THE GOLDEN WIND
Then far, oh, very far away,
The Wind began to rise,
The Sun, the Moon, the Stars were gone,
I saw the Grey Wolf’s eyes.
The Wind rose up and rising, shone,
I saw it shine, I saw it rise,
And suddenly the dark was gone.
David Blake was married to Elizabeth Chantrey at half-past two of an
April day. Edward and Mary Mottisfont were the only witnesses, with the
exception of the verger, who considered himself a most important person
on these occasions, when he invariably appeared to be more priestly than
the rector and more indispensable than the bridegroom.
It requires no practice to be a bridegroom but years, if not
generations, go to the making of the perfect verger. This verger was the
son and the grandson of vergers. He was the perfect verger. He stood
during the service and disapproved of David’s grey pallor, his shaking
hand, and his unsteady voice. His black gown imparted a funerary air to
the proceedings.
“Drinking, that’s what he’d been,” he told his wife, and his wife said,
“Oh, William,” as one who makes response to an officiating priest.
But he wronged David, who was not drunk—only starved for lack of sleep,
and strung to the breaking point. His voice stumbled over the words in
which he took Elizabeth to be his wedded wife and trailed away to a
whisper at the conclusion.
A gusty wind beat against the long grey windows, and between the gusts
the heavy rain thudded on the roof above.
Mary shivered in the vestry as she kissed Elizabeth and wished her joy.
Then she turned to David and kissed him too. He was her brother now, and
there would be no more nonsense. Edward frowned, David stiffened, and
Elizabeth, standing near him, was aware that all his muscles had become
rigid.
Elizabeth and David went out by the vestry door, and stood a moment on
the step. The rain had ceased quite suddenly in the April fashion. The
sky was very black overhead and the air was full of a wet wind, but far
down to the right the water meadows lay bathed in a clear sweet
sunshine, and the west was as blue as a turquoise. Between the blue of
the sky and the bright emerald of the grass, the horizon showed faintly
golden, and a broken patch of rainbow light glowed against the nearest
dark cloud.
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 ’avn’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.