As long as idle dogs will bark, and idle ,  
As long as hens will cackle over every egg they lay,
 
So long will folks be ,
 
And idle tongues be ,
 
For the less there is to talk about, the more there is to say.
 
The notices of old Mr. Mottisfont which appeared in due course in the two local papers were of a glowingly nature, and at least as accurate as such notices usually are. David could not help thinking how much the old gentleman would have the fine phrases and the flowing periods. Sixty years of hard work were compressed into two and a half columns of palpitating journalese. David preferred the old man’s own version, which had fewer adjectives and a great deal more .
 
“My father left me nothing but debts—and William. The ironworks were in a bad way, and we were on the edge of a . I was twenty-one, and William was fifteen, and every one shook their heads. I can see ’em now. Well, I gave some folk the rough side of my tongue, and some the smooth. I had to have money, and no one would lend. I got a little credit, but I couldn’t get the cash. Then I hunted up my father’s cousin, Edward Moberly. Rolling he was, and as close as wax. Bored to death too, for all his money. I talked to him, and he took to me. I talked to him for three days, and he lent me what I wanted, on my note of hand, and I paid it all back in five years, and the interest up-to-date right along. It took some doing but I got it done. Then the thing got a go on it, and we climbed right up. And folks stopped shaking their heads. I began to make my mark. I began to be a ‘respected fellow-citizen.’ Oh, Lord, David, if you’d known William you’d respect me too! Talk about the debts—as a handicap, they weren’t worth mentioning in the same breath with William. I could talk people into believing I was , but I couldn’t talk ’em into believing that William had any business capacity. And I couldn’t pay off William, same as I paid off the debts.”
 
David’s recollections him suddenly into a of black depression. Such a old man, and now he was dead—out of the way—and he, David, had lent a hand to cover the matter over, and shield the murderer. David took the black fit to bed with him at night, and rose in the morning with the gloom upon him still. It became a shadow which went with him in all his ways, and clung about his every thought. And with the gloom there came upon him a horrible, haunting of his old passion for Mary. The wound made by her of him had been slowly skinning over, but in the scene which they had shared, and the stress of the emotions raised by it, this wound had broken out afresh, and now it was no more a deep clean cut, but a festering thing that bid fair to poison all the springs of life. At Mary’s bidding he had violated a trust, and his own sense of honour. There were times when he hated Mary. There were times when he for her. And always his contempt for himself deepened, and with it the gloom—the black gloom.
 
“The doctor gets through a sight of whisky these days,” remarked Mrs. Havergill, David’s . “And a more gentleman, I’m sure I never did live with. Weeks a bottle of whisky ’ud last, unless he’d friends in. And now—gone like a flash, as you might say. Only, just you mind there’s not a word of this goes out of the ’ouse, Sarah, my girl. D’ ye hear?”
 
Sarah, a whey-faced girl whose arms and legs were set on at uncertain angles, only nodded. She adored David with the unreasoning affection of a dog, and had he taken to washing in whisky instead of merely drinking it, she would have regarded his doing so as quite a right and proper thing.
 
When the local papers had finished Mr. Mottisfont’s obituary notices and had all their remaining stock of adjectives upon the funeral arrangements, they proceeded to interest themselves in the terms of his will. For once, old Mr. Mottisfont had done very much what was expected of him. Local charities benefited and old servants were remembered. Elizabeth Chantrey was left twenty-five thousand pounds, and everything else went to Edward. “To David Blake I leave my sincere respect, he having declined to receive a .”
 
David could almost see the old man grin as he wrote the words, could almost hear him , “Very well, my highfalutin young man—into the with you.”
 
 
The situation held a touch of humour beyond old Mr. Mottisfont’s , and the iron of it into David’s soul. Market Harford discussed the terms of the will with great interest. They began to speculate as to what Elizabeth Chantrey would do. When it that she was going to remain on in the old house and be joined there by Edward and Mary, there was quite a little buzz of talk.
 
“I assure you he made it a condition—a secret condition,” said old Mrs. Codrington in her deep booming voice. “I have it from Mary herself. He made it a condition.”
 
It was quite impossible to disbelieve a statement made with so much authority. Mrs. Codrington’s voice always stood her in good stead. It had a solidity which served to up any shaky fact. Miss Dobell, to whom she was speaking, , and felt a little out of it. She had been Agatha Mottisfont’s great friend, and as such she felt that she herself should have been the fountainhead of information. As soon as Mrs. Codrington had departed Miss Hester Dobell put on her outdoor things and went to call upon Mary Mottisfont.
 
As it was a damp afternoon, she pinned up her skirts all round, and she was still unpinning them upon Mary’s doorstep, when the door opened.
 
“Miss Chantrey is with her sister? Oh, indeed! That is very nice, very nice indeed. And Mrs. Mottisfont is seeing visitors, you say? Yes? Then I will just walk in—just walk in.”
 
Miss Dobell came into the drawing-room with a little fluttered run. Her faded blue eyes were moist, but not so moist as to prevent her perceiving that Mary wore a black dress which did not become her, and that Elizabeth had on an old grey coat and skirt, with dark furs, and a close felt hat which almost hid her hair. She greeted Mary very affectionately and Elizabeth a shade less affectionately.
 
“I hope you are well, Mary, my dear? Yes? That is good. These sad times are very trying. And you, Elizabeth? I am pleased to find that you are able to be out. I feared you were indisposed. Every one was saying, ‘Miss Chantrey must be indisposed, as she was not at the funeral.’ And I feared it was the case.”
 
“No, thank you, I am quite well,” said Elizabeth.
 
Miss Dobell seated herself, smoothing down her skirt. It was of a very bright blue, and she wore with it a little fawn-coloured jacket with a black and white braid, which was arranged upon it in loops and spirals. She had on also a blue tie, fastened in a bow at her throat, and an extremely oddly-shaped hat, from one side of which depended a somewhat bunch of purple grapes. Beneath this rather headgear her old, mild, straw-coloured face had all the effect of an anachronism.
 
“I am so glad to find you both. I am so glad to have the opportunity of explaining how it was that I did not attend the funeral. It was a great disappointment. Everything so impressive, by all accounts. Yes. But I could not have attended without proper mourning. No. Oh, no, it would have been impossible. Even though I was aware that poor dear Mr. Mottisfont entertained very singular ideas upon the subject of mourning, I know how much they grieved poor dear Agatha. They were very singular. I suppose, my dear Elizabeth, that it is in to poor Mr. Mottisfont’s wishes that you do not wear black. I said to every one at once—oh, at once—‘depend upon it poor Mr. Mottisfont must have expressed a wish. Otherwise Miss Chantrey would certainly wear mourning—oh, certainly. After living so long in the house, and being like a daughter to him, it would be only proper, only right and proper.’ That is what I said, and I am sure I was right. It was his wish, was it not?”
 
“He did not like to see people in black,” said Elizabeth.
 
“No,” said Miss Dobell in a little voice. “Very strange, is it not? But then so many of poor Mr. Mottisfont’s ideas were very strange. I cannot help remembering how they used to grieve poor dear Agatha. And his views—so sad—so very sad. But there, we must not speak of them now that he is dead. No. Doubtless he knows better now. Oh, yes, we must hope so. I do not know what made me speak of it. I should not have done so. No, not now that he is dead! It was not right, or charitable. But I really only intended to explain how it came about that I was not at the funeral. It was a great —a very great deprivation, but I was there in spirit—oh, yes, in spirit.”
 
The purple grapes nodded a little in sympathy with Miss Dobell’s nervous . She put up a little hand, clothed in a brown woollen glove, and steadied them.
 
“I often think,” she said, “that I should do well to purchase one black garment for such occasions as these. Now I should hardly have liked to come here to-day, dressed in colours, had I not been aware of poor dear Mr. Mottisfont’s views. It is awkward. Yes, oh, yes. But you see, my dear Mary, in my youth, being one of a very large family, we were so continually in mourning that I really hardly ever any garment of a coloured nature. When I was only six years old I can remember that we were in mourning for my grandfather. In those days, my dears, little girls, wore, well, they wore—little—hem—white trousers, quite long, you know, reaching in fact to the ankle. Under a black frock it had quite a appearance. And my dear mother, who was very particular about all family observances, used to stitch black crape bands upon the trouser-legs. It was quite a work. Oh, yes, I assure you. Then after my grandfather, there was my great-uncle George, and on the other side of the family my great-aunt Eliza. And then there were my uncles, and two aunts, and quite a number of cousins. And, later on, my own dear brothers and sisters. So that, as you may say, we were never out of black at all, for our means were such that it was necessary to wear out one garment before another could be purchased. And I became a little weary of wearing black, my dears. So when my last dear sister died, I went into colours. Not at once, oh, no!”—Miss Dobell became very much shocked and at the sound of her own words. “Oh, dear, no. Not, of course, until after a full and proper period of mourning, but when that was over I went into colours, and have never since possessed anything black. You see, as I have no more relations, it is unnecessary that I should be provided with mourning.”
 
65
Elizabeth Chantrey left her sister’s house in rather a saddened mood. She wondered if she too would ever be left derelict. Unmarried women were often very lonely. Life went past them down other channels. They missed their link with the generations to come, and as the new life sprang up it knew them not, and they had neither part nor lot in it. When she reached home she sat for a long while very still, forcing her consciousness into a realisation of Life as a thing unbroken, one, eternal. The peace of it came upon her, and the sadness passed.