  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. |
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