"You recall what Leslie told us, what Mrs. Wilford told us, and what Doctor Lathrop later confirmed—her dream of fear?" Craig went on. "At present, I should say that it was a dream of what we call the fulfilment of a repressed wish. Dreams of fear are always important. Just consider fear for a moment. Fear in such a dream as this nearly always denotes a sexual idea underlying the dream. In fact, morbid anxiety means surely unsatisfied love. The old Greeks knew it. Their gods of fear were born of the goddess of love. Consequently, in her dream, she feared the death of her husband because, unconsciously, she wished it."
I was startled, to say the least. "But, Craig," I remonstrated, "the very idea is repulsive. I don't believe for a moment she is that kind of woman. It's impossible."
"Take this idea of dream-death of one who is living," ignored Kennedy. "If there is sorrow felt, then there is some other cause for the dream. But if there is no sorrow felt, then the dreamer really desires the death or absence of the person dreamed about. Perhaps I did put it a little too sweepingly," he modified; "but when all the circumstances are considered, as I have considered them in this case already, I feel sure that the rule will apply here."
"Better not tell that to Doyle," I remarked. "Judging by his attitude toward Honora Wilford, he'd arrest her on sight, if he knew what you just said."
"I shall not tell Doyle. A little knowledge is a dangerous thing to Doyle. I haven't indicted her—yet."
Turning the thing over in my mind, I found it even more and more distasteful, and I could not resist expressing myself rather strongly to that effect.
"I expected to have you quarrel with that conclusion," smiled Kennedy, calmly. "People always do, until they understand. Let me explain more fully what I mean. Remember, first, that in childhood death is synonymous with being away. And many of our dreams are only survivals of childhood, like the falling dreams. Take the night-shirt dream. I suppose that, in common with some other millions of mortals, you have dreamed of traveling on the Subway, we'll say, lightly clad. No one noticed it."
"Yes," I laughed. "Only, finally I knew it—and how I have sneaked back home by deserted streets, afraid to be seen. Yet, when I met any one, as you say, the person didn't seem to be embarrassed—not a tenth as much as I."
"It speaks well for you," nodded Kennedy, with mock gravity. "If you had felt that others saw and knew your shame, it would mean something entirely different. As it is, it is simply one of those survivals of childhood in which there is no sense of shame over nakedness. Other people don't show it, either. But, later in life, you learned shame. That's where your psychic censor comes in and makes you sneak home by the byways and hedges. And, still, others don't feel as you do about it in the dream. If they did, I'm afraid it might show your moral sense a bit perverted. However, that's just an illustration of what I mean when I say that the death-dream may often be a childhood survival."
I listened without comment, for Craig was interesting, now.