She dropped into a chair, threw her arms heavily on the table, and laid her head on them. Amelius thought of the child’s frock and cap hidden in the cabinet. All that was manly and noble in his nature felt for the unhappy woman, whose secret was dimly revealed to him now. The little selfish sense of annoyance at the awkward situation in which she had placed him, vanished to return no more. He approached her, and put his hand gently on her shoulder. “I am truly sorry for you,” he said. “Tell me how I can help you, and I will do it with all my heart.”
“Do you really mean that?” She roughly dashed the tears from her eyes, and rose as she put the question. Holding him with one hand, she parted the hair back from his forehead with the other. “I must see your whole face,” she said—“your face will tell me. Yes: you do mean it. The world hasn’t spoilt you, yet. Do you believe in dreams?”
Amelius looked at her, startled by the sudden transition. She deliberately repeated her question.
“I ask you seriously,” she said; “do you believe in dreams?”
Amelius answered seriously, on his side, “I can’t honestly say that I do.”
“Ah!” she exclaimed, “like me. I don’t believe in dreams, either—I wish I did! But it’s not in me to believe in superstitions; I’m too hard—and I’m sorry for it. I have seen people who were comforted by their superstitions; happy people, possessed of faith. Don’t you even believe that dreams are sometimes fulfilled by chance?”
“Nobody can deny that,” Amelius replied; “the instances of it are too many. But for one dream fulfilled by a coincidence, there are—”
“A hundred at least that are not fulfilled,” Mrs. Farnaby interposed. “Very well. I calculate on that. See how little hope can live on! There is just the barest possibility that what I dreamed of you the other night may come to pass. It’s a poor chance; but it has encouraged me to take you into my confidence, and ask you to help me.”
This strange confession—this sad revelation of despair still unconsciously deceiving itself under the disguise of hope—only strengthened the compassionate sympathy which Amelius already felt for her. “What did you dream about me?” he asked gently.
“It’s nothing to tell,” she replied. “I was in a room that was quite strange to me; and the door opened, and you came in leading a young girl by the hand. You said, ‘Be happy at last; here she is.’ My heart knew her instantly, though my eyes had never seen her since the first days of her life. And I woke myself, crying for joy. Wait! it’s not all told yet. I went to sleep again, and dreamed it again, and woke, and lay awake for awhile, and slept once more, and dreamed it for the third time. Ah, if I could only feel some people’s confidence in three times! No; it produced an impression on me—and that was all. I got as far as thinking to myself, there is just a chance; I haven’t a creature in the world to help me; I may as well speak to him. O, you needn’t remind me that there is a rational explanation of my dream. I have read it all up, in the Encyclopaedia in the library. One of the ideas of wise men is that we think of something, consciously or unconsciously, in the daytime, and then reproduce it in a dream. That’s my case, I daresay. When you were first introduced to me, and when I heard where you had been brought up, I thought directly that she might have been one among the many forlorn creatures who had drifted to your Community, and that I might find her through you. Say that thought went to my bed with me—and we have the explanation of my dream. Never mind! There is my one poor chance in a hundred still left. You will remember me, Amelius, if you should meet with her, won’t you?”