Part 1 — CHAPTER VII THE REAL REASON

Rosemary's prediction that her bugbear would come again on the morrow was fulfilled, but she herself was absent when he did so, having been considerately despatched to the Vicarage by Bobby with some eggs. Bobby supplied a good many of the surrounding houses with eggs. She had the gift, Rosemary said, of persuading her hens to lay when those of other people were on strike. If unremitting care and attention were the secret of her success, then she certainly earned it to the utmost. At five o'clock every morning she was always up and about, first lighting the kitchen-fire and making a cup of tea for herself and for Cox the cowman, then heating up food for the poultry while she swept and dusted the parlour and hall; then out to the pigs and the chickens, returning at seven to call Rosemary and put the kettle on for Matilda's early tea. At half-past-seven she and Rosemary breakfasted, though Matilda, even when in normal health, never came down before nine. Bobby had latterly, from motives of convenience, begun to take it up to her as soon as her own was finished, and though Matilda grumbled at the unearthly hour at which she was thus forced to eat it she suffered the arrangement. There were times when Bobby achieved results of this kind without any apparent effort, simply by quiet and unwavering insistence.

After the breakfast-things were cleared and washed up by herself and Rosemary, she went to the dairy to make the butter while Rosemary attended to the old cart-horse and her dog Jess who at the present time was occupied with a litter of puppies. Butter was another commodity which Bobby sold to her neighbours. She had but three cows, and such milk as was over went to Staple Farm in part payment of the rent. There were many ways in which Silas Hickory proved himself a friend and adviser worth having. He bought her calves and relieved her of many minor anxieties and difficulties. Only her pigs and poultry went to market, and it was usually under his guidance that these were sold. For Silas always had business at Bode Market when Bobby had to go. It was almost an understood thing, though she generally tried to hire Everett's cart for transport before he could persuade her to make use of his. Bobby was of a very independent nature, and, though never ungracious, she liked to stand upon her own feet. There was never any danger of the cross-grained Everett placing her under an obligation.

The dairy-work over, there was always work to be done in house or garden and the midday dinner to be cooked. On washing-days this was usually a cold meal, to Matilda's outspoken disgust. In the afternoon for an hour she superintended Rosemary's studies, which had been her most particular care since the death of her father had deprived the girl of a more leisured teacher. Rosemary was supposed to study alone for part of the morning, but since the advent of Jess's pups this arrangement had lapsed somewhat; but Bobby still insisted that the afternoon reading should continue. She was very strict on this point, and if Rosemary's attention ever waned, then her chances of liberty for the rest of the day were small. If, on the other hand, she applied herself, she was free to roam where she would by three o'clock, and, to give her her due, she very often spent the time either in helping with the cows or in running errands for Bobby, who was then busy till tea-time with pigs and poultry.

On the present occasion she departed gladly to the Vicarage with the eggs, for the prospect of having to keep her impetuous promise of the previous evening to be ever so nice to the detested Silas was anything but an attractive one. And after all, funny old Mrs. Hudson, the Vicar's wife, was quite a dear even if a trifle prim. As for the Vicar, well, of course he was everybody's friend and generally to be found anywhere except at the Vicarage. Certainly it was much more fun when Percy was at home, even if he did get her into occasional hot water, as on the last Bank Holiday when he had taken her to Bode Fair on the back of his motor-cycle unknown to Aunt Bobby, bringing her back at eleven to meet the wrath of the gods. That had been Rosemary's last serious scrape. She usually had about three a year, she reflected, as she made her way nimbly between the puddles in the misty November sunshine, and she could hardly hope to keep the slate clean much longer. Last night had been a near thing. Aunt Bobby had very nearly assumed her magisterial authority against which there was no appeal. Only her timely surrender had saved the situation, and she had a strong feeling that even yet there were breakers ahead. It was really impossible to keep an even course. Life would become too deadly a thing without these ructions, even though they always ended in acute suffering. She did not mean to be wicked and wayward, but, as Silas had said, she was like an untamed colt, and the necessity to run wild was sometimes too paramount to be resisted. It was no vice that urged her, merely the fact that she was young and hotblooded and had no other vent for the natural effervescence of her spirits. They simply boiled up within her and could not be contained. She had no amusements save those of her own devising, and perhaps she was hardly to be blamed that these were usually of the nature of escapades. If they brought punishment in their wake, well, that of course was unfortunate, but one must do something to relieve the monotony. To remain good in order to keep out of trouble seemed to Rosemary rather craven. Besides, she simply had to have her fling.

She had discarded the riding-breeches which she always wore in the farmyard in deference to Mrs. Hudson's primness, but she walked with a boyish swing nevertheless. No one could have seen her sunburnt healthy face with its startlingly blue eyes without realizing that she was essentially a child of the open air. And there was that in her erect carriage which proclaimed her a fearless horse-woman also, though it was largely due to the kindly veterinary-surgeon and riding-master at Bode that she had become one. Some of the best days that she had ever known had been spent in the saddle with old Roper as companion and mentor, and one of the sharpest punishments that Aunt Bobby could inflict was to refuse to allow her to avail herself of the offer of a free gallop over the moors with him. It was only now and then that Roper could spare the time, but he and Rosemary had been fast friends for years and he never forgot her when occasion offered. He called her his prize-pupil and declared, in answer to Aunt Bobby's scruples, that her riding was more than sufficient payment for him. He was, in fact, very proud of her and, strange to say, he never found her hard to manage.

"Don't be afraid to give her her head sometimes!" he would say to Aunt Bobby. "Don't ride her too much on the curb, ma'am! Good breeding always tells in the long run. She'll never come to grief."

And though Aunt Bobby would shake her head and declare that he spoilt her, Rosemary knew that she did not despise old Roper's advice. He had a shrewd perception which he did not keep entirely for horses and cattle.

"If only Silas Hickory were more like him instead of trying to be a gentleman!" was Rosemary's thought. "I should simply die of shame if he dared to ask Aunt Bobby to marry him!"

Some unaccountable wave of telepathy must have wafted this thought to her at that particular moment, for it was just then, as the sun sank behind the elms of the churchyard and Rosemary turned in at the Vicarage gate, that Silas Hickory, looking peculiarly stubborn and rather ungainly, waylaid Bobby as she came from her chicken-runs to tell her that the pigs had fetched a good price and he had personally brought her the money from Everett.

"You can let him have a receipt any time," he said. "I thought you wouldn't mind my bringing it. He didn't want to come round, and I did."

Bobby paused, a little confused, a bucket in one hand and a can in the other. She was bareheaded, and the pale sunshine behind her turned her fair hair into a gleaming halo. Her face had a girlish, almost appealing look.

"It was very good of you to take the trouble," she said rather weakly.

He bent and took the utensils from her. "This is what I should always like to do for you," he told her bluntly; "carry your burdens."

"I am very glad the pigs sold well," said Bobby.

He turned towards the granary, and she paused in the yard and waited for him while he put her things away. When he joined her again, he was no longer openly awkward, but the stubbornness remained. Cox was milking the cows in an adjoining shed. He glanced in with an experienced eye as he passed.

"Such a lovely evening after the rain!" said Bobby, moving on. "It might almost be September."

Silas glanced about him. The farm-yard had a well-swept, orderly look. A white pigeon was sunning itself on the roof of the barn. A misty atmosphere of peace lay upon the whole scene.

"Are you fond of it?" said Silas.

"Very," said Bobby simply.

He looked at her. "But you never have any time to enjoy it."

"I just enjoy as I go along," she said.

She led the way from the farm-yard to the grassy space in front of the old house, and there she paused.

"Will you come in and have some tea?" she said.

He stood facing her, his burly frame massively outlined against the white of the farmhouse wall.

"I'll come if I shan't be in the way," he said.

She smiled faintly, a trifle wistfully. "You won't be in mine," she said. "Rosemary is out and Matilda is still upstairs."

A gleam of satisfaction shone in Silas's eyes at the news. "In that case I'll come, thank you very much," he said.

Bobby turned to the narrow flagged path that led to the porch. He followed her with a kind of heavy-footed persistence.

"You go and sit down in the parlour!" she said, glancing back as she entered. "I have just got to boil up the kettle in the kitchen."

"Can't we have tea in the kitchen?" said Silas. "I'm sure you wouldn't have it in the parlour if I weren't here."

She did not contradict him, merely went straight through to the kitchen; and again Silas followed with the level tread of one not easily turned aside.

The kettle was already singing over the fire. Bobby busied herself with laying the table for two and cutting thin bread and butter for Matilda.

He did not offer to help her. He simply stood and waited with a certain large patience until she could attend to him again. Bobby pursued her tasks with serene deftness. The presence of Silas did not embarrass her. Perhaps the man's absolute simplicity of purpose was a reassuring factor in her eyes.

She made the tea and prepared Matilda's tray exactly as if she had been alone. When that was done, she brought a home-made cake from the cupboard and set it on the table with the loaf and the farm butter.

"I shan't be a minute," she said, taking up the tray.

"I can wait," said Silas, holding open the door for her.

She passed out with a little smile and nod, and he turned back into the room.

It was much smaller than the kitchen at Staple Farm, and perhaps for that reason its spotless orderliness was more apparent. The rose curtains at the windows gave it a simple, old-world look. He remembered for the first time that Mary Flight's curtains were of heavy red serge. Also, Mary had never dreamed of cushions on the window-seats. In Bobby's kitchen there were window-cushions to match the curtains. There were flowers too on the dresser, some dahlias and Michaelmas daisies, arranged with a lightness of touch which honest Mary could never have attained. Mary's flowers were always placed in a handful in a Toby jug on the mantelpiece. There was a general atmosphere of cheeriness in Bobby's kitchen, and though it was low and oak-raftered it was light. He noticed that the windows were open. Mary seldom opened hers as she found that too much draught did not suit the fire and interfered with her cooking. The result was that the mustiness of centuries clung about the place. There was no mustiness here. Everything was sweet and fresh and dainty, like Bobby herself. The charm of her presence seemed to linger everywhere. It was a home without affectation or artistic conceits of any kind, and for that very reason it held a more direct and personal appeal for the man who stood and waited for his hostess's return. It did not speak to him of anyone but her.

He heard her light step in the room overhead and her clear voice talking while he took note of these things; then came the closing of the door and the sound of her feet on the stairs.

She entered, smiling. "Now we will have some tea. Cox won't be in for his cup for half-an-hour yet. He likes it stewed."

She sat down at the end of the table and he took the chair on her right, facing the window and the garden—Bobby's garden where everything that was old-fashioned grew.

She gave him his tea without talking. Her serene silences were in tune with her surroundings, supremely natural and unaffected.

It was Silas who spoke first, and that with no idea of making conversation. The laws of convention meant nothing to him, and their relations had always been formal.

"Are you happy here?" he said.

The question came almost involuntarily, though it was one that he had often longed to ask. He was by no means sure that she would answer it, but he knew her well enough to be confident that she would not resent it.

She did not. She even laughed a little, as one who contemplates something rather humorous. Then she said, without looking at him, "I am quite content to live here, Mr. Hickory, if that is what you mean—unless you turn me out."

It was not what he had expected; somehow she seldom gave him that, though he imagined that he knew her so intimately that there was little more to know.

He made a sharp movement, for her reply pierced him, how deeply he did not for the moment know.

"Turn you out!" he said. "Do you think I am ever likely to do that?"

"I think you might," said Bobby.

He recovered himself. "You don't know me very well if you think that," he said. "I would sooner think of turning out myself!"

"Thank you," said Bobby.

Her blue eyes rested upon him for an instant, and though their glance was absolutely kind, it seemed to convey some sort of warning; and Silas stirred again uneasily.

"Miss Roberta," he said, "you are quite wrong if you imagine that I could ever bear to see you leave this place. Why, if you never paid another quarter's rent, I'd still beg you to stay."

"What bad business!" murmured Bobby confidentially into her cup.

"That's my affair," said Silas bluntly.

She glanced at him again, and then turned her attention to cutting the cake.

As she handed it to him she spoke quietly, with a hint of repression. "I have always felt that I could be happy here. From the moment I first saw the place I felt that."

"Did you?" he said. He took some cake clumsily, his fingers not wholly steady. "I am very glad to hear you say it. I've sometimes wondered if with all this hard work, you mightn't get tired of it."

"Oh, I don't mind work," said Bobby. "In fact, I think work is the only way to be happy. Don't you?"

"No," said Silas rather grimly. "I don't."

She lifted her brows with a slightly quizzical expression and waited for him to continue.

He did so somewhat dogmatically. "There are all sorts of ways of being happy. But working isn't one of them—unless you get results."

"Oh yes, I think you're right there," said Bobby with her cheery smile. "Working without results must be rather like being in prison."

"It is," said Silas gloomily.

"That almost sounds as if you have been there," said Bobby.

His dark eyes met hers. "I'm there now," he said.

Her smile lingered, but it held more of kindness than mirth. "I expect you can find a way out," she said.

"That's just it," said Silas. "Can I?"

Bobby drank her tea thoughtfully. "I think we can all get out of that sort of prison," she said, "if we work hard enough."

"I've done nothing but work all my life," said Silas. "It hasn't led me very far."

"I should think a great many people might think you very lucky," said Bobby.

He made a sound expressive of contemptuous disagreement, but the contempt was for himself, not for her. "Well, I suppose I am lucky from one point of view," he said, after a moment. "I'm making a living. But what's the good of that if it's never going to lead to anything worth having? Do you think winning prizes at Cattle Shows makes up the whole sum and aim of existence?"

"I should love to win prizes at Cattle Shows," said Bobby. "I was looking at that new shorthorn bull of yours only the other day. Isn't he a beauty? You ought to do great things with him."

"I daresay I shall," said Silas. "But what's the good of it? Peter will care much more than I shall."

"Oh, surely not?" protested Bobby. "You have always been so keen."

He threw back his head with an almost fierce gesture of repudiation. "I may have been keen once, before I knew anything better. But now—well, the taste has gone out of everything for me, and I can't somehow care whether I win or lose."

"What a pity!" said Bobby.

He drank his tea with indignant gulps. "I wouldn't care if it weren't so damn' foolish," he said. "I've always said to myself that I'd never suffer any woman butting into my scheme of things. If I ever took a wife, she would have to understand that and be content. But now," he glared at her with quite unconscious savagery, "I'm all upside down for the sake of a woman. And I want to kick myself for it."

"Oh, don't do that!" pleaded Bobby.

She stretched out her hand for his cup, but he did not pass it. Instead he pounced upon the hand and held it fast.

"You know what I mean!" he said almost accusingly. "You've known all along. It's your doing! I've seen pity in those great soft eyes of yours over and over again. You've been so decent to me all this time—just because you were sorry. That was it, wasn't it? Just—pity!"

"Oh, please!" said Bobby gently.

There was a ring on the hand he held, and he was driving it into her flesh. He looked down suddenly and realized it though she had given no sign. He relaxed his hold sharply and laid his face down upon the crushed fingers with something like a groan.

"I know you'd never be happy with a clodhopper like me," he said. "But—I want you so."

There was something piteous in the words—something of the appeal of a child realizing the unattainable for the first time. Bobby looked down upon the bowed black head, and her eyes filled with tears.

"Don't—please don't put it like that!" she said.

"How else could one put it?" He looked up at her and saw the tears. "Oh, don't cry for the love of heaven!" he said. "It's not your fault. I'll get through somehow. I'll get through." He spoke between his teeth. "I knew I hadn't a dog's chance. I've always known. But I couldn't stop myself. And even now—though I know you won't stoop to look at me—I can't do without the sight of you!"

"Oh, don't say that!" said Bobby. "Don't—ever—say that! I have no reason to look down on you. I am proud—as well as sorry—to know that you care for me like that."

"Proud!" said Silas. He stared at her. "You don't mean that! You are only saying it out of decency."

"I do mean it," said Bobby. "I think your love is a wonderful thing, and though I can't accept it, I do hope you will let me keep your friendship. For I value it—much more than you think."

He continued to gaze at her with a kind of searching wonder. "I do believe you are in earnest," he said.

"But of course I am!" said Bobby simply. "I do value your friendship, and I always have. I should be very, very sorry if this were to deprive me of it."

She slipped her hand gently free with the words, and though his face fell at her action he suffered it to go.

"That's so like you," he said after a moment. "So kind to everyone! I've never seen anyone like you before. You can say the very hardest thing without hurting."

Bobby smiled with obvious relief. "I am so glad you are not hurt," she said. "I do hope you won't encourage yourself to think any more about it. Just put it behind you and be happy again!"

His face reflected her smile though somewhat wryly. "Would you be able to do that, I wonder?" he said.

She met his look with steady eyes. "I should certainly try," she said.

"Yes," he agreed, "you would try. I wonder if you would succeed. Somehow—I don't believe you would."

"Let me give you some more tea!" said Bobby.

He passed his cup and she filled it while he watched her.

"Then you don't consider I have taken a very great liberty?" he said at length.

"Certainly not," said Bobby.

There was a hint of pathos in his eyes as they dwelt upon her. "You know," he said abruptly, "I could offer you a better show than this. If you were the mistress of Staple Farm, you wouldn't have to slave as you do now. I'd make everything easy for you. You would live the life of a lady. No whitewashing of sheds or butter-making or anything of that kind!"

"I like doing those things!" said Bobby whimsically. "They appeal to me—much more than the life of a lady. I am really fond of little pigs."

"You would do exactly as much or as little as you felt inclined for," said Silas.

"But I shouldn't like to feel it didn't matter what I did," pointed out Bobby. "I admit that the work here at Little Staple is hard, but it is at least necessary. One likes to feel that one is necessary."

"And what would happen if you were ill?" said Silas.

She laughed at that. "That is another advantage. One simply can't be ill."

"We are all human," he observed.

"Oh yes, I know," said Bobby. "That is what makes it so interesting. If one weren't fighting against odds, there'd be nothing to fight for, would there?"

"Then you don't want any help?" he said.

"I have never despised the help of a friend," said Bobby. "But, as I told you yesterday, I must stand on my own feet, even if I make a mess of things. And you know," she smiled again, "it may sound very conceited, but really they couldn't do without me here."

"I realize that," said Silas. "But I wouldn't let that stand in the way. I'd take 'em all in, if only you would come."

"Would you?" said Bobby, with obvious surprise.

"Of course I would! You know I would!" He spoke with force. "Do you suppose anything else in the world would matter so long as I had you? I'd make your sister comfortable, and I'd put up with Rosemary even. The only thing I wouldn't do would be to let you go on slaving for them as you're slaving now."

"Ah!" Bobby said with a comical shake of the head. "You would try to be a fairy godfather to us all. But I'm afraid it wouldn't answer—even if it were possible, which it isn't. Still, I do appreciate your generosity. You mustn't think I don't. No man could offer more. I just can't accept it, that's all."

"Why can't you?" said Silas.

The question seemed to burst from him almost involuntarily. He even looked for a moment as if he had not meant to utter it, and then abruptly he hardened himself to await her answer. For Bobby's deep flush had risen and spread like a signal of distress to her temples. She had not flushed like that before, when pleading for his friendship.

She did not speak for some seconds. But for his dogged silence she would hardly have spoken at all.

"I have told you some of the reasons," she said in a low voice.

"Yes," said Silas. "You don't like me well enough, for one. But you haven't told me that you never could."

"Oh, don't make me tell you that!" she said.

He went on somewhat ruthlessly. "And you think there would be ructions with your sister and Rosemary, for another. But let me tell you this, that isn't any reason at all. At least, it wouldn't deter me, nor, so far as I am concerned, would there be any ructions. Somehow, I don't believe it would deter you either if it were possible for you to like me well enough. Miss Roberta, I don't believe you've told me your real reason at all."

Bobby was smiling rather wanly. There was no recalling the flush that had betrayed her.

"But I have!" she protested. "There may be others as well, but——"

"And I am not to know them?" he said.

"The answer would have to be 'No' in any case," she said.

Silas pushed back his chair and got up. His black head was barely a foot from the rafters, and he looked gigantic.

"I think this is rather a child's game," he said. "You either despise me or don't trust me. I don't know which."

"Neither," said Bobby quickly.

She looked up at him with almost unconscious pleading, the distressed flush still covering her fair face.

"Indeed neither!" she reiterated with emphasis. "I honour you, and I would trust you with everything I have."

"Not everything!" said Silas.

"Yes, everything." She repeated the word with a hint of his own obstinacy. "But—Mr. Hickory—it is not always possible to lay bare one's soul even to one's most intimate friends. And I—and I—" Sudden confusion overcame her and she ceased to speak.

Silas stood motionless, looking down at her. His attitude had changed during those last few moments. The half-fierce look of humiliation had gone from him. He was as a man who had suddenly found a footing on very difficult ground.

When he spoke, it was slowly and with a hint of mastery. "I will tell you one thing," he said. "You may have a perfect right to mark Private on your gate, but you can't prevent me looking over. I'll never come through it without your permission, but I've a very shrewd idea as to what is on the other side."

"Oh, don't!" Bobby said.

It was almost like a cry wrung from her, and with the utterance she bowed her face upon her hand as she sat.

Silas stooped over her on the instant in swift contrition. "Miss Roberta—Bobby—don't! I didn't mean it; or if I did, it wouldn't make any damn' difference! Listen to me! No, don't shiver! Be your own brave self! You needn't tell me a single thing about the other fellow if you don't want to. I've always known he was there. You needn't mind my knowing. You've called me your friend, haven't you?"

His big hand was on her shoulder, stroking it with clumsy solicitude. All his assertiveness had melted into a tenderness that was like a warm glow surrounding her. Bobby sat very still within that kindly circle for several seconds. Then at last she raised her head and looked straight up at him.

"Silas," she said, "the gate marked Private leads to a sanctuary that belongs to others as well as to me. That—my friend—is why I can't open it to you. And please—of your charity—" she faintly smiled with the words—"don't look over! You won't find—the other fellow, as you call him, there."

"Where is he?" said Silas.

She shook her head. "I don't know."

"Is he ever coming back to you?" The hand on her shoulder had ceased to stroke; it pressed a little.

"I don't know," Bobby said again.

He bent a little nearer, looking hard into her upturned face. The colour had all died out of it now, leaving her with a sad, faded look very different from her usual cheerful serenity.

"Do you want him back?" said Silas.

She did not speak in answer. Only a long deep sigh came from her.

He stood up again and his hand fell. "All right, my dear," he said very steadily. "It's all right. You've called me your friend, and that's what I'm going to be."

She smiled with lips that quivered. "My dear friend!" she said under her breath.

He went to the window and stood there for a space while she sat passively waiting at the table.

When he came back his expression was absolutely normal. He sat down again in his chair.

"May I have some more tea?" he said. "And then we'll enter up the sale of the pigs in the accounts."