If Sinners Entice Thee

“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.