Wilfrid Cumbermede Part 27

'But he doesn't mean _himself_,' I said.

'Well, who told him?'

'The Bible.'

'And who told the Bible?'

'G.o.d, of course.'

'But how am I to know that? I only know that they say so. Do you know, Wilfrid--I _don't_ believe my father is quite sure himself, and that is what makes him in such a rage with anybody who doesn't think as he does. He's afraid it mayn't be true after all.'

I had never had a father to talk to, but I thought something must be wrong when a boy _couldn't_ talk to his father. My uncle was a better father than that came to.

Another pause followed, during which Charley searched for a chapter to fit the mood. I will not say what chapter he found, for, after all, I doubt if we had any real notion of what it meant. I know, however, that there were words in it which found their way to my conscience; and, let men of science or philosophy say what they will, the rousing of a man's conscience is the greatest event in his existence. In such a matter, the consciousness of the man himself is the sole witness. A Chinese can expose many of the absurdities and inconsistencies of the English: it is their own Shakspere who must bear witness to their sins and faults, as well as their truths and characteristics.

After this we had many conversations about such things, one of which I shall attempt to report by-and-by. Of course, in any such attempt all that can be done is to put the effect into fresh conversational form.

What I have just written must at least be more orderly than what pa.s.sed between us; but the spirit is much the same, and mere fact is of consequence only as it affects truth.

CHAPTER XX.

A DREAM.

The best immediate result of my illness was that I learned to love Charley Osborne dearly. We renewed an affection resembling from afar that of Shakspere for his nameless friend; we antic.i.p.ated that informing _In Memoriam_. Lest I be accused of infinite arrogance, let me remind my reader that the sun is reflected in a dewdrop as in the ocean.

One night I had a strange dream, which is perhaps worth telling for the involution of its consciousness.

I thought I was awake in my bed, and Charley asleep in his. I lay looking into the room. It began to waver and change. The night-light enlarged and receded; and the walls trembled and waved. The light had got behind them, and shone through them.

'Charley! Charley!' I cried; for I was frightened.

'I heard him move: but before he reached me, I was lying on a lawn, surrounded by trees, with the moon s.h.i.+ning through them from behind.

The next moment Charley was by my side.

'Isn't it prime?' he said. 'It's all over.'

'What do you mean, Charley?' I asked.

'I mean that we're both dead now. It's not so very bad--is it?'

'Nonsense, Charley!' I returned; '_I_'m not dead. I'm as wide alive as ever I was. Look here.'

So saying, I sprung to my feet, and drew myself up before him.

'Where's your worst pain?' said Charley, with a curious expression in his tone.

'Here,' I answered. 'No; it's not; it's in my back. No, it isn't. It's nowhere. I haven't got any pain.'

Charley laughed a low laugh, which sounded as sweet as strange. It was to the laughter of the world 'as moonlight is to sunlight,' but not 'as water is to wine,' for what it had lost in sound it had gained in smile.

'Tell me now you're not dead!' he exclaimed triumphantly.

'But,' I insisted, 'don't you see I'm alive? _You_ may be dead for anything I know--but I _am not_--I know that.'

'You're just as dead as I am,' he said. 'Look here.'

A little way off, in an open plot by itself, stood a little white rose tree, half mingled with the moonlight. Charley went up to it, stepped on the topmost twig, and stood: the bush did not even bend under him.

'Very well,' I answered. 'You are dead, I confess. But now, look you here.'

I went to a red rose-bush which stood at some distance, blanched in the moon, set my foot on the top of it, and made as if I would ascend, expecting to crush it, roses and all, to the ground. But behold! I was standing on my red rose opposite Charley on his white.

'I told you so,' he cried, across the moonlight, and his voice sounded as if it came from the moon far away.

'Oh Charley!' I cried, 'I'm so frightened!'

'What are you frightened at?'

'At you. You're dead, you know.'

'It is a good thing, Wilfrid,' he rejoined, in a tone of some reproach, 'that I am not frightened at you for the same reason; for what would happen then?'

'I don't know. I suppose you would go away and leave me alone in this ghostly light.'

'If I were frightened at you as you are at me, we should not be able to see each other at all. If you take courage the light will grow.'

'Don't leave me, Charley,' I cried, and flung myself from my tree towards his. I found myself floating, half reclined on the air. We met midway each in the other's arms.

'I don't know where I am, Charley.'

'That is my father's rectory.'

He pointed to the house, which I had not yet observed. It lay quite dark in the moonlight, for not a window shone from within.

'Don't leave me, Charley.'

'Leave you! I should think not, Wilfrid. I have been long enough without you already.'

'Have you been long dead, then, Charley?'

'Not very long. Yes, a long time. But, indeed, I don't know. We don't count time as we used to count it.--I want to go and see my father. It is long since I saw _him_, anyhow. Will you come?'

'If you think I might--if you wish it,' I said, for I had no great desire to see Mr Osborne. 'Perhaps he won't care to see me.'

'Perhaps not,' said Charley, with another low silvery laugh. 'Come along.'