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grave lines and shadows on their faces. The bright, convenient ways of
the former life had receded to an inaccessible distance; slowly they
learnt the lesson of the underworld--sombre and laborious, vast and
pregnant. There were many little things happened: things that would be
tedious and miserable to tell, things that were bitter and grievous to
bear--indignities, tyrannies, such as must ever season the bread of the
poor in cities; and one thing that was not little, but seemed like the
utter blackening of life to them, which was that the child they had
given life to sickened and died. But that story, that ancient,
perpetually recurring story, has been told so often, has been told so
beautifully, that there is no need to tell it over again here. There was
the same sharp fear, the same long anxiety, the deferred inevitable
blow, and the black silence. It has always been the same; it will always
be the same. It is one of the things that must be.
And it was Elizabeth who was the first to speak, after an aching, dull
interspace of days: not, indeed, of the foolish little name that was a
name no longer, but of the darkness that brooded over her soul. They had
come through the shrieking, tumultuous ways of the city together; the
clamour of trade, of yelling competitive religions, of political appeal,
had beat upon deaf ears; the glare of focussed lights, of dancing
letters, and fiery advertisements, had fallen upon the set, miserable
faces unheeded. They took their dinner in the dining-hall at a place
apart. "I want," said Elizabeth clumsily, "to go out to the flying
stages--to that seat. Here, one can say nothing...."
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