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.
“Yes; he couldn’t be doing better, but I’ll look in, and to-morrow
Skeffington will go with me so as to get him broken in to the change. We
ought to get away all right now.”
David waked next day to find the sun shining in at his uncurtained
window. From where he lay he could see the young blue of the sky, and
all the room seemed full of the sun’s gold. David lay in a lazy
contentment watching the motes that danced in a long shining beam. There
was a new stir of life in his veins. He stretched out his limbs and was
glad of their strength. The sweetness and the glory and the promise of
the spring slid into his blood and fired it.
“Mary,” he said, still between sleeping and waking—and with the name,
memory woke. Suddenly his brain was very clear. He looked straight ahead
and saw the door that led into the other room—the room that had been his
mother’s. Elizabeth was in that room. He had married Elizabeth—she was
his wife. He lay quite still and stared at the door. Elizabeth Chantrey
was Elizabeth Blake. She was his wife—and Mary——
A sudden spasm of laughter caught David by the throat. Mary was what she
had promised to be—his sister; Mary was his sister. The spasm of
laughter passed, and with it the stir in David’s blood. He was quite
cool now. He lay staring at that closed door, and faced the situation.
It was a damnable situation, he decided. He felt as a man might feel who
wakes from the delirium of weeks, to find that in his madness he has
done some intolerable, some irrevocable thing. A man who does not sleep
is a man who is not wholly sane. David looked back and followed the
events of the last few months with a critical detachment.
He saw the strain growing and growing until, in the end, on the brink of
the abyss, he had snatched at the relief which Elizabeth offered, as a
man who dies of thirst will snatch at water. Well—he had taken
Elizabeth’s draught of water, his thirst was quenched, he was his own
man again. No, never his own man any more. Never free any
more—Elizabeth’s debtor—Elizabeth’s husband.
David set his face like a flint—he would pay his debt.
He went out as soon as he had breakfasted and walked for a couple of
hours. It was a little after noon when he came into the drawing-room
where Elizabeth was.
The floor was covered with a great many yards of green stuff which she
was cutting into curtain lengths. As David came in, she looked up and
smiled.
“Oh, _please_,” she said, “if you wouldn’t mind, I shall cut them so
much better if you hold one end.”
David knelt down and held the stuff, whilst Elizabeth cut it. She came
quite close to him at the end, smiled again, and took away the two
pieces which he still clutched helplessly.
“That’s beautiful,” she said, and sat down and began to sew.
David watched her in silence. If she found his gaze embarrassing, she
showed no sign.
“We can start to-morrow,” he said at last. He gave a list of trains,
stopping-places, and hotels, paused at the end of it, walked to the
window, and then, turning, said with an effort:
“This has been a bad beginning for you, my dear—you’ve been very good to
me. You deserve a better bargain, but I’ll do my best.”
Elizabeth did not speak at once. David thought that she was not going to
speak at all, but after what seemed like a long time she said:
“David!” and then stopped.
There was a good deal of colour in her cheeks. David saw that she, too,
was making an effort.
“Well,” he said, and his voice was more natural.
“David,” said Elizabeth, “what did you mean by ‘doing your best’?”
David met her eyes. He had always liked Elizabeth’s eyes. They were so
very clear.
“I meant that I’d do my best to make you a good husband,” he said quite
simply.
Elizabeth’s colour rose higher still. She continued to look at David,
because she would have considered it cowardly to look away.
“A good husband to my good wife,” she said. “But, David, I don’t think
you want a wife just now.”
David came across the room and sat down by the table at which Elizabeth
was working.
“Then why did you marry me, Elizabeth?” he asked.
Elizabeth did not turn her head at once.
“I think what we both want just now,” she said, “is friendship.” Her
voice was low, but she kept it steady. “The sort of friendship that is
one side of marriage. It is not really possible for a man and a woman to
be friends in that sort of way unless they are married. I think you want
a friend—I know I do. I think you have been very lonely—one is lonely,
and it is worse for a man. He can’t get the home-feeling, and he misses
it. You did not marry me because you needed a wife. I don’t think you
do. When you want a wife, I will be your wife, but just now——”
She broke off. She did not look at David, but David looked at her. He
saw how tightly her hands were clasped, he saw the colour flushing in
her cheeks. She had great self-control, but that she was deeply moved
was very evident.
All at once he became conscious of great fatigue. He had walked far and
in considerable distress of mind. He had put a very strong constraint
upon himself. He rested his head on his hand and tried to think.
Elizabeth did not speak again. After a time he raised his head.
Elizabeth was watching him—her eyes were very soft. A sense of relief
came upon David. Just to drift—just to let things go on in the old way,
on the old lines. Not for always—just for a time—until he had put Mary
out of his thoughts. Their marriage was not an ordinary one. It was for
Elizabeth to make what terms she would. And it was a relief—yes, no
doubt it was a relief.
“If I say, Yes,” he said, “it is only for a time. It is not a very
possible situation, you know, Elizabeth—not possible at all in most
cases. But just now, just for the present, I admit your right to
choose.”
Elizabeth’s hands relaxed.
“Thank you, David,” she said.