His whole head was stiff and numb with lack of sleep. Every muscle seemed stretched and every nerve taut. There was a dull, continuous pain at the back of his head. Thought seemed muffled, his faculties clogged. Two thirds of his brain was submerged, but in the remaining third consciousness flared like a flickering will-o'-the-wisp above a marsh.
David lay back in his chair. This was a peaceful place, a peaceful room. He had not meant to stay so long, but he had no desire to move. Slowly, slowly the tide of sleep mounted in him. Not, as often lately, with a sudden flooding wave which retreated again as suddenly, and left his brain reeling, but steadily, quietly, like the still rising of some peaceful, moon-drawn sea. He seemed to see that lifting tide. It was as deep and still as those still waters of which another David wrote. It rose and rose-the will-o'-the-wisp of consciousness ceased its tormented flickering, and he slept.
Elizabeth never turned her head. She heard his breathing deepen, until it was very slow and steady. There was no other sound except when an ember dropped. The light failed. Soon there was no light but the glow of the fire.
CHAPTER XII. THE GREY WOLF
I thought I saw the Grey Wolf's eyes
Look through the bars of night;
They drank the silver of the moon,
And the stars' pale chrysolite.
From star by star they took their toll,
And through the drained and darkened night
They sought my darkened soul.
DAVID slept for a couple of hours, and that night he slept more than he had done for weeks. Next night, however, there returned the old strain, the old yearning for oblivion, the old inability to compass it. In the week that followed David passed through a number of strange, mental phases. After that first sound sleep had relieved the tension of his brain, he told himself that he owed it to the delayed action of the bromide Skeffington had given him. But as the strain returned, though reason held him to this opinion still, out of the deep undercurrents of consciousness there rose before him a vision of Elizabeth, with the gift of sleep in her hand. He passed into a state of conflict, and out of this conflict there grew up a pride that would owe nothing to a woman, a resistance that called itself reason and independence. And then, as the desire for sleep dominated everything, conflict merged into a desire that Elizabeth should heal him, should make him sleep. And all through the week he did not think of Mary at all. The craving for her had been swallowed up by that other craving. Mary had raised this fever, but it had now reached a point at which he had become unconscious of her. It was Elizabeth who filled his thoughts. Not Elizabeth the woman, but Elizabeth the bearer of that gift of sleep. But this, too, was a phase, and had its reaction.
Towards the end of the week he finished his afternoon round by going to see an old Irish-woman, who had been in the hospital for an operation, and had since been dismissed as incurable. She was a plucky old soul, and a cheerful, but to-day David found her in a downcast mood.
“Sure, it 's not the pain I 'd be minding if I could get my sleep,” she said. “Could n't ye be after putting the least taste of something in my medicine, then, Doctor, dear?”
David had his finger on her pulse. He patted her hand kindly as he laid it down.
“Come, now, Mrs. Halloran,” he said, “when I gave you that last bottle of medicine you said it made you sleep beautifully.”
“Just for a bit it did,” said Judy Halloran. “Sure, it was only for a bit, and now it 's the devil's own nights I 'm having. Could n't you be making it the least taste stronger, then?”
She looked at David rather piteously.
“Well, we must see,” he said. “You finish that bottle, and then I 'll see what I can do for you.”
Mrs. Halloran closed her eyes for a minute. Then she opened them rather suddenly, shot a quick look at David, and said with an eager note in her voice:
“They do be saying that Miss Chantrey can make any one sleep. There was a friend of mine was after telling me about it. It was her daughter that had the sleep gone from her, and after Miss Chantrey came to see her, it was the fine nights she was having, and it 's the strong woman she is now, entirely.”
David got up rather abruptly.
“Come, now, Mrs. Halloran,” he said, “you know as well as I do that that 's all nonsense. But I daresay a visit from Miss Chantrey would cheer you up quite a lot. Would you like to see her? Shall I ask her to come in one day?”
“She 'd be kindly welcome,” said Judy Halloran.
David went home with the old conflict raging again. Skeffington had been urging him to see a specialist. He had always refused. But now, quite suddenly, he wired for an appointment.
He came down from town on a dark, rainy afternoon, feeling that he had built up a barrier between himself and superstition.
An hour later he was at the Mottisfonts' door, asking Markham if Mary was at home. Mary had gone out to tea, said Markham, and then volunteered, “Miss Elizabeth is in, sir.”
David told himself that he had not intended to ask for Elizabeth. Why should he ask for Elizabeth? He could, however, hardly explain to Markham that it was not Elizabeth he wished to see, so he came in, and was somehow very glad to come.
Elizabeth had been reading aloud to herself. As he stood at the door he could hear the rise and fall of her voice. It was an old trick of hers. Ten years ago he had often stood on the threshold and listened, until rebuked by Elizabeth for eavesdropping.
He came in, and she said just in the old voice:
“You were listening, David.”
But it was the David of to-day who responded wearily, “I beg your pardon, Elizabeth. Did you mind?”
“No, of course not. Sit down, David. What have you been doing with yourself?”
Instead of sitting down he walked to the window and looked out. The sky was one even grey, and, though the rain had ceased, heavy drops were falling from the roof and denting the earth in Elizabeth 's window boxes, which were full of daffodils in bud. After a moment he turned and said impatiently, “How dark this room is!”
Elizabeth divined in him a reaction, a fear of what she had done, and might do. She knew very well why he had stayed away. Without replying she put out her hand and touched a switch on the wall. A tall lamp with a yellow shade sprang into view, and the whole room became filled with a soft, warm light.
David left the window, but still he did not sit. For a while he walked up and down restlessly, but at length came to a standstill between Elizabeth and the fire. He was so close to her that she had only to put out her hand and it would have touched his. He stood looking, now at the miniatures on the wall, now at the fire which burned with a steady red glow. He was half turned from Elizabeth, but she could see his face. It was strained and thin. The flesh had fallen away, leaving the great bones prominent.
It was Elizabeth who broke the silence, and she said what she had not meant to say.
“David, are you better? Are you sleeping?”
“No,” he said shortly.
“And you won't let me help?”
“I did n't say so.”
“Did you think I did n't know?” Elizabeth 's voice was very sad.
They had fallen suddenly upon an intimate note. It was a note that he had never touched with Mary. That they should be talking like this filled him with a dazed surprise. He as well as she was taking it for granted that she had given him sleep, and could give him sleep again.
He gave himself a sudden shake.
“I 'm going away,” he said in a harder voice.
There was a pause.
“I 'm glad,” said Elizabeth, and then there was silence again.
This time it was David who spoke, and he spoke in the hot, insistent tones of a man who argues a losing case.
“One can't go on not sleeping. That is what I said to old Wyatt Byng to-day.”