Part 1 — CHAPTER IX MARY

The Vicar preached upon original sin on the following Sunday morning, being the Sunday before Advent, and Mary Flight said that it was the best sermon she had ever listened to. It was so full of kindness and human sympathy, though, as she also said, he was the last person in the world that one would credit with any tendencies to evil.

"He's probably the same as the rest of us," said Peter. "Only he's finished sowing his wild oats, that's all."

"Oh, I wouldn't put it like that," said Mary whose reverence for the cloth was of the same quality as her regard for Silas's rank. "I should say that he was just being broad-minded and understanding. I could see that little Miss Rosemary was deeply interested. She was listening with all her ears."

"She doesn't often," said Peter.

"It isn't every subject that appeals to a child like that," said Mary.

Silas put in a dry remark. "P'raps she thought she'd learn some new sin that she'd never heard of before."

Mary shook her head in remonstrance. "Now, now, Silas! You're not quite fair to the child, never have been. Good gracious me, I should think Rosemary knows as much about sin as that old china dog on the shelf."

"She's got as much inside her ready made as most of us, I'll be bound," said Peter judicially. "But she's none the worse for that. She's only human."

"I know," said Mary, brightening. "That's just it, Peter. She is human, and so engaging with it all. I do believe she gets prettier every day. And if young Mr. Percy Hudson manages not to fall in love with her these holidays, well, he's something less than human, that's all."

Silas scraped back his chair on the floor and reached for the matches. "I don't agree with you, Mary," he said. "She's much too raw and undeveloped, too like a boy herself, to attract any deep feelings in anyone. Young Percy Hudson wouldn't be such a fool."

Mary's face fell again. To be in open disagreement with Silas was a state of affairs which had always appeared to her unseemly. Nevertheless, in defence of her absent favourite, she sought to hold her own.

"She's growing up, you know, Silas," she pleaded. "And she's getting really beautiful. I'm not the only one as thinks so. There's no one in the least bit like her hereabouts, and the young men are bound to take notice. I'm sure I hope it will be Mr. Percy, for he's the only gentleman she knows."

She looked at Silas deprecatingly with the words, as if she expected to be crushed the next moment under the heel of his contempt. But something in what she said seemed to strike him as reasonable, for after lighting nis pipe he leaned back in his chair in silence.

It was Peter who took up the discussion. He was usually on Mary's side.

"Yes, I see what you mean," he said. "She is rather a rare specimen, is Miss Rosemary. Of course she's the image of Miss Roberta. They might have come out of the same mould, only Miss Roberta has got a bit set with time, and Miss Rosemary is still plastic."

Silas took his pipe out of his mouth, and Mary spoke rather hastily, her tone slightly propitiatory.

"Oh, I shouldn't put it quite like that, Peter. What you mean is that Miss Rosemary now must be very like what Miss Roberta was as a girl. But it's only a family resemblance really. They are not much alike in character."

"I'm not so sure," said Peter, who was not averse to an argument with Mary when Silas was taking no part. "I should say that when Miss Bobby was Rosemary's age she was exactly the same, just wild and merry and taking; in fact, I'd say she might even have been more so. It's time that has changed her,—time and adversity. She's sobered down now—same as we all do. But you may take it from me, she wasn't always sober—not with those eyes. Why, I shouldn't wonder but what even she may have sown a wild oat or two in her time."

Peter began to chuckle at his own logical conclusions, but the sudden smart rapping of the tin match-box on the table checked him.

"Peter," said Silas briefly and sternly, "you're talking bunkum. Shut up!"

Both Peter and Mary looked startled. It was not often that the master of the house thus expressed himself.

Peter was the first to recover. "Why, what's the matter?" he said. "They do, you know—they do sow their wild oats—even the gentry sometimes. Not Miss Matilda; I wouldn't say that she's ever done much in that line. She's a bit too vain and finicky to let herself go very far. But Miss Roberta,—well, anyone can see she's been one of the lively ones. I wouldn't put her down as too old for an occasional spree even now if it came her way."

"Then you're a damn' fool!" said Silas.

"Silas!" gasped Mary.

Peter said nothing. He merely looked very hard at Silas and waited.

Silas waited also, his eyes under their beetling brows alight with a dangerous glow. But as Peter remained silent, this gradually died down.

"No," he said. "I'm wrong. I'm sorry, Peter. But you'll be good enough not to speak lightly of Miss Roberta. She is a woman whom neither you nor I are fit to speak of at all."

He got up with the words and turned to the door. Mary and Peter watched him go in unbroken silence.

Then Mary rose to clear the table. "He's very touchy these days," she said sadly.

"Durned unreasonable, I call it," growled Peter. "I was only joking. He ought to have seen that."

"He did see it," said Mary. "But he won't listen to a joke of that kind. It's my belief, Peter, that he's been to her and offered himself and she's sent him away."

"Oh, rot!" said Peter. "He can't have got that far yet. Why, they've never been out walking together even!"

"And I don't think they will," said Mary. "They're not like that, Peter. They'd do their love-making on the quiet, like gentle-folks."

"I don't believe it," said Peter stoutly. "He'll never propose to her. She won't let him. She isn't taking any, I tell you, neither she nor Miss Rosemary. He's a fool if he doesn't see it; but I think he does."

"I think he does too," said Mary. "But he won't accept it. And why should he, after all? He comes of a good stock. There's blue blood in his veins." She spoke with pride. "His mother was a Thorgrave, and everybody for miles round knows what his father was. I'm sure any woman—any woman—ought to be honoured."

She spoke with such feeling that the tears rose in her eyes. Peter, looking up, saw them. He patted her arm with a clumsy hand.

"Don't you fret, old Mary!" he said. "You can't do anything. He'll just have to go his own way."

Mary turned her face aside. It was not often that she was betrayed into any show of emotion.

"Well, I will do something one of these days," she said. "I'll tell her how high-born he is. And p'raps then she'll give him his proper place."

"But you don't want her to marry him," Peter pointed out. "I think it would be a dashed nuisance myself. I shouldn't butt in if I were you. Let things take their course!"

Mary paused to consider, and brushed her eyes with the back of her hand. "But he ought to marry," she argued. "Think of the old name dying out! Think of——"

"Do you suppose she'd ever give him children?" said Peter bluntly. "I don't know how old she is, but she's no chicken. Why, look at Miss Rosemary!"

"Yes, but she may have been only a child herself when Rosemary was born," objected honest Mary. "It doesn't follow, does it, that——"

"She may have been," said Peter. "But—well, I don't much think she was. Do you?"

"Peter!" Mary went back a step in shocked astonishment. "What ever are you saying? Why, she—she—little Rosemary is the child of their dead brother! Didn't you know? Didn't I ever tell you?"

"You may have told me," said Peter, rising to knock out his pipe. "But I don't know that I believed it. You always take everything you hear for gospel. I don't."

"Goodness gracious unto me!" said poor Mary, gasping. "Don't you ever let Silas hear you say that! Why, he'd—he'd—I don't know what he'd do."

"I daresay he would," said Peter with grimness. "But he's got a very shrewd suspicion on that point himself, or I'm a Dutchman. You needn't be upset about it. It's not going to make any difference one way or the other. But I wouldn't try and teach Miss Roberta anything she doesn't know about Silas if I were you. Just you leave it alone, and it won't come to anything."

"Oh, but you can't be right!" protested Mary. "She's a lady born. She'd never do such."

"That's all you know about 'em," said Peter. "We're all of us human, as we said before. But if she's a mind to turn down Silas, for the love of heaven let her! We don't want other people's rubbish dumped down on our muck-heap."

"Peter!" Mary spoke with her hand to her side. "You've made me feel quite bad. I'm sure there's nothing in it. I'm sure it isn't true. What ever makes you think them things I don't know. But all men have got dirty minds, and I suppose you're no exception—though I've sometimes thought you were. Now will you please stop talking any more nastiness to me, for I've no use for it!"

The remonstrance was not without dignity, and it had its effect upon Peter. He looked rebuked.

"Well, I didn't mean any offence," he said. "If you and Silas choose to stick up for someone who doesn't deserve it, well, it's no affair of mine. Everybody's got a right to his own opinion, so we'll agree to differ."

He sat down before the fire and began to fill his pipe again. Mary continued her interrupted task of clearing the table with a very furrowed brow, finally withdrawing to the scullery and shutting the door. It was not often that she did this.

Peter smoked out this second pipe before at length he went in search of her. He found her to his amazement nearly blinded with crying, feverishly scouring an already spotless sink the while her tears dripped into it.

"Oh, goodness, woman!" said Peter. "What on earth's the matter now?"

Mary could not tell him. She could only continue her desperate efforts until he forcibly deprived her of the sink-brush and himself dried her shaking hands on the roller-towel behind the door.

"You silly old thing!" he said. "Why, I've never seen you cry like this since you were fifteen and the yard-dog bit you because I'd been teasing him. Oh, dry your eyes and be sensible, do! What's it matter if Silas does make a fool of himself for once? The world won't stop!"

"I know—I know!" sobbed Mary. "I'm very stupid. But I've always so wanted him to be happy. I'm that fond of him. And I don't see how he ever can be now."

"Oh, stop it, woman!" said Peter. He put his arm round her shoulders in a rough caress. "He won't come to any harm. Leave him alone to manage his own affairs! He'll be all right."

Mary choked back a sob. "And Miss Roberta too! I've always loved Miss Roberta. I'd even thought that maybe I'd stay and serve her if she were to marry Silas."

"What?" said Peter. He wheeled her round to look at her. "And where'd I be, I'd like to know?"

"I thought p'raps you'd stay too," said Mary, feeling in her apron-pocket for her handkerchief.

"Oh, did you?" said Peter. "Well, you were wrong for once. I wouldn't. And I wouldn't let you either. So now you know."

He spoke with a force with which Mary was not familiar. She opened her swollen eyes a little. "You wouldn't let me! But why ever not?"

Peter growled something which he had too much respect for his companion to say aloud. For some reason not quite clear to himself he was angry.

"Well, I wouldn't, so that's that!" he said. "Now stop this nonsense and come and sit by the fire! I don't know now what you've got to cry about."

Mary dried her eyes obediently. "It's just that we've all been so happy together," she said, "and I don't want ever to be any different. It's been like a cloud hanging over me all this time—the fear of losing Silas."

"Oh, stop it!" said Peter. "Why, damn it, girl, you've got me, haven't you? How many more do you want?"

Something in his rough voice pierced her. She turned and slipped her arm round his neck.

"Yes, I've got you, dear Peter," she said tremulously. "Thank God for that!"

"Oh, don't be so durned foolish!" said Peter.

Nevertheless, he bestowed a brief kiss somewhere near her ear to soften the remark, and Mary remembered it later with a little wonder. The last time he had kissed her had been when she was a girl of fifteen and had wept because the yard-dog had bitten her instead of Peter who had been teasing him.