style="font-size:15px;"> Without further word she rose slowly to her feet, and staggered away down the gravelled path, while her companion, hesitating for a few seconds, rose with a muttered imprecation and strode along after her. A moment later they were out of hearing.
The remainder of their extraordinary conversation was lost to me.
One suspicion alone possessed me. That thin, shabby man had sentenced me to death.
Chapter Six
Two Mysteries
The discovery I had accidentally made was the reverse of reassuring.
Aline had admitted herself possessed of some mysterious power which caused sacred objects to consume, the power of evil which she feared would also fall upon me. I recollected how when she had visited me she had urged me to hate her rather than love her, and I now discerned the reason. She had feared lest her subtle influence upon me should be fatal.
Through the days which passed her strange words rang ever through my ears. She was a woman unique in all the world; a woman who, living in teeming London, was endowed with faculties of abnormal proportions, and possessed an unearthly power utterly unknown to modern science. I thought of the fusing of my crucifix and my Madonna, and shuddered. Her beauty was amazing, but she was a veritable temptress, a deistical daughter of Apollyon.
My first feeling after leaving the Park was one of repugnance; yet on reflection I found myself overcome by fascination, still bewitched by her beautiful face, and eager to meet her once again. Surely nothing maleficent could remain hidden beneath such outward innocence?
Thus I waited long and wearily for her coming, remaining in from day to day, or whenever I went out leaving word with Simes as to where I could be found if she called. In my turbulent state of mind I imagined many strange things.
The more I reflected, the more complicated became the enigma.
At length one morning Simes opened my door suddenly and ushered her in. I flung down my newspaper and rose to meet her, but next instant drew back in surprise and alarm.
She was dressed in an elegant costume of pale grey trimmed with white lace and heavy embroidery of pearls, a dress which could only have been turned out by a first-class house, for it bore a Parisian chic, being modelled in latest style. Her tiny shoes and gloves were of grey suede to match the dress, and beneath her big black hat with ostrich feathers her face looked sweet and winning as a child’s.
But the flush of health had faded. Her cheeks were just as beautiful as they had ever been, but the bloom of youth had died from them, and her complexion was a yellowish brown, like that of a woman of sixty. The light in her blue eyes had faded; they were now dull and leaden.
“At last!” I cried happily. “I am so glad you’ve come, for I’ve waited so long, Aline.”
She allowed her hand to rest in mine, then sank wearily into my armchair without a word.
“You are not well,” I cried, in concern. “What ails you?”
“Nothing!” she gasped. “It is nothing. In a few minutes it will pass.” Then she added, as if on second thought, “Perhaps it was your stairs. The lift is out of order.” And she rested her head upon the back of the chair and looked up at me with pitying eyes.
All life had apparently gone out of her beautiful face. That vivacity that had attracted me had given place to a deep, thoughtful look, as though she were in momentary fear. Her face seemed blanched to the lips.
“May I get you something?” I asked. “Let me give you some brandy,” and taking the bottle from the tantalus I gave her a liqueur-glass full of cognac, which she swallowed at one gulp.
“Why have you not called before?” I inquired, when, at length, she grew less agitated. “I have expected you daily for so long.”
“I’ve been away in the country,” she answered. “But do not think that I have not remembered you.”
“Nearly three weeks have gone by since you were last here,” I said. “It is too cruel of you not to allow me to write to you.”
“No,” she said decisively, “you must not write. You have already promised me, and I know you will not break any compact you make.”
“But I love you, Aline,” I whispered, bending forward to her.
“Yes, alas! I know that,” she responded, rousing herself. “Yet, why carry this folly further?”
“Folly you call it?” I exclaimed regretfully. “Because you cannot love me in return you tell me I am foolish. Since you have been absent I have examined my own heart, and I swear that my love is more than mere admiration. I think of no one in the world besides yourself.”
“No, no,” she said uneasily. “There is some other woman whom you could love far better, a woman who would make you a true and faithful wife.”
“But I can love no one else.”
“Try,” she answered, looking me straight in the face. “Before we met you loved one who reciprocated your affection.”
“Who?”
“You wish me to tell you?” she replied in a hard, bitter tone. “Surely you cannot affect ignorance that you are loved by Muriel Moore?”
“Muriel!” I gasped in amazement. “How did you know?”
She smiled.
“There is but little that escapes me,” she answered. “You loved each other before our romantic meeting, and I, the woman who must necessarily bring evil upon you, have come to separate you. Yet you calmly stand by and invite me to wreck your life! Ah! you cannot know who I am, or you would cast me from your thoughts for over.”
“Then who are you?” I blurted forth, in blank amazement.
“I have already told you. You have, of your own free will, united yourself with me by a declaration of love, and the consequences are therefore upon your own head.”
“Cannot you love like other women?” I demanded. “Have you no heart, no feeling, no soul?”
“No,” she sighed. “Love is forbidden me. Hatred takes its place; a fierce, deadly hatred, in which vengeance is untempered by justice, and fatality is always inevitable. Now that I confess, will you not cast me aside? I have come here to you to urge you to do this ere it is too late.”
“You speak so strangely that I’m bewildered,” I declared. “I have told you of my love, and will not relinquish you.”
“But for the sake of the woman who loves you. She will break her heart.”
“Muriel does not love me,” I answered. “I have spoken no word of affection to her. We were friends – that is all.”
“Reflect! Is it possible for a girl in such a position as Muriel Moore to be your friend without loving you! You are wealthy, she is poor. You give her dinners with champagne at the gayest restaurants; you take her to stalls at theatres, or to a box at the Alhambra; you invite her to these rooms, where she drinks tea, and plays your piano; and it is all so different from her humdrum life at Madame Gabrielle’s. Place yourself for one moment in her position, with a
