Almost at the same instant a train emerged from the tunnel and stopped
at the platform. Following close behind Muriel and her companion,
unnoticed among the crowd of foot-passengers, I saw them enter a
third-class compartment; therefore in order to discover my love's
hiding-place, I sprang into another compartment a little farther off.
At King's Cross they alighted, and it suddenly occurred me that the
woman whom Ash had been sent by his master to meet at the Great Northern
terminus might have been Muriel herself.
The pair ascended to the street, and after standing on the kerb for a
few moments entered a tram car, while I climbed on top. I had been
careful that Muriel should not detect me, and now felt a certain amount
of satisfaction in tracking her to her abode, although I confess to a
fierce jealousy of this shabby, miserable specimen of manhood who
accompanied her. Up the Caledonian Road to the junction of Camden Road
with Holloway Road they travelled, alighting in the latter road, and
walking slowly along, still deep in earnest conversation, until they
came to the row of shops owned by Spicer Brothers, a firm of drapers of
that character known in the trade as a "cutting" house, or one who sold
goods at the lowest possible price. It was, of course, closed at that
hour, but its exterior was imposing, one of those huge establishments
which of late years have sprung up in the various residential centres of
London.
Before the private door a couple of over-dressed young men lounged,
smoking cheap cigars, and within a watchman sat in a small box, like the
stage-door keeper of a theatre.
Muriel and her lean cavalier paused for a moment, then they shook hands,
and with a final word parted; he turned back City-wards, and she entered
the door, receiving a rough, familiar greeting from the two caddish
young assistants, who were not sufficiently polite to raise their hats
to her.
I stood watching the man's disappearing figure, and hesitated. But even
as I waited there I saw him emerge into the road and enter a passing
tram. The reason I did not follow him was because I was too confounded
in my feelings. Muriel was my chief thought. I hated this man, and
entertained no desire to seek further who or what he was. I knew him to
be an associate of Aline. That was sufficient.
I noted the shop well, and the door at which my love had entered, then
seeing that it was already ten o'clock, the hour when female
shop-assistants are expected to be in, I turned reluctantly and took a
cab back to my chambers.
At six o'clock next evening, I entered the establishment on a small
pretext, and ascertained from one of the employes that they closed at
seven. Therefore I smoked a cigar in the crowded saloon of the Nag's
Head until that hour, when, together with a number of other loungers, I
waited at the door from which the slaves of the counters and the
workrooms, male and female, soon began to emerge, eager to breathe the
fresh air after the weary hours in the stifling atmosphere, heavy with
that peculiar odour of humanity and "goods" that ever pervades the cheap
drapers'.
After waiting nearly half an hour Muriel at last came forth, dressed
neatly in cotton blouse and dark skirt, with a large black hat. She
went to the kerb, glanced up and down the broad thoroughfare, as if
looking for an omnibus or tram, then, there being none in sight, she
commenced to walk along the Holloway Road in the direction of the City.
For some distance I followed, then with beating heart I overtook her,
and, raiding my hat, addressed her.
"You!" she gasped, halting suddenly, and looking into my face with
terror.
"Yes, Muriel!" I answered gravely. "At last I have found you, though I
have striven in vain all these months."
An expression of annoyance crossed her features, but next second a
forced laugh escaped her.
"Why did you leave Madame's in the manner you did, without saying
anything to me?" I inquired, as I walked on at her side.
"I did not leave of my own accord," she replied. "I was discharged
because you kept me late, and I broke the rules."
"But you did not send me your address," I exclaimed reproachfully.
"I had no object in doing so," she responded, in a wearied voice, as if
the effort of speaking were too much for her.
"You acted cruelly--very cruelly," I said.
"No, I scarcely think that," she protested. "I told you quite plainly
that we could be but mere acquaintances in future."
"But I cannot understand you," I cried, dismayed. "What have I done to
deserve your contempt, Muriel?"
"Nothing," she responded coldly. "I do not hold you in contempt."
"But you love another!" I cried quickly, recollecting her companion of
the previous night.
"And if I do," she answered, "it is only my own concern, I suppose."
"No!" I cried fiercely. "It is mine, for I alone love you truly and
honestly. This man you love is a knave--a scoundrel--a--"
"How do you know him?" she interrupted, regarding me in wonder. "Have
you seen us together?"
"Yes," I replied, bitterly. "Last night I saw you with him. How long
will you scorn my affection and trample my love beneath your feet?
Think, Muriel!" I implored; "think how dearly I love you. Tell me that
this shall not continue always."
"I am perfectly happy," she answered, in a mechanical tone, not,
however, without noticing my hesitation. "I have no desire to change."
"Happy!" I repeated blankly. "Are you then happy in that low-class
drapery place, where you are compelled to dance attendance on the wives
of city clerks, and are treated with contempt by them because they think
it a sign of good breeding to show capriciousness, and give you all the
unnecessary trouble possible? In their eyes--in the eyes of those
around you--you are only a `shop-girl,' but in mine, Muriel," I added,
bending nearer her in deep earnestness, "you are a queen--a woman fitted
to be my wife. Can you never love me? Will you never love me?"
"It is impossible!" she answered in faltering tones, walking slower as
though she would return to escape me.
"Why impossible?"
"I am entirely happy as I am," she responded.
"Because this man with whom I saw you last night has declared his love
for you," I cried fiercely. "You believe him, and thus cast me aside."
She drew a long breath, and her dark eyes were downcast.
"What has caused you to turn from me like this?" I demanded. "Through
the years we have been acquainted, Muriel, I have admired you; I have
watched your growth from an awkward schoolgirl into a graceful and
beautiful woman; I alone know how you have suffered, and how bravely you
have borne the buffets of adversity. I have therefore a right to love
you, Muriel--a right to regard you as my own."
"No," she answered hoarsely, "you have no right. I am alone mistress of
my own actions."
"Then you don't love me?" I exclaimed despairingly.
She shook her head, and her breast slowly heaved and fell. The
foot-passengers hurrying past little dreamed that in that busy road I
was making a declaration of my love.
"You have cast me aside merely because of this man!" I went on, a
fierce anger of jealousy rising within me. "To love and to cherish you,
to make you my wife and give you what comfort in life I can, is my sole
object. I think of nothing else, dream of nothing else. You are my
very life, Muriel," I said, bending again until my words fell in a
whisper in her ear.
But she started back quickly as if my utterances had stung her, and
panting said--
"Why do you still persist in speaking like this when I have already
given you my answer? I cannot love you."
"Cannot!" I echoed blankly, all my hopes in an instant crushed. Then,
determinedly, I added: "No, you shall not thrust me aside in this
manner. The man who declares his love for you shall not snatch you thus
from me!"
"But cannot you see that it is because of our long friendship I am
determined not to deceive you. You have asked me a question, and I have
given you a plain, straightforward answer."
"You are enamoured of this cunning, lank-haired individual around whom
centres a mystery as great as that which envelops Aline Cloud," I said.
Her lips compressed, and I saw that mention of Aline's name caused her
uneasiness, as it had before done. There were many people passing and
repassing, therefore in that broad artery of London's ceaseless traffic
our conversation was as private as though it had taken place in the
silence of my own room.
"Does the mystery surrounding that woman still puzzle you?" she
inquired, with a calmness which I knew was feigned. Her fond eyes,
which once had shone upon me with their love-light, were cold and
contemptuous.
"Puzzle me?" I repeated. "It has almost driven me to distraction. I
verily believe she possesses the power of Satan himself."
"Yes," she agreed. "If the truth is ever known regarding her I
anticipate a strange and startling revelation."
"Ah!" I exclaimed instantly. "You know more than you will tell. Why
do you seek always to conceal the truth?"
"I know nothing," she protested. "Aline is your friend. Surely you may
ascertain the truth from her?"
"But this lover of yours--this man who now occupies the place in your
heart which I once hoped to occupy--who is he?"
She hesitated, and I saw that she intended still to fence with me. Of
late all her woman's wit seemed to concentrate in the ingenious evasions
of my questions in order to render my cross-examination fruitless.
"He is my lover, that is all."
"But what is he?" I asked.
"I have never inquired," she responded with affected carelessness.
"And you have actually accepted a strange man as your lover without
first ascertaining who or what he is?" I said in amazement. "This is
not like you, Muriel. You used to be so prudent when at Madame's that
some of the girls laughed at you and called you prudish. Yet now you
simply fling yourself helplessly in the arms of this rather odd-looking
man without seeking to inquire anything about him."
"I know sufficient to be confident in him," she responded, with a
girlish enthusiasm which at the moment struck me as silly.
"If you are confident in him it is quite plain that he reposes no
confidence in you," I argued.
"Why?"
"Because he has told you nothing of himself."
"It matters not," she responded in enraptured voice. "Our love is
itself a mutual confidence."
"And you are perfectly happy in this new situation of yours?"
"No," she answered, vainly endeavouring to restrain a sigh. "Not
perfectly. I'm in the ribbon department, and the work is much harder
and the hours longer than at Madame's. Besides, the rules are terribly
strict; there are fines for everything, and scarcely any premiums. The
shop-walkers are perfect tyrants over the girls, and the food is always
the same--never a change."
"Yet you told me a short time ago that you were quite contented?" I
said reproachfully.
"Well, so I am. There are many worse places in London, where the hours
are even longer, and the girls have no place but their bedrooms in which
to sit after business hours. The firm provides us with a comfortable
room, I must admit, even if they only half feed us."
Long ago, in the early days of our friendship, when she used to sit and
chat with me over tea in my chambers, she had explained how unvaried
food was one of the chief causes of complaint among shop-assistants.
"But I can't bear to think that you are in such a place as that," I
said. "Madame's was so much more genteel."
"Oh, don't think of me!" she responded with a brightness which I knew
she did not really feel at heart.
"But I do," I said earnestly. "I do, Muriel; because I love you. Tell
me now," I added, taking her arm. "Tell me why you have turned from
me."