piteously, "any more than I am justified in telling you now. Surely
you can see that, Dick! It wouldn't be right or fair. I was bound
to keep silence--if only for the child's sake."
"Ah!" He spoke with his back to her; his voice sounded strangled, as
if he produced it with difficulty. "And it was for the child's
sake--no doubt--that you wrote me that letter! Or was it--a last
effort--on your part--at decency?"
"Which letter?" said Bobby. "I wrote you several; but you never
answered them."
"That is another--lie!" He flung round again and faced her, and in
spite of herself she flinched a little, so awful was his look, "You
have told me nothing but lies since you entered this room," he said,
"and you dare to stare at me with those innocent eyes of yours as if
you were the saint I always used to think you! I had one letter only
from you, and that was to tell me you had decided to throw me over.
No, you needn't deny it. It's too late. I was fool enough to let
that letter wreck me. I went to the devil after it. Do you
understand? Don't dare to tell me you never wrote it! I wouldn't
believe you if you did. There is too much evidence against you.
There is--Rosemary. You can't deny her. At least, you haven't tried
to--yet!"
"Ah! I see," Bobby said. She was white now, white to the lips; but
strangely strong, strangely sure of herself. "No, I haven't denied
Rosemary," she said, and in her voice there sounded a note that was
almost of exultation. "I hadn't thought of doing that. After all,
she is my very, very own. Now tell me where to find her!"
She moved towards him where he stood near the door as she spoke, her
pale face lifted and in her eyes a splendour that was in some
fashion--as he had said--saint-like. There was no longer any
hesitation about her, only a strength that was wholly irresistible
because it was wholly of the spirit. Neither was there any vestige
of anger in the look she turned upon him. Firmly and fearlessly it
met his own, like a level lance superbly balanced. If the dark gulf
that stretched between them had altered him, it had altered her also,
but in a different way--a way that was supremely beyond all criticism
because achieving a greatness that was not of earth.
As she stood there, there was a majesty about her that dominated him,
strive as he might against it. He saw her as the years of sacrifice
had made her--a woman in whom all the beauty of womanhood had
blossomed and now was bearing fruit. He had tried to thrust her down
to a lower level, but she rose triumphant as if upon wings, above his
sullying touch. Without effort, without explanation, she stood
vindicated. And he drew back from her, baffled, abashed even,
knowing that he was not fit to be her judge.
She spoke again, standing before him. "Will you tell me where to
find her?" she said.
And he answered her at last in a voice from which all arrogance, all
bitterness, had passed.
"You will find her at the Peregrine Hotel in Warner Street. They
were going down to Bode to-morrow."
"They?" questioned Bobby.
"She and Donald Ross," he said. "They were married in Italy a few
days ago."
"Married!" echoed Bobby with a start.
"Yes, married. It was quite in order. I saw to that. There were a
British consul and a British chaplain to tie the knot." The old
mask-like self-control had returned to him. He spoke with the
brevity of one not greatly interested. "They will tell you all about
it no doubt. But you had better have something to eat before you go.
Wait and I will fetch your friend Silas Hickory to join you!"
He returned to the door with the words, opened it, then paused. His
eyes came back to her and dwelt upon her with a deep and intense
searching; then dumbly fell away.
He wheeled and went out without another word.
CHAPTER IV
THE FAITHFUL FRIEND
"Well?" said Silas.
He came to her as she stood, slightly bent, in front of the fire.
She did not move at his coming, but as he reached her she lifted a
white, dazed face which told him very clearly that she was nearly
spent.
"Sit down!" he said. "You'll be better when you've had something to
eat."
He put her into a low chair and turned to the table. She lay back,
quite silent and passive, gazing straight before her.
He brought her food and placed it on another chair by her side; then,
as she remained motionless, he began to cut it up for her, his dark
face sternly intent.
"Come!" he said at length. "Can you feed yourself, or shall I feed
you?"
She stirred at that and slowly raised herself. "Oh, Silas," she
said, "what a lot of trouble I bring on everyone!"
"Not on me," said Silas, putting a fork into her hand. "There,
that's the way! Now we won't talk any more until you've finished."
She recognized this as an order, and began to eat slowly, in silence.
He stood by, gravely watching.
She looked up at him after a few moments. "Aren't you going to join
me?" she said.
"No, thanks," said Silas. "I'll have something downstairs later."
She understood his reason as clearly as if he had expressed it, and
said no more. When he brought her the wine that Dick had poured out,
she drank it in silence.
"Getting better?" said Silas.
She managed to smile at him. "Much better, thank you."
"You're very tired," he said.
She was obliged to admit it. "I know. But I must see Rosemary
before I rest."
"Well, where is she?" he asked.
"At the Peregrine Hotel in Warner Street. They are married--she and
The Old Bean. Dick arranged it all. Oh, Silas--" her voice shook a
little--"I do pray she will be happy."
"I think your welfare is of more importance at the present moment,"
said Silas, looking at her critically. "What did that mad hatter
bring you here for?"
She shook her head. "I'll tell you another time. I was engaged to
him once, but--something happened." She met his look with a certain
wistfulness. "It's all over now, Silas. He doesn't want me any
more."
Silas received the news with an inward remark which only found vent
in a growl.
"I don't think I can eat any more," said Bobby. "Shall we go?"
"No," said Silas. "What's that thing for?" He turned to a telephone
on the mantelpiece. "I'll ring up the Peregrine, and if they're
there, they shall come to you."
"But we can't stay here," objected Bobby. "It's Dick's room."
"He won't be back again yet," said Silas. "When I saw him in the
lounge just now, he was going out, said he had an engagement." He
picked up the telephone. "What's the name? Ross?"
He proceeded to give his instructions, then turned again to her. His
renewed scrutiny did not seem to afford him much satisfaction; but
Bobby was impervious to that. She was used to Silas.
"Has that fellow been bullying you--upsetting you?" he asked at last.
She did not answer the question directly. "I should have been tired
in any case," she said. "I'm afraid I'm not very strong yet. But I
soon shall be."
"You won't be at this rate," he remarked grimly. "He played a
deliberate trick to get you here, and then found it didn't answer.
Is that it?"
She stretched up her hand to him as she sat. "Don't let us go into
it now, Silas!" she said. "It has made no difference--of any
sort--except that I know now that he will never come back. That
dream is over. I am only sorry I didn't know sooner."
He held her hand with a close pressure. His look still searched her
face as if dissatisfied. "There must be a reason," he said, after a
moment.
"Yes," said Bobby very wearily, and closed her eyes as if she had no
strength for more.
He continued to look at her for a space, still holding her hand, then
as the telephone rang, he laid it quietly down and turned.
"Hullo! Is that the Peregrine Hotel? Is there a gentleman of the
name of Ross there? Please ask him to speak to me!"
"He is there?" asked Bobby's voice behind him.
He moved and looked down at her again. She was sitting upright in
her chair, her face alert and eager. She had shaken her weariness
from her like a clogging weight.
"Yes, they are fetching him," he said.
"Oh, beg him to bring her to me at once!" she said. "Tell him to be
very quick! I can't--I can't wait much longer."
There was a ring of fever in her voice. As he waited, she got up and
stood beside him.
"Let me take it when he comes!" she pleaded anxiously. "I think I
can persuade him. Let me try!"
"Wait a minute!" said Silas gently. "Let me be sure of him first!"
He stood listening, and Bobby waited tensely beside him, her hands
locked and nervously straining against each other.
"Ah!" said Silas at length. "Here comes someone! Hullo!" He spoke
into the telephone. "Who is it? Mr. Ross? Who? Not Mr. Ross?
Isn't he there? What? Left this afternoon? Was Mrs. Ross with him?
Do you know where they went? Oh, all right. Thanks! Good-bye!" He
rang off and turned to her. "Afraid we shall have to wait a little
longer," he said. "They've left."
"Left!" Bobby said the word after him faintly, unbelievingly; her
face was ashen. "Left!" she said again, as if questioning its
meaning, and then suddenly something within her seemed to snap; she
bowed forward into his arms with a low and exceeding bitter cry.
"Oh, Silas--Silas--Silas!" she sobbed brokenly. "I can't go on!
I've borne so much--lost so much! First Dick--and now my
Rosemary--both gone--for ever gone! There's nothing left for
me--except to die!"
She was torn by wild weeping as she poured out the piteous words, and
he held her as he had held her once before, not seeking to check her
agonized outburst, only supporting her in the midst of it. It seemed
that this was always to be his part, that he did not really count
with her, that it was only in her extremity that she turned to him.
But even so, he upheld her without faltering, his face over her poor
bowed head sternly controlled, almost rigid in its strength. When
her anguish began to spend itself, he helped her to a chair and knelt
beside her, still supporting her though his arms no longer
encompassed her. And as she lay there weakly crying, he dried her
tears once more with infinite patience, proffering no word of
comfort, merely holding himself in readiness for her slightest need.
She turned to him at last like a worn-out child. "Silas, what am I
to do? Silas, tell me what to do!"
"There is only one thing you can do at present," he said. "And that
is--rest. I have engaged a room for you, and your things are in it.
Shall I take you to it?"
"Yes, yes," she agreed hopelessly. "I can't stay here."
She made a movement to rise, and he helped her up. So weak was she
after her breakdown that she could hardly stand alone. Yet she
seemed scarcely to realize that it was his strength and not her own
that supported her. Perhaps she had leaned on him too long to be
aware of it.
She submitted to his guidance as it were instinctively. So much
ascendancy he had established over her. But she might have been
almost unconscious of his presence while she did so. It did not
apparently matter to her in that dire hour of need whether he came or
went.
Only, as he led her from the room did she give utterance to the first
reproach he had ever heard from her. "Oh, Silas," she said,
"why--why--why did you make me come back?"
He did not answer her, and in a moment she turned in quick distress,
her old sweetness reasserting itself. "No, no, I didn't mean that.
It's not your fault. Forgive me for saying it!"
To which he made steady and almost stolid reply, "There is nothing to
forgive."
"I didn't mean it," she reiterated. "I only meant that we are so
much better dead when there is nothing left to live for."
"Yes, I know," said Silas. "I know."
"I'm glad of that," she said pathetically. "Glad you understand."
"You needn't be afraid of my ever doing anything else," he said.
"Oh, thank you," she murmured. "Thank you."
But, though she was vaguely comforted by his assurance, it was more
habit than gratitude that prompted the words. Silas would always be
Silas, the strong and patient friend in need. There were no limits
to his kindness and consideration. If there had been, surely he
would have abandoned her to her fate long ago! She had never meant
to take more from him than she could repay, and some day--when all
this trouble was past--she would make good the debt. There would be
nothing else left for her. But while it lasted, she had no choice
but to accept his service. He would not have suffered her to do
otherwise. That was clear, and she was too crushed to do other than
submit to his decision. She was in fact almost like a child in his
hands that night, and when he told her that he had engaged a room for
himself next to her own in case she should need anything, it seemed
so natural that she scarcely thanked him for the thought.
"I am glad to know you are near," she said. "Oh yes, I will call you
if I want anything; but I don't suppose I shall. Good night!"
She smiled at him as he went away--a small, wistful smile which to
him was sadder than her tears.
CHAPTER V
THE AMBASSADOR
It was late that night when Ravencombe returned to his room. His
face had the ghastly pallor that sometimes indicates intoxication,
but his step was firm and light, absolutely controlled.
He entered to find the viands that he had provided for his guest
still spread upon the table, the lights full on and the fire still
burning. His glance went round the room in a swift flash and came in
the fraction of a second to a broad burly figure that awaited him,
upright and silent, on the hearth.
"Hullo!" he said. "Hullo!" And in his voice was a soft, almost
stealthy intonation. It did not betray surprise, merely the
acceptance of a fact not wholly welcome.
"Hullo!" said Silas. "I've waited here to talk to you."
Ravencombe came forward with that quick, steady step. His eyes were
intensely bright, the pupils abnormally large, giving him almost the
look of an animal that sees in the dark.
He stopped at the table and faced his visitor with a certain
jauntiness. "Is it peace?" he asked, lifting a decanter.
"That depends," said Silas.
"Have a drink!" suggested Ravencombe smoothly. "It may help you to a
decision."
"No, thanks," said Silas curtly. "I'm on business. You would oblige
me very much by not drinking any more till I've done."
"Should I indeed?" Ravencombe proceeded to pour out a drink for
himself with a smile. "I'm afraid I'm not in a very obliging mood.
But my own vicious tendencies don't prevent me admiring virtue in
others. I can see you haven't had a drink all the evening. I
suppose beer and cider are more to your liking than this sort of
thing, but--" he glanced round the table--"I am afraid they were
omitted from the feast."
"I don't want anything, thanks," said Silas. He spoke with square
determination. "All I want is a straight talk with you."
Ravencombe's eyes took a second swift and mocking survey of him.
Then he pulled off his overcoat and threw it over the back of a
chair. His tall lithe figure in faultless evening attire made a
striking contrast to that of Silas in the plain brown suit of homely
cut which Mary was wont to lay out for him with assiduous care on
Sunday mornings. Yet that strange resemblance between them which
Bobby had detected still persisted. They both bore the unmistakable
stamp of good birth.
Ravencombe swallowed half his drink and came to the fire. "You are
welcome to talk so far as I am concerned," he said. "But I won't
undertake to do the same."
Silas moved slightly to one side. There was nothing threatening in
his attitude. It merely denoted the most inflexible determination.
His stern refusal to take offence bore strong testimony to this.
Every inch of him was regulated by an iron self-control. He ignored
the other's scarcely-veiled contempt just as he had refused to
recognize Bobby's one-time efforts to keep him at a distance,
employing what she had secretly termed his "steam-roller tactics"
which were not always devoid of a certain subtlety despite their
force.
"I'm sorry to intrude upon you," he said. "I assure you it gives me
no more pleasure than it does you. But I've got to do it. You
needn't think I'm trying to trade on any relationship between us
either, for that is a fact which is a thousand times more
objectionable to me than it can possibly be to you. And by that I
don't mean anything personal. It's simply the Thorgrave blood which
I detest--and always shall."
"I say," said Ravencombe suavely, "you're awfully complimentary--to
us both. Have a cigarette!"
He proffered his case unexpectedly, with a sort of lightning
graciousness in the midst of conflict against which the most churlish
could scarcely have been proof. Bobby, had she seen him in that
moment, would have said that it was the old Dick come to life.
Silas took the cigarette. In view of what he had just said, he had
no choice. But he did not light it. He set it on the mantelpiece.
"Look here," he said. "I'm coming to the point. You probably know
what I'm driving at. It's Miss Roberta--and her love-affair with
you. It's no concern of mine, I admit, why you've kept away from her
all these years that she's been waiting and slaving beyond her
strength. I'm not on to that. Things happen often, I know, that
can't possibly be foreseen and allowed for. But now you're back--now
you're back--" he repeated the words with insistence--"what the devil
is it now? You play a trick to get her here, and then you set to
work and break her heart. What's the meaning of it? I want to know.
I will know!"
Again he spoke with an emphasis that had the compulsion of sheer
weight. But he was talking to one who paid small homage to open
force.
Ravencombe merely lifted his eyebrows and lighted a cigarette.
After several seconds he permitted himself to ask a question which
was more of the nature of a soliloquy than anything else. "Is she
broken-hearted, I wonder?"
"She's down and out if you want to know," said Silas bluntly. "And
I've got to know the meaning of it. She's done as much for you as
any living woman has ever done for a man, uncomplainingly too when
it's been enough to kill her. And it's always been with the hope of
your coming back held in front of her. She'd almost given up hope
when you did come back. And now what have you done to repay her?
Just--trampled on her!"
His voice shook suddenly and his hands clenched, but in a moment he
had controlled himself again. Only he moved a pace or two further
away from the man whose eyes still seemed to mock him whenever they
glanced his way.
Ravencombe took the cigarette from between his lips and examined it
critically. "You're an extraordinary man, Hickory," he said, almost
as if he were addressing it. "Do you really imagine that you can
convince me that Miss Roberta--" he uttered the name with a faint
sneer--"has been faithful to my memory all these years?"
"I know it," said Silas. "As to convincing you----"
"Yes, I am rather hard to convince." Ravencombe's attention was
still concentrated upon his cigarette. He spoke deliberately, rather
monotonously. "You see, there is somewhat damning evidence to the
contrary."
"What is that?" said Silas.
Ravencombe turned his head slowly towards him. His eyes with their
extraordinary, rapier-like brightness came to Silas's and for the
first time remained fixed with a kind of contemptuous tenacity.
"I think you can furnish the answer to that question," he said.
Silas's face was as a blank wall, betraying nothing. "I shouldn't
ask you if I could," he said.
"No?" said Ravencombe. He continued to examine him with much the
same attention as he had bestowed upon his cigarette. "Well, we will
leave that for the moment," he decided finally. "It's my turn to ask
something now. Why haven't you married her yourself?"
Silas made a slight involuntary movement. The question was a
surprise. But he answered it without hesitation.
"I asked Miss Roberta--" he spoke the name with reverence--"to marry
me some time ago. She refused me then--on your account."
"This is interesting," said Ravencombe. "And since then?"
"Since then," there was stern self-restraint in Silas's voice, "she
has been very ill, and during her illness I think she lost hope. It
was at the time of Rosemary's disappearance."
"And so she accepted you?" suggested Ravencombe.
"She said that she would do so when Rosemary was found. That was
before we knew of your return." Silas's words were brief and
business-like; his face remained wholly expressionless.
Ravencombe turned to flick ash into the fender. "My return seems to
have upset the apple-cart," he remarked. "But I still can't
understand why the marriage did not take place long ago. It would
have been far better for--Rosemary. And after all, she seems to have
been the most important factor in Roberta's life."
"Rosemary and I have never had any use for each other," remarked
Silas sombrely. "I doubt if it would have been better for her."
"Oh, indeed!" Ravencombe paused, his back half-turned. "You don't
consider that your responsibilities extend to her then."
"My responsibilities! What do you mean?" said Silas.
Ravencombe faced him again, a very bitter smile on his face. "Oh,
don't you try to stuff me with that aunt and niece fiction!" he said.
"I've had enough of it."
"I'm not giving you any fiction that I know of," said Silas curtly.
"In an affair of this sort one has to draw one's own conclusions. I
drew mine long ago--as soon as I knew of your existence. I didn't
know who you were: she never told me that. But I guessed that you
had behaved like a damned scoundrel to her--though I never told her
so."
His voice had taken a deeper note, but he still spoke with restraint.
In the brief silence that followed, he stood with squared shoulders
waiting for a counterthrust, yet still resolutely master of himself.
But Ravencombe made none. He only stood staring at him while the
smile on his face slowly became one with the cruel scar that seamed
it.
"Well," he said at length, "I'm glad that we've had this interview.
It has elucidated one point at least. I see now that I have wronged
you and I apologize. Perhaps you may feel moved to do the same when
I tell you--on my oath--that I am no more Rosemary's father than you
are."
There was no mistaking the sincerity of his voice in spite of that
horrible disfiguring smile. Silas, grimly surveying him, knew that
he spoke the truth.
He said nothing for several seconds while he readjusted his ideas.
Then: "All right. I apologize too," he said, though somewhat as one
making a concession. "But you had no reason for crediting me with
anything of that sort, while you--you even ran away with the child.
What did you do that for?"
Hostility bristled afresh in the question. Ravencombe made a
half-whimsical, pacific gesture. "That," he said, "happened to be by
her own wish. I've already been taken to task for it by the
excellent young man who is now her husband, and luckily managed to
establish the innocence of my motives and subsequent behaviour.
Haven't you seen them, by the way? Didn't they come?"
"They had left the hotel," said Silas. "There was no getting hold of
them."
Ravencombe clapped a tragic hand to his head. "Here have I been
absenting myself in the haunts of vice all for nothing! I pictured a
happy family re-union taking place. Instead of which, they've
probably taken the night train for Bode."
"Very likely," agreed Silas with austerity. "But that is a minor
matter. They can be traced in the morning. But there are still
several points to be cleared up. You haven't yet explained your
attitude to Miss Roberta. I've got to understand that."
"Why?" asked Ravencombe.
"Because," Silas spoke very steadily, "I am out for her happiness,
and it seems to me you've tortured her long enough."
Torture! It was the word that Bobby herself had used. Ravencombe
made a wry grimace as he heard it.
"Frankly," he said, "I think I've put up with a good deal with regard
to this subject. My attitude, as you are pleased to call it, to Miss
Roberta is one of strict neutrality. She has my full permission to
console herself with whomever it may please her to select."
He uttered the last sentence with a gleam of malicious humour, and
Silas stiffened almost instinctively.
"That won't do," he said. "You were not in a state of neutrality
when you took the trouble to get her here on false pretences. What
was that for? I've got to know, so you may as well tell me at once."
"Oh, you're going to bully me now, are you?" said Ravencombe. "I
shouldn't if I were you. It's such a waste of time."
Silas pulled himself in again with an effort. The gibing note in the
other's voice was like a cold douche. It had the effect of making
him feel at a disadvantage, almost in the wrong. Also, his sneers
notwithstanding, there was something oddly likable about this man.
He fenced with adroitness, but there was no active hostility behind
his point. If eventually he inflicted a wound, it would be rather by
accident than design. Silas even had a disconcerting suspicion that
he was rather favourably disposed towards him, and this--in spite of
his most rigorous determination to maintain an unyielding front--was
beginning to re-act upon himself. It is hard to force a quarrel upon
one who persistently fails to see the necessity for one.
"I don't want to bully you," he said. "I only want to know the
truth, and to make you realize--if I can--how abominably she has
suffered. I've seen something of it, and I know."
"Ah!" Ravencombe made an odd movement, as if somehow the words
pierced him unawares. He was looking at Silas speculatively, with a
gradually awakening interest. "You say you are out for her
happiness," he said. "That means, I suppose, that you care for her
enough to give the past a more or less decent burial and--marry her.
Well, my good fellow, why don't you start in and do it? I shan't get
in the way."
"No, I know," Silas said. He turned very suddenly away from
Ravencombe and stood staring straight before him for a few seconds.
Then: "I believe I could do it," he said, his voice very low,
strongly repressed. "I might persuade her to marry me. But--if I
do, what's going to happen?"
"You'll make her happy presumably," said Ravencombe in his smooth
emotionless tones.
Silas's hands clenched again, but it was not in anger. He stood
rigid, as though he waited for something. Then, as suddenly as he
had turned away, he wheeled back. "No, I can't make her happy," he
said, and his voice held the brief stern ring of justice; no more.
"She has always cared for you. She cares for you still, and I
believe you care for her--though you won't own it. But remember, you
have no proof against her. And even if you had, what right have you
to judge her? Is there nothing in your past that you would like
forgotten--washed out? And are you so well off and happy that you
can afford to throw away the love--and devotion--of a woman like
that?" His resolution failed abruptly; he lifted his two hands
clenched above his head. "My God!" he cried out in a voice that
quivered and broke. "If it were only mine--only mine!"
"Steady! Steady!" said Ravencombe. "Look here, man, don't! Have a
drink!"
He pushed forward his own glass quickly as Silas went forward with
his arms upon the mantelpiece and his face buried upon them.
"Don't!" he said again. "Don't!" and laid an urgent hand upon him.
"Pull up, man! Drink! Here it is!"
Somehow the half-filled glass found its way into Silas's grasp, and
he stood up and drained it; then, after a moment, turned round, his
own master again.
"I'm sorry," he said. "Thanks! That was decent of you."
"I can be decent sometimes," said Ravencombe, with the ghost of his
whimsical smile. "Look here! Sit down! We'll thrash this thing
out. I'm not given to talking about myself, but I will for once. It
may help. Anyhow, whatever you may think of me, I think you're damn'
fine, and that stands."
It was in a sense a capitulation, and as such Silas recognized it.
What he had been unable to accomplish by force had been done in a
moment's weakness for which he despised himself. As he yielded to
Ravencombe's insistence and sat down, he realized with a dull wonder
that all animosity between them was gone. By a fantastic turn of the
wheel of Fate, this man Ravencombe--Dick Dynamo--was no longer an
enemy but a friend.
The fact that he was sitting on his hearth still holding his glass
seemed to place them on the footing of host and guest, and though he
was aware of a certain relief he did not quite know how to deal with
the changed situation. Ravencombe, however, was by no means at a
loss. He possessed a mental agility that seldom failed him, and
possibly the change of attitude was not as complete on his side as on
that of Silas.
He poked up the fire hospitably, showing no signs of embarrassment,
then took the glass from Silas's hand with a casual, "Here, let me
get you a decent one!"
But Silas refused. His weakness was over, and he turned back
doggedly to the matter under discussion, though he approached it now
from a different angle.
"No, I won't have any more, thanks. I want to get on with this
business, but I seem to have tackled it the wrong way round. I don't
know how you got the impression that I've known Roberta for many
years. I haven't. It's only six since she took Little Staple. It's
a small farm next to my own and belongs to me. The old man--her
father--died there. I didn't know her so well in his time. He was a
recluse."
"What! Colonel Wendholme!" ejaculated Ravencombe. "He used to be
the jolliest man alive."
"He wasn't in those days," said Silas. "He lived and died almost a
stranger in Stapleton. It was after he went, when Roberta had sole
charge of the child, that I began to try and lend a hand and so got
to know her better. You see, she did everything--literally
everything--in that household, as well as ran the dairy and pigs and
poultry. No man could have stood by and seen a woman slave as she
slaved without doing something to help--though she wouldn't let me do
much, beyond carting her pigs to market now and then and buying her
calves." He paused for a moment or two; then: "That's how I came to
care for her," he said simply. "I've never met with such pluck and
independence in anyone. They lived on next to nothing, and she
worked like a nigger, sixteen hours out of the twenty-four, and
always smiling, always sweet and ready for the next job. I don't see
how anyone--" he spoke with a kind of heavy defiance of
circumstance--"could have known her as I got to know her without
loving her. It was my own funeral anyhow. It didn't matter to
anyone else. She never had any feeling for me except friendship. I
know that all right. I always knew it. I was beneath her too."
"You may yet be Lord Ravencombe," remarked Ravencombe with his
cynical smile.
Silas looked at him. "I'll hang myself in my own barn first," he
said.
"Don't you be a fool!" said Ravencombe. "You can't quarrel with your
own blood. It didn't appeal to me at first. I was last but one on
the waiting list. But I'm getting used to the idea now."
"You're a gentleman," remarked Silas bluntly.
Ravencombe bent with one of his lightning movements and laid a sudden
friendly hand upon Silas as he sat. "I'll tell you what I am if you
really want to know," he said. "I'm about the damnedest rotter that
God ever put breath into, and knowing you hasn't made me feel any
less so. Oh, let's talk sense if we can! You've told me your side
of the story, now you shall hear mine."
He stood up again with the words and began to pace the room with that
springy, animal-like tread of his while Silas remained seated,
watching him with an odd dawning of sympathy in his eyes.
"I never expected to come into the title," Ravencombe said. "It
might have made a difference if I had. I should probably have got
married and lived a bit more respectably, though I don't know. I've
been a free lance for a good long while now. There used to be four
cousins between me and the succession, but two of them got killed
flying and the other two petered out somehow, and the poor daft old
man hung on till the only ones left to inherit were first myself and
then you. Your mother seems to have been a cousin of my father; but
I'm a bit hazy about it."
"It doesn't matter, does it?" said Silas.
"Not enormously at this stage," agreed Ravencombe. "But you've got
to face the fact that you are my accredited heir. It's more than
likely that I shall never have another."
"That isn't what we set out to talk about," Silas reminded him, still
stubbornly tenacious to his point.
Ravencombe stopped to light another cigarette and threw him a
half-bantering look as he did so.
"All right, man, all right. You shall have it," he said. "But if
I've got to face my responsibilities, I'm damned if you shall shirk
yours. It doesn't greatly matter, as you say; for I know very well
you won't when it comes to the point. Here you are then! I've been
what is known as an adventurer for the past twenty years or nearly.
I first met Bobby--" He uttered the pet name almost
unconsciously--"as a very junior captain with no expectations in her
father's regiment. We were stationed at Budhpore in the Central
Provinces, and she and her sister came out one cold weather. She was
exquisite, like a rose--like Rosemary. Of course I fell. So did
everyone else practically. At least, I think we were about equally
divided.. Matilda had a good many admirers. I never knew quite why.
I always thought her empty--rather stupid, though, I suppose, from
the standpoint of sheer beauty, she may have been lovelier than
Bobby. But beauty alone doesn't appeal to me--never did.
Bobby--Bobby had brains as well--humour, sweetness, everything."
"I know," said Silas.
Ravencombe was prowling about the room once more, his head back as
though he saw a vision. "I worshipped her like the rest, but I had
nothing to offer her, so I held my tongue. I shall never forget how
astounded I was when one day I met them out riding--she and
Matilda--in charge of the Colonel's servant who was giving them
lessons, and she deliberately gave them the slip and then when we
were alone just put her hand into mine and said, 'Dick, why are you
always struggling not to say to me what I want--so much--to hear?'"
A queer sound, like laughter repressed by pain, broke through the
words; but he went on with scarcely a pause, "After that of course it
was all up with me. I was nearly mad with the joy of it. But I knew
quite well I hadn't a chance with her father. He was out for much
bigger game. So we settled to keep it dark for a time, and
Matilda--who was also out for bigger game, but quite amiably disposed
towards us--agreed to be given the slip with the groom whenever I met
them, which was pretty often. It became an absolute joke between us.
She and the soldier-servant would ride off in one direction and Bobby
and I in the other. But the man--Alexander they called him--was a
fellow I never quite trusted, and eventually we were given away. I
always knew it was his doing though I couldn't bring it home to him.
There was a most unholy row, and Matilda and Bobby were packed off to
a hill station. The old man was furious with me, and it seemed to me
that it was up to me to make good; so I got into touch with a
relative of my mother's in California who had always wanted me to go
out there and offered to chuck the Army if he would guarantee me a
house and a screw that would justify me in taking a wife. I didn't
want to chuck the Army in the least, but I wanted her--intensely, and
I had no prospects." Ravencombe came to the hearth and stood gazing
down into the fire. He might have been unconscious of his companion
as he conjured up the picture of those long past days. "Well, then
Matilda got engaged to her swell who was aide-de-camp to the
Governor-General, and there was talk of a grand wedding. But I had
secured my berth in California and sent in my papers before it was
fixed, and I tried to persuade Bobby to marry me and come away then
and there. But she wouldn't, though I knew she was hating every
minute of it and would hate it worse when her sister was married and
I was gone. She said she was wanted, and I couldn't move her, so I
came away. But I got her father to consent to our engagement before
I left, and we arranged that I was to come back and fetch her as soon
as I had got a home to take her to. So off I went--to make a home."
A grim note of cynicism crept into his speech. "I didn't go straight
to California. I went to England first to see my people. I had no
letter from her while in London, though I wrote to her from every
port we touched. I concluded she must have sent her letters to my
final destination, and after a fortnight at home I sailed for
America. When at last I got to my cousin's place I found an Indian
letter waiting for me. It was from Bobby. She said that she had
thought things over and come to the conclusion that she had made a
mistake. It was all beautifully written, beautifully
expressed,--perhaps a trifle stiff, but otherwise a masterpiece. She
hoped I would forgive her for any disappointment she had caused me,
but she was sure that I should see the matter with her eyes
eventually. And it was better to be wise in time, was it not?
Meanwhile, her sister's marriage had been postponed, and they were
all coming home to England, so that as she was unable to give me any
address she could scarcely hope to hear from me again. However, she
would always think kindly of me, and she hoped that I would try to do
the same of her. That, I think, was the end, though I am not sure
that I read it all. Anyhow, it was the end so far as I was
concerned. I don't quite know what happened after that. I wasn't
actually mad, but I wasn't exactly responsible for my actions either.
I felt as if a fire had been lighted inside me that was gradually
consuming everything vital in me. I couldn't stay where I was or
attempt to settle down to anything. I threw up the whole show and
broke away. My cousin tried to hold me, but it only made things
worse, and I cleared out. I needn't go into all the horrible
details. I've always tried ever since to forget each day as I got
through it, to toss it on the rubbish-heap of time. Why I bothered
to live I really don't know. Only somehow suicide never appealed to
me. It isn't sporting to end your life just because it isn't worth
living, though I've courted being killed over and over again. I went
to Mexico eventually almost for the purpose, though I called it for
the sake of adventure to myself. I used to do anything and
everything in those days to deaden that awful feeling of being burned
alive by a slow fire, or perhaps it was more like a corrosive acid
that ate and ate always a little deeper into one's very being. I
sinned all the sins that came my way and lived the life of several
devils rolled into one. They used to laugh and call me the Prince of
Evil. I don't quite know how I lived. We were a mad gang of
profligates, and there was always some game on that spelt murder and
sudden death. We dabbled in politics of course. Everyone does in
Mexico. It's a land of quick promotion, and I became a sort of
robber-chief--a dictator of bandits and cutthroats." He began to
laugh under his breath in a subtle half-gratified fashion. His eyes
were still upon the red depths of the fire. "I did a good many
things that are not done either in love or war. I set myself
impossible tasks and did them, just for the fun of the thing. I
didn't enjoy it. I never enjoyed anything; but I'd got to the point
where I didn't see why any lust should go unsatisfied, so I made a
bonfire of all gentlemanly scruples and danced round it till nothing
remained. They used to think I was mad, but I wasn't--at that time.
I simply didn't care a damn what I did or how I did it. If people
got in my way,--well, they were soon out of it, that's all. Whatever
I wanted, I took, and threw the rest away. I never felt affection or
regard for a single being during all the years we made pandemonium in
that extremely volcanic corner of the world. That part of me was
atrophied completely by the corroding process aforementioned. Things
that would once have turned me sick simply had no effect upon me.
But I still maintain that I was sane, because I kept my reasoning
powers. It took a mighty lot of scheming before the other side
caught me at last." He showed his teeth in that dreadful,
upward-reaching smile of his. "And even after that, I gave them a
lot of trouble. They wanted me to split on the rest and I wouldn't.
Not that I cared a row of pins if they were caught or not. It was
only that--being British--I objected to coercion. They did their
damnedest to me with the exception of killing me, which was the one
thing I wanted them to do. I can tell you exactly what a hot
branding-iron feels like--among other things."
"Damnation!" said Silas deeply.
The other started at the interruption and looked round, "Hullo!
What's the matter? Oh, that's nothing--nothing! Why my dear
chap,"--he stopped himself--"No, I needn't tell you that. I did go
mad in the end, tore free and ran amok. That's how I got this wound
on my head. My face was split right open. But I got away, and I've
reason to believe I gave a good account of myself first. After that
came a blank period which lasted some time. One of those queer jades
of the Rahab persuasion got hold of me and hid and nursed me till the
hue and cry was over. A good sort she was, but I found eventually
that she'd knife me if I didn't give her the slip, so I cleared out
and left that hell behind. Not from any decent motive. I was sick
and tired of it, that's all." He turned back to the fire with a
gesture of weariness, "That's nearly all. I found my way back to
civilization, and drifted to California again. I wasn't looking for
my cousin, but he came upon me in San Francisco. I was pretty sick
at the time and practically destitute and he took me back to his
place. I don't know why people do these things unasked. I didn't
want him to. But he was a good old chap. I stayed and worked with
him for nearly three years. Then I heard from Raymond of old
Ravencombe's death, and that I was the heir to title and estates, so
I came back at last to enjoy the irony of it all. Being of a
freakish turn, I gave my name as Graves at Bode because I didn't want
everyone staring. And then--on Boxing Night--who should I find but
the exact replica of Bobby herself, dressed as a bride, waiting for
me?" He paused and stirred the fire thoughtfully with his foot as if
to readjust some vision that he saw there. "That was about the
shrewdest thrust Fate ever gave me," he said. "She was veiled at
first, but there was something about her--her laugh, her general
air--that made me determined to see more of her. So I inveigled her
away from the rest, and after a little fooling I got her to my own
room. There for the first time I saw her as she really was, and she
recognized me as--Dick Dynamo--the man to whom her aunt had always
been faithful! She had seen my portrait, it seemed. Poor little
beggar!" Genuine pity sounded in his voice for the first time. "How
horrified she was! So was I--when I realized--though I don't know
why I should have been, I gave the show away, as I suppose I
shouldn't have done if I had had time to think. And when she knew
what it meant--knew that the aunt business was all a myth--she threw
herself on my mercy and begged me to take her away--which I did."
He stopped, but Silas asked no question, merely sat gazing straight
before him in unbroken silence, his brows closely drawn as though he
wrestled with some problem to which he would not give expression.
Ravencombe glanced at him, then went to the table and poured out a
drink. He looked unutterably tired, almost too tired to be cynical.
"Well, that's all, Hickory," he said, "except that in the absence of
her aunt I created myself her uncle and behaved with a moral
rectitude that really surprised myself, I took her to Italy, and
there eventually we were discovered by young Donald Ross--Rosemary's
unromantic but very persevering lover, and since I judged him to be a
suitable sort of lad and the maid was willing, I gave my blessing to
their union and saw that it was done properly. Then we all returned,
and I--feeling freakish again--laid my plans to receive Bobby alone.
I didn't mean to behave like a cad. I only wanted to ask a straight
question or two, and--yes--just to see her once again." He lifted
the glass to his lips with the words and drank. "But you frustrated
me. I turned savage when I saw you. I apologize once more. I know
now I had no reason." He smiled at Silas, but the heavy shadow of
fatigue still rested on his face. "I haven't talked like this for
years," he said. "You brought it on yourself, didn't you? It's a
mighty long story and hardly worth the telling, after all. But
that's the end."
"Yes," said Silas, speaking as one who slowly awakes, "It has been
worth it."
He met Ravencombe's eyes as he got to his feet.
"It has been worth it," he said again. "And if you've got any
patience left, I'll tell you why. First, I am perfectly certain," he
spoke with the deliberation of great emphasis, "that the letter you
speak of, turning you down, was never written by Bobby. All I have
ever seen of her convinces me of that. If I could convince you too,
would it make a difference?"
Ravencombe lifted his shoulders slightly without replying. "Why do
you get up?" he said. "I can see it's going to be an all-night
sitting."
"No, it isn't," said Silas squarely. "It's practically over now.
That letter was not written by Bobby, and, whatever she has to hide,
there is no altering the fact that she has been waiting for you,
hoping for you, all these years. Does that make no difference
either?"
Ravencombe made a quick movement that was somehow like the plunge of
a goaded animal, but as swiftly he curbed himself. "Oh, damnation,
Hickory!" he said, "Even if you could prove her faithfulness up to
the hilt a dozen times over, can't you see that the difference in me
is colossal? What is there left in me worth having now?"
"Ah! That's another story," Silas said. "That's a matter which
neither of us is qualified to decide. But this other rests with you.
And I am prepared to give you my word of honour--my oath--that she
has been waiting for you all this time. I've no proof to offer,
except that Rosemary herself once showed me a photograph of you in
corroboration of it--in order to discourage me. I think I have
mentioned before--" he spoke with a certain dreary humour--"that she
and I have never had much use for each other. But she was not
romancing about it. It was genuine. I'd found it out from Bobby
herself before that." The humour dropped out of his voice, leaving
it dead and toneless. "I knew it even before she told me. She is
the sort of woman who could only care once. What's the good of
talking round and round? I've done--I've finished--and I'm going.
But just you remember this!" He paused a moment on his way to the
door. "When a woman loves a man, she doesn't ask what his past has
been. She simply gives him all she's got without a question, without
even thinking of the past. If a man can't do the same,--well, he
isn't worthy of her, that's all."
"Who said I was worthy of her?" flashed Ravencombe.
"No one," said Silas. "And perhaps it doesn't greatly matter.
Anyhow, there's only one who can decide. Ask her!"
He was at the door as he ended. He opened it to go out. But
Ravencombe's voice arrested him. Ravencombe himself came striding to
him and gripped him forcibly by the arm, detaining him.
"Look here,--Silas!" he said. "We're both doggo and I won't keep
you. But I must say just this. You're the whitest man I've ever
come across and I'm damn' glad I've lived to meet you. If I could
give you--the woman you love--to-morrow--to-night even--I would."
Silas stood facing him in his square forthright fashion. His eyes
under the thick black brows were uncompromising in their utter
directness. The other man was deeply moved and showed it, and in the
showing the years fell from him, and he was young and keen again,
save for the long cruel scar which marred the look of youth.
Silas spoke, breaking a silence that could not have existed between
them earlier. "Do you say that because you no longer care yourself?"
"No," said Dick Dynamo as if compelled, and then confirmed the
admission with a brief, half-grudging laugh. "Damn you,--no!"
It was an open admission of defeat just as his earlier gesture had
been, but Silas made no attempt to press his advantage any further.
He only said as their hands met in an almost involuntary grip of
friendship, "That's just what I wanted. Thanks!"
They parted thereafter without further words.
CHAPTER VI
THE RETURN
Out of a night of troubled sleeping and waking--a night that seemed
as if it would never pass--Bobby came at length. The weariness of
travelling and the subsequent strain and disappointment were still
upon her, but she exerted herself to meet the new day with a brave
spirit. As she dressed, putting her weakness resolutely behind her,
she thought of Silas, and of all that he had been to her the previous
night.
"How ungrateful I was!" she told herself reproachfully. "I
wonder--did I hurt him?"
She had been terribly overwrought, had said things which should never
have been uttered. Yet somehow she clung to the conviction that it
did not matter what she said to Silas, because he always understood.
By the grey morning-light she brought herself to face the thought of
Dick. All through the night she had as it were been hiding her eyes
from it as a child that fears to look upon some awful apparition.
But now she braced herself to meet it without shrinking. All the
long years of waiting were over. Dick had returned. It seemed
incredible that that fondly cherished vision of her youth could thus
have been shattered at one devastating blow, so faithfully had she
kept his memory in her heart. That Dick--her Dick who had worshipped
her so--could ever have come to her thus with that cruel devil of
mockery and scepticism in his eyes was a thing so monstrous, so
beyond all possibility, that she questioned with herself if she had
really seen it or if it could have been some dreadful nightmare with
which fever and fatigue had seared her brain. And yet in her heart
she knew that it was starkly true. Dick had come back to her with
hatred in his soul. Dick no longer believed in her, no longer wanted
her--had not wanted her during all those years that she had waited so
patiently and trustfully for him. It was so amazing a thought that
she could not cope with it. It had been so far easier to believe him
dead. Ah well! He was indeed dead to her now. She was conscious of
a sudden passionate hope in her heart that she would never see him
again. Her dream had been so precious to her, so tenderly guarded.
And now that he had wrenched it from her, she felt as if her very
soul were bleeding.
"There is nothing left," she said to herself again. "Why am I still
alive?"
She dressed mechanically, taking no note of time, until a quiet knock
at her door aroused her.
She went and opened it, and found Silas, calm and purposeful as ever,
waiting outside.
She greeted him with outstretched hand; she was in sore need of a
friendly clasp just then.
"It would be you," she said, with her wistful little smile. "Have
you come to call me to breakfast?"
"Wouldn't you like it upstairs?" said Silas.
She shivered a little. A window was half-open down the passage, and
the raw cold of a winter morning in London was in the atmosphere.
"No. I'll come down with you," she said.
"Put on your coat then!" said Silas, and she turned back to obey,
still feeling mechanical, strangely numbed on the surface, though
aware of a dull gnawing of pain beneath.
As she joined him, he was stolidly shutting the window that had
admitted the draught to her. They went on together to the lift.
He did not speak as they descended, but she noted with a dim wonder
that his presence seemed to dispel the sense of being in an alien
atmosphere. In some fashion she could not fathom, he dominated his
surroundings. Entering the vast, dreary dining-room with its
bewildering sea of tables, she drew instinctively nearer to him.
There was a feeling of home about him that gave her comfort as
physical warmth gives comfort to the half-frozen.
He conducted her to a table close to a roaring fire, and she went to
it thankfully, stretching her hands to the blaze. There were but few
people in the room, and she realized that it was early.
He did not ask her what she would have, but gave his orders with
clear conciseness, and then joined her before the fire.
"Our train leaves at ten," he remarked.
She started a little. "Oh! Where are we going?" she said.
He pulled out a chair from the table and placed it for her straight
in front of the fire. There was no one very near to them, and to
Bobby it was as though they were isolated in the midst of a grey sea.
She was definitely aware of no one but her companion. All the rest
was but a dim impression of a dreariness so far-reaching that she had
no desire to contemplate it.
"We are going home," said Silas.
The glow seemed to reach her heart, and she leaned nearer to it.
"But we haven't found Rosemary," she said.
"Yes," said Silas rather curtly. "Rosemary is found. She is at
Bode, waiting for you."
"At Bode!" She turned back to him eagerly, her face alight. "Oh,
Silas, is she really there?"
He looked at her, and she thought his face was grim. "Yes," he said.
"A message came through this morning. They had been to Staple Farm
and found us gone. Young Ross rang up early. I spoke to him, and
told them to stay where they were at _The King's Head_ till we got
back."
"Oh, Silas!" Bobby breathed again, and a great quiver of emotion went
through her. She leaned her head on her hand. "I shall really see
my darling to-day," she whispered. "Thank God--oh, thank God!"
Silas remained silent and immovable by her side--a dumb bulwark of
strength--till presently she looked up again.
"Was that all he said, Silas? She is quite well, is she? Everything
is all right?"
"Quite, I believe, so far as they are concerned," said Silas.
She thought his tone unsympathetic. "Why do you say that?" she
asked, puzzled. "Isn't it all right for everybody? Shouldn't we be
glad for their sakes--if they are happy?"
"Certainly," said Silas, in a voice that conveyed nothing whatever.
"I am very glad that they are happy."
She did not understand his attitude but, concluding that it was
probably in some fashion on her account that he refused to be
enthusiastic over the turn of events, she pressed him no further.
The vast relief of his news was such as almost to make her wonder
that she retained her balance, but the fact remained that something
held her back from being overwhelmed by it. Perhaps she had sat in
darkness too long to realize the light now that it had come. Or
perhaps the bitter disillusionment of yesterday had taken from her
the power to feel acutely any more.
When breakfast came, she turned round to the table with a subdued
sense of hope deferred. Her anxiety was lifted, but it had so bowed
her down that she could not recapture her old buoyancy of spirit.
When once she had held Rosemary again in her arms and satisfied
herself that all was well with her, she felt that she could quite
thankfully fold her hands and die.
"You're not eating anything," said Silas, and she roused herself and
made an effort for his sake.
She knew that he watched her narrowly and she did her best, but she
could not muster any appetite, and she was glad that there was no
time for dallying. The brief space that remained seemed to pass like
a dream. She went back to her room to put her things together, and
Silas went to his. She had the feeling that he was watching over her
the whole time. Did he fear that Dick Dynamo would reappear to
waylay her, she wondered? She had no fear on her own account.
Dick--her Dick--had gone into the past, and she would never see him
again. The romance of her life was dead, and nothing could ever
bring it back to life. The ruthless stranger of yesterday had no
power to disturb her further. He had done his worst, and it was all
over. No, she had no fear for herself. She had nothing left to lose.
She scarcely spoke on the way to the station, and Silas sat beside
her in vigilant silence. It was raining, and the streets were grey.
The cold pierced her, and again scarcely consciously she drew a
little closer to him. He stooped without words and wrapped a
travelling-rug more firmly round her.
"I shall be so glad to get home," she said, as they neared the
terminus.
And he answered gravely, "Yes, it's the best place."
He made every possible provision for her comfort during the journey.
There were not many people travelling, and he secured a compartment
for her without difficulty.
He also obtained a luncheon-basket. "It will save you the trouble of
moving," he said.
He made a cushion of his coat and persuaded her to lie down when the
train started, and she lay with closed eyes while he went to the
further corner and left her alone.
Perhaps it was the motion of the express that presently lulled her
into a state of semi-consciousness that resembled the outskirts of
slumber. All through the night her brain had been capable neither of
rest nor of coherent thought, but lying thus, with the certain
knowledge that she was really on the right track at last, a sense of
repose came upon her which gradually restored the power to think.
After more than an hour of complete inertia, her mentality began to
awake and ideas to form again in more orderly array.
During their first stop, when Silas quietly crossed to the
carriage-window by her side and blocked it with his bulk, she looked
at him and spoke.
"Silas!"
He looked down at her. "Are you wanting anything? I could get you a
cup of coffee."
"No, thank you," she said. "Don't let anyone get in if you can help
it!"
"They're not going to," said Silas.
She smiled rather wanly. "And don't go away again when we start!"
she said. "I--want to speak to you."
"All right," he said.
He continued to fill up the window until the train was once more on
its way. Then he turned round to her again.
"What is it?" he said.
Her face of white exhaustion still sought to show him a smile. "Just
sit down!" she said. "I'll tell you in a minute."
He sat down opposite to her as she desired, and she lay looking at
him with great intensity for several seconds. He waited with a
massive patience for her to speak.
She did so at last, slowly, as though choosing her words. "Silas,"
she said, "I know you will tell me the truth--because you always do.
Silas, did you see any more of--Dick--last night, after I left you?"
He leaned quietly forward. He had known that sooner or later that
question must come. Very steadily he answered it.
"Yes. I went back and saw him. But I can't tell you what passed
between us. I'm sorry."
A faint sigh escaped her. "You didn't--quarrel?" she said.
"No," said Silas.
"I'm glad of that," she said, and was silent for a space, still
looking at him with those intent blue eyes that seemed so large a
part of her.
At last she spoke again. "I don't want to know all that passed.
Only one thing! Silas, will you tell me one thing?"
"What is it?" he said.
She stretched out a hand to him in a pleading, pathetic gesture. "He
hasn't made you hate me, has he?" she said, and her lips were
trembling as she asked the question.
He took the hand and laid his face down upon it.
"Nothing--nobody--not God Himself--could make me do that," he said in
a voice that shook.
"Thank you," she whispered. And then, with an effort, "What I really
wanted to ask was this. Was it because--because he told my Rosemary
something that--turned her against me that she went away with
him--like that?"
Her question went into silence and by silence he answered it, his
head still bent over her hand.
A long, weary sigh came from Bobby, and then, "Thank you," she said
gently and slipped her hand away.
When he looked at her at length, he saw that her eyes were closed;
and he got up quietly and moved back to his own corner.
CHAPTER VII
FORGIVENESS
The rest of the journey passed without any incident or intimate talk.
Bobby lay for the most part perfectly still, often with closed eyes.
But she did not sleep, and Silas knew that she did not sleep.
Covertly he watched her, his face set in lines of hard and
uncompromising endurance. When the luncheon-hour came, he waited
upon her wordlessly, as a slave might wait upon an empress--though
there was little about Bobby to warrant such an attitude. She looked
crushed--too broken-hearted even to weep.
They had to change for the final stage of the journey, and Silas took
her to a fire in the waiting-room where she sat as one in a sad dream
for the half-hour that elapsed before the train for Bode came in.
"I feel as if I had been away for weeks," she said to him, as they
climbed into it.
"I know," he said. "And all for nothing!"
"Not quite all for nothing," she corrected gently.
The train loitered interminably along the branch-line, and it was
four o'clock ere Bode was reached. It was market-day, and the
station was busier than usual. Descending, Bobby found herself close
to Old Roper the veterinary.
He started at the sight of her, gave her a hasty greeting, and almost
precipitated himself into the crowd.
"Why did he do that?" she said to Silas, but Silas did not hear.
"Wait a minute!" he said. "I'll get hold of a conveyance somehow."
"There's the omnibus from _The King's Head_!" she said. "Let's go in
that!"
But for some reason he held her back. "No, no! I'll get something
else."
It was no longer raining, but heavy clouds were obscuring the last of
the daylight. Bobby became aware of something ominous in the
atmosphere, and felt as if an icy hand had clutched her heart.
"What is it?" she said nervously. "Ah, there is Mr. Everett! See,
Silas! Perhaps he----"
She broke off. Everett had seen her also--she was sure of it--and
had swiftly turned away.
She stood shivering on the path of the station-approach which
adjoined the market, while Silas plunged across the road and took
forcible possession of a shabby cab which was waiting on the
off-chance of securing a passenger. Then in a sudden panic she
followed him with limbs that trembled uncontrollably, and almost fell
into the ramshackle vehicle which he held open for her.
"Why didn't you wait?" said Silas.
She answered him half-hysterically. "I couldn't--I couldn't. I'm
sure something has happened. I've seen it in two faces--old
Roper--Everett! Silas, if it's Rosemary----"
He took her hand and held it very tightly. "It isn't Rosemary," he
said. "She's all right. You'll be with her in ten minutes."
"Are you sure?" she said, clinging desperately to that sustaining
hand. "You wouldn't say it, I know, if it weren't true!"
"No," said Silas. "I shouldn't."
She did not question him further, but sat in a scared,
quick-breathing silence while they clattered along the High Street of
Bode.
Only, as they neared _The King's Head_, she turned to him, her hand
still clasping his, and said hurriedly, piteously, "Silas, are you
sure I'd better go on? Will she--want to see me?"
"My dear," he said, "she's longing to see you. Ross told me so
to-day. It's what they've come for."
That reassured her, and as they jolted on in the darkening evening
she began to take courage again. But when at last they came to a
standstill before the old hotel, she said nervously as his strong
grasp relaxed, "Don't go away and leave me, Silas! I'm sure to want
you in the end."
"I shall be there when you do," he answered quietly.
They entered through the swing-doors, and Bobby's glance went eagerly
round. The deep shadows of evening filled the place, and her first
impression was that it was empty. Then a solid, thick-set figure
detached itself from the gloom and came to her.
"It's me--Donald--The Old Bean," said a voice she remembered.
"You're wanting Rosemary. I made her wait for you upstairs."
Somehow she found his arm round her as he propelled her to the
stairs, and she wondered a little at his action though it did not
seem wholly unnatural.
"I hope you don't mind our getting married," he said, as he guided
her upwards. "We're awfully happy together. But we want your
blessing of course."
She could not answer him for the hard beating of her heart. She
murmured something inarticulate, to which he made even more
incomprehensible reply.
"Ah! I was afraid you might hear of it first. I'm fearfully sorry
about it. But Rosemary is here to comfort you. You must let me know
if there's anything I can do."
And then they were at the top of the stairs, and she heard the
swinging open of a door and the rush of eager feet.
"Aunt Bobby--oh, Aunt Bobby!" cried Rosemary's voice.
And Bobby found her own in throbbing, passionate answer, as she
strained the lithe young figure she could scarcely see faster and
faster to her breast: "My precious, precious Rosemary! Thank God for
giving you back to me! Oh, thank God--thank God!"
With Rosemary's arms tight about her, she went into a room where the
firelight gleamed; and the door was shut gently upon them by The Old
Bean, who then went softly away.
"Aunt Bobby!" Rosemary said again and again. "Aunt
Bobby--darling--darling! Have I really got you at last? Oh, why did
I ever go away from you?"
Her face was all wet with tears which Bobby tenderly kissed away.
"My sweet one!" she said fondly. "There! Let us sit down and hold
each other--just hold each other!"
She sank into a low chair before the fire while Rosemary knelt beside
her, rocking to and fro, and still clinging to her as though she
could never bear to relax her hold again.
"Will you ever forgive me, Aunt Bobby darling?" she whispered
presently. "I don't know how I ever came to do it."
"I know, dearest," said Bobby.
"You know?" Rosemary's clasp was almost convulsive.
"Yes. And I understand," Bobby spoke very steadfastly. "To
understand is to forgive. I have seen Dick, you know."
"Oh, Aunt Bobby! And did he tell you? Did he tell you?" Rosemary
drew back a little to look for the first time upon the beloved face
as revealed by the firelight.
"Tell me what, darling?" Bobby's clear eyes met hers with unfaltering
directness.
It was Rosemary who flinched and lowered her own. "That he loved
you," she said under her breath.
"Oh no, dear. He didn't tell me that." Bobby's denial was as
unblenching as her look had been. She put her hands upon Rosemary's
shoulders, searching the sweet, downcast face with a loving scrutiny.
"My love story was finished long ago," she said. "But I want to hear
all about yours, my darling. May I hear it?"
Rosemary did not lift her eyes. She had begun to tremble. "Aunt
Bobby," she said, "I've got to tell you something else
first--something I thought perhaps you'd hear before you got here.
But I see you haven't and--and--The Old Bean says you've been very
ill and I'm to break it gently. Aunt Bobby--Aunt Bobby dear--" she
lifted her eyes now, and they were wide and scared; her voice shook
in piteous distress,--"I've never done it before, and--and I don't
know how to begin."
"My little girl, what is it?" said Bobby, drawing her close again.
"What could it possibly be that mattered now I have you safe? There,
tell me, my little one! What is it? Don't be afraid! There is
nothing that can really hurt me now that I hold you in my arms."
"Oh, Aunt Bobby, you're forgetting someone!" whispered Rosemary, with
her face in Bobby's neck.
"My dearest, who?" said Bobby, puzzled.
Rosemary's arms closed suddenly with such tightness that she gasped
for breath. "Aunt Bobby, it's--it's--Aunt Matilda!" she said.
"Matilda!" Bobby stiffened as she sat; it was as if an icy blast had
struck her. "What of Matilda?" she said. "Rosemary, what of
Matilda?"
Her voice held command--such command as Rosemary had never attempted
to resist. She did not attempt to do so now, but answered in a
shocked undertone: "She died--oh, darling,--she died--early this
morning."
"Matilda!" Bobby's lips uttered the name almost mechanically. She
sat without stirring, still rigidly holding Rosemary.
"Matilda--dead! Matilda!" She spoke incredulously, even
suspiciously, but not as one vitally concerned. "What do you mean,
dear?" she said.
Rosemary continued to cling to her, her face hidden. "It's been very
dreadful," she told her rather breathlessly. "It was all so sudden.
We didn't get down here until late last night, and it had happened
then. It seems she was depressed after you left, and Dr. Bellamy
thought it would do her good to get up and go for a run in his car.
He had to call at Joe Brant's place, and you know that steep bank
there? Well, while he was out of the car, something happened that
the brake slipped and it ran down backwards and turned over. She
didn't know how to stop it, and there was no time."
"She was killed?" asked Bobby in the same calm, detached voice.
"No, not then. She was pinned underneath, and they had a lot of
trouble to get her out. But she was unconscious. She didn't suffer.
She never suffered at all." Rosemary spoke with a sort of desperate
rapidity. "They got her to Joe Brant's cottage at last. She was
terribly injured, and they knew she couldn't get over it. Dr.
Bellamy was nearly beside himself. They didn't know how to get hold
of you till the Hudsons thought of asking Peter, and it was too late
then to get you back again the same night. We got to Staple Farm
while they were discussing it. And oh, Aunt Bobby, it was
dreadful--it was dreadful--especially to find you gone." Rosemary's
tears flowed afresh; she was evidently worn out with the prolonged
strain.
"I thought I was going to you, child," Bobby said, tenderly stroking
her hair. "I should never have gone otherwise."
"I know--I know. It was Dick's doing. Silas told The Old Bean on
the telephone this morning. I did think Dick meant to play the game
when I heard. But he hasn't--after all." Rosemary began to sob.
"And now I've gone and married The Old Bean I shan't be able to take
care of you either!" she ended piteously.
"Darling, don't let us waste time worrying about things that really
don't matter!" said Bobby gently. "Finish about Matilda? Did they
take you to her?"
"Oh yes, I went--I went." Rosemary made an effort to control
herself. "I was very frightened because they said she was dying.
But I didn't mind so much when I saw her. She looked so calm and
beautiful, just as if she were lying asleep. And The Old Bean stayed
with me behind the curtain and held my hand most of the time. She
didn't open her eyes for ever so long. We began to think that
perhaps she was dead already when she suddenly opened them quite wide
and looked at me. Oh, Aunt Bobby,--" Rosemary's arms tightened again
to the clinging hold of a scared child--"I didn't know that when
people were dying they could see so far."
"What did she say to you, darling?" questioned Bobby, still smoothing
the bright head.
"She didn't speak at first," murmured Rosemary, "just lay and
looked--and looked. And then, when she spoke, I saw that she thought
I was you. Was it wrong of me, Aunt Bobby? I let her think so."
"No, darling, of course not!" Bobby spoke with loving reassurance.
"Tell me what she said!"
"Oh, she said--she said that you needn't trouble any more about her,
and she was sorry to have been such a burden. And then she began to
talk about me." Rosemary's head sank a little lower on Bobby's
breast. "I'll tell you just what she said. The Old Bean said I
must. She said, 'Don't worry about the child, Bobby! She won't go
under as I did. There's too much of Alexander in her for that. You
can tell her the truth when I'm gone. It's better that she should
know, and it won't make any difference to me.'" Rosemary halted a
little. "I'm trying to tell you exactly what she said," she murmured
pathetically. "It isn't very easy, though I shall never forget it."
"Yes, tell me, darling!" said Bobby, softly. "I think you will
manage to forget--some day."
"Well, then she seemed to wander a little--to go back to when she was
a girl in India, and she talked of that wedding-dress of hers and of
a man called Adrian--a man she seemed to care for." Rosemary spoke a
little vaguely. "I'd never heard of him before, so I could only sit
and listen. I thought it would upset her if I said anything."
"Adrian Tressider--the man she was engaged to," said Bobby. "The man
I wouldn't let her marry."
"Yes--yes, she said that. 'You wouldn't let me have him,' she said
over and over again. 'You wouldn't let me have him, though it broke
my heart to give him up.' Aunt Bobby, why--why wouldn't you let her?"
Rosemary whispered the question with a shrinking downward motion, but
Bobby stooped and raised her up again.
"Oh, my darling, I have so prayed I might never have to tell you
this," she said. "But God knows best. It was because I found out
that she was going to have a child, and she wanted to marry him
without telling him."
"Ah!" Rosemary said. She lifted her face, breathing hard and fast as
though she fought against suffocation. "It was that--it was that!
Well, let me tell you the rest now, and then--then you must tell me
something, dear, dear Aunt Bobby. She said, 'You wouldn't let me
have him. You broke my heart--ruined my life. And so--I ruined
yours. That is why Dick never came back to you.'"
"Ah!" Bobby said. She too drew a sharp breath; it was almost an
exclamation of pain.
"She said," went on Rosemary, "'I took my revenge--I've been taking
it ever since. I stopped your letters to Dick and his to you. I
wrote to him in your name and put an end to it all. It wasn't all
revenge, though. It wouldn't have been worth it just for that. But
I wanted you. I couldn't have faced life without you. I was too
scared--too desperate.' That was when I began to feel sorry for her,
Aunt Bobby. It was as if something outside herself--something very
relentless had been making her say it all until she came to that.
And then--then I saw it was poor Aunt Matilda after all, who so hated
hardships and difficulties, and never could do anything for herself.
And I was sorry for her, I was sorry. I felt I understood how
terribly badly she must have wanted you, to--to do a dreadful thing
like that. I said to myself, 'If I were really Aunt Bobby, I
shouldn't hate her for it. I should forgive her.'"
"Oh, child!" Bobby said in a low broken whisper and bowed her face
upon Rosemary's hair.
"Don't cry, darling!" whispered back Rosemary. "Dick will soon know.
And he loves you--I know he loves you still."
But Bobby uttered a heavy, tearless sob. "Too late!" she said. "Too
late!"
There followed a silence during which it seemed as if some struggle
were going on in the elder woman's soul. But when she raised herself
at last, her face was calm.
"Tell me the rest now!" she said.
"That's almost all," said Rosemary. "The end was very near, and her
eyes got deeper and deeper as though they saw far, far beyond
anything that we could see. She couldn't move at all, but just at
the last she said very clearly, 'Will you forgive me, Bobby girl?'
And I--I'd no right to do it, but I simply had to--and I knew you
would have done it if you'd been there--I got up and bent over her,
and I said, 'Yes, dear,' as if it had been you. Aunt Bobby, she
didn't know the difference. She just smiled at me--and died."
Again there fell a silence. Bobby's hand still stroked the girl's
head with a tender, soothing touch, but her eyes were fixed and
remote. She might have been in a trance.
Rosemary stirred at length, looking up at her as though half-afraid.
"Aunt Bobby," she said pleadingly, "you're not vexed with me?"
Bobby shook her head. "Why should I be?" she said.
"For saying that--when she wanted it so." Rosemary's voice was
trembling.
Bobby's eyes came down to her. "My child," she said very solemnly,
"if you can forgive her--so can I."
Rosemary shrank again involuntarily. "You mean--" she murmured
faintly.
"I mean, sweetheart," Bobby said, "that you were the child she bore."
"Yes, I thought it must be that." A violent tremor went through
Rosemary, but she controlled herself with a supreme effort. "And she
didn't want me. She hated having me. She never liked me. Aunt
Bobby, Aunt Bobby, who was the man? Tell me!"
Bobby's look changed. Her arms went round her again, clasping her,
sheltering her. "My little darling," she said with such a wealth of
mother-tenderness in voice and action as even Rosemary had never
known from her before, "spiritually you are mine, and always have
been from the moment of your birth. I tended you--guarded you--loved
you--I took you for my own--my very own--a treasure sent by God to
me. I shut the gate upon everything that was shameful. I marked it
Private, and no one has ever opened it since. Need I open it
now--even for you?"
But though Rosemary clung fast to her, the blood that was in them
both prompted her answer. "Please, Aunt Bobby dearest! Just once!"
she whispered.
And so, holding her darling close pressed to her heart, Bobby opened
the gate at last. "His name was Alexander--a soldier-servant of my
father's--a groom. He taught us to ride. I don't know what happened
to him. He may be dead. But anyhow he never knew. He never counted
at all."
She ceased to speak. What it had cost her, even Rosemary would never
know--Rosemary to whom the revelation was as gall. They remained
there in the firelight, clinging together and not speaking for a long
time, and during that time there was between them an inner communion
such as is given to the very few.
In the end Rosemary lifted her head with a resolute, courageous
movement and looked into Bobby's tired, sweet face.
"Thank you for telling me, darling," she said. "Thank you--thank you
for all. There's just one thing I'm going to tell you now. Though
I've been so bad--so wicked, God heard you praying, and He kept me
safe, and--and--it was He Who sent me back to you, Aunt Bobby. I
want you to know that, so that--so that you can keep on praying for
me, darling, and ask Him--please ask Him--to make me good--like you.
Will you, please, Aunt Bobby?"
Her eyes, clear and steadfast as Bobby's own, sought and found their
answer. Very tenderly Bobby drew her close again and kissed her.
And her kiss was a benediction.
CHAPTER VIII
THE INDOMITABLE
"Eh, dear!" said Mary. "She was always a poor thing, but it's hard
to believe she's gone. Little Rosemary, too, looking so sweet and
bonny, with that young husband of hers just worshipping her with his
eyes wherever she goes! There's a love-match, anyway, though she's
such a baby, it's hard to believe she's really married."
"Everything's hard to believe, it seems," commented Peter, as he
washed his hands at the sink. "But it isn't everyone waits till
they're forty before they turn their thoughts to marriage."
Mary laughed, a trifle self-consciously. "That's true," she
admitted. "But why doesn't Miss Bobby get married? That's what I
want to know. She isn't forty yet anyhow, and it isn't fitting for
her to live alone at Little Staple. With poor Miss Matilda in her
grave for the past month and the young ones gone to make a home for
themselves in the North, she'll be terribly lonely, Peter, terribly
lonely."
"Some people prefer loneliness," said Peter.
"Like Lord Ravencombe," suggested Mary, who was in a gossiping mood.
"Do you know, Peter, they say he's a woman-hater, and if he doesn't
marry--well, there, it will be funny, won't it?"
"Very funny," agreed Peter indulgently. "And it'll be even funnier
if Silas doesn't either, won't it?"
"Oh, you've no call to laugh at me," said Mary, with a good-humoured
smile that was not without a tinge of anxiety. "It isn't really
funny, Peter. He takes things hard, does Silas, though he never says
a word. I did so hope when they came back that there might be some
sort of understanding between them. But I'm sure there isn't. Or
else he's asked her and she's refused him, as I always feared she
might. Anyhow," she checked a small sigh and picked up a cloth to
polish a plate, "nothing's happened that we know of, and so we've
just got to be patient."
"Oh, patient!" said Peter, pulling on the roller-towel behind the
door with a force that seemed to testify to a somewhat different
sentiment. "I'm fed up, that's what I am!"
"Good gracious, Peter!" Mary turned and surveyed him, round-eyed.
"What ever for?"
So sudden was the announcement that it took her breath away. She
almost suspected for a moment that it had been made in jest, but
Peter's face told her otherwise. He was in earnest.
He looked at her moodily. "It's your fault," he said.
"Mine?" gasped Mary in bewilderment.
"Yes. You're so durned unselfish." He thrust an arm unexpectedly
around her. "At least, I suppose you are," he said. "But you never
know with women. They're not the same as men."
"What ever are you talking about?" said Mary, between distress and
gratification, for Peter's arm had a pleasant feeling about it.
"Well, can't you understand?" he said half-grudgingly. "I want to
get married. I don't like this half-time business. I want you for
full time and always."
"Oh, Peter!" said Mary, with a rush of colour that completely
suffused her face and neck and even her bare comely arms. "Oh, my
dear! But--but----"
"Yes, I know. It's always 'but'," said Peter. "I've had enough of
it, I tell you, even if you haven't. It's silly at our time of life
to keep putting off things. I'm going to tell Silas."
"Oh, you mustn't!" cried Mary in distress. "It wouldn't be
right--indeed it wouldn't! We couldn't possibly get married and
leave poor Silas to fend for himself."
"I don't see why we shouldn't get married," said Peter on an
obstinate note. "It isn't going to hurt anyone that I can see. You
can still go on making his bed and his stockings till he gets a wife
of his own."
"Oh, you don't want me to go away and leave him," said Mary,
relieved. "But I don't know I'm sure whether he'd like us married,
Peter. Wouldn't it make him feel sort of left out in the cold?"
"And what of you?" demanded Peter. "You who were prepared to stop on
and work for him after he got married! Wouldn't you have been out in
the cold?"
"That's different," protested Mary, beginning to twist the corner of
the cloth she held. "Women are different. You said so yourself.
And I'm so happy now, Peter." She smiled at him half-shyly. "I feel
as if I'd do anything for anybody."
"Except me, eh?" said Peter, pulling her to him.
"Oh no, Peter! Oh no!" Mary's remonstrance began in distress and
ended in laughter, for Peter had a way with him that there was no
resisting and when she emerged from his embrace she was too
dishevelled to think of anything but the urgent need to put herself
straight again before Silas came in. "I would be an awful thing if
he found us and we hadn't told him," she declared. "He'd think the
world was gone mad. No, Peter, not again! You go and sit down in
the kitchen, my dear! I'll come in a minute, but I must tidy my
hair. I'd be ashamed to show myself like this."
"Shan't go and sit down in the kitchen!" said Peter. "I'll stay and
see you do it."
"Well, you mustn't touch me then," said Mary, wisely conceding the
point. "It's the funniest thing in the world to have you making love
to me, Peter. I don't know whether I'm standing on my head or my
heels. Do you know I've caught myself making some dreadful mistakes
lately, and it's all because of you."
Peter gave a short, gratified laugh. "Well, that's something," he
said. "I began to think I wasn't having any effect on you at all."
"How can you?" said Mary. "As if I weren't thinking of you all day
and--" She checked herself in some confusion.
"Half the night!" supplemented Peter, chuckling at her discomfiture.
"That's all right, Polly. But we must do something more than think.
It's time we acted. Dash it all, Silas isn't such a dog in the
manger as to stand in the way of other folks being happy if he can't
be happy himself."
"Oh, I hope he will be happy," said Mary fervently.
"Don't tell him if he seems depressed, Peter! Choose your time!"
"I'm going to tell him now," said Peter. "It's not fair not to.
He's just coming in."
He left her abruptly with the words to station himself in a waiting
attitude in the kitchen, while poor Mary, tingling with
embarrassment, put the finishing touches to her appearance and pulled
down her sleeves.
Silas came in with Nero at his heels, looking weary and dispirited.
He said nothing to Peter, merely sat down rather heavily in his
customary chair and pulled a paper from his pocket. The window was
open, and the soft spring air came in with a smell of wet earth and
sheep. The bleating of lambs sounded from the field beyond the
rickyard.
Peter looked at him at first with a species of resentment that slowly
turned to deference.
"Seen Everett about that boundary?" he asked, breaking the silence.
Silas nodded without looking up. "He's going to put it in order."
"I wonder!" said Peter sarcastically.
"He says he will," said Silas, and added, "I'll see that he does."
Peter scraped his boot on the floor. "You can leave it to me," he
said.
"What for?" said Silas.
"You don't want to be bothered dealing with a dirty dog like that,"
said Peter.
Silas looked up abruptly. "Why should you do all the dirty work?" he
said.
"It's more suitable," said Peter.
A ghost of a smile touched Silas's sombre countenance. "Don't talk
like a damn fool, Peter!" he said.
"I don't," said Peter.
Silas looked at him with more attention. "What's up?" he said.
Peter glanced towards the scullery-door which was ajar, hesitated,
then strode purposefully across and shut it. "I want a word with
you," he said, returning.
"I see," said Silas.
His smile became genuine, and he reached out an unexpected hand to
Peter. "That's all right, old chap," he said. "I'm very pleased.
I've often wondered why you didn't think of it before."
"Oh, you knew, did you?" said Peter. His hand gripped hard upon
Silas's; they looked straight into each other's eyes. "I've always
been fond of her," he said. "But it was the thought of getting
separated that did it."
"Who was going to separate you?" said Silas.
"If you'd been setting up a home of your own," explained Peter, "you
wouldn't have wanted us hanging round. And then--"
"I see," said Silas. "Well, I'm not going to, Peter. But that
needn't stop you doing it if you want to. You and Mary can get
married as soon as you like. And you shall have Little Staple to
live in--as soon as it's empty."
"Is it going to be empty?" said Peter.
"Pretty soon, I believe," said Silas. And then in answer to the
question Peter would not utter: "There's an old lover in the case."
"Damn!" said Peter with all his force.
Silas laughed, but it was not a very mirthful sound. "Thanks, old
chap!" he said. "But after all, one could hardly expect anything
else. I've known of it for a long time."
"Look here!" said Peter, speaking faster than usual. "We don't want
to leave you, Mary and I. She'll tell you the same herself. And so
far as I'm concerned, I'll stick by you and do all your dirty work
for you as long as I live. That's what I've been trying to tell you
all this time. And it isn't because you're heir to Ravencombe that I
say it. It's always been the same--since we were little nippers
together--and always will be. It's the same with Mary, too."
It was the most amazing outburst of his life, as though all the
silent devotion of years had suddenly and irresistibly found vent.
And Silas, as he heard it, got up quickly, as one who instinctively
rises in the presence of something sacred. His hand still gripped
the hand of Peter, but for a space he spoke no word.
Then, in a voice that was oddly shaken, he said, "That's damn' decent
of you, Peter. But God alone knows why you should."
"I know too," said Peter briefly. And then, to hide a certain
embarrassment, he turned and shouted over his shoulder, "Mary! Come
on in! It's all right."
Mary came, trying to appear as placid as usual, and only succeeding
in looking very fluttered and nervous. "Oh, Silas!" she said. "I do
hope--I do hope--"
Silas went to meet her, took her two hands, and to her astonishment
kissed her. "So do I," he said. "I hope you'll both be as happy as
you deserve to be. This is the best thing that's happened for a long
time. Now I know why all my buttons have got sewn on the wrong side
lately."
"Oh, they haven't!" protested Mary. "I may have been foolish and
forgetful, but I've never done such as that!"
Peter's laugh was good to hear. It dispelled all strain. "Oh, come
and give us some tea?" he said. "Talking's thirsty work. And I
can't waste any more time. I've got a job or two to do before it's
dark."
They sat down, and the meal that followed was the cheeriest that Mary
could remember for years. Silas had thrust his own affairs into the
background and displayed a sympathy and consideration of which she
had scarcely believed him capable.
When Peter got up to go, he remained to say a few kindly words to her
alone which she treasured ever after in her heart.
"You've been a good friend to me, Mary," he said. "And I'm glad it's
in my power to do something for you at last. You two must get
married as soon as you conveniently can, and you shall have a home of
your own before you're much older."
"I'd much sooner stay and make a home for you," said Mary truthfully.
"I'd worry myself to a shadow if you'd no one to look after you."
"Oh, nonsense!" said Silas. "I'm not such a shorn lamb as that. I
can look after myself better than you think."
Mary sighed. "It'd hurt me to see you try," she said. "Peter's the
same. It'd hurt him too."
At which Silas smiled good-naturedly and turned to go. "Well, you've
got to be happy, both of you," he said. "Mind that! I don't care
about anything else, but I do care about that. So don't you forget
it!"
"You're very, very good!" said Mary earnestly.
She watched him go with tears in her eyes, for his few words had
touched her deeply. "He carries a heavy heart with him," she told
herself sadly. "Oh, if only it could have been!"
For Silas's slow-moving figure told its own tale. He went with the
gait of a tired man, unconscious of watching eyes.
He had meant to follow Peter. There was work to be done in the
straw-strewn farmyard, but his feet did not carry him thither. An
intense desire for solitude was upon him--the reaction after the
enforced sociability of the past hour, and he went heavily away from
the farm, scarcely recking of direction, until he found himself at
the junction of the lanes whence the track led to Little Staple.
Here instinctively he halted, and Nero halted also, mutely
sympathetic. How often in the past they had halted there! And now
the time was coming when they would pass by quickly--very
quickly--not bearing to linger. Even to-night he could not tell
which would hurt him the most--to pause or to pass on. But having
come upon an impulse that was hardly of his own directing, he
stopped, in obedience to the same.
It was an evening upon which all the magic of Spring seemed to be
poured forth like incense. In the lane--her lane--the early
primroses were opening their first pale flowers. There was a rich
scent of moss close to him. The bank was clothed with it in living
green. The blood stirred within him. He knew just what such an
evening would mean to her. He almost looked to see her coming
lightly down the track in search of those first exquisite flowers.
But she came not, and in the end with an involuntary sigh he turned
to retrace his steps. What was the good of coming here to mourn? He
would go back and work.
But even as he moved, a sudden sound came to him, arresting him.
Something--someone--was coming down that green track. He heard the
tread of a horse's hoofs.
The impulse to go came upon him then, urging him strongly, but he
resisted it, asserting himself, mastering himself. Grimly, sturdily,
he waited, his face set in hard lines, his eyes fixed in silent
endurance. And Nero, with the intuition of his race, waited also,
pressed closely against his leg--a dumb supporter.
Down the track came the thudding hoofs, slowly, fatefully. A
horseman came into sight. He rode his animal superbly, with a free
and dominating grace. His air was the air of the unconquerable. To
Silas who had never before seen him on horseback there came a curious
feeling of reverence--the instinctive homage accorded to that which
is invincible.
He stood in silence waiting until the horseman was almost upon him,
then put up a hand in salutation.
"Hullo!" said Ravencombe. Was it elation that sounded in his voice?
"Why do you stand there like a mute, man? Is anybody dead?"
"Not that I know of," said Silas. "I didn't expect to see you."
Ravencombe's horse was nuzzling against his arm. He stroked the
animal's neck with a kindly hand.
"I, on the contrary, was on my way to you," said Ravencombe. "Where
do you live? Up there? Good! I'll come round another time." His
dark face smiled down at Silas. His eyes were quite inscrutable.
"Is all well?" asked Silas abruptly.
He could not have said what prompted the question, but somehow it had
to be asked. He knew that Ravencombe would laugh at it, but when he
heard his laugh he wished he had held his peace; for it grated upon
him almost intolerably.
"Of course!" said Ravencombe. "What did you expect?" And added, as
Silas stood silent, "All is more than well, my dear fellow, thanks to
you. I think I may safely say that the woman you love is well on the
way to happiness. That's what you wanted, isn't it?"
"Yes," Silas said, speaking slowly, as if the words were hard to
utter. "That is what I wanted. I congratulate you. I hope--" he
put a hand upon Ravencombe's knee---"I hope you will both be very
happy."
"Thanks," said Ravencombe. He laid his hand upon Silas's, the smile
still on his face. "You've been a good friend to her, Silas. She's
told me so. And to me too, for which I am eternally grateful. Will
you do one thing more--for her--for us both?"
"Need you ask?" said Silas.
Ravencombe's eyes still smiled down at him, their free, dauntless
smile. "Well, you may not want to," he said. "But I think she'd
like you--I think it would be decent of you--to go and congratulate
her too. Will you do that?"
For one instant Silas hesitated. For one instant the bitterness of
life seemed to rise up, monster-like, and smite him between the eyes.
Then firmly, unflinchingly, he took command.
"Certainly I will," he said.
"Thanks!" said Ravencombe again. His hand gripped hard upon the hand
beneath it, which after a moment or two stirred, turned upwards and
grasped his own. "I know she would like your approval," he said.
"You're a privileged person, Silas, and you deserve to be. And one
thing more before you go! If by any chance you should come up
against a gate marked Private, just open it and walk right in!
You'll find you have a right."
He was gone with the words, still laughing, still careless of mien.
As he reached the lane, Silas, still standing on the green track,
heard his horse break into a canter. But he himself did not stir
hand or foot until the sound had died completely away.
CHAPTER IX
THE OPEN DOOR
"Just walk right in!" The words repeated themselves to Silas in
curious cadences as he went up the grassy track. Somehow they had
wiped out the bitterness, leaving only the sense of loss which
perpetually weighed upon him now. It was decent of Ravencombe to
have expressed it like that. He was thankful that he had not
attempted to be more explicit, more intimate. He could not have
endured pity or even sympathy. But the right hand of
friendship,--that was a different thing. And Bobby would be the
same, he knew. Bobby would always want to keep him for a friend.
The thought pierced him, but he held it close, notwithstanding. She
valued his friendship, and she should never look to him in vain for
it. Having offered her all he had, he would never grudge her the
very little with which she was content.
He quickened his footsteps a little. He was glad that he should be
the first to see her in her happiness. Memories of that day that now
seemed so long ago on which he had first broached the subject next
his heart came to him as he went,--her kindness, her gentleness, and
her faithfulness. Well, it had not been in his power to give her
happiness, but he had at least helped her to gain it. Of this also
he was glad.
He came within sight of the old farm, standing there in its trimness
with its white gate closed. The ducks swam on the pond as usual, and
the whole scene was supremely peaceful. The impulse came to him to
pass on to the little farmyard and the door at the back by which he
had been wont to enter; but he resisted it. Bobby would not be
working in her kitchen to-night. Besides, now that she was left
alone, she had installed a girl from the village to help her. In
this also he had been instrumental. The life of drudgery was over
for her. He opened the gate and went through.
Then he saw that the door beyond the porch was open--that door
through which Rosemary had once sung her ribald rhyme.
"Oh, don't stay to rile us,
But run away, Silas,
Hickory dickory dock!"
He smiled faintly at the memory. She need not have objected so
strongly to his presence after all.
He lifted his hand to knock, and then suddenly checked himself. The
door on his right that led into the little parlour was ajar, and from
beyond that door had come a sound.
It was a very low sound, but it seemed to drive straight through him.
Without a moment's further pause, he pushed the door open and went
right in.
She was sunk in a chair, all huddled together, and fighting--fighting
desperately to control an agony of tears. She knew of his coming,
but she could not face him, so overwhelmed was she by that piteous
distress. And he who had seen her weep before did not hesitate now,
but went down on his knees beside her and drew her to lean against
him. Little as he had expected to find her thus, he asked no
question and showed no surprise. She was weary of course and still
weak. With Matilda and Rosemary both gone, there was no one to turn
to in either joy or sorrow. She who had served others so long and so
patiently was left to meet her own needs alone.
She drew herself from him at last, drying her eyes. "I'm so sorry
you found me like this," she said.
"It doesn't matter, does it?" said Silas.
"I don't know," she said shakily. "It ought."
"I don't know why it should," he said. "We're friends, aren't we? I
shan't abuse your confidence."
"As if you could!" said Bobby. "There!" She mustered a smile. "I'm
better now. Do pull up a chair!"
He obeyed her, and she lay back in her own for a space in silence.
At length, "I've heard from Rosemary," she said. "She loves her
Scotch home, and wants me to go and see her in it as soon as
possible."
"It would do you good," said Silas.
"I don't think it would be very good for her at present," said Bobby.
"They have got to settle down together--learn each other's ways.
They will do that better alone."
"You always think of others first," he said.
"No, not always, Silas." Gently she contradicted him. "You for
instance! No one can say that I have not used you for my own ends
for as long as I have known you."
Silas shifted his position. Gratitude was worse than pity or
sympathy and must be stopped at all costs. "I've never done anything
for you that I didn't want to do," he told her bluntly. "I've always
liked doing it; though I'm glad for your sake that it's over."
"Aren't you going to help me ever again then?" asked Bobby, with a
slight drawing of the brows.
She did not look at him as she lay in her chair. Her expression was
somewhat that of one who seeks the solution to a problem; but her
distress had passed, and her attitude was one of peace.
"You won't need it after this," said Silas.
"Shan't I?" said Bobby. "It's a funny world, you know, Silas. Very
often if the things you think you most want come to you, they turn
out to be those for which you have the least use. And it's the other
way round too. We never know what we really want. Only God knows
that. It's much safer to leave it to Him."
"I think you generally do," said Silas.
"Oh no, I don't." She spoke with a certain wistfulness. "I've
struggled--I've agonized sometimes--for what was out of reach, when,
if I'd only known it, the thing I needed first and foremost was close
at hand. And I suppose we change too as the years go on. At least I
do. One thinks one never will. But one does."
"You can't help growing," said Silas.
She turned her face towards him in the fading light. "That's just
it. Outgrowing some things and growing into others. I've been very
slow to realize that, though you've said it to me before--in
connection with Rosemary." She uttered a sigh. "You were very much
wiser than I," she said. "I've made--a great many mistakes, Silas."
"Not one that I've ever seen," he said stoutly.
She smiled. "That shows how little you see of what is actually going
on in front of you," she said.
"I see all I want to see," he said, a note of doggedness in his voice.
"Do you?" said Bobby. "I wonder."
Again for a space she was silent. Then in a lower voice, "Silas,"
she said, "do you remember once saying to me that though a gate might
be shut against you, you couldn't be prevented from--looking over?"
"Yes," said Silas. He spoke curtly. "It was a cad's trick. I never
did."
"Never?" she said, with a hint of surprise. "You never have?"
"Never." He repeated the word forcibly. "I've never looked over,
never wanted to. I was content without."
She drew a long breath. "How like you!" she said. "That is what you
meant by saying you see all you want to see?"
"It was," said Silas.
She stretched out her hand to him. "Silas, have you always believed
in me?"
He took it, squarely facing her. "I have known you too well even to
ask myself that," he said. "You were--just you. Nothing else
mattered."
Her eyes filled with tears. "Thank you for that," she said.
He released her hand and got up. "Don't, please!" he said brusquely.
"I can't stand it. You've nothing on earth to thank me for. I wish
I could have done something for you really worth doing,--spared you
all this pain."
She lay, looking up at him. "Some day," she said, "some day I will
tell you all that you have done for me. The pain is over now, Silas,
or very nearly. Time will do the rest."
He turned from her with a blind, desperate movement. He could not
bear any longer to stand there looking down upon her. His own pain
was goading him almost beyond endurance.
"You're not going?" said Bobby's voice behind him. "Don't go yet!
Didn't you come for any special reason?"
He stood struggling with himself. The reason for his coming! The
reason!
"Don't go yet!" she said again, "unless you must! I want--I want to
discuss the pigs with you."
He wheeled sharply, facing her again; but he still stood speechless.
She was sitting up now, her face raised. There was even something of
challenge in her attitude. "We shall have to discuss them sooner or
later," she said practically, "if we are going to be partners."
Partners! He stared at her, found his voice at last. "You don't
think I came round to talk about pigs, do you?" he said.
"I don't know," said Bobby. "Why did you come?"
She looked so fragile in her black dress, yet withal she seemed to
have donned a cloak of authority before which he was helpless.
She got up as he did not speak. "Shall we go out and look at them?"
she said.
He made a movement to obey, then abruptly stopped himself and her
also. "I'll tell you what I came for," he said, and it was the
hardest thing he had ever uttered. "I came--to wish you joy."
"Oh!" said Bobby, as if startled.
He went on, recovering his strength as he did so. "I met Ravencombe
in the lane just now. He told me all was well between you. So I
came on--to wish you--every happiness."
His words came jerkily, but they were straight from his soul. He
held out his hand to her as he spoke them, and she took it instantly
between both her own and closely held it.
"Did he tell you that?" she said in a voice that shook. "Oh, did he
tell you that?"
And then--how it happened he scarcely knew--suddenly his hand was
pressed hard to her heart so that its quick beating came to him.
"And so you came to wish me happiness?" she said, her sweet face
raised to him. "Oh, Silas--dear Silas--once more--how like you! And
you didn't know--you never guessed--that the only person who could
give it to me was you--you yourself!"
"What do you mean?" he said thickly, hoarsely, for it was as if the
whole world were rocking under him. "Bobby--for God's sake--what do
you mean?"
She clasped his hand more closely to her breast. Her eyes were
shining as though a torch had been lighted within her.
"He told you all was well between us," she said. "And he spoke the
truth. All is well. But the old bond is gone. I don't quite know
how to put it. We seem to have outgrown each other, that's all. And
I--Silas, I have belonged to you ever since I offered myself to you
in payment of a debt, and you wouldn't have me. But you'll have me
now--I know you'll have me now--because I want you so."
He still gazed at her, unbelieving. "Am I dreaming?" he said. "Or
is it true?"
"It is quite true," she said tremulously. "Dick has been very good
to me. He came and offered me all he had. But--but--somehow I found
I didn't want it. And--and he understood and went away. I was
dreadfully sorry,--that was why you found me crying,--but I couldn't
help it. He is a wanderer. He will go all over the world and find
consolation and amusement. While I--all I want--" her voice thrilled
suddenly--"all I want, Silas, is to stay at home, and mind the
pigs--with you."
"Bobby!!" he said.
His arms drew her. She went into them like a bird into its nest.
She clasped her own about his neck, laughing a little, sobbing a
little.
"Are you seeing--more than you want to see--this time?" she asked him
tenderly. "Now that the gate is open--don't you want--wouldn't you
like--just to step inside? There is nothing there,--really,
Silas--that will make you wish you hadn't."
"Bobby!" he said again, and on the second utterance of her name his
voice broke. He bent his face to hers. "How I have wanted
you--wanted you!" he whispered.
"And now you've got me," she whispered back--"all there is of me--all
my heart's best love. Oh, Silas, I hope I shall make you happy."
"If I don't bring happiness to you," said Silas very deeply, "I'll
die by my own hand."
There followed a short silence, and then out of it like the cheery
chirp of a bird in the dawning came Bobby's voice.
"Well," she said briskly, "we've proposed to each other, accepted
each other, and wished each other every happiness. Now let's get
down to serious business! What about the pigs?"
THE END