She told the story which we already know, little thinking of the effect it had upon her hearer. She omitted no detail which had any importance in the story. The man's presence caused every incident to come back to her with painful vividness. The past lived again. Sometimes it seemed to her that not a stranger, but Leicester, stood beside her while she spoke.

"And you loved this man--this--this Leicester?" he asked presently.

"Yes, I think so--that is, I must have loved him, or I should never have promised to be his wife."

"And you gave him up because he was a bad man?"

"Because he insulted me. Because he did not seek me because he loved me, but because he would win his wager. How could I do otherwise?"

"But he loved you really--that is, afterwards?"

"He said so; but how did I know? He told--those men that it was only to win the wager."

"And he explained to you that for him the jest had become an earnest purpose?"

He spoke quietly, as though he were a judge sifting evidence.

"Yes, but when I accused him of having admitted to those--men, less than a month before the wedding-day, that he only sought to win the wager, he could not deny it."

"And then you cast him off?"

"I told him I would never see him again."

"And he--what became of him? Ah yes, you told me, he dragged your name before a public meeting, he fell down drunk on the platform at a public meeting--and then he committed suicide."

"Yes." She shuddered as she spoke; she never felt the tragedy of the circ.u.mstance as she felt it now.

"And before the day fixed for your wedding, you promised never to marry another man?"

"Yes."

"And that is the reason why you have never married?"

She did not resent this mode of putting questions to her. Somehow she felt he had the right. He had asked her to be his wife, and he had the right to know. Besides, she was strangely wrought upon. If he had not slept since the previous night, neither had she.

"Yes--no," she answered--"that is, I have never met any one that I cared for--enough to marry."

"Then you love this man--Leicester--still?"

"No."

"He is nothing to you now?"

"No, I do not think so."

"You have never felt that you treated him harshly, unfairly; that you did not give him a chance of proving to you that his love was real?"

"What could I do?" she asked. "No woman with self-respect could consent to be treated in such a way. He had deceived me once, how could I trust him again?"

"How indeed?"

She looked at him quickly. She could not understand the tone of his voice, and again a great fear possessed her. He seemed to have mastered her will, rather than her heart. She stood almost in awe of this man whose life was still a mystery to her, but who had, in a way she could not understand, made her feel that he was all the world to her. For he had done this, and yet in her heart of hearts she did not feel that she loved him.

"Did it ever strike you," he went on, "that this man--Leicester, I think you call him--did not commit suicide?"

"But he did!"

"How do you know?"

"The papers, the coroner's inquest, the--that is, there could be no doubt. Letters addressed to him were found on his dead body."

"I was only considering it from the standpoint of one who is terribly interested in all this, more interested than even you can think. For your story has a vital meaning to me, signorina; you can imagine that.

How can it be otherwise, when your answer to my plea means so much? For let me tell you this, although your refusal would mean more to me than anything you can dream of, I would not marry a woman half of whose heart was buried in the grave of another man. May I ask you another question, signorina?"

She nodded her head, wondering and fearing, she knew not why, what it would be.

"Suppose this man were not dead, supposing he is still alive, and were to come back, repentant perhaps, and reformed--would you marry him now?"

"No, no, never." She uttered the words eagerly.

"He is nothing to you now?"

"His memory is a black shadow on my life."

"But only a shadow?"

"That is all."

"In a sense, you have forgotten him, then?"

"Yes, he has--lately become--as--as nothing to me."

"Since how long?"

She did not answer.

"Signorina," and he spoke very gently, "is it since--since that day I spoke to you first up on the hills yonder?"

She did not reply, but she knew that his question contained the truth.

"You will be my wife, signorina? Forgive me if I cannot tell you all that is in my heart. But it is the dearest wish of my life--nay more, all I hope for, all I live for, depends on your answer. Let that story be forgotten. There, it is gone for ever. Tell me that you will be my wife."

"But my promise," she said weakly.

"Your promise--what is it?" he laughed. "A promise made in a moment of excitement, made when you did not realise what it meant. You did not think he would die, and since he is dead--what does it avail? That is all gone. It has no meaning. It has no more binding power than a gossamer thread. You must be mine. I was led here that this hour might come. You will be my wife, signorina?"

Still she hesitated, and then the man pleaded again, pleaded with burning words, and as he spoke barriers seemed to break down one by one. Her fear pa.s.sed away, her heart grew warm again. He seemed to cast a kind of spell on her once more, and she had no desire to refuse him.

"You will be my wife," he said, "you will fulfil the dreams of years, you will bring light and joy into my life--say you will--Olive."