me all
thought of the mysteries and gruesomeness of the past. Now that I was
Sylvia's husband, I felt that she would have my protection, as well as
that of her father. I had said nothing to her of her strange
apprehensions, for we had mutually allowed them to drop.

We had come to Scarborough in preference to going abroad, for my
well-beloved declared that she had had already too much of Continental
life, and preferred a quiet time in England. So we had chosen the East
Coast, and now each day we either drove out over the Yorkshire moors,
or wandered by the rolling seas.

She was now my own--my very own! Ah! the sweet significance of those
words when I uttered them and she clung to me, raising her full red
lips to mine to kiss.

I loved her--aye, loved her with an all-consuming love. I told myself
a thousand times that no man on earth had ever loved a woman more than
I loved Sylvia. She was my idol, and more, we were wedded, firmly
united to one another, insunderably joined with each other so that we
two were one.

You satirists, cynics, misogamists and misogynists may sneer at love,
and jeer at marriage. So melancholy is this our age that even by some
women marriage seems to be doubted. Yet we may believe that there is
not a woman in all Christendom who does not dote upon the name of
"wife." It carries a spell which even the most rebellious suffragette
must acknowledge. They may speak of the subjection, the trammel, the
"slavery," and the inferiority to which marriage reduces them, but,
after all, "wife" is a word against which they cannot harden their
hearts.

Ah! how fervently we loved each other. As Sylvia and I wandered
together by the sea on those calm September evenings, avoiding the
holiday crowd, preferring the less-frequented walks to the fashionable
promenades of the South Cliff or the Spa, we linked arm in arm, and I
often, when not observed, kissed her upon the brow.

One evening, with the golden sunset in our faces, we were walking over
the cliffs to Cayton Bay, a favourite walk of ours, when we halted at
a stile, and sat together upon it to rest.

The wide waters deep below, bathed in the green and gold of the
sinking sun, were calm, almost unruffled, unusual indeed for the North
Sea, while about us the birds were singing their evening song, and the
cattle in the fields were lying down in peace. There was not a breath
of wind. The calmness was the same as the perfect calmness of our own
hearts.