HAROLD WYNNE remembered how he had made up his mind to judge whether or not Edmund Airey had been simply playing, in respect of Beatrice, the part which, according to Mrs. Mowbray’s story, had been assigned to him by Helen Craven. He had made up his mind that unless Edmund Airey meant to go much further than—according to Mrs. Mowbray’s communication—Helen Craven could reasonably ask him to go, he would not take the trouble to see Beatrice again.
Helen could scarcely expect him to give up his life to the furtherance of her interests with another man.
Well, he had found that Edmund, so far from showing any intention of abandoning the position—it has already been defined—which he had assumed toward Beatrice, had shown, in the plainest possible way, that he did not mean to lose sight of her.
And for such a man as he was, to mean so much, meant a great deal, Harold was forced to acknowledge.
He spent the remainder of the day which had begun so auspiciously, wondering if his friend, Edmund Airey, meant to tell Beatrice some day that he loved her, and, what was very much more important, that he was anxious to marry her.
And then that unworthy doubt of which he had become conscious, returned to him.
If Edmund Airey, who, at first, had merely been attracted to Beatrice with a view of furthering what Helen Craven believed to be her interests, had come to regard her differently—as he, Harold, assumed that he had—might it not be possible, he asked himself, that Beatrice, who had just admitted that she had always had some sort of admiration for Edmund Airey, would———-
“Never, never, never!” he cried. “She is all that is good and true and faithful. She is mine—altogether mine!”
But his mind was in such a condition that the thought which he had tried to crush down, remained with him to torture him.
It should not have been a torturing thought, considering that, a few days before, he had made up his mind that it was his duty to relinquish Beatrice—to go to her and bid her good-bye for ever. To be sure, he had failed to realize this honourable intention of his; but what was honourable at one time was honourable at another, so that the thought of something occurring to bring about the separation for which he had professed to be so anxious, should not have been a great trouble to him—it should have been just the contrary.
The next day found him in the same condition. The thought occurred to him, “What if, at this very moment, Edmund Airey is with her, endeavouring to increase that admiration which he must know Beatrice entertains for him?” The thought was not a consoling one. Its effect was to make him think very severely of the laxity of Mr. Avon’s ménage, which would make possible such an interview as he had just imagined. It was a terrible thing, he thought, for a father to show so utter a disregard for his responsibilities as to——-
But here he reflected upon something that had occurred to him in connection with tête-à-tête interviews, and he thought it better not to pursue his course of indignant denunciation of the eminent historian.
He put on an overcoat and went to pay a visit to his sister, who, he had heard the previous day, was in town for a short time. In another week she would be entertaining a large party for the pheasant-shooting at her country-house in Brackenshire, and Harold was to be her guest as well as Edmund Airey and Helen Craven. It was to this visit that Lord Fotheringay had alluded in the course of his chamber interview with his son at Castle Innisfail.
Harold had now made up his mind that he would not be able to join his sister’s party, and he thought it better to tell her so than to write to her to this effect.
Mrs. Lampson was not at home, the servant said, when he had knocked at the door of the house in Eaton Square. A party was expected for lunch, however, so that she would probably return within half an hour.
Harold said he would wait for his sister, and went upstairs.
There was one person already in the drawingroom and that person was Lord Fotheringay.
Harold greeted him, and found that he was in an extremely good humour. He had never been in better health, he declared. He felt, he said, as young as the best of them—he prudently refrained from defining them—and he was still of the opinion that the Home—the dear old English Home—was where true and lasting happiness alone was to be found; and he meant to try the Principality of Monaco later on; for November was too awful in any part of Britain. Yes, he had seen the influence of the Home upon exiles in various parts of the world. Had he not seen strong men weep like children—like innocent children—at the sight of an English post-mark—the post-mark of a simple English village? Why had they wept, he asked his son, with the well-gloved forefinger of the professional moralist outstretched?
His son declined to hazard an answer.
They had wept those tears—those bitter tears—Lord Fotheringay said, with solemn emphasis, because their thoughts went back to that village home of theirs—the father, the mother, perhaps a sister—who could tell?
“Ah, my boy,” he continued, “‘’Mid pleasures and palaces’—‘’mid pleasures and’—by the way, I looked in at the Rivoli Palace last night. I heard that there was a woman at that place who did a new dance. I saw it. A new dance! My dear boy, it wasn’t new when I saw it first, and that’s—ah, never mind—it’s some years ago. I was greatly disappointed with it. There’s nothing indecent in it—I will say that for it—but there’s nothing enlivening. Ah, the old home of burlesque—the old home—that’s what I was talking about—the Home—the sentiment of the Home—”
“Of burlesque?” suggested Harold.
“Of the devil, sir,” said his father. “Don’t try to be clever; it’s nearly as bad as being insolent. What about that girl—Helen Craven, I mean? Have you seen her since you came to town? She’s here. She’ll be at Ella’s next week. Perhaps it will be your last chance. Heavens above! To think that a pauper like you should need to be urged to marry such a girl! A girl with two hundred thousand pounds in cash—a girl belonging to one of the best families in all—in all Birmingham. Harold, don’t be a fool! Such a chance doesn’t come every day.”
Just then Mrs Lampson entered the room and with her, her latest discovery, the Coming Dramatist.
Mrs Lampson was invariably making discoveries. But they were mostly discoveries of quartz; they contained a certain proportion of gold, to be sure; but when it came to the crushing, they did not yield enough of the precious metal to pay the incidental expenses of the plant for the working.
She had discovered poets and poetesses—the latter by the score. She had discovered at least one Genius in black and white—his genius being testified by his refusal to work; and she had discovered a pianoforte Genius—his genius being proved by the dishevelment of his hair. The man who had the reputation for being the Greatest Living Atheist was a welcome guest at her house, and the most ridiculous of living socialists boasted of having dined at her table.
She was foremost in every philanthropic movement, and wrote articles to the magazines, lamenting the low tone of modern society in London.
She also sneered (in private) at Lady Innisfail. Her latest discovery, the Coming Dramatist, had had, he proudly declared, his plays returned to him by the best managers in London, and by the one conscientious manager in the United States—the last mentioned had not prepaid the postage, he lamented.
He was a fearful joy to cherish; but Mrs. Lampson listened to his egotism at lunch, and tried to prevent her other guests from listening to him.
They would not understand him, she thought, and she did not make a mistake in this matter.
She got rid of him as soon as possible, and once more breathed freely. He had not disgraced her—that was so much in his favour. The same could not always be said of her discoveries.
The Christian Dynamitard was, people said, the only gentleman who had ever been introduced ta society by Mrs. Lampson.
When Harold found his sister alone, he explained to her that it would be impossible for him to join her party at Abbeylands—Mr. Lampson’s Bracken-shire place—and his sister laughed and said she supposed that he had something better on his hands. He assured her that he had nothing better, only—
“There, there,” said she, “I don’t want you to invent an excuse. You would only have met people whom you know.”
“Of course,” said Harold, “you’re not foolish enough to ask your discoveries down to shoot pheasants. I should like to see some of them in a battue with my best enemies. Yes, I’d hire a window, with pleasure.”
“Didn’t he behave well—the Coming Dramatist?” said she, earnestly. “You cannot say he didn’t behave well—at least for a Coming Person.”
“He behaved—wonderfully,” said Harold. “Good-bye.”
She followed him to the door of the room—nay, outside.
“By the bye,” said she, in a whisper; “do you know anything of a Miss Avon?”
“Miss Avon?” said Harold. “Miss Avon. Why, if she is the daughter of Julius Anthony Avon, the historian, we met her at Castle Innisfail. Why do you ask me, Ella?”
“It is so funny,” said she. “Yesterday Mr. Airey called upon me, and before he left he begged of me to call upon her, and even hinted—he has got infinite tact—that she would make a charming addition to our party at Abbeylands.”
“Ah,” said Harold.
“And just now papa has been whispering to me about this same Miss Avon. He commanded me—papa has no tact—to invite her to join us for a week. I wonder what that means.”
“What what means?”
“That—Mr. Airey and papa.”
“Great Heaven! Ella, what should it mean, except that two men, for whom we have had a nominal respect, have gone over to the majority of fools?”
“Oh, is that all? I was afraid that—ah, good-bye.”
“Good-bye.”
It was true then—what he had surmised was true! Edmund Airey had shown himself to be actuated by a stronger impulse than a desire to assist Helen Craven to realize her hopes—so much appeared perfectly plain to Harold Wynne, as he strolled back to his rooms.
He was now convinced that Edmund Airey was serious in his attitude in respect of Beatrice. At Castle Innisfail he had been ready enough to play the game with counters, on his side at least, as stakes, but now he meant to play a serious game.
Harold recalled what proofs he had already received, to justify his arriving at this conclusion, and he felt that they were ample—he felt that this conclusion was the only one possible to be arrived at by anyone acquainted with all that had come under his notice.
He was quite astounded to hear from his sister that Edmund Airey had taken so extreme a step as to beg of her to call upon Beatrice, and invite her to join the Abbeylands party. Whether or not he had approached Mrs. Lampson in confidence on this matter, the fact of his having approached her was, in some degree, compromising to himself, and no one was better aware of this fact than Edmund Airey. He was not an eager boy to give way to a passion without counting the cost. There was no more subtle calculator of costs than Edmund Airey, and Harold knew it.
What, then, was left for Harold to infer?
Nothing, except what he had already inferred.
What then was left for him to do to checkmate the man who was menacing him?
He had lived so long in that world, the centre of which is situated somewhere about Park Lane, and he had come to believe so thoroughly that the leading characteristic of this world is worldliness, that he had lost the capacity to trust anyone implicitly. He was unable to bring himself to risk everything upon the chance of Beatrice’s loving him, in the face of the worst that might occur.
Thus it was that the little feeling of distrust which he experienced the previous day remained with him. It did not increase, but it was there. Now and again he could feel its cold finger upon his heart, and he knew that it was there.
He could not love with that blind, unreasoning, uncalculating love—that love which knows only heaven and hell, not earth. That perfect love, which casteth out distrust, was not the love of his world.
And thus it was that he walked to his rooms, thinking by what means he could bind that girl to him, so that she should be bound beyond the possibility of chance, or craft, or worldliness coming between them.
He had not arrived at any satisfactory conclusion on this subject when he reached his rooms.
He was surprised to find waiting for him Mr. Playdell, but he greeted the man cordially—he had acquired a liking for him, for he perceived that, with all his eccentricities—all his crude theories that he tried to vivify by calling them principles, he was still acting faithfully toward Archie Brown, and was preventing him from squandering hundreds of pounds where Archie might have squandered thousands.
“You are naturally surprised to see me, Mr. Wynne,” said Playdell. “I dare say that most men would think that I had taken a liberty in making an uninvited call like this.”
“I, at any rate, think nothing of the sort, Mr. Playdell,” said Harold.
“I am certain that you do not,” said Mr. Play-dell. “I am certain that you are capable of doing me justice—yes, on some points.”
“I hope that I am, Mr. Playdell.”
“I know that you are, Mr. Wynne. You are not one of those silly persons, wise in their own conceit, who wink at one another when my name is mentioned, and suggest that the unfrocked priest is making a very fair thing out of his young patron.”
“I believe that your influence over him is wholly for good, Mr. Playdell. If he were to allow you the income of a Bishop instead of that of a Dean I believe that he would still save money—a great deal of money—by having you near him.”
“And you are in no way astray, Mr. Wynne. I was prepared for what people would say when I accepted the situation that Archie offered me, but the only stipulation that I made was that my accounts were to be audited by a professional man, and monthly. Thus it is that I protect myself. Every penny that I receive is accounted for.”
“That is a very wise plan, Mr. Playdell, but—”
“But it has nothing to do with my coming here to-day? That is what you are too polite to say. You are right, Mr. Wynne. I have not come here to talk about myself and my systems, but about our friend Archie. You have great influence over him.”
“I’m afraid I haven’t much. If I had, I wouldn’t hesitate to tell him that he is making an ass of himself.”
“You have come to the point at once, Mr. Wynne.”
Mr. Playdell had risen from his chair and was walking up and down the room with his head bent. Now he stood opposite to Harold.
“The point?” said Harold.
“The point is that he is being robbed right and left through the medium of the Legitimate Theatre, and a stop must be put to it,” said Playdell.
“And you think that I should make the attempt to put a stop to this foolishness of his? My dear Mr. Playdell, if I were to suggest to Archie that he is making an ass of himself over this particular matter, I should never have another chance of exercising my influence over him for good or bad. I have always known that Mrs. Mowbray is one of the most expensive tastes in England. But when the beauty of Mrs. Mowbray is to be exploited with the beauty of the poetry of Shakespeare, and when these gems are enclosed in so elaborate a setting as the Legitimate Theatre—well, I suppose Archie’s millions will hold out. There’s a deal of spending in three millions, Mr. Playdell.”
“His millions will hold out,” said Mr. Playdell. “And so will he,” laughed Harold. “I have known Mrs. Mowbray for several years, and she has never ruined any man except her husband, and he is not worth talking about. She has always liked young men with wealth so enormous that even her powers of spending money can make no impression on it.”
“Mr. Wynne, you can have no notion what that theatre has cost Archie—what it is daily costing him. Eight hundred pounds a week wouldn’t cover the net loss of that ridiculous business—that trailing of Shakespeare in the mire, to gratify the vanity of a woman. I know what men are when they are very young. If I were to talk to Archie seriously on this subject, he would laugh at me; if he did not, he would throw something at me. The result would be nil.”
“Unless he was a good shot with a casual missile.”
“Mr. Wynne, he would not listen to me; but he would listen to you—I know that he would. You could talk to him with all the authority of a man of the world—a man in Society.”
“Mr. Playdell,” said Harold, shaking his head, “if there’s no fool like the old fool, there’s no ass like the young ass. Now, I can assure you, on the authority of a man of the world—you know what such an authority is worth—that to try and detach Archie from his theatre nonsense just now by means of a lecture, would be as impossible as to detach a limpet from a rock by a sermon on—let us say—the flexibility of the marriage bond.”
“Alas! alas!” said Mr. Playdell.
“The only way that Archie can be induced to throw over Mrs. Mowbray and Shakespeare and suchlike follies, is by inducing him to form a stronger attachment elsewhere.”
“The last state of that man might be worse than the first, Mr. Wynne.”
“Might—yes, it might be, but that is no reason why it should be. The young ass takes to thistles, because it has never known the enjoyment of a legitimate pasture.”
“The legitimate pasture is some distance away from the Legitimate Theatre, Mr. Wynne.”
“I agree with you. Now, the thought has just occurred to me that I might get Archie brought among decent people, for the first time in his life. My sister, Mrs. Lampson, is having a party down at her husband’s place in Brackenshire, for the pheasant-shooting. Why shouldn’t Archie be one of the party? There are a number of decent men going, and decent women also. None of the men will try to get the better of him.”
“And the women will not try to make a fool of him?”
“I won’t promise that—the world can’t cease to revolve on its axis because Archie Brown has a tendency to giddiness.”
Mr. Playdell was grave. Then he said, thoughtfully, “Whatever the women may be, they can’t be of the stamp of Mrs. Mowbray.”
“You may trust my sister for that. You may also trust her to see that they are less beautiful than Mrs. Mowbray,” remarked Harold.
Mr. Playdell pondered.
“Pheasant-shooting is expensive in its way,” said he. “The preservation of grouse runs away with a good deal of money also, I am told. Race horses, it is generally understood, entail considerable outlay. Put them all together, and you only come within measurable distance of Mrs. Mowbray and Shakespeare as a pastime—with nothing to show for the money—absolutely nothing to show for the money.”
“Except Mrs. Mowbray and Shakespeare.”
“Mr. Wynne, I believe that your kind suggestion may be the saving of that lad,” said Playdell.
“Oh, it’s the merest chance,” said Harold. “He may grow sick of the whole business after the first battue.”
“He won’t. I’ve known men saved from destruction by scoring a century in a first-class cricket match: they gave themselves up to cricket, to the exclusion of other games less healthy. If Archie takes kindly to the pheasants, he may make up his mind to buy a place and preserve them. That will be a healthy occupation for him. You will give him to understand that it’s the proper thing to do, Mr. Wynne.”
“You may depend upon me. I’ll write to my sister to invite him. It’s only an experiment.”
“It will succeed, Mr. Wynne—it will succeed, I feel that it will. If you only knew, as I do, how he is being fooled, you would understand my earnestness—you have long ago forgiven my intrusion. Give me a chance of serving you in return, Mr. Wynne. That’s all I ask.”
HAROLD had a note written to Mrs. Lampson, begging her to invite his friend, Mr. Archie Brown, to join her party at Abbeylands, almost before Mr. Playdell had left the street. He knew that his sister would be very glad to have Archie. All the world had a general notion of Archie’s millions; and Abbeylands was one of those immense houses that can accommodate a practically unlimited number of guests. The property had been bought from a nobleman, who had been brought to the verge of bankruptcy by trying to maintain it. Mr. Lampson, a patriotic American, had come to his relief, and had taken the place off his hands.
That is what all truly patriotic Americans do when they have an opportunity.
The new-world democracy comes to the rescue of the old-world aristocracy, and thus a venerable institution is preserved from annihilation.
Harold posted his letter as he went out to dine with a man who was a member of the Carlton Club, and zealous in heating up recruits for the Conservative party. He thought that Harold might possibly be open to conviction, not, of course, on the question of the righteousness of certain principles, but on the question of the direction in which the cat was about to jump. The jumping cat is the dominant power in modern politics.
Harold ate his dinner, and listened patiently to the man whose acquaintance with the tendencies of every genus of the political felis was supposed to be extraordinary. He said little. Before he had gone to Castle Innisfail the subject would have interested him greatly, but now he thought that Archie Brown’s inanities were preferable to those of the politician.
He was just enough to acknowledge, however, that the cigar with which he left the Carlton was as good a one as he had ever smoked. So that there was some advantage in being a Conservative after all.
He walked round St. James’s Square, for the night was warm and fine. His mind was not conscious of having received anything during the previous two hours upon which it would be profitable to ponder. He thought over the question which he had put to himself previously—the question of how he could bind Beatrice to him—how he could make her certainly his own, and thus banish that cold distrust of which he now and again became aware—no, it was not exactly distrust, it was only a slightly defective link in the chain of complete trust.
She loved him and she promised to love him. He reflected upon this, and he asked himself what more could he want. What bond stronger than her word could he desire to have?
“Oh, I will trust her for ever—for ever,” he murmured. “If she is not true, then there never was truth on earth.”
He fancied that he had dismissed the matter from his mind with this exorcism.
And so he had.
But it so happens that some persons are so constituted that there is but the slenderest connection between their mind and their heart. Something that appeals very forcibly to their mind will not touch their heart in the least. They are Nature’s “sports.”
Harold Wynne was one of these people. He had made up his mind that, on the question of implicitly trusting Beatrice, nothing more remained to be said. There was still, however, that cold finger upon his heart.
But having made up his mind that nothing more remained to be said on the question, he was logical enough—for logic is also a mental attribute, though by no means universally distributed—to think of other matters.
He began to think about Mr. Playdell, and his zeal for the reform of Archie. Harold’s respect for Mr. Playdell had materially increased since the morning. At first he had been inclined to look with suspicion upon the man who had, by the machinery of the Church, been prohibited from discharging the functions of a priest of that Church, though, of course, he was free to exercise that unimportant function known as preaching. He could not preach within a church, however. If he wished to try and save souls by preaching, that was his own business. He would not do so with the sanction of the Church. He was anxious to save the soul of Archie Brown, at any rate. He assumed that Archie had a soul in embryo, ready to be hatched, and it was clear to Harold that Mr. Playdell was anxious to save it from being addled before it had pecked its way out of its shell. Therefore Harold had a considerable respect for Mr. Playdell, though he had been one of the unprofitable servants of the Church.
He thought of the earnest words of the man—of the earnest way in which he had begged to be given the chance of returning the service, which he believed was about to be done to him by Harold.
He had been greatly in earnest; but that fact only made his words the more ridiculous.
“What service could he possibly do me?” Harold thought, when he had had his laugh, recalling the outstretched hand of Mr. Playdell, and his eager eyes. “What service could he possibly do me? What service?”
He was rooted to the pavement. The driver of a passing hansom pulled up opposite him, taking the fact of his stopping so suddenly as an indication that he wanted a hansom.
He took no notice of the hansom, and it passed up the square. He remained so long lost in thought, that his cigar, so strongly impregnated with sound Conservative principles, went out like any Radical weed, or the penny Pickwick of the Labour Processionist.
He dropped the unsmoked end, and felt for his pocket-handkerchief. He raised his hat and wiped his forehead.
Then he took a stroll into Piccadilly and on to Knightsbridge. He went down Sloane Street, and into Chelsea, returning by the Embankment to Westminster—the clock was chiming the hour of 2 a.m. as he passed.
But the same clock had struck three before he got into bed, and five before he fell asleep.
====
CONTENTS
CHAPTER XXXVIII.—ON A KNOWLEDGE OF THE WORLD.
CHAPTER XXXIX.—ON CONSCIENCE AND THE RING.
CHAPTER XL.—ON SOCIETY AND THE SEAL.
CHAPTER XLI.—ON DRY CHAMPAGNE AND A CRISIS.
CHAPTER XLII.—ON THE RING AND THE LOOK.
CHAPTER XLIII.—ON THE SON OF APHRODITE.
CHAPTER XLIV.—ON THE SHORTCOMINGS OF A SYSTEM.
CHAPTER XLV.—ON MOONLIGHT AND MORALS.
CHAPTER XLVI.—ON A BED OF LOGS.
CHAPTER XLVII.—ON THE PLEASURES OF MEMORY.
CHAPTER XLVIII—ON MURDER AS A SOCIAL INCIDENT.
CHAPTER XLIX.—ON THE ADVANTAGES OF CONFESSION.
CHAPTER L.—ON CONSOLATION AS A FINE ART.
CHAPTER LI.—ON THE WAYS OF PROVIDENCE AND OTHERS.
CHAPTER LII.—ON THE FLUSH, THE FOOL, AND FATE.
CHAPTER LIII.—ON A SUPREME ASPIRATION.
CHAPTER LIV.—ON THE DECAY OF THE PAT AS A POWER.
CHAPTER LV.—ON SHAKESPEARE AND ARCHIE BROWN.
CHAPTER LVI.—ON THE BITTER CRY.
CHAPTER LVII.—ON THE REJECTED ADDRESSES.
SHORTLY after noon he was with her. He had left his rooms without touching a morsel of breakfast, and it was plain that such sleep as he had had could not have been of a soothing nature. He was pale and haggard; and she seemed surprised—not frightened, however, for her love was that which casteth out fear—at the way he came to her—with outstretched hands which caught her own, as he said, “My beloved—my beloved, I have a strange word for you—a strange proposal to make. Dearest, can you trust me? Will you marry me—to-morrow—to-day?”
She scarcely gave a start. He was only conscious of her hands tightening upon his own. She kept her eyes fixed upon his. The silence was long. It was made the more impressive by the distinctness with which the jocularity of the fishmonger’s hoy with the cook at the area railings, was heard in the room.
“Harold,” she said, in a voice that had no trace of distrust, “Harold, you are part of my life—all my life! When I said that I loved you, I had given myself to you. I will marry you any time you please—to-morrow—to-day—this moment!”
She was in his arms, sobbing.
His “God bless you, my darling!” sounded like a sob also.
In a few moments she was laughing through her tears.
He was not laughing.
“Now, tell me what you mean, my beloved,” said she, with a hand on each of his shoulders.
“Tell me what you mean by coming to frighten me like this. What has happened?”
“Nothing has happened, only I want to feel that you are my own—my own beyond the possibility of being separated from me by any power on earth. I do not want to take you away from your father’s house—I cannot offer you any home. It may be years before we can live together as those who love one another as we love, may live with the good will of heaven. I only want you to become my wife in name, dearest. Our marriage must be kept a secret.”
“But my own love,” said she, “why should you wish to go through this ceremony? Are we not united by the true bond of love? Can we be more closely united than we are now? The strength of the marriage bond is only strong in proportion as the love which is the foundation of marriage is strong. Now, why should you wish for the marriage rite before we are prepared to live for ever under the same roof?”
“Why, why?” he cried passionately, as he looked into the depths of her eyes.
He left her and went across the room to one of the windows and looked out. (It was the greengrocer’s boy who was now jocular with the cook at the area railings.)
“My Beatrice—” Harold had returned to her from his scrutiny of the pavement. “My Beatrice, you have not seen all that I have seen in the world. You do not know—you do not know me as I know myself. Why should there come to me sometimes an unworthy thought—no, not a doubt—oh, I have seen so much of the world, Beatrice, I feel that if anything should come between us it would kill me. I must—I must feel that we are made one—that there is a bond binding us together that nothing can sever.”
“But, my Harold—no, I will not interpose any buts. You would not ask me to do this if you had not some good reason. You say that you know the world. I admit that I do not know it. I only know you, and knowing you and loving you with all my heart—with all my soul—I trust you implicitly—without a question—without the shadow of a doubt.”
“God bless you, my love, my love! You will never have reason to regret loving me—trusting me.”
“It is my life—it is my life, Harold.”
Once again he was standing at the window. This time he remained longer with his eyes fixed upon the railings of the square enclosure.
“It must be to-morrow,” he said, returning to her. “I shall come here at noon. A few words spoken in this room and nothing can part us. You will still call yourself by your own name, dearest, God hasten the day when you can come to me as my wife in the sight of all the world and call yourself by my name.”
“I shall be here at noon to-morrow,” said she.
“Unless,” said he, returning to her after he had kissed her forehead and had gone to the door. “Unless”—he framed her face with his hands, and looked down into the depths of her eyes.—“Unless, when you have thought over the whole matter, you feel that you cannot trust me.”
She laughed.
“Ah, my love, my love, you do not know the world,” said he.
He knew the world.
Another man who knew the world was Pontius Pilate.
This was why he asked “What is Truth?”
Harold Wynne was in Archie Brown’s room in Piccadilly within half an hour.
Archie was at the Legitimate Theatre, Mr. Playdell said—Mr. Playdell was seated at the dining-room table surrounded by papers. A trifling difference of opinion had arisen between Mrs. Mowbray and her manager, he added, and (with a smile) Archie had hurried to the theatre to set matters right.
“It is kind of you to call, Mr. Wynne,” continued Mr. Playdell. “But I hope it is not to tell me that you regret the suggestion that you made yesterday—that you do not see your way to write to your sister to invite Archie to her place.”
“I wrote to her the moment you left me,” said Harold. “Archie will get his invitation this evening. It is not about him that I came here to-day, Mr. Playdell. I came to see you. You asked me yesterday to give you an opportunity of doing something for me. I can give you that opportunity.”
“And I promise you that I shall embrace it with gladness, Mr. Wynne,” said Playdell, rising from the table. “Tell me how I can serve you and you will find how ready I am.”
“You still hold to your original principles regarding marriage, Mr. Playdell?”
“How could I do otherwise than hold to them, Mr. Wynne? They are the result of thought; they are not merely a fad to gain notoriety. Let me prove the position that I take up on this matter.”
“You need not, Mr. Playdeil. I heard all your case when it was published. I confess that I now think differently respecting you from what I thought at that time. Will you perform the ceremony of marriage between a lady who has promised to marry me and myself?”
“There is only one condition that I make, Mr. Wynne. You must take an oath that you consider the rite, as I perform it, to be binding upon you, and that you will never recognize a divorce.”
“I will take that oath willingly, Mr. Playdeil. I have promised my fiancée that we shall be with her at noon to-morrow. She will be prepared for us. By the way, do you require a ring for the ceremony as performed by you?”
Mr. Playdeil looked grave—almost scandalized.
“Mr. Wynne,” said he, “that question suggests to me a certain disbelief on your part in the validity in the sight of heaven of the rite of marriage as performed by a man with a full sense of his high office, even though unfrocked by a Church that has always shown too great a readiness to submit to secular guidance—secular restrictions in matters that were originally, like marriage, purely spiritual. The Church has not only submitted to civil restrictions in the matter of the celebration of the holy rite of matrimony, but, while declaring at the altar that God has joined them whom the Church has joined, and while denying the authority of man to put them asunder, she recognizes the validity of divorce. She will marry a man who has been divorced from his wife, when he has duly paid the Archbishop a sum of money for sanctioning what in the sight of God is adultery.”
“My dear Mr. Playdell,” said Harold, “I recollect very clearly the able manner in which you defended your—your—principles, when they were called in question. I do not desire to call them in question now. I believe in your sincerity in this matter and in other matters. I shall drive here for you at half past eleven o’clock to-morrow. I need scarcely say that I mean my marriage to be kept a secret.”
“You may depend upon my good faith in that respect,” said Mr. Playdell. “Mr. Wynne,” he added, impressively, “this land of ours will never be a moral one so long as the Church is content to accept a Parliamentary definition of morality. The Church ought certainly to know her own business.”
“There I quite agree with you,” said Harold.
He refrained from asking Mr. Playdell if the Church, in dispensing with his services as one of her priests, had not made an honest attempt to vindicate her claims to know her own business. He merely said, “Half past eleven to-morrow,” after shaking hands with Mr. Playdell, who opened the door for him.