In the middle of the night he broke down utterly. If he had been a strong man he would not have yielded to the series of temptations that had culminated in his crime and his disgrace. Or, passing that, his spirit would not have been broken during the months of his punishment If he had been even of slightly robuster fibre, the sense of degradation would not have palsied his life. He would have gone at once to a new land and made himself master of his destiny. A strong man would not have been found by Yvonne, that August morning, sitting, a self-abhorring outcast before his rich uncle’s door. He would not have lost his wit and courage, when assailed by his prison companion at Hull. He would not have joined fortunes with Noakes in their futile African expedition. A strong man would not have clung for comfort and moral support to the poor ridiculous creature, his own protection of whom was that of the woman rather than that of the man. A strong man would not have yielded to the numbing despair of the after solitude in Africa, nor writhed that night in agony of spirit upon the lonely star-lit veldt And lastly, a strong man would not have had that terror of loneliness which had made him in the first place cling to Yvonne much as a child, afraid of the dark, clings to the hand of another child weaker than itself.

By the law of evolution the strong survive and the weak die. But in the eternal struggle between humanity and the pitiless law, conditions are modified, and the sympathy of the race, that expression of revolt which we call civilisation, gives surviving power to the weak, so that not only the strong man has claims to life and love. And when the weak man strives with all his quivering fibres towards strength, he is doing a greater deed than the strong wot of.

So Joyce, fool or hero, had performed an act of strength beyond his nature. The strain of the day had been intense. Every nerve in his body was stretched to breaking-point. At last, in the middle of the night, as he was pacing the room, one of them seemed to snap, and he fell forwards on to the bed and broke into a passion of sobbing. Ashamed he buried his face in the blankets and bit them with his teeth. But a grown man’s sobbing is not to be checked, like a child’s. It is a terrible thing, which comes from the soul’s depths and convulses flesh and spirit to their foundations; and it is horrible to hear. The shuddering heaves came into his throat and forced their way in sound through his lips. And the utterances of pain came from him, inarticulate prayers to God to help him, and half-stifled cries for his love and for Yvonne. But he knew that he was wrestling with his spirit for the last time, and that, after this paroxysm of agony, would come calm and strength to meet his fate.

And Yvonne, clad in dressing gown and bare-footed, with her hair about her shoulders, stood trembling outside his door and heard. Although his room was not immediately above hers, being over the sitting-room, yet in her sleeplessness she had listened for hours and hours to his movements. At last, obeying an incontrollable impulse, she had crept up the stairs. A long time she waited, her hand upon the door, his name upon her lips, shaking from head to foot with the revelation of the man’s agony. Every sound was like a stab in her tender flesh. The warm, impulsive old Yvonne within her would have burst at the first sob into his room, but the newer womanhood held her back. When all was silent she crept downstairs again into her bed, and lay there, throbbing and shivering until the morning.

And Joyce, unconscious that she had been so near to him, that had he but opened his door, he would have been caught in her arms and been given for all eternity that which he was renouncing, lay down in his bed exhausted, and when the morning was near at hand, sank into heavy sleep. He awoke later than usual. The water that Sarah had put for him was nearly cold. He drew up the blind and saw a cheerless grey morning—a fitting dawn for his new life. The minor details of the day before him presented themselves painfully. The first was the necessity of being well shaven, groomed and dressed. He drew from the drawer the clothes of decent life that he could now so seldom afford to wear. The last time he had put them on was three weeks ago, when he had taken Yvonne to a ballad concert at St. James’s Hall. He remembered how, in her bright way, she had said, on their way thither, “You look so handsome and distinguished, I feel quite proud.”

And now he was to wear them at her wedding with another man. And he was to give her away.

He had regained his nerve, felt equal to the task. After dressing with scrupulous care, he slowly went down to breakfast,—his last breakfast with Yvonne. He contemplated the fact with the fatalistic calmness with which men condemned to death often face their last meal on earth. Yvonne had not yet appeared. Sarah had not even brought up the breakfast. He sat down and waited, unfolded his halfpenny morning paper and tried to read. After a time he became aware that he was studying the advertisements. So he laid it aside.

Presently he went up to his room to get a handkerchief, and on his return to the landing he noticed that Yvonne’s bedroom door was ajar. She was stirring, evidently. He knocked gently and called her name. There was no reply. Perhaps she was still sleeping, he thought; but it was odd that her door should be open. He returned to the sitting-room, wandered about nervously, looked out of the window into the dismal street. The pavement was wet, people were hurrying by with umbrellas up, the capes of drivers gleamed miserably in the misty air. He turned away and put some coals on a sulky fire, and again took up the paper. But an undefined feeling of uneasiness began to creep over him. It was long past nine o’clock. He went again and knocked at Yvonne’s door. It opened a little wider and he saw by the light in the room that the blind had been drawn up. He called her in loud tones. His voice seemed to fall in a void. Agitated, he ventured to take a swift glance into the room. The bed was empty. There was no Yvonne.

He went back and rang the bell violently. After a short interval Sarah appeared, leisurely bringing in the breakfast-tray.

“Where is Madame Latour?” asked Joyce. “Oh, she went out early, and said you weren’t to wait breakfast for her.”

“At what time did she go out?”

“Shortly after eight.”

“Thank you,” said Joyce.

“I think she was took ill, and was going to see a doctor,” said Sarah, unloading the tray noisily.

“Did Madame Latour tell you so?”

“No. But she was looking so bad I was frightened to see her.”

“Very well,” said Joyce, not wishing to show the servant his agitation. “She will be back soon. Yes, you can leave the breakfast.” Sarah quitted the room with her heavy, scuffling step. Joyce remained by the fire tugging at his moustache, his mind filled with nameless anxieties. The presentiment of ill grew in intensity. Why had Yvonne left the house at that early hour? Sarah’s suggestion was manifestly absurd. If Yvonne had been poorly, she would have sent for a doctor. Yet the servant’s last remark frightened him. He remembered Yvonne’s pallor of the night before. A dreadful surmise began to dawn upon him. Had he been blind, all the way through, and condemned her to a fate impossible to bear? Once, in South Africa, he had seen an innocent man sentenced to death. The picture of the man’s face in its wistful despair rose before him. It was terribly like Yvonne’s. Had she, then, pronounced sentence on herself?

He walked to and fro in feverish helplessness, his heart weighed down by the new load. The cheap American clock on the mantel-piece struck ten. There came, soon after, a knock at the door. Joyce sprang to open it. But it was only the boy from the shop wanting to know if any one was coming down. Joyce put his hand to his forehead. He had entirely forgotten Mr. Runcle’s absence and his own consequent responsibility.

“You can take the money for any book outside, Tommy,” he said, after a little reflection. “If a customer wants anything inside, come up and call me.”

The boy went away, proud at being left in charge. Joyce filled a cup with the rapidly cooling coffee, and drank it at a draught. The minutes crept on. If his wild and dreadful fancies were groundless, where could Yvonne be? She could not have chosen a time before the shops were open to make any necessary purchases before the ceremony. Or had she gone out of the house so as to avoid spending a painful morning in his company? But that was unlike Yvonne. At last he descended, and stood bareheaded in the raw air, gazing up and down the street.

“I ‘ve taken eightpence already,” said the boy, handing him a pile of coppers.

Joyce took them from him absently, and put them in his pocket, while Tommy went back to his seat on the upturned box, and resumed his occupation of blowing on his chilled fingers. No sign of Yvonne. Several passers-by turned round and looked at Joyce. In his well-fitting clothes, and with his refined, thorough-bred air, he seemed an incongruous figure standing hatless in the doorway of the dingy secondhand book-shop.

Presently he became aware of an elderly man trying to pass him. He stepped aside with apologies, and followed the customer.

“Are you serving here?” asked the latter, with some diffidence.

On Joyce’s affirmative, he enquired after two editions of “Berquin,” which he had seen in Runcle’s catalogue. Joyce took one from the shelves,—the original edition. It was priced two guineas. The customer haggled, then wished to see the other. As this was on the top shelf at the back part of the shop, Joyce had to mount the ladder and hunt for it in the dusky light. While thus employed, he felt something sweep against the foot of the ladder, and, looking down, he saw Yvonne. She shot a quick upward glance, and hurriedly disappeared.

His heart gave a great bound as he saw her, and he dropped the books he was holding. He could not seek any more for the “Berquin.” In another moment he was by the side of the customer.

“We must have sold the other copy. How much will you give for this?”

“Thirty-five shillings.”

“You can have it,” said Joyce.

Never was book tied up at greater speed. He thrust it into the man’s hand, received the money without looking at it, and left the elderly man standing in the middle of the shop, greatly astonished at the haste of the transaction.

Joyce flew up the stairs into the sitting-room.

“Oh, where—” he began.

Then he stopped, dazed and bewildered, for Yvonne, her arms outstretched, her head thrown back, her lips parted, and a great yearning light in her eyes, came swiftly to him from where she stood, uttering a little cry, and in another moment was sobbing in his arms.

“Oh, my love, my dear, dear love!” she cried, “I could not leave you—take me—for always. I love you—I love you—I could n’t leave you!”

“Yvonne,” he cried hoarsely, his pulses throbbing like a great engine’s piston-rod, in the tremendous amazement, as he held her—how tightly he did not know—and gazed down wildly into her face, “Yvonne, what are you saying? What is it? Tell me—for God’s sake—the marriage—Everard?” Then she threw back her head further against his arm, and their eyes met and hung upon each other for a breathless space. And there was that in Yvonne’s eyes—“the light that never was on sea or land”—that no man yet had seen or dreamed of seeing there. The straining, passionate love too deep for smiling, glorified her pure face.

“There will be no marriage,” she murmured faintly, still holding him with her eyes, “I went to Everard this morning.”

She raised her lips almost unconsciously toward him, and then the man’s whole existence was drowned in the kiss.

For many moments they scarcely spoke. Passion plays its part in swift burning utterances and tumultuous silences. At last, she freed herself gently and moved towards the fire. But only to be taken once again into his clasp.

“Oh, my darling, my darling, is this joy madness, or is it real?”

“It is real,” said Yvonne. “Nothing can ever part us, until we die.”

He helped her off with her hat and jacket and led her to the great armchair by the fire and knelt down by her side.

“Oh, Stephen dear,” she said in piteous happiness, “it has been such suffering.”

“My poor child,” he said tenderly.

“I did n’t know that you cared about me—in this way—until last night. I tried to make you tell me—Stephen darling, why didn’t you? I was bound to go to Everard—I had promised, and he wanted me—and what could I tell him? I could n’t say to him, dear, that I would go on for ever living on your dear charity, a burden upon you—yes, in a sense I must be one—rather than keep my promise and marry him, could I, dear? I could only refer him to you—and when you said I must go, it was miserable, for I hungered all the time to stay. And I knew you were sad, it was natural—but I thought you found you did not love me enough to want me as a wife and felt it your duty to give me up. Why did you give me up when you loved me so?”

“I will tell you all, some day, dear, not now,” said Joyce. “But one thing—I did not know either that you loved me—like this. When did you begin to love me, Yvonne?”

“I think I must have begun in the years and years ago—but I only knew it last night—knew it as I do now,” she added, with a tremor in her voice.

She closed her eyes, gave herself up for a flooded moment to the lingering sense of the first great kiss she had ever given. And before she opened them, the memory had melted into actuality as she felt his lips again meet hers.

“Thank God, I have got you, my own dear love,” she murmured. “It has been a hard battle for you—this morning. I went out as soon as I dared—to go to him. I seemed to be going to do an awful thing—to give him that pain for our sakes. He told me I had not treated him wickedly—but I felt as if I had been committing murder, until I saw your face at the door. I told him all—all that I knew about my own feelings and yours. I said that you did not know I loved you—that your noble-heartedness was making the sacrifice—that I would marry him and leave you and never see you again, and be a devoted wife to him, if he wished it, but that my love was given to you. And he looked all the time at me with an iron-grey face, and scarcely spoke a word. Tell me, Stephen dear, does it pain you to hear?”

“No,” said Joyce, softly. “Your heart has been bursting with it. It is best for us to share it, as we shall share all things, joy and pain, to the far end.”

“I shall feel lighter for telling you. It was so terrible to see him—oh, Stephen, if I had not loved you, I couldn’t have borne it—he seemed stricken. Oh, why is there all this pain in the world? And to think that I—Yvonne—should have had to inflict it—either on him, who has been good and kind to me, or on you, whom I love better than I thought I could love anything in the world! And when I had ended, he said, ‘He is young, and I am old; he has had all the sufferings and despair of life, and my lot has been cast in pleasant places; he has come out of the furnace with love and charity in his heart, and I have pampered my pride and uncharitableness. Go back to him—and I pray God to bless you both.’ He spoke as if each word was a knife driven into him—and his face—I shall never forget it—it seemed to grow old, and ashen, and hardened.”

She covered her face with her hands for a moment, and then, suddenly, the memory of the night flashing through her, she dashed them away with a woman’s fierceness and clasped his head.

“But your need was greater, a million times greater than his,” she cried in ringing tones, “and your sufferings greater, and your heart nobler, and I should have died if I had not come to you—you are my king, my lord, my God, my everything.”

In the formally appointed hotel sitting-room, where Yvonne had twice parted from him, sat Everard Chisely, with grey, withered face. The blow had fallen heavily. He had hungered for her of late years with a poor, human, unidealising passion. The pitifulness of it had galled his pride, and he had striven to put her out of his thoughts. He had lived an austere life, seeking in an unfamiliar asceticism to conquer the inherited, unregenerate cravings for a fuller aesthetic and emotional existence. Yet he had longed intensely for the death of the man who stood between himself and Yvonne. Twice a year his agent in Paris had reported news of AmÉdÉe Bazouge. Such communications he had opened with trembling fingers: the man was still alive; he prayed passionate prayers that the murder in his heart might not be counted to him as a sin. At last, in the New Zealand spring, came the news of Bazouge’s death. His blood tingled like the working sap in the trees. He could not wait. He came and found Yvonne.

For thirty-six hours he had become a young man again, treading on air, hurrying on events with a lover’s impatience. And now the crash had come. He was an old man. He sat by his untasted breakfast, and covered his face in his hands. His life rose up before him, self-complacent, dignified, immaculate. Yet, somehow, he felt like a Pharisee. He was a Churchman first, a Christian afterwards. His religion had given him very little comfort. It had taken Yvonne from him once, at a time when he might have won her to him forever, and it had brought him no consolation. A man does not often get a glimpse at his own soul; when he does, he finds it rather a pitiable sight. The Bishop saw in its depths poignant regret that he then had not loved the woman enough to sin for her sake. And there, too, was revealed to him miserably that outraged pride, disillusion, the traditions of social morality, the authority of the Church’s ordinances—all externals—had been the leading factors of his life’s undoing. A great wish rose amid the bitterness of his heart that he had been, like Stephen, one of the publicans and sinners, upon whom could shine the Light of the World.

Joyce and Yvonne were married one morning quietly at a registrar’s, and came back to continue the day’s routine. The old bookseller did not appear astonished when Joyce informed him of the unusual change of relationship.

“You have both had your troubles,” he said, shrewdly, looking up over his spectacles, and keeping his thumb in the volume of Origen he was reading. “Any one can see that. You would n’t be here otherwise. And I’m not enquiring into them. But I hope they’re ended. And now,” he continued, rising with an old man’s stiffness, “I ’ve got some old Madeira that I bought thirty years ago with a job-lot of things out of a gentleman’s chambers, and I’d like to open a bottle in your honour.”

Joyce brought Yvonne down to the back-parlour. The wine came out of the dirt-encrusted bottle like sunshine breaking through a cloud, and gladdened their hearts. And that was their marriage feast. Thus began the wedded life of these two. Years of struggle, poverty, and ostracism lay before them. They faced it all fearlessly. To each of them the long-denied love had come, at last, new and vivifying, changing the meaning of existence. Yet the final word of mutual revelation awaited the loosening touch. It came with tragic unexpectedness.

One evening, not long after their marriage, Joyce, looking through the shop copy of “The Islington Gazette,” caught the head-line, “Salvation lassie commits suicide in New River.” A presentiment of what would follow flashed upon him. It was true. Annie Stevens had killed herself.

“Good God!” he said involuntarily.

Yvonne looked up from her sewing, and grew alarmed at the distress on his face.

“What is it?”

He was silent for a few moments. To tell her would involve long explanations. Yvonne knew of Annie Stevens in connection with his disgrace on the tour of “The Diamond Door,” but he had not spoken of after meetings. Yvonne put her work aside, in her quick way, and came and sat down on the footstool by his feet. As he bent and kissed her, she drew his arm round her neck, holding his hand.

“What has pained you?”

And then he told her the whole of the girl’s miserable story, her love for him, her degradation and downfall, and her wild idea of atonement.

“And this is the end,” he said, showing her the paragraph.

“Poor girl!” said Yvonne, deeply touched. “It was so pathetically impossible, was n’t it?”

“Yes, dear,” Joyce answered. “I, too, know that.”

“What?”

“The tragic futility of such self-crucifixion. I have never told you the history of that night—why I gave you up—and the part this poor dead girl played in it.”

In a low voice, he went over the old ground of degradation and his longing for atonement, and briefly laid before her the facts of his renunciation.

“I know now,” he concluded, “that it could only add misery to misery. Nothing that a man or a woman alone can do can restore lost honour and self-reverence. No fasting or penance or sacrifice is of any use.”

Yvonne drew her face away from him, so as to see him better. Pain was in her eyes. Her lips quivered.

“Then—Stephen—dear—is it still the same with you about the prison—the old horror and shame?”

“My dearest,” he said tenderly, “I said man alone was powerless. It is the touch of your lips that has wiped away all stain for ever.”

They looked deep into each other’s eyes for a long, speechless moment And then Yvonne, like a foolish woman, fell a-sobbing on his knees.

“Oh, thank God, my dear, thank God!” she said.