"I have resolved. Nothing will cause me to reconsider my decision. We
must part."
"It is not like you, Geoffrey, to be cruel to a woman," she said
reproachfully, standing before me. "I admit I have acted foolishly, but
that man you saw was not my lover. I care for no one except your own
dear self."
"Terms of endearment are unnecessary," I answered impatiently, turning
from her. "Such expressions from one who has so grossly deceived me are
absolutely nauseating. I have striven for your social advancement and
have loved you dearly, but from this moment you are my wife only in
name."
She buried her face in her hands and was seized by a fit of hysterical
sobbing. All her self-control had vanished at the instant she realised
that I know the truth, and she now stood before me bent and penitent.
"Forgive me," she whispered earnestly. "Forgive me, Geoffrey."
"No," I answered, with firmness. "I cannot trust you."
"Overlook this incident, and I will never again give you cause for
jealousy," she exclaimed. "I will do anything you ask, only have
patience with me."
"I have already had patience," I answered. "Yet, deceived as I am
daily, we can live together no longer."
"But I love you," she declared, with fierce earnestness, fixing her
fathomless eyes upon me. "If I lose you I shall kill myself."
"It is your own fault entirely," I said. "You have chosen to act in
this manner, and whatever are the consequences they are of your own
seeking. I suppose you will tell me next that this man who was with you
compelled you to meet him."
"That is the absolute truth," she faltered.
"Ah, always the same lame tale," I observed in disgust. "I have not
forgotten that night at `The Nook' when I watched you walking with Beck.
No, Ella. There is some strange mystery about it all that I don't
like. You pretend to love me; but you have some ulterior motive."
"There is a mystery, it is true," she admitted, her eyes dimmed with
tears. "A mystery so strange and startling that when you know the truth
you will stand aghast and dumbfounded. But with its elucidation you
will have knowledge of how I have suffered and striven for your sake;
therefore I can only pray that the revelations that must accrue may be
hastened, for, although to-day you regard me as base and deceitful, you
will then learn how much one woman has endured and sacrificed because
she loved you."
"Then we must part until this mystery is cleared up," I said calmly, my
heart full of grief. "You refuse to take me, your husband, into your
confidence, therefore I can place no further reliance in your word."
"Think," she cried, clutching my arms convulsively. "Why should the
happiness of both of us be wrecked by a mere misunderstanding?"
"A misunderstanding!" I echoed. "It is assuredly more than that."
"No," she answered, endeavouring to stifle her sobs. "You misunderstand
me, believing me false to you, whereas I am acting solely in our mutual
interests."
"To walk alone with a stranger is surely not acting in your husband's
interests," I observed bitterly.
"Ah, you are mistaken," she said quickly. "When all is explained you
will regret the cruel words you have uttered this evening."
"Have I, then, no cause to object to your acquaintance with this man?"
I inquired, looking sharply at her.
"None whatever. He is neither my lover nor my friend."
"What is his name?"
"I do not know. He did not tell me," she replied.
"Was this the only occasion you had met?"
"It was."
"He spoke to you casually in the street, I suppose?"
"No, we met by appointment at Victoria Station," she answered quite
frankly.
"By appointment! Then you knew him!"
"No, our meeting was arranged by a third person. It was by no means of
an amatory character, I assure you."
"What was its object?" I asked.
Slowly she shook her head. "I cannot tell you without relating to you
facts which I dare not yet divulge."
"Ah! as I thought," I cried in anger. "You refuse always to explain.
As each week passes the mystery surrounding you increases."
"Unfortunately I cannot prevent it," she answered in a low, earnest
tone. "Before we married I told you plainly that I intended to seek the
truth of the conspiracy against Dudley's life, and you did not object."
"Why not leave that wretched affair to the police and secure our own
happiness?" I urged.
"Because the police are powerless. They can have no clue."
"Is it then absolutely necessary that you should attain this end?" I
inquired dubiously. "Are you ready to sacrifice your own home and
husband in order to ascertain the truth regarding a crime?"
"Yes, it is absolutely imperative," she replied emphatically. "Before
perfect happiness can be ours we must both be aware of the causes which
led to Dudley's sudden death. Towards that end I am striving, and
knowing what I do, I am regardless of your suspicions and your cruel
words. If we part--well, it will be you who one day will be filled with
bitter regret; and as for me, I shall not pause in my merciless quest."
Often she had told me that to ascertain the true cause of Dudley's death
was, next to her duty as my wife, her main object in life, and these
words, uttered with an earnestness that was genuine, bore out her most
frequent declarations. Glancing at the facts as a whole, it was not
surprising that I should have suspected Dudley of having been her lover,
whose death she intended to avenge.
In silence and hesitation I paced the room that she had furnished with
such exquisite taste. A dozen times she asked forgiveness, but no word
passed my lips. She stood motionless, her head bent in submission, her
hands clasped before her, awaiting my decision.
Her pale, tear-stained face betrayed signs of a terrible, breathless
suspense, she fearing that I intended to cast her off, while I could not
bring myself to any firm belief that her declarations of affection were
genuine. Between us there yawned a gulf of darkness and mystery which
hourly grew wider and more impassable.
"Tell me that you'll still be patient and wait," she implored at last.
"Surely you can see how intensely I love you and how utterly aimless
will be my life if we part."
"This mystery is, I confess, Ella, driving me to distraction," I said,
halting at last before her. "Cannot you confide in me? I will preserve
silence, I promise."
"No, no," she gasped in fear. "I dare not."
Her attitude was one of deep dejection, yet I could not fail to notice,
even at this moment of her abject despair, how beautiful she was. But a
look of unutterable terror was in her deep blue eyes, and upon her
handsome features was an expression as though, dreading exposure, she
were haunted by some terrible ghost of the past.
"You told me this once before," I said gravely, "and I trusted you.
To-day I have discovered my confidence ill-placed."
"Trust me once again," she cried hoarsely. "Only once, and I will show
you ere long that your suspicions are utterly without foundation."
I took another turn up and down the drawing-room, my hands clasped
behind my back, my gaze fixed upon the carpet. I was still undecided.
With a sudden impulse she rushed forward, and flinging her warm arms
about my neck, kissed me, next second bursting into tears and burying
her face upon my shoulder. My hand unconsciously stroked her hair, and,
bending, I pressed my lips upon her soft cheek.
Then she knew that I had forgiven, and holding back her sobs with
difficulty, raised her face, and kissing me passionately, thanked me in
a low, broken voice, assuring me that I should never regret the step I
had taken.
During half-an-hour we remained together, she full of love and
confidence, I admiring and hopeful. I was glad I had not acted rashly,
nor left her as I had intended, and as we went in to dinner arm in arm,
we laughed together, joyous in each other's love.
After we had eaten, I smoked a cigarette and lingered as long as
possible, happy with my well-beloved; then kissing her fondly, I was
compelled to take a hansom to Berkeley Square, promising her to return
at the earliest possible moment, and expressing confidence that our love
would last always.
The Earl, grumbling at my tardy arrival, was busy in his library with a
number of important dispatches relating to our affairs in the East.
When he had expressed displeasure that I had not been waiting to receive
him, he added,--
"But there, I suppose now you are married, Deedes, your wife is
exacting; they always are. She likes you to dine with her, eh?"
"Yes," I admitted, smiling. "I did dine at home."
"Ah, I thought so," snapped the shrewd old Minister. "A good dinner and
your wife's smiles were of more consequence to you than England's
prestige with the Sultan,--oh?"
I made no answer to this sarcasm, but began busying myself with the
correspondence, packing it away in the dispatch-bag and sealing it for
delivery to Hammerton, the messenger, who was waiting in an adjoining
room ready to take it to Constantinople.
Not until eleven o'clock was I able to get away from Berkeley Square,
and leaving the aged statesman alone, deeply immersed in the puzzling
applications for advice of all sorts from Her Majesty's representatives
at the various Courts of Europe, I drove back to Phillimore Gardens.
On arrival home my first question of Juckes was whether Ella was in the
drawing-room.
"No, sir. Madame is out, sir."
"Out! When did she go out?"
"About an hour after you had left, sir," replied the man. "She has gone
into the country, I believe."
"Into the country? What makes you think so?"
"Because she put on her travelling dress, and took two trunks with her,"
he answered. "Roberts, her maid, says she packed the boxes herself
three days ago."
"Did she say where she was going?" I inquired breathlessly.
"No, sir. She left no message with anyone."
Entering the drawing-room with my overcoat still on, I noticed, lying
upon her little rosewood escritoire, a note addressed to me.
Eagerly I took it up, tore it open, and read its contents. There were
only a few hurriedly-scrawled words--a brief and formal farewell.
"You cannot trust me," she wrote, "therefore we are best apart. Do not
attempt to follow me, for you cannot find me. Do not think ill of me,
for even if I have wronged and deceived you, I have, nevertheless, been
your friend." It commenced formally, without any endearing term, and
concluded abruptly with the two words, "Your Wife."
For a few moments I stood with it in my hand, staring at it in blank
amazement. Then it occurred to me that in that very escritoire she kept
all her correspondence, and it was more than probable that I might learn
the truth from some of the letters therein contained.
I endeavoured to open it, but it was, as usual, locked. She had taken
the key. In my sudden excitement I called to Juckes to bring a hammer,
and with a few sharp blows broke open the sloping, leather-covered top,
finding a number of letters addressed in unfamiliar handwriting.
One, larger than the rest, crumpled, dirty and worn, as if it had
reposed in someone's pocket for a long period, I took out, and eagerly
opened beneath the soft-shaded lamp.
"My God!" I cried aloud, scarcely able to believe my own eyes, when
next instant I realised the terrible truth. "My God! I had never
suspected this!"