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Beyond the Rocks, A Love Story

<h2>XVIII</h2> Next day Lady Anningford called, as she had promised, at Claridge's, and found Mrs. Brown at home, although it was only three o'clock in the afternoon. She had not two minutes to wait in the well-furnished first-floor sitting-room, but during that time she noticed there were one or two things about which showed the present occupant was a woman of taste, and there were such quantities of flowers. Flowers, flowers, everywhere. Theodora entered already dressed for her afternoon drive. She came forward with that perfect grace which characterized her every movement. If she felt very timid and nervous it did not show in her sweet face, and Lady Anningford perceived Hector had every excuse for his infatuation. "I am so fortunate to find you at home, Mrs. Brown," she said. "My brother has told me so much about you, and I was longing to meet you. May we sit down on this sofa and talk a little, or were you just starting for your drive?" "Of course we may sit down," said Theodora. "My drive does not matter in the least. It was so good of you to come." And her inward thought was that she would like Hector's sister. Anne's frankness and sans gêne were so pleasing. They exchanged a few agreeable sentences while each measured the other, and then Lady Anningford said: "You come from Australia, don't you?" "Australia!" smiled Theodora, while her eyes opened wide. "Oh no! I have never been out of France and Belgium and places like that. My husband lived in Melbourne for some years, though." "I thought it could not be possible," quoth Anne to herself. "Then you don't know much of England yet?" she said, aloud. "It is my first visit; and it seems very dull and rainy. This is the only really fine day we have had since we arrived." Anne soon dexterously elicited an outline of Theodora's plans and what she was doing. They would only remain in town until Whitsuntide, perhaps returning later for a week or two; and Mrs. Devlyn, to whom her father had sent her an introduction, had been kind enough to tell them what to do and how to see a little of London. She was going to a ball to-night. The first real ball she had ever been to in her life, she said, ingenuously. And Lady Anningford looked at her and each moment fell more under her charm. "The ball at Harrowfield House, I expect, to meet the King of Guatemala," she said, knowing Lady Harrowfield was Florence Devlyn's cousin. "That is it," said Theodora. "Then you must dance with Hector—my brother," she said. She launched his name suddenly; she wanted to see what effect it would have on Theodora. "He is sure to be there, and he dances divinely." She was rewarded for her thrust: just the faintest pink came into the white velvet cheeks, and the blue eyes melted softly. To dance with Hector! Ah! Then the radiance was replaced by a look of sadness, and she said, quietly: "Oh, I do not think I shall dance at all. My husband is rather an invalid, and we shall only go in for a little while." No, she must not dance with Hector. Those joys were not for her—she must not even think of it. "How extraordinarily beautiful she is!" Anne thought, when presently, the visit ended, she found herself rolling along in her electric brougham towards the park. "And I feel I shall love her. I wonder what her Christian name is?" Theodora had promised they would lunch in Charles Street with her the next day if her husband should be well enough after the ball. And Anne decided to collect as many nice people to meet them as she could in the time. At the corner of Grosvenor Square she met an old friend, one Colonel Lowerby, commonly called the Crow, and stopped to pick him up and take him on with her. He was the one person she wanted to talk to at this juncture. She had known him all her life, and was accustomed to prattle to him on all subjects. He was always safe, and gruff, and honest. "I have just done something so interesting, Crow," she told him, as they went along towards Regent's Park, to which sylvan spot she had directed her chauffeur, to be more free to talk in peace to her companion. Some of her friends were capable of making scandals, even about the dear old Crow, she knew. "And what have you done?" he asked. "Of course you have heard the tale from Uncle Evermond, of Hector and the lady at Monte Carlo?" He nodded. "Well, there is not a word of truth in it; he is in love, though, with the most beautiful woman I have ever seen in my life—and I have just been to call upon her. And to-morrow you have got to come to lunch to meet her—and tell me what you think." "Very well," said the Crow. "I was feeding elsewhere, but I always obey you. Continue your narrative." "I want you to tell me what to do, and how I can help them." "My dear child," said the Crow, sententiously, as was his habit, "help them to what? She is married, of course, or Hector would not be in love with her. Do you want to help them to part or to meet? or to go to heaven or to hell? or to spend what Monica Ellerwood calls 'a Saturday to Monday amid rural scenery,' which means both of those things one after the other!" "Crow, dear, you are disagreeable," said Lady Anningford, "and I have a cold in my head and cannot compete with you in words to-day." "Then say what you want, and I'll listen." "Hector met them in Paris, it seems, and must have fallen wildly in love, because I have never seen him as he is now." "How is he?—and who is 'them'?" "Why, she and the husband, of course, and Hector is looking sad and distrait—and has really begun to feel at last." "Serve him right!" "Crow, you are insupportable! Can you not see I am serious and want your help?" "Fire away, then, my good child, and explain matters. You are too vague!" So she told him all she knew—which was little enough; but she was eloquent upon Theodora's beauty. "She has the face of an angel," she ended her description with. "Always mistrust 'em," interjected the Crow. "Such a figure and the nicest manner, and she is in love with Hector, too, of course—because she could not possibly help herself—could she?—if he is being lovely to her." "I have not your prejudiced eyes for him—though Hector certainly is a decent fellow enough to look at," allowed Colonel Lowerby. "But all this does not get to what you want to do for them." "I want them to be happy." "Permanently, or for the moment?" "Both." "An impossible combination, with these abominably inconsiderate marriage laws we suffer under in this country, my child." "Then what ought I to do?" "You can do nothing but accelerate or hinder matters for a little. If Hector is really in love, and the woman, too, they are bound to dree their weird, one way or the other, themselves. You will be doing the greatest kindness if you can keep them apart, and avoid a scandal if possible." "My dear Crow, I have never heard of your being so thoroughly unsympathetic before." "And I have never heard of Hector being really in love before, and with an angel, too—deuced dangerous folk at the best of times!" "Then there are mother and Morella Winmarleigh to be counted with." "Neither of them can see beyond their noses. Miss Winmarleigh is sure of him, she thinks—and your mother, too." "No; mother has her doubts." "They will both be anti?" "Extremely anti." "To get back to facts, then, your plan is to assist your brother to see this 'angel,' and smooth the path to the final catastrophe." "You worry me, Crow. Why should there be a catastrophe?" "Is she a young woman?" "A mere baby. Certainly not more than twenty or so." "Then it is inevitable, if the husband don't count. You have not described him yet." "Because I have never seen him," said Lady Anningford. "Hector did say last night, though, that he was an impossible Australian millionaire." "These people have a strong sense of personal rights—they are even blood-thirsty sometimes, and expect virtue in their women. If he had been just an English snob, the social bauble might have proved an immense eye-duster; but when you say Australian it gives me hope. He'll take her away, or break Hector's head, before things become too embarrassing." "Crow, you are brutal." "And a good thing, too. That is what we all want, a little more brutality. The whole of the blessed show here is being ruined with this sickly sentimentality. Flogging done away with; every silly nerve pandered to. By Jove! the next time we have to fight any country we shall have an anæsthetic served round with the rations to keep Tommy Atkins's delicate nerves from suffering from the consciousness of the slaughter he inflicts upon the enemy." "Crow, you are violent." "Yes, I am. I am sick of the whole thing. I would reintroduce prize-fighting and bear-baiting and gladiatorial shows to brace the nation up a bit. We'll get jammed full of rotten vices like those beastly foreigners soon." "I did not bring you into Regent's Park to hear a tirade upon the nation's needs, Crow," Anne reminded him, smiling, "but to get your sympathy and advice upon this affair of Hector. You know you are the only person in the world I ever talk to about intimate things." "Dear Queen Anne," he said, "I will always do what I can for you. But I tell you seriously, when a man like Hector loves a woman really, you might as well try to direct Niagara Falls as to turn him any way but the one he means to go." "He wants me to be kind to her. Do you advise me just to let the thing drop, then?" "No; be as kind as you like—only don't assist them to destruction." "She goes into the country on Saturday for Whitsuntide, as we all do. Hector is going down to Bracondale alone." "That looks desperate. I shall see Hector, and judge for myself." "You must be sure to go to the ball at Harrowfield House to-night, then," Anne said. "They are both going. I say both because I know she is, and so, of course, Hector will be there too. I shall go, naturally, and then we can decide what we can do about it after we have seen them together." And all this time Theodora was thinking how charming Anne was, and how kind, and that she felt a little happier because of her kindness. And, hard as it would be, she would not leave Josiah's side that night or dance with Hector. And Hector was thinking— "What is the good of anything in this wide world without her? I must see her. For good or ill, I cannot keep away." He was deep in the toils of desire and passionate love for a woman belonging to someone else and out of his reach, and for whom he was hungry. Thus the primitive forces of nature were in violent activity, and his soul was having a hard fight. It was the first time in his life that a woman had really mattered or had been impossible to obtain. He had always looked upon them as delightful accessories: sport first, and woman, who was only another form of sport, second. He had not neglected the obligations of his great position, but they came naturally to him as of the day's work. They were not real interests in his life. And when stripped of the veneer of civilization he was but a passionate, primitive creature, like numbers of others of his class and age. While the elevation of Theodora's pure soul was an actual influence upon him, he had thought it would be possible—difficult, perhaps—but possible to obey her—to keep from troubling her—to regulate his passion into worship at a distance. But since then new influences had begun to work—prominent among them being jealousy. To see her surrounded by others—who were men and would desire her, too—drove him mad. Josiah was difficult enough to bear. The thought that he was her husband, and had the rights of this position, always turned him sick with raging disgust; but that was the law, and a law accepted since the beginning of time. These others were not of the law—they were the same as himself—and would all try to win her. He had no fear of their succeeding, but, to watch them trying, and he himself unable to prevent them, was a thought he could not tolerate. He had no settled plan. He did not deliberately say to himself: "I will possess her at all costs. I will be her lover, and take her by force from the bonds of this world." His whole mind was in a ferment and chaos. There was no time to think of the position in cold blood. His passion hurried him on from hour to hour. This day after the opera, when the hideous impossibility of the situation had come upon him with full force, he felt as Lancelot— "His mood was often like a fiend, and rose and drove him into wastes and solitudes for agony, Who was yet a living soul." There are all sorts of loves in life, but when it is the real great passion, nor fear of hell nor hope of heaven can stem the tide—for long! He had gone out in his automobile, and was racing ahead considerably above the speed limit. He felt he must do something. Had it been winter and hunting-time, he would have taken any fences—any risks. He returned and got to Ranelagh, and played a game of polo as hard as he could, and then he felt a little calmer. The idea came to him as it had done to Anne. Lady Harrowfield was Florence Devlyn's cousin; she would probably have squeezed an invitation for her protégées for the royal ball to-night. He would go—he must see Theodora. He must hold her in his arms, if only in the mazes of the waltz. And the thought of that sent the blood whirling madly once more in his veins. Everything he had looked upon so lightly up to now had taken a new significance in reference to Theodora. Florence Devlyn, for instance, was no fit companion for her—Florence Devlyn, whom he met at every decent house and had never before disapproved of, except as a bore and a sycophant. <hr style="width: 65%;" /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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