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.