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 does n'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 have n'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 did n'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, is n'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 must n'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 would n'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 had n'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 should n't have liked it at all. That 's what I said to Edward-'It really is n't fair, but Elizabeth is n'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, would n't you?”