My God, he called me by name! My blood became like ice. Shaking from head to foot I covered my eyes with my hands, and would have run in, but the whistling wind brought the cry again:
“Agnes! Let me speak with you.”
Quick as the words were uttered the dark figure mounted the stone steps, only the little iron railing of the balcony dividing us.
I knew then who it was.
“Will you open the door, or shall I?” said a voice which I remembered too well.
I saw no alternative, without disturbing the neighborhood and betraying myself; so, like a criminal, I stepped softly to the hall and unlocked the door. He came in with a light, free step, and seated himself upon a couch with the ease of an old friend and accomplished gentleman. It was Richard Bristed!
I will not detail what passed at this interview. But I fell again under his fascination; his magnetic presence lulled my faculties, and, alas, I must relate that this nocturnal intrusion was followed quickly by others!
He assumed his old ascendancy over me. The past became like an unpleasant dream in my mind, dimly remembered, but never distinctly recalled.
Occasionally, however, a sharp doubt obtruded itself, and roused me for an instant. One evening I ventured to ask:
“Richard, why are your visits so brief, and made only in the night?”