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 quarrelled,” 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 isn’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 doesn’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 didn’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 didn’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 didn’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 didn’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 her 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 wasn’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 didn’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 didn’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.

241

“‘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.