Part 3 — CHAPTER VIII THE MIRROR

That afternoon, sitting under the awning that sheltered the façade of a dream hotel, looking forth upon a dream sea of purest, deepest blue, Rosemary made a suggestion which frankly astounded her companion.

"I think," she said, "I should like to go into a convent."

"Gracious Heaven!" said Dick Dynamo, and after that said no more while his cigarette lasted.

Then, having with capable brown fingers removed the end from the holder, he tossed it away, and spoke.

"You can't do that," he said.

"Why not?" said Rosemary.

He gave her an odd look. "You haven't done anything to deserve it," he said.

Her brow contracted a little. "One isn't obliged to be wicked first," she said. "It's for the people who are tired and want to hide as well."

"Does that describe your case?" he asked.

She nodded thoughtfully. "I want to learn to be good," she said.

"You haven't learnt to be anything else yet," he pointed out.

"I'm afraid one doesn't want much teaching in that way," said Rosemary with a sigh.

"You're very young," said Dick Dynamo.

Thereafter he was silent for a space, watching her as was his wont, a certain shrewd amusement in his eyes.

He spoke at last, but more to himself than to her. "No, I'm not going to let you bury yourself in a convent. You're too good for that. I think I know what your trouble is." He addressed her now definitely. "You're homesick."

She did not contradict him. The very word "home" seemed to bring her heart into her throat. Aunt Bobby—Little Staple—all that she had once held so lightly—rose in a flash before her. All that had once been hers and would never be hers again!

What could he know about it—this man with the iron-grey hair and cynical, worn features? He had travelled the world for years for his own amusement. What could the word mean to him?

"Whatever I am," she said, speaking with difficulty as he seemed to expect some sort of answer to his challenge, "it's no good talking about it, because I can't go back."

He smiled at that in a way she did not understand. There were many things she did not understand about him. "You can certainly go back if you want to," he said.

She felt herself turn scarlet. "Oh no, I couldn't—I couldn't!" she said.

"Why not?" he questioned lazily. "Do you think I should prevent you?"

"No—no!" She began to stammer in desperate confusion. "You are—much too kind—to—to want to keep me—against my will. It's only—what everyone would be saying—and—and—" Bobby's name was on her lips, but she could not utter it; she plunged into quivering silence.

He did not seem to notice her agitation; she had noticed before that he was strangely blind at times. "What would everyone be saying?" he asked.

Rosemary uttered a half-choked sound of distress. "You must—know," she faltered.

"My dear child," he said, "I merely wanted to find out if you did. You mean that everyone within a radius of ten miles or so of your old home is suffering from pious shock because you are travelling in my company unchaperoned. Is that it?"

She nodded. "Yes."

"Do you think they know?" he proceeded.

"They would know—if I went back," she said.

"Not unless you told them," he argued. "It's a very unlikely story, after all. I rather doubt if they'd believe it if you did."

"They'd probably believe—something worse," said Rosemary, with burning cheeks.

"They probably would," he agreed. "It's an uncharitable world, isn't it? But that being the case, why worry? Surely you are happier where you are!"

"I know I ought to be," said Rosemary, "but—but—" with a great effort she brought out the words—"it isn't only oneself that counts, is it? If—if—I went into a convent, I could write to them then, and say I was safe."

"You can write to them now and say the same, if you so wish," he remarked somewhat dryly.

"Oh no, I couldn't," she said again. "I couldn't!"

He took out his cigarette-case, and she felt with relief that his look was no longer upon her. "It would be strictly true," he said.

"I couldn't," she repeated.

He began to smoke again thoughtfully.

"I wonder," he said presently, "excluding the convent idea of course, what you would most like to do."

"I think I ought to work for my living," said Rosemary. She spoke in a low voice but with more assurance than before. His manner gave her a measure of confidence. "You see, I always have worked. I'm used to it."

He threw her a brief glance. "Yes? What sort of work?" he said.

She hesitated. It was difficult to make him see life as she had always seen it hitherto.

"One was always busy on the farm, you know," she said.

"Who ran the farm?" asked Dick Dynamo.

It was the first time he had betrayed any interest in her past existence. She felt as if a definite command had been laid upon her to lift the curtain and show him the world in which she had moved up to the time of her amazing flight with him.

She complied with an effort, but as she proceeded she was surprised to find the task less difficult than she had thought. She knew that he was listening intently. "Aunt Bobby ran it," she said, and, once uttered, her lips no longer faltered at the name. "She has done it for years. Grandpa was alive at first, then he died and we still went on at Little Staple, she and Aunt Matilda and I."

"Is your Aunt Matilda married?" he put in.

"No, oh no, she never married," said Rosemary, "but she must have been thinking of it once, for that bride's dress I wore was made for her. But she never did anything on the farm. She was too delicate, and besides, she never wanted to. Aunt Bobby did all the work. I used to help a little, not much; but I had my lessons to do."

"Who taught you?" he said.

"Aunt Bobby." Rosemary's voice quivered a little; the vision of Aunt Bobby's sweet flushed face bent over her ironing while she sat on the window-seat and repeated her French poetry rose before her. "She made me work very hard at them. But she worked much harder herself. She never rested."

"Was the farm a success?" he asked.

Rosemary was a little vague. "The pigs were, I think," she said. "I don't know much about the rest. Oh yes, the eggs were too. And she used to make butter. But there was never any money to spare. I suppose it all went in rent."

"Oh, she didn't own the farm then?" His voice had a casual ring, yet she knew that he was interested.

"Oh no. That belonged to Silas Hickory." The old jealous resentment sounded in the words, and her companion turned his head and surveyed her. "He was always in and out. I think he helped quite a lot over the pigs and things. But I didn't like him much."

"Thought he came too often, eh?" he suggested with lazy humour.

She felt the colour rising again. "He was just a common farmer," she protested.

"Oh, was he?" said Dick Dynamo. "And she was partial to him, I gather?"

Rosemary winced. Somehow it seemed to her as if the half-malicious satire had been levelled at herself. "She was always very—neighbourly to him," she said, and shrank again involuntarily at the sound of his laugh.

"Well, why aren't they married, then?" he said.

The question seemed to pierce her. She got up quickly. Her face was crimson. "You've no right to say that," she said. "Of course she would never marry him! You don't understand—nothing will ever make you believe—that—that, whatever may have happened when she was young—she has really been waiting for you—ever since."

His dark eyes came direct to hers. He did not stir in his seat, nor did the cruel smile leave his face. "And you believe that?" he said. "You?"

She flinched again, but she answered him bravely. "Yes, I do. There are lots of things I don't understand. But I know that is true. I—have seen it."

"Seen what?" he said.

She told him, feeling that she spoke to a mask. "I've seen it—in her eyes. She didn't often speak of you. Only once—or twice—when I asked. But she wore your ring always, night and day, on her right hand. I asked her once—when we were alone—if you were ever coming back. She said—she said—" suddenly Rosemary began to sob, she scarcely knew why, save that the memory of Aunt Bobby and all her loving ways had become too poignant to be borne—"she said, 'If God wills, darling.' And then—she sighed,—as if she hadn't much hope left."

She ceased to speak and with a tremendous effort choked back her emotion. The man in the chair by her side said nothing whatever. He lay back with a perfectly inscrutable expression on his dark scarred face, watching the sparkling horizon, almost as if unaware of her.

After a time, becoming more sure of herself, she began to observe him covertly and saw that his cigarette was out. For a space she sat motionless, and then oddly a sense of trespass came upon her, and she rose.

He spoke immediately, an arresting quality in his voice. "Don't go, Rosemary! I want you."

She sat down again, and he resumed his silence, the quenched cigarette still between his lips.

At last, with a curious abruptness, he spoke. "I can't reconcile what you have told me with what actually happened before you were born. There's a hitch somewhere. Did she think I shouldn't regard that letter she wrote as conclusive?"

"I never heard about a letter," said Rosemary.

He flashed her a keen look. His dark eyes had a strange deep glow in them. "You are so like her," he said. "Yet so unlike. Do you always tell the truth?"

She started at the question, but it was not uttered as an insult, and the next instant she realized it. He waited for her answer as if much hung upon it.

"Yes, I do," she said with simplicity.

He took the cigarette from his mouth and flung it away. "Now I'll tell you something," he said, "something you haven't dreamed of. I've called myself Graves for convenience sake for a good many years. But my real name is Thorgrave—Richard Thorgrave, and I have just come into the Ravencombe title and estates."

"Good gracious!" said Rosemary, startled.

He went on, ignoring her. "It means nothing whatever to me—dust and ashes. I have no relations left, except a cousin—Silas Hickory, the rustic farmer you have just mentioned—who is next of kin,—my heir in short."

"Silas—Hickory!" gasped Rosemary.

He confirmed the statement grimly. "Yes, Silas Hickory, through a mésalliance on his mother's part. I've never met the fellow, but I suppose it's up to me to keep the family pride from being vested in the type of person you describe as 'a common farmer,' and for that reason I shall have to marry and get another heir." His eyes were upon her, holding her with an almost fierce dominance. "No woman who has played me false once—" he spoke between his teeth as though he clipped off the words one by one—"is ever given another opportunity. I shall never see your—Aunt Bobby again. But you—I'm sorry for you. You're only a child. Anyhow, I haven't let you down, haven't betrayed your trust in me, have I? I've been thinking a good deal all this time. You're so like her that I didn't know at first if I could stand it. But I've come to see you lately with different eyes. You don't remind me of her at every turn as you did. You're getting a personality of your own. So now—I'm willing to marry you, if you're willing to be married to me. And I'll look after you and be a good husband to you—as long as you stick to me."

His hand came out to her with the words and held her own. He looked at her with eyes from which all hardness had vanished.

"I'll be kind to you, child," he said. "You needn't be afraid."

"Oh stop!" said Rosemary. She had turned very pale, and she met his look with a kind of desperation. She spoke quickly, her voice sharp with distress. "Don't you see that's one of the reasons why I thought I would go into a convent? I don't want to be married. And even if I did, I couldn't possibly marry you. It wouldn't be right. It wouldn't be straight. You—you ought to marry Aunt Bobby."

Something in his dark face warned her, and she stopped abruptly. The hand that held hers had tightened until its grasp was acutely painful, but she did not flinch, although in that moment she feared him as she had never feared anyone in her life before. For in his eyes was something unfathomable, something that made her think of a soul in torture. His silence appalled her, yet she dreaded to hear him speak, and when he did so at last her heart was beating so violently that she could scarcely hear the words.

"Why have you said this to me?" It was an absolutely quiet question, wholly free from any menace of wrath, but it might have been dead lips that uttered it. The hand that gripped hers was like cold steel.

She found herself compelled to answer him, compelled to express the naked truth as she saw it. Her voice sounded odd and strained even to herself, but the words came without hesitation or faltering. "Because you love her."

That was all. Just a plain and simple statement of fact! Nothing had ever before sounded so crude, even brutal, to her ears, but she had no choice but to utter it. It was as if, at his behest, she had held up a mirror to his soul to show him the stark reality that dwelt there. He had demanded it of her, but none the less did she expect some crushing retribution for what she had done. In that moment she saw him as a man who had suffered beyond the limit of human endurance, and it seemed as if human control must fail. But seconds passed and there came no violent outburst; only that deadly quiet—only that fixed and mask-like regard!

It continued until her own control began to waver, and finally she could bear it no longer. She stirred the hand he held, and the next instant to her surprise she found it free. His own hand fell, and he lay back in his chair as if he had forgotten her presence. She could not interpret his attitude, but it seemed almost one of exhaustion. For a brief space she continued to sit by his side irresolute; then, summoning her courage, she got up and slipped away.

He did not so much as turn his head to mark her going.