"But I am offering not to make a secret of it from you," she said.
Mrs. Hancock turned an almost imploring face to her.
"No, Elizabeth," she said. "You have not come to me with it of your own accord, and I was quite wrong to hint that you owed me an explanation. If I have hinted so I withdraw it. Look, there is Mr. Beaumont with his butterfly-net. Let us be silent for a little and collect ourselves again; our talk was getting very wild and uncomfortable. Would you kindly put your window a shade more up?"
Mrs. Hancock regarded the view with a severe and compressed face, into which there stole by degrees an expression of relief. She felt that she had dealt with this threatening situation in an extremely tactful manner. Elizabeth had not chosen to confide in her, and she had put, so she told herself, all, all her natural curiosity aside and refused to hear the secret which had not voluntarily been made known to her. That waiving of her personal feelings in the matter had, as usual, its immediate rewards, for she had averted the risk of hearing something thoroughly uncomfortable. She dismissed that consideration, and in the silence for which she had asked devoted herself to the pained contemplation of Elizabeth's selfishness, which had so much surprised and grieved her. Hitherto she had not thought Elizabeth at all selfish, except in the matter of unpunctuality, and the discovery was a great blow to her. She had quite made up her mind that the girl would jump at those delightful proposals, which had been the fruit of so much thought. About Egypt she did not care so particularly, but she felt terribly blank at the prospect of a lonely October. With Elizabeth taking a real solid interest in patience, with the interval between tea and dinner filled in by readings about the ancient Egyptians, and with a companion for the two daily motor drives, she had felt really quite resigned to losing Edith, since on their return from Egypt she would be living again next door, and of course would be only too delighted to enjoy her mother's companionship during Edward's daily absence in the City. And now there had come this earthquake, upsetting everything. There was a proverb that misfortunes never come singly, and she felt an indefinable dread that Filson would want to marry next, or Mrs. Williams threaten to leave her. Of course, she could raise Mrs. Williams's wages again to stem this tide of disaster, but if Filson wanted to marry——No doubt she could try the effect of raising Filson's wages, and could point to the awful fate of the housemaid, but even that might not prove sufficient if Filson loved some hypothetical young man very much. Then she tried to cling to the gospel of Mr. Martin, and determined not to dwell on these unnerving possibilities.
Meantime, Elizabeth sat silent (as requested) by her, and the kindliness of Mrs. Hancock, which existed in large crude quantities, and her affection for the girl, which in its own way was perfectly genuine, came to her aid. However startling and deplorable Elizabeth's selfishness was, she was sorry for whatever might be the trouble that lay at the root of it, and, provided only that trouble was not confided to her, was willing and eager to do her best to alleviate it. Secretly she guessed that Edward was concerned in it; she guessed also that the girl's affections were concerned in it. She rejected without difficulty that Elizabeth had conceived a hopeless passion for Mr. Beaumont, or an illicit one for Mr. Martin, and she inferred that Elizabeth's affections and Edward were synonymous terms. But that was only a guess—she hastened to assure herself of that—and might really be as insubstantial as she hoped was the shattering notion that Filson was engaged in a love affair, and she shut the door on it. There was poor Elizabeth's trouble safely locked up, and she wondered how she could help her. She turned to the girl.
"My dear, I am sure you have some trouble," she said, "and, though I would be the last to ask you about it, is there not anybody you could consult? Perhaps your wanting to go back to your father means that you think he could help you. But is there no one here? Could you not tell Edith, if she does not know about it already? Or there is Mr. Martin. You would find him all kindness and wisdom. I often think of him as my mind-doctor, to whom I would certainly go myself if I was worried."
"Oh, thank you, Aunt Julia," said she. "But I don't think I will worry Mr. Martin. I should like to tell daddy about it, and I shall."
"But it would be no worry for Mr. Martin," said Mrs. Hancock. "He is so used to hearing about other people's troubles. It is quite his profession. He has often said to me that his wish is to bring joy to people and take away their wretchedness. Such a noble career! I can't think why they don't make him a bishop."
Elizabeth gave a little squeal of laughter, as unexpected to herself as it was to her aunt.
"I don't think I will, really, Aunt Julia," she repeated.