Part 4 — CHAPTER IX THE OPEN DOOR

"Just walk right in!" The words repeated themselves to Silas in curious cadences as he went up the grassy track. Somehow they had wiped out the bitterness, leaving only the sense of loss which perpetually weighed upon him now. It was decent of Ravencombe to have expressed it like that. He was thankful that he had not attempted to be more explicit, more intimate. He could not have endured pity or even sympathy. But the right hand of friendship,—that was a different thing. And Bobby would be the same, he knew. Bobby would always want to keep him for a friend. The thought pierced him, but he held it close, notwithstanding. She valued his friendship, and she should never look to him in vain for it. Having offered her all he had, he would never grudge her the very little with which she was content.

He quickened his footsteps a little. He was glad that he should be the first to see her in her happiness. Memories of that day that now seemed so long ago on which he had first broached the subject next his heart came to him as he went,—her kindness, her gentleness, and her faithfulness. Well, it had not been in his power to give her happiness, but he had at least helped her to gain it. Of this also he was glad.

He came within sight of the old farm, standing there in its trimness with its white gate closed. The ducks swam on the pond as usual, and the whole scene was supremely peaceful. The impulse came to him to pass on to the little farmyard and the door at the back by which he had been wont to enter; but he resisted it. Bobby would not be working in her kitchen to-night. Besides, now that she was left alone, she had installed a girl from the village to help her. In this also he had been instrumental. The life of drudgery was over for her. He opened the gate and went through.

Then he saw that the door beyond the porch was open—that door through which Rosemary had once sung her ribald rhyme.

He smiled faintly at the memory. She need not have objected so strongly to his presence after all.

He lifted his hand to knock, and then suddenly checked himself. The door on his right that led into the little parlour was ajar, and from beyond that door had come a sound.

It was a very low sound, but it seemed to drive straight through him. Without a moment's further pause, he pushed the door open and went right in.

She was sunk in a chair, all huddled together, and fighting—fighting desperately to control an agony of tears. She knew of his coming, but she could not face him, so overwhelmed was she by that piteous distress. And he who had seen her weep before did not hesitate now, but went down on his knees beside her and drew her to lean against him. Little as he had expected to find her thus, he asked no question and showed no surprise. She was weary of course and still weak. With Matilda and Rosemary both gone, there was no one to turn to in either joy or sorrow. She who had served others so long and so patiently was left to meet her own needs alone.

She drew herself from him at last, drying her eyes. "I'm so sorry you found me like this," she said.

"It doesn't matter, does it?" said Silas.

"I don't know," she said shakily. "It ought."

"I don't know why it should," he said. "We're friends, aren't we? I shan't abuse your confidence."

"As if you could!" said Bobby. "There!" She mustered a smile. "I'm better now. Do pull up a chair!"

He obeyed her, and she lay back in her own for a space in silence.

At length, "I've heard from Rosemary," she said. "She loves her Scotch home, and wants me to go and see her in it as soon as possible."

"It would do you good," said Silas.

"I don't think it would be very good for her at present," said Bobby. "They have got to settle down together—learn each other's ways. They will do that better alone."

"You always think of others first," he said.

"No, not always, Silas." Gently she contradicted him. "You for instance! No one can say that I have not used you for my own ends for as long as I have known you."

Silas shifted his position. Gratitude was worse than pity or sympathy and must be stopped at all costs. "I've never done anything for you that I didn't want to do," he told her bluntly. "I've always liked doing it; though I'm glad for your sake that it's over."

"Aren't you going to help me ever again then?" asked Bobby, with a slight drawing of the brows.

She did not look at him as she lay in her chair. Her expression was somewhat that of one who seeks the solution to a problem; but her distress had passed, and her attitude was one of peace.

"You won't need it after this," said Silas.

"Shan't I?" said Bobby. "It's a funny world, you know, Silas. Very often if the things you think you most want come to you, they turn out to be those for which you have the least use. And it's the other way round too. We never know what we really want. Only God knows that. It's much safer to leave it to Him."

"I think you generally do," said Silas.

"Oh no, I don't." She spoke with a certain wistfulness. "I've struggled—I've agonized sometimes—for what was out of reach, when, if I'd only known it, the thing I needed first and foremost was close at hand. And I suppose we change too as the years go on. At least I do. One thinks one never will. But one does."

"You can't help growing," said Silas.

She turned her face towards him in the fading light. "That's just it. Outgrowing some things and growing into others. I've been very slow to realize that, though you've said it to me before—in connection with Rosemary." She uttered a sigh. "You were very much wiser than I," she said. "I've made—a great many mistakes, Silas."

"Not one that I've ever seen," he said stoutly.

She smiled. "That shows how little you see of what is actually going on in front of you," she said.

"I see all I want to see," he said, a note of doggedness in his voice.

"Do you?" said Bobby. "I wonder."

Again for a space she was silent. Then in a lower voice, "Silas," she said, "do you remember once saying to me that though a gate might be shut against you, you couldn't be prevented from—looking over?"

"Yes," said Silas. He spoke curtly. "It was a cad's trick. I never did."

"Never?" she said, with a hint of surprise. "You never have?"

"Never." He repeated the word forcibly. "I've never looked over, never wanted to. I was content without."

She drew a long breath. "How like you!" she said. "That is what you meant by saying you see all you want to see?"

"It was," said Silas.

She stretched out her hand to him. "Silas, have you always believed in me?"

He took it, squarely facing her. "I have known you too well even to ask myself that," he said. "You were—just you. Nothing else mattered."

Her eyes filled with tears. "Thank you for that," she said.

He released her hand and got up. "Don't, please!" he said brusquely. "I can't stand it. You've nothing on earth to thank me for. I wish I could have done something for you really worth doing,—spared you all this pain."

She lay, looking up at him. "Some day," she said, "some day I will tell you all that you have done for me. The pain is over now, Silas, or very nearly. Time will do the rest."

He turned from her with a blind, desperate movement. He could not bear any longer to stand there looking down upon her. His own pain was goading him almost beyond endurance.

"You're not going?" said Bobby's voice behind him. "Don't go yet! Didn't you come for any special reason?"

He stood struggling with himself. The reason for his coming! The reason!

"Don't go yet!" she said again, "unless you must! I want—I want to discuss the pigs with you."

He wheeled sharply, facing her again; but he still stood speechless.

She was sitting up now, her face raised. There was even something of challenge in her attitude. "We shall have to discuss them sooner or later," she said practically, "if we are going to be partners."

Partners! He stared at her, found his voice at last. "You don't think I came round to talk about pigs, do you?" he said.

"I don't know," said Bobby. "Why did you come?"

She looked so fragile in her black dress, yet withal she seemed to have donned a cloak of authority before which he was helpless.

She got up as he did not speak. "Shall we go out and look at them?" she said.

He made a movement to obey, then abruptly stopped himself and her also. "I'll tell you what I came for," he said, and it was the hardest thing he had ever uttered. "I came—to wish you joy."

"Oh!" said Bobby, as if startled.

He went on, recovering his strength as he did so. "I met Ravencombe in the lane just now. He told me all was well between you. So I came on—to wish you—every happiness."

His words came jerkily, but they were straight from his soul. He held out his hand to her as he spoke them, and she took it instantly between both her own and closely held it.

"Did he tell you that?" she said in a voice that shook. "Oh, did he tell you that?"

And then—how it happened he scarcely knew—suddenly his hand was pressed hard to her heart so that its quick beating came to him. "And so you came to wish me happiness?" she said, her sweet face raised to him. "Oh, Silas—dear Silas—once more—how like you! And you didn't know—you never guessed—that the only person who could give it to me was you—you yourself!"

"What do you mean?" he said thickly, hoarsely, for it was as if the whole world were rocking under him. "Bobby—for God's sake—what do you mean?"

She clasped his hand more closely to her breast. Her eyes were shining as though a torch had been lighted within her.

"He told you all was well between us," she said. "And he spoke the truth. All is well. But the old bond is gone. I don't quite know how to put it. We seem to have outgrown each other, that's all. And I—Silas, I have belonged to you ever since I offered myself to you in payment of a debt, and you wouldn't have me. But you'll have me now—I know you'll have me now—because I want you so."

He still gazed at her, unbelieving. "Am I dreaming?" he said. "Or is it true?"

"It is quite true," she said tremulously. "Dick has been very good to me. He came and offered me all he had. But—but—somehow I found I didn't want it. And—and he understood and went away. I was dreadfully sorry,—that was why you found me crying,—but I couldn't help it. He is a wanderer. He will go all over the world and find consolation and amusement. While I—all I want—" her voice thrilled suddenly—"all I want, Silas, is to stay at home, and mind the pigs—with you."

"Bobby!!" he said.

His arms drew her. She went into them like a bird into its nest. She clasped her own about his neck, laughing a little, sobbing a little.

"Are you seeing—more than you want to see—this time?" she asked him tenderly. "Now that the gate is open—don't you want—wouldn't you like—just to step inside? There is nothing there,—really, Silas—that will make you wish you hadn't."

"Bobby!" he said again, and on the second utterance of her name his voice broke. He bent his face to hers. "How I have wanted you—wanted you!" he whispered.

"And now you've got me," she whispered back—"all there is of me—all my heart's best love. Oh, Silas, I hope I shall make you happy."

"If I don't bring happiness to you," said Silas very deeply, "I'll die by my own hand."

There followed a short silence, and then out of it like the cheery chirp of a bird in the dawning came Bobby's voice.

"Well," she said briskly, "we've proposed to each other, accepted each other, and wished each other every happiness. Now let's get down to serious business! What about the pigs?"

THE END