“I don’t know whether that is metaphysical,” said Meta, “but I am sure I don’t understand it. One must know oneself to be worse than one knows any one else to be.”
“I could not wish you to understand,” said Norman; and yet he seemed impelled to go on; for, after a hesitating silence, he added, “When the wanderer in the desert fears that the spring is but a mirage; or when all that is held dear is made hazy or distorted by some enchanter, what do you think are the feelings, Meta?”
“It must be dreadful,” she said, rather bewildered; “but he may know it is a delusion, if he can but wake. Has he not always a spell, a charm?—”
“What is the spell?” eagerly said Norman, standing still.
“Believe—” said Meta, hardly knowing how she came to choose the words.
“I believe!” he repeated. “What—when we go beyond the province of reason—human, a thing of sense after all! How often have I so answered. But Meta, when a man has been drawn, in self-sufficient security, to look into a magic mirror, and cannot detach his eyes from the confused, misty scene—where all that had his allegiance appears shattered, overthrown, like a broken image, or at least unable to endure examination, then—”
“Oh, Norman, is that the trial to any one here? I thought old Oxford was the great guardian nurse of truth! I am sure she cannot deal in magic mirrors or such frightful things. Do you know you are talking like a very horrible dream?”
“I believe I am in one,” said Norman.
“To be sure you are. Wake!” said Meta, looking up, smiling in his face. “You have read yourself into a maze, that’s all—what Mary calls, muzzling your head; you don’t really think all this, and when you get into the country, away from books, you will forget it. One look at our dear old purple Welsh hills will blow away all the mists!”
“I ought not to have spoken in this manner,” said Norman sadly. “Forget it, Meta.”