For a moment the Prince paused then crossing to the escritoire, which stood in the window, took therefrom a folded newspaper, old and tattered, together with several other papers folded together lengthwise. Recrossing to where Brooker stood, he held them up to his gaze, with a sinister smile upon his lips, and a look full of menace.
“No! no!” cried the Captain, glaring at the innocent-looking papers, and drawing back with a gesture of repulsion.
“Very well,” Zertho answered, with nonchalance. “Strange though it may appear, your only chance of safety is in becoming my father-in-law. It will be easy enough for you to persuade Liane to become my wife, and I am ready and eager to remain your friend. But if your prejudices are so very intense and indiscreet, well – you know the rest.”
The two men who had been fellow-adventurers faced each other. In the countenance of one was confidence, in the other abject fear.
“I never expected this of you, Zertho,” the Captain said reproachfully, regarding him with eyes in which flashed the fire of anger. “You apparently heed nothing of my feelings as her father. You know my past; you know that Liane brings into my life its only ray of brightness.”
“We are no longer partners,” the other answered harshly, with a strangely determined expression upon his dark countenance. “You are playing against me now, therefore I am your opponent. You’ve thought fit to deal the cards, it’s true,” he added, with a short derisive laugh; “but I think you’ll have to admit that I hold all the trumps.”
Chapter Nine
The Way of Transgressors
One thought alone possessed Liane. Zertho loved her.
Next morning when the maid brought her coffee, she rose, and opening the sun-shutters, stood at the window gazing upon the broad expanse of bright blue sea. The words the Prince had uttered all came back to her. She recollected how he had pressed her hand, and declared that she was his ideal of what a woman should be; how, not satisfied with her refusal, he had promised to repeat his question. Should she accept? No, she distrusted him as much as she had ever done.
While thus plunged in deep reflection, her clear eyes fixed upon the distant horizon where ships were passing, endeavouring to convince herself that marriage with Zertho was impossible because she could never love him, a light tap was heard upon the door, and the girl re-entered, bearing a letter.
By its blue English stamp, she knew instinctively it was from George.
Slowly she tore open the envelope and read its contents. Then, with a sudden movement, she cast herself upon her bed, burying her face in the lace-edged pillow, and bursting into a torrent of passionate tears. She hated Zertho, and still loved George.
Meanwhile, her father had risen, and gone out for an early turn along the Promenade. He let himself out at the rear into the Rue de France, in order not to pass the Villa Chevrier, and after strolling for some time about the town, he reached the sea again walking alone, his face set towards the high castle hill, which he presently ascended by the winding flight of stone steps, and standing at last on the summit, in the beautiful garden laid out on the side of the long-ruined château, paused to rest. The sun was strong, the sky cloudless, and in every direction the view was superb. As he stood leaning over the stone parapet, the Cape of Antibes, the Iles de Lerins, the mouth of the broad stony Var, and the town of Nice were at his feet, while behind stretched the green valley of the Paillon, with the white monasteries of Cimiez and St Pons, the distant château of St Andre, the peaks of Mont Chauve, and the Aspremont, with the blue distant Alps forming a picturesque background. He removed his hat, and allowed the fresh breeze that came up from the sea to fan his heated temples.
He was alone, save for a solitary sentinel standing with fixed bayonet some distance away, at the entrance to a large platform, where several guns were mounted behind baskets filled with stones, and as he leaned, his eyes fixed blankly upon the sea, some low words escaped him.
“Yes,” he murmured in desperation, “this is indeed the last drop that has filled my cup of affliction. Poor Liane! How can I tell her? How can I go to her and confess the ghastly truth? If I do; if I tell her of the terrible secret which I had believed was mine alone, she – the child whom I have loved and cherished all these years, will turn from me with loathing.”
His hands were clenched, his brow furrowed, and upon his usually merry countenance was a settled look of unutterable despair.
“No, it is impossible – absolutely impossible,” he went on, sighing deeply, after a few moments. “To tell her the truth would only be to increase her unhappiness and cause her to hate me, therefore I cannot – I dare not! No; Zertho is inexorable. I must sacrifice Liane in order to save myself.”
Again he was silent, pondering deeply, and striving to form some plan by which to save his daughter from being forced into this undesirable union. But he could conceive none. Even if he defied this man who was endeavouring to secure Liane, and boldly met the terrible consequences of the exposure of his secret, he saw that such a course must reflect upon her, for she would then be alone in the world – friendless, forsaken and penniless; while if he fled, he must be found sooner or later, for within twenty-four hours the police of Europe would be actively searching for him. Then, calmly and without fear, he thought of suicide, his one desire being to save Liane from disgrace. Leaning over the parapet, he gazed far down upon the brown, rocky crags, beaten time after time by the great rolling waves as they broke and threw up columns of white spray. He was contemplating how best to end his life. He could leave her a letter confessing all the truth, and thus save her from becoming the wife of this titled adventurer. Yet again a difficulty presented itself. To act thus would be cowardly; besides which Liane would also be left without money, and without a protector. For a long time he carefully reviewed all the facts, at length arriving at the same conclusion as before, that his suicide would only bring increased disaster upon the child he idolised.
“No,” he exclaimed aloud, between his set teeth. “There is but one way – one way alone. She must become Princess. I must obey Zertho, and compel her to marry him. All these long weeks have I striven against it, knowing that once united to such an unprincipled brute, her days must be full of wretchedness and despair. Nay, I am prepared to sacrifice everything for her sake; nevertheless, if I boldly face my enemies, or take my life to escape them, the result would be the same. Liane would be left friendless. To me through all these dark days she has been the one joy of my aimless, weary life; hers has been the one bright face that has cheered me times without number when I should have otherwise knocked under. I have striven my best to keep her uncontaminated by the reckless world in which I’ve been compelled to move, and none can ever charge me with neglect of her. Yet this is the end. She must be torn from me, and be given to this unscrupulous blackmailer whom the possession of wealth has converted from my friend into my enemy.”
Erle Brooker, by profession an adventurer, but at heart generous and tender as a woman, had come to Nice solely on Liane’s account, because he had been convinced by Zertho’s argument that she was moping sadly at Stratfield Mortimer. Although he had accepted the invitation he had never for one moment intended that Liane should become Princess d’Auzac until his whilom partner had pronounced it imperative. Then, hour by hour, day by day, he had sought means whereby Zertho might be dissuaded from pressing his claim, until now he was compelled to acknowledge his hope an utterly forlorn one.
“Alas!” he sighed, leaning his fevered weary head on both his hands. “All happiness and gaiety must be crushed from her heart; her young life must be wrecked because of my sin. I, her father, must persuade, nay insist upon her taking a step that she must regret her whole life through, and use towards that end arguments which I would rather my tongue were torn out than I should utter. Ah, Liane,” he cried, brokenly, in a voice of despair, “if you could but realise all that I have suffered these past weeks. But you must not; you, at least, shall never know the cause of this deadly fear which holds me paralysed beneath the relentless thrall of the one man who knows the truth. No, you must marry him, and thereby secure his silence. Your consent to become Princess d’Auzac can alone save me.”
Again he was silent, deep in contemplation of the terrible truth, when suddenly behind him sounded a peal of merry laughter, and turning quickly, he saw he had been joined upon the platform by Liane and two bright English girls who were living at the same pension with them. They had ascended the long flights of steps, and were entirely out of breath.
“Why, dear old dad!” cried Liane, in surprise, “whoever would have thought of finding you up here at this hour?”
The Captain laughed uneasily, and made some evasive reply regarding the clearness of the morning and the extent of the view.
“Oh, isn’t it magnificent!” cried the other girls in chorus, as they gazed around. Liane, who had been there on many previous occasions, had brought them up, promising them a fine panorama, and they certainly were not disappointed.
Together they wandered about the pretty gardens, watched the artillery at drill working the guns, peered down the old castle well and clambered about the ancient walls which had been torn down nearly two hundred years ago by the Duke of Brunswick; then, after one of the girls had narrowly escaped losing her hat in the high wind, they descended again to the Rue des Ponchettes, where the Captain, excusing himself that he wanted to make a purchase in the town, left them.
The three girls, chatting and laughing, walked round the base of the hill, by the road called the Rauba Capeu, to the port, where the Prince d’Auzac’s trim steam yacht was lying, afterwards retracing their steps along the Boulevard du Midi. They had passed the Jardin Public, where the band was playing Strauss’s Fesche Geister, and had just entered the Promenade des Anglais, when Zertho on his fine bay rode past them raising his hat. The trio smiled and bowed, and while he galloped along, his smart groom at some little distance behind, one of Liane’s companions remarked —
“Isn’t the Prince a handsome fellow? I wonder he does not marry.”
Liane felt her cheeks colouring.
“Oh! I suppose he will very soon,” observed her sister. They were both tall, dark, good-looking girls, daughters of a wealthy widow from London. This was their first season on the Riviera, and all was fresh to them.
“You know the Prince well, don’t you?” inquired the first girl who had spoken, turning to Liane.
“Yes,” she answered. “We knew him long before he became rich.”
“And his wealth has spoilt him, I expect? It does most men.”
“No, I can scarcely say that,” answered Liane. “At heart he is so thoroughly cosmopolitan and so merry that I don’t think he will ever become purse-proud.”
“I’ve heard he’s a millionaire,” observed the other girl. “Is that true?”
“I believe so. His father was the wealthiest man in Luxembourg; richer even than the reigning Grand Duke Adolphe.”
“And whoever marries him will be Princess d’Auzac,” the girl remarked, contemplatively. “Rather jolly, I should imagine, to be a Princess with an ancient title like that One could then cut a decent figure in society, I envy the fortunate girl who takes his fancy.”
Liane winced. She feared that her cheeks told their own tale, and was thankful when a moment later the girls met their mother amid the crowd of promenaders, and all four commenced to chat upon a different subject.
That evening they did not dine as usual at the Villa Chevrier, but took their meal at the Pension, and afterwards, when Liane was reclining lazily on the couch in their private salon, her handsome head thrown back upon a great cushion of yellow silk, and the Captain was seated in a capacious easy chair, with a cigarette and an English paper, he at last braced himself up for an effort that was to him exceedingly repugnant. He feared that his words must choke him, and for half-an-hour glanced surreptitiously at her, hesitating to approach the subject. The recollection of all that he had to stake, however, goaded him on, and presently, slowly putting down his paper, and striving to remain firm, he uttered her name.
She looked up from her French novel in surprise. The tone in which he spoke was entirely unusual. It was harsh and strained.
“Liane,” he said, bending and looking straight into her large, clear eyes, “I have wanted to speak seriously to you during these past few weeks, but have always hesitated.”
“Why, father?”
“Because – well, I knew you were happy, and did not wish to cause you pain,” he answered.
“Pain? What do you mean?” she inquired quickly.
“You have been very happy here in Nice, haven’t you? I mean that Zertho has made life very pleasant for us both,” he stammered.
“Certainly. Thanks to him, we’ve been extremely gay the whole time. So different to our last experience of the Riviera,” and she laughed lightly at the recollection of those well-remembered evil days.
“You appear to find Zertho a very congenial companion,” he observed.
She started. Surely her father could not know what had taken place between them during that walk by the moonlit sea on the previous night?
“Of course,” she answered hesitatingly. “He was always a good friend to poor Nelly and myself, and he is very amusing.”
“But I have noticed of late that your face betrays your happiness when you walk with him. A woman always shows in her cheeks a distinct consciousness of her success.”
Her face flushed slightly as she answered, —
“I was not aware that I appeared any happier when in his society than on any other occasion.”
“It is upon that very point that I desire to speak to you,” he went on in a low serious tone. “You will remember that before we left Stratfield Mortimer, I gave you a few words of kindly advice regarding an impossible lover with whom you had foolishly become infatuated.”
“Yes,” she said, “I well remember.”
“Then it is upon the subject of your marriage that I want again to say a few words to you.”
“Marriage!” she laughed. “Why, I shall not marry for years yet, dear old dad. Besides, if I left you, whatever would you do?”
“Ah, yes, my girl,” he answered hoarsely, as a shadow of pain flitted for an instant across his darkened brow. “You must not lose the chance of youth.”
She closed her book, placed it aside slowly, and regarded him with surprise.
“Haven’t you always urged me to wait?” she asked half-reproachfully, toying with the two little gipsy rings upon her slim finger. “I understood that you were entirely against my marriage.”
“So I was when you did not possess the chance of making a wealthy and satisfactory alliance,” he replied.
His daughter looked at him inquiringly, but hazarded no remark. She saw by the expression of his face how terribly in earnest he was.
“You, of course, know to whom I refer,” he added, speaking in a low, intense tone, as he bent towards her, gazing still seriously into the sweet, open countenance.
“To Zertho,” she observed mechanically.
“Yes. If you reflect, as I have already reflected times without number during these past few weeks, Liane, you must recognise that your position as the daughter of an almost penniless adventurer, is by no means an enviable one. If anything happened to me you would be left without a friend, and without a penny. Such thoughts are, I admit, not exactly pleasant ones, nevertheless the truth must be faced, at this, the most important crisis of your life. Again, I have nothing to give you, and can hope for nothing. In the days bygone I managed to pick up sufficient to provide us with the comforts and luxuries of life, but now, alas! luck and friends have alike deserted me, and I am left ruined. I – ”
“But you are not friendless, dear old dad,” Liane cried suddenly, the light of affection glowing in her beautiful eyes as, with a sudden movement, she sprang across to him, and kneeling beside his chair as she often did, put both her soft, clinging arms about his neck. “I am your friend, as I have always been. I do not want to marry and leave you,” and she burst into tears.
His voice became choked by a sob he vainly strove to keep back. He felt his resolution giving way, and bit his lip.
“If – if you would remain my friend, Liane, you will marry,” he managed to ejaculate at last, although the words seemed to stifle him, and he hated himself for having uttered them.
“No, dad – I will never allow you to live alone.”
“But you must, dearest,” he answered with emphasis, fondly pushing back her dark hair from her brow. “Think what a chance you now have of securing position, wealth and everything which contributes to life’s happiness. Zertho loves you.”
“I know,” she answered, with a touch of ineffable sadness in her voice and raising her tear-stained face to his. “But I am happy as I am, with you.”
“True. Yet in a few months the money we have will become exhausted, and whence we shall obtain more I know not,” he said with a look of despair. “You have a chance to become a princess – the wife of a man even wealthier than his sovereign – therefore you should seriously reflect, Liane, ere you refuse.”
“How did you know that Zertho loves me?” she suddenly inquired, turning her frank face upward to his.
“Because he has told me,” he answered, in a voice low almost as a whisper. “He asked my permission to speak to you and offer you marriage.”
As he looked at her the thought flashed across his mind that he, her father, who loved her so dearly, was deceiving her. What would she say if she knew the truth?
“Yes,” she exclaimed with a sigh, “he says that he loves me, and has asked me to become his wife. But I have refused.”
“Why?”
“Because I do not, I cannot love him, dad. Surely you would never wish me to marry a man for whom I have no affection, and in whom I have no trust.” Her father held his breath and evaded her gaze. Her argument was unassailable. The words stabbed his tortured conscience.
“But would not the fact of your becoming Princess d’Auzac place you in a position of independence such as thousands of women would envy?” he hazarded, again stroking her silky hair with tenderness. “You know Zertho well. He’s a good fellow and would make you an excellent husband, no doubt.”
“I can never marry him,” she answered, decisively.
“You will refuse his offer?” he observed, hoarsely. Her firmness was causing him some anxiety.
“I have already refused,” she replied.
Slowly he grasped her hand, and after a brief pause looked her steadily in the face, saying —
“Liane, you must become his wife.”
“I love but one man, dad, and cannot love another,” she sobbed passionately, her arms still about his neck.
“Forget him.”
She remained silent a few moments; then, at last looking up with calm, inquiring gaze, asked —
“Why are you so earnestly persuading me to marry this man who is neither your true friend nor mine, dad? What object can you have in urging me to do what can only bring me grief and dire unhappiness?”
He made no reply. His face, she noticed, had grown hard and cold; he was entirely unlike himself.
“I love George,” she went on. “I will only marry him.”
“Surely you will not ruin all your future, and mine, for his sake,” he blurted forth at last.
“Your future!” she gasped, drawing away from him and regarding him with sudden surprise as the truth dawned upon her. “I see it all now! With me as Princess d’Auzac, the wife of a wealthy man, you would never want.”
His teeth were set. He held her small, soft hand so tightly that it hurt her. He tried to speak, but his lips refused to utter sound. He was persuading his daughter to wreck her young life in order to secure his own safety. The thought was revolting, yet he was forced to act thus: to stand calmly by and witness her self-sacrifice, or bear the consequences of exposure.
He bowed his head in agony of mind. A lump rose in his throat, so that his words were again stifled.
“My marriage would, I know, relieve you of a serious responsibility,” she went on, calmly, without any trace of reproach. “I am not unmindful of the fact that if I married Zertho I should gain wealth and position; yet I do not love him. I – I hate him.”
“He has been kind to us, and I believe he is extremely fond of you,” he said, wincing beneath the lie that fear alone forced to his lips. “Is it not but natural that I should seek for you an improved social position and such wealth as will place you beyond all anxiety in future? Heaven knows that the past has been full enough of care and poverty.”
“Ah! I know that, poor dad,” Liane answered caressingly, in a tone of sympathy, her arms again about his neck. “In the days gone by, because you played fairly, and was never an unscrupulous sharper like Zertho, luck forsook you. They laughed at you because you cared so much for me: because you held Nelly and I aloof from the dregs of society into which you had fallen. You were courageous always, and never when the days were darkest did you relinquish hope, or did your love for me wane. Yet,” and she paused, “yet if you still cared for me as once you did, I cannot but feel that you would hesitate ere you urged me to a hateful alliance with a man I can never love.”
“I am but endeavouring to secure your future happiness, Liane,” he answered, his voice sounding deep and hollow.
A silence fell, deep and impressive, broken only by the low, monotonous roar of the waves beating upon the shore outside, and the musical jingle of the bells on a pair of carriage-horses that were passing. Liane started as she recognised the sound. They were Zertho’s. Erle Brooker would have rather died by his own hand ere he had persuaded her to marry this man; yet for the hundredth time he proved to himself that by suicide he would merely leave her unprotected, while she would most probably afterwards learn from Zertho the terrible secret which he was determined should, at all hazards, remain locked within his own troubled heart.
“To persuade me to marry the Prince is but to urge me to a doom worse than death,” she exclaimed passionately at last. “No, dad, I am sure you would never wish me to do this when I am so contented to live as I am with you. If we are penniless – well, I shall never complain. It will not be the first time that I have wanted a meal, and gone early to bed because I’ve been hungry. I promise I’ll not complain, only do not endeavour to force me to marry Zertho. Let me remain with you.”
“Alas! you cannot, my child!” he answered in a hard, dry, agonised tone, his hand trembling nervously.
“Why?”
“You must forget young Stratfield, and become Princess d’Auzac,” he said firmly, intense anxiety betrayed upon his haggard countenance.
“Never!”
“But you must,” he cried brokenly, with emphasis. “It is imperative – for my sake, Liane – you must marry him, for my sake.”