In her dream Elizabeth was come home. It was so long, so long, that she had wandered—so many years, so many lands—such weary feet and such a weary way. Now she was come home.
She stirred and opened her eyes. The rain had ceased. The room was dark, but the moon shone, for a single shaft struck between the curtains and lay above the bed like a silver feather dropped from some great passing wing.
Elizabeth was awake. She saw these things. She was come home. David’s arms were about her in the darkness.
Oh, was it in the dead of night,Or in the dark before the day,You came to me and kneeling, knewThe thing that I would never say?
Oh, was it in the dead of night,
Or in the dark before the day,
You came to me and kneeling, knew
The thing that I would never say?
There was no star, nor any moon,There was no light from pole to pole,And yet you saw the secret thing,That I had hid within my soul.
There was no star, nor any moon,
There was no light from pole to pole,
And yet you saw the secret thing,
That I had hid within my soul.
You saw the secret and the shrine,You bowed your head and went your way—Oh, was it in the dead of night,Or in the dark that brings the day?
You saw the secret and the shrine,
You bowed your head and went your way—
Oh, was it in the dead of night,
Or in the dark that brings the day?
For the next fortnight Elizabeth lived in a dream from which she scarcely woke by day. The dream life—the dream love—the dream itself—these became her life. In the moments that came nearest the waking she trembled, because if the dream was her life, the waking would be death. But for the rest of the time she walked in a trance. Earth budded, and the birds built nests. The green of woodland places went down under a flood of bluebells. The children made cowslip balls. All day long the sun shone out of a blue sky, and at night David came to her. Always he came at night, and went away in the dawn. And he remembered nothing.
Once she put her face to his in the darkness, and said:
“Oh, David, won’t you remember—won’t you ever remember? Am I only the Woman of the Dream? When will you remember?”
Then David was troubled in his dream, and stirred and went from her an hour before the time of his going.
Towards the end of the fortnight her trance wore thin. It was then that everything she saw or read seemed to press in upon one sore spot. If she went to the Mottisfonts’, there was Mary with her talk of Edward and the baby. Edward!—Elizabeth could have laughed; but the laughter went too. If there were not much of Edward, at least Mary had all that there was. And the child—did not she, too, desire children? But the child of a dream. How could she give to David the child of a dream already forgotten? If she walked, there were lovers in every lane, young lovers, who loved each other by day and in the eye of the sun. If she took up a book—once what she read was:
Come to me in my dreams, and thenBy day I shall be well again!For then the night will more than payThe hopeless longing of the day.
Come to me in my dreams, and then
By day I shall be well again!
For then the night will more than pay
The hopeless longing of the day.
and another time, Kingsley’sDolcino to Margaret. Then came a day when she opened her Bible and read:
“If a man walk in the night, he stumbleth, because there is no light in him.”
That day she came broad awake. The daze passed from her. Her brain was clear, and her conscience—the inner vision rose before her, showing her an image troubled and confused. What had she done? And what was she doing now? Day by day David looked at her with the eyes of a friend, and night by night he came to her, the lover of a dream. Which was the reality? Which was the real David? If the David of the dream were real, conscious in sleep of some mysterious oneness, the sense of which was lost in the glare of day—then she could wait, and bear, and hope, till the realisation was so strong that the sun might shine upon it and show to David awake what the sleeping David knew.
But if the David of the dream were not the real David, then what was she? Mistress and no wife—the mistress of a dream mood that never touched Reality at all.
Two scalding tears in Elizabeth’s eyes—two and no more. The others burned her heart.
And the thought stayed with her.
That evening after dinner Elizabeth looked up from her embroidery. The silence had grown to be too full of thoughts. She could not bear it.
“What are you reading, David?” she asked.
He laughed and said:
“Sentimental poetry, ma’am. Would you have suspected me of it? I find it very soothing.”
“Do you?”
She paused, and then said with a flutter in her throat:
“Do you ever write poetry now, David? You used to.”
“Yes, I remember boring you with it.”
He coloured a little as he spoke.
“But since then?”
“Oh, yes——”
“Show me some——”
“Not for the world.”
“Why not?”
“Poetry is such an awful give away. How any one ever dares to publish any, I don’t know. I suppose they get hardened. But one’s most private letters aren’t a patch on it. One puts down all one’s grumbles, one’s moonstruck fancies, the ravings of one’s inanest moments. Mine are not for circulation, thanks.”
Elizabeth did not laugh. Instead she said, quite seriously,
“David, I wish you would show me some of it.”
He looked rather surprised, but got up, and presently came back with some papers in his hand, and threw them into her lap.
“There. There’s one there that’s rather odd. It’s rotten poetry, but it gave me the oddest feelings when I wrote it. See if it does the same to you,” and he laughed.
There were three poems in Elizabeth’s lap. The first was a vigorous bit of work—a ballad with a good ballad swing to it. Elizabeth read it and applauded.
“This is much better than your old things,” she said, and he was manifestly pleased.
The next was a set of clever verses on a political topic of passing interest. Elizabeth laughed over it and laid it aside. Her thoughts were pleasantly diverted. Anything was welcome that brought her nearer to the David of the day.
She took up the third poem. It was called:
Egypt sands are burning hot.Burning hot and dry,How they scorched us as we worked,Toiling, you and I,When we built the Pyramid in Egypt.
Egypt sands are burning hot.
Burning hot and dry,
How they scorched us as we worked,
Toiling, you and I,
When we built the Pyramid in Egypt.
Heaven like hammered brass above,Earth like brass below,How the sweat of torment ran,All those years ago,When we built the Pyramid in Egypt.
Heaven like hammered brass above,
Earth like brass below,
How the sweat of torment ran,
All those years ago,
When we built the Pyramid in Egypt.
When the dreadful day was done,Night was like your eyes,Sweet and cool and comforting—We were very wise,When we built the Pyramid in Egypt.
When the dreadful day was done,
Night was like your eyes,
Sweet and cool and comforting—
We were very wise,
When we built the Pyramid in Egypt.
We were very wise, my dear,Children, lovers, gods,Where’s the wisdom that we knew,With our world at odds,When we built the Pyramid in Egypt?
We were very wise, my dear,
Children, lovers, gods,
Where’s the wisdom that we knew,
With our world at odds,
When we built the Pyramid in Egypt?
Now your hand is strange to mine,Now you heed me not,Life and death and love and pain,You have quite forgot,You have quite forgotten me and Egypt.
Now your hand is strange to mine,
Now you heed me not,
Life and death and love and pain,
You have quite forgot,
You have quite forgotten me and Egypt.
I would bear it all again,Just to take your hand,Bend my body to the whip,Tread the burning sand,Build another Pyramid in Egypt.
I would bear it all again,
Just to take your hand,
Bend my body to the whip,
Tread the burning sand,
Build another Pyramid in Egypt.
Toiling, toiling, all the day,Loving you by night,I’d go back three thousand yearsIf I only might,—Back to toil and pain and you and Egypt.
Toiling, toiling, all the day,
Loving you by night,
I’d go back three thousand years
If I only might,—
Back to toil and pain and you and Egypt.
When she looked up at the end, David spoke at once.
“Well,” he said, “what does it say to you?”
“I don’t quite know.”
“It set up one of those curious thought-waves. One seems to remember something out of an extraordinarily distant past. Have you ever felt it? I believe most people have. There are all sorts of theories to account for it. The two sides of the brain working unequally, and several others. But the impression is common enough, and the theories have been made to fit it. Of course the one that fits most happily is the hopelessly unscientific one of reincarnation. Well, my thought-wave took me back to Egypt and——”
He hesitated.
“Tell me.”
Elizabeth’s voice was eager.
“Oh, nothing.”
“Yes, tell me.”
He laughed at her earnestness.
“Well, then—I saw the woman’s eyes.”
“Yes.”
“They were grey. That’s all. And I thought it odd.”
He broke off, and Elizabeth asked no more. She knew very well why he had thought it odd that the woman’s eyes should be grey. The poems were dated, andEgyptbore the date of a year ago. He was in love with Mary then, and Mary’s eyes were dark—dark hazel eyes.
That night she woke from a dream of Mary, and heard David whispering a name in his sleep, but she could not catch the name. The old shamed dread and horror came upon her, strong and unbroken. She slipped from bed, and stood by the window, panting for breath. And out of the darkness David called to her:
“Love, where are you gone to?”
If he would say her name—if he would only say her name. She had no words to answer him, but she heard him rise and come to her.
“Why did you go away?” he said, touching her. And as she had done once before, Elizabeth cried out.
“Who am I, David?—tell me! Am I Mary?”
He repeated the name slowly, and each repetition was a wound.
“Mary,” he said, wonderingly, “there is no Mary in the Dream. There are only you and I—and you are Love——”
“And if I went out of the Dream?” said Elizabeth, leaning against his breast. The comfort of his touch stole back into her heart. Her breathing steadied.
“Then I would come and find you,” said David Blake.
It was the next day that Agneta’s letter came. Elizabeth opened it at breakfast and exclaimed.
“What is it?”
She lifted a face of distress.
“David, should you mind if I were to go away for a little? Agneta wants me.”
“Agneta?”
“Yes, Agneta Mainwaring. You remember, I used to go and stay with the Mainwarings in Devonshire.”
“Yes, I remember. What’s the matter with her?”
“She is engaged to Douglas Strange, the explorer, and there are—rumours that his whole party has been massacred. He was working across Africa. She wants me to come to her. I think I must. You don’t mind, do you?”
“No, of course not. When do you want to go?”
“I should like to go to-day. I could send her a wire,” said Elizabeth. “I hope it’s only a rumour, and not true, but I must go.”
David nodded.
“Don’t take it too much to heart, that’s all,” he said.
He said good-bye to her before he went out, told her to take care of herself, asked her to write, and inquired if she wanted any money.
When he had gone, Elizabeth told herself that this was the end of the Dream. She could drift no more with the tide of that moon-watched sea. She must think things out and come to some decision. Hitherto, if she thought by day, the night with its glamour threw over her thoughts a rainbow mist that hid and confused them. Now Agneta needed her, there would be work for her to do. And she would not see David again until she could look her conscience in the face.
Oh, that I had wings, yea wings like a dove,Then would I flee away and be at rest;Lo, the dove hath wings because she is a dove,God gave her wings and bade her build her nest.Thy wings are stronger far, strong wings of love,Thy home is sure in His unchanging rest.
Oh, that I had wings, yea wings like a dove,
Then would I flee away and be at rest;
Lo, the dove hath wings because she is a dove,
God gave her wings and bade her build her nest.
Thy wings are stronger far, strong wings of love,
Thy home is sure in His unchanging rest.
Elizabeth went up to London by the 12.22, which is a fast train, and only stops once.
She found Agneta, worn, tired, and cross.
“Thank Heaven, you’ve come, Lizabeth,” she said. “All my relations have been to see me. They are so kind. They are sodreadfullykind, and they all talk about its being God’s Will, and tell me what a beautiful thing resignation is. If I believed in a God who arranged for people to murder each other in order to give some one else a moral lesson, I’d shoot myself. I really would. And resignation is a perfectly horrible thing. I do think I must be getting a little better than I used to be, because I wasn’t even rude to Aunt Henrietta, who told me I ought not to repine, because all was for the best. She said there were many trials in the married state, and that those who did not marry were spared the sorrow of losing a child or having an unfaithful husband. I really wasn’t rude to her, Lizabeth—I swear I wasn’t. But when I saw my cousin, Mabel Aston, coming up the street—you always can see her a mile off—I told Jane to say that I was very sorry, but I really couldn’t see any one. Mabel won’t ever forgive me, because all the other relations will tell her that I saw them. I told them every one that I was perfectly certain that Douglas was all right. And so I am. Yes, really. But, oh, Lizabeth, how I do hate the newspapers.”
“I shouldn’t read them,” said Elizabeth.
“I don’t! Nothing would induce me to. But I can’t stop my relations from quoting reams of them, verbatim. By the by, do you mind dining at seven to-night? I want to go to church. I don’t want you or Louis to come. Heavens, Lizabeth, you’ve no idea what a relief it is not to have to be polite, and say you want people when you don’t.”
When Agneta had gone out Elizabeth talked to Louis for a little, and then read. Presently she stopped reading and leaned back with closed eyes, thinking first of Agneta, then of herself and David. Louis’s voice broke in upon her thoughts.
“Lizabeth, whatisit?”
She was startled.
“Oh, I was just thinking.”
He frowned.
“What is the good?” he said. “I told you I could see. You’re troubled, horribly troubled about something. And it’s not Agneta. What is it?”
Elizabeth was rather pale.
“Oh, Louis,” she said, “please don’t. I’d rather you didn’t. And it’s not what you think. It’s not really a trouble. I’m puzzled. I don’t know what to do. There’s something I have to think out. And it’s not clear—I can’t quite see——”
Louis regarded her seriously.
“If any man lack wisdom,” he said. “That’s a pretty good thing in the pike-staff line. Good Lord, fancy me preaching to you. It’s amusing, isn’t it?”
He laughed a little.
Elizabeth nodded.
“You can go on,” she said.
He considered.
“I don’t know that I’ve got anything more to say except that—things that puzzle one—there’s always the touchstone of reality. And things one doesn’t want to do because they’re difficult, or because they hurt, or because they take us away from something we’ve set our heart on—well—if they’re right, they’re right, and there’s an end of it. And the right thing, well, it’s the best thing all round. And when we get where we can see it properly, it’s—well, it’s trumps all right.”
Elizabeth nodded again.
“Thank you, Louis,” she said. “I’ve been shirking. I think I’ve really known it all along. Only when one shirks, it’s part of it to wrap oneself up in a sort of mist, and call everything by a wrong name. I’ve got to change my labels....”
Her voice died away, and they sat silent until Agneta’s key was heard in the latch. She came in looking rested.
“Nice church?” said Elizabeth.
“Yes,” said Agneta, “very nice. I feel better.”
During the week that followed, Elizabeth had very little time to spare for her own concerns, and Agneta clung to her and clung to hope, and day by day the hope grew fainter. It was the half-hours when they waited for the telephone bell to ring that brought the grey threads into Agneta’s hair. Twice daily Louis rang up, and each time, after the same agonising suspense, came the same message, “No news yet.” Towards the end of the week, there was a wire to say that a rumour had reached the coast that Mr. Strange was alive and on his way down the river.
It was then that Agneta broke down. Whilst all had despaired, she had held desperately to hope, but when Louis followed his message home, he found Agneta with her head in Elizabeth’s lap, weeping slow, hopeless tears.
Then, forty-eight hours later, Douglas Strange himself cabled in code to say that he had abandoned part of his journey owing to a native rising, and was returning at once to England.
“And now, Lizabeth,” said Agneta, “now your visit begins, please. This hasn’t been a visit, it has been purgatory. I’m sure we’ve both expiated all the sins we’ve ever committed or are likely to commit. Louis, take the receiver off that brute of a telephone. I shallnever, neverhear a telephone bell again without wanting to scream. Lizabeth, let’s go to a music hall.”
Next day Agneta said suddenly:
“Lizabeth, what is it?”
“What is what?”
Agneta’s little dark face became serious.
“Lizabeth, I’ve been a beast. I’ve only been thinking about myself. Now it’s your turn. What’s the matter?”
Elizabeth was silent.
“Mayn’t I ask? Do you mind?”
Elizabeth shook her head.
“Which is the ‘no’ for?”
“Both,” said Elizabeth.
“I mustn’t ask then. You’d rather not talk about it? Really?”
“Yes, really, Neta, dear.”
“Right you are.”
Agneta was silent for a few minutes. They were sitting together in the firelight, and she watched the play of light and shade upon Elizabeth’s face. It was beautiful, but troubled.
“Lizabeth, you used not to be beautiful, but you are beautiful now,” she said suddenly.
“Am I?”
“Yes, I always loved your face, but it wasn’t really beautiful. Now I think it is.”
“Anything else?” Elizabeth laughed a little.
“Yes, the patient look has gone. You used to look so patient that ithurt. As if you were carrying a heavy load and just knew you had got to carry it without making any fuss.”
“Issachar, in fact——”
“No, not then, but I’m not so sure now. Ithinktherearetwo burdens now.”
Elizabeth laid her hand on Agneta’s lips.
“Agneta, you ought to be ashamed of yourself. Stop thought-reading this very minute. I never gave you leave.”
“Sorry.” Agneta kissed the hand against her lips and laid it back in Elizabeth’s lap. “Oh, Lizabeth,whydidn’t you marry Louis?” she said, and Elizabeth saw that her eyes were full of tears. The firelight danced on a brilliant, falling drop.
“Because I love David,” said Elizabeth. “And love is worth while, Agneta. It is very well worth while. You knew it was when you thought that Douglas was dead. Would you have gone back to a year ago?”
“Ah, Lizabeth, don’t,” said Agneta.
She leaned her head against Elizabeth’s knee and was still.
All that week, Elizabeth slept little and thought much. And her thought was prayer. She did not kneel when she prayed, and she had her own idea of what prayer should be. Not petition. The Kingdom of Heaven is about us. We have but to open our eyes and take what is our own. Therefore not petition. What Elizabeth called prayer was far more like taking something out of the darkness, to look at it in the light. And before the light, all things evil, all things that were not good and not of God, vanished and were not. If thine eye be single, thy whole body shall be full of light. In this manner, David’s sleeplessness had been changed to rest and healing, and in this same manner, Elizabeth now knew that she must test the strange dream-state in which David loved her. And in her heart of hearts she did not think that it would stand the test. She believed that, subjected to this form of prayer, the dream would vanish and she be left alone.
She faced the probability, and facing it, she prayed for light, for wisdom, for the Reality that annihilates the shadows of man’s thought. When she used words at all, they were the words of St. Patrick’s prayer:
I bind to myself to-day,The Power of God to protect me,The Might of God to uphold me,The Wisdom of God to guide me,The Light of God to shine upon me,The Love of God to encompass me.
I bind to myself to-day,
The Power of God to protect me,
The Might of God to uphold me,
The Wisdom of God to guide me,
The Light of God to shine upon me,
The Love of God to encompass me.
During these days Agneta looked at her anxiously, but she asked no questions at all, and Elizabeth loved her for it.
Elizabeth went home on the 15th of June. After hard struggle, she had come into a place of clear vision. If the dream stood the test, if in spite of all her strivings towards Truth, David still came to her, she would take the dream to be an earnest of some future waking. If the dream ceased, if David came no more, then she must cast her bread of love upon the waters of the Infinite, God only knowing, if after many days, she should be fed.
David was very much pleased to have her back. He told her so with a laugh—confessed that he had missed her.
When Elizabeth went to her room that night, she sat down on the window-seat and watched. It had rained, but the night was clear again. She looked from the window, and the midsummer beauty slid into her soul. The rain had washed the sky to an unearthly translucent purity, but out of the west streamed a radiance of turquoise light. It filled the night, and as it mounted towards the zenith, the throbbing colour passed by imperceptible degrees into a sapphire haze. The horizon was a ghostly line of far, pure emerald. This transfiguring glow had all the sunset’s fire, only there was neither red nor gold in it. The ether itself flamed, and the colour of that flame was blue. It was the light of vision, the very light of a Midsummer’s Dream. The cloud that had shed the rain brooded apart with wings of folded gloom. Two or three drifting feathers of dark grey vapour barred the burning blue. Perishably fine, they dissolved against the glow, and one amazing star showed translucent at the vapour’s edge, now veiled, now blazing out as the mist wavered and withdrew from so much brightness. A night for love, a night for lovers’ dreams.
Yearning came upon Elizabeth like a flood. Just once more to see him look at her with love. Just once more—once more, to feel his arms, his kiss—to weep upon his breast and say farewell.
She put her hand out waveringly until it touched the wall. She shut her eyes against the beauty of the night, and strove with the longing that rent her. Her lips framed broken words. She said them over and over again until the tumult died in her, and she was mistress of her thoughts. Immortal love could never lose by Truth.
Now she could look again upon the night. The trees were very black. The wind stirred them. The sky was full of light made mystical. Which of the temples that man has built, has light for its walls, and cloud and fire for its pillars? In which of them has the sun his tabernacle, through which of them does the moon pass, by a path of silver adoration? What altar is served by the rushing winds and lighted by the stars? In all the temples that man has made, man bows his head and worships, but in the Temple of the Universe it is the Heavens themselves that declare the Glory of God.
Elizabeth’s thought rose up and up. In the divine peace it rested and was stilled.
And David did not come.
In Him we live, He is our Source, our Spring,And we, His fashioning,We have no sight except by His foreseeing,In Him we live and move and have our being,He spake the Word, and lo! Creation stood,And God said, It is good.
In Him we live, He is our Source, our Spring,
And we, His fashioning,
We have no sight except by His foreseeing,
In Him we live and move and have our being,
He spake the Word, and lo! Creation stood,
And God said, It is good.
David came no more. The dream was done. During the summer days there rang continually in Elizabeth’s ears the words of a song—one of Christina’s wonderful songs that sing themselves with no other music at all.
The hope I dreamed of was a dream,Was but a dream, and now I wakeExceeding comfortless, and worn, and old,For a dream’s sake.
The hope I dreamed of was a dream,
Was but a dream, and now I wake
Exceeding comfortless, and worn, and old,
For a dream’s sake.
“Exceeding comfortless.” Yes, there were hours when that was true. She had taken her heart and broken it for Truth’s sake, and the broken thing cried aloud of its hurt. Only by much striving could she still it and find peace.
The glamour of the June days was gone too. July was a wet and stormy month, and Elizabeth was thankful for the rain and the cold, at which all the world was grumbling.
Mary came in one July day with a face that matched the weather.
“Why, Molly,” said Elizabeth, kissing her, “what’s the matter, child?”
Mary might have asked the same question, but she was a great deal too much taken up with her own affairs.
“Edward and I have quarrelled,” she said with a sob in the words, and sitting down, she burst into uncontrollable tears.
“But what is it all about?” asked Elizabeth, with her arm around her sister. “Molly, do hush. It is so bad for you. What has Edward done?”
“Men are brutes,” declared Mary.
“Now, I’m sure Edward isn’t,” returned Elizabeth, with real conviction.
Mary sat up.
“He is,” she declared. “No, Liz, just listen. It was all over baby’s name.”
“What, already?”
“Well, of course, one plans things. If one doesn’t, well, there was Dorothy Jackson—don’t you remember? She was very ill, and the baby had to be christened in a hurry, because they didn’t think it was going to live. And nobody thought the name mattered, so the clergyman just gave it the first name that came into his head, and the baby didn’t die after all, and when Dorothy found she’d got to go through life with a daughter called Harriet, she very nearly died all over again. So, you see, one has to think of things. So I had thought of a whole lot of names, and last night I said to Edward, ‘What shall we call it?’ and he looked awfully pleased and said, ‘What do you think?’ And I said, ‘What would you like best?’ And he said, ‘I’d like it to be called after you, Mary, darling. I got Jack Webster’s answer to-day, and he says I may call it anything I like.’ Well, ofcourse, I didn’t see what it had to do with Jack Webster, but I thought Edward must have asked him to be godfather. I was rather put out. I didn’t think it quitenice, beforehand, you know.”
The bright colour of indignation had come into Mary’s cheeks, and she spoke with great energy.
“Ofcourse, I just thought that, and then Edward said, ‘So it shall be called after you—Arachne Mariana.’ I thought whathideousnames, but all I said was, ‘Oh, darling, but I want a boy’; and do you know, Liz, Edward had been talking about a spider all the time—the spider that Jack Webster sent him. I don’t believe he cares nearly as much for the baby, I really don’t, and I wish I wasdead.”
Mary sobbed afresh, and it took Elizabeth a good deal of her time to pacify her.
Mrs. Havergill brought in tea, it being Sarah’s afternoon out. When she was taking away the tea-things, after Mary had gone, she observed:
“Mrs. Mottisfont, she do look pale, ma’am.”
“Mrs. Mottisfont is going to have a baby,” said Elizabeth, smiling.
Mrs. Havergill appeared to dismiss Mary’s baby with a slight wave of the hand.
“I ’ad a cousin as ’ad twenty-three,” she observed in tones of lofty detachment.
“Not all at once?” said Elizabeth faintly.
Mrs. Havergill took no notice of this remark.
“Yes, twenty-three, pore soul. And when she wasn’t ’aving of them, she was burying of them. Ten she buried, and thirteen she reared, and many’s the time I’ve ’eard ’er say, she didn’t know which was the most trouble.”
She went out with the tray, and later, when Sarah had returned, she repeated Mrs. Blake’s information in tones of sarcasm.
“‘There’s to be a baby at the Mottisfonts’,’ she says, as if I didn’t know that. And I says, ‘Yes, ma’am,’ and that’s all as passed.”
Mrs. Havergill had a way of forgetting her own not inconsiderable contributions to a conversation.
“‘Yes, ma’am,’ I says, expecting every moment as she’d up and say, ’and one ’ere, too, Mrs. Havergill,’ but no, not a blessed word, and me sure of it for weeks. But there—they’re all the same with the first, every one’s to be blind and deaf. All the same, Sarah, my girl, if she don’t want it talked about, she don’t, so just you mind and don’t talk, not if she don’t say nothing till the christening’s ordered.”
When Elizabeth knew that she was going to have a child, her first thought was, “Now, I must tell David,” and her next, “How can I tell him, how can I possibly tell him?” She lay on her bed in the darkness and faced the situation. If she told David, and he did not believe her—that was possible, but not probable. If she told him, and he believed her as to the facts—but believed also that this strange development was due in some way to some influence of hers—conscious or unconscious hypnotism—the thought broke off half-way. If he believed this—and it was likely that he would believe it—Elizabeth covered her eyes with her hand. Even the darkness was no shield. How should she meet David’s eyes in the light, if he were to believe this? What would he think of her? What must he think of her? She began to weep slow tears of shame and agony. What was she to do? To wait until some accident branded her in David’s eyes, or to go to him with a most unbelievable tale? She tried to find words that she could say, and she could find none. Her flesh shrank, and she knew that she could not do it. There were no words. The tears ran slowly, very slowly, between her fingers. Elizabeth was cold. The room was full of the empty dark. All the world was dark and empty too. She lay quite still for a very long time. Then there came upon her a curious gradual sense of companionship. It grew continually. At the last, she took her hands from before her face and opened her eyes. And there was a light in the room. It shed no glow on anything—it was just a light by itself. A steady, golden light. It was not moonlight, for there was no moon. Elizabeth lay and looked at it. It was very radiant and very soft. She ceased to weep and she ceased to be troubled. She knew with a certainty that never faltered again, that she and David were one. Whether he would become conscious of their oneness during the space of this short mortal dream, she did not know, but it had ceased to matter. The thing that had tormented her was her own doubt. Now that was stilled for ever—Love walked again among the realities, pure and unashamed. The things of Time—the mistakes, the illusions, the shadows of Time—moved in a little misty dream, that could not touch her. Elizabeth turned on her side. She was warm and she was comforted.
She slept.
And they that have seen and heard,Have wrested a gift from FateThat no man taketh away.For they hold in their hands the key,To all that is this-side Death,And they count it as dust by the way,As small dust, driven before the breathOf Winds that blow to the day.
And they that have seen and heard,
Have wrested a gift from Fate
That no man taketh away.
For they hold in their hands the key,
To all that is this-side Death,
And they count it as dust by the way,
As small dust, driven before the breath
Of Winds that blow to the day.
“Do you remember my telling you about my dream?” said David, next day. He spoke quite suddenly, looking up from a letter that he was writing.
“Yes, I remember,” said Elizabeth. She even smiled a little.
“Well, it was so odd—I really don’t know what made me think of it just now, but it happened to come into my head—do you know that I dreamt it every night for about a fortnight? That was in May. I have never done such a thing before. Then it stopped again quite suddenly, and I haven’t dreamt it since. I wonder whether speaking of it to you—” he broke off.
“I wonder,” said Elizabeth.
“You see it came again and again. And the strange part was that I used to wake in the morning feeling as if there was a lot more of it. A lot more than there used to be. Things I couldn’t remember—I don’t know why I tell you this.”
“It interests me,” said Elizabeth.
“You know how one forgets a dream, and then, quite suddenly, you just don’t remember it. It’s the queerest thing—something gets the impression, but the brain doesn’t record it. It’s most amazingly provoking. Just now, while I was writing to Fossett, bits of something came over me like a flash. And now it’s gone again. Do you ever dream?”
“Sometimes,” said Elizabeth.
This was her time to tell him. But Elizabeth did not tell him. It seemed to her that she had been told, quite definitely, to wait, and she was dimly aware of the reason. The time was not yet.
David finished his letter. Then he said:
“Don’t you want to go away this summer?”
“No,” said Elizabeth, a little surprised. “I don’t think I do. Why?”
“Most people seem to go away. Mary would like you to go with her, wouldn’t she?”
“Yes, but I’ve told her I don’t want to go. She won’t be alone, you know, now that Edward finds that he can get away.”
David laughed.
“Poor old Edward,” he said. “A month ago the business couldn’t get on without him. He was conscience-ridden, and snatched exiguous half-hours for Mary and his beetles. And now it appears, that after all, the business can get on without him. I don’t know quite how Macpherson brought that fact home to Edward. He must have put it very straight, and I’m afraid that Edward’s feelings were a good deal hurt. Personally, I should say that the less Edward interferes with Macpherson the more radiantly will bank-managers smile upon Edward. Edward is a well-meaning person. Mr. Mottisfont would have called him damn well-meaning. And you cannot damn any man deeper than that in business. No, Edward can afford to take a holiday better than most people. He will probably start a marine collection and be perfectly happy. Why don’t you join them for a bit?”
“I don’t think I want to,” said Elizabeth. “I’m going up to London for Agneta’s wedding next week. I don’t want to go anywhere else. Do you want to get rid of me?”
To her surprise, David coloured.
“I?” he said. For a moment an odd expression passed across his face. Then he laughed.
“I might have wanted to flirt with Miss Dobell.”
* * * * * * * *
Agneta Mainwaring was married at the end of July.
“It’s going to be the most awful show,” she wrote to Elizabeth. “Douglas and I spend all our time trying to persuade each other that it isn’t going to be awful, but we know it is. All our relations and all our friends, and all their children and all their best clothes, and an amount of fuss, worry, and botheration calculated to drive any one crazy. If I hadn’t an enormous amount of self-control I should bolt, either with or without Douglas. Probably without him. Then he’d have a really thrilling time tracking me down. It’s an awful temptation, and if you don’t want me to give way to it, you’d better come up at least three days beforehand, and clamp on to me. Do come, Lizabeth. I really want you.”
Elizabeth went up to London the day before the wedding, and Agneta detached herself sufficiently from her own dream to say:
“You’re not Issachar any longer. What has happened?”
“I don’t quite know,” said Elizabeth. “I don’t think the burden’s gone, but I think that some one else is carrying it for me. I don’t seem to feel it any more.”
Agneta smiled a queer little smile of understanding. Then she laughed.
“Good Heavens, Lizabeth, if any one heard us talking, how perfectly mad they would think us.”
Elizabeth found August a very peaceful month. A large number of her friends and acquaintances were away. There were no calls to be paid and no notes to be written. She and David were more together than they had been since the time in Switzerland, and she was happy with a strange brooding happiness, which was not yet complete, but which awaited completion. She thought a great deal about the child—the child of the Dream. She came to think of it as an indication that behind the Dream was the Real.
Mary came back on the 15th of September. She was looking very well, and was once more in a state of extreme contentment with Edward and things in general. When she had poured forth a complete catalogue of all that they had done, she paused for breath, and looked suddenly and sharply at Elizabeth.
“Liz,” she said. “Why, Liz.”
To Elizabeth’s annoyance, she felt herself colouring.
“Liz, and you never told me. Tell me at once. Is it true? Why didn’t you tell me before?”
“Oh, Molly, what an Inquisitor you would have made!”
“Then itistrue. And I suppose you told Agneta weeks ago?”
“I haven’t told any one,” said Elizabeth.
“Not Agneta? And I suppose if I hadn’t guessed you wouldn’t have told me for ages and ages and ages. Why didn’t you tell me, Liz?”
“Why, I thought I’d wait till you came back, Molly.”
Mary caught her sister’s hand.