HE had got it now—the fame, the glory, the unsubstantial but glittering payment for a life spent in solid and incredibly arduous toil.

Never again would his name be left out of lists; never again would his publicity agent feel compelled to write reminders or corrections to the morning papers. As to the great achievement itself, very little need be said here. Indeed, as Emmie is already engaged in preparing for publication the two large volumes which will be entitled The Sixth Cruise, any attempt to give a detailed account of Dyke’s final triumph would be at least premature, if not superfluous.

Suffice it then to say that with this last expedition there were no accidents. Not only the leader but his two companions won through to safety; and in regard to the minor journeys, the scientific researches, the geographical investigations, all went well. Everything scraped up from the bottom of the sea, the collection of minerals chipped off the land, the measurements, records, and diaries, were duly brought home to England. Honours from all countries, including his own, were showered upon the illustrious explorer. As has become customary on these occasions, it was immediately announced that the King had been graciously pleased to confer a knighthood upon Mr. Dyke.

To Miss Verinder that knighthood was a uniquely tremendous affair. She refused to remember that quite a large number of knights had been created during the last half century. Those did not count. She thought only of one or two who were like her man, real knights; and she added five or six more from Elizabethan times to make up the splendid company. Sir Francis Drake, Sir Walter Raleigh, Sir Richard Grenville, Sir John Hawkins, and Sir Anthony Dyke—the linked names rang grandly in her ears.

His title seemed to echo itself like music or the sound of bells, as she walked briskly away from the flat early one morning in October. She felt joyous and strong, not minding the fog, not fearing the motor traffic. It was not really a fog, rather a ground mist; an exhilarating morning of late autumn, with the sun and the mist contending for victory.

In fact, when she had left the Brompton Road, the sun showed itself behind her, high over the hidden houses, shining from a faint yet open blue sky. She stood for a moment at the bottom of Exhibition Road and admired. On this left-hand pavement a stream of students, girls and men, were hurrying onward to their classes and lectures. The right-hand pavement was quite empty; and, looking beyond it, one had a sense of vague grandeurs, a perception of domes high and still fog-shrouded. Ahead, the broad smooth road glistened like dark water beneath the shredding veils of whiteness; the long perspective line made by the unbroken cornice of the houses showed above the mist, and the side wall of a roof of one house, at the turning into Prince’s Gardens, was all sunlit; nearer, the block of building that is known as the Royal College of Science was already emerging, freeing itself, getting definite and illumined, with its walls of delicate rose and upper story of yellow ochre, and a sketchy suggestion of columns; while the farthest end of the vista remained almost lost in the denser mist clouds that were rolling out from the grass of Hyde Park. The whole prospect seemed that of a larger, grander Venice, with the road converted into its splendid silent canal.

She walked on. Gradually and yet very swiftly, as she had seen happen once before, among the mountains of a distant land, the conquering sun tore the veils away and reached all things with its magic touch. Colour and brightness sprang towards the searching rays. Geraniums glowed in dilapidated flower beds of the sunk garden of the Natural History Museum; orange, crimson, and gold flashed from the dead leaves on its sodden paths. When she came to the first turn to the left, that road was quite lovely—an avenue of green trees, marble pavements, and tremulous light; the Imperial Institute seeming like a palace built of dreams; high towers without base or foundation, masonry swimming in air, domes and more domes; and over all, the dome of domes, the high vaulted sky.

She went through the avenue of wonder, into Queen’s Gate. The sun had conquered. Light, not darkness ruled the world. And she thought that the world is beautiful, most beautiful, every part of it—even this Kensington, of straight lines, right angles, and stucco faces.

Miss Verinder walked on, with sunshine and joy in her heart, thinking that great things cannot perish in this beautiful world; thinking that fate gives freely and robs with regret; thinking that love is like the sunshine, the source and fountain of life; thinking that her hero had lived and not died, that her knight was coming back to her and soon would touch her hand.

Presently the newspapers were adding to profuse accounts of the home-coming what they called “an interesting announcement.” They said that a delightful touch of romance had been given to the return of Sir Anthony by the fact (now for the first time disclosed) that he had come back “to claim a bride.”

When claimed, Miss Verinder displayed coyness or diffidence; resuming that slightly mid-Victorian manner, while she asked him, in effect, if he really meant it, if he really wanted it, and so forth. It was only the second proposal of marriage that she had ever received; and perhaps the embarrassment caused by the first one automatically revived itself, making her a little uncomfortable now. As in the first case, the drawing-room of the flat served as scenic decoration or background to the romantic affair.

“What’s that you’re saying?” asked Dyke loudly, not catching the purport of her murmured doubts. He had come back in glorious health; but the deafness, of which he had once seemed to be cured, had again grown very apparent. He was distinctly hard of hearing.

“Emmie, my angel, I don’t understand. What’s that you’re jabbering about serious wishes?”

Then Emmie became entirely her natural self; her gentle eyes filled with tears, and she asked him if it was worth while.

“Emmie, what on earth do you mean?”

“If we marry, won’t it set people talking? Won’t it seem undignified—even a little silly?”

“Oh, Emmie!” He looked at her reproachfully, and said what he used to say in the very beginning of things. “Oh, Emmie, don’t spoil it for me.”

And eagerly and ardently he told her that his real true joy in all the success and praise was derived from the knowledge that she could now openly share everything with him, that he would be able proudly to show her and boast of her to the world not only as his patron and financial supporter, but also as his fiancÉe.

“I’ve hundreds of people that I want to introduce to you—my fiancÉe.” He said the word with a poor French accent but an immense relish. “So, no more nonsense, you angel. Tell me you didn’t mean what you said.”

Perhaps she had not really meant it. Or, at any rate, she had meant finally to do whatever he wished. Yielding then to his importunity—as the dear old conventional books used to narrate—she consented to name the day. It was not a far-off day.

He said he would not have a quiet wedding. No, certainly not. It must be a slap-up affair, with a huge reception at the Hyde Park Hotel. She shrank from this fuss, but he wanted it. That was enough for her.

Also he insisted that it should be a marriage by banns.

Immediately after the interesting announcement congratulations and presents began to pour in upon them. At tea-time on these jolly autumn afternoons spent by Sir Anthony and his fiancÉe in shops and streets and other public places, Louisa brought in with her tray prodigious piles of letters, which her future master tore open, read aloud, and tossed about the floor delightedly.

“One from old Barry! Bless his heart. Hear what he says, Emmie.”

It was at the pleasant tea hour, while he opened more and more letters, that she asked about the date entered in her memorandum book before the death of his father. She wished to know if he had been thinking specially of home on that night of April 18-19.

“Well, you know, I was thinking about you all the time, off and on; but I can’t say I remember thinking about you more on one day than another.... Postmark, Clapham, S. W.!” He was opening a letter. “No. You see, we had our work cut out for us. Our thoughts were pretty well occupied. By Jove. This is from dear old Cairns. I must write to Cairns—a special invitation for Cairns. What!”

He was like a child when it came to opening the presents. He could not wait a moment. He burst the stout string with his hands, he made the brown paper explode in tatters, he flung the tissue all over the room. His litter drove Louisa to distraction.

“What the devil are these? Menu-card holders! What the devil shall we do with them? All the same, deuced kind of her. Mrs. Slane-King! Yes.”

He was also like a child—and a spoilt child too—with his press-cuttings. He had mock-modest smiles as he read the eulogies.

“‘A glory to the Empire!’ That’s very handsome of them to say that. Emmie, that tickles my vanity.” Then he roared with laughter. “How small we are, Emmie; how vain, how jealous. But you must check me. Hold me on a leash. Don’t let me gas about things down in Devonshire when I begin to get old. Watch me then—and don’t let me develop into a twaddling old bore.”

He went on with the letters and parcels.

“Look here! Hamilton! ‘I send this tribute from an old ship-mate. Hamilton!’ Now that’s very kind of Hamilton to remember me.”

They all remembered him. No one forgot him—in his success.

On that first Sunday of their banns they sat in the church side by side; not minding now who saw them together, emancipated, acknowledging a companionship that had lasted during so many years. More than a quarter of a century’s habit had not destroyed its freshness or robbed it of its charm; essentially their feelings at this hour were those of boy and girl lovers. Outwardly old, they were inwardly young.

Mildred Beckett, with her husband, was seated quite near in a side pew a little ahead, and looking round and watching them now and then she saw Emmie find his place for him in the prayer-book and hand him the book. Others too, many others, noticed them; not knowing who they were, failing to recognize Dyke—for, however famous a man is, however frequently photographed, and even filmed, there will still be people who do not know him by sight. But they were struck by the strong note of individuality—a couple that somehow made you think about them—this fine big old chap, with his shock of grey hair, intrepid blue eyes, and queer-coloured beard; and the tall, thin, faded maiden lady.

“I publish the banns of marriage between—” The clergyman had begun it, and Mildred looked round. The clergyman paused, as if startled.

Anthony Dyke was standing up. Emmie gently pulled his coat, and whispered “Sit down, dear.”

“The banns,” he said, in a gruff whisper, and because of his deafness louder than was necessary. “Get up, yourself.”

“No, dear,” she whispered, in a flutter. “It’s not done.”

But he was offering her his hand, as if to assist her, again inviting her to rise. It was the old country custom, still prevalent in the west of England when he was a boy, or at least practised in his father’s church. Gentle and simple, the young squire and the colonel’s daughter, the farm-hand and the dairy-maid, they all used to stand up to hear their banns read out—to let neighbours see who they were, to show that they themselves had nothing to be ashamed of, and that they were proud of each other. Dyke, in the Antarctic and other remote places, had not learnt that the practice was no longer usual and proper.

Then Miss Verinder, comprehending the cause of his solecism, rose at once; doing what she had always done for his sake, smashing through the barriers of convention, trampling etiquette under foot, caring not twopence halfpenny what anybody else thought about it. She stood by his side, proudly, yet demurely, as ready now to brave the world, to defy the universe, as she had been twenty-seven years ago.

Mildred, looking round, watched them; and because of her own happiness and something that seemed to her very wonderful in the expression of those two faces, she unexpectedly began to cry. As she said afterwards, the thing seemed to her, somehow, so sweet and touching.

The clergyman, after clearing his throat, had gone straight ahead with the little list:

“...Also between Anthony Penfold Dyke, widower, of the parish of Endells, in Devonshire, ... and Emmeline Constance Verinder, spinster, of this parish.”