Part 37 (1/2)
”Suppose I guess?”
She shrugs her shoulders.
”To Wenkendorf,” he whispers, advancing a step nearer her, as she makes no reply.
”What did he write to you?” Harry persists.
”That is no concern of yours.”
”What if I guess that, too?”
”Then I hope you will keep your knowledge to yourself, and not mention your guess to any one,” Zdena exclaims, eagerly.
”He proposed to you,” Harry says, softly.
Zdena sighs impatiently.
”Well, yes!” she admits at last, turning to Harry a blus.h.i.+ng face as she goes on. ”But I really could not help it. I did what I could to prevent it, but men are so conceited and headstrong. If one of them takes an idea into his head there is no disabusing him of it.”
”Indeed! is that the way with all men?” Harry asks, ready to burst into a laugh.
”Yes, except when they have other and worse faults,--are suspicious and bad-tempered.”
”But then these last repent so bitterly, and are so ashamed of themselves.”
”Oh, as for that, he will be ashamed of himself too.” Then, suddenly growing grave, she adds, ”I should be very sorry to have----”
”To have any one hear of his disappointed hopes,” Harry interposes, with a degree of malicious triumph in his tone. ”Do not fear; we will keep his secret.”
”Good-night!” She takes up her candlestick, which she had put down on the table beside which they are standing, and turns towards the winding staircase.
”Zdena!” Harry whispers, softly.
”What is it?”
”Nothing: only--is there really not a regret in your heart for the wealth you have rejected?”
She shakes her head slowly, as if reflecting. ”No,” she replies: ”what good would it have done me? I could not have enjoyed it.” Then she suddenly blushes crimson, and, turning away from him, goes to the staircase.
”Zdena!” he calls again; ”Zdena!” But the white figure has vanished at the turn of the steps, and he is alone. For a while he stands gazing into the darkness that has swallowed her up. ”G.o.d keep you!” he murmurs, tenderly, and finally betakes himself to his room, with no thought, however, of going to bed.
CHAPTER XXIV.
A SLEEPLESS NIGHT.
No, he could not sleep; he had something important to do. At last he must pluck up courage and establish his position. This wretched prevarication, this double dealing, could not go on any longer. It was ten times more disgraceful than the most brutal frankness. He seated himself at the very table where, scarcely more than a day before, he had listened to Lato's confessions, and began a rough sketch of his letter to Paula. But at the very first word he stopped. He was going to write, ”Dear Paula,” but that would never do. Could he address her thus familiarly when he wanted to sever all relations with her? Impossible!
”Honoured Baroness” he could not write, either; it sounded ridiculous, applied to a girl with whom he had sat for hours in the last fortnight.