“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.