Oct., 1869.—I am once more at Almouth House. Beauclerk's consideration for me is almost more than I can bear. The rest is not borne. If it were not cowardly, I would go away alone, and brood at my leisure and yield to the appalling yet all but irresistible wretchedness which calls me, which I actually crave. An effort not to depress or discourage others may be right and my duty. I cannot be sure of this. Sometimes I feel as though it would be wiser to meet the dark hours and make acquaintance with them.... And what is to become of her? The longing to see her—even in the distance....

To-night I talked with Reckage about his Bond of Association. Most of the members feel toward him that insipid kind of hatred which passes for friendship in public life. If he were naturally observant, he would see this; if he were given at all to self-doubt, he would feel it. But his way is to regard most men as ill-mannered and well-meaning.

Tuesday.—Another day. I begin to see that I have been called to make every sacrifice—marriage, ambition, happiness, all must be abandoned: abandoned while I live, not after I have made myself, by years of self-discipline, indifferent to such considerations.... But for its piety, the Imitation is, I think, the most pessimistic book in the world. The Exercises of St. Ignatius (perhaps because he was a saint) produce quite an opposite effect upon me; they exhort us to hope, action, courage. They make one a citizen of both worlds. Merely to read him is a campaign in the open air against a worthy foe. I defy any man to go through the Exercises with his whole heart, and even whine again. I have resolved to write willingly no more, to speak willingly no more, on the subject of my marriage. That page is turned for ever: there shall be no glancing back. Moods inevitably must come; spasms of despair are as little tractable as spasms of physical pain. But I can at least keep silent about their true cause. The first step toward the cure of egoism is to lock away one's Journal. I shall add no more to this till I have mastered my present state. And I wonder what that mastery will mean? Are some victories better lost?

The Journal ends abruptly at this point, and no more was added that year. His letter to Lord Wight has been preserved because his lordship sent it to Pensee in some anger, begging her to explain such callousness. Pensee, being a woman, brought a gentler understanding to the inquiry.

"Don't you see," she said, "that his heart is broken?"

"I see," returned his lordship drily, "he is a born R. C. ecclesiastic. Religious instinct is the ruling passion of Orange. That poor young woman—with whom he is madly in love—was merely an accident of his career. She has affected his character—yes. I suppose Cardinal Manning's wife had her influence in her day. But Robert will work better than ever after this. Whereas look at me, my dear. When I lost Sybil, I was completely done for. I tried to set up for myself, but I couldn't. I hope I am a Christian; God forbid that I should quarrel with His will. Yet I cannot think I am a better man for my poor darling's death. Don't talk to me. Don't say anything."

The letter in question ran as follows:—

ALMOUTH HOUSE.

MY DEAR LORD WIGHT,—

The messages which you have sent by Lady Fitz Rewes have helped me where I most needed assistance. When I tell you this, it would be more possible for you to imagine my gratitude than for me to express it—at least, in words, and for that matter I can't see how any act of mine could prove even a fraction of it. Shall I resume my work on the 28th? I have had to learn that one does not always choose one's vocation. It is sometimes chosen for us. May I beg you, as one more favour, never to talk to me about the events of the last fortnight? In one sense I am able—too able—to discuss them. This is why I must not indulge myself. In times to come I may find it, perhaps, a certain effort to speak of it all. Then I will tell you gladly anything your kindness may seek to know. But just now it is my duty to keep silent. One cannot fight the wild beasts, and describe them fairly, at the same hour. Either they seem more formidable than they are, or they are even more terrible than they seem. But the order has gone forth—"Face them."

Your affectionate and grateful,

ROBERT de H. ORANGE.

Robert himself, after he had written this final letter, decided to reply in person to a note which he had received that morning from Lady Sara. He walked to St. James's Square wondering, without much interest, whether Fate would have her absent or at home. As a matter of fact, she had felt a presentiment of his call, and he found her, beautifully dressed in violet tints, copying some Mass music in the drawing-room.

"I hoped you would come," she said, when the servant had closed the door. "Nothing else could have shown me that you didn't mind my writing. I had to write. I wrote badly, but indeed I understood. It takes an eternity to sound the infinite. We won't talk of you: we can talk about other people. Ask me what I have been doing."

All this time she held his hand, but in such sisterly, kind fashion, that he felt more at ease with her than it was ever possible to be with Pensee, who was timid, and therefore disturbing.

"Have you accepted Marshire?" he asked at once.

"No," she said, blushing; "I do not love him sufficiently to marry him."

"How is this?"

"You know that I always fly from important mediocrities. You think that sounds heartless. He has been so kind to me. But I love as I must—not as I ought. My dear friend, all the trouble in life is due to forced affection. Look at Beauclerk! Think of Agnes Carillon! What fiery fierceness of sorrow in both their hearts! Papa and I were at Lady Churleigh's last Sunday. Agnes was there, looking, believe me, lovely. No portrait does her justice. One finds marvellous beauty, now and again, in the middle classes. She is an exquisite bourgeoise. She is not clever enough to feel bored; she is too well brought up to be fascinating; too handsome to insist on homage. Plain women are exacting and capricious—they make themselves worth while. Il faut se faire valoir! That is why a man will often adore an ugly woman for ever, whereas an Agnes—an Agnes——"

She paused, gave him a glance, and laughed.

"Does Beauclerk adore Agnes?" said she.

"Can one man judge another in these questions?"

"If neither are hypocrites—yes."

"As for conscious hypocrisy, a priest of great experience once told me that in twenty years he had met but one deliberate hypocrite. You must be less cynical. Men, however, don't watch each other closely as a rule in sentimental matters."

"If that is a reproof, I thank you for it," she answered. "It may do me good. This wayward soul of mine is all wrong. Be patient with me. I can't help thinking that most men living are, at the bottom, wholly selfish and truly miserable."

"Very few people are truly miserable. If this were not the case, the world and all creatures must have perished long ago."

"Well, I can tell you of three wretches at any rate."

"Three—against the world and all the planets and heaven?" said he.

"Yes. They are Beauclerk, and Agnes and I. We want time and space annihilated in order that we may be happy. We must be humorous studies to those looking on, but we are, nevertheless, utterly desperate. This is true. Scold me now—if you can. Tell me what is to become of us—if you dare."

She stood up. She clenched her small hands, set her lips, and grew so pale that the pearls around her neck seemed dark.

"Tell me what is to become of us—if you dare," she repeated, "because mischief is certain. You belong to those who endure and fight good fights, and keep the faith. Beauclerk and I are of another order altogether. We suffer without endurance, we fight without winning, and the little faith we have is so little that it is taken away from us. As for Agnes—wait! She is encased, at present, in conventionalities. But she is gradually getting rid of these wrappings and trappings. She will surprise you all yet."

"I can believe that. She is a woman, and a good one. All the surprising, inconceivable things are done by good women."

"And most of the wicked things, too."

"Possibly."

"Let me tell you then that, if it is possible in the circumstances, Agnes ought to give Beauclerk his release. It would be no more than his right to demand this."

"A right is something independent of circumstances, and paramount to them. But when you once talk of your rights and your wrongs in love, all love is gone, or going. I hope it hasn't come to that—with Reckage!"

"You have great knowledge of him and know how to press it home when you choose. Can't you see, plainly enough, that he is on the road to disaster?"

"No. One may easily be a long way from happiness and still be nowhere near disaster," he said, checking a deep sigh. "Of course, if he feels that he cannot in honour remain in his present situation, he must act at once. Men who are desirous to satisfy all their friends soon become irresolute on every occasion. That is all I shall say upon the subject, and this, perhaps, may be saying more than I ought."

"Another reproof! So be it. But I am thinking of his contentment, and you are thinking of his duty. What is duty? It generally means that which your acquaintances—for no reason and without warrant—expect of you. I take a larger view."

"People of Beauclerk's stamp are so constituted that they can rarely find contentment by defying a general opinion."

"But Agnes is not a pretty, crying, fluttering creature who would excite compassion. Who, for instance, could jilt Pensee? I don't wish Beauclerk to jilt anybody, however. I want Agnes to take the step."

"Why?" he asked.

"Because he will break his heart and die—if she doesn't. There!"

"Then it will be your fault."

"Mr. Orange!"

"You know it, and I mean it."

She smiled at him and shrugged her shoulders.

"Do you think I would ever take the commonplace course?" she said proudly. "I did hope that you could appreciate motives for which the world at large is slow enough to give credit. Beauclerk is weak, attractive, and in perplexity; I search my heart again and again, and I find nothing but friendship there—for him. I am careful of every word I speak, and every look, and every thought. My interest is unselfish. But," she added, "what can any of us do, after all, toward raising either dead bodies or dead souls?"

"Dead souls?"

"Yes. Beauclerk might have been something once; he is still very clever; he will soon be a man for occasional addresses. I believe in him, you see."

"I know that."

She was smiling, yet almost in tears, and her voice trembled. He wished to speak, if only to break the sudden, oppressive silence which followed her last words; but neither of them could find a thought to offer. They sat facing each other, lost in following out unutterable conjectures, fancies, and doubts, each painfully aware of a certain mystery, each filled with a sure premonition of troubles to come.

"I could almost pray," she exclaimed at last, "that you didn't trust him. Because—in spite of himself—he must disappoint every one. He is not a deliberate traitor—but a born one."

As Sara spoke the double doors were thrown open.

Lord Reckage was announced.

"Beauclerk!" she exclaimed.

His lordship, self-absorbed, did not perceive her confusion—which she was too young to dissemble perfectly.

"The man told me that you were here," he said, addressing Orange and seating himself by Sara. "I call this luck—finding you both together. I have just been with my Committee. They always expect the worst of me now, and they are always cheerful in the expectation."

Sara began to disentangle some silk fringe on her skirt; she did not look up, and she offered no comment.

"What is the matter now?" asked Robert.

"They want to get rid of me. You see, one might practise very considerably on the credulity of the members if one chose, and these fellows on the Executive wish me to take a cautious line with regard to Dr. Temple's nomination.[Footnote: Mr. Gladstone's nomination of Dr. Temple to the See of Exeter.] It is all very well for Pusey to write, 'Do you prefer your party to Almighty God and to the souls of men?' But, as Aumerle says, Pusey is not in the House of Commons. An attack on Temple will be highly unpopular. We have sounded opinion in various quarters, and we receive the unanimous reply—'Have nothing to do with it.' There is a feeling in the clubs, too, that vapid, colourless orthodoxy is not wanted in England. Healthy disagreement within limits suits us. The question is, then: Ought I to go against this strong tide and get myself disliked?"

"Yes," said Sara at once.

"You think so?"

"Beyond a doubt."

"Of course," said his lordship, readily enough, "a combination in defence of any article of the faith is a noble thing. My original idea was to get up a combination of High and Low and Broad Churchmen, and make a stand on purely legal grounds. For instance, how can the bishops, without previous explanation, consecrate one lying under the censure of their House? That is all. There is nothing offensive in that. We merely ask for an explanation: we offer no judgment: we state no prejudice. If Dr. Temple intends to withdraw his paper from Essays and Reviews—well and good. Personally, he bears the highest character. He would be, in many ways, an acquisition to the Church. But does he himself believe in the Church as a Divine institution—mark you, a Divine institution? Neither the Outs nor the Ins, I should think, could object to this question. Aumerle and the Executive, however, are dead against any proceedings at all. They think we ought to give our Association a more secular character. They say we are hampered by too vehement a religious tone. They say that broad Christian principles are more workable. Besides, the word Christian always attracts the Nonconformists in spite of themselves. They are bound to support you if you stick to the line of a believer in Christ—irrespective of particular doctrines. And so on and so on. I prefer something more hard and fast myself. Yet they may be right. One must go with the times."

He shifted his chair several times during this speech, looking first at Orange and then at Sara for encouragement.

"Your Executive are poor creatures," said Sara, with a curling lip; "your weak theologians have become flabby politicians—their one rule of action is to avoid everything which demands even the possibility of self-sacrifice or adverse criticism."

"That is most unfair," said Reckage hotly. "One must see where one is going."

"The world," said Sara, "in the long run, despises those who pander to it."

"Yes, but it is in the long run, and no mistake! What a fellow you are, Robert! Why don't you suggest something? Are you trying to find the civilest thing you can say of the performance?"

"It is the system which you must attack in the present difficulty. The system is at fault—not Dr. Temple," said Robert.

"No other system can be now looked to as a substitute," answered Reckage impatiently. "The thing cannot be done away now, the danger is too near."

"Exactly. The English can never deal with systems or ideas. They can only attack individuals—you depend in a crisis on the passions of men, never on their reason. Whereas if you overhauled their reason, worked it, and trained it, the passions, at the critical moment, would be roused with better effect, and would be properly organised. Organised passions are what you need for a strong public movement. Whirling emotions in contrary currents are utterly futile."

"I daresay. I hoped we might make such efforts as to fix a lasting impression on both Houses that the State appointment of bishops, coupled with the farce of a conge d'elire, is rank blasphemy. This outrage on good taste ought to occupy the attention of every man. It is quite enough to fill the minds of all."

"It won't," said Robert. "You must remember that whatever strikes the mind of an average man, as the result of his own observation and discovery, makes always the strongest impression upon him. Now the average man is not engaged in studying Church government. He will not thank you for calling his attention to it."

"Then what do you want Beauclerk to do?" asked Sara.

"He must fight just the same, of course. I merely wish him to see what he has to encounter. By dragging the clergy into the movement you make it savour—to the popular intelligence—of professional jealousy. By making Dr. Temple your example, you render those who respect his character powerless to express their opinion. Given the system, he is unquestionably the fittest man to profit by it."

Reckage took many turns round the room.

"The personal character of Dean Ethbin," he said, at last, "is not exactly square. He acts a trimming part. But now and again he sums up a situation. He says that the English people do not choose to keep up an Established Church which shall be independent of its Sovereign and Legislature. I have seen most of the bishops and archdeacons. They are against Temple; they say very little about the system. Even men with nothing to gain by it," he added, ingenuously, "don't appear to criticise it."

"For all that, the Church must deliver her conscience at whatever risk. She ought to assert her will—even against her interest—in order to show England that she is her own mistress!"

"You mean that ironically! What does for Rome, however, doesn't do for us. The Church of England is It—not She—to most people. As for Rome, nothing in her belongs to humanity, except the Vatican discipline—the life of which, I confess, is a permanent miracle!"

"My best friends," entreated Sara gaily, "do not—do not fight. Be nice to each other and listen to me. The English never read history. Why not get up a kind of Historical Commission and examine the validity of the Anglican Orders? There you can work at the roots of things. After that, introduce a Bill for the admission of clergymen to Parliament. You have spiritual peers, why not spiritual Commons?"

"One at a time," said Reckage; "what ideas you have! Say them again. I believe they are not half bad. But do go more slowly."

Sara, with a becoming instinct of meekness, took her favourite seat on the fender, and at the feet of the two men, looking up humbly, began to explain herself with that lightness of phrase only possible to those who have a profound knowledge of their subject. Her submissive attitude, her soft, musical voice, and her docile expression made both men insensible to the actual commands insinuated into the emotional wit and acute arguments of her little speech. Reckage was fascinated. He sat there drinking in her beauty and wisdom—the one stimulated his senses, the other pierced his intelligence, making him feel that, with such a companion ever by his side, he might achieve heroism with a good conscience. As matters were, he was often dissatisfied, sleepless, and oppressed—particularly under praise. He was not often set right, as he would have said it, in his own opinion—even when the world and his Executive Committee were disposed to cry out—"Well done."

"I didn't run within pounds of my form," was the cry of self-reproach he invariably heard above the applause of his colleagues or the commendation of the Press. Sara, he believed, would give him the courage of his own better nature. These thoughts were passing rosily in his heart, when Lord Garrow, accompanied by Agnes Carillon, entered the room.

"My love," said Lord Garrow to Sara, "I met Miss Carillon on the steps of the London Library, and I have brought her in to tea. But why do you sit in the firelight? Why haven't they lit the gas? And who is here?"

A sudden flame from the grate illuminated the faces of Orange and Lord Reckage. The two ladies greeted each other. All spoke, and then all were silent. It was an awkward meeting for every one present. Lord Garrow rang the bell, and the small company sat there without a word, watching the footman light the gas in the glass chandelier.

"What do you suppose we have been talking about?" asked Sara desperately.

"I can't imagine, my dear," said her father. "I am far too cross. I hate these odd ways."

"We were discussing the validity of Anglican Orders."

"God bless my soul!" exclaimed his lordship; "what next?"

Agnes, who was looking pale and worried, frowned with displeasure.

"But how disloyal!" she said severely. "As if one could even discuss such a question!"

"Mr. Orange is a Roman Catholic," answered Sara, "so he is not disloyal. I am nothing—so I have no obligations. Lord Reckage is in public life and has to meet the problems of the age. Don't be narrow, dear Agnes."

"I think it too bad, all the same," replied Miss Carillon—"even in fun. I am sure I am right."

Lord Reckage tried to conceal his annoyance, but his voice shook a little as he said—

"We were not joking. New men will come in, not improbably with new ideas. I must be ready for them. An ignorance of men's moods is fatal."

He hoped she would take this warning to herself. She was, however, too stirred to consider anything except the cause of their common agitation.

"Dr. Benson was saying to papa only last week," she answered, "that there is no apparent recognition of the Divine presence in our daily affairs. It is most shocking."

"The clergy are doing their level best, by bigotry, to make Benson's assertion true. At any rate, I am not going about, as the French put it, with my paws in the air. I feel strongly tempted to throw up my present line, and give the whole Association to the best qualified hypocrite of my acquaintance."

"The sure way out of that temptation is not to think yourself exposed to it," said Robert quickly.

"I hate sophistries," said Agnes, tightening her lips. "And I hope, Beauclerk, that you will never remain in any painful situation against your will."

These words seemed to bear an ominous significance. Agnes herself, having uttered them, received one of those sudden inward illuminations which, in some natures, amount to second-sight. But she was unimaginative and not especially observant, sensitive, or skilled in discerning the signs of any psychological disturbance. She felt only, on this occasion, that a crisis had been reached, that Reckage was vexed with himself, with her, with life generally. She had a letter in her pocket from David Rennes—a beautiful, touching letter, full of longing for a faith, a hope—love, he said, he possessed, alas! What a difference in the two men!

"You don't understand," said Sara. "You are right because you haven't heard enough. Mr. Orange is going to give a lecture on Church History, and Lord Reckage has promised to be chairman. They will hold the meeting at St. James's Hall, and I am sure it will be most interesting. More I cannot tell you, because they have gone no further in their plans."

But misfortune had entered the room, and that wayfarer—once admitted—asserts her ill-will without let or hindrance. Agnes, barely touching her tea, rose to say goodbye. Lord Garrow and Reckage escorted her to the hall. They helped her into a carriage (lent her for that afternoon by the Duchess of Pevensey), and she drove away, trembling, tearful, afraid, not reminding her fiance that they were to meet at dinner in the evening. He walked homeward, but not until he had decided, after much hesitation, that he could scarcely go back again to Lady Sara. His thoughts were fixed now to one refrain—"I must have my freedom." Freedom, at that moment, had a mocking, lovely face, the darkest blue eyes, and quantities of long, black hair. She wore a violet dress, her hands were white, and she talked like a Blue Book set to music by Beethoven. Yes, he must have his freedom and live.

Sara and Orange, meanwhile, left alone in the drawing-room, were exchanging interrogatory glances, "What do you think now?" she asked; "do you pretend to believe that Agnes and Beauclerk can make each other even moderately contented?"

"Then you are to blame."

A flush swept over her face. She looked bitter reproaches, but she made no answer.

"And why are you so interested in Anglican Orders?" he continued. "How is it that you know your subject so well? For you do know it well."

"Catholic questions always appeal to me," she said coldly. "I have no religion, but I come from a race of politicians and soldiers—on my mother's side. I must have an intellectual pied a terre, and I require a good cause. Party politics are too parochial for me. So I am on the side of the Vatican."

"La reine s'amuse," said Robert. "Is that all?"

"Yes, that's all."

She turned over the music on her writing-table and hummed some bars from the Kyrie of Mozart's Twelfth Mass.

"If you were a Jesuit," said she, "you would try to convert me."

"St. Ignatius never wasted time over insincere women."

"I am not insincere," she said frankly. "I own I may seem so. But you are not kind, and some day you may be sorry for this."

Her eyes filled with tears—which he noticed and attributed to fatigue.

"I wonder how men ever accomplish anything!" she exclaimed.

"Why?"

"They have no insight. They mistake self-control for coldness, and despair for flippancy. Isn't that the case?"

"One can be light and true as well as light and false. Now you are witty, beautiful, brilliant—but you don't always ring true."

She seemed confused for a minute, and hung her head.

"All the same," she said, suddenly, "I am always sincere with you. It is not in my power to be so with every one. 'Fate overrules my will.'"

"That is the trouble with most of us."

Then he wished her goodbye, promising, however, to call again with regard to the Meeting. Lord Garrow met him on the staircase.

"I congratulate you on your election to Brookes's," stammered his lordship, "but for Heaven's sake be cautious at play. Really, the younger men there are trying to revive the worst traditions in gaming. The loo was rather high at Chetwynd's last night," he added, with a studied air of guilt. "I won L500 from my host. I call that the limit—even on old Cabinet Steinberg!"

He smiled, he waved his hand, feeling that he had displayed great taste in a situation of enormous difficulty. Something unusual, too, in the young man's face touched his heart. It seemed to him that here was one who had felt the world's buffets.

"I have never been just in my estimate of Mr. Orange," said he to Sara, as he re-entered the drawing-room. "I quite took to him to-day. He has a fine countenance, and I am sure he is very much cut up by this painful affair. It's a pity he's a Catholic, for he would make such an excellent canon for St. Paul's. He would look the part so well."

"'Happiness, that nymph with unreturning feet,' has passed him by," said Sara, watching herself in one of the mirrors.

"She has passed a good many," sighed his lordship. "But play me that lovely air which Titiens sings in Il Flauto Magico."



CHAPTER XVI

Agnes was too ill to appear at the Duchess of Pevensey's dinner that evening. Lord Reckage's melancholy, absent air during the entertainment, and his early withdrawal from the distinguished party, were referred, with sympathy, to the very proper distress he felt at Miss Carillon's tiresome indisposition. The time passed well enough for him—far better, in fact, than he had expected, for he was relieved from the strain of "dancing attendance" on his betrothed—a thing which he, even more than most men, found silly. In the chivalrous days of tournaments, troubadours and crusades this romantic exercise of seeming enslaved was, he held, justifiable, even interesting. But in modern life it had an appearance of over-emphasis.

Poor Agnes, however, could neither eat, nor sleep, nor rest. Her temples throbbed, her eyes ached; every nerve was a barbed wire; her soul was manacled by promises; she would not use her reason; the fever in her veins was not to be quelled, and the one agitating relief to her physical suffering was a constant perusal of David Rennes's letter. It was the first passionate love-letter she had ever received. Just as a river may stream peacefully through pastoral lands till it joins the sea and becomes one with that vast element of unrest, so the little flame of her girl's nature was absorbed at last into the great fire underlying all humanity. Was she in love? she asked herself. When she was with Rennes she became silent, incapable of conversation, of thought. All she asked was to be near him, to watch him, to hear him.

Was this love? Was it love to press his letter to her heart, to read it again and again, to keep it under her pillow at night? Was it love to think of him every moment of the day, to compare all others to him and find them wanting, to see his face always before her eyes? Was it love to know that if he called her, as he called her now, she would leave home, father, mother, friends, all things, all people, and follow him to the world's end, to the beginning of hell, or—further? At one-and-twenty such questions need no answer. They belong to the innocent rhetoric of youth which will cry out to June, "Are you fair?" and to the autumnal moon in mist, "Must there be rain?" Neither June nor the moon make reply, but youth has no doubts. The girl, weeping tears of joy over Rennes's perilous words, had but one clear regret in her mind—she could not see him for some hours. His declaration dispelled the terrible bitterness, scepticism, and indifference to all sentiment which had gradually permeated, during their acquaintance, her whole heart. Repulsed affection may turn to hatred in haughty, impatient souls. But in Agnes it produced a moral languor—a mental indolence—the feeling that no one was in earnest, and nothing ought to matter. The more this feeling deepened, the more attentively did she observe the mere outward etiquette of all that passes for seriousness, attending scrupulously to the minor obligations of existence and exhausting her courage in those petty matters which die with the day and yield no apparent fruit. How different now seemed the colourless, harsh fabric which she had mistaken for duty and wrapped—as a shroud—about her secret hopes! She had held every aspiration implying happiness as a "proverb of reproach"; she had endeavoured to believe that all poetry—except hymns—was false prophecy leading one to hard entanglements and grievous falls.

And what had been the impoverishment of her soul under this grim discipline? How could she tell the many thoughts which had travelled unquestioned over the highway of her heart during that process of disillusion? But all was changed now, and all that had been difficult, painful or obscure in the world seemed perfect with the inexhaustible glory of young passion. Rennes begged her to see him once more before he left England for some years. Would she meet him in Kensington Gardens? She had often walked there, under the old trees, with himself and Mrs. Rennes, and the place had become very dear, very familiar to her from these associations. At any other time, however, the idea of a clandestine meeting with David would have been intolerable. To go now was misery, yet she dared not stay away. The sunny morning mixed with her mood, which was one of determination to risk all in order to win all. Driven by a sense of her capabilities for endurance, she faced, with a kind of exultation, the possible disaster or remorse which might follow her action. Was there not a possible joy also? For ten days now she had been ill in body as well as mind; she had suffered a hard struggle. She knew now that she could not, could not, could not, no matter what happened, become the wife of Lord Reckage. The result of great self-delusion for so long a period was a condition of mind in which she was practically unable to distinguish between candour and disingenuousness. Any appearance of deceit—which she regarded as wrong in itself—always excited her scorn, but desperation now urged a step which might lead, she thought, to much good or much evil. That it could lead to more evil than a loveless marriage was not, however, to be feared. She started from the house with feverish cheeks, a beating pulse, and a new strange consciousness of power—power over herself, her fate, the world.

Rennes was waiting for her under the long avenue of trees by the Lancaster Gate walk. She had a tall, stately figure of that type immortalised by Du Maurier—indeed, she herself may be recognised in some of his famous society sketches about the year 1870. The clear, decisive features, the tender discerning expression, the poise of the head, were irresistibly attractive to all artists with a strong sense of grace—even artificial grace—as opposed to rude vigour or homeliness. She possessed naturally that almost unreal elegance which many painters—Frederick Walker, for instance—have been accused of inventing.

"This is very wrong of me," she said, blushing as Rennes advanced, hat in hand, to meet her, "very wrong. I never do these things."

"I said in my letter—right or wrong it matters not—what I thought. This is a thing which runs up into eternity, Agnes. It had to be. We needn't try to justify it."

"I cannot—I dare not regard it as you do."

"But you have come! Let me look at you!"

"Does it require much looking to see that I am really unhappy?"

"I see that you are beautiful, that you are here—with me. Ah, don't be unhappy! When we take into account our scanty time together"—he grew pale at the thought—"and the danger we have just missed of losing each other, perhaps for ever——" She caught his hand for a second and he kept it.

"What is to be done?" she asked, after an agitated silence. "What will people say? Not that I can think of anything to do."

"Darling, I know I have asked you to make an impossible sacrifice—to break off a most brilliant marriage, to marry me and share the despair, hardships, tortures of a life very different to any you have seen. Well has Goethe said—

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

This is what I offer you, dearest. You can hardly realise what a wretched, desolate existence mine has been. Resignation is a miserable refuge. They say work gives one contentment, but unless one is servile and gives in to the spirit of the age, it is rarely understood till one is dead. And so the discouragement is perpetual. Even your sympathy would pain me at such times. I feel then—as I feel now—that I will grasp Fate by the throat; it shall not utterly crush me."

"But," said Agnes, a little frightened at this outburst, "do you never think of God and His Will?"

He returned her anxious glance with gloomy, almost compassionate amazement.

"Does God think of me?" he asked. "Really, I cannot feel that the salvation of my soul is so important. Indeed, any idea of immortality is awful How could it ever be a consolation—except to a smug, very self-satisfied egoism? Call it the burden—or the cross of immortality—if you call it anything. I wish it could be proved that we end when we die. But physicians dissect dead bodies to find the soul. It would not be a soul if they could find it in the dead. And imagine one becoming penitent when the day of grace is over!"

"I keep Clement's words before me, 'The Lord who died for us is not our enemy.' Surely that is a splendid thought against final despair."

"Many thoughts are splendid," he replied, "if we could believe them now as the early Christians did in the first centuries."

Agnes, with parted, whitening lips, could find no response. Rennes painted her afterwards in the same attitude, and with all he remembered of her expression, in his now famous picture, Pilate's Wife.

"You will never be happy—never," she murmured at last. "But perhaps no one is happy."

"I can grant that the saints were always profoundly happy. Let me tell you why. The state of the saint is one of dependence. His convictions, therefore, are enduring and unclouded. He accepts his trials as privileges; he loses all sense of his own identity; his humanity is merged in God; his ecstasies lift him up to heaven and bring him down to a transfigured earth. He has been bought with a ransom, and he is the co-heir with Christ. He is found worthy of suffering. But with artists, all is different. The saint is in search of holiness. The artist thinks chiefly of beauty. Holiness is a state of mind—it is something permanent. Beauty, however, mocks one half the time—it may be a deception. Anyhow, one cannot define it, or keep it, or even satisfactorily catch it. Our inspired moments, therefore, alternate with a miserable knowledge of our individual wretchedness. We learn that we are no stronger than our individuality. That is the barrier between us and our visions. The saint has God before his eyes, and he carries Him in his heart. The artist sees only himself and bears only the weight of his own incompetence. But these, darling, are not the things I meant to say to you, although they may explain my life. The common run of people wouldn't understand all this in the least."

"I want to hear all—I want to enter into all your thoughts, David. I have always known that those who devote themselves to the study of what is sublime and beautiful suffer proportionately from the squalor of actual facts."

She quoted from one or her father's speeches which he invariably gave with much earnestness at the opening of schools of art and similar institutions.

"The world," replied Rennes, "rewards the beautiful only inasmuch as it flatters the senses, and the sublime remains—so far as the general taste is concerned—altogether without response."

"But one would think," said Agnes, "that you were a disappointed or an unsuccessful man, whereas every one admires your genius."

He laughed at her practical bent, which seemed the more fascinating because of her picturesque appearance.

"One often feels cast down without the least cause," said he; "the truth is we all want more praise than we get. We are a vain lot, that's the trouble. Let me paint myself in the blackest colours. You must know the worst—you must realise the bad bargain you may make. Reckage would never bore and tire you in this way. How can you care for me?"

"It is hard!" she said, smiling.

"Darling! Do you remember the white violets at Woodbridge, and sitting on that gate looking across that deep valley at the bonfires? Wasn't it perfect? Look through these trees now—see the flames and smoke? They are burning dead leaves and twigs. I wish I could burn my past. This may be a good omen for me. But I must not deceive you; that would be a bad beginning."

"We must decide on some course," said Agnes. "Your letter was quite clear, but I suppose I am not going on as I ought to do. My present position is that of a person telling a lie to people. Before you wrote, however, I had made up my mind to some change. I could give no good grounds for carrying out my engagement to Beauclerk. The motives would not bear examination. I intended to be patient till the way was mercifully cleared for me. Even birds, in cold weather, grow tame from distress. So I waited in a dull, frozen way for what might happen."

He remembered, with a pang of remorse, that he had once called this devoted woman an accomplished, incurable Philistine.

"I must put myself in the wrong with regard to Beauclerk," she continued quietly. "That is merely fair to him. Every one shall know that I have been weak and vacillating. May God forgive me and humble me—for I shall not be understood, even by many good people. But the next worst thing to making an error is to abide by it. Dear David, try to follow my feeling. It has all passed in my mind in such a way that it is impossible for me to describe it. In a sense, giving Reckage up seems to uproot me altogether from all my former life, and the future is only not a blank because it is such a mystery. I am sure, though, that sorrow is never in God's ordinance the whole law of life. These are great compensations."

"Anything is better than to sit still and dream," said Rennes. "I have dreamt too long. I find solitude oppressive. Yet you will admit how dreadful it is to live among those who don't know or don't care a bit about art."

"But there are other interests equally engrossing."

"Not to me. And even Epicurean advice is only the way to ignominious, contemptible happiness. I must have an ideal life or else annihilation—splendid misery or splendid content—nothing between the two."

"You have not half showed your capabilities yet," replied Agnes. "We have to look upon this world as the merest pilgrimage, but we can help each other. I have hope because I have faith. Sara de Treverell said the other day that, in men, experience often makes mere callousness of character. Is this true, David?"

"Not of me; you have saved me from the worst things. But it simply worries and almost exasperates me to hear religious talk from any one. When I hear a sermon I feel an inclination always to say, 'My dear fellow, can't you put your case better?' I want good stuff about Divine and human nature—not this vagueness and platitude. Why don't they tell one something about the optimism of God, even before the spectacle of men's weakness? But, instead, we are told to moan about this vale of tears; we are promised chastisements, disappointments, woes, persecution. A philosophy of suffering makes men strong, but a philosophy of despair is bound to make a generation of pleasure-seekers."

"And why?"

"Because the veritable world, even on its bare merits, is not so bad. It is full of beauty, and interest, and enjoyment. It is a lie to call it so many vile names. One's good sense revolts. Do you think, darling, that I could look at you, love you, be loved by you, and call life a bad joke?"

Since the beginning of time this logic has held its own against all scientific criticism. The two, being secure from observation, kissed each other and accepted the earth with perfect cheerfulness. They made some plans, and after the agony of parting till the next day, each went home to write the other a long letter. In the course of the afternoon Rennes passed through Arlington Street four times in a hansom and twice on foot. Agnes was always at one of the windows innocently observing the weather. He thought her the loveliest thing created. He pitied, with benevolence, all other men, and he spent an hour at his solicitor's office, without begrudging the time, or chafing under the fatigue.

Two days later Lord Reckage received the following communication from Miss Carillon:—

MY DEAR BEAUCLERK,—

This letter will astonish and grieve you. I have written several. None please me. All say too much and yet leave all unsaid. I must send this one and trust to your generosity. I am wholly to blame, wholly in the wrong. I am no actress but I have been acting a part—the part of a happy woman. My effort has deceived many—Papa, Mamma, and, I believe, you among them. Dear Beauclerk, you will think me ungrateful, false, weak. I don't excuse myself. As I have said, the blame is all mine, and the punishment must be all mine.

When you receive this I shall have left England with Mr. Rennes. He had arranged to go to the East for a long time. (This will show you how little he anticipated any change in my plans.) When I realised that I should have to say goodbye to him, probably for ever, I found myself unequal to the trial. I could not let him go alone. It is bad for me to dwell too much on my feelings. I ought to admit, however, that I have known all along, in a sort of way, that I should have to give in if he put the matter before me. I dislike the talk one hears so often about inevitability—much of it is made an excuse for appalling selfishness. At the same time, I understand what is meant and feel strongly, that, while I am using my own will—I cannot use it, with a good conscience, otherwise. Can you follow this? In reality, I was disloyal to Mr. Rennes when I became engaged to you. I was impatient, wilful, blind. I did you both an irreparable—yes, an irreparable injustice. He must always think me fickle, and you will always condemn my weakness. I dare not ask you to forgive me. I dare not hope for contentment after such a bad beginning. One of Papa's favourite texts rings in my ears—"Is it a small thing for you to weary men, but will ye weary my God also?" I mustn't be insincere with God. But I do want you to see that my affection for Mr. Rennes has taken such a hold of my life that I simply cannot fight against it. I am not sentimental, as you know: I can be quite as sensible as other people about life and its obligations. I don't expect romance or joy. Had I, by any misfortune, met Mr. Rennes after my marriage with you, I cannot bear to think what might have happened. It isn't nice of me to say this. It is a painful, humiliating reflection, and you won't like to think that you ever cared—even a little—for any one so unworthy. In your kindness you will say that this isn't like me. But indeed it is the real me. You have known the unreal, sham me. Every one of my friends will be surprised. I am not surprised. And oh! the relief to be quite, quite natural and straightforward at last. Nothing to pretend, nothing to hide. I wish you had never known me. Your ideals are so noble, and you depended on me to realise a few of them. I think of the plans we made, the hopes we formed. Alas! they were not for me. I am going forward into the darkness. I don't see one ray of light. Yet I haven't one misgiving or the least fear, because I have the unalterable conviction that I am fulfilling my true destiny—whatever it may be, good or evil.

All will agree that you are well rid of me. This is my consolation. You have been kind, considerate, affectionate, thoughtful always. And I have failed you.

Forget me, and never judge other women by me. I have been exceptionally foolish.

Your wretched friend,

AGNES CARILLON.

His lordship's emotion on reading this letter was one of relief for himself—but pity and terror for the girl. He was sincerely fond of Agnes, and the defiant misery of her words filled him with forebodings. But the sense of his own restored liberty soon dominated every other feeling; and his anxiety about Miss Carillon's future found complete assuagement in the thought that character, under suffering, came out with an energy and intensity which made, indisputably, for progress.

When the news, after twenty-four hours, became known, Agnes's wish to place herself in the wrong, beyond sympathy, or hope of pardon, was freely gratified. No criticism seemed too harsh for her conduct. No voice was lifted in mitigation of her offence. Rennes was excused, because he was an artist, erratic and passionate, and she was unfortunately beautiful. The poor old Bishop, however, rallied under the shock, preached more vigorously than ever, and showed a proud countenance to his daughter's adversaries. When he was able to announce to his friends—after a painful fortnight of suspense—that the young couple had travelled to Rome with Mrs. Rennes, and been married at the English Embassy there, he gave way to a little illness and indulged his grief. One could surrender to legalised folly; one could name it. But sin and scandal could only be faced by an implacable reserve. "I may die of dismay," said he to his wife, "but I will not die of disgrace."



CHAPTER XVII

Scandal, meanwhile, was collecting her eager forces for a great campaign against the Orange marriage. It was unanimously decided that the affair could not be hushed up. Sympathy—within wise limits—was on the side of the lovers, but sympathy, nevertheless, expressed a desire to hear fuller particulars. Society journalism was, at that time, just coming into vogue, and the weekly papers contained several references to the strange rumour of an approaching divorce. Hartley Penborough and the members of the Capitol Club were wondering what line they ought to take. They intended to stand by Robert, but they did not wish to advertise their loyalty. The Carlton set were divided into two camps—those who thought Orange unlucky, and those who thought him an alien adventurer. So far as these opinions touched his career, both were damaging. The friends of Lord Wight and Lady Fitz Rewes had always been jealous of the young man. They discussed him now with ferocious pity, announcing his ruin in every circle. Sara de Treverell's associates were mostly of the Diplomatic Corps. These, well informed about Alberian affairs and Parflete's history, feared much mischief. The old Catholics were dismayed at the new convert's entanglement—especially as he had recently been elected to Parliament. The more timorous among them—in a panic—entertained unfounded doubts about his orthodoxy, and the rest deplored the injudicious attention bestowed on mere recruits to the Ancient Faith. Converts then were looked upon, in England, with a certain suspicion. At that period the magnificent services of Dr. Newman and Cardinal Manning were far more appreciated at Rome than they were in the drawing-rooms of English Catholic society. Orange, following his own instincts and the advice of Newman, avoided rather than sought the small group which attempted to make the Eternal Church a Select Committee of the Uncommonly Good. To one who had spent his youth in a great Catholic nation, and came himself from one of the princely families of France, the servitude necessarily involved by the fact of joining any coterie—no matter how agreeable—could possess no sort of attraction. His Catholic friends were chiefly among the Jesuits, an order which, by devotion, genius, and courage, has excited that fear from all men which is the highest homage this world can offer to integrity. His personal sorrow, therefore, was not degraded by any foolish additional worry about the tittle-tattle of this, that, or the other personage. Tongues might wag; for himself, he could but do his duty and keep his account straight with God. He hoped that a public law-suit would be avoided. Baron Zeuill was using his influence, so he declared, to arrive at some settlement with Parflete. Parflete's agent was now in communication with Robert's solicitors; he himself was known to be in London, and he had even been seen dining with foreigners at one of the small private hotels near the Strand. The Alberian Ambassador informed Mr. Disraeli that there was nothing to fear because Parflete was not ambitious. "The corruption of egoism and the insatiable love of pleasure" had done its worst to a character never striking for its energy. He would "desert" his wife again if she would give him a sufficient sum. Mrs. Parflete, Disraeli pointed out, was the last woman on earth to agree to such terms. She was also perfectly well aware, he added, that she was the legitimate daughter of the late Archduke Charles.

"But," said the Ambassador, "surely she will love the glory of her country and the respect due to her Imperial father's memory far better than her own legal rights?"

"You can't narrow the question to a mere sentimental issue," said Disraeli. "It is no such thing. She has to defend her character. Orange must clear his reputation."

Disraeli had formed the opinion that Alberia—as represented by His Excellency—was by no means anxious to see Mrs. Parflete's innocence established; that, in fact, the whole disaster had been planned and executed in the sole design of compromising her status. All that had occurred, all that he had observed led him to this conviction more and more. It was decided that Brigit should be summoned at once from Paris to take up her residence at the Convent, where she had been well protected during the earlier part of the year.

"There is to be no appeal ad misericordiam," wrote Disraeli to Orange: "what you have done, you have done in good faith and perfect honesty. Parflete, beyond a doubt, will take some action. His conscience provides him, in this difficulty, with the best means of self-advertisement he has yet found. He has consulted several Bishops, the Lord Chief Justice, all the ambassadors, and most of the intelligent Peers. He wanders from one confessional to another: St. Philip, St. Teresa, St. Benedict, and St. Dominic are invoked perpetually for the disarmament of his scruples. Vanity blinds him to the danger of assassination. Alberia is in a red mood. Carissime, the dark, inevitable hour will come. Be prepared for it. Depend entirely now on the might of your religious belief. Men cannot assist you. I have helped many, but no one has ever helped me. Political life must be taken as you find it, and it is neither in my disposition, nor, I am sure, in yours, to indulge in complaints of unkindness. I have reached a point now when I should like to quote Dante. Consider him quoted, and believe me,

"Ever yours,

"D."

The course of the intrigue may be followed most conveniently at this point in the document known as Mudara's Confession.

Mudara, it will be remembered, was in the Alberian Secret Service.[Footnote: See The School for Saints, p. 395.] He it was who confirmed the false news of Parflete's suicide, and did so much to hasten Orange's marriage. He says in his narrative:—

The death of the Archduke Charles—which occurred some weeks before it was anticipated—put the Alberian Government to very grave embarrassment.

1. It was impossible to deny the legitimacy of the Archduchess Marie-Brigitte-Henriette (known as Mrs. Parflete). The rumour was officially denied, and every proper measure was taken for the suppression of a fact dangerous at all times and especially so during a national crisis. Had the Archduchess been so ill-advised as to stand upon her legal rights, the case would have been very awkward for the Government. They intended, in any event, to plead ignorance, and had prepared every proof of their good faith in withstanding the claim.

2. It was clear, beyond a doubt, on the highest ecclesiastical authority, that, if application were made, the marriage between the Archduchess and Parflete would be annulled at Rome. Parflete was regarded with great suspicion. He was capable of any treachery. He could not hold his tongue, and we know what that means at Court. The one person he feared was the Archduke Charles, and now that death had removed His Imperial Highness, we understood what to expect from the disgraced Equerry.

3. The Government's Agents had formed a very high opinion of M. de Hausee (known as Robert Orange). It was considered by the Government's advisers that this gentleman would use all his influence to crush any foolish ambition on the part of the Archduchess Marie-Brigitte. M. de Hausee was himself of too noble a family to care in the least for high-sounding titles or empty rights. M. de Hausee (whose mother was Scotch) had become a British subject, and had been elected to the English Parliament. He was under the protection of Mr. Disraeli, had every prospect of a brilliant political career as a Commoner, and he had too much good sense—in view of the very large fortune settled upon the Archduchess—to diminish it by any imprudent insistence on a claim which, extremely valuable as a ground for some advantageous compromise, could only prove ruinous if pressed to any exact recognition. The Government's advisers, therefore, approved most highly of the marriage between M. de Hausee and the Archduchess Marie-Brigitte-Henriette, and were disposed to hasten it on by every means. On the news, properly authenticated, of Parflete's suicide on Lord Soham's yacht, I visited England and had interviews with the Archduchess herself, with M. de Hausee at Catesby, and with Baron Zeuill at Claridge's Hotel. The proofs of Parflete's death were in perfect order, and the marriage between M. de Hausee and H.I.H. took place in the Chapel of the Alberian Embassy.

As I had made all the arrangements, I engaged the servants for the reception of the bride and groom at the Villa Miraflores. I was able to retain a small room at the back of the house for my own use. On the day of their arrival, I concealed myself, without difficulty, in the apartment where Mr. Orange and the Archduchess had their dejeuner. It was an unfortunate circumstance that I did not destroy the telegram which I saw on the mantel-piece. But I supposed it contained some ordinary congratulations. A more vulgar prudence than mine would have read and burnt it in any case. My fault is, unquestionably, a most inopportune delicacy of feeling. I witnessed the whole scene between Mr. Orange and Her Imperial Highness. It brought tears to my eyes, but as evidence it was valueless for my purpose. She wept, stormed, and showed much feeling. I was reminded in many ways of her mother, Madame Duboc. M. de Hausee, of purer blood, is like those players who, in spite of an air of indifference at great losses, feel them none the less. I consider it my duty as a gentleman to say that his bearing through the ordeal did credit to his noble family and his personal character. The Archduchess, who is foolhardy and insolent, does not deserve such a lover, and it is grievous to think that such a termagant should have so much power over such a man. I regard her as I would some poisonous reptile. Piety—which improves most women—only seems to render her the more defiant, and love—which softens most wills—makes hers the more hard. After parting with M. de Hausee she swooned, and I thought what a merciful thing it would be for all of us if she never regained consciousness. This idea—which may have been an inspiration—was before me, when I heard a slight rustling behind the curtains. I pulled out my revolver (although I had no intention of firing), aimed it, and said, "Who is there?"

To my amazement, Parflete himself came out.

"For God's sake, don't shoot," said he, "it is I."

He cried bitterly at the sight of the Archduchess—for she was looking extraordinarily beautiful. He cursed himself loudly, put me to terrible anxiety, and I repented of my recklessness in not getting rid of such a fool long ago. With great presence of mind I rang the bell, and we withdrew to my hiding-place while the servant came in, raised a hue and cry, and finally carried the insensible Archduchess to a bedroom. When the coast was clear we emerged. I asked Parflete what he meant to do, why he was there, and how he had got into the house.

"To sound the soul of another," said he, still maudlin. "You must first have searched deeply your own. Remorse has brought me here. My better nature reasserts itself." And more to that effect. "There is nothing new under the sun!" he wound up.

"Why should there be?" said I, exasperated. "Come to the point."

"My wife is the purest, noblest of beings!" said he.

"You will defend any jade on earth, provided she be handsome," said I, but seeing an ugly light in his eye, I added, "but H.I.H. is certainly respectable. To this we have both been witnesses."

"What is to be done?" he cried, beating his head. "Can I forget her interests? Who, better than I, should take the place of her adviser, her Prime Minister? Affairs in Alberia cannot long remain in this violent state. There must be a denouement."

I answered him sharply.

"You know quite well that the Archduchess can never hope for official recognition from any Alberian Ministry—let alone the sovereigns of Europe. An aggressive attitude on her part could at most and at the worst, but lead to these things—a change of dynasty, and the annexation of Alberia by one of the Powers, or its partition among some of them. We wish Alberia to become another Switzerland—a little Paradise of law-abiding, industrious, rich, independent people!"

"All the same," said he, "my wife may not sell her birth-right. Such a proceeding is directly opposite to the Will of God."

"She will be a good claimant—after all this scandal with the Carlists and de Hausee," said I. "I can imagine the welcome extended to her by Bismarck! We have seen enough of this kind of thing in France and Spain."

We talked for an hour. He was as obstinate as a mule and as incoherent as running water. I could grasp him nowhere. It was like groping in a well for a lighted torch. No doubt he had formed in his own mind some obscure, incalculable intrigue, but no reason can guess the plans which are made by an unreasoning person.

"The Archduchess is rich, young, and handsome," said I; "it would be folly to change her noble independence for a political slavery fatal to her peace—perhaps her life."

"But duty is above such weak considerations," said he, rolling his eyes. "My wife must remember the nation."

"Do you believe," I rejoined, "that you would get the nation's sanction to the general upset which you propose? You must be mad."

"Nations go mad," said he, smiling; "why not to my advantage, then, as well as yours?"

He refused to tell me how he got into the house, but it must have been by bribery. His sneers and insults were insinuated with such skill that retaliation on the spot was impossible. He made his escape by suddenly extinguishing the lamp, which left the room in pitch darkness. I felt it would be undignified to stumble about in vain pursuit of a man so active and so canaille in all his methods. He must have been on good terms with the servants, for a considerable time elapsed before they replied to my summons, and when I asked them, each in turn, whether he had been seen, one and all assumed the greatest astonishment and innocence, but none appeared in any way alarmed, which they must have done had they not been well aware of his presence in the house. I said no more, for, by treating the matter lightly, I made them look—to themselves—dupes and very ridiculous. I remained at the Villa until the Archduchess and Lady Fitz Rewes departed for Paris. I had a short interview with M. de Hausee in my character of the late Archduke's Agent. Our conversation was purely in connection with H.I.H.'s money matters, although he said with great firmness at the close, "The Archduchess will never embarrass Alberian affairs. Her taste is not for Courts or politics." I know this is his true conviction, but he is in love, and he measures her by his own unselfishness. He won my heart strangely. In all my experience, he is the one honest man who is not a little idiotic into the bargain. I deplore the influence of women on such a character, and I would have saved him from that Judith.

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



CHAPTER XVIII

The Alberian Ambassador, Prince d'Alchingen, considered himself a diplomatist of the Metternich school. He had imagination, sentimentality, and humour: he preferred to attack the strength rather than the weaknesses of mankind, and in all his schemes he counted inconsistency among the passions, and panic among the virtues. He still hoped that Orange might be tempted by the prospect of immediate happiness to press for the nullity of the Parflete marriage. Parflete himself was indulging in the most extravagant demonstrations of remorse. He behaved, as Disraeli said, more like a cunning woman than an able man, and he was an agent of the kind most dangerous to his employers—irregularly scrupulous, fond of boasting of his acquaintance with princes and ministers, so vain that he would rather have had notoriety without glory, than glory without notoriety. He had found the means of ingratiating himself with many persons of high rank, and he knew how to avail himself, with each, of his influence with the others. Never did an intrigue require more urgently a sort of conduct quite out of the common routine. The Prince, therefore, was much perturbed in mind, and cast about him for a trustworthy associate. By an associate he meant some one on whom he could test the quality of his deceit—in other words, he liked to try his sword on gossamer and granite before he struck out at commoner materials. Among his friendships, he prosecuted none with such zeal as that with the Lady Sara de Treverell. As the member of a great Russian house, she was especially attractive to Alberian speculation, but her beauty and cleverness no doubt assisted the Ambassador's determination to make himself agreeable. The two constantly exchanged letters, and, as the Princess d'Alchingen was an invalid who devoted her hours to spiritual reading, she gladly permitted Lady Sara's influence, realising—with the priceless knowledge of a spirit made reasonable through pain—that the girl was romantic and the Prince incurably old. His flaxen wig heightened the tone of a complexion much ravaged by gout and its antidotes. His nebulous eyes with twitching lids were not improved by the gold-rimmed glasses which magnified their insignificance. He possessed a striking nose and chin, but, as these features were more characteristic than delightful, they offered his wife no occasions for serious anxiety. Whenever His Excellency required feminine advice, it was considered quite en regle that Lady Sara should be consulted. The Princess herself drove him to St. James's Square on the afternoon following Mr. Disraeli's call. She sent milles tendresses to her cherie, and bitterly regretted that she was not well enough to leave the carriage. The Prince kissed her hand, bowed superbly, stood bareheaded in a draught till the brougham drove away (in these matters he had no equal), and, having warned Sara of his intended visit by a special messenger, he had the pleasure of finding the young lady alone. Following her custom, she was appropriately dressed for the occasion in prune-coloured velvet, which suggested dignity, and very beautiful antique Spanish lace, which symbolized the long endurance of things apparently too delicate, subtle, and trifling for the assaults of time. The Prince kissed both of her white hands, and lamented the obstacles which had kept them apart for so many insupportable weeks. He had lived on her letters. They had been, however, few and short.

"What is troubling you, sir?" asked Sara, "you look pale."

"For once in my life I wish to do a foolish thing—pour encourager les autres," was his reply. "I intend to meddle with a love-affair."

"Whose love-affair?"

"I will tell you presently. I never venture upon any work trusting alone to my hopes. I am not of those who discover rifts in their harness only on the morning of the battle! I prepare for all contingencies. First, then, let me put you through a little catechism. Do men ever believe evil reports about the women they love?"

"The posse non peccare is not the non posse peccare," said Sara quickly.

"Do you mean that they can believe the evil, but, as a rule, they won't?" returned the Prince.

"You translate freely, but you have caught the spirit!"

"Very well. I come to my second question. Is a man better off with a dangerous woman whom he adores than with a good woman who adores him?"

"All men who desire love, deserve it," said Sara. "The means to this are always, in a manner, certainties, the end is always problematical. But those who want love could never be satisfied with mere welfare—never."

"You have a right to direct my opinion," he exclaimed; "where else do I hear such sound good sense? The usual women one meets in our circle are old, ugly, and proud—incapable of conversation with persons of intelligence. My wife," he added smoothly, "makes this complaint about her lady friends. It is very dull and very sad for her, although she is a saint."

No conversation or letter was ever exchanged between Sara and the Prince without some emphatic tribute to the sanctity, prudence, and charm of the Princess.

"The dear Princess!" murmured Sara.

"And now," said His Excellency, drawing his chair an inch nearer, "I must be serious. You have guessed, of course, that I am thinking about Robert Orange and Mrs. Parflete. I stayed at Brookes's till after twelve last night in hopes of seeing Orange. I was discussing him with Lord Reckage."

"What did Reckage say?"

"Reckage doesn't mind raising a blister, but he won't often tell one what he thinks."

Sara shivered a little and compressed her lips.

"Reckage is fond of Orange," she said, "yet there is a certain jealousy.... Formerly, Orange had need of Reckage, and depended on him; now Reckage needs him and depends on Orange. Could he but know it, Orange is the one creature who could pull him through his difficulties with the Bond of Association. A man who has no personal ambition, who desires nothing that any one can give, who fears nothing that any one can do, who lives securely in the presence of God, is a power we must not under-rate."

She spoke with enthusiasm—the enthusiasm which women seldom, if ever, display for principle on its bare merits. By the deepening colour in her eyes and sudden clearness in her cheeks, the Ambassador felt that he had reached a point where the emotions would have to be considered, even though they might not be counted on.

"I have not time to tell you all the nonsense Reckage said," he answered. "So far as my own judgment can serve for a guide, I believe that he would like to see Orange under the care and discipline of St. Ignatius."

"He wishes him to become a Jesuit priest? How selfish!"

"Such is my impression. He wants so competent a colleague removed from the political sphere. If his words and actions are of a piece, he will certainly work hard to attain this object. He is saying everywhere, 'Orange is a born ecclesiastic. Orange is a mystic. Orange is under the influence of Newman. Orange begins to see that marriage is not for him.' Such remarks don't help outside the Church. Really, competition renders the nicest people detestable."

Lady Sara could not conceal her agitation. But she baffled her companion a little by saying—

"I suppose you want Orange to marry your inopportune Archduchess?"

"The lady in question is certainly inopportune. I have never called her an Archduchess. I leave such audacities to her enemies! But tell me what you think of Mrs. Parflete?"

"I have never seen her. Pensee Fitz Rewes insists that she is beautiful, cold, determined, and uncommon."

"Generally, there is nothing so fatal to a woman's success in the world as an early connection with a scoundrel. I have odd accounts of Mrs. Parflete from Madrid—the Marquis of Castrillon and an upstart called Bodava fought a duel about her in Baron Zeuill's gymnasium. A man called William Caffle, who attended to their wounds, has given me fullest particulars of the affair. I don't wish to injure the lady, but on account of eventualities which might arise, I am obliged to look a little about me."

"I understand," said Sara.

"The great point is not to let Parflete take the lead in the settlement. His present course of action isn't quite decent or consistent. Will Orange do nothing? It is wise to make peace whilst there is some faint appearance of choice left on the subject, so there is no time to be wasted."

"What ought Orange to do?"

"Reckage declares that he will not appeal to Rome. There he is well-advised. But as he has already compromised Mrs. Parflete, surely his present scruples are entirely new and unlooked for? We must both despise him, if he should abandon her now."

"He has never compromised her," said Sara indignantly. "He has even been ridiculed for his honour. I had no idea, Excellence, that you were so wicked!"

"How else could I know all the news twenty-four hours before the rest of the world? This, however, is no laughing matter. Parflete may ask his wife to return to him. It may suit her purpose to agree."

"What! A woman who loves, or who has loved—Robert Orange? A few things in human nature are still impossible."

Prince d'Alchingen shrugged his shoulders, and continued—

"Parflete has a good back-stairs knowledge of Alberian politics. We never deny this, but we always add that he was dismissed, in disgrace, from the Imperial Household."

"Is there much use in denying the fact that he married the Archduke's daughter?"

"We meet the case by saying that the Archduke in his youth may not have been exempt from manly follies. And Duboc was irresistible—she drove one mad!"

"Then why all this fuss?"

"To avoid more fuss—on a large scale."

"But I have always heard that Mrs. Parflete has no intention of giving trouble. They say she is an angel."

"You will find that she would far rather be an Archduchess! Orange may discover that his Beatrice is nearly related to Rahab!"

"Oh, I cannot think you are right."

"Then you should hear Zeuill and General Prim on the subject. The Marquis of Castrillon is in London. Our friend Parflete will soon be labouring with copious materials for a divorce."

"How can you assume such horrors?" said Sara.

"The imagination," said His Excellency, "is always more struck by likelihoods than the reason convinced by the examination of facts! My dear friend, let us survey the position. Orange does not seem to have the most distant idea of making Mrs. Parflete his—his belle amie. Well and good. But ought he, at his age, so handsome, so brilliant, so much a man, to renounce all other women for the sake of a little adventuress? Can nothing be done? If he could have some convincing proof of her treachery, would he not turn to others more beautiful, more worthy——"

"To Lady Fitz Rewes," said Sara quickly.

"If you like," replied the Prince, in his gentlest voice.

For a second or two each of them looked away. Sara glanced toward her canaries in their cage. Prince d'Alchingen leant forward to inhale the perfume of some violets in a vase near him.

"Delicious!" he murmured, "delicious!"

"Mr. Disraeli," said Sara, still gazing at the birds, "has always wished for the marriage with Lady Fitz Rewes. Yet what can we do? I cannot see the end of it."

"The heroic are plotted against by evil spirits, comforted by good ones, but in no way constrained," observed the Ambassador; "let us then support Mr. Orange, and wait for his own decision. I doubt whether we could drive him to Lady Fitz Rewes."

"To whom else?" asked Sara, fastening some flowers in her belt. They were white camellias sent that morning from the infatuated, still hopeful Duke of Marshire. "To whom else—if not Pensee?"

"I dare not answer such questions yet. Have patience and you shall see what you shall see. Much will hinge on the events of the next few days."

"I will not believe," she insisted, "that Robert Orange has been deceived by that woman."

"You may change your opinion. Come to Hadley Lodge next Saturday—I ask no more."

"Really, sir," said Sara, with a mocking smile, "you frighten me. Am I at last to fly through an intrigue on the wings of a conspiracy?"

The Prince smiled also, but he saw that the lady had risen to the occasion and would not prove false to her Asiatic blood.

"Mrs. Parflete and Castrillon are cut out for each other," said he, "but Orange has no business in that galere. He is reserved for a greater fate."

"What do you mean?" said Sara.

"All now depends on you."

"On me?"

"Plainly. Reckage wishes Orange to get out of his way and become a Religious. Can this be permitted?"

"It would be outrageous. It would be a crime."

"Ah, worse than that. It might prove a success. We don't want any more strong men in the Church just now."

Sara agreed. She, too, was opposed to the Church. And she was glad of the excuse this thought offered for the pains she would take to save Orange from the Vatican grasp.

"Then we are allies," said His Excellency. "You will help me."

"Gladly, and what is more, as a duty. But how?"

"Keep the two men apart, and treat both of them—both—with kindness."

His Excellency then rose, kissed her hands once more, and took his departure. Sara, when the door was closed, paced the floor with swift and desperate steps, as though she were encircled by thoughts which, linked together, danced round her way so that whether she retreated or advanced, swayed to the right or to the left, they held her fast.



CHAPTER XIX

Lord Garrow, under his daughter's command, had issued invitations for a dinner-party that same evening to a few friends, who, it was hoped, would support the Meeting which Reckage was endeavouring to organise as a protest against Dr. Temple's nomination. The guests included Reckage himself, Orange, Charles Aumerle, the Dowager Countess of Larch, Hartley Penborough, Lady Augusta Hammit, and the Bishop of Calbury's chaplain,—the Rev. Edwin Pole-Knox.

Sara, arrayed in white satin and opals, sat at the piano playing the Faust of Berlioz, and wondering whether she had really arranged her table to perfection, when the footman brought the following note—dashed off in pencil—from Lord Reckage:—

ALMOUTH HOUSE.

An extraordinary thing has happened. Agnes has run away with David Rennes. She seems quite broken and her letter is too touching, too sacred to show. As for him, it is difficult to say what he could give, or what I would accept, as an excuse. She, however, has my full forgiveness, and perhaps good may come of so much sorrow and duplicity. I must see you after the others have gone to-night. My plan is to leave early—probably with Orange and Aumerle, but I will return later. I need your counsel. B.

Sara, who was always in league with audacity, clapped her hands at the tidings of Miss Carillon's bold move. She was not surprised, for, as we have seen, she had read the girl's character truly, and warned Orange that some event of the kind would happen. But the pleasure she took in this confirmation of her own prophetic gifts was alloyed by the fear that Reckage, now at liberty, would prove a masterful, jealous, and embarrassing lover. Nor were her forebodings on this score lessened when he arrived, evidently in a strange mood, a quarter of an hour before the appointed time. His eyes travelled over her face with a consuming scrutiny to which she was unaccustomed and for which she found herself unprepared. For a moment she experienced the disadvantages of a guilty conscience, and although she had, so far, merely considered various plans for using his devotion without peril to her own independence, she felt that the moment for deliberation was past, that the duel between them had begun.

"You have my note," he said, "and I would rather not talk about Agnes to-night. On that point I am in a stupor. I can't realise the disaster at all. I might seem unfeeling, whereas I am insensible, or unconscious, or mentally chloroformed—anything you like to call it."

"I can see that you have received a great blow," answered Sara, looking down.

"I suppose so. And at present I am stunned. Wait a week, and I may be able to grasp the case—I won't say calmly, for I couldn't be calmer than I am at this very moment. But I will say, with understanding, with justice. Give me no credit yet for either. To be frank, I don't recognise myself in this crisis. As a rule, I have an impulse—more or less violent—to some extreme measure.... I saw d'Alchingen this afternoon," he added, abruptly.

He did not add that the Prince had given several striking reasons for the Lady Sara's interest in Robert Orange. His Excellency, in so acting, may not have been aware that he was pouring such confidences into the ear of a jealous man, but he wished to divert gossip from himself, and he was becoming afraid lest his intimacy with the brilliant, dangerous girl might give rise to criticism. "She talks and writes incessantly about Orange," he had said; "what a marriage it would be! I hope it may be brought about." This suggestion drove Reckage's thoughts toward a fatal survey of the past year. He discovered, as he believed, irresistible proofs of Sara's infatuation, and, what was worse, clear evidence of Robert's sly encouragement of that weakness. Why else had he borne the severance from Mrs. Parflete with such astonishing fortitude? How else did he keep up his spirits in the face of a grotesque, if unfortunate, adventure? The answer was plain enough. Sara's sympathy and the reasonable hopes necessarily attached to so much kindness had sustained him through the bitterness of all his trials.

"Have you ever thought," said Reckage, with pretended carelessness, "that Orange's serenity just now is somewhat unnatural? Is it all religion?"

"I believe that neither of us can form any conception of his capacity for suffering, or the support he finds in his Belief."

"It points to fanaticism, no doubt. He is a Cardinal in petto. The Catholics want spirit everywhere, and Orange has got spirit. His vocation lies toward the Vatican. His morals are as good as his build—which is saying much. D'Alchingen was remarking how extraordinarily well set-up he is. He would have done well in the army. He cuts an effective figure."

"He is distinguished; would one call him handsome?"

"There's a nobility about him, of course. I am wondering whether he is really so clever as many make out. He is learned and thoughtful; he has plenty of pluck and he's the best fellow in the world. But——"

"I wish I knew him better," sighed the young lady; "I liked him and believed in him on the strength of your recommendation. That was an immense prejudice in his favour."

She looked up with a sweet and trustful smile which would have satisfied a harder adversary than Reckage. He was not so hard, however, as he was egoistic, and it was not a question of softening his heart. Sara had the far more difficult task of soothing his tortured vanity.

"I don't know," he said, losing caution, "that I want you to take him up quite so strongly! No one could call him a coxcomb, yet he, not aware of the real cause of your interest, might be over-flattered. He might, eventually, begin to hope——"

"What?" she asked, with burning cheeks.

"All sorts of things. He's a man, and you are beautiful. And I have heard him say a thousand times that so-called Platonics are possible for one of the two, but never for both. Doesn't this explain the many cases of unrequited love? You are vexed, I can see it. But I am not thinking of you. I am thinking of Robert."

"He is not so sentimental as you imagine."

"Isn't he? This affair with Mrs. Parflete was pure sentimentality from beginning to end—a poet's love. He would have another feeling for you—something much stronger. You are so human, Sara. I would far sooner kill you than write poetry to you. You are life—not literature. That little thing with shining hair and a porcelain face is for dreams. Of course, he will always love her—after a fashion. He might even compare you with her and find her your superior in every way—except as a woman. We may be at moments poets, at moments saints, but the greater part of the time, a man is a man. And you are no friend for a man. Pensee Fitz Rewes might answer well enough; she has had sorrow, she has two children, she has a gentle, maternal air. But you——"

He threw back his head and laughed without mirth.

"You!" he repeated. "My God!"

"You are talking very foolishly, Beauclerk. Perhaps it is your odd way of making yourself agreeable. It doesn't please me a bit to be told that I am a siren. My mind is full of the Bond of Association and your Meeting at St. James's Hall. How shamefully Lord Cavernake has behaved, but dear Lord Gretingham has come out well. What a miserable set we have in the Lords just now!"

She was making these remarks as the clock struck the hour, and her father entered the room.

"Beauclerk came early, dear papa," said she, "because he had something to tell us. His engagement is broken off."

Lord Garrow looked the grief appropriate to the news, and disguised, as well as he could, his dismay at its probable development. He murmured, "Tut! tut!" a number of times, held up his hands, and nodded his head from side to side.

"I wish nothing said against poor Agnes," observed Reckage; "her mistakes are those of a generous, impetuous girl. Don't judge her hastily. All, I feel certain, has happened for the best."

"Tut! tut!" repeated his lordship.

"I am devoted to dear Agnes," said Sara, "but I never, never thought that she was the wife for Beauclerk."

Then she stepped forward to greet Lady Augusta Hammit, who was at that moment announced. Lady Augusta was a tall woman about thirty-five years of age, with a handsome, sallow face, a superb neck, beautiful arms, hair the colour of ashes, pale lips, and large, gleaming white teeth. Unmarried, aristocratic, ordinarily well-off, and exceptionally pious according to her lights, she was a prominent figure in all work connected with the Moderate Party in the Church of England. In her opinion, foreigners might be permitted the idolatries of Rome; as for the English, Wesley was a lunatic; Pusey, a weak good creature; Newman was a traitor; Manning, a mistake. The one vital force on whom she depended for her spiritual illumination and her life's security was the Rev. Edwin Pole-Knox. "Pole-Knox," she said, "will save us yet." This good and industrious young man, a few years her junior, had been chaplain—mainly through Lady Augusta's devoted exertions—to three bishops. He did every credit to his patroness, but hints were already in the air on the subject of ingratitude. Some said he lacked ambition; others murmured dark conjectures about his heartlessness. It was left to the Lady Augusta's fellow-labourers in the sphere of beneficence to blurt out, with odious vulgarity, that he would never marry her in this world. She entered the room that evening in her haughtiest manner, for Pole-Knox was following close upon her heels, and she wished to justify the extreme deference which he showed her so properly in public, and perhaps with morbid conscientiousness in tete-a-tete.

"I don't know how I shall get through the winter," she observed, in reply to Lord Garrow's inquiries about her health. "I am working like a pack-horse." Here she caught Pole-Knox's name and bowed mechanically, without seeing him, in his direction. The entire afternoon they had been looking together over the accounts of a Home for Female Orphans, and poor Lady Augusta had been forced to see that whatever fire and enthusiasm her protege could display in tracking down the orphans' dishonest butcher, his respect where she was concerned verged on frigidity.

Lady Larch was the next arrival, and as she was famous for her smile, she used it freely, not fatiguing herself by listening to remarks, or making them. In her youth she had been called bonnie; she was still pleasant to look upon. She talked very little, and perhaps on this account her few sayings were treasured, repeated throughout society, and much esteemed. "Surely it is a mistake to give men the notion that all good women are dull" was one of her classic utterances. Another ran, "Those who are happy do not trouble about the woes of the human race." Another, "The Dissenters belong essentially to a non-governing class—a vulgar class." These will serve to show the scope of her observation and the excellence of her intentions. In fact, she was often found dull. She was not especially disturbed about the woes of humanity, and her maternal grandfather had been a Presbyterian cotton-merchant. She bore Pole-Knox away to a far corner and begged to be told all the latest details of Miss Carillon's abominable conduct.

"I do not exactly know," said she, "the state of things. The poor dear Bishop must be in a dreadful state."

Orange came in with Aumerle and Hartley Penborough. Lady Augusta, who was a kind, sincere woman, pressed his hand warmly, and showed with her eyes that she appreciated the difficulties of his position. He had aged, Sara thought, and he looked as though he suffered from sleeplessness; otherwise, in manner and in all ways, he was just as he had always been.