The discovery I had accidentally made was the reverse of reassuring.
Aline had admitted herself possessed of some mysterious power which
caused sacred objects to consume, the power of evil which she feared
would also fall upon me. I recollected how when she had visited me she
had urged me to hate her rather than love her, and I now discerned the
reason. She had feared lest her subtle influence upon me should be
fatal.
Through the days which passed her strange words rang ever through my
ears. She was a woman unique in all the world; a woman who, living in
teeming London, was endowed with faculties of abnormal proportions, and
possessed an unearthly power utterly unknown to modern science. I
thought of the fusing of my crucifix and my Madonna, and shuddered. Her
beauty was amazing, but she was a veritable temptress, a deistical
daughter of Apollyon.
My first feeling after leaving the Park was one of repugnance; yet on
reflection I found myself overcome by fascination, still bewitched by
her beautiful face, and eager to meet her once again. Surely nothing
maleficent could remain hidden beneath such outward innocence?
Thus I waited long and wearily for her coming, remaining in from day to
day, or whenever I went out leaving word with Simes as to where I could
be found if she called. In my turbulent state of mind I imagined many
strange things.
The more I reflected, the more complicated became the enigma.
At length one morning Simes opened my door suddenly and ushered her in.
I flung down my newspaper and rose to meet her, but next instant drew
back in surprise and alarm.
She was dressed in an elegant costume of pale grey trimmed with white
lace and heavy embroidery of pearls, a dress which could only have been
turned out by a first-class house, for it bore a Parisian chic, being
modelled in latest style. Her tiny shoes and gloves were of grey suede
to match the dress, and beneath her big black hat with ostrich feathers
her face looked sweet and winning as a child's.
But the flush of health had faded. Her cheeks were just as beautiful as
they had ever been, but the bloom of youth had died from them, and her
complexion was a yellowish brown, like that of a woman of sixty. The
light in her blue eyes had faded; they were now dull and leaden.
"At last!" I cried happily. "I am so glad you've come, for I've waited
so long, Aline."
She allowed her hand to rest in mine, then sank wearily into my armchair
without a word.
"You are not well," I cried, in concern. "What ails you?"
"Nothing!" she gasped. "It is nothing. In a few minutes it will pass."
Then she added, as if on second thought, "Perhaps it was your stairs.
The lift is out of order." And she rested her head upon the back of the
chair and looked up at me with pitying eyes.
All life had apparently gone out of her beautiful face. That vivacity
that had attracted me had given place to a deep, thoughtful look, as
though she were in momentary fear. Her face seemed blanched to the
lips.
"May I get you something?" I asked. "Let me give you some brandy," and
taking the bottle from the tantalus I gave her a liqueur-glass full of
cognac, which she swallowed at one gulp.
"Why have you not called before?" I inquired, when, at length, she grew
less agitated. "I have expected you daily for so long."
"I've been away in the country," she answered. "But do not think that I
have not remembered you."
"Nearly three weeks have gone by since you were last here," I said. "It
is too cruel of you not to allow me to write to you."
"No," she said decisively, "you must not write. You have already
promised me, and I know you will not break any compact you make."
"But I love you, Aline," I whispered, bending forward to her.
"Yes, alas! I know that," she responded, rousing herself. "Yet, why
carry this folly further?"
"Folly you call it?" I exclaimed regretfully. "Because you cannot love
me in return you tell me I am foolish. Since you have been absent I
have examined my own heart, and I swear that my love is more than mere
admiration. I think of no one in the world besides yourself."
"No, no," she said uneasily. "There is some other woman whom you could
love far better, a woman who would make you a true and faithful wife."
"But I can love no one else."
"Try," she answered, looking me straight in the face. "Before we met
you loved one who reciprocated your affection."
"Who?"
"You wish me to tell you?" she replied in a hard, bitter tone. "Surely
you cannot affect ignorance that you are loved by Muriel Moore?"
"Muriel!" I gasped in amazement. "How did you know?"
She smiled.
"There is but little that escapes me," she answered. "You loved each
other before our romantic meeting, and I, the woman who must necessarily
bring evil upon you, have come to separate you. Yet you calmly stand by
and invite me to wreck your life! Ah! you cannot know who I am, or you
would cast me from your thoughts for over."
"Then who are you?" I blurted forth, in blank amazement.
"I have already told you. You have, of your own free will, united
yourself with me by a declaration of love, and the consequences are
therefore upon your own head."
"Cannot you love like other women?" I demanded. "Have you no heart, no
feeling, no soul?"
"No," she sighed. "Love is forbidden me. Hatred takes its place; a
fierce, deadly hatred, in which vengeance is untempered by justice, and
fatality is always inevitable. Now that I confess, will you not cast me
aside? I have come here to you to urge you to do this ere it is too
late."
"You speak so strangely that I'm bewildered," I declared. "I have told
you of my love, and will not relinquish you."
"But for the sake of the woman who loves you. She will break her
heart."
"Muriel does not love me," I answered. "I have spoken no word of
affection to her. We were friends--that is all."
"Reflect! Is it possible for a girl in such a position as Muriel Moore
to be your friend without loving you! You are wealthy, she is poor.
You give her dinners with champagne at the gayest restaurants; you take
her to stalls at theatres, or to a box at the Alhambra; you invite her
to these rooms, where she drinks tea, and plays your piano; and it is
all so different from her humdrum life at Madame Gabrielle's. Place
yourself for one moment in her position, with a salary of ten shillings
a-week and dresses provided by the establishment, leading a life of
wearying monotony from nine in the morning till seven at night, trying
on bonnets, and persuading ignorant, inartistic women to buy your wares.
Would you not be flattered, nay, dazzled, by all these attentions which
you show her? Would you not become convinced that your admirer loved
you if he troubled himself so much about you?"
Her argument was plain and forcible. I had never regarded the matter in
that light.
"Really, Aline," I said, "I'm beginning to think that you are possessed
of some power that is supernatural."
She laughed--a laugh that sounded strangely hollow.
"I tell you this--I argue with you for your own sake, to save you from
the danger which now encompasses you. I would be your protector because
you trust me so implicitly, only that is impossible."
In an instant I recollected her declaration to her bony-faced companion
in the Park. Had she actually resolved to kill me?
"Why should I relinquish you in favour of one for whom I have no
affection?" I argued.
"Why should you kiss the hand that must smite you?" she asked.
Her lips were bloodless; her face of ashen pallor.
"You are not yourself to-day," I said. "It is not usual for a woman who
is loved to speak as you speak. The love of a man is usually flattering
to a woman."
"I have come to save you, and have spoken plainly."
"What, then, have I done that I deserve punishment?" I inquired in
breathless eagerness.
"You love me."
"Surely the simple offence of being your lover is not punishable by
death?"
"Alas! it is," she answered hoarsely. "Compelled as I am to preserve my
secret, I cannot explain to you. Yet, if I could, the facts would prove
so astounding that you would refuse to believe them. Only the graves of
those who have loved me--some of them nameless--are sufficient proof of
the fatality I bring upon those whom my beauty entrances."
She raised her head, and her eyes encountered a photograph standing on a
table in the window. It was Roddy's.
"See there!" she said, starting, raising her hand and pointing to it.
"Like yourself, that man loved me, and has paid the penalty. He died
abroad."
"No," I replied quickly. "You are mistaken. That picture is the
portrait of a friend; and he's certainly not dead, for he was here
smoking with me last night."
"Not dead!" she cried, starting up and crossing to it. "Why, he died at
Monte Carlo. He committed suicide after losing all he had."
"No," I replied, rather amused. "That is the Honourable Roderick
Morgan, member of Parliament."
"Yes, that was the name," she said aloud to herself. "Roddy Morgan they
called him. He lost seven thousand pounds in one day at roulette."
"He has never to my knowledge been to Monte Carlo," I observed, standing
beside her.
"You've not always accompanied him everywhere he has been, I presume?"
she said.
"No, but had he been to Monte Carlo he would certainly have told me."
"Men do not care to speak of losses when they are as absurdly reckless
as he was."
The idea that Roddy had committed suicide at Monte Carlo seemed utterly
absurd, nevertheless in order to convince her that he was still very
much alive I picked up the paper and pointed to his name in the
Parliamentary debate of the previous night.
"It is strange, very strange!" she said, reflecting. "I was in the
Rooms when he shot himself. While sitting at one of the tables I saw
them carry him away dead."
"You must have made some mistake," I suggested.
"I was playing at the same table, and he continued to love me, although
I had warned him of the consequences, as I have now warned you. He lost
and lost. Each time he played he lost, till every farthing he possessed
had gone. Then I turned away, but ere I had left the room there was the
sound of a pistol-shot, and he fell across the table dead."
She had the photograph in her hand, and bent to the light, examining it
closely.
"It cannot be the same man," I said.
"Yes, it is," she responded. "There can be no mistake, for the ring
which secures his cravat is mine. I gave it to him."
I looked, and there sure enough was an antique ring of curious pattern,
through which his soft scarf was threaded.
"It is Etruscan," she said. "I picked it up in a shop in Bologna."
I glanced quickly at her. Her face was that of a girl of twenty; yet
her speech was that of a woman of the world who had travelled and become
utterly weary. The more I saw of her the more puzzled I became.
"Then if the man you knew was the original of that photograph he
certainly is not dead. If you wish, I will send my man for him."
"Ah, no!" she cried, putting up her hand in quick alarm. "He has
suffered enough--I have suffered enough. No, no; we must not meet--we
cannot. I tell you he is dead--and his body lies unmarked in the
suicides' cemetery at Monte Carlo."
I shrugged my shoulders, declaring that my statement should be
sufficient to convince her.
Quickly, however, she turned to me, and with her gloved hand upon my
arm, besought me to release her.
"Hate me!" she implored. "Go to your friend, if he really is alive as
you declare, and ask of him my character--who and what I am."
"I shall never hate you--I cannot!" I declared, bending again towards
her and seeking her hand, but she instantly withdrew it, looking into my
face with an expression of annoyance.
"You disbelieve me!" she said.
"All that you say is so bewildering that I know not what to believe," I
answered.
"In this room you have, I suppose, discovered certain objects reduced to
ashes?" she asked in a hoarse tone.
"Yes, I have," I answered breathlessly.
"Then let them be sufficient to illustrate the influence of evil which
lies within me," she answered, and after a pause suddenly added: "I came
here to fulfil that which the irresistible power has decreed; but I will
leave you to reflect. If you have regard for me, then hate me.
Transfer your affections to Muriel Moore, the woman who really loves
you; the woman who weeps because you refrain from caressing her; the
woman who is wearing out her life because of you."
She held her breath, her lips trembled and her hands quivered, as though
the effort of speaking had been too great.
"I love you!" I cried. "I cannot forget you, Aline. I adore you!"
"No, no!" she said, holding up both her hands. "Enough! I only pray
that the evil I dread may not befall you. Farewell!" and bowing low she
turned, and swept out of the room, leaving me alone, bewildered,
dumbfounded.
The words she had uttered were completely confounding. She was
apparently possessed of attainments which were supernatural; indeed, she
seemed to me as a visitant from the Unknown, so strangely had she
spoken; so mysterious had been her allegations regarding Roddy.
For nearly an hour I remained deep in thought, plunged in abject
despair. Aline the beautiful had left me, urging me to transfer my
affections. The situation was extraordinary. She had, it seemed, gone
out of my life for ever.
Suddenly I roused myself. Her extraordinary statement that Roddy had
committed suicide at Monte Carlo oppressed me. If she really knew
Muriel's innermost thoughts, then it was quite feasible that she knew
more of my friend than I had imagined. Besides, had he not left the
theatre hurriedly on catching sight of her? There was a mystery which
should be elucidated. Therefore I assumed my hat and coat and went
round to Roddy's chambers in Dover Street, Piccadilly, to endeavour to
obtain some explanation of her amazing statement.
He lived in one of those smoke-blackened, old-fashioned houses with deep
areas, residences which were occupied by families fifty years ago, but
now mostly let out as suites of chambers. The front door with its inner
swing-door was, as usual, open, and I passed through and up the stairs
to the second floor, where upon the door was a small brass plate bearing
my friend's name.
The door was ajar, and pushing it open I walked in, exclaiming cheerily
as was my habit--
"Anybody at home?"
There was no response. Roddy was out, and his man had evidently gone
downstairs to obtain something. I walked straight on into the
sitting-room, a good-sized, comfortable apartment, which smelt eternally
of cigars, for its owner was an inveterate smoker; but as I entered I
was surprised to discover Roddy in his old velvet lounge-coat, sitting
alone in his chair beside the fire.
"Morning, old chap!" I cried. But he was asleep and did not move.
I crossed the room and shook him by the shoulder to awaken him, at the
same moment looking into his face.
It was unusually pale.
In an instant a terrible thought flashed across my mind, and I bent
eagerly towards him. He was not asleep, for his eyes were still
wide-open, although his chin had sunk upon his breast.
I placed my hand quickly upon his heart, but could detect no movement.
I touched his cheek. It was still warm. But his eyes told the
appalling truth. They were bloodshot, stony, discoloured, and already
glazing. The hideous, astounding fact could not be disguised.
Roddy Morgan was dead!