Would you
give me--would you give me the greatest joy you could give me, before our
marriage? Father Brierly--my old friend--would give us both Communion, on
the morning of our wedding--in the little chapel of the Brotherhood, in Red
Street, Soho--just us two alone. Would it be too much for you, too tiring?"
His voice was tenderness itself. "I would come for you at half
past seven--nobody but your mother would know. And then
afterward--afterward!--we will go through with the great ceremony--and the
crowds--and the bridesmaids. Your mother tells me it's to be Henry the
Seventh's chapel--isn't it? But first, we shall have received our Lord, we
two alone, into our hearts--to feed upon Him, forever!"
There was silence. He had spoken with an imploring gentleness and humility,
yet nevertheless with a tender confidence which did not escape the
listener. And again a sudden terror seized on Marcia--as though behind the
lover, she perceived something priestly, directive, compelling--something
that threatened her very self. She drew herself back.
"Edward!--ought you--to take things for granted about me--like this?"
His face, with its "illuminated," exalted look, scarcely changed.
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