The afternoon was damp, chilly, and cheerless as I stood at my window
awaiting Aline. I had written to her, and after some days received a
reply addressed from somewhere in South London declining to accept my
invitation, but in response to a second and more pressing letter I had
received a telegram, and now stood impatient for her coming.
Outside, it was growing gloomy. The _matinee_ at the Garrick Theatre
was over, and the afternoon playgoers had all gone their various ways,
while the long string of light carts belonging to the _Pall Mall
Gazette_ stood opposite, ready to distribute the special edition of that
journal in every part of London. The wind blew gustily, and the people
passing were compelled to clutch their hats. Inside, however, a bright
fire burned, and I had set my easiest chair ready for the reception of
the dainty girl who held me beneath her spell.
Even at that moment I recollected Muriel, but cast her out of my
thoughts when I reflected upon Aline's bewitching beauty.
Moments passed as hours. In the darkening day I stood watching for her,
but saw no sign, until I began to fear she would disappoint me. Indeed,
the clock on the mantel-shelf, the little timepiece which I had carried
on all my travels, had already struck five, whereas the hour she had
appointed was half-past four.
Suddenly, however, the door opening caused me to turn, and my pretty
companion of that night was ushered in by Simes.
"I'm late," she said apologetically. "I trust you will forgive me."
"It is a lady's privilege to be late," I responded, taking her hand, and
welcoming her gladly.
She took the chair at my invitation, and I saw that she was dressed
extremely plainly, wearing no ornaments. The dress was not the same she
had worn when we had met, but another of more funereal aspect. Yet she
was dainty and chic from her large black hat, which well suited her
pale, innocent type of beauty, down to her tiny, patent-leather shoe.
As she placed her foot out upon the footstool I did not fail to notice
how neat was the ankle encased in its black silk stocking, or how small
was the little pointed shoe.
"Why did you ask me to come here?" she asked, with a slightly nervous
laugh when, at my suggestion, she had drawn off her gloves.
"Because I did not intend that we should drift apart altogether," I
answered. "If you had refused, I should have come to you."
"At Ellerdale Road?" she exclaimed in alarm.
"Yes; why not? Is your aunt such a terrible person?"
"No," she exclaimed in all seriousness. "Promise me you will not seek
me--never."
"I can scarcely promise that," I laughed. "But why were you so
reluctant to come here again?" I inquired.
"Because I had no desire to cause you any unnecessary worry," she
replied.
"Unnecessary worry? What do you mean?" I asked, puzzled.
But she only laughed, without giving me any satisfactory answer.
"I'm extremely pleased to see you," I said, and in response to my
summons Simes entered with the tea, which she poured out, gracefully
handing me my cup.
"I'm of course very pleased to come and see you like this," she said
when my man had gone; "but if my aunt knew, she wouldn't like it."
"I suppose she was concerned about you the other night, wasn't she?"
"Oh yes," she replied with a smile. "We've often laughed over my absurd
ignorance of London."
"Do you intend to live always with your aunt?"
"Ah, I do not know. Unfortunately there are some in whose footsteps
evil always follows; some upon whom the shadow of sin for ever falls,"
and she sighed as she added, "I am one of those."
I glanced across at her in surprise. She was holding her cup in her
hand, and her face was pale and agitated, as though the confession had
involuntarily escaped her.
"I don't understand?" I said, puzzled. "Are you a fatalist?"
"I'm not quite certain," she answered, in an undecided tone. "As I have
already told you, I hesitated to visit you because of the evil which I
bring upon those who are my friends."
"But explain to me," I exclaimed, interested. "Of what nature is this
evil? It is surely not inevitable?"
"Yes," she responded, in a calm, low voice, "it is inevitable. You have
been very kind to me, therefore I have no desire to cause you any
unhappiness."
"I really can't help thinking that you view things rather gloomily," I
said, in as irresponsible a tone as I could.
"I only tell you that which is the truth. Some persons have a faculty
for working evil, even when they intend to do good. They are the
accursed among their fellows."
Her observation was an extraordinary one, inasmuch as more than one
great scientist has put forward a similar theory, although the cause of
the evil influence which such persons are able to exercise has never
been discovered.
About her face was nothing evil, nothing crafty, nothing to lead one to
suspect that she was not what she seemed--pure, innocent, and womanly.
Indeed, as she sat before me, I felt inclined to laugh at her assertion
as some absurd fantasy of the imagination. Surely no evil could lurk
behind such a face as hers?
"You are not one of the accursed," I protested, smiling.
"But I am!" she answered, looking me straight in the face. Then,
starting forward, she exclaimed, "Oh! why did you press me to come here,
to you?"
"Because I count you among my friends," I responded. "To see me and
drink a cup of tea can surely do no harm, either to you or to me."
"But it will!" she cried in agitation. "Have I not told you that evil
follows in my footsteps--that those who are my friends always suffer the
penalty of my friendship?"
"You speak like a prophetess," I laughed.
"Ah! you don't believe me!" she exclaimed. "I see you don't. You will
never believe until the hideous truth is forced upon you."
"No," I said, "I don't believe. Let us talk of something else, Aline--
if I may be permitted to call you by your Christian name?"
"You have called me by that name already without permission," she
laughed gaily, her manner instantly changing. "It would be ungenerous
of me to object, would it not?"
"You are extremely philosophical," I observed, handing her my cup to be
refilled.
"I'm afraid you must have formed a very curious opinion of me," she
replied.
"You seem to have no inclination to tell me anything of yourself," I
said. "I fancy I have told you all about myself worth knowing, but you
will tell me nothing in exchange."
"Why should you desire to know? I cannot interest you more than a mere
passing acquaintance, to be entertained to-day and forgotten to-morrow."
"No, not forgotten," I said reproachfully. "You may forget me, but I
shall never forget our meeting the other night."
"It will be best if you do forget me," she declared.
"But I cannot!" I declared passionately, bending and looking straight
into her beautiful countenance.
"I shall never forget."
"Because my face interests you, you are fascinated! Come, admit the
truth," she said, with a plain straightforwardness that somewhat took me
aback.
"Yes," I said. "That's the truth. I freely admit it."
She laughed a light, merry, tantalising laugh, as if ridiculing such an
idea. Her face at that instant seemed more attractive than ever it
appeared before; her smiling lips, half-parted, seemed pouted, inviting
me to kiss them.
"Why should a man be attracted by a woman's face?" she argued, growing
suddenly serious again. "He should judge her by her manner, her
thoughts, her womanly feeling, and her absence of that masculine
affectation which in these days so deforms the feminine character."
"But beauty is one of woman's most charming attributes," I ventured to
remark.
"Are not things that are most beautiful the most deadly?"
"Certainly, some are," I admitted.
"Then for aught you know the influence I can exert upon you may be of
the most evil kind," she suggested.
"No, no!" I hastened to protest. "I'll never believe that--never! I
wish for no greater pleasure than that you should remain my friend."
She was silent for some time, gazing slowly around the room. Her breast
heaved and fell, as if overcome by some flood of emotion which she
strove to suppress. Then, turning again to me, she said--
"I have forewarned you."
"Of what?"
"That if we remain friends it can result in nothing but evil."
I was puzzled. She spoke so strangely, and I, sitting there fascinated
by her marvellous beauty, gazed full at her in silence.
"You speak in enigmas," I exclaimed.
"You have only to choose for yourself."
"Your words are those of one who fears some terrible catastrophe," I
said. "I don't really understand."
"Ah! you cannot. It's impossible!" she answered in a low, hollow voice,
all life having left her face. She was sitting in the armchair, leaning
forward slightly, with her face still beautiful, but white and haggard.
"If I could explain, then you might find some means to escape, but I
dare not tell you. Chance has thrown us together--an evil chance--and
you admire me; you think perhaps that you could love me, you--"
"I do love you, Aline!" I burst forth with an impetuosity which was
beyond my control, and springing to my feet I caught her hand and
pressed it to my lips.
"Ah!" she sighed, allowing the hand to remain limp and inert in mine.
"Yes, I dreaded this. I was convinced from your manner that my
fascination had fallen upon you. No!" she cried, rising slowly and
determinedly to her feet. "No! I tell you that you must not love me.
Rather hate me--curse me for the evil I have already wrought--detest my
name as that of one whose sin is unpardonable, whose contact is deadly,
and at whose touch all that is good and honest and just withers and
passes away. You do not know me, you cannot know me, or you would not
kiss my hand," she cried, with a strange glint in her eyes as she held
forth her small, white palm. "You love me!" she added, panting, with a
hoarse, harsh laugh. "Say rather that you hold me in eternal loathing."
"All this puzzles me," I cried, standing stone still. "You revile
yourself, but if you have sinned surely there is atonement? Your past
cannot have been so ugly as you would make me believe."
"My past concerns none but myself," she said quickly, as if indignant
that I should have mentioned an unwelcome subject. "It is the future
that I anticipate with dread, a future in which you appear determined to
sacrifice yourself as victim."
"I cannot be a victim if you love me in return, Aline," I said calmly.
"I--love you?" She laughed in a strange, half-amused way. "What would
you have? Would you have me caress you and yet wreck your future; kiss
you, and yet at the same moment exert upon you that baneful power which
must inevitably sap your life and render you as capable as myself of
doing evil to your fellow-men? Ah! you do not know what you say, or you
would never suggest that I, of all women, should love you."
I gazed at her open-mouthed in amazement. Such a speech from the lips
of one so young, so beautiful, so altogether ingenuous, was absolutely
without parallel.
"I cannot help myself. I love you all the same, Aline," I faltered.
"Yes, I know," she replied quickly, with that same strange light in her
eyes which I had only noticed once before. At that instant they seemed
to flash with a vengeful fire, but in a second the strange glance she
gave me had been succeeded by that calm, wistful look which when we had
first met had so impressed me.
The idea that she was not quite responsible for her strange speeches I
scouted. She was as sane as myself, thoughtful, quick of perception,
yet possessing a mysteriousness of manner which was intensely puzzling.
This extraordinary declaration of hers seemed as though she anticipated
that some terrible catastrophe would befall me, and that now the
influence of her beauty was upon me, and I loved her, the spell would
drag me to the depths of despair.
"A woman knows in an instant by her natural intuition when she is
loved," she continued, speaking slowly and with emphasis. "Well, if you
choose to throw all your happiness to the winds, then you are, of
course, at liberty to do so. Yet, if you think that I can ever
reciprocate your love you have formed an entirely wrong estimate of my
character. One whose mission it is to work evil cannot love. I can
hate--and hate well--but affection knows no place in my heart."
"That's a terrible self-denunciation," I said. "Have you never loved,
then?"
"Love comes always once to a woman, as it does to a man," she replied.
"Yes, I loved once."
"And it was an unfortunate attachment?"
She nodded.
"As unfortunate as yours is," she said, hoarsely.
"But cannot I take your lover's place?" I bent and whispered
passionately. "Will you not let me love you? I will do so with all my
heart, with all my soul."