I need not say that for a long time I did not sleep, and although my thoughts were full of such hope and happiness that the darkness seemed ever changing into sunshine, there were, at times, such harrowing thoughts of difficulties to come, in the shape of previous attachments—of my being late in my endeavours to win her as my wife—of my never been able to find her again—that, now and again, I had to jump from my bed and pace the floor. Towards daylight I slept, and went through a series of dreams of alternating joy and pain. At first hope held full sway, and my sweet experience of the day became renewed and multiplied. Again I climbed the hill and saw her and heard her voice—again the tearful look faded from her eyes—again I held her hand in mine and bade good-bye, and a thousand happy fancies filled me with exquisite joy. Then doubts began to come. I saw her once more on the hill-top—but she was looking out for some other than myself, and a shadow of disappointment passed over her sweet face when she recognized me. Again, I saw myself kneeling at her feet and imploring her love, while only cold, hard looks were my lot; or I found myself climbing the hill, but never able to reach the top—or on reaching it finding it empty. Then I would find myself hurrying through all sorts of difficult places—high, bleak mountains, and lonely wind-swept strands—dark paths through gloomy forests, and over sun-smitten plains, looking for her whom I had lost, and in vain trying to call her—for I could not remember her name. This last nightmare was quite a possibility, for I had never heard it.
I awoke many times from such dreams in an agony of fear; but after a time both pleasure and pain seemed to have had their share of my sleep, and I slept the dreamless sleep that Plato eulogizes in the “Apologia Socratis.”
I was awakened to a sense that my hour of rising had not yet come by a knocking at my door. I opened it, and on the landing without saw Andy standing, cap in hand.
“Hullo, Andy!” I said. “What on earth do you want?”
“Yer ’an’r ’ll parden me, but I’m jist off wid Misther Sutherland; an’ as I undherstand ye was goin’ for a walk, I made bould t’ ask yer ’an’r if ye’ll give a missage to me father?”
“‘Certainly, Andy! With pleasure.”
“Maybe ye’d tell him that I’d like the white mare tuk off the grash an’ gave some hard ’atin’ for a few days, as I’ll want her brung into Wistport before long.”
“All right, Andy! Is that all?”
“That’s all, yer ’an’r.” Then he added, with a sly look at me:—
“May be ye’ll keep yer eye out for a nice bit o’ bog as ye go along.”