ANOTHER DREAM.
The excitement of having something to do had helped me over the
morning, and the pleasure of thinking of what I had done helped me
through half the journey; but before I reached home I was utterly
exhausted. Then I had to drive round by the farm, and knock up Mrs
Herbert and Styles.
I could not bear the thought of my own room, and ordered a fire in my
grandmother’s, where they soon got me into bed. All I remember of that
night is the following dream.
I found myself at the entrance of the ice-cave. A burning sun beat on
my head, and at my feet flowed the brook which gathered its life from
the decay of the ice. I stooped to drink; but, cool to the eye and hand
and lips, it yet burned me within like fire. I would seek shelter from
the sun inside the cave. I entered, and knew that the cold was all
around me; I even felt it; but somehow it did not enter into me. My
brain, my very bones, burned with fire. I went in and in. The blue
atmosphere closed around me, and the colour entered into my soul till
it seemed dyed with the potent blue. My very being swam and floated in
a blue atmosphere of its own. My intention--I can recall it
perfectly--was but to walk to the end, a few yards, then turn and again
brave the sun; for I had a dim feeling of forsaking my work, of playing
truant, or of being cowardly in thus avoiding the heat. Something else
too was wrong, but I could not clearly tell what. As I went on, I began
to wonder that I had not come to the end. The gray walls yet rose about
me, and ever the film of dissolution flowed along their glassy faces to
the runnel below; still before me opened the depth of blue atmosphere,
deepening as I went. After many windings, the path began to branch, and
soon I was lost in a labyrinth of passages, of which I knew not why I
should choose one rather than another. It was useless now to think of
returning. Arbitrarily I chose the narrowest way, and still went on.
A discoloration of the ice attracted my attention, and as I looked it
seemed to retreat into the solid mass. There was something not ice
within it, which grew more and more distinct as I gazed, until at last
I plainly distinguished the form of my grandmother lying as then when
my aunt made me touch her face. A few yards further on lay the body of
my uncle, as I saw him in his coffin. His face was dead white in the
midst of the cold clear ice, his eyes closed, and his arms straight by
his side. He lay like an alabaster king upon his tomb. It _was_ he, I
thought, but he would never speak to me more--never look at me---never
more awake. There lay all that was left of him--the cold frozen memory
of what he had been, and would never be again. I did not weep. I only
knew somehow in my dream that life was all a wandering in a frozen
cave, where the faces of the living were dark with the coming
corruption, and the memories of the dead, cold and clear and hopeless
evermore, alone were lovely.
I walked further; for the ice might possess yet more of the past--all
that was left me of life. And again I stood and gazed, for, deep
within, I saw the form of Charley--at rest now, his face bloodless, but
not so death-like as my uncle’s. His hands were laid palm to palm over
his bosom, and pointed upwards, as if praying for comfort where comfort
was none: here at least were no flickerings of the rainbow fancies of
faith and hope and charity! I gazed in comfortless content for a time
on the repose of my weary friend, and then went on, inly moved to see
what further the ice of the godless region might hold. Nor had I
wandered far when I saw the form of Mary, lying like the rest, only
that her hands were crossed on her bosom. I stood, wondering to find
myself so little moved. But when the ice drew nigh me, and would have
closed around me, my heart leaped for joy; and when the heat of my
lingering life repelled it, my heart sunk within me, and I said to
myself: ‘Death will not have me. I may not join her even in the land of
cold forgetfulness: I may not even be nothing _with_ her.’ The tears
began to flow down my face, like the thin veil of water that kept ever
flowing down the face of the ice; and as I wept, the water before me
flowed faster and faster, till it rippled in a sheet down the icy wall.
Faster and yet faster it flowed, falling, with the sound as of many
showers, into the runnel below, which rushed splashing and gurgling
away from the foot of the vanishing wall. Faster and faster it flowed,
until the solid mass fell in a foaming cataract, and swept in a torrent
across the cave. I followed the retreating wall through the seething
water at its foot. Thinner and thinner grew the dividing mass; nearer
and nearer came the form of my Mary. ‘I shall yet clasp her,’ I cried;
‘her dead form will kill me, and I too shall be inclosed in the
friendly ice. I shall not be with her, alas! but neither shall I be
without her, for I shall depart into the lovely nothingness.’ Thinner
and thinner grew the dividing wall. The skirt of her shroud hung like a
wet weed in the falling torrent. I kneeled in the river, and crept
nearer with outstretched arms: when the vanishing ice set the dead form
free, it should rest in those arms--the last gift of the
life-dream--for then, surely, I _must_ die. ‘Let me pass in the agony
of a lonely embrace!’ I cried. As I spoke she moved. I started to my
feet, stung into life by the agony of a new hope. Slowly the ice
released her, and gently she rose to her feet. The torrents of water
ceased--they had flowed but to set her free. Her eyes were still
closed, but she made one blind step towards me, and laid her left hand
on my head, her right hand on my heart. Instantly, body and soul, I was
cool as a Summer eve after a thunder-shower. For a moment, precious as
an aeon, she held her hands upon me--then slowly opened her eyes. Out
of them flashed the living soul of my Athanasia. She closed the lids
again slowly over the lovely splendour; the water in which we stood
rose around us; and on its last billow she floated away through the
winding passage of the cave. I sought to follow her, but could not. I
cried aloud and awoke.
But the burning heat had left me; I felt that I had passed a crisis,
and had begun to recover--a conviction which would have been altogether
unwelcome, but for the poor shadow of a reviving hope which accompanied
it. Such a dream, come whence it might, could not but bring comfort
with it. The hope grew, and was my sole medicine.
Before the evening I felt better, and, though still very feeble,
managed to write to Marston, letting him know I was safe, and
requesting him to forward any letters that might arrive.
The next day, I rose, but was unable to work. The very thought of
writing sickened me. Neither could I bear the thought of returning to
London. I tried to read, but threw aside book after book, without being
able to tell what one of them was about. If for a moment I seemed to
enter into the subject, before I reached the bottom of the page, I
found I had not an idea as to what the words meant or whither they
tended. After many failures, unwilling to give myself up to idle
brooding, I fortunately tried some of the mystical poetry of the
seventeenth century. The difficulties of that I found rather stimulate
than repel me; while, much as there was in the form to displease the
taste, there was more in the matter to rouse the intellect. I found
also some relief in resuming my mathematical studies: the abstraction
of them acted as an anodyne. But the days dragged wearily.
As soon as I was able to get on horseback, the tone of mind and body
began to return. I felt as if into me some sort of animal healing
passed from Lilith; and who can tell in how many ways the lower animals
may not minister to the higher?
One night I had a strange experience. I give it without argument,
perfectly aware that the fact may be set down to the disordered state
of my physical nature, and that without injustice.
I had not for a long time thought about one of the questions which had
so much occupied Charley and myself--that of immortality. As to any
communication between the parted, I had never, during his life,
pondered the possibility of it, although I had always had an
inclination to believe that such intercourse had in rare instances
taken place. Former periods of the world’s history, when that blinding
self-consciousness which is the bane of ours was yet undeveloped, must,
I thought, have been far more favourable to its occurrence. Anyhow I
was convinced that it was not to be gained by effort. I confess that,
in the unthinking agony of grief after Charley’s death, many a time
when I woke in the middle of the night and could sleep no more, I sat
up in bed and prayed him, if he heard me, to come to me, and let me
tell him the truth--for my sake to let me know, at least, that he
lived, for then I should be sure that one day all would be well. But if
there was any hearing, there was no answer. Charley did not come; the
prayer seemed to vanish in the darkness; and my more self-possessed
meditations never justified the hope of any such being heard.
One night I was sitting in my grannie’s room, which, except my uncle’s,
was now the only one I could bear to enter. I had been reading for some
time very quietly, but had leaned back in my chair, and let my thoughts
go wandering whither they would, when all at once I was possessed by
the conviction that Charley was near me. I saw nothing, heard nothing;
of the recognized senses of humanity not one gave me a hint of a
presence; and yet my whole body was aware--so, at least, it seemed--of
the proximity of another _I_. It was as if some nervous region
commensurate with my frame, were now for the first time revealed by
contact with an object suitable for its apprehension. Like Eliphaz, I
felt the hair of my head stand up--not from terror, but simply, as it
seemed, from the presence and its strangeness. Like others also of whom
I have read, who believed themselves in the presence of the
disembodied, I could not speak. I tried, but as if the medium for sound
had been withdrawn, and an empty gulf lay around me, no word followed,
although my very soul was full of the cry--_Charley! Charley!_ And
alas! in a few moments, like the faint vanishing of an unrealized
thought, leaving only the assurance that something half-born from out
the unknown had been there, the influence faded and died. It passed
from me like the shadow of a cloud, and once more I knew but my poor
lonely self, returning to its candles, its open book, its burning fire.