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

“No,” she said, somewhat coldly, drawing it away with more force than I should 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 my senses.

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

“But I love you!” I cried. “You surely must have seen, Eva, that from the first day we were introduced I have been irrevocably yours. I have not, I assure you, uttered these words without weighty consideration, nor without calmly putting the question to myself. Can you give me absolutely no hope?”

She shook her head. There was a sorrowful expression upon her face, as though 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 with a fierce, ardent affection such as few men have within their hearts. If you will but reciprocate that love, then I swear that the remainder of my life shall be devoted to you.”

“It is impossible,” she responded in a harsh, despairing voice, quite unlike her usual self. Her head was bowed, as though she dare not again look into my face.

Once more I caught her hand, holding it within my grasp. It seemed to have grown cold, and in an instant its touch brought back to me the recollection of that fatal night in Kensington. Would that I might lay bare all that I knew, and ask her for an explanation. But to do so would be to show that I doubted her; therefore I was compelled to remain silent.

“Why impossible?” I inquired persuasively. “The many times we have met since our first introduction have only served to increase my love for you. Surely you will not withhold from me every hope?”

“Alas!” she faltered, with a downward sweep of her lashes, her hand trembling in mine, “I am compelled.”

“Compelled?” I echoed. “I don’t understand. You are not engaged to Langdale?”

“No.”

“Then why are you forced to give me this negative answer?” I asked in deep earnestness, for until then I had not known the true strength of my love for her.

The seriousness of her beautiful countenance relaxed slightly, still her breast 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 have spoken too plainly and frankly – forgive me, Eva. It is only because I can no longer repress the great love I bear you. I think of you always – always. My every thought is of you; my every hope is of happiness at your side; my very life depends upon your favour and your love.”

“No, no!” she cried, with a quick movement of her hand as if to stay my words. “Don’t say that. You may remain my friend if you like – but you may never be my lover – never!”

“Never your lover!” I gasped, starting back as though she had dealt me a blow. I felt at that moment as though all I appreciated in life was slipping from me. I had staked all, everything, and lost. “Ah, do not give me this hasty answer,” I urged. “I have been too eager; I am a fool. Yet I love you with a stronger, fiercer passion than any man can ever love you with, Eva. You are my very life,” and notwithstanding her effort 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 cool firmness well assumed, although she avoided my gaze. “I have flirted with you, it is true, and we have spent many pleasant hours together, but I have never taken you seriously. You were always so merry and careless, 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, I should never have allowed our acquaintance to ripen as it has done.”

“Are you annoyed that I should have declared only what is but the absolute truth?” I asked.

“Not at all,” she responded quickly, with something of her old self in her 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 regret that 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, apparently intent upon the long rushes waving in the green depths below.

“Then,” I said in a disappointed voice, half-choked with emotion, “then you 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 you then try and love me – will you defer your answer until we know one another better? Say that you will.”

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

“Why should I deceive you?” she asked. “Why, indeed, should you deceive yourself?”

“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 some other woman,” she observed doubtingly. “Men are too often fickle.”

“I swear that I’ll never do that,” I declared. “My affairs of the heart have been few.”

“But Mary?” she suggested, and I knew from her tone that she had been thinking deeply of her.

“Ours was a mere boy and girl liking,” I hastened to assure her. “Ask her, 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 uttered between 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 her bows into the bank. Overhead the larks were singing their joyous songs and the hot air seemed to throb with the humming of a myriad insects. The afternoon was gloriously sunny, and away in the meadow on the opposite bank a picnic party were busy preparing their tea amid peals of feminine laughter.

“Well,” she sighed, “I can only regret that you have spoken as you have to-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,” she answered. “Unfortunately, it is impossible for me to be more explicit.”

“So you are prevented by some utterly inexplicable circumstances from loving 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, nervous hand, “can you never love me? Are you actually convinced that in your own heart you have no spark of affection for me?”

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

“Your question is a rather difficult one,” she faltered. “Even if I reciprocated your love our positions would not be altered. We should still 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 part to-day and never again meet. It will be best for both of us – far the best.”

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

“In one year, nay, in ten, my answer must, of necessity, be the same as it 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, and I have therefore no right to a place in your heart.”

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

“But what if Mary still loves you?” she suggested. “You were once her affianced husband.”

“True,” I said. “But even if she again loves me she has no further claim whatever upon me, for we mutually agreed to separate and have both long 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 my avowal. She feared the jealousy of her friend!

“She would only congratulate us.” I answered. “Surely you have no cause for uneasiness in that direction?”

“Cause for uneasiness!” she repeated, starting, while at that same instant the colour died from her sweet face. Next second, however, she recovered herself, and with a forced smile said, “Of course I have no cause. Other circumstances, however, prevent us being more than friends.”

“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 answer lightly, Eva. You must surely have seen that I love you?”

“Yes,” she answered, sighing. “I confess to having seen it. Every woman knows instinctively when she is loved and when despised. The knowledge has caused me deep, poignant regret.”

“Why?”

“Because,” and she hesitated. “Because I have dreaded this day. I feared to tell you the truth.”

“You haven’t told me the truth,” I said, looking her straight in the face.

“I have,” she protested.

“The truth is, then, that you would love me, only you dare not,” I said clearly. “Is that so?”

She nodded, her eyes again downcast, and I saw that hot tears were in them – 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 words worst 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 to love openly?”

“No, no!” she said, lifting her white hand in protest. “We must not love. I tell you that it is all a dream impossible of realisation. To-day we must part. Leave me, and we will both forget this meeting.”

“But surely you will not deliberately wreck both our lives, Eva?” I cried, dismayed. “Your very words have betrayed that you really entertain some affection for me, although you deny it for reasons that are inexplicable. Why not be quite plain and straightforward, as I am?”

“I have been quite clear,” she answered. “I tell you that we can never love one another.”

“Why?”

“For a reason which some day ere long will be made plain to you,” she answered in a low voice, her pure countenance at that moment drawn and ashen pale. “In that day you will hate my very name, and yet will think kindly of my memory, because I have to-day refused to listen to you and have given you your freedom.”

“And yet you actually love me!” I exclaimed, bewildered at this strange allegation. “It is most extraordinary.”

“It may seem extraordinary,” she said in a voice that appeared to sound soft and afar, “but the truth is oft-times strange, especially when one is draining the cup of life to its very dregs.”

“And may I not know this secret of yours, Eva?” I asked sympathetically, for I saw by her manner how she was suffering a torture of the soul.

“My secret!” she cried, glaring at me suddenly as one brought to bay, a strange, hunted look in those clear blue eyes. “My secret! Why” – and she laughed a hollow, artificial laugh, as one hysterical – “why, how absurd you are, Mr Urwin! Whatever made you suspect me of having secrets?”

Chapter Fifteen
The Near Beyond

The remainder of our pull to Riverdene was accomplished in comparative silence. Crushed, hopeless and despairing, I bent to the oars mechanically, with the feeling that in all else my interest was dead, save in the woman I so dearly loved, who, lounging back among her cushions, sighed now and then, her face very grave and agitated.

I spoke at last, urging her to reconsider her decision, but she only responded with a single word, a word which destroyed all my fondest hopes —

“Impossible.”

In that bright hour when the broad bosom of the Thames sent back the reflection of the summer sun, when the sky was clear as that in Italy, when all the world seemed rejoicing, and the gay laughter wafted over the water from the launches, boats and punts gliding past us, we alone had heavy hearts. Overwhelmed by this bitter disappointment and sorrow, the laughter jarred upon my ears. I tried to shut it out, and with my teeth set rowed with all my might against the stream until, skirting the shady wood, we rounded the bend of the stream and suddenly drew up at the landing-steps of Riverdene.

“Why, here’s Eva!” cried Mary, running down to the water’s edge, her tennis-racquet in her hand. “And Frank, too!” Then, turning to Eva as we stood together on the lawn a moment later, she asked, “Where’s your mother? We’ve expected her all the afternoon.”

“Isn’t she here?” asked Eva, in surprise.

“No.”

“Well, she started to come here immediately after luncheon. She must have missed the train or something.”

“She must, for it’s now past five. I really hope nothing has happened.”

“Nothing ever happens to mother,” observed Eva, with a light laugh. “She’ll turn up presently.” Then she explained how I had called at The Hollies and she had brought me along. On reaching Riverdene she had instantly concealed her agitation and reassumed her old buoyant spirits in order that none should suspect. She was an adept at the art of disguising her feelings, for none would now believe that twenty minutes before her face had been blanched, almost deathlike in agitation.

Together we walked up the lawn, being warmly welcomed by Mrs Blain and introduced to several friends who, seated beneath a tree, were idling over afternoon tea, a pleasant function in which we were, of course, compelled to join.

Seated next to Mrs Blain I gossiped for a long time with her, learning that her husband was still in Paris, detained upon his company business. He was often there, for he was one of the greatest shippers of champagne, and much of his business was with firms in the French capital.

“I don’t expect him back for at least a fortnight,” she said. “The other day, when writing, I mentioned that you had visited us again and he sent his good wishes to you.”

“Thanks,” I answered. Truth to tell, I rather liked him. He was a typical City man, elderly, spruce, smartly dressed, always showing a large expanse of elaborate shirt-front, fastened by diamond studs, and a heavy gold albert, a fashion which seems to alone belong to wealthy merchants and to that financial tribe who attend and speak at meetings at Winchester House or the Cannon Street Hotel.

From time to time when I glanced at Eva I was surprised to see how happily she smiled, and to hear how light and careless was her laughter. Had she already forgotten my words and the great overwhelming sorrow her response had brought upon me?

To Mrs Blain’s irresponsible chatter I answered quite mechanically, for all my thoughts were of that woman whom I loved. Deeply I reflected upon all she had said, remembering how intensely agitated she had become when I had implied that she was in possession of some secret. The vehemence with which she had denied my imputation was quite sufficient to show that I had unconsciously referred to the one object uppermost in her mind. I was undecided in opinion whether her refusal to accept my love was actually in consequence of her fear of Mary’s jealousy. If so, then Mary was in possession of this secret of hers. There was no doubt in my mind that she really loved me, and that, if she were fearless, she would hasten to reciprocate my affection. Apparently hers was a guilty secret, held over her as menace by Mary Blain, and knowing this she had been compelled to respond in the negative. This theory took possession of me, and during the hours I spent at Riverdene that evening, dining and boating with several of my fellow-visitors, I reflected upon it, viewing it in its every phase, and finding it to be well founded.

Indeed, as I sat opposite the two girls at dinner, I watched the actions of both furtively behind the great silver épergne of roses and ferns, and although they chatted merrily, laughing and joking with their male companions, I nevertheless fancied that I could detect a slight expression of concealed annoyance – or was it of hatred? – upon Eva’s face whenever Mary addressed her. Ever so slight, merely the quivering or slight contraction of the eyebrows, it passed unnoticed by the merry party, yet with my eyes on the alert for any sign it was to me a proof sufficient that the theory I had formed was correct, and that the woman I loved went in deadly fear of Mary Blain.

If this were really so, did it not add additional colour to the other vague theories that had been aroused in my mind through various inexplicable circumstances? Did it not, indeed, point to the fact that upon Eva, although she might have been a victim of that bewildering tragedy in Phillimore Place, there rested a terrible guilt?

I recollected how she had gone to St. James’s Park to keep the appointment which the unknown assassin’s accomplice had made, and the remarkable allegation of old Lowry, the herbalist – two facts which, viewed in the light of other discoveries, were circumstances in themselves sufficient evidence of her guilt. Besides, had she not, with her own lips, told me that one day ere long I should hate her very name, and thank her for refusing to accept my love?

Was not this sufficient proof of the correctness of my theory?

As evening wore on and darkness deepened into night, the strings of Chinese lanterns at the bottom of the lawn were lit, imparting to the place a very gay, almost fairylike, aspect. There were many remarks regarding the non-appearance of Lady Glaslyn. Mrs Blain seemed extremely anxious, yet Eva betrayed no anxiety, merely saying —

“She may have felt unwell and returned. I shall no doubt find her at home with one of her bad headaches.”

Thus all were reassured. Nevertheless, the incident struck me as curious, for Eva’s calm unconcern showed that her mother must be a woman of somewhat eccentric habits.

Simpson drove us both to Shepperton Station in the motor-car, and we caught the ten-thirty train, from which she alighted at Hampton while I continued my journey up to Waterloo. During the fifteen minutes or so we were alone together in the train our conversation was mainly of our fellow-visitors. Of a sudden I asked —

“Have you seen Mr Langdale lately?”

“Yes. I often see him. He lives quite near us,” she answered frankly.

“You told me this afternoon, Eva, that you were not engaged. Are you confident there is not likely to be a match between you?”

“A match between us!” she exclaimed with an expression of surprise. “What, are you joking, or do you actually suspect that I love him?”

“I have thought so.”

“Never!” she answered decisively. “I may be friendly, but to love a man of that stamp – a man who thinks more of his dress than a woman – never?”

I smiled at this denunciation of his foppishness. He was certainly a howling cad, for ever dusting his patent leather boots with his handkerchief, shooting forth his cuffs, and settling his tie. He parted his hair in the middle, and patronised women because he believed himself to be a lady-killer. Truly he was a typical specimen of the City “bounder,” who might some day develop into a bucket-shop keeper, a company promoter, or perhaps a money-lender.

At the moment when we were speaking the train entered the station of Hampton, and she rose.

“Tell me, Eva,” I said with deep earnestness as I took her hand to say farewell, “is what you told me this afternoon the absolute truth? Can you never – never reciprocate my love?”

Her lips quivered for an instant as her great blue eyes met mine. Even though she wore a veil, I saw that there were tears in them.

“Yes,” she answered in a hoarse tone, “I have told you the truth, Mr Urwin. We may never love – never.”

The train was already at a standstill, and she was compelled to descend hurriedly.

“Good-night,” she said hoarsely as I released her hand. Then, without waiting for my response, she hurried away and was a moment later lost in the darkness of the road beyond the barrier.

The carriage door was slammed, the train moved on, and as it did so I flung myself back into a corner, plunged in gloom and abject despair. She was the only woman I had ever truly loved, yet she was held apart from me. It was the first passionate agony of my life. I suffered now as those do without hope.

I found Dick at home smoking furiously, and busily writing in duplicate for the morning papers a strange story he had that evening picked up out at Gipsy Hill concerning a romantic elopement, which would cause considerable sensation in those little tea-and-tennis circles which call themselves suburban society. He briefly related it to me without pausing in his work, writing on oiled tissue paper and taking six copies, one for each of the great dailies. My friend’s position in the journalistic world was by no means an uncommon one, for many men holding good berths on newspapers add to their incomes by doing what in press parlance is termed “lineage” – that is contributing to other newspapers for the payment of a penny, or perhaps three-halfpence, a line.

I told him that I’d been down to Riverdene, but so engrossed was he in his work that he hazarded no remark, and when he had finished and placed the copies in separate envelopes, already addressed, he put on his hat and went forth to the Boy-Messenger Office in Chancery Lane, whence they would be distributed to the sub-editors about Fleet Street.

I lit a cigarette and stretched myself in the armchair, gloomily pondering. Of late we had spoken but little of the mystery in Phillimore Place, for other inquiries had occupied Dick’s attention, and on my part, loving Eva as I did, I preferred to continue my investigation alone.

Perhaps I had been sitting there a quarter of an hour or so, when suddenly a strange dizziness crept over me. It might, I thought, be due to my cigarette, therefore I tossed it out of the window and sat quiet. But the feeling of nausea, accompanied by a giddiness such as I had never before experienced, increased rather than diminished, and in order to light against it I rose and attempted to cross the room. I must have walked very unsteadily, for in the attempt I upset a chair, the back of which was broken, beside sweeping Dick’s terra-cotta tobacco-pot from the table and smashing it to fragments. I clutched at the table in order to steady myself, but found myself reeling and swaying as though I were intoxicated. My legs seemed unable to support me, and the thought crossed my mind that this seizure might be one of paralysis. The idea was horrible.

At length, after some difficulty, I managed to again crawl back to the chair, and sinking down, closed my eyes. By doing so my brain seemed more evenly balanced, yet it seemed as though inside my skull was all on fire, and I wondered if exposure to the sun while rowing had caused these remarkable symptoms. I recollected how blazing hot it had been from Shepperton up to the second lock, and how once Eva, ever solicitous for my welfare, had warned me to be careful of sunstroke.

Yes, I had been careless, and this was undoubtedly the result.

My hands were trembling as though palsied, just as my legs had done a few minutes before, yet strangely enough I felt compelled to clench my fingers into my palms. All my muscles seemed slowly to contract, until even my jaws worked with painful difficulty.

An appalling fear fell upon me. I was suffering from tetanus.

Resolved not to allow my jaws to close tightly, I opened and shut my mouth, knowing that if it became fixed I should die a slow, lingering death as so many thousands had done. If I could only keep my jaws working the seizure might, perhaps, pass.

I longed for Dick’s return. At that hour there was no one I could summon to call a doctor. I glanced at the clock. He had been already gone nearly half an hour. Would he never come back?

The sickening dizziness increased, and seemed to develop into an excruciating pain in my throbbing temples. I placed my hand to my head and felt that the veins were standing out hard and knotted, just as though I were exerting every muscle in some feat of strength. Then almost at that very instant I was gripped by a fearful pain in the stomach, as though it were being torn by a thousand needles. A cold sweat stood upon my brow until it rolled down my cheeks in great beads. I tried to shout for help, but my tongue clave to the roof of my mouth, and my voice was thin and weak as a child’s. My throat seemed to have contracted. I was altogether helpless.

My agony was excruciating, yet I could only await Dick’s return. Perhaps he had met a friend, and was lounging in some bar ignorant of my peril. The only doctor I knew in the vicinity was a hospital surgeon who lived a little way down Chancery Lane, over the Safe Deposit Company’s vaults. I clenched my teeth to endure the racking, frightful pains by which my body was tortured, and in patience awaited my friend’s home-coming.

My eyes were closed, for the gas-light was too strong for them. Perhaps I lost consciousness. At any rate I was awakened from a kind of heavy stupor by Dick’s tardy entry.

“Good God, Urwin!” he gasped. “Why, what’s the matter? What’s occurred? You’re as white as a sheet, man!”

“I’m ill,” I managed to gasp with extreme difficulty. “Go and get Tweedie – at once!”

He stood for a moment looking at me with a frightened expression, then turned and dashed away down the stairs.

I remember raising myself, after he had gone, in an endeavour to reach a cupboard where there was some brandy in a bottle, but as I made a step forward all strength let me. I became paralysed, clutched at the table, missed it, and fell headlong to the floor. Then all consciousness became blotted out. I knew no more.

How long I remained insensible I have only a very vague idea. It must have been many hours. When, however, I slowly became aware of things about me, I found myself lying upon my own bed partly dressed. I tried to move, but my limbs seemed icy cold and rigid; I tried to think, but my thoughts were at first only a confused jumble of reminiscences. There was a tearing pain across my stomach, and across my brow – a pain that was excruciating. It seemed as though my waist was bound tightly with a belt of wire, while my brain throbbed as if my skull must burst.

I opened my eyes, but the bright light of day caused me to close them quickly again.

Noises sounded about me, strange and distorted. I distinguished voices, and I knew that I was not alone. Again I opened my eyes.

“Thank Heaven! my dear old fellow, you are saved!” cried Dick, whose coat was off, as he bent down eagerly to me, looking with keenest anxiety into my face.

“Saved!” I echoed. “What has happened?” for at that moment I recollected little of the past.

Then I saw, standing beside Dick, my friend, Dr Tweedie, of the Royal Free Hospital in Gray’s Inn Road, a mild-mannered old gentleman whom I had many times met during my inquiries at that institution.

“What’s happened?” the latter repeated. “That’s what we want to ask you?”

“I don’t know,” I answered, “except that I was suddenly taken frightfully queer.”

“Taken queer! I should rather think you were,” he said, bending down to get a better look at my countenance, at the same time feeling my pulse. “You’re better now, much better. But it’s been a very narrow squeak for you, I can tell you.”

“What’s been the matter with me?” I inquired mystified.

“You’ve been eating something that hasn’t quite agreed with you,” he answered with a mysterious smile.

“But that couldn’t have brought on a seizure like this,” I argued weakly.

“Well,” the doctor said, “of course you can tell better what you’ve been eating than I can. Only one fact is clear to me.”

“And what’s that?” I asked.

“Why, that you’ve been within an ace of death, young man,” he answered. “You’ll want the most careful treatment, too, if we are to get you round again, for the truth is you’ve been poisoned!”

“Poisoned?” I gasped.

“Yes,” he responded, handing me some medicine. “And this seizure of yours is a very mysterious one indeed. I’ve never seen such symptoms before. That you’ve been poisoned is quite plain, but how the accident has occurred remains for us to discover later.”