Chapter Twelve. Liane’s Secret.
When Liane had left the two men she first obtained her sunshade, then, descending the steps, walked slowly beneath the shadows round to the front of the Casino and out upon the beautiful broad terrace, flanked by palms, aloes and flowers, which faced the sea. There were but few promenaders, for the sun was still warm, and most of the people were inside tempting Fortune.
With her white sunshade above her head she leaned upon the stone balustrade, her clear eyes fixed in deep thought upon the wide expanse of blue sky and bluer sea. On the terrace below, where a pigeon-shooting match was in progress, the crack of a gun was heard at intervals, while pacing the gravelled walk near her was one of the Casino attendants with the curious closely-fitting coat and conspicuous broad striped belt of red and blue. The duty of these men is somewhat unique. They watch the loungers narrowly, and if they appear plunged in despair they eject them from the gardens lest they should commit suicide.
The soft breeze from the sea fanned her face refreshingly after the closeness of those crowded rooms, where the sun’s brightness was excluded, and the light of the glorious day subdued. She was annoyed at Zertho’s action in inciting her father by winning the paltry couple of louis, more than at the Captain for his want of self-control. She stood there thinking, a tall lithe figure in white girdled with violet, refined, exquisite, dainty from the gilt ferrule of her sunshade to the tip of her tiny white kid shoe. She reflected what terrible fascination the tables possessed for her father, and was half inclined to forgive him, knowing how irresistible was the temptation to play amid that accumulation of all the caprices, of all the fantasies, of all the eccentricities, of all the idleness, of all the ambitious and all the indiscretions. But Zertho’s contemptuous smile had added to her vexation and displeasure.
Her father had commenced playing, and she dreaded the consequences, knowing with what dogged persistency he would stake his last louis on the chance of regaining his losses, heedless of the fact that for each coin lost they would be deprived of the comforts of life to that amount. She reproached herself for consenting to accompany them, but as she pondered her anger soon turned to poignant sorrow. She had believed that her father, hard hit as he had been, had relinquished all thought of play. Time after time he had assured her that he had renounced roulette for ever, yet now on the first occasion he had revisited the scene of his old triumphs and defeats, all his good resolutions had crumbled away, and he had tossed his money into the insatiable maw of the bank as recklessly as he had ever done. She sighed as she thought of it, and bitter tears dimmed her vision. By her own influence she could have taken him away; it was, she knew, the fear of Zertho’s derision that caused him to fling those notes so defiantly upon the table.
With that picturesque, well-remembered landscape of rugged mountain heights, olive-clad slopes, and calm sea, memories sad and bitter continued to crowd upon her. This place, among the fairest on earth, was to her the most hateful and loathsome. With it were associated all the evil days which had passed so drearily; all the poverty which had kept her and her dead companion shabby and heavy-hearted; all the months of anxiety and weariness in days when their rooms were poorly furnished and the next meal had been an event of uncertainty. A few months of life at a good hotel, amid congenial society, would always be followed by many months of residence high up in some back street, where the noise was eternal, where the screaming of loud-voiced Frenchwomen sounded above and below, where clothes were hung upon the drab jalousies to air in the sun, and where the smell of garlic came in at the windows. In such a life the quiet English homeliness of Stratfield Mortimer had come as a welcome rest. She had loved their quaint old ivied cottage, and had fondly believed they would remain there always, happy and contented. But, alas! Nelly’s tragic end had changed it all.
Zertho, her reckless but animated companion of the old days, was back again with them, and once more they were upon the very spot that she had vowed so often she would never again revisit.
These reflections brought with them thoughts of Nelly. She recollected how, often and often, they would stroll together along that terrace while Zertho and her father sat hour after hour at the tables, regardless of meal-times, and how sometimes, hungry and having no money, they would go in and obtain from one or other of the men a ten-franc piece with which to get their dinner at the cheap little restaurant they knew of down in La Condamine. It was upon that very gravelled walk, with its inviting seats, high palms, and banks of flowers, that they had one afternoon passed a tall, good-looking young Englishman not much older than themselves. He had smiled at them, and they, always delighted at the chance of an innocent flirtation, had laughed in return. He had then raised his hat, spoken to them, and strolled along at Nellie’s side. His name was Charles Holroyde, and it was he who, a few weeks later, had given Nelly the costly brooch which had been stolen from her throat by her assassin.
She glanced at the seat beside which she was standing. It was the one on which they had sat that sunny afternoon when they chatted merrily, and he had first given the two girls his card. She sighed. Those days were passed, and even Nelly, her companion and confidante, was no more. She was, she reflected gloomily, without a single real friend.
At that moment, however, she felt a light hand upon her shoulder behind her, and a voice exclaimed,—
“Liane! At last!”
She turned quickly with a start, and next instant found herself face to face with George Stratfield.
“You, George!” she gasped, her face blanching.
“Yes, darling,” he answered. “I called at your address at Nice, but they told me you had come over here, so I followed. But what’s the matter?” he asked, in consternation. “You are not well. How white you look! Tell me what is worrying you?”
“Nothing,” she answered, with a forced laugh. “Nothing whatever, I assure you. I—I wasn’t aware that I looked at all pale. Your sudden appearance startled me.”
But George regarded her with suspicion. He knew from the look of intense anxiety upon her fair countenance that she was concealing the truth.
“Is the Captain with you?” he inquired after an awkward pause.
“Yes, he is inside,” she answered. “But why have you come here?”
“To see you, Liane,” he said, earnestly. “I could no longer bear to be parted from you, so one night I resolved to run out and spend a week or so in Nice, and here I am.”
Her face had assumed a strange, perplexed look. He knew nothing of Zertho’s existence, for loving him so well she had hesitated day by day to write and tell him the hideous truth. She saw that he must now know all.
She raised her clear, wonderful eyes to his as she stammered a question, asking if that was his first visit to the Riviera.
“Yes,” he answered, gazing around at the Casino, the mountains, and the sea. “How charming it is here. I don’t wonder that you are so fond of it.”
“I’m not fond of it?” she protested, with a sigh. “I would rather be in England—much rather.”
“Yet you are half-French yourself! Surely this is gayer and much more pleasant than Stratfield Mortimer,” he exclaimed, leaning with his back to the balustrade, glancing at her elegant dress, and noticing how well it suited her.
“The surroundings are perhaps more picturesque,” she replied, turning her gaze sea-ward. “But I was far happier there than here,” She sighed and the little gloved hand holding her sunshade trembled.
“Why?” he inquired surprised.
For an instant she raised her eyes to his, then lowering her gaze, answered,—
“Why do you ask? Did I not then have you?”
“But I am here now,” he said quickly. “I must, however, admit that your welcome was scarcely as cordial as I expected.”
Her lips tightened, and she swallowed the lump rising in her throat.
“I—I cannot kiss you here, in a public place,” she said, with a little gesture of regret.
The strange coldness about her voice caused him dismay. It proved that the apparent apathy of her letters actually arose from indifference. His suspicions were correct. Her love had grown cold.
A heavy look of disappointment crossed his face, as pausing a moment, he glanced at her, and saw that she shivered.
“Come,” he exclaimed. “You have, I believe, stood here too long. The breeze is perhaps chilly. Let us walk.”
“I’m not cold at all,” she assured him, without moving.
“Except towards me,” he observed, gloomily.
“I wasn’t aware that my attitude was one of indifference,” she said, endeavouring to smile.
“There is a change in you, Liane,” the young man declared, gazing seriously into her eyes. “Tell me, darling, what has occurred.”
She held her breath for a moment. She loved him dearer than life, yet she feared to speak the truth lest he should turn from her and renounce her as an enchantress false and unworthy. Her countenance was almost pale as the dress she wore, and her breast rose and fell convulsively.
“Nothing,” she answered at last. “Nothing has occurred.”
“But you are not bright and happy as you used to be,” he declared sympathetically. “Something troubles you. Confide in me, darling.”
She turned her face from him and tears slowly coursed down her cheeks. But she made no response. Together they walked several times the whole length of the terrace, and their conversation drifted to other topics. He told her of his bachelor life in London, his lonely, dreary chambers, of his desperate struggle to secure a foothold in his already overcrowded profession, and of his good fortune in obtaining a little book-reviewing for a weekly paper.
“Now, what distresses you, Liane?” he asked at last, when again they were standing against the parapet gazing over the sea. “Surely I may know?”
“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 ejaculated, 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 balustrade to steady herself.
“Ah, George,” she murmured brokenly, “you do not know the fatality that of late has encompassed 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.”
“But I must not—I dare not think of love again!” she whispered hoarsely. “From to-day we must part. You must go away and let us both try and forget all that has passed between us. If I have acted cruelly, forgive me. It was because I have been so weak—because I loved you so well.”
“No,” he answered firmly, “I shall not leave you, dearest. I love you still as fondly as in the old days when we strolled together around Stratfield; therefore you shall not send me away like this.”
“But you must go,” she cried. “You must go; I am betrothed.”
“Betrothed?”
The colour died from his face. She hung her head, and her breast rose and fell quickly.
“Ah!” she cried, “do not hate me, George. Do not think that I have been false to you. It is not my fault; I swear it is not. A fate, cruel and terrible has overwhelmed me.”
For a moment he stood rigid as one transfixed.
“What is the man’s name?” he inquired at last, in a hard, strained tone.
She stood silent for several moments, then slowly, without raising her head, answered,—
“Zertho.”
“His surname, I mean,” he demanded.
“Prince Zertho d’Auzac,” she replied, in a low, faltering voice.
He knit his brows. The title was to him sufficient proof that the woman he loved so dearly had forsaken him in order to obtain wealth and position. She would be Princess d’Auzac. It was the way of the world.
“And why have you kept the truth from me?” he demanded, in a harsh tone full of reproach.
“Because I feared you—because—because I loved you, George,” she sobbed.
“Love!” he echoed. “Surely you cannot love me if you can prefer another?”
“Ah! no,” she cried in protestation. “I knew you would misjudge me; you whom I loved so dearly and still love.”
“Then why marry this man, whoever he is?” he interrupted fiercely. He saw her words were uttered with an intense earnestness. There still burned in her eyes the unmistakable light of fond passion. “Because I must.”
“You must? I don’t understand.”
Her cold lips moved, but no sound came from them. In vain she tried to suppress the fierce tumult of feelings that raged within her breast. He was endeavouring to wring her secret from her! the secret of Zertho’s influence. No, he should never know. It was terrible, horrible; its very thought appalled her. To save her father from exposure, disgrace, and something worse she was compelled to renounce her love, sacrifice herself, and marry the man she despised and hated.
“I have promised to marry the Prince d’Auzac because I am compelled,” she said briefly, in a low, firm voice.
“What renders it imperative?” he demanded, his face dark and serious.
“My own decision,” she answered, struggling to remain calm.
“You have decided, then, to discard my love,” he said fiercely. “You prefer being the wife of a Prince rather than of a struggling barrister. Well, perhaps, after all your choice is but natural.”
“I do not prefer,” she declared, passionately. “Cannot you see, George, that there are circumstances which compel me to act as I am acting? Heaven knows, I have suffered enough, because you are the only man I can love.”
“Then why not remain mine, darling?” he said, more tenderly, with a slight pressure of her hand as he gazed with intense earnestness into her tear-dimmed eyes. “We love one another, therefore why should both our lives be wrecked?”
“Because it is imperative,” she answered, gloomily.
“But what motive can you have in thus ruining your future, and casting aside all chance of happiness?” he inquired, puzzled.
“It is to secure my future, not to ruin it, that I have promised to marry the Prince,” she answered.
“And for no ulterior motive?”
“Yes,” she faltered. “There is still another reason.”
“What is it? Tell me.”
“No, George,” she answered in a low, hoarse voice. “Do not ask me, for I can never tell you—never.”
“You have a hidden motive which you refuse to explain,” he observed resentfully. “I have placed faith in you; surely you can trust me, Liane!”
“With everything, save that.”
“Why?”
“It is a secret which I cannot disclose.”
“Not even to me?”
“No, not even to you,” she answered, pale to the lips. “I dare not!”
He remained silent in perplexity. A bevy of bright-faced, laughing girls passed them in high spirits, counting as they went by the coin they had won at the tables. Liane turned her face from them to hide her emotion, and stood motionless, leaning still upon the balustrade. The sun was sinking behind the great dark rock whereon was perched Monaco, and the mountains were already purple in the mystic light of evening.
“Why are you so determined that we should separate, darling?” he asked, in a low, pained voice, bending down towards her averted face. “Surely your Prince can never love you as devotedly as I have done!”
“Ah! George,” she cried, with a tender passion in her glance as she again turned to him, “do not tempt me. It is my duty, and I have given a pledge. I have never loved Prince Zertho, and I never shall. Mine will be a marriage of compulsion. In a few short weeks I shall bid farewell to hope and happiness, to life and love, for I shall become Princess d’Auzac and lose you for ever.”
“As Princess you may obtain many of the pleasures of life. Far more than if you were my wife,” he observed, in a hollow tone, as if speaking to himself.
“No, no,” she protested. “The very name is to me synonymous of all that is hateful. Ah! you do not know, George, the terrible thoughts that seem to goad me to madness. Often I find myself reflecting whether death would not be preferable to the life to which I am now condemned. Yet I am held to it immutably, forced against my will to become this man’s wife, in order that the terrible secret, which must never be disclosed, may still remain where it is, locked in the breast of the one man who, by its knowledge, holds me irrevocably in his power.”
“Then you fear this Prince Zertho?” he said slowly, with deep emphasis. She seemed quite unlike the laughing, happy girl he had known at home in their quiet rural village. Her strange attitude of abject dejection and despair held him stupefied.
“Yes,” she answered hoarsely, after a long pause, “I dare not disobey him.”
“From your words it would seem that your crime is of such a terrible nature that you dare not risk exposure. Is that so?” he hazarded in a hard voice, scarcely raised above a whisper.
“My crime!” she cried, all colour instantly dying out of her handsome face, while in her clear, grey eyes was a strange expression as if she were haunted by some fearsome spectre of the past. Her white lips quivered, her hands trembled, “What do you mean?” she gasped. “What do you know of my crime?”
Next instant she started, her lips held tight together as she drew herself up unsteadily with a sudden movement.
She knew that she had involuntarily betrayed herself to the man she loved.
