Chapter Ten.In Duddington.When the winter rains made London dreary, rendering the Strand a veritable quagmire, and when the shops began to display Christmas cards and Christmas numbers, I went South, as I did each year, accompanied by my married sister and her husband, in search of sunshine. I knew the Riviera well. I had enjoyed the rather dull exclusiveness of Cannes; I had stayed one season at the Grand at Nice and capered through Carnival in a clown’s dress of mauve and green; I had spent a fortnight once in Mentone, that paradise of the consumptive; and I had paid some lengthy bills at the Hotel de Paris at Monte Carlo. My brother-in-law, however, had taken a little white villa on the olive-clad hillside at Beaulieu, which we found was on the verge of everything.But to me life on the Riviera soon becomes tiresome. A couple or three visits to “the Rooms;” a “five o’clock” or two at La Reserve; tea in a wicker chair in the entrance-hall of that colossal hotel, the Excelsior, at Cimiez, which is patronised by Her Majesty; a dinner at the London House at Nice, and one at the Hermitage at “Monty,” and I become tired of the ever-azure sea, of the Noah’s Ark gardens, of the artificiality and of the constant brightness of the Riviera “season.” I long for my old English home in the country where, in the springtime, all the beauties of the outdoor world come to one with a sense of novelty after the winter’s cold and frost.Therefore at the end of March I returned, passing through London, and travelling down to my father’s place at Tixover, which was, as always, my pleasant home.What though the trees were still leafless, and the flowers few; every day, almost every hour, fresh green buds were swelling and opening in the balmy air; the delicate pink of the almond blossom was flushing the bare twigs in the kitchen-garden, primroses were coyly showing themselves in the coppices and hedgerows, as I drove along from Stamford, while in the sheltered places in the woods as I passed I saw sheets of wild hyacinths, “like strips of the sky fallen,” delicate snowdrops, and a wealth of daffodils.As I drove along that morning through Worthorpe and Colly Weston to Duddington, the quaint little old Northamptonshire village within a mile of which lies Tixover Hall, it was, though a trifle chilly after the Riviera, one of those bright days which make even the elderly feel young and sprightly again; days on which even the saddest among us are influenced by the infectious brightness of the atmosphere. At no other season of the year is there that delicious sensation of life, of resurrection in the very air, as the grey old earth awakens from her winter sleep and renews her youth again.As the old bay mare trotted down the short, steep hill from the cross-roads, and Banks was telling me all the gossip of the countryside—how my old friend Doctor Lewis, of Cliffe, had taken to cycling, how an entertainment had been held at the schools, and how somebody in the Parish Council had been making himself obnoxious—we suddenly entered Duddington, the queer old village with its rows of comfortable, old-fashioned cottages, with their attics peeping from beneath the thatch. In the air was that sweet smell of burnt wood peculiar to those peaceful Midland villages, and as we passed the inn, and turning, crossed the bridge which led out to the right to Tixover, a couple of villagers pulled their forelocks as a token of respect, I felt tired after two days of incessant travelling, nevertheless there was about that old-world place a home-like feeling, for I had known it ever since I had known myself. Those elderly people who peered out of their cottage doors as we passed, and who gave me a merry, laughing greeting, had known me ever since the days when my nurse used to take me for drives in the donkey-cart, while those broad, green meadows on either side of the wandering river had belonged to my family for generations.A mile away, along a straight road with gradual ascent, a belt of firs came into view, and away through the trees I could distinguish the old, red chimneys of the Hall, the house which for three centuries past had been the residence of my ancestors. Then a few moments later, as we turned into the drive, our approach was heralded by the loud barking of Bruce and Nero, whose ferocity was instantly calmed when I alighted at the door and met my mother at the foot of the great oak staircase.The old place, with its wide, panelled hall, its long, big rooms, its antiquated furniture—rather the worse for wear perhaps—and its wide hearths where wood fires were still burning, had an air of solidity and comfort after the stuccoed and painted villa at Beaulieu, where the salon with its gilt furniture was only large enough to hold four people comfortably, and the so-called terrace was not much wider than the overhanging eaves.Yes, Tixover was a fine old place, perhaps not architecturally so handsome as many residences in the vicinity, yet my father, like his father and grandfather before him, did not believe in modernising its interior, hence it was entirely antique with genuine old oak of the time of the first Charles,—queer old high-backed chairs, covered with time-dimmed tapestry that had been worked by hands that had fallen to dust in the days before the Plague devastated London. The old diamond-panes set in lead were the same as in the turbulent days when the Roundheads assembled about Stamford and Cromwell camped outside Cliffe. There was everything one could desire at Tixover—fishing in the river which ran through the grounds, shooting in those extensive woods on the Stamford Road, hunting with the Fitzwilliam pack, who several times in the season met at the cross-roads, a mile and a half away, while the roads, although a trifle hilly, were nevertheless almost perfect for cycling.But when a man has broken his home ties and lives in London, to return to the home of his youth is only pleasant for a limited period. Tixover was a quiet, restful place, but after a month it generally became dreary and dull, and I usually left it with a sigh of relief, and returned to London eager to get back to my own chambers, my club, and the men I knew. Why it was I could never tell. I suppose it is the same with all other men. To those who like town life the country is only tolerable for a time, just as those who set out with a determination to live abroad generally return after a year or so, wearied and homesick.I found life at home just as even and undisturbed as it had been since my sister Mary had married and I had left to live in London. My parents aged but slowly, and were both still active, therefore I was warmly welcomed, and as that evening I sat in the old familiar drawing-room, with its dingy paintings, its crackling wood fire, and its rather uncomfortable chairs in comparison with my own soft saddlebag ones, I related how we had spent the season on the Riviera; of our excursions to Grasse and Aspremont, of my brother-in-law’s luck in winning two zeros in succession, and of my own good fortune in being invited on a week’s yachting trip around Corsica and back to Cannes. My parents were interested in all this, for they once used to go to Nice regularly to escape the winter, in the days before the Paillon was covered in or the public gardens were made. Now, however, they no longer went South, preferring, as they put it, the warmth of their own fireside.It was not surprising. To elderly people who are not in robust health the long journey is fatiguing, while to the invalid “ordered abroad” by irresponsible doctors, the shaking up on the P.L.M. proves often the cause of sudden and fatal collapse.Of Muriel I had heard but little. I had written to her twice from Beaulieu, and sent her an occasional box of flowers from one of the well-known florists in Nice, yet her letters in return were merely brief notes of thanks, and I feared that perhaps I had annoyed her by too long neglect. There seemed in her letters a tone of complaint which was unusual; therefore, I began to reflect whether it would not be as well to take a trip to town shortly, to see how Simes was keeping my rooms, and entertain her to the usual little dinner at Frascati’s.In the days immediately succeeding my return to Tixover, I drove about a good deal, visiting various friends in the vicinity and making dutiful calls upon my mother’s friends. It was always my custom, too, to call upon some of my father’s older tenants; the people who had been kind to me when I was a mischievous lad. I found that such informal visits, where I could drink a glass of fresh milk or homemade wine, were always appreciated, and, truth to tell, I found in them some very pleasant reminiscences of my youth.One afternoon, when I came in from driving to Oundle, I found my mother taking tea with a stranger, in the pleasant, old-fashioned drawing-room, the mullioned windows of which looked out upon a broad sweep of well-kept lawn, bounded by the river and the meadows beyond.“Ah! Here’s Clifton!” my mother exclaimed as I entered, and at that moment the man who was sitting with her taking tea turned and faced me.“Let me introduce you. Mr Yelverton, our new curate—my son Clifton.”“Why, Jack!” I cried, wringing his hand, “and it’s actually you—a clergyman!” And I gazed at his clerical garb in blank amazement.“Yes, it’s me,” he answered cheerily. “I certainly didn’t think that I should ever get an appointment in your country.”“But how is it?” I cried, after I had explained to my mother how we had been chums at Wadham.“I never thought you’d go in for the Church.”“Nor did I,” he admitted, laughing. “But I’m curate of Duddington, and this is my first visit to your mother. I had no idea that this was your home. There are many Cleeves, you know.”He was a merry, easy-going fellow, this old college companion of mine, a veritable giant in stature, fair, with a long, drooping moustache that a cavalry officer might have envied, broad shouldered, burly, a magnificent type of an Englishman. As he stood there towering above me, he looked strangely out of place in his long, black coat and clerical collar. An officer’s uniform would have suited him better.I had left Oxford a couple of terms before he had, and on going abroad lost sight of him. He had been accredited by all as a coming man on account of his depth of learning. When I had last seen him, some six years before, he was living in Lincoln’s Inn, and reading for the Bar.I referred to that occasion when we had met in the Strand, and he replied—“Yes, but I preferred the Church. My uncle, you know, is Bishop of Galway.”Then I recollected that such was the case. He had no doubt been induced to go in for a clerical life by this relative. Maternal uncles are responsible for a good deal in shaping a man’s career.“Well, you’re always welcome to Tixover, my dear old fellow,” I said, “and I’m sure my mother will always be very pleased to see you.”“Of course,” she said, smiling sweetly. “Any friend of Clifton’s is always welcome here. I hope you won’t treat us formally, Mr Yelverton, but look in and see us whenever you can spare time.”Yelverton thanked her warmly, and as I took my tea I began to chat about the parish, about the shortcomings of his predecessor, an abominable young prig who lisped, flirted outrageously, thought of nothing but tennis, and whose sermons were distinct specimens of oratorical rubbish. To all the countryside he was known as “Mother’s darling,” an appellation earned by the fact that his mother, a fussy old person, used to live with him and refer to him as her “dear boy.”But Jack Yelverton was of an entirely different stamp—a manly, good-humoured, even-tempered fellow who had no “side,” and whose face and figure showed him to be designed as a leader among men. At college he had been noted for his careful judgment, his close and diligent studies of abstruse subjects, and his remarkable grasp of things which even the Dons found difficult. Yet he was an inveterate practical joker, and more than once got into an ugly scrape, from which, however, he always managed to ingeniously wriggle out.I was extremely glad to find my old friend installed in Duddington, for during the years that had passed I had often wondered what had become of him. More than once poor Roddy, who had been one of us at Wadham, had expressed a wish that we could find him, for we had all three been closest friends in the old days. And yet he had actually been appointed our curate and spiritual adviser, and had come to visit Tixover without knowing it was my home.We laughed heartily over the situation.He told me how he had taken lodgings with Mrs Walker, a cheerful old soul who lived at a pleasant cottage halfway up the village street, an old-fashioned place with a flower-garden in front and a little paved walk leading up to the rustic porch. Assisted by her daughter, old Mrs Walker had lodged curates in Duddington for many years, knew all their wants, and was well versed in the diplomatic treatment of callers, and the means by which her lodger could be prevented from being disturbed when working at his sermon.We chatted on for half an hour, and when he rose to leave he invited me to walk up to the village after dinner, and have a smoke with him.“My rooms are not palatial, you know, my dear fellow,” he said, “but I can give you a good cigar, if you’ll come.”“Certainly; I shall be delighted,” I answered, and we parted.Soon after eight that evening I knocked at Mrs Walker’s door, and was ushered by her daughter into the small, clean, but rather shabbily-furnished best room. It smelt strongly of the geraniums, which grew high in a row before the window, and as I entered Jack Yelverton rose and greeted me cheerily, giving me his easy chair, taking down a box of cigars from the shelf, and producing a surreptitious bottle of whiskey, a syphon, and a couple of glasses from a little cupboard in the wall.“I’m jolly glad you’ve come,” he said, when he had reseated himself, and I had got my weed under way. “The surprise to-day has indeed been a pleasant one. Lots of times I have thought of you, and wondered where and how you were. But in the world men drift apart, and even the best resolutions of correspondence made at college are mostly broken. However, it is a very pleasant meeting this, for I feel already that I’m among friends.”“Of course you are, old chap,” I answered. “My people will always be pleased to see you. Like yourself, I’m awfully glad we’ve met. But you’re the very last man I should have imagined would have gone in for the Church. It isn’t your first appointment, I suppose?”“No,” he answered reflectively, gazing at the end of his cigar. “It came about in this way. I studied for a couple of years at Lincoln’s Inn, but somehow I didn’t care much for the law, and one day it occurred to me that with my knowledge of theology I might have a chance of doing good among my fellow-men. I don’t know what put it into my head, I’m sure, but straight away I saw my uncle the Bishop, and the result was that very soon afterwards I was appointed curate at Framlingham, in Suffolk. This disappointed me. I felt that I ought to work in one of the overcrowded cities; that I might, with the income my father had left me, alleviate the sufferings of some of the deserving poor; that I might be the means of effecting some good in the world. At last I was successful in obtaining an appointment under the Vicar of Christ Church, Commercial Street, Spitalfields, where I can tell you I had plenty of opportunity for doing that which I had set my mind upon. A curate’s life in the East End isn’t very pleasant if he does his duty, and mine was not a very salubrious locality. The air of the slums is poisonous. For three years I worked there,” he went on after a slight pause. “Then I exchanged to St. Peter’s, Walworth, and then, owing to ill-health, I was compelled to come here, into the country again. That’s briefly been my life since we parted.”“Well,” I said, convinced of his earnestness of purpose in the life he had adopted, for a man does not seek an appointment in a London slum unless he feels a strong incentive to work in the interests of his fellow-men, “you’ll get all right very soon here, I hope. The air is fresh, your parish isn’t very large, and old Layton, the rector, is an easy-going old chap—one of the old school.”“Yes, I know,” he said; “I’ve been here already ten days, and I’ve seen that the work is mere child’s play. The rector has got into a groove, like all rural rectors. But, to tell the truth, I only accepted the appointment because the doctor ordered me a change. When I’m quite strong again I shall go back, I hope, to London. When I entered the Church it wasn’t with any thought of gain. I’ve enough to keep me comfortably. I had, and have still, in view work which I must achieve.”Jack Yelverton was an enthusiast. I was rather surprised, I confess, at finding him so energetic in religious work, for when at Wadham he had been quite the reverse. Still, there was an air of deep sincerity in his words. His face, too, was pale and lined, as if he had worked until his constitution had become jaded and worn. On his mantel-shelf was a marble clock, with the neat inscription on a silver plate stating that it had been subscribed for by the parishioners of the poor East End parish as a token of their esteem.He rose to turn down the lamp, which was smoking, and as he did so sighed. Then casting himself in his chair again, he remarked—“I don’t know how long I shall be able to stand this rusticating. You know, Clifton, I wasn’t born to rusticate.”“No, I know that,” I said. “Like myself, you prefer town.”“Ah, you have your clubs, your friends, theatres, concerts, river-parties, merry little dinners, all that makes life worth living,” he said. “But if you worked with me for a week your heart would bleed to see the appalling poverty and distress; how the poor strive and struggle to live; how their landlords, with hearts like stone, sell them up and drive them to the last extremity; how the keepers of the low-class public-houses sell them intoxicants which drive them mad, and how at last the police lay hands upon them as drunkards and thieves. You don’t know, my dear fellow—you can’t know—how lower London lives. When I reflect upon some of the painful scenes of poverty and distress to which I have been witness, and remember the heartfelt gratitude with which any slight assistance I have given has been accepted, I feel somehow angry with the wealthy—those who spend their money recklessly within that small area around Charing Cross, and will contribute to any Mansion House fund to aid foreigners because their names will be printed as donors in the daily papers, but, alas! who begrudge a single sixpence to the starving poor in the giant city which brings them their wealth. They are fond of talking of missions to the East End and all that, but it isn’t religion half these people want, it’s bread for their starving wives and children, or some little necessities for the sick.”“Yes,” I observed, “I suppose all sorts of absurd bunkum is talked about religious work among the London poor. Poor Roddy Morgan used to hold a similar opinion to yourself. He was an ardent supporter of a philanthropic movement which had its headquarters somewhere in the Mile End Road.”“Ah! poor Roddy!” he sighed. “His was, indeed, a sad end. That such a good, honest, upright fellow should have been murdered like that was truly a most melancholy circumstance.”“Murdered!” I exclaimed. “How do you know he was murdered?”There had been no suggestion in the papers of foul play, therefore my friend’s declaration was extremely remarkable.“I know the truth!” he answered, very gravely.“What do you mean?” I exclaimed, starting forward quickly. “Are you actually aware of the cause of poor Roddy’s death? Tell me.”“No, Clifton,” he responded, shaking his head, as rising he stood determinedly before me, his brows knit in a thoughtful attitude. “A confession made to me by one who seeks the forgiveness of God I may not divulge. Remember,” he added in a firm voice, “remember that I am a clergyman; and confidences reposed in me I must not abuse. Therefore do not seek the truth from me. My lips are sealed.”
When the winter rains made London dreary, rendering the Strand a veritable quagmire, and when the shops began to display Christmas cards and Christmas numbers, I went South, as I did each year, accompanied by my married sister and her husband, in search of sunshine. I knew the Riviera well. I had enjoyed the rather dull exclusiveness of Cannes; I had stayed one season at the Grand at Nice and capered through Carnival in a clown’s dress of mauve and green; I had spent a fortnight once in Mentone, that paradise of the consumptive; and I had paid some lengthy bills at the Hotel de Paris at Monte Carlo. My brother-in-law, however, had taken a little white villa on the olive-clad hillside at Beaulieu, which we found was on the verge of everything.
But to me life on the Riviera soon becomes tiresome. A couple or three visits to “the Rooms;” a “five o’clock” or two at La Reserve; tea in a wicker chair in the entrance-hall of that colossal hotel, the Excelsior, at Cimiez, which is patronised by Her Majesty; a dinner at the London House at Nice, and one at the Hermitage at “Monty,” and I become tired of the ever-azure sea, of the Noah’s Ark gardens, of the artificiality and of the constant brightness of the Riviera “season.” I long for my old English home in the country where, in the springtime, all the beauties of the outdoor world come to one with a sense of novelty after the winter’s cold and frost.
Therefore at the end of March I returned, passing through London, and travelling down to my father’s place at Tixover, which was, as always, my pleasant home.
What though the trees were still leafless, and the flowers few; every day, almost every hour, fresh green buds were swelling and opening in the balmy air; the delicate pink of the almond blossom was flushing the bare twigs in the kitchen-garden, primroses were coyly showing themselves in the coppices and hedgerows, as I drove along from Stamford, while in the sheltered places in the woods as I passed I saw sheets of wild hyacinths, “like strips of the sky fallen,” delicate snowdrops, and a wealth of daffodils.
As I drove along that morning through Worthorpe and Colly Weston to Duddington, the quaint little old Northamptonshire village within a mile of which lies Tixover Hall, it was, though a trifle chilly after the Riviera, one of those bright days which make even the elderly feel young and sprightly again; days on which even the saddest among us are influenced by the infectious brightness of the atmosphere. At no other season of the year is there that delicious sensation of life, of resurrection in the very air, as the grey old earth awakens from her winter sleep and renews her youth again.
As the old bay mare trotted down the short, steep hill from the cross-roads, and Banks was telling me all the gossip of the countryside—how my old friend Doctor Lewis, of Cliffe, had taken to cycling, how an entertainment had been held at the schools, and how somebody in the Parish Council had been making himself obnoxious—we suddenly entered Duddington, the queer old village with its rows of comfortable, old-fashioned cottages, with their attics peeping from beneath the thatch. In the air was that sweet smell of burnt wood peculiar to those peaceful Midland villages, and as we passed the inn, and turning, crossed the bridge which led out to the right to Tixover, a couple of villagers pulled their forelocks as a token of respect, I felt tired after two days of incessant travelling, nevertheless there was about that old-world place a home-like feeling, for I had known it ever since I had known myself. Those elderly people who peered out of their cottage doors as we passed, and who gave me a merry, laughing greeting, had known me ever since the days when my nurse used to take me for drives in the donkey-cart, while those broad, green meadows on either side of the wandering river had belonged to my family for generations.
A mile away, along a straight road with gradual ascent, a belt of firs came into view, and away through the trees I could distinguish the old, red chimneys of the Hall, the house which for three centuries past had been the residence of my ancestors. Then a few moments later, as we turned into the drive, our approach was heralded by the loud barking of Bruce and Nero, whose ferocity was instantly calmed when I alighted at the door and met my mother at the foot of the great oak staircase.
The old place, with its wide, panelled hall, its long, big rooms, its antiquated furniture—rather the worse for wear perhaps—and its wide hearths where wood fires were still burning, had an air of solidity and comfort after the stuccoed and painted villa at Beaulieu, where the salon with its gilt furniture was only large enough to hold four people comfortably, and the so-called terrace was not much wider than the overhanging eaves.
Yes, Tixover was a fine old place, perhaps not architecturally so handsome as many residences in the vicinity, yet my father, like his father and grandfather before him, did not believe in modernising its interior, hence it was entirely antique with genuine old oak of the time of the first Charles,—queer old high-backed chairs, covered with time-dimmed tapestry that had been worked by hands that had fallen to dust in the days before the Plague devastated London. The old diamond-panes set in lead were the same as in the turbulent days when the Roundheads assembled about Stamford and Cromwell camped outside Cliffe. There was everything one could desire at Tixover—fishing in the river which ran through the grounds, shooting in those extensive woods on the Stamford Road, hunting with the Fitzwilliam pack, who several times in the season met at the cross-roads, a mile and a half away, while the roads, although a trifle hilly, were nevertheless almost perfect for cycling.
But when a man has broken his home ties and lives in London, to return to the home of his youth is only pleasant for a limited period. Tixover was a quiet, restful place, but after a month it generally became dreary and dull, and I usually left it with a sigh of relief, and returned to London eager to get back to my own chambers, my club, and the men I knew. Why it was I could never tell. I suppose it is the same with all other men. To those who like town life the country is only tolerable for a time, just as those who set out with a determination to live abroad generally return after a year or so, wearied and homesick.
I found life at home just as even and undisturbed as it had been since my sister Mary had married and I had left to live in London. My parents aged but slowly, and were both still active, therefore I was warmly welcomed, and as that evening I sat in the old familiar drawing-room, with its dingy paintings, its crackling wood fire, and its rather uncomfortable chairs in comparison with my own soft saddlebag ones, I related how we had spent the season on the Riviera; of our excursions to Grasse and Aspremont, of my brother-in-law’s luck in winning two zeros in succession, and of my own good fortune in being invited on a week’s yachting trip around Corsica and back to Cannes. My parents were interested in all this, for they once used to go to Nice regularly to escape the winter, in the days before the Paillon was covered in or the public gardens were made. Now, however, they no longer went South, preferring, as they put it, the warmth of their own fireside.
It was not surprising. To elderly people who are not in robust health the long journey is fatiguing, while to the invalid “ordered abroad” by irresponsible doctors, the shaking up on the P.L.M. proves often the cause of sudden and fatal collapse.
Of Muriel I had heard but little. I had written to her twice from Beaulieu, and sent her an occasional box of flowers from one of the well-known florists in Nice, yet her letters in return were merely brief notes of thanks, and I feared that perhaps I had annoyed her by too long neglect. There seemed in her letters a tone of complaint which was unusual; therefore, I began to reflect whether it would not be as well to take a trip to town shortly, to see how Simes was keeping my rooms, and entertain her to the usual little dinner at Frascati’s.
In the days immediately succeeding my return to Tixover, I drove about a good deal, visiting various friends in the vicinity and making dutiful calls upon my mother’s friends. It was always my custom, too, to call upon some of my father’s older tenants; the people who had been kind to me when I was a mischievous lad. I found that such informal visits, where I could drink a glass of fresh milk or homemade wine, were always appreciated, and, truth to tell, I found in them some very pleasant reminiscences of my youth.
One afternoon, when I came in from driving to Oundle, I found my mother taking tea with a stranger, in the pleasant, old-fashioned drawing-room, the mullioned windows of which looked out upon a broad sweep of well-kept lawn, bounded by the river and the meadows beyond.
“Ah! Here’s Clifton!” my mother exclaimed as I entered, and at that moment the man who was sitting with her taking tea turned and faced me.
“Let me introduce you. Mr Yelverton, our new curate—my son Clifton.”
“Why, Jack!” I cried, wringing his hand, “and it’s actually you—a clergyman!” And I gazed at his clerical garb in blank amazement.
“Yes, it’s me,” he answered cheerily. “I certainly didn’t think that I should ever get an appointment in your country.”
“But how is it?” I cried, after I had explained to my mother how we had been chums at Wadham.
“I never thought you’d go in for the Church.”
“Nor did I,” he admitted, laughing. “But I’m curate of Duddington, and this is my first visit to your mother. I had no idea that this was your home. There are many Cleeves, you know.”
He was a merry, easy-going fellow, this old college companion of mine, a veritable giant in stature, fair, with a long, drooping moustache that a cavalry officer might have envied, broad shouldered, burly, a magnificent type of an Englishman. As he stood there towering above me, he looked strangely out of place in his long, black coat and clerical collar. An officer’s uniform would have suited him better.
I had left Oxford a couple of terms before he had, and on going abroad lost sight of him. He had been accredited by all as a coming man on account of his depth of learning. When I had last seen him, some six years before, he was living in Lincoln’s Inn, and reading for the Bar.
I referred to that occasion when we had met in the Strand, and he replied—
“Yes, but I preferred the Church. My uncle, you know, is Bishop of Galway.”
Then I recollected that such was the case. He had no doubt been induced to go in for a clerical life by this relative. Maternal uncles are responsible for a good deal in shaping a man’s career.
“Well, you’re always welcome to Tixover, my dear old fellow,” I said, “and I’m sure my mother will always be very pleased to see you.”
“Of course,” she said, smiling sweetly. “Any friend of Clifton’s is always welcome here. I hope you won’t treat us formally, Mr Yelverton, but look in and see us whenever you can spare time.”
Yelverton thanked her warmly, and as I took my tea I began to chat about the parish, about the shortcomings of his predecessor, an abominable young prig who lisped, flirted outrageously, thought of nothing but tennis, and whose sermons were distinct specimens of oratorical rubbish. To all the countryside he was known as “Mother’s darling,” an appellation earned by the fact that his mother, a fussy old person, used to live with him and refer to him as her “dear boy.”
But Jack Yelverton was of an entirely different stamp—a manly, good-humoured, even-tempered fellow who had no “side,” and whose face and figure showed him to be designed as a leader among men. At college he had been noted for his careful judgment, his close and diligent studies of abstruse subjects, and his remarkable grasp of things which even the Dons found difficult. Yet he was an inveterate practical joker, and more than once got into an ugly scrape, from which, however, he always managed to ingeniously wriggle out.
I was extremely glad to find my old friend installed in Duddington, for during the years that had passed I had often wondered what had become of him. More than once poor Roddy, who had been one of us at Wadham, had expressed a wish that we could find him, for we had all three been closest friends in the old days. And yet he had actually been appointed our curate and spiritual adviser, and had come to visit Tixover without knowing it was my home.
We laughed heartily over the situation.
He told me how he had taken lodgings with Mrs Walker, a cheerful old soul who lived at a pleasant cottage halfway up the village street, an old-fashioned place with a flower-garden in front and a little paved walk leading up to the rustic porch. Assisted by her daughter, old Mrs Walker had lodged curates in Duddington for many years, knew all their wants, and was well versed in the diplomatic treatment of callers, and the means by which her lodger could be prevented from being disturbed when working at his sermon.
We chatted on for half an hour, and when he rose to leave he invited me to walk up to the village after dinner, and have a smoke with him.
“My rooms are not palatial, you know, my dear fellow,” he said, “but I can give you a good cigar, if you’ll come.”
“Certainly; I shall be delighted,” I answered, and we parted.
Soon after eight that evening I knocked at Mrs Walker’s door, and was ushered by her daughter into the small, clean, but rather shabbily-furnished best room. It smelt strongly of the geraniums, which grew high in a row before the window, and as I entered Jack Yelverton rose and greeted me cheerily, giving me his easy chair, taking down a box of cigars from the shelf, and producing a surreptitious bottle of whiskey, a syphon, and a couple of glasses from a little cupboard in the wall.
“I’m jolly glad you’ve come,” he said, when he had reseated himself, and I had got my weed under way. “The surprise to-day has indeed been a pleasant one. Lots of times I have thought of you, and wondered where and how you were. But in the world men drift apart, and even the best resolutions of correspondence made at college are mostly broken. However, it is a very pleasant meeting this, for I feel already that I’m among friends.”
“Of course you are, old chap,” I answered. “My people will always be pleased to see you. Like yourself, I’m awfully glad we’ve met. But you’re the very last man I should have imagined would have gone in for the Church. It isn’t your first appointment, I suppose?”
“No,” he answered reflectively, gazing at the end of his cigar. “It came about in this way. I studied for a couple of years at Lincoln’s Inn, but somehow I didn’t care much for the law, and one day it occurred to me that with my knowledge of theology I might have a chance of doing good among my fellow-men. I don’t know what put it into my head, I’m sure, but straight away I saw my uncle the Bishop, and the result was that very soon afterwards I was appointed curate at Framlingham, in Suffolk. This disappointed me. I felt that I ought to work in one of the overcrowded cities; that I might, with the income my father had left me, alleviate the sufferings of some of the deserving poor; that I might be the means of effecting some good in the world. At last I was successful in obtaining an appointment under the Vicar of Christ Church, Commercial Street, Spitalfields, where I can tell you I had plenty of opportunity for doing that which I had set my mind upon. A curate’s life in the East End isn’t very pleasant if he does his duty, and mine was not a very salubrious locality. The air of the slums is poisonous. For three years I worked there,” he went on after a slight pause. “Then I exchanged to St. Peter’s, Walworth, and then, owing to ill-health, I was compelled to come here, into the country again. That’s briefly been my life since we parted.”
“Well,” I said, convinced of his earnestness of purpose in the life he had adopted, for a man does not seek an appointment in a London slum unless he feels a strong incentive to work in the interests of his fellow-men, “you’ll get all right very soon here, I hope. The air is fresh, your parish isn’t very large, and old Layton, the rector, is an easy-going old chap—one of the old school.”
“Yes, I know,” he said; “I’ve been here already ten days, and I’ve seen that the work is mere child’s play. The rector has got into a groove, like all rural rectors. But, to tell the truth, I only accepted the appointment because the doctor ordered me a change. When I’m quite strong again I shall go back, I hope, to London. When I entered the Church it wasn’t with any thought of gain. I’ve enough to keep me comfortably. I had, and have still, in view work which I must achieve.”
Jack Yelverton was an enthusiast. I was rather surprised, I confess, at finding him so energetic in religious work, for when at Wadham he had been quite the reverse. Still, there was an air of deep sincerity in his words. His face, too, was pale and lined, as if he had worked until his constitution had become jaded and worn. On his mantel-shelf was a marble clock, with the neat inscription on a silver plate stating that it had been subscribed for by the parishioners of the poor East End parish as a token of their esteem.
He rose to turn down the lamp, which was smoking, and as he did so sighed. Then casting himself in his chair again, he remarked—
“I don’t know how long I shall be able to stand this rusticating. You know, Clifton, I wasn’t born to rusticate.”
“No, I know that,” I said. “Like myself, you prefer town.”
“Ah, you have your clubs, your friends, theatres, concerts, river-parties, merry little dinners, all that makes life worth living,” he said. “But if you worked with me for a week your heart would bleed to see the appalling poverty and distress; how the poor strive and struggle to live; how their landlords, with hearts like stone, sell them up and drive them to the last extremity; how the keepers of the low-class public-houses sell them intoxicants which drive them mad, and how at last the police lay hands upon them as drunkards and thieves. You don’t know, my dear fellow—you can’t know—how lower London lives. When I reflect upon some of the painful scenes of poverty and distress to which I have been witness, and remember the heartfelt gratitude with which any slight assistance I have given has been accepted, I feel somehow angry with the wealthy—those who spend their money recklessly within that small area around Charing Cross, and will contribute to any Mansion House fund to aid foreigners because their names will be printed as donors in the daily papers, but, alas! who begrudge a single sixpence to the starving poor in the giant city which brings them their wealth. They are fond of talking of missions to the East End and all that, but it isn’t religion half these people want, it’s bread for their starving wives and children, or some little necessities for the sick.”
“Yes,” I observed, “I suppose all sorts of absurd bunkum is talked about religious work among the London poor. Poor Roddy Morgan used to hold a similar opinion to yourself. He was an ardent supporter of a philanthropic movement which had its headquarters somewhere in the Mile End Road.”
“Ah! poor Roddy!” he sighed. “His was, indeed, a sad end. That such a good, honest, upright fellow should have been murdered like that was truly a most melancholy circumstance.”
“Murdered!” I exclaimed. “How do you know he was murdered?”
There had been no suggestion in the papers of foul play, therefore my friend’s declaration was extremely remarkable.
“I know the truth!” he answered, very gravely.
“What do you mean?” I exclaimed, starting forward quickly. “Are you actually aware of the cause of poor Roddy’s death? Tell me.”
“No, Clifton,” he responded, shaking his head, as rising he stood determinedly before me, his brows knit in a thoughtful attitude. “A confession made to me by one who seeks the forgiveness of God I may not divulge. Remember,” he added in a firm voice, “remember that I am a clergyman; and confidences reposed in me I must not abuse. Therefore do not seek the truth from me. My lips are sealed.”
Chapter Eleven.Purely Confidential.Jack Yelverton’s declaration held me dumb. He knew the truth, yet could not divulge, because any confession made to him by one who sought spiritual guidance was sacred.I pressed him to tell me something which might give me a clue to the truth, but he only grew additionally grave, and answered—“Roddy was my friend, as well as yours, Clifton. If it were possible, don’t you think that I would bring the guilty to punishment? Ah! don’t speak of it,” he sighed. “In this affair I’ve suffered enough. If you knew how the possession of this secret oppresses me, you would be silent on that sad topic always.”I said nothing. His face had grown haggard and drawn, and I could see that his conscience was torn by a tumult of emotions.It was certainly extraordinary, I reflected, as I smoked on in silence, while he stood leaning against the mantel-shelf with his eyes fixed upon the opposite wall. That day I had again met after years of separation this man who had once been among my best friends, and he was actually in possession of the secret which I had been longing through those winter months to learn—the secret of the tragic death of poor Roddy Morgan.But he was a clergyman. Had he been a member of any other profession he might, in the interests of justice, betray the murderer—for there was no doubt now that Roddy had been murdered—but he was a servant of his Master, and words spoken in confidence into his ear by the penitent were as the secrets of the Roman Catholic confessional. From him I could hope for no word of the truth.At last he spoke again, telling me that the real reason he had accepted a country curacy was because of this terrible secret ever oppressing him.“But,” he added quite resignedly, “it is, I suppose, a burden placed upon me as a test. Now I know the truth I feel as an accessory to the crime; but to divulge would be to break faith with both God and man.”His words admitted of no argument. I sat silent, oppressed, smoking and thinking. Then at length I rose to go.“We are friends still, Clifton,” he said, as he gripped my hand warmly. “But you understand my position, don’t you?”“Yes,” I answered. “That you cannot speak is plain. Good night,” and I went forth into the quiet village street where the only light came from the cottage windows here and there. The good people of Duddington go to bed early and rise with the dawn, therefore there was little light to guide my steps down the hill and up the road to the Hall. Nothing stirred, and the only sound was the dismal howl of a distant sheep-dog.During the fortnight that followed I saw plenty of the new curate. His manner had, however, changed, and he had grown the same merry, buoyant companion as he had been in our college days.Into Duddington Jack Yelverton had come as a perfect revelation of the ways and manners of the Church. For the past twenty years the estimable rector had preached regularly once each Sunday, and been usually assisted by a puny, consumptive-looking youth, fresh from college; but the smart, clever, witty sermon from this ecclesiastical giant was electrifying. People talked of it for days afterwards, discussed the arguments he had put forward so boldly, and were compelled to admit that he was an earnest, righteous, and upright man.He dined with us once or twice, afterwards taking a hand at whist; we cycled together over to Oundle by way of Newton and Fotheringhay; on another occasion we rode to Uppingham to visit a man who had been with us at Wadham and was now one of the masters at Uppingham School; and several times I drove him to Peterborough and to Stamford. Thus we were together a good deal, and the more I saw of him the more convinced I became that he was thoroughly earnest in his purpose, and that he had not adopted the Church from motives of gain, like so many men whose relatives are ecclesiastical dignitaries.A letter I received one morning from Muriel caused me to decide upon a visit to town, and I left the same evening, returning once more to my chambers in Charing Cross Mansions. Next day being Sunday, I sent Simes, on my arrival, round to Madame Gabrielle’s with a note inviting Muriel to call at eleven and go with me to spend the day at Hampton Court. I knew that she always liked a ramble in Bushey Park, for town-stifled as she was, it reminded her of Burleigh, the great demesne of the Cecils outside Stamford.She accepted, and at eleven next morning Simes ushered her in. She was quietly dressed in black, the dash of bright cerise in her hat well suiting her complexion.“Well,” she said, putting forth her hand as she entered. “I really thought you had quite forgotten me. Your note last night gave me a great surprise.”“I suppose if the truth were known you were engaged for to-day, eh?” I asked mischievously, for I took a keen delight in chaffing her about her admirers.“Well, you’ve pretty well guessed the truth,” she laughed, blushing slightly as she took the chair I offered her.“What is he this time—dark or fair?” I asked.“Dark. A rather nice fellow-cashier in a bank in the City.”“And he takes you out often, I suppose?”“Two or three times a week,” she answered, quite frankly. “We go to a music-hall sometimes, or, if not, down to the Monico.”“The Monico!” I laughed, remembering how popular that restaurant was with shop-assistants and clerks. “Why always the Monico?”“Ah!” she smiled. “We can’t afford Frascati’s, the Café Royal, or Yerrey’s. We get a little life at the Monico at small cost, and it doesn’t matter to us whether our neighbours wear tweeds or not. A man not in evening dress in the Café Royal, Verrey’s, or Jimmy’s is looked upon as an outsider; so we avoid those places.”“And you like him, eh?” I inquired, amused.“As much as I like all the others,” she responded with a light, irresponsible air, toying with the handle of her umbrella. “Life in London is frightfully dull if a girl has nobody to take her out. She can’t go about alone as she can in the country, and girls in business are not very friendly towards each other. You’ve no idea how many jealousies exist among girls in shops.”“I suppose if a man goes to Madame Gabrielle’s to buy a bonnet for a present, or something, you all think he ought to take notice of you?” I laughed.“Of course,” she replied. “But it’s the travellers from the wholesale houses who are most sought after by the girls; first, because they are generally pretty well to do, and secondly, they often know of good ‘cribs’ of which they tell the girls who are their favourites, and give them a recommendation into the bargain.”“I always used to think that the shop-walker in the drapery places had a pretty lively time of it. Is that so?”“They’re always jealous of the travellers,” she said. “The shop-walker fancies himself a lady-killer because he’s trained to do the amiable to the customers, and he can get the girls in his department into awful hot water if he likes; therefore he doesn’t care much for the good-looking town traveller, who comes in his brougham and has such a very gay and easy life of it. Girls in drapers’ shops are compelled to keep in with the shop-walker, but they hate him because he’s usually such a tyrant.”“Then you may thank your stars that you haven’t a shop-walker,” I laughed.“But we’ve got old Mrs Rayne and the manager, who are both quite as nasty to us as any shop-walker could be,” she protested quickly. “Rayne is constantly nagging at one or other of us if we don’t effect a sale. And that’s too bad, for, as you know, many ladies come in merely to look round and price the hats. They have no intention whatever of buying, and make lame excuses that the shape doesn’t suit them, or that the colour is too gaudy. It isn’t fair to us.”“Of course not,” I said. “But forget all your business worries for to-day, and let’s have a pleasant hour or two out in the country. There’s a train from Waterloo at twelve; so we’ll go to Teddington and walk across Bushey Park. Do you care for that?”“Of course,” she cried, delighted. “Why, it’s fully ten or even eleven months since we were there last time. Do you remember, we went down last Chestnut Sunday? Weren’t the trees in the avenue beautiful then?”“Yes,” I said, remembering the pleasant afternoon we had afterwards spent on the river. But it was now too early in the season for boating in comfort, therefore to wander about would, I knew, be far more enjoyable.Therefore, we took a cab over to Waterloo, and travelling down to Teddington, lunched at the Clarence, and afterwards, in the bright spring sunshine, strolled up the avenue, where already the trees were bursting into leaf. There were but few people, for as yet the season was considered too early. On summer Sundays, when London is dusty and the streets of closed shops palpitate with heat, then crowds of workers come there by all sorts of conveyances to get fresh air and obtain sight of the cooling scenery. But in early spring it is too far afield. Yet there is no more beautiful spot within easy reach of London, and in the quietness of a bright spring day, when the grass is green, when everything is bursting into bud, and the birds are singing merrily as if thankful that winter has passed, I had always found it far more pleasant than in the hot days, when omnibuses tear wildly along the avenue, raising clouds of dust, when carts full of coarse-voiced gentlemen from the East shout loudly, and chaff those who are seated on the tops of the four-horsed ’buses, and when the public-houses are filled to overflowing by crowds of ever-thirstybona-fidetravellers.In the warm sunshine, which reminded me of those perfect March days we had had on the Riviera, we wandered together across the Park, chatting merrily, she relating to me all the principal events of her toilsome life during the past six months, which comprised that period when the metropolis is at its worst, and when wet Sundays render the life of London’s workers additionally dismal. In winter the life of the shop-assistant is truly a dreary, monotonous existence, working nearly half the day by artificial light in an atmosphere unhealthily warmed by one of those suffocating abominations called gas-stoves; and if Sunday happens to be inclement there is absolutely nothing to do save to wait for the opening of the big restaurants at six o’clock in the evening. To sit idle in a café and be choked with tobacco-smoke is all the recreation which shop-assistants in London can obtain if the Day of Rest be wet.Truly the shop-assistant’s life is an intensely dismal one. Knowing all this, I felt sorry for Muriel.“Then the winter has been very dull,” I observed, after she had been telling me of the miserable weather and her consequent inability to get out on Sundays.“Yes,” she answered. “I used to be envious when you wrote telling me of the sunshine and flowers you had on the Riviera. It must be a perfect Paradise. I should so like to go there and spend a winter.”“As far as natural beauties are concerned, the coast is almost as near Paradise as you can get on this earth,” I said, laughing. “But Monte Carlo, although delightful, is far nearer an approach to the other place—the place which isn’t often mentioned in polite society—in fact, somebody once said, and with a good deal of truth, that the door of the Casino was the entrance-gate to hell.”“I’d like to see the gambling-rooms just once,” she said.“You are best away from them,” I answered. “The moral influence of the tables cannot fail to prove baneful.”“I was disappointed,” she said, “when I heard you had left London without wishing me good-bye. You had never done so before. I called at your chambers, and Simes told me you had gone abroad. Surely you could have spared ten minutes to wish me farewell,” she added reproachfully.I glanced at her and saw a look of regret and disappointment upon her face. Yes, she was undeniably beautiful.I told myself that I had always loved Muriel, that I loved her still.Her eyes met mine, and I saw in their dark depths a deep and trusting love. Yet I was socially her superior, and had foolishly imagined that we could always remain friends without becoming lovers. When I reflected how years ago I used to chat with her in her father’s shop, in the days when she was a hoydenish schoolgirl, and compared her then with what she was now, I saw her as a graceful, modest, and extremely beautiful woman, who possessed the refinement of speech and grace of carriage which many women in higher standings in life would have envied, and whom I knew was honest and upright, although practically alone and unprotected in that great world of London.“You must forgive me,” I said. “I ought to have seen you before I went away, but I left hurriedly with my sister and her husband. You know what a restless pair they are.”“Of course,” she answered. “But you’ve been back in England several weeks. Mary Daffern wrote to me and said she had seen you driving in Stamford nearly three weeks ago.”“Yes,” I replied. “I was sick of the eternal rounds of Nice and Monte Carlo, so travelled straight to Tixover without breaking my journey in town. But surely,” I added, “it doesn’t matter much if I don’t see you for a month or two. It never has mattered.”Her eyes were fixed upon the ground, and I thought her lips trembled.“Of course it does,” she responded. “I like to know how and where you are. We are friends—indeed, you are the oldest friend I have in London.”“But you have your other admirers,” I said. “Men who take you about, entertain you, flatter you, and all that sort of thing.”“Yes, yes,” she answered hurriedly. “But you know I hate them all. I merely accept their invitations because it takes me out of the dreary groove in which my work lies. It’s impossible for a woman to go about alone, and the attentions of men amuse me rather than gratify my natural woman’s vanity.”She spoke sensibly, as few of her age would speak. Her parents had been honest, upright, God-fearing folk, and she had been taught to view life philosophically.“But you have loved,” I suggested. “You can’t really tell me with truth that of all these men who have escorted you about of an evening and on Sundays there is not one for whom you have developed some feeling of affection.”She blushed and glanced up at me shyly.“It really isn’t fair to ask me that,” she protested, flicking at the last year’s leaves with the point of her umbrella. “A woman must have a heart like stone if she never experiences any feeling of love. If I replied in the negative I should only lie to you. That you know quite well.”“Then you have a lover, eh?” I exclaimed quickly, perhaps in a tone of ill-concealed regret.“No,” she responded, in a low, firm voice, “I have no lover.” Then after a few moments’ pause she inquired, “Why do you ask me that?”“Because, Muriel,” I said seriously, taking her hand, “because I desire to know the truth.”“Why?” she asked, looking at me in mingled amazement and alarm. “We are friends, it is true; but your friendship gives you no right to endeavour to learn the secret of my heart,” and she gently withdrew her hand from my grasp.I was silent, unable to reply to such an argument.“And you love this man?” I said, in a rather hard voice.But she merely shrugged her shoulders, and with a forced laugh answered—“Oh, let’s talk of something else. We are out to enjoy ourselves to-day, not to discuss each other’s love affairs.”We had approached the Diana fountain, and she stood pensively beside it for a moment watching the shoal of lazy carp, some of which have lived in that pond for over a century.“I do not wish to discuss my own affairs of the heart, Muriel,” I burst forth passionately, as I stood beside her. “Yet, as one who holds you in esteem, who has ever striven for your welfare, I feel somehow that I ought to be still your confidant.”“You only wish to wring my secret from me because it amuses you,” she protested, her eyes flashing resentfully. “You know that’s the truth. When you have nothing better to do you bring me out, just because I’m company. If you had held me in esteem, as you declare you do, you would have at least wished me farewell before you went abroad for the winter.”This neglect had annoyed her, and in sudden pique she was reproaching me in a manner quite unusual to her. I had never before seen her assume so resentful an air.“No,” I responded, pained that she should thus charge me with amusing myself at leisure with her society, although when I reflected I was compelled to admit within myself that her words were the absolute truth. For several years I had merely treated her as a friend to be sought when I had no other person to dine with or accompany me out. Yes, of late, I had neglected Muriel sadly.“I don’t think you are quite fair,” I said. “That I hold you in esteem you must have seen long, long ago, and the reason why I did not wish you farewell was because—well, because I was just then very much upset.”“You had met a woman whom you believed you loved,” she said harshly. “It is useless to try and conceal the truth from me.”“I have not attempted to conceal anything,” I responded, nevertheless starting at her mention of that woman who had been enveloped in such mystery, and who, after a few days’ madness, had now so completely gone out of my life. How could she have known?In answer she looked me straight in the face with her dark, fathomless eyes.“You have told me nothing of your love,” she exclaimed in a hoarse tone. “If you cannot trust me with your confidences as once you used to do, then we can no longer remain the fast friends we have been. We must drift apart. You have already shown that you fear to tell me of your fascination—a fascination that was so near to becoming fatal. You know nothing of Aline Cloud—of who or what she is—yet you love her blindly!” Her well-arched brows knit themselves, her face became at that instant pale and hard set, and she held her breath, as if a sudden determination had swept upon her.She knew my secret, and I stood confused, unable to reply to those quick, impetuous words which had involuntarily escaped her.Did she love me? I wondered. Had jealousy alone prompted that speech? Or was she really aware of the truth concerning the blue-eyed woman whom I had adored for those few fleeting days, and whom I was now seeking to hunt down as a criminal?
Jack Yelverton’s declaration held me dumb. He knew the truth, yet could not divulge, because any confession made to him by one who sought spiritual guidance was sacred.
I pressed him to tell me something which might give me a clue to the truth, but he only grew additionally grave, and answered—
“Roddy was my friend, as well as yours, Clifton. If it were possible, don’t you think that I would bring the guilty to punishment? Ah! don’t speak of it,” he sighed. “In this affair I’ve suffered enough. If you knew how the possession of this secret oppresses me, you would be silent on that sad topic always.”
I said nothing. His face had grown haggard and drawn, and I could see that his conscience was torn by a tumult of emotions.
It was certainly extraordinary, I reflected, as I smoked on in silence, while he stood leaning against the mantel-shelf with his eyes fixed upon the opposite wall. That day I had again met after years of separation this man who had once been among my best friends, and he was actually in possession of the secret which I had been longing through those winter months to learn—the secret of the tragic death of poor Roddy Morgan.
But he was a clergyman. Had he been a member of any other profession he might, in the interests of justice, betray the murderer—for there was no doubt now that Roddy had been murdered—but he was a servant of his Master, and words spoken in confidence into his ear by the penitent were as the secrets of the Roman Catholic confessional. From him I could hope for no word of the truth.
At last he spoke again, telling me that the real reason he had accepted a country curacy was because of this terrible secret ever oppressing him.
“But,” he added quite resignedly, “it is, I suppose, a burden placed upon me as a test. Now I know the truth I feel as an accessory to the crime; but to divulge would be to break faith with both God and man.”
His words admitted of no argument. I sat silent, oppressed, smoking and thinking. Then at length I rose to go.
“We are friends still, Clifton,” he said, as he gripped my hand warmly. “But you understand my position, don’t you?”
“Yes,” I answered. “That you cannot speak is plain. Good night,” and I went forth into the quiet village street where the only light came from the cottage windows here and there. The good people of Duddington go to bed early and rise with the dawn, therefore there was little light to guide my steps down the hill and up the road to the Hall. Nothing stirred, and the only sound was the dismal howl of a distant sheep-dog.
During the fortnight that followed I saw plenty of the new curate. His manner had, however, changed, and he had grown the same merry, buoyant companion as he had been in our college days.
Into Duddington Jack Yelverton had come as a perfect revelation of the ways and manners of the Church. For the past twenty years the estimable rector had preached regularly once each Sunday, and been usually assisted by a puny, consumptive-looking youth, fresh from college; but the smart, clever, witty sermon from this ecclesiastical giant was electrifying. People talked of it for days afterwards, discussed the arguments he had put forward so boldly, and were compelled to admit that he was an earnest, righteous, and upright man.
He dined with us once or twice, afterwards taking a hand at whist; we cycled together over to Oundle by way of Newton and Fotheringhay; on another occasion we rode to Uppingham to visit a man who had been with us at Wadham and was now one of the masters at Uppingham School; and several times I drove him to Peterborough and to Stamford. Thus we were together a good deal, and the more I saw of him the more convinced I became that he was thoroughly earnest in his purpose, and that he had not adopted the Church from motives of gain, like so many men whose relatives are ecclesiastical dignitaries.
A letter I received one morning from Muriel caused me to decide upon a visit to town, and I left the same evening, returning once more to my chambers in Charing Cross Mansions. Next day being Sunday, I sent Simes, on my arrival, round to Madame Gabrielle’s with a note inviting Muriel to call at eleven and go with me to spend the day at Hampton Court. I knew that she always liked a ramble in Bushey Park, for town-stifled as she was, it reminded her of Burleigh, the great demesne of the Cecils outside Stamford.
She accepted, and at eleven next morning Simes ushered her in. She was quietly dressed in black, the dash of bright cerise in her hat well suiting her complexion.
“Well,” she said, putting forth her hand as she entered. “I really thought you had quite forgotten me. Your note last night gave me a great surprise.”
“I suppose if the truth were known you were engaged for to-day, eh?” I asked mischievously, for I took a keen delight in chaffing her about her admirers.
“Well, you’ve pretty well guessed the truth,” she laughed, blushing slightly as she took the chair I offered her.
“What is he this time—dark or fair?” I asked.
“Dark. A rather nice fellow-cashier in a bank in the City.”
“And he takes you out often, I suppose?”
“Two or three times a week,” she answered, quite frankly. “We go to a music-hall sometimes, or, if not, down to the Monico.”
“The Monico!” I laughed, remembering how popular that restaurant was with shop-assistants and clerks. “Why always the Monico?”
“Ah!” she smiled. “We can’t afford Frascati’s, the Café Royal, or Yerrey’s. We get a little life at the Monico at small cost, and it doesn’t matter to us whether our neighbours wear tweeds or not. A man not in evening dress in the Café Royal, Verrey’s, or Jimmy’s is looked upon as an outsider; so we avoid those places.”
“And you like him, eh?” I inquired, amused.
“As much as I like all the others,” she responded with a light, irresponsible air, toying with the handle of her umbrella. “Life in London is frightfully dull if a girl has nobody to take her out. She can’t go about alone as she can in the country, and girls in business are not very friendly towards each other. You’ve no idea how many jealousies exist among girls in shops.”
“I suppose if a man goes to Madame Gabrielle’s to buy a bonnet for a present, or something, you all think he ought to take notice of you?” I laughed.
“Of course,” she replied. “But it’s the travellers from the wholesale houses who are most sought after by the girls; first, because they are generally pretty well to do, and secondly, they often know of good ‘cribs’ of which they tell the girls who are their favourites, and give them a recommendation into the bargain.”
“I always used to think that the shop-walker in the drapery places had a pretty lively time of it. Is that so?”
“They’re always jealous of the travellers,” she said. “The shop-walker fancies himself a lady-killer because he’s trained to do the amiable to the customers, and he can get the girls in his department into awful hot water if he likes; therefore he doesn’t care much for the good-looking town traveller, who comes in his brougham and has such a very gay and easy life of it. Girls in drapers’ shops are compelled to keep in with the shop-walker, but they hate him because he’s usually such a tyrant.”
“Then you may thank your stars that you haven’t a shop-walker,” I laughed.
“But we’ve got old Mrs Rayne and the manager, who are both quite as nasty to us as any shop-walker could be,” she protested quickly. “Rayne is constantly nagging at one or other of us if we don’t effect a sale. And that’s too bad, for, as you know, many ladies come in merely to look round and price the hats. They have no intention whatever of buying, and make lame excuses that the shape doesn’t suit them, or that the colour is too gaudy. It isn’t fair to us.”
“Of course not,” I said. “But forget all your business worries for to-day, and let’s have a pleasant hour or two out in the country. There’s a train from Waterloo at twelve; so we’ll go to Teddington and walk across Bushey Park. Do you care for that?”
“Of course,” she cried, delighted. “Why, it’s fully ten or even eleven months since we were there last time. Do you remember, we went down last Chestnut Sunday? Weren’t the trees in the avenue beautiful then?”
“Yes,” I said, remembering the pleasant afternoon we had afterwards spent on the river. But it was now too early in the season for boating in comfort, therefore to wander about would, I knew, be far more enjoyable.
Therefore, we took a cab over to Waterloo, and travelling down to Teddington, lunched at the Clarence, and afterwards, in the bright spring sunshine, strolled up the avenue, where already the trees were bursting into leaf. There were but few people, for as yet the season was considered too early. On summer Sundays, when London is dusty and the streets of closed shops palpitate with heat, then crowds of workers come there by all sorts of conveyances to get fresh air and obtain sight of the cooling scenery. But in early spring it is too far afield. Yet there is no more beautiful spot within easy reach of London, and in the quietness of a bright spring day, when the grass is green, when everything is bursting into bud, and the birds are singing merrily as if thankful that winter has passed, I had always found it far more pleasant than in the hot days, when omnibuses tear wildly along the avenue, raising clouds of dust, when carts full of coarse-voiced gentlemen from the East shout loudly, and chaff those who are seated on the tops of the four-horsed ’buses, and when the public-houses are filled to overflowing by crowds of ever-thirstybona-fidetravellers.
In the warm sunshine, which reminded me of those perfect March days we had had on the Riviera, we wandered together across the Park, chatting merrily, she relating to me all the principal events of her toilsome life during the past six months, which comprised that period when the metropolis is at its worst, and when wet Sundays render the life of London’s workers additionally dismal. In winter the life of the shop-assistant is truly a dreary, monotonous existence, working nearly half the day by artificial light in an atmosphere unhealthily warmed by one of those suffocating abominations called gas-stoves; and if Sunday happens to be inclement there is absolutely nothing to do save to wait for the opening of the big restaurants at six o’clock in the evening. To sit idle in a café and be choked with tobacco-smoke is all the recreation which shop-assistants in London can obtain if the Day of Rest be wet.
Truly the shop-assistant’s life is an intensely dismal one. Knowing all this, I felt sorry for Muriel.
“Then the winter has been very dull,” I observed, after she had been telling me of the miserable weather and her consequent inability to get out on Sundays.
“Yes,” she answered. “I used to be envious when you wrote telling me of the sunshine and flowers you had on the Riviera. It must be a perfect Paradise. I should so like to go there and spend a winter.”
“As far as natural beauties are concerned, the coast is almost as near Paradise as you can get on this earth,” I said, laughing. “But Monte Carlo, although delightful, is far nearer an approach to the other place—the place which isn’t often mentioned in polite society—in fact, somebody once said, and with a good deal of truth, that the door of the Casino was the entrance-gate to hell.”
“I’d like to see the gambling-rooms just once,” she said.
“You are best away from them,” I answered. “The moral influence of the tables cannot fail to prove baneful.”
“I was disappointed,” she said, “when I heard you had left London without wishing me good-bye. You had never done so before. I called at your chambers, and Simes told me you had gone abroad. Surely you could have spared ten minutes to wish me farewell,” she added reproachfully.
I glanced at her and saw a look of regret and disappointment upon her face. Yes, she was undeniably beautiful.
I told myself that I had always loved Muriel, that I loved her still.
Her eyes met mine, and I saw in their dark depths a deep and trusting love. Yet I was socially her superior, and had foolishly imagined that we could always remain friends without becoming lovers. When I reflected how years ago I used to chat with her in her father’s shop, in the days when she was a hoydenish schoolgirl, and compared her then with what she was now, I saw her as a graceful, modest, and extremely beautiful woman, who possessed the refinement of speech and grace of carriage which many women in higher standings in life would have envied, and whom I knew was honest and upright, although practically alone and unprotected in that great world of London.
“You must forgive me,” I said. “I ought to have seen you before I went away, but I left hurriedly with my sister and her husband. You know what a restless pair they are.”
“Of course,” she answered. “But you’ve been back in England several weeks. Mary Daffern wrote to me and said she had seen you driving in Stamford nearly three weeks ago.”
“Yes,” I replied. “I was sick of the eternal rounds of Nice and Monte Carlo, so travelled straight to Tixover without breaking my journey in town. But surely,” I added, “it doesn’t matter much if I don’t see you for a month or two. It never has mattered.”
Her eyes were fixed upon the ground, and I thought her lips trembled.
“Of course it does,” she responded. “I like to know how and where you are. We are friends—indeed, you are the oldest friend I have in London.”
“But you have your other admirers,” I said. “Men who take you about, entertain you, flatter you, and all that sort of thing.”
“Yes, yes,” she answered hurriedly. “But you know I hate them all. I merely accept their invitations because it takes me out of the dreary groove in which my work lies. It’s impossible for a woman to go about alone, and the attentions of men amuse me rather than gratify my natural woman’s vanity.”
She spoke sensibly, as few of her age would speak. Her parents had been honest, upright, God-fearing folk, and she had been taught to view life philosophically.
“But you have loved,” I suggested. “You can’t really tell me with truth that of all these men who have escorted you about of an evening and on Sundays there is not one for whom you have developed some feeling of affection.”
She blushed and glanced up at me shyly.
“It really isn’t fair to ask me that,” she protested, flicking at the last year’s leaves with the point of her umbrella. “A woman must have a heart like stone if she never experiences any feeling of love. If I replied in the negative I should only lie to you. That you know quite well.”
“Then you have a lover, eh?” I exclaimed quickly, perhaps in a tone of ill-concealed regret.
“No,” she responded, in a low, firm voice, “I have no lover.” Then after a few moments’ pause she inquired, “Why do you ask me that?”
“Because, Muriel,” I said seriously, taking her hand, “because I desire to know the truth.”
“Why?” she asked, looking at me in mingled amazement and alarm. “We are friends, it is true; but your friendship gives you no right to endeavour to learn the secret of my heart,” and she gently withdrew her hand from my grasp.
I was silent, unable to reply to such an argument.
“And you love this man?” I said, in a rather hard voice.
But she merely shrugged her shoulders, and with a forced laugh answered—
“Oh, let’s talk of something else. We are out to enjoy ourselves to-day, not to discuss each other’s love affairs.”
We had approached the Diana fountain, and she stood pensively beside it for a moment watching the shoal of lazy carp, some of which have lived in that pond for over a century.
“I do not wish to discuss my own affairs of the heart, Muriel,” I burst forth passionately, as I stood beside her. “Yet, as one who holds you in esteem, who has ever striven for your welfare, I feel somehow that I ought to be still your confidant.”
“You only wish to wring my secret from me because it amuses you,” she protested, her eyes flashing resentfully. “You know that’s the truth. When you have nothing better to do you bring me out, just because I’m company. If you had held me in esteem, as you declare you do, you would have at least wished me farewell before you went abroad for the winter.”
This neglect had annoyed her, and in sudden pique she was reproaching me in a manner quite unusual to her. I had never before seen her assume so resentful an air.
“No,” I responded, pained that she should thus charge me with amusing myself at leisure with her society, although when I reflected I was compelled to admit within myself that her words were the absolute truth. For several years I had merely treated her as a friend to be sought when I had no other person to dine with or accompany me out. Yes, of late, I had neglected Muriel sadly.
“I don’t think you are quite fair,” I said. “That I hold you in esteem you must have seen long, long ago, and the reason why I did not wish you farewell was because—well, because I was just then very much upset.”
“You had met a woman whom you believed you loved,” she said harshly. “It is useless to try and conceal the truth from me.”
“I have not attempted to conceal anything,” I responded, nevertheless starting at her mention of that woman who had been enveloped in such mystery, and who, after a few days’ madness, had now so completely gone out of my life. How could she have known?
In answer she looked me straight in the face with her dark, fathomless eyes.
“You have told me nothing of your love,” she exclaimed in a hoarse tone. “If you cannot trust me with your confidences as once you used to do, then we can no longer remain the fast friends we have been. We must drift apart. You have already shown that you fear to tell me of your fascination—a fascination that was so near to becoming fatal. You know nothing of Aline Cloud—of who or what she is—yet you love her blindly!” Her well-arched brows knit themselves, her face became at that instant pale and hard set, and she held her breath, as if a sudden determination had swept upon her.
She knew my secret, and I stood confused, unable to reply to those quick, impetuous words which had involuntarily escaped her.
Did she love me? I wondered. Had jealousy alone prompted that speech? Or was she really aware of the truth concerning the blue-eyed woman whom I had adored for those few fleeting days, and whom I was now seeking to hunt down as a criminal?
Chapter Twelve.“You! Of All Men!”“No,” I admitted, “I was not aware who Aline Cloud was, nor did I know that you were acquainted with her.”She started. She had unwittingly betrayed herself.“I—acquainted with her!” she cried in a voice of indignation. “You are mistaken.”“But you know her by repute,” I said. “Tell me the truth about her.”She laughed, a light, nervous laugh, her eyes still fixed upon the water.“You love her!” she exclaimed. “It is useless for me to say anything.”“No, no, Muriel,” I cried. “I do not love her. How could I love her when I know nothing whatsoever of her? Why, I only saw her twice.”“But you were with her a sufficient length of time to declare your love.”How could she know? I wondered. Aline herself must have told her. She uttered a falsehood when she declared that she did not know the mysterious fair-faced woman whose power was so mysterious and unnatural.I was puzzled.“Well,” I said at length, “I admit it. I admit that in a moment of mad ecstasy I made a foolish declaration of affection—an avowal which I have ever since regretted.”She gave me a pitying, scornful look, a glance which proved to me how fierce was her hatred of Aline.“If you had told me of your fascination I might have been able to have explained the truth concerning her. But as you have thought fit to preserve your secret, no end can now be gained by the exposure of anything I know,” she said, quite calmly.“What do you know about her, Muriel?” I inquired, laying my hand upon her arm in all seriousness. “Tell me.”But she shook her head, rather sadly perhaps. The bright expression of happiness which had illuminated her countenance until that moment had died away and been replaced by a look of dull despair. The sun shone down upon her brightly, the birds were singing in the trees and all around was gladness, but she seemed troubled and oppressed as one heartbroken.“No!” she answered in a low tone, her breast slowly heaving and falling. “If you have really escaped the enthralment it is enough. You may congratulate yourself.”“Why?”“Merely because you have avoided the pitfall set in your path,” she answered. “She was beautiful. It was because of her loveliness that you became entranced, was it not?”“There is no necessity to conceal anything,” I said.“You speak the truth.”“And you had some illustrations of the evil influence which lay within her?” Muriel asked.I recollected how my crucifix had been mysteriously reduced to ashes, and nodded in the affirmative, wondering whether I should ever succeed in obtaining knowledge of the truth which she evidently possessed.“Yet you had the audacity to love her!” she laughed. “You thought that she—this woman whom all the world would hound down if they knew the true facts—could love you in return! It is amazing how a pretty face can lead the strongest-willed man to ruin.”I rather resented her attitude in thus interfering in my private affairs. That I admired her was true; yet I was not her lover, and she had no right to object to any of my actions.“I cannot see that I have been so near ruin as you would make out,” I exclaimed, philosophically. “An unrequited love is an incident in most men’s lives.”“Ah! she spared you!” she cried. “If she had smitten you, you would have perished as swiftly as objects dissolve into ashes when she is present. At least she pitied you. And you were doubly fortunate.”“Yes,” I said, reflecting upon her words, at the same time recollecting her mysterious connection with poor Roddy Morgan. “She was without doubt endowed with a power that was inexplicable.”“Inexplicable!” she echoed. “It was supernatural. Things withered at her touch.”“If I, your friend, am fortunate in my escape, would it not be but an act of friendship to explain to me all you know concerning her?”Her dark, luminous eyes met mine in a long, earnest glance.“No!” she answered, after a moment’s reflection. “I have already explained. You have escaped; the incident is ended.” And she added with a laugh, “Your neglect of me was, of course, fully justified in such circumstances.”“Now, that’s unfair, Muriel,” I exclaimed. “I had no intention of neglecting you, neither had I the slightest suspicion that you desired me to say farewell to you. Have you not told me that you have an admirer whom you could love? Surely that is sufficient. Love him, and we may always remain friends, as we now are.”“No!” she responded, with a dark look of foreboding. “We cannot remain friends longer. Our mutual confidence is shattered. We may be acquaintances, but nothing more.”I had not mentioned poor Roddy’s death, for it was a subject so painful that I discussed it as little as possible. Was it not, however, likely that if I explained all the circumstances and told her my suspicions, her hatred might lead her to disclose some clue whereby I might trace Aline Cloud?Her words had caused me considerable misgiving, for it was now entirely plain that, contrary to what I had confidently believed, namely, that she loved me, she in reality held me in contempt as weak and fickle, influenced by every pretty face or wayward glance.I looked at her again. Yes, my eyes were not love-blinded now. She was absolutely bewitching in her beauty. For the first time I became aware that there was but one woman I really loved, and that it was Muriel.“I regret that you should not consider me to be still worthy your confidence,” I said, bending towards her seriously. “I have admitted everything, and have expressed regret. What more can I do?”“Forget her!” she answered, with a quick petulance. “It is best to forget.”“Ah!” I sighed. “That is unfortunately impossible.”“Then you love her still!” she cried, turning upon me. “You love her!”“No,” I answered. “I do not love her, because—”“Because she treated you shabbily, and left without giving you her address, eh? You see, I know all the circumstances.”“You are mistaken,” I protested. “I do not love her because I entertain a well-founded if perhaps absurd suspicion.”“Suspicion! What do you suspect?” she asked quickly.Then, linking my arm in hers, I walked on, and commencing at the beginning told her of that fateful day when I discovered the tragic death of poor Roddy, and the circumstances which, combined with Aline’s own confession, seemed to point to her being his visitor, immediately prior to his death.As she listened her face grew ashen, and she perceptibly trembled. A violent emotion shook her slight frame, and as I continued to relate my dismal story and piece together the evidence which I felt certain must some day connect Aline with the tragedy, I was dumbfounded to discern that which, in a single instant, changed the whole aspect of the situation.Muriel was speechless. She was trembling with fear.“And you really suspect that your friend was murdered?” she exclaimed at last in the voice of one preoccupied. “If that had been really so, wouldn’t the doctors have known?”“Medical evidence is not always reliable,” I answered. “From what I have already explained it is proved conclusively that some one visited him in his valet’s absence.”“Who called there, do you think?”“Ah! I don’t know,” I answered. “That is what I am endeavouring to discover.”She gave a slight, almost imperceptible sigh. It was a sigh of relief!Could it be true that my little friend held locked within her breast the secret of Roddy’s tragic end? I glanced again at her face as she strolled by my side. Yes, her countenance was now pale and agitated, its aspect entirely changed from what it had been half an hour before.“Why cannot you tell me something of Aline?” I asked quietly, after a long silence.“Because I am as entirely ignorant of her as you are,” she answered without hesitation. “All I know is that she is a strange person—a woman possessed of powers so marvellous as to appear almost supernatural. Indeed, she seems the very incarnation of the Evil One himself. It was because of that I was angry when I knew that her beauty had entranced you.”“But you are acquainted with her,” I declared. “Your words prove that.”“No, I have had no dealings with her,” she answered. “I should fear to have, lest I should fall beneath her evil influence.”“Then how did you know of my acquaintance with her?” I asked, noting how charming she was, and wondering within myself why during all the years that I had known her I had not discovered the true estimate of her beauty until that afternoon.“The information was conveyed to me,” she responded vaguely.“And you believed that I had forgotten you, Muriel?” I said tenderly, in a voice of reproach.“It is certain that you were held powerless under that spell which she can cast over men at will. You reposed in contentment beneath her fascination, and called it love.”“But it was not love,” I hastened to assure her. “I admired her, it is true, but surely you do not think that I could love a woman who is thus under suspicion?”“Had your friend ever spoken of her?” she inquired after a brief silence.“No,” I said. “Aline, however, admitted that she knew him, but strangely enough declared that he had committed suicide at Monte Carlo months before.”“Then what she said could not be correct,” Muriel observed thoughtfully.“I really don’t know what to believe,” I answered, bewildered. “Her words were so strange and her influence so subtle and extraordinary that sometimes I feel inclined to think that she was some supernatural and eminently beautiful being who, having wrought in the world the evil which was allotted as her work, has vanished, leaving no more trace than a ray of light in space.”“Others who have known her have held similar opinions,” my pretty companion said. “Yet she was apparently of flesh and blood like all of us. At any rate, she ate and drank and slept and spoke like every other human being, and certainly her loves and her hatreds were just as intense as those of any one of us.”“But her touch was deadly,” I said. “As a magician is able to change things, so at her will certain objects dissolved in air, leaving only a handful of ashes behind. In her soft, white hand was a power for the working of evil which was irresistible, an influence which was nothing short of demoniacal.”Muriel held her breath, her eyes cast upon the ground. There was a mysteriousness in her manner, such as I had never before noticed.“You are right—quite right,” she answered. “She was a woman of mystery.”“Cannot you, now that I have made explanation and told you the reason of my apparent neglect, tell me what you know of her?” I asked earnestly.“I have no further knowledge,” she assured me. “I know nothing of her personally.”But her words did not convince me when I remembered how, on explaining my suspicions regarding Aline’s complicity in the crime, she had betrayed an abject fear.“No,” I said dubiously. “You are concealing something from me, Muriel.”“Concealing something!” she echoed, with a strange, hollow laugh. “I’m certain I’m not.”“Well,” I exclaimed, rather impatiently, “to-day you have treated me, your oldest friend, very unfairly. You tell me that I merely consider you a convenient companion to be patronised when I have no other more congenial acquaintance at hand. That I deny. I may have neglected you,” I went on in deep earnestness, as we halted for a moment beneath the great old trees, “but this neglect of late has been owing to the tragedy which has so filled my mind. I have set myself to trace out its author, and nothing shall deter me in my investigations.”She was blanched to the lips. I noticed how the returning colour died from her face again at my words, but continuing, said—“We have been friends. Those who know of our friendship would refuse to believe the truth if it were told to them, so eager is the world to ridicule the idea of a purely platonic friendship between man and woman. Yet ours has, until now, been a firm friendship, without a thought of love, without a single affectionate word.”“That is the reason why I regret that it must now end,” she answered, faltering, her voice half-choked with emotion.“End! What do you mean?” I cried, dismayed.“Ah, no!” she exclaimed, putting up both her hands, as if to shut me out from her gaze. “Don’t let us discuss it further. It is sufficient that we can exchange no further confidences. It is best now that this friendship of ours should cease.”“You are annoyed that I should have preferred the society of that strange, mysterious woman to yours,” I said. “Well, I regret—I shall always regret that we met—for she has only brought me grief, anxiety, and despair. Cannot you forgive me?”“I have nothing to forgive,” she answered blankly. “To have admired this woman was surely no offence against me?”“But it was,” I declared, grasping her hand against her will.“Why?”I held my breath and looked straight into her dark, luminous eyes. Then, in as firm a voice as I could summon, I said—“Because—because, Muriel, I love you?”“Love me!” she gasped, with a look of bewilderment. “No! No!”“Yes,” I went on, in mad impetuousness, “for years I have loved you, but feared to tell you, because you might regard my declaration as a mere foolish fancy on account of our positions, and impossible of realisation because of the probable opposition of my family. But I have now told you the truth, Muriel. I love you!”And with my hands holding hers, I bent for the first time to kiss her lips. But in an instant she avoided me, and twisted her gloved fingers from my grasp.“You must be mad!” she cried, with a glint of indignation in her eyes. “You must be mad to think that I could love you—of all men!”
“No,” I admitted, “I was not aware who Aline Cloud was, nor did I know that you were acquainted with her.”
She started. She had unwittingly betrayed herself.
“I—acquainted with her!” she cried in a voice of indignation. “You are mistaken.”
“But you know her by repute,” I said. “Tell me the truth about her.”
She laughed, a light, nervous laugh, her eyes still fixed upon the water.
“You love her!” she exclaimed. “It is useless for me to say anything.”
“No, no, Muriel,” I cried. “I do not love her. How could I love her when I know nothing whatsoever of her? Why, I only saw her twice.”
“But you were with her a sufficient length of time to declare your love.”
How could she know? I wondered. Aline herself must have told her. She uttered a falsehood when she declared that she did not know the mysterious fair-faced woman whose power was so mysterious and unnatural.
I was puzzled.
“Well,” I said at length, “I admit it. I admit that in a moment of mad ecstasy I made a foolish declaration of affection—an avowal which I have ever since regretted.”
She gave me a pitying, scornful look, a glance which proved to me how fierce was her hatred of Aline.
“If you had told me of your fascination I might have been able to have explained the truth concerning her. But as you have thought fit to preserve your secret, no end can now be gained by the exposure of anything I know,” she said, quite calmly.
“What do you know about her, Muriel?” I inquired, laying my hand upon her arm in all seriousness. “Tell me.”
But she shook her head, rather sadly perhaps. The bright expression of happiness which had illuminated her countenance until that moment had died away and been replaced by a look of dull despair. The sun shone down upon her brightly, the birds were singing in the trees and all around was gladness, but she seemed troubled and oppressed as one heartbroken.
“No!” she answered in a low tone, her breast slowly heaving and falling. “If you have really escaped the enthralment it is enough. You may congratulate yourself.”
“Why?”
“Merely because you have avoided the pitfall set in your path,” she answered. “She was beautiful. It was because of her loveliness that you became entranced, was it not?”
“There is no necessity to conceal anything,” I said.
“You speak the truth.”
“And you had some illustrations of the evil influence which lay within her?” Muriel asked.
I recollected how my crucifix had been mysteriously reduced to ashes, and nodded in the affirmative, wondering whether I should ever succeed in obtaining knowledge of the truth which she evidently possessed.
“Yet you had the audacity to love her!” she laughed. “You thought that she—this woman whom all the world would hound down if they knew the true facts—could love you in return! It is amazing how a pretty face can lead the strongest-willed man to ruin.”
I rather resented her attitude in thus interfering in my private affairs. That I admired her was true; yet I was not her lover, and she had no right to object to any of my actions.
“I cannot see that I have been so near ruin as you would make out,” I exclaimed, philosophically. “An unrequited love is an incident in most men’s lives.”
“Ah! she spared you!” she cried. “If she had smitten you, you would have perished as swiftly as objects dissolve into ashes when she is present. At least she pitied you. And you were doubly fortunate.”
“Yes,” I said, reflecting upon her words, at the same time recollecting her mysterious connection with poor Roddy Morgan. “She was without doubt endowed with a power that was inexplicable.”
“Inexplicable!” she echoed. “It was supernatural. Things withered at her touch.”
“If I, your friend, am fortunate in my escape, would it not be but an act of friendship to explain to me all you know concerning her?”
Her dark, luminous eyes met mine in a long, earnest glance.
“No!” she answered, after a moment’s reflection. “I have already explained. You have escaped; the incident is ended.” And she added with a laugh, “Your neglect of me was, of course, fully justified in such circumstances.”
“Now, that’s unfair, Muriel,” I exclaimed. “I had no intention of neglecting you, neither had I the slightest suspicion that you desired me to say farewell to you. Have you not told me that you have an admirer whom you could love? Surely that is sufficient. Love him, and we may always remain friends, as we now are.”
“No!” she responded, with a dark look of foreboding. “We cannot remain friends longer. Our mutual confidence is shattered. We may be acquaintances, but nothing more.”
I had not mentioned poor Roddy’s death, for it was a subject so painful that I discussed it as little as possible. Was it not, however, likely that if I explained all the circumstances and told her my suspicions, her hatred might lead her to disclose some clue whereby I might trace Aline Cloud?
Her words had caused me considerable misgiving, for it was now entirely plain that, contrary to what I had confidently believed, namely, that she loved me, she in reality held me in contempt as weak and fickle, influenced by every pretty face or wayward glance.
I looked at her again. Yes, my eyes were not love-blinded now. She was absolutely bewitching in her beauty. For the first time I became aware that there was but one woman I really loved, and that it was Muriel.
“I regret that you should not consider me to be still worthy your confidence,” I said, bending towards her seriously. “I have admitted everything, and have expressed regret. What more can I do?”
“Forget her!” she answered, with a quick petulance. “It is best to forget.”
“Ah!” I sighed. “That is unfortunately impossible.”
“Then you love her still!” she cried, turning upon me. “You love her!”
“No,” I answered. “I do not love her, because—”
“Because she treated you shabbily, and left without giving you her address, eh? You see, I know all the circumstances.”
“You are mistaken,” I protested. “I do not love her because I entertain a well-founded if perhaps absurd suspicion.”
“Suspicion! What do you suspect?” she asked quickly.
Then, linking my arm in hers, I walked on, and commencing at the beginning told her of that fateful day when I discovered the tragic death of poor Roddy, and the circumstances which, combined with Aline’s own confession, seemed to point to her being his visitor, immediately prior to his death.
As she listened her face grew ashen, and she perceptibly trembled. A violent emotion shook her slight frame, and as I continued to relate my dismal story and piece together the evidence which I felt certain must some day connect Aline with the tragedy, I was dumbfounded to discern that which, in a single instant, changed the whole aspect of the situation.
Muriel was speechless. She was trembling with fear.
“And you really suspect that your friend was murdered?” she exclaimed at last in the voice of one preoccupied. “If that had been really so, wouldn’t the doctors have known?”
“Medical evidence is not always reliable,” I answered. “From what I have already explained it is proved conclusively that some one visited him in his valet’s absence.”
“Who called there, do you think?”
“Ah! I don’t know,” I answered. “That is what I am endeavouring to discover.”
She gave a slight, almost imperceptible sigh. It was a sigh of relief!
Could it be true that my little friend held locked within her breast the secret of Roddy’s tragic end? I glanced again at her face as she strolled by my side. Yes, her countenance was now pale and agitated, its aspect entirely changed from what it had been half an hour before.
“Why cannot you tell me something of Aline?” I asked quietly, after a long silence.
“Because I am as entirely ignorant of her as you are,” she answered without hesitation. “All I know is that she is a strange person—a woman possessed of powers so marvellous as to appear almost supernatural. Indeed, she seems the very incarnation of the Evil One himself. It was because of that I was angry when I knew that her beauty had entranced you.”
“But you are acquainted with her,” I declared. “Your words prove that.”
“No, I have had no dealings with her,” she answered. “I should fear to have, lest I should fall beneath her evil influence.”
“Then how did you know of my acquaintance with her?” I asked, noting how charming she was, and wondering within myself why during all the years that I had known her I had not discovered the true estimate of her beauty until that afternoon.
“The information was conveyed to me,” she responded vaguely.
“And you believed that I had forgotten you, Muriel?” I said tenderly, in a voice of reproach.
“It is certain that you were held powerless under that spell which she can cast over men at will. You reposed in contentment beneath her fascination, and called it love.”
“But it was not love,” I hastened to assure her. “I admired her, it is true, but surely you do not think that I could love a woman who is thus under suspicion?”
“Had your friend ever spoken of her?” she inquired after a brief silence.
“No,” I said. “Aline, however, admitted that she knew him, but strangely enough declared that he had committed suicide at Monte Carlo months before.”
“Then what she said could not be correct,” Muriel observed thoughtfully.
“I really don’t know what to believe,” I answered, bewildered. “Her words were so strange and her influence so subtle and extraordinary that sometimes I feel inclined to think that she was some supernatural and eminently beautiful being who, having wrought in the world the evil which was allotted as her work, has vanished, leaving no more trace than a ray of light in space.”
“Others who have known her have held similar opinions,” my pretty companion said. “Yet she was apparently of flesh and blood like all of us. At any rate, she ate and drank and slept and spoke like every other human being, and certainly her loves and her hatreds were just as intense as those of any one of us.”
“But her touch was deadly,” I said. “As a magician is able to change things, so at her will certain objects dissolved in air, leaving only a handful of ashes behind. In her soft, white hand was a power for the working of evil which was irresistible, an influence which was nothing short of demoniacal.”
Muriel held her breath, her eyes cast upon the ground. There was a mysteriousness in her manner, such as I had never before noticed.
“You are right—quite right,” she answered. “She was a woman of mystery.”
“Cannot you, now that I have made explanation and told you the reason of my apparent neglect, tell me what you know of her?” I asked earnestly.
“I have no further knowledge,” she assured me. “I know nothing of her personally.”
But her words did not convince me when I remembered how, on explaining my suspicions regarding Aline’s complicity in the crime, she had betrayed an abject fear.
“No,” I said dubiously. “You are concealing something from me, Muriel.”
“Concealing something!” she echoed, with a strange, hollow laugh. “I’m certain I’m not.”
“Well,” I exclaimed, rather impatiently, “to-day you have treated me, your oldest friend, very unfairly. You tell me that I merely consider you a convenient companion to be patronised when I have no other more congenial acquaintance at hand. That I deny. I may have neglected you,” I went on in deep earnestness, as we halted for a moment beneath the great old trees, “but this neglect of late has been owing to the tragedy which has so filled my mind. I have set myself to trace out its author, and nothing shall deter me in my investigations.”
She was blanched to the lips. I noticed how the returning colour died from her face again at my words, but continuing, said—
“We have been friends. Those who know of our friendship would refuse to believe the truth if it were told to them, so eager is the world to ridicule the idea of a purely platonic friendship between man and woman. Yet ours has, until now, been a firm friendship, without a thought of love, without a single affectionate word.”
“That is the reason why I regret that it must now end,” she answered, faltering, her voice half-choked with emotion.
“End! What do you mean?” I cried, dismayed.
“Ah, no!” she exclaimed, putting up both her hands, as if to shut me out from her gaze. “Don’t let us discuss it further. It is sufficient that we can exchange no further confidences. It is best now that this friendship of ours should cease.”
“You are annoyed that I should have preferred the society of that strange, mysterious woman to yours,” I said. “Well, I regret—I shall always regret that we met—for she has only brought me grief, anxiety, and despair. Cannot you forgive me?”
“I have nothing to forgive,” she answered blankly. “To have admired this woman was surely no offence against me?”
“But it was,” I declared, grasping her hand against her will.
“Why?”
I held my breath and looked straight into her dark, luminous eyes. Then, in as firm a voice as I could summon, I said—
“Because—because, Muriel, I love you?”
“Love me!” she gasped, with a look of bewilderment. “No! No!”
“Yes,” I went on, in mad impetuousness, “for years I have loved you, but feared to tell you, because you might regard my declaration as a mere foolish fancy on account of our positions, and impossible of realisation because of the probable opposition of my family. But I have now told you the truth, Muriel. I love you!”
And with my hands holding hers, I bent for the first time to kiss her lips. But in an instant she avoided me, and twisted her gloved fingers from my grasp.
“You must be mad!” she cried, with a glint of indignation in her eyes. “You must be mad to think that I could love you—of all men!”