Part 39 (2/2)

”No,” I said, ”I've never been to Bucharest, unfortunately, though I've been in Constanza, which is also in Roumania. Remember me to your father when you write, won't you?”

”Certainly. He wonders whether you and I would care to go out there for a month or two?”

”In winter?”

”Winter is the most pleasant time. It is the season in Bucharest.”

”As you please, dearest,” I replied. ”I am entirely in your hands, as you know,” I laughed.

”That's awfully sweet of you, Owen,” she declared. ”You are always indulging me--just like the spoilt child I am.”

”Because I love you,” I replied softly, placing my hand upon hers and looking into her wonderful eyes.

She smiled contentedly, and I saw in those eyes the genuine love-look: the expression which a woman can never feign.

Thus the autumn days went past, happy days of peace and joy.

Sylvia delighted in the theatre, and we went very often, while on days when it was dry and the sun shone, I took her motoring to Brighton, to Guildford, to Tunbridge Wells, or other places on the well-known roads out of London.

The clouds which had first marred our happiness had now happily been dispelled, and the sun of life and love shone upon us perpetually.

Sometimes I wondered whether that ideal happiness was not too complete to last. In the years I had lived I had become a pessimist. I feared a too-complete ideal. The realization of our hopes is always followed by a poignant despair. In this world there is no cup of sweetness without dregs of bitterness. The man who troubles after the to-morrow creates trouble for himself, while he who is regardless of the future is like an ostrich burying its head in the sand at sign of disaster.

Still, each of us who marry fondly believe ourselves to be the one exception to the rule. And perhaps it is only human that it should be so. I, like you my reader, believed that my troubles were over, and that all the lowering clouds had drifted away. They were, however, only low over the horizon, and were soon to reappear. Ah! how differently would I have acted had I but known what the future--the future of which I was now so careless--held in store for me!

One night we had gone in the car to the Coliseum Theatre, for Sylvia was fond of variety performances as a change from the legitimate theatre. As we sat in the box, I thought--though I could not be certain--that she made some secret signal with her fan to somebody seated below amid the crowded audience.

My back had been turned for a moment, and on looking round I felt convinced that she had signalled. It was on the tip of my tongue to refer to it, yet I hesitated, fearing lest she might be annoyed. I trusted her implicitly, and, after all, I might easily have mistaken a perfectly natural movement for a sign of recognition. Therefore I laughed at my own foolish fancy, and turned my attention again to the performance.

At last the curtain fell, and as we stood together amid the crush in the vestibule, the night having turned out wet, I left her, to go in search of our carriage.

I suppose I was absent about two or three minutes, but on my return I could not find her.

She had vanished as completely as though the earth had swallowed her up.

I waited until the theatre was entirely empty. I described her to the attendants, and I had a chat with the smart and highly popular manager, but no one had seen her. She had simply disappeared.

I was frantic, full of the wildest dread as to what had occurred. How madly I acted I scarcely knew. At last, seeing to remain longer was useless, now that the theatre had closed, I jumped into the brougham and drove with all haste to Wilton Street.

”No, Mr. Owen,” replied Browning to my breathless inquiry, ”madam has not yet returned.”

I brushed past him and entered the study.

Upon my writing-table there lay a note addressed to me.

I recognized the handwriting in an instant, and with trembling fingers tore open the envelope.

What I read there staggered me.

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