It made her heart ache to hear their voices mingling together so sweetly, as in old days when they had been true lovers, ere his jealous madness parted them forever, and she wondered how he felt over this strange meeting—this singing, that was just a farce to lead up to something serious.
Yet it was perilously sweet to her heart, although she told herself she hated him for that little crimson scar on her white breast, the witness of his attempted crime. It was not his fault that she was alive this moment, instead of lying in a grassy little grave with “Annette, ætat 18,” carved on the marble above her dreamless head.
With that thought, Annette steeled her heart, that had been softening in spite of her anger, and suddenly exclaimed:
“I know you, Ray Dering, and my asking you to accompany me in my songs was just a pretext to secure an interview with you. Now that we have fooled the others, we can talk a while.”
His white hands fell with a crash from the piano keys, and he was about to spring up; but she added:
“Sit still; it will look more natural thus if any one comes in. I can stand here and say what I wish.”
His handsome face whitened and his glance sought hers, full of remorse and pain as he cried:
“Annette, there is but one word I can say to you all my life long hereafter, and that is, ‘Forgive! forgive!’”
“And you would say it in vain!” she breathed stormily. “Do you think I can forgive you that you tried to kill me? Or, if I could forgive that, since I was fortunate enough to escape your murderous fury, could I forgive you for the blighting of Royall Sherwood’s life?”
He shrank before the lightnings of her glance, and muttered: