_Confession_.
Day followed day, the one the child of the other. Alice’s old paleness
and unearthly look began to reappear; and, strange to tell, my midnight
temptation revived. After a time she ceased to dine with us again, and
for days I never saw her. It was the old story of suffering with me,
only more intense than before. The day was dreary, and the night stormy.
“Call her,” said my heart; but my conscience resisted.
I was lying on the floor of my room one midnight, with my face to the
ground, when suddenly I heard a low, sweet, strange voice singing
somewhere. The moment I became aware that I heard it I felt as if I had
been listening to it unconsciously for some minutes past. I lay still,
either charmed to stillness, or fearful of breaking the spell. As I lay,
I was lapt in the folds of a waking dream.
I was in bed in a castle, on the seashore; the wind came from the sea in
chill _eerie soughs_, and the waves fell with a threatful tone upon the
beach, muttering many maledictions as they rushed up, and whispering
cruel portents as they drew back, hissing and gurgling, through the
million narrow ways of the pebbly ramparts; and I knew that a maiden in
white was standing in the cold wind, by the angry sea, singing. I had a
kind of dreamy belief in my dream; but, overpowered by the spell of the
music, I still lay and listened. Keener and stronger, under the impulses
of my will, grew the power of my hearing. At last I could distinguish
the words. The ballad was _Annie of Lochroyan;_ and Lady Alice was
singing it. The words I heard were these:--
Oh, gin I had a bonnie ship,
And men to sail wi’ me,
It’s I wad gang to my true love,
Sin’ he winna come to me.
Lang stood she at her true love’s door,
And lang tirled at the pin;
At length up gat his fause mother,
Says, “Wha’s that wad be in?”
* * * * *
Love Gregory started frae his sleep,
And to his mother did say:
“I dreamed a dream this night, mither,
That maks my heart right wae.
“I dreamed that Annie of Lochroyan,
The flower of a’ her kin,
Was standing mournin’ at my door,
But nane wad let her in.”
I sprang to my feet, and opened the hidden door. There she stood, white,
asleep, with closed eyes, singing like a bird, only with a heartful of
sad meaning in every tone. I stepped aside, without speaking, and she
passed me into the room. I closed the door, and followed her. She lay
already upon the couch, still and restful--already covered with my
plaid. I sat down beside her, waiting; and gazed upon her in wonderment.
That she was possessed of very superior intellectual powers, whatever
might be the cause of their having lain dormant so long, I had already
fully convinced myself; but I was not prepared to find art as well as
intellect. I had already heard her sing the little song of two verses,
which she had learned from her nurse. But here was a song, of her own
making as to the music, so true and so potent, that, before I knew
anything of the words, it had surrounded me with a dream of the place in
which the scene of the ballad was laid. It did not then occur to me
that, perhaps, our idiosyncrasies were such as not to require even the
music of the ballad for the production of _rapport_ between our minds,
the brain of the one generating in the brain of the other the vision
present to itself.
I sat and thought:--Some obstruction in the gateways, outward, prevented
her, in her waking hours, from uttering herself at all. This
obstruction, damming back upon their sources the out-goings of life,
threw her into this abnormal sleep. In it the impulse to utterance,
still unsatisfied, so wrought within her unable, yet compliant form,
that she could not rest, but rose and walked. And now, a fresh surge
from the sea of her unknown being, unrepressed by the _hitherto_ of the
objects of sense, had burst the gates and bars, swept the obstructions
from its channel, and poured from her in melodious song.
The first green lobes, at least, of these thoughts, appeared above the
soil of my mind, while I sat and gazed on the sleeping girl. And now I
had once more the delight of watching a spirit-dawn, a soul-rise, in
that lovely form. The light flushing of its pallid sky was, as before,
the first sign. I dreaded the flash of lovely flame, and the outburst of
regnant anger, ere I should have time to say that I was not to blame.
But when, at length, the full dawn, the slow sunrise came, it was with
all the gentleness of a cloudy summer morn. Never did a more celestial
rosy red hang about the skirts of the level sun, than deepened and
glowed upon her face, when, opening her eyes, she saw me beside her. She
covered her face with her hands; and instead of the words of indignant
reproach which I dreaded to hear, she murmured behind the snowy screen:
“I am glad you have broken your promise.”
My heart gave a bound and was still. I grew faint with delight. “No,” I
said; “I have not broken my promise, Lady Alice; I have struggled nearly
to madness to keep it--and I have kept it.”
“I have come then of myself. Worse and worse! But it is their fault.”
Tears now found their way through the repressing fingers. I could not
endure to see her weep. I knelt beside her, and, while she still covered
her face with her hands, I said--I do not know what I said. They were
wild, and, doubtless, foolish words in themselves, but they must have
been wise and true in their meaning. When I ceased, I knew that I had
ceased only by the great silence around me. I was still looking at her
hands. Slowly she withdrew them. It was as when the sun breaks forth on
a cloudy day. The winter was over and gone; the time of the singing of
birds had come. She smiled on me through her tears, and heart met heart
in the light of that smile.
She rose to go at once, and I begged for no delay. I only stood with
clasped hands, gazing at her. She turned at the door, and said;
“I daresay I shall come again; I am afraid I cannot help it; only mind
you do not wake me.”
Before I could reply, I was alone; and I felt that I must not follow
her.