Part 21 (1/2)
”No,” she murmured. ”No, George, you cannot.”
”Do you fear to trust me--the man who loves you?” he asked in a reproachful tone, grasping her hand.
”Ah!” she cried with sudden emotion, ”do not make my burden heavier to bear, George. Why have you come here to me--now?”
”Why now? Are you not pleased that I should be beside you when you are unhappy?”
”Yes--I mean no,” she sobbed. ”Your presence here only adds to my torture.”
”Torture?” he echoed. ”What do you mean, Liane?”
”I must tell you now,” she gasped, clutching his arm convulsively, and raising her tearful face to his with an imploring look. ”You will not think me false, cruel and heartless--will you? But I cannot marry you.”
”What!” he e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed, starting and regarding her in abject dismay.
”Why, what is there to prevent it? Surely you cannot say that you no longer love me?”
”Ah! no,” she answered, panting, her gloved hand still clutching his arm. ”I do love you, George. I swear I love you at this moment as no other woman ever can.”
”Yet you cannot marry me?”
”It is impossible.”
”Ah! don't say that, darling,” he protested. ”We love each other too well ever to be parted.”
”But we must part,” she answered, in a blank, despairing voice. ”You must no longer think of me, except as one who has loved you, as one who will still think often, very often, of you.”
”Impossible!” he cried quickly. ”You told me once that you loved me, that you would wait a year or so if necessary, and that you would marry me.”
”I know! I know!” she wailed, covering her face with her hands. ”And I told you the truth.”
”Then you have met someone else whom you love better,” he observed, in a tone of poignant sorrow.
She did not reply. Her heart was too full for words. Her breath came in short, quick gasps, and she laid one hand upon the stone bal.u.s.trade to steady herself.
”Ah, George,” she murmured brokenly, ”you do not know the fatality that of late has encompa.s.sed me, or you would not reproach me. You would pity me.”
He saw she was trembling. Her eyes were downcast, her chin had fallen upon her breast.
”I cannot sympathise with you, or advise you, if you will not tell me the cause of your distress,” he said in a kindly tone, grasping her hand.
They were in the eastern end of the garden, at a spot but little frequented.
”I know you must hate me for having deceived you like this, but truly I could not avoid it. Many, many times have I striven to write to you and tell you the truth, but my words looked so cold, formal and cruel on paper that I always tore up the letter. While you were in ignorance I knew that you still loved me, but now--”
”Well, I am still in ignorance,” he interrupted.
”And I have lost you!” she cried despairingly.
”Why? I still love you.”