An Eye for an Eye

by William Le Queux

historic Hampton toLondon for probably a century and a half, being built in the days whenthe villadom of Fulwell had not yet arisen, and Twickenham was still aquiet village with its historic ferry, and where the stage-coacheschanged horses at that low-built old hostelry, the _King's Head_. Theplace stood back from the dusty-high road, half-hidden from the curiousgaze, yet, surrounded as it now was by smaller houses, some of them merecottages, while a few cheap shops had also sprung up in the vicinity,the place was not really a desirable place of abode. The district hadapparently sadly degenerated, like all places in the immediate vicinityof the Metropolis.

  Before long the door opened, and Eva, looking cool and sweet in awashing dress of white drill, and wearing a straw hat with black band,entered and greeted me cordially.

  "Mother is out," she said. "I'm so awfully sorry, as I wanted tointroduce you. She's gone over to Riverdene, and I, too, was just aboutto follow her. If you'd been five minutes later I should have left."

  "I'm lucky then to have just caught you," I remarked. "But if you'regoing to Riverdene, may I not accompany you?"

  "Most certainly," she answered. "Of course I shall be delighted," andthe light in her clear blue eyes told me that she was not averse to mycompany. She ordered a glass of port for me, and then said, "It's awhole week since you've been down there. Mary has several timesmentioned you, and wondered whether you'd grown sick of boating."

  "I've been rather busy," I said apologetically.

  "Busy with murders and all sorts of horribles, I suppose," she observedwith a smile.

  "Yes," I answered, regarding her closely. "Of late there have been oneor two sensational mysteries brought to light!"

  "Mysteries!" she exclaimed, starting slightly. "Oh, do tell me aboutthem. I'm always interested in mysteries."

  "The facts are in the papers," I answered, disinclined to repeat storieswhich had already grown stale. "The mysteries to which I referred werevery ordinary ones, containing no features of particular interest."

  "I'm always interested in those kind of things," she said. "You maythink me awfully foolish, but I always read them. Mother grows soannoyed."

  "It's only natural!" I answered. "We who are engaged on newspapers,however, soon cease to be interested in the facts we print, but ofcourse, if they didn't interest the public our papers wouldn't have anycirculation."

  She glanced at me, and a vague thought possessed me, for the look in hereyes was one of suspicion.

  When she had drawn on her gloves we together went forth through thegarden and down to the road. Suddenly it occurred to me that we mightgo by train to Shepperton, and thence take a boat and row up toRiverdene. This I suggested, and she gladly welcomed the proposal,declaring that it would be much more pleasant than driving along thedusty, shadowless road from Shepperton to Laleham.

  Half an hour later we were afloat at Shepperton, and although theafternoon sun was blazing hot, it was nevertheless delightful on thewater. With her lilac sunshade open she lolled lazily in the stern,laughing and chatting as I pulled regularly against the stream. Herconversation was always charming, and her countenance, I thought,fresher and more beautiful at that hour than I had ever before seen.About her manner was an air of irresponsibility, and when she laughed itwas so gay a laugh that one would not dream that she had a single carein all the world. She was dainty from the crown of her hat to the tipof her white _suede_ shoe, and as I sat in the boat before her, I feltconstrained to take her in my arms and imprint a fervent kiss of loveupon those sweet lips, arched and well-formed as a child's.

  My position, however, was, to say the least, an exceedingly strange one.I was actually loving a woman whom I suspected to be guilty of someunknown but dastardly crime. Dozens of times had I tried to impressupon myself the utter folly of it, but my mind refused to be convincedor set at rest. I loved her; that was sufficient. Nothing against herhad been proved, and until that had been done, ought not I, in humanjustice, to consider her innocent?

  Indeed, it was impossible to believe that this bright-eyed, pure-facedgirl before me, light-hearted, and graceful in every movement, hadactually secretly visited that dark little den in the Walworth Road andpurchased a drug for the purpose of taking the life of one of herfellow-creatures. Yet she wore at her throat the small enamelled broochwith its five of diamonds, the ornament described by old Lowry, theornament which she had told me she had purchased as a souvenir at one ofthe fashionable jewellers in the Montagne de la Cour in Brussels.

  We had passed both locks, and were heading up to Laleham, when wesuddenly glided into the cool shade of some willows, the boughs of whichoverhung the stream. The shadow was welcome after the sun glare, andresting upon the oars I removed my hat.

  "Yes," she said, noticing my actions, "we've come up unusually quick.Let's stay here a little time, it is so pleasant. The breeze seemsquite cool."

  Let it be punt, canoe or skiff, what more delightful than to mooroneself snugly in the leafy shade, and with a pleasant companion "laze"away the hours until the time comes to take up the sculls and gentlypull against the placid stream. Everything was so peaceful, so quiet,the ripple of the sculls alone breaking the stillness. Yet, after all,what a change has come over the river in recent years! Good "pitches"for anglers and quiet nooks for the lazy were, ten years ago, to bediscovered in every reach. Now they must be diligently sought for, andwhen found a note must be made of them. Warning boards notifying thatlanding or mooring alongside is prohibited were almost unknown, now theygreet one in every direction. It is a pity; nevertheless there arestill many real joys in river life.

  So we remained there beneath the willows, where the water was white withlilies and the bank with its brambles was covered with wild flowers, andas I "lazed" I looked into those clear blue eyes wherein my gaze becamelost, for she held me in fascination. I loved her with all my soul.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN.

  THIS HAPLESS WORLD.

  How it came about I can really scarcely tell. I remember uttering merecommonplaces, stammering at first as the bashful schoolboy stammers,then growing more bold, until at length I threw all ceremony and reserveto the winds, and grasping her tiny hand raised it to my lips.

  "No," she said, somewhat coldly, drawing it away with more force than Ishould have suspected. "This is extremely foolish, Mr. Urwin. It is,of course, my fault. I've been wrong in acting as I have done."

  "How?" I inquired, her harsh, cruel words instantly bringing me to mysenses.

  "You have flirted with me on several occasions, and perhaps I have evenfoolishly encouraged you. If I have done so, then I am alone to blame.Every woman is flattered by attention," she answered, gazing straightinto my eyes, and sighing slightly.

  "But I love you!" I cried. "You surely must have seen, Eva, that fromthe first day we were introduced I have been irrevocably yours. I havenot, I assure you, uttered these words without weighty consideration,nor without calmly putting the question to myself. Can you give meabsolutely no hope?"

  She shook her head. There was a sorrowful expression upon her face, asthough she pitied me.

  "None," she answered, and her great blue eyes were downcast.

  "Ah, no!" I cried in quick protest. "Don't say that. I love you witha fierce, ardent affection such as few men have within their hearts. Ifyou will but reciprocate that love, then I swear that the remainder ofmy life shall be devoted to you."

  "It is impossible," she responded in a harsh, despairing voice, quiteunlike her usual self. Her head was bowed, as though she dare not againlook into my face.

  Once more I caught her hand, holding it within my grasp. It seemed tohave grown cold, and in an instant its touch brought back to me therecollection of that fatal night in Kensington. Would that I might laybare all that I knew, and ask her for an explanation. But to do sowould be to show that I doubted her; therefore I was compelled to remainsilent.

  "Why impossible?" I inquired persuasively. "The many times we have metsince our first introduction hav
e only served to increase my love foryou. Surely you will not withhold from me every hope?"

  "Alas!" she faltered, with a downward sweep of her lashes, her handtrembling in mine, "I am compelled."

  "Compelled?" I echoed. "I don't understand. You are not engaged toLangdale?"

  "No."

  "Then why are you forced to give me this negative answer?" I asked indeep earnestness, for until then I had not known the true strength of mylove for her.

  The seriousness of her beautiful countenance relaxed slightly, still herbreast slowly heaved and fell, plainly showing the agitation within her.

  "Because it is absolutely imperative that I should do so," she replied.

  Suddenly a thought flashed through my mind.

  "Perhaps," I said, "perhaps I've been too precipitate. If so--if I havespoken too plainly and frankly--forgive me, Eva. It is only because Ican no longer repress the great love I bear you. I think of youalways--always. My every thought is of you; my every hope is ofhappiness at your side; my very life depends upon your favour and yourlove."

  "No, no!" she cried, with a quick movement of her hand as if to stay mywords. "Don't say that. You may remain my friend if you like--but youmay never be my lover--never!"

  "Never your lover!" I gasped, starting back as though she had dealt mea blow. I felt at that moment as though all I appreciated in life wasslipping from me. I had staked all, everything, and lost. "Ah, do notgive me this hasty answer," I urged. "I have been too eager; I am afool. Yet I love you with a stronger, fiercer passion than any man canever love you with, Eva. You are my very life," and notwithstanding hereffort to snatch her hand away, I again raised it reverently to my lips.

  "No, no. This is a mere summer dream, Mr. Urwin," she said, with a coolfirmness well assumed, although she avoided my gaze. "I have flirtedwith you, it is true, and we have spent many pleasant hours together,but I have never taken you seriously. You were always so merry andcareless, you know."

  "You did not believe, then, that I really loved you?" I observed,divining her thoughts.

  "Exactly," she answered, still very grave. "If I had thought so, Ishould never have allowed our acquaintance to ripen as it has done."

  "Are you annoyed that I should have declared only what is but theabsolute truth?" I asked.

  "Not at all," she responded quickly, with something of her old self inher low, sweet voice. "How can I be annoyed?"

  "And you will forgive my hasty declaration?" I urged.

  "There is nothing to forgive," she replied, smiling. "I only regretthat you have misconstrued my friendship into love."

  I was silent. These last words of hers crushed all hope from my soul.She sat with her hand trailing listlessly in the water, apparentlyintent upon the long rushes waving in the green depths below.

  "Then," I said in a disappointed voice, half-choked with emotion, "thenyou cannot love me, Eva, after all?"

  "I did not say so," she answered slowly, almost mechanically.

  "What?" I cried joyously, again bending forward towards her. "Will youthen try and love me--will you defer your answer until we know oneanother better? Say that you will."

  Again she shook her head with sorrowful air. She looked at me with akind of mingled grief and joy, bliss embittered by despair.

  "Why should I deceive you?" she asked. "Why, indeed, should you deceiveyourself?"

  "I do not deceive myself," I protested, "I only know that I adore you;that you are the sole light of my life, and that I love you devotedly."

  "Ah! And in a month, perhaps, you will tell a similar story to someother woman," she observed doubtingly. "Men are too often fickle."

  "I swear that I'll never do that," I declared. "My affairs of the hearthave been few."

  "But Mary?" she suggested, and I knew from her tone that she had beenthinking deeply of her.

  "Ours was a mere boy and girl liking," I hastened to assure her. "Askher, and she will tell you the same. We never really loved."

  She smiled, rather dubiously I thought.

  "But surely you are aware that she loves you even now," Eva answered.

  "Loves me!" I echoed in surprise. "That's absolutely ridiculous.Since we parted not a single word of affection has ever been utteredbetween us."

  "And you actually do not love her?" she asked in deep earnestness,looking straight into my eyes. "Are you really certain?"

  "I do not," I answered. "I swear I don't."

  The boat was drifting, and with a swift stroke of the oars I ran herbows into the bank. Overhead the larks were singing their joyous songsand the hot air seemed to throb with the humming of a myriad insects.The afternoon was gloriously sunny, and away in the meadow on theopposite bank a picnic party were busy preparing their tea amid peals offeminine laughter.

  "Well," she sighed, "I can only regret that you have spoken as you haveto-day. I regret it the more because I esteem your friendship highly,Mr. Urwin. We might have been friends--but lovers we may never be!"

  "Why never?" I inquired, acutely disappointed.

  "There are circumstances which entirely prevent such a course," sheanswered. "Unfortunately, it is impossible for me to be more explicit."

  "So you are prevented by some utterly inexplicable circumstances fromloving me?" I observed, greatly puzzled.

  "Yes," she responded, toying with the tassel of her sunshade.

  "But tell me, Eva," I asked hoarsely, again grasping her chilly, nervoushand, "can you never love me? Are you actually convinced that in yourown heart you have no spark of affection for me?"

  She paused, then glanced at me. I fancied I saw in her blue eyes thelight of unshed tears.

  "Your question is a rather difficult one," she faltered. "Even if Ireciprocated your love our positions would not be altered. We shouldstill be alienated as we now are."

  "Why?"

  "Because--because we may not love each other," she answered, in a low,strained voice--the voice of a woman terribly agitated. "Let us partto-day and never again meet. It will be best for both of us--far thebest."

  "No," I cried, intensely in earnest. "I cannot leave you, Eva, becauseI love you far too dearly. If you cannot love me now, then bear with mea little, and you will later learn to love me."

  "In one year, nay, in ten, my answer must, of necessity, be the same asit is to-day," she responded. "A negative one."

  "As vague as it is cruel," I observed.

  "Its vagueness is imperative," she said. "You are loved by another, andI have therefore no right to a place in your heart."

  "You are cruel, Eva!" I cried reproachfully. "My love for Mary Blainhas been dead these three years. By mutual consent we gave each otherfreedom, and since that hour all has been over between us."

  "But what if Mary still loves you?" she suggested. "You were once heraffianced husband."

  "True," I said. "But even if she again loves me she has no furtherclaim whatever upon me, for we mutually agreed to separate and have bothlong been free."

  "And if she thought that I loved you?" Eva asked.

  In an instant I guessed the reason of her disinclination to listen to myavowal. She feared the jealousy of her friend!

  "She would only congratulate us," I answered. "Surely you have nocause for uneasiness in that direction?"

  "Cause for uneasiness!" she repeated, starting, while at that sameinstant the colour died from her sweet face. Next second, however, sherecovered herself, and with a forced smile said, "Of course I have nocause. Other circumstances, however, prevent us being more thanfriends."

  "And may I not be made aware of them?" I inquired in vague wonder.

  "No," she said quickly. "Not now. It is quite impossible."

  "But all my future depends upon your decision," I urged. "Do not answerlightly, Eva. You must surely have seen that I love you?"

  "Yes," she answered, sighing. "I confess to having seen it. Everywoman knows instinctively when she is loved and when despised.
Theknowledge has caused me deep, poignant regret."

  "Why?"

  "Because," and she hesitated. "Because I have dreaded this day. Ifeared to tell you the truth."

  "You haven't told me the truth," I said, looking her straight in theface.

  "I have," she protested.

  "The truth is, then, that you would love me, only you dare not," I saidclearly. "Is that so?"

  She nodded, her eyes again downcast, and I saw that hot tears were inthem--tears she was unable longer to repress.

  When the heart is fullest of love, and the mouth purest with truth,there seems a cruel destiny in things which often renders our wordsworst chosen and surest to defeat the ends they seek.

  "Then whom do you fear?" I asked, after a pause.

  She shook her head. Only a low sob escaped her.

  "May we not love in secret," I suggested, "if it is really impossible tolove openly?"

  "No, no!" she said, lifting her white hand in protest. "We must notlove. I