"The truth!" she gasped, her face blanched in an instant. "The truth of what?"
"That you were once engaged to become his wife."
Her breast heaved quickly, and I saw that my words had relieved her of some grave apprehension. When I declared that I knew "the truth" she believed that I spoke of the secret of Courtenay"s masquerading. The fact of her previous engagement was, to her, of only secondary importance, for she replied:
"Well, and is that the sole cause of your displeasure?"
I felt a.s.sured, from the feigned flippancy of her words, that she held knowledge of the strange secret.
"It was the main cause," I said. "You concealed the truth from me, and lived in that man"s house after he had married Mary."
"I had a reason for doing so," she exclaimed, in a quiet voice. "I did not live there by preference."
"You were surely not forced to do so."
"No; I was not forced. It was a duty." Then, after a pause, she covered her face with her hands and suddenly burst into tears, crying, "Ah, Ralph! If you could know all--all that I have suffered, you would not think ill of me! Appearances have been against me, that I know quite well. The discovery of that letter must have convinced you that I was a schemer and unworthy, and the fact that I lived beneath the roof of the man who had cast me off added colour to the theory that I had conceived some deep plot. Probably," she went on, speaking between her sobs, "probably you even suspected me of having had a hand in the terrible crime. Tell me frankly," she asked, gripping my arm, and looking up into my face. "Did you ever suspect me of being the a.s.sa.s.sin?"
I paused. What could I reply? Surely it was best to be open and straightforward. So I told her that I had not been alone in the suspicion, and that Ambler Jevons had shared it with me.
"Ah! that accounts for his marvellous ingenuity in watching me. For weeks past he has seemed to be constantly near me, making inquiries regarding my movements wherever I went. You both suspected me. But is it necessary that I should a.s.sert my innocence of such a deed?" she asked. "Are you not now convinced that it was not my hand that struck down old Mr. Courtenay?"
"Forgive me," I urged. "The suspicion was based upon ill-formed conclusions, and was heightened by your own peculiar conduct after the tragedy."
"That my conduct was strange was surely natural. The discovery was quite as appalling to me as to you; and, knowing that somewhere among the dead man"s papers my letters were preserved, I dreaded lest they should fall into the hands of the police and thereby connect me with the crime. It was fear that my final letter should be discovered that gave my actions the appearance of guilt."
I took both her hands in mine, and fixing my gaze straight into those dear eyes wherein the love-look shone--that look by which a man is able to read a woman"s heart--I asked her a question.
"Ethelwynn," I said, calmly and seriously, "we love each other. I know I"ve been suspicious without cause and cruel in my neglect; nevertheless the separation has quickened my affection, and has shown that to me life without you is impossible. You, darling, are the only woman who has entered my life. I have championed no woman save yourself; by no ties have I been bound to any woman in this world.
This I would have you believe, for it is the truth. I could not lie to you if I would; it is the truth--G.o.d is my witness."
She made me no answer. Her hands trembled, and she bowed her head so that I could not see her face.
"Will you not forgive, dearest?" I urged. The great longing to speak out my mind had overcome me, and having eased myself of my burden I stood awaiting her response. "Will you not be mine again, as in the old days before this chain of tragedy fell upon your house?"
Again she hesitated for several minutes. Then, of a sudden, she lifted her tear-stained face towards me, all rosy with blushes and wearing that sweet look which I had known so well in the happy days bygone.
"If you wish it, Ralph," she faltered, "we will forget that any breach between us has ever existed. I desire nothing else; for, as you well know, I love no one else but you. I have been foolish, I know. I ought to have explained the girlish romantic affection I once entertained for that man who afterwards married Mary. In those days he was my ideal. Why, I cannot tell. Girls in their teens have strange caprices, and that was mine. Just as schoolboys fall violently in love with married women, so are schoolgirls sometimes attracted towards aged men. People wonder when they hear of May and December marriages; but they are not always from mercenary motives, as is popularly supposed. Nevertheless I acted wrongly in not telling you the truth from the first. I am alone to blame."
So much she said, though with many a pause, and with so keen a self-reproach in her tone that I could hardly bear to hear her, when I interrupted----
"There is mutual blame on both sides. Let us forget it all," and I bent until my lips met hers and we sealed our compact with a long, clinging caress.
"Yes, dear heart. Let us forget it," she whispered. "We have both suffered--both of us," and I felt her arms tighten about my neck. "Oh, how you must have hated me!"
"No," I declared. "I never hated you. I was mystified and suspicious, because I felt a.s.sured that you knew the truth regarding the tragedy at Kew, and remained silent."
She looked into my eyes, as though she would read my soul.
"Unfortunately," she answered, "I am not aware of the truth."
"But you are in possession of certain strange facts--eh?"
"That I am in possession of facts that lead me to certain conclusions, is the truth. But the clue is wanting. I have been seeking for it through all these months, but without success."
"Cannot we act in accord in this matter, dearest? May I not be acquainted with the facts which, with your intimate knowledge of the Courtenay household, you were fully acquainted with at the time of the tragedy?" I urged.
"No, Ralph," she replied, shaking her head, and at the same time pressing my hand. "I cannot yet tell you anything."
"Then you have no confidence in me?" I asked reproachfully.
"It is not a question of confidence, but one of honour," she replied.
"But you will at least satisfy my curiosity upon one point?" I exclaimed. "You will tell me the reason you lived beneath Courtenay"s roof?"
"You know the reason well. He was an invalid, and I went there to keep Mary company."
I smiled at the lameness of her explanation. It was, however, an ingenious evasion of the truth, for, after all, I could not deny that I had known this through several years. Old Courtenay, being practically confined to his room, had himself suggested Ethelwynn bearing his young wife company.
"Answer me truthfully, dearest. Was there no further reason?"
She paused; and in her hesitation I detected a desire to deceive, even though I loved her so fondly.
"Yes, there was," she admitted at last, bowing her head.
"Explain it."
"Alas! I cannot. It is a secret."
"A secret from me?"
"Yes, dear heart!" she cried, clutching my hands with a wild movement.
"Even from you."
My face must have betrayed the annoyance that I felt, for the next second she hastened to soften her reply by saying:
"At present it is impossible for me to explain. Think! Poor Mary is lying upstairs. I can say nothing at present--nothing--you understand."
"Then afterwards--after the burial--you will tell me what you know?"
"Until I discover the truth I am resolved to maintain silence. All I can tell you is that the whole affair is so remarkable and astounding that its explanation will be even more bewildering than the tangled chain of circ.u.mstances."
"Then you are actually in possession of the truth," I remarked with some impatience. "What use is there to deny it?"
"At present I have suspicions--grave ones. That is all," she protested.
"What is your theory regarding poor Mary"s death?" I asked, hoping to learn something from her.
"Suicide. Of that there seems not a shadow of doubt."