Sheltered from the blazing afternoon sun, Trethowen and Valerie were
seated together under one of the ancient elms in the picturesque
Promenade de Sept Heures. It was the hour when visitors lounge in the
glade listening to the band and sip absinthe, while their children amuse
themselves on the asphalte of the great covered promenade. The end of
the long, shady avenue is quiet and secluded at this time of the day, as
the exit is only a footpath ascending the steep hillside, and few
persons come that way, the majority being attracted towards the music
pavilion.
Valerie, always daintily attired, looked charming in a cool light dress
of some soft material, which clung in graceful folds about her, and a
large drooping hat composed entirely of flowers. She was serious,
hesitating, and scraped the gravel aimlessly with the ferrule of her
sunshade.
"Ah, you don't know, Hugh," she exclaimed, with a sigh, in reply to a
question. "I--I've been horribly unhappy."
"Unhappy," he repeated in astonishment. "Why, what's the cause? You
have life, gaiety, freedom--everything conducive to contentment."
"That's true," she answered. "But the past--I must strive to forget it.
My whole life has been a series of dire misfortunes--an existence
wasted because, until the present, I have never found one whom I could
love."
"You really care for me, then?" he asked, looking earnestly into her
fine eyes. "You will marry me at once, as you promised a moment ago?"
"Yes, dear," she said, her face relaxing into a glad smile. "I feel
that, however unpropitious the past may have been, this is the
turning-point in my life. Men I have hitherto known have all been
hard-hearted and ready to hear me maligned, but you have sympathised
with me in my unloved and defenceless position, and I cannot doubt that
we shall be happy together."
"Why, of course we shall," he declared, drawing her closer to him, and
kissing her through her flimsy veil. "I'm growing impatient to return
to Coombe and settle down comfortably. The hollowness of life in a
place like this palls upon one."
"Yes; I, too, am getting tired of it. I shall be pleased to go with you
to your home. From the photographs it must be a lovely old place."
"Its antiqueness is its greatest charm," he replied. "But tell me why
are you so unhappy?"
"Well, would you like to know the truth?" she asked, with a nervous
little laugh.
"Of course I should."
"Then it was because I half-feared you did not care for me sufficiently
to make me your wife," she said hesitatingly.
"And that caused you all this unhappiness? Well, now you know the
truth," he added gayly, "there need be no more fear on that score. We
will return to England and be married as soon as possible. Are you
agreeable?"
Replying in the affirmative, she raised her face to his and kissed him
affectionately, almost sadly.
As she withdrew her lips her teeth were firmly set, for, after all, she
thought, was she not participating in a base plot and acting in a vile,
despicable character? Yet, notwithstanding, she had caught herself
actually imbued with genuine affection for this man she was pretending
to love. She, a butterfly of fashion, who had been the evil genius of
more than one man who had fallen victim to her charms, actually
struggled with her conscience.
Drawing a deep breath between her teeth, she hesitated. Hugh attributed
it to agitation; he little suspected that it was an effort to remain
firm and carry out a nefarious scheme.
He was weak and captivated by her pretty face, she knew; still, after
all, she could not deny that she, too, loved him, and for the moment she
hated herself for practising such vile deception.
Although a cunning, crafty woman, recognising no law, either of God or
man, all sense of honour had not yet been quite obliterated by the many
clever plots and base schemes in which she had participated. All her
youthful enthusiasm came to life again; the heart which she had thought
dead, beat as it had never before done at the voice and smile of this
strong, gentle, loyal-hearted man. Her love for him was silent but
passionate; she adored him without telling herself that her right to
love had long ago been forfeited.
Her beautiful oval face was calm and pale, faultless as that of an
Italian Madonna, while her brilliant eyes received additional radiance
from the lustre of her dark hair. She forgot her past; she felt as if
she never had but one name upon her ruddy pouting lips--that of Hugh.