Kitabı oku: «Her Majesty's Minister», sayfa 14
“And that decision is irrevocable?” she asked, with a quick look of menace.
“It is irrevocable,” I replied.
“Yes, I know,” she said in a hoarse whisper – “because another woman holds you in her toils! Well, we shall see!” and she laughed bitterly, the swift fire of jealousy flashing for an instant in the brilliant eyes that half Europe had delighted to praise. “I love you,” she continued, “and some day you will love me. Meanwhile, my secret is my own.”
Chapter Twenty Seven
The Unexpected
A fortnight passed uneventfully. After that morning walk with the Princess I left Chantoiseau and returned to Paris. My presence at the château 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 Léonie’s statement. I met my friends Volkouski and Korniloff, the Russian attachés, in the Grand Café one evening, and we spent an hour together over our consommation down at the Alcazar, in the Champs Elysées; 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 Léonie 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 Léonie, 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 châteaux, and the various inland watering-places; and from Dieppe and Trouville, Arcachon and Luchon, Vichy and Aix, Royat and Contrexéville the crowds of mothers and daughters, with a sprinkling of fathers, came gaily back to their favourite boulevards, their favourite magasins, and their favourite cafés. 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?”
Chapter Twenty Eight
On the Crooked Way
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!”
