Chapter One.

I Dream.

True, I talk of dreams; Which are the children of an idle brain, Begot of nothing but vain fantasy, Which is as thin of substance as the air; And more inconstant than the wind, who woos Even now the frozen bosom of the north, And, being anger’d, puffs away from thence, Turning his face to the dew-dropping south.

Il est naturel que nos idées les plus vives et les plus familières se rétracent pendant le sommeil.

I had a most curious dream about Min that very night.

Probably this was owing to the reactionary mental relief I experienced after all my doubts and jealousies—you know, “joie fait peur” sometimes. It might also have resulted from the stronger impression which my last interview with her had made upon my mind, coupled with all the sweet hopes and darling imaginings that had sprung suddenly into existence, when her rose-red lips told me in liquid accents that she loved me. How deliciously the words had sounded! I seemed to hear them now once more; and, that kiss of ecstasy—I almost felt it again in all its passionate intensity!

But, the physiology of dreams, and their origin and connection with our day life, are subjects that have never been clearly explained, frequently investigated though they have been by intellects that have groped to the bottom of almost every phenomenal possibility in the finite world. We have not yet succeeded in piercing through the thick veil that hides from our gaze the unseen, ideal, and spiritual cosmos that surrounds, with its ghostly atmosphere, the more material universe in which we move and breathe and have our being. We are oblivious, in most cases, of that thought-peopled, encircling essence; although, it influences our motives and actions, perhaps, in a greater degree than we may be willing to allow.

I shall not attempt to solve the workings of the varied phantasmagoria that flitted across the horizon of my brain that night, curious as they were; nor, will I try to track out how, and in what way, they retraced the events of the past, and prognosticated the possibilities of the future. The task in either direction would be as hopeless as it is uninteresting; consequently, I will abandon it to the attention of more inquiring psychological minds than my own, hurrying on to tell what it was that I dreamt.

My vision was a threefold one—a series of dreams within dreams.

First, I thought that I was on a wide, whitened Alpine plain. It was night. In front of me, towered on high the rugged peaks of the Matterhorn, imposing in their grandeur; further on, in the illimitable distance, I could descry the rounded, snowcapp’d head of Mont Blanc, rearing itself heavenward, where the pale, treacherous moon kept her silent watch, and from whence the glistening stars twinkled down through an ocean of space, touching frosted particles of matter with scintillations of light, and making them glitter like diamonds—world-old, transparent jewels, set in the cold, ice-blue crown of the eternal glacier.

I could thus see myself, gazing through my dream eyes on my eidolon, as if it were only a reflection in a mirror. It was walking here on this wide Alpine plain, all alone; and I recognised also that I had the power to analyse and appreciate the motives by which it was led hither, the desires by which it was actuated—the strange thing, being, that I felt, within myself, all the thoughts and ideas that must have occurred to my other self.

At the same time, however, I seemed to be, as it were, but an inactive spectator of all that happened; looking on the visionary events of my dream as if I had no share or part in them. I appeared to possess, while they occurred, a sort of dual existence, of which I was perfectly cognisant, then and afterwards.

I knew that I—my other self—wished to reach the heights of the Matterhorn before and above me: the region of perpetual snow. I sympathised with that wish; and yet, I could look on at all my efforts to accomplish it, as if I were uninterested in their success, whilst I still felt, within myself, all the agony and suspense that must have filled the mind of my wraith, I could see myself making repeated exertions to reach the heights; constantly climbing, never getting any higher. I appeared to patrol a narrow circle, whose circumference I was unable to cross. Round and round I went, continually striving to get upwards and onwards:—still, always finding myself in the same identical spot, as if I had not advanced an inch. I grew tired, weary, exhausted. I felt sick at heart and in body. A nameless, indefinable horror seized upon me.

Then, all of a sudden, Min appeared.

She stood on the peaks above me; her figure presented in strong relief against the dead, neutral tint of the ice-wall behind her. I could see her face plainly—the look of entreaty in her eyes and the beckoning motion of her hands. She was calling to me, and urging me to join her; and—I could not!

A wide crevasse yawned before me, preventing any forward movement. It yawned deep down in front of my feet, fathoms below fathoms, piercing down, seemingly, to the centre of the earth. Looking over its edge I could mark how the vaulted arc of heaven and the starry firmament were reflected in its bottomless abyss; while, its breadth, seemed immeasurable. I saw that I could not cross it by the path I had hitherto pursued; and yet, whenever I turned aside, and tried to reach the mountain top by some other way, the horrible crevasse curved its course likewise, still confronting me. It was always before me, to arrest my progress. I could not evade it, I could not overleap it; and yet, there stood Min calling to me, and beckoning to me—and, I could not join her. It was maddening!

The moonlight faded. The twinkling stars went in one by one. There was a subdued darkness for a moment; and then, day appeared to break.

The snowy expanse appeared to blush all over—

“And on the glimmering limit far withdrawn God made himself an awful rose of dawn.”

Did you ever watch an Alpine sunrise? How the light leaps from peak to peak, warming the monotonous white landscape in an instant with a tinge of crimson lake, and making the ice prisms sparkle like sapphires!

It was just so in my dream:—not a detail was omitted.

With the brightening of the dawn my troubles began to disappear. The crevasse narrowed, and the distant peaks of the Matterhorn approached nearer. Min was close to me, so close that I could almost touch the hand she held out to guide my steps. I heard her say, “Come, Frank, come! courage, and you’re safe!” I was stepping across a thin ice bridge, which I suddenly perceived in front of me, leading over the gulf that separated us. I felt her warm, violet breath on my cheek. I was just planting my feet on the further side of the glacier, and going to clasp her in my arms, when—the frail platform on which I was crossing gave way:—I fell downward through the chasm with a shriek of terror that she re-echoed, and—I awoke!

Again, I was in the midst of an arid, sandy desert. The sun’s rays seemed to pelt down with blistering intensity on my uncovered head. There was not a single tree, nor a scrap of foliage anywhere in sight, to afford a moment’s shelter:—all was barrenness; parching heat; death!

I felt faint—dying of thirst. I fancied I could hear the rippling of waters near me, the splashing of grateful fountains; but, none could I see. Around me, as I lay stretched on the scorching sands, were only sun-baked rocks, and the scattered bones and skeletons of former travellers, who had perished by the same dreadful, lingering agony through which I was, apparently, doomed to die.

After a time, I thought I could distinguish the murmuring of waters more plainly; and, stay—did I not perceive a stately grove of palms in the distance? The water must be there!

I totter to my feet: I bend my feeble steps thither, and sink down beneath the welcome shade. I hear a sweet voice calling to me: I see an angel form stretching out a goblet of crystal water to my parching lips; and, as I reach my hand forth to grasp it, I see that the face is that of Min! I give vent to a cry of ecstasy; but, at the same moment, the goblet falls from my shaking hand, shattering into a thousand pieces on the sands of the desert; and—the vision fades away from my gaze.

All is darkness again. I am awake!

Once more the kaleidoscope of my dream changed.

I am now floating in a battered boat, without either sails or oars, on the boundless waters of the ocean. I can hear the lap, lapping of the sobbing sea against the sides of my frail craft; and the ripple of the current, hurrying along in its devious course the boat, which is as powerless to resist its influence as a straw upon the stream.

Presently the current spins onward faster and more furiously. I see the faint outlines of purple hills breaking the vacant curve of the horizon. A delicious fragrance from tropic flowers fills the air—the perfumes of the jessamine, the magnolia, the cereus. A sweet, delicious languor creeps over me. I feel a vague sense of rest and happiness, which, to my onlooking self, seems almost unaccountable; for, there am I, still all alone on the ocean, swept onward towards the purple hills in the distance, over the smooth-flowing surface of azure liquid, while, not a sound is to be heard, save the restless murmuring of the many-voiced sea.

The boat glides on.

Now I find myself encircled by radiant groups of picturesque coral islands, all covered with palm-trees, whose waving branches are entwined with varied-hued passion-flowers. Lilies and ferns, narcissi and irises, are intermingled in one chaos of beauty, skirting the velvet sward that runs down to the water’s edge.

On each tiny islet, the lavish wealth of nature, freely outpoured, seemed to make it a perfect paradise. Brilliantly-plumaged birds flitted here and there, their colours contrasting with the green foliage. Gauzy-winged insects buzzed to and fro. The notes of the nightingale, or some kindred songster, could be heard, singing an ecstatic soprano to the cooing bass of the dove and the rippling obbligato of babbling brooks—that filtered through golden-yellow sands into the lap of the mother of waters—amid the sympathetic harmony of gushing cascades, whose noisy cadence was toned down by distance to a melodious hum.

And now I find that I am alone no longer.

I see Min stepping forward to greet me, advancing down the sloping turf-bank of the first island I reach; but, I cannot land. I cannot touch her hand.

No. The current sweeps my boat onward, past each tiny paradise in turn; and, on each, I still see Min always coming towards me, yet never reaching me! Swiftly the boat glides, swiftly and more swift; until, at last, Min, the palm-tree-shaded coral islets and all, are lost to sight—gradually yet in a moment.

I now seem to be borne along on the tide of a tempestuous torrent, through rocky defiles and beneath frowning precipices.

I am in the centre of a cyclone. The sickly lightning plays around me. The thunder mutters—growls—rolls—peals forth—in grand ear-breaking crashes, that appear to shake the dense sky overhead; but still, whenever the electric coruscations light up the sable darkness, I can see Min’s face, apparently ever before me, ever inviting me on, ever inapproachable!

Anon, the boat glides back into the ocean again. Soon after, I find myself floating amongst an army of icebergs, all glittering with distinct gradations of tint, from that of pale sea-green up to intense blue. In front of me stretches a frozen field of hummocky ice, like that I had seen in my first vision.

There, too, stands Min. The current is bearing me to her; but, again, ere I can touch the spot where she stands, my boat careens heavily against a drifting berg, and is dashed to pieces.

Instead of sinking in the water, however, I feel myself floating in air. The atmosphere that encircles me is all rosy illumination, as it had been during the Alpine sunrise. I hear the most beautiful, heavenly music, and the sound as of many voices singing together in the sweetest of harmonies.

I see the gilded domes and minarets of a wondrous city that seems to be built in the centre of the zenith. I am wafted nearer and nearer to it, borne up on the pinions of the air. And, now, I can discern its golden gates!

There, stands Min, again, before them. She is clothed all in a white garment, that gives out a radiance as of light; while, on her head is a jewelled crown, fashioned in the shape of olive leaves and fastened in front with a single diamond star, whose beams almost blind me. Both her outstretched hands are extended to greet me. A loving smile is on her lips, in her eyes. I can hear the beautiful music chiming louder and louder; the harmony of the voice-chorus echoing more and more distinctly; I am on the threshold of the golden gates; I am just clasping Min’s outstretched welcoming hands with oh, such a fond, enduring clasp; when—I awake.

This time my réveil is in real earnest:—the vision had passed!

It is broad daylight; and, a bright summer morning.

The London sparrows are chirping away at a fine rate in the garden. I fancy, too, that I can hear my favourite thrush in the distance.

Dog Catch, also, is whining and scratching at my door to tell me that it is time for me to get up, and take him out for his walk.

And, then, I recollect all.

I realise that I’ve only been dreaming; although, I almost believe that I can see Min’s dear face and outstretched arms still before me.

Of course, it was only a dream.

But, curious, wasn’t it?

Chapter Two.

Manoeuvring.

O! slippery state of things. What sudden turns, What strange vicissitudes in the first leaf Of man’s sad history. To-day most happy, And ere to-morrow’s sun has set, most abject! How scant the space between these vast extremes.

The recollection of my strange visions which, I confess, somewhat affected me on my first waking, I put off from me at once. What were they, after all, but dreams, “begot of nothing but vain fantasy?”

I reasoned thus, philosophically, reflectively, rationally, within myself, as I dressed.

I determined to dismiss the matter from my thought at once; for, even if it prognosticated anything and was intended to withdraw the veil from futurity, it ought only to convince me of one fact, or fancy, namely, that, notwithstanding that I might have a hard struggle to win my darling, I should win her in the end:—that, also, in spite of antagonistic mammas and contrary circumstances, she would then be my own, my very own Min!

Would you not have thought the same in a like case?

I trow, yes!

I will not deny that I expended the most elaborate pains on my toilet that afternoon, before waiting upon Mrs Clyde in accordance with my promise to Min. I did not otherwise comply fully with the essential requirements of Madame la Comtesse de Bassanville’s Côde Complet du Ceremonial—such as causing an influential friend, who could speak of my morals and position, to have a previous audience with “the responsible relation” of “the young person who had attracted my notice;” nor, did I don a pair of “light fresh-butter-coloured kid gloves.” Still, I undoubtedly betrayed a considerable nicety of apparel all the same.

Indeed, I absolutely out-Hornered Horner; and, had anybody detected me when engaged in the mysteries of the dressing-room, I would certainly have been supposed to have been as anxiously considerate respecting the choice I should make between light trousers and dark, a black coat and a blue one, and whether I would wear a white waistcoat or not, as a young lady costuming herself for a ball, and debating with her maid the rival merits of blush roses and pink silk, or of white tarlatan and clematis.

It was, also, some time ere I could summon up enough resolution to knock at the door of Mrs Clyde’s residence, when, my decorative preparations accomplished, I at length succeeded in getting round to her house.

The expedition strangely reminded me of a visit I was once forced to pay to a dentist, owing to the misdeeds of one of my best molars; the dread of the impending interview almost inducing me to turn back on the threshold and put off my painful purpose for a while—even as had been my course of procedure when calling at Signor Odonto’s agonising establishment. On that occasion, I remember, I recoiled in fright from the dreaded ordeal, seeking refuge in “instant flight.”

I could not do so now, however. I had promised Min to speak to her mother as soon as possible; and, independently of that engagement, the interview would have to be gone through sooner or later, at all hazards. “An’ it were done quickly, it were well done;” so, at last, my hesitation passed away under the influence of this, really vital, consideration. I nerved myself up to the knocking point. I gave a loud rat, tat, tat! that thrilled through my very boots, causing a passing butcher’s boy, awed by its important sound, to inquire, with the cynical empressement of his race, whether I thought myself the “Emperoar of Rooshia.” I turned my back on him with contempt; but, his ribald remark made me feel all the more nervous.

“Mrs Clyde at home?” I asked of the handmaiden, who answered my summons.

Yes, Mrs Clyde was at home.

Would I walk in?

I would; and did.

So far, all was plain sailing:—now, came the tug of war.

Mrs Clyde was standing up, facing the door, as I entered the drawing-room into which the handmaiden had ushered me.

“Won’t you sit down, Mr Lorton?” she said, politely.

She never forgot her good breeding; and, I verily believe, if it had ever been her lot to officiate in Calcraft’s place, she would have asked the culprit, whom she was about to hasten on his way to “kingdom come,” whether he found the fatal noose too tight, or comfortable and easy, around his doomed neck! She would do this, too, I’m sure, with the most charming solicitude possible!

I noticed of her, that, whenever she was bent on using her sharpest weapons—of “society’s” armoury and, methinks, the devil’s forge-mark!—she always put on an extra gloss of politeness over her normal smooth and varnished style of address.

I didn’t like it, either.

Civility may be all very well in its way, but I cannot say that I admire that way of knocking a man down with a kid glove. It is a treacherous mode of attack; and very much resembles the plan Mr Chucks, the boatswain in Peter Simple, used to adopt when correcting the ship’s boys.

That gentleman would, if you recollect, courteously beckon an offender to approach him, doffing his hat the while as if speaking to the quarter-deck; and then, begging the trembling youngster’s pardon for detaining him, would proceed to inform him in the “politest and most genteel manner in the world” that he was “the d—d son of a sea cook,”—subsequently rattaning him furiously, amidst a plethora of expletives before which the worst Billingsgate faded into insignificance.

I may be singular in the fancy, but, do you know, I prefer civil words to be accompanied with civil deeds, and contrariwise:—the “poison of asps” does not go well with honied accents!

“Pray take a seat, Mr Lorton,” said Mrs Clyde. “I was expecting you to call; and waited in, on purpose not to miss seeing you. My daughter has told me,”—she went on, taking the initiative, ere I had a chance to speak—cutting the ground from under my feet, as it were, and rendering my task each moment more arduous—“My daughter has told me that she and you were talking some nonsense together last night, which it is best for all parties, my dear Mr Lorton, should be at once forgotten! You’ll agree with me, I’m sure?”

And she looked at me with a steady gaze of determination and set purpose in her eyes, before which I quailed.