“I do not know what to do,” she said. “I am very fond of Frank. I can speak to you, can I not, Count Poltavo?”
“You may confide in me absolutely,” he said, gravely.
“And yet I am not so fond of him,” she went on, “that I can marry him yet.”
“Then why do you?” he asked.
“How can I disobey this?” She held the letter out.
He took it from her hand with a little smile, walked to the fireplace and dropped it gently upon the glowing coals.
“I am afraid you are not carrying out instructions,” he said, playfully.
There was something in this action which chilled her; he was thinking more of his safety and his duty to Farrington than he was of her, she thought: a curiously inconsistent view to take in all the circumstances, but it was one which had an effect upon her after actions.
“Now listen to me,” he said, with his kindly smile; “you have not to trouble about this; you are to go your own way and allow me to make it right with Farrington. He is a very headstrong and ambitious man, and there is some reason perhaps why he should want you to marry Doughton, but as to that I will gain a little more information. In the meantime you are to dismiss the matter from your mind, leaving everything to me.”
She shook her head.
“I am afraid I cannot do that,” she said. “Unless I have a letter from my guardian expressing wishes to the contrary, I must carry out his desires. It is dreadful—dreadful,”—she wrung her hands piteously—“that I should be placed in this wretched position. How can I help him by marrying Frank Doughton? How can I save him—can you tell me?”
He shook his head.
“Have you communicated with Mr. Doughton?”
She nodded.
“I sent him a letter,” she hesitated. “I have kept a draft of it; would you like to see it?”
A little shade of bitter anger swept across his face, but with an effort he mastered himself.
“I should,” he said, evenly.
She handed the sheet of paper to him.
“Dear Frank,” it ran, “for some reason which I cannot explain to you, it is necessary that the marriage which my uncle desired should take place within the next week. You know my feelings towards you; that I do not love you, and that if it were left to my own wishes this marriage would not take place, but for a reason which I cannot at the moment give you I must act contrary to my own wishes. This is not a gracious nor an easy thing to say to you, but I know you well enough, with your large, generous heart and your kindly nature, to realize that you will understand something of the turmoil of feelings which at present dominate my heart.”
Poltavo finished reading, and put the letter back on the table; he walked up and down the room without saying a word, then he turned on her suddenly.
“Madonna!” he said, in the liquid Southern accents of his—he had spent his early life in Italy and the address came naturally to him—“if Frank Doughton were I, would you hesitate?”
A look of alarm came into the girl’s eyes; he saw then his mistake. He had confounded her response to his sympathy with a deeper feeling which she did not possess. In that one glimpse he saw more than she knew herself, that of the two Frank was the preferable. He raised his hand and arrested her stammering speech.
“There is no need to tell me,” he smiled; “perhaps some day you will realize that the love Count Poltavo offered you was the greatest compliment that has ever been paid to you, for you have inspired the one passion of my life which is without baseness and without ulterior motives.”
He said this in a tremulous voice, and possibly he believed it. He had said as much before to women whom he had long since forgotten, but who carried the memory of his wicked face to their graves.
“Now,” he said, briskly, “we must wait for Mr. Doughton’s answer.”
“He has already answered,” she said; “he telephoned me.”
He smiled.
“How typically English, almost American, in his hustle; and when is the happy event to take place?” he bantered.
“Oh, please, don’t, don’t,”—she raised her hands and covered her face—“I hardly know that, even now, I have the strength to carry out my uncle’s wishes.”
“But when?” he asked, more soberly.
“In three days. Frank is getting a special licence; we are—” She hesitated, and he waited.
“We are going to Paris,” she said, with a pink flush in her face, “but Frank wishes that we shall live”—she stopped again, and then went on almost defiantly—“that we shall live apart, although we shall not be able to preserve that fact a secret.”
He nodded.
“I understand,” he said; “therein Mr. Doughton shows an innate delicacy, which I greatly appreciate.”
Again that little sense of resentment swept through her; the patronage in his tone, the indefinable suggestion of possession was, she thought, uncalled for. That he should approve of Frank in that possessive manner was not far removed from an impertinence.
“Have you thought?” he asked, after a while, “what would happen if you did not marry Frank Doughton in accordance with your uncle’s wishes—what terrible calamity would fall upon your uncle?”
She shook her head.
“I do not know,” she said, frankly. “I am only beginning to get a dim idea of Mr. Farrington’s real character. I always thought he was a kindly and considerate man; now I know him to be—” She stopped, and Poltavo supplied her deficiency of speech.
“You know him to be a criminal,” he smiled, “a man who has for years been playing upon the fears and the credulity of his fellow-creatures. That must have been a shocking discovery, Miss Gray, but at least you will acquit him of having stolen your fortune.”
“It is all very terrible,” she said; “somehow every day brings it to me.
