And as Josiah had done, he could only say: "Oh, God! Oh, God!"
On top of his large escritoire there stood a minute and very perfect
copy of the fragment of Psyche, which he had so intensely admired. He
turned to it now as his only consolation; the likeness to Theodora was
strong; the exact same form of face, and the way her hair grew; the pure
line of the cheek, and the angle which the head was set on to the column
of her throat--all might have been chiselled from her. How often had he
seen her looking down like that. Perhaps the only difference at all was
that Theodora's nose was fine, and not so heavy and Greek; otherwise he
had her there in front of him--his Theodora, his gift of the gods, his
Psyche, his soul. And wherever he should wander--if in wildest Africa or
furthest India, in Alaska or Tibet--this little fragment of white marble
should bear him company.
It calmed him to look at it--the beautiful Greek thing.
And he sat down and wrote to his loved one his good-bye.
He told her of his sorrow and his love, and how he was going away
from England, he did not yet know where, and should be absent many
months, and how forever his thoughts from distant lands would bridge the
space between them, and surround her with tenderness and worship.
And her letter, he said, should never leave him--her two letters; they
should be dearer to him than his life. He prayed her to take care of
herself, and if at any time she should want him to send for him from the
ends of the earth. Bracondale would always find him, sooner or later,
and he was hers to order as she willed.
And as he had ended his letter before, so he ended this one now:
"For ever and ever your devoted
"LOVER."
After this he sat a long time and gazed out upon the night. It was very
dark and cloudy, but in one space above his head two stars shone forth
for a moment in a clear peep of sky, and they seemed to send him a
message of hope. What hope? Was it, as she had said, the thought that
there would be a returning spring--even for them?