Beyond the Rocks

There are moralists who will assure us the knowledge of having done

right brings its own consolation. And in good books, about good women,

the heroine experiences a sense of peace and satisfaction after having

resigned the forbidden joy of her life. But Theodora was only a human

being, so she spent the night in wild, passionate regret.

She had done right with no stern sense of the word "Right" written up in

front of her, but because she was so true and so sweet that she must

keep her word and not betray Josiah. She did not analyze anything. Life

was over for her, whatever came now could only find her numb. By an

early train Josiah left for London.

"Take care of yourself, my love," he had said, as he looked in at her

door, "and write to me this afternoon as to what train you decide to

leave by on Thursday."

She promised she would, and he departed, thoroughly satisfied with his

visit among the great world.

The day was spent as the other days, and after lunch Theodora escaped to

her room. She must write her letter to Josiah for the afternoon's post.

She had discovered the train left at eleven o'clock. It did not take her

long, this little note to her husband, and then she sat and stared into

space for a while.

The terrible reaction had begun. There was no more excitement, only the

flatness, the blank of the days to look forward to, and that unspeakable

sense of loss and void. And oh, she had let Hector go without one word

of her passionate love! She had been too unnerved to answer him when he

had said his last good-bye to her in the wood.

She seized the pen again which had dropped from her hand. She would

write to him. She would tell him her thoughts--in a final farewell. It

might comfort him, and herself, too.

So she wrote and wrote on, straight out from her heart, then she found

she had only just time to take the letters to the hall.

She closed Hector's with a sigh, and picking up Josiah's, already

fastened, she ran with them quickly down the stairs.

There was an immense pile of correspondence--the accumulation of

Whitsuntide.

The box that usually received it was quite full, and several letters lay

about on the table.

She placed her two with the rest, and turned to leave the hall. She

could not face all the company on the lawn just yet, and went back to

her room, meeting Morella Winmarleigh bringing some of her own to be

posted as she passed through the saloon.