Part 14 (1/2)
”You hated them once, I remember,” he observed, with a smile, pausing to light a cigarette.
”Ah! that was in the evil days. One's enjoyment is always gauged by one's pocket.”
”Then according to that theory I ought to have a larger measure of this world's pleasures than the majority of people--eh?”
”You have.”
”Ah, no, Liane,” he sighed, becoming suddenly grave. ”True, I have wealth, a house in Brussels, an estate in Luxembourg, a yacht in yonder port, and a villa here upon this promenade, yet there is one thing I lack to render my happiness complete.”
”What's that?” she asked, rather surprised at the unusual tone of sadness in his voice. Her smiling lips suddenly quivered with a momentary dread--a dread of something she could not quite define.
He had paused at one of the seats at the end of the plage, and with a alight courteous wave of the hand invited her to sit. Slowly she did as she was bid, and awaited his reply.
”I have not yet found any woman to sufficiently care for me,” he answered at last, in a quiet impressive tone.
”You will surely have no difficulty,” she said with a strange ring in her voice. She had not suspected that he possessed a grain of sentiment, for long ago she had noticed that he was entirely unimpressionable where the charms of women were concerned.
His manner suddenly changed. He sank into the seat beside her, saying,--
”There is something, Liane, I want to say to you I've said it so often to myself that I feel as if you must know it.” She sat quite still. He had grasped her small hand in his, and she let him keep it, questioning his face with a bewildered gaze. ”You must know--you must have guessed--”
She turned pale, but outwardly quelled the panic that sent the blood to her heart. ”I must tell you the truth now--I love you.”
With a sudden movement she freed her hand and drew away from him.
”Me!” she gasped. Whatever potential complicity had lurked in her heart, his words brought her only immeasurable dismay.
He bent towards her again. ”Yes, you!”
She felt his hot breath upon her cheek, and put up her hand with imploring gesture. He looked at her with almost frenzied admiration, as if it were only with fierce resolve that he restrained himself from seizing her in his arms and closing her mouth with burning kisses. His whole frame quivered in the fury of repressed excitement, insomuch that she shrank from him with involuntary terror.
”Can't you tell me what it is that makes me repugnant to you?” he asked quickly.
”You are not repugnant at all,” she faltered hoa.r.s.ely. ”You are not repugnant, only--I am indifferent.”
”You mean that you don't care about me one way or the other.”
She shut her lips tight. Hers was not a nature so pa.s.sionate as that of most Southerns, but a loving one; feeling with her was not a single simple emotion, but a complicated one of many impulses--of self-diffidences, of deep, strange aspirations that she herself could scarcely understand--a woman's pride, the delight of companions.h.i.+p and sympathy and of the guidance of a stronger will; a longing for better things. All these things were there. But beside them were thoughts of the man she had vowed she loved, the man who was ruined and who could not for years hope to make her his wife. She looked at the glittering moonlit sea, with the light steadily burning in the far distance at Antibes, but no answer escaped her lips. The silence of night was complete save for the rhythmic swish of the waves at their feet.
At last, after a long pause, her words came again, shudderingly, ”Oh, what have you done?”
”By Heaven!” he said, with a vague smile, ”I don't know. I hope no harm.”
”Oh, don't laugh!” she cried, laughing hysterically herself. ”Unless you want me to think you the greatest wretch in the world.”
”I?” he responded. ”What do you mean?”
”You know you are fooling me,” she answered reproachfully. ”You cannot put your hand on your heart and swear that you actually love me.”
A quick look of displeasure crossed his face, but his back was towards the moon and she did not notice it.