Beyond the Barriers of Space and Time by Judith Merril (ed.)

Author:Judith Merril (ed.) [Merril, Judith]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Short Story Collection, Science Fiction
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

II

“Well, I cannot say that you look much rested,” says Jane, next morning, coming in to greet me, smiling and fresh—(yes, skeptic of eighteen, even a woman of thirty-seven may look fresh in a print gown on an August morning, when she has a well of lasting quiet happiness inside her)—coming in with a bunch of creamy gloire de Dijons in her hand for the breakfast table. “You look infinitely more fagged than you did when I left you last night!”

“Do I?” say I, rather faintly.

“I am afraid you did not sleep much?” suggests Jane, a little crestfallen at the insult to her feather beds implied by my wakefulness. “Some people never can sleep the first night in a strange bed, and I stupidly forgot to ask you whether you liked the feather bed or mattress at the top.”

“Yes, I did sleep,” I answer gloomily. “I wish to heaven I had not!”

“Wish—to—heaven—you—had—not?” repeats Jane slowly, with a slight astonished pause between each word. “My dear child, for what other purpose did you go to bed?”

“I—I—had bad dreams,” say I, shuddering a little; and then, taking her hand, roses and all, in mine: “Dear Jane, do not think me quite run mad, but—but—have you got a Bradshaw in the house?”

“A Bradshaw? What on earth do you want with Bradshaw?” says my hostess, her face lengthening considerably, and a slight tincture of natural coldness coming into her tone.

“I know it seems rude—insultingly rude,” say I, still holding her hand and speaking almost lachrymosely, “but do you know, my dear, I really am afraid that—that—I shall have to leave you—today?”

“To leave us?” repeats she, withdrawing her hand and growing angrily red. “What! When not twenty-four hours ago you settled to stay a month with us? What have we done between then and now to disgust you with us?”

“Nothing—nothing,” cry I eagerly; “how can you suggest such a thing? I never had a kinder welcome or ever saw a place that charmed me more; but—but—”

“But what?” asks Jane, her color subsiding and looking a little mollified.

“It is best to tell the truth, I suppose,” say I, sighing, “even though I know that you will laugh at me—will call me vaporish—sottishly superstitious; but I had an awful and hideous dream last night.”

“Is that all?” she says, looking relieved, and beginning to arrange her roses in an old china bowl. “And do you think that all dreams are confined to this house? I never heard before of their affecting any one special place more than another. Perhaps no sooner are you back in Dublin, in your own room and your own bed, than you will have a still worse and uglier one.”

I shake my head. “But it was about this house—about you.”

“About you and your husband,” I answer earnestly. “Shall I tell it you? Whether you say ‘Yes’ or ‘No’ I must. Perhaps it came as a warning; such things have happened. Yes; say what you will, I cannot believe that any vision so consistent—so tangibly

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