MARCH GOES OUT
I thought I saw the Grey Wolf’s eyes.
The sun was gone away,
Most unendurably gone down,
With all delights of day.
I cried aloud for light, and all
The light was dead and done away,
And no one answered to my call.
Edward was, perhaps, the person best pleased at the news of Elizabeth’s
engagement. He had been, as Mary phrased it, “very much put out.” Put
out, in fact, to the point of wondering whether he could possibly nerve
himself to tell David that he came too often to the house. He had an
affection for David, and he was under an obligation to him, but there
were limits—during the last fortnight he had very frequently explained
to Mary that there were limits. Whether he would ever have got as far as
explaining this to David remains amongst the lesser mysteries of life.
Mary did not take the explanation in what Edward considered at all a
proper spirit. She bridled, looked very pretty, talked about good
influences, and was much offended when Edward lost his temper. He lost
it to the extent of consigning good influences to a place with which
they are not usually connected, though the way to it is said to be paved
with good intentions. Mary had a temper, too. It took her out of the
room with a bang of the door, but she subsequently cried herself sick
because Edward had sworn at her.
There was a reconciliation, but Edward was not as penitent as Mary
thought he should have been. David became a sore point with both of
them, and Edward, at least, was unfeignedly pleased at what he
considered a happy solution of the difficulty. He was fond of Elizabeth,
but it would certainly be more agreeable to have the whole house at his
own disposal. He had always thought that Elizabeth’s little brown room
would be the very place for his collections. He fell to estimating the
probable cost of lining the whole wall-space with cabinets.
Mary was not quite as pleased as Edward.
“You know, Liz,” she said, “I am very _glad_ that David should marry. I
think he wants a home. But I don’t think you ought to marry him until
he’s _better_. He looks dreadful. And a fortnight’s engagement—I can’t
_think_ what people will say—one ought to consider that.”
“Oh, Molly, you are too young for the part of Mrs. Grundy,” said
Elizabeth, laughing.
Mary coloured and said:
“It’s all very well, Liz, but people will talk.”
“Well, Molly, and if they do? What is there for them to say? It is all
very simple, really. No one can help seeing how ill David is, and I
think every one would understand my wanting to be with him. People are
really quite human and understanding if they are taken the right way.”
“But a fortnight,” said Mary, frowning. “Why Liz, you will not be able
to get your things!” And she was shocked beyond words when Elizabeth
betrayed a complete indifference as to whether she had any new things at
all.
The wedding was fixed for the 3rd of April, and the days passed. David
made the necessary arrangements with a growing sense of detachment. The
matter was out of his hands.
For a week the new drug gave him sleep, a sleep full of brilliant
dreams, strange flashes of light, and bursts of unbearable colour. He
woke from it with a blinding headache and a sense of strain beyond that
induced by insomnia. Towards the end of the week he stopped taking the
drug. The headache had become unendurable. This state was worse than the
last.
On the last day of March he came to Elizabeth and told her that their
marriage must be deferred.
“Ronnie Ellerton is very ill,” he said; “I can’t go away.”
“But David, you _must_——”
He shook his head. The obstinacy of illness was upon him.
“I can’t—and I won’t,” he declared. Then, as if realising that he owed
her some explanation, he added:
“He’s so spoilt. Why are women such fools? He’s never been made to do
anything he didn’t like. He won’t take food or medicine, and I’m the
only person who has the least authority over him. And she’s half crazy
with anxiety, poor soul. I have promised not to go until he’s round the
corner. It’s only a matter of a day or two, so we must just put it off.”
Elizabeth put her hand on his arm.
“David, we need not put off the marriage,” she said in her most ordinary
tones. “You see, if we are married, we could start off as soon as the
child was better.”
She had it in her mind that unless David would let her help him soon, he
would be past helping.
He looked at her indifferently. “You will stay here?”
“Not unless you wish,” she answered.
“I? Oh! it is for you to say.”
There was no interest in his tone. If he thought of anything it was of
Ronnie Ellerton. A complete apathy had descended upon him. Nothing was
real, nothing mattered. Health—sanity—rest—these were only names. They
meant nothing. Only when he turned to his work, his brain still moved
with the precision of a machine, regularly, correctly.
He did not tell her either then or ever, that Katie Ellerton had broken
down and spoken bitter words about his marriage.
“I’ve nothing but Ronnie—nothing but Ronnie—and you will go away with
her and he will die. I know he will die if you go. Can’t she spare you
just for two days—or three—to save Ronnie’s life? Promise me you won’t
go till he is safe—promise—promise.”
And David had promised, taking in what she had said about the child, but
only half grasping the import of her frantic appeal. Neither he nor she
were real people to him just now. Only Ronnie was real—Ronnie, who was
ill, and his patient.
Elizabeth went through the next two days with a heavy heart. She had to
meet Mary’s questions, her objections, her disapprobations, and it was
all just a little more than she could bear.
On the night before the wedding, Mary left Edward upstairs and came to
sit beside Elizabeth’s fire. Elizabeth would rather have been alone, and
yet she was pleased that Mary cared to come. If only she would let all
vexed questions be—it seemed as if she would, for her mood was a silent
one. She sat for a long time without speaking, then, with an impulsive
movement, she slid out of her chair and knelt at Elizabeth’s side.
“Oh, Liz, I’ve been cross. I know I have. I know you’ve thought me
cross. But it’s because I’ve been unhappy—Liz, I’m not _happy_ about
you——”
Elizabeth put her hand on Mary’s shoulder for a moment.
“Don’t be unhappy, Molly,” she said, in rather an unsteady voice.
“But I am, Liz, I am—I can’t help it—I have talked, and worried you, and
have been cross, but all the time I’ve been most dreadfully unhappy. Oh,
Liz, don’t do it—don’t!”
“Molly, dear——”
“No, I know it’s no use—you won’t listen—” and Mary drew away and dabbed
her eyes with a fragmentary apology for a pocket-handkerchief.
“Molly, please——”
Mary nodded.
“Yes, Liz, I know. I won’t—I didn’t mean to——”
There was a little silence. Then with a sudden choking sob, Mary turned
and said:
“I can’t _bear_ it. Oh, Liz, you ought to be loved so much. You ought to
marry some one who loves you—_really_——. And I don’t think David does.
Liz, does he love you—does he?”
The sound of her own words frightened her a little, but Elizabeth
answered very gently and sadly:
“No, Molly, but he needs me.”
Mary was silenced. Here was something beyond her. She put her arms round
Elizabeth and held her very tightly for a moment. Then she released her
with a sob, and ran crying from the room.