by Elinor Glyn
XI
They were both a little constrained upon the journey back toVersailles--and both felt it. But when they turned into the Porte St.Antoine Theodora woke up.
"Do you know," she said, "something tells me that for a long, long timeI shall not again have such a happy day. It can't be more than half-pastfive or six--need we go back to the Reservoirs yet? Could we not havetea at the little cafe by the lake?"
He gave the order to his chauffeur, and then he turned to her.
"I, too, want to prolong it all," he said, "and I want to make youhappy--always."
"It is only lately that I have begun to think about things," she said,softly--"about happiness, I mean, and its possibilities andimpossibilities. I think before my marriage I must have been halfasleep, and very young."
And Hector thought, "You are still, but I shall awake you."
"You see," she continued, "I had never read any novels, or books aboutlife until _Jean d'Agreve_. And now I wonder sometimes if it is possibleto be really happy--really, really happy?"
"I know it is," he said; "but only in one way."
She did not dare to ask in what way. She looked down and clasped herhands.
"I once thought," she went on, hurriedly, "that I was perfectly happythe first time Josiah gave me two thousand francs, and told me to go outwith my maid and buy just what I wished with it; and oh, we boughteverything I could think Sarah and Clementine could want, numbers andnumbers of things, and I remember I was fearfully excited when they weresent off to Dieppe. But I never knew if I chose well or if they likedthem all quite, and now to do that does not give me nearly so much joy."
Soon they drew up at the little cafe and ordered tea, which he guessedprobably would be very bad and they would not drink. But tea wasEnglish, and more novel than coffee for Theodora, and that she musthave, she said.
She was so gracious and sweet in the pouring of it out, when presentlyit came, and the elderly waiter seemed so sympathetic, and it was allgay and bright with the late afternoon sun streaming upon them.
"The garcon takes us for a honeymoon couple," Hector said; "he sees youhave beautiful new clothes, and that we have not yet begun to yawn witheach other."
But Theodora had not this view of honeymoons. To her a honeymoon meant anightmare, now happily a thing of the past, and almost forgotten.
"Do not speak of it," she said, and she put out her hands as if to wardoff an ugly sight, and Hector bent over the table and touched herfingers gently as he said:
"Forgive me," and he raged within himself. How could he have been sogauche, so clumsy and unlike himself. He had punished them both, anddestroyed an illusion. He meant that she should picture herself and himas married lovers, and she had only seen--Josiah Brown. They both fellinto silence and so finished their repast.
"I want you to walk now," Hector said, "through some delicious alleeswhere I will show you Enceladus after he was struck by thethunders of Zeus. You will like him, I think, and there is finegreensward around him where we can sit awhile."
"I was always sorry for him," said Theodora; "and oh, how I would liketo go to Sicily and see AEtna and his fiery breath coming forth, and toknow when the island quakes it is the poor giant turning his wearyside!"
To go to Sicily--and with her! The picture conjured up in Hector'simagination made him thrill again.
Then he told her about it all, he charmed her fancy and excited herimagination, and by the time they came to their goal the feeling of jarhad departed, and the dangerous sense of attraction--of nearness--hadreturned.
It was nearly seven o'clock, and here among the trees all was in a softgloom of evening light.
"Is not this still and far away?" he said, as they sat on an old stonebench. "I often stay the whole morning here when I spend a week atVersailles."
"How peaceful and beautiful! Oh, I would like a week here, too!" andTheodora sighed.
"You must not sigh, beautiful princess," he implored, "on this our happyday."
The slender lines of her figure seemed all drooping. She reminded himmore than ever of the fragment of Psyche in the Naples Museum.
"No, I must not sigh," she said. "But it seems suddenly to have grownsad--the air--what does it mean? Tell me, you who know so many things?"There was a pathos in her voice like a child in distress.
It communicated itself to him, it touched some chords in his naturehitherto silent. His whole being rushed out to her in tenderness.
"It seems to me it is because the time grows nearer when we must go backto the world. First to dinner with the others, and then--Paris. I wouldlike to stay thus always--just alone with you."
She did not refute this solution of her sadness. She knew it was true.And when he looked into her eyes, the blue was troubled with a mist asof coming tears.
Then passion--more mighty than ever--seized him once more. He only felta wild desire to comfort her, to kiss away the mist--to talk to her. Ah!
"Theodora!" he said, and his voice vibrated with emotion, while he bentforward and seized both her hands, which he lifted to his face--she hadnot put on her gloves again after the tea--her cool, little, tenderhands! He kissed and kissed their palms.
"Darling--darling," he said, incoherently, "what have I done to makeyour dear eyes wet? Oh, I love you so, I love you so, and I have onlymade you sad."
She gave a little, inarticulate cry. If a wounded dove could sob, itmight have been the noise of a dove, so beseeching and so pathetic. "Oh,please--you must not," she said. "Oh, what have you done!--you havekilled our happy day."
And this was the beginning of his awakening. He sat for many momentswith his head buried in his hands. What, indeed, had he done!--and theywould be turned out of their garden of Eden--and all because he was abrute, who could not control his passion, but must let it run riot onthe first opportunity.
He suffered intensely. Suffered, perhaps, for the first time in hislife.
She had not said one word of anger--only that tone in her voice reachedto his heart.
He did not move and did not speak, and presently she touched his handssoftly with her slender fingers, it seemed like the caress of an angel'swing.
"Listen," she said, so gently. "Oh, you must not grieve--but it was toogood to be true, our day. I ought to have known to where we weredrifting, I am wicked to have let you say all you have said to-day, butoh, I was asleep, I think, and I only knew that I was happy. But now youhave shown me--and oh, the dream is broken up. Come, let us go back tothe world."
Then he raised his eyes to her face, and they were haggard andmiserable.
How her simple speech, blaming herself who was all innocent, touched hisheart and filled him with shame at his unworthiness.
"Oh, forgive me!" he pleaded. "Oh, please forgive me! I am mad, I think,I love you so--and I had to tell you--and yes, I will say it all now,and then you can punish me. From the first moment I looked into yourangel eyes it has been growing, you are so true and so sweet, and somiles beyond all other women in the world. Each minute I have loved youmore--and all the time I thought to win you. Yes, you may well turnaway, and shrink from me now that you know the brute I am. I thought Iwould make you love me, and you would forgive me then. But I havesuddenly seen your soul, my darling, and I am ashamed, and I can onlyask you to forgive me and let me worship you and be your slave--I willnot ask for any return--only to worship you and be your slave--that Imay show you I am not all brute and may earn your pardon."
And then Theodora's blindness fell from her and she knew that she lovedhim--she had faced the fact at last. And all over her being therethrilled a mad, wild joy. It surged up and crushed out fear andpain--for just one moment--and then she too, in her turn, covered herface with her hands.
"Oh, hush! hush!" she said. "What have you done--what have we bothdone!"
It was characteristic of her that now she realized she loved him she didnot fence any longer, she never thought of concealing it from him or ofblaming him. They were sinners both, he and she equally guilty.
Another woman might have argued, "He is fooling me; perhaps he has saidthese things before--I must at least hide my own heart," but notTheodora. Her trust was complete--she loved him--therefore he was aperfect knight--and if he was wicked she was wicked too.
Her gentian eyes were full of tears as she let fall her hands and lookedat him. "Oh yes, I have been asleep--I should have known from thebeginning why, why I wanted to see you so much--I should never havecome--and I should have understood in the wood that we could not leaveit without bringing Love with us--and now we may not be happy any more."
And then it was his turn to be exalted with wild joy.
"Do you know what you have said," he whispered, breathless. "Your wordsmean that you love me--Theodora--darling mine." And once again passionblazed in his eyes, and he would have taken her in his arms; but she putup her hands and gently pushed him from her.
"Yes," she said, simply, "I love you, but that only makes it all theharder--and we must say good-bye at once, and go our different ways. Youwho are so strong and know so much--I trust you, dear--you must help meto do what is right."
She never thought of reproaching him, of telling him, as she very wellcould have done, that he had taken cruel advantage of herunsophistication. All her mind was full of the fact that they were bothvery sad and wicked and must help each other.
"I _cannot_ say good-bye," he said, "now that I know you love me,darling; it is impossible. How can we part--what will the days be--howcould we get through our lives?"
She looked at him, and her eyes were the eyes of a wounded thing--dumband pitiful, and asking for help.
Then the something that was fine and noble in Hector Bracondale rose upin him--the crust of selfishness and cynicism fell from him like a mask.He suddenly saw himself as he was, and she--as she was--and adetermination came over him to grow worthy of her love, obey herslightest wish, even if it must break his heart.
He dropped upon his knees beside her on the greensward, and buried hisface in her lap.
"Darling--my queen," he said. "I will do whatever you command--but oh,it need not be good-bye. Don't let me sicken and die out of yourpresence. I swear, on my word of honor, I will never trouble you. Let meworship you and watch over you and make your life brighter. Oh, God!there can be no sin in that."
"I trust you!" she said, and she touched the waves of his hair. "And nowwe must not linger--we must come at once out of this place. I--I cannotbear it any more."
And so they went--into an _allee_ of close, cropped trees, where thegloom was almost twilight; but if there was pain there was joy too, andalmost peace in their hearts.
All the anguish was for the afterwards. Love, who is a god, was too nearto his kingdom to admit of any rival.
"Hector," she whispered, and as she said his name a wild thrill ranthrough him again. "Hector--the Austrian Prince at Armenonville saidlife was a current down which our barks floated, only to be broken up onthe rocks if it was our fate; and I said if we tried very hard someangel would steer us past them into smooth waters beyond; and I want youto help me to find the angel, dear--will you?"
But all he could say was that she was the angel, the only angel inheaven or earth.
And so they came at last to the Bason de Neptune, and on through theside door into the Reservoirs--and there was the widow's automobile thatmoment arrived.
