Part 25 (2/2)
”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 friends.h.i.+p is only a.s.sumed?” 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?
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