"Last night,Ruth,"he began,"my father came to me in a dream.You know he died when I was about twelve years old,and last night I saw him as he would have been if he had lived until now--something over sixty.His hair and beard were matted and there was the most awful expression in his eyes--it makes me shudder yet.He was in his grave clothes,dead and yet not dead.
He was suffering--there was something he was trying to say to me;something he wanted to explain.We were out here on the hill in the moonlight and I could see Miss Ainslie's house and hear the surf behind the cliff.All he could say to me was:
'Abby--Mary--Mary --Abby--she--Mary,'over and over again.Once he said 'mother.'Abby was my mother's name.
"It is terrible,"he went on."I can't understand it.There is something I must do,and I don't know what it is.A command is laid on me by the dead--there is some wrong for which I must atone.When I first awoke,I thought it was a dream,but it isn't,it's real.It seems as though that was the real world,and this--all our love and happiness,and you,were just dreams.Ican't bear it,Ruth!"
He shuddered,and she tried to comfort him,though she was cold as a marble statue and her lips moved with difficulty."Don't,dear,"she said,"It was only a dream.I've had them sometimes,so vividly that they haunted me for days and,as you say,it seemed as if that was the real world and this the dream.I know how you feel--those things aren't pleasant,but there's nothing we can do.It makes one feel so helpless.The affairs of the day are largely under our control,but at night,when the body is asleep,the mind harks back to things that have been forgotten for years.It takes a fevered fancy as a fact,and builds upon it a whole series of disasters.It gives trivial things great signif!cance and turns life upside down.Remembering it is the worst of all.""There's something I can't get at,Ruth,"he answered."It's just out of my reach.I know it's reasonable to suppose it was a dream and that it can be explained by natural causes,but I don't dream very often.""I dream every night,"she said."Sometimes they're just silly,foolish things and sometimes they're vivid and horrible realities that I can't forget for weeks.But,surely,dear,we're not foolish enough to believe in dreams?""No,I hope not,"he replied,doubtfully.
"Let's go for a little walk,"she said,"and we'll forget it."Then she told him how changed Miss Ainslie was and how she had left her,sitting aimlessly by the window."I don't think I'd better stay away long,"she concluded,"she may need me.""I won't be selfish,Ruth;we'll go back now."I'm sorry Miss Ainslie isn't well.""She said she was 'just tired'but it isn't like her to be tired.
She doesn't seem to want anybody near her,but you can sit in the garden this afternoon,if you'd like to,and I'll flit in and out like an industrious butterfly.Some new books have just come,and I'll leave them in the arbour for you.""All right,dear,and if there's anything I can do,I hope you'll tell me."As they approached the house,a brisk little man hurried out of the gate and went toward the village.
"Who's that?"asked Winfield.
"I don't know--some one who has brought something,probably.Itrust she's better."
Miss Ainslie seemed more like herself,as she moved about the house,dusting and putting the rooms in order,as was her wont.
At noon she fried a bit of chicken for Ruth,but took nothing herself except a cup of tea.
"No,deary,"she said,in answer to Ruth's anxious question,"I'm all right--don't fret about me.""Have you any pain,Miss Ainslie?"
"No,of course I haven't,you foolish child!"She tried to smile,but her white lips quivered pitifully.
In the afternoon,when she said she was cold,Ruth made a fire in the open fireplace,and wheeled Miss Ainslie's favourite chair in front of it.She drew her shawl about her shoulders and leaned back.
"I'm so comfortable,now,she said drowsily;"I think I'm going to sleep,dear."Ruth sat by her,pretending to read,but,in reality,watching her closely,until the deep,regular breathing assured her that she was asleep.She went out into the garden and found Winfield in the arbour.
"How's this patient?"she asked,kissing him lightly on the forehead.
"I'm all right,dearest,"he answered,drawing her down beside him,"and I'm ashamed of myself because I was so foolish."During the afternoon Ruth made frequent trips to the house,each time finding Miss Ainslie sound asleep.It was after six o'clock when she woke and rubbed her eyes,wonderingly.
"How long have I been asleep,Ruth?"
"All the afternoon,Miss Ainslie--do you feel better now?""Yes,I think I do.I didn't sleep last night,but it's been years since I've taken a nap in the daytime."Ruth invited Carl to supper,and made them both sit still while she prepared the simple meal,which,as he said,was "astonishingly good."He was quite himself again,but Miss Ainslie,though trying to assume her old manner,had undergone a great change.
Carl helped Ruth with the dishes,saying he supposed he might as well become accustomed to it,and,feeling the need of s!eep,went home very early.
"I'm all right,"he said to Ruth,as he kissed her at the door,"and you're just the sweetest girl in the world.Good night,darling."A chill mist came inland,and Ruth kept pine knots burning in the fireplace.They sat without other light,Miss Ainslie with her head resting upon her hand,and Ruth watching her narrowly.Now and then they spoke aimlessly,of commonplaces.
When the last train came in,Miss Ainslie raised her eyes to the silver candlestick that stood on the mantel and sighed.
"Shall I put the light in the window?"asked Ruth.
It was a long time before Miss Ainslie answered.
"No,deary,"she said sadly,"never any more."She was trying to hide her suffering,and Ruth's heart ached for her in vain.The sound of the train died away in the distance and the firelight faded.
"Ruth,"she said,in a low voice,"I am going away.""Away,Miss Ainslie?Where?"
