pleasant afternoon we had afterwardsspent on the river. But it was now too early in the season for boatingin comfort, therefore to wander about would, I knew, be far moreenjoyable.
Therefore, we took a cab over to Waterloo, and travelling down toTeddington, lunched at the Clarence, and afterwards, in the brightspring sunshine, strolled up the avenue, where already the trees werebursting into leaf. There were but few people, for as yet the seasonwas considered too early. On summer Sundays, when London is dusty andthe streets of closed shops palpitate with heat, then crowds of workerscome there by all sorts of conveyances to get fresh air and obtain sightof the cooling scenery. But in early spring it is too far afield. Yetthere is no more beautiful spot within easy reach of London, and in thequietness of a bright spring day, when the grass is green, wheneverything is bursting into bud, and the birds are singing merrily as ifthankful that winter has passed, I had always found it far more pleasantthan in the hot days, when omnibuses tear wildly along the avenue,raising clouds of dust, when carts full of coarse-voiced gentlemen fromthe East shout loudly, and chaff those who are seated on the tops of thefour-horsed 'buses, and when the public-houses are filled to overflowingby crowds of ever-thirsty _bona-fide_ travellers.
In the warm sunshine, which reminded me of those perfect March days wehad had on the Riviera, we wandered together across the Park, chattingmerrily, she relating to me all the principal events of her toilsomelife during the past six months, which comprised that period when themetropolis is at its worst, and when wet Sundays render the life ofLondon's workers additionally dismal. In winter the life of theshop-assistant is truly a dreary, monotonous existence, working nearlyhalf the day by artificial light in an atmosphere unhealthily warmed byone of those suffocating abominations called gas-stoves; and if Sundayhappens to be inclement there is absolutely nothing to do save to waitfor 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 therecreation which shop-assistants in London can obtain if the Day of Restbe wet.
Truly the shop-assistant's life is an intensely dismal one. Knowing allthis, I felt sorry for Muriel.
"Then the winter has been very dull," I observed, after she had beentelling me of the miserable weather and her consequent inability to getout on Sundays.
"Yes," she answered. "I used to be envious when you wrote telling me ofthe sunshine and flowers you had on the Riviera. It must be a perfectParadise. I should so like to go there and spend a winter."
"As far as natural beauties are concerned, the coast is almost as nearParadise as you can get on this earth," I said, laughing. "But MonteCarlo, although delightful, is far nearer an approach to the otherplace--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 theCasino was the entrance-gate to hell."
"I'd like to see the gambling-rooms just once," she said.
"You are best away from them," I answered. "The moral influence of thetables cannot fail to prove baneful."
"I was disappointed," she said, "when I heard you had left Londonwithout wishing me good-bye. You had never done so before. I called atyour chambers, and Simes told me you had gone abroad. Surely you couldhave spared ten minutes to wish me farewell," she added reproachfully.
I glanced at her and saw a look of regret and disappointment upon herface. 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 trustinglove. Yet I was socially her superior, and had foolishly imagined thatwe could always remain friends without becoming lovers. When Ireflected how years ago I used to chat with her in her father's shop, inthe days when she was a hoydenish schoolgirl, and compared her then withwhat she was now, I saw her as a graceful, modest, and extremelybeautiful woman, who possessed the refinement of speech and grace ofcarriage which many women in higher standings in life would have envied,and whom I knew was honest and upright, although practically alone andunprotected in that great world of London.
"You must forgive me," I said. "I ought to have seen you before I wentaway, but I left hurriedly with my sister and her husband. You knowwhat a restless pair they are."
"Of course," she answered. "But you've been back in England severalweeks. Mary Daffern wrote to me and said she had seen you driving inStamford nearly three weeks ago."
"Yes," I replied. "I was sick of the eternal rounds of Nice and MonteCarlo, so travelled straight to Tixover without breaking my journey intown. But surely," I added, "it doesn't matter much if I don't see youfor 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 youare. We are friends--indeed, you are the oldest friend I have inLondon."
"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. Imerely accept their invitations because it takes me out of the drearygroove in which my work lies. It's impossible for a woman to go aboutalone, and the attentions of men amuse me rather than gratify my naturalwoman's vanity."
She spoke sensibly, as few of her age would speak. Her parents had beenhonest, upright, God-fearing folk, and she had been taught to view lifephilosophically.
"But you have loved," I suggested. "You can't really tell me with truththat of all these men who have escorted you about of an evening and onSundays there is not one for whom you have developed some feeling ofaffection."
She blushed and glanced up at me shyly.
"It really isn't fair to ask me that," she protested, flicking at thelast year's leaves with the point of her umbrella. "A woman must have aheart like stone if she never experiences any feeling of love. If Ireplied in the negative I should only lie to you. That you know quitewell."
"Then you have a lover, eh?" I exclaimed quickly, perhaps in a tone ofill-concealed regret.
"No," she responded, in a low, firm voice, "I have no lover." Thenafter a few moments' pause she inquired, "Why do you ask me that?"
"Because, Muriel," I said seriously, taking her hand, "because I desireto know the truth."
"Why?" she asked, looking at me in mingled amazement and alarm. "We arefriends, it is true; but your friendship gives you no right to endeavourto learn the secret of my heart," and she gently withdrew her hand frommy grasp.
I was silent, unable to reply to such an argument.
"And you love this man?" I said, in a rather hard voice.
But she merely shrugged her shoulders, and with a forced laughanswered--
"Oh, let's talk of something else. We are out to enjoy ourselvesto-day, not to discuss each other's love affairs."
We had approached the Diana fountain, and she stood pensively beside itfor a moment watching the shoal of lazy carp, some of which have livedin that pond for over a century.
"I do not wish to discuss my own affairs of the heart, Muriel," I burstforth passionately, as I stood beside her. "Yet, as one who holds youin esteem, who has ever striven for your welfare, I feel somehow that Iought to be still your confidant."
"You only wish to wring my secret from me because it amuses you," sheprotested, her eyes flashing resentfully. "You know that's the truth.When you have nothing better to do you bring me out, just because I'mcompany. If you had held me in esteem, as you declare you do, you wouldhave at least wished me farewell before you went abroad for the winter."
This neglect had annoyed her, and in sudden pique she was reproaching mein a manner quite unusual to her. I had never before seen her assume soresentful an air.
"No," I responded, pained that she should thus charge me with amusingmyself at leisure with her society, although when I reflected I wascompelled to admit within myself that her words were the absolute truth.F
or several years I had merely treated her as a friend to be soughtwhen I had no other person to dine with or accompany me out. Yes, oflate, I had neglected Muriel sadly.
"I don't think you are quite fair," I said. "That I hold you in esteemyou must have seen long, long ago, and the reason why I did not wish youfarewell was because--well, because I was just then very much upset."
"You had met a woman whom you believed you loved," she said harshly."It is useless to try and conceal the truth from me."
"I have not attempted to conceal anything," I responded, neverthelessstarting at her mention of