“Well, David, you are a nice brother-never to have come and seen me. Busy? Yes, of course you 've been busy, but you might have squeezed in a visit to me, amongst all the visits to sick old ladies and naughty little boys. Oh, do you know, Katie Ellerton has gone away? She took Ronnie to Brighton for a change, and then wrote and said she was n't coming back. I believe she is going to live with a brother who is a solicitor down there. And she 's selling her furniture, so if you want extra things you might get them cheap.”
“That 's Elizabeth 's department,” said David, laughing.
“Well, this is for you both. When will you come to dinner? On Tuesday? Yes, do. Talk about being busy. Edward 's busy, if you like. I never see him, and he 's quite worried. Liz, you remember Jack Webster? Well, you know he 's on the West Coast, and he 's sent Edward a whole case of things-frightfully exciting specimens, two centipedes he 's wanted for ever so long, and a spider that Jack says is new. And Edward has never even had time to open the case. That shows you! It 's accounts, I believe. Edward does hate accounts.”
When she had gone David sat silent for a long time. It was the old Mary, and prettier than ever. He had never seen her looking prettier, but his feeling for her was gone. He could look at her quite dispassionately, and wonder over the old unreasoning thrill. And what a chatterbox she was. Thank Heaven, she had had the sense to marry Edward, who was really not such a bad sort. Poor Edward. He laughed aloud suddenly, and Elizabeth looked up asked:
“What is it?”
“Edward and the case he can't open, and the centipedes he can't play with,” he said, still laughing. “Poor old Edward! What it is to have a conscience. I wonder he does n't have a midnight orgy with the centipedes, but I suppose Mary sees to that.”
It was that night that David dreamed his dream again. All these months it had never come to him. Amongst the many dreams that had haunted his sick brain, there had been no hint of this one. He had wondered about it sometimes. And now it returned. In the first deep sleep that comes to a healthy man he dreamed it.
He heard the wind blowing-that was the beginning of it. It came from the far distances of space, and it passed on again to the far distances beyond. David heard it blow, but his eyes were darkened. Then suddenly he saw. His feet were on the shining sand, the sand that shone because a golden moon looked down upon it from a clear sky, and the tide had left it wet.
David stood upon the shining sand, and saw the Woman of the Dream stand where the moon track ceased at the sea's rim. The moon was behind her head, and the wind blew out her hair. He stood as he had stood a hundred times, and as he had longed a hundred times to see the Woman's face, so he longed now. He moved to go to her, and the wind blew about him in his dream.
Elizabeth had sat late in her room. There was a book in her hand, but after a time she did not read. The night was very warm. She got up and opened the window wide. The moon was low and nearly full, and a wind blew out of the west-such a warm wind, full of the scent of green, growing things. Elizabeth put out the light and stood by the window, drawing long breaths. It seemed as if the wind were blowing right through her. It beat upon her uncovered throat, and the touch of it was like something alive. It sang in her ears, and Elizabeth 's blood sang too.
And then, quite suddenly, she heard a sound that stopped her heart. She heard the handle of the door between her room and David's turn softly, and she heard a step upon the threshold. All her life was at her heart, waiting. She could neither move, nor speak, nor draw her breath. And the wind blew out her long white dress, and the wind blew out her hair. As in a trance between one world and the next, she heard a voice in the room. It was David's voice, and yet not David's voice, and it shook the very foundations of her being.
“Turn round and let me see your face, Woman of my Dream,” said David Blake.
Elizabeth stood quite still. Only her breath came again. The wind brought it back to her, and as she drew it in, the step came near and David said again:
“Show me your face-your face; I have never seen your face.”
She turned then, very slowly-in obedience to an effort, that left her drained of strength.
David was standing in the middle of the room. His feet were bare, as he had risen from his bed, but his eyes were open, and they looked not at, but through Elizabeth, to the place where she walked in his dream.
“Ah!” said David on a long, slow, sudden breath.
He came nearer-nearer. Now he stood beside her, and the wind swept suddenly between them, and eddying, drove a great swathe of her unfastened hair across his breast. David put up his hand and touched the hair.
“But I can't see your face,” he said, in a strange, complaining note. “The moon shines on your hair, but not upon your face. Show me your face-your face-”
She moved, and the moon shone on her. Her face was as white as ivory. Her eyes wide and dark-as dark as the darkening sky. They stood in silence, and the moon sank low.
Then David put out his hands and touched her on the breast.
“Now I have seen your face,” he said. “Now I am content because I have seen your face. I have gone hungry for the sight of it, and have gone thirsty for the love of you, and all the years I have never seen your face.”
“And now-?”
Elizabeth 's voice came in a whisper.
“Now I am content.”
“Why?”
“Your face is the face of Love,” said David Blake.
His hands still held her hair. They lay against her heart, and moved a little as she breathed.
A sudden terror raised its head and peered at Elizabeth. Mary-oh, God-if he took her for Mary. The thought struck her as with a spear of ice. It burned as ice burns, and froze her as ice freezes. Her lips were stiff as she forced out the words:
“Who am I? Say.”
His hands were warm. He answered her at once.
“We are in the Dream, you and I. You are the Woman of the Dream. Your face is the face of Love, and your hair-your floating hair-” He paused.
“My hair-what colour is my hair?” whispered Elizabeth.
“Your hair-” He lifted a strand of it. The wind played through it, and it brushed his cheek, then fell again upon her breast. His hand closed down upon it.
“What colour is my hair?” said Elizabeth very quietly. Mary's hair would be dark. If he said dark hair, dark like the night which would close upon them when that low moon was gone-what should she do-oh, god, what should she do?
“Your hair is gold-moon gold, which is pale as a dream,” said David Blake. And a great shudder ran through Elizabeth from head to foot as the ice went from her heart.
“Like moon gold,” repeated David, and his hands were warm against her breast.
And then all at once they were in the dark together, for the moon went out suddenly like a blown candle. She had dropped into a bank of clouds that rose from the clouding west. The wind blew a little chill, and as suddenly as the light had gone, David, too, was gone. One moment, so near-touching her in the darkness-and the next, gone-gone noiselessly, leaving her shaking, quivering.
When she could move, she lit a candle and looked in through the open door. David lay upon his side, with one hand under his cheek. He was sleeping like a child.
Elizabeth shut the door.
CHAPTER XVIII. THE FACE OF LOVE
Where have I seen these tall black trees,
Two and two and three-yes, seven,
Standing all about in a ring,
And pointing up to Heaven?
Where have I seen this black, black pool,
That never ruffles to any breath,
But stares and stares at the empty sky,
As silently as death?
How did we come here, you and I,
With the pool beneath, and the trees above?
Oh, even in death or the dusk of a dream,
You are heart of the heart of Love.
ELIZABETH was very pale when she came down the next day. As she dressed, sh
e could hear David singing and whistling in his room. He went down the stairs like a schoolboy, and when she followed she found him opening his letters and whistling still.
“Hullo!” he said. “Good-morning. You 're late, and I 've only got half an hour to breakfast in. I 'm starving. I don't believe you gave me any dinner last night. I shall be late for lunch. Give me something cold when I come in, I 've got a pretty full day-”
Elizabeth wondered as she listened to him if it were she who had dreamed.
That evening he looked up suddenly from his book and said:
“Was the moon full last night?”
“Not quite.”
Elizabeth was startled. Did he, after all, remember anything?
“When is it full?”
“To-morrow, I think. Why?”
Her breathing quickened a little as she asked the question.
“Because I dreamed my dream again last night, and it generally comes when the moon is full,” he said.
Elizabeth turned as if to get more light upon her book. She could not sit and let him see her face.
“Your dream-?”
Her voice was low.
“Yes.”
He paused for so long that the silence seemed to close upon Elizabeth. Then he said thoughtfully:
“Dreams are odd things. I 've had this one off and on since I was a boy. And it 's always the same. But I have not had it for months. Then last night-” He broke off. “Do you know I 've never told any one about it before-does it bore you?”
“No,” said Elizabeth, and could not have said more to save her life.
“It 's a queer dream, and it never varies. There 's always the same long, wet stretch of sand, and the moon shining over the sea. And a woman-”
“Yes-”
“She stands at the edge of the sea with the moon behind her, and the wind-did I tell you about the wind?-it blows her hair and her dress. And I have never seen her face.”
“No?”
“No, never. I 've always wanted to, but I can never get near enough, and the moon is behind her. When I was a boy, I used to walk in my sleep when I had the dream. I used to wake up in all sorts of odd places. Once I got as far as the front-door step, and waked with my feet on the wet stones. I suppose I was looking for the Woman.”
Elizabeth took a grip of herself.
“Do you walk in your sleep now?”
He shook his head.
“Oh, no. Not since I was a boy,” he said cheerfully. “Mrs. Havergill would have evolved a ghost story long ago if I had.”
“And last night your dream was just the same?”
“Yes, just the same. It always ends just when it might get exciting.”
“Did you wake?”
“No. That 's the odd part. One is supposed to dream only when one is waking, and of course it 's very hard to tell, but my impression is, that at the point where my dream ends I drop more deeply asleep. Dreams are queer things. I don't know why I told you about this one.”
He took up his book as he spoke, and they talked no more.
Elizabeth went to her room early that night, but she did not get into bed. She moved about the room, hanging up the dress she had worn, folding her things-even sorting out a drawer full of odds and ends. It seemed as if she must occupy herself.
Presently she heard David come up and go into his room. She went on rolling up stray bits of lace and ribbon with fingers that seemed oddly numb. When she had finished, she began to brush her hair, standing before the glass, and brushing with a long, rhythmic movement. After about ten minutes she turned suddenly and blew out the candle. She went to the window and opened it wide.
Then, because she was trembling, she sat down on the window-seat and waited. The night came into the room and filled it. The trees moved above the water. The rumble of traffic in the High Street sounded very far away. It had nothing to do with the world in which Elizabeth waited. There was no wind to-night. It was very still and warm. The moon shone.
When the door opened, Elizabeth knew that she had known that he would come. He crossed the room and took her in his arms. She felt his arms about her, she felt his kiss, and there was nothing of the unsubstantial stuff of dreams in his strong clasp. For one moment, as her lips kissed too, she thought that he was awake-that he had remembered, but as she stepped back and looked into his face she saw that he was in his dream. His eyes looked far away. Then he kissed her again, and dreaming or waking her soul went out of her and was his soul, her very consciousness was no more hers, but his, and she, too, saw that strange, moon-guarded shore, and she, too, heard the wind. But the night-the night was still. Where did it come from, this sudden rush of the wind, that seemed to blow through her? From far away it came, from very far away, and it passed through her and on to its own far place again, a rushing eddy of wind, whirling about some unknown centre.
Elizabeth was giddy and faint with the singing of that wind in her ears. The moon was in her eyes. She trembled, and hid them upon David's breast.
“David,” she whispered at last, and he answered her.
“Love-love-”
She turned a little from the light and looked at him. There was a smile upon his face, and his eyes smiled too.
“Where are we?” she said. And David laid his face against hers and said:
“We are in the Dream.”
“David, what is the Dream? Do you know? Tell me.”
“It is the Dream,” he said, “the old dream, the dream that has no waking.”
“And who am I? Am I Elizabeth?” She feared so much to say it, and could not rest till it was said.
“ Elizabeth.” He repeated the word, and paused. His eyes clouded.
“You are the Woman of the Dream.”
“But I have a name-”
“Yes-you have a name, but I have forgotten-if I could remember it. It is the name-the old name-the name you had before the moon went down. It was at night. You kissed me. There were so many trees. I knew your name. Then the moon went down, and it was dark, and I forgot-not you-only the name. Are you angry, love, because I have forgotten your name?”
There was trouble in his tone.
“No, not angry,” said Elizabeth, with a quiver in her voice. “Will you call me Elizabeth, David? Will you say Elizabeth to me?”
He said “ Elizabeth,” and as he said it his face changed. For a moment she thought that he was waking. His arms dropped from about her, and he drew a long, deep breath that was like a sigh.
Then he went slowly from her into the darkness of his own room, walking as if he saw.
Elizabeth fell on her knees by the window-seat and hid her face. The wind still sang in her ears.
CHAPTER XIX. THE FULL MOON
The sun was cold, the dark dead Moon
Hung low behind dull leaden bars,
And you came barefoot down the sky
Between the grey unlighted Stars.
You laid your hand upon my soul,
My soul that cried to you for rest,
And all the light of the lost Sun
Was in the comfort of your breast.
There was no veil upon your heart,
There was no veil upon your eyes;
I did not know the Stars were dim,
Nor long for that dead Moon to rise.
THEY dined with Edward and Mary next day. The centipedes were still immured, and Edward made tentative overtures to David on the subject of broaching the case after dinner.
“Edward is the soul of hospitality,” David said afterwards. “He keeps his best to the end. First a positively good dinner, then some comparatively enjoyable music, and, last of all, the superlatively enthralling centipedes.”
At the time, he complied with a very good grace. He even contrived a respectable degree of enthusiasm when the subject came up.
It was Mary who insisted on the comparatively agreeable music.
“No-I will not have you two going off by yourselves the moment you 've swallowed your dinner. It
's not good for people. Edward will certainly have indigestion-yes, Edward, you know you will. Come and have coffee with us in a proper and decent fashion, and we 'll have some music, and then you shall do anything you like, and I 'll talk to Elizabeth.”
Edward sang only one song, and then said that he was hoarse, which was not true. But Elizabeth was glad when the door closed upon him and David, for the song Edward had sung was the one thing on earth which she felt least able to hear. He sang, O Moon of my Delight, transposed by Mary to suit his voice, and he sang it with his usual tuneful correctness.
Elizabeth looked up only once, and that was just at the end. David was looking at her with a frown of perplexity. But as Edward remarked that he was hoarse, David passed his hand across his eyes for a moment, as if to brush something away, and rose with alacrity to leave the room.
When they were gone Mary drew a chair close to her sister and sat down. She was rather silent for a time, and Elizabeth was beginning to find it hard to keep her own thoughts at bay, when Mary said in a new, gentle voice:
“Liz, I 'm so happy.”
“Are you, Molly?” She spoke rather absently, and Mary became softly offended.
“Don't you want to know why, Liz? I don't believe you care a bit. I don't believe you 'd mind if I were ever so miserable, now that you 've got David, and are happy yourself!”
Elizabeth came back to her surroundings.
“Oh, Molly, what a goose you are, and what a monster you make me out. What is it, Mollykins, tell me?”
“I 've a great mind not to. I don't believe you really care. I would n't tell you a word, only I can't help it. Oh, Liz, I 'm going to have a baby, and I thought I never should. I was making myself wretched about it.”
She caught Elizabeth 's hand and squeezed it.
“Oh, Liz, be glad for me. I 'm so glad and happy, and I want some one to be glad too. You don't know how I 've wanted it. No one knows. I 've simply hated all the people in the Morning Post who had babies. I 've not even read the first column for weeks, and when Sybil Delamere sent me an invitation to her baby's christening-she was married the same day I was, you know-I just tore it up and burnt it. And now it 's really coming to me, and you 're to be glad for me, Liz.”
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