Anne Hereford. Mrs. Henry Wood

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       CHAPTER V.

      ANOTHER DREAM.

      "If ever I heard the like of that! one won't be able to open one's lips next before you, Miss Hereford. Did I say anything about her dying, pray? Or about your dying? Or my dying? Time enough to snap me up when I do."

      Thus spoke Jemima, with a volubility that nearly took her breath away. She had come to my room in the morning with the news that Mrs. Edwin Barley was worse. I burst into tears, and asked if she were going to die: which brought forth the above rebuke.

      "My thoughts were running upon whether we servants should have mourning given us for young Mr. King," resumed Jemima, as if she were bent upon removing unpleasant impressions from my mind. "Now just you make haste and dress yourself, Miss Hereford--Mrs. Edwin Barley has been asking for you."

      I made haste; Jemima helped; and she ushered me to the door of the sickroom, halting to whisper a parting word.

      "Don't you begin crying again, Miss. Your aunt is no more going to die than I am."

      The first words spoken by Mrs. Edwin Barley were a contradiction to this, curious coincident that it may seem. She was lying very high on the frilled white pillows, no cap on, her cheeks hectic, and her lovely golden hair failing around her head. A large bright fire burned in the grate, and a small tray, with a white cloth and cup on it, stood on the table near.

      "Child," she began, holding out her hand to me, "I fear I am about to be taken from you."

      I did not answer; I did not cry; all tears seemed scared away then. It was a confirmation of my secret, inward fears, and my face turned white.

      "What was that you said to me about the Keppe-Carews never dying without a warning? And I laughed at you! Do you remember? Anne, I think the warning came to me last night."

      I glanced timidly round the room. It was a luxurious bed-chamber, costly furniture and pretty toilette trifles everywhere. The crimson silk curtains were drawn closely before the bay-window, and I could see Selina clearly in the semi-light.

      "Your mamma told you she had a dream, Anne. Well, I have had a dream. And yet I feel sure it was not a dream, but reality, reality. She appeared to me last night."

      "Who? Mamma?"

      "Your mamma. The Keppe-Carew superstition is, that when one is going to die, the last relative, whether near or distant, who has been taken from them by death, comes again to give them notice that their own departure is near. Ursula was the last who went, and she came to me in the night."

      "It can't be true," I sobbed, shivering from head to foot.

      "She stood there, in the faint rays of the shaded lamp," pursued Selina, not so much as listening to me. "I have not really slept all night; I have been in that semi-conscious, dozing state when the mind is awake both to dreams and to reality, knowing not which is which. Just before the clock struck two, I awoke partially from one of these semi-dreams, and I saw your mamma at the foot of the bed--a shadowy sort of figure and face, but I knew it for Ursula's. She just looked at me, and said, 'Selina!' Then I woke up thoroughly--the name, the sound of her well-remembered voice ringing in my ears."

      "And seeing her?" I eagerly asked.

      "No. Seeing nothing but the opening between the curtains at the foot of the bed, and the door beyond it; nothing more than is to be seen now."

      "Then, Selina, it was a dream after all?"

      "In one sense, yes. The world would call it so. To me it was something more. A minute afterwards the clock struck two, and I was as wide awake as I am now."

      The reaction came, and I burst into tears. "Selina! it was a dream; it could only have been a dream!"

      "I should no doubt think so, Anne, but for what you told me of your mamma's warning. But for hearing that, I might never have remembered that such a thing is said to follow the Keppe-Carews."

      What with remorse for having told her, though charged by my mother to do it, and what with my own fears, I could not speak for hysterical sobbing.

      "You stupid little sensitive thing!" exclaimed Selina, with a touch of her old lightness; "perhaps in a week's time I shall be well, and running about out of doors with you. Go you down to Charlotte Delves's parlour, and get your breakfast, and then come to me again. I want you to go on an errand for me but don't say so. Mind that, Anne."

      "No, no; I'll not say it, Selina."

      "Tell them to give you some honey."

      They brought the honey and set out other good things for me in Miss Delves's parlour, but I could not eat. Charlotte СКАЧАТЬ