Chapter 15

"MY LORD,--You will have received, I presume, a communication addressed to you and intended for me. The enclosed speaks for itself. I send it to you because it is my duty to do so. If I were a young man, though I am not of your class, I would kill you. But I am growing old, and my day is over. All I ask of you is never, _under any circumstances_, to let my wife know of her mistake about the letters. I do not wish to grieve her, or cause her more suffering than you have already brought upon her. "Believe me, "Yours faithfully, "JOSIAH BROWN."

Then he got down the _Peerage_ and found the correct form of superscription he must place upon the envelope.

He folded the two letters, his own and Theodora's, and, slipping them in, sealed the packet with his great seal which was graven with a deep J.B. And lest he should change his mind, he rang the bell for the waiter, and had it despatched to the post at once--to be sent by express. If possible it must reach Lord Bracondale at the same time as the other letter--Theodora's letter to himself in the wrong envelope.

And then poor Josiah subsided into his chair again, and suffered and suffered. He was conscious of nothing else--just intense, overwhelming suffering.

When his secretary, from his office in the City, came in about luncheon-time to transact some important business, he was horrified and distressed to see the change in his patron; for Josiah looked crumpled and shrivelled and old.

"I caught a chill coming from Bessington last night," he explained, "and I will send for Toplington to give me a draught if you will kindly touch the bell."

Then he tried to concentrate his mind on his affairs and get through the day. But the gray look kept growing and growing, and the secretary decided towards evening to suggest sending for Theodora. Josiah, however, would not hear of this. He was not ill, he said, it was merely a chill; he would be quite restored by a night's rest, and Mrs. Brown would be with him, anyway, in the morning. Of what use to alarm her unnecessarily. But he had unfortunately mislaid her letter with the exact time of her train, so he had better telegraph to her before six o'clock to make sure. He wrote it out himself. Just:

"Stupidly mislaid your letter. What time did you say for the carriage to meet your train? "JOSIAH."

And about eight o'clock her reply came, and then he went to bed, wondering if he had reached the summit of human suffering or if there would be more to come.

XXIX

Late that night, in the old panelled library at Bracondale, Hector walked up and down. He, too, was suffering, suffering intensely, his only grain of comfort being that he was alone. His mother was away in the north with Anne, and he had the place to himself. In his hand was Theodora's letter. As Josiah had calculated, knowing cross-country posts, both his and hers had arrived at the same time.

Hector paced and paced up and down, his thoughts maddening him.

And so three people were unhappy now--not he and his beloved one alone. This was the greater calamity.

But how he had misjudged Josiah! The common, impossible husband had behaved with a nobility, a justice, and forbearance which he knew his own passionate nature would not have been capable of. It had touched him to the core, and he had written at once in reply, enclosing Theodora's letter about the arrival of the train.

"DEAR SIR,--I am overcome with your generosity and your justice. I thank you for your letter and for your magnanimity in forwarding the enclosure it contained. I understand and appreciate the sentiment you express when you say, had you been younger you would have killed me, and I on my side would have been happy to offer you any satisfaction you might have wished, and am ready to do so now if you desire it. At the same time, I would like you to know, in deed, I have never injured you. My deep and everlasting grief will be that I have brought pain and sorrow into the life of a lady who is very dear to us both. My own life is darkened forever as well, and I am going away out of England for a long time as soon as I can make my arrangements. I will respect your desire never to inform your wife of her mistake, and I will not trouble either of you again. Only, by a later post, I intend to answer her letter and say farewell. "Believe me, "Yours truly, "BRACONDALE."

This he had despatched some hours ago, but his last good-bye to Theodora was not yet written. What could he say to her? How could he tell her of all the misery and anguish, all the pain which was racking his being; he, who knew life and most things it could hold, and so could judge of the fact that nothing, nothing, counted now but herself--and they should meet no more, and it was the end. A blank, absolute end to all joy. Nothing to exist upon but the remembrance of an hour or two's bliss and a few tender kisses.

And as Josiah had done, he could only say: "Oh, God! Oh, God!"

On top of his large escritoire there stood a minute and very perfect copy of the fragment of Psyche, which he had so intensely admired. He turned to it now as his only consolation; the likeness to Theodora was strong; the exact same form of face, and the way her hair grew; the pure line of the cheek, and the angle which the head was set on to the column of her throat--all might have been chiselled from her. How often had he seen her looking down like that. Perhaps the only difference at all was that Theodora's nose was fine, and not so heavy and Greek; otherwise he had her there in front of him--his Theodora, his gift of the gods, his Psyche, his soul. And wherever he should wander--if in wildest Africa or furthest India, in Alaska or Tibet--this little fragment of white marble should bear him company.

It calmed him to look at it--the beautiful Greek thing.

And he sat down and wrote to his loved one his good-bye.

He told her of his sorrow and his love, and how he was going away from England, he did not yet know where, and should be absent many months, and how forever his thoughts from distant lands would bridge the space between them, and surround her with tenderness and worship.

And her letter, he said, should never leave him--her two letters; they should be dearer to him than his life. He prayed her to take care of herself, and if at any time she should want him to send for him from the ends of the earth. Bracondale would always find him, sooner or later, and he was hers to order as she willed.

And as he had ended his letter before, so he ended this one now:

"For ever and ever your devoted "LOVER."

After this he sat a long time and gazed out upon the night. It was very dark and cloudy, but in one space above his head two stars shone forth for a moment in a clear peep of sky, and they seemed to send him a message of hope. What hope? Was it, as she had said, the thought that there would be a returning spring--even for them?

XXX

And the summer wore away and the dripping autumn came, and with each week, each day almost, Josiah seemed to shrivel.

It was not very noticeable at first, after the ten days of sharp illness which had prostrated him when he received the fatal letter.

He appeared to recover almost from that, and they went down to Bessington Hall at the beginning of July. But there was no further talk of a second honeymoon.

Theodora's tenderness and devotion never flagged. If her heart was broken she could at least keep her word, and try to make her husband happy. And so each one acted a part, with much zeal for the other's welfare.

It was anguish to Josiah to see his wife's sweet face grow whiter and thinner; she was so invariably bright and cheerful with him, so considerate of his slightest wish.

His pride and affection for her had turned into a sort of adoration as the days wore on. He used to watch her silently from behind a paper, or when she thought he slept. Then the mask of smiles fell from her, and he saw the pathetic droop of her young, fair head and the mournful gloom that would creep into her great, blue eyes.

And he was the stumbling-block to her happiness. She had sent away the man she loved in order to stay and be true to him, to minister to his wants, and do her utmost to render him happy. Oh, what could he do for her in return? What possible thing?

He lavished gifts upon her; he lavished gifts upon her sisters, upon her father; their welfare, he remembered, was part of the bargain. At least she would know these--her dear ones--had gained by it, and, so far, her sacrifice had not been in vain.

This thought comforted him a little. But the constant gnawing ache at his heart, and the withdrawal of all object to live for, soon began to tell upon his always feeble constitution.

Of what use was anything at all? His house or his lands! His pride in his position--even his title of "squire," which he often heard now. All were dead-sea fruit, dust and ashes; there never would be any Browns of Bessington in the years to come. There never would be anything for him, never any more.

For a week in September Captain and Mrs. Dominic Fitzgerald had paid them a visit, and the brilliant bride had cheered them up for a little and seemed to bring new life with her. She expressed herself as completely satisfied with her purchase in the way of a husband; it was just as she had known, three was a lucky number for her, and Dominic was her soul's mate, and they were going to lead the life they both loved, of continual movement and change and gayety.

But the situation at Bessington distressed her.

"Why, my dear, they are just like a couple of sick paroquets," she said to her husband. "Mr. Brown don't look long for this world, and Theodora is a shadow! What in the Lord's name has been happening to them?"

But Dominic could not enlighten her. Before they left she determined to ascertain for herself.

The last evening she said to Theodora, who was bidding her good-night in her room:

"I had a letter from your friend Lord Bracondale last week, from Alaska. He asks for news of you. Did you see him after he came from Paris? He was only a short while in England, I understand."

"Yes, we saw him once or twice," said Theodora, "and we made the acquaintance of his sister."

"He always seemed to be very fond of her. Is she a nice sort of woman?"

"Very nice."

"I hear the mother is clean crazy with him for going off again and not marrying that heiress they are so set upon. But why should he? He don't want the money."

"No," said Theodora.

"Was he at Beechleigh when you were there?"

"Yes."

"And Miss Winmarleigh, too?"

"Yes, she was there."

"Oh!" said Mrs. Fitzgerald. "A great lump of a woman, isn't she?"

"She is rather large."

This was hopeless--a conversation of this sort--Jane Fitzgerald decided. It told her nothing.

Theodora's face had become so schooled it did not, even to her step-mother's sharp eyes, betray any emotion.

"I am glad if the folly is over," she thought to herself. "But I shouldn't wonder if it Wasn't something to do with it still, after all. If it is not that, what can it be?" Then she said aloud: "He is going through America, and we shall meet him when we get back in November, most likely. I shall persuade him to come down to Florida with us, if I can. He seems to be aimlessly wandering round, I suppose, shooting things; but Florida is the loveliest place in the world, and I wish you and Josiah would come, too, my dear."

"That would be beautiful," said Theodora, "but Josiah is not fit for a long journey. We shall go to the Riviera, most probably, when the weather gets cold."

"Have you no message for him then, Theodora, when I see him?"

And now there was some sign. Theodora clasped her hands together, and she said in a constrained voice:

"Yes. Tell him I hope he is well--and I am well--just that," and she walked ever to the dressing-table and picked up a brush, and put it down again nervously.

"I shall tell him no such thing," said her step-mother, kindly, "because I don't believe it is true. You are not well, dear child, and I am worried about you."

But Theodora assured her that she was, and all was as it should be, and nothing further could be got out of her; so they kissed and wished each other good-night. And Jane Fitzgerald, left to herself, heaved a great sigh.

Next day, after this cheery pair had gone, things seemed to take a deeper gloom.

The mention of Hector's name and whereabouts had roused Theodora's dormant sorrows into activity again; and with all her will and determination to hide her anguish, Josiah could perceive an added note of pathos in her voice at times and less and less elasticity in her step.

Once he would have noticed none of these things, but now each shade of difference in her made its impression upon him.

And so the time wore on, their hearts full of an abiding grief.

When October set in Josiah caught a bad cold, which obliged him to keep to his bed for days and days. He did not seem very ill, and assured his wife he would be all right soon; but by November, Sir Baldwin Evans, who was sent for hurriedly from London, broke it gently to Theodora that her husband could not live through the winter. He might not even live for many days. Then she wept bitter tears. Had she been remiss in anything? What could she do for him? Oh, poor Josiah!

And Josiah knew that his day was done, as he lay there in his splendid, silk-curtained bed. But life had become of such small worth to him that he was almost glad.

"Now, soon she can be happy--my little girl," he said to himself, "with the one of her class. It does not do to mix them, and I was a fool to try. But her heart is too kind ever to quite forget poor old Josiah Brown."

And this thought comforted him. And that night he died.

Then Theodora wept her heart out as she kissed his cold, thin hand.

When they got the telegram in New York at Mrs. Fitzgerald's mansion, Hector was just leaving the house, and Captain Fitzgerald ran after him down the steps.

"My son-in-law, Josiah Brown, is dead," he said. "My wife thought you would be interested to hear. Poor fellow, he was not very old either--only fifty-two."

Hector almost staggered for a moment, and leaned against the gilded balustrade. Then he took off his hat reverently, while he said, in his deep, expressive voice:

"There lived no greater gentleman."

And Captain Fitzgerald wondered if he were mad or what he could mean, as he watched him stride away down the street.

But when he told his wife, she understood, for she had just learned from Hector the whole story.

And perhaps--who knows? Far away in Shadowland Josiah heard those words, "There lived no greater gentleman." And if he did--they fell like balm on his sad soul.

XXXI

It was eighteen months after this before they met again--Hector and Theodora; and now it was May, and the flowers bloomed and the birds sang, and all the world was young and fair--only Morella Winmarleigh was growing into a bitter old maid.

At twenty-eight people might have taken her for a matron of ten years older.

She had wondered for weeks what was the result of her action with the letters. She hoped daily to hear of some catastrophe and scandal falling upon the head of Theodora. But she heard nothing. It was only after Josiah's death that details were wafted to her through the Fitzgeralds.

How poor Mr. Brown had never really recovered from a slight stroke he had had on leaving Beechleigh, and of Theodora's goodness and devotion to him, and of his worship of her. And Morella had the maddening feeling that if she had left well alone this death might never have occurred, and her hated rival might not now be a free and beautiful widow, with no impediment between herself and Hector when they should choose to meet.

She had meant to be revenged and punish them, and it seemed she had only cleared their path to happiness. There was really no justice in this world!

Theodora had gone to meet her father and step-mother in Paris.

Her sisters were married and very happy, she hoped. Prosperity had wonderfully embellished their attractions, and even Sarah had found a mate.

And Lady Bracondale remained her placid, stately self. Her grief and disappointment over Hector's departure from England had passed away by now, as so had her treasured dream of receiving Morella Winmarleigh as a daughter. But Anne whispered to her that she need not worry forever, and some day soon her brother might choose a bride whom even she would love.

Hector had continued his wanderings over the world for many months after Josiah's death. He felt, should he return to England, nothing could keep him from Theodora.

And she, too, had travelled and explored fresh scenes, and was now a supremely beautiful and experienced woman--courted and flattered, and besieged by many adorers.

But she was still Theodora, with only one love in her heart and one dream in her soul--to meet Hector again and spend the rest of her life in the shelter of his arms.

She heard of him often through her step-mother; and sometimes she saw Anne--and both Hector and she understood, and knew the time would come when they could be happy.

Jane Anastasia Fitzgerald had romantic notions. This pretty pair, whom she looked upon as of her own producing, must meet again under her auspices in like circumstances as they had done on the happy and never-to-be-forgotten day when she herself had promised her heart and hand to Dominic Fitzgerald.

"There is something lucky about Versailles," she said, "and they shall experience it, too!"

So she planned a picnic, and arranged it with Hector before he reached Paris. He was not to show himself or communicate with Theodora; he was just to be there at the Réservoirs and wait for their arrival.

And the gods smiled--and the day was fine--and the trees were green--as had been another day, two years ago.

And oh, the wild, mad joy that surged up in their hearts when their eyes met once more!

They could not speak, it seemed, even the words of politeness; so they wandered away into the spring woods, silent and glad; and it was not until they reached the shrine of old Enceladus that Hector clasped Theodora again in his arms, and gave rein to all the passionate love and delirious happiness which was flooding his being.

There one can leave them--together--for always--looking out upon the realization of that fair dream of life.

Safe in each other's arms, in those smooth waters, beyond the rocks.

THE END

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