"What is the truth? Do you love me?"
"Yes, Owen, I do," was her frank and fervent response.
"I did not mean that," said Shuttleworth hastily. "I meant the truth
concerning yourself."
"Mr. Biddulph knows what I am."
"But he does not know who you are."
"Then you may tell him," was her hoarse reply. "Tell him!" she cried
wildly. "Tear from me all that I hold sacred--all that I hold most
dear--dash me back into degradation and despair--if you will! I am in
your hands."
"Sylvia!" he said reproachfully. "I am your friend--and your father's
friend. I am not your enemy. I regret if you have ever thought I have
lifted a finger against you."
"Are you not standing as a barrier between myself and Mr. Biddulph?"
she protested, her eyes flashing.
"Because I see that only misfortune--ah! death--can arise. You know
full well the promise I have made. You know, too, what has been told
me in confidence, because--because my profession happens to be what it
is--a humble servant of God."
"Yes," she faltered, "I know--I know! Forgive me if I have spoken
harshly, Mr. Shuttleworth. I know you are my friend--and you are
Owen's. Only--only it seems very hard that you should thus put this
ban upon us--you, who preach the gospel of truth and love."
Shuttleworth drew a deep breath. His thin lips were pursed; his grey
eyebrows contracted slightly, and I saw in his countenance a
distinctly pained expression.
"I have spoken with all good intention, Sylvia," he said. "Your love
for Mr. Biddulph must only bring evil upon both of you. Surely you
realize that?"
"Sylvia has already realized it," I declared. "But we have resolved to
risk it."
"The risk is, alas! too great," he declared. "Already you are a marked
man. Your only chance of escape is to take Sylvia's advice and to go
into hiding. Go away--into the country--and live in some quiet, remote
village under another name. It is your best mode of evading disaster.
To remain and become the lover of Sylvia Pennington is, I tell you,
the height of folly--it is suicide!"
"Let it be so," I responded in quiet defiance. "I will never forsake
the woman I love. Frankly, I suspect a hidden motive in this
suggestion of yours; therefore I refuse to accept it."
"Not to save your own life?"
"Not even to save my life. This is surely my own affair."
"And hers."
"I shall protect Sylvia, never fear. I am not afraid. Let our enemies
betray their presence by sign or word, and I will set myself out to
combat them. They have already those crimes in Bayswater to account
for. And they will take a good deal of explaining away."
"Then you really intend to reveal the secret of that house in
Porchester Terrace?" he asked, not without some apprehension.
"My enemies, you say, intend to plot and encompass my death. Good!
Then I shall take my own means of vindication. Naturally I am a quiet,
law-abiding man. But if any enemy rises against me without cause, then
I strike out with a sledgehammer."
"You are hopeless," he declared.
"I am, where my love is concerned," I admitted. "Sylvia has promised
to-day that she will become my wife. The future is surely our own
affair, Mr. Shuttleworth--not yours!"
"And if her father forbids?" he asked quite quietly, his eyes fixed
straight upon my well-beloved.
"Let me meet him face to face," I said in defiance. "He will not
interfere after I have spoken," I added, with confidence. "I, perhaps,
know more than you believe concerning him."
Sylvia started, staring at me, her face blanched in an instant. The
scene was tragic and painful.
"What do you know?" she asked breathlessly.
"Nothing, dearest, which will interfere with our love," I reassured
her. "Your father's affairs are not yours, and for his doings you
cannot be held responsible."
She exchanged a quick glance with Shuttleworth, I noticed.
Then it seemed as though a great weight were lifted from her mind by
my words, for, turning to me, she smiled sweetly, saying--
"Ah! how can I thank you sufficiently? I am helpless and defenceless.
If I only dared, I could tell you a strange story--for surely mine is
as strange as any ever printed in the pages of fiction. But Mr.
Shuttleworth will not permit it."
"You may speak--if you deem it wise," exclaimed the rector in a
strangely altered voice. He seemed much annoyed at my open defiance.
"Mr. Biddulph may as well, perhaps, know the truth at first as at
last."
"The truth!" I echoed. "Yes, tell me the truth," I begged her.
"No," she cried wildly, again covering her fair face with her hands.
"No--forgive me. I can't--_I can't!_"
"No," remarked Shuttleworth in a strange, hard, reproachful tone, and
with a cruel, cynical smile upon his lips. "You cannot--for it is too
hideous--too disgraceful--too utterly scandalous! It is for that
reason I forbid you to love!"