"We could go on being friends just as we are now," he urged.
"It wouldn't be the same," she said, "because there'd be no way out. If
we found we didn't like each other, to-morrow, or next month, or on
Tuesday week, we could just say good-by and there'd be no harm done.
But if we were married--no--no--no!"
"Do you feel as though you would dislike me by Tuesday week?"
"You know I don't," she said, impatiently, "but I might. Or you might.
One never knows. It isn't safe. It isn't wise. I may be silly, but I'm
not silly enough to marry for any reason but one."
"And that?"
"That I couldn't bear to part with him, I suppose."
"And you can bear to part with me. There hasn't been much, has there?
Just these three days, and all our talks, and. . . ." He stopped. A tear
had fallen on her lap. "I won't worry any more," he said, in an altered
voice. "You shall do just what you like. Shall I get a taxi and take you
straight to your aunt's? I will if you like. Come."
"There's no such hurry as all that," she said, "and it's no use being
angry with me because I won't jump over a wall without knowing what's on
the other side. No, why I should jump, either," she added, on the
impulse of a sudden thought. "You haven't told me that yet. What good
would my getting married do to Aunt Alice? I don't mean that I would,
because you know I couldn't--even for her--but what good would it do if
I did?"
"If we were married," he said, with a careful absence of emotion, "we
could send your aunt a copy of our marriage certificate and a reference
to my solicitor. She would then know that you had married a respectable
person with an assured income, instead of which you now appear to be
running about the country stealing ducks with Heaven knows who."
"Yes," she said, "I see that. Oh, I have a glorious idea! It will suit
you and me and Aunt Alice and make everybody happy!--like in books.
Let's have a mock marriage, and forge the certificate."
"Have you ever seen a marriage certificate?"
"No, of course not."
"Well, it would be as difficult to forge as a bank-note."
"Why--have you ever seen one?" she asked, and he hoped it was anxiety he
read in her tone.
"Yes; I know a chap who's a registrar. I've witnessed a marriage before
now."
"Then there's no need to forge," she said, light-heartedly. "Your friend
would give you one of the certificates, of course, if you asked him, and
we could fill it in and make Aunt Alice happy."
He laughed, and the sound, echoing in the gray emptiness of the Hall,
drew on him the sour glance of a barrister, wigged and gowned, hastening
to the mayor's court.
"He's wondering what you've got to laugh at," she said, "and I don't
wonder. _I_ don't know. Why shouldn't we pretend to be married? I'm sure
your friend would help us to. Oh, do!" she said, clasping her hands with
an exaggerated gesture that could not quite hide the genuine appeal
behind it. "Then we sha'n't have to part. I mean I sha'n't have to go
back to the aunts and all the worry that I thought I'd got away from."
"You're not really serious."
"But I am. You will--oh, do say you will."
"No," he said, "it's impossible--Princess, don't ask if I can't."
"Then it's all over?"
"I suppose so, if you insist on going back."
"I don't insist. But I must do something about Aunt Alice. She's always
been a darling to me. I can't go away and be happy and not care whether
she's miserable or not. You'd hate me if I could. I'll go back to-morrow
or to-night. You said we should go into the country and think things
out. At least we can do that--we can have one more day. Shall we?"
Her sweet eyes tempted and implored.
"What sort of day would it be," he said, "with the end of everything at
the end of it? How could we be happy as we were yesterday?--for you were
happy, you owned it. How could we be happy together when we knew we'd
got to part in six hours--five hours--two hours--half an hour? Besides,
why should I give you the chance to grow any dearer? So as to make it
hurt more when you took yourself away from me? No--"
"I didn't know I was dear," she said, in a very small voice.
Perhaps he did not hear it, for he went on: "If the splendid adventure
is to end like this, let it end here--now. I've had the two days; you
can't take those from me."
"I don't want to take anything from you, but--"
"Let's make an end of it, then," he said, ruthlessly, "since that's what
you choose. Good-by, Princess. Let's shake hands and part friends." He
rose. "Let's part friends," he repeated, and paused, remembering that
you cannot go away and leave a lady planted in the Guildhall. Yet he
could not say, "Let us part friends, and now I will call a cab."
She was more expert. "At least," she put it, "we needn't part here in
the dark among the images of dead people. Come out into the sunshine and
look at the pretty pigeons."
He was grateful to her. In the Guildhall yard the cab would happen, if
it happened at all, naturally and without any effect of bathos.
They stood watching the sleek birds strutting on little red feet, and
fluttering gray wings in the sunshine. She thought of the wood-pigeon in
the wood by the river, and the calm brightness of yesterday held out
beckoning hands to her.
"I didn't think it was going to end like this," she said.
"Nor I," he answered, inexorably.
"Are you quite sure it's impossible? The mock marriage, I mean? In books
it's always so frightfully easy, even when the girl isn't helping?"
"I'm afraid it's impossible," said he. "I wish it wasn't. Look at that
blue chap," he added, indicating a fat pigeon for the benefit of a
passing boy. "You must go back to your aunts. And I must go back to
. . . oh, well, there's nothing much for me to go back to."
They were walking along King Street now. "It does seem rather as though
a sponge were going to pass over the slate . . . and there wouldn't be
much left," she said.
He glanced at her, suddenly alert. If she felt that . . . why,
then. . . .
He wished that the scene had not been in one of the most frequented
streets of the City of London. If it had been in a drawing-room, for
instance--her drawing-room--it would have been possible to say the words
of parting with something of dignity and finality. But here, with--in
the background and not to be evaded--that snorting taxicab over whose
closed door their farewells must be made. . . . But need it be across
a taxicab door?
"Let us," he said, "take a cab. I will go with you as far as Hyde Park
Square."
"Shall we have the hood down?" she asked, with intention. "It doesn't
matter now if any one does see us." But he pretended not to hear, and
the hood remained as it was.
They were silent all the crowded way along Cheapside, where there were
blocks, as usual, and the drivers of lorries and wagons were cheerfully
profane. Silent, too, along Newgate Street and New Oxford Street. The
driver, being a wise man, turned up Bloomsbury Street to escape from the
blocks in Oxford Street; they passed the British Museum and, presently,
the Midlothian Hotel. And as they passed it, each thought of the
breakfast there only that morning, when she had poured the coffee of one
from whom she had then had no mind to part.
"Oh, why are we doing it?" She spoke suddenly, and her speech had the
effect of a cry. "We didn't mean to say good-by, and now we're going
to. Don't let's."
"But your aunt," he said, feeling as foolish as any young man need wish.
"If you don't go back to her now you'll want to to-morrow--and I
can't. . . . I told you why I want to part now, if we are to part. Now,
before it gets any worse."
"We shall be at Hyde Park Square in a minute," she said, desperately.
"Yes," he said, "it's nearly over. What number is it? I must tell the
man."
"Tell him to turn around and go somewhere else--into the country; we
said we would, you know. I'm not going back to Hyde Park Square. Tell
him. . . ."
"Princess," he said, "I can't bear it. Let him go on."
"But I'm not asking you to bear anything. Don't you understand?"
"Not. . . ?"
"Yes, I will; if you'll ask me."
"You'll marry me?"
"Yes," she said, "rather than have everything end in absolute silliness,
like this."
He looked at her, at her clasped hands and the frown of her great
resolve. He perceived that he was worth something to her--that she was
prepared to pay a price--the price he set--rather than lose him
altogether. Her eyes met his with a mingling of courage and desperation,
as of one who has chosen a difficult and dangerous path, one who makes a
great sacrifice, leads a forlorn hope. And his eyes dwelt for a moment
on hers, appreciatively, thoughtfully. And in that moment his resolve
was taken.
"No," he said, "you didn't want to jump the wall without knowing what it
would be like on the other side. I won't have an unwilling wife. On the
other hand, I won't lose you now, Princess, for a thousand fathers and
ten thousand aunts. Make up your mind to the mock marriage, and that
shall be the way out."
"But I thought you said it was impossible."
"So it was. But it isn't now. I've been thinking."
She leaned back, turned toward him from the corner, and faced him with
fearless eyes.
"What a nightmare of a day it's been," she said. "Aren't you glad we're
awake again? When can I send the certificate?" she asked, eager and
alert.
"At the earliest possible moment," said he. "I must see my friend about
it at once. Would you mind waiting for me--say in St. Paul's? And then
we'll end our day in the country, after all."
"You are good," she said, and laid her hand for a fleeting instant on
his arm. "I do think it's good of you to give way about the mock
marriage. You know I had really set my heart on it. Now everything will
be plain sailing, won't it? And we'll go to Warwick the minute we're
mock-married, because my putting my finger on it and Kenilworth ought to
count, oughtn't it?"
"It shall," he said, gravely.