That did not nearly satisfy Mrs. Fanshawe.
"My dear, my central thought was of you," she declared. "Almost the first thing I said to Henry when—when he would not let me go, for he has such an affectionate nature, and oh, my darling, how he loves me!—almost the first thing I said was, 'What about Elizabeth? You must not think that I have said yes to you until you assure me that you will be a father to Elizabeth.' And he said—it was so like him—'We'll offer her a grandfather, anyhow, Birdie.' That was what he said he must call me—his bright-eyed little Birdie—so foolish of him."
The clock on the chimney-piece chimed twelve, and Mrs. Fanshawe rose to an apex of surprising fatuity.
"Gracious me, what an hour!" she said. "I believe I have not sat up till twelve this last two months. We must go to bed, or Henry will find a dull-eyed little Birdie when he comes back in the morning, and will never love her any more. He will think he has made a great mistake, and want to marry Elizabeth instead. Dear Henry! I shall tease him about that but only just for a minute. I would not vex his big, loving heart for anything."
She looked at Elizabeth with an expression that she was familiar with in her imaginary portraits of herself, an expression which she called wistful.
"Of course I shall not dream of marrying until a whole year has passed," she said, "nor, I am sure, would my Henry wish me to. He knows what a tender heart I have for my beloved memories. But I think, dear, that I shall put the Memoir on one side, or perhaps give it to your Aunt Julia to deal with as she likes. I dare say she would be glad of something to do in her poor, empty life. I will take it down with me on Friday. Perhaps it has done its work."
She did not explain exactly what this last sentence meant, and as there was no explanation whatever of it, except that it seemed to finish up with the Memoir in a vague and beautiful manner, it would have been idle to attempt any.
"So sleep well, my precious!" she said, kissing Elizabeth. "I think you will do that, won't you, now that all our little anxieties are removed? He is really immensely well-off. What a responsibility that will be for me! I hope I shall prove not quite unworthy of it."
Mrs. Hancock had never seen much of her sister-in-law, and perhaps she would not have been so kindly disposed towards the task of making herself better acquainted with her had she known that she had been pitied for her poor, empty life. For "poor, empty life" was indeed not a phrase that fitly described the passage of a pilgrim of Mr. Martin's gospel through this pleasant world. But Mrs. Hancock had no idea that so slanderous a thing had been said of her, and she looked forward to her sister-in-law's visit with considerable pleasure, which was enhanced by the prospect of having Elizabeth in the house again. She intended Elizabeth to be in the best of spirits, to play the piano to her very loudly and brightly (Mrs. Hancock knew she was just a little deaf and had seen four eminent specialists on the subject, who implored her, so she said, not to be in the least disquieted, but to eat rather less meat, as her very slight dullness of hearing was certainly gouty in origin), to drive with her on Saturday afternoon, and to sit constantly by her and admire her masterly methods with the "King of Mexico," which had rendered thrilling so many after-dinner hours in Egypt. Then Mrs. Fanshawe should drive with her on Saturday morning, and they would have a great deal of beautiful talk about the Colonel. In her mind's eye she saw her sister-in-law crying a little, and herself with touches and caresses administering the gospel of Mr. Martin, as through a fine hose, in the most copious and refreshing abundance. When she was quite refreshed and had been made to see that death is the gate into life, no doubt she would read her part of the Memoir in which Mrs. Hancock took a great interest, seeing that she had supplied so much material for the chapter (or chapters, it was to be hoped) on his early life. She expected to enjoy the account of the early life very much, in the sort of way that a mellow sunset may be imagined to enjoy thinking over its own beautiful sunrise. And if she found Mrs. Fanshawe very sympathetic and understanding, she thought, she almost thought that she would confide in her something that she had never yet confided in anybody, and after making clear to her what her own intentions in the matter were, ask her advice, if it appeared probable that it would turn out consonant with what she herself had practically made up her mind to do.