by Elinor Glyn
X
Man is a hunter--a hunter always. He may be a poor thing and hunt only afew puny aims, or he may be a strong man and choose big game. But he ishunting, hunting--something--always.
And primitive life seems like the spectrum of light--composed of threeprimary colors, and white and black at the beginning and ending of it.And the three colors of blue, red, and yellow have their counterparts inthe three great passions in man--to hunt his food, to continue hisspecies, and to kill his enemy.
And white and black seem like birth and death--and there is the sun,which is the soul and makes the colors, and allows of all combinationsand graduations of beautiful other shades from them for parallels to allother qualities and instincts, only the original are those great primaryforces--to hunt his food, to continue his species, and to kill hisenemy.
And if this is so to the end of time, man will be the same, I suppose,until civilization has emasculated the whole of nature and so ends theworld! Or until this wonderful new scientist has perfected hisresearches to the point of creating human life by chemical process, aswell as his present discovery of animating jellyfish!
Who knows? But by that time it will not matter to any of us!
Meanwhile, man is at the stage that when he loves a woman he wishes topossess her, and, in a modified form, he wishes to steal her, ifnecessary, from another, or kill the enemy who steals her from him.
But the Sun of the Soul is there, too, so the poor old world is not insuch a very bad case after all.
And how the _bon Dieu_ must smile sadly to Himself when He looks down onpriests and nuns and hermits and fanatics, and sees how they havedistorted His beautiful scheme of things with their narrow ideas. Tryingto eliminate the red out of His spectrum, instead of ennobling andglorifying it all with the Sun of the Soul.
And all of you who are great reasoners and arguers will laugh at thisridiculous little simile of life drawn by a woman; but I do not care. Ihave had my outburst, and said what I wanted to. So now we can get backto the two--who were not yet lovers--under their green tree in theForest of Marly.
"But you must be able to guess the end," Theodora was saying; "and oh, Iwant to know, if all the roads were barred by love--how did they get outof the wood?"
"They took him with them," said Lord Bracondale, and he touched the edgeof her dress gently with a wild flower he had picked in the grass, whileinto his eyes crept all the passion he felt and into his voice all thetenderness.
Now if Theodora had ever read _La Faute de L'Abbe Mouret_ she would haveknown just what proximity and the spring-time was doing for them both.
But she had not read, and did not know. All she was conscious of was awild thrilling of her pulses, an extraordinary magnetic force thatseemed to draw her--draw her nearer--nearer to what? Even that she didnot know or ask herself. Beyond that it was danger, and she must flyfrom it.
"I do not want to talk of any of those things to-day," she said,suddenly dropping her parasol between them. "I only want to laugh and beamused, and as you were to devise schemes for my happiness, you mustamuse me."
He looked up at her again and he noticed, for all this brave speech,that her hands were trembling as she clutched the handle of her blueparasol.
Triumph and joy ran through him. He could afford to wait a little longernow, since he knew that he must mean something, even perhaps a greatdeal, to her.
And so for the next half-hour he played with her, he skimmed over thesurface of danger, he enthralled her fancy, and with every sentence hethrew the glamour of his love around her, and fascinated her soul. Allhis powers of attraction--and they were many--were employed for herundoing.
And Theodora sat as one in a dream.
At last she felt she _must_ wake--must realize that she was not a happyprincess, but Theodora, who must live her dull life--and this--andthis--where was it leading her to?
So she clasped her hands together suddenly, and she said:
"But do you know we have grown serious, and I asked you to amuse me,Lord Bracondale!"
"I cannot amuse you," he said, lazily, "but shall I tell you about myhome, which I should like to show you some day?" And again he began tocaress the farthest edge of her dress with his wild flower. Just thesmallest movement of smoothing it up and down that no one could resent,but which was disturbing to Theodora. She did not wish him to stop, onthe contrary--and yet--
"Yes, I would like to hear of that," she said. "Is it an old, oldhouse?"
"Oh, moderately so, and it has nooks and corners and views that mightappeal to you. I believe I should find them all endowed with fresh charmmyself, if I could see them with you"--and he made the turning-point ofhis flower a few inches nearer her hand.
Theodora said nothing; but she took courage and peeped at him again. Andshe thought how powerful he looked, and how beautifully shaped; and sheliked the fineness of the silk of his socks and his shirt, and the cutof his clothes, and the wave of his hair--and last of all, his brown,strong, well-shaped hands.
And then she fell to wondering what the general scheme of things couldbe that made husbands possess none of these charms; when, if they did,it could all be so good and so delicious, instead of a terribly irksomeduty to live with them and be their wives.
"You are not listening to a word I am saying!" said Hector. "Where wereyour thoughts, cruel lady?"
She was confused a little, and laughed gently. "They were away in a landwhere you can never come," she said.
He raised himself on his elbow, and supported his head on his hand,while he answered, eagerly:
"But I must come! I want to know them, all your thoughts. Do you knowthat since we met on Monday you have never been for one instant out ofmy consciousness. And you would not listen then to what I told you offriendship when it is born of instantaneous sympathy--it is because insome other life two souls have been very near and dear. And that is ourcase, and I want to make you feel it so, as I do. Tell me that youdo--?"
"I do not know what I do feel," said Theodora. "But perhaps--could it betrue that we met when we lived before; and when was that? and who werewe?"
"It matters not a jot," said he. "So long as you feel it too--that weare not only of yesterday, you and I. There is some stronger linkbetween us."
For one second they looked into each other's eyes, and each read theother's thoughts mirrored there; and if his said, in conscious,passionate words, "I love you," hers were troubled and misty withpossibilities. Then she jumped up from her seat suddenly, and her voicetrembled a little as she said:
"And now I want to go out of the wood."
He rose too and stood beside her, while he pointed to the glade to theleft of the centre they were facing.
"We must penetrate into the future then," he said, "because I told mychauffeur to meet us on the road where I think that will lead to. Wecannot go back by the way we have come."
And she did not answer; she was afraid, because she remembered all thoseavenues were barred by--love.
As he walked beside her, Hector Bracondale knew that now he must bevery, very careful in what he said. He must lull her fears to sleepagain, or she would be off like a lark towards high heaven, and he wouldbe left upon earth.
So he exerted himself to interest and amuse her in less agitating ways.He talked of his home and his mother and his sister. He wanted Theodorato meet them. She would like Anne, he said, and his mother would loveher, he knew. And again the impossible vision same to him, and he felthe hated the face of Morella Winmarleigh.
Usually when he had been greatly attracted by a married woman before, hehad unconsciously thought of her as having the qualities which wouldmake her an adorable mistress, a delicious friend, or a holidayamusement. There had never been any reverence mixed up with the affair,which usually had the zest of forbidden fruit, and was hurried along bypassion. It had always only depended upon the woman how far he had gotbeyond these stages; but, as he thought of Theodora, unconsciously apicture always came to him of what she would be were she his wife. Andi
t astonished him when he analyzed it; he, the scoffer at bonds, now tofind this picture the fairest in the world!
And as yet he was hardly even dimly growing to realize that fate wouldturn the anguish of this desire into a chastisement of scorpions forhim.
Things had always been so within his grasp.
"We shall go to England on Tuesday," Theodora said, as they saunteredalong down the green glade. "It is so strange, you know, but I havenever been there."
"Never been to England!" Hector exclaimed, incredulously.
"No!" and she smiled up at him. All was at peace now in her mind, andshe dared to look as much as she pleased.
"No. Papa used to go sometimes, but it was too expensive to take thewhole family; so we were left at Bruges generally, or at Dieppe, orwhere we chanced to be. If it was the summer, often we have spent it ina Normandy farm-house."
"Then how have you learned all the things you know?" he asked.
"That was not difficult. I do not know much," she said, gently, "andSarah taught me in the beginning, and then I went to convents wheneverwe were in towns, and dear papa was so kind and generous always; nomatter how hard up he was he always got the best masters available forme--and for Clementine. Sarah is much older, and even Clementine fiveyears."
"I wonder what on earth you will think of it--England, I mean?" He wasdeeply interested.
"I am sure I shall love it. We have always spoken of it as home, youknow. And papa has often described my grandfather's houses. Both mygrandfathers had beautiful houses, it seems, and he says, now that I amrich and cannot ever be a trouble to them, the family might be pleasedto see me."
She spoke quite simply. There never was room for bitterness or irony inher tender heart. And Hector looked down upon her, a sort of worship inhis eyes.
"Papa's father is dead long ago; it is his brother who owns Beechleighnow," she continued--"Sir Patrick Fitzgerald. They are Irish, of course,but the place is in Cambridgeshire, because it came from hisgrandmother."
"Yes, I know the old boy," said Hector. "I see him at the turf--a fiery,vile-tempered, thin, old bird, about sixty."
"That sounds like him," said Theodora.
"And so you are going to make all these relations' acquaintance. What anexperience it will be, won't it?" His voice was full of sympathy. "Butyou will stay in London. They are all there now, I suppose?"
"My Grandfather Borringdon, my mother's father, never goes there, Ibelieve; he is very old and delicate, we have heard. But I have writtento him--papa wished me to do so; for myself I do not care, because Ithink he was unkind to my mother, and I shall not like him. It was cruelnever to speak to her again--wasn't it?--just because she married papa,whom she loved very much--papa, who is so handsome that he could neverhave really been a husband, could he?"
Then she blushed deeply, realizing what she had said.
And the quaintness of it caused Hector to smile while he felt itspathos.
How _could_ they all have sacrificed this beautiful young life betweenthem! And he slashed off a tall green weed with his stick when hethought of Josiah Brown--his short, stumpy, plebeian figure and bald,shiny head, his common voice, and his pompousness--Josiah Brown, who hadnow the ordering of her comings and goings, who paid for her clothes andgave her those great pearls--who might touch her and kiss her--mightclasp and caress her--might hold her in his arms, his very own, anymoment of the day--or night! Ah, God! that last thought wasimpossible--unbearable.
And for one second Hector's eyes looked murderous as they glared intothe distance--and Theodora glanced up timidly, and asked, in asympathetic voice: What was it? What ailed him?
"Some day I will tell you," he said. "But not yet."
Then he asked her more about her family and her plans.
They would stay in London at Claridge's for a week or so, and go down toBessington Hall for Whitsuntide. It would be ready for them then. Josiahhad had it all furnished magnificently by one of those people who hadtaste and ordered well for those who could afford to pay for it. She wasrather longing to see it, she said--her future home--and she could havewished she might have chosen the things herself. Not that it matteredmuch either way.
"I am very ignorant about houses," she explained, "because we neverreally had one, you see, but I think, perhaps, I would know what waspretty from museums and pictures--and I love all colors and forms."
He felt sure she would know what was pretty. How delightful it would beto watch her playing with his old home! The touches of her gentlefingers would make everything sacred afterwards.
At last they came to the end of the green glade--and temptation againassailed him. He _must_ ruffle the peace of her soft eyes once more.
"And here is the barrier," he said, pointing to a board with "_Terrainreserve_" upon it--_Reservee pour la chasse de Monsieur le President_,"The barrier which Love keeps--and I want to take him with us as theprince and princess did in the fairy tale."
"Then you must carry him all by yourself," laughed Theodora. "And hewill be heavy and tire you, long before we get to Versailles."
This time she was on her guard--and besides they were walking--and hewas no longer caressing the edge of her dress with his wild flower; itwas almost easy to fence now.
But when they reached the automobile and he bent over to tuck the rugin--and she felt the touch of his hands and perceived the scent ofhim--the subtle scent, not a perfume hardly, of his coat, or his hair, awild rush of that passionate disturbance came over her again, making herheart beat and her eyes dilate.
And Hector saw and understood, and bit his lips, and clinched his handstogether under the rug, because so great was his own emotion that hefeared what he should say or do. He dared not, dared not chance adismissal from the joy of her presence forever, after this one day.
"I will wait until I know she loves me enough to certainly forgiveme--and then, and then--" he said to himself.
But Fate, who was looking on, laughed while she chanted, "The hour isnow at hand when these steeds of passion whose reins you have left looseso long will not ask your leave, noble friend, but will carry youwhither they will."
