“Oh, yes,” said Elizabeth laughing.
The spectacle of Mary being tactful always made her laugh.
“Of course when any one comes in the evening-that 's different. Of course you 'll join us then. But you 'd rather be here as a rule, would n'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 have n't been touched, you said you 'd rather they were n'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, would n'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 should n'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 have n'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 had n'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 could n'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 should n'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 here 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 that 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.