Mary came back on the 15th of September. She was looking very well, and was once more in a state of extreme contentment with Edward and things in general. When she had poured forth a complete catalogue of all that they had done, she paused for breath, and looked suddenly and sharply at Elizabeth.
“Liz,” she said. “Why, Liz.”
To Elizabeth 's annoyance, she felt herself colouring.
“Liz, and you never told me. Tell me at once. Is it true? Why did n't you tell me before?”
“Oh, Molly, what an Inquisitor you would have made!”
“Then it is true. And I suppose you told Agneta weeks ago?”
“I have n't told any one,” said Elizabeth.
“Not Agneta? And I suppose if I had n't guessed you would n't have told me for ages and ages and ages. Why did n't you tell me, Liz?”
“Why, I thought I 'd wait till you came back, Molly.”
Mary caught her sister's hand.
“Liz, are n't you glad? Are n't you pleased? Does n't it make you happy? Oh, Liz, if I thought you were one of those dreadful women who don't want to have a baby, I-I don't know what I should do. I wanted to tell everybody. But then I was pleased. I don't believe you 're a bit pleased. Are you?”
“I don't know that pleased is exactly the word,” said Elizabeth. She looked at Mary and laughed a little.
“Oh, Molly, do stop being Mrs. Grundy.”
Mary lifted her chin.
“Just because I was interested,” she said. “I suppose you 'd rather I did n't care.”
Then she relaxed a little.
“Liz, I 'm frightfully excited. Do be pleased and excited too. Why are you so stiff and odd? Is n't David pleased?”
She had looked away, but she turned quickly at the last words, and fixed her eyes on Elizabeth 's face. And for a moment Elizabeth had been off her guard.
Mary exclaimed.
“Is n't he pleased? Does n't he know? Liz, you don't mean to tell me-”
“I don't think you give me much time to tell you anything, Molly,” said Elizabeth.
“He does n't know? Liz, what 's happened to you? Why are you so extraordinary? It 's the sort of thing you read about in an early Victorian novel. Do you mean to say that you really have n't told David? That he does n't know?”
Elizabeth 's colour rose.
“Molly, my dear, do you think it is your business?” she said.
“Yes, I do,” said Mary. “I suppose you won't pretend you 're not my own sister. And I think you must be quite mad, Liz. I do, indeed, You ought to tell David at once-at once. I can't imagine what Edward would have said if he had not known at once. You ought to go straight home and tell him now. Married people ought to be one. They ought never to have secrets.”
Mary poured the whole thing out to Edward the same evening.
“I really don't know what has happened to Elizabeth,” she said. “She is quite changed. I can't understand her at all. I think it is quite wicked of her. If she does n't tell David soon, some one else ought to tell him.”
Edward moved uneasily in his chair.
“People don't like being interfered with,” he said.
“Well, I 'm sure nobody could call me an interfering person,” said Mary. “It is n't interfering to be fond of people. If I were n't fond of Liz, I should n't care how strangely she behaved. I do think it 's very strange of her-and I don't care what you say, Edward. I think David ought to be told. How would you have liked it if I 'd hidden things from you?”
Edward rumpled up his hair.
“People don't like being interfered with,” he said again.
At this Mary burst into tears, and continued to weep until Edward had called himself a brute sufficiently often to justify her contradicting him.
Elizabeth continued to wait. She was not quite as untroubled as she had been. The scene with Mary had brought the whole world of other people's thoughts and judgments much nearer. It was a troubling world. One full of shadows and perplexities. It pressed upon her a little and vexed her peace.
The days slid by. They had been pleasant days for David, too. For some time past he had been aware of a change in himself-a ferment. His old passion for Mary was dust. He looked back upon it now, and saw it as a delirium of the senses, a thing of change and fever. It was gone. He rejoiced in his freedom and began to look forward to the time when he and Elizabeth would enter upon a married life grounded upon friendship, companionship, and good fellowship. He had no desire to fall in love with Elizabeth, to go back to the old storms of passion and unrest. He cared a good deal for Elizabeth. When she was his wife he would care for her more deeply, but still on the same lines. He hoped that they would have children. He was very fond of children. And then, after he had planned it all out in his own mind, he became aware of the change, the ferment. What he felt did not come into the plan at all. He disliked it and he distrusted it, but none the less the change went on, the ferment grew. It was as if he had planned to walk on a clear, wide upland, under a still, untroubled air. In his own mind he had a vision of such a place. It was a place where a man might walk and be master of himself, and then suddenly-the driving of a mighty wind, and he could not tell from whence it came, or whither it went. The wind bloweth where it listeth. In those September days the wind blew very strongly, and as it blew, David came slowly to the knowledge that he loved Elizabeth. It was a love that seemed to rise in him from some great depth. He could not have told when it began. As the days passed, he wondered sometimes whether it had not been there always, deep amongst the deepest springs of thought and will. There was no fever in it. It was a thing so strong and sane and wholesome that, after the first wonder, it seemed to him to be a part of himself, a part which, missing, he had lost balance and mental poise.
He spoke to Elizabeth as usual, but he looked at her with new eyes. And he, too, waited.
He came home one day to find the household in a commotion. It appeared that Sarah had scalded her hand, Elizabeth was out, and Mrs. Havergill was divided between the rival merits of flour, oil, and a patent preparation which she had found very useful when suffering from chilblains. She safe-guarded her infallibility by remarking, that there was some as held with one thing and some as held with another. She also observed, that “scalds were 'orrid things.”
“Now, there was an 'ousemaid I knew, Milly Clarke her name was, she scalded her hand very much the same as you 'ave, Sarah, and first thing, it swelled up as big as my two legs and arter that it turned to blood-poisoning, and the doctors could n't do nothing for her, pore girl.”
At this point Sarah broke into noisy weeping and David arrived. When he had bound up the hand, consoled the trembling Sarah, and suggested that she should have a cup of tea, he inquired where Elizabeth was. She might be at Mrs. Mottisfont's, suggested Mrs. Havergill, as she followed him into the hall.
“You 're not thinking of sending Sarah to the 'orspital, are you sir?”
“No, of course not, she 'll be all right in a day or two. I 'll just walk up the hill and meet Mrs. Blake.”
“I 'm sure it 's a mercy she were out,” said Mrs. Havergill.
“Why?” said David, turning at the door. Mrs. Havergill assumed an air of matronly importance.
“It might ha' given her a turn,” she said, “for the pore girl did scream something dreadful. I 'm sure it give me a turn, but that 's neither here nor there. What I was thinking of was Mrs. Blake's condition, sir.”
Mrs. Havergill was obviously a little nettled at David's expression.
“Nonsense,” said David quickly.