Elizabeth leaned her chin in her hand, and was silent for a moment. Then she said: “Molly, dear, why should we try and prevent David from going to see Katie Ellerton? He is in love with you, and it is very bad for him. If he saw less of you for a time it would give him a chance of getting over it. David is very unhappy just now. No one can fail to see that. He wants what you can't give him-rest, companionship, a home. If Katie cares for him, and can give him these things, let her give them. We have no business to stand in the way. Don't you see that?”
Elizabeth spoke sweetly and persuasively. She kept her eyes on her sister's face, and saw there, first, offence, and then interest-the birth of a new idea.
“Oh, well-if you don't mind,” said Mary. “You are nearly as tiresome as Edward and Edward has been most dreadfully tiresome. I told him so. I said, 'Edward, I really never knew you could be so tiresome,' and it seemed to make him worse. I think, you know, that he is afraid that people will talk if David goes on coming here. Of course, that 's absurd, I told him it was absurd. I said, 'Why, how on earth is any one to know that it is n't Elizabeth he comes to see?' And then, Edward became really violent. I did n't know he could be, but he was. He simply plunged up and down the room, and said: 'If he wants to see Elizabeth, then in Heaven's name let him see Elizabeth. Let him marry Elizabeth.' Oh, you must n't mind, Liz,” as Elizabeth 's head went up, “it was only because he was so cross, and you and David are such old friends. There 's nothing for you to mind.”
She paused, stole a quick glance at Elizabeth, then looked away, and said in a tentative voice, “Liz, why don't you marry David?”
“Because he does n't want me to, Molly,” said Elizabeth. Her voice was very proud, and her head very high.
Mary half put out her hand, and drew it back again. She knew this mood of Elizabeth 's, and it was one that silenced even her ready tongue. She was the little sister again for a moment, and Elizabeth the mother, sister, and ideal-all in one.
“Liz, I 'm sorry,” she said in quite a small, humble voice.
When she had gone, Elizabeth sat on by the fire. She did not move for a long time. When she did move, it was to put up a hand to her face, which was wet with many hot, slow tears. Pride dies hard, and hurts to the very last.
CHAPTER XI. FORGOTTEN WAYS
I have forgotten all the ways of sleep,
The endless, windless silence of my dream,
The milk-white poppy meadows and the stream,
The dreaming water soft and still and deep-
I have forgotten how that water flows,
I have forgotten how the poppy grows,
I have forgotten all the ways of sleep.
IT was on an afternoon, a few days later, that David came into the hall of the Mottisfonts' house.
“Lord save us, he do look bad,” was the thought in Markham 's mind as she let him in. Aloud she said that she thought Mrs. Mottisfont was just going out. As she spoke, Mary came down the stairs, bringing with her a sweet scent of violets.
Mary was very obviously going out. She wore a white cloth dress, with dark furs, and there was a large bunch of mauve and white violets at her breast. She looked a little vexed when she saw David.
“Oh,” she said, “I am just going out. I am so sorry, but I am afraid I must. Bazaars are tiresome things, but one must go to them, and I promised Mrs. Codrington that I would be there early. Elizabeth is in. She 'll give you some tea. Markham, will you please tell Miss Elizabeth?
David came forward as she was speaking. There was a window above the front door, and as he came out of the shadow, and the light fell on his face, he saw Mary start a little. Her expression changed, and she said in a hesitating manner:
“Of course, Elizabeth may be busy, or she may be going out-I really don't know. Perhaps you had better come another day, David.”
He read her clearly enough. She thought that he had been drinking, and hesitated to leave him with her sister. He had been about to say that he could not stop, but her suspicion raised a devil of obstinacy in him, and as Elizabeth came out of her room by way of the dining-room, he advanced to meet her, saying:
“Will you give me some tea, Elizabeth, or are you too busy?”
“Liz, come here,” said Mary quickly. Her colour had risen at David's tone. She drew Elizabeth a little aside. “Liz, you 'd better not,” she whispered, “he looks so queer.”
“Nonsense, Molly.”
“I wish you would n't-”
“My dear Molly, are you going to begin to chaperone me?”
Mary tossed her head.
“Oh, if you don't mind,” she said angrily, and went out, leaving Elizabeth with an odd sense of anticipation.
Elizabeth found David standing before the writing-table, and looking at himself in the little Dutch mirror which hung above it. He turned as she came in.
“Well,” he said bitterly, “has Mary renounced the Bazaar in order to stay and protect you? I 'm not really as dangerous as she seems to think, though I am willing to admit that I am not exactly ornamental. Give me some tea, and I 'll not inflict myself on you for long.”
Elizabeth smiled.
“You know very well that I like having you here,” she said in her friendly voice. “Look at my flowers. Are n't they well forward? I really think that everything is a fortnight before its time this year. No, not that chair, David. This one is much more comfortable.”
Markham was coming in with the tea as Elizabeth spoke. David sat silent. He watched the tiny flame of the spirit-lamp, the mingled flicker of firelight and daylight upon the silver, and the thin old china with its branching pattern of purple and yellow flowers. He drank as many cups of tea as Elizabeth gave him, and she talked a little in a desultory manner, until he had finished, and then sat in a silence that was not awkward, but companionable.
David made no effort to move, or speak. This was a pleasant room of Elizabeth 's. The brown panels were warm in the firelight. They made a soft darkness that had nothing gloomy about it, and the room was full of flowers. The great brown crock full of daffodils stood on the window-ledge, and on the table which filled the angle between the window and the fireplace was another, in which stood a number of the tall yellow tulips which smell like Maréchal-Niel roses. Elizabeth 's dress was brown, too. It was made of some soft stuff that made no sound when she moved. The room was very still, and very sweet, and the sweetness and the stillness were very grateful to David Blake. The thought came to him suddenly, that it was many years since he had sat like this in Elizabeth 's room, and the silence had companioned them. Years ago he had been there often enough, and they had talked, read, argued, or been still, just as the spirit of the moment dictated. They had been good comrades, then, in the old days-the happy days of youth.
He looked across at Elizabeth and said suddenly:
“You are a very restful woman, Elizabeth.”
She smiled at him without moving, and answered:
“I am glad if I rest you, David-I think you need rest.”
“You sit so still. No one else sits so still.”
Elizabeth laughed softly.
“That sounds as if I were a very inert sort of person,” she said.
David frowned a little.
“No, it 's not that. It is strength-force-stability. Only strong things keep still like that.”
This was so like the old David, that it took Elizabeth back ten years at a leap. She was silent for a moment, gathering her courage. Then she said:
“David, you do need rest, and a change. Why don't you go away?”