"Ah! Willoughby! I am so doubly cursed that I can laugh to scorn all
other ills of life. My cup of misery is full; one drop more and it must
overflow, and life will ebb with it."
"But can I do nothing to help you--absolutely nothing?" I demanded,
looking earnestly into her eyes.
She shook her beautiful head despondently, and her breast heaved and
fell in a long deep-drawn sigh.
"You saw the Frenchwoman, and you failed," was her despairing reply.
"It was the last chance afforded to me, and it is lost--lost. I know,
now Richard Keene has returned, that I must suffer."
"But if Marigold can save you from this terrible fate that threatens
you, why does she refuse?"
"She has, I suppose, some motive known to her in secret," was my love's
reply. "You know her character just as well as I do. Before her
marriage there was--well, an incident. And I presume it is this which
she fears that George may know."
"But if you are aware of it, will you still conceal it though this woman
is your enemy? Recollect," I said, "that she has no love for her
husband. Hers was a mere marriage of convenience."
"Ah, yes, I know," she said. "But would you have me condemn a woman
even though she be my enemy? No, Willoughby, that is not like you. I
know that revenge is never within your heart, you are always too
generous."
I regretted that I had made such a suggestion, and bowed beneath her
reproachful words. Yet it somehow seemed that if she possessed the
knowledge of this "incident," whatever it was, she might hold it over
her enemy as a threat, and use it as a lever to obtain the information
she desired from the Countess's lips.
"Poor George!" I exclaimed. "What, I wonder, can be the end of his
life with such a woman? And yet he is so utterly infatuated by her. I
threatened to speak to him regarding certain of her actions but she has
openly defied me, saying that he is too deeply in love with her to hear
any word of condemnation. And she's absolutely right, I believe," I
added, sighing.
"She is right. He is more deeply in love with her than before their
marriage, while on her part her open flirtations and love of admiration
are little short of scandalous!" she declared.
"And yet you would protect such a woman--even though she seek your
downfall?"
"The divine lesson taught us, Willoughby, is to forgive our enemies, and
to allow them an opportunity for reform," she answered calmly. "Were I
to hound her down by an exposure of the past, I should myself merit
neither pity nor compassion."
"But she remains silent in order that you shall go to your ruin," I
remarked.
"Her silence may be the result of ignorance," she suggested. "She may
not really know the truth, but for some secret reason has made Keene
believe she is aware of everything."
There was something in that argument which caused me to ponder, for I
recollected that her whole object had been to deceive the man who was
her husband's guest.
"But had you no suspicion that she knew the truth?" I asked.
"None whatever."
"It seems, however, that Marigold is also in possession of some secret
concerning this man Keene, for she threatened that if he revealed his
real name to her husband, or sought to expose her, that she would inform
the police of his whereabouts. Does that threat of hers convey anything
to you?"
"Did she really say that?" ejaculated my love in blank surprise. "If
she did, then it throws a new light upon the affair. She must have met
the woman Lejeune, and the latter has told her certain very important
facts in order to place Keene in her power. And yet," she added,
pausing, "I doubt very much if Marigold dare denounce Keene for her own
sake."
"Then she is implicated in this ugly affair as well as him?" I
exclaimed quickly.
She saw that she had unintentionally revealed to me one very important
fact, but having made such an assertion there was no withdrawing it,
therefore she was forced to respond in the affirmative.
"Ah!" she cried desperately, gripping my hand in both hers. "You do not
know, Willoughby, what conflicts wring my soul. I would barter worlds
to tell you the truth, yet dare not. Because if I did so I would lose
all your esteem and all your fond affection. I--I cannot live in this
uncertainty," she cried bursting into a torrent of tears. "I wander now
a melancholy woman, and seem unthankful where most I should be grateful.
Religion stays my hand from the self infliction of that blow which I
have vainly sought within the jaws of death. Where can I go? Where can
I hide my miserable self? A trackless desert would be paradise to all I
suffer here. But it cannot be. I shall--I must--relieve my woes in
everlasting sleep."
"No, no," I cried, kissing the trembling hands of my white-faced
desperate love. "You must not talk like that, Lolita. You are marked
down as the victim of these intriguers, but you shall not be. There is
still life and love for us. Be patient, be brave--tell me the truth of
the allegation against you and trust in me."
"Tell you the truth," she cried in a hoarse strained voice. "No, no,
not to you--never. You would loathe and hate me then--you the man who
now loves me."
"Say also the man you love," I urged tenderly, her hands still in mine.
Her lips compressed as her tearful eyes turned themselves upon me. She
sighed convulsively, and then with a slight catch in her tremulous voice
confessed with a sad sweet smile--
"Yes, Willoughby--the man I love."
I clasped her in my arms. I felt the heaving of her breast, my
throbbing heart kept pace with that within her bosom. My lips met
hers--oh!--what a melting kiss. Love held my heart, entangling every
thought.
And yet what changes in our fates must here be registered; what an
accumulated scene of bliss and wretchedness must stain the pages that
are to follow.
Ah! if I could at that moment have read what was written upon my love's
heart--if I could but have torn aside that veil of mystery enveloping
her--if I could but have known the truth concerning that man I had found
cold, stark and dead beneath the stars! How differently I would have
acted.
I had thought that her love for me would induce her to tell me something
of the past, yet as she stood in my embrace she was still persistent in
her silence, until it seemed that she really feared lest, knowing the
true facts, my affection might turn to hatred. I implored, I argued, I
expressed profound regret to no avail. She would tell me nothing--
absolutely nothing.
"I must suffer," was her hard reply. "I am a woman who is the sport of
circumstance. Yes," she added, "I love you, Willoughby, but in a few
hours will end my brief life of ecstasy. When I am dead--then will you
know the reason why to-night my lips are sealed."
At that instant a rap at the door caused me to release her quickly and
spring aside.