Swithin could not sleep that night for thinking of his Viviette. Nothing told so significantly of the conduct of her first husband towards the poor lady as the abiding¹ dread² of him which was revealed in her by any sudden revival³ of his image or memory. But for that consideration her almost childlike terror at Swithin’s inadvertent disguise would have been ludicrous.

He waited anxiously through several following days for an opportunity of seeing her, but none was afforded. Her brother’s presence in the house sufficiently⁴ accounted for this. At length he ventured to write a note, requesting her to signal to him in a way she had done once or twice before — by pulling down a blind in a particular window of the house, one of the few visible from the top of the Rings-Hill column; this to be done on any evening when she could see him after dinner on the terrace.

When he had levelled the glass at that window for five successive nights he beheld⁶ the blind in the position suggested. Three hours later, quite in the dusk, he repaired to the place of appointment.

‘My brother is away this evening,’ she explained, ‘and that’s why I can come out. He is only gone for a few hours, nor is he likely to go for longer just yet. He keeps himself a good deal in my company, which has made it unsafe for me to venture near you.’

‘Has he any suspicion?’

‘None, apparently⁷. But he rather depresses me.’

‘How, Viviette?’ Swithin feared, from her manner, that this was something serious.

‘I would rather not tell.’

‘But — Well, never mind.’

‘Yes, Swithin, I will tell you. There should be no secrets between us. He urges upon me the necessity of marrying, day after day.’

‘For money and position, of course.’

‘Yes. But I take no notice. I let him go on.’

‘Really, this is sad!’ said the young man. ‘I must work harder than ever, or you will never be able to own me.’

分享到：