“Yes, I always loved you,” he whispered, “and I fought so hard for both our sakes.”
“And lost,” she said with a laugh. “I have won. No, no,” she whispered caressingly, “don’t repulse me now. You are so much to me. But yes, if you will. I do not mind. Strike your poor slave if you wish; she will never murmur or complain. Your blows would be like tender caresses to me now, for your words have dragged me forth from an age of misery and despair into a new life of hope and brightness and joy. You told me you loved me with all your soul.”
“No, no,” he cried angrily, in his last struggle for truth and honour; “it is not true. It was all an imaginary passion for an imaginary being.”
“Am I an imaginary being?” she whispered, as she wreathed her arms about him and drew him to her breast. “No, no; it was all a solemn truth, the outspeaking of your heart to the only woman you love. You could not lie to me, my hero—my idol. What is the world to us, Armstrong? You cannot retract your words. I have won you—my own—my own. You can never leave me now.”
As those words left her lips, Dale started from her arms, for a carriage had stopped, and a heavy double knock resounded through the house.
Valentina stood listening as Dale crossed rapidly to the door, unlocked it, and returned, after relocking it, silently.
“Well?” she said calmly, “a visitor? Send him away.”
“Your husband,” he whispered.
“Bah!” she cried contemptuously. “The man the world calls my husband—the wretch who bought me as he would some trinket that gratified his eye.”
“But the risk—the scandal,” he whispered. “For your sake—there, dearest, for your sake,” he whispered, as he clasped her to his breast.