of course very pleased to come and see you like this,” she said when 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 absurd ignorance of London.”
“Do you intend to live always with your aunt?”
“Ah, I do not know. Unfortunately there are some in whose footsteps evil 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 her hand, and her face was pale and agitated, as though the confession had involuntarily 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 have already told you, I hesitated to visit you because of the evil which I bring upon those who are my friends.”
“But explain to me,” I exclaimed, interested. “Of what nature is this evil? It is surely not inevitable?”
“Yes,” she responded, in a calm, low voice, “it is inevitable. You have been very kind to me, therefore I have no desire to cause you any unhappiness.”
“I really can’t help thinking that you view things rather gloomily,” I said, in as irresponsible a tone as I could.
“I only tell you that which is the truth. Some persons have a faculty for working evil, even when they intend to do good. They are the accursed among their fellows.”
Her observation was an extraordinary one, inasmuch as more than one great scientist has put forward a similar theory, although the cause of the evil influence which such persons are able to exercise has never been discovered.
About her face was nothing evil, nothing crafty, nothing to lead one to suspect that she was not what she seemed – pure, innocent, and womanly. Indeed, as she sat before me, I felt inclined to laugh at her assertion as some absurd fantasy of the imagination. Surely no evil could lurk behind such a face as hers?
“You are not one of the accursed,” I protested, smiling.
“But I am!” she answered, looking me straight in the face. Then, starting forward, she exclaimed, “Oh! why did you press me to come here, to you?”
“Because I count you among my friends,” I responded. “To see me and drink a cup of tea can surely do no harm, either to you or to me.”
“But it will!” she cried in agitation. “Have I not told you that evil follows in my footsteps – that those who are my friends always suffer the penalty of my friendship?”
“You speak like a prophetess,” I laughed.
“Ah! you don’t believe me!” she exclaimed. “I see you don’t. You will never believe until the hideous truth is forced upon you.”
“No,” I said, “I don’t believe. Let us talk of something else, Aline – if I may be permitted to call you by your Christian name?”
“You have called me by that name already without permission,” she laughed gaily, her manner instantly changing. “It would be ungenerous of me to object, would it not?”
“You are extremely philosophical,” I observed, handing her my cup to be refilled.
“I’m afraid you must have formed a very curious opinion of me,” she replied.
“You seem to have no inclination to tell me anything of yourself,” I said. “I fancy I have told you all about myself worth knowing, but you will tell me nothing in exchange.”
“Why should you desire to know? I cannot interest you more than a mere passing acquaintance, to be entertained to-day and forgotten to-morrow.”
“No, not forgotten,” I said reproachfully. “You may forget me, but I shall never forget our meeting the other night.”
“It will be best if you do forget me,” she declared.
“But I cannot!” I declared passionately, bending and looking straight into her beautiful countenance.
“I shall never forget.”
“Because my face interests you, you are fascinated! Come, admit the truth,” she said, with a plain straightforwardness that somewhat took me aback.
“Yes,” I said. “That’s the truth. I freely admit it.”
She laughed a light, merry, tantalising laugh, as if ridiculing such an idea. Her face at that instant seemed more attractive than ever it appeared before; her smiling lips, half-parted, seemed pouted, inviting me to kiss them.
“Why should a man be attracted by a woman’s face?” she argued, growing suddenly serious again. “He should judge her by her manner, her thoughts, her womanly feeling, and her absence of that masculine affectation which in these days so deforms the feminine character.”
“But beauty is one of woman’s most charming attributes,” I ventured to remark.
“Are not things that are most beautiful the most deadly?”
“Certainly, some are,” I admitted.
“Then for aught you know the influence I can exert upon you may be of the most evil kind,” she suggested.
“No, no!” I hastened to protest. “I’ll never believe that – never! I wish for no greater pleasure than that you should remain my friend.”
She was silent for some time, gazing slowly around the room. Her breast heaved and fell, as if overcome by some flood of emotion which she strove to suppress. Then, turning again to me, she said —
“I have forewarned you.”
“Of what?”
“That if we remain friends it can result in nothing but evil.”
I was puzzled. She spoke so strangely, and I, sitting there fascinated by her marvellous beauty, gazed full at her in silence.
“You speak in enigmas,” I exclaimed.
“You have only to choose for yourself.”
“Your words are those of one who fears some terrible catastrophe,” I said. “I don’t really understand.”
“Ah! you cannot. It’s impossible!” she answered in a low, hollow voice, all life having left her face. She was sitting in the armchair, leaning forward slightly, with her face still beautiful, but white and haggard. “If I could explain, then you might find some means to escape, but I dare not tell you. Chance has thrown us together – an evil chance – and you admire me; you think perhaps that you could love me, you – ”
“I do love you, Aline!” I burst forth with an impetuosity which was beyond my control, and springing to my feet I caught her hand and pressed it to my lips.
“Ah!”
