“My dear David,”—wrote old Mr. Mottisfont,—“My dear David, I have just written a letter to Edward—a blameless and beautiful letter—in which I have announced my immediate, or, as one might say, approximate intention of committing suicide by the simple expedient of first putting arsenic into a cup of tea and then drinking the tea. I shall send Edward for the tea, and I shall put the arsenic into it, under his very nose. And Edward will be thinking of beetles, and will not see me do it. I am prepared to bet my bottom dollar that he does not see me do it. Edward’s letter, of which I enclose a copy, is the sort of letter which one shows to coroners, and jurymen, and legal advisers. Of course things may not have gone as far as that, but, on the other hand, they may. There are evil-minded persons who may have suspected Edward of having hastened my departure to a better world. You may even have suspected him yourself, in which case, of course, my dear David, this letter will be affording you a good deal of pleasurable relief.” David clenched his hand and read on. “Edward’s letter is for the coroner. It should arrive about a fortnight after my death, if my valued correspondent, William Giles, of New York, does as I have asked him. This letter is for you. Between ourselves, then, it was that possible three years of yours that decided me. I couldn’t stand it. I don’t believe in another world, and I’m damned if I’ll put in three years’ hell in this one. Do you remember old Madden? I do, and I’m not going to hang on like that, not to please any one, nor I’m not going to be cut up in sections either. So now you know all about it. I’ve just sent Edward for the tea. Poor Edward, it will hurt his feelings very much to be suspected of polishing me off. By the way, David, as a sort of last word—you’re no end of a damn fool—why don’t you marry the right woman instead of wasting your time hankering after the wrong one? That’s all. Here’s luck.“Yours.“E. M. M.”
“My dear David,”—wrote old Mr. Mottisfont,—“My dear David, I have just written a letter to Edward—a blameless and beautiful letter—in which I have announced my immediate, or, as one might say, approximate intention of committing suicide by the simple expedient of first putting arsenic into a cup of tea and then drinking the tea. I shall send Edward for the tea, and I shall put the arsenic into it, under his very nose. And Edward will be thinking of beetles, and will not see me do it. I am prepared to bet my bottom dollar that he does not see me do it. Edward’s letter, of which I enclose a copy, is the sort of letter which one shows to coroners, and jurymen, and legal advisers. Of course things may not have gone as far as that, but, on the other hand, they may. There are evil-minded persons who may have suspected Edward of having hastened my departure to a better world. You may even have suspected him yourself, in which case, of course, my dear David, this letter will be affording you a good deal of pleasurable relief.” David clenched his hand and read on. “Edward’s letter is for the coroner. It should arrive about a fortnight after my death, if my valued correspondent, William Giles, of New York, does as I have asked him. This letter is for you. Between ourselves, then, it was that possible three years of yours that decided me. I couldn’t stand it. I don’t believe in another world, and I’m damned if I’ll put in three years’ hell in this one. Do you remember old Madden? I do, and I’m not going to hang on like that, not to please any one, nor I’m not going to be cut up in sections either. So now you know all about it. I’ve just sent Edward for the tea. Poor Edward, it will hurt his feelings very much to be suspected of polishing me off. By the way, David, as a sort of last word—you’re no end of a damn fool—why don’t you marry the right woman instead of wasting your time hankering after the wrong one? That’s all. Here’s luck.
“Yours.“E. M. M.”
David read the letter straight through without any change of expression. When he came to the end he folded the sheets neatly, put them back in the envelope, and locked the envelope away in a drawer. Then his face changed suddenly. First, a great rush of colour came into it, and then every feature altered under an access of blind and ungovernable anger. He pushed back his chair and sprang up, but the impetus which had carried him to his feet appeared to receive some extraordinary check. His movement had been a very violent one, but all at once it passed into rigidity. He stood with every muscle tense, and made neither sound nor movement. Slowly the colour died out of his face. Then he took a step backwards and dropped again into the chair. His eyes were fixed upon the strip of carpet which lay between him and the writing-table. A small, twisted scrap of paper was lying there. David Blake looked hard at the paper, but he did not see it. What he saw was another torn and twisted thing.
A man’s professional honour is a very delicate thing. David had never held his lightly. If he had violated it, he had done so because there were great things in the balance. Mary’s happiness, Mary’s future, Mary’s life. He had betrayed a trust because Mary asked it of him and because there was so much in the balance. And it had all been illusion. There had been no risk—no danger. Nothing but an old man’s last and cruelest jest. And he, David, had been the old man’s dupe. A furious anger surged in him. For nothing, it was all for nothing. He had wrenched himself for nothing, forfeited his self-respect for nothing, sold his honour for nothing. Mary had bidden him, and he had done her bidding, and it was all for nothing. A little bleak sunlight came in at the window and showed the worn patches upon the carpet. David could remember that old brown carpet for as long as he could remember anything. It had been in his father’s consulting room. The writing-table had been there too. The room was full of memories of William Blake. Old familiar words and looks came back to David as he sat there. He remembered many little things, and, as he remembered, he despised himself very bitterly. As the moments passed, so his self-contempt grew, until it became unbearable. He rose, pushing his chair so that it fell over with a crash, and went into the dining-room.
Half an hour later Sarah put her head round the corner of the door and announced, “Mr. Edward Mottisfont in the consulting room, sir.” David Blake was sitting at the round table with a decanter in front of him. He got up with a short laugh and went to Edward.
Edward presented a ruffled but resigned appearance. He was agitated, but beneath the agitation there was plainly evident a trace of melancholy triumph.
“I’ve had a letter,” he began. David stood facing him.
“So have I,” he said.
Edward’s wave of the hand dismissed as irrelevant all letters except his own. “But mine—mine was from my uncle,” he exclaimed.
“Exactly. He was obliging enough to send me a copy.”
“You—you know,” said Edward. Then he searched his pockets, and ultimately produced a folded letter.
“You’ve had a letter like this? He’s told you? You know?”
“That he’s played us the dirtiest trick on record? Yes, thanks, Edward, I’ve been enjoying the knowledge for the best part of an hour.”
Edward shook his head.
“Of course he was mad,” he said. “I have often wondered if he was quite responsible. He used to say such extraordinary things. If you remember, I asked you about it once, and you laughed at me. But now, of course, there is no doubt about it. His brain had become affected.”
David’s lip twitched a little.
“Mad? Oh, no, you needn’t flatter yourself, he wasn’t mad. I only hope my wits may last as well. He wasn’t mad, but he’s made the biggest fools of the lot of us—the biggest fools. Oh, Lord!—how he’d have laughed. He set the stage, and called the cast, and who so ready as we? First Murderer—Edward Mottisfont; Chief Mourner—Mary, his wife; and Tom Fool, beyond all other Tom Fools, David Blake, M.D. My Lord, he never said a truer word than when he wrote me down a damn fool!”
David ended on a note of concentrated bitterness, and Edward stared at him.
“I would much rather believe he was out of his mind,” he said uncomfortably. “And he is dead—after all, he’s dead.”
“Yes,” said David grimly, “he’s dead.”
“And thanks to you,” continued Edward, “there has been no scandal—or publicity. It would really have been dreadful if it had all come out. Most—most unpleasant. I know you didn’t wish me to say anything.”
Edward began to rumple his hair wildly. “Mary told me, and of course I know it’s beastly to be thanked, and all that, but I can’t help saying that—in fact—Iamawfully grateful. And I’m awfully thankful that the matter has been cleared up so satisfactorily. If we hadn’t got this letter, well—I don’t like to say such a thing—but any one of us might have come to suspect the other. It doesn’t sound quite right to say it,” pursued Edward apologetically, “but it might have happened. You might have suspected me—oh, I don’t mean really—I am only supposing, you know—or I might have suspected you. And now it’s all cleared up, and no harm done, and as to my poor old uncle, he was mad. People who commit suicide are always mad. Every one knows that.”
“Oh, have it your own way,” said David Blake. “He was mad, and now everything is comfortably arranged, and we can all settle down with nothing on our minds, and live happily ever after.”
There was a savage sarcasm in his voice, which he did not trouble to conceal.
“And now, look here,” he went on with a sudden change of manner. He straightened himself and looked squarely at Edward Mottisfont. “Those letters have got to be kept.”
“Now I should have thought—” began Edward, but David broke in almost violently.
“For Heaven’s sake, don’t start thinking, Edward.” He said: “Just you listen to me. These letters have got to be kept. They’ve got to sit in a safe at a lawyer’s. We’ll seal ’em up in the presence of witnesses, and send ’em off. We’re not out of the wood yet. If this business were ever to leak out—and, after all, there are four of us in it, and two of them are women—if it were ever to leak out, we should want these letters to save our necks. Yes—our necks. Good Lord, Edward, did you never realise your position? Did you never realise that any jury in the world would have hanged you on the evidence? It was damning—absolutely damning. And I come in as accessory after the fact. No, thank you, I think we’ll keep the letters, until we’re past hanging. And there’s another thing—how many people have you told? Mary, of course?”
“Yes, Mary, but no one else,” said Edward.
David made an impatient movement.
“If you’ve told her, you’ve told her,” he said. “Now what you’ve got to do is this: you’ve got to rub it into Mary that it’s just as important for her to hold her tongue now as it was before the letter came. She was safe as long as she thought your neck was in danger, but do, for Heaven’s sake, get it into her head that I’m dead damned broke, if it ever gets out that I helped to hush up a case that looked like murder and turned out to be suicide. The law wouldn’t hang me, but I should probably hang myself. I’d bebroke. Rub that in.”
“She may have told Elizabeth,” said Edward hesitatingly. “I’m afraid she may have told Elizabeth by now.”
“Elizabeth doesn’t talk,” said David shortly.
“Nor does Mary.” Edward’s tone was rather aggrieved.
“Oh, no woman ever talks,” said David.
He laughed harshly, and Edward went away with his feelings of gratitude a little chilled, and a faint suspicion in his mind that David had been drinking.
Whatever ways we walk in and whatever dreams come true,You still shall say, “God speed” to me, and I, “God go with you.”
Whatever ways we walk in and whatever dreams come true,
You still shall say, “God speed” to me, and I, “God go with you.”
Some days later Elizabeth Chantrey went away for about a month, to pay a few long-promised visits. She went first to an old school-friend, then to some relations, and lastly to the Mainwarings. Agneta Mainwaring had moved to town after her mother’s death, and was sharing a small flat with her brother Louis, in a very fashionable quarter. She had been engaged for about six months to Douglas Strange, and was expecting to marry him as soon as he returned from his latest, and most hazardous journey across Equatorial Africa.
“I thought you were never coming,” said Agneta, as they sat in the firelight, Louis on the farther side of the room, close to the lamp, with his head buried in a book.
“Never, never,never!” repeated Agneta, stroking the tail of Elizabeth’s white gown affectionately and nodding at every word. She was sitting on the curly black hearth-rug, a small vivid creature in a crimson dress. Agneta Mainwaring was little and dark, passionate, earnest, and frivolous. A creature of variable moods and intense affections, steadfast only where she loved. Elizabeth was watching the firelight upon the big square sapphire ring which she always wore. She looked up from it now and smiled at Agneta, just a smile of the eyes.
“Well, I am here,” she said, and Agneta went on stroking, and exclaimed:
“Oh, it’s so good to have you.”
“The world not been going nicely?” said Elizabeth.
Agneta frowned.
“Oh, so, so. Really, Lizabeth, being engaged to an explorer is thedevil. Sometimes I get a letter two days running, and sometimes I don’t get one for two months, and I’ve just been doing the two months’ stretch.”
“Then,” said Elizabeth, “you’ll soon be getting two letters together, Neta.”
“Oh, well, I did get one this morning, or I shouldn’t be talking about it,” Agneta flushed and laughed, then frowned again. Three little wrinkles appeared upon her nose. “What worries me is that I am such a hopeless materialist about letters. Letters are rank materialism. Rank. Two people as much in touch with one another as Douglas and I oughtn’t to need letters. I’ve no business to be dependent on them. We ought to be able to reach one another without them. Of course we do—really—but we ought to know that we are doing it. We ought to be conscious of it. I’ve no business to be dependent on wretched bits of paper, and miserable penfuls of ink. I ought to be able to do without them. And I’m a blatant materialist. I can’t.”
Elizabeth laughed a little.
“I shouldn’t worry, if I were you. It’ll all come. You’ll get past letters when you’re ready to get past them. I don’t think your materialism is of a very heavy order. It will go away if you don’t fuss over it. We’ll all get past letters in time.”
Agneta tossed her head.
“Oh, I don’t suppose there’ll be any letters in heaven,” she said. “I’m sure I trust not. My idea is that we shall sit on nice comfy clouds, and play at telephones with thought-waves.”
Louis shut his book with a bang.
“Really, Agneta, if that isn’t materialism.” He came over and sat down on the hearth-rug beside his sister. They were not at all alike. Where Agneta was small, Louis was large. Her hair and eyes were black, and his of a dark reddish-brown.
“I didn’t know you were listening,” she said.
“Well, I wasn’t. I just heard, and I give you fair warning, Agneta, that if there are going to be telephones in your heaven, I’m going somewhere else. I shall have had enough of them here. Hear the bells, the silver bells, the tintinabulation that so musically swells. From the bells, bells, bells, bells—bells, bells, bells.”
Agneta first pulled Louis’s hair, and then put her fingers in her ears.
“Stop! stop this minute! Oh, Louis, please. Oh, Lizabeth, make him stop. That thing always drives me perfectly crazy, and he knows it.”
“All right. It’s done. I’ve finished. I’m much more merciful than Poe. I only wanted to point out that if that was your idea of heaven, it wasn’t mine.”
“Oh, good gracious!” cried Agneta suddenly. She sprang up and darted to the door.
“What’s the matter?”
“I’ve absolutely and entirely forgotten to order any food for to-morrow. Any food whatever. All right, Louis, you won’t laugh when you have to lunch on bread and water, and Lizabeth takes the afternoon train back to her horrible Harford place, because we have starved her.”
Louis gave a resigned sigh and leaned comfortably back against an empty chair. For some moments he gazed dreamily at Elizabeth. Then he said: “How nicely your hair shines. I like you all white and gold like that. If Browning had known you he needn’t have written. ‘What’s become of all the gold, used to hang and brush their bosoms.’ You’ve got your share.”
“But my hair isn’t golden at all, Louis,” said Elizabeth.
Louis frowned.
“Yes, it is,” he said, “it’s gold without the dross—gold spiritualised. And you ought to know better than to pretend. You know as well as I do that your hair is a thing of beauty. The real joy for ever sort. It’s no credit to you. You didn’t make it. And you ought to be properly grateful for being allowed to walk about with a real live halo. Why should you pretend? If it wasn’t pretence, you wouldn’t take so much trouble about doing it. You’d just twist it up on a single hairpin.”
“It wouldn’t stay up,” said Elizabeth.
“I wish it wouldn’t. Oh, Lizabeth, won’t you let it down just for once?”
“No, I won’t,” said Elizabeth, with pleasant firmness.
Louis fell into a gloom. His brown eyes darkened.
“I don’t see why,” he said; and Elizabeth laughed at him.
“Oh, Louis, will you ever grow up?”
Louis assumed an air of dignity. “My last book,” he said, “was not only very well reviewed by competent and appreciative persons, but I would have you to know that it also brought me in quite a large and solid cheque. And my poems have had what is known as asuccès d’estime, which means that you and your publisher lose money, but the critics say nice things. These facts, my dear madam, all point to my having emerged from the nursery.”
“Go on emerging, Louis,” said Elizabeth, with a little nod of encouragement. Louis appeared to be plunged in thought. He frowned, made calculations upon his fingers, and finally inquired:
“How many times have I proposed to you, Lizabeth?”
Elizabeth looked at him with amusement.
“I really never counted. Do you want me to?”
“No. I think I’ve got it right. I think it must be eight times, because I know I began when I was twenty, and I don’t think I’ve missed a year since. This,” said Louis, getting on to his knees and coming nearer, “this will be number nine.”
“Oh, Louis, don’t,” said Elizabeth.
“And why not?”
“Because it really isn’t kind. Do you want me to go away to-morrow? If you propose to me, and I refuse you, every possible rule of propriety demands that I should immediately return to Market Harford. And I don’t want to.” Louis hesitated.
“How long are you staying?”
“Nice, hospitable young man. Agneta has asked me to stay for a fortnight.”
“All right.” Louis sat back upon his heels. “Let’s talk about books. Have you read Pender’s last? It’s a wonder—just a wonder.”
* * * * * * * *
Elizabeth enjoyed her fortnight’s stay very much. She was glad to be away from Market Harford, and she was glad to be with Agneta and Louis. She saw one or two good plays, had a great deal of talk of the kind she had been starving for, and met a good many people who were doing interesting things. On the last day of her visit Agneta said:
“So you go back to Market Harford for a year. Is it because Mr. Mottisfont asked you to?”
“Partly.”
There was a little pause.
“What are you going to do with your life, Lizabeth?”
Elizabeth looked steadily at the blue of her ring. Her eyes were very deep.
“I don’t know, Neta. I’m waiting to be told.”
Agneta nodded, and looked understanding. “And if you aren’t told?”
“I think I shall be.”
“But if not?”
“Well, that would be a telling in itself. If nothing happens before the year is up, I shall come up to London, and find some work. There’s plenty.”
“Yes,” said Agneta. She put her little pointed chin in her hands and gazed at Elizabeth. There was something almost fierce in her eyes. She knew very little about David Blake, but she guessed a good deal more. And there were moments when it would have given her a great deal of pleasure to have spoken her mind on the subject.
They sat for a little while in silence, and then Louis came in, and wandered about the room until Agneta exclaimed at him:
“Do, for goodness’ sake, sit down, Louis! You give me the fidgets.”
Louis drifted over to the hearth. “Have you ordered any meals,” he said, with apparent irrelevance.
“Tea, dinner, breakfast, lunch, tea, and dinner again.” Agneta’s tone was vicious. “Is that enough for you?”
“Very well, then, run away and write a letter to Douglas. I believe you are neglecting him, and there’s a nice fire in the dining-room.”
Agneta rose with outraged dignity. “I don’t write my love-letters to order, thank you,” she said “and you needn’t worry about Douglas. If you want me to go away, I don’t mind taking a book into the dining-room. Though, if you’ll take my advice—but you won’t—so I’ll just leave you to find out for yourself.”
Louis shut the door after her, and came back to Elizabeth.
“Number nine,” he observed.
“No, Louis, don’t.”
“I’m going to. You are in for it, Lizabeth. Your visit is over, so you can’t accuse me of spoiling it. Number nine, and a fortnight overdue. Here goes. For the ninth time of asking, will you marry me?”
Elizabeth shook her head at him.
“No, Louis, I won’t,” she said.
Louis looked at her steadily.
“This is the ninth time I have asked you. How many times have you taken me seriously, Lizabeth? Not once.”
“I should have been so very sorry to take you seriously, you see, Louis dear,” said Elizabeth, speaking very sweetly and gently.
Louis Mainwaring walked to the window and stood there in silence for a minute or two. Elizabeth began to look troubled. When he turned round and came back his face was rather white.
“No,” he said, “you’ve never taken me seriously—never once. But it’s been serious enough, for me. You never thought it went deep—but it did. Some people hide their deep things under silence—every one can understand that. Others hide theirs under words—a great many light words. Jests. That’s been my way. It’s a better mask than the other, but I don’t want any mask between us now. I want you to understand. We’ve always talked about my being in love with you. We’ve always laughed about it, but now I want you to understand. It’s me, the whole of me—all there is—all there ever will be——”
He was stammering now and almost incoherent. His hand shook. Elizabeth got up quickly.
“Oh, Louis dear, Louis dear,” she said. She put her arm half round him, and for a moment he leaned his head against her shoulder. When he raised it he was trying to smile.
“Oh, Lady of Consolation,” he said, and then, “how you would spoil a man whom you loved! There, Lizabeth, you needn’t worry about it. You see, I’ve always known that you would never love me.”
“Oh, Louis, but I love you very much, only not just like that.”
“Yes, I know. I’ve always known it and I’ve always known that there was some one else whom you did love—just like that. What I’ve been waiting for is to see it making you happy. And it doesn’t make you happy. It never has. And, lately, there’s been something fresh—something that has hurt. You’ve been very unhappy. As soon as you came here I knew. What is it? Can’t you tell me?”
Elizabeth sat down again, but she did not turn her eyes away.
“No, Louis, I don’t think I can,” she said.
Louis’s chin lifted.
“Does Agneta know?” he asked with a quick flash of jealousy.
“No, she doesn’t,” said Elizabeth, reprovingly. “And she has never asked.”
Louis laughed.
“That’s for my conscience, I suppose,” he said, “but I don’t mind. I can bear it a lot better if you haven’t told Agneta. And look here, Lizabeth, even if you never tell me a single word, I shall always know things about you—things that matter. I’ve always known when things went wrong with you, and I always shall.”
It was obviously quite as an afterthought that he added:
“Do you mind?”
“No,” said Elizabeth, slowly, “I don’t think I mind. But don’t look too close, Louis dear—not just now. It’s kinder not to.”
“All right,” said Louis.
Then he came over and stood beside her. “Lizabeth, if there’s anything I can do—any sort or kind of thing—you’re to let me know. You will, won’t you? You’re the best thing in my world, and anything that I can do for you would be the best day’s work I ever did. If you’ll just clamp on to that we shall be all right.”
Elizabeth looked up, but before she could speak, he bent down, kissed her hastily on the cheek, and went out of the room.
Elizabeth put her face in her hands and cried.
“I suppose Louis has been proposing to you again,” was Agneta’s rather cross comment. “Lizabeth, what on earth are you crying for?”
“Oh, Neta, do you hate me?” said Elizabeth in a very tired voice.
Agneta knelt down beside her, and began to pinch her arm.
“I would if I could, but I can’t,” she observed viciously. “I’ve tried, of course, but I can’t do it by myself, and it’s not the sort of thing you can expect religion to be any help in. As if you didn’t know that Louis and I simply love your littlest finger-nail, and that we’d do anything for you, and that we think it anhonourto be your friends, and—oh, Lizabeth, if you don’t stop crying this very instant, I shall pour all the water out of that big flower-vase down the back of your neck!”
“What ails you, Andrew, my man’s son,That you should look so white,That you should neither eat by day,Nor take your rest by night?”
“What ails you, Andrew, my man’s son,
That you should look so white,
That you should neither eat by day,
Nor take your rest by night?”
“I have no rest when I would sleep,No peace when I would rise,Because of Janet’s yellow hair,Because of Janet’s eyes.”
“I have no rest when I would sleep,
No peace when I would rise,
Because of Janet’s yellow hair,
Because of Janet’s eyes.”
When Elizabeth Chantrey returned to Market Harford, she did so with quite a clear understanding of the difficulties that lay before her. Edward had spoken to her of his uncle’s wishes, and begged her to fulfil them by remaining on in the old house as his and Mary’s guest. Apparently it never occurred to him that the situation presented any difficulty, or that few women would find it agreeable to be guest where they had been mistress. Elizabeth was under no illusions. She knew that she was putting herself in an almost impossible position, but she had made up her mind to occupy that position for a year. She had given David Blake so much already, that a little more did not seem to matter. Another year, a little more pain, were all in the day’s work. She had given many years and had suffered much pain. Through the years, through the pain, there had been at the back of her mind the thought, “If he needed me, and I were not here.” Elizabeth had always known that some day he would need her—not love her—but need her. And for that she waited.
Elizabeth returned to Market Harford on a fine November afternoon. The sun was shining, after two days’ rain, and Elizabeth walked up from the station, leaving her luggage to the carrier. It was quite a short walk, but she met so many acquaintances that she was some time reaching home. First, it was old Dr. Bull with his square face and fringe of stiff grey beard who waved his knobbly stick at her, and waddled across the road. He was a great friend of Elizabeth’s, and he greeted her warmly.
“Now, now, Miss Elizabeth, so you’ve not quite deserted us, hey? Glad to be back, hey?”
“Yes, very glad,” said Elizabeth, smiling.
“And every one will be glad to see you, all your friends. Hey? I’m glad, Edward and Mary’ll be glad, and David—hey? David’s a friend of yours, isn’t he? Used to be, I know, in the old days. Prodigious allies you were. Always in each other’s pockets. Same books—same walks—same measles—” he laughed heartily, and then broke off. “David wants his friends,” he said, “for the matter of that, every one wants friends, hey? But you get David to come and see you, my dear. He won’t want much persuading, hey? Well, well, I won’t keep you. I mustn’t waste your time. Now that I’m idle, I forget that other people have business, hey? And I see Miss Dobell coming over to speak to you. Now, I wouldn’t waste her time for the world. Not for the world, my dear Miss Elizabeth. Good-day, good-day, good-day.”
His eyes twinkled as he raised his hat, and he went off at an astonishing rate, as Miss Dobell picked her way across the road.
“Such a fine man, Dr. Bull, I always think,” she remarked in her precise little way. Every word she uttered had the effect of being enclosed in a separate little water-tight compartment. “I really miss him, if I may say so. Oh, yes; and I am not the only one of his old patients who feels it a deprivation to have lost his services. Oh, no. Young men are so unreliable. They begin well, but they are unreliable. Oh, yes, sadly unreliable,” repeated Miss Dobell with emphasis.
She and Elizabeth were crossing the bridge as she spoke. Away to the left, above the water, Elizabeth could see the sunlight reflected from the long line of windows which faced the river. The trees before them were almost leafless, and it was easy to distinguish one house from another. David Blake lived in the seventh house, and Miss Dobell was gazing very pointedly in that direction, and nodding her head.
“I dislike gossip,” she said. “I set my face against gossip, my dear Elizabeth, I do not approve of it. I do not talk scandal nor permit it to be talked in my presence. But I am not blind, or deaf. Oh, no. We should be thankful when we have all our faculties, and mine are unimpaired, oh, yes, quite unimpaired, although I am not quite as young as you are.”
“Yes?” said Elizabeth.
Miss Dobell became rather flustered. “I have a little errand,” she said hurriedly. “A little errand, my dear Elizabeth. I will not keep you, oh, no, I must not keep you now. I shall see you later, I shall come and see you, but I will not detain you now. Oh, no, Mary will be waiting for you.”
“So you have really come,” said Mary a little later.
After kissing her sister warmly, she had allowed a slight air of offence to appear. “I had begun to think you had missed your train. I am afraid the tea will be rather strong, I had it made punctually, you see. I was beginning to think that you hadn’t been able to tear yourself away from Agneta after all.”
“Now, Molly—” said Elizabeth, protestingly.
But Mary was not to be turned aside. “Of course you would much rather have stayed, I know that. Will you have bread and butter or tea-cake? When Mr. Mottisfont died, I said to myself, ‘Now she’ll go and live with Agneta, and she might just as well bedead.’ That’s why I was quite pleased when Edward came and told me that Mr. Mottisfont had said you were to stay on here for a year. Of course, as I said to Edward, he had no right to make any such condition, and if it had been any one but you, I shouldn’t have liked it at all. That’s what I said to Edward—‘It really isn’t fair, but Elizabeth isn’t like other people. She won’t try and run the house over my head, and she won’t want to be always with us.’ You see, married people do like to have their evenings, but as I said to Edward, ‘Elizabeth would much rather be in her own little room, with a book, than sitting with us.’ And you would, wouldn’t you?”
“Oh, yes,” said Elizabeth laughing.
The spectacle of Mary being tactful always made her laugh.
“Of course when any one comes in in the evening—that’s different. Of course you’ll join us then. But you’d rather be here as a rule, wouldn’t you?”
“Oh, you know I love my little room. It was nice of you to have tea here, Molly,” said Elizabeth.
“Yes, I thought you’d like it. And then I wanted the rest of the house to be a surprise to you. When we’ve had tea I want to show you everything. Of course your rooms haven’t been touched, you said you’d rather they weren’t; but everything else has been done up, and I really think it’s very nice. I’ve been quite excited over it.”
“Give me a little more tea, Molly,” said Elizabeth.
As she leaned forward with her cup in her hand, she asked casually: “Have you seen much of David lately?”
“Oh, yes,” said Mary, “he’s here very often.” She pursed her lips a little. “I think David is averycurious person, Liz. I don’t understand him at all. I think he is very difficult to understand.”
“Is he, Molly?”
Elizabeth looked at her sister with something between anxiety and amusement.
“Yes, very. He’s quite changed, it seems to me. I could understand his being upset just after Mr. Mottisfont’s death. We were all upset then. I am sure I never felt so dreadful in my life. It made me quite ill. But afterwards,” Mary’s voice dropped to a lower tone, “afterwards when the letter had come, and everything was cleared up—well, you’d have thought he would have been all right again, wouldn’t you? And instead, he has just gone on getting more and more unlike himself. You know, he was so odd when Edward went to see him that, really,”—Mary hesitated—“Edward thought—well, he wondered whether David had been drinking.”
“Nonsense, Molly!”
“Oh, it’s not only Edward—everybody has noticed how changed he is. Have you got anything to eat, Liz? Have some of the iced cake; it’s from a recipe of Miss Dobell’s and it’s quite nice. What was I saying? Oh, about David—well, it’s true, Liz—Mrs. Havergill told Markham; now, Liz, what’s the sense of your looking at me like that? OfcourseI shouldn’tdreamof talking to an ordinary servant, but considering Markham has known us since we were about two—Markham takes an interest, a real interest, and when Mrs. Havergill told her that she was afraid David was taking a great deal more than was good for him, and she wished his friends could stop it, why, Markham naturally told me. She felt it her duty. I expect she thought I might have aninfluence—as I hope I have. That’s why I encourage David to come here. I think it’s so good for him. I think it makes such a difference to young men if they have a nice home to come to, and it’s very good for them to see married people fond of each other, and happy together, like Edward and I are. Don’t you think so?”
“I don’t know, Molly,” said Elizabeth. “Are people talking about David?”
“Yes, they are. Of course I haven’t said a word, but people are noticing how different he is. I don’t see how they can help it, and yesterday when I was having tea with Mrs. Codrington, Miss Dobell began to hint all sorts of things, and there was quite a scene. You know how devoted Mrs. Codrington is! She really quite frightened poor little Miss Hester. I can tell you, I was glad that I hadn’t said anything. Mrs. Codrington always frightens me. She looks so large, and she speaks so loud. I was quite glad to get away.”
“I like Mrs. Codrington,” said Elizabeth.
“Oh, well, so do I. But I like her better when she’s not angry. Oh, by the way, Liz, talking of David, do you know that I met Katie Ellerton yesterday, and—how long is it since Dr. Ellerton died?”
“More than two years.”
“Well, she has gone quite out of mourning. You know how she went on at first—she was going to wear weeds always, and never change anything, and as to ever going into colours again, she couldn’t imagine how any one could do it! And I met her out yesterday in quite a bright blue coat and skirt. What do you think of that?”
“Oh, Molly, you’ve been going out to too many tea-parties! Why shouldn’t poor Katie go out of mourning? I think it’s very sensible of her. I have always been so sorry for her.”
Mary assumed an air of lofty virtue. “Iusedto be. But now, I don’t approve of her at all. She’s just doing her very best to catch David Blake. Every one can see it. If that wretched little Ronnie has so much as a thorn in his finger, she sends for David. She’s making herself the laughing-stock of the place. I think it’s simply horrid. I don’t approve of second marriages at all. I never do see how any really nice-minded woman can marry again. And it’s not only the marrying, but to run after a man, like that—it’s quite dreadful! I am sure David would be most unhappy if he married her. It would be a dreadfully bad thing for him.”
Elizabeth leaned back in her chair.
“How sweet the hour that sets us freeTo sip our scandal, and our tea,”
“How sweet the hour that sets us free
To sip our scandal, and our tea,”
she observed.
Mary coloured.
“I never talk scandal,” she said in an offended voice, and Elizabeth refrained from telling her that Miss Dobell had made the same remark.
All the time that Mary was showing her over the house, Elizabeth was wondering whether it would be such a dreadfully bad thing for David to marry Katie Ellerton. Ronnie was a dear little boy, and David loved children, and Katie—Katie was one of those gentle, clinging creatures whom men adore and spoil. If she cared for him, and he grew to care for her—Elizabeth turned the possibilities over and over in her mind, wondering——
She wondered still more that evening, when David Blake came in after dinner. He had changed. Elizabeth looked at him and saw things in his face which she only half understood. He looked ill and tired, but both illness and weariness appeared to her to be incidental. Behind them there was something else, something much stronger and yet more subtle, some deflection of the man’s whole nature.
Edward and Mary did not disturb themselves at David’s coming. They were at the piano, and Edward nodded casually, whilst Mary merely waved her hand and smiled.
David said “How do you do?” to Elizabeth, and sat down by the fire. He was in evening dress, but somehow he looked out of place in Mary’s new white drawing-room. Edward had put in electric light all over the house, and here it shone through rosy shades. The room was all rose and white—roses on the chintz, a frieze of roses upon the walls, and a rose-coloured carpet on the floor. Only the two lamps over the piano were lighted. They shone on Mary. She was playing softly impassioned chords in support of Edward, who exercised a pleasant tenor voice upon the lays of Lord Henry Somerset. Mary played accompaniments with much sentiment. Occasionally, when the music was easy, she shot an adoring glance at Edward, a glance to which he duly responded, when not preoccupied with a note beyond his compass.
Elizabeth was tolerant of lovers, and Mary’s little sentimentalities, like Mary’s airs of virtuous matronhood, were often quite amusing to watch; but to-night, with David Blake as a fourth person in the room, Elizabeth found amusement merging into irritation and irritation into pain. Except for that lighted circle about the piano, the room lay all in shadow. There was a soft dusk upon it, broken every now and then by gleams of firelight. David Blake sat back in his chair, and the dimness of the room hid his face, except when the fire blazed up and showed Elizabeth how changed it was. She had been away only a month, and he looked like a stranger. His attitude was that of a very weary man. His head rested on his hand, and he looked all the time at Mary in the rosy glow which bathed her. When she looked up at Edward, he saw the look, saw the light shine down into her dark eyes and sparkle there. Not a look, not a smile was lost, and whilst he watched Mary, Elizabeth watched him. Elizabeth was very glad of the dimness that shielded her. It was a relief to drop the mask of a friendly indifference, to be able to watch David with no thought except for him. Her heart yearned to him as never before. She divined in him a great hunger—a great pain. And this hunger, this pain, was hers. The longing to give, to assuage, to comfort, welled up in her with a suddenness and strength that were almost startling. Elizabeth took her thought in a strong hand, forcing it along accustomed channels from the plane where love may be thwarted, to that other plane, where love walks unashamed and undeterred, and gives her gifts, no man forbidding her. Elizabeth sat still, with folded hands. Her love went out to David, like one ripple in a boundless, golden sea, from which they drew their being, and in which they lived and moved. A sense of light and peace came down upon her.