“Yvonne is going—to marry Everard—going for ever—I shall be alone—she will lie in his arms—I shall go mad—God help me—if it is more than I can bear, there is a way out—I can keep up till she goes—she shall not know—afterwards.” His brain could not work beyond. The same thoughts throbbed with almost rhythmic recurrence as he priced and catalogued the books. Once he opened a tattered “Marcus Aurelius”:—
“If pain is an affliction, it must affect either the body or the mind; if the body is hurt, let it say so; as for the soul, it is in her power to preserve her serenity and calm, by supposing the accident no evil.”
He laughed to himself mirthlessly, and threw the book on the fourpenny heap. “Or pretending, like the Marchioness,” he said. He was scarcely in a mood for “Marcus Aurelius.”
A messenger-boy appeared with a letter for Madame Latour. Joyce sent it up to her by the shop-boy, who presently brought down a reply note. The preparations for her departure had begun. Joyce’s heart seemed set in a vice and he nearly cried aloud with the pain.
The hours wore on; the piles of books were disposed of; nothing to do, but wait for customers. To keep himself employed he copied untidy pages of his manuscript. He went up for dinner. Yvonne was more subdued than at breakfast, and they scarcely spoke. When the meal was over, she told him quietly of the letter she had received.
“Everard says that he is getting the special licence to-day, and the marriage will take place to-morrow at St Luke’s, Islington. Considering the circumstances, he thinks it best that there should be no delay.”
“It is just as well,” he replied. “When changes come, it is best that they should come swiftly. Has he made any more definite arrangements—the hour?”
“He will send me a message later.”
“You will have to put up your things. If I can help you, Yvonne—”
“Thanks—no. I have so little. The few odds and ends I shall leave you—as mementoes. You would like to keep them, would n’t you?”