“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.”
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 be dead.’ 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 a very curious 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? of course i shouldn’t dream of 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 an influence—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. “i used to 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 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.
edward’s voice was filling the room. it was quite a pleasant voice, and if it never varied into expression, at least it never went out of tune, and every word was distinct.
“ah, well, i know the sadness
that tears and rends your heart,
how that from all life’s gladness
you stand far, far apart—”
sang edward, in tones of the most complete unconcern.
it was mary who supplied all the sentiment that could be wished for. she dwelt on the chords with an almost superfluous degree of feeling, and her eyes were quite moist.
at any other time this combination of edward and lord henry somerset would have entertained elizabeth not a little, but just now there was no room in her thoughts for any one but david. the light that was upon her gave her vision. she looked upon david with eyes that had grown very clear, and as she looked she understood. that he had changed, deteriorated, she had seen at the first glance. now she discerned in him the cause of such an alteration—something wrenched and twisted. the scene in her little brown room rose vividly before her. when david had allowed mary to sway him, he had parted with something, which he could not now recall. he had broken violently through his own code, and the broken thing was failing him at every turn. mary’s eyes, mary’s voice, mary’s touch—these things had waked in him something beyond the old passion. the emotional strain of that scene had carried him beyond his self-control. a feverish craving was upon him, and his whole nature burned in the flame of it.
edward had passed to another song.
“one more kiss from my darling one,” he sang in a slightly perfunctory manner. his voice was getting tired, and he seemed a little absent-minded for a lover who was about to plunge into eternity. the manner in which he requested death to come speedily was a trifle unconvincing. as he began the next verse david made a sudden movement. a log of wood upon the fire had fallen sharply, and there was a quick upward rush of flame. david looked round, facing the glow, and as he did so his eyes met elizabeth’s. just for one infinitesimal moment something seemed to pass from her to him. it was one of those strange moments which are not moments of time at all, and are therefore not subject to time’s laws. elizabeth chantrey’s eyes were full of peace. full, too, of a passionate gentleness. it was a gentleness which for an instant touched the sore places in david’s soul with healing, and for that one instant david had a glimpse of something very strong, very tender, that was his, and yet incomprehensibly withheld from his understanding. it was one of those instantaneous flashes of thought—one of those gleams of recognition which break upon the dulness of material sense. before and after—darkness, the void, the unstarred night, a chaos of things forgotten. but for one dazzled instant, the lightning stab of truth, unrealised.
elizabeth did not look away, or change colour. the peace was upon her still. she smiled a little, and as the moment passed, and the dark closed in again upon david’s mind, she saw a spark of rather savage humour come into his eyes.
“then come eternity——”
“no, that’s enough, mary, i’m absolutely hoarse,” remarked edward, all in the same breath, and with very much the same expression.
mary got up, and began to shut the piano. the light shone on her white, uncovered neck.
