The Fire Within (14 page)

Oh, that I had wings, yea wings like a dove,

  Then would I flee away and be at rest;

Lo, the dove hath wings because she is a dove,

  God gave her wings and bade her build her nest,

Thy wings are stronger far, strong wings of love,

  Thy home is sure in His unchanging rest.

ELIZABETH went up to London by the 12.22, which is a fast train, and
only stops once. She found Agneta, worn, tired, and cross.

“Thank Heaven, you 've come, Lizabeth,” she said. “All my relations
have been to see me. They are so kind. They are so dreadfully
kind, and they all talk about its being God's Will, and tell me what a
beautiful thing resignation is. If I believed in a God who arranged for
people to murder each other in order to give some one else a moral
lesson, I 'd shoot myself. I really would And resignation is a
perfectly horrible thing. I do think I must be getting a little better
than I used to be, because I was n't even rude to Aunt Henrietta, who
told me I ought not to repine, because all was for the best. She said
there were many trials in the married state, and that those who did not
marry were spared the sorrow of losing a child or having an unfaithful
husband. I really was n't rude to her, Lizabeth—I swear I was n't. But
when I saw my cousin, Mabel Aston, coming up the street—you always can
see her a mile off—I told Jane to say that I was very sorry, but I
really could n't see any one. Mabel won't ever forgive me, because all
the other relations will tell her that I saw them. I told them every
one that I was perfectly certain that Douglas was all right. And so I
am. Yes, really. But, oh, Lizabeth, how I do hate the newspapers.”

“I should n't read them,” said Elizabeth.

“I don't! Nothing would induce me to. But I can't stop my relations
from quoting reams of them, verbatim. By the by, do you mind dining at
seven to-night? I want to go to church. I don't want you or Louis to
come. Heavens, Lizabeth, you 've no idea what a relief it is not to
have to be polite, and say you want people when you don't..”

When Agneta had gone out Elizabeth talked to Louis for a little, and
then read. Presently she stopped reading and leaned back with closed
eyes, thinking first of Agneta, then of herself and David. Louis's
voice broke in upon her thoughts.

“Lizabeth, what is it?”

She was startled.

“Oh, I was just thinking.”

He frowned.

“What is the good?” he said. “I told you I could see. You 're
troubled, horribly troubled about something. And it 's not Agneta. What
is it?”

Elizabeth was rather pale.

“Oh, Louis,” she said, “please don't. I 'd rather you did n't. And
it 's not what you think. It 's not really a trouble. I 'm puzzled. I
don't know what to do. There 's something I have to think out. And it
's not clear—I can't quite see—”

Louis regarded her seriously.

“If any man lack wisdom,” he said. “That 's a pretty good thing in
the pike-staff line. Good Lord, fancy me preaching to you. It 's
amusing, is n't it?”

He laughed a little.

Elizabeth nodded.

“You can go on,” she said.

He considered.

“I don't know that I 've got anything more to say except
that—things that puzzle one—there 's always the touchstone of
reality. And things one does n't want to do because they're difficult,
or because they hurt, or because they take us away from something we
've set our heart on—well—if they're right, they're right, and there
's an end of it. And the right thing, well, it 's the best thing all
round. And when we get where we can see it properly, it 's—well, it 's
trumps all right.”

Elizabeth nodded again. “Thank you, Louis,” she said. “I 've been
shirking. I think I 've known it all along. Only when one shirks, it 's
part of it to wrap oneself up in a sort of mist, and call everything by
a wrong name. I 've got to change my labels . . .”

Her voice died away, and they sat silent until Agneta's key was
heard in the latch. She came in looking rested.

“Nice church?” said Elizabeth.

“Yes,” said Agneta, “very nice. I feel better.”

During the week that followed, Elizabeth had very little time to
spare for her own concerns, and Agneta clung to her and clung to hope,
and day by day the hope grew fainter. It was the half-hours when they
waited for the telephone bell to ring that brought the grey threads
into Agneta's hair. Twice daily Louis rang up, and each time, after the
same agonizing suspense, came the same message, “No news yet.” Towards
the end of the week, there was a wire to say that a rumour had reached
the coast that Mr. Strange was alive and on his way down the river.

It was then that Agneta broke down. Whilst all had despaired, she
had held desperately to hope, but when Louis followed his message home,
he found Agneta with her head in Elizabeth's lap, weeping slow,
hopeless tears.

Then, forty-eight hours later, Douglas Strange himself cabled in
code to say that he had abandoned part of his journey owing to a native
rising, and was returning at once to England.

“And now, Lizabeth,” said Agneta, “now your visit begins, please.
This has n't been a visit, it has been purgatory. I 'm sure we 've both
expiated all the sins we 've ever committed or are likely to commit.
Louis, take the receiver off that brute of a telephone. I shall
never, never hear a telephone bell again without wanting to scream.
Lizabeth, let's go to a music hall.”

Next day Agneta said suddenly:

“Lizabeth, what is it?”

“What is what?”

Agneta's little dark face became serious.

“Lizabeth, I 've been a beast. I 've only been thinking about
myself. Now it 's your turn. What 's the matter?”

Elizabeth was silent.

“May n't I ask? Do you mind?”

Elizabeth shook her head.

“Which is the 'no' for?”

“Both,” said Elizabeth.

“I must n't ask then. You 'd rather not talk about it? Really?”

“Yes, really, Neta, dear.”

“Right you are.”

Agneta was silent for a few minutes. They were sitting together in
the firelight, and she watched the play of light and shade upon
Elizabeth's face. It was beautiful, but troubled.

“Lizabeth, you used not to be beautiful, but you are beautiful now,”
she said suddenly.

“Am I?”

“Yes, I always loved your face, but it was n't really beautiful. Now
I think it is.”

“Anything else?” Elizabeth laughed a little.

“Yes, the patient look has gone. You used to look so patient that it
hurt. As if you were carrying a heavy load and just knew you had
got to carry it without making any fuss.”

“Issachar, in fact—”

“No, not then, but I 'm not so sure now. I think there are
two burdens now.”

Elizabeth laid her hand on Agneta's lips.

“Agneta, you ought to be ashamed of yourself. Stop thought-reading
this very minute. I never gave you leave.”

“Sorry.” Agneta kissed the hand against her lips and laid it back in
Elizabeth's lap. “Oh, Lizabeth, why did n't you marry Louis?”
she said, and Elizabeth saw that her eyes were full of tears. The
firelight danced on a brilliant, falling drop.

“Because I love David,” said Elizabeth. “And love is worth while,
Agneta. It is very well worth while. You knew it was when you thought
that Douglas was dead. Would you have gone back to a year ago?”

“Ah, Lizabeth, don't,” said Agneta.

She leaned her head against Elizabeth's knee and was still.

All that week, Elizabeth slept little and thought much. And her
thought was prayer. She did not kneel when she prayed, and she had her
own idea of what prayer should be. Not petition. The Kingdom of Heaven
is about us. We have but to open our eyes and take what is our own.
Therefore not petition. What Elizabeth called prayer was far more like
taking something out of the darkness, to look at it in the light. And
before the light, all things evil, all things that were not good and
not of God, vanished and were not. If thine eye be single, thy whole
body shall be full of light. In this manner, David's sleeplessness had
been changed to rest and healing, and in this same manner, Elizabeth
now knew that she must test the strange dream-state in which David
loved her. And in her heart of hearts she did not think that it would
stand the test. She believed that, subjected to this form of prayer,
the dream would vanish and she be left alone.

She faced the probability, and facing it, she prayed for light, for
wisdom, for the Reality that annihilates the shadows of man's thought.
When she used words at all, they were the words of St. Patrick's
prayer:

I bind to myself to-day,

The Power of God to protect me,

The Might of God to uphold me,

The Wisdom of God to guide me,

The Light of God to shine upon me,

The Love of God to encompass me.

During these days Agneta looked at her anxiously, but she asked no
questions at all, and Elizabeth loved her for it.

Elizabeth went home on the 15th of June. After hard struggle, she
had come into a place of clear vision. If the dream stood the test, if
in spite of all her strivings towards Truth, David still came to her,
she would take the dream to be an earnest of some future waking. If the
dream ceased, if David came no more, then she must cast her bread of
love upon the waters of the Infinite, God only knowing, if after many
days, she should be fed.

David was very much pleased to have her back. He told her so with a
laugh—confessed that he had missed her.

When Elizabeth went to her room that night, she sat down on the
window-seat and watched. It had rained, but the night was clear again.
She looked from the window, and the midsummer beauty slid into her
soul. The rain had washed the sky to an unearthly translucent purity,
but out of the west streamed a radiance of turquoise light. It filled
the night, and as it mounted towards the zenith, the throbbing colour
passed by imperceptible degrees into a sapphire haze. The horizon was a
ghostly line of far, pure emerald. This transfiguring glow had all the
sunset's fire, only there was neither red nor gold in it. The ether
itself flamed, and the colour of that flame was blue. It was the light
of vision, the very light of a Midsummer's Dream. The cloud that had
shed the rain brooded apart with wings of folded gloom. Two or three
drifting feathers of dark grey vapour barred the burning blue.
Perishably fine, they dissolved against the glow, and one amazing star
showed translucent at the vapour's edge, now veiled, now blazing out as
the mist wavered and withdrew from so much brightness. A night for
love, a night for lovers' dreams.

Yearning came upon Elizabeth like a flood. Just once more to see him
look at her with love. Just once more—once more, to feel his arms, his
kiss—to weep upon his breast and say farewell.

She put her hand out waveringly until it touched the wall. She shut
her eyes against the beauty of the night, and strove with the longing
that rent her. Her lips framed broken words. She said them over and
over again until the tumult died in her, and she was mistress of her
thoughts. Immortal love could never lose by Truth.

Now she could look again upon the night. The trees were very black.
The wind stirred them. The sky was full of light made mystical. Which
of the temples that man has built, has light for its walls, and cloud
and fire for its pillars? In which of them has the sun his tabernacle,
through which of them does the moon pass, by a path of silver
adoration? What altar is served by the rushing winds and lighted by the
stars? In all the temples that man has made, man bows his head and
worships, but in the Temple of the Universe it is the Heavens
themselves that declare the Glory of God.

Elizabeth's thought rose up and up. In the divine peace it rested
and was stilled.

And David did not come.

In Him we live, He is our Source, our Spring,

  And we, His fashioning.

We have no sight except by His foreseeing,

  In Him we live and move and have our being,

He spake the Word, and lo! Creation stood,

  And God said, It is good.

DAVID came no more. The dream was done. During the summer days there
rang continually in Elizabeth's ears the words of a song—one of
Christina's wonderful songs that sing themselves with no other music at
all.

The hope I dreamed of was a dream

  Was but a dream, and now I wake

Exceeding comfortless, and worn, and old,

  For a dream's sake.

“Exceeding comfortless.” Yes, there were hours when that was true.
She had taken her heart and broken it for Truth's sake, and the broken
thing cried aloud of its hurt. Only by much striving could she still it
and find peace.

The glamour of the June days was gone too. July was a wet and stormy
month, and Elizabeth was thankful for the rain and the cold, at which
all the world was grumbling.

Mary came in one July day with a face that matched the weather.

“Why, Molly,” said Elizabeth, kissing her, “what 's the matter,
child?”

Mary might have asked the same question, but she was a great deal
too much taken up with her own affairs.

“Edward and I have quarreled,” she said with a sob in the words, and
sitting down, she burst into uncontrollable tears.

“But what is it all about?” asked Elizabeth, with her arm around her
sister. “Molly, do hush. It is so bad for you. What has Edward done?”

“Men are brutes,” declared Mary.

“Now, I 'm sure Edward is n't,” returned Elizabeth, with real
conviction.

Mary sat up.

“He is,” she declared. “No, Liz, just listen. It was all over baby's
name.”

“What, already?”

“Well, of course, one plans things. If one does n't, well, there was
Dorothy Jackson—don't you remember? She was very ill, and the baby had
to be christened in a hurry, because they did n't think it was going to
live. And nobody thought the name mattered, so the clergyman just gave
it the first name that came into his head, and the baby did n't die
after all, and when Dorothy found she 'd got to go through life with a
daughter called Harriet, she very nearly died all over again. So, you
see, one has to think of things. So I had thought of a whole lot of
names, and last night I said to Edward, 'What shall we call it?' and he
looked awfully pleased and said, 'What do you think?' And I said, 'What
would you like best?' And he said, 'I 'd like it to be called after
you, Mary, darling. I got Jack Webster's answer to-day, and he says I
may call it anything I like.' Well, of course, I did n't see
what it had to do with Jack Webster, but I thought Edward must have
asked him to be godfather. I was rather put out. I did n't think it
quite nice beforehand, you know.”

The bright colour of indignation had come into Mary's cheeks, and
she spoke with great energy.

“Of course, I just thought that, and then Edward said, 'So it
shall be called after you—Arachne Mariana.' I thought what hideous
names, but all I said was, 'Oh, darling, but I want a boy'; and do you
know, Liz, Edward had been talking about a spider all the time—the
spider that Jack Webster sent him. I don't believe he cares nearly as
much for the baby, I really don't, and I wish I was dead.”

Mary sobbed afresh, and it took Elizabeth a good deal of the time to
pacify her.

Mrs. Havergill brought in tea, it being Sarah's afternoon out. When
she was taking away the tea-things, after Mary had gone, she observed:

“Mrs. Mottisfont, she do look pale, ma'am.”

“Mrs. Mottisfont is going to have a baby,” said Elizabeth, smiling.

Mrs. Havergill appeared to dismiss Mary's baby with a slight wave of
the hand.

“I 'ad a cousin as 'ad twenty-three,” she observed in tones of lofty
detachment.

“Not all at once?” said Elizabeth faintly.

Mrs. Havergill took no notice of this remark.

“Yes, twenty-three, pore soul. And when she was n't 'aving of them,
she was burying of them. Ten she buried, and thirteen she reared, and
many's the time I 've 'eard 'er say, she did n't know which was the
most trouble.”

She went out with the tray, and later, when Sarah had returned, she
repeated Mrs. Blake's information in tones of sarcasm.

“'There 's to be a baby at the Mottisfonts',' she says, as if I did
n't know that. And I says, 'Yes, ma'am,' and that 's all as passed.”

Mrs. Havergill had a way of forgetting her own not inconsiderable
contributions to a conversation.

“'Yes, ma'am,' I says, expecting every moment as she 'd up and say,
'and one 'ere, too, Mrs. Havergill,' but no, not a blessed word, and me
sure of it for weeks. But there—they're all the same with the first,
every one's to be blind and deaf. All the same, Sarah, my girl, if she
don't want it talked about, she don't, so just you mind and don't talk,
not if she don't say nothing till the christening's ordered.”

When Elizabeth knew that she was going to have a child, her first
thought was, “Now, I must tell David,” and her next, “How can I tell
him, how can I possibly tell him?” She lay on her bed in the darkness
and faced the situation. If she told David, and he did not believe
her—that was possible, but not probable. If she told him, and he
believed her as to the facts—but believed also that this strange
development was due in some way to some influence of hers—conscious or
unconscious hypnotism—the thought broke off half-way. If he believed
this—and it was likely that he would believe it—Elizabeth covered her
eyes with her hand. Even the darkness was no shield. How should she
meet David's eyes in the light, if he were to believe this? What would
he think of her? What must he think of her? She began to weep slow
tears of shame and agony. What was she to do? To wait until some
accident branded her in David's eyes, or to go to him with a most
unbelievable tale? She tried to find words that she could say, and she
could find none. Her flesh shrank, and she knew that she could not do
it. There were no words. The tears ran slowly, very slowly, between her
fingers. Elizabeth was cold. The room was full of the empty dark. All
the world was dark and empty too. She lay quite still for a very long
time. Then there came upon her a curious gradual sense of
companionship. It grew continually. At the last, she took her hands
from before her face and opened her eyes. And there was a light in the
room. It shed no glow on anything—it was just a light by itself. A
steady, golden light. It was not moonlight, for there was no moon.
Elizabeth lay and looked at it. It was very radiant and very soft. She
ceased to weep and she ceased to be troubled. She knew with a certainty
that never faltered again, that she and David were one. Whether he
would become conscious of their oneness during the space of this short
mortal dream, she did not know, but it had ceased to matter. The thing
that had tormented her was her own doubt. Now that was stilled for
ever—Love walked again among the realities, pure and unashamed. The
things of Time—the mistakes, the illusions, the shadows of Time—moved
in a little misty dream, that could not touch her. Elizabeth turned on
her side. She was warm and she was comforted.

She slept.