Davie's Dream.

Otago Witness, Issue 1581, 4 March 1882, Page 26

Davie's Dream.

By Oba Hope.

RYTHING was topsy-turvy. Father ,and, mother separating what was to be taken with us from what was to be conveyed to the auction-room for Bale; I, a little, unhappy, peevish seven-year-old invalid, perched on a high chair, my chin resting on my hands, looking listlessly on. ' I don't know what you want with all that trumpery, Jane, 1 father said in dismay, when mother had sorted out what she declared to be absolutely necessary • • you mu«t try to do with less. What have you here?' turning out a carpetbag on the floor. ' Nothing but papers—old letters, bills, even Davie's copies. Burn them, Jane, bjuro them ; the bag will hold something we do want.' : * But there are receipts there too, Maurice, some of them perhaps important, t took all those old papers of yours from that old pigeon box, I did not examine them ; I concluded you would not have kept tb em so long if you did not want them. See, that's parchment; what is it?' , „ , ! ' I declare I bad forgotten all about this. It 1b the deeds of some allotments I bought from iSlason years ago, before we were married.' I 'Where, Maurice?' ; 'On the outskirts of the town. They are not worth much now : lam afraid they never will be; but I bought them for a trifle.' i Their" voices were becoming gradually more indistinct, until I could no longer hear them. I had fallen asleep. l *0 do leave me alone, ma ; you woke me, you did, when I had the bag nearly open. Now I don't know what was in it, 1 I said, fretfully, when mother lifted me from the chair and laid me on the sofa, 'I was having the queerest dream I ever had, and you came and woke'me at the best of it.' ( ,'Shut your eyes, dear,' she said, softly; < perhaps it will come back to you.' ' , j Butit "didn't come back to me, and I sulked for the, rest of the evening. ■'I was an illtempered boy,— not a bit like those angelic sufferers the goody-goody books tell us of, and mother had a wretched time with me. I used to Bit at the window for hours, the envious tears scalding my cheeks as I watched other children at play., I hated my crutches as if they were ttie cause of my infirmity ; and if mother ventured to cross me In "anything, I would storm and rave at her in childish pasßion until my strength was exhausted. I was a little afraid of my father. Though he was good and kind to me, he could be very stern when he' liked; and he always said tbat mother Was spoiling me. ' Now, Davie, tell me your dream,' she said when she was putting me to bed that night, ' and we'll piece out She end.' I brightened up in a moment, and commenced. *I thought the three of us were travelling over a long, rough road, up hill and down 'dale, turning in and out every way, and getting darker and narrower' as we went on. At last it got bo dark that I couldn't see father, who was in front ; and when a glimmer of light came again, he was not with ' us. Then I Ithought— ' ! ' What is this I hear ?— dreams again ?'

It was my father's voioe. He had returned unobserved.

• How often have I forbidden this, Jane ? Ace you determined to have the boy mentally I as well as bodily weak?' She did not answer, but put me to bed j and I could hear her crying and father talking angrily until I fell asleep. I don't know when I first began to take notice of dreams. It must have been at a very early age. They were my chief pleasure. Directly after father went to business in the morning, I would begin to tell mother what I had dreamt last night, winding up with, ' And now, ma, what did you dream ?' Some pretty little story in the Bhape of a dream would instantly be forthcoming. When I began to 1 look for the signs of my dreams, and connect them with the incidents of the day, father looked troubled,

'It was a harmless pastime first, Jane,' I overheard him say, 'but I wish you would discontinue it. The child is preternaturally sharp. His character is rapidly forming. We must find healthier food for his mind than brooding over dreams.' •His pleasures are bo few,' she answered,; • that I cannot bear to check him when he is in good-humour. Let him grow out of it.' He did not know how hard it was to keep me is good-humour, nor how muoh my indulgent mother suffered from my temper. • No, Davie,' she said next morning, * I have no time to listen to you. Besides, father says you are too big now for baby talk,' But I got my arms round her, and kissed her, saying, 'Just this once, ma, and 111 never, never ask you again. It was so curious and so real. Now listen. I thought you and I stumbled along in the dark, until we came to a narrow stair. We went up into a room full of beds, all covered with red-and- white quilts.'

• Like the hospital?' sho said, with a shiver. ' No, not a bit. It was just a bedroom with too many bed* an it. Well, I thought I got into one of the bods, and my crutches seemed to get loßt. You were looking everywhere for them, aud crying like anything. At last you »at- down on a trunk, and said,

' •' Oh, Davie, I'm so tirod I'll h».vo to give un. You'll never find your crutohes again. What will booorae of you ?"'

1 Then iii £ot so dtrtk again. I ii'iwl to gwfc fco you, but instead of crossing the room I kept sinking I.hr«nigh it— down, dr>wu, 'nto an^th-.r room. There waa % wee uqaaro box thoro, uot

half large enough to hold them, but I thought my crutches were in it. Oh, my ! what a job I had to open it 1 Inside it was father's bag, that he wears when he's out collecting. It waa crammed full of something. I was just opening it, when you gave that horrid scream that woke me. Now what could have been in that •Bread and jam, that some little boy's mamma bad put up for his dinner, perhaps. 3 I pushed her sullenly away, quite disappointed at such a commonplace finish. The next day we commenced our journey, and my dream was forgotten. Seven years pass away, and again we are in Williamstown. Father is dead, and we are very poor. In company with another, he had opened a store in Bendigo. After his death, which was sudden, this partner went to Melbourne for the transaction of business, and we never saw him again. Philip Ralston had robbed us, and fled. Three months after father's death we were standing on the street in Bendigo without a roof to cover us, everything but our personal belongings having been sold by the creditors of the firm. Through the kindness of a few friends, a tent was erected for us in which we lived on mother's earnings for three years. Though I still used my crutches, my general health had improved, so had my temper considerably. I was a very good scholar, considering my opportunities, and was most anxious for mother to remove to Melbourne, where after a period at a > good school, I might get a situation. But she hesitated to leave a neighbourhood where we had been so kindly treated. A gentleman, who had known father, called on us oue day, and in the course of conversation Baid,— 'You wonld not know Williamstown now, Mrs Banks, it is so muoh improved. The main street now extends along the bay as far as your old place. Those sections of Mason's, that he would have sold for a song, some years ago, are now covered with substantial stone buildings. ' • Then those allotments Maurice bought from him ought to be worth something now. I wish licould sell them to put Davie to Bchool for a year or two.' : * Depend upon it, Mrs Banks, there will never be a better time to sell than the present. BuiWing Bites are fetching enormously high prices.' , ■ When our visitor left, we sat hand in hand until a late hour, building castles in the air. We resolved to return at once and convert our property into cash. •But oh, Davie,' said mother suddenly, blank dismay in her face, ' What if Ralston has taken the deeds?' So he had. We closely searched the drawer, In which were kept the books and papers he had left, but found no deeds among them. Mother knew as little as myself of legal forms, but Bhe had an idea— or, perhaps, I should call it a hope— that even without the deeds she could establish her claims. So to Williamstown we went. Poor and friendless, what could.we do 1 Mason had been dead many years. His nephew, who had inherited the property, at our claims, and blandly asked for our proofs. Mother could not even tell where the allotments were situated. Father never spoke of businesa matters at home, consequently she did not know when or where the sale had taken place. ' Before we were married,' he had said, and it was fifteen years Bince their marriage. And now came the struggle for bread, our travelling expenses having swallowed nearly all mother's savings. Our lawyer communicated with the police respecting the missing deeds, and advised ub to take up our abode in Melbourne, where mother would get plenty of sewing, and he promised to get something to do for I me. > He also directed us to cheap, respectable lodgings, and to Melbourne we went ingly4 I'd like to accommodate you, ma'am, seem' its Mr Booker that sent ye, but the house is fall, barrin' the big room, an' that would not suit ye,' said the landlady, a kindly-looking Irishwoman. * Come in anyway, we'll see what's to be done. An' this is your son ? Wisha, God help us. Sit down, asthore,' drawing an easy chair towards me. The tears actually stood in her eyes when she relieved me of my cratches, My weakness was my strength with Mrs Brady. I j *If you conld make shift for us at all,' moI ther said, ' I will be thankful. lam not par- ! ticular where you put me, if you can make Davie comfortable.' • Well, there's the big room novr, I seldom use it but in harvest time. But I'll have to lave the beds in it. I have no place else for them. Have you muoh luggage P' 1 Only a trunk and a carpet bag.' She looked from one to the other of us, taking in the situation, then with a sigh, said fervently, • God help all the widows o' the world ! 'Tis thim that's the sport of fortune. If you can do in the big room, ma'am, without shiftin' the beds, you can have it and welcome till you can suit yourself better ; an' we won't fall out abottt the ri&t.' She showed ub to our room. It was a large one containing six beds, a rickety chair, and an awkward looking fixture covered with chintz, on which stood a looking-glass and a tin candlestick. Here we dragged out six weary months. Needlework, such as mother could do, was scarce, and provisions were dear. With no other landlady would the cost of living be so Blight as with Mrs Brady, and we knew we would soon have to make way for more profitable lodgers. The time hung heavily on my hands, while sitting alone all day, and I was oppressed with a strange feeling of familiarity with my surroundings. The first time I came through the dark, narrow passage, that led to the still darker and narrower Btaircase, I felt as if I had been there before, or had seen some place exactly like it. The feeling never wore off, though I did not allow myself to dwell on it. I devoted my whole mind to my books, being anxious to assist mother, who grew paler and sadder every day. Coming in one scorching day, after a weary, fruitless walk, with some embroidery Bhe was trying to Bell, Bhe sank ex hausted on a little hair-covered trunk, that we used for a seat, saying — 1 Oh, Davie, lam so tired ; I feel like giving up. What will become of you, poor child, if I am ill V and Bhe fainted.

I could not come to her assistance for a moment. Her words awakened a flood of recollections that stunned me. As plainly as when it occurred, seven years before, I could see the packing up in Williamstown, the deedß in my father's hand. I remembered distinctly his conversation with mother, and being aroused from that dream, which was the cause of the nearest approach to a quarrel that had ever occurred between my parents. Here was the very room I dreamt of. Not a particle of difference. Tho bads, the makeshift table, even the trunk and tbe rickety chair, I had seen them all in my sleep. Would the box and bag al*o turn up ? Would anything come of it ? I thought as I tried to lift £er head, My clumsy efforts to restore mother failed, and, becoming alaiincd, I called Mm Brady, aud in tho confusion of the next hfvlf hour al) elne wiw for Rotten. At length bio revived, but looked so ill that our good naturad laudlady insisted on iomtvluing wifhhdr a'l ui^iit. After gravely üßßuriug iitr l.itui>fail uhti wttutad nuw was a good ponnd fleec, and bfuViiag ma to w.uwht; uud not t;imurl> ho', M<s Ilj-ady Im([ >i<>wu bti»ide her »n.<i talked, without ceasing <sao whole night

long. I felt savage with he*, aa she prosed on about her troubles since she landed, and related every incident connected with the arrival and departure of the four little Bradys. who only lived long enough to teach the big, loving heart how much it could bear without breaking. Of the death of * Dan, her poor man, Heaven be his bed this night, a kind crethnr, but aisy led an' fond of a little dbrop,' and several other matters equally interesting just when we wanted quietness for mother to Bleep, and I to think over my dream which, strange to say, was fading into indistinctaess. It was many days before mother could leave her bed, and it annoyed me that I could neither banish the subject from my mind, nor get an opportunity to search the room, though common sense told me there v/as nothing in it that I had not already seen. I wanted to overhaul the dressing-table. It was a packing-case turned end upwards, the open part to the wall. I had assumed it to bo empty— that is, if I thought of it all. Now, I wanted to asßure myaelf that the bag and box of my dream were not there. I was too helpless to remove the case myself, so I resorted to stratagem. Being a great favourite with the old lady, I knew I might question her to the extent of rudeness. When she came in one morning to sit with us, before going to bed I said-*- • Mrs Brady, why don't you turn the table the- other way out, I could use it for a cubboard then. It would do nicely for my books. But perhaps there is something in it?' ; • There Is, thin, Davie. There do be so much left here, I'm at me wit's end sometimes where to put the things, an' a carpet bag, or a bundle that's too particular to be put in the luggage loft, an' then I have no place in my own room ,for I stow in there for safety. The Riveriud'a things is there now.' •The ßev. what?' I asked. 'Do clergymen stay here too ' ' He wasn't a clargyman, dear, that was a nickname he got, The dickens a much rivirind about the .same lad, I b'lieve, but his white flowin 1 locks, that 'ad remind ye of the patriarchs-i of ould, an' that same wasn't his own. He said he was Bint out from Home on a mission of mercy. He was agint for a gmtleman who led a wild, bad life in his youth Af fcher feolin' the .pinch of poverty, he mcd his way to the diggin's, an' got a great lot of goold. He reformed, an' wint home an' clearer! his estate. Oat of gratitude to tho Lord ho sint a pious, trustworthy person to V ictona to spind so much a year on the poor childer m the place where he mcd his money. Bad cess to him that couldn't Bpind it on the poor childet undher his nose. There's no rale poor childer out here, thanks be lo God. There's enough to ait for every one. It's too well fed they are, signs on they're the saucy, impident young divils. If 'twas ral« charity was m ( the heart, he'd walk down on his own two legß, through the back lanes of ould Ireland, or England either, an' give what he's payin'his agint, to the shy, shivering cratures he'd meet there, that has the bitther could as well as the hunger to fight agin.* ' I said, ' You don't seem to have much faith in him or hiß mission, Mrs Brady. Have you any reason to distrust him ?' She took off her glasses,, wiped them and put them on again, saying slowly, ' Hot much asthore, not much. I have quare old-fashioned notions Davie. Whin, l see one thing-fftlae, I can't help thinking there's more decait there, an' I must be on my guard.' Motjher observed that * He might be a very good man notwithstanding the false hair. How did you find out that he wore a wig, Mrs Brady ' 7 f Well, ma'am, it was jost this way. Goin' out one morning, he said, maybe he wouldn't be back for a,day or two, so his room wasn't made up that day., , 'Twas whin I was goin' to bed, I thought,of it, andl ses to mesilf, sea I, maybe tne riverend's clothes is lyin' about; I'm betther go turn the kay in the door. There's so many strangers using the passage, T-there'o no telling what nvght happen. To me great surprise, there was a light under the door. I opened it, ah' here was a strange man, 98 I thought, foldin' the riverend's clothes. Since the hour I was born I never got such a Fright, an' maybe he wasn't frightened, too. He turned the colour of death, and while you'd ' be Baying Jack Robinßon, the wig was clapped on again. He says as polite as ye pl&ze, " I'm afraid I frightened ye, ma'am, I knocked, but ye did'nt hear me, so I got in at the back without making any further disturbance." I told him what brought me, and made me ex- ! euses about his bed not being dressed, and bid him good-night. He said he'd be goin' away t by the airly coach for an indefinite period. He i (was gone before we were stirrin' in the mornin', land' he isn't back yet. Shure, I'm puttin' I Davie to sleep with my ould yarns. I b'lieve ■I'll be goin',' she added iv a half-offended tone, as she caught me nodding, and she left us. Perhaps it was the want if sleep during the past week, owing to mother's illness. Perhaps it was the heat that caused such a feeling of drowsiness to steal over me while speaking, but I lost no time in getting to bed, and was soon wrapped in profound slumber. While still in this state, I aroRO two hours later, and vainly easayod to push back the dressing-table from tho wall. Mother who was a light Bleepor, watching me with alarm, After several ineffectual efforts, I returned to bed, sighing deeply, and muttering, 'I oan't find them anywhere, ma.' Mrs Brady was not more surprised than my. self to hear of my night'a adventure. She traced it to the interest I had taken in her 'story, and lest I should repeat the exploit, she turned out the case for my inspection. I ■ really felt ashamed of my folly, for I had .secretly cherished the hope that the concluding part of my dream would also be made manifest, and there was no box here. How glad I was ; that I had not mentioned the matter to mother.

A visit from our lawyer at this juncture cast mother into the deepest gloom. The last ray of hope was dispelled. He told us that Philip Rsdston had gone to Europe, It was suspected that he had returned to the colonies, bub the difficulty of securing a conviction, on the slender evidence wo had to offer, was serious. In fact, if we really knew whore he was, it would not be safe to order his arreßt, unless, in the event of his acquittal, we were prepared to defend an action for imprisonment. Our position was becoming desperate, and we resolved to return to Bendigo. There we would have no rent to pay. We would have to write to some of our friends there for a little assistance, as our money was exhausted. It was very hard to do. We were sitting talking sadly over it, when Mrs Brady trotted upstairs to tell mo that I could have the ease now, as the Eiverand had written to hftva his luggage forwarded to Sydney, whither he had gone- Mother did not tell ncr of our projected departure. Hetbearb was too full, she could not trust herself to speak, And now for tho etrangest part of my Btory, in which there is nothing fictitious but the names. I went to bed that uighfc feeling uuueually tired. It, was no late when Mm Brady got the case down stairs and mother had the norrowfnl letter to Bandigo written. I w«w aroused by a blinding flash of light and a piercing acreatu. ' Ob, Htuvon ; look a>; Mt. father's b»g ! ' and * Ob, niotiuw ! look at the Rivwr>nu"» box ! ' I heard no mmc. Misaing »uy i* ouiioined impport, I full <•¥«»•, *m~ nevA votahig iv u-jntaufc with Mis Brady'* 'beuatoad, I wasi in her

room. How did I get there without the aid of my crutches, which I now learnt had been carefully hidden every night, lest I should again wander forth in my sleep, What myste' riouß instinct led mo to connect the ' Riverind * with Phillip Ralston? How did my Bleeping senses discover that there was a box of his also in the house 1 When awake, I was under the impression that all his belongings were in the packing-case that formed the table of the big room. But that tuey were one and tho same there waa proof positive. At the bottom of this little box, beneath a quantity of tracts and some Bibles, were the wig Mrs Brady had described, and my father's well-worn bag. In it were the missing deeds, and a number of other valuable documents which the Bcoundrel waa looking for an opportunity to turn to advantage. The fall had stunned me. As soon as I could speak I aaked — •How did I come here? What has happened V Mother held up the bag— her utterance was checked. The joy of discovering the papers, that would raise us from poverty, contending with the emotion called forth by those dear f &• miliar objectß, moved her deeply. 'How did it come about V I asked her again. , ,„ • I don't know, child" she answered. \You must aßk our good f riepd here. I never missed you until she roused me.' • Why, thiu, I'll tell ye all I know about it, Davie, an' l hope youttl never get the fright you gey me. I thought of the Leprehauns we used to hear tell of at Home, whin I opened my eyes and saw ye dhraggin yourself along the floor, yer eyes wide opan, with not a stim of sight in thim, I suppoße, or you'd see me. You put the candle on a chair, and mcd straight for the box. It was pushed out from the wall, ready to be sint away in the morning. ' I kept * quiet, knowing the danger of wakin' ye ; but* faith, whin I saw ye aturivlng to prise open the. sthrange man's box with the big screw driver,^ Ijampedupto stop ye. I thought I'd have,^ 1 time to go for your mother before yon could doany harm. We were not long coming back, she' kept telling me to whißht, and I kept telling her the same, for fear of frightening ye, an* I'm blest, but the first thing we both done was to screech, whin we saw the box broken, an* wig an' all on the.ofloor, and the bag in yer hand.' 'Our allotments were in the heart of the town, and built on by three parties. ' Mother received five thousand pounds in settlement of her claims. It afterwards transpired that Phillip Ralston had returned for the purpose of extorting money from those people, and his sinister design waß frits' rated by outf arrival an the sceno. Hence his flight in a, different digguise. The auddsn turn in the tide of our affairs brought us a flock of friends, but our most weicpme iB, and ever will be, Mrs Beady. We had the pleasure of rendering her material aid, by redeeming her house from a money lender, to whom she was paying exorbitant interest. I believe not one has spent a night in her house since withouut being told ' Davie's Dream.'