The Bond of Black

by William Le Queux

"Come, speak the truth," I added harshly.

  "I have spoken the truth," she responded, in a voice rather calmer thanbefore.

  "And you discard my love?" I said, in tones of bitter reproach.

  "Yes," she said, "it is true. I discard your love. You have spoken,and I give you my answer straightforwardly, much as it pains me."

  "But will you not reconsider?" I urged. "When you reflect that I loveyou, Muriel, better than all the world besides, that I will do all in mypower to secure your happiness, that you shall be my sole thought nightand day, will your heart not soften towards me? Will you never reflectthat you treated me, your oldest friend, a little unfairly?"

  "If in the future I reproach myself, I alone shall bear the pricks ofconscience," she answered, with surprising calmness.

  "And this, then, is your decision?"

  "Yes," she replied, in a blank, monotonous voice. "I am honoured byyour offer, but am compelled to decline it."

  Her words fell as a blow upon me. I had been confident, from the manylittle services she had rendered me, the interest she had taken in thearrangement of my bachelor's quarters, and her eagerness always toplease me, that she loved me. Yet her sudden, inexplicable desire toend our friendship shattered all my hopes. She loved another. It wasmy own fault, I told myself. I had neglected her too long, and it wasbut what I might have expected.

  In silence we walked on, emerging at length into the high road, andturning into that well-known hostelry the Greyhound, where we had tea inthat great room so well patronised by excursionists on Sundays. Wetalked but little, both our hearts being too full for words. Ourutterances were mere trivialities, spoken in order that those around usshould not remark upon our silence. It was a dismal meal, and I wasglad when we emerged again and entered the well-kept gardens of HamptonCourt, bright with their beds of old-world flowers.

  I was never tired of wandering through that historic, time-mellowed, oldpile, where the sparrows twitter in the quiet court-yards, the peacocksstrut across the ancient gardens, and the crumbling sundials mark thetime, as they have done daily through three centuries.

  In my gloomy mood, however, I fear I answered her chatter abruptly inmonosyllables. It struck me as strange that she could so quickly forgetand become suddenly light-hearted. Indeed, it seemed as though she wereglad that the ordeal she had feared had passed, and was delighted withher freedom.

  The bright air of the riverside was fresh and exhilarating, but the sunsoon went down, and when it grew chill we took train back to Waterloo,and drove to Frascati's, where we dined.

  "And is this actually to be our last dinner together?" I asked, as thesoup was brought, for I recollected the many snug little meals we hadeaten together in times gone by, and how she had enjoyed them as achange after the eternal joints of beef or mutton as supplied to theassistants at Madame Gabrielle's.

  "It must be," she sighed.

  "And you do not regret?"

  Her lips quivered, and she glanced at me without replying.

  "There is some mystery in all this, Muriel," I said, bending across toher earnestly. "Why do you refuse to explain to me?"

  "Because I cannot. If I could, I would."

  "Then if after to-night we are to part," I went on bitterly, "mine willbe a dismal future."

  "You have your own world," she said. "You will quickly forget me amongyour gay friends, as you have already forgotten me times withoutnumber."

  I could not bear her reproaches; her words cut me to the quick.

  "No. I have never forgotten you," I protested quickly. "I shall neverforget."

  "Did you not utter those same words to that woman who fascinated you afew months ago?" she suggested with a slight curl of the lip.

  "If I did, it was because I was beneath the spell of her beauty--abeauty so mysterious as to be almost supernatural," I answered. "I loveyou nevertheless," I added in a low tone, so that none should overhear."I swear I do."

  "It is useless," she exclaimed, with a frown of displeasure. "Furtherdiscussion of the subject will lead to no alteration of my decision.You know me well enough to be aware that if I am determined no argumentwill turn me from my purpose."

  "But my future depends upon you, Muriel," I cried in despair. "Throughyears--ever since the old days in Stamford--I have admired you, and astime has progressed, and you have become more beautiful and morerefined, my admiration has developed into a true and honest love. Willyou never believe me?"

  "No," she answered. "I can never believe you. Besides, we could neverbe happy, for our paths in life will lie in very different directions."

  "That's all foolish sentiment," I exclaimed. "I have to ask permissionof no one as to whom I may marry. Why will you not reconsider thisdecision of yours? You know well--you must have seen long, long ago--that I love you."

  "I have already told you my intention," she responded with a frigidityof manner that again crushed all hope from my heart. "To-night must beour last night together. Afterwards we must remember one another onlyas acquaintances."

  "No, no!" I protested. "Don't say that."

  "It must be," she responded decisively. All argument appeared useless,so I remained silent.

  It was nine o'clock before we left the restaurant, too early for her toreturn to Madame Gabrielle's, therefore at my invitation she accompaniedme to my chambers, and sat with me in my sitting-room for a long time.So long had we been platonic friends that I could not bring myself tobelieve that that was really her farewell visit. She sat in the samechair in which Aline had sat on the first night when she had sostrangely come into my life, and now again she chatted on merrily, as inthe old days, inquiring after mutual friends in Stamford, and whatchanges had been effected in sleepy, lethargic Duddington. I had toldher all the latest gossip of the place, when suddenly I observed--

  "Just now everybody in the village is taken up with the new curate."

  "No curate gets on well for very long with old Layton," she remarked."Mr Farrar was a splendid preacher, and they said it was because therector was jealous of his talents that he got rid of him."

  "Yes, Farrar was a clever fellow, but Yelverton, the new man, is anawfully good chap. He was at college with me, and you may judge myastonishment when I met him, after years of separation, in my mother'sdrawing-room."

  "What did you say his name was?" she inquired, with knit brows.

  "Yelverton--Jack Yelverton," I answered.

  "Yelverton!" She uttered the name in a strange voice, and seemed toshrink at its pronouncement.

  "Yes. He's a thoroughly good fellow. He was in London--believes insocial reform among the poor, and all that sort of thing. Do you knowhim?"

  "I--well, yes. If it is the same man, I've heard of him. He did a lotof good down in the East End somewhere," she answered evasively.

  "I suppose all the girls will be running after him," I laughed. "It'sreally extraordinary what effect a clerical collar has upon some girls;and mothers, too, for the matter of that."

  "They think the Church a respectable profession, perhaps," she said,joining in my laughter.

  "Well, if you're a clergyman you are not compelled to swindle people; aproceeding which nowadays is the essence of good business," I said."The successful commercial man is the fellow who is able to screw thelargest amount of profits out of his customers; the rich stockbroker ismerely a lucky gambler; and the company promoter is but a liar whoseingenuity is such that by exaggeration he obtains money out of thepublic's pockets to float his bubble concerns. It is difficult indeednowadays to find an honest man in trade, and the professions are notmuch better off. Medicine is but too often quackery; the law has longbeen synonymous with swindling; parliamentary Honours are too often thesatisfying of unbounded egotism; and the profession of the Church ismore often than not followed by men to whom a genteel profession is anecessity, whose capabilities are not sufficient to enable them to enterjournalism or literature, and who profess in the pulpit what they don'tpractise in private lif
e."

  She laughed again.

  "That's a sweeping condemnation," she declared. "But there's a greatdeal of truth in it. Trade is mostly dishonest, and the more clever therogue the larger the fortune he amasses."

  "Yes," I argued; "the man who has for years gained huge profits from thepublic--succeeded in hoodwinking them with some patent medicine, scentedsoap, or other commodity out of which he has made eighty per cent,profit--is put forward as the type of the successful business man.There is really no morality in trade in these days."

  "And