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 Pensee 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. Pensee'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 Pensee, 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 Pensee. 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 Pensee 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 Pensee 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 if 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. Pensee 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 Sevigne, 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 Pensee Fitz Rewes. Their respective contents ran as follows:—

MY DEAR SARA (I love the sweeter name of Valerie: 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. Pensee 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 Valerie! 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 of 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 Pensee'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 celebre. 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,

PENSEE.



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 fiancee of Lord Reckage), the Bishop of Hadley (her father), the Duke and Duchess of Bevensey, 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." [Footnote: 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 Pensee."

"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. Pensee 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.