in English--a calm, deliberate voice that
sent all the blood to her heart in a rush.
"Yes, I was waiting for you," it said, "but I've done now. I'm going
to take you home."
"Good gracious!" gasped Rosemary, and nearly fell backwards in her
astonishment. "It's The Old Bean!"
A big hand came out and grasped her, pulling her safely through the
gate. "Yes, it's me," said The Old Bean superfluously and somewhat
grimly. "And now we'll go back."
CHAPTER X
THE ESCORT
She stood before him speechlessly. His hand had fallen from her arm.
The gate swung to with a clang, and they remained facing one another
while the wind swept the shore below them and an incongruous scent of
roses wafted down from the garden above.
It was so like The Old Bean, she thought later, not to ask her what
she was doing in that strange place, merely to announce his intention
of taking her back. It dawned on her as she stood there, that he
probably meant to carry out that intention with her consent or
without it, so uncompromising was his attitude. His face she could
not see with any distinctness, and she reflected with some relief
that he could not see hers either. He was not an imaginative person,
and she hoped that he had not fully realized her discomfiture. She
made a determined effort to cover it.
"How clever of you to find me!" she said.
"It was rather," said The Old Bean. "I've had a considerable hunt."
"And you've only just got here?" she said.
"No," said The Old Bean. "I got here yesterday."
That surprised her, though she tried not to be surprised. "Where are
you staying?" she asked.
"I'm putting up at this place," he said, with a nod towards the hotel
that was now giving forth points of light in the darkness.
"You spent last night here?" she questioned.
"Yes," said The Old Bean.
"But why didn't we meet before?" she asked, puzzled.
"I kept out of your way," he explained.
"Why?" she asked.
"I wanted to find out something," said The Old Bean.
Somehow that pierced her; she felt herself tingle all over. "What
did you want to find out?" she demanded.
He did not answer, and she found his silence unbearable.
"I suppose you wanted to know if I'm still respectable or not!" she
flung at him, standing fiercely upright as one braced for attack.
"No," said The Old Bean quietly. "I just wanted to know if you were
married yet."
She caught her breath; it was like a stab through the heart. "I'm
not then!" she declared with a kind of fiery vehemence that seemed to
consume herself. "So now you know!"
"Thank you," said The Old Bean courteously. "I am glad to know."
"Why?" she stormed, finding his calm acceptance of the situation
intolerable. "Why are you glad? What business is it of yours--or
anyone's?"
She was quivering from head to foot as she asked the question. All
the agony of shame that she had suffered in anticipation of her
return to the old life and the old familiar faces was not equal to
this. The intensity of it was such that she almost wanted to scream,
though she did not expect him to understand, even wildly hoped that
he could not. It was more endurable that he should deem her basely
ungrateful than suspect the fiery torture that he had somehow managed
to inflict.
And then, to her utter amazement he broke in upon her turmoil with a
quiet remark that completely altered the trend of her thoughts.
"If you ask me," he said, "I should say it isn't anyone's business
but mine. But you may think otherwise. I daresay you will."
He said the last sentence as one making a concession to a recognized
weakness which would in the end be overcome. She remembered that in
earlier days she had observed a tendency in him to this method of
treating difficulties. It had amused her then. It did not amuse her
now.
"How can you possibly pretend it is your business?" she said, aware
too late that in saying it she exposed a vulnerable point. "You are
only a friend after all."
"Yes, exactly that," said The Old Bean, and with the words he drove
his lance straight into the weak spot before she could attempt to
cover it. "I am a friend. There's no pretense about that anyway.
I'm glad you admit it."
"It doesn't mean anything," said Rosemary hastily.
"It does to me," said The Old Bean, with absolute simplicity. "And
that's why I've come to take you home."
"Oh!" said Rosemary, and after a moment's rapid thought: "But I was
coming in any case. I mean, I'd decided to go back."
He accepted the statement in his usual direct way. Being sincere
himself, he seemed to take it for granted that he would meet with
sincerity in others. "That's so much the better," he said, and again
she had a feeling that his own decision upon that point had been made
before he had acquainted himself with hers. "And the sooner the
better, I should say. When can you start?"
That took her by surprise afresh. It did not seem to go quite
naturally with the general leisureliness of his attitude. He had
waited twenty-four hours before announcing himself, and now he was
apparently prepared for instant action. She had never credited The
Old Bean with a vast amount of energy, and for some reason she felt
inclined to resent this revelation of it.
"Oh, I don't know," she said. "I've got to talk to--to Dick first."
"I'll talk to him," said The Old Bean, "while you're getting ready."
"You!" said Rosemary, still further startled though hardly knowing
wherefore. "I don't suppose he'd listen to you."
"Oh yes, he would," said The Old Bean. "He'd have to."
She stood and stared at him in the darkness. Then she shivered. "Do
you know who he is?" she said.
"Yes, I know," said The Old Bean. "I found that out before I left
England. Shall we go in and find him? You're cold."
He made a move as if to walk up the path, but Rosemary stood still.
Her two hands were pressed tightly against her breast.
"Suppose he won't listen to you!" she said in a low voice. "Suppose
he won't let me go with you!"
"Isn't that rather absurd?" asked The Old Bean in mild surprise.
She shook her head vehemently. "No, it isn't absurd. I can't go
without his consent--after all he has done for me."
"I will get his consent," said The Old Bean patiently.
"You!" she said again, a ring of desperation in her voice. "You
don't know what you're up against."
"It's you who don't know that," said The Old Bean unexpectedly, and
with the words suddenly, amazingly, he took her by the shoulders and
held her. "You talk about not being able to get away from that
loafer up there," he said. "What about me? Think you can get away
from me?"
It was as if a thunderbolt had fallen at her feet. Rosemary gave a
gasp and shut her eyes. It was the most astounding thing that had
ever happened to her. A short time before she would have said that
nothing could ever surprise her again, and now once more the whole
world seemed toppling around her. She made a feeble effort to set
her hands against the broad chest and hold herself from him--an
effort that was instantly and compellingly defeated.
"Don't hurt me, Old Bean!" she begged weakly, as his arms crushed her
to him. "Don't hurt me!"
"Hurt you!" he said, and in his voice was a deep quiver that seemed
to set her whole body vibrating. "I'll kill you if you ever try to
play this game again. But no one else shall ever touch a hair of
your precious head. That I swear! Now kiss me!"
But she hid her face low on his breast, in shamed avoidance, hearing
the firm beat of his heart, and strangely thankful for the warmth of
his sheltering arms. "What must you think of me?" she whispered
inarticulately.
His hand was feeling for her face. There was something quite
indomitable about The Old Bean that night. He strode over every
obstacle. "I'll tell you when you've kissed me," he said.
Again feebly she sought to resist him, but he would not be resisted.
He had his way, and lifting her face to his he kissed her over and
over again until, strangely, her shame slipped from her. Her arms
went round his neck and she kissed him in return....
"Though I don't know why I should!" she whispered a little later.
"Old Bean, what made you--do it?"
"What made me?" he said. "You made me, of course. Do you think
you're going to belong to any other man but me? Just listen to me,
Rosemary! I've tracked you all this way because I want you, and I
mean to have you. We'll be married out here as soon as ever I can
fix it up, and we'll be married again when we get back to England
just to make sure."
"Oh!" said Rosemary, and drew a long breath. "That would
satisfy--everybody."
"So long as it satisfies you, that's all that matters," he told her
bluntly. "I'm not out to please the rest of the world. They can all
jolly well take a back seat, and Ravencombe with 'em. It's you--and
only you--that matters."
Rosemary gave a gasp. There was substantial comfort in this; but
something within her--something which had developed only during that
day of suffering--made her begin to withdraw from his sheltering arms.
"That's all very well, Old Bean," she said. "And I'm very, very
grateful to you, because goodness only knows why you should want to
marry me. But I know of a very big reason why you shouldn't. It's
the reason that made me run away from Bode, and has kept me away all
this time."
"I thought you said you were going back," said The Old Bean, firmly
frustrating her effort to release herself.
"I know--I was." Rosemary's voice trembled a little. "But only
because I realized I ought to, and--and--because I wanted--I so
wanted--Aunt Bobby."
"Well, I shan't keep you away from her," said The Old Bean. "In
fact, it'll be easier for you--tons easier--if you go back with me."
"Oh, but that isn't what I mean," said Rosemary. "It's something
quite different--something I don't know how to tell you. You've been
thinking all this time that I ran away just for an adventure--a lark.
But it wasn't, Old Bean; it really wasn't! It was because of
something I heard--something about myself." Her voice became choked;
she paused to master her distress.
"I say, don't cry!" said The Old Bean, drawing her closer.
"I'm not!" whispered Rosemary resolutely. "But I've got to tell
you--now. You'd better let me go, Old Bean, before--before it's too
late."
"There's only one thing on earth would make me do that," he said with
decision.
"What's that?" she asked faintly.
He answered her with some force. "Being quite sure that you yourself
personally wanted it. If you can't tell me that--and I'm pretty sure
you can't--you needn't tell me anything else."
That moved her; she clasped the arm that she had sought to slacken.
"Old Bean, you are a brick!" she said shakily. "But I'm going to
tell you all the same, because I couldn't let you marry me without
knowing. It wouldn't be right. It's just this--just this. I'm not
what you think I am--what I always used to think I was myself.
I'm--I'm one of those dreadful creatures that are born when they
ought not to be. I don't know who my father was. My mother--my
mother--" she broke off; it was useless to struggle any longer---"I
can't say it!" she sobbed. "You'll have to understand without."
"Oh, poor little darling!" said The Old Bean, and held her
passionately close. "Stop crying! Stop crying, I tell you! I don't
care a twopenny damn! What on earth does it matter when you know I
love you? Who was the brute that told you?"
She clung to him. "Dick--Lord Ravencombe," she whispered. "He knows
it must have been so, because he says there never was a brother. And
he's very bitter about it, because, you see, he--he loved her."
"Loved who?" questioned The Old Bean, bewildered.
"Her--Aunt Bobby--long ago." Rosemary poured the words rapidly into
his ear. The relief of having a confidant was indescribable. "She
sent him away. He didn't know why. But he loves her still, and he
ought to go back to her. I've told him so. Perhaps he will."
"He can go to blazes for all I care," said The Old Bean. "He'd no
right to tell you that. He's a skunk."
"Oh no, he isn't!" she protested. "Truly he isn't! He didn't really
mean to tell me. It just came out. And then I--I was so
shocked--and idiotic--that I begged him to take me away there and
then."
"Oh, I see," said The Old Bean, somewhat mollified. "You didn't
really care for him then?"
"Oh no, never, really," Rosemary assured him. "I did let him kiss
me--just at the first--the night of the Ball. But never since! He's
never wanted to since, Old Bean."
"He's got more decency than I gave him credit for," remarked The Old
Bean, kissing her himself as one who had the right. "Well, that's
all settled then, isn't it? We're going to be married straight away."
"If--if you're sure it doesn't make any difference," said Rosemary
tremulously.
"It does make a difference," he asserted. "It makes me all the
keener to have you and protect you. No one will dare to say a word
against you when you are my wife."
Her arm slipped round his neck again. "What'll you do if they do?"
she said.
"Do!" said The Old Bean, blood-thirstily. "I'll murder them!"
She laid her cheek to his with a great sigh. "Oh, it is jolly of you
to say that!" she said.
CHAPTER XI
THE VICTOR
The glare of light from the hotel lounge dazzled Rosemary as she
entered. She paused on the mat just within the great swing-door,
looking around her. The warmth of the place after the chill without
was almost overpowering. It gave her a curious sensation of
insecurity, as if the old allurement from which she had so narrowly
escaped were weaving its net afresh about her feet. She cast an
instinctive glance over her shoulder, caught a glimpse of The Old
Bean's towsled red head and was reassured. This solid supporter of
hers was made of stouter stuff than dreams. There was no danger of
his vanishing into thin air.
He saw the glance and replied to it in an audible undertone. "Carry
on! There he is--over in that corner. You lead--I'll follow!" She
turned her dazzled eyes in the direction he indicated, and, her
vision clearing, she saw the dark, refined face of her
travelling-companion bent over a paper. He was evidently not in the
least perturbed regarding her absence, and her relief at the
discovery was not unmixed with indignation. There seemed to be
something almost studied in his complete indifference. It was more
in response to The Old Bean's request than her own impulse that she
made her way towards him.
There were but few people present as the tea-hour was over. Dick
Dynamo had pushed his own tray on one side and was smoking a
cigarette as he read. He looked up, however, before she reached him,
and she saw in a moment by the mocking light in his eyes that her
entrance had not been unobserved by him.
She felt herself turn scarlet as she stood before him. It was with
immense effort that she spoke.
"I'm sorry I'm late. I--met a friend."
"Pray don't apologize!" said Dick Dynamo. "I concluded that there
was some good reason for your absence." His eyes went beyond her and
spent perhaps two seconds in summing up The Old Bean. Then he said:
"Have you had any tea?"
The question did not convey that the matter was one of the faintest
interest to him, but it had to be answered. Rosemary began to reply
in the negative, but The Old Bean gently assumed the responsibility
himself.
"No, we haven't. But we're just going to. You've had yours, I see,
so it's no good asking you to join us."
Dick Dynamo's eyes kindled a little in response to this, but his
voice remained quite suave as he said, "Thanks, no. But it will give
me great pleasure to look on. I didn't quite catch your name, I'm
afraid."
"It wasn't mentioned," said The Old Bean. "My name is Ross--Donald
Ross. Sit down, Rosemary, while I get hold of a waiter!"
"Don't trouble!" said Dick Dynamo, and struck a bell on his own
table. "My name is Graves--Richard Graves, at the present moment, as
possibly Rosemary may have mentioned. Did she explain that we are
travelling together?"
"I didn't need to be told that," said The Old Bean stolidly. "I've
been following you for the past three weeks."
Dick Dynamo's black brows went up. "Indeed!" he said. "It has taken
you some time to come up with us."
"Yes, I know," said The Old Bean. "It's been rather like following a
streak of lightning." He drew forward a chair for Rosemary with the
words, and pressed her quietly into it.
Dick Dynamo's laugh had a ring of derision. "I followed my mood," he
said. "I had an idea that there was someone behind us. That is
really why I pulled up."
The Old Bean seated himself close to Rosemary. His freckled face
looked more square than usual. His green eyes were unfailingly
direct. There was nothing in the least subtle about him, but he
looked a solid mass of determination.
Rosemary sat forward in her chair with her head bent. She was
evidently feeling her position acutely. She made no attempt to
intervene in any way. The flush of embarrassment had passed, leaving
her very pale.
Dick Dynamo glanced towards her. "You have been a long way," he
remarked.
She shook her head, not lifting her eyes. "No, not very far, only
along the shore."
"Perhaps a little further than you anticipated," he suggested.
She made a quick gesture of negation. The Old Bean leaned forward,
almost with a screening movement.
He was on the verge of speaking when she looked up sharply. "Tell
him we're engaged!" she said.
The Old Bean turned ponderously to the other man. "We're engaged,"
he said.
Dick Dynamo's smile was instant; it had something of an acrobatic
quality. "Oh, not without my consent, I think," he said.
"Your consent?" repeated The Old Bean. "Has that--excuse
me--anything to do with it?"
"I should say--everything--morally," said Dick Dynamo. "But that by
the way! Won't you have your tea first?"
"I don't know," said The Old Bean. "I think I'd sooner talk first if
it's all the same to you. Rosemary may be your guest, but I don't
see that that involves any moral obligation to ask your consent to
our getting married. I've always meant to marry her for as long as
I've known her, and I've known her for considerably longer than you
have."
"It looks as if her intentions and yours have not always been
identical," observed Dick Dynamo, flicking the ash from his
cigarette. "It's the first I've heard of them anyway."
His eyes were upon Rosemary as he spoke with the old appraising look
that she had come to know so well. She met them with a kind of
desperation. "You're only joking," she said, in a low voice. "It
doesn't really matter two pins to you what I do."
His smile at once included her in its mockery. "I hope I take a more
serious view of my responsibilities than that," he said.
"Your responsibilities!" said The Old Bean, a sudden throb in his
voice that seemed to indicate that there was more beneath his
composure than he had so far permitted to appear. "That's a point I
should rather like to discuss with you."
Dick Dynamo's attention was at once transferred to him. "You shall,
my good fellow," he said kindly, "but I recommend that the discussion
should be held in a more private place than this. And meantime, here
is your tea, so don't let me interrupt you!"
He leaned back in his chair again and resumed the study of his paper,
leaving his two companions completely to their own devices. The
result of this proceeding was that they sat as culprits in a guilty
silence while the waiter clattered the tea-cups in front of Rosemary
and finally withdrew.
The Old Bean was the first to move. Laboriously and with furrowed
brow, he dragged his chair round until his back was completely turned
upon Dick Dynamo; then with a steady hand he drew the tray to him and
began to pour out the tea.
Rosemary started, as one coming out of a dream. "Shan't I do that?"
she said.
"No, darling," said The Old Bean quietly and with great distinctness.
"I'll see to everything. You're tired."
The opportunity to serve her seemed to restore his confidence. He
ate and drank and saw that she did the same without the smallest sign
that he was aware of the man who sat reading the paper behind him.
And Rosemary also, re-acting to his influence, gradually recovered
her equilibrium, so that at the end of the meal they were talking
together in low tones almost as if they had been alone.
"You had better go and get a rest," said The Old Bean when she had
finished, and nodded reassuringly when she looked up with quick
interrogation in her eyes.
She rose without demur, and he rose also and walked with her across
the nearly deserted lounge to the stairs. "Don't get wind up!" he
said when they were out of earshot. "I've got you all right and I'm
going to keep you. Mephistopheles himself couldn't alter that."
She smiled though somewhat wanly. "Don't have a row with him, Old
Bean!" she said.
"Good gracious, no!" said The Old Bean with a smile.
He watched her up the stairs, then turned with square intention and
walked back to the corner he had just left. Dick Dynamo was still
deep in his paper. He pulled a chair to his side and sat down.
"I want to talk to you," he said.
The elder man looked up, and over his dark thin features there passed
an odd expression, as if for a moment he saw something more than the
honest, freckled countenance before him.
"Talk away!" he said.
The Old Bean proceeded without further preamble. "You don't
altogether understand the situation," he said. "Perhaps I don't
either. But I know all I need to know. I've followed Rosemary out
here to take her home."
"Oh, indeed!" said Dick Dynamo. He glanced around him with the
words, and seeing one or two people still lingering in the vicinity,
he got up. "Perhaps we shall dispose of this matter more quickly in
private," he said.
"Wherever you like," said The Old Bean.
Dick Dynamo led the way to the lift and they ascended together. On
the top floor he took the lead again, and they finally entered a room
that looked out over the bay now all spangled with lights.
The Old Bean shut the door behind him and moved forward. There was
another door in the room at which he glanced.
Dick Dynamo smiled a little, showing his teeth. "There is a curtain
on the other side," he said. "You won't be overheard unless you
raise your voice."
"Rosemary's room?" asked The Old Bean bluntly.
"Exactly. Rosemary's room." Very blandly came the reply. "I am
taking good care of her, you see."
The Old Bean heard the gibe in the words and flushed a little, but he
kept himself in hand. "I'm glad you've been decent to her," he said.
"I don't see how anyone could be anything else myself. She's such a
kid. I haven't yet fathomed why you brought her here."
"It was by her own wish," said Dick Dynamo.
"Yes, she told me that." The Old Bean paused a moment; then: "She's
told me everything," he said, "that is, everything she knows."
"Then I hope you are satisfied," said Dick Dynamo.
"I am on some points," said The Old Bean. "Not on all. Why don't
you want me to marry her?"
The question was characteristically direct, but it held no challenge.
He spoke merely as one seeking information. Dick Dynamo, leaning
against the bed-rail, regarded him wholly without animosity. He even
after a moment took out his cigarette-case and offered it to him.
"No, thanks," said The Old Bean. "I prefer a pipe later. Do you
mind answering me?"
"You're rather young, aren't you?" said Dick Dynamo, helping himself.
"I am twenty-two," said The Old Bean.
The other nodded. "So I should have said. I shouldn't do it if I
were you."
The Old Bean showed no sign of exasperation. "Different things suit
different people," he said. "But I doubt if I should come to you for
advice in any case. The whole point is that I am going to marry
Rosemary at the earliest possible moment. You may try to prevent it,
though I don't see why you should. But you won't succeed, so it's a
pity to waste your time."
"Quite sure of that?" said Dick Dynamo, blowing his cigarette-smoke
thoughtfully upwards.
"I am quite sure," said The Old Bean.
"You're wrong then," said Dick Dynamo. "I can stop you with the
greatest ease. I think you forget that. Rosemary is a minor."
"That can be got over," said The Old Bean.
"Not without my consent," said Dick Dynamo.
"Your consent!" Again The Old Bean repeated the words as if he were
not quite sure that he heard aright. "But what has it to do with
you? You don't want to marry her yourself, I suppose?"
Dick Dynamo's eyes came to his with a gleam that was like the flash
of steel. "Why should you suppose that, I wonder?" he said in a
voice that was very level.
The Old Bean replied with his customary simplicity. "You're not in
love with her for one thing and she wouldn't have you for another."
"Has she told you so?" asked Dick Dynamo.
"No, she didn't need to. You see, she's accepted me." With complete
assurance The Old Bean made reply. He was playing his strong suit
now and he had no fear of being routed. "You may of course manage to
postpone our marriage but you won't prevent it in the end--just
because of that. I shall take her straight back to her people. I
have told her so, and it is her own wish. I am not afraid of their
refusing their permission."
"I see," said Dick Dynamo. His eyes went back to his
cigarette-smoke, and he was silent for a space. At length: "Then
I--having brought her thus far under my more or less capable
guardianship--am to have no further say in the matter?" he said.
"I don't know why you should want any," said The Old Bean.
"You know very little," said Dick Dynamo. "But I will tell you this.
Having put my mind to the plough, I don't as a rule look back.
Rosemary will not marry you--or any other man--until she has gone
back to her people and got their consent. That's final."
"Then in heaven's name let's take her back!" said The Old Bean.
"Us!" Dick Dynamo's look returned to him, but it was brief and
scathing. "Strange to say, I am not proposing to include you in my
party," he said.
"No," said The Old Bean quietly. "But you can't prevent me coming
too."
"I don't advise you to do that." The words came with a clean-cut
brevity, like the drawing of a rapier. Dick Dynamo no longer leaned
against the bed-rail. He was on his feet, poised as it were for
action like a practised fencer.
But The Old Bean with his hands in his pockets remained completely
quiescent. "I'm sorry," he said. "But I'm not taking your advice.
Wherever Rosemary goes--I go."
"You think I shall allow that?" said Dick Dynamo.
"I think you can't prevent it," said The Old Bean.
Dick Dynamo smiled again and the scar down the side of his face
became a deep furrow reaching to the temple. "I believe I can
convince you on that point anyhow," he said, and suddenly his right
hand went into his pocket.
It was a lightning movement, and one which The Old Bean could
scarcely have frustrated had he been forewarned. He found himself
looking straight at the shining muzzle of a small automatic held with
absolute steadiness within a yard of his face.
Taken wholly by surprise, he could not check an instinctive gesture
of recoil, but it was only momentary. The next instant he was his
own master. "Hullo!" he said. "What's that for?" and dug his hands
still deeper into his pockets.
Dick Dynamo answered him in an undertone. He spoke between his
teeth, and his thin lips scarcely moved with the words; they remained
set in that terrible smile that seemed to stretch up to his temple.
"It's for you if you get in my way," he said.
The Old Bean's green eyes faxed him unwaveringly. "I suppose they
allow that sort of thing in this country," he said. "But I haven't
given you much reason for shooting me at present."
"That depends on how you look at it," said Dick Dynamo. "I don't
mean to be hampered by you, that's all. So the sooner you quit, the
better."
But The Old Bean remained stationary. "If you think," he said, "that
I'm like one of those Dago chaps in Mexico to be frightened away by
the sight of a gun, you're damn' well mistaken. I haven't spent
three weeks hunting for Rosemary to be put off by that kind of thing
now I've found her. So--as I've no intention of quitting, you may as
well shoot at once."
He spoke, as he had spoken throughout, with complete moderation.
There was in The Old Bean, wary Scot though he might be, a strain of
that high daring that had borne his ancestors through many a wild
foray. But as he faced Dick Dynamo, there was nothing about him to
suggest that he was literally gambling with his life as the stake.
If the man before him were sane, the odds were in his favour. But
there was something--a species of devilish derision--in the eyes that
met his that made him very doubtful on that point. He realized in
that most critical moment that Dick Dynamo was capable of madness.
And then very abruptly the tension ended, and he knew that he had
won. The murderous little weapon was plunged back into the pocket
from which it had been taken, and a sinewy hand came forth and
grasped his shoulder.
"You young fool!" said Dick Dynamo. "You love her so much that you'd
die for her, eh?"
"Not for choice," said The Old Bean, still almost phlegmatic in his
self-control. "I didn't expect you to murder me, and I'd sooner live
for her. You see, as I think I've mentioned before, I'm going to
marry her."
Dick Dynamo broke into a half-grudging laugh. "Well, you can have
her," he said. "She turned me down only this afternoon. Did she
tell you that?"
"No," said The Old Bean with simplicity. "She wouldn't, you know.
All she said was--after accepting me--that she couldn't marry me
without your consent, because you had been good to her."
"Ah!" said Dick Dynamo. "I told you you couldn't have her without
it, didn't I? You won't get her to run away with you. I promise you
that."
"I'm not the sort that runs away," protested The Old Bean. "I can't
see any necessity. If you think there will be any difficulty about
our getting married without her aunt's consent, I'll wire to her at
once."
"You're a persevering lad, aren't you?" said Dick Dynamo.
"I know what I want, if that's what you mean," said The Old Bean.
"And see that you get it, eh?" Something besides derision sounded in
the words. "Well, it's your own show. But if she lets you down,
don't blame me!"
The Old Bean looked at him and for the first time addressed him with
respect. "I shouldn't blame anyone except myself, sir, if that
happened," he said. "It'll be up to me to see it doesn't."
Dick Dynamo's hand loosed its grasp and struck him a friendly blow.
"By gad, I hope you'll succeed!" he said. "You deserve to. There's
more in you than meets the eye."
"Oh, I don't think so," said The Old Bean modestly. "At least it's
the first I've heard of it."
Dick Dynamo laughed--a laugh that entirely transformed him. "Well,
you've upset my apple-cart completely," he said. "I had just made up
my mind to take her back again to her people when you turned up. And
now, since you are here, perhaps you had better get married first."
"I certainly think the sooner the better," said The Old Bean. "It'll
make things easier for her."
"I suppose you've got enough to live on?" said Dick Dynamo.
"Oh, more than enough," The Old Bean assured him. "I'm quite certain
her people will approve from that point of view."
"All right," said Dick Dynamo. "I'll answer for the rest. Do you
know what made me point that gun at you just now?"
"You probably felt like it," said The Old Bean politely.
"No. I just wanted to know what you would do with your hands." Dick
Dynamo regarded him with unmasked approval. "There's a lot in that,"
he said. "And you did exactly what I wanted you to do. You kept 'em
down. I congratulate you.--It wasn't loaded, by the way."
"Of course I guessed that," said The Old Bean, turning a dark red.
Dick Dynamo's eyes retained their approval. He held out his hand.
"My boy, you're a bad liar," he said. "Will you shake?"
The Old Bean's hand came out of his pocket at last to grip the one
which a few seconds before had threatened him. He said nothing, but
the grip was obviously satisfactory.
"Yes," said Dick Dynamo, with his swift electric smile. "I'd go down
to hell with a fellow like you, and the odds are we'd come back
again. If I'd had you with me fifteen years ago--" he caught back a
sudden sigh and laughed again. "What am I talking about? You
weren't born then!"
"I was seven," said The Old Bean practically. "But I'd be proud to
go to hell with you any day you like to mention."
"Ah!" said Dick Dynamo between a sigh and a smile. "Married men
can't do things like that! And I'm getting past the age myself."
"You'll have to get married too," said The Old Bean.
There was an instant's silence. Then: "Let's go down and get a
drink!" said Dick Dynamo.
PART IV
CHAPTER I
PETER AND MARY
"It'll never be the same thing again," said Mary mournfully.
"Who wants it to be?" said Peter.
He sat in the glow of the fire cleaning his gun while the pale winter
twilight entered frostily through the leaded window behind him. Mary
was too thrifty to light her lamp before it had faded.
She smiled, though somewhat wistfully at his question. "I'm afraid I
don't like change," she said.
"I don't mind if it's for the better," said Peter.
"Ah! That's just it," said Mary, her head bent over her knitting.
He threw a humorous glance towards her. "Cheer up, my girl!" he
said. "Don't get old before your time!"
She managed to send back a smile. "It's not that, Peter. I'm no
older than I am, and no younger either. Goodness knows I don't want
to sadden anybody, but I've had a feeling all this winter as if
there's change coming. Lots of things are going to be different all
round us, and only you and I will be left the same."
"Well, so long as we are the same!" said Peter. "I don't see that
anything else matters much myself."
"You're a man," said Mary with a sigh.
"Well, I can't help that," said Peter with a grin.
She smiled again to humour him, though the effort was a poor one.
"You always used to say that you didn't think Miss Bobby would have
Silas," she said. "And now!"
"She hasn't got him yet, has she?" said Peter.
"They're not married, if that's what you mean," said Mary.
"Wasn't it what you meant?" asked Peter with a twinkle.
Mary's smile faded. "I don't know," she said. "I love her--just as
everyone does. But I don't quite understand her. There's something
at the back of it all, Peter. There's a closed door somewhere. It
isn't for me to ask questions, but I don't feel happy about it all.
I'm dreadfully anxious on Silas's account."
"Oh, leave Silas alone! He can look after himself," said Peter
comfortably. "I've never known Silas go under yet."
"I'm sure I hope you never will," said Mary. "But I don't feel easy
about him. He takes things hard, does Silas. He follows her almost
like a dog. Of course I'm very glad--like everyone else--that
Rosemary is safe and sound and none the worse for her wild pranks.
But I don't quite like their going off to London together like this.
It doesn't seem natural."
"She wasn't fit to go alone," pointed out Peter. "You wouldn't have
liked me to have gone, would you?"
"Miss Matilda was the one who ought to have gone with her to see
Rosemary married," said Mary, ignoring this attempt at levity. "If
only she weren't such a poor thing----"
"I'm not so darned sure that she is such a poor thing," observed
Peter, turning more towards the window to obtain the full benefit of
the fading light. "She's more or less what I call a fictitious
invalid is Miss Matilda. She could get up all right and do things if
she'd a mind."
"Oh, I don't know." Mary rose dutifully to light the lamp. "She's
very bronchial. Dr. Bellamy's car is always going up to the Vicarage
now."
"Jolly decent of 'em to keep her there!" declared Peter. "I'm pretty
thankful she doesn't quarter herself on us, Polly. Miss Bobby's one
thing, but Miss Matilda,--well, she's quite another."
"I know," said Mary. "I'm not grudging anybody anything, and I'm
always glad to do what I can. But I wish things would get straight
again. I don't like all this coming and going, and telegrams--well,
telegrams always do make me feel bad."
"That last one was a godsend anyhow," remarked Peter. "It was new
life to Miss Bobby. I'll never forget how her poor face lighted up
when she read it. It's wonderful the store she sets by Rosemary. On
my word, the losing of her was nearly her death-blow."
"Yes--yes," agreed Mary, the glow from the newly-lighted lamp
spreading over her honest comely face. "It's dreadful to think how
much lies in the hands of the young, and how little they realize it.
Do you suppose that Rosemary and that young Mr. Ross have been going
about together all this time?"
Peter considered the matter judicially. "Well, it's hard to say," he
decided at length. "But I don't think it's altogether likely because
if he's as straight as he looks he'd have got married to her before.
No, it's my opinion that she's got herself into some scrape--as I
always thought she would--and he, being fond of her, has just come to
the rescue."
"Oh, Peter!" said Mary, shocked. "I wouldn't like to think that."
"Well, you never know," said Peter. "There were some funny stories
going round Bode after that Boxing Night Ball. First it was that
young Hudson, and then it was a much more important personage who was
given the credit for spiriting her away. But, whoever it was, the
fact remains that she went--and she didn't go alone."
"No," Mary allowed somewhat reluctantly. "That's true. But it was
just a prank. I'm sure it couldn't have been anything more. It may
have been young Mr. Ross all the time after all. The other was so
unlikely. It sounded like a myth to me."
"Truth is sometimes stranger than fiction," observed Peter
sententiously. "He was staying at _The King's Head_ that night,
remember, and he disappeared during the night. Miss Rosemary did the
same. Roper can testify to that. Why, he was telling me all about
it only last market-day. And she had his room to dress in, moreover.
I thought that was a very fishy circumstance."
Mary turned her attention to boiling the kettle for tea. "You men
always try to believe the worst," she remarked good humouredly.
"Talk about women's gossip--why, they can't hold a candle to the men."
"No, but facts are facts," maintained Peter. "And human nature's
human nature. She always was a wild one, as you know, and small
wonder, considering."
"Considering what?" said Mary.
"You know," said Peter.
She turned from the fire and faced him. "Yes, I do know, Peter. And
I'll tell you now, straight out, I don't believe it. I've nursed her
and watched over her night and day, and if she isn't as pure as an
angel, then I don't know what virtue means!"
Her voice shook a little with the intensity of her declaration. Her
homely features were alight with a generous glow. It was not often
that Mary stood up to anyone, but when she did, she did the thing
nobly. Peter, with his gun between his knees, quite forgot his job
in watching her.
"I'm not saying anything about Rosemary," Mary proceeded. "She's
young, and she might get led astray in these free times. Anybody
might. But Miss Bobby--Miss Bobby's different. She's a saint and
always has been. There may be things we don't know. There are. But
nothing will shake my belief in her. She's as white as the driven
snow."
"By Jove!" said Peter. He said it more to himself than to Mary whose
simple eloquence served somehow to place her on a higher level. He
sat looking up at her if she had stepped into a niche very far above
him. "It's nice of you to think like that," he added after a moment.
"It isn't what I think," said Mary. "It's what I believe and know.
Silas knows it too. That's why he worships her so. But, ah dear,"
she turned back to her kettle with a sigh, "I sometimes doubt if he
wins her after all. Somehow I don't think she's to be won."
"What do you think?" asked Peter cautiously.
"I don't know." Mary bent a little, looking into the fire, as though
seeking inspiration there. "There's change coming, as I said before.
Things'll never settle down again as they have been. Miss
Bobby--she'll never go back to live at Little Staple without
Rosemary. Her being married is going to make a lot of difference all
round."
"She'll have Silas all right," declared Peter. "It's the only
possible thing."
Mary shook her head. "I don't know. I think he'll break his heart
if she doesn't. But--I don't know."
"And you'll break yours if she does, eh?" said Peter.
"Me!" said Mary. She did not turn from the fire this time, but as
she stood there, her face half-averted, he saw a deep flood of colour
spread from neck to brow. She remained bent and silent for several
seconds, then slowly she straightened herself and spoke again. "I
may be a fool, Peter Garnet," she said, "but I am not quite such a
big fool as that, thank God!"
The simple dignity with which she spoke had a strange effect upon
Peter. He shuffled his feet as if embarrassed, finally blurting out
with schoolboy abruptness, "I wasn't calling you a fool. I think
you're the finest woman I've ever seen, bar none. It's Silas that's
the fool not to see where his true happiness lies."
Mary gave an odd choked laugh and lifted the kettle off the fire.
"Silas is no fool either," she said. "It's what I've always said.
He's different from you and me--born different. It's natural that he
should turn to a lady born--like Miss Bobby--for his happiness, and I
pray every night that she may be moved to give it him. It may be
that their going off together like this to see little Rosemary
married is a sign that she will. P'raps even, they'll get married
themselves before they come back. If so--I tell you, Peter,--I'll be
very, very pleased."
She spoke with an emphasis that permitted no questioning, and Peter
attempted none. He merely got up and propped his gun in a corner,
then stooped to fondle Nero who had risen punctiliously at his
movement.
"Don't go out again!" said Mary. "I'll have tea ready in five
minutes."
"All right," said Peter. He stood up and looked out of the window to
the primrose sky of evening where hung a new moon like a silver horn
and a single gem-like star.
Mary busied herself with the tea-things, and for a minute or two the
silence between them remained unbroken and unobtrusive. Then, quite
suddenly and for no apparent reason, it dawned upon her that there
was something unusual about Peter. She paused in her work and looked
at him.
There was nothing remarkable about his attitude. His square
shoulders and rather thick neck and bullet-head conveyed nothing
abnormal to her mind. She had seen him stand so, waiting for a meal,
many times in her life, and had never sensed anything in him but that
practical patience and goodnature upon which she had always relied.
But now--somehow there was something different, something that
strangely stirred her, making her feel uncertain, almost afraid.
She stood quite motionless while that curious influence to which she
could give no name pulsed and tingled all around her, like an
electric current. At last, abruptly, feeling almost as if she could
bear no more, she spoke.
"Peter! What are you looking at?"
Her voice had a startled note wholly different from her usual cheery
tones. Peter made a slight movement as if taken by surprise, but he
did not turn.
"I was just looking at the moon," he said half-sheepishly.
"What ever for?" said Mary.
Her voice still had a staccato sound though she made a definite
effort to calm it. She stood by the kitchen-table and her hand
gripped the edge of it, for, quite unaccountably, she was trembling.
Peter's answer came with more assurance. It even had a stubborn
note; but still he did not turn. "I was wishing for something," he
said.
"It's no good wishing through glass," said Mary.
"Oh, isn't it?" said Peter. He made a sudden dive forward, fumbled a
moment at the bolt of the window, then threw it wide. "Just you come
here!" he said.
She went, strangely torn with emotion. He stretched out a hand to
her, not looking towards her, and, as she came within reach, drew her
quietly to him. "Look here, Polly!" he said. "Kneel on the
window-seat a minute with me! That's right! Now look, old girl!
Look at that moon--and wish!"
"What am I to wish for?" said Mary under her breath.
His arm slipped round her as she knelt. His voice also came hushed.
"Wish that you may get to love the chap that loves you well enough to
marry him!" he said.
"Good gracious, Peter!" said Mary.
His arm closed firmly. "You might do worse," he said.
The frosty air blew in upon them, and Mary became aware of a certain
magic quality in it which seemed to be depriving her of her cherished
commonsense. She made one despairing effort to retain it.
"Peter, what'll the neighbours say? We've always been like brother
and sister, you and I."
"I don't care a damn for that," said Peter, "or the neighbours
either. I care for you, and that's about all."
"Good gracious!" said Mary again, with weakening resolution.
"You see," said Peter, "the chances are it won't be you and I and
Silas much longer. It'll just be you and I. The neighbours'll jaw
worse than ever then--unless we get married."
"Good gracious!" said Mary for the third time, half in awe and half
in admiration. "I'd never thought of that!"
"Well, I have," said Peter. "I take it you don't want to lose me as
well as Silas, do you?"
"Oh, God forbid!" cried poor Mary, and laid her head down on his
shoulder.
"Well, that's all right then," said Peter, "because it's the same
with me. So now you can give me a kiss and stop worrying."
She lifted her face obediently. Peter's kisses were offered too
rarely to suffer postponement. But when the kiss was over, misgiving
again arose within her.
"You're sure we're doing right to think about it, Peter?" she said
wistfully. "Sure it isn't for my sake? I'm older than you are, you
know, Peter. You're in your prime and I'm getting past mine now."
"Oh, stop talking like a durned fool!" said Peter, and kissed her
again roughly and possessively. "Can't you give me credit for
knowing my own mind? Who's going to look after me like you do, I'd
like to know? Think one of the village-girls with their dances and
their whist-drives 'd do the job well enough to please me? Because I
don't, and I'm not wanting any of 'em to try! You old fool, Polly!"
He took her by her plump shoulders and gently shook her. "Don't you
know a woman like you is God's best gift to a man? Don't you know
I'd go sheer crazy without you?"
"Oh, Peter!" said Mary with her eyes full of tears. "Just to think
of you feeling like that!"
"I do then!" he said, gripping her almost defiantly. "I've felt like
it a long time, but I haven't told you so. It wouldn't have been
fair to Silas. But I never meant anyone else to have you, that I
promise you. So now, whatever happens, you belong to me."
"Oh, my dear--my dear!" said Mary brokenly.
She would have said much more, but at that moment the kettle boiled
over, and commonsense instantly reasserted itself. Peter found
himself left alone at the window which he shut and fastened, pulling
down the blind and drawing the curtains, while Mary with some
lingering agitation attended to the source of their interruption.
When he came and joined her by the fire, she had regained much of her
customary composure and addressed him with resolution, albeit with
still heightened colour.
"We'll say no more of this, Peter, till Silas comes back. I've no
wish to seem ungrateful, but--after all these years--I think it would
be more becoming."
"All right," said Peter. "But not Silas or anyone else is going to
make any difference now. Just you mind that!"
Mary turned round to the table to set down the teapot and in her
honest eyes there shone a light which neither Peter nor Silas had
ever seen there.
"Oh, don't you be afraid, my dear!" she said softly. "I'm
yours--just as I always have been. And if you're satisfied with me
as I am now,--well, I shall never be any different, except, maybe, in
loving you more as the years go by."
"You'll marry me then?" said Peter, with masculine determination to
obtain a definite understanding.
Mary laughed at him--a soft, happy laugh. "Do you want it in
writing, Peter?" she said.
"Your word is enough," he said. "Just say, I will!"
"All right! I will," said Mary simply and sincerely. "And now sit
down and have your tea!"
CHAPTER II
THE MEETING
The message that had reached Bobby that morning was one which she had
little expected to receive. She had been making strenuous efforts to
regain her strength to start upon her quest, though in what direction
she meant to go was still a matter of hopeless indecision, when
suddenly like the flash of a torch on a dark night, news had come.
She carried it with her now though she did not need it, for she had
the words by heart and repeated them over and over inwardly to the
drumming of the express in which she sat. They had lost no time, she
and Silas, for it had been an understood thing that he should
accompany her. She had left everything to him save the packing of
her simple luggage which had been Mary's willing service. And
already they were on their way.
To Bobby after her long bereavement it had been as a message from the
dead. And yet its very simplicity had seemed to breathe of the
warmth and vitality that had been the sheer essence of her Rosemary.
"I am here with Donald Ross," so had the message run. "We want to
get married at once. Please will you come and give me away? Your
loving Rosemary."
The address was a London hotel of which Bobby had no knowledge, but
her misgivings were at rest, She knew and trusted Donald Ross. The
stability of The Old Bean was as it were his hall-mark. The relief
of realizing that his search had been rewarded with success was
almost more than she could bear. She could hardly believe that the
long suspense and separation were so nearly over.
"All must be well with her! Surely all must be well!" she had said
to Silas.
And he had responded somewhat briefly, "We shall soon know anyhow."
He had made immediate arrangements for the journey, and she knew that
he had been prepared for the contingency for some time. Everything
that could be done for her comfort was done with a swift,
unquestioning efficiency which moved her deeply though it was no time
for words. His devotion had always been of a practical turn, and it
had become an understood thing between them that she should accept it
without scruple. Later she would make such return as lay in her
power. This also was understood, and they discussed it no further.
It seemed as if they had already become partners.
He watched over her throughout the journey with an attention that was
always ready though never obtrusive. Now and then they talked a
little, but it was mainly of unimportant things. For the most part
they were silent. And the message kept on echoing and re-echoing in
Bobby's heart. The child she had loved so tenderly, for whom she had
sacrificed so much, was still wanting her, had appealed to her out of
the void, calling herself her loving Rosemary. Very soon now--oh,
very soon--she would have her darling in her arms again.
The daylight faded and darkness came and with it the moon--that pale
new moon which had drawn Mary and Peter for a brief space out of
their work-a-day world. The hopes and fears in Bobby's heart had
turned to earnest prayer. As time passed and they sped on she forgot
her companion, forgot her own physical weariness, forgot everything
in life save that deep supplication of the spirit. How often she had
prayed for Rosemary! And how hard of late it had been to feel that
her prayers were heard! But to-night a sense of peace came upon her.
To-night she knew that she did not pray in vain.
Silas roused her presently with some food that he made her take, and
he told her that they were within an hour of their journey's end.
That brought her thoughts back to him again. She smiled and thanked
him, repudiating the fatigue which nevertheless she could not wholly
hide.
"I wonder if they will meet us," she said.
"Somebody is sure to," said Silas.
The thought of that meeting shook Bobby to the depths. She felt as
if it were years, instead of a few dreary weeks, that separated her
from her Rosemary. She even began to wonder if she would find her
greatly changed. Somehow she had a conviction that she also had been
through a good deal during those long weeks. But, whatever her
experiences had been, she was giving herself into the keeping of a
trusty friend at last. Bobby had no misgivings regarding The Old
Bean. She did not know him intimately, but she had always liked him,
had always instinctively felt that she could trust him. She had said
as much to Matilda with whom she had had a brief interview that
morning at the Vicarage on her way to the station. But Matilda, who
was in bed and being waited on by the patient Mrs. Hudson, had turned
her face to the wall and begged her to go away, as she had no desire
ever to see or hear anything more of Rosemary and her doings.
Perhaps when Bobby had spent all her savings on getting her married
she would kindly come back and look after her, instead of leaving her
to be a burden to strangers. She had not even glanced at Bobby or
noticed the ravages which those past weeks had wrought upon her.
Bobby was the bond-slave born to service, and she had no right to be
ill.
Bobby had gone swiftly away from her sister's bedside, and she had
not suffered her mind to return thither. Matilda could come
afterwards, but Rosemary now was second to none.
The inner tumult increased within her as they neared their
destination, though she fought with all her strength for composure.
Gazing through the dark window, she hoped and believed that her
agitation was not apparent to Silas who had betaken himself to the
further corner of the compartment which he had succeeded in keeping
clear of intruders throughout the journey.
She tried to think of him for a space, of all that he had done for
her; but her thoughts kept flying back to Rosemary, and she was
forced to let them go. Silas also must come afterwards.
They reached the suburbs of the Metropolis at last, and she knew that
only a few more minutes remained. Her heart was throbbing very hard
and she struggled against a feeling of suffocation that threatened
over and over again to overwhelm her. On and on between endless rows
of houses dimly seen they rushed, till it seemed to Bobby that her
nightmare of suspense would never end. On and on, and now they were
slackening speed and the end was near.
She felt powerless, as one in the grip of fate; yet as Silas rose and
began to collect her belongings she managed to whisper, "Shall I
stand by the window--in case--just in case--she is there?"
He saw her agitation and bent down to her. "Steady now! Steady!" he
said. "You mustn't let yourself go. Let me give you a hand!"
He helped her to her feet and let down the window. He was close
behind her, ready to support her, as she leaned forth.
They glided into the great station with its flaring lamps and waiting
porters. Bobby's heart was in her throat. She clutched the woodwork
desperately. Surely Rosemary would be there to greet her! Surely
she would be there!
But they ran past light after light and she saw no girlish figure
searching the train for arrivals. There were very few people at all
besides the row of porters. One tall man, clad in an overcoat that
did not wholly conceal evening clothes, caught her attention though
she did not know why. He was not in the least like The Old Bean.
But he had evidently come to meet someone, for he was scanning the
carriage-windows as they passed him.
And now, just as the train slid to a standstill, the one at which she
stood came within his range of vision, and she saw him move with a
slight start. The light was full upon her, but his face was in
shadow. He pushed aside a porter and reached the door. With his
hand upon it, he swept off his hat and greeted her.
"Ah, Roberta!" he said.
She saw him as in a dream--as in many dreams she had seen him; and as
in those dreams her heart ceased to beat with the wonder of the
meeting. It was as though she saw him rise from the grave.
"Dick!" she said.
There arose a great rushing in her ears, a tumult as of engulfing
waters all around her. She felt herself sink downwards towards a
darkness unfathomable, and was aware of an arm that gripped her and
raised her up. Then she was lying back on the cushioned seat,
nerveless and gasping, while Silas--strong and able friend--pulled
off her gloves and chafed her icy hands.
"Wait! I've got some brandy here," she heard him say, and while she
was vaguely marvelling at the forethought that had made him bring it,
he was holding a flask to her lips and making her drink.
It brought her to life again with a painful jerk. She fastened
trembling hands on his arm.
"Please, Silas, please!" she said.
"Go on!" he said relentlessly. "You want it. I wish I'd made you
have it sooner."
It was useless to attempt to resist him. Silas in moments of
emergency was apt to loom gigantic and there was nothing for it but
submission. She obeyed him therefore, and gradually her strength
returned.
She tried to sit up. "Oh, I'm so sorry," she said.
"Stay as you are!" said Silas. "There's no hurry and nothing to be
sorry about."
The noises of the great station came back into her consciousness--and
with them the memory of her vision. She made a more determined
effort to recover her self-control.
"I'm quite all right again," she told him tremulously. "Please help
me to sit up! There--there's someone there, waiting--someone I used
to know."
"Do you want him?" said Silas.
She looked up into his rugged face and met the clean directness of
his eyes. "Please, Silas!" she said.
He moved, straightening himself, and turned to the open door. "Will
you get in? She's asking for you," he said.
Bobby sat up. She was deathly white still, but she was smiling with
that high courage of hers which it took so much to daunt.
"It is really--you!" she said, and held out her hand to the stranger
as he stood in the doorway.
He took it with a courtly gesture. His dark eyes swept her face. "I
am afraid I have upset you," he said.
Bobby's lips were quivering piteously in spite of that gallant smile.
She did not know what it was in him that so wounded her. It was
something more subtle than words or touch,--something that seemed a
part of the man himself.
"I am quite all right really," she said; "only a little tired after
the journey."
"She has been ill," volunteered Silas grimly. "We had better get her
out of this as soon as possible."
Bobby stretched out an appealing hand. "Silas, let me introduce you!
This is--an old friend--Captain Thorgrave."
There was an instant's pause; then: "Perhaps I had better introduce
myself to you both," the other man said. "I am now--Lord Ravencombe."
"Ah! Is that it?" said Bobby, with a sharp breath.
He answered her curtly, as one who seeks to check all discussion at
the outset. "Yes, that's it. Through force of circumstances I have
become the temporary guardian of Rosemary, and that is how I come to
be here. This gentleman whom you call Silas--" he turned to him
almost aggressively--"your name is Hickory, I believe?"
"It is," said Silas, with a brevity that equalled his own. The other
smiled, showing his teeth a little. "Then we are long-lost cousins
or something of the kind. You've got a look of the family about you."
"That doesn't interest me," said Silas.
Ravencombe's smile became a half-smothered laugh that threw his long
scar into terrible prominence. He turned again to Bobby.
"Don't you see the likeness between us?" he said.
She tried to avert her eyes from his disfigurement and failed.
Somehow, very strangely, she was aware of a likeness between the two
men--a resemblance so marked that she marvelled that she had never
noted it before, yet could not have said wherein it lay.
She could not answer his question. She could only ask another of
infinitely greater importance to her trembling heart. "Rosemary!
What of Rosemary?" she said.
"She is quite well," Ravencombe answered, "and waiting for you. I've
got a taxi engaged. We thought you would be alone."
"Let us go!" said Bobby.
He helped her to her feet and handed her down, while Silas turned to
collect their belongings. They stood together on the platform for a
few seconds, but they did not speak. It seemed to Bobby in the rush
and roar of the station as if no words were left. In that amazing
meeting she had glimpsed a gulf far wider than any mere years of
separation could have made, and deep within her she knew that this
man--the lover of her youth for whom she had so long and faithfully
waited--had never intended to return.
But even that thought, now that she was herself again, was not
paramount with her. She dismissed it almost feverishly. What did it
matter--on this night of wonders what did anything matter except
Rosemary who was waiting for her--waiting for her?
"Can we get away now?" she said, as Silas descended.
Ravencombe signed to a porter. "The sooner the better," he said.
And then she found herself walking between them down the long
platform, feeling very weak yet longing to force herself to a run, to
shorten the span of time that still must pass ere she could clasp her
darling in her arms again.
They were nearing the barrier when abruptly Silas spoke to her. "It
seems to me that I am hardly wanted now," he said. "Wouldn't you
rather go on alone?"
She turned and stared at him. Somehow the suggestion took her breath
away. "Go on alone!" she repeated; then quickly: "Oh no--no!
Please--please come too!"
"You are sure you wish it?" he said.
Her answer was so prompt and emphatic that it must have satisfied the
most incredulous. "Quite--quite sure!" she said. "I should be--lost
without you."
He accepted her assurance in silence, and the man on her other side
sent him a curious glance. Their eyes met over her head in almost
open challenge. But neither spoke. As they reached the barrier,
Silas fell behind.
CHAPTER III
THE CONFLICT
That journey through the London streets seemed unending to Bobby. It
was raining, and the roads shone like glass. She felt dazzled,
bewildered, uncertain of herself, acutely conscious of a tension
between her companions for which she could discover no remedy. She
realized that Ravencombe had given a very definite hint to Silas and
that but for her much more definite assurance he would have taken it.
Strangely enough, obsessed as she was by the thought of Rosemary, she
had time to be angry for his sake. And it was Dick--of all people,
Dick--who had made her so. Dick, now Lord Ravencombe and a cousin of
Silas! That was the amazing thing. And Silas who hated and despised
the Thorgrave blood that ran so strongly in his veins!
By the fitful glare of the streets she watched his face, sternly
emotionless, in front of her, and again she saw that likeness which
till then had been hidden from her. They were utterly unlike--these
two cousins, and yet so much alike that they might have been
brothers. How was it that she had never seen it before? The answer
came to her almost without her seeking. It was not the old Dick whom
she had known in the long ago who resembled Silas, but this stranger
who yet had a look of the old Dick about him and spoke with the old
Dick's voice. Somehow, in totally different surroundings, they had
developed along similar lines. And she realized that while Silas had
probably altered but little with the years, the other man had been
changing day by day till now she found a being almost
unrecognizable--yet still in some ways poignantly the same, and also
somehow, unaccountably, displaying an elusive resemblance to one whom
in earlier days she was certain he had never resembled.
It was all rather like a dream from which she could not disentangle
herself. She even began to wonder whether it was possible that this
curious resemblance which till now she had never seen had been a
factor acting upon her sub-conscious mentality to induce the intimacy
between herself and Silas which Rosemary and Matilda had so deeply
resented. It had never occurred to her before that there could be
any attraction save that of genuine friendship and gratitude. But
now--she wondered.
Again her eyes sought Silas's face, and this time she found his eyes
upon her in a straight regard that seemed to pierce her very soul.
She met them for a space unfaltering, then the light passed and she
could see them no longer.
Ravencombe's voice spoke beside her. "We are just there," he said.
The taxi turned a corner and stopped at last. Another glare of light
burst in upon them, but she thought of Silas no more though it was
his hand that helped her out and urged her swiftly into shelter from
the pouring rain. She went through glass doors into a high hall, and
looked around her eagerly. But only the casual glances of strangers
met her gaze.
Ravencombe spoke again. "She isn't here. I've got a sitting-room.
Go straight through to the lift!"
She went, and was aware that he followed her. In the lift she
realized that they were alone, and sharply turned.
"Where is Silas?"
He had already shut the doors. "He stopped to engage a room," he
said.
The lift shot upwards as he spoke, and for those few seconds they
were alone. They were over almost before she had begun to realize
them, but as they reached the fourth floor and stopped she knew that
she had been under a close observation that had missed nothing.
"You lead the way!" she said, as she stepped on to the landing.
He did so in silence, and they went down a long empty corridor till
they came at length to a door at which he paused. She was close
behind him and quivering with eagerness.
Very suddenly he turned and faced her. "It was a pity," he said,
"that you brought an escort with you. I wanted you alone to-night."
"Alone!" She went backwards with the words, her hand to her heart.
"Where is Rosemary?"
He smiled at her. Why was his smile so terrible? Then very quietly
he took a key from his pocket and opened the door, switching on the
light.
"Come in here," he said, "and I will tell you!"
She obeyed him, trembling from head to foot. She found herself in a
well-lighted sitting-room in which a meal had been spread. There was
a door at the further end towards which she turned instinctively, but
Ravencombe's voice arrested her.
"No, she isn't in there. I can't produce her for the moment, though
she is quite safe and happy; so you needn't be anxious. Take off
your things and sit down!"
She turned swiftly upon him, all her joyful anticipation swept away
in a wave of anger. "How dare you trick me like this?" she said.
"Why did you say she was here?"
He shrugged his shoulders slightly. "I should have thought the
reason was obvious. As for tricking you,--well, that was a game of
your own starting many years ago."
She gazed at him, taking in every detail for the first time, noting
the iron-grey of his hair, the bitter lines that the years had carved
upon him, and the cruel scar which no years could ever efface.
Then, at the end of a deep silence, she spoke. "Dick, why--why
didn't you come back before?"
He made her a curious bow. "At last," he said, "I have succeeded in
attracting your attention. But I should have thought that once more
the answer to your question was obvious. I had nothing to come back
for."
The words were like cold steel, piercing her. She made a gesture
that was unconsciously tragic. "Was I--nothing?" she said.
He raised his brows. "The answer to that," he said, "is not so
obvious, I admit. But come and sit down, and perhaps we shall arrive
at an understanding."
He motioned her forward, but she remained stationary. "Before I do
anything at all," she said, "you must first--please--tell me the
truth about Rosemary. Where is she? What is she doing? You--you
can't mean to torture me by keeping it back?"
The words sounded strange even to herself. That Dick--that dear
lover of hers--could have come back thus to torture her seemed so
monstrous, so utterly outside the bounds of possibility. And yet his
attitude--his voice--his look--all conveyed the same. Mockery,
cynicism, even malice, were there expressed. There might be more
also. There might be fires of hatred hidden below the surface which
she found so ominous. And this was the man for whom she had waited
all the days of her youth.
But she maintained her self-control though he showed no sign of
yielding to her entreaty. "You must please answer me," she said. "I
can't think of anything--attend to anything until I know. That
telegram----"
"I sent that telegram," he said.
"Ah!" Again she felt as if her heart would choke her. "Then--it was
all a hoax! You can tell me nothing--you know nothing--about her?"
He walked slowly forward into the room so that she was obliged to
follow. "On the contrary, I know almost everything about her," he
said. "I have already told you that she is safe and happy, and that
is the truth. But she is no longer in my keeping, or--in yours."
He reached the table and stopped before it to pour out a glass of
wine. She watched him, fascinated. He turned towards her again, and
she saw a strange, leaping light in his eyes that made him unfamiliar
to her. The Dick Dynamo of old had been bold and daring, but his
eyes had never held aught but love for her.
He held the wine towards her. "Come!" he said. "This is for you.
It will help you to hold your own."
She took it from him almost mechanically, but the next moment she
came to the table and set it down untasted. "Dick," she said
resolutely, "we have got to understand one another."
He smiled, the baffling, fitful fire still in his eyes. "Which is
exactly why I decoyed you hither, my dear Roberta," he said. "I have
heard a good deal about you lately which does not altogether tally
with my own conceptions of you. Take off your hat and coat and let
me see you!"
She turned fully towards him. "No," she said quietly. "I am going
again immediately. Now please tell me about Rosemary! I must know
about her. You can't mean to keep it from me."
A hint of entreaty crept into her voice despite her determined effort
to keep it steady. The man who faced her made a curious gesture as
of repudiation.
"I have told you that she is safe," he said. "Nor has she come to
any harm while in my company. I am sorry that the pleasure of
meeting me is not sufficient to counterbalance your disappointment.
I can only suggest that you make the best of a bad bargain--or shall
we say a bad exchange not of your arranging?--and answer a few
questions I have to ask. When you have done that, I will do my best
to answer yours."
She saw that he was in earnest. Behind his bantering pose was deadly
intention, and she remembered of old that Dick Dynamo had never been
one to endure opposition to his will. She made a desperate attempt
to master her impatience and to meet his mood undismayed.
"Well, Dick," she said, "what is it that you want to know?"
The flicker of a smile crossed his face, and she knew--just as
Rosemary had known--that her motives were quite bare to his gaze.
"I should like to know everything, please," he said smoothly. "But
before you begin, may I request you once more to remove your hat? I
want to see you properly."
She obeyed him without further hesitation, somehow realizing that she
had no choice; and she saw his look change subtly as it dwelt upon
the gleaming gold of her hair.
"So you are neither grey nor shorn!" he said. "I appreciate that.
Why don't you sit down if you are tired?"
"I am just going," Bobby said.
"That depends," he remarked enigmatically.
Again, as if compelled, she took the chair he indicated, and doing
so, acknowledged to herself that her strength was limited.
"That's better," he said. "Now begin at the very beginning and tell
me everything that has happened to you since I saw you last!"
She looked up at him with her clear, unswerving gaze. "I don't think
I have very much to tell," she said. "I have just kept on working."
His eyes held hers with an almost fierce intentness.
"For--Rosemary," he said, his voice very level and distinct. "You
hadn't got her to work for, you must remember, when I left."
"No. I know," said Bobby, and closed her lips firmly upon the words.
He marked the fact with a grim hardening of the features that gave
them a stony, carved look. "Is that all?" he said.
"That's all," said Bobby quietly.
"You have no intention of telling me anything more?" he said.
Her eyes still met his without a falter. "No, Dick," she said. "I
don't discuss other people's affairs with anyone."
"You'd sooner lie," he said.
The colour rose and spread all over her face at his words, but she
still continued to meet his look. "I should not lie to you," she
said.
"Ah!" He laughed, though his face scarcely altered. "That is kind of
you, Roberta, though I imagine it is only because you could not hope
for any success if you did. Tell me, why have you never married in
all these years?"
The colour deepened in her face, became a most painful blush. Her
eyelids flickered a little, as though she would fain shield herself
from that merciless regard of his. But she kept her head up still.
"I have had--other things to do," she said.
"Is that your sole reason?" he said.
She made a small unconscious gesture of protest, and locked her hands
together. "It isn't quite fair to ask me that," she said.
"Oh, I assure you everything is fair at this stage," he declared.
"Are you going to answer me--or must I draw my own conclusions?"
Again she made a small, quivering movement, as though the inquisition
were more than she could bear. "I will answer if you wish," she
said. "But I don't think it will help things very much."
"I do wish," he said briefly.
Her face was scarlet now, her lips trembling; but with a great effort
she controlled herself to speak.
"I daresay I shouldn't have married in any case," she said. "I can't
tell. But--I have always--until lately--regarded myself as engaged
to you."
It was his turn to be discomfited, and though he kept himself rigidly
in hand, there was something about him--a subtle, scarcely
perceptible change of countenance--that betrayed it.
"Oh, you stick to that story too, do you?" he said.
"What do you mean?" said Bobby.
He told her with a cynicism that but thinly veiled some deeper
emotion. "The heart-ever-faithful fable. Of course it's a very
touching one and can reflect nothing but credit upon you. I am
rather surprised that you should take the trouble to repeat it to me,
that's all."
"I don't understand you," said Bobby. The violent colour was fading
from her face, leaving her haggard and strangely aged. "I am telling
you the truth, Dick," she said almost pleadingly. "And you meet me
with nothing but gibes and sneers. Why? What have I done to deserve
it? How have I wronged you in all these years?"
"How have you wronged me?" he said. "You ask me that?"
"Yes, I do ask you." Her voice still trembled, but she spoke with
more assurance. There was something about him that seemed to
indicate that he had given ground before her. "I do ask you, Dick;
because, as I say, until lately--I have always felt that you might
come back to me, and I have held myself in readiness for you."
"Until lately?" he threw in.
She bent her head. "Yes. Lately--just lately--I had begun to feel
that you would never come."
"Since when?" he said.
She hesitated for a second, then again raised her eyes to his.
"Since Rosemary went," she said.
"Ah!" He made a sharp movement, but as swiftly controlled himself.
"Go on!" he commanded. "Tell me what made you feel that!"
She obeyed with absolute simplicity. "I had begun to wonder if you
were still living, before that. After that, I can't tell you why,
but I became somehow sure--quite sure--that I should never see--_my_
Dick again."
He uttered a harsh sound that might have been either laugh or groan.
"You were right there," he said. "You never will,--at least not the
Dick you used to know. He was buried alive long, long ago, and
though he lived on for a time, he died in the end--of starvation,
suffocation, madness--whatever the poor devils generally die of after
they have been bricked up long enough."
There was a wild ring of reality in his voice, and Bobby shuddered.
It might have been a madman speaking, and yet in that moment she saw
the things he saw. Instinctively she sought to turn him aside from
contemplating them.
"We are neither of us what we used to be," she said gently. "Life
won't let us stay the same. Perhaps we have both been through a good
deal in our different ways; but, Dick, we needn't be bitter because
we have ceased to be what we once were. It isn't our faults. I am
not blaming you, and you mustn't blame me either. I have tried to do
my best."
"You!" he said, staring at her. "You say that! You who took my life
between your hands and broke it--like that!" He made a graphic
gesture.
"I, Dick!" For a moment she met his look in blank surprise, and then
suddenly she rose and stood before him. "You are wrong," she said
steadily. "You are making a mistake. Something must have happened
which I have never known. What is it?"
"What about Rosemary?" he said.
"Rosemary?" She repeated the name with a soft, unconscious
tenderness. "But I never told you of her. It couldn't have
been--Rosemary."
"No, you never told me of her." Sternly he corroborated the
statement. "But--wasn't it because of her that you sent me away?"
She still faced him. "Yes," she said. "But--I always meant at that
time to come to you--afterwards."
"You meant to come to me!" There was something like desperation in
his voice. "And I was to be kept in ignorance. You admit that! You
dare to admit it!"
"No," said Bobby. "As your wife, I would have told you. But not
otherwise."
"As my--" Something seemed to rise in his throat and choke him; he
swung suddenly away, as if he could no longer bear to look upon her.
"I shouldn't have been justified in telling you," Bobby said rather
piteously, "any more than I am justified in telling you now. Surely
you can see that, Dick! It wouldn't be right or fair. I was bound
to keep silence--if only for the child's sake."
"Ah!" He spoke with his back to her; his voice sounded strangled, as
if he produced it with difficulty. "And it was for the child's
sake--no doubt--that you wrote me that letter! Or was it--a last
effort--on your part--at decency?"
"Which letter?" said Bobby. "I wrote you several; but you never
answered them."
"That is another--lie!" He flung round again and faced her, and in
spite of herself she flinched a little, so awful was his look, "You
have told me nothing but lies since you entered this room," he said,
"and you dare to stare at me with those innocent eyes of yours as if
you were the saint I always used to think you! I had one letter only
from you, and that was to tell me you had decided to throw me over.
No, you needn't deny it. It's too late. I was fool enough to let
that letter wreck me. I went to the devil after it. Do you
understand? Don't dare to tell me you never wrote it! I wouldn't
believe you if you did. There is too much evidence against you.
There is--Rosemary. You can't deny her. At least, you haven't tried
to--yet!"
"Ah! I see," Bobby said. She was white now, white to the lips; but
strangely strong, strangely sure of herself. "No, I haven't denied
Rosemary," she said, and in her voice there sounded a note that was
almost of exultation. "I hadn't thought of doing that. After all,
she is my very, very own. Now tell me where to find her!"
She moved towards him where he stood near the door as she spoke, her
pale face lifted and in her eyes a splendour that was in some
fashion--as he had said--saint-like. There was no longer any
hesitation about her, only a strength that was wholly irresistible
because it was wholly of the spirit. Neither was there any vestige
of anger in the look she turned upon him. Firmly and fearlessly it
met his own, like a level lance superbly balanced. If the dark gulf
that stretched between them had altered him, it had altered her also,
but in a different way--a way that was supremely beyond all criticism
because achieving a greatness that was not of earth.
As she stood there, there was a majesty about her that dominated him,
strive as he might against it. He saw her as the years of sacrifice
had made her--a woman in whom all the beauty of womanhood had
blossomed and now was bearing fruit. He had tried to thrust her down
to a lower level, but she rose triumphant as if upon wings, above his
sullying touch. Without effort, without explanation, she stood
vindicated. And he drew back from her, baffled, abashed even,
knowing that he was not fit to be her judge.
She spoke again, standing before him. "Will you tell me where to
find her?" she said.
And he answered her at last in a voice from which all arrogance, all
bitterness, had passed.
"You will find her at the Peregrine Hotel in Warner Street. They
were going down to Bode to-morrow."
"They?" questioned Bobby.
"She and Donald Ross," he said. "They were married in Italy a few
days ago."
"Married!" echoed Bobby with a start.
"Yes, married. It was quite in order. I saw to that. There were a
British consul and a British chaplain to tie the knot." The old
mask-like self-control had returned to him. He spoke with the
brevity of one not greatly interested. "They will tell you all about
it no doubt. But you had better have something to eat before you go.
Wait and I will fetch your friend Silas Hickory to join you!"
He returned to the door with the words, opened it, then paused. His
eyes came back to her and dwelt upon her with a deep and intense
searching; then dumbly fell away.
He wheeled and went out without another word.
CHAPTER IV
THE FAITHFUL FRIEND
"Well?" said Silas.
He came to her as she stood, slightly bent, in front of the fire.
She did not move at his coming, but as he reached her she lifted a
white, dazed face which told him very clearly that she was nearly
spent.
"Sit down!" he said. "You'll be better when you've had something to
eat."
He put her into a low chair and turned to the table. She lay back,
quite silent and passive, gazing straight before her.
He brought her food and placed it on another chair by her side; then,
as she remained motionless, he began to cut it up for her, his dark
face sternly intent.
"Come!" he said at length. "Can you feed yourself, or shall I feed
you?"
She stirred at that and slowly raised herself. "Oh, Silas," she
said, "what a lot of trouble I bring on everyone!"
"Not on me," said Silas, putting a fork into her hand. "There,
that's the way! Now we won't talk any more until you've finished."
She recognized this as an order, and began to eat slowly, in silence.
He stood by, gravely watching.
She looked up at him after a few moments. "Aren't you going to join
me?" she said.
"No, thanks," said Silas. "I'll have something downstairs later."
She understood his reason as clearly as if he had expressed it, and
said no more. When he brought her the wine that Dick had poured out,
she drank it in silence.
"Getting better?" said Silas.
She managed to smile at him. "Much better, thank you."
"You're very tired," he said.
She was obliged to admit it. "I know. But I must see Rosemary
before I rest."
"Well, where is she?" he asked.
"At the Peregrine Hotel in Warner Street. They are married--she and
The Old Bean. Dick arranged it all. Oh, Silas--" her voice shook a
little--"I do pray she will be happy."
"I think your welfare is of more importance at the present moment,"
said Silas, looking at her critically. "What did that mad hatter
bring you here for?"
She shook her head. "I'll tell you another time. I was engaged to
him once, but--something happened." She met his look with a certain
wistfulness. "It's all over now, Silas. He doesn't want me any
more."
Silas received the news with an inward remark which only found vent
in a growl.
"I don't think I can eat any more," said Bobby. "Shall we go?"
"No," said Silas. "What's that thing for?" He turned to a telephone
on the mantelpiece. "I'll ring up the Peregrine, and if they're
there, they shall come to you."
"But we can't stay here," objected Bobby. "It's Dick's room."
"He won't be back again yet," said Silas. "When I saw him in the
lounge just now, he was going out, said he had an engagement." He
picked up the telephone. "What's the name? Ross?"
He proceeded to give his instructions, then turned again to her. His
renewed scrutiny did not seem to afford him much satisfaction; but
Bobby was impervious to that. She was used to Silas.
"Has that fellow been bullying you--upsetting you?" he asked at last.
She did not answer the question directly. "I should have been tired
in any case," she said. "I'm afraid I'm not very strong yet. But I
soon shall be."
"You won't be at this rate," he remarked grimly. "He played a
deliberate trick to get you here, and then found it didn't answer.
Is that it?"
She stretched up her hand to him as she sat. "Don't let us go into
it now, Silas!" she said. "It has made no difference--of any
sort--except that I know now that he will never come back. That
dream is over. I am only sorry I didn't know sooner."
He held her hand with a close pressure. His look still searched her
face as if dissatisfied. "There must be a reason," he said, after a
moment.
"Yes," said Bobby very wearily, and closed her eyes as if she had no
strength for more.
He continued to look at her for a space, still holding her hand, then
as the telephone rang, he laid it quietly down and turned.
"Hullo! Is that the Peregrine Hotel? Is there a gentleman of the
name of Ross there? Please ask him to speak to me!"
"He is there?" asked Bobby's voice behind him.
He moved and looked down at her again. She was sitting upright in
her chair, her face alert and eager. She had shaken her weariness
from her like a clogging weight.
"Yes, they are fetching him," he said.
"Oh, beg him to bring her to me at once!" she said. "Tell him to be
very quick! I can't--I can't wait much longer."
There was a ring of fever in her voice. As he waited, she got up and
stood beside him.
"Let me take it when he comes!" she pleaded anxiously. "I think I
can persuade him. Let me try!"
"Wait a minute!" said Silas gently. "Let me be sure of him first!"
He stood listening, and Bobby waited tensely beside him, her hands
locked and nervously straining against each other.
"Ah!" said Silas at length. "Here comes someone! Hullo!" He spoke
into the telephone. "Who is it? Mr. Ross? Who? Not Mr. Ross?
Isn't he there? What? Left this afternoon? Was Mrs. Ross with him?
Do you know where they went? Oh, all right. Thanks! Good-bye!" He
rang off and turned to her. "Afraid we shall have to wait a little
longer," he said. "They've left."
"Left!" Bobby said the word after him faintly, unbelievingly; her
face was ashen. "Left!" she said again, as if questioning its
meaning, and then suddenly something within her seemed to snap; she
bowed forward into his arms with a low and exceeding bitter cry.
"Oh, Silas--Silas--Silas!" she sobbed brokenly. "I can't go on!
I've borne so much--lost so much! First Dick--and now my
Rosemary--both gone--for ever gone! There's nothing left for
me--except to die!"
She was torn by wild weeping as she poured out the piteous words, and
he held her as he had held her once before, not seeking to check her
agonized outburst, only supporting her in the midst of it. It seemed
that this was always to be his part, that he did not really count
with her, that it was only in her extremity that she turned to him.
But even so, he upheld her without faltering, his face over her poor
bowed head sternly controlled, almost rigid in its strength. When
her anguish began to spend itself, he helped her to a chair and knelt
beside her, still supporting her though his arms no longer
encompassed her. And as she lay there weakly crying, he dried her
tears once more with infinite patience, proffering no word of
comfort, merely holding himself in readiness for her slightest need.
She turned to him at last like a worn-out child. "Silas, what am I
to do? Silas, tell me what to do!"
"There is only one thing you can do at present," he said. "And that
is--rest. I have engaged a room for you, and your things are in it.
Shall I take you to it?"
"Yes, yes," she agreed hopelessly. "I can't stay here."
She made a movement to rise, and he helped her up. So weak was she
after her breakdown that she could hardly stand alone. Yet she
seemed scarcely to realize that it was his strength and not her own
that supported her. Perhaps she had leaned on him too long to be
aware of it.
She submitted to his guidance as it were instinctively. So much
ascendancy he had established over her. But she might have been
almost unconscious of his presence while she did so. It did not
apparently matter to her in that dire hour of need whether he came or
went.
Only, as he led her from the room did she give utterance to the first
reproach he had ever heard from her. "Oh, Silas," she said,
"why--why--why did you make me come back?"
He did not answer her, and in a moment she turned in quick distress,
her old sweetness reasserting itself. "No, no, I didn't mean that.
It's not your fault. Forgive me for saying it!"
To which he made steady and almost stolid reply, "There is nothing to
forgive."
"I didn't mean it," she reiterated. "I only meant that we are so
much better dead when there is nothing left to live for."
"Yes, I know," said Silas. "I know."
"I'm glad of that," she said pathetically. "Glad you understand."
"You needn't be afraid of my ever doing anything else," he said.
"Oh, thank you," she murmured. "Thank you."
But, though she was vaguely comforted by his assurance, it was more
habit than gratitude that prompted the words. Silas would always be
Silas, the strong and patient friend in need. There were no limits
to his kindness and consideration. If there had been, surely he
would have abandoned her to her fate long ago! She had never meant
to take more from him than she could repay, and some day--when all
this trouble was past--she would make good the debt. There would be
nothing else left for her. But while it lasted, she had no choice
but to accept his service. He would not have suffered her to do
otherwise. That was clear, and she was too crushed to do other than
submit to his decision. She was in fact almost like a child in his
hands that night, and when he told her that he had engaged a room for
himself next to her own in case she should need anything, it seemed
so natural that she scarcely thanked him for the thought.
"I am glad to know you are near," she said. "Oh yes, I will call you
if I want anything; but I don't suppose I shall. Good night!"
She smiled at him as he went away--a small, wistful smile which to
him was sadder than her tears.
CHAPTER V
THE AMBASSADOR
It was late that night when Ravencombe returned to his room. His
face had the ghastly pallor that sometimes indicates intoxication,
but his step was firm and light, absolutely controlled.
He entered to find the viands that he had provided for his guest
still spread upon the table, the lights full on and the fire still
burning. His glance went round the room in a swift flash and came in
the fraction of a second to a broad burly figure that awaited him,
upright and silent, on the hearth.
"Hullo!" he said. "Hullo!" And in his voice was a soft, almost
stealthy intonation. It did not betray surprise, merely the
acceptance of a fact not wholly welcome.
"Hullo!" said Silas. "I've waited here to talk to you."
Ravencombe came forward with that quick, steady step. His eyes were
intensely bright, the pupils abnormally large, giving him almost the
look of an animal that sees in the dark.
He stopped at the table and faced his visitor with a certain
jauntiness. "Is it peace?" he asked, lifting a decanter.
"That depends," said Silas.
"Have a drink!" suggested Ravencombe smoothly. "It may help you to a
decision."
"No, thanks," said Silas curtly. "I'm on business. You would oblige
me very much by not drinking any more till I've done."
"Should I indeed?" Ravencombe proceeded to pour out a drink for
himself with a smile. "I'm afraid I'm not in a very obliging mood.
But my own vicious tendencies don't prevent me admiring virtue in
others. I can see you haven't had a drink all the evening. I
suppose beer and cider are more to your liking than this sort of
thing, but--" he glanced round the table--"I am afraid they were
omitted from the feast."
"I don't want anything, thanks," said Silas. He spoke with square
determination. "All I want is a straight talk with you."
Ravencombe's eyes took a second swift and mocking survey of him.
Then he pulled off his overcoat and threw it over the back of a
chair. His tall lithe figure in faultless evening attire made a
striking contrast to that of Silas in the plain brown suit of homely
cut which Mary was wont to lay out for him with assiduous care on
Sunday mornings. Yet that strange resemblance between them which
Bobby had detected still persisted. They both bore the unmistakable
stamp of good birth.
Ravencombe swallowed half his drink and came to the fire. "You are
welcome to talk so far as I am concerned," he said. "But I won't
undertake to do the same."
Silas moved slightly to one side. There was nothing threatening in
his attitude. It merely denoted the most inflexible determination.
His stern refusal to take offence bore strong testimony to this.
Every inch of him was regulated by an iron self-control. He ignored
the other's scarcely-veiled contempt just as he had refused to
recognize Bobby's one-time efforts to keep him at a distance,
employing what she had secretly termed his "steam-roller tactics"
which were not always devoid of a certain subtlety despite their
force.
"I'm sorry to intrude upon you," he said. "I assure you it gives me
no more pleasure than it does you. But I've got to do it. You
needn't think I'm trying to trade on any relationship between us
either, for that is a fact which is a thousand times more
objectionable to me than it can possibly be to you. And by that I
don't mean anything personal. It's simply the Thorgrave blood which
I detest--and always shall."
"I say," said Ravencombe suavely, "you're awfully complimentary--to
us both. Have a cigarette!"
He proffered his case unexpectedly, with a sort of lightning
graciousness in the midst of conflict against which the most churlish
could scarcely have been proof. Bobby, had she seen him in that
moment, would have said that it was the old Dick come to life.
Silas took the cigarette. In view of what he had just said, he had
no choice. But he did not light it. He set it on the mantelpiece.
"Look here," he said. "I'm coming to the point. You probably know
what I'm driving at. It's Miss Roberta--and her love-affair with
you. It's no concern of mine, I admit, why you've kept away from her
all these years that she's been waiting and slaving beyond her
strength. I'm not on to that. Things happen often, I know, that
can't possibly be foreseen and allowed for. But now you're back--now
you're back--" he repeated the words with insistence--"what the devil
is it now? You play a trick to get her here, and then you set to
work and break her heart. What's the meaning of it? I want to know.
I will know!"
Again he spoke with an emphasis that had the compulsion of sheer
weight. But he was talking to one who paid small homage to open
force.
Ravencombe merely lifted his eyebrows and lighted a cigarette.
After several seconds he permitted himself to ask a question which
was more of the nature of a soliloquy than anything else. "Is she
broken-hearted, I wonder?"
"She's down and out if you want to know," said Silas bluntly. "And
I've got to know the meaning of it. She's done as much for you as
any living woman has ever done for a man, uncomplainingly too when
it's been enough to kill her. And it's always been with the hope of
your coming back held in front of her. She'd almost given up hope
when you did come back. And now what have you done to repay her?
Just--trampled on her!"
His voice shook suddenly and his hands clenched, but in a moment he
had controlled himself again. Only he moved a pace or two further
away from the man whose eyes still seemed to mock him whenever they
glanced his way.
Ravencombe took the cigarette from between his lips and examined it
critically. "You're an extraordinary man, Hickory," he said, almost
as if he were addressing it. "Do you really imagine that you can
convince me that Miss Roberta--" he uttered the name with a faint
sneer--"has been faithful to my memory all these years?"
"I know it," said Silas. "As to convincing you----"
"Yes, I am rather hard to convince." Ravencombe's attention was
still concentrated upon his cigarette. He spoke deliberately, rather
monotonously. "You see, there is somewhat damning evidence to the
contrary."
"What is that?" said Silas.
Ravencombe turned his head slowly towards him. His eyes with their
extraordinary, rapier-like brightness came to Silas's and for the
first time remained fixed with a kind of contemptuous tenacity.
"I think you can furnish the answer to that question," he said.
Silas's face was as a blank wall, betraying nothing. "I shouldn't
ask you if I could," he said.
"No?" said Ravencombe. He continued to examine him with much the
same attention as he had bestowed upon his cigarette. "Well, we will
leave that for the moment," he decided finally. "It's my turn to ask
something now. Why haven't you married her yourself?"
Silas made a slight involuntary movement. The question was a
surprise. But he answered it without hesitation.
"I asked Miss Roberta--" he spoke the name with reverence--"to marry
me some time ago. She refused me then--on your account."
"This is interesting," said Ravencombe. "And since then?"
"Since then," there was stern self-restraint in Silas's voice, "she
has been very ill, and during her illness I think she lost hope. It
was at the time of Rosemary's disappearance."
"And so she accepted you?" suggested Ravencombe.
"She said that she would do so when Rosemary was found. That was
before we knew of your return." Silas's words were brief and
business-like; his face remained wholly expressionless.
Ravencombe turned to flick ash into the fender. "My return seems to
have upset the apple-cart," he remarked. "But I still can't
understand why the marriage did not take place long ago. It would
have been far better for--Rosemary. And after all, she seems to have
been the most important factor in Roberta's life."
"Rosemary and I have never had any use for each other," remarked
Silas sombrely. "I doubt if it would have been better for her."
"Oh, indeed!" Ravencombe paused, his back half-turned. "You don't
consider that your responsibilities extend to her then."
"My responsibilities! What do you mean?" said Silas.
Ravencombe faced him again, a very bitter smile on his face. "Oh,
don't you try to stuff me with that aunt and niece fiction!" he said.
"I've had enough of it."
"I'm not giving you any fiction that I know of," said Silas curtly.
"In an affair of this sort one has to draw one's own conclusions. I
drew mine long ago--as soon as I knew of your existence. I didn't
know who you were: she never told me that. But I guessed that you
had behaved like a damned scoundrel to her--though I never told her
so."
His voice had taken a deeper note, but he still spoke with restraint.
In the brief silence that followed, he stood with squared shoulders
waiting for a counterthrust, yet still resolutely master of himself.
But Ravencombe made none. He only stood staring at him while the
smile on his face slowly became one with the cruel scar that seamed
it.
"Well," he said at length, "I'm glad that we've had this interview.
It has elucidated one point at least. I see now that I have wronged
you and I apologize. Perhaps you may feel moved to do the same when
I tell you--on my oath--that I am no more Rosemary's father than you
are."
There was no mistaking the sincerity of his voice in spite of that
horrible disfiguring smile. Silas, grimly surveying him, knew that
he spoke the truth.
He said nothing for several seconds while he readjusted his ideas.
Then: "All right. I apologize too," he said, though somewhat as one
making a concession. "But you had no reason for crediting me with
anything of that sort, while you--you even ran away with the child.
What did you do that for?"
Hostility bristled afresh in the question. Ravencombe made a
half-whimsical, pacific gesture. "That," he said, "happened to be by
her own wish. I've already been taken to task for it by the
excellent young man who is now her husband, and luckily managed to
establish the innocence of my motives and subsequent behaviour.
Haven't you seen them, by the way? Didn't they come?"
"They had left the hotel," said Silas. "There was no getting hold of
them."
Ravencombe clapped a tragic hand to his head. "Here have I been
absenting myself in the haunts of vice all for nothing! I pictured a
happy family re-union taking place. Instead of which, they've
probably taken the night train for Bode."
"Very likely," agreed Silas with austerity. "But that is a minor
matter. They can be traced in the morning. But there are still
several points to be cleared up. You haven't yet explained your
attitude to Miss Roberta. I've got to understand that."
"Why?" asked Ravencombe.
"Because," Silas spoke very steadily, "I am out for her happiness,
and it seems to me you've tortured her long enough."
Torture! It was the word that Bobby herself had used. Ravencombe
made a wry grimace as he heard it.
"Frankly," he said, "I think I've put up with a good deal with regard
to this subject. My attitude, as you are pleased to call it, to Miss
Roberta is one of strict neutrality. She has my full permission to
console herself with whomever it may please her to select."
He uttered the last sentence with a gleam of malicious humour, and
Silas stiffened almost instinctively.
"That won't do," he said. "You were not in a state of neutrality
when you took the trouble to get her here on false pretences. What
was that for? I've got to know, so you may as well tell me at once."
"Oh, you're going to bully me now, are you?" said Ravencombe. "I
shouldn't if I were you. It's such a waste of time."
Silas pulled himself in again with an effort. The gibing note in the
other's voice was like a cold douche. It had the effect of making
him feel at a disadvantage, almost in the wrong. Also, his sneers
notwithstanding, there was something oddly likable about this man.
He fenced with adroitness, but there was no active hostility behind
his point. If eventually he inflicted a wound, it would be rather by
accident than design. Silas even had a disconcerting suspicion that
he was rather favourably disposed towards him, and this--in spite of
his most rigorous determination to maintain an unyielding front--was
beginning to re-act upon himself. It is hard to force a quarrel upon
one who persistently fails to see the necessity for one.
"I don't want to bully you," he said. "I only want to know the
truth, and to make you realize--if I can--how abominably she has
suffered. I've seen something of it, and I know."
"Ah!" Ravencombe made an odd movement, as if somehow the words
pierced him unawares. He was looking at Silas speculatively, with a
gradually awakening interest. "You say you are out for her
happiness," he said. "That means, I suppose, that you care for her
enough to give the past a more or less decent burial and--marry her.
Well, my good fellow, why don't you start in and do it? I shan't get
in the way."
"No, I know," Silas said. He turned very suddenly away from
Ravencombe and stood staring straight before him for a few seconds.
Then: "I believe I could do it," he said, his voice very low,
strongly repressed. "I might persuade her to marry me. But--if I
do, what's going to happen?"
"You'll make her happy presumably," said Ravencombe in his smooth
emotionless tones.
Silas's hands clenched again, but it was not in anger. He stood
rigid, as though he waited for something. Then, as suddenly as he
had turned away, he wheeled back. "No, I can't make her happy," he
said, and his voice held the brief stern ring of justice; no more.
"She has always cared for you. She cares for you still, and I
believe you care for her--though you won't own it. But remember, you
have no proof against her. And even if you had, what right have you
to judge her? Is there nothing in your past that you would like
forgotten--washed out? And are you so well off and happy that you
can afford to throw away the love--and devotion--of a woman like
that?" His resolution failed abruptly; he lifted his two hands
clenched above his head. "My God!" he cried out in a voice that
quivered and broke. "If it were only mine--only mine!"
"Steady! Steady!" said Ravencombe. "Look here, man, don't! Have a
drink!"
He pushed forward his own glass quickly as Silas went forward with
his arms upon the mantelpiece and his face buried upon them.
"Don't!" he said again. "Don't!" and laid an urgent hand upon him.
"Pull up, man! Drink! Here it is!"
Somehow the half-filled glass found its way into Silas's grasp, and
he stood up and drained it; then, after a moment, turned round, his
own master again.
"I'm sorry," he said. "Thanks! That was decent of you."
"I can be decent sometimes," said Ravencombe, with the ghost of his
whimsical smile. "Look here! Sit down! We'll thrash this thing
out. I'm not given to talking about myself, but I will for once. It
may help. Anyhow, whatever you may think of me, I think you're damn'
fine, and that stands."
It was in a sense a capitulation, and as such Silas recognized it.
What he had been unable to accomplish by force had been done in a
moment's weakness for which he despised himself. As he yielded to
Ravencombe's insistence and sat down, he realized with a dull wonder
that all animosity between them was gone. By a fantastic turn of the
wheel of Fate, this man Ravencombe--Dick Dynamo--was no longer an
enemy but a friend.
The fact that he was sitting on his hearth still holding his glass
seemed to place them on the footing of host and guest, and though he
was aware of a certain relief he did not quite know how to deal with
the changed situation. Ravencombe, however, was by no means at a
loss. He possessed a mental agility that seldom failed him, and
possibly the change of attitude was not as complete on his side as on
that of Silas.
He poked up the fire hospitably, showing no signs of embarrassment,
then took the glass from Silas's hand with a casual, "Here, let me
get you a decent one!"
But Silas refused. His weakness was over, and he turned back
doggedly to the matter under discussion, though he approached it now
from a different angle.
"No, I won't have any more, thanks. I want to get on with this
business, but I seem to have tackled it the wrong way round. I don't
know how you got the impression that I've known Roberta for many
years. I haven't. It's only six since she took Little Staple. It's
a small farm next to my own and belongs to me. The old man--her
father--died there. I didn't know her so well in his time. He was a
recluse."
"What! Colonel Wendholme!" ejaculated Ravencombe. "He used to be
the jolliest man alive."
"He wasn't in those days," said Silas. "He lived and died almost a
stranger in Stapleton. It was after he went, when Roberta had sole
charge of the child, that I began to try and lend a hand and so got
to know her better. You see, she did everything--literally
everything--in that household, as well as ran the dairy and pigs and
poultry. No man could have stood by and seen a woman slave as she
slaved without doing something to help--though she wouldn't let me do
much, beyond carting her pigs to market now and then and buying her
calves." He paused for a moment or two; then: "That's how I came to
care for her," he said simply. "I've never met with such pluck and
independence in anyone. They lived on next to nothing, and she
worked like a nigger, sixteen hours out of the twenty-four, and
always smiling, always sweet and ready for the next job. I don't see
how anyone--" he spoke with a kind of heavy defiance of
circumstance--"could have known her as I got to know her without
loving her. It was my own funeral anyhow. It didn't matter to
anyone else. She never had any feeling for me except friendship. I
know that all right. I always knew it. I was beneath her too."
"You may yet be Lord Ravencombe," remarked Ravencombe with his
cynical smile.
Silas looked at him. "I'll hang myself in my own barn first," he
said.
"Don't you be a fool!" said Ravencombe. "You can't quarrel with your
own blood. It didn't appeal to me at first. I was last but one on
the waiting list. But I'm getting used to the idea now."
"You're a gentleman," remarked Silas bluntly.
Ravencombe bent with one of his lightning movements and laid a sudden
friendly hand upon Silas as he sat. "I'll tell you what I am if you
really want to know," he said. "I'm about the damnedest rotter that
God ever put breath into, and knowing you hasn't made me feel any
less so. Oh, let's talk sense if we can! You've told me your side
of the story, now you shall hear mine."
He stood up again with the words and began to pace the room with that
springy, animal-like tread of his while Silas remained seated,
watching him with an odd dawning of sympathy in his eyes.
"I never expected to come into the title," Ravencombe said. "It
might have made a difference if I had. I should probably have got
married and lived a bit more respectably, though I don't know. I've
been a free lance for a good long while now. There used to be four
cousins between me and the succession, but two of them got killed
flying and the other two petered out somehow, and the poor daft old
man hung on till the only ones left to inherit were first myself and
then you. Your mother seems to have been a cousin of my father; but
I'm a bit hazy about it."
"It doesn't matter, does it?" said Silas.
"Not enormously at this stage," agreed Ravencombe. "But you've got
to face the fact that you are my accredited heir. It's more than
likely that I shall never have another."
"That isn't what we set out to talk about," Silas reminded him, still
stubbornly tenacious to his point.
Ravencombe stopped to light another cigarette and threw him a
half-bantering look as he did so.
"All right, man, all right. You shall have it," he said. "But if
I've got to face my responsibilities, I'm damned if you shall shirk
yours. It doesn't greatly matter, as you say; for I know very well
you won't when it comes to the point. Here you are then! I've been
what is known as an adventurer for the past twenty years or nearly.
I first met Bobby--" He uttered the pet name almost
unconsciously--"as a very junior captain with no expectations in her
father's regiment. We were stationed at Budhpore in the Central
Provinces, and she and her sister came out one cold weather. She was
exquisite, like a rose--like Rosemary. Of course I fell. So did
everyone else practically. At least, I think we were about equally
divided.. Matilda had a good many admirers. I never knew quite why.
I always thought her empty--rather stupid, though, I suppose, from
the standpoint of sheer beauty, she may have been lovelier than
Bobby. But beauty alone doesn't appeal to me--never did.
Bobby--Bobby had brains as well--humour, sweetness, everything."
"I know," said Silas.
Ravencombe was prowling about the room once more, his head back as
though he saw a vision. "I worshipped her like the rest, but I had
nothing to offer her, so I held my tongue. I shall never forget how
astounded I was when one day I met them out riding--she and
Matilda--in charge of the Colonel's servant who was giving them
lessons, and she deliberately gave them the slip and then when we
were alone just put her hand into mine and said, 'Dick, why are you
always struggling not to say to me what I want--so much--to hear?'"
A queer sound, like laughter repressed by pain, broke through the
words; but he went on with scarcely a pause, "After that of course it
was all up with me. I was nearly mad with the joy of it. But I knew
quite well I hadn't a chance with her father. He was out for much
bigger game. So we settled to keep it dark for a time, and
Matilda--who was also out for bigger game, but quite amiably disposed
towards us--agreed to be given the slip with the groom whenever I met
them, which was pretty often. It became an absolute joke between us.
She and the soldier-servant would ride off in one direction and Bobby
and I in the other. But the man--Alexander they called him--was a
fellow I never quite trusted, and eventually we were given away. I
always knew it was his doing though I couldn't bring it home to him.
There was a most unholy row, and Matilda and Bobby were packed off to
a hill station. The old man was furious with me, and it seemed to me
that it was up to me to make good; so I got into touch with a
relative of my mother's in California who had always wanted me to go
out there and offered to chuck the Army if he would guarantee me a
house and a screw that would justify me in taking a wife. I didn't
want to chuck the Army in the least, but I wanted her--intensely, and
I had no prospects." Ravencombe came to the hearth and stood gazing
down into the fire. He might have been unconscious of his companion
as he conjured up the picture of those long past days. "Well, then
Matilda got engaged to her swell who was aide-de-camp to the
Governor-General, and there was talk of a grand wedding. But I had
secured my berth in California and sent in my papers before it was
fixed, and I tried to persuade Bobby to marry me and come away then
and there. But she wouldn't, though I knew she was hating every
minute of it and would hate it worse when her sister was married and
I was gone. She said she was wanted, and I couldn't move her, so I
came away. But I got her father to consent to our engagement before
I left, and we arranged that I was to come back and fetch her as soon
as I had got a home to take her to. So off I went--to make a home."
A grim note of cynicism crept into his speech. "I didn't go straight
to California. I went to England first to see my people. I had no
letter from her while in London, though I wrote to her from every
port we touched. I concluded she must have sent her letters to my
final destination, and after a fortnight at home I sailed for
America. When at last I got to my cousin's place I found an Indian
letter waiting for me. It was from Bobby. She said that she had
thought things over and come to the conclusion that she had made a
mistake. It was all beautifully written, beautifully
expressed,--perhaps a trifle stiff, but otherwise a masterpiece. She
hoped I would forgive her for any disappointment she had caused me,
but she was sure that I should see the matter with her eyes
eventually. And it was better to be wise in time, was it not?
Meanwhile, her sister's marriage had been postponed, and they were
all coming home to England, so that as she was unable to give me any
address she could scarcely hope to hear from me again. However, she
would always think kindly of me, and she hoped that I would try to do
the same of her. That, I think, was the end, though I am not sure
that I read it all. Anyhow, it was the end so far as I was
concerned. I don't quite know what happened after that. I wasn't
actually mad, but I wasn't exactly responsible for my actions either.
I felt as if a fire had been lighted inside me that was gradually
consuming everything vital in me. I couldn't stay where I was or
attempt to settle down to anything. I threw up the whole show and
broke away. My cousin tried to hold me, but it only made things
worse, and I cleared out. I needn't go into all the horrible
details. I've always tried ever since to forget each day as I got
through it, to toss it on the rubbish-heap of time. Why I bothered
to live I really don't know. Only somehow suicide never appealed to
me. It isn't sporting to end your life just because it isn't worth
living, though I've courted being killed over and over again. I went
to Mexico eventually almost for the purpose, though I called it for
the sake of adventure to myself. I used to do anything and
everything in those days to deaden that awful feeling of being burned
alive by a slow fire, or perhaps it was more like a corrosive acid
that ate and ate always a little deeper into one's very being. I
sinned all the sins that came my way and lived the life of several
devils rolled into one. They used to laugh and call me the Prince of
Evil. I don't quite know how I lived. We were a mad gang of
profligates, and there was always some game on that spelt murder and
sudden death. We dabbled in politics of course. Everyone does in
Mexico. It's a land of quick promotion, and I became a sort of
robber-chief--a dictator of bandits and cutthroats." He began to
laugh under his breath in a subtle half-gratified fashion. His eyes
were still upon the red depths of the fire. "I did a good many
things that are not done either in love or war. I set myself
impossible tasks and did them, just for the fun of the thing. I
didn't enjoy it. I never enjoyed anything; but I'd got to the point
where I didn't see why any lust should go unsatisfied, so I made a
bonfire of all gentlemanly scruples and danced round it till nothing
remained. They used to think I was mad, but I wasn't--at that time.
I simply didn't care a damn what I did or how I did it. If people
got in my way,--well, they were soon out of it, that's all. Whatever
I wanted, I took, and threw the rest away. I never felt affection or
regard for a single being during all the years we made pandemonium in
that extremely volcanic corner of the world. That part of me was
atrophied completely by the corroding process aforementioned. Things
that would once have turned me sick simply had no effect upon me.
But I still maintain that I was sane, because I kept my reasoning
powers. It took a mighty lot of scheming before the other side
caught me at last." He showed his teeth in that dreadful,
upward-reaching smile of his. "And even after that, I gave them a
lot of trouble. They wanted me to split on the rest and I wouldn't.
Not that I cared a row of pins if they were caught or not. It was
only that--being British--I objected to coercion. They did their
damnedest to me with the exception of killing me, which was the one
thing I wanted them to do. I can tell you exactly what a hot
branding-iron feels like--among other things."
"Damnation!" said Silas deeply.
The other started at the interruption and looked round, "Hullo!
What's the matter? Oh, that's nothing--nothing! Why my dear
chap,"--he stopped himself--"No, I needn't tell you that. I did go
mad in the end, tore free and ran amok. That's how I got this wound
on my head. My face was split right open. But I got away, and I've
reason to believe I gave a good account of myself first. After that
came a blank period which lasted some time. One of those queer jades
of the Rahab persuasion got hold of me and hid and nursed me till the
hue and cry was over. A good sort she was, but I found eventually
that she'd knife me if I didn't give her the slip, so I cleared out
and left that hell behind. Not from any decent motive. I was sick
and tired of it, that's all." He turned back to the fire with a
gesture of weariness, "That's nearly all. I found my way back to
civilization, and drifted to California again. I wasn't looking for
my cousin, but he came upon me in San Francisco. I was pretty sick
at the time and practically destitute and he took me back to his
place. I don't know why people do these things unasked. I didn't
want him to. But he was a good old chap. I stayed and worked with
him for nearly three years. Then I heard from Raymond of old
Ravencombe's death, and that I was the heir to title and estates, so
I came back at last to enjoy the irony of it all. Being of a
freakish turn, I gave my name as Graves at Bode because I didn't want
everyone staring. And then--on Boxing Night--who should I find but
the exact replica of Bobby herself, dressed as a bride, waiting for
me?" He paused and stirred the fire thoughtfully with his foot as if
to readjust some vision that he saw there. "That was about the
shrewdest thrust Fate ever gave me," he said. "She was veiled at
first, but there was something about her--her laugh, her general
air--that made me determined to see more of her. So I inveigled her
away from the rest, and after a little fooling I got her to my own
room. There for the first time I saw her as she really was, and she
recognized me as--Dick Dynamo--the man to whom her aunt had always
been faithful! She had seen my portrait, it seemed. Poor little
beggar!" Genuine pity sounded in his voice for the first time. "How
horrified she was! So was I--when I realized--though I don't know
why I should have been, I gave the show away, as I suppose I
shouldn't have done if I had had time to think. And when she knew
what it meant--knew that the aunt business was all a myth--she threw
herself on my mercy and begged me to take her away--which I did."
He stopped, but Silas asked no question, merely sat gazing straight
before him in unbroken silence, his brows closely drawn as though he
wrestled with some problem to which he would not give expression.
Ravencombe glanced at him, then went to the table and poured out a
drink. He looked unutterably tired, almost too tired to be cynical.
"Well, that's all, Hickory," he said, "except that in the absence of
her aunt I created myself her uncle and behaved with a moral
rectitude that really surprised myself, I took her to Italy, and
there eventually we were discovered by young Donald Ross--Rosemary's
unromantic but very persevering lover, and since I judged him to be a
suitable sort of lad and the maid was willing, I gave my blessing to
their union and saw that it was done properly. Then we all returned,
and I--feeling freakish again--laid my plans to receive Bobby alone.
I didn't mean to behave like a cad. I only wanted to ask a straight
question or two, and--yes--just to see her once again." He lifted
the glass to his lips with the words and drank. "But you frustrated
me. I turned savage when I saw you. I apologize once more. I know
now I had no reason." He smiled at Silas, but the heavy shadow of
fatigue still rested on his face. "I haven't talked like this for
years," he said. "You brought it on yourself, didn't you? It's a
mighty long story and hardly worth the telling, after all. But
that's the end."
"Yes," said Silas, speaking as one who slowly awakes, "It has been
worth it."
He met Ravencombe's eyes as he got to his feet.
"It has been worth it," he said again. "And if you've got any
patience left, I'll tell you why. First, I am perfectly certain," he
spoke with the deliberation of great emphasis, "that the letter you
speak of, turning you down, was never written by Bobby. All I have
ever seen of her convinces me of that. If I could convince you too,
would it make a difference?"
Ravencombe lifted his shoulders slightly without replying. "Why do
you get up?" he said. "I can see it's going to be an all-night
sitting."
"No, it isn't," said Silas squarely. "It's practically over now.
That letter was not written by Bobby, and, whatever she has to hide,
there is no altering the fact that she has been waiting for you,
hoping for you, all these years. Does that make no difference
either?"
Ravencombe made a quick movement that was somehow like the plunge of
a goaded animal, but as swiftly he curbed himself. "Oh, damnation,
Hickory!" he said, "Even if you could prove her faithfulness up to
the hilt a dozen times over, can't you see that the difference in me
is colossal? What is there left in me worth having now?"
"Ah! That's another story," Silas said. "That's a matter which
neither of us is qualified to decide. But this other rests with you.
And I am prepared to give you my word of honour--my oath--that she
has been waiting for you all this time. I've no proof to offer,
except that Rosemary herself once showed me a photograph of you in
corroboration of it--in order to discourage me. I think I have
mentioned before--" he spoke with a certain dreary humour--"that she
and I have never had much use for each other. But she was not
romancing about it. It was genuine. I'd found it out from Bobby
herself before that." The humour dropped out of his voice, leaving
it dead and toneless. "I knew it even before she told me. She is
the sort of woman who could only care once. What's the good of
talking round and round? I've done--I've finished--and I'm going.
But just you remember this!" He paused a moment on his way to the
door. "When a woman loves a man, she doesn't ask what his past has
been. She simply gives him all she's got without a question, without
even thinking of the past. If a man can't do the same,--well, he
isn't worthy of her, that's all."
"Who said I was worthy of her?" flashed Ravencombe.
"No one," said Silas. "And perhaps it doesn't greatly matter.
Anyhow, there's only one who can decide. Ask her!"
He was at the door as he ended. He opened it to go out. But
Ravencombe's voice arrested him. Ravencombe himself came striding to
him and gripped him forcibly by the arm, detaining him.
"Look here,--Silas!" he said. "We're both doggo and I won't keep
you. But I must say just this. You're the whitest man I've ever
come across and I'm damn' glad I've lived to meet you. If I could
give you--the woman you love--to-morrow--to-night even--I would."
Silas stood facing him in his square forthright fashion. His eyes
under the thick black brows were uncompromising in their utter
directness. The other man was deeply moved and showed it, and in the
showing the years fell from him, and he was young and keen again,
save for the long cruel scar which marred the look of youth.
Silas spoke, breaking a silence that could not have existed between
them earlier. "Do you say that because you no longer care yourself?"
"No," said Dick Dynamo as if compelled, and then confirmed the
admission with a brief, half-grudging laugh. "Damn you,--no!"
It was an open admission of defeat just as his earlier gesture had
been, but Silas made no attempt to press his advantage any further.
He only said as their hands met in an almost involuntary grip of
friendship, "That's just what I wanted. Thanks!"
They parted thereafter without further words.
CHAPTER VI
THE RETURN
Out of a night of troubled sleeping and waking--a night that seemed
as if it would never pass--Bobby came at length. The weariness of
travelling and the subsequent strain and disappointment were still
upon her, but she exerted herself to meet the new day with a brave
spirit. As she dressed, putting her weakness resolutely behind her,
she thought of Silas, and of all that he had been to her the previous
night.
"How ungrateful I was!" she told herself reproachfully. "I
wonder--did I hurt him?"
She had been terribly overwrought, had said things which should never
have been uttered. Yet somehow she clung to the conviction that it
did not matter what she said to Silas, because he always understood.
By the grey morning-light she brought herself to face the thought of
Dick. All through the night she had as it were been hiding her eyes
from it as a child that fears to look upon some awful apparition.
But now she braced herself to meet it without shrinking. All the
long years of waiting were over. Dick had returned. It seemed
incredible that that fondly cherished vision of her youth could thus
have been shattered at one devastating blow, so faithfully had she
kept his memory in her heart. That Dick--her Dick who had worshipped
her so--could ever have come to her thus with that cruel devil of
mockery and scepticism in his eyes was a thing so monstrous, so
beyond all possibility, that she questioned with herself if she had
really seen it or if it could have been some dreadful nightmare with
which fever and fatigue had seared her brain. And yet in her heart
she knew that it was starkly true. Dick had come back to her with
hatred in his soul. Dick no longer believed in her, no longer wanted
her--had not wanted her during all those years that she had waited so
patiently and trustfully for him. It was so amazing a thought that
she could not cope with it. It had been so far easier to believe him
dead. Ah well! He was indeed dead to her now. She was conscious of
a sudden passionate hope in her heart that she would never see him
again. Her dream had been so precious to her, so tenderly guarded.
And now that he had wrenched it from her, she felt as if her very
soul were bleeding.
"There is nothing left," she said to herself again. "Why am I still
alive?"
She dressed mechanically, taking no note of time, until a quiet knock
at her door aroused her.
She went and opened it, and found Silas, calm and purposeful as ever,
waiting outside.
She greeted him with outstretched hand; she was in sore need of a
friendly clasp just then.
"It would be you," she said, with her wistful little smile. "Have
you come to call me to breakfast?"
"Wouldn't you like it upstairs?" said Silas.
She shivered a little. A window was half-open down the passage, and
the raw cold of a winter morning in London was in the atmosphere.
"No. I'll come down with you," she said.
"Put on your coat then!" said Silas, and she turned back to obey,
still feeling mechanical, strangely numbed on the surface, though
aware of a dull gnawing of pain beneath.
As she joined him, he was stolidly shutting the window that had
admitted the draught to her. They went on together to the lift.
He did not speak as they descended, but she noted with a dim wonder
that his presence seemed to dispel the sense of being in an alien
atmosphere. In some fashion she could not fathom, he dominated his
surroundings. Entering the vast, dreary dining-room with its
bewildering sea of tables, she drew instinctively nearer to him.
There was a feeling of home about him that gave her comfort as
physical warmth gives comfort to the half-frozen.
He conducted her to a table close to a roaring fire, and she went to
it thankfully, stretching her hands to the blaze. There were but few
people in the room, and she realized that it was early.
He did not ask her what she would have, but gave his orders with
clear conciseness, and then joined her before the fire.
"Our train leaves at ten," he remarked.
She started a little. "Oh! Where are we going?" she said.
He pulled out a chair from the table and placed it for her straight
in front of the fire. There was no one very near to them, and to
Bobby it was as though they were isolated in the midst of a grey sea.
She was definitely aware of no one but her companion. All the rest
was but a dim impression of a dreariness so far-reaching that she had
no desire to contemplate it.
"We are going home," said Silas.
The glow seemed to reach her heart, and she leaned nearer to it.
"But we haven't found Rosemary," she said.
"Yes," said Silas rather curtly. "Rosemary is found. She is at
Bode, waiting for you."
"At Bode!" She turned back to him eagerly, her face alight. "Oh,
Silas, is she really there?"
He looked at her, and she thought his face was grim. "Yes," he said.
"A message came through this morning. They had been to Staple Farm
and found us gone. Young Ross rang up early. I spoke to him, and
told them to stay where they were at _The King's Head_ till we got
back."
"Oh, Silas!" Bobby breathed again, and a great quiver of emotion went
through her. She leaned her head on her hand. "I shall really see
my darling to-day," she whispered. "Thank God--oh, thank God!"
Silas remained silent and immovable by her side--a dumb bulwark of
strength--till presently she looked up again.
"Was that all he said, Silas? She is quite well, is she? Everything
is all right?"
"Quite, I believe, so far as they are concerned," said Silas.
She thought his tone unsympathetic. "Why do you say that?" she
asked, puzzled. "Isn't it all right for everybody? Shouldn't we be
glad for their sakes--if they are happy?"
"Certainly," said Silas, in a voice that conveyed nothing whatever.
"I am very glad that they are happy."
She did not understand his attitude but, concluding that it was
probably in some fashion on her account that he refused to be
enthusiastic over the turn of events, she pressed him no further.
The vast relief of his news was such as almost to make her wonder
that she retained her balance, but the fact remained that something
held her back from being overwhelmed by it. Perhaps she had sat in
darkness too long to realize the light now that it had come. Or
perhaps the bitter disillusionment of yesterday had taken from her
the power to feel acutely any more.
When breakfast came, she turned round to the table with a subdued
sense of hope deferred. Her anxiety was lifted, but it had so bowed
her down that she could not recapture her old buoyancy of spirit.
When once she had held Rosemary again in her arms and satisfied
herself that all was well with her, she felt that she could quite
thankfully fold her hands and die.
"You're not eating anything," said Silas, and she roused herself and
made an effort for his sake.
She knew that he watched her narrowly and she did her best, but she
could not muster any appetite, and she was glad that there was no
time for dallying. The brief space that remained seemed to pass like
a dream. She went back to her room to put her things together, and
Silas went to his. She had the feeling that he was watching over her
the whole time. Did he fear that Dick Dynamo would reappear to
waylay her, she wondered? She had no fear on her own account.
Dick--her Dick--had gone into the past, and she would never see him
again. The romance of her life was dead, and nothing could ever
bring it back to life. The ruthless stranger of yesterday had no
power to disturb her further. He had done his worst, and it was all
over. No, she had no fear for herself. She had nothing left to lose.
She scarcely spoke on the way to the station, and Silas sat beside
her in vigilant silence. It was raining, and the streets were grey.
The cold pierced her, and again scarcely consciously she drew a
little closer to him. He stooped without words and wrapped a
travelling-rug more firmly round her.
"I shall be so glad to get home," she said, as they neared the
terminus.
And he answered gravely, "Yes, it's the best place."
He made every possible provision for her comfort during the journey.
There were not many people travelling, and he secured a compartment
for her without difficulty.
He also obtained a luncheon-basket. "It will save you the trouble of
moving," he said.
He made a cushion of his coat and persuaded her to lie down when the
train started, and she lay with closed eyes while he went to the
further corner and left her alone.
Perhaps it was the motion of the express that presently lulled her
into a state of semi-consciousness that resembled the outskirts of
slumber. All through the night her brain had been capable neither of
rest nor of coherent thought, but lying thus, with the certain
knowledge that she was really on the right track at last, a sense of
repose came upon her which gradually restored the power to think.
After more than an hour of complete inertia, her mentality began to
awake and ideas to form again in more orderly array.
During their first stop, when Silas quietly crossed to the
carriage-window by her side and blocked it with his bulk, she looked
at him and spoke.
"Silas!"
He looked down at her. "Are you wanting anything? I could get you a
cup of coffee."
"No, thank you," she said. "Don't let anyone get in if you can help
it!"
"They're not going to," said Silas.
She smiled rather wanly. "And don't go away again when we start!"
she said. "I--want to speak to you."
"All right," he said.
He continued to fill up the window until the train was once more on
its way. Then he turned round to her again.
"What is it?" he said.
Her face of white exhaustion still sought to show him a smile. "Just
sit down!" she said. "I'll tell you in a minute."
He sat down opposite to her as she desired, and she lay looking at
him with great intensity for several seconds. He waited with a
massive patience for her to speak.
She did so at last, slowly, as though choosing her words. "Silas,"
she said, "I know you will tell me the truth--because you always do.
Silas, did you see any more of--Dick--last night, after I left you?"
He leaned quietly forward. He had known that sooner or later that
question must come. Very steadily he answered it.
"Yes. I went back and saw him. But I can't tell you what passed
between us. I'm sorry."
A faint sigh escaped her. "You didn't--quarrel?" she said.
"No," said Silas.
"I'm glad of that," she said, and was silent for a space, still
looking at him with those intent blue eyes that seemed so large a
part of her.
At last she spoke again. "I don't want to know all that passed.
Only one thing! Silas, will you tell me one thing?"
"What is it?" he said.
She stretched out a hand to him in a pleading, pathetic gesture. "He
hasn't made you hate me, has he?" she said, and her lips were
trembling as she asked the question.
He took the hand and laid his face down upon it.
"Nothing--nobody--not God Himself--could make me do that," he said in
a voice that shook.
"Thank you," she whispered. And then, with an effort, "What I really
wanted to ask was this. Was it because--because he told my Rosemary
something that--turned her against me that she went away with
him--like that?"
Her question went into silence and by silence he answered it, his
head still bent over her hand.
A long, weary sigh came from Bobby, and then, "Thank you," she said
gently and slipped her hand away.
When he looked at her at length, he saw that her eyes were closed;
and he got up quietly and moved back to his own corner.
CHAPTER VII
FORGIVENESS
The rest of the journey passed without any incident or intimate talk.
Bobby lay for the most part perfectly still, often with closed eyes.
But she did not sleep, and Silas knew that she did not sleep.
Covertly he watched her, his face set in lines of hard and
uncompromising endurance. When the luncheon-hour came, he waited
upon her wordlessly, as a slave might wait upon an empress--though
there was little about Bobby to warrant such an attitude. She looked
crushed--too broken-hearted even to weep.
They had to change for the final stage of the journey, and Silas took
her to a fire in the waiting-room where she sat as one in a sad dream
for the half-hour that elapsed before the train for Bode came in.
"I feel as if I had been away for weeks," she said to him, as they
climbed into it.
"I know," he said. "And all for nothing!"
"Not quite all for nothing," she corrected gently.
The train loitered interminably along the branch-line, and it was
four o'clock ere Bode was reached. It was market-day, and the
station was busier than usual. Descending, Bobby found herself close
to Old Roper the veterinary.
He started at the sight of her, gave her a hasty greeting, and almost
precipitated himself into the crowd.
"Why did he do that?" she said to Silas, but Silas did not hear.
"Wait a minute!" he said. "I'll get hold of a conveyance somehow."
"There's the omnibus from _The King's Head_!" she said. "Let's go in
that!"
But for some reason he held her back. "No, no! I'll get something
else."
It was no longer raining, but heavy clouds were obscuring the last of
the daylight. Bobby became aware of something ominous in the
atmosphere, and felt as if an icy hand had clutched her heart.
"What is it?" she said nervously. "Ah, there is Mr. Everett! See,
Silas! Perhaps he----"
She broke off. Everett had seen her also--she was sure of it--and
had swiftly turned away.
She stood shivering on the path of the station-approach which
adjoined the market, while Silas plunged across the road and took
forcible possession of a shabby cab which was waiting on the
off-chance of securing a passenger. Then in a sudden panic she
followed him with limbs that trembled uncontrollably, and almost fell
into the ramshackle vehicle which he held open for her.
"Why didn't you wait?" said Silas.
She answered him half-hysterically. "I couldn't--I couldn't. I'm
sure something has happened. I've seen it in two faces--old
Roper--Everett! Silas, if it's Rosemary----"
He took her hand and held it very tightly. "It isn't Rosemary," he
said. "She's all right. You'll be with her in ten minutes."
"Are you sure?" she said, clinging desperately to that sustaining
hand. "You wouldn't say it, I know, if it weren't true!"
"No," said Silas. "I shouldn't."
She did not question him further, but sat in a scared,
quick-breathing silence while they clattered along the High Street of
Bode.
Only, as they neared _The King's Head_, she turned to him, her hand
still clasping his, and said hurriedly, piteously, "Silas, are you
sure I'd better go on? Will she--want to see me?"
"My dear," he said, "she's longing to see you. Ross told me so
to-day. It's what they've come for."
That reassured her, and as they jolted on in the darkening evening
she began to take courage again. But when at last they came to a
standstill before the old hotel, she said nervously as his strong
grasp relaxed, "Don't go away and leave me, Silas! I'm sure to want
you in the end."
"I shall be there when you do," he answered quietly.
They entered through the swing-doors, and Bobby's glance went eagerly
round. The deep shadows of evening filled the place, and her first
impression was that it was empty. Then a solid, thick-set figure
detached itself from the gloom and came to her.
"It's me--Donald--The Old Bean," said a voice she remembered.
"You're wanting Rosemary. I made her wait for you upstairs."
Somehow she found his arm round her as he propelled her to the
stairs, and she wondered a little at his action though it did not
seem wholly unnatural.
"I hope you don't mind our getting married," he said, as he guided
her upwards. "We're awfully happy together. But we want your
blessing of course."
She could not answer him for the hard beating of her heart. She
murmured something inarticulate, to which he made even more
incomprehensible reply.
"Ah! I was afraid you might hear of it first. I'm fearfully sorry
about it. But Rosemary is here to comfort you. You must let me know
if there's anything I can do."
And then they were at the top of the stairs, and she heard the
swinging open of a door and the rush of eager feet.
"Aunt Bobby--oh, Aunt Bobby!" cried Rosemary's voice.
And Bobby found her own in throbbing, passionate answer, as she
strained the lithe young figure she could scarcely see faster and
faster to her breast: "My precious, precious Rosemary! Thank God for
giving you back to me! Oh, thank God--thank God!"
With Rosemary's arms tight about her, she went into a room where the
firelight gleamed; and the door was shut gently upon them by The Old
Bean, who then went softly away.
"Aunt Bobby!" Rosemary said again and again. "Aunt
Bobby--darling--darling! Have I really got you at last? Oh, why did
I ever go away from you?"
Her face was all wet with tears which Bobby tenderly kissed away.
"My sweet one!" she said fondly. "There! Let us sit down and hold
each other--just hold each other!"
She sank into a low chair before the fire while Rosemary knelt beside
her, rocking to and fro, and still clinging to her as though she
could never bear to relax her hold again.
"Will you ever forgive me, Aunt Bobby darling?" she whispered
presently. "I don't know how I ever came to do it."
"I know, dearest," said Bobby.
"You know?" Rosemary's clasp was almost convulsive.
"Yes. And I understand," Bobby spoke very steadfastly. "To
understand is to forgive. I have seen Dick, you know."
"Oh, Aunt Bobby! And did he tell you? Did he tell you?" Rosemary
drew back a little to look for the first time upon the beloved face
as revealed by the firelight.
"Tell me what, darling?" Bobby's clear eyes met hers with unfaltering
directness.
It was Rosemary who flinched and lowered her own. "That he loved
you," she said under her breath.
"Oh no, dear. He didn't tell me that." Bobby's denial was as
unblenching as her look had been. She put her hands upon Rosemary's
shoulders, searching the sweet, downcast face with a loving scrutiny.
"My love story was finished long ago," she said. "But I want to hear
all about yours, my darling. May I hear it?"
Rosemary did not lift her eyes. She had begun to tremble. "Aunt
Bobby," she said, "I've got to tell you something else
first--something I thought perhaps you'd hear before you got here.
But I see you haven't and--and--The Old Bean says you've been very
ill and I'm to break it gently. Aunt Bobby--Aunt Bobby dear--" she
lifted her eyes now, and they were wide and scared; her voice shook
in piteous distress,--"I've never done it before, and--and I don't
know how to begin."
"My little girl, what is it?" said Bobby, drawing her close again.
"What could it possibly be that mattered now I have you safe? There,
tell me, my little one! What is it? Don't be afraid! There is
nothing that can really hurt me now that I hold you in my arms."
"Oh, Aunt Bobby, you're forgetting someone!" whispered Rosemary, with
her face in Bobby's neck.
"My dearest, who?" said Bobby, puzzled.
Rosemary's arms closed suddenly with such tightness that she gasped
for breath. "Aunt Bobby, it's--it's--Aunt Matilda!" she said.
"Matilda!" Bobby stiffened as she sat; it was as if an icy blast had
struck her. "What of Matilda?" she said. "Rosemary, what of
Matilda?"
Her voice held command--such command as Rosemary had never attempted
to resist. She did not attempt to do so now, but answered in a
shocked undertone: "She died--oh, darling,--she died--early this
morning."
"Matilda!" Bobby's lips uttered the name almost mechanically. She
sat without stirring, still rigidly holding Rosemary.
"Matilda--dead! Matilda!" She spoke incredulously, even
suspiciously, but not as one vitally concerned. "What do you mean,
dear?" she said.
Rosemary continued to cling to her, her face hidden. "It's been very
dreadful," she told her rather breathlessly. "It was all so sudden.
We didn't get down here until late last night, and it had happened
then. It seems she was depressed after you left, and Dr. Bellamy
thought it would do her good to get up and go for a run in his car.
He had to call at Joe Brant's place, and you know that steep bank
there? Well, while he was out of the car, something happened that
the brake slipped and it ran down backwards and turned over. She
didn't know how to stop it, and there was no time."
"She was killed?" asked Bobby in the same calm, detached voice.
"No, not then. She was pinned underneath, and they had a lot of
trouble to get her out. But she was unconscious. She didn't suffer.
She never suffered at all." Rosemary spoke with a sort of desperate
rapidity. "They got her to Joe Brant's cottage at last. She was
terribly injured, and they knew she couldn't get over it. Dr.
Bellamy was nearly beside himself. They didn't know how to get hold
of you till the Hudsons thought of asking Peter, and it was too late
then to get you back again the same night. We got to Staple Farm
while they were discussing it. And oh, Aunt Bobby, it was
dreadful--it was dreadful--especially to find you gone." Rosemary's
tears flowed afresh; she was evidently worn out with the prolonged
strain.
"I thought I was going to you, child," Bobby said, tenderly stroking
her hair. "I should never have gone otherwise."
"I know--I know. It was Dick's doing. Silas told The Old Bean on
the telephone this morning. I did think Dick meant to play the game
when I heard. But he hasn't--after all." Rosemary began to sob.
"And now I've gone and married The Old Bean I shan't be able to take
care of you either!" she ended piteously.
"Darling, don't let us waste time worrying about things that really
don't matter!" said Bobby gently. "Finish about Matilda? Did they
take you to her?"
"Oh yes, I went--I went." Rosemary made an effort to control
herself. "I was very frightened because they said she was dying.
But I didn't mind so much when I saw her. She looked so calm and
beautiful, just as if she were lying asleep. And The Old Bean stayed
with me behind the curtain and held my hand most of the time. She
didn't open her eyes for ever so long. We began to think that
perhaps she was dead already when she suddenly opened them quite wide
and looked at me. Oh, Aunt Bobby,--" Rosemary's arms tightened again
to the clinging hold of a scared child--"I didn't know that when
people were dying they could see so far."
"What did she say to you, darling?" questioned Bobby, still smoothing
the bright head.
"She didn't speak at first," murmured Rosemary, "just lay and
looked--and looked. And then, when she spoke, I saw that she thought
I was you. Was it wrong of me, Aunt Bobby? I let her think so."
"No, darling, of course not!" Bobby spoke with loving reassurance.
"Tell me what she said!"
"Oh, she said--she said that you needn't trouble any more about her,
and she was sorry to have been such a burden. And then she began to
talk about me." Rosemary's head sank a little lower on Bobby's
breast. "I'll tell you just what she said. The Old Bean said I
must. She said, 'Don't worry about the child, Bobby! She won't go
under as I did. There's too much of Alexander in her for that. You
can tell her the truth when I'm gone. It's better that she should
know, and it won't make any difference to me.'" Rosemary halted a
little. "I'm trying to tell you exactly what she said," she murmured
pathetically. "It isn't very easy, though I shall never forget it."
"Yes, tell me, darling!" said Bobby, softly. "I think you will
manage to forget--some day."
"Well, then she seemed to wander a little--to go back to when she was
a girl in India, and she talked of that wedding-dress of hers and of
a man called Adrian--a man she seemed to care for." Rosemary spoke a
little vaguely. "I'd never heard of him before, so I could only sit
and listen. I thought it would upset her if I said anything."
"Adrian Tressider--the man she was engaged to," said Bobby. "The man
I wouldn't let her marry."
"Yes--yes, she said that. 'You wouldn't let me have him,' she said
over and over again. 'You wouldn't let me have him, though it broke
my heart to give him up.' Aunt Bobby, why--why wouldn't you let her?"
Rosemary whispered the question with a shrinking downward motion, but
Bobby stooped and raised her up again.
"Oh, my darling, I have so prayed I might never have to tell you
this," she said. "But God knows best. It was because I found out
that she was going to have a child, and she wanted to marry him
without telling him."
"Ah!" Rosemary said. She lifted her face, breathing hard and fast as
though she fought against suffocation. "It was that--it was that!
Well, let me tell you the rest now, and then--then you must tell me
something, dear, dear Aunt Bobby. She said, 'You wouldn't let me
have him. You broke my heart--ruined my life. And so--I ruined
yours. That is why Dick never came back to you.'"
"Ah!" Bobby said. She too drew a sharp breath; it was almost an
exclamation of pain.
"She said," went on Rosemary, "'I took my revenge--I've been taking
it ever since. I stopped your letters to Dick and his to you. I
wrote to him in your name and put an end to it all. It wasn't all
revenge, though. It wouldn't have been worth it just for that. But
I wanted you. I couldn't have faced life without you. I was too
scared--too desperate.' That was when I began to feel sorry for her,
Aunt Bobby. It was as if something outside herself--something very
relentless had been making her say it all until she came to that.
And then--then I saw it was poor Aunt Matilda after all, who so hated
hardships and difficulties, and never could do anything for herself.
And I was sorry for her, I was sorry. I felt I understood how
terribly badly she must have wanted you, to--to do a dreadful thing
like that. I said to myself, 'If I were really Aunt Bobby, I
shouldn't hate her for it. I should forgive her.'"
"Oh, child!" Bobby said in a low broken whisper and bowed her face
upon Rosemary's hair.
"Don't cry, darling!" whispered back Rosemary. "Dick will soon know.
And he loves you--I know he loves you still."
But Bobby uttered a heavy, tearless sob. "Too late!" she said. "Too
late!"
There followed a silence during which it seemed as if some struggle
were going on in the elder woman's soul. But when she raised herself
at last, her face was calm.
"Tell me the rest now!" she said.
"That's almost all," said Rosemary. "The end was very near, and her
eyes got deeper and deeper as though they saw far, far beyond
anything that we could see. She couldn't move at all, but just at
the last she said very clearly, 'Will you forgive me, Bobby girl?'
And I--I'd no right to do it, but I simply had to--and I knew you
would have done it if you'd been there--I got up and bent over her,
and I said, 'Yes, dear,' as if it had been you. Aunt Bobby, she
didn't know the difference. She just smiled at me--and died."
Again there fell a silence. Bobby's hand still stroked the girl's
head with a tender, soothing touch, but her eyes were fixed and
remote. She might have been in a trance.
Rosemary stirred at length, looking up at her as though half-afraid.
"Aunt Bobby," she said pleadingly, "you're not vexed with me?"
Bobby shook her head. "Why should I be?" she said.
"For saying that--when she wanted it so." Rosemary's voice was
trembling.
Bobby's eyes came down to her. "My child," she said very solemnly,
"if you can forgive her--so can I."
Rosemary shrank again involuntarily. "You mean--" she murmured
faintly.
"I mean, sweetheart," Bobby said, "that you were the child she bore."
"Yes, I thought it must be that." A violent tremor went through
Rosemary, but she controlled herself with a supreme effort. "And she
didn't want me. She hated having me. She never liked me. Aunt
Bobby, Aunt Bobby, who was the man? Tell me!"
Bobby's look changed. Her arms went round her again, clasping her,
sheltering her. "My little darling," she said with such a wealth of
mother-tenderness in voice and action as even Rosemary had never
known from her before, "spiritually you are mine, and always have
been from the moment of your birth. I tended you--guarded you--loved
you--I took you for my own--my very own--a treasure sent by God to
me. I shut the gate upon everything that was shameful. I marked it
Private, and no one has ever opened it since. Need I open it
now--even for you?"
But though Rosemary clung fast to her, the blood that was in them
both prompted her answer. "Please, Aunt Bobby dearest! Just once!"
she whispered.
And so, holding her darling close pressed to her heart, Bobby opened
the gate at last. "His name was Alexander--a soldier-servant of my
father's--a groom. He taught us to ride. I don't know what happened
to him. He may be dead. But anyhow he never knew. He never counted
at all."
She ceased to speak. What it had cost her, even Rosemary would never
know--Rosemary to whom the revelation was as gall. They remained
there in the firelight, clinging together and not speaking for a long
time, and during that time there was between them an inner communion
such as is given to the very few.
In the end Rosemary lifted her head with a resolute, courageous
movement and looked into Bobby's tired, sweet face.
"Thank you for telling me, darling," she said. "Thank you--thank you
for all. There's just one thing I'm going to tell you now. Though
I've been so bad--so wicked, God heard you praying, and He kept me
safe, and--and--it was He Who sent me back to you, Aunt Bobby. I
want you to know that, so that--so that you can keep on praying for
me, darling, and ask Him--please ask Him--to make me good--like you.
Will you, please, Aunt Bobby?"
Her eyes, clear and steadfast as Bobby's own, sought and found their
answer. Very tenderly Bobby drew her close again and kissed her.
And her kiss was a benediction.
CHAPTER VIII
THE INDOMITABLE
"Eh, dear!" said Mary. "She was always a poor thing, but it's hard
to believe she's gone. Little Rosemary, too, looking so sweet and
bonny, with that young husband of hers just worshipping her with his
eyes wherever she goes! There's a love-match, anyway, though she's
such a baby, it's hard to believe she's really married."
"Everything's hard to believe, it seems," commented Peter, as he
washed his hands at the sink. "But it isn't everyone waits till
they're forty before they turn their thoughts to marriage."
Mary laughed, a trifle self-consciously. "That's true," she
admitted. "But why doesn't Miss Bobby get married? That's what I
want to know. She isn't forty yet anyhow, and it isn't fitting for
her to live alone at Little Staple. With poor Miss Matilda in her
grave for the past month and the young ones gone to make a home for
themselves in the North, she'll be terribly lonely, Peter, terribly
lonely."
"Some people prefer loneliness," said Peter.
"Like Lord Ravencombe," suggested Mary, who was in a gossiping mood.
"Do you know, Peter, they say he's a woman-hater, and if he doesn't
marry--well, there, it will be funny, won't it?"
"Very funny," agreed Peter indulgently. "And it'll be even funnier
if Silas doesn't either, won't it?"
"Oh, you've no call to laugh at me," said Mary, with a good-humoured
smile that was not without a tinge of anxiety. "It isn't really
funny, Peter. He takes things hard, does Silas, though he never says
a word. I did so hope when they came back that there might be some
sort of understanding between them. But I'm sure there isn't. Or
else he's asked her and she's refused him, as I always feared she
might. Anyhow," she checked a small sigh and picked up a cloth to
polish a plate, "nothing's happened that we know of, and so we've
just got to be patient."
"Oh, patient!" said Peter, pulling on the roller-towel behind the
door with a force that seemed to testify to a somewhat different
sentiment. "I'm fed up, that's what I am!"
"Good gracious, Peter!" Mary turned and surveyed him, round-eyed.
"What ever for?"
So sudden was the announcement that it took her breath away. She
almost suspected for a moment that it had been made in jest, but
Peter's face told her otherwise. He was in earnest.
He looked at her moodily. "It's your fault," he said.
"Mine?" gasped Mary in bewilderment.
"Yes. You're so durned unselfish." He thrust an arm unexpectedly
around her. "At least, I suppose you are," he said. "But you never
know with women. They're not the same as men."
"What ever are you talking about?" said Mary, between distress and
gratification, for Peter's arm had a pleasant feeling about it.
"Well, can't you understand?" he said half-grudgingly. "I want to
get married. I don't like this half-time business. I want you for
full time and always."
"Oh, Peter!" said Mary, with a rush of colour that completely
suffused her face and neck and even her bare comely arms. "Oh, my
dear! But--but----"
"Yes, I know. It's always 'but'," said Peter. "I've had enough of
it, I tell you, even if you haven't. It's silly at our time of life
to keep putting off things. I'm going to tell Silas."
"Oh, you mustn't!" cried Mary in distress. "It wouldn't be
right--indeed it wouldn't! We couldn't possibly get married and
leave poor Silas to fend for himself."
"I don't see why we shouldn't get married," said Peter on an
obstinate note. "It isn't going to hurt anyone that I can see. You
can still go on making his bed and his stockings till he gets a wife
of his own."
"Oh, you don't want me to go away and leave him," said Mary,
relieved. "But I don't know I'm sure whether he'd like us married,
Peter. Wouldn't it make him feel sort of left out in the cold?"
"And what of you?" demanded Peter. "You who were prepared to stop on
and work for him after he got married! Wouldn't you have been out in
the cold?"
"That's different," protested Mary, beginning to twist the corner of
the cloth she held. "Women are different. You said so yourself.
And I'm so happy now, Peter." She smiled at him half-shyly. "I feel
as if I'd do anything for anybody."
"Except me, eh?" said Peter, pulling her to him.
"Oh no, Peter! Oh no!" Mary's remonstrance began in distress and
ended in laughter, for Peter had a way with him that there was no
resisting and when she emerged from his embrace she was too
dishevelled to think of anything but the urgent need to put herself
straight again before Silas came in. "I would be an awful thing if
he found us and we hadn't told him," she declared. "He'd think the
world was gone mad. No, Peter, not again! You go and sit down in
the kitchen, my dear! I'll come in a minute, but I must tidy my
hair. I'd be ashamed to show myself like this."
"Shan't go and sit down in the kitchen!" said Peter. "I'll stay and
see you do it."
"Well, you mustn't touch me then," said Mary, wisely conceding the
point. "It's the funniest thing in the world to have you making love
to me, Peter. I don't know whether I'm standing on my head or my
heels. Do you know I've caught myself making some dreadful mistakes
lately, and it's all because of you."
Peter gave a short, gratified laugh. "Well, that's something," he
said. "I began to think I wasn't having any effect on you at all."
"How can you?" said Mary. "As if I weren't thinking of you all day
and--" She checked herself in some confusion.
"Half the night!" supplemented Peter, chuckling at her discomfiture.
"That's all right, Polly. But we must do something more than think.
It's time we acted. Dash it all, Silas isn't such a dog in the
manger as to stand in the way of other folks being happy if he can't
be happy himself."
"Oh, I hope he will be happy," said Mary fervently.
"Don't tell him if he seems depressed, Peter! Choose your time!"
"I'm going to tell him now," said Peter. "It's not fair not to.
He's just coming in."
He left her abruptly with the words to station himself in a waiting
attitude in the kitchen, while poor Mary, tingling with
embarrassment, put the finishing touches to her appearance and pulled
down her sleeves.
Silas came in with Nero at his heels, looking weary and dispirited.
He said nothing to Peter, merely sat down rather heavily in his
customary chair and pulled a paper from his pocket. The window was
open, and the soft spring air came in with a smell of wet earth and
sheep. The bleating of lambs sounded from the field beyond the
rickyard.
Peter looked at him at first with a species of resentment that slowly
turned to deference.
"Seen Everett about that boundary?" he asked, breaking the silence.
Silas nodded without looking up. "He's going to put it in order."
"I wonder!" said Peter sarcastically.
"He says he will," said Silas, and added, "I'll see that he does."
Peter scraped his boot on the floor. "You can leave it to me," he
said.
"What for?" said Silas.
"You don't want to be bothered dealing with a dirty dog like that,"
said Peter.
Silas looked up abruptly. "Why should you do all the dirty work?" he
said.
"It's more suitable," said Peter.
A ghost of a smile touched Silas's sombre countenance. "Don't talk
like a damn fool, Peter!" he said.
"I don't," said Peter.
Silas looked at him with more attention. "What's up?" he said.
Peter glanced towards the scullery-door which was ajar, hesitated,
then strode purposefully across and shut it. "I want a word with
you," he said, returning.
"I see," said Silas.
His smile became genuine, and he reached out an unexpected hand to
Peter. "That's all right, old chap," he said. "I'm very pleased.
I've often wondered why you didn't think of it before."
"Oh, you knew, did you?" said Peter. His hand gripped hard upon
Silas's; they looked straight into each other's eyes. "I've always
been fond of her," he said. "But it was the thought of getting
separated that did it."
"Who was going to separate you?" said Silas.
"If you'd been setting up a home of your own," explained Peter, "you
wouldn't have wanted us hanging round. And then--"
"I see," said Silas. "Well, I'm not going to, Peter. But that
needn't stop you doing it if you want to. You and Mary can get
married as soon as you like. And you shall have Little Staple to
live in--as soon as it's empty."
"Is it going to be empty?" said Peter.
"Pretty soon, I believe," said Silas. And then in answer to the
question Peter would not utter: "There's an old lover in the case."
"Damn!" said Peter with all his force.
Silas laughed, but it was not a very mirthful sound. "Thanks, old
chap!" he said. "But after all, one could hardly expect anything
else. I've known of it for a long time."
"Look here!" said Peter, speaking faster than usual. "We don't want
to leave you, Mary and I. She'll tell you the same herself. And so
far as I'm concerned, I'll stick by you and do all your dirty work
for you as long as I live. That's what I've been trying to tell you
all this time. And it isn't because you're heir to Ravencombe that I
say it. It's always been the same--since we were little nippers
together--and always will be. It's the same with Mary, too."
It was the most amazing outburst of his life, as though all the
silent devotion of years had suddenly and irresistibly found vent.
And Silas, as he heard it, got up quickly, as one who instinctively
rises in the presence of something sacred. His hand still gripped
the hand of Peter, but for a space he spoke no word.
Then, in a voice that was oddly shaken, he said, "That's damn' decent
of you, Peter. But God alone knows why you should."
"I know too," said Peter briefly. And then, to hide a certain
embarrassment, he turned and shouted over his shoulder, "Mary! Come
on in! It's all right."
Mary came, trying to appear as placid as usual, and only succeeding
in looking very fluttered and nervous. "Oh, Silas!" she said. "I do
hope--I do hope--"
Silas went to meet her, took her two hands, and to her astonishment
kissed her. "So do I," he said. "I hope you'll both be as happy as
you deserve to be. This is the best thing that's happened for a long
time. Now I know why all my buttons have got sewn on the wrong side
lately."
"Oh, they haven't!" protested Mary. "I may have been foolish and
forgetful, but I've never done such as that!"
Peter's laugh was good to hear. It dispelled all strain. "Oh, come
and give us some tea?" he said. "Talking's thirsty work. And I
can't waste any more time. I've got a job or two to do before it's
dark."
They sat down, and the meal that followed was the cheeriest that Mary
could remember for years. Silas had thrust his own affairs into the
background and displayed a sympathy and consideration of which she
had scarcely believed him capable.
When Peter got up to go, he remained to say a few kindly words to her
alone which she treasured ever after in her heart.
"You've been a good friend to me, Mary," he said. "And I'm glad it's
in my power to do something for you at last. You two must get
married as soon as you conveniently can, and you shall have a home of
your own before you're much older."
"I'd much sooner stay and make a home for you," said Mary truthfully.
"I'd worry myself to a shadow if you'd no one to look after you."
"Oh, nonsense!" said Silas. "I'm not such a shorn lamb as that. I
can look after myself better than you think."
Mary sighed. "It'd hurt me to see you try," she said. "Peter's the
same. It'd hurt him too."
At which Silas smiled good-naturedly and turned to go. "Well, you've
got to be happy, both of you," he said. "Mind that! I don't care
about anything else, but I do care about that. So don't you forget
it!"
"You're very, very good!" said Mary earnestly.
She watched him go with tears in her eyes, for his few words had
touched her deeply. "He carries a heavy heart with him," she told
herself sadly. "Oh, if only it could have been!"
For Silas's slow-moving figure told its own tale. He went with the
gait of a tired man, unconscious of watching eyes.
He had meant to follow Peter. There was work to be done in the
straw-strewn farmyard, but his feet did not carry him thither. An
intense desire for solitude was upon him--the reaction after the
enforced sociability of the past hour, and he went heavily away from
the farm, scarcely recking of direction, until he found himself at
the junction of the lanes whence the track led to Little Staple.
Here instinctively he halted, and Nero halted also, mutely
sympathetic. How often in the past they had halted there! And now
the time was coming when they would pass by quickly--very
quickly--not bearing to linger. Even to-night he could not tell
which would hurt him the most--to pause or to pass on. But having
come upon an impulse that was hardly of his own directing, he
stopped, in obedience to the same.
It was an evening upon which all the magic of Spring seemed to be
poured forth like incense. In the lane--her lane--the early
primroses were opening their first pale flowers. There was a rich
scent of moss close to him. The bank was clothed with it in living
green. The blood stirred within him. He knew just what such an
evening would mean to her. He almost looked to see her coming
lightly down the track in search of those first exquisite flowers.
But she came not, and in the end with an involuntary sigh he turned
to retrace his steps. What was the good of coming here to mourn? He
would go back and work.
But even as he moved, a sudden sound came to him, arresting him.
Something--someone--was coming down that green track. He heard the
tread of a horse's hoofs.
The impulse to go came upon him then, urging him strongly, but he
resisted it, asserting himself, mastering himself. Grimly, sturdily,
he waited, his face set in hard lines, his eyes fixed in silent
endurance. And Nero, with the intuition of his race, waited also,
pressed closely against his leg--a dumb supporter.
Down the track came the thudding hoofs, slowly, fatefully. A
horseman came into sight. He rode his animal superbly, with a free
and dominating grace. His air was the air of the unconquerable. To
Silas who had never before seen him on horseback there came a curious
feeling of reverence--the instinctive homage accorded to that which
is invincible.
He stood in silence waiting until the horseman was almost upon him,
then put up a hand in salutation.
"Hullo!" said Ravencombe. Was it elation that sounded in his voice?
"Why do you stand there like a mute, man? Is anybody dead?"
"Not that I know of," said Silas. "I didn't expect to see you."
Ravencombe's horse was nuzzling against his arm. He stroked the
animal's neck with a kindly hand.
"I, on the contrary, was on my way to you," said Ravencombe. "Where
do you live? Up there? Good! I'll come round another time." His
dark face smiled down at Silas. His eyes were quite inscrutable.
"Is all well?" asked Silas abruptly.
He could not have said what prompted the question, but somehow it had
to be asked. He knew that Ravencombe would laugh at it, but when he
heard his laugh he wished he had held his peace; for it grated upon
him almost intolerably.
"Of course!" said Ravencombe. "What did you expect?" And added, as
Silas stood silent, "All is more than well, my dear fellow, thanks to
you. I think I may safely say that the woman you love is well on the
way to happiness. That's what you wanted, isn't it?"
"Yes," Silas said, speaking slowly, as if the words were hard to
utter. "That is what I wanted. I congratulate you. I hope--" he
put a hand upon Ravencombe's knee---"I hope you will both be very
happy."
"Thanks," said Ravencombe. He laid his hand upon Silas's, the smile
still on his face. "You've been a good friend to her, Silas. She's
told me so. And to me too, for which I am eternally grateful. Will
you do one thing more--for her--for us both?"
"Need you ask?" said Silas.
Ravencombe's eyes still smiled down at him, their free, dauntless
smile. "Well, you may not want to," he said. "But I think she'd
like you--I think it would be decent of you--to go and congratulate
her too. Will you do that?"
For one instant Silas hesitated. For one instant the bitterness of
life seemed to rise up, monster-like, and smite him between the eyes.
Then firmly, unflinchingly, he took command.
"Certainly I will," he said.
"Thanks!" said Ravencombe again. His hand gripped hard upon the hand
beneath it, which after a moment or two stirred, turned upwards and
grasped his own. "I know she would like your approval," he said.
"You're a privileged person, Silas, and you deserve to be. And one
thing more before you go! If by any chance you should come up
against a gate marked Private, just open it and walk right in!
You'll find you have a right."
He was gone with the words, still laughing, still careless of mien.
As he reached the lane, Silas, still standing on the green track,
heard his horse break into a canter. But he himself did not stir
hand or foot until the sound had died completely away.
CHAPTER IX
THE OPEN DOOR
"Just walk right in!" The words repeated themselves to Silas in
curious cadences as he went up the grassy track. Somehow they had
wiped out the bitterness, leaving only the sense of loss which
perpetually weighed upon him now. It was decent of Ravencombe to
have expressed it like that. He was thankful that he had not
attempted to be more explicit, more intimate. He could not have
endured pity or even sympathy. But the right hand of
friendship,--that was a different thing. And Bobby would be the
same, he knew. Bobby would always want to keep him for a friend.
The thought pierced him, but he held it close, notwithstanding. She
valued his friendship, and she should never look to him in vain for
it. Having offered her all he had, he would never grudge her the
very little with which she was content.
He quickened his footsteps a little. He was glad that he should be
the first to see her in her happiness. Memories of that day that now
seemed so long ago on which he had first broached the subject next
his heart came to him as he went,--her kindness, her gentleness, and
her faithfulness. Well, it had not been in his power to give her
happiness, but he had at least helped her to gain it. Of this also
he was glad.
He came within sight of the old farm, standing there in its trimness
with its white gate closed. The ducks swam on the pond as usual, and
the whole scene was supremely peaceful. The impulse came to him to
pass on to the little farmyard and the door at the back by which he
had been wont to enter; but he resisted it. Bobby would not be
working in her kitchen to-night. Besides, now that she was left
alone, she had installed a girl from the village to help her. In
this also he had been instrumental. The life of drudgery was over
for her. He opened the gate and went through.
Then he saw that the door beyond the porch was open--that door
through which Rosemary had once sung her ribald rhyme.
"Oh, don't stay to rile us,
But run away, Silas,
Hickory dickory dock!"
He smiled faintly at the memory. She need not have objected so
strongly to his presence after all.
He lifted his hand to knock, and then suddenly checked himself. The
door on his right that led into the little parlour was ajar, and from
beyond that door had come a sound.
It was a very low sound, but it seemed to drive straight through him.
Without a moment's further pause, he pushed the door open and went
right in.
She was sunk in a chair, all huddled together, and fighting--fighting
desperately to control an agony of tears. She knew of his coming,
but she could not face him, so overwhelmed was she by that piteous
distress. And he who had seen her weep before did not hesitate now,
but went down on his knees beside her and drew her to lean against
him. Little as he had expected to find her thus, he asked no
question and showed no surprise. She was weary of course and still
weak. With Matilda and Rosemary both gone, there was no one to turn
to in either joy or sorrow. She who had served others so long and so
patiently was left to meet her own needs alone.
She drew herself from him at last, drying her eyes. "I'm so sorry
you found me like this," she said.
"It doesn't matter, does it?" said Silas.
"I don't know," she said shakily. "It ought."
"I don't know why it should," he said. "We're friends, aren't we? I
shan't abuse your confidence."
"As if you could!" said Bobby. "There!" She mustered a smile. "I'm
better now. Do pull up a chair!"
He obeyed her, and she lay back in her own for a space in silence.
At length, "I've heard from Rosemary," she said. "She loves her
Scotch home, and wants me to go and see her in it as soon as
possible."
"It would do you good," said Silas.
"I don't think it would be very good for her at present," said Bobby.
"They have got to settle down together--learn each other's ways.
They will do that better alone."
"You always think of others first," he said.
"No, not always, Silas." Gently she contradicted him. "You for
instance! No one can say that I have not used you for my own ends
for as long as I have known you."
Silas shifted his position. Gratitude was worse than pity or
sympathy and must be stopped at all costs. "I've never done anything
for you that I didn't want to do," he told her bluntly. "I've always
liked doing it; though I'm glad for your sake that it's over."
"Aren't you going to help me ever again then?" asked Bobby, with a
slight drawing of the brows.
She did not look at him as she lay in her chair. Her expression was
somewhat that of one who seeks the solution to a problem; but her
distress had passed, and her attitude was one of peace.
"You won't need it after this," said Silas.
"Shan't I?" said Bobby. "It's a funny world, you know, Silas. Very
often if the things you think you most want come to you, they turn
out to be those for which you have the least use. And it's the other
way round too. We never know what we really want. Only God knows
that. It's much safer to leave it to Him."
"I think you generally do," said Silas.
"Oh no, I don't." She spoke with a certain wistfulness. "I've
struggled--I've agonized sometimes--for what was out of reach, when,
if I'd only known it, the thing I needed first and foremost was close
at hand. And I suppose we change too as the years go on. At least I
do. One thinks one never will. But one does."
"You can't help growing," said Silas.
She turned her face towards him in the fading light. "That's just
it. Outgrowing some things and growing into others. I've been very
slow to realize that, though you've said it to me before--in
connection with Rosemary." She uttered a sigh. "You were very much
wiser than I," she said. "I've made--a great many mistakes, Silas."
"Not one that I've ever seen," he said stoutly.
She smiled. "That shows how little you see of what is actually going
on in front of you," she said.
"I see all I want to see," he said, a note of doggedness in his voice.
"Do you?" said Bobby. "I wonder."
Again for a space she was silent. Then in a lower voice, "Silas,"
she said, "do you remember once saying to me that though a gate might
be shut against you, you couldn't be prevented from--looking over?"
"Yes," said Silas. He spoke curtly. "It was a cad's trick. I never
did."
"Never?" she said, with a hint of surprise. "You never have?"
"Never." He repeated the word forcibly. "I've never looked over,
never wanted to. I was content without."
She drew a long breath. "How like you!" she said. "That is what you
meant by saying you see all you want to see?"
"It was," said Silas.
She stretched out her hand to him. "Silas, have you always believed
in me?"
He took it, squarely facing her. "I have known you too well even to
ask myself that," he said. "You were--just you. Nothing else
mattered."
Her eyes filled with tears. "Thank you for that," she said.
He released her hand and got up. "Don't, please!" he said brusquely.
"I can't stand it. You've nothing on earth to thank me for. I wish
I could have done something for you really worth doing,--spared you
all this pain."
She lay, looking up at him. "Some day," she said, "some day I will
tell you all that you have done for me. The pain is over now, Silas,
or very nearly. Time will do the rest."
He turned from her with a blind, desperate movement. He could not
bear any longer to stand there looking down upon her. His own pain
was goading him almost beyond endurance.
"You're not going?" said Bobby's voice behind him. "Don't go yet!
Didn't you come for any special reason?"
He stood struggling with himself. The reason for his coming! The
reason!
"Don't go yet!" she said again, "unless you must! I want--I want to
discuss the pigs with you."
He wheeled sharply, facing her again; but he still stood speechless.
She was sitting up now, her face raised. There was even something of
challenge in her attitude. "We shall have to discuss them sooner or
later," she said practically, "if we are going to be partners."
Partners! He stared at her, found his voice at last. "You don't
think I came round to talk about pigs, do you?" he said.
"I don't know," said Bobby. "Why did you come?"
She looked so fragile in her black dress, yet withal she seemed to
have donned a cloak of authority before which he was helpless.
She got up as he did not speak. "Shall we go out and look at them?"
she said.
He made a movement to obey, then abruptly stopped himself and her
also. "I'll tell you what I came for," he said, and it was the
hardest thing he had ever uttered. "I came--to wish you joy."
"Oh!" said Bobby, as if startled.
He went on, recovering his strength as he did so. "I met Ravencombe
in the lane just now. He told me all was well between you. So I
came on--to wish you--every happiness."
His words came jerkily, but they were straight from his soul. He
held out his hand to her as he spoke them, and she took it instantly
between both her own and closely held it.
"Did he tell you that?" she said in a voice that shook. "Oh, did he
tell you that?"
And then--how it happened he scarcely knew--suddenly his hand was
pressed hard to her heart so that its quick beating came to him.
"And so you came to wish me happiness?" she said, her sweet face
raised to him. "Oh, Silas--dear Silas--once more--how like you! And
you didn't know--you never guessed--that the only person who could
give it to me was you--you yourself!"
"What do you mean?" he said thickly, hoarsely, for it was as if the
whole world were rocking under him. "Bobby--for God's sake--what do
you mean?"
She clasped his hand more closely to her breast. Her eyes were
shining as though a torch had been lighted within her.
"He told you all was well between us," she said. "And he spoke the
truth. All is well. But the old bond is gone. I don't quite know
how to put it. We seem to have outgrown each other, that's all. And
I--Silas, I have belonged to you ever since I offered myself to you
in payment of a debt, and you wouldn't have me. But you'll have me
now--I know you'll have me now--because I want you so."
He still gazed at her, unbelieving. "Am I dreaming?" he said. "Or
is it true?"
"It is quite true," she said tremulously. "Dick has been very good
to me. He came and offered me all he had. But--but--somehow I found
I didn't want it. And--and he understood and went away. I was
dreadfully sorry,--that was why you found me crying,--but I couldn't
help it. He is a wanderer. He will go all over the world and find
consolation and amusement. While I--all I want--" her voice thrilled
suddenly--"all I want, Silas, is to stay at home, and mind the
pigs--with you."
"Bobby!!" he said.
His arms drew her. She went into them like a bird into its nest.
She clasped her own about his neck, laughing a little, sobbing a
little.
"Are you seeing--more than you want to see--this time?" she asked him
tenderly. "Now that the gate is open--don't you want--wouldn't you
like--just to step inside? There is nothing there,--really,
Silas--that will make you wish you hadn't."
"Bobby!" he said again, and on the second utterance of her name his
voice broke. He bent his face to hers. "How I have wanted
you--wanted you!" he whispered.
"And now you've got me," she whispered back--"all there is of me--all
my heart's best love. Oh, Silas, I hope I shall make you happy."
"If I don't bring happiness to you," said Silas very deeply, "I'll
die by my own hand."
There followed a short silence, and then out of it like the cheery
chirp of a bird in the dawning came Bobby's voice.
"Well," she said briskly, "we've proposed to each other, accepted
each other, and wished each other every happiness. Now let's get
down to serious business! What about the pigs?"
THE END
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