71. CHAPTER LXXI.
BONNYBEL'S DREAM.
At Vanely all is bright and beautiful again, as on that
morning when St. John and Tom Alston cantered to the
door, together, on the day succeeding Lady Dunmore's
entry.
The fine season of May has nearly come, and the swallows
twitter, as before; the grass is full of flowers; the
great oaks clothe themselves in heavy foliage, through
which the breezes of the spring pass, as it were, with laughter.
In the beautiful sunsets and the golden dawns, the
fine old mansion raises proudly its gray walls, and looks
down, smiling, on the fields and river, as before.
Let us follow one of the curious and prying rays of sunrise
into a chamber of the mansion. The indiscreet and
careless intruder, as though weary with his long journey of
so many millions of miles, falls prostrate, and rests tranquilly
upon the soft hair of Bonnybel, who sleeps beside her
sister.
The sisters always occupy one apartment and one bed.
It was always so in their childhood; they retain the habit.
Helen is awake, but lies, as it were, in that delightful
state of semi-consciousness which is such a luxury to the
dreamer. The young lady dreams, so to speak, though she
does not sleep. From this reverie she is aroused by what
seems a sob at her side.
She turns her head quickly, and looks at her sister.
Bonnybel lies with one round bare arm thrown outside
the counterpane; the other is placed beneath her head.
Over the white arm fall the curls of her soft brown hair,
like a golden ripple; for the vagrant sunbeams change their
hue, and make them shine.
The light falls on the beautiful brow, like a glory, in the
pictures of Raphael and his brethren. It never fell on a
purer and sweeter face; and, lying thus enveloped in her
snowy night-dress, close buttoned to the neck, the girl is a
picture of modesty and loveliness.
But her sleep is not tranquil. Some sorrowful dream
seems to prey upon her. Her form trembles slightly, and
beneath the long silken lashes, resting on her cheeks, large
tears flow silently. Helen gazes at her. The form of the
girl again shakes, and another sob escapes from the half-parted
lips, dying away, like a murmur, in the silent
chamber.
Helen gazes at her sister with an air of the greatest
solicitude and tenderness, for this somewhat stately and
reserved girl conceals under her prim exterior a warm and
affectionate heart.
All at once, the sleeping girl moves painfully, and, with a
contraction of the lips which indicates great suffering, murmurs,
audibly,
“Oh, no! no! Do not take away the letter! do not
take away the letter! Oh, me! oh, me!” and a passionate
sob breaks from the girl's lips, followed by a flood of tears,
which bathe her cheeks and neck.
“Wake, sister!” cried Helen, laying her hand on the
girl's shoulder. “What are you dreaming of? Wake up!”
Bonnybel opened her eyes, and looked dreamily around
her.
“What is the matter, sister?” said Helen. “You were
crying and sobbing in your sleep. Were you dreaming?”
The girl passed her hands over her eyes, and sighed
deeply.
“Yes,” she murmured; “I believe I was. Oh, sister!
I have had such a terrible dream!” and Bonnybel wiped
her wet eyes, and half rose in bed, leaning upon her elbow,
and looking around her.
“What was the dream?” asked Helen. “It must have
been very sorrowful.”
“It was, sister. Oh, so sorrowful! I thought he was
dying in the battle with the Indians. A bullet had wounded
him, and they were holding him upon their breasts at the
foot of a tree by the great river. He was pale and bleeding!
oh, sister! so pale! and his breast was all bloody!”
Bonnybel sobbed again, as she spoke, and wiped her eyes
with her fingers.
“They opened his coat, and were going to take away a
letter—a letter I wrote him long ago, which saved his life
once! Oh, sister! how foolish I was to think that he has
that letter now!” and leaning her head upon the fringed
pillow again, the girl cried silently.
“Don't cry, dear,” said Helen, kissing her. “You must
not let this foolish dream disturb you. There is no reason
to think he is even wounded.”
“No,” murmured the girl, more calmly; “and you know
I am nothing to him. But the scene was so vivid that I
thought it real. I saw every thing as plainly as I see the
mirror there. He was lying on the grass at the foot of a
tall elm on the banks of a river which flowed, at a little
distance, in the sunshine. The sunshine came through the
boughs of the elm, and fell upon his forehead, which was
very pale. A man, who had leaned his rifle against the
tree, was holding his head upon his breast, and opening his
bosom where he was wounded. The linen was all covered
with blood, and his eyes were closed, and he breathed
heavily. Oh, me! what made me dream so? I could have
died when I saw him! I thought they tried to take away
a letter from his bosom—one of my letters—and he did not
seem to know it. He was looking at a flower which grew
at his feet, a white rose, and he smiled as he used to smile
once when—oh, me! I am so miserable!”
And with a passionate sob, which seemed slowly to have
gathered in her breast, as she had gone on, the girl was
silent, her bosom shaken with sighs, her cheeks wet with
large tears chasing each other in rapid succession.
Helen put an arm round her neck, and drew toward her
the trembling form, with a tenderness which betrayed itself
in her own moist eyes and sad lips. Then resting the girl's
head upon her shoulder, as she would have done a child's,
she pressed her lips to the white cheek, and smoothed the
disordered mass of curls from the brows which they covered.
“Don't cry, dear,” she said, soothingly; “you must not
let a dream affect you so. 'Tis only a dream, and you
should not permit it to cause you so much trouble. You
were probably thinking of the battle when you went to sleep,
and your imagination thus carried you away.”
“It was so real!” murmured the girl, hiding her face on
her sister's shoulder, with a sob.
“But it was only a dream,” continued Helen. “Dreams
are merely the result of the fancy let loose, and you know
the old saying, that they always `go by contraries.' If there
is any thing in your dream, it proves that he is alive and
well.”
Bonnybel only sobbed, making no reply.
Helen continued to soothe and talk to the girl, and at last
the tears disappeared from the pure eyes, and a sad smile lit
up the innocent features.
“Well, sister,” said Bonnybel, at last, “you have made
me feel much better, and I will not permit this dream to
disturb me so. After all he is—he is—nothing—to me.
Well! I will not cry. I hope he is happy, and's forgotten
me.”
A last tear moistened the girl's eyes, and she was silent,
motionless, in the arms of her sister, leaning her blushing
face, enveloped by the soft masses of brown hair, on the
shoulder of Helen.
An hour afterwards, before the family had risen, Bonnybel
was going, through the fresh light of morning, on her
daily expedition to the “quarters,” followed by her maid,
bearing the accustomed basket.
Only a sad and pensive smile remained, after her dream,
and she was tranquil again, for she had prayed for him.
