THE DREAM
Even Bobby breathed a sigh of relief when that Christmas Day came to
an end and she settled down to another night on the couch in
Matilda's room. She had not seen Silas again though she had heard
his step in the yard and had known that he was attending to her
duties according to his promise. Somehow it had seemed best to leave
him alone and let him have his way. She had no strength for argument.
Matilda's cold was better, and the bronchial symptoms had almost
subsided. She was thankful that this was so, but for some reason
Matilda was not. She observed peevishly that she supposed now she
would be left to her own devices to get over the attack as best she
could, and for a good hour Bobby had to lie and listen to her
plaints. But she talked herself to sleep at last, and peace
descended. Bobby also sank into slumber.
She awoke very suddenly about one o'clock with a curious feeling of
having been aroused, though she was not aware of any sound which
could have disturbed her. The fire was burning evenly and slowly;
she had stoked it scientifically before lying down, and it would not
need attention for some time. Matilda was sleeping peacefully as she
had slept for the past two hours, and the whole house seemed quiet
and normal. Yet she found herself fully awake and conscious
throughout her whole being that something had happened to make her
so. Some influence--it might have been telepathy--had stirred her
sleeping brain, and she was alert and listening, just as though a
voice had spoken in the room.
She sat up, gazing all about her into the shadows. The nightlight on
the table beside Matilda's bed threw a small ghostly circle of light.
By it she saw her sister's sleeping face, its beautiful outline
flawless against the pillow, unmarred by the fretting seams of her
daily life; and for many moments she remained motionless, watching it
with eyes of deep compassion. Was it something in Matilda that had
called to her--some memory of their past fashioned by a dream?
She could not tell, yet as she watched, memories arose within her of
those girlish days that they had shared together, inseparable
companions and confidantes, and something of the old devotion stirred
in her heart. Had she begun to grow hard of late in her dealings
with Matilda? Was the strenuous life she led making her curt and
unsympathetic? With Rosemary also, was she so sacrificing herself to
supply the needs of the body as to have no time left to provide for
those of the soul?
A sharp pang that was like a physical stab went through her, and she
put a hand to her throat. Had she indeed failed them both, while
giving them all that she had?
Her thoughts left Matilda to return to her younger and infinitely
more precious charge. She lay down again in the dimness, brooding
tenderly over her beloved one, striving with anxious foreboding to
pierce the future. But weariness came upon her as she lay, and her
thoughts grew confused and fantastic. She drifted once more into
sleep.
For a space she seemed to hover on the edge of a deep repose, then
those thoughts of hers became active again, and as though a fire had
kindled at the back of her brain she saw them take monstrous shape,
like shadows flung upon a wall. Vivid yet strangely distorted, her
vision grew, till the face of Rosemary rose before her, and she gazed
spell-bound, as one who looks into the future. Such was her dream,
she saw naught but that girlish face; yet was she tragically aware of
other things about it and beyond, shapes that came and went in
indistinguishable confusion upon that lurid screen, voices that
seemed to mock and die away ere she could grasp their meaning.
But through it all remained the clear vision of her darling's face,
and on that face she read the interpretation of her dream as though
it had been words upon a scroll.
At first, it was the Rosemary she knew, the gay, careless girl with
the laughing eyes that looked down upon her, but very gradually it
changed. She saw a curious troubled wonder dawn, an incredulous
expression of disillusionment through which the laughter still sought
to linger. Trembling, she watched the laughter fade, wiped out as it
were by an unseen, ruthless hand. And in its place she saw fear--a
startled, swift-rising horror--grow, dilating the innocent eyes,
driving out the last lingering gaiety of youth.
When that happened she tried to rise and go to her, but, as though
iron fetters bound her, she was powerless to move. She could only
lie and watch,--see the horror turn to anguish, to a tortured
fruitless striving to escape, finally fading to a dreadful grey ness
of despair more terrible than suffering itself.
And through it all she was conscious of forms and voices, sometimes
near, sometimes far, never wholly distinguishable, like the
scarcely-seen background of a tapestry upon which a vivid tragedy was
portrayed.
In the end came darkness, and with it the urgent need to fight
against her bonds. The awful inertia was still upon her, but she
struggled against it in a sort of frenzy, freeing first one limb and
then another, until at last she burst upwards like a diver rising to
the surface, and found herself on her feet and gasping in the middle
of the room.
At the same instant came Matilda's voice, fretfully distinct,
banishing her terrors. "Oh dear, oh dear, Bobby! What is the
matter? Are you quite mad, I wonder?"
With a swift effort Bobby collected herself; but she was cold from
head to foot and trembling violently.
"It's quite all right, Matilda. I am so sorry. Go to sleep again!"
"I haven't been asleep yet," complained Matilda. "You've been
moaning in your sleep in the most horrible way. I do wish you would
show a little more consideration. It really is most unfair."
"I'm sorry, dear," Bobby reiterated meekly. "I'll make up the fire,
shall I, and then you won't be disturbed again?"
But Matilda, now that she was aroused, wanted more than that in the
way of attention. The bed needed a thorough rearranging. She must
have _eau-de-cologne_ for her head. Her feet were cold. Would Bobby
please reheat the water in her bottle? Also, a little warm milk
might be a help to her since it was so evidently going to be a
sleepless night.
Without a word, Bobby set herself to satisfy these various needs,
well knowing that it was the only way to secure peace. For nearly
half-an-hour she busied herself with ministrations to her sister, and
though her trembling ceased her heart was icy-cold within her. She
felt as though it were a vision and not a dream upon which she had
gazed.
When all was done at length, and Matilda, unable to think of any
further needs, was actually growing drowsy again, she sat down before
the newly-replenished fire and tried to draw a little warmth into her
being.
But the inner coldness persisted. Her very soul felt ice-bound. And
when presently Matilda's quiet breathing announced the fact that she
slept, she rose very stealthily and crept to the door. She knew that
she would never melt that awful chill until she had satisfied herself
that Rosemary was safe.
The door creaked on its hinges as she opened it, but Matilda did not
awake. She left it unlatched and stole out into the dark passage.
Rosemary's room was at the end, and as she felt her way towards it,
she had a sudden shock. There was a faint streak of light visible
under the door.
For a moment the discovery almost overwhelmed her. She stopped,
unconsciously clutching at her heart. Then, controlling herself, she
crept on again. The child must have fallen asleep with her light
still burning. She would slip into the room and put it out without
disturbing her.
She reached the door and felt for the latch. Softly she raised it
and pushed. The door resisted her. Once again it was locked against
her.
She lowered the latch again and paused, uncertain. What should she
do? There was no movement to be heard in the room. Or stay! Was
there the sound of a caught breath--a stealthy rustle--the faint
creak of a board pressed by a bare foot?
It was possible that she imagined these things. She knew that her
nerves were wrought up to a pitch that might easily cause
self-deception. But the locked door troubled her. She felt she
could not go back to her own couch without satisfying herself that
Rosemary slept. And there was the danger of a flickering candle also
to be considered. Rosemary was often careless in little things, and
it might be close to the bed.
The thought tortured her; yet still she stood in the icy passage,
hesitating, unwilling to take action, unwilling to retreat. She had
begun to shiver uncontrollably again. A gust of wind blew whistling
round the old house and she felt chilled to the bone.
"I must go," she whispered to herself, but still she lingered, the
memory of her vision holding her.
Finally, rousing herself to effort, she raised her hand in the
darkness and softly tapped.
In that instant the light in the room went out. There was no sound
save that very faint tapping of hers and the distant moan of the wind
as it passed. But she stood in total blackness. The streak had
vanished.
For a space she remained there motionless, straining every nerve to
listen. But utter silence reigned beyond that locked door, and she
even began to ask herself at length if her senses had tricked her
after all and the light had been but an illusion. She knew in her
heart that it was not so, but she had no proof to offer. In any case
it seemed that Rosemary slept, and the light--if indeed it had been
there--must have been extinguished by the draught. Again she became
aware of intense cold--such cold as preyed upon her very vitality
itself--the cold that had gripped her that day in the yard when Silas
had come to the rescue. The thought of him swept over her with a
rush of feeling for which she could not account, and suddenly her
eyes were full of tears.
"I must go," she said to herself again, and turning began to grope
her way back.
There was nothing to keep her there. Rosemary evidently slept, and
it would not be kind to disturb her. She would speak to her in the
morning about the locking of her door, but till then she must be
content. She went back to the fire and huddled over it, shivering
intermittently, until at length utter weariness overcame the cold,
and she crept to her couch and slept.