“I’ll tell you what I’ll do, sir. She always falls asleep in the afternoon; you may see her asleep, if you like.”
“Thank you; thank you,” I answered. “That will be much better. When shall I come?”
“About three o’clock.”
I went wandering about the woods, and at three I was again in the housekeeper’s room. She came to me presently, looking rather troubled.
“It is very odd,” she began, the moment she entered, “but for the first time, I think, for years, she’s not for her afternoon sleep.”
“Does she sleep at night?” I asked.
“Like a bairn. But she sleeps a great deal; and the doctor says that’s what keeps her so quiet. She would go raving again, he says, if the sleep did not soothe her poor brain.”
“Could you not let me see her when she is asleep tonight?”
Again she hesitated, but presently replied:—
“I will, sir; but I trust to you never to mention it.”
“Of course I will not.”
“Come at ten o’clock, then. You will find the outer door on this side open. Go straight to my room.”
With renewed thanks I left her and, once again betaking myself to the woods, wandered about till night, notwithstanding signs of an approaching storm. I thus kept within the boundaries of the demesne, and had no occasion to request re-admittance at any of the gates.
As ten struck on the tower-clock, I entered Mrs. Blakesley’s room. She was not there. I sat down. In a few minutes she came.
“She is fast asleep,” she said. “Come this way.”
I followed, trembling. She led me to the same room Lady Alice used to occupy. The door was a little open. She pushed it gently, and I followed her in. The curtains towards the door were drawn. Mrs. Blakesley took me round to the other side.—There lay the lovely head, so phantom-like for years, coming only in my dreams; filling now, with a real presence, the eyes that had longed for it, as if in them dwelt an appetite of sight. It calmed my heart at once, which had been almost choking me with the violence of its palpitation. “That is not the face of insanity,” I said to myself. “It is clear as the morning light.” As I stood gazing, I made no comparisons between the past and the present, although I was aware of some difference—of some measure of the unknown fronting me; I was filled with the delight of beholding the face I loved—full, as it seemed to me, of mind and womanhood; sleeping—nothing more. I murmured a fervent “Thank God!” and was turning away with a feeling of satisfaction for all the future, and a strange great hope beginning to throb in my heart, when, after a little restless motion of her head on the pillow, her patient lips began to tremble. My soul rushed into my ears.
“Mr. Campbell,” she murmured, “I cannot spell; what am I to do to learn?”
The unexpected voice, naming my name, sounded in my ears like a voice from the far-off regions where sighing is over. Then a smile gleamed up from the depths unseen, and broke and melted away all over her face. But her nurse had heard her speak, and now approached in alarm. She laid hold of my arm, and drew me towards the door. I yielded at once, but heard a moan from the bed as I went. I looked back—the curtains hid her from my view. Outside the door, Mrs. Blakesley stood listening for a moment, and then led the way downstairs.
“You made her restless. You see, sir, she never was like other people, poor dear!”
“Her face is not like one insane,” I rejoined.
“I often think she looks more like herself when she’s asleep,” answered she. “And then I have often seen her smile. She never smiles when she’s awake. But, gracious me, Mr. Campbell! what shall I do?”
This exclamation was caused by my suddenly falling back in my chair and closing my eyes. I had almost fainted. I had eaten nothing since breakfast; and had been wandering about in a state of excitement all day. I greedily swallowed the glass of wine she brought me, and then first became aware that the storm which I had seen gathering while I was in the woods had now broken loose. “What a night in the old hall!” thought I. The wind was dashing itself like a thousand eagles against the house, and the rain was trampling the roofs and the court like troops of galloping steeds. I rose to go.
But Mrs. Blakesley interfered.
“You don’t leave this house tonight, Mr. Campbell,” she said. “I won’t have your death laid at my door.”
I laughed.
“Dear Mrs. Blakesley—” I said, seeing her determined.
“I won’t hear a word,” she interrupted. “I wouldn’t let a horse out in such a tempest. No, no; you shall just sleep in your old quarters, across the passage there.”
I did not care for any storm. It hardly even interested me. That beautiful face filled my whole being. But I yielded to Mrs. Blakesley, and not unwillingly.
XXIII
My Old Room
Once more I was left alone in that room of dark oak, looking out on the little ivy-mantled court, of which I was now reminded by the howling of the storm within its high walls. Mrs. Blakesley had extemporised a bed for me on the old sofa; and the fire was already blazing away splendidly. I sat down beside it, and the sombre-hued Past rolled back upon me.
After I had floated, as it were, upon the waves of memory for some time, I suddenly glanced behind me and around the room, and a new and strange experience dawned upon me. Time became to my consciousness what some metaphysicians say it is in itself—only a form of human thought. For the Past had returned and had become the Present. I could not be sure that the Past had passed, that I had not been dreaming through
