The Essential Elinor Glyn Collection. Glyn Elinor
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