But she only sighed, smiled rather sadly, and answered in a low voice:
“The quietness of life here is nothing to me, as long as I am confident that your love for me is just the same as it was when you first told me the secret of your heart.”
“It is,” I assured her—“it is, darling. I love you—and you alone.”
There was an instant’s hesitation, and then her arms stole gently to my neck, and her lips were pressed to the cheek I bent to them, but only for a second; then my lips were upon hers, clinging to them softly, passionately; and in those moments of ecstasy I drew my soul’s life from that sweet mouth.
Heedless of time, we stood there in each other’s embrace, repeating our vows of love and devotion, until the sun went down behind the low hills beyond Raynham, and the broad pastures were flooded by the purple glow of the dying day. Happy and content in each other’s affection, we were careless of the past, and recked not of the future. Edith loved me, and I wished for naught else in all the world.
Now as I sit committing this strange story of my life—this confidential chapter in the modern history of Europe—to paper, I recall every detail of those hours we spent down by the riverside, and contrast it with the curious events which followed—events which were so strange as to be inexplicable until the ghastly truth became revealed. But I loved, and my affection was reciprocated. That surely was sufficient, for I knew that I had gained the purest, most beautiful, and sweetest woman I had ever met.
At last the fading sunlight impressed upon us the fact that the dinner-hour was approaching; and, knowing Miss Foskett’s punctuality at meals, we were compelled to strike along the footpath over Dunham Hill, and take the shortest cut across the fields through the little hamlet of Gateley, and thence by a grass-grown by-road back to Great Ryburgh, where we arrived just as the gong sounded.
When we re-entered the dining-room, Aunt Hetty glanced at us keenly, as though she wished to make some sarcastic comment upon our long absence; but our pleasant demeanour apparently silenced her, and she contented herself by taking her seat at table and inquiring of me if I had had a pleasant walk, and whether I found the country agreeable after the dusty boulevards of Paris.
“Of course,” I answered, “I always find England charming, and I’m very frequently homesick, living as I do among foreigners always. But why don’t you come abroad for a month or so, and bring Edith?”
“Abroad!” screamed the old lady, holding up her hands. “Never! I went to Lucerne once, and found it horrible.”