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Page 39
"She mopes, poor little mother!" said Madeline to Henry. "I can't think
what's the matter with her. We'll take her off with us on our wedding
trip. She needs a little change."
"Dear me, no, that will never do," protested the little woman, with her
usual half-frightened look at Henry. "Mr. Burr wouldn't think that nice
at all."
"I mean that Mr. Burr shall be too much occupied in thinking how nice I
am to do any other thinking," said Madeline.
"That's like the dress you wore to the picnic at Hemlock Hollow," said
Henry.
"Why, no, it isn't either. It only looks a little like it. It's light,
and cut the same way; that's all the resemblance; but of course a man
couldn't be expected to know any better."
"It's exactly like it," maintained Henry.
"What'll you bet?"
"I'll bet the prettiest pair of bracelets I can find in the city."
"Betting is wicked," said Madeline, "and so I suppose it's my duty to
take this bet just to discourage you from betting any more. Being engaged
makes a girl responsible for a young man's moral culture."
She left the room, and returned in a few moments with the veritable
picnic dress on.
"There!" she said, as she stepped before the mirror.
"Ah, that's it, that's it! I give in," he exclaimed, regarding her
ecstatically. "How pretty you were that day! I'd never seen you so pretty
before. Do you remember that was the day I kissed you first? I should
never have dared to. I just had to--I couldn't help it."
"So I believe you said at the time," observed Madeline, dryly. "It does
make me not so bad," she admitted, inspecting herself with a critical
air. "I really don't believe you could help it. I ought not to have been
so hard on you, poor boy. There! there! I didn't mean that. Don't! Here
comes mother."
Mrs. Brand entered the room, bringing a huge pasteboard box.
"Oh, she's got my wedding dress! Haven't you, mother?" exclaimed
Madeline, pouncing on the box. "Henry, you might as well go right home. I
can't pay any more attention to you to-night. There's more important
business."
"But I want to see you with it on," he demurred.
"You do?"
"Yes."
"Very much?"
"The worst kind."
"Well, then, you sit down and wait here by yourself for about an hour,
and maybe you shall;" and the women were off upstairs.
At length there was a rustling on the stairway, and she re-entered the
room, all sheeny white in lustrous satin. Behind the gauzy veil that fell
from the coronal of dark brown hair adown the shoulders her face shone
with a look he had never seen in it. It was no longer the mirthful,
self-reliant girl who stood before him, but the shrinking, trustful
bride. The flashing, imperious expression that so well became her bold
beauty at other times had given place to a shy and blushing softness,
inexpressibly charming to her lover. In her shining eyes a host of
virginal alarms were mingled with the tender, solemn trust of love.
As he gazed, his eyes began to swim with tenderness, and her face grew
dim and misty to his vision. Then her white dress lost its sheen and
form, and he found himself staring at the white window-shade of his
bedroom, through which the morning light was peering. Startled,
bewildered, he raised himself on his elbow in bed. Yes, he was in bed. He
looked around, mechanically taking note of one and another familiar
feature of the apartment to make sure of his condition. There, on the
stand by his bedside, lay his open watch, still ticking, and indicating
his customary hour of rising. There, turned on its face, lay that dry
book on electricity he had been reading himself to sleep with. And there,
on the bureau, was the white paper that bad contained the morphine
sleeping powder which he took before going to bed. That was what had made
him dream. For some of it must have been a dream! But how much of it was
a dream? Re must think. That was a dream certainly about her wedding
dress. Yes, and perhaps--yes, surely--that must be a dream about her
mother's being in Boston. He could not remember writing Mrs. Brand since
Madeline had been to Dr. Heidenhoff. He put his hand to his forehead,
then raised his head and looked around the room with an appealing stare.
Great God! why, that was a dream too! The last waves of sleep ebbed from
his brain and to his aroused consciousness the clear, hard lines of
reality dissevered themselves sharply from the vague contours of
dreamland. Yes, it was all a dream. He remembered how it all was now. He
had not seen Madeline since the evening before, when he had proposed
their speedy marriage, and she had called him back in that strange way to
kiss her. What a dream! That sleeping powder had done it--that, and the
book on electricity, and that talk on mental physiology which he had
overheard in the car the afternoon before. These rude materials, as
unpromising as the shapeless bits of glass which the kaleidoscope turns
into schemes of symmetrical beauty, were the stuff his dream was made of.
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