“Osbert,” she said impetuously, “you are determined to make me wretched. Can you not, to please me, dismiss the subject of Count Zarka? I hate it as I hate him.”
“Yet you are always with him?” he persisted dubiously.
“Can I help it if he comes every day to the farm? He has business with my father.”
Von Tressen’s face was troubled. It was clear he felt far from satisfied. But what more could he urge? His expression darkened as though a cloud of gloom had drifted over him. For some moments there was silence. Then Philippa laid her hand lovingly on his arm.
“Osbert,” she pleaded; “you are unkind to me; unkind to let these suspicions run in your mind. Can you not trust me? Is your love so shallow that it cannot believe my word against all appearances? Does it ask so much that I must prove to you that I love you and hate Zarka? How can I do that?”
His answer was ready. “Will you tell your father and the Count that we are betrothed?”
She met his eyes steadfastly. “In a week,” she answered without faltering.
“Not now?”
“Osbert, is this fair?”
His innate chivalry ousted his jealous suspicion. “Forgive me, darling,” he said, as love lighted up his face and its gloom vanished; “forgive me that I am so unkind. I do not deserve that you should love me when I torment you so. But I distrust this man Zarka; I know him to be bad and unscrupulous, and, worst of all, to be in love with you. Is it a wonder that I am troubled when I see the fear he inspires you with?”