With a beating heart and a firm determination to be strong, I was
ushered on the following afternoon into the drawing-room of one of that
terrace of large houses that stand on the summit of Richmond Hill,
overlooking what was at that time the grounds of Buccleuch House, but
which have lately been thrown open as public gardens.
It was a pleasant room, the windows of which commanded a fine view of
the picturesque valley, where, deep down, the river, like a silvery
streak, winds in and out the mass of foliage. Undoubtedly it is the
prettiest scene within many miles of London, and that day Father Thames
was looking his best in the glories of a setting sun, whose rays now
gilded the sail of a tiny craft dropping down with the tide, and anon
lighted up some snorting tug or shrieking pleasure-launch.
Scarcely had I time to glance round when the door opened and Vera
entered.
She looked even more lovely than I had ever before seen her, dressed in
a tea-gown of cream lace over _vieux rose_ satin, with a loose front and
train, showing the pale rose satin lining, her waist being encircled by
a curious girdle. It suited her admirably, and as she walked across the
room with a smile of glad welcome upon her lips and her hand
outstretched, I confess my heart was softened towards her.
There was an indefinable air--it might be of anxiety about her, however,
as if she were afraid that what she had to say would not be convincing
to me; and it was plainly to be seen that she, too, had spent a night of
sleeplessness.
"Well, Frank, we have met again--you did not forget your promise," she
said, in those soft tones I loved to hear, speaking slowly, perhaps
timidly.
We seated ourselves in silence. I dared not yet trust myself to speak.
"Last night I said I would give you the reason of my apparent
_fourberie_."
She paused, and toyed with her rings. She was waiting for me to answer.
"Yes," I said; "I am listening."
She looked up hastily; my voice was not encouraging.
"It was imperative Frank, that you should be sent to Petersburg--and--it
was for your own sake--"
"For my sake!" I exclaimed.
"Yes, Frank," she replied; "and it was only for that and for your future
happiness and our--" she paused, while a vivid blush mantled her
handsome features.
"Our what?" I demanded, almost rudely.
"I must not say, dearest; but this you might know--that no harm was
intended for you in any proceeding in which I had a hand."
"That is no answer, Vera," I said, somewhat sternly. "You say this was
for `our' something, and for my future happiness! What does it all
mean, and why this mystery? I'm tired of it. If you cannot explain,
why ask me to call upon you?"
"Because, Frank--because I feel sure you would forgive me everything,
could you know all."
"Is there a reason, then, that you will make no explanation?"
"Yes, a most important one. If I could, I would tell you--but I
cannot," she said.
"Yet you were aware of my arrest, my imprisonment without trial, and
transportation?"
"True. I knew of your arrest an hour after it had taken place."
"And it was you who planned my escape?"
"It was. Had I not been successful, you would now be working in the
Kara silver mines, enduring that living death which is a worse
punishment than the gallows," she replied, shuddering.
"For your timely assistance in that matter I must thank you," I said.
"Yet it is only fair that I should know the nature of my unknown
offence, and the reason of my arrest I presume you are aware of it?"
"No, do not thank me, Frank. It was in my power to help you, and I did
so. It was but my duty."
"But why was I imprisoned?" I asked.
"That I cannot tell you."
"Surely I have a right to demand an explanation, and if you do not tell
me I shall place the matter before the English Consul, who will,
perhaps, be able to fathom it," I observed.
"No, no!" she replied, starting up. "No, Frank, don't do that, for my
sake. It would implicate me and I should be in deadly peril. Let the
subject rest, and request no further explanation, promise me that?" she
urged earnestly.
"I cannot. There is a mystery about the whole affair which I confess I
don't like. I came here to-day expecting to hear it explained, but I
find you indisposed to tell me anything," I replied angrily.
"Not indisposed, Frank--unable."
"Unable! Why, you admit you are fully cognisant of the facts!"
"I do, but unfortunately circumstances will not permit me to disclose
the secret."
"There _is_ a secret, then?" I ejaculated.
"Yes, one that must be kept at all hazards, alas! Therefore promise not
to cause inquiries to be made, or it will be myself who will be the
sufferer. Do promise me this?" she implored.
"If what you say is true," I replied, "you may rely upon my silence,
though I think, in the interests of our friendship, you should tell me
what you know."
"I wish I could. I know I am not _hors de blame_, for I deceived you
when I said I was under my uncle's thrall. It is true he holds power
over me, but not in the way I suggested."
"How, then?"
"Ah, it is part of the secret. Some day, perhaps, you may know--not
now. I had a set purpose in asking you to go to Russia to perform that
commission you so kindly undertook, yet it was in desperation that I
asked you--the man who was to have been my husband."
"And I shall bitterly remember the experience until my dying day," I
remarked.
"Yes! it is only natural that you should feel disgusted at what you
conceive is my treachery. It is but another result of the fatal step--I
mean of the cursed circumstances in which I am placed. I cannot hope
for your forgiveness, for I dare not explain. On every side," she
exclaimed disconsolately, with a vehement gesture of the hands, "I am
watched and surrounded, hemmed in with difficulties, absolutely
prevented from--"
"From telling me the object for which you sent me to Russia, when you
knew it was a dangerous errand, likely to cost me my life? How can you
expect that I should love you as I did with this terrible enigma
unsolved?"
She remained silent.
For a moment I thought she was on the point of telling me all, when,
with a look of piteous appeal, she threw herself at my knees and raised
my hands to her lips.
"Frank," she murmured, so low that it was only by bending forward that I
could catch the words, "why do you ask? Is it because you love me, or--
or--is it from mere curiosity you inquire?"
"Because I love you, Vera."
"Then," raising her beautiful face to my own, with a smile of hope,
"then--trust me, Frank, and, in the future, when things have altered,
you shall know _all_!"
"This is trifling," I said stiffly, raising her to her feet. "You ask
me to trust you because I love you; if you care for me, why not trust
me, and confide this trouble to one who would do so much for you?"
"Cannot you wait, Frank, for--for even a short time? Can you never
think that it was by pure force of circumstances that I was compelled to
practise deceit towards you? I have known of your return since the day
of the murder--that is--I mean since the first hour you set foot in
England, but I had not the courage to face you because I knew I deserved
forgiveness so little."
"If this is all you have to say," I responded, rising, and taking up my
stick and hat, as if going, "we may as well part. Force of
circumstances may be compelling you to deceive me now."
My heart told me that Vera was wronged. As the cynical words fell from
my lips she gave me a glance confirming that opinion. Standing erect,
her features aglow with indignation, her whole frame quivering with
excitement, she confronted me like a lioness.
"Go!" she exclaimed, with an energy which made me start violently. "Go,
for we have both been deceived. I have been deceived, but now my
awakening has come. Alas! this is my reward for the dangers braved, the
difficulties surmounted, and the crimes committed for your sake!"
"Stay, Vera, for Heaven's sake! What crimes?"
"Oh, forgive me! What have I said? I think I'm mad. Nay, question me
no further, but leave me. Could you but know my heart, Frank, you would
have pity--you would know that my love is too great, too all-absorbing,
to allow me for an instant to endanger your life unnecessarily. But it
is absolutely certain I cannot tell you now, and therefore--"
I was conquered. As she paused again, in the midst of her anguish, and
her eyes sought mine with an irresistible glance in which love and
tenderness, mingled with entreaty, struggled with hope, I knew that all
further resistance to the spell on my part was useless, for Vera spoke
the truth--and she was all the world to me.
So I took her in my arms, and forgave her.
"And you will always trust me now, Frank?" she asked presently with
happy and tender elation.
"Vera," I said, gravely, "I am showing my faith in you, am I not, by
asking you to be my wife? I can trust you?"
"Trust me!" she cried. "_Mon Dieu_! I have loved only one man; it is
you."
I bent down to kiss the pale upturned face and her lips met mine in a
hot passionate caress, enough to make any man's head reel.
"I will endeavour to blot out from my memory this strange deceit you
have practised upon me," I exclaimed in a low voice.
"I am thankful to you, for I'm so undeserving," she cried, kissing me
fondly again and again.
"But you must own your vindication has not been very satisfactory," I
said, smiling.
"Yes, I am aware of that," she replied, seriously.
"_Mais, restes tranquille_. I cannot tell you all--at least not yet."
"Then for the present I have heard enough to convince me once more of
your affection, Vera, and to each other we will be as before. You are
still, darling, my betrothed."
She did not reply, but flinging her slim white arms around my neck, shed
tears of joy. The terrible anxiety as to the result of her pleading,
upon which depended her happiness and peace of mind, had proved too
great for her, and her pent-up feelings found vent in hysterical
emotion.
She clung tightly to me as I tried to soothe her, and presently, when
she became more calm, she dashed away her tears.
Before I returned to town that night she had consented to become my wife
in a few months. Some might censure me as being rash and headstrong,
but the truth was I had become intoxicated with her marvellous beauty,
fascinated by her charming manner, just as I had been when we met by the
Mediterranean.
There was something undeniably strange and mysterious in her
religiously-guarded secret, but I felt assured hers was a strong,
passionate, unwavering affection, and consequently, when I bade her
good-night, I was in the best of spirits, and hopeful of the future.