Part 3 — CHAPTER VI A HEAP OF ASHES

In after days it seemed to Bobby that the way back was infinitely the hardest part, even though active suffering had ceased. The awful weakness that hampered her—grim toll of many years of working beyond her strength—was very often more than her brave spirit could support, and she would lie with the tears running down her face, not knowing why she wept.

It was at such times that Mary—dear, wholesome Mary Flight—was so invaluable. A cup of tea was her usual remedy, accompanied by a few commonplace words of encouragement. Mary never pried into causes and effects. She took things exactly as they came. The poor soul was feeling down; well, well, she would be better presently. It was only natural after all she had gone through. And having administered the tea and seen the flow of tears temporarily checked, she would go off to her kitchen to give a bottle of milk to the motherless lamb that Peter had placed under her care.

Presently she would come back again with a half-knitted stocking and sit beside Bobby's bed for a spell, commenting on the lamb's progress or the way Peter wore out his heels which was enough in itself to keep any woman busy. A comfortable chuckle always accompanied this remark. To work for Silas and Peter had been Mary's dearest privilege for as long as she could remember. But Peter was a more constant theme than Silas, mainly because he was a more ordinary person. Of Silas she always spoke with a certain reverent reticence. Bobby used to reflect whimsically that if Mary owned Peter, as from her talk she certainly appeared to do, Silas was supreme owner of them both. In fact from the tiny radius of her bedside it almost seemed as if he owned the universe. She had never realized before the far-reaching importance of his personality. He seemed to dominate the whole atmosphere. And this she gathered rather from Mary's silences than from her general confidences. It was very evident that her respect for Silas was one of the guiding rules of her life.

She never spoke of Bobby's affairs, and for a time Bobby lacked the strength to open the matter. She was utterly incapable of effort, and Dr. Bellamy's fussy visits were usually as much as she could bear without any added agitation. He told her that Matilda was well and asking after her; but of Rosemary he said no word, and Bobby could not bring herself to question him. She generally lay inert for a long time after his departure, feeling that every spark of vitality was quenched. And it was lying thus that there came to her one day the memory of the strong hand that had supported her through the long hours of darkness, and she exerted herself to ask a pathetic question of placid, round-faced Mary, sewing by her side.

"Why does Silas never come to see me now?"

"Do you want him?" said Mary, on her feet in a moment. "Why, of course he'll come; I'll go and get him."

Bobby would have stayed her, but she was already gone. Evidently her orders on this point had been very explicit.

In a few minutes she heard a step that was not Mary's, and lifted her heavy eyes to meet Silas's grave look. He sat down beside her and took her hand, and a warmth went through her at his touch that seemed to impart strength to her tired spirit.

"Thank you for coming," she murmured.

"I will always come when you want me," he said.

"Thank you," she said again; and then, with an effort, "May I ask you a few things?"

There was a brief pause before he replied, and she had a vague impression that he was bracing himself for some ordeal. Yet, when he answered, his voice was perfectly steady and assured.

"I will tell you everything in my power," he said.

She knew that he would be true to his word, and that she need fear no subterfuge from him; but—perhaps it was that very knowledge—something deterred her from taking immediate advantage of the fact. It may have been that, aware of her own weakness, she instinctively sought to spare herself.

"I want to know," she said, "first, what Dr. Bellamy thinks about me."

Silas's big hand closed more firmly around her wasted one. "He says that you ought to be getting well by now," he said. "But of course that's bunkum, and I told him so. You've had too much to bear."

His voice had a resentful note, and she faintly smiled. "He always thought I had the strength of ten," she said.

"I believe you thought so too—once," said Silas.

She turned her wan face to him. "It was only—make-believe," she said very sadly.

He bent towards her. "That's over now," he said. "Don't ever forget that!"

"Thank you," she whispered again, and there fell a silence between them while she gathered her strength for further effort.

"Don't let me stay too long!" said Silas gently at length.

Her fingers stirred in his, softly clasping. "Please don't go!" she said. "I want to know—much more."

But still she did not ask the question which of all others she had sent for him to answer. She could not.

"There's plenty of time," said Silas.

She became aware of the pity in his eyes, and flinched a little. "Tell me about—Matilda!" she said.

The pity vanished in a second, and a certain sternness took its place. "I believe she is as well as usual," he said. "She is staying at the Vicarage."

"Ah!" murmured Bobby. "That is good of them."

"I don't think they had much choice," remarked Silas dryly. "I would have had her here, but that didn't appeal to her."

"You have done too much for us without that," said Bobby. And after a pause: "I shall try to get well quickly now. We can't go on—living on our friends like this."

There was more of her old spirit in her speech than in any of her previous utterances. Perhaps it was for that reason that he suffered it to pass unchallenged.

"Get well—yes!" was all he said.

Bobby's eyes were lifted to his with a wistful gratitude. "I shall never forget what you have done for me, Silas," she said.

He leaned nearer to her. She saw that he was deeply moved. "You've nothing whatever to thank me for," he said. "I don't even know if I've done right."

She understood his meaning and smiled at him. "Yes, it was right," she said. "I am glad now that I came back. There is still work for me to do."

"You're not going to slave to support Matilda any longer," he said with blunt force.

"I wasn't thinking of her just then," she said. "I was thinking—I was thinking——"

"I know what you were thinking," he said, as she halted. "And that's why I tell you that I don't know that I did right. Bobby, you asked me that night to find her for you. My dear, I didn't—because I couldn't. I wouldn't have left you in that state in any case. Will you ever manage to forgive me, I wonder?"

"There—is nothing to forgive," she said, but she spoke faintly and her breathing became suddenly very rapid.

The deathly pallor of her face alarmed him. He got up and went to the table for a restorative. But when he came back she made a brave attempt to smile at him.

"Please—please—" she said, "finish! Tell me—all you know!"

"Drink this first!" he said, stooping over her. "I will then, I promise."

She obeyed him without protest; but while she drank, her eyes were raised to his, beseeching him. When she had finished, he set down the glass and sat beside her again to answer their entreaty.

"This is all I know," he said, and as he spoke her hand came weakly to his again, as though seeking strength. "Rosemary went with Percy Hudson to the Boxing Night Ball at Bode. She got separated from him in some sort of revel and disappeared. He spent the night with the Raymonds and came back the day after without seeing her again."

"Is that all?" gasped Bobby.

"No. That isn't quite all. There was a man staying at The King's Head who lent his room for her to change in." Silas's voice was grimly unemotional. "That man also disappeared that night. No one saw him go, but he left a note for the landlord to tell him to apply to his solicitor for the settlement of his bill. He also left a note of instructions for his solicitor—young Raymond of Bode. Whether Rosemary was with him or not is not definitely known. The police have not been asked to trace her, as your sister would not authorize it and you were too ill to ask. But it is evident that she returned to the room to change as the dress she had worn at the ball was found there packed in a suit-case addressed to your sister."

"To Matilda!" interjected Bobby. "But why?"

"I presume it was her property," said Silas.

"But how could it have been?" said Bobby. "Matilda has no ball-dress."

"I heard from the landlord of The King's Head that she went to the ball with young Hudson, dressed as a bride," said Silas.

"Ah!" A light seemed to break upon Bobby. "Yes—yes, that was Matilda's," she murmured. And then, with resolution, "is that all you know? Can't you tell me the name of the man?"

"Yes, I can tell you that," Silas said, but he spoke with reluctance. His grasp of Bobby's hand was very firm.

"But remember, she may not be in his company at all! We may be on a wrong scent."

"Tell me!" whispered Bobby faintly.

Very steadily he complied. "The man had been staying at The King's Head under a feigned name—so it now transpires. I believe he called himself Graves. In reality he was the new Lord Ravencombe, just home from Mexico."

"Lord Ravencombe!" The name was scarcely audible on Bobby's lips.

"Yes. Young Raymond let it out." Gravely Silas brought his story to a finish. "He knows very little about him. He never expected to succeed or to return to England. But there seem to have been a good many deaths in the family, and he is almost the last of the race."

"Didn't you tell me you were—one of them?" questioned Bobby. Her brows were drawn as though by physical pain and she spoke with difficulty.

"I believe I may describe myself as quite the last," said Silas briefly.

"And you know—nothing of him?" Her low voice held a pleading note.

"Nothing whatever beyond his name," said Silas. "I have never met him. I am afraid that side of the family has never interested me."

"And has nobody—done—anything?" whispered Bobby piteously.

"Yes." Silas spoke with a measure of relief. It had been no light task to answer those low questions of hers. "There is one person who is trying to trace her, and from what I have heard of him he will probably succeed. Young Ross—a friend of Percy Hudson's—you probably know him——"

"Ah! That Scotch boy!" Breathlessly she caught at the news. "Is his name Ross? They called him The Old Bean. I believe—it is possible—he was attracted by Rosemary."

"He is looking for her," said Silas. "And I think he means to find her. From things I've heard, he seems the sort of fellow that wouldn't stop till he did."

"Oh, Silas!" Bobby's eyes were brimming with tears. "And is there no other possible chance of finding her? Must she be left to a comparative stranger like that?"

"I don't know," Silas said, and for the first time his eyes avoided hers. "It's difficult to know what else to do. She may be at the other side of the world by now."

"Silas!" Bobby's voice was barely audible, yet something in its tone brought his eyes back to hers. "Help me—to sit up!" she said.

He put his arm behind her pillows, raising her.

"Thank you," she whispered, and with the word her other hand came out and clasped his. "Silas," she said, "I have—something to say to you—a great favour to ask."

Her eyes looked straight into his; they seemed to be burning in their deep hollows.

"I will do it," said Silas steadily.

Her fingers closed with a convulsive pressure. "Wait!" she said. "You wanted me for a partner once, and I refused. I offer myself to you now as a servant, and everything I have in Little Staple as well as myself to be unconditionally yours, if you will help me—if you will only help me—to find my Rosemary. When once she is found I will never ask anything more of you. I will only serve you faithfully as long as I live, and not even for her sake will I ever turn aside from that."

"Oh, stop!" Silas said; his voice was deep, it sounded almost rough. "Stop! Don't you know I will do everything in my power for you without that?"

"You shan't do everything for nothing," she made answer. "Silas, do you realize I have no money? Only the farm produce to sell, and that is half Matilda's!"

"That doesn't matter," he said. "I have money put by, and I can make more. You shall have every penny of it."

She caught her breath. "Oh, you shouldn't!" she said. "You shouldn't!" And suddenly she was crying against his shoulder with a piteous helplessness, the while she still clung to his hand. "Silas,—you shouldn't!"

"Don't—don't!" he said. "You'll be ill. Shouldn't what? I don't understand."

"Shouldn't give so much—care so much," she sobbed incoherently. "It isn't fair—or right! You lose—every time!"

"Lose!" Silas's voice came muffled but very deep as he held the little wasted form close. "Do you think if I lost everything I have in the world and gained you—I could be—a loser?"

"Oh yes!" she breathed. "Yes! What am I? A burnt-out fire! A heap of ashes!"

"You are—more than my own life to me," he said.

And there he stopped, for it seemed there were no words to carry him further. Only in the silence that followed he took out his own handkerchief and with infinite tenderness he dried her tears.

When he spoke again, his voice was normal, even matter-of-fact. "When you are well enough," he said, "we will go together and look for her. I shall set everything in order and leave Peter in charge. Now I am going to fetch Mary."

He laid her gently back and stood up. There was a curious wistfulness in his gaze to which almost instinctively she found herself making reply. "I shall soon be well enough," she said, and her own brave smile showed for an instant with the words.

His look scarcely altered as he turned away. "Get well—yes," he said again.