CHAPTER XVII
PART OF THE TRUTH
For a moment the lovers stared at one another in the luminous twilight.
The meeting was so strange, the place where it took place so significant of the trouble that had parted them, that both were overcome with emotion. Anne was as white as the marble tombstone, and looked at him with appealing eyes that beseeched him to go away. But having found her Giles was determined not to lose her again, and was the first to find his tongue.
"Anne!" said he, and stepped towards her with open arms.
His voice broke the spell which held her chained to the ill-omened spot, and she turned to fly, only to find herself on his breast and his dear voice sounding entreatingly in her ears.
"Anne," he said in a hoa.r.s.e whisper, "you will not leave me now?"
After a brief struggle she surrendered herself. There was no danger of any one coming to the churchyard at this hour, and since they had met so unexpectedly, she--like the tender, sweet woman she was--s.n.a.t.c.hed at the blissful moment. "Giles," she murmured, and it was the first time he had heard her lips frame his name. "Giles!"
Again there was a silence between them, but one of pure joy and transcendental happiness. Come what might, nothing could banish the memory of that moment. They were heart to heart and each knew that the other loved. There was no need of words. Giles felt that here was the one woman for him; and Anne nestled in those beloved arms like a wild bird sheltering from storm.
But the storm which buffeted her wings would tear her from this refuge.
The pa.s.sionate delight of that second of Eden pa.s.sed like a shadow on the sun dial. From heaven they dropped to earth, and parted once more by a hand-breath, stared with haggard looks at one another. The revulsion was so great that Anne could have wept; but her sorrow was so deep that her eyes were dry. For the gift of the world she could not have wept at that hour.
But she no longer felt an inclination to fly. When she saw how worn and thin her lover looked, she knew that he had been suffering as much as she had, and a full tide of love swelled to her heart. She also had lost much of her beauty, but she never thought of that. All she desired was to comfort the man that loved her. She felt that an explanation was due to him, and this she determined to give as far as she could without incriminating others.
Taking his hand in her own, she led him some little distance from the grave of Daisy; and they seated themselves on a flat stone in the shadow of the church, and a stone"s throw from the park wall. Here they could converse without being seen, and if any one came they could hear the footsteps on the gravelled path, and so be warned. And throughout that short interview Anne listened with strained attention for the coming step. At the outset Giles noted her expectant look and put his arm round her.
"Dearest, do not fear," he said softly. "No one will come; and if any one does I can save you."
"No," she replied, turning her weary eyes on him. "I am under a ban. I am a fugitive from the law. You cannot save me from that."
"But you are innocent," he said vehemently.
"Do you believe that I am, Giles?"
"Do I believe it? Why should you ask me such a question? If you only knew, Anne, I have never doubted you from the first. Never! never!"
"I do know it," she said, throwing her arms round his neck. "I have known all along how you believed in my innocence. Oh, Giles, my darling Giles, how shall I be able to thank you for this trust?"
"You can, Anne, by becoming my wife."
"Would you marry me with this accusation hanging over me?"
"I would make you my wife at this moment. I would stand beside you in the dock holding your hand. What does it matter to me if all the foolish world think you guilty? I know in my own heart that you are an innocent woman."
"Oh, Giles, Giles!" Then her tears burst forth. She could weep now, and felt the better for that moment of joyful relief. He waited till she grew more composed, and then began to talk of the future.
"This can"t go on for ever, Anne," said he decisively; "you must proclaim your innocence."
"I can"t," she answered, with hanging head.
"I understand. You wish to protect this man. Oh, do not look so surprised. I mean with the man you fled with--the man Wilson."
"I don"t know any one called Wilson."
"Anne!"--he looked at her keenly--"I implore you to tell me the truth.
Who is this man you fled with to Gravesend--with whom you went on board the yacht?"
"Is that known?" she asked in a terrified whisper.
"Yes. A great deal is known."
"Portia never told me that," she murmured to herself.
"Who is Portia?"
"She lives at the Priory, and----"
"I see. She is the red-haired, freckle-faced girl--the daughter of Mr.
Franklin. Morley told me that. Portia! What a stately name for that dreadful young person!"
"But indeed, Giles, she is a good girl, and has been a kind friend to me," explained Anne eagerly. "She told me all about you, and how you believed in my innocence."
"Ah!" exclaimed Giles, "then that was why she seemed so pleased to hear my name. I met her in the park just now, Anne----"
"You met her in the park?" Anne half rose to go. He drew her down.
"Yes, dearest. But don"t be alarmed. She will never think that we have met. She was looking for this." And Giles took out the coin.
Anne gave a cry of delighted surprise. "Oh," she said, taking it eagerly, "I thought I had lost it forever. And you found it, Giles?"
"I found it," he replied gravely. "It was that discovery which made me believe that you were in the neighborhood. And then when Olga----"
"Olga." Anne looked at him suddenly. "Do you know her?"
"Very well. She is your friend."
"My best friend. She loves me like a sister."
Giles could have told her that the sisterly love was not to be trusted, but she had so much trouble that he could not find it in his heart to add to her worries. Besides, time was slipping by, and as yet he knew nothing of the truth of the matter.
"Tell me why you fled with that man," he asked.
"Giles, I will tell you all," she replied earnestly, "but on your part let me hear what is being done about the death of poor Daisy. It will set my mind at rest. You see how I have taken care of her grave, dear.
Were I guilty would I do that?"
"I never thought you guilty," he repeated impatiently. "How many times have I to say that?"