David and Elizabeth walked to their home in silence. Mrs. Havergill awaited them with an air of mournful importance. She had prepared coffee and a cake with much almond icing and the word “Welcome" inscribed upon it in silver comfits. Elizabeth ate a piece of cake from a sense of duty, and David drank cup after cup of black coffee, and then sat in a sort of stupor of fatigue until roused by the sound of the telephone bell.
After a minute or two he came back into the room.
“Ronnie is worse,” he said shortly. There was a change in him. He had pulled himself together. His voice was stronger.
“He 's worse. I must go at once. Don't wait dinner, and don't sit up. I may have to stay all night.”
When he had gone, Elizabeth went upstairs to unpack. Mrs. Havergill followed her.
“You 'av n't been in this room since Mrs. Blake was took.”
“It 's a very nice room,” said Elizabeth.
“All this furniture,” said Mrs. Havergill, “come out of the 'ouse in the ' Igh Street. That old mahogany press, Mrs. Blake set a lot of store by, and the bed, too. Ah! pore thing, I suppose she little thought as 'ow she 'd come to die in it.”
The bed was a fine old four-poster, with a carved foot-rail. Elizabeth went past it to the windows, of which there were three, set casement fashion, at the end of the room, with a wide low window-seat running beneath them.
She got rid of Mrs. Havergill without hurting her feelings. Then she knelt on the seat, and looked out. She saw the river beneath her, and a line of trees in the first green mist of their new leaves. The river was dark and bright in patches, and the wind sang above it. Elizabeth 's heart was glad of this place. It was a thing she loved-to see green trees and bright water, and to hear the wind go by above the stream.
When she had unpacked and put everything away, she stood for a moment, and then opened the door that led through into David's room. It was getting dark in here, for the room faced the east. Elizabeth went to the window and looked out. The sky was full of clouds, and the promise of rain.
It was very late before David came home. At ten, Elizabeth sent the servants to bed. There was cold supper laid in the dining-room, and soup in a covered pan by the side of the fire. Elizabeth sat by the lamp and sewed. Every now and then she lifted her head and listened. Then she sewed again.
At twelve o'clock David put his key into the latch, and the door opened with a little click and then shut again.
David was a long time coming in. He came in slowly, and sat down upon the first chair he touched.
“He 'll do,” he said in an exhausted voice.
“I 'm so glad,” said Elizabeth.
She knelt by the fire, and poured some of the soup into a cup. Then she held it out to him, and he drank, taking long draughts. After that she put food before him, and he ate in a dazed, mechanical fashion.
When he had finished, he sat staring at Elizabeth, with his elbows on the table, and his head between his hands.
“Ronnie is asleep-he 'll do.” And then with sudden passion: “My God, if I could sleep!”
“You will, David,” said Elizabeth. She put her hand on his arm, and he turned his head a little, still staring at her.
“No, I don't sleep,” he said. “Everything else sleeps-Die Vöglein ruhen im Walde. How does it go?”
“Warte nur, balde ruhest du auch,” said Elizabeth in her tranquil voice.
“No,” said David, “I can't get in. It was so easy once-but now I can't get in. The silent city of sleep has long, smooth walls-I can't find the gate; I grope along the wall all night, hour after hour. A hundred times I think I have found the door. Sometimes there is a flashing sword that bars the way, sometimes the wall closes-closes as I pass the threshold. There 's no way in. The walls are smooth-all smooth-you can't get in.”
He spoke, not wildly, but in a low, muttering way. Elizabeth touched his hand. It was very hot.
“Come, David,” she said, “it is late.” She drew him to his feet, and he walked uncertainly, and leaned on her shoulder as they went up the stair. Once in his room, he sank again upon a chair. He let her help him, but when she knelt, and would have unlaced his boots, he roused himself.
“No, you are not to,” he said with a sudden anger in his voice, and he took them off, and then let her help him again.
When he was in bed, Elizabeth stood by him for a moment.
“Are you comfortable?” she asked.
“If I could sleep,” he said, only just above his breath. “If I could.”
“Oh, but you will,” said Elizabeth. “Don't be afraid, David. It 's all right.”
She set the door into her room ajar and then sat down by the window, and looked out at the night. The blind was up. The night was dark and clear. There were stars, many little glittering points. It was very still. Elizabeth fixed her eyes upon the sky, but after a minute or two she did not see it at all. Her mind was full of David and his need. This tortured, sleepless state of his had no reality. How could it compass and oppress the immortal image of God? Her thought rose into peace. Elizabeth opened her mind to the Divine light. Her will rested. She was conscious only of that radiant peace. It enwrapped her, it enwrapped David. In it they lived and moved and had their being. In it they were real and vital creatures. To lapse from consciousness of it, was to fall upon a formless, baseless dream, wherein were the shadows of evil. These shadows had no reality. Brought to the light, they faded, leaving only that peace-that radiance. Elizabeth 's eyes were opened. She saw the Wings of Peace.
And David slept.
CHAPTER XV. LOVE MUST TO SCHOOL
Love must to school to learn his alphabet,
His wings are shorn, his eyes are dim and wet.
He pores on books that once he knew by heart-
Poor, foolish Love, to wander and forget.
ELIZABETH sat quite motionless for half an hour. Then she stirred, bent her head for a moment, whilst she listened to David's regular breathing, and then rose to her feet. She passed through the open door into her own room, and undressed in the dark. Then she lay down and slept.
Three times during the night she woke and listened. But David still slept. When she woke up for the third time, the room was full of the greyness of the dawn. She got up and closed the door between the two rooms.
Then she lay waking. It had been a strange wedding night.
The day dawned cloudy, but broke at noon into a cloudless warmth that was more like June than April.
“Take me down the river,” said Elizabeth, and they rowed down for half a mile, and turned the boat into a water-lane where budding willows swept down on either side, and brushed the stream.
David was very well content to lie in the sun. The strain was gone from him, leaving behind it a weariness beyond words. Every limb, every muscle, every nerve was relaxed. There was a great peace upon him. The air tasted sweet. The light was a pleasant thing. The sky was blue, and so was Elizabeth 's dress, and Elizabeth was a very reposeful person. She did not fidget and she did not chatter. When she spoke it was of pleasant things.
David recalled a day, ten years ago, when he had sat with her in this very place. He could see himself, full of enthusiasm, full of youth. He could remember how he had talked, and how Elizabeth had listened. She was just the same now. It was he who had changed. Ten years ago seemed to him a very pleasant time, a very pleasant memory. Pictures rose before him-stray words-stray recollections running into a long, soft blur.
They came home in the dusk.
“Are you going to see Ronnie again?” said Elizabeth, as they landed.