I hastened to apologise, but her reply was--

"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 compa.s.sion."

"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?" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed 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 a.s.sertion 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 hoa.r.s.e 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 acc.u.mulated 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 circ.u.mstance. 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.

A waiter who stood upon the threshold announced--

"Mr Logan, m'lady."

CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR.

INTRODUCES A MAN WITH A HISTORY.

Mention of the name of Logan placed me instantly on the alert. It was surely the man whom I had seen with her in the wood in the early hours of the morning following the tragedy--the same whom I had encountered with Mademoiselle in Chelsea--the same, I believe, who had lived in such suspicious seclusion at Hayes's Farm.

"Tell him I am engaged at present," exclaimed my love, facing the waiter without betraying the least anxiety. She was, of course, not aware that I knew the name of the man with whom I had seen her on that fateful morning. Therefore she affected a carelessness that utterly amazed me.

Could it be that that bowl of flowers had been placed in the window as a signal to him, and that he had disregarded it and come to her?

The slightly pursed lips betrayed her annoyance at his presence, but beyond that she treated the man's announcement with calm indifference.

Was this broad-shouldered man her accomplice--or perhaps her lover, that she should thus communicate with him in secret? How my mind struggled to be free; how my restless reason combated with my love. I tried, but could not contradict the glaring truth which impressed itself upon my soul; and yet, though I was urged to a conviction, I could not act upon the principles which subdued me.

I could learn stoicism and be the calm philosopher in every pa.s.sion, save only love; but he was my divinity, and like a defenceless babe within the giant's grasp, all struggles to evade him were but vain.

Fool that I was! poor doting fool, how had I quaffed the sweet illusions of hope only to feel the venom of despair more poignant to my soul.

"You have a caller," I said in a hard blank voice. "Perhaps I had better leave you?"

"Oh," she answered, "there really is no necessity for you to go. He may wait--he's quite an unimportant person."

"Named Logan--is he not?"

"Yes," she replied rather faintly, with a strange smile.