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 Callot Soeurs. 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.
"Mais qu'as tu, mon vieux chou?" they said. "Ce bel Hector chéri--il a
un béguin pour quelqu'un--mais ce n'est pas pour nous autres!"