He had got it now--the fame, the glory, the unsubstantial but
glittering payment for a life spent in solid and incredibly arduous
toil.
Never again would his name be left out of lists; never again
would his publicity agent feel compelled to write reminders or
corrections to the morning papers. As to the great achievement
itself, very little need be said here. Indeed, as Emmie is already
engaged in preparing for publication the two large volumes which
will be entitled _The Sixth Cruise_, any attempt to give a detailed
account of Dyke’s final triumph would be at least premature, if not
superfluous.
Suffice it then to say that with this last expedition there were no
accidents. Not only the leader but his two companions won through
to safety; and in regard to the minor journeys, the scientific
researches, the geographical investigations, all went well.
Everything scraped up from the bottom of the sea, the collection
of minerals chipped off the land, the measurements, records, and
diaries, were duly brought home to England. Honours from all
countries, including his own, were showered upon the illustrious
explorer. As has become customary on these occasions, it was
immediately announced that the King had been graciously pleased to
confer a knighthood upon Mr. Dyke.
To Miss Verinder that knighthood was a uniquely tremendous affair.
She refused to remember that quite a large number of knights had
been created during the last half century. Those did not count. She
thought only of one or two who were like her man, real knights;
and she added five or six more from Elizabethan times to make up
the splendid company. Sir Francis Drake, Sir Walter Raleigh, Sir
Richard Grenville, Sir John Hawkins, and Sir Anthony Dyke--the
linked names rang grandly in her ears.
His title seemed to echo itself like music or the sound of bells,
as she walked briskly away from the flat early one morning in
October. She felt joyous and strong, not minding the fog, not
fearing the motor traffic. It was not really a fog, rather a ground
mist; an exhilarating morning of late autumn, with the sun and the
mist contending for victory.
In fact, when she had left the Brompton Road, the sun showed itself
behind her, high over the hidden houses, shining from a faint yet
open blue sky. She stood for a moment at the bottom of Exhibition
Road and admired. On this left-hand pavement a stream of students,
girls and men, were hurrying onward to their classes and lectures.
The right-hand pavement was quite empty; and, looking beyond it,
one had a sense of vague grandeurs, a perception of domes high
and still fog-shrouded. Ahead, the broad smooth road glistened
like dark water beneath the shredding veils of whiteness; the long
perspective line made by the unbroken cornice of the houses showed
above the mist, and the side wall of a roof of one house, at the
turning into Prince’s Gardens, was all sunlit; nearer, the block of
building that is known as the Royal College of Science was already
emerging, freeing itself, getting definite and illumined, with its
walls of delicate rose and upper story of yellow ochre, and a
sketchy suggestion of columns; while the farthest end of the vista
remained almost lost in the denser mist clouds that were rolling
out from the grass of Hyde Park. The whole prospect seemed that of
a larger, grander Venice, with the road converted into its splendid
silent canal.
She walked on. Gradually and yet very swiftly, as she had seen
happen once before, among the mountains of a distant land, the
conquering sun tore the veils away and reached all things with its
magic touch. Colour and brightness sprang towards the searching
rays. Geraniums glowed in dilapidated flower beds of the sunk
garden of the Natural History Museum; orange, crimson, and gold
flashed from the dead leaves on its sodden paths. When she came to
the first turn to the left, that road was quite lovely--an avenue
of green trees, marble pavements, and tremulous light; the Imperial
Institute seeming like a palace built of dreams; high towers
without base or foundation, masonry swimming in air, domes and more
domes; and over all, the dome of domes, the high vaulted sky.
She went through the avenue of wonder, into Queen’s Gate. The sun
had conquered. Light, not darkness ruled the world. And she thought
that the world is beautiful, most beautiful, every part of it--even
this Kensington, of straight lines, right angles, and stucco faces.
Miss Verinder walked on, with sunshine and joy in her heart,
thinking that great things cannot perish in this beautiful world;
thinking that fate gives freely and robs with regret; thinking
that love is like the sunshine, the source and fountain of life;
thinking that her hero had lived and not died, that her knight was
coming back to her and soon would touch her hand.
Presently the newspapers were adding to profuse accounts of the
home-coming what they called “an interesting announcement.”
They said that a delightful touch of romance had been given to
the return of Sir Anthony by the fact (now for the first time
disclosed) that he had come back “to claim a bride.”
When claimed, Miss Verinder displayed coyness or diffidence;
resuming that slightly mid-Victorian manner, while she asked him,
in effect, if he really meant it, if he really wanted it, and so
forth. It was only the second proposal of marriage that she had
ever received; and perhaps the embarrassment caused by the first
one automatically revived itself, making her a little uncomfortable
now. As in the first case, the drawing-room of the flat served as
scenic decoration or background to the romantic affair.
“What’s that you’re saying?” asked Dyke loudly, not catching the
purport of her murmured doubts. He had come back in glorious
health; but the deafness, of which he had once seemed to be cured,
had again grown very apparent. He was distinctly hard of hearing.
“Emmie, my angel, I don’t understand. What’s that you’re jabbering
about serious wishes?”
Then Emmie became entirely her natural self; her gentle eyes filled
with tears, and she asked him if it was worth while.
“Emmie, what on earth do you mean?”
“If we marry, won’t it set people talking? Won’t it seem
undignified--even a little silly?”
“Oh, Emmie!” He looked at her reproachfully, and said what he used
to say in the very beginning of things. “Oh, Emmie, don’t spoil it
for me.”
And eagerly and ardently he told her that his real true joy in
all the success and praise was derived from the knowledge that she
could now openly share everything with him, that he would be able
proudly to show her and boast of her to the world not only as his
patron and financial supporter, but also as his _fiancée_.
“I’ve hundreds of people that I want to introduce to you--my
_fiancée_.” He said the word with a poor French accent but an
immense relish. “So, no more nonsense, you angel. Tell me you
didn’t mean what you said.”
Perhaps she had not really meant it. Or, at any rate, she
had meant finally to do whatever he wished. Yielding then to
his importunity--as the dear old conventional books used to
narrate--she consented to name the day. It was not a far-off day.
He said he would not have a quiet wedding. No, certainly not. It
must be a slap-up affair, with a huge reception at the Hyde Park
Hotel. She shrank from this fuss, but he wanted it. That was enough
for her.
Also he insisted that it should be a marriage by banns.
Immediately after the interesting announcement congratulations and
presents began to pour in upon them. At tea-time on these jolly
autumn afternoons spent by Sir Anthony and his _fiancée_ in shops
and streets and other public places, Louisa brought in with her
tray prodigious piles of letters, which her future master tore
open, read aloud, and tossed about the floor delightedly.
“One from old Barry! Bless his heart. Hear what he says, Emmie.”
It was at the pleasant tea hour, while he opened more and more
letters, that she asked about the date entered in her memorandum
book before the death of his father. She wished to know if he had
been thinking specially of home on that night of April 18-19.
“Well, you know, I was thinking about you all the time, off and on;
but I can’t say I remember thinking about you more on one day than
another.... Postmark, Clapham, S. W.!” He was opening a letter.
“No. You see, we had our work cut out for us. Our thoughts were
pretty well occupied. By Jove. This is from dear old Cairns. I must
write to Cairns--a special invitation for Cairns. What!”
He was like a child when it came to opening the presents. He could
not wait a moment. He burst the stout string with his hands, he
made the brown paper explode in tatters, he flung the tissue all
over the room. His litter drove Louisa to distraction.
“What the devil are these? Menu-card holders! What the devil shall
we do with them? All the same, deuced kind of her. Mrs. Slane-King!
Yes.”
He was also like a child--and a spoilt child too--with his
press-cuttings. He had mock-modest smiles as he read the eulogies.
“‘A glory to the Empire!’ That’s very handsome of them to say that.
Emmie, that tickles my vanity.” Then he roared with laughter. “How
small we are, Emmie; how vain, how jealous. But you must check
me. Hold me on a leash. Don’t let me gas about things down in
Devonshire when I begin to get old. Watch me then--and don’t let me
develop into a twaddling old bore.”
He went on with the letters and parcels.
“Look here! Hamilton! ‘I send this tribute from an old ship-mate.
Hamilton!’ Now that’s very kind of Hamilton to remember me.”
They all remembered him. No one forgot him--in his success.
* * * * *
On that first Sunday of their banns they sat in the church side
by side; not minding now who saw them together, emancipated,
acknowledging a companionship that had lasted during so many years.
More than a quarter of a century’s habit had not destroyed its
freshness or robbed it of its charm; essentially their feelings at
this hour were those of boy and girl lovers. Outwardly old, they
were inwardly young.
Mildred Beckett, with her husband, was seated quite near in a
side pew a little ahead, and looking round and watching them now
and then she saw Emmie find his place for him in the prayer-book
and hand him the book. Others too, many others, noticed them; not
knowing who they were, failing to recognize Dyke--for, however
famous a man is, however frequently photographed, and even filmed,
there will still be people who do not know him by sight. But they
were struck by the strong note of individuality--a couple that
somehow _made_ you think about them--this fine big old chap, with
his shock of grey hair, intrepid blue eyes, and queer-coloured
beard; and the tall, thin, faded maiden lady.
“I publish the banns of marriage between--” The clergyman had begun
it, and Mildred looked round. The clergyman paused, as if startled.
Anthony Dyke was standing up. Emmie gently pulled his coat, and
whispered “Sit down, dear.”
“The banns,” he said, in a gruff whisper, and because of his
deafness louder than was necessary. “Get up, yourself.”
“No, dear,” she whispered, in a flutter. “It’s not done.”
But he was offering her his hand, as if to assist her, again
inviting her to rise. It was the old country custom, still
prevalent in the west of England when he was a boy, or at
least practised in his father’s church. Gentle and simple, the
young squire and the colonel’s daughter, the farm-hand and the
dairy-maid, they all used to stand up to hear their banns read
out--to let neighbours see who they were, to show that they
themselves had nothing to be ashamed of, and that they were proud
of each other. Dyke, in the Antarctic and other remote places, had
not learnt that the practice was no longer usual and proper.
Then Miss Verinder, comprehending the cause of his solecism, rose
at once; doing what she had always done for his sake, smashing
through the barriers of convention, trampling etiquette under foot,
caring not twopence halfpenny what anybody else thought about it.
She stood by his side, proudly, yet demurely, as ready now to brave
the world, to defy the universe, as she had been twenty-seven years
ago.
Mildred, looking round, watched them; and because of her own
happiness and something that seemed to her very wonderful in the
expression of those two faces, she unexpectedly began to cry. As
she said afterwards, the thing seemed to her, somehow, so sweet and
touching.
The clergyman, after clearing his throat, had gone straight ahead
with the little list:
“...Also between Anthony Penfold Dyke, widower, of the parish
of Endells, in Devonshire, ...and Emmeline Constance Verinder,
spinster, of this parish.”
Transcriber’s Notes:
Obvious punctuation errors have been repaired. Inconsistent
hyphenation and period spelling was retained. Where misprinted
and missing words had obvious substitutions, they are listed
below. There are still several places in the text where missing
or misprinted words could not be replaced with certainty of the
author’s intention, and they have been left as the printer printed
them.
“ne’er-do-weel” changed to “ne’er-do-well” on page 4. (even a
ne’er-do-well nephew)
“happn” changed to “happen” on page 17. (who can say what would
happen)
“nonetity” changed to “nonentity” on page 51. (good-natured
nonentity like Pratt)
“speak” changed to “speaking” on page 68. (the guileless manner of
speaking about them)
“that” changed to “than” on page 70. (No more than that? Very good.)
Extra “you” removed from page 85. (That’s why I beg you to bear
with me)
“omnius” changed to “ominous” on page 101. (that ominous date of
September Fifteen)
Missing word “go” added to page 115. (Then when you go to the Opera)
“is” changed to “if” on page 116. (That is, if you don’t mind
paying for it)
“or” changed to “and” on page 116. (for more tea and picked up and
began to eat another cake)
“that” changed to “than” on page 117. (Better perhaps than he knew
himself.)
“bicuits” changed to “biscuits” on page 136. (She lived on tea and
biscuits)
“spendid” changed to “splendid” on page 147. (it was quite splendid
of her)
“An” changed to “And” on page 158. (And so it was day after day)
“breach” changed to “breech” on page 215. (he opened the breech of
the weapon)
“constructed” changed to “constricted” on page 219 (the roadway
that she used to think so wide had constricted)
“inmmense” changed to “immense” on page 235. (to enjoy the immense
comfort)
“be” changed to “he” on page 240. (Then soon he began to suffer in
health)
“suspicous” changed to “suspicious” on page 252. (people were
naturally most suspicious)
“gentleman” changed to “gentlemen” on page 261. (Those scientific
gentlemen had squabbled among themselves)
“mysterously” changed to “mysteriously” on page 266. (being thus
mysteriously aided)
Extra “not” removed from page 272. (as if not noticing)
Extra “hair” removed from page 272. (the grey hair did not make him
look any older)
“Shackelton” changed to “Shackleton” on page 274. (Lucky beggar,
Shackleton)
Missing “of” added to page 276. (She uttered one of her faint
little cries)
“be” changed to “he” on page 283. (he embarrassed himself badly)
“pertubed” changed to “perturbed” on page 290. (perturbed but brave)
“Lousia” changed to “Louisa” on page 293. (“What’s the matter with
you?” asked Louisa)
“be” changed to “he” on page 300. (Then he became more impressive
than ever)
“Armstice” changed to “Armistice” on page 311. (that first
Christmas after the Armistice)
“cirlce” changed to “circle” on page 311. (formed a dense half
circle of eager shining faces)
“pertubed” changed to “perturbed” on page 322. (Mr. Dyke was
greatly perturbed)
“you” changed to “your” on page 324. (the shining crown on your
dear head)
“Milded” changed to “Mildred” on page 332. (So she offered Mildred)
“at is” changed to “as it” on page 334. (That is as it should be.)
Extra word "the" removed from page 335. (no more of the these
clandestine meetings)
“sympathically” changed to “sympathetically” on page 346. (to throb
or shiver sympathetically)
“it” changed to “is” on page 350. (“Oh, but my wish is that it’ll
be a great success.”)
“his” changed to “him” on page 359. (Emmie started, and looked at
him in astonishment)