Chapter XVI: A Feverish Dream

THE sweet dusk of a summer night was fast stealing over my old village, when I took my way through the beautiful lanes once more.

When I had given up my ticket, and turned away from the quiet station, I was distinctly conscious of a strange confusion of ideas. I could not remember the name of the old inn which had been familiar to me as a child; nor could I recall the place where it stood. Was it not somewhere on the outskirts of the village? Was it at the top or at the bottom of the straggling street?

Perhaps if I were too stupid to find the inn—where I had intended to pass the night—I might manage to drag myself to the rectory. Do what I would, tax my brain to the uttermost, I could not tell whether the rector's aunt were living or dead. Yet I could plainly recollect happy hours spent in the study of the kind bachelor rector, who had allowed me to turn over his books to my heart's content. The good old aunt had been his housekeeper for many a peaceful year, and little Louie was always her chief favourite. Would she greet me with a kiss and blessing, and lead me to rest in the pleasant guest chamber to-night?

Alas! The kind old maiden lady had been sleeping in her appointed corner of the churchyard for two years and more; and the rector, influenced by Lady Waterville, had been much offended by my imprudent marriage. But, in my present confused state, I could not tell who was living and who was dead.

The fragrance of honeysuckle, rich and over-powering, greeted me as I passed along the lane. I stopped to gather some of the sprays, wet with dew, that flung their blossoms lavishly over the hedge.

Miss Drury had always been fond of honeysuckle. I suddenly determined to gather a good handful and carry it to the rectory. Then I would ask for her, and put the flowers into her hands, and tell her that little Louie had come back, sick and weary, to beg for a night's rest.

Feeling almost glad again, I broke off cluster after cluster, softly singing an old song to myself all the while. It was a song about the fleeting joys of childhood, and the little lovers who came with their simple gifts to win the heart of the merry child. Quite suddenly, while I was singing it, I remembered another lover, older and sadder, who had won me with the magic of his melancholy Spanish eyes, and whispered words of sad yearning. And then I burst out into a wild sob which put an end to the song.

Carrying my light burden of flowers, I went onward through the old lanes, quietly weeping. But the sweet breath of the fields, and the calm of the deepening dusk, tranquillised my spirit, and made me even as a little child.

Still pressing on, and still trying vainly to disentangle my brain from the web that was wound about it, I found myself at the end of the lane. It opened out upon a space of green sward, and then began to narrow again. But on my right, in the clear twilight, arose the familiar outline of a massive tower; and, protected by a low flint wall, were certain dark yews, whose evening whisper recalled other childish memories. On the left were more trees, beeches and sycamores, and a great cedar which stood as a patriarch among his brethren. I knew those trees quite well. The cedar boughs darkened the study window where the rector sat to write his sermons, and shadowed that very "guest chamber" wherein I hoped to sleep to-night.

And, indeed, it was time for me to go to sleep. I was so tired that my limbs seemed to be clogged with iron fetters, and my feet found it hard to keep to a straight line. The gate of the rectory garden stood wide open, and the friendly old trees rustled a welcome as I passed under their boughs and made my way, feebly and unsteadily, to the house door.

After some searching, I found the bell-handle, hidden somewhere in the thick ivy leaves, and gave it a pull. A muffled peal met my dull ears, and at length there were footsteps, and the heavy oaken door slowly opened. I was conscious of a dim light shining out of a dark entry, and of the face of an elderly woman-servant, whose eyes looked inquisitively into mine.

Gathering up all my forces, I spoke in a clear voice, eager to make myself known and understood at once.

"I want to see Miss Drury. Please go and tell her that Louie Coverdale has brought her some honeysuckle, and ask her to come quickly."

"Lord, have mercy upon us!" ejaculated the woman, in great dismay. And then she disappeared for a moment, and her trembling voice went echoing through the long passages of the old house, while I, faint and weary, stood leaning against the post of the door.

A man came out next, a venerable man, with delicate features and snow-white hair; and at the sight of him, I broke out into an exceeding bitter cry.

"You are the rector," I wailed, "and you are angry with me. If Miss Drury would come, she would understand everything. Why don't you send for her? Why is she not here?"

Even while I was pouring out these wild words, I felt the rector's hands upon my arm, and I was drawn gently indoors and nearer to the light. But somehow the kind hands seemed not to be strong enough to hold me, and the light melted into darkness. There came a sound in my ears like the roaring of many waters, and then I knew no more.

Once or twice I was vaguely aware that one or two people were busy about me, and that I was in great pain of body and trouble of mind. But nothing was clear and plain. And once I dreamed a feverish dream of the house in the dreary London street where Ronald had lain sick unto death; and I thought that he was really dead, and that I was dying and going straight to him.

How long these strange fancies lasted I do not know. It seemed to me that I was a long while in a land of phantoms, where the dead and the living drifted about together; and their words had no meaning, their forms no substance. But at last I awoke, and the waking was as bewildering as the dreams had been.