The Dream-Child Page #3

"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

								

snatched a lantern from the wall, lighted it, and followed.  It
was the blackest night I was ever out in, dark with the very
darkness of death.  The rain fell thickly and heavily.  I
overtook Josie, caught her hand, and stumbled along in her wake,
for she went with the speed and recklessness of a distraught
woman.  We moved in the little flitting circle of light shed by
the lantern.  All around us and above us was a horrible,
voiceless darkness, held, as it were, at bay by the friendly
light.

"If I could only overtake him once," moaned Josie.  "If I could
just kiss him once, and hold him close against my aching heart.
This pain, that never leaves me, would leave me than.  Oh, my
pretty boy, wait for mother!  I am coming to you.  Listen, David;
he cries--he cries so pitifully; listen!  Can't you hear it?"

I DID hear it!  Clear and distinct, out of the deadly still
darkness before us, came a faint, wailing cry.  What was it?  Was
I, too, going mad, or WAS there something out there--something
that cried and moaned--longing for human love, yet ever
retreating from human footsteps?  I am not a superstitious man;
but my nerve had been shaken by my long trial, and I was weaker
than I thought.  Terror took possession of me--terror unnameable.
I trembled in every limb; clammy perspiration oozed from my
forehead; I was possessed by a wild impulse to turn and
flee--anywhere, away from that unearthly cry.  But Josephine's cold
hand gripped mine firmly, and led me on.  That strange cry still
rang in my ears.  But it did not recede; it sounded clearer and
stronger; it was a wail; but a loud, insistent wail; it was
nearer--nearer; it was in the darkness just beyond us.

Then we came to it; a little dory had been beached on the pebbles
and left there by the receding tide.  There was a child in it--a
boy, of perhaps two years old, who crouched in the bottom of the
dory in water to his waist, his big, blue eyes wild and wide with
terror, his face white and tear-stained.  He wailed again when he
saw us, and held out his little hands.

My horror fell away from me like a discarded garment.  THIS child
was living.  How he had come there, whence and why, I did not
know and, in my state of mind, did not question.  It was no cry
of parted spirit I had heard--that was enough for me.

"Oh, the poor darling!" cried my wife.

She stooped over the dory and lifted the baby in her arms.  His
long, fair curls fell on her shoulder; she laid her face against
his and wrapped her shawl around him.

"Let me carry him, dear," I said.  "He is very wet, and too heavy
for you."

"No, no, I must carry him.  My arms have been so empty--they are
full now.  Oh, David, the pain at my heart has gone.  He has come
to me to take the place of my own.  God has sent him to me out of
the sea.  He is wet and cold and tired.  Hush, sweet one, we will
go home."

Silently I followed her home.  The wind was rising, coming in
sudden, angry gusts; the storm was at hand, but we reached
shelter before it broke.  Just as I shut our door behind us it
smote the house with the roar of a baffled beast.  I thanked God
that we were not out in it, following the dream-child.

"You are very wet, Josie," I said.  "Go and put on dry clothes at
once."

"The child must be looked to first," she said firmly.  "See how
chilled and exhausted he is, the pretty dear.  Light a fire
quickly, David, while I get dry things for him."

I let her have her way.  She brought out the clothes our own
child had worn and dressed the waif in them, rubbing his chilled
limbs, brushing his wet hair, laughing over him, mothering him.
She seemed like her old self.

For my own part, I was bewildered.  All the questions I had not
asked before came crowding to my mind how.  Whose child was this?
Whence had he come?  What was the meaning of it all?

He was a pretty baby, fair and plump and rosy.  When he was dried
and fed, he fell asleep in Josie's arms.  She hung over him in a
passion of delight.  It was with difficulty I persuaded her to
leave him long enough to change her wet clothes.  She never asked
whose he might be or from where he might have come.  He had been
sent to her from the sea; the dream-child had led her to him;
that was what she believed, and I dared not throw any doubt on
that belief.  She slept that night with the baby on her arm, and
in her sleep her face was the face of a girl in her youth,
untroubled and unworn.

I expected that the morrow would bring some one seeking the baby.
I had come to the conclusion that he must belong to the "Cove"
across the harbor, where the fishing hamlet was; and all day,
while Josie laughed and played with him, I waited and listened
for the footsteps of those who would come seeking him.  But they
did not come.  Day after day passed, and still they did not come.

I was in a maze of perplexity.  What should I do?  I shrank from
the thought of the boy being taken away from us.  Since we had
found him the dream-child had never called.  My wife seemed to
have turned back from the dark borderland, where her feet had
strayed to walk again with me in our own homely paths.  Day and
night she was her old, bright self, happy and serene in the new
motherhood that had come to her.  The only thing strange in her
was her calm acceptance of the event.  She never wondered who or
whose the child might be--never seemed to fear that he would be
taken from her; and she gave him our dream-child's name.

At last, when a full week had passed, I went, in my bewilderment,
to our old doctor.

"A most extraordinary thing," he said thoughtfully.  "The child,
as you say, must belong to the Spruce Cove people.  Yet it is an
almost unbelievable thing that there has been no search or
inquiry after him.  Probably there is some simple explanation of
the mystery, however.  I advise you to go over to the Cove and
inquire.  When you find the parents or guardians of the child,
ask them to allow you to keep it for a time.  It may prove your
wife's salvation.  I have known such cases.  Evidently on that
night the crisis of her mental disorder was reached.  A little
thing might have sufficed to turn her feet either way--back to
reason and sanity, or into deeper darkness.  It is my belief that
the former has occurred, and that, if she is left in undisturbed
possession of this child for a time, she will recover
completely."

I drove around the harbor that day with a lighter heart than I
had hoped ever to possess again.  When I reached Spruce Cove the
first person I met was old Abel Blair.  I asked him if any child
were missing from the Cove or along shore.  He looked at me in
surprise, shook his head, and said he had not heard of any.  I
told him as much of the tale as was necessary, leaving him to
think that my wife and I had found the dory and its small
passenger during an ordinary walk along the shore.

"A green dory!" he exclaimed.  "Ben Forbes' old green dory has
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