Mary was not quite as pleased as Edward.
“You know, Liz,” she said, “I am very glad that David should marry. I think he wants a home. But I don't think you ought to marry him until he 's better. He looks dreadful. And a fortnight's engagement-I can't think what people will say-one ought to consider that.”
“Oh, Molly, you are too young for the part of Mrs. Grundy,” said Elizabeth, laughing.
Mary coloured and said:
“It 's all very well, Liz, but people will talk.”
“Well, Molly, and if they do? What is there for them to say? It is all very simple, really. No one can help seeing how ill David is, and I think every one would understand my wanting to be with him. People are really quite human and understanding if they are taken the right way.”
“But a fortnight,” said Mary, frowning. “Why, Liz, you will not be able to get your things!” And she was shocked beyond words when Elizabeth betrayed a complete indifference as to whether she had any new things at all.
The wedding was fixed for the 3rd of April, and the days passed. David made the necessary arrangements with a growing sense of detachment. The matter was out of his hands.
For a week the new drug gave him sleep, a sleep full of brilliant dreams, strange flashes of light, and bursts of unbearable colour. He woke from it with a blinding headache and a sense of strain beyond that induced by insomnia. Towards the end of the week he stopped taking the drug. The headache had become unendurable. This state was worse than the last.
On the last day of March he came to Elizabeth and told her that their marriage must be deferred.
“Ronnie Ellerton is very ill,” he said; “I can't go away.”
“But David, you must-”
He shook his head. The obstinacy of illness was upon him.
“I can't-and I won't,” he declared. Then, as if realizing that he owed her some explanation, he added:
“He 's so spoilt. Why are women such fools? He 's never been made to do anything he did n't like. He won't take food or medicine, and I 'm the only person who has the least authority over him. And she 's half crazy with anxiety, poor soul. I have promised not to go until he 's round the corner. It 's only a matter of a day or two, so we must just put it off.”
Elizabeth put her hand on his arm.
“David, we need not put off the marriage,” she said in her most ordinary tones. “You see, if we are married, we could start off as soon as the child was better.”
She had it in her mind that unless David would let her help him soon, he would be past helping.
He looked at her indifferently. “You will stay here?”
“Not unless you wish,” she answered.
“I? Oh! it is for you to say.”
There was no interest in his tone. If he thought of anything it was of Ronnie Ellerton. A complete apathy had descended upon him. Nothing was real, nothing mattered. Health-sanity-rest-these were only names. They meant nothing. Only when he turned to his work, his brain still moved with the precision of a machine, regularly, correctly.
He did not tell her either then or ever, that Katie Ellerton had broken down and spoken bitter words about his marriage.
“I 've nothing but Ronnie-nothing but Ronnie-and you will go away with her and he will die. I know he will die if you go. Can't she spare you just for two days-or three-to save Ronnie's life? Promise me you won't go till he is safe-promise-promise.”
And David had promised, taking in what she had said about the child, but only half grasping the import of her frantic appeal. Neither he nor she were real people to him just now. Only Ronnie was real-Ronnie, who was ill, and his patient.
Elizabeth went through the next two days with a heavy heart. She had to meet Mary's questions, her objections, her disapprobations, and it was all just a little more than she could bear.
On the night before the wedding, Mary left Edward upstairs and came to sit beside Elizabeth 's fire. Elizabeth would rather have been alone, and yet she was pleased that Mary cared to come. If only she would let all vexed questions be-it seemed as if she would, for her mood was a silent one. She sat for a long time without speaking, then, with an impulsive movement, she slid out of her chair and knelt at Elizabeth 's side.
“Oh, Liz, I 've been cross. I know I have. I know you 've thought me cross. But it 's because I 've been unhappy-Liz, I 'm not happy about you-”
Elizabeth put her hand on Mary's shoulder for a moment.
“Don't be unhappy, Molly,” she said, in rather an unsteady voice.
“But I am, Liz, I am-I can't help it-I have talked, and worried you, and have been cross, but all the time I 've been most dreadfully unhappy. Oh, Liz, don't do it-don't!”
“Molly, dear-”
“No, I know it 's no use-you won't listen-” and Mary drew away and dabbed her eyes with a fragmentary apology for a pocket-handkerchief.
“Molly, please-”
Mary nodded.
“Yes, Liz, I know. I won't-I did n't mean to-”
There was a little silence. Then with a sudden choking sob, Mary turned and said:
“I can't bear it. Oh, Liz, you ought to be loved so much. You ought to marry some one who loves you-really-. And I don't think David does. Liz, does he love you-does he?”
The sound of her own words frightened her a little, but Elizabeth answered very gently and sadly:
“No, Molly, but he needs me.”
Mary was silenced. Here was something beyond her. She put her arms round Elizabeth and held her very tightly for a moment. Then she released her with a sob, and ran crying from the room.
CHAPTER XIV. THE GOLDEN WIND
Then far, oh, very far away,
The Wind began to rise,
The Sun, the Moon, the Stars were gone,
I saw the Grey Wolf's eyes.
The Wind rose up and rising, shone,
I saw it shine, I saw it rise,
And suddenly the dark was gone.
DAVID BLAKE was married to Elizabeth Chantrey at half-past two of an April day. Edward and Mary Mottisfont were the only witnesses, with the exception of the verger, who considered himself a most important person on these occasions, when he invariably appeared to be more priestly than the rector and more indispensable than the bridegroom.
It requires no practice to be a bridegroom but years, if not generations, go to the making of the perfect verger. This verger was the son and the grandson of vergers. He was the perfect verger. He stood during the service and disapproved of David's grey pallor, his shaking hand, and his unsteady voice. His black gown imparted a funerary air to the proceedings.
“Drinking, that 's what he 'd been,” he told his wife, and his wife said, “Oh, William,” as one who makes response to an officiating priest.
But he wronged David, who was not drunk-only starved for lack of sleep, and strung to the breaking point. His voice stumbled over the words in which he took Elizabeth to be his wedded wife and trailed away to a whisper at the conclusion.
A gusty wind beat against the long grey windows, and between the gusts the heavy rain thudded on the roof above.
Mary shivered in the vestry as she kissed Elizabeth and wished her joy. Then she turned to David and kissed him too. He was her brother now, and there would be no more nonsense. Edward frowned, David stiffened, and Elizabeth, standing near him, was aware that all his muscles had become rigid.
Elizabeth and David went out by the vestry door, and stood a moment on the step. The rain had ceased quite suddenly in the April fashion. The sky was very black overhead and the air was full of a wet wind, but far down to the right the water meadows lay bathed in a clear sweet sunshine, and the west was as blue as a turquoise. Between the blue of the sky and the bright emerald of the grass, the horizon showed faintly golden, and a broken patch of rainbow light glowed against the nearest dark cloud.