astruly."
She hesitated for a single instant as he spoke. She lifted her facefrom her hands and looked up at him. He was not much taller than she;it was not far. But as she looked another face came between them--apale, refined face: a face with more poetry, more romance, more passion.
Its sight was to her as a spectre of the past. It held her dumb interror and dismay.
George saw her hesitation, and the strange horrified look in her eyes.Puzzled, he uttered not a word, but watched her breathlessly.
Liane opened her pale lips, but they closed and tightened upon eachother; from beneath her narrowed brows her eyes sent short flashes outupon his, and her breath came and went long and deep, without sound.
"Why are you silent?" he whispered at last.
Her lips relaxed, her form drooped, she lifted her face to reply, buther mouth twitched; she could not speak.
"If you truly love me and are prepared to wait, I will do my best," hedeclared passionately, surprised at her change of manner, but littledreaming of its cause.
Suddenly, however, as quickly as the heavy, preoccupied expression hadsettled upon her countenance it was succeeded by a smile. She was astrange, unique, incomparable girl, for the next second she laughed athim in sweetest manner with a come and go of glances, saying in a toneof low, deep tenderness,--
"Yes, George, you are the only man I love. If it is necessary that youshould go to follow your profession, then go, and take with you theblessing of the woman who has promised to become your wife."
An instant later George held her slight graceful form in fond embrace,while she hid her forehead and wet eyelashes on his shoulder,murmuring,--
"I shall be yours always."
His burning kisses fell upon her hair, but neither of them spoke for awhile. The sunlight faded, and the old brown room with its shelves ofdusty tomes became dark and gloomy. Each felt the other's heart beat;and the unlucky son of the Stratfields drank that ecstasy of silent,delicious bliss which comes to great hearts only once in a life.
Later that night, after he had walked with her to her father's door, shewent to her room and sat alone for a long time in silence. A noisearoused her. It was her father retiring to rest. She listenedintently, until, hearing his door closed, she paced her room withfevered steps. Her face was ashen pale, and from time to time low,strange words escaped her, as, lifting her hands, she pushed back herhair, which seemed to press too heavily upon her hot brow.
"I love him!" she gasped in a low, strained whisper. "Yet, if he onlyknew--if he only knew!"
And she shuddered.
Thrice she moved slowly backwards and forwards across her room.Suddenly pulling aside the dimity curtains, she gazed out into thebrilliant night. The moon was shining full upon her windows, revealingthe trees and stretch of undulating meadows beyond.
For an instant she hesitated. Her clenched hands trembled; she held herbreath, listening. Reassured, she crossed noiselessly to her littledressing-table, opened one of the drawers, and took therefrom a smalljewel-case. Only a few cheap trinkets were revealed when she unlockedit, but from it she drew forth a small oblong box of white cardboard.Then cautiously she crept from her room downstairs, and out into thesmall orchard behind the house. Crossing it, still in the deep shadowof the apple trees, she searched for some moments until she found aspade, and making her way to a bed that had been newly dug, she deftlyremoved several shovelfuls of earth, panting the while.
Taking the small box hastily from her pocket, she glanced round toassure herself she was unobserved, then bent, and placing it carefullyin the hole she had made, an instant later proceeded to fill it in andrearrange the surface, so that no trace should remain of it having beenremoved.
Then replacing the spade where she had found it, she crept noiselesslyback to her room, locked the door and stood rigid, her hand pressed uponher wildly-beating heart.
CHAPTER SIX.
OUTSIDERS.
Many weeks went by. To Liane the days were long, weary and monotonous,for George had left, and the Court had passed into the possession ofMajor Stratfield, a proud, pompous, red-faced man, who often rodethrough the village, but spoke to nobody. Since her lover had gone shehad remained dull and apathetic, taking scarcely any interest inanything, and never riding her cycle because of the tragic memories itssight always aroused within her. Her life was, indeed, grey andcolourless, for she noticed that of late even her father's manner hadchanged strangely towards her, and instead of being uniformly courteousand solicitous regarding her welfare, he now seemed to treat her withstudied indifference, and she even thought she detected within him akind of repulsion, as if her presence annoyed and distressed him.
He had never been the same towards her since that memorable evening whenhe had forbidden her to accept George's offer. Yet her mind was full ofthoughts of her absent lover, and she sent him by post boxes of flowersfrom the garden, that their sweet perfume should remind him of her.
Another fact also caused her most intense anxiety and apprehension. Thesecret which she believed locked securely within her own bosom wasundoubtedly in possession of some unknown person, for having gone intothe garden one morning, a week after that night when she had buried thesmall box from her jewel-case, she fancied that the ground had beenfreshly disturbed, and that someone had searched the spot.
If so, her actions had been watched.
Thus she lived from day to day, filled by a constant dread that grippedher heart and paralysed her senses. She knew that the most expertofficers from Scotland Yard were actively endeavouring to discover theidentity of Nelly's assassin, and was convinced that sooner or later theterrible truth must be elicited.
Twice each week George wrote to her, and she read and re-read hisletters many times, sending him in return all the gossip of theold-world village that he loved so well. Thanks to the generosity ofthe Major, who had decided to give him a small property bringing in sometwo hundred a year, he was not so badly off as he had anticipated;nevertheless, were it not for that he must have been in serious straits,for, according to his letters, work at the Bar was absolutelyunobtainable, and for a whole month he had been without a single brief.Old Mr Harrison sometimes gave him one, but beyond that he could pick upscarcely anything.
One evening in late autumn, when the air was damp and chilly, theorchard covered with leaves and the walnuts were rattling down upon theout-house roof with every gust of wind that blew across the hills, theCaptain received a telegram, and briefly observed that it was necessaryhe should go to London on the morrow. He threw the piece of pink paperinto the fire without saying who was the sender, and next morning rosean hour earlier and caught the train to Paddington, whence he drove in ahansom to an address in Cork Street, Piccadilly.
A man-servant admitted him, and he was at once ushered upstairs to asmall, well-furnished drawing-room, which, however, still retained theodour of overnight cigars. He had scarcely time to fling himself into achair when a door on the opposite side of the room opened, and Zerthoentered, well-dressed, gay and smiling, with a carnation in the lappelof his coat.
"Well, Brooker, old chap," he cried, extending his white hand heartily,"I'm back again, you see."
"Yes," answered the other, smiling and grasping the proffered hand."The dignity of Prince appears to suit you, judging from your healthfullook."
"It does, Brooker; it does," he answered laughing. "One takes moreinterest in life when one has a plentiful supply of the needful thanwhen one has to depend upon Fortune for a dinner."
"I wonder that no one has yet spotted you," Brooker observed, leaningback in the silken armchair, stretching out his feet upon the hearthrug,regarding the Prince with a critical look from head to toe, and lightingthe cigar the other had offered him.
"If they did, it might certainly be a bit awkward," Zertho acquiesced."But many people are ready to forgive the little peccadilloes of anybodywith a title."
"Ah! that's so. It's money, money always," the luckless gamesterobserved with a sig
h.
"Well, hang it, you can't grumble. You've won and lost a bit in yourtime," his friend said, casting himself upon a couch near, stroking hisdark beard, and blowing a cloud of smoke from his full lips. "If you'resuch an idiot as not to play any more, well you, of course, have tosuffer."
"Play, be hanged!" cried Brooker, impetuously. "My luck's gone. Thelast time I played trente-et-quarante, I lost a couple of ponies."
"But the system is--"
"Oh, the system is all rot. The Johnnie who invented it ought to havegone and played it himself. He'd have been a candidate for the nearestworkhouse within three days."
"Well, we brought it off all right more than once," Zertho observed,with a slight accent.
"Mere flukes, all of them."
"You won at one coup thirty-six thousand francs, I remember.
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