She had suffered when David left Market Harford. She had suffered when he ceased to write. She had suffered when he returned only to fall headlong in love with Mary. And what she had suffered then had been a personal pang, a thing to be struggled with, dominated, and overcome. Now she must look on whilst David suffered too. Must watch whilst his nerves tautened, his strength failed, his self-control gave way. And she could not shut her eyes or look away. She could not raise her thought above this level of pain. The black cloud overshadowed them and hid the light of heaven. “Because I ask you, David—David, because I ask you.” Mary’s voice trembled and fell to a quivering whisper. Suddenly David pushed her away. He turned and made a stumbling step towards the fireplace. His hands gripped the narrow mantelshelf. His eyes stared at the wall. And from the wall Mary’s eyes looked back at him from the miniature of Mary’s mother. There was a long minute’s silence. Then David swung round. His face was flushed, his eyes looked black. “If I do it can you hold your tongues?” he said in a rough, harsh voice. Mary drew a deep soft breath of relief. She had won. Her hands dropped to her side, her whole figure relaxed, her face became soft and young again. “O David, God bless you!” she cried. David frowned. His brows made a dark line across his face. Every feature was heavy and forbidding. “Can you hold your tongues?” he repeated. “Do you understand—do you fully understand that if a word of this is ever to get out it’s just sheer ruin to the lot of us? Do you grasp that?” Elizabeth Chantrey got up. She crossed the room, and stood at David’s side, nearly as tall as he. “Don’t do it, David,” she said, with a sudden passion in her voice. Mary turned on her in a flash. “Liz,” she cried; but David stood between. “It’s none of your business, Elizabeth. You keep out of it.” The tone was kinder than the words. Elizabeth was silent. She drew away, and did not speak again. “I’ll do it on one condition,” said David Blake. “You’d better go and tell Edward at once. I don’t want to see him. I don’t suppose he’s been talking to any one—it’s not exactly likely—but if he has the matter’s out of my hands. I’ll not touch it. If he hasn’t, and you’ll all hold your tongues, I’ll do it.” He turned to the door and Mary cried: “Won’t you write it now? Won’t you sign it before you go?” David laughed grimly. “Do you think I go about with my pockets full of death certificates?” he said. Then he was gone, and the door shut to behind him. Elizabeth moved, and spoke. “I will tell Markham that you are ready to go home,” she said. CHAPTER V TOWN TALK As long as idle dogs will bark, and idle asses bray, As long as hens will cackle over every egg they lay, So long will folks be chattering, And idle tongues be clattering, For the less there is to talk about, the more there is to say.