The days of my love's convalescence were happy indeed. Most of the time
we spent together, planning the future and gossiping about the past.
Those were halcyon hours when we reckoned time only by the meals served
to us by Simes, and we both looked forward to a visit to the old
Lincolnshire town that was so very lethargic, so redolent of the "good
old days" of our grandfathers.
Once she received a letter left by a man, and marked "private." In this
I scented mystery; for she never referred to it, and when I inquired who
was the sender she merely replied that a friend had written to her.
This was strange, for none knew that she remained with me. We had
thought it best not to tell any one until all could be explained, for a
lady who lives in a bachelor's chambers is looked upon with some
suspicion if no very valid excuse can be given for such a flagrant
breach of the _convenances_.
The letter without doubt caused her much thought and considerable
anxiety. By her face I detected that she was dreading some dire result,
the nature of which she dared not tell me; and it was on that very
afternoon that Jack Yelverton called to inquire after me, for I had
neither written nor seen him since that night when the chalice at St
Peter's had disappeared into ashes.
He was stretched out in a chair smoking furiously, laughing more merrily
than usual, and talking with that genuine _bonhomie_ which was one of
his most engaging characteristics, when suddenly Muriel entered.
They met face to face, and in an instant she drew back, pale as death.
"I--I didn't know you had a visitor," she exclaimed half-apologetically,
her cheeks crimsoning in her confusion.
"Come in," I exclaimed, rising. "Allow me to introduce you," and I went
through the conventional formality.
Upon Yelverton's face I detected an expression of absolute wonder and
bewilderment; but seeing that she treated him with calm indifference, he
at once reseated himself, and the pair recovered their self-possession
almost instantly.
Puzzled at this strange complication, I spoke mechanically, explaining
that Muriel was engaged to marry me, and that she had been ill, although
I did not tell him the cause.
Yet all Jack Yelverton's levity had in that brief moment of unexpected
meeting departed. He had become brooding and thoughtful.
I confess that I entertained doubts. So many things had recently
occurred which she refused to explain, that day by day I was haunted by
a horrible consuming suspicion that, after all, she did not love me--
that for some purpose of her own she was merely making shallow pretence.
I fear that the remainder of Yelverton's visit was a dismal affair.
Certainly our conversation was irresponsible and disjointed, for neither
of us thought of what we said. Our reflections were far from the
subject under discussion.
At last the Vicar of St Peter's made his adieux, and when he had gone I
awaited in vain her explanation.
She said nothing, yet her efforts at concealment were so apparent that
they nauseated me. I was annoyed that she should thus believe me to be
one so blinded by love as to be unable to observe signs so palpable as
those in her countenance. The more I thought it over, the more apparent
it became that as Yelverton and Aline were lovers, Muriel, knowing
Aline, would certainly be acquainted with him. If so, and all their
dealings had been straightforward, why had not she at once welcomed him
as a friend, and not as a stranger?
I saw that he was plainly annoyed at meeting her, and detected
astonishment in his face when I announced my intention of marrying her.
I wondered why he looked at me so strangely. His expression was as
though he pitied my ignorance. Thoughts such as these held me in doubt
and suspicion.
With a self-control amazing in such circumstances, she reseated herself
and took up some needlework, which she had that morning commenced--a
cushion-cover intended for our home--and when at last I grew calm again
and sat with her she commenced to chat as though our happiness had in no
way been disturbed.
As the days went on and she rapidly grew stronger her attitude became
more and more puzzling. That she loved me passionately with a fierce,
all-consuming affection, I could not doubt. Not that she uttered many
words of re-assurance. On the contrary, she heard most of my
declarations in silence. Yet the heaving of her breast, and that
bright, truthful look in her eyes, were signs of love which I could not
fail to recognise.
During those nine weeks of Muriel's illness I heard nothing of Aline,
and was wondering if she knew of my beloved's presence, or if she would
again visit me. To her I had bound myself by an oath of secrecy, in
return for a gift to me more precious than any on earth, yet the many
strange occurrences which had happened since that first night at the
theatre formed a puzzle so intricate that the more I tried to discover
the solution the more bewildering it became.
Soon the dark-haired fragile girl who was to be my wife had so improved
in health that the doctor allowed her to go for a drive, and in the days
following we went out together each afternoon perfectly happy and
content in each other's love. Those who have loved truly know well the
ecstasy of the first hours in public with one's betrothed, therefore it
is unnecessary for me to describe my feeling of perfect bliss and
thankfulness that she was well at last, and that ere long we should
become man and wife.
It had been arranged that Muriel should leave for Stamford in two or
three days, when one morning, she having gone out with the nurse, and I
remaining alone in my room, Jack Yelverton was admitted. In an instant
I saw from his countenance that something unusual had occurred. His
pale, unshaven face was haggard and worn, his clerical collar was
soiled, his coat unbrushed, his hair unkempt, and as he seated himself
and put out his hand I felt it quiver in my grasp.
"Why, what's the matter, old chap?" I inquired in surprise. "What's
happened?"
"I'm upset, Clifton," he answered hoarsely.
"What's upset you? This isn't like your usual self," I said.
"No," he responded, rising and pacing the room with his hand to his
white brow, "it isn't like me." Then, turning quickly to me, he added
with gravity which startled me, "Clifton, I think I'm mad!"
"Mad! Nonsense! my dear fellow!" I protested, placing my hand upon his
shoulder. "Tell me what all this is about."
"I've failed!" he cried in a voice of utter despair. "I've striven, and
striven in my work, but all to no purpose. I've sown the wind, and the
Devil has placed a bar between myself and the Master."
"How?" I asked, failing to grasp his meaning.
"I have made a discovery," he answered in a dry, harsh tone.
"A discovery!" I echoed.
"Yes, one so appalling, so terrible, so absolutely horrible, that I am
crushed, hopeless, paralysed."
"What is it?" I demanded quickly, excited by his strange wildness of
manner.
"No," he answered. "It is useless to explain. You could never believe
that what I told you was the truth."
"I know that you would not willingly tell a lie to your oldest friend,
Jack," I answered, with grave earnestness.
"But you could never fully realise the truth," he declared. "A sorrow
has fallen upon me greater and more terrible than ever man has
encountered; for at the instant of my recovery I knew that I was shut
out from the grace of God, that all my work had been a mere mockery of
the Master."
"Why do you speak like this?" I argued, knowing him to be a devout man,
and having seen with my own eyes how self-denying he was, and how
untiring he had worked among the poor.
"I speak the truth, Clifton," he said, a strange look in his eyes. "I
shall never enter my church again."
"Never enter your church!" I cried. "Are you really mad?"
"The wiles of Satan have encompassed me," he responded hoarsely, in the
tone of a man utterly broken.
"How? Explain!" I said.
"A woman's eyes fascinated me. I fell beneath her spell, only to find
that her heart was the blackest in all the world."
"Well?"
"My love for her is an absorbing one. She is my idol, and I have cast
aside my God for her."
"Why do you talk like this?" I asked reproachfully. "Has it not been
proved to you already that you can marry and yet live a godly life?"
"Yes, yes! I know," he responded with impatience. "But to love Aline
Cloud is to abandon the Master."
"Why?" I inquired, all eagerness to learn what he knew of her strange
power of evil.
"I cannot explain, because there is a mystery which is impenetrable," he
answered. "I shall resign the living and go abroad. I can no longer
remain here."
"You will again fly from her, as you did when you went and hid yourself
in Duddington?" I asked. "I can't understand the reason of your
actions. Why not give me a little more explanation?"
"But I can't explain, because I have not yet fathomed the truth."
"Then you only entertain certain suspicions, and will act upon them
without obtaining clear grounds. That's illogical, Jack--very
illogical."
He pondered for a few moments, tugging at his moustache.
"Well, I hadn't looked at it in that light before, I must confess," he
answered at last. "You think I ought to be entirely satisfied before I
act."
"Yes, rashness should not be one of the characteristics of a man who
ministers God's Word," I said.
"But the deadly trail of the Serpent is upon everything," he declared.
"I can hope for nothing more. I cannot be hypocritical, neither can I
serve two masters. Is it not better for me to resign from the Church at
once than to offend before God?"
"For whatever sin you have committed there is the Great Forgiveness," I
said calmly. "You are a believer, or you could not preach those
enthralling sermons, which have already made you noted in ecclesiastical
London. You are known as a brilliant, powerful preacher who can make
the tears well in the eyes of strong men by your fervent appeal to them
to turn from their wickedness and live. Think!" I said. "Recollect
the men steeped in sin whom you have induced to come forth and bow
before their God in penitence. Think of those men who have been saved
by your ministrations, and then ask yourself whether there is no
salvation for you?"
"Yes!" he sighed. "What you say is quite true, Clifton--quite true."
"Then if you abandon the Church you abandon faith in the generous
forgiveness which you have preached, and exhibit to those who have
believed in you a doubt in the grace of God. Surely you, Jack, will not
do this?"
He was silent, with bent head, as he stood before me reflecting.
"Your argument is a strong one, certainly," he said at last. "But can I
actually stand in my pulpit and preach the Gospel after the knowledge
that has come to me?"
"Knowledge!" I repeated. "We found that knowledge to be a mere
suspicion only a moment ago!"
"Yes," he admitted; "suspicion if you like. Well, that amounts to the
same thing."
"Why don't you tell me all about it?" I urged. "What are these
suspicions regarding Aline?"
I recollected my bond of secrecy, and it drove me to madness. If I
could tell him all I knew, I felt that together we might combine to
probe the mystery. As it was, my silence was imperative.
"It's my misfortune that I have not sufficient grounds for making any
direct allegation. I love her still; I adore her; I worship her; but--"
At that instant, without warning, the door opened, and Muriel, bright
and happy, burst into the room, bearing an armful of flowers. Next
second, on recognising my visitor, her countenance changed, and she
bowed stiffly to him, without offering her hand. Quick to notice this,
I at once demanded an explanation, for the mystery had now driven me to
desperation.
"There is some secret in your previous acquaintance with Muriel," I
said, addressing Yelverton boldly. "Tell me what it is."
"Our acquaintance!" he faltered, while she drew back open-mouthed in
alarm. The pair exchanged glances, and I saw that between them was some
understanding. "What makes you suggest that?" he asked, with a forced
laugh.
"You were acquainted before I introduced you the other day!" I cried,
fiercely. "You can't deny that!"
"I have not denied it," he responded calmly. "It is quite true that I
knew Miss Moore before our formal introduction."
"Then why did you not admit it?" I demanded, a feeling of jealousy
rising within me.
"Simply because I had no desire to excite any suspicion in your mind,
Clifton. That's all."
"Rubbish!" I ejaculated. "There's some mystery behind all this. Why
may I not know?"
The Vicar of St Peter's glanced inquiringly at Muriel, but finding no
look of permission in her countenance, preserved a silence, which in a
moment grew irksome.
Suddenly, however, Muriel, who stood near me, pale and excited, turned,
and facing me, said--
"There appears to be a misunderstanding between you. It is quite true
that I am acquainted with Mr Yelverton, and there is absolutely no
necessity to deny the fact. We have known each other for a long time--
ever since I was at Madame Gabrielle's. He was curate at St Michael's,
Rathbone Place, where I attended, and we were very good friends until--
until--" and she did not finish the sentence.
"Until what?"
"Well, until an event occurred which transformed our friendship."
"What event?"
Again the pair exchanged glances. She was apparently trying to obtain
permission from him to expose to me the whole truth. At that moment I
felt assured that this woman I had so fondly loved was playing me false,
and, after all, this popular preacher was her real lover. Certain
circumstances appeared to point to it, for her confusion was apparent;
she knew not what to admit, nor what to deny.
He shrugged his shoulders in dumb motion, as though he were careless,
but this action apparently gave her confidence, and she turned to me
again, saying--
"Any explanation you demand, Mr Yelverton will no doubt give to you."
"No, no," Jack cried, addressing her. "It's quite impossible. You know
full well that I'm utterly in ignorance of the truth, and that you alone
can explain, if you will."
She bit her lips, and endeavoured to recover her self-possession. Her
illness had weakened her, and rendered her curiously nervous, so that
the least emotion visibly affected her.
"Yes," I added, "you are concealing a secret from me, Muriel, and I, who
am to be your husband, demand to know what it is. Tell me!"
"If you had asked me this a few days ago," she answered, after a pause,
"I could only have given you a negative answer. But I have overheard
Mr Yelverton's confession to you, and now that I am strong again, I am
determined that neither he nor you shall longer remain in doubt
regarding the mystery surrounding Aline Cloud."
"What is it?" I cried excitedly. "Tell us quickly."
"No," she answered, with a wave of the hand. "In this affair we must
exercise patience, or those who are guilty will assuredly escape us.
Besides, we have to ensure our own safety also."
"Our own safety!" Jack echoed. "What do you mean?"
"Have I not narrowly escaped death?" she asked. "If we are not wary,
another attempt, perhaps more successful, may be made."
"You anticipate assassination because those who are guilty are aware
that you are now in possession of their secret?" I cried. "Then let us
act in union with care and discretion. What has caused you to preserve
your silence until now?"
"Circumstances which rendered my secrecy imperative," she answered.
"Until now I only entertained suspicions; but these have been confirmed,
therefore to me the truth is apparent. In order, however, for us to
solve the mystery, it is necessary that you should both obey me
implicitly, without asking any questions, for to some of your demands I
should be compelled to give false answers. Trust in me, both of you,
and I will reveal to you something stranger than you have ever dreamed."
"We do trust you," we both answered with one accord.
"I'm ready to act in any manner you direct," I added.
"And you will not fear, even though a plot may be laid against your
life?" she inquired with concern.
"I fear nothing while I have my revolver in my pocket," I answered, as
coolly as I could. "Both of us are ready and anxious to carry out any
plan you may form."
"But of what character is the plan?" asked the vicar, with natural
caution.
"It's Friday to-day," she observed, disregarding his question. "Tell me
when Aline will next visit you."
"On Sunday. She has written to-day saying that she will attend the
service on Sunday evening."
"You will preach?" she asked.
"I don't know," he answered evasively. "I may be away."
"You mean that by that time you may have resigned and left the Church,"
I said quickly. "No, Jack. Don't think of such a thing. Muriel know?
more than she has told us, and if she will assist us, I have no doubt
that the mystery will be cleared up, and the guilty brought to
punishment."
"Do you wish me to preach on Sunday?" Yelverton asked of my beloved.
"Certainly," was her response. "But, tell me--she never remains after
the evening service, does she?"
"No, never," he replied. "By the time I'm out of the vestry she has
always departed. It seems as though her quick, impetuous nature will
not allow her to await me."
"Then preach on Sunday night, and leave the remainder to me," she said.
"You appear to know all her movements," Yelverton observed. "Where does
she go usually after church?"
"Her destination is always the same--a secret one. But remain patient,"
she added, a strange look in her dark eyes, as though she were intent
upon a fierce and terrible revenge. "You are her lover, and have
discovered, as others have done, that she is possessed of a spirit of
evil that holds you appalled in wonder. Her actions are truly
astounding, yet the truth, when revealed, will be more startling and
more bewildering than any of the strange things which have already
happened."
"And you promise to explain everything?" I asked in breathless
eagerness.
"No. I cannot promise that. I will furnish you with the necessary clue
to the solution of the mystery, but even I myself know not all the
facts."
Both of us tried to obtain from her some further information regarding
Aline, but without avail. She remained absolutely mute, likewise
refusing to reveal the identity of her would-be assassin. That she had
met him face to face upon the stairs she admitted, but in response to my
inquiries declared that the time was not yet ripe for the denunciation,
and urged us to remain in patience.
This we did until at last Sunday night came. At about half-past six I
accompanied my beloved in a cab to a small and very dismal little street
in the immediate vicinity of St Peter's, one of those mean, drab
thoroughfares which abound in South London; and when at length the
service concluded, we stood together in the gloom waiting for Aline's
striking figure to emerge among the congregation.
At last she came, dressed neatly in black, her fair hair well coiled
beneath a neat black toque, and in her hand her tiny prayer-book, with
the ivory cross upon the cover. She walked straight in our direction
without, of course, dreaming of our presence, but outside the
smoke-blackened railings of the churchyard she paused for a moment
beneath the street-lamp to glance at the little jewelled watch pinned
upon her breast. Her lover's sermon had been a trifle longer than
usual, therefore, on noting the time, she at once hurried away along the
narrow little street towards the Walworth Road, in order, apparently, to
keep some mysterious appointment.
"Come!" Muriel said. "Let us follow her!" And together we walked on,
eagerly keeping her well in sight in the crowd of dispersing
worshippers.
My heart beat wildly in those moments, for I knew we were upon the verge
of some extraordinary discovery, the nature of which my beloved had
predicted would be stranger than we had dreamed.