“But I fear that you may bitterly repent this—I fear that when you know all my past your love will turn to hatred and your admiration to loathing.”
“The past does not concern us, dearest,” I answered tenderly, with my arm about her slim waist. “It is for the future we must live, and to that end assist one another.” And again I pressed my lips to hers fondly in all the ecstasy of my new-found happiness.
What further description can I give of those moments of bliss? You, my reader, know well the sweet idyllic peace that comes in the stillness of night when two hearts beat in unison. Wisely or unwisely, you have loved with all the ardour of your nature, just as I loved. You remember well the passion of those first caresses, the music of those fervent words of devotion, and the opening vista of happiness unalloyed.
Pause for a moment and reflect upon first your own love, and you will know something of my tender feelings toward the poor hapless woman whose pure and loving heart was frozen by the terror of exposure.
CHAPTER XXVIII
WE RECEIVE MIDNIGHT VISITORS
I took leave of my love reluctantly at ten o’clock, just outside Bringhurst village. She was anxious to be back at the farm before the return of Purvis, who had gone that morning to London on some secret errand, and was returning by the last train.
She had entirely enchanted me. The more I saw of her, the more graceful, the more charming, she seemed. There was nothing loud or masculine about her; she was a sweet, modest woman, yearning for love, sympathy, and protection.
The manner in which she was bound to this clever gang of rogues was still a mystery. In me she had confided many things during those two calm hours of our new-born love, but from me she still concealed the real reason why her interests were bound up in those of Purvis, Bennett, and their two accomplices. I guessed, and believed that I guessed aright. The tragedy at Kilburn held her to them irrevocably. She was entirely and helplessly in their hands, to fetch and carry, to do their bidding; indeed, to act unlawfully at their command.
If that were so, surely no woman could be in a more horrible position—compelled to be the accomplice of assassins.
I thought it all over as, in the darkness, I walked back to Caldecott.