The Bishop saw the delicacy of the point, and motioned an affirmative. But he regarded Stephen with mingled feelings. It was intensely repugnant to him to find his once reprobated cousin a barrier between himself and Yvonne. An uneasy suspicion passed through his mind. Might not Stephen be even a more serious rival?
“You are not marrying me merely on account of that promise years ago, Yvonne?” he asked.
“Oh, no, Everard,” she replied gently. “It is because you want me—and because it’s right.”
He kissed her good-bye.
“I shall not visit you here again, Yvonne,” he said. “When I receive the final answer I shall make suitable arrangements. We shall be married quietly, by special licence. Will that please you?”
“Yes,” said Yvonne. “Thank you.”
At the door he turned for a parting glance. Then he descended the stairs, with the intention of broaching the matter to Joyce then and there. But although he found lights burning in the shop, Joyce was nowhere to be seen. Nor were there any apparent means of ascertaining his whereabouts. The Bishop bit his lip with annoyance. He did not wish to procrastinate in this affair. Suddenly his eye fell upon an old stationery-rack against the wall, in which were visible the paper and envelopes used for the business. With prompt decision the Bishop took what was necessary, sought and found pen and ink, and wrote at Joyce’s table a letter, which he addressed and left in a conspicuous position. Then he found with some difficulty the street-door of the house and let himself out.
Joyce, whom a longing for air had at last driven outside, was walking up and down the pavement, keeping his eye on the door. As soon as he witnessed Everard’s departure, he entered and went through the passage into the shop. The letter attracted his attention. He opened it and read:—
Dear Stephen,—I wished for a word with you. But as the
matter is urgent, I write. I should like to express to you
my sense of the generous chivalry of your conduct toward
Yvonne. I should also like to hold out to you the hand of
sincere friendship.
In earnest of this I approach you, as man to man, with
reference to one of the most solemn affairs in life. Yvonne,
gratefully acknowledging the vast obligations under which
she is bound to you, has made her acceptance of my offer of
remarriage dependent upon your consent. For this consent,
therefore, I earnestly beg you.
For the future, in what way soever my friendship can be of
use to you, it will most gladly be directed.
Yours sincerely,
E. Chisely.
Burgon’s Hotel, W.
Joyce grew faint as he read. The words swam before his eyes. A great pain shot through his heart. The letter contained one torturing fact—that of Yvonne’s acquiescence. The Bishop’s acknowledgment of his uprightness, the courtesy of the formal request, the offer of friendship—all were meaningless phrases. Yvonne was going to leave him—of her own free-will. Although his fears had anticipated the blow, it none the less stunned him. He flung himself down by his table, with a groan, and buried his face in his arms. The realisation of what Yvonne was to him flooded him with a mighty rush. She was his hope of salvation in this world and the next, his guardian angel, his universe. Without her all was chaos, void and horrible.