Scarcely had the half-moulded words floated from him, as he stood gazing
into the mirror, when, striking him as with a flash of amazement that
fixed him in his posture, noiseless and unannounced, glided suddenly
through the door into the reflected room, with stately motion, yet
reluctant and faltering step, the graceful form of a woman, clothed all
in white. Her back only was visible as she walked slowly up to the
couch in the further end of the room, on which she laid herself
wearily, turning towards him a face of unutterable loveliness, in which
suffering, and dislike, and a sense of compulsion, strangely mingled
with the beauty. He stood without the power of motion for some moments,
with his eyes irrecoverably fixed upon her; and even after he was
conscious of the ability to move, he could not summon up courage to
turn and look on her, face to face, in the veritable chamber in which
he stood. At length, with a sudden effort, in which the exercise of the
will was so pure, that it seemed involuntary, he turned his face to the
couch. It was vacant. In bewilderment, mingled with terror, he turned
again to the mirror: there, on the reflected couch, lay the exquisite
lady-form. She lay with closed eyes, whence two large tears were just
welling from beneath the veiling lids; still as death, save for the
convulsive motion of her bosom.
Cosmo himself could not have described what he felt. His emotions were
of a kind that destroyed consciousness, and could never be clearly
recalled. He could not help standing yet by the mirror, and keeping his
eyes fixed on the lady, though he was painfully aware of his rudeness,
and feared every moment that she would open hers, and meet his fixed
regard. But he was, ere long, a little relieved; for, after a while, her
eyelids slowly rose, and her eyes remained uncovered, but unemployed for
a time; and when, at length, they began to wander about the room, as if
languidly seeking to make some acquaintance with her environment, they
were never directed towards him: it seemed nothing but what was in the
mirror could affect her vision; and, therefore, if she saw him at all,
it could only be his back, which, of necessity, was turned towards her
in the glass. The two figures in the mirror could not meet face to face,
except he turned and looked at her, present in his room; and, as she was
not there, he concluded that if he were to turn towards the part in his
room corresponding to that in which she lay, his reflection would either
be invisible to her altogether, or at least it must appear to her to
gaze vacantly towards her, and no meeting of the eyes would produce
the impression of spiritual proximity. By-and-by her eyes fell upon the
skeleton, and he saw her shudder and close them. She did not open them
again, but signs of repugnance continued evident on her countenance.
Cosmo would have removed the obnoxious thing at once, but he feared to
discompose her yet more by the assertion of his presence which the act
would involve. So he stood and watched her. The eyelids yet shrouded
the eyes, as a costly case the jewels within; the troubled expression
gradually faded from the countenance, leaving only a faint sorrow
behind; the features settled into an unchanging expression of rest; and
by these signs, and the slow regular motion of her breathing, Cosmo knew
that she slept. He could now gaze on her without embarrassment. He saw
that her figure, dressed in the simplest robe of white, was worthy of
her face; and so harmonious, that either the delicately moulded foot, or
any finger of the equally delicate hand, was an index to the whole. As
she lay, her whole form manifested the relaxation of perfect repose. He
gazed till he was weary, and at last seated himself near the new-found
shrine, and mechanically took up a book, like one who watches by a
sick-bed. But his eyes gathered no thoughts from the page before him.
His intellect had been stunned by the bold contradiction, to its face,
of all its experience, and now lay passive, without assertion, or
speculation, or even conscious astonishment; while his imagination sent
one wild dream of blessedness after another coursing through his soul.
How long he sat he knew not; but at length he roused himself, rose, and,
trembling in every portion of his frame, looked again into the mirror.
She was gone. The mirror reflected faithfully what his room presented,
and nothing more. It stood there like a golden setting whence the
central jewel has been stolen away--like a night-sky without the glory
of its stars. She had carried with her all the strangeness of the
reflected room. It had sunk to the level of the one without.