Whoso Findeth a Wife

Chapter Twenty Seven
Cosmopolitans

“Why, what’s the matter, old chap?” inquired Cargill, bending forward quickly to glance at the journal. “You look as if you’ve got an acute attack of the jim-jams.”

“See!” I gasped hoarsely, pointing to the printed page upon which my strained eyes had riveted themselves.

“Deucedly pretty woman,” declared the attaché, who was nothing if not a ladies’ man. Few men were better known in Paris than Hugh Cargill.

“Yes, yes, I know,” I exclaimed impatiently. I was sitting dumbfounded, the words beneath the picture dancing before my vision in letters of fire.

The portrait that seemed to smile mockingly at me was a reproduction of a photograph of Ella. The handsome, regular features were unmistakable. With the exception of the magnificent tiara, the ornaments she wore I recognised as belonging to her. All were now in my possession, alas! for on leaving me she had discarded them, and with ineffable sadness I had locked them away in a small cabinet. The jewel-case containing her wedding-ring was a veritable skeleton in my cupboard that I dare not gaze upon.

The picture was undoubtedly that of my lost wife, yet beneath was printed in French the words, —

“Her Imperial Highness the Grand Duchess Elizaveta Nicolayevna of Russia.”

“Look!” I cried, my eye still upon the page. “Surely there’s some mistake! That can’t be the Grand Duchess!”

Allender and Cargill bent simultaneously over the little table, and both declared that there was no mistake.

“She’s very well-known here,” exclaimed the attaché. “I’ve seen her driving her Orloff ponies in the Bois dozens of times. Besides, one never forgets such a face as hers.”

“Does she live here?” I inquired breathlessly.

“Sometimes,” he answered; and smiling behind the veil of tobacco smoke, he added, “She’s been away a long time now. I suppose you want an introduction to her – eh? Well, I don’t expect you’ll be successful, as her circle is the most select in Paris. She never invites any of the ‘corps diplomatique.’”

“No,” I answered huskily, “I desire no introduction.” A sudden giddiness had seized me. The jingle of glasses, the incessant chatter, the loud laughter, and the heavy smoke of cigars had combined with this sudden and bewildering discovery to produce a slight faintness. I took up a glass of ice-water at my elbow and gulped it down.

“Do you know her?” inquired Allender, with a pronounced American accent, at the same time regarding me curiously.

“Yes,” I answered, not without hesitation. “She is – I mean we have already met.”

“Well, you’re to be congratulated,” he answered, smiling. “I reckon she’s the finest looking woman in Paris, and that’s a solid fact.”

Without replying I slowly turned over the page, and there saw a brief article with the same heading as the legend beneath the portrait. Cargill and Allender were attracted at that moment by the entry of one of their friends, a wealthy young man who, with his wife, had forsaken Ohio for residence in the French capital, and while they chatted I eagerly scanned the article, which ran as follows, —

“Paris will welcome the return of Her Imperial Highness the Grand Duchess Elizaveta Nicolayevna of Russia, whose portrait we give on another page. For nearly nine months her great house in the Avenue des Champs Elysées, the scene of so many brilliant fêtes during her last residence there, has been closed, but she arrived in Paris about ten days ago, and has announced her intention of remaining among us until the end of the year. As our readers are no doubt aware, Her Imperial Highness, niece of the late Tzar Alexander, and cousin of the present Czar, is an excellent linguist, speaking English and French perfectly, in addition to her native Russian. She was born at Tzarskoïe-Selo, but her early days were spent in England. She, however, prefers Paris to either London or St Petersburg, although in the latter city her entertainments at the mansion on the English Quay are on a scale almost as brilliant as those at the Winter Palace itself. Her beauty is incomparable, and her diamonds among the finest in Europe. Her munificence to the poor of Paris is well-known. Although moving in the highest circle, she does not fear to go herself into the very vilest slums, accompanied by her trusty Muscovite man-servant, and there distribute relief to the deserving from her own purse. Both the needy and the wealthy therefore welcome her on her return.”

I re-read the article. Then I sat with the paper before me, staring at it in blank bewilderment. The surprising discovery held me petrified. This beautiful woman, who had masqueraded as Ella Laing, and had become my wife by law, was actually the daughter of a reigning house, the cousin of an Emperor.

The astounding truth seemed incredible.

“Well,” asked Cargill, turning to me with a smile a moment later, “have you been reading all about her?”

“Yes,” I answered, drawing a long breath.

“Come, don’t sigh like that, old fellow,” he cried, and glancing across to the bar, shouted, “Mix another dry Martini, Tommy, for my friend.”

To affect indifference I strove vainly. Nevertheless, I listened with eager ears as my three companions commenced discussing the merits of the high-born woman who was my wife. To me she was no longer Ella. Her personality, so vivid and distinct, seemed in those moments of perplexity to fade like the memory of some half-remembered dream.

“Her beauty is simply marvellous,” Allender acknowledged, smoking on in his dry, matter-of-fact way. He was not more than thirty-eight, but by sheer merit as a sound lawyer and a thorough good fellow, he had risen to the lucrative post he held, and had, in the course of five years, formed a large and valuable practice and a wide circle of friends among the English-speaking colonies in the French capital.

“I entirely agree with m’sieur,” observed Monsieur Goron, in his broken English. “Her Highness is very beautiful, but, ah – cold as an icicle.”

“Is there no scandal regarding her?” I inquired eagerly, well knowing that in Paris no woman is considered really chic without some story being whispered about her.

“None,” replied the renowned investigator of Anarchist conspiracies. “I have the pleasure of knowing Her Highness, and I have always found her a most estimable young lady. There is, however,” he added, “some curious romance, I believe, connected with her earlier life.”

“A romance?” cried Cargill. “Do tell us all about it.”

“Ah, unfortunately I do not know the details,” answered the old Frenchman, suddenly exhibiting his palms. “It was alleged once by somebody I met officially – who it was, I really forget. She lived for years in England, and is a cosmopolitan thoroughly, besides being one of the richest women in Paris.”

“Is it true that she sometimes goes into the low quarters of the city and gives money to the poor?” I asked him, for this love of midnight adventure accounted for Ella’s strange penchant for rambling alone at night that had once caused me so much perturbation.

“Certainly. With her, philanthropy is a fad. I accompanied her on several occasions last year,” he replied. “She attired herself in an old, worn-out dress of one of her maids, and disguised herself most effectually. On each night she distributed about five thousand francs with her own hands. Indeed, so well-known is she in certain quarters that I believe she might go there alone with perfect safety. However, when she is going we always know at the Préfecture, and take precautions. It would not do for us to allow anything to happen to an Imperial Highness,” he added.

“Of course not,” observed Cargill, adding with the diplomatic instinct, “Of course. Not in view of the Franco-Russian Alliance,” an observation at which we all three laughed merrily.

“Has she a lover?” inquired Allender, turning to Monsieur Goron.

“I think not,” the other replied. “I never heard of one. Indeed, I have never heard her accused of flirtation with anybody.”

“Tell me, m’sieur,” I asked, “are you acquainted with a Russian named Ivan Renouf, who is, I believe, in the secret service.”

“Renouf!” he repeated, glancing quickly at me with his steel-blue eyes. “Yes, I have met him. He is in Paris at the present moment. Whether he is in the actual service of the Tzar’s Government I don’t know, but one thing is certain, namely, that he is a blackmailer and a scoundrel,” he added frankly.

“What offence has he committed?” I asked, eager to learn some fact to his detriment.

“He keeps well within the bounds of the law,” my companion answered. “Nevertheless he is utterly unscrupulous and most ingenious in his methods. He is reported to be chief of the section of Secret Police attached to the Russian Embassy, but they are a mysterious lot of spies, always coming and going. Sent here from St Petersburg, they remain a few months, watching the revolutionary refugees, and then go back, their places being taken by a fresh batch.”

“Why is Renouf in Paris? Have you any idea?”

“None, m’sieur,” Monsieur Goron answered. “He has been absent fully six months, and only last night I met him coming out of La Scala.”

“Did you speak?”

“Yes. He did not, however, recognise me,” smiled the Chief of Police. “I did not expect he would, as I chanced to be acting as a cabman, and was sitting upon my box outside the theatre. He hailed me, but I refused to drive him. I was waiting for a fare who was enjoying himself inside, and who, on coming out, I had the pleasure of driving straight to the Préfecture,” added the man of a thousand disguises with a chuckle, swallowing his cocktail in one gulp.

“Where does the Grand Duchess live?” I inquired, after a slight pause.

“Deedes is simply gone on her,” cried Cargill, with good-humoured banter. “He evidently wants to take her out to dinner.”

“No,” I protested, smiling grimly. “Nothing of the kind. I only want to know whereabouts in the Avenue des Champs Elysées she lives.”

“It is a large white house, with green jalousies, on the left-hand side, just beyond the Avenue de l’Alma,” explained the Chief of Police, laughing at Cargill’s suggestion.

“But how did you become acquainted with her?” inquired the attaché, presently, after my companions had been praising her face and extolling her virtues.

“We met in London,” I answered vaguely, for I was in no confidential mood.

“And she captivated you, eh?” my friend exclaimed. “Well, I’m not surprised. Half Paris goes mad over her beauty whenever she’s here.”

“It is said, and I believe there’s a good deal of truth in it,” exclaimed Goron, confidentially, “that young Max Duchanel, the well-known writer on the Figaro, committed suicide last year by shooting himself over at Le Pré St Gervais because she disregarded his attentions. At any rate an extravagant letter of reproach and farewell was discovered in his pocket. We hushed up the matter because of the position of the personage therein mentioned.”

At least one man had paid with his life the penalty of his devotion to her. Did not this fact force home once again the truth of Sonia’s disregarded denunciation that Ella was not my friend? It was now plain how neatly I had been tricked; and with what artful ingenuity she had masqueraded as my wife. Monsieur Grodekoff, the Russian Ambassador, Paul Verblioudovitch, and Ivan Renouf all knew her true position, yet feared to tell me. Indeed, my friend Paul had urged me to marry and forgot the past, and his Excellency had actually congratulated us both with outstretched hand. Because she was so well-known in Paris she had, while on our honeymoon, only remained in the capital the night, and had refused to go shopping or show herself unnecessarily. She had preferred a quiet, unfashionable hotel in a by-street to any of those well-known; and I now remembered how, even then, she had remained in her room, pleading fatigue and headache. From our first meeting to the moment of her flight her attitude had been that of a consummate actress.

“Did Her Highness pass under another name in London?” Goron asked me presently, appearing much interested.

“Yes,” I replied.

“Ah!” he ejaculated. “She is perfectly charming, and so fond of concealing her real position beneath the most ordinary patronymic. To me, she is always so affable and so nice.”

“Goron is sweet on her also, I believe,” observed Allender, whereat we all laughed in chorus.

I struggled to preserve an outward show of indifference, but every word these men uttered stabbed my heart deeply. When I had ascertained the whereabouts of her house, my first impulse had been to rush out, drive there, and meet her face to face, but my nerves were, I knew, upset and unsteady, so I remained sitting with my light-hearted companions, endeavouring amid that jingle, popping of corks, and chatter of London, New York and Paris, to think deeply and decide upon the best course to pursue.

“Our chief sent her invitations to the Embassy balls on several occasions a year ago, but she declined each,” I heard the attaché saying. “She’s a royalty, so I suppose she thinks herself just a cut above us. But, after all, I don’t blame her,” he added, reflectively. “Diplomacy is but the art of lying artistically. She has no need to struggle for a foothold in society.”

“Correct,” observed Allender. “The women who flutter around at our Embassy are the gayest crowd I’ve ever struck. I reckon they’re not of her set. But she’s a very fine woman, even though she may be a Highness. She’s simply beautiful. I’ve seen some fine women in my day, but for thrilling a man’s soul and driving him to distraction, I never saw anyone to compare with her.”

“That’s so,” Cargill acquiesced. “Yet her refusal to come to us has often been remarked by our chief, especially as we’ve entertained a crowd of other princesses and high nobilities at one time or another.”

“She has a reason, I suppose,” observed Goron, slowly twisting his eternal caporal.

“Goron appears to know all her secrets,” said Cargill, winking at me knowingly. “He trots her about Paris at night, and she confides in him all her little anxieties and fears. A most charming arrangement.”

The astute officer, who, by his energetic action, had succeeded in effectually stamping out the Anarchist activity, smiled and raised both his hands in protest, crying, —

“No, no, messieurs! It is in you younger men that the pretty women confide. As for me, I am old, fat and ugly.”

“But you act as the protector of the philanthropic Elizaveta Nicolayevna,” observed Cargill, “therefore, when you next see her, tell her how her portrait in Le Monde has been admired by an impressionable young Englishman, named Deedes, and present to her the compliments and profound admiration of all three of us.”

“Don’t do anything of the kind, Goron,” I cried, rather angrily. “Remember I know the lady, and such words would be an insult.”

“Very well, if you’re really going to call on her, you might convey our message,” exclaimed the attaché, nonchalantly. “You’re not jealous, are you?”

“I don’t think there’s any need for jealousy,” I responded.

Goron laughed heartily at this retort. He was more shrewd than the others, and I instinctively felt that he had guessed that Her Highness and myself were a little more than chance-met acquaintances. But the others continued their fooling, happy, careless, bubbling over with buoyant spirits. Many good fellows frequent the bar of the Chatham, one of the most cosmopolitan resorts in Europe. Many adventurers and “dead beats” make it their headquarters, but of all that merry, easy-going crowd of men with money, and those in want of it, to find two men more popular and more generous than Hugh Cargill and Henry Allender would have been difficult.

As we still sat together smoking and drinking, the pair directed their chaff continually in my direction. Evidently believing that the incomparable beauty of Her Highness had fascinated me, they urged me to go to her and suggest a drive in the Bois, a quiet little dinner somewhere, or a box at the opera. Little did they dream how every jesting word they uttered pained me, how each laugh at my expense caused me excruciating anguish, or how any detrimental allegation, spoken unthinkingly, sank deeply into my mind. But I had never worn my heart on my sleeve, therefore I treated their banter with good humour, determined that, at least for the present, they should remain in ignorance of the fact that I was the husband of the woman whose adorable face and charming manner had excited universal admiration in the gayest capital of the world.

Chapter Twenty Eight
Her Imperial Highness

Until we rose and separated I succeeded in hiding my sorrow beneath a smile, but when at length I had shaken hands with my companions at the corner of the Rue de la Paix, and to my relief found myself once more alone walking across the Place Vendôme, with the black column standing out before me in the bright moonlight, my outburst of grief became uncontrollable. My heart, lancinated by the careless words of my companions, had been burdened by a bitterness rendered the more poignant because I had been compelled to laugh with them. Now that I had proof that Ella was not what she had represented herself to be – an affectionate, unassuming woman of my own station – I felt crushed, bewildered and disconsolate, for with the knowledge of our difference of birth the iron had entered my soul.

The manner in which she had posed as daughter of the pleasant-faced widow of Robert Laing, and her calm, dignified bearing as my wife, had been a most perfect piece of acting. Never for one moment had I suspected her to be anything else than what she represented herself to be – plain Ella Laing, the only daughter of the deceased shipowner; yet she was actually a daughter of the Romanoffs, the most powerful and wealthy house in Europe. As I strolled slowly along the Rue Castiglione towards the hotel, I asked myself whether she had ever really loved me. At first I doubted her, because of the difference of our stations. Presently, however, when I recollected the perfect bliss of our honeymoon, when I remembered how childishly happy we had been together through those brief autumn days, in the sleepy old towns and villages of the Indre, content in each other’s joys, I could not longer declare within myself that hers had been mere theatrical emotion. Yes, she had loved me then, this high-born woman, over whose beauty half Paris raved, and I, in my ignorance, had fondly imagined our love would last always. The experiment of the masquerade had amused her at first, perhaps, but soon, alas! she had grown tired of life in a ten-roomed house in a quiet road in Kensington, and with a brief, cruel farewell had returned to her jewel-case the ring I had placed upon her slim finger, and left me with ruthless disregard for all the love I had bestowed upon her. Yet after all, was it really surprising that she, the daughter of an Imperial House, should become weary of the humdrum life she had been compelled to lead with one whose private income, outside his salary, was a paltry nine hundred a year?

While we lived together, she had apparently exercised the greatest caution not to show herself possessed of money, for she always did her shopping in Kensington High Street, with due regard to economy, as became the wife of a man of limited means. Never once had she grumbled or sighed because she could not purchase higher-priced hats or dresses, but, always content, she had, I remembered, been proud to exhibit to me those odds-and-ends picked up in drapers’ shops, so dear to the feminine heart, and known as bargains. When I had regretted my small income, as I had done more than once, she had fondly kissed me, declaring herself perfectly willing to wait until I had obtained a diplomatic and more lucrative appointment. “You have an excellent friend in the Earl,” she would say, smiling sweetly. “He is certain to give you a post before long. Be patient.”

I had been patient, and had lost her.

Plunged in deep despair, I turned into the courtyard of the hotel, and sat down to think. As I did so a servant handed me a telegram. It was from Lord Warnham at Osborne, requesting my return on the morrow.

The one thought that possessed me was that Ella – or the woman I had known and adored under that name – was in Paris. Could I leave without seeing her? She had deserted me, it was true, yet my passion was at that moment as intense even as it had been in those calm autumn days when we had wandered together along the peaceful lanes around old-world Chateauroux, hand-in-hand, in sweet contentment. In those never-to-be-forgotten hours we both possessed the delights of love and fever of happiness. To us everything was passion, ecstasy and delirium. We both felt as if we were living in a rose-coloured atmosphere; the heights of sentimentality glistened in our imaginations, and common everyday existence appeared to us to be far down below in the distance – in the shade between the gaps in these heights. I still felt the softness of that tiny hand I had so often pressed to my lips; I still felt the clasp of her arms about my neck; I still saw her deep blue eyes gazing into mine as we interchanged vows of eternal fidelity.

The cry of a man selling the Soir aroused me. I rose suddenly. Yes, I must see her again. I must see her, if for the last time.

Stepping into a cab, I directed the man to drive to her house, then, seating myself, glanced at my watch. It was already near midnight.

Soon, with the clip-clap of the horse’s hoofs sounding upon the asphalte, we were crossing the Place de la Concorde, rendered bright by its myriad lights, then entering the broad avenue we passed the lines of illuminated cafés half-hidden by the trees surrounding them, and, driving on for some ten minutes, at last pulled up among a number of private carriages that were setting down guests before a great mansion, where I alighted.

One of those brilliant fêtes that were the talk of Paris was apparently about to commence, for many notabilities were arriving, and as I went forward to the spacious portico I was preceded by two pretty laughing girls attended by a tall and distinguished-looking man of military appearance. I drew back while they entered the great, brilliantly-lit hall with its fine marble staircase and profusion of exotics; then, when they had passed on, I inquired in French of the gigantic Russian concierge whether Her Highness was at home.

“Yes, m’sieur,” answered the man, gruffly, scanning me closely, noticing that I was attired in a suit of dark tweed, for so suddenly had I left England that I had had no time to take with me a claw-hammer coat. “Her Highness is at home, m’sieur, but she is engaged,” he said, when he had thoroughly inspected me.

I half drew my card-case from my pocket, but fearing lest she might not see me if she knew my name, I said, —

“Go to her, and say that a friend craves one moment of her time upon an important matter.”

“M’sieur gives no card?” he inquired, with a quick, interrogative look of suspicion.

“No,” I answered.

He led me across the hall wherein hung an elaborate Russian ikon, down one long well-carpeted corridor and then along another, at last ushering me into a great apartment resplendent with mirrors, statuary and gilt furniture, the latter bearing embroidered upon the crimson backs of the chairs her monogram, “EN”, surmounted by a Russian coronet. In the costly inlaid cabinets were arranged many pieces of priceless china, the carpet was of rich turquoise blue, the tables of ebony were inlaid with silver, and over all electric lamps, dotted here and there, shaded by coral silk, shed a warm, subdued light. Near the four long windows that occupied one end of the great room was a grand piano, upon which two photographs in ormolu frames stood conspicuously. I crossed to look at them and discovered that one was my own, that she had evidently taken with her when she had so suddenly left my house, and the other a portrait of the man who had betrayed me – Dudley Ogle.

Slowly my eyes wandered around the elegant apartment, unable to realise that this handsome, luxurious abode could actually be my wife’s home. How mean and paltry indeed must our small drawing-room in Phillimore Gardens have appeared to her after all this stately magnificence and rigid etiquette. As I passed through the great mansion, one of the largest private residences in Paris, my nostrils had been greeted by the subtle odours of exotics, and upon my ears there had fallen the strains of an orchestra somewhere in the opposite wing of the building. Guests were evidently not shown to the side of the house where I had been conducted, for not a sound penetrated there. All was quiet, peaceful and stately.

Suddenly, just as I bent to more closely examine Dudley’s portrait, and had distinguished that it was a copy similar to the one I had seen in Sonia’s possession, the door was thrown wide-open by a tall, liveried servant, who entered, and, bowing low, announced in stentorian tones, – “Her Imperial Highness Elizaveta Nicolayevna.”

The rapid frou-frou of silk sounded outside, and next second my wife and I stood face to face.

In an instant the colour left her cheeks. She staggered as if she had been dealt a blow, but managing to regain her self-possession, she turned quickly to the servant, and in a frigid tone said, —

“Go, Anton. And see that I am not disturbed.”

The man, glancing at me for a moment in unfeigned surprise, bowed, and withdrew in silence.

I stood motionless, gazing upon her, noting the beauty of her costume, the brilliance of her diamonds, and the deathly pallor of her adorable face.

“Geoffrey!” she gasped at last. In a half-fearful whisper she repeated my name, adding, “So you have found me!”

With a quick, impetuous movement she walked unevenly towards me, with rustling skirts and outstretched hands. It seemed to me, as I looked at her, as if my soul flew towards her, spreading at first like a wave around the outline of her head, and then, attracted by the whiteness of her breast, descended into her.

“Yes,” I said, slowly and gravely. “I have found you, Ella.”

“Ah, no!” she cried, advancing so close to me that the well-remembered odour of sampaguita intoxicated me. I felt her warm, passionate breath upon my cheek. “Do not call me longer by that false name. Forget it – forget it all, and call me by my right name – Elizaveta.”

“It is impossible,” I answered.

“No, do not say that,” she cried hoarsely. “I – I know I have deceived you, Geoffrey. I lied to you. But forgive me. Tell me that you will some day forget.”

“Think,” I said, in a low, reproachful tone, my heart filled with grief to overflowing – “think how you have wrecked my life,” I urged. “You masqueraded before me as a plain English girl; you married me and allowed me to adore you – ah! better than all the world besides – until you grew tired and left our poor, matter-of-fact home to reassume your true station – that of a Grand Duchess. You never loved me; but it amused you, I suppose, to become the wife of a man who was compelled to earn his livelihood. The economy you practised while with me was a new sensation to you, and your – ”

“Stop!” she cried vehemently, putting up her tiny hand to my mouth, as had been her habit long ago when she wished to arrest the flow of my words. “Stop! I cannot bear it! I tell you I did love you, Geoffrey. I love you now, dearer than life.”

“Then why did you practise such base deception?” I demanded. “Why did you leave me and cast aside my wedding-ring?”

“I – I was compelled,” she faltered.

“Compelled!” I echoed, in a voice full of bitter sarcasm. “I do not – indeed I cannot blame you for regretting the false step you took when you consented to become my wife, yet why you should have done this is to me utterly incomprehensible.”

“It will all be plain ere long,” she assured me, in a low, intense voice. “If I had not loved you, I should never have become your wife.”

“But you were cruel to deceive me thus,” I retorted.

“It is my misfortune, Geoffrey, that I was born a Grand Duchess,” she answered, looking straight at me with her deep blue eyes full of intense anxiety and sorrow. “It is not my fault. I swear I still love you with a love as honest and pure as ever a woman entertained towards a man.”

“But after deceiving me in every particular regarding both the past and the present, you thought fit to leave me,” I went on ruthlessly.

“Ah!” she exclaimed, as if reflecting, “I admit that I wronged you cruelly; yes, I admit it all, everything. Nevertheless, since we have parted, Geoffrey, I have recollected daily, with a thousand heartfelt regrets, the supreme joy of our married life. Ah! it was happiness, indeed, with you, the man I so dearly loved. But now,” and she shrugged her shoulders, half-hidden in their pale blue chiffon, the movement causing her diamonds to gleam with fiery iridescence. “Now, without your love, I have happiness no longer. All is despair.”

“I have not forgotten. Every detail of our brief, joyous life together is still fresh in my memory,” I declared sorrowfully.

“Forgotten! How can either of us forget?” she cried impetuously, pushing back from her white brow her gold-brown hair, with its scintillating star. “Only in those few months spent by your side, Geoffrey, have I known what it is to really live and to love. Although I have been absent from you I have, nevertheless, known from time to time how you have fared, yet I dared not give you any sign as to my whereabouts, fearing that you would brand me as base and heartless. To you I must appear so, I know; yet, although we are separated, I am still your wife and you my husband. I still love you. Forgive me.”

And she stood before me with bent head in penitent attitude, her slight frame shaken by tremulous emotion.

A lump rose in my throat. I felt choked by the intoxication of her love, for I idolised her. Yet I knew that, although my wife, she could never be the same to me as in those blissful days in Kensington before the shadow of suspicion fell between us.