He did not know when he fell asleep and when he began to dream;his dream was so real that he did not feel as if he were dreaming.He remembered afterward how intensely wide awake and alert he had thought he was. He thought that as he sat and breathed in the scent of the late roses and listened to the lapping of the water at his feet he heard a voice calling. It was sweet and clear and happy and far away. It seemed very far, but he heard it as distinctly as if it had been at his very side.
“Archie!Archie!Archie!” it said, and then again,sweeter and clearer than before, “Archie!Archie!”
He thought he sprang to his feet not even startled.It was such a real voice and it seemed so natural that he should hear it.
“Lilias!Lilias!” he answered. “Lilias!where are you?”
“In the garden,” it came back like a sound from a golden flute. “In the garden!”
And then the dream ended. But he did not awaken.He slept soundly and sweetly all through the lovely night.When he did awake at last it was brilliant morning and a servant was standing staring at him. He was an Italian servant and was accustomed, as all the servants of the villa were, to accepting without question any strange thing his foreign master might do. No one ever knew when he would go out or come in or where he would choose to sleep or if he would roam about the garden or lie in the boat on the lake all night. The man held a salver with some letters on it and he waited quietly until Mr. Craven took them. When he had gone away Mr. Craven sat a few moments holding them in his hand and looking at the lake. His strange calm was still upon him and something more—a lightness as if the cruel thing which had been done had not happened as he thought—as if something had changed. He was remembering the dream—the real—real dream.
“In the garden!” he said, wondering at himself. “In the garden!But the door is locked and the key is buried deep.”
When he glanced at the letters a few minutes later he saw that the one lying at the top of the rest was an English letter and came from Yorkshire. It was directed in a plain woman’s hand but it was not a hand he knew. He opened it, scarcely thinking of the writer, but the first words attracted his attention at once.
“_Dear Sir:_
I am Susan Sowerby that made bold to speak to you once on the moor.It was about Miss Mary I spoke.I will make bold to speak again. Please, sir,I would come home if I was you.I think you would be glad to come and—if you will excuse me,sir—I think your lady would ask you to come if she was here.
Your obedient servant,
Susan Sowerby.”
Mr. Craven read the letter twice before he put it back in its envelope.He kept thinking about the dream.
“I will go back to Misselthwaite,” he said. “Yes, I’ll go at once.”
And he went through the garden to the villa and ordered Pitcher to prepare for his return to England.
In a few days he was in Yorkshire again,and on his long railroad journey he found himself thinking of his boy as he had never thought in all the ten years past. During those years he had only wished to forget him. Now, though he did not intend to think about him, memories of him constantly drifted into his mind. He remembered the black days when he had raved like a madman because the child was alive and the mother was dead. He had refused to see it, and when he had gone to look at it at last it had been, such a weak wretched thing that everyone had been sure it would die in a few days. But to the surprise of those who took care of it the days passed and it lived and then everyone believed it would be a deformed and crippled creature.
He had not meant to be a bad father,but he had not felt like a father at all.He had supplied doctors and nurses and luxuries,but he had shrunk from the mere thought of the boy and had buried himself in his own misery. The first time after a year’s absence he returned to Misselthwaite and the small miserable looking thing languidly and indifferently lifted to his face the great gray eyes with black lashes round them, so like and yet so horribly unlike the happy eyes he had adored, he could not bear the sight of them and turned away pale as death. After that he scarcely ever saw him except when he was asleep, and all he knew of him was that he was a confirmed invalid, with a vicious, hysterical, half-insane temper. He could only be kept from furies dangerous to himself by being given his own way in every detail.
All this was not an uplifting thing to recall,but as the train whirled him through mountain passes and golden plains the man who was “coming alive” began to think in a new way and he thought long and steadily and deeply.
“Perhaps I have been all wrong for ten years,” he said to himself. “Ten years is a long time.It may be too late to do anything—quite too late.What have I been thinking of!”
Of course this was the wrong Magic—to begin by saying “too late.” Even Colin could have told him that.But he knew nothing of Magic—either black or white.This he had yet to learn.He wondered if Susan Sowerby had taken courage and written to him only because the motherly creature had realized that the boy was much worse—was fatally ill. If he had not been under the spell of the curious calmness which had taken possession of him he would have been more wretched than ever. But the calm had brought a sort of courage and hope with it. Instead of giving way to thoughts of the worst he actually found he was trying to believe in better things.
“Could it be possible that she sees that I may be able to do him good and control him?” he thought. “I will go and see her on my way to Misselthwaite. ”
But when on his way across the moor he stopped the carriage at the cottage,seven or eight children who were playing about gathered in a group and bobbing seven or eight friendly and polite curtsies told him that their mother had gone to the other side of the moor early in the morning to help a woman who had a new baby. “Our Dickon,” they volunteered, was over at the Manor working in one of the gardens where he went several days each week.
Mr. Craven looked over the collection of sturdy little bodies and round red-cheeked faces, each one grinning in its own particular way, and he awoke to the fact that they were a healthy likable lot. He smiled at their friendly grins and took a golden sovereign from his pocket and gave it to “our ’Lizabeth Ellen” who was the oldest.
“If you divide that into eight parts there will be half a crown for each of, you,” he said.
Then amid grins and chuckles and bobbing of curtsies he drove away,leaving ecstasy and nudging elbows and little jumps of joy behind.