"But," he added quite resignedly, "it is, I suppose, a burden placed upon me as a test. Now I know the truth I feel as an accessory to the crime; but to divulge would be to break faith with both G.o.d and man."

His words admitted of no argument. I sat silent, oppressed, smoking and thinking. Then at length I rose to go.

"We are friends still, Clifton," he said, as he gripped my hand warmly.

"But you understand my position, don't you?"

"Yes," I answered. "That you cannot speak is plain. Good night," and I went forth into the quiet village street where the only light came from the cottage windows here and there. The good people of Duddington go to bed early and rise with the dawn, therefore there was little light to guide my steps down the hill and up the road to the Hall. Nothing stirred, and the only sound was the dismal howl of a distant sheep-dog.

During the fortnight that followed I saw plenty of the new curate. His manner had, however, changed, and he had grown the same merry, buoyant companion as he had been in our college days.

Into Duddington Jack Yelverton had come as a perfect revelation of the ways and manners of the Church. For the past twenty years the estimable rector had preached regularly once each Sunday, and been usually a.s.sisted by a puny, consumptive-looking youth, fresh from college; but the smart, clever, witty sermon from this ecclesiastical giant was electrifying. People talked of it for days afterwards, discussed the arguments he had put forward so boldly, and were compelled to admit that he was an earnest, righteous, and upright man.

He dined with us once or twice, afterwards taking a hand at whist; we cycled together over to Oundle by way of Newton and Fotheringhay; on another occasion we rode to Uppingham to visit a man who had been with us at Wadham and was now one of the masters at Uppingham School; and several times I drove him to Peterborough and to Stamford. Thus we were together a good deal, and the more I saw of him the more convinced I became that he was thoroughly earnest in his purpose, and that he had not adopted the Church from motives of gain, like so many men whose relatives are ecclesiastical dignitaries.

A letter I received one morning from Muriel caused me to decide upon a visit to town, and I left the same evening, returning once more to my chambers in Charing Cross Mansions. Next day being Sunday, I sent Simes, on my arrival, round to Madame Gabrielle's with a note inviting Muriel to call at eleven and go with me to spend the day at Hampton Court. I knew that she always liked a ramble in Bushey Park, for town-stifled as she was, it reminded her of Burleigh, the great demesne of the Cecils outside Stamford.

She accepted, and at eleven next morning Simes ushered her in. She was quietly dressed in black, the dash of bright cerise in her hat well suiting her complexion.

"Well," she said, putting forth her hand as she entered. "I really thought you had quite forgotten me. Your note last night gave me a great surprise."

"I suppose if the truth were known you were engaged for to-day, eh?" I asked mischievously, for I took a keen delight in chaffing her about her admirers.

"Well, you've pretty well guessed the truth," she laughed, blushing slightly as she took the chair I offered her.

"What is he this time--dark or fair?" I asked.

"Dark. A rather nice fellow-cashier in a bank in the City."

"And he takes you out often, I suppose?"

"Two or three times a week," she answered, quite frankly. "We go to a music-hall sometimes, or, if not, down to the Monico."

"The Monico!" I laughed, remembering how popular that restaurant was with shop-a.s.sistants and clerks. "Why always the Monico?"

"Ah!" she smiled. "We can't afford Frascati's, the Cafe Royal, or Yerrey's. We get a little life at the Monico at small cost, and it doesn't matter to us whether our neighbours wear tweeds or not. A man not in evening dress in the Cafe Royal, Verrey's, or Jimmy's is looked upon as an outsider; so we avoid those places."

"And you like him, eh?" I inquired, amused.

"As much as I like all the others," she responded with a light, irresponsible air, toying with the handle of her umbrella. "Life in London is frightfully dull if a girl has n.o.body to take her out. She can't go about alone as she can in the country, and girls in business are not very friendly towards each other. You've no idea how many jealousies exist among girls in shops."

"I suppose if a man goes to Madame Gabrielle's to buy a bonnet for a present, or something, you all think he ought to take notice of you?" I laughed.

"Of course," she replied. "But it's the travellers from the wholesale houses who are most sought after by the girls; first, because they are generally pretty well to do, and secondly, they often know of good `cribs' of which they tell the girls who are their favourites, and give them a recommendation into the bargain."

"I always used to think that the shop-walker in the drapery places had a pretty lively time of it. Is that so?"

"They're always jealous of the travellers," she said. "The shop-walker fancies himself a lady-killer because he's trained to do the amiable to the customers, and he can get the girls in his department into awful hot water if he likes; therefore he doesn't care much for the good-looking town traveller, who comes in his brougham and has such a very gay and easy life of it. Girls in drapers' shops are compelled to keep in with the shop-walker, but they hate him because he's usually such a tyrant."

"Then you may thank your stars that you haven't a shop-walker," I laughed.

"But we've got old Mrs Rayne and the manager, who are both quite as nasty to us as any shop-walker could be," she protested quickly. "Rayne is constantly nagging at one or other of us if we don't effect a sale.

And that's too bad, for, as you know, many ladies come in merely to look round and price the hats. They have no intention whatever of buying, and make lame excuses that the shape doesn't suit them, or that the colour is too gaudy. It isn't fair to us."

"Of course not," I said. "But forget all your business worries for to-day, and let's have a pleasant hour or two out in the country.

There's a train from Waterloo at twelve; so we'll go to Teddington and walk across Bushey Park. Do you care for that?"

"Of course," she cried, delighted. "Why, it's fully ten or even eleven months since we were there last time. Do you remember, we went down last Chestnut Sunday? Weren't the trees in the avenue beautiful then?"

"Yes," I said, remembering the pleasant afternoon we had afterwards spent on the river. But it was now too early in the season for boating in comfort, therefore to wander about would, I knew, be far more enjoyable.

Therefore, we took a cab over to Waterloo, and travelling down to Teddington, lunched at the Clarence, and afterwards, in the bright spring sunshine, strolled up the avenue, where already the trees were bursting into leaf. There were but few people, for as yet the season was considered too early. On summer Sundays, when London is dusty and the streets of closed shops palpitate with heat, then crowds of workers come there by all sorts of conveyances to get fresh air and obtain sight of the cooling scenery. But in early spring it is too far afield. Yet there is no more beautiful spot within easy reach of London, and in the quietness of a bright spring day, when the gra.s.s is green, when everything is bursting into bud, and the birds are singing merrily as if thankful that winter has pa.s.sed, I had always found it far more pleasant than in the hot days, when omnibuses tear wildly along the avenue, raising clouds of dust, when carts full of coa.r.s.e-voiced gentlemen from the East shout loudly, and chaff those who are seated on the tops of the four-horsed 'buses, and when the public-houses are filled to overflowing by crowds of ever-thirsty _bona-fide_ travellers.

In the warm sunshine, which reminded me of those perfect March days we had had on the Riviera, we wandered together across the Park, chatting merrily, she relating to me all the princ.i.p.al events of her toilsome life during the past six months, which comprised that period when the metropolis is at its worst, and when wet Sundays render the life of London's workers additionally dismal. In winter the life of the shop-a.s.sistant is truly a dreary, monotonous existence, working nearly half the day by artificial light in an atmosphere unhealthily warmed by one of those suffocating abominations called gas-stoves; and if Sunday happens to be inclement there is absolutely nothing to do save to wait for the opening of the big restaurants at six o'clock in the evening.

To sit idle in a cafe and be choked with tobacco-smoke is all the recreation which shop-a.s.sistants in London can obtain if the Day of Rest be wet.

Truly the shop-a.s.sistant's life is an intensely dismal one. Knowing all this, I felt sorry for Muriel.

"Then the winter has been very dull," I observed, after she had been telling me of the miserable weather and her consequent inability to get out on Sundays.

"Yes," she answered. "I used to be envious when you wrote telling me of the sunshine and flowers you had on the Riviera. It must be a perfect Paradise. I should so like to go there and spend a winter."

"As far as natural beauties are concerned, the coast is almost as near Paradise as you can get on this earth," I said, laughing. "But Monte Carlo, although delightful, is far nearer an approach to the other place--the place which isn't often mentioned in polite society--in fact, somebody once said, and with a good deal of truth, that the door of the Casino was the entrance-gate to h.e.l.l."

"I'd like to see the gambling-rooms just once," she said.

"You are best away from them," I answered. "The moral influence of the tables cannot fail to prove baneful."

"I was disappointed," she said, "when I heard you had left London without wishing me good-bye. You had never done so before. I called at your chambers, and Simes told me you had gone abroad. Surely you could have spared ten minutes to wish me farewell," she added reproachfully.

I glanced at her and saw a look of regret and disappointment upon her face. Yes, she was undeniably beautiful.

I told myself that I had always loved Muriel, that I loved her still.

Her eyes met mine, and I saw in their dark depths a deep and trusting love. Yet I was socially her superior, and had foolishly imagined that we could always remain friends without becoming lovers. When I reflected how years ago I used to chat with her in her father's shop, in the days when she was a hoydenish schoolgirl, and compared her then with what she was now, I saw her as a graceful, modest, and extremely beautiful woman, who possessed the refinement of speech and grace of carriage which many women in higher standings in life would have envied, and whom I knew was honest and upright, although practically alone and unprotected in that great world of London.

"You must forgive me," I said. "I ought to have seen you before I went away, but I left hurriedly with my sister and her husband. You know what a restless pair they are."

"Of course," she answered. "But you've been back in England several weeks. Mary Daffern wrote to me and said she had seen you driving in Stamford nearly three weeks ago."

"Yes," I replied. "I was sick of the eternal rounds of Nice and Monte Carlo, so travelled straight to Tixover without breaking my journey in town. But surely," I added, "it doesn't matter much if I don't see you for a month or two. It never has mattered."

Her eyes were fixed upon the ground, and I thought her lips trembled.

"Of course it does," she responded. "I like to know how and where you are. We are friends--indeed, you are the oldest friend I have in London."

"But you have your other admirers," I said. "Men who take you about, entertain you, flatter you, and all that sort of thing."

"Yes, yes," she answered hurriedly. "But you know I hate them all. I merely accept their invitations because it takes me out of the dreary groove in which my work lies. It's impossible for a woman to go about alone, and the attentions of men amuse me rather than gratify my natural woman's vanity."