The Essential Elinor Glyn Collection. Glyn Elinor

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      When Miss Winmarleigh reached the table curiosity seized her. She guessed what had been Theodora's errand. She would like to see her writing and to whom the letters were addressed.

      No one was about anywhere. All the correspondence was already there, as in five minutes or less the post would go.

      She had no time to lose, so she picked up the last two envelopes which lay on the top of the pile and read the first:

      To Josiah Brown, Esq., Claridge's Hotel, Brook Street, London, W.

      and the other:

      The Lord Bracondale, Bracondale Chase, Bracondale.

      "The husband and--the lover!" she said to herself. And a sudden temptation came over her, swift and strong and not to be resisted.

      Here would be revenge--revenge she had always longed for! while her sullen rage had been gathering all these last days. She heard the groom of the chambers approaching to collect the letters; she must decide at once. So she slipped Theodora's two missives into her blouse and walked towards the door.

      "There is another post which goes at seven, isn't there, Edgarson?" she asked, "and the letters are delivered in London to-morrow morning just the same?"

      "Yes, ma'am, they arrive by the second post in London," said the man, politely, and she passed on to her room.

      Arrived there, excitement and triumph burned all over her. Here, without a chance of detection, she could crush her rival and see her thoroughly punished, and--who knows?--Hector might yet be caught in the rebound.

      She would not hesitate a second. She rang for her maid.

      "Bring me my little kettle and the spirit-lamp. I want to sip some boiling water," she said. "I have indigestion. And then you need not wait--I shall read until tea."

      She was innocently settled on her sofa with a book when the maid returned. She was a well-bred servant, and silently placed the kettle and glass and left the room noiselessly. Morella sprang to her feet with unusual agility. Her heavy form was slow of movement as a rule.

      The door once locked, she returned to the sofa and began operations.

      The kettle soon boiled, and the steam puffed out and achieved its purpose.

      The thin, hand-made paper of the envelope curled up, and with no difficulty she opened the flap.

      Hector's letter first and then Josiah's. All her pent-up, concentrated rage was having its outlet, and almost joy was animating her being.

      Hector's was a long letter; probably very loving, but that did not concern her.

      It would be most unladylike to read it, she decided--a sort of thing only the housemaids would do. What she intended was to place them in the wrong envelopes--Hector's to Josiah, and Josiah's to Hector. It was a mistake any one might make themselves when they were writing, and Theodora, when it should be discovered, could only blame her own supposed carelessness. Even if the letter was an innocent one, which was not at all likely. Oh, dear, no! She knew the world, however little girls were supposed to understand. She had kept her eyes open, thank goodness; and it would certainly not be an epistle a husband would care to read--a great thing of pages and pages like that. But even if it were innocent, it was bound to cause some trouble and annoyance; and the thought of that was honey and balm to her.

      She slipped them into the covers she had destined for them and pressed down the damp gum. So all was as it had been to outward appearance, and she felt perfectly happy. Then when she descended to tea she placed them securely in the box under some more of her own for the seven-o'clock post, and went her way rejoicing.

      XXVIII

      Next morning, over a rather late breakfast in his sitting-room at Claridge's, Josiah's second post came in.

      All had gone well with his business in the City the day before, and in the afternoon he had run down to Bessington Hall, returning late at night.

      He was feeling unusually well and self-important, and his thoughts turned to pleasant things: To the delight of having Theodora once more as a wife; of his hope of founding a family--the Browns of Bessington--why not? Had not a boy at the gate called him squire?

      "Good-day to 'e, squire," he had said, and that was pleasant to hear.

      If only his tiresome cough would keep off in the autumn, he might himself shoot the extensive coverts he had ordered to be stocked on the estate. He had heard there were schools for would-be sportsmen to learn the art of handling a gun, and he would make inquiries.

      All the prospect was fair.

      He picked up his letters and turned them over. Nothing of importance. Ah, yes! there was Theodora's. The first letter she had ever written him, and such a long one! What could the girl have to say? Surely not all that about trains! He opened the envelope with a knife which lay by his plate, and this is what he read--read with whitening face and sinking heart:

      "BEECHLEIGH, _June 5th_.

      HECTOR, MY BELOVED!--Oh, for this last time I must think of you as that! Dearest, we are parted now and may never meet again, and the pain of it all kept me silent yesterday, when my heart was breaking with the anguish and longing to tell you how I loved you, how you were not going away suffering alone. Oh, it has all crept upon us, this great, great love! It was fate, and it was useless to struggle against it. Only we must not let it be the reason of our doing wrong--that would be to degrade it, and love should not live in an atmosphere of degradation. I could not go away with you, could not have you for my lover without breaking a bargain--a bargain over which I have given my word. Of course I did not know what love meant when I was married. In France one does not think of that as connected with a husband. It was just a duty to be got through to help papa and my sisters. But my part of the bargain was myself, and in return for giving that I have money and a home, and papa and Sarah and Clementine are comfortable and happy. And as Josiah has kept his side of it, so I must keep mine, and be faithful to him always in word and deed. Dearest, it is too terrible to think of this material aspect to a bond which now I know should only be one of love and faith and tenderness. But it _is_ a bond, and I have given my word, and no happiness could come to us if I should break it, _as Josiah has not broken his_. And oh, Hector, you do not know how good he has always been to me, and generous and indulgent! It is not his fault that he is not of our class, and I must do my utmost to make him happy, and atone for this wound which I have unwittingly given him, and which he is, and must always remain, unconscious of. Oh, if something could have warned me, after that first time we met, that I would love you--had begun to love you--even then there would have been time to draw back, to save us both, perhaps, from suffering. And yet, and yet, I do not know, we might have missed the greatest and noblest good of all our lives. Dearest, I want you to keep the memory of me as something happy. Each year, when the spring-time comes and the young fresh green, I want you to look back on our day at Versailles, and to say to yourself, 'Life cannot be all sad, because nature gave the earth the returning spring.' And some spring must come for us, too--if only in our hearts.

      "And now, O my beloved, good-bye! I cannot even tell to you the anguish which is wringing my heart. It is all summed up in this. I love you! I love you! and we must say forever a farewell!

      "THEODORA.

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