Here Louis made himself comfortable in his chair and smoking-cap, enjoying the fragrance of a cigar for something like half-an-hour. His position commanded a view of the two windows of Lady Constantine's room, and from these a dim light shone continuously. Having the window partly open at his back, and the door of his room also scarcely closed, his ear retained a fair command of any noises that might be made.
In due time faint movements became audible; whereupon, returning to his room, he re-entered the corridor and listened intently. All was silent again, and darkness reigned from end to end. Glanville, however, groped his way along the passage till he again reached Swithin's door, where he examined, by the light of a wax-match he had brought, the condition of the spider's thread. It was gone; somebody had carried it off bodily, as Samson carried off the pin and the web. In other words, a person had passed through the door.
Still holding the faint wax-light in his hand Louis turned to the door of Lady Constantine's chamber, where he observed first that, though it was pushed together so as to appear fastened to cursory view, the door was not really closed by about a quarter of an inch. He dropped his light and extinguished it with his foot. Listening, he heard a voice within,--Viviette's voice, in a subdued murmur, though speaking earnestly.
Without any hesitation Louis then returned to Swithin's door, opened it, and walked in. The starlight from without was sufficient, now that his eyes had become accustomed to the darkness, to reveal that the room was unoccupied, and that nothing therein had been disturbed.
With a heavy tread Louis came forth, walked loudly across the corridor, knocked at Lady Constantine's door, and called 'Viviette!'
She heard him instantly, replying 'Yes' in startled tones. Immediately afterwards she opened her door, and confronted him in her dressing-gown, with a light in her hand. 'What is the matter, Louis?' she said.
'I am greatly alarmed. Our visitor is missing.'
'Missing? What, Mr. St. Cleeve?'
'Yes. I was sitting up to finish a cigar, when I thought I heard a noise in this direction. On coming to his room I find he is not there.'
'Good Heaven! I wonder what has happened!' she exclaimed, in apparently intense alarm.
'I wonder,' said Glanville grimly.
'Suppose he is a somnambulist! If so, he may have gone out and broken his neck. I have never heard that he is one, but they say that sleeping in strange places disturbs the minds of people who are given to that sort of thing, and provokes them to it.'
'Unfortunately for your theory his bed has not been touched.'
'Oh, what then can it be?'
Her brother looked her full in the face. 'Viviette!' he said sternly.
She seemed puzzled. 'Well?' she replied, in simple tones.
'I heard voices in your room,' he continued.
'Voices?'
'A voice,--yours.'
'Yes, you may have done so. It was mine.'
'A listener is required for a speaker.'
'True, Louis.'
'Well, to whom were you speaking?'
'God.'
'Viviette! I am ashamed of you.'
'I was saying my prayers.'
'Prayers--to God! To St. Swithin, rather!'
'What do you mean, Louis?' she asked, flushing up warm, and drawing back from him. 'It was a form of prayer I use, particularly when I am in trouble. It was recommended to me by the Bishop, and Mr. Torkingham commends it very highly.'
'On your honour, if you have any,' he said bitterly, 'whom have you there in your room?'
'No human being.'
'Flatly, I don't believe you.'
She gave a dignified little bow, and, waving her hand into the apartment, said, 'Very well; then search and see.'
Louis entered, and glanced round the room, behind the curtains, under the bed, out of the window--a view from which showed that escape thence would have been impossible,--everywhere, in short, capable or incapable of affording a retreat to humanity; but discovered nobody. All he observed was that a light stood on the low table by her bedside; that on the bed lay an open Prayer-Book, the counterpane being unpressed, except into a little pit beside the Prayer Book, apparently where her head had rested in kneeling.
'But where is St. Cleeve?' he said, turning in bewilderment from these evidences of innocent devotion.
'Where can he be?' she chimed in, with real distress. 'I should so much like to know. Look about for him. I am quite uneasy!'
'I will, on one condition: that you own that you love him.'
'Why should you force me to that?' she murmured. 'It would be no such wonder if I did.'
'Come, you do.'
'Well, I do.'
'Now I'll look for him.'
Louis took a light, and turned away, astonished that she had not indignantly resented his intrusion and the nature of his questioning.
At this moment a slight noise was heard on the staircase, and they could see a figure rising step by step, and coming forward against the long lights of the staircase window. It was Swithin, in his ordinary dress, and carrying his boots in his hand. When he beheld them standing there so motionless, he looked rather disconcerted, but came on towards his room.
Lady Constantine was too agitated to speak, but Louis said, 'I am glad to see you again. Hearing a noise, a few minutes ago, I came out to learn what it could be. I found you absent, and we have been very much alarmed.'
'I am very sorry,' said Swithin, with contrition. 'I owe you a hundred apologies: but the truth is that on entering my bedroom I found the sky remarkably clear, and though I told you that the observation I was to make was of no great consequence, on thinking it over alone I felt it ought not to be allowed to pass; so I was tempted to run across to the observatory, and make it, as I had hoped, without disturbing anybody. If I had known that I should alarm you I would not have done it for the world.'
Swithin spoke very earnestly to Louis, and did not observe the tender reproach in Viviette's eyes when he showed by his tale his decided notion that the prime use of dark nights lay in their furtherance of practical astronomy.
Everything being now satisfactorily explained the three retired to their several chambers, and Louis heard no more noises that night, or rather morning; his attempts to solve the mystery of Viviette's life here and her relations with St. Cleeve having thus far resulted chiefly in perplexity. True, an admission had been wrung from her; and even without such an admission it was clear that she had a tender feeling for Swithin. How to extinguish that romantic folly it now became his object to consider.
XXXI
Swithin's midnight excursion to the tower in the cause of science led him to oversleep himself, and when the brother and sister met at breakfast in the morning he did not appear.
'Don't disturb him,--don't disturb him,' said Louis laconically. 'Hullo, Viviette, what are you reading there that makes you flame up so?'
She was glancing over a letter that she had just opened, and at his words looked up with misgiving.
The incident of the previous night left her in great doubt as to what her bearing towards him ought to be. She had made no show of resenting his conduct at the time, from a momentary supposition that he must know all her secret; and afterwards, finding that he did not know it, it seemed too late to affect indignation at his suspicions. So she preserved a quiet neutrality. Even had she resolved on an artificial part she might have forgotten to play it at this instant, the letter being of a kind to banish previous considerations.
'It is a letter from Bishop Helmsdale,' she faltered.
'Well done! I hope for your sake it is an offer.'
'That's just what it is.'
'No,--surely?' said Louis, beginning a laugh of surprise.
'Yes,' she returned indifferently. 'You can read it, if you like.'
'I don't wish to pry into a communication of that sort.'
'Oh, you may read it,' she said, tossing the letter across to him.
Louis thereupon read as under:--
'THE PALACE, MELCHESTER, _June_ 28, 18--.
'MY DEAR LADY CONSTANTINE,--During the two or three weeks that have elapsed since I experienced the great pleasure of renewing my acquaintance with you, the varied agitation of my feelings has clearly proved that my only course is to address you by letter, and at once. Whether the subject of my communication be acceptable to you or not, I can at least assure you that to suppress it would be far less natural, and upon the whole less advisable, than to speak out frankly, even if afterwards I hold my peace for ever.
'The great change in my experience during the past year or two--the change, that is, which has resulted from my advancement to a bishopric--has frequently suggested to me, of late, that a discontinuance in my domestic life of the solitude of past years was a question which ought to be seriously contemplated. But whether I should ever have contemplated it without the great good fortune of my meeting with you is doubtful. However, the thing has been considered at last, and without more ado I candidly ask if you would be willing to give up your life at Welland, and relieve my household loneliness here by becoming my wife.