"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 circ.u.mstances. 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 Emba.s.sy, 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 att.i.tude 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: