Beyond The Rocks, Elinor Glyn [reading e books .txt] 📗

to give way to her feelings, to take Hector for a lover; but she had no sense of being a wicked woman as things were, any more than if she had badly burned her hand and was suffering deeply from the wound; she would have considered herself wicked for having had the mischance thus to injure herself. She was 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 beyond the 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. The remembrance of the menace on Morella's dull face as she had watched Theodora depart, and, above all, Wensleydown's behavior as they all said good-night: nothing for him actually to take hold of, and yet enough to convulse him with jealous fury.

Oh, if she were only his own! No man should dare to look at her like that. 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 her again—never to leave her, to prevent any one else from so much as saying a word. Others besides Wensleydown had begun to experience the attraction of her beauty and charm. If considerations of wisdom should keep him from her side, he would have the anguish of seeing these others 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 desire to rob it of its own, so Hector's conclusions were not so clear as Theodora's.

He dared not look ahead. All he was conscious of was the absolute determination to protect her from Wensleydown—to keep her for himself.

And fate was gathering all the threads together for an inevitable catastrophe, or so it seemed to the Crow when the long, exquisite June Sunday 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 practically together; that Morella had a sullen red look on her face which boded ill for the part she would play, when she should be asked to play some part; that Mildred had done her best to render Theodora uncomfortable and unhappy, and thus had thrown her more into Hector's protection. The other women had been indifferent or mocking or amused, and Lady Harrowfield had let it be seen she would have no mercy. Her comments had been vitriolic.

Hector and Theodora had not gone out of sight, or been any different to the others; only he had never left her, and there could be no mistaking the 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 than he had anticipated. Josiah's vulgar, round face and snub nose gave no index 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 was breaking. She was only flesh and blood after all, and she, too, had felt her pulses throbbing wildly as they had walked along by the lake, when all the color and lights of the evening helped to excite her imagination and exalt her spirit. They had been almost alone, for the other pair who composed the partie carrée of this walk were several yards ahead of them.

Each minute she had been on the verge of imploring him to say good-bye—to leave her—to let their lives part, to try to forget, and the words froze on her lips in the passionate, unspoken cry which seemed to rise from her heart that she loved him. Oh, she loved him! And so she had not spoken.

There had been long silences, and each was growing almost to know the other's thoughts—so near had they become in spirit.

When she got to her room her knees were trembling. She fell into a chair and buried her face in her hands. She shivered as if from cold.

Josiah was almost angry with her for being so late for dinner. Theodora hardly realized with whom she went in; she was dazed and numb. She got through it somehow, and this night determined to go straight to her room rather than be treated as she had been the night before. But one of the women whom the intercourse of the day had drawn into conversation with her showed signs of friendliness as they went through the anteroom, and drew her towards a sofa to talk. She was fascinated by Theodora's beauty and grace, and wanted to know, too, just where her clothes came from, as she did not recognize absolutely the models of any of the well-known couturières, and they were certainly the loveliest garments worn by any one in the party.

One person draws another, and soon Theodora had three or four around her—all purring and talking frocks. And as she answered their questions with gentle frankness, she wondered what everything meant. Did any of them feel—did any of them love passionately as she did?—or were they all 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 interest until the small hours?

Later some of the party danced in the ballroom, which was beyond the saloon the other way, and now a definite idea came to Hector as he held Theodora in his arms in the waltz. They could not possibly bear this life. Why should he not take her away—away from the smug grocer, and then 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 forget nowadays.

His pulses were bounding with these wild thoughts, born of their nearness and the long hours of strain. To-morrow he would tell her of them, but to-night—they would dance.

And Theodora felt her very soul melt within her. She was worn out with conflicting emotions. She could not fight with inclination any longer. Whatever he should say she would have to listen to—and agree with. She felt almost faint. And so at the end of the first dance she managed to whisper:

"Hector, I am tired. I shall go to bed." And in truth when he looked at her she was deadly white.

She stopped by her husband.

"Josiah," she said, "will you make my excuses to Lady Ada and Uncle Patrick? 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 as he would have wished, he could not soothe and pet and caress her, or do anything in the world but stand by and see Josiah fussing and accompanying her to the stairs and on to her room. She hardly said the word good-night to him, and her very lips were white. Wensleydown's face, as he stood with Mildred, drove him mad with its mocking leer, and if he had heard their conversation there might have been bloodshed.

Josiah returned to the saloon, and made his way to the bridge-room to Sir 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 people will say he has gone to meet her, and it is a ruse her being ill. They could 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, but to-night he was dazed with passion and pain.

"Come and smoke a cigar on the terrace, Crow," he said. "One wants a little quiet and peace sometimes."

And then the Crow looked at him with his head on one side in that wise way which had earned for him his sobriquet.

"Hector, old boy, you know these damned people here and their ways. Just keep yourself in evidence, my son," he said, as he walked away.

And Hector thanked him in his heart, and went across and asked Morella to dance.

Up in her room Theodora lay prostrate. She could reason no more—she could only sob in the dark.

Next day she did not appear until luncheon-time. But the guests at Beechleigh always rose when they pleased, and no one remarked her absence even, each pair busy with their own affairs. Only Barbara crept up to her room to see how she was, and if she wanted anything. Theodora wondered why her cousin should have been so changed from the afternoon of their arrival. And Barbara longed to tell her. She moved about, and looked out of the window, and admired Theodora's beautiful hair spread over the pillows. Then she said:

"Oh, I wish you came here often and Mildred didn't. She is a brute, and she 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 pitiful as she looked at Theodora, and to her came the thought of what Barbara's life was probably among them all, and she said, gently:

"No, indeed, I don't. It was much better for you not to annoy her further; she might have been nastier to me than even she has been. But why don't you stand up for yourself generally? After all, you are Uncle Patrick's daughter, and she is only your mother's niece."

"They both love her far more than they do me," said Barbara, with hanging head.

And then they talked of other things. Barbara adored her home, but her family had no sentiment for it, she told Theodora; and Pat, she believed, 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 before during the morning. This time it was to tell her a special messenger had come from his agent in London to inform him his presence was absolutely necessary there the first thing on Tuesday morning. Some turn of deep importance to his affairs had transpired during the holiday. So he would go 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 cannot lose 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, and if he could not leave her with them it was a strange thing! He did not want her in London, and she could join him again at Claridge's on Thursday. It would give him time to run down to Bessington to see that all was ready for her reception. He was so well now he looked forward to a summer of pleasure and peace.

"A second honeymoon, my love!" he chuckled, as he kissed her, and would hear no more.

And having planted this comforting thought for her consolation he had quitted the room.

Left alone Theodora sank down on the sofa. Her trembling limbs refused to support her; she felt cold and sick and faint.

A second honeymoon. Oh, God!

XXVI

At luncheon, when Theodora descended from her room, the whole party were assembled and already seated at the several little tables. The only vacant place left was just opposite Hector.

And there they faced each other