The revelation held me rigid. I stood there, peering down, watching
their movements, and straining my ears to catch the whispered words. As
I feared to open the window lest the noise should attract them, I could
do no more than remain a spectator of Edith's perfidy. To me it seemed
as though she had been walking with him, and he had accompanied her back
to the house. As he held her hand, he was bending, whispering some
earnest words into her ear. She did not attempt to withdraw; indeed, it
was apparent that she was not unwilling. The conclusion to be made was
that they were lovers.
Reader, can you imagine my feelings at this astounding discovery? Only
six hours before we had stood beside the river, and she had vowed that
for no man save myself had she any place in her heart; yet with my own
eyes I was watching her while she believed me sleeping in calm ignorance
of her movements. That she had been walking with him was apparent,
because of the shawl she wore wrapped about her head; while the fact
that the stranger carried a stout stick showed that he had walked, or
was about to walk, a considerable distance. Because his hat was drawn
over his brow and his coat collar turned up, I could not see his
features. To me, as he stood there, he appeared to be slightly
round-shouldered, but, nevertheless, a strongly built fellow, seemingly
rather above the average height.
How long she had been absent from the house I could not tell. Her light
step across the lawn had not attracted my attention. Only his low,
gruff voice on their return had caused me to listen. There was a French
window near where they were standing, and it was evident that by means
of this she had secretly left the house.
Across the moon there drifted a strip of fleecy cloud, hiding the lawn
and garden for a few moments; then suddenly all became brilliant again,
and, looking down, I saw that she had moved, and was unconsciously in
the full white light. I caught sight of her countenance, so that her
identity became undeniable. He was urging her to speak, but she
remained silent. Again and again he whispered into her ear, but she
shook her head. At last she spoke. I heard what she said, for I had
contrived to raise the sash an inch or two.
"Very well, I promise," she said. "He leaves to-morrow."
"And you will not fail?" asked the gruff voice of her clandestine
companion.
"No. Adieu!"
And as I watched I saw his dark figure striding away in the full
moonlight across the lawn. He did not glance back, but went straight
over to the belt of elms on the left, and a few minutes later was lost
to view, while the woman I loved had apparently re-entered the house by
the dining-room window, and was creeping silently to her room.
The one thought that gripped my heart and froze my senses was that Edith
was false to me. She had a lover whom she met at dead of night and with
whom she had a perfect understanding. She had made him a promise, the
fulfilment of which was to take place when I had left. Had such things
been told to me I would not have believed them, but I had seen with my
own eyes and heard with my own ears. The truth was too terribly plain.
Edith, the one woman in the world whom I had believed to be pure,
honest, and upright, was false to me. I saw it all as I reclosed the
shutters, relit the candles in their old silver sconces, and paced that
ancient bed-chamber. The reason of her attempt to evade me and to
withdraw her promise of marriage was only too apparent. She, the woman
whom I loved and in whom I had put all my faith, had a lover.
As I reflected upon our conversation of that afternoon I saw in her
uneasiness and her responses a self-condemnation. She dreaded lest I
should discover the secret within her breast--the secret that, after
all, she did not love me. The dark silhouette of that man standing
forth in the brilliant light of the moon was photographed indelibly upon
my memory. His outline struck me as that of a man of shabby attire, and
I felt certain the hat drawn down upon his face was battered and worn.
Indeed, I had a distinct conviction that he was some low-born lout from
the neighbourhood--a conviction aroused, I think, by her announcement
that I was to leave on the morrow. She would have freedom of action
then, I reflected bitterly. And her promise? What, I wondered, had she
promised? The fellow had evidently been persuading her until she had at
last given him her pledge. His gait was that of a man who knew the
place well, the swinging step of one used to walking easily in rough
places. His stick, too, was a rough ash, such as a town-bred lover
would never carry, while his voice had, I felt certain, just a tinge of
the Norfolk accent in it. That they should meet at dead of night in
that clandestine manner was surely sufficiently suspicious, but those
words I had overheard sounded ever in my ears as I paced from end to end
of that old room with its sombre, almost funereal, hangings.
A great bitterness fell upon my heart. The woman whom I really loved
had played me false; and yet, when I reflected, I could not help
admitting that perhaps, after all, I deserved this punishment. I had
wavered from her and gone back to my old love, it was true. But I loved
Edith well and truly, whatever might have been the fascination of the
smart, gesticulating, foreign beauty. She was mine in heart and mine
alone.
All my belief in woman's affection or devotion had, in that instant,
been dispelled. The truth had fallen upon me as a crushing blow, which
staggered me, wrecking all my hopes and plans for the future.
I tossed my things heedlessly into my bag, in readiness for early
departure in the morning. I had been a fool, I knew. I was ever a fool
where women were concerned. In the old days in Brussels my affection
for Yolande had been strong and impetuous, burning with all the ardour
of a first love; yet the awakening had come, and I had tardily
discovered that she had played me false. And in Edith's case, although
I entertained towards her such a real and deep affection as a man only
extends to a woman once in his lifetime, unfaithfulness had once again
been my reward.
I flung away my cigar. My agony of heart was too acute to be accurately
described in words. You, my reader, who may have experienced the sudden
breaking of your most cherished idol, can only rightly understand the
chagrin, the intense bitterness, the spiritual desolation of that night
watch.
My candles were as nearly as possible burnt out. At length I took my
hat, and, creeping noiselessly downstairs, passed through the
dining-room, and let myself out by the window which Edith had entered.
The first grey of dawn was spreading, and a sudden desire for fresh air
had seized me. I felt stifled in that old room with its gloomy
furniture and hangings. With the cool wind of early morning fanning my
heated temples, I struck straight across the lawn in the direction taken
by the mysterious lover. For some distance I traversed the boundary of
the grounds, until I discovered a break in the oak fence, and, passing
through it, found myself out upon the broad, undulating meadows which
stretched away to the Beacon Hill and the tiny hamlet of Toftrees, noted
for its ancient hall and quaint church steeple. Heedless of where my
footsteps led me, I went straight on, my mind full of the discovery I
had made, my heart overflowing. Away to my left, from behind the low
dark hills, the sky became flushed with the crimson light of dawn; but
all was still save the distant crowing of a cock and the howl of a dog
in the far distance. Behind me the bell of Ryburgh church solemnly
chimed the hour, followed by other bells at greater distances. Then all
was quiet again save for the soft rustling of the trees. The morning
air was delicious, with a sweet fragrance everywhere.
Suddenly, leaping a fence, I found myself upon the old coach-road that
ran over the hills to Lynn, and continued along it without thought of
distance or destination. I passed a carter with his team, and he wished
me good-morning. His words aroused me, and I saw that I was nearing an
unfamiliar village.
"What place is this?" I inquired.
"It's Harpley, sir."
I thanked him and went my way. I had never heard of the place before;
but as I entered it the first rays of sunlight shot across the hills,
and it certainly looked picturesque and typically English in the light
of the dawn. I must have walked fully eight miles, and, being tired and
thirsty, I noticed at the entrance of the village a small inn, upon
which was the sign The Houghton Arms. The door stood open, and a burly
man, evidently the landlord, was busy chopping wood in an outhouse at
the side.
"Nice mornin', sir," he observed, looking up at me, probably astonished
to see anyone who was not a labourer astir at such an early hour.
I returned his greeting, and inquired whether it was too early for a cup
of tea and a rest.
"Not at all, sir," he answered, laying down his axe and conducting me
within.
The place, in common with all village hostelries, smelt strongly of the
combined fumes of shag and stale beer. Village innkeepers have a habit
of polishing their well-seasoned furniture with sour beer; hence the
odour, which, to the patrons of such places, seems appetising. The
perfume is to them as the hors d'oeuvre.
The man, having shown me into a little parlour behind the tap-room,
called loudly to "Jenny," who turned out to be his wife. After this I
had not long to wait before a pot of tea and a couple of poached eggs
were at my disposal.
They were a homely pair, these two, full of local chatter. Harpley, the
man informed me, was nine and a half miles from Great Ryburgh, and I saw
by his manner that he was much exercised in his mind to know whence I
had come and the reason for my being about at such an hour. The rural
busybody was extremely inquisitive, but I did not permit his bucolic
diplomacy to triumph. While I drank the tea and ate the eggs the
landlord stood leaning against the door-lintel with his arms folded,
garrulously displaying his Norfolk brogue. He evidently regarded me as
one of those summer visitors from London who stay at the farmhouses,
where hypocrisy terms them "paying guests," and I allowed him to adhere
to his opinion. I learned from him that at six o'clock there was a
train from Massingham station, half a mile away, which would convey me
direct to Fakenham. This I resolved to take, for I could then return to
Miss Foskett's by a quarter to seven. A map of the county was hanging
on the wall, and I had risen to look at the spot to which the landlord
was pointing, when a footstep sounded in the narrow passage, and,
turning, I caught sight of the dark figure of a man making his way out.
The hat, the black overcoat, the figure, all were familiar. His head
was turned away from me, so that I could not see his features, but in an
instant I recognised him.
He was Edith's mysterious lover!