CHAPTER XXII
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 has 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! Tonight," 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, thrilled 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!
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