Part 1 — CHAPTER V MATILDA

She went quickly up the dark oak stairs, moving with the ready energy which Silas knew as one of her main characteristics. That energy of Bobby's was never allowed to flag. Rosemary always declared that she was never tired, but it would have been more accurate to have said that she was never idle. The whole burden of Little Staple Farm hung upon her shoulders, and she never showed any sign of flinching. When Silas had once asked her what would happen if she were ill, she had answered, "How absurd! Why, I never have time to be ill!"

It was not so, however, with her sister Matilda. Mary's compassionate description of her as "a poor thing" was a very appropriate one. Matilda was one of those, who though seldom seriously ill, are never really well. She was barely two years Bobby's senior, but her dependence upon the younger sister was as complete as if many generations separated them. Rosemary used to wonder sometimes rather scornfully if Aunt Matilda had ever been young enough to do anything for herself, for Bobby waited upon her hand and foot with unremitting devotion. She herself never attempted to join in the good work, but for this aloofness she was not to blame, nor was it surprising that lack of sympathy had been its direct consequence. From her babyhood upwards Rosemary had always been given definitely to understand that she must never worry Aunt Matilda, and in the course of years she had arrived at the very natural conclusion that Aunt Matilda very greatly preferred her room to her company. It had never been a sore point with Rosemary. Aunt Bobby's affection was of so warm and sustaining a character that she had never felt the need of anything further. Of her grandfather, old Colonel Wendholme, she had stood actively in awe, but she had never loved him or pretended to mourn his death. For Matilda she had no respect of any kind, and the deference towards her instilled by Aunt Bobby was of a purely superficial nature. She adored Aunt Bobby, and in her very waywardness she was wont to spare her as much as possible. In her early childhood to be whipped by Aunt Bobby for some fault had always broken her, because even a mild chastisement from the one and only beloved one was agonizing. The same punishment from her grandfather produced nothing but furious resentment if not rebellion, but Bobby—Bobby suffered so intensely herself in inflicting pain that punishment from her was altogether too heartrending to be incurred lightly.

When she was only nine Rosemary had made a solemn vow in church that she would never, never hurt Aunt Bobby again in that respect, and somehow she had managed to keep her vow to the extent of evading any further corporal punishment until she was judged to be too big for it. But her high-spirited escapades were many and daring, and often in the midst of her pressing duties Bobby would utter a swift involuntary sigh over the growing responsibility that each year laid upon her. Rosemary with her enchanting youth and beauty on the one hand—Matilda with her failing health and pathetic dependence on the other! But she was never seriously depressed about it. As she would have said again with brisk commonsense, there was no time for that.

Entering her sister's bedroom on that dark November evening, her step was as light as though the day's work were before her instead of nearly past.

"I am afraid I have been a very long time," she said. "You must have finished your tea long ago. I hope it was nice?"

"Oh, do take it away!" came the immediate fretful rejoinder. "You know how I hate to have the remains of a meal lying about in my room. I suppose it was Farmer Hickory again, was it? What did he want?"

It was Matilda's contemptuous habit always to refer to Silas in this way. Their landlord was the only subject upon which she and Rosemary thought alike.

Bobby came to the bedside and whisked the offending tea-tray from the table.

"He only came to see if he could be of any help in selling the pigs at Bode Market to-morrow," she said, "as he heard you were ill and that I couldn't get over myself."

Matilda made a scornful sound. She was lying among her pillows in a kind of elegant disorder. She too had once possessed beauty, of a more classical and less arresting type than that which was developing in Rosemary; but years of discontent and bitterness had completely marred its gracious contours. Her features remained refined and chiselled, but the fretful lines of forehead and mouth had become too apparent for beauty to hold its own any longer. The years had scored her heavily, and she looked at least ten years older than Bobby.

Her night attire was of the daintiest description. The whole of Matilda's life, when she was not being ill, was devoted to the maintenance of her wardrobe. As she said, it was right that one of them should have the style and appearance of a lady, even though they were condemned to lead a life of squalor and penury on a farm in the wilds. She had a wonderful taste in dress; it was her one asset. And her clothes were always faultless in cut and condition. She had a regal bearing also, and she knew how to wear them.

Even in bed, her dainty shell-pink négligée struck a note of fastidious and not wholly incongruous refinement in the plain room with its simple furniture and threadbare carpet. She had sufficient personality to make her surroundings, and not herself, the incongruous part of the picture. The coarse sheets in which she lay somehow merely enhanced her rarity. Only the tragic lines of her face matched the sombre background.

"And what will be his excuse to-morrow?" she demanded languidly, reaching a delicate hand for a small mirror that stood on a table by her side.

"Probably the pigs," said Bobby with tranquillity. "What would you like for supper?"

Matilda made a face into the glass she held. "Oh, really, Bobby," she said, "your mind like your body seems to feed on meals! Whenever I see you, you ask me something of the sort."

"My dear, it is no good my bringing you up something that you won't eat," said Bobby, unperturbed. "I have done that too often. Would you like some aspic jelly? I have made some for you if you care for it."

Matilda was pulling her hair into becoming waves on her forehead. "Oh, anything you like!" she said without transferring her attention. "Please give me the thermometer before you go! If I have a temperature, you will have to send for Bellamy. I'm not going to lie here and die of neglect."

"I shouldn't think you have a temperature to-night," observed Bobby. "Wouldn't you like me to do your hair for you?"

"No, thanks. You do it so badly. I've been looking a positive scarecrow all day, but I haven't had the strength to alter it." Matilda's voice took a plaintive note. "It's all very well for you," she said. "You don't know what it is to lie here hour after hour. I honestly believe you would never think of sending for the doctor until I was at death's door."

"Oh, I hope I should," said Bobby briskly. "But you haven't come to that yet, have you? Now let me just put this tray outside, and then I'll come back and make up a nice fire that you can sit by while I make your bed."

"I don't want my bed made to-night," said Matilda. "Come and sit by me and talk instead! It won't take you any longer."

Bobby looked a little doubtful on this point, but she had the wisdom not to dispute it. She opened the door and set down the tray on a slab outside, then came back and attended to the fire.

"Give me my powder-box and manicure set!" said Matilda.

Bobby brought them, and adjusted the lamp by the bedside for her sister's comfort. Then she sat down in a wicker-chair, and though she never betrayed any signs of fatigue there was something that indicated relief in the manner in which she sank into the worn cushions.

"Such a pity you don't sit down a little oftener!" said Matilda. "You are getting so scraggy. But you always were a restless creature."

"It seems to be my lot in life," said Bobby, with a smile.

"Do you remember how you used to fidget poor old Father?" said Matilda. "He always said you didn't know how to rest."

Bobby made no reply. She knew, as well as did Matilda, that she had been her father's favourite and the sole comfort of his last years.

"And Rosemary is just like you," went on Matilda, beginning to powder her nose. "Such a wild, harum-scarum thing! She whistles about the place like a boy. It's such a pity to encourage her, I think. But you always said I was to leave her to you, and so I do. I wish you joy of her, that's all."

"And she is a joy too!" said Bobby, with sudden warmth.

Matilda raised her eyebrows a little. "I'm glad you think so," she said briefly. "I think you've completely ruined her, that's all."

Once again Bobby said nothing. Matilda really did not try her patience very severely, since her opinion mattered so little. As Rosemary had been rebuked for saying, poor Aunt Matilda just buzzed on and no one ever took any notice of her.

Matilda shut her powder-box with a snap after a few moments and looked up. "And so Farmer Hickory is going to sell your pigs for you, is he?" she said.

"No, dear," said Bobby. "I have got Mr. Everett down at Holtwood to take them over for me. He is calling for them early to-morrow."

"But you have to pay him, don't you?" said Matilda.

"Of course," said Bobby.

Matilda opened her eyes wide. "Then why on earth don't you let Hickory do it for love?"

"Because I would rather not," said Bobby.

Her sister began to laugh. "I really don't see why you shouldn't derive some benefit from his ridiculous infatuation. The man's quite daft—obviously; but I don't see why he shouldn't do something useful for once."

Bobby got up. "I don't like to take what I can never repay," she said. "Well, I am afraid I must go and see to the supper. You would like the aspic jelly, would you?"

Matilda's face became petulant again; "Oh, anything will always do for me!" she said. "I don't suppose I shall touch it. If there's any junket and cream, I don't mind trying that."

"Very well, dear." Bobby turned to the door. "Yes, there is some cream left. We saved it for you."

"Well, I shouldn't think that was any great sacrifice," remarked Matilda. "You must loathe the very sight of it working in the dairy from morning till night as you do. I'm sure I should."

The soft closing of the door was her only answer, and she took up her manicure-case with a sigh.

"Poor Bobby! She isn't as goodtempered as she used to be," was her comment. "She quite resented that little joke about Farmer Hickory. But she can't—surely she can't—take him seriously!" The idea suddenly presented a disquieting aspect; she paused in her task with dilated eyes. Then: "Oh no, it's impossible!" she decided finally. "She couldn't lower herself to that extent even though she does run a farm!"

She began to trim her nails with fastidious care, and the subject dropped from her mind. Matilda Wendholme possessed the immense advantage of being able to concentrate her whole thought upon herself to the exclusion of all minor subjects practically at will. And no one could maintain that Bobby's drab existence could be a matter of especial importance to anyone for long. Ever since Bobby had elected to turn farmer and bury herself and the rest of the family at Little Staple, Matilda had ceased to take the faintest interest in her doings. She had deeply resented the step, though she had been quite incapable of suggesting any other means of eking out what otherwise could hardly have been described as a livelihood. On that point Bobby had been immovable, and Matilda had been obliged to yield. But it had remained a sore point ever since. She had never fully forgiven Bobby for making that determined stand, and though she had since more than vindicated her decision, the bitterness remained and Matilda's attitude of perpetual disapproval had never altered. Bobby had chosen a life of slavery and degradation, and she, Matilda refused to take any part in it. She had never washed a cup or boiled an egg since they had become inmates of Little Staple. It was Bobby who had brought them there, and therefore, as a natural consequence, it was Bobby's business to do the work. That she lived a life of comfort at Bobby's expense she would never have admitted. She was one of the unlucky ones of the earth. Her health was poor and life had used her hardly. That she made her own clothes and occasionally arranged flowers on the parlour-table were matters for considerable self-satisfaction. Not many with her limited powers would have done as much. In fact, Matilda always marvelled at her own grit and energy when she rose from a week in bed. There was nothing to get up for, very little to live for. It was only out of consideration for Bobby, who never considered her, that she did not suffer herself to go under altogether. So she sometimes said.