"That the chalice should be thus profaned and desecrated by an invisible agency is a startling revelation indeed," he said. "A h.e.l.lish influence must be at work somewhere, unless," and he paused, "unless we have been tricked by a mere magician's feat."

"But are not the ashes still hot?" I suggested. "See here!" and I took up some of the fused metal. "Is not this silver? There seems no doubt that the cup was actually consumed here in the spot where the verger placed it, and that it was consumed by an uncommonly fierce fire."

Without responding, he stood gazing blankly upon the ashes. I saw that his heart was torn by a thousand doubts and fears, and fell to wondering whether he had ever had any cause to suspect the woman he feared of possessing the power of destruction.

Again he glanced round the cavernous darkness of the silent church, and a shudder went through him.

"Let's go, my dear fellow," he said, endeavouring to steady himself.

"I'm utterly unnerved to-night. Perhaps the efforts of my sermon have been a little too much for me. The doctor told me to avoid all undue excitement."

"Keep yourself quiet," I urged. "No doubt some explanation will be forthcoming very soon," I added, endeavouring to rea.s.sure him.

But he shook his head gloomily, answering--

"The Prince of this World is all-powerful. The maleficent spirit is with us always, and evil has fallen upon me, and upon my work."

"No, no!" I cried quickly. "You talk too hopelessly, my dear old chap.

You're upset to-night. To-morrow, after a rest, you'll be quite fit again. You've excited yourself in your sermon, and this is the reaction."

He shrugged his shoulders, and together we left the church. I walked with him across to his lodgings in a poorish-looking house in Liverpool Street, facing the disused burial-ground. He had not entered upon residence at the vicarage, for, as he explained to me, his wants were few, and he preferred furnished apartments to the worries of an establishment of his own. As I entered the small, rather close-smelling house, I could not help contrasting it with Mrs Walker's clean, homely cottage in Duddington, where the ivy covered the porch, and the hollyhocks grew so tall in the little front garden. He took me into his shabby little sitting-room, the window of which overlooked the churchyard, and I saw how terribly dreary was his abode.

I remarked that the place was scarcely so open and healthy as at Duddington, but as he sank into his chair exhausted, he answered simply--

"My work lies here among the poor, and it is my duty to live among them.

Many men in London live away from their parishes because the locality happens to be a working-cla.s.s one, but such men can never carry on their work well. To know the people, to obtain their confidence, and to be able to a.s.sist them, one must live among them, however dismal is the life, however dreary the constant outlook of bricks and mortar."

With this theory I was compelled to agree. Surely this man must be devout and G.o.d-fearing if he could give up the world, as he had done, to devote himself to the poor in such a locality, and live the dismal life of the people among whom his work lay.

Yet in his acquaintanceship with Aline there was some strange mystery.

His hiding from her, and her clandestine visit to Duddington, were sufficient in themselves to show that their friendship had been strained, and his words, whenever he had spoken of her, were as though he held her in fear. Mystery surrounded her on every side.

I sat with my friend for a long time smoking with him in that dingy, cheerless room. Once only he referred to the curious phenomenon which had occurred in the church, and noticing that I had no desire to discuss it, he dropped the subject. He was enthusiastic over his work, telling me sad stories of the poverty existing there on every side, and lamenting that while London gave liberally to Mansion House Funds for the relief of foreigners, it gave so little to the deserving poor at home.

Suddenly, glancing at the clock, he rose, saying that he had a visit to make.

"It's late," I exclaimed, seeing that it was after ten o'clock.

"Not too late to do my duty," he answered.

Then we pa.s.sed out, and in silence threaded our way back through the narrow alleys until we gained the Walworth Road, where we parted, after I had promised to call soon and see him again.

When he had left me, I turned once to look after him. His tall, athletic figure was disappearing in the darkness of the slums. Truly this man, who had been my old college chum, was a devoted servant of the Master.

Several days went by, during which I reflected a good deal upon the strange occurrence at St Peter's, and the promise made me by Aline.

Would Muriel return to me? Was the influence possessed by the Woman of Evil sufficient to cause her to abandon her newly-found lover and crave my forgiveness?

She had told me to possess myself in patience, and I, in obedience to her command, neither sought Muriel or wrote to her.

A week pa.s.sed. It was Sat.u.r.day evening. I had been dining early over at the club, and on entering my chambers with my latch-key about eight o'clock, having returned there before dropping in at the Alhambra, I perceived through the crack of the half-open door that some one was in my sitting-room.

I held my breath, scarcely believing my eyes. It was Muriel.

Slowly she rose to meet me with a majestic but rather tragic air, and without a word stretched forth her hand.

"Why, Muriel!" I cried gladly. "You're the very last person I expected!"

"I suppose so," she said, adding in a low, strained voice, "Close the door. I have come to speak with you."

I obeyed her; then, returning to her side, stood eager for her words.

The enigmatical influence of Aline was upon her, for I saw that to her dark, brilliant eyes there had already returned that love-light which once had shone upon me, and noticed how her sweet, well-remembered voice trembled with an excitement which she strove vainly to conceal. Her dress was of grey stuff, plainly made as always, but her black hat with a touch of blue in it suited her well, and as she sat before me in the chair wherein the mysterious Temptress had sat, she seemed extremely graceful and more handsome than ever.

"You have, I suppose, almost forgotten me during this long separation, haven't you?" she faltered with abruptness, after some hesitation.

Apparently she had carefully prepared some little diplomatic speech, but in the excitement of the moment all recollection of it had pa.s.sed from her mind.

"Forgotten you, Muriel!" I echoed, gazing earnestly into her soft, beautiful eyes. "When we last met, did I not tell you that I should never forget?"

Her breast heaved and fell; her countenance grew troubled.

"Surely it is you who have forgotten me?" I said, with a touch of bitter reproach. "You have cast me aside in preference for another.

Tell me what I have done that you should treat me thus?"

"Nothing!" she responded nervously, her grave eyes downcast.

"Then, why cannot you love me, Muriel?" I demanded, bending towards her in desperation.

"I--I'm foolish to have come here," she said, in sudden desperation, rising from her chair.

"Why foolish?" I asked. "Even though you may love another you are always welcome to my rooms as of old. I bear you no ill-will, Muriel,"

I said, not, however, without bitterness.

A silence fell. Again she sighed deeply, and then at last raising her fair face to mine, she exclaimed in an eager, trembling tone--

"Forgive me, Clifton! Forgive me! I have come here to-night to ask you to have pity upon me. I know how I have wronged you, but I have come to tell you that I still love you--to ask whether you consider me still worthy of your love?"

"Of course, darling!" I cried, springing forward, instantly placing my arm about her neck and imprinting a fond kiss upon her white brow. "Of course I love you," I repeated, enthusiastic in my newly-found contentment. "Since you have gone out of my life I have been sad and lonely indeed; and when I knew that you loved another all desire for life left me. I--"

"But I love you, Clifton," she cried, interrupting. "It was but a foolish pa.s.sing fancy on my part to prefer that man to you who have always been my friend, who have always been so kind and so thoughtful on my behalf. I wronged you deeply, and have since repented it."

"The knowledge that you still love me, dearest, is sufficient. It gives me the completest satisfaction; it renders me the most happy man in all the world," and still retaining her hand I pressed it warmly to my lips.

"Then you forgive me?" she asked, with a seriousness that at such a moment struck me as curious.

"Forgive you? Certainly!" I answered. "This estrangement has tested the affection of both of us. We now know that it is impossible for us to live apart."

"Ah, yes!" she answered. "You are quite right. I cannot live without you. It is impossible. I have tried and have failed."

"Then in future you are mine, darling," I cried, in joyous ecstasy.

"Let the past remain as a warning to us both. Not only were you inconstant, but I was also; therefore on my part there is nothing to forgive. Let happiness now be ours because we have both discovered that only in each other can we find that perfect love which to the pure and upright is as life itself."