During the evening Alice seemed nervous. She would exert her most bewitching arts to interest Oswald, and then remain silent. Many pleasant complimentary remarks would be cut off abruptly, as if the speaker refrained from further comment through maidenly hesitation or restraint. He noticed her odd manner, but being much absorbed in thoughts of the opera, was not inclined to be sensitive or critical. After some time had been passed in this manner, she suggested that they tie up the boat to a projecting bush on the bank of the stream and take a stroll along the shore.
Alice and Oswald walked along the bank for a few minutes, coming to some overhanging shrubbery, where there was a seat, used by strollers along that side of the Thames. They sat down within a few feet of the shore. The girl still acted strangely, appearing to have some matter in thought importunate for expression, but nervously suppressed. Oswald inquired if Alice were still worrying over her financial troubles, adding some hopeful remarks as to the future, even if the property should pass into the possession of another. His manner was sympathetic. Overcome by her emotions and his words, she began to cry.
Oswald was now in a dilemma. He could face danger with unflinching nerves, but was a novice in such an emergency. Doing what any young man with generous impulses naturally would do under such circumstances, he attempted to allay the fears of his hysterical companion. There was little of premeditated propriety in his words or conduct.
Alice now confessed to Oswald her love. "Much as I dread being left penniless, such poverty would be nothing compared to loss of you. With all the worry and uncertainty caused by this villainous conspiracy against my father's estate, shadowed by fear of the hateful Paul Lanier, life since meeting you at Northfield has been a joyous dream. Without you I cannot live, pursued by the cunning malice and crafty scheming of these persecutors. Will you forgive me, Mr. Langdon, for not waiting a proposal? You have been so kind, I cannot believe you insincere."
To say that Oswald was embarrassed by this unexpected burst of feminine emotion would be mild expression of his feelings. He was stunned and speechless. What could he say in reply? The utter helplessness of Alice, with her despondent future outlook, pursued by enemies whose aims were cruelly vague, against all restraints of maidenly sentiment declaring love for one having no responsive feeling other than pity, was pathetic. Had he not unwittingly contributed to her misery by his unguarded conduct? Would not his denial of her strange suit be a base betrayal? Alice had thought his conduct sincere. How could he now crush this poor girl's hopes by frank statement of his real sentiments.
With staring, inquisitive eyes Alice watched Oswald's troubled face while these thoughts were passing through his mind. She could not mistake his embarrassment. With dawning presentiment of his unspoken decision, this despairing girl, standing erect, gave one glance at the river. Her action was quickly noted by Oswald, who sprang between Alice and the shore. She begged him to have pity. "You have made me love you! Do not cast me off! Whatever happens, save me from that hateful villain, Paul Lanier!"
There is a flash of steel, a blow and thrust, followed by the splash of two bodies. A form stoops over the projecting shore until the waters have hidden both from view. By aid of the moonlight, scanning the stream far as can be seen in its onward course, this peering watcher seems fearful that his victims may escape from the river. At the sound of voices, he mutters an oath and skulks away.
Oswald rises and swims against the current. Grasping an overhanging shrub in contact with the water's surface, by great effort he manages to reach land.
