_Prison-Breaking._
It was with considerable anxiety that I repaired to Mrs. Blakesley’s
room. There I found the old lady at the breakfast-table, so thoroughly
composed, that I was at once reassured as to her ignorance of what had
occurred while she slept. But she seemed uneasy till I should take my
departure, which I attributed to the fear that I might happen to meet
Lady Alice.
Arrived at my inn, I kept my room, my dim-seen plans rendering it
desirable that I should attract as little attention in the neighbourhood
as might be. I had now to concentrate these plans, and make them
definite to myself. It was clear that there was no chance of spending
another night at Hilton Hall by invitation: would it be honourable to go
there without one, as I, knowing all the _outs and ins_ of the place,
could, if I pleased? I went over the whole question of Alice’s position
in that house, and of the crime committed against her. I saw that, if I
could win my wife by restoring to her the exercise of reason, that very
success would justify the right I already possessed in her. And could
she not demand of me to climb over any walls, or break open whatsoever
doors, to free her from her prison--from the darkness of a clouded
brain? Let them say what they would of the meanness and wickedness of
gaining such access to, and using such power over, the insane--she was
mine, and as safe with me as with her mother. There is a love that tears
and destroys; and there is a love that enfolds and saves. I hated
mesmerism and its vulgar impertinences; but here was a power I
possessed, as far as I knew, only over one, and that one allied to me by
a reciprocal influence, as well as long-tried affection.--Did not love
give me the right to employ this power?
My cognitions concluded in the resolve to use the means in my hands for
the rescue of Lady Alice. Midnight found me in the alley of the
kitchen-garden. The door of the little court opened easily. Nor had I
withdrawn its bolts without knowing that I could manage to open the
window of my old room from the outside. I stood in the dark, a stranger
and housebreaker, where so often I had sat waiting the visits of my
angel. I secured the door of the room, struck a light, lighted a remnant
of taper which I found on the table, threw myself on the couch, and said
to my Alice--“Come.”
And she came. I rose. She laid herself down. I pulled off my coat--it
was all I could find--and laid it over her. The night was chilly. She
revived with the same sweet smile, but, giving a little shiver, said:
“Why have you no fire, Duncan? I must give orders about it. That’s some
trick of old Clankshoe.”
“Dear Alice, do not breath a word about me to any one. I have quarrelled
with Lord Hilton. He has turned me away, and I have no business to be in
the house.”
“Oh!” she replied, with a kind of faint recollecting hesitation. “That
must be why you never come to the haunted chamber now. I go there every
night, as soon as the sun is down.”
“Yes, that is it, Alice.”
“Ah! that must be what makes the day so strange to me too.”
She looked very bewildered for a moment, and then resumed:
“Do you know, Duncan, I feel very strange all day--as if I was walking
about in a dull dream that would never come to an end? But it is very
different at night--is it not, dear?”
She had not yet discovered any distinction between my presence to her
dreams and my presence to her waking sight. I hardly knew what reply to
make; but she went on:
“They won’t let me come to you now, I suppose. I shall forget my Euclid
and everything. I feel as if I had forgotten it all already. But you
won’t be vexed with your poor Alice, will you? She’s only a beggar-girl,
you know.”
I could answer only by a caress.
“I had a strange dream the other night. I thought I was sitting on a
stone in the dark. And I heard your voice calling me. And it went all
round about me, and came nearer, and went farther off, but I could not
move to go to you. I tried to answer you, but I could only make a queer
sound, not like my own voice at all.”
“I dreamed it too, Alice.”
“The same dream?”
“Yes, the very same.”
“I am so glad. But I didn’t like the dream. Duncan, my head feels so
strange sometimes. And I am so sleepy. Duncan, dearest--am _I_ dreaming
now? Oh! tell me that I am awake and that I hold you; for to-morrow,
when I wake, I shall fancy that I have lost you. They’ve spoiled my poor
brain, somehow. I am all right, I know, but I cannot get at it. The red
is withered, somehow.”
“You are wide awake, my Alice. I know all about it. I will help you to
understand it all, only you must do exactly as I tell you.”
“Yes, yes.”
“Then go to bed now, and sleep as much as you can; else I will not let
you come to me at night.”
“That would be too cruel, when it is all I have.”
“Then go, dearest, and sleep.”
“I will.”
She rose and went. I, too, went, making all close behind me. The moon
was going down. Her light looked to me strange, and almost malignant. I
feared that when she came to the full she would hurt my darling’s brain,
and I longed to climb the sky, and cut her in pieces. Was I too going
mad? I needed rest, that was all.
Next morning, I called again upon Mrs. Blakesley, to inquire after Lady
Alice, anxious to know how yesterday had passed.
“Just the same,” answered the old lady. “You need not look for any
change. Yesterday I did see her smile once, though.”
And was that nothing?
In her case there was a reversal of the usual facts of nature--(_I say
facts_, not _laws_): the dreams of most people are more or less insane;
those of Lady Alice were sound; thus, with her, restoring the balance of
sane life. That smile was the sign of the dream-life beginning to leaven
the waking and false life.
“Have you heard of young Lord Hilton’s marriage?” asked Mrs. Blakesley.
“I have only heard some rumours about it,” I answered. “Who is the new
countess?”
“The daughter of a rich merchant somewhere. They say she isn’t the best
of tempers. They’re coming here in about a month. I am just terrified to
think how it may fare with my lamb now. They won’t let her go wandering
about wherever she pleases, I doubt. And if they shut her up, she will
die.”
I vowed inwardly that she should be free, if I carried her off, madness
and all.