That ring of earnestness in her voice it seemed impossible to counterfeit. Puzzled, I gazed at her, striving to read her countenance. Her head was bent, her colour changing; do what she would she could not keep the blood quite steady in her cheek.
“But may I not know, Eva?” I implored. “Surely you will not refuse to warn or guide one who is so entirely devoted to you as I am?”
“I cannot warn you, except to say that treachery may be sweetly concealed, and danger lurk where you may least suspect its presence.”
“You wish to place a gulf between us,” I cried impatiently. “But that’s impossible. I cannot rest without you; I am drawn to you as though by some power of magic. I am yours in life, in death.”
“Ah, no!” she cried suddenly, putting up her hands to her face. “Speak not of death. You are making vows that must ere long be broken,” and she sighed deeply.
Was not her attitude, standing there pale and trembling, the attitude of a guilty woman who feared the revelation of her crime? I looked again at her, and becoming convinced that it was, I regarded her with inexpressible scorn and love, horror and adoration. She seemed to have changed of late. She pondered over my words, weighing them without any idle misleadings of fancy. Did she never dream as she had done when we first met?
“Why must my vows be broken when my love for you is so fervent, Eva?” I demanded, in a voice a trifle hard, I think.
She shuddered and gave a gesture of despair as if there were, indeed, no defence for her. A great darkness was over my mind like the plague of an unending night.
“I have warned you,” she responded, in a strange low tone. “If you really love me as you say you do, remain away from this house.”
“Why are you so anxious that I should not visit you?” I demanded, puzzled. Then I added: “Of course in order to gain your love I am prepared to accept any conditions you may propose. If I do not again come here, will you meet me in London?”