“It is not sufficient that you have my affection,” she answered. “I wish to continue to be your confidante and friend. Recollect that a woman’s wit is often of value to a man engaged in public life as you are.”
“I know my debt to you is more than I can ever repay,” he declared frankly. “To your good counsels and personal interest all my success is due. I owe all to you—everything.”
“And in return you have given me your love, the sum of my desire,” she said contentedly, slowly raising her lips and kissing him. “You are mine, Dudley, and you will ever remain so—won’t you?” He held his breath for an instant. Then, as he twined his arm round her slender waist, he said:
“Of course, darling, I shall ever remain yours, always—always.”
He lied to her. Faugh! he hated himself. For the first time he had uttered a deliberate falsehood concerning their love; and he felt positive she knew that he had not spoken the truth. So close had been their association for many years, unbroken save for the few months of her married life, that they read each other’s unuttered thought and knew each other’s innermost secrets.
Long ago she had laid bare her whole heart to him, concealing nothing, and not seeking to excuse herself for any of those flirtations which from time to time had been the talk of the town. He knew everything, and had in return repeated his declaration of love for her. Indeed, after that long friendship the life of each was void without the other. When parted from her by reason of her country visits, there somehow seemed a blank in his existence, and he found himself thinking of her night and day. Until her last absence in Paris it had been their custom to write to each other every second day.
How; would she act if she knew the truth? What would she think of him if she were aware that he had promised himself to another woman, and one who had come into his life so suddenly, if she continued to shield him from the exposure of his guilty secret? Her dark eyes, those splendid eyes everywhere so greatly admired, were turned upon him. There was an air of sweet sadness in their expression. His eyes fell: he could not meet her gaze.
“Do you know, Dudley,” she exclaimed at last in the soft, sweet voice he was never tired of hearing, the voice that had so often consoled him and encouraged him to strive after high ideals,—“do you know, dear, I have lately thought that your people are endeavouring to part us. You recollect your sudden refusal to see me last autumn? Your cruel action put fear into my heart. I am dreading always that I may lose you—that you will listen to the well-meant counsels of your relations and cast my love aside.”
He saw by her countenance how terribly in earnest she was, and hastened to reassure her.
“No, darling. All that is a foolish fancy. You may rest quite assured that as I have not already listened to the advice of people who are in ignorance of the platonic nature of our friendship, I shall never do so. We have been lovers ever since our teens, and we shall, I hope, always so remain.”