“I sometimes feel it,—here!” she said, putting her hand on her bosom. She was looking at him as she said it, but her eyes, instead of any longer meeting his, seemed to turn their regard inward, and to traverse strange regions, not of this world. “I see some one who is myself, though I can never have been she: she is surrounded with brightness, and people not like ours; she thinks of things that I have never known. It is the memory of a dream, I suppose,” she added, in another tone.
“Heredity is a queer thing. You may be Aztecan over again, in mind and temperament; and every one knows how impressions are transmitted. If features and traits of character, why not particular thoughts and feelings?”
“I think it is better not to try to explain these things,” said she, with the unconscious haughtiness which maidens acquire who have not seen the world and are adored by their family. “They are great mysteries,—or else nothing.” She now removed from her head the curious cap or helmet, ornamented with gold and with the green feathers of the humming-bird, which her companion had crowned her with, and hung it on its nail in the cabinet. “Perhaps the thoughts came with the cap,” she remarked, smiling slightly. “I don’t feel that way any more. I ought not to have spoken of it.”
“I hope the time will come when you will feel that you may trust me.”
“You seem easy to know, Mr. Freeman,” she replied, looking at him contemplatively as she spoke, “and yet you are not. There is one of you that thinks, and another that speaks. And you are not the same to my father, or to Professor Meschines, that you are to me.”
“What is the use of human beings except to take one out of one’s self?”
“But it is not your real self that comes out,” said Miriam, after a little pause. She never spoke hurriedly, or until after the coming speech had passed into her face.
Freeman laughed. “Well,” he said, “if I’m a hypocrite, I’m one of those who are made and not born. As a boy, I was frank enough. But a good part of my life has been spent with people who couldn’t be trusted; and perhaps the habit of protecting myself against them has grown upon me. If I could only live here for a while it would be different.—Here’s an odd-looking thing. What do you call that?”
“We call it the Golden Fleece.”
“The Golden Fleece! I can imagine a Medea; but where is the Dragon?”