Part 1 — CHAPTER XI DICK DYNAMO

Rosemary's escapade on Leader was followed by an interval of the most exemplary behaviour on her part. For one thing Aunt Bobby had treated the affair leniently and had not demanded to know embarrassing details. Beyond exacting a promise readily given by Rosemary that she would not repeat the offence, she had apparently deemed it wiser to let the matter slip into the background of forgotten sins, and Rosemary was more than willing to let her do so.

Her own impression of that evening's happenings was a rather bewildered one, and her feelings regarding Silas's share therein were of a very mixed character. The fact that he had taken her part in Aunt Bobby's presence was one which excited her alternate gratitude and resentment. There was no doubt that her pride had suffered considerably, but yet in fairness—and Rosemary was very fair—she had to admit that she herself was largely responsible for this. She had put herself completely in the wrong and had thus given him the opportunity to display a generosity of which she had not believed him capable. She even thought to herself sometimes that the whipping which he had barely refrained from administering would have been preferable. But on the other hand the fact that he had realized her womanhood in time to respect it was gratifying. On the whole, though somewhat reluctantly, she was inclined to accord to him a certain measure of admiration. He was not quite the country oaf that she had believed him to be. He had shown a sporting spirit, and Rosemary was of the age and type to be more strongly swayed by that than by anything else. She had no intention of relinquishing her hostile attitude towards him in the matter of his friendship with Aunt Bobby. That was rank presumption and no more to be tolerated now than heretofore. But for the man himself her feelings had undergone a change. He was a sportsman.

It seemed that the honours of war had been divided, and she was well aware that she owed this to his chivalry—a quality of which she had imagined him to be wholly devoid. Therefore some degree of deference was due to him, and Rosemary, being fair-minded, was not the sort of girl to deny it.

She avoided Staple Farm for some days, but it was rather from a sense of embarrassment than one of antagonism. But when she finally came face to face with Silas one evening in their own farmyard nearly a week later her attitude was wholly impersonal and free from strain. She had recovered her equilibrium. She knew that he had been in to see her aunt several times, and she had purposely kept out of the way. But now her free pose announced that she had returned to the old footing. While not actively disliking him, he was an interloper and she did not want him.

She was riding old Dobbin the cart-horse in from the plough, and as Silas opened the gate for her she looked down upon him with a good deal of dignity.

"Thank you," she said. "If you are waiting for my aunt, I think she has gone to see old Mrs. Everett and may be some time."

She walked Dobbin on to his stable with the words. Silas turned and followed, and waited for her at the door.

Rosemary did not hurry. She dismounted and proceeded to give Dobbin a rub-down, whistling the while. When she had finished, she fed him with oats and hay, and came out to draw a bucket of water.

"I'll do that," said Silas, taking the bucket from her.

"Thank you," said Rosemary again, and allowed him to make himself useful.

But when Dobbin was served and finally tucked up for the night, she faced the visitor with a touch of hauteur.

"Perhaps you would like to give me a message for Aunt Bobby. She won't be back yet."

"I'd sooner wait," said Silas, taking out his pipe.

Rosemary looked at him for a moment, then a sudden gleam lighted her blue eyes. She led the way across the yard. "Certainly. Come in!" she said hospitably.

He slipped his pipe back into his pocket and followed her. There was something about this girl that amused him. Her very animosity was in its fashion entertaining.

She opened the door into the hall and paused, listening.

"Yes, Aunt Matilda is down," she said, nodding towards the parlour. "Come into the kitchen!"

The tact thus displayed somewhat surprised him. The Rosemary of other days would have taken a malicious pleasure in inflicting upon him society for which she knew he had little liking. Yet he did not make the mistake of thinking that it was dictated by any kindness on her part. She evidently had an end in view, and he became curious to know what it was. He followed her across the hall as she lightly preceded him and entered the kitchen behind her.

The fire was burning cheerily and the kettle hissed upon it in readiness for tea. Bobby had set everything in order before going out. Teapot and tea-caddy stood side by side on the table with the tray.

"Sit down!" said Rosemary, pointing to a wooden armchair beside the open hearth.

Silas complied with a certain wariness. She slipped off her coat and prepared to make the tea; but in a moment moved across to the dresser to light the lamp.

Silas watched her. Her lithe quick movements had the same daintiness as had those of Roberta Wendholme, her form in its boyish garb the same delicacy of outline. Her face, seen in the fitful light of the fire, might have been that of Bobby herself, except for that little mocking smile about the lips which with Bobby would have been merely whimsical. A more complete resemblance could scarcely have existed. As Peter had said, they might have been cast in the same mould. Time alone had traced the difference between them. Roberta at Rosemary's age must have been exactly the same.

Silas's heart stirred within him with a strange intensity of feeling. Notwithstanding her pride of bearing, the girl before him had a pathos which banished any lingering sense of hostility. He pitied her with a deep compassion that somehow had its root in his love for Bobby. In that moment there arose within him a force of devotion that embraced them both. Do what she might to frustrate him, Rosemary would never provoke him to enmity again.

She turned from lighting the lamp and opened a drawer of the old dresser. "Here's something here I think you would like to see!"

"What is it?"

He saw that she was holding a book. She crossed the room to his side. "It's Aunt Bobby's album of snaps," she explained. "She hardly ever takes any now. There is no time. These were nearly all done before we came to Stapleton. Perhaps you would like to look at them while I get the tea." She placed it in his hands and turned away.

He opened the book towards the end and found one or two recent photographs of herself, but it was not full and he turned to the beginning.

On the first page was a full-length portrait of a man in hunting-dress on horseback.

He sat and stared at it, arrested by some inner prompting that moved him to take in every detail. The picture was one of those amateur inspirations which occasionally beat all the art of the professional. The pose of both horse and rider was superb. The man's whole air was patrician, but not arrogantly so. His bearing was military and supremely confident. He had the daring look of one accustomed to override all obstacles. His features were clean-cut and purposeful as his limbs were lean and strong, essentially a man of great personal attraction, a man to whom women would accord almost instinctive homage.

"Who is this?" said Silas.

There was a deep interrogation in his voice that caused Rosemary to set down the kettle in the act of pouring out.

She came and looked over his shoulder. "That? Oh, that's Aunt Bobby's fiancé! He rode in the Grand National when he was in the Army, and he was always called Dick Dynamo. Jolly fine, isn't he? No wonder Aunt Bobby fell in love with him!"

Silas remained absolutely motionless, his attention fixed. She looked down at his black head, the dancing light of mischief still in her eyes, and continued, airily communicative.

"He went to California. He wanted her to go too, but she wouldn't. But he is coming back to fetch her some day, and I shall be jolly glad when he does, for I'm tired of this hole."

"Oh, you would go too, would you?" said Silas.

"Of course I should go!" she declared with emphasis. "I don't know what would happen to Aunt Matilda, but anyhow I wouldn't be left behind. Aunt Bobby would never go anywhere without me." She spoke with complacence. "I shouldn't wonder if it wasn't because of me that she didn't go with him in the first place. But of course Grandpa was alive then too, and Aunt Matilda never could be trusted to look after anybody."

She returned to her tea-making as she spoke, still with one eye upon Silas. He had not moved, but she noticed that one powerful hand was hard clenched upon the arm of his chair.

After a considerable pause he asked another question in that deep, insistent voice of his. "Does she ever hear from him?"

Rosemary hesitated. She had hoped he would not ask her that. Strict truth, however, had been inculcated in her from her cradle and she found herself compelled to cling to its fringe.

"Well, not often; at least not lately. That's what makes me wonder sometimes if perhaps he may be on his way back to find her. I am sure she will never send him away again. She is very, very, very fond of him. She wears his ring always."

"On her right hand," said Silas with a sudden stab of memory.

"Yes. It ought to be on her left as they're engaged, oughtn't it?" said Rosemary. "I have often thought so myself, and I shall tell her you say so."

Silas stirred at that, lifted his head for the first time. It was a good thing for Rosemary that she had returned the kettle to the hob, or she would certainly have dropped it.

"You needn't do that," he said briefly. "I haven't said it. Now tell me! Did she tell you all this—or did you make it up?"

Rosemary faced him with kindling wrath. To be called to account for telling the truth was not to be tolerated for a moment. "I don't know what you mean," she said. "Of course I didn't make it up. You can ask her if you don't believe me. Or no! You had better not! She can't bear to talk of him—to strangers."

"I see," said Silas. His sternness died down, and he quietly closed the album and laid it aside. "That's enough for to-night. I think I'll go."

He got up without anger, and again his look comprehended Rosemary with an odd compassion.

She met it with defiant surprise. In some fashion she felt as if he had defeated her in the very moment of success.

"I can tell you some more about him," she said, "if you'd like to hear it. I don't mind talking about him. I only wish he'd come back."

"I shouldn't wish too hard if I were you," said Silas. "You're happier as you are. Good night!"

He turned to go and Rosemary made no effort to stay him. Somehow, though her ruse had succeeded, she did not feel wholly satisfied with the trend events had taken.

As he went out, she picked up the album and opened it again upon the portrait of the gallant figure on horseback.

"Oh, I do wish you'd come back!" she said with a sigh. "I've never seen you—but I know I'd love you!"