Part 18 (1/2)
”Because I followed you,” I answered unblus.h.i.+ngly.
”You followed me?” she said.
”Yes, and I am not ashamed to own it,” I replied. ”Surely you can understand why?”
”I am afraid I do not,” she answered, and as she did so she took a step away from me, as if she were afraid of what she was going to hear.
”In that case there is nothing left but for me to tell you,” I said, and approaching her I took possession of the slender hand which rested upon the back of the pew behind her. ”I followed you, Valerie, because I love you, and because I wished to guard you. Unhappily we have both of us the best of reasons for knowing that we are in the power of a man who would stop at nothing to achieve any end he might have in view. Did you hear me say, Valerie, that I love you?”
From her beautiful face every speck of colour had vanished by this time; her bosom heaved tumultuously under the intensity of her emotion. No word, however, pa.s.sed her lips. I still held her hand in mine, and it gave me courage to continue when I saw that she did not attempt to withdraw it.
”Have you no answer for me?” I inquired, after the long pause which had followed my last speech. ”I have told you that I love you. If it is not enough I will do so again. What better place could be found for such a confession than this beautiful old church, which has seen so many lovers and has held the secrets of so many lives. Valerie, I believe I have loved you since the afternoon I first saw you. But since I have known you and have learnt your goodness that love has become doubly strong.”
”I can not hear you,” she cried, almost with a sob, ”indeed, I can not.
You do not know what you are saving. You have no idea of the pain you are causing me.”
”G.o.d knows I would not give you pain for anything,” I answered. ”But now you _must_ hear me. Why should you not? You are a good woman, and I am, I trust, an honest man. Why, therefore, should I not love you? Tell me that.”
”Because it is madness,” she answered in despair. ”Situated as we are we should be the last to think of such a thing. Oh, Mr. Forrester, if only you had taken my advice, and had gone away from Naples when I implored you to do so, this would not have happened.”
”If I have anything to be thankful for it is that,” I replied fervently.
”I told you then that I would not leave you. Nor shall I ever do so until I know that your life is safe. Come, Valerie, you have heard my confession, will you not be equally candid with me. You have always proved yourself my friend. Is it possible you have nothing more than friends.h.i.+p to offer me?”
I knew the woman I was dealing with. Her beautiful, straightforward nature was incapable of dissimulation.
”Mr. Forrester, even if what you hope is impossible, it would be unfair on my part to deceive you,” she said. ”I love you, as you are worthy to be loved, but having said that I can say no more. You must go away and endeavour to forget that you ever saw so unhappy a person as myself.”
”Never,” I answered, and then dropping on one knee and pressing her hand to my lips, I continued: ”You have confessed, Valerie, that you love me, and nothing can ever separate us now. Come what may, I will not leave you. Here, in this old church, by the cross on yonder altar, I swear it.
As we are together in trouble, so will we be together in love, and may G.o.d's blessing rest upon us both.”
”Amen,” she answered solemnly.
She seated herself in a pew, and I took my place beside her.
”Valerie,” I said, ”I followed you this morning for two reasons. The first was to tell you of my love, and the second was to let you know that I have made up my mind on a certain course of action. At any risk we must escape from Pharos, and since you have confessed that you love me we will go together.”
”It is useless,” she answered sorrowfully, ”quite useless.”
”Hus.h.!.+” I said, as three people entered the church. ”We can not talk here. Let us find another place.”
With this we rose and left the building. Proceeding into the street, I hailed a cab, and as soon as we had taken our places in it, bade the man drive us to the Baumgarten. Some of my pleasantest recollections of Prague in days gone by were cl.u.s.tered round this park, but they were as nothing compared with the happiness I now enjoyed in visiting it in the company of the woman I loved. When we had found a seat in a secluded spot we resumed the conversation that had been interrupted in the church.
”You say that it is useless our thinking of making our escape from this man?” I said. ”I tell you that it is not useless, and that at any hazard we must do so. We know now that we love each other. I know, at least, how much you are to me. Is it possible, therefore, that you can believe I should allow you to remain in his power an instant longer than I can help? In my life I have not feared many men, but I confess that I fear Pharos as I do the devil. Since I have known him I have had several opportunities of testing his power. I have seen things, or he has _made_ me believe I have seen things which, under any other circ.u.mstances, would seem incredible, and, if it is likely to have any weight with you, I do not mind owning that his power over me is growing greater every day. And that reminds me there is a question I have often desired to ask you. Do you remember one night on board the yacht, when we were crossing from Naples to Port Said, telling Pharos that you could see a cave in which a mummy had once stood?”
She shook her head.
”I remember nothing of it,” she said. ”But why do you ask me such strange questions?”
I took her hand before I answered. I could feel that she was trembling violently.
”Because I want to prove to you the diabolical power the man possesses.
You described a tomb from which the mummy had been taken. I have seen that tomb. It was the burial place of the Magician, Ptahmes, whose mummy once stood in my studio in London, which Pharos stole from me, and which was the primary cause of my becoming a.s.sociated with him. You described a subterranean hall with carved pillars and paintings on the walls, and a mummy lying upon a block of stone. I have seen that hall, those pillars, those carvings and paintings, and the mummy of Ptahmes lying stretched out as you portrayed it. You mentioned a tent in the desert and a sick man lying on a bed inside it. I was that sick man, and it was to that tent that Pharos conveyed me after I had spent the night in the ruins of the Temple of Ammon. The last incident has yet to take place, but, please G.o.d, if you will help me in my plan, we shall have done with him long before then.”