The Dreamer | Page 6

and his
foster-father--eyeing him keenly and with marked displeasure--as an
equally unmistakable indication that he was "hatching mischief."
There were times when in the midst of the liveliest company this
so-called "mood" would possess the child. He would fall silent; his
mouth would become pensive, his dark grey eyes would seem to be
impenetrably veiled; his chin would drop upon his hand; he would
seem utterly forgetful of his surroundings. The familiar Edgar--Edgar
Goodfellow--would have given place to Edgar the Dreamer, who

though apparently of the company, would really have slipped through
that invisible portal and wandered far afield with the playmates of his
fancy.
At such times Mrs. Allan would say, "Eddie, what are you thinking
about?" And brought back to her world with a jolt, the boy would
answer quickly (somewhat guiltily it seemed to Mr. Allan--noting the
startled expression),
"Nothing." It was his first lie, and a very little one, but one that was
often repeated; for he that would guard a secret must be used to practice
deception.
Mr. Allan would say, "Wake up, wake up, child! Only the idle sit and
stare at nothing and think of nothing. You'll be growing up an idle,
trifling boy if you give way to such a habit."
Between the Allans and Edgar the Dreamer a great gulf lay--for how
should a dreamer of day-dreams reveal himself to any not of his own
tribe and kind? Upon Edgar Goodfellow Mrs. Allan doted. All of her
friends agreed with her that so remarkable a child--one so precocious
and still so attractive--had never been seen, and Mr. Allan was secretly,
as proud of his wrestling, running, riding and other out-door triumphs
as his wife was of his pretty parlor accomplishments. Their friends
agreed too, that she made him the best of mothers, barring the fact (for
which weakness she was excusable--he was such a love!) that she
spoiled him, and perhaps permitted him to rule her too absolutely. Was
he grateful? Oh, well, that would come in time. Appreciation was not a
quality to be expected in children, and what more natural than that the
boy should accept as a matter of course the good things which she
made plain it was her chief pleasure in life to shower upon him? She
was indeed, as good a mother as it was possible for a mother without a
highly developed imagination to be.
A most lovely woman was Frances Allan, justly admired and liked by
all who knew her. She was pretty and gracious and sunny-tempered and
sweet-natured; charitable--both to society and the poor--and faithful to
her religious duties. Withal, a notable house-keeper, given to

hospitality, fond of "company" and gifted in the art of making her
friends feel at home under her roof. If she was not gifted with a lively
imagination she did not know it, and so had not missed it. As Mr.
Allan's wife she had not needed it. And so she lavished upon Edgar
Goodfellow everything that heart could wish. She delighted to provide
him with pets and toys and good things to eat, and to fill his little
pockets with money for him to spend upon himself or upon treating his
friends. Fortunately, the other Edgar--Edgar the Dreamer--was not
dependent upon her for his pleasures, for the beauties of sky and river
and garden and wood which nourished his soul were within his own
reach.
If Mrs. Allan had known Edgar the Dreamer, she would have been
puzzled and alarmed. If Mr. Allan had known him he would have been
angry. A man of action was John Allan. A canny Scotchman he, who
owed his success as a tobacco merchant to energy and strict attention to
business. If there were dreams in the bowl of the pipe, there was no
room for them in the counting-house of a thrifty dealer in the weed.
Meditation had no part in his life--was left out of his composition. He
believed in doing. Day-dreaming was in his opinion but another name
for idling, and idling was sin.
The son of their adoption vaguely realized the lack of kinship--the
impossibility of contact between his nature and theirs, and as time went
on drew more and more within himself. The life of Edgar the Dreamer
became more and more secret. So often however, did the warning
against his idle habit fall upon his ears that the plastic conscience of
childhood made note of it--confusing the will of a blind human
guardian with that of God. The Eden of his dreams, guarded by the
flaming sword of his foster-father's wrath, began to assume the aspect
(because by parental command denied him) of an evil place--though
none the less sweet to his soul--and it was with a consciousness of guilt
that he would steal in and