The scales fell from Swithin St. Cleeve’s eyes as he heard the words of his neighbours. How suddenly the truth dawned upon him; how it bewildered him, till he scarcely knew where he was; how he recalled the full force of what he had only half apprehended at earlier times, particularly of that sweet kiss she had impressed on his lips when she supposed him dying,—these vivid realizations are difficult to tell in slow verbiage. He could remain there no longer, and with an electrified heart he retreated up the spiral.
He found Lady Constantine half way to the top, standing by a loop-hole; and when she spoke he discovered that she was almost in tears. ‘Are they gone?’ she asked.
‘I fear they will not go yet,’ he replied, with a nervous fluctuation of manner that had never before appeared in his bearing towards her.
‘What shall I do?’ she asked. ‘I ought not to be here; nobody knows that I am out of the house. Oh, this is a mistake! I must go home somehow.’
‘Did you hear what they were saying?’
‘No,’ said she. ‘What is the matter? Surely you are disturbed? What did they say?’
‘It would be the exaggeration of frankness in me to tell you.’
‘Is it what a woman ought not to be made acquainted with?’
‘It is, in this case. It is so new and so indescribable an idea to me—that’—he leant against the concave wall, quite tremulous with strange incipient sentiments.
‘What sort of an idea?’ she asked gently.