Chapter Twenty. One Man’s Hand.

In the hour that followed many were our mutual declarations, many were the kisses I imprinted upon those lips, with their true Cupid’s bow, without which no woman’s beauty is entirely perfect.

From her conversation I gathered that the assistants at the great shop in the Holloway Road were treated, as they often are, as mere machines, the employers having no more regard for their health or mental recreation than for the cash balls which roll along the inclined planes to the cash-desk. Life within that great series of shops was mere drudgery and slavery, the galling bonds of which only those who have had experience of it can fully appreciate.

“From the time we open till closing time we haven’t a single moment’s rest,” she said, in reply to my question, “and with nearly eighty fines for breaking various rules, and a staff of tyrannical shop-walkers who are always either fining us or abusing us before the customers, things are utterly unbearable.”

“Yes,” I said, indignantly, “the tyrannies of shop life ought to be exposed.”

“Indeed they ought,” she agreed. “One of our rules fines us a shilling if after serving a customer we don’t introduce at least two articles to her.”

“People don’t like things they don’t want pushed under their noses,” I said. “It always annoys me.”

“Of course they don’t,” she agreed. “Again, if we’re late, only five minutes, in the morning when we go in to dust, we’re fined sixpence; if one of the shop-walkers owes any girl a grudge he will fine her a shilling for talking during business, and if she allows a customer to go out without buying anything and without calling his attention to it, she has to pay half-a-crown. People don’t think when they enter a shop and are met by a suave man in frock-coat who hands them a chair and calls an assistant, that this very man is watching whether the unfortunate counter-slave will break any of the code of rules, so that the instant the customer has gone she may be fined, with an added warning that if a similar thing again occurs she will be dismissed.”

“In no other trade would men and women conform to such rules,” I exclaimed, for she had often told me of these things before. “Who takes the fines?”

“The firm, of course,” she answered. “They’re supposed to go towards the library; but the latter consists of only about fifty worn-out, tattered books which haven’t been added to for the past three years.”

“I don’t wonder that such an existence should crush all life from you. It’s enough to render any one old before their time, slaving away in that place from morning till night, without even sufficient time for your meals. But why are you a favourite?” I asked.

She looked at me for an instant, then dropped her eyes and remained silent.

“I scarcely know,” she faltered at last, and I scented in her indecision an element of mystery.

“But you must be aware of the reason that you are not treated quite as harshly as the others.”

“Well,” she laughed, a slight flush mounting to her cheek, “it may be because of my friendliness towards the shop-walker.”

“The shop-walker!” I exclaimed in surprise, not without some jealous resentment rising within me. “Why are you friendly towards him?”

“Because it is judicious not to offend him,” she said. “One girl did, and within a week she was discharged.”

“But such truckling to a greasy, oily-mouthed tailor’s dummy is simply nauseating,” I cried fiercely. “Do you mean to say that you actually have to smile and be amiable to this man—perhaps even to flirt with him—in order to save yourself from being driven to death?”

“Certainly!” she answered, quite frankly.

“And who is this man?” I inquired, perhaps a trifle harshly.

“The man with whom you saw me on that night when you followed me from Aldersgate Street,” she responded.

“That tall, thin man!” I cried, amazed. “The man who was your lover!”

She nodded, and her eyes were again downcast.

I sat staring at her in amazement. I had never thought of that.

“What’s his name?” I asked quickly.

“Henry Hibbert.”

“And he is shop-walker at your place?”

“Certainly.”

“Why didn’t you tell me this before, when I asked you?” I inquired.

“Because I had no desire that you should sneer at me for walking out with a man of that kind,” she responded. “But now that it is all past, I can fearlessly tell you the truth.”

“But what made you take up with him?” I asked, eager now to at least penetrate some portion of the mystery, for I recollected that night in the Park, when I had overheard this man Hibbert’s strange conversation with Aline.

“I really don’t know what caused me to entertain any regard for him,” she answered.

“How did it come about?”

“We were introduced one night in the Monico. I somehow thought him pleasant and well-mannered, and, I don’t know how it was, but I found myself thinking always of him. We met several times, but then I did not know what he was. I had no idea that he was a shop-walker. It was because of my foolish infatuation, I suppose, that I cast aside your love. But from that moment my regret increased, until I could bear the separation no longer, and I came to-night to seek your forgiveness.”

“But what knowledge of this man had you before that night in the café?” I inquired. “Who introduced you?”

“A girl friend. I knew nothing of him before, and have since come to the conclusion that she knew him but slightly.”

“Then was he, at this time, engaged in the shop in the Holloway Road?” I asked, feeling that this fact should be at once cleared up.

“I think so.”

“Are you absolutely certain?”

“No, I’m not. Why do you ask?”

“Because,” I answered reflectively, “because it is strange that you should have taken an engagement at the very shop where he was employed.”

“It was he who gave me the introduction there,” she said. “Only when I got there and commenced work did I find to my surprise that the man who had interested himself on my behalf was actually the shop-walker. He saw the look of surprise upon my face, and laughed heartily over it.”

“Did you never seek to inquire how long previously he had been employed there?”

“No. It never occurred to me to do so,” she answered.

“But you can discover now easily enough, I suppose?”

“Of course I can,” she replied. “But why are you so anxious to know?”

“I have a reason for desiring to know the exact date on which he entered the firm’s employ,” I said. “You will find it out for me at once, won’t you?”

“If you wish.”

“Then let me know by letter as soon as you possibly can,” I urged quickly.

“But you need not be jealous of him, Clifton,” she said, seeking to reassure me. With her woman’s quick instinct she saw that my anger had been raised against him.

“How can I help being annoyed?” I said. “The facts seem quite plain that he first took service with this firm, and then most probably obtained the dismissal of one of the girls in order to make a vacancy for you. He was in love with you, I suppose,” I added, rather harshly.

“Love was never mentioned between us,” she declared. “We merely went out and about together, and in business he used to chat and joke with me. But as for love—”

And she laughed scornfully, without concluding her sentence.

“And the other girls were jealous of you—eh?”

She laughed.

“I suppose they were,” she answered.

“Was this man—Hibbert was his name?—an experienced shop-walker?”

“I think so,” she replied. “But he was disliked on account of his harshness and his constant fining of everybody.”

“Except you.”

“Yes,” she laughed. “I generally managed to escape.”

She noticed the hard look in my face, as I pondered over the strange fact. That this man who was such an intimate acquaintance of Aline’s was actually shop-walker where Muriel was employed added to the mystery considerably, rather than decreasing it.

“Why need we discuss him now?” she asked. “It is all over.”

“But your acquaintance with this man who has evidently striven to win your love must still continue if you remain where you are,” I said in a tone of annoyance.

“No,” she replied. “It is already at an end.”

“But he’s your shop-walker. If you have refused to go out with him, in future he’ll undoubtedly vent his spiteful wrath upon you.”

“Oh no, he won’t,” she laughed.

“Why?”

“Because he has left.”

“Left!” I echoed. “Of course you know where he is?”

“No, I don’t,” she replied. “He annoyed me in business by speaking harshly to me before a customer, and I told him plainly that I would never again go out in his company. He apologised, but I was obdurate, and I have never seen him since. He went away that night, and has not returned. His place was filled up to-day. At first it was thought that he might have stolen something; but nothing has been missed, and now his sudden departure is believed to be due to his natural impetuousness and eccentricity.”

“Then it would seem that owing to a disagreement with you he left his employment. That’s really very remarkable!” I said.

“Yes. Everybody thinks it strange, but, of course, they don’t know that we quarrelled.”

“And you swear to me that you have never loved him, Muriel?” I asked, looking straight into her upturned face.

“I swear to you, Clifton,” she answered. “I swear that he has never once kissed me, nor has he uttered a word of affection. We were merely friends.”

“Then that makes the aspect of affairs even more puzzling,” I observed. “That he had some motive for leaving secretly there is no doubt. What, I wonder, could it have been?”

“I don’t know, and it really doesn’t trouble me,” she replied. “I was exceedingly glad when he went, and now am doubly glad that I came and sought your forgiveness.”

“And I too, dearest,” I said, holding her hand tenderly in mine. “But, truth to tell, I have no confidence in that man. There was something about him that I didn’t like, and this latest move has increased my suspicion.”

“What suspicion?”

“That his intentions were not honest ones!” I answered.

“Why, Clifton,” she cried, “what an absurd fancy! Do you think that because I broke off his acquaintance, he intends to murder me?”

“I have no definite views on the subject,” I answered, “except that he intended to do you some evil, and has up to the present been thwarted.”

“You’ll make me quite nervous if you talk like that,” she responded, laughing. “Let us forget him. You once admired that woman, Aline Cloud, but that circumstance has passed out of my mind.”

“You must leave that place and go down to Stamford,” I said decisively. “A rest in the country will do you good, and in a few months we will marry.”

“I’ll have to give a month’s notice before I leave,” she answered.

“No. Leave to-morrow,” I said. “For I cannot bear to think, dearest, that now you are to be my wife you should still bear that terrible drudgery.”

She sighed, and her countenance grew troubled, as if something oppressed her. This caused me some apprehension, for it seemed as though, even now, she was not perfectly happy.

I gave tongue to this thought, but with a light laugh she assured me of her perfect contentment, and that her regret was only of the past.

Then we sat together, chatting in ecstatic enthusiasm, as I suppose all lovers do, planning a future, wherein our bliss was to be unalloyed and our love undying. And as we talked I saw how at last she became composed in that haven of contentment which is so perfect after the troubled sea of regret and despair, while I, too, felt that at last I wanted nothing, for the great desire of my life had been fulfilled.

Suddenly, however, thoughts of Aline, the mysterious woman who had come between us so strangely, the friend of this man Hibbert and the secret acquaintance of poor Roddy, crossed my mind, and I resolved to gain from her what knowledge she possessed. Therefore, with care and skill I led our conversation up to her, and then point-blank asked her what she knew regarding this woman whose face was that of an angel, and whose heart was that of Satan.

I saw how she started at mention of Aline’s name; how the colour fled from her cheeks, and how sudden was her resolve to fence with me; for at once she asserted her ignorance, and suggested that we might mutually agree to bury the past.

“But she is a mystery, Muriel,” I said; “a mystery which I have been trying in vain to solve through all these months. Tell me all you know of her, dearest.”

“I know nothing,” she declared, in a nervous tone. “Absolutely nothing.”

“But are you aware that this man, Hibbert, the man with whom you associated, was her friend—her lover?”

“What!” she cried, her face in an instant undergoing a strange transformation. “He—her lover?”

“Yes,” I answered. “Did you not know they were friends?”

“I can’t believe it,” she answered, pale-faced and bewildered. Whatever was the revelation I had made to her it had evidently caused within her a strong revulsion of feeling. I had, indeed, strong suspicion that these words of mine had supplied some missing link in a chain of facts which had long perplexed and puzzled her.

“What causes you to allege this?” she asked quickly, looking sharply into my eyes.

“Because I have seen them together,” I answered. “I have overheard their conversation.”

“It can’t be true that they are close acquaintances,” she said in a low, mechanical voice, as though speaking to herself. “It’s impossible.”

“Why impossible?” I inquired.

“Because there are facts which have conclusively shown that there could have been no love between them.”

“Are those facts so remarkable, Muriel, that you are compelled to conceal them from me?” I asked seriously in earnest.

“At present they are,” she faltered. “What you have told me has increased the mystery tenfold. I had never expected that they were friends.”

“And if they were, what then?” I inquired in eagerness.

“Then the truth must be stranger than I had ever dreamed,” she answered in a voice which betrayed her blank bewilderment.

The striking of the clock warned her that it was time she was going, and caused me to recollect that a man would call in a few minutes to repay a loan I had given him. He was an officer—a very decent fellow whom I had known for years, and who for a few weeks had been in rather low water. But he was again in funds, and having met me at the club that afternoon he promised to run over at ten o’clock, smoke a cigar, and repay me.

I regretted this engagement, because it prevented me seeing Muriel home; but when I referred to it she declared that she would take a cab from the rank outside, as she had done so many times in the old days of our friendship, and she would get back quite comfortably.

She buttoned her gloves, and after kissing me fondly re-adjusted her veil. Then, when we had repeated our vows of undying affection and she had promised me to return and lunch with me next morning, as it was Sunday, she went out and down the stairs.

I was a trifle annoyed that, at the club earlier in the day, I had made the appointment with Bryant, but the sum I had lent was sixty pounds, and, knowing what a careless fellow he was, I felt that it was best to obtain repayment now, when he offered it; hence I was prevented from accompanying Muriel. But as it could not be avoided, and as she had expressed herself perfectly content to return alone, I cast myself again in my chair, mixed a whiskey and soda, lit a cigarette, and gave myself up to reflection.

Muriel loved me. I cared for nought else in all the world. She would be my wife, and after travelling on the Continent for a while we would live somewhere in the country quietly, where we could enjoy ourselves amid that rural peace which to the London-worn is so restful, so refreshing, and so soothing.

After perhaps a quarter of an hour I heard Simes go to the door, and Bryant’s voice exclaim hurriedly—“Is your master in?”

“Come in, my dear fellow! Come in!” I shouted, without rising from my chair.

Next instant he dashed into the room, his face white and scared, exclaiming—

“There’s something wrong down at the bottom of your stairs! Come with me and see, old chap. There’s a girl lying there—a pretty girl dressed in grey—and I believe she’s dead.”

“Dead!” I gasped, petrified, for the description he had given was that of Muriel.

“Yes,” he cried, excitedly. “I believe she’s been murdered!”