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Title: Robert Orange

Author: John Oliver Hobbes

Release date: February 4, 2009 [eBook #27997]

Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ROBERT
ORANGE ***

ROBERT ORANGE
BEING A CONTINUATION OF THE
HISTORY OF ROBERT ORANGE, M.P.

AND A SEQUEL TO THE
SCHOOL FOR SAINTS

By
John Oliver Hobbes

LONDON: T. FISHER UNWIN
PATERNOSTER SQUARE. MDCCCC

(All rights reserved)

CHAPTER I
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—
“To the Carlton Club.”
The groom climbed on to his seat, and the horses, after a brilliant display of
their well-disciplined mettle, suffered themselves to be driven, at an easy
pace, toward Pall Mall.
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.
On this particular afternoon in October she had some pressing matters on
her mind. She was considering, among other things, an offer of marriage
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.
“I must tell papa,” she said to herself, “that it would never do.”
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 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 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.
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 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
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—
“Have you seen him?”
“No,” he replied; “but, in any case, I think he would have avoided me to-
day.”
“Why?”
“From motives of delicacy. Henry Marshire is a man of the nicest feeling.
He is never guilty of the least mistake.”
Sara smiled, and so disguised a blush.
“I did not mean Marshire,” she said. “I was thinking then of Robert
Orange.”

“Robert Orange,” exclaimed Lord Garrow in astonishment.
“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.”
Some minutes elapsed before the Earl could utter any comment on a
suggestion so surprising, and at 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?
“Does Marshire know him?” he asked at last.
“I hope so. He is a remarkable person. But the party is blind.”
“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
émigrés into our midst.”
“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.”
“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.”
“There are days when it seems an arena of wild beasts!”
“Nevertheless, my darling, at your age you must learn to live among your
fellow creatures.”
“How can I live where I should be afraid to die?”
“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.”

“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.”
“I fear,” said Lord Garrow gravely, “that your mind is disturbed by a
question which you must soon—very soon, my dearest child—answer.”
“Papa, I cannot.”
“Surely you will gratify me so far as to take time before you object to what
might possibly be most desirable.”
“It may be desirable enough, but is it right?”
“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.”
He spoke with energy, and Sara knew, from the 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.
“I do not love him,” said she.
“In marriage one does not require an unconquerable love but an invincible
sympathy.”
“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.”
“That man again? Why do you dwell upon him?”
“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!”
“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.”
“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!”
“How little importance, then, should we attach to our caprices, when we
know, by experience, how short is the pleasure and displeasure they can
give,” was the careful reply.
“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.”
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.
“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.”
“What does it mean?”
He put his hand upon her jacket sleeve.
“Is this warm enough?” he said. “The autumn is treacherous. You are
careful, I hope.”
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.
“I wish it would rain! I like to be out when it rains!”

“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.”
“Marshire, at any rate, does not seem to possess either!”
“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.”
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.
“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!”
“Very far indeed am I from thinking you just. I have had an extremely kind
note from the Duchess.”
“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!”
“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.”
“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.”
“And to what effect?”
“The wisest.”
“That means the happiest, too?” he asked with anxiety.
“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?”

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. 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.
“I cannot be wise and happy at the same moment,” she repeated.
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.
“It must be Reckage,” said the Earl; “I never knew a man so fond of riding
who rode so ill.”
“What, I wonder, does he want now?” said Sara, flushing a little. “I didn't
know that he was in town.”
By that time the pursuer, a handsome man with an auburn beard and very
fine blue eyes, had reached them.

“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.
“Extraordinary!” said Lord Garrow. “Extraordinary!”
“But so like him,” observed his daughter.
“And he has made us late for tea. What a stupid fellow!”
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.
“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.”
“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.”
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 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.

“What is the matter?” asked Lord Garrow, who was following close upon
her heels.
“Life,” she said, “life! That is all that ever does matter.”
“Ain't you happy?”
“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.”
“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.”

CHAPTER II
When Sara had prepared Lord Garrow's tea and cut the leaves of the Revue
des Deux Mondes, 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—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.
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.
“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.”

“What did he do?” said Sara, who was a little absent.
“Oh, all kinds of things. He committed suicide in the end. And now—she is
going to marry a friend of mine.”
“Who is he?”
“I never told you about him before,” said Pensée, “but I am so miserable to-
day that you may as well 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.”
She covered her wan face with her hands.
“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.”
“Do you think so?” said Sara.
“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
go a fishing. He went back to the work he was doing when our Lord first
called him. What courage!”
“Go on,” said Sara, “go on!”
“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.”
“Nonsense!”
“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.”

“You little goose,” said Sara, “you have a heart of crystal. Nothing could be
awkward for you.”
“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?”
“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.”
“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.
“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 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.”
Pensée, before this torrent, was shaking like some small flower in a violent
gale.

“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!”
“I am not going to marry that one,” said Sara bitterly. “I am going to marry
Marshire.”
Lady Fitz Rewes had too delicate a face to contain 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.
“It is a fancy. Fancies are in my blood,” said Sara; “you need not be
anxious.”
“But—but what feeling have you for Marshire?” murmured Pensée.
“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.”
“I could never doubt your honour, Sara. Is the other man quite, quite out of
the question?”
“Quite.”
“But perhaps he does love you.”
“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.”
“I suppose one can always tell when a man's affections are really engaged,”
said Pensée, with a sigh.
“Yes, beyond any doubt. You feel that they are 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.”

“Who was he?”
“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.”
“Do I know this other one ... the one, now?”
“I won't tell you his name. Perhaps, another time, when we are all very old
... and he is dead ... or I am dying....”
“Oh, don't say that!” exclaimed Pensée, “don't say that! You are making a
lot of misery for yourself.”
“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 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.”
“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!”
“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.”
“But live for others, dear Sara.”
“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.”

“I thought I had,” said Pensée, simply; “you will see it in the marriage
notice the day after to-morrow. It is Robert Orange.”
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.
“Dear me!” said Sara, kneeling down with a 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.”
“I wonder,” said Pensée, full of thoughts.
Sara proceeded to count her beads, lest one should be missing. But they
were all there, and she tied them up in her handkerchief.
“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.
“Beauclerk!” exclaimed Pensée, in amazement. “Then there is some hope
after all! There is, there must be! Beauclerk! He is engaged to Agnes
Carillon, of course. But all the same....”
The conversation flagged. Lord Garrow, who had heard a distant
murmuring but not their words, now, as their animation failed, came in.
“My little girl,” said he, “has been moping. I am very glad that you called ...
very glad indeed. And Sara, my darling....”
“Yes, papa.”
“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?”
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.
“This is dreadful,” said Lord Garrow, horribly annoyed—“dreadful!”

“It is indeed,” replied Lady Fitz Rewes gravely. “I suppose....”
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.

CHAPTER III
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.
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.
“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 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.”
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
maintaining 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.
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.
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 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.
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 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.
Near this gentleman were two others, Hartley Penborough, the editor of The
Sentinel, and the Hon. Charles Aumerle, whose guest he was.
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.
“Hullo!” exclaimed Aumerle, “that was Reckage.”
“I know it,” said Randall Hatchett.
“Why didn't you speak to him?” asked Aumerle.
“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!”
No one smiled except Hatchett himself, because each one felt it was unwise
to encourage Bradwyn's peculiar humour.
“I would have spoken to Reckage,” said Ullweather, with a superior air,
“but I have never felt the same toward him since he threw over Orange at
the time of his election.”
“And several other old friends more recently!” observed the injudicious
Bradwyn.
“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!”
“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.”

“You have so many prescriptions for success,” said Bradwyn, “that I
wonder you ain't President yourself.”
“Reckage has taken us all in,” said Ullweather.
“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.”
“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 very short notes, that they prefer trout-fishing to the cares of
State! There is but one man who can save the society now.”
Bradwyn, Hatchett, and Ullweather looked up, each armed with a modest
and repudiating smile.
“Who?” asked Hatchett, looking down.
“Robert Orange,” said Penborough.
“Probably,” replied Hatchett, after a minute's hesitation. “Probably, Orange
... in time.”
“Don't you like him?” said Penborough.
“Like him!” answered Hatchett, rolling up his eyes. “He's an angel!”
“He calls him an angel as though he wished he were one in reality,” said
Bradwyn. “I know these generous rivals!”
Ullweather stood gnawing his upper lip.
“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.”
At this, Charles Aumerle, who had been listening with the deepest attention
to all that passed, looked straight at the speaker.

“You should respect,” said he, “that liberty, which we all have to deceive
ourselves. Reckage has many good points.”
“But,” said Penborough, “he has no moral force, 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.”
“You don't mean it,” said Aumerle.
“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.”
“But you forget that Reckage is going to marry Miss Carillon,” said
Aumerle. “Miss Carillon will always advise the safe course.”
“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 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.”
Ullweather thrust his tongue into his cheek.
“Lady Sara has been called to higher destinies,” said he, “than the heavenly
‘sweet hand in hand!’”

“I see you know,” said Bradwyn, with a mysterious glance.
“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.”
“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.”
“There are prettier women than she in the world,” said Aumerle.
“I have never seen her,” said Penborough.
“Large eyes, a small head, and the devil of a 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.’”
Ullweather was still absorbed in his own meditation.
“Marshire,” said he, “is the man for us. We might do something with
Marshire.”
“Nevertheless,” said Penborough, “I have my eye on Orange.”
“I say,” exclaimed Bradwyn, “be careful. Here is Reckage again. How the
dickens did he pass us?”
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.
“A lonely beggar, after all,” said Bradwyn.

CHAPTER IV
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 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 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.
“He knows nothing about women—nothing,” he told himself. “He has no
experience. He takes them too seriously.”
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 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; 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.
“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.”
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.
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.
Then he crossed the hall, and went into another fine room, which led by
steps into a garden, and caught the sunset.
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.
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.
The two young men greeted each other pleasantly, but with a certain reserve
on each side.
“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.”
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 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.
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 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.
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 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!
He could not resist the temptation to break in, with a touch of crude satire,
upon his friend's solitude.

“What is the matter?” he exclaimed, “are you hungry?”
“No,” said Robert, so well accustomed to such violent jars that they could
no longer disturb him; “I was only thinking....”
“About what?”
“All sorts of things.”
Reckage turned pale from dissatisfied inquisitiveness.
“I think, too,” he answered, “but I can throw out a word now and again.”
Then, making the remark that he was not dressed for dinner, he left the
room.

CHAPTER V
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 “Magica sympathia,” 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.
“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. 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?”
Robert replied that he fancied he had heard of the occurrence.
“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.”
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!
“She was looking extraordinarily handsome,” he exclaimed. “Of course she
means to take him. 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?”
Formerly he had always spoken of Sara as a clever little devil, but Robert
showed no surprise at the new adjective.
“Brilliant!” repeated his lordship. “Don't you agree?”
“Absolutely. She is the most brilliant girl in London.”
“But heartless,” said his lordship pathetically; “she hasn't one bit of heart.”
“There I don't agree with you. Of course she is strange and rather wild.”
“Tête-montée. And then the Asiatic streak!”
“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.”
“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 she thought as I did, and seemed to comprehend my
embarrassment. The worst of it is now—I may have been wrong.”
“I doubt it. You may be sure, on the whole, that your instincts were right.”
“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.”

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.

“20a, St. James's Square, W.
“My dear Beauclerk,—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!
“Yours sincerely,
“S. L. V. de Treverell.
“P.S.—I am so happy about you and Agnes. Be kind to her always?
Won't you?”

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 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.
“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.”
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 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—
“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.”
“That is no answer at all. If you could read her heart and whole thought at
this moment, what would you see there?”

“Unhappiness,” said Robert; “discontent.”
Reckage took the little sheet and folded it into his pocket-book.
“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.”
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.
“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.”
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.
“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.”
“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?”
“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, 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.”
“I should say,” said Orange, “that you knew more about mere physiology.”
Reckage laughed uneasily.
“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.”
“Then what are you driving at?”
“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.”
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 smoke into the air. When he next spoke, he
suggested a visit to the theatre. He had engaged a box for the new
burlesque, “The Blue Princess.”
“It will be very good, and it will cheer us up,” said he.
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
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—

“Love, I will love thee always,
For ever is not too long;
Love, e'en in dark and dreary days,
This shall be my one song,”

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.
“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 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.”
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 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.
“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. Mon devoir, mes livres, et puis ... et puis,
madame, ma femme.”
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.

“I will come,” said he.
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.
“You must want some supper,” said Reckage—“a rum omelette.”
“No! no! I couldn't.”
He sat down to the table, however, and watched them eat. First the
burlesque was discussed, then the actresses, the dresses, the dancing.
“Russia is the place for dancing,” said Reckage, “I assure you. There was a
dancer at Petersburg.... Something-or-other-ewski 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?”
Rennes had studied in Paris and was well acquainted with the artist in
question. They talked about the exhibitions of the year and the prices paid at
a recent sale of pictures.
“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?”
“Yes.”
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.

“My dearest,” 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 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 Brigit.”

Reckage's voice broke in again.
“I do wish you would try this rum omelette. It is capital.”
Orange laughed, but left the room. Rennes remarked that he had a powerful
face.
“Yes. He has a strong character. And he would never deceive another. But
he deceives himself hourly—daily.”
“In what way?” asked Rennes.
“He doesn't know,” said Reckage, “what a devilish fine chap he is! I wish to
God that I could prevent this marriage.”
“Why?”
“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 for men of Orange's
calibre. They never answer—never.”
“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.”
After this they discussed bindings. Lord Reckage was the first amateur
authority on the subject.

CHAPTER VI
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 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

“Light half-believers of our casual creeds,
Who never deeply felt, nor clearly will'd....
Who hesitate and falter life away,
And lose to-morrow the ground won to-day.”

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 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 “Anatomy”?) 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.
When he returned to Almouth House, Reckage 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, ennui, 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.”
“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 en route 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.
“They look very nice,” said Reckage, “and in 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.”
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 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 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.
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. 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.
“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.”
“She seemed all right,” said Robert; “and wasn't Reckage splendid?”
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.
“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,
or unhappy, or lonely, and you want me, I shall come to you.”
“But you will be with me now always.”
“Yes,” she answered. “Yes, Robert, always.”
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.
“And he never once kissed her on the way from church!” exclaimed the
footman.

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.”
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
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.
“They go into the world for the first time,” exclaimed Rennes.
Then Pensée was assisted into the barouche, and drove homewards.
“We shall meet again,” she said, as she parted from Reckage; “we meet at
Sara's at lunch.”
The two men were thus left alone. They decided to smoke, for they were
both a little affected by the pathos of the situation.
“Explain Robert,” said his lordship, as they returned to the dining-room,
“explain that kind of love. You are an artist.”
“Well, it isn't my way,” rejoined the other, with a forced laugh, “but there
are many manifestations of personal magnetism.”
“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?”
“Perfectly,” said Rennes. “It is a question of temperament. The wonder is
that he has not entered, in some delirium of renunciation, the priesthood.”
“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.”
“I am not so sure of that.”
“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.”
“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.”
“You have thought a lot, I can see,” said Reckage.
The artist gave him a quick, friendly glance.
“I have played the fool,” said he. “I envy Orange. 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.”

“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?”
“No,” said Rennes; “oh no!”

CHAPTER VII
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 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.
“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?
“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 “Tristan,”
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 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.
“I have called on your mother,” said she. “I thought you would be on your
way to Rome.”
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 point de Venise. She had come up from the country, and
her presence brought its freshness.
“Why are you in town?” he asked abruptly.
“I was bored at home.”
“And the trousseau?”
“The trousseau?” she said, lifting her eyes for the first time to his.
“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.
“I never think about luck,” she answered.
“I met Reckage at the play last night. I lunched with him to-day,” said
Rennes.
“I am so glad that you are friends. I want you to like him.”
“No doubt he thinks me mad. Politicians always regard artists as madmen.”
“But Beauclerk is considered very cultured. I hate the word. He is interested
in art.”
“No doubt—as a means of investment, an educational influence, or a topic
of conversation for light moments.”
“You are severe. Yet I like to hear you talk.”
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 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.
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 rôle, she was as terrified as a child
before some clever trick in experimental chemistry. From time to time he
expressed opinions which startled her. 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
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 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 connoisseur of antique gems. In her
new character of fiancée, 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 class of pictures did he paint? Were they lofty in tone?
Did they exalt and purify the mind? Would 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 invariably
sympathetic, gracious, delicately emotional. In letters she signed herself,
“Yours affectionately, Agnes Carillon.”

“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.
“You never used to say these things,” she exclaimed at last; “why do you
say them now?”
“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. And all the
time Reckage was here—asking you, wisely enough, to marry him. And
you, wisely enough, accepted him.”
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.
“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.”
She interrupted him:
“I hope not. Oh, I hope I have never deceived myself—or you.”
“I was grateful for your friendship,” he said. “I can't be grateful for it now.”
Agnes drew a long breath and murmured random words about the “time.”
Was it getting late?
“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.”
“I don't think so,” said Agnes, in a trembling voice. “There is duty, you
know; that is something higher than happiness, I believe.”
“Are you so sure?”
“Oh, yes!”
“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.”
“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.”
“But if they are fantastic, capricious, insincere?”
“I can't argue. I am not clever. I will not change my views. I dare not. It
would make me hate you.”
“You are the slave of convention.”

“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?”
“Were they so happy? Agnes, were they happy?”
She hesitated.
“Yes,” she said, at last; “relatively, yes.”
“It is quite true. Good women drive us to the bad ones.”
“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.”
She pushed back her hat, and pressed her hand to her brow, which was
contracting nervously as she spoke.
“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 must. You don't know yours; that is the whole trouble, David.”
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.
“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 bourgeoise. You were right.”
“Not entirely,” said Rennes. “You think too much.”
“You taught me that. I never used to consider people or notions. I accepted
them without criticism.”
“The madness of criticism has entered into you,” he said. “It is the worst,
most destructive thing on earth.”

“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.”
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 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.
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 from David, however, her look
softened into real friendliness.
“I was so surprised to see Mr. Rennes here,” said Agnes.
“I am surprised, too,” said the older woman.
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.
“Where are you staying?” asked Mrs. Rennes.
“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.”
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—
“I am going,” said he, “to the East. I need a change. I suppose it will mean
six months.”
“But how you will enjoy it!”
“And what will you do?”
“I live from day to day, my dear. I am quite contented.”
“This journey is not a mere caprice. I have been contemplating it for some
time,” he said.
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.
“One has to get away from England,” continued Rennes: “one has to get
away from one's self.”
“And where is your self now?” she asked, not venturing to look at him.
“With that girl,” he answered, suddenly; “with that girl.”
“Do you love her?”

“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.”
“I am afraid she is a coquette—a serious coquette, my dear boy.”
“She is nothing of the kind. She is a true woman. Don't talk about her.”

CHAPTER VIII
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. To baffle
the looker-on 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 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 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.
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.
“You haven't changed in the least,” he said, considering Lord Garrow with
some resentment.
“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 was right. Who could stand it?’ That's the world. It's devilish
unappreciative of the truth.”
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 fascination 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.
“You were at the wedding this morning?” she asked lightly.
“No.... What a fool I am! Yes, of course. You mean Robert's wedding?”
She gave a little smile, and murmured, dropping her voice, “I meant
Robert's wedding.”
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.
“A sweet creature!” whispered his lordship behind 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.
“Who are your strong men now?” asked Harding suddenly, after a moment's
contemplation of Reckage, who sat opposite.
“Our strong men?” faltered Lord Garrow.
“Aren't most of 'em place-hunters and self-seekers?”
“You must meet Robert Orange,” said Pensée; “Mr. Disraeli believes in
Robert Orange.”
“I never heard of him,” observed Sir Piers. “Who is he?”
“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.”
“Not of our world, perhaps, papa. But there are so many other worlds!”

“Sara likes him. A lot of women like him,” said his lordship. He was
annoyed at her interruption 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!”
“Dear Lord Garrow,” said Pensée, “his wife is a friend of mine—she is the
most charming person.”
Sara put out her hand and touched Reckage on the arm.
“Do you think,” she asked, “that the wife will be an obstacle in his way?”
“Who can tell? Of course she has means, and he likes to do everything
well.”
“Speaking for myself,” said Harding, “I have always held that a man's
career rests rather on his genius than his marriage.”
“But you, my dear fellow,” put in Lord Garrow, testily, “you retired from
political life because your theories could find no illustration there.”
“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.”
“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!”
“You speak as though it were a romantic marriage—a question of love.”
“Of course,” said the young lady softly. “It is a great passion.”
“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.”

“To be sure,” said Reckage—“to be sure. That's a point.”
“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.”
“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 can't help regarding them as foreigners,
and I always distrust foreigners in politics. Why should they care for
England? I ask myself.”
“Why, indeed?” said Harding, with irony.
“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.”
“You think you would feel more sure of Orange's patriotic instinct if he had
chosen an Englishwoman?” said Reckage.
“I am bound to say that he would have shown discretion in settling down
with one of our simple-hearted Saxon girls.”
“And who was Mrs. Orange before she married Orange?” asked Harding.
“A widow—a Mrs. Parflete,” said Garrow.
“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.”
“But he is dead,” said Pensée, much agitated; “he drowned himself.”

“I cannot help that,” repeated Sir Piers. “I met him last week, and he beat
me at écarté.”
“Then it is not the same man,” said Reckage, “quite obviously.”
“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.”
“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.”
The two women turned pale and looked away from each other.
“I mean as much or as little as you like,” said Harding. “But Parflete was
alive last Monday.”
“But bigamy is so vulgar,” observed Lord Garrow. “You must be mistaken.
It is too dreadful!”
“Dreadful, indeed! And a great piece of folly into the bargain. It is selling
the bear's skin before you have killed the bear.”
Lady Fitz Rewes glanced piteously at the three men and wrung her hands.
“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.”
“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——“
“It is no laughing matter,” put in Lord Garrow; “and if the woman has
deceived the poor fellow, it's a monstrous crime.”
“Oh, she hasn't; she couldn't deceive him,” said Pensée. “I know her
intimately.”
“She was considered very clever—at Madrid,” said Sir Piers, finely. “To
you she may appear more to be pitied than she really is.”

“Don't say such things! I won't hear them. I love her very much.”
“Perhaps she is clever enough to appear stupid in public.”
“No, no!” Her voice trembled and tears gushed from her eyes. “You will
regret these words. This news will kill her.”
“Something must be done,” said Sara. “Beauclerk, you ought to follow
them and tell them. Pensée is right.”
“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.”
“But it is Beauclerk's business, papa. Just put yourself in his place. Surely
that is not asking too much.”
“We must avoid everything precipitate,” said Reckage; “we mustn't be over-
hasty.”
Lady Fitz Rewes wiped her eyes, rose from the table, and began to draw on
her gloves.
“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
gentle, beautiful person I ever saw, with the best head, the purest heart. She
professes nothing. I judge her by her actions.”
“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.
“Wait a moment,” said Harding; “wait a moment. Does any one present
know Parflete's handwriting?”
“I do,” said Pensée. “I saw his last letter to his wife. He wrote it before he
committed suicide.”
Sir Piers took out his pocket-book, and, from the several papers it
contained, selected a three-cornered note.
“By the merest chance,” said he, “I have this with me.”

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.
“That is the hand,” said Pensée. “One could not mistake it.”
“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.”
“What will you do?” murmured Pensée, with an imploring gesture. “What
will you do?”
“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.”
“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.”
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.
“Are you cold?” asked her father anxiously.
“I am ice,” she said, “ice!”
Reckage joined her and said, under his voice, “You think I ought to go,
don't you?”
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.
“Yes, you must go,” she answered; “and, Beauclerk, write to me and tell me
how he bears it.”
“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.”

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
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.
“Sara,” he said, obeying an impulse which surprised himself, “do you
believe in me?”
This time she gave him a straight glance.
“Yes,” she answered. “You might do a great deal if you could forget
yourself for a few months.”
Pensée, much troubled and full of thoughts, walked over to them.
“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?”

CHAPTER IX
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-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 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 younger than he had
ever realised. She cared for him—how could he doubt it? But was the
indefinable, indispensable feeling absent?
“Do you remember our journey from Catesby?” she asked suddenly. “I
slept. Wasn't I dull? Did you mind?”
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.”
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. 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 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.
“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.”
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.
“I did not know that you were so fond of animals,” he said, as they walked
to the hotel for lunch.
“I am not,” she answered frankly, “as a rule. But when I am with you I feel
so happy that I want to kiss everything—the ground, and the trees, and
chairs, and poodle dogs, and the whole world!”
“Then why not—me?”
She looked at him, blushed a little, and waited some moments before she
replied.
“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.”
“I see.”
“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.”
“But why not?”
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.

“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!”
“You have too much wit, darling, to be happy anywhere!”
“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!”
“What a picture!”
“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.
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.
“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!”
“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.”
“Many people would call that reckless.”
“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.”
“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.”
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.
“I could fight,” she said, “a visible devil, but this struggle with moods and
tastes is deadening.”
“What are the moods and tastes?” he asked.
“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.”
“But I have heard you sing.”
“Not with my real voice, Robert. It is stronger 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.
“Say what you were going to say, dearest?”
“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 Phédre and the whole of
Juliet. That is why I live.”

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.
“So you want to go on the stage,” said Orange quietly.
She turned to him and saw, with anguish, the deep amazement his words
had not expressed.
“No,” she said, “no. I have you instead. I want to devote myself to you—to
exist for you.”
“Oh, don't you see, my dear child, that this is a kind of—of pity—of
anything you like, except the one thing——“
“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 Phédre and Juliet 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?”
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, 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.
“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
——“
She laughed with real joyousness and clung more closely to his arm.
“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.”
“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 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.”
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 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.
“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.”
“How? in what way?”
“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!”
He had not calculated, and he could not have foreseen, the effect of his
words. Her eyes filled with tears.

“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?”
“If I believed you I should be a dreadful coxcomb!”
“Risk the coxcomb,” she said. “I can!”
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 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.
“Soon,” she exclaimed, “soon I can kiss its ground. How I love my country
and the place where you lived, Robert, as a boy!”

CHAPTER X
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. 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 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?
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—
“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.”
Reckage replied—
“You have behaved like an angel!”
He probably but half understood Pensée's character: 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....
“Sara may not be a happy girl,” said Pensée suddenly, “but she is a clever
one.”
Reckage started from his reverie.
“How odd!” he exclaimed, surprised into candour. “I was thinking of her at
that very moment.”
Pensée had read as much on his face, but she did not tell him so.
“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.”
He turned red, and said, looking out of the window—
“Ideals do no harm when, for some reason or other, we are unable to carry
them out.”
“I cannot imagine what she will do, or how she will bear her life if things
continue as they are.”
“What things?”
“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.”

“I rather revel at the thought of the dismay which will attend her final
capture of Marshire.”
“I used to hope that you perhaps——“
He glanced up and smiled with an air of satisfaction.
“I don't like the appearance of measuring myself 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.”
“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.”
Reckage, whose imagination began to play round this thought, replied with
unusual seriousness—
“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 live 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.”
“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 certainly a distinguished one. It can be understood and it
commands respect.”
“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 and 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!”
She was astonished.
“How well you understand him!”
He leant forward a little and adopted a more confidential tone—
“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.”
“You mean—in your own marriage?”
He sighed profoundly, remained for several minutes silent, and finally
roused himself with a painful effort.
“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.”
“I know,” murmured Pensée. “I know.”
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.
“If you have not observed that I am still—too interested, you have not
observed with your usual sagacity,” said he.
“I think—if I may say so—that time seems only to deepen a sorrow of that
kind.”

“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.”
“Then you never actually proposed to her? There was never any tacit
understanding?”
“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, 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.”
“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.”
“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.”
At last he had been able to mention her. He leant back and relied on his
companion's tact to elaborate the theme.
Pensée murmured—
“Dear Agnes! If there are storms, they won't come from her side. She is of a
very elevated spirit——“
He winced, but she continued—
“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!”
“You would not be impressed by professions, nor 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——“
He could not finish the sentence.
“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.”
Reckage was very touched by this tribute.
“And her best feelings,” said he, “ought to make us—at our best—very
humble.”
Pensée lifted her veil just above her eyes, clasped her hands tightly together,
and kept her earnest glance full upon his.
“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.”
“Yes, she has a childlike openness—up to a certain point.”
“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.”
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.
He said at once—
“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 clash with mine. We spoke
of this together; we considered every circumstance that could, by any
remote chance, weigh against our common happiness.”
Pensée shook her head.
“Of course, that was right,” she said doubtfully.
“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.”
“I don't say that you are making her wretched; I say she seems disturbed
and unsettled when she ought to be full of the brightest hopes.”
“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
——“
Pensée summoned all her energy, and breathed a little prayer for the well-
being of the two women whose lives were at stake.
“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.”
“She ought to have told me that she was in town,” he exclaimed.
“My dear Beauclerk, you know her sweetness! She said, ‘I don't wish to
take up his time; an engagement ought not to be a servitude.’ That is the
reason why she did not tell you.”

“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.”
“Yes, when you were friends.”
“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.”
“You are quite wrong. She meant it in the noblest way.”
“Then it is a desperately near thing between noble conduct and a downright
snub. I can't help lashing out about it.”
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.
“Don't you understand,” she said, “that Agnes dares 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 to do but to wait for it. I think there may be a way out still; God
may overrule people's hearts.”
She had never intended to say so much, and she trembled with an
excitement which she could not subdue.
“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.”
“O, it makes my heart ache—I mean so much painfulness for every one
concerned!”
“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.”
Pensée did not agree with this, but she remained silent, fearing lest a rash
word should spoil her good work.
“For a long, long time,” he continued, “my constant 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.”
“In his case, I see no help but resignation to the will of God,” said Pensée.
“But that resignation is an awful thing,” said Reckage. “It is a shade better
than the atheism of despair; yet only a shade better.”
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.”
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.
“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.”
“You are certainly very fond of him,” said Pensée.
“Yes, I am. He's so dependable.”
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 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.
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 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.
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 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 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.
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, 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 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 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. 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—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 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 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
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.

CHAPTER XI
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 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 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 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 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 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 sacrifice their secret woes. And
what, after all, are the gratified expectations of any career in comparison
with its hidden despairs?
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 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 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 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:
“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.” 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 miracle of
blessing, nay, every blessing, to have known even once the power of mortal
happiness?
“What are you thinking of?” asked Brigit suddenly, touching his arm with
her hand.
“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.”
“I suppose we have the sorrow, and the infinite love is God's. We mustn't
call even our love infinite, Robert.”
He hesitated for a few moments before he replied—
“I call it no name.”

“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.”
“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.”
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.
“Nothing unknown can be wished for,” she said gently, “and so, if some
few things did not last, we 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.”
“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.”
She moved towards him and said in a low voice—
“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 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?”
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.
“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.”
“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. 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!”
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 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.

CHAPTER XII
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
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 Morte
d'Arthur, 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 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.
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
pourboires. 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
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—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
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.

“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?”
“Yes, I know.”
“And how much do you love me?”
“I shall never be able to say how much.”
She took his hand, kissed it, pressed it to her heart, then asked him, with
some confusion, if he liked grapes better than pears.
“You are so beautiful,” he replied.
“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.”
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.
“Something is inside,” she said.
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.”

It was many and many a year ago,
In a kingdom by the sea,
That a maiden there lived whom you may know
By the name of Annabel Lee;
And this maiden she lived with no other thought
Than to love and be loved by me.

But our love it was stronger by far than the love
Of those that were older than we—
Of many far wiser than we—

And neither the angels in heaven above,
Nor the demons down under the sea,
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee."
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.
“I wonder,” he said, “I wonder why that was there?”
He was uneasy, he could not say why. He was 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.
“This telegram,” he said, at last, trying to control his voice, “is from
Reckage. He is on his way now to see me.”
“He is coming here? Why is he coming here?”
He put his arm round her, in a desperate, long embrace, kissing her face, her
eyes, her hair.
“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.”
“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.”
“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!”

“But it is more than that—I am certain. Suppose it has something to do with
Parflete?”
“With Wrexham? How could that be? He is dead.”
“He may not be dead.”
She sank down to the floor on her knees.
“O my God! You know that he is living.”
“Reckage doesn't say so. But would he and Pensée come unless they felt we
should need them?”
“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.”
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.
“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.”
She held him closer, already feeling, in spite of his words, the first agony of
their inevitable farewell.
“You love me!” she said, “you must never leave me. Kiss me, and promise
me that you will never leave me.”
Grief and horror had broken down every barrier of 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.
“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.”
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.
“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.”
Although she made the appeal, he had resolved, in 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.
“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——“
“I am tired of being brave.”
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.
“I am tired or being brave,” she repeated. “I want to rest.”

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 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.
“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 ourselves. 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 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.”

“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.
“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 but
you. You can't forsake me. You love me too much. I know you won't leave
me.”
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.
“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?”
“I shouldn't mind. God would understand.”
“But the world wouldn't understand. And one has to avoid the appearance of
evil.”
“They may say anything they please. I should be very proud if they
misjudged me for your sake.”
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.
“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
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.”
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.
“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 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.”
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.
“You must leave me,” she said again.
“Yes, but I will come in the morning.”
“You will rest, you will try to sleep—for my sake.”
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.

“You will come in the morning?”
“Yes.”
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 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.

CHAPTER XIII
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
Reckage; the other was from Pensée Fitz Rewes. Their respective contents
ran as follows:—

My dear Sara (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 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 mannerisms, the
eccentricity, the possibly natural 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, not 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 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 babyish 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 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 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.
Your affectionate friend,
Beauclerk R.

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 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.

My darling Sara,—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 till you have it; and then, because you
have it, you will 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 nearness 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 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 scandal 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 my courage and
constant prayers to bear it for 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
horrified. I have never before been called on for such a proof of
friendship. It is quite dreadful to be mixed up in a kind of cause
célèbre. 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 you 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 reckless 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 active 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 personal 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.
Yours ever lovingly,
Pensée.

CHAPTER XIV
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, would ask
a fellow-guest, “Who is the melancholy youth who looks so ill?” “That,”
they would be told, “is Douglas Hendlesham, I think.”
Disraeli called him “a personified hallucination.”
The party, on this particular occasion, consisted of Agnes Carillon (who
attracted unusual attention as the fiancée 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.

“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. Character is the rarest thing in England.”
Lord Garrow stiffened his back.
“I have been educated in a contrary belief,” said he. “Our national character
is our dearest possession.”
“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.”
“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?”
“He may think it unwise to be detailed in self-justification.”
“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.”
“Well, there are many duties and difficulties in life: there is but one
obligation—courage.”
He fixed his eyes on the fire blazing in the grate, and repeated the word
with great emphasis—“Courage!”
“He will need it. An unpleasant suggestion has been put forward by the
lawyers.”
“Divorce?” said Disraeli.
“Yes.”

“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.”
“I know nothing about Dissenters and that class. As for the Catholics—the
few I am acquainted with are civil and sensible.”
“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.”[Lord Derby was then lying at the
point of death.]
With this unimpeachable excuse he left his noble 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.
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.
“Shall we need umbrellas?” said Agnes.
“I have nothing on that will spoil,” replied Sara, “but I am a little anxious
about your shoes. Are they thick enough?”
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.
“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.”
“Beauclerk is very fond of Mr. Orange.”
“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 bravura—an attempt to do something beyond the
truth. That reminds me—how does the portrait grow? David Rennes is
extremely clever.”
“Beauclerk admires his work. He considers him finer than Millais.”
“What does he think of the portrait?”
“He hasn't seen it yet. My people are much pleased with the likeness. I find
it flattering.”
“Indeed!” said Sara thoughtfully. “Did you give him many sittings?”
“He knows my face pretty well. We are acquaintances of some years'
standing. Papa has a high opinion of him.”

“And you?”
“I am no judge. Women can know so little about men.”
“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.”
“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 course,” she added quickly,
“I speak from observation. I have nothing to complain of myself.”
“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.”
“Then you liked them?” said Agnes at once.
“Enormously. You see, I am always an alien among English people.”
Agnes, following an instinct of kindness, pressed her arm and murmured,
“No, no.”
“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.”
“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.”
“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.”
“I am glad you think so,” said Agnes, with flushing cheeks. “I wonder
whether he will ever be an Academician?”
“Would you feel more sure of his gifts—in that case?”
There was a slight note of sarcasm in the question.
“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.”
“How British!”
“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.”
“That is British, too,” said Sara, laughing. “You are a true Jane Bull! But as
you are going to marry a public man, that is as well. Your life will have
many absorbing interests.”
“Oh yes,” returned Agnes; “I hope to help Beauclerk in his constituency,
and with the members of his Association.”
“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.”
“You express, better than I could, my own feeling. I fear they don't always
appreciate his motives.”
“Beauclerk,” said Sara slowly, “is impulsive. He is never afraid of changing
his mind. Many people are called firm merely because they haven't the
moral courage to own their second thoughts.”

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.
“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.”
“Not every one,” replied Sara; “the generous ones only.”
“You have known Beauclerk ever since he was a boy, haven't you?” asked
Agnes.
“Yes. He was such a handsome lad, and he has always been the same.”
“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.”
She spoke very quietly, yet there was great feeling, even great bitterness in
her tone. She was thinking 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 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.
“When does Beauclerk return from the North of France?” asked Sara.
“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.
“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?”
Sara guessed, from the nature of the question, that the truth in this case
would be a relief—not a blow.
“He doesn't seem quite himself—if you understand me,” she said, without
hesitation.
Agnes caught her arm a little more closely and walked with a lighter step.
“I don't think we love each other sufficiently for marriage,” she exclaimed;
“his last letter was so 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 established—whereas we
are both, in reality, rather upset. I am sure of this.”

“Perhaps when you see each other——“
“Our letters are far more satisfactory than our meetings. I know he is fond
of me.”
“You couldn't doubt that. It is worship.”
“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.”
“My dear, you are not in love with him, or you couldn't be so resigned.”
“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.”
Sara shook her head.
“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?”
“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.”
“That's the first step toward a great change.”
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.
“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.”
“When did these ideas come to you?” asked Sara.

“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.”
The slight emphasis on the words people and them was too studied to
escape Sara's trained hearing. She knew the force of a woman's rhetorical
plural.
“I believe you have your convictions now, at this moment,” she said quietly.
“No—not in the final shape.”
“But you can predict the final shape?”
“One more day and then I will decide irrevocably.”
“Why do you hesitate?”
“For this reason—I must grieve papa and disappoint my mother.”
“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.”
“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?”
“Too well.”
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.
“Thank you for a very pleasant walk,” she said to Sara. “I sha'n't forget it.”
“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.”

CHAPTER XV
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.

Oct., 1869.—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....
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.
Tuesday.—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 Imitation is, I think, the most pessimistic book in the world.
The Exercises 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 Exercises 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?

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
Pensée in some anger, begging her to explain such callousness. Pensée,
being a woman, brought a gentler understanding to the inquiry.
“Don't you see,” she said, “that his heart is broken?”
“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.”
The letter in question ran as follows:—

Almouth House.
My dear Lord Wight,—
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 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.”
Your affectionate and grateful,
Robert de H. Orange.

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.
“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.”
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.
“Have you accepted Marshire?” he asked at once.
“No,” she said, blushing; “I do not love him sufficiently to marry him.”
“How is this?”
“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 bourgeoise. 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 worth while. Il
faut se faire valoir! That is why a man will often adore an ugly woman for
ever, whereas an Agnes—an Agnes——“
She paused, gave him a glance, and laughed.
“Does Beauclerk adore Agnes?” said she.
“Can one man judge another in these questions?”
“If neither are hypocrites—yes.”
“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
cynical. Men, however, don't watch each other closely as a rule in
sentimental matters.”
“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.”
“Very few people are truly miserable. If this were not the case, the world
and all creatures must have perished long ago.”
“Well, I can tell you of three wretches at any rate.”
“Three—against the world and all the planets and heaven?” said he.
“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.”

She stood up. She clenched her small hands, set her lips, and grew so pale
that the pearls around her neck seemed dark.
“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 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.”
“I can believe that. She is a woman, and a good one. All the surprising,
inconceivable things are done by good women.”
“And most of the wicked things, too.”
“Possibly.”
“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.”
“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!”
“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?”
“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.”
“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.”
“People of Beauclerk's stamp are so constituted that they can rarely find
contentment by defying a general opinion.”
“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.”
“Why?” he asked.
“Because he will break his heart and die—if she doesn't. There!”
“Then it will be your fault.”
“Mr. Orange!”
“You know it, and I mean it.”
She smiled at him and shrugged her shoulders.
“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 do, after all, toward raising either dead bodies or dead souls?”
“Dead souls?”
“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.”
“I know that.”
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.
“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.”
As Sara spoke the double doors were thrown open.
Lord Reckage was announced.
“Beauclerk!” she exclaimed.
His lordship, self-absorbed, did not perceive her confusion—which she was
too young to dissemble perfectly.
“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 the worst of me now,
and they are always cheerful in the expectation.”
Sara began to disentangle some silk fringe on her skirt; she did not look up,
and she offered no comment.
“What is the matter now?” asked Robert.
“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.[Mr. Gladstone's nomination of Dr. Temple to the See of Exeter.]
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?”
“Yes,” said Sara at once.

“You think so?”
“Beyond a doubt.”
“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
combination of High and Low and Broad Churchmen, and make a stand on
purely legal grounds. For instance, how can the bishops, without previous
explanation, 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 Essays and Reviews—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 Divine institution? Neither the Outs nor the Ins, 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.”
He shifted his chair several times during this speech, looking first at Orange
and then at Sara for encouragement.
“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.”
“That is most unfair,” said Reckage hotly. “One must see where one is
going.”
“The world,” said Sara, “in the long run, despises those who pander to it.”
“Yes, but it is in the long 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?”
“It is the system which you must attack in the present difficulty. The system
is at fault—not Dr. Temple,” said Robert.
“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.”
“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.”
“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 congé d'élire, 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.”
“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.”
“Then what do you want Beauclerk to do?” asked Sara.
“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.”
Reckage took many turns round the room.

“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 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.”
“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!”
“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!”
“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?”
“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.”
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 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.”
“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.
“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?”
A sudden flame from the grate illuminated the faces 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.
“What do you suppose we have been talking about?” asked Sara
desperately.
“I can't imagine, my dear,” said her father. “I am far too cross. I hate these
odd ways.”
“We were discussing the validity of Anglican Orders.”
“God bless my soul!” exclaimed his lordship; “what next?”
Agnes, who was looking pale and worried, frowned with displeasure.
“But how disloyal!” she said severely. “As if one could even discuss such a
question!”
“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.”
“I think it too bad, all the same,” replied Miss Carillon—“even in fun. I am
sure I am right.”

Lord Reckage tried to conceal his annoyance, but his voice shook a little as
he said—
“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.”
He hoped she would take this warning to herself. She was, however, too
stirred to consider anything except the cause of their common agitation.
“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.”
“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.”
“The sure way out of that temptation is not to think yourself exposed to it,”
said Robert quickly.
“I hate sophistries,” said Agnes, tightening her lips. “And I hope,
Beauclerk, that you will never remain in any painful situation against your
will.”
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, he said, he
possessed, alas! What a difference in the two men!
“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.”
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 fiancé 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.
Sara and Orange, meanwhile, left alone in the drawing-room, were
exchanging interrogatory glances, “What do you think now?” she asked;
“do you pretend to believe that Agnes and Beauclerk can make each other
even moderately contented?”
“Then you are to blame.”
A flush swept over her face. She looked bitter reproaches, but she made no
answer.
“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.”
“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 pied à terre, and I require a good cause.
Party politics are too parochial for me. So I am on the side of the Vatican.”
“La reine s'amuse,” said Robert. “Is that all?”
“Yes, that's all.”

She turned over the music on her writing-table and hummed some bars
from the Kyrie of Mozart's Twelfth Mass.
“If you were a Jesuit,” said she, “you would try to convert me.”
“St. Ignatius never wasted time over insincere women.”
“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.”
Her eyes filled with tears—which he noticed and attributed to fatigue.
“I wonder how men ever accomplish anything!” she exclaimed.
“Why?”
“They have no insight. They mistake self-control for coldness, and despair
for flippancy. Isn't that the case?”
“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.”
She seemed confused for a minute, and hung her head.
“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.’”
“That is the trouble with most of us.”
Then he wished her goodbye, promising, however, to call again with regard
to the Meeting. Lord Garrow met him on the staircase.
“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!”
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 face touched his heart. It seemed to him that here was one who had
felt the world's buffets.

“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 look the part so well.”
“‘Happiness, that nymph with unreturning feet,’ has passed him by,” said
Sara, watching herself in one of the mirrors.
“She has passed a good many,” sighed his lordship. “But play me that
lovely air which Titiens sings in Il Flauto Magico.”

CHAPTER XVI
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.
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 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.
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 indifference 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.
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, 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.
Rennes was waiting for her under the long avenue 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.
“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.”
“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.”
“I cannot—I dare not regard it as you do.”
“But you have come! Let me look at you!”
“Does it require much looking to see that I am really unhappy?”
“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.
“What is to be done?” she asked, after an agitated silence. “What will
people say? Not that I can think of anything to do.”

“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—

‘Love not the sun too much, nor yet the stars,
Come, follow me to the realms of night.’

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.”
“But,” said Agnes, a little frightened at this outburst, “do you never think of
God and His Will?”
He returned her anxious glance with gloomy, almost compassionate
amazement.
“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 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 dead 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!”
“I keep Clement's words before me, ‘The Lord who died for us is not our
enemy.’ Surely that is a splendid thought against final despair.”
“Many thoughts are splendid,” he replied, “if we could believe them now as
the early Christians did in the first centuries.”
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, Pilate's Wife.
“You will never be happy—never,” she murmured at last. “But perhaps no
one is happy.”
“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 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.”
“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.”
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.
“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.”
“But one would think,” said Agnes, “that you were a disappointed or an
unsuccessful man, whereas every one admires your genius.”

He laughed at her practical bent, which seemed the more fascinating
because of her picturesque appearance.
“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?”
“It is hard!” she said, smiling.
“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.”
“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 some change. I could give no good grounds for carrying out
my engagement to Beauclerk. The motives 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.”
He remembered, with a pang of remorse, that he had once called this
devoted woman an accomplished, incurable Philistine.
“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
whole law of life. These are great compensations.”
“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.”
“But there are other interests equally engrossing.”
“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.”
“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?”
“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.”
“And why?”
“Because the veritable world, even on its bare merits, is not so bad. It is full
of beauty, and interest, and enjoyment. It is a lie to call it so many vile
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?”
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.
Two days later Lord Reckage received the following communication from
Miss Carillon:—

My dear Beauclerk,—
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.
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 my 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 if he put
the matter before me. 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, with a good
conscience, 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—“Is it a small thing for you to weary men, but will ye
weary my God also?” 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 after 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. But indeed it is the real me. You
have known the unreal, 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.
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.
Forget me, and never judge other women by me. I have been
exceptionally foolish.
Your wretched friend,
Agnes Carillon.

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.

When the news, after twenty-four hours, became known, Agnes's wish to
place herself in the wrong, 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.”

CHAPTER XVII
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 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 coterie—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 himself, 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.
“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?”
“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.”
Disraeli had formed the opinion that Alberia—as represented by His
Excellency—was by no 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.

“There is to be no appeal ad misericordiam,” 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. Carissime, 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,
“Ever yours,
“D.”

The course of the intrigue may be followed most conveniently at this point
in the document known as Mudara's Confession.
Mudara, it will be remembered, was in the Alberian Secret Service.[See The
School for Saints, p. 395.] 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:—

The death of the Archduke Charles—which occurred some weeks
before it was anticipated—put the Alberian Government to very grave
embarrassment.
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.
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.
3. The Government's Agents had formed a very high 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, properly
authenticated, 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
proofs 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.
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 déjeuner.
It was an unfortunate circumstance that I did not destroy the telegram
which I saw on the mantel-piece. 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?”
To my amazement, Parflete himself came out.
“For God's sake, don't shoot,” said he, “it is I.”
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
withdrew 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.
“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.
“Why should there be?” said I, exasperated. “Come to the point.”
“My wife is the purest, noblest of beings!” said he.
“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.”
“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 dénouement.”
I answered him sharply.
“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!”
“All the same,” said he, “my wife may not sell her birth-right. Such a
proceeding is directly opposite to the Will of God.”
“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.”
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.

“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.”
“But duty is above such weak considerations,” said he, rolling his
eyes. “My wife must remember the nation.”
“Do you believe,” I rejoined, “that you would get the nation's sanction
to the general upset which you propose? You must be mad.”
“Nations go mad,” said he, smiling; “why not to my advantage, then,
as well as yours?”
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 canaille 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 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.

Here, for the present, we must leave Mudara's narrative.

CHAPTER XVIII
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
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 en règle that Lady Sara
should be consulted. The Princess herself drove him to St. James's Square
on the afternoon following Mr. Disraeli's call. She sent milles tendresses to
her chérie, 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.
“What is troubling you, sir?” asked Sara, “you look pale.”
“For once in my life I wish to do a foolish thing—pour encourager les
autres,” was his reply. “I intend to meddle with a love-affair.”
“Whose love-affair?”
“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 catechism. Do men ever believe evil reports about the
women they love?”
“The posse non peccare is not the non posse peccare,” said Sara quickly.
“Do you mean that they can believe the evil, but, as a rule, they won't?”
returned the Prince.
“You translate freely, but you have caught the spirit!”
“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
him?”

“All men who desire love, deserve it,” said Sara. “The means to this are
always, in a manner, certainties, the end is always problematical. But those
who want love could never be satisfied with mere welfare—never.”
“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.”
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.
“The dear Princess!” murmured Sara.
“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.”
“What did Reckage say?”
“Reckage doesn't mind raising a blister, but he won't often tell one what he
thinks.”
Sara shivered a little and compressed her lips.
“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.”
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.
“I have not time to tell you all the nonsense 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.”
“He wishes him to become a Jesuit priest? How selfish!”
“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.”
Lady Sara could not conceal her agitation. But she baffled her companion a
little by saying—
“I suppose you want Orange to marry your inopportune Archduchess?”
“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 Mrs. Parflete?”
“I have never seen her. Pensée Fitz Rewes insists that she is beautiful, cold,
determined, and uncommon.”
“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 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.”
“I understand,” said Sara.
“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.”
“What ought Orange to do?”
“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.”
“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!”
“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.”
“What! A woman who loves, or who has loved—Robert Orange? A few
things in human nature are still impossible.”
Prince d'Alchingen shrugged his shoulders, and continued—
“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.”
“Is there much use in denying the fact that he married the Archduke's
daughter?”
“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!”
“Then why all this fuss?”
“To avoid more fuss—on a large scale.”
“But I have always heard that Mrs. Parflete has no intention of giving
trouble. They say she is an angel.”

“You will find that she would far rather be an Archduchess! Orange may
discover that his Beatrice is nearly related to Rahab!”
“Oh, I cannot think you are right.”
“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.”
“How can you assume such horrors?” said Sara.
“The imagination,” said His Excellency, “is always 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 belle amie. 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——“
“To Lady Fitz Rewes,” said Sara quickly.
“If you like,” replied the Prince, in his gentlest voice.
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.
“Delicious!” he murmured, “delicious!”
“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.”
“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.”
“To whom else?” asked Sara, fastening some flowers in her belt. They were
white camellias sent that morning from the infatuated, still hopeful Duke of

Marshire. “To whom else—if not Pensée?”
“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.”
“I will not believe,” she insisted, “that Robert Orange has been deceived by
that woman.”
“You may change your opinion. Come to Hadley Lodge next Saturday—I
ask no more.”
“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?”
The Prince smiled also, but he saw that the lady had risen to the occasion
and would not prove false to her Asiatic blood.
“Mrs. Parflete and Castrillon are cut out for each other,” said he, “but
Orange has no business in that galère. He is reserved for a greater fate.”
“What do you mean?” said Sara.
“All now depends on you.”
“On me?”
“Plainly. Reckage wishes Orange to get out of his way and become a
Religious. Can this be permitted?”
“It would be outrageous. It would be a crime.”
“Ah, worse than that. It might prove a success. We don't want any more
strong men in the Church just now.”
Sara agreed. She, too, was opposed to the Church. And she was glad of the
excuse this thought offered for the pains she would take to save Orange
from the Vatican grasp.
“Then we are allies,” said His Excellency. “You will help me.”
“Gladly, and what is more, as a duty. But how?”
“Keep the two men apart, and treat both of them—both—with kindness.”

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.

CHAPTER XIX
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.
Sara, arrayed in white satin and opals, sat at the piano playing the Faust 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:—

Almouth House.
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. 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.

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.
“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.”
“I can see that you have received a great blow,” answered Sara, looking
down.
“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.
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, 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.
“Have you ever thought,” said Reckage, with pretended carelessness, “that
Orange's serenity just now is somewhat unnatural? Is it all religion?”

“I believe that neither of us can form any conception of his capacity for
suffering, or the support he finds in his Belief.”
“It points to fanaticism, no doubt. He is a Cardinal in petto. 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.”
“He is distinguished; would one call him handsome?”
“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——“
“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.”
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.
“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——“
“What?” she asked, with burning cheeks.
“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.”
“He is not so sentimental as you imagine.”
“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 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——“
He threw back his head and laughed without mirth.
“You!” he repeated. “My God!”
“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!”
She was making these remarks as the clock struck the hour, and her father
entered the room.
“Beauclerk came early, dear papa,” said she, “because he had something to
tell us. His engagement is broken off.”
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.
“I wish nothing said against poor Agnes,” observed Reckage; “her mistakes
are those of a generous, impetuous girl. Don't judge her hastily. All, I feel
certain, has happened for the best.”
“Tut! tut!” repeated his lordship.
“I am devoted to dear Agnes,” said Sara, “but I never, never thought that
she was the wife for Beauclerk.”

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 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 tête-à-tête.
“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 protégé could
display in tracking down the orphans' dishonest butcher, his respect where
she was concerned verged on frigidity.
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 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.
“I do not exactly know,” said she, “the state of things. The poor dear Bishop
must be in a dreadful state.”
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.
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 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—
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 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.
“Those opals are beautiful,” said he, presently.
“I am glad you approve of—the opals.”

“But you put them to a disadvantage.”
“O! is that a compliment? The first you have ever paid me.”
“Do you care about them?”
“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!”
“Must we be very earnest this evening?”
“I am afraid so. You see, I have secured Pole-Knox. He has never been
permitted to dine here before.”
“Why not?”
“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.”
“Does she forgive it now?”
“Yes. She has reached the stage when one may criticise him.”
“That means a complete cure, I suppose.”
“Far from it—resignation to the worst that can be said of his character.
There is no cure possible then.”
“Have you had any conversation with Reckage?” he asked.
Sara coloured and put her fingers to her lips.
“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!”
“Your own conscience is easy, I take it?”
“You have no right to ask such a question—none at all.”

“Some men, you know, can be laughed out of their loves,” he continued.
“Timorous men—yes! Is Reckage timorous?”
“You turned that most adroitly.”
“Thank you. Please sit between Lady Augusta and Aumerle at dinner.”
The dinner passed most agreeably. As little as 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.
“Forcing a change is a very ticklish business,” said Aumerle, studying the
menu, and regretting that his digestion was not all it had been.
Lord Garrow deplored the fact that Mr. Gladstone had embarked on a very
vulgar and very false policy.
“But its vulgarity,” he sighed, “gives it a very easy reception.”
“He expects everything except docility,” said Penborough; “if the
Opposition employ that means, they will embarrass all his calculations.”
Reckage, meanwhile, was confiding to Sara—
“I turned the horse round, rammed my spurs in, and put him at the rails
again!”
One statement, made by Penborough, caused a flutter.
“If Catherine of Arragon had been immoral and Mary Stuart virtuous, the
whole course of European History would have been different. The
Reformation, for instance, would have found no favour in England.”
“That's very advanced,” murmured Lady Larch.

Sara, at dessert, tried to encourage a debate on the egoism of the Saints
compared with the egoism of Montaigne.
“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?”
Orange refused to be drawn, but he promised to lend her the Acta
Sanctorum of the Bollandists in sixty volumes in folio.
“After you have read them,” said he, “I will tell you my ideas about
Montaigne.”
Many other remarks were probably more amusing; these, however, were the
most characteristic.
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.
The sum and substance of their investigations were as follows:—
Lady Larch wondered what the world was coming to.
Lady Augusta declared that no woman yet ever fathomed the heart of man.
Lady Sara maintained that it was a very good thing for both young men to
have had such reverses before they finally settled down.
At this Lady Augusta forgot to sigh, and Lady Larch lost control of her
smile.
“How,” exclaimed Augusta, “can they forget so soon? Can any settling
down be in contemplation? Are no deep, sacred feelings left?”
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.
“Dear Lady Larch!” exclaimed Sara.

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 Times
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.
“Forgive me,” said she, “but—have you anything to tell me about Mrs.
Parflete?”
“Yes; she is now with Pensée.”
“May I call upon her? May I know her? Would she see me?”
“With pleasure, I am sure.”
“And you?” she asked.
“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.”
“Have you been to Prince d'Alchingen's, or has he approached you in any
way?”
“I am to dine with him to-morrow.”
“Has he said anything to you about the Marquis of Castrillon?”
“Not a word,” replied Robert, in surprise: “why should he?”
“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 triste this evening.”
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.
“Then to-morrow morning,” said he.
She named an hour.

CHAPTER XX
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.
“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 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 promise 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.”
“I could never do better, sir, than to follow your advice or your example.”

“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 Times.”
He took from his pocket-book a slip of paper on which was written the
following in Mrs. Disraeli's hand:—

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.

“Was that necessary?” asked Robert.
“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 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.”

“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?”
“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?”
“This is your own way of asking me whether I 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.”
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.
“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 salle de comédie.”
Robert, though much taken by surprise, betrayed no sign of it.
“You cannot tell what she will do—until she does it,” he answered. “She
may have great talents.”
“Well, one forgets that when Voltaire said, ‘Il faut cultiver notre jardin,’ 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.”
“Whether a woman be a saint, a queen, or an 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.”
“I daresay. D'Alchingen calls her un peu étourdi. She has the audacity—she
may have the fortune of despair. Confess—you have run a little wild about
her.”
“I ran off the track, if you like,” said Orange, smiling.
“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.”
“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.”
“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.”
“I advised Reckage myself to sound each member 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.”
“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.”
“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.”
“My opinion is that Reckage must act with considerable caution, or he will
find himself repudiated by 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?”
“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?”
“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.”
“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 his Association
would feel flattered by reflected honours.”
“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.”
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.
“Where is Castrillon now?” asked Robert.
“I understand he is in London,” answered Disraeli; “at Claridge's Hotel.
D'Alchingen and he are on excellent terms.”
“Good!” said Robert, tightening his lips. “You will find he has been invited
to Hadley.”
“I haven't a doubt of it.”
“Then I must contrive to see him first.”
Early the following morning Orange presented himself at the house of an
old, very devout priest of his acquaintance.
“Father,” said he, “this afternoon or to-morrow I may be in circumstances
of danger.”
“What danger is this?” asked the priest.
“There is a man whom I may be compelled, in defence of my honour, to
challenge to a duel.”

“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.”
“I know,” said Orange, hotly; “it is impossible, however, to withdraw now.”
“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.”
“I implore you, Father, to pray for me, and to hear my confession, if you
possibly can.”
“Certainly, I cannot hear you,” said the priest. “But this is what I will do.
Wear this Agnus Dei, 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 encourage you in your bad purpose, but that you may
wear it with all reverence and respect, and perhaps be moved to obedience.”
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.

CHAPTER XXI
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 Serious Call 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.
“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.”
“My dear,” said Pensée, sitting up with a sudden 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.”
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.
“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?”
“Yes.”

“Well, he won't come and see me himself because she is here.”
“That is merely a decision on principle. He longs to come.”
“Quite so. But the girl does not deserve him.”
Sara showed no astonishment; she maintained her thoughtful air, and
replied with tranquillity—
“He thinks she is perfect.”
“I find no vulgar faults in her, myself, although there seems no foolish thing
left that she hasn't done. 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.”
“Then she has talent.”
“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!”
“Will she go to Hadley?”
“Yes—wholly against my advice. I don't trust Prince d'Alchingen.”
“How I wish I could see her!”
“She is in the library now. I will ask her to come down.”

Pensée left the room, and Sara paced the floor till she returned.
“She is coming,” said Pensée, “be nice to her—for Robert's sake!”
Sara nodded, and both women watched the door till the handle moved, and
Mrs. Parflete entered.
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 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?
She had nothing of the deliberate coquette who, eager to please, keeps up an
incessant battery of airs 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.
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 chignon 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 Serious Call. 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.
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.
“I believe we are to meet at Hadley,” said Sara. “I hear you are going to
act.”
“Yes,” replied Brigit, with a slight note of irony in her musical voice. “I am
going to act.”
“How charming! And what will you play?”
“I play the Marquise in one of Marivaux's comedies.”
“And who will play the Marquis?” asked Sara.
“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.”
“Castrillon!” exclaimed Sara, in amazement.
“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——“
“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.”

“But Castrillon is a wicked wretch—a libertine.”
“We have already acted together in this very piece 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.”
“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.”
“Are the Duke and Duchess of Fortinbras respectable?” asked Brigit.
“What a question!” said Pensée; “of course they are most exclusive.”
“Then if they are quite willing that their daughter Clementine should marry
Castrillon, surely he may play the Chevalier to my Marquise.”
“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 like him?” she said, suddenly turning to Brigit.
The question was skilful.
“I don't take him seriously,” answered Brigit; “he has the great science of
l'excellent ton dans le mauvis ton. 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 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.”
“I am simply wretched about you,” said Pensée; “of your future I dare not
think. I try to be sympathique, 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.”
“Dearest,” exclaimed Brigit: “trust me!”

“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.”
Brigit, with a sparkling glance at Sara, stroked Pensée's cheek, and pinched
her small ear.
“Mon cher coeur,” 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 me on every side. O mon amie,
I must prove to them that I want nothing they can give me—that I possess
nothing which they can take away.”
“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?”
“I do not expect that people's tongues should be stopped,” rejoined Pensée.
“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?”

“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——“
“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.”
She moved to the door, kissed her hand to Pensée, and bowed prettily to
Sara.
“I must get back to my work,” she said, and so left them. The two women
turned toward each other.
“There is no hope for Orange,” observed Sara drily: “no man would ever
forget her.”
“He needn't forget her, but——“
“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. And when she is dead, he will love her still more!”
She threw back her head and laughed—till Pensée laughed also. Then they
wished each other goodbye, and parted.

CHAPTER XXII
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.
“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.”
“What a strange idea!” she answered, taking off her gloves. “Where are you
going?”
“To Hampstead Heath. I need the air and the exercise. I have to compose a
speech.”
“The speech for the Meeting?”
His brow darkened, and he pushed back with his foot a log which was
falling from the open grate.
“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 family interest, be assured the situation
cannot be worth having. When I leave, it will go all to pieces.”
“But you don't intend to leave, surely?”
“Indeed, I do.”

“Have you hinted at resignation?”
“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.”
“But you owe it to yourself and to Orange to hold the Meeting to-morrow?”
she said, anxiously.
“There is a way out of it,” he answered, avoiding her eyes. “We can talk of
that presently.”
“Nothing interests me more.”
“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.”
“I prefer not to speak of them now, Beauclerk.”
“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.”
“Now don't say that.”
“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.”
“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.”
“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.”
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.
“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.
“How can I help you?” she asked.
“Let us marry.”
“I don't wish to marry any one just yet, Beauclerk,” 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.”
“I would not ask you to give up your will.”
“We should be utterly miserable if I didn't.”
“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.”
“Why do you quote Robert?” she said carelessly; “isn't your opinion enough
for me?”
“Can you pretend that his opinion has no weight with you?”
She laughed, and stroked his arm.
“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.”
“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 affiché, 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 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.”
“Drop him?” she exclaimed.
“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.”
“But it was your meeting, Beauclerk.”
“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 savoir vivre.”
“Shall you tell Orange that you intend to throw him over?”
“Not yet.”

“Oh, you ought!”
“Why? I want the meeting to take place. It will be useful in its way—it may
show us how public opinion is going.”
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, calculating,
and, stormed as it was for the moment by the meanest feelings of self-
interest, repellent.
“How I hate him!” she thought; “how I despise him!”
Then she turned round, smiling—
“Hats make my head ache! So you think the meeting will be useful?”
“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.”
“Do send it.”
“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.”
“I daresay not, but I know that much.”
“This being the case, why upset him at the eleventh hour?”
She made no reply, and before Reckage could speak again, the servant
announced the arrival of his horse.
“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!”
He bent down and kissed her lips.
“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 like other women. You are not a woman, you're a witch. Must I go
now?”
Sara had opened the door.
“Yes, you know how Pluto hates to wait.”
“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.”
“Very well.”
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.

CHAPTER XXIII
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 amusement, and that indescribable treasure
known as the joie de vivre. 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 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, 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.
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 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.
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, 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.
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 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.
She did not speak until she had entered the shabbily furnished sitting-room
and closed the door.
“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?”
“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.”
“That was his first intention. He gave it up, 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.”
She unpinned her veil, and seemed all the handsomer for her scornful
expression and flashing eyes.
“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.”
“It is easy enough to kill.”

“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.”
“Some can trust their natures. I don't trust mine.”
“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 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.”
“I think you are splendid.”
“I saw Mrs. Parflete to-day. She is beautiful. But she is indiscreet, too. All
women worth considering are miracles of imprudence.”
“Haven't I always said so?”
“Then how can you expect us to like you when you are so—so wise?”
“I don't expect you to like me.”
She bit her lip and pretended to check a laugh.
“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——“
“Well, what is the odd thing?”
“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,
perfectly dressed, extremely young actress. You give your nature full play
in your taste, at all events.”

“You can urge that much in my favour, then?”
“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?”
“So Disraeli has told me. Did you come to tell me that, also?”
She coloured, but met his angry glance without flinching. “Now,” she
thought, “he is going to show temper.”
“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?”
“I am to meet Castrillon to-night at the Prince d'Alchingen's,” he answered,
evading her question.
“How you hate him!”
“What makes you think so?”
“I know your face. I never saw any love there for anybody, but just then
there was a look of hate.”
“You are quite right. I do hate him.”
“You are actually trembling at the mention of his name. Then you have
feelings, after all.” She clapped her hands, and leaving her chair walked
toward him.
“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.”
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.
“Does he always bring your letters upstairs?” she asked.
“As a rule—no,” said Orange.
“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.”
Her voice failed, and tears began to roll down her cheeks. Then she covered
her face with her hands.
“Every courageous—every disinterested act is unconventional,” said
Robert; “you are tired out—that's all.”
“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, 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.”
“One of these letters is from Reckage. It is written on a sheet of your own
note-paper.”
She dried her eyes, and looked at him with exultation, astonishment, and a
certain incredulity.
“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.”
The letter, scrawled hastily on the pale lilac note-paper affected by Sara and
bearing her monogram, ran as follows:—

“My Dear Old Fellow,—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 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 over-doing, 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.
“When can you dine? Or if you won't dine, let me see you when you
can spare half an hour.
“Yours affectionately,”
“Beauclerk.”

Orange turned to Sara and said, when he had finished reading—
“I am glad he wrote.”
“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.”
“You persuaded him to post this.”
“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
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!”
“I am bitter enough—don't doubt it.”
“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.”
“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!”
“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.”
“The current lie,” said Orange. “We don't want to hear it.”
Sara walked to the window and threw it open.
“I caught a name,” she exclaimed. “It is something about Reckage ... Listen
... Reckage!”
Above the din of the traffic, a hoarse duet rose from the street—voice
answering voice with a discordant reiteration of one phrase—“Serious
accident to Lord Reckage! Serious accident to Lord Reckage!”
“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?”
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.

“Where is it? I can't see! In which column?” said Sara.
He pointed to a corner on the third page, where she read in black, rough
type:—
“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.”
She crushed the paper in her hand, and the two stood looking at each other,
stupefied by the blow.
“I am going to him,” said Robert.
“And I must go home,” whispered the girl. “He always said that Pluto
would be the death of him.”
They went down the stairs together without exchanging a word. Orange
walked with her to St. James's Square. Neither could speak. On parting, she
faltered,—
“Let me know ... how he is....”

CHAPTER XXIV
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.
“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.
“Am I going to die, Sir Thomas?” said he.
“Why should you die?” replied the distinguished surgeon. “But you have
had a nasty fall.”
“Pluto shied at something,” answered his lordship; “mind they don't shoot
him. I won't have him shot.”
Then, for a few moments, he lost consciousness.
When Orange arrived, the physicians were looking very grave, and
telegrams had been despatched to all the young man's near relatives.
“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——“
“Sara,” suggested Orange, to relieve his embarrassment.
“It certainly sounded like Sara.”
“Then I will send Lord Garrow a note—she is Lord Garrow's daughter—a
lifelong friend. Is there no hope?”

“He may have a pretty good night.”
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:
“Agnes will be sorry when she hears.”
Toward daybreak he turned to Orange, and said quite simply—
“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.”
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.
“It isn't going, is it?” he asked.
No, it had been checked; the tick disturbed his lordship, but there was an
hour-glass on the table.
“How many hours do they think——?”
“Perhaps ten hours.”
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.
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.

“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.”
And odd people came also. Trainers, jockeys, and horse-dealers rubbed
shoulders on the doorsteps with collectors of old furniture, missionaries,
electioneering agents, ladies of the chorus, of the corps de ballet, shabby-
genteel individuals of both sexes out of work, and the like; each had his
degree of regret and an anecdote.
“He was always very kind to me,” said this one, that one, and the other.
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: “Take ye heed, watch and pray;
for ye know not when the time is!” 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—
“He is conscious, and he asks to see you.”
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.
“Speak to me, Beauclerk, speak to me; it is I—Sara.”
“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
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?”
He spoke no more.

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.
The old housekeeper crept into the room when the bereaved family had
retired, and she was on her way to bed.
“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.”
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.

CHAPTER XXV
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 grande folie de vouloir d'être sage avec une sagesse impossible,
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.
“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.”
Castrillon kissed the tips of his fingers to the air, and ejaculated:
“Adorable!”
“Does she resemble, in any way, I wonder, her good mother, Madame
Duboc?”
No, she had her own style—although she was coquettish enough. And
pretty? Delicious.
“This is better,” thought his Excellency, “much better. And do you think,”
he asked, aloud, “that she cares at all for Orange?”
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.
“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.”
“He is the ideal of several persons,” said Alchingen; “I don't know what to
make of him.”
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.
Mudara bowed to perfection, and then, going forward, presumed to put his
hand on the Ambassador's arm.
“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.”
“You don't mean it?”
“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.”
“Good!”
“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.”
“Was it Mrs. Parflete?”
“I could swear” 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.”
“You followed them?”

“Alas! I couldn't. I was not alone. Parflete himself was with me. I dared not
trust him out of my sight. He, following his custom, grew faint at the sight
of Madame——“
“Then he, too, recognised her? This is excellent.”
“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 abbé
malgré lui, and he has, on the contrary, the most ecclesiastical soul I know.
Rest assured, your Excellency, that this canaille 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.”
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.
“What will Parflete do?” he asked.
Mudara threw up his dark, sinewy, and powerful hands in genuine despair.
“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?”
“Happily it is not my business either to arrange or propose the means.”
The sly glance of the Prince encountered the sly glance of the Agent.
“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——“

“You can do nothing. Unless you can be perfectly sure that he will follow
some reasonable course, he ought to be saved from himself.”
“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.”
“An armed diplomacy is good,” said d'Alchingen.
“And also a scheme of alternatives,” replied Mudara.
“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.”
“But de Hausée, like the Cardinal de Retz, fought 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 Samaritaine; we have to prove it somehow. Even though one
invented stories about her, one would probably find that they were,
approximately, true.”
“Keep me informed,” said the Prince, making a little bow, which signified
that the audience was at an end.
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.

Parflete's rooms, (we read) 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 bizarre, 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.
“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 in common, I am not likely to give offence to
my good friends in the Alberian Government.”
I warned him that such sneers were unjustifiable, and I reminded him,
with severity, of the Government's extraordinary forbearance.
He fixed his eyes unpleasantly upon me, and his fingers trembled as he
played with the frogs of his lilac-velvet smoking-jacket.
“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.”
My exasperation at his tone of defiance was all but uncontrollable.
“You know,” said I, “that we had no doubt of her identity.”
“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.”
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.
“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.”
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.

I replied coolly enough,—“I would not murder you. Have no alarm on
that score. But I can defend myself, I hope.”
By this time he had reached the door and thrown it open. A waiter was
passing at the time.
“Sir,” said Parflete, “I have the honour to wish you good-day.”
The waiter heard this remark distinctly, and saw me bow as I parted
from the wretched creature.
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.

CHAPTER XXVI
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'.”
Hadley Lodge was built in the reign of George I. In design it resembles a
little the Vice-Regal Lodge in 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 corpse.” Sara admired the Princess, and surprised all the
fashionable artists of that day by insisting on her paintableness.
“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.”
“And what is that, dearest?” asked the Prince.
“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.
“Let us talk of pleasant things only, chère amie,” 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 abusing her in public. ‘Otherwise,’ said she,
‘they will know all.’ Isn't that a good story?”
“Anselm!” sighed the Princess.
“I wonder who that lady was?” said Sara.
“I dare not guess,” said the Prince.
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.
“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.”
The Princess paused before she attempted any reply. Then she fixed her
deep, grey eyes on Sarah's excited face.
“I like her,” she said, slowly.
“Is that all?”
“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.”
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.
“And what do you think of Robert Orange?” she asked, breathing quickly.
The Princess folded her hands, fixed her eyes again on the young girl, and
answered in her usual even tones—
“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.”
“Delightful!” said Sara, trying to speak calmly; “and will Orange become a
liver-devotee?”
“You don't understand self-discipline, chérie,” 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.”
Prince d'Alchingen stifled a yawn and offered Sara a cigarette, which she
refused, although she had acquired the habit of smoking during her visits to
Russia.
“If you will both swear,” said he, “to keep a secret, I can tell you one.”
The old and the young lady flushed alike with delight at the prospect of
hearing some strange news.
“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.”
“Is it possible?” exclaimed the Princess.

Sara, feeling the Prince's dissecting glance burning into her countenance,
grew white and red by turns.
“What a temperament! what jealousy!” thought d'Alchingen.
“How do you know all this?” she asked, thrusting her hands, which were
trembling, into her ermine muff.
“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.”
“Yet surely—surely——“ stammered Sara.
In a second she grasped the mistake which had been made, and all its
possible disastrous consequences to 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.
“It will probably mean a divorce, the social ruin of Orange, and the
successful début of Madame as a comedian of the first rank,” said the
Ambassador.
“Does Orange know that she was seen that day?” asked Sara.

“Not yet. He will know soon enough, never fear.”
“Are you sure—quite sure that it was Mrs. Parflete?” suggested the
Princess.
“It must have been she,” replied the Prince.
“It must have been she,” repeated Sara, mechanically.
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:—
“It must have been Mrs. Parflete.”
“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.”
D'Alchingen shrugged his shoulders.
“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. Dans le combat, il
faut marchez sans s'attendrir!”
“Who would live?” murmured the Princess, pressing a martyr's relic which
she always wore on a chain round her neck.
“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.”

“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.”
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.
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 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 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?”
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. La reine s'amuse 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 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.
“Is Mrs. Parflete in her bedroom?” asked Lady Sara; “and where is her
bedroom?”
“Her bedroom is next to yours, my lady. She is in there now.”
“Thank you.”
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—
“Come in.”
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.

“Lady Sara—how good of you to come!” she exclaimed; “I have been
trying to rest. I want to play well this evening.”
“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.”
She became so pale as she uttered these words that Brigit leant forward with
a gesture of reassurance. In spite of her fragility she was, from the habit of
self-control, a stronger spirit.
“You may be sure that I shall understand,” she said.
“Forgive me, then, but some enemy has circulated a report that you went to
Mr. Orange's rooms in Vigo Street last Wednesday.”
A deep flush swept over Brigit's face.
“I was not there,” she said.
“I know,” said Sara. “I know you were not there. They made a mistake. It
was I they saw—not you—it was I.”
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.
“You? It was you? How —— you?”
“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.”
“And yet it is not my business!”
“What do you mean? Not your business?”
“How can it be my business to ask what lady went to—to his lodgings?”
“But you would have wondered——“

“Yes, I should have wondered. I could not have helped that.”
“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.”
“He has often spoken of you.”
“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.”
“You may be sure that no one shall know.”
“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.”
“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.”
Her voice trembled for the first time.
“How does he look?” she asked, after a sharp struggle between her pride
and a desire to hear more.
“He looks ill and worn. He over-works.”
“He will suffer at Lord Reckage's death.”
“But he hides his feelings. He is always reticent.”
“O, to see him and talk with him—that would be such a joy for me.”
“You must be very sad, often,” said Sara, coldly.

“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.”
“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——“
“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 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.”
Sara coloured and looked away.
“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.”
“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!’”
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.

“Yes,” she said quietly. “I must suffer all that. How can you be sure that I
have not suffered it already? At any rate, I hope this confidence will
increase your kindness toward me.”
“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!”
“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.”
“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.”
“Perhaps I should have that feeling, too, if I had no faith in God. He
assumed humanity—not despising it.”
“You know I do not believe that splendid story—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.”
Brigit sighed deeply, and did not reply at once.
“It is all very hard, I know,” she answered; “but 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——“
Sara laughed.
“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!”
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.
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 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—

My Dearest Life—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 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 you have
yourself, you 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.
Brigit.

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.
“O Madame,” said she, “I thought you were going to play an amusing
piece!”
“It will be very amusing,” said Brigit, “but this is the way to rehearse it.”