I stood before Shuttleworth angry and defiant.

I had crossed to Sylvia and had taken her soft hand.

“I really cannot see, sir, by what right you interfere between us!” I cried, looking at him narrowly. “You forbid! What do I care—why, pray, should you forbid my actions?”

“I forbid,” repeated the thin-faced clergyman, “because I have a right—a right which one day will be made quite plain to you.”

“Ah! Mr. Shuttleworth,” gasped Sylvia, now pale as death, “what are you saying?”

“The truth, my child. You know too well that, for you, love and marriage are forbidden,” he exclaimed, looking at her meaningly.

She sighed, and her tiny hand trembled within my grasp. Her mouth trembled, and I saw that tears were welling in her eyes.

“Ah! yes,” she cried hoarsely a moment later. “I know, alas! that I am not like other women. About me there have been forged bonds of steel—bonds which I can never break.”

“Only by one means,” interrupted Shuttleworth, terribly calm and composed.

“No, no!” she protested quickly, covering her face with her hands as though in shame. “Not that—never that! Do not let us speak of it!”

“Then you have no right to accept this man’s love,” he said reproachfully, “no right to allow him to approach nearer the brink of the grave than he has done. You know full well that, for him, your love must prove fatal!”

She hung her head as though not daring to look again into my eyes. The strange clergyman’s stern rebuke had utterly confused and confounded her. Yet I knew she loved me dearly. That sweet, intense love-look of hers an hour ago could never be feigned. It spoke far more truly than mere words.

Perhaps she was annoyed that I had told Shuttleworth the truth. Yes, I had acted very foolishly. My tongue had loosened involuntarily. My wild joy had led me into an injudicious confession—one that I had never dreamed would be fraught with sorrow.

“Mr. Shuttleworth,” I said at last, “please do not distress yourself on my account. I love Sylvia, and she has promised to be mine. If disaster occurs, then I am fully prepared to meet it. You seem in close touch with this remarkable association of thieves and assassins, or you would hardly be so readily aware of their evil intentions.”

“Ah!” he responded, with a slight sigh, “you are only speaking in ignorance. If you were aware of the true facts, you would, on the contrary, thank me for revealing the peril in which love for this young lady will assuredly place you.”

“But have I not already told you that I am fearless? I am prepared to meet this mysterious peril, whatever it is, for her sake!” I protested.

A curious, cynical smile overspread his grey, ascetic face.

“You speak without knowledge, my dear sir,” he remarked. “Could I but reveal the truth, you would quickly withdraw that assertion. You would, indeed, flee from this girl as you would from the plague!”

“Well,” I said, “your words are at least very remarkable, sir. One would really imagine Miss Pennington to be a hell-fiend—from your denunciation.”

“You mistake me. I make no denunciation. On the other hand, I am trying to impress upon you the utter futility of your love.”

“Why should you do that? What is your motive?” I asked quickly, trying to discern what could be at the back of this man’s mind. How strange it was! Hitherto I had rather liked the tall, quiet, kind-mannered country rector. Yet he had suddenly set himself out in open antagonism to my plans—to my love!

“My motive,” he declared, “is to protect the best interests of you both. I have no ends to serve, save those of humanity, Mr. Biddulph.”

“You urged Miss Pennington to make confession to me. You implied that her avowal of affection was false,” I said, with quick indignation.

“I asked her to confess—to tell you the truth, because I am unable so to do,” was his slow reply. “Ah! Mr. Biddulph,” he sighed, “if only the real facts could be exposed to you—if only you could be told the ghastly, naked truth.”

“Why do you say all this, Mr. Shuttleworth?” protested Sylvia in a low, pained voice. “Why should Mr. Biddulph be mystified further? If you are determined that I should sacrifice myself—well, I am ready. You have been my friend—yet now you seem to have suddenly turned against me, and treat me as an enemy.”

“Only as far as this unfortunate affair is concerned, my child,” he said. “Remember my position—recall all the past, and put to yourself the question whether I have not a perfect right to forbid you to sacrifice the life of a good, honest man like the one before you,” he said, his clerical drawl becoming more accentuated as he spoke.

“Rubbish, my dear sir,” I laughed derisively. “Put aside all this cant and hypocrisy. It ill becomes you. Speak out, like a man of the world that you are. What specific charge do you bring against this lady? Come, tell me.”

“None,” he replied. “Evil is done through her—not by her.”

And she stood silent, unable to protest.

“But can’t you be more explicit?” I cried, my anger rising. “If you make charges, I demand that you shall substantiate them. Recollect all that I have at stake in this matter.”

“I know—your life,” he responded. “Well, I have already told you what to expect.”

“Sylvia,” I said, turning to the pale girl standing trembling at my side, “will you not speak? Will you not tell me what all this means? By what right does this man speak thus? Has he any right?”

She was silent for a few moments. Then slowly she nodded her head in an affirmative.

“What right has he to forbid our affection?” I demanded. “I love you, and I tell you that no man shall come between us!”

“He alone has a right, Owen,” she said, addressing me for the first time by my Christian name.

“What right?”

But she would not answer. She merely stood with head downcast, and said—

“Ask him.”

This I did, but the thin-faced man refused to reply. All he would say was—

“I have forbidden this fatal folly, Mr. Biddulph. Please do not let us discuss it further.”

I confess I was both angry and bewildered. The mystery was hourly increasing. Sylvia had admitted that Shuttleworth had a right to interfere. Yet I could not discern by what right a mere friend could forbid a girl to entertain affection. I felt that the ever-increasing problem was even stranger and more remarkable than I had anticipated, and that when I fathomed it, it would be found to be utterly astounding!

Sylvia was unwavering in her attachment to myself. Her antagonism towards Shuttleworth’s pronouncement was keen and bitter, yet, with her woman’s superior judgment, she affected carelessness.

“You asked this lady to confess,” I said, addressing him. “Confess what?”

“The truth.”

Then I turned to my well-beloved and asked—

“What is the truth? Do you love me?”

“Yes, Owen, I do,” was her frank and fervent response.

“I did not mean that,” said Shuttleworth hastily. “I meant the truth concerning yourself.”

“Mr. Biddulph knows what I am.”

“But he does not know who you are.”

“Then you may tell him,” was her hoarse reply. “Tell him!” she cried wildly. “Tear from me all that I hold sacred—all that I hold most dear—dash me back into degradation and despair—if you will! I am in your hands.”

“Sylvia!” he said reproachfully. “I am your friend—and your father’s friend. I am not your enemy. I regret if you have ever thought I have lifted a finger against you.”

“Are you not standing as a barrier between myself and Mr. Biddulph?” she protested, her eyes flashing.

“Because I see that only misfortune—ah! death—can arise. You know full well the promise I have made. You know, too, what has been told me in confidence, because—because my profession happens to be what it is—a humble servant of God.”

“Yes,” she faltered, “I know—I know! Forgive me if I have spoken harshly, Mr. Shuttleworth. I know you are my friend—and you are Owen’s. Only—only it seems very hard that you should thus put this ban upon us—you, who preach the gospel of truth and love.”

Shuttleworth drew a deep breath. His thin lips were pursed; his grey eyebrows contracted slightly, and I saw in his countenance a distinctly pained expression.

“I have spoken with all good intention, Sylvia,” he said. “Your love for Mr. Biddulph must only bring evil upon both of you. Surely you realize that?”

“Sylvia has already realized it,” I declared. “But we have resolved to risk it.”

“The risk is, alas! too great,” he declared. “Already you are a marked man. Your only chance of escape is to take Sylvia’s advice and to go into hiding. Go away—into the country—and live in some quiet, remote village under another name. It is your best mode of evading disaster. To remain and become the lover of Sylvia Pennington is, I tell you, the height of folly—it is suicide!”

“Let it be so,” I responded in quiet defiance. “I will never forsake the woman I love. Frankly, I suspect a hidden motive in this suggestion of yours; therefore I refuse to accept it.”

“Not to save your own life?”

“Not even to save my life. This is surely my own affair.”

“And hers.”

“I shall protect Sylvia, never fear. I am not afraid. Let our enemies betray their presence by sign or word, and I will set myself out to combat them. They have already those crimes in Bayswater to account for. And they will take a good deal of explaining away.”

“Then you really intend to reveal the secret of that house in Porchester Terrace?” he asked, not without some apprehension.

“My enemies, you say, intend to plot and encompass my death. Good! Then I shall take my own means of vindication. Naturally I am a quiet, law-abiding man. But if any enemy rises against me without cause, then I strike out with a sledgehammer.”

“You are hopeless,” he declared.

“I am, where my love is concerned,” I admitted. “Sylvia has promised to-day that she will become my wife. The future is surely our own affair, Mr. Shuttleworth—not yours!”

“And if her father forbids?” he asked quite quietly, his eyes fixed straight upon my well-beloved.

“Let me meet him face to face,” I said in defiance. “He will not interfere after I have spoken,” I added, with confidence. “I, perhaps, know more than you believe concerning him.”

Sylvia started, staring at me, her face blanched in an instant. The scene was tragic and painful.

“What do you know?” she asked breathlessly.

“Nothing, dearest, which will interfere with our love,” I reassured her. “Your father’s affairs are not yours, and for his doings you cannot be held responsible.”

She exchanged a quick glance with Shuttleworth, I noticed.

Then it seemed as though a great weight were lifted from her mind by my words, for, turning to me, she smiled sweetly, saying—

“Ah! how can I thank you sufficiently? I am helpless and defenceless. If I only dared, I could tell you a strange story—for surely mine is as strange as any ever printed in the pages of fiction. But Mr. Shuttleworth will not permit it.”

“You may speak—if you deem it wise,” exclaimed the rector in a strangely altered voice. He seemed much annoyed at my open defiance. “Mr. Biddulph may as well, perhaps, know the truth at first as at last.”

“The truth!” I echoed. “Yes, tell me the truth,” I begged her.

“No,” she cried wildly, again covering her fair face with her hands. “No—forgive me. I can’t—I can’t!”

“No,” remarked Shuttleworth in a strange, hard, reproachful tone, and with a cruel, cynical smile upon his lips. “You cannot—for it is too hideous—too disgraceful—too utterly scandalous! It is for that reason I forbid you to love!”