“No,” said Elizabeth, and could not have said more to save her life.
“It 's a queer dream, and it never varies. There 's always the same long, wet stretch of sand, and the moon shining over the sea. And a woman-”
“Yes-”
“She stands at the edge of the sea with the moon behind her, and the wind-did I tell you about the wind?-it blows her hair and her dress. And I have never seen her face.”
“No?”
“No, never. I 've always wanted to, but I can never get near enough, and the moon is behind her. When I was a boy, I used to walk in my sleep when I had the dream. I used to wake up in all sorts of odd places. Once I got as far as the front-door step, and waked with my feet on the wet stones. I suppose I was looking for the Woman.”
Elizabeth took a grip of herself.
“Do you walk in your sleep now?”
He shook his head.
“Oh, no. Not since I was a boy,” he said cheerfully. “Mrs. Havergill would have evolved a ghost story long ago if I had.”
“And last night your dream was just the same?”
“Yes, just the same. It always ends just when it might get exciting.”
“Did you wake?”
“No. That 's the odd part. One is supposed to dream only when one is waking, and of course it 's very hard to tell, but my impression is, that at the point where my dream ends I drop more deeply asleep. Dreams are queer things. I don't know why I told you about this one.”
He took up his book as he spoke, and they talked no more.
Elizabeth went to her room early that night, but she did not get into bed. She moved about the room, hanging up the dress she had worn, folding her things-even sorting out a drawer full of odds and ends. It seemed as if she must occupy herself.
Presently she heard David come up and go into his room. She went on rolling up stray bits of lace and ribbon with fingers that seemed oddly numb. When she had finished, she began to brush her hair, standing before the glass, and brushing with a long, rhythmic movement. After about ten minutes she turned suddenly and blew out the candle. She went to the window and opened it wide.
Then, because she was trembling, she sat down on the window-seat and waited. The night came into the room and filled it. The trees moved above the water. The rumble of traffic in the High Street sounded very far away. It had nothing to do with the world in which Elizabeth waited. There was no wind to-night. It was very still and warm. The moon shone.
When the door opened, Elizabeth knew that she had known that he would come. He crossed the room and took her in his arms. She felt his arms about her, she felt his kiss, and there was nothing of the unsubstantial stuff of dreams in his strong clasp. For one moment, as her lips kissed too, she thought that he was awake-that he had remembered, but as she stepped back and looked into his face she saw that he was in his dream. His eyes looked far away. Then he kissed her again, and dreaming or waking her soul went out of her and was his soul, her very consciousness was no more hers, but his, and she, too, saw that strange, moon-guarded shore, and she, too, heard the wind. But the night-the night was still. Where did it come from, this sudden rush of the wind, that seemed to blow through her? From far away it came, from very far away, and it passed through her and on to its own far place again, a rushing eddy of wind, whirling about some unknown centre.
Elizabeth was giddy and faint with the singing of that wind in her ears. The moon was in her eyes. She trembled, and hid them upon David's breast.
“David,” she whispered at last, and he answered her.
“Love-love-”
She turned a little from the light and looked at him. There was a smile upon his face, and his eyes smiled too.
“Where are we?” she said. And David laid his face against hers and said:
“We are in the Dream.”
“David, what is the Dream? Do you know? Tell me.”
“It is the Dream,” he said, “the old dream, the dream that has no waking.”
“And who am I? Am I Elizabeth?” She feared so much to say it, and could not rest till it was said.
“ Elizabeth.” He repeated the word, and paused. His eyes clouded.
“You are the Woman of the Dream.”
“But I have a name-”
“Yes-you have a name, but I have forgotten-if I could remember it. It is the name-the old name-the name you had before the moon went down. It was at night. You kissed me. There were so many trees. I knew your name. Then the moon went down, and it was dark, and I forgot-not you-only the name. Are you angry, love, because I have forgotten your name?”
There was trouble in his tone.
“No, not angry,” said Elizabeth, with a quiver in her voice. “Will you call me Elizabeth, David? Will you say Elizabeth to me?”
He said “ Elizabeth,” and as he said it his face changed. For a moment she thought that he was waking. His arms dropped from about her, and he drew a long, deep breath that was like a sigh.
Then he went slowly from her into the darkness of his own room, walking as if he saw.
Elizabeth fell on her knees by the window-seat and hid her face. The wind still sang in her ears.
CHAPTER XIX. THE FULL MOON
The sun was cold, the dark dead Moon
Hung low behind dull leaden bars,
And you came barefoot down the sky
Between the grey unlighted Stars.
You laid your hand upon my soul,
My soul that cried to you for rest,
And all the light of the lost Sun
Was in the comfort of your breast.
There was no veil upon your heart,
There was no veil upon your eyes;
I did not know the Stars were dim,
Nor long for that dead Moon to rise.
THEY dined with Edward and Mary next day. The centipedes were still immured, and Edward made tentative overtures to David on the subject of broaching the case after dinner.
“Edward is the soul of hospitality,” David said afterwards. “He keeps his best to the end. First a positively good dinner, then some comparatively enjoyable music, and, last of all, the superlatively enthralling centipedes.”
At the time, he complied with a very good grace. He even contrived a respectable degree of enthusiasm when the subject came up.
It was Mary who insisted on the comparatively agreeable music.
“No-I will not have you two going off by yourselves the moment you 've swallowed your dinner. It 's not good for people. Edward will certainly have indigestion-yes, Edward, you know you will. Come and have coffee with us in a proper and decent fashion, and we 'll have some music, and then you shall do anything you like, and I 'll talk to Elizabeth.”
Edward sang only one song, and then said that he was hoarse, which was not true. But Elizabeth was glad when the door closed upon him and David, for the song Edward had sung was the one thing on earth which she felt least able to hear. He sang, O Moon of my Delight, transposed by Mary to suit his voice, and he sang it with his usual tuneful correctness.
Elizabeth looked up only once, and that was just at the end. David was looking at her with a frown of perplexity. But as Edward remarked that he was hoarse, David passed his hand across his eyes for a moment, as if to brush something away, and rose with alacrity to leave the room.
When they were gone Mary drew a chair close to her sister and sat down. She was rather silent for a time, and Elizabeth was beginning to find it hard to keep her own thoughts at bay, when Mary said in a new, gentle voice:
“Liz, I 'm so happy.”
“Are you, Molly?” She spoke rather absently, and Mary became softly offended.
“Don't you want to know why, Liz? I don't believe you care a bit. I don't believe you 'd mind if I were ever so miserable, now that you 've got David, and are happy yourself!”