How long is it, dear love, since we were face to face,
Full many years;
Look deep into my heart—there you will trace
Your myriad tears.”
For some moments after he had ceased speaking, Queenie still sat there, regarding him with that same intensity of gaze that made him feel a trifle uneasy.
“Why do you not answer me?” he queried, impatiently. “Are you with me in my valiant scheme for a fortune—I was going to add, or are you against me? but I know you would not dare thwart me in my desires. You are in my power, and my will henceforth shall be your law.”
The cold eyes meeting his gaze so steadily did not flinch, nor did the marble face grow one whit whiter at this open declaration, reminding her of the precipice on which she stood and would stand for all time to come, unless fate should sweep this man from her path. Indeed, her face could grow no whiter.
She had lived through two terrible shocks; first, that the man whom she loved better than her own life was dead, and, secondly, that had he lived he would, in all probability, have wedded another.
“It was a most unaccountable turn of fate’s wheel that this girl should have come North to visit you, of all people, Queenie,” he resumed, thoughtfully, “and I expected no end of difficulties in the matter. It would have been natural for her to confide to you that she was soon to wed, and I could imagine your amazement when she told you that the man she was to marry was John Dinsmore.
“Of course, in the interchange of girlish confidences, you would have told her that he was, once upon a time, and not so very many moons ago, your admirer.