“What do you mean by you ‘hope’ she will be able to answer?” was Volna’s prompt retort. “I hope that even you would not stoop to the baseness I can read under your words.”
“In the absence of certain evidence, Madame Drakona has nothing to fear. That is all,” he said, doggedly. “Let us speak of this alone, Volna.”
“No!” she cried, with indignant emphasis. “Are you so ashamed of your act that you dare not discuss it? I know what you mean by what you call the evidence against my mother. You used your opportunities here and set your spies to scrape it together and you keep it in your own hands, holding it over me to force me to comply with your wishes. You are that kind of man. Now, what is your price?”
It was as easy to see that she was right as that her scorn and contempt struck right home. He changed colour, twisted his beard nervously, glanced at her, and from her to me; and stood baffled, disconcerted, scowling and silent.
“What is your price? Are you ashamed to name it before Mr. Anstruther?” she went on, in the same bitter tone. “On what terms will you consent to put that evidence in my hands? Can you do it? If I should consent to pay the price, what guarantee should I have, not only that you could, but that you would, keep any bargain you made? I should surely need some. I am ready to save my mother. Now, what is your price?” Her face flushed, her eyes shining, her manner eloquent of her contempt for him, she presented a magnificent picture of angry scorn.
He cut a pitiful figure in contrast, as he winced and cowered under her words as under the lash of a knout. He cared for her. There was no doubt of that. But it was this very love which made him suffer then. Hard, callous, cruel, indifferent to the suffering he made others endure, he cringed now under the mental torture she inflicted.
It galled him the more that of all men I should be the witness of his humiliation; nor was I at any pains to conceal my pleasure at his discomfiture.
When she spoke next, her tone was cold, quiet, and biting. “You are still ashamed to name it? You would do the thing itself, mean and dastardly as it is; but the mention of it harrows your delicate sense of honour. You are a Russian, and worthy of your country. You have thrown my mother into prison in order to force me to marry you at once. That is the price you will not name aloud; and that is a price I will not pay.”
The frown on his face deepened ominously as he muttered. “You are betrothed to me.”
“The one thing in my life I am ashamed of. It was a sham betrothal, and you are welcome to the truth now. I was at least honest with you. I told you there was on my side none of that feeling which a girl should have at such a time, and that I was heart free. What I did not tell you was that the betrothal was intended to save those about me from danger at your hand. It served its purpose until to-day, when you have struck this coward’s blow. Now, thank God, the truth can be told.”