“I should n'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, what is it?”
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 did n'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, is n'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 does n'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 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 agonizing 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 has n'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 shall never, never hear 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.
“May n't I ask? Do you mind?”
Elizabeth shook her head.
“Which is the 'no' for?”
“Both,” said Elizabeth.
“I must n'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 was n'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 it hurt. 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. I think there are two 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, why did n'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: