Part 4 — CHAPTER I PETER AND MARY

"It'll never be the same thing again," said Mary mournfully.

"Who wants it to be?" said Peter.

He sat in the glow of the fire cleaning his gun while the pale winter twilight entered frostily through the leaded window behind him. Mary was too thrifty to light her lamp before it had faded.

She smiled, though somewhat wistfully at his question. "I'm afraid I don't like change," she said.

"I don't mind if it's for the better," said Peter.

"Ah! That's just it," said Mary, her head bent over her knitting.

He threw a humorous glance towards her. "Cheer up, my girl!" he said. "Don't get old before your time!"

She managed to send back a smile. "It's not that, Peter. I'm no older than I am, and no younger either. Goodness knows I don't want to sadden anybody, but I've had a feeling all this winter as if there's change coming. Lots of things are going to be different all round us, and only you and I will be left the same."

"Well, so long as we are the same!" said Peter. "I don't see that anything else matters much myself."

"You're a man," said Mary with a sigh.

"Well, I can't help that," said Peter with a grin.

She smiled again to humour him, though the effort was a poor one. "You always used to say that you didn't think Miss Bobby would have Silas," she said. "And now!"

"She hasn't got him yet, has she?" said Peter.

"They're not married, if that's what you mean," said Mary.

"Wasn't it what you meant?" asked Peter with a twinkle.

Mary's smile faded. "I don't know," she said. "I love her—just as everyone does. But I don't quite understand her. There's something at the back of it all, Peter. There's a closed door somewhere. It isn't for me to ask questions, but I don't feel happy about it all. I'm dreadfully anxious on Silas's account."

"Oh, leave Silas alone! He can look after himself," said Peter comfortably. "I've never known Silas go under yet."

"I'm sure I hope you never will," said Mary. "But I don't feel easy about him. He takes things hard, does Silas. He follows her almost like a dog. Of course I'm very glad—like everyone else—that Rosemary is safe and sound and none the worse for her wild pranks. But I don't quite like their going off to London together like this. It doesn't seem natural."

"She wasn't fit to go alone," pointed out Peter. "You wouldn't have liked me to have gone, would you?"

"Miss Matilda was the one who ought to have gone with her to see Rosemary married," said Mary, ignoring this attempt at levity. "If only she weren't such a poor thing——"

"I'm not so darned sure that she is such a poor thing," observed Peter, turning more towards the window to obtain the full benefit of the fading light. "She's more or less what I call a fictitious invalid is Miss Matilda. She could get up all right and do things if she'd a mind."

"Oh, I don't know." Mary rose dutifully to light the lamp. "She's very bronchial. Dr. Bellamy's car is always going up to the Vicarage now."

"Jolly decent of 'em to keep her there!" declared Peter. "I'm pretty thankful she doesn't quarter herself on us, Polly. Miss Bobby's one thing, but Miss Matilda,—well, she's quite another."

"I know," said Mary. "I'm not grudging anybody anything, and I'm always glad to do what I can. But I wish things would get straight again. I don't like all this coming and going, and telegrams—well, telegrams always do make me feel bad."

"That last one was a godsend anyhow," remarked Peter. "It was new life to Miss Bobby. I'll never forget how her poor face lighted up when she read it. It's wonderful the store she sets by Rosemary. On my word, the losing of her was nearly her death-blow."

"Yes—yes," agreed Mary, the glow from the newly-lighted lamp spreading over her honest comely face. "It's dreadful to think how much lies in the hands of the young, and how little they realize it. Do you suppose that Rosemary and that young Mr. Ross have been going about together all this time?"

Peter considered the matter judicially. "Well, it's hard to say," he decided at length. "But I don't think it's altogether likely because if he's as straight as he looks he'd have got married to her before. No, it's my opinion that she's got herself into some scrape—as I always thought she would—and he, being fond of her, has just come to the rescue."

"Oh, Peter!" said Mary, shocked. "I wouldn't like to think that."

"Well, you never know," said Peter. "There were some funny stories going round Bode after that Boxing Night Ball. First it was that young Hudson, and then it was a much more important personage who was given the credit for spiriting her away. But, whoever it was, the fact remains that she went—and she didn't go alone."

"No," Mary allowed somewhat reluctantly. "That's true. But it was just a prank. I'm sure it couldn't have been anything more. It may have been young Mr. Ross all the time after all. The other was so unlikely. It sounded like a myth to me."

"Truth is sometimes stranger than fiction," observed Peter sententiously. "He was staying at The King's Head that night, remember, and he disappeared during the night. Miss Rosemary did the same. Roper can testify to that. Why, he was telling me all about it only last market-day. And she had his room to dress in, moreover. I thought that was a very fishy circumstance."

Mary turned her attention to boiling the kettle for tea. "You men always try to believe the worst," she remarked good humouredly. "Talk about women's gossip—why, they can't hold a candle to the men."

"No, but facts are facts," maintained Peter. "And human nature's human nature. She always was a wild one, as you know, and small wonder, considering."

"Considering what?" said Mary.

"You know," said Peter.

She turned from the fire and faced him. "Yes, I do know, Peter. And I'll tell you now, straight out, I don't believe it. I've nursed her and watched over her night and day, and if she isn't as pure as an angel, then I don't know what virtue means!"

Her voice shook a little with the intensity of her declaration. Her homely features were alight with a generous glow. It was not often that Mary stood up to anyone, but when she did, she did the thing nobly. Peter, with his gun between his knees, quite forgot his job in watching her.

"I'm not saying anything about Rosemary," Mary proceeded. "She's young, and she might get led astray in these free times. Anybody might. But Miss Bobby—Miss Bobby's different. She's a saint and always has been. There may be things we don't know. There are. But nothing will shake my belief in her. She's as white as the driven snow."

"By Jove!" said Peter. He said it more to himself than to Mary whose simple eloquence served somehow to place her on a higher level. He sat looking up at her if she had stepped into a niche very far above him. "It's nice of you to think like that," he added after a moment.

"It isn't what I think," said Mary. "It's what I believe and know. Silas knows it too. That's why he worships her so. But, ah dear," she turned back to her kettle with a sigh, "I sometimes doubt if he wins her after all. Somehow I don't think she's to be won."

"What do you think?" asked Peter cautiously.

"I don't know." Mary bent a little, looking into the fire, as though seeking inspiration there. "There's change coming, as I said before. Things'll never settle down again as they have been. Miss Bobby—she'll never go back to live at Little Staple without Rosemary. Her being married is going to make a lot of difference all round."

"She'll have Silas all right," declared Peter. "It's the only possible thing."

Mary shook her head. "I don't know. I think he'll break his heart if she doesn't. But—I don't know."

"And you'll break yours if she does, eh?" said Peter.

"Me!" said Mary. She did not turn from the fire this time, but as she stood there, her face half-averted, he saw a deep flood of colour spread from neck to brow. She remained bent and silent for several seconds, then slowly she straightened herself and spoke again. "I may be a fool, Peter Garnet," she said, "but I am not quite such a big fool as that, thank God!"

The simple dignity with which she spoke had a strange effect upon Peter. He shuffled his feet as if embarrassed, finally blurting out with schoolboy abruptness, "I wasn't calling you a fool. I think you're the finest woman I've ever seen, bar none. It's Silas that's the fool not to see where his true happiness lies."

Mary gave an odd choked laugh and lifted the kettle off the fire. "Silas is no fool either," she said. "It's what I've always said. He's different from you and me—born different. It's natural that he should turn to a lady born—like Miss Bobby—for his happiness, and I pray every night that she may be moved to give it him. It may be that their going off together like this to see little Rosemary married is a sign that she will. P'raps even, they'll get married themselves before they come back. If so—I tell you, Peter,—I'll be very, very pleased."

She spoke with an emphasis that permitted no questioning, and Peter attempted none. He merely got up and propped his gun in a corner, then stooped to fondle Nero who had risen punctiliously at his movement.

"Don't go out again!" said Mary. "I'll have tea ready in five minutes."

"All right," said Peter. He stood up and looked out of the window to the primrose sky of evening where hung a new moon like a silver horn and a single gem-like star.

Mary busied herself with the tea-things, and for a minute or two the silence between them remained unbroken and unobtrusive. Then, quite suddenly and for no apparent reason, it dawned upon her that there was something unusual about Peter. She paused in her work and looked at him.

There was nothing remarkable about his attitude. His square shoulders and rather thick neck and bullet-head conveyed nothing abnormal to her mind. She had seen him stand so, waiting for a meal, many times in her life, and had never sensed anything in him but that practical patience and goodnature upon which she had always relied. But now—somehow there was something different, something that strangely stirred her, making her feel uncertain, almost afraid.

She stood quite motionless while that curious influence to which she could give no name pulsed and tingled all around her, like an electric current. At last, abruptly, feeling almost as if she could bear no more, she spoke.

"Peter! What are you looking at?"

Her voice had a startled note wholly different from her usual cheery tones. Peter made a slight movement as if taken by surprise, but he did not turn.

"I was just looking at the moon," he said half-sheepishly.

"What ever for?" said Mary.

Her voice still had a staccato sound though she made a definite effort to calm it. She stood by the kitchen-table and her hand gripped the edge of it, for, quite unaccountably, she was trembling.

Peter's answer came with more assurance. It even had a stubborn note; but still he did not turn. "I was wishing for something," he said.

"It's no good wishing through glass," said Mary.

"Oh, isn't it?" said Peter. He made a sudden dive forward, fumbled a moment at the bolt of the window, then threw it wide. "Just you come here!" he said.

She went, strangely torn with emotion. He stretched out a hand to her, not looking towards her, and, as she came within reach, drew her quietly to him. "Look here, Polly!" he said. "Kneel on the window-seat a minute with me! That's right! Now look, old girl! Look at that moon—and wish!"

"What am I to wish for?" said Mary under her breath.

His arm slipped round her as she knelt. His voice also came hushed. "Wish that you may get to love the chap that loves you well enough to marry him!" he said.

"Good gracious, Peter!" said Mary.

His arm closed firmly. "You might do worse," he said.

The frosty air blew in upon them, and Mary became aware of a certain magic quality in it which seemed to be depriving her of her cherished commonsense. She made one despairing effort to retain it.

"Peter, what'll the neighbours say? We've always been like brother and sister, you and I."

"I don't care a damn for that," said Peter, "or the neighbours either. I care for you, and that's about all."

"Good gracious!" said Mary again, with weakening resolution.

"You see," said Peter, "the chances are it won't be you and I and Silas much longer. It'll just be you and I. The neighbours'll jaw worse than ever then—unless we get married."

"Good gracious!" said Mary for the third time, half in awe and half in admiration. "I'd never thought of that!"

"Well, I have," said Peter. "I take it you don't want to lose me as well as Silas, do you?"

"Oh, God forbid!" cried poor Mary, and laid her head down on his shoulder.

"Well, that's all right then," said Peter, "because it's the same with me. So now you can give me a kiss and stop worrying."

She lifted her face obediently. Peter's kisses were offered too rarely to suffer postponement. But when the kiss was over, misgiving again arose within her.

"You're sure we're doing right to think about it, Peter?" she said wistfully. "Sure it isn't for my sake? I'm older than you are, you know, Peter. You're in your prime and I'm getting past mine now."

"Oh, stop talking like a durned fool!" said Peter, and kissed her again roughly and possessively. "Can't you give me credit for knowing my own mind? Who's going to look after me like you do, I'd like to know? Think one of the village-girls with their dances and their whist-drives 'd do the job well enough to please me? Because I don't, and I'm not wanting any of 'em to try! You old fool, Polly!" He took her by her plump shoulders and gently shook her. "Don't you know a woman like you is God's best gift to a man? Don't you know I'd go sheer crazy without you?"

"Oh, Peter!" said Mary with her eyes full of tears. "Just to think of you feeling like that!"

"I do then!" he said, gripping her almost defiantly. "I've felt like it a long time, but I haven't told you so. It wouldn't have been fair to Silas. But I never meant anyone else to have you, that I promise you. So now, whatever happens, you belong to me."

"Oh, my dear—my dear!" said Mary brokenly.

She would have said much more, but at that moment the kettle boiled over, and commonsense instantly reasserted itself. Peter found himself left alone at the window which he shut and fastened, pulling down the blind and drawing the curtains, while Mary with some lingering agitation attended to the source of their interruption. When he came and joined her by the fire, she had regained much of her customary composure and addressed him with resolution, albeit with still heightened colour.

"We'll say no more of this, Peter, till Silas comes back. I've no wish to seem ungrateful, but—after all these years—I think it would be more becoming."

"All right," said Peter. "But not Silas or anyone else is going to make any difference now. Just you mind that!"

Mary turned round to the table to set down the teapot and in her honest eyes there shone a light which neither Peter nor Silas had ever seen there.

"Oh, don't you be afraid, my dear!" she said softly. "I'm yours—just as I always have been. And if you're satisfied with me as I am now,—well, I shall never be any different, except, maybe, in loving you more as the years go by."

"You'll marry me then?" said Peter, with masculine determination to obtain a definite understanding.

Mary laughed at him—a soft, happy laugh. "Do you want it in writing, Peter?" she said.

"Your word is enough," he said. "Just say, I will!"

"All right! I will," said Mary simply and sincerely. "And now sit down and have your tea!"