Love knows not want--he has no such intimate as poverty; if he smiles,
he has but one dread foe; if he frowns, he has but one true friend; and
those both concentrate in the oblivion of death.
I loved--yes, I loved Lolita. While she lived, the soul-invigorating
fire of her eyes kept alive my passion-torn frame. And yet who was I
that I dared thus ally myself with heavenly beauty and terrestrial
greatness? She was the daughter of an Earl and I a mere secretary,
dependent upon her brother's favours. No title, no transcendent
qualities were mine. And yet, was I not ennobled? Did I not wear
within my heart the never-fading insignia of love, the qualifications of
which were fervency and immutable truth?
The proud Countess had sneered at me. She sneered because the passion
of true love had never known a place in her fickle heart. As next day I
sat alone in the express travelling up to Scotland, memory of the hour
came back to me when I had first gazed upon those charms I since had
learned to reverence with all the fervour of matchless truth. I
recollected how long, long ago, whenever I saw Lolita, my pulse beat
with an unwonted motion, and the throbbing of my heart spoke to my soul
in a language it had never known before--my brain became on fire, and
ere I knew the term, I knew what constituted love. Yes, love--love that
had not yet taught me what presumption was, but I rather stood the
awe-struck victim of his all-puissant will.
And now I was tearing with all speed to seek her, to hear the truth from
her own sweet lips. Never once had she told me that my love was
reciprocated, yet in her clear bright eyes I had long ago seen that
mixture of tender pity, noble generosity, candour and pure refined
womanly feeling open as the face of day, that told me that she was not
averse to my attentions even though I was neither wealthy nor of noble
birth.
Day had succeeded day since her departure for the north, and every
coming dawn had proved what gave bitter anguish to my soul. A strange
suspicion that seemed to envelop her like a cloud--a suspicion which
somehow I could not determine--had caused the struggle of conflicting
thoughts. And now I was rushing towards her, hoping fervently that her
words to me might reveal the truth, and infuse into my chaotic soul one
bright spark of heavenly comfort whence might blaze the inextinguishable
flame of requited love.
Alone, gazing aimlessly at the fleeting panorama of hill and dale as the
express rushed on from Crewe to Carlisle, my busy fancy seemed to
reconcile impossibilities, and as the mariner who feebly grasps the
plank surrounded by a sea of deadly horrors, so I, amid the gloom of
black despair, illumined the fallacious touch of hope and wandered into
the maze of gilded fallacy.
Ah! Hope, thou flitting phantom, thou gaudy illusion, thou fond
misleader of the wrecked senses, that framest a paradise of airy
nothingness, how strange that thou canst in pleasing dreams bring to the
tortured mind a brief respite.
And yet when I recollected the dark suspicions that rested upon my love,
I held my breath. When I calmly reviewed all the circumstances, life
seemed all a blank to me; my reason bade me cease to hope. Yet better
be warmed by madness than chilled by coward fear; better burn with
jealousy than die the silent fool of black despair.
In such a mood I sat thinking and pondering until we glided into the
great echoing station of Carlisle. Then I descended, bought a paper,
and tried to read as the portion of the train in which I sat continued
its way eastward towards Edinburgh. To concentrate my mind upon a
printed page was, however, impossible. I recollected those strange,
ominous words of the Countess when we had parted in the Saints' Garden,
and somehow felt convinced that her position was impregnable.
Keene had distinctly declared that if Marigold failed to tell the truth,
then my love must fall a victim. Why--and how? All was so mysterious,
so utterly inscrutable, so bewildering that the enigma admitted of no
solution.
I could not disguise the fact from myself that Lolita had gone north
purposely to avoid the unwelcome stranger who had so mysteriously
returned, and I now intended at all hazards to obtain from her some fact
concerning the conspiracy into which he seemed to have entered.
The strange incident in that lonely farmhouse and the attack upon Marie
Lejeune were again facts which combined to show what a wide-spread plot
was in progress--a plot the motive of which was still enshrouded in
mystery, but of which the victim was undoubtedly to be none other than
my well-beloved.
Lolita, who was staying with her aunt, the Dowager Lady Casterton, at
the _Royal Hotel_, in Princes Street, sprang quickly to her feet when,
shortly before dinner, the waiter ushered me into their private
sitting-room. Fortunately her aunt was still in her room, and we were
therefore alone.
"Willoughby!" she gasped springing forward to me breathlessly. "You!
Whatever brings you here--what has happened at Sibberton?"
"Nothing," I replied in order to set her at ease. "Or rather nothing in
particular. Every one is very well, and the house-party has assumed its
usual gaiety."
"Marigold is still at home?" she inquired, as though her first thought
was of her brother's wife. I answered in the affirmative, and then
slowly and with reverence raised her slim white hand to my lips. She
allowed me to kiss her fingers in homage, smiling sweetly upon me the
while.
She was in a magnificent dinner-dress of black net shimmering with
sequins--a gown the very simplicity of which rendered it graceful,
charming, and the essence of good taste. At her throat was a single row
of large pearls, but she wore no other ornament. She always dressed
artistically and in the latest mode, and surely her gown was exactly
suited to the hotel _table d'hote_.
I had only just had time to go to my room, change, and seek her, for I
had not notified her of my coming in order that she should have no
chance of avoiding me. Yet her manner of greeting was as though my
presence gave her the utmost pleasure. Her cheeks flushed as I pressed
her fingers to my lips, and I knew that her heart, like mine, beat
quickly with the passion of affection.
In a few brief words I told her that I had taken quarters in the hotel,
that I should explain to her aunt that my presence in Edinburgh was
connected with the Earl's affairs, and that I desired to have a private
chat with her after dinner.
"Something has happened, Willoughby," she said apprehensively. "I see
it in your face! What is it? Tell me?"
"Nothing very serious," was my evasive reply, for I heard Lady
Casterton's high-pitched voice outside, and wished to conceal from the
snappy old dowager that the real object of my visit was to see Lolita.
Next instant the old lady entered, dressed in black and wearing a smart
cap of fine old lace. Much surprised at my presence, she greeted me and
commenced inquiring after the Earl and the Countess, remarking that she
intended to join the house-party in November as she had to make a visit
to Lord Penarth in Wales before coming to us.
"We've had a most delightful time at Strathpeffer--Lolita and I," she
remarked. "And as I wanted to pay a few visits about Edinburgh, we're
just here for a few days. Of course you knew from George that we were
here?"
"Yes," I replied. "I have some business to do for him in Edinburgh, so
I thought I would put up here."
And then, in obedience to the gong, we all three descended into the
large dining-room of the hotel. A good many people were present, but no
woman so beautiful or brilliant as Lady Lolita Lloyd.
I noticed how the guests turned to look at her, and then to whisper
among themselves, for her beauty was remarkable and her photographs
often appeared in the ladies' papers, just as did those of Mangold. A
pretty woman with a title is always remarked in a hotel.
We sat at our small table chatting affably through the meal, yet I saw
how intense was her desire to know the true reason of my presence. That
I had some distinct object in coming north she could not doubt, and was
therefore anxious for the long meal to end and for opportunity to speak
with me alone.
Old Lady Casterton was a typical dowager of the days of class
distinction--a stout, well-preserved, white-haired person who regarded
the world through her _lorgnon_ with an air of wonder, as though she
were examining some interesting species. She stared at all common
people, who felt themselves uncomfortable 'neath her gaze, and generally
spoke in a tone loud enough to be heard by all in the vicinity. She was
youngest sister of the old Earl of Stanchester, and had married the Earl
of Casterton, who afterwards became one of England's most famous
generals, and had been left a widow of very large and wealthy estate.
With me she was always perfectly affable, knowing the strong personal
friendship existing between the Stanchesters and my own family. Hence
she treated me on an equality with herself and during the meal laughed
and chatted merrily about the people she and her niece had recently met.
At last, however, dinner was over, and we all three retired to the
private sitting-room, where Lolita at my desire played Tito Mattei's
"White Moon" serenade and the "Cavatine" from _Faust_.
"Won't you sing us something?" I urged presently when she was about to
turn from the piano. At first she tried to excuse herself, but seeing
that I was anxious to hear her voice she turned again, and in her clear
contralto sang an old French serenade:--
"Une reine est maitresse de mon coeur;
Elle reigne part tout.
Car ses beaux yeux.
Sont les deux sceptres de l'amour;
Et quand vers moi ils tournent leurs brillantes flammes.
Le feu d'amour s'empare de tout mon ame.
"Heureux si j'etois souverain.
De tout le ciel
Peut etre elle,
Ne voudras pas que j'aime en vain;
Mais comme je suis en silence je soupire;
J'ose bien aimer, mais je n'ose pas le dire."
Her gaze fell upon me as she sang, and surely she addressed those final
words to me--
"But as I am, in silence I must feel
Love's sacred flame, and yet that flame conceal."
I sat gazing upon her beauty entranced. In that sweet clear voice was a
touch of pathos such as I have never before heard, and I knew that she
was suffering, like myself. In those moments I had wandered in the
mazes of ecstatic bliss. All the world save her was lost to me. By the
look in her beautiful eyes I was again launched on the wide sea of
bliss; love was the pilot of my soul and the bright beam of her
love-look illuminated my track, as the soft zephyrs of love filled my
warm fancy, leading me to the shores of matchless beauty.
The song had ended, and with it my vision vanished. She closed the
piano, rose and crossed the room to look out of the window upon the long
line of lights in Princes Street with the castle frowning opposite in
the starless gloom.
Her action was a natural one, yet it was succeeded by one which caused
me some surprise. She had been standing for a moment at the open
window, as though enjoying the cool air, then suddenly she removed a
great bowl of bright dahlias that gave a welcome touch of colour to the
room from a sideboard, and placed them upon the small table in the
window.
Afterwards she returned to us without, however, drawing down the blind.
Had she placed those flowers there merely to give them air because the
room was warm? Or had she put them in the window as signal to some one
in the street below?
Her hand trembled, she grew uneasy, and then I knew that I had guessed
the truth.
Those flowers were placed there to warn some one of my presence!