If Sinners Entice Thee Part 28

she answered huskily, as slowly, side by side, they strolled beneath the trees.

"It must be broken, whatever its nature," he said quickly.

"Ah! I only wish it could be," she answered wistfully, again sighing.

"I am compelled to wear a smiling face, but, alas! it only hides a heart worn out with weariness. I'm the most wretched girl in all the world.

You think me cruel and heartless--you believe I no longer love you as I did--you must think so. Yet I a.s.sure you that day by day I am remembering with, regret those happy sunny days in Berkshire, those warm brilliant evenings when, wandering through the quiet leafy lanes, we made for ourselves a paradise which we foolishly believed would last always. And yet it is all past--all past, never to return."

He saw that she was affected, and that tears stood in her eyes.

"Life with me has not the charm it used then to possess, dearest," he said, in a low, intense tone, as together they sat upon one of the seats. "True, those days at Stratfield were the happiest of all I have ever known. I remember well how, each time we parted, I counted the long hours of sunshine until we met again; how, when I was away from your side, each road, house and tree reminded me of your own dear self; how in my day-dreams I imagined myself living with you always beside me.

The blow came--my father died. You were my idol. I cared for nothing else in the world, and before he died I refused to obey his command to part from you."

"Why," she asked quickly, "did your father object to me?"

"Yes, darling, he did," he answered. This was the first time he had told her the truth, and it had come out almost involuntarily.

"Then that is why he acted so unjustly towards you?" she observed, thoughtfully. "You displeased him because you loved me."

He nodded in the affirmative.

"But I do not regret it," he exclaimed hastily. "I do not regret, because I still love you as fervently as I did on that memorable evening when my father called me to his bedside and urged me to give up all thought of you. It is because--because of your decision to marry this man, Zertho, that I grieve."

"It is not my decision," she protested. "I am forced to act as I am acting."

"But you shall never marry him!"

"Unfortunately it is beyond your power to a.s.sist me, George," she answered, in a tone of despair. "We love each other, it is true, but we must end it all. We must not meet again," she added, in a voice broken by emotion. "I--I cannot bear it. Indeed, I can't."

"Why should you say this?" he asked, reproachfully. "Loving each other as fondly as we do, we must meet. No power on earth can prevent it."

They looked fondly into each other's eyes. Liane saw in his intense pa.s.sion and earnestness, and knew how well he loved her. Plunged in thought, she traced a semicircle in the dust with the ferrule of her sunshade.

"No," she said at length, quite calmly. "You must forget, George. I shall leave here to marry and live away in the old chateau in Luxembourg as one buried. When I am wedded, my only prayer will be that we may never again meet."

"Why?" he cried, dismayed.

"Because when I see you I always live the past over again. All those bright, happy, joyous days come back to me, together with the tragic circ.u.mstances of poor Nelly's death--the dark shadow which fell between us, the shadow which has lengthened and deepened until it has now formed a barrier insurmountable."

"What does Nelly's death concern us?" he asked. "It was tragic and mysterious, certainly; nevertheless, it surely does not prevent our marriage."

For an instant she glanced sharply at him, then lowering her gaze, answered drily,--

"Of course not."

"Then why refer to it?"

"Because the mystery has never been solved," she said, in a tone which surprised him.

"Where the police have failed we can scarcely hope to be successful," he observed. Yet the harsh, strained voice in which she had spoken puzzled him. More than once it had occurred to him that Liane had never satisfactorily explained where she had been on that well-remembered evening, yet, loving her so well, he had always dismissed any suspicion as wild and utterly unfounded. Nevertheless, her statements to several persons regarding her actions on that evening had varied considerably, and he could not conceal the truth from himself that for a reason unaccountable she had successfully hidden some matter which might be of greatest importance.

"Do you think the truth will ever come out?" she inquired, her eyes still downcast.

"It may," he answered, watching her narrowly. "The unexpected often happens."

"Of course," she agreed, with a faint smile. "But the police have obtained no further clue, have they?" she asked in eagerness.

"Not that I'm aware of," he answered briefly, and a silence fell between them. "Liane," he said at last, turning towards her with a calm, serious look, "I somehow cannot help doubting that you are acting altogether straightforward towards me."

"Straightforward?" she echoed, glancing at him with a look half of suspicion, half of surprise. "I don't understand you."

"I mean that you refuse to tell me the reason you are bound to marry this man you hate," he blurted forth. "You are concealing the truth."

"Only because I am forced to do so," she answered mechanically. "Ah, you do not know all, George, or you would not upbraid me," she added brokenly.

"Why not tell me? Then I might a.s.sist you."

"No, alas! you cannot a.s.sist me," she answered, in a forlorn, hopeless voice, with head bent and her gaze fixed blankly upon the ground. "If you wish to be merciful towards me, leave here. Return to London and forget everything. While you remain, my terrible secret oppresses me with greater weight, because I know that I have lost for ever all love and hope--that the judgment of Heaven has fallen upon me."

"Why, dearest?" he cried. "How is it you speak so strangely?" Then in an instant remembering her curious words when they had met at Monte Carlo, he added, "Anyone would believe that you had committed some fearful crime."

She started, staring at him with lips compressed, but uttering no response. Her face was that of one upon whose conscience was some guilty secret.

"Come," he said presently, in a kind, persuasive tone. "Tell me why poor Nelly's death is a barrier to our happiness."

"No," she answered, "I cannot. Have I not already told you that my secret is inviolable?"

"You refuse?"

She nodded, her breast heaving and falling.

"Every detail of that terrible affair is still as vivid in my recollection as if it occurred but yesterday," he said. "Until quite recently I have always believed that the a.s.sa.s.sin stole the brooch she was wearing; but I am now confident that it was stolen between the time I discovered the body and returned with a.s.sistance from the village."

She held her breath, but only for a single instant.

"What causes you to think this?" she inquired. "Because I distinctly remember that the brooch was still at her throat when I found her lying in the road. Yet when I returned it was missing. The a.s.sa.s.sin was not the thief."

"That has been my theory all along," she said.

He noticed the effect his words produced upon her, and was puzzled.

"You have never explained to me, Liane, the reason you did not keep your appointment with me on that evening," he said gravely. "If you had been at the spot we had arranged, Nelly's life would most probably have been saved."

"I was prevented from meeting you," she answered vaguely, after a second's hesitation.

"You have already told me that. What prevented you?"

"A curious combination of circ.u.mstances."

"What were they?"