He did not know that she was quoting, and he did not answer her or speak at all for some time. But at last he said:
“So I slept, because you saw me in the Divine Consciousness; is that it?”
“Something like that.”
“You did n't will that I should sleep?”
“Oh, no.”
“Are you doing it still?”
“Yes.”
“Every night?”
“Yes,” said Elizabeth again.
David sat up. The mists in the valley beneath were golden, for the sun had dropped. As he looked, the gold turned grey, and the shadow of darkness to come rose out of the valley's depths, though the hill-slope on which they sat was warm and sunny yet. David turned and saw that Elizabeth was watching him.
“I want you to stop whatever it is you do,” he said abruptly.
“Very well.”
“I 'm not as ungrateful as that sounds-” He broke off, and Elizabeth said quickly:
“Oh, no.”
“You don't think it?”
“Why should I? You are well again. You don't need my help any more.”
A shadow like the shadow of evening came over her as she spoke, but her smile betrayed nothing.
They walked back to the hotel in silence.
David had wondered if he would sleep. He slept all night, the sweet sound sleep of health and a mind unburdened.
It was Elizabeth who did not sleep. She had walked with him through the valley of the shadow and he had come out of it a whole man again. Was she to cling to the shadow, because in the shadow David had clung to her? It came to that. She drove the thought home, and did not shirk the pain of it. They were come out into the light, and in the light he had no need of her. But this was not full daylight in which they walked-it was only the first chill grey of the dawn, and there is always a need of Love. Love needs must give, and giving, blesses and is blessed, for Love is of the realities-a thing immutable and all-pervading. No man can shut out Love.
CHAPTER XVII. THE DREAM
My hand has never touched your hand, I have not seen your face,
No sound of any spoken word has passed between us two-
Yet night by night I come to you in some unearthly place,
And all my dreams of day and night are dreams of love and you.
The moon has never shone on us together in our sleep,
The sun has never seen us kiss beneath the arch of day,
Your eyes have never looked in mine-your soul has looked so deep,
That all the sundering veils of sense are drawn and done away.
My lids are sealed with more than sleep, but I am lapped in light,
Your soul draws near, and yet more near, till both our souls are one.
In that strange place of our content is neither day nor night,
No end and no beginning, whilst the timeless aeons run.
DAVID came home after his month's holiday as hard and healthy as a man may be. Elizabeth was well content. She and David were friends. He liked her company, he ate and slept, he was well, and he laughed sometimes as the old David had laughed.
“Don't you think your master looks well, Mrs. Havergill?” she said quite gaily.
Mrs. Havergill sighed.
“He do look well,” she admitted; “but there, ma'am, there 's no saying-it is n't looks as we can go by. In my own family now, there was my sister Sarah. She was a fine, fresh-looking woman. Old Dr. Jones he met her out walking, as it might be on the Thursday.
“'Well, Miss Sarah, you do look well,' he says-and there, 't were n't but the following Tuesday as she was took. 'Who 'd ha' thought it,' he says. 'In the midst of life we are in death,' and that 's a true word. And my brother 'Enry now, 'e never look so well in all 'is life as when he was laying in 'is coffin.”
Elizabeth could afford to laugh.
“Oh, Mrs. Havergill, do be cheerful,” she implored; “it would be so much better for you.”
Mrs. Havergill looked injured.
“I don't see as we 're sent into this world to be cheerful,” she said, with the air of one who reproves unchristian levity.
“Oh, but we are-we really are,” said Elizabeth.
Mrs. Havergill shook her head.
“Let them be cheerful as has no troubles,” she remarked. “I 've 'ad mine, and a-plenty,” and she went out of the room, sighing.
Mary ran in to see her sister quite early on the morning after their return.
“Well, Liz-no, let me look at you-I 'll kiss you in a minute. Are you happy-you wrote dreadful guide-book letters, that I tore up and put in the fire.”
“Oh, Molly.”
“Yes, they were-exactly like Baedeker, only worse. All about mountains and flowers and the nice air, and 'David is quite well again.' As if anyone wanted to hear about mountains and flowers from a person on her honeymoon. Are you happy, Liz?”
“Don't I look happy?” said Elizabeth laughing.
“Yes, you do.” Mary looked at her considering. “You do. Is it all right, Liz, really all right?”
“Yes, it 's really all right, Molly,” said Elizabeth, and then she began to talk of other things.
Mary kissed her very affectionately when she went away, but at the door she turned, frowning.
“I expect you wrote reams to Agneta,” she said, and then shut the door quickly before Elizabeth had time to answer.
David was out when Mary came, and it so happened that for two or three days they did not meet. He had come to dread the meeting. His passion for Mary was dead. He was afraid lest her presence, her voice, should raise the dead and bring it forth again in its garment of glamour and pain. Then on Sunday he came in to find Mary sitting there with Elizabeth in the twilight. She jumped up as he came in, and held out her hand.
“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: