Beyond The Rocks: A Love Story

by Elinor Glyn

  XXVIII

  Next morning, over a rather late breakfast in his sitting-room atClaridge's, Josiah's second post came in.

  All had gone well with his business in the City the day before, and inthe afternoon he had run down to Bessington Hall, returning late atnight.

  He was feeling unusually well and self-important, and his thoughtsturned to pleasant things: To the delight of having Theodora once moreas a wife; of his hope of founding a family--the Browns ofBessington--why not? Had not a boy at the gate called him squire?

  "Good-day to 'e, squire," he had said, and that was pleasant to hear.

  If only his tiresome cough would keep off in the autumn, he mighthimself shoot the extensive coverts he had ordered to be stocked on theestate. He had heard there were schools for would-be sportsmen to learnthe art of handling a gun, and he would make inquiries.

  All the prospect was fair.

  He picked up his letters and turned them over. Nothing of importance.Ah, yes! there was Theodora's. The first letter she had ever writtenhim, and such a long one! What could the girl have to say? Surely notall that about trains! He opened the envelope with a knife which lay byhis plate, and this is what he read--read with whitening face andsinking heart:

  "BEECHLEIGH, _June 5th_.

  HECTOR, MY BELOVED!--Oh, for this last time I must think of you as that! Dearest, we are parted now and may never meet again, and the pain of it all kept me silent yesterday, when my heart was breaking with the anguish and longing to tell you how I loved you, how you were not going away suffering alone. Oh, it has all crept upon us, this great, great love! It was fate, and it was useless to struggle against it. Only we must not let it be the reason of our doing wrong--that would be to degrade it, and love should not live in an atmosphere of degradation. I could not go away with you, could not have you for my lover without breaking a bargain--a bargain over which I have given my word. Of course I did not know what love meant when I was married. In France one does not think of that as connected with a husband. It was just a duty to be got through to help papa and my sisters. But my part of the bargain was myself, and in return for giving that I have money and a home, and papa and Sarah and Clementine are comfortable and happy. And as Josiah has kept his side of it, so I must keep mine, and be faithful to him always in word and deed. Dearest, it is too terrible to think of this material aspect to a bond which now I know should only be one of love and faith and tenderness. But it _is_ a bond, and I have given my word, and no happiness could come to us if I should break it, _as Josiah has not broken his_. And oh, Hector, you do not know how good he has always been to me, and generous and indulgent! It is not his fault that he is not of our class, and I must do my utmost to make him happy, and atone for this wound which I have unwittingly given him, and which he is, and must always remain, unconscious of. Oh, if something could have warned me, after that first time we met, that I would love you--had begun to love you--even then there would have been time to draw back, to save us both, perhaps, from suffering. And yet, and yet, I do not know, we might have missed the greatest and noblest good of all our lives. Dearest, I want you to keep the memory of me as something happy. Each year, when the spring-time comes and the young fresh green, I want you to look back on our day at Versailles, and to say to yourself, 'Life cannot be all sad, because nature gave the earth the returning spring.' And some spring must come for us, too--if only in our hearts.

  "And now, O my beloved, good-bye! I cannot even tell to you the anguish which is wringing my heart. It is all summed up in this. I love you! I love you! and we must say forever a farewell!

  "THEODORA.

  "P.S.--I am sending this to your home."

  As he read the last words the paper slipped from Josiah's nervelesshands, and for many minutes he sat as one stricken blind and dumb. Thenhis poor, plebeian figure seemed to crumple up, and with an inarticulatecry of rage and despair he fell forward, with his head upon hisout-stretched arms across the breakfast-table.

  How long he remained there he never knew. It seemed a whole lifetimelater when he began to realize things--to know where he was--toremember.

  "Oh, God!" he said. "Oh, God!"

  He picked up the letter and read it all over again, weighing every word.

  Who was this thief who had stolen his wife? Hector? Hector? Yes, it wasLord Bracondale; he remembered now he had heard him called that atBeechleigh. He would like to kill him. But was he a thief, after all? orwas not--he--Josiah the thief? To have stolen her happiness, and herlife. Her young life that might have been so fair, though how did heknow that at the time! He had never thought of such things. She was whathe desired, and he had bought her with gold. No, he was not a thief, hehad bought her with gold, and because of that she was going to keep toher bargain, and make him a true and faithful wife.

  "Oh, God!" he said again. "Oh, God!"

  Presently the business method of his life came back to him and helpedhim. He must think this matter over carefully and see if there was anyway out. It all looked black enough--his future, that but an hour agohad seemed so full of promise. He rang for the waiter and gave orders tohave the breakfast things taken away. That accomplished, he requestedthat he should not be disturbed upon any pretext whatsoever. And then,drawn up to his writing-table, he began deliberately to think.

  Yes, from the beginning Theodora had been good and meek and docile. Heremembered a thousand gentle, unselfish things she had done for him. Herpatience, her kindness, her unfailing sympathy in all his ills, theconsideration and respect with which she treated him. When--when couldthis thing have begun? In Paris? Only these short weeks ago--was love sosudden a passion as that? Then he turned to the letter again and oncemore read it through. Poor Theodora, poor little girl, he thought. Hisanger was gone now; nothing remained but an intolerable pain. And thislord--of her own class--her own class! How that thought hurt. What ofhim? He was handsome and young, and just the mate for Theodora. And shehad said good-bye to him, and was going to do her best to makehim--Josiah--happy. He gave a wild laugh. Oh, the mockery of it all, themockery of it all! Well, if she could renounce happiness to keep herword, what could he do for her in return? She must never know of themistake she had made in putting the letters into the wrong envelopes.That he could save her from. But the man? He would know--for he musthave got the note intended for him--Josiah. What must be done aboutthat? He thought and thought. And at last he drew a sheet of paperforward and wrote, in his neat, clerklike hand, just a few lines.

  And these were they:

  "MY LORD,--You will have received, I presume, a communication addressed to you and intended for me. The enclosed speaks for itself. I send it to you because it is my duty to do so. If I were a young man, though I am not of your class, I would kill you. But I am growing old, and my day is over. All I ask of you is never, _under any circumstances_, to let my wife know of her mistake about the letters. I do not wish to grieve her, or cause her more suffering than you have already brought upon her. "Believe me, "Yours faithfully, "JOSIAH BROWN."

  Then he got down the _Peerage_ and found the correct form ofsuperscription he must place upon the envelope.

  He folded the two letters, his own and Theodora's, and, slipping themin, sealed the packet with his great seal which was graven with a deepJ.B. And lest he should change his mind, he rang the bell for thewaiter, and had it despatched to the post at once--to be sent byexpress. If possible it must reach Lord Bracondale at the same time asthe other letter--Theodora's letter to himself in the wrong envelope.

  And then poor Josiah subsided into his chair again, and suffered andsuffered. He was conscious of nothing else--just intense, overwhelmingsuffering.

  When his secretary, from his office in the City, came in aboutlunc
heon-time to transact some important business, he was horrified anddistressed to see the change in his patron; for Josiah looked crumpledand shrivelled and old.

  "I caught a chill coming from Bessington last night," he explained, "andI will send for Toplington to give me a draught if you will kindly touchthe bell."

  Then he tried to concentrate his mind on his affairs and get through theday. But the gray look kept growing and growing, and the secretarydecided towards evening to suggest sending for Theodora. Josiah,however, would not hear of this. He was not ill, he said, it was merelya chill; he would be quite restored by a night's rest, and Mrs. Brownwould be with him, anyway, in the morning. Of what use to alarm herunnecessarily. But he had unfortunately mislaid her letter with theexact time of her train, so he had better telegraph to her before sixo'clock to make sure. He wrote it out himself. Just:

  "Stupidly mislaid your letter. What time did you say for the carriage to meet your train? "JOSIAH."

  And about eight o'clock her reply came, and then he went to bed,wondering if he had reached the summit of human suffering or if therewould be more to come.