The Bond of Black

“Then you are guilty!” I cried quickly, half-surprised at her sudden confession. But, turning her eyes upon me as she stood, she answered —

“Yes, I am guilty of a deadly sin – a sin that is terrible, awful, and unforgivable before God – yet, it is not what you suspect. I swear I had no hand in the death of your friend.”

“But you can reveal the truth to me!” I cried. “You shall tell me!” I added fiercely, as I approached her.

“No,” she panted, drawing back, “it is impossible. I – I cannot.”

She was confused, pale and flushed by turns, and terribly agitated. I saw by her attitude she was not speaking the truth. I was convinced that, even then, she lied to me. Because of that I grew furious.

“If you were innocent you would not fear to explain all you know,” I cried in anger. “In every detail you attempt to baffle me, but you shall do so no longer.”

She smiled a strange, tantalising smile, and leaning against the edge of the table assumed an easy attitude.

“Is it not the truth that you are a mystery to every one?” I went on heedlessly, at that instant recollecting the conversation between herself and the stranger in Hyde Park. “Is it not the truth that your character is such that, if the people of London knew its true estimate, you would be mobbed and torn limb from limb?”

She started, glaring at me quickly in fear.

“This denunciation is very amusing,” she said, with a forced laugh.

“Amusing!” I cried. “I have not forgotten how your presence here had the effect of reducing sacred objects to ashes; I have not forgotten your own confession to me that you were a worker of iniquity, a woman endowed with an irresistible devastating force – the force of hell itself!”

“And even though I confessed to you, you now charge me with deception,” she answered in a strained tone. “You offered me your love, but I was self-denying, and urged you to forget me and love Muriel Moore, who was as pure and upright as I am wanton and sinful. Did you take my advice?”

“Yes,” I answered, a trifle more calmly. “But she is now lost to me.”

“I am aware of that,” she responded. “You tarried too long ere you declared your affection.”

“Then you know her whereabouts?” I cried eagerly. “Tell me.”

But she shook her head, answering —

“No, we are no longer friends after this denunciation you have to-day uttered. You suspect me of being a murderess; therefore I leave you to assist yourself.”

“Do you actually know where she is and refuse to tell me?” I cried.

“Certainly,” she responded. “There is no reason why her happiness should be again disturbed.”

In an instant a fierce vengeance swept through my brain. This woman was of the flesh, for she stood there before me, her beauty heightened by the flush that had risen to her cheeks, her pale lips quivering with an uncontrollable anxiety which had taken possession of her, yet she was more cruel, more relentless, more ingenious in the working of evil, more resistless and invincible in her diabolical power, than any other person on the earth. All the strength, all the influence, all the ruling power possessed by Satan himself was centred within her.

I looked at the evil light in her eyes. She was, indeed, the incarnation of the Evil One.

“You hold the secret of Muriel’s hiding-place and refuse to tell me; you openly defy me; therefore I am at liberty to act in whatever manner pleases me – am I not?”

“Certainly,” she answered, slowly twisting her rings around her finger.

“Then listen,” I said. “You told me once that you could not love me because you loved another. You spoke the truth, for since then that fact has been proved. Some time ago a man, honest and upright, who on account of his religious convictions had resolved to give himself up to labour in the interests of the poor, accepted a curacy in a poor London parish. He worked there, striving night and day, denying himself rest and the comforts he could well afford in order that the sufferings of a few might be alleviated. Into foul dens where people slept on mouldy mattresses upon the floor, where ofttimes a paraffin lamp was placed in the empty grate in place of a fire, and where hunger and dirt bred disease, this man penetrated and distributed food and money, endearing himself to those dregs of humanity, often the scum of the gaols, by his untiring efforts, his justice, and his kindness of heart. Men who were known to the police as desperate characters welcomed him and were tractable enough beneath his influence. He never sought to cram religion down their throats, for he knew that at first they would have none of it. So he went to work to first gain their hearts, and succeeded so completely that many a confession of crime was in the silence of those bare rooms whispered into his ear by one who was repentant.”

I paused and glanced at her. Her arms had fallen to her sides; she was standing motionless as a statue.

“While pursuing this good work – work undertaken without any thought of the laudation of his fellow-men – there came into that man’s life a woman. She came to tempt him from the path of righteousness, to dazzle his eyes with her beauty, and to absorb his love. He saw himself on the verge of a fatal fascination, an entrancement which would inevitably cause him to break his vow to God; and relinquishing his work for a time, he fled from her secretly. He wished to avoid her; for although he loved her, he knew that she had been sent into his life by the Tempter to rend and destroy him, for he, alas! knew too well that the evil influences in the world are far more potent than the good, and that the godly are as rocks among the pebbles of the sea.”

I paused. Again our eyes met.

“And the rest?” she asked hoarsely, in a low voice.

“You know the rest, Aline,” I said. “You know that the name of that man was John Yelverton, and that the woman of evil was yourself, Aline Cloud. You have no need to inquire of me.”

“How did you know?” she gasped, trembling.

“That matters not,” I replied, in as calm a tone as I could. “Suffice it to know that I have knowledge of the truth.”

“And you know my lover?”

“He is one of my oldest friends,” I answered. “He fled from you, but by your devilish ingenuity you discovered him and sought him out in the remote village where he had hidden himself. You travelled from London, and he was compelled to meet you clandestinely out upon the high road. By the evil spell you have cast upon him you are now hoping that he will return to London.”

“And if I am?” she inquired, with a sudden boldness.

“If you are, then you may at once give up all hope that he will still remain your lover,” I answered firmly. “When I have told him of the truth he will hate you with the same hatred in which he holds the Evil One.”

“What, then, do you intend telling him?” she inquired.

“He is my friend, as Roddy Morgan was,” I answered. “The latter died mysteriously under circumstances which were undoubtedly known to you, and I have resolved that John Yelverton shall not suffer at your hands.”

“I do not intend that he should suffer!” she cried quickly. “I love him. I will be his helpmate, his adviser, his protector. I confess to you that I love him with as great an affection as I can love anything on earth.”

“Did you not tell me once that even though you might love, your influence must nevertheless necessarily be that of evil?”

“Yes, yes, I know,” she said. “The baneful power I possess is not of my own seeking. I suppress it so that it may not injure him.”

“This mysterious power of yours injured poor Roddy. You cannot deny that,” I cried.

She sighed, but made no answer. Her thin hands were clenched; she was desperate.

“Yelverton knows nothing of your inexplicable potency for the working of evil. But he must – he shall know.”

“He will not believe you!” she cried defiantly. “You may tell him what you choose, but it cannot alter the love between us.”

“Not if I prove that you were responsible for Roddy Morgan’s death – that it was you who visited him during his valet’s absence?”

In an instant she grew pale as death, and stood there quivering in fear. Her defiance had given place to abject terror, and she dared not utter a word lest she should betray herself. Holding her in suspicion, as I did, I was quick to note the slightest wavering, to detect the least fear as expressed in her flawlessly beautiful countenance.

“You may make whatever allegation you think fit,” she responded, in a harsh tone. “It makes no difference. The man who loves me will not heed you.”

“But he shall!” I cried, in anger. “I will not allow him to be victimised as poor Roddy was. Your very words betray you!” I burst forth again. “When you allege that he committed suicide six months before he died in London you lie!”

“I have spoken the truth,” she answered, meeting my gaze with a calmness which seemed incredible. “Some day, perhaps, you will have proof.”

“Why may not proof be given me now?” I demanded. “Why cannot you explain all, and end this mystery?”