|HAROLD WYNNE shut himself up in his rooms without even lunching. He
drew a chair in front of the fire and seated himself with the sigh of
relief that is given by a man who has taken a definite step in some
matter upon which he has been thinking deeply for some time. He sat
there all the day, gazing into the fire.
Yes, he had taken the step that had suggested itself to him the previous
night. He had made up his mind to take advantage of the opportunity that
was afforded him of binding Beatrice to him by a bond which she at least
would believe incapable of rupture. The accident of his meeting with the
man whose views on the question of marriage had caused him to be thrust
out of the Church, and whose practices left him open to a criminal
prosecution, had suggested to him the means for binding to him the girl
whose truth he had no reason to doubt.
He meant to perpetrate a fraud upon her. He had known of men entrapping
innocent girls by means of a mock marriage, and he had always regarded
such men as the most unscrupulous of scoundrels. He almost succeeded,
after a time, in quieting the whisperings by his conscience of the
word “fraud”--its irritating repetitions of this ugly word--by giving
prominence to the excellence of his intentions in the transaction which
he was contemplating. It was not a mock marriage--no, it was not, as
ordinary mock marriages, to be gone through in order to give a man
possession of the body of a woman, and to admit of his getting rid of
her when it would suit his convenience to do so. It was, he assured
his conscience, no mock marriage, since he was seeking it for no gross
purpose, but simply to banish the feeling of cold distrust which he had
now and again experienced. Had he not offered to free the girl from the
promise which she had given to him? Was that like the course which would
be adopted by a man endeavouring to take advantage of a girl by means
of a mock marriage? Was there anything on earth that he desired more
strongly than a real marriage with that same girl? There was nothing.
But it was, unfortunately, the case that a real marriage would mean ruin
to him; for he knew that his father would keep his word--when it suited
his own purpose--and refuse him his allowance upon the day that he
refused to sign a declaration to the effect that he was unmarried.
The rite which Mr. Playdell had promised to perform between him and
Beatrice would enable him to sign the declaration with--well, with a
clear conscience.
But in the meantime this same conscience continued gibing him upon his
defence of his conduct; asking him with an irritating sneer, if he would
mind explaining his position to the girl’s father?--if he was not simply
taking advantage of the peculiar circumstances of the girl’s life--of
the remarkable independence which she enjoyed, apparently with the
sanction of her father, to perpetrate a fraud upon her?
For bad taste, for indelicacy, for vulgarity, for disregard of sound
argument--that is, argument that sounds well--and for general obstinacy,
there is nothing to compare with a conscience that remains in moderately
good working order.
After all his straightforward reasoning during the space of two hours,
he sprang from his seat crying, “I’ll not do it--I’ll not do it!”
He walked about his room for an hour, repeating every now and again the
words, “I’ll not do it--I’ll not do it!”
In the course of another hour, he turned on his electric lamp, and wrote
a note of half a dozen lines to Mr Playdell, telling him that, on
second thoughts, he would not trouble him the next day. Then he wrote an
equally short note to Beatrice, telling her that he thought it would be
advisable to have a further talk with her before carrying out the plan
which he had suggested to her for the next day. He put each note into
its cover; but when about to affix stamps to them, he found that his
stamp-drawer was empty. This was not a serious matter; he was going
to his club to dine, and he knew that he could get stamps from the
hall-porter.
He felt very much lighter at heart leaving his rooms than he had felt on
entering some hours before. He felt that he had been engaged in a severe
conflict, and that he had got the better of his adversary.
At the door of the club he found Mr. Durdan standing somewhat vacantly.
He brightened up at the appearance of Harold.
“I’ve just been trying to catch some companionable fellow to dine with
me,” he cried.
“I’m sorry that I can’t congratulate you upon finding one,” said Harold.
“Then I congratulate myself,” said Mr. Durdan, brightly. “You’re the
most companionable man that I know in town at present.”
“Ah, then you’re not aware of the fact that Edmund Airey is here just
now,” said Harold with a shrewd laugh.
“Edmund Airey? Edmund Airey?” said Mr. Durdan. “Let me tell you that
your friend Edmund Airey is----”
“Don’t say it in the open air,” said Harold.
“Come inside and make the revelation to me.”
“Then you will dine with me? Good! My dear fellow, my medical man has
warned me times without number of the evil of dining alone, or with a
newspaper--even the _Telegraph_. It’s the beginning of dyspepsia, he
says; so I wait at the door any time I am dining here until I get hold
of the right man.”
“If I can play the part of a priest and exorcise the demon that you’re
afraid of, you may reckon upon my services,” said Harold. “But to tell
you the truth, I’m a bit down myself to-night.”
“What’s the matter with you--nothing serious?” said Mr. Durdan.
“I’ve been working out some matters,” said Harold.
“I know what’s the matter with you,” said the other. “That friend of
yours has been trying to secure you for the Government, and you were too
straightforward to be entrapped? Airey is a clever man--I don’t deny his
cleverness for a moment. Oh, yes; Mr. Airey is a very clever man.” It
seemed that he was now levelling an accusation against Mr. Airey that
his best friends would find difficulty in repudiating. “Yes, but you and
I, Wynne, are not to be caught by a phrase. The moment he fancied that I
was attracted to her--I say, fancied, mind--and that he fancied--it may
have been the merest fancy--that she was not altogether indifferent to
me, he forced himself forward, and I have good reason to believe that he
is now in town solely on her account. I give you my word, Wynne, I never
spoke a sentence to Miss Avon that all the world mightn’t hear. Oh,
there’s nothing so contemptible as a man like Airey--a fellow who is
attracted to a girl only when he sees that she is attracting other men.
Yes, I met a man yesterday who told me that Airey was in town. ‘Why
should he be in town now?’ I inquired. ‘There’s nothing going on in
town.’ He winked and said, ‘_cherchez la femme_’--he did upon my word.
Oh, the days of the Government are numbered. Will you try Chablis or
Sauterne?”
Harold said that he rather thought that he would try Chablis.
For another hour-and-a-half he was forced to listen to Mr. Durdan’s
prosing about the blunders of the Administration, and the designs of
Edmund Airey. He left the club without asking the hall-porter for any
stamps.
He had made up his mind that he would not need any stamps that night.
Before he reached his rooms he took out of the pocket of his overcoat
the two letters which he had written, and he tore them both into small
pieces.
With the chatter of Mr. Durdan there had come back to him that feeling
of distrust.
Yes, he would make sure of her.
He unlocked one of the drawers in his writing-table and brought out
a small _boule_ case. When he had found--not without a good deal of
searching--the right key for the box, he opened it. It contained an
ivory miniature of his mother, in a Venetian mounting, a few jewels, and
two small rings. One of them was set with a fine chrysoprase cameo of
Eros, and surrounded by rubies. The other was an old _in memoriam_ ring.
He picked up the cameo and scrutinized it attentively for some time,
slipping it down to the first joint of his little finger. He kept
turning it over for half an hour before he laid it on the desk and
relocked the box and the drawer.
“It will be hers,” he said. “Would I use my mother’s ring for this
ceremony if I meant it to be a fraud--if I meant to take advantage of it
to do an injury to my beloved one? As I deal with her, so may God deal
with me when my hour comes.” It was a ring that had been left to him
with a few other trinkets by his mother, and he had now chosen it for
the ceremony which was to be performed the next day.
Curiously enough, the fact of his choosing this ring did more to silence
the whispering jeers of his conscience than all his phrases of argument
had done.
The next day he called for Mr. Playdell in a hansom, and shortly after
noon, the words of the marriage service of the Church of England had
been repeated in the Bloomsbury drawing-room by the man who had once
been a priest and who still wore the garb of a priest. He, at any rate,
did not consider the rite a mockery.
Harold could not shake off the feeling that he was acting a part in a
dream. When it was all over he dropped into a chair, and his head fell
forward until his face was buried in his hands.
It was left for Beatrice to comfort this sufferer in his hour of trial.
Her hand--his mother’s ring was upon the third finger--was upon his
head, and he heard her low sympathetic voice saying, “My husband--my
husband--I shall be a true wife to you for ever and ever. We shall live
trusting one another for ever, my beloved!”
They were alone in the room. He did not raise his face from his hands
for a long time. She knelt beside where he was sitting and put her head
against his.
In an instant he had clasped her passionately. He held her close to him,
looking into her eyes.
“Oh, my love, my love,” he cried. “What am I that you should have given
to me that divine gift of your love? What am I that I should have asked
you to do this for my sake? Was there ever such love as yours, Beatrice?
Was there ever such baseness as mine? Will you forgive me, Beatrice?”
“Only once,” said she, “I felt that--I scarcely know what I felt,
dear--I think it was that your hurrying on our marriage showed--was it a
want of trust?”
“I was a fool--a fool!” he said bitterly. “The temptation to bind you to
me was too great to be resisted. But now--oh, Beatrice, I will give up
my life to make you happy!”