# Lesbia Newman (1889)/Chapter 7

CHAPTER VII.
MRS NEWMAN'S DREAM.
Notwithstanding the great difference which both circumstances and disposition made, even so early, in their ways of looking at the rights and duties of their sex, and the consequent want of communion between them on all the highest human interests, Lesbia was undoubtedly tenderly fond of her mother, and could not be at ease when anything, however slight, was amiss with her. And so when, on arriving home that afternoon, she hurried to her mother’s room with the pup in her arms, she was startled to find Mrs Newman sitting on the sofa with her hands fallen by her sides, gazing abstractedly out of window, and looking very pale and unwell.
‘I’ve got my prize, mamma—but gracious! what is the matter with you?—has anything happened?’
‘No, Lesbia dear, nothing particular. Why?’
‘Because you look so pale and ill! Why didn’t you send a messenger to fetch us back at once?’
‘There was no need, dearest. I have been a little out of sorts, it’s true; but I feel better already: now that you are with me, and all right.’
‘And all right! Why, mamma, what made you imagine I was not all right? You knew I was with Uncle Spines, and where we were gone.’
​‘Yes, it was silly of me to be nervous about nothing; but anyhow I feel myself all right; now that you are with me.’ And Mrs Newman clasped her daughter in her arms even more affectionately than usual.
‘I’ll tell you what, mamma, this is quite strange. When I go out on my bicycle—which is risky, all riders know—you have none of these anxious fits; and now you have one when I simply go out to lunch, driven by my uncle with a steady old pony! Though it’s true, he did make one little breach of good-manners to day. The fact is, I don’t believe my safety has anything to do with it. What ails you is that you lead too dull a life, and therefore feel depressed and ready to fancy anything. I do wish you wouldn’t stay at home so much. You know Uncle Spines is always urging you to accept invitations and go about with us wherever we go—why don’t you do it? The fact of our not agreeing in opinion on certain social subjects, is no reason for our being so much apart. It’s unnatural, and there’s no good reason for it?’
‘I know, darling, your uncle is kindness itself where my personal wants are concerned. But—well, perhaps you are right; at all events, I will consider what you say, and try to act on it more than I have done.’
‘That’s right, dearest mother, I do hope you will, for my sake as well as your own. But still,’ she resumed, after a few moments’ silence, ‘I don’t feel quite satisfied in my mind; I wish you would tell me exactly all you have been doing since we left this morning. Something unusual must have taken place to make you feel so much upset on this particular day. I feel convinced there is a reason for it; so don’t put me off by saying you feel all right. You have been all wrong, and I want to know why.’
‘What have you done with your prize, your precious pup, my darling?’ asked Mrs Newman, attempting to change the subject.
​‘Oh, he’s all right; I just popped him into my bed, where he'll be snug for the present; I couldn’t have him here and attend to you. But, mamma dearest, you evade my question; I want to know what it is that has upset you.’
Mrs Newman hesitated a few seconds, then she said timidly:—
‘No, Lesbie, I’ve no wish to put you off, you’re always so tender to me, but—well since you must have it, ’ve been dreaming; there! that’s what it is.’
‘Dreaming!’ exclaimed Lesbia, with a laugh, much relieved. ‘Bless you, darling mamma, is that all? I was afraid something real was the matter. Why, you don’t mean to say that you condescend to bestow a second thought upon dreams? Why, if I had eaten a crab, shell and all, and had such a nightmare as might be expected, it wouldn’t trouble my mind once it was over! Not unless I died of the indigestion.’
‘No, it’s weak of me, Lesbie, I admit; only some dreams affect one more than others. Never mind; it’s past and gone now.’
‘But how comes it, mamma, that we never heard a word about all this at breakfast? You seemed quite yourself then, and also when we drove from the hall door.’
‘It wasn’t last night, Lesbie, darling, it was to-day. About half an hour after you and Theo were gone—about half-past twelve—I felt strangely oppressed and drowsy, and longed for a midday nap—most unusual with me. So I lay down on this sofa and went off in a moment, and it was then that I had this dream.
‘Indeed!’ and Lesbia looked at her mother with momentary solicitude. ‘Indeed! Come then, dear mamma, tell me without delay what this dream was, and let me charm it away for you. Out with it in all its ghastly details! ‘Avaunt, thou evil dream!’ as Homer says. But seriously ​you must tell it me, dearest mamma. Not that it can really signify what you dreamt; still I want to know it.’
‘Well, I will then, Lesbie, since you insist upon it. I daresay you'll think it very fantastic and pointless; however, here it is. I found myself at a garden party at Ruddymere Park, just such as you described to me last time you and Theo went. Strange to say, I was there, you were not!’
‘That's just like a dream,’ said Lesbia. ‘Well, mamma?’
‘Lord and Lady Humnoddie,’ resumed Mrs Newman, ‘were standing chatting and laughing with a few friends just in front of where I was. I didn’t hear what they said, for a singular reason. My whole attention was absorbed—I couldn’t help it—in gazing at that pretty green hill with large elms on its summit which you must have remarked, Lesbie, about a couple of miles away, I should think, to the north; you must have noticed it, for it’s the only hill to speak of in this part of the county.’
‘Yes, yes; I know it well; they call it Screechowl Hill. I was there not long ago with the Frogmore bicyclists; the highroad runs straight up over it, and we tried to ride it, but not one of us could get half way except Mr Lyttelhurst, who managed about three quarters, then had to jump off by the pedal. Well, mamma, now what did you dream about Screechowl Hill?’
‘I stood looking at that hill,’ continued Mrs Newman, ‘I suppose because the weather seemed to be clouding over behind it, and already I felt the close sensation one gets when a storm is brewing. ‘I’m afraid we're going to have a change,’ I said to Lady Humnoddie, who came for a moment to my elbow. No answer. I repeated what I had said, and turned to her. She was gone. So were all the other people. I was left alone on the slope of the lawn;-but I felt no surprise—none. A powerful attraction made me gaze at that hill again, and forget everything else. The ​clouds had now gathered about it so thickly as to hide the elm clump; still I looked, and looked, as if I were determined to see through the clouds. And as I looked I became conscious of a curious buzzing in my ears which was quite unaccountable. It got stronger, and soon became a deep vibrating hum like a bass organ pipe, which began to alarm me. I tried to turn and walk briskly away: I could not. Nor could I wrest my attention from that mysterious hill. It had changed, Lesbia, it had changed like a dissolving view: it no longer looked like itself.’
‘Poor Screechowl Hill! it had followed your example, then, mamma dear!’
But though Lesbia thus affected to treat it gaily, a feeling of strong interest was coming over her.
‘The clouds now shifted about,’ pursued Mrs Newman, ‘so that I had glimpses of the hillside between their openings, and I saw that it had changed; it had become much higher, much steeper, much nearer. There were no trees on it now, but on the top was an old white stone windmill without arms, or it may have been an old dilapidated lighthouse, I couldn’t say which. With a great effort I turned to look on my left: I felt impelled to do so. And then, Lesbie, I was astounded to see that Lord Humnoddie’s garden and park and house had all disappeared, and in their place was a great sheet of calm water stretching away out of sight under a white fog. It might have been a lake, but I think it was the sea, because there were gulls in great numbers flying about over it and calling to each other in a state of wild excitement. I now could look backwards and forwards, sometimes at the old lighthouse on the hill-top, sometimes at the smooth foggy sea, that deep humming sound in my ears increasing all the while, and gradually altering into another sound, a sound as if hundreds and hundreds of people were beating carpets on the land, both ​around that hill and upon it. Suddenly there came from the sea a straight short flash, followed by a clap—no, not a clap, a long peal of thunder, which echoed and bellowed among the hills, and did not die away as echoes do, but went tearing round and booming louder and louder, and the straight rod-like flashes of lightning—I suppose it was lightning—’ here Mrs Newman paused in her narrative with a scared look—‘came thick and fast out of that white fog, which had now spread over the land as well as the sea, so that the old lighthouse on the hilltop was hidden from sight. The noises, I tell you, Lesbia, went on worse and worse, and all the time, mixed with the dreadful thunder and the constant rattle like carpet-beating, there was the blowing of brass horns in short regular cadences repeated over and over again. At moments the great roar seemed beginning to subside, but it always broke out afresh; and I was getting already very frightened and giddy, when the white pall of cloud or smoke or whatever it was opened, and I saw the hillside clear, and everywhere about, all over the ground, there were streaks and patches of a horrid red, like blood! That finished me; I fell forward on my face and shut my eyes, and the noises slowly surged away into the far distance on my right. Presently I summoned courage to open my eyes and then to get up. The whole scene had changed like a dissolving view again, and the last part of my dream was beautiful; but I felt so shaken that I could not enjoy it. I saw another place with another atmosphere, under an exquisite rainbow, and there was a fine old building with towers—it may have been a cathedral—I don't exactly remember; but what I do remember is this, that I saw you, my darling—’ here Mrs Newman sobbed with emotion, ‘in a procession of lovely young girls, not walking, but all borne aloft upon men’s shoulders, seated on gorgeous thrones and with banners and images and emblems carried before and ​after, enter the building to grand music that sounded like parts of Mendelssohn’s Priests’ March in Athalie. I wanted to ask a bystander what it all meant, but before I could do so I awoke. Now, you know all, darling.’
Lesbia looked very grave, but she felt it her duty to say nothing but what might cheer her mother.
‘Very well, mamma, dear, and what is there in all that ‘to disturb you—on my account? Is not all well that ends well? Why, your dream makes out that I was not in the tumult and horrors of the first part, while I was in the beautiful procession of the second. What better could you desire—for me at least?’
‘Yes, indeed, Lesbie, when one comes to reason about it. But I did not feel inclined to reason before I had told it you: I could do nothing but mope.’
‘Come, we must have no more moping, dearest mamma; there’s been a deal too much of that already. However, since this thing has weighed on your mind, should you object to uncle’s hearing the story? You know he is sensible.’
‘No, I shouldn’t object; why should I?’
Lesbia soon fetched the Vicar. He listened with deep attention and without comment to his sister’s repetition, and was silent for some seconds after she had concluded. At last he asked,—
‘Have you told this dream to Kate?’
‘No,’ replied Mrs Newman; ‘when I told her—rather crossly I’m afraid—that I wanted to go to sleep, she went out for a walk and has not yet come in. Perhaps she went to luncheon at the Smeeth’s.’
‘Well then,’ said Mr Bristley, to whom it occurred that his question had not been quite judicious, ‘at all events I’ll give you the benefit of my opinion in a very few words. I don’t believe in dreams; they’re nothing but the action of ​the humours of the stomach upon the brain, throwing the residue of memory into confusion and causing phantasmagoria—there’s a word for you! but what I do believe in is the injurious effect of a dull life upon the mind, and through it upon the body. I’ve often told you, Jane, that the secluded life you’ve been leading won’t do, and now you see for yourself that I was right. It’s a fine evening, and there’s an hour and a half to dinner; come with us for a stroll round the fields, and then I'll get out a bottle of the dry champagne, which will brace you up and clear your head. You must try and forget all about this weird vision; I'll tell Kitty the substance of it myself, we can’t have you recounting it a third time. Ah, here she is, so we shall have the party complete—that is, if you’re not too tired for a little constitutional, Kitty?’—to his wife as she entered the room.
‘Not for a short turn, Theo,’ she replied; ‘but I’ve only just come back from lunching at Flatton. I met Mr Smeeth on the path, and he insisted. What’s ever the matter with you, Jenny? I thought your nap would have done you good, and you look more poorly than before!?
‘Mamma’s had a disturbing dream, Aunt Kate,’ said Lesbia.
‘Indeed!’
‘Yes,’ took up the vicar with alacrity; ‘she dreamt she was out somewhere by the seaside in a bad thunderstorm, and some people were killed by the lightning; and altogether she was alarmed and shaken by it. That’s all, and now the sooner it’s forgotten the better. There are quite enough ills in real life, without fostering those of dreams also.’
‘I quite agree with that,’ replied his wife; ‘come in! come in!’
There was a very gentle but continuous tapping at the door. ‘Then the handle turned round and back again and ​was still. Then the attempt was renewed, and the handle turned round and back and round and back again.
‘Come in, can’t you, it’s not bolted!’ called out Mrs Newman.
‘It’s that priceless Fidge, of course,’ said Lesbia. ‘She and a door handle are natural enemies.’
A more agitated twist round and back and round again, then an unnecessary shove against the door, which flew open, and Fidgfumblasquidiot rolled lightly into the room, not looking at any of the company, but rather at ghosts who might be in the background.
‘Well, Fidge, what has scattered you now?’ asked her young mistress.
‘Please ’m, it’s that puppy’s a been and got into your bed, and drawn a map!’
‘Got in! a thing that can hardly crawl? I put him in myself, Fidge, but I won’t let it happen again; he shall have a bed of his own, poor little pet.’
As Fidgfumblasquidiot withdrew, her aunt the housekeeper appeared at the door.
‘Come in, Mrs Fenrake,’ said the vicar; then observing that she looked anxiously at his sister, he added,—‘Mrs Newman has been troubled with dreams—indigestion I suppose, but she’ll be better presently; we’re going out for a turn.’
‘Indeed, sir!’ said the housekeeper; ‘well, that’s strange now; I was dreaming myself last night. I dreamt Fidge married a bishop. Well, sir, I was a-going to ast you as I might go for a few days to see my brother at Norwich. I’ve had a letter from his wife; she says, says she, as he’s getting a invalid—quite breaking up. He can’t work, says she, any later than four o’clock; then he goes out for three or four hours on his bicycle, and when he comes home he can’t fancy nothink for his supper excep a little roast beef ​and plum-pudding, washed down with a quart o’ Bass’s strong Burton ale.’
‘Poor man!’ exclaimed Mr Bristley, ‘what a wreck he must be, and what a lot of nursing he must want! I suppose the doctor insists upon that diet for him?’
‘Well, no, sir; he don’t see no doctor, says she; he says he must keep his money for medicine—that is, beer. He says it’s the only thing for decline.’
‘Really! He is in a decline, then?’
‘Yessir, decline and fall of the sheer yellow leaf, he calls it.’
‘Oh, I see. Very well, Mrs Fenrake, we'll spare you for a week, and I hope your presence will cheer the bicycling invalid.’
‘Thank you kindly, sir,’ answered the housekeeper; ‘that’s just what Lucy says, cheer the invalid as has always got the sore of dammyplease a-hanging over his ’ead. Though, says she, for the matter o’ that, he’s cheerful enough when he’s got his beer down; then he looks quite resigned and ready to go, and says he don’t hate nobody nor nothink in the world excep teetotallers and cold water.’
These little incidents gave a turn to their thoughts, and the four went out in good spirits. Mrs Newman that evening did as she was advised, and the next day felt decidedly better than she had been for some time. ‘The topic of dreams was tabooed, none of the family, even in Mrs Newman’s absence, feeling inclined to recur to it at present.