“Yes, he is dead,” said the Bishop, gravely. “You are a free woman. I have come from the other end of the world to tell you so.” Yvonne, sitting opposite him, looked into the red coals of the fire, and clasped her hands nervously. His presence dazed her. She had not yet recovered from the shock of his sudden embrace. The pressure of his arms was yet about her shoulders. The change wrought in her life by the loss of her voice was almost like a change of identity. It was with an effort that she realised the former closeness of their relations. He seemed unfamiliar, out of place, to have dropped down from another sphere. The oddity of his attire struck a note of the unusual. The dignity of his title invested him with remoteness. His face too, did not correspond with her remembered impression. It was thinner, more deeply lined. His hair had grown scantier and greyer.

She had listened, almost in a dream, to the story of his coming. How, to his bitter regret, he had destroyed Joyce’s letter. How, later, growing anxious about her, he had written for news of her welfare. How his letter had been returned to him through the post-office. How, meanwhile, the detective whom he had employed for the purpose in Paris, had sent him proofs of Bazouge’s death. How he had been unable to rest until he had found her, and, impatient of the long weary posts, he had left New Zealand; and lastly, how he had obtained her present address from the musical agents, who had informed him of her illness and the loss of her voice.

“You are free, Yvonne, at last,” repeated the Bishop.

The tidings scarcely affected her. She had counted AmÉdÉe so long as dead, even after his disastrous resurrection, that now she could feel no shock either of pain or relief. It was not until the after-sound of Everard’s last words penetrated her consciousness, that she realised their import. She started quickly from her attitude of bewilderment, and looked at him with a dawning alarm in her eyes.

“It can make very little difference to me,” she said.

“I thought it might make all the difference in the world to me,” said Everard. “Do you think I have ever ceased to love you?”

There was the note of pain in his voice which all her life long had had power to move her simple nature. She trembled a little as she answered:—

“It is all so long ago, now. We have changed.”

“You have not changed,” he said, with grave tenderness. “You are still the same sweet flower-like woman that was my wife. And I have not changed. I have longed for you all through these bitter, lonely years. Do you know why I left Fulminster?”

“No,” murmured Yvonne.

“Because it grew unbearable—without you. I thought a changed scene and new responsibilities would fill my thoughts. I was mistaken. And added to my want of you was remorse for harshness in that terrible hour.”

“I have only thought of your kindness, Everard,” said Yvonne, with tears in her eyes. His emotion impressed her deeply with a sense of his suffering.

He rose, came forward and bent over her chair.

“Will you come back with me, Yvonne?”

She would have given worlds to be away; to have, at least, a few hours to consider her answer. He expected it at once. Feminine instinct desperately sought evasion.

“I shall be of no use to you. I can’t sing any more. Listen.”

She turned sideways in her chair, and drawing back her head far from him, began, with a smile, the “Aria” of the Angel in the Elijah. The grave man drew himself up, shocked to the heart. He had not realised what the loss of her voice meant. Instead of the pure dove-notes that had stirred the passion of his manhood, nothing came from her lips but toneless, wheezing sounds. She stopped, bravely tried to laugh, but the laugh was choked in a sob and she burst into tears.

“Come back with me, my darling,” he said, bending down again. “I will love you all the more tenderly.”

Yvonne dried her eyes in her impulsive way.

“I am foolish,” she said. “Crying can’t mend it.”

“I will devote the rest of my life to making compensation,” said the Bishop. “Come, Yvonne.”

“Oh, give me time to answer you, Everard,” she cried, driven to bay at last. “It is all so strange and sudden.”

He left her side, with a kind of sigh, and resumed his former seat. He was somewhat disappointed. He had not contemplated the chance of her refusal. A glance, however, round the shabby, low-ceilinged room reassured him. The coarse, not immaculate tablecloth, the homely crockery, the half-emptied potted-meat tins on the table, the threadbare hearthrug at his feet—all spoke, if not of poverty, at least of very narrow means. She could not surely hesitate. But she did.

“Take your time—of course,” he said, crossing his gaitered legs. There was a short silence. At last she said, with a little quiver of the lip:—

“I promised you, I know. But things have altered so since then. I thought I should always be free. But now I am not, you see.”

“What do you mean?” he cried, startled.

“It is Stephen,” Yvonne explained. “He saved me from starvation, gave me all he had, to make me well again, and has been staying all this time to support me. You don’t know how nobly he has behaved to me—yes, nobly, Everard, there is no other word for it. He has rights over me that a brother or father would have—I could not leave him without his consent. It would be cruel and ungrateful. Don’t you see that it would be wicked of me, Everard,” she added earnestly.

His face clouded over. Pride rose in revolt. He crushed it down, however, and suffered the humiliation.

“It would lift a responsibility from his shoulders,” he said. “I myself am willing to take him by the hand again, and help him to rise from his present position.”

“You will let bygones be bygones—quite?”

“With all my heart,” replied Everard.

“He suffers dreadfully still,” said Yvonne.

“I will do my best to heal the wound,” replied the Bishop. “I own I have judged him too harshly already.”

A flush of pleasure arose in Yvonne’s cheeks, and her eyes thanked him. Then she reflected, and said somewhat sadly:—

“Perhaps if you help him in that way, he won’t miss me.”

“I will guarantee his prosperity,” he answered, with dignified conviction. And then, changing his manner, after a pause, and leaning forward and looking at her hungeringly, “Yvonne,” he said, “you will come and share my life again—in a new world, where everything is beautiful—? I have been growing old there, without you. You will make me young again, and the blessing of God will be upon us. I must have you with me, Yvonne. I cannot live in peace without your smile and your happiness around me. My child—”

His voice grew thick with emotion. He stood up and stretched out his arms to her. Yvonne rose timidly and advanced toward him, drawn by his pleading. But just as his hands were about to touch her, she hung back.

“You must ask Stephen for me,” she said, in her serious, simple way.

His hands fell to his sides, in a gesture of impatience.

“Impossible. How can I do such a thing? It would be absurd.”

“But I can’t,” she said.

Her tiny figure, the plaintiveness of her upturned face, the wistfulness of her soft eyes, brought back to him a flood of memories. She was still the same sweet, innocent soul. The lines about his lips relaxed into a smile, and he took her, yielding passively, into his arms and kissed her cheek.

“I will do what you like, dear,” he said, in a low voice. “Anything in the world to win you again. I will ask him. It will be making reparation. And then you will marry me?”

“Yes,” murmured Yvonne faintly, “I promised you.”

“Why did you not write to me again?” he asked, still holding her hands.

“I was going to write when the answer came,” she said, looking down. “But no answer did come. And then, I was content to help Stephen.”

“You could have helped Stephen, all the same.”

“Oh, no!” she cried, with a swift look upwards. “Don’t you understand?”

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:—

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.

Presently Yvonne’s voice was heard calling him from the top of the stairs:—

“Stephen!”

He raised a haggard face, and with an effort steadied his voice to reply. Then he rose, turned off the gas, from force of habit, and went with heavy tread up the stairs.

“Your tea,” said Yvonne, busying herself with a kettle. “I am making you some afresh.”

“I will go and wash my hands,” he said drearily.

He mounted to his bedroom and cleansed himself from the book-dust and returned to Yvonne. He drew his chair to the table. She poured him out his tea, and helped him to butter, according to a habit into which she had fallen. She deplored the spoilt toast. He said that it did not matter. But when he tried to eat, the food stuck in his throat. Yvonne made no pretence at eating, but trifled with her teaspoon, with downcast eyes. Joyce looked at her anxiously. She seemed to have grown older. The childlike expression had changed into a sad, womanly seriousness. Presently she raised her eyes, soft and appealing as ever, and met his.

“Did you see Everard?” she asked.

“No. I was out. But he left a note—that told me everything.”

“He asks for your consent?”

“Yes.”

“And will you give it?” she asked, below her breath.

“It would be worse than folly for me to try to withhold it,” he said, bitterly.

“I will stay with you, and go on living this life, if you wish.”

“And yourself?”

“I don’t count,” she said, “I must do as I am told.”

“Would you be happy with Everard?” he asked huskily.

“Yes—of course—I was before,” she replied. But her cheek grew paler.

“And you would stay, if I asked you, and share all this struggle and poverty with me?”

“How could I refuse? Don’t I owe you my life?”

He looked for a tremulous second into her pure eyes and knew that he was master of her fate. The condition she had imposed upon Everard was no graceful act of acknowledgment. It was a serious placing of her future in his hands. He was silent for a few moments, deep in agitated thought, trembling with a struggle against a fierce temptation. The hand that nervously tugged at his moustache was shaking. Yvonne read the anxious trouble on his face.

“Don’t worry over it now,” she said, gently. “There is time, you know. Why should people always want to decide things straight off?”

“You are right, Yvonne,” said Stephen. “Let us forget it for a little.”

“Your poor tea,” add Yvonne, with pathetic return to her old manner. “It will never be drunk. And do eat something, to please me.”

But it was a miserable meal. The tabooed subject filled the heart and thoughts of each. It was with an effort that they caught the drift of casual commonplaces uttered from time to time. Now and then, during the long spells of silence, Yvonne stole a swift feminine glance at his face. But his sombre expression seemed to tell her nothing of that which she longed to know. At last the farce ended. They rose from the table and went to their usual seats by the fireside. Joyce filled his pipe, and was fumbling in his pockets for a match, when Yvonne came forward with a spill and stood before him holding it until the pipe was alight. He tried to thank her, but the words would not come. The tender act of intimacy made his heart swell too painfully. Yvonne rang the bell and the elderly, slatternly maid-of-all-work, cleared away the tea-things. Sarah was one of the elements of the establishment that made Joyce hate his poverty. She drank, was unclean, was a perpetual soil in the atmosphere that Yvonne breathed. The sight of her was a new factor in the case against himself.

It was a terrible decision that he was called upon to make. On the one hand, wealth and ease and social happiness for Yvonne, despair and misery for himself. On the other, a selfish happiness for himself, and for Yvonne this squalor and ostracism. He knew that her sweet, gentle nature would accept the latter portion unmurmuringly. A voice rang in his ears the certainty that she would marry him, if he pleaded. To repress the temptation to cast all other thoughts but his yearning passion to the winds was indescribable torture.

“I wish I could sing to you,” she said, breaking a long silence. “I don’t know what to do now, when I feel things. Once I could sing them.”

“I should ask you to sing Gounod’s ‘Serenade,’” said Joyce.

“Oh, not that!” she cried quickly. “It was the last thing I ever sang to you, and it brought us bad luck.”

For a moment he put a lover’s passionate interpretation upon her words. His heart beat fast. He controlled the wild impulse that seized him, biting through the amber of his pipe with the nervous effort.

And then he realised that he must be alone to work out this stern problem, on whose solution depended the happiness of three human lives. He rose to his feet.

“I am going out, Yvonne,” he said, in a constrained voice. “All this is rather upsetting—and you had better go to bed early. You look tired.”

“Yes. I have a splitting headache,” said Yvonne.

She tried to smile brightly, as he wished her good-night. But when the door closed upon him, the smile faded, and her face grew drawn, almost haggard. A spirit had descended, touched her with magical wings, and changed at last the child into the woman. Her eyes were set in steadfast envisaging of the future; and they beheld the responsibilities and sadnesses of life, no longer as vague terrors and discomforts from which her light bird-like nature shrank to the nearest refuge, but as dull realities, commonplace in form and grey in hue.

It was her duty to go back to Everard, Stephen not wanting her; for she had promised. It was her duty to ask Stephen for his consent. And it was Stephen’s duty to give it, if he did not want her for more than daily companionship. She had proved that Stephen did not love her. Never had she felt so keenly the failure of her womanhood. It had not cleared his life of haunting cares. If it had, his heart would have been stirred with needs for closer union. The weapon of her sex was powerless. Newer knowledge had come to her. He needed her less than Everard. She argued with desperate logic. And yet there was a lingering, feverish hope—one that made her now and then draw a sharp convulsive breath, as she sat staring, with clear vision, at her life.