CHAPTER XVI. AULD LANG SYNE.

WheremysoulwentduringthatswoonIcannottell.Whatevershesaw,orwherevershetravelledinhertranceonthatstrangenightshekeptherownsecretneverwhisperingawordtoMemory,andbafflingimaginationbyanindissolublesilence.Shemayhavegoneupward,andcomeinsightofhereternalhome,hopingforleavetorestnow,anddeemingthatherpainfulunionwithmatterwasatlastdissolved.Whileshesodeemed,anangelmayhavewarnedherawayfromheaven’sthreshold,and,guidingherweepingdown,haveboundher,oncemore,allshudderingandunwilling,tothatpoorframe,coldandwasted,ofwhosecompanionshipshewasgrownmorethanweary. Iknowshere-enteredherprisonwithpain,withreluctance,withamoanandalongshiver.Thedivorcedmates,SpiritandSubstance,werehardtore-unite:theygreetedeachother,notinanembrace,butarackingsortofstruggle.Thereturningsenseofsightcameuponme,red,asifitswaminbloodsuspendedhearingrushedbackloud,likethunderconsciousnessrevivedinfear:Isatupappalled,wonderingintowhatregion,amongstwhatstrangebeingsIwaswaking.AtfirstIknewnothingIlookedon:awallwasnotawall—alampnotalamp.Ishouldhaveunderstoodwhatwecallaghost,aswellasIdidthecommonestobject:whichisanotherwayofintimatingthatallmyeyerestedonstruckitasspectral.Butthefacultiessoonsettledeachinhisplacethelife-machinepresentlyresumeditswontedandregularworking. Still,IknewnotwhereIwasonlyintimeIsawIhadbeenremovedfromthespotwhereIfell:Ilayonnoportico-stepnightandtempestwereexcludedbywalls,windows,andceiling.IntosomehouseIhadbeencarried—butwhathouse? IcouldonlythinkofthepensionnatintheRueFossette.Stillhalf-dreaming,Itriedhardtodiscoverinwhatroomtheyhadputmewhetherthegreatdormitory,oroneofthelittledormitories.Iwaspuzzled,becauseIcouldnotmaketheglimpsesoffurnitureIsawaccordwithmyknowledgeofanyoftheseapartments.Theemptywhitebedswerewanting,andthelonglineoflargewindows.“Surely,”thoughtI,“itisnottoMadameBeck’sownchambertheyhavecarriedme!”Andheremyeyefellonaneasy-chaircoveredwithbluedamask.Otherseats,cushionedtomatch,dawnedonmebydegreesandatlastItookinthecompletefactofapleasantparlour,withawoodfireonaclear-shininghearth,acarpetwherearabesquesofbrightbluerelievedagroundofshadedfawnpalewallsoverwhichaslightbutendlessgarlandofazureforget-me-notsranmazedandbewilderedamongstmyriadgoldleavesandtendrils.Agildedmirrorfilledupthespacebetweentwowindows,curtainedamplywithbluedamask.InthismirrorIsawmyselflaid,notinbed,butonasofa.Ilookedspectralmyeyeslargerandmorehollow,myhairdarkerthanwasnatural,bycontrastwithmythinandashenface.Itwasobvious,notonlyfromthefurniture,butfromthepositionofwindows,doors,andfireplace,thatthiswasanunknownroominanunknownhouse. Hardlylessplainwasitthatmybrainwasnotyetsettledfor,asIgazedatthebluearm-chair,itappearedtogrowfamiliarsodidacertainscroll-couch,andnotlesssotheroundcentre-table,withablue-covering,borderedwithautumn-tintedfoliageand,aboveall,twolittlefootstoolswithworkedcovers,andasmallebony-framedchair,ofwhichtheseatandbackwerealsoworkedwithgroupsofbrilliantflowersonadarkground. Struckwiththesethings,Iexploredfurther.Strangetosay,oldacquaintancewereallaboutme,and“auldlangsyne”smiledoutofeverynook.Thereweretwoovalminiaturesoverthemantel-piece,ofwhichIknewbyheartthepearlsaboutthehighandpowdered“heads”thevelvetscirclingthewhitethroatstheswellofthefullmuslinkerchiefs:thepatternofthelacesleeve-ruffles.Uponthemantel-shelfthereweretwochinavases,somerelicsofadiminutivetea-service,assmoothasenamelandasthinasegg-shell,andawhitecentreornament,aclassicgroupinalabaster,preservedunderglass.OfallthesethingsIcouldhavetoldthepeculiarities,numberedtheflawsorcracks,likeanyclairvoyante.Aboveall,therewasapairofhandscreens,withelaboratepencil-drawingsfinishedlikelineengravingsthese,myveryeyesachedatbeholdingagain,recallinghourswhentheyhadfollowed,strokebystrokeandtouchbytouch,atedious,feeble,finical,school-girlpencilheldinthesefingers,nowsoskeleton-like. WherewasI?Notonlyinwhatspotoftheworld,butinwhatyearofourLord?Foralltheseobjectswereofpastdays,andofadistantcountry.TenyearsagoIbadethemgood-bysincemyfourteenthyeartheyandIhadnevermet.Igaspedaudibly,“WhereamI?” Ashapehithertounnoticed,stirred,rose,cameforward:ashapeinharmoniouswiththeenvironment,servingonlytocomplicatetheriddlefurther.Thiswasnomorethanasortofnativebonne,inacommon-placebonne’scapandprint-dress.ShespokeneitherFrenchnorEnglish,andIcouldgetnointelligencefromher,notunderstandingherphrasesofdialect.Butshebathedmytemplesandforeheadwithsomecoolandperfumedwater,andthensheheightenedthecushiononwhichIreclined,madesignsthatIwasnottospeak,andresumedherpostatthefootofthesofa. Shewasbusyknittinghereyesthusdrawnfromme,Icouldgazeonherwithoutinterruption.Ididmightilywonderhowshecamethere,orwhatshecouldhavetodoamongthescenes,orwiththedaysofmygirlhood.StillmoreImarvelledwhatthosescenesanddayscouldnowhavetodowithme. Tooweaktoscrutinizethoroughlythemystery,Itriedtosettleitbysayingitwasamistake,adream,afever-fitandyetIknewtherecouldbenomistake,andthatIwasnotsleeping,andIbelievedIwassane.Iwishedtheroomhadnotbeensowelllighted,thatImightnotsoclearlyhaveseenthelittlepictures,theornaments,thescreens,theworkedchair.Alltheseobjects,aswellastheblue-damaskfurniture,were,infact,preciselythesame,ineveryminutestdetail,withthoseIsowellremembered,andwithwhichIhadbeensothoroughlyintimate,inthedrawing-roomofmygodmother’shouseatBretton.Methoughttheapartmentonlywaschanged,beingofdifferentproportions