“I’m beyond caring for appearances. If Fritz discovers that I love you, will he not divorce me? What matter if Munich cut me first? I know now that is what they expect Fritz to do. Some one of them has told him. My life here is rushing to a climax. It is only a question of days when I shall be cast out for every she-wolf—led by Princess Nachmeister—to set her teeth in my flesh.”
Ordham, colder each moment, stared at the ground with blanching face. He recalled the discreet hint of Excellenz. And if she knew, why not others? He wondered somewhat at Munich’s sudden access of virtue, then remembered its deathless intolerance of the outsider. Might it not be true that this poor woman—he had never seen any one look so weak and helpless, as she wrung her hands and stared into vacancy—was about to be publicly disgraced on his account? He turned faint and sick at the burden cast upon his unwilling shoulders, but he made up his mind to temporize until the last moment.
Her eyes dismissed their fixed stare and met his in an agony of appeal. So may martyrs have looked when beholding the torch approach the fagots.
“Ah!” she wailed softly. “If you but loved me! Then it would not matter. My villa in Italy! We could be so happy. In Italy nothing matters. And by and by all would be forgotten. You are of the elect, and to them all things are forgiven. But you hate me! You hate me!”
“How can you say such a thing? You have taken away my breath. You suggest enchanting possibilities, but we must both take more time to think. And I really must leave this damp spot. It is dangerous for us both. If you have not come to the conclusion by to-morrow that your fears are exaggerated, we will talk it over. Shall we meet here?”
“Will you swear not to send me word that you are ill?”
“Of course.”
“Then come to the house. I shall receive you in the salon. If we sit in the middle of the room no one can overhear a word we say, and did Fritz return suddenly no situation could disconcert him more. Whereas, did we meet here—and were followed—how do I not know that the footman was not told to spy?—yes! Let us go—now—quickly!”
She hastened out of the grove, but at the end of the path paused abruptly. “I must walk!” she announced. “I shall dismiss the carriage. It is better, too, that you should walk.”
“Very well.” He resigned himself to another tête-à-tête. The park was nearly deserted. They walked along the outer carriage drive. He endeavoured to divert her mind. He might as well have attempted to dam a flood with his hands. She had reached that pitch of nerves which must find relief in a torrent of words or in hysterics. Her maid would soon be methodically administering sedatives; and meanwhile Ordham was forced to listen to a tirade against Wass, Munich, and her thrice unhappy fate in loving a man who, for worldly reasons, would not permit himself to return her love, hesitated to fly to a Paradise in Italy lest a few ridiculous people cut him for six months. He was appalled at the strength of the woman’s passion, and distracted at the thought of the possible consequences. No longer could he cheat himself with the delusion that she had transmuted her love into friendship, that she would open her net after the fashion of sensible women of the world when the captive began to flutter. For once his diplomatic instinct was at a loss. Again he felt that events were rushing too quickly for him, and he had not the least idea what to do.