this Mr Yelverton is actually curate of Duddington," she saidpensively. "Strange that he should go and bury himself down there,isn't it?"
"He hasn't been well," I said. "Work in the slums has upset his health.He's a good fellow. Not one of those who go in for the Church as aneasy means of obtaining five or six hundred a year and a snug parsonage,but an earnest, devout man whose sole object is to do good among hisfellow-creatures. Would that there were more of his sort about."
Thus we chatted on. It seemed as though she knew more of Yelverton thanshe would admit, and that she had learned with surprise of hiswhereabouts.
Only once again, when she rose to go, I spoke to her of the great sorrowat my heart, and then alone with her in the silence of my room Iimplored her to reciprocate my love.
She stood motionless, allowing her hand to rest in mine, while Ireiterated my declaration of affection. But when I had finished shewithdrew her hand firmly, and with a negative gesture burst into tears.
I saw how agitated she was, how she trembled when her white hands cameinto contact with mine.
She tried to escape me, but I would not release her. Loving her as Idid, I was determined that she should not slip away from me. Surely, Iurged, I, her oldest friend, had a right to her rather than a strangerwhom she had only known a few brief weeks. She was unjust to me.
Suddenly, while I was imploring earnestly that she would hesitate beforethus casting my love aside, the clock of St Martin's struck thehalf-hour.
She glanced at the clock upon the mantelpiece, exclaiming--
"See! It is half-past eleven! I must go at once. I shall be lockedout now, as it is. I've been late so often recently. You know howstrict our rules are."
"But tell me that I may hope, Muriel. Only tell me that I may hope."
"It is useless," she answered hastily, twisting free her hand, andre-arranging her veil at the mirror. "I have told you. Let me go."
"No, no! You shall not, unless you promise me. I love you, Muriel.You shall not pass out of my life like this."
"It will be midnight before I get back," she cried distressed. "I hadno idea it was so late as this!"
"Your business matters not. To me your love is all--everything."
She stood erect before me, statuesque, queenly, looking upon me with herdark-brown eyes, in which I thought I detected a glance of pity. But itwas only for an instant. Her face suddenly grew hard and set. Therewas a look of firm determination, which told me that my hope could neverbe realised; that she had spoken the truth; that she loved another.
"Good-bye," she said, in a voice half-choked with emotion, and as sheput forth her hand I grasped it and pressed it to my lips.
"Good-bye, Muriel," I murmured, with a bitterness felt in the depths ofmy soul. "But may I not go with you to your door?"
"No," she responded, "I shall take a cab. Good-bye."
And as the tears again rose in her eyes she turned and went out.
I heard Simes saluting her a moment later, then the outer door closed,and I sat motionless, staring before me fixedly. I had, during thatafternoon, awakened to the fact that I loved her; but it was, alas! toolate. Another had supplanted me in her affections.
She had left me hopeless, crushed, grief-stricken, and desolate.
Next day passed drearily, but on the next I sent Simes along to MadameGabrielle's with a note in which I asked Muriel to see me again, makingan appointment to meet her at Frascati's that evening. "Let me see youonce more," I wrote, "if for the last time. Do not refuse me, for Ithink always of you."
In half an hour my man returned, and by his face I knew that somethingunusual had occurred.
He had my note still in his hand.
"Well," I said inquiringly, "have you brought an answer?"
"Miss Moore is no longer there, sir," he answered, handing me back thenote.
"Not there?" I exclaimed, surprised.
"No, sir. I saw the head saleswoman, and she told me that the younglady was not now in their employ."
"Not in their employ?" I echoed, starting up. "Has she left?"
"It appears, sir, that on Sunday night she broke one of the rules, whichsays that no assistant may be out after eleven o'clock. She arrived atmidnight, and was yesterday morning instantly dismissed. They told methat she took her belongings and went away without scarcely uttering aword except to complain of the extremely harsh treatment she hadreceived. The manager of the firm was, however, inexorable, for itappears that other assistants had constantly been breaking the rule, andonly a week ago a serious warning was posted up in the dining-room.Miss Moore was therefore dismissed as an example to the others."
"It's infamous!" I cried. "Then no one knows where she now is?"
"No, sir. I made inquiries, but no one could tell me where I mightprobably find her. She was, they say, heartbroken at this treatment."
I said nothing, but taking the note, slowly tore it into tiny fragments.
The woman I loved so well was now cast upon the pitiless world ofLondon, without employment, without friends, and probably without money.Yet where to look for her I knew not.
By her manner when we had parted, I felt confident that her naturalpride would not allow her to seek my assistance. She would, I knew,suffer in silence alone rather than allow me to help her.
When I thought of the harshness of this firm she had served sodiligently and well, I grew furious. It was unjust to discharge a girlinstantly and cast her on the world in that manner. It was infamous.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN.
JACK YELVERTON'S CONFESSION.
I went myself next morning and saw the manager of Madame Gabrielle,Limited, to demand an explanation. He was one of those frock-coateddiviners of the depths of woman's mind--a person of polite deportmentand address, who, although expressing extreme regret at having "to partwith the young lady," nevertheless declared that it was impossible tocarry on business if the rules were daily broken. The rules, he said,were framed in order that the establishment should be well conducted,and it was considered that eleven o'clock was quite late enough for anyyoung female to be out in that neighbourhood.
I explained that it was entirely my fault, and that if I had known Iwould have called and apologised for her; but he merely raised hiseyebrows and observed that the young lady had left, and the others hadtaken her summary dismissal as a salutary lesson. Inwardly I denouncedhim as a tyrannical taskmaster of the superior shop-walker class, andleft with, I confess, very little good-feeling towards him. Muriel hadlong ago told me how on one occasion this man had attempted to kiss her,and she had smacked his face. He had now driven her out into the worldat an instant's notice, merely because of the vengeful dislike whichstill rankled within him.
Several weeks passed. The June sun shone brightly in the Londonstreets, giving promise of near holidays to those toiling millions whotwice each day hurry across the Thames bridges to and from theirlabours, and whose only relaxation is a week at Margate or at Southend.But from me all desire for life and gaiety had departed.
Though evening after evening I sought Muriel, and also wrote to herrelatives at Stamford in an endeavour to discover her whereabouts, yetall was in vain. She had disappeared entirely.
The thought struck me that on leaving Madame Gabrielle's she had perhapsimmediately found another situation; but as the frock-coated manager hadreceived no letter of inquiry about her that theory seemed scarcelyfeasible. More and more the circumstances puzzled me. When I reflectedupon our conversation that Sunday afternoon in Bushey Park I wasinclined to doubt her declaration that she knew nothing of themysterious Aline. Again, her apparent fear and anxiety when I chancedto mention the death of poor Roddy was more than passing strange. Thatshe had a minute knowledge of Aline's visits to me was quite plain,therefore what more natural than that she should be aware of theextraordinary acquaintance between Roddy and that woman whose touchconsumed. Sometimes I was inclined to believe that she was inpossession of the true circumstances of my friend
's death; and at suchmoments the thought occurred to me that she, Muriel Moore, had beenRoddy's female visitor, who had called in his valet's absence.
The thought was truly a startling one. Had she thus cast me asidebecause she feared me--because there was a terrible guilt upon her?
There was some inexplicable association between the fair-faced worker ofevil, whom I knew as Aline Cloud, and this pure and honest woman whom Iwas ready to make my wife. Its nature was an enigma which drove me todespair in my constant efforts to solve it.
One morning, when in the depths of despair, I was sitting afterbreakfast idling over the newspaper, and wondering whether I could findMuriel by means of advertisement, Simes brought in a telegram, whichsummoned me at once to Tixover.
An hour later I left, and that