mean it will go away?”
“I have no means of telling. I should say probably not.”
“Then—can’t anything be done about it? They were horrible dreams—horribly vivid, not like dreams at all.”
“I can quite understand that.”
“Is it something that can’t be cured?”
“The reason you cannot be cured is that you are not ill.”
“But there must be something wrong. It’s surely not natural to have dreams like that.”
There was a pause. “I think,” said Miss Ironwood, “I had better tell you the whole truth.”
“Yes, do,” said Jane in a strained voice. The other’s words had frightened her.
“And I will begin by saying this,” continued Miss Ironwood. “You are a more important person than you imagine.”
Jane said nothing, but thought inwardly, “She is humouring me. She thinks I am mad.”
“What was your maiden name?” asked Miss Ironwood.
“Tudor,” said Jane. At any other moment she would have said it rather self-consciously, for she was very anxious not to be supposed vain of her ancient ancestry.
“The Warwickshire branch of the family?”
“Yes.”
“Did you ever read a little book—it is only forty pages long—written by an ancestor of yours about the battle of Worcester?”
“No. Father had a copy—the only copy, I think he said. But I never read it. It was lost when the house was broken up after his death.”
“Your father was mistaken in thinking it the only copy. There are at least two others: one is in America, and the other is in this house.”
“Well?”
“Your ancestor gave a full and, on the whole, correct account of the battle, which he says he completed on the same day on which it was fought. But he was not at it. He was in York at the time.”
Jane, who had not really been following this, looked at Miss Ironwood.
“If he was speaking the truth,” said Miss Ironwood, “and we believe that he was, he dreamed it. Do you understand?”
“Dreamed about the battle?”
“Yes. But dreamed it right. He saw the real battle in his dream.”
“I don’t see the connection.”
“Vision—the power of dreaming realities—is sometimes hereditary,” said Miss Ironwood.
Something seemed to be interfering with Jane’s breathing. She felt a sense of injury—this was just the sort of thing she hated: something out of the past, something irrational and utterly uncalled for, coming up from its den and interfering with her.
“Can it be proved?” she asked. “I mean; we have only his word for it.”
“We have your dreams,” said Miss Ironwood. Her voice, always grave, had become stern. A fantastic thought crossed Jane’s mind. Could this old woman have some idea that one ought not to call even one’s remote ancestors liars?
“My dreams?” she said a little sharply.
“Yes,” said Miss Ironwood.
“What do you mean?”
“My opinion is that you have seen real things in your dreams. You have seen Alcasan as he really sat in the condemned cell: and you have seen a visitor whom he really had.”
“But—but—oh, this is ridiculous,” said Jane. “That part was a mere coincidence. The rest was just nightmare. It was all impossible. He screwed off his head, I tell you. And they . . . dug up the horrible old man. They made him come to life.”
“There are some confusions there, no doubt. But in my opinion there are realities behind even those episodes.”
“I am afraid I don’t believe in that sort of thing,” said Jane coldly.
“Your upbringing makes it natural that you should not,” replied Miss Ironwood. “Unless, of course, you have discovered for yourself that you have a tendency to dream real things.”
Jane thought of the book on the table which she had apparently remembered before she saw it: and then there was Miss Ironwood’s own appearance—that, too, she had seen before she saw it. But it must be nonsense.
“Can you, then, do nothing for me?”
“I can tell you the truth,” said Miss Ironwood. “I have tried to do so.”
“I mean, can you not stop it—cure it?”
“Vision is not a disease.”
“But I don’t want it,” said Jane passionately. “I must stop it. I hate this sort of thing.” Miss Ironwood said nothing.
“Don’t you even know of anyone who could stop it?” said Jane. “Can’t you recommend anyone?”
“If you go to an ordinary psychotherapist,” said Miss Ironwood, “he will proceed on the assumption that the dreams merely reflect your own subconscious. He would try to treat you. I do not know what would be the results of treatment based on that assumption. I am afraid they might be very serious. And—it would certainly not remove the dreams.”
“But what is this all about?” said Jane. “I want to lead an ordinary life. I want to do my own work. It’s unbearable! Why should I be selected for this horrible thing?”
“The answer to that is known only to authorities much higher than myself.”
There was a short silence. Jane made a vague movement and said, rather sulkily, “Well, if you can do nothing for me, perhaps I’d better be going . . .” Then suddenly she added, “But how can you know all this? I mean . . . what realities are you talking about?”
“I think,” said Miss Ironwood, “that you yourself have probably more reason to suspect the truth of your dreams than you have yet told me. If not, you soon will have. In the meantime I will answer your question. We know your dreams to be partly true because they fit in with information we already possess. It was because he saw their importance that Dr. Dimble sent you to us.”
“Do you mean he sent me here not to be cured but to give information?” said Jane. The idea fitted in with things she had observed in his manner when she first told him.
“Exactly.”
“I wish I had known that a little earlier,” said Jane coldly, and now definitely getting up to go. “I’m afraid it has been a misunderstanding. I had imagined
