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 are n'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
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, and Egypt bore 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.
CHAPTER XXI. ELIZABETH BLAKE
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 so dreadfully kind, 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 was n'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 was n't rude to her, Lizabeth-I swear I was n'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 could n'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.”