She held her breath. Her hand trembled within my grasp. Then, after a
moment, she faltered:
"He is not my lover. Is not my declaration sufficient?"
"No, it is not," I responded harshly. "If he is nothing to you, as you
allege, then why did you meet him secretly at night, and make an
appointment to meet again after I had left Ryburgh?"
"Because I was forced to--because--"
"Because you have allowed that shabby adventurer to love you!" I
interrupted. "Because you have played me false!"
"I deny it!" she protested, a gleam of defiance flashing for an instant
in her eyes. "I have never played you false, Gerald. The charge
against me is utterly false and unfounded."
"Then perhaps you will explain this wandering visitor's business with
you."
"I would tell you all--all that has passed between us, but I dare not.
My every action is watched, and if I breathed a single word to you he
would know; and then--"
"And what would happen then, pray?" I asked with some surprise, for I
now saw that she entertained a deadly fear of her midnight visitor; it
was evident that he held some mysterious power over her.
"The result would be disastrous," she replied in a mechanical tone of
voice.
"In what way?"
"Not only would it upset all the plans I have formed, but would in all
probability be the cause of my own ruin--perhaps even of my suicide,"
she added.
"I don't understand you, Edith," I said, turning again to her, in the
hope that she would confide in me. "How would it cause your ruin? If
you hesitate to tell me the truth, then it is certain that you fear some
exposure."
"You are quite right," she answered, meeting my gaze unflinchingly; "I
do fear exposure."
"Then you admit your guilt? You admit that what I have alleged is the
actual truth?"
"I do not, for a single instant. The charge is false, and without the
slightest foundation," she asserted. "You saw me speaking with him, you
may have overheard our conversation, and you no doubt believe that he is
my lover. But I tell you he is not."
"His movements were mysterious," I said dubiously. "I followed him."
"You followed him!" she gasped, all colour leaving her face in an
instant. "You actually followed him! Where did he go?"
She spoke as though she feared that I had discovered the truth as to his
identity and calling.
"To a village some little distance away," I replied ambiguously; "and I
there discovered one or two things which increased my interest in him."
"What did you discover? Tell me," she urged, grasping my hand
anxiously.
"What I discovered only led me still further to the belief that he held
you within his power."
"I have already admitted that," she exclaimed. "I am perfectly frank in
that respect."
"And you will not tell me the reason? If you refuse to be open and
straightforward with me, there surely can be no love between us.
Confidence is the first step towards the union of man with woman."
"I will tell you the reason," she replied in a strange voice, almost as
though she were speaking to herself. "It is because a secret exists
between us."
"Ah!" I cried, "I thought so. The secret of a love-affair--eh?"
"It concerns a love-affair, it is true, but not our own."
"Oh, now this is interesting!" I cried with bitter sarcasm. "You are
bound to each other because of your common knowledge of the love-affair
of a third person. That is curious, to say the least of it. No," I
added, "I'm afraid, Edith, I cannot accept such a remarkable
explanation, notwithstanding the ingenuity displayed in its
construction."
"In other words, you insinuate that I am lying to you!" she exclaimed,
her cheeks flushing with indignation.
"I do not use the term `lying,'" I said with a smile; "the word
`prevarication' is more applicable. A woman never lies."
"You are not treating me seriously," she complained quickly. "I have
come here to tell you all that I can, and--"
"And you have told me practically nothing," I interposed.
"I have told you all that I dare at present," she answered. "Some day,
ere long, I hope to be in a position to make full confession to you, and
then you will fully understand my action and appreciate the extreme
difficulty and deadly peril in which I find myself at this moment."
"You admit that you have a confession to make?"
"Of course I admit it. I wronged you when I met that man on the very
night you were a guest beneath our roof. It is but just that you should
know the whole of the ghastly truth."
"That is what I am endeavouring to obtain from you," I said. "I want to
know who that shabby fellow was, and why he took such pains to keep his
presence in Great Ryburgh a secret."
"He had some good reason, I presume," she replied.
"Do you declare that you know absolutely nothing of his movements?" I
inquired.
"I know but little of them."
"How long have you been acquainted?"
"Two years--perhaps a little longer."
"And has he visited you often?"
"No, at infrequent intervals."
"Always at night?"
"Always."
"He evidently is a shrewd fellow, who does not wish his presence in that
chattering little village to be known," I said with a laugh. Then I
added: "You went for moonlight rambles with him, I suppose?"
"He wished to talk with me, and on such occasions we took one or other
of the paths across the fields."
"Very interesting," I said. "And all this time you were causing me to
believe that you were mine alone! Are you surprised at my refusal to
forgive?"
"I should be if I were guilty of playing you false," she answered with
slight haughtiness, as though my words wounded her self-respect.
"If you were not guilty you would never endeavour to conceal your
lover's name, as you are now doing!" I exclaimed.
"It is because I dare not tell you," she replied, with a look of
desperation on her face. "Were I to utter a word in explanation of the
true state of affairs, all would be over, and both you and I would
suffer."
"How should I suffer?" I asked with some interest.
"The affair is much more curious and complicated than you imagine," she
said. "Knowledge of the truth could only bring ruin upon you."
"Rubbish!" I cried roughly, starting up. "What have I to fear?"
"No, Gerald," she implored, gripping my hand tightly, "do not treat this
matter with indifference. It is, I tell you, a grave one for both of
us."
"In what way?"
"Ah," she sighed, "if only I might tell you! If only I dared!"
"If you love me as you did on that evening when we wandered beside the
river, you would brave all these mythical dangers and tell me the truth,
Edith," I said, bending towards her in a persuasive manner.
"But, as I have explained, I cannot. I will not--for your sake!"
"How can knowledge of it possibly affect me?" I cried.
She paused for a moment and then answered: "There are certain hidden
influences at work, of which you, Gerald, have no suspicion. I alone am
aware of the truth. Cannot you place sufficient confidence in me--in
the woman who loves you--to leave the matter in my hands? Surely our
interests are mutual!"
"I have, I regret, no confidence," I said bluntly.
"Ah! because you are jealous," she replied quite calmly. "Well, that is
but natural in the circumstances. You discovered _him_, and you believe
him to be my lover. Nevertheless, your jealousy should not lead you
into any rash action which might wreck your life."
"You speak as though you are anxious with regard to my personal safety.
What have I to fear?"
"You have to fear the machinations of unscrupulous enemies," she said
anxiously. "You are living in ignorance of the peril that daily
threatens you, and I--who love you so well--am unable to give you a
single hint which might warn you of the pitfall so cunningly concealed."
There was an earnestness in her tone which struck me as curious. What
could she, a girl living in a quiet country village in England, know
about "the machinations of unscrupulous enemies?" She spoke as though
well versed in the diplomatic plots of Paris, even as though she would
corroborate what the Princess had alleged. It was odd, and caused me
much reflection. What could she possibly know?
"It is only fair to me that you should warn me of the peril," I said at
last.
"Hush!" she whispered, looking round the room in fear; "the very walls
have ears. If it were believed that I had spoken to you of this, a
catastrophe, terrible and complete, would ensue."
"Really, Edith," I said, "you speak in enigmas. I don't know what to
believe."
"Believe in me," she answered in a deep, earnest voice. "Believe in my
truth and purity as you did before, for I protest that never for a
single instant have I forgotten the vows I made to you."
"Ah," I said very sadly, "if I could only believe that you really love
me, how happy I should be! But as it is, I fear this to be quite
impossible."
"No," she wailed, tears welling in her eyes. "Surely the sight of that
man unknown to you has not destroyed all your belief in woman's honesty
and affection? You must, deep down in your heart, see that I love you
firmly and well. You cannot be so blind, Gerald, as to believe that
here, to-day, I am playing you false! Ah! if you only knew!" she
sighed. "If you only knew all that I am suffering, you would pity me,
and you would take me in your embrace as once you used to do, and kiss
me on the lips as a sign of your forgiveness. I can suffer," she went
on brokenly--"I can endure the awful anxiety and tribulation for your
sake; I can cheerfully bear the jeers of men and the insults of women,
but I cannot bear your coldness to me, because I love you, and because
you once declared that you were mine."
"This estrangement has arisen between us through your own fault," I
answered.
Just at this moment my man rapped smartly at the door, and Edith rose
quickly from her knees before he entered with the tea. The little
silver service was a quaint relic of the Queen Anne period, which had
long been in my family, and which was always admired by the brilliant
Parisiennes who often did me the honour of taking a cup of English tea--
not, of course, because they liked the beverage, but because to drink it
is nowadays considered chic. My man told me that a messenger had called
from the Embassy, and I left the room for a few moments to see him.
But Edith disregarded the fact that tea had been brought. The instant I
returned and the door had closed again, she came across to me, saying:
"It was not my fault, Gerald; it was _his_. He compelled me to meet
him."
"For what reason?"
"He wished me to render him a service."
"Of what character?"
"That I cannot explain."
"You of course acquiesced?"
"No, I refused."
"And yet the fact that you met him against your will shows in itself
that you were in his power," I remarked. "How was it that you could
refuse?"
She was silent a moment, standing before me wan and pale in her black
dress, her gloved hands clasped before her.
"I defied him," she answered simply.
"Well?" I inquired.
"Well, that is the reason why I live in dread of a catastrophe."
"Answer me this question, Yes or No. Your mysterious visitor was a
foreigner?"
I recollected what the innkeeper's wife had told me--namely, that the
word "Firenze" was on the tabs of his boots.
"Yes," she answered in a half-whisper.
"An Italian?"
"How did you know that?" she gasped in quick surprise.
"From my own inquiries," I answered.
"But do take my advice," she cried earnestly, her hand upon my arm.
"Make no further inquiries regarding him; otherwise I may be suspected
and all my plans will be frustrated."
"What plans?"
"Plans I have made for our mutual protection," she whispered. "If you
knew all the details you would not be surprised at my anxiety that you
should remain inactive and leave all to me. I am but a woman;
nevertheless, I am at least loyal to you, the man I love. Forgive me,"
she implored, raising her white, pained face to mine--"forgive me,
Gerald, I beg and pray of you. Have confidence in me, and I will some
day, ere long, prove to you that I am, after all, worthy of your love."
"Forgiveness is easy, but forgetfulness difficult," I said, taking her
hand and looking straight into the dark splendour of those soft eyes.
After the shrill-tongued, voluble foreign women by whom I was ever
surrounded, this sweet English girl breathed peace and paradise to my
wearied heart.
"But you will forgive me?" she implored in deep earnestness. "Say that
you will!"
Her attitude impressed upon me forcibly the conviction that, after all,
she really loved me. Nevertheless, the whole affair seemed so
mysterious and perplexing that I found it difficult to regard her
motives with unquestioning faith. "Yes," I said at length, "I forgive
you, Edith. But until you can explain all the mystery, I tell you
frankly that I cannot entertain full confidence in you."
"You will, however, leave me to carry out the plan I have formed?" she
urged anxiously.
"If you wish."
"And if I am denounced by one or other of my enemies, you will not
believe that denunciation before I am at liberty to expose to you the
whole truth? Promise me that--do!"
"Very well," I responded, "it shall be as you wish."
Then as those words left my lips she sprang forward with a loud cry of
joy, and, throwing her arms about my neck, kissed me wildly in joy,
saying:
"You shall never regret this decision, Gerald, never--_never_!"
For fully an hour we sat together, our tea untouched, so preoccupied
were we with the burden of our hearts; then, declaring that Aunt Hetty
would miss her, she reluctantly rose. When I had put her cape round her
shoulders, we went downstairs together, I having promised to accompany
her in a fiacre as far as the Grand Hotel.
Just as we were about to step into the street, I encountered Kaye, who
evidently wished to have a word with me. As he raised his hat, I
noticed how intently he was examining my companion's face; then he
passed us and entered the wide hall leading to the stairs. A moment
later, however, he turned suddenly, and said:
"Excuse me, Mr. Ingram, might I speak with you for one moment? I see
you are going out."
"Certainly," I answered; and after excusing myself to Edith I moved off
a few paces with him.
The words he uttered were spoken in a whisper. They startled me:
"Have a care, Mr. Ingram," he said meaningly. "We know that woman!"