WHEN Frank came downstairs to breakfast the conversation turned upon his
return to Germany. He did not object to going, although it can hardly be
said that he willed to go. He was in that perilous condition in which
the comparison of reasons is impossible, and the course taken depends
upon some chance impulse of the moment, and is a mere drift. He could
not leave, however, in complete ignorance of Madge, and with no certainty
as to her future. He resolved therefore to make one more effort to
discover the house. That was all which he determined to do. What was to
happen when he had found it, he did not know. He was driven to do
something, which could not be of any importance, save for what must
follow, but he was unable to bring himself even to consider what was to
follow. He knew that at Fenmarket one or other of the sisters went out
soon after breakfast to make provision for the day, and perhaps, if they
kept up this custom, he might be successful in his search. He
accordingly stationed himself in Great Ormond Street at about half-past
nine, and kept watch from the Lamb’s Conduit Street end, shifting his
position as well as he could, in order to escape notice. He had not been
there half an hour when he saw a door open, and Madge came out and went
westwards. She turned down Devonshire Street as if on her way to
Holborn. He instantly ran back to Theobalds Road, and when he came to
the corner of Devonshire Street she was about ten yards from him, and he
faced her. She stopped irresolutely, as if she had a mind to return, but
as he approached her, and she found she was recognised, she came towards
him.
‘Madge, Madge,’ he cried, ‘I want to speak to you. I must speak with
you.’
‘Better not; let me go.’
‘I say I _must_ speak to you.’
‘We cannot talk here; let me go.’
‘I must! I must! come with me.’
She pitied him, and although she did not consent she did not refuse. He
called a cab, and in ten minutes, not a word having been spoken during
those ten minutes, they were at St Paul’s. The morning service had just
begun, and they sat down in a corner far away from the worshippers.
‘Oh, Madge,’ he began, ‘I implore you to take me back. I love you. I do
love you, and—and—I cannot leave you.’
She was side by side with the father of her child about to be born. He
was not and could not be as another man to her, and for the moment there
was the danger lest she should mistake this secret bond for love. The
thought of what had passed between them, and of the child, his and hers,
almost overpowered her.
‘I cannot,’ he repeated. ‘I _ought_ not. What will become of me?’
She felt herself stronger; he was excited, but his excitement was not
contagious. The string vibrated, and the note was resonant, but it was
not a note which was consonant with hers, and it did not stir her to
respond. He might love her, he was sincere enough to sacrifice himself
for her, and to remain faithful to her, but the voice was not altogether
that of his own true self. Partly, at least, it was the voice of what he
considered to be duty, of superstition and alarm. She was silent.
‘Madge,’ he continued, ‘ought you to refuse? You have some love for me.
Is it not greater than the love which thousands feel for one another.
Will you blast your future and mine, and, perhaps, that of someone
besides, who may be very dear to you? _Ought_ you not, I say, to
listen?’
The service had come to an end, the organist was playing a voluntary,
rather longer than usual, and the congregation was leaving, some of them
passing near Madge and Frank, and casting idle glances on the young
couple who had evidently come neither to pray nor to admire the
architecture. Madge recognised the well-known St Ann’s fugue, and,
strange to say, even at such a moment it took entire possession of her;
the golden ladder was let down and celestial visitors descended. When
the music ceased she spoke.
‘It would be a crime.’
‘A crime, but I—’ She stopped him.
‘I know what you are going to say. I know what is the crime to the
world; but it would have been a crime, perhaps a worse crime, if a
ceremony had been performed beforehand by a priest, and the worst of
crimes would be that ceremony now. I must go.’ She rose and began to
move towards the door.
He walked silently by her side till they were in St Paul’s churchyard,
when she took him by the hand, pressed it affectionately and suddenly
turned into one of the courts that lead towards Paternoster Row. He did
not follow her, something repelled him, and when he reached home it
crossed his mind that marriage, after such delay, would be a poor
recompense, as he could not thereby conceal her disgrace.