THE LAST DREAM
They had been looking for him in Bains for some time. His mother, in
spite of her anger, had been alarmed when he did not return, and had had
search made for him all over Summering. The whole place was aroused, and
people were making every sort of dreadful conjecture when a man brought
the news that he had seen the child at the ticket-office. Inquiry at the
railroad station of course, brought out that Edgar had bought a ticket
to Bains, and his mother, without hesitation, took the very next train
after him, telegraphing first to his father and to his grandmother.
The family held on to Edgar, but not forcibly. On the contrary, they
led him with an air of suppressed triumph into the front room. And how
odd it was that he did not mind their reproaches, because he saw
happiness and love in their eyes. And even their assumed anger lasted
only a second or two. His grandmother was embracing him again tearfully,
no one spoke of his bad conduct, and he felt the wondrousness of the
protection surrounding him.
The maid took off his coat and brought him a warmer one, and his
grandmother asked if he did not want something to eat. They pestered him
with their inquiries and their tenderness, but stopped questioning him
when they noticed how embarrassed he was. He experienced deliciously the
sensation that he had so despised before of being wholly a child, and he
was ashamed of his arrogance of the last few days when he had wanted to
dispense with it all and exchange it for the deceptive joy of
solitariness.
The telephone rang in the next room. He heard his mother's voice in
snatches, "Edgar--back. Got here--last train," and he marvelled that she
had not flown at him in a passion. She had put her arms round him, with
a peculiarly constrained expression in her eyes.
He began to regret his conduct more and more, and he would have liked to
extricate himself from his grandmother's and aunt's tenderness, to run
to his mother and beg her pardon and tell her, by herself, oh, so
humbly, that he wanted to be a child again and obey her. But when he
rose, with a perfectly gentle movement, his grandmother asked in alarm
where he was going. He felt ashamed. If he made a single step it
frightened them. He had frightened them all terribly, and they were
afraid he was going to run away again. How could he make them understand
that nobody regretted his flight more than he did?
The table was set, supper had been prepared for him hurriedly. His
grandmother sat beside him without removing her eyes from him. She and
his aunt and the maid held him fast in a quiet circle, the warmth of
which calmed him wonderfully, and the only disturbing thought was that
of his mother's absence from the room. If only she could have guessed
how humble he was she would certainly have come in.
From outside came the sound of a cab drawing up at the door. Everyone
gave a start, so that Edgar also was upset. His grandmother went out, he
could hear loud voices in the hall, and then it struck him it must be
his father who had arrived. He observed timidly that he had been left
alone in the room. To be alone even for those few moments made him
nervous. His father was a stern man; he was the one person Edgar really
feared. He listened. His father seemed to be excited; his voice was
loud and expressed annoyance. Every now and then came his grandmother's
and his mother's voices in mollifying tones, in attempts, evidently, to
make him adopt a milder attitude. But his father's voice remained
hard--hard as his foot-treads now coming nearer and nearer, and now
stopping short at the door, which was next pulled violently open.
The boy's father was a large man, and Edgar felt so very, very thin
beside him as he entered the room, nervous and genuinely angry, it
seemed.
"What got into your head to run away? How could you give your mother
such a fright?" His voice was wrathful and his hands made a wild
movement.
Edgar's mother came in and stood behind her husband, her face in shadow.
Edgar made no reply. He felt he had to justify himself, but how tell the
story of the way they had lied to him and how his mother had slapped
him? Would his father understand?
"Well, where's your tongue? What was the matter? You may tell me, you
needn't be afraid. You must have had some good reason for running away.
Did anyone do anything to you?"
Edgar hesitated. At the recollection of the events in Summering, his
anger began to flare up again, and he was about to bring his charge
against his mother when he saw--his heart stood still--that she was
making an odd gesture behind his father's back. At first he did not
comprehend. But he kept his eyes fixed on her and noticed that the
expression of her face was beseeching. Then very, very softly she lifted
her finger to her mouth in sign that he should keep everything to
himself.
The child was conscious of a great wild joy pouring in a warm wave over
his whole body. He knew she was giving him the secret to guard and that
a human destiny was hanging in the balance on his child's lips. Filled
with a jubilant pride that she reposed confidence in him he suddenly
became possessed by a desire for self-sacrifice. He magnified his own
wrong-doing in order to show how much of a man he had grown to be.
Collecting his wits, he said:
"No, no. There was no good reason for my running away. Mamma was very
kind to me, but I didn't behave myself, and I was ashamed, and so--and
so I ran away."
The father looked at his son in amazement. Such a confession was the
last thing he expected to hear. His wrath was disarmed.
"Well, if you're sorry, then it's all right, and we won't say any more
about it to-day. You'll be careful in the future, though, not to do
anything of the sort again." He paused and looked at Edgar, and his
voice was milder as he went on. "How pale you are, boy! But I believe
you've grown taller in this short while. I hope you won't be guilty of
such childish behavior again because really you're not a child any more,
and you ought to be sensible."
Edgar, the whole time, had kept looking at his mother. Something
peculiar seemed to be glowing in her eyes, or was it the reflection of
the light? No, it was something new, her eyes were moist, and there was
a smile on her lips that said "Thank you" to him.
They sent him to bed, but he was not now distressed at being left alone.
He had such a wealth of things to think over. All the agony of the past
days was dissipated by the tremendous sense of his first experience of
life. He felt happy in a mysterious presentiment of future experiences.
Outside, the trees were rustling in the gloomy night, but he was not
scared. He had lost all impatience at having to wait for life now that
he knew how rich it was. For the first time that day, it seemed to him,
he had seen life naked, no longer veiled behind the thousand lies of
childhood he saw it in its complete, fearful, voluptuous beauty. Never
had he supposed that days could be crowded so full of transitions from
sorrow to joy and back again, and it made him happy to think there were
many more such days in store for him and that a whole life was waiting
to reveal its mystery to him. A first inkling had come to him of the
diversity of life. For the first time, he thought, he understood men's
beings, that they heeded each other even when they seemed to be
inimical, and that it was very sweet to be loved by them. He was
incapable of thinking of anything or anybody with hate. He regretted
nothing and had a sense of gratitude even to the baron, his bitterest
enemy, because it was he who had opened the door for him to this world
of dawning emotions.
It was very sweet to be lying in the dark thinking thoughts that were
mingled vaguely with dreams and were lapsing almost into sleep.
Was it a dream or did Edgar really hear the door open and someone creep
softly into his room? He was too sleepy to open his eyes and look. Then
he felt a breath upon his face and the touch of another face, soft and
warm and gentle, against his, and he knew it was his mother who was
kissing him and stroking his hair. He felt her kisses and her tears, and
responded to her caresses. He took them as reconciliation and gratitude
for his silence. It was not until many years later that he really
understood these silent tears and knew they were a vow, of this woman
verging on middle age, to dedicate herself henceforth to her child and
renounce adventure and all desire on her own behalf. They were a
farewell. He did not know that she was thanking him for more than his
silence. She was grateful that he had rescued her from a barren
experience, and in these caresses was bequeathing him the bitter-sweet
legacy of her love for his future life. Nothing of all this did the
child lying there comprehend, but he felt it was blissful to be so loved
and that by this love he was already entangled in the great secret of
the world.
When she had withdrawn her hand from his head and her lips from his
lips, and with a light swish of her skirts had left the room, something
warm remained behind, a breath upon Edgar's mouth. And a seductive
longing came upon him to feel such soft lips upon his and to be so
tenderly embraced often and often again.
But this divination of the great secret, so longed for, was already
clouded over by sleep. Once again all the happenings of the past hours
flitted through Edgar's mind, once again the leaves in the book of his
childhood were turned alluringly, then the child fell asleep, and the
profounder dream of his life began.
* * * * *
Typographical errors corrected by the etext transcriber:
actualy=> actually {pg 23}
aimlesly=> aimlessly {pg 24}
chilren=> children {pg 45}
cry or rebuke=> cry of rebuke {pg 48}