Her Majesty's Minister

“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.