The Bond of Black

“Then you still love me, Clifton?” she faltered.

“Love you!” I cried. “Of course I do, dearest. What causes you to doubt me?”

She hesitated. Her eyes met mine, and I saw they were wavering.

“Because – because I am unworthy,” she faltered.

“Why unworthy?” I asked, quickly.

“I have deceived you,” she replied. “You are so good to me, Clifton, yet I have concealed from you the truth.”

“The truth of what?”

“Of the strange events which have led up to this desperate attempt to take my life.”

“But who attacked you?” I demanded. “Tell me, and assuredly he shall not escape punishment.”

She paused. Her eyes met mine firmly.

“No,” she answered. “It is impossible to tell you. To attempt a retaliation would only prove fatal.”

“Fatal!” I echoed. “Why?”

“All that has been attempted is of the past,” she responded. “It is best that it should remain as it is. If you seek out that man, there will be brought upon us a vengeance more terrible than it is possible to contemplate. Do not ask me to divulge the identity of this man, for I cannot.”

“You will not, you mean,” I said in a hard voice.

“No,” she answered hoarsely. “No, I dare not.”

“Then you fear this man who has attempted to kill you – this man who sought to take you from me!” I cried fiercely. “Surely I, the man you are to marry, have a right to demand this assassin’s name.”

“You have a right, Clifton, the greatest of all rights, but I beg of you to remain patient,” she answered calmly. “There are reasons why I must still preserve a silence on this matter – reasons which some day you will know.”

“Does this man love you?”

She shrugged her shoulders and extended her thin, white hands vaguely.

“And he is jealous of me!” I cried. “He attempted to kill you because you came here to me.”

“Remain in patience, I beg of you,” she said imploringly. “Make no surmises, for you cannot guess the truth. It is an enigma to which I myself have no key.”

“The name of the man who has attempted to murder you is Hibbert,” I observed, annoyed at her persistent concealment of the truth. “He is the man who was your lover. You can’t deny it.”

She raised her beautiful eyes for a moment to mine, then said simply —

“Surely you trust me, Clifton?”

Her question drove home to me the fact that my suspicion was ill-founded, and that jealousy in this affair was untimely and unnecessary. I, however, could not rid myself of the thought that Hibbert, this lover she had discarded, had attempted to wreak a deadly revenge. All the circumstances pointed to it, for he would know the whereabouts of my chambers, if not from Muriel previously, then from Aline, that woman whom once in my hearing he had urged to the commission of a crime.

“I trust you implicitly, Muriel,” I answered. “But in this matter I am determined that the man whose hand struck you down shall answer for his crime to me.”

“No, no!” she cried in alarm. “Don’t act rashly, for your own sake, and for mine. Wait, and I will ere long give you an explanation which I know will astound you. To-day I cannot move in the matter because I am not allowed out. When I can go out I will find a means of giving you some explanation.” Then, lifting her dark, trustful eyes to mine she asked again, “Clifton, cannot you trust me? Will you not obey me in this?”

“Certainly,” I answered at last, with considerable reluctance I admit. “If you promise me to explain, then I will wait.”

“I promise,” she answered, and her thin, white hand again clasped mine, and our lips met to seal our compact.

Chapter Twenty Two

To Seek the Truth

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.