my nightly dreams. But, altogether, the Lady Alice of the night, and the
Lady Alice of the day, were two distinct persons. I believed that the
former was the real one.

What nights I had now, watching and striving lest unawares I should fall
into the exercise of my new power! I allowed myself to think of her as
much as I pleased in the daytime, or at least as much as I dared; for
when occupied with my pupils, I dreaded lest any abstraction should even
hint that I had a thought to conceal. I knew that I could not hurt her
then; for that only in the night did she enter that state of existence
in which my will could exercise authority over her. But at night--at
night--when I knew she lay there, and might be lying here; when but a
thought would bring her, and that thought was fluttering its wings,
ready to spring awake out of the dreams of my heart--then the struggle
was fearful. And what added force to the temptation was, that to call
her to me in the night, seemed like calling the real immortal Alice
forth from the tomb in which she wandered about all day. It was as
painful to me to see her such in the day, as it was entracing to
remember her such as I had seen her in the night. What matter if her
true self came forth in anger against me? What was I? It was enough for
my life, I said, to look on her, such as she really was. "Bring her yet
once, and tell her all--tell her how madly, hopelessly you love her. She
will forgive you at least," said a voice within me. But I heard it as
the voice of the tempter, and kept down the thought which might have
grown to the will.




CHAPTER XI