CHAPTER XIV.—A MYSTERY.
Bradley and his bride were only absent from London five days; no one missed them, and of course no one suspected that they had gone away in company. Before the next Sunday came round, they were living just as before—she in her own rooms, he in the residence at Regent’s Park. This was the arrangement made between them, the clergyman’s plea being that it was better to keep their marriage secret for a time, until the New Church was more safely established in public estimation.
Quite happy in the loving secret between them, Alma had acquiesced without a word.
Their only confidant, for the time being, was Miss Combe, who was then staying at Hastings, and to whom Alma wrote in the following terms:
‘Dearest Agatha,—It is all over, and we are man and wife. No one in the world is to know but you, yet awhile. I know you will keep our secret, and rejoice in our happiness.
‘It was all decided very hastily. Ambrose thought it better to marry secretly, thinking (foolish man!) that many would misunderstand his motives, and believing that, as an unmarried person, he can better pursue the good work to which we are both devoted. After all, it matters very little. For years we have been one in soul, as you know; and what God long ago joined man could never have put asunder. Still, it is sweet to know that my hero, my apostle, my Abelard—as I call him, is entirely mine, for richer, for poorer, for better, for worse. I am very happy, dear; proud and hopeful, too, as a loving wife can be.
‘Write and tell me that you are better. Surely this bright weather should complete your cure, and drive those gloomy thoughts away? In a few days I shall come and see you; perhaps we may come together. So I won’t write good bye, but au revoir!
‘Your loving friend,