She loved him. It was the one deep and lasting and genuine passion in a life of many loves, light, fugitive, and easily forgotten; no pale, self-regarding girl's love, but the fervid and passionate self-devotion, the worship, of a matured and full-blooded nature, of one who had drunk deeply of the cup of life, who knew the world and had sounded all the mysteries of passion. She asked nothing in return—nothing but leave to adore, to cherish. They would go to some sunny summerland, where he was not known, wherever he pleased; they might cruise about in their own yacht; they might live on her estate sometimes—anywhere, only together. If he were, as he said, cast broken and friendless upon the world, without a crust, with neither friends, nor hope, nor prospects, why not take refuge in her love? Her wealth was ample. All she had was his without reserve. He might exchange into a regiment on foreign service; he might serve in a foreign army. He might not think it, but she could be a tame, fireside woman for his sake: she would make him a true and devoted wife, married or not. When a woman loved truly she was capable of anything.
Her appeal had the irresistible force of real passion; she was handsome—he had had no idea how handsome till now. Emotion brought back the sweet freshness of youth to her face, called out wonderful tones in her voice and strange brilliance in her eyes. Now she was tender, gentle, sisterly; now she was tragic, fierce, despairing; then suppliant and reproachful, but always with that electric flame of passion kindling and overcharging an atmosphere of mysterious enchantment akin to the magic of the weirdly beautiful gardens and the diablerie of the glittering Casino.
The details of that wild scene he could in no wise recall; nor could he remember exactly how it had come to an end, and he had found himself once more in the free air, thrilled, intoxicated, revolted, bewildered, fascinated, but not bound.
After all, there were worse women than the poor countess. She was a good comrade, and infinitely to be pitied. Was it her fault that she had been torn from her convent in the white innocence of ignorant girlhood and flung without power of protest into the arms of an elderly and unlovable husband, with no pause for reflection, and neither knowledge nor a moment's experience of life? What was there to guide and protect a lovely, lonely, fascinating girl, childless and unloved, and unconscious alike of her power and her weakness, through the rocks and quicksands of a hard and cruel world? Poor child—poor, dear, good-hearted countess! And if her reputation were a trifle damaged, how many, far less tempted and yet of spotless fame in the eyes of a hoodwinked world, were frailer than she! And, after all, who was spotless among women—except Agatha?
To be near Agatha would be calm and safety from that wild and wandering fire. And yet, as he sat listening to the multitudinous murmur of broken seas, with her hand pressed hard to his side, he was powerless to shake off the spell of that passionate hour; the physical attraction, the glowing eyes, the transfigured beauty, the thrilling voice, the pathos, the pity, the deep emotion, were always in his eyes and ears and heart. What could Agatha know of that, or of the intensified power of it all in an hour of desperate need and misery?
"Is it true," he asked, after a long silence, "that my mother is pressed for money, and that you give typewriting to the girls?"
"Ask her yourself. I may say nothing."
"And are you that man's paid secretary? Don't say that's true—not that."
"What man?"
"Oh, that foreign chap, that Pole—de Konski, as he calls himself. He's on some secret service; half English he says he is. He's all right for me; but for you to be his secretary!"