Chapter Seven.
The Missing Mariette.
In London the January afternoon was wet and cheerless. Alone in his dingy chambers on the third floor of an ancient smoke-begrimed house in Clifford’s Inn, one of the old bits of New Babylon now sadly fallen from its once distinguished estate, George Stratfield sat gazing moodily into the fire. In his hand was a letter he had just received from Liane; a strange letter which caused him to ponder deeply, and vaguely wonder, whether after all he had not acted unwisely in sacrificing his fortune for her sake.
She had been nearly three months abroad, and although she had written weekly there was an increasing coldness about her letters which sorely puzzled him. Twice only had they met since he left the Court—on the two evenings she and her father had spent in London on their way to the Continent. He often looked back upon those hours, remembering every tender word she had uttered, and recalling the unmistakable light of love that lit up her face when he was nigh. Yet since she had been en séjour on the Riviera her letters were no longer long and gossipy, but brief, hurriedly-written scribbles which bore evidence that she wrote more for the fulfilment of her promise than from a desire to tell of her daily doings, as lovers will.
A dozen times he had read and re-read the letter, then lifting his eyes from it his gaze wandered around the shabby room with its ragged leather chairs, its carpet so faded that the original pattern had been lost, its two well-filled bookcases which had stood there and been used by various tenants for close upon a century, its panelled walls painted a dull drab, and its deep-set windows grimy with the soot of London. The two rooms which comprised this bachelor abode were decidedly depressing even on the brightest day, for the view from the windows was upon a small paved court, beyond which stood the small ancient Hall, the same in which Sir Matthew Hale and the seventeen judges sat after the Great Fire in 1666, to adjudicate on the claims of landlords and tenants of burned houses, so as to prevent lawsuits. An ocean of chimneys belched around, while inside the furniture had seen its best days fully twenty years before, and the tablecloth of faded green was full of brown holes burnt by some previous resident who had evidently been a careless cigarette smoker.
George drew his hand wearily across his brow, sighed, replaced the letter slowly in its envelope, examined the post-mark, then placed it in his pocket.
“No,” he said aloud, “I won’t believe it. She said she loved me, and she loves me still.”
And he poked the fire vigorously until it blazed and threw a welcome light over the gloomy, dismal room.
Suddenly a loud rapping sounded on the outer door, and rising unwillingly, expecting it to be one of his many friends of the “briefless brigade,” he went and opened it, confronting to his surprise his father’s solicitor, Harrison.
“Well, George,” exclaimed his visitor, thrusting his wet umbrella into the stand in the tiny cupboard-like space which served as hall, and walking on uninvited into the apartment which served as office and sitting-room. “Alone I see. I’m glad, for I want ten minutes’ chat with you.”
“At your service, Harrison,” Stratfield answered, in expectation of a five-guinea brief. “What is it? Something for opinion?”
“Yes,” answered the elder man, taking a chair. “It is for opinion, but it concerns yourself.”
George flung himself into the armchair from which he had just risen, placed his feet upon the fender and his hands at the back of his head, as was his habit when desiring to listen attentively.
“Well,” he said, sighing, “about that absurd provision of the old man’s will, I suppose? I’m comfortable enough, so what’s the use of worrying over it?”
“But it is necessary. You see, I’m bound to try and find this woman,” the other answered, taking from his pocket some blue foolscap whereon were some memoranda. “Besides, the first stage of the inquiry is complete.”
“And what have you discovered?” he asked eagerly. “I placed the matter in the hands of Rutter, the private inquiry agent, whose report I have here,” answered the solicitor. “It states that no such person as Madame Lepage is living at 89 Rue Toullier, Paris, but the concierge remembers that an elderly lady, believed to be a widow, once occupied with her daughter a flat on the fourth floor. The man, however forgets their name, as they only resided there a few months. During that time the daughter, whom he describes as young and of prepossessing appearance, mysteriously disappeared, and although a search was instituted, she was never found. There was no suspicion of suicide or foul play, but the police at the time inclined to the belief that, possessing a voice above the average, she had, like so many other girls who tire of the monotony of home life, forsaken it and obtained an engagement at some obscure café-concert under an assumed name. Rutter, following up this theory, then visited all the impressarios he could find in an endeavour to discover an artist whose real name was Lepage. But from the first this search was foredoomed to failure, for girls who desire to exchange home life for the stage seldom give their impressarios their correct names, hence no such person as Mariette Lepage could be traced.”
“Then, after all, we are as far off discovering who this mysterious woman is as we ever were,” George observed, glancing at his visitor with a half-amused smile.
“Well, not exactly,” the solicitor answered. “Undoubtedly the girl who disappeared from the house in the Rue Toullier was the woman for whom we are searching.”
“The letter found on Nelly Bridson is sufficient proof that she’s still alive,” said the younger man.
“Exactly; and from its tone it would appear that she is in the lower strata of society,” Harrison remarked.
“Whoever she is I shall, I suppose, be required to offer her marriage, even if she’s a hideous old hag! My father was certainly determined that I should be sufficiently punished for my refusal to comply with his desire,” George observed, smiling bitterly.
“Why regret the past?” Harrison asked slowly, referring again to the blue foolscap by the fitful light of the fire. “The inquiry has, up to the present, resulted in the elucidation of only one definite fact; nevertheless, Rutter is certainly on the right scent, and as he is now extensively advertising in the principal papers throughout France, I hope to be able ere long to report something more satisfactory.”
“It will be no satisfaction whatever to me if she is found,” observed the young man, grimly.
“But it is imperative that the matter should be cleared up,” the solicitor protested. “When we have discovered her you will, of course, be at liberty to offer her marriage, or not, just as you please.”
“It is a most remarkable phase of the affair that the only person acquainted with this mysterious woman was poor Nelly,” the young barrister exclaimed at last. “You will remember that in the letter, with its slang of the slums, Liane’s name was mentioned. Well, I have written asking her whether she is acquainted with any woman of the same name with which the curious letter is signed, but she has replied saying that neither herself nor her father ever knew any such person, and they had been quite at a loss to know how Nelly should have become acquainted with her. Here is her reply; read for yourself,” and from his pocket he took several letters, and selecting one, handed it to the keen-faced, grey-haired man, at the same time striking a vesta and lighting the lamp standing upon the table.
“You don’t seem to mind other people reading your love-letters,” the old solicitor said, laughing and turning towards the light. “When I was young I kept them tied up with pink tape in a box carefully locked.”
George smiled. “The pink tape was owing to the legal instinct, I suppose,” he said. Then he added, with a slight touch of sorrow, “There are not many secrets in Liane’s letters.”
The shrewd old man detected disappointment in his voice, and after glancing at the letter, looked up at him again, saying, “The course of true love is not running smooth, eh? This lady is in Nice, I see.”
“Yes, Harrison,” he answered gravely, leaning against the table with head slightly bent. “We are parted, and I fear that, after all, I have acted foolishly.”
“You will, no doubt, remember my advice on the day of your father’s death.”
“I do,” George answered, huskily. “At that time I fondly believed she loved me, and was prepared to sacrifice everything in order that she should be mine. But now—”
“Well?”
“Her letters have grown colder, and I have a distinct and painful belief that she loves me no longer, that she has, amid the mad whirl of gaiety on the Riviera, met some man who has the means to provide her with the pleasures to which she has been accustomed, and upon whom she looks with favour. Her letters now are little more than the formal correspondence of a friend. She has grown tired of waiting.”
“And are you surprised?” Harrison asked.
“I ought not to be, I suppose,” he said gloomily. “I can never hope to marry her.”
“Why despair?” the old solicitor exclaimed kindly. “You have youth, talent, and many influential friends, therefore there is no reason why your success at the Bar should not be as great as other men’s.”
“Or as small as most men’s,” he laughed bitterly. “No, Harrison, without good spirits it is impossible for one to do one’s best. Those I don’t possess just now.”
“Well, if, because you are parted a few months, the lady pleases to forsake you, as you suspect, then all I can say is that you are very fortunate in becoming aware of the truth ere it is too late,” the elder man argued.
“But I love her,” he blurted forth. “I can’t help it.”
“Then, under the circumstances, I would, if I were you, stick to my profession and try and forget all that’s past. Bitter memories shorten life and do nobody any good.”
“Ah! I only wish I could get rid of all thought of the past,” he sighed, gazing fixedly into the fire. “You are my friend and adviser, Harrison, or I should not have spoken thus to you.”
The old man, with his blue foolscap still in his thin, bony hand, paused, regarded his client’s son with a look of sympathy for a few moments, and sighed.
“Your case,” he said at last, “is only one of many thousands. All of us, in whatever station, have our little romances in life. We have at some time or another adored a woman who, after the first few months, has cast us aside for a newer and perhaps richer lover. There are few among us who cannot remember a sweet face of long ago, a voice that thrilled us, a soft, caressing hand that was smooth as satin to our lips. We sigh when we recollect those long-past days, and wonder where she is, who she married, and whether, in her little debauches of melancholy, she ever recollects the man who once vowed he would love her his whole life through. Years have gone since then, yet her memory clings to us as vividly as if she were still a reality in our lives. We still love her and revere her, even though she cast us aside, even though we are not certain whether she still exists. The reason of all this is because when we are young we are more impressionable than when we are older, with wider and more mature experience of the world. The woman we at twenty thought adorable we should pass by unnoticed if we were forty. Thus it is that almost all men cherish in their hearts a secret affection for some woman who has long ago gone out of their lives, passed on, and forgotten them.”
George smiled bitterly at the old man’s philosophy. “Are you, then, one of those with a romance within you?” he asked, his face suddenly becoming grave again.
“Yes,” the old lawyer answered, his features hard and cold. “I, dry-as-dust, matter-of-fact man that I am, I also have my romance. Years ago, how many I do not care to count, I loved a woman just as madly as you love Liane Brooker. She was of good family, wealthy, and so handsome that a well-known artist painted her portrait, which was hung at one of the Galleries as one of a collection of types of English beauty. That she loved me I could not doubt, and the first six months of our acquaintance in the quaint old cathedral town where we lived was a dream of sunny, never-ending days. At evening, when the office at which I was articled was closed, she met me, and we walked together in the sunset by the river. I see her now, as if it were but yesterday, in her simple white dress and large hat trimmed with roses. The years that have passed have not dimmed my memory.”
And the old man, pausing, sat with his steely eyes gazing into the fire, a hardness in the corners of his mouth as if the recollection of the past was painful.
“Months went by,” he continued in a harsh voice, quite unlike the tone habitual to him. “She knew that I was poor, yet against the wishes of her parents, purse-proud county people, she had announced her intention of waiting a year or two, and then marrying me. At length there came a day when I found it necessary to exchange the quiet respectability of Durham for the bustle of a London office, and left. Ours was a sad farewell, one night beneath the moon. She took my ring from my finger, kissed it and replaced it, while I kissed her hair, and we exchanged vows of undying love. Then we parted. Well, you may guess the rest. Within three months she was a wife, but I was not her husband. From the moment when we said farewell on that memorable night I never saw her nor heard from her again. Times without number I wrote, but my letters remained unanswered, until I saw in the papers the announcement of her marriage with some man who I ascertained later had amassed a fortune at the Cape and had taken her out there with him. Though I have grown old, I have never ceased to remember her, because she was the one woman I adored, the woman who comes once into the life of every man to lighten it, but who, alas! too often forsakes him for reasons incomprehensible and leaves him solitary and forgotten, with only a deep-cherished memory as consolation. So it is with you, George,” he added. “It may be, as you fear, that Liane Brooker has grown weary, yet remember the old adage that a woman’s mind and winter wind change oft, and reflect that if after her solemn vow to you she breaks her pledge, she is unworthy.”
“I know,” he answered. “Nevertheless she is my well-beloved.”
“So to me was the woman of whom I have just spoken,” he answered. “Nevertheless, that did not prevent me marrying ten years later and living in perfect happiness with my wife till her death six years ago. No, the thought of the past is the privilege of all men. I admit that it is doubly hard in your case that, having sacrificed your fortune for sake of her, you should now find yourself being slowly replaced in her heart by some other man. Nevertheless, I repeat I am not surprised.”
“But you sympathise with me, although I speak so foolishly,” he said, half apologetically.
“It is no foolish talk,” Harrison replied. “There is surely no foolishness in discussing a matter that so closely concerns a man’s future,” he said. “Of course you have my most sincere sympathy, and if at any time I can offer advice or render assistance, then command me.”
“You are extremely good,” the young man replied. “The mystery surrounding Liane, the tragic death of Nelly Bridson, the discovery of the missing miniature, and the unfortunate girl’s acquaintance with this unknown woman whom my father designated as my wife, form an enigma of which, try how I will, I am unable to obtain any elucidation. Through all these months not a single important fact has come to light.”
“True. It’s an extraordinary affair altogether,” Harrison acquiesced, replacing the inquiry agent’s report in his breast-pocket. “But I still hope we may discover Mariette Lepage, and through her we shall certainly be able to learn something. Until then, we must remain patient.”
The pained, thoughtful expression that had rested upon his face, while he had been telling George the romance of his life, had been succeeded by that keen business-like air he always wore. He was again the plain, matter-of-fact lawyer, with his clean-shaven aquiline face, his cold steel-blue eyes and thin lips that gave those who did not know him an impression of almost ascetic austerity.
George Stratfield made no answer, but when a few minutes later his visitor had gone, after placing his hand sympathetically upon his shoulder and bidding him bear up against misfortune, he cast himself again into his chair and sat immovable, heedless of everything save the one woman who was his idol.
Chapter Eight.
The Promenade des Anglais.
Nice, the town of violets and mimosa, of confetti, of gay dominoes and pretty women, is at its best in February, white, clean, and ready for the reception of its most welcome guest, King Carnival. While England is still gloomy with rain and fogs, and wintry winds still moan through the bare branches, the weather is already summer-like, with bright sunshine, soft warm breezes, and a sea of that intense sapphire blue which only the Mediterranean can assume. Little wonder it is that the gay world of every European capital should flock to Nice, so mild is its climate, and so many and unique are its attractions.
Superbly situated on the broad beautiful Bay of Anges, with the promontories of Ferrat and Antibes jutting out in the far distance on either side, and sheltered by the lower terraces of the Maritime Alps, it presents a handsome appearance, with the heights of Cimiez and other fertile olive-clad hills forming a fitting background. Close to the sea, in the centre of the town, is the pretty Jardin Public, with its cascade and cavern of hanging stalactites, and behind is the fine Place Massena, wherein stands the handsome white Casino Municipal, while along the coast to the right stretches the world-famed Promenade des Anglais, a magnificent esplanade bordered by palatial hotels and villas, all uniformly white, the roadway planted with palms, oranges, cypresses and aloes, and laid out with beds of sweet-smelling flowers.
Although February, the oranges are ripe, and roses and carnations are already in full blossom; the Jardin Public is a blaze of brilliant colour, and as one turns from the Promenade into the clean white streets the fragrance of violets hawked in huge bunches at four sous by the flower-girls greets the nostrils at every corner. Nice is indeed a town of flowers. The garden of each villa is full of them—almost every person in the street wears a buttonhole or carries violets, the florists’ shops diffuse the odour of mimosa and roses far and near, and even the confectioners sell dainty little round boxes of violets and roses crystallised in sugar. In those spring days Nice is verily in Carnival mood. Her hotels are full, her shops display the daintiest fabrics possible, and as to hats and sunshades—for both of which the town is famous—it is doubtful whether such daring feats of millinery, as fetching as they are audacious, can be found in any city or any clime the world over. Certainly nowhere else is there a brighter or more animated scene than that witnessed on the cemented footway of the Promenade des Anglais on a February morning. Furs have long ago been discarded, and silk blouses and sunshades testify to the warmth of the brilliant sun, while the male portion of the visitors are attired in straw hats and suits of summer tweed. Truly cosmopolitan and polyglot is that chattering throng. One rubs shoulders with barons, counts and highnesses of every nationality, and hears every European language uttered by gay laughing lips; the sibilant French of the dainty Parisienne, the musical Italian, the guttural German, the rapid English and the slow Russian, all combine to make a veritable Babel of tongues, while by the costumes alone, many of them marvellous creations of the famous men-dressmakers, the race of their wearers may usually be determined. Fashionable Europe is making happy holiday amid premature summer.
Amid this chattering crowd of pleasure-seekers Liane was strolling beside Prince Zertho one morning a fortnight after old Mr Harrison had visited George in his dingy London chambers. Gowned in pearl grey, the fitting of which bore the impress of the Parisian costumier, and with a large hat to match, she walked on, chatting, laughing, and ever and anon bowing to those she knew; while the Prince, in black jacket suit and soft felt hat of silver-grey, lounged leisurely along beside her, smoking a cigarette, and listening amusedly to her light, vivacious gossip. Her appearance was entirely different to the trim, neatly-dressed girl who, in cotton blouse and shabby skirt, had cycled over the level Berkshire roads. With her pure and perfect French, her slim waist girdled narrow, her chevelure as carefully arranged as if by a maid of the first order, one might have easily mistaken her for a true Parisienne. Her beautiful face, combined with her delightful chic, caused many to turn and glance after her as she passed, a fact not unnoticed by her companion.
Her cheeks, no longer wan as they had been at Stratfield Mortimer, were again flushed with health; her eyes sparkled with pleasure as she became conscious of the profound admiration she everywhere evoked, and in her footstep was the lightness of one in whose heart there lurked no shadow.
The day was perfect. Both sea and sky were of a deep, intense blue, the long line of sun-blanched villas and hotels were gay with visitors, the trees wore their freshest green, and the sweet scent of violets pervaded everything. As they walked, Zertho was reflecting how striking was her beauty, even among that crowd of Europe’s prettiest and wealthiest women.
Through November and December she and her father had remained in Paris, and early in the new year had travelled down to Nice, taking up their quarters at a small select “pension” in one of the large white villas which, standing in its own pretty garden planted with oranges, palms and roses, faced the Mediterranean at the end of the Promenade towards the Magnan, while close by them Zertho occupied the handsome Villa Chevrier, a great white house with palms in front, which also faced the sea at the corner of the Rue Croix de Magnan.
In Nice a wealthy man can, if he desires, easily obtain a large cosmopolitan circle of friends, therefore, the villa of Prince Zertho d’Auzac quickly became a social centre, for his entertainments being upon a scale almost unequalled, he found no lack of acceptances to his invitations. Everyone in Nice soon knew him by sight; the well-informed Petit Niçois mentioned him almost daily in its “Echoes de Partout,” the Swiss and Nice Times devoted whole columns to descriptions of his fêtes and lists of his guests, among which figured many well-known names, and the Phare du Littoral was loud in its praises of his dinners, his driving parties, and the dances at his house. Well-groomed and usually attired in a dark suit, he walked in the Avenue de la Gare, drove tandem with Liane at his side along the Promenade, rode his unmatched bay on the Corniche Road, or strolled about the Casino, and was everywhere recognised, for he was indeed the man of the hour.
He smiled, however, when he recollected how, two years before, he had occupied an apartment “au troisième” in the narrow noisy Rue de France, while Liane, Nellie and the Captain had lived equally precariously in the Rue Dalpozzo, close by. Often dependent on his wits for a meal he had more than once, he remembered, strolled out upon that same Promenade where he now walked with Liane, in search of some inexperienced youth from whom he might obtain a few louis at cards, and thus stave off starvation for the next few days. Their run of ill-luck had almost knocked them both under until one night after the Captain had won a considerable sum at Monte Carlo, a sudden suggestion occurred to them, and together they started a private gaming-house in the Boulevard Gambetta, in Nice, a place which, although remaining open only a few months, gained a decidedly unenviable repute. Nevertheless, both men found their venture a most profitable one, and it is more than likely that their avarice would have led them into the arms of the police had not Brooker, at Liane’s instigation, suddenly dissolved the partnership, taken his money, and returned to England.
Liane knew Nice well. Some of the most weary anxious and monotonous days of her life had been spent in a well-remembered frowsy room high up in that narrow back street which smelt eternally of garlic, where they had lived for nine months almost penniless. In those days when the Fates were unkind neither she nor Nelly ever ventured upon the Promenade in the day-time, because their dresses were too dowdy, and they feared lest they should encounter some of the people with whom they had become acquainted when living at the big hotels at Monte Carlo, Mentone, or Cannes, as they did when their father prospered. Yet she had now come back to the town she once abhorred. Her father had sufficient to keep them both respectably and in comfort, and Zertho was almost, if not quite, a millionaire. Fortune they had so often courted had smiled at last upon them all.
They were almost constantly at the Villa Chevrier. Each morning the Prince would call with his tandem and take her for a drive, returning in time for half an hour’s walk on the Promenade before déjeûner, then a lazy afternoon, a dinner with guests, a visit to the Opera, to the Casino, or perhaps to a ball. So passed the warm, brilliant days delightfully.
People soon began to inquire who was the handsome, sweet-faced English girl with whom the Prince was seen so often, but Liane, entirely ignorant of Zertho’s mysterious influence over her father, or of his motive, merely regarded him with the cordiality of an old friend. Zertho, even in the old days, had always treated her with studied courtesy, had often bought her sweetmeats and flowers, and was fond of teasing her good-humouredly and promising to find her a wealthy husband. It was he who had made both girls unexpected presents of bicycles after their return to England, and never once, even when almost penniless, had he forgotten to send them some trifle on their birthdays. Although he had been her friend she nevertheless had regarded him with some slight, ill-defined mistrust. Why, she had never been able to determine.
Though moving in the gay world of fashion and frivolity, of gambling and kindred vices, she was not of it. Her knowledge of man’s sins and woman’s frailty was wider than that of most girls of her age, yet she had remained sweet, simple, and ingenuous. Often, when at home in her room overlooking the sea, she would stand out upon the balcony and gaze away at the horizon distant in the broad expanse of blue, thinking deeply of George and wondering how he fared. Still she reflected that, after all, life was far more pleasant there than in the lethargic Berkshire village. Yet amid that constant whirl of gaiety she never forgot those days that were past. Even on that bright morning as at Zertho’s side she passed along, her sweet face fresh beneath her cream sunshade, she remembered the time when neither Nelly nor herself dare walk there—those days of dire misfortune when only twenty sous lay between them and starvation.
Strolling on through the well-dressed throng they presently met the Captain, spruce in a suit of dark grey with soft hat and brown boots, walking slowly, in conversation with a portly Frenchman who had been the Prince’s guest on the previous evening. Saluting, Zertho and his fair companion passed on and continuing their walk strolled leisurely back to the Villa Chevrier.
“Why are you so thoughtful?” her companion asked presently in French, having noticed her wonderful grey eyes fixed upon the calm sunlit sea.
“It is woman’s privilege to think,” she replied, laughing as she turned to him with her clear eyes expressive of the soul that lay behind. “I was reflecting upon the difference between our life two years ago and what it is to-day.”
“Yes, slightly better, isn’t it? Well, it is luck—always luck,” he answered. “Your father is going over to Monte Carlo to-morrow, and I hope that Fortune may be kind also to him. He has waited long enough for a change of luck.”
Liane regarded him steadily for an instant, then said reproachfully,—
“It is you who have persuaded him. Why have you done this, when you know full well that half an hour at roulette will bring back upon him the mania for play, the fatal recklessness that must be his ruin and mine? This is surely not the action of a friend.”
“Ah! forgive me,” he exclaimed, quickly. “I had no idea that my suggestion to drive you both over there to-morrow would displease you.
“I’ll make an excuse to him, and we will not go,” he added, deferentially.
She was not a little surprised that he should thus alter his plans in conformity to her wish, nevertheless his decision satisfied her. She knew that her father had but little money, and certainly he had none to risk. Little did she dream that the cost of her rich, perfectly-fitting dresses, which had been so admired of late upon the Promenade and in the Casino, had been defrayed by her whilom friend, and that every sou her father was spending came also from his pocket. She was in ignorance of the strange, inviolable secret which existed between the two men; that secret, the price of which was her own self.
Too much of life had she seen to be dazzled by the gay, brilliant set of which she had found herself a centre, nevertheless, time after time she reflected, when alone, that she was neglecting George sadly; she had an instinctive fear that her letters to him were devoid of any warmth of affection, yet somehow she could not prevent it. Being thrown so much into Zertho’s society he frequently asked her advice, and she thus unconsciously became interested in the success of his fêtes.
She and her father spent the day at the Villa, as usual, and after dinner drove down to the Place Massena to witness one of the great annual events of Nice, the arrival of King Carnival Long before they drove down, the town was already agog, for Carnival is in the blood of the Southerners. The illuminations were unanimously voted worthy of Nice. From their stands on the balcony of the Casino they could see that from end to end the broad Avenue de la Gare was ablaze with red and white lights, festoons of small lamps being connected at intervals with large red stars of hanging lamps. The Place Massena was lighted up with gas-jets in white, blue, and green globes, forming arabesques; the Casino was encircled with lines of gas-jets, and the façade of the immense tribune opposite a brilliant blaze of colour.
Liane stood up and surveyed the scene. The immense square was thronged, the crowd being kept back by infantry. After some waiting the sounds of noisy music, the blasts of many horns, and the dancing lights of hundreds of torches at last heralded the approach of the Monarch of Mirth. Mounted gendarmes opened the way; then came the trumpeters of the 6th Chasseurs, followed by the heralds of Nice in costumes embroidered with the arms of the town. The colours of the Carnival were red and rose, and the shops around were gay with dominoes of those hues.
Madame Carnival was the first gigantic figure to appear amid the glare of the great braziers of crimson fire. Seated on what might be termed a gilt throne, and wearing a white frilled cap, a silk shawl, and clean apron, she looked altogether very smart, gracefully wielding a fan, and occasionally winking her enormous eyes. In front of the car was her six-months-old baby, held by two giant hands, while in the rear, in a big basket, was the remainder of her family, a turbulent crowd of youngsters in fancy garb. Following another regiment of musicians and torch-bearers came the lord and master, King Carnival, represented as a peasant in his best white hat with tricolour rosette, astride a turkey-cock, which ever and anon moved its head and spread its tail.
Among the other cars which followed was one representing a café-concert; a chimpanzee which moved its head and swallowed smaller monkeys; a car of animated fans; and “a charmer and her fools” represented by a beauty who sat upon a throne, and by pulling a string set dancing her crowd of foppish admirers. The groupes à pied, too, were amusing and numerous, one entitled “Dragging the Devil by the Tail,” representing Satan with a tail of enormous length, at which all who were hard up were pulling vigorously. There were polkas of Hammers, Bakers, Felt hats, and walking alarum clocks, as well as a varying and amusing panorama of single maskers. Among these latter were represented a wine-dealer, who had closed his shop in order “to baptise his wines;” Cupid bandaging a lover’s eyes; Love stopping a fair cyclist and asking whether he had been forgotten; “Hurrah!” who had shouted so much that his mouth had become an enormous size, and a drunkard stopping at a fountain believing the drinking-cup to be a telephone transmitter!
Fully two hours the procession occupied in passing and re-passing, and of the gay party who had met the Prince at his invitation, Liane was perhaps the most vivacious. With a sable cape about her shoulders she sat next him, with her father on her left, laughing and criticising the groups, the spirit of Carnival having already entered her Southern blood, as it had that of the merry, light-hearted Niçois themselves.
At last she drove home with her father and the Prince, while the monarch of cap and bells was placed in the handsome pavilion erected for him, there to preside over the corsos, vegliones, and the battles of flowers and confetti which for twelve days, until his immolation on Mardi-Gras, would render Nice a town gone mad with frolic.
The Promenade was bright as day beneath the full moon, the feathery palms waved lazily in the breeze, and the dark waves broke with musical monotony upon the pebbly beach. They had alighted at the gate of the pension where the Captain had taken up his quarters, when the Prince suggested to Liane that they should go for a stroll, as it was still early. To this she assented, and the Captain went indoors and sat alone, silent and wondering, while they crossed the deserted esplanade together and walked in the moonlight by the shore.
“So you have enjoyed yourself to-night, ma petite?” Zertho said, after they had been chatting some time.
“Immensely,” she answered. “Carnival is not fresh to me, but it is always amusing. Every Niçois enjoys it so thoroughly. I love these gay, happy, contented people who are still Italian although French. They are so different from the English.”
“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 hoarsely. “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 passionate 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 companionship 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.
“Yes—yes, I can—I will,” he answered. “You must have known it, Liane. I’ve been abrupt, I know, and I’ve startled you, but if you love me you must attribute that to my loving you so long before I have spoken.”
Her troubled breast heaved and fell beneath her rich fur. She gazed at him with parted lips.
“It is a question from me to you,” he went on, “the question of my life.”
“No, don’t think so,” she protested, “please, don’t ask it.”
“Then don’t answer it, Liane. Wait—let me wait. Ask yourself—”
“I know my own mind already,” she said slowly, with earnestness; then perceiving, as suddenly as she had all the rest, how considered her assertion might appear, she went on, still with the quietness of clear-seeing and truth-telling: “things come clear in an instant. This does, that I could not have thought of. I am already betrothed to another; that is why I cannot accept.”
“You can’t expect me to be satisfied with that,” he answered. “I, who know myself, and who see you as you do not see yourself. It is I who ask: who want to take a great gift. I am not offering myself,” he went on rapidly. “I am beseeching yourself—of you.”
“I have not myself to give,” she said calmly.
“You mean you love someone else,” he said, with a hardness about the corners of his mouth.
“Yes,” and the long eyelashes swept downward as she answered.
But Zertho paid no attention to her reply. “During the years I have known you, Liane,” he went on, “the thought of you has been as a safeguard against my total disbelief in the possibility of woman’s fidelity. I knew then that I revered you with my better self all the while—that, young as you were, I believed in you. I believe in you now. Be my wife, and from this instant I will devote all the love in me—and I have more than you think—to you alone.”
“Prince Zertho,” she said, in honest distress, “I beg you won’t go on! I respect your devotion and your kindness, and I don’t want to inflict any hurt upon you; but oh! indeed, you must not ask this.”
“Very well,” he said sadly, rising to his feet. “Let it all be. I will not despair. You know now that I love you, and ere long I shall ask you again as I have asked. Defer your answer until then.”
“Let us go back,” she urged, shivering as she rose. “The wind has grown cold;” and in silence they together retraced their steps along the deserted Promenade.
An hour later, when Liane had gone to her room, the Captain, at Zertho’s request, walked along to the Villa Chevrier, and found his friend awaiting him in the handsome salon.
When the servant closed the door the Prince was the first to speak.
“To-night I have asked Liane to become my wife,” he said harshly, standing with his hands in his pockets.
“Well?”
“She refuses.”
“As I expected,” answered her father coldly.
“As you wish, you mean,” retorted Zertho.
“I have already explained my views,” the other answered, in a deep strained voice.
“From her attitude it is evident that you have not spoken to her, as we arranged,” said the other angrily.
“I have said nothing.”
“Well, you know me sufficiently well, Brooker, to be aware that when I set my heart upon doing a thing I will accomplish it at all cost,” the Prince, exclaimed. “I’m no longer an outsider, remember, I cannot really understand your disinclination to allow Liane to become Princess d’Auzac. Surely you must see that it would be distinctly to your own advantage. She would take care that you’d never be hard up for a few hundreds, you know.”
“She does not love you, Zertho.”
“Love be hanged!” cried the other, fiercely impatient. “In a week I shall repeat my proposal to her: if she does not accept, well—”
“Well?” echoed Brooker, paler than before, the hand holding the cigar trembling, for he was feigning a coolness which he was unable to preserve.
For a moment the Prince paused then crossing to the escritoire, which stood in the window, took therefrom a folded newspaper, old and tattered, together with several other papers folded together lengthwise. Recrossing to where Brooker stood, he held them up to his gaze, with a sinister smile upon his lips, and a look full of menace.
“No! no!” cried the Captain, glaring at the innocent-looking papers, and drawing back with a gesture of repulsion.
“Very well,” Zertho answered, with nonchalance. “Strange though it may appear, your only chance of safety is in becoming my father-in-law. It will be easy enough for you to persuade Liane to become my wife, and I am ready and eager to remain your friend. But if your prejudices are so very intense and indiscreet, well—you know the rest.”
The two men who had been fellow-adventurers faced each other. In the countenance of one was confidence, in the other abject fear.
“I never expected this of you, Zertho,” the Captain said reproachfully, regarding him with eyes in which flashed the fire of anger. “You apparently heed nothing of my feelings as her father. You know my past; you know that Liane brings into my life its only ray of brightness.”
“We are no longer partners,” the other answered harshly, with a strangely determined expression upon his dark countenance. “You are playing against me now, therefore I am your opponent. You’ve thought fit to deal the cards, it’s true,” he added, with a short derisive laugh; “but I think you’ll have to admit that I hold all the trumps.”
Chapter Nine.
The Way of Transgressors.
One thought alone possessed Liane. Zertho loved her.
Next morning when the maid brought her coffee, she rose, and opening the sun-shutters, stood at the window gazing upon the broad expanse of bright blue sea. The words the Prince had uttered all came back to her. She recollected how he had pressed her hand, and declared that she was his ideal of what a woman should be; how, not satisfied with her refusal, he had promised to repeat his question. Should she accept? No, she distrusted him as much as she had ever done.
While thus plunged in deep reflection, her clear eyes fixed upon the distant horizon where ships were passing, endeavouring to convince herself that marriage with Zertho was impossible because she could never love him, a light tap was heard upon the door, and the girl re-entered, bearing a letter.
By its blue English stamp, she knew instinctively it was from George.
Slowly she tore open the envelope and read its contents. Then, with a sudden movement, she cast herself upon her bed, burying her face in the lace-edged pillow, and bursting into a torrent of passionate tears. She hated Zertho, and still loved George.
Meanwhile, her father had risen, and gone out for an early turn along the Promenade. He let himself out at the rear into the Rue de France, in order not to pass the Villa Chevrier, and after strolling for some time about the town, he reached the sea again walking alone, his face set towards the high castle hill, which he presently ascended by the winding flight of stone steps, and standing at last on the summit, in the beautiful garden laid out on the side of the long-ruined château, paused to rest. The sun was strong, the sky cloudless, and in every direction the view was superb. As he stood leaning over the stone parapet, the Cape of Antibes, the Iles de Lerins, the mouth of the broad stony Var, and the town of Nice were at his feet, while behind stretched the green valley of the Paillon, with the white monasteries of Cimiez and St Pons, the distant château of St Andre, the peaks of Mont Chauve, and the Aspremont, with the blue distant Alps forming a picturesque background. He removed his hat, and allowed the fresh breeze that came up from the sea to fan his heated temples.
He was alone, save for a solitary sentinel standing with fixed bayonet some distance away, at the entrance to a large platform, where several guns were mounted behind baskets filled with stones, and as he leaned, his eyes fixed blankly upon the sea, some low words escaped him.
“Yes,” he murmured in desperation, “this is indeed the last drop that has filled my cup of affliction. Poor Liane! How can I tell her? How can I go to her and confess the ghastly truth? If I do; if I tell her of the terrible secret which I had believed was mine alone, she—the child whom I have loved and cherished all these years, will turn from me with loathing.”
His hands were clenched, his brow furrowed, and upon his usually merry countenance was a settled look of unutterable despair.
“No, it is impossible—absolutely impossible,” he went on, sighing deeply, after a few moments. “To tell her the truth would only be to increase her unhappiness and cause her to hate me, therefore I cannot—I dare not! No; Zertho is inexorable. I must sacrifice Liane in order to save myself.”
Again he was silent, pondering deeply, and striving to form some plan by which to save his daughter from being forced into this undesirable union. But he could conceive none. Even if he defied this man who was endeavouring to secure Liane, and boldly met the terrible consequences of the exposure of his secret, he saw that such a course must reflect upon her, for she would then be alone in the world—friendless, forsaken and penniless; while if he fled, he must be found sooner or later, for within twenty-four hours the police of Europe would be actively searching for him. Then, calmly and without fear, he thought of suicide, his one desire being to save Liane from disgrace. Leaning over the parapet, he gazed far down upon the brown, rocky crags, beaten time after time by the great rolling waves as they broke and threw up columns of white spray. He was contemplating how best to end his life. He could leave her a letter confessing all the truth, and thus save her from becoming the wife of this titled adventurer. Yet again a difficulty presented itself. To act thus would be cowardly; besides which Liane would also be left without money, and without a protector. For a long time he carefully reviewed all the facts, at length arriving at the same conclusion as before, that his suicide would only bring increased disaster upon the child he idolised.
“No,” he exclaimed aloud, between his set teeth. “There is but one way—one way alone. She must become Princess. I must obey Zertho, and compel her to marry him. All these long weeks have I striven against it, knowing that once united to such an unprincipled brute, her days must be full of wretchedness and despair. Nay, I am prepared to sacrifice everything for her sake; nevertheless, if I boldly face my enemies, or take my life to escape them, the result would be the same. Liane would be left friendless. To me through all these dark days she has been the one joy of my aimless, weary life; hers has been the one bright face that has cheered me times without number when I should have otherwise knocked under. I have striven my best to keep her uncontaminated by the reckless world in which I’ve been compelled to move, and none can ever charge me with neglect of her. Yet this is the end. She must be torn from me, and be given to this unscrupulous blackmailer whom the possession of wealth has converted from my friend into my enemy.”
Erle Brooker, by profession an adventurer, but at heart generous and tender as a woman, had come to Nice solely on Liane’s account, because he had been convinced by Zertho’s argument that she was moping sadly at Stratfield Mortimer. Although he had accepted the invitation he had never for one moment intended that Liane should become Princess d’Auzac until his whilom partner had pronounced it imperative. Then, hour by hour, day by day, he had sought means whereby Zertho might be dissuaded from pressing his claim, until now he was compelled to acknowledge his hope an utterly forlorn one.
“Alas!” he sighed, leaning his fevered weary head on both his hands. “All happiness and gaiety must be crushed from her heart; her young life must be wrecked because of my sin. I, her father, must persuade, nay insist upon her taking a step that she must regret her whole life through, and use towards that end arguments which I would rather my tongue were torn out than I should utter. Ah, Liane,” he cried, brokenly, in a voice of despair, “if you could but realise all that I have suffered these past weeks. But you must not; you, at least, shall never know the cause of this deadly fear which holds me paralysed beneath the relentless thrall of the one man who knows the truth. No, you must marry him, and thereby secure his silence. Your consent to become Princess d’Auzac can alone save me.”
Again he was silent, deep in contemplation of the terrible truth, when suddenly behind him sounded a peal of merry laughter, and turning quickly, he saw he had been joined upon the platform by Liane and two bright English girls who were living at the same pension with them. They had ascended the long flights of steps, and were entirely out of breath.
“Why, dear old dad!” cried Liane, in surprise, “whoever would have thought of finding you up here at this hour?”
The Captain laughed uneasily, and made some evasive reply regarding the clearness of the morning and the extent of the view.
“Oh, isn’t it magnificent!” cried the other girls in chorus, as they gazed around. Liane, who had been there on many previous occasions, had brought them up, promising them a fine panorama, and they certainly were not disappointed.
Together they wandered about the pretty gardens, watched the artillery at drill working the guns, peered down the old castle well and clambered about the ancient walls which had been torn down nearly two hundred years ago by the Duke of Brunswick; then, after one of the girls had narrowly escaped losing her hat in the high wind, they descended again to the Rue des Ponchettes, where the Captain, excusing himself that he wanted to make a purchase in the town, left them.
The three girls, chatting and laughing, walked round the base of the hill, by the road called the Rauba Capeu, to the port, where the Prince d’Auzac’s trim steam yacht was lying, afterwards retracing their steps along the Boulevard du Midi. They had passed the Jardin Public, where the band was playing Strauss’s Fesche Geister, and had just entered the Promenade des Anglais, when Zertho on his fine bay rode past them raising his hat. The trio smiled and bowed, and while he galloped along, his smart groom at some little distance behind, one of Liane’s companions remarked—
“Isn’t the Prince a handsome fellow? I wonder he does not marry.”
Liane felt her cheeks colouring.
“Oh! I suppose he will very soon,” observed her sister. They were both tall, dark, good-looking girls, daughters of a wealthy widow from London. This was their first season on the Riviera, and all was fresh to them.
“You know the Prince well, don’t you?” inquired the first girl who had spoken, turning to Liane.
“Yes,” she answered. “We knew him long before he became rich.”
“And his wealth has spoilt him, I expect? It does most men.”
“No, I can scarcely say that,” answered Liane. “At heart he is so thoroughly cosmopolitan and so merry that I don’t think he will ever become purse-proud.”
“I’ve heard he’s a millionaire,” observed the other girl. “Is that true?”
“I believe so. His father was the wealthiest man in Luxembourg; richer even than the reigning Grand Duke Adolphe.”
“And whoever marries him will be Princess d’Auzac,” the girl remarked, contemplatively. “Rather jolly, I should imagine, to be a Princess with an ancient title like that One could then cut a decent figure in society, I envy the fortunate girl who takes his fancy.”
Liane winced. She feared that her cheeks told their own tale, and was thankful when a moment later the girls met their mother amid the crowd of promenaders, and all four commenced to chat upon a different subject.
That evening they did not dine as usual at the Villa Chevrier, but took their meal at the Pension, and afterwards, when Liane was reclining lazily on the couch in their private salon, her handsome head thrown back upon a great cushion of yellow silk, and the Captain was seated in a capacious easy chair, with a cigarette and an English paper, he at last braced himself up for an effort that was to him exceedingly repugnant. He feared that his words must choke him, and for half-an-hour glanced surreptitiously at her, hesitating to approach the subject. The recollection of all that he had to stake, however, goaded him on, and presently, slowly putting down his paper, and striving to remain firm, he uttered her name.
She looked up from her French novel in surprise. The tone in which he spoke was entirely unusual. It was harsh and strained.
“Liane,” he said, bending and looking straight into her large, clear eyes, “I have wanted to speak seriously to you during these past few weeks, but have always hesitated.”
“Why, father?”
“Because—well, I knew you were happy, and did not wish to cause you pain,” he answered.
“Pain? What do you mean?” she inquired quickly.
“You have been very happy here in Nice, haven’t you? I mean that Zertho has made life very pleasant for us both,” he stammered.
“Certainly. Thanks to him, we’ve been extremely gay the whole time. So different to our last experience of the Riviera,” and she laughed lightly at the recollection of those well-remembered evil days.
“You appear to find Zertho a very congenial companion,” he observed.
She started. Surely her father could not know what had taken place between them during that walk by the moonlit sea on the previous night?
“Of course,” she answered hesitatingly. “He was always a good friend to poor Nelly and myself, and he is very amusing.”
“But I have noticed of late that your face betrays your happiness when you walk with him. A woman always shows in her cheeks a distinct consciousness of her success.”
Her face flushed slightly as she answered,—
“I was not aware that I appeared any happier when in his society than on any other occasion.”
“It is upon that very point that I desire to speak to you,” he went on in a low serious tone. “You will remember that before we left Stratfield Mortimer, I gave you a few words of kindly advice regarding an impossible lover with whom you had foolishly become infatuated.”
“Yes,” she said, “I well remember.”
“Then it is upon the subject of your marriage that I want again to say a few words to you.”
“Marriage!” she laughed. “Why, I shall not marry for years yet, dear old dad. Besides, if I left you, whatever would you do?”
“Ah, yes, my girl,” he answered hoarsely, as a shadow of pain flitted for an instant across his darkened brow. “You must not lose the chance of youth.”
She closed her book, placed it aside slowly, and regarded him with surprise.
“Haven’t you always urged me to wait?” she asked half-reproachfully, toying with the two little gipsy rings upon her slim finger. “I understood that you were entirely against my marriage.”
“So I was when you did not possess the chance of making a wealthy and satisfactory alliance,” he replied.
His daughter looked at him inquiringly, but hazarded no remark. She saw by the expression of his face how terribly in earnest he was.
“You, of course, know to whom I refer,” he added, speaking in a low, intense tone, as he bent towards her, gazing still seriously into the sweet, open countenance.
“To Zertho,” she observed mechanically.
“Yes. If you reflect, as I have already reflected times without number during these past few weeks, Liane, you must recognise that your position as the daughter of an almost penniless adventurer, is by no means an enviable one. If anything happened to me you would be left without a friend, and without a penny. Such thoughts are, I admit, not exactly pleasant ones, nevertheless the truth must be faced, at this, the most important crisis of your life. Again, I have nothing to give you, and can hope for nothing. In the days bygone I managed to pick up sufficient to provide us with the comforts and luxuries of life, but now, alas! luck and friends have alike deserted me, and I am left ruined. I—”
“But you are not friendless, dear old dad,” Liane cried suddenly, the light of affection glowing in her beautiful eyes as, with a sudden movement, she sprang across to him, and kneeling beside his chair as she often did, put both her soft, clinging arms about his neck. “I am your friend, as I have always been. I do not want to marry and leave you,” and she burst into tears.
His voice became choked by a sob he vainly strove to keep back. He felt his resolution giving way, and bit his lip.
“If—if you would remain my friend, Liane, you will marry,” he managed to ejaculate at last, although the words seemed to stifle him, and he hated himself for having uttered them.
“No, dad—I will never allow you to live alone.”
“But you must, dearest,” he answered with emphasis, fondly pushing back her dark hair from her brow. “Think what a chance you now have of securing position, wealth and everything which contributes to life’s happiness. Zertho loves you.”
“I know,” she answered, with a touch of ineffable sadness in her voice and raising her tear-stained face to his. “But I am happy as I am, with you.”
“True. Yet in a few months the money we have will become exhausted, and whence we shall obtain more I know not,” he said with a look of despair. “You have a chance to become a princess—the wife of a man even wealthier than his sovereign—therefore you should seriously reflect, Liane, ere you refuse.”
“How did you know that Zertho loves me?” she suddenly inquired, turning her frank face upward to his.
“Because he has told me,” he answered, in a voice low almost as a whisper. “He asked my permission to speak to you and offer you marriage.”
As he looked at her the thought flashed across his mind that he, her father, who loved her so dearly, was deceiving her. What would she say if she knew the truth?
“Yes,” she exclaimed with a sigh, “he says that he loves me, and has asked me to become his wife. But I have refused.”
“Why?”
“Because I do not, I cannot love him, dad. Surely you would never wish me to marry a man for whom I have no affection, and in whom I have no trust.” Her father held his breath and evaded her gaze. Her argument was unassailable. The words stabbed his tortured conscience.
“But would not the fact of your becoming Princess d’Auzac place you in a position of independence such as thousands of women would envy?” he hazarded, again stroking her silky hair with tenderness. “You know Zertho well. He’s a good fellow and would make you an excellent husband, no doubt.”
“I can never marry him,” she answered, decisively.
“You will refuse his offer?” he observed, hoarsely. Her firmness was causing him some anxiety.
“I have already refused,” she replied.
Slowly he grasped her hand, and after a brief pause looked her steadily in the face, saying—
“Liane, you must become his wife.”
“I love but one man, dad, and cannot love another,” she sobbed passionately, her arms still about his neck.
“Forget him.”
She remained silent a few moments; then, at last looking up with calm, inquiring gaze, asked—
“Why are you so earnestly persuading me to marry this man who is neither your true friend nor mine, dad? What object can you have in urging me to do what can only bring me grief and dire unhappiness?”
He made no reply. His face, she noticed, had grown hard and cold; he was entirely unlike himself.
“I love George,” she went on. “I will only marry him.”
“Surely you will not ruin all your future, and mine, for his sake,” he blurted forth at last.
“Your future!” she gasped, drawing away from him and regarding him with sudden surprise as the truth dawned upon her. “I see it all now! With me as Princess d’Auzac, the wife of a wealthy man, you would never want.”
His teeth were set. He held her small, soft hand so tightly that it hurt her. He tried to speak, but his lips refused to utter sound. He was persuading his daughter to wreck her young life in order to secure his own safety. The thought was revolting, yet he was forced to act thus: to stand calmly by and witness her self-sacrifice, or bear the consequences of exposure.
He bowed his head in agony of mind. A lump rose in his throat, so that his words were again stifled.
“My marriage would, I know, relieve you of a serious responsibility,” she went on, calmly, without any trace of reproach. “I am not unmindful of the fact that if I married Zertho I should gain wealth and position; yet I do not love him. I—I hate him.”
“He has been kind to us, and I believe he is extremely fond of you,” he said, wincing beneath the lie that fear alone forced to his lips. “Is it not but natural that I should seek for you an improved social position and such wealth as will place you beyond all anxiety in future? Heaven knows that the past has been full enough of care and poverty.”
“Ah! I know that, poor dad,” Liane answered caressingly, in a tone of sympathy, her arms again about his neck. “In the days gone by, because you played fairly, and was never an unscrupulous sharper like Zertho, luck forsook you. They laughed at you because you cared so much for me: because you held Nelly and I aloof from the dregs of society into which you had fallen. You were courageous always, and never when the days were darkest did you relinquish hope, or did your love for me wane. Yet,” and she paused, “yet if you still cared for me as once you did, I cannot but feel that you would hesitate ere you urged me to a hateful alliance with a man I can never love.”
“I am but endeavouring to secure your future happiness, Liane,” he answered, his voice sounding deep and hollow.
A silence fell, deep and impressive, broken only by the low, monotonous roar of the waves beating upon the shore outside, and the musical jingle of the bells on a pair of carriage-horses that were passing. Liane started as she recognised the sound. They were Zertho’s. Erle Brooker would have rather died by his own hand ere he had persuaded her to marry this man; yet for the hundredth time he proved to himself that by suicide he would merely leave her unprotected, while she would most probably afterwards learn from Zertho the terrible secret which he was determined should, at all hazards, remain locked within his own troubled heart.
“To persuade me to marry the Prince is but to urge me to a doom worse than death,” she exclaimed passionately at last. “No, dad, I am sure you would never wish me to do this when I am so contented to live as I am with you. If we are penniless—well, I shall never complain. It will not be the first time that I have wanted a meal, and gone early to bed because I’ve been hungry. I promise I’ll not complain, only do not endeavour to force me to marry Zertho. Let me remain with you.”
“Alas! you cannot, my child!” he answered in a hard, dry, agonised tone, his hand trembling nervously.
“Why?”
“You must forget young Stratfield, and become Princess d’Auzac,” he said firmly, intense anxiety betrayed upon his haggard countenance.
“Never!”
“But you must,” he cried brokenly, with emphasis. “It is imperative—for my sake, Liane—you must marry him, for my sake.”