The Bond of Black

“It is certain that you were held powerless under that spell which she can cast over men at will. You reposed in contentment beneath her fascination, and called it love.”

“But it was not love,” I hastened to assure her. “I admired her, it is true, but surely you do not think that I could love a woman who is thus under suspicion?”

“Had your friend ever spoken of her?” she inquired after a brief silence.

“No,” I said. “Aline, however, admitted that she knew him, but strangely enough declared that he had committed suicide at Monte Carlo months before.”

“Then what she said could not be correct,” Muriel observed thoughtfully.

“I really don’t know what to believe,” I answered, bewildered. “Her words were so strange and her influence so subtle and extraordinary that sometimes I feel inclined to think that she was some supernatural and eminently beautiful being who, having wrought in the world the evil which was allotted as her work, has vanished, leaving no more trace than a ray of light in space.”

“Others who have known her have held similar opinions,” my pretty companion said. “Yet she was apparently of flesh and blood like all of us. At any rate, she ate and drank and slept and spoke like every other human being, and certainly her loves and her hatreds were just as intense as those of any one of us.”

“But her touch was deadly,” I said. “As a magician is able to change things, so at her will certain objects dissolved in air, leaving only a handful of ashes behind. In her soft, white hand was a power for the working of evil which was irresistible, an influence which was nothing short of demoniacal.”

Muriel held her breath, her eyes cast upon the ground. There was a mysteriousness in her manner, such as I had never before noticed.

“You are right – quite right,” she answered. “She was a woman of mystery.”

“Cannot you, now that I have made explanation and told you the reason of my apparent neglect, tell me what you know of her?” I asked earnestly.

“I have no further knowledge,” she assured me. “I know nothing of her personally.”

But her words did not convince me when I remembered how, on explaining my suspicions regarding Aline’s complicity in the crime, she had betrayed an abject fear.

“No,” I said dubiously. “You are concealing something from me, Muriel.”

“Concealing something!” she echoed, with a strange, hollow laugh. “I’m certain I’m not.”

“Well,” I exclaimed, rather impatiently, “to-day you have treated me, your oldest friend, very unfairly. You tell me that I merely consider you a convenient companion to be patronised when I have no other more congenial acquaintance at hand. That I deny. I may have neglected you,” I went on in deep earnestness, as we halted for a moment beneath the great old trees, “but this neglect of late has been owing to the tragedy which has so filled my mind. I have set myself to trace out its author, and nothing shall deter me in my investigations.”

She was blanched to the lips. I noticed how the returning colour died from her face again at my words, but continuing, said —

“We have been friends. Those who know of our friendship would refuse to believe the truth if it were told to them, so eager is the world to ridicule the idea of a purely platonic friendship between man and woman. Yet ours has, until now, been a firm friendship, without a thought of love, without a single affectionate word.”

“That is the reason why I regret that it must now end,” she answered, faltering, her voice half-choked with emotion.

“End! What do you mean?” I cried, dismayed.

“Ah, no!” she exclaimed, putting up both her hands, as if to shut me out from her gaze. “Don’t let us discuss it further. It is sufficient that we can exchange no further confidences. It is best now that this friendship of ours should cease.”

“You are annoyed that I should have preferred the society of that strange, mysterious woman to yours,” I said. “Well, I regret – I shall always regret that we met – for she has only brought me grief, anxiety, and despair. Cannot you forgive me?”

“I have nothing to forgive,” she answered blankly. “To have admired this woman was surely no offence against me?”

“But it was,” I declared, grasping her hand against her will.

“Why?”

I held my breath and looked straight into her dark, luminous eyes. Then, in as firm a voice as I could summon, I said —

“Because – because, Muriel, I love you?”

“Love me!” she gasped, with a look of bewilderment. “No! No!”

“Yes,” I went on, in mad impetuousness, “for years I have loved you, but feared to tell you, because you might regard my declaration as a mere foolish fancy on account of our positions, and impossible of realisation because of the probable opposition of my family. But I have now told you the truth, Muriel. I love you!”

And with my hands holding hers, I bent for the first time to kiss her lips. But in an instant she avoided me, and twisted her gloved fingers from my grasp.

“You must be mad!” she cried, with a glint of indignation in her eyes. “You must be mad to think that I could love you – of all men!”

Chapter Thirteen

The Old Love and the New

I drew back crushed and humiliated.

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.