Part 11 (2/2)
”Ah!” she exclaimed, ”like me. I don't believe in dreams, either--I wish I did! But it's not in me to believe in superst.i.tions; I'm too hard--and I'm sorry for it. I have seen people who were comforted by their superst.i.tions; happy people, possessed of faith. Don't you even believe that dreams are sometimes fulfilled by chance?”
”n.o.body can deny that,” Amelius replied; ”the instances of it are too many. But for one dream fulfilled by a coincidence, there are--”
”A hundred at least that are _not_ fulfilled,” Mrs. Farnaby interposed.
”Very well. I calculate on that. See how little hope can live on! There is just the barest possibility that what I dreamed of you the other night may come to pa.s.s. It's a poor chance; but it has encouraged me to take you into my confidence, and ask you to help me.”
This strange confession--this sad revelation of despair still unconsciously deceiving itself under the disguise of hope--only strengthened the compa.s.sionate sympathy which Amelius already felt for her. ”What did you dream about me?” he asked gently.
”It's nothing to tell,” she replied. ”I was in a room that was quite strange to me; and the door opened, and you came in leading a young girl by the hand. You said, 'Be happy at last; here she is.' My heart knew her instantly, though my eyes had never seen her since the first days of her life. And I woke myself, crying for joy. Wait! it's not all told yet. I went to sleep again, and dreamed it again, and woke, and lay awake for awhile, and slept once more, and dreamed it for the third time. Ah, if I could only feel some people's confidence in three times!
No; it produced an impression on me--and that was all. I got as far as thinking to myself, there is just a chance; I haven't a creature in the world to help me; I may as well speak to him. O, you needn't remind me that there is a rational explanation of my dream. I have read it all up, in the Encyclopaedia in the library. One of the ideas of wise men is that we think of something, consciously or unconsciously, in the daytime, and then reproduce it in a dream. That's my case, I daresay.
When you were first introduced to me, and when I heard where you had been brought up, I thought directly that _she_ might have been one among the many forlorn creatures who had drifted to your Community, and that I might find her through you. Say that thought went to my bed with me--and we have the explanation of my dream. Never mind! There is my one poor chance in a hundred still left. You will remember me, Amelius, if you _should_ meet with her, won't you?”
The implied confession of her own intractable character, without religious faith to enn.o.ble it, without even imagination to refine it--the unconscious disclosure of the one tender and loving instinct in her nature still piteously struggling for existence, with no sympathy to sustain it, with no light to guide it--would have touched the heart of any man not incurably depraved. Amelius spoke with the fervour of his young enthusiasm. ”I would go to the uttermost ends of the earth, if I thought I could do you any good. But, oh, it sounds so hopeless!”
She shook her head, and smiled faintly.
”Don't say that! You are free, you have money, you will travel about in the world and amuse yourself. In a week you will see more than stay-at-home people see in a year. How do we know what the future has in store for us? I have my own idea. She may be lost in the labyrinth of London, or she may be hundreds of thousands of miles away. Amuse yourself, Amelius--amuse yourself. Tomorrow or ten years hence, you might meet with her!”
In sheer mercy to the poor creature, Amelius refused to encourage her delusion. ”Even supposing such a thing could happen,” he objected, ”how am I to know the lost girl? You can't describe her to me; you have not seen her since she was a child. Do you know anything of what happened at the time--I mean at the time when she was lost?”
”I know nothing.”
”Absolutely nothing?”
”Absolutely nothing.”
”Have you never felt a suspicion of how it happened?”
Her face changed: she frowned as she looked at him. ”Not till weeks and months had pa.s.sed,” she said, ”not till it was too late. I was ill at the time. When my mind got clear again, I began to suspect one particular person--little by little, you know; noticing trifles, and thinking about them afterwards.” She stopped, evidently restraining herself on the point of saying more.
Amelius tried to lead her on. ”Did you suspect the person--?” he began.
”I suspected him of casting the child helpless on the world!” Mrs.
Farnaby interposed, with a sudden burst of fury. ”Don't ask me any more about it, or I shall break out and shock you!” She clenched her fists as she said the words. ”It's well for that man,” she muttered between her teeth, ”that I have never got beyond suspecting, and never found out the truth! Why did you turn my mind that way? You shouldn't have done it.
Help me back again to what we were saying a minute ago. You made some objection; you said--?”
”I said,” Amelius reminded her, ”that, even if I did meet with the missing girl, I couldn't possibly know it. And I must say more than that--I don't see how you yourself could be sure of recognizing her, if she stood before you at this moment.”
He spoke very gently, fearing to irritate her. She showed no sign of irritation--she looked at him, and listened to him, attentively.
”Are you setting a trap for me?” she asked. ”No!” she cried, before Amelius could answer, ”I am not mean enough to distrust you--I forgot myself. You have innocently said something that rankles in my mind. I can't leave it where you have left it; I don't like to be told that I shouldn't recognize her. Give me time to think. I must clear this up.”
She consulted her own thoughts, keeping her eyes fixed on Amelius.
”I am going to speak plainly,” she announced, with a sudden appearance of resolution. ”Listen to this. When I banged to the door of that big cupboard of mine, it was because I didn't want you to see something on the shelves. Did you see anything in spite of me?”
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