The Dream-Child Page #2

"The Dream-Child" by Lucy Maud Montgomery is a poignant short story that explores themes of imagination, loss, and the complexity of childhood. It follows the journey of a young girl who creates a dream world filled with a fantastical companion—a dream-child—who embodies her hopes and desires. As the narrative unfolds, the girl grapples with the stark contrast between her enchanting dreams and the harsh realities of life. Their deep connection reveals insights about growing up, the power of dreams, and the bittersweet nature of fleeting innocence. Montgomery's lyrical prose captures the essence of childhood wonder while addressing the inevitable passage of time.

• Short story

								

deadly chill.

"It was no dream," she answered reproachfully.  "I tell you I
heard him calling me--me, his mother.  What could I do but go to
him?  You cannot understand--you are only his father.  It was not
you who gave him birth.  It was not you who paid the price of his
dear life in pain.  He would not call to you--he wanted his
mother."

I got her back to the house and to her bed, whither she went
obediently enough, and soon fell into the sleep of exhaustion.
But there was no more sleep for me that night.  I kept a grim
vigil with dread.

When I had married Josephine, one of those officious relatives
that are apt to buzz about a man's marriage told me that her
grandmother had been insane all the latter part of her life.  She
had grieved over the death of a favorite child until she lost her
mind, and, as the first indication of it, she had sought by
nights a white dream-child which always called her, so she said,
and led her afar with a little, pale, beckoning hand.

I had smiled at the story then.  What had that grim old bygone to
do with springtime and love and Josephine?  But it came back to
me now, hand in hand with my fear.  Was this fate coming on my
dear wife?  It was too horrible for belief.  She was so young, so
fair, so sweet, this girl-wife of mine.  It had been only a bad
dream, with a frightened, bewildered waking.  So I tried to
comfort myself.

When she awakened in the morning she did not speak of what had
happened and I did not dare to.  She seemed more cheerful that
day than she had been, and went about her household duties
briskly and skillfully.  My fear lifted.  I was sure now that she
had only dreamed.  And I was confirmed in my hopeful belief when
two nights had passed away uneventfully.

Then, on the third night, the dream-child called to her again.  I
wakened from a troubled doze to find her dressing herself with
feverish haste.

"He is calling me," she cried.  "Oh, don't you hear him?  Can't
you hear him?  Listen--listen--the little, lonely cry!  Yes, yes,
my precious, mother is coming.  Wait for me.  Mother is coming to
her pretty boy!"

I caught her hand and let her lead me where she would.  Hand in
hand we followed the dream-child down the harbor shore in that
ghostly, clouded moonlight.  Ever, she said, the little cry
sounded before her.  She entreated the dream-child to wait for
her; she cried and implored and uttered tender mother-talk.  But,
at last, she ceased to hear the cry; and then, weeping, wearied,
she let me lead her home again.

What a horror brooded over that spring--that so beautiful spring!
It was a time of wonder and marvel; of the soft touch of silver
rain on greening fields; of the incredible delicacy of young
leaves; of blossom on the land and blossom in the sunset.  The
whole world bloomed in a flush and tremor of maiden loveliness,
instinct with all the evasive, fleeting charm of spring and
girlhood and young morning.  And almost every night of this
wonderful time the dream-child called his mother, and we roved
the gray shore in quest of him.

In the day she was herself; but, when the night fell, she was
restless and uneasy until she heard the call.  Then follow it she
would, even through storm and darkness.  It was then, she said,
that the cry sounded loudest and nearest, as if her pretty boy
were frightened by the tempest.  What wild, terrible rovings we
had, she straining forward, eager to overtake the dream-child; I,
sick at heart, following, guiding, protecting, as best I could;
then afterwards leading her gently home, heart-broken because she
could not reach the child.

I bore my burden in secret, determining that gossip should not
busy itself with my wife's condition so long as I could keep it
from becoming known.  We had no near relatives--none with any
right to share any trouble--and whoso accepteth human love must
bind it to his soul with pain.

I thought, however, that I should have medical advice, and I took
our old doctor into my confidence.  He looked grave when he heard
my story.  I did not like his expression nor his few guarded
remarks.  He said he thought human aid would avail little; she
might come all right in time; humor her, as far as possible,
watch over her, protect her.  He needed not to tell me THAT.

The spring went out and summer came in--and the horror deepened
and darkened.  I knew that suspicions were being whispered from
lip to lip.  We had been seen on our nightly quests.  Men and
women began to look at us pityingly when we went abroad.

One day, on a dull, drowsy afternoon, the dream-child called.  I
knew then that the end was near; the end had been near in the old
grandmother's case sixty years before when the dream-child called
in the day.  The doctor looked graver than ever when I told him,
and said that the time had come when I must have help in my task.
I could not watch by day and night.  Unless I had assistance I
would break down.

I did not think that I should.  Love is stronger than that.  And
on one thing I was determined--they should never take my wife
from me.  No restraint sterner than a husband's loving hand
should ever be put upon her, my pretty, piteous darling.

I never spoke of the dream-child to her.  The doctor advised
against it.  It would, he said, only serve to deepen the
delusion.  When he hinted at an asylum I gave him a look that
would have been a fierce word for another man.  He never spoke of
it again.

One night in August there was a dull, murky sunset after a dead,
breathless day of heat, with not a wind stirring.  The sea was
not blue as a sea should be, but pink--all pink--a ghastly,
staring, painted pink.  I lingered on the harbor shore below the
house until dark.  The evening bells were ringing faintly and
mournfully in a church across the harbor.  Behind me, in the
kitchen, I heard my wife singing.  Sometimes now her spirits were
fitfully high, and then she would sing the old songs of her
girlhood.  But even in her singing was something strange, as if a
wailing, unearthly cry rang through it.  Nothing about her was
sadder than that strange singing.

When I went back to the house the rain was beginning to fall; but
there was no wind or sound in the air--only that dismal
stillness, as if the world were holding its breath in expectation
of a calamity.

Josie was standing by the window, looking out and listening.  I
tried to induce her to go to bed, but she only shook her head.

"I might fall asleep and not hear him when he called," she said.
"I am always afraid to sleep now, for fear he should call and his
mother fail to hear him."

Knowing it was of no use to entreat, I sat down by the table and
tried to read.  Three hours passed on.  When the clock struck
midnight she started up, with the wild light in her sunken blue
eyes.

"He is calling," she cried, "calling out there in the storm.
Yes, yes, sweet, I am coming!"

She opened the door and fled down the path to the shore.  I
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