"'I am oppressed with this great sense of loving—
So much I give, so much receive from thee;
Like subtle incense rising from a censer,
So floats the fragrance of thy love round me.'"
She lifted her eyes, startled, wide with horror and alarm, and would have drawn back but that he held her, his beautiful eyes dull with passion.
"Did you think I did not know? Did you think I should not comprehend?" he continued in the same tone. "Did you really believe that I should allow another to steal you from me? There have been times when I almost thought you did not realize that you love me. There have been times when I have believed you fancied your heart given to that other to whom you have promised yourself, and then the knowledge of how absurd it all was comforted me. The knowledge that some day you would turn to me helped me to bear it all, but the sea of silence is killing me, Carlita, drowning me in my own desire. I love you—ah! you know that, and the words are so weak. You know that I would let the blood drain from my body through the ends of my fingers, drop by drop, for you. I don't believe you realized it all when you promised to be another man's wife; but it could not be concealed from you always. Won't you send the white ship across the sea, my darling? Won't you speak some word to comfort my waiting?"
He had not spoken the words in the headlong, pell-mell fashion of impassioned youth, but with a feeling that held her spell-bound until the sound of his voice had ceased, and then things looked black and swam before her eyes as if she were suddenly affected with vertigo. She staggered, and would have fallen but that he arose, and, placing his arm about her, held her closely. His warm breath aroused her, and tearing herself from him, she sprang aside.
"False friend! Craven! Coward!" she panted. "How dare you? How dare you speak the words to me that you have uttered? How dare you say that I love you—you—you, the man who has played the friend to Olney Winthrop, who has pretended to love him as a brother does? You come here in his absence, like the coward that you are, to steal that which belongs to him—only to him; but it is beyond you, thank God for that! I hate you—hate you as I have never hated a human thing in my life before—hate you for the cunning coward that you are! I shall tell Olney Winthrop of this, and—"
Pierrepont was leaning against the piano, all his nonchalance, his graceful indifference returned, listening to her as if she were speaking to him only the pleasantries of the drawing-room. She burst into tears before she could complete her sentence, and he moved for a moment restlessly, but naturally and calmly as he usually spoke, said:
"There will be no necessity for you to take that trouble. I shall tell him myself before I sleep tonight."
"I hope that Heaven will spare me the insult of ever looking upon your face again!" she cried as she started from the room.
She was forced to pass him in order to reach the door, and as she would have done so, he stepped before her almost indifferently. There was the smile still upon his mouth, his eyes were brilliant now, and his voice as slow and drawling as ever.
"I just want to say a word before you go," he said, quietly. "There will come a time when you will wish to recall what you have said, when you will yearn for the love which you disregard now. When it comes, send for me. You need not fear that I shall harbor any resentment for your cruelty. When you send, I shall be ready to respond, even if your message should reach me at the other end of the earth. You are the only woman whom I have ever loved, and some day you shall be my wife!"