CHAPTER XII.

There is a moment's perfect silence. From deathly white Vane Charteris has turned to a burning crimson, then marble-pale again. No sound is heard save the low, hoarse swell of the waves as they break on the rocky shore.

"Oh, you did not realize, surely," the girl goes on, with pained eyes, and clasped hands, "what a terrible thing you were doing when you went away silently with that note in your possession, that is worth the wealth of the world to poor Maud Langton. You were blinded by your wounded pride and insulted love, or you could not have stooped to take such an ignoble revenge for your wrongs."

He stares at her still, like one dreaming. Is the girl a witch? How does she know?

"Oh, speak!" she breaks out, impatiently. "Have you nothing to say?"

"You have taken my breath away," he answers. "Why do you bring this absurd charge against me? Who says," with a sneer, "I have that wonderful note?"

"I am your accuser," she answers, fixing upon him the full fire of her magnetic dark eyes. "I saw you, I was not very far away when Maud left you that day, I saw you pick up a note from the ground and read it, then you slipped it into your vest pocket. I am quite sure it was Maud's note. I do not believe you will deny it."

"Since you know so much, I will not," he answers, with blended amaze and defiance. "What then?"

The beautiful dusky face lights up with the lovely earnestness of hope.

"You will give it to me," she says. "I have followed you across the wide ocean to ask you for it."

"Why should I give it to you?" he asks, with distinct coldness.

She gives him a glance of blended pride and patience.

"Not for any grace you owe me, certainly," she says, with gentle calmness, "but for Maud's sake."

"Do I owe her any kindness?" he asks, sardonically.

"You owe her forgiveness, which is divine," she answers, anxiously.

"I prefer _revenge_. Do you remember these lines?

"'The sweetest thing upon this earth is love, And next to love the sweetest thing is hate.'"

She rises and faces him, something of proud scorn in her free and girlish bearing.

"Yes, I remember them, but such sentiments are unworthy of you, Mr. Charteris. What! are you not the brave, noble gentleman I deemed you? Am I to blush for my--husband?"

A subtle thrill, he cannot tell whether it be of pain or pleasure, it is so intense, shoots through him as the low word falls from her lips. A passionate shame, evoked by her proud scorn, tingles through all his frame, yet he says, mockingly:

"So you own the tie that binds us? I thought not, as when I came just now and inquired for Mrs. Charteris I was told there was no such person staying in the hotel. I had to ask for Miss Langton."

"I am traveling as Miss Langton," she explains, simply, yet coloring crimson under his keen, cool gaze.

"May I ask why?" with an unconscious touch of pique in his tone.

"No, you may not ask," with a great deal of dignity in her tone; then, suddenly: "Yet I think you should know I am too sensitive to claim the name you will not accord me of your own free will."

She opens the scrawl he has sent her awhile ago, holding it open before his eyes. There is neither name nor address upon it.

"I, upon my word, I beg your pardon. It was entirely--I give you my word of honor--unintentional; a mere omission. I was so flurried, you see, and somehow I forgot. Can you forgive me?" he stammers.

"With pleasure," she returns, coolly, looking away from his shamed countenance. "But we have digressed from our subject. We were talking of Maud and the note you hold. How can you withhold it from her when you know that her very life hangs upon it?"

"Reine, do you know that I hate that woman?" he cries, with subdued fierceness.

"Then you never loved her," she replied, decisively.

"I did; but her falsity turned my love to hate," he answers, moodily.

"No," she answers.

"'That is not love That alters where it alteration finds, Or bends with the remover to remove.'"

An utter silence which she breaks again, anxiously: "You will not refuse my prayer? Give me the note and let me go to Maud."

He turns from her sullenly and looks out of the window at the blue, sun-gilded waves breaking in snowy foam against the shell-strewn shore.

"You could not let her suffer for a crime of which she is innocent," the pleading voice goes on.

"I suffered innocently," he says, shortly enough, without turning around. "Why did she make me a mark for the finger of scorn?"

"You can live _that_ down," she answers. "But she, her very life is at stake. Do not forget that if she suffers the full penalty of the law, for this crime of which she is not guilty, her blood will be on your hands. You will, in the sight of God, and to my knowledge, be Maud's Langton's murderer."

Though he will not turn around, she sees the strong shudder that shakes his frame.

"You will be a haunted man," she goes on, relentlessly. "By day and by night you will dream of the girl you have slain. You will remember always that the golden head you hoped to pillow on your breast is laid low in a dishonored grave."

"For God's sake, Reine, why do you torment me so?" he cries, turning fiercely round upon her.

"For Maud's sake, and your own sake, and for humanity's sake, and my own sake," she retorts, bravely. "That Maud's innocence may be vindicated, that you may be saved from the evil consequences of your wicked revenge, that the world may see how divine a thing is repentance and forgiveness, and that I," her brave voice falls to a low, pathetic cadence, "that I may not have to die of shame because I have given my heart to one so lost to honor, truth and mercy."

Vane Charteris stands like one stunned a moment.

"What a little vixen it is," he says to himself, darkly. "There is no end to her tongue."

"I know what you are saying to yourself," the girl breaks in, vivaciously; "you are wishing I would go away and leave you alone----"

"You are mistaken," he replies, thinking of a way to put her to confusion, and silence her tongue that is but a little louder than his own accusing conscience. "I was thinking of what you said just now. Is it really true that you have given me your heart?"

The warm, red color creeps up to her temples under the blue fire of his steady, curious eyes. She rallies herself with a brave little effort of will.

"Yes," she answers, with a little touch of pathos in her low voice. "It is quite true. Does it amuse you? It is only a girl's heart. You will break it and throw it from you of course. I have often heard that women's hearts were men's playthings."

He regards her in curious silence. Few women would be brave enough to make that frank admission to a cold, careless, unloving husband. Yet Reine is as proud as the most, she lacks none of the modesty of her sex.

There is a curious, restrained pride in her every look and movement now. And, strange to say, he does not feel disgusted at her pathetic admission of her love for him.

"She _loves_ me," he repeats over and over to his heart, looking at the lissome, daintily rounded figure, and the brilliant face, bright and rich like a tropical flower, with the softness of emotion lying on it like dew. "She loves me," and there is a certain masculine vanity in the thought that he, Vane Charteris, is the lode-star of her girlish dreams.

But before he can think of anything to say, she goes back, pertinacious, to the old theme:

"But we have digressed from the original subject. Once more, Mr. Charteris, will you give me the note?"

And he answers, bluntly, almost angrily:

"No, I will not."

And for the first time since their interview, Reine shows a sign of weakness. She reels unsteadily, and throws up her white hands in the air.

"I have failed, I have failed," she cries, despairingly. "Oh, you are merciless; you are a veritable Shylock. Nothing will sate your thirst for vengeance but a pound of flesh!"

He catches the falling figure in his arms. For one moment the white, anguished face rests against his breast, then she opens her eyes and struggles from his clasp.

"Do not touch me," she says, with indignant scorn. "You are a monster!"

And his own conscience, knocking loudly at the door of his heart, echoes the words.

"Reine, Reine," he falters, hurriedly, "do not be hasty. Give me a little time. I will answer you to-morrow."

"You take back your refusal?" brightening so swiftly that you think of the sun coming out from under a cloud.

"Until to-morrow--yes," he says, feeling a sort of relief at his own words. "You can wait until then?"

"Yes, for I cannot go until to-morrow. Did I forget to tell you that Uncle Langton is with me?"

"Is he, really?"

"Yes, and I fear the trip has been too much for him, poor old dear," with loving compassion. "He feels worn and tired. He is lying down this morning. Will you go to him?"

"I shall be very glad. Does he--does he know why you came?"

"No," quietly; then, flushing: "You will not mind if he is a little cross, and--and fault finding? He is so old, you know, and then he is tired and half sick."

"I shall not mind," he answers, a little grimly, as he follows her through a small suite of rooms to Mr. Langton's own especial one.

"Mr. Charteris is here, uncle," she says, quietly ushering the visitor in, and sensitively withdrawing.