In White Raiment

A deep silence fell. The woman who was my wife was reflecting.

“You say that by marriage I could defy my enemies; but that is incorrect. I could not cut myself free of all of them.”

“Why? Whom would you fear?”

“You yourself,” she answered bluntly.

“You have no confidence in me,” he protested with a dissatisfied air.

“I can have no confidence in one who holds me enslaved as you do.”

“And yet I have come here at considerable risk and personal inconvenience to give you warning.”

“Because you fear discovery yourself.”

“No,” he laughed; “I’m quite safe. I merely came here to make two suggestions to you. One I have already made, namely, that you should marry Chetwode without delay. And the other – ”

He paused, as though to accurately gauge the extent of his power over her.

“Well? Go on. I am all attention.”

“The other is that you should, as before, render me a trifling assistance in a little matter I have in hand which, if successfully carried out, will place both of us for ever beyond the reach of La Gioia’s vengeance.”

“Another scheme?” she cried wearily. “Well, what is it? Some further dastardly plot or other, no doubt. Explain it.”

“No; you are under a misapprehension,” he responded quickly. “The affair is no dastardly plot, but merely a little piece of ingenuity by which we may outwit La Gioia.”

“Outwit her!” she cried. “The very devil himself could not outwit La Gioia.”

“Ah!” he laughed; “you women are always so ready to jump to ill-formed conclusions. She has one weak point.”

“And you have discovered it?”

“Yes; I have discovered it.”

“How?”

“That is my affair. It is sufficient to be aware that she, the invincible, is nevertheless vulnerable.”

There was another pause; but at last the woman I loved responded in a firm, determined tone —

“Then, if that is true, I leave it to you. You declare you are my friend, therefore I can, at least, rely on you for protection, especially as we have so many interests in common.”

“But you must assist me,” he observed.

“No,” she answered, “I refuse to do that. You are quite capable of carrying out any villainy without my assistance.”

“Need we use the term villainy where La Gioia is concerned?” he asked. “You know her well enough to be aware that if she finds you she will be merciless, and will gloat over your downfall.”

“I would kill myself before she discovers me,” my wife declared.

“But you might not have time,” he suggested. “To die willingly demands considerable resolution. Women’s nerve usually fails them at the extreme moment.”

“Mine will not, you may rest assured of that,” she answered.

“You don’t seem capable of listening to reason to-night,” he protested.

“I am capable of listening to reason, but not to conspiracy,” she replied with some hauteur. “I know well what is passing in your mind. You would plot to take her life – to murder La Gioia!”

He laughed outright, as though there was something humorous in her words.

“No, no, my dear,” he answered quickly. “You quite misunderstood my intention.”

“I misunderstood your intention on a previous occasion,” she said meaningly.

“But in this affair our interests are entirely mutual,” he pointed out. “You must assist me.”

“I shall not.”

“But you must. We have everything to gain by securing her silence.”

“And everything to lose by meeting her.”

“But when we meet her it will be in defiance. I have thought out a plan.”

“Then carry it out,” she said. “I will have nothing whatever to do with it.”

“I may compel you,” he said, with slow distinctness. “You have already compelled me to act as your accomplice, but you have strained my bonds until they can resist no longer. I intend to break them.”

“That is indeed very interesting!” He laughed, treating her as though she were a spoilt child.

“Yes,” she cried furiously, “I will kill myself!”

“And leave me to make a scandalous explanation.”

“Then you would besmirch my good name after my death?” she said, turning upon him quickly. “Ah, yes! You show yourself in your true colours. You would even weave about me a web of infamy, so as to prevent me taking my life. I hate and detest you!”

“That’s not the first time you have informed me of that fact, my dear,” he responded, perfectly coolly.

“If it were not for you I should now be a happy girl. Thanks to you I am, however, one of the most wretched of all God’s creatures.”

“You need not be. You are petted in your own circle of friends, and your reputation remains unsullied.”

“I occupy a false position,” she declared. “What would Cyril say if he knew the truth?”

“A woman should never study the man who is to be her husband. It makes him far too conceited; and, moreover, she is sure to regret it in after-life.”

He was at times shrewdly philosophical, this scoundrel who held my wife beneath his thrall.