Partly, at least, it was the
voice of what he considered to be duty, of superstition and alarm.
She was silent.
'Madge,' he continued, 'ought you to refuse? You have some love for
me. Is it not greater than the love which thousands feel for one
another. Will you blast your future and mine, and, perhaps, that of
someone besides, who may be very dear to you? OUGHT you not, I say,
to listen?'
The service had come to an end, the organist was playing a voluntary,
rather longer than usual, and the congregation was leaving, some of
them passing near Madge and Frank, and casting idle glances on the
young couple who had evidently come neither to pray nor to admire the
architecture. Madge recognised the well-known St Ann's fugue, and,
strange to say, even at such a moment it took entire possession of
her; the golden ladder was let down and celestial visitors descended.
When the music ceased she spoke.
'It would be a crime.'
'A crime, but I--' She stopped him.
'I know what you are going to say. I know what is the crime to the
world; but it would have been a crime, perhaps a worse crime, if a
ceremony had been performed beforehand by a priest, and the worst of
crimes would be that ceremony now. I must go.' She rose and began
to move towards the door.
He walked silently by her side till they were in St Paul's
churchyard, when she took him by the hand, pressed it affectionately
and suddenly turned into one of the courts that lead towards
Paternoster Row.
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