She put up both her small white hands as though to stay the torrent of
passionate words which I poured forth; but I grasped her wrists and held
her to me until I had told her all the longings of my soul.
What she had said had caused me a stab of unutterable pain, for my
conscience was pricked by the knowledge that I had for a brief moment
forsaken her in favour of Yolande. But she could not know the real
truth. It was only by her woman's natural intuition that she held me in
suspicion, believing that by my neglect to write I had proved myself
attracted by some member of that crowd of feminine butterflies who flit
through the embassies, showing their bright colours and dazzling
effects.
At last she lifted her face, and in a low, faltering voice said:
"I do not wish that we should part, Gerald. I have no one but you."
"And God knows--God knows, darling, I have no one but you!" I cried
brokenly; and as I uttered these words she cast her arms about my neck,
clinging to me, sobbing, with her face lying close against my breast.
"My darling--my own darling!" was all I could murmur as I kissed away
the tears that rained down her checks. I could say nothing more
definite than that.
"You will not be false, will you?" she implored at last. "You will not
break your promise, will you?"
"I will never do that, dearest," I assured her. "I love you, upon my
word of honour as a man. I have loved you ever since that day when we
first met at the house-party up in Scotland--the night of my arrival
when you sat opposite me at dinner. Do you remember?"
"Yes," she answered, smiling, "I remember. My love for you, Gerald, has
never wavered for one single instant."
"Then why should you be unhappy?" I asked.
"I really cannot tell," she answered. She turned her face, and I saw
that there was a shadow across it, as though the sunshine of her life
had gone behind a bank of cloud. "All I can compare this strange
foreboding to is the shadow of an unknown danger which seems of late to
have arisen, and to stand in a wall of impenetrable blackness between
us."
"No, no!" I hastened to urge, "the sweet idyll of our blameless love
must be preserved. That fancy of yours is only a vague, unfounded one."
She shook her head dubiously.
"It is always with me. During my long, solitary wanderings here I think
of you, and then it arises to overshadow me and crush out all my
happiness," she said in a tone of sorrow.
"Your life is dismal and lonely here," I said. "You've become nervous
and melancholy. Why not have a change? Persuade your aunt to bring you
to Paris, or, if not, to some place near, where we may meet often."
"No," she replied in a harsh tone. "My presence in Paris is not wanted.
You are better without me. You must leave England again to-morrow--and
you must forget."
"Forget!" I gasped. "Why?"
"It is best to do so," she faltered with emotion. "I am unfitted to
become your wife."
"But you shall--you must!" I cried. "You have already given me your
promise. You will not desert me now!"
She made no response. I pressed her again for an answer, but she
maintained silence. Her attitude was one of firm resolve, and gave me
the distinct impression that she had gained some knowledge of the reason
of our brief estrangement.
"Tell me the reason of your sudden disbelief in my declarations," I
urged, looking earnestly into her eyes. "Surely I have given you no
cause to regard our love as a mere irresponsible flirtation?"
"I have no reason to disbelieve you, Gerald," she answered seriously;
"yet I recognise the impossibility of our marriage."
"Why is it impossible? We are both controllers of our own actions. You
will not remain here with your aunt all your days?"
"We may marry, but we should not be happy, I feel certain."
"Why?"
"Because if I were your wife I could not bear to think you were out each
night dancing attendance upon a crowd of foreign women at the various
functions which you are in duty bound to attend."
I smiled at her argument. Ignorant of the world and its ways, and
knowing nothing of Society beyond that gossiping little circle of
tea-drinkers and tennis-players which had its centre in the town of
Fakenham, and had as leader the portly wife of the estimable incumbent,
she saw herself neglected among the brilliant crowd in Paris as
described by the so-called "Society" papers.
I hastened to reassure her, and as we strolled on through the wood and,
following the meandering of the river, emerged upon the broad
grass-lands before Sennowe Hall, I used every argument of which I was
capable in order to dispel her absurd apprehensions. My protestations
of love I repeated a hundred times, striving to impress upon her that I
was actually in earnest; but she repelled me always, until of a sudden I
halted beneath the willows, and, placing my arm around her slim waist,
narrowly girdled by its crimson ribbon, I drew her again to me, saying:
"Tell me, Edith, plainly, whether or no you love me. These cold words
of yours have struck me to the heart, and I feel somehow that in my
absence you have found some other man who has your gratitude, your
respect, and your love."
She raised her hand, as though to stay the flow of my words.
"No, no!" I went on passionately. "You must hear me, for you seem to
be gradually slipping away from me. You must hear me! Cast away this
cold sweetness that is enough to madden any man. Give me a right to
your love; give me a right to it! You cannot be indifferent to such a
love as mine unless you love someone else."
"Stop!" she cried, moved by a sudden generous impulse. "I love no one
else but you."
"And you admit that you still love me? You will be the same to me as
before?" I cried eagerly.
"If you will swear that there is no thought of another woman in your
heart," she answered seriously.
A pang of conscience smote me; but inwardly I reassured myself that all
the fascination of Yolande had been dispelled and that my love was free.
"I swear," I said; then slowly I bent until our lips touched.
Hers met mine in a fierce, passionate caress, and by that I knew our
compact was sealed.
"I admit," she said, "that my instinct, if it were instinct, was wrong.
You have, after all, proved yourself loyal to me."
"And I shall remain so, darling," I assured her, kissing her again upon
the brow. "For the present you must be content to remain with your
aunt; but nevertheless, try to persuade her to come to Paris. Then we
can spend many happy days together."
"She hates the Continent and foreigners," answered my love with a
brightening smile. "I fear I can never persuade her to move from here.
She went to Switzerland twenty years ago, and has never ceased
condemning foreign travel."
"If she will not come, then why not engage a chaperon? You surely know
some pleasant woman who would be pleased to have a holiday jaunt."
"Well," she answered dubiously, "I'll try, but I fear Aunt Hetty will
never hear of it."
"The life in the profound stillness of that house and the rigid
seclusion from all worldly enjoyment are producing an ill effect upon
your health, darling," I said presently. "You must have a change. It
is imperative."
But she only sighed, smiled rather sadly, and answered in a low voice:
"The quietness of life here is nothing to me, as long as I am confident
that your love for me is just the same as it was when you first told me
the secret of your heart."
"It is," I assured her--"it is, darling. I love you--and you alone."
There was an instant's hesitation, and then her arms stole gently to my
neck, and her lips were pressed to the cheek I bent to them, but only
for a second; then my lips were upon hers, clinging to them softly,
passionately; and in those moments of ecstasy I drew my soul's life from
that sweet mouth.
Heedless of time, we stood there in each other's embrace, repeating our
vows of love and devotion, until the sun went down behind the low hills
beyond Raynham, and the broad pastures were flooded by the purple glow
of the dying day. Happy and content in each other's affection, we were
careless of the past, and recked not of the future. Edith loved me, and
I wished for naught else in all the world.
Now as I sit committing this strange story of my life--this confidential
chapter in the modern history of Europe--to paper, I recall every detail
of those hours we spent down by the riverside, and contrast it with the
curious events which followed--events which were so strange as to be
inexplicable until the ghastly truth became revealed. But I loved, and
my affection was reciprocated. That surely was sufficient, for I knew
that I had gained the purest, most beautiful, and sweetest woman I had
ever met.
At last the fading sunlight impressed upon us the fact that the
dinner-hour was approaching; and, knowing Miss Foskett's punctuality at
meals, we were compelled to strike along the footpath over Dunham Hill,
and take the shortest cut across the fields through the little hamlet of
Gateley, and thence by a grass-grown by-road back to Great Ryburgh,
where we arrived just as the gong sounded.
When we re-entered the dining-room, Aunt Hetty glanced at us keenly, as
though she wished to make some sarcastic comment upon our long absence;
but our pleasant demeanour apparently silenced her, and she contented
herself by taking her seat at table and inquiring of me if I had had a
pleasant walk, and whether I found the country agreeable after the dusty
boulevards of Paris.
"Of course," I answered, "I always find England charming, and I'm very
frequently homesick, living as I do among foreigners always. But why
don't you come abroad for a month or so, and bring Edith?"
"Abroad!" screamed the old lady, holding up her hands. "Never! I went
to Lucerne once, and found it horrible."
"But that was some years ago, was it not? If you went now, you would
find that travelling has greatly improved, with a through sleeping-car
from Calais to Basle; hotels excellent, and food quite as good as you
can obtain in England. During the past few years hotel-keepers on the
Continent have awakened to the fact that if they wish to be prosperous
they must cater for English visitors."
"Oh, do let us go abroad, aunt!" urged Edith. "I should so much enjoy
it!"
"Paris in summer is worse than London, I've heard, my dear," answered
Miss Foskett, in her high-pitched tone.
"But there are many pretty places within easy reach of the capital," I
remarked. "Edith speaks French; therefore you need have no hesitation
on that score."
"No," said the old lady decisively, "we shall not move from Ryburgh this
summer, but perhaps next winter--"
"Ah!" cried Edith joyously. "Yes, capital! Let us go abroad next
winter, to the Riviera, or somewhere where it's warm. It would be
delightful to escape all the rain and cold, and eat one's Christmas
dinner in the sunshine. You know the South, Gerald? What place do you
recommend?"
"Well," I said, "any place along the Riviera except, perhaps, Monte
Carlo."
"Monte Carlo!" echoed Aunt Hetty. "That wicked place! I hope I shall
never see it. Mr. Harbur told us in his sermon the other Sunday about
the frightful gambling there, and how people hanged themselves on the
trees in the garden. Please don't talk of such places, Edith."
"But, aunt, there are many beautiful resorts in the neighbourhood," her
niece protested. "All along the coast there are towns where the English
go to avoid the winter, such as Cannes, Nice, Mentone, and San Remo."
"Well," responded Miss Foskett with some asperity, "we need not discuss
in August what we shall do in December. Ryburgh is quite pleasant
enough for me. When I was your age I employed my time with embroidery
and wool-work, and never troubled my head about foreign travel. But
nowadays," she added with a sigh, "I really don't know what young people
are coming to."
"We've advanced with the times, and they've emancipated women in
England," responded Edith mischievously, glancing merrily across at me.
Miss Foskett drew herself up primly, and declared that she hoped her
niece would never become one of "those dreadful creatures who ape the
manners of men;" to which my love replied that liberty of action was the
source of all happiness.
Fearing that this beginning might end in a heated argument, I managed to
turn the conversation into a different channel.
"If all we read in the newspapers is true, it would seem," observed Aunt
Hetty presently, "that you diplomatists have a most difficult task in
Paris."
"All is not true," I laughed. "Much of what you read exists only in the
minds of those imaginative gentlemen called Paris correspondents."
"I suppose," remarked Edith, smiling, "that it is impossible for either
a diplomatist or a journalist to tell the truth always."
"Truth, no doubt, is all very well in its place, and now and then in
diplomacy, but only a sparing use should be made of it as a rule," I
answered. "But there should be no waste. Only those should be allowed
to handle it who can use it with discretion, and who will ladle it out
with caution."
"Mr. Ingram, I am surprised!" interrupted Miss Foskett, scandalised.
"It is our creed," I went on, "that truth should be always spoken in a
dead or foreign language, no home-truths being for a moment tolerated.
Now think what a happy land this England of ours would be if only we
were not so wedded to the bare, cold truth! Suppose for its own good
purposes our Government has thought right to make a hasty dash for the
back seats in the international scrimmage, and to adhere to them with
all the tenacity of a limpet, why, for all that, should the Opposition
journals blurt out the fact for our humiliation, when by a few deft
scratches of the pen the leader-writer might easily make us believe that
no back seat had ever in any circumstances been occupied by Britain, and
that the nose of the lion had never been pulled out of any hole into
which it had once been inserted? The itch for truth is, judged from a
diplomatists point of view, responsible for the ruin of our policy
towards our enemies."
"Shocking, Mr. Ingram! I'm surprised to find that you hold such views,"
said Miss Foskett in a soured tone; while Edith laughed merrily,
declaring that she fully agreed with my argument, much to her aunt's
discomfiture.
The old lady loved the harsh truth as propounded by the precisionist.
And so the dinner proceeded, each of us vying with the other to dispel
Aunt Hetty's deep-seated prejudices and narrow-minded views of the world
and its ways.
Coffee was served in the drawing-room, where Edith went to the piano and
sang in her sweet contralto several of my favourite songs, after which,
at an early hour, as was usual with the household at Ryburgh, we all
retired.
To sleep so quickly after dinner was to me impossible; therefore, on
gaining my room, I lit a cigar, and, taking a novel from my bag, sat
reading. The book proved interesting; and time had passed unnoticed,
until of a sudden my attention was attracted by the sound of low voices.
I listened, glancing at the clock, and noticed that it was nearly two
in the morning.
A suspicion of burglars at once flashed across my mind. I blew out my
candles, so as not to attract attention, noiselessly opened the wooden
shutters before my window, and cautiously gazed out. The lawn, garden,
and wide sweep of country beyond lay bathed in the bright moonlight, and
at first I distinguished no one. Peering down, however, until I could
see the path running in the shadow just below my window, I distinguished
two figures with hands clasped, as though in parting. I looked again,
scarce believing my own eyes. But I was not mistaken. One figure was
that of a woman, her dark cloak open at the throat, revealing her white
dress beneath; while the other was the tall dark figure of a man in a
long black overcoat, the collar of which was turned up as though to
conceal his features. Even though they stood together in the dark
shadow, the astounding truth was plain to me. The woman who had kept
that midnight assignation was Edith Austin, my well-beloved.
My heart stood still.