After luncheon, when Miss Foskett, as was usual, ascended to her room to
take her afternoon nap, Edith managed to escape and accompany me for a
walk. The hotel was crowded with visitors, mostly English, who had come
South in search of sunshine. The Battle of Flowers was to be fought
that day. The little place was gay with flags, the pavements covered
with confetti, and there was everywhere that air of gaiety and
irresponsibility that Carnival lends to every Italian town. In Carnival
Bordighera is at her best, and the fun of the festa is fast and furious,
without the rough horseplay and pellets of lime indulged in at Nice.
Edith had, however, seen the Battle of Flowers at Nice in the previous
week, having gone over there for the day. As this was so, we resolved
to climb the hill behind the town and wander through the grey
olive-woods, away from the boisterous merrymakers. Up a steep road on
the outskirts of the town in the direction of sunny Ospedaletti we
climbed, and thence by a mule-track we ascended zig-zag until we entered
the beautiful olive-groves. Seen through the grey-green trees with
their twisted trunks, the panorama spread before us was truly wonderful,
the whole line of rugged coast being in view for miles on either hand,
the brown, bare rocks standing out in sharp contrast to the deep
sapphire of the glassy sea. Although February, it was like a May day in
England, the air flower-scented and balmy, the sun so warm that to walk
in overcoats or wraps was impossible.
"Well," I said at length, when we had halted a second time to turn back
and admire the view, "you are displeased with me, Edith? Why am I so
unwelcome?"
"You are not unwelcome," she declared quickly. "I am certainly not
displeased."
"I begin to think that during the months you've been here you have
forgotten those words you uttered to me in Paris, just as you forgot
your vow made to me beneath the willows at Ryburgh."
"I have forgotten nothing," she protested. "This is cruel of you,
Gerald, to reproach me thus."
"You told me then that you reciprocated my affection, yet you allow this
man Bertini to follow you everywhere. He is here."
"Here?" she gasped in alarm, her face pale in an instant. "Are you
certain?"
"I have seen and spoken with him this morning."
I did not tell her the nature of our conversation, or how I had given
him twelve hours in which to decide whether he preferred to reveal the
truth or take the consequences of arrest; neither did I tell her that I
had called at the police-office and that the spy was already under close
observation, the police believing him to be an undesirable visitor from
Monte Carlo.
"You've spoken with him? What did he tell you?"
"Very little of consequence. I know that you are his victim, and I am
seeking to release you from the thraldom," I answered gravely.
"Ah!" she cried wistfully, "if you only could! If you only could, then
I should commence a new life and be happy! The awful suspense is
killing me."
"Suspense of what?"
She was silent for a moment.
"I fear his threats," she faltered. "I know he would have no
compunction whatever in causing my ruin when I am no longer of further
use to him."
"Now, tell me plainly and honestly, Edith," I asked, looking straight
into her white, anxious face. "Do you love him?"
"Love him!" she echoed wildly. "Why, I hate him! Have I not already
told you so?"
"But he loves you."
"Of that I am not certain. If he does, it is through no fault whatever
of mine. I detest and hate him!"
"Will you not tell me how he managed to obtain this irresistible power
over you? Can you not help me in my search for the truth?"
"I must not speak; I dare not, Gerald," she answered in a hoarse
whisper, as though the very thought of exposure filled her with alarm.
"You fear his revenge?"