Part 4 — CHAPTER VIII THE INDOMITABLE

"Eh, dear!" said Mary. "She was always a poor thing, but it's hard to believe she's gone. Little Rosemary, too, looking so sweet and bonny, with that young husband of hers just worshipping her with his eyes wherever she goes! There's a love-match, anyway, though she's such a baby, it's hard to believe she's really married."

"Everything's hard to believe, it seems," commented Peter, as he washed his hands at the sink. "But it isn't everyone waits till they're forty before they turn their thoughts to marriage."

Mary laughed, a trifle self-consciously. "That's true," she admitted. "But why doesn't Miss Bobby get married? That's what I want to know. She isn't forty yet anyhow, and it isn't fitting for her to live alone at Little Staple. With poor Miss Matilda in her grave for the past month and the young ones gone to make a home for themselves in the North, she'll be terribly lonely, Peter, terribly lonely."

"Some people prefer loneliness," said Peter.

"Like Lord Ravencombe," suggested Mary, who was in a gossiping mood. "Do you know, Peter, they say he's a woman-hater, and if he doesn't marry—well, there, it will be funny, won't it?"

"Very funny," agreed Peter indulgently. "And it'll be even funnier if Silas doesn't either, won't it?"

"Oh, you've no call to laugh at me," said Mary, with a good-humoured smile that was not without a tinge of anxiety. "It isn't really funny, Peter. He takes things hard, does Silas, though he never says a word. I did so hope when they came back that there might be some sort of understanding between them. But I'm sure there isn't. Or else he's asked her and she's refused him, as I always feared she might. Anyhow," she checked a small sigh and picked up a cloth to polish a plate, "nothing's happened that we know of, and so we've just got to be patient."

"Oh, patient!" said Peter, pulling on the roller-towel behind the door with a force that seemed to testify to a somewhat different sentiment. "I'm fed up, that's what I am!"

"Good gracious, Peter!" Mary turned and surveyed him, round-eyed. "What ever for?"

So sudden was the announcement that it took her breath away. She almost suspected for a moment that it had been made in jest, but Peter's face told her otherwise. He was in earnest.

He looked at her moodily. "It's your fault," he said.

"Mine?" gasped Mary in bewilderment.

"Yes. You're so durned unselfish." He thrust an arm unexpectedly around her. "At least, I suppose you are," he said. "But you never know with women. They're not the same as men."

"What ever are you talking about?" said Mary, between distress and gratification, for Peter's arm had a pleasant feeling about it.

"Well, can't you understand?" he said half-grudgingly. "I want to get married. I don't like this half-time business. I want you for full time and always."

"Oh, Peter!" said Mary, with a rush of colour that completely suffused her face and neck and even her bare comely arms. "Oh, my dear! But—but——"

"Yes, I know. It's always 'but'," said Peter. "I've had enough of it, I tell you, even if you haven't. It's silly at our time of life to keep putting off things. I'm going to tell Silas."

"Oh, you mustn't!" cried Mary in distress. "It wouldn't be right—indeed it wouldn't! We couldn't possibly get married and leave poor Silas to fend for himself."

"I don't see why we shouldn't get married," said Peter on an obstinate note. "It isn't going to hurt anyone that I can see. You can still go on making his bed and his stockings till he gets a wife of his own."

"Oh, you don't want me to go away and leave him," said Mary, relieved. "But I don't know I'm sure whether he'd like us married, Peter. Wouldn't it make him feel sort of left out in the cold?"

"And what of you?" demanded Peter. "You who were prepared to stop on and work for him after he got married! Wouldn't you have been out in the cold?"

"That's different," protested Mary, beginning to twist the corner of the cloth she held. "Women are different. You said so yourself. And I'm so happy now, Peter." She smiled at him half-shyly. "I feel as if I'd do anything for anybody."

"Except me, eh?" said Peter, pulling her to him.

"Oh no, Peter! Oh no!" Mary's remonstrance began in distress and ended in laughter, for Peter had a way with him that there was no resisting and when she emerged from his embrace she was too dishevelled to think of anything but the urgent need to put herself straight again before Silas came in. "I would be an awful thing if he found us and we hadn't told him," she declared. "He'd think the world was gone mad. No, Peter, not again! You go and sit down in the kitchen, my dear! I'll come in a minute, but I must tidy my hair. I'd be ashamed to show myself like this."

"Shan't go and sit down in the kitchen!" said Peter. "I'll stay and see you do it."

"Well, you mustn't touch me then," said Mary, wisely conceding the point. "It's the funniest thing in the world to have you making love to me, Peter. I don't know whether I'm standing on my head or my heels. Do you know I've caught myself making some dreadful mistakes lately, and it's all because of you."

Peter gave a short, gratified laugh. "Well, that's something," he said. "I began to think I wasn't having any effect on you at all."

"How can you?" said Mary. "As if I weren't thinking of you all day and—" She checked herself in some confusion.

"Half the night!" supplemented Peter, chuckling at her discomfiture. "That's all right, Polly. But we must do something more than think. It's time we acted. Dash it all, Silas isn't such a dog in the manger as to stand in the way of other folks being happy if he can't be happy himself."

"Oh, I hope he will be happy," said Mary fervently.

"Don't tell him if he seems depressed, Peter! Choose your time!"

"I'm going to tell him now," said Peter. "It's not fair not to. He's just coming in."

He left her abruptly with the words to station himself in a waiting attitude in the kitchen, while poor Mary, tingling with embarrassment, put the finishing touches to her appearance and pulled down her sleeves.

Silas came in with Nero at his heels, looking weary and dispirited. He said nothing to Peter, merely sat down rather heavily in his customary chair and pulled a paper from his pocket. The window was open, and the soft spring air came in with a smell of wet earth and sheep. The bleating of lambs sounded from the field beyond the rickyard.

Peter looked at him at first with a species of resentment that slowly turned to deference.

"Seen Everett about that boundary?" he asked, breaking the silence.

Silas nodded without looking up. "He's going to put it in order."

"I wonder!" said Peter sarcastically.

"He says he will," said Silas, and added, "I'll see that he does."

Peter scraped his boot on the floor. "You can leave it to me," he said.

"What for?" said Silas.

"You don't want to be bothered dealing with a dirty dog like that," said Peter.

Silas looked up abruptly. "Why should you do all the dirty work?" he said.

"It's more suitable," said Peter.

A ghost of a smile touched Silas's sombre countenance. "Don't talk like a damn fool, Peter!" he said.

"I don't," said Peter.

Silas looked at him with more attention. "What's up?" he said.

Peter glanced towards the scullery-door which was ajar, hesitated, then strode purposefully across and shut it. "I want a word with you," he said, returning.

"I see," said Silas.

His smile became genuine, and he reached out an unexpected hand to Peter. "That's all right, old chap," he said. "I'm very pleased. I've often wondered why you didn't think of it before."

"Oh, you knew, did you?" said Peter. His hand gripped hard upon Silas's; they looked straight into each other's eyes. "I've always been fond of her," he said. "But it was the thought of getting separated that did it."

"Who was going to separate you?" said Silas.

"If you'd been setting up a home of your own," explained Peter, "you wouldn't have wanted us hanging round. And then—"

"I see," said Silas. "Well, I'm not going to, Peter. But that needn't stop you doing it if you want to. You and Mary can get married as soon as you like. And you shall have Little Staple to live in—as soon as it's empty."

"Is it going to be empty?" said Peter.

"Pretty soon, I believe," said Silas. And then in answer to the question Peter would not utter: "There's an old lover in the case."

"Damn!" said Peter with all his force.

Silas laughed, but it was not a very mirthful sound. "Thanks, old chap!" he said. "But after all, one could hardly expect anything else. I've known of it for a long time."

"Look here!" said Peter, speaking faster than usual. "We don't want to leave you, Mary and I. She'll tell you the same herself. And so far as I'm concerned, I'll stick by you and do all your dirty work for you as long as I live. That's what I've been trying to tell you all this time. And it isn't because you're heir to Ravencombe that I say it. It's always been the same—since we were little nippers together—and always will be. It's the same with Mary, too."

It was the most amazing outburst of his life, as though all the silent devotion of years had suddenly and irresistibly found vent. And Silas, as he heard it, got up quickly, as one who instinctively rises in the presence of something sacred. His hand still gripped the hand of Peter, but for a space he spoke no word.

Then, in a voice that was oddly shaken, he said, "That's damn' decent of you, Peter. But God alone knows why you should."

"I know too," said Peter briefly. And then, to hide a certain embarrassment, he turned and shouted over his shoulder, "Mary! Come on in! It's all right."

Mary came, trying to appear as placid as usual, and only succeeding in looking very fluttered and nervous. "Oh, Silas!" she said. "I do hope—I do hope—"

Silas went to meet her, took her two hands, and to her astonishment kissed her. "So do I," he said. "I hope you'll both be as happy as you deserve to be. This is the best thing that's happened for a long time. Now I know why all my buttons have got sewn on the wrong side lately."

"Oh, they haven't!" protested Mary. "I may have been foolish and forgetful, but I've never done such as that!"

Peter's laugh was good to hear. It dispelled all strain. "Oh, come and give us some tea?" he said. "Talking's thirsty work. And I can't waste any more time. I've got a job or two to do before it's dark."

They sat down, and the meal that followed was the cheeriest that Mary could remember for years. Silas had thrust his own affairs into the background and displayed a sympathy and consideration of which she had scarcely believed him capable.

When Peter got up to go, he remained to say a few kindly words to her alone which she treasured ever after in her heart.

"You've been a good friend to me, Mary," he said. "And I'm glad it's in my power to do something for you at last. You two must get married as soon as you conveniently can, and you shall have a home of your own before you're much older."

"I'd much sooner stay and make a home for you," said Mary truthfully. "I'd worry myself to a shadow if you'd no one to look after you."

"Oh, nonsense!" said Silas. "I'm not such a shorn lamb as that. I can look after myself better than you think."

Mary sighed. "It'd hurt me to see you try," she said. "Peter's the same. It'd hurt him too."

At which Silas smiled good-naturedly and turned to go. "Well, you've got to be happy, both of you," he said. "Mind that! I don't care about anything else, but I do care about that. So don't you forget it!"

"You're very, very good!" said Mary earnestly.

She watched him go with tears in her eyes, for his few words had touched her deeply. "He carries a heavy heart with him," she told herself sadly. "Oh, if only it could have been!"

For Silas's slow-moving figure told its own tale. He went with the gait of a tired man, unconscious of watching eyes.

He had meant to follow Peter. There was work to be done in the straw-strewn farmyard, but his feet did not carry him thither. An intense desire for solitude was upon him—the reaction after the enforced sociability of the past hour, and he went heavily away from the farm, scarcely recking of direction, until he found himself at the junction of the lanes whence the track led to Little Staple.

Here instinctively he halted, and Nero halted also, mutely sympathetic. How often in the past they had halted there! And now the time was coming when they would pass by quickly—very quickly—not bearing to linger. Even to-night he could not tell which would hurt him the most—to pause or to pass on. But having come upon an impulse that was hardly of his own directing, he stopped, in obedience to the same.

It was an evening upon which all the magic of Spring seemed to be poured forth like incense. In the lane—her lane—the early primroses were opening their first pale flowers. There was a rich scent of moss close to him. The bank was clothed with it in living green. The blood stirred within him. He knew just what such an evening would mean to her. He almost looked to see her coming lightly down the track in search of those first exquisite flowers.

But she came not, and in the end with an involuntary sigh he turned to retrace his steps. What was the good of coming here to mourn? He would go back and work.

But even as he moved, a sudden sound came to him, arresting him. Something—someone—was coming down that green track. He heard the tread of a horse's hoofs.

The impulse to go came upon him then, urging him strongly, but he resisted it, asserting himself, mastering himself. Grimly, sturdily, he waited, his face set in hard lines, his eyes fixed in silent endurance. And Nero, with the intuition of his race, waited also, pressed closely against his leg—a dumb supporter.

Down the track came the thudding hoofs, slowly, fatefully. A horseman came into sight. He rode his animal superbly, with a free and dominating grace. His air was the air of the unconquerable. To Silas who had never before seen him on horseback there came a curious feeling of reverence—the instinctive homage accorded to that which is invincible.

He stood in silence waiting until the horseman was almost upon him, then put up a hand in salutation.

"Hullo!" said Ravencombe. Was it elation that sounded in his voice? "Why do you stand there like a mute, man? Is anybody dead?"

"Not that I know of," said Silas. "I didn't expect to see you."

Ravencombe's horse was nuzzling against his arm. He stroked the animal's neck with a kindly hand.

"I, on the contrary, was on my way to you," said Ravencombe. "Where do you live? Up there? Good! I'll come round another time." His dark face smiled down at Silas. His eyes were quite inscrutable.

"Is all well?" asked Silas abruptly.

He could not have said what prompted the question, but somehow it had to be asked. He knew that Ravencombe would laugh at it, but when he heard his laugh he wished he had held his peace; for it grated upon him almost intolerably.

"Of course!" said Ravencombe. "What did you expect?" And added, as Silas stood silent, "All is more than well, my dear fellow, thanks to you. I think I may safely say that the woman you love is well on the way to happiness. That's what you wanted, isn't it?"

"Yes," Silas said, speaking slowly, as if the words were hard to utter. "That is what I wanted. I congratulate you. I hope—" he put a hand upon Ravencombe's knee—-"I hope you will both be very happy."

"Thanks," said Ravencombe. He laid his hand upon Silas's, the smile still on his face. "You've been a good friend to her, Silas. She's told me so. And to me too, for which I am eternally grateful. Will you do one thing more—for her—for us both?"

"Need you ask?" said Silas.

Ravencombe's eyes still smiled down at him, their free, dauntless smile. "Well, you may not want to," he said. "But I think she'd like you—I think it would be decent of you—to go and congratulate her too. Will you do that?"

For one instant Silas hesitated. For one instant the bitterness of life seemed to rise up, monster-like, and smite him between the eyes. Then firmly, unflinchingly, he took command.

"Certainly I will," he said.

"Thanks!" said Ravencombe again. His hand gripped hard upon the hand beneath it, which after a moment or two stirred, turned upwards and grasped his own. "I know she would like your approval," he said. "You're a privileged person, Silas, and you deserve to be. And one thing more before you go! If by any chance you should come up against a gate marked Private, just open it and walk right in! You'll find you have a right."

He was gone with the words, still laughing, still careless of mien. As he reached the lane, Silas, still standing on the green track, heard his horse break into a canter. But he himself did not stir hand or foot until the sound had died completely away.