_New Entrenchments._
But this way of breaking into the house every night did not afford me
the facility I wished. For I wanted to see Lady Alice during the day, or
at least in the evening before she went to sleep; as otherwise I could
not thoroughly judge of her condition. So I got Wood to pack up a small
stock of provisions for me in his haversack, which I took with me; and
when I entered the house that night, I bolted the door of the court
behind me, and made all fast.
I waited till the usual time for her appearance had passed; and, always
apprehensive now, as was very natural, I had begun to grow uneasy, when
I heard her voice, as I had heard it once before, singing. Fearful of
disturbing her, I listened for a moment. Whether the song was her own or
not, I cannot be certain. When I questioned her afterwards, she knew
nothing about it. It was this,--
Days of old,
Ye are not dead, though gone from me;
Ye are not cold,
But like the summer-birds gone o’er the sea.
The sun brings back the swallows fast,
O’er the sea:
When thou comest at the last,
The days of old come back to me.
She ceased singing. Still she did not enter. I went into the closet, and
found that the door was bolted. When I opened it, she entered, as usual;
and, when she came to herself, seemed still better than before.
“Duncan,” she said, “I don’t know how it is, but I believe I must have
forgotten everything I ever knew. I feel as if I had. I don’t think I
can even read. Will you teach me my letters?”
She had a book in her hand. I hailed this as another sign that her
waking and sleeping thoughts bordered on each other; for she must have
taken the book during her somnambulic condition. I did as she desired.
She seemed to know nothing till I told her. But the moment I told her
anything, she knew it perfectly. Before she left me that night she was
reading tolerably, with many pauses of laughter that she should ever
have forgotten how. The moment she shared the light of my mind, all was
plain; where that had not shone, all was dark. The fact was, she was
living still in the shadow of that shock which her nervous constitution
had received from our discovery and my ejection.
As she was leaving me, I said,
“Shall you be in the haunted room at sunset tomorrow, Alice?”
“Of course I shall,” she answered.
“You will find me there then,” I rejoined--“that is, if you think there
is no danger of being seen.”
“Not the least,” she answered. “No one follows me there; not even Mrs.
Blakesley, good soul! They are all afraid, as usual.”
“And you won’t be frightened to see me there?”
“Frightened? No. Why? Oh! you think me queer too, do you?”
She looked vexed, but tried to smile.
“I? I would trust you with my life,” I said. “That’s not much,
though--with my soul, whatever that means, Alice.”
“Then don’t talk nonsense,” she rejoined coaxingly, “about my being
frightened to see you.”
When she had gone, I followed into the old hall, taking my sack with me;
for, after having found the door in the closet bolted, I was determined
not to spend one night more in my old quarters, and never to allow Lady
Alice to go there again, if I could prevent her. And I had good hopes
that, if we met in the day, the same consequences would follow as had
followed long ago--namely, that she would sleep at night.
It was just such a night as that on which I had first peeped into the
hall. The moon shone through one of the high windows, scarcely more dim
than before, and showed all the dreariness of the place. I went up the
great old staircase, hoping I trod in the very footsteps of Lady Alice,
and reached the old gallery in which I had found her on that night when
our strangely-knit intimacy began. My object was to choose one of the
deserted rooms in which I might establish myself without chance of
discovery. I had not turned many corners, or gone through many passages,
before I found one exactly to my mind. I will not trouble my reader with
a description of its odd position and shape. All I wanted was
concealment, and that it provided plentifully. I lay down on the floor,
and was soon fast asleep.
Next morning, having breakfasted from the contents of my bag, I
proceeded to make myself thoroughly acquainted with the bearings, etc.,
of this portion of the house. Before evening, I knew it all thoroughly.
But I found it very difficult to wait for the evening. By the windows of
one of the rooms looking westward, I sat watching the down-going of the
sun. When he set, my moon would rise. As he touched the horizon, I went
the old, well-known way to the haunted chamber. What a night had passed
for me since I left Alice in that charmed room! I had a vague feeling,
however, notwithstanding the misfortune that had befallen us there, that
the old phantoms that haunted it were friendly to Alice and me. But I
waited her arrival in fear. Would she come? Would she be as in the
night? Or should I find her but half awake to life, and perhaps asleep
to me?
One moment longer, and a light hand was laid on the door. It opened
gently, and Alice, entering, flitted across the room straight to my
arms. How beautiful she was! her old-fashioned dress bringing her into
harmony with the room and its old consecrated twilight! For this room
looked eastward, and there was only twilight here. She brought me some
water, at my request; and then we read, and laughed over our reading.
Every moment she not only knew something fresh, but knew that she had
known it before. The dust of the years had to be swept away; but it was
only dust, and flew at a breath. The light soon failed us in that dusky
chamber; and we sat and whispered, till only when we kissed could we see
each other’s eyes. At length Lady Alice said:
“They are looking for me; I had better go. Shall I come at night?”
“No,” I answered. “Sleep, and do not move.”
“Very well, I will.”
She went, and I returned to my den. There I lay and thought. Had she
ever been insane at all? I doubted it. A kind of mental sleep or stupor
had come upon her--nothing more. True it might be allied to madness; but
is there a strong emotion that man or woman experiences that is not
_allied_ to madness? Still her mind was not clear enough to reflect the
past. But if she never recalled that entirely, not the less were her
love and tenderness--all womanliness--entire in her.
Next evening we met again, and the next, and many evenings. Every time I
was more convinced than before that she was thoroughly sane in every
practical sense, and that she would recall everything as soon as I
reminded her. But this I forbore to do, fearing a reaction.
Meantime, after a marvellous fashion, I was living over again the old
lovely time that had gone by twelve years ago; living it over again,
partly in virtue of the oblivion that had invaded the companion and
source of the blessedness of the time. She had never ceased to live it;
but had renewed it in dreams, unknown as such, from which she awoke to
forgetfulness and quiet, while I awoke from my troubled fancies to tears
and battles.
It was strange, indeed, to live the past over again thus.