his arms round her now, glad that the darkness hid the blush on her cheeks; thus she loved him, thus she had first learned to love him, ardent, oh, yes! but so gentle, so meek, yet so great and exalted in his selfless patriotism.
"'Tis not of death you should speak, sweet prince," she said, ineffably happy now that she felt him more subdued, more trusting and fond, "rather should you speak of life . . . with me, your own Suzanne . . . of happiness in the future, when you and I, hand in hand, will work together for that great cause you hold so dear . . . the freedom and liberties of France."
"Ah, yes!" he sighed in utter dejection, "when that happy time comes . . . but . . ."
"You do not trust me?" she asked reproachfully.
"With all my heart, my Suzanne," he replied, "but you are so beautiful, so rich . . . and other men . . ."
"There are no other men for me," she retorted simply. "I love you."
"Will you prove it to me?"
"How can I?"
"Be mine . . . mine absolutely," he urged eagerly with passion just sufficiently subdued to make her pulses throb. "Be my wife . . . my princess . . . let me feel that no one could come between us. . . ."
"But my guardian would never consent," she protested.
"Surely your love for me can dispense with Sir Marmaduke's consent. . . ."
"A secret marriage?" she asked, terrified at this strange vista which his fiery imagination was conjuring up before her.
"You refuse? . . ." he asked hoarsely.
"No! no! . . . but . . ."
"Then you do not love me, Suzanne."
The coolness in his tone struck a sudden chill to her heart. She felt the clasp of his arms round her relax, she felt rather than saw that he withdrew markedly from her.
"Ah! forgive me! forgive me!" she murmured, stretching her little hands out to him in a pathetic and childlike appeal. "I have never deceived anyone in my life before. . . . How could I live a lie? . . . married to you, yet seemingly a girl. . . . Whilst in three months. . . ."
She paused in her eagerness, for he had jumped to his feet and was now standing before her, a rigid, statuesque figure, with head bent and arms hanging inert by his side.
"You do not love me, Suzanne," he said with an infinity of sadness, which went straight to her own loving heart, "else you would not dream of thus condemning me to three months of exquisite torture. . . . I have had my answer. . . . Farewell, my gracious lady . . . not mine, alas! but another man's . . . and may Heaven grant that he love you well . . . not as I do, for that were impossible. . . ."
His voice had died away in a whisper, which obviously was half-choked with tears. She, too, had risen while he spoke, all her hesitation gone, her heart full of reproaches against herself, and of love for him.
"What do you mean?" she asked trembling.
"That I must go," he replied simply, "since you do not love me. . . ."
Oh! how thankful she was that this merciful darkness enwrapped her so tenderly. She was so young, so innocent and pure, that she felt half ashamed of the expression of her own great love which went out to him in a veritable wave of passion, when she began to fear that she was about to lose him.
"No, no," she cried vehemently, "you shall not go . . . you shall not."
Her hands sought his in the gloom, and found them, clung to them with ever-growing ardor; she came quite close to him trying to peer into his face and to let him read in hers all the pathetic story of her own deep love for him.
"I love you," she murmured through her tears. And again she repeated: "I love you. See," she added with sudden determination, "I will do e'en as you wish. . . . I will follow you to the uttermost ends of the earth. . . . I . . . I will marry you . . . secretly . . . an you wish."
Welcome darkness that hid her blushes! . . . she was so young — so ignorant of life and of the world — yet she felt that by her words, her promise, her renunciation of her will, she was surrendering something to this man, which she could never, never regain.
Did the first thought of fear, or misgiving cross her mind at this moment? It were impossible to say. The darkness which to her was so welcome was — had she but guessed it — infinitely cruel too, for it hid the look of triumph, of rapacity, of satisfied ambition which at her selfless surrender had involuntarily crept into Marmaduke's eyes.
CHAPTER XII
A WOMAN'S HEART
It is difficult, perhaps, to analyze rightly the feelings and sensations of a young girl, when she is literally being swept off her feet in a whirlpool of passion and romance.
Some few years later when Lady Sue wrote those charming memoirs which are such an interesting record of her early life, she tried to note with faithful accuracy what was the exact state of her mind when three months after her first meeting with Prince Amédé d'Orléans, she plighted her troth to him and promised to marry him in secret and in defiance of her guardian's more than probable opposition.
Her sentiments with regard to her mysterious lover were somewhat complex, and undoubtedly she was too young, too inexperienced then to differentiate between enthusiastic interest in a romantic personality, and real, lasting, passionate love for a man, as apart from any halo of romance which might be attached to him.
When she was a few years older she averred that she could never have really loved her prince, because she always feared him. Hers, therefore, was not the perfect love that casteth out fear. She was afraid of him in his ardent moods, almost as much as when he allowed his unbridled temper free rein. Whenever she walked through the dark bosquets of the park, on her way to a meeting with her lover, she was invariably conscious of a certain trepidation of all her nerves, a wonderment as to what he would say when she saw him, how he would act; whether chide, or rave, or merely reproach.
It was the gentle and pathetic terror of a child before a stern yet much-loved parent. Yet she never mistrusted him . . . perhaps because she had never really seen him — only in outline, half wrapped in shadows, or merely silhouetted against a weirdly lighted background. His appearance had no tangible reality for her. She was in love with an ideal, not with a man . . . he was merely the mouthpiece of an individuality which was of her own creation.
Added to all this there was the sense of isolation. She had lost her mother when she was a baby; her father fell at Naseby. She herself had been an only child, left helplessly stranded when the civil war dispersed her relations and friends, some into exile, others in splendid revolt within the fastnesses of their own homes, impoverished by pillage and sequestration, rebellious, surrounded by spies, watching that opportunity for retaliation which was so slow in coming.
Tossed hither and thither by Fate in spite of — or perhaps because of — her great wealth, she had found a refuge, though not a home, at Acol Court; she had been of course too young at the time to understand rightly the great conflict between the King's party and the Puritans, but had naturally embraced the cause — for which her father's life had been sacrificed — blindly,
