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.