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.