A DREAM

The day that Ariston left, the Mater summoned me to her room to make plans for the day, and I found Lydia there, engaged in moving a bracket of beautifully wrought iron that she found too low. While I talked to the Mater I found my eyes following Lydia's movements as she stood with her back to me unscrewing the bracket from the wall. The Mater soon came to an understanding with me and left the room to attend to her household duties. I was left alone with Lydia.

She had by this time unscrewed the bracket and was holding it higher up against the wall, estimating the height, prior to fastening it in again.

"You will never be able to fasten it at that height," said I, "without a ladder."

She looked round at me, still holding the bracket against the wall, and I wished I had the art of a sculptor to immortalize her as she stood.

She smiled as she said: "How about a chair, Xenos?"

I immediately brought a chair to her.

She stepped upon it but slipped. I was holding the back of the chair, and as she slipped I put out my hands to catch her. For a moment I held her in my arms. She had stumbled in such a way that her head was thrown a little back over my shoulder, and before she could recover herself her face was so close to mine that I could have kissed her with the slightest possible movement of my face.

I thought that I had conquered the feeling which she had inspired in me the first moment I set eyes on her on Tyringham hill. But the blood, rushing through my veins, and my beating pulses, as I held her for a moment in my arms, told me that I was still hopelessly in love with her.

She seemed altogether unaware of it, for recovering her balance she laughed a little, looked at me straight in the eyes, her brows a little lifted, and her lovely lips parted by a smile.

"I slipped," she said. "Wasn't it silly of me!"

And jumping on the chair she got to work again.

I watched her work and drank deep draughts of delicious poison as I watched.

As soon as she had finished she looked at her work critically and said: "That is very much better!" and turning to me, added, "Isn't it?"

I could not help wondering whether she was as unconscious of the effect she produced as she seemed to be. But she gave me no chance of discovering, for finding I did not answer but stood there silent, like a fool, she added:

"I must be off! Au revoir!" and taking up her screwdriver and other things, went with the appearance of utter unconsciousness out of the room.

All that day my mind was haunted by her; I knew it was folly to harbor hope, and yet I harbored it fatuously; her image came in and out of my mind as the sun on a rainy day in and out of the clouds, to delight and to torment.

That evening the orchestra played a minuet of Mozart so charmingly that Lydia rose, and saying, "We really must dance to that," made a sweeping bow.

I jumped up at the challenge, and soon eight of us were on our feet. Lydia was my partner. I was so absorbed by her every movement, so entranced by the occasional touch of her ungloved hand, that I was aware of nothing else in the room. Surely, thought I, there never was a Tanagra figure to compare with hers.

When we separated for the night I was in a fever. It was useless to go to bed, and I went out into the bright cold air. I saw the light in her room and stood in front of it, cursing myself for a love-sick fool. But the cold drove me in—and to bed. For hours I tossed about, and sleep overtook me at last, but only to torture me; it played with me, threw me on my back, as it were, at one moment, only to jump me on my feet the next; and throughout it all I saw Lydia at odd intervals in every conceivable mood; now smiling and beckoning, now turning from me as though offended, and, again, treating me with indifference. But at last I seemed to have passed through a period of deep unconsciousness, for I woke suddenly to find Lydia before me more lovely than I had ever seen her. I was not surprised—although I know I ought to have been—to find her in a dress that showed her bosom, her hair hung like a curtain of gold about her; her long eyes were wet with tears, and yet there shone out of them a light so mystic and divine that I threw myself at her feet. She held out a hand to me and lifted me up. I did not know the meaning of her tears or of her graciousness, but as I rose nearer to her she smiled. In an ecstasy I touched her lips with mine; she did not withdraw them; nay, she kissed me on the brow and cheek, fond and despairing kisses, for her tears fell upon my face and they were warm.

How long did it last? Was it for a moment or for all time? A blaze of light pouring through my window roused me. I jumped out of bed and looked stupidly out on the old sugar house that Anna had converted into a studio. It was nothing but a dream.

"Nothing but a dream!" thought I exultingly. "But no one can ever deprive me of it. I have felt her kisses on my lips and her tears. All my life long that memory will belong to me—and suffice."

I sat down, weak and tired, closing my eyes to recall the vanished dream; and it came back to me, every detail of it, so vividly that I jumped up from my chair with the thought that it was not all mere fancy; something had happened, something had actually happened, of this I felt sure, and was it possible—I hardly dared entertain the thought—was it possible she had dreamed also of me?

I dressed automatically, breakfasted automatically, strolled automatically about the grounds. I must see Lydia. I returned to the house, asked the Mater where Lydia was, and was told that she could be found in the room where she had been the previous morning. I almost ran there, and, on opening the door, saw her seated in a high-backed oak chair, very erect, with her hair about her and something resembling tears in her eyes as I had seen her in my dream. She had tapestry in her hands, but they rested idly in her lap. She did not move when I entered. She seemed to be expecting me.

I advanced toward her slowly with something like awe in my heart.

"Did you have a dream in the night?" I at last summoned courage to ask.

She did not answer, and the look in her eyes baffled me.

"Did you dream of me?" I asked huskily—almost aghast.

Still she said nothing but kept fixed upon me her inscrutable eyes.

I hardly dared to go on, but in my folly I continued.

"Did you"—stammered I—but I could not put my question in words.

Tears sprang to her eyes, and she sat there just as I had seen her in my dream, save that she wore the usual chiton.

I was in an anguish of suspense, but it came to an end, for she shook her head sadly.

"Don't!" she said. "Don't!"

I fell at her feet and buried my head in her lap. She did not shrink from me. On the contrary, I felt her hand stroke my head, and I knew it was not love but compassion.

I knelt there a full minute, but even to the luxury of grief I had not the right to surrender. So I rose abruptly. I took her hand, kissed it, held it for a moment in mine, and said:

"I shall not intrude on you again, Lydia; I love you consumedly, but I shall not intrude on you again."

And laying her hand gently upon her lap I turned abruptly and left the room.

Next day I left Tyringham.

Almost the entire population of the farm—save only Lydia, her mother, and the few farm hands necessary to care for the stock—and these last had their holiday later—repaired to New York. Most of them went to the building in which lived Anna's family. Ariston and I returned to our old quarters.