deeply anxious.
"Abroad. I know who and what he is, Ella," I said determinedly. "Andyou shall never be his wife."
"But I must," she declared. "It is all arranged. I cannot break myengagement. I dare not."
"Then I shall simply go to the police and tell them what I know. I willnever allow you to wreck your happiness because this fellow holds somemysterious power over you. You are mine, Ella--remember--mine!"
"I know! I know!" she gasped, her face pale, her eyes terrified. "Butyou must not say a word. I beg you, if you really love me, not to say aword."
"Why not?"
"Because he would revenge himself upon me. I know certain of hissecrets--secrets that I discovered by the merest chance. Anyinformation given to the police he would suspect of coming from me.Therefore, don't you see that any such attempt to free me will onlybring upon me disaster--even death!"
"You fear he may take your life!" I gasped. "Ah! I see! He mighteven kill you, in order to close your lips!"
And I recollected the fellow's ominous words I had overheard on theprevious night, when he had told her that upon her secrecy his very lifedepended.
He was as ingenious and unscrupulous a criminal as there was in thewhole length and breadth of the kingdom.
I saw in what deadly peril was my sweet well-beloved. She was in fearof him. Perhaps he, on his part, held some secret of hers. From herattitude I suspected this. If so, then any word of mine to the policewould bring to her only ruin and disgrace!
CHAPTER TWENTY THREE.
CHILDREN OF CIRCUMSTANCE.
Was any man more pitiful, more foolish, more pathetically lonely, moregrotesquely fooled by Fate than I?
Was all the world a lie?
Upon the face of my love was a trouble that for once clouded itswondrous beauty. I tried to touch her hair, but she avoided me by agesture that made me shrink a little.
The years, the tranquil sorrow of my late life dropped from me; I becameagain only the fierce, fearless, thoughtless lover; the man who hadwalked with her and adored her beside that summer sea so long ago.
A madness of determination came to me. At all hazards she should bemine. Shacklock was a liar and a schemer, a thief and an adventurer. Iwould bear witness against him, even at risk of the vendetta which wouldinevitably fall upon me.
She saw my changed face, and for the first time clung to me.
"Godfrey!" she whispered hoarsely, "have pity upon me, and remainsilent. Any word from you must reflect upon myself."
"I will not allow you to make this self-sacrifice," I cried fiercely."Remember Blumenthal."
"It was for my father's sake," she replied. "To save him."
"And now?"
She did not answer for several moments. Then in a low voice broken byemotion she said:--
"To save myself."
"But it is madness!" I cried. "In what manner can you be in the powerof such a man? You surely know what he is?"
"Alas! I do--too well. If he had one grain of sympathy or feeling hewould surely release me."
"And your father approves of this shameful engagement?"
"He does, because he is ignorant of the truth."
"Then I will tell him," I said. "You shall never fall into that man'shands. I love you, Ella--I love you with all the strength of my being--with all my soul. If you are beneath the thrall of this adventurer, itis my duty to extricate you."
"Ah! you can't--you can't," she cried. "If you only could, how gladlywould I welcome freedom--freedom to love you, Godfrey!" and she clung tome tremblingly. "But it is all a vague dream of the unattainable," shewent on. "My whole life is on fire with shame, and my whole soul issick with falsehood. Between your life and mine, Godfrey, there is adeep gulf fixed. I lied to you long ago--lied to save my dear fatherfrom ruin, and you have forgiven. And now--Oh! God! I shudder as Ithink--my life will be alone, all alone always."
I held her trembling hand in silence, and saw the tears streaming downher white cheeks. I could utter no word. What she had said thrust hometo me the bitter truth that she must bow to that man's will, even thoughI stood firm and valiant as her champion. My defiance would only meanher ruin.
I had met my love again only to lose her in that unfathomable sea ofplot and mystery.
All the dark past, those years of yearning and black bitterness, cameback to me. I had thought her dead, and lived with her sweet tenderremembrance ever with me. Yet in future I should know that she lived,the wife of an adventurer, suffering a good woman's martyrdom.
My heart grew sick with dread and longing. Again I would mourn the deadindeed; dead days, dead love. It pressed upon my life like lead. Whatbeauty now would the daybreak smile on me? What fragrance would thehillside bear for me as I roamed again the face of Europe?
I should see the sun for ever through my unshed tears. Around me on thesummer earth of Italy or the wintry gloom of the Russian steppe therewould be for ever silence. My love had passed beyond me.
Unconsciously we moved forward, I still holding her hand and lookinginto the tearful eyes of her whom I had believed dead. Was it not theperversity of life that snatched her again from me, even though we hadmet to find that we still loved one another? Yes, it was decreed that Ishould ever be a cosmopolitan, a wanderer, a mere wayfarer on the greathighways of Europe, always filled with longing regrets of themight-have-been.
I remembered too well those gay Continental cities wherein I had spentthe most recent years of my weary life; cities where feasts and flowersreign, where the golden louis jingle upon the green cloth, where thepassionate dark faces of the women glow, where voices pour forthtorrents of joyous words, where holiday dresses gleam gaily against theshadows; cities of frolic and brilliancy, of laughter and music, wherevice runs riot hand in hand with wealth, and where God is, alas!forgotten. Ah! how nauseous was it all to me. I had lived that life, Ihad rubbed shoulders with those reckless multitudes, I had laughed amidthat sorry masquerade, yet I had shut my eyes to shut out from me thefrolic and brilliancy around, and stumbled on, sad, thoughtful, and yetpurposeless.
The gladness made me colder and wearier as I went. The light andlaughter would have driven me homeward in desolation, had I a home toshelter me.
But, alas! I was only a wanderer--and alone.
"Tell me, darling," I whispered to my love, my heart bursting, "is thereabsolutely no hope? Can you never free yourself from this man?"
"Never," was her despairing response.
And in that one single word was my future written upon my heart.
I spoke to her again. What I uttered I hardly knew. A flood of fierce,passionate words arose to my lips, and then bending I kissed her--kissedher with that same fierce passion of long ago, when we were bothyounger, and when we had wandered hand in hand beside the lapping wavesat sunset.
She did not draw back, but, on the contrary, she kissed me fondly inreturn. Her thin white hand stroked my brow tenderly, as though shetouched a child.
No words left her lips, but in her soft dear eyes I saw the truth--thattruth that held me to her with a band that was indivisible, a bond that,though our lives lay apart, would still exist as strong as it had everbeen.
"Ella," I whispered at last, holding her slight, trembling form in myembrace, and kissing her again upon the lips, "will you not tell me thereason you dare not allow me to denounce this fellow? Is it not justthat I should know?"
She shook her head sadly, and, sighing deeply, answered:--
"I cannot tell you."
"You mean that you refuse?"
"I refuse because I am not permitted, and further, I--"
"You what?"
"I should be revealing to you his secret."
"And what of that?"
"If you knew everything, you would certainly go to the police and tellthem the truth. They would arrest him, and I--I should die."
"Die? What do you mean?" I asked quickly.
"I could not live to face the exposure a
nd the shame. He would seek torevenge himself by making counter-charges against me--a terribleallegation--but--but before he could do so they would find me dead."
"And I?"
"Ah! you, dear one! Yes, I know all that you must suffer. Your heartis torn like my own. You love just as fondly as I do, and you havemourned just as bitterly. To you, the parting is as hard as to myself.My life had been one of darkness and despair ever since that night inLondon when I was forced to lie to you. I wrecked your happinessbecause circumstances conspired against us--because it was my duty as adaughter to save my father from ruin and penury. Have you really inyour heart forgiven me, Godfrey?"
"Yes, my darling. How can I blame you for what was, after all, thenoblest sacrifice a woman could
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