  I have forgotten all the ways of sleep, The endless, windless silence of my dream, The milk-white poppy meadows and the stream, The dreaming water soft and still and deep— I have forgotten how that water flows, I have forgotten how the poppy grows, I have forgotten all the ways of sleep. It was on an afternoon, a few days later, that David came into the hall of the Mottisfonts’ house. “Lord save us, he do look bad,” was the thought in Markham’s mind as she let him in. Aloud she said that she thought Mrs. Mottisfont was just going out. As she spoke, Mary came down the stairs, bringing with her a sweet scent of violets. Mary was very obviously going out. She wore a white cloth dress, with dark furs, and there was a large bunch of mauve and white violets at her breast. She looked a little vexed when she saw David. “Oh,” she said, “I am just going out. I am so sorry, but I am afraid I must. Bazaars are tiresome things, but one must go to them, and I promised Mrs. Codrington that I would be there early. Elizabeth is in. She’ll give you some tea. Markham, will you please tell Miss Elizabeth?” David came forward as she was speaking. There was a window above the front door, and as he came out of the shadow, and the light fell on his face, he saw Mary start a little. Her expression changed, and she said in a hesitating manner: “Of course, Elizabeth may be busy, or she may be going out—I really don’t know. Perhaps you had better come another day, David.” He read her clearly enough. She thought that he had been drinking, and hesitated to leave him with her sister. He had been about to say that he could not stop, but her suspicion raised a devil of obstinacy in him, and as Elizabeth came out of her room by way of the dining-room, he advanced to meet her, saying: “Will you give me some tea, Elizabeth, or are you too busy?” “Liz, come here,” said Mary quickly. Her colour had risen at David’s tone. She drew Elizabeth a little aside. “Liz, you’d better not,” she whispered, “he looks so queer.” “Nonsense, Molly.” “I wish you wouldn’t——” “My dear Molly, are you going to begin to chaperone me?” Mary tossed her head. “Oh, if you don’t mind,” she said angrily, and went out, leaving Elizabeth with an odd sense of anticipation. Elizabeth found David standing before the writing-table, and looking at himself in the little Dutch mirror which hung above it. He turned as she came in. “Well,” he said bitterly, “has Mary renounced the Bazaar in order to stay and protect you? I’m not really as dangerous as she seems to think, though I am willing to admit that I am not exactly ornamental. Give me some tea, and I’ll not inflict myself on you for long.” Elizabeth smiled. “You know very well that I like having you here,” she said in her friendly voice. “Look at my flowers. Aren’t they well forward? I really think that everything is a fortnight before its time this year. No, not that chair, David. This one is much more comfortable.” Markham was coming in with the tea as Elizabeth spoke. David sat silent. He watched the tiny flame of the spirit-lamp, the mingled flicker of firelight and daylight upon the silver, and the thin old china with its branching pattern of purple and yellow flowers. He drank as many cups of tea as Elizabeth gave him, and she talked a little in a desultory manner, until he had finished, and then sat in a silence that was not awkward, but companionable. David made no effort to move, or speak. This was a pleasant room of Elizabeth’s. The brown panels were warm in the firelight. They made a soft darkness that had nothing gloomy about it, and the room was full of flowers. The great brown crock full of daffodils stood on the window-ledge, and on the table which filled the angle between the window and the fireplace was another, in which stood a number of the tall yellow tulips which smell like MarÉchal-Niel roses. Elizabeth’s dress was brown, too. It was made of some soft stuff that made no sound when she moved. The room was very still, and very sweet, and the sweetness and the stillness were very grateful to David Blake. The thought came to him suddenly, that it was many years since he had sat like this in Elizabeth’s room, and the silence had companioned them. Years ago he had been there often enough, and they had talked, read, argued, or been still, just as the spirit of the moment dictated. They had been good comrades, then, in the old days—the happy days of youth. He looked across at Elizabeth and said suddenly: “You are a very restful woman, Elizabeth.” She smiled at him without moving, and answered: “I am glad if I rest you, David—I think you need rest.” “You sit so still. No one else sits so still.” Elizabeth laughed softly. “That sounds as if I were a very inert sort of person,” she said. David frowned a little. “No, it’s not that. It is strength—force—stability. Only strong things keep still like that.” This was so like the old David, that it took Elizabeth back ten years at a leap. She was silent for a moment, gathering her courage. Then she said: “David, you do need rest, and a change. Why don’t you go away?” She had thought he would be angry, but he was not angry. Instead, he answered her as the David of ten years ago might have done, with a misquotation. “What is the good of a change? It’s a case of—I myself am my own Heaven and Hell”; and his voice was the voice of a very weary man. Elizabeth’s eyes dwelt on him with a deep considering look. “Yes, that’s true,” she said. “One has to find oneself. But it is easier to find oneself in clear country than in a fog. This place is not good for you, David. When I said you wanted a change, I didn’t mean just for a time—I meant altogether. Why don’t you go right away—leave it all behind you, and start again?” He looked at her as if he might be angry, if he were not too tired. “Because I won’t run away,” he said, with his voice back on the harsh note which had become habitual. There was a pause. Elizabeth heard her own heart beat. The room was getting darker. A log fell in the fire. Then David laughed bitterly. “That sounded very fine, but it’s just a flam. The truth is, not that I won’t run away, but that I can’t. I’ve not got the energy. I’m three parts broke, and it’s all I can do to keep going at all. I couldn’t start fresh, because I’ve got nothing to start with. If I could sleep for a week it would give me a chance, but I can’t sleep. Skeffington has taken me in hand now, and out of three drugs he has given me, two made me feel as if I were going mad, and the third had no effect at all. I’m full of bromide now. It makes me sleepy, but it doesn’t make me sleep. You don’t know what it’s like. My brain is drunk with sleep—marshy with it, water-logged—but there’s always one point of consciousness left high and dry—tortured.” “Can’t you sleep at all?” “I suppose I do, or I should be mad in real earnest. Do I look mad, Elizabeth?” She looked at him. His face was very white, except for a flushed patch high up on either cheek. His eyes were bloodshot and strained, but there was no madness in them. “Is that what you are afraid of?” “Yes, my God, yes,” said David Blake, speaking only just above his breath. “I don’t think you need be afraid. I don’t, really, David. You look very tired. You look as if you wanted sleep more than anything else in the world.” She spoke very gently. “Will you let me send you to sleep? I think I can.” “Does one ask a man who is dying of thirst if one may give him a drink?” “Then I may?” “If you can—but—” He broke off as Markham came in to clear away the tea. Elizabeth began to talk of trivialities. For a minute or two Markham came and went, but when she had taken away the tray, and the door was shut, there was silence again. Elizabeth had turned her chair a little. She sat looking into the fire. She was not making pictures among the embers, as she sometimes did. Her eyes had a brooding look. Her honey-coloured hair looked like pale gold against the brown panelling behind her. She sat very still. David found it pleasant to watch her, pleasant to be here. His whole head was stiff and numb with lack of sleep. Every muscle seemed stretched and every nerve taut. There was a dull, continuous pain at the back of his head. Thought seemed muffled, his faculties clogged. Two thirds of his brain was submerged, but in the remaining third consciousness flared like a flickering will-o’-the-wisp above a marsh. David lay back in his chair. This was a peaceful place, a peaceful room. He had not meant to stay so long, but he had no desire to move. Slowly, slowly the tide of sleep mounted in him. Not, as often lately, with a sudden flooding wave which retreated again as suddenly, and left his brain reeling, but steadily, quietly, like the still rising of some peaceful, moon-drawn sea. He seemed to see that lifting tide. It was as deep and still as those still waters of which another David wrote. It rose and rose—the will-o’-the-wisp of consciousness ceased its tormented flickering, and he slept. Elizabeth never turned her head. She heard his breathing deepen, until it was very slow and steady. There was no other sound except when an ember dropped. The light failed. Soon there was no light but the glow of the fire. |
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