"YOU WILL NEVER KNOW--NEVER!"
Dick returned about eleven, and shortly afterwards Boyd swallowed
another whisky-and-soda and left.
I thought my friend started slightly at finding the detective with me,
but he betrayed not the slightest annoyance. Indeed, he himself started
the discussion regarding the mystery, appearing in no way loth to
discuss it in all its phases.
The detective's suspicion was certainly a startling one, and of course
accounted for his anxiety that Dick should in future remain in utter
ignorance of our actions. When Boyd had gone he at once commenced to
question me upon what theories he had expressed, and in what direction
he was prosecuting inquiries. Although I would not allow myself to
suspect my best friend, I nevertheless preserved the silence which Boyd
had imposed upon me, evading giving him direct answers, preserving the
secret of the identity of the man seen in St. James's Park, and managing
to put aside his questions by a declaration that personally I was sick
of the whole matter, for I felt that it would now ever remain a mystery.
That night, however, I remained awake many hours thinking fondly of Eva,
and calmly revolving in my mind all that had fallen from the lips of
Boyd. He, one of the most skilful officers in London, had formed no
theory. He only entertained certain suspicions, vague perhaps, yet by
no means groundless. I had not seen Eva since that day when the
strange, incomprehensible attempt had been made to take my life, and a
strong desire again possessed me to stroll at her side, to hear her
voice, to hold her hand. Was it, I wondered time after time, that hand,
so soft, slim and delicate, that had actually attempted to secretly take
my life?
The detective had calmly reviewed all the facts I had explained, and, as
a professional investigator of crime, had openly expressed a suspicion
in the affirmative.
Often had I wondered what kind of woman was Eva's mother, whom I had
never met. That she was somewhat eccentric was evident from her
daughter's words on the last occasion I had visited Riverdene. I lay
there thinking of Eva, scouting every suspicion which the detective's
words had aroused within me, until with the first streak of dawn I fell
asleep and dreamed of her.
Next afternoon, without mentioning anything to Dick save the sending of
a telegram to say I should not dine at home, I left my office half an
hour earlier, and full of conflicting thoughts travelled down to
Riverdene.
Having been informed by the servant that Mrs. Blain and Miss Mary were
absent in London shopping, but that Miss Glaslyn was at home, I was
shown into the long, pleasant drawing-room which opened upon the wide
lawn sloping to the river's brink. The great bowls of cut flowers
diffused a pleasant odour, and the books and papers lying in the
cosy-corner, with its soft cushions of pale-blue silk, betrayed signs of
recent occupation.
It was a low-ceilinged, comfortable apartment, cool and restful after
the dust and glare of the white road outside.
In a few moments the door opened and Eva entered, fresh and charming in
a cool dress of cream flannel, her sweet face illumined by a smile of
glad welcome.
"This is quite an unexpected pleasure, Mr. Urwin!" she exclaimed,
rushing towards me gladly with outstretched hand. "I had no idea that
you'd come down to-day. The Blains are up in town, you know. I should
have gone, only I had a rather bad headache. We went up to Windsor
yesterday with the Thurleys on their launch, and I suppose the sun upset
me. It was unbearably hot."
"Why do you persist in calling me Mr. Urwin?" I asked in a rather
reproachful tone, still retaining possession of her hand. "Cannot you
call me Frank?"
She blushed slightly, and drew her hand forcibly away. Then motioning
me to a seat she cast herself into a low armchair near me, stretching
forth her tiny foot, neat in its silk stocking and patent leather shoe.
She made no response to my suggestion, so I repeated it.
"Why should I call you by your Christian name?" she asked.
"Because I call you by yours, Eva," I answered earnestly. "I really
can't bear this persistent formality."
She smiled, a rather curious smile it was, I thought.
"So you're staying as guest here?" I went on, after a moment's pause.
"Yes," she explained. "My Uncle Henry, in Inverness, is very ill and
not expected to live; therefore they summoned mother by telegraph, with
other members of the family. As the servants have had no holiday this
year, she sent them away for a fortnight and closed the house, Mrs.
Blain having invited me here."
"Have you heard from your mother?"
"Yes, I had a wire yesterday to say that she had arrived, safely," she
answered, not, however, without a second's hesitation, as though she
were debating whether or no to tell me the truth.
"And Mr. Blain has not returned from Paris yet?" I asked.
"No," she responded. "The Blains are talking of joining him next week,
or perhaps the week after, and have invited me to accompany them. I
should be delighted, for I love Paris."
"You find the shops interesting?" I laughed.
"Yes," she answered. "All women do, I suppose. At least I've met very
few who, having been in Paris, haven't hunted for bargains at the
Louvre, the Printemps, or the Bon Marche. Paris is worth visiting if
only for one's hats, for you can often buy a hat for twenty francs
exactly the same style and of better material than that for which you
pay three or four guineas in Regent Street."
"I'm not much of an expert in such things," I laughed, nevertheless
recollecting how curious it was that Blain remained still in London.
Might not his wife and daughter have gone up that day to visit him in
his hiding-place?
"But you've been awfully queer, I hear," she said concernedly. "You
really don't look quite yourself even now. What has been the matter?
We were all so concerned when we heard about it."
Our eyes met. In hers there was a deep, earnest look as though she were
really solicitous of my welfare, yet I fancied somehow that those clear
blue eyes wavered beneath my steady, searching glance. She watched me,
reading me as easily as she would have read black letters on a white
page.
"I was taken suddenly ill--the heat perhaps," I answered with affected
carelessness. "I had run down, the doctor said. It was nothing very
serious." She gave vent to a perceptible sigh of relief, then smiling
sweetly as she ever did, said: "Well, it is indeed a pleasure to welcome
you here again to-day." She still wore that brooch, the quaint little
playing-card which had betrayed her visit to Morris Lowry. Its sight
sent a strange thrill through me, for I remembered the object of her
visit to that dark, dirty, obscure herbalist's.
"The pleasure is mutual, believe me, Eva," I answered, putting away from
me instantly the gruesome thought oppressing me. "Through this whole
month I have thought only of you."
She sighed, in an instant serious. Then glancing back to assure herself
that there were no eavesdroppers, she said, "It would be far better, Mr.
Urwin--Frank--if you could leave me and forget."
"But I can't," I said, rising quickly and again taking her soft white
hand. "You know, Eva, how deeply, how sincerely, how devotedly I love
you; how I am entirely yours for ever."
I spoke simply and directly what I felt; I was calmer than I had been
when I rowed her beneath the willows' shade.
"Ah, no!" she cried in a pained voice, rising to her feet with sudden
resolution. "You really must not say this. I will not let you
sacrifice yourself. I will not allow you to thus--"
"It is no sacrifice," I protested, quickly interrupting. "I love you,
Eva, with all my soul. One woman alone in all the world holds me
beneath the spell of her grace, her charm and her sweetness. It is
yourself. Every hour I think only of you; ever before me your face
rises in my day-dreams, and in those moments when I see your sweet
smiles I tell myself that no other woman can ever have a place in my
heart. Ah! you cannot know how fondly I love you," I said, raising the
hand tenderly to my lips and imprinting a kiss upon it. "If you could
only know you would never treat me with this cold, calm indifference."
Her bosom rose and fell slowly, and she was silent. I fancied that she
shuddered slightly.
At that moment my position struck me as an extremely strange one,
declaring love to one whom an expert detective suspected of having made
a cowardly attempt upon my life. Was it just? I asked myself. Yes, in
this I was justified, for I loved her, even though I had more than once
been inclined to agree with Boyd in his misgivings.
"I was not aware of any indifference," she faltered at last, raising her
great eyes, so clear and earnest, for an instant to mine. "I had merely
urged you to reflect."
"Reflection is unnecessary," I answered quickly. "I know that I love
you truly. That surely is sufficient."
"It might be if I were free," she responded in a low, hoarse voice.
"But I tell you to-day, Frank, as I told you before, this love dream of
ours is impossible of realisation."
"Then you do reciprocate my love?" I cried, in joyous eagerness.
"Come, tell me. Do not keep me longer in suspense."
"I have already told you," she answered in a low, intense voice. "Of
what use is it to continue this painful discussion?"
"Of every use," I cried in desperation. "Give me one word of hope, Eva.
Tell me that some day you will try and love me better than you do now;
that some day in the future you will become my wife. Tell me--"
"No! no!" she cried, snatching her hand away and receding from me. "No,
Frank, I cannot--I will not lie to you."
"Then can you never love me--never?" I cried despairingly.
"Never," she answered hoarsely, and her answer struck deep into my
heart. "I have sinned--sinned before God and before man--and love no
longer knows a place in my heart," and her fine head was bowed before
me.
"Sinned!" I gasped. "What do you mean?"
"I am as a social leper," she panted, raising her head and looking at me
with wild, unnatural gaze. "If you knew the dark and awful truth you
would shun me rather than kiss my hand. Yet you say you love me--you!
who would have so great a cause to hate me if you knew the ghastly
truth!"
"But," I cried, wondering at these strange words, and with my suspicions
again aroused, "I do love you, nevertheless, Eva. I shall always love
you, I swear it, for my very life is yours."
"Your life!" she echoed in a weird, harsh voice, as she stood,
pale-faced, swaying before me, her hands clasped to her breast, her lips
cold and white. "Yes," she said, in a strange, half-hysterical tone.
"Yes, it is true, too true, alas! that your future is in my hands. Only
by a miracle have you come back to life, a grim shadow of a crime to
taunt, to defy, to denounce. Ah! Frank, you do not know the terrible
truth; you will never know--never!"
I was bewildered. Horror possessed me. The darkness of an irreversible
fact spread over her and made her terrible to me. All must be given up.
Conscience pronounced this dread decree and multiplied the pain a
thousand times.
Destiny had once more taken me by the elbow.