Beyond the Rocks

"And so, good-bye. I must never say this again--or even think it

unsaid; but to-night, oh! Yes, Hector, know that I love you!

THEODORA."

And all the way to Madrid, as he flew along in his automobile, his heart

rejoiced at this one sentence--"Yes, Hector, know that I love you!"

The rest of the world did not seem to matter very much. How fortunate it

is that so often Providence lets us live on the pleasure of the moment!

He sat on her left hand--the Austrian Prince was on her right--and

studiously all through the repast he tried to follow her wishes and the

law he had laid down for himself as the pattern of his future conduct.

He was gravely polite, he never turned the conversation away from the

general company, including her neighbors in it all the time, and only

when he was certain she was not noticing did he feast his eyes upon her

face.

She was looking supremely beautiful. If possible, whiter than usual, and

there was a shadow in her eyes as of mystery, which had not been there

before--and while their pathos wrung his heart, he could not help

perceiving their added beauty. And he had planted this change there--he,

and he alone. He admired her perfect taste in dress--she was all in pure

white, muslin and laces, and he knew it was of the best, and the

creation of the greatest artist.

She looked just what his wife ought to look, infinitely refined and

slender and stately and fair.

Morella Winmarleigh would seem as a large dun cow beside her.

Then suddenly they both remembered it was only a week this night since

they had met. Only seven days in which fate had altered all their lives.

The Austrian Prince wondered to himself what had happened. He had not

been blind to the situation at Armenonville, and here they seemed like

polite hostess and guest, nothing more.

"They are English, and they are very well bred, and they are very good

actors," he thought. "But, mon Dieu! were I ce beau jeune homme!"

And so it had come to an end--the feast and the Tziganes playing, and

Theodora will always be haunted by that last wild Hungarian tune. Music,

which moved every fibre of her being at all times, to-night was a

torture of pain and longing. And he was so near, so near and yet so far,

and it seemed as if the music meant love and separation and passionate

regret, and the last air most passionate of all, and before the final

notes died away Hector bent over to her, and he whispered: "I have got your letter, and I love you, and I will obey its every wish.

You must trust me unto death. Darling, good-night, but never good-bye!"