When the old lady had at last retired and I stood alone with my love, I
moved across to draw the blind.
"Oh! do let us have some air," she urged with a sigh. "It was so hot
downstairs to-night. I feel stifled."
This could not be, for the night air in Scotland is chilly in September.
Therefore I felt convinced that she wished the bowl of flowers to
remain in view of some one outside, a suspicion confirmed by her quick
glance at the clock upon the mantelshelf.
For whom could that signal be intended? That it was to warn some one
against calling upon her was apparent, and in an instant a great
uncontrollable jealousy sprang up within me. The goddess of my
admiration stood there before me calmly, her eyes fixed upon my woe-worn
countenance in silence. Her lips moved at last.
"Well?" she asked. "And why have you come here, to me?"
"Because I am seeking to serve you, Lolita," was my answer. "At
Sibberton matters have assumed a very grave aspect. Richard Keene is
staying there as George's guest."
"What?" she gasped, her face white in an instant. "Impossible! Keene
as George's friend!--never?"
"He is guest at Sibberton under the name of Smeeton. George apparently
met him when hunting in Africa," I said.
She stood regarding me, utterly bewildered, as I explained to her
further the cunning manner in which the stranger Keene had introduced
himself into the house.
"Then for me the future is utterly hopeless," she exclaimed blankly, her
beautiful face pale as death. "It is just as I have feared. My enemies
have triumphed--and I am their victim."
"How?"
"Richard Keene will not spare me--that I know," she cried in
desperation. "Ah! Willoughby! I cannot bear it longer. I have either
to endure and be accursed here, or seek my fate and still exist the
creature of the wrath hereafter. Cowardice some will call my death!
But can it be coward-like to spurn the certainty I have and fly to
regions unexplored? Where hope exists, life would become a stake too
dear to hazard, but all with me is dreariness; and if I live existence
pictures to my mind one cheerless blank; a life of condemnation and
despair." And she stood staring straight before her.
"But, Lolita!" I cried, taking her hand tenderly and gazing into her
beautiful face, "you surely don't know what you are saying. You are my
love--my all in all."
"Ah! yes," she responded bitterly, glancing quickly at me. "Until--
until they tell you the truth--only until then!"
How could I determine her meaning? How could I explore the labyrinth
that surrounded her?
My brain still conjured up excuse upon excuse and warred against my
better reason.
"But I don't understand?" I said. "Why not speak more plainly--tell me
everything?"
"Ah!" she sighed, her eyes fixed before her. "As I look back upon
life's stormy sea my resolution stands appalled, and I more wonder that
I am than that I should be thus. Were ever woman's trials such as
mine?--or if they were, then show me that creature. Soon the busy
tongue of scandal will be unfettered, and the ears of greedy calumny
opened wide to swallow every breath of defamation and still add
falsehood upon falsehood to blacken and condemn a helpless woman! Ah!
I know," she added. "I know what the future holds for me."
"Then if so, why not allow me to assist you in arming against these
enemies of yours and against Marigold especially?" I urged after those
desperate words of hers had fallen upon me.
"Marigold! Why against her? She is my friend."
"No, Lolita," I responded in a low earnest tone. "She is your bitterest
enemy. She knows the truth of this strange allegation against you, and
she can clear you if she wishes--only she refuses."
"Refuses! Whom has she refused?"
"Richard Keene."
"How do you know?"
"I was present when he begged of her to tell the truth. But she only
laughed, declaring her disinclination to implicate herself by so doing.
That woman will let you sacrifice your life rather than tell the truth."
"Are you certain of this? Are you positive there is no mistake,
Willoughby?"
"None. I heard her with my own ears. She is awaiting eagerly your
downfall."
Lolita's hands clenched themselves, her pale lips moved but no sound
came from them. The small clock chimed ten, and as it did so she
crossed the room and drew down the blind. There was, I supposed, no
further necessity for the signal of the bowl of dahlias.
Ah! how crooked are the paths of life; how few the sweets; how bitter
the gall! the wretched, like the daisy of the field, neglected live, nor
feel the withering blast of wavering fortune. The great alone are
noted, and though they weather long the pitiless storm, are struck at
length and down hurled to destruction. Greatness is a dream! This
world's a dream--we wander and we know not whither.
"Are you sure that Marigold's friendship is only assumed?" she inquired
at length.
"Quite. You told me that Keene was your enemy, yet from what I have
seen I believe him to be rather your friend."
"Friend! No," she said, shaking her head. "That's impossible. He
cannot be my friend. You do not know all the past."
"How long ago did you know him?" I inquired. "In the days before
George's marriage. We were acquainted then," was her faint answer.
"And the woman Lejeune? Tell me, is there any reason why he should be
antagonistic towards her?" I asked, recollecting that strange incident
at the farmhouse.
"Not that I'm aware of. He would be her friend, most probably. Ah! if
that woman would only tell me the truth. But she will not. I know that
she fears to speak lest by the truth she may herself be condemned."
A silence fell between us. A heavy gloom had fallen over my heart; the
world to me was darkness, and the contemplation of futurity a dream.
And yet it was resolved; Kings reigned on earth, but I owned no other
sway but love's, no other hope but Lolita.
"And the truth," I said very slowly and in deep earnestness. "The truth
you refer to concerns Hugh Wingfield?"
The effect upon her of that name was electrical. She started, her blue
eyes fixed themselves upon me with a hard, terrified look, and her lips
half parted in fear were white and trembling.
"You know his name?" she gasped.
"Yes, I know the name of the dead man, the poor fellow who was so foully
done to death."
"No, no, Willoughby!" she shrieked aloud, covering her face with her
hands. "Spare me, spare me that!" she sobbed.
And I saw that I had acted wrongly in recalling that fatal night. Yet
if she were not guilty, why did the mere mention of the dead man's name
produce such an effect upon her?