THE WOMAN OF THE DREAM
Oh, was it in the dead of night,
Or in the dark before the day,
You came to me and kneeling, knew
The thing that I would never say?
There was no star, nor any moon,
There was no light from pole to pole,
And yet you saw the secret thing,
That I had hid within my soul.
You saw the secret and the shrine,
You bowed your head and went your way—
Oh, was it in the dead of night,
Or in the dark that brings the day?
For the next fortnight Elizabeth lived in a dream from which she
scarcely woke by day. The dream life—the dream love—the dream
itself—these became her life. In the moments that came nearest the
waking she trembled, because if the dream was her life, the waking would
be death. But for the rest of the time she walked in a trance. Earth
budded, and the birds built nests. The green of woodland places went
down under a flood of bluebells. The children made cowslip balls. All
day long the sun shone out of a blue sky, and at night David came to
her. Always he came at night, and went away in the dawn. And he
remembered nothing.
Once she put her face to his in the darkness, and said:
“Oh, David, won’t you remember—won’t you ever remember? Am I only the
Woman of the Dream? When will you remember?”
Then David was troubled in his dream, and stirred and went from her an
hour before the time of his going.
Towards the end of the fortnight her trance wore thin. It was then that
everything she saw or read seemed to press in upon one sore spot. If she
went to the Mottisfonts’, there was Mary with her talk of Edward and the
baby. Edward!—Elizabeth could have laughed; but the laughter went too.
If there were not much of Edward, at least Mary had all that there was.
And the child—did not she, too, desire children? But the child of a
dream. How could she give to David the child of a dream already
forgotten? If she walked, there were lovers in every lane, young lovers,
who loved each other by day and in the eye of the sun. If she took up a
book—once what she read was:
Come to me in my dreams, and then
By day I shall be well again!
For then the night will more than pay
The hopeless longing of the day.
and another time, Kingsley’s _Dolcino to Margaret_. Then came a day when
she opened her Bible and read:
“If a man walk in the night, he stumbleth, because there is no light in
him.”
That day she came broad awake. The daze passed from her. Her brain was
clear, and her conscience—the inner vision rose before her, showing her
an image troubled and confused. What had she done? And what was she
doing now? Day by day David looked at her with the eyes of a friend, and
night by night he came to her, the lover of a dream. Which was the
reality? Which was the real David? If the David of the dream were real,
conscious in sleep of some mysterious oneness, the sense of which was
lost in the glare of day—then she could wait, and bear, and hope, till
the realisation was so strong that the sun might shine upon it and show
to David awake what the sleeping David knew.
But if the David of the dream were not the real David, then what was
she? Mistress and no wife—the mistress of a dream mood that never
touched Reality at all.
Two scalding tears in Elizabeth’s eyes—two and no more. The others
burned her heart.
And the thought stayed with her.
That evening after dinner Elizabeth looked up from her embroidery. The
silence had grown to be too full of thoughts. She could not bear it.
“What are you reading, David?” she asked.
He laughed and said:
“Sentimental poetry, ma’am. Would you have suspected me of it? I find it
very soothing.”
“Do you?”
She paused, and then said with a flutter in her throat:
“Do you ever write poetry now, David? You used to.”
“Yes, I remember boring you with it.”
He coloured a little as he spoke.
“But since then?”
“Oh, yes——”
“Show me some——”
“Not for the world.”
“Why not?”
“Poetry is such an awful give away. How any one ever dares to publish
any, I don’t know. I suppose they get hardened. But one’s most private
letters aren’t a patch on it. One puts down all one’s grumbles, one’s
moonstruck fancies, the ravings of one’s inanest moments. Mine are not
for circulation, thanks.”
Elizabeth did not laugh. Instead she said, quite seriously,
“David, I wish you would show me some of it.”
He looked rather surprised, but got up, and presently came back with
some papers in his hand, and threw them into her lap.
“There. There’s one there that’s rather odd. It’s rotten poetry, but it
gave me the oddest feelings when I wrote it. See if it does the same to
you,” and he laughed.
There were three poems in Elizabeth’s lap. The first was a vigorous bit
of work—a ballad with a good ballad swing to it. Elizabeth read it and
applauded.
“This is much better than your old things,” she said, and he was
manifestly pleased.
The next was a set of clever verses on a political topic of passing
interest. Elizabeth laughed over it and laid it aside. Her thoughts were
pleasantly diverted. Anything was welcome that brought her nearer to the
David of the day.
She took up the third poem. It was called:
Egypt
Egypt sands are burning hot.
Burning hot and dry,
How they scorched us as we worked,
Toiling, you and I,
When we built the Pyramid in Egypt.
Heaven like hammered brass above,
Earth like brass below,
How the sweat of torment ran,
All those years ago,
When we built the Pyramid in Egypt.
When the dreadful day was done,
Night was like your eyes,
Sweet and cool and comforting—
We were very wise,
When we built the Pyramid in Egypt.
We were very wise, my dear,
Children, lovers, gods,
Where’s the wisdom that we knew,
With our world at odds,
When we built the Pyramid in Egypt?
Now your hand is strange to mine,
Now you heed me not,
Life and death and love and pain,
You have quite forgot,
You have quite forgotten me and Egypt.
I would bear it all again,
Just to take your hand,
Bend my body to the whip,
Tread the burning sand,
Build another Pyramid in Egypt.
Toiling, toiling, all the day,
Loving you by night,
I’d go back three thousand years
If I only might,—
Back to toil and pain and you and Egypt.
When she looked up at the end, David spoke at once.
“Well,” he said, “what does it say to you?”
“I don’t quite know.”
“It set up one of those curious thought-waves. One seems to remember
something out of an extraordinarily distant past. Have you ever felt it?
I believe most people have. There are all sorts of theories to account
for it. The two sides of the brain working unequally, and several
others. But the impression is common enough, and the theories have been
made to fit it. Of course the one that fits most happily is the
hopelessly unscientific one of reincarnation. Well, my thought-wave took
me back to Egypt and——”
He hesitated.
“Tell me.”
Elizabeth’s voice was eager.
“Oh, nothing.”
“Yes, tell me.”
He laughed at her earnestness.
“Well, then—I saw the woman’s eyes.”
“Yes.”
“They were grey. That’s all. And I thought it odd.”
He broke off, and Elizabeth asked no more. She knew very well why he had
thought it odd that the woman’s eyes should be grey. The poems were
dated, and _Egypt_ bore the date of a year ago. He was in love with Mary
then, and Mary’s eyes were dark—dark hazel eyes.
That night she woke from a dream of Mary, and heard David whispering a
name in his sleep, but she could not catch the name. The old shamed
dread and horror came upon her, strong and unbroken. She slipped from
bed, and stood by the window, panting for breath. And out of the
darkness David called to her:
“Love, where are you gone to?”
If he would say her name—if he would only say her name. She had no words
to answer him, but she heard him rise and come to her.
“Why did you go away?” he said, touching her. And as she had done once
before, Elizabeth cried out.
“Who am I, David?—tell me! Am I Mary?”
He repeated the name slowly, and each repetition was a wound.
“Mary,” he said, wonderingly, “there is no Mary in the Dream. There are
only you and I—and you are Love——”
“And if I went out of the Dream?” said Elizabeth, leaning against his
breast. The comfort of his touch stole back into her heart. Her
breathing steadied.
“Then I would come and find you,” said David Blake.
It was the next day that Agneta’s letter came. Elizabeth opened it at
breakfast and exclaimed.
“What is it?”
She lifted a face of distress.
“David, should you mind if I were to go away for a little? Agneta wants
me.”
“Agneta?”
“Yes, Agneta Mainwaring. You remember, I used to go and stay with the
Mainwarings in Devonshire.”
“Yes, I remember. What’s the matter with her?”
“She is engaged to Douglas Strange, the explorer, and there are—rumours
that his whole party has been massacred. He was working across Africa.
She wants me to come to her. I think I must. You don’t mind, do you?”
“No, of course not. When do you want to go?”
“I should like to go to-day. I could send her a wire,” said Elizabeth.
“I hope it’s only a rumour, and not true, but I must go.”
David nodded.
“Don’t take it too much to heart, that’s all,” he said.
He said good-bye to her before he went out, told her to take care of
herself, asked her to write, and inquired if she wanted any money.
When he had gone, Elizabeth told herself that this was the end of the
Dream. She could drift no more with the tide of that moon-watched sea.
She must think things out and come to some decision. Hitherto, if she
thought by day, the night with its glamour threw over her thoughts a
rainbow mist that hid and confused them. Now Agneta needed her, there
would be work for her to do. And she would not see David again until she
could look her conscience in the face.