Matravers knew after that night that his was a broken life. Any future
such as he had planned for himself of active, intellectual toil had
now, he felt, become impossible. His ideals were all broken down. A
woman had found her way in between the joints of an armour which he
had grown to believe impenetrable, and henceforth life was a wreck.
The old, quiet stoicism, which had been the inner stimulus of his
career, was a thing altogether overthrown and impotent. He was too old
to reconstruct life anew; the fragments were too many, and the wreck
too complete. Only his philosophy showed him very plainly what the end
must be. Across the sky of his vision it seemed to be written in
letters of fire.
Early in the morning, having made his toilette as usual with a care
almost fastidious, he went out into the sunlit streets, moving like a
man in a deep dream amongst scenes which had become familiar to him
day by day. At his lawyer's he made his will, and signed it, thankful
for once for his great loneliness, insomuch as there was no one
who could call the disposal of his property to a stranger an
injustice--for he had left all to little Freddy; left it to him
because of his mother's eyes, as he thought with a faint smile. Then
he called at his publisher's and at the office of a leading review to
which he was a regular contributor, telling them to expect no more
work from him for a while; he was going abroad to take a long-earned
holiday. He lunched at his club, speaking in a more than usually
friendly manner to the few men with whom at times he had found it a
pleasure to associate, and finally, with that sense of unreality
growing stronger and stronger, he found himself once more in the Park,
in his usual chair, looking out with the same keen sympathy upon the
intensely joyous, beautiful phase of life which floated around him.
The afternoon breeze rustled pleasantly among the cool green leaves
above his head, and the sunlight slanted full across the shaded walk.
On every hand were genial voices, cordial greetings, and light
farewells. With a sense almost of awe, he thought of the days when he
had sat there waiting for her carriage, that he might look for a few
moments upon that pale-faced woman, whose influence over him seemed
already to have commenced before even any words had passed between
them. He sat there, gravely acknowledging the salutes of those
with whom he was acquainted, wearing always the same faint and
impenetrable smile--wonderful mask of a broken heart. And still the
memories came surging into his brain. He thought of that grey morning
when he had sat there alone, oppressed by some dim premonitions of the
tragedy amongst whose shadows he was already passing, so that even the
wind which had followed the dawn, and shaken the rain-drops down upon
him, had seemed to carry upon its bosom wailing cries and sad human
voices. As the slow moments passed along, he found himself watching
for her carriage with some remnant of the old wistfulness. But it
never came, and for that he was thankful.
At last he rose, and walked leisurely back to his rooms. He gave
orders to his servant to pack all his things for a journey; then, for
the last time, he stood up in the midst of his possessions, looking
around him with a vague sorrowfulness at the little familiar objects
which had become dear to him, both by association and by reason of a
certain sense of companionship which he had always been able to feel
for beautiful things, however inanimate. It was here that he had come
when he had first left Oxford, full of certain definite ambitions, and
with a mind fixed at least upon living a serene and well-ordered life.
He had woven many dreams within these four walls. How far away those
days now seemed to be from him! He would never dream any more; for him
the world's great dream was very close at hand.
He poured himself out a glass of wine from a quaintly cut decanter,
and set it down on his writing-desk, emptying into it with scrupulous
care the contents of a little packet which he had been carrying all
day in his waistcoat pocket. He paused for a moment before taking up
his pen, to move a little on one side the deep blue china bowl of
flowers which, summer and winter alike, stood always fresh upon his
writing-table. To-day it chanced, by some irony of fate, that they
were roses, and a swift flood of memories rushed into his tingling
senses as the perfume of the creamy blossoms floated up to him.
He set his teeth, and, taking out some paper, began to write.
"Berenice, farewell! To-night I am going on a very long
journey, to a very far land. You and I may never meet again,
and so, farewell! Farewell to you, Berenice, whom I have
loved, and whom I dearly love. You are the only woman who
has ever wandered into my little life to teach me the great
depths of human passion--and you came too late. But that was
not your fault.
"For what I am doing, do you, at least, not blame me. If
there were a single person in the world dependent upon me,
or to whom my death would be a real loss, I would remain.
But there is no one. And, whereas alive I can do you no
good, dead I may! Berenice, your husband lives--in suffering
and in poverty; your husband and your little boy. Freddy has
looked at me out of your dark eyes, my love, and whilst I
live I can never forget it. I hold his little hands, and I
look into his pure, childish face, and the great love which
I bear for his mother seems like an unholy thing. Leave your
husband out of the question--put every other consideration
on one side, Freddy's eyes must have kept us apart for ever.
"And, dear, it is your boy's future, and the care of your
stricken husband, which must bring you into closer and more
intimate touch with the vast world of human sorrows. Love
is a sacrifice, and life is a sacrifice. I know, and that
knowledge is the comfort of my last sad night on earth,
that you will find your rightful place amongst her toiling
daughters. And it is because there is no fitting place for
me by your side that I am very well content to die. For
myself, I have well counted the cost. Death is an infinite
compulsion. Our little lives are but the veriest trifle in
the scale of eternity. Whether we go into everlasting sleep,
or into some other mystic state, a few short years here more
or less are no great matter, Berenice."
Again there came that curious pain at his heartstrings, and the
singing in his ears. The pen slipped from his fingers; his head
drooped.
"Berenice!" he whispered. "Berenice!"
* * * * *
And as though by a miracle she heard him, for she was close at hand.
Whilst he had been writing, the door was softly opened and closed, a
tall, grey-mantled figure stood upon the threshold. It was Berenice!
"May I come in?" she cried softly. Her face was flushed, and her
cheeks were wet, but a smile was quivering upon her lips.
He did not answer. She came into the room, close to his side. Her
fingers clasped the hand which was hanging over the side of his chair.
The lamp had burnt very low; she could scarcely see his face.
"Dear, I have come to you," she murmured. "I am sorry. I want you to
forgive me. I do love you! you know that I love you!"
The pressure of her fingers upon his hand was surely returned. She
stood up, and her cloak slipped from her shoulders on to the floor.
"Why don't you speak to me? Don't you hear? Don't you understand? I
have come to you! I will not be sent away! It is too late! My carriage
brought me here. I have told my people that I shall not be returning!
Come away with me to-night! Let us start now! Listen! it is too late
to draw back! Every one knows that I have come to you! We shall be so
happy! Tell me that you are glad!"
There was no answer. He did not move. She came close to him, so that
her cheek almost touched his.
"Tell me that you are glad," she begged. "Don't argue with me any
more. If you do, I shall stop your mouth with kisses. I am not like
you, dear! I must have love! I cannot live alone any longer! I have
touched the utmost limits of my endurance! I _will_ stay with you! You
_shall_ love me! Listen! If you do not, I swear--but no! You will save
me from that! Oh, I know that you will! But don't argue with me! Words
are so cold, and I am a woman--and I must love and be loved, or I
shall die.... Ah!"
She started round with a little scream. Her eyes, frightened and
dilated, were fixed upon the door. On the threshold a little boy was
standing in his night-shirt, looking at her with dark, inquiring eyes.
"I want Mr. Matravers, if you please," he said deliberately. "Will you
tell him? He don't know that I'm here yet! He will be so surprised!
Charlie Dunlop--that's where I live--has the fever, and dad sent me
here with a letter, but Mr. Matravers was out when we came, and nurse
put me to bed. Now she's gone away, and I'm so lonely. Is he asleep?
Please wake him, and tell him."
She turned up the lamp without moving her eyes from the little
white-clad figure. A great trembling was upon her! It was like a voice
from the shadows of another world. And Matravers, why did he not
speak?
Slowly the lamp burned up. She leaned forward. He was sitting with his
head resting upon his hand, and the old, faint smile parting his
lips. But he did not look up! He did not speak to her! He was sitting
like a carved image!
"For God's sake speak to me!" she cried.
Then a certain rigidity in his posture struck her for the first time,
and she threw herself on the ground beside him with a cry of fear.
She pressed her lips to his, chafed his cold hand, and whispered
frantically in his ear! But there was no answer--there never could be
any answer. Matravers was dead, and the wine-glass at his side was
untasted.
[Illustration: But there was no answer--there never could be any
answer]
* * * * *
Berenice did not faint! She did not even lose consciousness for a
moment. Moaning softly to herself, but dry-eyed, she leaned over his
shoulder and read the words which he had written to her, of which,
indeed, the ink was scarcely dry. When she had finished, she took
up the wine-glass in her own fingers, holding it so steadily that not
a drop was spilt.
Here was the panacea she craved! The problem of her troubled life was
so easily to be solved. Rest with the man she loved!
Her arms would fold around him as she sank to the ground. Perhaps he
was already waiting for her somewhere--in one of those mystic worlds
where the soul might shake itself free from this weary burden of human
passions and sorrows. Her lips parted in a wonderful smile. She raised
the glass!
There was a soft patter across the carpet, and a gentle tug at her
dress.
"I am very cold," Freddy cried piteously, holding out a little blue
foot from underneath his night-shirt. "If you don't want to wake Mr.
Matravers, will you take me up to bed, please?"
Through a mist of sudden tears, she looked down into her boy's
face. She drew a deep, quick breath--her fingers were suddenly
nerveless. There was a great dull stain on the front of her dress,
the wine-glass, shattered into many pieces, lay at her feet. She
fell on her knees, and with a little burst of passionate sobs took
him into her arms.
* * * * *
There were grey hairs in the woman's head, although she was still
quite young. A few yards ahead, the bath chair, wheeled by an
attendant, was disappearing in the shroud of white mist, which had
suddenly rolled in from the sea. But the woman lingered for a moment
with her eyes fixed upon that dim, distant line, where the twilight
fell softly upon the grey ocean. It was the single hour in the long
day which she claimed always for her own--for it seemed to her in
that mysterious stillness, when the shadows were gathering and the
winds had dropped, that she could sometimes hear his voice. Perhaps,
somewhere, he too longed for that hour--a dweller, it might be, in
that wonderful spirit world of the unknown, of which he had spoken
sometimes with a curiously grave solemnity. Her hands clasped the iron
railing, a light shone for a moment in the pale-lined face turned so
wistfully seawards!
Was it the low, sweet music of the sea, or was it indeed his voice in
her ears, languorous and soft, long-travelled yet very clear.
Somewhere at least he must know that hers had become at his bidding
the real sacrifice! A smile transfigured her face! It was for this she
had lived!
Then there came her summons. A querulous little cry reached her from
the bath chair, drawn up on the promenade. She waved her hand
cheerfully.
"I am coming," she cried; "wait for me!"
But her face was turned towards that dim, grey line of silvery light,
and the wind caught hold of her words and carried them away over the
bosom of the sea--upwards!
THE END.
E. PHILLIPS OPPENHEIM'S NOVELS
ILLUSTRATED. CLOTH. $1.50 EACH
_The Lost Ambassador_
A straightforward mystery story, the plot of which hinges on the sale
of two battleships.
_The Illustrious Prince_
The tale of a world-startling international intrigue.
Mr. Oppenheim is a past master of the art of constructing
ingenious plots and weaving them around attractive
characters.--_London Morning Mail_
_Jeanne of the Marshes_
An engrossing tale of love and adventure.
A real Oppenheim tale, abundantly satisfying to the
reader.--_New York World_
_The Governors_
A romance of the intrigues of American finance.
The ever welcome Oppenheim.--_Boston Transcript_
_The Missioner_
Strongly depicts the love of an earnest missioner and a worldly
heroine with a past.
An entrancingly interesting romance.--_Pittsburg Post_
_The Long Arm of Mannister_
A distinctly different story that deals with a wronged man's ingenious
plan of revenge.
Mannister is a powerfully drawn character.--_Philadelphia
Press_
_As a Man Lives, or the Mystery of the Yellow House_
Tells of an English curate and his mysterious neighbor.
Every page in it suggests a mystery.--_Literary World,
London_
LITTLE, BROWN, & COMPANY, _Publishers_, BOSTON
E. PHILLIPS OPPENHEIM'S NOVELS
ILLUSTRATED. CLOTH. $1.50 EACH
_A Maker of History_
A capital story that "explains" the Russian Baltic fleet's attack on
the North Sea fishing fleet.
An enthralling tale, with a surprisingly well-sustained
mystery, and a series of plots, counterplots, and
well-managed climaxes.--_Brooklyn Times_
_The Malefactor_
An amazing story of the strange revenge of Sir Wingrave Seton, who
suffered imprisonment for a crime he did not commit.
Spirited, aggressive, vigorous, mysterious, and, best of
all, well told.--_Boston Transcript_
_A Millionaire of Yesterday_
A gripping story of a West African miner who clears his name of a
great stain.
A thrilling story throughout.--_Philadelphia Press_
_The Man and His Kingdom_
An intensely dramatic tale of love, intrigue, and adventure in a South
American state.
A daring bit of fiction, full of vigorous life and
unflagging interest._--Chicago Tribune_
_The Betrayal_
An enthralling story of treachery of state secrets in high diplomatic
circles of England.
The denouement is almost as surprising as the mystery is
baffling.--_Public Opinion_
_A Daughter of the Marionis_
A melodramatic story of Palermo and London, that is replete with
action.
LITTLE, BROWN, & COMPANY, _Publishers_, BOSTON
E. PHILLIPS OPPENHEIM'S NOVELS
ILLUSTRATED. CLOTH. $1.50 EACH
_A Prince of Sinners_
An engrossing story of English social political life, with powerfully
drawn characters.
Thoroughly matured, brilliantly constructed, and
convincingly told.--_London Times_
It is rare that so much knowledge of the world, taken as a
whole, is set between two covers of a novel.--_Chicago Daily
News_
_Anna the Adventuress_
A surprising tale of London life, with a most engaging heroine.
The consequences of a bold deception Mr. Oppenheim has
unfolded to us with remarkable ingenuity. The story sparkles
with brilliant conversation and strong situations.--_St.
Louis Republic_
_Mysterious Mr. Sabin_
An ingenious story of a bold international intrigue with an
irresistibly fascinating "villain."
Intensely readable for its dramatic force, its absolute
originality, and the strength of the men and women who fill
its pages.--_Pittsburg Times_
_The Yellow Crayon_
Containing the exciting experiences of Mr. Sabin with a powerful
secret society.
This stirring story shows unusual originality.--_New York
Times_
_The Master Mummer_
The strange romance of Isobel de Sorrens and the part a mysterious
actor played in her life.
A love tale laden with adventure and intrigue, with a saving
grace of humor.--_Philadelphia North American_
_The Mystery of Mr. Bernard Brown_
A mystery story, rich in sensational incidents and dramatic
situations.
LITTLE, BROWN, & COMPANY, _Publishers_, BOSTON
E. PHILLIPS OPPENHEIM'S NOVELS
ILLUSTRATED. CLOTH. $1.50 EACH
_The Avenger_
Unravels an intricate tangle of political intrigue and private revenge
with consummate power of fascination.
A lively, thrilling, captivating story.--_New York Times_
_A Lost Leader_
Weaves a realistic romance around a striking personality.
Mr. Oppenheim is one of the few writers who can make a
political novel as interesting as a good detective
story.--_The Independent, New York_
_The Great Secret_
Deals with a stupendous international conspiracy.
Founded on a daring invention and daringly carried
out.--_The Boston Globe_
_Enoch Strone: A Master of Men_
The story of a masterful self-made man who made a foolish marriage
early in life.
In no other novel has Mr. Oppenheim created such life-like
characters or handled his plot with such admirable force and
restraint.--_Baltimore American_
_A Sleeping Memory_
The remarkable tale of an unhappy girl who consented to be deprived of
her memory, with unlooked-for consequences.
He deals with the curious and unexpected, and displays all
the qualities which made him famous.--_St. Louis
Globe-Democrat_
_The Traitors_
A capital story of love, adventure, and Russian political intrigue in
a small Balkan state.
Swift-moving and exciting. The love episodes have freshness
and charm.--_Minneapolis Tribune_
LITTLE, BROWN, & COMPANY, _Publishers_, BOSTON
TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE:
Minor changes have been made to correct obvious typesetter errors;
otherwise, every effort has been made to remain true to the author's
words and intent.