CHAPTER XI.
THE VISION RECURS
I hated asking auntie questions, they seemed to worry and distressher so; but that evening, in view of my projected visit to Torquay,I was obliged to cross-examine her rather closely about many things.I wanted to know about my Torquay relations, and as far as possibleabout my mother's family. In the end I learned that the WillieMoores were cousins of ours on my mother's side who had neverquarrelled with my father, like Aunt Emma, and through whom aloneaccordingly, in the days of my First State, Aunt Emma was able tolearn anything about me. They had a house at Torquay, andconnections all around; for the Moores were Devonshire people. AuntEmma was very anxious, if I went down there at all, I should stopwith Mrs. Moore: for Minnie would be so grieved, she said, if I wentto an hotel or took private lodgings. But I wouldn't hear of thatmyself. I knew nothing of the Moores--in my present condition--and Ididn't like to trust myself in the hands of those who to me wereperfect strangers. So I decided on going to the Imperial Hotel, andcalling on the Moores quietly to pursue my investigation.
Another question I asked in the course of the evening. I hadwondered about it often, and now, in these last straits, curiosityovercame me.
"Aunt Emma," I said unexpectedly after a pause, without one word ofintroduction, "how ever did you get those scars on your hand? You'venever told me."
In a moment, Aunt Emma blushed suddenly crimson like a girl ofeighteen.
"Una," she answered very gravely, in a low strange tone, "oh, don'task me about that, dear. Don't ask me about that. You could neverunderstand it.... I got them... in climbing over a high stonewall... a high stone wall, with bits of glass stuck on top of it."
In spite of her prohibition, I couldn't help asking one virtualquestion more. I gave a start of horror:
"Not the wall at The Grange!" I cried. "Oh, Aunt Emma, howwonderful!"
She gazed at me, astonished.
"Yes, the wall at The Grange," she said simply. "But I don't knowhow you guessed it.... Oh, Una, don't talk to me any more aboutthese things, I implore you. You can't think how they grieve me.They distress me unspeakably."
Much as I longed to know, I couldn't ask her again after that. Shewas trembling like an aspen-leaf. For some minutes we sat andlooked at the fireplace in silence.
Then curiosity overcame me again.
"Only one question more, auntie," I said. "When I came to you first,you were at home here at Barton. You didn't come to Woodbury tofetch me after the murder. You didn't attend the inquest. I've oftenwondered at that. Why didn't you bring me yourself? Why didn't youhurry to nurse me as soon as you heard they'd shot my father?"
Aunt Emma gazed at me again with a face like a sheet.
"Darling," she said, quivering, "I was ill. I was in bed. I wasobliged to stay away. I'd hurt myself badly a little before.... Oh,Una, leave off! If you go on like this, you'll drive me mad. Say nomore, I implore of you."
I couldn't think what this meant; but as auntie wished it, I held mypeace, all inwardly trembling with suppressed excitement.
That night, when I went up to bed, I lay awake long, thinking tomyself of the Australian scene. In the silence of the night it cameback to me vividly. Rain pattered on the roof, and helped me toremember it. I could see the blue-gum trees waving their longribbon-like leaves in the wind: I could see the cottage, theverandah, my mother, our dog: nay, even, I remembered now, with aburst of recollection, his name was Carlo. The effort was more trulya recollection than before: it was part of myself: I felt aware itwas really I myself, not another, who had seen all this, and livedand moved in it.
Slowly I fell asleep, and passed from thinking to dreaming. My dreamwas but a prolongation of the thoughts I had been turning over in mywaking mind. I was still in Australia; still on the verandah of ourwooden house; and my mamma was there, and papa beside her. I knew itwas papa; for I held his hand and played with him. But he was somuch altered, so grave and severe; though he smiled at megood-humouredly. Mamma was sitting behind, with baby on her lap. Itseemed to me quite natural she should be there with baby. The scenewas so distinct--very vivid and clear. It persisted for manyminutes, perhaps even hours. It burnt itself into my brain. At last,it woke me up by its very intensity.
As I woke, a great many thoughts crowded in upon me all at once.This time I knew instantly it was no mere dream, but a truerecollection. Yet what a strange recollection! how unexpected! howincomprehensible! How much in it to settle! how much to investigateand hunt up and inquire about!
In the first place, though I was still in my dream a little girl,much time must have elapsed since the earlier vision; for my papalooked far older, and graver, and sterner. He had more hair abouthis face, too, a long brown beard and heavy moustache; and when Igazed hard at him mentally, I could recognise the likeness with thewhite-bearded man who lay dead on the floor: while in my formerrecollection, I could scarcely make out any resemblance of thefeatures. This showed that the second scene came long after thefirst: my father must by that time have begun to resemble his laterself. A weird feeling stole over me. Was I going to relive myprevious life, piecemeal? Was the past going to unroll itself inslow but regular panorama to my sleeping vision? Was my First Stateto become known like this in successive scenes to my Second?
But that wasn't all. There were strange questions to decide, too,about this new dream of dead days. What could be the meaning of thatmysterious baby? She seemed to be so vivid, so natural, so real; herpresence there was so much a pure matter of course to me, that Icouldn't for a moment separate her from the rest of the Picture. IREMEMBERED the baby, now; as I remembered my mother, and my father,and Australia. There was no room for doubt as to that. The baby wasan integral part of my real recollection. Floating across the dimocean of years, I was certain that night I had once lived in such ascene, with my mamma, and baby.
Yet oh, what baby? I never had a brother or sister of my own, exceptthe half-sister that died--the clergyman's child, Mary Wharton. AndMary, from what I had learned from Aunt Emma and others, must havedied when I was only just five months old, immediately before weleft Australia. How, then, could I remember her, even in thisexalted mental state of trance or dream? And, above all, how could Iremember a far earlier scene, when my papa was younger, when hisface was smooth, and when there was no other baby?
This mystery only heightened the other mysteries which surrounded mylife. I was surfeited with them now. In very despair andlistlessness, I turned round on my side, and dozed dreamily offagain, unable to grapple with it.
But still that scene haunted me. And still, even in sleep, I askedmyself over and over again, "How on earth can this be? What's themeaning of the baby?"
Perhaps it was a little sister that died young, whom I never hadheard of. And perhaps not. In a life such as mine, new surprises arealways possible.