Part 2 — CHAPTER XI THE EMPTY ROOM

Something told Bobby that as it was Boxing Day and Cox was working short hours, she would not be left unassisted that afternoon. But for some reason Rosemary was determined to do the feeding for her, and when she heard the familiar step in the yard, she went out quickly to intercept the second helper.

"Rosemary is doing it all," she told him rather nervously. "Thank you so much for coming up. But please don't come again!"

He looked down at her oddly, half-whimsically. "I've come on business only," he said.

She understood the reference and coloured. "I know. You are more than kind. But you see—I really don't need your help this time."

"And when you do need it," said Silas, "I suppose you won't dream of letting me know."

She raised her eyes steadily to his. "I think I would," she said, "if I needed it very badly."

"But would you?" said Silas.

For one moment she hesitated. Then she held out her hand to him. "I would," she said simply.

It was the action of a friend, no more, and his answering grasp was exactly what she desired it to be. He was learning by rigorous self-discipline to meet her need.

"Thank you for that," he said.

She laughed rather tremulously. "How nicely you put things! Won't you come in for a minute? I am all alone."

"Are you ever anything else?" he said. "No, I won't come in, thanks. I've plenty to do. Everything going all right?"

"Oh yes," said Bobby.

She knew his eyes were upon her, and she met their scrutiny with a conscious effort, feeling that in spite of her they saw too much.

He made no comment, however, upon what he saw. "I shall be round in the morning," he remarked briefly, and went his way without looking back.

The dusk swallowed him, and she went back to her kitchen with a half-sigh. For a reason wholly unaccountable she felt as if she were fighting against heavier odds than usual that day. She asked herself for the first time what life would be without that strong friend of hers waiting within reach to help her. It was being gradually but very strongly borne in upon her that the burden she carried was beyond her strength.

Nevertheless, when Rosemary returned for tea she managed to present her usual serene front. She dared not seem to flag in her presence. There was too much at stake.

But Rosemary was too abstracted to notice anything beyond the ordinary in her aunt's demeanour. She had her tea with scarcely a word, and immediately took up her Schiller thereafter while Bobby washed up and then went to sit with Matilda.

The night fell with an icy rain which soon turned to snow—the first of the season.

"It'll be deep in the morning," said Bobby.

"I certainly shall not come down if it is," said Matilda.

"I expect a good night will make all the difference," said Bobby.

"Well, I earnestly hope you will allow me to have a good night this time," remarked Matilda. "I can assure you that being awakened by anyone in a wild nightmare is anything but helpful to a poor invalid. What on earth did you think was the matter last night, I wonder?"

"I really can't tell you," said Bobby. "But I will sleep in my own room to-night if you like, and then you will be undisturbed."

"With a deep snow and the fire going out!" said Matilda. "You really are the most inconsiderate person I have ever met. You would probably find me dead in the morning, and I don't suppose you would mind if you did."

"Don't be ridiculous, dear!" said Bobby.

"Well, I often think I am nothing but a burden to you," said Matilda pathetically. "You would be much happier with only Rosemary to look after, and it's absurd to pretend otherwise. You have never thought of anyone but that child ever since she made her unfortunate appearance in this world."

"Well, I don't think we need quarrel about that," said Bobby, bending lower over her work.

"Quarrel! I never want to quarrel," declared Matilda. "I am sure no one can say I am hard to live with. It is you who make all the difficulties. Dr. Bellamy was saying only to-day what a splendid patient I am. He knows what poor health I have, far better than you do. But even he never guesses what trials I have to bear as well. You get more and more heartless every day."

She ended on a doleful note that was not without a suggestion of tears, but Bobby did not look up.

She only murmured the word, "Heartless!" over her work.

Matilda pursued her theme with rising emotion. "Ever since you took to this horrible farm-work, I've seen you changing. You used to be so warm-hearted and quick of perception. Why, I remember—even now—how on the day I was to have been married, you put your arms round me and comforted me and promised—yes, promised—you would never leave me." She paused to wipe away her tears. "And now you lightly talk of letting me sleep alone and make up my own fire when I am ill and needing attention. You would never have done that in those days."

"Ah!" Bobby almost whispered the words with her head still bent. "Perhaps—we have both changed—since then."

"I haven't," declared Matilda. "I am just the same loving, credulous creature that I was as a girl. How I used to believe in everybody—especially you—and your devotion——"

She began to choke over the words; her tears were flowing freely. Bobby looked up at last, and then with quiet suddenness rose and came to the side of the bed.

"Matilda," she said, "stop crying! It won't do you any good, and you've nothing to cry about. Matilda, are you listening? Stop!"

There was no harshness in her voice, but it held indisputable authority. Matilda changed her tactics and began to cough. Much can be expressed by a coughing-fit. When she was quiet again, the tears had ceased.

"You are very unkind," she said to the rigid figure standing by her bedside.

"I don't think I am," said Bobby, and, stooping, rearranged her pillows and kissed her. "But we must be sensible, you and I. We can't afford to be anything else."

"Oh, don't use that horrid verb!" protested Matilda. "Have we ever afforded to do anything except lead a life of complete drudgery? I often wonder what on earth Dr. Bellamy would say if he knew all."

"Does Dr. Bellamy matter?" said Bobby, faint irony in her voice.

Matilda evaded the question. "Not to you, I am sure. You consult nobody but Silas Hickory, and much good it does. Now I suppose you are going down, and I shan't see any more of you till bedtime."

"I must go and see to the supper, dear," said Bobby gently.

"It's always something," fretted Matilda.

Bobby said nothing. She merely turned and laid her work together, then softly left the room.

Downstairs Rosemary was poring over her book and did not raise her eyes. Bobby passed through to the kitchen and began her preparations for the evening meal. Her heart was very heavy. An atmosphere of discontent seemed to meet her whichever way she turned, and she did not know how to cope with it. She knew herself to be unequal to the contest and an overwhelming presentiment of failure weighed her down.

She was in the middle of her task when Rosemary came to her, book in hand.

"Aunt Bobby, I've got to the end of the first act. I should like you to hear me say it to-night," she said.

Bobby turned towards her. She wanted to throw her arms around her and tell her of her own aching need for help, but something about Rosemary restrained her. She stood so straight and coldly unresponsive.

"Oh, never mind about it, darling, to-night!" she said. "Couldn't we sit cosily by the fire for a little while presently and have one of our talks?"

"There won't be time," said Rosemary. "Aunt Matilda will be wanting you. Besides, I should like you to hear it to-night if you don't mind."

Bobby had no arguments. She felt chilled and helpless. "Very well, dear, if you really wish it," she said.

And so, when Matilda had been served, they sat together at the supper-table and had their meal, while all that passed between them was Rosemary reciting German in a low voice and her own occasional, equally low corrections. She looked back upon that evening later with a wrung heart.

It was a relief to them both when it was over. Rosemary had a quick memory, and she acquitted herself well. As Bobby closed the book, she suffered herself to utter a word of praise.

"That is very good, dear. You have worked harder than I expected."

"I am glad you are satisfied," said Rosemary.

"I am more than satisfied, dear child," Bobby said fondly. "Don't slave at it too much! I will let you go out with Mr. Roper the next time he asks you."

A curious look flashed across Rosemary's face. It was almost a look of pain, Bobby thought, but it was gone ere she had time to be sure.

"Thank you very much," said Rosemary sedately.

She took back the book and began to glance through it.

"You won't do any more to-night, dear," said Bobby half-wistfully.

Rosemary shook her head. "No, I don't think so. Are you going up to Aunt Matilda? Then perhaps I'd better say good night."

"I may manage to come down again," said Bobby.

"Oh, I shouldn't, dear," said Rosemary. "You're very tired. Go to bed early and sleep as long as you can!"

She put her arms round her and kissed her with the words.

Bobby strained the young body close to her heart for a few moments, and again she wondered sorrowfully if it were her fancy or if she actually sensed an impulse of withdrawal on Rosemary's part—a reluctance to surrender herself to any act of intimacy that might lead to confidences.

She released her and turned away, but as she reached the door Rosemary was by her side, and she found herself caught in one of the great bear-hugs of former days.

"Good night, Aunt Bobby darling!" whispered Rosemary into her ear. "Do sleep well to-night, and don't worry any more about me!"

As she went upstairs after that huge embrace, tears that she could not check were in her eyes. She knew that Rosemary had spoken the truth and she was very tired. Yet as she lay down in Matilda's room a little later she was not unhappy. For it seemed to her that the barrier had been swept away in that instant, and though it might be raised again it was no longer insurmountable.

Late that night or in the very early hours of the morning, a voice called her—Rosemary's voice. She arose in the dimness of firelight and nightlight, thrust her feet into slippers, threw on her dressing-gown, and went from the room in answer to the call, leaving Matilda sleeping.

She groped her way along the dark passage to Rosemary's door and found it flung wide. She entered, softly whispering her darling's name. She found the bed and felt it over. There was no form lying there.

A sudden agony caught at her heart. Instinctively she turned to the little table by the bed and groped for a box of matches. She found it and struck a light. It flickered in the icy draught and went out. But she had seen all she needed to see—the smooth pillow and untouched bedclothes—the starkly empty room. She also saw the little paper-backed Schiller lying on the table....

Half-an-hour later there came a frantic knocking at the door of Staple Farm. It aroused Silas, whose room was immediately over it, and he got up and put his head out of the open window to find it was snowing heavily.

"Hullo!" he called. "Hullo! What is it?"

A woman's voice, sharp with anguish, answered him. "Silas! Silas! It's me!"

That voice was enough for Silas. He lighted a candle, dragged on a coat, and went down to her. Barefooted on the stones, he drew back the bolts and pulled open the door.

She stumbled in upon him, herself barefooted, clad only in a dressing-gown over her night attire. The snow was shining in her hair. Her eyes wildly implored him.

"Oh, Silas!" she gasped. "Silas! I've lost my Rosemary! Find her for me—find her—and I will give you—all I have!"

She fell forward with the words. His arms upheld her. As he lifted her, he knew by the deadness of the weight he bore that she was senseless.