He got up and went out into the cold. Then, when he was half-way up the High Street he remembered that Edward had gone away for a couple of days. It occurred to him as a very agreeable circumstance. Mary would be alone, and they would have a pleasant, friendly time together. Mary would sit in the rosy light and play to him, not to Edward, and sing in that small sweet voice of hers-not to Edward, but to him.
It was a cold, crisp night, and the frosty air heightened the effect of the stimulant which he had taken. He had left his own house flushed, irritable, and warm, but he arrived at the Mottisfonts' as unmistakably drunk as a man may be who is still upon his legs.
He rushed past Markham in the hall before she had time to do more than notice that his manner was rather odd, and she called after him that Mrs. Mottisfont was in the drawing-room.
David went up the stairs walking quite steadily, but his brain, under the influence of one idea, appeared to work in a manner entirely divorced from any volition of his.
Mary was sitting before the fire, in the rosy glow of his imagining. She wore a dim purple gown, with a border of soft dark fur. A book lay upon her lap, but she was not reading. Her head, with its dark curls, rested against the rose-patterned chintz of the chair. Her skin was as white as a white rose leaf. Her lips as softly red as real red roses. A little amethyst heart hung low upon her bosom and caught the light. There was a bunch of violets at her waist. The room was sweet with them.
Mary looked up half startled as David Blake came in. He shut the door behind him, with a push, and she was startled outright when she saw his face. He looked at her with glazed eyes, and smiled a meaningless and foolish smile.
“Edward is out,” said Mary, “he is away.” And then she wished that she had said anything else. She looked at the bell, and wondered where Elizabeth was. Elizabeth had said something about going out-one of her sick people.
“Yes-out,” said David, still smiling. “That 's why I 've come. He 's out-Edward 's out-gone away. You 'll play to me-not to Edward-to-night. You 'll sit in this nice pink light and-play to me, won't you-Mary dear?” The words slipped into one another, tripped, jostled, and came with a run.
David advanced across the room, moving with caution, and putting each foot down slowly and carefully. His irritability had vanished. He felt instead a pleasant sense of warmth and satisfaction. He let himself sink into a chair and gazed at Mary.
“Le's sit down-and have nice long talk,” he said in an odd, thick voice; “we have n't had-nice long talk-for months. Le's talk now.”
Mary began to tremble. Except in the streets, she had never seen a man drunk before, and even in the streets, passing by on the other side of the road, under safe protection, and with head averted, she had felt sick and terrified. What she felt now she hardly knew. She looked at the bell. She would have to pass quite close to David before she could reach it. Elizabeth -she might ring and ask if Elizabeth had come in. Yes, she might do that. She made a step forward, but as she reached to touch the bell, David leaned sideways, with a sudden heavy jerk, and caught her by the wrist.
“What 's that for?” he asked.
Suspicion roused in him again, and he frowned as he spoke. His face was very red, and his eyes looked black. Mary had cried out, when he caught her wrist. Now, as he continued to hold it, she stared at him in helpless silence. Then quite suddenly she burst into hysterical tears.
“Let me go-oh, let me go! Go away, you 're not fit to be here! You 're drunk. Let me go at once! How dare you?”
David continued to hold her wrist, not of any set purpose, but stupidly. He seemed to have forgotten to let it go. The heat and pressure of his hand, his slow vacant stare, terrified Mary out of all self-control. She tried to pull her hand away, and as David's clasp tightened, and she felt her own helplessness, she screamed aloud, and almost as she did so the door opened sharply and Elizabeth Chantrey came into the room. She wore a long green coat, and dark furs, and her colour was bright and clear with exercise. For one startled second she stood just inside the room, with her hand upon the door. Then, as she made a step forward, David relaxed his grasp, and Mary, wrenching her hand away, ran sobbing to meet her sister.
“Oh, Liz! Oh, Liz!” she cried.
Elizabeth was cold to the very heart. David's face-the heavy, animal look upon it-and Mary's frightened pallor, the terror in he eyes. What had happened?
She caught Mary by the arm.
“What is it?”
“He held me-he would n't let me go. He caught my wrist when I was going to ring the bell, and held it. Make him go away, Liz.”
Elizabeth drew a long breath of relief. She scarcely knew what she had feared, but she felt suddenly as if an intolerable weight had been lifted from her mind. The removal of this weight set her free to think and act.
“Molly, hush! Do you hear me, hush! Pull yourself together! Do you know I heard you scream half-way up the stairs? Do you want the servants to hear too?”
She spoke in low, rapid tones, and Mary caught her breath like a child.
“But he 's tipsy, Liz. Oh, Liz, make him go away,” she whispered.
David had got upon his feet. He was looking at the two women with a puzzled frown.
“What 's the matter?” he said slowly, and Mary turned on him with a sudden spurt of temper.
“I wonder you 're not ashamed,” she said in rather a trembling voice. “I do wonder you 're not-and will you please go away at once, or do you want the servants to come in, and every one to know how disgracefully you have behaved?”
“Molly, hush!” said Elizabeth again.
Her own colour died away, leaving her very pale. Her eyes were fixed on David with a look between pity and appeal. She left Mary and went to him.
“David,” she said, putting her hand on his arm, “won't you go home now? It 's getting late. It 's nearly dinner time, and I 'm afraid we can't ask you to stay to-night.”
Something in her manner sobered David a little. Mary had screamed-why? What had he said to her-or done? She was angry. Why? Why did Elizabeth look at him like that? His mind was very much confused. Amid the confusion an idea presented itself to him. They thought that he was drunk. Well, he would show them, he would show them that he was not drunk. He stood for a moment endeavouring to bring the confusion of his brain into something like order. Then without a word he walked past Mary, and out of the room, walking quite steadily because a sober man walks steadily and he had to show them that he was sober.
Mary stood by the door listening. “Liz,” she whispered, “he has n't gone down-stairs.” Her terror returned. “Oh, what is he doing? He has gone down the passage to Edward's room. Oh, do you think he 's safe? Liz, ring the bell-do ring the bell.”
Elizabeth shook her head. She came forward and put her hand on Mary's shoulder.
“No, Molly, it 's all right,” she said. She, too, listened, but Mary broke in on the silence with half a sob.
“You don't know how he frightened me. You don't know how dreadful he was-like a great stupid animal. Oh, I don't know how he dared to come to me like that. And my wrist aches still, it does, indeed. Oh! Liz, he 's coming back.”
They heard his steps coming along the passage, heavy, deliberate steps. Mary moved quickly away from the door, but Elizabeth stood still, and David Blake touched her dress as he came back into the room and shut the door behind him. His hair was wet from a liberal application of cold water. His face was less flushed and his eyes had lost the vacant look. He was obviously making a very great effort, and as obviously Mary had no intention of responding to it. She stood and looked at him, and ceased to be afraid. This was not the stranger who had frightened her. This was David Blake again, the man whom she could play upon, and control. The fright in her eyes gave place to a dancing spark of anger.