"I regret that I left London. All my interests were centred there. It
was only my health which compelled me to give it up. But I suppose I
shall go back some day," and he sighed and resumed the briar pipe he had
been smoking when I entered.
On the table was a blotting-pad and some manuscript. He had tried that
day to write his sermon, but was unable. He had been smoking and
meditating instead.
"And as soon as you have got strong again you mean to leave us and go
back to a London parish!" I exclaimed. "That's too bad. I hear you
are getting on famously here."
"Getting on!" he repeated wearily. "Yes, and that's about all. My work
lies in London. I'm not fitted for a country parson, because I can't be
idle. I feel as if I must be always energetic; and too much energy on
the part of a country curate generally causes his vicar annoyance. Many
vicars think energy undignified."
"But, my dear fellow," I exclaimed, "if you're not well--and I see
you're not well by your face and manner--why don't you take things
easily? You need not kill yourself, surely! London seems to have a
remarkable attraction for you. Surely life is much healthier here."
"Yes, you're right," he answered in a clear voice. "There is an
attraction for me in London," and he looked into my face with a curious
expression.
"An attraction outside your work?" I suggested. He hesitated. Then,
suddenly, he answered--
"Yes. Why need I conceal it from you, Clifton? It is a woman."
"And you are in love?" I exclaimed.
"Yes," he responded, in a low tone. "But, hush! Not so loud. No one
must know it here."
"Of course not. If you wish, it shall remain a secret with me," I said.
"Are you engaged?"
"Oh no!" he exclaimed. "I love her, but have not yet spoken. I will
tell you the truth; then you can advise me," and he paused. At last,
continuing, he said: "When I joined the Church I made a solemn vow to
God of celibacy; not because I hated women, but because I considered
that my work, if done conscientiously, as I intended to do it, should be
my sole thought. Mine is perhaps a rather extreme view, but I cannot
think that a man can work for his Master with that thoroughness if he
has a woman to love and cherish as when he is a bachelor and alone.
Some may say that woman's influence upon man is softening and
humanising; but I hold that the man who is single can apply himself more
devoutly to his fellow-creatures than he who has home ties and family
affairs. Well, I took Holy Orders and set myself to work. I know I am
not a brilliant preacher, nor have I that gift of self-advertisement
which some men cultivate by lecturing with limelight views; but I do
know that I strove to act as servant to the Master I had elected to
serve, and the thanks of the grateful poor and the knowledge that more
than one person had been brought to repentance by my words, were more
than sufficient repayment for my efforts. Time went on, and I became
deeply absorbed in my work in those foetid slums, until one day I
chanced to meet a woman who in an instant entranced me by her beauty.
She gave me but a passing glance, but her eyes kindled in my soul the
fire of love. We men are, indeed, frail creatures, for in a moment all
my good resolutions fell to the ground, and I felt myself devoted to
her. We met again, and again. I admired her. I saw how beautiful she
was, and then found myself thinking more of her than of the Master whom
I was serving. True it is, as it is written, `No man can serve two
masters,'" and he sighed heavily, and sat dejected, his chin upon his
breast.
"And then?" I inquired.
"Some months went by," he said. "She was aware how deeply I had the
welfare of the poor in my parish at heart, and in order, I suppose, to
please me, she enrolled herself as a helper. Instead of pleasing me,
however, this action of hers caused me loathing. I saw that she had
only done this in order to be nearer me; that her pretence of religious
fervour was feigned, in order that her actions might not appear
irregular to the outside world. Ours was a mutual love, yet no word of
affection had ever passed our lips. But I could not bear to be a party
to this masquerade. A woman who took up arduous duties like she did,
merely because `slumming,' as it was called, happened to be the
fashionable craze of the moment, was in no way fitted to become the wife
of one whose duty lay ever in the homes of the suffering and needy. I
tried to shake off her acquaintance, to discourage her, to frighten her
by exaggerated stories of infectious disease, but she would not listen.
She was determined, she declared, `to work for the Church,' and
encouraged by the vicar, continued to do so. I strove to live down my
increasing admiration for her, but could not. Time after time I treated
her with unpardonable rudeness, but she merely smiled, and was more
tenacious than ever, until at last, in sheer desperation, I resigned,
and came here. Now you know all the truth, Clifton," he added, in a
lower tone. "I came down here to escape her!"
"And yet you are ready to again return to London--you want to get back
again," I observed.
"Ah! yes!" he sighed, the dark look still upon his face. "It is my
test. I have to choose between love and duty."
"And you choose the latter?"
"I am trying to do so. With God's help I hope to succeed," he answered,
in a hoarse voice. "If love proves too strong, then I fall back to the
level from which I have striven to rise--the level of the ordinary man."
"But are you certain you were not mistaken in the object of the lady in
joining the work in which you were engaged? May not she have been
determined to become self-sacrificing in the holy cause, just as you
were?"
"No," he answered very decisively, "I cannot believe it. There were
facts which were suspicious."
"What kind of facts?"
"In various ways she betrayed her insincerity of purpose," he answered.
"Her friends were wealthy, and the vicar was acute enough to see that if
she were encouraged she would bring additional funds to the church. But
the poor themselves, always quick to recognise true sincerity, very soon
discerned that she visited them without having their welfare at heart,
and consequently imposed upon her."
There was nothing sanctimonious or puritanical about Jack Yelverton.
The words he uttered came direct from his faithful, honest heart.
"And yet you love her!" I remarked, amazed. "That's just it. My
admiration of her grace and beauty ripened into love before I was aware
of it. I struggled against it, but became overwhelmed. Had she not
feigned sincerity and taken up the work that I was doing, I should, I
believe, have proposed marriage to her. But her action in trying to
appear solicitous after the welfare of the sick, when I knew that her
thoughts were all of the world, caused me a revulsion of feeling which
ended in my resignation and escape."
"Escape!" I echoed. "One would think that you had fled from some
feared catastrophe."
"I did fear a catastrophe," he declared. "I feared that I should marry
and become devoted to my wife, instead of to my Master. Ah! Clifton,
mine is a strange, a very strange position. You may think my words
extremely foolish, but you cannot understand the circumstances aright.
If you did, you would see why I acted as I have done."
"You acted quite wisely, I think," said I. "None could blame you for
seeking a country curacy in such circumstances. To be thus run after by
a woman is positively sickening."
"Ah, there you are mistaken!" he exclaimed quickly. "She didn't run
after me. It was I who, attracted by her beauty, showed her by my
actions that I loved her. From the first it was my own fault entirely.
I have only myself to reproach."
"But you cannot actually reproach yourself, if you are still fond of
her."
"Fond of her? I adore her!" he cried. "I only wish I did not. Have I
not told you how I've fought against this feeling? Yet what's the use
of striving against the deepest and most overwhelming passion in the
world?"
"Could you not be happy with her, and yet live as upright, honest, and
holy a life as you now do?" I suggested. "Does not the holy proverb
say that a man who takes a wife obtains favour with the Lord?"
"Yes," he answered. "But as I have explained, it is easier for the man
to devote himself to religious work when he is single than when he has a
wife to occupy his thoughts. He must neglect the one or the other. Of
that I am convinced. Besides, I have vowed to God to serve Him alone,
and with His assistance I will do so. I will!" and his hands clenched
themselves in the fierceness of his words.
Next day I drove my sister into Stamford, and having put up at that
well-known old hostelry, the George, she went to do some shopping while
I sauntered forth determined to make what inquiries I could of Muriel's
whereabouts. All her relatives were in ignorance. One of them, an
aunt, had received a brief note saying that she had left Madame
Gabrielle's, and would send her new address. But she had not done so.
From place to place I went, ever with the same question upon my lips,
but ever receiving a similar reply. Muriel was utterly lost to all, as
to me.
About six o'clock we set out to drive home, but the dull day had
culminated in wet, and our journey was in the teeth of a tempestuous
wind which drove the rain full into our faces, and made us both very
uncomfortable. We had passed Worthorpe, and were halfway towards Colly
Weston, on the high road to Duddington, when we approached a female
figure in a black mackintosh cape, with difficulty holding her umbrella
in the boisterous wind. She was walking towards Stamford, and my sister
catching sight of her as we rapidly approached, said--
"I hope that woman is enjoying it."
It was already half dark, and the road was ankle-deep in mud, yet she
strode on determinedly, heedless of the rough weather, and bent upon
reaching the town before night fell entirely. At that part of the road
it is flat and open--straight across a highway cut years ago through the
Rockingham forest, which covered that part of the country, but the land
is now divested of trees and cultivated.
Her face was set straight in the direction of Stamford, and with her
umbrella held down firmly she did not notice our approach until just as
we passed and our high wheels spattered her with mud. She drew her
umbrella aside in surprise and looked up.
In an instant we had left her behind, but in that brief space of time I
recognised her.
There could be no mistaking that face. It was a countenance which, once
seen, rivetted itself upon the memory for ever because of its wondrous
loveliness.
It was Aline Cloud.
Quickly I glanced back, but it was evident that with my hat drawn down
over my eyes, and my collar turned up I was sufficiently disguised to
escape recognition. She did not turn, but trudged on through the mud
towards the town far across the valley, where the distant lights were
already beginning to glimmer.
I was utterly mystified; and the more so when, a quarter of an hour
later, just as we turned the sharp corner to descend the hill into
Duddington, we overtook and wished good evening to Jack Yelverton, who
was striding along in our direction.
He started suddenly, laughed nervously when I hailed him, and then kept
on his way.
Had he walked from Stamford, I wondered.
But next second the suspicion grew upon me that he had kept a secret
appointment somewhere on that bleak open road, and that the person he
had met was Aline, the Woman of Evil.