Part 23 (1/2)

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

”If in the future I reproach myself, I alone shall bear the p.r.i.c.ks of conscience,” she answered, with surprising calmness.

”And this, then, is your decision?”

”Yes,” she replied, in a blank, monotonous voice. ”I am honoured by your offer, but am compelled to decline it.”

Her words fell as a blow upon me. I had been confident, from the many little services she had rendered me, the interest she had taken in the arrangement of my bachelor's quarters, and her eagerness always to please me, that she loved me. Yet her sudden, inexplicable desire to end our friends.h.i.+p shattered all my hopes. She loved another. It was my own fault, I told myself. I had neglected her too long, and it was but what I might have expected.

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

I was never tired of wandering through that historic, time-mellowed, old pile, where the sparrows twitter in the quiet court-yards, the peac.o.c.ks strut across the ancient gardens, and the crumbling sundials mark the time, as they have done daily through three centuries.

In my gloomy mood, however, I fear I answered her chatter abruptly in monosyllables. It struck me as strange that she could so quickly forget and become suddenly light-hearted. Indeed, it seemed as though she were glad that the ordeal she had feared had pa.s.sed, and was delighted with her freedom.

The bright air of the riverside was fresh and exhilarating, but the sun soon 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 the soup was brought, for I recollected the many snug little meals we had eaten together in times gone by, and how she had enjoyed them as a change after the eternal joints of beef or mutton as supplied to the a.s.sistants 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 to her 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 will be a dismal future.”

”You have your own world,” she said. ”You will quickly forget me among your gay friends, as you have already forgotten me times without number.”

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

”No. I have never forgotten you,” I protested quickly. ”I shall never forget.”

”Did you not utter those same words to that woman who fascinated you a few 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--a beauty so mysterious as to be almost supernatural,” I answered. ”I love you 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. ”Further discussion 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 argument will turn me from my purpose.”

”But my future depends upon you, Muriel,” I cried in despair. ”Through years--ever since the old days in Stamford--I have admired you, and as time has progressed, and you have become more beautiful and more refined, my admiration has developed into a true and honest love. Will you never believe me?”

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

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