by Elinor Glyn
XXV
After the rain and gloom of the week, Sunday dawned gloriously fine.There was to be a polo match on Monday in the park, which contained anexcellent ground--Patrick and his Oxford friends against a scratch team.The neighborhood would watch them with interest. But the Sunday was forrest and peace, so all the morning the company played croquet, or layabout in hammocks, and more than half of them again began bridge in thegreat Egyptian tent which served as an out-door lounge on the lawn. Itwas reached from the western side down wide steps from the terrace, andbeautiful rose gardens stretched away beyond.
Theodora had spent a sleepless night. There was no more illusion left toher on the subject of her feelings. She knew that each day, each hour,she was growing more deeply to love Hector Bracondale. He absorbed herthoughts, he dominated her imagination. He seemed to mean the only thingin life. The situation was impossible, and must end in some way. Howcould she face the long months with Josiah down at their new home, withthe feverish hopes and fears of meetings! It was too cruel, tooterrible; and she could not lead such a life. She had thought in Parisit would be possible, and even afford a certain amount of quiethappiness, if they could be strong enough to remain just friends. Butnow she knew this was not in human nature. Sooner or later fate wouldland them in some situation of temptation too strong for either toresist--and then--and then--She refused to face that picture. Only shewrithed as she lay there and buried her face in the fine pillows. Shedid not permit herself any day-dreams of what might have been. Romauldhimself, as he took his vows, never fought harder to regain his soulfrom the keeping of Claremonde than did Theodora to suppress her lovefor Hector Bracondale. Towards morning, worn out with fatigue, she fellasleep, and in her dreams, released from the control of her will, shespent moments of passionate bliss in his arms, only to wake and find shemust face again the terrible reality. And cruellest thought of all wasthe thought of Josiah.
She had so much common-sense she realized the position exactly abouthim. She had not married him under any false impression. There had beenno question of love--she had frankly been bought, and had as franklydetested him. But his illness and suffering had appealed to her tenderheart--and afterwards his generosity. He was not unselfish, but,according to his lights, he heaped her with kindness. He could not helpbeing common and ridiculous. And he had paid with solid gold for her,gold to make papa comfortable and happy, and she must fulfil her part ofthe bargain and remain a faithful wife at all costs.
This visit must be the last time she should meet her love. She must tellhim, implore him--he who was free and master of his life; he must goaway, must promise not to follow her, must help her to do what was rightand just. She had no sentimental feeling of personal wickedness now. Howcould it be wicked to love--to love truly and tenderly? She had notsought love; he had come upon her. It would be wicked to give way to herfeelings, to take Hector for a lover; but she had no sense of being awicked woman as things were, any more than if she had badly burned herhand and was suffering deeply from the wound; she would have consideredherself wicked for having had the mischance thus to injure herself. Shewas intensely unhappy, and she was going to try and do what was right.That was all. And God and those kind angels who steered the barks beyondthe rocks would perhaps help her.
Hector for his part, had retired to rest boiling with passion and rage,the subtle, odious insinuations of Mildred ringing in his ears. Theremembrance of the menace on Morella's dull face as she had watchedTheodora depart, and, above all, Wensleydown's behavior as they all saidgood-night: nothing for him actually to take hold of, and yet enough toconvulse him with jealous fury.
Oh, if she were only his own! No man should dare to look at her likethat. But Josiah had stood by and not even noticed it.
Passionate jealousy is not a good foster-parent for prudence.
The Sunday came, and with it a wild, mad longing to be near heragain--never to leave her, to prevent any one else from so much assaying a word. Others besides Wensleydown had begun to experience theattraction of her beauty and charm. If considerations of wisdom shouldkeep him from her side, he would have the anguish of seeing theseothers take his place, and that he could not suffer.
And as passion in a man rages higher than in the average woman,especially passion when accelerated by the knowledge of another's desireto rob it of its own, so Hector's conclusions were not so clear asTheodora's.
He dared not look ahead. All he was conscious of was the absolutedetermination to protect her from Wensleydown--to keep her for himself.
And fate was gathering all the threads together for an inevitablecatastrophe, or so it seemed to the Crow when the long, exquisite JuneSunday evening was drawing to a close and he looked back on the day.
He would have to report to Anne that the two had spent it practicallytogether; that Morella had a sullen red look on her face which boded illfor the part she would play, when she should be asked to play some part;that Mildred had done her best to render Theodora uncomfortable andunhappy, and thus had thrown her more into Hector's protection. Theother women had been indifferent or mocking or amused, and LadyHarrowfield had let it be seen she would have no mercy. Her commentshad been vitriolic.
Hector and Theodora had not gone out of sight, or been any different tothe others; only he had never left her, and there could be no mistakingthe devotion in his face.
For the whole day Sir Patrick had more or less taken charge of Josiah.He was finding him more difficult to manipulate over money matters thanhe had anticipated. Josiah's vulgar, round face and snub nose gave noindex to his shrewdness; with his mutton-chop whiskers and bald head,Josiah was the personification of the smug grocer.
As she went to dress for dinner it seemed to Theodora that her heart wasbreaking. She was only flesh and blood after all, and she, too, had felther pulses throbbing wildly as they had walked along by the lake, whenall the color and lights of the evening helped to excite her imaginationand exalt her spirit. They had been almost alone, for the other pair whocomposed the _partie carree_ of this walk were several yards ahead ofthem.
Each minute she had been on the verge of imploring him to saygood-bye--to leave her--to let their lives part, to try to forget, andthe words froze on her lips in the passionate, unspoken cry whichseemed to rise from her heart that she loved him. Oh, she loved him! Andso she had not spoken.
There had been long silences, and each was growing almost to know theother's thoughts--so near had they become in spirit.
When she got to her room her knees were trembling. She fell into a chairand buried her face in her hands. She shivered as if from cold.
Josiah was almost angry with her for being so late for dinner. Theodorahardly realized with whom she went in; she was dazed and numb. She gotthrough it somehow, and this night determined to go straight to her roomrather than be treated as she had been the night before. But one of thewomen whom the intercourse of the day had drawn into conversation withher showed signs of friendliness as they went through the anteroom, anddrew her towards a sofa to talk. She was fascinated by Theodora's beautyand grace, and wanted to know, too, just where her clothes came from, asshe did not recognize absolutely the models of any of the well-known_couturieres_, and they were certainly the loveliest garments worn byany one in the party.
One person draws another, and soon Theodora had three or four aroundher--all purring and talking frocks. And as she answered their questionswith gentle frankness, she wondered what everything meant. Did any ofthem feel--did any of them love passionately as she did?--or were theyall dolls more or less bored and getting through life? And would she,too, grow like them in time, and be able to play bridge with interestuntil the small hours?
Later some of the party danced in the ballroom, which was beyond thesaloon the other way, and now a definite idea came to Hector as he heldTheodora in his arms in the waltz. They could not possibly bear thislife. Why should he not take her away--away from the smug grocer, andthen they could live their life in a dream of bliss in Italy, perhaps,and later at
Bracondale. He had a great position, and people soon forgetnowadays.
His pulses were bounding with these wild thoughts, born of theirnearness and the long hours of strain. To-morrow he would tell her ofthem, but to-night--they would dance.
And Theodora felt her very soul melt within her. She was worn out withconflicting emotions. She could not fight with inclination any longer.Whatever he should say she would have to listen to--and agree with. Shefelt almost faint. And so at the end of the first dance she managed towhisper:
"Hector, I am tired. I shall go to bed." And in truth when he looked ather she was deadly white.
She stopped by her husband.
"Josiah," she said, "will you make my excuses to Lady Ada and UnclePatrick? I do not feel well; I am going to my room."
Hector's distress was intense. He could not carry her up in his arms ashe would have wished, he could not soothe and pet and caress her, or doanything in the world but stand by and see Josiah fussing andaccompanying her to the stairs and on to her room. She hardly said theword good-night to him, and her very lips were white. Wensleydown'sface, as he stood with Mildred, drove him mad with its mocking leer, andif he had heard their conversation there might have been bloodshed.
Josiah returned to the saloon, and made his way to the bridge-room toSir Patrick and his hostess; but Hector still leaned against the door.
"He'll probably go out on the terrace and walk in the night by himself,"thought the Crow, who had watched the scene, "and these dear peoplewill say he has gone to meet her, and it is a ruse her being ill. Theycould not let such a chance slip, if they are both absent together."
So he walked over to Hector and engaged him in conversation.
Hector would have thought of this aspect himself at another time, butto-night he was dazed with passion and pain.
"Come and smoke a cigar on the terrace, Crow," he said. "One wants alittle quiet and peace sometimes."
And then the Crow looked at him with his head on one side in that wiseway which had earned for him his sobriquet.
"Hector, old boy, you know these damned people here and their ways. Justkeep yourself in evidence, my son," he said, as he walked away.
And Hector thanked him in his heart, and went across and asked Morellato dance.
Up in her room Theodora lay prostrate. She could reason no more--shecould only sob in the dark.
Next day she did not appear until luncheon-time. But the guests atBeechleigh always rose when they pleased, and no one remarked herabsence even, each pair busy with their own affairs. Only Barbara creptup to her room to see how she was, and if she wanted anything. Theodorawondered why her cousin should have been so changed from the afternoonof their arrival. And Barbara longed to tell her. She moved about, andlooked out of the window, and admired Theodora's beautiful hair spreadover the pillows. Then she said:
"Oh, I wish you came here often and Mildred didn't. She is a brute, andshe hates you for being so beautiful. She made me keep away, you know.Do you think me a mean coward?" Her poor, plain, timid face was pitifulas she looked at Theodora, and to her came the thought of what Barbara'slife was probably among them all, and she said, gently:
"No, indeed, I don't. It was much better for you not to annoy herfurther; she might have been nastier to me than even she has been. Butwhy don't you stand up for yourself generally? After all, you are UnclePatrick's daughter, and she is only your mother's niece."
"They both love her far more than they do me," said Barbara, withhanging head.
And then they talked of other things. Barbara adored her home, but herfamily had no sentiment for it, she told Theodora; and Pat, shebelieved, would like to sell the whole thing and gamble away the money.
Just before luncheon-time, when Theodora was dressed and going down,Josiah came up again to see her. He had fussed in once or twice beforeduring the morning. This time it was to tell her a special messenger hadcome from his agent in London to inform him his presence was absolutelynecessary there the first thing on Tuesday morning. Some turn of deepimportance to his affairs had transpired during the holiday. So he wouldgo up by an early train. He had settled it all with Sir Patrick, who,however, would not hear of Theodora's leaving.
"The party does not break up until Wednesday or Thursday, and we cannotlose our greatest ornament," he had said.
"I do not wish to stay alone," Theodora pleaded. "I will come with you,Josiah."
But Josiah was quite cross with her.
"Nothing of the kind," he said. These people were her own relations, andif he could not leave her with them it was a strange thing! He did notwant her in London, and she could join him again at Claridge's onThursday. It would give him time to run down to Bessington to see thatall was ready for her reception. He was so well now he looked forward toa summer of pleasure and peace.
"A second honeymoon, my love!" he chuckled, as he kissed her, and wouldhear no more.
And having planted this comforting thought for her consolation he hadquitted the room.
Left alone Theodora sank down on the sofa. Her trembling limbs refusedto support her; she felt cold and sick and faint.
A second honeymoon. Oh, God!