love.
"Is this the truth?" I asked her at last in a voice the hardness ofwhich I could not control. I took her cold, inert hand in my own andglanced at her bowed head.
"Alas for me it is," was her faltering response. "He is my husband,therefore all love between us is debarred," she added. "You have alwaysbeen my friend, Mr. Greenwood, but now that you have forced me toconfess the truth our friendship is at an end."
"And your husband, is he here with you?"
"He has been here," was her answer, "but has gone."
"You left London in secret to join him, I suppose?" I remarkedbitterly.
"At his demand. He wished to see me."
"And to obtain money from you by threats as he attempted on that nightat Mayvill?"
The broken, white-faced girl nodded in the affirmative.
"I came to this place," she explained, "as a paying-guest. A girl Iknew at school, Bessie Wood, lives here with her mother. They believe Imade a runaway match, and have been extremely kind to me these last twoyears."
"Then you've been a wife for two whole years!" I exclaimed in blanksurprise, utterly amazed at the manner in which I had been deceived.
"For nearly that time. We were married at Wymondham in Norfolk."
"Tell me the whole story, Mabel," I urged, after a long pause,endeavouring to preserve an outward calm, which certainly did notcoincide with my innermost feelings.
Her breast heaved and fell beneath its lace and chiffons, her greatwonderful eyes were filled with tears. For fully five minutes she wasovercome by her emotion and quite unable to speak. At last, in a low,hoarse voice, she said--
"I don't know what you must think of me, Mr. Greenwood. I'm ashamed ofmyself, and of the manner in which I've deceived you. My only excuse isthat it was imperative. I married because I was forced to by a chain ofcircumstances, as you will realise when you know the truth." Then shewas silent again.
"But you'll tell me the truth, won't you?" I urged. "I, as your bestfriend, as indeed the man who has loved you, have surely a right toknow!"
She only shook her head in bitter sorrow, and looking at me through hertears, answered briefly--
"I have told you the truth. I am married. I can only ask your pardonfor deceiving you and explain that I was compelled to do so."
"You mean that you were compelled to marry him? Compelled by whom?"
"By him," she faltered. "One morning two years ago I left London aloneand met him at Wymondham, where I had previously been staying for afortnight while my father was fishing. Herbert met me at the station,and we were married in secret, two men, picked at haphazard from thestreet, acting as witnesses. After the ceremony we parted. I took offmy ring and returned home, no one being the wiser. We had adinner-party that evening. Lord Newborough, Lady Rainham and yourselfwere there, and we went to the Haymarket afterwards. Don't yourecollect it? As we sat in the box you asked me why I was so dull andthoughtful, and I pleaded a headache. Ah! if you had but known!"
"I recollect the night perfectly," I said, pitying her. "And it wasyour wedding evening? But how did he compel you to marry him? Themotive is, of course, quite plain. He wished either to profit by thefact that you could not afford to allow the truth to be known that youwere the wife of a groom, or else his intention was to gain possessionof your money at your father's death. Yours is certainly not the firstmarriage of the sort that has been contracted," I added, with a feelingof blank dismay.
At the very moment when my hopes had been raised to their highest levelby Mrs. Percival's statement the blow had fallen, and in an instant Isaw that love was impossible. Mabel, the woman I loved so fondly and sowell, was the wife of a loutish brute who was torturing her to madnessby his threats, and would, as already had been proved, hesitate atnothing in order to gain his despicable ends.
My feelings were indescribable. No words of mine can give any adequateidea of how torn was my heart by conflicting emotions. Until thatmoment she had been beneath my protection, yet now that she was the wifeof another I had no right to control her actions, no right to admire, noright to love.
Ah! if ever man felt crushed, despairing and hopeless, if ever manrealised how aimless and empty his lonely life had been, I did at thatmoment.
I tried to induce her to tell me how the fellow had compelled her tomarry him, but the words stuck in my throat and choked me. Tears must,I suppose, have stood in my eyes, for with a sudden sympathy, anoutburst of that womanly feeling so strong within her, she placed herhand tenderly upon my shoulder and said in a low, calm voice--
"We cannot recall the past, therefore why reflect? Act as I asked youto act in my letter. Forgive me and forget. Leave me to my ownsorrows. I know now that you have loved me, but it is--"
She could not finish the sentence, for she burst into tears.
"I know what you mean," I said blankly. "Too late--yes, too late. Bothour lives have been wrecked by my own folly--because I hid from you whatI as an honest man, should have told you long ago."
"No, no, Gilbert," she cried, calling me for the first time by myChristian name, "don't say that. The fault is not yours, but mine--mine," and she covered her face with her hands and sobbed aloud.
"Where is this husband of yours--this man who tried to kill you?" Idemanded fiercely a few moments later.
"Somewhere in the North, I think."
"He has been here. When?"
"He came a week ago and remained a couple of hours."
"But he shall not blackmail you in this manner! If I cannot remain yourlover. I'll nevertheless still stand your champion, Mabel!" I cried indetermination. "He shall reckon with me."
"Ah no!" she gasped, turning to me in quick apprehension. "You must donothing. Otherwise he may--"
"What may he do?"
She was silent, gazing aimlessly out of the window across the broadmeadow-lands, now misty and silent in the dusk.
"He may," she said, in a low, broken voice, "he may tell the world thetruth!"
"What truth?"
"The truth he knows--the knowledge by which he compelled me to becomehis wife," and she held her hand to her breast, as though to stay thewild beating of her young heart.
I tried to induce her to reveal that secret to me, her most devotedfriend, but she refused.
"No," she said in a low, broken voice, "do not ask me, Gilbert--for Iknow now that I may be permitted to call you by your Christian name--because I cannot tell you of all men. It is for me to remain silent--and to suffer."
Her face was very pale, and I saw by her look of determination that hermind was made up; even though she trusted me as she did, nevertheless nopower would induce her to reveal the truth to me.
"But you know what reason your father had in appointing his friendDawson to be controller of your fortune," I said. "I felt confidentthat a word from you would result in his withdrawal from the office henow holds. You cannot affect ignorance of this mysterious motive ofyour father's?"
"I have already told you. My poor father also acted under compulsion.Mr. Leighton also knows that."
"And you are aware of the reason?"
She nodded in the affirmative.
"Then you could checkmate the fellow's plans?"
"Yes, I might," she answered slowly, "if I only dared."
"What do you fear?"
"I fear what my father feared," was her answer.
"And what was that?"
"That he would carry out a certain threat he has many times made to myfather, and later to myself. He threatened me on the day I left home--he dared me to breathe a single word."
Yes, that one-eyed man held power complete and absolute over her, justas he had boasted to Mrs. Percival. He also knew the truth concerningthe Cardinal's secret.
We sat together in that small, low, old-fashioned room, until duskdarkened into night, when she rose wearily and lit the lamp. Then I wasstartled by discovering by its light how her sweet face had changed.Her cheeks had grown wan and pale, her
eyes were red and swollen, andher whole countenance betrayed a deep, burning anxiety a terror of whatthe unknown future held for her.
Surely hers was a strange, almost inconceivable position--a pretty youngwoman with a balance of over two millions at her bankers, and yethounded by those who sought her ruin, degradation and death.
The fact that she was married had struck me a staggering blow. To her Icould now be no more than a mere friend like any other man, all thoughtsof love being bebarred, all hope of happiness abandoned. I had neversought her for her fortune, that I can honestly avow. I had loved herfor her own sweet, pure self, because I knew that her heart