Part 4 — CHAPTER III THE CONFLICT

That journey through the London streets seemed unending to Bobby. It was raining, and the roads shone like glass. She felt dazzled, bewildered, uncertain of herself, acutely conscious of a tension between her companions for which she could discover no remedy. She realized that Ravencombe had given a very definite hint to Silas and that but for her much more definite assurance he would have taken it. Strangely enough, obsessed as she was by the thought of Rosemary, she had time to be angry for his sake. And it was Dick—of all people, Dick—who had made her so. Dick, now Lord Ravencombe and a cousin of Silas! That was the amazing thing. And Silas who hated and despised the Thorgrave blood that ran so strongly in his veins!

By the fitful glare of the streets she watched his face, sternly emotionless, in front of her, and again she saw that likeness which till then had been hidden from her. They were utterly unlike—these two cousins, and yet so much alike that they might have been brothers. How was it that she had never seen it before? The answer came to her almost without her seeking. It was not the old Dick whom she had known in the long ago who resembled Silas, but this stranger who yet had a look of the old Dick about him and spoke with the old Dick's voice. Somehow, in totally different surroundings, they had developed along similar lines. And she realized that while Silas had probably altered but little with the years, the other man had been changing day by day till now she found a being almost unrecognizable—yet still in some ways poignantly the same, and also somehow, unaccountably, displaying an elusive resemblance to one whom in earlier days she was certain he had never resembled.

It was all rather like a dream from which she could not disentangle herself. She even began to wonder whether it was possible that this curious resemblance which till now she had never seen had been a factor acting upon her sub-conscious mentality to induce the intimacy between herself and Silas which Rosemary and Matilda had so deeply resented. It had never occurred to her before that there could be any attraction save that of genuine friendship and gratitude. But now—she wondered.

Again her eyes sought Silas's face, and this time she found his eyes upon her in a straight regard that seemed to pierce her very soul. She met them for a space unfaltering, then the light passed and she could see them no longer.

Ravencombe's voice spoke beside her. "We are just there," he said.

The taxi turned a corner and stopped at last. Another glare of light burst in upon them, but she thought of Silas no more though it was his hand that helped her out and urged her swiftly into shelter from the pouring rain. She went through glass doors into a high hall, and looked around her eagerly. But only the casual glances of strangers met her gaze.

Ravencombe spoke again. "She isn't here. I've got a sitting-room. Go straight through to the lift!"

She went, and was aware that he followed her. In the lift she realized that they were alone, and sharply turned.

"Where is Silas?"

He had already shut the doors. "He stopped to engage a room," he said.

The lift shot upwards as he spoke, and for those few seconds they were alone. They were over almost before she had begun to realize them, but as they reached the fourth floor and stopped she knew that she had been under a close observation that had missed nothing.

"You lead the way!" she said, as she stepped on to the landing.

He did so in silence, and they went down a long empty corridor till they came at length to a door at which he paused. She was close behind him and quivering with eagerness.

Very suddenly he turned and faced her. "It was a pity," he said, "that you brought an escort with you. I wanted you alone to-night."

"Alone!" She went backwards with the words, her hand to her heart. "Where is Rosemary?"

He smiled at her. Why was his smile so terrible? Then very quietly he took a key from his pocket and opened the door, switching on the light.

"Come in here," he said, "and I will tell you!"

She obeyed him, trembling from head to foot. She found herself in a well-lighted sitting-room in which a meal had been spread. There was a door at the further end towards which she turned instinctively, but Ravencombe's voice arrested her.

"No, she isn't in there. I can't produce her for the moment, though she is quite safe and happy; so you needn't be anxious. Take off your things and sit down!"

She turned swiftly upon him, all her joyful anticipation swept away in a wave of anger. "How dare you trick me like this?" she said. "Why did you say she was here?"

He shrugged his shoulders slightly. "I should have thought the reason was obvious. As for tricking you,—well, that was a game of your own starting many years ago."

She gazed at him, taking in every detail for the first time, noting the iron-grey of his hair, the bitter lines that the years had carved upon him, and the cruel scar which no years could ever efface.

Then, at the end of a deep silence, she spoke. "Dick, why—why didn't you come back before?"

He made her a curious bow. "At last," he said, "I have succeeded in attracting your attention. But I should have thought that once more the answer to your question was obvious. I had nothing to come back for."

The words were like cold steel, piercing her. She made a gesture that was unconsciously tragic. "Was I—nothing?" she said.

He raised his brows. "The answer to that," he said, "is not so obvious, I admit. But come and sit down, and perhaps we shall arrive at an understanding."

He motioned her forward, but she remained stationary. "Before I do anything at all," she said, "you must first—please—tell me the truth about Rosemary. Where is she? What is she doing? You—you can't mean to torture me by keeping it back?"

The words sounded strange even to herself. That Dick—that dear lover of hers—could have come back thus to torture her seemed so monstrous, so utterly outside the bounds of possibility. And yet his attitude—his voice—his look—all conveyed the same. Mockery, cynicism, even malice, were there expressed. There might be more also. There might be fires of hatred hidden below the surface which she found so ominous. And this was the man for whom she had waited all the days of her youth.

But she maintained her self-control though he showed no sign of yielding to her entreaty. "You must please answer me," she said. "I can't think of anything—attend to anything until I know. That telegram——"

"I sent that telegram," he said.

"Ah!" Again she felt as if her heart would choke her. "Then—it was all a hoax! You can tell me nothing—you know nothing—about her?"

He walked slowly forward into the room so that she was obliged to follow. "On the contrary, I know almost everything about her," he said. "I have already told you that she is safe and happy, and that is the truth. But she is no longer in my keeping, or—in yours."

He reached the table and stopped before it to pour out a glass of wine. She watched him, fascinated. He turned towards her again, and she saw a strange, leaping light in his eyes that made him unfamiliar to her. The Dick Dynamo of old had been bold and daring, but his eyes had never held aught but love for her.

He held the wine towards her. "Come!" he said. "This is for you. It will help you to hold your own."

She took it from him almost mechanically, but the next moment she came to the table and set it down untasted. "Dick," she said resolutely, "we have got to understand one another."

He smiled, the baffling, fitful fire still in his eyes. "Which is exactly why I decoyed you hither, my dear Roberta," he said. "I have heard a good deal about you lately which does not altogether tally with my own conceptions of you. Take off your hat and coat and let me see you!"

She turned fully towards him. "No," she said quietly. "I am going again immediately. Now please tell me about Rosemary! I must know about her. You can't mean to keep it from me."

A hint of entreaty crept into her voice despite her determined effort to keep it steady. The man who faced her made a curious gesture as of repudiation.

"I have told you that she is safe," he said. "Nor has she come to any harm while in my company. I am sorry that the pleasure of meeting me is not sufficient to counterbalance your disappointment. I can only suggest that you make the best of a bad bargain—or shall we say a bad exchange not of your arranging?—and answer a few questions I have to ask. When you have done that, I will do my best to answer yours."

She saw that he was in earnest. Behind his bantering pose was deadly intention, and she remembered of old that Dick Dynamo had never been one to endure opposition to his will. She made a desperate attempt to master her impatience and to meet his mood undismayed.

"Well, Dick," she said, "what is it that you want to know?"

The flicker of a smile crossed his face, and she knew—just as Rosemary had known—that her motives were quite bare to his gaze.

"I should like to know everything, please," he said smoothly. "But before you begin, may I request you once more to remove your hat? I want to see you properly."

She obeyed him without further hesitation, somehow realizing that she had no choice; and she saw his look change subtly as it dwelt upon the gleaming gold of her hair.

"So you are neither grey nor shorn!" he said. "I appreciate that. Why don't you sit down if you are tired?"

"I am just going," Bobby said.

"That depends," he remarked enigmatically.

Again, as if compelled, she took the chair he indicated, and doing so, acknowledged to herself that her strength was limited.

"That's better," he said. "Now begin at the very beginning and tell me everything that has happened to you since I saw you last!"

She looked up at him with her clear, unswerving gaze. "I don't think I have very much to tell," she said. "I have just kept on working."

His eyes held hers with an almost fierce intentness. "For—Rosemary," he said, his voice very level and distinct. "You hadn't got her to work for, you must remember, when I left."

"No. I know," said Bobby, and closed her lips firmly upon the words.

He marked the fact with a grim hardening of the features that gave them a stony, carved look. "Is that all?" he said.

"That's all," said Bobby quietly.

"You have no intention of telling me anything more?" he said.

Her eyes still met his without a falter. "No, Dick," she said. "I don't discuss other people's affairs with anyone."

"You'd sooner lie," he said.

The colour rose and spread all over her face at his words, but she still continued to meet his look. "I should not lie to you," she said.

"Ah!" He laughed, though his face scarcely altered. "That is kind of you, Roberta, though I imagine it is only because you could not hope for any success if you did. Tell me, why have you never married in all these years?"

The colour deepened in her face, became a most painful blush. Her eyelids flickered a little, as though she would fain shield herself from that merciless regard of his. But she kept her head up still.

"I have had—other things to do," she said.

"Is that your sole reason?" he said.

She made a small unconscious gesture of protest, and locked her hands together. "It isn't quite fair to ask me that," she said.

"Oh, I assure you everything is fair at this stage," he declared. "Are you going to answer me—or must I draw my own conclusions?"

Again she made a small, quivering movement, as though the inquisition were more than she could bear. "I will answer if you wish," she said. "But I don't think it will help things very much."

"I do wish," he said briefly.

Her face was scarlet now, her lips trembling; but with a great effort she controlled herself to speak.

"I daresay I shouldn't have married in any case," she said. "I can't tell. But—I have always—until lately—regarded myself as engaged to you."

It was his turn to be discomfited, and though he kept himself rigidly in hand, there was something about him—a subtle, scarcely perceptible change of countenance—that betrayed it.

"Oh, you stick to that story too, do you?" he said.

"What do you mean?" said Bobby.

He told her with a cynicism that but thinly veiled some deeper emotion. "The heart-ever-faithful fable. Of course it's a very touching one and can reflect nothing but credit upon you. I am rather surprised that you should take the trouble to repeat it to me, that's all."

"I don't understand you," said Bobby. The violent colour was fading from her face, leaving her haggard and strangely aged. "I am telling you the truth, Dick," she said almost pleadingly. "And you meet me with nothing but gibes and sneers. Why? What have I done to deserve it? How have I wronged you in all these years?"

"How have you wronged me?" he said. "You ask me that?"

"Yes, I do ask you." Her voice still trembled, but she spoke with more assurance. There was something about him that seemed to indicate that he had given ground before her. "I do ask you, Dick; because, as I say, until lately—I have always felt that you might come back to me, and I have held myself in readiness for you."

"Until lately?" he threw in.

She bent her head. "Yes. Lately—just lately—I had begun to feel that you would never come."

"Since when?" he said.

She hesitated for a second, then again raised her eyes to his. "Since Rosemary went," she said.

"Ah!" He made a sharp movement, but as swiftly controlled himself. "Go on!" he commanded. "Tell me what made you feel that!"

She obeyed with absolute simplicity. "I had begun to wonder if you were still living, before that. After that, I can't tell you why, but I became somehow sure—quite sure—that I should never see—my Dick again."

He uttered a harsh sound that might have been either laugh or groan. "You were right there," he said. "You never will,—at least not the Dick you used to know. He was buried alive long, long ago, and though he lived on for a time, he died in the end—of starvation, suffocation, madness—whatever the poor devils generally die of after they have been bricked up long enough."

There was a wild ring of reality in his voice, and Bobby shuddered. It might have been a madman speaking, and yet in that moment she saw the things he saw. Instinctively she sought to turn him aside from contemplating them.

"We are neither of us what we used to be," she said gently. "Life won't let us stay the same. Perhaps we have both been through a good deal in our different ways; but, Dick, we needn't be bitter because we have ceased to be what we once were. It isn't our faults. I am not blaming you, and you mustn't blame me either. I have tried to do my best."

"You!" he said, staring at her. "You say that! You who took my life between your hands and broke it—like that!" He made a graphic gesture.

"I, Dick!" For a moment she met his look in blank surprise, and then suddenly she rose and stood before him. "You are wrong," she said steadily. "You are making a mistake. Something must have happened which I have never known. What is it?"

"What about Rosemary?" he said.

"Rosemary?" She repeated the name with a soft, unconscious tenderness. "But I never told you of her. It couldn't have been—Rosemary."

"No, you never told me of her." Sternly he corroborated the statement. "But—wasn't it because of her that you sent me away?"

She still faced him. "Yes," she said. "But—I always meant at that time to come to you—afterwards."

"You meant to come to me!" There was something like desperation in his voice. "And I was to be kept in ignorance. You admit that! You dare to admit it!"

"No," said Bobby. "As your wife, I would have told you. But not otherwise."

"As my—" Something seemed to rise in his throat and choke him; he swung suddenly away, as if he could no longer bear to look upon her.

"I shouldn't have been justified in telling you," Bobby said rather piteously, "any more than I am justified in telling you now. Surely you can see that, Dick! It wouldn't be right or fair. I was bound to keep silence—if only for the child's sake."

"Ah!" He spoke with his back to her; his voice sounded strangled, as if he produced it with difficulty. "And it was for the child's sake—no doubt—that you wrote me that letter! Or was it—a last effort—on your part—at decency?"

"Which letter?" said Bobby. "I wrote you several; but you never answered them."

"That is another—lie!" He flung round again and faced her, and in spite of herself she flinched a little, so awful was his look, "You have told me nothing but lies since you entered this room," he said, "and you dare to stare at me with those innocent eyes of yours as if you were the saint I always used to think you! I had one letter only from you, and that was to tell me you had decided to throw me over. No, you needn't deny it. It's too late. I was fool enough to let that letter wreck me. I went to the devil after it. Do you understand? Don't dare to tell me you never wrote it! I wouldn't believe you if you did. There is too much evidence against you. There is—Rosemary. You can't deny her. At least, you haven't tried to—yet!"

"Ah! I see," Bobby said. She was white now, white to the lips; but strangely strong, strangely sure of herself. "No, I haven't denied Rosemary," she said, and in her voice there sounded a note that was almost of exultation. "I hadn't thought of doing that. After all, she is my very, very own. Now tell me where to find her!"

She moved towards him where he stood near the door as she spoke, her pale face lifted and in her eyes a splendour that was in some fashion—as he had said—saint-like. There was no longer any hesitation about her, only a strength that was wholly irresistible because it was wholly of the spirit. Neither was there any vestige of anger in the look she turned upon him. Firmly and fearlessly it met his own, like a level lance superbly balanced. If the dark gulf that stretched between them had altered him, it had altered her also, but in a different way—a way that was supremely beyond all criticism because achieving a greatness that was not of earth.

As she stood there, there was a majesty about her that dominated him, strive as he might against it. He saw her as the years of sacrifice had made her—a woman in whom all the beauty of womanhood had blossomed and now was bearing fruit. He had tried to thrust her down to a lower level, but she rose triumphant as if upon wings, above his sullying touch. Without effort, without explanation, she stood vindicated. And he drew back from her, baffled, abashed even, knowing that he was not fit to be her judge.

She spoke again, standing before him. "Will you tell me where to find her?" she said.

And he answered her at last in a voice from which all arrogance, all bitterness, had passed.

"You will find her at the Peregrine Hotel in Warner Street. They were going down to Bode to-morrow."

"They?" questioned Bobby.

"She and Donald Ross," he said. "They were married in Italy a few days ago."

"Married!" echoed Bobby with a start.

"Yes, married. It was quite in order. I saw to that. There were a British consul and a British chaplain to tie the knot." The old mask-like self-control had returned to him. He spoke with the brevity of one not greatly interested. "They will tell you all about it no doubt. But you had better have something to eat before you go. Wait and I will fetch your friend Silas Hickory to join you!"

He returned to the door with the words, opened it, then paused. His eyes came back to her and dwelt upon her with a deep and intense searching; then dumbly fell away.

He wheeled and went out without another word.