The Bond of Black

“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.