"Well," she went on, "_I_ only desire that you should release me from
this bond of friendship formed by your kindness to me the other night.
It would be better for you, better for me, if we parted this evening
never to again meet."
"That's impossible. I must see you from time to time, even though you
may endeavour to put me from you. I do not fear this mysterious evil
which you prophesy, because loving you as firmly as I do, no harm can
befall me."
"Ah, no!" she cried. "Do not say that. Think that the evil in the
world is far stronger than the good; that sin is in the ascendency, and
that the honest and upright are in the minority. Remember that no man
is infallible, and that ill-fortune always strikes those who are least
prepared to withstand the shock."
I remained silent. She spoke so earnestly, and with such heartfelt
concern for my welfare, that I was half-convinced of her sincerity of
purpose. The calmness of her words and her dignity of bearing was
utterly mystifying. Outwardly she was a mere girl, timid, unused to the
world and its ways, honest-eyed and open-faced; yet her words were those
of a woman who had had a long and bitter experience of loves and
hatreds, and to whom a lover was no new experience. Beneath these
strange declarations there was, I felt certain, some hidden meaning, but
its nature I utterly failed to grasp.
I was young, impetuous, madly in love with this mysterious, beautiful
woman who had come so suddenly into my otherwise happy, irresponsible
life, and I had made my declaration of affection without counting the
cost.
"I care not what evil may fall upon me," I said boldly, holding her hand
in tightening grip. "I have heard you, and have decided that I will
love you, Aline."
Again I raised her hand, and in silence she allowed me to kiss her
fingers, without seeking to withdraw them.
She only sighed. I thought there was a passing look of pity in her eyes
for a single moment, but could not decide whether it had really been
there or whether it was merely imaginary.
"Then, if that is your decision, so let it be!" she murmured hoarsely.
And we were silent for a long time.
I looked into her beautiful eyes in admiration, for was I not now her
lover? Was not Aline Cloud my beloved?
The dying day darkened into night, and Simes entering to draw down the
blinds compelled us to converse on topics far from our inmost thoughts.
She allowed me to smoke, but when I invited her to dine, she firmly
declined.
"No," she answered. "For to-day this is sufficient. I regret that I
called to visit you--I shall regret it all my life through."
"Why?" I demanded, dismayed. "Ah, don't say that, Aline! Remember
that you've permitted me to love you."
"I have only permitted what I cannot obviate," she answered, in a hard,
strained voice. I saw that tears were in her eyes, and that she was now
filled with regret.
Yet I loved her, and felt that my true, honest affection must sooner or
later be reciprocated.
Without further word she rose, drew on her gloves, placed her warm cape
around her shoulders and pulled down her veil. Then she stretched forth
her hand.
"You will not remain and dine? Do!" I urged.
"Not to-night," she answered, in a voice quite different from her usual
tone. "I will accept your invitation on another occasion."
"When shall I see you?" I asked. "May I hope to-morrow?"
"I will call when it is possible," she replied. "You say you love me.
Then promise me one thing."
"Anything you wish I am ready to grant," I answered.
"Then do not write to me, or seek me. I will call and see you whenever
my time admits."
"But may I not write?" I asked.
"No," she answered firmly. "No letters must pass between us."
I saw that she meant to enforce this condition, therefore did not argue,
but reluctantly took leave of her after her refusal to allow me to
accompany her back to Hampstead.
Again she allowed me to kiss her hand, then turning slowly she sighed
and passed out, preceded by Simes, who opened the door for her.
I sank back into my chair when the door closed upon her, puzzled yet
ecstatic. This woman, the most beautiful I had ever seen, had allowed
me to love her.
I had at last an object in life. Aline Cloud was my well-beloved, and I
would live only for her. In those moments, as I sat alone gazing into
the fire, I became filled with a great content, for infatuation had
overwhelmed me.
The clock striking seven at last aroused me to a sense of hunger, and I
rose to dross before going along to the club to dine. As I did so,
however, my eyes suddenly fell upon the mantel-shelf, and I stood
amazed, dumbfounded, rooted to the spot.
Upon the shelf there had been a small wooden medallion, a specimen of
the Russian peasants' carving, representing the head of a Madonna--I had
bought it in Moscow a year before--but an utterly astounding thing had
occurred.