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.