I
They were on their way to the registrar’s when Wynne stopped short and exclaimed, “Of course!” Then, in answer to an arched-brow inquiry from Eve: “Would you like to meet some one nice?”
“I have,” she smiled, for it was their wedding day, and future wives and husbands say pleasant things to each other on their wedding days, even though sometimes they forget to do so afterwards.
“A man—in fact, an uncle of mine.”
“Uncle Clem?”
“Yes. How did you know?”
“Guessed.”
“Have I spoken of him?”
“Once.”
“I want you to meet him.”
“Then I do too.”
“Don’t know where he lives though.”
“Let’s try a telephone directory.”
They did—and successfully.
“He would live in Kensington Square,” said Wynne.
“Have you never been to see him before?”
Wynne shook his head.
“But why not?”
“Did you never have that feeling of wanting to keep something back? How can I explain? If you are thirsty and at last you are within reach of a drink, have you never waited awhile instead of snatching it to your lips?”
“I know.”
“Then that’s why. Only here and there has he entered my life, and somehow each time I felt the better for him. I’m not a very grateful individual, but I’m grateful to Uncle Clem—and I’m grateful for Uncle Clem, too. He sees things very agreeably. When I was a child I thought him a god—and I haven’t altogether outgrown that feeling.”
“Then why do you avoid him?”
“When one goes before the Presence one likes to have something to show.”
“I see.”
He touched her hand lightly.
“Today I have something to show.”
They climbed to the top of a bright red ’bus and journeyed to Kensington. At the church they descended, and dipped into the little side street which leads to the Queen Anne houses of Kensington Square.
There was a copper knocker on the door of Uncle Clem’s abode, with which Wynne very bravely tattooed his arrival.
“Yes, Mr. Rendall is in,” admitted the manservant who answered the summons. “Was he expecting you?”
“Heavens! no,” said Wynne. “I’m his nephew—but let him find out for himself. We shouldn’t pocket the spoons if you invited us to come inside.”
The man smiled. “I recognize the relationship in your speech, sir.”
He opened the door of a white-panelled room, and, when they had entered, mounted the stairs to inform his master.
“Good, isn’t it?” said Wynne, his eyes roaming over the comfortable disorder and beautiful appointments. “Everything right. Hullo!” He halted abruptly before a large framed canvas on one of the walls, “The Faun and the Villagers.”
He was standing so when the door opened, and Uncle Clem, dressed in quilted smoking jacket and a pair of ultra vermilion slippers, came in. He paused a moment, then out rang his voice:
“Ha! The young fellow! Ain’t dead, then? Let’s look at you!”
Wynne met the full smack of the descending hand in his open palm.
“No,” he laughed. “Look here, instead,” and pivoted Uncle Clem so that Eve came in his line of sight.
“Splendid!” said Clem, moving to meet her. “Used to tell him he’d do no good until he fell in love. May I kiss her?”
“Don’t ask me.”
“Well, may I?”
“Um!” said Eve.
And he did, saying thereafter:
“First rate! I like it immensely. Sit down—take off your hat, or whatever you do to feel at home. That’s the way. Now let’s hear all about it. Are you married—or going to be? I see—going to be—no ring. Splendid!”
“Here’s the ring,” said Wynne. “It will be worn for the first time today.”
“Today! Today the best day in all the year! And you came to see me on the way to the church. Fine! Y’know, there is something in ’im after all, even though he’s devilish sporadic in coming to see me.”
“He’s saving you up for the good time ahead,” said Eve; “and I can see why, now.”
“Then give up seeing why, little lady. What’s your name, by the way? What is her name, young fellar?”
“Eve.”
“Eve—couldn’t be better. What was I saying? Ah, yes. Give up seeing why and come and see me instead. Rotten policy to save! (never saved a penny in my life). Fatal to save! Find out, when it’s too late, don’t want what you’ve been saving for—outgrown your impulses. Buried with your bankbook, and every one glad you’re dead. No—no. Spend while you are young. Get a hold on all the friendship and all the love within reach—and then, why then, when you’re old, at least memories will be yours as comforters. You agree, don’t you?”
“Yes, I agree,” said Eve.
“And what about you?”
“All or nothing,” replied Wynne. “And I had rather keep the ‘nothing’ till I can claim the ‘all.’ ”
“Good stars!” exclaimed Clem. “What a speech for a wedding day!” Then, catching a glimpse of the growing colour on Eve’s cheeks:
“Don’t heed me, my dear. I’ve a reputation for saying things which, in the vernacular, I didn’t ought. But a man who speaks of nothing on his wedding day—?”
Wynne hesitated, then:
“This isn’t altogether our wedding day,” he said.
“Eh?”
“Today she and I are becoming—legalized partners.”
“What the devil are you talking about?”
“Partners. We shall join forces, she and I, and work together for success—think of, live for, and concentrate on that goal. Afterwards we—”
But Uncle Clem would not let him finish.
“Rank folly!” he cried, jumping to his feet.
“You’ve read your Plato!” said Wynne.
“Plato be damned! Well enough for an old philosopher to mumble his repressive theories from a dead log in the market-place—but for you at twenty-what-ever-it-may-be, tss—madness—rot—folly! My dear, dear girl, for God’s sake, tell him not to talk such utter damn nonsense.”
“You haven’t quite understood,” said Eve, very gently.
“He speaks of success and denies love—he places success before love. Doesn’t he know—? Here! don’t you know,” twisting suddenly round, “that love is the only success worth having—that success is only possible through love?”
“Love is the reward,” said Wynne.
“It is not. It is no more the reward than rain is a reward to the ground, or air is a reward to the lungs. Love is a necessity—a primary necessity—and the fountain of all inspiration. If you can’t realize that, don’t marry—you have no right to marry. Don’t marry him, my dear. Keep away from him till he comes to his proper senses.”
“I think we have a greater knowledge,” said Wynne, moving to Eve’s side.
“And I think you have no knowledge whatsoever—that you are throttling it at the main. Partners!” he threw up his head. “Oh, can’t you see what partners means—what it amounts to in practice? A staling of each other for each other—that’s all. A mutual day-by-day loss of conceit and regard. You can see it in the City, or wherever you choose to look. Listen to what any man says of his partner: ‘He’s all right, but getting old—losing his grip—isn’t the man he was,’ so on and so forth. And why is it? Because they have no closer tie than their signatures on a piece of paper. Nature admits of no lasting partnership between man and woman save one—love.”
“Even that partnership is sometimes dissolved.”
“By fools, yes, and by the blind, but not by those who can see. Knowledge is the keystone which holds up the archway of heaven, my boy—knowledge which has sprung from love. I may be no more than a talkative old bachelor, but, by God! I know that to be true. There are few enough spirits on this earthy old world of ours, and only through love comes the power to know them each by name.” He stopped and fiddled with a pipe on the mantelshelf. “This is a disappointment to me—a big disappointment. I’d looked to you young folk to open your hearts and tell me what was inside, and, instead, I’ve done all the talking, and told you what I think they ought to contain, and perhaps offended you both into the bargain.”
“No, you haven’t,” said Eve. “I like you for it.”
“And you?”
“If I were offended,” said Wynne, “I should not ask you to come to the wedding—and I do.”
Uncle Clem shook his head slowly.
“Not I,” he said. “I’m an idealist—not a business man. I’d as soon watch a stockbroker signing scrip.”
On the doorstep, a few moments later, he touched Eve’s arm and whispered:
“Run away—don’t do it—run away.”
She shook her head. “I love him,” she said.
In silence she and Wynne walked to the High Street and turned into Kensington Gardens.
“He’s losing his grip—not the man he was—getting old,” quoted Wynne.
“And yet,” she answered, “he is younger than we are.”
They fell upon a second silence, then very suddenly Wynne said:
“Are you unhappy?”
“No.”
“Are you doubtful?”
“No.”
“You do believe in me?”
“Yes.”
“It’s—it’s not much of a wedding for you.”
“There’s all the future.”
“Yes. He was wrong, of course.”
“If the future is to be ours.”
“It shall be ours. What’s it matter if we grope along the flats if at last we jump to the mountain top together?”
“I put all my faith in that.”
“You shall never regret it.”
She hung close upon his arm. “No, you won’t let me regret it, will you? You won’t ever let me regret it?”
“ ’Course not.”
“I want to know, when you make that leap to the mountain top, that my arm will be through yours as it is now.”
“It will be then. I shall want to show my treasures to the world,” he said.
Her mouth broke into a smile.
“Nothing else matters,” she said.