Chapter 14

It was all done so wisely and well; not in the least as a note of warning. And all he said sank deep into Theodora's heart. She had never even dreamed of the plan which was now matured in Hector's brain--of going away with him. He, as really a lover, was not for her, that was a foregone conclusion. It was the fear of she knew not what which troubled her. She was too unsophisticated and innocent to really know--only that to be with him now was a continual danger; soon she knew she would not be able to control herself, she must be clasped in his arms.

And then--and then--there was the picture in front of her of Josiah and the "second honeymoon."

Thus while she sat there gazing at the man she passionately loved playing polo, she was silently suffering all the anguish of which a woman's heart is capable.

The only possible way was to part from Hector forever--to say the last good-bye before she should go, like a sheep, to the slaughter.

When she was once more the wife of Josiah she could never look upon his face again.

And if Hector had known the prospect that awaited her at Bessington Hall, it would have driven him--already mad--to frenzy.

The day wore on, and still Theodora's fears kept her from allowing a tête-à-tête when he dismounted and joined them for tea.

But fate had determined otherwise. And as the soft evening came several of the party walked down by the river--which ran on the western side below the rose-gardens and the wood of firs--to see Barbara's many breeds of ducks and water-fowl.

Then Hector's determination to be alone with her conquered for the time. Theodora found herself strolling with him in a path of meeting willows, with a summer-house at the end, by the water's bank.

They were quite separated from the others by now. They, with affairs of their own to pursue, had spread in different directions.

And it was evening, and warm, and June.

There was a strange, weird silence between them, and both their hearts were beating to suffocation--hers with the thought of the anguish of parting forever, his with the exaltation of the picture of parting no more.

They came to the little summer-house, and there they sat down and surveyed the scene. The evening lights were all opalescent on the water, there was peace in the air and brilliant fresh green on the trees, and soft and liquid rose the nightingale's note. So at last Hector broke the silence.

"Darling," he said, "I love you--I love you so utterly this cannot go on. I must have you for my own--" and then, as she gasped, he continued in a torrent of passionate words.

He told her of his infinite love for her; of the happiness he would fill her life with; of his plan that they should go away together when she should leave Beechleigh; of the joy of their days; of the tender care he would take of her; and every and each sentence ended with a passionate avowal of his love and devotion.

Then a terrible temptation seized Theodora. She had never even dreamed of this ending to the situation; and it would mean no second honeymoon of loathsome hours, but a glorious fulfilment of all possible joy.

For one moment the whole world seemed golden with happiness; but it was only of short duration. The next instant she remembered Josiah and her given word.

No, happiness was not for her. Death and sleep were all she could hope for; but she must not even hope for them. She must do what was right, and be true to herself, _advienne que pourra_. And perhaps some angel would give her oblivion or let her drink of Lethe, though she should never reach those waters beyond the rocks.

He saw the exaltation in her beautiful face as he spoke, and wild joy seized him. Then he saw the sudden droop of her whole body and the light die out of her eyes, and in a voice of anguish he implored her:

"Darling, darling! Won't you listen to what I say to you? Won't you answer me, and come with me?"

"No, Hector," she said, and her voice was so low he had to bend closer to hear.

He clasped her to his side, he covered her face with kisses, murmuring the tenderest love-words.

She did not resist him or seek to escape from his sheltering, strong arms. This was the end of her living life, why should she rob herself of a last joy?

She laid her head on his shoulder, and there she whispered in a voice he hardly recognized, so dominated it was by sorrow and pain: "It must be good-bye, beloved; we must not meet. Ah! never any more. I have been meaning to say this to you all the day. I cannot bear it either. Oh, we must part, and it must end; but oh, not--not in that way!"

He tried to persuade her, he pleaded with her, drew pictures of their happiness that surely would be, talked of Italy and eternal summer and exquisite pleasure and bliss.

And all the time he felt her quiver in his arms and respond to each thought, as her imagination took fire at the beautiful pictures of love and joy. But nothing shook her determination.

At last she said: "Dearest, if I were different perhaps, stronger and braver, I could go away and live with you like that, and keep it all a glorious thing; but I am not--only a weak creature, and the memory of my broken word, and Josiah's sorrow, and your mother's anguish, would kill all joy. We could have blissful moments of forgetfulness, but the great ghost of remorse would chase for me all happiness away. Dearest, I love you so; but oh, I could not live, haunted like that; I should just--die."

Then he knew all hope was over, and the mad passion went out of him, and his arms dropped to his sides as if half life had fled. She looked up in his face in fear at its ghastly whiteness.

And at this moment, through the parted willows, there appeared the sullen, mocking eyes of Morella Winmarleigh.

She pushed the bushes aside, and, followed by Lord Wensleydown, she came towards the summer-house.

Her slow senses had taken in the scene. Hector was evidently very unhappy, she thought, and that hateful woman had been teasing him, no doubt.

Thus her banal mind read the tragedy of these two human lives.

XXVII

Morella Winmarleigh had been taking an evening stroll with Lord Wensleydown. They had come upon the two in the summer-house quite by accident, but now they had caught them they would stick to them, and make their walk as tiresome as possible, they both decided to themselves.

After very great emotion such as Hector and Theodora had been experiencing, to have this uncongenial and hateful pair as companions was impossible to bear.

Neither Hector or Theodora stirred or made room for them on the seat.

"Isn't this a sweet place, Lord Wensleydown?" Miss Winmarleigh said. "Why have you never brought me here before? How did you find it, Hector?" turning to him in a determined fashion. "You will have to show us the way back, as we are quite lost!" and she giggled irritatingly.

"The first turn to the right at the end of the willows," said Hector, with what politeness he could summon up, "and I am sure you will be able to get to the house quite safely. As you are in such a hurry, don't let us keep you. Mrs. Brown and I are going the other way by the river, when we do start."

"Oh, we are not in a hurry at all," said Lord Wensleydown. "Do come with us, Mrs. Brown, we are feeling so lonely."

Theodora rose. She could bear no more of this.

"Let us go," she said to Hector, and they started, leading the way. And for a while they heard the others in mocking titters behind them, but presently, when near the house, they quickened their pace, and were again alone and free from their tormentors.

They had not spoken at all in this hateful walk, and now he turned to her.

"My darling," he said, "life seems over for me."

"And for me, too, Hector," she said. "And when we come to this dark piece of wood I want you to kiss me once more and say good-bye forever, and go out of my life." There was a passionate sob in her voice. "And oh! _Bien-aimé_, please promise me you will leave to-morrow. Do not make it more impossible to bear than it already is."

But he was silent with pain. A mad, reckless revolt at fate flooded all his being.

It was past eight o'clock now, and when they came to the soothing gloom of the dark firs he crushed her in his arms, and a great sob broke from him and rent her heart.

"My darling, my darling! Good-bye," he said, brokenly. "You have taught me all that life means; all that it can hold of pleasure and pain. Henceforth, it is the gray path of shadows; and oh, God take care of you and grant us some peace."

But she was sobbing on his breast and could not speak.

"And remember," he went on, "I shall never forget you or cease to worship and adore you. Always know you have only to send me a message, a word, and I will come to you and do what you ask, to my last drop of blood. I love you! Oh, God! I love you, and you were made for me, and we could have been happy together and glorified the world."

Then he folded her again in his arms and held her so close it seemed the breath must leave her body, and then they walked on silently, and silently entered the house by the western garden door.

The evening was a blank to Theodora. She dressed in her satins and laces, and let her maid fasten her wonderful emeralds on throat and breast and hair. She descended to the drawing-room and walked in to dinner with some strange man--all as one in a dream. She answered as an automaton, and the man thought how beautiful she was, and what a pity for so beautiful a woman to be so stupid and silent and dull.

"Almost wanting," was his last comment to himself as the ladies left the dining-room.

Then Theodora forced herself to speak--to chatter to a now complacent group of women who gathered round her. Those emeralds, and the way the diamonds were set round them, proved too strong an attraction for even Lady Harrowfield to keep far away.

She was going to have her rubies remounted, and this seemed just the pattern she would like.

So the time passed, and the men came into the room. But Hector was not with them. He had found a telegram, it transpired, which had been waiting for him on his return, and it would oblige him to go to Bracondale immediately, so he was motoring up to London that night. He had acted his part to the end, and no one guessed he was leaving the best of his life behind him. When Theodora realized he was gone she suddenly felt very faint; but she, too, was not of common clay, and breeding will tell in crises of this sort, so she sat up and talked gayly. The evening passed, and at last she was alone for the night.

There are moralists who will assure us the knowledge of having done right brings its own consolation. And in good books, about good women, the heroine experiences a sense of peace and satisfaction after having resigned the forbidden joy of her life. But Theodora was only a human being, so she spent the night in wild, passionate regret.

She had done right with no stern sense of the word "Right" written up in front of her, but because she was so true and so sweet that she must keep her word and not betray Josiah. She did not analyze anything. Life was over for her, whatever came now could only find her numb. By an early train Josiah left for London.

"Take care of yourself, my love," he had said, as he looked in at her door, "and write to me this afternoon as to what train you decide to leave by on Thursday."

She promised she would, and he departed, thoroughly satisfied with his visit among the great world.

The day was spent as the other days, and after lunch Theodora escaped to her room. She must write her letter to Josiah for the afternoon's post. She had discovered the train left at eleven o'clock. It did not take her long, this little note to her husband, and then she sat and stared into space for a while.

The terrible reaction had begun. There was no more excitement, only the flatness, the blank of the days to look forward to, and that unspeakable sense of loss and void. And oh, she had let Hector go without one word of her passionate love! She had been too unnerved to answer him when he had said his last good-bye to her in the wood.

She seized the pen again which had dropped from her hand. She would write to him. She would tell him her thoughts--in a final farewell. It might comfort him, and herself, too.

So she wrote and wrote on, straight out from her heart, then she found she had only just time to take the letters to the hall.

She closed Hector's with a sigh, and picking up Josiah's, already fastened, she ran with them quickly down the stairs.

There was an immense pile of correspondence--the accumulation of Whitsuntide.

The box that usually received it was quite full, and several letters lay about on the table.

She placed her two with the rest, and turned to leave the hall. She could not face all the company on the lawn just yet, and went back to her room, meeting Morella Winmarleigh bringing some of her own to be posted as she passed through the saloon.

When Miss Winmarleigh reached the table curiosity seized her. She guessed what had been Theodora's errand. She would like to see her writing and to whom the letters were addressed.

No one was about anywhere. All the correspondence was already there, as in five minutes or less the post would go.

She had no time to lose, so she picked up the last two envelopes which lay on the top of the pile and read the first:

To Josiah Brown, Esq., Claridge's Hotel, Brook Street, London, W.

and the other:

The Lord Bracondale, Bracondale Chase, Bracondale.

"The husband and--the lover!" she said to herself. And a sudden temptation came over her, swift and strong and not to be resisted.

Here would be revenge--revenge she had always longed for! while her sullen rage had been gathering all these last days. She heard the groom of the chambers approaching to collect the letters; she must decide at once. So she slipped Theodora's two missives into her blouse and walked towards the door.

"There is another post which goes at seven, isn't there, Edgarson?" she asked, "and the letters are delivered in London to-morrow morning just the same?"

"Yes, ma'am, they arrive by the second post in London," said the man, politely, and she passed on to her room.

Arrived there, excitement and triumph burned all over her. Here, without a chance of detection, she could crush her rival and see her thoroughly punished, and--who knows?--Hector might yet be caught in the rebound.

She would not hesitate a second. She rang for her maid.

"Bring me my little kettle and the spirit-lamp. I want to sip some boiling water," she said. "I have indigestion. And then you need not wait--I shall read until tea."

She was innocently settled on her sofa with a book when the maid returned. She was a well-bred servant, and silently placed the kettle and glass and left the room noiselessly. Morella sprang to her feet with unusual agility. Her heavy form was slow of movement as a rule.

The door once locked, she returned to the sofa and began operations.

The kettle soon boiled, and the steam puffed out and achieved its purpose.

The thin, hand-made paper of the envelope curled up, and with no difficulty she opened the flap.

Hector's letter first and then Josiah's. All her pent-up, concentrated rage was having its outlet, and almost joy was animating her being.

Hector's was a long letter; probably very loving, but that did not concern her.

It would be most unladylike to read it, she decided--a sort of thing only the housemaids would do. What she intended was to place them in the wrong envelopes--Hector's to Josiah, and Josiah's to Hector. It was a mistake any one might make themselves when they were writing, and Theodora, when it should be discovered, could only blame her own supposed carelessness. Even if the letter was an innocent one, which was not at all likely. Oh, dear, no! She knew the world, however little girls were supposed to understand. She had kept her eyes open, thank goodness; and it would certainly not be an epistle a husband would care to read--a great thing of pages and pages like that. But even if it were innocent, it was bound to cause some trouble and annoyance; and the thought of that was honey and balm to her.

She slipped them into the covers she had destined for them and pressed down the damp gum. So all was as it had been to outward appearance, and she felt perfectly happy. Then when she descended to tea she placed them securely in the box under some more of her own for the seven-o'clock post, and went her way rejoicing.

XXVIII

Next morning, over a rather late breakfast in his sitting-room at Claridge's, Josiah's second post came in.

All had gone well with his business in the City the day before, and in the afternoon he had run down to Bessington Hall, returning late at night.

He was feeling unusually well and self-important, and his thoughts turned to pleasant things: To the delight of having Theodora once more as a wife; of his hope of founding a family--the Browns of Bessington--why not? Had not a boy at the gate called him squire?

"Good-day to 'e, squire," he had said, and that was pleasant to hear.

If only his tiresome cough would keep off in the autumn, he might himself shoot the extensive coverts he had ordered to be stocked on the estate. He had heard there were schools for would-be sportsmen to learn the art of handling a gun, and he would make inquiries.

All the prospect was fair.

He picked up his letters and turned them over. Nothing of importance. Ah, yes! there was Theodora's. The first letter she had ever written him, and such a long one! What could the girl have to say? Surely not all that about trains! He opened the envelope with a knife which lay by his plate, and this is what he read--read with whitening face and sinking heart:

"BEECHLEIGH, _June 5th_.

HECTOR, MY BELOVED!--Oh, for this last time I must think of you as that! Dearest, we are parted now and may never meet again, and the pain of it all kept me silent yesterday, when my heart was breaking with the anguish and longing to tell you how I loved you, how you were not going away suffering alone. Oh, it has all crept upon us, this great, great love! It was fate, and it was useless to struggle against it. Only we must not let it be the reason of our doing wrong--that would be to degrade it, and love should not live in an atmosphere of degradation. I could not go away with you, could not have you for my lover without breaking a bargain--a bargain over which I have given my word. Of course I did not know what love meant when I was married. In France one does not think of that as connected with a husband. It was just a duty to be got through to help papa and my sisters. But my part of the bargain was myself, and in return for giving that I have money and a home, and papa and Sarah and Clementine are comfortable and happy. And as Josiah has kept his side of it, so I must keep mine, and be faithful to him always in word and deed. Dearest, it is too terrible to think of this material aspect to a bond which now I know should only be one of love and faith and tenderness. But it _is_ a bond, and I have given my word, and no happiness could come to us if I should break it, _as Josiah has not broken his_. And oh, Hector, you do not know how good he has always been to me, and generous and indulgent! It is not his fault that he is not of our class, and I must do my utmost to make him happy, and atone for this wound which I have unwittingly given him, and which he is, and must always remain, unconscious of. Oh, if something could have warned me, after that first time we met, that I would love you--had begun to love you--even then there would have been time to draw back, to save us both, perhaps, from suffering. And yet, and yet, I do not know, we might have missed the greatest and noblest good of all our lives. Dearest, I want you to keep the memory of me as something happy. Each year, when the spring-time comes and the young fresh green, I want you to look back on our day at Versailles, and to say to yourself, 'Life cannot be all sad, because nature gave the earth the returning spring.' And some spring must come for us, too--if only in our hearts.

"And now, O my beloved, good-bye! I cannot even tell to you the anguish which is wringing my heart. It is all summed up in this. I love you! I love you! and we must say forever a farewell!

"THEODORA.

"P.S.--I am sending this to your home."

As he read the last words the paper slipped from Josiah's nerveless hands, and for many minutes he sat as one stricken blind and dumb. Then his poor, plebeian figure seemed to crumple up, and with an inarticulate cry of rage and despair he fell forward, with his head upon his out-stretched arms across the breakfast-table.

How long he remained there he never knew. It seemed a whole lifetime later when he began to realize things--to know where he was--to remember.

"Oh, God!" he said. "Oh, God!"

He picked up the letter and read it all over again, weighing every word.

Who was this thief who had stolen his wife? Hector? Hector? Yes, it was Lord Bracondale; he remembered now he had heard him called that at Beechleigh. He would like to kill him. But was he a thief, after all? or was not--he--Josiah the thief? To have stolen her happiness, and her life. Her young life that might have been so fair, though how did he know that at the time! He had never thought of such things. She was what he desired, and he had bought her with gold. No, he was not a thief, he had bought her with gold, and because of that she was going to keep to her bargain, and make him a true and faithful wife.

"Oh, God!" he said again. "Oh, God!"

Presently the business method of his life came back to him and helped him. He must think this matter over carefully and see if there was any way out. It all looked black enough--his future, that but an hour ago had seemed so full of promise. He rang for the waiter and gave orders to have the breakfast things taken away. That accomplished, he requested that he should not be disturbed upon any pretext whatsoever. And then, drawn up to his writing-table, he began deliberately to think.

Yes, from the beginning Theodora had been good and meek and docile. He remembered a thousand gentle, unselfish things she had done for him. Her patience, her kindness, her unfailing sympathy in all his ills, the consideration and respect with which she treated him. When--when could this thing have begun? In Paris? Only these short weeks ago--was love so sudden a passion as that? Then he turned to the letter again and once more read it through. Poor Theodora, poor little girl, he thought. His anger was gone now; nothing remained but an intolerable pain. And this lord--of her own class--her own class! How that thought hurt. What of him? He was handsome and young, and just the mate for Theodora. And she had said good-bye to him, and was going to do her best to make him--Josiah--happy. He gave a wild laugh. Oh, the mockery of it all, the mockery of it all! Well, if she could renounce happiness to keep her word, what could he do for her in return? She must never know of the mistake she had made in putting the letters into the wrong envelopes. That he could save her from. But the man? He would know--for he must have got the note intended for him--Josiah. What must be done about that? He thought and thought. And at last he drew a sheet of paper forward and wrote, in his neat, clerklike hand, just a few lines.

And these were they: