watched me,reading me as easily as she would have read black letters on a whitepage.
"I was taken suddenly ill--the heat perhaps," I answered with affectedcarelessness. "I had run down, the doctor said. It was nothing veryserious." She gave vent to a perceptible sigh of relief, then smilingsweetly as she ever did, said: "Well, it is indeed a pleasure to welcomeyou here again to-day." She still wore that brooch, the quaint littleplaying-card which had betrayed her visit to Morris Lowry. Its sightsent a strange thrill through me, for I remembered the object of hervisit to that dark, dirty, obscure herbalist's.
"The pleasure is mutual, believe me, Eva," I answered, putting away fromme instantly the gruesome thought oppressing me. "Through this wholemonth I have thought only of you."
She sighed, in an instant serious. Then glancing back to assure herselfthat there were no eavesdroppers, she said, "It would be far better, Mr.Urwin--Frank--if you could leave me and forget."
"But I can't," I said, rising quickly and again taking her soft whitehand. "You know, Eva, how deeply, how sincerely, how devotedly I loveyou; how I am entirely yours for ever."
I spoke simply and directly what I felt; I was calmer than I had beenwhen I rowed her beneath the willows' shade.
"Ah, no!" she cried in a pained voice, rising to her feet with suddenresolution. "You really must not say this. I will not let yousacrifice yourself. I will not allow you to thus--"
"It is no sacrifice," I protested, quickly interrupting. "I love you,Eva, with all my soul. One woman alone in all the world holds mebeneath the spell of her grace, her charm and her sweetness. It isyourself. Every hour I think only of you; ever before me your facerises in my day-dreams, and in those moments when I see your sweetsmiles I tell myself that no other woman can ever have a place in myheart. Ah! you cannot know how fondly I love you," I said, raising thehand tenderly to my lips and imprinting a kiss upon it. "If you couldonly know you would never treat me with this cold, calm indifference."
Her bosom rose and fell slowly, and she was silent. I fancied that sheshuddered slightly.
At that moment my position struck me as an extremely strange one,declaring love to one whom an expert detective suspected of having madea cowardly attempt upon my life. Was it just? I asked myself. Yes, inthis I was justified, for I loved her, even though I had more than oncebeen inclined to agree with Boyd in his misgivings.
"I was not aware of any indifference," she faltered at last, raising hergreat eyes, so clear and earnest, for an instant to mine. "I had merelyurged you to reflect."
"Reflection is unnecessary," I answered quickly. "I know that I loveyou truly. That surely is sufficient."
"It might be if I were free," she responded in a low, hoarse voice."But I tell you to-day, Frank, as I told you before, this love dream ofours is impossible of realisation."
"Then you do reciprocate my love?" I cried, in joyous eagerness."Come, tell me. Do not keep me longer in suspense."
"I have already told you," she answered in a low, intense voice. "Ofwhat use is it to continue this painful discussion?"
"Of every use," I cried in desperation. "Give me one word of hope, Eva.Tell me that some day you will try and love me better than you do now;that some day in the future you will become my wife. Tell me--"
"No! no!" she cried, snatching her hand away and receding from me. "No,Frank, I cannot--I will not lie to you."
"Then can you never love me--never?" I cried despairingly.
"Never," she answered hoarsely, and her answer struck deep into myheart. "I have sinned--sinned before God and before man--and love nolonger knows a place in my heart," and her fine head was bowed beforeme.
"Sinned!" I gasped. "What do you mean?"
"I am as a social leper," she panted, raising her head and looking at mewith wild, unnatural gaze. "If you knew the dark and awful truth youwould shun me rather than kiss my hand. Yet you say you love me--you!who would have so great a cause to hate me if you knew the ghastlytruth!"
"But," I cried, wondering at these strange words, and with my suspicionsagain aroused, "I do love you, nevertheless, Eva. I shall always loveyou, I swear it, for my very life is yours."
"Your life!" she echoed in a weird, harsh voice, as she stood,pale-faced, swaying before me, her hands clasped to her breast, her lipscold and white. "Yes," she said, in a strange, half-hysterical tone."Yes, it is true, too true, alas! that your future is in my hands. Onlyby a miracle have you come back to life, a grim shadow of a crime totaunt, to defy, to denounce. Ah! Frank, you do not know the terribletruth; you will never know--never!"
I was bewildered. Horror possessed me. The darkness of an irreversiblefact spread over her and made her terrible to me. All must be given up.Conscience pronounced this dread decree and multiplied the pain athousand times.
Destiny had once more taken me by the elbow.
CHAPTER NINETEEN.
EVA MAKES A CONFESSION.
"Why may I not know the truth?" I asked the blanched and agitated womanbefore me. Her involuntary declaration that I had only returned to lifeby little short of a miracle was in itself clear proof that she wasaware of the attempt made to assassinate me. I therefore determined toquestion her further and ascertain whether Boyd's grave suspicion hadany absolute foundation. "You know, Eva," I went on, standing beforeher with my hand upon her shoulder in deep earnestness, "you know howstrong is my affection; you know that you are all the world to me."
Often during my many visits to that riverside house, so cool andpeaceful after the busy turmoil in which fate compelled me to earn mybread, I had spoken of my love for her, and now in my desperation I toldher that I could not leave the woman whom I had so long worshipped inthe ideal, whom I had instantly recognised as being the embodiment ofthat ideal, of whose presence I could not endure to be deprived even inthought.
She stood silent, with her back to the table, looking into my eyes whileI told her these things. A ray of sunlight tipped her auburn hair withgold. Sometimes she would seem to yield to a kind of bliss as shelistened to my avowal; to forget all else than ourselves and my words.At others a look of anguish would suddenly cloud her features, and onceshe shuddered, pressing her hands to her eyes, saying--
"Frank, you must not! Spare me this. I cannot bear it! Indeed Ican't."
Sometimes, in the days that had passed, when I had spoken of my love,joy and pain would succeed each other on her face; indeed, often theywould be present at the same moment. From the look of completeabandonment to happiness that sometimes, though never for long, shone onher features when we had idled up that shady, picturesque backwater,where the kingfishers nested, I felt that she loved me, and thateventually that love would gain the victory. Thus, continually, I triedto elicit an expression of her feelings in words. Sweet to me as wasthe confession of her looks, I sought also a confession of speech.
Alas! however, she seemed determined to give me no single word ofencouragement.
"But why," I asked, as she stood there with bent head, her hand toyingnervously with her rings, "why is it that when I speak of what mostoccupies my heart you become silent or sorrowful?"
She smiled, a strange, artificial smile, and for an instant her clearblue eyes--those eyes which spoke of an absolute purity of soul--metmine, as she replied--
"Can a woman explain her caprice any more than a man can understand it?"
Without heeding this evasion I went on--
"Is it that you are already pledged to marry some other man?"
"No," she answered, quickly and earnestly.
"Then it is because you do not wish me to love you," I observedreproachfully.
Her look startled me, for it contained besides a world of grief andpity, something of self-reproach. She regarded me strangely, first asif my words were a welcome truth, then, while her brow darkened, amental anguish forced itself into her expression.
"You were mad to come here to me," she said, with a quick, apprehensivelook. "If you knew the truth you would n
ever again cross the thresholdof this house."
"Why?" I demanded, in an instant alert.
"For a reason that is secret," she responded with a shade of sadness.
That ring of earnestness in her voice it seemed impossible tocounterfeit. Puzzled, I gazed at her, striving to read her countenance.Her head was bent, her colour changing; do what she would she could notkeep the blood quite steady in her cheek.
"But may I not know, Eva?" I implored. "Surely you will not refuse towarn or guide one who is so entirely devoted to you as I am?"
"I cannot warn you, except to say that treachery may be