have just been wondering,” I said, “whether, when we part in a few days, we shall ever meet again, for, believe me, I shall cherish the fondest memory of this evening we have passed together. It is charming.”
“And I also,” she replied, “but as you say in English, the best of friends must part.”
It is useless to repeat the words I uttered. Suffice it to say that I could restrain my feelings no longer, and there, in the bright Italian moonlight, I declared my ecstatic passion, and asked her to be my wife.
Had I taken her unawares? Probably so; for, when I had finished, she rose with an effort, and withdrawing her hand gently, said, “No, Frank – for I may call you by that name – your request I am unable to grant, and the reason I cannot now explain. There is, alas! an insurmountable barrier between us, and had you known more of me you would not have asked me this.”
“But, Vera, you love me, you can’t deny it!” I passionately exclaimed.
Tears stood in her eyes, as she answered, “Yes, yes, I do – I love you dearly!”
“Then what is this obstacle to our happiness?”
“No! no!” she cried, covering her face with her hands. “Request no explanation, for, I – I cannot give it. It would be fatal.”
“But why?” I asked, for it was a cruel and bitter disappointment. All my hopes had been shattered in those brief moments.
“From the day we first met I have known we loved one another,” she said slowly, “yet it would have been better had we never become acquainted, since it causes pain to both.”
“But, surely, if you love me, Vera, this obstacle can be removed! Tell me what it is; if a secret, it will be safe with me,” I said earnestly.
She dashed the tears from her eyes, and with an effort stood erect before me, saying:
“No! it is impossible. Think no more of marriage, Frank; regard me only as a dear friend who loves you.”
“Then you will not tell me why we cannot marry?” I said, gravely, rising and taking her hand.
“It – it is a secret. I would rather die than divulge it; though, some day, perhaps, the circumstances will alter, and I shall be at liberty to tell you everything. For the present we love one another, but it must end there; marriage is entirely out of the question.”
I saw it was useless to press for any further explanation. Evidently she was prepared for any self-sacrifice, to protect her secret, because, when finding herself wavering, she had summoned all her strength, and with a mighty effort overcame her emotion, resolutely giving her answer.
As we rose and turned towards the city, a circumstance, slight in itself, occurred, which afterwards caused me not a little perturbation and surprise, and which considerably enhanced the mystery surrounding the fair Russian.
We were passing a buttress of the fort when my attention was arrested by what appeared to be a man standing bolt upright in the shadow.
I was too engrossed with thoughts of our tête-à-tête to allow the discovery of an eavesdropper – probably only a peasant – to cause me any alarm, but, seeing my eyes upon him, for I had halted to make sure, the figure suddenly drew from the shadow, and, with its face averted from the moonlight, walked rapidly away.
Vera, uttering an exclamation of surprise or alarm, – which it was I could not tell – seized my arm with a convulsive energy that caused me no small pleasure at the feeling of dependence it implied, and drew a deep breath.
“Do you know him?” I asked.
“No, no; not at all,” she quickly replied. “He might have heard us; but never mind.”
I endeavoured to learn the cause of her alarm thinking that so much agitation could not be created by such a trivial circumstance; but whether my knowledge of feminine nature was imperfect, or whether she knew who the listener was, and concealed his identity, I could not learn, her answers being of the most evasive kind.
It was plain that the fact of our being discovered together had caused her the greatest consternation, and I was considerably puzzled to assign to this a reason.
I did not broach the subject again, however, but walked straight to the hotel, where we bade each other buona notte.
We met daily, and I, most prosaic of bachelors, found myself thinking of her every moment.
Though in a dejected, perplexed mood, I felt utterly happy when at her side; for had she not given me words of hope for the future, and in these was a certain amount of consolation, however slight. Our clandestine meetings were so skilfully arranged as to keep the ever-grumbling Hertzen in entire ignorance, and Vera admitted such expeditions were her happiest hours.
One evening, a fortnight afterwards, we had driven to Pegli, a quaint old fishing village four miles from Genoa. It was a gorgeous sunset, the sea a glittering expanse of blue and gold stretching out toward the descending sky, with nothing to fleck its surface but the gleam of a white sail or two; and as we walked together, close to the lapping waves, I fancied she looked a trifle wan and anxious.
At first I took no heed of it, but presently her agitation became so apparent that I asked whether she were well.
“Yes, well enough in health,” she sighed, “but very unhappy.”
“Why, how is that?” I asked in concern.
“Ah! Frank,” she said, with her eyes fixed sorrowfully upon the ground, “I must not tell you all, so you cannot understand but I am one of those born to unhappiness.”
“Tell me something of this sorrow, that I may sympathise with you,” I said, looking into her eyes. “If it is in my power to help you I will do so willingly.”
“Ah! if you would?” she exclaimed wistfully, her face brightening at a suggestion which appeared to flash across her mind. “There is indeed one way by which you might render me a service, but it is impossible. I am afraid the commission is too great for you to undertake.”
“I am ready to serve you in any way, Vera. If a test of my devotion is required, I’m prepared for the ordeal,” I replied seriously.
She halted, and gazing into my face with eyes brimming with tears, said: “Believe me, I am in sore need of a friend. I will tell you something of my trouble, but do not ask for further explanations now, as I cannot give them. The man whom you know as my uncle holds me in his power. He is harsh, cruel, and – and – ”
“He is your husband!” I interrupted in a low voice, for somehow I felt convinced that such was the case.
“No! no!” she cried hoarsely; “no, I swear that is not so. He is neither husband, nor even friend. Though my uncle, he is unworthy the name of relation. I am unfortunately in his thrall, and dare not disobey his will. To do so would mean – ”
“What? – tell me.”
“Impossible. The longer I live the more I learn to hate his presence. Ah, if you could but know!”
There was an intensity of bitterness in that utterance, a flash in her clear dark eyes that spoke of a fierce passion. Could it be hatred?
“Vera; why not trust me?” I implored,
