Guilty Bonds

Chapter Thirty Three

Vera’s Secret

A few hours had elapsed since my acquittal, and after a brush up and a hasty meal I had entered Vera’s sitting-room.

It was already dark. The tiny electric lamps flooded with amber light the small apartment rendered cosy by the drawn curtains. On a lounge chair she sat, wrapped in a pale grey cashmere gown, with a bunch of crimson roses in her breast. At sight of me she rose. Not a muscle of her countenance stirred, I and could divine her embarrassment by the sharp glance she momentarily darted at me.

I scented in this proceeding some annoying mystery.

A constrained silence reigned for some moments.

“Frank,” exclaimed she, in a very calm tone, advancing slowly and taking my hand, “at last we are alone.”

“Yes, Vera,” I replied, calling to my aid all my coolness to feign a serenity which I was far from possessing. “Now, perhaps, you will let me know this secret of yours which has so long estranged us, and brought us all this sorrow.”

She stood motionless, with compressed lips, and shivering slightly, said, —

“Forgive me! Frank, forgive me! I will tell you everything. You shall know the truth; believe me.”

“Why did you not tell me the truth long ago; then this degrading trial would have been avoided,” I said, bitterly.

“Because I could not, until this afternoon.”

“Not when my life was at stake?”

She shook her head seriously, replying, “No, it was impossible.”

Was I still being duped? Those were the only words that beat a constant and painful tattoo in my brain.

“Tell me,” I said, laying my hand upon her shoulder, “tell me the reason why you have kept this secret of yours till now?”

“Hark!” she said, listening intently.

I could hear nothing beyond the roar of the traffic in Trafalgar Square.

She crossed quickly to the window, and flinging aside the curtains, opened it.

“Come here,” she commanded.

I obeyed her.

“See! below. There is a man selling newspapers. Listen to what he says?”

I leant out of the window, and as I did so a hoarse cry broke upon my ear. It caused me to start, for the words the man shouted were, “Extra special! Attempt to murder the Czar! Exciting Scenes! Extra special!”

“What has that to do with it?” I asked, puzzled, as she closed the window and drew the curtains again.

“Everything,” she replied, sighing. “Sit down, and I will tell you the story.”

I flung myself into an easy-chair, and she came and stood beside me. Her hand smoothed my forehead with a tender caress, yet somehow I could not trust her; the ironic and brutal strokes of Fate had paralysed me, and I felt myself wholly stupefied.

“Sometimes, Frank, an unforeseen incident, a chance, an exterior influence, may bring on a disastrous crisis. It has unfortunately been so in my case,” she said, in a deep, earnest voice.

“Begin at the beginning. Let me know what is this strange mystery which has shadowed your life,” I urged, taking her hand in mine.

“Hush! we must not be overheard,” she replied, glancing apprehensively at the door. “I – I fully recognise how painful all these complications must have been to you, dear, but I assure you it is not my fault that I have not divulged. I had taken an oath – ”

“An oath!”

“Yes. I know it was purely from love that you married me, enveloped in mystery as I was; and, then, when you saw me in the Dene, and – and – thought me untrue – ah – you surely should have known me better than that. You know how I love you; and yet you suspected me!” she cried passionately.

“Don’t let’s talk of that,” I said, impatiently.

“When I have told you,” she continued, her eyes filling with tears, “you will no longer believe me Valse, even though I – your wife – have stained my Hands with crime!”

“What!” I cried, in amazement, “you?”

“Ah, no,” she answered, “and yet mine is a horrible crime. Listen! Years ago, when I was a little child, my father, Count Nicholas, held a responsible position at the Court of the Czar at Petersburg. His closest friend was Sergius Orselska – the man you know as Hertzen – his half-brother. His son, Demetrius, and I were playmates.”

“But what of Boris. The man who gave evidence to-day?”

“He is my brother. When the Russo-Turkish war broke out, my father, who was an officer, was placed in command of a troop, Boris having in the meantime joined the Cossacks. The Count served with distinction throughout the campaign; but, alas! after the fall of Plevna, he received news that my brother had been killed in an engagement with some insurgents in Georgia.