Chapter 17

Matravers knew after that night that his was a broken life. Any future such as he had planned for himself of active, intellectual toil had now, he felt, become impossible. His ideals were all broken down. A woman had found her way in between the joints of an armour which he had grown to believe impenetrable, and henceforth life was a wreck. The old, quiet stoicism, which had been the inner stimulus of his career, was a thing altogether overthrown and impotent. He was too old to reconstruct life anew; the fragments were too many, and the wreck too complete. Only his philosophy showed him very plainly what the end must be. Across the sky of his vision it seemed to be written in letters of fire.

Early in the morning, having made his toilette as usual with a care almost fastidious, he went out into the sunlit streets, moving like a man in a deep dream amongst scenes which had become familiar to him day by day. At his lawyer's he made his will, and signed it, thankful for once for his great loneliness, insomuch as there was no one who could call the disposal of his property to a stranger an injustice--for he had left all to little Freddy; left it to him because of his mother's eyes, as he thought with a faint smile. Then he called at his publisher's and at the office of a leading review to which he was a regular contributor, telling them to expect no more work from him for a while; he was going abroad to take a long-earned holiday. He lunched at his club, speaking in a more than usually friendly manner to the few men with whom at times he had found it a pleasure to associate, and finally, with that sense of unreality growing stronger and stronger, he found himself once more in the Park, in his usual chair, looking out with the same keen sympathy upon the intensely joyous, beautiful phase of life which floated around him. The afternoon breeze rustled pleasantly among the cool green leaves above his head, and the sunlight slanted full across the shaded walk. On every hand were genial voices, cordial greetings, and light farewells. With a sense almost of awe, he thought of the days when he had sat there waiting for her carriage, that he might look for a few moments upon that pale-faced woman, whose influence over him seemed already to have commenced before even any words had passed between them. He sat there, gravely acknowledging the salutes of those with whom he was acquainted, wearing always the same faint and impenetrable smile--wonderful mask of a broken heart. And still the memories came surging into his brain. He thought of that grey morning when he had sat there alone, oppressed by some dim premonitions of the tragedy amongst whose shadows he was already passing, so that even the wind which had followed the dawn, and shaken the rain-drops down upon him, had seemed to carry upon its bosom wailing cries and sad human voices. As the slow moments passed along, he found himself watching for her carriage with some remnant of the old wistfulness. But it never came, and for that he was thankful.

At last he rose, and walked leisurely back to his rooms. He gave orders to his servant to pack all his things for a journey; then, for the last time, he stood up in the midst of his possessions, looking around him with a vague sorrowfulness at the little familiar objects which had become dear to him, both by association and by reason of a certain sense of companionship which he had always been able to feel for beautiful things, however inanimate. It was here that he had come when he had first left Oxford, full of certain definite ambitions, and with a mind fixed at least upon living a serene and well-ordered life. He had woven many dreams within these four walls. How far away those days now seemed to be from him! He would never dream any more; for him the world's great dream was very close at hand.

He poured himself out a glass of wine from a quaintly cut decanter, and set it down on his writing-desk, emptying into it with scrupulous care the contents of a little packet which he had been carrying all day in his waistcoat pocket. He paused for a moment before taking up his pen, to move a little on one side the deep blue china bowl of flowers which, summer and winter alike, stood always fresh upon his writing-table. To-day it chanced, by some irony of fate, that they were roses, and a swift flood of memories rushed into his tingling senses as the perfume of the creamy blossoms floated up to him.

He set his teeth, and, taking out some paper, began to write.

"Berenice, farewell! To-night I am going on a very long journey, to a very far land. You and I may never meet again, and so, farewell! Farewell to you, Berenice, whom I have loved, and whom I dearly love. You are the only woman who has ever wandered into my little life to teach me the great depths of human passion--and you came too late. But that was not your fault.

"For what I am doing, do you, at least, not blame me. If there were a single person in the world dependent upon me, or to whom my death would be a real loss, I would remain. But there is no one. And, whereas alive I can do you no good, dead I may! Berenice, your husband lives--in suffering and in poverty; your husband and your little boy. Freddy has looked at me out of your dark eyes, my love, and whilst I live I can never forget it. I hold his little hands, and I look into his pure, childish face, and the great love which I bear for his mother seems like an unholy thing. Leave your husband out of the question--put every other consideration on one side, Freddy's eyes must have kept us apart for ever.

"And, dear, it is your boy's future, and the care of your stricken husband, which must bring you into closer and more intimate touch with the vast world of human sorrows. Love is a sacrifice, and life is a sacrifice. I know, and that knowledge is the comfort of my last sad night on earth, that you will find your rightful place amongst her toiling daughters. And it is because there is no fitting place for me by your side that I am very well content to die. For myself, I have well counted the cost. Death is an infinite compulsion. Our little lives are but the veriest trifle in the scale of eternity. Whether we go into everlasting sleep, or into some other mystic state, a few short years here more or less are no great matter, Berenice."

Again there came that curious pain at his heartstrings, and the singing in his ears. The pen slipped from his fingers; his head drooped.

"Berenice!" he whispered. "Berenice!"

* * * * *

And as though by a miracle she heard him, for she was close at hand. Whilst he had been writing, the door was softly opened and closed, a tall, grey-mantled figure stood upon the threshold. It was Berenice!

"May I come in?" she cried softly. Her face was flushed, and her cheeks were wet, but a smile was quivering upon her lips.

He did not answer. She came into the room, close to his side. Her fingers clasped the hand which was hanging over the side of his chair. The lamp had burnt very low; she could scarcely see his face.

"Dear, I have come to you," she murmured. "I am sorry. I want you to forgive me. I do love you! you know that I love you!"

The pressure of her fingers upon his hand was surely returned. She stood up, and her cloak slipped from her shoulders on to the floor.

"Why don't you speak to me? Don't you hear? Don't you understand? I have come to you! I will not be sent away! It is too late! My carriage brought me here. I have told my people that I shall not be returning! Come away with me to-night! Let us start now! Listen! it is too late to draw back! Every one knows that I have come to you! We shall be so happy! Tell me that you are glad!"

There was no answer. He did not move. She came close to him, so that her cheek almost touched his.

"Tell me that you are glad," she begged. "Don't argue with me any more. If you do, I shall stop your mouth with kisses. I am not like you, dear! I must have love! I cannot live alone any longer! I have touched the utmost limits of my endurance! I _will_ stay with you! You _shall_ love me! Listen! If you do not, I swear--but no! You will save me from that! Oh, I know that you will! But don't argue with me! Words are so cold, and I am a woman--and I must love and be loved, or I shall die.... Ah!"

She started round with a little scream. Her eyes, frightened and dilated, were fixed upon the door. On the threshold a little boy was standing in his night-shirt, looking at her with dark, inquiring eyes.

"I want Mr. Matravers, if you please," he said deliberately. "Will you tell him? He don't know that I'm here yet! He will be so surprised! Charlie Dunlop--that's where I live--has the fever, and dad sent me here with a letter, but Mr. Matravers was out when we came, and nurse put me to bed. Now she's gone away, and I'm so lonely. Is he asleep? Please wake him, and tell him."

She turned up the lamp without moving her eyes from the little white-clad figure. A great trembling was upon her! It was like a voice from the shadows of another world. And Matravers, why did he not speak?

Slowly the lamp burned up. She leaned forward. He was sitting with his head resting upon his hand, and the old, faint smile parting his lips. But he did not look up! He did not speak to her! He was sitting like a carved image!

"For God's sake speak to me!" she cried.

Then a certain rigidity in his posture struck her for the first time, and she threw herself on the ground beside him with a cry of fear. She pressed her lips to his, chafed his cold hand, and whispered frantically in his ear! But there was no answer--there never could be any answer. Matravers was dead, and the wine-glass at his side was untasted.

* * * * *

Berenice did not faint! She did not even lose consciousness for a moment. Moaning softly to herself, but dry-eyed, she leaned over his shoulder and read the words which he had written to her, of which, indeed, the ink was scarcely dry. When she had finished, she took up the wine-glass in her own fingers, holding it so steadily that not a drop was spilt.

Here was the panacea she craved! The problem of her troubled life was so easily to be solved. Rest with the man she loved!

Her arms would fold around him as she sank to the ground. Perhaps he was already waiting for her somewhere--in one of those mystic worlds where the soul might shake itself free from this weary burden of human passions and sorrows. Her lips parted in a wonderful smile. She raised the glass!

There was a soft patter across the carpet, and a gentle tug at her dress.

"I am very cold," Freddy cried piteously, holding out a little blue foot from underneath his night-shirt. "If you don't want to wake Mr. Matravers, will you take me up to bed, please?"

Through a mist of sudden tears, she looked down into her boy's face. She drew a deep, quick breath--her fingers were suddenly nerveless. There was a great dull stain on the front of her dress, the wine-glass, shattered into many pieces, lay at her feet. She fell on her knees, and with a little burst of passionate sobs took him into her arms.

* * * * *

There were grey hairs in the woman's head, although she was still quite young. A few yards ahead, the bath chair, wheeled by an attendant, was disappearing in the shroud of white mist, which had suddenly rolled in from the sea. But the woman lingered for a moment with her eyes fixed upon that dim, distant line, where the twilight fell softly upon the grey ocean. It was the single hour in the long day which she claimed always for her own--for it seemed to her in that mysterious stillness, when the shadows were gathering and the winds had dropped, that she could sometimes hear his voice. Perhaps, somewhere, he too longed for that hour--a dweller, it might be, in that wonderful spirit world of the unknown, of which he had spoken sometimes with a curiously grave solemnity. Her hands clasped the iron railing, a light shone for a moment in the pale-lined face turned so wistfully seawards!

Was it the low, sweet music of the sea, or was it indeed his voice in her ears, languorous and soft, long-travelled yet very clear. Somewhere at least he must know that hers had become at his bidding the real sacrifice! A smile transfigured her face! It was for this she had lived!

Then there came her summons. A querulous little cry reached her from the bath chair, drawn up on the promenade. She waved her hand cheerfully.

"I am coming," she cried; "wait for me!"

But her face was turned towards that dim, grey line of silvery light, and the wind caught hold of her words and carried them away over the bosom of the sea--upwards!

THE END.

E. PHILLIPS OPPENHEIM'S NOVELS

ILLUSTRATED. CLOTH. $1.50 EACH

_The Lost Ambassador_

A straightforward mystery story, the plot of which hinges on the sale of two battleships.

_The Illustrious Prince_

The tale of a world-startling international intrigue.

Mr. Oppenheim is a past master of the art of constructing ingenious plots and weaving them around attractive characters.--_London Morning Mail_

_Jeanne of the Marshes_

An engrossing tale of love and adventure.

A real Oppenheim tale, abundantly satisfying to the reader.--_New York World_

_The Governors_

A romance of the intrigues of American finance.

The ever welcome Oppenheim.--_Boston Transcript_

_The Missioner_

Strongly depicts the love of an earnest missioner and a worldly heroine with a past.

An entrancingly interesting romance.--_Pittsburg Post_

_The Long Arm of Mannister_

A distinctly different story that deals with a wronged man's ingenious plan of revenge.

Mannister is a powerfully drawn character.--_Philadelphia Press_

_As a Man Lives, or the Mystery of the Yellow House_

Tells of an English curate and his mysterious neighbor.

Every page in it suggests a mystery.--_Literary World, London_

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_A Maker of History_

A capital story that "explains" the Russian Baltic fleet's attack on the North Sea fishing fleet.

An enthralling tale, with a surprisingly well-sustained mystery, and a series of plots, counterplots, and well-managed climaxes.--_Brooklyn Times_

_The Malefactor_

An amazing story of the strange revenge of Sir Wingrave Seton, who suffered imprisonment for a crime he did not commit.

Spirited, aggressive, vigorous, mysterious, and, best of all, well told.--_Boston Transcript_

_A Millionaire of Yesterday_

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A thrilling story throughout.--_Philadelphia Press_

_The Man and His Kingdom_

An intensely dramatic tale of love, intrigue, and adventure in a South American state.

A daring bit of fiction, full of vigorous life and unflagging interest._--Chicago Tribune_

_The Betrayal_

An enthralling story of treachery of state secrets in high diplomatic circles of England.

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A melodramatic story of Palermo and London, that is replete with action.

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_Mysterious Mr. Sabin_

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_The Yellow Crayon_

Containing the exciting experiences of Mr. Sabin with a powerful secret society.

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_The Master Mummer_

The strange romance of Isobel de Sorrens and the part a mysterious actor played in her life.

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_The Mystery of Mr. Bernard Brown_

A mystery story, rich in sensational incidents and dramatic situations.

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_The Avenger_

Unravels an intricate tangle of political intrigue and private revenge with consummate power of fascination.

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_A Lost Leader_

Weaves a realistic romance around a striking personality.

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_The Great Secret_

Deals with a stupendous international conspiracy.

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_Enoch Strone: A Master of Men_

The story of a masterful self-made man who made a foolish marriage early in life.

In no other novel has Mr. Oppenheim created such life-like characters or handled his plot with such admirable force and restraint.--_Baltimore American_

_A Sleeping Memory_

The remarkable tale of an unhappy girl who consented to be deprived of her memory, with unlooked-for consequences.

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_The Traitors_

A capital story of love, adventure, and Russian political intrigue in a small Balkan state.

Swift-moving and exciting. The love episodes have freshness and charm.--_Minneapolis Tribune_

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TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE:

Minor changes have been made to correct obvious typesetter errors; otherwise, every effort has been made to remain true to the author's words and intent.