Part 32 (2/2)
”Dear old dad loved me too well to sacrifice my happiness for money,”
she said, climbing slowly the steep hill.
”Yet you declare that you are doing so by marrying me,” he observed, his eyes fixed upon the ground.
”I am only marrying you because you compel me,” she answered, huskily.
”You know that.”
”Why do you hate me?” he cried, dismayed. ”I have surely done my best to render your life here happy? In the past I admired your grace and your beauty, but because of my poverty I dared not ask the Captain for you. Now that I have the means to give you the luxury which a woman like yourself must need, you spurn my love, and--”
”Your love!” she cried, with a gesture of disgust, her eyes flas.h.i.+ng angrily. ”Do not speak to me of love. You may tell other women that you love them, but do not lie to me!”
”It is no lie,” he answered. She had never spoken so frankly before, and her manner showed a fierce determination which surprised him.
”You have a manner so plausible that you can utter falsehoods so that they appear as gospel truth,” she said. ”Remember, however, that you and my father were once fellow-adventurers, and that years ago I thoroughly gauged your character and found it exactly as superficial and unprincipled as it is now.”
”The past is forgotten,” he snapped. ”It is useless to throw into my face facts and prejudices which I am striving to live down.”
”No,” she cried. ”The past is not forgotten, otherwise you would not compel me to become your wife. How can you say that the past is buried, when at this moment you hold me beneath your hateful thrall, merely because my face and my figure please you, merely because you desire that I should become your wife?”
”With you at my side I shall, I trust, lead a better life,” he said, calmed by her rebuff.
”It is useless to cant in that manner,” she exclaimed, turning upon him fiercely. ”In you, the man I have always mistrusted as knavish and unscrupulous, I can never place confidence. The mean, shabby, tricks you have served men who have been your friends are in themselves sufficient proof of your utter lack of good-will, and show me that you are dead to all honour. Without confidence there can be no love.”
”I have promised before Heaven to make you happy,” he answered.
”Ah, no,” she said, in a choking voice of bitter reproach. ”Speak not of holy things, you, whose heart is so black. If you would make your peace with G.o.d give me back my liberty, my life, before it is too late.”
Her face was pale, her lips were dry, and she panted as she spoke.
But they had gained the gate of the villa where they were to call, and pus.h.i.+ng it open he held it back with a low bow for her to pa.s.s. Her grey eyes, so full of grief and despair, met his for an instant, and she saw he was inexorable. Then she pa.s.sed in up to the door, and a few minutes later found herself in the salon chatting with her voluble hostess, while Zertho sat with Madame's two smart daughters, both true Parisiennes in manner, dress, and speech.
”We only heard to-day of your engagement to the Prince,” Madame Bertholet was saying in French. ”We must congratulate you. I'm sure I wish you every happiness.”
”Thank you,” she said, with a forced smile. ”It is extremely good of you.”
”And when and where do you marry?”
”In Brussels, in about three weeks,” Liane answered, striving to preserve an outward appearance of happiness. It was, however, but a sorry attempt. From the windows of their salon Madame Bertholet and her daughters had noticed the strange imploring look upon Liane's face as they had approached the gate, and had wondered.
Yet when she had entered she had sparkled with fun and vivacity, and it was only the mention of marriage which had disarmed her.
”After Brussels you will, of course, go to your new home in Luxembourg,”
said Madame. ”Have you seen it?”
Liane replied in the negative.
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