Produced by David Widger





A SUMMER EVENING'S DREAM

By Edward Bellamy

1898


It is a village street, with great elms on either side, while along the
middle stands another row set in a narrow strip of grassy common, so
that the street and roadway are in reality double. The dwellings on
either side are not only widely parted by the broad street, but are
still further isolated, each in its large garden of ancient fruit
trees. It is four o'clock of a sunny August afternoon, and a quiet,
Sabbath-like but for its lazy voluptuousness, broods over the scene.
No carriage, or even pedestrian, has passed for an hour. The occasional
voices of children at play in some garden, the latching of a gate far
down the street, the dying fall of a drowsy chanticleer, are but the
punctuation of the poem of summer silence that has been flowing on all
the afternoon. Upon the tree-tops the sun blazes brightly, and between
their stems are glimpses of outlying meadows, which simmer in the heat
as if about to come to a boil. But the shadowed street offers a cool
and refreshing vista to the eye, and a veritable valley of refuge to the
parched and dusty traveler along the highway.

On the broad piazza of one of the quaint old-fashioned houses, behind
a needless screen of climbing woodbine, two girls are whiling away the
afternoon. One of them is lounging in a lassy rocking-chair, while the
other sits more primly and is industriously sewing.

"I suppose you 'll be glad enough to see George when he comes to-night
to take you back to the city? I'm afraid you find it pretty dull
here," said the latter, with an intonation of uneasy responsibility
sufficiently attesting that the brilliant-looking girl opposite was a
guest.

That young lady, when addressed, was indulging in a luxurious country
yawn, an operation by no means to be hurried, but to be fully and lazily
enjoyed in all its several and long-drawn stages, and as thus practiced
a wonderfully calming and soporific relaxation wholly unknown to the
fretted denizens of cities, whose yawn is one of irritation and not of
rest. "I do so enjoy your Plainfield yawns, Lucy," she said when she
had quite finished. "Were you saying that it was a little dull? Well,
perhaps it is, but then the trees and things seem to be' enjoying
themselves so hugely that it would be selfish to make a fuss, even if it
is n't exactly my kind of fun."

"Your kind of fun is due by the six-o'clock stage, I believe."

The other laughed and said, "I wish you would n't make another allusion
to George. I think of him so much that I 'm ashamed, as it is.
I 'm sure this is a very aggravating place for an engaged girl to be
at. One gets so dreadfully sentimental with nothing to take up the
mind, especially with such monstrous moons as you have. I got fairly
frightened of the one last night. It drew me out through my eyes like a
big plaster."

"Mabel French!"

"I don't care; it did. That was just the feeling."

There was no hurry about talking, for the rich, mellow summer silence
had a body to it that prevented pauses from seeming empty, and it might
have been half an hour afterward that Mabel suddenly leaned forward,
putting her face close to the vine-trellis, and cried in a low voice,
"Who's that? Po tell me! They're the very first persons who have gone by
this afternoon, I do believe."

A pretty phaeton was slowly passing, containing an elderly gentleman and
lady.

"Oh, that is only Lawyer Morgan and old Miss Rood," replied Lucy, just
glancing up, and then down again. "They go out driving once a week
regularly, and always at about this time in the afternoon."

"They look like afternoon sort of people," said Mabel. "But why does n't
Lawyer Morgan take out his wife?"

"He has n't got any. Miss Rood comes nearest to that. Oh, no, you
needn't open your eyes; there's not a properer old maid in town, or old
bachelor either, for that matter."

"Are they relatives?"

"No, indeed."

"How long has this Platonic romance been going on, pray?"

"Oh, ever since they were young,--forty years, perhaps. I only know by
tradition, you see. It began ages before my day. They say she was very
pretty once. Old Aunty Perkins remembers that she was quite the belle of
the village as a girl. It seems strange, does n't it?"

"Tell me the whole story," said Mabel, turning round so as to face Lucy
as the phaeton passed out of sight.

"There's not much to tell. Mr. Morgan has always lived here, and so has
Miss Rood. He lives alone with a housekeeper in that fine house at the
end of the street, and she entirely alone in that little white house
over there among the apple-trees. All the people who knew them when they
were young are dead, gone away, or moved off. They are relics of a
past generation, and are really about as much shut up to each other for
sympathy as an old married couple."

"Well, why on earth are n't they married?"

"People hereabouts got tired of asking that full thirty years ago,"
replied Lucy, with a little shrug. "Even the gossips long since wore
out the subject, and I believe we have all of us forgotten that there
is anything peculiar about their relations. He calls on her two or three
times a week, and takes her out driving on pleasant days; escorts her
to places of amusement or social gatherings when either of them cares
to go, which is n't often; and wherever they are, people take it for
granted they will pair off together. He is never seen with any other
lady."

"It's very strange," said Mabel thoughtfully, "and I'm sure it's very
romantic. Queer old couple! I wonder how they really feel toward each
other, and whether they would n't like to be married?"

Awhile after she suddenly demanded, "Don't you think Miss Rood looks
like me?"

Lucy laughed at first, but upon closer inspection of the fair questioner
admitted that there might be some such resemblance as the shriveled
apples brought up from the cellar in spring bear to the plump,
rosy-cheeked beauties that went down in October.

If Mr. Morgan and Miss Rood, as they rode past, had chanced to overhear
Mabel's question why they had not married, it would have affected them
very differently. He would have been startled by the novelty of an idea
that had not occurred to him in twenty years, but the blush on her cheek
would have been one of painful consciousness.

As boy and girl they had been each other's chosen companion, and as
young man and maiden their childish preference had bloomed into a
reciprocal love. Thanks to the freedom and simplicity of village
life, they enjoyed as lovers a constant and easy familiarity and daily
association almost as complete in sympathy of mind and heart as anything
marriage could offer. There were none of the usual obstacles to incite
them to matrimony. They were never even formally engaged, so wholly did
they take it for granted that they should marry. It was so much a matter
of course that there was no hurry at all about it; and besides, so
long as they had it to look forward to, the foreground of life
was illuminated for them: it was still morning. Mr. Morgan was
constitutionally of a dreamy and unpractical turn, a creature of habits
and a victim of ruts; and as years rolled on he became more and more
satisfied with these half-friendly, half-loverlike relations. He never
found the time when it seemed an object to marry, and now, for very many
years, the idea had not even occurred to him as possible; and so far
was he from the least suspicion that Miss Rood's experience had not been
precisely similar to his own, that he often congratulated himself on the
fortunate coincidence.

Time cures much, and many years ago Miss Hood had recovered from the
first bitterness of discovering that his love had become insensibly
transformed into a very tender but perfectly peaceful friendship. No
one but him had ever touched her heart, and she had no interest in life
besides him. Since she was not to be his wife, she was glad to be his
lifelong, tender, self-sacrificing friend. So she raked the ashes over
the fire in her heart, and left him to suppose that it had gone out as
in his. Nor was she without compensation in their friendship. It was
with a delightful thrill that she felt how fully in mind and heart he
leaned and depended upon her, and the unusual and romantic character of
their relations in some degree consoled her for the disappointment of
womanly aspirations by a feeling of distinction. She was not like other
women: her lot was set apart and peculiar. She looked down upon her sex.
The conventionality of women's lives renders their vanity peculiarly
susceptible to a suggestion that their destiny is in any respect unique,
--a fact that has served the turn of many a seducer before now. To-day,
after returning from his drive with Miss Rood, Mr. Morgan had walked
in his garden, and as the evening breeze arose, it bore to his nostrils
that first indescribable flavor of autumn which warns us that the soul
of Summer has departed from her yet glowing body. He was very sensitive
to these changes of the year, and, obeying an impulse that had been
familiar to him in all unusual moods his life long, he left the house
after tea and turned his steps down the street. As he stopped at Miss
Rood's gate, Lucy, Mabel, and George Hammond were under the apple-trees
in the garden opposite.

"Look, Mabel! There's Mr. Morgan going to call on Miss Rood," said Lucy
softly.

"Oh, do look, George!" said Mabel eagerly. "That old gentleman has been
paying court to an old maid over in that little house for forty years.
And to think," she added in a lower tone, intended for his private ear,
"what a fuss you make about waiting six months!"

"Humph! You please to forget that it's easier to wait for some things
than for others. Six months of my kind of waiting, I take it, require
more patience than forty years of his--or any other man's," he added,
with increased emphasis.

"Be quiet, sir!" replied Mabel, answering his look of unruly admiration
with one of half pique. "I 'm not a sugar-plum, that's not enjoyed till
it's in the mouth. If you have n't got me now, you 'll never have me. If
being engaged isn't enough, you don't deserve to be married." And then,
seeing the blank expression with which he looked down at her, she
added with a prescient resigned-ness, "I 'm afraid, dear, you 'll be so
disappointed when we 're married, if you find this so tedious."

Lucy had discreetly wandered away, and of how they made it up there were
no witnesses. But it seems likely that they did so, for shortly after
they wandered away together down the darkening street.

Like most of the Plainfield houses, that at which Mr. Morgan turned
in stood well back from the street. At a side window, still further
sheltered from view by a gyringa-bush at the house corner, sat a little
woman with a small, pale face, the still attractive features perceptibly
sharpened by years, of which the half-gray hair bore further testimony.
The eyes, just now fixed absently upon the dusking landscape, were light
gray and a little faded, while around the lips there were crow's-feet,
especially when they were pressed together, as now, in an unsatisfied,
almost pathetic look, evidently habitual to her face when in repose.
There was withal something in her features that so reminded you of Mr.
Morgan that any one conversant with the facts of his life-romance would
have at once inferred--though by just what logic he might not be
able to explain--that this must be Miss Eood. It is well known that
long-wedded couples often gain at length a certain resemblance in
feature and manner; and although these two were not married, yet their
intimacy of a lifetime was perhaps the reason why her face bore when in
repose something of that seer-like expression which communion with the
bodiless shapes of memory had given to his.

The latching of the gate broke up her depressing reverie, and banished
the pinched and pining look from her features. Among the neighbors Miss
Rood was sometimes called a sour old maid, but the face she kept for
Mr. Morgan would never have suggested that idea to the most ill-natured
critic.

He stopped at the window, near which the walk passed to the doorway, and
stood leaning on the sill,--a tall, slender figure, stooping a
little, with smooth, scholarly face, and thin iron-gray hair. His
only noticeable feature was a pair of eyes whose expression and glow
indicated an imaginative temperament. It was pleasant to observe the
relieved restlessness in the look and manner of the two friends, as if
at the mere being in each other's presence, though neither seemed in any
haste to exchange even the words of formal greeting.

At length she said, in a tone of quiet satisfaction, "I knew you
would come, for I was sure this deathly autumn's flavor would make you
restless. Is n't it strange how it affects the nerves of memory, and
makes one sad with thinking of all the sweet, dear days that are dead?"

"Yes, yes," he answered eagerly; "I can think of nothing else. Do they
not seem wonderfully clear and near to-night? To-night, of all nights
in the year, if the figures and scenes of memory can be reëmbodied in
visible forms, they ought to become so to the eyes that strain and yearn
for them."

"What a fanciful idea, Robert!"

"I don't know that it is; I don't feel sure. Nobody understands the
mystery of this Past, or what are the conditions of existence in that
world. These memories, these forms and faces, that are so near, so
almost warm and visible that we find ourselves smiling on the vacant air
where they seem to be, are they not real and living?"

"You don't mean you believe in ghosts?"

"I am not talking of ghosts of the dead, but of ghosts of the past,--
memories of scenes or persons, whether the persons are dead or not--
of our own selves as well as others. Why," he continued, his voice
softening into a passionate, yearning tenderness, "the figure I would
give most to see just once more is yourself as a girl, as I remember you
in the sweet grace and beauty of your maidenhood. Ah, well! ah, well!"

"Don't!" she cried involuntarily, while her features contracted in
sudden pain.

In the years during which his passion for her had been cooling into a
staid friendship, his imagination had been recurring with constantly
increasing fondness and a dreamy passion to the memory of her
girlhood. And the cruelest part of it was that he so unconsciously and
unquestioningly assumed that she could not have identity enough with
that girlish ideal to make his frequent glowing references to it even
embarrassing. Generally, however, she heard and made no sign, but the
suddenness of his outburst just now had taken her off her guard.

He glanced up with some surprise at her exclamation, but was too much
interested in his subject to take much notice of it. "You know," he
said, "there are great differences in the distinctness with which we
can bring up our memories. Very well! The only question is, What is the
limit to that distinctness, or is there any? Since we know there are
such wide degrees in distinctness, the burden of proof rests on those
who would prove that those degrees stop short of any particular point.
Don't you see, then, that it might be possible to see them?" And to
enforce his meaning he laid his hand lightly on hers as it rested on the
window-seat.

She withdrew it instantly from the contact, and a slight flush tinged
her sallow cheeks. The only outward trace of her memory of their
youthful relations was the almost prudish chariness of her person by
which she indicated a sense of the line to be drawn between the former
lover and the present friend.

"Something in your look just now," he said, regarding her musingly, as
one who seeks to trace the lineaments of a dead face in a living one,
"reminds me of you as you used to sit in this very window as a girl,
and I stood just here, and we picked out stars together. There! now it's
gone;" and he turned away regretfully.

She looked at his averted face with a blank piteousness which revealed
all her secret. She would not have had him see it for worlds, but it was
a relief just for a moment to rest her features in the sad cast which
the muscles had grown tired in repressing. The autumn scent rose
stronger as the air grew damp, and he stood breathing it in, and
apparently feeling its influence like some Delphian afflatus.

"Is there anything, Mary,--is there anything so beautiful as that
light of eternity that rests on the figures of memory? Who that has once
felt it can care for the common daylight of the present any more, or
take pleasure in its prosaic groups?"

"You'll certainly catch cold standing in that wet grass; do come in and
let me shut the blinds," she said, for she had found cheerful lamplight
the best corrective for his vagaries.

So he came in and sat in his special arm-chair, and they chatted about
miscellaneous village topics for an hour. The standpoint from which they
canvassed Plainfield people and things was a peculiarly outside one.
Their circle of two was like a separate planet from which they observed
the world. Their tone was like, and yet quite unlike, that in which
a long-married couple discuss their acquaintances; for, while their
intellectual intimacy was perfect, their air expressed a constant mutual
deference and solicitude of approbation not to be confounded with the
terrible familiarity of matrimony; and at the same time they constituted
a self-sufficient circle, apart from the society around them, as man and
wife cannot. Man and wife are so far merged as to feel themselves a unit
over against society. They are too much identified to find in each other
that sense of support and countenance which requires a feeling of the
exteriority of our friend's life to our own. If these two should
marry, they would shortly find themselves impelled to seek refuge in
conventional relations with that society of which now they were calmly
independent.

At length Mr. Morgan rose and threw open the blinds. The radiance of the
full harvest-moon so flooded the room that Miss Eood was fain to blow
out the poor lamp for compassion. "Let us take a walk," he said.

The streets were empty and still, and they walked in silence, spelled by
the perfect beauty of the evening. The dense shadows of the elms lent a
peculiarly rich effect to the occasional bars and patches of moonlight
on the street floor; the white houses gleamed among their orchards; and
here and there, between the dark tree-stems, there were glimpses of
the shining surface of the broad outlying meadows, which looked like a
surrounding sea.

Miss Rood was startled to see how the witchery of the scene possessed
her companion. His face took on a set, half-smiling expression, and he
dropped her arm as if they had arrived at the place of entertainment to
which he had been escorting her. He no longer walked with measured pace,
but glided along with a certain stealthiness, peering on this side and
that down moony vistas and into shadow-bowers, as if half-expecting,
if he might step lightly enough, to catch a glimpse of some sort of
dream-people basking there.

Nor could Miss Rood herself resist the impression the moony landscape
gave of teeming with subtle forms of life, escaping the grosser senses
of human beings, but perceptible by their finer parts. Each cosy nook of
light and shadow was yet warm from some presence that had just left it.
The landscape fairly stirred with ethereal forms of being beneath the
fertilizing moon-rays, as the earth-mould wakes into physical life under
the sun's heat. The yellow moonlight looked warm as spirits might count
warmth. The air was electric with the thrill of circumambient existence.
There was the sense of pressure, of a throng. It would have been
impossible to feel lonely. The pulsating sounds of the insect world
seemed the rhythm to which the voluptuous beauty of the night had
spontaneously set itself. The common air of day had been transmuted
into the atmosphere of reverie and Dreamland. In that magic medium the
distinction between imagination and reality fast dissolved. Even Miss
Bood was conscious of a delightful excitement, a vague expectancy. Mr.
Morgan, she saw, was moved quite beyond even his exaggerated habit of
imaginative excitement. His wet, shining, wide-opened eyes and ecstatic
expression indicated complete abandonment to the illusions of the scene.

They had seated themselves, as the concentration of the brain upon
imaginative activity made the nerves of motion sluggish, upon a rude
bench formed by wedging a plank between two elms that stood close
together. They were within the shadow of the trees, but close up to
their feet rippled a lake of moonlight. The landscape shimmering before
them had been the theatre of their fifty years of life. Their history
was written in its trees and lawns and paths. The very air of the place
had acquired for them a dense, warm, sentient feeling, to which that of
all other places was thin and raw. It had become tinctured by their own
spiritual emanations, by the thoughts, looks, words and moods of which
it had so long received the impression. It had become such vitalized
air, surcharged with sense and thought, as might be taken to make souls
for men out of.

Over yonder, upon the playground, yet lingered the faint violet
fragrance of their childhood. Beneath that elm a kiss had once touched
the air with a fire that still warmed their cheeks in passing. Yonder
the look of a face was cut on the viewless air as on marble. Surely,
death does but touch the living, for the dead ever keep their power over
us; it is only we who lose ours over them. Each vista of leafy arch and
distant meadow framed in some scene of their youth-time, painted in the
imperishable hues of memory that borrow from time an ever richer and
more glowing tint. It was no wonder that to these two old people,
sitting on the bench between the elms, the atmosphere before them,
saturated with associations, dense with memories, should seem fairly
quivering into material forms, like a distant mist turning to rain.

At length Miss Rood heard her companion say, in a whisper of tremulous
exultation, "Do you know, Mary, I think I shall see them very soon."

"See whom?" she asked, frightened at his strange tone.

"Why, see us, of course, as I was telling you," he whispered,--"you
and me as we were young,--see them as I see you now. Don't you remember
it was just along here that we used to walk on spring evenings? We walk
here no more, but they do evermore, beautiful, beautiful children. I
come here often to lie in wait for them. I can feel them now; I can
almost, almost see them." His whisper became scarcely audible and the
words dropped slowly. "I know the sight is coming, for every day they
grow more vivid. It can't be long before I quite see them. It may come
at any moment."

Miss Rood was thoroughly frightened at the intensity of his excitement,
and terribly perplexed as to what she should do.

"It may come at any time; I can almost see them now," he murmured.
"A--h! look!" With parted lips and unspeakably intense eyes, as if his
life were flowing out at them, he was staring across the moonlit paths
before them to the point where the path debouched from the shadow.

Following his eyes, she saw what for a moment made her head swim with
the thought that she too was going mad. Just issuing from the shadows,
as if in answer to his words, were a young man and a girl, his arm upon
her waist, his eyes upon her face. At the first glance Miss Rood was
impressed with a resemblance to her own features in those of the girl,
which her excitement exaggerated to a perfect reproduction of them.
For an instant the conviction possessed her that by some impossible,
indescribable, inconceivable miracle she was looking upon the
resurrected figures of her girlish self and her lover.

At first Mr. Morgan had half started from his seat, and was between
rising and sitting. Then he rose with a slow, involuntary movement,
while his face worked terribly between bewilderment and abandonment to
illusion. He tottered forward a few steps to the edge of the moonlight,
and stood peering at the approaching couple with a hand raised to shade
his eyes and a dazed, unearthly smile on his face. The girl saw him
first, for she had been gazing demurely before her, while her lover
looked only at her. At sight of the gray-haired man suddenly confronting
them with a look of bedlam, she shrieked and started back in terror.
Miss Rood, recalled to her senses, sprang forward, and catching Mr.
Morgan's arm endeavored with gentle force to draw him away.

But it was too late for that. The young man, at first almost as
much startled as his companion at the uncanny apparition, naturally
experienced a revulsion of indignation at such an extraordinary
interruption to his tête-à-tête, and stepped up to Mr. Morgan as if
about to inflict summary chastisement. But perceiving that he had to do
with an elderly man, he contented himself with demanding in a decidedly
aggressive tone what the devil he meant by such a performance.

Mr. Morgan stared at him without seeing him, and evidently did not take
in the words. He merely gasped once or twice, and looked as if he had
fainted away on his feet. His blank, stunned expression showed that his
faculties were momentarily benumbed by the shock. Miss Rood felt as if
she should die for the pity of it as she looked at his face, and her
heart was breaking for grief as she sought to mollify the young man with
some inarticulate words of apology, meanwhile still endeavoring to draw
Mr. Morgan away. But at this moment the girl, recovering from her panic,
came up to the group and laid her hand on the young man's arm, as if to
check and silence him. It was evident that she saw there was something
quite unusual in the circumstances, and the look which she bent upon Mr.
Morgan was one of sympathy and considerate interrogation. But Miss
Rood could see no way out of their awkward situation, which grew more
intolerable every moment as they thus confronted each other. It was
finally Mr. Morgan's voice, quite firm, but with an indescribable
sadness in the tones, which broke the silence: "Young people, I owe you
an apology, such as it is. I am an old man, and the past is growing so
heavy that it sometimes quite overbalances me. My thoughts have been
busy to-night with the days of my youth, and the spell of memory has
been so strong that I have not been quite myself. As you came into view
I actually entertained the incredible idea for a moment that somehow I
saw in you the materialized memories of myself and another as we once
walked this same path."

The young man bowed, as Mr. Morgan ended, in a manner indicating his
acceptance of the apology, although he looked both amazed and amused.
But the explanation had a very different effect upon the girl at his
side. As she listened, her eyes had filled with tears, and her face had
taken on a wonderfully tender, pitiful smile. When he ended speaking,
she impulsively said, "I 'm so sorry we were not what you thought us!
Why not pretend we are, to-night at least? We can pretend it, you know.
The moonlight makes anything possible;" and then glancing at Miss Rood,
she added, as if almost frightened, "Why, how much we look alike! I 'm
not sure it isn't true, anyway."

This was, in fact, an unusually marked example of those casual
resemblances between strangers which are sometimes seen. The hair of the
one was indeed gray and that of the other dark, but the eyes were of the
same color by night, and the features, except for the greater fullness
of the younger face, were cast in the same mould, while figure and
bearing were strikingly similar, although daylight would doubtless have
revealed diversities, enough that moonlight refused to disclose.

The two women looked at each other with an expression almost of
suspicion and fear, while the young man observed, "Your mistake was
certainly excusable, sir."

"It will be the easier to pretend," said the girl, as with a
half-serious, half-sportive imperiousness she laid her hand on Mr.
Morgan's arm. "And now it is thirty years ago, and we are walking
together." He involuntarily obeyed the slight pressure, and they walked
slowly away, leaving the other two, after an embarrassed pause, to
follow them.

For some time they walked in silence. He was deliberately abandoning
himself to the illusion, supported as it was by the evidence of his
senses, that he was wandering in some of the mysterious be-tween-worlds
which he had so often dreamed of, with the love of his youth in her
youth-time charm. Did he really believe it to be so? Belief is a term
quite irrelevant to such a frame as his, in which the reflective
and analytical powers are for a time purposely held in abeyance. The
circumstances of her introduction to him had dropped from his mind as
irrelevant accidents, like the absurdities which occur in our sweetest
and most solemn dreams without marring their general impression in our
memories. Every glance he threw upon his companion, while on the one
hand it shocked his illusion in that she seemed not likely to vanish
away, on the other strengthened it with an indescribable thrill by the
revelation of some fresh trait of face or figure, some new expression,
that reproduced the Miss Rood of his youth. Not, indeed, that it
is likely his companion was thus perfectly the double of that lady,
although so much resembling her, but the common graces of maidenhood
were in Mr. Morgan's mind the peculiar personal qualities of the only
woman he had ever much known.

Of his own accord he would not have dared to risk breaking the charm by
a word. But his companion--who, as is tolerably evident by this time,
was Mabel French--had meanwhile formed a scheme quite worthy of her
audacious temper. She had at once recognized both Mr. Morgan and Miss
Rood, and had gone thus far from a mere romantic impulse, without
definite intentions of any sort. But the idea now came into her head
that she might take advantage of this extraordinary situation to try a
match-making experiment, which instantly captivated her fancy. So she
said, while ever so gently pressing his arm and looking up into his face
with an arch smile (she was recognized as the best amateur actress in
her set at home), "I wonder if the moon will be so mellow after we are
married?"

His illusion was rudely disturbed by the shock of an articulate voice,
softly and low as she spoke, and he looked around with a startled
expression that made her fear her rôle was ended. But she could not
know that the eyes she turned to his were mirrors where he saw his dead
youth. The two Miss Roods--the girl and the woman, the past and the
present--were fused and become one in his mind. Their identity flashed
upon him.

An artesian well sunk from the desert surface through the underlying
strata, the layers of ages, strikes some lake long ago covered over, and
the water welling up converts the upper waste into a garden. Just so
at her words and her look his heart suddenly filled, as if it came from
afar, with the youthful passion he had felt toward Miss Bood, but which,
he knew not exactly when or how, had been gradually overgrown with the
dullness of familiarity and had lapsed into an indolent affectionate
habit. The warm, voluptuous pulse of this new feeling--new, and yet
instantly recognized as old--brought with it a flood of youthful
associations, and commingled the far past with the present in a
confusion more complete and more intoxicating than ever. He saw double
again. "Married!" he murmured dreamily. "Yes, surely, we will be
married."

And as he spoke, he looked at her with such a peculiar expression that
she was a little frightened. It looked like a more serious business than
she had counted on, and for a moment, if she could have cut and run,
perhaps she would have done so. But she had a strain of the true
histrionic artist about her, and with a little effort rose to the
difficulty of the rôle. "Of course we will be married," she replied,
with an air of innocent surprise. "You speak as if you had just thought
of it."

He turned toward her as if he would sober his senses by staring at her,
his pupils dilating and contracting in the instinctive effort to clear
the mind by clearing the eyes.

But with a steady pressure on his arm she compelled him to walk on by
her side. Then she said, in a soft, low voice, as if a little awed by
what she were telling, while at the same time she nestled nearer his
side, "I had such a sad dream last night, and your strange talk reminds
me of it. It seemed as if we were old and white-haired and stooping,
and went wandering about, still together, but not married, lonely and
broken. And I woke up feeling you can't think how dreary and sad,--
as if a bell had tolled in my ears as I slept; and the feeling was so
strong that I put my fingers to my face to find if it was withered; and
when I could not tell certainly, I got up and lit my lamp and looked in
the glass; and my face, thank God! was fresh and young; but I sat on my
bed and cried to think of the poor old people I had left behind in my
dream."

Mabel had so fallen into the spirit of her part that she was really
crying as she ended. Her tears completed Mr. Morgan's mental confusion,
and he absolutely did not know whom he was addressing or where he was
himself, as he cried, "No, no, Mary! Don't cry! It shall not be; it
shall never be."

Lightly withdrawing her hand from his arm, she glided like a sprite from
his side, and was lost in the shadows, while her whispered words still
sounded in his ear, "Good-by for thirty years!"

A moment after, three notes, clear as a bird's call, sounded from the
direction whither she had vanished, and Miss Rood's companion, breaking
off short a remark on the excessive dryness of the weather, bowed
awkwardly and also disappeared among the shadows.

When Miss Rood laid her hand on Mr. Morgan's arm to recall him to the
fact that they were now alone together, he turned quickly, and his
eyes swept her from head to foot, and then rested on her face with an
expression of intense curiosity and a wholly new interest, as if he were
tracing out a suddenly suggested resemblance which overwhelmed him with
emotion. And as he gazed, his eyes began to take fire from the faded
features on which they had rested so many years in mere complacent
friendliness, and she instinctively averted her face.

Long intimacy had made her delicately sensitive to his moods, and when
he drew her arm in his and turned to walk, although he had not uttered a
word, she trembled with agitation.

"Mary, we have had an extraordinary experience to-night," he said.
The old dreaminess in his voice, as of one narcotized or in a trance,
sometimes a little forced, as of one trying to dream, to which she had
become accustomed, and of which in her heart of hearts she was very
weary, was gone. In its place she recognized a resonance which still
further confused her with a sense of altered relations. His polarity had
changed: his electricity was no longer negative, but positive.

Her feminine instinct vaguely alarmed, she replied, "Yes, indeed, but
it is getting late. Had n't we better go in?" What lent the unusual
intonation of timidity to her voice? Certainly nothing that she could
have explained.

"Not quite yet, Mary," he answered, turning his gaze once more fully
upon her.

Her eyes dropped before his, and a moment after fluttered up to find an
explanation for their behavior, only to fall again in blind panic.
For, mingling unmistakably with the curiosity with which he was still
studying her features, was a newborn expression of appropriation and
passionate complacency. Her senses whirled in a bewilderment that had
a suffocating sweetness about it. Though she now kept her eyes on the
ground, she felt his constant sidewise glances, and, desperately seeking
relief from the conscious silence that enveloped them like a vapor of
intoxicating fumes, she forced herself to utter the merest triviality
she could summon to her lips: "See that house." The husky tones betrayed
more agitation than the ruse concealed.

He answered as irrelevantly as she had spoken, "Yes, indeed, so it is."
That was their only attempt at conversation.

For a half hour--it might have been much more or much less--they
walked in this way, thrilling with the new magnetism that at once
attracted and estranged them with an extraordinary sense of strangeness
in familiarity. At length they paused under the little porch of Miss
Rood's cottage, where he commonly bade her good-evening after their
walks. The timidity and vague alarms that had paralyzed her while
they were walking disappeared as he was about to leave her, and she
involuntarily returned his unusual pressure of her hand.

A long time after, behold her still encircled in his arms, not blushing,
but pale and her eyes full of a soft, astonished glow! "Oh, Robert!" was
all she had said after one first little gasp.

They never met George or Mabel again. Mrs. Morgan learned subsequently
that two young people from the city answering their description had been
guests at the opposite house, and had left Plainfield the morning after
the events hereinbefore set forth, and drew her conclusions accordingly.
But her husband preferred to cherish the secret belief that his theory
that memories might become visible had proved true in one instance at
least.






End of Project Gutenberg's A Summer Evening's Dream, by Edward Bellamy