“Mother!”
“Don’t leave me,” sounded the cry. “Don’t forget me! You are forgetting me, you know you are!” And it was as though from her own breast there came the sound of childish weeping.
“My son—my precious child—it isn’t true!”
Sh! How was it possible that she was sitting there on that quiet steamer beside Father and at the same time she was hushing and holding a little slender boy—so pale—who had just waked out of a dreadful dream?
“I dreamed I was in a wood—somewhere far away from everybody,—and I was lying down and a great blackberry vine grew over me. And I called and called to you—and you wouldn’t come—you wouldn’t come—so I had to lie there for ever.”
What a terrible dream! He had always had terrible dreams. How often, years ago, when he was small, she had made some excuse and escaped from their friends in the dining-room or the drawing-room to come to the foot of the stairs and listen. “Mother!” And when he was asleep, his dream had journeyed with her back into the circle of lamplight; it had taken its place there like a ghost. And now——
Far more often—at all times—in all places—like now, for instance—she never settled down, she was never off her guard for a moment but she heard him. He wanted her. “I am coming as fast as I can! As fast as I can!” But the dark stairs have no ending, and the worst dream of all—the one that is always the same—goes for ever and ever uncomforted.
This is anguish! How is it to be borne? Still, it is not the idea of her suffering which is unbearable—it is his. Can one do nothing for the dead? And for a long time the answer had been—Nothing!
... But softly without a sound the dark curtain has rolled down. There is no more to come. That is the end of the play. But it can’t end like that—so suddenly. There must be more. No, it’s cold, it’s still. There is nothing to be gained by waiting.
But—did he go back again? Or, when the war was over, did he come home for good? Surely, he will marry—later on—not for several years. Surely, one day I shall remember his wedding and my first grandchild—a beautiful dark-haired boy born in the early morning—a lovely morning—spring!