There was a lamp lighted in the chamber to which Algernon Grey returned. He found the room neatly ordered, as if care and attention had been bestowed upon it; and, in a few minutes after his return, a servant entered, bearing materials for a meal such as prisoners seldom taste. The man set it down and retired in silence; but Algernon Grey left the supper untouched. For nearly a quarter of an hour he strode up and down the room in deep thought; and then, breaking off suddenly, he said, "I will go to bed and sleep. What need of troubling my mind with things that may never occur? Am I to cast away every enjoyment of this mortal life, for fear of their remote consequences? No, I will guard my heart firmly; I will rule my conduct strictly; but I will not debar myself of my sole solace, for fear it should become too sweet. I will go and sleep, and these gloomy visions will take their flight before the morning."
Accordingly, proceeding into the other room, he undressed and went to bed. Neither did sleep refuse to visit his eyelids; for there are few things more wearing and wearisome than the dull lapse of solitary hours to an active and energetic mind; but his slumber was not calm; it was not of that soft and balmy kind which visits the pillow of careless childhood; nor was it chequered with those light gay dreams which hover over the bed of hopeful youth. Visions he had many; but they were all more or less dark, all more or less troubled; and the same forms and features were in each. Two female figures were ever present, and one was Agnes Herbert. But, as I have already touched this theme, I will not pause here to enter into the details of all that imagination and memory suggested to the sleeping brain. Suffice it, that he slept without repose; and that agitated feelings, running masterless in unreasoning slumber, wore both body and mind, even during the hours of rest.
He woke on the following morning languid and unrefreshed; and, if he had lain down somewhat gloomy in his thoughts, the next morning found him sadder and less tranquil still.
The heavy hours rolled slowly on, and nothing occurred throughout the morning to break the dull monotony of his imprisonment. The servant brought in the meals, arranged the rooms, and showed towards him every sort of civility and attention. But still it was not there that Algernon Grey could find companionship, and but few words passed, the young gentleman still speaking first, and receiving but brief and insignificant answers in return. The sight even of a human face, it is true, was pleasant to him; but yet it seemed each time that the man came and went as if his momentary presence and quick departure but added to his heaviness of heart.
He longed for somebody with whom he could converse--any one, it mattered not whom; and he looked eagerly for his cousin's promised visit; but that day William Lovet came not. It is true his conversation had a great deal in it more irritating than pleasant to the ears of Algernon Grey; but yet there was something in companionship, something in old associations and mutual habits of thought which he fancied would be a relief; and he felt disappointment as the moments flew, and he saw him not.
Perhaps there might be a desire to fly from other ideas--to rid his mind of reflection upon matters on which he did not wish it to rest; but as evening came on, and with it that change of light which, without diminishing the lustre of day, softens and saddens it, thought would have way; and Agnes Herbert was again the theme, resolution contending with affection, and an honourable spirit with a warm and ardent heart. He asked himself, "What am I feeling? What am I doing?" And to both--though seemingly very simple questions--he found it difficult to reply. The difficulty existed in the subtlety of man's heart; for skilful, indeed, must he be, and well experienced in the ways of that dark and intricate labyrinth, who can find the path to the arcanum at once. And yet he remembered his sensations towards Agnes when he had stood with her in the chamber adjoining that of the Electress; when her hand touched his; when, bending down his head to hear her whispered words, he felt her warm fragrant breath fan his cheek like that of the spring wind. Could he not have thrown his arms around her, and clasped her to his beating breast, and pressed warm kisses on those sweet lips, and asked her to be his--his for ever? Could he not at that moment have poured forth, as from a gushing fountain, the full tide of first and passionate love, bearing all before it on its fierce and eager course? He felt that he could; he felt that he had escaped a great peril; and he asked himself: "Should he risk the same again? Should he madly run into the same strong and terrible temptation? If he did, was it not improbable that any circumstances would arise anew to strengthen and support him; that any means of escape, that any happy accident would present itself to enable or lead him to fly from the immediate danger?"
"It is madness to put it to the hazard," he thought. "No, I will not go!--I will frame some excuse, not to pain her kind and gentle heart; and, even if I do show her want of courtesy, it is better than to show a want of honour."
He paused and pondered long. He thought of what he should do, and what he should say; he considered how he might best act, so as to avoid the perilous society, without wounding one whose sole wish was to give him pleasure. Vain thought! Idle considerations! as they always are with man. We raise an imaginary scaffold, and then build upon it. Comes firm reality and knocks it down beneath our feet; the whole structure falls; and happy is it if our best hopes and brightest happiness are not crushed in the ruins. The last two hours--they were hours of meditation--had passed rapidly--far more so than he had imagined. He had not heard the sound of the clock; he had not marked the rapid decline of the sun and the steady advance of night. He saw, indeed, or rather he felt, that darkness spread through the chamber in which he sat; but he had rung for no lights, and he changed not his position. He remained fixed with his eyes bent upon the ground, his arm resting on the back of the chair, and the left hand playing with his empty sword-belt, not raising a look even towards the window, where the glowing heaven shone in, radiant with the last smile of day.
In about a quarter of an hour after the key was turned in the lock, and some one knocked lightly at the door. He knew that it was Agnes's hand: he felt sure of it before he saw her; and, advancing quickly, he gave her admission, saying in a mingled tone of joy and sadness: "Welcome, welcome, dear lady, you are punctual to your hour."
"Not quite," answered Agnes; "but I was detained a little. Your time of freedom shall not be abridged, however; for we can stay out the longer--Now, will you come?"