Her dry lips quivered, a longing so intense as to be almost irresistible assailed her; the desire to exclaim: “I did not deceive you; I did love you; I still love you. No treachery of mine parted us!” but she remembered the promise she had made to Percy Levant, the promise renewed only that morning; remembered that he, Lord Cecil, was either already married, or pledged to marry Lady Grace, and she remained silent.
He drew a long breath and shrugged his shoulders.
“You can’t answer. I suppose it was merely for amusement that you led me on to loving you, merely for amusement that you got the heart out of my bosom, merely for amusement that you promised to be my wife, and still merely for amusement—broke my heart!”
She turned. They say the worm will turn if trodden on too persistently.
“Was it only a broken heart you offered to Lady Grace, my lord?” she said. The moment after she had spoken the words she would have recalled them, for she saw by the sudden pallor of his face, the quiver of his lips, how much they had cost him.
“I see,” he said, in a low voice; “you seek to excuse yourself of unfaithfulness by accusing me!”
“No, no,” she breathed; but he went on, disregarding her.
“Yes, I am engaged to Lady Grace! It is quite true. All the world knows it,” with a suppressed bitterness; “but I did not ask her to be my wife until you had—jilted—me! Jilted! It is too light a word. Men use it as a jest. But you did not jilt, you deserted and betrayed me!”
“I—I!” she panted.
“Yes!” he said, passionately. “You waited until I had left England—left England to please and conciliate my uncle—and then, disregarding my letters, my appeals to your love and your honor, you coldly—like a finished coquette!—cast me off with a few cold words. Good Heavens, I cannot recall it without feeling the old pain, the old madness!” he broke off. “Oh, Doris, you have broken other hearts than mine, I dare say, but you never broke one that loved you half as dearly, half as truly, as mine did! I would have staked my life, my honor, on your truthfulness. I would have upheld it in the face of the whole world, and,” with a bitter smile, “should have been rightly laughed at for my pains! Doris, the treachery that was sport to you, was death to me! Look at me!” he drew nearer to her, and folded his arms. “That day I lay with my head in your lap I was a young man, with all a young man’s keen zest for life, with all a young man’s keen desire for life and belief in happiness! I feel like an old man now, bereft of all hope, haunted by the memory of your deceit. This is your work! Be proud of it, if you can!”