ELIZABETH CHANTREY
Whatever ways we walk in and whatever dreams come true,
You still shall say, “God speed” to me, and I, “God go with you.”
Some days later Elizabeth Chantrey went away for about a month, to pay a
few long-promised visits. She went first to an old school-friend, then
to some relations, and lastly to the Mainwarings. Agneta Mainwaring had
moved to town after her mother’s death, and was sharing a small flat
with her brother Louis, in a very fashionable quarter. She had been
engaged for about six months to Douglas Strange, and was expecting to
marry him as soon as he returned from his latest, and most hazardous
journey across Equatorial Africa.
“I thought you were never coming,” said Agneta, as they sat in the
firelight, Louis on the farther side of the room, close to the lamp,
with his head buried in a book.
“Never, never, _never_!” repeated Agneta, stroking the tail of
Elizabeth’s white gown affectionately and nodding at every word. She was
sitting on the curly black hearth-rug, a small vivid creature in a
crimson dress. Agneta Mainwaring was little and dark, passionate,
earnest, and frivolous. A creature of variable moods and intense
affections, steadfast only where she loved. Elizabeth was watching the
firelight upon the big square sapphire ring which she always wore. She
looked up from it now and smiled at Agneta, just a smile of the eyes.
“Well, I am here,” she said, and Agneta went on stroking, and exclaimed:
“Oh, it’s so good to have you.”
“The world not been going nicely?” said Elizabeth.
Agneta frowned.
“Oh, so, so. Really, Lizabeth, being engaged to an explorer is the
_devil_. Sometimes I get a letter two days running, and sometimes I
don’t get one for two months, and I’ve just been doing the two months’
stretch.”
“Then,” said Elizabeth, “you’ll soon be getting two letters together,
Neta.”
“Oh, well, I did get one this morning, or I shouldn’t be talking about
it,” Agneta flushed and laughed, then frowned again. Three little
wrinkles appeared upon her nose. “What worries me is that I am such a
hopeless materialist about letters. Letters are rank materialism. Rank.
Two people as much in touch with one another as Douglas and I oughtn’t
to need letters. I’ve no business to be dependent on them. We ought to
be able to reach one another without them. Of course we do—_really_—but
we ought to know that we are doing it. We ought to be conscious of it.
I’ve no business to be dependent on wretched bits of paper, and
miserable penfuls of ink. I ought to be able to do without them. And I’m
a blatant materialist. I can’t.”
Elizabeth laughed a little.
“I shouldn’t worry, if I were you. It’ll all come. You’ll get past
letters when you’re ready to get past them. I don’t think your
materialism is of a very heavy order. It will go away if you don’t fuss
over it. We’ll all get past letters in time.”
Agneta tossed her head.
“Oh, I don’t suppose there’ll be any letters in heaven,” she said. “I’m
sure I trust not. My idea is that we shall sit on nice comfy clouds, and
play at telephones with thought-waves.”
Louis shut his book with a bang.
“Really, Agneta, if that isn’t materialism.” He came over and sat down
on the hearth-rug beside his sister. They were not at all alike. Where
Agneta was small, Louis was large. Her hair and eyes were black, and his
of a dark reddish-brown.
“I didn’t know you were listening,” she said.
“Well, I wasn’t. I just heard, and I give you fair warning, Agneta, that
if there are going to be telephones in your heaven, I’m going somewhere
else. I shall have had enough of them here. Hear the bells, the silver
bells, the tintinabulation that so musically swells. From the bells,
bells, bells, bells—bells, bells, bells.”
Agneta first pulled Louis’s hair, and then put her fingers in her ears.
“Stop! stop this minute! Oh, Louis, please. Oh, Lizabeth, make him stop.
That thing always drives me perfectly crazy, and he knows it.”
“All right. It’s done. I’ve finished. I’m much more merciful than Poe. I
only wanted to point out that if that was your idea of heaven, it wasn’t
mine.”
“Oh, good gracious!” cried Agneta suddenly. She sprang up and darted to
the door.
“What’s the matter?”
“I’ve absolutely and entirely forgotten to order any food for to-morrow.
Any food whatever. All right, Louis, you won’t laugh when you have to
lunch on bread and water, and Lizabeth takes the afternoon train back to
her horrible Harford place, because we have starved her.”
Louis gave a resigned sigh and leaned comfortably back against an empty
chair. For some moments he gazed dreamily at Elizabeth. Then he said:
“How nicely your hair shines. I like you all white and gold like that.
If Browning had known you he needn’t have written. ‘What’s become of all
the gold, used to hang and brush their bosoms.’ You’ve got your share.”
“But my hair isn’t golden at all, Louis,” said Elizabeth.
Louis frowned.
“Yes, it is,” he said, “it’s gold without the dross—gold spiritualised.
And you ought to know better than to pretend. You know as well as I do
that your hair is a thing of beauty. The real joy for ever sort. It’s no
credit to you. You didn’t make it. And you ought to be properly grateful
for being allowed to walk about with a real live halo. Why should you
pretend? If it wasn’t pretence, you wouldn’t take so much trouble about
doing it. You’d just twist it up on a single hairpin.”
“It wouldn’t stay up,” said Elizabeth.
“I wish it wouldn’t. Oh, Lizabeth, won’t you let it down just for once?”
“No, I won’t,” said Elizabeth, with pleasant firmness.
Louis fell into a gloom. His brown eyes darkened.
“I don’t see why,” he said; and Elizabeth laughed at him.
“Oh, Louis, will you ever grow up?”
Louis assumed an air of dignity. “My last book,” he said, “was not only
very well reviewed by competent and appreciative persons, but I would
have you to know that it also brought me in quite a large and solid
cheque. And my poems have had what is known as a _succès d’estime_,
which means that you and your publisher lose money, but the critics say
nice things. These facts, my dear madam, all point to my having emerged
from the nursery.”
“Go on emerging, Louis,” said Elizabeth, with a little nod of
encouragement. Louis appeared to be plunged in thought. He frowned, made
calculations upon his fingers, and finally inquired:
“How many times have I proposed to you, Lizabeth?”
Elizabeth looked at him with amusement.
“I really never counted. Do you want me to?”
“No. I think I’ve got it right. I think it must be eight times, because
I know I began when I was twenty, and I don’t think I’ve missed a year
since. This,” said Louis, getting on to his knees and coming nearer,
“this will be number nine.”
“Oh, Louis, don’t,” said Elizabeth.
“And why not?”
“Because it really isn’t kind. Do you want me to go away to-morrow? If
you propose to me, and I refuse you, every possible rule of propriety
demands that I should immediately return to Market Harford. And I don’t
want to.” Louis hesitated.
“How long are you staying?”
“Nice, hospitable young man. Agneta has asked me to stay for a
fortnight.”
“All right.” Louis sat back upon his heels. “Let’s talk about books.
Have you read Pender’s last? It’s a wonder—just a wonder.”
* * * * * * * *
Elizabeth enjoyed her fortnight’s stay very much. She was glad to be
away from Market Harford, and she was glad to be with Agneta and Louis.
She saw one or two good plays, had a great deal of talk of the kind she
had been starving for, and met a good many people who were doing
interesting things. On the last day of her visit Agneta said:
“So you go back to Market Harford for a year. Is it because Mr.
Mottisfont asked you to?”
“Partly.”
There was a little pause.
“What are you going to do with your life, Lizabeth?”
Elizabeth looked steadily at the blue of her ring. Her eyes were very
deep.
“I don’t know, Neta. I’m waiting to be told.”
Agneta nodded, and looked understanding. “And if you aren’t told?”
“I think I shall be.”
“But if not?”
“Well, that would be a telling in itself. If nothing happens before the
year is up, I shall come up to London, and find some work. There’s
plenty.”
“Yes,” said Agneta. She put her little pointed chin in her hands and
gazed at Elizabeth. There was something almost fierce in her eyes. She
knew very little about David Blake, but she guessed a good deal more.
And there were moments when it would have given her a great deal of
pleasure to have spoken her mind on the subject.
They sat for a little while in silence, and then Louis came in, and
wandered about the room until Agneta exclaimed at him:
“Do, for goodness’ sake, sit down, Louis! You give me the fidgets.”
Louis drifted over to the hearth. “Have you ordered any meals,” he said,
with apparent irrelevance.
“Tea, dinner, breakfast, lunch, tea, and dinner again.” Agneta’s tone
was vicious. “Is that enough for you?”
“Very well, then, run away and write a letter to Douglas. I believe you
are neglecting him, and there’s a nice fire in the dining-room.”
Agneta rose with outraged dignity. “I don’t write my love-letters to
order, thank you,” she said “and you needn’t worry about Douglas. If you
want me to go away, I don’t mind taking a book into the dining-room.
Though, if you’ll take my advice—but you won’t—so I’ll just leave you to
find out for yourself.”
Louis shut the door after her, and came back to Elizabeth.
“Number nine,” he observed.
“No, Louis, don’t.”
“I’m going to. You are in for it, Lizabeth. Your visit is over, so you
can’t accuse me of spoiling it. Number nine, and a fortnight overdue.
Here goes. For the ninth time of asking, will you marry me?”
Elizabeth shook her head at him.
“No, Louis, I won’t,” she said.
Louis looked at her steadily.
“This is the ninth time I have asked you. How many times have you taken
me seriously, Lizabeth? Not once.”
“I should have been so very sorry to take you seriously, you see, Louis
dear,” said Elizabeth, speaking very sweetly and gently.
Louis Mainwaring walked to the window and stood there in silence for a
minute or two. Elizabeth began to look troubled. When he turned round
and came back his face was rather white.
“No,” he said, “you’ve never taken me seriously—never once. But it’s
been serious enough, for me. You never thought it went deep—but it did.
Some people hide their deep things under silence—every one can
understand that. Others hide theirs under words—a great many light
words. Jests. That’s been my way. It’s a better mask than the other, but
I don’t want any mask between us now. I want you to understand. We’ve
always talked about my being in love with you. We’ve always laughed
about it, but now I want you to understand. It’s me, the whole of me—all
there is—all there ever will be——”
He was stammering now and almost incoherent. His hand shook. Elizabeth
got up quickly.
“Oh, Louis dear, Louis dear,” she said. She put her arm half round him,
and for a moment he leaned his head against her shoulder. When he raised
it he was trying to smile.
“Oh, Lady of Consolation,” he said, and then, “how you would spoil a man
whom you loved! There, Lizabeth, you needn’t worry about it. You see,
I’ve always known that you would never love me.”
“Oh, Louis, but I love you very much, only not just like that.”
“Yes, I know. I’ve always known it and I’ve always known that there was
some one else whom you did love—just like that. What I’ve been waiting
for is to see it making you happy. And it doesn’t make you happy. It
never has. And, lately, there’s been something fresh—something that has
hurt. You’ve been very unhappy. As soon as you came here I knew. What is
it? Can’t you tell me?”
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 jealousy.
“No, she doesn’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 haven’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 didn’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!”