Her tone of withering scorn showed that she no longer looked upon me
with favour.
"For years I have loved you, Muriel," I said in as calm a tone as I
could, "but I have feared to speak until to-day. Now that I have
declared the truth cannot you trust me?"
"No," she replied, shaking her head determinedly. "It is useless. I
cannot love you."
"Then you have tried and failed?" I gasped in dismay, looking into her
white, agitated face.
"Yes, I have tried," she answered after a pause.
"And do you doubt me?" I demanded quickly.
"Without mutual confidence there can be no love between us," she
responded in a dismal tone.
"But why can you not trust me? Surely I have given you no great
offence?" I said, bewildered at her strange attitude.
"I regret that you should have declared love to me, that's all," she
answered, quite philosophically.
"Why? Is it such a very extraordinary proceeding?"
"Yes," she replied petulantly. "You know well that marriage is entirely
out of the question. What would your friends say if you hinted at such
a thing?"
"The opinion of my friends is nothing to me," I replied. "I am
fortunately not dependent upon them. No. I feel sure that is not the
reason of your answer. You have some secret reason. What is it,
Muriel?"
"Have I not already told you that I am loved?"
"And you reciprocate this man's love?" I said harshly.
She made no response, but I saw in this silence an affirmative.
"Who is he?" I inquired quickly.
"A stranger."
"And you have confidence in him?"
Her eyes filled with tears, and her breast heaved and fell quickly.
"No, no," she cried at last. "Say no more. This subject is painful to
both of us. Do not let us discuss it."
"But I love you," I again repeated. "I love you, Muriel!"
"Then forget me," she answered, in a low, hoarse voice. "Forget me; for
we can in future be only acquaintances--not even friends."
"Then you have promised your lover to end your friendship with me. He
is jealous of me!" I cried. "Come, speak the truth," I added harshly.
"I have spoken the truth," she responded, in a voice rather calmer than
before.
"And you discard my love?" I said, in tones of bitter reproach.
"Yes," she said, "it is true. I discard your love. You have spoken,
and I give you my answer straightforwardly, much as it pains me."
"But will you not reconsider?" I urged. "When you reflect that I love
you, Muriel, better than all the world besides, that I will do all in my
power to secure your happiness, that you shall be my sole thought night
and day, will your heart not soften towards me? Will you never reflect
that you treated me, your oldest friend, a little unfairly?"
"If in the future I reproach myself, I alone shall bear the pricks of
conscience," she answered, with surprising calmness.
"And this, then, is your decision?"
"Yes," she replied, in a blank, monotonous voice. "I am honoured by
your offer, but am compelled to decline it."
Her words fell as a blow upon me. I had been confident, from the many
little services she had rendered me, the interest she had taken in the
arrangement of my bachelor's quarters, and her eagerness always to
please me, that she loved me. Yet her sudden, inexplicable desire to
end our friendship shattered all my hopes. She loved another. It was
my own fault, I told myself. I had neglected her too long, and it was
but what I might have expected.
In silence we walked on, emerging at length into the high road, and
turning into that well-known hostelry the Greyhound, where we had tea in
that great room so well patronised by excursionists on Sundays. We
talked but little, both our hearts being too full for words. Our
utterances were mere trivialities, spoken in order that those around us
should not remark upon our silence. It was a dismal meal, and I was
glad when we emerged again and entered the well-kept gardens of Hampton
Court, bright with their beds of old-world flowers.
I was never tired of wandering through that historic, time-mellowed, old
pile, where the sparrows twitter in the quiet court-yards, the peacocks
strut across the ancient gardens, and the crumbling sundials mark the
time, as they have done daily through three centuries.
In my gloomy mood, however, I fear I answered her chatter abruptly in
monosyllables. It struck me as strange that she could so quickly forget
and become suddenly light-hearted. Indeed, it seemed as though she were
glad that the ordeal she had feared had passed, and was delighted with
her freedom.
The bright air of the riverside was fresh and exhilarating, but the sun
soon went down, and when it grew chill we took train back to Waterloo,
and drove to Frascati's, where we dined.
"And is this actually to be our last dinner together?" I asked, as the
soup was brought, for I recollected the many snug little meals we had
eaten together in times gone by, and how she had enjoyed them as a
change after the eternal joints of beef or mutton as supplied to the
assistants at Madame Gabrielle's.
"It must be," she sighed.
"And you do not regret?"
Her lips quivered, and she glanced at me without replying.
"There is some mystery in all this, Muriel," I said, bending across to
her earnestly. "Why do you refuse to explain to me?"
"Because I cannot. If I could, I would."
"Then if after to-night we are to part," I went on bitterly, "mine will
be a dismal future."
"You have your own world," she said. "You will quickly forget me among
your gay friends, as you have already forgotten me times without
number."