Chapter Seventeen. After Business Hours.

Almost at the same instant a train emerged from the tunnel and stopped at the platform. Following close behind Muriel and her companion, unnoticed among the crowd of foot-passengers, I saw them enter a third-class compartment; therefore in order to discover my love’s hiding-place, I sprang into another compartment a little farther off.

At King’s Cross they alighted, and it suddenly occurred me that the woman whom Ash had been sent by his master to meet at the Great Northern terminus might have been Muriel herself.

The pair ascended to the street, and after standing on the kerb for a few moments entered a tram car, while I climbed on top. I had been careful that Muriel should not detect me, and now felt a certain amount of satisfaction in tracking her to her abode, although I confess to a fierce jealousy of this shabby, miserable specimen of manhood who accompanied her. Up the Caledonian Road to the junction of Camden Road with Holloway Road they travelled, alighting in the latter road, and walking slowly along, still deep in earnest conversation, until they came to the row of shops owned by Spicer Brothers, a firm of drapers of that character known in the trade as a “cutting” house, or one who sold goods at the lowest possible price. It was, of course, closed at that hour, but its exterior was imposing, one of those huge establishments which of late years have sprung up in the various residential centres of London.

Before the private door a couple of over-dressed young men lounged, smoking cheap cigars, and within a watchman sat in a small box, like the stage-door keeper of a theatre.

Muriel and her lean cavalier paused for a moment, then they shook hands, and with a final word parted; he turned back City-wards, and she entered the door, receiving a rough, familiar greeting from the two caddish young assistants, who were not sufficiently polite to raise their hats to her.

I stood watching the man’s disappearing figure, and hesitated. But even as I waited there I saw him emerge into the road and enter a passing tram. The reason I did not follow him was because I was too confounded in my feelings. Muriel was my chief thought. I hated this man, and entertained no desire to seek further who or what he was. I knew him to be an associate of Aline. That was sufficient.

I noted the shop well, and the door at which my love had entered, then seeing that it was already ten o’clock, the hour when female shop-assistants are expected to be in, I turned reluctantly and took a cab back to my chambers.

At six o’clock next evening, I entered the establishment on a small pretext, and ascertained from one of the employés that they closed at seven. Therefore I smoked a cigar in the crowded saloon of the Nag’s Head until that hour, when, together with a number of other loungers, I waited at the door from which the slaves of the counters and the workrooms, male and female, soon began to emerge, eager to breathe the fresh air after the weary hours in the stifling atmosphere, heavy with that peculiar odour of humanity and “goods” that ever pervades the cheap drapers’.

After waiting nearly half an hour Muriel at last came forth, dressed neatly in cotton blouse and dark skirt, with a large black hat. She went to the kerb, glanced up and down the broad thoroughfare, as if looking for an omnibus or tram, then, there being none in sight, she commenced to walk along the Holloway Road in the direction of the City.

For some distance I followed, then with beating heart I overtook her, and, raiding my hat, addressed her.

“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.”

“And you are perfectly happy in this new situation of yours?”

“No,” she answered, vainly endeavouring to restrain a sigh. “Not perfectly. I’m in the ribbon department, and the work is much harder and the hours longer than at Madame’s. Besides, the rules are terribly strict; there are fines for everything, and scarcely any premiums. The shop-walkers are perfect tyrants over the girls, and the food is always the same—never a change.”

“Yet you told me a short time ago that you were quite contented?” I said reproachfully.

“Well, so I am. There are many worse places in London, where the hours are even longer, and the girls have no place but their bedrooms in which to sit after business hours. The firm provides us with a comfortable room, I must admit, even if they only half feed us.”

Long ago, in the early days of our friendship, when she used to sit and chat with me over tea in my chambers, she had explained how unvaried food was one of the chief causes of complaint among shop-assistants.

“But I can’t bear to think that you are in such a place as that,” I said. “Madame’s was so much more genteel.”

“Oh, don’t think of me!” she responded with a brightness which I knew she did not really feel at heart.

“But I do,” I said earnestly. “I do, Muriel; because I love you. Tell me now,” I added, taking her arm. “Tell me why you have turned from me.”

She was silent a moment, then in a faltering voice, replied—

“Because—because it was imperative. Because I knew that I did not love you.”

“But will you never do so?” I asked in desperation. “Will you never give me hope? I am content to wait, only tell me that you will still remember me, and try to think of me with thoughts of love.”

“To entertain vain hope is altogether useless,” she answered philosophically.

“Then you actually love this man?” I inquired bitterly. “You have allowed him to worm himself into your heart by soft glances and softer speeches; to absorb your thoughts and to kiss your lips, without troubling to inquire if he is worthy of you, or if he is honest, manly, and upright? Why have you thus abandoned prudence?”

“I have not abandoned prudence,” she answered, a trifle indignantly, at the same time extricating her arm from mine. “I should certainly do so were I to consent to become yours.”

I started at the firmness of this response, looking at her in dismay.

She spoke as though she feared me!

“Then you have no trust in me?” I exclaimed despairingly. “For one simple little piece of negligence you have utterly abandoned me!”

“No!” she replied, in a voice low but firm. “You have spoken the truth. I cannot trust you, neither can I love you. Therefore let us part, and let us in future remain asunder.”

“Ah, no!” I cried, imploringly. “Don’t utter those cruel words, Muriel. You cannot really mean them. You know how fondly I love you.”

We had arrived outside Highbury Station; and as I uttered these words she halted, and without response, held out her hand, saying in a cold tone—

“You must leave me now. I ask this favour of you.”

“I cannot leave you,” I panted in the wild desire which possessed me. “You must be mine, Muriel. Do not let this man draw you beneath his influence by his smooth words and studied politeness, for recollect who he is. You are aware—therefore I need not tell you.”

“Who he is? What do you mean?”

“I mean that he is in no way fit to be your lover,” I responded, my lover’s flame of passion unallayed. “When you meet him, test him and watch if he really loves you. Recollect that your beauty, Muriel, is striking; and that personal beauty is often woman’s deadliest enemy. I have, as you know, always sought to protect you from men who have flattered you merely because you possessed a pretty face. I loved you then, darling—I love you now!”

A sigh escaped her, but without a word she turned and left me ere I could prevent her, and even as I stood I saw her walk straight across to the station entrance, where she joined the lean, shabby man who had been awaiting her to keep an appointment.

Her eyes, quickened by love, had detected him ere he had noticed her, for he gave no glance in my direction, but lifting his shabby silk hat he grasped her hand, then walked on by her side, while I stood lonely and desolate, watching him disappear in the darkness with the woman I so fondly loved.

I, faint soul, had given myself helplessly into the evil hands of Aline for no purpose. All was in vain. I had been brought near to hope’s fruition, but Muriel had forsaken me. She had told me plainly that in her heart no spark of affection remained.

I stood crushed—hopeless—the past an inexplicable mystery, the future a grey, barren sea of despair.