Part 4 — CHAPTER IV THE FAITHFUL FRIEND

"Well?" said Silas.

He came to her as she stood, slightly bent, in front of the fire. She did not move at his coming, but as he reached her she lifted a white, dazed face which told him very clearly that she was nearly spent.

"Sit down!" he said. "You'll be better when you've had something to eat."

He put her into a low chair and turned to the table. She lay back, quite silent and passive, gazing straight before her.

He brought her food and placed it on another chair by her side; then, as she remained motionless, he began to cut it up for her, his dark face sternly intent.

"Come!" he said at length. "Can you feed yourself, or shall I feed you?"

She stirred at that and slowly raised herself. "Oh, Silas," she said, "what a lot of trouble I bring on everyone!"

"Not on me," said Silas, putting a fork into her hand. "There, that's the way! Now we won't talk any more until you've finished."

She recognized this as an order, and began to eat slowly, in silence. He stood by, gravely watching.

She looked up at him after a few moments. "Aren't you going to join me?" she said.

"No, thanks," said Silas. "I'll have something downstairs later."

She understood his reason as clearly as if he had expressed it, and said no more. When he brought her the wine that Dick had poured out, she drank it in silence.

"Getting better?" said Silas.

She managed to smile at him. "Much better, thank you."

"You're very tired," he said.

She was obliged to admit it. "I know. But I must see Rosemary before I rest."

"Well, where is she?" he asked.

"At the Peregrine Hotel in Warner Street. They are married—she and The Old Bean. Dick arranged it all. Oh, Silas—" her voice shook a little—"I do pray she will be happy."

"I think your welfare is of more importance at the present moment," said Silas, looking at her critically. "What did that mad hatter bring you here for?"

She shook her head. "I'll tell you another time. I was engaged to him once, but—something happened." She met his look with a certain wistfulness. "It's all over now, Silas. He doesn't want me any more."

Silas received the news with an inward remark which only found vent in a growl.

"I don't think I can eat any more," said Bobby. "Shall we go?"

"No," said Silas. "What's that thing for?" He turned to a telephone on the mantelpiece. "I'll ring up the Peregrine, and if they're there, they shall come to you."

"But we can't stay here," objected Bobby. "It's Dick's room."

"He won't be back again yet," said Silas. "When I saw him in the lounge just now, he was going out, said he had an engagement." He picked up the telephone. "What's the name? Ross?"

He proceeded to give his instructions, then turned again to her. His renewed scrutiny did not seem to afford him much satisfaction; but Bobby was impervious to that. She was used to Silas.

"Has that fellow been bullying you—upsetting you?" he asked at last.

She did not answer the question directly. "I should have been tired in any case," she said. "I'm afraid I'm not very strong yet. But I soon shall be."

"You won't be at this rate," he remarked grimly. "He played a deliberate trick to get you here, and then found it didn't answer. Is that it?"

She stretched up her hand to him as she sat. "Don't let us go into it now, Silas!" she said. "It has made no difference—of any sort—except that I know now that he will never come back. That dream is over. I am only sorry I didn't know sooner."

He held her hand with a close pressure. His look still searched her face as if dissatisfied. "There must be a reason," he said, after a moment.

"Yes," said Bobby very wearily, and closed her eyes as if she had no strength for more.

He continued to look at her for a space, still holding her hand, then as the telephone rang, he laid it quietly down and turned.

"Hullo! Is that the Peregrine Hotel? Is there a gentleman of the name of Ross there? Please ask him to speak to me!"

"He is there?" asked Bobby's voice behind him.

He moved and looked down at her again. She was sitting upright in her chair, her face alert and eager. She had shaken her weariness from her like a clogging weight.

"Yes, they are fetching him," he said.

"Oh, beg him to bring her to me at once!" she said. "Tell him to be very quick! I can't—I can't wait much longer."

There was a ring of fever in her voice. As he waited, she got up and stood beside him.

"Let me take it when he comes!" she pleaded anxiously. "I think I can persuade him. Let me try!"

"Wait a minute!" said Silas gently. "Let me be sure of him first!"

He stood listening, and Bobby waited tensely beside him, her hands locked and nervously straining against each other.

"Ah!" said Silas at length. "Here comes someone! Hullo!" He spoke into the telephone. "Who is it? Mr. Ross? Who? Not Mr. Ross? Isn't he there? What? Left this afternoon? Was Mrs. Ross with him? Do you know where they went? Oh, all right. Thanks! Good-bye!" He rang off and turned to her. "Afraid we shall have to wait a little longer," he said. "They've left."

"Left!" Bobby said the word after him faintly, unbelievingly; her face was ashen. "Left!" she said again, as if questioning its meaning, and then suddenly something within her seemed to snap; she bowed forward into his arms with a low and exceeding bitter cry. "Oh, Silas—Silas—Silas!" she sobbed brokenly. "I can't go on! I've borne so much—lost so much! First Dick—and now my Rosemary—both gone—for ever gone! There's nothing left for me—except to die!"

She was torn by wild weeping as she poured out the piteous words, and he held her as he had held her once before, not seeking to check her agonized outburst, only supporting her in the midst of it. It seemed that this was always to be his part, that he did not really count with her, that it was only in her extremity that she turned to him.

But even so, he upheld her without faltering, his face over her poor bowed head sternly controlled, almost rigid in its strength. When her anguish began to spend itself, he helped her to a chair and knelt beside her, still supporting her though his arms no longer encompassed her. And as she lay there weakly crying, he dried her tears once more with infinite patience, proffering no word of comfort, merely holding himself in readiness for her slightest need.

She turned to him at last like a worn-out child. "Silas, what am I to do? Silas, tell me what to do!"

"There is only one thing you can do at present," he said. "And that is—rest. I have engaged a room for you, and your things are in it. Shall I take you to it?"

"Yes, yes," she agreed hopelessly. "I can't stay here."

She made a movement to rise, and he helped her up. So weak was she after her breakdown that she could hardly stand alone. Yet she seemed scarcely to realize that it was his strength and not her own that supported her. Perhaps she had leaned on him too long to be aware of it.

She submitted to his guidance as it were instinctively. So much ascendancy he had established over her. But she might have been almost unconscious of his presence while she did so. It did not apparently matter to her in that dire hour of need whether he came or went.

Only, as he led her from the room did she give utterance to the first reproach he had ever heard from her. "Oh, Silas," she said, "why—why—why did you make me come back?"

He did not answer her, and in a moment she turned in quick distress, her old sweetness reasserting itself. "No, no, I didn't mean that. It's not your fault. Forgive me for saying it!"

To which he made steady and almost stolid reply, "There is nothing to forgive."

"I didn't mean it," she reiterated. "I only meant that we are so much better dead when there is nothing left to live for."

"Yes, I know," said Silas. "I know."

"I'm glad of that," she said pathetically. "Glad you understand."

"You needn't be afraid of my ever doing anything else," he said.

"Oh, thank you," she murmured. "Thank you."

But, though she was vaguely comforted by his assurance, it was more habit than gratitude that prompted the words. Silas would always be Silas, the strong and patient friend in need. There were no limits to his kindness and consideration. If there had been, surely he would have abandoned her to her fate long ago! She had never meant to take more from him than she could repay, and some day—when all this trouble was past—she would make good the debt. There would be nothing else left for her. But while it lasted, she had no choice but to accept his service. He would not have suffered her to do otherwise. That was clear, and she was too crushed to do other than submit to his decision. She was in fact almost like a child in his hands that night, and when he told her that he had engaged a room for himself next to her own in case she should need anything, it seemed so natural that she scarcely thanked him for the thought.

"I am glad to know you are near," she said. "Oh yes, I will call you if I want anything; but I don't suppose I shall. Good night!"

She smiled at him as he went away—a small, wistful smile which to him was sadder than her tears.