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 fulfil
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 at 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,
isn’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 mustn’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 wouldn’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 hadn’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, he had
no right to make any such condition, and if it had been any one but you,
I shouldn’t have liked it at all. That’s what I said to Edward—‘It
really isn’t fair, but Elizabeth isn’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, wouldn’t you?”
“Oh, yes,” said Elizabeth laughing.
The spectacle of Mary being tactful always made her laugh.
“Of course when any one comes in in the evening—that’s different. Of
course you’ll join us then. But you’d rather be here as a rule, wouldn’t
you?”
“Oh, you know I love my little room. It was nice of you to have tea
here, Molly,” said Elizabeth.
“Yes, I thought you’d like it. And then I wanted the rest of the house
to be a surprise to you. When we’ve had tea I want to show you
everything. Of course your rooms haven’t been touched, you said you’d
rather they weren’t; but everything else has been done up, and I really
think it’s very nice. I’ve been quite excited over it.”
“Give me a little more tea, Molly,” said Elizabeth.
As she leaned forward with her cup in her hand, she asked casually:
“Have you seen much of David lately?”
“Oh, yes,” said Mary, “he’s here very often.” She pursed her lips a
little. “I think David is a _very_ curious person, Liz. I don’t
understand him at all. I think he is very difficult to understand.”
“Is he, Molly?”
Elizabeth looked at her sister with something between anxiety and
amusement.
“Yes, very. He’s quite changed, it seems to me. I could understand his
being upset just after Mr. Mottisfont’s death. We were all upset then. I
am sure I never felt so dreadful in my life. It made me quite ill. But
afterwards,” Mary’s voice dropped to a lower tone, “afterwards when the
letter had come, and everything was cleared up—well, you’d have thought
he would have been all right again, wouldn’t you? And instead, he has
just gone on getting more and more unlike himself. You know, he was so
odd when Edward went to see him that, really,”—Mary hesitated—“Edward
thought—well, he wondered whether David had been drinking.”
“Nonsense, Molly!”
“Oh, it’s not only Edward—everybody has noticed how changed he is. Have
you got anything to eat, Liz? Have some of the iced cake; it’s from a
recipe of Miss Dobell’s and it’s quite nice. What was I saying? Oh,
about David—well, it’s true, Liz—Mrs. Havergill told Markham; now, Liz,
what’s the sense of your looking at me like that? Of _course_ I
shouldn’t _dream_ of talking to an ordinary servant, but considering
Markham has known us since we were about two—Markham takes an interest,
a real interest, and when Mrs. Havergill told her that she was afraid
David was taking a great deal more than was good for him, and she wished
his friends could stop it, why, Markham naturally told me. She felt it
her duty. I expect she thought I might have an _influence_—as I hope I
have. That’s why I encourage David to come here. I think it’s so good
for him. I think it makes such a difference to young men if they have a
nice home to come to, and it’s very good for them to see married people
fond of each other, and happy together, like Edward and I are. Don’t you
think so?”
“I don’t know, Molly,” said Elizabeth. “Are people talking about David?”
“Yes, they are. Of course I haven’t said a word, but people are noticing
how different he is. I don’t see how they can help it, and yesterday
when I was having tea with Mrs. Codrington, Miss Dobell began to hint
all sorts of things, and there was quite a scene. You know how devoted
Mrs. Codrington is! She really quite frightened poor little Miss Hester.
I can tell you, I was glad that I hadn’t said anything. Mrs. Codrington
always frightens me. She looks so large, and she speaks so loud. I was
quite glad to get away.”
“I like Mrs. Codrington,” said Elizabeth.
“Oh, well, so do I. But I like her better when she’s not angry. Oh, by
the way, Liz, talking of David, do you know that I met Katie Ellerton
yesterday, and—how long is it since Dr. Ellerton died?”
“More than two years.”
“Well, she has gone quite out of mourning. You know how she went on at
first—she was going to wear weeds always, and never change anything, and
as to ever going into colours again, she couldn’t imagine how any one
could do it! And I met her out yesterday in quite a bright blue coat and
skirt. What do you think of that?”
“Oh, Molly, you’ve been going out to too many tea-parties! Why shouldn’t
poor Katie go out of mourning? I think it’s very sensible of her. I have
always been so sorry for her.”
Mary assumed an air of lofty virtue. “I _used_ to be. But now, I don’t
approve of her at all. She’s just doing her very best to catch David
Blake. Every one can see it. If that wretched little Ronnie has so much
as a thorn in his finger, she sends for David. She’s making herself the
laughing-stock of the place. I think it’s simply horrid. I don’t approve
of second marriages at all. I never do see how any really nice-minded
woman can marry again. And it’s not only the marrying, but to run after
a man, like that—it’s quite dreadful! I am sure David would be most
unhappy if he married her. It would be a dreadfully bad thing for him.”
Elizabeth leaned back in her chair.
“How sweet the hour that sets us free
To sip our scandal, and our tea,”
she observed.
Mary coloured.
“I never talk scandal,” she said in an offended voice, and Elizabeth
refrained from telling her that Miss Dobell had made the same remark.
All the time that Mary was showing her over the house, Elizabeth was
wondering whether it would be such a dreadfully bad thing for David to
marry Katie Ellerton. Ronnie was a dear little boy, and David loved
children, and Katie—Katie was one of those gentle, clinging creatures
whom men adore and spoil. If she cared for him, and he grew to care for
her—Elizabeth turned the possibilities over and over in her mind,
wondering——
She wondered still more that evening, when David Blake came in after
dinner. He had changed. Elizabeth looked at him and saw things in his
face which she only half understood. He looked ill and tired, but both
illness and weariness appeared to her to be incidental. Behind them
there was something else, something much stronger and yet more subtle,
some deflection of the man’s whole nature.
Edward and Mary did not disturb themselves at David’s coming. They were
at the piano, and Edward nodded casually, whilst Mary merely waved her
hand and smiled.
David said “How do you do?” to Elizabeth, and sat down by the fire. He
was in evening dress, but somehow he looked out of place in Mary’s new
white drawing-room. Edward had put in electric light all over the house,
and here it shone through rosy shades. The room was all rose and
white—roses on the chintz, a frieze of roses upon the walls, and a
rose-coloured carpet on the floor. Only the two lamps over the piano
were lighted. They shone on Mary. She was playing softly impassioned
chords in support of Edward, who exercised a pleasant tenor voice upon
the lays of Lord Henry Somerset. Mary played accompaniments with much
sentiment. Occasionally, when the music was easy, she shot an adoring
glance at Edward, a glance to which he duly responded, when not
preoccupied with a note beyond his compass.
Elizabeth was tolerant of lovers, and Mary’s little sentimentalities,
like Mary’s airs of virtuous matronhood, were often quite amusing to
watch; but to-night, with David Blake as a fourth person in the room,
Elizabeth found amusement merging into irritation and irritation into
pain. Except for that lighted circle about the piano, the room lay all
in shadow. There was a soft dusk upon it, broken every now and then by
gleams of firelight. David Blake sat back in his chair, and the dimness
of the room hid his face, except when the fire blazed up and showed
Elizabeth how changed it was. She had been away only a month, and he
looked like a stranger. His attitude was that of a very weary man. His
head rested on his hand, and he looked all the time at Mary in the rosy
glow which bathed her. When she looked up at Edward, he saw the look,
saw the light shine down into her dark eyes and sparkle there. Not a
look, not a smile was lost, and whilst he watched Mary, Elizabeth
watched him. Elizabeth was very glad of the dimness that shielded her.
It was a relief to drop the mask of a friendly indifference, to be able
to watch David with no thought except for him. Her heart yearned to him
as never before. She divined in him a great hunger—a great pain. And
this hunger, this pain, was hers. The longing to give, to assuage, to
comfort, welled up in her with a suddenness and strength that were
almost startling. Elizabeth took her thought in a strong hand, forcing
it along accustomed channels from the plane where love may be thwarted,
to that other plane, where love walks unashamed and undeterred, and
gives her gifts, no man forbidding her. Elizabeth sat still, with folded
hands. Her love went out to David, like one ripple in a boundless,
golden sea, from which they drew their being, and in which they lived
and moved. A sense of light and peace came down upon her.
Edward’s voice was filling the room. It was quite a pleasant voice, and
if it never varied into expression, at least it never went out of tune,
and every word was distinct.
“Ah, well, I know the sadness
That tears and rends your heart,
How that from all life’s gladness
You stand far, far apart—”
sang Edward, in tones of the most complete unconcern.
It was Mary who supplied all the sentiment that could be wished for. She
dwelt on the chords with an almost superfluous degree of feeling, and
her eyes were quite moist.
At any other time this combination of Edward and Lord Henry Somerset
would have entertained Elizabeth not a little, but just now there was no
room in her thoughts for any one but David. The light that was upon her
gave her vision. She looked upon David with eyes that had grown very
clear, and as she looked she understood. That he had changed,
deteriorated, she had seen at the first glance. Now she discerned in him
the cause of such an alteration—something wrenched and twisted. The
scene in her little brown room rose vividly before her. When David had
allowed Mary to sway him, he had parted with something, which he could
not now recall. He had broken violently through his own code, and the
broken thing was failing him at every turn. Mary’s eyes, Mary’s voice,
Mary’s touch—these things had waked in him something beyond the old
passion. The emotional strain of that scene had carried him beyond his
self-control. A feverish craving was upon him, and his whole nature
burned in the flame of it.
Edward had passed to another song.
“One more kiss from my darling one,” he sang in a slightly perfunctory
manner. His voice was getting tired, and he seemed a little
absent-minded for a lover who was about to plunge into Eternity. The
manner in which he requested death to come speedily was a trifle
unconvincing. As he began the next verse David made a sudden movement. A
log of wood upon the fire had fallen sharply, and there was a quick
upward rush of flame. David looked round, facing the glow, and as he did
so his eyes met Elizabeth’s. Just for one infinitesimal moment something
seemed to pass from her to him. It was one of those strange moments
which are not moments of time at all, and are therefore not subject to
time’s laws. Elizabeth Chantrey’s eyes were full of peace. Full, too, of
a passionate gentleness. It was a gentleness which for an instant
touched the sore places in David’s soul with healing, and for that one
instant David had a glimpse of something very strong, very tender, that
was his, and yet incomprehensibly withheld from his understanding. It
was one of those instantaneous flashes of thought—one of those gleams of
recognition which break upon the dulness of material sense. Before and
after—darkness, the void, the unstarred night, a chaos of things
forgotten. But for one dazzled instant, the lightning stab of Truth,
unrealised.
Elizabeth did not look away, or change colour. The peace was upon her
still. She smiled a little, and as the moment passed, and the dark
closed in again upon David’s mind, she saw a spark of rather savage
humour come into his eyes.
“Then come Eternity——”
“No, that’s enough, Mary, I’m absolutely hoarse,” remarked Edward, all
in the same breath, and with very much the same expression.
Mary got up, and began to shut the piano. The light shone on her white,
uncovered neck.