THE TELEGRAM
Mrs. Hancock was distinctly aware when, three days afterwards, she
started in her motor for a drive with Elizabeth, that in order to live
worthily up to Mr. Martin's pattern of the thankful, cheerful Christian
life, she had to keep a very firm hand on herself and nail her smile
to her pleasant mouth. Indeed, for these last few days she had to set
before herself an ideal not of cheerful, but of grinning Christianity.
Like a prudent manager, however, she had steadfastly saved up as an
all-conquering antidote to the depression and queerness which was so
marked in Elizabeth, her joyful plan that should give the girl a month
more of Heathmoor and her own undivided society and a reunited tour in
Egypt afterwards at Colonel Fanshawe's expense. The prospect of that,
she felt sure, could not possibly fail to restore to Elizabeth her
accustomed exhilaration and liveliness.
Meantime Mrs. Hancock had carefully forborne to ask either of the girls
(for Edith also had exhibited symptoms of queerness) what was ailing
with the serenity of life. It fitted in with the cheerful gospel to
know as little as possible about worrying and annoying topics, lest
their infection should mar the soothing and uplifting influence over
others of a mind wholly untroubled. Two inquiries only had she made
(and those were from Edward), which elicited the comfortable fact that
the event of the 8th of October still remained firm, and that he had
not lost any money in the City. After that she firmly shut her eyes to
any possible cause of trouble, and though one (and that the correct
one) actually stood immediately in the foreground of her mental vision,
she by long practice in obedience to Mr. Martin's gospel had reached a
pitch of absolute perfection in the feat of mental eye-closing, even
as a child frightened by the dark can by an effort of will shut out
terrifying possibilities by the corresponding physical feat, or firmly
bury its head under the bed-clothes.
But her victory over these subtle influences of gloom and general
oddity had not been gained without effort. It had been distinctly
hard to maintain an equable cheerfulness with Elizabeth. Sometimes
for a little the girl was quite herself with a short-lived flood of
high-spirited talk; sometimes from her sitting-room Mrs. Hancock
would hear a flight of brilliant song-birds on the piano. But then
suddenly the flood would cease from pouring, and the flight fail in
mid-air. Once just after a silence had fallen on the ringing air she
had come into the drawing-room to find Elizabeth sitting with her hands
still resting on the keys, and her head bowed forward over them. Her
assertion that she was not ill carried conviction; her denial that
anything was the matter was less easy of belief. But she said it,
and since successful inquiry might lead to disturbing information,
Mrs. Hancock fell back on the unimpeachable general duty of trusting
everybody completely and in particular of believing what Elizabeth said.
But it required an effort to remain perfectly comfortable, for she
was surrounded with people who did not appear to be so, and Edward,
so it seemed to her, though he had lost no money and was going to
marry Edith on the 8th of October, seemed to have been drawn into
what she looked upon as a vicious circle--vicious since it was wrong,
positively wrong, not to be happy and comfortable. She was not quick
or discerning in the interpretation of symptoms, nor, indeed, when she
suspected that anything was amiss, quick to see symptoms at all. But
through her closed eyelids, so to speak, there filtered the fact that
Elizabeth altogether avoided looking at Edward, but that he observed
her with furtive, eager glances, that somehow seemed disappointed in
what they sought. Also, though Elizabeth took spasmodic and violent
spells at the piano, she never played in the evening when Edward was
there, but had evinced a sudden desire to learn the new patience which
Mrs. Hancock had found in a ladies' paper. Mrs. Hancock did not so
much wonder at that, for this particular mode of killing time was
undoubtedly of thrilling interest, and she almost thought of buying
Elizabeth a little patience-table for her birthday, which occurred in
October. She intended in any case to look out the article in question
in the catalogue from the stores and see how much it cost. There would
be no harm in that, and if it cost more than she felt she could manage,
why, there would be no necessity to say anything about it. But then
an admirable notion struck her--her own table was getting a little
rickety; it shook when she put cards down on to it. Also it was rather
small for the great four-pack "King of Mexico," which she had fully
determined to learn this autumn. So Elizabeth should have her old
table, and she would get a new one of size No. 1 (bevelled edges and
adjustable top). That it was even more expensive did not trouble her,
and she impressively told herself that she would not have dreamed of
buying it had it not been that she wanted to give dear Elizabeth a
present. In fact, though she bought it apparently for herself it was
really Elizabeth for whom this great expense was incurred. And all
these rich and refreshing rewards--namely, another month at Heathmoor,
instead of the cobras and deserts of India, a tour in Egypt, and the
most expensive patience-table at the stores--she would announce to her
fortunate niece as they went round by the Old Mill. How all the look
of trouble and depression would fade from dear Elizabeth's face as
she listened to the announcement of those delicious joys, one after
the other. Mrs. Hancock felt a sudden gush of thankfulness to the
kind disposition of Providence that had endowed her with the ample
income which she was so eager to spend in securing the happiness of
others; and even while, without self-conscious commonplace, she felt
herself blessed in such opportunities and the will to take advantage
of them, she could not help feeling how true it was that kindness and
thought for others is so laden with gain for oneself. For she herself
would have a new patience-table (size No. 1, with bevelled edges), a
delightful companion throughout October, after Edith had left her,
while Elizabeth's father would pay her expenses in Egypt. She could not
help feeling also how much more Christian and how much more Martinesque
it was to stifle, smother, and destroy whatever might be the cause of
Elizabeth's trouble by this perfect shower of causes for happiness,
rather than inquire into it and thus run the risk of being herself
unsettled and made uneasy. But it had certainly required an effort;
she had to put firmly out of her mind not only Elizabeth's possible
worries, but also the remembrance of the evening when she had come back
from dinner with the Martins, and thought Edward's voice had sounded
odd, and seen Edith's fan lying broken on the floor. That had never
been explained. Edith had said subsequently that she supposed she must
have stepped on it, but it was very odd she should not have noticed
it, for the breaking of all those ivory sticks must have made quite a
loud snap. Meantime the gong that heralded the arrival of the motor
had sounded quite two minutes and Elizabeth had not yet appeared.
Mrs. Hancock thought she would just speak to her on the subject of
punctuality, and then wipe all impression of blame away by the recital
of these prospective benefits. Elizabeth was not downstairs, and it was
just possible that she had not heard the gong; Lind was told to sound
it again.
Elizabeth heard it the second time that it boomed, and rose from where
she knelt by her bed, by the side of which five minutes ago she had
flung herself, following, so it seemed to her, some blind instinctive
impulse. That morning there had broken over her a storm of rayless
despair. For a couple of days after her final rejection of Edward,
when Edith's absolute determination not to give him up voluntarily
had been known to her, the apathetic quiet of the step taken, of
deliberate renunciation, had been hers. But it had not been, and the
poor girl guessed it, the peace that is always eventually not only the
reward but the consequence of self-abnegation, but only the exhaustion
that follows a prolonged mental effort. Edith's choice, apart from
the tremendous significance it had for herself, was incredible and
monstrous to her nature. She did not question the fact that Edith
loved Edward, but the notion of love not seeking the happiness of
the beloved was to her inconceivable. She could not understand it,
could not in consequence have the smallest sympathy with it. But this
she had to take and did take on trust, and let depend on it her own
unalterable decision--that decision that, as far as she could see,
took the sun bodily out of her own life. From mere weariness she had
found in the dull acquiescence in this an apathy that had for a couple
of days anæsthetized her. Against this insensitiveness, knowing that
it was valueless, she had made pitiful little struggles, seeking now
to establish some kind of sympathy and renewal of intimacy with her
cousin, now to rouse herself to feel in music the passion with which
it had inspired her. Instead, for the present, she found she had a
shrinking abhorrence of it. Its beauty had become remote, and from its
withdrawn eminence, its unassailable snow-peaks, it mocked her. It did
more than mock; it reminded her of all it had done for her, how through
it she and Edward had been brought together, to stand now close to each
other, embracing, overlapping, yet with a thin, unmeltable ice between
them.
Then in due course had come the recuperation of her vital forces, and
she had awoke this morning after long and dreamless sleep to find that
the anæsthesia of her mind had passed off. For a couple of minutes
perhaps she had lain still in the delicious consciousness of restored
vigour, and of delight in the new freshness of the early day. Then as
she became fully conscious of herself again, she found that what had
been recuperated in her was but her capacity for suffering, and the
blackness of a vivid despair, bright black, not dull black, fell on
her, more black because she knew that it was a darkness of her own
making. A word from her to Edward would scatter it and let loose the
morning. She had no doubt of that, no doubt that he, at her bidding,
would break the fetters of his promise that bound him as easily as if
they had been but a wisp of unwoven straw. She told herself and, what
was the more persuasive, she could hear his voice telling her that she
was committing a crime against love, that she was refusing and bidding
him profane the most sacred gift of all. She told herself that she was
a fool to listen to any voice but that which sounded so insistently,
but there was yet a voice, still and small, that was steadfast in its
message to her. It was not that she cared one jot for the ordinary
external consequences of a disobedience to that; she guessed that there
would be a consensus of opinion in her favour if she disobeyed. No
doubt they would say it was a deplorable accident that she and Edward
had fallen in love with each other, but once the accident had happened
it was best to make the best of a regrettable situation. The young man
had never been in love with poor Edith; he had but fallen a lukewarm
victim to the influence of propinquity and Mrs. Hancock. Certainly it
was very sad for Miss Hancock, but she was young, she would get over
it, and probably end by making quite a good marriage.
Elizabeth cared little for either the approval or condemnation of
the world in general. The thought of it was remote and stifled and
insignificant. But it was Edward who called to her, called loud, called
closely and low, and she must be deaf not to listen to him, not hear
him even. At whatever cost she had to approve of herself.
Black, empty aching, an intolerable loneliness. She had but one desire,
apart from the desire of her heart, and that was to escape from it all,
to go away as quickly as possible, to be out of sight of what she might
not contemplate. Far away, across leagues of hot ocean and miles of
plain baking from the summer solstice, was her father. No one else in
the world did she want to see, to no one else--if even to him--could
she pour out her woe. He would comprehend, would approve, she knew,
of all she had done, not blaming her for letting love so completely
envelop her, not praising her rejection of it, but simply seeing even
as she had seen, in loneliness and heart's anguish, that there was
no other course possible. She knew that as thoroughly as if she had
already opened her whole heart to him.
There was a letter already written which she had not yet posted; now
she opened it and added a postscript: "Father, dear," she wrote, "I am
awfully--awfully unhappy, and can't write to you about it. But when you
get this, please send me a telegram saying you want me home at once.
Trust me that this is wiser. Don't delay, dear daddy."
The pen dropped from her fingers after she had re-directed her letter,
and she sat quite still looking blankly at it. She had told Edith she
did not love Edward, that she had never thought of him like that. If
there could be degrees in this abject wretchedness, hers was a depth
unplumbable. Yet this colossal lie seemed to her necessary. Edith,
believing that her cousin loved Edward, yet refused to release him
of her own will. So she was to have him, she must be given what was
already hers, handsomely, largely. It would be wicked, even at the cost
of this denial, to give him her with a stab, so to speak.
Emptiness, utter loneliness self-ordained. She must tell somebody about
her misery; she must pour out her unshared grief, for the burden of
it was intolerable. With dry blind eyes, with the groping instinct to
seek, just to seek, she threw herself on her knees by her bed. She
knew not what or whom she sought; there was just this blind unerring
instinct in her soul, the instinct of the homing pigeon.
Mrs. Hancock put up her parasol when the three cushions were perfectly
adjusted, and the car slid slowly forward.
"I think we shall have time to go round by the Old Mill," she said,
"though we are a little late in starting. I wonder, Elizabeth, if you
could make an effort to be more punctual, dear. I don't think there
is a person in the world who hates blaming people as much as I do, so
I don't want or mean to blame you. I only ask you to make a little
effort. It is so easy to form a habit, and while you are about it you
might just as well form the habit of punctuality as of unpunctuality."
"I am so sorry, Aunt Julia," said she. "I--I wasn't thinking about the
time."
"No, dear, that is just it. I want you to think about the time a little
more. There is just a little touch of selfishness and inconsiderateness
in keeping other people waiting, and selfishness is so horrible, is it
not? Edith is never unpunctual, though all the time her ankle was bad
she got downstairs very slowly. But she allowed for that. What was the
engrossing employment to-day that kept you?"
"I was saying my prayers, Aunt Julia, At least, I was trying to."
Mrs. Hancock laid her hand on Elizabeth's.
"My dear, that is a very good reason," she said, "though I am afraid
it means that you forgot to say them when you got up. It's a very
good plan, Elizabeth, to say them the moment you get out of bed.
Then they are off your mind. Oh, what a beautiful fresh air there
is this morning! I think we might almost have my window half down,
and yours quite down. Your prayers, yes. And to think that when you
came you didn't want to go to church at all. But I felt sure that Mr.
Martin--why, there he is, do you see, in a red coat, playing golf?
Fancy, what a coincidence! He is dining with us to-night, and I must
be sure to tell him that we saw him just the very moment that I was
speaking of him. But the only way to get through the day's work is to
do everything punctually, prayers and all. Then when bedtime comes you
are ready for it, with nothing left undone to keep you awake. And now,
my dear, I have a great deal to tell you, and I'm sure I look forward
to doing so. It is almost as great a pleasure to me as it will be to
you to hear about all the plans I have made for you."
Mrs. Hancock had settled that her climax was to be Egypt. The
patience-table perhaps was the least sensational of the benefits, and
she was going to begin with that.
"I have often noticed lately, dear," she said, "what an interest you
take in my patience, so much so indeed, Elizabeth, that we've had not
a note of music in the evening for a week past, though I've thought
sometimes that I have seen Edward looking at the piano as if he would
like to hear how you are getting on. Look, there is the Old Mill. Will
you tell Denton to stop, so that we can enjoy looking at it? So I
thought to myself the other night, or perhaps a little bird whispered
it to me, that you would like to play patience, too, in the evening.
And so you shall, dear. You shall have my patience-table all for your
very own, and I will get another one for myself. Mind, Elizabeth, it is
not lent you to use only as you use the other things in the house, but
it is quite yours, the moment my other table comes from the stores. You
may take it back to India if you wish, when you go. _When_ you go."
"Oh, that is kind, dear Aunt Julia," said the girl. "But why should you
give it me, and go to the expense of a new one? I enjoy seeing you play
just as much as I should enjoy playing myself."
Mrs. Hancock wondered if this was really true. Her generosity about
taking the table to India, which so neatly introduced the next topic,
had been an unpremeditated flash. Of course, if Elizabeth did not want
to play patience, there was no kind of reason for getting a new table.
But luckily at this moment she remembered "King of Mexico," which,
employing four packs, could not be properly laid out on the table she
at present used.
"My dear, I am determined you shall have a table of your own," she
said, "to take to India with you if you wish. And perhaps you noticed
that I said 'when you go,' and repeated it. That brings me on to my
second plan. I should enjoy, dear, I should really enjoy your stopping
on here after Edith and Edward are married; then you will no longer
share the little treats, like having a drive in my motor, with Edith,
but you can come out in it whenever I go, twice a day if you like.
And if you like, you shall have Edith's room, and I shall make Mrs.
Williams and Lind and all of them quite understand that you are to take
Edith's place. You shan't be a visitor any more. Arundel shall be your
English home."
"Oh, Aunt Julia----!" began Elizabeth.
"No; wait a minute. You shall have all my plans together. Here you will
be all October, with your own patience-table, and Edith's room, until
I go to Egypt in November. And then, and then, my dear, you shall come
with me. I have written to your father, and we have quite arranged it.
You will be absolutely one of our party, and when Edith and Edward
join us, as they will do at Cairo--oh, look at those starlings, what
a quantity!--when they join us at Cairo we will all go up the Nile
together and see everything there is to be seen. How busy we shall be,
you and I, all October, my dear, reading all sorts of learned books;
I am sure you will read aloud very well with a little practice. We
shall be quite a pair of blue-stockings when we meet Edith and Edward
again, and be able to tell them all sorts of interesting things about
the Greeks and ancient Egyptians. We will take your patience-table with
us, for it shuts up more conveniently than any table I have ever seen,
and I dare say I shall often ask you for the loan of it, if you will
be so kind as to lend it me. And then we shall all come down the Nile
together, such a happy party, and I know very well, dear Elizabeth,
that when we come to part, and you go on to India from wherever it is
that the boats call, I for one shall miss you very much indeed."
Mrs. Hancock had warmed herself up into the most pleasurable glow
of generosity, and felt that all these wonderful plans, which, as a
matter of fact, had been made solely with a view to her own comfort,
were entirely due to her altruistic desire for Elizabeth's delight.
Her self-deception was complete and triumphant; she had for the time
quite lost sight of the undoubted fact that she had thought of herself
and herself only in the making of them. She had secured an excuse for
a new patience-table, a companion during what would have otherwise
been a month of loneliness, and, at no expense to herself, of somebody
who would look after her in Egypt and be devoted to her comfort. She
fully expected a burst of gratitude, a rapturous and scarcely credulous
assent from the girl.
Elizabeth sat quite silent for a moment.
"Oh, Aunt Julia, it is sweet of you," she said, "but I think it is all
quite impossible. I must go back to India; I must get back to father."
Aunt Julia still glowed.
"My dear, your father has made up his mind to do without you and let
you enjoy yourself," she said. "I wrote to him about it, oh, weeks ago,
telling him not to allude to it at all to you, but that I would tell
you. He will rejoice in your happiness as much as I."
Elizabeth clasped her hands together on her knee.
"Oh, I can't, I can't!" she said. "But thank you ever so much, Aunt
Julia. Indeed, I wrote to father only to-day, saying that I wanted
to come back to him quite soon, sooner than I had planned. I can't
explain. You have been so kind to me, I know, but I must go back to
India as soon as possible. Simply that."
Mrs. Hancock recognized the earnestness of the girl's tone, and all the
pleasure and glow faded from her face.
"Really, I think your words do require some explanation," she said. "To
think of me so busy planning and contriving for your pleasure, and you
saying that you don't want any of my plans! Yes, Denton, drive on. We
have looked at the Old Mill long enough. I think you ought to tell me
what it all means, Elizabeth."
"I can't tell you," said she. "Try to think it means nothing, or that
it means only just what I have said. It does mean that. I want to go
back to India. If it was possible I would go back to-day. I want to see
father. I have been a long time away from him, and though you and--and
Edith and Edward are so kind I miss him dreadfully. I am homesick; I
want to get back."
Mrs. Hancock's own beautiful architectural designs for Elizabeth's
happiness tumbled in ruins, and Elizabeth's notions of replacing them
did not seem in the least satisfactory. She who avowedly had "planned
and contrived" for this end found herself accusing the girl of the
most barefaced selfishness when she stated what she really wanted.
Apparently she thought about nothing but herself.
"Well, all I can say at present," said Mrs. Hancock, "is that I am
dreadfully disappointed and grieved."
"Yes, I am sorry," put in Elizabeth, "but--but it is quite impossible.
You mustn't think I am ungrateful, Aunt Julia."
"I do not think you can expect me to praise you for your gratitude,"
said Mrs. Hancock.
"No. I don't want praise; I don't deserve it. But I want to go back to
father."
Mrs. Hancock's sense of ill-usage, of having her kindness met by black
ingratitude, rankled and grew. This was worse, much worse, than the
painful case of the housemaid, who suited her so well, going away
from her service to be married. Indeed, that misguided creature--the
marriage did not turn out very happily, and Mrs. Hancock was sure she
didn't wonder--the cause of so many bitter memories, appeared now as a
perfect angel in comparison.
"I must say that I cannot consider this a pretty return for all the
indulgences I have showered on you," she said. "I have treated you
like my own daughter, Elizabeth, with the piano always ready dusted
for you, and the most expensive motor always whirling you about the
country, wherever you like to go, and the new table for your patience,
and never a thing asked of you in return till I suggest that you should
keep me company during October, and this you flatly refuse. And what
your father will say I don't know, with all his kindness in paying for
your tour in Egypt, when we settled between us to let you come with me
all up the Nile, at a great deal of expense. And now all you can say
is that you don't want to go, and can't explain why. And here was I
thinking of ordering books on Egypt from the London library this very
afternoon, and even planning going up to London some day this week to
make sure of getting places in the sleeping-car to Marseilles. And you
can't explain!"
Elizabeth felt suddenly goaded to exasperation at this child's babble
of books from the library and tickets for the sleeping-car. It was
round such things as these that her aunt's emotions clung like swarming
bees around their queen. She felt a wild desire to supply Aunt Julia
with something real to think about, something that would really pierce
through those coils of comfort-padding that wrapped her up as in
eiderdown quilts. At present all that ever reached her was a slight
disarrangement, a minute tweaking of one of her quilts. Or if by years
of habit they were too firmly tucked round her, it would be something
to let her see that others were not so grossly wadded against the
world, against reality.
"I will explain if you like," she said quickly, and almost smiled to
see Aunt Julia huddling her quilts round her, clutching them with eager
fingers, dreading lest they should be taken from her by cruel and
inconsiderate hands.
"My dear, you haven't given me your confidence voluntarily," she said
in a great hurry, "and I am the last person in the world to ask for
confidence when it is not freely given. Dear Edith has always told me
everything, but that is no reason why you should----"
"Do you mean that Edith has told you about _this?_" asked the girl.
"About your inexplicable rejection of all my plans for you, including
the patience-table? No, certainly not. That, I imagine, concerns
you. My dear Edith would be the last to betray what seems to be a
secret----"
Elizabeth broke in again.
"But I am offering not to make a secret of it from you," she said.
Mrs. Hancock turned an almost imploring face to her.
"No, Elizabeth," she said. "You have not come to me with it of your own
accord, and I was quite wrong to hint that you owed me an explanation.
If I have hinted so I withdraw it. Look, there is Mr. Beaumont with
his butterfly-net. Let us be silent for a little and collect ourselves
again; our talk was getting very wild and uncomfortable. Would you
kindly put your window a shade more up?"
Mrs. Hancock regarded the view with a severe and compressed face, into
which there stole by degrees an expression of relief. She felt that
she had dealt with this threatening situation in an extremely tactful
manner. Elizabeth had not chosen to confide in her, and she had put,
so she told herself, all, all her natural curiosity aside and refused
to hear the secret which had not voluntarily been made known to her.
That waiving of her personal feelings in the matter had, as usual, its
immediate rewards, for she had averted the risk of hearing something
thoroughly uncomfortable. She dismissed that consideration, and in
the silence for which she had asked devoted herself to the pained
contemplation of Elizabeth's selfishness, which had so much surprised
and grieved her. Hitherto she had not thought Elizabeth at all selfish,
except in the matter of unpunctuality, and the discovery was a great
blow to her. She had quite made up her mind that the girl would jump
at those delightful proposals, which had been the fruit of so much
thought. About Egypt she did not care so particularly, but she felt
terribly blank at the prospect of a lonely October. With Elizabeth
taking a real solid interest in patience, with the interval between
tea and dinner filled in by readings about the ancient Egyptians, and
with a companion for the two daily motor drives, she had felt really
quite resigned to losing Edith, since on their return from Egypt she
would be living again next door, and of course would be only too
delighted to enjoy her mother's companionship during Edward's daily
absence in the City. And now there had come this earthquake, upsetting
everything. There was a proverb that misfortunes never come singly, and
she felt an indefinable dread that Filson would want to marry next,
or Mrs. Williams threaten to leave her. Of course, she could raise
Mrs. Williams's wages again to stem this tide of disaster, but if
Filson wanted to marry----No doubt she could try the effect of raising
Filson's wages, and could point to the awful fate of the housemaid, but
even that might not prove sufficient if Filson loved some hypothetical
young man very much. Then she tried to cling to the gospel of Mr.
Martin, and determined not to dwell on these unnerving possibilities.
Meantime, Elizabeth sat silent (as requested) by her, and the
kindliness of Mrs. Hancock, which existed in large crude quantities,
and her affection for the girl, which in its own way was perfectly
genuine, came to her aid. However startling and deplorable Elizabeth's
selfishness was, she was sorry for whatever might be the trouble
that lay at the root of it, and, provided only that trouble was not
confided to her, was willing and eager to do her best to alleviate
it. Secretly she guessed that Edward was concerned in it; she guessed
also that the girl's affections were concerned in it. She rejected
without difficulty that Elizabeth had conceived a hopeless passion for
Mr. Beaumont, or an illicit one for Mr. Martin, and she inferred that
Elizabeth's affections and Edward were synonymous terms. But that was
only a guess--she hastened to assure herself of that--and might really
be as insubstantial as she hoped was the shattering notion that Filson
was engaged in a love affair, and she shut the door on it. There was
poor Elizabeth's trouble safely locked up, and she wondered how she
could help her. She turned to the girl.
"My dear, I am sure you have some trouble," she said, "and, though I
would be the last to ask you about it, is there not anybody you could
consult? Perhaps your wanting to go back to your father means that you
think he could help you. But is there no one here? Could you not tell
Edith, if she does not know about it already? Or there is Mr. Martin.
You would find him all kindness and wisdom. I often think of him as my
mind-doctor, to whom I would certainly go myself if I was worried."
"Oh, thank you, Aunt Julia," said she. "But I don't think I will worry
Mr. Martin. I should like to tell daddy about it, and I shall."
"But it would be no worry for Mr. Martin," said Mrs. Hancock. "He is
so used to hearing about other people's troubles. It is quite his
profession. He has often said to me that his wish is to bring joy to
people and take away their wretchedness. Such a noble career! I can't
think why they don't make him a bishop."
Elizabeth gave a little squeal of laughter, as unexpected to herself as
it was to her aunt.
"I don't think I will, really, Aunt Julia," she repeated.
This appeared to Mrs. Hancock another bit of selfishness. It seemed to
her quite likely that Mr. Martin's really magical touch might easily
remove Elizabeth's trouble, in which case Egypt and the patience-table
blossomed again instead of withering on their stalks. But she
determined not to give it all up quite yet and abandon Elizabeth, so it
represented itself to her, to the moral pit of her selfishness.
Mr. Martin, who dined with Mrs. Hancock that evening, and spoke of
Egypt as if it was a newly acquired possession of hers, like her
motor or the gate that had, in spite of Edward's luke-warmness on
the subject, been put into the wall that separated the two gardens,
trumpeted her praise in his usual manner.
"We shall miss you terribly," he said. "Heathmoor will not be itself
without you. But still how right you are to go and see it all for
yourself. You take your car with you? No? Then I shall be down on
Denton and expect him to stop for my sermon every Sunday morning, poor
fellow! instead of stealing out to bring your car back for you. Poor
Denton! Ha, ha! He'll be glad, I'll warrant, when you come back again
and he can shirk the padre's jaw as usual. An excellent fellow, Denton!
Upon my word, I am sorry for him. I shall skip a page or two every now
and then if Denton looks too reproachfully at me."
"Alfred, Alfred!" said his wife.
"I shall nobble--isn't it nobble, Edward?--I shall nobble Denton to
sing psalms in the choir," said Mr. Martin, "while Mrs. Hancock is
away. He will have no car to take back after she has gone to church.
Yes, yes; give Denton a dose of David to begin with, and Alfred to
finish up with!" Mr. Martin looked furtively round to see if Lind was
amused, and Mrs. Martin put her hand to her face.
"Alfred, Alfred!" she said. "Is not Alfred naughty!"
Mrs. Hancock beamed delightedly. This wild religious badinage always
pleased her. It seemed to make a human thing of religion, to bring it
into ordinary life.
"I will leave Denton in your hands," she said, "with the utmost
confidence."
"So long as we don't make a clergyman of him before you come back,"
suggested Mr. Martin. "We won't do that; there are many mansions, and
I'm sure that a good fellow in his garage occupies one of them. We all
have got our mansion, have we not? You, Miss Elizabeth, in your music,
Edward here in the City, though he's a lucky fellow to be sure, for he
has a musical mansion as well. And we all meet; we all meet."
This was a shade more solemn than Mr. Martin's usual dinner-table
conversation, and Mrs. Hancock, crumbling her bread with dropped eyes,
saw here a very good gambit to open with again in a little serious
conversation she meant, if possible, to have with him afterwards.
Then the appearance of a very particular salad roused her immediate
attention.
"This you must eat, Mr. Martin," she said; "it is the new sort of
lettuce which Ellis insisted on my getting. I am told that in Egypt it
is quite unsafe to eat salad or any raw vegetable, for you can't tell
who has been touching it, or what sort of water it has been washed in.
It's the same in India, is it not, Elizabeth?"
Mr. Martin turned briskly to the girl.
"And why don't you join your aunt in her tour to Egypt?" he said. "It's
all on the way back to India, is it not? Why not put Afric's sunny
fountains in before India's coral strands? Dear me, how wonderful
Bishop Heber's grasp is!"
This was indeed another coincidence, that Mr. Martin should suggest,
quite without consultation, the very scheme that Mrs. Hancock had
"planned and contrived." That Mr. Martin should think of it quite
independently, seemed to Mrs. Hancock a tremendous, almost a religious,
argument in its favour.
"Well, that is odd now that you should have mentioned that," she said,
"for I was proposing to Elizabeth only this morning that she should do
that very thing. And that Mr. Martin should agree with me! Well!"
Edward looked up, caught Elizabeth's eye, ricocheted, so to speak, on
to Edith's, and returned in time to catch the drift of Mr. Martin's
further comment on Bishop Heber. Mrs. Hancock saw the sudden colour
flame in Elizabeth's face, saw the glance that played between her three
young people, and shut more firmly than ever the door into which she
had thrust her conjecture on this subject. She entirely refused to
recognize the possible existence of anything so very uncomfortable. Mr.
Martin observed that his wife had got well under way again with Bishop
Heber, and spoke confidently to his hostess.
"I've got schemes in my head, too, about Egypt," he said, "though I
don't know that they will come to anything. I want to send my dear
Minnie to the South for a month or two of the winter. You remember,
perhaps, how unwell she was last winter, and what wonderful jellies
Mrs. Williams sent her. Indeed, if I think I can manage it, I believe
I shall really have the courage to suggest that she goes out about
the same time as you, so that she won't be quite alone in the land
of bondage. Of course, I don't for the moment hint at her actually
joining your party. But hush, Mrs. Hancock, we are observed! I have not
said a word about it to her yet."
It was impossible that Mrs. Hancock should not feel that Providence had
kindly turned his attention to her disappointment about Elizabeth and
the Egyptian tour. It was true that the even more harrowing subject of
her lonely October--in case Elizabeth persisted in her selfishness--had
not at present attracted his notice, but this suggestion of Mr.
Martin's seemed to her to be a direct and Divine contrivance for her
comfort. She had no wish to examine into the logic of her belief; she
did not dream of inquiring if she really thought that Mrs. Martin had
suffered from bronchitis last winter in order that her husband might
think of sending her South now, so that Mrs. Hancock should have
somebody to attend to her in Egypt, but she felt that Elizabeth perhaps
was not intended to go to Egypt, which being so, Providence, having a
special regard for her comfort, had put forward this utterly unexpected
idea to see if she liked it. She did like it. She also formed the
conclusion that she on her side was meant not to urge Elizabeth any
more, nor even to see if Mr. Martin could not probe and heal her
trouble. It was evident that her entire arrangements were being
seen after for her. But she had to meet this half-way, to acquiesce
thankfully, and help it on. She turned beamingly to Mr. Martin.
"The very thing!" she said. "And as for dear Mrs. Martin not being of
our party, how could you suggest such an idea?"
Some subject cognate to Bishop Heber was actively engaging Mrs. Martin,
and Mrs. Hancock could speak without fear of being overheard.
"She shall share my sitting-room, as my guest, of course, and
everything," she said. "And after dinner you and I must have a couple
of words together, if it is only the question of expense that troubles
you. If there is any difficulty there you must allow me to help. And
Elizabeth says, for the matter of that, that the second-class cabins on
the liners to Port Said are every bit as good as the first."
This offer to help was not so precipitate as it sounded. Mrs. Hancock
had seriously considered during the afternoon what the expense of a
companion would be, and had come to the conclusion that if Elizabeth
would not join her, she would be able to afford it. But this
providential idea would save her the greater part of that expense, for
no doubt, if she could persuade Mr. Martin to let her pay (since she
would then be saved the full expenses of a companion) some forty pounds
or perhaps thirty towards Mrs. Martin's travelling, his doubts on the
subject of whether it could be afforded would be completely removed.
She would tell him that she looked on it as a form of charity, which he
must not be too proud to accept. She was subscribing to Mrs. Martin's
efficiency in parochial work, which was a clear duty. Mrs. Martin must
be induced to see it in the same light, and she surely would, when she
saw that her husband and Mrs. Hancock were so completely in accord
on the subject. And if--if behind that locked door in her mind there
was shut up the true reason for Elizabeth's unwillingness to go to
Egypt, how wonderfully it had been conveyed to her that she must not
urge her any more. That, of course, was the most important thing of
all. She must also cease from accusing Elizabeth in her mind of any
selfishness. She must dismiss it all now, not even wonder whether it
was true or not. Providence had locked the door on it, and indicated,
quite unmistakably, that Elizabeth was not to go to Egypt. Providence,
too, had caused her pass-book to be returned to her disclosing a very
sound position; even forty pounds would not worry her at all. But that
was no reason why she should not see whether thirty would not put Mr.
Martin's mind at ease on the question of expense. She would certainly
ask Elizabeth to play to them after dinner, and go out into the garden
with Mr. Martin to enjoy the music from there.
Mr. Martin, left alone with Edward after dinner, had another glass of
port before he took his cigarette on general principles of _bonhomie_
and partaking in the pleasure of other people, and also on the
particular principle that Mrs. Hancock's port was a very charming
beverage. He continued also to trumpet her praises in a confidential
manner.
"The most generous woman I know!" he said. "You are indeed lucky
to be allying yourself with her daughter. An instance occurred at
dinner. I mentioned that I was thinking of sending my wife South for
the winter--not a word of this yet to anybody, my dear fellow--and
she guessed that expense might be a serious consideration to me. I
had but ever so faintly alluded to it. Instantly she offered to help,
suggesting that my wife should be of her party. You join them, I think,
you and your bride, at Cairo, do you not?"
"That is the idea."
"A very good one. And Miss Elizabeth, is she going too? It seemed to
have occurred to her aunt."
Edward got up.
"I know she thought of it," he said, "but--but I do not suppose
Elizabeth will go. Shall we join the others? I get scolded if we stop
in the dining-room too long."
"Certainly, certainly, if you will allow me one more whiff of this
excellent cigarette. Mrs. Hancock always gives her guests of the very
best. And how much more, my dear fellow, has she given you her best of
all."
Edward did not reply to this, but waited in silence while Mr. Martin
took his one whiff. As they crossed the hall the front-door bell
sounded and Lind took in a telegram.
"Miss Elizabeth, sir," he said to Edward.
Edward just glanced at it; it was a foreign telegram.
"I'll take it in," he said.
Mrs. Hancock had stationed herself strategically near the window, so
that she could easily stroll out with Mr. Martin.
"There you are," she said; "and you've both been good and not waited
too long. Now let us have some music. There's room for you here, Mr.
Martin. Who will begin--you, Edward, or Elizabeth? I meant to have got
some duets for you, and then you could have played together. What is
that, Edward?"
"A telegram for Elizabeth," he said.
"Open it then, dear," said Mrs. Hancock to the girl. "We'll excuse you."
The little hush that so often attends the opening of a telegram fell
on the room as Elizabeth tore open the thin paper. She looked at the
message, and, standing quite still, handed it to her aunt. It was from
her stepmother, and told her that her father had died of cholera that
morning.
BOOK THREE