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Elinor Glyn was a British novelist and scriptwriter who specialised in romantic fiction that was considered scandalous for its time. She popularized the concept of It.Collection of 19 Works of Elinor Glyn________________________________________Beyond The RocksElizabeth Visits AmericaHalcyoneHigh NoonHis HourMan and MaidOne DayRed HairThe Career of Katherine BushThe Damsel and the SageThe Letters of her Mother to ElizabethThe Man and the MomentThe Point of ViewThe Price of ThingsThe Reason WhyThe Reflections of AmbrosineThe Visits of ElizabethThree ThingsThree Weeks
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The Premium Complete Collection of Elinor Glyn
Detailed Biography of Elinor Glyn
Beyond The Rocks
Elizabeth Visits America
Man and Maid
The Career of Katherine Bush
The Damsel and the Sage
The Letters of her Mother to Elizabeth
The Man and the Moment
The Point of View
The Price of Things
The Reason Why
The Reflections of Ambrosine
The Visits of Elizabeth
Elinor Glyn (1864-1943) English author, journalist and screen writer best known for Three Weeks (1907) which caused a scandal when published.
Glyn coined the term `It' in her novel The Man and the Moment (1914) a 1920s euphemism for sex appeal of which the actress Clara Bow was the `It' girl. Glyn herself was a vivacious green-eyed red-head who wrote high-spirited romances that dealt with aristocracy and issues of morality in society.
Elinor Glyn (née Sutherland) was born on 17 October 1864 in Jersey, Channel Islands, England. Her mother, also named Elinor, (née Saunders) (1840/41–1937) was from an Anglo-French family who had emigrated to Canada. Glyn's father was Douglas Sutherland, a civil engineer of Scottish descent who died when Elinor was three months old. Elinor's mother returned to Guelph, Ontario, Canada, with Elinor and her sister Lucy in tow. Lucy, or Lady Duff Gordon (1863-1935) would be one of the survivors of the Titanic sinking and become the famous couturier known as Lucile.
With Glyn's mother remarried in 1871 they returned to Jersey, England when she was eight. The young and precocious Glyn was a voracious reader interested in French history and mythology, though she had no formal education due to her strong will and troubles with governesses. She would later be drawn to mysticism and romance. As a young girl she would take up writing and keeping a diary. In her teens and twenties she often travelled to the continent, gaining many young male admirers.
Though Glyn came from humble means, or because of, she intended to find her place in upper-class society. On 27 April 1892, twenty-eight years old, the romantically idealistic Elinor married Clayton Glyn (1857–1915) landowner. For a few years their life was one of luxury and ease and the couple had two daughters, Margot and Juliet. After coming out of a post-partum depression, Glyn was determined to get back to writing, using her letters to her mother as a basis for her book The Visits of Elizabeth. (1900) Using a heretofore rarely tapped literary device of intimate correspondence - naïve innocent debutante Elizabeth writes a series of letters observing society and clandestine relationships to her mother. It was Glyn's first taste of success and fame, serialised in The World, though she had been writing beauty and fashion articles for Scottish Life and Cosmopolitan magazine since 1897. Glyn's marriage to Clayton was rife with incompatibilities and she would eventually seek companionship and romance elsewhere.
Glyn travelled back and forth from the United States to Brighton and lived for a time at Curzon House, Saltdean. Her novella It (1927) brought Glyn even more income and notoriety than Three Weeks ever had. Her autobiography Romantic Adventure was published in 1936. The Third Eye (1940) was her last novel.
On 23 September 1943, Elinor Glyn died in London at 39 Royal Avenue, Chelsea after a short illness.
Beyond the Rocks
_Beyond the Rocks
A Love Story
Produced by Famous Players-Lasky Corp.
starring Gloria Swanson with Rodolph Valentino
New York The Macaulay Company_ Printed in the U.S.A.
Beyond the Rocks
The hours were composed mostly of dull or rebellious moments during the period of Theodora's engagement to Mr. Brown. From the very first she had thought it hard that she should have had to take this situation, instead of Sarah or Clementine, her elder step-sisters, so much nearer his age than herself. To do them justice, either of these ladies would have been glad to relieve her of the obligation to become Mrs. Brown, but Mr. Brown thought otherwise.
A young and beautiful wife was what he bargained for.
To enter a family composed of three girls--two of the first family, one almost thirty and a second very plain--a father with a habit of accumulating debts and obliged to live at Bruges and inexpensive foreign sea-side towns, required a strong motive; and this Josiah Brown found in the deliciously rounded, white velvet cheek of Theodora, the third daughter, to say nothing of her slender grace, the grace of a young fawn, and a pair of gentian-blue eyes that said things to people in the first glance.
Poor, foolish, handsome Dominic Fitzgerald, light-hearted, débonair Irish gentleman, gay and gallant on his miserable pension of a broken and retired Guardsman, had had just sufficient sense to insist upon magnificent settlements, certainly prompted thereto by Clementine, who inherited the hard-headedness of the early defunct Scotch mother, as well as her high cheek-bones. That affair had been a youthful _mésalliance_.
"You had better see we all gain something by it, papa," she had said. "Make the old bore give Theodora a huge allowance, and have it all fixed and settled by law beforehand. She is such a fool about money--just like you--she will shower it upon us; and you make him pay you a sum down as well."
Captain Fitzgerald fortunately consulted an honest solicitor, and so things were arranged to the satisfaction of all parties concerned except Theodora herself, who found the whole affair far from her taste.
That one must marry a rich man if one got the chance, to help poor, darling papa, had always been part of her creed, more or less inspired by papa himself. But when it came to the scratch, and Josiah Brown was offered as a husband, Theodora had had to use every bit of her nerve and self-control to prevent herself from refusing.
She had not seen many men in her nineteen years of out-at-elbows life, but she had imagination, and the one or two peeps at smart old friends of papa's, landed from stray yachts now and then, at out-of-the-way French watering-places, had given her an ideal far, far removed from the personality of Josiah Brown.
But, as Sarah explained to her, such men could never be husbands. They might be lovers, if one was fortunate enough to move in their sphere, but husbands--never! and there was no use Theodora protesting this violent devotion to darling papa, if she could not do a small thing like marrying Josiah Brown for him!
Theodora's beautiful mother, dead in the first year of her runaway marriage, had been the daughter of a stiff-necked, unforgiving old earl; she had bequeathed her child, besides these gentian eyes and wonderful, silvery blond hair, a warm, generous heart and a more or less romantic temperament.
The heart was touched by darling papa's needs, and the romantic temperament revolted by Josiah Brown's personality.
However, there it was! The marriage took place at the Consulate at Dieppe, and a perfectly miserable little bride got into the train for Paris, accompanied by a fat, short, prosperous, middle-class English husband, who had accumulated a large fortune in Australia, quite by accident, in a comparatively few years.
Josiah Brown was only fifty-two, though his head was bald and his figure far from slight. He had a liver, a chest, and a temper, and he adored Theodora.
Captain Fitzgerald had felt a few qualms when he had wished his little daughter good-bye on the platform and had seen the blue stars swimming with tears. The two daughters left to him were so plain, and he hated plain people about him; but, on the other hand, women must marry, and what chance had he, poor, unlucky devil, of establishing his Theodora better in life?
Josiah Brown was a good fellow, and he, Dominic Fitzgerald, had for the first time for many years a comfortable balance at his bankers, and could run up to Paris himself in a few days, and who knows, the American widow, fabulously rich--Jane Anastasia McBride--might take him seriously!
Captain Dominic Fitzgerald was irresistible, and had that fortunate knack of looking like a gentleman in the oldest clothes. If married for the third time--but this time prosperously, to a fabulously rich American--his well-born relations would once more welcome him with open arms, he felt sure, and visions of the best pheasant shoots at old Beechleigh, and partridge drives at Rothering Castle floated before his eyes, quite obscuring the fading smoke of the Paris train.
"A pretty tough, dull affair marriage," he said to himself, reminded once more of Theodora by treading on a white rose in the station. "Hope to Heavens Sarah prepared her for it a bit." Then he got into a fiacre and drove to the hotel, where he and the two remaining Misses Fitzgerald were living in the style of their forefathers.
Josiah Brown's valet, Mr. Toplington, who knew the world, had engaged rooms for the happy couple at the Grand Hotel. "We'll go to the Ritz on our way back," he decided, "but at first, in case there's scenes and tears, it's better to be a number than a name." Mademoiselle Henriette, the freshly engaged French maid, quite agreed with him. The Grand, she said, was "_plus convenable pour unelune de Miel_--" Lune de Miel!
It was a year later before Theodora saw her family again. A very severe attack of bronchitis, complicated by internal catarrh, prostrated Josiah Brown in the first days of their marriage, and had turned her into a superintendent nurse for the next three months; by that time a winter at Hyères was recommended by the best physicians, and off they started.
Hyères, with a semi-invalid, a hospital nurse, and quantities of medicine bottles and draught-protectors, is not the ideal place one reads of in guide-books. Theodora grew to hate the sky and the blue Mediterranean. She used to sit on her balcony at Costebelle and gaze at the olive-trees, and the deep-green velvet patch of firs beyond, towards the sea, and wonder at life.
She longed to go to the islands--anywhere beyond--and one day she read _Jean d'Agrève_; and after that she wondered what Love was. It took a mighty hold upon her imagination. It seemed to her it must mean Life.
It was the beginning of May before Josiah Brown thought of leaving for Paris. England would be their destination, but the doctors assured him a month of Paris would break the change of climate with more safety than if they crossed the Channel at once.
Costebelle was a fairyland of roses as they drove to the station, and peace had descended upon Theodora. She had fallen into her place, a place occupied by many wives before her with irritable, hypochondriacal husbands.
She had often been to Paris in her maiden days; she knew it from the point of view of a cheap boarding-house and snatched meals. But the unchecked gayety of the air and the _façon_ had not been tarnished by that. She had played in the Tuilleries Gardens and watched Ponchinello at the Rond Point, and later been taken once or twice to dine at a cheap café in the Bois by papa. And once she had gone to Robinson on a coach with him and some aristocratic acquaintances of his, and eaten luncheon up the tree, and that was a day of the gods and to be remembered.
But now they were going to an expensive, well-managed private hotel in the Avenue du Bois, suitable to invalids, and it poured with rain as they drove from the Gare de Lyon.
[Illustration: "She Wondered What Love Was."]
All this time something in Theodora was developing. Her beautiful face had an air of dignity. The set of her little Greek head would have driven a sculptor wild--and Josiah Brown was very generous in money matters, and she had always known how to wear her clothes, so it was no wonder people stopped and turned their heads when she passed.
Josiah Brown possessed certainly not less than forty thousand a year, and so felt he could afford a carriage in Paris, and any other fancy he pleased. His nerves had been too shaken by his illness to appreciate the joys of an automobile.
Thus, daily might be seen in the Avenue des Acacias this ill-assorted pair, seated in a smart victoria with stepping horses, driving slowly up and down. And a number of people took an interest in them.
Towards the middle of May Captain Fitzgerald arrived at the Continental, and Theodora felt her heart beat with joy when she saw his handsome, well-groomed head.
Oh yes, it had been indeed worth while to make papa look so prosperous as that--so prosperous and happy--dear, gay papa!
He was about the same age as her husband, but no one would think of taking him for more than forty. And what a figure he had! and what manners! And when he patted her cheek Theodora felt at once that thrill of pride and gratification she had always experienced when he was pleased with her, from her youngest days.
She was almost glad Sarah and Clementine should have remained at Dieppe. Thus she could have papa all to herself, and oh, what presents she would send them back by him when he returned!
Josiah Brown despised Dominic Fitzgerald, and yet stood in awe of him as well. A man who could spend a fortune and be content to live on odds and ends for the rest of his life must be a poor creature. But, on the other hand, there was that uncomfortable sense of breeding about him which once, when Captain Fitzgerald had risen to a situation of dignity during their preliminary conversations about Theodora's hand, had made Josiah Brown unconsciously say "Sir" to him.
He had blushed and bitten his tongue for doing it, and had blustered and patronized immoderately afterwards, but he never forgot the incident. They were not birds of a feather, and never would be, though the exquisite manners of Dominic Fitzgerald could carry any situation.
Josiah was not altogether pleased to see his father-in-law. He even experienced a little jealousy. Theodora's face, which generally wore a mask of gentle, solicitous meekness for him, suddenly sparkled and rippled with laughter, as she pinched her papa's ears, and pulled his mustache, and purred into his neck, with joy at their meeting.
It was that purring sound and those caressing tricks that Josiah Brown objected to. He had never received any of them himself, and so why should Dominic Fitzgerald?
Captain Fitzgerald, for his part, was enchanted to clasp his beautiful daughter once more in his arms; he had always loved Theodora, and when he saw her so quite too desirable-looking in her exquisite clothes, he felt a very fine fellow himself, thinking what he had done for her.
It was not an unnatural circumstance that he should look upon the idea of a dinner at the respectable private hotel, with his son-in-law and daughter, as a trifle dull for Paris, or that he should have suggested a meal at the Ritz would do them both good.
"Come and dine with me instead, my dear child," he said, with his grand air. "Josiah, you must begin to go out a little and shake off your illness, my dear fellow."
But Josiah was peevish.
Not to-night--certainly not to-night. It was the evening he was to take the two doses of his new medicine, one half an hour after the other, and he could not leave the hotel. Then he saw how poor Theodora's face fell, and one of his sparks of consideration for the feelings of others came to him, and he announced gruffly that his wife might go with her father, if she pleased, provided she crept into her room, which was next door to his own, without the least noise on her return.
"I must not be disturbed in my first sleep," he said; and Theodora thanked him rapturously.
It was so good of him to let her go--she would, indeed, make not the least noise, and she danced out of the room to get ready in a way Josiah Brown had never seen her do before. And after she had gone--Captain Fitzgerald came back to fetch her--this fact rankled with him and prevented his sleep for more than twenty minutes.
"My sweet child," said Captain Fitzgerald, when he was seated beside his daughter in her brougham, rolling down the Champs-Elysées, "you must not be so grateful; he won't let you out again if you are."
"Oh, papa!" said Theodora.
They arrived at the Ritz just at the right moment. It was a lovely night, but rather cold, so there were no diners in the garden, and the crowd from the restaurant extended even into the hall.
It was an immense satisfaction to Dominic Fitzgerald to walk through them all with this singularly beautiful young woman, and to remark the effect she produced, and his cup of happiness was full when they came upon a party at the lower end by the door; prominent, as hostess, being Jane Anastasia McBride--the fabulously rich American widow.
In a second of time he reviewed the situation; a faint coldness in his manner would be the thing to draw--and it was; for when he had greeted Mrs. McBride without gush, and presented his daughter with the air of just passing on, the widow implored them with great cordiality to leave their solitary meal and join her party. Nor would she hear of any refusal.
The whole scene was so novel and delightful to Theodora she cared not at all whether her father accepted or no, so long as she might sit quietly and observe the world.
Mrs. McBride had perceived immediately that the string of pearls round Mrs. Josiah Brown's neck could not have cost less than nine thousand pounds, and that her frock, although so simple, was the last and most expensive creation of CallotSoeurs. She had always been horribly attracted by Captain Fitzgerald, ever since that race week at Trouville two summers ago, and fate had sent them here to-night, and she meant to enjoy herself.
Captain Fitzgerald acceded to her request with his usual polished ease, and the radiant widow presented the rest of her guests to the two new-comers.
The tall man with the fierce beard was Prince Worrzoff, married to her niece, Saidie Butcher. Saidie Butcher was short, and had a voice you could hear across the room. The sleek, fair youth with the twinkling gray eyes was an Englishman from the Embassy. The disagreeable-looking woman in the badly made mauve silk was his sister, Lady Hildon. The stout, hook-nosed bird of prey with the heavy gold chain was a Western millionaire, and the smiling girl was his daughter. Then, last of all, came Lord Bracondale--and it was when he was presented that Theodora first began to take an interest in the party.
Hector, fourteenth Lord Bracondale of Bracondale (as she later that night read in the _Peerage_) was aged thirty-one years. He had been educated at Eton and Oxford, served for some time in the Fourth Lifeguards, been unpaid attaché at St. Petersburg, was patron of five livings, and sat in the House of Lords as Baron Bracondale; creation, 1505; seat, Bracondale Chase. Brothers, none. Sister living, Anne Charlotte, married to the fourth Earl of Anningford.
Theodora read all this over twice, and also even the predecessors and collateral branches--but that was while she burned the midnight oil and listened to the snorts and coughs of Josiah Brown, slumbering next door.
For the time being she raised her eyes and looked into Lord Bracondale's, and something told her they were the nicest eyes she had ever seen in this world.
Then when a voluble French count had rushed up, with garrulous apologies for being late, the party was complete, and they swept into the restaurant.
Theodora sat between the Western millionaire and the Russian Prince, but beyond--it was a round table, only just big enough to hold them--came her hostess and Lord Bracondale, and two or three times at dinner they spoke, and very often she felt his eyes fixed upon her.
Mrs. McBride, like all American widows, was an admirable hostess; the conversation never flagged, or the gayety for one moment.
The Western millionaire was shrewd, and announced some quaint truths while he picked his teeth with an audible sound.
"This is his first visit to Europe," Princess Worrzoff said afterwards to Theodora by way of explanation. "He is so colossally rich he don't need to worry about such things at his time of life; but it does make me turn to hear him."
Captain Fitzgerald was in his element. No guest shone so brilliantly as he. His wit was delicate, his sallies were daring, his looks were insinuating, and his appearance was perfection.
Theodora had every reason to tingle with pride in him, and the widow felt her heart beat.
"Isn't he just too bright--your father, Mrs. Brown?" she said as they left the restaurant to have their coffee in the hall. "You must let me see quantities of you while we are all in Paris together. It is a lovely city; don't you agree with me?"
And Theodora did.
Lord Bracondale was of the same breed as Captain Fitzgerald--that is, they neither of them permitted themselves to be superseded by any other man with the object of their wishes. When they wanted to talk to a woman they did, if twenty French counts or Russian princes stood in the way! Thus it was that for the rest of the evening Theodora found herself seated upon a sofa in close proximity to the man who had interested her at dinner, and Mrs. McBride and Captain Fitzgerald occupied two arm-chairs equally well placed, while the rest of the party made general conversation.
Hector Bracondale, among other attractions, had a charming voice; it was deep and arresting, and he had a way of looking straight into the eyes of the person he was talking to.
Theodora knew at once he belonged to the tribe whom Sarah had told her could never be husbands.
She wondered vaguely why, all the time she was talking to him. Why had husbands always to be bores and unattractive, and sometimes even simply revolting, like hers? Was it because these beautiful creatures could not be bound to any one woman? It seemed to her unsophisticated mind that it could be very nice to be married to one of them; but there was no use fighting against fate, and she personally was wedded to Josiah Brown.
Lord Bracondale's conversation pleased her. He seemed to understand exactly what she wanted to talk about; he saw all the things she saw and--he had read _Jean d'Agrève_!--they got to that at the end of the first half-hour, and then she froze up a little; some instinct told her it was dangerous ground, so she spoke suddenly of the weather, in a banal voice.
Meanwhile, from the beginning of dinner, Lord Bracondale had been saying to himself she was the loveliest white flower he had yet struck in a path of varied experiences. Her eyes so innocent and true, with the tender expression of a fawn; the perfect turn of her head and slender pillar of a throat; her grace and gentleness, all appealed to him in a maddening way.
"She is asleep to the whole of life's possibilities," he thought. "What can her husband be about, and what an intoxicatingly agreeable task to wake her up!"
He had lived among the world where the awaking of young wives, or old wives, or any woman who could please man, was the natural course of the day. It never even struck him then it might be a cruel thing to do. A woman once married was always fair game; if the husband could not retain her affections that was his lookout.
Hector Bracondale was not a brute, just an ordinary Englishman of the world, who had lived and loved and seen many lands.
He read Theodora like an open book: he knew exactly why she had talked about the weather after _Jean d'Agrève_. It thrilled him to see her soft eyes dreamy and luminous when they first spoke of the book, and it flattered him when she changed the conversation.
As for Theodora, she analyzed nothing, she only felt that perhaps she ought not to speak about love to one of those people who could never be husbands.
Captain Fitzgerald, meanwhile, was making tremendous headway with the widow. He flattered her vanity, he entertained her intelligence, and he even ended by letting her see she was causing him, personally, great emotion.
At last this promising evening came to an end. The Russian Prince, with his American Princess, got up to say good-night, and gradually the party broke up, but not before Captain Fitzgerald had arranged to meet Mrs. McBride at Doucet's in the morning, and give her the benefit of his taste and experience in a further shopping expedition to buy old bronzes.
"We can all breakfast together at Henry's," he said, with his grand manner, which included the whole party; and for one instant force of habit made Theodora's heart sink with fear at the prospect of the bill, as it had often had to do in olden days when her father gave these royal invitations. Then she remembered she had not been sacrificed to Josiah Brown for nothing, and that even if dear, generous papa should happen to be a little hard up again, a few hundred francs would be nothing to her to slip into his hand before starting.
The rest of the party, however, declined. They were all busy elsewhere, except Lord Bracondale and the French Count--they would come, with pleasure, they said.
Theodora wondered what Josiah would say. Would he go? and if not, would he let her go? This was more important.
"Then we shall meet at breakfast to-morrow," Lord Bracondale said, as he helped her on with her cloak. "That will give me something to look forward to."
"Will it?" she said, and there was trouble in the two blue stars which looked up at him. "Perhaps I shall not be able to come; my husband is rather an invalid, and--"
But he interrupted her.
"Something tells me you will come; it is fate," he said, and his voice was grave and tender.
And Theodora, who had never before had the opportunity of talking about destiny, and other agreeable subjects, with beautiful Englishmen who could only be--lovers--felt the red blood rush to her cheeks and a thrill flutter her heart. So she quickened her steps and kept close to her father, who could have dispensed with this mark of affection.
"Dearest child," he said, when they were seated in the brougham, "you are married now and should be able to look after yourself, without staying glued to my side so much--it is rather bourgeois."
Poor Theodora was crushed and did not try to excuse herself.
"I am afraid Josiah won't go, papa dear," she said, timidly; "and in case he does not allow me to either, I want you to have these few louis, just for the breakfast. I know how generous you are, and how difficult things have been made for you, darling." And she nestled to his side and slipped about eight gold pieces, which she had fortunately found in her purse, into his hand.
Captain Fitzgerald was still a gentleman, although a good many edges of his sensitive perceptions had been rubbed off.
He kissed his daughter fondly while he murmured: "Merely a loan, my pet, merely a loan. You were always a jewel to your old father!"
Whenever her parent accused himself of being "old," Theodora knew he was deeply touched, and her tender heart overflowed with gladness that she was able to smooth the path of such a darling papa.
"I will come and see you in the morning, my child," he said, as they stopped at the door of her hotel, "and I will manage Josiah."
So Theodora crept up to her apartment, comforted; and in the salon it was she caught sight of the Peerage.
Josiah Brown bought one every year and travelled with it, although until he met the Fitzgerald family he had not known a single person connected with it; but it pleased him to be able to look up his wife's name, and to read that her mother was the daughter of a real live earl and her father the brother of a baronet.
"Hector! I like the name of Hector," were the last coherent thoughts which floated through the brain of Theodora before sleep closed her broad, white lids.
Meanwhile, Lord Bracondale had gone on to sup at the Café de Paris, with Marion de Beauvoison and Esclarmonde de Chartres; and among the diamonds and pearls and scents and feathers he suddenly felt a burning disgust, and a longing to be out again in the moonlight--alone with his thoughts.
"Maisqu'astu, monvieuxchou?" they said. "Cebel Hector chéri--il a un béguin pour quelqu'un--maiscen'est pas pour nous autres!"
Josiah Brown cut the top off his _oeuf à la coque_ with a knife at his _premier déjeuner_ next day. The knife grated on the shell in a determined way, and Theodora felt her heart sink at the prospect of broaching the subject of the breakfast at the Café Henry.
"I am so glad the rain has stopped," she said, nervously. "It was raining when I woke this morning."
"Indeed," replied Josiah. "And what kind of an evening did you pass with that father of yours?"
"A very pleasant one," said Theodora, crumbling her roll. "Papa met some old friends, and we all dined together at the Ritz. I wish you had been able to come, it might have done you good, it was so gay!"
"I am not fit for gayety," said her husband, peevishly, scooping out spoonfuls of yolk. "And who were the party, pray?"
Theodora obediently enumerated them all, and the high-sounding title of the Russian Prince, to say nothing of the English lord and lady, had a mollifying effect on Josiah Brown. He even remembered the name of Bracondale--had he not been a grocer's assistant in the small town of Bracondale for a whole year in his apprenticeship days?
"Papa wants us to breakfast to-day with him at Henry's for you to meet some of them," Theodora said, with more confidence.
Josiah had taken a second egg and his frown was gone.
"We'll see about it, we'll see about it," he grunted; but his wife felt more hopeful, and was even unusually solicitous of his wants in the way of coffee and marmalade and cream. Josiah was shrewd if he did happen to be deeply self-absorbed in his health, and he noticed that Theodora's eyes were brighter and her step more elastic than usual.
He knew he had bought "one of them there aristocrats," as his old aunt, who had kept a public-house at New Norton, would have said. Bought her with solid gold--he had no illusions on this subject, and he quite realized if the solid gold had not been amassed out of England, so that to her family he could be represented as "something from the colonies--rather rough, but such a good fellow"--even Captain Fitzgerald's impecuniosity and rapacity would not have risen to his bait.
He was also grateful to Theodora--she had been so meek always, and such a kind and unselfish nurse. With his impaired constitution and delicate chest he had given up all hopes of looking on her as a wife again, just yet; but, as a nurse and an ornament--a peg to hang the evidences of his wealth upon--she was little short of perfection. He could have been frantically in love with her if she had only been the girl from the station bar in Melbourne. Josiah Brown was not a bad fellow.
By the time Mr. Toplington advanced in his dignified way with the accurately measured tonic on a silver tray and the single acid drop to remove the taste, Josiah Brown had decided to go and partake food with his father-in-law at Henry's. If he had been good enough to entertain the Governor of Australia, he was quite good enough for Russian princes or English lords, he told himself. Thus it was that Captain Fitzgerald, who came in person in a few minutes to indorse his invitation, found an unusually cordial reception awaiting him.
"I am too delighted, my dear Josiah," he said, "that you have decided to come out of your shell. Moping would kill a cat; and I shall order you the plainest chicken and soufflé aux fraises."
"Josiah can eat almost anything, papa. I don't think you need worry about that," said Theodora, who hoped to make her husband enjoy himself. And then Captain Fitzgerald left to meet his widow.
All the morning, while she walked up and down under the trees in the Avenue du Bois beside her husband, who leaned upon her arm, Theodora's thoughts were miles away. She felt stimulated, excited, intensely interested in the hour, afraid they would be late. Twice she answered at random, and Josiah got quite cross.
"I asked you which you considered would do me most good when we return to England, to continue seeing Sir Baldwin once a week or to have Dr. Wilton permanently in the house with us, and you answer that you quite agree with me! Agree with what? Agree with which? You are talking nonsense, girl!"
Theodora apologized gently, and her white velvet cheeks became tinged with wild roses. It seemed as if the victoria, with its high-steppers, would never come and pick them up; and it must be at least quarter of an hour's drive to Henry's. She did not understand where it was exactly, but papa had said the coachman would know.
If some one had told her, as Clementine certainly would have done had she been there, that she was simply thus interested and excited because she wished to see again Lord Bracondale, she would have been horrified. She never had analyzed sensations herself, and the day had not yet arrived when she would begin to do so.
At last they were rolling down the Champs-Elysées. The mass of chestnut blooms in full glory, the tender green still fresh and springlike, the sky as blue as blue, and every creature in the street with an air of gayety--that Paris alone seems to inspire in the human race. It entered into her blood, this rush of spring and hope and laughter and life, and a radiant creature got out of the carriage at Henry's door.
The two men were waiting for them--Lord Bracondale and the French Count--her father and Mrs. McBride had not yet appeared.
Theodora introduced them to her husband, and Lord Bracondale said:
"Mrs. McBride is always late. I have found out which is your father's table; don't you think we might go and sit down?"
And they did. Theodora got well into the corner of the velvet sofa, the Count on one side and Lord Bracondale on the other, with Josiah beyond the Count.
They made conversation. The Frenchman was voluble and agreeable, and the next ten minutes passed without incident.
Josiah, not quite at ease, perhaps, but on the whole not ill-pleased with his situation. The Count took all ups and downs as of the day's work, sure of a good breakfast, sooner or later, unpaid for by himself. And Lord Bracondale's thoughts ran somewhat thus:
"She is even more beautiful in daylight than at night. She can't be more than twenty--what a skin! like a white gardenia petal--and, good Lord, what a husband! How revolting, how infamous! I suppose that old schemer, her father, sold her to him. Her eyes remind one of forgotten fairy tales of angels. Can anything be so sweet as that little nose and those baby-red lips. She has a soul, too, peeping out of the blue when she looks up at one. She reminds me of Praxiteles' Psyche when she looks down. Why did I not meet her long ago? I believe I ought not to stay now--something tells me I shall fall deeply into this. And what a voice!--as gentle and caressing as a tender dove. A man would give his soul for such a woman. As guileless as an infant saint, too--and sensitive and human and understanding. I wish to God I had the strength of mind to get up and go this minute--but I haven't--it is fate."
"Oh, how naughty of papa," said Theodora, "to be so late! Are you very hungry, Josiah? Shall we begin without them?"
But at that moment, with rustling silks and delicate perfume, the widow and Captain Fitzgerald came in at the door and joined the party.
"I am just too sorry," the lady said, gayly. "It is all Captain Fitzgerald's fault--he would try to restrain me from buying what I wanted, and so it made me obstinate and I had to stay right there and order half the shop."
"How I understand you!" sympathized Lord Bracondale. "I know just that feeling of wanting forbidden fruit. It makes the zest of life."
He had foreseen the disposition of the party, and by sitting in the outside corner seat at the end knew he would have Theodora almost _en tête-à-tête_, once they were all seated along the velvet sofa beyond Josiah Brown.
"What do you do with yourself all the time here?" he asked, lowering his voice to that deep note which only carries to the ear it is intended for. "May one ever see you again except at a chance meal like this?"
"I don't know," said Theodora. "I walk up and down in the side allées of the Bois in the morning with my husband, and when he has had his sleep, after déjeuner, we drive nearly all the afternoon, and we have tea, at the Pré Catalan and drive again until about seven, and then we come in and dine, and I go to bed very early. Josiah is not strong enough yet for late hours or theatres."
"It sounds supernaturally gay for Paris!" said Lord Bracondale; and then he felt a brute when he saw the cloud in the blue eyes.
"No, it is not gay," she said, simply. "But the flowers are beautiful, and the green trees and the chestnut blossoms and the fine air here, and there is a little stream among the trees which laughs to itself as it runs, and all these things say something to me."
He felt rebuked--rebuked and interested.
"I would like to see them all with you," he said.
That was one of his charms--directness. He did not insinuate often; he stated facts.
"You would find it all much too monotonous," she answered. "You would tire of them after the first time. And you could if you liked, too, because I suppose you are free, being a man, and can choose your own life," and she sighed unconsciously.
And there came to Hector Bracondale the picture of her life--sacrificed, no doubt, to others' needs. He seemed to see the long years tied to Josiah Brown, the cramping of her soul, the dreary desolation of it. Then a tenderness came over him, a chivalrous tenderness unfelt by him towards women now for many a long day.
"I wonder if I can choose my life," he said, and he looked into her eyes.
"Why can you not?" She hesitated. "And may I ask you, too, what you do with yourself here?"
He evaded the question; he suddenly realized that his days were not more amusing than hers, although they were filled up with racing and varied employments--while the thought of his nights sickened him.
"I think I am going to make an immense change and learn to take pleasure in the running brooks," he said. "Will you help me?"
"I know so little, and you know so much," and her sweet eyes became soft and dreamy. "I could not help you in any way, I fear."
"Yes, you could--you could teach me to see all things with fresh eyes. You could open the door into a new world."
"Do you know," she said, irrelevantly, "Sarah--my eldest sister--Sarah told me it was unwise ever to talk to strangers except in the abstract--and here are you and I conversing about our own interests and feelings--are not we foolish!" She laughed a little nervously.
"No, we are not foolish because we are not strangers--we never were--and we never will be."
"Are not strangers--?"
"No--do you not feel that sometimes in life one's friendships begin by antipathy--sometimes by indifference--and sometimes by that sudden magnetism of sympathy as if in some former life we had been very near and dear, and were only picking up the threads again, and to such two souls there is no feeling that they are strangers."
Theodora was too entirely unsophisticated to remain unmoved by this reasoning. She felt a little thrill--she longed to continue the subject, and yet dared not. She turned hesitatingly to the Count, and for the next ten minutes Lord Bracondale only saw the soft outline of her cheek.
He wondered if he had been too sudden. She was quite the youngest person he had ever met--he realized that, and perhaps he had acted with too much precipitation. He would change his tactics.
The Count was only too pleased to engage the attention of Theodora. He was voluble; she had very little to reply. Things went smoothly. Josiah was appreciating an exceedingly good breakfast, and the playful sallies of the fair widow. All, in fact, was couleur de rose.
"Won't you talk to me any more?" Lord Bracondale said, after about a quarter of an hour. He felt that was ample time for her to have become calm, and, beautiful as the outline of her cheek was, he preferred her full face.
"But of course," said Theodora. She had not heard more than half what the Count had been saying; she wished vaguely that she might continue the subject of friendship, but she dared not.
"Do you ever go to Versailles?" he asked. This, at least, was a safe subject.
"I have been there--but not since--not this time," she answered. "I loved it: so full of memories and sentiment, and Old-World charm."
"It would give me much pleasure to take you to see it again," he said, with grave politeness. "I must devise some plan--that is, if you wish to go."
"It is a favorite spot of mine, and there are some alleés in the park more full of the story of spring than your Bois even."
"I do not see how we can go," said Theodora. "Josiah would find it too long a day."
"I must discuss it with your father; one can generally arrange what one wishes," said Lord Bracondale.
At this moment Mrs. McBride leaned over and spoke to Theodora. She had, she said, quite converted Mr. Brown. He only wanted a little cheering up to be perfectly well, and she had got him to promise to dine that evening at Armenonville and listen to the Tziganes. It was going to be a glorious night, but if they felt cold they could have their table inside out of the draught. What did Theodora think about it?
Theodora thought it would be a delicious plan. What else could she think?
"I have a large party coming," Mrs. McBride said, "and among them a compatriot of mine who saw you last night and is dying to meet you."
"Really," said Theodora, unmoved.
Lord Bracondale experienced a sensation of annoyance.
"I shall not ask you, Bracondale," the widow continued, playfully. "Just to assert British superiority, you would try to monopolize Mrs. Brown, and my poor HerrymanHoggenwater would have to come in a long, long second!"
Josiah felt a rush of pride. This brilliant woman was making much of his meek little wife.
Lord Bracondale smiled the most genial smile, with rage in his heart.
"I could not have accepted in any case, dear lady," he said, "as I have some people dining with me, and, oddly enough, they rather suggested they wanted Armenonville too, so perhaps I shall have the pleasure of looking at you from the distance."
The conversation then became general, and soon after this coffee arrived, and eventually the adieux were said.
Mrs. McBride insisted upon Theodora accompanying her in her smart automobile.
"You leave your wife to me for an hour," she said, imperiously, to Josiah, "and go and see the world with Captain Fitzgerald. He knows Paris."
"My dear, you are just the sweetest thing I have come across this side of the Atlantic," she said, when they were whizzing along in her car. "But you look as if you wanted cheering too. I expect your husband's illness has worried you a good deal."
Theodora froze a little. Then she glanced at the widow's face and its honest kindliness melted her.
"Yes, I have been anxious about him," she said, simply, "but he is nearly well now, and we shall soon be going to England."
Mrs. McBride had not taken a companion on this drive for nothing, and she obtained all the information she wanted during their tour in the Bois. How Josiah Brown had bought a colossal place in the eastern counties, and intended to have parties and shoot there in the autumn. How Theodora hoped to see more of her sisters than she had done since her marriage. The question of these sisters interested Mrs. McBride a good deal.
For a man to have two unmarried daughters was rather an undertaking.
What were their ages--their habits--their ambitions? Theodora told her simply. She guessed why she was being interrogated. She wished to assist her father, and to say the truth seemed to her the best way. Sarah was kind and humorous, while Clementine had the brains.
"And they are both dears," she said, lovingly, "and have always been so good to me."
Mrs. McBride was a shrewd woman, full of American quickness, lightning deduction, and a phenomenal insight into character. Theodora seemed to her to be too tender a flower for this world of east wind. She felt sure she only thought good of every one, and how could one get on in life if one took that view habitually! The appallingly hard knocks fate would give one if one was so trusting! But as the drive went on that gentle something that seemed to emanate from Theodora, the something of pure sweetness and light, affected her, too, as it affected other people. She felt she was looking into a deep pool of crystal water, so deep that she could see no bottom or fathom the distance of it, but which reflected in brilliant blue God's sky and the sun.
"And she is by no means stupid," the widow summed up to herself. "Her mind is as bright as an American's! And she is just too pretty and sweet to be eaten up by these wolves of men she will meet in England, with that unromantic, unattractive husband along. I must do what I can for her."
By the time she had dropped Theodora at her hotel the situation was quite clear. Of course the girl had been sacrificed to Josiah Brown; she was sound asleep in the great forces of life; she was bound to be hideously unhappy, and it was all an abominable shame, and ought to have been prevented.
But Mrs. McBride never cried over spilled milk.
"If I decide to marry her father," she thought, as she drove off, "I shall keep my eye on her, and meanwhile I can make her life smile a little perhaps!"
Theodora did not wonder why she felt in no exalted state of spirits as she dressed for dinner. She seldom thought of herself at all, or what her emotions were, but the fact remained there was none of the excitement there had been over the prospect of breakfast. Her husband, on the contrary, seemed quite fussy.
"A devilish fine woman," he had described Mrs. McBride. "Acts like a tonic upon me; does me more good than a pint of champagne!"
"Is she not delightful?" agreed Theodora; "so very kind and gay. I am sure the dinner will do you good, Josiah, and perhaps we might give one in return. What do you say?"
Josiah said, "Certainly!" He could give a meal with the best of them! They would consult that father of hers, who knew Paris so well, and ask him to help them to arrange a regular "slap-up treat."
And so they arrived at Armenonville. It was a divine night, quite warm, and a soft three-quarter moon.
Mrs. McBride had everything arranged to perfection. Their table was just where it should be, the menu was all that heart of gourmet could desire, and the company sparkling.
Theodora found herself seated beside Mr. HarrymanHoggenwater and an elderly Austrian, and before the _hors d'oeuvres_ were cleared away both gentlemen had decided to make love to her.
It was when the _bisque d'écrevisses_ was being handed she became conscious that, not two tables off, there was an empty one simply arranged with flowers, and almost at the same instant Lord Bracondale and his party arrived upon the scene.
All Theodora's perceptions seemed to be sharpened. She knew without turning her head the table was for them, and that they were advancing towards it. She had felt their arrival almost before their automobile stopped; and now she would not look up.
A strange sensation, as of excitement, tingled through her. She longed to ascertain if the woman was good-looking who made the third in this party of three. She peeped eventually--with the corner of her eye. Lord Bracondale had so placed his guests that he himself faced Theodora, and the lady had her back turned to her.
Thus Theodora's curiosity could not be gratified.
"She is English," she decided; "that round shaped back always is--and very well-bred looking, and not much taste in dress. I wonder if she is old or young--and if that is the husband. Yes, he is unattractive--it must be the husband--and oh, I wonder what they are talking about! Lord Bracondale seems so interested!"
And if she had known it was--
"Really, Monica, how fortunate to have secured you at short notice like this," Lord Bracondale was saying. "I only found I had a free evening at breakfast, and I met Jack on my way to the polo-ground just in the nick of time."
"We love coming," Mrs. Ellerwood replied. "For unsophisticated English people it is a great treat. We go back on Saturday--every one will be asking what is keeping you here so long."
"My plans are vague," Lord Bracondale said, casually. "I might come back any day, or I may stay until well into June--it quite depends upon how amused I am. I rather love Paris."
And to himself he was thinking--
"How I wish that atrocious woman over there with the paradise plume would keep her hat out of the way. Ah, that is better! How lovely she looks to-night! What an exquisite pose of head! And what are those two damned foreigners saying to her, I wonder. Underbred brute, the American, HerrymanHoggenwater! What a name! She is laughing--she evidently finds him amusing. Abominably cattish of the widow not to ask me. I wonder if she has seen me yet. I want to make her bow to me. Ah!" For just then magnetism was too strong for Theodora, and, in spite of her determination, their eyes met.
A thrill, little short of passion, ran through Lord Bracondale as he saw the wild roses flushing her white cheeks--the exquisite flattery to his vanity. Yes, she had seen him, and it already meant something to her.
He raised his champagne glass and sipped a sip, while his eyes, more ardent than they had ever been, sought her face.
And Theodora, for her part, felt a flutter too. She was angry with herself for blushing, such a school-girlish thing to do, Sarah had always told her. She hoped he had not noticed it at that distance--probably not. And what did he mean by drinking her health like that? He--oh, he was--
"Now, truly, Mrs. Brown, you are cruel," Mr. HerrymanHoggenwater said, pathetically, interrupting her thoughts. "I tell you I am simply longing to know if you will come for a drive in my automobile, and you do not answer, but stare into space."
Theodora turned, and then the young American understood that for all her gentle looks it would be wiser not to take this tone with her.
He admired her frantically, he was just "crazy" about her, he told Mrs. McBride later. And so now he exerted himself to please and amuse her with all the vivacity of his brilliant nation.
Theodora was enjoying herself. Environment and atmosphere affected her strongly. The bright pink lights, the sense of night and the soft moon beyond the wide open balcony windows, the scents of flowers, the gayety, and, above all, the knowledge that Lord Bracondale was there, gazing at her whenever opportunity offered, with eyes in which she, unlearned as she was in such things, could read plainly admiration and unrest.
It all went to her head a little, and she became quite animated and full of repartee and sparkle, so that Josiah Brown could hardly believe his eyes and ears when he glanced across at her. This his meek and quiet mouse!
His heart swelled with pride when Mrs. McBride leaned over and said to him:
"You know, Mr. Brown, you have got the most beautiful wife in the world, and I hope you value her properly."
It was this daring quality in his hostess Josiah appreciated so much. "She's not afraid to say anything, 'pon my soul," he said to himself. "I rather think I know my own possession's value!" he answered aloud, with a pompous puffing out of chest, and a cough to clear the throat.
The Austrian Prince on Theodora's right hand pleased her. He had a quiet manner, and the freemasonry of breeding in two people, even of different nations, drew her to talk naturally to him in a friendly way.
He was a fatalist, he told her; what would be would be, and mortals like himself and herself were just scattered leaves, like barks floating down a current where were mostly rocks ahead.
"Then must we strike the rocks whether we wish it or no?" asked Theodora. "Cannot we help ourselves?"
"Ah, madame, for that," he said, "we can strive a little and avoid this one and that, but if it is our fate we will crash against them in the end."
"What a sad philosophy!" said Theodora. "I would rather believe that if one does one's best some kind angel will guide one's bark past the rocks and safely into the smooth waters of the pool beyond."
"You are young," he said, "and I hope you will find it so, but I fear you will have to try very hard, and circumstances may even then be too strong for you."
"In that case I must go under altogether," said Theodora; but her eyes smiled, and that night at least such a possibility seemed far enough away from her.
The Austrian looked across at her husband. Such marriages were rare in his country, and he had thought so too in England. He wondered what their story could be. He wondered how soon she would take a lover--and he realized how infinitely worth while that lover would find his situation.
He wished he were not so old. If she must break up her bark on the rocks, he could take the place of steersman with pleasure. But he was a courteous gentleman and he said none of these things aloud.
Meanwhile, Lord Bracondale was not enjoying his dinner. For the first time for several years he found himself jealous! He, unlike Theodora, knew the meaning of every one of his sensations.
"She is certainly interested in Prince Carolstein," he thought, as he watched her; "he has a European reputation for fascination. She has not looked this way once since the entrées. I wish I could hear what they are talking about. As for that young puppy Hoggenwater, I would like to kick him round the room! Lord, look how he is leaning over her! It sickens me! The young fool!"
Mrs. Ellerwood turned round in her seat and surveyed the room. They had almost come to the end of dinner, and could move their chairs a little. She had the true Englishwoman's feeling when among foreigners--that they were all there as puppets for her entertainment.
"Look, Hector," she said--they were cousins--"did you ever see such a lovely woman as that one over there among the large party, in the black chiffon dress?"
Then Hector committed a _bêtise_.
"Where?" said he, his eyes persistently fixed in another direction.
"There; you can't mistake her, she looks so pure white, and fair, among all these Frenchwomen The one with the blue eyes and the lovely hat with those sweeping feathers. She is exquisitely dressed, and both those men look fearfully devoted to her. Can't you see? Oh, you are stupid!"
"My dear Monica," said Jack Ellerwood, who joined rarely in the conversation, "Hector has been sitting facing this way all through dinner. He is a man who can appreciate what he sees, and I do not fancy has missed much--have you, Hector?" and he smiled a quiet smile.
Mrs. Ellerwood looked at Lord Bracondale and laughed.
"It is I who am stupid," she said. "Naturally you have seen her all the time, and know her probably. Are they cocottes, or Americans, or Russian princesses, or what?--the whole collection?"
"If you mean that large party in the corner, they are most of them friends and acquaintances of mine," he said, rather icily--she had annoyed him--"and they belong to the aristocracies of various nations. Does that satisfy you? I am afraid they are none of them demimondaines, so you will be disappointed this time!"
Mrs. Ellerwood looked at him; she understood now.
"He is in love with the white woman," she thought; "that is why he was so anxious to dine here to-night, when Jack suggested Madrid; that is why he stays in Paris. It is not Esclarmonde de Chartres after all! How excited Aunt Milly will be! I must find out her name."
"She is a beautiful creature," said Jack Ellerwood, as if to himself, while he carefully surveyed Theodora from his position at the side of the table.
Hector Bracondale's irritation rose. Relations were tactless, and he felt sorry he had asked them.
"You must tell me her name, Hector," pleaded Mrs. Ellerwood; "the very white, pretty one I mean."
"Now just to punish your curiosity I shall do no such thing."
"Hector, you are a pig."
"And so selfish."
"Why mayn't I know? You set a light to all sorts of suspicions."
"Doubly interesting for you, then."
"Don't you think you would like some coffee? The waiter is trying to hand you a cup."
Mrs. Ellerwood laughed. She knew there was no use teasing him further; but there were other means, and she must employ them. Theodora had become the pivot upon which some of her world might turn.
The object of this solicitude was quite unconscious of the interest she had created. She did not naturally think she could be of importance to any one. Had she not been the youngest and snubbed always?
The same thought came to her that was conjuring the brain of Lord Bracondale: would there be a chance to speak to-night, or must they each go their way in silence? He meant to assist fate if he could, but having Monica Ellerwood there was a considerable drawback.
Mrs. McBride's party were to take their coffee in one of the bosquets outside, and all got up from their table in a few minutes to go out. They would have to pass the _partie à trois_, who were nearer the door. Monica would take her most searching look at them, Lord Bracondale thought; now was the time for action. So as Mrs. McBride came past with Captain Fitzgerald, he rose from his seat and greeted her.
"You have been exceedingly mean," he whispered. "What are you going to do for me to make up for it?"
The widow had a very soft spot in her heart for "Ce beau Bracondale," as she called him, and when he pleaded like that she found him hard to resist.
"Come and see me to-morrow at twelve, and we will talk about it," she said.
"To-morrow!" exclaimed Lord Bracondale; "but I want to talk to her to-night!"
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