Her Majesty's Minister

“Yes,” she answered, smiling, “I remember. My love for you, Gerald, has never wavered for one single instant.”

“Then why should you be unhappy?” I asked.

“I really cannot tell,” she answered. She turned her face, and I saw that there was a shadow across it, as though the sunshine of her life had gone behind a bank of cloud. “All I can compare this strange foreboding to is the shadow of an unknown danger which seems of late to have arisen, and to stand in a wall of impenetrable blackness between us.”

“No, no!” I hastened to urge, “the sweet idyll of our blameless love must be preserved. That fancy of yours is only a vague, unfounded one.”

She shook her head dubiously.

“It is always with me. During my long, solitary wanderings here I think of you, and then it arises to overshadow me and crush out all my happiness,” she said in a tone of sorrow.

“Your life is dismal and lonely here,” I said. “You’ve become nervous and melancholy. Why not have a change? Persuade your aunt to bring you to Paris, or, if not, to some place near, where we may meet often.”

“No,” she replied in a harsh tone. “My presence in Paris is not wanted. You are better without me. You must leave England again to-morrow – and you must forget.”

“Forget!” I gasped. “Why?”

“It is best to do so,” she faltered with emotion. “I am unfitted to become your wife.”

“But you shall – you must!” I cried. “You have already given me your promise. You will not desert me now!”

She made no response. I pressed her again for an answer, but she maintained silence. Her attitude was one of firm resolve, and gave me the distinct impression that she had gained some knowledge of the reason of our brief estrangement.

“Tell me the reason of your sudden disbelief in my declarations,” I urged, looking earnestly into her eyes. “Surely I have given you no cause to regard our love as a mere irresponsible flirtation?”

“I have no reason to disbelieve you, Gerald,” she answered seriously; “yet I recognise the impossibility of our marriage.”

“Why is it impossible? We are both controllers of our own actions. You will not remain here with your aunt all your days?”

“We may marry, but we should not be happy, I feel certain.”

“Why?”

“Because if I were your wife I could not bear to think you were out each night dancing attendance upon a crowd of foreign women at the various functions which you are in duty bound to attend.”

I smiled at her argument. Ignorant of the world and its ways, and knowing nothing of Society beyond that gossiping little circle of tea-drinkers and tennis-players which had its centre in the town of Fakenham, and had as leader the portly wife of the estimable incumbent, she saw herself neglected among the brilliant crowd in Paris as described by the so-called “Society” papers.

I hastened to reassure her, and as we strolled on through the wood and, following the meandering of the river, emerged upon the broad grass-lands before Sennowe Hall, I used every argument of which I was capable in order to dispel her absurd apprehensions. My protestations of love I repeated a hundred times, striving to impress upon her that I was actually in earnest; but she repelled me always, until of a sudden I halted beneath the willows, and, placing my arm around her slim waist, narrowly girdled by its crimson ribbon, I drew her again to me, saying:

“Tell me, Edith, plainly, whether or no you love me. These cold words of yours have struck me to the heart, and I feel somehow that in my absence you have found some other man who has your gratitude, your respect, and your love.”

She raised her hand, as though to stay the flow of my words.

“No, no!” I went on passionately. “You must hear me, for you seem to be gradually slipping away from me. You must hear me! Cast away this cold sweetness that is enough to madden any man. Give me a right to your love; give me a right to it! You cannot be indifferent to such a love as mine unless you love someone else.”

“Stop!” she cried, moved by a sudden generous impulse. “I love no one else but you.”

“And you admit that you still love me? You will be the same to me as before?” I cried eagerly.

“If you will swear that there is no thought of another woman in your heart,” she answered seriously.

A pang of conscience smote me; but inwardly I reassured myself that all the fascination of Yolande had been dispelled and that my love was free.

“I swear,” I said; then slowly I bent until our lips touched.

Hers met mine in a fierce, passionate caress, and by that I knew our compact was sealed.

“I admit,” she said, “that my instinct, if it were instinct, was wrong. You have, after all, proved yourself loyal to me.”

“And I shall remain so, darling,” I assured her, kissing her again upon the brow. “For the present you must be content to remain with your aunt; but nevertheless, try to persuade her to come to Paris. Then we can spend many happy days together.”

“She hates the Continent and foreigners,” answered my love with a brightening smile. “I fear I can never persuade her to move from here. She went to Switzerland twenty years ago, and has never ceased condemning foreign travel.”

“If she will not come, then why not engage a chaperon? You surely know some pleasant woman who would be pleased to have a holiday jaunt.”

“Well,” she answered dubiously, “I’ll try, but I fear Aunt Hetty will never hear of it.”

“The life in the profound stillness of that house and the rigid seclusion from all worldly enjoyment are producing an ill effect upon your health, darling,” I said presently. “You must have a change. It is imperative.”

But she only sighed, smiled rather sadly, and answered in a low voice:

“The quietness of life here is nothing to me, as long as I am confident that your love for me is just the same as it was when you first told me the secret of your heart.”

“It is,” I assured her – “it is, darling. I love you – and you alone.”

There was an instant’s hesitation, and then her arms stole gently to my neck, and her lips were pressed to the cheek I bent to them, but only for a second; then my lips were upon hers, clinging to them softly, passionately; and in those moments of ecstasy I drew my soul’s life from that sweet mouth.

Heedless of time, we stood there in each other’s embrace, repeating our vows of love and devotion, until the sun went down behind the low hills beyond Raynham, and the broad pastures were flooded by the purple glow of the dying day. Happy and content in each other’s affection, we were careless of the past, and recked not of the future. Edith loved me, and I wished for naught else in all the world.

Now as I sit committing this strange story of my life – this confidential chapter in the modern history of Europe – to paper, I recall every detail of those hours we spent down by the riverside, and contrast it with the curious events which followed – events which were so strange as to be inexplicable until the ghastly truth became revealed. But I loved, and my affection was reciprocated. That surely was sufficient, for I knew that I had gained the purest, most beautiful, and sweetest woman I had ever met.

At last the fading sunlight impressed upon us the fact that the dinner-hour was approaching; and, knowing Miss Foskett’s punctuality at meals, we were compelled to strike along the footpath over Dunham Hill, and take the shortest cut across the fields through the little hamlet of Gateley, and thence by a grass-grown by-road back to Great Ryburgh, where we arrived just as the gong sounded.

When we re-entered the dining-room, Aunt Hetty glanced at us keenly, as though she wished to make some sarcastic comment upon our long absence; but our pleasant demeanour apparently silenced her, and she contented herself by taking her seat at table and inquiring of me if I had had a pleasant walk, and whether I found the country agreeable after the dusty boulevards of Paris.

“Of course,” I answered, “I always find England charming, and I’m very frequently homesick, living as I do among foreigners always. But why don’t you come abroad for a month or so, and bring Edith?”

“Abroad!” screamed the old lady, holding up her hands. “Never! I went to Lucerne once, and found it horrible.”

“But that was some years ago, was it not? If you went now, you would find that travelling has greatly improved, with a through sleeping-car from Calais to Basle; hotels excellent, and food quite as good as you can obtain in England. During the past few years hotel-keepers on the Continent have awakened to the fact that if they wish to be prosperous they must cater for English visitors.”

“Oh, do let us go abroad, aunt!” urged Edith. “I should so much enjoy it!”

“Paris in summer is worse than London, I’ve heard, my dear,” answered Miss Foskett, in her high-pitched tone.

“But there are many pretty places within easy reach of the capital,” I remarked. “Edith speaks French; therefore you need have no hesitation on that score.”

“No,” said the old lady decisively, “we shall not move from Ryburgh this summer, but perhaps next winter – ”