|SHORTLY after noon he was with her. He had left his rooms without
touching a morsel of breakfast, and it was plain that such sleep as
he had had could not have been of a soothing nature. He was pale and
haggard; and she seemed surprised--not frightened, however, for her
love was that which casteth out fear--at the way he came to her--with
outstretched hands which caught her own, as he said, “My beloved--my
beloved, I have a strange word for you--a strange proposal to make.
Dearest, can you trust me? Will you marry me--to-morrow--to-day?”
She scarcely gave a start. He was only conscious of her hands tightening
upon his own. She kept her eyes fixed upon his. The silence was long.
It was made the more impressive by the distinctness with which the
jocularity of the fishmonger’s hoy with the cook at the area railings,
was heard in the room.
“Harold,” she said, in a voice that had no trace of distrust, “Harold,
you are part of my life--all my life! When I said that I loved you,
I had given myself to you. I will marry you any time you
please--to-morrow--to-day--this moment!”
She was in his arms, sobbing.
His “God bless you, my darling!” sounded like a sob also.
In a few moments she was laughing through her tears.
He was not laughing.
“Now, tell me what you mean, my beloved,” said she, with a hand on each
of his shoulders.
“Tell me what you mean by coming to frighten me like this. What has
happened?”
“Nothing has happened, only I want to feel that you are my own--my own
beyond the possibility of being separated from me by any power on earth.
I do not want to take you away from your father’s house--I cannot offer
you any home. It may be years before we can live together as those who
love one another as we love, may live with the good will of heaven. I
only want you to become my wife in name, dearest. Our marriage must be
kept a secret.”
“But my own love,” said she, “why should you wish to go through this
ceremony? Are we not united by the true bond of love? Can we be more
closely united than we are now? The strength of the marriage bond
is only strong in proportion as the love which is the foundation of
marriage is strong. Now, why should you wish for the marriage rite
before we are prepared to live for ever under the same roof?”
“Why, why?” he cried passionately, as he looked into the depths of her
eyes.
He left her and went across the room to one of the windows and looked
out. (It was the greengrocer’s boy who was now jocular with the cook at
the area railings.)
“My Beatrice--” Harold had returned to her from his scrutiny of the
pavement. “My Beatrice, you have not seen all that I have seen in the
world. You do not know--you do not know me as I know myself. Why should
there come to me sometimes an unworthy thought--no, not a doubt--oh, I
have seen so much of the world, Beatrice, I feel that if anything should
come between us it would kill me. I must--I must feel that we are made
one--that there is a bond binding us together that nothing can sever.”
“But, my Harold--no, I will not interpose any buts. You would not ask
me to do this if you had not some good reason. You say that you know the
world. I admit that I do not know it. I only know you, and knowing
you and loving you with all my heart--with all my soul--I trust you
implicitly--without a question--without the shadow of a doubt.”
“God bless you, my love, my love! You will never have reason to regret
loving me--trusting me.”
“It is my life--it is my life, Harold.”
Once again he was standing at the window. This time he remained longer
with his eyes fixed upon the railings of the square enclosure.
“It must be to-morrow,” he said, returning to her. “I shall come here at
noon. A few words spoken in this room and nothing can part us. You will
still call yourself by your own name, dearest, God hasten the day when
you can come to me as my wife in the sight of all the world and call
yourself by my name.”
“I shall be here at noon to-morrow,” said she.
“Unless,” said he, returning to her after he had kissed her forehead and
had gone to the door. “Unless”--he framed her face with his hands,
and looked down into the depths of her eyes.--“Unless, when you have
thought over the whole matter, you feel that you cannot trust me.”
She laughed.
“Ah, my love, my love, you do not know the world,” said he.
He knew the world.
Another man who knew the world was Pontius Pilate.
This was why he asked “What is Truth?”
Harold Wynne was in Archie Brown’s room in Piccadilly within half an
hour.
Archie was at the Legitimate Theatre, Mr. Playdell said--Mr. Playdell
was seated at the dining-room table surrounded by papers. A trifling
difference of opinion had arisen between Mrs. Mowbray and her manager,
he added, and (with a smile) Archie had hurried to the theatre to set
matters right.
“It is kind of you to call, Mr. Wynne,” continued Mr. Playdell. “But I
hope it is not to tell me that you regret the suggestion that you made
yesterday--that you do not see your way to write to your sister to
invite Archie to her place.”
“I wrote to her the moment you left me,” said Harold. “Archie will
get his invitation this evening. It is not about him that I came here
to-day, Mr. Playdell. I came to see you. You asked me yesterday to
give you an opportunity of doing something for me. I can give you that
opportunity.”
“And I promise you that I shall embrace it with gladness, Mr. Wynne,”
said Playdell, rising from the table. “Tell me how I can serve you and
you will find how ready I am.”
“You still hold to your original principles regarding marriage, Mr.
Playdell?”
“How could I do otherwise than hold to them, Mr. Wynne? They are the
result of thought; they are not merely a fad to gain notoriety. Let me
prove the position that I take up on this matter.”
“You need not, Mr. Playdeil. I heard all your case when it was
published. I confess that I now think differently respecting you from
what I thought at that time. Will you perform the ceremony of marriage
between a lady who has promised to marry me and myself?”
“There is only one condition that I make, Mr. Wynne. You must take an
oath that you consider the rite, as I perform it, to be binding upon
you, and that you will never recognize a divorce.”
“I will take that oath willingly, Mr. Playdeil. I have promised my
_fiancée_ that we shall be with her at noon to-morrow. She will be
prepared for us. By the way, do you require a ring for the ceremony as
performed by you?”
Mr. Playdeil looked grave--almost scandalized.
“Mr. Wynne,” said he, “that question suggests to me a certain disbelief
on your part in the validity in the sight of heaven of the rite of
marriage as performed by a man with a full sense of his high office,
even though unfrocked by a Church that has always shown too great a
readiness to submit to secular guidance--secular restrictions in matters
that were originally, like marriage, purely spiritual. The Church
has not only submitted to civil restrictions in the matter of the
celebration of the holy rite of matrimony, but, while declaring at the
altar that God has joined them whom the Church has joined, and while
denying the authority of man to put them asunder, she recognizes the
validity of divorce. She will marry a man who has been divorced from
his wife, when he has duly paid the Archbishop a sum of money for
sanctioning what in the sight of God is adultery.”
“My dear Mr. Playdell,” said Harold, “I recollect very clearly the able
manner in which you defended your--your--principles, when they were
called in question. I do not desire to call them in question now. I
believe in your sincerity in this matter and in other matters. I
shall drive here for you at half past eleven o’clock to-morrow. I need
scarcely say that I mean my marriage to be kept a secret.”
“You may depend upon my good faith in that respect,” said Mr. Playdell.
“Mr. Wynne,” he added, impressively, “this land of ours will never be
a moral one so long as the Church is content to accept a Parliamentary
definition of morality. The Church ought certainly to know her own
business.”
“There I quite agree with you,” said Harold.
He refrained from asking Mr. Playdell if the Church, in dispensing with
his services as one of her priests, had not made an honest attempt to
vindicate her claims to know her own business. He merely said, “Half
past eleven to-morrow,” after shaking hands with Mr. Playdell, who
opened the door for him.