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diff --git a/27997-h/27997-h.htm b/27997-h/27997-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..f50a2fb --- /dev/null +++ b/27997-h/27997-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,14760 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xml:lang="en" lang="en"> + <head> + <meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=iso-8859-1" /> + <meta http-equiv="Content-Style-Type" content="text/css" /> + <title> + The Project Gutenberg eBook of Robert Orange, by John Oliver Hobbes. + </title> + <style type="text/css"> +/*<![CDATA[ XML blockout */ +<!-- +body { + margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; +} + + h1,h2,h3,h4,h5,h6 { + text-align: center; /* all headings centered */ + clear: both; +} + +.subhead {font-size: medium; font-weight: normal;} +.byline {font-size: small;} +.authorline {font-size: medium;} + +p { + margin-top: .75em; + text-align: justify; + margin-bottom: .75em; +} + +/* this is overused and in some cases ends up being "less space" */ +.nospaceabove { + margin-top: -.75em; /* cancels out bottom above */ +} + +.hangindent { + text-indent: -2em; + padding-left: 2em; +} + +blockquote p { + font-size: 95%; +} + +hr { + width: 33%; + margin-top: 2em; + margin-bottom: 2em; + margin-left: auto; + margin-right: auto; + clear: both; +} + +table { + margin-left: auto; + margin-right: auto; +} + +table td {padding: 0px 20px;} + +.pagenum { /* uncomment the next line for invisible page numbers */ + position: absolute; + left: 92%; + font-size: smaller; + text-align: right; + color: #AAA; +} /* page numbers */ + +.linenum { + position: absolute; + top: auto; + left: 4%; +} /* poetry number */ + +.blockquot { + margin-left: 5%; + margin-right: 10%; +} + +.bb {border-bottom: solid 2px;} + +.bl {border-left: solid 2px;} + +.bt {border-top: solid 2px;} + +.br {border-right: solid 2px;} + +.bbox {border: solid 2px;} + +.center p {text-align: center;} + +.smcap {font-variant: small-caps;} + +/* Footnotes */ +.footnotes {border: dashed 1px;} + +.footnote {margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-size: 0.9em;} + +.footnote .label {position: absolute; right: 84%; text-align: right;} + +.fnanchor { + vertical-align: super; + font-size: .8em; + text-decoration: + none; +} + +/* Poetry */ +.poem { + margin-left:10%; + margin-right:10%; + text-align: left; +} + +.poem br {display: none;} + +.poem .stanza {margin: 1em 0em 1em 0em;} + +.poem span.i0 { + display: block; + margin-left: 0em; + padding-left: 3em; + text-indent: -3em; +} + +.poem span.i2 { + display: block; + margin-left: 2em; + padding-left: 3em; + text-indent: -3em; +} + +.poem span.i4 { + display: block; + margin-left: 4em; + padding-left: 3em; + text-indent: -3em; +} + +.poem span.i8 {display: block; margin-left:8em; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;} + +.i8 {margin-left: 8em;} +.i12 {margin-left: 12em;} +.i20 {margin-left: 20em;} + +.trnote {background-color: #DDE; color: #000; padding: .2em .5em; + margin: 1em 5% 1em 5%; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 90%;} + +// --> +/* XML end ]]>*/ + </style> + </head> +<body> + + +<pre> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Robert Orange, by John Oliver Hobbes + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Robert Orange + Being a Continuation of the History of Robert Orange + +Author: John Oliver Hobbes + +Release Date: February 4, 2009 [EBook #27997] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ROBERT ORANGE *** + + + + +Produced by Colin Bell and the Online Distributed +Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net + + + + + + +</pre> + + +<h1>ROBERT ORANGE</h1> + +<div class="center"> +<p>BEING A CONTINUATION OF THE<br/> HISTORY OF ROBERT ORANGE, M.P.</p> +<p style="margin-top: 1em;">AND A SEQUEL TO THE<br/> SCHOOL FOR SAINTS</p> + +<p style="margin-top: 2em;">By <br/> +<span style="font-size: x-large;"> +John Oliver Hobbes</span></p> + +<p style="margin-top: 2em;">LONDON: T. FISHER UNWIN</p> + +<p>PATERNOSTER SQUARE. MDCCCC</p> + +<p style="margin-top: 1em;">(<i>All rights reserved</i>)</p> +</div> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_1" id="Page_1">[1]</a></span></p><h2><a name="CHAPTER_I" id="CHAPTER_I"></a>CHAPTER I</h2> + + +<p>One afternoon during the first weeks of October, +1869, while wind, dust, and rain were struggling each +for supremacy in the streets, a small yellow brougham, +swung in the old-fashioned style on cumbersome +springs and attached to a pair of fine greys, was +standing before the Earl of Garrow's town residence +in St. James's Square. The hall clock within that +mansion chimed four, the great doors were thrown +open by two footmen, and a young lady wearing a +mauve silk skirt deeply flounced, a black cloth jacket +embroidered in gold, and a mauve hat trimmed with +plumes—appeared upon the threshold. She paused for +a moment to admire the shrubs arranged in boxes on +each window-sill, the crimson vines that brightened +the grey walls; to criticise the fresh brown rosette +under the near horse's ear; to bestow a swift glance +upon the harness, the coachman's livery, and the +groom's boots. Then she stepped into the carriage +and gave her order—</p> + +<p>“To the Carlton Club.”</p> + +<p>The groom climbed on to his seat, and the horses, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_2" id="Page_2">[2]</a></span>after a brilliant display of their well-disciplined mettle, +suffered themselves to be driven, at an easy pace, +toward Pall Mall.</p> + +<p>Lady Sara-Louise-Tatiana-Valérie De Treverell, +only child of the ninth Earl of Garrow, had been, +since her mother's death, the mistress of his house and +his chief companion. Essentially a woman of emotions, +she was, nevertheless, in appearance somewhat dreamy, +romantic, even spiritual. The eyes were blue, bright +as a cut sapphire, and shone, as it were, through tears. +Her mouth, uneven in its line, had a scarlet eloquence +more pleasing than sculpturesque severity. At the +moment, she wore no gloves, and her tapering fingers +shared their characteristic with her nose, which also +tapered, with exquisite lightness of mould, into a +point. For colour, she had a gypsy's red and brown. +The string of gold beads which she fastened habitually +round her throat showed well against the warm tints +in her cheek; her long pearl earrings caught in +certain lights the dark shadow of her hair—hair black, +abundant, and elaborately dressed in the fashion of that +time. Passionate yet calculating, imperious yet susceptible +of control, generous yet given to suspicion, an +egoist yet capable of self-abandoning enthusiasm—she +represented a type of feminine character often recognised +but rarely understood.</p> + +<p>On this particular afternoon in October she had +some pressing matters on her mind. She was considering, +among other things, an offer of marriage +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_3" id="Page_3">[3]</a></span>which she had received by post two days before from +a nobleman of great fortune, the Duke of Marshire. +But Sara was ambitious—not mercenary. She wanted +power. Power, unhappily, was the last thing one +could associate with the estimable personality of the +suitor under deliberation.</p> + +<p>“I must tell papa,” she said to herself, “that it +would never do.”</p> + +<p>Here she fell into a reverie; but as her expression +changed from one of annoyance to something of wistfulness +and sentimentality, the question of marriage +with the Duke of Marshire had clearly been dismissed +for that moment from her heart. At intervals a shy +smile gave an almost childish tenderness to her face. +Then, on a sudden, her eyelashes would droop, she +would start with a sigh, and, apparently caught by +some unwelcome remembrance, sink into a humour as +melancholy as it was mysterious. Quiet she sat, +absorbed in her own emotions, heedless alike of the +streets through which she was passing and the many +acquaintances who bowed as she drove by. It was +her daily custom, when in town, to call at the Carlton +Club for her father and take him for a short drive +round the Park before his tea. To-day he was already +waiting on the club steps as the brougham halted +before the entrance. He smiled, joined Lady Sara at +once, and seating himself by her side in his usual +corner, maintained his usual imperturbable reserve. +As a rule, during these excursions he would either +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_4" id="Page_4">[4]</a></span>doze, or jot down ideas in his note-book, or hum one +of the few songs he cared to hear: “Go tell Augusta, +gentle swain,” “Revenge, revenge, Timotheus cries,” +and “She wore a wreath of roses.” This time, however, +he did neither of these things, but watched the +reflection of his daughter's face in the carriage window +before him. He had white hair, a dyed moustache +and a small imperial—also dyed the deepest black—just +under the lower lip. In appearance he was, spite +of the false touches, good-looking, sensitive, and perhaps +too mild. The cleft in his rounded chin was the +sole mark of decision in a countenance whose features +were curved—wherever a curve was possible—to a +degree approaching caricature. Temples, eyebrows, +nostrils, and moustache, all described a series of semi-circles +which, accentuated by a livid complexion and +curling hair, presented an effect somewhat commonplace +and a little tiresome. He had spent his existence +among beings to whom nothing seemed natural which +did not depart most earnestly from all that nature is +and teaches: he had always endeavoured to maintain +the ideal of a Christian gentleman where, as a matter +of fact, Christianity was understood rather as a good +manner than a faith, and ideals were prejudices of race +rather than aspirations of the soul. Well-born, well-bred, +and moderately learned, he was not, and could +never be, more than dull or less than dignified. The +second son of his father, he had spent the customary +years of idleness at Eton and Oxford, he had journeyed +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_5" id="Page_5">[5]</a></span>through France, Italy, and Spain, contested unsuccessfully +a seat in Mertford, and thought of reading for the +Bar. But at four-and-thirty he became, through the +influence of his mother's family, groom-in-waiting +to the Queen—a post which he held till his elder +brother's death, which occurred six months later. At +this point his Court career ceased. A weak heart and +a constitutional dislike of responsibility assisted him in +his firm decision to lead the life of a country nobleman. +He retired to his estate, and remained there in +solitude, troubling no one except his agent, till a +Russian lady, whom he had first met and loved during +his early travels on the Continent, happened to come +visiting in the neighbourhood. As the daughter of a +Russian Prince and Ambassador, she had considered +her rank superior to Lord Garrow's, and therefore felt +justified, as she informed her relations after he had +succeeded to the earldom, in making the first advance +toward their common happiness. The marriage was +soon arranged; the alliance proved successful if not +always serene; one child—Sara-Louise-Tatiana-Valérie—was +born, an event which was followed, nine +days later, by the death of the Countess.</p> + +<p>Lord Garrow, a man of refined ideas rather than +profound feelings, displayed in mourning his wife's +loss the same gentle, dispassionate, and courteous +persistency with which he had remained constant +to his first impression of her charms. She had been +a beautiful, high-hearted girl; she became a fascinating +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_6" id="Page_6">[6]</a></span>but wayward woman; she died a creature of such +mingled ferocity and sentiment that, had she not +perished when she did, she must have existed in +misery under the storms of her own temperament. +As Garrow watched his daughter's face, he may have +been touched to a deeper chord than usual at the +sight of her strange and growing resemblance to his +dead Tatiana. Did she too possess—as her mother +had possessed—the sweet but calamitous gift of loving? +He himself had not been the object of his wife's +supreme devotion. Before the child's birth she had +given him an emerald ring which, she declared, was +all that she valued on earth. It was no gift of his; +it had belonged to a young attaché to her father's +embassy. Affection had taught Lord Garrow something; +he asked no questions; the jewel was placed, +by his orders, on her dead hand; it was buried with +her, and with that burial he included any jealousy +of her early romance. He had been sincerely, wholly +attached to her; he had been proud of her graces and +accomplishments; he knew her virtue and honoured +her pure mind; she was the one woman he had ever +wished to marry. He did not regret, nay, it was +impossible to regret, their marriage. But she had +been ever an alien and a stranger. Each had too +often considered the other's heart with surprise. +True love must rest on a perfect understanding; +at the first lifting of the eyes in wonder there is a +jar which by and by must make the whole emotion +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_7" id="Page_7">[7]</a></span>restless. An unconquerable curiosity lay at the very +root of their lives. She thought him English and +self-sufficient; he thought her foreign and a little +superstitious. This ineffable criticism was constant, +fretful, and ever nearing the climax of uttered reproach. +Sara had inherited all the amazement, but she owned, +as well, its comprehension. She adored passionately +the mother she had never seen; she loved her father, +whom she knew by heart. After exchanging an +affectionate glance with his lordship, she began to +draw on her gloves. Whilst buttoning one she said—</p> + +<p>“Have you seen him?”</p> + +<p>“No,” he replied; “but, in any case, I think he +would have avoided me to-day.”</p> + +<p>“Why?”</p> + +<p>“From motives of delicacy. Henry Marshire is a +man of the nicest feeling. He is never guilty of the +least mistake.”</p> + +<p>Sara smiled, and so disguised a blush.</p> + +<p>“I did not mean Marshire,” she said. “I was +thinking then of Robert Orange.”</p> + +<p>“Robert Orange,” exclaimed Lord Garrow in +astonishment.</p> + +<p>“Yes, dear papa. Is he not sometimes at the +Carlton with Lord Wight? He seems to me a +coming man; and so good-looking. We must really +ask him to dinner.”</p> + +<p>Some minutes elapsed before the Earl could utter +any comment on a suggestion so surprising, and at +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_8" id="Page_8">[8]</a></span>that particular moment so inconsequent. Was his +daughter not weighing—with prayer, he hoped, and +certainly with all her senses—the prospect of an +alliance with the Duke of Marshire? How, then, +could she pause in a meditation of such vital interest +to make capricious remarks about a mere acquaintance?</p> + +<p>“Does Marshire know him?” he asked at last.</p> + +<p>“I hope so. He is a remarkable person. But the +party is blind.”</p> + +<p>“My dear, the English are an aristocratic people. +They do not forgive mysterious blood and ungentle +origins. While we have our Howards, our Talbots, +and our Poulets—to say nothing of the De Courcys +and Cliftons—it would surely seem excessively absurd +to endure the intrusion of French <i>émigrés</i> into our +midst.”</p> + +<p>“How I hate the great world!” exclaimed Sara, +with vehemence; “how I dislike the class which +ambition, wealth, and pride separate from the rest of +humanity! My only happiness now is found in +solitude.”</p> + +<p>“Your mother, dear Sara, had—or fancied so—this +same desire to shun companionship and be alone. +Her delicate health after our marriage made her fear +society.”</p> + +<p>“There are days when it seems an arena of wild +beasts!”</p> + +<p>“Nevertheless, my darling, at your age you must +learn to live among your fellow creatures.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_9" id="Page_9">[9]</a></span>”</p> + +<p>“How can I live where I should be afraid to die?”</p> + +<p>“Ought you to give way to these moods? Is it +not mistaking the imagination for the soul? Young +people do this, and you are very young—but two-and-twenty.”</p> + +<p>“I am double-hearted,” said Sara; “and when one +is double-hearted the tongue must utter contradictions. +I like my advantages while I despise them. I +wish to be thought exclusive, yet I condemn the +pettiness of my ambition. And so on.”</p> + +<p>“I fear,” said Lord Garrow gravely, “that your +mind is disturbed by a question which you must soon—very +soon, my dearest child—answer.”</p> + +<p>“Papa, I cannot.”</p> + +<p>“Surely you will gratify me so far as to take time +before you object to what might possibly be most +desirable.”</p> + +<p>“It may be desirable enough, but is it right?”</p> + +<p>“Right,” repeated her father, with exasperation. +“How could it be otherwise than right to marry a +man of Marshire's position, means, stamp, and general +fitness? You would be in possession of a station +where your interest would be as independent as your +spirit. Nothing could have been more brilliant, or +flattering, or more cordial than his offer. I argue +against my natural selfishness for your welfare. I +don't wish to part with you, but I must consider your +future.”</p> + +<p>He spoke with energy, and Sara knew, from the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_10" id="Page_10">[10]</a></span>length and substance of the speech, that the subject +had been for some time very near his heart. She +resolved, on the instant, not to fail him; but as she +foresaw his crowning satisfaction, she permitted +herself the luxury of prolonging his suspense.</p> + +<p>“I do not love him,” said she.</p> + +<p>“In marriage one does not require an unconquerable +love but an invincible sympathy.”</p> + +<p>“An invincible sympathy!” she exclaimed. “I +have had that for certain friends—for one or two, at +any rate. For Robert Orange, as an example.”</p> + +<p>“That man again? Why do you dwell upon him?”</p> + +<p>“He is interesting, he has force, and, as for origin, +do people ever repeat pleasant facts about a neighbour's +pedigree? I believe that his family is every +bit as good as ours. His second name is de Hausée. +No one can pretend that we are even so good as +a genuine de Hausée. We may make ourselves +ridiculous!”</p> + +<p>“Let me entreat you to guard against these +inequalities in your character. To-day I could even +accuse you of levity. Dearest Sara, Marshire is hardly +the man to be kept waiting for his reply.”</p> + +<p>“I am not well,” said Sara, almost in tears. +“There are hours when I would not give my especial +blessings for any other earthly happiness, and then, a +moment after, the things which pleased me most +become vexations, all but intolerable!”</p> + +<p>“How little importance, then, should we attach to +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_11" id="Page_11">[11]</a></span>our caprices, when we know, by experience, how +short is the pleasure and displeasure they can give,” +was the careful reply.</p> + +<p>“Caprices!” said Sara, “yes, you are right. My +mind gets weary, disgusted, and dismayed. But the +soul is never bored—never tired. Poor prisoner! It +has so few opportunities.”</p> + +<p>She sighed deeply, and her father saw, with distress, +the approach of a sentimental mood which he deplored +as un-English, and feared as unmanageable.</p> + +<p>“What is this languor, this inability to rouse myself, +to feel the least interest in things or people?” she +continued. “I am not ill, and yet I have scarcely the +strength to regret my lassitude.”</p> + +<p>“What does it mean?”</p> + +<p>He put his hand upon her jacket sleeve.</p> + +<p>“Is this warm enough?” he said. “The autumn is +treacherous. You are careful, I hope.”</p> + +<p>She glanced out of the window and up at the clouds +which, grey, heavy, and impenetrable, moved, darkening +all things as they went across the sky.</p> + +<p>“I wish it would rain! I like to be out when it +rains!”</p> + +<p>“A strange fancy,” said her father, “but tastes, +even odd ones, give a charm to life, whereas passions—“ +he put some stress upon the word and repeated it, +“passions destroy it.”</p> + +<p>“Marshire, at any rate, does not seem to possess +either!<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_12" id="Page_12">[12]</a></span>”</p> + +<p>“Well, a man must begin at some point, and, at +some point, he must change. He admires and respects +you, my darling, so we may hardly quarrel with his +judgment.”</p> + +<p>Sara shrugged her shoulders and turned her glance +away from the few carriages filled with invalids or +elderly women which were still lingering in the +Row.</p> + +<p>“Some people,” said she, “are driven by their +passions, others, the smaller number, by their virtues. +Marshire has asked me to marry him because it is his +duty to choose a wife from his own circle. I have no +illusions in the matter. Nor, I fancy, has he. We +have talked, of course, of love and Platonism till both +love and Platonism became a weariness!”</p> + +<p>“Very far indeed am I from thinking you just. I +have had an extremely kind note from the Duchess.”</p> + +<p>“An old tyrant! She wants a daughter-in-law +who will play piquet with her in the evenings, and +feed her peacocks in the morning. She is tired of +poor Miss Wilmington. An old tyrant!”</p> + +<p>“She hopes to hear soon when the marriage is to +take place. I wish I could tell her the day. I do so +long to have it fixed.”</p> + +<p>“Dear papa,” she said, with a charming smile, +“you are anxious, I see, to be rid of me. I will +write to him to-night.”</p> + +<p>“And to what effect?”</p> + +<p>“The wisest.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_13" id="Page_13">[13]</a></span>”</p> + +<p>“That means the happiest, too?” he asked with +anxiety.</p> + +<p>“For you and him, I hope. As for me—am I a +woman who could, by any chance, be both happy +and wise at the same moment?”</p> + +<p>Her existence was very solitary. The flippancy of +the lives around her, the inanity of her relatives' pursuits, +their heedlessness of those inner qualities which +make the real—indeed, the only considerable difference +between man and man, could but fret, and mortify, +and abash a heart which, in the absence of any religious +faith, had, at any rate, the need of it. Her father, +who entertained clear views of “the right thing” and +“the wrong thing” in social ethics, was still too rigid +a formalist in the exposition of his theories to reach an +intelligence with whom the desire of virtues would +have to come as a passion—inspiring and inspired or +else be utterly repudiated. Utilitarianism, and the +greatest happiness of the greatest number, comfortable +domestic axioms, little schemes for the elevation of the +masses by the classes, had, on their logical basis, no +attraction for this sceptical, wayward girl. To be +merely useful was, in her eyes, to make oneself meddlesome +and absurd. The object of existence was to be +heroic or nothing. She could imagine herself a Poor +Clare: she could not imagine herself as a great young +lady dividing her hours judiciously between district +visiting and the ball-room, between the conquest of +eligible bachelors and the salvation of vulgar souls. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_14" id="Page_14">[14]</a></span>Marshire, she knew, had sisters and cousins who did +these things and were considered patterns. No wonder +then that she turned pale and became fretful at the +prospect of her views clashing inevitably with his.</p> + +<p>“I cannot be wise and happy at the same moment,” +she repeated.</p> + +<p>At that instant the carriage, which was then rolling +toward Hyde Park Corner, came to an abrupt standstill, +and, on looking out, Lord Garrow observed that +the coachman had halted in obedience to a signal from +a gentleman who was galloping, at a hard pace, after +their brougham.</p> + +<p>“It must be Reckage,” said the Earl; “I never knew +a man so fond of riding who rode so ill.”</p> + +<p>“What, I wonder, does he want now?” said Sara, +flushing a little. “I didn't know that he was in town.”</p> + +<p>By that time the pursuer, a handsome man with an +auburn beard and very fine blue eyes, had reached +them.</p> + +<p>“This,” he shouted, “is a rushing beast of a horse;” +but, before he could explain his errand, the hunter, +who was nearly quite thoroughbred and a magnificent +animal, dashed on, evidently determined to gain, without +delay, some favourite destination.</p> + +<p>“Extraordinary!” said Lord Garrow. “Extraordinary!”</p> + +<p>“But so like him,” observed his daughter.</p> + +<p>“And he has made us late for tea. What a stupid +fellow!<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_15" id="Page_15">[15]</a></span>”</p> + +<p>It was exactly five minutes past five when they +reached St. James's Square. The sun, a globe, set in +thin lines of yellow light, shone out above the trees, +which were dull but not yet leafless. Grey and sulphurous +and gold-edged clouds floated in masses on the +blue sky. It had been a day of changes—yet it +seemed to Sara, whose own moods had been as various, +the ordinary passing away of time.</p> + +<p>“Upon my word,” said his lordship, “it is too bad! +They may say what they please about Reckage, but I +call him a spooney. That horse was a noble horse—a +most superior horse. He couldn't manage him. I +wish he would sell him.”</p> + +<p>“He would never do anything so much to his own +advantage,” was the dry response. “Poor Reckage is a +brilliant fool—he's selfish, and therefore he miscalculates.”</p> + +<p>Sara was now talking mechanically—as she often did +when she was with those whom she loved or liked, but +from whom she was separated in every thought, +interest, and emotion. The lassitude of which she had +complained at the beginning of their drive returned +upon her. Sighing heavily, she entered the house and +mounted the long staircase to the drawing-room, where +the tea-table was already spread, the flame quivering +under the kettle, the deep pink china laid out on a +silver tray. But the homeliness of the scene and its +familiarity had no power to soothe that aching, distracted +heart. Had she been a man, she thought, she +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_16" id="Page_16">[16]</a></span>might have sought her refuge in ceaseless work, in +great ambitions, in achievements. This eternal tea-pouring +and word-mincing, this business of forced +laughter and garlanded conversation was more than she +could endure. A low cry of impatience, too long and +also too loosely imprisoned, escaped from her lips.</p> + +<p>“What is the matter?” asked Lord Garrow, who +was following close upon her heels.</p> + +<p>“Life,” she said, “life! That is all that ever does +matter.”</p> + +<p>“Ain't you happy?”</p> + +<p>“No, but I have it in me to be happy—an appalling +capability. Let us say no more about it. I must join +myself to eternity, and so find rest.”</p> + +<p>“Well,” said her father, who now felt that he had a +right to complain, “my poor uncle used to say, if +women deserved happiness they would bear it better. +Few of them bear it well—and this is a fact I have +often brought before me.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_17" id="Page_17">[17]</a></span>”</p> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_II" id="CHAPTER_II"></a>CHAPTER II</h2> + + +<p>When Sara had prepared Lord Garrow's tea and cut +the leaves of the <i>Revue des Deux Mondes</i>, which he +invariably read until he dressed for dinner, she stole +away to the further room, where she could play the +piano, write letters, muse over novels, or indulge in +reverie without fear of interruption. But as she +entered it that afternoon its air of peace seemed the +bleakness of desolation. A terrible and afflicting grief +swept, like an icy breeze, through her heart, and, +whether from actual physical pain or the excitement of +the last few hours, tears started to her eyes, her cheeks +flushed, and she fell to passionate weeping. The smiling +Nymphs painted on the ceiling above her head and +the rose leaves they were for ever scattering to the +dancing Hours (a charming group, and considered very +cheerful), could not relieve her woe. She cried long +and bitterly, and was on the verge of hysterics when +the door opened and her most intimate woman friend, +the Viscountess Fitz Rewes, was announced. This +bewitching creature—who was a widow, with two long +flaxen curls, a sweet figure, and the smile of an angel<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_18" id="Page_18">[18]</a></span>—embraced +her dear, dear Sara with genuine affection, +and pretended not to see her swollen eyelids. Sara +possessed for Pensée Fitz Rewes the fascination of a +desperate nature for a meek one. The audacity, +brilliancy, and recklessness of the younger woman +at once stimulated and established the other's gentle +piety.</p> + +<p>They talked for fifteen minutes about the autumn +visits they had paid, the visits they would have to pay, +and the visits which nothing in the world would induce +them to pay.</p> + +<p>“I have been at home, at Catesby, most of the +time,” said Pensée; “a very quiet, happyish time, on +the whole. I had a few people down, but I saw a +great deal of a particularly nice person. She is a +foreigner—an archduchess really. Her father made a +morganatic marriage. I am so glad they don't have +morganatic marriages in England. I don't like to be +uncharitable, but they seem, in a way, so improper. +Madame de Parflete is all one could wish. Her husband +was a dreadful man.”</p> + +<p>“What did he do?” said Sara, who was a little +absent.</p> + +<p>“Oh, all kinds of things. He committed suicide in +the end. And now—she is going to marry a friend of +mine.”</p> + +<p>“Who is he?”</p> + +<p>“I never told you about him before,” said Pensée, +“but I am so miserable to-day that you may as well +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_19" id="Page_19">[19]</a></span>know. He was a sort of brother, yet much more. +One didn't meet him often in our set, because he +didn't and doesn't care about it. Life, however, threw +us together.”</p> + +<p>She covered her wan face with her hands.</p> + +<p>“How am I to give him up?” she asked. “How +shall I bear it? I get so unhappy. I asked my little +boy the other day what he did when I went away +from home. He said—‘I gather chestnuts and feel +lonely.’ And I asked my little girl what she did, and +she said—‘I cry till you come back again.’ There's +the difference between men and women. I am like +my poor Lilian. You, Sara, if you could be wretched, +would be more like the boy.”</p> + +<p>“Do you think so?” said Sara.</p> + +<p>“That wonderful passage in the New Testament—I +often remember it! After all the agony and +separation were over, Simon Peter said to the disciples, +<i>I go a fishing</i>. He went back to the work he was +doing when our Lord first called him. What +courage!”</p> + +<p>“Go on,” said Sara, “go on!”</p> + +<p>“Of course, my heart has been taking an undue +complacency in the creature, and this seldom fails to +injure. I have a wish to be free from distress, and +enjoy life. As if we were born to be happy! No, +this world is a school to discipline souls and fit them +for the other. I must forget my friend.”</p> + +<p>“Nonsense!<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_20" id="Page_20">[20]</a></span>”</p> + +<p>“It will be very hard. I took such an interest in +his career. If I didn't mention him to you, or to other +people, I mentioned him often to God. And now—it +is somewhat awkward.”</p> + +<p>“You little goose,” said Sara, “you have a heart of +crystal. Nothing could be awkward for you.”</p> + +<p>“My heart,” said Pensée, with a touch of resentment, +“is just as dangerous and wicked as any other +heart! You misunderstand me wilfully. I like prayer +at all times, because it is a help and because it lifts one +out of the world. Oh, when shall every thought be +brought into captivity?”</p> + +<p>“Listen!” said Sara, “listen! If there is an +attractiveness in human beings so lovely that it could +call your Almighty God Himself from heaven to +dwell among them and to die most cruelly for their +sakes, is it to be expected that they will not—and who +will dare say that they should not?—as mortals themselves, +discover qualities in each other which draw out +the deepest affection? I have no patience with your +religion—none.”</p> + +<p>“You are most unkind, and I won't tell you any +more,” replied Pensée, who looked, however, not ungrateful +for Sara's view of the situation.</p> + +<p>“Let me tell you something about me,” said her +friend fiercely. “I never say my prayers, because I +cannot say them, but I love somebody, too. Whenever +I hear his name I could faint. When I see him +I could sink into the ground. At the sight of his +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_21" id="Page_21">[21]</a></span>handwriting I grow cold from head to foot, I tremble, +my heart aches so that it seems breaking in two. I +long to be with him, yet when I am with him I have +nothing to say. I have to escape and be miserable all +alone. He is my thought all day: the last before I +sleep, the first when I awake. I could cry and cry +and cry. I try to read, and I remember not a word. +I like playing best, for then I can almost imagine +that he is listening. But when I stop playing and +look round, I find myself in an empty room. It is +awful. I call his name; no one answers. I whisper +it; still no answer. I throw myself on the ground, +and I say, ‘Think of me! think of me! you shall, +you must, you do think of me!’ It is great +torture and a great despair. Perhaps it is a madness +too. But it is my way of loving. I want to live +while I live. If I knew for certain that he loved me—me +only—the joy, I think, would kill me. Love! +Do you know, poor little angel, what it means? +Sometimes it is a curse.”</p> + +<p>Pensée, before this torrent, was shaking like some +small flower in a violent gale.</p> + +<p>“You say things, Sara, that no one says—things +that one ought not to say. You must be quieter. +You won't be happy when you are married if you +begin with so much feeling!”</p> + +<p>“I am not going to marry that one,” said Sara +bitterly. “I am going to marry Marshire.”</p> + +<p>Lady Fitz Rewes had too delicate a face to contain +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_22" id="Page_22">[22]</a></span>any expression of the alarm and horror she felt at this +statement. She frowned, bit her lips, and sank back +in her chair. What stroke of fate, she wondered, had +overtaken the poor girl? Was she sane? Was she +herself? Pensée found some relief in the thought +that Sara was not herself—a state into which most +people are presumed to fall whenever, from stress or +emotion, they become either strictly candid or perfectly +natural.</p> + +<p>“It is a fancy. Fancies are in my blood,” said +Sara; “you need not be anxious.”</p> + +<p>“But—but what feeling have you for Marshire?” +murmured Pensée.</p> + +<p>“I have a faint inclination not to dislike him +utterly. And I will be a good wife to him. If I +say so, I shall keep my word. You may be sure of +that.”</p> + +<p>“I could never doubt your honour, Sara. Is the +other man quite, quite out of the question?”</p> + +<p>“Quite.”</p> + +<p>“But perhaps he does love you.”</p> + +<p>“Oh no, he doesn't. He may think me picturesque +and rather entertaining. It never went deeper than +that. I saw at once that his mind was fixed on some +other woman.”</p> + +<p>“I suppose one can always tell when a man's +affections are really engaged,” said Pensée, with a +sigh.</p> + +<p>“Yes, beyond any doubt. You feel that they are +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_23" id="Page_23">[23]</a></span>comparing you at every point, in a silent, cold-blooded +way, to the bright particular star. I envy you, +Pensée; you, at least, were desperately loved by +Lionel. But I—never, never was loved—except +once.”</p> + +<p>“Who was he?”</p> + +<p>“He was a Russian, very good-looking, and a +genius. But oh, I wasn't old enough to understand +him. When he died, I cried for half a day and seven +nights. And after that, not a tear. You see, I didn't +understand myself either.”</p> + +<p>“Do I know this other one ... the one, now?”</p> + +<p>“I won't tell you his name. Perhaps, another +time, when we are all very old ... and he is dead +... or I am dying....”</p> + +<p>“Oh, don't say that!” exclaimed Pensée, “don't +say that! You are making a lot of misery for yourself.”</p> + +<p>“Not at all. I am making the most of my one +saving grace. There is nothing very nice about me—except +that. And he is a man. The only real one +among all our friends—the only one for whom I have +the least respect. If any woman had his love—how +sure, how happy she could be! I could work, and +starve, and lay down my life for a man like that. If +he had loved me, I think I could have been almost +a good woman, a downright good one, a Saint +Elizabeth of Hungary. But you see that wasn't to +be. And so I am just this——“ She looked in the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_24" id="Page_24">[24]</a></span>glass and pointed a white finger, loaded with rings of +black pearls, at her reflection. “I am just this—a +vain, idle fool like all the rest—except you, poor +darling.”</p> + +<p>“Why don't you keep up your music?—your +wonderful playing? Every one says it is so wonderful. +That's a great outlet for emotion. And your +languages—why not work an hour a day each at +Italian, Spanish, German, and French? That would +kill four hours of the day straight off!”</p> + +<p>“Bah!” said Sara, “I cannot play—unless there is +some one to play for. As for languages—I cannot +talk alone. And as for reading—I cannot find all my +world between the covers of a book.”</p> + +<p>“But live for others, dear Sara.”</p> + +<p>“I want to live for myself. I have one inseparable +companion—that is myself. I want to suffer my own +sufferings, and enjoy my own enjoyments. This +living for others is absurd. I hate second-hand +emotions; they are stale and dull. But, Pensée, +you haven't told me the name of your friend.”</p> + +<p>“I thought I had,” said Pensée, simply; “you will +see it in the marriage notice the day after to-morrow. +It is Robert Orange.”</p> + +<p>Sara stared for a moment. Then the string of gold +beads which she wore round her throat suddenly +broke, and the shining ornaments fell all about her +to the floor.</p> + +<p>“Dear me!” said Sara, kneeling down with a +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_25" id="Page_25">[25]</a></span>ghastly laugh. Pensée knelt too, and they gathered +the scattered necklace between them. “Dear me! I +was never more surprised—never; and yet I cannot +think why I am surprised. He is very handsome. +Any woman would like him.”</p> + +<p>“I wonder,” said Pensée, full of thoughts.</p> + +<p>Sara proceeded to count her beads, lest one should +be missing. But they were all there, and she tied +them up in her handkerchief.</p> + +<p>“Pensée,” she said, presently. “I will tell his +name after all, because you have been so frank with +me. The one I ... love is Beauclerk Reckage.” +As she uttered this lie, she cast down her eyes and +blushed to the very heart.</p> + +<p>“Beauclerk!” exclaimed Pensée, in amazement. +“Then there <i>is</i> some hope after all! There is, +there must be! Beauclerk! He is engaged to +Agnes Carillon, of course. But all the same....”</p> + +<p>The conversation flagged. Lord Garrow, who had +heard a distant murmuring but not their words, now, +as their animation failed, came in.</p> + +<p>“My little girl,” said he, “has been moping. I am +very glad that you called ... very glad indeed. And +Sara, my darling....”</p> + +<p>“Yes, papa.”</p> + +<p>“Have you asked Pensée the name of that +extremely pretty song she sang for us when we all +dined together at Lord Wight's? You remember the +evening?<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_26" id="Page_26">[26]</a></span>”</p> + +<p>But Sara, with a wail, fled away. Pensée caught a +glimpse of her white, agonised countenance as she +rushed past them, moaning, to her own room.</p> + +<p>“This is dreadful,” said Lord Garrow, horribly +annoyed—“dreadful!”</p> + +<p>“It is indeed,” replied Lady Fitz Rewes gravely. +“I suppose....”</p> + +<p>She wanted to say that she hoped the Marshire-de +Treverell alliance was still undecided. But something +in his lordship's air—a hardness she had never thought +to see in his regard—forbade any reference to the +subject. He conducted her to her carriage, wished +her “Goodbye” in his Court manner, and led her to +understand, by an unmistakable glance, that a certain +marriage which had been arranged would, inasmuch +as it was entirely agreeable to the will of Providence, +take place.</p> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_27" id="Page_27">[27]</a></span></p><h2><a name="CHAPTER_III" id="CHAPTER_III"></a>CHAPTER III</h2> + + +<p>Lord Reckage, in the meantime, had not been able +to draw rein until he reached Grafton Street, where +the hunter, of its own will, stopped short at a door, +half glass and half mahogany, before which a groom +stood watching, evidently with some suspense, for +their approach. At the first sight of the animal and +its rider, he hastened forward, and, seizing the bridle, +assisted his master to dismount. Once on the ground, +the young man satisfied his spleen by hitting the horse +several vicious cuts with his whip. Then he informed +the servant that it was his intention to walk home, +and, with an ominous scowl, watched the “rushing +beast” led from his sight. No one, except himself, +was permitted to occupy that saddle.</p> + +<p>The house which he now entered had been the +town mansion for three generations of the Hampshires, +but, despised by its then owner, whose young duchess +wanted an Italian villa on Piccadilly, or a French +château in Park Lane, the lease had been sold to a +syndicate of rising politicians who formed a small +organisation known, in those days, as the Mirafloreans.</p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_28" id="Page_28">[28]</a></span></p> +<p>“The little order,” we read in the Hon. Hercy +Berenville's Memoirs, a malicious work printed for +private circulation only—“the little order first came +into notice under the name of the ‘Bond of Association,’ +a High Church society founded by my brother, +Lord Reckage. He formed his executive committee, +however, on timorous and unexpected lines. He had +tried to please the spiteful rather than the loyal. The +loyal, he urged, were always forbearing, but the spiteful +needed every attention. He disappointed alike the +warmest and the most selfish among his supporters. +True to his policy, he made desperate attempts to win +over some vindictive men from among the Radicals, +and, finally, in a fit of nervousness, declared, after five +months of fruitful folly, his determination to reorganise +the whole league on a strictly non-sectarian +basis. He described himself as a moral philosopher. +Once more he became a figure of interest, again he +raised the standard, again he attracted a small company +of enthusiasts, again it was expected that God's +enemies would be scattered. He invited his former +secretary, a Roman Catholic, to join the new society, +but he made it clear that Orange, a man of real +distinction, was in no sense a prominent member. +The precise dogmata of Mirafloreanism—a nickname +given, I believe, in ironic sympathy by Mr. Disraeli—were +undefined, but the term gradually became +associated with those ideals of conduct, government, +and Art which poets imagine, heroes realise, and the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_29" id="Page_29">[29]</a></span>ignorant destroy. Men of all, sundry, and opposing +beliefs presumed to its credentials. Some, because +the club appeared to flourish, many because it was +not yet overcrowded, and a few because they were in +perfect agreement with the varying opinions of its +ultimate presiding genius, Disraeli himself. They +worked quietly, not in the House of Commons, but +outside it, delivering lectures, writing books, starting +newspapers, holding meetings, and enlisting the +sympathies of rich, idle, ambitious, or titled women. +There seemed no end or limit to the variety of their +interests, their methods of labour, or their conceit. +The club—judged by the leonine measure of success—as +a club did little for learning or literary men. It +became a mere meeting-house for dining and drinking, +but it promoted cordiality among the leading members +of the young Tory party, and brought persons together +who could not, in the ordinary way of life, have met +each other at all. Although the more gaudy and best +known among them came from the first second-rate +families in England, the rank and file were formed +mainly by young men of good estate and breeding—the +sons of clergy, country squires, or merchants, all +sprung from that class which is called Middle, because +it represents civilised society neither in its rough +beginnings nor in its tawdry decay.”</p> + +<p>Berenville's remarks, it will be plainly seen, anticipate +our history a little, for, at the time of which +we write, the Bond of Association was still maintain<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_30" id="Page_30">[30]</a></span>ing +a sickly existence on its original programme. +Orange had not yet been invited to join it, nor +had Lord Reckage declared himself a moral +philosopher.</p> + +<p>On this particular afternoon his lordship entered, +from the street, a narrow vestibule, the red walls of +which were lit up by wax candles set at either end in +ponderous bronze chandeliers. From this he passed +into a square inner hall, paved with marble, and +furnished by carved seats which had once belonged +to the choir of an ancient chapel in Northumberland. +Here he paused, for his attention was immediately +arrested by a small group of four or five individuals +who were talking with great earnestness at the foot +of the oak staircase. Not that this was, in itself, an +unusual event, for ever since a memorable day when +the Earl of Bampton and the young Archdeacon of +Soham, feeling warm, had ordered their tea to be +served in that part of the building, it had been the +fashion for distinguished members to assemble there, +dispersing themselves in careless profusion among the +statues of departed ecclesiastics or reclining pleasantly +on the blue velvet divan which occupied the centre +of the floor.</p> + +<p>Foremost in the little company on this occasion +stood Sir Edward Ullweather and Nigel Bradwyn, +both private secretaries, and each secretly convinced +that his peculiar powers would have found brilliant, +volcanic opportunities of demonstration in the other's +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_31" id="Page_31">[31]</a></span>more promising berth. Ullweather, whose life had +been devoted to the study of agricultural problems, +was subordinate to the Secretary of State for War. +Bradwyn, on the other hand, who had planted his +soul in the East, was now learning what he could, at +the nation's expense, of the nation's domestic policy. +Demoralised by disappointment, and made cynical by +toiling over interests for which they had, at best, but +a forced regard, little remained in their breasts but a +sore determination to make the best of an abiding +discontent. In joining Lord Reckage's Committee, +they found themselves again, as they believed, in a +false position. The second-rate mind, whether represented +in a person or by a council, shrinks from the +adoption of simple measures, and invariably seeks to +make itself conspicuous by so placing others as to +make them appear unnecessary. The special genius +of Lord Reckage was shown, perhaps, in his abilities +in this direction, and, while he missed no opportunity +of engaging men of proved capabilities for his service, +his jealousy drove him so to employ them that they +were never permitted to do their best either for him +or for themselves. This policy carried in itself the +sting for its own destruction.</p> + +<p>Not far from Ullweather and Bradwyn, Randall +Hatchett, the youngest member of the Executive, +lounged against a pillar. Proud of a distinction which +he dared not comprehend (for a commercial shrewdness +made him suspect that he owed his position less +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_32" id="Page_32">[32]</a></span>to merit than to the subtle promises conveyed by a +weak chin), this distinguished person tried to look the +secrets which his colleagues had never permitted him +to learn. In moody weariness he would sometimes +condescend to the company of his subordinates on the +General Committee and, while listening to their +irresponsible prattle, he would seem to forget the +onerous public interests the absolute neglect of which +was his chief duty at the Council board.</p> + +<p>Near this gentleman were two others, Hartley +Penborough, the editor of <i>The Sentinel</i>, and the Hon. +Charles Aumerle, whose guest he was.</p> + +<p>As Lord Reckage entered and showed some intention +of joining in the conversation, they appeared by a +silent and common consent to ignore his approach. +He turned to the hall porter, gave him some instructions +in a low voice and passed on, livid with annoyance, +to the library beyond.</p> + +<p>“Hullo!” exclaimed Aumerle, “that was Reckage.”</p> + +<p>“I know it,” said Randall Hatchett.</p> + +<p>“Why didn't you speak to him?” asked Aumerle.</p> + +<p>“Because,” said Bradwyn, “our good Hatchett is +not so sure of himself that he can afford to be civil +even to a President out of fashion!”</p> + +<p>No one smiled except Hatchett himself, because +each one felt it was unwise to encourage Bradwyn's +peculiar humour.</p> + +<p>“I would have spoken to Reckage,” said Ullweather, +with a superior air, “but I have never felt +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_33" id="Page_33">[33]</a></span>the same toward him since he threw over Orange at +the time of his election.”</p> + +<p>“And several other old friends more recently!” +observed the injudicious Bradwyn.</p> + +<p>“I don't speak of myself,” said Ullweather, “but +Orange was unusually devoted to the fellow; and all I +wish to make clear is this, that when Reckage ever +said or did the right thing in times past, the credit was +solely due to Orange. He weeded prophecy from his +speeches, and rudeness from his jokes. Great services, +I assure you!”</p> + +<p>“True,” said Randall Hatchett, “for there is +nothing more fatal to a political career than brilliant +impromptus and spirited orations. A statesman's +words, like butcher's meat, should be well weighed.”</p> + +<p>“You have so many prescriptions for success,” said +Bradwyn, “that I wonder you ain't President yourself.”</p> + +<p>“Reckage has taken us all in,” said Ullweather.</p> + +<p>“By no means,” said Bradwyn. “I maintained +from the first that he was overrated. His genial +manner—his open-hearted smile! Men always smile +at creditors whom they don't intend to pay.”</p> + +<p>“I foretold the whole situation,” observed Penborough. +“I said, ‘Let Reckage once get full power, +and he will fool us all.’ He affects not to be ambitious, +and to prefer moral science to immoral politics. +I have no faith in these active politicians who make +long speeches to the public, and assure their friends, in +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_34" id="Page_34">[34]</a></span>very short notes, that they prefer trout-fishing to the +cares of State! There is but one man who can save +the society now.”</p> + +<p>Bradwyn, Hatchett, and Ullweather looked up, +each armed with a modest and repudiating smile.</p> + +<p>“Who?” asked Hatchett, looking down.</p> + +<p>“Robert Orange,” said Penborough.</p> + +<p>“Probably,” replied Hatchett, after a minute's +hesitation. “Probably, Orange ... in time.”</p> + +<p>“Don't you like him?” said Penborough.</p> + +<p>“Like him!” answered Hatchett, rolling up his +eyes. “He's an angel!”</p> + +<p>“He calls him an angel as though he wished he +were one in reality,” said Bradwyn. “I know these +generous rivals!”</p> + +<p>Ullweather stood gnawing his upper lip.</p> + +<p>“Orange,” he said, at last. “Oh, Orange has +arrived. He will get no further. Of course, he won +that election, but Dizzy managed that. Dizzy is the +devil! And then, he is still devoted to Reckage, and, +for a man of his supposed shrewdness, I call that a +sign of evident weakness.”</p> + +<p>At this, Charles Aumerle, who had been listening +with the deepest attention to all that passed, looked +straight at the speaker.</p> + +<p>“You should respect,” said he, “that liberty, which +we all have to deceive ourselves. Reckage has many +good points.”</p> + +<p>“But,” said Penborough, “he has no moral force, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_35" id="Page_35">[35]</a></span>no imagination. He judges men by their manners, +which is silly. He thinks that every one who is polite +to him believes in him. He will have to send in his +resignation before long.”</p> + +<p>“You don't mean it,” said Aumerle.</p> + +<p>“I mean more,” continued Penborough. “He +could not choose a better moment than the present. +In another month, on its present lines, the whole +league will have foundered. Should he remain, he +would have to sink with the ship. Now, however, it +appears safe enough—people see only what you see—a +good cargo of influential names on the committee +and a clear horizon. He could plead ill-health, or his +marriage—in fact, a dozen excellent reasons for +momentary retirement. The world would praise his +tact. As for the rest, those who have been disillusioned +will lose their heads, those who were merely +self-seekers will probably lose their places, but the +trimmers always keep something. The thing, then, +is to cultivate the art of trimming.”</p> + +<p>“But you forget that Reckage is going to marry +Miss Carillon,” said Aumerle. “Miss Carillon will +always advise the safe course.”</p> + +<p>“That's all very well,” said Bradwyn, “but there +has been too much arrangement in that marriage! I +can tell you how the engagement came about. She +was intimate with his aunt. He acquired the habit of +her society on all decorous occasions. Still, he never +proposed. The aunt invited her to Almouth. She +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_36" id="Page_36">[36]</a></span>stayed two months. Still, not a word. Her papa grew +impatient, ordered her home. The next day she came +to the breakfast-table with red eyes, and announced her +departure. The boxes were packed; she went to take +a last look at the dear garden. Reckage followed, Fate +accompanied him. He spoke. She sent a telegram +to her papa: ‘Detained. Important. Will write.’ +No, the real woman for him was Lady Sara de +Treverell.”</p> + +<p>Ullweather thrust his tongue into his cheek.</p> + +<p>“Lady Sara has been called to higher destinies,” +said he, “than the heavenly ‘sweet hand in hand!’”</p> + +<p>“I see you know,” said Bradwyn, with a mysterious +glance.</p> + +<p>“Yes,” said Ullweather. “The friendship of the +Duke of Marshire for Lady Sara increases every day, +and the little fit of giddiness which seized him when +he was dining with my Chief makes me think that +admiration is developing into love. I am in great +hopes that this match may come off.”</p> + +<p>“As to that,” said Hatchett, “her father and the +Duke were the night before last at Brooks's, but no +conversation passed between them. This does not +look as though a very near alliance were in contemplation.”</p> + +<p>“There are prettier women than she in the world,” +said Aumerle.</p> + +<p>“I have never seen her,” said Penborough.</p> + +<p>“Large eyes, a small head, and the devil of a +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_37" id="Page_37">[37]</a></span>temper,” said Bradwyn; “and sympathies—there never +was a young woman with so many sympathies! There +is an old proverb,” he added, with a sneer, “‘They are +not all friends of the bridegroom who seem to be +following the bride.’”</p> + +<p>Ullweather was still absorbed in his own meditation.</p> + +<p>“Marshire,” said he, “is the man for us. We might +do something with Marshire.”</p> + +<p>“Nevertheless,” said Penborough, “I have my eye +on Orange.”</p> + +<p>“I say,” exclaimed Bradwyn, “be careful. Here is +Reckage again. How the dickens did he pass us?”</p> + +<p>The men glanced up at a solitary figure which now +appeared descending the broad staircase. In silence, +and with a studied expression of contempt, without a +look either to the right or to the left, the unpopular +leader passed through the hall and out into the street.</p> + +<p>“A lonely beggar, after all,” said Bradwyn.</p> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_38" id="Page_38">[38]</a></span></p><h2><a name="CHAPTER_IV" id="CHAPTER_IV"></a>CHAPTER IV</h2> + + +<p>Reckage was dining at home that evening with +Orange, whose marriage was to take place at the +Alberian Embassy on the morrow. The young man +was not in good spirits at his friend's step, for he +himself was about to take a wife also, and much of +the apprehension which he felt on his own account +found its vent in dreary soliloquies on the risk, sacrifices, +responsibilities, and trouble involved by the single +act of saddling oneself for a lifetime with some one +woman. Reckage, for his own part, had loved one +lady very well, yet not so madly that he could resign +himself to loving her only, to the exclusion of all others. +He walked along toward Almouth House in a mood +of many vexations, cursing the impudence of Bradwyn +and Ullweather, wondering whether he had done +wisely, after all, in engaging himself to the blameless +Miss Carillon, sighing a little over a rumour which +had reached him about Sara de Treverell and the +Duke of Marshire, deploring the obstinacy of Robert +Orange where Mrs. Parflete was concerned. He +admitted that Mrs. Parflete was an exceedingly +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_39" id="Page_39">[39]</a></span>beautiful, young, and, as it happened, rich person. +He owned her delightfulness for a man of Robert's +dreamy, romantic, intense temperament. But marriage +between two idealists so highly strung, and so +passionately attached as these two beings were—what +would happen? No doubt they would be able to +endure the inevitable disillusions—(inevitable because +Nature is before all things sensual and has no care for +mental prejudices one way or the other)—the inevitable +disillusions of family life. It was scarcely possible +that the devotion of Robert and Mrs. Parflete would +not waver or seem less exquisite under this discipline. +Their dream of love would become unparadised. It +would gain a sadness, a melancholy, a note of despair +hard to endure and most difficult to repress. Reckage +had no transcendentalism in his own philosophy: he +divided men into two classes—those who read, and +those who could not stand, Dante. He included +himself among the latter with a frankness at once +astonishing and welcome even to numbers who +thought him, in most matters, a hypocrite. The +hold of the world was growing daily stronger upon +him. His ambitions were already sullied by many +unworthy and deadening ideas. He dwelt a great +deal on the fleetingness of life, and the wisdom of +making the best of its few charming things. Food, +and wine, and money, and fine houses, and amusements +were subjects on which he expended a large +amount of silent enthusiasm. But, for all this, he +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_40" id="Page_40">[40]</a></span>could still see much to admire—perhaps to envy—in +Robert's more spiritual mind, and he dreaded—as men +often do dread in such cases—the effect of a woman's +companionship on so ascetic a character.</p> + +<p>“He knows nothing about women—nothing,” he +told himself. “He has no experience. He takes +them too seriously.”</p> + +<p>He was, while he admitted his own unreasonableness, +a little shocked at the very notion of Orange +with a wife and children. It went against the grain, +and upset the ideals of austerity which he had carefully +planned—not for himself, but for his friend. Robert, +he urged, was born to be an example—an encouragement +to those who were called, by the mercy of God, +to less rigorous vocations. Reckage suffered many +scruples of conscience on Robert's account; he surveyed +him with a sense of disappointment; he had +always supposed that he would ultimately turn Jesuit +in sober earnest, and die a martyr's death in the Far +East. This would, in his opinion, have been a fine +end to a Quixotic, very touching, most remarkable +life. Would he now immaturely fall a victim to an +enticing face and the cares of a household? Would +he be able to sustain his character? One thing was +certain. He could never again expect to exercise precisely +the same potent influence as he had in the past, +over his earth-bound, self-indulgent friends. Self-indulgent +people always exacted unusual privations +from those who would seek to move them—and +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_41" id="Page_41">[41]</a></span>Robert's call was clearly to materialists rather than +to the righteous. Pusey married, it was true. Keble +married. No one thought the less of them on that +account. Even the judicious Hooker married. And +they were clergymen. Reckage called them priests. +But Newman did not marry, and, while Reckage was +unable to agree in the main with Newman's views, he +had a fixed notion that he was the strong man—the +master spirit—among them. And another consideration. +The passion of love has a danger for very sensitive, +reserved, and concentrated minds unknown to +creatures of more volatile, expansive, and unreflecting +disposition. Reckage knew well that he was himself +too selfish a man to let affection for any one creature +come between his soul and its God. There was no +self-discipline required in his case when a choice had +to be made between a human being and his own +advantage—whether temporal or eternal. He had +never—since he was a youth—felt an immoderate +fondness for anybody; he had likes and dislikes, +admirations and partialities, jealousies, too, and well-defined +tastes where feminine beauty was in question, +but it was not in him to err from excess of charity. +The imaginative and visionary parts of life—and no +one is wholly without them—soon turned into severe +reality whenever he found himself confronted with +that sole absorbing interest—his career. Marriage, +in his own case, seemed an imperative duty. He was +an eldest son, the heir to an earldom and a vast estate; +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_42" id="Page_42">[42]</a></span>he wished to lead a distinguished, comfortable, and +edifying existence. His wife would be a helpmate, +not a snare; the mother of his children, not the light +of his eyes. But what a difference in Robert's case—with +his capacity for worship, for really intense and +absorbing passion. All this was especially transparent +to Reckage, who, as a man of the world, had watched +his friend for months, detecting the shattering physical +effects of an iron restraint imposed on every thought, +mood, and inclination. He had enjoyed the spectacle: +it was a good fight—this sharp, unceasing struggle +between mere human nature, young, vigorous, sane, +indefatigable, and an upright soul full of tenderness, +yet forced to live in constant warfare. Awe, too, had +mingled in Reckage's sensations while he looked on; +something of pity and terror stirred under the callous +muscle which he called his heart at the sight of a +voiceless, stifled despair outside the range of his personal +experience, though not entirely beyond his sympathy. +All men did not love after this fashion, he knew, but +humanity was full of surprises, and he had been too +calm a student of other men's lives to feel astonishment +at any fresh revelation either of their pain, their perversity, +or their humours. He had felt so sure, however, +that Robert would, in the end, get the better of +that unhappy attachment; everything in the process +of time had to surrender to reason, and it was not +possible, he thought, that a strong, self-reliant man +could long remain subdued by a mere infatuation.</p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_43" id="Page_43">[43]</a></span></p> +<p>“And why doesn't he think of his health?” insisted +Reckage; “it is really going between all this sleeplessness, +and fasting, and over-work. Flesh and blood +cannot bear the strain. He is never idle for one +moment. He is afraid of brooding.”</p> + +<p>It was with these sentiments of fear for the one +creature he believed in, and hostility toward the +woman who had presumed to interfere with the +progress of that clear spirit, that he found himself at +Almouth House. The blinds of the dining-room +were but partially down. He could see the menservants +within preparing the table which, set for two +covers, showed a pretty display of cut-glass, flowers, +old silver, and shining damask under the yellow rays +of the lit candles. Some family portraits by Gainsborough +and Reynolds, a Holbein, and a Vandyck, +with lamps shining like footlights beneath them, +were darkly visible on the dull blue walls. The +famous mantelpiece inlaid with uncut turquoise was +also within sight; and the sideboard with its load of +Sèvres china and gold dishes. Reckage took great +pride in these possessions, but it shocked his sense of +dignity to see them thus exposed to the vulgar gaze.</p> + +<p>He let himself into the mansion with a latchkey, +stormed at the servants for their carelessness, and +made what is commonly known as a scene.</p> + +<p>Then he crossed the hall, and went into another +fine room, which led by steps into a garden, and +caught the sunset.</p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_44" id="Page_44">[44]</a></span></p> +<p>Here, standing by the window with his back to the +door, looking at the clouds, greyer than a gull's wing, +which fled like driven souls across the sky, stood +Orange.</p> + +<p>He turned as the latch moved, and Reckage, coming +in, perceived the pale face, resolute, a little proud, and +thoroughly inscrutable of his former secretary. Of +fine height and broad-shouldered, Robert bore himself +with peculiar firmness and ease. His brown eyes, +with their brilliant, defiant glance, his close, dark +beard, and powerful aquiline features; the entire +absence of vanity, or the desire to produce an impression +which showed itself in every line of his face +and every movement of his body, indicated a type of +individual more likely to attract the confidence of +men than the sentimentality of women.</p> + +<p>The two young men greeted each other pleasantly, +but with a certain reserve on each side.</p> + +<p>“So you are here!” said Reckage, seating himself. +“I am sorry to be late. The fact is I caught sight of +old Garrow and Sara de Treverell driving together in +the Park, and it suddenly occurred to me to ask +'em to dine with us to-night. I raced after their +brougham, but my brute of a horse—Pluto: you +know the beast—gave me such a lot of trouble that I +couldn't speak to them. How are you? You don't +look very fit. Perhaps you are glad that we are alone. +But Sara is a nice girl, and full of kindness. She's a +good friend, too—just the friend for your wife. I +thought of that.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_45" id="Page_45">[45]</a></span>”</p> + +<p>Robert resumed his post at the window, and studied +the heavens. But if he sought for any answer to the +many impassioned questions which were thronging his +heart and mind at that moment, he looked in vain. +For himself the struggles of the last year had been to +a great degree subconscious. He had been like a sick +man who, ignorant of the real gravity of his condition, +fights death daily without a thought of the unequal +strife, or the suspense of his physicians. He had +abandoned himself to study, immersed himself in +work; he was neither morbid nor an amorist; and +while he felt a stinging misery for ever in his heart, he +bore it with manly reticence, without complaint, +without despair. Love, in his case, had meant the +idealisation of the whole of life—the life of action and +the life within the soul. It had transfigured the +world, lit up and illumined every dark corner, +answered every turbulent doubt. From the habit of +this wholly mental emotion, he had lost, little by little, +the sense of the actual bodily existence of the woman +herself. It is true that he thought of her always as +some one modestly beautiful, of childish form, with a +face like a water-nymph's—imperious, magical, elusive, +yet, whenever he found himself in her presence, she +seemed further away than when they were, in fact, apart. +The kiss he had given her on the day of their betrothal +had been as strange, indefinable, and irrealisable as the +passing of one hour into the next. There had been +the time before he kissed her, there was the time +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_46" id="Page_46">[46]</a></span>afterwards, but the transition had been so swift, and +so little recognised, so inevitable, that while it drew +both their lives down deep into the wild, pitiless surge +of human feeling, she still remained more dearly and +completely his by intuition than when he held her—a +true woman—in his arms. The moral training of a +lifetime, the unceasing, daily discipline of a mind +indulgent to others, but most severe with itself, had +given him a self-mastery in impulse and desire which, +although the aspect of affairs had changed, he could +not easily, or even willingly, relax. His soul drew +back from its new privileges, sweet as they were—and +he was too honest to deny their overpowering +sweetness—they seemed like the desecration of a most +sacred thought. Vainly he reasoned, vainly he admitted +the folly of such scruples. They remained. +Asceticism is a faithful quality. It is won by slow +and painful stages, with bitter distress and mortifying +tears, but once really gained, the losing is even harder +than the struggle for its acquisition.</p> + +<p>And so the young man found himself in that hard +position when judgment and prejudice stand opposed +so utterly that victory either way must mean a lasting +regret. Perhaps he was not the first bridegroom who +felt loath, on the eve of his marriage, to change the +delicate, almost ethereal tenderness of betrothed lovers +for the close and intimate association of husband and +wife. The one relationship has something in it immaterial, +exquisite, and unearthly, a bond invisible and +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_47" id="Page_47">[47]</a></span>yet as potent as the winds we cannot see and the +melodies we only hear. The other, with its profound +appeals to mortality, its demands upon all that is +strongest in affection and eternal in courage, its irreparableness, +suffering, and constancy, might, indeed, +have the grandeur of all human tragedy, and the +dignity of a holy state; but that it could ever be so +beautiful as the love which is a silent influence was +to Robert then, at least, an inconceivable idea. He +felt upon him and around him, in his flesh and in his +spirit, in the air and in the whole world, the all-enveloping +shadow of remorse. The dormant possibilities +of his own fanatical nature rose up before him—pale, +inarticulate fiercenesses crushed so long, and +now trembling eagerly under his breath at the prospect +of a little more liberty in loving. A suspicion +that already he loved perhaps too well and far +too passionately thrilled through his conscience, and +tortured a heart to whom thought was a refuge and +feeling a martyrdom.</p> + +<p>Reckage, watching Robert from a corner of the +room, grew irritated at the silence, and wondered, +with a cruel and jealous curiosity, what was passing in +his mind. He wondered whether he was praying. An +impulse, which had something in it of brute fury, urged +him to tear open that still face and drag the thoughts +behind it to the light. Why was it that one could +never, by any sense, enter into another's spirit? The +same torturing mystery had often disturbed him during +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_48" id="Page_48">[48]</a></span>the half-hours—outwardly placid and commonplace—which +he spent, out of etiquette, with his future bride. +She, too, retired behind the veil of her countenance to +live a hidden life that he could never hope to join. +How lonely was companionship in these conditions, +and how desolate marriage!</p> + +<p>He could not resist the temptation to break in, with +a touch of crude satire, upon his friend's solitude.</p> + +<p>“What is the matter?” he exclaimed, “are you +hungry?”</p> + +<p>“No,” said Robert, so well accustomed to such +violent jars that they could no longer disturb him; +“I was only thinking....”</p> + +<p>“About what?”</p> + +<p>“All sorts of things.”</p> + +<p>Reckage turned pale from dissatisfied inquisitiveness.</p> + +<p>“I think, too,” he answered, “but I can throw +out a word now and again.”</p> + +<p>Then, making the remark that he was not dressed +for dinner, he left the room.</p> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_49" id="Page_49">[49]</a></span></p><h2><a name="CHAPTER_V" id="CHAPTER_V"></a>CHAPTER V</h2> + + +<p>The dinner, in the ordering of which the host had +expended all his gastronomical knowledge and much +anxiety, seemed long. Orange found himself opposite +the famous portrait of “Edwyn, Lord Reckage of +Almouth,” which represents that nobleman elaborately +dressed, reclining on a grassy bank by a spring of +water, with a wooded landscape, a sunrise, and a +squire holding two horses in the distance. Robert +studied, and remembered always, every detail of that +singular composition. The warrior's shield, with its +motto “<i>Magica sympathia</i>,” his fat white hands, +velvet breeches, steel cuirass, and stiff lace collar +remained for days a grotesque image before his +mind. He traced, too, a certain resemblance between +Reckage and that ancestor—they both wore pointed +red beards, both were fair of skin, both had a dreaming +violence in their blue eyes.</p> + +<p>“You must have some pheasant,” said his lordship, +at last. “You are eating nothing. And that +Burgundy, you know, is unique of its kind. It was +a present from the Emperor of the French to mamma. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_50" id="Page_50">[50]</a></span>Her people were civil to him when he was regarded +as a sort of adventurer. And he never forgot it. +He's a very decent fellow. I dined with him at the +Tuileries—did I mention it?”</p> + +<p>Robert replied that he fancied he had heard of the +occurrence.</p> + +<p>“Well,” continued his friend, “I might have +enjoyed that experience, but I was feeling depressed +at the time; a lot of the depression went under the +influence of frivolous talk, military music, and champagne. +Yet, all the same, do these things really +count for much? I felt just as wretched afterwards.”</p> + +<p>The glimpse he had obtained that afternoon of Sara +de Treverell—Sara flushed with agitation, very bright +in her glance, exceedingly subtle in her smile, had +stirred a great tenderness he had once felt for that +young lady. The news, too, that she had been +chosen as a bride by the prudent, rich, and most +important Duke of Marshire made his lordship feel +that perhaps he had committed a blunder in not +having secured her, during her first season, for himself. +He feared that he had lost an opportunity; +and this reflection, while it lowered temporarily his +self-esteem, placed Sara on a dangerous eminence. +She would be a duchess—one of the great duchesses. +Little Sara!</p> + +<p>“She was looking extraordinarily handsome,” he +exclaimed. “Of course she means to take him. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_51" id="Page_51">[51]</a></span>But she liked me at one time. I am speaking of +Sara de Treverell. Marshire is by way of being a +stick. Who could have imagined him going in for +a high-spirited, brilliant girl like Sara?”</p> + +<p>Formerly he had always spoken of Sara as a clever +little devil, but Robert showed no surprise at the new +adjective.</p> + +<p>“Brilliant!” repeated his lordship. “Don't you +agree?”</p> + +<p>“Absolutely. She is the most brilliant girl in +London.”</p> + +<p>“But heartless,” said his lordship pathetically; +“she hasn't one bit of heart.”</p> + +<p>“There I don't agree with you. Of course she is +strange and rather wild.”</p> + +<p>“<i>Tête-montée.</i> And then the Asiatic streak!”</p> + +<p>“True. The fiercest wind cannot take the angles +out of the bough of a tree an inch thick. You may +break it, but you cannot destroy its angles. That is +so, no doubt, with one's racial tendencies. The girl +is wilful and romantic. It will be very bad for them +both if there is no love on her side. She is capable, I +should say, of very deep affection.”</p> + +<p>“She did like me,” said his lordship, with emphasis +and satisfaction—“she really did. And I wouldn't +encourage it. I had no notion then of marrying. +Her singularity, too, made me cautious. I couldn't +believe in her. She talked like an actress in a play. +I felt that she was not the woman for me. Essentially +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_52" id="Page_52">[52]</a></span>she thought as I did, and seemed to comprehend my +embarrassment. The worst of it is now—I may have +been wrong.”</p> + +<p>“I doubt it. You may be sure, on the whole, that +your instincts were right.”</p> + +<p>“Still, there is a distinct misgiving. I was drawn +toward her, and, when I made up my mind to put an +end to the matter, our friendship was severely strained. +But it was not broken. Something I saw in her face +to-day makes me sure that it was not broken.”</p> + +<p>While he was speaking the servant entered with +a salver, and on the salver was a note. The address +showed Sara's large, defiant hand-writing. Reckage, +who had a touch of superstition in his nature, changed +colour and even hesitated before he broke the seal. +The coincidence seemed extraordinary and fatal. +What did it mean? He read the letter with an +irresistible feeling of proud delight.</p> + +<blockquote><p class="i8">“<span class="smcap">20a, St. James's Square</span>, W.</p><p class="nospaceabove">“<span class="smcap">My dear Beauclerk</span>,—Will you lunch with us to-morrow +at two o'clock? Papa has invited a friend—a +dreadful, boring friend—who has been absent from +England for five years. Do you know the man? Sir +Piers Harding? But I want some one to encourage me. +You? Do!</p><p class="i8">“Yours sincerely,</p><p class="i12 nospaceabove">“S. L. V. <span class="smcap">de Treverell</span>.</p><p>“P.S.—I am so happy about you and Agnes. Be kind +to her always? Won't you?”</p></blockquote> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_53" id="Page_53">[53]</a></span></p> +<p>All his life he had found a difficulty in understanding +women—the significance of their words, the +precise translation of their glances, and their motives +generally. He had nourished his experience on French +novels; he had corrected it by various friendships; he +had crowned it with the confession that one could +never tell what the sex meant one way or the other. +But this fact remained—he was a coxcomb, and, +whenever he owned himself puzzled, it was on a +single ground only—how seriously was the lady at +stake affected by his charms? Feeling, as he did, +the infinite inequality that existed between men, and +conscious of his own reputation as a leader among +them, it was not in his conscience to encourage any +woman whom he did not find especially attractive +or useful. Why spoil her chances? Why make her +discontented with the average male creature? Had +Sara written to him in ordinary circumstances, inviting +him, after some months of mutual coldness, +to lunch, he would have replied, with sorrowful +dignity, that it was wiser to leave things as they +were. But the case had altered. The future +Duchess of Marshire was a personage. He made +no secret of his admiration for all people of high +rank. They represented influence and traditions; +what was more, they could exercise a certain power, +and introduce, when necessary, the ideas upon +which fresh traditions could be based. A friend +like Sara de Treverell with her new honours +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_54" id="Page_54">[54]</a></span>made life itself more rich to him. When he remembered +that she was young, handsome, enthusiastic, +and impulsive, his pleasure thrilled into something of +genuine passion. He told himself that he had always +been fond of the girl; that hundreds of times he had +felt the hardness of his scrupulous position where she +was concerned. If he had been asked what especially +he conceived his own duty to be now, he would have +said that it was not for him to hang back when she +showed a coming spirit. But this was not all. He +was a gamester; he was ambitious.</p> + +<p>“This is very odd,” said he, reading Sara's note for +the second time, “very odd. There's no harm in +showing it to you, because there is nothing in it.”</p> + +<p>He gave it to his friend, and ate, pleasantly, while +Orange glanced down the page. His soul's wish was +to be left alone. The effort of forcing himself—not +to affect but honestly to feel—an interest in Reckage's +conversation had proved successful. He had indeed +put aside his own thoughts, and followed, with the +exaggerated earnestness of a mind determined on self-sacrifice, +every word his companion had uttered. +The spirit invisible wears the laurel of mental +victories, but the body has to bear the exhaustion, the +scars, and the soreness. He was tired, but he stirred +himself again to consider Sara's note. In the course +of that year she had written several letters to Orange—letters +about books, new pictures, and new music. +Once she had given him a little song of her own +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_55" id="Page_55">[55]</a></span>composition as something of which she “desired to +hear no more for ever.” The song was sentimental, and +he locked it away, wondering at the time whether she +really had an unfortunate affection for Lord Reckage. +But in reading her note that evening he decided against +his original fear. Women did not write in that strain +to men whom they loved, or had ever loved ... even +passably well. He returned it to the owner with this +comment—</p> + +<p>“A woman, you know, is like your shadow: run +away from her and she follows you; run after her and +she flies from you. That's an old saying. It is true +so long as she does not love the man. And when she +loves the man—well, then she ceases to be a shadow. +She becomes a living thing.”</p> + +<p>“That is no answer at all. If you could read her +heart and whole thought at this moment, what would +you see there?”</p> + +<p>“Unhappiness,” said Robert; “discontent.”</p> + +<p>Reckage took the little sheet and folded it into his +pocket-book.</p> + +<p>“That's wonderful,” said he, “because the same +things are in my mind, too. I wish I could describe +my feelings about Agnes. She satisfies the æsthetic +side of my nature. But there is another side. And +Sara comes nearer to it than she. Mind you, I know +my duty in the matter. There are things which one +is compelled to do under tremendous penalties. I have +chosen, and I must abide by my choice.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_56" id="Page_56">[56]</a></span>”</p> + +<p>Robert looked well at his friend, and saw, in his +expression, all that he had known would inevitably, +either soon or too late, work to the surface.</p> + +<p>“Yet the old tremulous affection lies in me,” continued +Reckage; “my nerves are in a kind of blaze. +You couldn't tell anything about it, because you don't +know.”</p> + +<p>The Emperor's burgundy, no doubt, had warmed +his spirit to communicativeness. He drew his chair +closer to the table, and talked in a low voice about his +ghastly solitude of soul. His engagement to Miss +Carillon had not been an agreeable experience.</p> + +<p>“And marriage,” said he, “will be the crowning +point of these unbearable days. In the present state +of my feelings it would be awful. Agnes is very +kind and most conscientious, but she does not know +what is in me, what was always and will always be +there. Old reminiscences crowd round me. They +are very beautiful, although they are so sad.”</p> + +<p>“What is one to do?” said Robert, “in the presence +of fate and facts? It is necessary to look the affair in +the face. Do you, or don't you, wish to marry Miss +Carillon?”</p> + +<p>“I do, and I don't,” answered Reckage doggedly. +“But I can't close my eyes to the circumstances of +the case. I found myself hard bested from the very +beginning. I knew that I was expected to marry her. +I knew, too, that it was a suitable match in every way. +But then every girl is, to some extent, accomplished, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_57" id="Page_57">[57]</a></span>pious, virtuous, and intelligent. I believe sometimes +that my apparent indifference towards Agnes arises +from the fact that I respect her—if anything—too +much. She seems too remote—that is the word—for +the ordinary wear and tear of domesticity. Other +men—who might be called impassioned lovers—would +be less scrupulous. I maintain that devotion of that +violent kind is worth absolutely nothing. And I claim +to know a little about life and love.”</p> + +<p>“I should say,” said Orange, “that you knew more +about mere physiology.”</p> + +<p>Reckage laughed uneasily.</p> + +<p>“You keep your mediæval views!” said he. “Perhaps +I envy you. I can't say. I don't think I envy +any one. I am quite contented.”</p> + +<p>“Then what are you driving at?”</p> + +<p>“Oh well, a fellow must think. You see, Sara suits +me, in a sense. I am not afraid of her. Now a wife +is a sacred object. You might as well flirt with the +Ten Commandments as fall in love with your wife. I +say, never begin love-making with the lady you hope +to marry. It will end in disaster. Because the day +must come when she will wonder why you have +changed. No, a wife should be the one woman in the +world with whom you can spend days and weeks of +unreproved coldness.”</p> + +<p>They were now smoking, and the tobacco seemed +to produce a tranquillising effect upon his lordship. He +closed his lips and amused himself by puffing rings of +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_58" id="Page_58">[58]</a></span>smoke into the air. When he next spoke, he suggested +a visit to the theatre. He had engaged a box +for the new burlesque, “<i>The Blue Princess</i>.”</p> + +<p>“It will be very good, and it will cheer us up,” +said he.</p> + +<p>Orange was in no mood for the entertainment, but +Reckage's evident misery seemed to require a fresh +scene. The streets, as they left the house, were full +of a deep purple fog, through which shone out, with a +dull and brazen gleam, the lights of lamps and passing +carriages. Above them, the sky was but a pall or +vapour; the air, charged with the emotions, the struggling +energy, the cruelty, confusion, painfulness, and +unceasing agitation of life in a vast city, was damp and +stifling; a noise of traffic—as loud but not so terrible +as a breaking storm—destroyed the peace of night; +there were foot passengers of every age and description +moving like rooks in the wind, over the pavement, +and vehicles filled with men and women—an irremediable +pilgrimage bound, for the greater part, on pleasure. +Robert felt that he would have given gladly the treasures +of a universe for just the time to think a little +while of his own love. So far that great attachment +had brought him aberrations, sorrow, and perplexities; +all its sweetness had flown, moth-like, into his heart, +there to be burnt—burnt yet left unburied: all its +happiness had glorified his life against his will; all its +beauty had been starved with a pitiless rigour. What +then had remained? A certain state of mind—a +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_59" id="Page_59">[59]</a></span>passionate resignation to its own indomitable cravings. +And now on the eve of his marriage—a marriage never +so much as imagined, far less hoped for—he could not +have the leisure to behold, through tears of relief, +the complete transformation of his destiny—once so +frightful, now so joyous. The theatre was crowded, +and when the two young men entered their box +the burlesque was at the beginning of the second +act. The scene represented an orange grove by +moonlight, and a handsome girl in spangled muslin +was whispering loudly, to an accompaniment of harps, +her eternal fidelity to a gesticulating troubadour. Both +performers were immensely popular, and the duet, +with its refrain—</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">“Love, I will love thee always,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">For ever is not too long;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Love, e'en in dark and dreary days,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">This shall be my one song,”<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>was repeated three times to the smiling, serene, and +thoroughly convinced audience. Reckage, who +attended public places of amusement solely from the +desire of exhibiting himself, gave but a side-glance at +the stage and turned his opera glass upon the auditorium.</p> + +<p>“Really, town is very full,” said he; “I suppose +many of them are up for the Hauconberg wedding. +There's old Cliddesdon—just look at him. Did you +ever see such an infernal ass? Hullo! I thought that +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_60" id="Page_60">[60]</a></span>Millie Warfield wouldn't be far off. She's a perfect +rack of bones. Lady Michelmarsh is getting rather +pretty—it's wonderful how these dowdy girls can +work up their profiles after a month or two in town. +She was a lump as a bride—a regular lump. You +never met anything like it. Aumerle is talking to +her now. He was at the Capitol this afternoon. He +begins to give himself airs. I can't stand him. In +fact, I cannot understand those fellows on my sub-committee. +Sometimes they are—if anything—too +civil. A bit servile, in fact. Then they turn out and +look as though they would like to make their teeth +meet in my backbone. They sulk, and whisper in +groups, and snicker. I am getting sick of it. I must +get rid of them. By Jove! there's David Rennes, +the painter. I thought he was at Amesbury—with +the Carillons, doing Agnes's portrait. It can't be +finished. She said distinctly in her letter this morning—“I +may not add more because I have to give Mr. +Rennes a sitting while the light is good.” Where's +the letter? I must have left it on the breakfast-table. +Anyhow that is what she said. I'll catch Rennes' eye +and have him up. He is not a bad sort.”</p> + +<p>The act-drop had now descended, the lights were +turned on to their full power, and Orange, following +the direction of Reckage's gaze, saw, in the last row of +the stalls, a large man about nine-and-thirty with +an emotional, nervous face, a heavy beard, and dense +black hair. He was leaning forward, for the seat in +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_61" id="Page_61">[61]</a></span>front of him was, at the moment, vacant; his hands +were tightly locked, his eyes fixed on the curtain. At +last Reckage's determined stare produced its effect. +He moved, glanced toward the box, and, in response +to his lordship's signal, left his place. Two minutes +later Orange heard a tap at the door.</p> + +<p>“That's right,” said Reckage, as Rennes entered, +“take Orange's chair. He doesn't care a bit about +the play, or anything in it. He is going to get +married to-morrow. You know Robert Orange, +don't you? You ought to paint him. Saint Augustine +with a future. <i>Mon devoir, mes livres, et puis ... et +puis, madame, ma femme.</i>”</p> + +<p>The Emperor's burgundy, indeed, had not been +opened in vain. Rennes could talk well, sometimes +brilliantly, often with originality, and, with the tact of +all highly sensitive beings, he led the conversation +into impersonal themes. He said Miss Carillon's +portrait was not yet finished, but he changed that +subject immediately, and the evening, which had been +to Orange a trial of patience, ended rather better +than it began. Lord Reckage invited Rennes to +accompany them home. The artist did not appear, +at first, in the mood to accept that invitation. He, +too, seemed to have many things he wished to think +about undisturbed, and in the silence of his own +company. His hesitation passed, however; the kindness +in his nature had been roused by something +unusual, haunting, ominous in Robert's face.</p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_62" id="Page_62">[62]</a></span></p> +<p>“I will come,” said he.</p> + +<p>All the way, on their walk to Almouth House, he +kept Reckage amused. Orange never once felt +under the necessity to speak. He was able to dream, +to hold his breath, to remember that he loved and +was loved again, that he would see her to-morrow—to-morrow +quite early, and then, no more unutterable +farewells, heart-desolating separations. He surprised +himself by saying aloud—“I love you ... I love +you.” The two men, engrossed in talk, did not hear +him. But he had caught the words, and it seemed +as though he heard his own voice for the first +time.</p> + +<p>“You must want some supper,” said Reckage—“a +rum omelette.”</p> + +<p>“No! no! I couldn't.”</p> + +<p>He sat down to the table, however, and watched +them eat. First the burlesque was discussed, then the +actresses, the dresses, the dancing.</p> + +<p>“Russia is the place for dancing,” said Reckage, +“I assure you. There was a dancer at Petersburg.... Something-or-other-<i>ewski</i> +was her name, and +a fellow shot himself while I was there on her account. +An awful fool. I can tell you who painted +her portrait. A Frenchman called Carolus-Duran. I +believe he has a career before him. What is your +opinion of French art?”</p> + +<p>Rennes had studied in Paris and was well acquainted +with the artist in question. They talked +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_63" id="Page_63">[63]</a></span>about the exhibitions of the year and the prices paid +at a recent sale of pictures.</p> + +<p>“Old Garrow has some fine pictures,” said Reckage. +“I would give a good deal for his Ghirlandajo. +Do you know it? And then that noble Tintoret? +There are so many persons whose position in life +compels them to encourage art without having any +real enjoyment of it. Garrow is one of those persons. +But his daughter, Lady Sara, has a touch of +genius. She's a musician. You have heard her play, +haven't you, Robert?”</p> + +<p>“Yes.”</p> + +<p>Robert had, at that instant, observed upon the +mantelpiece a letter addressed to himself. It was +from Brigit. He grew pale, and retired, with the +little envelope lightly written on, to a far corner of the +room. For some moments he could not break the +seal. The sight of her writing filled him with a kind +of agony—something beyond his control, beyond his +comprehension. What did it mean—this tightening of +the heart, this touch of fear, and love, and fear again, +so deep that the whole web of life trembled and its +strings grew confused one with another, and all was +anguish, darkness, self-renunciation, and a wild, a +dreadful mystery of human influence? At last he +opened the letter.</p> + +<blockquote><p>“<span class="smcap">My dearest</span>,” it began, “I can never say all that +I wish to say, because when I am with you I forget +everything and watch your face. When I am away +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_64" id="Page_64">[64]</a></span>from you I forget your face, and I long to see it again +in order that I may remember it more perfectly! It +is so hard not to think of you too often. But I have +had a great deal of sorrow, and everything I have in +the world—except you—is a grief. I know that we +are not born to be happy, and so, I wonder, have we +stolen our happiness? If it is a gift—I know not what +to do with it. I cannot speak a happy language: the +atmosphere is strange and frightens me. Dear Robert, +I am terrified, uncertain, but when we meet to-morrow +you will give me courage. And then, as we shall not +part again, I need never again be, as I am now, too +anxious. Your <span class="smcap">Brigit</span>.”</p></blockquote> + +<p>Reckage's voice broke in again.</p> + +<p>“I do wish you would try this rum omelette. It is +capital.”</p> + +<p>Orange laughed, but left the room. Rennes remarked +that he had a powerful face.</p> + +<p>“Yes. He has a strong character. And he would +never deceive another. But he deceives himself hourly—daily.”</p> + +<p>“In what way?” asked Rennes.</p> + +<p>“He doesn't know,” said Reckage, “what a devilish +fine chap he is! I wish to God that I could prevent +this marriage.”</p> + +<p>“Why?”</p> + +<p>“I say nothing against Mrs. Parflete. She's a high-class +woman and so on. Awfully beautiful, too. As +clever as they make 'em, and not a breath against her. +All the same, I am not very sweet on love matches +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_65" id="Page_65">[65]</a></span>for men of Orange's calibre. They never answer—never.”</p> + +<p>“I don't agree with you there,” replied the artist, +“because I believe that a love match—even when it +dissolves, as it may, into a mistake—is the best thing +that can happen to any man.”</p> + +<p>After this they discussed bindings. Lord Reckage +was the first amateur authority on the subject.</p> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_66" id="Page_66">[66]</a></span></p><h2><a name="CHAPTER_VI" id="CHAPTER_VI"></a>CHAPTER VI</h2> + + +<p>At five the next morning Robert was writing letters. +Then, as soon as the gates of Hyde Park were open, he +walked out. The recurrence of familiar sentiments on +the essentials that make up the condition known as +happiness would neither convince, nor inspire, the +powers of an imagination which, with all its richness, +was, apart from the purely artistic faculty, analytical +and foreboding. Self-doubt, however, has no part in +passion. Of the many miseries it may bring, this, +perhaps the worst of human woes, can never be in its +train. Men in love—and women also—may distrust +all things and all creatures, but their own emotion, like +the storm, proves the reality of its force by the +mischief it wreaks. Robert's spirit, borne along by +this vehemence of feeling, caught the keen sweetness +of the early air, not yet infected by the day's traffic. +His melancholy—the inevitable melancholy produced +by sustained thought on any subject, whether sublime +or simple—was dispelled. The Park, which was empty +but for a few men on their way to work, and +runners anxious to keep in training, had its great trees +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_67" id="Page_67">[67]</a></span>still beautiful from the lingering glance of summer; +the wide and misty stretches of grey grass were fresh +in dew; the softness and haze—without the gloom—of +autumn were in the atmosphere. The pride of love +requited and the instincts of youth could not resist +these spells of nature. Robert remembered only that +it was his wedding-day: that every throb of his pulse +and every second of time brought him nearer to the +supreme joy of his life and the supreme moment. He +had never used his nerves with bliss and tears, and he +did not belong to the large army of young gentlemen +who own themselves proudly</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">“Light half-believers of our casual creeds,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Who never deeply felt, nor clearly will'd....<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Who hesitate and falter life away,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And lose to-morrow the ground won to-day.”<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>This view of heroism was not possible to him, and he +was too strong in mind and body to pretend to it. +The two things which affect a career most profoundly +are religion, or the lack of it, and marriage—or not +marrying; for these things only penetrate to the soul +and make what may be called its perpetual atmosphere. +The Catholic Faith, which ignores no single possibility +in human feeling and no possible flight in human +idealism, produces in those who hold it truly a freshness +of heart very hard to be understood by the dispassionate +critic who weighs character by the newest laws of his +favourite degenerate, but never by the primeval tests +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_68" id="Page_68">[68]</a></span>of God. Robert, therefore, was thinking of his +bride's face, the pure curves of her mouth, her sapphirine +eyes, her pretty hands, her golden hair, the +nose which others found fault with, which he, nevertheless, +thought wholly delightful. He wondered what +she would say and how she would look when they met. +Would she be pale? Would she be frightened? There +had always been a certain agony in every former meeting +because of the farewell which had to follow. With +all his habits of self-control, he had never been able to +feel quite sure that the word too much would not be +said, that the glance too long would not be given. +Her own simplicity, he told himself, had saved him +from disaster. She showed her affection so fearlessly—with +such tender and discerning trust—that his worst +struggles were in solitude—not in her presence at all. +It was when he was away from her immediate peaceful +influence that the fever, the restlessness, the torments +and the desperation (has not old Burton summed up +for us the whole situation and all the symptoms in his +“<i>Anatomy</i>”?) had to be endured and conquered. These +trials now—for even a sense of humour could not make +them less than trials—were ended. The tragi-comic +labour of walking too much and riding too much, +working and smoking too much, thinking and sleeping +too little—the whole dreary business, in fact, of stifling +any absorbing idea or ruling passion, would be no +more.</p> + +<p>When he returned to Almouth House, Reckage +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_69" id="Page_69">[69]</a></span>was already dressed for his official duties as “best +man.” He felt an unwonted and genuine excitement +about Robert's marriage. He put aside the languor, +<i>ennui</i>, and depression which he felt too easily on most +occasions, and, that day at least, he was, as his own +servant expressed it, “nervous and cut-up.”</p> + +<p>“I shall miss the swimming, the boxing, the +fencing, and the pistol practice,” he complained, referring +to diversions in which Orange was an expert +and himself the bored but dutiful participant. “They +nearly always drop these things when they marry.” +The loss he really feared was the moral support and +affection of his former secretary—advantages which a +selfish nature is slow to appreciate, yet most tenacious +of when once convinced of their use. The nuptial +mass had been fixed for eight o'clock, the wedding +party were to breakfast at Almouth House afterwards, +then the bride and groom were to leave by the mail +for Southampton <i>en route</i> for Miraflores in Northern +France. The two young men drove together to the +chapel attached to the Alberian Embassy. Not a +word passed between them, but Reckage, under his +eyelids, examined every detail of his friend's attire. +He wondered at its satisfactoriness on the whole, inasmuch +as Orange had not seen fit to consult him on +the point. The church was small and grey and +sombre; the flowers on the altar (sent by his lordship) +were all white; their perfume filled the building.</p> + +<p>“They look very nice,” said Reckage, “and in +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_70" id="Page_70">[70]</a></span>excellent taste. Some of these old pictures on the +wall are uncommonly good, and I particularly like that +bronze crucifix. Ten to one if it isn't genuine +eleventh century. I will ask the old fellow afterwards. +He's a dear. His Latin is lovely. It's an +artistic pleasure to hear him read the Gospel. I +looked in the other morning, just to get the run, as it +were, of the place. By Jove! Here they are.”</p> + +<p>Pensée Fitz Rewes came first—very graceful in +lavender silk, and accompanied by her little boy, who +showed by an unconscious anxiety of expression that +he felt instinctively his mother's air of contentment +was assumed. Then Baron Zeuill, with Brigit on +his arm, followed. The Baron looked grave—too +grave for the happy circumstances. Brigit seemed as +pale as the lilies on the altar; she was less beautiful +but more ethereal than usual. There was something +frail, transparent, unsubstantial about her that day +which Robert had never noticed before. Had the +many emotional strains of the last year tried her +delicate youth beyond endurance? She seemed very +childish, too, and immature. She took Orange's hand +when he met her, held it closely, and watched the +others with a kind of wonder most pitiful to witness—as +though she had suffered too much from her +contact with life and could no more. Her eyes seemed +darker than the sapphires to which Robert had so +often compared them: this effect, he told himself, was +due to the strong contrast given by the pallor of her +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_71" id="Page_71">[71]</a></span>face. It was quite clear, however, that she was not +under the influence then of any dominant thought. +Her nerves and senses were strained to that extreme +tension resembling apathy, until the vibration given +by some touch or tone sets the whole system trembling +with all the spiritual and bodily forces which make the +mystery of human life. She spoke her responses, +signed the register, and walked out from the church +on Robert's arm without a single change of countenance +or token of feeling. As they drove away +from the church, she flushed a little and drew far +back, with a new timidity, into her corner. One look +she gave of perfect love and confidence. She pressed +his hand and held it, for a moment, against her cheek. +But neither of them spoke. And indeed, what was +there to be said? The identification of their two +minds had been full and absolute from the moment of +their first encounter long ago in Chambord. The +accidental differences of sex and age, training, accomplishments, +and education had not affected—and could +not affect—a sympathy in temperament which depended—not +on the similarity of opinions—but on a +similarity of moral fibre. Many forms can be cut, by +the same hand, from the same piece of marble, and +although one may be a grotesque and the other a +cross, one a pursuing goddess and the other an angel +for a tomb, the same substance, light, touch, and +colour will be characteristic of all four. Marriage, at +best, could but give a certain crude emphasis to the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_72" id="Page_72">[72]</a></span>strange spiritual bond which united these two beings. +Practical as they both were in the common affairs of +life, they shrank from anything which would promise +to materialise the subtleties of the mind. Some +thoughts, they felt, were as impalpable as sounds, +and, just as music ceases to be divine when it is +poured out of some mechanical contrivance, so the +mysteries of the human soul become mere bodily conditions—more +or less humiliating—when demonstrated, +catalogued, and legalised. There is nothing modern +nor uncommon in this especial disposition. One may +describe it as ascetic, anæmic, sentimental, hysterical, +neurotic; but the men and women who possess this +fragile organism show, as a rule, powers of endurance +and a strength of will by no means characteristic of +the average sanguine and sensual creature who eats, +drinks, fights, loves, and does his best in a world which +he calls vile, yet would not renounce for all the +ecstasies of Paradise.</p> + +<p>The carriage wheels rolled on—as swift and noiseless +as the sand in an hour-glass. Why was the road +so short? Why could they not be carried thus for +ever, tranquil with happiness, wanting nothing, seeking +nothing, bound no-whither? Foolish questions and +a foolish longing: yet happiness consists in being able +to formulate wishes with the serene knowledge that +a better wisdom directs their fulfilment. Neither +passers-by nor other vehicles, neither houses nor streets +caught the entranced attention of these young lovers. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_73" id="Page_73">[73]</a></span>The delight of being purely self-absorbed is very great +and intoxicating to those who are constantly—either +by desire or the force of circumstances—unselfish. A +faint flush swept into Brigit's face under the effect of +an experience so novel. Their twofold consciousness +had all the pathos of self-effacement, and all the thrill +of satisfied egoism. Such instants cannot last, and +they are shortest when one's habits of thought are +antagonistic to such luxury. Brigit sighed deeply, +and roused herself with a painful sense that the minute +she wilfully cut short had been the sweetest in her life.</p> + +<p>“Pensée,” she said, “has been so kind to me. She +gave me her room at Wight House last night. She +had the little dressing-room just off it. Did you notice +her dress? She was very anxious that you should +like it.”</p> + +<p>“She seemed all right,” said Robert; “and wasn't +Reckage splendid?”</p> + +<p>Having spoilt their perfect moment, they became +as mere mortals, more at ease in this planet, where +complete joy has an unfamiliar mien. Brigit's +actual physical beauty returned. The sunshine stole +in at the open window and lit up her golden hair, +which was half hidden by a hat with white plumes. +She looked down at her hand with its new wedding +ring, and was pleasantly aware of Robert's admiration.</p> + +<p>“I am so glad,” she exclaimed, “that you think +my hand is nice. Because I have given it to you for +all time. And if you are ever tired, or discouraged, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_74" id="Page_74">[74]</a></span>or unhappy, or lonely, and you want me, I shall come +to you.”</p> + +<p>“But you will be with me now always.”</p> + +<p>“Yes,” she answered. “Yes, Robert, always.”</p> + +<p>They had now reached Almouth House. Her little +foot, with its arched instep, seemed too slight and delicate +for the pavement. Robert knew that her arm rested +upon his, because he felt it trembling. They crossed +the threshold together. The doors closed after them.</p> + +<p>“And he never once kissed her on the way from +church!” exclaimed the footman.</p> + +<p>But the coachman did not think this very peculiar. +“I don't hold with kissing,” said he; “to my mind +there's nothing in it. Kissing is for boys and gals—not +for men and wives.”</p> + +<p>Baron Zeuill was unable to join them all at +breakfast, but Pensée, and Reckage, and David +Rennes (who had been especially invited the night +before because he had proved so entertaining), did more +than their duty as friends by talking feverishly, eating +immoderately, and affecting the conventional joyousness +universally thought proper at such times. Pensée +ventured to make a reference to the forthcoming +marriage of the “best man,” and expressed the faltering +hope that “dear Agnes would be as happy as dear +Brigit.” Reckage scowled. Rennes was seized with +a fit of coughing. It was the one unlucky hit in the +whole conversation, and it was soon forgotten by +every one present except Orange, who remembered it +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_75" id="Page_75">[75]</a></span>frequently in later days. At last the hour for departure +came. Pensée, weeping, kissed Brigit on both cheeks, +looked into her grave eyes long and lovingly, put her +arms around the slight, girlish form with that exquisite, +indefinable tenderness, unconscious, unpremeditated, +and protective, which married women show toward +very youthful brides. Robert handed his wife into +the brougham, the order was given “To Waterloo,” +the horses started, rice and slippers were thrown.</p> + +<p>“They go into the world for the first time,” exclaimed +Rennes.</p> + +<p>Then Pensée was assisted into the barouche, and +drove homewards.</p> + +<p>“We shall meet again,” she said, as she parted from +Reckage; “we meet at Sara's at lunch.”</p> + +<p>The two men were thus left alone. They decided +to smoke, for they were both a little affected by the +pathos of the situation.</p> + +<p>“Explain Robert,” said his lordship, as they returned +to the dining-room, “explain that kind of love. +You are an artist.”</p> + +<p>“Well, it isn't my way,” rejoined the other, with a +forced laugh, “but there are many manifestations of +personal magnetism.”</p> + +<p>“This kind is very interesting,” said Reckage, +“although it is, of course, high-flown. Orange is +romantic and scrupulous—he knows next to nothing +of the sensual life; and that next to nothing is merely +a source of disgust and remorse. You follow me?<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_76" id="Page_76">[76]</a></span>”</p> + +<p>“Perfectly,” said Rennes. “It is a question of +temperament. The wonder is that he has not entered, +in some delirium of renunciation, the priesthood.”</p> + +<p>“That would mean, for his gifts, a closed career. +It beats my wits to guess how this marriage will turn +out. He is madly in love. He has suffered frightfully. +Too much moral anguish has a depraving effect in the +long run.”</p> + +<p>“I am not so sure of that.”</p> + +<p>“I think so, at any rate. Now many a decent sort +of fellow can get along well enough—if he has a +woman to his taste and wine which he considers good. +You observe I condense the situation as much as +possible. But Orange is different.”</p> + +<p>“Not so different—except in degree, or experience. +At present, he oscillates between the woe of love and +the joy of life. You compared him to St. Augustine. +St. Augustine never pretended that earthly happiness +was a delusion. He knew better. He said, ‘Do not +trust it, but seek the happiness which hath no end.’ +Personally, I can accept with gratitude as much as I +can get. ‘Is not the life of men upon earth all trial, +without any interval?’ This may be; yet it is something +to learn how to sympathise with happiness. +Our best men and women devote themselves too +exclusively to the diagnosis of misery.”</p> + +<p>“You have thought a lot, I can see,” said Reckage.</p> + +<p>The artist gave him a quick, friendly glance.</p> + +<p>“I have played the fool,” said he. “I envy Orange. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_77" id="Page_77">[77]</a></span>He will know things that I can never know—now. +I haven't lived up to my thoughts. I am not remorseful—I +don't believe in remorse. It is a thing for the +half-hearted. But if I am not sad, I am not especially +gay. The middle course between sentimentality and +gallantry seems to me intimately immoral and ridiculous +into the bargain. So I am an idealist with +senses. There are times when I hate life. And why? +Because life is evil? By no means; but because we +tell lies about it, and write lies about it, from morning +till night.”</p> + +<p>“You seem a bit depressed,” said Lord Reckage. +“But, by the by, how is the portrait going? My +brother Hercy, who paints a little, always declared +that Agnes was unpaintable. Do you find her unpaintable?”</p> + +<p>“No,” said Rennes; “oh no!<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_78" id="Page_78">[78]</a></span>”</p> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_VII" id="CHAPTER_VII"></a>CHAPTER VII</h2> + + +<p>When Reckage asked Rennes whether he found Miss +Carillon “unpaintable,” the artist was conscious of a +swift, piercing emotion, which passed, indeed, but left +an ache. And as the day advanced the smart of the +wound grew more intense. A visit to the National +Gallery, a call at his tailor's, an inspection of maps at +his club, afforded little relief to the indefinable misery. +He was tortured by the disingenuousness of his own +mind. He had done so much, and thought so much, +and read so much; he could give so many scientific +reasons for each idea and each movement of his mental +and physical being, that the joy of life had been cut +up in its machinery. He had lost the power of being +natural either in his pains or his pleasures. He knew +all the answers, but not one of the questions which +trouble youth. He had never wondered at anything. +Wonder—the lovely mistress of wisdom—had taught +him none of her secrets. Dead certainty had dogged +his steps from his first appearance on this unknowable +world. Once, when a very little boy, he admired +a vase full of pink roses. “They will keep twice as +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_79" id="Page_79">[79]</a></span>long,” said his nurse, “in dirty water. It is such a +waste to put fresh water on roses!” This remark—slight +in itself—remained in his memory as the first +truth—the Logos, in fact—from which all other +truths generated. He was now nine-and-thirty: he +had executed an abnormal amount of work, and he +had a just reputation as a portrait-painter. His +technical skill was considered unique. The something +lacking was that mysteriousness which belongs +to all great art, and is, essentially, in life.</p> + +<p>“Rennes,” said one of his friends, “can work for +sixteen hours a day. It is all taken from without. +He gives nothing except his undivided attention.” +The saying was not true; he gave himself absolutely—soul, +brain, and heart—to his task, but the gift was +too premeditated, too accurately weighed. There +was no self-abandonment, nor self-forgetfulness. His +admiration for Miss Carillon had been of this kind. +Having added up her attractions, her figure, her face, +her youth, her intelligence, her grace, he decided that +she was exceptional in many ways. He found real +happiness in her society—she was so sane, so clear, so +unaffected. His attitude toward her had remained for +some time one of fraternal affection, partly by force of +will, chiefly because his relations with other women +were not so restrained. But the position was changing. +Certain forces in life were assuming for him a complicated +and threatening aspect. What if, after all, +there was an incalculable element in man?</p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_80" id="Page_80">[80]</a></span></p> +<p>“Now to be practical,” he said to himself. He had +not seen his mother for a fortnight. She lived in +Kensington Square. “I must really go and see my +mother!” The cab drove quickly; the little grey +house was soon reached. David opened the door +with his latch-key and rushed upstairs into the small +drawing-room, furnished in white and green, with +fresh flowers on the mantelpiece, and many shelves of +vellum-bound books. A bronze lamp hung from the +ceiling, and its globe, covered in violet silk, cast a +light like that of the early dawn in hilly regions. A +faint odour of lavender filled the air. In one corner +of the room there was a chess-table with its chessmen +showing an interrupted game. A velvet footstool, +much indented by the pressure of a firm foot, stood in +front of the carved armchair in which Mrs. Rennes +usually sat. Her work-basket, lined with blue satin +and shining with steel fittings, stood in its customary +place on a gipsy stool near the fireplace. A few old +English prints hung on the walls, and between the +windows there was a Chippendale cabinet filled with +Worcester and Crown Derby china. The aspect of +all things was restful, emotionless, and some of its +calm seemed to overtake and soothe David's agitated +spirit. He sat down at the piano and played, with +much passion, bits from Wagner's “<i>Tristan</i>,” the first +performance of which he had seen at Munich. “Good +Heavens!” he thought. “What a genius! What a +soul! What a phrase!” Suddenly the door opened +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_81" id="Page_81">[81]</a></span>and Agnes Carillon was ushered in. She hesitated a +second, and then recognised Rennes, who had his back +to the light. Her first instinct was to retreat; her +first feeling was a strange sensation of pleasure and +fear. His usually cold and wearied face took an +expression of controlled but unmistakable delight. +She blushed, though not with resentment, yet she +avoided, by appearing to have some difficulty with her +muff, his outstretched hand.</p> + +<p>“I have called on your mother,” said she. “I +thought you would be on your way to Rome.”</p> + +<p>Her lips were red and rather full: her cheeks were +pink, her throat and brows were white. Her +demeanour was, while modest, neither shy nor self-conscious. +David was struck by her height and the +extreme slightness of her figure. She wore a large +Gainsborough hat with long plumes, a black gown, +and a collar of old <i>point de Venise</i>. She had come up +from the country, and her presence brought its freshness.</p> + +<p>“Why are you in town?” he asked abruptly.</p> + +<p>“I was bored at home.”</p> + +<p>“And the trousseau?”</p> + +<p>“The trousseau?” she said, lifting her eyes for the +first time to his.</p> + +<p>“They say it is unlucky to try on your wedding-dress,” +he continued, seeking relief in the very torture +of reminding himself that the date of her marriage +with Lord Reckage was fixed.</p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_82" id="Page_82">[82]</a></span></p> +<p>“I never think about luck,” she answered.</p> + +<p>“I met Reckage at the play last night. I lunched +with him to-day,” said Rennes.</p> + +<p>“I am so glad that you are friends. I want you to +like him.”</p> + +<p>“No doubt he thinks me mad. Politicians always +regard artists as madmen.”</p> + +<p>“But Beauclerk is considered very cultured. I +hate the word. He is interested in art.”</p> + +<p>“No doubt—as a means of investment, an educational +influence, or a topic of conversation for light +moments.”</p> + +<p>“You are severe. Yet I like to hear you talk.”</p> + +<p>She hoped that his talk would drown the singing in +her heart, the whispering in her ears, the footsteps of +doubt—doubt of herself, doubt of Reckage, coming +nearer and nearer. She had been taught everything. +She had discovered nothing. Love itself had come to her +in the shape of a cruel code of responsibilities. Lately +she had been dwelling with an almost feverish emphasis +on the question of duty. She had wearied Reckage; +she had exhausted herself by the tenacity of her mind +toward that dull subject. And the real truth about +much in life was forcing itself upon her. She was +essentially a woman of affairs. Her face absorbed the +poetry of her nature, just as a flower extracts every +excellence from its surrounding soil, and, shining out +for the sun, wastes no blossom underground. It had +been her earliest ambition to marry a Member of +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_83" id="Page_83">[83]</a></span>Parliament and help him—by her prayers and counsel—on +his conscientious career toward Downing Street. +She had received an austere education, and even her +native generosity of heart could not soften the indignation +she had been trained to feel against any neglect +of duty. Duty was a term which she applied to that +science of things generally expedient which tradition +has presented to us in the household proverbs and +maxims of every nation. Early rising, controlling +one's temper, paying one's debts, consideration for +others, working while it is day, taking stitches in time—all +these to that orthodox mind were matters of imperative +obligation, if not Divine command. David's +impulsive nature and self-indulgent habits filled her +with overwhelming sorrow and dismay. She could +not understand the rapid changes of mood, the disordered +views, the storm and violence which are +characteristic of every artist whose work is a form of +autobiography rather than a presentment of impersonal +forms and effects.</p> + +<p>In Rennes there were two principles constantly at +work: the David who acted, and the David who +observed, criticised, and reproduced in allegorical guise, +the inspiring performance. Agnes knew nothing of +this common phenomenon in creative genius, and +when her friend refreshed his imagination by appearing +in a new <i>rôle</i>, she was as terrified as a child before +some clever trick in experimental chemistry. From +time to time he expressed opinions which startled her. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_84" id="Page_84">[84]</a></span>She begged him once to paint a “religious” picture. +He would not. A feeling that she had experienced +some bitter disappointment weighed upon her spirit. +Yet when she seemed to give that disappointment a +cause, she was careful to leave it in obscurity. She +would not permit herself to think, and, pale with +suffering, she would check the painful questions +which rose already answered. Her affection for +Rennes was one of those serious passions which +sometimes take root in an unsentimental nature, and +derive a strength from philosophy which romantic +considerations, pleasant as they are, can never bestow. +Romance will add a magical delight to the pleasures +of existence, but for the burden of the day one needs a +sobriety of thought which would ring singularly flat +in a love-lyric, which is certainly opposed to those +emotions which produce what is commonly regarded +as interesting behaviour. Agnes had not been drawn to +Rennes at first sight, but rather by degrees and against +her better judgment. She had found him unstable and +affected; on the other hand, she admired his fine figure, +his talent, his conversation, and the fire in his brilliant +eyes. She told herself that she was deeply anxious +about his soul, but, in a crowd, she watched for his +broad shoulders and his handsome face. Such was her +friendship, and she had known him for two years. +Her first season had been a startling success. She had +the misery of rejecting several suitors of whom her +father fully approved—one was an Archdeacon. She +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_85" id="Page_85">[85]</a></span>had been drawn more than kindly toward a consumptive +violinist whom she had met at a Saturday entertainment +for the poor at Kensal Green. Not a single +word of love ever passed between them. He called +once or twice at her aunt's house in Chester Square, +and they had played together some of Corelli's sonatas. +Her aunt carried her away to Brighton, and no more +was heard of the young violinist till a rumour reached +them that he was drinking himself to death at St. +Moritz. Agnes said many prayers for him. At last +a second rumour reached her that the first was wholly +incorrect. He had married a very nice girl with a lot +of money and was building a villa at Cannes. Agnes +told herself that she was thankful to hear it. The +next year she became engaged to a young Member of +Parliament with really fine prospects. She was not in +love, but she liked him better than all her friends. She +felt serene, and at last useful. Then a story reached +her about another woman, and yet another woman +before that one. The story was true and not at all +pretty. The Bishop was obliged to support his +daughter in her refusal to regard matters in what +her betrothed described as a sane and reasonable +manner. He had sinned and he was sorry, and what +was more, he had every desire to reform. But Agnes +remained firm, although she had probably never been +so nearly in love with him as she was on the day when +she returned all his charming letters and the ring and +his photograph. It was a trying moment. She was +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_86" id="Page_86">[86]</a></span>ordered abroad, and she spent the winter at Rome, +where she read ancient history and visited churches +and excited a great deal of admiration. Mrs. Rennes +and David were also at Rome. The three met at +the house of an irreproachable Marchesa. They +became friends. Miss Carillon's aunt, who was a +maiden lady with means, succumbed to the fascinating +eloquence of an amateur <i>connoisseur</i> of antique gems. +In her new character of <i>fiancée</i>, she found it inconvenient +to chaperon a young niece. She joined a +widowed friend, and gladly assented to the suggestion +that dear Agnes should visit Mrs. Rennes in Paris. +The Bishop saw no impediment to the plan. He had +been at Oxford with the late Archibald Rennes, an +odd fellow but high-minded. Mrs. Rennes was the +daughter of a General Hughes-Drummond. Every +one knew the Hughes-Drummonds. They were +very good people indeed. The Bishop hoped that +Agnes would enjoy herself, give her kind friend as +little trouble as possible, and come home fully restored +in spirits. He forgot David. It may be that others +omitted to mention him. The Bishop was not pleased +when the rumour reached him that this artist was +included in the party. What were his habits? What +were his prospects? Were his artistic talents such +that he might reasonably hope to become a Royal +Academician and maintain an establishment? What +<i>class</i> of pictures did he paint? Were they lofty in +tone? Did they exalt and purify the mind? Would +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_87" id="Page_87">[87]</a></span>they make good engravings—such engravings as one +might hang on one's walls? The correspondence +and the questions were endless. David spent a week +end at the Episcopal Palace, and behaved so well that +he became frightened at his own capabilities for John +Bullism. He was a little annoyed, too, to find himself +at ease in a British home circle. The Bishop +was, at all events, satisfied. Agnes was enchanted, +and, transfigured by unconscious passion, looked more +beautiful than ever. David enjoyed the services in +the cathedral; he liked the quiet Sunday afternoon, +he was impressed by Dr. Carillon's real earnestness in +the pulpit. The visit was a great success. Before he +left, he begged Agnes to write to him “when she +could spare the time.” The young man had tried +everything except a Platonic friendship with a lovely +girl. He fancied that he found in Agnes Carillon +that purity coupled with magnetism which makes +such experiments attractive. They corresponded +regularly, but they did not meet again for several +months. When he returned, a little tired of +platonism, letter-writing, intellectuality, and longing +a great deal for the sight of her face, he found her +engaged to Lord Reckage. So nature revenges itself. +He detected a certain triumph and also a certain deep +reproach in her gaze. She insisted that she was more +than happy, but something under these words seemed +to murmur—“You have spoilt our lives.” Her +manner, nevertheless, never altered. She was in<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_88" id="Page_88">[88]</a></span>variably +sympathetic, gracious, delicately emotional. +In letters she signed herself, “Yours affectionately, +Agnes Carillon.”</p> + +<p>“How I should like to paint you in this light!” +he said, all at once. “That is the dress I love best. +Don't wear it often.” The remark was slight enough +as a pretty speech within the bounds of flirtation, but +the tone in which he uttered it meant more, and the +girl's womanly instinct told her that the dangerous +limit in their “friendship” had been reached. He saw +her turn pale. She looked away from him, and +swallowed thoughts which were far more bitter than +any words she could have spoken.</p> + +<p>“You never used to say these things,” she +exclaimed at last; “why do you say them +now?”</p> + +<p>“I thought them—always,” he answered. “But I +am a Pagan. I tried to keep my Paganism for others, +and what you would call ‘the best in me’ for you. +You may be able to understand. Anyhow, I made a +mistake—a terrible mistake. It was a false position, +and I couldn't maintain it. Now I don't even want +to maintain it. Then it was a kind of vanity. I +mean that time when I was at the Palace. I had been +reading a lot of beautiful unreal stuff about the soul. +I thought I had reached a very high place. Of course +I had—because nothing is higher or purer than real +human love. But I wouldn't call it love. So I went +abroad, and wrote any amount of ‘literature’ to you. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_89" id="Page_89">[89]</a></span>And all the time Reckage was here—asking you, +wisely enough, to marry him. And you, wisely +enough, accepted him.”</p> + +<p>Agnes sat still, with her eyes down, cold, silent, +forbidding. She did not understand him. She had +neither the knowledge of life, nor the imagination, +which could make such understanding possible. But +she saw in his look that he loved her, that he was +unhappy. She knew that Reckage had never shown +so much feeling. Yet had she not given her word to +Reckage? Was it not irrevocable? Was Rennes +behaving well in speaking out—too late? Was it too +late? A torrent of questions poured into her mind. +She dragged off her gloves, and spread out her hands, +which were slim and white, and stared at her sapphire +engagement ring.</p> + +<p>“A weak man submits to destiny,” said Rennes, +“a strong one makes his own. It is what we think +of ourselves which determines our fate. If I regard +myself as a poor creature, I shall, no doubt, act the +part of a poor creature. But,” he added, with an +ironical smile, “it is never too late to give up one's +prejudices. I can't stand by and look on any longer. +I intend to leave England for some years. I hope we +may never meet again. Don't answer me, because +there is nothing for you to say. You have been +perfectly kind, perfectly charming, perfectly consistent. +You have never deceived me and you have never +deceived yourself.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_90" id="Page_90">[90]</a></span>”</p> + +<p>She interrupted him:</p> + +<p>“I hope not. Oh, I hope I have never deceived +myself—or you.”</p> + +<p>“I was grateful for your friendship,” he said. “I +can't be grateful for it now.”</p> + +<p>Agnes drew a long breath and murmured random +words about the “time.” Was it getting late?</p> + +<p>“Yes,” replied Rennes, “too late. Did I ever tell +you why my father, with all his prospects, became a +drawing-master? He told me that he had suffered +so much learning why he could never paint, nor +hope to paint, that he was determined to devote his +knowledge to the service of apprentices. It seemed +to him such an awful thing to mistake one's vocation. +Now I feel that one of us—perhaps both of us, you +and I, are doing even a worse thing. We are deliberately +throwing happiness to the dogs.”</p> + +<p>“I don't think so,” said Agnes, in a trembling +voice. “There is duty, you know; that is something +higher than happiness, I believe.”</p> + +<p>“Are you so sure?”</p> + +<p>“Oh, yes!”</p> + +<p>“I envy you. I don't even know what you mean +by duty. It seems to me another name for the +tyranny of false sentiment.”</p> + +<p>“Don't disturb my ideas,” she exclaimed, with an +appealing gesture. “Don't say these things. They +make me wretched. I can't afford to doubt and +question. One must have a few permanent rules of +conduct.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_91" id="Page_91">[91]</a></span>”</p> + +<p>“But if they are fantastic, capricious, insincere?”</p> + +<p>“I can't argue. I am not clever. I will not +change my views. I dare not. It would make me +hate you.”</p> + +<p>“You are the slave of convention.”</p> + +<p>“That may be. That is safer, after all, than being +the slave of some other will stronger than my own. +Why do you try to disturb my life—now—after so +many really happy months of friendship?”</p> + +<p>“Were they so happy? Agnes, were they happy?”</p> + +<p>She hesitated.</p> + +<p>“Yes,” she said, at last; “relatively, yes.”</p> + +<p>“It is quite true. Good women drive us to the +bad ones.”</p> + +<p>“Oh! what can you mean? Surely we are saying +too much. We shall reproach ourselves later. I live, +again and again, through one conversation. The +phrases come into my mind with every possible shade +of significance.”</p> + +<p>She pushed back her hat, and pressed her hand to her +brow, which was contracting nervously as she spoke.</p> + +<p>“I don't wish to be altered by any change in principle,” +she continued, “nor distracted, from my plain +obligations, into other interests. I daresay I sound +quite heartless and odd. I daresay you won't like +me any more.” Her voice faltered, but her lips +remained precise. “But one must know one's mind—one +<i>must</i>. You don't know yours; that is the +whole trouble, David.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_92" id="Page_92">[92]</a></span>”</p> + +<p>She had never called him by his Christian name +before, and now the forced sternness of her tone gave +it almost the accent of a farewell.</p> + +<p>“Perhaps we have helped each other,” she went +on; “at all events, you have taught me how to look +at things. You are clever and original and all that. +I am rather commonplace, and I never have new or +surprising thoughts. The more I learn, the more +I grow attached to the ordinary ways. Once +you called me the ideal <i>bourgeoise</i>. You were +right.”</p> + +<p>“Not entirely,” said Rennes. “You think too +much.”</p> + +<p>“You taught me that. I never used to consider +people or notions. I accepted them without criticism.”</p> + +<p>“The madness of criticism has entered into you,” +he said. “It is the worst, most destructive thing on +earth.”</p> + +<p>“How could I have accepted you—as my friend—without +it?” she asked. “You puzzled me. I tried +to understand you. No one had ever puzzled me +before. No one, you may be quite sure, will ever +puzzle me, in the same degree, again.”</p> + +<p>She gave him a long, tearful glance, in which +defiance, reproach, determination, and a certain cruelty +shone like iron under water. He made a movement +toward her. The strength of his more emotional +nature might have made a final assault—not uselessly—on +her assumed “reasonableness.” No appeal, no +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_93" id="Page_93">[93]</a></span>threat could have moved her from the mental attitude +she had decided on—the duty of keeping her word to +Lord Reckage. But she might have been urged +to the more candid course of ascertaining how far +his lordship's true happiness was really involved in +the question. At that moment, however, Mrs. +Rennes came into the room. She gave a little cry +of surprise when she saw her son. Then she kissed +Agnes, and sat down, looking anxiously from one to +the other with something not unlike grief, not unlike +jealousy.</p> + +<p>Her life and habits of thought were simple, +but she had been highly educated. She was an +accomplished linguist, a good musician, a most intelligent +companion. Things which she could not comprehend +she would, at least, accept on faith. There had +never been the shadow of a quarrel between David +and herself. But she felt, by intuition, that Agnes +Carillon had, in some way, affected his life, his work, +his whole nature. She could not blame her, because +she knew nothing definite about the understanding +which existed, plainly enough, between her son and +this young lady. She had a horror, however, of flirtation +and flirts. It seemed to her that, under all this +talk and correspondence on art, poetry, scenery, and +the like, there was a strong under-current of emotion. +So she smiled upon Agnes with a certain reserve, as +though she were not quite sure whether she had any +great reason to feel delighted at her call. At a glance +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_94" id="Page_94">[94]</a></span>from David, however, her look softened into real +friendliness.</p> + +<p>“I was so surprised to see Mr. Rennes here,” said +Agnes.</p> + +<p>“I am surprised, too,” said the older woman.</p> + +<p>A restraint fell upon all three. David walked +about the room, looking for things he did not want, +and asking questions he did not wish answered, +although he hoped they would interest his mother. +But his spirits soon flagged. The conversation became +trivial and absurd.</p> + +<p>“Where are you staying?” asked Mrs. Rennes.</p> + +<p>“I am with Pensée Fitz Rewes,” said Agnes; “she +has gone in the carriage to do a little shopping. She +will send it here for me.”</p> + +<p>The carriage was at that instant announced. +David went down the stairs with Agnes and +handed her in. He said nothing. Mrs. Rennes +watched the pair from the window and nodded her +farewell with much gravity. When David returned +to her, he found her reading peacefully Trollope's last +novel. It was for these graces that he loved her most. +He scribbled letters at her writing-table for the next +hour. Then he spoke—</p> + +<p>“I am going,” said he, “to the East. I need a +change. I suppose it will mean six months.”</p> + +<p>“But how you will enjoy it!”</p> + +<p>“And what will you do?”</p> + +<p>“I live from day to day, my dear. I am quite +contented.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_95" id="Page_95">[95]</a></span>”</p> + +<p>“This journey is not a mere caprice. I have been +contemplating it for some time,” he said.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Rennes' hair was white and her long, equine +countenance, sallow. When her feelings were stirred, +she showed it only by a cloudy pallor which would +steal over her face as a kind of veil—separating her +from the rest of mortals.</p> + +<p>“One has to get away from England,” continued +Rennes: “one has to get away from one's self.”</p> + +<p>“And where is your self now?” she asked, not +venturing to look at him.</p> + +<p>“With that girl,” he answered, suddenly; “with +that girl.”</p> + +<p>“Do you love her?”</p> + +<p>“I don't know. I suppose I do. Oh! I would +love her if I could ever be absolutely sincere. But this +I do know—I can't see her married to that fellow +Reckage. So I must go away.”</p> + +<p>“I am afraid she is a coquette—a serious coquette, +my dear boy.”</p> + +<p>“She is nothing of the kind. She is a true woman. +Don't talk about her.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_96" id="Page_96">[96]</a></span>”</p> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_VIII" id="CHAPTER_VIII"></a>CHAPTER VIII</h2> + + +<p>Sara had spent the morning crying bitterly, in bed. +Her letter to the Duke of Marshire was on the table +by her side. From time to time she had taken it up, +turned it over, shed fresh tears, and reproached herself +for indecision. She held at bay every thought of +Robert Orange, and formed the resolve of banishing +him from her mind for ever. When the time came +to dress for luncheon, she brightened a little, for the +prospect of disguising her true feelings in the presence +of Lord Reckage and Pensée appealed to that genius +for mischief which animated the whole current of her +life. <i>To baffle the looker-on</i> seemed not merely a great +science, but the one game of wits which could never +lose its interest. She was not insincere. She thought +that lies, as a rule, were clumsy shifts, and abominable. +Even in the moments when she was most thoroughly +conscious of her talent for misleading others, she had +never brought herself to think well of deception. She +would have liked to feel that her heart was an open +book for her friends to read. It would have been +pleasant, she believed, if all could have known always +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_97" id="Page_97">[97]</a></span>that she practised a delicate art and played, consummately, +fine comedy whenever she found spectators. +But a solitary, mismanaged childhood, and the +constant sense of being in many ways a foreigner, +had taught her the penalty of frankness where +sympathy could not supply, from its own knowledge, +the unutterable half which makes up every confidence. +The bitter pleasures of a conscience which +caresses its worst burden were the only real ones of +her daily existence. When she could say, at the end +of the day, “I have fooled them all: they think I am +happy, I am not: they think Reckage amuses me, +he doesn't. They think I delight in these dull dinners +and balls, I hate them,” a sort of exultation—the +pride of a spirit singing under torture—would fill her +whole being. All youth that is strong and thoughtful +has much of this instinct of dissimulation. The +world—to a young mind—appears controlled by +elderly, suspicious, hateful custodians ever on the +alert to capture, or thwart, every high enterprise and +every passionate desire. There seems a vast conspiracy +against happiness—the withered, dreary wiseacres +in opposition to the joy, the daring, the beauty, +the reckless vitality of souls still under the spell of +spring. When poor Sara could escape from town into +the country, mount her horse, and tear through a +storm, the neighbours compared her to a witch on +a broomstick, and, shaking their heads, would foresee +much sipping of sorrow by the spoonful in the future +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_98" id="Page_98">[98]</a></span>of Lord Garrow. To-day, however, the young lady +assumed her most demure expression, and received the +guests at luncheon as though she had never learnt +the meaning of tears nor joined the gale in spirit.</p> + +<p>Sir Piers Harding was the last to arrive. He was +a thick-set, livid man with an unyielding smile and +the yellow eyes of one whom rich diet rather than +an angry god had rendered melancholy.</p> + +<p>“You haven't changed in the least,” he said, +considering Lord Garrow with some resentment.</p> + +<p>“Ah, well!” replied his lordship, “eleven years do +not make much difference at my time of life. You, +however, are decidedly greyer. Where have you been +hiding yourself? I think you were foolish to leave +England. Gladstone was remarking but the other +day, ‘Harding was always so cocksure.’ ‘And +wasn't he right?’ said I. ‘Of course,’ said he; ‘and +that was the worst of him. He <i>was</i> right. Who +could stand it?’ That's the world. It's devilish +unappreciative of the truth.”</p> + +<p>Reckage, much bored by the old men, stood by +Pensée's chair, where he could watch Sara and angle +for her glance. When it happened that she smiled at +him a little—either in mere friendship or mockery—he +felt a kind of fire steal through his veins, and he +told himself that she was a dangerous woman—a +woman who could get her own way in the long run. +That she was a girl—and, with all her shortcomings, +a very innocent one—made her odd powers of fascina<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_99" id="Page_99">[99]</a></span>tion +but the more insidious. She wore a dress of +wine-coloured silk which fitted plainly over her breast +and shoulders and fell in graceful flounces from the +waist. The warm, olive lines of her cheek and +throat appeared the darker in contrast with a twist +of white lace which she wore round her neck; and +her black hair, dressed higher than usual, was held +in place by a large ruby comb which caught the fire-light +as she moved. Reckage was conscious, for the +first time in his life, of a real embarrassment. He +could not talk to her; he felt tongue-tied when she +addressed him. Ill at ease, yet not unhappy, he +struggled to maintain some coherence in his conversation; +but, at each moment, his own ideas grew less +certain and Sara's voice more enchanting. It seemed +to convey the lulling powers of an anodyne. When +he tried to rouse himself, the effort was as painful as +the attempt to wake from a dream within a dream.</p> + +<p>“You were at the wedding this morning?” she +asked lightly.</p> + +<p>“No.... What a fool I am! Yes, of course. +You mean Robert's wedding?”</p> + +<p>She gave a little smile, and murmured, dropping +her voice, “I meant Robert's wedding.”</p> + +<p>Luncheon was then announced: the sliding doors +which separated the dining-room from Lord Garrow's +library were rolled back. They all walked in—Pensée +and Sara leading the way.</p> + +<p>“A sweet creature!” whispered his lordship behind +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_100" id="Page_100">[100]</a></span>their backs, indicating Lady Fitz Rewes. He sighed +as he spoke. He could never feel that there was not +something deplorable in Sara's physical brilliancy. +Her upper-lip that day had a certain curl which he +had learnt to regard as a danger-signal. What would +she do next? As he sat down at the table and +observed the sweep of her eyelashes toward Reckage, +a presentiment of trouble clouded the new hopes he +had formed for her career.</p> + +<p>“Who are your strong men now?” asked Harding +suddenly, after a moment's contemplation of Reckage, +who sat opposite.</p> + +<p>“Our strong men?” faltered Lord Garrow.</p> + +<p>“Aren't most of 'em place-hunters and self-seekers?”</p> + +<p>“You must meet Robert Orange,” said Pensée; +“Mr. Disraeli believes in Robert Orange.”</p> + +<p>“I never heard of him,” observed Sir Piers. “Who +is he?”</p> + +<p>“You may well ask,” said Lord Garrow. “He +claims to be a de Hausée—on his father's side. +Reckage can tell you about him. Many have a high +opinion of the fellow, and say that if he will stick to +one branch of politics, he may become useful. Personally, +I don't call him a man of the world.”</p> + +<p>“Not of our world, perhaps, papa. But there are +so many other worlds!”</p> + +<p>“Sara likes him. A lot of women like him,” said +his lordship. He was annoyed at her interruption +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_101" id="Page_101">[101]</a></span>and took his revenge by a feminine thrust. “The +hero,” said he, “married some mysterious person this +very morning. We may not hear so much about him +in the future!”</p> + +<p>“Dear Lord Garrow,” said Pensée, “his wife is +a friend of mine—she is the most charming person.”</p> + +<p>Sara put out her hand and touched Reckage on the +arm.</p> + +<p>“Do you think,” she asked, “that the wife will +be an obstacle in his way?”</p> + +<p>“Who can tell? Of course she has means, and he +likes to do everything well.”</p> + +<p>“Speaking for myself,” said Harding, “I have +always held that a man's career rests rather on his +genius than his marriage.”</p> + +<p>“But you, my dear fellow,” put in Lord Garrow, +testily, “you retired from political life because your +theories could find no illustration there.”</p> + +<p>“Pardon me,” said Sir Piers, with a grim laugh. +“I retired because I had a faultless wife but unfortunately +no genius. I shall therefore watch your +friend's triumph or failure—for his position would +seem to be precisely the reverse of my own—with +peculiar sympathy.”</p> + +<p>“Ah! I fear you are rather heartless,” exclaimed +Sara. “For a man to have gone so far as Orange, +and to know that perhaps—I say, perhaps—he can +hope no higher because he made a fool of himself +about a woman!<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_102" id="Page_102">[102]</a></span>”</p> + +<p>“You speak as though it were a romantic marriage—a +question of love.”</p> + +<p>“Of course,” said the young lady softly. “It is a +great passion.”</p> + +<p>“Well, after all,” observed Harding, who was not +insensible himself to Sara's delightfulness, “the British +public is absurdly fond of a love-match. They adore +a sentimental Prime Minister. They want to see +him either marrying for love, or jilted in his youth for +a richer man. These things enlist the popular sympathy. +What made Henry Fox? His elopement with Lady +Caroline Lennox.”</p> + +<p>“To be sure,” said Reckage—“to be sure. That's +a point.”</p> + +<p>“It is a compliment to the sex,” continued Harding, +“when a great man is taken captive by a pretty face. +Men, too, rally round a Lochinvar. Such an evidence +of heart—or folly, if you prefer to call it so—is also +an evidence of disinterestedness. So, on the whole, +I cannot follow your objections to the new Mrs. +Orange.”</p> + +<p>“You have been away so long,” said Garrow fussily, +“that you have forgotten our prejudices. Orange +himself, to begin with, has something mysterious in +his origin. They say he is French—related to the +old French aristocracy; but the less one says in +England about foreign pedigrees the better. All +that of itself is against him, and Mrs. Orange, it +seems, is more or less French, or Austrian, too. We +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_103" id="Page_103">[103]</a></span>can't help regarding them as foreigners, and I always +distrust foreigners in politics. Why should they care +for England? I ask myself.”</p> + +<p>“Why, indeed?” said Harding, with irony.</p> + +<p>“Have I made myself clearer?” asked Garrow. +“I can afford to speak. My own wife was a Russian. +But I was not in political life, and she was an +Ambassador's daughter.”</p> + +<p>“You think you would feel more sure of Orange's +patriotic instinct if he had chosen an Englishwoman?” +said Reckage.</p> + +<p>“I am bound to say that he would have shown discretion +in settling down with one of our simple-hearted +Saxon girls.”</p> + +<p>“And who was Mrs. Orange before she married +Orange?” asked Harding.</p> + +<p>“A widow—a Mrs. Parflete,” said Garrow.</p> + +<p>“Parflete!” exclaimed Harding. “Mrs. Parflete! +But I have met her. She married Wrexham Parflete, +an extraordinary creature. He lived for years with +the Archduke Charles of Alberia. People used to say +that Mrs. Parflete was the Archduke's daughter. I +ran across Parflete the other day in Sicily.”</p> + +<p>“But he is dead,” said Pensée, much agitated; “he +drowned himself.”</p> + +<p>“I cannot help that,” repeated Sir Piers. “I met +him last week, and he beat me at écarté.”</p> + +<p>“Then it is not the same man,” said Reckage, “quite +obviously.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_104" id="Page_104">[104]</a></span>”</p> + +<p>“Wrexham Parflete had a wife; I heard her sing +at a dinner-party in Madrid. She was living with the +Countess Des Escas; there was a row and a duel on +her account. I never forget names or faces.”</p> + +<p>“But this looks serious,” said Reckage. “Do you +quite understand? It's the sort of thing one hardly +dares to think. That is to say if you mean what I +mean. The marriage can't be legal.”</p> + +<p>The two women turned pale and looked away from +each other.</p> + +<p>“I mean as much or as little as you like,” said +Harding. “But Parflete was alive last Monday.”</p> + +<p>“But bigamy is so vulgar,” observed Lord Garrow. +“You must be mistaken. It is too dreadful!”</p> + +<p>“Dreadful, indeed! And a great piece of folly +into the bargain. It is selling the bear's skin before +you have killed the bear.”</p> + +<p>Lady Fitz Rewes glanced piteously at the three men +and wrung her hands.</p> + +<p>“Don't you see,” she exclaimed, “don't you see +that if there is the least doubt of Mr. Parflete's death, +we ought to go to them. Some one must follow them.”</p> + +<p>“There is that touch of the absurd about it,” said +Reckage, “which makes it difficult for a friend to +come forward. To pursue a man on his wedding +journey——“</p> + +<p>“It is no laughing matter,” put in Lord Garrow; +“and if the woman has deceived the poor fellow, it's +a monstrous crime.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_105" id="Page_105">[105]</a></span>”</p> + +<p>“Oh, she hasn't; she couldn't deceive him,” said +Pensée. “I know her intimately.”</p> + +<p>“She was considered very clever—at Madrid,” said +Sir Piers, finely. “To you she may appear more to +be pitied than she really is.”</p> + +<p>“Don't say such things! I won't hear them. I +love her very much.”</p> + +<p>“Perhaps she is clever enough to appear stupid in +public.”</p> + +<p>“No, no!” Her voice trembled and tears gushed +from her eyes. “You will regret these words. This +news will kill her.”</p> + +<p>“Something must be done,” said Sara. “Beauclerk, +you ought to follow them and tell them. Pensée +is right.”</p> + +<p>“This will make a horrid scandal,” said Lord +Garrow, who was appalled at the prospect of being +mixed up in so disagreeable an affair. “Why not leave +it alone? It is not our business.”</p> + +<p>“But it is Beauclerk's business, papa. Just put +yourself in his place. Surely that is not asking too +much.”</p> + +<p>“We must avoid everything precipitate,” said +Reckage; “we mustn't be over-hasty.”</p> + +<p>Lady Fitz Rewes wiped her eyes, rose from the +table, and began to draw on her gloves.</p> + +<p>“But we must be friends,” she said; “if you cannot +go to them, I will. Do you realise the poor child's +position? An illegal marriage! She is the most +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_106" id="Page_106">[106]</a></span>gentle, beautiful person I ever saw, with the best head, +the purest heart. She professes <i>nothing</i>. I judge her +by her actions.”</p> + +<p>“But you must see,” said Reckage, “that I can't +give Orange all this pain unless I have something more +definite to go on. Sir Piers tells us that he played +cards with Wrexham Parflete last week.” He +paused.</p> + +<p>“Wait a moment,” said Harding; “wait a moment. +Does any one present know Parflete's handwriting?”</p> + +<p>“I do,” said Pensée. “I saw his last letter to his +wife. He wrote it before he committed suicide.”</p> + +<p>Sir Piers took out his pocket-book, and, from the +several papers it contained, selected a three-cornered +note.</p> + +<p>“By the merest chance,” said he, “I have this +with me.”</p> + +<p>The others unconsciously left their seats and looked +over his shoulder while he smoothed out the sheet. +It was dated plainly, “October 7, 1869,” and contained +the acknowledgment of two £10 notes won +at écarté.</p> + +<p>“That is the hand,” said Pensée. “One could not +mistake it.”</p> + +<p>“Then this is really very serious,” said Lord +Reckage, with twitching lips. “The whole story has +had all along something of unreality about it. Robert +seems fated to a renunciant career—colourless, self-annihilating.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_107" id="Page_107">[107]</a></span>”</p> + +<p>“What will you do?” murmured Pensée, with an +imploring gesture. “What will you do?”</p> + +<p>“They leave Southampton at three o'clock,” said +Reckage; “it is now half-past two. The steamer +goes twice a week only. I can send him a telegram +and follow them overland—by way of Calais.”</p> + +<p>“Then I must go also,” said Pensée firmly. “She +will need me. I have had a presentiment of trouble +so long that now I feel ‘Here it is come at last.’ I +cannot be too thankful to God that it isn't worse.”</p> + +<p>Nothing showed under the innavigable depths of +Sara's eyes. She had moved to the fireplace and stood +there holding one small foot to the blaze.</p> + +<p>“Are you cold?” asked her father anxiously.</p> + +<p>“I am ice,” she said, “ice!”</p> + +<p>Reckage joined her and said, under his voice, “You +think I ought to go, don't you?”</p> + +<p>This question—given in a half-whisper—seemed to +establish a fresh intimacy between them. It was the +renewal of their old friendship on deeper terms.</p> + +<p>“Yes, you must go,” she answered; “and, Beauclerk, +write to me and tell me how he bears it.”</p> + +<p>“He is accustomed to a repressive discipline on +these matters. The philosophic mind, you know, is +never quite in health. Probably, he won't show much +feeling.”</p> + +<p>His gaze seemed to burn into her face. It was as +though she had been walking in an arbour and +suddenly, through some rift in the boughs, found +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_108" id="Page_108">[108]</a></span>herself exposed to the scorching sun. She felt +dominated by a force stronger than her own nature. +A little afraid, she shrank instinctively away from him, +and as she dared not look up, she did not see the +expression of triumph, mingled with other things, +which, for a moment, lit up Lord Reckage's ordinarily +inscrutable countenance. Lately, he had been somewhat +depressed by his encounter with refractory wills. +His horse, his colleagues on the Bond of Association, +his future bride, had showed themselves fatiguing, +perhaps worthless, certainly disheartening and independent +accessories to his life. Here, at last, was +some one brilliant, stimulating, by no means self-seeking, +Quixotic in enthusiasms.</p> + +<p>“Sara,” he said, obeying an impulse which surprised +himself, “do you believe in me?”</p> + +<p>This time she gave him a straight glance.</p> + +<p>“Yes,” she answered. “You might do a great +deal if you could forget yourself for a few months.”</p> + +<p>Pensée, much troubled and full of thoughts, walked +over to them.</p> + +<p>“Oh, Sara!” she said, “isn't it terrible? If you +could have seen them both this morning—she looked +so beautiful, perfectly lovely—a sight I never can +forget. And now this blow! What man can teach +men to understand the will of God?<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_109" id="Page_109">[109]</a></span>”</p> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_IX" id="CHAPTER_IX"></a>CHAPTER IX</h2> + + +<p>Robert and Brigit were silent with happiness on their +way to Southampton. Side by side they watched the +country through the carriage windows. There had +been a fog in London when they left, and the sun, +at intervals, shone out like a live coal among dying +embers. All was obscured; the foot-passengers and +passing vehicles seemed black straying shadows in the +atmosphere. But the express emerged at last from +the clinging darkness into autumnal fields, some brown +after the harvest, others studded with hay-ricks. At +one point in the landscape they noticed a flock of +sheep drinking at a stream. The boy who guarded +them waved his cap at the train, and this little signal, +coming, as it were, from human nature, gave them a +reassurance of the day's reality. Near Bishopstoke the +clouds were white and dense, but, rippling in places, +they disclosed blue stretches of the heaven which, in +their masses, they concealed. Southampton began +with small houses. One had a tattered garden, where +a stone copy of the Medicean Venus stood on a patch +of squalid turf near a clothes' line and against an ivy-<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_110" id="Page_110">[110]</a></span>grown +wall. Then the green sands were reached. +The sea, like liquid granite, sparkled in the distance. +Rows of dull dwellings, shops, public-houses, and hotels +came next. The train, with a shriek, rushed into the +station. It was still too early for lunch, so they walked +down to the pier, where they saw several yachts and +pleasure-boats at anchor in the harbour, and the New +Forest greenly outlined in the distance. These were +the things which engraved themselves on Brigit's +mind. The impressibility of youth is retentive for +outward objects, but the inner mood—the sensation +and idea which make the mental state—lives unconsciously, +and is recognised only in the long process of +time. Brigit could have described the scene, but her +emotions did not seem to her, emotions. Absorbed by +them, and in them, she neither abandoned herself to +the hour nor asked herself what the hour held. She +and the hour were one—a single note; and the joy +she felt at being with Robert, leaning on his arm and +hearing his voice, was so simple that, even if a psychologist +of the deepest experience had been able to +probe into the workings of her mind, he would have +found nothing there to analyse. Hers was a child's +affection—the first love of a heart still immature, and +not yet made suspicious of itself by contact with +others less innocent. Parflete had been too worldly-wise +not to guard and value—at its true price—a +disposition so graceful in its very essence. She had a +knowledge of affairs beyond her years, yet her own +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_111" id="Page_111">[111]</a></span>instincts, her education, her few friendships, had kept +her curiously ignorant of evil, of much also that is +neither good nor evil, but merely human. The sombre +sentimentality which lurks in most young girls of +seventeen was not in her character at all, and in its +stead she possessed the gaiety and carelessness of feeling +which belongs to imaginative rather than to sensuous +natures. A boy-like spirit showed itself in all her +words, movements, moods; her womanhood still +slept, and thus, while her intelligence made her an +unusual companion and her beauty presented a constant +appeal to all that is romantic, it was inevitable +that melancholy and reserve should enter largely into +the passionate love which Robert felt for her. He +told himself that he would not have her different. +The glance of her eyes, which stirred him strangely +to the very depths of his being, never varied in its +sweetness nor its calm. When her lightest touch +could sway his body and spirit, she, unconscious of +her power, would press his hand against her cheek and +talk about the geraniums in the convent garden or the +chances of the Carlist war. It was all wonderful. It +had seemed perfect. And yet—and yet. She was +not cold, but was she unearthly? Was she, perhaps, +some straying angel—some fervid, bright spirit, flame-coloured +and intangible, a being of the elfin race? +As they stood together looking at the distant coastline +a depression which he could neither fathom nor +control came over him. His bride seemed so much +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_112" id="Page_112">[112]</a></span>younger than he had ever realised. She cared for him—how +could he doubt it? But was the indefinable, +indispensable feeling absent?</p> + +<p>“Do you remember our journey from Catesby?” +she asked suddenly. “I slept. Wasn't I dull? Did +you mind?”</p> + +<p>No one could see them. He stooped and kissed +her fragrant, animated face. “I wish,” said he, “I +wish that you were not quite such a child.”</p> + +<p>The feeling of solitariness weighed upon his soul +with a crushing weight unknown until that day—the +day of days, his wedding day. Heretofore he had +craved for solitude because it had been full of her +imagined companionship. Now that she actually +lived and talked by his side, the fancied image of her +paled, vanished. The real creature was adorable, but, +for some reason, maddening, and not, at all events, +the being of his fancy. Their old relations—ethereal +and exquisite, no doubt—now seemed an empty +mockery, self-deluding foolishness. He coloured at +the remembrance of all that Disraeli had hinted, and +Reckage had brutally declared, on the large topic of +idealism in passion. A man, in spite of all determinations +to be uncomplaining, knows the How much and +How little that he may demand, merely as a man, from +any given advantage or disadvantage in existence. +Robert, hating himself, condemning himself, was conscious, +in spite of himself, that Brigit's affection for +him was not love in the full human sense of the word. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_113" id="Page_113">[113]</a></span>He had exchanged an ordinary self-restraint for an +impossibly false position. She could inspire his life, +but could she enter into it, be it, live it with him +daily? Would there not have to be great reservations, +half statements, and, worst of all, a subtle kind of +hypocrisy? He reproached himself for selfishness, yet +the fear came and it remained. He had captured the +rainbow and married the goddess. Were there not +many legends illustrating this folly?—stories of men +who had married divinities and perished, not because +the divinities were at fault, but because mortals must +wed with mortals. The sight of his wife's beauty +caused a sudden, violent irritation. He wished she +had none, for then, perhaps, he thought he would have +been satisfied, more than content, in the placid consideration +of her charms of character. He found +himself reduced to the absurd predicament of deciding +to banish her from his thoughts—a last sophism which +showed him, all too clearly, how wretched he was. +Their silence, which had been due in the first instance +to the sufficient delight of being in each other's company, +became that long pause which arises from an +unutterable embarrassment. Brigit felt by instinct +some change in Robert's mood, but as she could not +account for it then, her sympathy failed. The keen +salt air filled her with its own free buoyancy; her +delicate skin flushed in the wind; she forgot the +nervous strain of the morning, the awfulness of the +grey chapel, the new state of things, griefs that were +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_114" id="Page_114">[114]</a></span>past, responsibilities that were to come. She turned +to Orange as a child would turn to its inseparable +comrade, and clapped her hands with amusement at +an organ-grinder with a monkey and a dog whom +she noticed sitting at the end of the pier, waiting, +apparently, for one of the excursion steamers bound +for the Isle of Wight.</p> + +<p>“Pennies for the monkey, Robert,” she cried; “a +lot of pennies! And then we must have our lunch. +May I have some chicken and one of those very droll, +very stupid, English rice puddings? Please let me +have one.... And may I kiss the dog? It is a +nice little dog—quite as nice as Pensée's Fidelio. +Now I am going to talk to the monkey.”</p> + +<p>She ran toward the little animal, who was shivering, +pathetic and grotesque, in a military cap and red +petticoat trimmed with yellow braid. The dog, which +was a young pug with excellent points, gave Brigit, +after many entreaties, his paw. She addressed the +monkey in Italian, and laughed till she cried at its +absurdities. Robert looked on, consumed by a sensation +which he recognised, with much shame, as jealousy. +He thought the pug dull and the monkey revolting. +Yet she kissed one, and showered heavenly smiles on +both.</p> + +<p>“I did not know that you were so fond of animals,” +he said, as they walked to the hotel for lunch.</p> + +<p>“I am not,” she answered frankly, “as a rule. +But when I am with you I feel so happy that I want +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_115" id="Page_115">[115]</a></span>to kiss everything—the ground, and the trees, and +chairs, and poodle dogs, and the whole world!”</p> + +<p>“Then why not—me?”</p> + +<p>She looked at him, blushed a little, and waited some +moments before she replied.</p> + +<p>“I don’t know,” she said at last. “It must be +because I am not in the habit of doing so. I am not +accustomed to you yet. I keep thinking ‘I shall wake +up in a minute and he will be miles away.’ Can't +you understand? So I am pretending to myself all +the time that you are not really here.”</p> + +<p>“I see.”</p> + +<p>“No, dearest, you don't quite understand; and you +are a little disappointed in me because I seem—I must +seem—rather flippant. I daren't be serious—I daren't. +I daren't believe that I am your wife.”</p> + +<p>“But why not?”</p> + +<p>She shook her head, and her whole face became +clouded by the old, terrible, unnatural sadness which +he knew so much better than her laughter.</p> + +<p>“I am not used to joy,” she said. “Perhaps, if we +ever get to Heaven, our first impulse will be to run +back again to Purgatory, where we are more at home!”</p> + +<p>“You have too much wit, darling, to be happy +anywhere!”</p> + +<p>“No! no! I don't ask to be conventionally happy, +but I want you always. That is all ... you, always, +on any terms—on a rag-heap, in a storm, with jackals +howling at us!<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_116" id="Page_116">[116]</a></span>”</p> + +<p>“What a picture!”</p> + +<p>“My idea of unalloyed bliss, or, at least, the only +one I have ever permitted myself. I can even believe +that might be realised.” A smile hovered again about +her lips, but she looked steadily ahead, as though she +were still resolved not to reassure herself, by any too-frequent +glances, of his much-loved presence.</p> + +<p>The peculiar tenderness of her voice was in itself a +charm against ill-humour. A rush of bitter self-reproach +told Robert that his dissatisfaction had been +the inevitable result of too many blessings on a base +nature. He tried to speak; he watched instead, with +a desperate, eager gaze, the play of her expressive +features.</p> + +<p>“I wonder,” she said, “what our life is to be? +Not that I wish to pry into the future, but, for some +reason, I can never feel settled. Every morning is a +surprise. I think, too, about your character ... your +career. Have I helped you, or have I been +a hindrance? I am perverse, capricious—not an +angel. No human influence can help me very much. +I must depend on the discipline of God. Oh, if I +could know all that He wants me to do!”</p> + +<p>“Most of us have that desire, Brigit. At least it +is better to be damned, in the world's opinion, trying +to do the will of God than saved—doing nothing! +One has to take a good many chances—even the +chance of displeasing Him—if it comes to a crisis.”</p> + +<p>“Many people would call that reckless.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_117" id="Page_117">[117]</a></span>”</p> + +<p>“Let them call it anything,” said the young man; +“names do not matter. The ghastly, unspeakable +dread is to be timorous, halting, the creature of +indecision.”</p> + +<p>“We are too much alike,” she sighed. “Oh, +Robert, if we did not suffer horribly within ourselves +when we do wrong, I believe we should both defy +every law in the world! I am a born rebel.”</p> + +<p>More than a note of her mother's insolence was +in the speech, but the whole spirit of the dead actress +seemed to possess Brigit for that moment. Her being +rippled, as it were, with the new disturbance, just as +a pond will tremble to its edges at the mere dip of +a swallow's wing. The artistic hatred of all restraint +and the wild desire of liberty were the imperious +passions of her heart—more vehement than any other +feeling—even her love for Orange.</p> + +<p>“I could fight,” she said, “a visible devil, but this +struggle with moods and tastes is deadening.”</p> + +<p>“What are the moods and tastes?” he asked.</p> + +<p>“I cannot describe them well. But music calls +me; I hear it trilling, and sobbing, and whispering +everywhere; and sometimes it is so loud and so +beautiful that I wonder why every one else doesn't +stop to listen. They never do. So I sing back my +answer. It is silent singing. You would only +wonder why I was so quiet all at once.”</p> + +<p>“But I have heard you sing.”</p> + +<p>“Not with my real voice, Robert. It is stronger +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_118" id="Page_118">[118]</a></span>than it used to be.” She checked herself and hesitated, +stopped by a sudden scruple—a sort of delicacy. She +thought nothing at all of her beauty and never of her +fortune; but in giving Robert her voice, and the +nameless ambitions which enveloped it, she was +conscious that she had made, in some way, a +renunciation.</p> + +<p>“Say what you were going to say, dearest?”</p> + +<p>“I cannot forget,” she exclaimed desperately, “that +mama was an actress. And I remember some of the +nights at the theatre.... I liked the theatre.... +I believe I could act.... I have learned the whole +of <i>Phédre</i> and the whole of <i>Juliet</i>. That is why I live.”</p> + +<p>This avowal of her secret over-ruling instinct set +free the sanguine strength which circumstances had +imprisoned, but could not destroy, in her character. +The constant effort of hiding from all observation the +irrepressible yearnings of a talent that would not be +denied, had given her that quality of mysteriousness, +of dreamy habits of thought, of languor, which, even +to Robert, had looked as though she might find this +earth too rough to live on. But the despair which +comes from fighting, unsuccessfully, the world, is not +that appearance of weakness which is the result of +fighting—more or less effectively—one's own energy. +In this latter issue the beaten foe joins forces obediently +enough with the conqueror, till at last the opposing +elements are directed, whether for good or evil, by one +will.</p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_119" id="Page_119">[119]</a></span></p> +<p>“So you want to go on the stage,” said Orange +quietly.</p> + +<p>She turned to him and saw, with anguish, the deep +amazement his words had not expressed.</p> + +<p>“No,” she said, “no. I have you instead. I +want to devote myself to you—to exist for you.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, don't you see, my dear child, that this is a +kind of—of pity—of anything you like, except the +one thing——“</p> + +<p>“I adore you, Robert. Oh, I can't get at what +I want to say! Any talk about love always sounds +very stilted or hollow. I only know that I want to +live intensely in all that concerns you; that just to +think of you makes me perfectly happy. When I +said that learning <i>Phédre</i> and <i>Juliet</i> was the reason +I lived, I was thinking of the time when I had no +right to think of you. Of course I loved you always, +from the beginning. It began at Chambord when +I first met you. I very seldom say these things, and +it is better that they should remain unsaid for the most +part. But you must never doubt me, and I feel to-day, +in spite of all we know about each other and all +we have suffered, that you are doubting me now. +You fear I don't know my own mind. Isn't this the +trouble?”</p> + +<p>The intuition which comes to men and women +through suffering has always the certain sharpness of +a surgeon's knife. It may be a reassurance to have +the inmost thought plucked at by some loving spirit, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_120" id="Page_120">[120]</a></span>and yet it is seldom that the touch can be given +without inflicting agony. Orange could not reply +at once. In his resolve to be unselfish—to put aside +that personal equation which was nothing less than +his whole nature—he had to steel his heart to her, +contradicting painfully, by curt, unfelt phrases, the +promptings of a soul turned in upon itself, desolate +and confused.</p> + +<p>“I have been selfish and thoughtless,” he said +abruptly; “a missed vocation is irreplaceable and it +is also indestructible. You hear the echo of the call +as long as you live—perhaps afterwards. At your age +you could feel, but you could not wholly understand +your talents. If you had told me all this before——“</p> + +<p>She laughed with real joyousness and clung more +closely to his arm.</p> + +<p>“I didn't tell you,” she exclaimed, “because you +would have said just what you are saying now. You +are the one. All the rest is a means of forgetting +you. It is something resembling happiness to be +alone in the turmoil of the world with one unspoilt +illusion. This illusion in my case is a little idea that +I could be a great actress—perhaps! Don't look +grave, Robert. It makes you sad when I talk this +way.”</p> + +<p>“Those who can be disillusioned have no convictions. +Disillusion is the failure of a half-belief. I +learnt that long ago. But I hate the very word +in your mouth. Woe to us both if we cannot be +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_121" id="Page_121">[121]</a></span>resolute now. I could have waited—had I seen any +reason to wait. Time could make no difference in +my love. As it is, I have stolen you from yourself. +But now I have stolen you I will keep you. I cannot—cannot +give you back again to anything or anybody.”</p> + +<p>He spoke with that almost mocking tenderness +which dissembles its passion. At the practical difficulty +which now confronted him, all that was merely +romantic and speculative in his soul took flight, as +birds that are frightened from a quiet orchard by the +yelp of dogs. He became aware that he was bitterly +independent of the joys he had once found in the mere +spectacle of the exterior world—the play of light and +shade, the changing visions of the sky, the charm of +the earth. His own thoughts were now the sole +realities, and the dulness which suddenly came over +his vision for outward things seemed to render it the +more acute and concentrated for the things of the +mind. As distant hills and tree tops show most +distinctly before a storm, so every possibility which +can arise from a conflict of duties stood out with a +decisive clearness for his consideration. He had +married in haste a child-bride. There was no +blinking the fact. She had the strenuous religious +fibre, and with it real Bohemian blood. She was +also at the yielding age, when a dominant influence +could do much to divert or modify +every natural trait. He could not doubt that he +had this power over her then. How far, and to +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_122" id="Page_122">[122]</a></span>what purpose, should he exert it? For himself he +wished to discourage any hankering on her part for +public life, and, most of all, public life behind the +footlights, under an artificial sky. No one knew +better than he that there are certain things of love, +of nobility, of temperament, of pride, in certain lives +which the world at large would rather calumniate +than comprehend. People in general clung to their +opinions not because they were true, but because they +were their own, and among pretty general opinions—particularly +in the year 1869—there was a strong +prejudice against handsome young women who went +on the stage. It was not in him to consider—even as +an egoistic reflection to be put aside—how far Brigit's +project, carried into action, could effect his own +political career. His apprehensions were all for her +and her own content.</p> + +<p>“Promise me,” he said, “that you will always tell +me when the acting mood comes over you. Never +fight it, never try to resist it, give it the liberty to +die, but also the right to live. There is an old Hindoo +proverb: ‘Find the flower which can bloom in the +silence that follows—not that which precedes—the +storm.’ This applies perfectly to a talent or a vocation. +If the mood is there, in spite of fatigue, or discouragement, +or other claims—happiness for that matter—you +may depend that it is the ruling motive of your life +and not to be vanquished. You must follow the bent +or you will suffer—suffer till you die of it.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_123" id="Page_123">[123]</a></span>”</p> + +<p>“How? in what way?”</p> + +<p>“Either in your vanity or your conscience; either +by the world's judgment on your conduct or by your +own estimate of your conduct. You have no vanity, +so the world doesn't count. But you have a conscience, +and that counts for all!”</p> + +<p>He had not calculated, and he could not have foreseen, +the effect of his words. Her eyes filled with +tears.</p> + +<p>“My dearest,” she said, “don't you see how trivial +everything is to me in comparison with you? But +I dare not love you so much as I can! So I encourage +other enthusiasms—out of fear. Sometimes it seems +as though the extraordinary, impossible ideal would be +to have you with me for ever, and be an actress as +well. But that is out of the question. And if I had +my choice—if I could be as great as Rachel or Mrs. +Siddons, or live with you on my dear rag-heap, with +the jackals howling—do you think that I would hesitate, +that I could hesitate?”</p> + +<p>“If I believed you I should be a dreadful coxcomb!”</p> + +<p>“Risk the coxcomb,” she said. “I can!”</p> + +<p>A clanging bell and the noise of traffic on the quay +recalled them to the moment. They had barely time +to reach the steamer and get on board. A strong, +cold breeze was blowing; the sun shone full on the +sea, which, near the horizon, was as green as the sky +on a summer evening. But clouds were gathering in +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_124" id="Page_124">[124]</a></span>the north-west, and the peculiar brightness which +presages rain lent a fugitive brilliancy to the atmosphere. +The town and its spires glittered; the water, +frothing round the paddle-wheels, sent its shining +spray upon the brown boards of the wharf. Brigit +kissed her hands toward France.</p> + +<p>“Soon,” she exclaimed, “soon I can kiss its ground. +How I love my country and the place where you +lived, Robert, as a boy!<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_125" id="Page_125">[125]</a></span>”</p> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_X" id="CHAPTER_X"></a>CHAPTER X</h2> + + +<p>Lady Fitz Rewes had determined to prevent the +marriage of Lord Reckage with Agnes Carillon. She +could not forget the dreadful scene with Sara when that +poor girl was endeavouring to reconcile herself to the +Duke of Marshire's proposal. Pensée had studied +each person concerned in the possible tragedy. She +saw that Agnes was by no means serene, that the +portrait by Rennes somehow made no progress, that +Reckage was feverish and excitable. His bearing toward +Sara during the lunch confirmed Pensée's suspicion +that the love which had existed between them as boy +and girl was still unextinguished on either side. He +would have been less than mortal, she thought, if he +had not felt, with all the bitterness of a conscious +fool, that he had missed his true destiny. Sara +possessed the warmth and wealth of heart which were +the complements his own bleak nature required. Agnes +Carillon, with her accurate, invariable beauty, had a +prim disposition, wholesome enough for a man of +strange, dark humours like David Rennes, but perilous +always in its effect on any frigid or calculating mind. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_126" id="Page_126">[126]</a></span>And Reckage was known to be supremely selfish. It +seemed to Pensée that Sara had behaved very naturally, +very touchingly, through the trying conversation on +the subject of rising men and their marriages. Her +demeanour had been unsurpassable. But it was not +in nature that a woman who understood a man could +look on, inactive and indifferent, while he fettered +himself with some damaging influence. Perhaps her +ladyship felt the situation the more keenly, because, +much as she loved Mrs. Parflete, she could not bring +herself to think that she was the wife for Robert. She +had spent many weeks refusing admittance to this +thought, yet prudence was prudence, and, by virtue of +its stability, it prevailed. The union, even viewed in +the most favourable light, had always seemed imprudent. +It was too hurried. Shocking, mortifying as the +possibility of its being illegal was, Pensée's conviction +that Almighty God ordered all things for the best +seemed less a faith and more a matter of pure reason +than was usual in the ordinary run of hard cases which +made demands upon her piety. “Two diamonds do +not easily form cup and socket,” was an old saying in +her home circle. The more she had seen of Brigit +Parflete the more she had been struck with her—struck +with her moodiness, struck with her contempt +for received opinions, her vigour and independence of +will. Was she the wife to further the advance of a +man of extraordinary ability, already much handicapped +on the world's course by a proud spirit, a +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_127" id="Page_127">[127]</a></span>reckless, impetuous disdain of creatures generally +considered the pink of human excellence? He was +passionately in love, and the strength of this sentiment +carried, for the time, every thought of his being along +with it. But love was not unalterable. The change +would surely come. The fever and folly, the exaltation +and ardours would fade into a sacred affection—an +instinctive tenderness; yet other interests, as vital, and +in their season more absorbing, would flock into his +life. What then?</p> + +<p>Pensée and Reckage did not exchange many words +till they found themselves alone, face to face, in the +railway carriage bound for Dover. Then they looked +with wonder at each other, stupefied at the errand on +which they were bound, and the strangeness of the +whole proceeding. Reckage noticed that his companion +was attired so correctly and with such discretion +that no one could have told she was a pretty woman. +Her veil was not unusually thick, yet it disguised +every charm of expression and feature. He had +bought her a novel, some papers, and a few +magazines; she turned these over listlessly, and +murmured, as the train sped along—</p> + +<p>“Of course, I had to come. No one will say a +word when the circumstances are known. I hope +poor Renshaw is comfortable in the next carriage.”</p> + +<p>Reckage replied—</p> + +<p>“You have behaved like an angel!”</p> + +<p>He probably but half understood Pensée's character: +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_128" id="Page_128">[128]</a></span>he underrated her intellect, and he misconstrued +her friendship for Orange into a weak infatuation. +Agnes Carillon shared his view on this point, for, as +he and his future bride could never be confidential with +each other, they managed an appearance of intimacy +by discussing with great freedom the private affairs of +their friends. Agnes, in the fervour of godliness, had +even seen much that was reprehensible in Lady Fitz +Rewes's devotion to a man who had no idea of +marrying her. She had declared that she could not +understand it—an attitude pleasing to her fancy and +gratifying to her pride. Reckage had thought it was +not quite clear that the danger was immediate. Such +was his feeling now toward Pensée, although he was +conscious of a certain curiosity with regard to her +motive in taking Brigit's part with such magnificent +self-effacement. This seemed to him unnatural; and +although she had impressed him with the highest +opinion of her kindness, he could not believe that a +woman of genuinely tender sensibilities could have +approached such an altruistic height. She was an +excellent creature—as creatures went, he thought, but +hard in a feeble way. Then he closed his eyes and +called up the elusive image of Sara de Treverell—very +dark, very handsome, with her superb black hair +reaching to her knees—as he had often seen it when +she was a little girl—her blue eyes shining with a +strange light, her lips smiling, her white arms held +out....</p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_129" id="Page_129">[129]</a></span></p> +<p>“Sara may not be a happy girl,” said Pensée +suddenly, “but she is a clever one.”</p> + +<p>Reckage started from his reverie.</p> + +<p>“How odd!” he exclaimed, surprised into candour. +“I was thinking of her at that very moment.”</p> + +<p>Pensée had read as much on his face, but she did +not tell him so.</p> + +<p>“I feel for her very much,” she observed instead. +“She must be the greatest possible comfort to her father, +although he may not realise it. Yet he is forcing on +the engagement to Marshire. She keeps up in the +most courageous way, but she has ideals, and no persuasion +will induce her to change them.”</p> + +<p>He turned red, and said, looking out of the +window—</p> + +<p>“Ideals do no harm when, for some reason or +other, we are unable to carry them out.”</p> + +<p>“I cannot imagine what she will do, or how she +will bear her life if things continue as they are.”</p> + +<p>“What things?”</p> + +<p>“She is like a slave to Lord Garrow. She is with +him constantly, reading to him, and doing everything +for him. She will be a cruel loss to his home when +she marries.”</p> + +<p>“I rather revel at the thought of the dismay which +will attend her final capture of Marshire.”</p> + +<p>“I used to hope that you perhaps——“</p> + +<p>He glanced up and smiled with an air of satisfaction.</p> + +<p>“I don't like the appearance of measuring myself +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_130" id="Page_130">[130]</a></span>against Marshire.... But—but he certainly seems, +in character, the culminating point of mediocrity! In +fact, Mr. Disraeli, whom I seldom quote, so described +him.”</p> + +<p>“What a husband for that brilliant, affectionate +girl! She likes all that is simple and grand. A real +love—if it were a happy one—would make her even +more charming, and if it caused her suffering, it would +make her even more noble. But failing this, there +will be a frightful void in her life.”</p> + +<p>Reckage, whose imagination began to play round +this thought, replied with unusual seriousness—</p> + +<p>“I should be horribly grieved to see any declension +from her better nature. I think I am getting to +think less of mere social power. I feel more than I +used to do that, if one could literally <i>live</i> one's theories +on moral strength, it would be a complete refutation +of these ideas about the influence of money or a big +accidental position. Old Harding was right when he +said at luncheon to-day that disinterestedness counted +very highly in the popular vote. The point about +Henry Fox's elopement with Caroline Lennox was +sound.”</p> + +<p>“It would not have been sound,” said Pensée, “if +Caroline Lennox had been a third-rate woman. A +man can be desperate so long as his choice, on the +whole, justifies, either by her beauty, or her talents, or +something uncommon, an extreme measure. Now, +Robert may not have made a wise choice, but it is +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_131" id="Page_131">[131]</a></span>certainly a distinguished one. It can be understood +and it commands respect.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, yes, his is a thorough-going emotion, and one +couldn't find a fault with its object. A strong man is +always a man who feels strongly <i>and</i> who can carry +his feeling into action. Robert, with all his mysticism, +is never subject to the deep depressions of spirit +which usually afflict men of his gifts. He does not +know what it is to be languid; or to have invincible +indecisions. He will die game—even if he does +know German metaphysic backwards!”</p> + +<p>She was astonished.</p> + +<p>“How well you understand him!”</p> + +<p>He leant forward a little and adopted a more +confidential tone—</p> + +<p>“Sara spoke of him at lunch. Her judgment of +men and affairs—for so young a woman—is nothing +short of amazing. I attribute it to the Asiatic streak +on her mother's side. It is a kind of second-sight. +What a wife for a Prime Minister! And Marshire, +a fellow of middling ability and no experience, has had +the sense to perceive her qualities!... My feelings +can't be easily defined, nor, indeed, is it necessary they +should.... I have gone so far that I cannot see +anything for it but to go on.”</p> + +<p>“You mean—in your own marriage?”</p> + +<p>He sighed profoundly, remained for several minutes +silent, and finally roused himself with a painful +effort.</p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_132" id="Page_132">[132]</a></span></p> +<p>“There are some griefs which can defy any consolation +save that of time. Time ultimately cures +everything. It is a matter of history that I was once +very much attached to Sara.”</p> + +<p>“I know,” murmured Pensée. “I know.”</p> + +<p>He covered his eyes with one hand and looked +through his fingers at her face, asking himself by what +transition he could best arrive at a frank exposition of +his embarrassed sentiments. It seemed to him that +she was intelligent as well as trustworthy, and he felt +impelled to call in her assistance, being sure that, in +any cause where love could be pleaded, she would +show a judicious leniency.</p> + +<p>“If you have not observed that I am still—too +interested, you have not observed with your usual +sagacity,” said he.</p> + +<p>“I think—if I may say so—that time seems only +to deepen a sorrow of that kind.”</p> + +<p>“Particularly when it is associated—as in this case—with +a certain self-reproach. In times of trial my +pen is my refuge. I could not write for a year after I +had decided—irrevocably as I believed—that Sara and +I could not make each other happy.”</p> + +<p>“Then you never actually proposed to her? There +was never any tacit understanding?”</p> + +<p>“Never. And if there be any part of my conduct +in life upon which I can look with entire satisfaction, +it is my behaviour with regard to Sara. I did not +mislead her in any way. I was even over-scrupulous, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_133" id="Page_133">[133]</a></span>and purposely avoided opportunities of meeting. I +say this in order that you may know how very +determined a man's will must be—if he does not +wish to be selfish. A course of struggling is miserable +indeed. I spared her any knowledge of my +misery.”</p> + +<p>“She might have been happier had she known of +it! Last year she remained entirely alone; and +solitude is full of bad things—it is very dangerous, +however much one is accustomed to it.”</p> + +<p>“Poor girl! But I could not, in honour, suffer a +false impression to be formed. As a matter of fact, +my family wouldn't hear of the match. There is +no denying that they were set on my marrying Agnes.”</p> + +<p>At last he had been able to mention her. He leant +back and relied on his companion's tact to elaborate +the theme.</p> + +<p>Pensée murmured—</p> + +<p>“Dear Agnes! If there are storms, they won't +come from her side. She is of a very elevated +spirit——“</p> + +<p>He winced, but she continued—</p> + +<p>“Generous, sternly honest, greatly esteemed by +every one. Neither pique nor passion nor petty +feelings could ever influence her mind. She is the +most angelic, good woman I ever met—she is one to +whom one may complain, and be a bore. She has +such utter patience!”</p> + +<p>“You would not be impressed by professions, nor +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_134" id="Page_134">[134]</a></span>am I very clever at making them,” said he, “but you +know, by sympathy, that my affection for her is—is +the heroic feeling of devotion which has also a kind +of exclusiveness——“</p> + +<p>He could not finish the sentence.</p> + +<p>“It leads you to imagine that you could never +survive her loss,” said Pensée gravely. “But need +you lose her—as a friend?” Something in his countenance +encouraged her to pursue this train of thought. +“Agnes has the deepest admiration for your qualities. +No doubt, you truly realise the high standard of +character which she would hope for in one to whom +she gave her love. You have proved yourself worthy +to call out her best feelings.”</p> + +<p>Reckage was very touched by this tribute.</p> + +<p>“And <i>her</i> best feelings,” said he, “ought to make +us—at our best—very humble.”</p> + +<p>Pensée lifted her veil just above her eyes, clasped +her hands tightly together, and kept her earnest +glance full upon his.</p> + +<p>“I believe,” she continued, “that if it were in +man, or woman, to command the heart, you would +have her entire affection. I believe she is unhappy. +During the last week she has had many ups and +downs. She has passed with astonishing rapidity +from the lowest despair to the height of joy. She +has tried to distract her mind by incessant occupation. +But you know her manner—it is transparent near the +surface, difficult to sound in its depths.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_135" id="Page_135">[135]</a></span>”</p> + +<p>“Yes, she has a childlike openness—up to a certain +point.”</p> + +<p>“I can only tell you, therefore, what I think, +judging as a woman, by outward signs. I seem to +detect a sort of self-doubt—as though she feared +making some error. She has become of late strangely +intense and vivid—she is fascinated by books, and +drawn to music, as she never was before. Perhaps +she sees that you give her a priceless, beautiful +friendship which must indeed be flattering. Yet—yet +in marriage friendship is not enough. So she is +acquiring a stock of interests which are impersonal.”</p> + +<p>Loyalty to Agnes forbade any reference to David +Rennes. She had no intention of giving the least +hint of her own private conviction on the subject. +She desired merely that Reckage should learn how the +engagement might be broken off without giving +unimaginable grief to the young lady. The move +under this aspect was skilful and successful. Reckage +received her words as a subtle appeal to his honour +and kindness.</p> + +<p>He said at once—</p> + +<p>“I am glad you have told me this. I could bear +my own mistakes. I could not bear hers. Let me +look at the step which I have taken! The choice is +for life. Agnes is inflexibly conscientious and self-denying. +Several years of attachment have tried us +both. She knows my faults; I know where her”—he +paused for a moment—“her qualities might +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_136" id="Page_136">[136]</a></span>clash with mine. We spoke of this together; we +considered every circumstance that could, by any +remote chance, weigh against our common happiness.”</p> + +<p>Pensée shook her head.</p> + +<p>“Of course, that was right,” she said doubtfully.</p> + +<p>“It is no easy matter to get a promise from Agnes,” +he went on; “but when once given it is inviolate. +This throws a grisly responsibility upon me. I must +risk everything, if I am to do anything. You have +expressed a dread which I have been endeavouring to +stifle. I am making her wretched.”</p> + +<p>“I don't say that <i>you</i> are making her wretched; I +say she seems disturbed and unsettled when she ought +to be full of the brightest hopes.”</p> + +<p>“Quite so. I fear the unsettlement is exceedingly +great. A neutrality on your part is all I could in +reason expect; but your counsel in such a grave +matter——“</p> + +<p>Pensée summoned all her energy, and breathed a +little prayer for the well-being of the two women +whose lives were at stake.</p> + +<p>“I saw Agnes this morning,” she said, speaking at +a rapid pace; “she came up for some shopping, and +she returned home directly after tea.”</p> + +<p>“She ought to have told me that she was in town,” +he exclaimed.</p> + +<p>“My dear Beauclerk, you know her sweetness! +She said, ‘I don't wish to take up his time; an en<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_137" id="Page_137">[137]</a></span>gagement +ought not to be a servitude.’ That is the +reason why she did not tell you.”</p> + +<p>“She ought to have told me,” he repeated. “Such +extreme delicacy was most uncalled for. It wasn't +even friendly. When we were old friends, and +nothing more, she would have told me.”</p> + +<p>“Yes, when you were friends.”</p> + +<p>“I think she gave me a nasty rap in so acting; I +do, indeed. One would infer that I had failed in some +ordinary attentiveness. It is a distinct reprimand.”</p> + +<p>“You are quite wrong. She meant it in the +noblest way.”</p> + +<p>“Then it is a desperately near thing between noble +conduct and a downright snub. I can't help lashing +out about it.”</p> + +<p>In Pensée's own private perception this outburst of +temper was no bad sign. It convinced her, at least, of +the sincerity of his feelings towards Agnes and his +genuine desire to behave well at every point in their +relationship.</p> + +<p>“Don't you understand,” she said, “that Agnes +<i>dares</i> not love you. This being the case, I cannot +see that she could go on in what might be called a +natural way. Will you bear with me, and, if I am +indiscreet, forgive me? She wants all the sympathy +and support she can get. She is suffering very much +from want of courage. She trusts, perhaps, in her +friends' prayers. It seems as though something very +momentous were going on, but that she has nothing +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_138" id="Page_138">[138]</a></span>to do but to wait for it. I think there may be a way +out still; God may overrule people's hearts.”</p> + +<p>She had never intended to say so much, and she +trembled with an excitement which she could not +subdue.</p> + +<p>“I must admit,” said Reckage, “that for some +time I have had a conviction, weaker or stronger, but, +on the whole, constantly growing, that Agnes and I +are unsuited to each other. I am too much accustomed +to this idea to feel pain at it.”</p> + +<p>“O, it makes my heart ache—I mean so much +painfulness for every one concerned!”</p> + +<p>“This conviction must, sooner or later, lead me to +action. The world is indulgent to the impetuous, +because they appear strong; and it is most severe to +those who hesitate, because hesitation is taken for a +sign of weakness. Lookers-on have no patience with +moral combats—and least of all in affairs of this kind. +But no opinion will force me to do what I do not +think right. If our engagement is a mistake, I don't +intend to ‘lump it,’ as they say. We must mend the +evil. And, thank God, it is not too late. The merciful +part is that in relieving my own mind I shall also +greatly relieve hers. It is clear she doesn't love me. +This last act proves the fact conclusively.”</p> + +<p>Pensée did not agree with this, but she remained +silent, fearing lest a rash word should spoil her good +work.</p> + +<p>“For a long, long time,” he continued, “my con<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_139" id="Page_139">[139]</a></span>stant +question has been, ‘Can this last? is it a +delusion?’ But I do not shut my eyes now. I +knew they were all wrong at home when they made +out that she was in love with me, and expected me to +propose. We are both the victims of an impertinent, +if well-meant, interference—what Robert calls ‘the +jabbering of the damned.’ Poor Robert, we are +forgetting him. I am ashamed to talk so much +about myself.”</p> + +<p>“In his case, I see no help but resignation to the +will of God,” said Pensée.</p> + +<p>“But that resignation is an awful thing,” said +Reckage. “It is a shade better than the atheism of +despair; yet only a shade better.”</p> + +<p>By degrees Pensée was learning why Robert had +such a strong, tenacious attachment to this man. +He was always faithful to his mood. All he did and +all he said represented accurately all he thought and +all he felt. Some live a dual life—he lived but one; +and, with his faults, peculiarities, and egoism, there +was never the least dissimulation. It was true that, +if occasion required, he could hold his tongue; but +he abhorred tact and hated doctrines of expediency—everything, +in fact, which put any restraint upon the +“development of his inclinations.”</p> + +<p>The train was now approaching Dover. He decided +to put his own troubles aside, and, out of mere +decency, concentrate his thoughts on the severe trial +in store for Orange.</p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_140" id="Page_140">[140]</a></span></p> +<p>“This business about Parflete,” said he, “is a great +blow. One becomes indifferent to what is said of, or +done to, one's self; but that all this uncommon, +saddening, sickening trouble should come upon Robert +is too bad. It seems a kind of hacking and hacking, +bit by bit.”</p> + +<p>“You are certainly very fond of him,” said Pensée.</p> + +<p>“Yes, I am. He's so dependable.”</p> + +<p>Pensée engaged a private cabin for the crossing, and +she retired there with her maid. Too tired and over-strung +to sleep, she lay down, closed her eyes, and +lived again through the many fatiguing, agitating +moments of that day. Her affection for Orange had +been so steeped in hopelessness from the hour, months +before, when he told her of his love for Brigit, that +the wedding of these two had been a relief rather than +a final anguish. The agonising possibilities which had +sometimes darted into her mind would never again +surprise her: the questions which she had always +striven to prohibit were no longer even in existence. +He had taken the unredeemable step: he was married. +Jealousy had no part in her suffering. Robert had +never given her the smallest right to feel slighted, +or neglected, or abandoned. Some women are jealous +by temperament, but the greater number are jealous +only when their trust is insulted or their dignity +brought down to the humiliating struggle for a lost +empire. Empire over Orange she had never possessed +or claimed: she could feel no bitterness, therefore, at +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_141" id="Page_141">[141]</a></span>the thought of the small place she occupied in his +destiny. The sorrow which cut and severed her heart +was loneliness. She felt that, after the wedding, she +could hardly do anything or take interest in anything. +It seemed as if the waters were gathered in heaps on +either side; things, she thought, could not be better, +or worse. God was with her still, and her children—her +dear children—were with her still, but she could +not disguise the greatness of the loss. Her single +wish, as far as she dared have a wish, had been to +benefit Robert and to win his confidence. She had +seen his mind working in various directions, and +although she was not, in the faintest sense, his fit +companion intellectually, she had a knowledge and +experience of life which made her friendship valuable—a +gift worth offering to any man. She had been +able to advise him. Brigit now had even this privilege +also. “I shall seem an intruder,” thought Pensée, +again and again.</p> + +<p>It was altogether a terrible crisis. How she should +struggle through all the parts of it, or what she should +be when it was over, she could not trust herself to +say. The world seemed too heavy a burden to be +fought against. Yet with what thoughts and aspirations +and earnest prayers she had stood by Brigit's +side at the altar rails. She had been given a supernatural +strength for the marriage ceremony. She was +by nature and before all things, from first to last, +unalterably a good friend, and at that moment of +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_142" id="Page_142">[142]</a></span>intensest difficulty the sight of Robert's happiness had +made her oblivious to every other consideration. Glad +tears had risen to her eyes. She had been swayed by +one feeling—a deep, sincere thankfulness that his +love-story, which had promised sorrow only from the +very beginning, was ending, unexpectedly, so well. +She might have feared that he was changing one form +of unhappiness for another, but she knew his impatient +spirit, and, knowing it, she could not imagine +that any earthly pain could try him so sorely as a +lifelong separation from the one woman he loved—loved +to the pitch of madness.</p> + +<p>And then—in one moment—the strange tidings +came which drove her from the stupor of resignation +to fevers of anxiety more consuming than any +she had ever felt before. A great flame, successive +flames, of terror swept over her, as she feigned +placid sleep in the little cabin, at the thought of +the news poor Reckage would have to break on +the morrow. How would Robert bear it? That +he would act a noble and true part she could not +doubt. But at a certain degree of suffering, the +strongest man can think of nothing except himself, +and she felt already, in anticipation, the dumb torture +she would have to endure in looking on, helpless and +unnoticed, at an agony which she could neither share +nor relieve. The fear of losing him had been dreadful, +but it was even more dreadful to know that +although she might have, after all, a certain right +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_143" id="Page_143">[143]</a></span>now to offer him sympathy, she could never make +him happy, that she could never hope to learn the +secret regrets, griefs, and torments, the unspoken +broodings which would surely enough prey upon +his spirit. She pictured herself sitting at his side, +or walking with him, for hours—he absorbed in his +own sorrowful thoughts, she striving vainly to distract +him by a tinkling prattle on every topic except +the one nearest his heart. Oh, how fearfully wide +asunder they were! A sensation of the enormous +distance which can exist between two souls in daily +companionship filled her with a sickening, shivering +heaviness. She thought she would have to cry out +because of the slow fire which seemed to scorch her +dry and aching eyes. Robert would never really need +her, never really care about her. This new trouble +would take him farther away than ever. He would +burn all his ships, and any poor little tenderness he might +have had in the past for her, with them. Some great +revulsion would take place in his character; he would +perhaps grow silent, reserved, enigmatic, his face +would show to the world the terrible, false, unknowable +peace which is the veil of the dead. It was +useless to smooth her difficulties which existed. It was +foolish and wrong to encourage herself in unreal ideas +about him. It was best always to be straightforward +and admit the truth—no matter how bitter. And +yet he had been kind and helpful to her in a way +in which scarce any one else could have been. She +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_144" id="Page_144">[144]</a></span>clung to the belief that she would be able to do something +to make his hour of trial less severe. The hope +which insinuates itself into every unrequited love still +lingered. He could at least always talk to her about +Brigit: that common memory would be a constant +link between them. She had earned his esteem, and +perhaps with his esteem an affection deeper than he +himself realised. Under the pressure of a sudden and +tragical necessity, he would turn to her with the +certainty that she would not fail him. She was +modest enough about her own powers. A remark she +had once heard Reckage pass, to the effect that religious +women of devoted lives were unhappily conspicuous, +as a rule, for feebleness of mind and strength of +prejudice, haunted her as a kind of doom from which +there was no appeal. She knew, too, the verdict +usually passed on those of either sex who have the +courage to maintain an unselfish attitude whether +toward God or some fellow-creature. But here she +comforted herself by deciding that her utter isolation +in this universe rested on the fact that she did not +much deserve to be loved by anybody. This granted—not +without a pang—she felt the signs of weariness +in her heart, but none of wavering. She resolved to +be foolish in the eyes of the self-satisfied.</p> + +<p>Lord Reckage meanwhile was pacing the deck. +His conversation with Pensée had cast a darkness over +his spirit. He had made up his mind, weeks before, +that the marriage years of his life would be the best, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_145" id="Page_145">[145]</a></span>the most distinguished, and most useful. With the +utmost pains he had chosen a wife. He had acted +with the greatest caution in no weak or superficial, or +haphazard, or fitful way. Nevertheless, the outlook +was dismal. This first step in decline from his ideal +caused him much pain and restlessness, and led him to +think cynically of many doctrines to which, in serene +moments, he had unconditionally subscribed. He +compared his own case with Robert's. Robert, in +his headstrong passion, had certainly rattled up sleeping +lions, heedless of all consequences, and in +defiance of every warning. He had now met, poor +fellow, with an appalling chastisement, but could any +one pretend that he had not brought it, to a great +extent, upon himself? He (Reckage), however, had +behaved, from first to last, in an unexceptionable +manner. He had studiously avoided the one girl of +whom he was inclined to be immoderately fond. +It was true that he had practised this restraint less in +her interest than his own. But this was because he +feared—as every creature will fear by instinct its +mortal enemy—the power of an ardent attachment. +His mind had revolted in a panic at the thought of +becoming dependent on a woman's humours. The +noblest of the sex were capricious, and far and away +the best course was to select a partner whose unavoidable +nonsense would leave one, merely from indifference, +undisturbed. Sara de Treverell, in the past, +had been, by her vagaries, directly responsible for +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_146" id="Page_146">[146]</a></span>several sleepless nights, and a sleepless night was one +of the few things he simply could not stand. +Thoughts of her had seemed to unfit him for his +work, to weaken his nerves, to act, in various ways, +to his disadvantage. She had been exacting in her +demands upon his nature. They were not uttered +demands, or demands which he could formulate, but +he had been conscious of them always. He had +been obliged to pause and ask himself at every +thought, at every step—“What would Sara say +to this?” It was a tyranny—if not a species +of witchcraft. And so he had determined to +see her no more. Following the usual, most correct +method in such procedures, he went abroad. After a +week of irritating meditations, furtive, all but unconquerable +desires, after he had passed the day on +which it had been his custom for months to call upon +her, after he had learned how to discipline the hours +he had used to spend riding with her in the Row, he +felt as a convalescent after some exhausting malady—quiescent, +dulled, possessed by a drowsy stupidity, +inaccessible to any serious emotion. He was cured +of his fancy, although no effort of will could protect +the soreness of the bruise. He had persevered in his +course of treatment—congratulating himself, at the +end, on his escape from a dangerous obsession. The +picture of Sara grew paler and paler before his eyes—indeed, +it seemed to fade all too quickly, and, with the +perversity of consistent egoism, he felt many twinges +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_147" id="Page_147">[147]</a></span>of sadness to think that he had forgotten her so soon. +His vanity would have preferred a longer combat—for +even the most shallow admit the romantic +admirableness of an obstinate love. Still, what could +he ask better than this triumph over a cruel, an +obstructive memory? He had regained, so he believed, +his old independence as the man of action, energetic, +self-controlled, moved by one passion only, and that +the finest of all—ambition. In surveying once more +the great design of his career, he found it an effort to +bring up—from the far recesses of his experience—the +poor little sentimental episode, so insignificant and +commonplace, which, in a kind of aberration, he had +taken for an affair of the heart. He returned to +England. He threw himself with vigour into the +questions which were then disturbing Churchmen. +He revived a touching acquaintance with Agnes +Carillon, an acquaintance which was peculiarly +soothing to his preoccupied mind. Here was a girl, +he thought, who could be a fit helpmate. She asked +for nothing, absorbed nothing, and gave a great deal +of gentle, kind companionship when he wanted it. +When he did not want it, she understood perfectly—possessing, +in an eminent degree, the rare domestic +art of being able to make herself scarce—alike in his +thoughts and his engagements. The truths did not +occur to him that a woman in love could never have +been so unnaturally prudent, or that a woman whom +he loved could not have interested him so slightly. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_148" id="Page_148">[148]</a></span>He took great pride in her perfect skin and hair and +eyes, in her beautiful, graceful, and gracious manners, +but his soul never kindled at her approach, his pulse +beat no slower at her departure. He requited her +agreeableness with respect. And so they had become +engaged—to the unbounded gratification of all his +relatives, amidst the congratulations of his friends. +There seemed a certain shadowiness in his conception of +their future existence together as man and wife: something +which he recognised as an interior voice chimed +in, from time to time, with provoking interrogations, +mostly unanswerable. A plaintive need of happiness, +melancholy, obscure, but recurrent, mixed in his +fluctuating thoughts. Finally, it pursued him, +haunted him, and caught him with the strange +tenacity of an incorporeal grasp. Sara, now dethroned +from her place of power, loomed in all his dreams. +Irresistibly, he was drawn toward the forbidden recollection +of her delightfulness. There seemed no longer +any danger in these musings. He had entrusted his +actual life to the safe-keeping of the nicest woman he +had ever known. Where then was the harm in +harking back, merely in reverie, to the frivolous, +amusing phantom of a renounced sentiment? Yet, +after a reverie of the kind, why did he often +wonder how he and Agnes could look in one +another's faces and pretend to any sort of real +intimacy? Sara knew him better than he knew +himself. Her sympathy ran into a hundred sinuosities<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_149" id="Page_149">[149]</a></span>—she +understood his silence as well as his conversation. +He was never conscious of the smallest strain, +the least dissimulation, in her society. Beneath their +curious disparities an identity seemed to unite them. +There was an unrepenting quality in her conscience +which braced and stimulated his moral courage. +Agnes, on the contrary, with her instinct of behaviour, +made him over-cautious and encouraged the tendency +to indecision which interfered with the comfortable +balance of his soul. And he wished his faculties to +work with astronomic punctuality. It is certain, +however, that he would have accepted his choice as a +thing settled beyond any readjustment, but for the +news of the Duke of Marshire's proposal, and the +sight of Sara herself on the fatal afternoon when he +was feeling especially forlorn. She had thrown him +a glance in which defiance, disdain, and an indistinct +affection were blended in one provoking dart. He +was a moralist who believed that there is always, +between men and women, the dormant principles of +mistrust and hatred. He had discussed this theory +frequently with Robert, who found the notion as +repulsive as it was false. But it seemed a truth +beyond contradiction to Reckage, who possessed, in +his own mind, constant irrefutable testimony in +support of the view. Sara had never before defied +him. She had never before seemed to feel her power +as a creature incomparably superior in brilliancy to all +the other girls in their circle. She had never before +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_150" id="Page_150">[150]</a></span>seemed to pity him as a man who had feared to do +what Marshire—a being considered remarkable only +for his family and his fortune—had boldly, gladly +volunteered to carry out to the ultimate consequence. +That glance pierced his self-love, his pride, his will. +After his long hesitations, after the wearisome, interminable +debates between his judgment and his +inclination, he decided suddenly, all at once, without +further reflection, that he no longer belonged to +himself. He was the slave once more of doubts, fears, +and temptations. His excited nerves and troubled +senses asserted their right to be regarded as threads, at +least, in the web of destiny. From the hour of that +chance encounter in the Park, till he and Sara met at +Lord Garrow's that day, he had not been able to escape +from the inexorable cruelty of an ill-used passion, +once more, in full command. Every individual has +his rule—could one but find it out—and a rule to +which there are no exceptions. With Reckage it +was simple enough: he invariably followed the line of +his own glory. The distress he suffered—really, and +not colourably—took its rise from the intervention of +Marshire. He felt as a racing man feels when he sees +a friendless horse, which he might have purchased, +beat the Derby favourite by some three lengths and a +half. He winced at the suspicion that he had committed +an error in judgment, and lost a great opportunity. +The words of Sir Piers Harding on the +subject of audacity in love had fallen on his ears with +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_151" id="Page_151">[151]</a></span>startling force. It was an illustration of that old +saying—“The appetite, the occasion, and the ripe +fruit.” Convinced now that his reputation, his career, +and his comfort depended on his conduct toward +Sara, all hesitation left him. He would have to drive +Marshire, in confusion, from the field, and bear away +the prize himself. Pensée's observations with regard +to Agnes had cleared away most, if not all, of his +difficulties in that particular quarter. No one had +ever accused him of cowardice. Whenever he took +refuge in procrastination or deceit, it was never +because he was afraid, but in order that nothing might +interfere with the purpose he had in hand. The +growing miseries of the situation which he saw, already +in part, served only to augment the violence of his +resolve. His vanity forbade him to believe that +Agnes would not suffer very much when he told her, +as he intended, that they had both mistaken a profound +esteem—based on reason—for love, which, as +all the world admits, is something remote indeed +from one's will and one's power. He was desirous to +remain her friend, but he could not, without insincerity—and +by God's grace, he would not—continue longer +in a position which was false in itself and an injustice +to each of them. He proposed to dwell very frankly, +but in deep sadness, on the fact that although their +engagement had been a seeming success—outwardly—the +success had been by no means proved either to +his satisfaction, or, he ventured to think, to hers. He +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_152" id="Page_152">[152]</a></span>would pray that she would not consider herself under +any restraint in speaking freely to him, from her heart, +at all times. He hoped that the inevitable criticism +of malicious or ignorant persons would never shake +her faith in his unwavering loyalty, his singular desire +for her happiness. On the other hand, he did not +wish to involve her in justifying his action to the +world. There was no call for that. She might be +assured that he would do as little as possible to protract +the agony—he used the word advisedly—of their +separation. He believed it would be the best way—if +God gave them the ability—not to meet until they +had trained themselves to the peaceful, sweet relationship +of their first acquaintance. All this and more he +composed and turned over in his mind as he paced the +deck. His eyes frequently filled with tears, and he +thought how little, how fearfully little, he had ever +suspected this severance from a noble life with which +he had wished most earnestly to join his own. He +was unhappy according to the measure of his capacity, +and he was genuine in so far as he regretted the +necessary suffering of the innocent with the guilty. +But guilt is in the intention, and he could say, with +truth, that he had never intended to give pain, or to +make trouble, in his life.</p> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_153" id="Page_153">[153]</a></span></p><h2><a name="CHAPTER_XI" id="CHAPTER_XI"></a>CHAPTER XI</h2> + + +<p>The Southampton steamer approached St. Malo about +three o'clock on the following afternoon. Robert and +Brigit had spent the night on deck—it was better than +going below into the close, dreary cabin—and so they +counted the stars, and kept their gaze, through the +vast reaches of atmosphere, for the first sight of land. +The moon, then at its full strength, lit up the whole +blue dome above them, and cast its glancing, silver path +upon the water—a path which the ship ever crossed +but never followed. On and on they sped, and, as their +ears grew accustomed to the monotonous churning of +the paddle-wheels, the silence seemed intense. The +splendour of the night made sleep, to minds as passionate +as theirs toward all manifestations of the world's +beauty, impossible. Unconscious of any particular +thought, they shared a dreamless reverie which was so +perfect in its rest and so complete in its still contentment +that they did not know that they were resting, +nor could they realise that such sweet hours, even as +bitter ones, do not loiter in their passing or come again. +Soon enough Robert saw himself very far gone from +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_154" id="Page_154">[154]</a></span>the undissembled sternness of his old resolutions. If +he could but be rid of that altogether! He thought he +had obtained a mystic recognition of the terrorless but +uncommunicating Joy of life which while men live +they pursue, desiring it with the one human craving +which survives every misfortune, every thwarted hope, +all enslavement of the heart's small freedom—the thirst +for happiness. Was man, whom God had made in His +own Image, but a shadow on the unstable wind? +Could it be true that he came in with vanity and +departed in darkness, his soul bereft of God, knowing +not his time, finding not the work that is done under +the sun, born to companion worms in the dust? +Should he remain unresisting and without influence on +the decision of his own destiny? Yet he remembered +the precept of Christ: “Whosoever will save his life shall +lose it: and whosoever will lose his life for My sake shall +find it”—words which put forth a great mystery, perhaps +a warning. Plainly, in all that a man could bring +to the world, or take from it, there was vanity and +death; but many things were vain merely because they +were not eternal, and many things perished because where +life is, change must be. Immutable, permanent possessions +were the gifts of God to men. But the gifts of +men to God would always be imperfect—whether they +offered the sacrifice of their wills or their imagined +earthly happiness. Yet if this imperfection were a +mean one, something less grand than the immeasurable +sanctity of Divine strength made human and therefore +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_155" id="Page_155">[155]</a></span>sorrowful, therefore not omnipotent, therefore liable to +error—where then was the merit of renouncing a manhood +already too squalid to be endured, friends that +were phantoms, loves that were lies, joys that were +void promises invented by the cruel for the disappointment +of the foolish? He looked down at Brigit, who, +wrapped in her furs, was stretched out by his side, her +beautiful, child-like countenance turned toward him, +smiling in faith and deep unspeakable tenderness. He +could hear her tremulous breath and catch the fragrance +of her face, which, in the moonlight, seemed as white +and delicate as a cloud. The knowledge that she +belonged to him at last entered into his heart, his +blood, his brain, his thoughts, became the very life +within his life—an element which was neither wholly +love nor wholly passion, but a necessity from which he +could not depart and without which he would cease to +be. All men need to have near them, allied in close +association with them, either a force to strengthen their +weakness or else a weakness which insists upon some +demonstration of their strength. In conceivable circumstances +it might be a duty to dissever such a bond; +it might be a duty to die of starvation rather than +steal a loaf, and, as death would ultimately quench the +craving stomach, so a broken soul, in time, would cease +lamenting for its maimed energy. Let heart-sickness +pass beyond a certain bitter-point and the heart loses +its life for ever. Had Robert's marriage been impossible, +had he decided, on that account, to go away +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_156" id="Page_156">[156]</a></span>from Brigit's influence, had he vowed, in some paroxysm +of despair, to see her no more, to pluck out his eye—to +forget her—what would have happened? Would he +have been able to say to himself at the end of three +years, seven years, nine years, “I did my duty. I have +my reward”? Is it so easy even to acquiesce in the +great bereavements caused naturally, against our will, +by death? Does one ever, in the hidden depths of the +mind, mistake the cinders of a consumed anguish for +the stars of peace? A man need not be a prophet in +order to foresee the effect of certain measures on his +own character. Indeed, if self-knowledge be not +regarded as a sentinel to the judgment, its laborious +acquisition would be worth the travail of no honest +will. Gained, it remains like an interdict upon all +undertakings, projects, ambitions, setting forth clearly +all that one may, or may not, attempt in common life, +and, above all, in heroism—heroism understood truly, +not the false ideals of idle, untaxed sentiment. Robert +shrank from examining the sharpest nail of the several +which had been piercing his heart for weeks—from the +day when he had first received the news of Parflete's +death. Had he not often suspected, until then, that, +for some reason, he had been called to renounce the +hope of marriage? True, he had never been certain of +this, and, certainly, the chain of events, even considered +without prejudice, seemed altogether favourable to an +opposite view. His resolution had been to remain +single so long as he could not marry the woman of his +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_157" id="Page_157">[157]</a></span>choice. Firmly enough he had taken his stand on that +ground, realising to the utmost every difficulty to be +encountered, every interest to be thrown aside, from +the exigencies of such a position. The misunderstandings +which would arise, the restraint, the loneliness, +the possible morbidity of his own feeling, the sure +absence of charity in all outside criticism of his conduct, +were not overlooked or under-estimated by a man +so versed as himself in the tariff of the market-place. +He had known full well that his decision, robbed of its +romantic and picturesque motives, would affect very +seriously every step in his career, and influence, as only +violence to one's human affections can influence, his +character, his mode of thought, his whole view of life +and his work in life. This he had known—known, +that is to say, as much as anything may be known of a +plan not yet executed and destined to a slow accomplishment +which finds its final seal of success or failure +neither in this existence nor in death, but beyond the +grave. Now, however, that the exterior obstacles to +a happier scheme were apparently removed, the more +formidable opposition of his own secret ideals stirred +ominously in his conscience. Men's designs are never +so indefinite and confused as when they meet with no +outward resistance. A close attack has proved the +salvation of most human wills and roused the energy +of many drooping convictions. It is seldom good that +one should enter into any vocation very easily, sweetly, +and without strife. The best apprenticeships, whether +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_158" id="Page_158">[158]</a></span>ecclesiastical or religious, or civil or military, or political +or artistic, are never the most calm. Whether we +study the lives of saints or the lives of those distinguished +in any walk of human endeavour where perfection, +in some degree or other, has been at least the goal, +we always find that the first years of the pursuit have +been one bitter history of temptations, doubts, despondencies, +struggles, and agonising inconsistencies of +volition. To natures cold originally, or extinguished +by a false asceticism, many seeming acts of sacrifice are +but the subtle indulgence of that curious selfishness +which is not the more spiritual because it is independent +of others, or the less repulsive because it is most contented +in its isolation from every responsibility. A +renunciation means the deliberate putting away of +something keenly loved, anxiously desired, or actually +possessed; it does not mean a well-weighed acceptance +of the lesser, rather than the greater, trials of life. +When Orange had faced the desolate road before him +it was as though men ploughed into his heart and left +it mangled. Submission to the severities of God +whatever they might be, obedience to authority, a companionless +existence—these were the conditions, he +knew, of the meagre joy permitted to those who, +full of intellect, feeling, and kindness, undertook the +rigorous discipline of a solitary journey. The world +seldom takes account of the unhappy sensitiveness in +devout souls; it thinks them insensible not only because +they know how to keep silent, but how to sacri<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_159" id="Page_159">[159]</a></span>fice +their secret woes. And what, after all, are the +gratified expectations of any career in comparison with +its hidden despairs?</p> + +<p>It may be a fact that love, in every imaginative +mind, approaches madness; on the other hand, the +least imaginative are often not merely attracted but +carried away, without any sort of consent, by some +over-mastering human magnetism. To love well is +a quality in temperament, just as to preach well, or +to conduct a siege well, or to tend the sick well, or, +in fact, to do anything well, is a special distinction, +a ruling motive in the great pursuit of absolute felicity—a +pursuit which is the inalienable right of all human +creatures, whether fixed mistakenly in this world, or +wisely in the next. No calling can be obeyed without +suffering, but as in the old legend each man's cross +was found exquisitely fitted to his own back, so a +vocation is found to be just when, on the whole, one +has fewer misgivings that way than in any other. +By the exercise of self-discipline one may do much +that is not repulsive only but suicidal—a man may +so treat his spirit that it becomes a sort of petrified +vapour. When, however, he has dosed, reduced, +tortured, and killed every vital instinct in his nature +till he is an empty shape and nothing more, he must +not flatter himself that he has accomplished a great +work. Life is not for the dead, but for the living, +and in crucifying our flesh we have to be quite +certain that we are playing no ghost's farce, inflicting +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_160" id="Page_160">[160]</a></span>airy penalties on some handfuls of harsh dust. Robert +could not feel that absorbing interest in himself which +enables so many to cut themselves adrift, painfully, +no doubt, from every creature and all impersonal +anxieties. If he wished for fame, power, wealth, it +was that he might use them to the advantage of his +friends, or for the reparation, in some degree, of his +father's sin. But all the joy and all the melancholy +in love give a free rein to egoism, and now that he +had gained, as he believed, the desire of his eyes, the +confused, tyrannical, inexplicable, triumphant selfishness +dormant in him, as in all of us, began to assert its +terrible power. He forgot the agonies, storms, and +fevers of the past. Work had not always been able +to dominate his unrest. There had been times when +he had been compelled to follow the beckoning +dreams; when, in tightening his clasp about the +mockeries of his hope, he lost the pale happiness +which he held already. Whole days had passed when +some oppressive thought had spread its dark wings, as +a bird of prey, over his whole being, crushing him +gradually down to the earth. Now the occasion, the +solitude, the glory of the night cast their spell over +his soul. For the first time his emotion, so long +dumb and imprisoned, found speech. Brigit listened, +almost afraid, to his burning words, which, new and +strange to her, were, in reality, but the echo of his +interior life, his secret intimate thoughts, the pent-up +eloquence of a latent habitual devotion long distrusted +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_161" id="Page_161">[161]</a></span>for its very strength and kept till that hour in strict +silence, lest in the torrent of feeling it should say too +much. The love to which he had long since surrendered +himself now had complete possession of him. +He spoke as he had never spoken before—as he +never spoke again. The storm was restrained, subservient +possibly still, but it was there, not to be +forbidden, denied, or gainsayed. One has to be very +strong in order to support the realisation of a long +deferred, almost abandoned, hope. Affliction seems +to intensify a personality, adding to it a distinctness, +a power altogether commanding and irresistible, but +even in our purest happiness we lose something of +ourselves, and become, momentarily at least, less our +own masters, and more pliant to the reproof of chance, +the sport of destiny. As Robert uttered his passionate +confession, he was conscious that much in him which +had once seemed strong was conquerable enough, and, +in the torture of the indescribable variety of vague, +menacing feelings which this suspicion called forth, +he revolted against the influence which held him, +which left him neither liberty, nor security; which, +for a few days of mad exultation, cost him a thousand +bewildering, desolating fears. Did he guess that +when one most eagerly desires happiness, one is most +near to it? Already, he remembered, with a sudden +pallor, and a sharp contraction of the lips, that death, +in time, would certainly claim both of them, and his +soul was pierced at the thought, for nothing seemed +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_162" id="Page_162">[162]</a></span>imaginably so perfect as the wild gladness of that poor +human hour then gliding, with pitiless beats, toward +the past. Already the moon had ceased to weave her +magic; the sun rose over the unrebukable sea, and +the distant coast, obscured in a purple vapour, seemed +but a line of darkness against the flushed horizon. +The sky was grey, opalescent in the north, tenderest +green and azure in the east, while large, motionless +clouds, as blue as vine-clad hills, shadowed in great +clusters the vast canopy. But if the dawn of day +wrought a progressive disenchantment of the dreamer, +Robert felt with the recurrence of the morning the +usual prayer rise to his lips in a long weeping, inarticulate +cry to God—“Thou knowest that I love +Thee: Thou knowest that all my life is but a desire +of Thee: Thy Will, not mine.” And he heard +again the promise: “<i>Thou art My servant, I have +chosen thee, and not cast thee away. Fear thou not, for +I am with thee: be not dismayed, for I am thy God: I +will strengthen thee: yea, I will help thee.</i>” As the +silent disquietude of night gave place to the intense +tranquillity of day, the impenetrable secret of life, +though still profound, unviolated, and eluding, was +hidden in a shining, though not a blinding, mist. +Was night less night because it paled gloriously before +the sun? Was day less day because it darkened into +evening? Was joy a false thing because it passed? +Did not sorrow pass also? If that sweet journey was +the first and last in all his life, was it not still a +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_163" id="Page_163">[163]</a></span>miracle of blessing, nay, every blessing, to have known +even once the power of mortal happiness?</p> + +<p>“What are you thinking of?” asked Brigit suddenly, +touching his arm with her hand.</p> + +<p>“I am thinking that there is but one way of resisting +the woe of life—the infinite must oppose the +infinite. Infinite sorrow must be met by infinite +love.”</p> + +<p>“I suppose we have the sorrow, and the infinite +love is God's. We mustn't call even our love infinite, +Robert.”</p> + +<p>He hesitated for a few moments before he replied—</p> + +<p>“I call it no name.”</p> + +<p>“Still,” she said, “the very book in which the +vanity of all things is most insisted on has lived itself +nearly three thousand years. Solomon has given the +lie to his own despair of being remembered. This is +why I never feel sad now when I think about the +other fears which made him discontented.”</p> + +<p>“Were they fears? I believe he wanted to conquer +the world, which is strong, and his own weakness, +which was even stronger, as an adversary. We must +know the measure of a man's desires before we can +sound the depths of his regrets.”</p> + +<p>Again she put out her hand, but this time she took +his, following the instinct of a child who finds itself +with a trusted companion in a gloomy road.</p> + +<p>“Nothing unknown can be wished for,” she said +gently, “and so, if some few things did not last, we +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_164" id="Page_164">[164]</a></span>should not have this dissatisfaction at the thought of +their perishing. But what is troubling you? The +greatest cross is to be without a cross. You, dearest, +are never at ease unless you are at least suffering +tortures for some friend.”</p> + +<p>“I am thinking of myself now—myself only. I +can't forget that every supreme blessing must be +bought with long sadness, both before and after, and +now we are together, I am wondering what I +should do—if—if we were separated. I must have +the courage to face that thought. I can't put it away +because it has defied me, and when a thought defies +me, I have to meet it fairly. I do not believe in +denying its force, or running away in an opposite +direction. I hear its argument and I try to answer +it.”</p> + +<p>She moved towards him and said in a low voice—</p> + +<p>“I have one prayer, and this is that I may outlive +you. When you die, I shall soon follow you. It +won't seem so very long. But if I should die first +I should have to wait, because you would never yield, +and your grief would cut sharply and slowly, a little +more and a little more each day. And although I +might be with you, you could not see me. I should +know all your thoughts and yet I could say nothing. +Almighty God is too kind to let me be so unhappy +after I am dead. This is ‘the confidence wherein I +trust.’ This is why I have no fears now. We may +have great trials—how can we expect to be exempt +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_165" id="Page_165">[165]</a></span>from them? But we must help each other to bear +them and then they will seem more precious than joys. +You see, don't you? You understand, don't you?”</p> + +<p>He could not trust himself to reply. There are +certain utterances, certain turns of thought, which are +so restricted to one sex or the other, so exclusively +feminine or masculine, as the case may be, that their +entire comprehension by both sexes is not possible. +Intuition, imagination, sympathy may help a great +deal; men and women will accept much from each +other which they cannot to their reasoning satisfaction +account for, and, if the difference serves only to +enhance, by its mystery, the melodiousness of the +eternal human duet, it also proves that, while the +singers may be in harmony, they are never in absolute +unison.</p> + +<p>“You know how much I love you,” said Brigit, +“you know it. Yet there is an interior cloister of +your mind which you keep wholly to yourself. You +never ask me there. I watch your face—it tells me +nothing. You have not yet made me your friend. +If you were in trouble you would go to Pensée, +because she is older and she is used to responsibilities. +But you hide things from me because you are afraid +of giving me pain.”</p> + +<p>“There is reason enough why I should not tell +you of every passing mood, nor draw you into some +invincible personal sadness, and why I should not +invite you into the ‘interior cloister’ of my mind. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_166" id="Page_166">[166]</a></span>Nobody deliberates to do what he cannot help. There +is always something questioning within me, and a +truth is not to be set aside by any other truth whatever. +We can only fix our jaws and grip our hands +in useless wonder at the contradictions of the soul. +I would tell you all my heart,” he added, with a laugh, +“but it would take too long!”</p> + +<p>He had been startled by the acuteness of her perception. +Too probably he had carried his reserve to +the selfish pitch, and in over-mastering, with silence, +his own moods, afflicted her who had become now, +by love, inseparable from his spiritual as well as his +outward life. But there is something in beauty—just +as there is something in youth—which one fears +to disturb, lest a change should alter, or mar, in the +faintest degree, the sufficient loveliness, the unconscious +charm. Is it not for this cause that many +dependent natures find classic perfection cold, superb +scenery unsympathetic, and the spectacle of careless +happiness embittering? Others, of imaginative temperament, +prefer that their idols should remain impassive, +and, granted the inspiration arising from a +fair appearance, ask no more, but find their delight in +bestowing, from the riches of their own gratitude, +adorable attributes and endless worship. Orange, as +many other men of idealising tendencies, took his +human solace for the discouragements, fatigues, and +ordeals of life in the mere existence of the woman he +loved. He was at the moment of humility which is +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_167" id="Page_167">[167]</a></span>the first and last in all really great passions. He +asked for nothing; it was all too glorious even to +have the privilege of offering gifts, of feeling the +readiness to die ten deaths for her sake, of finding all +the recompenses of eternity in the soft depths of her +bright eyes. But as he was too much in earnest to +analyse these sentiments, he could neither gauge his +own reticence nor justify it to Brigit herself. Nor +could she, with all her tenderness and womanly +instincts, help him in that matter—their one possibility +of estrangement. She lacked the knowledge which +renders verbal confidences unnecessary; she was too +loving and too human to be happy as an inspiration +and an inspiration only; she also had a great desire to +give, to aid, to prove her devotion, to be the friend +and the fellow-pilgrim.</p> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_168" id="Page_168">[168]</a></span></p><h2><a name="CHAPTER_XII" id="CHAPTER_XII"></a>CHAPTER XII</h2> + + +<p>Brilliant sunlight lit up the grey spires and threatening +pinnacles of St. Malo. The back of the ancient +fortress was hidden in white mist, but the houses +which rose above the battlements facing the harbour, +and the shops and little taverns near the quay, shone +out in brightness, their windows glittering under the +sky where straying clouds, driven by the wind, were +melting, as they fled, into the all-encompassing blue +ether. Some pigeons and wild gulls circled above the +earthworks, darting down, at times, between the +massive oak piles which, forced deep into the sand, +were covered with shining seaweed. The piercing +note of the military bugle, the crack of the cabmen's +long whips, the clatter of wooden shoes, and the +Angelus bells then chiming, made up a volume of +sound which fell on Robert's ears with all the poignant +strangeness of an old song heard again after many +years. A hundred memories flocked into his mind at +the first distant view of that familiar scene: memories +of his boyhood, its errors, its visions, its ambitions; +his revolt against nature as he understood it, and his +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_169" id="Page_169">[169]</a></span>desire to keep his heart and soul and senses for the +service of God, and the custody of his own ideals. +The very centre of his thoughts was here: here he had +found the first beginnings of his faith and love. How +often he had walked alone upon those ramparts with +his New Testament and the <i>Morte d'Arthur</i>, striving, +in the fervour of romantic sentiment, to combine the +standards of knightly chivalry with the austere counsels +of the gospel. The divinity of Christ is the object +of eternal contemplations, and at every age—not of +the world only, but of the individual—His Humanity, +under our fresh knowledge, demands a different study +and a fuller understanding. What changes, therefore, +experience and suffering had wrought in those early, +untried speculations! The ideals remained, but they +made for swords, not peace; the sweetness of the +dream had become an inflexible law of conscience; +the doctrine of a transcendent disdain of this world, +accepted in solitude by the obscure youth brought up +in a provincial town, had exacted its tax to the uttermost +farthing from the man who struggled now with +the rich and powerful in a great city of the great +universe of affairs.... He thought of his dead godmother, +Madame Bertin, with her still, pale face and +beautiful hands—a cold, blameless woman who had +treated him kindly and misunderstood him always. +She had been his father's friend; she had loved him, in +her own stern, silent fashion, for his father's sake. O, +if she might only know now how much he treasured +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_170" id="Page_170">[170]</a></span>every impression he had formed of her strong character! +She had given him all the tenderness she had, +and all the motherly influence his childhood had +received. What might his life have been without +that early association with a noble if somewhat restricted +nature? But these and similar thoughts, while +they went deep, passed swiftly and did not return +again till a very different moment, when they came +with agony and remained for ever.</p> + +<p>He and Brigit were the last to leave the boat. +They had been so happy there that, by an instinct, +they lingered behind the others, unwilling to break +the enchantment of their isolation from the land, and +half-dreading the unknown trials, or joys, which +awaited, surely enough, their first steps upon the soil. +As they crossed the plank they looked back, obeying +a common impulse, at the deserted deck. Their +chairs had already been moved away, and the leeward +corner, which had seemed so much their own, was +filled up by a small group of sailors who were +quarrelling about the division of <i>pourboires</i>. The drive +to Miraflores is long and winding, past several small +villages, and approached finally through a large tract +of fields and orchards. But for the changing crimson +of the vines, it might have been August weather. +Robins, however, were singing, and the golden, brown, +and russet butterflies of autumn were floating languidly +above the wayside hedges. The cawing of rooks, the +cooing of wood-pigeons, and the hum of insects +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_171" id="Page_171">[171]</a></span>invaded the stillness of the lonely farms which, at long +distances, gave picturesque evidence of the human toil +expended on the careful, rather melancholy charm of +that northern landscape. The Villa Miraflores—an +elaborate reproduction of the celebrated Villa Madama +near Rome—stood on a wooded hill rising out of a +river, facing the rocky sea-coast. Built by the Archduke +Charles of Alberia for his morganatic wife, +Henriette Duboc, and pulled down since for the +erection of a convent, it is never mentioned in history, +and it has been long forgotten by the few inhabitants of +the neighbourhood. But as the young couple entered +the lodge gates that day, and drove along the stately +avenue, the beautiful ill-fated structure rose before +them as some castle in the air brought down to earth +by a magician's wand. Was this their home? They +dared not speak lest the vision should fade too soon. +But Orange remembered it all—this was no dream. +There were the winding alleys leading to peeps of +water, land and sky; there was the path which he had +followed, years before, in search of his destiny. He +drew a long breath, drinking in the intoxicating +strength of the fresh sea air wafted through pine-trees. +The atmosphere was charged with the very madness +of youth and joy. Who could have hoped for such a +miracle as this? Had the whole course of fate a like +to show? Did it not seem a triumph over life and its +threatened deceptions? His own servant and Brigit's +maid—whom they had sent there some days before<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_172" id="Page_172">[172]</a></span>—were +watching for them at the open door, and the +sight of those well-known faces gave him a still +further assurance of the scene's actuality. They +crossed the hall without noticing a small blue telegram +on one of the malachite tables. They walked together +through every room, wondering at their treasures, +looking out of the windows, amazed, bewitched, +gradually becoming used to the fact of each other's +company in such a solitude. What were the woes +and cryings of the outer world to them, lost in the +impenetrable silence of that retreat? A strange, +double sensation of delight and forgetfulness surged in +them both. All knowledge of disturbing human +influences, of the fret, and discord, and inquietude of +common existence seemed trivial and even false. +They looked with confidence into each other's eyes, as +though they were the sole inhabitants of some brilliant, +inaccessible star set far above the earth and its evil. +They were to remain there a month—one month at +least—and after that would trials, or labour, or sorrow +deluge in bitterness the sweet, eternal recollection of +such days? A table had been set for them in one of +the small pavilions leading on to a balcony. The +scent of flowers, mingling with the sunlight, came in +through the open windows, bringing the garden's +freshness to the faded lilacs on the carpet and tapestry. +Brigit went to the looking-glass, took off her hat, and +apologised for her “frightful appearance.” She had +thrown her veil and gloves on the sofa, and the mere +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_173" id="Page_173">[173]</a></span>sight of them there gave a homeliness to that forsaken +room which, with its rococo decorations, painted ceilings, +and gilded doors, had something of the dead +gaiety of an empty theatre. Brigit made the tea, +following the English custom taught her by Pensée. +Was the water boiling? Did he like sugar? How +absurd not to know whether one's husband took +cream! The two had seen so little of each other in +domestic surroundings that this little commonplace +intimacy had an intoxicating charm.</p> + +<p>“Are you happy?” she asked suddenly. “Do you +know that you are all I love in the world, and I am +yours for ever and ever?”</p> + +<p>“Yes, I know.”</p> + +<p>“And how much do you love me?”</p> + +<p>“I shall never be able to say how much.”</p> + +<p>She took his hand, kissed it, pressed it to her heart, +then asked him, with some confusion, if he liked +grapes better than pears.</p> + +<p>“You are so beautiful,” he replied.</p> + +<p>“Not to-day,” she answered; “to-day I am quite +dull. But you are handsome. I saw them looking at +you on the boat. And I was proud—oh, so proud to +think that you were mine.”</p> + +<p>When they had finished their meal, she opened the +piano and struck out some chords, which echoed with +a kind of wail through the long corridors outside. +The instrument was out of tune, and the strings +seemed muffled.</p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_174" id="Page_174">[174]</a></span></p> +<p>“Something is inside,” she said.</p> + +<p>They looked and discovered a few sheets of music +which had slipped down upon the wires. The sheets +were dusty, stained with age, blurred by damp, but +one bore the name “Henriette” written in the corner +in a large, defiant hand. Joining the fragments, they +found it was an arrangement in manuscript of Poe's +ballad, “Annabel Lee.”</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<i> +<span class="i0">It was many and many a year ago,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">In a kingdom by the sea,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That a maiden there lived whom you may know<br /></span> +<span class="i2">By the name of Annabel Lee;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And this maiden she lived with no other thought<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Than to love and be loved by me.<br /></span> +</i> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<i> +<span class="i0">But our love it was stronger by far than the love<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Of those that were older than we—<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Of many far wiser than we—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And neither the angels in heaven above,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Nor the demons down under the sea,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Can ever dissever my soul from the soul<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Of the beautiful Annabel Lee."<br /></span> +</i> +</div></div> + +<p>As Brigit read aloud these words of haunting +pathos, the very trees, rustling outside in the October +wind, the far-away sound of the waves beating upon +the sand, seemed to Robert an ominous accompaniment—half +a warning, half a promise.</p> + +<p>“I wonder,” he said, “I wonder why that was +there?”</p> + +<p>He was uneasy, he could not say why. He was +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_175" id="Page_175">[175]</a></span>conscious of some influence in the room. He felt, +unaccountably, that they were not alone. Looking +round for some confirmation of this strange instinct +his eyes fell on the small blue envelope which had +been placed on the mantelpiece by his servant. It +was addressed to himself. Fortunately, whilst he was +opening it, Brigit's attention was still riveted on the +old song which she was humming over at the piano. +She spoke to him three times before he answered.</p> + +<p>“This telegram,” he said, at last, trying to control +his voice, “is from Reckage. He is on his way now +to see me.”</p> + +<p>“He is coming here? Why is he coming here?”</p> + +<p>He put his arm round her, in a desperate, long +embrace, kissing her face, her eyes, her hair.</p> + +<p>“What is it, Robert?” she said, clinging to him, +for she heard something like a sob under his breath. +“You have had bad news. You must tell me.”</p> + +<p>“It may not be so serious ... perhaps it is badly +worded ... but Pensée is coming with him and he +says quite plainly that there is some legal difficulty +about our marriage.”</p> + +<p>“Some legal difficulty!” she repeated. “What is +the use of that now? I can't leave you again. I'll die +first. I can't bear it. O, Robert, I am so tired of +the law. There are no laws for the birds, or for the +flowers, or for the trees, or for any thing that is happy! +Why should we be made so miserable—just to please +the magistrates and mayors!<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_176" id="Page_176">[176]</a></span>”</p> + +<p>“But it is more than that—I am certain. Suppose +it has something to do with Parflete?”</p> + +<p>“With Wrexham? How could that be? He is +dead.”</p> + +<p>“He may not be dead.”</p> + +<p>She sank down to the floor on her knees.</p> + +<p>“O my God! You know that he is living.”</p> + +<p>“Reckage doesn't say so. But would he and +Pensée come unless they felt we should need them?”</p> + +<p>“I need no one except you. I don't want to see +them. I don't want to hear their news. They are +killing you. You seem calm, but your face! you +have never looked like this before. O, darling, it +can't be what you think it is.”</p> + +<p>He lifted her from the ground and took her in his +arms again, as though he could defy the cruel, invisible +fate which had decreed their separation.</p> + +<p>“In any case,” he said, “I won't give you back—I +cannot. It is too much to ask. You are mine—you +were never his—never. God is not unjust, and +this is unjust. As for other people and outside opinion, +they have not mattered to me at any time, and least +of all can they matter now. I won't give you back.”</p> + +<p>She held him closer, already feeling, in spite of his +words, the first agony of their inevitable farewell.</p> + +<p>“You love me!” she said, “you must never leave +me. Kiss me, and promise me that you will never +leave me.”</p> + +<p>Grief and horror had broken down every barrier of +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_177" id="Page_177">[177]</a></span>reserve between them. The pent-up passion on his +side, the intense unconscious tenderness on hers seemed +to meet and blend in the one consuming thought that +they belonged to each other—that, in the awful +struggle between the force of circumstances and the +force of life—they might have to part.</p> + +<p>“Why should we two matter in so large a world?” +she cried. “Surely we need not suffer so much just +for the discipline of our own souls? I cannot, cannot, +cannot go away. I can't live without you. I can't +die without you. I am tired of being alone. I am +tired of trying to forget you. And I have tried so +hard.”</p> + +<p>Her face, from which all colour and joy and animation +had departed, seemed like a June rose dead, in +all its perfection, on the tree. One may see many +such in a garden after a sudden frost.</p> + +<p>“You mustn't leave me. They all frighten me. +I have no one but you,” she continued; “God will +understand. He doesn't ask any one to be alone. He +wasn't even crucified—alone. He didn't enter into +Paradise—alone. Ask me to do anything, but don't +ask me to go away—to go back to Wrexham. You +are much stronger than I am. If you thought you +ought to cut out your heart by little pieces, you would +do it. But you must think of me. They may have +all my money—that is all they care for. But I must +have you.”</p> + +<p>Although she made the appeal, he had resolved, in +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_178" id="Page_178">[178]</a></span>silence, long before, that, come what might, he would +not give her back. The decision rose on the instant, +without hesitation, doubt, or misgiving—a deliberate +choice between two courses.</p> + +<p>“You cannot return to Parflete,” he said quietly. +“Don't despair. Your marriage with him may be +annulled. That aspect of the question is revolting, +abominable; but we are both in such a false position +now that we owe it as much to other people as we do +to ourselves to put everything in a true light. You +are so brave, Brigit——“</p> + +<p>“I am tired of being brave.”</p> + +<p>Her slender arms tightened about his neck; he +could feel, from the whole abandonment of her attitude +and the slight weight of her childish form, how little +fitted she was physically for the squalid ordeal of the +law-courts. If she could live at all through horrors +of the kind, it would have to be by a miracle. And +has one the right to hope for miracles where the +question of happiness or unhappiness in human love +is the egoistic point at stake? But, right or no right, +there was in them both that supreme and fatal force +of affection which, if it be unusual, is at least usual +enough to be at the root of most mortal tragedies.</p> + +<p>“I am tired or being brave,” she repeated. “I +want to rest.”</p> + +<p>In the mirror opposite them he saw the reflection +of the bright garden outside. How calm and still it +seemed! Had he wandered there, years before, with +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_179" id="Page_179">[179]</a></span>a beating heart, in search of his destiny, merely to find +it at last after the humiliation of a public scandal? +Had his idyllic, almost mystical romance, with all its +aspirations, grace, and unspeakable strength, been +given to him just to be called from the house-tops and +discussed in the streets? Was this the end of all +sublime ideals? Did every delicate, secret sentiment +have to endure, soon or late, the awful test of degradation +and mockery? Did it have to come—this +terrible day of trial when the Love which moves the +sun and the other stars had to pass through the common +sieve with dust, ashes, and much that was infinitely +viler? No, he told himself, no: ten thousand times, +no.</p> + +<p>“Listen,” he said, “listen. You need not go back +to him: he knows—every one knows now that we +love each other. We can't live together because our +marriage is not a marriage. Your marriage with +Parflete was not a marriage, but it appears so to the +world. Is it worth while to undeceive the world? +When I think of the cost of such a proof—I say it is +too great. But it you are courageous—and you will +be for my sake—we can defy every one—on one condition. +We must be sure of <i>ourselves</i>. We must +know that we can depend on ourselves. We may +have to separate now for some months—perhaps a +year—perhaps longer; we must school ourselves to +look upon each other as friends—friends, nothing +more. It will be very hard—for me, and it is on my +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_180" id="Page_180">[180]</a></span>account only that we must separate now. But you +will accept this, even if you cannot understand it, +because my life here depends on you. I don't say +anything about my happiness. I leave that out of the +reckoning. But if I am to live—to get through the +day's work, I must love you and I must see you. +Later on, we may be able to meet quite often. This +will be something to which I can look forward. All +this has been in my mind always—ever since I first +met you. I feel now as though every thought, every +hour, every event of the last five months has been a +preparation for this moment. On one point, however, +I have never wavered. We can't desecrate our love +by some odious law-suit. If this life were all, it would +be different. But it isn't all. It seems as though we +are not to be everything to each other. Yet we can +be more than everything—we can be one existence +even if we cannot be man and wife. We can help +each other, we may see each other—in time.”</p> + +<p>“In time?” she repeated. The certainty that she +would have to be deprived of his presence for the +greater part, at all events, of her life came over her +with intolerable anguish, and with it she felt a presentiment +of the future struggle to be waged against +the profound instinct which drew them, with all the +strength of a river's current, toward each other.</p> + +<p>“No, no,” she said, “if you send me away, I shall +die. They frighten me; they tell me lies. My +mother is dead; my father is dead. I have no one +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_181" id="Page_181">[181]</a></span>but you. You can't forsake me. You love me too +much. I know you won't leave me.”</p> + +<p>Her innocence made the recklessness of her appeal +the more compelling. The beseeching, intense affection +of her soul transfigured her face with an almost +unearthly sweetness. White, trembling, and despairing +she laid her head upon his shoulder, holding him with +both arms, and swaying from the agony of a grief +without hope and without tears.</p> + +<p>“You must try to understand,” he said, “you must +try. You are so young—such a child, but you do +know that we can't live together, in the same house, +if our marriage is not valid. That would compromise +your honour. How else can I say what I +must say?”</p> + +<p>“I shouldn't mind. God would understand.”</p> + +<p>“But the world wouldn't understand. And one +has to avoid the appearance of evil.”</p> + +<p>“They may say anything they please. I should +be very proud if they misjudged me for your sake.”</p> + +<p>Then a thought suddenly pierced her. What +would they say about his honour? Would the +world misjudge him? Her weakness became strength +under coercion of this new possibility; her cheeks +burned at the light thrown upon her first selfish +impulse.</p> + +<p>“O, why have I said such things?” she said, tearing +herself away from him, “and I used to think once +that women like me were too bad to live. I used to +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_182" id="Page_182">[182]</a></span>wonder how they could be so evil. That was because +I had never been tempted. And now I see how hard +it is—how hard to fight. It is so easy to judge others +when you are married to some one you love. But I +begin to understand now—I ought to hide myself in a +cell and pray till I die for women who are unhappy.”</p> + +<p>She pushed back the soft golden hair which had +fallen a little over her face, brightening its sorrow. +Every feature quivered under the invisible cutting hand +of cruel experience. In those last sharp moments of +introspection she had gained such a knowledge of +suffering that a fire seemed to have consumed her +vision of life, reducing it to a frightful desert of +eternal woe and unavailing sacrifice. Partially +stunned, and partially blinded by misery, she felt the +awful helplessness and pain of what is sometimes called +the second birth, a crisis in all human development +when the first true realisation comes that the soul is a +stranger, a rebel, strong as eternity, weak as the flesh, +free as the illimitable air.</p> + +<p>“O, I do understand!” she said. “I have been +pretending to myself that we could do impossible +things. But I didn't want to speak my own death-warrant. +No, don't come to me. Don't say one +word to me. I know so well now what must be +done. We mustn't hesitate—we mustn't think. It is +something to know where you can't trust yourself. I +can't trust my heart at this moment. So I must just +depend on the things I have been taught—things +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_183" id="Page_183">[183]</a></span>which I accepted, oh, so easily, when I applied them +to other people. You must go away. You must leave +me here with the servants. Esther is good and kind. +Pensée chose her for me. You can leave me with +her.”</p> + +<p>She supported herself by holding, in a desperate +grasp, the heavy silk draperies by the window. The +image of her, leaning against the faded scarlet curtain, +tall, fragile, yet resolute, with heaving breast, closed +eyes, and pallid lips, remained before him night and day +for months, and though, in the process of time, the +vividness of the picture waned, it lived always among +his unforgettable impressions.</p> + +<p>“You must leave me,” she said again.</p> + +<p>“Yes, but I will come in the morning.”</p> + +<p>“You will rest, you will try to sleep—for my sake.”</p> + +<p>This time she lifted her head, and, turning towards +him, met once more the glance which she felt must +have called her to life had she been dead.</p> + +<p>“You will come in the morning?”</p> + +<p>“Yes.”</p> + +<p>Once more she held out her arms. He kissed her +mouth, and eyes, and hair once more. Neither could +speak, and both were tearless. Then she went with +him to the door, opened it, and seemed to lead the +way through the long corridor, down some stone steps +to the garden. She knew that he would not leave the +spot while she was in sight. So she walked back to +the house alone and mounted the steps, turning at each +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_184" id="Page_184">[184]</a></span>one to wave her hand. He saw her enter at last, and +close the window. Then she fell and was helpless till +she was found by Esther. Robert watched till the +lights were lit, and for some hours after they were +finally extinguished. The stars came out, and the +moon made the languid night seem white with beauty. +Orange walked toward the town and the small +cemetery where Madame Bertin was buried. Then +he threw himself by the lonely grave which held the +one creature on earth whom he seemed to have a right +to love without scruple and without restraint. And +there he remained till daybreak, weeping.</p> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_185" id="Page_185">[185]</a></span></p><h2><a name="CHAPTER_XIII" id="CHAPTER_XIII"></a>CHAPTER XIII</h2> + + +<p>Lady Sara had written to the Duke of Marshire, +and so fulfilled, in part, her promise to her father. +But, while she said much that was graceful, coquettish, +and characteristic, the Duke felt unable to regard +it as an acceptance of his offer. She was very kind +with that kindness which has no sort of encouragement +in it. Among other things, she begged for +another week on the plea that “seven days furnished +a very short speculation when the result might possibly +decide the whole course of her life.” In much +anxiety, for his Grace was very much in love, he +composed, after three hours of careful thought, a reply, +and, having read the least tender but most sensible +passages to his lawyer, he himself left the communication, +together with a beautifully bound copy of +“Lettres Choisies,” by Madame de Sévigné, at St. +James's Square. The parcel and the missive arrived +when the young lady was reading and re-reading two +other letters which she had received that morning +from the North of France. One was from Lord +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_186" id="Page_186">[186]</a></span>Reckage; the other was from Pensée Fitz Rewes. +Their respective contents ran as follows:—</p> + +<blockquote><p><span class="smcap">My dear Sara</span> (I love the sweeter name of Valérie: +may I not use it sometimes?),—I shall never be able to +get through all I have to say—no words can reflect the +fulness of human nature in such suffering as it has been +my privilege—and sorrow—to witness here. In doubt, +they tell us, we must stand on the rule of authority. +But for this principle I should find it hard to reconcile +myself to this deplorable affair of parting two people who +love each other, evidently, in an almost lyric sense. +You, I know, will understand that this expression contains +no sneer at a frame of mind altogether surpassing +my own capacity for idealism. Are there many, or +any of us nowadays, who feel that there are certain +things which we must do, not do, or perish eternally? +I have never detected this narrow, vindictive, inherently +superstitious view in Orange. I am forced to the +conclusion, therefore, that his truest happiness consists +always in his submission to the Will (as he understands +it) of God (as he understands Him). Men are like +horses—unless they are born with staying powers in +them, no amount of training can make them really stay. +Robert is a born ecclesiastic—I have said so always. His +conduct in this present crisis will be a slap in the face +to those who insist that religion makes men timorous. +Speaking for myself, I never entertained a moment's doubt +of his acting in precisely the manner in which he has done; +his worst time, however, is, alas! to come; he may have +to wait till eternity for his recompense. That trial often +embitters the most constant. The devil is never embarrassed, +and where virtue is found superhuman, he takes +every care to keep it on a sour—if ethereal—diet. You +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_187" id="Page_187">[187]</a></span>will beg for less comment and more facts. Let me give +them. Orange himself, pale, restrained, haggard but +superb, met us at the station on our arrival. He had +been waiting for us at the hotel; Mrs. Parflete was at +the Villa Miraflores. The two had discussed the situation +and parted on the mere reading of my telegram. I +cannot say that they might have acted otherwise, but only +that they acted as they did. There must have been, +nevertheless, a considerable scene. The idealist driven +into squalid actualities deserves a martyr's crown. In +one single misfortune he suffers all the calamities of the +human race, and in one personal horror he sees the death, +emptiness, and corruption of all human endeavours. In +this exaggeration, these mystics show their genius; they +suffer too much in order that ordinary people may suffer a +little less. Poor Orange! He is certainly fine, for, even +if I discard the <i>mannerisms</i>, the eccentricity, the possibly +<i>natural</i> self-sufficiency, all that is essential in his character +remains and must remain undeniably chivalrous. It was +an immense relief to find that he had decided, without +suggestions on my part, on his course of conduct. I hate +a fellow who tries to be more than friendly, and I dreaded +making the experiment. I did venture to point out to +him that there might be some way of annulling the +Parflete marriage. But idealists abhor law-suits. Parflete, +<i>not</i> being an idealist, may take some steps on his own +account. I refrained from touching on that possibility, +although I see much hope that way for our unhappy +lovers. The world might cry out a little at first, but +success justifies everything. Meanwhile, Robert and Mrs. +Parflete have formed a resolution not to meet again for a +year or more. After that, they hope to be on the unearthly +terms of Laura and her Petrarch. It is magnificent, but +is it love? I long to hear your views on the subject. I +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_188" id="Page_188">[188]</a></span>have no influence over you; I wish I had. I am the +most sincere of all your friends. The others either care +too little for you, or too much for themselves, to run the +risk of giving you offence. But I would risk all, to gain +even a little—where you are concerned. May I call on +my return? Orange comes back with me. His own instinct +tells him that there is a suggestion of the ridiculous—to +the mere on-looker—about this interrupted honeymoon. +He has determined to face it out in London, +and resume his life on the old lines. He will finish +his volume of French History, resume his post with +Lord Wight, and take his seat in Parliament. If he +can succeed in living down this absurdly tragic catastrophe, +he will achieve a notable triumph. It gives me a +cold feeling at the heart when I think of the dreary +heroism he must display. Nothing picturesque, nothing +striking. He must simply baffle the scoffers by an inscrutable +endurance. Mrs. Parflete is a beautiful creature, +but quite a child, and therefore weedy as to figure. I consider +her far too young for marriage in any case. She is +only seventeen—tall, slight, with a transparent skin, and +something actually <i>babyish</i> about the eyes. Her dignity, +in the circumstances, was wholly admirable. Perfectly +self-possessed. Pensée will describe the interviews far +better than I could, so I will refer you to her for the +details of our mission. Women, I have decided, in every +disappointment always look for some future change of +circumstances favourable to their wishes. No matter how +nominal, shallow, and delusive this faith may be, it +sustains them through the worst trials. Thus it is that +when a woman sacrifices either her repose or the legitimate +compensations of life to a great idea, she suffers +far less than a man in similar conditions. The devout +female sex drive a good bargain always: they manage +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_189" id="Page_189">[189]</a></span>somehow to obtain all the sentiment they require from +both worlds. Men cannot be happy on sentiment alone; +hence, therefore, the dreadful hesitations, self-doubts, and +terror which assail so frequently the interior peace of all +men drawn, like Orange, by certain qualities of temperament, +toward the mortification of their humanity. Laying +aside the proud idea of the independence, vigour, and +spiritual-mindedness which this practice is held to secure, +there is one drawback which, with a view to that class +who are really willing to endure many afflictions for the +sake of any one definite advantage, ought not to be +overlooked. The weak, under such discipline, become +sugary: the strong grow hard. Robert has backbone; +he is a man of ability, perhaps even genius, but there is +always a danger that, either from the accumulation of +scruples or the want of romantic incentive, he may throw +up the political game and bury himself in a monastery +where his dreams may find their sole expression in prayer. +Another point occurs to me. Will the rank and file ever +trust a person so far above their comprehension? The +very word “mystical” is a word of reproach in the mouth +of the world. People continually ask questions about +Robert. No questions, on the other hand, are asked +about Aumerle. Aumerle lives like the rest of us: he does +everything he ought not to do—he surprises nobody: he +delivers his neighbours over to the absolute power of +accomplished facts. (A way of saying that he doesn't +care a rap about the fellow who falls among thieves.) +Dear Valérie! What a pleasure it is to write to you! +I can utter my inmost thoughts. I am often suspected +of callousness. This letter will show you how truly I feel +the sorrows of my few real friends. I cannot bear to +think that Orange should be beaten, as it were, by +Parflete. A more fawning, wretched creature than +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_190" id="Page_190">[190]</a></span>Parflete one never saw. I shall not be set right in my +own idea of the Divine Justice unless this battle, at any +rate, is to the strong. Write to me. I don't want to +whine, but I may tell you that I am not happy.</p><p class="i8 nospaceabove">Your affectionate friend,</p><p class="i12 nospaceabove"><span class="smcap">Beauclerk R.</span></p></blockquote> + +<p>Sara sat on a low, embroidered stool by the fender, +and, as she studied each line of his lordship's despatch +(for so he regarded it), she would dip her fingers from +time to time into a blue satin sweet-box, select, after +due consideration, a chocolate or a sugared-almond, +and nibble it somewhat fastidiously, with an air of +making concessions to her human side. The exercise +of divining the many hidden meanings in Reckage's +epistle was certainly purely intellectual. Nevertheless, +as she read the last sentences, she smiled with malicious +triumph, for did they not convey a declaration of strong +friendship in a letter designed, beyond doubt, as an +argument in disfavour of all merely sentimental ties +between men and women, and as a frank confession or +his own inability to sustain any relation of the kind? +How often had he maintained an opposite opinion—seeming +contemptuous, indolent, invulnerable, unconscious +of her beauty, amused rather than attracted by +her brilliant spirit. Every instinct of the coquette, +jealous of her own power and wretched from the sterile +suffering of wounded pride, resented bitterly the unpardonable +ease which he had appeared to enjoy in her +society. Now, however, that he appealed to her +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_191" id="Page_191">[191]</a></span>womanliness by a humble surrender, her better, more +generous nature asserted itself. Some of the old +affection she had long felt for him revived. Where +there had once been love, a kind of desperate fidelity +still lingered, and, although Robert Orange was the +ideal passion of her heart, Reckage possessed a certain +influence over her which was not the less powerful +because it had its root and constant nourishment in +their common memory of a childhood and first youth +spent together in the same county, with the same +friends and the same bores. She slipped his letter, +with a sigh, into her belt, and turned her attention for +the third time to Pensée's tear-stained pages.</p> + +<blockquote><p><span class="smcap">My darling Sara</span>,—I can scarcely write. Although +I know the mercy and wisdom hidden in these sad events, +my heart is heavy. The best thing is to preach resignation +<i>till</i> you have it; and then, <i>because</i> you have it, you <i>will</i> +preach it. Robert's love of Brigit makes little outward +show, but I know that it is terribly real. We are never +so near to our loved ones as when we have left them for +God, but <i>nearness</i> of that intangible, invisible kind amounts +to agony. At least, I think so. Robert's self-restraint is +killing me. When we first met, he shook from head to +foot, his very face quivered, but he said nothing. I felt +that he would never allow any one to speak of this trouble +or offer him the least sympathy. In the necessary discussion +of the legal aspects of the case, he was very calm, +and seemed rather an adviser himself than the person +chiefly concerned. It is not easy to understand him; yet +I appreciate reserve. If everybody could understand us, +what joy would there be in discovering our souls to those +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_192" id="Page_192">[192]</a></span>whom we love! Brigit has shut herself up in a room. +She cries incessantly (she is so young) and is dreadfully +changed. She wishes to go to Paris—for she has some +idea of resuming her musical studies. Her voice is one of +her great gifts, yet I can't imagine any one singing in such +a tortured state of mind. I don't like to say that actually +I fear for her reason, but she has, I see, far more heart, poor +child, than I ever supposed. How wrong it is to attempt +any judgment or estimate of another person's capacity for +suffering! She is in a pitiable condition, unnaturally +patient in a sense—for it is patience on the rack. Our +Lord dreaded suffering and even feared it. Of course, +one might easily say that an unhappy love affair is very +common, that it is almost profane to compare such an ordinary +trouble with the serious, exceptional trials of life. +But although Lord Byron declared that “man's love was of +man's life a thing apart,” his own poems and his own +career gave the lie absolutely to the statement (indeed, I +am often tempted to believe that women exhibit, on the +whole, greater strength of will in their affections than men). +I must say, therefore, that the spectacle of a bride and +bridegroom, devoted to each other, yet separated on their +very wedding day, is quite as serious and sorrowful as (say) +the death of a parent, or the loss of a child, or any other +melancholy occurrence of everyday life. And what is worse, +an atmosphere of <i>scandal</i> penetrates this story—making it +most shocking to all refined minds, and peculiarly so to +temperaments of extraordinary delicacy. It will take +every atom of <i>my</i> courage and constant prayers to bear it +<i>for</i> them. What must it be, therefore, to themselves? +I tremble at the appalling things in future for us. As for +my uncle, I dare not read his letter yet. He must be so +upset, so <i>horrified</i>. I have never before been called on for +such a proof of friendship. It is quite dreadful to be +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_193" id="Page_193">[193]</a></span>mixed up in a kind of <i>cause célèbre</i>. The great justice of +God is always mixed with great hardships, and is often +executed by those worthy neither of confidence nor respect. +I am sure that we shall all have to go through many +humiliations before this matter is settled. I know, darling, +that <i>you</i> will say I am making a rather narrow-minded fuss. +But I do hate publicity, and if it doesn't kill Robert outright, +it will have some shattering effect upon his character +and his health. Really, I am not thinking so much of +myself. Your own <i>reckless</i> bravery, however, would quail +a little, I fancy, at the idea of having your most intimate +feelings called out from the housetops and discussed in +the streets. And remember, please, that Robert is a +dreamer—a poet. Of course, in every <i>active</i> expedition +there must be some few idealistic, Quixotic souls who have +to suffer vicariously for the rest. He is such an one. +But that sort of feeling of soreness which comes from the +sense of martyrdom is not quite the same as a raw wound +on one's own <i>personal</i> score. I do hope I am clear. I +try to look on the bright side, but there are days when +the unseen world and its glorious realities become dubious. +These are trials of faith, I know. If one could be wise, +one would keep silent at such times. Now, dearest Sara, +good-night.</p><p class="i8 nospaceabove">Yours ever lovingly,</p><p class="i12 nospaceabove"><span class="smcap">Pensée</span>.</p></blockquote> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_194" id="Page_194">[194]</a></span></p><h2><a name="CHAPTER_XIV" id="CHAPTER_XIV"></a>CHAPTER XIV</h2> + + +<p>Lord Garrow and Lady Sara left town the next day +for a short visit at Kemmerstone Park, the seat of +Arabella, Marchioness of Churleigh. Lady Churleigh +had a favourite nephew for whom she was extremely +anxious “to do something.” Vague by nature, she +had never been able to define her ambition in more +precise terms, but, as she entertained influential people +only, it was considered, in many circles, that she over-did +her civilities toward the mammon of unrighteousness. +Those who were not invited called her heartless; +those who accepted her hospitality found fault +with her brains. All praised her cook, and no one +ever thought of her nephew. It was known that she +could not leave him her money. Every pair of eyes +read his name—Lord Douglas Hendlesham—on his +bedroom door at the top of the grand staircase, and +visitors soon learnt to associate this advertisement with +a pale, haughty young man who appeared occasionally +at meals, or sometimes listened disdainfully to the +music after dinner in the saloon. Distinguished +persons, staying at Kemmerstone for the first time, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_195" id="Page_195">[195]</a></span>would ask a fellow-guest, “Who is the melancholy +youth who looks so ill?” “That,” they would be +told, “is Douglas Hendlesham, I <i>think</i>.”</p> + +<p>Disraeli called him “a personified hallucination.”</p> + +<p>The party, on this particular occasion, consisted of +Agnes Carillon (who attracted unusual attention as +the <i>fiancée</i> of Lord Reckage), the Bishop of Hadley +(her father), the Duke and Duchess of Pevensey, +Charles Aumerle, and Mr. Disraeli. Lord Garrow +lost no time in conveying his version of the Orange +scandal to the ex-Minister's ears. It was a damp afternoon, +and the two gentlemen marched up and down +the smoking-room together, talking so earnestly that +the Duke (to his rage) dared not interrupt them, and +drove out instead with his Duchess and Lady Churleigh—who +bored him beyond sleep. Disraeli had been +opposed, from the first, to Robert's marriage with +Mrs. Parflete, for, as other diplomatists, he preferred +his own plans before those of Providence, and he had +wished to see his young friend wisely united to the +unexceptionable Viscountess Fitz Rewes.</p> + +<p>“But,” he observed, shrugging his shoulders, “to +talk expediency is not a safe way of opening the game +with Orange. Many men have ability, few have +genius, but fewer still have character. Orange has a +rectangular will and an indomitable character. <i>Character</i> +is the rarest thing in England.”</p> + +<p>Lord Garrow stiffened his back.</p> + +<p>“I have been educated in a contrary belief,” said +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_196" id="Page_196">[196]</a></span>he. “Our national character is our dearest possession.”</p> + +<p>“That is because it is so rare. You mistake your +education for your experience—a common error. By +character I mean that remnant of a man's life which +is probably stronger than death, and ought to be +stronger than worldly considerations.”</p> + +<p>“Far be it from me to go into such subtleties,” +returned his lordship, stealing a glance at Disraeli's +powerful face. “Your friend, at all events, has done +for himself now. His merits seem to be more interesting +than respectable, and this marriage has furnished +conversation for the whole town—chiefly because +Beauclerk Reckage was his best man. One cannot +help feeling sorry for him, but it is certainly a very +bad thing. How will he justify his rash conduct?”</p> + +<p>“He may think it unwise to be detailed in self-justification.”</p> + +<p>“That is all well enough, and so far I am with you. +In such circumstances, one doesn't want to tell a lie, +and yet one doesn't want to tell the truth.”</p> + +<p>“Well, there are many duties and difficulties in +life: there is but one obligation—courage.”</p> + +<p>He fixed his eyes on the fire blazing in the grate, +and repeated the word with great emphasis—“Courage!”</p> + +<p>“He will need it. An unpleasant suggestion has +been put forward by the lawyers.”</p> + +<p>“Divorce?” said Disraeli.</p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_197" id="Page_197">[197]</a></span></p> +<p>“Yes.”</p> + +<p>“A Bishop was telling me the other day that +when one attacks the principle of divorce one forgets +that it was originally a Divine institution! But +I agree with you—it is unpleasant. You will find that +Orange won't hear of such a course. I see great +dangers ahead for him, but I see no honourable way of +avoiding them. When a man, careless of danger, unconcerned +with profit, takes up the cause of God +against the world, others may not follow, but they +must admire him. Abstract sentiments of virtue do +not charm me. Orange is a Roman Catholic, however, +and therefore a practical idealist. The practical +idealists of England are the Dissenters—mostly the +Methodists. John Wesley was considered crack-brained +by his contemporaries at Oxford; he was a +greater mystic, in several ways, than Newman, but he +was not such a poet.”</p> + +<p>“I know nothing about Dissenters and that class. +As for the Catholics—the few I am acquainted with +are civil and sensible.”</p> + +<p>“That is true. Most of the English Catholics +imagine that St. Peter's and the Vatican can be maintained +on the policy of a parish church in Mayfair! +But one moment. There is Aumerle in the hall with +a telegram. I wonder if he has any fresh news about +poor Derby.”<i>[Lord Derby was then lying at the point of death.]</i></p> + +<p>With this unimpeachable excuse he left his noble +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_198" id="Page_198">[198]</a></span>companion, who, more certain than ever that Disraeli +could never be in touch with the upper classes of +England, retired to his own room and wrote down in +a journal all he could remember of their conversation.</p> + +<p>Lady Sara, meanwhile, had invited Agnes Carillon +to walk through the famous gardens of Kemmerstone, +and, as each girl was anxious to study the other, they +started on the expedition in that high pitch of nervous +excitement and generous animosity which one may +detect in splendid rivals, or even in formal allies. +Sara dressed more richly than was the fashion at that +time among English unmarried ladies. Her furs, +velvets, laces and jewels were referred to an Asiatic, +barbaric love of display. Agnes, therefore, who had +attired herself, in protest, even more plainly than +usual, was a little taken aback to find her remarkable +acquaintance in brown cashmere, a cloth jacket, and a +severe felt hat of the Tyrolean shape, which, poised +upon her chignon, tilted far over her fine blue eyes. +Both women, however, were so young and handsome +that even the trying fashions of the period could not +destroy their brilliant appearance. The chagrin of the +one and the ironical triumph of the other soon gave +way to more generous feelings. Each took her companion's +measure with a swift, intelligent, respectful +glance.</p> + +<p>“Shall we need umbrellas?” said Agnes.</p> + +<p>“I have nothing on that will spoil,” replied Sara, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_199" id="Page_199">[199]</a></span>“but I am a little anxious about your shoes. Are +they thick enough?”</p> + +<p>Miss Carillon was above many vanities; she left +her facial beauty to take care of itself. But her feet +were uncommonly well moulded, and she was careful +not to disguise them in the hideous porpoise-hide +boots with flat soles and no instep which found favour +with her generation.</p> + +<p>“They look very nice,” continued Sara, “and I +really think they are worth a slight cold. Take my +arm, for then we can walk better. How nobly Lord +Reckage has behaved in this dreadful affair of Robert +Orange! You won't think me strange for introducing +the subject at once? It must be on both our minds, +for you are naturally thinking of Reckage, and I am +thinking of dear Pensée.”</p> + +<p>“Beauclerk is very fond of Mr. Orange.”</p> + +<p>“He must be. Do notice the autumn tint on those +beech-trees. How I envy artists—although it is not +their business to contend with Nature. The great +vice of the present day is <i>bravura</i>—an attempt to do +something beyond the truth. That reminds me—how +does the portrait grow? David Rennes is extremely +clever.”</p> + +<p>“Beauclerk admires his work. He considers him +finer than Millais.”</p> + +<p>“What does he think of the portrait?”</p> + +<p>“He hasn't seen it yet. My people are much +pleased with the likeness. I find it flattering.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_200" id="Page_200">[200]</a></span>”</p> + +<p>“Indeed!” said Sara thoughtfully. “Did you +give him many sittings?”</p> + +<p>“He knows my face pretty well. We are acquaintances +of some years' standing. Papa has a high +opinion of him.”</p> + +<p>“And you?”</p> + +<p>“I am no judge. Women can know so little about +men.”</p> + +<p>“I don't agree with you there. They are far more +conventional than we are. They are trained in +batches, thousands are of one pattern—especially in +society. But each woman has an individual bringing-up. +She is influenced by a foreign governess, or +her mother, or her nurse. This must give every girl +peculiar personal views of everything. That is why +men find us hard to understand. We don't understand +each other; we suspect each other: we have +no sense of comradeship.”</p> + +<p>“Perhaps you are right,” said Agnes, rather sadly. +“Yet our troubles all seem to arise from the fact that +we cannot manage men. It matters very little really +whether we can manage women. With women, +one need only be natural, straightforward, and unselfish. +You can't come to grief that way. But with +men, it is almost impossible to be quite natural. As +for being straightforward, don't they misconstrue our +words continually? And when one tries to be unselfish, +they accuse one of hardness, coldness, and +everything most contrary to one's feelings. Of +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_201" id="Page_201">[201]</a></span>course,” she added quickly, “I speak from observation. +I have nothing to complain of myself.”</p> + +<p>“Of course not. Neither have I. I have grown +up with most of my men friends. I had no mother, +and I exhausted dozens of governesses and masters, +I am sure I was troublesome, but I had an instinctive +horror of becoming narrow-minded and getting into a +groove. My English relations bored me. My foreign +ones made my dear papa jealous and uncomfortable.”</p> + +<p>“Then you liked them?” said Agnes at once.</p> + +<p>“Enormously. You see, I am always an alien +among English people.”</p> + +<p>Agnes, following an instinct of kindness, pressed +her arm and murmured, “No, no.”</p> + +<p>“Yes, my dear, yes. And this is why I am +devoted to Mr. Disraeli, and so much interested in +Robert Orange. We three are citizens of the +world.”</p> + +<p>“But English people who have lived, for any length +of time, abroad are quite as sensible and tolerant +as you are. Take Mr. Rennes, of whom we are +just speaking.”</p> + +<p>“To be sure. But artists and poets are like stars—they +belong to no land. A strictly national painter +or a strictly national poet is bound to be parochial—a +kind of village pump. And you may write inscriptions +all over him, and build monuments above +him, but he remains a pump by a local spring. +David Rennes is a genius.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_202" id="Page_202">[202]</a></span>”</p> + +<p>“I am glad you think so,” said Agnes, with +flushing cheeks. “I wonder whether he will ever be +an Academician?”</p> + +<p>“Would you feel more sure of his gifts—in that +case?”</p> + +<p>There was a slight note of sarcasm in the question.</p> + +<p>“It is stupid of me, I know,” said Agnes frankly, +“but one can't help feeling rather shy until one's +opinions are officially endorsed.”</p> + +<p>“How British!”</p> + +<p>“I suppose it is my bringing-up. It sounds very +feeble. I often feel that if I once began—really +began—to think for myself I wouldn't stick at anything.”</p> + +<p>“That is British, too,” said Sara, laughing. “You +are a true <i>Jane</i> Bull! But as you are going to marry +a public man, that is as well. Your life will have +many absorbing interests.”</p> + +<p>“Oh yes,” returned Agnes; “I hope to help +Beauclerk in his constituency, and with the members +of his Association.”</p> + +<p>“So far as I can make out they are a weak, selfish +lot, but these qualities do not affect the question of his +duties toward them.”</p> + +<p>“You express, better than I could, my own +feeling. I fear they don't always appreciate his +motives.”</p> + +<p>“Beauclerk,” said Sara slowly, “is impulsive. He +is never afraid of changing his mind. Many people +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_203" id="Page_203">[203]</a></span>are called firm merely because they haven't the moral +courage to own their second thoughts.”</p> + +<p>Agnes drew a long sigh, slackened her pace, and +stood looking at the strange, autumnal lights in the +sky, the martins flying over the paddocks toward the +wood, and the crescent moon which already shone out +above them.</p> + +<p>“I suppose it does mean lack of courage, half the +time,” she said at last; “and yet how disastrous it +is to wonder about the wisdom of any decision once +arrived at, of any step once taken! I daresay every +one shrinks a little at first from the responsibility of +undertaking another person's happiness.”</p> + +<p>“Not every one,” replied Sara; “the generous +ones only.”</p> + +<p>“You have known Beauclerk ever since he was a +boy, haven't you?” asked Agnes.</p> + +<p>“Yes. He was such a handsome lad, and he has +always been the same.”</p> + +<p>“I am devoted to him,” said Agnes. “I am proud +to think that he has chosen me for his wife. But +one thought is perpetually coming up in my mind: +Shall I be able to make him happy? A girl, as a rule, +seems to believe that she can make a man happy +merely by loving him. Again and again friends of +mine have married in this idea. And the hope +seldom answers.”</p> + +<p>She spoke very quietly, yet there was great feeling, +even great bitterness in her tone. She was thinking +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_204" id="Page_204">[204]</a></span>of David Rennes. Sara had a curious magnetism +which attracted all those with whom she came into +friendly relations. Being imaginative, though never +inquisitive, her quick sympathies rendered the most +trivial interchange of ideas an emotional exercise. +This power, which would have made her a successful +actress, found its usual outlet in her pianoforte +playing, which affected her hearers as only +extraordinary nervous and passionate force can affect +people. She had neither the patience nor the +sternness of mental quality which is required in a +creative genius: the little songs and poems which +she sometimes composed were insipid to an astonishing +degree. Hers were the executant's gifts, +and the fascination which she exerted over men and +women depended wholly on the natural charm of a +temperament made up of fire and honey. Agnes +had always regarded Lady Sara as an odd but chivalrous +girl. The stories told in society about her +eccentric tastes, sayings, and doings were never to her +heart's discredit, no matter how much they puzzled, or +dismayed, the conventional set into which she had +been born. It was felt that she could be trusted, and, +although many were afraid of her brains, no one had +ever known her to betray a confidence, to injure +another woman's reputation, to show the least spite, +or to insist upon an undue share of men's attention. +The sex may, and do, pardon the first three sins, but the +last has yet to find its atoning virtue. All declared +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_205" id="Page_205">[205]</a></span>that Sara, with many shortcomings, was neither a +poacher nor a grabber. Girls consulted her in their +love troubles, and not a few owed their marriages to +her wise arbitration. She had the gypsy's spell. +Thus it happened, therefore, that Agnes, who was +habitually reserved, found herself thinking aloud in +the presence of this mysterious but not hostile +personality.</p> + +<p>“When does Beauclerk return from the North of +France?” asked Sara.</p> + +<p>“He is coming back with Mr. Orange next +Wednesday. I had a letter this morning.” Her +voice grew husky, and with evident agitation she +halted once more.</p> + +<p>“You know Beauclerk so well,” she said at last, +“that I want to ask you something, and you must +answer me truly—without the least dread of giving +offence—because a great deal may depend on what +you tell me. Do you think he seems altogether +settled in his mind?”</p> + +<p>Sara guessed, from the nature of the question, +that the truth in this case would be a relief—not a +blow.</p> + +<p>“He doesn't seem quite himself—if you understand +me,” she said, without hesitation.</p> + +<p>Agnes caught her arm a little more closely and +walked with a lighter step.</p> + +<p>“I don't think we love each other sufficiently for +marriage,” she exclaimed; “his last letter was so +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_206" id="Page_206">[206]</a></span>affectionate and so full of kindness that it brought +tears to my eyes. I saw the effort under it all. We +are making a tragic mistake. We drifted into it. +We were such good friends, and we felt, I daresay, +that it was our duty to love each other. His family +were pleased and so were mine. We seem to have +pleased everybody except ourselves. Not that I ever +expected the joy and stuff, and inward feelings which +one reads of. I am too sensible for that. But I wanted +to feel <i>established</i>—whereas we are both, in reality, +rather upset. I am sure of this.”</p> + +<p>“Perhaps when you see each other——“</p> + +<p>“Our letters are far more satisfactory than our +meetings. I know he is fond of me.”</p> + +<p>“You couldn't doubt that. It is worship.”</p> + +<p>“I can say, at any rate, that I am so sure of his +affection that it gives me no pain—not the least—to +miss the—the other quality.”</p> + +<p>“My dear, you are not in love with him, or you +couldn't be so resigned.”</p> + +<p>“I suppose you are right. I have never told him +that I loved him. He has never asked me. Perhaps +he took it for granted. As for me, I thought that +the respect and esteem I felt would do.”</p> + +<p>Sara shook her head.</p> + +<p>“Not for us. We are different, I know, but we +have hearts. We can suffer, we can endure, we can +be resigned, we can be everything except uncertain, +or luke-warm. Isn't that true?<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_207" id="Page_207">[207]</a></span>”</p> + +<p>“Yes,” said Agnes, and she laughed a little. “It +isn't my way,” she went on, “to talk like this about +myself. Yet I can't help seeing that all this keeping +silence, and disguising facts from one's own reason, +is actually weak. I don't want to be weak. It isn't +English. I don't want to be supine. That isn't +English either. I want to be just and square all round—in +my dealings with others and in my dealings with +my own conscience. Papa has always taught us +a great deal about individual liberty, and freedom +of will. I am beginning to wonder what liberty +means.”</p> + +<p>“That's the first step toward a great change.”</p> + +<p>The young girl set her lips, and looked steadfastly +before her, as though she would pierce the gathering +twilight with her bright and candid eyes.</p> + +<p>“I daresay you are right. Anyhow, our talk has +been a help. When I may seem to lack courage, it +is because I lack conviction. Once convinced, I can +depend upon myself.”</p> + +<p>“When did these ideas come to you?” asked +Sara.</p> + +<p>“They have been coming for some time. I have +been abroad a good deal, and I have been meeting +people who make opinions. I never gave in when I +was with them, but I must have been influenced.”</p> + +<p>The slight emphasis on the words <i>people</i> and <i>them</i> +was too studied to escape Sara's trained hearing. She +knew the force of a woman's rhetorical plural.</p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_208" id="Page_208">[208]</a></span></p> +<p>“I believe you have your convictions now, at this +moment,” she said quietly.</p> + +<p>“No—not in the final shape.”</p> + +<p>“But you can predict the final shape?”</p> + +<p>“One more day and then I will decide irrevocably.”</p> + +<p>“Why do you hesitate?”</p> + +<p>“For this reason—I must grieve papa and disappoint +my mother.”</p> + +<p>“Still, both these things have to be done. Some of +the best men have been obliged to displease their +parents in choosing a vocation. Women, in their +marriages, are often driven to the same sad straits.”</p> + +<p>“I know, but the prospect is most painful. I feel +I could bear my own disappointment far better than +I could bear theirs. Surely you understand?”</p> + +<p>“Too well.”</p> + +<p>They had now reached the house, and Agnes's +habitual manner at once re-asserted itself. Her voice, +which had many rich notes, fell into the one unchanging +tone she used in ordinary conversation. +Her countenance seemed as placid as a pink geranium +under glass.</p> + +<p>“Thank you for a very pleasant walk,” she said to +Sara. “I sha'n't forget it.”</p> + +<p>“Nor I. And, please, after this, always call me +Sara. And may I call you Agnes? We have just +time now to write a few letters before dinner.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_209" id="Page_209">[209]</a></span>”</p> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XV" id="CHAPTER_XV"></a>CHAPTER XV</h2> + + +<p>Robert, accompanied by Lord Reckage, arrived in +London the following Wednesday. Pensée and Brigit +went from St. Malo to Paris, where the unhappy girl +hoped to enter the Conservatoire. All had been +arranged by Robert himself, and he had shown a +calmness during the ordeal which might have deceived +his two friends had they been even a little insincere +themselves or a shade less fond. His Journal at that +period contains two entries, however, which show that +neither Lady Fitz Rewes nor Reckage were wrong in +fearing he had received a mortal blow which no earthly +influence could make endurable.</p> + +<blockquote><p><i>Oct., 1869.</i>—I am once more at Almouth House. +Beauclerk's consideration for me is almost more than I can +bear. The rest is not borne. If it were not cowardly, I +would go away alone, and brood at my leisure and yield to +the appalling yet all but irresistible wretchedness which +calls me, which I actually crave. An effort not to depress +or discourage others may be right and my duty. I cannot +be sure of this. Sometimes I feel as though it would be +wiser to meet the dark hours and make acquaintance +with them.... And what is to become of her? The +longing to see her—even in the distance....</p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_210" id="Page_210">[210]</a></span></p> +<p>To-night I talked with Reckage about his Bond of +Association. Most of the members feel toward him that +insipid kind of hatred which passes for friendship in public +life. If he were naturally observant, he would see this; +if he were given at all to self-doubt, he would feel it. +But his way is to regard most men as ill-mannered and +well-meaning.</p> + +<p><i>Tuesday.</i>—Another day. I begin to see that I have +been called to make every sacrifice—marriage, ambition, +happiness, all must be abandoned: abandoned while I live, +not after I have made myself, by years of self-discipline, +indifferent to such considerations.... But for its piety, +the <i>Imitation</i> is, I think, the most pessimistic book in the +world. The <i>Exercises</i> of St. Ignatius (perhaps because he +was a saint) produce quite an opposite effect upon me; +they exhort us to hope, action, courage. They make one +a citizen of both worlds. Merely to read him is a campaign +in the open air against a worthy foe. I defy any +man to go through the <i>Exercises</i> with his whole heart, and +even whine again. I have resolved to write willingly no +more, to speak willingly no more, on the subject of my +marriage. That page is turned for ever: there shall be no +glancing back. Moods inevitably must come; spasms of +despair are as little tractable as spasms of physical pain. +But I can at least keep silent about their true cause. The +first step toward the cure of egoism is to lock away one's +Journal. I shall add no more to this till I have mastered +my present state. And I wonder what that mastery will +mean? Are some victories better lost?</p></blockquote> + +<p>The Journal ends abruptly at this point, and no +more was added that year. His letter to Lord Wight +has been preserved because his lordship sent it to +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_211" id="Page_211">[211]</a></span>Pensée in some anger, begging her to explain such +callousness. Pensée, being a woman, brought a +gentler understanding to the inquiry.</p> + +<p>“Don't you see,” she said, “that his heart is +broken?”</p> + +<p>“I see,” returned his lordship drily, “he is a born +R. C. ecclesiastic. Religious instinct is the ruling +passion of Orange. That poor young woman—with +whom he is madly in love—was merely an accident of +his career. She has affected his character—yes. I +suppose Cardinal Manning's wife had her influence in +her day. But Robert will work better than ever after +this. Whereas look at me, my dear. When I lost +Sybil, I was completely done for. I tried to set up for +myself, but I couldn't. I hope I am a Christian; God +forbid that I should quarrel with His will. Yet I +cannot think I am a better man for my poor darling's +death. Don't talk to me. Don't say anything.”</p> + +<p>The letter in question ran as follows:—</p> + +<blockquote><p class="i20"><span class="smcap">Almouth House</span>.</p><p class="nospaceabove"><span class="smcap">My dear Lord Wight</span>,—</p> + +<p>The messages which you have sent by Lady Fitz Rewes +have helped me where I most needed assistance. When I +tell you this, it would be more possible for you to imagine +my gratitude than for me to express it—at least, in words, +and for that matter I can't see how any act of mine could +prove even a fraction of it. Shall I resume my work on +the 28th? I have had to learn that one does not always +choose one's vocation. It is sometimes chosen for us. May +I beg you, as one more favour, never to talk to me about +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_212" id="Page_212">[212]</a></span>the events of the last fortnight? In one sense I am able—too +able—to discuss them. This is why I must not indulge +myself. In times to come I may find it, perhaps, a certain +effort to speak of it all. Then I will tell you gladly anything +your kindness may seek to know. But just now it is +my duty to keep silent. One cannot fight the wild beasts, +and describe them fairly, at the same hour. Either they +seem more formidable than they are, or they are even more +terrible than they seem. But the order has gone forth—“Face +them.”</p><p class="i8 nospaceabove">Your affectionate and grateful,</p><p class="i12 nospaceabove"><span class="smcap">Robert</span> de <span class="smcap">H. Orange</span>.</p></blockquote> + +<p>Robert himself, after he had written this final letter, +decided to reply in person to a note which he had +received that morning from Lady Sara. He walked to +St. James's Square wondering, without much interest, +whether Fate would have her absent or at home. +As a matter of fact, she had felt a presentiment of his +call, and he found her, beautifully dressed in violet tints, +copying some Mass music in the drawing-room.</p> + +<p>“I hoped you would come,” she said, when the +servant had closed the door. “Nothing else could +have shown me that you didn't mind my writing. I +had to write. I wrote badly, but indeed I understood. +It takes an eternity to sound the infinite. We won't +talk of you: we can talk about other people. Ask +me what I have been doing.”</p> + +<p>All this time she held his hand, but in such sisterly, +kind fashion, that he felt more at ease with her than +it was ever possible to be with Pensée, who was timid, +and therefore disturbing.</p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_213" id="Page_213">[213]</a></span></p> +<p>“Have you accepted Marshire?” he asked at +once.</p> + +<p>“No,” she said, blushing; “I do not love him +sufficiently to marry him.”</p> + +<p>“How is this?”</p> + +<p>“You know that I always fly from important +mediocrities. You think that sounds heartless. He +has been so kind to me. But I love as I must—not +as I ought. My dear friend, all the trouble in life is +due to forced affection. Look at Beauclerk! Think +of Agnes Carillon! What fiery fierceness of sorrow +in both their hearts! Papa and I were at Lady Churleigh's +last Sunday. Agnes was there, looking, believe +me, lovely. No portrait does her justice. One finds +marvellous beauty, now and again, in the middle +classes. She is an exquisite <i>bourgeoise</i>. She is not +clever enough to feel bored; she is too well brought up +to be fascinating; too handsome to insist on homage. +Plain women are exacting and capricious—they make +themselves <i>worth while</i>. <i>Il faut se faire valoir!</i> That +is why a man will often adore an ugly woman for ever, +whereas an Agnes—an Agnes——“</p> + +<p>She paused, gave him a glance, and laughed.</p> + +<p>“Does Beauclerk adore Agnes?” said she.</p> + +<p>“Can one man judge another in these questions?”</p> + +<p>“If neither are hypocrites—yes.”</p> + +<p>“As for conscious hypocrisy, a priest of great experience +once told me that in twenty years he had met +but one deliberate hypocrite. You must be less +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_214" id="Page_214">[214]</a></span>cynical. Men, however, don't watch each other +closely as a rule in sentimental matters.”</p> + +<p>“If that is a reproof, I thank you for it,” she answered. +“It may do me good. This wayward soul +of mine is all wrong. Be patient with me. I can't +help thinking that most men living are, at the bottom, +wholly selfish and truly miserable.”</p> + +<p>“Very few people are truly miserable. If this were +not the case, the world and all creatures must have +perished long ago.”</p> + +<p>“Well, I can tell you of three wretches at any +rate.”</p> + +<p>“Three—against the world and all the planets and +heaven?” said he.</p> + +<p>“Yes. They are Beauclerk, and Agnes and I. +We want time and space annihilated in order that we +may be happy. We must be humorous studies to +those looking on, but we are, nevertheless, utterly +desperate. This is true. Scold me now—if you can. +Tell me what is to become of us—if you dare.”</p> + +<p>She stood up. She clenched her small hands, set +her lips, and grew so pale that the pearls around her +neck seemed dark.</p> + +<p>“Tell me what is to become of us—if you dare,” +she repeated, “because mischief is certain. You +belong to those who endure and fight good fights, +and keep the faith. Beauclerk and I are of another +order altogether. We suffer without endurance, we +fight without winning, and the little faith we have is +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_215" id="Page_215">[215]</a></span>so little that it is taken away from us. As for Agnes—wait! +She is encased, at present, in conventionalities. +But she is gradually getting rid of these wrappings +and trappings. She will surprise you all yet.”</p> + +<p>“I can believe that. She is a woman, and a good +one. All the surprising, inconceivable things are done +by good women.”</p> + +<p>“And most of the wicked things, too.”</p> + +<p>“Possibly.”</p> + +<p>“Let me tell you then that, if it is possible in the +circumstances, Agnes ought to give Beauclerk his +release. It would be no more than his right to +demand this.”</p> + +<p>“A right is something independent of circumstances, +and paramount to them. But when you once talk +of your rights and your wrongs in love, all love is +gone, or going. I hope it hasn't come to that—with +Reckage!”</p> + +<p>“You have great knowledge of him and know how +to press it home when you choose. Can't you see, +plainly enough, that he is on the road to disaster?”</p> + +<p>“No. One may easily be a long way from happiness +and still be nowhere near disaster,” he said, +checking a deep sigh. “Of course, if he feels that +he cannot in honour remain in his present situation, +he must act at once. Men who are desirous to satisfy +all their friends soon become irresolute on every occasion. +That is all I shall say upon the subject, and +this, perhaps, may be saying more than I ought.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_216" id="Page_216">[216]</a></span>”</p> + +<p>“Another reproof! So be it. But I am thinking +of his contentment, and you are thinking of his duty. +What is duty? It generally means that which your +acquaintances—for no reason and without warrant—expect +of you. I take a larger view.”</p> + +<p>“People of Beauclerk's stamp are so constituted +that they can rarely find contentment by defying a +general opinion.”</p> + +<p>“But Agnes is not a pretty, crying, fluttering +creature who would excite compassion. Who, for +instance, could jilt Pensée? I don't wish Beauclerk +to jilt anybody, however. I want Agnes to take the +step.”</p> + +<p>“Why?” he asked.</p> + +<p>“Because he will break his heart and die—if she +doesn't. There!”</p> + +<p>“Then it will be your fault.”</p> + +<p>“Mr. Orange!”</p> + +<p>“You know it, and I mean it.”</p> + +<p>She smiled at him and shrugged her shoulders.</p> + +<p>“Do you think I would ever take the commonplace +course?” she said proudly. “I did hope that +you could appreciate motives for which the world at +large is slow enough to give credit. Beauclerk is +weak, attractive, and in perplexity; I search my heart +again and again, and I find nothing but friendship there—for +him. I am careful of every word I speak, and +every look, and every thought. My interest is +unselfish. But,” she added, “what can any of us +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_217" id="Page_217">[217]</a></span>do, after all, toward raising either dead bodies or +dead souls?”</p> + +<p>“Dead souls?”</p> + +<p>“Yes. Beauclerk might have been something +once; he is still very clever; he will soon be a man +for occasional addresses. I believe in him, you see.”</p> + +<p>“I know that.”</p> + +<p>She was smiling, yet almost in tears, and her voice +trembled. He wished to speak, if only to break the +sudden, oppressive silence which followed her last +words; but neither of them could find a thought to +offer. They sat facing each other, lost in following +out unutterable conjectures, fancies, and doubts, each +painfully aware of a certain mystery, each filled with +a sure premonition of troubles to come.</p> + +<p>“I could almost pray,” she exclaimed at last, “that +you didn't trust him. Because—in spite of himself—he +must disappoint every one. He is not a deliberate +traitor—but a born one.”</p> + +<p>As Sara spoke the double doors were thrown open.</p> + +<p>Lord Reckage was announced.</p> + +<p>“Beauclerk!” she exclaimed.</p> + +<p>His lordship, self-absorbed, did not perceive her +confusion—which she was too young to dissemble +perfectly.</p> + +<p>“The man told me that you were here,” he said, +addressing Orange and seating himself by Sara. “I +call this luck—finding you both together. I have +just been with my Committee. They always expect +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_218" id="Page_218">[218]</a></span>the worst of me now, and they are always cheerful in +the expectation.”</p> + +<p>Sara began to disentangle some silk fringe on her +skirt; she did not look up, and she offered no comment.</p> + +<p>“What is the matter now?” asked Robert.</p> + +<p>“They want to get rid of me. You see, one might +practise very considerably on the credulity of the +members if one chose, and these fellows on the +Executive wish me to take a cautious line with regard +to Dr. Temple's nomination.<i>[Mr. Gladstone's nomination of Dr. Temple to the See of Exeter.]</i> It is all very well for +Pusey to write, ‘Do you prefer your party to Almighty +God and to the souls of men?’ But, as Aumerle says, +Pusey is not in the House of Commons. An attack on +Temple will be highly unpopular. We have sounded +opinion in various quarters, and we receive the +unanimous reply—‘Have nothing to do with it.’ +There is a feeling in the clubs, too, that vapid, colourless +orthodoxy is not wanted in England. Healthy +disagreement within limits suits us. The question is, +then: Ought I to go against this strong tide and +get myself disliked?”</p> + +<p>“Yes,” said Sara at once.</p> + +<p>“You think so?”</p> + +<p>“Beyond a doubt.”</p> + +<p>“Of course,” said his lordship, readily enough, “a +combination in defence of any article of the faith is +a noble thing. My original idea was to get up a +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_219" id="Page_219">[219]</a></span>combination of High and Low and Broad Churchmen, +and make a stand on purely legal grounds. For +instance, how can the bishops, <i>without previous +explanation</i>, consecrate one lying under the censure +of their House? That is all. There is nothing +offensive in that. We merely ask for an explanation: +we offer no judgment: we state no prejudice. If Dr. +Temple intends to withdraw his paper from <i>Essays and +Reviews</i>—well and good. Personally, he bears the +highest character. He would be, in many ways, an +acquisition to the Church. But does he himself +believe in the Church as a Divine institution—mark +you, a <i>Divine</i> institution? Neither the <i>Outs</i> nor the +<i>Ins</i>, I should think, could object to this question. +Aumerle and the Executive, however, are dead against +any proceedings at all. They think we ought to give +our Association a more secular character. They say +we are hampered by too vehement a religious tone. +They say that broad Christian principles are more +workable. Besides, the word Christian always attracts +the Nonconformists in spite of themselves. They are +bound to support you if you stick to the line of a +believer in Christ—irrespective of particular doctrines. +And so on and so on. I prefer something more hard +and fast myself. Yet they may be right. One must +go with the times.”</p> + +<p>He shifted his chair several times during this speech, +looking first at Orange and then at Sara for encouragement.</p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_220" id="Page_220">[220]</a></span></p> +<p>“Your Executive are poor creatures,” said Sara, +with a curling lip; “your weak theologians have +become flabby politicians—their one rule of action +is to avoid everything which demands even the +possibility of self-sacrifice or adverse criticism.”</p> + +<p>“That is most unfair,” said Reckage hotly. “One +must see where one is going.”</p> + +<p>“The world,” said Sara, “in the long run, despises +those who pander to it.”</p> + +<p>“Yes, but it is in the <i>long</i> run, and no mistake! +What a fellow you are, Robert! Why don't +you suggest something? Are you trying to find the +civilest thing you can say of the performance?”</p> + +<p>“It is the system which you must attack in the +present difficulty. The system is at fault—not Dr. +Temple,” said Robert.</p> + +<p>“No other system can be now looked to as a +substitute,” answered Reckage impatiently. “The +thing cannot be done away now, the danger is too near.”</p> + +<p>“Exactly. The English can never deal with +systems or ideas. They can only attack individuals—you +depend in a crisis on the passions of men, never +on their reason. Whereas if you overhauled their +reason, worked it, and trained it, the passions, at the +critical moment, would be roused with better effect, +and would be properly organised. Organised passions +are what you need for a strong public movement. +Whirling emotions in contrary currents are utterly +futile.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_221" id="Page_221">[221]</a></span>”</p> + +<p>“I daresay. I hoped we might make such efforts +as to fix a lasting impression on both Houses that the +State appointment of bishops, coupled with the farce +of a <i>congé d'élire</i>, is rank blasphemy. This outrage on +good taste ought to occupy the attention of every +man. It is quite enough to fill the minds of all.”</p> + +<p>“It won't,” said Robert. “You must remember +that whatever strikes the mind of an average man, +as the result of his own observation and discovery, +makes always the strongest impression upon him. +Now the average man is not engaged in studying +Church government. He will not thank you for +calling his attention to it.”</p> + +<p>“Then what do you want Beauclerk to do?” +asked Sara.</p> + +<p>“He must fight just the same, of course. I merely +wish him to see what he has to encounter. By +dragging the clergy into the movement you make +it savour—to the popular intelligence—of professional +jealousy. By making Dr. Temple your example, +you render those who respect his character powerless +to express their opinion. Given the system, he is +unquestionably the fittest man to profit by it.”</p> + +<p>Reckage took many turns round the room.</p> + +<p>“The personal character of Dean Ethbin,” he said, +at last, “is not exactly square. He acts a trimming part. +But now and again he sums up a situation. He says +that the English people do not choose to keep up an +Established Church which shall be independent of its +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_222" id="Page_222">[222]</a></span>Sovereign and Legislature. I have seen most of the +bishops and archdeacons. They are against Temple; +they say very little about the system. Even men +with nothing to gain by it,” he added, ingenuously, +“don't appear to criticise it.”</p> + +<p>“For all that, the Church must deliver her conscience +at whatever risk. She ought to assert her will—even +against her interest—in order to show England +that she is her own mistress!”</p> + +<p>“You mean that ironically! What does for Rome, +however, doesn't do for us. The Church of England +is It—not She—to most people. As for Rome, +nothing in her belongs to humanity, except the +Vatican discipline—the life of which, I confess, is a +permanent miracle!”</p> + +<p>“My best friends,” entreated Sara gaily, “do not—do +not fight. Be nice to each other and listen to me. +The English never read history. Why not get up a +kind of Historical Commission and examine the validity +of the Anglican Orders? There you can work at the +roots of things. After that, introduce a Bill for the +admission of clergymen to Parliament. You have +spiritual peers, why not spiritual Commons?”</p> + +<p>“One at a time,” said Reckage; “what ideas you +have! Say them again. I believe they are not half +bad. But do go more slowly.”</p> + +<p>Sara, with a becoming instinct of meekness, took her +favourite seat on the fender, and at the feet of the two +men, looking up humbly, began to explain herself +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_223" id="Page_223">[223]</a></span>with that lightness of phrase only possible to those +who have a profound knowledge of their subject. Her +submissive attitude, her soft, musical voice, and her +docile expression made both men insensible to the +actual commands insinuated into the emotional wit +and acute arguments of her little speech. Reckage +was fascinated. He sat there drinking in her beauty +and wisdom—the one stimulated his senses, the other +pierced his intelligence, making him feel that, with +such a companion ever by his side, he might achieve +heroism with a good conscience. As matters were, +he was often dissatisfied, sleepless, and oppressed—particularly +under praise. He was not often set right, +as he would have said it, in his own opinion—even +when the world and his Executive Committee were +disposed to cry out—“Well done.”</p> + +<p>“I didn't run within pounds of my form,” was the +cry of self-reproach he invariably heard above the +applause of his colleagues or the commendation of +the Press. Sara, he believed, would give him the +courage of his own better nature. These thoughts +were passing rosily in his heart, when Lord Garrow, +accompanied by Agnes Carillon, entered the room.</p> + +<p>“My love,” said Lord Garrow to Sara, “I met Miss +Carillon on the steps of the London Library, and I have +brought her in to tea. But why do you sit in the +firelight? Why haven't they lit the gas? And who +is here?”</p> + +<p>A sudden flame from the grate illuminated the faces +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_224" id="Page_224">[224]</a></span>of Orange and Lord Reckage. The two ladies +greeted each other. All spoke, and then all were +silent. It was an awkward meeting for every one +present. Lord Garrow rang the bell, and the small +company sat there without a word, watching the +footman light the gas in the glass chandelier.</p> + +<p>“What do you suppose we have been talking +about?” asked Sara desperately.</p> + +<p>“I can't imagine, my dear,” said her father. “I am +far too cross. I hate these odd ways.”</p> + +<p>“We were discussing the validity of Anglican +Orders.”</p> + +<p>“God bless my soul!” exclaimed his lordship; +“what next?”</p> + +<p>Agnes, who was looking pale and worried, frowned +with displeasure.</p> + +<p>“But how disloyal!” she said severely. “As if one +could even discuss such a question!”</p> + +<p>“Mr. Orange is a Roman Catholic,” answered Sara, +“so he is not disloyal. I am nothing—so I have no +obligations. Lord Reckage is in public life and has +to meet the problems of the age. Don't be narrow, +dear Agnes.”</p> + +<p>“I think it too bad, all the same,” replied Miss +Carillon—“even in fun. I am sure I am right.”</p> + +<p>Lord Reckage tried to conceal his annoyance, but +his voice shook a little as he said—</p> + +<p>“We were not joking. New men will come in, +not improbably with new ideas. I must be ready for +them. An ignorance of men's moods is fatal.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_225" id="Page_225">[225]</a></span>”</p> + +<p>He hoped she would take this warning to herself. +She was, however, too stirred to consider anything +except the cause of their common agitation.</p> + +<p>“Dr. Benson was saying to papa only last week,” +she answered, “that there is no apparent recognition +of the Divine presence in our daily affairs. It is most +shocking.”</p> + +<p>“The clergy are doing their level best, by bigotry, +to make Benson's assertion true. At any rate, I am +not going about, as the French put it, with my paws +in the air. I feel strongly tempted to throw up my +present line, and give the whole Association to the best +qualified hypocrite of my acquaintance.”</p> + +<p>“The sure way out of that temptation is not to +think yourself exposed to it,” said Robert quickly.</p> + +<p>“I hate sophistries,” said Agnes, tightening her +lips. “And I hope, Beauclerk, that you will never +remain in any painful situation against your will.”</p> + +<p>These words seemed to bear an ominous significance. +Agnes herself, having uttered them, received +one of those sudden inward illuminations which, in +some natures, amount to second-sight. But she was +unimaginative and not especially observant, sensitive, +or skilled in discerning the signs of any psychological +disturbance. She felt only, on this occasion, that a +crisis had been reached, that Reckage was vexed with +himself, with her, with life generally. She had a +letter in her pocket from David Rennes—a beautiful, +touching letter, full of longing for a faith, a hope—love, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_226" id="Page_226">[226]</a></span>he said, he possessed, alas! What a difference in the +two men!</p> + +<p>“You don't understand,” said Sara. “You are +right because you haven't heard enough. Mr. Orange +is going to give a lecture on Church History, and +Lord Reckage has promised to be chairman. They +will hold the meeting at St. James's Hall, and I am +sure it will be most interesting. More I cannot tell +you, because they have gone no further in their plans.”</p> + +<p>But misfortune had entered the room, and that +wayfarer—once admitted—asserts her ill-will without +let or hindrance. Agnes, barely touching her tea, +rose to say goodbye. Lord Garrow and Reckage +escorted her to the hall. They helped her into a +carriage (lent her for that afternoon by the Duchess of +Pevensey), and she drove away, trembling, tearful, +afraid, not reminding her <i>fiancé</i> that they were to +meet at dinner in the evening. He walked homeward, +but not until he had decided, after much hesitation, +that he could scarcely go back again to Lady Sara. +His thoughts were fixed now to one refrain—“I must +have my freedom.” Freedom, at that moment, had a +mocking, lovely face, the darkest blue eyes, and +quantities of long, black hair. She wore a violet dress, +her hands were white, and she talked like a Blue Book +set to music by Beethoven. Yes, he must have his +freedom and live.</p> + +<p>Sara and Orange, meanwhile, left alone in the +drawing-room, were exchanging interrogatory glances, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_227" id="Page_227">[227]</a></span>“What do you think now?” she asked; “do you +pretend to believe that Agnes and Beauclerk can make +each other even moderately contented?”</p> + +<p>“Then you are to blame.”</p> + +<p>A flush swept over her face. She looked bitter +reproaches, but she made no answer.</p> + +<p>“And why are you so interested in Anglican +Orders?” he continued. “How is it that you know +your subject so well? For you do know it well.”</p> + +<p>“Catholic questions always appeal to me,” she said +coldly. “I have no religion, but I come from a race +of politicians and soldiers—on my mother's side. I +must have an intellectual <i>pied à terre</i>, and I require a +good cause. Party politics are too parochial for me. +So I am on the side of the Vatican.”</p> + +<p>“<i>La reine s'amuse</i>,” said Robert. “Is that all?”</p> + +<p>“Yes, that's all.”</p> + +<p>She turned over the music on her writing-table and +hummed some bars from the Kyrie of Mozart's +Twelfth Mass.</p> + +<p>“If you were a Jesuit,” said she, “you would try to +convert me.”</p> + +<p>“St. Ignatius never wasted time over insincere +women.”</p> + +<p>“I am not insincere,” she said frankly. “I own I +may seem so. But you are not kind, and some day +you may be sorry for this.”</p> + +<p>Her eyes filled with tears—which he noticed and +attributed to fatigue.</p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_228" id="Page_228">[228]</a></span></p> +<p>“I wonder how men ever accomplish anything!” +she exclaimed.</p> + +<p>“Why?”</p> + +<p>“They have no insight. They mistake self-control +for coldness, and despair for flippancy. Isn't that the +case?”</p> + +<p>“One can be light and true as well as light and +false. Now you are witty, beautiful, brilliant—but +you don't always ring true.”</p> + +<p>She seemed confused for a minute, and hung her +head.</p> + +<p>“All the same,” she said, suddenly, “I am always +sincere with you. It is not in my power to be so +with every one. ‘Fate overrules my will.’”</p> + +<p>“That is the trouble with most of us.”</p> + +<p>Then he wished her goodbye, promising, however, +to call again with regard to the Meeting. Lord +Garrow met him on the staircase.</p> + +<p>“I congratulate you on your election to Brookes's,” +stammered his lordship, “but for Heaven's sake be +cautious at play. Really, the younger men there are +trying to revive the worst traditions in gaming. The +loo was rather high at Chetwynd's last night,” he +added, with a studied air of guilt. “I won £500 +from my host. I call that the limit—even on old +Cabinet Steinberg!”</p> + +<p>He smiled, he waved his hand, feeling that he had +displayed great taste in a situation of enormous difficulty. +Something unusual, too, in the young man's +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_229" id="Page_229">[229]</a></span>face touched his heart. It seemed to him that here +was one who had felt the world's buffets.</p> + +<p>“I have never been just in my estimate of Mr. +Orange,” said he to Sara, as he re-entered the drawing-room. +“I quite took to him to-day. He has a fine +countenance, and I am sure he is very much cut up +by this painful affair. It's a pity he's a Catholic, for +he would make such an excellent canon for St. Paul's. +He would <i>look</i> the part so well.”</p> + +<p>“‘Happiness, that nymph with unreturning feet,’ has +passed him by,” said Sara, watching herself in one of +the mirrors.</p> + +<p>“She has passed a good many,” sighed his lordship. +“But play me that lovely air which Titiens sings in +<i>Il Flauto Magico</i>.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_230" id="Page_230">[230]</a></span>”</p> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XVI" id="CHAPTER_XVI"></a>CHAPTER XVI</h2> + + +<p>Agnes was too ill to appear at the Duchess of +Pevensey's dinner that evening. Lord Reckage's +melancholy, absent air during the entertainment, and +his early withdrawal from the distinguished party, +were referred, with sympathy, to the very proper +distress he felt at Miss Carillon's tiresome indisposition. +The time passed well enough for him—far better, in +fact, than he had expected, for he was relieved from +the strain of “dancing attendance” on his betrothed—a +thing which he, even more than most men, found +silly. In the chivalrous days of tournaments, troubadours +and crusades this romantic exercise of seeming +enslaved was, he held, justifiable, even interesting. +But in modern life it had an appearance of over-emphasis.</p> + +<p>Poor Agnes, however, could neither eat, nor sleep, +nor rest. Her temples throbbed, her eyes ached; +every nerve was a barbed wire; her soul was manacled +by promises; she would not use her reason; the fever +in her veins was not to be quelled, and the one +agitating relief to her physical suffering was a constant +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_231" id="Page_231">[231]</a></span>perusal of David Rennes's letter. It was the first +passionate love-letter she had ever received. Just as +a river may stream peacefully through pastoral lands +till it joins the sea and becomes one with that vast +element of unrest, so the little flame of her girl's +nature was absorbed at last into the great fire underlying +all humanity. Was she in love? she asked +herself. When she was with Rennes she became +silent, incapable of conversation, of thought. All she +asked was to be near him, to watch him, to hear him.</p> + +<p>Was this love? Was it love to press his letter +to her heart, to read it again and again, to keep +it under her pillow at night? Was it love to think +of him every moment of the day, to compare all +others to him and find them wanting, to see his +face always before her eyes? Was it love to know +that if he called her, as he called her now, she would +leave home, father, mother, friends, all things, all +people, and follow him to the world's end, to the +beginning of hell, or—further? At one-and-twenty +such questions need no answer. They belong to the +innocent rhetoric of youth which will cry out to +June, “Are you fair?” and to the autumnal moon +in mist, “Must there be rain?” Neither June nor +the moon make reply, but youth has no doubts. The +girl, weeping tears of joy over Rennes's perilous +words, had but one clear regret in her mind—she +could not see him for some hours. His declaration +dispelled the terrible bitterness, scepticism, and in<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_232" id="Page_232">[232]</a></span>difference +to all sentiment which had gradually +permeated, during their acquaintance, her whole +heart. Repulsed affection may turn to hatred in +haughty, impatient souls. But in Agnes it produced +a moral languor—a mental indolence—the feeling +that no one was in earnest, and nothing ought to +matter. The more this feeling deepened, the more +attentively did she observe the mere outward etiquette +of all that passes for seriousness, attending scrupulously +to the minor obligations of existence and exhausting +her courage in those petty matters which die with the +day and yield no apparent fruit. How different now +seemed the colourless, harsh fabric which she had +mistaken for duty and wrapped—as a shroud—about +her secret hopes! She had held every aspiration +implying happiness as a “proverb of reproach”; she +had endeavoured to believe that all poetry—except +hymns—was false prophecy leading one to hard entanglements +and grievous falls.</p> + +<p>And what had been the impoverishment of her soul +under this grim discipline? How could she tell the +many thoughts which had travelled unquestioned over +the highway of her heart during that process of disillusion? +But all was changed now, and all that +had been difficult, painful or obscure in the world +seemed perfect with the inexhaustible glory of young +passion. Rennes begged her to see him once more before +he left England for some years. Would she meet him +in Kensington Gardens? She had often walked there, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_233" id="Page_233">[233]</a></span>under the old trees, with himself and Mrs. Rennes, +and the place had become very dear, very familiar +to her from these associations. At any other time, +however, the idea of a clandestine meeting with David +would have been intolerable. To go now was misery, +yet she dared not stay away. The sunny morning +mixed with her mood, which was one of determination +to risk all in order to win all. Driven by a sense +of her capabilities for endurance, she faced, with a +kind of exultation, the possible disaster or remorse +which might follow her action. Was there not +a possible joy also? For ten days now she had +been ill in body as well as mind; she had suffered +a hard struggle. She knew now that she could not, +could not, could not, no matter what happened, +become the wife of Lord Reckage. The result +of great self-delusion for so long a period was a +condition of mind in which she was practically unable +to distinguish between candour and disingenuousness. +Any appearance of deceit—which she regarded as +wrong in itself—always excited her scorn, but desperation +now urged a step which might lead, she thought, +to much good or much evil. That it could lead +to more evil than a loveless marriage was not, however, +to be feared. She started from the house with +feverish cheeks, a beating pulse, and a new strange +consciousness of power—power over herself, her fate, +the world.</p> + +<p>Rennes was waiting for her under the long avenue +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_234" id="Page_234">[234]</a></span>of trees by the Lancaster Gate walk. She had a tall, +stately figure of that type immortalised by Du +Maurier—indeed, she herself may be recognised in +some of his famous society sketches about the year +1870. The clear, decisive features, the tender discerning +expression, the poise of the head, were +irresistibly attractive to all artists with a strong sense +of grace—even artificial grace—as opposed to rude +vigour or homeliness. She possessed naturally that +almost unreal elegance which many painters—Frederick +Walker, for instance—have been accused +of inventing.</p> + +<p>“This is very wrong of me,” she said, blushing as +Rennes advanced, hat in hand, to meet her, “very +wrong. I never do these things.”</p> + +<p>“I said in my letter—right or wrong it matters not—what +I thought. This is a thing which runs up +into eternity, Agnes. It had to be. We needn't +try to justify it.”</p> + +<p>“I cannot—I dare not regard it as you do.”</p> + +<p>“But you have come! Let me look at you!”</p> + +<p>“Does it require much looking to see that I am +really unhappy?”</p> + +<p>“I see that you are beautiful, that you are here—with +me. Ah, don't be unhappy! When we take +into account our scanty time together”—he grew +pale at the thought—“and the danger we have just +missed of losing each other, perhaps for ever——“ +She caught his hand for a second and he kept it.</p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_235" id="Page_235">[235]</a></span></p> +<p>“What is to be done?” she asked, after an agitated +silence. “What will people say? Not that I can +think of <i>anything</i> to do.”</p> + +<p>“Darling, I know I have asked you to make an +impossible sacrifice—to break off a most brilliant +marriage, to marry me and share the despair, hardships, +tortures of a life very different to any you have +seen. Well has Goethe said—</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"><i> +<span class="i0">‘Love not the sun too much, nor yet the stars,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Come, follow me to the realms of night.’<br /></span> +</i></div></div> + +<p>This is what I offer you, dearest. You can hardly +realise what a wretched, desolate existence mine has +been. Resignation is a miserable refuge. They say +work gives one contentment, but unless one is servile +and gives in to the spirit of the age, it is rarely understood +till one is dead. And so the discouragement +is perpetual. Even your sympathy would pain me at +such times. I feel then—as I feel now—that I will +grasp Fate by the throat; it shall not utterly crush +me.”</p> + +<p>“But,” said Agnes, a little frightened at this outburst, +“do you never think of God and His +Will?”</p> + +<p>He returned her anxious glance with gloomy, almost +compassionate amazement.</p> + +<p>“Does God think of me?” he asked. “Really, I +cannot feel that the salvation of my soul is so important. +Indeed, any idea of immortality is awful +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_236" id="Page_236">[236]</a></span>How could it ever be a consolation—except to a +smug, very self-satisfied egoism? Call it the burden—or +the cross of immortality—if you call it anything. +I wish it could be proved that we end when we +die. But physicians dissect <i>dead</i> bodies to find the +soul. It would not be a soul if they could find it +in the dead. And imagine one becoming penitent +when the day of grace is over!”</p> + +<p>“I keep Clement's words before me, ‘<i>The Lord who +died for us is not our enemy.</i>’ Surely that is a splendid +thought against final despair.”</p> + +<p>“Many thoughts are splendid,” he replied, “if we +could believe them now as the early Christians did in +the first centuries.”</p> + +<p>Agnes, with parted, whitening lips, could find no +response. Rennes painted her afterwards in the same +attitude, and with all he remembered of her expression, +in his now famous picture, <i>Pilate's Wife</i>.</p> + +<p>“You will never be happy—never,” she murmured +at last. “But perhaps no one is happy.”</p> + +<p>“I can grant that the saints were always profoundly +happy. Let me tell you why. The state of the saint +is one of dependence. His convictions, therefore, are +enduring and unclouded. He accepts his trials as +privileges; he loses all sense of his own identity; his +humanity is merged in God; his ecstasies lift him +up to heaven and bring him down to a transfigured +earth. He has been bought with a ransom, and he +is the co-heir with Christ. He is found worthy of +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_237" id="Page_237">[237]</a></span>suffering. But with artists, all is different. The +saint is in search of holiness. The artist thinks chiefly +of beauty. Holiness is a state of mind—it is something +permanent. Beauty, however, mocks one half +the time—it may be a deception. Anyhow, one +cannot define it, or keep it, or even satisfactorily catch +it. Our inspired moments, therefore, alternate with a +miserable knowledge of our individual wretchedness. +We learn that we are no stronger than our individuality. +That is the barrier between us and our +visions. The saint has God before his eyes, and he +carries Him in his heart. The artist sees only himself +and bears only the weight of his own incompetence. +But these, darling, are not the things I meant to +say to you, although they may explain my life. The +common run of people wouldn't understand all this in +the least.”</p> + +<p>“I want to hear all—I want to enter into all your +thoughts, David. I have always known that those +who devote themselves to the study of what is sublime +and beautiful suffer proportionately from the squalor +of actual facts.”</p> + +<p>She quoted from one or her father's speeches which +he invariably gave with much earnestness at the +opening of schools of art and similar institutions.</p> + +<p>“The world,” replied Rennes, “rewards the beautiful +only inasmuch as it flatters the senses, and the +sublime remains—so far as the general taste is concerned—altogether +without response.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_238" id="Page_238">[238]</a></span>”</p> + +<p>“But one would think,” said Agnes, “that you +were a disappointed or an unsuccessful man, whereas +every one admires your genius.”</p> + +<p>He laughed at her practical bent, which seemed +the more fascinating because of her picturesque +appearance.</p> + +<p>“One often feels cast down without the least cause,” +said he; “the truth is we all want more praise than +we get. We are a vain lot, that's the trouble. Let +me paint myself in the blackest colours. You must +know the worst—you must realise the bad bargain +you may make. Reckage would never bore and tire +you in this way. How can you care for me?”</p> + +<p>“It <i>is</i> hard!” she said, smiling.</p> + +<p>“Darling! Do you remember the white violets at +Woodbridge, and sitting on that gate looking across +that deep valley at the bonfires? Wasn't it perfect? +Look through these trees now—see the flames and +smoke? They are burning dead leaves and twigs. I +wish I could burn my past. This may be a good +omen for me. But I must not deceive you; that +would be a bad beginning.”</p> + +<p>“We must decide on some course,” said Agnes. +“Your letter was quite clear, but I suppose I am +not going on as I ought to do. My present position +is that of a person telling a lie to people. Before you +wrote, however, I had made up my mind to <i>some</i> +change. I could give no good grounds for carrying +out my engagement to Beauclerk. The motives +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_239" id="Page_239">[239]</a></span>would not bear examination. I intended to be patient +till the way was mercifully cleared for me. Even +birds, in cold weather, grow tame from distress. +So I waited in a dull, frozen way for what might +happen.”</p> + +<p>He remembered, with a pang of remorse, that he +had once called this devoted woman an accomplished, +incurable Philistine.</p> + +<p>“I must put myself in the wrong with regard to +Beauclerk,” she continued quietly. “That is merely +fair to him. Every one shall know that I have been +weak and vacillating. May God forgive me and +humble me—for I shall not be understood, even by +many good people. But the next worst thing to +making an error is to abide by it. Dear David, try +to follow my feeling. It has all passed in my mind +in such a way that it is impossible for me to describe +it. In a sense, giving Reckage up seems to uproot me +altogether from all my former life, and the future +is only not a blank because it is such a mystery. I +am sure, though, that sorrow is never in God's +ordinance the <i>whole</i> law of life. These are great +compensations.”</p> + +<p>“Anything is better than to sit still and dream,” +said Rennes. “I have dreamt too long. I find +solitude oppressive. Yet you will admit how dreadful +it is to live among those who don't know or don't care +a bit about art.”</p> + +<p>“But there are other interests equally engrossing.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_240" id="Page_240">[240]</a></span>”</p> + +<p>“Not to me. And even Epicurean advice is only the +way to ignominious, contemptible happiness. I must +have an ideal life or else annihilation—splendid misery +or splendid content—nothing between the two.”</p> + +<p>“You have not half showed your capabilities yet,” +replied Agnes. “We have to look upon this world +as the merest pilgrimage, but we can help each other. +I have hope because I have faith. Sara de Treverell +said the other day that, in men, experience often +makes mere callousness of character. Is this true, +David?”</p> + +<p>“Not of me; you have saved me from the worst +things. But it simply worries and almost exasperates +me to hear religious talk from any one. When I hear +a sermon I feel an inclination always to say, ‘My dear +fellow, can't you put your case better?’ I want good +stuff about Divine and human nature—not this vagueness +and platitude. Why don't they tell one something +about the optimism of God, even before the spectacle +of men's weakness? But, instead, we are told to +moan about this vale of tears; we are promised +chastisements, disappointments, woes, persecution. A +philosophy of suffering makes men strong, but a +philosophy of despair is bound to make a generation of +pleasure-seekers.”</p> + +<p>“And why?”</p> + +<p>“Because the veritable world, even on its bare +merits, <i>is not so bad</i>. It is full of beauty, and interest, +and enjoyment. It is a lie to call it so many vile +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_241" id="Page_241">[241]</a></span>names. One's good sense revolts. Do you think, +darling, that I could look at you, love you, be loved +by you, and call life a bad joke?”</p> + +<p>Since the beginning of time this logic has held its +own against all scientific criticism. The two, being +secure from observation, kissed each other and accepted +the earth with perfect cheerfulness. They made some +plans, and after the agony of parting till the next day, +each went home to write the other a long letter. +In the course of the afternoon Rennes passed through +Arlington Street four times in a hansom and twice +on foot. Agnes was always at one of the windows +innocently observing the weather. He thought her +the loveliest thing created. He pitied, with benevolence, +all other men, and he spent an hour at his +solicitor's office, without begrudging the time, or +chafing under the fatigue.</p> + +<p>Two days later Lord Reckage received the following +communication from Miss Carillon:—</p> + +<blockquote><p><span class="smcap">My dear Beauclerk</span>,—</p> + +<p>This letter will astonish and grieve you. I have +written several. None please me. All say too much and +yet leave all unsaid. I must send this one and trust to your +generosity. I am wholly to blame, wholly in the wrong. +I am no actress but I have been acting a part—the part of +a happy woman. My effort has deceived many—Papa, +Mamma, and, I believe, you among them. Dear Beauclerk, +you will think me ungrateful, false, weak. I don't excuse +myself. As I have said, the blame is all mine, and the +punishment must be all mine.</p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_242" id="Page_242">[242]</a></span></p> +<p>When you receive this I shall have left England with +Mr. Rennes. He had arranged to go to the East for a long +time. (This will show you how little he anticipated any +change in <i>my</i> plans.) When I realised that I should have +to say goodbye to him, probably for ever, I found myself +unequal to the trial. I could not let him go alone. It is +bad for me to dwell too much on my feelings. I ought to +admit, however, that I have known all along, in a sort of +way, that I should have to give in <i>if he put the matter +before me</i>. I dislike the talk one hears so often about +inevitability—much of it is made an excuse for appalling +selfishness. At the same time, I understand what is meant +and feel strongly, that, while I am using my own will—I +cannot use it, <i>with a good conscience</i>, otherwise. Can you +follow this? In reality, I was disloyal to Mr. Rennes when +I became engaged to you. I was impatient, wilful, blind. +I did you both an irreparable—yes, an irreparable injustice. +He must always think me fickle, and you will always +condemn my weakness. I dare not ask you to forgive me. +I dare not hope for contentment after such a bad beginning. +One of Papa's favourite texts rings in my ears—“<i>Is +it a small thing for you to weary men, but will ye weary +my God also?</i>” I mustn't be insincere with God. But +I do want you to see that my affection for Mr. Rennes has +taken such a hold of my life that I simply cannot fight +against it. I am not sentimental, as you know: I can be +quite as sensible as other people about life and its obligations. +I don't expect romance or joy. Had I, by any +misfortune, met Mr. Rennes <i>after</i> my marriage with you, +I cannot bear to think what might have happened. It +isn't nice of me to say this. It is a painful, humiliating +reflection, and you won't like to think that you ever +cared—even a little—for any one so unworthy. In +your kindness you will say that this isn't like me. Bu<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_243" id="Page_243">[243]</a></span>t +indeed it is the real me. You have known the <i>un</i>real, +sham me. Every one of my friends will be surprised. +I am not surprised. And oh! the relief to be quite, +quite natural and straightforward at last. Nothing to +pretend, nothing to hide. I wish you had never known +me. Your ideals are so noble, and you depended on me +to realise a few of them. I think of the plans we made, +the hopes we formed. Alas! they were not for me. I am +going forward into the darkness. I don't see one ray of +light. Yet I haven't one misgiving or the least fear, +because I have the unalterable conviction that I am fulfilling +my true destiny—whatever it may be, good or evil.</p> + +<p>All will agree that you are well rid of me. This is my +consolation. You have been kind, considerate, affectionate, +thoughtful always. And I have failed you.</p> + +<p>Forget me, and never judge other women by me. I +have been exceptionally foolish.</p><p class="i8 nospaceabove">Your wretched friend,</p><p class="i8 nospaceabove"><span class="smcap">Agnes Carillon</span>.</p></blockquote> + +<p>His lordship's emotion on reading this letter was one +of relief for himself—but pity and terror for the girl. +He was sincerely fond of Agnes, and the defiant +misery of her words filled him with forebodings. But +the sense of his own restored liberty soon dominated +every other feeling; and his anxiety about Miss +Carillon's future found complete assuagement in the +thought that character, under suffering, came out with +an energy and intensity which made, indisputably, for +progress.</p> + +<p>When the news, after twenty-four hours, became +known, Agnes's wish to place herself in the wrong, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_244" id="Page_244">[244]</a></span>beyond sympathy, or hope of pardon, was freely gratified. +No criticism seemed too harsh for her conduct. +No voice was lifted in mitigation of her offence. +Rennes was excused, because he was an artist, erratic +and passionate, and she was unfortunately beautiful. +The poor old Bishop, however, rallied under the shock, +preached more vigorously than ever, and showed a +proud countenance to his daughter's adversaries. +When he was able to announce to his friends—after a +painful fortnight of suspense—that the young couple had +travelled to Rome with Mrs. Rennes, and been married +at the English Embassy there, he gave way to a little +illness and indulged his grief. One could surrender +to legalised folly; one could name it. But sin and +scandal could only be faced by an implacable reserve. +“I may die of dismay,” said he to his wife, “but I +will not die of disgrace.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_245" id="Page_245">[245]</a></span>”</p> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XVII" id="CHAPTER_XVII"></a>CHAPTER XVII</h2> + + +<p>Scandal, meanwhile, was collecting her eager forces +for a great campaign against the Orange marriage. +It was unanimously decided that the affair could not +be hushed up. Sympathy—within wise limits—was +on the side of the lovers, but sympathy, nevertheless, +expressed a desire to hear fuller particulars. Society +journalism was, at that time, just coming into vogue, +and the weekly papers contained several references to +the strange rumour of an approaching divorce. +Hartley Penborough and the members of the Capitol +Club were wondering what line they ought to take. +They intended to stand by Robert, but they did not +wish to advertise their loyalty. The Carlton set were +divided into two camps—those who thought Orange +unlucky, and those who thought him an alien +adventurer. So far as these opinions touched his +career, both were damaging. The friends of Lord +Wight and Lady Fitz Rewes had always been jealous +of the young man. They discussed him now with +ferocious pity, announcing his ruin in every circle. +Sara de Treverell's associates were mostly of the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_246" id="Page_246">[246]</a></span>Diplomatic Corps. These, well informed about +Alberian affairs and Parflete's history, feared much +mischief. The old Catholics were dismayed at the +new convert's entanglement—especially as he had +recently been elected to Parliament. The more +timorous among them—in a panic—entertained unfounded +doubts about his orthodoxy, and the rest +deplored the injudicious attention bestowed on mere +recruits to the Ancient Faith. Converts then were +looked upon, in England, with a certain suspicion. +At that period the magnificent services of Dr. Newman +and Cardinal Manning were far more appreciated at +Rome than they were in the drawing-rooms of English +Catholic society. Orange, following his own instincts +and the advice of Newman, avoided rather than sought +the small group which attempted to make the Eternal +Church a Select Committee of the Uncommonly Good. +To one who had spent his youth in a great Catholic +nation, and came himself from one of the princely +families of France, the servitude necessarily involved +by the fact of joining any <i>coterie</i>—no matter how +agreeable—could possess no sort of attraction. His +Catholic friends were chiefly among the Jesuits, an +order which, by devotion, genius, and courage, has +excited that fear from all men which is the highest +homage this world can offer to integrity. His personal +sorrow, therefore, was not degraded by any foolish +additional worry about the tittle-tattle of this, that, or +the other personage. Tongues might wag; for him<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_247" id="Page_247">[247]</a></span>self, +he could but do his duty and keep his account +straight with God. He hoped that a public law-suit +would be avoided. Baron Zeuill was using his +influence, so he declared, to arrive at some settlement +with Parflete. Parflete's agent was now in communication +with Robert's solicitors; he himself was known +to be in London, and he had even been seen dining +with foreigners at one of the small private hotels near +the Strand. The Alberian Ambassador informed Mr. +Disraeli that there was nothing to fear because Parflete +was not ambitious. “The corruption of egoism and +the insatiable love of pleasure” had done its worst to a +character never striking for its energy. He would +“desert” his wife again if she would give him a +sufficient sum. Mrs. Parflete, Disraeli pointed out, +was the last woman on earth to agree to such terms. +She was also perfectly well aware, he added, that she +was the legitimate daughter of the late Archduke +Charles.</p> + +<p>“But,” said the Ambassador, “surely she will love +the glory of her country and the respect due to her +Imperial father's memory far better than her own legal +rights?”</p> + +<p>“You can't narrow the question to a mere sentimental +issue,” said Disraeli. “It is no such thing. +She has to defend her character. Orange must clear +his reputation.”</p> + +<p>Disraeli had formed the opinion that Alberia—as +represented by His Excellency—was by no +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_248" id="Page_248">[248]</a></span>means anxious to see Mrs. Parflete's innocence +established; that, in fact, the whole disaster had been +planned and executed in the sole design of compromising +her status. All that had occurred, all that he +had observed led him to this conviction more and +more. It was decided that Brigit should be summoned +at once from Paris to take up her residence at the +Convent, where she had been well protected during +the earlier part of the year.</p> + +<blockquote><p>“There is to be no appeal <i>ad misericordiam</i>,” wrote +Disraeli to Orange: “what you have done, you have done +in good faith and perfect honesty. Parflete, beyond a +doubt, will take some action. His conscience provides him, +in this difficulty, with the best means of self-advertisement +he has yet found. He has consulted several Bishops, the +Lord Chief Justice, all the ambassadors, and most of the +intelligent Peers. He wanders from one confessional to +another: St. Philip, St. Teresa, St. Benedict, and St. +Dominic are invoked perpetually for the disarmament of +his scruples. Vanity blinds him to the danger of assassination. +Alberia is in a red mood. <i>Carissime</i>, the dark, +inevitable hour will come. Be prepared for it. Depend +entirely now on the might of your religious belief. Men +cannot assist you. I have helped many, but no one has +ever helped me. Political life must be taken as you find +it, and it is neither in my disposition, nor, I am sure, in +yours, to indulge in complaints of unkindness. I have +reached a point now when I should like to quote Dante. +Consider him quoted, and believe me,</p><p class="i8 nospaceabove">“Ever yours,</p><p class="i12 nospaceabove">“D.”</p></blockquote> + +<p>The course of the intrigue may be followed most +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_249" id="Page_249">[249]</a></span>conveniently at this point in the document known as +Mudara's Confession.</p> + +<p>Mudara, it will be remembered, was in the Alberian +Secret Service.<i>[See The School for Saints, p. 395.]</i> He it was who confirmed the false +news of Parflete's suicide, and did so much to hasten +Orange's marriage. He says in his narrative:—</p> + +<blockquote><p>The death of the Archduke Charles—which occurred +some weeks before it was anticipated—put the Alberian +Government to very grave embarrassment.</p> + +<p>1. It was impossible to deny the legitimacy of the +Archduchess Marie-Brigitte-Henriette (known as Mrs. +Parflete). The rumour was officially denied, and every +proper measure was taken for the suppression of a fact +dangerous at all times and especially so during a national +crisis. Had the Archduchess been so ill-advised as to +stand upon her legal rights, the case would have been very +awkward for the Government. They intended, in any +event, to plead ignorance, and had prepared every proof of +their good faith in withstanding the claim.</p> + +<p>2. It was clear, beyond a doubt, on the highest ecclesiastical +authority, that, if application were made, the +marriage between the Archduchess and Parflete would be +annulled at Rome. Parflete was regarded with great +suspicion. He was capable of any treachery. He could +not hold his tongue, and we know what that means at +Court. The one person he feared was the Archduke +Charles, and now that death had removed His Imperial +Highness, we understood what to expect from the disgraced +Equerry.</p> + +<p>3. The Government's Agents had formed a very high +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_250" id="Page_250">[250]</a></span>opinion of M. de Hausée (known as Robert Orange). It +was considered by the Government's advisers that this +gentleman would use all his influence to crush any foolish +ambition on the part of the Archduchess Marie-Brigitte. +M. de Hausée was himself of too noble a family to care in +the least for high-sounding titles or empty rights. M. de +Hausée (whose mother was Scotch) had become a British +subject, and had been elected to the English Parliament. +He was under the protection of Mr. Disraeli, had every +prospect of a brilliant political career as a Commoner, and +he had too much good sense—in view of the very large +fortune settled upon the Archduchess—to diminish it by +any imprudent insistence on a claim which, extremely +valuable as a ground for some advantageous compromise, +could only prove ruinous if pressed to any exact recognition. +The Government's advisers, therefore, approved +most highly of the marriage between M. de Hausée and +the Archduchess Marie-Brigitte-Henriette, and were +disposed to hasten it on by every means. On the news, +<i>properly authenticated</i>, of Parflete's suicide on Lord Soham's +yacht, I visited England and had interviews with the +Archduchess herself, with M. de Hausée at Catesby, and +with Baron Zeuill at Claridge's Hotel. The <i>proofs</i> of +Parflete's death were in perfect order, and the marriage +between M. de Hausée and H.I.H. took place in the +Chapel of the Alberian Embassy.</p> + +<p>As I had made all the arrangements, I engaged the +servants for the reception of the bride and groom at the +Villa Miraflores. I was able to retain a small room at the +back of the house for my own use. On the day of their +arrival, I concealed myself, without difficulty, in the apartment +where Mr. Orange and the Archduchess had their +<i>déjeuner</i>. It was an unfortunate circumstance that I did +not destroy the telegram which I saw on the mantel-piece. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_251" id="Page_251">[251]</a></span>But I supposed it contained some ordinary congratulations. +A more vulgar prudence than mine would have read and +burnt it in any case. My fault is, unquestionably, a most +inopportune delicacy of feeling. I witnessed the whole +scene between Mr. Orange and Her Imperial Highness. +It brought tears to my eyes, but as evidence it was valueless +for my purpose. She wept, stormed, and showed +much feeling. I was reminded in many ways of her +mother, Madame Duboc. M. de Hausée, of purer blood, +is like those players who, in spite of an air of indifference +at great losses, feel them none the less. I consider it my +duty as a gentleman to say that his bearing through the +ordeal did credit to his noble family and his personal +character. The Archduchess, who is foolhardy and +insolent, does not deserve such a lover, and it is grievous +to think that such a termagant should have so much power +over such a man. I regard her as I would some poisonous +reptile. Piety—which improves most women—only seems +to render her the more defiant, and love—which softens +most wills—makes hers the more hard. After parting +with M. de Hausée she swooned, and I thought what a +merciful thing it would be for all of us if she never +regained consciousness. This idea—which may have been +an inspiration—was before me, when I heard a slight +rustling behind the curtains. I pulled out my revolver +(although I had no intention of firing), aimed it, and said, +“Who is there?”</p> + +<p>To my amazement, Parflete himself came out.</p> + +<p>“For God's sake, don't shoot,” said he, “it is I.”</p> + +<p>He cried bitterly at the sight of the Archduchess—for +she was looking extraordinarily beautiful. He cursed himself +loudly, put me to terrible anxiety, and I repented of +my recklessness in not getting rid of such a fool long ago. +With great presence of mind I rang the bell, and we with<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_252" id="Page_252">[252]</a></span>drew +to my hiding-place while the servant came in, raised +a hue and cry, and finally carried the insensible Archduchess +to a bedroom. When the coast was clear we +emerged. I asked Parflete what he meant to do, why he +was there, and how he had got into the house.</p> + +<p>“To sound the soul of another,” said he, still maudlin. +“You must first have searched deeply your own. Remorse +has brought me here. My better nature reasserts itself.” +And more to that effect. “There is nothing new under +the sun!” he wound up.</p> + +<p>“Why should there be?” said I, exasperated. “Come +to the point.”</p> + +<p>“My wife is the purest, noblest of beings!” said he.</p> + +<p>“You will defend any jade on earth, provided she be +handsome,” said I, but seeing an ugly light in his eye, I +added, “but H.I.H. is certainly respectable. To this we +have both been witnesses.”</p> + +<p>“What is to be done?” he cried, beating his head. +“Can I forget her interests? Who, better than I, should +take the place of her adviser, her Prime Minister? +Affairs in Alberia cannot long remain in this violent state. +There must be a <i>dénouement</i>.”</p> + +<p>I answered him sharply.</p> + +<p>“You know quite well that the Archduchess can never +hope for official recognition from any Alberian Ministry—let +alone the sovereigns of Europe. An aggressive attitude +on her part could at most and at the worst, but lead to +these things—a change of dynasty, and the annexation of +Alberia by one of the Powers, or its partition among some +of them. We wish Alberia to become another Switzerland—a +little Paradise of law-abiding, industrious, rich, +independent people!”</p> + +<p>“All the same,” said he, “my wife may not sell her +birth-right. Such a proceeding is directly opposite to the +Will of God.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_253" id="Page_253">[253]</a></span>”</p> + +<p>“She will be a good claimant—after all this scandal with +the Carlists and de Hausée,” said I. “I can imagine the +welcome extended to her by Bismarck! We have seen +enough of this kind of thing in France and Spain.”</p> + +<p>We talked for an hour. He was as obstinate as a mule +and as incoherent as running water. I could grasp him +nowhere. It was like groping in a well for a lighted torch. +No doubt he had formed in his own mind some obscure, +incalculable intrigue, but no reason can guess the plans +which are made by an unreasoning person.</p> + +<p>“The Archduchess is rich, young, and handsome,” said +I; “it would be folly to change her noble independence +for a political slavery fatal to her peace—perhaps her life.”</p> + +<p>“But duty is above such weak considerations,” said he, +rolling his eyes. “My wife must remember the nation.”</p> + +<p>“Do you believe,” I rejoined, “that you would get the +nation's sanction to the general upset which you propose? +You must be mad.”</p> + +<p>“Nations go mad,” said he, smiling; “why not to my +advantage, then, as well as yours?”</p> + +<p>He refused to tell me how he got into the house, but it +must have been by bribery. His sneers and insults were +insinuated with such skill that retaliation on the spot was +impossible. He made his escape by suddenly extinguishing +the lamp, which left the room in pitch darkness. I felt it +would be undignified to stumble about in vain pursuit of a +man so active and so <i>canaille</i> in all his methods. He must +have been on good terms with the servants, for a considerable +time elapsed before they replied to my summons, and +when I asked them, each in turn, whether he had been +seen, one and all assumed the greatest astonishment and +innocence, but none appeared in any way alarmed, which +they must have done had they not been well aware of his +presence in the house. I said no more, for, by treating +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_254" id="Page_254">[254]</a></span>the matter lightly, I made them look—to themselves—dupes +and very ridiculous. I remained at the Villa until the +Archduchess and Lady Fitz Rewes departed for Paris. I +had a short interview with M. de Hausée in my character +of the late Archduke's Agent. Our conversation was +purely in connection with H.I.H.'s money matters, +although he said with great firmness at the close, “The +Archduchess will never embarrass Alberian affairs. Her +taste is not for Courts or politics.” I know this is his +true conviction, but he is in love, and he measures her +by his own unselfishness. He won my heart strangely. +In all my experience, he is the one honest man who is not +a little idiotic into the bargain. I deplore the influence of +women on such a character, and I would have saved him +from that Judith.</p></blockquote> + +<p>Here, for the present, we must leave Mudara's +narrative.</p> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_255" id="Page_255">[255]</a></span></p><h2><a name="CHAPTER_XVIII" id="CHAPTER_XVIII"></a>CHAPTER XVIII</h2> + + +<p>The Alberian Ambassador, Prince d'Alchingen, considered +himself a diplomatist of the Metternich school. +He had imagination, sentimentality, and humour: he +preferred to attack the strength rather than the weaknesses +of mankind, and in all his schemes he counted +inconsistency among the passions, and panic among +the virtues. He still hoped that Orange might be +tempted by the prospect of immediate happiness to +press for the nullity of the Parflete marriage. Parflete +himself was indulging in the most extravagant demonstrations +of remorse. He behaved, as Disraeli said, +more like a cunning woman than an able man, and he +was an agent of the kind most dangerous to his +employers—irregularly scrupulous, fond of boasting of +his acquaintance with princes and ministers, so vain +that he would rather have had notoriety without +glory, than glory without notoriety. He had found +the means of ingratiating himself with many persons +of high rank, and he knew how to avail himself, with +each, of his influence with the others. Never did an +intrigue require more urgently a sort of conduct quite +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_256" id="Page_256">[256]</a></span>out of the common routine. The Prince, therefore, +was much perturbed in mind, and cast about him for +a trustworthy associate. By an associate he meant +some one on whom he could test the quality of his +deceit—in other words, he liked to try his sword on +gossamer and granite before he struck out at commoner +materials. Among his friendships, he prosecuted +none with such zeal as that with the Lady Sara de +Treverell. As the member of a great Russian house, +she was especially attractive to Alberian speculation, +but her beauty and cleverness no doubt assisted the +Ambassador's determination to make himself agreeable. +The two constantly exchanged letters, and, as the +Princess d'Alchingen was an invalid who devoted her +hours to spiritual reading, she gladly permitted +Lady Sara's influence, realising—with the priceless +knowledge of a spirit made reasonable through pain—that +the girl was romantic and the Prince incurably +old. His flaxen wig heightened the tone of a complexion +much ravaged by gout and its antidotes. His +nebulous eyes with twitching lids were not improved +by the gold-rimmed glasses which magnified their +insignificance. He possessed a striking nose and chin, +but, as these features were more characteristic than +delightful, they offered his wife no occasions for serious +anxiety. Whenever His Excellency required feminine +advice, it was considered quite <i>en règle</i> that Lady +Sara should be consulted. The Princess herself drove +him to St. James's Square on the afternoon following +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_257" id="Page_257">[257]</a></span>Mr. Disraeli's call. She sent <i>milles tendresses</i> to her +<i>chérie</i>, and bitterly regretted that she was not well +enough to leave the carriage. The Prince kissed her +hand, bowed superbly, stood bareheaded in a draught +till the brougham drove away (in these matters he had +no equal), and, having warned Sara of his intended +visit by a special messenger, he had the pleasure of +finding the young lady alone. Following her custom, +she was appropriately dressed for the occasion in +prune-coloured velvet, which suggested dignity, and +very beautiful antique Spanish lace, which symbolized +the long endurance of things apparently too delicate, +subtle, and trifling for the assaults of time. The +Prince kissed both of her white hands, and lamented +the obstacles which had kept them apart for so +many insupportable weeks. He had lived on her +letters. They had been, however, few and +short.</p> + +<p>“What is troubling you, sir?” asked Sara, “you +look pale.”</p> + +<p>“For once in my life I wish to do a foolish thing—<i>pour +encourager les autres</i>,” was his reply. “I intend +to meddle with a love-affair.”</p> + +<p>“Whose love-affair?”</p> + +<p>“I will tell you presently. I never venture upon +any work trusting alone to my hopes. I am not of +those who discover rifts in their harness only on the +morning of the battle! I prepare for all contingencies. +First, then, let me put you through a little +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_258" id="Page_258">[258]</a></span>catechism. Do men ever believe evil reports about +the women they love?”</p> + +<p>“The <i>posse non peccare</i> is not the <i>non posse peccare</i>,” +said Sara quickly.</p> + +<p>“Do you mean that they can believe the evil, +but, as a rule, they won't?” returned the Prince.</p> + +<p>“You translate freely, but you have caught the +spirit!”</p> + +<p>“Very well. I come to my second question. Is a +man better off with a dangerous woman whom he +adores than with a good woman who adores <i>him</i>?”</p> + +<p>“All men who desire love, deserve it,” said Sara. +“The <i>means</i> to this are always, in a manner, certainties, +the <i>end</i> is always problematical. But those +who want love could never be satisfied with mere +welfare—never.”</p> + +<p>“You have a right to direct my opinion,” he +exclaimed; “where else do I hear such sound good +sense? The usual women one meets in our circle +are old, ugly, and proud—incapable of conversation +with persons of intelligence. My wife,” he added +smoothly, “makes this complaint about her lady +friends. It is very dull and very sad for her, although +she is a saint.”</p> + +<p>No conversation or letter was ever exchanged +between Sara and the Prince without some emphatic +tribute to the sanctity, prudence, and charm of the +Princess.</p> + +<p>“The dear Princess!” murmured Sara.</p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_259" id="Page_259">[259]</a></span></p> +<p>“And now,” said His Excellency, drawing his chair +an inch nearer, “I must be serious. You have +guessed, of course, that I am thinking about Robert +Orange and Mrs. Parflete. I stayed at Brookes's till +after twelve last night in hopes of seeing Orange. I +was discussing him with Lord Reckage.”</p> + +<p>“What did Reckage say?”</p> + +<p>“Reckage doesn't mind raising a blister, but he +won't often tell one what he thinks.”</p> + +<p>Sara shivered a little and compressed her lips.</p> + +<p>“Reckage is fond of Orange,” she said, “yet +there is a certain jealousy.... Formerly, Orange +had need of Reckage, and depended on him; now +Reckage needs him and depends on Orange. Could +he but know it, Orange is the one creature who +could pull him through his difficulties with the Bond +of Association. A man who has no personal ambition, +who desires nothing that any one can give, who fears +nothing that any one can do, who lives securely in +the presence of God, is a power we must not under-rate.”</p> + +<p>She spoke with enthusiasm—the enthusiasm which +women seldom, if ever, display for principle on its bare +merits. By the deepening colour in her eyes and +sudden clearness in her cheeks, the Ambassador felt +that he had reached a point where the emotions +would have to be considered, even though they +might not be counted on.</p> + +<p>“I have not time to tell you all the nonsense +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_260" id="Page_260">[260]</a></span>Reckage said,” he answered. “So far as my own +judgment can serve for a guide, I believe that he +would like to see Orange under the care and discipline +of St. Ignatius.”</p> + +<p>“He wishes him to become a Jesuit priest? How +selfish!”</p> + +<p>“Such is my impression. He wants so competent +a colleague removed from the political sphere. If his +words and actions are of a piece, he will certainly +work hard to attain this object. He is saying everywhere, +‘Orange is a born ecclesiastic. Orange is a +mystic. Orange is under the influence of Newman. +Orange begins to see that marriage is not for him.’ +Such remarks don't help outside the Church. Really, +competition renders the nicest people detestable.”</p> + +<p>Lady Sara could not conceal her agitation. But she +baffled her companion a little by saying—</p> + +<p>“I suppose you want Orange to marry your +inopportune Archduchess?”</p> + +<p>“The lady in question is certainly inopportune. I +have never called her an Archduchess. I leave such +audacities to her enemies! But tell me what you +think of <i>Mrs. Parflete</i>?”</p> + +<p>“I have never seen her. Pensée Fitz Rewes +insists that she is beautiful, cold, determined, and +uncommon.”</p> + +<p>“Generally, there is nothing so fatal to a woman's +success in the world as an early connection with a +scoundrel. I have odd accounts of Mrs. Parflete from +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_261" id="Page_261">[261]</a></span>Madrid—the Marquis of Castrillon and an upstart +called Bodava fought a duel about her in Baron Zeuill's +gymnasium. A man called William Caffle, who +attended to their wounds, has given me fullest +particulars of the affair. I don't wish to injure the +lady, but on account of eventualities which might +arise, I am obliged to look a little about me.”</p> + +<p>“I understand,” said Sara.</p> + +<p>“The great point is not to let Parflete take the +lead in the settlement. His present course of action +isn't quite decent or consistent. Will Orange do +nothing? It is wise to make peace whilst there is +some faint appearance of choice left on the subject, so +there is no time to be wasted.”</p> + +<p>“What ought Orange to do?”</p> + +<p>“Reckage declares that he will not appeal to Rome. +There he is well-advised. But as he has already +compromised Mrs. Parflete, surely his present scruples +are entirely new and unlooked for? We must both +despise him, if he should abandon her now.”</p> + +<p>“He has never compromised her,” said Sara indignantly. +“He has even been ridiculed for his +honour. I had no idea, Excellence, that you were so +wicked!”</p> + +<p>“How else could I know all the news twenty-four +hours before the rest of the world? This, however, +is no laughing matter. Parflete may ask his wife to +return to him. It may suit her purpose to agree.”</p> + +<p>“What! A woman who loves, or who has loved<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_262" id="Page_262">[262]</a></span>—Robert +Orange? A few things in human nature are +still impossible.”</p> + +<p>Prince d'Alchingen shrugged his shoulders, and +continued—</p> + +<p>“Parflete has a good back-stairs knowledge of +Alberian politics. We never deny this, but we +always add that he was dismissed, in disgrace, from +the Imperial Household.”</p> + +<p>“Is there much use in denying the fact that he +married the Archduke's daughter?”</p> + +<p>“We meet the case by saying that the Archduke +in his youth may not have been exempt from manly +follies. And Duboc was irresistible—she drove one +mad!”</p> + +<p>“Then why all this fuss?”</p> + +<p>“To avoid more fuss—on a large scale.”</p> + +<p>“But I have always heard that Mrs. Parflete has +no intention of giving trouble. They say she is an +angel.”</p> + +<p>“You will find that she would far rather be an +Archduchess! Orange may discover that his Beatrice +is nearly related to Rahab!”</p> + +<p>“Oh, I cannot think you are right.”</p> + +<p>“Then you should hear Zeuill and General Prim +on the subject. The Marquis of Castrillon is in +London. Our friend Parflete will soon be labouring +with copious materials for a divorce.”</p> + +<p>“How can you assume such horrors?” said Sara.</p> + +<p>“The imagination,” said His Excellency, “is always +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_263" id="Page_263">[263]</a></span>more struck by likelihoods than the reason convinced by +the examination of facts! My dear friend, let us survey +the position. Orange does not seem to have the most +distant idea of making Mrs. Parflete his—his <i>belle amie</i>. +Well and good. But ought he, at his age, so handsome, +so brilliant, so much a man, to renounce all +other women for the sake of a little adventuress? Can +nothing be done? If he could have some convincing +proof of her treachery, would he not turn to others +more beautiful, more worthy——“</p> + +<p>“To Lady Fitz Rewes,” said Sara quickly.</p> + +<p>“If you like,” replied the Prince, in his gentlest +voice.</p> + +<p>For a second or two each of them looked away. +Sara glanced toward her canaries in their cage. +Prince d'Alchingen leant forward to inhale the perfume +of some violets in a vase near him.</p> + +<p>“Delicious!” he murmured, “delicious!”</p> + +<p>“Mr. Disraeli,” said Sara, still gazing at the birds, +“has always wished for the marriage with Lady Fitz +Rewes. Yet what can we do? I cannot see the end +of it.”</p> + +<p>“The heroic are plotted against by evil spirits, +comforted by good ones, but in no way constrained,” +observed the Ambassador; “let us then support +Mr. Orange, and wait for his own decision. I doubt +whether we could drive him to Lady Fitz Rewes.”</p> + +<p>“To whom else?” asked Sara, fastening some +flowers in her belt. They were white camellias sent +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_264" id="Page_264">[264]</a></span>that morning from the infatuated, still hopeful Duke +of Marshire. “To whom else—if not Pensée?”</p> + +<p>“I dare not answer such questions yet. Have +patience and you shall see what you shall see. Much +will hinge on the events of the next few days.”</p> + +<p>“I will not believe,” she insisted, “that Robert +Orange has been deceived by that woman.”</p> + +<p>“You may change your opinion. Come to Hadley +Lodge next Saturday—I ask no more.”</p> + +<p>“Really, sir,” said Sara, with a mocking smile, +“you frighten me. Am I at last to fly through an +intrigue on the wings of a conspiracy?”</p> + +<p>The Prince smiled also, but he saw that the lady had +risen to the occasion and would not prove false to her +Asiatic blood.</p> + +<p>“Mrs. Parflete and Castrillon are cut out for each +other,” said he, “but Orange has no business in that +<i>galère</i>. He is reserved for a greater fate.”</p> + +<p>“What do you mean?” said Sara.</p> + +<p>“All now depends on you.”</p> + +<p>“On me?”</p> + +<p>“Plainly. Reckage wishes Orange to get out of his +way and become a Religious. Can this be permitted?”</p> + +<p>“It would be outrageous. It would be a crime.”</p> + +<p>“Ah, worse than that. It might prove a success. +We don't want any more strong men in the Church +just now.”</p> + +<p>Sara agreed. She, too, was opposed to the Church. +And she was glad of the excuse this thought offered +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_265" id="Page_265">[265]</a></span>for the pains she would take to save Orange from the +Vatican grasp.</p> + +<p>“Then we are allies,” said His Excellency. “You +will help me.”</p> + +<p>“Gladly, and what is more, as a duty. But how?”</p> + +<p>“Keep the two men apart, and treat both of them—both—with +kindness.”</p> + +<p>His Excellency then rose, kissed her hands once +more, and took his departure. Sara, when the door +was closed, paced the floor with swift and desperate +steps, as though she were encircled by thoughts which, +linked together, danced round her way so that whether +she retreated or advanced, swayed to the right or to the +left, they held her fast.</p> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_266" id="Page_266">[266]</a></span></p><h2><a name="CHAPTER_XIX" id="CHAPTER_XIX"></a>CHAPTER XIX</h2> + + +<p>Lord Garrow, under his daughter's command, had +issued invitations for a dinner-party that same evening +to a few friends, who, it was hoped, would support +the Meeting which Reckage was endeavouring to +organise as a protest against Dr. Temple's nomination. +The guests included Reckage himself, Orange, Charles +Aumerle, the Dowager Countess of Larch, Hartley +Penborough, Lady Augusta Hammit, and the Bishop +of Calbury's chaplain,—the Rev. Edwin Pole-Knox.</p> + +<p>Sara, arrayed in white satin and opals, sat at the +piano playing the <i>Faust</i> of Berlioz, and wondering +whether she had really arranged her table to perfection, +when the footman brought the following note—dashed +off in pencil—from Lord Reckage:—</p> + +<blockquote><p class="i20"><span class="smcap">Almouth House</span>.</p><p class="nospaceabove">An extraordinary thing has happened. Agnes has run +away with David Rennes. She seems quite broken and +her letter is too touching, too sacred to show. As for him, +it is difficult to say what he could give, or what I would +accept, as an excuse. She, however, has my full forgiveness, +and perhaps good may come of so much sorrow and duplicity. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_267" id="Page_267">[267]</a></span>I must see you after the others have gone to-night. My +plan is to leave early—probably with Orange and Aumerle, +but I will return later. I need your counsel. B.</p></blockquote> + +<p>Sara, who was always in league with audacity, +clapped her hands at the tidings of Miss Carillon's +bold move. She was not surprised, for, as we have +seen, she had read the girl's character truly, and +warned Orange that some event of the kind would +happen. But the pleasure she took in this confirmation +of her own prophetic gifts was alloyed by the +fear that Reckage, now at liberty, would prove a +masterful, jealous, and embarrassing lover. Nor were +her forebodings on this score lessened when he arrived, +evidently in a strange mood, a quarter of an hour +before the appointed time. His eyes travelled over +her face with a consuming scrutiny to which she was +unaccustomed and for which she found herself unprepared. +For a moment she experienced the disadvantages +of a guilty conscience, and although she +had, so far, merely considered various plans for using +his devotion without peril to her own independence, +she felt that the moment for deliberation was past, +that the duel between them had begun.</p> + +<p>“You have my note,” he said, “and I would rather +not talk about Agnes to-night. On that point I am +in a stupor. I can't realise the disaster at all. I +might seem unfeeling, whereas I am insensible, or +unconscious, or mentally chloroformed—anything you +like to call it.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_268" id="Page_268">[268]</a></span>”</p> + +<p>“I can see that you have received a great blow,” +answered Sara, looking down.</p> + +<p>“I suppose so. And at present I am stunned. +Wait a week, and I may be able to grasp the case—I +won't say calmly, for I couldn't be calmer than I +am at this very moment. But I will say, with understanding, +with justice. Give me no credit yet for +either. To be frank, I don't recognise myself in +this crisis. As a rule, I have an impulse—more or +less violent—to some extreme measure.... I saw +d'Alchingen this afternoon,” he added, abruptly.</p> + +<p>He did not add that the Prince had given several +striking reasons for the Lady Sara's interest in Robert +Orange. His Excellency, in so acting, may not have +been aware that he was pouring such confidences into +the ear of a jealous man, but he wished to divert +gossip from himself, and he was becoming afraid lest +his intimacy with the brilliant, dangerous girl might +give rise to criticism. “She talks and writes incessantly +about Orange,” he had said; “what a marriage +it would be! I hope it may be brought about.” +This suggestion drove Reckage's thoughts toward +a fatal survey of the past year. He discovered, as +he believed, irresistible proofs of Sara's infatuation, +and, what was worse, clear evidence of Robert's sly +encouragement of that weakness. Why else had he +borne the severance from Mrs. Parflete with such +astonishing fortitude? How else did he keep up his +spirits in the face of a grotesque, if unfortunate, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_269" id="Page_269">[269]</a></span>adventure? The answer was plain enough. Sara's +sympathy and the reasonable hopes necessarily attached +to so much kindness had sustained him through the +bitterness of all his trials.</p> + +<p>“Have you ever thought,” said Reckage, with +pretended carelessness, “that Orange's serenity just +now is somewhat unnatural? Is it <i>all</i> religion?”</p> + +<p>“I believe that neither of <i>us</i> can form any conception +of his capacity for suffering, or the support +he finds in his Belief.”</p> + +<p>“It points to fanaticism, no doubt. He is a +Cardinal <i>in petto</i>. The Catholics want spirit everywhere, +and Orange has got spirit. His vocation lies +toward the Vatican. His morals are as good as his +build—which is saying much. D'Alchingen was +remarking how extraordinarily well set-up he is. He +would have done well in the army. He cuts an +effective figure.”</p> + +<p>“He is distinguished; would one call him handsome?”</p> + +<p>“There's a nobility about him, of course. I am +wondering whether he is really so clever as many +make out. He is learned and thoughtful; he has +plenty of pluck and he's the best fellow in the world. +But——“</p> + +<p>“I wish I knew him better,” sighed the young +lady; “I liked him and believed in him on the +strength of your recommendation. That was an +immense prejudice in his favour.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_270" id="Page_270">[270]</a></span>”</p> + +<p>She looked up with a sweet and trustful smile which +would have satisfied a harder adversary than Reckage. +He was not so hard, however, as he was egoistic, and +it was not a question of softening his heart. Sara had +the far more difficult task of soothing his tortured +vanity.</p> + +<p>“I don't know,” he said, losing caution, “that I +want you to take him up quite so strongly! No +one could call him a coxcomb, yet he, not aware of +the real cause of your interest, might be over-flattered. +He might, eventually, begin to hope——“</p> + +<p>“What?” she asked, with burning cheeks.</p> + +<p>“All sorts of things. He's a man, and you are +beautiful. And I have heard him say a thousand +times that so-called Platonics are possible for one of +the two, but never for both. Doesn't this explain the +many cases of unrequited love? You are vexed, +I can see it. But I am not thinking of you. I am +thinking of Robert.”</p> + +<p>“He is not so sentimental as you imagine.”</p> + +<p>“Isn't he? This affair with Mrs. Parflete was +pure sentimentality from beginning to end—a poet's +love. He would have another feeling for you—something +much stronger. You are so human, Sara. +I would far sooner kill you than write poetry to you. +You are life—not literature. That little thing with +shining hair and a porcelain face is for dreams. Of +course, he will always love her—after a fashion. He +might even compare you with her and find her your +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_271" id="Page_271">[271]</a></span>superior in every way—except as a woman. We +may be at moments poets, at moments saints, but the +greater part of the time, a man is a man. And you +are no friend for a man. Pensée Fitz Rewes might +answer well enough; she has had sorrow, she has +two children, she has a gentle, maternal air. But +you——“</p> + +<p>He threw back his head and laughed without +mirth.</p> + +<p>“You!” he repeated. “My God!”</p> + +<p>“You are talking very foolishly, Beauclerk. Perhaps +it is your odd way of making yourself agreeable. +It doesn't please me a bit to be told that I am a siren. +My mind is full of the Bond of Association and your +Meeting at St. James's Hall. How shamefully Lord +Cavernake has behaved, but dear Lord Gretingham +has come out well. What a miserable set we have in +the Lords just now!”</p> + +<p>She was making these remarks as the clock struck +the hour, and her father entered the room.</p> + +<p>“Beauclerk came early, dear papa,” said she, +“because he had something to tell us. His engagement +is broken off.”</p> + +<p>Lord Garrow looked the grief appropriate to the +news, and disguised, as well as he could, his dismay +at its probable development. He murmured, “Tut! +tut!” a number of times, held up his hands, and +nodded his head from side to side.</p> + +<p>“I wish nothing said against poor Agnes,” observed +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_272" id="Page_272">[272]</a></span>Reckage; “her mistakes are those of a generous, +impetuous girl. Don't judge her hastily. All, I feel +certain, has happened for the best.”</p> + +<p>“Tut! tut!” repeated his lordship.</p> + +<p>“I am devoted to dear Agnes,” said Sara, “but +I never, never thought that she was the wife for +Beauclerk.”</p> + +<p>Then she stepped forward to greet Lady Augusta +Hammit, who was at that moment announced. Lady +Augusta was a tall woman about thirty-five years of +age, with a handsome, sallow face, a superb neck, +beautiful arms, hair the colour of ashes, pale lips, and +large, gleaming white teeth. Unmarried, aristocratic, +ordinarily well-off, and exceptionally pious according +to her lights, she was a prominent figure in all work +connected with the Moderate Party in the Church +of England. In her opinion, foreigners might be +permitted the idolatries of Rome; as for the English, +Wesley was a lunatic; Pusey, a weak good creature; +Newman was a traitor; Manning, a mistake. The +one vital force on whom she depended for her spiritual +illumination and her life's security was the Rev. +Edwin Pole-Knox. “Pole-Knox,” she said, “will +save us yet.” This good and industrious young man, +a few years her junior, had been chaplain—mainly +through Lady Augusta's devoted exertions—to three +bishops. He did every credit to his patroness, but +hints were already in the air on the subject of +ingratitude. Some said he lacked ambition; others +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_273" id="Page_273">[273]</a></span>murmured dark conjectures about his heartlessness. +It was left to the Lady Augusta's fellow-labourers in +the sphere of beneficence to blurt out, with odious +vulgarity, that he would never marry her in this +world. She entered the room that evening in +her haughtiest manner, for Pole-Knox was following +close upon her heels, and she wished to justify the +extreme deference which he showed her so properly +in public, and perhaps with morbid conscientiousness +in <i>tête-à-tête</i>.</p> + +<p>“I don't know how I shall get through the +winter,” she observed, in reply to Lord Garrow's +inquiries about her health. “I am working like a +pack-horse.” Here she caught Pole-Knox's name +and bowed mechanically, without seeing him, in his +direction. The entire afternoon they had been looking +together over the accounts of a Home for Female +Orphans, and poor Lady Augusta had been forced to +see that whatever fire and enthusiasm her <i>protégé</i> +could display in tracking down the orphans' dishonest +butcher, his respect where she was concerned verged +on frigidity.</p> + +<p>Lady Larch was the next arrival, and as she +was famous for her smile, she used it freely, +not fatiguing herself by listening to remarks, or +making them. In her youth she had been called +bonnie; she was still pleasant to look upon. She +talked very little, and perhaps on this account her +few sayings were treasured, repeated throughout +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_274" id="Page_274">[274]</a></span>society, and much esteemed. “Surely it is a mistake +to give men the notion that all good women are +dull” was one of her classic utterances. Another +ran, “Those who are happy do not trouble about the +woes of the human race.” Another, “The Dissenters +belong essentially to a non-governing class—a vulgar +class.” These will serve to show the scope of her +observation and the excellence of her intentions. In +fact, she was often found dull. She was not especially +disturbed about the woes of humanity, and her +maternal grandfather had been a Presbyterian cotton-merchant. +She bore Pole-Knox away to a far corner +and begged to be told all the latest details of Miss +Carillon's abominable conduct.</p> + +<p>“I do not exactly know,” said she, “the state of +things. The poor dear Bishop must be in a dreadful +state.”</p> + +<p>Orange came in with Aumerle and Hartley Penborough. +Lady Augusta, who was a kind, sincere +woman, pressed his hand warmly, and showed with +her eyes that she appreciated the difficulties of his +position. He had aged, Sara thought, and he looked +as though he suffered from sleeplessness; otherwise, +in manner and in all ways, he was just as he had +always been.</p> + +<p>Sara looked at him, and, looking, she read the secret +thoughts in his mind. Yes, she was to him, no doubt, +the undisciplined, passionate girl who lived on admiration, +excitement, and false romance. He owned her +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_275" id="Page_275">[275]</a></span>beauty; he excused her faults; he liked her. Of all +this she was certain. Reckage's warning had encouraged +her to believe that Orange's self-control was +a hard achievement—by no means any matter of a +disposition naturally cold. If it were merely to be +a struggle of wills, her will would prove the stronger. +She meant to have her way this time. Wasn't it the +critical moment of his life? Every instinct had been +roused—ambition, the love of adventure, the love of a +woman. For a short while the means had been given +him, humanly speaking, of gratifying these great +passions. And then, at a stroke, he was once more +poor and dependent, once more in a ridiculous position, +and the woman he loved was further from his reach +than ever. He still had the privilege of fighting and +breaking his heart in the market-place. He could +still enjoy some kind of a career. Yet the long, +embittering struggle with poverty and disappointed +affection could but appear to him now desolate indeed, +barely worth the difficult prizes of success. Lady +Sara was young, and she made the mistake, eternally +peculiar to her sex, of placing love first, rather than +last, among the forces in a strong nature. No +powerful being ever yet either stood by the glory, or +fell by the disasters, of a love-affair alone, uncomplicated +by other issues. It does its work: it must +touch, in many ways, the whole character; but it is, +in the essence of things, a cause—not an effect. To +Sara there was one only consuming interest in life—<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_276" id="Page_276">[276]</a></span>love. +All her talents were directed to the gaining, +understanding, and keeping of this wonderful human +mystery. She wanted wild scenes and ungovernable +emotions: she was beautiful enough to figure in such +situations, and fascinating enough to indulge in such +crises without offence to the artistic proprieties. But +she had resolved that the hero of her existence must, +at least, look his part. No one denied that Orange +had a remarkable personality. Every one admitted +that he was clever. These were the sternest estimates +of his claim to social recognition. But she knew him +to be a de Hausée. She thought him superbly handsome. +She had Disraeli's opinion that he was a +genius. Here was a case where love would not have +to be blind. Love, in this case, could defy the scornful +and the proud. At last she could say, “My fate!” +and call the whole world to witness her surrender. +“Whether he loves me, or whether he hates me,” she +thought, “I have chosen him.” Sinætha, weaving +spells by the moon, was not more determined or more +irretrievably in love than Sara. The danger of such +wild moods is as attractive to the very young as it is +terrifying to the more mature. Perfectly conscious +of her beauty, she felt able to defy, sue, and conquer +at the same moment. Orange had never seen her to +such brilliant advantage. The instant he entered the +room and met her eyes, which shone with a most +touching kind of timidity and a most flattering joy, +he had to realise the need of strict discipline where +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_277" id="Page_277">[277]</a></span>constancy is a rule of existence. Sara's laugh, movements, +way of talking, played a good deal on the +heart, but even more upon the senses. Brigit's lovely +face gained intensity only under the influence of +sorrow. Then it became human. At other times +it was merely exquisite. Now Sara's countenance had +all the changing qualities of nature itself. She had, +too, the instinctive arts of sympathy which are so +much rarer than the actual gift. Far enough was +Sara from the triumph which she was imagining; far +enough was Orange from the least disloyalty; but he +was fully alive to the danger of regarding her as a +woman to be fought against. To fight in such cases +is to admit fear of conquest.</p> + +<p>“Those opals are beautiful,” said he, presently.</p> + +<p>“I am glad you approve of—the opals.”</p> + +<p>“But you put them to a disadvantage.”</p> + +<p>“O! is that a compliment? The first you have +ever paid me.”</p> + +<p>“Do you care about them?”</p> + +<p>“From you, yes. I was reading in Saint-Simon's +Memoirs yesterday that your ancestor—Charles de +Hausée—was the first swordsman, the bravest soldier, +the hardest rider, and the best judge of women in +France. But let us be serious. Lady Larch is +wearing her brightest smile!”</p> + +<p>“Must we be very earnest this evening?”</p> + +<p>“I am afraid so. You see, I have secured Pole-Knox. +He has never been permitted to dine here +before.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_278" id="Page_278">[278]</a></span>”</p> + +<p>“Why not?”</p> + +<p>“Because I once told Lady Augusta that he was a +man for the shortest part of the afternoon—not for +evenings, at all. She couldn't forgive this.”</p> + +<p>“Does she forgive it now?”</p> + +<p>“Yes. She has reached the stage when one may +criticise him.”</p> + +<p>“That means a complete cure, I suppose.”</p> + +<p>“Far from it—resignation to the worst that can +be said of his character. There is no cure possible +then.”</p> + +<p>“Have you had any conversation with Reckage?” +he asked.</p> + +<p>Sara coloured and put her fingers to her lips.</p> + +<p>“Hush!” said she. “There's a deceptive quiet +about him which puzzles me. But I don't think he +is sorry to be rid of Agnes. A regiment of relatives +drove him into the engagement. Now it has come to +an end—let us thank God!”</p> + +<p>“Your own conscience is easy, I take it?”</p> + +<p>“You have no right to ask such a question—none +at all.”</p> + +<p>“Some men, you know, can be laughed out of their +loves,” he continued.</p> + +<p>“Timorous men—yes! Is Reckage timorous?”</p> + +<p>“You turned that most adroitly.”</p> + +<p>“Thank you. Please sit between Lady Augusta +and Aumerle at dinner.”</p> + +<p>The dinner passed most agreeably. As little as +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_279" id="Page_279">[279]</a></span>possible was said about the Meeting; each talked to +his or her neighbour, and although the separate +dialogues may have been profound, the general effect +produced was one of restful flippancy. Pole-Knox +remarked over his fish that England had little to fear—unless +through the corruption of her religion, whereupon +Penborough declared that religion in the country +was a School, not a Church. To this Lady Augusta +rejoined that Rome's strength depended merely on +Canterbury's weakness.</p> + +<p>“Forcing a change is a very ticklish business,” said +Aumerle, studying the menu, and regretting that his +digestion was not all it had been.</p> + +<p>Lord Garrow deplored the fact that Mr. Gladstone +had embarked on a very vulgar and very false +policy.</p> + +<p>“But its vulgarity,” he sighed, “gives it a very +easy reception.”</p> + +<p>“He expects everything except docility,” said +Penborough; “if the Opposition employ that means, +they will embarrass all his calculations.”</p> + +<p>Reckage, meanwhile, was confiding to Sara—</p> + +<p>“I turned the horse round, rammed my spurs in, +and put him at the rails again!”</p> + +<p>One statement, made by Penborough, caused a +flutter.</p> + +<p>“If Catherine of Arragon had been immoral and +Mary Stuart virtuous, the whole course of European +History would have been different. The Reforma<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_280" id="Page_280">[280]</a></span>tion, +for instance, would have found no favour in +England.”</p> + +<p>“That's <i>very</i> advanced,” murmured Lady Larch.</p> + +<p>Sara, at dessert, tried to encourage a debate on the +egoism of the Saints compared with the egoism of +Montaigne.</p> + +<p>“They were selfishly bent on pain and renunciation, +he was selfishly bent on pleasure and indulgence. +Isn't that the one difference between them, Mr. +Orange?”</p> + +<p>Orange refused to be drawn, but he promised to +lend her the <i>Acta Sanctorum</i> of the Bollandists in +sixty volumes in folio.</p> + +<p>“After you have read them,” said he, “I will tell +you my ideas about Montaigne.”</p> + +<p>Many other remarks were probably more amusing; +these, however, were the most characteristic.</p> + +<p>When dinner was ended, Sara and the two ladies +withdrew to the drawing-room, where they discussed +with the utmost vehemence Orange's illegal +marriage and Reckage's broken engagement.</p> + +<p>The sum and substance of their investigations were +as follows:—</p> + +<p>Lady Larch wondered what the world was coming to.</p> + +<p>Lady Augusta declared that no woman yet ever +fathomed the heart of man.</p> + +<p>Lady Sara maintained that it was a very good thing +for both young men to have had such reverses before +they finally settled down.</p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_281" id="Page_281">[281]</a></span></p> +<p>At this Lady Augusta forgot to sigh, and Lady +Larch lost control of her smile.</p> + +<p>“How,” exclaimed Augusta, “can they forget so +soon? Can any settling down be in contemplation? +Are no deep, sacred feelings left?”</p> + +<p>Emmeline Larch, who was a widow, said she +would never be hard on any one who tried to recover, +for the sake of others, from a shattering +bereavement.</p> + +<p>“Dear Lady Larch!” exclaimed Sara.</p> + +<p>The three women formed a picturesque group +round the fireplace as the men entered. But the +card-tables were already placed, and Sara lost no time +in arranging a quartette for whist. Penborough had +to leave for the <i>Times</i> office. Pole-Knox had to hurry +back to Fulham. The young lady, who was known +to detest all games, was thus able to choose Robert +for her partner in a short conversation.</p> + +<p>“Forgive me,” said she, “but—have you anything +to tell me about Mrs. Parflete?”</p> + +<p>“Yes; she is now with Pensée.”</p> + +<p>“May I call upon her? May I know her? Would +she see me?”</p> + +<p>“With pleasure, I am sure.”</p> + +<p>“And you?” she asked.</p> + +<p>“I don't see her,” he said quietly; “I don't hear +from her. I don't write to her. And—I don't talk +about her. But I should like you to know her. She +needs true friends—who understand.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_282" id="Page_282">[282]</a></span>”</p> + +<p>“Have you been to Prince d'Alchingen's, or has he +approached you in any way?”</p> + +<p>“I am to dine with him to-morrow.”</p> + +<p>“Has he said anything to you about the Marquis of +Castrillon?”</p> + +<p>“Not a word,” replied Robert, in surprise: “why +should he?”</p> + +<p>“I believe there is mischief in the air. Be careful, +won't you? Reckage is watching us. I think he +would like some music. He is so <i>triste</i> this evening.”</p> + +<p>She moved away, and played delightfully on the +guitar until the guests rose to leave. Then she found +an opportunity to tell Lord Reckage not to come back +again. She was tired, she said, and her papa would +think it too odd.</p> + +<p>“Then to-morrow morning,” said he.</p> + +<p>She named an hour.</p> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_283" id="Page_283">[283]</a></span></p><h2><a name="CHAPTER_XX" id="CHAPTER_XX"></a>CHAPTER XX</h2> + + +<p>Robert, on leaving the house, drove to Grosvenor +Gate, where he had an appointment with Disraeli. +The ex-Minister was sitting, in a flowered dressing-gown, +by the library fire. The blinds were not drawn, +for the night was bright and starry; the moonlight +streamed into the room, mingling strangely with the +soft glow of the green-shaded lamp. There was a +large bundle of documents on the table by Disraeli's +side, and a pile of Continental newspapers on the +floor. One of the latter he was reading, and, by +the slight curl of his mouth and the gleam in his +fine eyes, Orange saw that he was working out, to +his amusement, some train of thought which gave full +jurisdiction to his knowledge of humanity.</p> + +<p>“Bismarck,” said he, “is the first German statesman +who has not regarded newspapers as inconvenient +lumber. He wishes the Press to advance his great +ideas by assuming the place of the Universities in +training public opinion, and the place of the Church +in controlling it. He might as well strive to make +the horse into the lion, the mule into the unicorn, a +parrot into the soaring eagle! Any man who is +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_284" id="Page_284">[284]</a></span>written up into a place can be written down out +of it. Our friend will learn this too late—probably +about the time that we, in England, are adopting, +with enthusiasm, his present error. Ah, my dear +Orange, watch the sky and you will learn the hearts +of men. Observe the changing light, the clouds +driven by the wind, the glimpses of pure blue, the +sudden blackness, the startling brilliancy, and then—the +monotonous grey. They seem too hard for me, +at times. The clash between ideas and interests +makes our inheritance a grim battlefield, and there are +moments of mortification when one may feel tempted +to sell it—not for a mess of pottage, but for the <i>promise</i> +of a mess of pottage. Tempted, I said. There is +always a course left, if you have the courage to face +it. It may avail you; I cannot insure you even that. +But if I were in your place, I would try.”</p> + +<p>“I could never do better, sir, than to follow your +advice or your example.”</p> + +<p>“Never betray, then, the least depression at disappointments +or reverses, but seize the few joyful +occasions of life for the indulgence of any accumulated +melancholy and bitterness. By this simple rule +you will escape the charge urged against all the +ambitious, who are usually as intoxicated by success +as they are cowardly in adversity. It delights me to +see you in high spirits. Tell me the news, but first +give me your opinion of this little paragraph which +will appear in to-morrow's <i>Times</i>.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_285" id="Page_285">[285]</a></span>”</p> + +<p>He took from his pocket-book a slip of paper on +which was written the following in Mrs. Disraeli's +hand:—</p> + +<blockquote><p>Mr. Orange, the new Member for Norbet Royal, is the +son of a French nobleman of very ancient lineage. It +was a condition of his adoption by the late Admiral Bertin +that his own name should be dropped, and he has accordingly +always borne that of the Orange family. The +circumstances of his birth were communicated to the +Queen before his naturalisation as a British subject, and +his presentation, by Mr. Disraeli, at Court.</p></blockquote> + +<p>“Was that necessary?” asked Robert.</p> + +<p>“A public man must speak out, and this expedient +occurred to me as a slight pull in your favour. The +two things in life which are really gratuitous are the +grace of God and one's pedigree! The rest depends +upon ourselves. Now you can't think how much I +am interested in every little detail of your mental +experiences. I believe you will be a Jesuit yet. I +have never concealed my respect for the Jesuits. +When Spain and France expelled the Society of +Jesus, they persecuted their truest allies. A terrible +price, too, they paid for that crime. You see, then, +that I understand staunch Catholics. If I could rouse +an Imperial feeling in England which would at all +correspond with the feeling of Catholics for their +Church! Sometimes I dream this may be possible. +Pope, the satirist, remained, in spite of his wit, a loyal +son of the Faith, while many dull worthies who +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_286" id="Page_286">[286]</a></span>shuddered at his epigrams were recanting daily either +from fear or for some worldly advantage. In the +same way, Robert, men who hate my novels because +they contain a few truths, would sell England, if they +could, to-morrow. I mentioned the fact about Pope +to a gentleman who complains that you are by no +means typical of your co-religionists in this country.”</p> + +<p>“The very expression ‘typical Catholic’ is a +paradox,” replied Robert, who always accepted +adverse criticism with good humour; “there is one +Spirit, but it has many manifestations. From the +apostles, saints and martyrs to the rank and file, we +have to recognise the individuality of each soul. In +fact, sir, is not that the very essence of the Church's +teaching?”</p> + +<p>“So I have always understood. And we have not +heard the last of the ‘law of liberty’; although I +observe to my chagrin that many modern Papists +depart from those great principles which they should +take every opportunity of claiming as their own. In +the freezing snows of the world's solitude, a prudent +man does not try to make himself happy, but he is +less than a man if he allows others to make him +wretched. The flesh has its discomfort: the spirit, +however, has its illimitable conjectures. When all +else fails me, I may still find solace in conjectures. +Does it strike you that they may have, nevertheless, +a danger also?”</p> + +<p>“This is your own way of asking me whether I +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_287" id="Page_287">[287]</a></span>know my own mind! If you mean, Have I put all +sentiment resolutely from my thoughts, Yes. If you +mean, Have I determined to continue in my present +line till I have a call to some other vocation, Yes.”</p> + +<p>His heart was troubled, full of vague combinations. +The events of the day had seemed mechanical, foolish—a +course of sorrowful attempting and self-reproach.</p> + +<p>“Both of your affirmatives are satisfactory,” said +Disraeli; “you are, I see, what the Americans call a +‘whole-hog man.’ Now let us consider ways and +means. I saw Prince d'Alchingen this afternoon. +He announces the increased distress and reformation +of Parflete. We must therefore prepare for further +villainy. Mrs. Parflete has confided to d'Alchingen +her desire to go on the stage. He encourages this +ambition, and she has accepted his invitation to Hadley +Lodge, where she will recite in his private <i>salle de +comédie</i>.”</p> + +<p>Robert, though much taken by surprise, betrayed +no sign of it.</p> + +<p>“You cannot tell what she will do—until she does +it,” he answered. “She may have great talents.”</p> + +<p>“Well, one forgets that when Voltaire said, ‘<i>Il faut +cultiver notre jardin</i>,’ he was quoting, with sardonic irony, +Saint Teresa! You cannot be pleased at Mrs. Parflete's +decision. The theatre in England is a sport—not an +art. In France it is an art, but,” he added drily, “it +embraces more than one profession.”</p> + +<p>“Whether a woman be a saint, a queen, or an +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_288" id="Page_288">[288]</a></span>actress—once before the public—she is exposed to +severe discipline. And I don't fear for this one. +She will take her revenge on life by laughing at it.”</p> + +<p>“I daresay. D'Alchingen calls her <i>un peu étourdi</i>. +She has the audacity—she may have the fortune of +despair. Confess—you have run a little wild about her.”</p> + +<p>“I ran off the track, if you like,” said Orange, +smiling.</p> + +<p>“Women fascinate the hearts, but they do not +affect the destinies of determined men,” returned +Disraeli. “If you have not won anything by this +affair, it would be hard to say what winning is. There +is but one feeling and one opinion about the really +courageous stand you have made.”</p> + +<p>“I must gain confidence all the same in my own +ability to keep my resolves when they are clear to me. +I once prided myself in that ability as the one gem in +my character.”</p> + +<p>“You may laugh at yourself as much as you +please. Beauty is as well worth admiring as anything +on earth, and the world is better lost for love, than +love for the world. At least, let us say so. I met +Reckage at the Travellers' yesterday, and had some +talk with him about his Association. I think it far +better that Aumerle should not resign, as he could, +and probably would, be very mischievous as a freelance. +Reckage is all for shaking him off, but these +things, in any circumstances, should never be forced.”</p> + +<p>“I advised Reckage myself to sound each member +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_289" id="Page_289">[289]</a></span>of the Committee privately. Then, at the general +meeting, he could form some just estimate of the +difficulties in his way, and in their way.”</p> + +<p>“Reckage, though a mean fellow, might give you +an opportunity to work a strong Sub-Committee,” +suggested Disraeli. “One cannot calculate on the +course of a man so variable and impulsive. He proposes +to get rid of Aumerle, and make concessions to +his set. It is an unhappy policy, and always unhappily +applied, to imagine that men can be reconciled by +partial concessions. I attribute much of Reckage's +behaviour to his fear of society. Society itself, however, +does not practise any of the virtues which it +demands from the individual. It ridicules the highest +motives, and degrades the most heroic achievements. +It is fed with emotions and spectacles: it cries, +laughs, and condemns without knowledge and without +enthusiasm. Pitiable indeed is the politician who +makes society his moral barometer.”</p> + +<p>“I have urged him to be firm. Christianity was +never yet at peace with its age. There is no other Faith +whose first teacher was persecuted and crucified. +Viewed solely as a point of administration, it is disastrous +to cut religious thought according to the +fashionable pattern of the hour. This has been the +constant weakness of English Churchmen. They try +to match eternity with the times.”</p> + +<p>“My opinion is that Reckage must act with considerable +caution, or he will find himself repudiated by +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_290" id="Page_290">[290]</a></span>every party. The English like a fellow to stand by +his guns. I come now to your own business. Will +you do me a favour? Before you reply let me define +it. I have been asked to send some good speaker to +Hanborough. The occasion is the opening of a Free +Library. Remarks—of a laudatory nature—on the +princely munificence of Hanborough's mayor, Hanborough's +corporation, Hanborough's leading citizens, +a eulogy of their public glories and private +virtues—with a little thrown in about Shakespeare, +Scott, and the Lord-Lieutenant of the county—would +be adequately appreciated. The attendance +will be large: the nobility, gentry, and clergy of the +neighbourhood will flower about you on the platform; +a banquet will follow in the evening, and in the +morning blushing girls will hand you bouquets at the +railway station. Can you refuse?”</p> + +<p>“Not easily, I admit,” said Robert, laughing; “but +Reckage is rather low and unhappy just now about his +broken engagement. Wouldn't such an adventure +as this take him out of himself?”</p> + +<p>“This is not an adventure—this is an opportunity,” +said Disraeli; “it would be nursed into a stepping-stone. +I know fifty men who are worrying themselves +to death to get it.”</p> + +<p>“You need not tell me that,” replied Robert, with +gratitude. “It would be a great thing for me. But +Reckage is always at his best in functions of the kind. +Hanborough might make much of him, and then +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_291" id="Page_291">[291]</a></span>his Association would feel flattered by reflected +honours.”</p> + +<p>“You invariably set your face against your own +advantages, and I am afraid I shall not live to see you +where you ought to be. However, Reckage shall have +the invitation. Now, good-night. By the by, have +you heard that Castrillon is now in the marriage-market? +His mistress has given her consent, and +the Prince has promised his blessing. Could things +look more auspicious? Good-night.”</p> + +<p>For the second time that evening Castrillon's name +fell with a warning note on Robert's ear. Disraeli, +he knew, would not have mentioned him out of sheer +idleness. There was some danger threatening in that +quarter, and it was impossible to dissociate this from +Brigit. The Marquis of Castrillon had been with her +in Madrid, and also at Baron Zeuill's palace after the +escape from Loadilla.</p> + +<p>“Where is Castrillon now?” asked Robert.</p> + +<p>“I understand he is in London,” answered Disraeli; +“at Claridge's Hotel. D'Alchingen and he are on +excellent terms.”</p> + +<p>“Good!” said Robert, tightening his lips. “You +will find he has been invited to Hadley.”</p> + +<p>“I haven't a doubt of it.”</p> + +<p>“Then I must contrive to see him first.”</p> + +<p>Early the following morning Orange presented +himself at the house of an old, very devout priest +of his acquaintance.</p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_292" id="Page_292">[292]</a></span></p> +<p>“Father,” said he, “this afternoon or to-morrow I +may be in circumstances of danger.”</p> + +<p>“What danger is this?” asked the priest.</p> + +<p>“There is a man whom I may be compelled, in +defence of my honour, to challenge to a duel.”</p> + +<p>“To approach the Sacrament in such a frame of +mind,” said the old man, “is not to prepare yourself +for danger. For to come to confession with a determination +of taking vengeance is to put an obstacle to +the grace of the Sacrament. You must preserve your +honour by some other way. Indeed, the honour you +think to preserve by this is not real honour, but merely +the estimation of bad men founded on bad principles.”</p> + +<p>“I know,” said Orange, hotly; “it is impossible, +however, to withdraw now.”</p> + +<p>“If you should be beaten,” returned the other, who +had been in the army himself as a youth, and could +comprehend the worldly view of the situation, “if you +should be beaten, what becomes of the honour you +wish to defend? And if you should be killed in that +state of soul in which you go to the duel, you will go +straight to hell and everlasting shame.”</p> + +<p>“I implore you, Father, to pray for me, and to +hear my confession, if you possibly can.”</p> + +<p>“Certainly, I cannot hear you,” said the priest. +“But this is what I will do. Wear this <i>Agnus Dei</i>, +and perhaps God will have mercy on you for the sake +of this, and afford you time for penance. Understand, +however, I do not give it to you in order to +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_293" id="Page_293">[293]</a></span>encourage you in your bad purpose, but that you may +wear it with all reverence and respect, and perhaps be +moved to obedience.”</p> + +<p>Robert thanked him, accepting the gift in a right +spirit. His self-will, however, was aroused. He had +determined to fight Castrillon, and fight he would.</p> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_294" id="Page_294">[294]</a></span></p><h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXI" id="CHAPTER_XXI"></a>CHAPTER XXI</h2> + + +<p>Sara awoke that same morning with a foreboding +heart. She wrote a letter to Reckage postponing his +call, and another to Pensée Fitz Rewes, asking her to +be at home that afternoon. At half-past two the +young lady drove up, in her brougham, to the widow's +door in Curzon Street. The blinds were down, and +the house gave every indication that its owner was +not in London. Sara, however, was admitted, and +Pensée received her in a little room, hung with lilac +chintz and full of porcelain, at the back of the house. +Pensée, wearing a loose blue robe, seemed over-excited +and sad—with that sadness which seems to fall upon +the soul as snow upon water. She was reclining on +the sofa, reading a worn copy of Law's <i>Serious Call</i> +which had belonged to the late Viscount, and bore +many of his pencil-marks. This in itself was to Sara +a sign of some unusual melancholy in her friend.</p> + +<p>“Why,” she said, kissing her soft, pale cheek, +“why didn't you let me know that you had returned? +I thought you were still in Paris.”</p> + +<p>“My dear,” said Pensée, sitting up with a sudden +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_295" id="Page_295">[295]</a></span>movement and supporting herself on her two hands. +“I am no longer my own mistress. I have become +a puppet—a marionette: a kind of lady-in-waiting—a +person to whom women talk when they have +nothing to say, and to whom men talk when they +have nothing to do.”</p> + +<p>Sara chose a seat and studied the speaker with a +new curiosity. She was charming; vexation gave +humanity to her waxen features, and the flash in her +eyes suggested hitherto unsuspected fires in her +temperament, “She has more spirit than I gave her +credit for,” thought Sara, and she added, “Darling!” +aloud.</p> + +<p>“Darling, indeed!” said Pensée. “I can tell you +I am tired of being a darling. There are limits.... I +have no patience with Brigit, and Robert drives me +to the conclusion that good men are fools—fools! I +suppose he told you that I was in town again?”</p> + +<p>“Yes.”</p> + +<p>“Well, he won't come and see me himself because +<i>she</i> is here.”</p> + +<p>“That is merely a decision on principle. He longs +to come.”</p> + +<p>“Quite so. But the girl does not deserve him.”</p> + +<p>Sara showed no astonishment; she maintained her +thoughtful air, and replied with tranquillity—</p> + +<p>“He thinks she is perfect.”</p> + +<p>“I find no vulgar faults in her, myself, although +there seems no foolish thing left that she hasn't done. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_296" id="Page_296">[296]</a></span>I am sure that every one will think her light, worldly, +and frivolous. Let me say what I have been through. +After the first terrible day and night at St. Malo, there +was no more crying. There was not another tear. +We went to Paris. She spent all her mornings at +Notre Dame, all her afternoons with old Monsieur +Lanitaux of the Conservatoire, all her evenings at the +theatre. She found many of her mother's old friends. +In the theatrical world I find much loyalty toward +those actually born in the profession. They treated +her as though she were a young queen. Lanitaux +managed to get her privately before the Empress +Eugénie. She sang for the Empress: the Empress +cried and gave her an emerald ring.”</p> + +<p>“Then she has talent.”</p> + +<p>“Genius, I believe,” said Pensée, solemnly. “This +makes her hateful and lovable at the same moment. +She is determined to be an actress. She never speaks +of Robert, and she shuts herself up in her room +reciting Marivaux and Molière. The d'Alchingens +have invited her to Hadley next Saturday. They +encourage her theatrical ideas. And why? They +wish her to lose caste. She is an Archduchess, Sara, +an Alberian Archduchess. What a living argument +against unequal marriages!”</p> + +<p>“Will she go to Hadley?”</p> + +<p>“Yes—wholly against my advice. I don't trust +Prince d'Alchingen.”</p> + +<p>“How I wish I could see her!<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_297" id="Page_297">[297]</a></span>”</p> + +<p>“She is in the library now. I will ask her to come +down.”</p> + +<p>Pensée left the room, and Sara paced the floor till +she returned.</p> + +<p>“She is coming,” said Pensée, “be nice to her—for +Robert's sake!”</p> + +<p>Sara nodded, and both women watched the door till +the handle moved, and Mrs. Parflete entered.</p> + +<p>She was dressed in violet silk without ornaments or +jewels of any description. Her face was slightly +flushed, and the colour intensified the pale gold diadem +of her blonde hair. The expression—sweet-tempered, +yet a little arrogant—of her countenance and its +long oval form bore a striking resemblance to the +early portraits of Marie Antoinette. Her under-lip +had also a slight outward bend, which seemed an +encouragement when she smiled, and contemptuous +when she frowned. Her figure—though too slight +even for a girl of seventeen—was extraordinarily +graceful, and, in spite of her height, she was so +well proportioned that she did not appear too tall. +Youth showed itself, however, in a certain childlikeness +of demeanour—a mixture of timidity, confidence, +embarrassment, and, if one looked in her +face for any sign of the emotions she had experienced, +or the scenes in which she had played +no feeble part, one sought in vain. Gaiety covered +the melancholy, almost sombre depths in her character. +And it was the gaiety of her French +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_298" id="Page_298">[298]</a></span>mother—petulant, reckless, irresistible, giddy, uncertain. +As a child, dressed up in ribbons and lace, with +flowers in her hair, she had been the chief amusement +and plaything of Madame Duboc—to be held on her +lap, perched upon the piano, placed on high cushions +in the carriage, and lifted on the table of the drawing-room, +where she entertained a brilliant, if dissipated +company, by her talk, her little songs, her laughter, her +mimicry, and her dancing. She rarely danced now, +yet all the seductive arts of perfect dancing seemed +hers by right of birth. Each movement, each gesture +had a peculiar charm, and her dark blue eyes, the more +provocative for their lack of passion, were full of a +half-mocking, half-tender vivacity. Sara, a beautiful +young woman herself, surveyed this unconscious rival +and recognised, with good sense, a fatal attractiveness +which was stronger than time and far above beauty. +It was the spell of a spirit and body planned for +fascination and excelling in this indefinable power. +Had she been born to ruin men? thought Sara. Had +she been given a glamour and certain gifts merely to +perplex, deceive, and destroy all those who came +within the magic of her glance? History had its +long, terrible catalogue of such women whose words +are now forgotten, whose portraits leave us cold, yet +whose very names still agitate the heart and fire the +imagination. Was Brigit one of these?</p> + +<p>She had nothing of the deliberate coquette who, +eager to please, keeps up an incessant battery of airs +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_299" id="Page_299">[299]</a></span>and graces. Her enchantments depended rather on +the fact that she neither asked for admiration nor +valued it. Free from vanity, and therefore indifferent +to criticism, the bitternesses which destroy the peace of +most women never entered her mind. The man she +had chosen gave her no cause for jealousy, and, while +she enjoyed men's society, she had been so accustomed +to it from her earliest days that she had nothing to fear +from the novelty of their friendship, or the danger of +their compliments. Not prudish, not morbid, not +envious, not sentimental, and not indolent, she was +perhaps especially endowed for the tantalising career +which the stage offers to the ambitious of both sexes. +Acting came to her as music comes to the true +musician. She never considered whether she would +become a great actress or a rejected one: the art in +itself was her delight, and she found more happiness +in reciting Molière and Shakespeare alone in her own +room than she ever received, even at the height of her +fame, from her triumphs before the world. There +was, no doubt, a great craving in her nature for +innocent pleasures and excitement. She loved gay +scenes, bright lights, beautiful clothes, lively music, +witty conversation. She had been born for the +brilliant Courts of the eighteenth century when life +in each class was more highly concentrated than is +possible now—when love was put to severer tests, +hatred permitted a crueller play, politics asked a more +intricate genius, and art controlled the kingdom of the +Graces.</p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_300" id="Page_300">[300]</a></span></p> +<p>The three women as they faced each other presented +a remarkable picture. Pensée, the eldest, who +alone knew the lessons of physical pain, had a pathetic +grace which made her seem, in comparison with the +others—radiant with untried health,—some gentle, +plaintive spirit from a sadder sphere. Her clinging +blue robe appeared too heavy for the frail body; her +fair curls and carefully arranged <i>chignon</i> were too +modish for the ethereal yet anxious countenance; the +massive wedding-ring seemed too coarse a bond for the +almost transparent hand which trembled nervously on +the cover of the <i>Serious Call</i>. Sara, in black velvet +and sable, with ostrich plumes and golden beads, with +flashing eyes and a gipsy's flush, with all the self-command +of a woman trained for society, living for +it and in it, with all the self-assurance of a woman in +an unassailable position, handsome, rich, flattered, +spoiled, domineering, and unscrupulous, with all the +insolence of an egoism which no human force could +humiliate and no human antagonist terrify, Sara seemed +the one who was destined to succeed superbly in the +war of life. Mrs. Parflete—whose courage, determination, +and powers of endurance were concealed +by a face which might have been made of lovely +gauze—seemed less a being than a poetical creation: a +portrait by Watteau or Fragonard stepped from its +frame, animated by pure fancy, and moving, without +sorrow and without labour, through a charmed +existence.</p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_301" id="Page_301">[301]</a></span></p> +<p>She made two steps forward when Sara advanced to +meet her, holding out both hands and smiling with +real kindness at the sight of a delightful apparition +which looked too fragile to excite such a fierce emotion +as jealousy.</p> + +<p>“I believe we are to meet at Hadley,” said Sara. +“I hear you are going to act.”</p> + +<p>“Yes,” replied Brigit, with a slight note of irony +in her musical voice. “I am going to act.”</p> + +<p>“How charming! And what will you play?”</p> + +<p>“I play the Marquise in one of Marivaux's +comedies.”</p> + +<p>“And who will play the Marquis?” asked Sara.</p> + +<p>“There is no Marquis,” answered Brigit, laughing +a little. “But,” she added, “there is a Chevalier and +a Comte. One of Prince d'Alchingen's attachés will +play the Comte. M. de Castrillon will play the part +of the Chevalier.”</p> + +<p>“Castrillon!” exclaimed Sara, in amazement.</p> + +<p>“The Marquis of Castrillon!” cried Pensée, turning +livid; “pray, pray put it off till you have heard +from Baron Zeuill. Dear Brigit! for my sake, for +Robert's——“</p> + +<p>“It is for your sake and Robert's that I have +accepted the invitation to Hadley. I wish you would +understand. I must show them all that I mean what +I say.”</p> + +<p>“But Castrillon is a wicked wretch—a libertine.”</p> + +<p>“We have already acted together in this very piece +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_302" id="Page_302">[302]</a></span>at Madrid. Much depends on my playing well next +Saturday. I am quite sure of his talent, and, in such +a case, his private morals are not my affair. He is no +worse than Prince d'Alchingen was, and most of his +associates are.”</p> + +<p>“You can't know what you are saying,” answered +Pensée. “You will be so miserable when you find +you have been madly obstinate. It is very hard, in a +country like England, for a young woman to set herself +in opposition to certain prejudices.”</p> + +<p>“Are the Duke and Duchess of Fortinbras respectable?” +asked Brigit.</p> + +<p>“What a question!” said Pensée; “of course +they are most exclusive.”</p> + +<p>“Then if they are quite willing that their daughter +Clementine should marry Castrillon, surely he may +play the Chevalier to my Marquise.”</p> + +<p>“I don't think, Pensée,” put in Sara, “that +Castrillon is exactly tabooed. In fact, one meets him +everywhere in Paris, and, beyond a doubt, the Fortinbrases +and the Huxaters and the Kentons made a great +fuss over him last season. But do you <i>like</i> him?” she +said, suddenly turning to Brigit.</p> + +<p>The question was skilful.</p> + +<p>“I don't take him seriously,” answered Brigit; +“he has the great science of <i>l'excellent ton dans le +mauvis ton</i>. You would say—‘he is vulgar in the +right way.’ I feel sure he never deceived women. +They may have been foolish but they must have been +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_303" id="Page_303">[303]</a></span>frail before they met him! He can be ridiculous in +five languages, but he cannot be sincere in one +of them. As for his wickedness, one must have +more than bad intentions; one must have the +circumstances. I have nothing to fear from M. de +Castrillon. He knows me perfectly well.”</p> + +<p>“I am simply wretched about you,” said Pensée; +“of your future I dare not think. I try to be +<i>sympathique</i>, and your difficulties come very home +to me because I have had such great sorrows myself. +But I have little hopes of doing any good while you +are so self-willed.”</p> + +<p>“Dearest,” exclaimed Brigit: “trust me!”</p> + +<p>“My child, you are ‘wiser in your own eyes than +seven men that can render a reason.’ I implore you +to abandon this mad scheme; I implore you to +abandon these wrong—these dangerous ideas of the +stage. I know how much I am asking, and how +little right I have to ask anything, but I think you +ought to listen to me.”</p> + +<p>Brigit, with a sparkling glance at Sara, stroked +Pensée's cheek, and pinched her small ear.</p> + +<p>“<i>Mon cher coeur</i>,” said she, “I do not forget your +goodness. And I needed it, for I have been so +wretched and forsaken. My soul is weighed down +with troubles, and grief, and anxiety: each day I +expect some new misfortune: you are the one friend +I may keep. But you would not know how to +imagine the intrigues and falsehoods which surround +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_304" id="Page_304">[304]</a></span>me on every side. <i>O mon amie</i>, I must prove to them +that I want nothing they can give me—that I possess +nothing which they can take away.”</p> + +<p>“I know what she means, Pensée,” said Sara; +“she has to show d'Alchingen that her interests are +fixed on art—not politics. And, from her point of +view, she is right. I must say so, although I don't +wish to interfere. And so long as she knows M. de +Castrillon, it is better taste to make her first appearance +with him than with some strange actor engaged +for the occasion. After all, Mario was well known +as the Marchese di Candia before he adopted the +operatic stage as a profession. As for gossip, how is +anybody's tongue to be stopped?”</p> + +<p>“I do not expect that people's tongues should be +stopped,” rejoined Pensée.</p> + +<p>“What the world says of me I have learned to +disregard very much,” said Brigit: “if I vex my +friends, I must nevertheless follow my vocation. It +was good enough for my mother. I do not apologise +for her existence, nor do I offer excuses for my own. +She was an actress: I am an actress. She succeeded: +I may not succeed. But if you fear for my faith and +my character, it would be quite as easy to lose both +in the highest society as in the vilest theatres! I +foresee mistakes and difficulties. They must come. +I shan't have a happy life, dearest Pensée: I +don't look for happiness. Why then do you scold +me?<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_305" id="Page_305">[305]</a></span>”</p> + +<p>“I am not scolding,” said Lady Fitz Rewes: “I +have never blamed you, never—in my heart. We +shall get on better now that we have brought ourselves +to speak out. How different it is when one +judges for oneself or for another! I do believe in +having the courage of one's convictions. But it was +my duty to warn you——“</p> + +<p>“This is all I wanted,” exclaimed Brigit; “that +we should understand each other and stand close by +each other. I am not on the edge of a precipice—I +am at the bottom of it already!” Her eyes had +grown calm from the mere force of sadness. “You +mustn't ask me to look back,” she added: “you +mustn't ask me to choose again. A simple, quiet life +is out of the question now. I have to learn how to +forget.”</p> + +<p>She moved to the door, kissed her hand to Pensée, +and bowed prettily to Sara.</p> + +<p>“I must get back to my work,” she said, and so +left them. The two women turned toward each +other.</p> + +<p>“There is no hope for Orange,” observed Sara +drily: “no man would ever forget her.”</p> + +<p>“He needn't forget her, but——“</p> + +<p>“Yes, it would have to be sheer, absolute forgetfulness. +I like her. I like all beautiful things—pictures, +statues, bronzes, porcelains, and white +marble visions! She is a white marble vision. And +Orange will love her forever and ever and ever. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_306" id="Page_306">[306]</a></span>And when she is dead, he will love her still +more!”</p> + +<p>She threw back her head and laughed—till Pensée +laughed also. Then they wished each other goodbye, +and parted.</p> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_307" id="Page_307">[307]</a></span></p><h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXII" id="CHAPTER_XXII"></a>CHAPTER XXII</h2> + + +<p>When Sara reached home, she was dismayed to hear +that Lord Reckage had called during her absence and +was waiting for her return. The prospect of an interview +with him seemed so disagreeable that she walked +first to the library, and sat there alone, for some +moments, before she could summon the presence of +mind which every sense warned her would be required +for the ordeal. At last, with a pinched heart, she went +up the great staircase, and found Reckage writing at +her own table in the drawing-room. He turned +quickly, and jumped to his feet at the rustle of her +dress. He was looking unusually handsome, she +thought, very animated, very dashing.</p> + +<p>“You will forgive these clothes,” said he, “but I +have ordered Pluto round at four o'clock, and I am +going for a long ride.”</p> + +<p>“What a strange idea!” she answered, taking off +her gloves. “Where are you going?”</p> + +<p>“To Hampstead Heath. I need the air and the +exercise. I have to compose a speech.”</p> + +<p>“The speech for the Meeting?<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_308" id="Page_308">[308]</a></span>”</p> + +<p>His brow darkened, and he pushed back with his +foot a log which was falling from the open grate.</p> + +<p>“No, not that speech. Another. Disraeli has +asked me to go in his stead to Hanborough. I don't +like to attach over-importance to the invitation, but +he must mean it as an encouragement. Evidently, he +wishes to show that Aumerle and the rest are without +any shadow of right in their attacks. I have been +above five years working up this society, and if, at the +end of that time, I am president only by dint of +<i>family interest</i>, be assured the situation cannot be +worth having. When I leave, it will go all to +pieces.”</p> + +<p>“But you don't intend to leave, surely?”</p> + +<p>“Indeed, I do.”</p> + +<p>“Have you hinted at resignation?”</p> + +<p>“No, I sha'n't hint. Hints belong to the unconsidered +patience of fools. I won't give them an inkling +of my real tactics. Let them lollop along in their +own wretched fashion to some final imbecility! I +have other matters to think of, Sara. Doesn't Disraeli's +action say, as delicately as possible, that I am wasting +my time over small men? I have been altogether too +easy of access. Simplicity and consideration are +thrown away on the Snookses and the Pawkinses! +With these gentry, one must be a vulgar, bragging +snob, or they think one is not worth knowing.”</p> + +<p>“But you owe it to yourself and to Orange to hold +the Meeting to-morrow?” she said, anxiously.</p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_309" id="Page_309">[309]</a></span></p> +<p>“There is a way out of it,” he answered, avoiding +her eyes. “We can talk of that presently.”</p> + +<p>“Nothing interests me more.”</p> + +<p>“That is not true,” he said, taking a chair near her; +“there are many things which must interest both of +us much, much more than that stupid Meeting.”</p> + +<p>“I prefer not to speak of them now, Beauclerk.”</p> + +<p>“I can't go on in this uncertainty. I am beginning +to think I am a blundering fellow—where women are +concerned. When we were together as children, I +seem to remember, looking back, that I always did +the wrong thing. And later—when you came out +and I fancied myself a man of the world, it was the +same. I don't know exactly what a girl is at eighteen, +but I know that a fellow of twenty-five is an ass. +He is probably well-meaning: he isn't hardened by +ambition and he is pretty sentimental, as a rule. Yet +he doesn't have fixed ideas. One day it dawned upon +me that I was in love.”</p> + +<p>“Now don't say that.”</p> + +<p>“I repeat it. I am far from wishing to pose as a +martyr, but whenever one is happy, all one's friends +think that one is going to make some fatal mistake. +I suppose no battle can be won without a battle. But +life has always had a good deal of painfulness to me, +and I hate opposition. It isn't lack of courage on +my part—I can fight an enemy to the death. When +it comes to quarrelling with relatives or those I care +about—well, I own I can seldom see good reasons for +keeping a stiff neck.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_310" id="Page_310">[310]</a></span>”</p> + +<p>“I am perfectly convinced of your spirit, Beauclerk; +every circumstance serves to show it. There was +never a time when you did the wrong thing—in my +judgment.”</p> + +<p>“You are generous, but I dare not believe you +there. Much that I did and all that I left unsaid +must have puzzled you. I wouldn't speak now, Sara, +if I didn't feel sure that in spite of my faults, my +stupidity, my want of self-knowledge, you saw that I +was destined to love you.”</p> + +<p>It was impossible to deny this fact. She had been +well aware always of his affection, and the certainty +had given a peculiar emotional value to every scene—no +matter how commonplace—to every occasion, no +matter how crowded, to every conversation, no matter +how trivial—in which he figured or his name transpired. +He and poor Marshire were the two men in the +world who really loved her. Marshire was the more +desperate because he was less intelligent and had fewer +interests; Reckage loved her with all the force of a +selfish, vain, and spoilt nature. Such a passion she +knew was not especially noble and certainly not ideal. +But it was strong, and it made him submissive.</p> + +<p>“Sara,” he said, “you have got to help me.” He +put his arm round her waist, and as she inclined her +face ever so slightly toward his, he kissed her cheek.</p> + +<p>“How can I help you?” she asked.</p> + +<p>“Let us marry.”</p> + +<p>“I don't wish to marry any one just yet, Beauclerk,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_311" id="Page_311">[311]</a></span>” +she said; “I like my liberty. I don't feel that I +should make either a good wife, or a contented one, as +I am now. I want to see more and think more before +I give up my will to another.”</p> + +<p>“I would not ask you to give up your will.”</p> + +<p>“We should be utterly miserable if I didn't.”</p> + +<p>“Believe me, it is the weak, effeminate creature +who wishes to control women. Men of character +respect women of character. These fellows who +declare that they will be masters in their own house +are masters nowhere else. I delight in your spirit. +Orange and I have often agreed,” he added, with a +searching look, “that you are the most brilliant girl +in England.”</p> + +<p>“Why do you quote Robert?” she said carelessly; +“isn't your opinion enough for me?”</p> + +<p>“Can you pretend that his opinion has no weight +with you?”</p> + +<p>She laughed, and stroked his arm.</p> + +<p>“My dear, why should I pretend anything? To +tell the truth, I am surprised that Orange has noticed +me. I saw Mrs. Parflete to-day. I understand his +infatuation.”</p> + +<p>“I have always told you that she was a very pretty +woman. But why is it that, no matter where we +start, we always come back to Orange? I am getting +sick of him. I dislike being <i>affiché</i>, as it were, to +some one else. This marriage of his pursues me. If +I go into a club, if I dine, if I ride, if I walk—ten to +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_312" id="Page_312">[312]</a></span>one if I am not pelted with questions about Mrs. +Parflete, or Robert's history, or his genius, or his +future plans. I must drop him.”</p> + +<p>“Drop him?” she exclaimed.</p> + +<p>“Yes. It doesn't help me to appear so friendly with +a Roman. I know he is very fine, but I have to consider +my own position. They all say that it would +be madness to take the chair now at his meeting.”</p> + +<p>“But it was <i>your</i> meeting, Beauclerk.”</p> + +<p>“In the first place, perhaps. I thought, too, it might +be a good, independent move. Disraeli's invitation to +Hanborough puts another complexion on affairs. It is +the first formal recognition that he, as Leader, has ever +given me. It is a reminder of my responsibilities. +He is fond of Orange, I know, and he wouldn't hurt +his feelings, or seem to put a spoke in his wheel, for +all the world. But Dizzy is subtle. He likes to test +one's <i>savoir vivre</i>.”</p> + +<p>“Shall you tell Orange that you intend to throw +him over?”</p> + +<p>“Not yet.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, you ought!”</p> + +<p>“Why? I want the meeting to take place. It +will be useful in its way—it may show us how public +opinion is going.”</p> + +<p>Sara hid her contempt by rising from her chair and +removing her hat. Reckage watched the play of her +arms as she stood before the mirror, and he did not see, +as she could, the reflection of his face—sensual, calcu<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_313" id="Page_313">[313]</a></span>lating, +and, stormed as it was for the moment by the +meanest feelings of self-interest, repellent.</p> + +<p>“How I hate him!” she thought; “how I despise +him!”</p> + +<p>Then she turned round, smiling—</p> + +<p>“Hats make my head ache! So you think the +meeting will be useful?”</p> + +<p>“Emphatically. It did occur to me that I might +drop a line to Robert—in fact, I was writing to him +when you came in. Here's the letter, as you see, +signed and sealed.”</p> + +<p>“Do send it.”</p> + +<p>“No,” he answered, putting it back into his pocket; +“one could only get him on the platform just now by +making him believe that such an action would, in +some way, help me. You don't know Robert.”</p> + +<p>“I daresay not, but I know that much.”</p> + +<p>“This being the case, why upset him at the eleventh +hour?”</p> + +<p>She made no reply, and before Reckage could speak +again, the servant announced the arrival of his horse.</p> + +<p>“I intend to ride like the devil, Sara,” he said; +“and I wish you could come with me. What rides +we used to have—long ago! You were a larky little +thing in those days, darling!”</p> + +<p>He bent down and kissed her lips.</p> + +<p>“You shall marry me—or no one,” said he; “but +you are cold: you are not very nice to me. I suppose +it's your way. You wouldn't be yourself if you were +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_314" id="Page_314">[314]</a></span>like other women. You are not a woman, you're a +witch. Must I go now?”</p> + +<p>Sara had opened the door.</p> + +<p>“Yes, you know how Pluto hates to wait.”</p> + +<p>“That animal will be the death of me yet. Will +you stand on the balcony and watch me till I am out +of sight? Have pretty manners—for once.”</p> + +<p>“Very well.”</p> + +<p>She went on to the balcony, watched him mount, +and ride away. He turned several times to gaze back +at her picturesque figure, dim, but to him lovely in +the gathering dusk.</p> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_315" id="Page_315">[315]</a></span></p><h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXIII" id="CHAPTER_XXIII"></a>CHAPTER XXIII</h2> + + +<p>Robert, after his interview with the priest, returned +to his old lodgings in a top floor of Vigo Street—for +he had left Almouth House, where Reckage's +hospitality, kind as it was, suited neither his pride +nor his mood. He was greatly in debt, and although +his salary from Lord Wight and his literary earnings +represented a sure income, it stood at what he called +the “early hundreds.” The tastes, habits, and pursuits +of those with whom he spent his time were delightful, +no doubt, but they were costly. A box at the +play; the cricket-match party, little dinners, and a +rubber of whist, or a quiet game of vingt-et-un; +the lunches here, the suppers there; the country +houses where, in the winter, one could dine and +sleep and hunt the next day, and, in the autumn, +shoot, and, in the summer, flirt; the attendance at +race-meetings, balls, and weddings; journeys to the +Continent, civilities everywhere,—in fact, the whole +business of society—no matter how modestly done—demands +money. Most young men are naturally +fond of brilliant, light-hearted companions, plenty of +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_316" id="Page_316">[316]</a></span>amusement, and that indescribable treasure known as +the <i>joie de vivre</i>. Orange was no exception to this +rule, and there were many hours when he tasted +the bitterness of poverty, and felt the harsh differences +between the outward gifts bestowed by Fate. It was +not that he cared for luxuries, but it seemed hard that +a horse should have to be counted among them, and +that it was necessary to work for twelve hours a day in +order to live at all, even as a dependent, among those +with whom he was, by right of birth and ability, the +equal, and to whom he was, in many cases, the superior. +How many promising careers and brave hearts have fallen +short under the strain of a position so mortifying and +apparently so unjust! In public life, whether one +joins the Church, the Camp, the Senate, or the +Arts, the trials of strength and courage are most +severe even to those who, in material circumstances +at any rate, are favourites of fortune. Neither +influence nor riches avail much in the terrific +struggles for supremacy, for recognition, for mere +fair play itself. What must the conflict be then +for those who, with slight purses and few allies, find +themselves pitted against the powerful of the earth? +Discouragement, in weak natures, soon turns to +envy, and the spectacle of human unkindness has +driven many a reflective, delicate soul to say that +the companionship of his fellow-men is unlovely, +not to be admired, and difficult, at times, not to +hate. In disgust of the world—where one has been +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_317" id="Page_317">[317]</a></span>wounded, or where one has wounded others—(wounded +vanity and remorse are alike bitter in their +fruits), numbers, with a sort of despairing fatalism, +retire from the campaign, cut themselves adrift from +their people and their country, and, having failed +in life, court death under strange skies in far-off lands. +Robert, who looked rather for the triumph of ideas +than the glory of individuals, was not easily dismayed. +So long as the right was by some means accomplished, +and good seeds brought forth a good harvest,—the burden +and heat of the day, the changes of weather, the +scantiness of the wage, the ingratitude and treachery +of agents, the hardships, the toil—mattered little +enough. Devoured by ambition in his early youth, +he had never permitted himself the least doubtful +means of attaining any object. He was not obliged, +therefore, to affect an indifference to success in order +to divert attention from his methods of arriving at +it. No man, once bent upon a project, could +be more resolute than Orange. None were more +stern in self-repression and self-discipline. But in +controlling, or subduing altogether, the softer possibilities +in a character, there is always the danger +lest uncharitableness, hardness of heart, or blind +severity of judgment should take their place. Young +people with strong natures can seldom find the middle +course between extremes, and this one, in curbing +a desire for power, will fairly crush his whole vigour, +while that one, in revolt against the tyranny of love, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_318" id="Page_318">[318]</a></span>will become the slave of pessimism. There were +days, no doubt, and weeks when Orange found every +counsel, a mockery, and every law, a paradox. The +strife between the flesh and the spirit went on in +his life as it does in all lives, but he was one who +held, that, whatever the issue of it all might be, a +man must be a man while he may—losing himself +neither in the whirl of passion nor in the enervating +worlds of reverie, but accepting the fulness of existence—its +pains, vanities, pleasures, cares, sorrows,—with a +fighter's courage and the fortitude of an immortal soul.</p> + +<p>As he walked along toward Vigo Street in the cold, +dark autumn morning, he felt more than able to hold +his own against all adversaries. And this was not +the insolence of conceit, but the just strength which +comes from a vigorous conscience and perfect health. +A soldier counts it no shame, but rather an honour, +to die in battle, so Robert, surveying the chances +before him, stood determined, in every event, to +endure until the end, to fight until the end, to +maintain his ground until the end. But if he had +put sentiment from his path, it was not so easily +weeded from his constitution, and while he was able +to persuade himself that his renunciation of all +passionate love—except as a bitter-sweet memory—was +complete, he had to realise that the old grudge +against Castrillon had grown into a formidable, +unquenchable, over-mastering hatred. Where this +strange obsession was concerned, no religious or other +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_319" id="Page_319">[319]</a></span>consideration availed in the least. Bit by bit, hour by +hour, the feeling had grown, deriving vigour from +every source, every allusion, and every experience. +The books he read, the conversations he heard, the +people he met—all seemed to illuminate and justify, +in some mysterious way, his enmity against Castrillon. +He may have believed that he was resigned to his +ill-luck in love, but a sense that he had been defrauded +haunted his thoughts always, and the longing to +square his account with destiny was less a wish than +a mute instinct. How great had been the temptation +to defy all laws—human and Divine—where Brigit +Parflete was in question, no one can know. In +getting the better of it, the motive had not been, +it must be confessed, the fear of punishment here +or hereafter. This would not be a true history, nor a +reasonable one, if it were not acknowledged that much +of the victory in that situation had been due to the +woman's youth and candid, sunny nature. No passion—far +less a guilty one—he thought, could have had a +place in that childlike heart. She was Pompilia—not +Juliet, because, like the more ill-starred heroine, she +had met sorrow before she met love, and the strong +emotion which comes first in a young life makes the +deep, the ineffaceable impression on its character. +She had the strength to suffer undeserved woe, but the +penalties of defiance and disobedience would surely kill +her. The thought of any desperate step seemed +impossible.</p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_320" id="Page_320">[320]</a></span></p> +<p>The question of love at that point in Orange's life +had therefore been decided as much by conditions as it +had by principles and conscience. But with the Castrillon +difficulty, it was a question of hatred—not love. +In hate, Orange was as little given to brooding as he +was in other matters. He had never been able to +forgive the duel at Loadilla which had occasioned so +much scandal in Madrid, and brought Brigit's name +into bad company. Robert, before his meeting with +Mrs. Parflete, had fought several duels, and each of +them about a different pretty face. Encounters of +the kind form part of a youth's education on the +Continent: such experiences are considered not +romantic, not heroic, not striking, but merely usual +and manly. It was impossible for one brought up in +this view to feel that duelling—under certain provocation +and fair conditions—was wrong. The custom +was frequently abused, no doubt, yet the same could be +said of all customs, and Orange, rightly or wrongly, +held a conviction on the subject which no argument +could affect. But, with a lover's unreasonableness, he +had found the fight between Bodava and Castrillon an +insult to the lady at stake. He suspected, too, that +Castrillon had spoken lightly of her to General Prim, +to Zeuill, perhaps to d'Alchingen. This was insufferable, +and so, inasmuch as the mischief had been +done, he would not and could not remain outside the +combat. There seemed, also, a certain feeling at the +Clubs where the Madrid scandal had become known, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_321" id="Page_321">[321]</a></span>that Castrillon, on the whole, had proved a more +dashing, and was probably the favoured, suitor. +Orange, whose personal courage had been demonstrated +too often to be called into doubt, had been +criticised for an absence of moral, or rather immoral, +courage with regard to Mrs. Parflete. Reckage's sly +phrases about the ecclesiastical temperament; the +sneers of some adventurous women on the subject of +platonic affection; the good-natured brow-lifting of +the wits and the worldly were not easy to bear for a +man who was, by nature, impulsive, by nature, regardless +of every sacrifice and all opinions while a strong +purpose remained unfulfilled. Robert made up his +mind that, come what might, whether his action was +approved or blamed, or whether he won or lost, pick +some quarrel he would, and see how Castrillon liked +it, and thus settle the matter then and for always. +Castrillon had received a military training; he was a +most adroit swordsman and a notorious shot; he would +not be one to make a quarrel difficult.</p> + +<p>When Orange reached the house in Vigo Street, it +was still early in the day. As he mounted the stairs, +he noticed a fellow-lodger, still in his evening clothes, +entering a room on the second floor. He did not see +the man's face, but he was struck by something +familiar in his build. This impression was not haunting, +it passed almost immediately, and the young man +settled down with resolution to his work. At one +o'clock he went to Brookes's, had his lunch, met +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_322" id="Page_322">[322]</a></span>a few acquaintances who studied his face with +curiosity, and a few colleagues who tried to persuade +each other that he was a man who could play a deep +game. He returned to his rooms and resumed work +till about six o'clock, when his landlord informed him +that a lady, who would not give her name, wished to +see him. The lady was tall, handsomely dressed, +darkly veiled. What, he thought, if it should be +Brigit? What joy! What rashness! Robert went +out into the hall to meet the strange visitor. She +made a gesture signifying silence, and, on greeting +her, he did not utter her name. It was Lady Sara.</p> + +<p>She did not speak until she had entered the shabbily +furnished sitting-room and closed the door.</p> + +<p>“This is a mad thing on my part,” she said; “a +mad thing. I know it. Of course, I might have +asked you to come to me, but I couldn't wait so long. +And I don't trust letters. Some news can't be written. +It is not about Mrs. Parflete,” she added, hastily, “you +need not fear that. It is about Beauclerk. He came +to see me this afternoon. He is going to throw you +over. He is going to fail you at the Meeting. You +are to test public opinion while he sits under shelter—to +profit by your experience. What do you think +of that?”</p> + +<p>“You are very good to come. But I hope you are +mistaken all the same. He may throw me over. I +am sure he will send me a word of warning.”</p> + +<p>“That was his first intention. He gave it up, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_323" id="Page_323">[323]</a></span>because he knew you wouldn't act without him. And +he wants you to act—for the reason I have given. +Oh, I'm so ashamed, so humiliated to think that any +friend of mine could be such a traitor.”</p> + +<p>She unpinned her veil, and seemed all the handsomer +for her scornful expression and flashing eyes.</p> + +<p>“You must be the first to retire,” she continued. +“I won't have you treated in this contemptuous way: +I won't endure it. I want you to write to the Committee +at once—at once—without a moment's loss of +time. This is why I have come here myself. You +seem to have something in you which they take for +weakness. You will stand anything. Oh, I know +why well enough. You like to be a martyr—which +means saying nothing and suffering a good deal. But +I call it a mistake. I call it irritating, misleading, +actually wrong. If I were a man I would kill +people.”</p> + +<p>“It is easy enough to kill.”</p> + +<p>“So they say. Be more unscrupulous, dear friend. +Give your nature full play now and again. You can't +make me believe that you are ever natural.”</p> + +<p>“Some can trust their natures. I don't trust +mine.”</p> + +<p>“Don't you see how much more power you would +have over men if you were more emotional, more +spontaneous, more human? Who gives you credit +for self-control? No one. They say you are self-contained—a +very different idea. They say you are +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_324" id="Page_324">[324]</a></span>cold. Now, I don't care what I do. I follow every +impulse. I must follow them. I had to come here +this evening. I had to tell you about Reckage. The +landlord was odious. I met two men on the staircase. +One actually tried to peer into my face. I have never +submitted to such indignities. Heaven knows what +they are thinking now. I shall remember their vile +laugh as long as I live. But I was determined to see +you. And here I am. Apparently I have not done +much good by coming. You hardly believe me. You +think me an indiscreet woman.”</p> + +<p>“I think you are splendid.”</p> + +<p>“I saw Mrs. Parflete to-day. She is beautiful. But +she is indiscreet, too. All women worth considering +are miracles of imprudence.”</p> + +<p>“Haven't I always said so?”</p> + +<p>“Then how can you expect us to like you when +you are so—so wise?”</p> + +<p>“I don't expect you to like me.”</p> + +<p>She bit her lip and pretended to check a laugh.</p> + +<p>“I suppose you enjoy this room?” she said, glancing +round it till her eyes fell on a small crucifix which +was nailed to the wall behind his chair; “it is so +depressing. You are very perverse. And the odd +thing is——“</p> + +<p>“Well, what is the odd thing?”</p> + +<p>“That you are attracted by Mrs. Parflete. Your +style ought to be Saint Clare or Saint Elizabeth. But +not at all. You prefer this exquisite, wayward, per<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_325" id="Page_325">[325]</a></span>fectly +dressed, extremely young actress. You give +your nature full play in your <i>taste</i>, at all events.”</p> + +<p>“You can urge that much in my favour, then?”</p> + +<p>“Yes, that much. Oh, she's pretty. But frivolous +and light-hearted—as light-hearted as Titania. There! +I have been wondering what I could call her. She is +Titania in alabaster. Marble is too strong. At first, I +thought it might be marble. I have changed my +mind since. I suppose you know she will act in this +comedy with Castrillon at the d'Alchingens?”</p> + +<p>“So Disraeli has told me. Did you come to tell +me that, also?”</p> + +<p>She coloured, but met his angry glance without +flinching. “Now,” she thought, “he is going to +show temper.”</p> + +<p>“I came to tell you that, also,” she repeated. “Pensée +is opposed to the whole scheme. Mrs. Parflete stamped +her very beautiful foot, and said, ‘I go.’ Do you +approve?”</p> + +<p>“I am to meet Castrillon to-night at the Prince +d'Alchingen's,” he answered, evading her question.</p> + +<p>“How you hate him!”</p> + +<p>“What makes you think so?”</p> + +<p>“I know your face. I never saw any love there +for anybody, but just then there was a look of +hate.”</p> + +<p>“You are quite right. I do hate him.”</p> + +<p>“You are actually trembling at the mention of his +name. Then you have feelings, after all.” She +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_326" id="Page_326">[326]</a></span>clapped her hands, and leaving her chair walked +toward him.</p> + +<p>“Never hate me, will you?” she said, touching +his arm. “Promise me that you will never hate me. +Like me as much as you can.”</p> + +<p>At that instant, they heard a tap at the door, and +the landlord, carrying a few letters on a salver, +entered the room. Sara pulled down her veil—a +foolish action, which she regretted a moment later. +Orange thanked the man for the letters and threw +them on the table. The landlord, with a studied air +of discretion, which was the more insulting for its very +slyness, went, half on tiptoe, out.</p> + +<p>“Does he always bring your letters upstairs?” she +asked.</p> + +<p>“As a rule—no,” said Orange.</p> + +<p>“Then he came on purpose! He wanted to see +me—what impudence! I am beginning to realise +what one has to expect if one—if one takes an unconventional +step.”</p> + +<p>Her voice failed, and tears began to roll down her +cheeks. Then she covered her face with her hands.</p> + +<p>“Every courageous—every disinterested act is unconventional,” +said Robert; “you are tired out—that's +all.”</p> + +<p>“You see,” she answered, with a note of harsh +sadness in her voice, “I have had a strange day. +The scene with Beauclerk was a great strain. I feel +a kind of apprehensiveness and terror—yes, terror, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_327" id="Page_327">[327]</a></span>which I cannot describe. It may be my nerves, it +may be fancy. But I am too conscious of being alive. +Every minute seems vital. Every sound is acute. +This day has been one long over-emphasis. Look at +my hand: how it trembles! Beauclerk called me +a witch. Certainly, I am more sensitive to impressions +than most people.”</p> + +<p>“One of these letters is from Reckage. It is +written on a sheet of your own note-paper.”</p> + +<p>She dried her eyes, and looked at him with exultation, +astonishment, and a certain incredulity.</p> + +<p>“Then he must have listened to me. He posted +it, after all, when he left the house. He is always +impulsive. I remember now—that I saw him give +something to the groom. Do read what he says.”</p> + +<p>The letter, scrawled hastily on the pale lilac note-paper +affected by Sara and bearing her monogram, ran +as follows:—</p> + +<blockquote><p>“<span class="smcap">My Dear Old Fellow</span>,—There are still some points +of arrangement very material to consider with regard to this +Meeting next week, and I hope it is not too late to go +into them. The thing cannot be done away. But the +circumstances have become, thank God, very different +indeed. Mr. Disraeli has asked me to speak in his stead +at Hanborough—an honour so wholly unexpected and undeserved +that I am forced to see in it an especial mark of +encouragement. I must admit at once that I feel greatly +flattered. I am not now to be taught what opinion I am +to entertain of those gentlemen whose narrow and selfish +principles forced me to move against my inclination, my +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_328" id="Page_328">[328]</a></span>judgment, and my convictions. I am persuaded that any +additional public action—no matter how indirect on my +part—in the Nomination of Temple would have at this +juncture, the worse effect. It would savour of self-advertisement—an +idea which I abhor. It would seem +an <i>over-doing</i>, as it were, of my own importance. You will +readily agree, I know, that I ought to keep perfectly quiet +before, and for some time after, my Hanborough appearance. +Not having in any degree changed my view upon +this subject of the Association, I don't feel that my present +decision is inconsistent. I think it will strike everybody +as a sensible—the only sensible—course to follow.</p> + +<p>“When can you dine? Or if you won't dine, let me +see you when you can spare half an hour.</p><p class="i8 nospaceabove">“Yours affectionately,”</p><p class="i20 nospaceabove">“<span class="smcap">Beauclerk</span>.”</p></blockquote> + +<p>Orange turned to Sara and said, when he had +finished reading—</p> + +<p>“I am glad he wrote.”</p> + +<p>“You knew him better than I did. He is still a +poor creature, for, what does it all come to?—a +rambling, stupid lie. The letter is sheer rubbish—a +complete misrepresentation of the facts. But I need +not have come. This always happens when women +interfere between men,” she added, bitterly; “you +don't want us. There's a freemasonry among men. +You excuse and justify and forgive each other always.”</p> + +<p>“You persuaded him to post this.”</p> + +<p>“That is true. He might have done so, however, +without persuasion. In future, call me the busybody! +I must go now. I have made you late for +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_329" id="Page_329">[329]</a></span>d'Alchingen's dinner. What a lesson to those about +to make themselves useful! And how right you were +not to get bitter! I take things too much to heart. +I must pray for flippancy. Then, perhaps, I may +find no fault with this world, or with you, or with +anybody!”</p> + +<p>“I am bitter enough—don't doubt it.”</p> + +<p>“No! no! let us assure each other that this is +the best of all possible worlds—that Beauclerk shows +cleverness and good sense, that no one tells lies, no one +is treacherous, no one is unjust, malicious, or revengeful +nowadays, that friends are friends, and enemies—merely +divided in opinions! We must encourage +ourselves in a cynical, good-natured toleration of all +that is abject and detestable in mankind.”</p> + +<p>“You are too impatient, Lady Sara. You want +life concentrated, like a play, into a few acts lasting, +say, three hours. Whereas, most lives have no +dénouement—so far as lookers-on are concerned!”</p> + +<p>“At last some one has been able to define me. +I am ‘impatient.’ But you take refuge in that profound +silence which is the philosophy of the strong; +you don't struggle against the general feeling; you +content yourself by going your own gait quietly. +You have pride enough to be—nothing, and ambition +enough to do—everything. Hark! what is that? +They are calling out news in the street.”</p> + +<p>“The current lie,” said Orange. “We don't want +to hear it.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_330" id="Page_330">[330]</a></span>”</p> + +<p>Sara walked to the window and threw it open.</p> + +<p>“I caught a name,” she exclaimed. “It is something +about Reckage ... Listen ... Reckage!”</p> + +<p>Above the din of the traffic, a hoarse duet rose from +the street—voice answering voice with a discordant +reiteration of one phrase—“<i>Serious accident to Lord +Reckage! Serious accident to Lord Reckage!</i>”</p> + +<p>“My God, what are they saying? What are they +saying? It is my imagination. It can't be true. I +am fancying things. What are they saying?”</p> + +<p>Orange had already left the room and was in the +road. When he returned, he gave her the newspaper +and did not attempt to speak. But he closed the +window in order to shut out, if possible, the hideous +cry.</p> + +<p>“Where is it? I can't see! In which column?” +said Sara.</p> + +<p>He pointed to a corner on the third page, where +she read in black, rough type:—</p> + +<p>“<i>Lord Reckage was thrown from his horse at Hyde +Park Corner this afternoon. He was removed to +Almouth House. His injuries are said to be of a very +dangerous nature.</i>”</p> + +<p>She crushed the paper in her hand, and the two +stood looking at each other, stupefied by the blow.</p> + +<p>“I am going to him,” said Robert.</p> + +<p>“And I must go home,” whispered the girl. “He +always said that Pluto would be the death of him.”</p> + +<p>They went down the stairs together without ex<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_331" id="Page_331">[331]</a></span>changing +a word. Orange walked with her to St. +James's Square. Neither could speak. On parting, +she faltered,—</p> + +<p>“Let me know ... how he is....<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_332" id="Page_332">[332]</a></span>”</p> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXIV" id="CHAPTER_XXIV"></a>CHAPTER XXIV</h2> + + +<p>Lord Reckage had been carried through the hall +of Almouth House, but not up the famous staircase of +which he was so proud. He looked at it as they bore +him to the library, and although he was still in a kind +of stupor, the terrified servants could read in his eyes +the certain knowledge that he would never behold the +marble walls or the portraits of his ancestors again.</p> + +<p>“Are you in pain, my lord? is your lordship in +pain?” sobbed the housekeeper. His features were +injured and his face was perfectly pallid—so much +changed that he could not have been immediately +recognised. Four doctors—one of them a passer-by +at the time of the accident—had assembled. They +found one shoulder was severely injured, and the right +collar-bone broken. He complained of great pain in +his side.</p> + +<p>“Am I going to die, Sir Thomas?” said he.</p> + +<p>“Why should you die?” replied the distinguished +surgeon. “But you have had a nasty fall.”</p> + +<p>“Pluto shied at something,” answered his lordship; +“mind they don't shoot him. I won't have him shot.”</p> + +<p>Then, for a few moments, he lost consciousness.</p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_333" id="Page_333">[333]</a></span></p> +<p>When Orange arrived, the physicians were looking +very grave, and telegrams had been despatched to all +the young man's near relatives.</p> + +<p>“He has called for you several times,” said Sir +Thomas; “and,” he added, dropping his voice, “is +there any lady who could meet ... the family? I +fancy I caught a lady's name more than once. Could +it have been——“</p> + +<p>“Sara,” suggested Orange, to relieve his embarrassment.</p> + +<p>“It certainly sounded like Sara.”</p> + +<p>“Then I will send Lord Garrow a note—she is +Lord Garrow's daughter—a lifelong friend. Is there +no hope?”</p> + +<p>“He may have a pretty good night.”</p> + +<p>Robert bowed his head and asked no more. He +sat by the dying man, whose sufferings, although they +were a little alleviated by morphia, made him restless. +He moaned even in his snatches of sleep, and spoke +occasionally—always about the accident. Once he +mentioned Agnes:</p> + +<p>“Agnes will be sorry when she hears.”</p> + +<p>Toward daybreak he turned to Orange, and said +quite simply—</p> + +<p>“You are different from the rest. You have the +priest's element in you; there is an incessant struggle +and toil to cut one another's throat among us average +men—all striving after success. You weren't built +that way. God bless you.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_334" id="Page_334">[334]</a></span>”</p> + +<p>In the morning his father and the near relatives +arrived. The women cried bitterly. The aged peer +looked on in stony grief—drinking in his son's scarred +faced and glancing, with despair, from time to time, +at the clock.</p> + +<p>“It isn't going, is it?” he asked.</p> + +<p>No, it had been checked; the tick disturbed his +lordship, but there was an hour-glass on the table.</p> + +<p>“How many hours do they think——?”</p> + +<p>“Perhaps ten hours.”</p> + +<p>When the sand had run down at the conclusion of +the first hour, no one reversed the instrument. But +Lady Margaret Sempton, the Earl's sister, sent a +whispered message to the Bishop of Hadley, who was +waiting, much altered by sorrow and anxiety, in the +ante-room. Reckage had asked to see him. He had +always liked the good old man, and the rest withdrew +during their short interview.</p> + +<p>Meanwhile carriage after carriage drove up to the +door; caller after caller appeared with cards, notes, +and inquiries; name after name was inscribed in the +visitors' book; telegrams came from the Royal family, +from all parts of the country and the Continent.</p> + +<p>“My poor boy. I didn't know he had so many +friends,” said his father. “God forgive me, I used to +think he wasted his time on fads.”</p> + +<p>And odd people came also. Trainers, jockeys, +and horse-dealers rubbed shoulders on the doorsteps +with collectors of old furniture, missionaries, election<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_335" id="Page_335">[335]</a></span>eering +agents, ladies of the chorus, of the <i>corps de ballet</i>, +shabby-genteel individuals of both sexes out of work, +and the like; each had his degree of regret and an +anecdote.</p> + +<p>“He was always very kind to me,” said this one, +that one, and the other.</p> + +<p>Bradwyn, noting some of these unusual visitors, +observed that Reckage had a knack of pleasing the +lower classes and half-educated persons generally. He +heard a Bible-reader say to the footman: “<i>Take ye +heed, watch and pray; for ye know not when the time +is!</i>” and he shuddered at this exhibition of bad taste. +Lord Garrow had been unremitting in his personal +inquiries, but Sara did not come till she received the +following from Orange—</p> + +<p>“He is conscious, and he asks to see you.”</p> + +<p>She reached the room as the Bishop of Hadley was +coming out; tears were in his eyes and he did not +notice the young lady who glided past him as lightly +as a shadow. Poor Reckage recognised her step, however, +and pulled the sheet half over his face lest she +should be startled at its harsh disfigurements. She +threw off her hat and veil and fell on her knees by the +side of his bed.</p> + +<p>“Speak to me, Beauclerk, speak to me; it is I—Sara.”</p> + +<p>“I know you,” he whispered; “you are the one I +loved the best. But I haven't been true to anybody. +I only wish to goodness I had another chance. I'd be +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_336" id="Page_336">[336]</a></span>different—I'd show 'em ... I never meant ...” he +took her hand, her beautiful, tapering hand loaded +with sapphires ... “like your eyes, old girl ... +don't cry ... and I say, I posted that ... letter +after all ... to please you. Are you ... pleased?”</p> + +<p>He spoke no more.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>Action is the essence of political parties, and the +members of the League had the ink barely dry on +their telegrams of condolence before they despatched +others, summoning a special meeting for the consideration +of future steps. Orange, who was regarded +as a man devoid of ambition, was unanimously elected +a member of the Executive Committee; he was a good +speaker, he could mind his own business, he never +pulled wires, and it was his rule to step aside when +others behind him showed any disposition to push +toward the front. On the evening of the day on +which Lord Reckage died, Aumerle and Ullweather +called at Vigo Street as a preliminary move in their +new plan of campaign. But Robert was not there. +He sat all that night, a solitary watcher, in the chamber +of death. His affection for his old pupil was something +stronger than a brother's love. Whether he +saw him as others saw him, or whether he was aware +of certain pleasant traits in that uncertain character +which escaped the common run of dull observers, his +devotion had never wearied in all the years of their +acquaintanceship.</p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_337" id="Page_337">[337]</a></span></p> +<p>The old housekeeper crept into the room when +the bereaved family had retired, and she was on her +way to bed.</p> + +<p>“You and me, sir, always got on with his lordship,” +she said, looking down, with Robert, at the still, +marred face. “We understood him. He wasn't all +for self—as many thought. But his heart wanted +touching. If you could touch his heart, a kinder +gentleman didn't live. And if it was my last breath, +I'd call him the best of the lot—in spite of his +tantrums, and his changeableness, and his haughty +way sometimes. Mark my words, the glory of +Almouth dies with him. Mr. Hercy will bring us +down to rack and ruin. O, sir, I'm glad I'm old. +I never want to see the sorrow that is sure to come to +Almouth.”</p> + +<p>But Orange was not thinking about the house of +Almouth, or its fate. His thoughts were with the +soul of the young man who had enjoyed life so +well, and made so many plans, and cherished so +many worldly hopes—of the young man who had +existed apparently to indulge his own will, spend +money, kill time, and fulfil a few rather showy responsibilities. +And yet what Robert remembered best was +his laugh. He could hear it still.</p> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_338" id="Page_338">[338]</a></span></p><h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXV" id="CHAPTER_XXV"></a>CHAPTER XXV</h2> + + +<p>Prince d'Alchingen had been much put out of +conceit with himself by disappointment. The small +dinner which he had carefully arranged for Orange +and Castrillon took place, but Orange was not present. +He had sent word from Almouth House that he +could not leave Lord Reckage. His Excellency, +therefore, was thoroughly annoyed, and Castrillon's +persiflage fell heavily upon his ears. He tried to +think that this nobleman's vivacity made him appear +flippant, whereas he was, in reality, a Don Juan of +the classic type—unscrupulous, calculating, and damnable. +When he remarked that it was <i>grande folie de +vouloir d'être sage avec une sagesse impossible</i>, the Prince's +spirits rose—only to fall again, however, at a later +pronouncement from the same lips to the effect +that virtuous women always brought tears to his +eyes.</p> + +<p>“They tell me,” said the Prince, weighing each +syllable with great deliberation (they carried on their +conversation principally in French and Spanish) “that +Mrs. Parflete is an admirable actress.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_339" id="Page_339">[339]</a></span>”</p> + +<p>Castrillon kissed the tips of his fingers to the air, +and ejaculated: “Adorable!”</p> + +<p>“Does she resemble, in any way, I wonder, her +good mother, Madame Duboc?”</p> + +<p>No, she had her own style—although she was +coquettish enough. And pretty? Delicious.</p> + +<p>“This is better,” thought his Excellency, “much +better. And do you think,” he asked, aloud, “that +she cares at all for Orange?”</p> + +<p>Castrillon smirked and put his hand, half instinctively, +to his breast-pocket. D'Alchingen inferred, +from this quick movement, that he carried a letter +or two, or a keepsake, from the lady near the region of +his heart.</p> + +<p>“She may need the tonic of some Platonic love +in order to bear the burden of a solitary life,” said the +Marquis; “but, all the same, I have no especial +reason to think that M. de Hausée is her ideal.”</p> + +<p>“He is the ideal of several persons,” said Alchingen; +“I don't know what to make of him.”</p> + +<p>But at this point Castrillon displayed a maddening +discretion. The Prince was glad when he took his +departure, and he exhausted his stock of malice in +wishing the young coxcomb to the devil. His +Excellency was becoming more and more morose over +his snuff and the last mail—which was longer and +duller than usual—with a peculiarly sharp note from +his Chief into the bargain—when Mudara was +announced.</p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_340" id="Page_340">[340]</a></span></p> +<p>Mudara bowed to perfection, and then, going +forward, presumed to put his hand on the Ambassador's +arm.</p> + +<p>“Your Excellency,” said he, “I have some important +news. On the whole it is gratifying. It +may make us cynical, but it is absurd to expect human +nature to be Divine. Mrs. Parflete has been at +Orange's lodgings this afternoon.”</p> + +<p>“You don't mean it?”</p> + +<p>“Indeed, it is too true. When he moved to Vigo +Street, I was fortunate enough to secure a room in +the same house immediately under his.”</p> + +<p>“Good!”</p> + +<p>“I was sitting at my table, with the door just ajar, +when I heard, at six o'clock, a rustle of silk skirts on +the stairs. I peeped out. I saw a tall lady, thickly +veiled, following our landlord, Dunton, across the +landing. She caught sight of me, and started +violently.”</p> + +<p>“Was it Mrs. Parflete?”</p> + +<p>“I could <i>swear</i>” he answered slowly, “that it was +Mrs. Parflete.... She reached Orange's door; +Dunton tapped; Orange came out; the lady and +he exchanged glances; they entered the room together, +and he closed the door. Three-quarters of an hour +later they came down the stairs and left the house.”</p> + +<p>“You followed them?”</p> + +<p>“Alas! I couldn't. I was not alone. Parflete +himself was with me. I dared not trust him out of +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_341" id="Page_341">[341]</a></span>my sight. He, following his custom, grew faint at +the sight of Madame——“</p> + +<p>“Then he, too, recognised her? This is excellent.”</p> + +<p>“He recognised her height and her figure. Besides, +whom else could it have been—if not Mrs. Parflete? +M. de Hausée has no sister, and we know his character. +The caprice of fortune has honoured him +with many faults, but gallantry is not among them. I +have that from those who knew him when he was too +young to disguise his true nature. He would not have +been an <i>abbé malgré lui</i>, and he has, on the contrary, the +most ecclesiastical soul I know. Rest assured, your +Excellency, that this <i>canaille</i> of a woman is determined +to be his ruin, for she is a baptized serpent,—one of +those creatures more dangerous to men than the devil +himself.”</p> + +<p>The Ambassador smiled agreeably, put his tongue in +his cheek, and nodded his head with a movement +which might have passed equally well for a sympathetic +reproof or sorrowful acquiescence.</p> + +<p>“What will Parflete do?” he asked.</p> + +<p>Mudara threw up his dark, sinewy, and powerful +hands in genuine despair.</p> + +<p>“He is the vice of the situation,” he exclaimed; “at +the very mention of divorce his teeth chatter, he gets +a spasm of the heart, and he begins to gabble like a +sick monk about his soul and his conscience. Believe +me, we are dealing with a madman. How can any +end be attained in his present state of irresolution?<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_342" id="Page_342">[342]</a></span>”</p> + +<p>“Happily it is not my business either to arrange or +propose the means.”</p> + +<p>The sly glance of the Prince encountered the sly +glance of the Agent.</p> + +<p>“That is well understood, your Excellency,” said +Mudara, with the inimitable accent of respect. “Let +good be done and let evil be avoided, is the sum total +of the Government's desires. But whenever I can see +clearly, I shall know how to act. When right and +truth are plain, time and experience are the best allies. +We have at least sufficient evidence to institute divorce +proceedings. If Parflete will not file a petition——“</p> + +<p>“You can do nothing. Unless you can be perfectly +sure that he will follow some reasonable course, +he ought to be saved from himself.”</p> + +<p>“Yes, he ought to be saved from himself. Something +in my nature makes me follow a certain kind of +man as hounds track game. What is now to be done +is to meet force with force.”</p> + +<p>“An armed diplomacy is good,” said d'Alchingen.</p> + +<p>“And also a scheme of alternatives,” replied +Mudara.</p> + +<p>“I confess I very much prefer working through +Castrillon, if possible, than de Hausée. Disraeli has +implicit faith in this de Hausée. It seems taken for +granted that he is ascetic and intellectual. He is +altogether in the clouds, whereas Castrillon is wholly +in touch with—with humanity.”</p> + +<p>“But de Hausée, like the Cardinal de Retz, fought +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_343" id="Page_343">[343]</a></span>duels when he was a student. If I cannot work upon +Parflete's jealousy, we must see what can be done in +that direction with de Hausée. We hear much of +the soul's awakening! Wait for the body's awakening +now—it must come. Mrs. Parflete is a <i>Samaritaine</i>; +we have to prove it somehow. Even though one +invented stories about her, one would probably find +that they were, approximately, true.”</p> + +<p>“Keep me informed,” said the Prince, making a +little bow, which signified that the audience was at an +end.</p> + +<p>Mudara, according to his own Confession, left the +Embassy and proceeded at once to the small private +hotel near Covent Garden where Parflete had taken up +his abode.</p> + +<blockquote><p>Parflete's rooms, (<i>we read</i>) were en suite. He had +bought a few rather beautiful prints and a number of +exquisitely bound books. These last, with bowls and +vases of flowers, were scattered over the various tables. +The scent of the flowers mingled with the strange fumes +of some Oriental incense. He had draped pieces of +flame-coloured silk over the windows. Everything looked +<i>bizarre</i>, and the atmosphere was sultry. When I entered +he was not pleased to see me—in fact, he showed a disposition +to sulk. I laboured to convince him that he +would forfeit the respect of all honourable men unless +he showed some just resentment at his wife's conduct.</p> + +<p>“No one respects me as it is,” he answered; “nobody +cares what I do one way or the other so long as I avoid +the police. And as the police and I have nothing at all +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_344" id="Page_344">[344]</a></span>in common, I am not likely to give offence to my good +friends in the Alberian Government.”</p> + +<p>I warned him that such sneers were unjustifiable, and +I reminded him, with severity, of the Government's +extraordinary forbearance.</p> + +<p>He fixed his eyes unpleasantly upon me, and his fingers +trembled as he played with the frogs of his lilac-velvet +smoking-jacket.</p> + +<p>“I wish,” said he, “that you would mind your own +business. I have done everything to protect the appearance +of your good faith all through this affair. Now leave +me alone. Besides, I can't be sure that the lady we saw +to-day was Her Imperial Highness.”</p> + +<p>My exasperation at his tone of defiance was all but +uncontrollable.</p> + +<p>“You know,” said I, “that we had no doubt of her +identity.”</p> + +<p>“We didn't see her face nor the colour of her hair. In +any case, I refuse to humiliate her. Kindly remember +that she is my wife, and drop a conversation which I find +insulting.”</p> + +<p>Hot words then passed between us. In my anger I +may have uttered several truths which hit him too hard. +Suddenly he sprang at me as though he were a wild cat. +His eyes rolled, his face was convulsed beyond recognition. +Men I have never feared; he seemed, however, +not a man but some demoniac risen from hell. In +self-defence I struck him with the small poniard which I +have carried all my life. He staggered back, and the +blood-letting seemed to relieve his temper.</p> + +<p>“Go!” said he; “go while you can. I don't think the +wound is mortal, but I don't wish any man hanged for +murdering me.”</p> + +<p>It was in my will to strike him again. I was beside +myself with contempt at what I took to be a fresh revelation +of his cowardice.</p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_345" id="Page_345">[345]</a></span></p> +<p>I replied coolly enough,—“I would not murder you. +Have no alarm on that score. But I can defend myself, +I hope.”</p> + +<p>By this time he had reached the door and thrown it +open. A waiter was passing at the time.</p> + +<p>“Sir,” said Parflete, “I have the honour to wish you +good-day.”</p> + +<p>The waiter heard this remark distinctly, and saw me +bow as I parted from the wretched creature.</p> + +<p>Parflete's appearance was ghastly, but I attributed this +pallor to fright and not to pain, for I believed from my +heart that the wound was no more than a slight prick. I +left the hotel, took a cab to my lodgings, and after reading +a light Spanish novel in order to change the current of +my thoughts, I passed an excellent night, sleeping at least +seven hours.</p></blockquote> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_346" id="Page_346">[346]</a></span></p><h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXVI" id="CHAPTER_XXVI"></a>CHAPTER XXVI</h2> + + +<p>Lord Garrow, after much cautious consideration, +had decided that Lady Sara could not absent herself +from the d'Alchingens' party without exciting +unfavourable comment, and so prejudicing her future +relationship with the Duke of Marshire. His lordship, +in his secret heart, was by no means sorry for Reckage's +untimely death. An orthodox faith in a better, +happier world assisted his conscience over the many +difficulties which afflict a strong sense of good +manners. Good manners demanded some show of +grief at the young man's melancholy end; but, as his +lordship pointed out to his weeping daughter, higher +reflections ought to triumph over the vulgar instincts +of sorrow, and an etiquette almost heathenish. “Let +us be thankful,” said he, “that poor Beauclerk was +spared some lingering malady and the shattering +disappointments of a public career. He would not +wish us to mourn. And indeed, any undue mourning +on your part might give a very false impression in +society. You must go to the d'Alchingens'.”</p> + +<p>Hadley Lodge was built in the reign of George I. +In design it resembles a little the Vice-Regal Lodge in +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_347" id="Page_347">[347]</a></span>Dublin; two wings, containing innumerable small +rooms, are connected by corridors leading to the +entrance hall. The chief rooms are in the centre, to +which Prince d'Alchingen himself added a miniature +theatre, copied from the one at Trianon. When +Sara arrived, the Prince and Princess were taking tea +in the gallery—an apartment so furnished with screens, +sofas, writing-tables, divans, and arm-chairs that it had +become the lounge, as it were, of the house. Less +formal than the saloon, brighter than the library, and +more airy than the boudoir, the Princess spent the +greater part of her day in a favourite corner where she +could command a view from four windows, enjoy the +fire, see the best pictures, and hear the piano pleasantly +if any guest chose to play upon it. In person she was +tall and rather gaunt, with high cheek-bones, and very +dark hollows under her eyes. She had the air of a +mourning empress, and seriousness was so natural to +her countenance, that, although she could not smile, +and had never been known to laugh, she was not +depressing nor was she, accurately speaking, melancholy. +The style of beauty—for she had beauty—was +haggard, of the kind now familiar to all English +people from the paintings of Sir Edward Burne-Jones. +In 1869, however, this type was still highly uncommon +and little appreciated. Journals and letters of the +period contain references to “that fright, Princess +d'Alchingen,” or “that poor creature who always looks +so ill,” or “that woman who makes one think of a +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_348" id="Page_348">[348]</a></span>corpse.” Sara admired the Princess, and surprised all +the fashionable artists of that day by insisting on her +paintableness.</p> + +<p>“How good of you to come, dear Sara!” she +murmured, presenting her sallow cheek to the +young girl with a touch of regal graciousness at once +designed and impulsive; “I should have been lost +without you. Anselm has invited a large party, and, +as you know, I cannot talk to these dear people. +I find them too clever, and they find me too stupid. +The world is not willing to give me credit for that +which I have done.”</p> + +<p>“And what is that, dearest?” asked the Prince.</p> + +<p>“I married you!” she answered, with a quick flash +of humour under her gravity. It was like the +occasional sparkle in granite. “You may smile at the +notion of my living on the reputation of what I might +yet do,” she continued, resuming her languor.</p> + +<p>“Let us talk of pleasant things only, <i>chère amie</i>,” +said the Prince, turning to Sara; “mind you, not a +word about graves and epitaphs. Mrs. Parflete has +arrived. Castrillon has arrived. You need not +trouble about the others. They are not—they cannot +be—worth your while. But do watch Castrillon. I +find that the greatest compliment he can pay to any +woman is to sneer at her expense. He never permits +himself the slightest epigram against those who have +erred in kindness toward him. One witty but frail +lady once implored him to miss no opportunity of +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_349" id="Page_349">[349]</a></span>abusing her in public. ‘Otherwise,’ said she, ‘they +will know all.’ Isn't that a good story?”</p> + +<p>“Anselm!” sighed the Princess.</p> + +<p>“I wonder who that lady was?” said Sara.</p> + +<p>“I dare not guess,” said the Prince.</p> + +<p>Sara had recovered from the emotion called forth +by Reckage's tragic fate, and she was living now in +one of those taciturn reveries which had become more +and more habitual with her since the last interview +with d'Alchingen. Every force in her passionate, +undisciplined soul was concentrated in a wild love for +Orange, and every thought of her mind was fixed on +the determination to win his affection in return. +There were only two real powers in the world, she +told herself; these were moral force and money. +Money could not affect Robert. But he was susceptible +to moral force. She resolved to display such an +intrepid spirit, such strength of will, such devotion that +Brigit would seem a mere doll in comparison.</p> + +<p>“What do you think,” she said, turning to the +Princess, “of Mrs. Parflete? Your opinion is worth +everything. Orange is infatuated with her. His +criticism is therefore useless. The Prince disapproves +of her parentage. He is therefore prejudiced. I wish +to be charitable. I, therefore, say what I hardly think. +Pensée Fitz Rewes is an innocent little fool. She +judges all women by herself. You, Princess, are an +angel of the world. Your verdict, quickly.”</p> + +<p>The Princess paused before she attempted any reply. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_350" id="Page_350">[350]</a></span>Then she fixed her deep, grey eyes on Sarah's excited +face.</p> + +<p>“I like her,” she said, slowly.</p> + +<p>“Is that all?”</p> + +<p>“I think she is immature for her age, and therefore +reckless. She knows everything about sorrow, +and very little—at present—about happiness. So she +doesn't seem quite human. She shows that indulgence +toward others which is perhaps the last degree +of contempt for the follies of humanity. Those who +take their neighbours seriously are almost invariably +severe. Mrs. Parflete, on the contrary, is all good-nature +and excuses. I believe she has genius, and I +am sure she will have an amazing career.”</p> + +<p>The Princess, who had always insisted on a studious +rather than an active part in life, was consequently +unlike the majority of her sex, who, in the bustle +of social engagements, talk without ceasing, letting +words take the place of ideas, and phrases serve for +sentiments. All that she uttered showed a habit +of thought opposed to the common method of +drawing-room conversation; she rarely said the +expected thing, and never, a welcome one. Sara, +therefore, was disappointed at this favourable judgment +of Mrs. Parflete. The jealousy which she had been +able to control by hoping, in the depths of her +heart, that the young actress would prove too light +a creature to bind for long any masculine, stirring +spirit, now saw some justification for vehemence.</p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_351" id="Page_351">[351]</a></span></p> +<p>“And what do you think of Robert Orange?” she +asked, breathing quickly.</p> + +<p>The Princess folded her hands, fixed her eyes again +on the young girl, and answered in her usual even +tones—</p> + +<p>“He is a sentimentalist turned man of action. +When this miracle can be accomplished, you may +expect a very decided, even implacable, character—because +it is much more difficult to crush one's poetry +than to crush one's passions. The passions are more +or less physical, they depend on many material +conditions or accidents; but poetry, ideals, romance +and the like belong to the spirit. I find a great +campaign is being waged everywhere against the +soul. It is a universal movement—the only things +considered now are the pocket and the brain and +the liver.”</p> + +<p>“Delightful!” said Sara, trying to speak calmly; +“and will Orange become a liver-devotee?”</p> + +<p>“You don't understand self-discipline, <i>chérie</i>,” +answered the Princess; “that seems a sealed mystery +to most people except the Catholics and the Buddhists. +Protestants never speak of it, never think of it. +Their education is all for self-concealment. If I +read M. de Hausée rightly, he will become no +colourless, emasculated being, but certainly a man +with a silent heart. When he has a grievance he +will take it to God—never to his friends.”</p> + +<p>Prince d'Alchingen stifled a yawn and offered Sara +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_352" id="Page_352">[352]</a></span>a cigarette, which she refused, although she had +acquired the habit of smoking during her visits to +Russia.</p> + +<p>“If you will both swear,” said he, “to keep a +secret, I can tell you one.”</p> + +<p>The old and the young lady flushed alike with +delight at the prospect of hearing some strange news.</p> + +<p>“It will come well,” he continued, “after my +wife's prophetic remarks. Mrs. Parflete went alone +to Orange's lodgings on Wednesday last at six +o'clock.”</p> + +<p>“Is it possible?” exclaimed the Princess.</p> + +<p>Sara, feeling the Prince's dissecting glance burning +into her countenance, grew white and red by turns.</p> + +<p>“What a temperament! what jealousy!” thought +d'Alchingen.</p> + +<p>“How do you know all this?” she asked, thrusting +her hands, which were trembling, into her ermine +muff.</p> + +<p>“I know it for a fact. The question now is—How +will Parflete endure such conduct? Her bigamy +may have been innocent, or at least, an unavoidable +accident. But the afternoon call—well, if he can +swallow that, his meekness runs a risk of being called +cowardice, and his magnanimity will bear an unpleasant +resemblance to dishonour.”</p> + +<p>“Yet surely—surely——“ stammered Sara.</p> + +<p>In a second she grasped the mistake which had been +made, and all its possible disastrous consequences to +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_353" id="Page_353">[353]</a></span>herself. Loss of reputation, the finger of scorn, and +for what? Nothing, or at the worst, an indiscretion. +Scandal, had there been a romantic cause, and loss +of reputation, had there been a great passion to make +it more memorable as a sacrifice than a disgrace, +would have seemed to her defiant mind something +glorious. But here was a mere unbeautiful story—sordid, +if misunderstood, and a little silly, if satisfactorily +explained. And it could not be satisfactorily +explained. Sara knew life too well to encourage +herself by supposing that the real truth about her +foolish visit to Orange's lodgings could ever be told +or believed. Orange himself would never betray her +she knew. But what if she had been seen or +recognised? The landlord, the men on the staircase—had +they followed her home, or been able to pierce +through her thick veil? She tried to collect her +thoughts, to appear extremely interested—that was +all. The effort, however, was beyond her strength. +She showed her agitation, and, while it was fortunately +attributed by the d'Alchingens to a wrong reason, +they were close observers of every change in her face, +nor did they miss the notes of alarm and nervousness +in her voice.</p> + +<p>“It will probably mean a divorce, the social ruin +of Orange, and the successful <i>début</i> of Madame as +a comedian of the first rank,” said the Ambassador.</p> + +<p>“Does Orange know that she was seen that day?” +asked Sara.</p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_354" id="Page_354">[354]</a></span></p> +<p>“Not yet. He will know soon enough, never +fear.”</p> + +<p>“Are you sure—quite sure that it was Mrs. +Parflete?” suggested the Princess.</p> + +<p>“It must have been she,” replied the Prince.</p> + +<p>“It must have been she,” repeated Sara, mechanically.</p> + +<p>The lie seemed to come before she had time to +think of it; it tripped off her tongue as though some +will, other than her own, controlled her speech. +But now that the untruth was spoken she determined +to abide by it, so she repeated:—</p> + +<p>“It must have been Mrs. Parflete.”</p> + +<p>“And suppose,” said the Princess, “that she is able +to prove that she spent the whole of Wednesday with +Lady Fitz Rewes? No one could doubt the evidence +of Lady Fitz Rewes.”</p> + +<p>D'Alchingen shrugged his shoulders.</p> + +<p>“In that event—which is unlikely,” he said; “M. +de Hausée will have a bad half-hour with Mrs. Parflete. +The idyll will be spoilt for ever, and our pretty tale +for angels about a Saint and a little Bohemian will +sink to its proper level. It always takes three to +make a really edifying Platonic history. The third +in this case is the lady who called at Vigo Street. +<i>Dans le combat, il faut marchez sans s'attendrir!</i>”</p> + +<p>“Who would live?” murmured the Princess, +pressing a martyr's relic which she always wore on +a chain round her neck.</p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_355" id="Page_355">[355]</a></span></p> +<p>“Suppose,” continued d'Alchingen, enjoying his +own cynicism, “that we have a quartette in this +instance. Madame has her Castrillon, M. de Hausée +has his veiled lady. Each is a pious fraud to the +other. Imagine the double current of their thoughts, +the deceit, the hypocrisy, the colossal lie behind them +both which makes the inspiring truth a fact! It +is an anecdote to be told in the Boccaccio manner—gracefully, +with humour, with much indulgence ... +otherwise, it might be the sort of story they tell +in hell.”</p> + +<p>“I am happy to say that I have no imagination,” +said the Princess; “and now I shall take Sara—who +must be tired—to her room.”</p> + +<p>She rose from her seat, and, drawing Sara's arm +through hers, walked from the gallery, through the +hall, and up the staircase, talking, the while, of a new +Romney which the Prince had recently purchased.</p> + +<p>Sara was now in her own room, but not alone, +for her maid was unpacking, and the gown, petticoat, +shoes, gloves, and flowers designed for that evening +were being spread out upon the bed. The girl was +in no humour to enjoy the finery which she had +chosen with so much delight. She turned her back +upon it all, and, pulling up the blind, gazed moodily +out of the window till her maid's preparations were +at an end. Romantic trees and a landscape, almost +artificial in its prettiness, surrounded Hadley. The +sun was setting in a fire, burnishing with enamel +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_356" id="Page_356">[356]</a></span>tints the long green hills which ranged as a natural +fortification across the horizon, shutting out a whole +country of flat fields beyond. The moon, in its first +quarter, shone out above a distant steeple where +the eastern sky, already blue and opalesque, promised +the dawn of another day in reparation for the one +then dying in scarlet splendour. But to those who +are unhappy, to-morrow is a word without significance. +Sara stretched out her arms instinctively toward the +coming night. She wanted darkness and she wanted +sleep—not the stars of the morning, not the joy of noon. +What should she do? Her mad love for Orange +had reached a desperate point—a point where she +realised all too clearly and with bitterness, that, so +far from being a source of strength, it was a curse, +a malady, a humiliation—driving her into that insatiable +desire of solitude where the companionship +of dreadful imaginations and gloomy thoughts can +rend the soul at their pleasure. As men are sometimes +lured toward dangerous perils on land, or +mountains, or by sea, and from thence to deeds, +discoveries, and crimes unforeseen and unpremeditated, +so she seemed borne along into a whirlpool of feelings +which chilled the better impulses of her nature +and accentuated, with acid and fire, every elementary +instinct. Animal powers and spiritual tendencies +alike were concentrated into one absorbing passion +which reasoned only in delirium, incoherently, without +issue. She was wretched in Orange's company +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_357" id="Page_357">[357]</a></span>because every moment so spent showed her that +his heart was fixed far indeed from her. But the +wretchedness suffered that way was stifled in the +torments she endured when she wondered, miserably, +in loneliness, what he was thinking, doing, saying; +where he was, with whom he was, and how he +was. The despair of unrequited love was thrice +intensified by jealousy. “Why did he like that +little adventuress, that white china Rahab?” she +asked herself again and again. “It is just because +she has bewitched him. It is not real love—it +isn't any kind of love. She cannot care for him +as I do. It isn't in her. O why, why does he fight +so hard against me?”</p> + +<p>Beautiful women seldom believe that their charms +can be resisted without a fierce struggle. It was, +in fact, a tranquil consciousness of beauty which gave +audacity to Sara's words, and put the ordinary question +of pride out of the question. Was it not rather a +case of the goddess putting on humanity, of the queen +condescending to a subject. <i>La reine s'amuse</i> was +the unuttered, constant motto on her heart of hearts. +The blood of Asiatic princes ran in her veins, and +a sovereign contempt for manners, as opposed to +passions and self-will, ruled her fierce spirit. But +what should she do? A moment's reflection had +shown her that Brigit could have no difficulty in +proving that she was not the mysterious lady who +visited Orange's lodgings. Having weighed all the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_358" id="Page_358">[358]</a></span>disadvantages, Sara now directed her attention to the +advantages she could snatch out of the dilemma. +At last she hit on a bold plan. She rang a bell and a +housemaid answered the summons.</p> + +<p>“Is Mrs. Parflete in her bedroom?” asked Lady +Sara; “and where is her bedroom?”</p> + +<p>“Her bedroom is next to yours, my lady. She is +in there now.”</p> + +<p>“Thank you.”</p> + +<p>Sara walked along the corridor till she reached an +oak door on which was a card bearing the name she +sought. She tapped, and heard Brigit herself reply—</p> + +<p>“Come in.”</p> + +<p>The young actress was lying, in a black silk +dressing-gown, on the sofa. Her hair fell loosely +to her shoulders, and she had evidently been fast +asleep, for her cheeks were less pale than usual, her +eyes were bright, and the happiness of some pleasant +dream still lingered in their expression.</p> + +<p>“Lady Sara—how good of you to come!” she +exclaimed; “I have been trying to rest. I want to +play well this evening.”</p> + +<p>“You will play beautifully, of course,” said Sara, +submitting, even in her jealousy, to the charm and +grace of her unconscious rival. “I have come on +a difficult errand,” she added, abruptly; “you may +not understand, but I hope—I believe—you will.”</p> + +<p>She became so pale as she uttered these words that +Brigit leant forward with a gesture of reassurance. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_359" id="Page_359">[359]</a></span>In spite of her fragility she was, from the habit of +self-control, a stronger spirit.</p> + +<p>“You may be sure that I shall understand,” she +said.</p> + +<p>“Forgive me, then, but some enemy has circulated +a report that you went to Mr. Orange's rooms in +Vigo Street last Wednesday.”</p> + +<p>A deep flush swept over Brigit's face.</p> + +<p>“I was not there,” she said.</p> + +<p>“I know,” said Sara. “I know you were not +there. They made a mistake. It was I they saw—not +you—it was I.”</p> + +<p>Brigit dropped her eyes but made no other movement. +She seemed to grow rigid, and the hand +which had been playing with the fringe of her girdle +remained fixed in its arrested action.</p> + +<p>“You? It was you? How —— you?”</p> + +<p>“I had to see him. So I went to him. Now he +can easily deny that you were there. But he won't +betray me. People must think what they please. +But I am telling you—because you, at least, ought +to know the truth.”</p> + +<p>“And yet it is not my business!”</p> + +<p>“What do you mean? Not your business?”</p> + +<p>“How can it be my business to ask what lady +went to—to his lodgings?”</p> + +<p>“But you would have wondered——“</p> + +<p>“Yes, I should have wondered. I could not have +helped that.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_360" id="Page_360">[360]</a></span>”</p> + +<p>“Mr. Orange and I have been friends, as you +know, for some time. He knew me years ago before +he—he met you. I was quite a little girl. I remember +I used to hold his hand when I walked in +the gardens by his side.”</p> + +<p>“He has often spoken of you.”</p> + +<p>“But all this does not help us now. If it were +ever known that I—I was the one, the other day,—I +should be ruined.”</p> + +<p>“You may be sure that no one shall know.”</p> + +<p>“I am not so selfish as I seem. I don't forget that +this story will injure him—injure him terribly. They +will think him a kind of Joseph Surface—a hypocrite. +People expect him to be different from everybody +else. A piece of gossip which they would have laughed +at and taken as a matter of course from poor Beauclerk +or Charles Aumerle—they would resent bitterly in +Robert. The thing that grieves me, that torments +me, is the fear lest this act of mine may injure +him.”</p> + +<p>“It won't injure him,” said Brigit. “Have no fear +at all. And if you went to see him, as you say, you +must have had the best of reasons for doing so. You +may rely, I am sure, on his keeping your name a +secret. You were kind to tell me—for he certainly +would not have told me—without your consent. We +never see each other now, and we never write to each +other.”</p> + +<p>Her voice trembled for the first time.</p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_361" id="Page_361">[361]</a></span></p> +<p>“How does he look?” she asked, after a sharp +struggle between her pride and a desire to hear +more.</p> + +<p>“He looks ill and worn. He over-works.”</p> + +<p>“He will suffer at Lord Reckage's death.”</p> + +<p>“But he hides his feelings. He is always reticent.”</p> + +<p>“O, to see him and talk with him—that would be +such a joy for me.”</p> + +<p>“You must be very sad, often,” said Sara, coldly.</p> + +<p>“Yes, often,” answered Brigit. “And I was so +happy during the short time we were together that +now it seems no part of my life—no part of it. I +say this because I wish you to know that nothing +can make us love each other less—that all this misery +and separation—which may last as long as we live—has +made no difference and can make no difference +to us. And if I never see him again, or speak to him +again, he will always be certain that I am his—unalterably, +for ever his.”</p> + +<p>“You are little more than a child. You have a +great career before you—who can say what may +happen in the future? Women without careers +change their minds—their tastes. These things are +out of one's own control, and in your case——“</p> + +<p>“My mind may change, but my soul cannot. I +may dance, I may amuse myself, I may have friends. +Make no mistake. I can tell you all that is in me. +I find life beautiful. The theatre enchants me. +I could work there all day. I have no illusions about +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_362" id="Page_362">[362]</a></span>it—the paint, the machinery, the box-office, the +advertisements—the vulgarity are familiar enough to +me. But I find a box-office, and machinery, and +vulgarity everywhere, though they are called by +other names.”</p> + +<p>Sara coloured and looked away.</p> + +<p>“I am getting stronger now,” continued Brigit. +“I can lift up my head and see the world as it is. +I like it—yes, with all its griefs and its horrors—I +like it. When one is ill or sentimental one hates +it, because it wasn't made for the sick, and it was +not created us a playground for lovers. One may +love—yes, but one must work. I intend to love and +work at the same time.”</p> + +<p>“Many find that these two occupations clash! +There is a time in love—just as there is a period +in life—when it seems enough in itself. It is +independent of circumstances and persons. O, but +that time soon passes! As you learn more, you look +for more. And work is no cure for dissatisfaction. +If you can live through it you will just be a machine +with one refrain—‘I know nothing! I have +nothing! I am nothing!’”</p> + +<p>The two young girls did not look at each other. +Brigit could recognise an agitation of the soul in the +imperceptible sadness of the voice, and she guessed +poor Sara's secret.</p> + +<p>“Yes,” she said quietly. “I must suffer all that. +How can you be sure that I have not suffered it +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_363" id="Page_363">[363]</a></span>already? At any rate, I hope this confidence will +increase your kindness toward me.”</p> + +<p>“I have no kindness toward you—none at all,” +said Sara. “I have no kindness toward any living +creature. I should like to die and come to an end. +I wasn't born to put up with make-shifts. Other +women may be resigned to that paltry way of existing. +If they can't have what they want, they will take +what they don't want; they will take what they hate, +and grin—yes, they will grin and bear it. And after +a little while, because they become gradually drunk +with suffering, they begin to think they are noble. +They are not noble. They are fools, fools, fools!”</p> + +<p>“I shan't accept make-shifts,” answered Brigit. “I +intend to keep all my ideals, but they are all unfinished +at present. I have just the outlines and beginnings of +them—nothing else.”</p> + +<p>“I am not talking about ideals. I am speaking of +realities. I don't want to be happy, but I do wish to +be one of four things: either perfectly alive, or perfectly, +utterly dead; either a pure spirit, or a faultless +animal. This dead-and-alive, body-and-soul +mixture which passes for a well-disciplined human +being is loathsome to me. It is a tissue of lies and +hypocrisies.”</p> + +<p>“Perhaps I should have that feeling, too, if I had +no faith in God. He assumed humanity—not despising +it.”</p> + +<p>“You know I do not believe that splendid story<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_364" id="Page_364">[364]</a></span>—so +it doesn't help me. I compare life as I feel +it with life as it is, and the inequality fills me with +disgust. The example of Christ is too sublime. +He was human only in His sufferings. He bore +our burdens and He shared our agonies. He was +deceived, despised, rejected: the first torture and +the firstfruits of His Passion was the treachery of +a disciple. When I am sorrowful and wretched, +He seems Real to me and vivid. But when I +am well and wildly happy, He seems far away and +unreal—an invisible God, watching mortals with +a certain contempt. Now the Pagans had a +Divinity for every mood, so they never felt depressed +or lowered in their own self-esteem. We have a God +for two moods only,—great sorrow, and great exaltation. +For the rest we have to beat our breasts and +call ourselves miserable sinners. All the good people +I know enjoy spiritual peace only—without any fear +of remorse—when they are tired out or moaning with +physical pain. I don't say this to shock you; I +should like to have a religion if I could be convinced +of it without fasting, without long illnesses, and without +abandoning all hope of earthly, common joys. +Most Christians take a middle way, I know; they +prattle about their immortal souls, and behave as +though they had nothing but bodies. I can't take +part in such a gross farce.”</p> + +<p>Brigit sighed deeply, and did not reply at once.</p> + +<p>“It is all very hard, I know,” she answered; “but +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_365" id="Page_365">[365]</a></span>from the lowest abyss one can still see the sky overhead. +People's hearts are touched by the spectacle +of sin or the spectacle of suffering. Our Lord could +not sin, therefore He reached our sympathies by +His Death and Sorrows. Of course, if this life here +were all, and this world were the only one, and we +were animals with less beauty than many of the +inanimate things in nature, and as much intelligence +at best as the bees and birds and ants—then the Pagan +way might be quite admirable. But this isn't the +case, and so—and so——“</p> + +<p>Sara laughed.</p> + +<p>“We are a grotesque compromise between gods +and creatures,” she said; “those of us who find this +out get a little impatient with the false position. +You are less sentimental than I am. You take what +I call the hard view. It is too frigid for me. But I +am making you late. All good luck to-night!”</p> + +<p>She waved her hand, and, returning to her own +room, realised that she had missed the object of her +conversation. The attempt to excite Brigit's jealousy +had failed.</p> + +<p>Nothing is so infectious as despair. Brigit sat +quivering under the echo of Sara's last words: “You +take what I call the hard view.” Was it, then, such +an easy matter to bury love in perpetual silence, to +let nature yield to fate, to stifle every human craving? +The mention of Robert's name and the news that +he looked ill and careworn had stirred all the unshed +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_366" id="Page_366">[366]</a></span>tears in her heart; she could not think, she could not +move, she could but realise that she had no right +to be with him. And sorrow seemed her province. +There, surely, she and he might meet, join hands, and +speak once more face to face. She had not written to +him since that parting at Miraflores. But she would +write now. This was her letter—</p> + +<blockquote><p><span class="smcap">My Dearest Life</span>—You are my dearest and you are my +life—so let me say it now, even if I never say it again. I +could be glad (if any gladness were left in me) at your grief +for Lord Reckage's death, because it gives me an excuse +for breaking my word and writing to you. This is selfish, +but nobody knows how much I have suffered, or how +much I suffer daily, hourly. I try to believe that it +would have been worse if we had never owned our love, +never met again after our first meeting. Darling, I can't +be sure. Sometimes I wish I had been born quite numb. +I dare not complain, and yet it is impossible to feel +contented. Always, always there is a dreadful pain in my +heart. Every moment is occupied, for when I am not +working, I sleep, and when I wake, I work. I would +rather spend one perfect day with you and die, than +live on without you. This is the truth. If I had any +choice that would be my choice. But I know you want +me to be courageous, and I myself want you to see that +a woman's love can be as strong as a man's. Women are +supposed to make men weak—they are supposed to be +chains and hindrances. This shan't be said of me. You +wouldn't say it: you wouldn't think it: yet in history +I find that while a few have been saved by women, more +have been ruined by them. And where the women have +saved the men they loved, it has been done by great +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_367" id="Page_367">[367]</a></span>renunciations and sacrifices—not at all by selfishness and +joys. When I can remember this (I forget it too easily), +I can almost persuade myself that I don't long to see you, +to hear your voice, to be with you again on the boat—going +on and on toward Miraflores. But I never persuade +myself of this entirely—never, never. I do long to see +you, Robert: I do want to be with you. I envy the +servant in your lodgings, and the friends you meet. +And I—who love you so dearly—may not go near you. I +am going to act to-night—as if I were not acting all day, +every day! I haven't said one word about you. But you +couldn't be so wretched as I am, because <i>you</i> have yourself, +<i>you</i> know what you are doing, saying, and thinking. Now +if I could cease altogether and become, say, your hand or +your foot, no one would expect you to renounce me. I +might be useful, and it would certainly be no scandal +if I accompanied you everywhere! I won't say any +more.</p><p class="i16 nospaceabove"><span class="smcap">Brigit.</span></p></blockquote> + +<p>She addressed an envelope and sealed the letter +within it. Then, with tears streaming down her +cheeks, she read her part for the comedy that evening. +When Esther entered with her dressing-gown, she +held up her hands in dismay.</p> + +<p>“O Madame,” said she, “I thought you were going +to play an amusing piece!”</p> + +<p>“It will be very amusing,” said Brigit, “but this +is the way to rehearse it.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_368" id="Page_368">[368]</a></span>”</p> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXVII" id="CHAPTER_XXVII"></a>CHAPTER XXVII</h2> + + +<p>The Marquis of Castrillon, meanwhile, was pirouetting +sublimely before the long mirror in his dressing-room, +while his valet, a sour-faced individual, looked +on in great but gloomy interest. The Marquis was +superbly dressed in a Louis Seize costume—an exact +reproduction of the one worn by that monarch on his +wedding-day—and he presented a very fine figure. +In features, expression, colouring, and manner it +would have been difficult to find, or imagine, a +more fascinating puppet. An unsurpassable actor of +noble parts, he seemed created to play the hero +in deeds, the poet in thoughts, the lover on all +occasions. Confident of his attractions, he appeared +quite free from vanity: each fresh attitude became +him better than the last: no light could do less than +show the classic beauty of his head and body. When +he laughed, one could admire his magnificent teeth; +when he looked grave, one could enjoy the splendid +serenity of his brow and the passion in his deep brown +eyes. It was said that his legs alone would have made +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_369" id="Page_369">[369]</a></span>the plainest man a dangerous rival, that his well-cut +mouth would have made a monster irresistible.</p> + +<p>“So you don't think,” said he, as he executed a +final bow and kicked off his shoes because a buckle +stuck into his instep—“so you don't think, Isidore, +that Her Imperial Highness loves me?”</p> + +<p>“I know she doesn't,” replied his man. “I am +not going to say that I see more than I see.”</p> + +<p>“It may be that she cannot love,” said the Marquis, +“and I don't think less of her on that account. These +sentimental girls become very monotonous and sickening. +The women whom men love the longest are prim, +stand-off women. Have you noticed that, Isidore?”</p> + +<p>“No, I haven't noticed that. I haven't noticed +much love lasting long for any kind of person.”</p> + +<p>“There's something in your stupidity which refreshes +me. I have a strong notion to marry Her +Imperial Highness. I could make her happy.”</p> + +<p>“Not you.”</p> + +<p>“I tell you I could. She has the oddest effect +upon me. No other woman has ever affected me in +such a way. I feel when I am with her as though +we were well matched. If I were a King, I would +make her my Queen. I might love others, but I +should always say, ‘Remember the Queen. The +Queen must be remembered, and honoured, and +obeyed in all things.’ Sometimes I see myself—with +her—at a kind of Versailles: every one standing up as +we enter: Her Majesty very pale and tall and won<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_370" id="Page_370">[370]</a></span>derful +in a blue velvet robe and pearls, I would +adore her with a passion as constant as it was respectful. +I should ask in return <i>une amitié la plus tendre</i>. +Isidore, she is an angel. The sweetness of her soul +is in her face—in the very sound of her voice. I +am a little too material to be so sublime in my sentiments +as M. de Hausée, but I could be unusually +faithful to that charming, beautiful creature. Isn't +there a crease under my left arm? Hold the glass +for me.”</p> + +<p>Isidore held the glass while Castrillon, with knit +brows, studied the back view of his coat.</p> + +<p>“The coat is perfect,” said Isidore; “you have +no heart or you would never find fault with such +a back.”</p> + +<p>“Would you call me heartless?”</p> + +<p>“I couldn't call you anything else,” replied the +valet, bluntly.</p> + +<p>“Then why have you been with me, cat-fish, ever +since I was born?”</p> + +<p>The Marquis had a stock of names for his servant, +none of which he employed unless he felt in a good +humour. Owl-pig, hog-mouse, ape-dog, rat-weasel, +and cat-fish were the highest expressions of his amiability +toward the man who had been his ill-tempered, +dishonest, impudent, and treacherous attendant all the +years of his life.</p> + +<p>“You know, mule-viper,” he continued, “that no +one else would keep you for five minutes. You are +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_371" id="Page_371">[371]</a></span>a liar, a thief, and a traitor. Yet I endure you. I +agree that I must be either heartless or an idiot to put +up with such a rogue.”</p> + +<p>Isidore grew livid, muttered blasphemies under his +breath, and put pink cotton-wool in the toes of his +master's dancing-shoes. Castrillon then kicked him +into the adjoining room and resumed his gymnastic +exercises. At the end of half an hour, the man re-entered +carrying a note fastidiously between his left +thumb and forefinger.</p> + +<p>“Is that for me?” asked the Marquis, who was in +the act of turning a double somersault with much +agility.</p> + +<p>“It is for Monsieur.”</p> + +<p>“Then read it aloud while I stand on my head.”</p> + +<p>Isidore tore it open and began to read as follows:—</p> + +<p>“<i>Do not misjudge me</i>——“</p> + +<p>“Stop!” exclaimed Castrillon, falling upon his feet +at once; “that is from a woman. Why didn't you +say so?”</p> + +<p>“It is from Madame Parflete,” replied Isidore.</p> + +<p>“Impossible!” said Castrillon, snatching it from his +hand; “impossible!”</p> + +<p>He read the letter, flushed to the roots of his hair, +and kicked Isidore for the second time.</p> + +<p>“You beast!” said he; “where did you get this? +It is her writing, but she never wrote it—never on +God's earth! Where did you get it?”</p> + +<p>“It was given to me by one of her servants.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_372" id="Page_372">[372]</a></span>”</p> + +<p>“Why the devil do you tell me such lies?” exclaimed +the young man in a fury; “it's some d——d practical +joke in the most infernal bad taste, and, by God! +I have a mind to shoot you.”</p> + +<p>Castrillon was not given to the utterance of vain +threats, and his anger was so great that the wretched +Isidore, shaking, whining, and cursing, edged round +the room with his back to the wall and his eyes fixed +on his master.</p> + +<p>“Stand still, will you?” continued the Marquis; +“I want to hear a little more. How much were you +paid for giving me this twaddle? Answer me that.”</p> + +<p>“Two guineas!”</p> + +<p>“Two? I'll bet you had twenty. Stand still, I tell +you, or I'll kick you again. Do you expect me to +believe that Mrs. Parflete's servant gave you twenty +guineas?”</p> + +<p>“No, I don't,” answered Isidore. “I don't expect +you to believe anything. But if that isn't Madame +Parflete's writing, whose writing is it?”</p> + +<p>“That is just what I mean to find out,” replied +Castrillon, “and that is why I won't shoot you till it +suits my convenience.”</p> + +<p>Isidore, who had a venomous attachment to the +Marquis, burst into tears. For many generations +their respective ancestors had stood in the relation, +each to the other, of tyrant and dependent. Isidore's +father had robbed, cheated, deceived, and adored +Castrillon's father; the fathers of these two reprobates +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_373" id="Page_373">[373]</a></span>had observed the same measure of whippings and +treacheries, and so it had been always from the first +registered beginnings of the noble and the slavish +house. But an Isidore had never been known to leave +a Castrillon's service. The hereditary, easy-going forbearance, +on the one hand, which found killing less +tedious than a crude dismissal, and the hereditary +guilty conscience, on the other, which had to recognise +the justice of punishment, kept the connection +rudely loyal.</p> + +<p>“I detest you,” said Castrillon; “I hate the sight +of you.”</p> + +<p>Isidore blubbered aloud, and accepted the information +as a turn for the better in the tide of his master's +wrath.</p> + +<p>“Who gave you that letter?”</p> + +<p>“Well, if you must know, it was Signor Mudara.”</p> + +<p>“Mudara? Then Mudara wrote it. I'll wring his +neck.”</p> + +<p>“I'll wring his neck, too—if he has tried any of his +games on me,” sobbed Isidore. “But it may not be a +game. You are always so hasty.”</p> + +<p>Castrillon read the letter through once more.</p> + +<p>“I can't believe that she wrote it,” he said. “I'll +swear she didn't.”</p> + +<p>“And why?”</p> + +<p>“Because the style is not in keeping with her +character, blockhead! She does not ask me—or any +one else—to visit her at two o'clock in the morning.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_374" id="Page_374">[374]</a></span>”</p> + +<p>A revolting smile made the valet's loose-hanging, +sullen lips quiver with emotion.</p> + +<p>“No, that is not Madame's style. She is too clever. +But does that affect the opportunity!”</p> + +<p>“What opportunity?”</p> + +<p>“You have the letter. It is for Madame herself to +deny the handwriting—not you. Why should you, of +all people, think it a joke? Why not act upon it? +Why not ask her what it means?”</p> + +<p>“At two in the morning? I have no wish to +compromise Madame—not the least. She is too rich +to compromise. She is the sort of lady one marries. +Tell Mudara, with my compliments, he must understand +gentlemen before he can play successful tricks +upon them.”</p> + +<p>“I will take my oath that I am not sure it is a +trick,” answered Isidore.</p> + +<p>Castrillon studied the letter for a third time.</p> + +<p>“Here and there,” he said, “it has the ring of her +voice, and the words are the words she uses.”</p> + +<p>“With such a justification in my pocket, I know +what I should do,” mumbled Isidore.</p> + +<p>“So do I. But you are the scum of the earth, and +what you would, or wouldn't do, could only interest +the hangman.”</p> + +<p>The Marquis locked the note in his dressing-case, +and handed his keys, with his usual simplicity, to +Isidore.</p> + +<p>“I do not propose to tire myself with this nonsense +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_375" id="Page_375">[375]</a></span>before the play,” said he. “Get my raw eggs and +milk.”</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>At nine o'clock that evening, a brilliant company +were gathered in the Salle de Comédie. Most of +the Foreign Ambassadors, and about fifty illustrious +personages of great social importance, were present. +Prince d'Alchingen had resolved that the daughter of +Henriette Duboc should have every opportunity of +making a successful <i>début</i> in England. He had +sprinkled most judiciously among his guests a few accredited +experts in various departments of knowledge, +and these he hoped would lead appreciation into the +right channel by explaining, at fit intervals, just why +Mrs. Parflete was beautiful and just where her art had +its especial distinction. The play itself—<i>La Seconde +Surprise de l'Amour</i>—by Pierre de Marivaux, was quite +unknown to the audience. Brigit and Castrillon had +appeared in it at Madrid, and descriptions of their +success were whispered through the room. The story +of her birth, her unhappy marriage, her adventures in +Spain, and her relations with De Hausée had quickened +curiosity to the highest pitch. Was she really so +young? was she really so pretty? was she going on +the public stage, or would she remain an accomplished, +semi-royal amateur? No one referred openly to the +late Archduke Charles, but the facts that Madame +Duboc had been his Canonical wife, that Mrs. Parflete +was the one child of their union, kept the whole +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_376" id="Page_376">[376]</a></span>aristocratic assembly thrilled with the sense of taking +part in something as distinguished as a Court function, +as exciting as a Court scandal, and as bewildering as a +Court conspiracy. A string orchestra—conducted by +Strauss himself—played French melodies of the +eighteenth century. Would there be any dancing? +would she sing? Henriette Duboc had been compared, +as a dancer, to La Guimard, said Sir Piers +Harding to the Duchess of Lossett. And who was +La Guimard? asked the Duchess. And was Mrs. +Parflete at all like her mother? And did she bear the +extraordinary resemblance, <i>of which so much had been +made</i>, to Marie Antoinette? Sir Piers felt bound to +own that the likeness was remarkable. And this de +Hausée—what of him? Had Sir Piers seen the odd +announcement, about his name and antecedents, in the +<i>Times</i>? The Duchess didn't know what to think. It +was all so very odd, but most interesting, of course. +Was M. de Hausée, by any chance, in the audience? +No. Well, perhaps it was better taste on his part to +keep away. The bell rang. All eyes turned toward +the blue satin curtains; they moved: the lights were +lowered; the violins played a languorous air: with a +rustle—not unlike that caused by the movement of +wings—the curtains were drawn back and disclosed an +empty garden. Then, following the stage direction, +the Marquise entered “<i>tristement sur la scène</i>.” The +entrance was made quietly, and, for a breathless +second, no one realised that the heroine of the evening +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_377" id="Page_377">[377]</a></span>had at last appeared. Her Grace of Lossett began to +fear she felt a little disappointed when, in the nick of +time, a great poet, who sat near her, murmured, +“Divine.”</p> + +<p>But at this point we may quote from the <i>Memoirs</i> +of Lady Julia Babington:—</p> + +<blockquote><p><i>Mrs. Parflete's personal appearance caused an immediate +furore. Many disagreed about her claims to perfect beauty, +but these hostile feelings did not last longer than five minutes. +She was an extremely pretty woman; rather tall for her +slight proportions, but elegant to a surprising degree. The +extraordinary charm of her acting, her voice, her countenance, +and her accent were delightful. It would have been impossible +to display more grace, simplicity, and ingenuousness than +she did: she gave several touches of pathos in a manner to make +one cry, and to quite enchant all who bad taste enough and mind +to appreciate her inimitable talent.</i></p></blockquote> + +<p>And again in the Letters of Charlotte, Lady +Pardwicke, we read:—</p> + +<blockquote><p><i>If Mrs. Parflete can be called handsome, it is certainly a +</i>figure de fantasie<i>. She has a clear complexion, is young, +tall; her manners are </i>doucereuses<i>, for, besides being a beauty, +she has pretensions, I understand, to </i>bel-esprit<i>. The majority +of those present were undeniably captivated by her peculiar +fascination.</i></p></blockquote> + +<p>Augustus Barfield has the following remarks in his +famous Journal:—</p> + +<blockquote><p><i>There were no two opinions about the success of the +</i>débutante<i>. We had been led to expect a good deal, but +fortunately every description proved inaccurate, so, while she +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_378" id="Page_378">[378]</a></span>utterly failed to realise any single preconceived idea, she had +the great advantage of appearing as some one wholly new. +Rumour had prepared me equally for a St. Elizabeth, a +Mademoiselle Mars, a Marie-Antoinette, a Récamier, or a +Sophie Arnould. She resembled none of these ladies—being far +more tragic in her nature than the rather sensual Queen of +France, and she is clearly an uncommon individual in her own +right. The women will squabble about her looks; the men will +have views about her figure: all must agree that her fortune on +the stage is assured. A more pleasing performance I never saw. +Love, innocence, tenderness, grief, joy, petulance, uncertainty, +modesty, despair—every feminine attribute, in fact, showed to +admiration in her expressive features. Voice, bewitching. +Gestures, exquisite. All, in fact, was truly enjoyable. I +would not have missed the evening on any account.</i></p></blockquote> + +<p>Orange, it is true, had not joined the general company. +But Prince d'Alchingen for reasons of his +own, however, had offered the young man a seat in +the one small box which had a gilded <i>grille</i> before it +and was so made that it seemed part of the massive +decoration.</p> + +<p>“You cannot be seen,” said the Prince; “I won't +tell her that you are present; and I give you my word of +honour that I won't tell anybody—not even my wife.”</p> + +<p>The temptation was irresistible. Robert accepted +the invitation, and as he watched the play, it seemed +to him that he had never known Brigit till that +evening. He had seen her in dreams—yes; and +talked to her in dreams, yes; but now at last she +lived—a real creature. Lost in the part, she was able +to throw aside the self-restraint which had given her +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_379" id="Page_379">[379]</a></span>always a cold, almost sexless quality. Her face +betrayed a hundred changing emotions: the youth, +strength, and passion so severely repressed in her own +life came out, though still controlled, with full and +perfect harmony in her art. It was one of those +consummate revelations of temperament which, in +silent or inactive lives, never come till the last +hours before death—when in one look or one utterance +all the time lost and all the long-concealed +feelings take their reparation from existence. But +with those who may express their true characters +through the medium of some creative faculty, the +illuminated moment comes at a psychic crisis—not +to enforce the irony of death but to demonstrate and +intensify the richness of humanity. The knowledge +which depends upon suffering, and, in a way, springs +from it, is good, yet it must always be incomplete. +Happiness has its light also, and in order to get the +right explanation of any soul, or to understand the +eternal meaning of any situation, one must have had +at least a few glad hours, felt the ecstasy of thoughtless +joy, drifted a little while with the rushing, +unhindered tide. As Robert, behind the <i>grille</i>, +watched the animated, beautiful girl who seemed to +typify the very springtime of the world, he felt he +had peered too long at love and life through bars. +He would have to break them, get on the other side, +and join in the dazzling action. How unreal and +far-away seemed all grief, remorse, or anxiety from +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_380" id="Page_380">[380]</a></span>that brilliant scene! Brigit was laughing, singing, +dancing—fulfilling, surely enough, her real vocation. +What! at seventeen, was she to sit pale, silent, tearful, +and alone? At his age, was he to look on—with +a dead heart and unseeing eyes, murmuring words of +tame submission to a contemptuous Fate? His +whole nature rose up in revolt, and the self he had +once abdicated rushed back to him, howling out +taunts which were not the less bitter because they +were false. Not pausing to wonder whether the +present were a profanation of the past, or the past an +insipid forecast of the present, he was conscious only +that a change—perhaps a terrible change—had taken +place in his mind—a change so sudden and so violent +that it had paralysed every power of analysis and +reflection. Imaginative love—made up of renunciation +and spirituality, gave way to the fierce desire to live, +to silence the intolerable wisdom of the conscience, +and learn folly for a space. He was madly jealous of +Castrillon, who gazed into Brigit's eyes and uttered +his lines with the most touching air of passionate +devotion. She seemed to respond, and, in fact, +their joint performance had that delicate, irresistible +abandon—apparently unconscious and unpremeditated—which +is only possible between two players who are +not in love with each other. Where there is actual +feeling, there is always a certain awkwardness and +want of conviction (partly caused by the inadequacy +of the diagram in comparison with the reality), and +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_381" id="Page_381">[381]</a></span>the charm, so far as art is concerned, is wholly lost. +An acted love was the only love possible between +Brigit and Castrillon; hence its sincerity on the +stage, where, as a merely assumed thing, it harmonised +perfectly with its artificial surroundings—the +canvas landscape, the painted trees, the mechanical +birds, and the sunlight produced by tricks of gauze +and gas. But Orange did not stop to consider this. +It was enough and too much to see his “sad spirit of +the elfin race” completely transformed. Was this the +child-like, immature being of their strange visit to +Miraflores? That whole episode seemed a kind of +phantasy—a Midsummer Night's music—nothing +more, perhaps something less. The very title of the +play—<i>The Second Surprise of Love</i>—carried a mocking +significance. Sometimes the soul speaks first, sometimes +the senses first influence a life, but the turn, +soon or late, must inevitably come for each, and the +man or woman, sick of materialism, who begins to +suspect that the unseen world and its beauty is an +inheritance more lasting and more to be desired than +all the vindictive joys of this prison-house, has no +such bitterness as the idealist who finds himself +brought into thrilling touch with the physical loveliness, +the actual enchantment, the undeniable delight +of certain things in life. The questions, “What have +I missed? What have I lost? What birthright +have I renounced?” are bound to make themselves +heard. They beat upon the heart like hail upon the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_382" id="Page_382">[382]</a></span>sand—and fall buried in the scars they cause. Things +of the flesh may and do become dead sea fruit; but +things of the spirit often become stale and meaningless +also. What is more weary than a tired mind? +What joys and labours are more exhausting than +those of the intellect, and the intellect only? Does +an idle week in summer ever beget more lassitude or +such disgust of life as a month—alone with books—in +a library? Dissatisfaction and satiety, melancholy +and fatigue show as plainly in the pages of à Kempis +as they do in Schopenhauer, as they do in Lucretius, +as they do in St. Bernard, as they do in Montaigne, +in Marcus Aurelius, in Dante, in St. Teresa. They +are, indeed, the ever-recurrent cries in human feeling, +the ever-recurrent phases in human thought. Uninterrupted +contentment was never yet found in any +calling or state; the saints were haggard with combats; +sleep, the most reposeful state we know, has its +fearful sorrows, hideous terrors, pursuing uncertainties. +Robert's spirit, stimulated by jealousy, played round +these reflections, common enough at all times, but, as +all common things, overwhelming at the first moment +of their complete realisation. The original frame of +his mind joined a defiance of formal precedent and an +intense openness to every fine pleasure of sense with +an impatience of all that makes for secrecy and an +abhorrence of the substitutes which are sometimes +basely, sometimes madly, accepted in default of true +objects. He could not desire the star and find solace +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_383" id="Page_383">[383]</a></span>in the glow-worm—pursue Isolde and lag by the way +with Moll Flanders. It was true that he had resolved +to put stars and Isolde alike from his life. It was true +that he had bound himself to certain fair ambitions +beyond the determinations of calculation and experience. +It was true that he had resolved to sacrifice +this world to the next. He knew the claims which +the world to come has upon us. But did he know +the world he was renouncing? How that doubt +opened the way to further doubts! Was he a fool +for his pains? Was an enfeebling and afflicting of +the natural man so necessary to the exaltation of the +soul? Was the soul in itself so weak that it could +only rest decently in a sick body? Could it only +wish for something greater than this earth can give +by being artificially saddened?</p> + +<p>Such questions have their answers, but they do not +occur very readily to young men hopelessly in love +and half out of their wits with jealousy. He might +have taken refuge in prayer, but at that moment he +did not want to pray. He wanted to think about +himself, to be himself throughout the entire reach of +his consciousness, to lose himself in the tempest of +emotion which seemed to drive out, beat, and shatter +every hindrance to its furious sweep. A smouldering +fire is for a while got under, and yet by suppression is +but thrown in, to spread more widely and deeply than +before. So his fatal affection, perhaps pitilessly +fought down in the first instance—asserted its power<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_384" id="Page_384">[384]</a></span>—its +power for evil. Not to love was not to live. He +was dead while he lived. He could not find peace in +an invisible world of which he did not see any more +even a shadow round about him. <i>Shall not the day of +the Lord be darkness and not light? even very dark, and +no brightness in it?</i> He did not believe that. What +miserable scruples to torment, blind, and pollute the +soul! Pascal has written that there are thousands +who sin without regret, who sin with gladness, who +feel no warning and no interior desire not to sin. +They doubted, hated, loved, acted, felt, and thought +just as they pleased. Perhaps they were not happy, +but if they received the punishment of wrong-doing, +the wrong at least was committed out of fetters and +joyously. It is not until men find themselves assailed +by a strong wish that they perceive how very still and +very small, all but inaudible, the still, small voice +can be. A moment comes when one ceases to think—one +wills, and if one is able and the will is sufficiently +determined, the purpose is carried into effect. +Temptations to steal, to lie, to deceive, to gamble, to +excess in drink and the like cannot approach a certain +order of mind. But the craving for knowledge and a +fuller life—either in a spiritual or the human way—is +implanted ineradicably in every soul, and while it +may rest inert and seem nullified in a kind of apathy, +the craving is there—to be aroused surely enough at +some dangerous hour. And of all the dangerous +hours in life, the hour of disappointed love is the most +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_385" id="Page_385">[385]</a></span>critical. Calm spectators of mortal folly who have +been satisfactorily married for twenty years and more, +who have sons to provide for and daughters to establish, +cherish a disdain of love-stories and boast that +they have no patience with morbidity. Love—which +put them into being and keeps the earth in existence—seems +to all such a silly malady peculiar to the +sentimental in early youth. So they put the First +Cause—in one of its many manifestations—in the +waste-paper basket, asking each other what will +become of Charles if he cannot find a rich wife, and +poor Alice, if she cannot entrap a suitable husband. +But there are others who look on life with some hope +of understanding it truly, in part, at any rate, and +these know, perhaps by experience, perhaps by +sympathy, that whereas bodily disturbances may pass +away leaving little or no effect upon the general health, +all mental tumults are perpetual in their consequences: +they never die out entirely, and they live, sometimes +with appalling energy, sometimes with gnawing listlessness, +to the end of an existence. Robert, in the +judgment of his intellect and his senses, had found his +ideal. Brigit did not belong to “the despised day of +small things”; she was the woman of his imagination—the +well-beloved, and having gained her, was he to +say—Farewell? It seemed so. Meanwhile, the +graceful, swaying dialogue rippled between the players +on the stage; the smiling audience, hushed with +interest, gazed at the delightful beings before them; +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_386" id="Page_386">[386]</a></span>the exquisite Marquise had uttered her two last +speeches—</p> + +<div class="center"><p>“<i>Je ne croyois pas l'amitié si dangereuse.</i>”</p></div> + +<p>and—</p> + +<div class="center"><p>“<i>Je ne me mêle plus de rien!</i>”</p></div> + +<p>Lubin brought the performance to an end by the +final utterance—</p> + +<div class="center"><p>“<i>Allons de la joie!</i>”</p></div> + +<p>The curtain fell—to rise again a dozen times. +Orange did not hear the door of the box being +opened. Prince d'Alchingen came in and put a hand +on the young man's shoulder.</p> + +<p>“Would you like to see her?” he whispered. “I +can arrange it. No one need know.”</p> + +<p>But the training of a lifetime and constant habits +of thought were stronger still than any mood.</p> + +<p>“No,” said Robert, shortly, “I won't see her. I +must get back to London at once.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_387" id="Page_387">[387]</a></span>”</p> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXVIII" id="CHAPTER_XXVIII"></a>CHAPTER XXVIII</h2> + + +<p>The Prince looked at him in astonishment.</p> + +<p>“You can't get to London to-night,” said he; “there +are no trains.”</p> + +<p>“I can walk.”</p> + +<p>“It is thirty-five miles.”</p> + +<p>“I am accustomed to long walks.”</p> + +<p>“At any rate you will have some supper first—in +my little breakfast-room. Don't refuse, because I +want you to meet Castrillon.”</p> + +<p>“Castrillon! I should like to meet Castrillon.”</p> + +<p>“Then I will tell him. You and he can take +supper together. He doesn't want to join the big +party. He has the artist's detestation of the chattering +mob. How well he plays! And what a +triumph for—Madame!”</p> + +<p>“A great triumph.”</p> + +<p>“This corridor leads to my tiny cupboard—the +merest cupboard! Follow me.” They went through +several doors and up several small staircases till they +reached a small apartment furnished in old blue +damask, heavily fringed with tarnished gold and +silver decorations.</p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_388" id="Page_388">[388]</a></span></p> +<p>“A few souvenirs of my hereditary castle in +Alberia,” explained the Prince; “they relieve my +sense of exile.”</p> + +<p>He walked across the floor and tapped on what +appeared to be a portion of the wall.</p> + +<p>“We are here,” said he.</p> + +<p>The secret door was opened, and Castrillon, still +wearing his costume as the Chevalier, joined them. If +one may believe Prince d'Alchingen's account of this +unfortunate meeting, the young men greeted each +other with composure. D'Alchingen declares that +he studied Orange to the depths of his soul, and he +does him the justice to say that he did not make a +movement or utter a word which denoted the least +emotion. There was not any sort of alteration in his +countenance, and he led the conversation with a +tranquillity and a gaiety really enchanting. When +the supper was served, His Excellency had no hesitation +in leaving the rivals together—so convinced was +he that they would remain on good terms.</p> + +<p>“M. de Castrillon,” said Orange, when the Prince +had gone, “I cannot sit down at supper with you. +We have to settle an old score.”</p> + +<p>Castrillon bowed:</p> + +<p>“I am here to learn your wishes. I have heard +from several sources that you wished to see me. If +you have anything to say, pray say it quickly, +because—I have an appointment with Mrs. Parflete.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_389" id="Page_389">[389]</a></span>”</p> + +<p>“Will you do me the favour to leave that lady's +name out of the discussion?”</p> + +<p>“I see no reason why I should do you favours, +M. de Hausée. But I am quite ready to atone for +my indifference by any course of action which could +satisfy the most scrupulous delicacy.”</p> + +<p>“There is but one course of action open to us.”</p> + +<p>“I shall be happy to have the honour of meeting +you on your own terms. But,” he added, contemptuously, +“we are both wasting our time over +a worthless woman. She was seen leaving your +lodgings on Wednesday last. I have just heard this. +And I received, before the play began this evening, a +letter from her fixing a <i>rendez-vous</i> for two o'clock. +If you doubt me I can show you the letter. I am as +much disappointed as you are. She has fooled us +both. Before God I could have sworn she was a +religious and modest woman.”</p> + +<p>His chagrin was so genuine that it was impossible +to doubt his good faith.</p> + +<p>“It is a lie,” said Orange; “she was never at my +lodgings.”</p> + +<p>“I don't call <i>you</i> a liar, M. de Hausée, but I can +prove my words, whereas it might be difficult to prove +yours. I can show you the letter.”</p> + +<p>“She never wrote it.”</p> + +<p>Castrillon sat on the edge of the table, and poured +out some wine.</p> + +<p>“That is what I said,” he replied, “when I read +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_390" id="Page_390">[390]</a></span>it. So long as we are going to fight, let it be because +we hate each other, and not because we have both +been deceived by the same prude.”</p> + +<p>“In other words,” said Orange, quietly, “you wish +to drive a good bargain, knowing that whether you +utter one insult or twenty, I can but fight you once.”</p> + +<p>“<i>A l'outrance</i>, however,” answered Castrillon, dipping +a biscuit into the glass.</p> + +<p>“Yes, <i>à l'outrance</i>.”</p> + +<p>“This being the case, let me tell you a few of my +ideas. You find life very hard. I find it altogether +amusing. I don't love a woman the less when I cease +to honour her. I don't honour a man the less when +I detest him. If you should kill me, M. de Hausée, +it will be the most respectable occurrence in my +immortality. But if I should kill you, it will be the +vile conclusion of an exemplary career.”</p> + +<p>“Your conversation is most entertaining, Monsieur. +I am, unhappily, in no mood to listen to it. May I +ask you to meet me to-morrow with your second at +three o'clock at Calais? We can then go on to +Dunkerque and settle this difference.”</p> + +<p>“I am perfectly agreeable.”</p> + +<p>They arranged a few more details and parted. The +interview, which took place in French, is not easily +reproduced in English. Orange wrote one account +of the scene, and Castrillon confided another to Prince +d'Alchingen, and the above is probably as nearly as +possible a faithful description of what actually passed.</p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_391" id="Page_391">[391]</a></span></p> +<p>Robert left Hadley Lodge, and plunged through +the darkness toward London. He reached Vigo +Street about seven o'clock in the morning. It was +Sunday, and the streets were silent. He let himself +into the house with a latch-key, and groped his way +up the creaking unlit staircase. On entering his +room, the draught between the open window and +the door set all his papers whirling from his writing-table, +and, by a strange accident, dislodged his crucifix +from its nail. It fell to the ground, and when he +picked it up, the small Figure was broken. This +accident seemed an ill omen, but he put it from his +thoughts, and scrawled a hasty letter to Charles +Aumerle, asking him to be his second. This he +delivered himself at Aumerle's chambers in St. +James's Place, saying that he would call for an +answer at nine. But Aumerle, ever fond of adventures, +was at Vigo Street at half-past eight.</p> + +<p>“If you are bent upon it,” said he, “I will do +everything in my power to see it through. I think +you are quite right. Every one will say the same.”</p> + +<p>The two left for Calais by the first boat that +morning. Castrillon, and Isidore, and a young +Frenchman, M. de Lamoignon, were on board also. +At Calais the two seconds conferred, and the duel +was arranged to take place in a field near Dunkerque +on the following morning. On the following +morning, the four men met. The combatants were +placed at fifteen paces from each other. They fired +simultaneously and Castrillon fell—mortally wounded.</p> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_392" id="Page_392">[392]</a></span></p><h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXIX" id="CHAPTER_XXIX"></a>CHAPTER XXIX</h2> + + +<p>Brigit returned on Monday to Pensée at Curzon +Street. It was the anniversary of Lord Fitz Rewes's +death. The two women went to Catesby, where +they visited his grave together, prayed together, and, +in the quiet evening, sat by the library fire.</p> + +<p>“This is a great contrast for you after all the +excitement on Saturday night,” said Pensée. “You +are full of surprises, Brigit. Few young girls, having +made such a brilliant success, would care to spend +their time with poor, dull women like me. They would +naturally wish to enjoy the triumph.”</p> + +<p>Brigit's eyes filled with tears.</p> + +<p>“I know what you mean, <i>cher coeur</i>,” she answered, +“but there are no triumphs for any artist. We suffer +and we work—sometimes we are able to please. But +we suffer and work because we must; whereas we +please by the merest accident.”</p> + +<p>“That is true, no doubt. One might as well +speak of a successful saint as a successful artist. +Every saint is not canonized, and every artist is not +praised. But surely appreciation is a help.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_393" id="Page_393">[393]</a></span>”</p> + +<p>“Yes, dearest; and I am grateful for it. And it +gives encouragement to one's friends!”</p> + +<p>“Let us suppose that they had not cared for your +acting, dear child. What then?”</p> + +<p>“I should have known that it was my vocation just +the same. Don't believe that I shan't have my full +share of doubts and struggles. This little first step +makes me the more anxious about my next.”</p> + +<p>The older woman looked at her, and sighed deeply.</p> + +<p>“You are too young to know life so well! I am +sure you have suffered more severely than any of us—who +say more and cry more. Your face has +changed a good deal in the last day or two. In +one way, it isn't so pretty as it was.”</p> + +<p>“No one can look quite so plain as I can look, +Pensée,” she answered, laughing.</p> + +<p>“Let me finish what I had in my mind! You +are not so pretty—not so much like a picture. But +when I see you now, I don't think about your features +at all. I watch your expressions—they suggest the +whole world to me—all the things I have thought and +felt. Rachel's face is like that. I am sure now that +you were meant to be an actress. I have been very +stupid. How I wish I understood you better, and +could be more of a friend. I don't understand Robert +entirely. Do you?”</p> + +<p>“Yes, I understand him.”</p> + +<p>“I wonder how you came to love each other. I +suppose it happened for the best. But it seems such a +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_394" id="Page_394">[394]</a></span>pity”—she paused and then repeated the words—“it +seems such a pity that all doesn't come right—in the +old-fashioned way.”</p> + +<p>“It has come right, dear,” said Brigit; “perfectly +right.”</p> + +<p>“You try to think so.”</p> + +<p>“I know it. His father sinned, and my father +sinned. We were born for unhappiness. Unhappiness +and misgivings are in our very blood.”</p> + +<p>“But how unjust!”</p> + +<p>“No, dearest, on the contrary, it is strict justice. +The laws of the universe are immutable. You might +as well ask that fire should only burn sometimes—that +it may be water, or air, or earth to suit sentimental +occasions.”</p> + +<p>“I don't like to see you so sensible—it's—it's +<i>unlikely</i>.”</p> + +<p>Brigit smiled at the word—a favourite one with +Pensée when persons and events differed from the +serene, unreasoned fiction which she called her experience.</p> + +<p>“How can you call anything unlikely?” asked the +girl. “I ought never to have been born at all, and +Life has made no provision for me. She is boisterous +and homely—like a housekeeper at an inn. She +doesn't know me, and she has prepared no room for +me. But I may rest on the staircase—that's under +shelter at least.”</p> + +<p>“What whimsical ideas, darling!<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_395" id="Page_395">[395]</a></span>”</p> + +<p>“Ah, to feel as I feel, you must have had my +parents. You mustn't suppose that I woke up one +morning and saw the reason for all my troubles. The +reason did not come as though it were the sun shining +into the room. Oh, no! I found no answer for a +long, long time. But I feel it now. My father +could not take me into his world, and my mother's +world—<i>I</i> could not take. They wished to know +that I was protected, so they found some one who +knew the story, and knew both worlds. I was grateful, +because I didn't understand. And when I understood +I was still grateful, but I couldn't accept the +terms. My marriage was not so terrible as many +marriages. Yet it was terrible enough. Don't let +us talk of it, Pensée. It is hopeless to quarrel with +logic. Science is calm—as calm as the hills.”</p> + +<p>“And Robert?” said the older woman. “What +about Robert?”</p> + +<p>“His father was a Dominican. The Church will +have her own again. Be quite sure of that!</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<i> +<span class="i0">‘Thy justice is like the great mountains.<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Thy judgments are a great deep.’<br /></span> +</i> +</div></div> + +<p>In God's way, all will come right. Every debt +must be paid.”</p> + +<p>Although they had arranged to journey back to +London the following day, the woods and gardens +looked so fair, the peace of that house was so great, +that they lingered there till Wednesday. Brigit was +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_396" id="Page_396">[396]</a></span>unusually silent. She sat for hours at the library +window looking across the Channel toward France, +her countenance drawn and white, all its loveliness +departed.</p> + +<p>Once she spoke—</p> + +<p>“I know that Robert is in sorrow.”</p> + +<p>“Are you anxious? Shall I write?” asked Pensée, +secretly troubled also.</p> + +<p>“No, I am not anxious. There is sorrow, but I +am not anxious.”</p> + +<p>Her room adjoined Pensée's, and, in the night, +Pensée, sleepless, heard her walking to and fro, with +even steps, till sunrise. When they met in the +morning, Brigit seemed to have aged by ten years. +Her youth returned, but the character of her face had +altered for ever. She was never called pretty again. +It was said that she varied and depended wholly on +her moods. She could make herself anything, but +nature had given her little more than a pair of eyes, +a nose, and a mouth—indifferent good. Lady Fitz +Rewes was appalled at the transformation. Remembering +stories of the last dreadful touches of consumption, +she feared for the girl's health. “She will die +before long,” she thought. But death can occur +more than once in one life. The passing away of +every strong emotion means a burial and a grave, a +change, and a resurrection. The tearful, dusty, fiery, +airy process must be endured seventy times seven and +more, and more again—from everlasting to everlasting. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_397" id="Page_397">[397]</a></span>And the cause is nothing, the motives are nothing, the +great, great affliction and the child's little woe pass +alike through the Process—for the Process belongs to +the eternal law, whereas the rest is of the heart's +capacity.</p> + +<p>The way to the city—through the beautiful south +of England, beautiful at all seasons of the year and +sad also at all seasons—brought something which +resembled calm to both their minds. Dwellings +closely packed together destroy, or disturb, the finer +vision of the grandeur, sternness, and depth of life. +At Catesby, the solitude and the waves exercised +their power over the spirit, diverting it from trivial +speculations to awe and wonder. There, where the +unseen could move freely and the invisible manifest +itself on the perpetual rocks, the towering trees, the +still green fields, and the vast acres of the sea, one +could hear the dreaming prophet proclaim the burden +of the Lord; and the voice of mirth and the voice of +gladness, the voice of the bridegroom and the voice of +the bride, the sound of the mill-stones and the light +of the candle mattered not. But the kingdom of all +the worlds—the worlds and habitations not made with +hands—rose up as the real theatre of man's destiny +and the fit measure of his achievements. It is that +sense of the eternity of consequences—and that sense +only—which can satisfy the human heart. Time is +too short, this planet is too small, and this mortal +body is too weak for the surging thoughts, the unin<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_398" id="Page_398">[398]</a></span>telligible +desires of the soul. Nothing less than infinity +can hallow emotions: their passingness—which seems +the rule in the fever and turmoil of city life—is not +their abatement but their degradation. Change they +must, but perish utterly they may not.</p> + +<p>The women travellers, as the lights of the capital +grew more numerous, and the roar of the traffic louder +and more constant, drew back within themselves, +assuming, unconsciously, the outward bearing—fatigued, +sceptical, and self-distrustful—of the town-bred. +When they reached Curzon Street, the two +heaps of letters, the telegrams and cards on the hall-table +symbolised crudely enough the practical side of +daily affairs. One name—an unknown one—among +the many engraved on the white scraps caught Brigit's +attention at once:</p> + +<div class="center"> +<p><i>The Rev. J. M. Foster.</i></p> +</div> + +<p>“That gentleman is a priest, Madam,” said the +butler; “he will call again this evening. I told +him that we expected you and her Ladyship about +seven.”</p> + +<p>For some reason she felt alarmed. All that day and +the night before she had been agitated by an inexplicable +dread of strange tidings. She went to her +room, but, without removing her travelling cloak or +her hat, she sat down on the edge of her bed, waiting +for some summons. Presently it came. Father +Foster was in the library with Lady Fitz Rewes. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_399" id="Page_399">[399]</a></span>Would Mrs. Parflete see him? She went down, +and Pensée stood watching for her at the open +door.</p> + +<p>“My poor child!” she said, with a sob in her voice, +as she drew Brigit into the room. “My poor child,” +she repeated, “Father Foster has come to tell us that—that +Mr. Parflete died last night.”</p> + +<p>The priest stepped forward with the decision, and +also the stern kindness, of those accustomed to break +hard messages.</p> + +<p>“He was injured in a quarrel, and died from the +effect of the wound. He declined to give any particulars +of the affair, and I fear we must call it a mystery. +He asked me to say that his last words to you +were these: <i>Amate da cui male aveste</i>—Love those +from whom ye have had evil.”</p> + +<p>He looked at her compassionately as he spoke, +wondering, no doubt, how great the evil had been.</p> + +<p>“Can I go to him?” asked Brigit; “where is +he?”</p> + +<p>“Where he died—in his room at the hotel.”</p> + +<p>“I will go with you,” said Pensée. She held +Brigit's hand, and exchanged a long glance with +Father Foster.</p> + +<p>“Did you say,” she asked, “that he left any letters +or papers?”</p> + +<p>“He destroyed all his papers, but he has left one +letter addressed to you. He wished me to say, in the +presence of Mrs. Parflete, that this had reference to +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_400" id="Page_400">[400]</a></span>some false report about her visiting Mr. Orange's +lodgings. Mr. Parflete saw the lady who went to +Vigo Street, and he did not know who she was. One +thing, however, he did know: he had never seen +her before.”</p> + +<p>Brigit inclined her head, but remained motionless, +where she first halted when she entered the +room.</p> + +<p>“Did he die in pain?” she asked.</p> + +<p>“I am afraid he suffered greatly.”</p> + +<p>“Was his mind at peace?”</p> + +<p>“I believe so—from my heart.”</p> + +<p>“He had less to fear from God than man.”</p> + +<p>“The justice of God is severe,” said the priest, +“but He can never make mistakes. The hardest +cruelties in this life are the mistakes which we +commit in judging others—perhaps in judging ourselves.”</p> + +<p>“The carriage is at the door,” whispered Pensée, +touching Brigit's arm. “Shall we go?”</p> + +<p>Nothing was said during the drive to the hotel +near Covent Garden. Brigit sat with closed eyes +and folded hands while Lady Fitz Rewes, lost in +thought, stared out of the window. At last the +horses stopped.</p> + +<p>“This is the place,” said Father Foster.</p> + +<p>A large gas-lamp hung over the entrance, and two +Swiss waiters, with forced solemnity, ushered the +party through the hall and up the staircase. They +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_401" id="Page_401">[401]</a></span>tapped at a door, listened, from force of habit, for an +answer which never came, and then turned the +handle. Parflete's bed had been moved to the +centre of the room. There was a table covered +with a white cloth, on which four candles burnt. +By the window there was a chair littered with illustrated +newspapers.</p> + +<p>“The nurse has just gone down to his supper,” +explained one of the waiters, “but <i>le mort est bien +convenable</i>.”</p> + +<p>The dead man had been dressed in a rose-silk shirt +embroidered with forget-me-nots. Upon his crossed +arms lay a small ivory crucifix. In place of his wig +he wore a black velvet skull-cap. The face was +yellow: the features seemed set in a defiant, ironical +smile. Hardship, terror, remorse, and physical agony +had left their terrible scars upon his countenance.</p> + +<p>Brigit, overcome at the sight of these awful +changes, fell weeping on Pensée's shoulder.</p> + +<p>“Thank God!” she whispered, “he has no more +to fear from men.”</p> + +<p>When she grew calmer, she knelt down by the +body, and told them that she would watch there +that night.</p> + +<p>“Madness!” exclaimed Lady Fitz Rewes.</p> + +<p>“No, no! I wish to do it.”</p> + +<p>The priest stated a few objections, but she remained +firm in her resolve.</p> + +<p>“He was my father's friend,” she said, quietly.</p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_402" id="Page_402">[402]</a></span></p> +<p>They both noticed that she never once referred to +Parflete as her husband.</p> + +<p>“If you stay, Brigit, I too will stay,” said Pensée.</p> + +<p>“That, dearest, you must decide for yourself. In +any case, I cannot leave him. Tell the nurse not to +come back. And let me be alone here for a little +while.”</p> + +<p>Lady Fitz Rewes and Father Foster went downstairs +to the coffee-room, and made a pretence of eating +dinner. The two talked about the deplorable marriage, +the Orange affair, Brigit's talents. Of course, +she was very young. But Rachel—the great Rachel—made +her first triumph at seventeen.</p> + +<p>“One doesn't like to say it,” observed Pensée, “but +this death seems providential. If she marries Orange, +she will give up the stage. Poor child! At last it +really looks as though she might be happy—like other +people.”</p> + +<p>“Like other people,” repeated the priest, mechanically.</p> + +<p>“I must send word to my housekeeper that I intend +to remain here all night. And I should like our +letters—I had no time to look at them.”</p> + +<p>A messenger was despatched, and they resumed +their former conversation.</p> + +<p>“I am afraid,” said Pensée, “that poor Mr. Parflete +was dreadfully wicked.”</p> + +<p>The priest sighed, and made some remarks about +the dead man's intellectual brilliancy:</p> + +<p>“He had great learning.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_403" id="Page_403">[403]</a></span>”</p> + +<p>“Tell me, Father, with all your experience, do you +understand life?” asked Pensée, abruptly.</p> + +<p>“Let me take refuge in a quotation—</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<i> +<span class="i8">‘Justice divine<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Mends not her slowest pace for pray'rs or cries.’<br /></span> +</i> +</div></div> + +<p>I can understand that at least,” answered the +priest.</p> + +<p>“How odd that you should speak of justice. Brigit +was talking in the same strain only yesterday. It's a +gloomy strain—for a young girl.”</p> + +<p>“I don't think so. One shouldn't sentimentalise. +Life goes on, it doesn't halt: it's a constant development. +I haven't much patience with——“</p> + +<p>He stopped short.</p> + +<p>“Pray finish the sentence.”</p> + +<p>“Well, I haven't much patience with those who +want to linger, and look back, and cheat time. One +must get along.”</p> + +<p>Pensée felt annoyed, and began to talk coldly about +the housing of the poor, and winters which she had +spent in Florence.</p> + +<p>“Here are your letters,” exclaimed her companion +suddenly.</p> + +<p>She turned them over with languid interest, murmuring +unconsciously to herself the names of her +correspondents.</p> + +<p>“From dear Ethel. Why is she in Edinburgh? I +hope her father isn't ill again. Alice. Uncle. Mrs. +Lanark. Mary Butler. Prince d'Alchingen. That +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_404" id="Page_404">[404]</a></span>tiresome Miss Bates. Mr. Seward.” She paused and +flushed deeply. “Robert.”</p> + +<p>Then she turned to Father Foster with shining eyes.</p> + +<p>“This letter,” said she, “is from Mr. Orange. +Don't you admire his handwriting?”</p> + +<p>“A beautiful hand, certainly.”</p> + +<p>“I wonder what he has to say, and why he is +abroad. Isn't that a foreign stamp?”</p> + +<p>“The post-mark is Paris.”</p> + +<p>“So it is. Will you excuse me if I read it.”</p> + +<p>She broke the seal, and read the contents, while +every vestige of colour left her face.</p> + +<p>“I can't make it out,” she said; “there must be +another letter for Brigit. Will you look?”</p> + +<p>He untied the packet, and recognised presently +Orange's handwriting on an envelope.</p> + +<p>“You seem rather displeased,” said Pensée; “you +think this is all very strange. It—it isn't a common +case.”</p> + +<p>“No case is common.”</p> + +<p>“Well, you must help me to decide whether I +ought to give her this letter at once. I can't take +so much responsibility.”</p> + +<p>“Neither can I. She is a perfectly free woman +now, at any rate.”</p> + +<p>He did not approve of the situation, and he made +no attempt to conceal his feelings. His face became +set. Pensée thought she detected a certain reprimand +in the very tone of his voice.</p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_405" id="Page_405">[405]</a></span></p> +<p>“It isn't a common case,” she repeated again. +“He says he is on his way to Rome—to the Jesuits—for +a long Retreat, if they will take him. If he +knew—what has happened—he might change his +mind.”</p> + +<p>“What! you would have him turn back?”</p> + +<p>“Oh, don't be so hard.”</p> + +<p>“I am not hard,” he added more gently. “But +would this woman, if she really loved him, wish him +to turn back? And, if there is anything in him, +could he ever be happy in any stopping short of +the fullest renunciation—once resolved on that +renunciation?”</p> + +<p>“Ah, don't put it that way to her. She has had +so much trouble already. Your Church seems so +selfish. Forgive me, but I do resent these celibate +views. They are unnatural.”</p> + +<p>“I shan't interfere. Take her the letter by all +means. She must decide for herself.”</p> + +<p>Pensée rose from the table, and went up the stairs +to the room where Brigit still knelt by Parflete's dead +body.</p> + +<p>“Dearest,” said Lady Fitz Rewes, “I think you +ought to read this letter. I have had one also. +Robert thinks of taking a great step, and perhaps——“</p> + +<p>Her glance met Brigit's.</p> + +<p>“No,” said Brigit, under her breath: “no.”</p> + +<p>Then, with trembling hands, she read the letter +once, twice, three times.</p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_406" id="Page_406">[406]</a></span></p> +<p>“Say something,” said Pensée, touching her. “Say +something, Brigit.”</p> + +<p>She smiled and held the letter to the candle flame. +It caught fire and burnt away quickly while she +held it.</p> + +<p>“Mind your hand—it will catch your hand.”</p> + +<p>“I don't feel it,” said Brigit. She bore the scar of +that burn always.</p> + +<p>“Say something,” implored Pensée.</p> + +<p>“He is on his way to Rome. He asks me not to +write to him. Castrillon is dying. They fought a +duel.”</p> + +<p>“But of course you will write—now. You must +write.”</p> + +<p>“Hasn't my love done harm enough already? I +will never see him again. I shall never write to him +again.”</p> + +<p>“You can't mean that. You can't realise what +you are saying. People will like him all the better +for fighting Castrillon.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, it isn't the duel, Pensée. He sees his way +clearly. He has always tried not to see it. I, too, +have tried not to see it. But all that is at an end +now.”</p> + +<p>“And he will renounce his career.”</p> + +<p>“Everything! Everything!”</p> + +<p>Pensée threw up her hands, and left the room. +Father Foster was standing under a gas-jet at the end +of the corridor reading his office. He looked at Lady +Fitz Rewes.</p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_407" id="Page_407">[407]</a></span></p> +<p>“She won't stand in his way?” he asked quietly.</p> + +<p>“She won't stand in his way,” she answered. “I +hope you realise what that means—to her.”</p> + +<p>“I hope I can realise what it means to both of +them,” said he.</p> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_408" id="Page_408">[408]</a></span></p><h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXX" id="CHAPTER_XXX"></a>CHAPTER XXX</h2> + + +<p>In 1879, a distinguished author who was engaged in +writing a history of the Catholic Movement in +England, begged Mr. Disraeli, then Earl of Beaconsfield, +for some particulars, not generally known, of +Robert Orange's life.</p> + +<p>He replied as follows:—</p> + +<blockquote><p class="i16"><span class="smcap">Hughenden Manor</span>, <i>Nov. 28, 1879</i>.</p><p class="nospaceabove"><span class="smcap">My dear F.</span>,—You ask me for an estimate of +Monsignor Orange. Questions are always easy. Let +me offer you facts in return. The Castrillon duel was +a nine days' wonder—much discussed and soon forgotten. +Castrillon left a letter with his second, M. de Lamoignon, +to the effect that he had offered Orange “intolerable +insults” which “no man of honour” could have suffered. +Mrs. Parflete's name did not transpire, but Prince +d'Alchingen and others gave speculation no industry on +the matter. We were at no loss to know the real cause +of the quarrel. Orange applied for the Chiltern Hundreds +and went into strict retreat for six months. During that +time he saw no friends, wrote no letters, read none. I +remember his conduct was severely criticised, because the +death of Parflete opened out other possibilities of action. +He was not a man, however, whom one could order to be +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_409" id="Page_409">[409]</a></span>this, that, or the other; still less could one reproach him +for not being this, that, or the other. It was his faith to +believe that salvation rests on the negation and renunciation +of personality. He pushed this to the complete +suppression of his Will, tenderly considered. I need not +detain you on the familiar dogmas of Christianity with +regard to the reign of nature and the reign of grace. +Your view may be expressed thus:—</p><div class="center"><p>“<i>Puis-qu'il aime à périr, je consens qu'il périsse</i>,</p></div><p>and you will think that Orange said of Mrs. Parflete, as +Polyeucte of his wife:—</p> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><i>“Je ne regarde Pauline</i><br/></span> +<span class="i0"><i>Que comme un obstacle à mon bien.”</i><br/></span> +</div></div> +<p>This would be an injustice. Orange was, to me, a +deeply interesting character. I saw little of him after he +entered the priesthood, but his writings, his sermons, and +the actual work he accomplished proved conclusively +enough that he was right in following—and we were +wrong in opposing—his true vocation. The Church +received her own again. Rome did not smile at him at +first. A de Hausée, however, never yet tapped long at +any gate. The family—which had been stirred to fury +by his father's trespass—welcomed the son as a prodigal +manqué. His aunt, the Princess Varese, left him half +of her large fortune. He lived himself in great seclusion +and simplicity, and died, as you are aware, of over-work +last year. The one friend he corresponded with and +occasionally saw was Lady Fitz Rewes. Sara de Treverell +did not marry the Duke of Marshire, but three years +before Orange's death she took the veil, and is now a +Carmelite nun. Many people were amazed at this, but I +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_410" id="Page_410">[410]</a></span>was not. Mrs. Parflete, Orange never saw again after the +night of her performance at Prince d'Alchingen's. Her +career continues. From time to time a rumour reaches me +that she is about to marry a nobleman, an author, her +manager, or an American millionaire. Quite a mistake. +She, too, is a visionary, and, I should say, respectable. +If you have not seen her act, seize the first opportunity. +If you think of writing more than the merest sketch of +Orange's strange career, may I suggest the following motto +from the <i>Purgatorio</i>?—</p><div class="center"><p>“<i>Cast down the seed of weeping and attend.</i>”</p></div><p class="i8">Yours very sincerely, my dear F.,</p><p class="i12 nospaceabove"><span class="smcap">Beaconsfield</span>.</p></blockquote> + +<div class="center"> +<p style="margin-top: 3em;"><span class="smcap">unwin brothers, the gresham press, woking and london.</span></p></div> + +<hr style="width: 100%;" /> +<h2><a name="BOOKS_FOR_RECREATION_AND_STUDY" id="BOOKS_FOR_RECREATION_AND_STUDY"></a>BOOKS FOR RECREATION AND STUDY</h2> + +<div class="center"> +<p> +PUBLISHED BY<br/> +T. FISHER UNWIN,<br/> +11, PATERNOSTER BUILDINGS,<br/> +LONDON, E.C.... +</p> +</div> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>SIX-SHILLING NOVELS</h2> +<h3 class="subhead nospaceabove"><i>In uniform green cloth, large crown 8vo., gilt tops</i>, <b>6s.</b></h3> + +<div class="hangindent"> +<p><b>Effie Hetherington.</b> By <span class="smcap">Robert Buchanan</span>. Second Edition.</p> +<p class="nospaceabove"><b>An Outcast of the Islands.</b> By <span class="smcap">Joseph Conrad</span>. Second + Edition.</p> +<p class="nospaceabove"><b>Almayer's Folly.</b> By <span class="smcap">Joseph Conrad</span>. Second Edition.</p> +<p class="nospaceabove"><b>The Ebbing of the Tide.</b> By <span class="smcap">Louis Becke</span>. Second Edition.</p> +<p class="nospaceabove"><b>A First Fleet Family.</b> By <span class="smcap">Louis Becke</span> and <span class="smcap">Walter + Jeffery</span>.</p> +<p class="nospaceabove"><b>Paddy's Woman,</b> and Other Stories. By <span class="smcap">Humphrey James</span>.</p> +<p class="nospaceabove"><b>Clara Hopgood.</b> By <span class="smcap">Mark Rutherford</span>. Second Edition.</p> +<p class="nospaceabove"><b>The Tales of John Oliver Hobbes.</b> Portrait of the Author. Second + Edition.</p> +<p class="nospaceabove"><b>The Stickit Minister.</b> By S. R. <span class="smcap">Crockett</span>. Eleventh Edition.</p> +<p class="nospaceabove"><b>The Lilac Sunbonnet.</b> By S. R. <span class="smcap">Crockett</span>. Sixth Edition.</p> +<p class="nospaceabove"><b>The Raiders.</b> By S. R. <span class="smcap">Crockett</span>. Eighth Edition.</p> +<p class="nospaceabove"><b>The Grey Man.</b> By S. R. <span class="smcap">Crockett</span>.</p> +<p class="nospaceabove"><b>In a Man's Mind.</b> By J. R. <span class="smcap">Watson</span>.</p> +<p class="nospaceabove"><b>A Daughter of the Fen.</b> By J. T. <span class="smcap">Bealby</span>. Second Edition.</p> +<p class="nospaceabove"><b>The Herb-Moon.</b> By <span class="smcap">John Oliver Hobbes</span>. Third Edition.</p> +<p class="nospaceabove"><b>Nancy Noon.</b> By <span class="smcap">Benjamin Swift</span>. Second Edition. With New + Preface.</p> +<p class="nospaceabove"><b>Mr. Magnus.</b> By F. <span class="smcap">Reginald Statham</span>. Second Edition.</p> +<p class="nospaceabove"><b>Trooper Peter Halket of Mashonaland.</b> By <span class="smcap">Olive Schreiner</span>. + Frontispiece.</p> +<p class="nospaceabove"><b>Pacific Tales.</b> By <span class="smcap">Louis Becke</span>. With Frontispiece Portrait + of the Author. Second Edition.</p> +<p class="nospaceabove"><b>Mrs. Keith's Crime.</b> By Mrs. W. K. <span class="smcap">Clifford</span>. Sixth + Edition. With Portrait of Mrs. Keith by the <span class="smcap">Hon. John Collier</span>, and a + New Preface by the Author.</p> +<p class="nospaceabove"><b>Hugh Wynne.</b> By Dr. S. <span class="smcap">Weir Mitchell</span>. With Frontispiece + Illustration.</p> +<p class="nospaceabove"><b>The Tormentor.</b> By <span class="smcap">Benjamin Swift</span>, Author of “Nancy + Noon.”</p> +<p class="nospaceabove"><b>Prisoners of Conscience.</b> By <span class="smcap">Amelia E. Barr</span>, Author of + “Jan Vedder's Wife.” With 12 Illustrations.</p> +<p class="nospaceabove"><b>The Gods, some Mortals and Lord Wickenham.</b> New Edition. By + <span class="smcap">John Oliver Hobbes</span>.</p> +<p class="nospaceabove"><b>The Outlaws of the Marches.</b> By <span class="smcap">Lord Ernest Hamilton</span>. + Fully illustrated.</p> +<p class="nospaceabove"><b>The School for Saints:</b> Part of the History of the Right + Honourable Robert Orange, M.P. By <span class="smcap">John Oliver Hobbes</span>, Author + of “Sinner's Comedy,” “Some Emotions and a Moral,” “The Herb Moon,” + &c.</p> +<p class="nospaceabove"><b>The People of Clopton.</b> By <span class="smcap">George Bartram</span>.</p> +</div> +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h3> WORKS BY JOSEPH CONRAD</h3> +<h3>I.</h3> +<h2 class="nospaceabove">AN OUTCAST OF THE ISLANDS</h2> +<h3 class="subhead nospaceabove"><i>Crown 8vo., cloth</i>, <b>6s.</b></h3> + +<p>“Subject to the qualifications thus disposed of (<i>vide</i> first part of notice), +‘An Outcast of the Islands’ is perhaps the finest piece of fiction that has been +published this year, as ‘Almayer's Folly’ was one of the finest that was published +in 1895.... Surely this is real romance—the romance that is real. +Space forbids anything but the merest recapitulation of the other living +realities of Mr. Conrad's invention—of Lingard, of the inimitable Almayer, +the one-eyed Babalatchi, the Naturalist, of the pious Abdulla—all novel, all +authentic. Enough has been written to show Mr. Conrad's quality. He +imagines his scenes and their sequence like a master; he knows his individualities +and their hearts; he has a new and wonderful field in this East Indian +Novel of his.... Greatness is deliberately written; the present writer has +read and re-read his two books, and after putting this review aside for some +days to consider the discretion of it, the word still stands.”—<i>Saturday Review</i></p> + + +<hr style="width: 35%;" /> +<h3>II.</h3> +<h2 class="nospaceabove">ALMAYER'S FOLLY</h2> +<h3 class="subhead nospaceabove"><i>Second Edition. Crown 8vo., cloth</i>, <b>6s</b>.</h3> + + + +<div class="center"> +<p><b>“This startling, unique, splendid book.”</b>—Mr. T. P. <span class="smcap">O'Connor</span>, M.P.</p> +</div> + +<p>“This is a decidedly powerful story of an uncommon type, and breaks fresh +ground in fiction.... All the leading characters in the book—Almayer, his +wife, his daughter, and Dain, the daughter's native lover—are well drawn, and +the parting between father and daughter has a pathetic naturalness about it, +unspoiled by straining after effect. There are, too, some admirably graphic +passages in the book. The approach of a monsoon is most effectively +described.... The name of Mr. Joseph Conrad is new to us, but it appears +to us as if he might become the Kipling of the Malay Archipelago.”—<i>Spectator</i></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>THE EBBING OF THE TIDE</h2> +<h3 class="byline nospaceabove">BY</h3> +<h3 class="authorline nospaceabove">LOUIS BECKE</h3> +<h3 class="authorline nospaceabove">Author of "By Reef and Palm"</h3> +<h3 class="subhead nospaceabove"><i>Second Edition. Crown 8vo., cloth</i>, <b>6s.</b></h3> + + + +<p>“Mr. Louis Becke wields a powerful pen, with the additional advantage +that he waves it in unfrequented places, and summons up with it the elemental +passions of human nature.... It will be seen that Mr. Becke is somewhat +of the fleshly school, but with a pathos and power not given to the ordinary +professors of that school.... Altogether for those who like stirring stories +cast in strange scenes, this is a book to be read.”—<i>National Observer.</i></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 35%;" /> +<h2>PACIFIC TALES</h2> +<h3 class="byline nospaceabove">BY</h3> +<h3 class="authorline nospaceabove">LOUIS BECKE</h3> +<h3 class="authorline nospaceabove">With a Portrait of the Author</h3> +<h3 class="subhead nospaceabove"><i>Second Edition. Crown 8vo., cloth</i>, <b>6s.</b> +</h3> + +<p>“The appearance of a new book by Mr. Becke has become an event of note—and +very justly. No living author, if we except Mr. Kipling, has so amazing +a command of that unhackneyed vitality of phrase that most people call by +the name of realism. Whether it is scenery or character or incident that he +wishes to depict, the touch is ever so dramatic and vivid that the reader is +conscious of a picture and impression that has no parallel save in the records +of actual sight and memory.”—<i>Westminster Gazette.</i></p> + +<p>“Another series of sketches of island life in the South Seas, not inferior to +those contained in ‘By Reef and Palm.’”—<i>Speaker.</i></p> + +<p>“The book is well worth reading. The author knows what he is talking +about and has a keen eye for the picturesque.”—<i>G. B. Burgin in To-day.</i></p> + +<p>“A notable contribution to the romance of the South Seas.”—T. P. <span class="smcap">O'Connor</span>, M.P., in <i>The Graphic</i>.</p> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>PADDY'S WOMAN</h2> +<h3 class="byline nospaceabove">BY</h3> +<h3 class="authorline nospaceabove">HUMPHREY JAMES</h3> +<h3 class="subhead nospaceabove"><i>Crown 8vo.</i>, <b>6s.</b></h3> + +<p>“Traits of the Celt of humble circumstances are copied +with keen appreciation and unsparing accuracy.”—<i>Scotsman.</i></p> + +<p>“ ... They are full of indescribable charm and +pathos.”—<i>Bradford Observer.</i></p> + +<p>“The outstanding merit of this series of stories is that +they are absolutely true to life ... the photographic +accuracy and minuteness displayed are really marvellous.”—<i>Aberdeen Free Press.</i></p> + +<p>“‘Paddy's Woman and Other Stories’ by Humphrey +James; a volume written in the familiar diction of the +Ulster people themselves, with <b>perfect realism and very +remarkable ability.... For genuine human nature +and human relations, and humour of an indescribable +kind, we are unable to cite a rival to this volume.</b>”—<i>The World.</i></p> + +<p>“For a fine subtle piece of humour we are inclined to +think that ‘<b>A Glass of Whisky</b>’ takes a lot of beating.... +In short Mr. Humphrey James has given us a delightful +book, and one which does as much credit to his heart as to +our head. We shall look forward with a keen anticipation +to the next ‘writings’ by this shrewd, ‘cliver,’ and compassionate +young author.”—<i>Bookselling.</i></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2> +A FIRST FLEET FAMILY: BEING A HITHERTO UNPUBLISHED NARRATIVE OF +CERTAIN REMARKABLE ADVENTURES COMPILED FROM THE PAPERS OF SERGEANT +WILLIAM DEW, OF THE MARINES</h2> +<h3 class = "byline nospaceabove"> BY</h3> +<h3 class = "authorline nospaceabove"> LOUIS BECKE and WALTER JEFFERY</h3> +<h3 class = "subhead nospaceabove"><i>Second Edition. Crown 8vo., cloth</i>, <b>6s.</b></h3> + +<p>“As convincingly real and vivid as a narrative can +be.”—<i>Sketch.</i></p> + +<p>“No maker of plots could work out a better story of its +kind, nor balance it more neatly.”—<i>Daily Chronicle.</i></p> + +<p>“A book which describes a set of characters varied and +so attractive as the more prominent figures in this romance, +and a book so full of life, vicissitude, and peril, should be +welcomed by every discreet novel reader.”—<i>Yorkshire Post.</i></p> + +<p>“A very interesting tale, written in clear and vigorous +English.”—<i>Globe.</i></p> + +<p>“The novel is a happy blend of truth and fiction, with a +purpose that will be appreciated by many readers; it has +also the most exciting elements of the tale of adventure.”—<i>Morning Post.</i></p> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>THE TALES OF JOHN OLIVER HOBBES</h2> +<h3 class="authorline nospaceabove">With a Frontispiece Portrait of the Author</h3> +<h3 class="subhead nospaceabove"><i>Second Edition. Crown 8vo., cloth</i>, <b>6s.</b></h3> + + + +<p>“The cleverness of them all is extraordinary.”—<i>Guardian.</i></p> + +<p>“The volume proves how little and how great a thing it is to write a +‘Pseudonym.’ Four whole ‘Pseudonyms’ ... are easily contained +within its not extravagant limits, and these four little books have given +John Oliver Hobbes a recognized position as a master of epigram and +narrative comedy.”—<i>St. James's Gazette.</i></p> + +<p>“As her star has been sudden in its rise so may it stay long with us! +Some day she may give us something better than these tingling, pulsing, +mocking, epigrammatic morsels.”—<i>Times.</i></p> + +<p>“There are several literary ladies, of recent origin, who have tried +to come up to the society ideal; but John Oliver Hobbes is by far the +best writer of them all, by far the most capable artist in fiction.... +She is clever enough for anything.”—<i>Saturday Review.</i></p> + + +<hr style="width: 35%;" /> +<h2>THE HERB MOON</h2> +<h3 class="byline nospaceabove">BY</h3> +<h3 class="authorline nospaceabove">JOHN OLIVER HOBBES</h3> +<h3 class="subhead nospaceabove"><i>Third Edition, Crown 8vo., cloth</i>, <b>6s.</b></h3> + +<p>“The jaded reader who needs sauce for his literary appetite cannot +do better than buy ‘The Herb Moon.’”—<i>Literary World.</i></p> + +<p>“A book to hail with more than common pleasure. The epigrammatic +quality, the power of rapid analysis and brilliant presentation +are there, and added to these a less definable quality, only to be +described as charm.... ‘The Herb Moon’ is as clever as most of +its predecessors, and far less artificial.”—<i>Athenæum.</i></p> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>THE STICKIT MINISTER AND SOME COMMON MEN</h2> +<h3 class="byline nospaceabove">BY</h3> +<h3 class="authorline nospaceabove">S. R. CROCKETT</h3> +<h3 class="subhead nospaceabove"><i>Eleventh Edition. Crown 8vo., cloth</i>, <b>6s.</b></h3> + + + +<p>“Here is one of the books which are at present coming singly and at long +intervals, like early swallows, to herald, it is to be hoped, a larger flight. +When the larger flight appears, the winter of our discontent will have passed, +and we shall be able to boast that the short story can make a home east as +well as west of the Atlantic. There is plenty of human nature—of the Scottish +variety, which is a very good variety—in ‘The Stickit Minister’ and its companion +stories; plenty of humour, too, of that dry, pawky kind which is a +monopoly of ‘Caledonia, stern and wild’; and, most plentiful of all, a quiet +perception and reticent rendering of that underlying pathos of life which is to +be discovered, not in Scotland alone, but everywhere that a man is found who +can see with the heart and the imagination as well as the brain. Mr. Crockett +has given us a book that is not merely good, it is what his countrymen would +call ‘by-ordinar' good,’ which, being interpreted into a tongue understanded of +the southern herd, means that it is excellent, with a somewhat exceptional kind +of excellence.”—<i>Daily Chronicle.</i></p> + +<hr style="width: 35%;" /> + +<h2>THE LILAC SUNBONNET</h2> +<h3 class="byline nospaceabove">BY</h3> +<h3 class="authorline nospaceabove">S. R. CROCKETT</h3> +<h3 class="subhead nospaceabove"><i>Sixth Edition. Crown 8vo., cloth</i>, <b>6s.</b></h3> + + +<p>“Mr. Crockett's ‘Lilac Sun-Bonnet’ ‘needs no bush.’ Here is a pretty love +tale, and the landscape and rural descriptions carry the exile back into the +Kingdom of Galloway. Here, indeed, is the scent of bog-myrtle and peat. +After inquiries among the fair, I learn that of all romances, they best love +not ‘sociology,’ not ‘theology,’ still less, open manslaughter, for a motive, but +just love's young dream, chapter after chapter. From Mr. Crockett they get +what they want, ‘hot with,’ as Thackeray admits that he liked it.”—Mr. +<span class="smcap">Andrew Lang</span> in <i>Longman's Magazine.</i></p> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>THE RAIDERS</h2> +<h3 class="byline nospaceabove">BY</h3> +<h3 class="authorline nospaceabove">S. R. CROCKETT</h3> +<h3 class="subhead nospaceabove"><i>Eighth Edition. Crown 8vo., cloth</i>, <b>6s.</b></h3> + + +<p>“A thoroughly enjoyable novel, full of fresh, original, and +accurate pictures of life long gone by.”—<i>Daily News.</i></p> + +<p>“A strikingly realistic romance.”—<i>Morning Post.</i></p> + +<p>“A stirring story.... Mr. Crockett's style is charming. My +Baronite never knew how musical and picturesque is Scottish-English +till he read this book.”—<i>Punch.</i></p> + +<p>“The youngsters have their Stevenson, their Barrie, and now +a third writer has entered the circle, S. R. Crockett, with a lively +and jolly book of adventures, which the paterfamilias pretends +to buy for his eldest son, but reads greedily himself and won't +let go till he has turned over the last page.... Out of such +historical elements and numberless local traditions the author +has put together an exciting tale of adventures on land and sea.”—<i>Frankfurter +Zeitung.</i></p> + +<hr style="width: 20%;" /> + +<h3><i>SOME SCOTCH NOTICES.</i></h3> + +<p>“Galloway folk should be proud to rank ‘The Raiders’ among +the classics of the district.”—<i>Scotsman.</i></p> + +<p>“Mr. Crockett's ‘The Raiders’ is one of the great literary +successes of the season.”—<i>Dundee Advertiser.</i></p> + +<p>“Mr. Crockett has achieved the distinction of having produced +the book of the season.”—<i>Dumfries and Galloway Standard.</i></p> + +<p>“The story told in it is, as a story, nearly perfect.”—<i>Aberdeen +Daily Free Press.</i></p> + +<p>“‘The Raiders’ is one of the most brilliant efforts of recent +fiction.”—<i>Kirkcudbrightshire Advertiser.</i></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>THE GREY MAN</h2> +<h3 class="byline nospaceabove">BY</h3> +<h3 class="authorline nospaceabove">S. R. CROCKETT</h3> +<h3 class="subhead nospaceabove"><i>Crown 8vo., cloth</i>, <b>6s.</b></h3> +<h3 class="subhead nospaceabove"> +<i>Also, an Edition de Luxe, with 26 Drawings by +<span class="smcap">Seymour Lucas, R.A.</span>, limited to 250 copies, signed +by Author. Crown 4to., cloth gilt</i>, <b>21s.</b> <i>net.</i> +</h3> + + +<p>“It has nearly all the qualities which go to make a book +of the first-class. Before you have read twenty pages you +know that you are reading a classic.”—<i>Literary World.</i></p> + +<p>“All of that vast and increasing host of readers who +prefer the novel of action to any other form of fiction +should, nay, indeed, must, make a point of reading this +exceedingly fine example of its class.”—<i>Daily Chronicle.</i></p> + +<p>“With such passages as these [referring to quotations], +glowing with tender passion, or murky with horror, +even the most insatiate lover of romance may feel that +Mr. Crockett has given him good measure, well pressed +down and running over.”—<i>Daily Telegraph.</i></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>A DAUGHTER OF THE FEN</h2> +<h3 class="byline nospaceabove">BY</h3> +<h3 class="authorline nospaceabove">J. T. BEALBY</h3> +<h3 class="subhead nospaceabove"><i>Second Edition. Crown 8vo., cloth</i>, <b>6s.</b></h3> + + +<p>“It will deserve notice at the hands of such as are interested in the +ways and manner of living of a curious race that has ceased to be.” +<i>Daily Chronicle.</i></p> + +<p>“For a first book ‘A Daughter of the Fen’ is full of promise.”—<i>Academy.</i></p> + +<p>“This book deserves to be read for its extremely interesting account of +life in the Fens and for its splendid character study of Mme. Dykereave.”—<i>Star.</i></p> + +<p>“Deserves high praise.”—<i>Scotsman.</i></p> + +<p>“It is an able, interesting ... an exciting book, and is well worth +reading. And when once taken up it will be difficult to lay it down.”—<i>Westminster +Gazette.</i></p> + +<hr style="width: 35%;" /> + + +<h2>IN A MAN'S MIND</h2> +<h3 class="byline nospaceabove">BY</h3> +<h3 class="authorline nospaceabove">JOHN REAY WATSON</h3> +<h3 class="subhead nospaceabove"><i>Crown 8vo., cloth</i>, <b>6s.</b></h3> + + +<p>“We regard the book as well worth the effort of reading.”—<i>British +Review.</i></p> + +<p>“The book is clever, very clever.”—<i>Dundee Advertiser.</i></p> + +<p>“The power and pathos of the book are undeniable.”—<i>Liverpool Post.</i></p> + +<p>“It is a book of some promise.”—<i>Newsagent.</i></p> + +<p>“Mr. Watson has hardly a rival among Australian writers, past or +present. There is real power in the book—power of insight, power of +reflection, power of analysis, power of presentation.... 'Tis a very +well made book—not a set of independent episodes strung on the +thread of a name or two, but closely interwoven to the climax.”— +<i>Sydney Bulletin.</i></p> + +<p>“There is behind it all a power of drawing human nature that in +time arrests the attention.”—<i>Athenæum.</i></p> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<h2>NANCY NOON</h2> +<h3 class="byline nospaceabove">BY</h3> +<h3 class="authorline nospaceabove">BENJAMIN SWIFT</h3> +<h3 class="subhead nospaceabove"><i>Second Edition. Cloth</i>, <b>6s.</b></h3> + +<h3>Some Reviews on the First Edition.</h3> + +<p>“‘Nancy Noon’ is perhaps the strongest book of the year, certainly by far +the strongest book which has been published by any new writer.... Mr. +Swift contrives to keep his book from end to end real, passionate, even intense.... +If Mr. Meredith had never written, one would have predicted, with the +utmost confidence, a great future for Mr. Benjamin Swift, and even as it is I +have hopes.”—<i>Sketch.</i></p> + +<p>“Certainly a promising first effort”—<i>Whitehall Review.</i></p> + +<p>“If ‘Nancy Noon’ be Mr. Swift's first book, it is a success of an uncommon +kind.”—<i>Dundee Advertiser.</i></p> + +<p>“‘Nancy Noon’ is one of the most remarkable novels of the year, and the +author, avowedly a beginner, has succeeded in gaining a high position in the +ranks of contemporary writers.... All his characters are delightful. In the +heat of sensational incidents or droll scenes we stumble on observations that +set us reflecting, and but for an occasional roughness of style—elliptical, +Carlyle mannerisms—the whole is admirably written.”—<i>Westminster Gazette.</i></p> + +<p>“Mr. Swift has the creative touch and a spark of genius.”—<i>Manchester +Guardian.</i></p> + +<p>“Mr. Swift has held us interested from the first to the last page of his +novel.”—<i>World.</i></p> + +<p>“The writer of ‘Nancy Noon’ has succeeded in presenting a powerfully +written and thoroughly interesting story.”—<i>Scotsman.</i></p> + +<p>“We are bound to admit that the story interested us all through, that it +absorbed us towards the end, and that not until the last page had been read +did we find it possible to lay the book down.”—<i>Daily Chronicle.</i></p> + +<p>“It is a very strong book, very vividly coloured, very fascinating in its style, +very compelling in its claim on the attention, and not at all likely to be soon +forgotten.”—<i>British Weekly.</i></p> + +<p>“A clever book ... The situations and ensuing complications are dramatic, +and are handled with originality and daring throughout.”—<i>Daily News.</i></p> + +<p>“Mr. Benjamin Swift has written a vastly entertaining book.”—<i>Academy.</i></p> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>MR. MAGNUS</h2> +<h3 class="byline nospaceabove">BY</h3> +<h3 class="authorline nospaceabove">F. REGINALD STATHAM</h3> +<h3 class="subhead nospaceabove"><i>Second Edition. Crown 8vo., cloth</i>, <b>6s.</b></h3> + +<p><b>Some Press Opinions on the First Edition.</b></p> + +<p>“One of the most powerful and vividly written novels of the +day.”—<i>Nottingham Guardian.</i></p> + +<p>“A grim, terrible, and convincing picture.”—<i>New Age.</i></p> + +<p>“Very impressive.”—<i>Saturday Review.</i></p> + +<p>“Distinctly readable.”—<i>Speaker.</i></p> + +<p>“A remarkable book.”—<i>Standard.</i></p> + +<p>“Full of incident.”—<i>Liverpool Mercury.</i></p> + +<p>“One of the most important and timely books ever written.” +<i>Newcastle Daily Mercury.</i></p> + +<p>“A vivid and stirring narrative.”—<i>Globe.</i></p> + +<p>“An exceedingly clever and remarkable production.”—<i>World.</i></p> + +<p>“A book to be read.”—<i>Newsagent.</i></p> + +<p>“A terrible picture.”—<i>Sheffield Independent.</i></p> + +<p>“One of the best stories lately published.”—<i>Echo.</i></p> + +<p>“Worth reading.”—<i>Guardian.</i></p> + +<p>“A sprightly book.”—<i>Punch.</i></p> + +<p>“The story is very much brought up to date.”—<i>Times.</i></p> + +<p>“Vivid and convincing.”—<i>Daily Chronicle.</i></p> + +<p>“The story is good and well told.”—<i>Pall Mall Gazette.</i></p> + +<p>“Ought to be immensely popular.”—<i>Reynolds' Weekly Newspaper.</i></p> + +<p>“A most readable story.”—<i>Glasgow Herald.</i></p> + +<p>“A brilliant piece of work.”—<i>Daily Telegraph.</i></p> + +<p>“The story should make its mark.”—<i>Bookseller.</i></p> + +<p>“Admirably written.”—<i>Sheffield Daily Telegraph.</i></p> + +<p>“The more widely it is read the better.”—<i>Manchester Guardian.</i></p> + +<p>“Will find many appreciative readers.”—<i>Aberdeen Free Press.</i></p> + +<p>“Exciting reading.”—<i>Daily Mail.</i></p> + +<p>“Can be heartily recommended.”—<i>Lloyd's Weekly Newspaper.</i></p> + +<p>“A well-written and capable story.”—<i>People.</i></p> + +<p>“Well written.”—<i>Literary World.</i></p> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>MRS. KEITH'S CRIME</h2> +<h3 class="byline nospaceabove">BY</h3> +<h3 class="authorline nospaceabove">MRS W. K. CLIFFORD</h3> +<h3 class="authorline nospaceabove">With a Portrait of Mrs. Keith by the Hon. John Collier.</h3> +<h3 class="subhead nospaceabove"><i>Sixth Edition. Crown 8vo., cloth</i>, <b>6s.</b></h3> + + +<p>“Is certainly the strongest book that Mrs. W. K. +Clifford has given to the public. It is probably too the +most popular.”—<i>World.</i></p> + +<p>“It is charmingly told.”—<i>Literary World.</i></p> + +<p>“A novel of extraordinary dramatic force, and it will +doubtless be widely read in its present very cheap and +attractive form.”—<i>Star.</i></p> + +<p>“Mrs. Clifford's remarkable tale.”—<i>Athenæum.</i></p> + +<p>“Will prove a healthy tonic to readers who have +recently been taking a course of shilling shocker mental +medicine.... There are many beautiful womanly +touches throughout the pages of this interesting volume, +and it can be safely recommended to readers old and +young.”—<i>Aberdeen Free Press.</i></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>MASTERS OF MEDICINE</h2> +<h3 class="byline nospaceabove">EDITED BY</h3> +<h3 class="authorline nospaceabove">ERNEST HART, D.C.L.,</h3> +<h3 class="authorline nospaceabove">Editor of “The British Medical Journal”</h3> +<h3 class="subhead nospaceabove"><i>Large crown 8vo., cloth</i>, <b>3s. 6d.</b> <i>each</i>.</h3> + +<blockquote><p>Medical discoveries more directly concern the well-being and happiness of the human +race than any victories of science. They appeal to one of the primary instincts of human +nature, that of self-preservation. The importance of health as the most valuable of +our national assets is coming to be more and more recognised, and the place of the doctor +in Society and in the State is becoming one of steadily increasing prominence; indeed, +Mr. Gladstone said not many years ago that the time would surely come when the medical +profession would take precedence of all the others in authority as well as in dignity. The +development of medicine from an empiric art to an exact science is one of the most +important and also one of the most interesting chapters in the history of civilisation. The +histories of medicine which exist are for the most part only fitted for the intellectual +digestion of Dryasdust and his congeners. Of the men who made the discoveries which +have saved incalculable numbers of human lives, and which have lengthened the span of +human existence, there is often no record at all accessible to the general reader. Yet the +story of these men's lives, of their struggles and of their triumphs, is not only interesting, +but in the highest degree stimulating and educative. Many of them could have said with +literal truth what Sir Thomas Browne said figuratively, that their lives were a romance. +Hitherto there have been no accounts of the lives of medical discoverers in a form at once +convenient and uniform, and sold at a popular price. The “Masters of Medicine” is a +series of biographies written by “eminent hands” intended to supply this want. It is +intended that the man shall be depicted as he moved and lived and had his being, and that +the scope and gist of his work, as well as the steps by which he reached his results, shall +be set forth in a clear, readable style.</p></blockquote> + +<p>The following is a condensed list of some of the earlier volumes.—</p> + +<table> +<tr><th>AUTHOR.</th><th>TITLE.</th></tr> +<tr><td><span class="smcap">Stephen Paget</span> </td><td><i>John Hunter</i></td></tr> +<tr><td><span class="smcap">D'Arcy Power</span> </td><td><i>William Harvey</i></td></tr> +<tr><td><span class="smcap">H. Laing Gordon</span> </td><td><i>Sir James Simpson</i></td></tr> +<tr><td><span class="smcap">John G. McKendrick</span> </td><td><i>Hermann von Helmholtz</i></td></tr> +<tr><td><span class="smcap">Sir William Stokes</span> </td><td><i>William Stokes</i></td></tr> +<tr><td><span class="smcap">Michael Foster</span> </td><td><i>Claude Bernard</i></td></tr> +<tr><td><span class="smcap">Timothy Holmes</span> </td><td><i>Sir Benjamin Brodie</i></td></tr> +<tr><td><span class="smcap">J. F. Payne</span> </td><td><i>Thomas Sydenham</i></td></tr> +<tr><td><span class="smcap">C. L. Taylor</span> </td><td><i>Vesalius</i></td></tr> +</table> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<h3 class="authorline">WORKS BY MARTIN A. S. HUME</h3> +<h3 class="subhead nospaceabove"> +F.R.H.S., Editor of the “Calendar of Spanish State Papers of Elizabeth” +(Public Record Office).</h3> +<h2>THE COURTSHIPS OF QUEEN ELIZABETH</h2> +<h3 class="authorline nospaceabove">With Portraits</h3> +<h3 class="subhead nospaceabove"><i>Fourth Edition. Large crown 8vo., cloth</i>, <b>6s.</b></h3> + + +<p>“It is undeniably an important addition to the history of the Elizabethan period, and +it will rank as the foremost authority on the most interesting aspect of the character of +the Tudor Queen.”—<i>Pall Mall Gazette.</i></p> + +<p>“A clear and very interesting account. An excellent book.”—<i>Times.</i></p> + +<p>“A connected and consistent, though assuredly a most extraordinary, story.... A +fascinating picture.”—<i>Standard.</i></p> + +<p>“A delightful book.”—<i>Daily Telegraph.</i></p> + +<hr style="width: 35%;" /> + +<h2>THE YEAR AFTER THE ARMADA<br/> +<span class="authorline">AND OTHER HISTORICAL STUDIES</span></h2> +<h3 class="subhead nospaceabove"><i>Second Edition. Illustrated. Demy 8vo., cloth gilt</i>, <b>12s.</b></h3> + + +<p>“A most valuable and conscientiously written historical work.”—<i>Spectator.</i></p> + +<p>“The whole book is extremely interesting, and at once instructive and amusing.”—<i>Speaker.</i></p> + +<p>“Deserves a wide circulation, and we trust that a proper reward will follow close +upon its merits.”—<i>Literary World.</i></p> + +<p>“Major Hume has thrown the most curious and valuable light on the Armada period. +Full of delightful sketches of men and things.”—W. L. <span class="smcap">Courtney</span> in <i>The Daily +Telegraph</i>.</p> + +<p>“A work which adds many a fresh page to English, and one may say to European +history.... From first to last the volume is excellent reading, while the entertaining +style in which the matter is presented and the undeniable authority of the +writer ... render the book of special interest and permanent value.”—<i>The Morning +Post.</i></p> + +<p>“Quite as good as a novel—and a good deal better, too. The book is so bright and +vivid that readers with the common dislike of history may venture on its pages +unafraid.”—<span class="smcap">Andrew Lang</span> in <i>Cosmopolis</i>.</p> + +<hr style="width: 35%;" /> + +<h2>SIR WALTER RALEGH</h2> +<h3 class="subhead nospaceabove"> +Being Vol. I. of the series entitled “Builders of Greater +Britain,” each vol. with photogravure frontispiece and map.</h3> +<h3 class="subhead nospaceabove"><i>Large crown 8vo., cloth</i>, <b>5s.</b> <i>each</i>.</h3> + + +<p>“There is not a dull page in it, and, with his skilful telling of it, the story of Raleigh's +life and of his times reads like a romance.”—<i>Pall Mall Gazette.</i></p> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h3 class="authorline">SOME WORKS BY REV. E. J. HARDY</h3> +<h3 class="subhead nospaceabove"><i>“The Murray of Matrimony, the Baedeker of Bliss.”</i></h3> + + +<h2>HOW TO BE HAPPY THOUGH MARRIED</h2> +<h3 class="subhead nospaceabove"><i>Popular Edition, gilt edges, cloth, bevelled boards</i>, <b>3s. 6d.</b></h3> +<h3 class="subhead nospaceabove"><i>Presentation Edition, white vellum, cloth, bevelled boards, gilt +edges, in box</i>, <b>7s. 6d.</b></h3> + + +<p>“An entertaining volume ... The new guide to matrimonial felicity.”—<i>Standard.</i></p> + +<p>“This charming volume ... Wit and wisdom abound in its pages; as for the +good stories, they are almost too plentiful.”—<i>Spectator.</i></p> + +<h3 class="subhead" style="margin-top: 1.5em;"><i>Uniform in style and prices with the foregoing.</i></h3> + +<h2 style="margin-top: -0.4em;"> +THE FIVE TALENTS OF WOMAN</h2> +<h3 class="authorline nospaceabove"> +A Book for Girls and Young Women</h3> + + + +<h2> +THE BUSINESS OF LIFE</h2> +<h3 class="authorline nospaceabove">A Book for Everyone</h3> + +<h3 class="subhead nospaceabove"><i>Square imperial 16mo., cloth</i>, <b>3s. 6d.</b>—<i>Presentation Edition, +bevelled boards, gilt edges, in box</i>, <b>7s. 6d.</b></h3> + + +<p>“Calculated to teach the art of happiness and contentment as well as mere exhortation +can teach it.”—<i>Times.</i></p> + +<p>“Pleasant as well as profitable reading.”—<i>Literary World.</i></p> + +<p>“A host of social subjects are treated in a way at once wise and witty, and in a +manner as delightful to read as they are pleasantly 'improving.'”—<i>Daily Telegraph.</i></p> + + +<h2>THE SUNNY DAYS OF YOUTH</h2> +<h3 class="authorline nospaceabove">A Book for Boys and Young Men</h3> + +<h3 class="subhead nospaceabove"><i>Square Imperial 16mo., cloth</i>, <b>3s. 6d.</b>—<i>Presentation Edition, +elegantly bound, bevelled boards, gilt edges</i>, <b>7s. 6d.</b></h3> + + +<p>“It is an excellent book for a serious-minded boy.”—<i>Scotsman.</i></p> + +<p>“The pleasantest reading possible ... this useful little book.”—<i>Educational Review.</i></p> + +<p>“As well written as it is unquestionably well-intentioned.”—<i>Leeds Mercury.</i></p> + + +<h2>FAINT YET PURSUING</h2> + +<h3 class="subhead nospaceabove"><i>Square Imperial 16mo. Popular Edition. Crown 8vo., +cloth</i>, <b>3s. 6d.</b></h3> + + +<p>“Will meet with an extensive recognition.”—<i>Morning Post.</i></p> + +<p>“Short and sensible ... they form fresh and breezy reading.”—<i>Glasgow Herald.</i></p> + + +<h2>“MANNERS MAKYTH MAN”</h2> +<h3 class="subhead nospaceabove"><i>Presentation Edition, imperial 16mo., cloth, bevelled boards, +in box</i>, <b>7s. 6d.</b>; <i>cloth</i>, <b>6s.</b>—<i>Popular Edition, +small square 8vo., cloth</i>, <b>3s. 6d.</b></h3> + +<p>“Good-natured, wholesome, and straightforward.”—<i>Saturday Review.</i></p> + +<p>“A really delightful volume, well adapted for family reading.”—<i>Christian World.</i></p> + + +<h2>THE LOVE AFFAIRS OF SOME FAMOUS MEN</h2> +<h3 class="subhead nospaceabove"><i>Imperial 16mo., cloth</i>, <b>3s. 6d.</b></h3> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h3 class="authorline">WORKS BY PROF. PASQUALE VILLARI</h3> + + +<h2> +THE LIFE AND TIMES OF GIROLAMO SAVONAROLA</h2> +<h3 class="authorline nospaceabove">Translated by LINDA VILLARI</h3> +<h3 class="subhead nospaceabove"> +<i>New and Cheaper Edition in one volume. Fully Illustrated. +Cloth, large crown</i>, <b>7s. 6d.</b></h3> + + +<p>“No more interesting book has been issued during the present season.”—<i>Pall Mall Gazette.</i></p> + +<p>“The most interesting religious biography that we know of in modern times.”—<i>Spectator.</i></p> + +<p>“A book which is not likely to be forgotten.”—<i>Athenæum.</i></p> + +<p>“By far the best book on Savonarola available for English readers.”—<i>Standard.</i></p> + +<p>“Is perhaps <i>the</i> book of the publishing season.”—<i>Star.</i></p> + +<p>“Sincere, complete, and, upon the whole, well-balanced and candid.”—<i>Yorkshire Post.</i></p> + +<p>“A work of very great value.”—<i>Scotsman.</i></p> + +<p>“No more graphic view of the ecclesiastical and social life of ancient Italy has been +opened up for us than this of Linda Villari.”—<i>Morning Leader.</i></p> + +<p>“As complete and trustworthy as care, judgment, and the fullest investigation can +make it.”—<i>Dundee Advertiser.</i></p> + +<p>“A credit to the publisher.”—<i>Independent.</i></p> + + +<hr style="width: 35%;" /> +<h2>THE LIFE AND TIMES OF NICCOLÒ MACHIAVELLI</h2> + +<h3 class="subhead nospaceabove"><i>New and Cheaper Edition. Fully Illustrated. Large crown 8vo., +cloth</i>, <b>7s. 6d.</b></h3> + + +<p>“Indispensable to the serious student of Machiavelli, his teaching and his times.”—<i>Times.</i></p> + +<p>“The fullest and most authoritative history of Machiavelli and his times ever given +to the British public.”—<i>Glasgow Herald.</i></p> + +<p>“May be regarded as an authority on the times of which it treats.... The book is +enriched with rare and interesting illustrations, and with some valuable historical +documents.”—<i>Daily Telegraph.</i></p> + + +<hr style="width: 35%;" /> + + +<h3 class="authorline nospaceabove">BY FRANK HORRIDGE</h3> +<h2>LIVES OF GREAT ITALIANS</h2> +<h3 class="subhead nospaceabove"><i>Illustrated. Large crown 8vo., cloth</i>, <b>7s. 6d.</b></h3> + + +<h3><b>Opinions of the Press.</b></h3> + +<p>“A poetical, romantic, and charmingly written book, which will be popular with all +who love their Italy.”—<span class="smcap">Douglas Sladen</span> in <i>Literary World</i>.</p> + +<p>“Able, eloquent, and interesting.”—<i>Queen.</i> +.pf h end</p> + + +<hr style="width: 100%;" /> +<div class="trnote"> +<h3>Transcriber's notes:</h3> +<ul> +<li>Inconsistency in hyphenation is as in the original.</li> +<li>Three short footnotes have been moved into the main text, rendered in [] and in italics.</li> +<li>The layout of the advertising material has been standardised somewhat, and dashes inserted consistently +between reviews and their source. (In most but not all cases, a dash was present if the +source was on the same line, but not if on a different line. This distinction is impossible +to preserve in an e-text.)</li> +<li>Two misprinted accents on the French have been moved onto the correct letter.</li> +<li>Page 161: the first word on the page has been changed from "or" to "for" (there is a gap, and this best +fits the context).</li> +<li>Page 195: the name "Bevensey" has been changed to "Pevensey" to match other occurrences +in the book.</li> +<li>Page 201, first full paragraph: The comma after "masters" is possibly incorrect (a period or semi-colon would +be more grammatically correct) but the original has been retained.</li> +<li>Page 354: in the paragraph beginning "In that event", a colon after said has been changed to a +semi-colon, in accordance with normal practice and all other occurrences in the book.</li> +<li>Page 376: a reference to "De Hausée" has been changed to "de Hausée" to match every other occurrence.</li> +</ul> +</div> + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Robert Orange, by John Oliver Hobbes + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ROBERT ORANGE *** + +***** This file should be named 27997-h.htm or 27997-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/2/7/9/9/27997/ + +Produced by Colin Bell and the Online Distributed +Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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