DREAMS
The man, for the first time, stood face to face with Life and, for thefirst time, knew that he was a man.
For a long time he had known that some day he would be a man. But hehad always thought of his manhood as a matter of years. He had said tohimself: "when I am twenty-one, I will be a man." He did not know,then, that twenty-one years--that indeed three times twenty-oneyears--cannot make a man. He did not know, then, that men are made ofother things than years.
I cannot tell you the man's name, nor the names of his parents, norhis exact age, nor just where he lived, nor any of those things. Formy story, such things are of no importance whatever. But this is ofthe greatest importance: as the man, for the first time, stood face toface with Life and, for the first time, realized his manhood, hismanhood life began in Dreams.
It is the dreams of life that, at the beginning of life, matter. Ofthe Thirteen Truly Great Things of Life, Dreams are first.
It was green fruit time. From the cherry tree that grew in the uppercorner of the garden next door, close by the hedge that separated thetwo places, the blossoms were gone and the tiny cherries were alreadywell formed. The nest, that a pair of little brown birds had made thatspring in the hedge, was just empty, and, from the green ladenbranches of the tree, the little brown mother was calling anxiousadvice and sweet worried counsel to her sons and daughters who weretrying their new wings.
In the cemetery on the hill, beside a grave over which the sod hadformed thick and firm, there was now another grave--another grave sonew that on it no blade of grass had started--so new that the yellowearth in the long rounded mound was still moist and the flowers thattried with such loving, tender, courage, to hide its nakedness werenot yet wilted. Cut in the block of white marble that marked thegrass-grown grave were the dearest words in any tongue--Wife andMother; while, for the new-made mound that lay so close beside, theworkmen were carving on a companion stone the companion words.
There were two other smaller graves nearby--one of them quitesmall--but they did not seem to matter so much to the tall youngfellow who had said to himself so many times: "when I am twenty-one, Iwill be a man." It was the two graves marked by the companion wordsthat mattered. And certainly he did not, at that time, feel himself aman. As he left the cemetery to go home with an old neighbor andfriend of the family, he felt himself rather a very small and lonelyboy in a very big and empty world.
But there had been many things to do in those next few days, with noone but himself to do them. There had been, in the voices of hisfriends, a note that was new. In the manner of the men who had come totalk with him on matters of business, he had felt a something that hehad never felt before. And he had seen the auctioneer--a lifelongfriend of his father--standing on the front porch of his boyhood homeand had heard him cry the low spoken bids and answer the nodding headsof the buyers in a voice that was hoarse with something more than longspeaking in the open air. And then--and then--at last had come thesharp blow of the hammer on the porch railing and from the tremblinglips of the old auctioneer the word: "Sold."
It was as though that hammer had fallen on the naked heart of the boy.It was as though the auctioneer had shouted: "Dead."
And so the time had come, a week later, when he must go for a lastlook at the home that was his no longer. Very slowly he had walkedabout the yard; pausing a little before each tree and bush and plant;putting forth his hand, at times, to touch them softly as though hewould make sure that they were there for he saw them dimly through amist. The place was strangely hushed and still. The birds and bees andeven the butterflies seemed to have gone somewhere far away. Veryslowly he had gone up the steps to open the front door. Very slowly hehad passed from room to room in the empty, silent, house. On thekitchen porch he had paused again, for a little, because he could notsee the steps; then had gone on to the well, the garden, thewoodhouse, the shop, the barn, and so out into the orchard that shadedthe gently rising slope of the hill beyond the house. At the fartherside of the orchard, on the brow of the hill, he had climbed the railfence and had seated himself on the ground where he could look out andaway over the familiar meadows and fields and pastures.
A bobo-link, swinging on a nearby bush, poured forth a tumblingtorrent of silvery melody. Behind him, on the fence, a meadow larkanswered with liquid music. About him on every side, in the softsunlight, the bluebirds were flitting here and there, twitteringcheerily the while over their bluebird tasks. And a woodpecker, hardat work in the orchard shade, made himself known by the din of hisindustry.
But the man, who did not yet quite realize that he was a man, gave noheed to these busy companions of his boyhood. To him, it was as thoughthose men with their shovels had heaped that mound of naked, yellow,earth upon his heart. The world, for him, was as empty as the oldhouse down there under the orchard hill. For a long time he sat verystill--seeing nothing, hearing nothing, heeding nothing--consciousonly of that dull, aching, loneliness--conscious only of that heavyweight of pain.
A mile or more away, beyond the fields, a moving column of smoke froma locomotive lifted itself into the sky above the tree tops andstreamed back a long, dark, banner. As the column of smoke movedsteadily on toward the distant horizon, the young man on the hilltopwatched it listlessly. Then, as his mind outran the train to thecities that lay beyond the line of the sky, his eyes cleared, hiscountenance brightened, his thoughts went outward toward the greatworld where great men toil mightily; and the long, dark, banner ofsmoke that hung above the moving train became to him as a flag ofbattle leading swiftly toward the front. Eagerly now hewatched--watched until, far away, the streaming column of smoke passedfrom sight around a wooded hill and faint and clear through the stillair--a bugle call to his ears--came the long challenging whistle.
Then it was that he realized his manhood--knew that he was a man--andunderstood that manhood is not a matter of only twenty-one years. Andthen it was--as he sat there alone on the brow of the little hill withhis boyhood years dead behind him and the years of his manhoodbefore--that his manhood life began, even as the manhood life of everyman really begins, with his Dreams.
Indeed it is true that all life really begins in dreams. Surely thelover dreams of his mistress--the maiden of her mate. Surely mothersdream of the little ones that sleep under their hearts and fathersplan for their children before they hold them in their arms. Everywork of man is first conceived in the worker's soul and wrought outfirst in his dreams. And the wondrous world itself, with its myriadforms of life, with its grandeur, its beauty and its loveliness; thestars and the heavenly bodies of light that crown the universe; themarching of the days from the Infinite to the Infinite; the processionof the years from Eternity to Eternity; all this, indeed, is but God'sgood dream. And the hope of immortality--of that better life that liesbeyond the horizon of our years--what a vision is that--what awondrous dream--given us by God to inspire, to guide, to comfort, tohold us true!
With wide eyes the man looked out upon a wide world somewhat as aconquering emperor, confident in his armed strength, might from ahilltop look out over the scene of a coming battle. He did not see thegrinding hardships, the desperate struggles, the disastrous losses,the pitiful suffering. The dreadful dangers did not grip his heart.The horrid fear of defeat did not strike his soul. He did not know thedragging weight of responsibility nor the dead weariness of a losingfight. He saw only the deeds of mighty valor, the glorious exhibitionsof courage, of heroism, of strength. He felt only the thrill ofvictories, the pride of honors and renown. He knew only theinspiration of a high purpose. He heard only the call to greatness.And it was well that in his Dreams there were only these.
The splendid strength of young manhood stirred mightily in his limbs.The rich, red, blood of youth moved swiftly in his veins. His eagerspirit shouted aloud in exultation of the deeds that he would do. And,surely, it was no shame to him that at this moment, when for the firsttime he realized his manhood, this man, in his secret heart, felthimself to be a leader of men, a conqueror of men, a
savior of men. Itwas no shame to him that he felt the salvation of the world dependingupon him.
And he was right. Upon him and upon such as he the salvation of theworld _does_ depend. But it is well, indeed, that theseunrecognized, dreaming, saviors of the world do not know, as theydream, that their crosses, even then, are being prepared for them. Itis their salvation that they do not know. It is the salvation of theworld that they do not know.
And then, as one from the deck of a ship bound for a foreign landlooks back upon his native shore when the vessel puts out from theharbor, this man turned from his years that were to come to his yearsthat were past and from dreaming of his future slipped back into thedreams of his Yesterdays. Perhaps it was the song of the bobo-linkthat did it; or it may have been the music of the meadow lark; orperhaps it was the bluebird's cheerful notes, or the woodpecker's loudtattoo--whatever it was that brought it about, the man dreamed againthe dreams of his boyhood--dreamed them even as he dreamed the dreamsof his manhood.
And there was no one to tell him that, in dreaming, his boyhood andhis manhood were the same.
Once again a boy, on a drowsy summer afternoon, he lay in the shade ofthe orchard trees or, in the big barn, sought the mow of new mown hay,and, with half closed eyes, slipped away from the world that dronedand hummed and buzzed so lazily about him into another and betterworld of stirring adventure and brave deeds. Once again, when the sunwas hidden under heavy skies and a steady pouring rain shut him in,through the dusk of the attic he escaped from the narrow restrictionsof the house, and, from his gloomy prison, went out into a fairylandof romance, of knighthood, and of chivalry. Again it was winter timeand the world was buried deep under white drifts, with all itsbrightness and beauty of meadow and forest hidden by the cold mantle,and all its music of running brooks and singing birds hushed by an icyhand, when, snug and warm under blankets and comforters, after anevening of stories, he slipped away into the wonderland of dreams--notthe irresponsible, sleeping, dreams--those do not count--but thedreams that come between waking and sleeping, wherein a boy dare doall the great deeds he ever read about and can be all the things thatever were put in books for boys to wish they were.
Oh, but those were brave dreams--those dreams of his Yesterdays! Nocruel necessity of life hedged them in. No wall of the practical orpossible set a limit upon them. No right or wrong decreed the way theyshould go. In his Yesterdays, there were fairy Godmothers to endow himwith unlimited power and to grant all his wishes, even unto mountainsof golden wealth and vast caverns filled with all manner of preciousgems. In his Yesterdays, there were wicked giants and horrid dragonsand evil beasts to kill, with always a good Genii to see that they didnot harm him the while he bravely took their baleful lives. In hisYesterdays, he was a prince in gorgeous raiment; an emperor withjeweled scepter and golden crown; a knight in armor, with a sword andproudly stepping horse of war; he was a soldier leading a forlornhope; or a general, with his plumed staff officers about him,directing the battle from a mountain top; he was a sailor cast away ona desert island; or a captain commanding his ship in a storm or,clinging to the shrouds in a smother of battle flame and smoke,shouting his orders through a trumpet to his gallant crew; he was apirate; a robber chief; a red Indian; a hunter; a scout of theplains--he could be anything, in those dreams of his Yesterdays,anything.
So, even as the man, the boy had dreamed. But the man did not think ofit in that way--the dreams of his _manhood_ were too real.
Then in his Yesterdays would come, also, the putting of his dreamsinto action, for the play of children, even as the works of men, areonly dreams in action after all. The quiet orchard became a vast andpathless forest wherein lurked wild beasts and savage men ready topounce upon the daring hunter; or, perhaps, it was an enchanted woodwith lords and ladies imprisoned in the trees while in the carriagehouse--which was not a carriage house at all but a great castle--acruel giant held captive their beautiful princess. The haymow was arobbers' cave wherein great wealth of booty was stored; the garden, adesert island on which lived the poor castaway. And many a long summerhour the bold captain clung to the rigging of his favorite apple treeship and gazed out over the waving meadow sea, or the general of thearmy, on his rail fence war horse, directed the battle from thehilltop or led the desperate charge.
But rarely, in his Yesterdays, could the boy put his dreams intosuccessful action alone. Alone he could dream but to realize hisdreams, he needs must have the help of another. And so _she_ cameto take her place in his life, to help him play out his dreams--thelittle girl who lived next door.
Who was she? Why, she was the beautiful princess held captive by thegiant in his carriage house castle until rescued by the brave princewho came to her through the enchanted wood. She was the crew of theapple tree ship; the robber band; the army following her general inhis victorious charge; and the relief expedition that found thecastaway on his desert island. Sometimes she was even a cannibalchief, or a monster dragon, or a cruel wild beast. And always--thoughthe boy did not know--she was a good fairy weaving many spells for hishappiness.
The man remembered well enough the first time that he met her. A newfamily was moving into the house that stood just below the garden and,from his seat on the gate post, the boy was watching the big wagons,loaded with household goods, as they turned into the neighboring yard.On the high seat of one of the wagons was the little girl. A big manlifted her down and the boy, watching, saw her run gaily into thehouse. For some time he held his place, swinging his bare legsimpatiently, but he did not see the little girl come out into the yardagain. Then, dropping to the ground, the boy slipped along the gardenfence under the currant bushes to a small opening in the hedge thatseparated the two places. Very cautiously, at first, he peered throughthe branches. Then, upon finding all quiet, he grew bolder, and onhands and knees crept part way through the little green tunnel to findhimself, all suddenly, face to face with her.
That was the beginning. The end had come several years later when thefamily had moved again.
The parting, too, he remembered well enough. A boy and girl parting itwas. And the promises--boy and girl promises they were. At first manypoorly written, awkwardly expressed, laboriously compiled, but warmlyinteresting letters were exchanged. Then the letters became shorterand shorter; the intervals between grew longer and longer; until, evenas childhood itself goes, she had slipped out of his life. Even as thebrave dreams of his boyhood she had gone--even as his Yesterdays.
The bobo-link had long ago left his swinging bush. The meadow lark hadgone to find his mate in a distant field. The twittering bluebirds hadfinished their tasks. The woodpecker had ceased from his labor. Thesunshine was failing fast. Faint and far away, through the stilltwilight air, came the long, clear, whistle of another train that wasfollowing swiftly the iron ways to the world of men.
The man on the hill came back from his Yesterdays--came back towonder: "where is the little girl now? Has she changed much? Her eyeswould be the same and her hair--only a little darker perhaps. And doesshe ever go back into the Yesterdays? It is not likely," he thought,"no doubt she is far too busy caring for her children and attending toher household duties to think of her childhood days and her childhoodplaymate. And what would her husband be like?" he wondered.
There was no woman in the dreams of the man who that afternoon, forthe first time, realized his manhood and began his manhood life. Hedreamed only of the deeds that he would do; of the work he wouldaccomplish; of the place he would win; and of the honors he wouldreceive. The little girl lived for him only in his Yesterdays. She didnot belong to his manhood years. She had no place in his manhooddreams.
Slowly he climbed the rail fence again and, through the orchard, wentdown the hill toward the house. But he did not again enter the house.He went on past the kitchen porch to the garden gate where he stood,for some minutes, looking toward the hedge that separated the twoplaces and toward the cherry tree that grew in the corner of thegarden next door.
At the big front gate he paused ag
ain and turned lingeringly as onereluctant to go. The old home in the twilight seemed so lonely, sodeserted by all to whom it had been most kind.
At last, with a movement suggestive of a determination that could nothave belonged to his boyhood, he set his face toward the world. Downthe little hill in the dusk of the evening he went, walking quickly;past the house where the little girl had lived; across the creek atthe foot of the hill; and on up the easy rise beyond. And, as he went,there was on his face the look of a man. There was in his eyes a newlight--the light of a man's dream. Nor did he once look back.
To-morrow he would leave the friends of his boyhood; he would leavethe scenes of his Yesterdays; he would go to work out his dreams--evenas in his Yesterdays, he would play them out--for the works of men areas the plays of children but dreams in action, after all.
Would he, _could_ he, play out his manhood dreams alone?
And the woman also, for the first time, was face to face with Lifeand, for the first time, knew that she was a woman.
For a long while she had seen her womanhood approaching. Little bylittle, as her skirts had been lengthened, as her dolls had been putaway, as her hair had been put up, she had seen her womanhood drawingnear. But she had always said to herself: "when I do not play withdolls, when I can dress like mother, and fix my hair like mother, Iwill be a woman." She did not know, then, that womanhood is a matterof things very different from these. Until that night she did notknow. But that night she knew.
I cannot tell you the woman's name, nor where she lived, nor any ofthose things that are commonly told about women in stories. But, as mystory is not that kind of a story, it will not matter that I cannottell. What really matters to my story is this: the woman, that night,when, for the first time, she knew herself to be a woman, began herwoman life in dreams. Because the dreams of life are of the greatestimportance--because Dreams are of the Thirteen Truly Great Things ofLife--this is my story: that the woman life of this woman, when firstshe knew herself to be a woman, began in dreams.
It was the time of the first roses. For a week or more she had beenvery busy with a loving, tender, joyous, occupation that left her notime to think of herself. Her dearest friend--her girlhood's mostintimate companion, and, save for herself, the last of their littlecircle--was to be married and she was to be bridesmaid.
They had been glad days--those days of preparation--for she rejoicedgreatly in the happiness of her friend and had shared, as fully as itwas possible for another to share, the sweet sacredness, the holymysteriousness, and the proud triumph of it all. But with the gladnessof those days, there had come into her heart a strange quietness likethe quietness of an empty room that is furnished and ready but withouta tenant.
At the wedding that evening she had been all that a bridesmaid shouldbe, even to the last white ribbon and the last handful of rice, forshe would that no shadow of a cloud should come over the happiness ofher friend. But when the new-made husband and wife had been put safelyaboard the Pullman, and, with the group on the depot platformfrantically waving hats and handkerchiefs and shouting good lucks andfarewells, the train had pulled away, the loneliness in her heart hadbecome too great to hide. Her escort had made smart jokes about hertears, alleging disappointment and envy. He was a poor, shallow,witless, fool who could not understand; and that he could notunderstand mattered, to her, not at all. She had commanded him to takeher home and at her front door had thanked him and sent him away.
And then it was--in the blessed privacy of her own room, with the doorlocked and the shades drawn close, with her wedding finery thrownaside and the need of self-repression no longer imperative--that, asshe sat in a low chair before the fire, she looked, for the firsttime, boldly at Life and, for the first time, knew that she was awoman--knew that womanhood was not a matter of long skirts, of hairdressing, and the putting away of dolls.
She was tired, very tired, from the responsibilities and excitement ofthe day but she did not feel that she could sleep. From the fire, shelooked up to the clock that ticked away so industriously on themantle. It was a little clock with a fat, golden, cupid grasping thedial in his chubby arms as though striving to do away with time whenhe might better have been busy with his bow and arrows. The hands ofthe clock pointed nearly midnight. The young woman looked into thefire again.
Already her girl friend had been a wife several hours--a wife. Alreadythe train was miles away bearing the newly wedded ones to their futurehome--their home. The hours would go swiftly into days, the days intoweeks and months and years, and there would be boys and girls--theirchildren. And the years would go swiftly as the days and there wouldbe the weddings of their sons and daughters and then--the children oftheir children.
And the woman who that night knew that she was a woman--the womanwhose heart, as she sat alone before the fire, was even as an emptyroom--a room that is furnished and ready but without a tenant--what,this woman asked herself, would the years bring her? The years of herchildhood and girlhood were past. What of her womanhood years thatwere to come?
There are many doors in the life of these modern days at which a womanmay knock with hope of being admitted; and this woman, as she satalone before her fire that night, paused before them all--all savetwo. Two doors she saw but did not pause before; and _one_ ofthem was idleness and pleasure. And one other door there is thatstands open wide so that there is no need to knock for admittance.Before this wide open door the woman paused a long time. It is olderthan the other doors. It is very, very, old. Since the beginning ithas never been closed. But though it stood open so wide and there wasno need to knock for admittance, still the woman could not enter forshe was alone. No woman may enter that old, old, open door, alone.
Three times before she had stood before that ancient door and had beenurged to cross the threshold; but always she had hesitated, had heldback, and turned away. She wondered if always she would hesitate, ifalways she would turn away; or would some one come with whom she couldgladly, joyously, confidently, cross the threshold. She could not say.She could only wait. And while she waited she would knock at one ofthe other doors. She would knock because she must. The custom of theage, necessity, circumstances, forced her to knock at one of thosedoors that, in the life of these modern days, opens to women who seekadmittance alone.
I cannot tell just what the circumstances of the woman's life were norwhy it was necessary. Nor does it in the least matter that I cannottell. The necessity, the circumstances, have nothing to do with mystory save this: that, whatever they were, I am quite sure they oughtnot to have been. I am quite sure that _any_ circumstance, ornecessity, or custom, that forces a woman who knows herself to be awoman to seek admittance at any one of those doors through which shemust enter alone is not right. This it is that belongs to my story:the woman did not wish to enter the life that lies on the other sideof those doors through which she must go alone.
Alone in her room that night, with the shades drawn close and the onlylight the light of the dancing fire, this woman who, for the firsttime, knew herself to be a woman, did not dream of a life on the otherside of those doors at which she must ask admittance. She dreamed of afuture beyond the old, old, door that has stood open wide since thebeginning.
And it was no shame to her that she so dreamed. It was no shame thatshe called before her, one by one, those who had asked her to crosswith them the threshold and those who might still ask her. It was noshame that, while her heart said always, "no," she stillwaited--waited for one whom she knew not but only knew that she wouldknow him when he came. And it was no shame to her that, even whilethis was so, she saw herself in the years to come a wife and mother.In the glowing heart of the fire she saw her home warm with holy love,bright with sacred companionship. In the dancing flames she saw herchildren--happy, beautiful, children. Nor did she in her dreams fearthe flickering shadows that came and went for in the dusk of the roomshe felt the dear presence of that one who was to be her other self;who was to be to her strength in her weakness, hope in her sadness,and comfort in
her mourning.
It is well indeed that the shadows of life bring no fears into ourdreams else we would not dare to dream and life itself would lose itspurpose and its meaning.
So the woman saw her future, not in the shadows that came and wentupon the wall, but in the glowing heart of the fire. And, as shedreamed her dreams of womanhood, her face grew beautiful with atender, thoughtful, beauty that is given only to those women who dreamsuch dreams. With the realization of her womanhood and the beginningof her woman life, her lips curved in a smile that was different fromthe smile of girlhood and there came into her eyes a light that wasnever there before. And then, as one setting out on a long journeymight turn back for a last farewell view of loved familiar scenes, sheturned to go back for a little into her Yesterdays.
There was a home in those Yesterdays and there was a mother--a motherwho lived now in a better home than any of earth's building. A fathershe had never known but there was a big, jolly, uncle who had done andwas doing yet all that an uncle of limited means could do to take herfather's place in the life of his sister's only child. And there wassunshine in her Yesterdays--bright sunshine--unclouded by city smoke;and flowers unstained by city grime; and blue skies unmarred by citybuildings; and there were beautiful trees and singing birds and broadfields in her Yesterdays. Also there were dreams--such dreams as onlythose who are very young or very wise dare to dream.
It may have been the firelight that did it; it may have been thevision of her children who lived only in the life that she saw beyondthe old, old, open door: or perhaps it was the wedding finery that layover a nearby chair: or the familiar tick, tick, tick, of the clock inthe arms of the fat cupid who neglected his bow and arrows in a vainattempt to do away with time--whatever it was that brought it about,the woman dreamed again the dreams of childhood--dreamed them even asshe dreamed those first dreams of her womanhood.
And no one was there to tell her that the dreams of her girlhood andof her womanhood were the same.
Again, on a long summer afternoon, as she kept house in a snug cornerof the vine shaded porch, she was really the mistress of a grandmansion that was furnished with beautiful carpets and furniture, chinaand silver, books and pictures. And in that mansion she received herdistinguished guests and entertained her friends with charming graceand dignity, even as she set her tiny play table with dishes ofthimble size and served tea and cakes to her play lady friends. Again,as she rocked her dollies to sleep beside the evening fire and tuckedthem into their beds with a little mother kiss for each, there weredreams of merry boys and girls who should some day call her mother.And there were dreams of fine dresses and jewels the while shestitched tiny garments for her newest child who had come to her withno clothing at all, or fashioned a marvelous hat for another whosefeatures were but a smudge of paint and whose hair had been glued onso many times that it was far past combing and a hat was a necessityto hide the tangled mat. And sometimes she was a princess shut up in acastle tower and a noble prince, who wore golden armor and rode agreat war horse, would come to woo her and she would ride away withhim through the deep forest followed by a long procession of lords andladies, of knights and squires and pages. Or, perhaps, she would be ahomeless girl in pitiful rags who, because of her great beauty, wouldbe stolen by gypsies and sold to a cruel king to be kept in a dungeonuntil rescued by a brave soldier lover.
And, in her Yesterdays, the master of the dream home over which shewas mistress--the father of her dream children--the prince with whomshe rode away through the forest--the soldier lover who rescued herfrom the dungeon--and the hero of many other adventures of which shewas the heroine--was always the same. Outside her dreams he was asturdy, brown cheeked, bare legged, little boy who lived next door.But what a man is outside a woman's dreams counts for little afterall--even though that woman be a very small and dainty little womanwith a very large family of dolls.
The woman remembered so well their first meeting. It was at the upperend of the garden near the strawberry beds and he was creeping towardher on hands and knees through a hole in the hedge that separated thetwo places. How she had jumped when she first caught sight of him! Howhe had started and turned as if to escape when he saw her watchinghim! How shyly they had approached each other with the first timidofferings of friendship!
Many, many, times after that did he come to her through the opening inthe hedge. Many, many, times did she go to him. And he came in manydisguises. In many disguises she helped him put his dreams intoaction. But always, to her, he was a hero to be worshiped, a leader tobe followed, a master to be obeyed. Always she was very proud ofhim--of his strength and courage--of the grand deeds he wrought--andof the great things that he would some day do. And sometimes--the mostdelightful times of all--at her wish, he would help her, in hismasterful way, to play out her dreams. And then, though he liked beingan Indian or a robber or a soldier best, he would be a model husbandand help her with the children; although he did, at times, insist uponpunishing them rather more than she thought necessary. But when thelittle family was ill with the measles or scarlet fever or whoopingcough no dream husband could have been more gentle, more thoughtful,or more wise, in his attention.
And once they had played a wedding.
The woman whose heart was as an empty room stirred in her chairuneasily as one who feels the gaze of a hidden observer. But the doorwas locked, the shades drawn close, and the only light was theflickering light of the fire. The night without was very dark andstill. There was no sound in the sleeping house--no sound save thesteady tick, tick, tick, of the time piece in the chubby arms of thefat cupid on the mantle.
And once they had played a wedding.
It was when her big, jolly, uncle was married. The boy and the girlwere present at the ceremony and she wore a wonderful new dress whilethe boy, scrubbed and combed and brushed, was arrayed in his bestclothes with shoes and stockings. There were flowers and music andgood things to eat and no end of laughter and gay excitement; and thejolly uncle looked so big and fine and solemn; and the bride, in herwhite veil, was so like a princess in one of the dreams; that thelittle girl was half frightened and felt a queer lump in her throat asshe clung to her mother's hand. And there was a strange ceremony inwhich the minister, in his gown, read out of a book and said a prayerand asked questions; and the uncle and the princess answered thequestions; and the uncle put a ring on the finger of the princess; andthe minister said that they were husband and wife. And then there werekisses while everybody laughed and cried and shook hands; and some onetold the little girl that the princess was her new auntie; and heruncle caught her up in his big arms and was his own jolly self again.It was all very fine and strange and impressive to their childisheyes; and so, of course, the very next day, the boy and the girlplayed a wedding.
It was up in that quiet corner of the garden, near the hedge, and thecherry tree was in bloom and showered its delicate blossoms down uponthem with every puff of air that stirred the branches; while, in thehedge nearby, a little brown bird was putting the finishing touch to anew nest. The boy's shepherd dog, who sat up when you told him, wasthe minister; and all the dollies were there, dressed in their finestgowns. The little girl was very serious and again, half frightened,felt that queer lump in her throat as she promised to be his wife. Andthe boy looked very serious, too, as he placed a little brass ringupon her finger and, speaking for the brown eyed, shaggy coated,minister, said: "I pronounce you husband and wife and anything thatGod has done must never be done any different by anybody forever andever, Amen." And then--because there was no one else present and theyboth felt that the play would not be complete without--then, he hadkissed her, and they were both very, very, happy.
So it was that, in the quiet secrecy of her dimly lighted room, thewoman who that night knew herself to be a woman, felt her cheeks hotwith blushes and upon her hot cheeks felt her tears.
So it was that she came back from her Yesterdays to wonder: where wasthe boy now? What kind of a man had he grown to be? Was he making hisway to fame a
nd wealth or laboring in some humble position? Had he ahome with wife and children? Did he ever go back into the Yesterdays?Had he forgotten that wedding under the cherry tree? When the one withwhom she would go through the old, old, door into the life of herwomanhood dreams should come, would it matter if the hero of herchildhood dreams went in with them? He could be no rival to that onewho was to come for he lived only in the Yesterdays and the Yesterdayscould not come back. The fat little cupid on the mantle neglected hisbow and arrows in vain; he could not do away with time.
Very slowly the woman prepared for her rest and, when she was ready,knelt in the soft dusk of her room, a virgin in white to pray. AndGod, I know, understood why her prayer was confused and uncertain withlongings she could not express even to him who said: "Except ye becomeas little children." God, I know, understood why this woman, who thatnight, for the first time, knowing herself to be a woman had dreamed atrue woman's dream--God, I know, understood why, as she lay down tosleep in the quiet darkness, she stretched forth her empty arms andalmost cried aloud.
In to-morrow's light it would all be gone, but that night--thatnight--her womanhood dreams of the future were real--real even as thegirlhood dreams of her Yesterdays.
Their Yesterdays Page 2