There was an earnestness in her tone which struck me as curious. What could she, a girl living in a quiet country village in England, know about “the machinations of unscrupulous enemies?” She spoke as though well versed in the diplomatic plots of Paris, even as though she would corroborate what the Princess had alleged. It was odd, and caused me much reflection. What could she possibly know?
“It is only fair to me that you should warn me of the peril,” I said at last.
“Hush!” she whispered, looking round the room in fear; “the very walls have ears. If it were believed that I had spoken to you of this, a catastrophe, terrible and complete, would ensue.”
“Really, Edith,” I said, “you speak in enigmas. I don’t know what to believe.”
“Believe in me,” she answered in a deep, earnest voice. “Believe in my truth and purity as you did before, for I protest that never for a single instant have I forgotten the vows I made to you.”
“Ah,” I said very sadly, “if I could only believe that you really love me, how happy I should be! But as it is, I fear this to be quite impossible.”
“No,” she wailed, tears welling in her eyes. “Surely the sight of that man unknown to you has not destroyed all your belief in woman’s honesty and affection? You must, deep down in your heart, see that I love you firmly and well. You cannot be so blind, Gerald, as to believe that here, to-day, I am playing you false! Ah! if you only knew!” she sighed. “If you only knew all that I am suffering, you would pity me, and you would take me in your embrace as once you used to do, and kiss me on the lips as a sign of your forgiveness. I can suffer,” she went on brokenly—“I can endure the awful anxiety and tribulation for your sake; I can cheerfully bear the jeers of men and the insults of women, but I cannot bear your coldness to me, because I love you, and because you once declared that you were mine.”
“This estrangement has arisen between us through your own fault,” I answered.
Just at this moment my man rapped smartly at the door, and Edith rose quickly from her knees before he entered with the tea. The little silver service was a quaint relic of the Queen Anne period, which had long been in my family, and which was always admired by the brilliant Parisiennes who often did me the honour of taking a cup of English tea—not, of course, because they liked the beverage, but because to drink it is nowadays considered chic. My man told me that a messenger had called from the Embassy, and I left the room for a few moments to see him.
But Edith disregarded the fact that tea had been brought. The instant I returned and the door had closed again, she came across to me, saying: