[CHAPTER VIII.]
"FORTUNE! AN UNRELENTING FOE TO LOVE."
That song in the old days in the Rue Trousse-Vache had been the air which Bertie Elphinston had whistled many a time to Kate to let her know that he was about to enter the "salle d'escrime," or to make her look out of the window and see the flowers he had brought her from his mother's garden in the suburbs. Also, on a Sunday morning early, he had often stood beneath the window of her room and had piped the "Rigadoon" to remind her that it was time for them to be away for their day's outing. For in those happy times--alas! but a year ago--these two fond, happy lovers had spent every Sabbath together and alone. Arm in arm the whole day; or, when the soft summer nights fell over the Bois de Boulogne, or the woods of St. Germain or the Forest of Fontainebleau, his arm round her waist and her soft fair head upon his shoulder, they had wandered together, taking a light meal here and there at any roadside auberge they happened on, and then both going back to supper, at her father's little house, where, as they had done all day, they talked of the future that was before them.
And now the future had come and they were parted for ever! No wonder that the old French song which had found its way to England grated harshly on their ears.
"Thank God, 'tis finished," he said, as the orchestra struck up a dance tune next. "For us, to our hearts, it awakens memories best left to slumber for ever." Then sitting down by her side on the rustic bench, he continued: "Kate, you wrote in your letter to me," and he touched his breast involuntarily as he spoke, so that she knew he bore it about him, "that there was private treachery to be feared. Is it to be feared from him?"
"Alas!" she whispered, "I almost dread 'tis so. He is not satisfied yet; he----"
"He should be! He has all I wanted."
"To injure you," she continued, "would be, as he knows, the best way to strike at me."
"To strike at you?"
"Yes, to repay me for my scorn and contempt--my hate of him."