FullReads

“Meaning?” said Pierre abruptly.

She drew a sharp breath. Her heart was beating very fast.

“Meaning,” she said, “meaning that I do not–and I will not–agree to your proposal; that if I accept my freedom from you, it will be because you force me to do so, and I will take nothing else–do you hear?–nothing else, either as a gift or as a bequest. You may compel me to accept my freedom–against my will; but nothing else, I swear–I swear!”

Her voice broke suddenly. She pressed her hands against her throat, striving to control her agitation. But she might as well have striven to contend with the previous night’s storm; for it shook her, from head to foot it shook her, as a tree is shaken by the tempest.

As for Pierre, before her words were fairly uttered he had leapt to his feet. His hands were clenched. He looked almost as if he would strike her.

“What do you mean?” he thundered.

She could not answer, but still she did not flinch. She only threw out her hands and set them against his breast, holding him from her. Whether or not her eyes spoke for her she never knew, but he became suddenly rigid at her touch, standing motionless, waiting for her with a patience she found well-nigh incredible.

“Tell me,” he said at last, and in his voice restraint and passion were strangely mingled, “what is it you are trying to make me understand? In Heaven’s name don’t be afraid!”

“I am not,” she whispered back breathlessly, “believe me, I am not. But, oh, Pierre, it’s so hard for a woman to tell a man what is in her heart when–when she doesn’t even know that he cares to hear.”

“Stephanie!” he said. He unclenched his hands, and slowly, very slowly, took her quivering wrists. His eyes would have searched hers, but she was looking at him no longer. Her head was bent. She was crying softly, like a child that has been frightened.

“Stephanie!” he said again.

She made a little movement towards him, hesitated a moment, then went close and hid her face against his breast.

“Oh, do make it easy for me!” she entreated brokenly. “Do–do try to understand!”

His arms closed about her. He held her tensely against his heart, so that she heard the wild tumult of its beating. But he said nothing whatever. He waited for her still.

And so at last she found strength to turn her face a little upwards and whisper his name.

“Pierre!” And then, with more assurance, “Pierre, it is true I haven’t much to offer you. But such as it is–such as it is–and you asked for it once, remember–will you not take it?”

“Meaning?” he said again, and his voice was hoarse and low. It seemed to come through closed lips.

“Meaning,” she answered him quickly and passionately, “that revolutionist as you have been, tyrant as you are, you have managed somehow to bind me to you. Oh, I was a fool–a fool–not to marry you long ago at Maritas even though I hated you. I might have known that you would conquer me in the end.”

“Has it come to that?” said Pierre, and there was a queer break in his voice that might have been laughter. “And have you never asked yourself what made me a revolutionist–and a tyrant?”

“Never,” she murmured.

“Must I tell you?” he said. “Will you believe me if I do?”

She turned her face fully to him, no longer fearing to meet that piercing scrutiny before which she had so often quailed. “Was it for my sake?” she said.

He met her look with eyes that gleamed as steel gleams in red firelight.

“How else could I have saved you?” he said. “How else could I have been in time?”

“Oh, but you should have told me!” she said. “You should have told me!”

“And if I had,” said Pierre, “would you have hated me less? Do you hate me the less now that you know it?”

She was silent.

“Tell me, Stephanie,” he persisted.

Her eyes fell before his.

“Have I ever hated you?” she said, her voice very low.

“If I did not make you hate me last night,” he said, “then you never have.”

“And I never shall,” she supplemented under her breath.

“That,” said Pierre, “is another matter. You forget that I am a blackguard.”

Again she heard in his voice that sound that might have been laughter. It thrilled her strangely, seeming in some fashion to convey a message that was beyond words. She turned in his arms, responding instinctively, and clung closely to him.

“I forget everything,” she told him very earnestly, “except that to-morrow–or the next day–you will be–my husband.”

His arms grew tense about her. She felt his breathing quicken.

“Be careful!” he muttered. “Be careful! Remember, I am not to be trusted.”

But she answered him with that laughter that is without fear and more intimate than speech.

“All that is over,” she said, and lifted her face to his. And then, more softly, in a voice that quivered and broke, “I trust you with my whole heart. And Pierre–my Pierre–you will never again–kiss me–against my will!”