“I can’t help his being—fond of me,” she said, with a slight air of offended virtue. “I am sure I don’t know what you mean by my not being good for him. If it weren’t for me he might be drinking himself to death at this very moment. You know how he was going on, and I am sure you can’t have forgotten how dreadful he was that night he came here. I let him see how shocked I was. I know you were angry with me, and I thought it very unreasonable of you, because I did it on purpose, and it stopped him. You may say what you like, Liz, but it stopped him. Mrs. Havergill told Markham—yes, I know you don’t think I ought to talk to Markham about David, but she began about it herself, and she is really interested, and thought I would like to know—well, she says David has never touched a drop since. Mrs. Havergill told her so. So you see, Liz, I haven’t always been as bad for David as you seem to think. I don’t know if you want him to go and marry Katie Ellerton, just out of pique. She’s running after him worse than ever—I really do wonder she isn’t ashamed, and if David’s friends cast him off, well, she’ll just snap him up, and then I should think you’d be sorry.”
Elizabeth leaned her chin in her hand, and was silent for a moment. Then she said: “Molly, dear, why should we try and prevent David from going to see Katie Ellerton? He is in love with you, and it is very bad for him. If he saw less of you for a time it would give him a chance of getting over it. David is very unhappy just now. No one can fail to see that. He wants what you can’t give him—rest, companionship, a home. If Katie cares for him, and can give him these things, let her give them. We have no business to stand in the way. Don’t you see that?”
Elizabeth spoke sweetly and persuasively. She kept her eyes on her sister’s face, and saw there, first, offence, and then interest—the birth of a new idea.
“Oh, well—if you don’t mind,” said Mary. “You are nearly as tiresome as Edward and Edward has been most dreadfully tiresome. I told him so. I said, ‘Edward, I really never knew you could be so tiresome,’ and it seemed to make him worse. I think, you know, that he is afraid that people will talk if David goes on coming here. Of course, that’s absurd, I told him it was absurd. I said, ‘Why, how on earth is any one to know that it isn’t Elizabeth he comes to see?’ And then, Edward became really violent. I didn’t know he could be, but he was. He simply plunged up and down the room, and said: ‘If he wants to see Elizabeth, then in Heaven’s name let him see Elizabeth. Let him marry Elizabeth.’ Oh, you mustn’t mind, Liz,” as Elizabeth’s head went up, “it was only because he was so cross, and you and David are such old friends. There’s nothing for you to mind.”
She paused, stole a quick glance at Elizabeth, then looked away, and said in a tentative voice, “Liz, why don’t you marry David?”
“Because he doesn’t want me to, Molly,” said Elizabeth. Her voice was very proud, and her head very high.
Mary half put out her hand, and drew it back again. She knew this mood of Elizabeth’s, and it was one that silenced even her ready tongue. She was the little sister again for a moment, and Elizabeth the mother, sister, and ideal—all in one.
“Liz, I’m sorry,” she said in quite a small, humble voice.
When she had gone, Elizabeth sat on by the fire. She did not move for a long time. When she did move, it was to put up a hand to her face, which was wet with many hot, slow tears. Pride dies hard, and hurts to the very last.