Guilty Bonds

“Not indisposed, Frank – unable.”

“Unable! Why, you admit you are fully cognisant of the facts!”

“I do, but unfortunately circumstances will not permit me to disclose the secret.”

“There is a secret, then?” I ejaculated.

“Yes, one that must be kept at all hazards, alas! Therefore promise not to cause inquiries to be made, or it will be myself who will be the sufferer. Do promise me this?” she implored.

“If what you say is true,” I replied, “you may rely upon my silence, though I think, in the interests of our friendship, you should tell me what you know.”

“I wish I could. I know I am not hors de blâme, for I deceived you when I said I was under my uncle’s thrall. It is true he holds power over me, but not in the way I suggested.”

“How, then?”

“Ah, it is part of the secret. Some day, perhaps, you may know – not now. I had a set purpose in asking you to go to Russia to perform that commission you so kindly undertook, yet it was in desperation that I asked you – the man who was to have been my husband.”

“And I shall bitterly remember the experience until my dying day,” I remarked.

“Yes! it is only natural that you should feel disgusted at what you conceive is my treachery. It is but another result of the fatal step – I mean of the cursed circumstances in which I am placed. I cannot hope for your forgiveness, for I dare not explain. On every side,” she exclaimed disconsolately, with a vehement gesture of the hands, “I am watched and surrounded, hemmed in with difficulties, absolutely prevented from – ”

“From telling me the object for which you sent me to Russia, when you knew it was a dangerous errand, likely to cost me my life? How can you expect that I should love you as I did with this terrible enigma unsolved?”

She remained silent.

For a moment I thought she was on the point of telling me all, when, with a look of piteous appeal, she threw herself at my knees and raised my hands to her lips.

“Frank,” she murmured, so low that it was only by bending forward that I could catch the words, “why do you ask? Is it because you love me, or – or – is it from mere curiosity you inquire?”

“Because I love you, Vera.”

“Then,” raising her beautiful face to my own, with a smile of hope, “then – trust me, Frank, and, in the future, when things have altered, you shall know all!”

“This is trifling,” I said stiffly, raising her to her feet. “You ask me to trust you because I love you; if you care for me, why not trust me, and confide this trouble to one who would do so much for you?”

“Cannot you wait, Frank, for – for even a short time? Can you never think that it was by pure force of circumstances that I was compelled to practise deceit towards you? I have known of your return since the day of the murder – that is – I mean since the first hour you set foot in England, but I had not the courage to face you because I knew I deserved forgiveness so little.”

“If this is all you have to say,” I responded, rising, and taking up my stick and hat, as if going, “we may as well part. Force of circumstances may be compelling you to deceive me now.”

My heart told me that Vera was wronged. As the cynical words fell from my lips she gave me a glance confirming that opinion. Standing erect, her features aglow with indignation, her whole frame quivering with excitement, she confronted me like a lioness.

“Go!” she exclaimed, with an energy which made me start violently. “Go, for we have both been deceived. I have been deceived, but now my awakening has come. Alas! this is my reward for the dangers braved, the difficulties surmounted, and the crimes committed for your sake!”

“Stay, Vera, for Heaven’s sake! What crimes?”

“Oh, forgive me! What have I said? I think I’m mad. Nay, question me no further, but leave me. Could you but know my heart, Frank, you would have pity – you would know that my love is too great, too all-absorbing, to allow me for an instant to endanger your life unnecessarily. But it is absolutely certain I cannot tell you now, and therefore – ”

I was conquered. As she paused again, in the midst of her anguish, and her eyes sought mine with an irresistible glance in which love and tenderness, mingled with entreaty, struggled with hope, I knew that all further resistance to the spell on my part was useless, for Vera spoke the truth – and she was all the world to me.

So I took her in my arms, and forgave her.

“And you will always trust me now, Frank?” she asked presently with happy and tender elation.

“Vera,” I said, gravely, “I am showing my faith in you, am I not, by asking you to be my wife? I can trust you?”

“Trust me!” she cried. “Mon Dieu! I have loved only one man; it is you.”

I bent down to kiss the pale upturned face and her lips met mine in a hot passionate caress, enough to make any man’s head reel.

“I will endeavour to blot out from my memory this strange deceit you have practised upon me,” I exclaimed in a low voice.

“I am thankful to you, for I’m so undeserving,” she cried, kissing me fondly again and again.

“But you must own your vindication has not been very satisfactory,” I said, smiling.

“Yes, I am aware of that,” she replied, seriously.

“Mais, restes tranquille. I cannot tell you all – at least not yet.”

“Then for the present I have heard enough to convince me once more of your affection, Vera, and to each other we will be as before. You are still, darling, my betrothed.”

She did not reply, but flinging her slim white arms around my neck, shed tears of joy. The terrible anxiety as to the result of her pleading, upon which depended her happiness and peace of mind, had proved too great for her, and her pent-up feelings found vent in hysterical emotion.

She clung tightly to me as I tried to soothe her, and presently, when she became more calm, she dashed away her tears.

Before I returned to town that night she had consented to become my wife in a few months. Some might censure me as being rash and headstrong, but the truth was I had become intoxicated with her marvellous beauty, fascinated by her charming manner, just as I had been when we met by the Mediterranean.

There was something undeniably strange and mysterious in her religiously-guarded secret, but I felt assured hers was a strong, passionate, unwavering affection, and consequently, when I bade her good-night, I was in the best of spirits, and hopeful of the future.

Chapter Eighteen

Under the Stars

Six months later.

Vera was now my wife. After spending a blissful honeymoon among the Cumberland Lakes we had taken up our abode at Elveham Dene, the home of my childhood, which I had inherited from my father. She was delighted with the old place, and, indeed, I myself have always been fond of it, and may be forgiven if I descant upon its old-world beauties.

It sounds egotistical, even snobbish, nowadays, to talk of ancient lineage, but ours was not a mushroom family, for the Burgoynes have been the possessors of the estate for the greater portion of three centuries.

Six miles from the nearest railway station, Stamford, and one from the village of Blatherwyke, Elveham stands high up, commanding magnificent views across that most fertile of the midland counties – Northamptonshire. Built when the First James was King, with its wings of brick and stone dressings, the centre entirely of stone shrouded by the ivy of years and decorated with Renaissance ornaments, its great charm lies in the air of unprofaned antiquity which surrounds it. There are no modern additions; and the broad balustraded terraces, the quaint old flower gardens with their sundials, and the venerable oaks and yew-trees, all call up visions of sturdy white-plumed cavaliers whose talk is of the unhappy fight at Cheriton and the downfall of “Loyalty.”

Through the long years the interior has been little changed, and contains some fine old tapestry, ancient furniture, and a gallery wherein hang the time-sombred portraits of my ancestors.

It is a quaint old place throughout, and it was my delight when I brought Vera there to point out and explain the curiosities, odd nooks and corners, and relate to her its many traditions.

The Dene itself is noteworthy, too: a long steep glade carpeted with turf, closed in by a wooded amphitheatre, which opens close to the house. The lower part forms a flower garden; the whole scene, with its occasional cypresses and sunny patches of greensward, is Poussinesque, and strictly classical, belonging not to English fairies, but to the wood spirit of the old world.

Beyond, a walk leads through a beech wood, the undergrowth of which consists of huge rhododendrons. Blatherwyke may be reached by this path, being a shorter distance than by the high-road.