A fortnight passed uneventfully. After that morning walk with the
Princess I left Chantoiseau and returned to Paris. My presence at the
chateau after what had passed between us was as dangerous to her as to
me. I wrote her a letter of farewell and went back to the capital that
same afternoon.
In response, she had sent me a wildly worded note by a manservant, in
which she declared that the reason I cast aside her love was because of
the attractions of some other woman. This letter, together with the
letter she had sent to my room, I kept locked in a drawer in the little
den which served me as study and smoking-room. Now that they were safe
under lock and key, I resolved to forget their curious and romantic
history.
But the one matter uppermost in my mind was the alleged plot by the
Powers against England. As I had given the Princess my word of honour
not to mention it to a soul, I was unable to consult Lord Barmouth, and
was compelled to wait and watch for signs that the conspiracy was in
progress.
Those days were full of fevered anxiety. His Excellency was absent in
the country, and the duties of the Embassy devolved upon myself. The
facts that the German Ambassador had travelled suddenly to Berlin to
consult the Minister of Foreign Affairs, and that urgent despatches were
being exchanged daily between the Austrian Embassy and Vienna, seemed to
me to establish the truth of Leonie's statement. I met my friends
Volkouski and Korniloff, the Russian attaches, in the Grand Cafe one
evening, and we spent an hour together over our consommation down at the
Alcazar, in the Champs Elysees; but they apparently knew nothing, or, if
they did, naturally hesitated to expose their secret. Hither and
thither I sought for evidence, and with my suspicions aroused found
confirmation of the Princess's story in every diplomatic action. The
German Emperor made a speech in Berlin in which, with many references to
his grandfather and the Fatherland, he assured Europe that never in
recent history had peace been so firmly established among nations; and
both from Rome and St. Petersburg came news of unusual inactivity. That
calm foreboded a storm.
As those hot, anxious days went slowly past I strove to form some theory
as to the manner in which the conspiracy had been arranged and as to the
persons chiefly responsible, but could find none.
Had not Leonie plainly told me that this dastardly plot among jealous
nations aimed directly at the undermining of the British power, the ruin
of England's prestige, and the destruction of her supremacy on the sea?
I, as a diplomatist, knew too well the vulnerability of our Empire. We
have patriotism, it is true, for the sons of England will ever shed the
last drop of their blood in the defence of their beloved country; but
something more than patriotism is now necessary for successful defence.
In these days, when Europe is daily arming and small republics, backed
by certain of the Powers, amuse themselves by twisting the Lion's tail,
an efficient British army is necessary, as well as a navy that must be
stronger than that of the rest of the world. We at the embassies know
how, by descending to methods which we as Englishmen scorn to use, our
enemies are often able to outwit and checkmate us; and we know also that
in England foreign spies are allowed to come and go at will, and that
the interesting gentlemen whom we welcome are gradually elaborating
their plans for the invasion of our shores.
Many there are who laugh at the idea of an invasion of England, but
every diplomatist in Europe knows well that the problem is discussed in
every military centre on the Continent, and that in certain quarters
strategists have drawn up plans by which the catastrophe can undoubtedly
be accomplished. Therefore, in spite of the sneers of those who rest
upon a false belief in their insular security, we should be in a
condition not only to defend, but to defy--a condition which, to our
sorrow, does not at present exist.
The Princess had offered me such information as would enable me to crush
the conspiracy against us, and I had refused her terms. Sometimes, as I
sat alone in my room thinking, I felt that I had made a mistake, and
that I ought, in the interests of my country, to have accepted. Then,
at others, I felt glad that I had had the courage to refuse her
conditions, and to leave her as I had done. As she had learned the
truth from the Emperor Francis Joseph of Austria, the secret must be
known in the Court circle at Vienna.
Yet unfortunately it was impossible for me to go there, and equally
impossible, after giving my word of honour to Leonie, to explain my
fears to Kaye and allow the secret service to make inquiries. I knew
from many signs that catastrophe was imminent, but was utterly powerless
to avert it.
Reader, place yourself for a single moment in my position--your own
honour at stake on the one hand, and that of your country on the other.
It seemed base to speak, base to keep silence.
I shall not easily forget what I suffered during this period of anxious
inactivity. The weeks went by, Lord Barmouth came back sun-tanned and
jovial, and all the other representatives of the European Courts
returned one by one after their summer leave. Parisians, driven away by
wet weather, deserted the plages, the chateaux, and the various inland
watering-places; and from Dieppe and Trouville, Arcachon and Luchon,
Vichy and Aix, Royat and Contrexeville the crowds of mothers and
daughters, with a sprinkling of fathers, came gaily back to their
favourite boulevards, their favourite magasins, and their favourite
cafes. Paris was herself again--for the winds were cold, the leaves in
the boulevards were falling in showers, and the wet pavements were
rendered disagreeable on account of them.
One afternoon towards the end of November I entered my little flat with
my latchkey, and walked straight into my sitting-room, when, to my
surprise, a beautiful girl rose from the chair in which she had been
sitting, and, without speaking a word, held out her hand.
"You--Edith!" I gasped, utterly taken aback.
"Yes," she said in a strained voice. "Will you not welcome me? Your
man said he expected you every moment, and asked me to await you. I
ought not to have come here, to your chambers, I know, but being in
Paris I could not resist."
"I never dreamed that you were here. Is your aunt with you?"
"Yes," she replied. "I have at last managed to persuade her to winter
on the Italian Riviera."
"Where?"
"At San Remo. Our vicar at Ryburgh stayed there for a month last
winter, and gave us a most glowing account of it. Judging from the
photographs, it must be a most delightful place--quite an earthly
paradise for those wishing to avoid the English frost and fogs. Do you
know it?"
"Yes," I answered, seating myself in a chair opposite her. "I've been
there once. It is, as you anticipate, perfectly charming. You will no
doubt enjoy yourself immensely."
Her lips compressed, and her eyes were fixed upon mine.
"I shall, I fear, not have much enjoyment," she sighed sadly.
"Why?"
"You know why well enough," she answered in a tone of bitter reproach.
"Because we are parted," I said. "Well, Edith, I, too, regret it. But
need we discuss that incident further? We are still friends, and I am
glad that you have not passed through Paris without sparing an hour to
call upon me."
"But it is to discuss it that I came here," she protested quickly. Her
rich fur cape had slipped from her shoulders and lay behind her in my
big armchair. In her black tailor-made gown and her elegant hat, which
bore the unmistakable stamp of having been purchased since her arrival
in Paris, she looked smart and attractive. Her pure, open face was
exquisite to behold, even though a trifle thinner and paler than on that
summer's day when we had wandered by the river and she had pledged her
love to me. But as she sat before me toying with her bracelet, from
which a dozen little charms were hanging, the remembrance of her base
deception flashed through my brain. I held her in suspicion--and
suspicion of this kind is the seed of hatred.
"I cannot see what there is to discuss," I answered coldly, at the same
time ringing and ordering tea for her. "Nor can I see," I added, "what
good there is in reopening a chapter in our lives which ought to be for
ever closed."
"No, Gerald," she cried, "don't say that! Those words break my heart.
It is not closed. You do not understand."
"To speak of it only causes pain to both of us," I said. "Cannot you
visit me as a friend and resolve not to discuss the unfortunate affair?"
"No," she declared quickly, "I cannot. I have come to you to-day,
Gerald, to explain and to ask your forgiveness. My aunt is confined to
her room with a headache, and I have managed to slip away from the hotel
and come to you here."
"Well?" I asked rather coldly.
I confess that her visit annoyed me, for I saw in her attitude a desire
to make such explanations as would satisfy me; but, taught by
experience, I was resolved to accept no word from her as the truth. She
had deceived me once; and although she was the only woman I had really
loved honestly and well, her wiles and fascinations had no longer any
power over me.
"Gerald," she exclaimed, as she rose suddenly, crossed the space between
us, and, after placing her arms about my neck, sank upon her knees at my
side, "I ask your forgiveness."
She spoke in a manner the most intense; and I saw how nervous and
anxious she was. Yes, she had altered considerably since that day at
Ryburgh when we had strolled together in the sunset and I had told her
of my love, her features were sharper, paler, and more refined. Grief
had left its imprint upon that sweet, pure countenance, which had always
reminded me so vividly of Van Dyck's "Madonna" in the Pitti at Florence.
Do you know it? You will find it--a small picture too often unnoticed,
only a foot square, hung low down in the Saloon of the Painters. It
shows a marvellously beautiful face, perfect in its contour, graced by a
sweet and childlike mouth with the true Cupid's bow, and with eyes dark
and searching. This perfect type of beauty so markedly resembled Edith
that its photograph might almost be accepted as a portrait of her.
There, on her knees, she twice besought my forgiveness. But I remained
silent. To forgive was impossible, I knew; nevertheless, I had no
desire to cause her pain. Her face told me that she had already
suffered sufficiently in the months that had elapsed since I had bidden
her farewell at the little railway-station in rural England.
"Speak!" she cried. "Tell me, Gerald, that you love no one else beside
myself--that--that you will forgive me!"
Turning to her, I grasped her hand, and, looking straight into those
eyes which I had once believed to be so full of truth, honesty, and
affection, I answered earnestly:
"I love no woman on earth except yourself, Edith. But to forgive is
quite impossible."
"No!" she cried wildly--"no! you cannot be cold and callous if you
really love me. See! here at your feet I beseech of you to allow me to
prove my innocence and show my love for you!"
"I once believed implicitly in you, Edith," I said very gravely, still
holding her hand; "but the discovery that you met your lover
clandestinely beneath the very window of my room has so shaken my
confidence that it is utterly impossible for you ever to re-establish
it."
"But he is not my lover!" she protested, her blanched face upturned to
mine. "I swear he is not; nor has he ever been."
"I have no proof of your declaration," I answered, shaking my head
dubiously.
"Except my oath," she gasped in desperation. "Cannot you accept that?
I swear by all I hold most sacred," she cried, lifting her head and
raising her face to Heaven--"I swear that I entertain no spark of
affection for that man, and that he has never been my lover!"
"Then who is he?" I demanded. "What is his name?"