"Well, what?" I said anxiously, as she checked herself.
"It"s too late--now," she whispered. My arm was about her thin waist, and I felt that she shuddered.
"Vera, what has happened? Tell me--oh, tell me, dearest!"
I took both her small hands in mine. I was seriously alarmed, for there was a strange light in her eyes.
"Why did you not come when I wanted you?" she asked, bitterly.
"I would have, but how could I without knowing where you were?"
She paused in indecision.
"I"m sorry. You are too late, d.i.c.k," and she shook her head mournfully.
"Oh, don"t say that," I cried, not knowing what to think. "Has some misfortune befallen you? Tell me what it is. You surely know that you can trust me."
"Trust _you_!"
There was bitterness, nay mockery, in her voice.
"Good heavens, yes! Why not?" I cried.
"There is no one in whom I can trust. I can trust you, Mr. Ashton, least of all--now."
Evidently she was labouring under some terrible delusion. Had some one slandered me--poisoned her mind against me?
"How long have you been here?" I asked suddenly, thinking it best to change the subject for the moment.
"Since early this morning," she answered at once.
"Did you come here alone?"
"Alone? No, he brought me."
"`He?" Who is `he"?"
"Dago Paulton."
"Dago Paulton?" I echoed. "Is he the man Smithson?" I asked shrewdly.
"Of course. Who else did you suppose?" Then, suddenly, her expression changed to one of surprise.
"But you don"t know him, surely," she exclaimed. "You have never even met him. He told me so himself."
"No, but I know about him," I said, with recollection crowding upon me.
"You don"t! You cannot! Who told you about him? And what did they tell you? Oh, this is awful, it is worse than I feared," she exclaimed, in great distress. "And now it is all too late."
"Too late for what? To do what?"
"To help me. To save me from him."
"Does this man want to marry you?"
"He is going to. He _must_ marry me. Ah! You don"t know--you--"
My love shuddered, without completing her sentence.
"Why? Is it to save your father?" I hazarded again.
"To save my father--and my mother," she exclaimed. And then, to my surprise, she sank upon a chair, flung her arms out upon the table in front of her, hid her face up on them, and began to sob hysterically.
"Vera, my dearest, don"t--oh! don"t," I said beseechingly, as I bent down, put an arm tenderly about her, and kissed her upon the cheek.
"Don"t cry like that, darling. It"s never too late, until a misfortune has really happened. You are not married to him. There may be a way of escape. Trust me. Treat me as a friend--we have been friends so long-- tell me everything, and I will try to help you out of all your trouble."
She started up.
"Trust you!" she burst forth, her face flushed. "Can I trust any one?"
"I"ve done nothing; I don"t know what you mean, or to what you refer!"
I exclaimed blankly.
"Can you look at me like that," she said slowly, after a pause, "and tell me, upon your oath, that you did not reveal my father"s secret; that you have never revealed it to anybody--never in your life?"
"I give you my solemn oath, Vera, that I have never in my life revealed it to anybody, or hinted at it, or said anything, either consciously or unconsciously, that might have led any one to suspect," I answered fervently, with my eyes fixed on hers.
Truth to tell, I had not the remotest idea what the secret was, nor, until this instant, had it ever occurred to me to think that Sir Charles possessed a secret. I felt, however, that I had a part to play, and I was determined to play it to the best of my ability. Vera seemed to take it quite for granted that I knew her father"s secret, and I felt instinctively that, were I to endeavour to a.s.sure her that I was in complete ignorance of everything, she would not, under the circ.u.mstances, believe a single word I said.
"Do you believe me now?" I asked, as she did not speak.
"Yes--I do believe you," was her slow response. And then she let me take her in my ready arms again.
She seemed to have been suddenly relieved of a great weight, and now she spoke in quite her ordinary way.
"Where is Paulton now?" was my next question. At last there seemed to be some remote possibility of the tangle of past events becoming gradually unravelled. I knew, however, that I was treading thin ice. A single careless word might lead her to suspect my duplicity. In a sense, I was still groping in the dark, pretending that I knew a great deal, whereas I knew nothing.
"He is coming to-night to fetch me."
"At what time?"
"At ten o"clock."
"And you are to wait here until then?"
"Yes."
"What have you had to eat?"