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  “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 jealously.

  “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 an honour to 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!”

  CHAPTER VIII

  EDWARD SINGS

  “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 fulfill 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 in 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, 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 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 goin
g 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 here 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.