Her Majesty's Minister Part 39

I, as a diplomatist, knew too well the vulnerability of our Empire. We have patriotism, it is true, for the sons of England will ever shed the last drop of their blood in the defence of their beloved country; but something more than patriotism is now necessary for successful defence.

In these days, when Europe is daily arming and small republics, backed by certain of the Powers, amuse themselves by twisting the Lion's tail, an efficient British army is necessary, as well as a navy that must be stronger than that of the rest of the world. We at the emba.s.sies know how, by descending to methods which we as Englishmen scorn to use, our enemies are often able to outwit and checkmate us; and we know also that in England foreign spies are allowed to come and go at will, and that the interesting gentlemen whom we welcome are gradually elaborating their plans for the invasion of our sh.o.r.es.

Many there are who laugh at the idea of an invasion of England, but every diplomatist in Europe knows well that the problem is discussed in every military centre on the Continent, and that in certain quarters strategists have drawn up plans by which the catastrophe can undoubtedly be accomplished. Therefore, in spite of the sneers of those who rest upon a false belief in their insular security, we should be in a condition not only to defend, but to defy--a condition which, to our sorrow, does not at present exist.

The Princess had offered me such information as would enable me to crush the conspiracy against us, and I had refused her terms. Sometimes, as I sat alone in my room thinking, I felt that I had made a mistake, and that I ought, in the interests of my country, to have accepted. Then, at others, I felt glad that I had had the courage to refuse her conditions, and to leave her as I had done. As she had learned the truth from the Emperor Francis Joseph of Austria, the secret must be known in the Court circle at Vienna.

Yet unfortunately it was impossible for me to go there, and equally impossible, after giving my word of honour to Leonie, to explain my fears to Kaye and allow the secret service to make inquiries. I knew from many signs that catastrophe was imminent, but was utterly powerless to avert it.

Reader, place yourself for a single moment in my position--your own honour at stake on the one hand, and that of your country on the other.

It seemed base to speak, base to keep silence.

I shall not easily forget what I suffered during this period of anxious inactivity. The weeks went by, Lord Barmouth came back sun-tanned and jovial, and all the other representatives of the European Courts returned one by one after their summer leave. Parisians, driven away by wet weather, deserted the plages, the chateaux, and the various inland watering-places; and from Dieppe and Trouville, Arcachon and Luchon, Vichy and Aix, Royat and Contrexeville the crowds of mothers and daughters, with a sprinkling of fathers, came gaily back to their favourite boulevards, their favourite magasins, and their favourite cafes. Paris was herself again--for the winds were cold, the leaves in the boulevards were falling in showers, and the wet pavements were rendered disagreeable on account of them.

One afternoon towards the end of November I entered my little flat with my latchkey, and walked straight into my sitting-room, when, to my surprise, a beautiful girl rose from the chair in which she had been sitting, and, without speaking a word, held out her hand.

"You--Edith!" I gasped, utterly taken aback.

"Yes," she said in a strained voice. "Will you not welcome me? Your man said he expected you every moment, and asked me to await you. I ought not to have come here, to your chambers, I know, but being in Paris I could not resist."

"I never dreamed that you were here. Is your aunt with you?"

"Yes," she replied. "I have at last managed to persuade her to winter on the Italian Riviera."

"Where?"

"At San Remo. Our vicar at Ryburgh stayed there for a month last winter, and gave us a most glowing account of it. Judging from the photographs, it must be a most delightful place--quite an earthly paradise for those wis.h.i.+ng to avoid the English frost and fogs. Do you know it?"

"Yes," I answered, seating myself in a chair opposite her. "I've been there once. It is, as you antic.i.p.ate, perfectly charming. You will no doubt enjoy yourself immensely."

Her lips compressed, and her eyes were fixed upon mine.

"I shall, I fear, not have much enjoyment," she sighed sadly.

"Why?"

"You know why well enough," she answered in a tone of bitter reproach.

"Because we are parted," I said. "Well, Edith, I, too, regret it. But need we discuss that incident further? We are still friends, and I am glad that you have not pa.s.sed through Paris without sparing an hour to call upon me."

"But it is to discuss it that I came here," she protested quickly. Her rich fur cape had slipped from her shoulders and lay behind her in my big armchair. In her black tailor-made gown and her elegant hat, which bore the unmistakable stamp of having been purchased since her arrival in Paris, she looked smart and attractive. Her pure, open face was exquisite to behold, even though a trifle thinner and paler than on that summer's day when we had wandered by the river and she had pledged her love to me. But as she sat before me toying with her bracelet, from which a dozen little charms were hanging, the remembrance of her base deception flashed through my brain. I held her in suspicion--and suspicion of this kind is the seed of hatred.

"I cannot see what there is to discuss," I answered coldly, at the same time ringing and ordering tea for her. "Nor can I see," I added, "what good there is in reopening a chapter in our lives which ought to be for ever closed."

"No, Gerald," she cried, "don't say that! Those words break my heart.

It is not closed. You do not understand."

"To speak of it only causes pain to both of us," I said. "Cannot you visit me as a friend and resolve not to discuss the unfortunate affair?"

"No," she declared quickly, "I cannot. I have come to you to-day, Gerald, to explain and to ask your forgiveness. My aunt is confined to her room with a headache, and I have managed to slip away from the hotel and come to you here."

"Well?" I asked rather coldly.

I confess that her visit annoyed me, for I saw in her att.i.tude a desire to make such explanations as would satisfy me; but, taught by experience, I was resolved to accept no word from her as the truth. She had deceived me once; and although she was the only woman I had really loved honestly and well, her wiles and fascinations had no longer any power over me.

"Gerald," she exclaimed, as she rose suddenly, crossed the s.p.a.ce between us, and, after placing her arms about my neck, sank upon her knees at my side, "I ask your forgiveness."

She spoke in a manner the most intense; and I saw how nervous and anxious she was. Yes, she had altered considerably since that day at Ryburgh when we had strolled together in the sunset and I had told her of my love, her features were sharper, paler, and more refined. Grief had left its imprint upon that sweet, pure countenance, which had always reminded me so vividly of Van Dyck's "Madonna" in the Pitti at Florence.

Do you know it? You will find it--a small picture too often unnoticed, only a foot square, hung low down in the Saloon of the Painters. It shows a marvellously beautiful face, perfect in its contour, graced by a sweet and childlike mouth with the true Cupid's bow, and with eyes dark and searching. This perfect type of beauty so markedly resembled Edith that its photograph might almost be accepted as a portrait of her.

There, on her knees, she twice besought my forgiveness. But I remained silent. To forgive was impossible, I knew; nevertheless, I had no desire to cause her pain. Her face told me that she had already suffered sufficiently in the months that had elapsed since I had bidden her farewell at the little railway-station in rural England.

"Speak!" she cried. "Tell me, Gerald, that you love no one else beside myself--that--that you will forgive me!"

Turning to her, I grasped her hand, and, looking straight into those eyes which I had once believed to be so full of truth, honesty, and affection, I answered earnestly:

"I love no woman on earth except yourself, Edith. But to forgive is quite impossible."

"No!" she cried wildly--"no! you cannot be cold and callous if you really love me. See! here at your feet I beseech of you to allow me to prove my innocence and show my love for you!"

"I once believed implicitly in you, Edith," I said very gravely, still holding her hand; "but the discovery that you met your lover clandestinely beneath the very window of my room has so shaken my confidence that it is utterly impossible for you ever to re-establish it."

"But he is not my lover!" she protested, her blanched face upturned to mine. "I swear he is not; nor has he ever been."

"I have no proof of your declaration," I answered, shaking my head dubiously.

"Except my oath," she gasped in desperation. "Cannot you accept that?

I swear by all I hold most sacred," she cried, lifting her head and raising her face to Heaven--"I swear that I entertain no spark of affection for that man, and that he has never been my lover!"

"Then who is he?" I demanded. "What is his name?"

CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT.

ON THE CROOKED WAY.

She held her breath. Her hand trembled within my grasp. Then, after a moment, she faltered:

"He is not my lover. Is not my declaration sufficient?"

"No, it is not," I responded harshly. "If he is nothing to you, as you allege, then why did you meet him secretly at night, and make an appointment to meet again after I had left Ryburgh?"

"Because I was forced to--because--"

"Because you have allowed that shabby adventurer to love you!" I interrupted. "Because you have played me false!"

"I deny it!" she protested, a gleam of defiance flas.h.i.+ng for an instant in her eyes. "I have never played you false, Gerald. The charge against me is utterly false and unfounded."

"Then perhaps you will explain this wandering visitor's business with you."

"I would tell you all--all that has pa.s.sed between us, but I dare not.