“To-morrow I shall have won the one great prize I covet,” she murmured, half aloud. “After to-morrow I can defy Lester Stanwick to bring one charge against me. I shall be Rex’s wife––it will avail him nothing.”
“Speaking of angels, you often hear ‘the rustle of their wings.’ I believe there is an old adage of that sort, or something similar,” said a deep voice beside her, and turning around with a low cry she saw Lester Stanwick himself standing before her.
For one moment her lips opened as though to utter a piercing cry, but even the very breath seemed to die upon them, they were so fixed and still.
The flowers she held in her hand fell into the fountain against which she leaned, but she did not heed them.
Like one fascinated, her eyes met the gaze of the bold, flashing dark ones bent so steadily upon her.
“You thought you would escape me,” he said. “How foolish and blind you are, my clever plotter. Did you think I did not see through your clever maneuverings? There shall be a wedding to-morrow, but you shall marry me, instead of handsome, debonair Rex. You can not fly from your fate.”
She set her lips firmly together. She had made a valiant struggle. She would defy him to the bitter end. She was no coward, this beautiful, imperious girl. She would die hard. Alas! she had been too sanguine, hoping Lester Stanwick would not return before the ceremony was performed.
The last hope died out of that proud, passionate heart––as well hope to divert a tiger from its helpless prey as expect Lester Stanwick to relinquish any plans he had once formed.
“I have fought my fight,” she said to herself, “and have failed on the very threshold of victory, still, I know how to 157 bear defeat. What do you propose to do?” she said, huskily. “If there is any way I can buy your silence, name your price, keeping back the truth will avail me little now. I love Rex, and no power on earth shall prevent me from becoming his wife.”
Lester Stanwick smiled superciliously––drawing from his pocket a package of letters.