Eileen begged that she might tell her aunt; but Frank, Frank of the dark eyes and black moustache, called her cruel, said that she would betray him, that she did not love him, that- -and Eileen yielded. The days wore on, beautiful summer days. Some feeling stirred in the girl's heart, quickened her pulses, made her fear and tremble, blush and turn pale. She knew not what she felt; Frank's gaze fascinated her, that bold gaze of his which sought her so persistently, which haunted alike her nights and her short days. Was it love or fear? She knew not, so called it love and promised to be his wife. Then one night, the night before the day on which she had promised to leave Slowcumb with him, she went to bed, and slept, and dreamt. Falling asleep, as she had done these many nights past, full of a nameless trouble, a terror, an unrest, she felt that gradually, gradually but surely, all these feelings were leaving her; and in their stead peace, that peace which passeth understanding, was over her and in the room. And the peace was luminous; it filled the room with a shadowy glory, as of the moon in a clouded sky. "Mother," she cried, "Mother," and held out her young arms to the light: for the light spelt "Mother" to her, God's light of the world, and she knew it was that dead mother, come back at last to the child who had cost her life. Was it a trance, or sleep, or dream? or was it Heaven's messenger? The misty light took form, and the form took voice. Mother, Mother; kiss me, Mother," and a mother's kiss, the first and the last, touched her lips gently. "Tell your aunt," said the voice; "tell your aunt." And then, slowly and gradually, the form and voice and light faded, and Eileen awoke. I have heard the girl tell the story with eyes full of tears and voice broken with emotion. I have heard her tell how she took the words for inspiration and obeyed them literally. She jumped out of bed in the middle of the night and rushed to her aunt's room, knelt down beside her, and told her everything. The end of the history everybody knows : how Frank Molyneux was a man whose name had become too notorious for even Aunt Bessie not to have heard it, and how through her dream Eileen was saved from a fate worse than death. Perhaps it was a dream; perhaps even from Heaven our mothers see us and protect us still. I think they do. |