not very often meet, for she well understood that a union wasentirely out of the question. We were excellent friends, purelyPlatonic, and it gave her pleasure and variety to dine sometimes with meat a restaurant. There was nothing loud about her; no taint of theLondon shop-girl, whose tastes invariably lie in the direction of thelower music-halls, Cinderella dances, and Sunday up-river excursions.She was a thoroughly honest, upright, and modest girl, who, compelled toearn her own living, had set out bravely to do so.
From where we sat dining we could listen to the music and look down uponthe restaurant below. The tables were filled with diners and the lightlaughter and merry chatter general.
We had not met for nearly a month, as I had been down to Tixover, wherewe had had a house-party with its usual round of gaiety, shooting andcycling. Indeed, since June I had been very little in London, havingspent the whole summer at Zermatt.
"It seems so long since we were last here," she exclaimed suddenly,casting her eyes around the well-lit restaurant. "I suppose you hadquite a merry time at home?"
"Yes," I answered, and then began to tell her of all our doings, andrelating little bits of gossip from her home--that quiet, old-fashionedmarket town with its many churches, its broad, brimming Welland windingthrough the meadows, and picturesque, old-world streets where the grasssprings from between the pebbles, and where each Friday the farmerscongregate at market. I told her of the new shops which had sprung upin the High Street, of the death of poor old Goltmann who kept the fancyshop where in my youth I had purchased mechanical toys, and of thelatest alterations at Burleigh consequent upon the old Marquis's death.All this interested her, for like many a girl compelled to seek herliving in London, the little town where she was born was always dearlycherished in her memory.
"And you?" I said at last. "How have you been going along?"
She placed both her elbows on the table and looked straight into myeyes.
"Fairly well," she answered, with a half-suppressed sigh. "When you areaway I miss our meetings so much, and am often dull and miserable."
"Without me, eh?" I laughed.
"Life in London is terribly monotonous," she said as I pushed thedessert-plate aside, and lit a cigarette. "I often wish I were back inStamford again. Here one can never make any friends."
"That's quite true," I replied, for only those who have come from thecountry to earn their bread know the utter loneliness of the greatmetropolis with its busy, hurrying millions. In London one may be ahouseholder for ten years without knowing the name of one's next-doorneighbour, and may live and work all one's life without making scarce asingle friend. Thus the average shop-girl is usually friendless outsideher own establishment unless she cares to mix with that crowd of clerksand others who are fond of "taking out" good-looking shop-assistants.
I often felt sorry for Muriel, knowing how dull and monotonous was herlife, but while I sat chatting to her that evening a vision of anotherface rose before me--the pale face with the strange blue eyes, thebeautiful countenance of the mysterious Aline.
It seemed very much as if Roddy knew my mysterious friend. If so, italso seemed more than likely that I had been deceived in her; becausewas not Roddy a well-known man about town, and what more likely thanthat he had met her in London? To me, however, she had declared thatshe had only arrived in London a week before, and had never been out.Whatever was the explanation, Roddy's concern at hearing her name wascertainly extraordinary.
I therefore resolved to seek her again, and obtain some explanation.
Why, I wondered, had she made that vague prophecy of evil which wouldbefall me if we continued our acquaintanceship? It was all veryextraordinary. The more I thought of it, the more puzzling became thefacts.
CHAPTER FOUR.
NOT COUNTING THE COST.
The afternoon was damp, chilly, and cheerless as I stood at my windowawaiting Aline. I had written to her, and after some days received areply addressed from somewhere in South London declining to accept myinvitation, but in response to a second and more pressing letter I hadreceived a telegram, and now stood impatient for her coming.
Outside, it was growing gloomy. The _matinee_ at the Garrick Theatrewas over, and the afternoon playgoers had all gone their various ways,while the long string of light carts belonging to the _Pall MallGazette_ stood opposite, ready to distribute the special edition of thatjournal in every part of London. The wind blew gustily, and the peoplepassing were compelled to clutch their hats. Inside, however, a brightfire burned, and I had set my easiest chair ready for the reception ofthe dainty girl who held me beneath her spell.
Even at that moment I recollected Muriel, but cast her out of mythoughts when I reflected upon Aline's bewitching beauty.
Moments passed as hours. In the darkening day I stood watching for her,but saw no sign, until I began to fear she would disappoint me. Indeed,the clock on the mantel-shelf, the little timepiece which I had carriedon all my travels, had already struck five, whereas the hour she hadappointed was half-past four.
Suddenly, however, the door opening caused me to turn, and my prettycompanion of that night was ushered in by Simes.
"I'm late," she said apologetically. "I trust you will forgive me."
"It is a lady's privilege to be late," I responded, taking her hand, andwelcoming her gladly.
She took the chair at my invitation, and I saw that she was dressedextremely plainly, wearing no ornaments. The dress was not the same shehad worn when we had met, but another of more funereal aspect. Yet shewas dainty and chic from her large black hat, which well suited herpale, innocent type of beauty, down to her tiny, patent-leather shoe.As she placed her foot out upon the footstool I did not fail to noticehow neat was the ankle encased in its black silk stocking, or how smallwas the little pointed shoe.
"Why did you ask me to come here?" she asked, with a slightly nervouslaugh when, at my suggestion, she had drawn off her gloves.
"Because I did not intend that we should drift apart altogether," Ianswered. "If you had refused, I should have come to you."
"At Ellerdale Road?" she exclaimed in alarm.
"Yes; why not? Is your aunt such a terrible person?"
"No," she exclaimed in all seriousness. "Promise me you will not seekme--never."
"I can scarcely promise that," I laughed. "But why were you soreluctant to come here again?" I inquired.
"Because I had no desire to cause you any unnecessary worry," shereplied.
"Unnecessary worry? What do you mean?" I asked, puzzled.
But she only laughed, without giving me any satisfactory answer.
"I'm extremely pleased to see you," I said, and in response to mysummons Simes entered with the tea, which she poured out, gracefullyhanding me my cup.
"I'm of course very pleased to come and see you like this," she saidwhen my man had gone; "but if my aunt knew, she wouldn't like it."
"I suppose she was concerned about you the other night, wasn't she?"
"Oh yes," she replied with a smile. "We've often laughed over my absurdignorance of London."
"Do you intend to live always with your aunt?"
"Ah, I do not know. Unfortunately there are some in whose footstepsevil always follows; some upon whom the shadow of sin for ever falls,"and she sighed as she added, "I am one of those."
I glanced across at her in surprise. She was holding her cup in herhand, and her face was pale and agitated, as though the confession hadinvoluntarily escaped her.
"I don't understand?" I said, puzzled. "Are you a fatalist?"
"I'm not quite certain," she answered, in an undecided tone. "As I havealready told you, I hesitated to visit you because of the evil which Ibring upon those who are my friends."
"But explain to me," I exclaimed, interested. "Of what nature is thisevil? It is surely not inevitable?"
"Yes," she responded, in a calm, low voice, "it is inevitable. You havebeen very kind to me, therefore I have no desire to cause you anyunhappiness."
/> "I really can't help thinking that you view things rather gloomily," Isaid, in as irresponsible a tone as I could.
"I only tell you that which is the truth. Some persons have a facultyfor working evil, even when they intend to do good. They are theaccursed among their fellows."
Her observation was an extraordinary one, inasmuch as more than onegreat scientist has put forward a similar theory, although the cause ofthe evil influence which such persons are able to exercise has neverbeen discovered.
About her face was nothing evil, nothing crafty, nothing to lead one tosuspect that she was not what she seemed--pure, innocent, and womanly.Indeed, as she sat before me, I felt inclined