Creeps by Night: Chills and Thrills

“I dreamed at first that I was walking, alone, in a wide plain covered with snow. It was growing dark, I was very cold, my feet were frozen and numb, and I was lost. I came then to a signpost — at first it seemed to me there was nothing on it. Nothing but ice. Just before it grew finally dark, however, I made out on it the one word ‘Polaris.’ ”

“The Pole Star.”

“Yes — and you see, I didn’t myself know that. I looked it up only this morning. I suppose I must have seen it somewhere? And of course it rhymes with my name.”

“Why, so it does!”

“Anyway, it gave me — in the dream — an awful feeling of despair, and the dream changed. This time, I dreamed I was standing outside my stateroom in the little dark corridor, or cul-de-sac, and trying to find the door-handle to let myself in. I was in my pajamas, and again I was very cold. And at this point I woke up... The extraordinary thing is that’s exactly where I was!”

“Good heavens! How strange!”

“Yes. And now the question is, where had I been? I was frightened, when I came to — not unnaturally. For among other things I did have, quite definitely, the feeling that I had been somewhere. Somewhere where it was very cold. It doesn’t sound very proper. Suppose I had been seen!”

“That might have been awkward,” said Miss Dean.

“Awkward! It might indeed. It’s very singular. I’ve never done such a thing before. It’s this sort of thing that reminds one — rather wholesomely, perhaps, don’t you think?” — and Mr. Arcularis gave a nervous little laugh — “how extraordinarily little we know about the workings of our own minds or souls. After all, what do we know?”

“Nothing — nothing — nothing — nothing,” said Miss Dean slowly.

“Absolutely nothing.”

Their voices had dropped, and again they were silent; and again they looked at each other gently and sympathetically, as if for the exchange of something unspoken and perhaps unspeakable. Time ceased. The orbit — so it seemed to Mr. Arcularis — once more became pure, became absolute. And once more he found himself wondering who it was that Miss Dean — Clarice Dean — reminded him of. Long ago and far away. Like those pictures of the islands and mountains. The little freckle-faced girl at the hospital was merely, as it were, the stepping-stone, the signpost, or, as in algebra, the “equals” sign. But what was it they both “equaled”? The jack-stones came again into his mind and his Aunt Julia’s rose-garden — at sunset; but this was ridiculous. It couldn’t be simply that they reminded him of his childhood! And yet why not?

They went into the lounge. The ship’s orchestra, in the oval-shaped balcony among faded palms, was playing the finale of “Cavalleria Rusticana,” playing it badly.

“Good God!” said Mr. Arcularis, “can’t I ever escape from that damned sentimental tune? It’s the last thing I heard in America, and the last thing I want to hear.”

“But don’t you like it?”

“As music? No! It moves me too much, but in the wrong way.”

“What, exactly, do you mean?”

“Exactly? Nothing. When I heard it at the hospital — when was it? — it made me feel like crying. Three old Italians tootling it in the rain. I suppose, like most people, I’m afraid of my feelings.”

“Are they so dangerous?”

“Now then, young woman! Are you pulling my leg?”

The stewards had rolled away the carpets, and the passengers were beginning to dance. Miss Dean accepted the invitation of a young officer, and Mr. Arcularis watched them with envy. Odd, that last exchange of remarks — very odd; in fact, everything was odd. Was it possible that they were falling in love? Was that what it was all about — all these concealed references and recollections? He had read of such things. But at his age! And with a girl of twenty-two!

After an amused look at his old friend Polaris from the open door on the sheltered side, he went to bed.