Kitabı oku: «The Bond of Black», sayfa 12
I could not see the face, but by her figure and her gait as she turned to make her way out I recognised her.
It was Aline Cloud. She had come there to listen to the preaching of the man she loved. Once again, then, had she come into the life of this man who had fled from her as from a temptress.
The verger went back into the church, and my friend pushed to the door in order that whoever remained should not witness us, then answered —
“I’ve been busy – terribly busy, my dear fellow. Forgive me.”
“Of course,” I answered. “But it was a surprise to me to hear that you had left Duddington, although, of course, we couldn’t expect you to bury yourself down there altogether.”
“Well, I had this offer,” he answered, hanging up his surplice in the cupboard, “and being so much interested in the work here, I couldn’t refuse.”
“It seems a dismal place,” I observed, “a terribly dismal place.”
“Yes,” he sighed. “There’s more misery and poverty here than even in the East End. Here we have the deserving poor – the people who are too proud to throw themselves on the parish, yet they haven’t a few coppers to get the bare necessaries of life with. If you came one round with me, Clifton, you’d witness scenes which would cause your heart to bleed. And this in London – the richest city in the world! While at the Café Royal or Jimmy’s you will cheerfully give a couple or three pounds for a dinner with a friend, here, within fifty yards of this place, are people actually starving because they can’t get a herring and a pennyworth of bread. Ah! you who have had no experience in the homes of these people can’t know how despairing, how cheerless, is the life of the deserving poor.”
“And you live here?” I asked. “You prefer this cramped, gloomy place to the fresh air and free life of the country? You would rather visit these overcrowded slums than the homely cottages of the agricultural labourer?”
“Certainly,” he responded simply. “I entered the Church with the object of serving the Master, and I intend to do so.”
“And the lady who was once a parish-worker here,” I said, with some hesitancy. “Have you seen her?”
“Ah!” he sighed, as a dark shadow crossed his thoughtful brow, and his lips compressed. “You alone know my secret, old fellow, you alone are aware of the torment I am suffering.”
“What torment?” I inquired, surprised.
At that instant, however, the old verger, a man who spoke with a pronounced South London drawl, interrupted by dashing in alarmed and pale-faced, saying —
“There’s been a robbery, sir – an awful sacrilege!”
“Sacrilege!” echoed Yelverton, starting up.
“Yes, sir. The chalice you used this morning at Communion I put in the niche beside the organ, meaning to clean it to-night. I’ve always put it there these twelve years. But it’s gone.”
My friend went forth into the church, and I followed until we came to the niche which the old verger indicated.
There was no chalice there, but in its place only white ashes and a few pieces of metal melted out of all recognition.
All three of us stood gazing at the fused fragments of the sacramental cup, astonished and amazed.
Chapter Nineteen
The Result of the Compact
“There’s some Devil’s work been performed here!” gasped the newly-appointed vicar, turning over the ashes with trembling hands, while at the same time I, too, bent and examined the fused fragments of the Communion cup.
The recollection of the miraculous changes effected in my own room was fresh within my memory, and I stood amazed. The agency to which was due the melting of the chalice was still a mystery, but had I not seen Aline, the Woman of Evil, leave the church?
It was apparent that Yelverton had not detected her presence, or he would most probably have referred to it. He loved her with an all-absorbing love, yet, like myself, he seemed to hold her in some mysterious dread, the reason of which I always failed to discover. His theory that the clergy should not marry was, I believe, a mere cloak to hide his terror of her. This incident showed me that now he had come back to his old parish she haunted him as she had done in the past, sometimes unseen, and at others boldly greeting him. That night she had sat a few pews behind me listening to his brilliant discourse, veiled and unrecognised in the half-lighted church, and had escaped quickly, in order that none should be aware of her presence.
But I had caught a glimpse of her, and knowledge of her visit had been immediately followed by this astounding discovery. Her evil influence had once more asserted itself upon a sacred object and destroyed it.
Truly her power was Satanic. Yet she was so calm, so sweet, so eminently beautiful, that I did not wonder that he loved her. Indeed, I recollected how enthusiastically I once had fallen down and worshipped her.
And now had I not a compact with her? Had I not given myself over to her, body and soul, to become her puppet and her slave?
I shuddered when I recollected that hour of my foolishness. This Woman of Evil held me irrevocably in her power.
“How strange!” I exclaimed at last, when I had thoroughly examined the ashes. I would have told him of Aline’s presence, but, with my lips sealed by my promise, I feared to utter a word, lest I might be stricken by her deadly hate, for she certainly was something more than human.
“Strange!” he cried. “It’s marvellous. Feel! The ashes are quite warm! The heat required to melt and fuse a heavy vessel like that would be enormous. It couldn’t have been done by any natural means.”
“How, then, do you account for it?” I inquired quickly.
“I can’t account for it,” he answered in a hoarse voice, gazing about the darkened church, for the lights had been nearly all extinguished, and the place was weird and eerie. Then, with his lips compressed for a moment, he looked straight at me, saying in a strange, hard voice: “Clifton, such a change as this could not be effected by any human means. If this had happened in a Roman Catholic church, it would have been declared to be a miracle.”
“A miracle wrought by the Evil One!” I said.
And he bowed his head, his face ashen, his hands still trembling.
“I cannot help thinking,” he said after a pause, “that this is a bad augury for my ministry here. It is the first time I have, as vicar, administered the Sacrament, and the after result is in plain evidence before us – a result which absolutely staggers belief.”
“Yes,” I said pensively. “It is more than extraordinary. It is an enigma beyond solution; an actual problem of the supernatural.”
“That the chalice should be thus profaned and desecrated by an invisible agency is a startling revelation indeed,” he said. “A hellish influence must be at work somewhere, unless,” and he paused, “unless we have been tricked by a mere magician’s feat.”
“But are not the ashes still hot?” I suggested. “See here!” and I took up some of the fused metal. “Is not this silver? There seems no doubt that the cup was actually consumed here in the spot where the verger placed it, and that it was consumed by an uncommonly fierce fire.”
Without responding, he stood gazing blankly upon the ashes. I saw that his heart was torn by a thousand doubts and fears, and fell to wondering whether he had ever had any cause to suspect the woman he feared of possessing the power of destruction.
Again he glanced round the cavernous darkness of the silent church, and a shudder went through him.
“Let’s go, my dear fellow,” he said, endeavouring to steady himself. “I’m utterly unnerved to-night. Perhaps the efforts of my sermon have been a little too much for me. The doctor told me to avoid all undue excitement.”
“Keep yourself quiet,” I urged. “No doubt some explanation will be forthcoming very soon,” I added, endeavouring to reassure him.
But he shook his head gloomily, answering —
“The Prince of this World is all-powerful. The maleficent spirit is with us always, and evil has fallen upon me, and upon my work.”
“No, no!” I cried quickly. “You talk too hopelessly, my dear old chap. You’re upset to-night. To-morrow, after a rest, you’ll be quite fit again. You’ve excited yourself in your sermon, and this is the reaction.”
He shrugged his shoulders, and together we left the church. I walked with him across to his lodgings in a poorish-looking house in Liverpool Street, facing the disused burial-ground. He had not entered upon residence at the vicarage, for, as he explained to me, his wants were few, and he preferred furnished apartments to the worries of an establishment of his own. As I entered the small, rather close-smelling house, I could not help contrasting it with Mrs Walker’s clean, homely cottage in Duddington, where the ivy covered the porch, and the hollyhocks grew so tall in the little front garden. He took me into his shabby little sitting-room, the window of which overlooked the churchyard, and I saw how terribly dreary was his abode.
I remarked that the place was scarcely so open and healthy as at Duddington, but as he sank into his chair exhausted, he answered simply —
“My work lies here among the poor, and it is my duty to live among them. Many men in London live away from their parishes because the locality happens to be a working-class one, but such men can never carry on their work well. To know the people, to obtain their confidence, and to be able to assist them, one must live among them, however dismal is the life, however dreary the constant outlook of bricks and mortar.”
With this theory I was compelled to agree. Surely this man must be devout and God-fearing if he could give up the world, as he had done, to devote himself to the poor in such a locality, and live the dismal life of the people among whom his work lay.
Yet in his acquaintanceship with Aline there was some strange mystery. His hiding from her, and her clandestine visit to Duddington, were sufficient in themselves to show that their friendship had been strained, and his words, whenever he had spoken of her, were as though he held her in fear. Mystery surrounded her on every side.
I sat with my friend for a long time smoking with him in that dingy, cheerless room. Once only he referred to the curious phenomenon which had occurred in the church, and noticing that I had no desire to discuss it, he dropped the subject. He was enthusiastic over his work, telling me sad stories of the poverty existing there on every side, and lamenting that while London gave liberally to Mansion House Funds for the relief of foreigners, it gave so little to the deserving poor at home.
Suddenly, glancing at the clock, he rose, saying that he had a visit to make.
“It’s late,” I exclaimed, seeing that it was after ten o’clock.
“Not too late to do my duty,” he answered.
Then we passed out, and in silence threaded our way back through the narrow alleys until we gained the Walworth Road, where we parted, after I had promised to call soon and see him again.
When he had left me, I turned once to look after him. His tall, athletic figure was disappearing in the darkness of the slums. Truly this man, who had been my old college chum, was a devoted servant of the Master.
Several days went by, during which I reflected a good deal upon the strange occurrence at St. Peter’s, and the promise made me by Aline. Would Muriel return to me? Was the influence possessed by the Woman of Evil sufficient to cause her to abandon her newly-found lover and crave my forgiveness?
She had told me to possess myself in patience, and I, in obedience to her command, neither sought Muriel or wrote to her.
A week passed. It was Saturday evening. I had been dining early over at the club, and on entering my chambers with my latch-key about eight o’clock, having returned there before dropping in at the Alhambra, I perceived through the crack of the half-open door that some one was in my sitting-room.
I held my breath, scarcely believing my eyes. It was Muriel.
Slowly she rose to meet me with a majestic but rather tragic air, and without a word stretched forth her hand.
“Why, Muriel!” I cried gladly. “You’re the very last person I expected!”
“I suppose so,” she said, adding in a low, strained voice, “Close the door. I have come to speak with you.”
I obeyed her; then, returning to her side, stood eager for her words. The enigmatical influence of Aline was upon her, for I saw that to her dark, brilliant eyes there had already returned that love-light which once had shone upon me, and noticed how her sweet, well-remembered voice trembled with an excitement which she strove vainly to conceal. Her dress was of grey stuff, plainly made as always, but her black hat with a touch of blue in it suited her well, and as she sat before me in the chair wherein the mysterious Temptress had sat, she seemed extremely graceful and more handsome than ever.
“You have, I suppose, almost forgotten me during this long separation, haven’t you?” she faltered with abruptness, after some hesitation. Apparently she had carefully prepared some little diplomatic speech, but in the excitement of the moment all recollection of it had passed from her mind.
“Forgotten you, Muriel!” I echoed, gazing earnestly into her soft, beautiful eyes. “When we last met, did I not tell you that I should never forget?”
Her breast heaved and fell; her countenance grew troubled.
“Surely it is you who have forgotten me?” I said, with a touch of bitter reproach. “You have cast me aside in preference for another. Tell me what I have done that you should treat me thus?”
“Nothing!” she responded nervously, her grave eyes downcast.
“Then, why cannot you love me, Muriel?” I demanded, bending towards her in desperation.
“I – I’m foolish to have come here,” she said, in sudden desperation, rising from her chair.
“Why foolish?” I asked. “Even though you may love another you are always welcome to my rooms as of old. I bear you no ill-will, Muriel,” I said, not, however, without bitterness.
A silence fell. Again she sighed deeply, and then at last raising her fair face to mine, she exclaimed in an eager, trembling tone —
“Forgive me, Clifton! Forgive me! I have come here to-night to ask you to have pity upon me. I know how I have wronged you, but I have come to tell you that I still love you – to ask whether you consider me still worthy of your love?”
“Of course, darling!” I cried, springing forward, instantly placing my arm about her neck and imprinting a fond kiss upon her white brow. “Of course I love you,” I repeated, enthusiastic in my newly-found contentment. “Since you have gone out of my life I have been sad and lonely indeed; and when I knew that you loved another all desire for life left me. I – ”
“But I love you, Clifton,” she cried, interrupting. “It was but a foolish passing fancy on my part to prefer that man to you who have always been my friend, who have always been so kind and so thoughtful on my behalf. I wronged you deeply, and have since repented it.”
“The knowledge that you still love me, dearest, is sufficient. It gives me the completest satisfaction; it renders me the most happy man in all the world,” and still retaining her hand I pressed it warmly to my lips.
“Then you forgive me?” she asked, with a seriousness that at such a moment struck me as curious.
“Forgive you? Certainly!” I answered. “This estrangement has tested the affection of both of us. We now know that it is impossible for us to live apart.”
“Ah, yes!” she answered. “You are quite right. I cannot live without you. It is impossible. I have tried and have failed.”
“Then in future you are mine, darling,” I cried, in joyous ecstasy. “Let the past remain as a warning to us both. Not only were you inconstant, but I was also; therefore on my part there is nothing to forgive. Let happiness now be ours because we have both discovered that only in each other can we find that perfect love which to the pure and upright is as life itself.”
For me the face of the world had changed in those moments. A new and brighter life had come to me.
“Yes,” she answered in a low tone, which showed plainly how affected she was. And raising her full, ready lips to mine, she kissed me passionately, adding: “You are generous, indeed, Clifton. I feared and dreaded always that you had cast me aside as fickle and unworthy a thought.”
“No, no!” I said, my arm around her protectingly. “Think no more of that. Don’t let us remember the past, dearest, but look to a brighter future – a future when you will always be with me, my companion, my helpmate, my wife!”
There were tears in her dark eyes, tears of boundless joy and abundant happiness. She had come there half expecting a rebuff, yet had found me ready and eager to forgive; therefore, in a few moments her emotion overcame her, and she hid her tear-stained face in her hands.
The prophecy of the Woman of Evil had been fulfilled. Yet at what cost had I gained this felicity? At the cost of a guilty silence – a silence that shielded her from the exposure of some mysterious, unknown guilt.
Such thoughts I endeavoured to cast from me in the dreamy happiness of those felicitous moments. Yet as I held Muriel in my arms and kissed her pale, tear-stained cheeks, I could not help reflecting upon the veil of mystery which surrounded the woman whose inexplicable influence had caused my love to return to me. In my sudden happiness there still remained the dregs of bitterness – the strange death of the man who had been my most intimate friend, and the demoniacal power possessed by the woman to whom I had unconditionally bound myself in return for Muriel’s love.
The words I uttered caused her to hesitate, to hold her breath, and look up at me with those dark, brilliant eyes which had so long ago held me beneath their spell. Again her hand trembled, again tears rose in her eyes, but at last, when I had repeated my sentence, she faltered a response.
It was but a single word, but it caused my heart to bound for joy, and in an instant raised me to the seventh heaven of delight. Her response from that moment bound us in closer relationship than before.
She had given me her promise to become my wife.
Chapter Twenty
One Man’s Hand
In the hour that followed many were our mutual declarations, many were the kisses I imprinted upon those lips, with their true Cupid’s bow, without which no woman’s beauty is entirely perfect.
From her conversation I gathered that the assistants at the great shop in the Holloway Road were treated, as they often are, as mere machines, the employers having no more regard for their health or mental recreation than for the cash balls which roll along the inclined planes to the cash-desk. Life within that great series of shops was mere drudgery and slavery, the galling bonds of which only those who have had experience of it can fully appreciate.
“From the time we open till closing time we haven’t a single moment’s rest,” she said, in reply to my question, “and with nearly eighty fines for breaking various rules, and a staff of tyrannical shop-walkers who are always either fining us or abusing us before the customers, things are utterly unbearable.”
“Yes,” I said, indignantly, “the tyrannies of shop life ought to be exposed.”
“Indeed they ought,” she agreed. “One of our rules fines us a shilling if after serving a customer we don’t introduce at least two articles to her.”
“People don’t like things they don’t want pushed under their noses,” I said. “It always annoys me.”
“Of course they don’t,” she agreed. “Again, if we’re late, only five minutes, in the morning when we go in to dust, we’re fined sixpence; if one of the shop-walkers owes any girl a grudge he will fine her a shilling for talking during business, and if she allows a customer to go out without buying anything and without calling his attention to it, she has to pay half-a-crown. People don’t think when they enter a shop and are met by a suave man in frock-coat who hands them a chair and calls an assistant, that this very man is watching whether the unfortunate counter-slave will break any of the code of rules, so that the instant the customer has gone she may be fined, with an added warning that if a similar thing again occurs she will be dismissed.”
“In no other trade would men and women conform to such rules,” I exclaimed, for she had often told me of these things before. “Who takes the fines?”
“The firm, of course,” she answered. “They’re supposed to go towards the library; but the latter consists of only about fifty worn-out, tattered books which haven’t been added to for the past three years.”
“I don’t wonder that such an existence should crush all life from you. It’s enough to render any one old before their time, slaving away in that place from morning till night, without even sufficient time for your meals. But why are you a favourite?” I asked.
She looked at me for an instant, then dropped her eyes and remained silent.
“I scarcely know,” she faltered at last, and I scented in her indecision an element of mystery.
“But you must be aware of the reason that you are not treated quite as harshly as the others.”
“Well,” she laughed, a slight flush mounting to her cheek, “it may be because of my friendliness towards the shop-walker.”
“The shop-walker!” I exclaimed in surprise, not without some jealous resentment rising within me. “Why are you friendly towards him?”
“Because it is judicious not to offend him,” she said. “One girl did, and within a week she was discharged.”
“But such truckling to a greasy, oily-mouthed tailor’s dummy is simply nauseating,” I cried fiercely. “Do you mean to say that you actually have to smile and be amiable to this man – perhaps even to flirt with him – in order to save yourself from being driven to death?”
“Certainly!” she answered, quite frankly.
“And who is this man?” I inquired, perhaps a trifle harshly.
“The man with whom you saw me on that night when you followed me from Aldersgate Street,” she responded.
“That tall, thin man!” I cried, amazed. “The man who was your lover!”
She nodded, and her eyes were again downcast.
I sat staring at her in amazement. I had never thought of that.
“What’s his name?” I asked quickly.
“Henry Hibbert.”
“And he is shop-walker at your place?”
“Certainly.”
“Why didn’t you tell me this before, when I asked you?” I inquired.
“Because I had no desire that you should sneer at me for walking out with a man of that kind,” she responded. “But now that it is all past, I can fearlessly tell you the truth.”
“But what made you take up with him?” I asked, eager now to at least penetrate some portion of the mystery, for I recollected that night in the Park, when I had overheard this man Hibbert’s strange conversation with Aline.
“I really don’t know what caused me to entertain any regard for him,” she answered.
“How did it come about?”
“We were introduced one night in the Monico. I somehow thought him pleasant and well-mannered, and, I don’t know how it was, but I found myself thinking always of him. We met several times, but then I did not know what he was. I had no idea that he was a shop-walker. It was because of my foolish infatuation, I suppose, that I cast aside your love. But from that moment my regret increased, until I could bear the separation no longer, and I came to-night to seek your forgiveness.”
“But what knowledge of this man had you before that night in the café?” I inquired. “Who introduced you?”
“A girl friend. I knew nothing of him before, and have since come to the conclusion that she knew him but slightly.”
“Then was he, at this time, engaged in the shop in the Holloway Road?” I asked, feeling that this fact should be at once cleared up.
“I think so.”
“Are you absolutely certain?”
“No, I’m not. Why do you ask?”
“Because,” I answered reflectively, “because it is strange that you should have taken an engagement at the very shop where he was employed.”
“It was he who gave me the introduction there,” she said. “Only when I got there and commenced work did I find to my surprise that the man who had interested himself on my behalf was actually the shop-walker. He saw the look of surprise upon my face, and laughed heartily over it.”
“Did you never seek to inquire how long previously he had been employed there?”
“No. It never occurred to me to do so,” she answered.
“But you can discover now easily enough, I suppose?”
“Of course I can,” she replied. “But why are you so anxious to know?”
“I have a reason for desiring to know the exact date on which he entered the firm’s employ,” I said. “You will find it out for me at once, won’t you?”
“If you wish.”
“Then let me know by letter as soon as you possibly can,” I urged quickly.
“But you need not be jealous of him, Clifton,” she said, seeking to reassure me. With her woman’s quick instinct she saw that my anger had been raised against him.
“How can I help being annoyed?” I said. “The facts seem quite plain that he first took service with this firm, and then most probably obtained the dismissal of one of the girls in order to make a vacancy for you. He was in love with you, I suppose,” I added, rather harshly.
“Love was never mentioned between us,” she declared. “We merely went out and about together, and in business he used to chat and joke with me. But as for love – ”
And she laughed scornfully, without concluding her sentence.
“And the other girls were jealous of you – eh?”
She laughed.
“I suppose they were,” she answered.
“Was this man – Hibbert was his name? – an experienced shop-walker?”
“I think so,” she replied. “But he was disliked on account of his harshness and his constant fining of everybody.”
“Except you.”
“Yes,” she laughed. “I generally managed to escape.”
She noticed the hard look in my face, as I pondered over the strange fact. That this man who was such an intimate acquaintance of Aline’s was actually shop-walker where Muriel was employed added to the mystery considerably, rather than decreasing it.
“Why need we discuss him now?” she asked. “It is all over.”
“But your acquaintance with this man who has evidently striven to win your love must still continue if you remain where you are,” I said in a tone of annoyance.
“No,” she replied. “It is already at an end.”
“But he’s your shop-walker. If you have refused to go out with him, in future he’ll undoubtedly vent his spiteful wrath upon you.”
“Oh no, he won’t,” she laughed.
“Why?”
“Because he has left.”
“Left!” I echoed. “Of course you know where he is?”
“No, I don’t,” she replied. “He annoyed me in business by speaking harshly to me before a customer, and I told him plainly that I would never again go out in his company. He apologised, but I was obdurate, and I have never seen him since. He went away that night, and has not returned. His place was filled up to-day. At first it was thought that he might have stolen something; but nothing has been missed, and now his sudden departure is believed to be due to his natural impetuousness and eccentricity.”
“Then it would seem that owing to a disagreement with you he left his employment. That’s really very remarkable!” I said.
“Yes. Everybody thinks it strange, but, of course, they don’t know that we quarrelled.”
“And you swear to me that you have never loved him, Muriel?” I asked, looking straight into her upturned face.
“I swear to you, Clifton,” she answered. “I swear that he has never once kissed me, nor has he uttered a word of affection. We were merely friends.”
“Then that makes the aspect of affairs even more puzzling,” I observed. “That he had some motive for leaving secretly there is no doubt. What, I wonder, could it have been?”
“I don’t know, and it really doesn’t trouble me,” she replied. “I was exceedingly glad when he went, and now am doubly glad that I came and sought your forgiveness.”
“And I too, dearest,” I said, holding her hand tenderly in mine. “But, truth to tell, I have no confidence in that man. There was something about him that I didn’t like, and this latest move has increased my suspicion.”
“What suspicion?”
“That his intentions were not honest ones!” I answered.
“Why, Clifton,” she cried, “what an absurd fancy! Do you think that because I broke off his acquaintance, he intends to murder me?”
“I have no definite views on the subject,” I answered, “except that he intended to do you some evil, and has up to the present been thwarted.”
“You’ll make me quite nervous if you talk like that,” she responded, laughing. “Let us forget him. You once admired that woman, Aline Cloud, but that circumstance has passed out of my mind.”
“You must leave that place and go down to Stamford,” I said decisively. “A rest in the country will do you good, and in a few months we will marry.”
“I’ll have to give a month’s notice before I leave,” she answered.
“No. Leave to-morrow,” I said. “For I cannot bear to think, dearest, that now you are to be my wife you should still bear that terrible drudgery.”
She sighed, and her countenance grew troubled, as if something oppressed her. This caused me some apprehension, for it seemed as though, even now, she was not perfectly happy.
I gave tongue to this thought, but with a light laugh she assured me of her perfect contentment, and that her regret was only of the past.
Then we sat together, chatting in ecstatic enthusiasm, as I suppose all lovers do, planning a future, wherein our bliss was to be unalloyed and our love undying. And as we talked I saw how at last she became composed in that haven of contentment which is so perfect after the troubled sea of regret and despair, while I, too, felt that at last I wanted nothing, for the great desire of my life had been fulfilled.
Suddenly, however, thoughts of Aline, the mysterious woman who had come between us so strangely, the friend of this man Hibbert and the secret acquaintance of poor Roddy, crossed my mind, and I resolved to gain from her what knowledge she possessed. Therefore, with care and skill I led our conversation up to her, and then point-blank asked her what she knew regarding this woman whose face was that of an angel, and whose heart was that of Satan.
I saw how she started at mention of Aline’s name; how the colour fled from her cheeks, and how sudden was her resolve to fence with me; for at once she asserted her ignorance, and suggested that we might mutually agree to bury the past.
