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Beyond the Rocks, A Love Story

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<h2>XII</h2> Every one behaved with immense propriety—they said just what they should have said, there was no gêne at all. And when they went up the stairs together to arrange their hair and their hats for dinner, the elder woman slipped her arm through Theodora's. "I am going to marry your father, my dear," she said, "and I want you to be the first to wish me joy." The dinner went off with great gayety. The widow especially was full of bright sayings, and Captain Fitzgerald made the most devoted lover. Not too elated by his good-fortune, and yet thoroughly happy and tender. He continually told himself that fate had been uncommonly kind to mix business and pleasure so dexterously, for if the widow had not possessed a cent, he still would have been glad to marry her. He had been quite honest with her on their drive, explaining his financial situation and his disadvantages, which he said could only be slightly balanced by his devotion and affection—but of those he would lay the whole at her feet. And the widow had said: "Now look here, I am old enough just to know what my money is worth—and if you like to put it as a business speculation for me, I consider, in buying the companion for the rest of my life who happens to suit me, I am laying out the sum to my own advantage." After that there was no more to be said, and he had spent his time making love to her like any Romeo of twenty, and both were content. All through dinner a certain strange excitement dominated Theodora. She felt there would be more deep emotion yet to come for her before the day should close. How were they going back to Paris? The moon had risen pure and full, she could see it through the windows. The night was soft and warm, and when the last sips of coffee and liqueurs were finished it was still only nine o'clock. On an occasion when no personal excitement was stirring Captain Fitzgerald he probably would have hesitated about approving of Theodora spending the entire evening alone with Lord Bracondale. She was married, it was true—but to Josiah Brown—and Dominic Fitzgerald knew his world. To-night, however, neither the widow nor he had outside thoughts beyond themselves. Indeed, Mrs. McBride was so overflowing with joy she had almost a feeling of satisfaction in the knowledge that the others would possibly be happy too—when she thought of them at all! Again she decided the situation for every one, and again fate laughed. There was no use staying any longer at Versailles, because the park gates were shut and they could not stroll in the moonlight, but a drive back and a few turns in the Bois with a little supper at Madrid would be a fitting ending to the day. "You must meet us at Madrid at half-past ten," she said; "and Dominic"—the name came out as if from long habit—"telephone for a table in the bosquet—Numero 3—I like that garçon best, he knows my wants." And so they got into their separate automobiles. "Let us have all the windows down," said Theodora, "to get all the beautiful air—it is such a lovely night." Her heart was beating as it had never beat before. How could she control herself! How keep calm and ordinary during the enchanting drive! Her hands were cold as ice, while flaming roses burned in the white velvet cheeks. And Hector saw it all and understood, and passion surged madly in his veins. For a mile or two there was silence—only the moonlight and the swift rushing through the air, and the wild beating of their hearts. And so they came to the long, dark stretch of wood by St. Cloud. And the devil whispered sophistries and fate continued to laugh. Then passion was too strong for him. "Darling," he said, and his fine resolutions fled to the winds, while his deep voice was hoarse and broken. "My darling!—God! I love you so—beyond all words or sense—Oh, let us be happy for this one night—we must part afterwards I know, and I will accept that—but just for to-night there can be no sin and no harm in being a little happy—when we are going to pay for it with all the rest of our lives. Let us have the memory of one hour of bliss—the angels themselves could not grudge us that." One hour of bliss out of a lifetime! Would it be a terrible sin, Theodora wondered, a terrible, unforgivable sin to let him kiss her—to let him hold her just once in his arms. There was no light in the coupé—he had seen to that—only the great lamps flaring in the road and the moonlight. She clasped her hands in an agony of emotion. She was but a dove in the net of an experienced fowler, but she did not know or think of that, nor he either. They only knew they loved each other passionately, and this situation was more than they could bear. "Oh, I trust you!" she said. "If you tell me it is not a terrible sin I will believe you—I do not know—I cannot think—I—" But she could speak no more because she was in his arms. The intense, unutterable joy—the maddening, intoxicating bliss of the next hour! To have her there, unresisting—to caress her lips and eyes and hair—to murmur love words—to call her his very own! Nothing in heaven could equal this, and no hell was a price too great to pay—so it seemed to him. It was the supremest moment of his life; and how much more of hers who knew none other, who had never received the kisses of men or thrilled to any touch but his! After a little she drew herself away and shivered. She knew she was wicked now—very, very wicked—but it was again characteristic of her that having made her decision there was no vacillation about her. The die was cast—for that night they were to be happy, and all the rest of her life should be penitence and atonement. But to-night there was no room for anything but joy. She had never dreamed in her most secret thoughts of moments so gloriously sweet as these—to have a lover—and such a lover! And it was true—it must be true—that they had lived before, and all this passion was not the growth of one short week. It seemed as if it was all her life, all her being—it could mean nothing now but Hector—Hector—Hector! And over and over again he made her whisper in his ear that she loved him—nor could she ever tire of hearing him say he worshipped her. Oh, they were foolish and tender and wonderful, as lovers always are. He had given his orders beforehand and the chauffeur was a man of intelligence. They drove in the most beautiful allée when they came to the Bois—and no incident ruffled the exquisite peace and bliss of their time. Suddenly Hector became aware of the fact it was just upon half-past ten, and they were almost in sight of Madrid, which would end it all. And a pang of hideous pain shot through him, and he did not speak. In the distance the lights blazed into the night, and the sight of them froze Theodora to ice. It was finished then—their hour of joy. "My darling," he exclaimed, passionately, "good-bye, and remember all my life is in your hands, and I will spend it in worship of you and thankfulness for this hour of yourself you have given to me. I am yours to do with as you will until death do us part." "And I," said Theodora, "will never love another man—and if we have sinned we have sinned together—and now, oh, Hector, we must face our fates." Her voice tore his very heartstrings in its unutterable pathos. And in that last passionate kiss it seemed as if they exchanged their very souls. Then they drove into the glare of the restaurant lights, having tasted of the knowledge of good and evil. <hr style="width: 65%;" /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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