The Bond of Black

“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.”