Part 4 — CHAPTER VII FORGIVENESS

The rest of the journey passed without any incident or intimate talk. Bobby lay for the most part perfectly still, often with closed eyes. But she did not sleep, and Silas knew that she did not sleep. Covertly he watched her, his face set in lines of hard and uncompromising endurance. When the luncheon-hour came, he waited upon her wordlessly, as a slave might wait upon an empress—though there was little about Bobby to warrant such an attitude. She looked crushed—too broken-hearted even to weep.

They had to change for the final stage of the journey, and Silas took her to a fire in the waiting-room where she sat as one in a sad dream for the half-hour that elapsed before the train for Bode came in.

"I feel as if I had been away for weeks," she said to him, as they climbed into it.

"I know," he said. "And all for nothing!"

"Not quite all for nothing," she corrected gently.

The train loitered interminably along the branch-line, and it was four o'clock ere Bode was reached. It was market-day, and the station was busier than usual. Descending, Bobby found herself close to Old Roper the veterinary.

He started at the sight of her, gave her a hasty greeting, and almost precipitated himself into the crowd.

"Why did he do that?" she said to Silas, but Silas did not hear.

"Wait a minute!" he said. "I'll get hold of a conveyance somehow."

"There's the omnibus from The King's Head!" she said. "Let's go in that!"

But for some reason he held her back. "No, no! I'll get something else."

It was no longer raining, but heavy clouds were obscuring the last of the daylight. Bobby became aware of something ominous in the atmosphere, and felt as if an icy hand had clutched her heart.

"What is it?" she said nervously. "Ah, there is Mr. Everett! See, Silas! Perhaps he——"

She broke off. Everett had seen her also—she was sure of it—and had swiftly turned away.

She stood shivering on the path of the station-approach which adjoined the market, while Silas plunged across the road and took forcible possession of a shabby cab which was waiting on the off-chance of securing a passenger. Then in a sudden panic she followed him with limbs that trembled uncontrollably, and almost fell into the ramshackle vehicle which he held open for her.

"Why didn't you wait?" said Silas.

She answered him half-hysterically. "I couldn't—I couldn't. I'm sure something has happened. I've seen it in two faces—old Roper—Everett! Silas, if it's Rosemary——"

He took her hand and held it very tightly. "It isn't Rosemary," he said. "She's all right. You'll be with her in ten minutes."

"Are you sure?" she said, clinging desperately to that sustaining hand. "You wouldn't say it, I know, if it weren't true!"

"No," said Silas. "I shouldn't."

She did not question him further, but sat in a scared, quick-breathing silence while they clattered along the High Street of Bode.

Only, as they neared The King's Head, she turned to him, her hand still clasping his, and said hurriedly, piteously, "Silas, are you sure I'd better go on? Will she—want to see me?"

"My dear," he said, "she's longing to see you. Ross told me so to-day. It's what they've come for."

That reassured her, and as they jolted on in the darkening evening she began to take courage again. But when at last they came to a standstill before the old hotel, she said nervously as his strong grasp relaxed, "Don't go away and leave me, Silas! I'm sure to want you in the end."

"I shall be there when you do," he answered quietly.

They entered through the swing-doors, and Bobby's glance went eagerly round. The deep shadows of evening filled the place, and her first impression was that it was empty. Then a solid, thick-set figure detached itself from the gloom and came to her.

"It's me—Donald—The Old Bean," said a voice she remembered. "You're wanting Rosemary. I made her wait for you upstairs."

Somehow she found his arm round her as he propelled her to the stairs, and she wondered a little at his action though it did not seem wholly unnatural.

"I hope you don't mind our getting married," he said, as he guided her upwards. "We're awfully happy together. But we want your blessing of course."

She could not answer him for the hard beating of her heart. She murmured something inarticulate, to which he made even more incomprehensible reply.

"Ah! I was afraid you might hear of it first. I'm fearfully sorry about it. But Rosemary is here to comfort you. You must let me know if there's anything I can do."

And then they were at the top of the stairs, and she heard the swinging open of a door and the rush of eager feet.

"Aunt Bobby—oh, Aunt Bobby!" cried Rosemary's voice.

And Bobby found her own in throbbing, passionate answer, as she strained the lithe young figure she could scarcely see faster and faster to her breast: "My precious, precious Rosemary! Thank God for giving you back to me! Oh, thank God—thank God!"

With Rosemary's arms tight about her, she went into a room where the firelight gleamed; and the door was shut gently upon them by The Old Bean, who then went softly away.

"Aunt Bobby!" Rosemary said again and again. "Aunt Bobby—darling—darling! Have I really got you at last? Oh, why did I ever go away from you?"

Her face was all wet with tears which Bobby tenderly kissed away. "My sweet one!" she said fondly. "There! Let us sit down and hold each other—just hold each other!"

She sank into a low chair before the fire while Rosemary knelt beside her, rocking to and fro, and still clinging to her as though she could never bear to relax her hold again.

"Will you ever forgive me, Aunt Bobby darling?" she whispered presently. "I don't know how I ever came to do it."

"I know, dearest," said Bobby.

"You know?" Rosemary's clasp was almost convulsive.

"Yes. And I understand," Bobby spoke very steadfastly. "To understand is to forgive. I have seen Dick, you know."

"Oh, Aunt Bobby! And did he tell you? Did he tell you?" Rosemary drew back a little to look for the first time upon the beloved face as revealed by the firelight.

"Tell me what, darling?" Bobby's clear eyes met hers with unfaltering directness.

It was Rosemary who flinched and lowered her own. "That he loved you," she said under her breath.

"Oh no, dear. He didn't tell me that." Bobby's denial was as unblenching as her look had been. She put her hands upon Rosemary's shoulders, searching the sweet, downcast face with a loving scrutiny. "My love story was finished long ago," she said. "But I want to hear all about yours, my darling. May I hear it?"

Rosemary did not lift her eyes. She had begun to tremble. "Aunt Bobby," she said, "I've got to tell you something else first—something I thought perhaps you'd hear before you got here. But I see you haven't and—and—The Old Bean says you've been very ill and I'm to break it gently. Aunt Bobby—Aunt Bobby dear—" she lifted her eyes now, and they were wide and scared; her voice shook in piteous distress,—"I've never done it before, and—and I don't know how to begin."

"My little girl, what is it?" said Bobby, drawing her close again. "What could it possibly be that mattered now I have you safe? There, tell me, my little one! What is it? Don't be afraid! There is nothing that can really hurt me now that I hold you in my arms."

"Oh, Aunt Bobby, you're forgetting someone!" whispered Rosemary, with her face in Bobby's neck.

"My dearest, who?" said Bobby, puzzled.

Rosemary's arms closed suddenly with such tightness that she gasped for breath. "Aunt Bobby, it's—it's—Aunt Matilda!" she said.

"Matilda!" Bobby stiffened as she sat; it was as if an icy blast had struck her. "What of Matilda?" she said. "Rosemary, what of Matilda?"

Her voice held command—such command as Rosemary had never attempted to resist. She did not attempt to do so now, but answered in a shocked undertone: "She died—oh, darling,—she died—early this morning."

"Matilda!" Bobby's lips uttered the name almost mechanically. She sat without stirring, still rigidly holding Rosemary. "Matilda—dead! Matilda!" She spoke incredulously, even suspiciously, but not as one vitally concerned. "What do you mean, dear?" she said.

Rosemary continued to cling to her, her face hidden. "It's been very dreadful," she told her rather breathlessly. "It was all so sudden. We didn't get down here until late last night, and it had happened then. It seems she was depressed after you left, and Dr. Bellamy thought it would do her good to get up and go for a run in his car. He had to call at Joe Brant's place, and you know that steep bank there? Well, while he was out of the car, something happened that the brake slipped and it ran down backwards and turned over. She didn't know how to stop it, and there was no time."

"She was killed?" asked Bobby in the same calm, detached voice.

"No, not then. She was pinned underneath, and they had a lot of trouble to get her out. But she was unconscious. She didn't suffer. She never suffered at all." Rosemary spoke with a sort of desperate rapidity. "They got her to Joe Brant's cottage at last. She was terribly injured, and they knew she couldn't get over it. Dr. Bellamy was nearly beside himself. They didn't know how to get hold of you till the Hudsons thought of asking Peter, and it was too late then to get you back again the same night. We got to Staple Farm while they were discussing it. And oh, Aunt Bobby, it was dreadful—it was dreadful—especially to find you gone." Rosemary's tears flowed afresh; she was evidently worn out with the prolonged strain.

"I thought I was going to you, child," Bobby said, tenderly stroking her hair. "I should never have gone otherwise."

"I know—I know. It was Dick's doing. Silas told The Old Bean on the telephone this morning. I did think Dick meant to play the game when I heard. But he hasn't—after all." Rosemary began to sob. "And now I've gone and married The Old Bean I shan't be able to take care of you either!" she ended piteously.

"Darling, don't let us waste time worrying about things that really don't matter!" said Bobby gently. "Finish about Matilda? Did they take you to her?"

"Oh yes, I went—I went." Rosemary made an effort to control herself. "I was very frightened because they said she was dying. But I didn't mind so much when I saw her. She looked so calm and beautiful, just as if she were lying asleep. And The Old Bean stayed with me behind the curtain and held my hand most of the time. She didn't open her eyes for ever so long. We began to think that perhaps she was dead already when she suddenly opened them quite wide and looked at me. Oh, Aunt Bobby,—" Rosemary's arms tightened again to the clinging hold of a scared child—"I didn't know that when people were dying they could see so far."

"What did she say to you, darling?" questioned Bobby, still smoothing the bright head.

"She didn't speak at first," murmured Rosemary, "just lay and looked—and looked. And then, when she spoke, I saw that she thought I was you. Was it wrong of me, Aunt Bobby? I let her think so."

"No, darling, of course not!" Bobby spoke with loving reassurance. "Tell me what she said!"

"Oh, she said—she said that you needn't trouble any more about her, and she was sorry to have been such a burden. And then she began to talk about me." Rosemary's head sank a little lower on Bobby's breast. "I'll tell you just what she said. The Old Bean said I must. She said, 'Don't worry about the child, Bobby! She won't go under as I did. There's too much of Alexander in her for that. You can tell her the truth when I'm gone. It's better that she should know, and it won't make any difference to me.'" Rosemary halted a little. "I'm trying to tell you exactly what she said," she murmured pathetically. "It isn't very easy, though I shall never forget it."

"Yes, tell me, darling!" said Bobby, softly. "I think you will manage to forget—some day."

"Well, then she seemed to wander a little—to go back to when she was a girl in India, and she talked of that wedding-dress of hers and of a man called Adrian—a man she seemed to care for." Rosemary spoke a little vaguely. "I'd never heard of him before, so I could only sit and listen. I thought it would upset her if I said anything."

"Adrian Tressider—the man she was engaged to," said Bobby. "The man I wouldn't let her marry."

"Yes—yes, she said that. 'You wouldn't let me have him,' she said over and over again. 'You wouldn't let me have him, though it broke my heart to give him up.' Aunt Bobby, why—why wouldn't you let her?"

Rosemary whispered the question with a shrinking downward motion, but Bobby stooped and raised her up again.

"Oh, my darling, I have so prayed I might never have to tell you this," she said. "But God knows best. It was because I found out that she was going to have a child, and she wanted to marry him without telling him."

"Ah!" Rosemary said. She lifted her face, breathing hard and fast as though she fought against suffocation. "It was that—it was that! Well, let me tell you the rest now, and then—then you must tell me something, dear, dear Aunt Bobby. She said, 'You wouldn't let me have him. You broke my heart—ruined my life. And so—I ruined yours. That is why Dick never came back to you.'"

"Ah!" Bobby said. She too drew a sharp breath; it was almost an exclamation of pain.

"She said," went on Rosemary, "'I took my revenge—I've been taking it ever since. I stopped your letters to Dick and his to you. I wrote to him in your name and put an end to it all. It wasn't all revenge, though. It wouldn't have been worth it just for that. But I wanted you. I couldn't have faced life without you. I was too scared—too desperate.' That was when I began to feel sorry for her, Aunt Bobby. It was as if something outside herself—something very relentless had been making her say it all until she came to that. And then—then I saw it was poor Aunt Matilda after all, who so hated hardships and difficulties, and never could do anything for herself. And I was sorry for her, I was sorry. I felt I understood how terribly badly she must have wanted you, to—to do a dreadful thing like that. I said to myself, 'If I were really Aunt Bobby, I shouldn't hate her for it. I should forgive her.'"

"Oh, child!" Bobby said in a low broken whisper and bowed her face upon Rosemary's hair.

"Don't cry, darling!" whispered back Rosemary. "Dick will soon know. And he loves you—I know he loves you still."

But Bobby uttered a heavy, tearless sob. "Too late!" she said. "Too late!"

There followed a silence during which it seemed as if some struggle were going on in the elder woman's soul. But when she raised herself at last, her face was calm.

"Tell me the rest now!" she said.

"That's almost all," said Rosemary. "The end was very near, and her eyes got deeper and deeper as though they saw far, far beyond anything that we could see. She couldn't move at all, but just at the last she said very clearly, 'Will you forgive me, Bobby girl?' And I—I'd no right to do it, but I simply had to—and I knew you would have done it if you'd been there—I got up and bent over her, and I said, 'Yes, dear,' as if it had been you. Aunt Bobby, she didn't know the difference. She just smiled at me—and died."

Again there fell a silence. Bobby's hand still stroked the girl's head with a tender, soothing touch, but her eyes were fixed and remote. She might have been in a trance.

Rosemary stirred at length, looking up at her as though half-afraid. "Aunt Bobby," she said pleadingly, "you're not vexed with me?"

Bobby shook her head. "Why should I be?" she said.

"For saying that—when she wanted it so." Rosemary's voice was trembling.

Bobby's eyes came down to her. "My child," she said very solemnly, "if you can forgive her—so can I."

Rosemary shrank again involuntarily. "You mean—" she murmured faintly.

"I mean, sweetheart," Bobby said, "that you were the child she bore."

"Yes, I thought it must be that." A violent tremor went through Rosemary, but she controlled herself with a supreme effort. "And she didn't want me. She hated having me. She never liked me. Aunt Bobby, Aunt Bobby, who was the man? Tell me!"

Bobby's look changed. Her arms went round her again, clasping her, sheltering her. "My little darling," she said with such a wealth of mother-tenderness in voice and action as even Rosemary had never known from her before, "spiritually you are mine, and always have been from the moment of your birth. I tended you—guarded you—loved you—I took you for my own—my very own—a treasure sent by God to me. I shut the gate upon everything that was shameful. I marked it Private, and no one has ever opened it since. Need I open it now—even for you?"

But though Rosemary clung fast to her, the blood that was in them both prompted her answer. "Please, Aunt Bobby dearest! Just once!" she whispered.

And so, holding her darling close pressed to her heart, Bobby opened the gate at last. "His name was Alexander—a soldier-servant of my father's—a groom. He taught us to ride. I don't know what happened to him. He may be dead. But anyhow he never knew. He never counted at all."

She ceased to speak. What it had cost her, even Rosemary would never know—Rosemary to whom the revelation was as gall. They remained there in the firelight, clinging together and not speaking for a long time, and during that time there was between them an inner communion such as is given to the very few.

In the end Rosemary lifted her head with a resolute, courageous movement and looked into Bobby's tired, sweet face.

"Thank you for telling me, darling," she said. "Thank you—thank you for all. There's just one thing I'm going to tell you now. Though I've been so bad—so wicked, God heard you praying, and He kept me safe, and—and—it was He Who sent me back to you, Aunt Bobby. I want you to know that, so that—so that you can keep on praying for me, darling, and ask Him—please ask Him—to make me good—like you. Will you, please, Aunt Bobby?"

Her eyes, clear and steadfast as Bobby's own, sought and found their answer. Very tenderly Bobby drew her close again and kissed her. And her kiss was a benediction.