“It is terrible,” he went on. “I can't understand it. There is something I must do, and I don't know what it is. A command is laid on me by the dead—there is some wrong for which I must atone. When I first awoke, I thought it was a dream, but it isn't, it's real. It seems as though that was the real world, and this—all our love and happiness, and you, were just dreams. I can't bear it, Ruth!”
He shuddered, and she tried to comfort him, though she was cold as a marble statue and her lips moved with difficulty. “Don't, dear,” she said, “It was only a dream. I've had them sometimes, so vividly that they haunted me for days and, as you say, it seemed as if that was the real world and this the dream. I know how you feel—those things aren't pleasant, but there's nothing we can do. It makes one feel so helpless. The affairs of the day are largely under our control, but at night, when the body is asleep, the mind harks back to things that have been forgotten for years. It takes a fevered fancy as a fact, and builds upon it a whole series of disasters. It gives trivial things great significance and turns life upside down. Remembering it is the worst of all.”
“There's something I can't get at, Ruth,” he answered. “It's just out of my reach. I know it's reasonable to suppose it was a dream and that it can be explained by natural causes, but I don't dream very often.”
“I dream every night,” she said. “Sometimes they're just silly, foolish things and sometimes they're vivid and horrible realities that I can't forget for weeks. But, surely, dear, we're not foolish enough to believe in dreams?”
“No, I hope not,” he replied, doubtfully.
“Let's go for a little walk,” she said, “and we'll forget it.”
Then she told him how changed Miss Ainslie was and how she had left her, sitting aimlessly by the window. “I don't think I'd better stay away long,” she concluded, “she may need me.”
“I won't be selfish, Ruth; we'll go back now. I'm sorry Miss Ainslie isn't well.”
“She said she was 'just tired' but it isn't like her to be tired. She doesn't seem to want anybody near her, but you can sit in the garden this afternoon, if you'd like to, and I'll flit in and out like an industrious butterfly. Some new books have just come, and I'll leave them in the arbour for you.”
“All right, dear, and if there's anything I can do, I hope you'll tell me.”