she said.
I glanced involuntarily towards the door.
“Lady Hilton is not at home,” she replied to my look, while a curl of indignation contended with a sweet tremor of shame for the possession of her lip.—“Let me help you.”
“You will help me best if you sing that ballad I heard you singing just before you came in. I never heard you sing before.”
“Didn’t you? I don’t think I ever did sing before.”
“Sing it again, will you, please?”
“It is only two verses. My old Scotch nurse used to sing it when I was a little girl-oh, so long ago! I didn’t know I could sing it.”
She began without more ado, standing in the middle of the room, with her back towards the door.
Annie was dowie, an’ Willie was wae:
What can be the matter wi’ siccan a twae?
For Annie was bonnie’s the first o’ the day,
And Willie was strang an’ honest an’ gay.
Oh! the tane had a daddy was poor an’ was proud;
An’ the tither a minnie that cared for the gowd.
They lo’ed are anither, an’ said their say—
But the daddy an’ minnie hae pairtit the twae.
Just as she finished the song, I saw the sharp eyes of Lady Lucy peeping in at the door.
“Lady Lucy is watching at the door, Lady Alice,” I said.
“I don’t care,” she answered; but turned with a flush on her face, and stepped noiselessly to the door.
“There is no one there,” she said, returning.
“There was, though,” I answered.
“They want to drive me mad,” she cried, and hurried from the room.
The next day but one, she came again with the same request. But she had not been a minute in the library before Lady Hilton came to the door and called her in angry tones.
“Presently,” replied Alice, and remained where she was.
“Do go, Lady Alice,” I said. “They will send me away if you refuse.”
She blushed scarlet, and went without another word.
She came no more to the library.
CHAPTER XII. 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
