Chapter XXXVI Another Day Begins
They started. From below came a wail of fright. As they listened the sound came nearer and nearer. “That’s Ariadne—a bad dream—get her quiet, for the Lord’s sake.”
“Where is she sleeping?”
“In the room next the parlor.”
Rankin gave an exclamation, and leaped down the stairs. At the foot he was met by a little figure in sleeping-drawers. “Favver! Favver!” she sobbed, holding up her arms.
Rankin caught her up and held her close. “You promised you wouldn’t get so afraid of dreams, little daughter,” he said in a low, tender voice of reproach.
“But this was a nawful one!” wept Ariadne. “I fought I heard a lot of voices, men’s and ladies’ as mad—Oh! awful mad—and loud!” She went on incoherently that she had been too frightened to stir, even though after a while she dreamed that the front door slammed and they all went away. But then she was too frightened, and came out to find Favver.
Rankin took her back to her bed, and sat down beside it, keeping one big hand about the trembling child’s cold little fingers. “It was only a bad dream, Ariadne. Just go to sleep now. Father’ll sit here till you do.”
“You won’t let them come back?” asked the child, drawing long, shaken breaths.
“No,” he said quietly.
“You’ll always be close, to take care of me?”
“Yes, dear.”
“And of Muvver and ’Stashie?”
There was a pause.
Ariadne spoke in grieved astonishment. “Why, of course of Muvver and ’Stashie, Favver.”
Rankin took a sudden great breath. “I hope so, Ariadne.”
“Well, you can if you want to,” the child gravely gave her assent.
She said no more for a time, clutching tightly to his hand. Then, “Favver.”
“Yes, dear.”
“I fink I could go to sleep better if I had my bunny.”
“Yes, dear,” said the man patiently; “where is he?”
“I fink he’s under ve chair where my clothes are—ve big chair. ’Stashie lets me put my clothes on ve biggest chair.”
The man fumbled about in the dark. Then, “Here’s your bunny, Ariadne.”
The child murmured something drowsily unintelligible. The man took his seat again by the bed. There was a pause. The child’s breathing grew long and regular. The rain sounded loud in the silence.
In the distance a street-car rattled noisily by. Ariadne started up with a scream: “Favver! Favver!”
“Right here, dear. Just the trolley-car.”
“It ’minded me of ve mad ladies’ voices,” explained Ariadne apologetically, breathing quickly. She added: “Vat was such a nawful dream, Favver. I wonder could I have your watch to hear tick in my hand to go me to sleep.”
“Yes, dear; but only for to-night because of the bad dream.”
There were little nestling noises, gradually quieting down. Then, sleepily:
“Favver, please.”
“Yes, dear.”
“I fink I could go all to sleep if you’d pit your head down on my pillow next my bunny.”
A stir in the darkness, and an instant’s quiet, followed by, “Why, Favver, what makes your face all over water?”
There was no answer.
“And your beard is as wet as—” She broke off to explain to herself: “Oh, it’s rain, of tourse. I forgot it’s raining. Now I remember how to really go all to sleep. I did before. I listen to it going patter, patter, patter, patter—” The little voice died away.
There was no sound at all in the room but the swift, light voice of the watch calling out that Time, Time, Time can cure all, can cure all, can cure all—and outside the brooding murmur of the rain.
A faint, clear gray began to show at the windows.
The End