Her Majesty's Minister Part 40

My every action is watched, and if I breathed a single word to you he would know; and then--"

"And what would happen then, pray?" I asked with some surprise, for I now saw that she entertained a deadly fear of her midnight visitor; it was evident that he held some mysterious power over her.

"The result would be disastrous," she replied in a mechanical tone of voice.

"In what way?"

"Not only would it upset all the plans I have formed, but would in all probability be the cause of my own ruin--perhaps even of my suicide,"

she added.

"I don't understand you, Edith," I said, turning again to her, in the hope that she would confide in me. "How would it cause your ruin? If you hesitate to tell me the truth, then it is certain that you fear some exposure."

"You are quite right," she answered, meeting my gaze unflinchingly; "I do fear exposure."

"Then you admit your guilt? You admit that what I have alleged is the actual truth?"

"I do not, for a single instant. The charge is false, and without the slightest foundation," she a.s.serted. "You saw me speaking with him, you may have overheard our conversation, and you no doubt believe that he is my lover. But I tell you he is not."

"His movements were mysterious," I said dubiously. "I followed him."

"You followed him!" she gasped, all colour leaving her face in an instant. "You actually followed him! Where did he go?"

She spoke as though she feared that I had discovered the truth as to his ident.i.ty and calling.

"To a village some little distance away," I replied ambiguously; "and I there discovered one or two things which increased my interest in him."

"What did you discover? Tell me," she urged, grasping my hand anxiously.

"What I discovered only led me still further to the belief that he held you within his power."

"I have already admitted that," she exclaimed. "I am perfectly frank in that respect."

"And you will not tell me the reason? If you refuse to be open and straightforward with me, there surely can be no love between us.

Confidence is the first step towards the union of man with woman."

"I will tell you the reason," she replied in a strange voice, almost as though she were speaking to herself. "It is because a secret exists between us."

"Ah!" I cried, "I thought so. The secret of a love-affair--eh?"

"It concerns a love-affair, it is true, but not our own."

"Oh, now this is interesting!" I cried with bitter sarcasm. "You are bound to each other because of your common knowledge of the love-affair of a third person. That is curious, to say the least of it. No," I added, "I'm afraid, Edith, I cannot accept such a remarkable explanation, notwithstanding the ingenuity displayed in its construction."

"In other words, you insinuate that I am lying to you!" she exclaimed, her cheeks flus.h.i.+ng with indignation.

"I do not use the term `lying,'" I said with a smile; "the word `prevarication' is more applicable. A woman never lies."

"You are not treating me seriously," she complained quickly. "I have come here to tell you all that I can, and--"

"And you have told me practically nothing," I interposed.

"I have told you all that I dare at present," she answered. "Some day, ere long, I hope to be in a position to make full confession to you, and then you will fully understand my action and appreciate the extreme difficulty and deadly peril in which I find myself at this moment."

"You admit that you have a confession to make?"

"Of course I admit it. I wronged you when I met that man on the very night you were a guest beneath our roof. It is but just that you should know the whole of the ghastly truth."

"That is what I am endeavouring to obtain from you," I said. "I want to know who that shabby fellow was, and why he took such pains to keep his presence in Great Ryburgh a secret."

"He had some good reason, I presume," she replied.

"Do you declare that you know absolutely nothing of his movements?" I inquired.

"I know but little of them."

"How long have you been acquainted?"

"Two years--perhaps a little longer."

"And has he visited you often?"

"No, at infrequent intervals."

"Always at night?"

"Always."

"He evidently is a shrewd fellow, who does not wish his presence in that chattering little village to be known," I said with a laugh. Then I added: "You went for moonlight rambles with him, I suppose?"

"He wished to talk with me, and on such occasions we took one or other of the paths across the fields."

"Very interesting," I said. "And all this time you were causing me to believe that you were mine alone! Are you surprised at my refusal to forgive?"

"I should be if I were guilty of playing you false," she answered with slight haughtiness, as though my words wounded her self-respect.

"If you were not guilty you would never endeavour to conceal your lover's name, as you are now doing!" I exclaimed.

"It is because I dare not tell you," she replied, with a look of desperation on her face. "Were I to utter a word in explanation of the true state of affairs, all would be over, and both you and I would suffer."

"How should I suffer?" I asked with some interest.

"The affair is much more curious and complicated than you imagine," she said. "Knowledge of the truth could only bring ruin upon you."

"Rubbis.h.!.+" I cried roughly, starting up. "What have I to fear?"

"No, Gerald," she implored, gripping my hand tightly, "do not treat this matter with indifference. It is, I tell you, a grave one for both of us."

"In what way?"