"I really cannot see, sir, by what right you interfere between us!" I
cried, looking at him narrowly. "You forbid! What do I care--why,
pray, should you forbid my actions?"
"I forbid," repeated the thin-faced clergyman, "because I have a
right--a right which one day will be made quite plain to you."
"Ah! Mr. Shuttleworth," gasped Sylvia, now pale as death, "what are
you saying?"
"The truth, my child. You know too well that, for you, love and
marriage are forbidden," he exclaimed, looking at her meaningly.
She sighed, and her tiny hand trembled within my grasp. Her mouth
trembled, and I saw that tears were welling in her eyes.
"Ah! yes," she cried hoarsely a moment later. "I know, alas! that I am
not like other women. About me there have been forged bonds of
steel--bonds which I can never break."
"Only by one means," interrupted Shuttleworth, terribly calm and
composed.
"No, no!" she protested quickly, covering her face with her hands as
though in shame. "Not that--never that! Do not let us speak of it!"
"Then you have no right to accept this man's love," he said
reproachfully, "no right to allow him to approach nearer the brink of
the grave than he has done. You know full well that, for him, your
love must prove fatal!"
She hung her head as though not daring to look again into my eyes. The
strange clergyman's stern rebuke had utterly confused and confounded
her. Yet I knew she loved me dearly. That sweet, intense love-look of
hers an hour ago could never be feigned. It spoke far more truly than
mere words.
Perhaps she was annoyed that I had told Shuttleworth the truth. Yes, I
had acted very foolishly. My tongue had loosened involuntarily. My
wild joy had led me into an injudicious confession--one that I had
never dreamed would be fraught with sorrow.
"Mr. Shuttleworth," I said at last, "please do not distress yourself
on my account. I love Sylvia, and she has promised to be mine. If
disaster occurs, then I am fully prepared to meet it. You seem in
close touch with this remarkable association of thieves and assassins,
or you would hardly be so readily aware of their evil intentions."
"Ah!" he responded, with a slight sigh, "you are only speaking in
ignorance. If you were aware of the true facts, you would, on the
contrary, thank me for revealing the peril in which love for this
young lady will assuredly place you."
"But have I not already told you that I am fearless? I am prepared to
meet this mysterious peril, whatever it is, for her sake!" I
protested.
A curious, cynical smile overspread his grey, ascetic face.
"You speak without knowledge, my dear sir," he remarked. "Could I but
reveal the truth, you would quickly withdraw that assertion. You
would, indeed, flee from this girl as you would from the plague!"
"Well," I said, "your words are at least very remarkable, sir. One
would really imagine Miss Pennington to be a hell-fiend--from your
denunciation."
"You mistake me. I make no denunciation. On the other hand, I am
trying to impress upon you the utter futility of your love."
"Why should you do that? What is your motive?" I asked quickly, trying
to discern what could be at the back of this man's mind. How strange
it was! Hitherto I had rather liked the tall, quiet, kind-mannered
country rector. Yet he had suddenly set himself out in open antagonism
to my plans--to my love!
"My motive," he declared, "is to protect the best interests of you
both. I have no ends to serve, save those of humanity, Mr. Biddulph."
"You urged Miss Pennington to make confession to me. You implied that
her avowal of affection was false," I said, with quick indignation.
"I asked her to confess--to tell you the truth, because I am unable so
to do," was his slow reply. "Ah! Mr. Biddulph," he sighed, "if only
the real facts could be exposed to you--if only you could be told the
ghastly, naked truth."
"Why do you say all this, Mr. Shuttleworth?" protested Sylvia in a
low, pained voice. "Why should Mr. Biddulph be mystified further? If
you are determined that I should sacrifice myself--well, I am ready.
You have been my friend--yet now you seem to have suddenly turned
against me, and treat me as an enemy."
"Only as far as this unfortunate affair is concerned, my child," he
said. "Remember my position--recall all the past, and put to yourself
the question whether I have not a perfect right to forbid you to
sacrifice the life of a good, honest man like the one before you," he
said, his clerical drawl becoming more accentuated as he spoke.
"Rubbish, my dear sir," I laughed derisively. "Put aside all this cant
and hypocrisy. It ill becomes you. Speak out, like a man of the world
that you are. What specific charge do you bring against this lady?
Come, tell me."
"None," he replied. "Evil is done through her--not by her."
And she stood silent, unable to protest.
"But can't you be more explicit?" I cried, my anger rising. "If you
make charges, I demand that you shall substantiate them. Recollect all
that I have at stake in this matter."
"I know--your life," he responded. "Well, I have already told you what
to expect."
"Sylvia," I said, turning to the pale girl standing trembling at my
side, "will you not speak? Will you not tell me what all this means?
By what right does this man speak thus? Has he any right?"
She was silent for a few moments. Then slowly she nodded her head in
an affirmative.
"What right has he to forbid our affection?" I demanded. "I love you,
and I tell you that no man shall come between us!"
"He alone has a right, Owen," she said, addressing me for the first
time by my Christian name.
"What right?"
But she would not answer. She merely stood with head downcast, and
said--
"Ask him."
This I did, but the thin-faced man refused to reply. All he would say
was--
"I have forbidden this fatal folly, Mr. Biddulph. Please do not let us
discuss it further."
I confess I was both angry and bewildered. The mystery was hourly
increasing. Sylvia had admitted that Shuttleworth had a right to
interfere. Yet I could not discern by what right a mere friend could
forbid a girl to entertain affection. I felt that the ever-increasing
problem was even stranger and more remarkable than I had anticipated,
and that when I fathomed it, it would be found to be utterly
astounding!
Sylvia was unwavering in her attachment to myself. Her antagonism
towards Shuttleworth's pronouncement was keen and bitter, yet, with
her woman's superior judgment, she affected carelessness.
"You asked this lady to confess," I said, addressing him. "Confess
what?"
"The truth."