My hand has never touched your hand, I have not seen your face,
No sound of any spoken word has passed between us two—
Yet night by night I come to you in some unearthly place,
And all my dreams of day and night are dreams of love and you.
The moon has never shone on us together in our sleep,
The sun has never seen us kiss beneath the arch of day,
Your eyes have never looked in mine—your soul has looked so deep,
That all the sundering veils of sense are drawn and done away.
My lids are sealed with more than sleep, but I am lapped in light,
Your soul draws near, and yet more near, till both our souls are
one.
In that strange place of our content is neither day nor night,
No end and no beginning, whilst the timeless aeons run.
DAVID came home after his month's holiday as hard and healthy as a
man may be. Elizabeth was well content. She and David were friends. He
liked her company, he ate and slept, he was well, and he laughed
sometimes as the old David had laughed.
“Don't you think your master looks well, Mrs. Havergill?” she said
quite gaily.
Mrs. Havergill sighed.
“He do look well,” she admitted; “but there, ma'am, there 's no
saying—it is n't looks as we can go by. In my own family now, there
was my sister Sarah. She was a fine, fresh-looking woman. Old Dr. Jones
he met her out walking, as it might be on the Thursday.
“'Well, Miss Sarah, you do look well,' he says—and there, 't
were n't but the following Tuesday as she was took. 'Who 'd ha' thought
it,' he says. 'In the midst of life we are in death,' and that 's a
true word. And my brother 'Enry now, 'e never look so well in all 'is
life as when he was laying in 'is coffin.”
Elizabeth could afford to laugh.
“Oh, Mrs. Havergill, do be cheerful,” she implored; “it would be so
much better for you.”
Mrs. Havergill looked injured.
“I don't see as we 're sent into this world to be cheerful,” she
said, with the air of one who reproves unchristian levity.
“Oh, but we are—we really are,” said Elizabeth.
Mrs. Havergill shook her head.
“Let them be cheerful as has no troubles,” she remarked. “I 've 'ad
mine, and a-plenty,” and she went out of the room, sighing.
Mary ran in to see her sister quite early on the morning after their
return.
“Well, Liz—no, let me look at you—I 'll kiss you in a
minute. Are you happy—you wrote dreadful guide-book letters,
that I tore up and put in the fire.”
“Oh, Molly.”
“Yes, they were—exactly like Baedeker, only worse. All about
mountains and flowers and the nice air, and 'David is quite well
again.' As if anyone wanted to hear about mountains and flowers
from a person on her honeymoon. Are you happy, Liz?”
“Don't I look happy?” said Elizabeth laughing.
“Yes, you do.” Mary looked at her considering. “You do. Is it
all right, Liz, really all right?”
“Yes, it 's really all right, Molly,” said Elizabeth, and then she
began to talk of other things.
Mary kissed her very affectionately when she went away, but at the
door she turned, frowning.
“I expect you wrote reams to Agneta,” she said, and then shut
the door quickly before Elizabeth had time to answer.
David was out when Mary came, and it so happened that for two or
three days they did not meet. He had come to dread the meeting. His
passion for Mary was dead. He was afraid lest her presence, her voice,
should raise the dead and bring it forth again in its garment of
glamour and pain. Then on Sunday he came in to find Mary sitting there
with Elizabeth in the twilight. She jumped up as he came in, and held
out her hand.
“Well, David, you are a nice brother—never to have come and seen
me. Busy? Yes, of course you 've been busy, but you might have squeezed
in a visit to me, amongst all the visits to sick old ladies and naughty
little boys. Oh, do you know, Katie Ellerton has gone away? She
took Ronnie to Brighton for a change, and then wrote and said she was
n't coming back. I believe she is going to live with a brother who is a
solicitor down there. And she 's selling her furniture, so if you
want extra things you might get them cheap.”
“That 's Elizabeth's department,” said David, laughing.
“Well, this is for you both. When will you come to dinner? On
Tuesday? Yes, do. Talk about being busy. Edward 's busy, if you like. I
never see him, and he 's quite worried. Liz, you remember Jack Webster?
Well, you know he 's on the West Coast, and he 's sent Edward a whole
case of things—frightfully exciting specimens, two centipedes he 's
wanted for ever so long, and a spider that Jack says is new. And Edward
has never even had time to open the case. That shows you! It 's
accounts, I believe. Edward does hate accounts.”
When she had gone David sat silent for a long time. It was the old
Mary, and prettier than ever. He had never seen her looking prettier,
but his feeling for her was gone. He could look at her quite
dispassionately, and wonder over the old unreasoning thrill. And what a
chatterbox she was. Thank Heaven, she had had the sense to marry
Edward, who was really not such a bad sort. Poor Edward. He laughed
aloud suddenly, and Elizabeth looked up asked:
“What is it?”
“Edward and the case he can't open, and the centipedes he can't play
with,” he said, still laughing. “Poor old Edward! What it is to have a
conscience. I wonder he does n't have a midnight orgy with the
centipedes, but I suppose Mary sees to that.”
It was that night that David dreamed his dream again. All these
months it had never come to him. Amongst the many dreams that had
haunted his sick brain, there had been no hint of this one. He had
wondered about it sometimes. And now it returned. In the first deep
sleep that comes to a healthy man he dreamed it.
He heard the wind blowing—that was the beginning of it. It came
from the far distances of space, and it passed on again to the far
distances beyond. David heard it blow, but his eyes were darkened. Then
suddenly he saw. His feet were on the shining sand, the sand that shone
because a golden moon looked down upon it from a clear sky, and the
tide had left it wet.
David stood upon the shining sand, and saw the Woman of the Dream
stand where the moon track ceased at the sea's rim. The moon was behind
her head, and the wind blew out her hair. He stood as he had stood a
hundred times, and as he had longed a hundred times to see the Woman's
face, so he longed now. He moved to go to her, and the wind blew about
him in his dream.
Elizabeth had sat late in her room. There was a book in her hand,
but after a time she did not read. The night was very warm. She got up
and opened the window wide. The moon was low and nearly full, and a
wind blew out of the west—such a warm wind, full of the scent of
green, growing things. Elizabeth put out the light and stood by the
window, drawing long breaths. It seemed as if the wind were blowing
right through her. It beat upon her uncovered throat, and the touch of
it was like something alive. It sang in her ears, and Elizabeth's blood
sang too.
And then, quite suddenly, she heard a sound that stopped her heart.
She heard the handle of the door between her room and David's turn
softly, and she heard a step upon the threshold. All her life was at
her heart, waiting. She could neither move, nor speak, nor draw her
breath. And the wind blew out her long white dress, and the wind blew
out her hair. As in a trance between one world and the next, she heard
a voice in the room. It was David's voice, and yet not David's voice,
and it shook the very foundations of her being.
“Turn round and let me see your face, Woman of my Dream,” said David
Blake.
Elizabeth stood quite still. Only her breath came again. The wind
brought it back to her, and as she drew it in, the step came near and
David said again:
“Show me your face—your face; I have never seen your face.”
She turned then, very slowly—in obedience to an effort, that left
her drained of strength.
David was standing in the middle of the room. His feet were bare, as
he had risen from his bed, but his eyes were open, and they looked not
at, but through Elizabeth, to the place where she walked in his dream.
“Ah!” said David on a long, slow, sudden breath.
He came nearer—nearer. Now he stood beside her, and the wind swept
suddenly between them, and eddying, drove a great swathe of her
unfastened hair across his breast. David put up his hand and touched
the hair.
“But I can't see your face,” he said, in a strange, complaining
note. “The moon shines on your hair, but not upon your face. Show me
your face—your face—”
She moved, and the moon shone on her. Her face was as white as
ivory. Her eyes wide and dark—as dark as the darkening sky. They stood
in silence, and the moon sank low.
Then David put out his hands and touched her on the breast.
“Now I have seen your face,” he said. “Now I am content because I
have seen your face. I have gone hungry for the sight of it, and have
gone thirsty for the love of you, and all the years I have never seen
your face.”
“And now—?”
Elizabeth's voice came in a whisper.
“Now I am content.”
“Why?”
“Your face is the face of Love,” said David Blake.
His hands still held her hair. They lay against her heart, and moved
a little as she breathed.
A sudden terror raised its head and peered at Elizabeth. Mary—oh,
God—if he took her for Mary. The thought struck her as with a spear of
ice. It burned as ice burns, and froze her as ice freezes. Her lips
were stiff as she forced out the words:
“Who am I? Say.”
His hands were warm. He answered her at once.
“We are in the Dream, you and I. You are the Woman of the Dream.
Your face is the face of Love, and your hair—your floating hair—” He
paused.
“My hair—what colour is my hair?” whispered Elizabeth.
“Your hair—” He lifted a strand of it. The wind played through it,
and it brushed his cheek, then fell again upon her breast. His hand
closed down upon it.
“What colour is my hair?” said Elizabeth very quietly. Mary's hair
would be dark. If he said dark hair, dark like the night which would
close upon them when that low moon was gone—what should she do—oh,
god, what should she do?
“Your hair is gold—moon gold, which is pale as a dream,” said David
Blake. And a great shudder ran through Elizabeth from head to foot as
the ice went from her heart.
“Like moon gold,” repeated David, and his hands were warm against
her breast.
And then all at once they were in the dark together, for the moon
went out suddenly like a blown candle. She had dropped into a bank of
clouds that rose from the clouding west. The wind blew a little chill,
and as suddenly as the light had gone, David, too, was gone. One
moment, so near—touching her in the darkness—and the next, gone—gone
noiselessly, leaving her shaking, quivering.
When she could move, she lit a candle and looked in through the open
door. David lay upon his side, with one hand under his cheek. He was
sleeping like a child.
Elizabeth shut the door.
Where have I seen these tall black trees,
Two and two and three—yes, seven,
Standing all about in a ring,
And pointing up to Heaven?
Where have I seen this black, black pool,
That never ruffles to any breath,
But stares and stares at the empty sky,
As silently as death?
How did we come here, you and I,
With the pool beneath, and the trees above?
Oh, even in death or the dusk of a dream,
You are heart of the heart of Love.
ELIZABETH was very pale when she came down the next day. As she
dressed, she could hear David singing and whistling in his room. He
went down the stairs like a schoolboy, and when she followed she found
him opening his letters and whistling still.
“Hullo!” he said. “Good-morning. You 're late, and I 've only got
half an hour to breakfast in. I 'm starving. I don't believe you gave
me any dinner last night. I shall be late for lunch. Give me something
cold when I come in, I 've got a pretty full day—”
Elizabeth wondered as she listened to him if it were she who had
dreamed.
That evening he looked up suddenly from his book and said:
“Was the moon full last night?”
“Not quite.”
Elizabeth was startled. Did he, after all, remember anything?
“When is it full?”
“To-morrow, I think. Why?”
Her breathing quickened a little as she asked the question.
“Because I dreamed my dream again last night, and it generally comes
when the moon is full,” he said.
Elizabeth turned as if to get more light upon her book. She could
not sit and let him see her face.
“Your dream—?”
Her voice was low.
“Yes.”
He paused for so long that the silence seemed to close upon
Elizabeth. Then he said thoughtfully:
“Dreams are odd things. I 've had this one off and on since I was a
boy. And it 's always the same. But I have not had it for months. Then
last night—” He broke off. “Do you know I 've never told any one about
it before—does it bore you?”
“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.