CHAPTER V

Father Maurice Healy lived up at the back of the town in an old windmill, skilfully transformed and built about so that it had become a veritable bungalow, with more than one pleasant room and a little chapel which his lady friends declared was too divine forwords. He had been smoking his afternoon cigar, when the amazing pair burst in upon him, and never in all his life had he laid down good tobacco to listen to a tale so wonderful!

"Ye'll have to wait," he said dryly. "I've no power to marry ye at all as the State understands the term. Ye'll get a special licence, and then come to me. 'Tis wise advice, my dear, that ye should go back to your friends in London until things can be put straight. Make up your mind to that. I'm no better off in securing you to legal marriage than any man ye may stop in the street. Mr. Lassett knows that well, and he'll have told ye as much."

Harry nodded his head in unison with the words as though this was just the counsel he had expected. Maryska, thinking that she knew priests well, clasped her precious bag firmly in both her little hands and looked the enemy squarely in the face.

"We will pay you money," she said with much dignity. "I have ten pounds here, and you shall have it. What you say does not matter to us at all. We are not frightened of the judges, Harry and I. If you marry us to-day, we shall go away to Italy, and the gendarmes will not find us. He has said that I must go back to Hampstead, but I will never do so. I will kill myself if you do not marry us. Harry knows that it is true, and that is why we have come here. Perhaps, if you married us, he has some money and will add it to mine. There are other priests, but we do not wish to go to them. Oh, sir, will you not do it for those who love? Will you not make us happy? It is nothing to me this ceremony,but to him it is so much. And I have the money here; I will show it to you if you wish."

She began to fumble with the bag while the good father and Harry regarded her with an amazement beyond all words. Never had Maurice Healy heard such an address or seen so pretty a bargainer in that little room. And the horror of it all—her ignorance, her childish faith, her frank confession! He was as clay in her hands already—and she, a heathen.

"But, my dear young lady, 'tis far from understanding ye are," he gasped at length; "not a penny of your money would I be touching anyway. Don't you see I can't marry ye because the law will not let me? 'Tis not me, but the Parliament that has the making of it. Ye must take your money to them."

Maryska looked at him almost with pity. Harry's appeal to her might as well have been addressed to the stucco walls of the bungalow.

"I do not believe you," she said; "you have a little church there, and you can say the words. The money will buy you many things that this poor house is in need of. Please to marry us at once, and then we can go and be happy. Oh, sir, if you knew what it was to love! But priests do not know that; they have no hearts. You will let us sail to Italy without your blessing, and will remember it afterwards. Is it kind of you to do that when you think that you serve God?"

"But, my child, I will give ye my blessing freely; 'tis to marry you I am unable."

"We do not care for that; nothing matters to us but our love. We go to Italy to forget this darkcountry and its people. If you will not do as we wish, we shall ask no other. Is it for religion to refuse us, father, when we have come here as the Church would wish us to do?"

"God be good to me!" he cried in despair, "but I don't know what to say to you, and that's the truth. I'll see your husband, my dear, and have a talk to him. Will you come into the dining-room while I have a word with ye, Mr. Lassett? 'Tis beyond all argument and reason—God knows it is."

She did not demur, and they went away, leaving her before a superb crucifix, which seemed to speak of the country for which she sighed. The argument between the good father and the equally good sportsman was both long and at times explosive. "Nothing easier," said the priest, "than to take her back to London and be married in three days' time." "Nothing more impossible to do any such thing," urged Master Harry, who thought that he knew the patient. She would never go to London, and if she were left alone in an hotel at Brighton, he would not answer for her. Had she been an Englishwoman, the whole situation would have been impossible. But she was just a waif and stray from the wilds of Bohemia, and her creed had been learned under the kindly stars. Would Father Healy take charge of her until a licence could be got? The father said "No," most emphatically; he would have no woman in the house. What, then, did he suggest?

Of course, they were both very frightened of her, and they spoke in low tones as though she might burst in and accuse them. Impossible to face thatlittle fury and declare, "There is nothing to be done." When Harry suggested that common humanity would marry them and trust to the licence afterwards, Father Healy asked, "Would ye have me in prison?" None the less, both plainly perceived now that it must be done. A licence could be obtained immediately, and the civil marriage celebrated at the office of the registrar. The good father, vague about the law, followed Harry back to the room with a protest on his lips. It was none of his doing—and yet he did it after all. And Harry must swear solemnly, and she must follow with her pledged word, not to leave Brighton until the affair was made legal. Oh, the change in her when she knew the truth!

So they got the priest's blessing before the little altar in the oratory, and when the brief ceremony was over, they went away together, back to his rooms. But they were no longer gloomy rooms, for now the two saw nothing but each other's eyes, and little it mattered to them that the oleographs were mid-Victorian and that the mahogany chairs matched them. Maryska had found the heart of a new world, and she dwelt there for just two hours in good content until there came a knock upon the door, and Gordon Silvester, tired, pale, and wonderfully earnest, entered softly into their paradise and began to speak of men and cities.

"I have telegraphed to Mr. Faber," he said. "He must know immediately."

Maryska laughed in his face.

"He is on the sea," she said. "You will have to send the telegram which flies."

TWO SHIPS UPON THE SEA

Faber had expected such a telegram; but he had not thought that it would be so longed delayed.

He told Gabrielle once upon a time that she was drifting upon a tide which would carry her to unhappy seas; but he himself had been doing the same thing since his work in England was finished. This was a man who had learned to love a woman, but was a very novice, none the less, in all the arts of love.

Had it been a business affair, with what zeal would he not have plunged into it? Being far from that, a situation in which the whole soul of the man was at stake, he did as the woman had done—drifted upon the tide of circumstance, and was content to wait.

Be sure that he had read the secret of Harry Lassett's passion for Maryska almost at the beginning. Because of it, he left her in the little house at Hampstead, and would have sailed to New York without her. If Harry had the courage, he would cut the knot, and the treasure ship would float upon a kindly stream to the harbour already prepared. But would he have the courage? One excuse and another kept Faber at Southampton, but the news did not come. The orderto weigh anchor had been given, and recalled a dozen times in as many days. The yacht would have been in the Solent that very night, but for Gabrielle's instructions to her father. "Telegraph Mr. Faber," she had said. He received the message while he was writing to Sir Jules Achon in the little cabin which served him for library, and there being no train to serve his purpose, the fastest motor-car in Southampton was on the road to Brighton within the hour.

It was half-past eleven when he reached Oriental Terrace, and five minutes later when he burst in upon a dismal company. Having taken possession of "the assets of respectability," Gordon Silvester had refused to budge an inch; and having exhausted his homilies upon "honour," "the married state," and the "scandal of the whole proceeding," had fallen to a sullen silence. Harry and Maryska, no less obstinate, declared their intention of remaining in Brighton until a registrar had married them, and then of leaving for Paris immediately. An appeal to the girl to consider her obligations toward John Faber met with the characteristic answer that she recognised none. She was sorry for this a little later on when Faber himself appeared just like a fairy godfather to a scowling Cinderella. His coming gratified her vanity; his dominant will never failed to subdue her. She remembered the hours they had spent together upon the road to Ranovica and all they had meant to her.

"Why, little girl, and what has been going on here, now—and Mr. Lassett, too? I guess I'm on time for the party anyway. Will someone just tell me what it's all about before we begin? Don't move, Mr. Silvester.I'd have you all be comfortable and I'll light a cigar if Miss Maryska doesn't mind. Now, will no one tell me the story?"

Maryska ran to him just like a child to a father. He was plump in an arm-chair with her by his side before a man could have counted ten, and she lit his cigar with a little hand which trembled while it held the match.

"Harry and I are married!" she said, "you must not be very cross;hewould not have been. We went to the priest this afternoon—then that man came, and will not go away! Will you send him away, please? We do not want him here."

Even Silvester laughed at this; all the conventions went into the melting-pot at the bidding of the child. It would have been impossible for Melpomene herself to have resisted her. The minister puffed hard at his pipe, and forgot her ingratitude. John Faber stroked her hair, and said to himself that her love had changed her wonderfully.

"Why, my dear, that's not very kind to your good friend nor to me!" he said gently enough. "Don't you think you might have told us something about it all? Perhaps we should have been able to help you if you had come to us. Was it right to keep us all in the dark like this?"

Of course, Harry blurted out that it was all his fault, and that she was not to blame. There were three speaking at once presently, and all the while Faber had Maryska's arms about his neck. They had not meant to do it all—circumstances drove them; they thought that he had gone away. To which wasadded the truly feminine dictum that they could not help loving each other, and were not to blame. When Silvester obtained a grasp of the situation, and declared that she must have known she was doing wrong, Maryska responded that she did not care a d——n; which finished the worthy pastor, and sent him in high dudgeon back to his hotel. It was nearly midnight, and he feared that he would be locked out!

When he was gone, Faber took Harry aside and had a long talk with him. This was a very different affair, and set every nerve in the young man's body tingling. To begin with, there was the charge upon the honour of the man. Why had he not had it out with Gabrielle? A man who cannot talk straight to a woman, whatever the circumstances, is worth very little in the world. Then, what did he propose to do? To keep house and wife and children upon his paltry three hundred a year? What selfishness was that; what a confession of idleness and vain folly! He, Faber, would let Maryska remain with no man who would not work himself for her, and bring ambition to his task. Harry should have twelve months to justify himself! If he needed capital, it was there—but he must prove his worth. "Show me," said Faber, "that you earn five hundred pounds honestly at the end of twelve months, and I will make it five thousand!" Failing that, he swore very solemnly that he would have Maryska back with him at Charleston, and defy the consequences. "She'll be glad to come," he said; "she's just the kind to discover whether a man has grit in him or no—and God help you, if you haven't."

To the little wife, his farewell was in a kindlier mood altogether. She must know that she had a friend in him always; send for him whenever she was in trouble. He would try to cross the Atlantic to see her sometimes; the years were speeding, and he did not mean to work as hard as he had done. He would have her always in his thoughts, his fellow traveller upon the drear road of death. The present that he gave her brought the hot blush to her cheeks. Oh, the days of joy it would buy in the south, where the sun would shine upon her life. She kissed him again and again. "Hewill know that you have made me happy," she said.

He saw her last through the uncurtained window, showing her treasure to Harry. The boy drew her close and kissed her. They were alone at last.

But John Faber returned immediately to Southampton, through a sleeping country for which his genius had done much in the days of tribulation.

Sir Jules Achon's yacht was in dock when Faber awoke late next day, and he learned with some surprise that it had reached the Solent yesterday, and was anchored a little while in Portsmouth harbour, until, indeed, Rupert Trevelle went aboard with news of theSavannah. Then Sir Jules sailed for Southampton immediately, and so the master minds met at last, each with his own story of the tremendous days. Faber thought the baronet a little worn by his labours; but his zeal was unchanged, and he still looked towardthat goal of life where the peace of the world should be won. The Tsar, he said, was still unwilling to come in; but he had obtained much encouragement at the minor courts, especially those of the south-east of Europe. For England herself, he had little hope in the matter. The old imagination had failed his countrymen. The petty issues, not the greater, were discussed in the market place.

"This should be a story of three kings," he said, "and they must recreate the world. In your country, you have built an altar to humanity which never can be cast down. We learn slowly in Europe, for we are blinded by the glitter of ancient arms. In more material things, the shopkeeping instinct is the foe of progress. When I can throw down the commercial barriers, I can cast out war. The field is mighty, but the labourers are few. If I were not already in my sixty-fourth year, I would hope to see the noblest day in the story of man. As it is, I can but sow and leave those who come after me to reap."

Faber said that none of them could hope to do more.

"We are up against the animal instinct, and that is as old as Eden. You know my view. If peace is to be won for humanity, it will be by the brains and the money of those who lead humanity. This country has had a terrible fight, and everyone is crying out for this or that to be done. I shouldn't wonder if it all ended in nothing being done. Men talk the old platitudes the while they read their newspapers and ask what Germany or Spain has the intention of doing. I don't blame the war party, for it is its businessto make war. God knows, I've seen enough of that to last me a lifetime, and when I go back to New York, it will be to live on the hill-top. But others will carry on my business, and it will have to be carried on. The day when any European nation disarmed for reasons of sentimentality would be the last day of its freedom. We must deal with facts as they are; we cannot run ahead of the great company of men, for assuredly we shall fall if we do."

Sir Jules was in accord with all this. He spoke fervently of what the big men were doing. Andrew Carnegie and Taft and Bryce at Washington. An atmosphere was being created, but he feared its artificiality. Commerce was the key, he repeated; remove the commercial bias and the day was won. For Faber's promise to become one of the presidents of the Federation League, he was very grateful. "You have done much for this country," he said; "your name will mean a great deal to me."

They fell afterwards to talking of their more domestic affairs. Sir Jules said that his daughter Eva had gone to Winchester to lunch with a friend, but he expected her to dinner. The same hesitation which had led Faber to defer his departure upon so many recent occasions, now prompted his acceptance of the suggestion that he should join the party, and he went over to theSavannahimmediately to dress.

"I'll weigh to-morrow anyway," was his word at parting. "My skipper doesn't like these waters in the dark, and I've got to consider him. Eight o'clock, I think you said, Sir Jules? You'll be alone, of course?"

"My daughter and I; it will be a pleasure to both of us."

III

The night fell warm and murky with a soft and southerly breeze.

All the lanterns of the ships in Southampton Water shone clear and steady as Faber paced the quarter-deck of theSavannahuntil it should be time to keep his appointment.

A month ago how different the scene had been—the frost everywhere; the frightened people; the menace of a peril from which the bravest shrank. Now this had become a scene of England's maritime habit—a scene wherein the great steamers moved majestically, their sirens hooting, their crews to be welcomed home or bidden God-speed, as the occasion demanded. In the background were the red and green lamps of the railway, the busy streets of the town, the coming and going of citizens whose day's work was done. As a tempest drifting, the storm had passed. The ramparts beloved of the nation had made of this again an island kingdom.

John Faber dwelt upon such thoughts for an instant, but anon they turned to a woman. Would he leave England and seek no more to reason with Gabrielle Silvester? Would he be justified in going to her in an hour of some humiliation? He had no young man's impetuosity, no virile passion of love which would break all barriers rudely. A real and generous sentiment toward her, the belief that she was for himthe one woman in all the world had become a habit of his life. She would be the ornament of any man's home. Her dignity, her wit, her womanliness—in what precious jewels would he not set them if she had but come to him? And all this might have been if Harry Lassett had had the courage to tell her the truth and the little witch of Ragusa had been as other women. Now, all had been put to the hazard. It might be that all was lost.

The boat came alongside at last, and he went aboard. It was very silent all about him, and when he heard a woman's laugh, coming from the deck of a ship, he wondered that it should seem to speak to him across the waters. TheSavannahherself lay warped to the quay of the dock, but they put a ladder down for him, and he climbed it slowly. A steward said that Miss Achon was in the boudoir, and he went there—to see neither Sir Jules nor his daughter, but another figure and one whose wide eyes expressed all the hope and the fear of that tremendous encounter.

"But," cried Gabrielle, "Eva told me that you had sailed."

"Ah!" he said, refusing to release her hand, "she's not the first of your sex who always tells the truth."

THE END

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Transcriber Notes:Throughout the dialogues, there were words used to mimic accents of the speakers. Those words were retained as-is.Errors in punctuation and inconsistent hyphenation were not corrected unless otherwise noted.On page 96, a double quotation mark was added before the single quotation mark in "'Don't".On page 98, a single quotation mark after "go?" was replaced with a double quotation mark.On page 134, "could no nothing" was replaced with "could know nothing".

Throughout the dialogues, there were words used to mimic accents of the speakers. Those words were retained as-is.

Errors in punctuation and inconsistent hyphenation were not corrected unless otherwise noted.

On page 96, a double quotation mark was added before the single quotation mark in "'Don't".

On page 98, a single quotation mark after "go?" was replaced with a double quotation mark.

On page 134, "could no nothing" was replaced with "could know nothing".

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