The Fire Within (6 page)

“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
fulfill 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 in 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, is n'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 must n'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 would n'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 had n'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, if it had been any one but you, I should n't have
liked it at all. That 's what I said to Edward—'It really is n't fair,
but Elizabeth is n'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, would n't you?”

“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.