St. Leon glanced at his watch.
"No, it is not late--at least, not midnight. Surely you can spare me a
few minutes, Miss Gordon. I wish very much to speak to you," he said,
almost gravely.
"I cannot imagine why you should wish to speak to me," she began,
tremulously.
"Cannot you?" laughing. "Well, suppose I have a mind to lecture you
on your frivolity, Miss Gordon? Do you know, I never dreamed what an
egregious flirt you were until I saw you bringing the whole battery of
your charms to bear on that fascinated Frenchman this evening? Why have
you never condescended to me likewise?"
"I deny the imputation. I am not a flirt," she answered, indignantly.
"Then you were in earnest--worse still!" he said, in that light,
mocking tone, with his piercing eyes on her burning face.
"Beatrix--pardon, Miss Gordon--what would Cyril Wentworth say to that?"
"Nothing! It is no more concern of his," she flashed out, passionately
unconscious of the sudden joy that flashed into his eyes.
"Do you mean that you have broken with Wentworth?" he exclaimed.
"Yes," she answered, coldly.
He regarded her suspiciously.
"Do you know that he is gone away?" he asked, doubtfully.
"To Europe--yes, but I do not care!" she answered, out of the
recklessness of her despair.
"Do you mean that you love him no longer--that it was a mere
child-fancy that absence has cured?" St. Leon asked her, anxiously. She
gave him a swift, half-angry glance from her dark eyes.
"I do not know why you should presume to question me so," she said,
with a little flash of pride. "But I will answer you, Mr. Le Roy. Yes,
it was a mere childish fancy, and I am effectually cured of it. I know
now that I never loved Cyril Wentworth in my life."
He bowed his handsome head in graceful acknowledgment.
"Your frankness emboldens me to ask another confidence," he said. "Miss
Gordon, tell me the story Mrs. Merivale poured into your sympathetic
ear this evening."
She drew back, indignant and amazed.
"Would you ask me to betray a woman's sacred confidence?" she cried.
He laughed aloud--harshly, sneeringly.
"Do you call _that_ confidence which is poured into every stranger's
ear? That figment of Maud Merivale's crafty brain?" he cried. "Tell me
the pretty fiction she gave you, Miss Gordon, and then you shall hear
my side of the story."
"If you wish me to congratulate you, Mr. Le Roy, I will do so now
without waiting to hear more," she said, desperately, eager to escape
this painful interview.
He caught her hand as she half arose, and gently forced her back to her
seat.
"Do not leave me yet," he said. "Pshaw! I know her pitiful stereotyped
story! We were lovers once and her parents parted us and sold her to
an old man because he was richer than I! Is not that the amount of the
pretty idyl, Miss Gordon?"
"Yes," she answered, wonderingly.
"I thought so--I have heard it often before. Now hear my side of
the story, child. We were lovers in our young days--that is true.
You would not believe that Maud is thirty, would you, Miss Gordon?
My mother thought me too young to marry then, and besides, she did
not wholly approve of my choice. The end justified her. We postponed
the consummation of our bliss until I should come of age. Maud grew
impatient. Old Midas Merivale met her, and--pardon the wretched
slang, Miss Gordon--she 'went for him' and threw me over! To-night,"
he resumed, after a moment's pause, "she threw prudence and delicacy
to the winds, begging me to forgive her and to take her back to my
heart--swore that she had never ceased to love me. Can you guess what
answer I made her?"
"No," she faltered, thrilling with interest.
"I told her that since her sin I had scorned all women for her
sake--_her_ most of all! I told her that never until now had I met
a woman who redeemed the sex in my eyes--a child woman so fair, so
innocent, so frank and truthful, that falsehood could not breathe the
same air with her--one to whom I gave the strong, passionate love of a
man combined with the reverence due to an angel."
He stretched out his arms to her yearningly, his face transfigured with
his mighty love.
"Beatrix, I am twice as old as you are, but I love you to madness! I
have hated Cyril Wentworth in my bitter jealousy, but that is all past.
Thank God, you love him no longer--you are free! Can you love _me_,
Beatrix? Will you be my wife?"
Laurel Vane almost reeled with the suddenness of this perfect joy that
had come upon her. She was face to face with the great temptation of
her life, but, oh, how powerless, through her passionate love, to fight
against it!