“There are no frills about Madge; she is the best woman of business in the county, and we have none of the bothers of other people with our servants,” he had frequently said.
And yet here was this embodiment of all that is practical in life, dreaming upon a dream upon this bright and frosty Christmas morning, and actually feeling sad at the thought that a whole year must elapse before the same vision should return to her.
The chiming of the church bells startled her out of her reverie.
“Pshaw!” she cried, jumping up from her chair; “I am quite as great a goose as Charlie believes me to be—quite! or I should not have told him that that dream had come to me again. I should have had the sense to know that he would have the sense to know that dreams are, one and all, the utterest folly!”
She knew that she was trying to convince herself that there was nothing more in this particular dream than in the many casual dreams that came to her as well as to other people; but before she had reached the door of the dining-room she knew that she had failed in her attempt. The curious fatigue of which she was conscious, quickly told her that this oft-recurring vision was not as others were.
She went to church with her brother, and in the afternoon their uncle, Colonel Craven, and his wife duly arrived at the Court to spend their annual week at the family mansion, and Madge took her brother’s advice and refrained from saying a word to either of them on the subject of her dream. Indeed, she had so much to think of and so much to do during the week, she had no time to give to anything so immaterial as a dream, however interesting it might be to herself.
On the last morning of the stay of Colonel and Mrs Craven at Craven Court, the former received a letter which he tossed across the breakfast-table to Charlie.
“Funny, isn’t it?” he said. “We were talking about wild-duck-shooting no later than last night, and here’s a letter from Jack Tremaine telling me that he is taking over his cousin’s place for six months and promising me some good sport if I go to him for a week in January. You will see that he suggests that you should be of the party: he asks if you are here. See what he says about the ducks.”
“Who is his cousin?” inquired Charlie, “and where is his place?”
“His cousin is a chap named Clifford, and his place is in Dorsetshire—on the coast—Barmouth Manor it is called, and I know that it’s famous for its duck-shooting. Tremaine will no doubt write to you.”