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.”