A DREAM.
My room looked dreary enough. There was no fire, and the loss of the
patch of tapestry from the wall gave the whole an air of dilapidation.
The wind howled fearfully in the chimney and about the door on the
roof, and the rain came down on the leads like the distant trampling of
many horses. But I was not in an imaginative mood. Charley was again my
trouble. I could not bear him to be so miserable. Why was I not as
miserable as he? I asked myself. Perhaps I ought to be, for although
certainly I hoped more, I could not say I believed more than he. I
wished more than ever that I did believe, for then I should be able to
help him--I was sure of that; but I saw no possible way of arriving at
belief. Where was the proof? Where even the hope of a growing
probability?
With these thoughts drifting about in my brain, like waifs which the
tide will not let go, I was poring over the mutilated forms of the
tapestry round the denuded door, with an expectation, almost a
conviction, that I should find the fragment still hanging on the wall
of the kitchen at the Moat, the very piece wanted to complete the
broken figures. When I had them well fixed in my memory, I went to bed,
and lay pondering over the several broken links which indicated some
former connection between the Moat and the Hall, until I fell asleep,
and began to dream strange wild dreams, of which the following was the
last.
I was in a great palace, wandering hither and thither, and meeting no
one. A weight of silence brooded in the place. From hall to hall I
went, along corridor and gallery, and up and down endless stairs. I
knew that in some room near me was one whose name was Athanasia,--a
maiden, I thought in my dream, whom I had known and loved for years,
but had lately lost--I knew not how. Somewhere here she was, if only I
could find her! From room to room I went seeking her. Every room I
entered bore some proof that she had just been there--but there she was
not. In one lay a veil, in another a handkerchief, in a third a glove;
and all were scented with a strange entrancing odour, which I had never
known before, but which in certain moods I can to this day imperfectly
recall. I followed and followed until hope failed me utterly, and I sat
down and wept. But while I wept, hope dawned afresh, and I rose and
again followed the quest, until I found myself in a little chapel like
that of Moldwarp Hall. It was filled with the sound of an organ,
distance-faint, and the thin music was the same as the odour of the
handkerchief which I carried in my bosom. I tried to follow the sound,
but the chapel grew and grew as I wandered, and I came no nearer to its
source. At last the altar rose before me on my left, and through the
bowed end of the aisle I passed behind it into the lady-chapel. There
against the outer wall stood a dusky ill-defined shape. Its head rose
above the sill of the eastern window, and I saw it against the rising
moon. But that and the whole figure were covered with a thick drapery;
I could see nothing of the face, and distinguish little of the form.
‘What art thou?’ I asked trembling.
‘I am Death--dost thou not know me?’ answered the figure, in a sweet
though worn and weary voice. ‘Thou hast been following me all thy life,
and hast followed me hither.’
Then I saw through the lower folds of the cloudy garment, which grew
thin and gauze-like as I gazed, a huge iron door, with folding leaves,
and a great iron bar across them.
‘Art thou at thine own door?’ I asked. ‘Surely thy house cannot open
under the eastern window of the church?’
‘Follow and see,’ answered the figure.
Turning, it drew back the bolt, threw wide the portals, and
low-stooping entered. I followed, not into the moonlit night, but
through a cavernous opening into darkness. If my Athanasia were down
with Death, I would go with Death, that I might at least end with her.
Down and down I followed the veiled figure, down flight after flight of
stony stairs, through passages like those of the catacombs, and again
down steep straight stairs. At length it stopped at another gate, and
with beating heart I heard what I took for bony fingers fumbling with a
chain and a bolt. But ere the fastenings had yielded, once more I heard
the sweet odour-like music of the distant organ. The same moment the
door opened, but I could see nothing for some time for the mighty
inburst of a lovely light. A fair river, brimming full, its little
waves flashing in the sun and wind, washed the threshold of the door,
and over its surface, hither and thither, sped the white sails of
shining boats, while from somewhere, clear now, but still afar, came
the sound of a great organ psalm. Beyond the river the sun was
rising--over blue Summer hills that melted into blue Summer sky. On the
threshold stood my guide, bending towards me, as if waiting for me to
pass out also. I lifted my eyes: the veil had fallen--it was my lost
Athanasia! Not one beam touched her face, for her back was to the sun,
yet her face was radiant. Trembling, I would have kneeled at her feet,
but she stepped out upon the flowing river, and with the sweetest of
sad smiles, drew the door to, and left me alone in the dark hollow of
the earth. I broke into a convulsive weeping, and awoke.