CHAPTER XVI. AULD LANG SYNE.

anddimensions. IthoughtofBedreddinHassan,transportedinhissleepfromCairotothegatesofDamascus.HadaGeniusstoopedhisdarkwingdownthestormtowhosestressIhadsuccumbed,andgatheringmefromthechurch-steps,and“risinghighintotheair,”astheeasterntalesaid,hadhebornemeoverlandandocean,andlaidmequietlydownbesideahearthofOldEngland?ButnoIknewthefireofthathearthburnedbeforeitsLaresnomore—itwentoutlongago,andthehouseholdgodshadbeencarriedelsewhere. Thebonneturnedagaintosurveyme,andseeingmyeyeswideopen,and,Isuppose,deemingtheirexpressionperturbedandexcited,sheputdownherknitting.Isawherbusiedforamomentatalittlestandshepouredoutwater,andmeasureddropsfromaphial:glassinhand,sheapproachedme.Whatdark-tingeddraughtmightshenowbeoffering?whatGenii-elixirorMagi-distillation? Itwastoolatetoinquire—Ihadswalloweditpassively,andatonce.Atideofquietthoughtnowcamegentlycaressingmybrainsofterandsofterrosetheflow,withtepidundulationssmootherthanbalm.Thepainofweaknessleftmylimbs,mymusclesslept.Ilostpowertomovebut,losingatthesametimewish,itwasnoprivation.ThatkindbonneplacedascreenbetweenmeandthelampIsawherrisetodothis,butdonotrememberseeingherresumeherplace:intheintervalbetweenthetwoacts,I“fellonsleep.” Atwaking,lo!allwasagainchanged.Thelightofhighdaysurroundedmenot,indeed,awarm,summerlight,buttheleadengloomofrawandblusteringautumn.IfeltsurenowthatIwasinthepensionnat—surebythebeatingrainonthecasementsurebythe“wuther”ofwindamongsttrees,denotingagardenoutsidesurebythechill,thewhiteness,thesolitude,amidstwhichIlay.Isaywhiteness—forthedimitycurtains,droppedbeforeaFrenchbed,boundedmyview. IliftedthemIlookedout.Myeye,preparedtotakeintherangeofalong,large,andwhitewashedchamber,blinkedbaffled,onencounteringthelimitedareaofasmallcabinet—acabinetwithseagreenwallsalso,insteadoffivewideandnakedwindows,therewasonehighlattice,shadedwithmuslinfestoons:insteadoftwodozenlittlestandsofpaintedwood,eachholdingabasinandanewer,therewasatoilette-tabledressed,likealadyforaball,inawhiterobeoverapinkskirtapolishedandlargeglasscrowned,andaprettypin-cushionfrilledwithlace,adornedit.Thistoilette,togetherwithasmall,low,greenandwhitechintzarm-chair,awashstandtoppedwithamarbleslab,andsuppliedwithutensilsofpalegreenware,sufficientlyfurnishedthetinychamber. ReaderIfeltalarmed!Why?youwillask.Whatwasthereinthissimpleandsomewhatprettysleeping-closettostartlethemosttimid?Merelythis—Thesearticlesoffurniturecouldnotbereal,solidarm-chairs,looking-glasses,andwashstands—theymustbetheghostsofsucharticlesor,ifthisweredeniedastoowildanhypothesis—and,confoundedasIwas,Ididdenyit—thereremainedbuttoconcludethatIhadmyselfpassedintoanabnormalstateofmindinshort,thatIwasveryillanddelirious:andeventhen,minewasthestrangestfigmentwithwhichdeliriumhadeverharassedavictim. Iknew—Iwasobligedtoknow—thegreenchintzofthatlittlechairthelittlesnugchairitself,thecarved,shining-black,foliatedframeofthatglassthesmooth,milky-greenofthechinavesselsonthestandtheverystandtoo,withitstopofgreymarble,splinteredatonecorner—alltheseIwascompelledtorecogniseandtohail,aslastnightIhad,perforce,recognisedandhailedtherosewood,thedrapery,theporcelain,ofthedrawing-room. Bretton!Bretton!andtenyearsagoshonereflectedinthatmirror.AndwhydidBrettonandmyfourteenthyearhauntmethus?Why,iftheycameatall,didtheynotreturncomplete?Whyhoveredbeforemydistemperedvisionthemerefurniture,whiletheroomsandthelocalityweregone?Astothatpincushionmadeofcrimsonsatin,ornamentedwithgoldbeadsandfrilledwiththread-lace,Ihadthesamerighttoknowitastoknowthescreens—Ihadmadeitmyself.Risingwithastartfromthebed,Itookthecushioninmyhandandexaminedit.Therewasthecipher“L.L.B.”formedingoldbeds,andsurroundedwithanovalwreathembroideredinwhitesilk.Theseweretheinitialsofmygodmother’sname—LonisaLucyBretton. “AmIinEngland?AmIatBretton?”Imutteredandhastilypullinguptheblindwithwhichthelatticewasshrouded,IlookedouttotryanddiscoverwhereIwashalf-preparedtomeetthecalm,old,handsomebuildingsandcleangreypavementofSt.Ann’sStreet,andtoseeattheendthetowersoftheminster:or,ifotherwise,fullyexpectantofatownviewsomewhere,arueinVillette,ifnotastreetinapleasantandancientEnglishcity. Ilooked,onthecontrary,throughaframeofleafage,clusteringroundthehighlattice,andforththencetoagrassymead-likelevel,alawn-terracewithtreesrisingfromthelowergroundbeyond—highforest-trees,suchasIhadnotseenformanyaday.TheywerenowgroaningunderthegaleofOctober,andbetweentheirtrunksItracedthelineofanavenue,whereyellowleaveslayinheapsanddrifts,orwerewhirledsinglybeforethesweepingwestwind.Whateverlandscapemightliefurthermusthavebeenflat,andthesetallbeechesshutitout.Theplaceseemedsecluded,andwastomequitestrange:Ididnotknowitatall. OncemoreIlaydown.Mybedstoodinalittlealcoveonturningmyfacetothewall,theroomwithitsbewilderingaccompanimentsbecameexcluded.Excluded?No!ForasIarrangedmypositioninthishope,behold,onthegreenspacebetweenthedividedandlooped-upcurtains,hungabroad,gildedpicture-frameenclosingaportrait.Itwasdrawn—welldrawn,thoughbutasketch—inwater-coloursahead,aboy’shead,fresh,life-like,speaking,andanimated.Itseemedayouthofsixteen,fair-complexioned,withsanguinehealthinhischeekhairlong,notdark,andwithasunnysheenpenetratingeyes,anarchmouth,andagaysmile.Onthewholeamostpleasantfacetolookat,especiallyfor,thoseclaimingarighttothatyouth’saffections—parents,forinstance,orsisters.Anyromanti