Few men tell each other about their love-making, especially Englishmen. Mostly we regard such things as too sacred to speak about, even to those we trust and love the most. Besides, there is something in the character of the normal Englishman which is reserved and secretive, and the thought of telling about our love-making is utterly repugnant to us. Nevertheless, Edgecumbe told me the story of their conversation that afternoon almost word for word as it took place.

He spoke of it quite naturally, too, as though it were the right thing to do. He looked upon me as his one friend, and perhaps the abnormal condition of his life made him do what under other circumstances he would never have thought of. Anyhow, he told me, while I listened incredulous, but almost spellbound.

They had been but a few minutes together, when he commenced his confession. They had left the lane in which they had been walking and were crossing a field which led to a piece of woodland, now beginning to be tinged by those autumn tints which are so beautiful in our western counties.

It was one of those autumn days, which are often more glorious than even those of midsummer. The sweetness and freshness of summer had gone, and the browning leaves and shortening days warned us that winter was coming on apace. But as they walked, the sun shone in a cloudless sky. The morning had been gloomy and showery, but now, as if by a magician's wand, the clouds had been swept away, and nothing but the great dome of blue, illumined by the brightness of the sun, was over them. The rain, too, had cleared the air, and the raindrops which here and there still hung on the grass sparkled in the sunlight.

'It seems,' said Edgecumbe, 'as though the glory of yonder woods is simply defying the coming of winter. Do you see the colouring, the almost unearthly beauty, of the leaves? That is because the sun is shining on them.'

'Yes;' replied Lorna, 'but the winter is coming.'

'Only for a little while, and it only means that nature will take a rest. It's a glorious thing to live, Miss Bolivick.'

She looked at him earnestly for a few seconds. Perhaps she was thinking of the illness through which he had passed, and of his thankfulness at his recovery.

'I am so glad you're better,' she said. 'We were all heart-broken at your illness. I hope——'

But she did not finish the sentence. Perhaps she saw that he was not heeding what she said,—saw, too, that his eyes were far away.

For a few seconds they walked on in silence. Then he turned towards her suddenly.

'I have something to tell you,' he said,—'something very wonderful.'

'You look awfully serious,' and she gave a nervous laugh as she spoke;
'I hope it is nothing to frighten me.'

'Perhaps it is,' he replied, 'but it must be said,—the words would choke me if I didn't utter them.'

She looked at him like one frightened, but did not speak.

'It is all summed up in three words,' he went on: 'I love you. No, don't speak yet; it would not be right. I never saw you until Friday night,—that is, I have no ordinary remembrance of seeing you until then. My friend had spoken to me about you; he had told me of your interest in me. He showed me the letter you wrote him. I did not want to come here, but something, I don't know what it was, made me. When I saw you on Friday evening, I knew. You stood at the doorway of your father's house, with the light of the setting sun upon your face. I could not speak at the time,—words wouldn't come. No wonder, for life begun for me at that moment,—I mean full life, complete life. When I saw you, the world became new. You thought I acted strangely, didn't you? I told you that I never remembered speaking to a woman until then. In a way, of course, it was foolishness, although in another it was the truth. My past is a blank,—that is, up to the time I awoke to a realization that I lived, away in India; and since then my life has been with men. But that wasn't what I meant. When I saw you, you were the only woman in the world,—you are now. You are the fulfilment of my dreams, longing, hopes, ideals. You are all the world.'

The two walked on side by side, neither speaking for some time after this. Perhaps Lorna Bolivick was frightened,—perhaps she was wondering how she could at once be kind, and still make him see the foolishness of what he had said.

'I am glad you are silent,' went on Edgecumbe, 'for your silence helps me. Do you know, when I came to England,—that is, when I saw Luscombe for the first time, I had no thought of God except in a vague, shadowy way. Something, I don't know what, had obliterated Him from my existence,—if ever He had an existence to me, and for months afterwards I never thought of Him. Then I went into a Y.M.C.A. hut in France, where a man spoke about Him, and I caught the idea. It was wonderful,—wonderful! Presently I found Him, found Him in reality, and He illumined the whole of my life. I read that wonderful story of how He sent His Son to reveal Him,—I saw His love in the life and death of Jesus Christ,—and life has never been the same to me since then. But something was wanting, even then; something human, something that was necessary to complete life. Then I saw you, and you completed it.

'I don't know whether men call you beautiful, or not,—that doesn't matter. You have not come into my life like an angel, but as a woman, a human woman. I know nothing about you, and yet I know everything. You are the one woman God meant for me, you fill my life,—you glorify it. You mustn't think of marrying anybody else, it would be sacrilege if you did. Such a love as mine wasn't intended to be discarded,—mustn't be,—can't be.'

'Mr. Edgecumbe,' she said quietly, 'I think we had better return to the house.'

'No, don't let us go back yet; there are other things I want to say'; and he walked steadily on. She still kept by his side,—perhaps she was not so much influenced by his words, as the way he said them, for I knew by the look in his eyes when he told me his story, and by what I felt at the recital of it, that there was a strange intensity, a wonderful magnetism, in his presence.

'I am very ignorant,' he continued presently, 'about the ways of the world. I suppose I must have known at one time, for Luscombe tells me that I generally do what might be expected of a gentleman, although sometimes I make strange mistakes. The loss of one's memory, I suppose, has a curious effect, and I cannot explain it to you. There are certain things which are very real, and very plain,—others are obscure. For example, I speak German perfectly; but until I read it a few months ago, I knew nothing of German history. Forgive me for saying that,—it has nothing to do with what I want to tell you, and yet perhaps it has. Anyhow, it makes plain certain things I do and say. You are going to be my wife——'

'Really, Mr. Edgecumbe,—please,—please——'

'You are going to be my wife,' he went on, as if she had not spoken; 'some day, if not now, you are going to wake up to the fact that you love me, as I love you,—that just as you are the only woman in the world to me, so I am the only man in the world to you. That is not because of my worthiness, because I am not worthy, but because the fire which burns in my heart will be kindled in yours. This seems like madness on my part, doesn't it?—but I am not mad. I am only speaking because of a great conviction, and because my love envelops me, fills me, overwhelms me. Don't you see? Then this has come to me: I am poor, I am nameless, homeless,—but what of that? Love such as mine makes everything possible, and I am going to make a name, make wealth, make riches;—it won't take me long. Why,' and he laughed as he spoke, 'what is a great love for, but to conquer difficulties, to sweep away impossibilities?'

'But this is madness, Mr. Edgecumbe,' replied the girl, finding her voice at last. 'I can't allow you to speak in such a way any longer; it would be wrong for me to do so. I do not wish to hurt you, and indeed I am very sorry for you. I never thought that you would think of me in this way; if I had, I would never have asked you to come here. But you must see how impossible everything is; our habits of life, our associations, everything, make it impossible. Besides, I don't love you,—never can love you.'

'Oh, yes, you can,' replied Edgecumbe, 'and you will. It may be you will have a great battle to fight,—I think you will; but you will love me. When I am away from you,—when I am over in France, facing death, you will think of me, think of this hour, and you will remember that wherever I am, and whatever I am, I am thinking of you, loving you,—that my one object in life will be to win a position for you, to win a name for you. No, no, do not fear that I would ask you to marry me until, even in that sense, I am worthy of you. But you are young, and can wait, and, as you remember, perhaps in the silence of the night, that there is a man whom God made for you, thinking for you, striving for you,—you will learn the great secret.'

I fancy at that time Lorna Bolivick really thought his mind was unhinged; I imagine, too, that she was afraid, because Edgecumbe told me that a look amounting almost to terror was in her eyes. But he seems to have taken no notice of this, for he went on.

'You are thinking of other men who love you; that young fellow Buller is very fond of you in his own way, and perhaps Springfield has also made love to you. Perhaps, too, he has fascinated you. But that will not stop you from loving me. Even if you have promised him anything, you must give him up.'

'Perhaps you will finish your walk alone, Mr. Edgecumbe,' she said.
'I—I am going back to the house.'

'Not yet,' he replied. 'In a few minutes I shall have finished. I did not expect you to be as patient as you have been, and I thank you. But if you have any thoughts about Springfield, you will give them up. He is no fit mate for you; he is as far removed from you as heaven is from hell.'

At this she spoke passionately. 'You doubtless have forgotten many things,' she said, 'and one thing is that one gentleman never speaks evil of another.'

'I say what I have to say,' he replied, 'because life, and all it means, trembles in the balance. I do not pretend to know anything about Springfield, although I have a feeling that his life and my life have been associated in the past, and will be again in the future. But let that pass. You may be fascinated by him, but you can never love him,—you simply can't. Your nature is as pure as those raindrops, as transparent as the sky. You love things that are pure and beautiful,—and that man's nature is dark and sinister, if not evil. There is only one other thing I have to tell you, then we will return. You see,' he added, 'I am not asking you to promise me anything, or to tell me anything,—I only want to tell you. I suppose I am about thirty years of age, I don't know; how long ago it was that I lost my memory I can't tell; but my friend Luscombe tells me that perhaps, when I was younger than I am now—that is in those days which are all dark to me—I loved some woman and married her. Of course I didn't. But even when I have won a position worthy of you, and when my name shall be equal to yours, I will never think of asking you to wed me until even all possibility of suspicion of such a thing is swept aside. I thought it right to tell you this; how could I help it,—when the joy that should fill your life, the light which you should rejoice in, are all the world to me?'

'Mr. Edgecumbe,' she said, 'you are my father's guest, and—and—I want to think only kind thoughts of you,—but please drive away these foolish fancies.'

He laughed gaily. 'Foolish fancies! Is the sun foolish for shining? Are the flowers foolish for blooming? No, no; I love you,—I love you, and day and night, summer and winter, through shine and through storm, my one thought will be of you, always of you, and then, in God's good time, you will come to me, and we shall enter into joy.'

During the greater part of their journey back scarcely a word passed between them, and when at length they drew near the house again, he spoke to her of other things, as though his mad confession had never been uttered. He told her of the books he was trying to read, books which were new to him, and yet which he felt he had read before; told, too, of his thought about the war, and what we were fighting for, and what the results would be. He spoke of his friendship with me, and of what it meant to him; of his new life in the Artillery, and of his progress as a gunner, and when he came up to the door where I was waiting anxiously for them, he was telling her a humorous story about two soldiers at the front. Indeed, so much had he erased the influence of what he had at first said to her, that when Lorna Bolivick reached the house she was laughing gaily.

'Had a pleasant walk?' I asked.

'Wonderful,' replied Edgecumbe; 'a walk never to be forgotten.'

As for Lorna, she went away to her room, and did not appear again until dinner-time.

That night Edgecumbe revealed himself in a new light. No other visitors were there, with the exception of Miss Blackwater. That was the reason, perhaps, he was able to speak freely, and act naturally. But, certainly, I never knew him such a pleasant companion as then, and he revealed phases of character which I had never suspected him of. This man, who was often wistful, and generally strenuous in his earnestness, became humorous and gay. Sometimes he was almost brilliant in his repartees, and revealed a fund of humour which surprised me. Sometimes he grew quite eloquent in discussing the war, and in telling what he believed the effects would be on the life of men and nations. He showed an insight into the deeper movements of the times, which revealed him as a thinker of no mean order, while his idealism and his patriotism were contagious.

Whether he had a purpose in all this, I cannot say, but certain it is he simply captivated the old baronet.

'Dash it, man!' cried Sir Thomas to me, just before I went to bed, 'the fellow is a genius. I never dreamed of such a thing! With luck, he'll make his mark. He—he might do anything. Upon my word, I am sorry he's going to-morrow. I thought on Saturday he was nothing but a teetotal fanatic, but the fellow is wonderful. He has a keen sense of humour, too. I wonder who and what he really is. It is the most remarkable case I ever heard of in my life.'

'For my own part,' I said, 'I almost dread his memory coming back.'

'Why?'

'There are times when a man's past had better be buried and forgotten.'

'On the other hand,' broke in Sir Thomas, 'it may be the beginning of a new life to him. Perhaps he has a name, wealth, position.'

Lorna Bolivick, who was standing by, did not speak, but I could see that her father's words influenced her. Perhaps she was thinking of the mad confession which Edgecumbe had made that day.

The next day we returned to London.