ROBERT ORANGE

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

AND A SEQUEL TO THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS

By

John Oliver Hobbes

LONDON: T. FISHER UNWIN

PATERNOSTER SQUARE. MDCCCC

(All rights reserved)

CHAPTER I

One afternoon during the first weeks of October, 1869, while wind, dust, and rain were struggling each for supremacy in the streets, a smallyellow brougham, swung in the old-fashioned style on cumbersome springsand attached to a pair of fine greys, was standing before the Earl ofGarrow's town residence in St. James's Square. The hall clock withinthat mansion chimed four, the great doors were thrown open by twofootmen, and a young lady wearing a mauve silk skirt deeply flounced, ablack cloth jacket embroidered in gold, and a mauve hat trimmed withplumes--appeared upon the threshold. She paused for a moment to admirethe shrubs arranged in boxes on each window-sill, the crimson vines thatbrightened the grey walls; to criticise the fresh brown rosette underthe near horse's ear; to bestow a swift glance upon the harness, thecoachman's livery, and the groom's boots. Then she stepped into thecarriage and gave her order--

"To the Carlton Club. "

The groom climbed on to his seat, and the horses, after a brilliantdisplay of their well-disciplined mettle, suffered themselves to bedriven, at an easy pace, toward Pall Mall. 

Lady Sara-Louise-Tatiana-Valérie De Treverell, only child of the ninthEarl of Garrow, had been, since her mother's death, the mistress of hishouse and his chief companion. Essentially a woman of emotions, she was, nevertheless, in appearance somewhat dreamy, romantic, even spiritual. The eyes were blue, bright as a cut sapphire, and shone, as it were, through tears. Her mouth, uneven in its line, had a scarlet eloquencemore pleasing than sculpturesque severity. At the moment, she wore nogloves, and her tapering fingers shared their characteristic with hernose, which also tapered, with exquisite lightness of mould, into apoint. For colour, she had a gypsy's red and brown. The string of goldbeads which she fastened habitually round her throat showed well againstthe warm tints in her cheek; her long pearl earrings caught in certainlights the dark shadow of her hair--hair black, abundant, andelaborately dressed in the fashion of that time. Passionate yetcalculating, imperious yet susceptible of control, generous yet given tosuspicion, an egoist yet capable of self-abandoning enthusiasm--sherepresented a type of feminine character often recognised but rarelyunderstood. 

On this particular afternoon in October she had some pressing matters onher mind. She was considering, among other things, an offer of marriagewhich she had received by post two days before from a nobleman of greatfortune, the Duke of Marshire. But Sara was ambitious--not mercenary. She wanted power. Power, unhappily, was the last thing one couldassociate with the estimable personality of the suitor underdeliberation. 

"I must tell papa, " she said to herself, "that it would never do. "

Here she fell into a reverie; but as her expression changed from one ofannoyance to something of wistfulness and sentimentality, the questionof marriage with the Duke of Marshire had clearly been dismissed forthat moment from her heart. At intervals a shy smile gave an almostchildish tenderness to her face. Then, on a sudden, her eyelashes woulddroop, she would start with a sigh, and, apparently caught by someunwelcome remembrance, sink into a humour as melancholy as it wasmysterious. Quiet she sat, absorbed in her own emotions, heedless alikeof the streets through which she was passing and the many acquaintanceswho bowed as she drove by. It was her daily custom, when in town, tocall at the Carlton Club for her father and take him for a short driveround the Park before his tea. To-day he was already waiting on the clubsteps as the brougham halted before the entrance. He smiled, joined LadySara at once, and seating himself by her side in his usual corner, maintained his usual imperturbable reserve. As a rule, during theseexcursions he would either doze, or jot down ideas in his note-book, orhum one of the few songs he cared to hear: "Go tell Augusta, gentleswain, " "Revenge, revenge, Timotheus cries, " and "She wore a wreath ofroses. " This time, however, he did neither of these things, but watchedthe reflection of his daughter's face in the carriage window before him. He had white hair, a dyed moustache and a small imperial--also dyed thedeepest black--just under the lower lip. In appearance he was, spite ofthe false touches, good-looking, sensitive, and perhaps too mild. Thecleft in his rounded chin was the sole mark of decision in a countenancewhose features were curved--wherever a curve was possible--to a degreeapproaching caricature. Temples, eyebrows, nostrils, and moustache, alldescribed a series of semi-circles which, accentuated by a lividcomplexion and curling hair, presented an effect somewhat commonplaceand a little tiresome. He had spent his existence among beings to whomnothing seemed natural which did not depart most earnestly from all thatnature is and teaches: he had always endeavoured to maintain the idealof a Christian gentleman where, as a matter of fact, Christianity wasunderstood rather as a good manner than a faith, and ideals wereprejudices of race rather than aspirations of the soul. Well-born, well-bred, and moderately learned, he was not, and could never be, morethan dull or less than dignified. The second son of his father, he hadspent the customary years of idleness at Eton and Oxford, he hadjourneyed through France, Italy, and Spain, contested unsuccessfully aseat in Mertford, and thought of reading for the Bar. But atfour-and-thirty he became, through the influence of his mother's family, groom-in-waiting to the Queen--a post which he held till his elderbrother's death, which occurred six months later. At this point hisCourt career ceased. A weak heart and a constitutional dislike ofresponsibility assisted him in his firm decision to lead the life of acountry nobleman. He retired to his estate, and remained there insolitude, troubling no one except his agent, till a Russian lady, whomhe had first met and loved during his early travels on the Continent, happened to come visiting in the neighbourhood. As the daughter of aRussian Prince and Ambassador, she had considered her rank superior toLord Garrow's, and therefore felt justified, as she informed herrelations after he had succeeded to the earldom, in making the firstadvance toward their common happiness. The marriage was soon arranged;the alliance proved successful if not always serene; onechild--Sara-Louise-Tatiana-Valérie--was born, an event which wasfollowed, nine days later, by the death of the Countess. 

Lord Garrow, a man of refined ideas rather than profound feelings, displayed in mourning his wife's loss the same gentle, dispassionate, and courteous persistency with which he had remained constant to hisfirst impression of her charms. She had been a beautiful, high-heartedgirl; she became a fascinating but wayward woman; she died a creatureof such mingled ferocity and sentiment that, had she not perished whenshe did, she must have existed in misery under the storms of her owntemperament. As Garrow watched his daughter's face, he may have beentouched to a deeper chord than usual at the sight of her strange andgrowing resemblance to his dead Tatiana. Did she too possess--as hermother had possessed--the sweet but calamitous gift of loving? Hehimself had not been the object of his wife's supreme devotion. Beforethe child's birth she had given him an emerald ring which, she declared, was all that she valued on earth. It was no gift of his; it had belongedto a young attaché to her father's embassy. Affection had taught LordGarrow something; he asked no questions; the jewel was placed, by hisorders, on her dead hand; it was buried with her, and with that burialhe included any jealousy of her early romance. He had been sincerely, wholly attached to her; he had been proud of her graces andaccomplishments; he knew her virtue and honoured her pure mind; she wasthe one woman he had ever wished to marry. He did not regret, nay, itwas impossible to regret, their marriage. But she had been ever an alienand a stranger. Each had too often considered the other's heart withsurprise. True love must rest on a perfect understanding; at the firstlifting of the eyes in wonder there is a jar which by and by must makethe whole emotion restless. An unconquerable curiosity lay at the veryroot of their lives. She thought him English and self-sufficient; hethought her foreign and a little superstitious. This ineffable criticismwas constant, fretful, and ever nearing the climax of uttered reproach. Sara had inherited all the amazement, but she owned, as well, itscomprehension. She adored passionately the mother she had never seen;she loved her father, whom she knew by heart. After exchanging anaffectionate glance with his lordship, she began to draw on her gloves. Whilst buttoning one she said--

"Have you seen him?"

"No, " he replied; "but, in any case, I think he would have avoided meto-day. "

"Why?"

"From motives of delicacy. Henry Marshire is a man of the nicestfeeling. He is never guilty of the least mistake. "

Sara smiled, and so disguised a blush. 

"I did not mean Marshire, " she said. "I was thinking then of RobertOrange. "

"Robert Orange, " exclaimed Lord Garrow in astonishment. 

"Yes, dear papa. Is he not sometimes at the Carlton with Lord Wight? Heseems to me a coming man; and so good-looking. We must really ask him todinner. "

Some minutes elapsed before the Earl could utter any comment on asuggestion so surprising, and at that particular moment soinconsequent. Was his daughter not weighing--with prayer, he hoped, andcertainly with all her senses--the prospect of an alliance with the Dukeof Marshire? How, then, could she pause in a meditation of such vitalinterest to make capricious remarks about a mere acquaintance?

"Does Marshire know him?" he asked at last. 

"I hope so. He is a remarkable person. But the party is blind. "

"My dear, the English are an aristocratic people. They do not forgivemysterious blood and ungentle origins. While we have our Howards, ourTalbots, and our Poulets--to say nothing of the De Courcys andCliftons--it would surely seem excessively absurd to endure theintrusion of French _émigrés_ into our midst. "

"How I hate the great world!" exclaimed Sara, with vehemence; "how Idislike the class which ambition, wealth, and pride separate from therest of humanity! My only happiness now is found in solitude. "

"Your mother, dear Sara, had--or fancied so--this same desire to shuncompanionship and be alone. Her delicate health after our marriage madeher fear society. "

"There are days when it seems an arena of wild beasts!"

"Nevertheless, my darling, at your age you must learn to live among yourfellow creatures. "

"How can I live where I should be afraid to die?"

"Ought you to give way to these moods? Is it not mistaking theimagination for the soul? Young people do this, and you are veryyoung--but two-and-twenty. "

"I am double-hearted, " said Sara; "and when one is double-hearted thetongue must utter contradictions. I like my advantages while I despisethem. I wish to be thought exclusive, yet I condemn the pettiness of myambition. And so on. "

"I fear, " said Lord Garrow gravely, "that your mind is disturbed by aquestion which you must soon--very soon, my dearest child--answer. "

"Papa, I cannot. "

"Surely you will gratify me so far as to take time before you object towhat might possibly be most desirable. "

"It may be desirable enough, but is it right?"

"Right, " repeated her father, with exasperation. "How could it beotherwise than right to marry a man of Marshire's position, means, stamp, and general fitness? You would be in possession of a stationwhere your interest would be as independent as your spirit. Nothingcould have been more brilliant, or flattering, or more cordial than hisoffer. I argue against my natural selfishness for your welfare. I don'twish to part with you, but I must consider your future. "

He spoke with energy, and Sara knew, from the length and substance ofthe speech, that the subject had been for some time very near his heart. She resolved, on the instant, not to fail him; but as she foresaw hiscrowning satisfaction, she permitted herself the luxury of prolonginghis suspense. 

"I do not love him, " said she. 

"In marriage one does not require an unconquerable love but aninvincible sympathy. "

"An invincible sympathy!" she exclaimed. "I have had that for certainfriends--for one or two, at any rate. For Robert Orange, as an example. "

"That man again? Why do you dwell upon him?"

"He is interesting, he has force, and, as for origin, do people everrepeat pleasant facts about a neighbour's pedigree? I believe that hisfamily is every bit as good as ours. His second name is de Hausée. Noone can pretend that we are even so good as a genuine de Hausée. We maymake ourselves ridiculous!"

"Let me entreat you to guard against these inequalities in yourcharacter. To-day I could even accuse you of levity. Dearest Sara, Marshire is hardly the man to be kept waiting for his reply. "

"I am not well, " said Sara, almost in tears. "There are hours when Iwould not give my especial blessings for any other earthly happiness, and then, a moment after, the things which pleased me most becomevexations, all but intolerable!"

"How little importance, then, should we attach to our caprices, when weknow, by experience, how short is the pleasure and displeasure they cangive, " was the careful reply. 

"Caprices!" said Sara, "yes, you are right. My mind gets weary, disgusted, and dismayed. But the soul is never bored--never tired. Poorprisoner! It has so few opportunities. "

She sighed deeply, and her father saw, with distress, the approach of asentimental mood which he deplored as un-English, and feared asunmanageable. 

"What is this languor, this inability to rouse myself, to feel the leastinterest in things or people?" she continued. "I am not ill, and yet Ihave scarcely the strength to regret my lassitude. "

"What does it mean?"

He put his hand upon her jacket sleeve. 

"Is this warm enough?" he said. "The autumn is treacherous. You arecareful, I hope. "

She glanced out of the window and up at the clouds which, grey, heavy, and impenetrable, moved, darkening all things as they went across thesky. 

"I wish it would rain! I like to be out when it rains!"

"A strange fancy, " said her father, "but tastes, even odd ones, give acharm to life, whereas passions--" he put some stress upon the word andrepeated it, "passions destroy it. "

"Marshire, at any rate, does not seem to possess either!"

"Well, a man must begin at some point, and, at some point, he mustchange. He admires and respects you, my darling, so we may hardlyquarrel with his judgment. "

Sara shrugged her shoulders and turned her glance away from the fewcarriages filled with invalids or elderly women which were stilllingering in the Row. 

"Some people, " said she, "are driven by their passions, others, thesmaller number, by their virtues. Marshire has asked me to marry himbecause it is his duty to choose a wife from his own circle. I have noillusions in the matter. Nor, I fancy, has he. We have talked, ofcourse, of love and Platonism till both love and Platonism became aweariness!"

"Very far indeed am I from thinking you just. I have had an extremelykind note from the Duchess. "

"An old tyrant! She wants a daughter-in-law who will play piquet withher in the evenings, and feed her peacocks in the morning. She is tiredof poor Miss Wilmington. An old tyrant!"

"She hopes to hear soon when the marriage is to take place. I wish Icould tell her the day. I do so long to have it fixed. "

"Dear papa, " she said, with a charming smile, "you are anxious, I see, to be rid of me. I will write to him to-night. "

"And to what effect?"

"The wisest. "

"That means the happiest, too?" he asked with anxiety. 

"For you and him, I hope. As for me--am I a woman who could, by anychance, be both happy and wise at the same moment?"

Her existence was very solitary. The flippancy of the lives around her, the inanity of her relatives' pursuits, their heedlessness of thoseinner qualities which make the real--indeed, the only considerabledifference between man and man, could but fret, and mortify, and abash aheart which, in the absence of any religious faith, had, at any rate, the need of it. Her father, who entertained clear views of "the rightthing" and "the wrong thing" in social ethics, was still too rigid aformalist in the exposition of his theories to reach an intelligencewith whom the desire of virtues would have to come as apassion--inspiring and inspired or else be utterly repudiated. Utilitarianism, and the greatest happiness of the greatest number, comfortable domestic axioms, little schemes for the elevation of themasses by the classes, had, on their logical basis, no attraction forthis sceptical, wayward girl. To be merely useful was, in her eyes, tomake oneself meddlesome and absurd. The object of existence was to beheroic or nothing. She could imagine herself a Poor Clare: she could notimagine herself as a great young lady dividing her hours judiciouslybetween district visiting and the ball-room, between the conquest ofeligible bachelors and the salvation of vulgar souls. Marshire, sheknew, had sisters and cousins who did these things and were consideredpatterns. No wonder then that she turned pale and became fretful at theprospect of her views clashing inevitably with his. 

"I cannot be wise and happy at the same moment, " she repeated. 

At that instant the carriage, which was then rolling toward Hyde ParkCorner, came to an abrupt standstill, and, on looking out, Lord Garrowobserved that the coachman had halted in obedience to a signal from agentleman who was galloping, at a hard pace, after their brougham. 

"It must be Reckage, " said the Earl; "I never knew a man so fond ofriding who rode so ill. "

"What, I wonder, does he want now?" said Sara, flushing a little. "Ididn't know that he was in town. "

By that time the pursuer, a handsome man with an auburn beard and veryfine blue eyes, had reached them. 

"This, " he shouted, "is a rushing beast of a horse;" but, before hecould explain his errand, the hunter, who was nearly quite thoroughbredand a magnificent animal, dashed on, evidently determined to gain, without delay, some favourite destination. 

"Extraordinary!" said Lord Garrow. "Extraordinary!"

"But so like him, " observed his daughter. 

"And he has made us late for tea. What a stupid fellow!"

It was exactly five minutes past five when they reached St. James'sSquare. The sun, a globe, set in thin lines of yellow light, shone outabove the trees, which were dull but not yet leafless. Grey andsulphurous and gold-edged clouds floated in masses on the blue sky. Ithad been a day of changes--yet it seemed to Sara, whose own moods hadbeen as various, the ordinary passing away of time. 

"Upon my word, " said his lordship, "it is too bad! They may say whatthey please about Reckage, but I call him a spooney. That horse was anoble horse--a most superior horse. He couldn't manage him. I wish hewould sell him. "

"He would never do anything so much to his own advantage, " was the dryresponse. "Poor Reckage is a brilliant fool--he's selfish, and thereforehe miscalculates. "

Sara was now talking mechanically--as she often did when she was withthose whom she loved or liked, but from whom she was separated in everythought, interest, and emotion. The lassitude of which she hadcomplained at the beginning of their drive returned upon her. Sighingheavily, she entered the house and mounted the long staircase to thedrawing-room, where the tea-table was already spread, the flamequivering under the kettle, the deep pink china laid out on a silvertray. But the homeliness of the scene and its familiarity had no powerto soothe that aching, distracted heart. Had she been a man, shethought, she might have sought her refuge in ceaseless work, in greatambitions, in achievements. This eternal tea-pouring and word-mincing, this business of forced laughter and garlanded conversation was morethan she could endure. A low cry of impatience, too long and also tooloosely imprisoned, escaped from her lips. 

"What is the matter?" asked Lord Garrow, who was following close uponher heels. 

"Life, " she said, "life! That is all that ever does matter. "

"Ain't you happy?"

"No, but I have it in me to be happy--an appalling capability. Let ussay no more about it. I must join myself to eternity, and so find rest. "

"Well, " said her father, who now felt that he had a right to complain, "my poor uncle used to say, if women deserved happiness they would bearit better. Few of them bear it well--and this is a fact I have oftenbrought before me. "

CHAPTER II

When Sara had prepared Lord Garrow's tea and cut the leaves of the_Revue des Deux Mondes_, which he invariably read until he dressed fordinner, she stole away to the further room, where she could play thepiano, write letters, muse over novels, or indulge in reverie withoutfear of interruption. But as she entered it that afternoon its air ofpeace seemed the bleakness of desolation. A terrible and afflictinggrief swept, like an icy breeze, through her heart, and, whether fromactual physical pain or the excitement of the last few hours, tearsstarted to her eyes, her cheeks flushed, and she fell to passionateweeping. The smiling Nymphs painted on the ceiling above her head andthe rose leaves they were for ever scattering to the dancing Hours (acharming group, and considered very cheerful), could not relieve herwoe. She cried long and bitterly, and was on the verge of hysterics whenthe door opened and her most intimate woman friend, the Viscountess FitzRewes, was announced. This bewitching creature--who was a widow, withtwo long flaxen curls, a sweet figure, and the smile of anangel--embraced her dear, dear Sara with genuine affection, andpretended not to see her swollen eyelids. Sara possessed for Pensée FitzRewes the fascination of a desperate nature for a meek one. Theaudacity, brilliancy, and recklessness of the younger woman at oncestimulated and established the other's gentle piety. 

They talked for fifteen minutes about the autumn visits they had paid, the visits they would have to pay, and the visits which nothing in theworld would induce them to pay. 

"I have been at home, at Catesby, most of the time, " said Pensée; "avery quiet, happyish time, on the whole. I had a few people down, but Isaw a great deal of a particularly nice person. She is a foreigner--anarchduchess really. Her father made a morganatic marriage. I am so gladthey don't have morganatic marriages in England. I don't like to beuncharitable, but they seem, in a way, so improper. Madame de Parfleteis all one could wish. Her husband was a dreadful man. "

"What did he do?" said Sara, who was a little absent. 

"Oh, all kinds of things. He committed suicide in the end. And now--sheis going to marry a friend of mine. "

"Who is he?"

"I never told you about him before, " said Pensée, "but I am so miserableto-day that you may as well know. He was a sort of brother, yet muchmore. One didn't meet him often in our set, because he didn't anddoesn't care about it. Life, however, threw us together. "

She covered her wan face with her hands. 

"How am I to give him up?" she asked. "How shall I bear it? I get sounhappy. I asked my little boy the other day what he did when I wentaway from home. He said--'I gather chestnuts and feel lonely. ' And Iasked my little girl what she did, and she said--'I cry till you comeback again. ' There's the difference between men and women. I am like mypoor Lilian. You, Sara, if you could be wretched, would be more like theboy. "

"Do you think so?" said Sara. 

"That wonderful passage in the New Testament--I often remember it! Afterall the agony and separation were over, Simon Peter said to thedisciples, _I go a fishing_. He went back to the work he was doing whenour Lord first called him. What courage!"

"Go on, " said Sara, "go on!"

"Of course, my heart has been taking an undue complacency in thecreature, and this seldom fails to injure. I have a wish to be free fromdistress, and enjoy life. As if we were born to be happy! No, this worldis a school to discipline souls and fit them for the other. I mustforget my friend. "

"Nonsense!"

"It will be very hard. I took such an interest in his career. If Ididn't mention him to you, or to other people, I mentioned him often toGod. And now--it is somewhat awkward. "

"You little goose, " said Sara, "you have a heart of crystal. Nothingcould be awkward for you. "

"My heart, " said Pensée, with a touch of resentment, "is just asdangerous and wicked as any other heart! You misunderstand me wilfully. I like prayer at all times, because it is a help and because it liftsone out of the world. Oh, when shall every thought be brought intocaptivity?"

"Listen!" said Sara, "listen! If there is an attractiveness in humanbeings so lovely that it could call your Almighty God Himself fromheaven to dwell among them and to die most cruelly for their sakes, isit to be expected that they will not--and who will dare say that theyshould not?--as mortals themselves, discover qualities in each otherwhich draw out the deepest affection? I have no patience with yourreligion--none. "

"You are most unkind, and I won't tell you any more, " replied Pensée, who looked, however, not ungrateful for Sara's view of the situation. 

"Let me tell you something about me, " said her friend fiercely. "I neversay my prayers, because I cannot say them, but I love somebody, too. Whenever I hear his name I could faint. When I see him I could sink intothe ground. At the sight of his handwriting I grow cold from head tofoot, I tremble, my heart aches so that it seems breaking in two. I longto be with him, yet when I am with him I have nothing to say. I have toescape and be miserable all alone. He is my thought all day: the lastbefore I sleep, the first when I awake. I could cry and cry and cry. Itry to read, and I remember not a word. I like playing best, for then Ican almost imagine that he is listening. But when I stop playing andlook round, I find myself in an empty room. It is awful. I call hisname; no one answers. I whisper it; still no answer. I throw myself onthe ground, and I say, 'Think of me! think of me! you shall, you must, you do think of me!' It is great torture and a great despair. Perhaps itis a madness too. But it is my way of loving. I want to live while Ilive. If I knew for certain that he loved me--me only--the joy, I think, would kill me. Love! Do you know, poor little angel, what it means?Sometimes it is a curse. "

Pensée, before this torrent, was shaking like some small flower in aviolent gale. 

"You say things, Sara, that no one says--things that one ought not tosay. You must be quieter. You won't be happy when you are married if youbegin with so much feeling!"

"I am not going to marry that one, " said Sara bitterly. "I am going tomarry Marshire. "

Lady Fitz Rewes had too delicate a face to contain any expression ofthe alarm and horror she felt at this statement. She frowned, bit herlips, and sank back in her chair. What stroke of fate, she wondered, hadovertaken the poor girl? Was she sane? Was she herself? Pensée foundsome relief in the thought that Sara was not herself--a state into whichmost people are presumed to fall whenever, from stress or emotion, theybecome either strictly candid or perfectly natural. 

"It is a fancy. Fancies are in my blood, " said Sara; "you need not beanxious. "

"But--but what feeling have you for Marshire?" murmured Pensée. 

"I have a faint inclination not to dislike him utterly. And I will be agood wife to him. If I say so, I shall keep my word. You may be sure ofthat. "

"I could never doubt your honour, Sara. Is the other man quite, quiteout of the question?"

"Quite. "

"But perhaps he does love you. "

"Oh no, he doesn't. He may think me picturesque and rather entertaining. It never went deeper than that. I saw at once that his mind was fixed onsome other woman. "

"I suppose one can always tell when a man's affections are reallyengaged, " said Pensée, with a sigh. 

"Yes, beyond any doubt. You feel that they are comparing you at everypoint, in a silent, cold-blooded way, to the bright particular star. Ienvy you, Pensée; you, at least, were desperately loved by Lionel. ButI--never, never was loved--except once. "

"Who was he?"

"He was a Russian, very good-looking, and a genius. But oh, I wasn't oldenough to understand him. When he died, I cried for half a day and sevennights. And after that, not a tear. You see, I didn't understand myselfeither. "

"Do I know this other one ... The one, now?"

"I won't tell you his name. Perhaps, another time, when we are all veryold ... And he is dead ... Or I am dying.... "

"Oh, don't say that!" exclaimed Pensée, "don't say that! You are makinga lot of misery for yourself. "

"Not at all. I am making the most of my one saving grace. There isnothing very nice about me--except that. And he is a man. The only realone among all our friends--the only one for whom I have the leastrespect. If any woman had his love--how sure, how happy she could be! Icould work, and starve, and lay down my life for a man like that. If hehad loved me, I think I could have been almost a good woman, a downrightgood one, a Saint Elizabeth of Hungary. But you see that wasn't to be. And so I am just this----" She looked in the glass and pointed a whitefinger, loaded with rings of black pearls, at her reflection. "I am justthis--a vain, idle fool like all the rest--except you, poor darling. "

"Why don't you keep up your music?--your wonderful playing? Every onesays it is so wonderful. That's a great outlet for emotion. And yourlanguages--why not work an hour a day each at Italian, Spanish, German, and French? That would kill four hours of the day straight off!"

"Bah!" said Sara, "I cannot play--unless there is some one to play for. As for languages--I cannot talk alone. And as for reading--I cannot findall my world between the covers of a book. "

"But live for others, dear Sara. "

"I want to live for myself. I have one inseparable companion--that ismyself. I want to suffer my own sufferings, and enjoy my own enjoyments. This living for others is absurd. I hate second-hand emotions; they arestale and dull. But, Pensée, you haven't told me the name of yourfriend. "

"I thought I had, " said Pensée, simply; "you will see it in the marriagenotice the day after to-morrow. It is Robert Orange. "

Sara stared for a moment. Then the string of gold beads which she woreround her throat suddenly broke, and the shining ornaments fell allabout her to the floor. 

"Dear me!" said Sara, kneeling down with a ghastly laugh. Pensée knelttoo, and they gathered the scattered necklace between them. "Dear me! Iwas never more surprised--never; and yet I cannot think why I amsurprised. He is very handsome. Any woman would like him. "

"I wonder, " said Pensée, full of thoughts. 

Sara proceeded to count her beads, lest one should be missing. But theywere all there, and she tied them up in her handkerchief. 

"Pensée, " she said, presently. "I will tell his name after all, becauseyou have been so frank with me. The one I ... Love is BeauclerkReckage. " As she uttered this lie, she cast down her eyes and blushed tothe very heart. 

"Beauclerk!" exclaimed Pensée, in amazement. "Then there _is_ some hopeafter all! There is, there must be! Beauclerk! He is engaged to AgnesCarillon, of course. But all the same.... "

The conversation flagged. Lord Garrow, who had heard a distant murmuringbut not their words, now, as their animation failed, came in. 

"My little girl, " said he, "has been moping. I am very glad that youcalled ... Very glad indeed. And Sara, my darling.... "

"Yes, papa. "

"Have you asked Pensée the name of that extremely pretty song she sangfor us when we all dined together at Lord Wight's? You remember theevening?"

But Sara, with a wail, fled away. Pensée caught a glimpse of her white, agonised countenance as she rushed past them, moaning, to her own room. 

"This is dreadful, " said Lord Garrow, horribly annoyed--"dreadful!"

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

She wanted to say that she hoped the Marshire-de Treverell alliance wasstill undecided. But something in his lordship's air--a hardness she hadnever thought to see in his regard--forbade any reference to thesubject. He conducted her to her carriage, wished her "Goodbye" in hisCourt manner, and led her to understand, by an unmistakable glance, thata certain marriage which had been arranged would, inasmuch as it wasentirely agreeable to the will of Providence, take place. 

CHAPTER III

Lord Reckage, in the meantime, had not been able to draw rein until hereached Grafton Street, where the hunter, of its own will, stopped shortat a door, half glass and half mahogany, before which a groom stoodwatching, evidently with some suspense, for their approach. At the firstsight of the animal and its rider, he hastened forward, and, seizing thebridle, assisted his master to dismount. Once on the ground, the youngman satisfied his spleen by hitting the horse several vicious cuts withhis whip. Then he informed the servant that it was his intention to walkhome, and, with an ominous scowl, watched the "rushing beast" led fromhis sight. No one, except himself, was permitted to occupy that saddle. 

The house which he now entered had been the town mansion for threegenerations of the Hampshires, but, despised by its then owner, whoseyoung duchess wanted an Italian villa on Piccadilly, or a French châteauin Park Lane, the lease had been sold to a syndicate of risingpoliticians who formed a small organisation known, in those days, as theMirafloreans. 

"The little order, " we read in the Hon. Hercy Berenville's Memoirs, amalicious work printed for private circulation only--"the little orderfirst came into notice under the name of the 'Bond of Association, ' aHigh Church society founded by my brother, Lord Reckage. He formed hisexecutive committee, however, on timorous and unexpected lines. He hadtried to please the spiteful rather than the loyal. The loyal, he urged, were always forbearing, but the spiteful needed every attention. Hedisappointed alike the warmest and the most selfish among hissupporters. True to his policy, he made desperate attempts to win oversome vindictive men from among the Radicals, and, finally, in a fit ofnervousness, declared, after five months of fruitful folly, hisdetermination to reorganise the whole league on a strictly non-sectarianbasis. He described himself as a moral philosopher. Once more he becamea figure of interest, again he raised the standard, again he attracted asmall company of enthusiasts, again it was expected that God's enemieswould be scattered. He invited his former secretary, a Roman Catholic, to join the new society, but he made it clear that Orange, a man of realdistinction, was in no sense a prominent member. The precise dogmata ofMirafloreanism--a nickname given, I believe, in ironic sympathy by Mr. Disraeli--were undefined, but the term gradually became associated withthose ideals of conduct, government, and Art which poets imagine, heroesrealise, and the ignorant destroy. Men of all, sundry, and opposingbeliefs presumed to its credentials. Some, because the club appeared toflourish, many because it was not yet overcrowded, and a few becausethey were in perfect agreement with the varying opinions of its ultimatepresiding genius, Disraeli himself. They worked quietly, not in theHouse of Commons, but outside it, delivering lectures, writing books, starting newspapers, holding meetings, and enlisting the sympathies ofrich, idle, ambitious, or titled women. There seemed no end or limit tothe variety of their interests, their methods of labour, or theirconceit. The club--judged by the leonine measure of success--as a clubdid little for learning or literary men. It became a mere meeting-housefor dining and drinking, but it promoted cordiality among the leadingmembers of the young Tory party, and brought persons together who couldnot, in the ordinary way of life, have met each other at all. Althoughthe more gaudy and best known among them came from the first second-ratefamilies in England, the rank and file were formed mainly by young menof good estate and breeding--the sons of clergy, country squires, ormerchants, all sprung from that class which is called Middle, because itrepresents civilised society neither in its rough beginnings nor in itstawdry decay. "

Berenville's remarks, it will be plainly seen, anticipate our history alittle, for, at the time of which we write, the Bond of Association wasstill maintaining a sickly existence on its original programme. Orangehad not yet been invited to join it, nor had Lord Reckage declaredhimself a moral philosopher. 

On this particular afternoon his lordship entered, from the street, anarrow vestibule, the red walls of which were lit up by wax candles setat either end in ponderous bronze chandeliers. From this he passed intoa square inner hall, paved with marble, and furnished by carved seatswhich had once belonged to the choir of an ancient chapel inNorthumberland. Here he paused, for his attention was immediatelyarrested by a small group of four or five individuals who were talkingwith great earnestness at the foot of the oak staircase. Not that thiswas, in itself, an unusual event, for ever since a memorable day whenthe Earl of Bampton and the young Archdeacon of Soham, feeling warm, hadordered their tea to be served in that part of the building, it had beenthe fashion for distinguished members to assemble there, dispersingthemselves in careless profusion among the statues of departedecclesiastics or reclining pleasantly on the blue velvet divan whichoccupied the centre of the floor. 

Foremost in the little company on this occasion stood Sir EdwardUllweather and Nigel Bradwyn, both private secretaries, and eachsecretly convinced that his peculiar powers would have found brilliant, volcanic opportunities of demonstration in the other's more promisingberth. Ullweather, whose life had been devoted to the study ofagricultural problems, was subordinate to the Secretary of State forWar. Bradwyn, on the other hand, who had planted his soul in the East, was now learning what he could, at the nation's expense, of the nation'sdomestic policy. Demoralised by disappointment, and made cynical bytoiling over interests for which they had, at best, but a forced regard, little remained in their breasts but a sore determination to make thebest of an abiding discontent. In joining Lord Reckage's Committee, theyfound themselves again, as they believed, in a false position. Thesecond-rate mind, whether represented in a person or by a council, shrinks from the adoption of simple measures, and invariably seeks tomake itself conspicuous by so placing others as to make them appearunnecessary. The special genius of Lord Reckage was shown, perhaps, inhis abilities in this direction, and, while he missed no opportunity ofengaging men of proved capabilities for his service, his jealousy drovehim so to employ them that they were never permitted to do their besteither for him or for themselves. This policy carried in itself thesting for its own destruction. 

Not far from Ullweather and Bradwyn, Randall Hatchett, the youngestmember of the Executive, lounged against a pillar. Proud of adistinction which he dared not comprehend (for a commercial shrewdnessmade him suspect that he owed his position less to merit than to thesubtle promises conveyed by a weak chin), this distinguished persontried to look the secrets which his colleagues had never permitted himto learn. In moody weariness he would sometimes condescend to thecompany of his subordinates on the General Committee and, whilelistening to their irresponsible prattle, he would seem to forget theonerous public interests the absolute neglect of which was his chiefduty at the Council board. 

Near this gentleman were two others, Hartley Penborough, the editor of_The Sentinel_, and the Hon. Charles Aumerle, whose guest he was. 

As Lord Reckage entered and showed some intention of joining in theconversation, they appeared by a silent and common consent to ignore hisapproach. He turned to the hall porter, gave him some instructions in alow voice and passed on, livid with annoyance, to the library beyond. 

"Hullo!" exclaimed Aumerle, "that was Reckage. "

"I know it, " said Randall Hatchett. 

"Why didn't you speak to him?" asked Aumerle. 

"Because, " said Bradwyn, "our good Hatchett is not so sure of himselfthat he can afford to be civil even to a President out of fashion!"

No one smiled except Hatchett himself, because each one felt it wasunwise to encourage Bradwyn's peculiar humour. 

"I would have spoken to Reckage, " said Ullweather, with a superior air, "but I have never felt the same toward him since he threw over Orangeat the time of his election. "

"And several other old friends more recently!" observed the injudiciousBradwyn. 

"I don't speak of myself, " said Ullweather, "but Orange was unusuallydevoted to the fellow; and all I wish to make clear is this, that whenReckage ever said or did the right thing in times past, the credit wassolely due to Orange. He weeded prophecy from his speeches, and rudenessfrom his jokes. Great services, I assure you!"

"True, " said Randall Hatchett, "for there is nothing more fatal to apolitical career than brilliant impromptus and spirited orations. Astatesman's words, like butcher's meat, should be well weighed. "

"You have so many prescriptions for success, " said Bradwyn, "that Iwonder you ain't President yourself. "

"Reckage has taken us all in, " said Ullweather. 

"By no means, " said Bradwyn. "I maintained from the first that he wasoverrated. His genial manner--his open-hearted smile! Men always smileat creditors whom they don't intend to pay. "

"I foretold the whole situation, " observed Penborough. "I said, 'LetReckage once get full power, and he will fool us all. ' He affects not tobe ambitious, and to prefer moral science to immoral politics. I have nofaith in these active politicians who make long speeches to the public, and assure their friends, in very short notes, that they prefertrout-fishing to the cares of State! There is but one man who can savethe society now. "

Bradwyn, Hatchett, and Ullweather looked up, each armed with a modestand repudiating smile. 

"Who?" asked Hatchett, looking down. 

"Robert Orange, " said Penborough. 

"Probably, " replied Hatchett, after a minute's hesitation. "Probably, Orange ... In time. "

"Don't you like him?" said Penborough. 

"Like him!" answered Hatchett, rolling up his eyes. "He's an angel!"

"He calls him an angel as though he wished he were one in reality, " saidBradwyn. "I know these generous rivals!"

Ullweather stood gnawing his upper lip. 

"Orange, " he said, at last. "Oh, Orange has arrived. He will get nofurther. Of course, he won that election, but Dizzy managed that. Dizzyis the devil! And then, he is still devoted to Reckage, and, for a manof his supposed shrewdness, I call that a sign of evident weakness. "

At this, Charles Aumerle, who had been listening with the deepestattention to all that passed, looked straight at the speaker. 

"You should respect, " said he, "that liberty, which we all have todeceive ourselves. Reckage has many good points. "

"But, " said Penborough, "he has no moral force, no imagination. Hejudges men by their manners, which is silly. He thinks that every onewho is polite to him believes in him. He will have to send in hisresignation before long. "

"You don't mean it, " said Aumerle. 

"I mean more, " continued Penborough. "He could not choose a bettermoment than the present. In another month, on its present lines, thewhole league will have foundered. Should he remain, he would have tosink with the ship. Now, however, it appears safe enough--people seeonly what you see--a good cargo of influential names on the committeeand a clear horizon. He could plead ill-health, or his marriage--infact, a dozen excellent reasons for momentary retirement. The worldwould praise his tact. As for the rest, those who have beendisillusioned will lose their heads, those who were merely self-seekerswill probably lose their places, but the trimmers always keep something. The thing, then, is to cultivate the art of trimming. "

"But you forget that Reckage is going to marry Miss Carillon, " saidAumerle. "Miss Carillon will always advise the safe course. "

"That's all very well, " said Bradwyn, "but there has been too mucharrangement in that marriage! I can tell you how the engagement cameabout. She was intimate with his aunt. He acquired the habit of hersociety on all decorous occasions. Still, he never proposed. The auntinvited her to Almouth. She stayed two months. Still, not a word. Herpapa grew impatient, ordered her home. The next day she came to thebreakfast-table with red eyes, and announced her departure. The boxeswere packed; she went to take a last look at the dear garden. Reckagefollowed, Fate accompanied him. He spoke. She sent a telegram to herpapa: 'Detained. Important. Will write. ' No, the real woman for him wasLady Sara de Treverell. "

Ullweather thrust his tongue into his cheek. 

"Lady Sara has been called to higher destinies, " said he, "than theheavenly 'sweet hand in hand!'"

"I see you know, " said Bradwyn, with a mysterious glance. 

"Yes, " said Ullweather. "The friendship of the Duke of Marshire for LadySara increases every day, and the little fit of giddiness which seizedhim when he was dining with my Chief makes me think that admiration isdeveloping into love. I am in great hopes that this match may come off. "

"As to that, " said Hatchett, "her father and the Duke were the nightbefore last at Brooks's, but no conversation passed between them. Thisdoes not look as though a very near alliance were in contemplation. "

"There are prettier women than she in the world, " said Aumerle. 

"I have never seen her, " said Penborough. 

"Large eyes, a small head, and the devil of a temper, " said Bradwyn;"and sympathies--there never was a young woman with so many sympathies!There is an old proverb, " he added, with a sneer, "'They are not allfriends of the bridegroom who seem to be following the bride. '"

Ullweather was still absorbed in his own meditation. 

"Marshire, " said he, "is the man for us. We might do something withMarshire. "

"Nevertheless, " said Penborough, "I have my eye on Orange. "

"I say, " exclaimed Bradwyn, "be careful. Here is Reckage again. How thedickens did he pass us?"

The men glanced up at a solitary figure which now appeared descendingthe broad staircase. In silence, and with a studied expression ofcontempt, without a look either to the right or to the left, theunpopular leader passed through the hall and out into the street. 

"A lonely beggar, after all, " said Bradwyn. 

CHAPTER IV

Reckage was dining at home that evening with Orange, whose marriage wasto take place at the Alberian Embassy on the morrow. The young man wasnot in good spirits at his friend's step, for he himself was about totake a wife also, and much of the apprehension which he felt on his ownaccount found its vent in dreary soliloquies on the risk, sacrifices, responsibilities, and trouble involved by the single act of saddlingoneself for a lifetime with some one woman. Reckage, for his own part, had loved one lady very well, yet not so madly that he could resignhimself to loving her only, to the exclusion of all others. He walkedalong toward Almouth House in a mood of many vexations, cursing theimpudence of Bradwyn and Ullweather, wondering whether he had donewisely, after all, in engaging himself to the blameless Miss Carillon, sighing a little over a rumour which had reached him about Sara deTreverell and the Duke of Marshire, deploring the obstinacy of RobertOrange where Mrs. Parflete was concerned. He admitted that Mrs. Parfletewas an exceedingly beautiful, young, and, as it happened, rich person. He owned her delightfulness for a man of Robert's dreamy, romantic, intense temperament. But marriage between two idealists so highlystrung, and so passionately attached as these two beings were--whatwould happen? No doubt they would be able to endure the inevitabledisillusions--(inevitable because Nature is before all things sensualand has no care for mental prejudices one way or the other)--theinevitable disillusions of family life. It was scarcely possible thatthe devotion of Robert and Mrs. Parflete would not waver or seem lessexquisite under this discipline. Their dream of love would becomeunparadised. It would gain a sadness, a melancholy, a note of despairhard to endure and most difficult to repress. Reckage had notranscendentalism in his own philosophy: he divided men into twoclasses--those who read, and those who could not stand, Dante. Heincluded himself among the latter with a frankness at once astonishingand welcome even to numbers who thought him, in most matters, ahypocrite. The hold of the world was growing daily stronger upon him. His ambitions were already sullied by many unworthy and deadening ideas. He dwelt a great deal on the fleetingness of life, and the wisdom ofmaking the best of its few charming things. Food, and wine, and money, and fine houses, and amusements were subjects on which he expended alarge amount of silent enthusiasm. But, for all this, he could stillsee much to admire--perhaps to envy--in Robert's more spiritual mind, and he dreaded--as men often do dread in such cases--the effect of awoman's companionship on so ascetic a character. 

"He knows nothing about women--nothing, " he told himself. "He has noexperience. He takes them too seriously. "

He was, while he admitted his own unreasonableness, a little shocked atthe very notion of Orange with a wife and children. It went against thegrain, and upset the ideals of austerity which he had carefullyplanned--not for himself, but for his friend. Robert, he urged, was bornto be an example--an encouragement to those who were called, by themercy of God, to less rigorous vocations. Reckage suffered many scruplesof conscience on Robert's account; he surveyed him with a sense ofdisappointment; he had always supposed that he would ultimately turnJesuit in sober earnest, and die a martyr's death in the Far East. Thiswould, in his opinion, have been a fine end to a Quixotic, verytouching, most remarkable life. Would he now immaturely fall a victim toan enticing face and the cares of a household? Would he be able tosustain his character? One thing was certain. He could never againexpect to exercise precisely the same potent influence as he had in thepast, over his earth-bound, self-indulgent friends. Self-indulgentpeople always exacted unusual privations from those who would seek tomove them--and Robert's call was clearly to materialists rather than tothe righteous. Pusey married, it was true. Keble married. No one thoughtthe less of them on that account. Even the judicious Hooker married. Andthey were clergymen. Reckage called them priests. But Newman did notmarry, and, while Reckage was unable to agree in the main with Newman'sviews, he had a fixed notion that he was the strong man--the masterspirit--among them. And another consideration. The passion of love has adanger for very sensitive, reserved, and concentrated minds unknown tocreatures of more volatile, expansive, and unreflecting disposition. Reckage knew well that he was himself too selfish a man to let affectionfor any one creature come between his soul and its God. There was noself-discipline required in his case when a choice had to be madebetween a human being and his own advantage--whether temporal oreternal. He had never--since he was a youth--felt an immoderate fondnessfor anybody; he had likes and dislikes, admirations and partialities, jealousies, too, and well-defined tastes where feminine beauty was inquestion, but it was not in him to err from excess of charity. Theimaginative and visionary parts of life--and no one is wholly withoutthem--soon turned into severe reality whenever he found himselfconfronted with that sole absorbing interest--his career. Marriage, inhis own case, seemed an imperative duty. He was an eldest son, the heirto an earldom and a vast estate; he wished to lead a distinguished, comfortable, and edifying existence. His wife would be a helpmate, not asnare; the mother of his children, not the light of his eyes. But what adifference in Robert's case--with his capacity for worship, for reallyintense and absorbing passion. All this was especially transparent toReckage, who, as a man of the world, had watched his friend for months, detecting the shattering physical effects of an iron restraint imposedon every thought, mood, and inclination. He had enjoyed the spectacle:it was a good fight--this sharp, unceasing struggle between mere humannature, young, vigorous, sane, indefatigable, and an upright soul fullof tenderness, yet forced to live in constant warfare. Awe, too, hadmingled in Reckage's sensations while he looked on; something of pityand terror stirred under the callous muscle which he called his heart atthe sight of a voiceless, stifled despair outside the range of hispersonal experience, though not entirely beyond his sympathy. All mendid not love after this fashion, he knew, but humanity was full ofsurprises, and he had been too calm a student of other men's lives tofeel astonishment at any fresh revelation either of their pain, theirperversity, or their humours. He had felt so sure, however, that Robertwould, in the end, get the better of that unhappy attachment; everythingin the process of time had to surrender to reason, and it was notpossible, he thought, that a strong, self-reliant man could long remainsubdued by a mere infatuation. 

"And why doesn't he think of his health?" insisted Reckage; "it isreally going between all this sleeplessness, and fasting, and over-work. Flesh and blood cannot bear the strain. He is never idle for one moment. He is afraid of brooding. "

It was with these sentiments of fear for the one creature he believedin, and hostility toward the woman who had presumed to interfere withthe progress of that clear spirit, that he found himself at AlmouthHouse. The blinds of the dining-room were but partially down. He couldsee the menservants within preparing the table which, set for twocovers, showed a pretty display of cut-glass, flowers, old silver, andshining damask under the yellow rays of the lit candles. Some familyportraits by Gainsborough and Reynolds, a Holbein, and a Vandyck, withlamps shining like footlights beneath them, were darkly visible on thedull blue walls. The famous mantelpiece inlaid with uncut turquoise wasalso within sight; and the sideboard with its load of Sèvres china andgold dishes. Reckage took great pride in these possessions, but itshocked his sense of dignity to see them thus exposed to the vulgargaze. 

He let himself into the mansion with a latchkey, stormed at the servantsfor their carelessness, and made what is commonly known as a scene. 

Then he crossed the hall, and went into another fine room, which led bysteps into a garden, and caught the sunset. 

Here, standing by the window with his back to the door, looking at theclouds, greyer than a gull's wing, which fled like driven souls acrossthe sky, stood Orange. 

He turned as the latch moved, and Reckage, coming in, perceived the paleface, resolute, a little proud, and thoroughly inscrutable of his formersecretary. Of fine height and broad-shouldered, Robert bore himself withpeculiar firmness and ease. His brown eyes, with their brilliant, defiant glance, his close, dark beard, and powerful aquiline features;the entire absence of vanity, or the desire to produce an impressionwhich showed itself in every line of his face and every movement of hisbody, indicated a type of individual more likely to attract theconfidence of men than the sentimentality of women. 

The two young men greeted each other pleasantly, but with a certainreserve on each side. 

"So you are here!" said Reckage, seating himself. "I am sorry to belate. The fact is I caught sight of old Garrow and Sara de Treverelldriving together in the Park, and it suddenly occurred to me to ask 'emto dine with us to-night. I raced after their brougham, but my brute ofa horse--Pluto: you know the beast--gave me such a lot of trouble that Icouldn't speak to them. How are you? You don't look very fit. Perhapsyou are glad that we are alone. But Sara is a nice girl, and full ofkindness. She's a good friend, too--just the friend for your wife. Ithought of that. "

Robert resumed his post at the window, and studied the heavens. But ifhe sought for any answer to the many impassioned questions which werethronging his heart and mind at that moment, he looked in vain. Forhimself the struggles of the last year had been to a great degreesubconscious. He had been like a sick man who, ignorant of the realgravity of his condition, fights death daily without a thought of theunequal strife, or the suspense of his physicians. He had abandonedhimself to study, immersed himself in work; he was neither morbid nor anamorist; and while he felt a stinging misery for ever in his heart, hebore it with manly reticence, without complaint, without despair. Love, in his case, had meant the idealisation of the whole of life--the lifeof action and the life within the soul. It had transfigured the world, lit up and illumined every dark corner, answered every turbulent doubt. From the habit of this wholly mental emotion, he had lost, little bylittle, the sense of the actual bodily existence of the woman herself. It is true that he thought of her always as some one modestly beautiful, of childish form, with a face like a water-nymph's--imperious, magical, elusive, yet, whenever he found himself in her presence, she seemedfurther away than when they were, in fact, apart. The kiss he had givenher on the day of their betrothal had been as strange, indefinable, andirrealisable as the passing of one hour into the next. There had beenthe time before he kissed her, there was the time afterwards, but thetransition had been so swift, and so little recognised, so inevitable, that while it drew both their lives down deep into the wild, pitilesssurge of human feeling, she still remained more dearly and completelyhis by intuition than when he held her--a true woman--in his arms. Themoral training of a lifetime, the unceasing, daily discipline of a mindindulgent to others, but most severe with itself, had given him aself-mastery in impulse and desire which, although the aspect of affairshad changed, he could not easily, or even willingly, relax. His souldrew back from its new privileges, sweet as they were--and he was toohonest to deny their overpowering sweetness--they seemed like thedesecration of a most sacred thought. Vainly he reasoned, vainly headmitted the folly of such scruples. They remained. Asceticism is afaithful quality. It is won by slow and painful stages, with bitterdistress and mortifying tears, but once really gained, the losing iseven harder than the struggle for its acquisition. 

And so the young man found himself in that hard position when judgmentand prejudice stand opposed so utterly that victory either way must meana lasting regret. Perhaps he was not the first bridegroom who feltloath, on the eve of his marriage, to change the delicate, almostethereal tenderness of betrothed lovers for the close and intimateassociation of husband and wife. The one relationship has something init immaterial, exquisite, and unearthly, a bond invisible and yet aspotent as the winds we cannot see and the melodies we only hear. Theother, with its profound appeals to mortality, its demands upon all thatis strongest in affection and eternal in courage, its irreparableness, suffering, and constancy, might, indeed, have the grandeur of all humantragedy, and the dignity of a holy state; but that it could ever be sobeautiful as the love which is a silent influence was to Robert then, atleast, an inconceivable idea. He felt upon him and around him, in hisflesh and in his spirit, in the air and in the whole world, theall-enveloping shadow of remorse. The dormant possibilities of his ownfanatical nature rose up before him--pale, inarticulate fiercenessescrushed so long, and now trembling eagerly under his breath at theprospect of a little more liberty in loving. A suspicion that already heloved perhaps too well and far too passionately thrilled through hisconscience, and tortured a heart to whom thought was a refuge andfeeling a martyrdom. 

Reckage, watching Robert from a corner of the room, grew irritated atthe silence, and wondered, with a cruel and jealous curiosity, what waspassing in his mind. He wondered whether he was praying. An impulse, which had something in it of brute fury, urged him to tear open thatstill face and drag the thoughts behind it to the light. Why was itthat one could never, by any sense, enter into another's spirit?The same torturing mystery had often disturbed him during thehalf-hours--outwardly placid and commonplace--which he spent, out ofetiquette, with his future bride. She, too, retired behind the veil ofher countenance to live a hidden life that he could never hope to join. How lonely was companionship in these conditions, and how desolatemarriage!

He could not resist the temptation to break in, with a touch of crudesatire, upon his friend's solitude. 

"What is the matter?" he exclaimed, "are you hungry?"

"No, " said Robert, so well accustomed to such violent jars that theycould no longer disturb him; "I was only thinking.... "

"About what?"

"All sorts of things. "

Reckage turned pale from dissatisfied inquisitiveness. 

"I think, too, " he answered, "but I can throw out a word now and again. "

Then, making the remark that he was not dressed for dinner, he left theroom. 

CHAPTER V

The dinner, in the ordering of which the host had expended all hisgastronomical knowledge and much anxiety, seemed long. Orange foundhimself opposite the famous portrait of "Edwyn, Lord Reckage ofAlmouth, " which represents that nobleman elaborately dressed, recliningon a grassy bank by a spring of water, with a wooded landscape, asunrise, and a squire holding two horses in the distance. Robertstudied, and remembered always, every detail of that singularcomposition. The warrior's shield, with its motto "_Magica sympathia_, "his fat white hands, velvet breeches, steel cuirass, and stiff lacecollar remained for days a grotesque image before his mind. He traced, too, a certain resemblance between Reckage and that ancestor--they bothwore pointed red beards, both were fair of skin, both had a dreamingviolence in their blue eyes. 

"You must have some pheasant, " said his lordship, at last. "You areeating nothing. And that Burgundy, you know, is unique of its kind. Itwas a present from the Emperor of the French to mamma. Her people werecivil to him when he was regarded as a sort of adventurer. And he neverforgot it. He's a very decent fellow. I dined with him at theTuileries--did I mention it?"

Robert replied that he fancied he had heard of the occurrence. 

"Well, " continued his friend, "I might have enjoyed that experience, butI was feeling depressed at the time; a lot of the depression went underthe influence of frivolous talk, military music, and champagne. Yet, allthe same, do these things really count for much? I felt just as wretchedafterwards. "

The glimpse he had obtained that afternoon of Sara de Treverell--Saraflushed with agitation, very bright in her glance, exceedingly subtle inher smile, had stirred a great tenderness he had once felt for thatyoung lady. The news, too, that she had been chosen as a bride by theprudent, rich, and most important Duke of Marshire made his lordshipfeel that perhaps he had committed a blunder in not having secured her, during her first season, for himself. He feared that he had lost anopportunity; and this reflection, while it lowered temporarily hisself-esteem, placed Sara on a dangerous eminence. She would be aduchess--one of the great duchesses. Little Sara!

"She was looking extraordinarily handsome, " he exclaimed. "Of course shemeans to take him. But she liked me at one time. I am speaking of Sarade Treverell. Marshire is by way of being a stick. Who could haveimagined him going in for a high-spirited, brilliant girl like Sara?"

Formerly he had always spoken of Sara as a clever little devil, butRobert showed no surprise at the new adjective. 

"Brilliant!" repeated his lordship. "Don't you agree?"

"Absolutely. She is the most brilliant girl in London. "

"But heartless, " said his lordship pathetically; "she hasn't one bit ofheart. "

"There I don't agree with you. Of course she is strange and ratherwild. "

"_Tête-montée. _ And then the Asiatic streak!"

"True. The fiercest wind cannot take the angles out of the bough of atree an inch thick. You may break it, but you cannot destroy its angles. That is so, no doubt, with one's racial tendencies. The girl is wilfuland romantic. It will be very bad for them both if there is no love onher side. She is capable, I should say, of very deep affection. "

"She did like me, " said his lordship, with emphasis andsatisfaction--"she really did. And I wouldn't encourage it. I had nonotion then of marrying. Her singularity, too, made me cautious. Icouldn't believe in her. She talked like an actress in a play. I feltthat she was not the woman for me. Essentially she thought as I did, and seemed to comprehend my embarrassment. The worst of it is now--I mayhave been wrong. "

"I doubt it. You may be sure, on the whole, that your instincts wereright. "

"Still, there is a distinct misgiving. I was drawn toward her, and, whenI made up my mind to put an end to the matter, our friendship wasseverely strained. But it was not broken. Something I saw in her faceto-day makes me sure that it was not broken. "

While he was speaking the servant entered with a salver, and on thesalver was a note. The address showed Sara's large, defianthand-writing. Reckage, who had a touch of superstition in his nature, changed colour and even hesitated before he broke the seal. Thecoincidence seemed extraordinary and fatal. What did it mean? He readthe letter with an irresistible feeling of proud delight. 

"20A, ST. JAMES'S SQUARE, W. 

"MY DEAR BEAUCLERK, --Will you lunch with us to-morrow at two o'clock?Papa has invited a friend--a dreadful, boring friend--who has beenabsent from England for five years. Do you know the man? Sir PiersHarding? But I want some one to encourage me. You? Do!

"Yours sincerely, "S. L. V. DE TREVERELL. 

"P. S. --I am so happy about you and Agnes. Be kind to her always? Won'tyou?"

All his life he had found a difficulty in understanding women--thesignificance of their words, the precise translation of their glances, and their motives generally. He had nourished his experience on Frenchnovels; he had corrected it by various friendships; he had crowned itwith the confession that one could never tell what the sex meant one wayor the other. But this fact remained--he was a coxcomb, and, whenever heowned himself puzzled, it was on a single ground only--how seriously wasthe lady at stake affected by his charms? Feeling, as he did, theinfinite inequality that existed between men, and conscious of his ownreputation as a leader among them, it was not in his conscience toencourage any woman whom he did not find especially attractive oruseful. Why spoil her chances? Why make her discontented with theaverage male creature? Had Sara written to him in ordinarycircumstances, inviting him, after some months of mutual coldness, tolunch, he would have replied, with sorrowful dignity, that it was wiserto leave things as they were. But the case had altered. The futureDuchess of Marshire was a personage. He made no secret of his admirationfor all people of high rank. They represented influence and traditions;what was more, they could exercise a certain power, and introduce, whennecessary, the ideas upon which fresh traditions could be based. Afriend like Sara de Treverell with her new honours made life itselfmore rich to him. When he remembered that she was young, handsome, enthusiastic, and impulsive, his pleasure thrilled into something ofgenuine passion. He told himself that he had always been fond of thegirl; that hundreds of times he had felt the hardness of his scrupulousposition where she was concerned. If he had been asked what especiallyhe conceived his own duty to be now, he would have said that it was notfor him to hang back when she showed a coming spirit. But this was notall. He was a gamester; he was ambitious. 

"This is very odd, " said he, reading Sara's note for the second time, "very odd. There's no harm in showing it to you, because there isnothing in it. "

He gave it to his friend, and ate, pleasantly, while Orange glanced downthe page. His soul's wish was to be left alone. The effort of forcinghimself--not to affect but honestly to feel--an interest in Reckage'sconversation had proved successful. He had indeed put aside his ownthoughts, and followed, with the exaggerated earnestness of a minddetermined on self-sacrifice, every word his companion had uttered. Thespirit invisible wears the laurel of mental victories, but the body hasto bear the exhaustion, the scars, and the soreness. He was tired, buthe stirred himself again to consider Sara's note. In the course of thatyear she had written several letters to Orange--letters about books, newpictures, and new music. Once she had given him a little song of herown composition as something of which she "desired to hear no more forever. " The song was sentimental, and he locked it away, wondering at thetime whether she really had an unfortunate affection for Lord Reckage. But in reading her note that evening he decided against his originalfear. Women did not write in that strain to men whom they loved, or hadever loved ... Even passably well. He returned it to the owner with thiscomment--

"A woman, you know, is like your shadow: run away from her and shefollows you; run after her and she flies from you. That's an old saying. It is true so long as she does not love the man. And when she loves theman--well, then she ceases to be a shadow. She becomes a living thing. "

"That is no answer at all. If you could read her heart and whole thoughtat this moment, what would you see there?"

"Unhappiness, " said Robert; "discontent. "

Reckage took the little sheet and folded it into his pocket-book. 

"That's wonderful, " said he, "because the same things are in my mind, too. I wish I could describe my feelings about Agnes. She satisfies theæsthetic side of my nature. But there is another side. And Sara comesnearer to it than she. Mind you, I know my duty in the matter. There arethings which one is compelled to do under tremendous penalties. I havechosen, and I must abide by my choice. "

Robert looked well at his friend, and saw, in his expression, all thathe had known would inevitably, either soon or too late, work to thesurface. 

"Yet the old tremulous affection lies in me, " continued Reckage; "mynerves are in a kind of blaze. You couldn't tell anything about it, because you don't know. "

The Emperor's burgundy, no doubt, had warmed his spirit tocommunicativeness. He drew his chair closer to the table, and talked ina low voice about his ghastly solitude of soul. His engagement to MissCarillon had not been an agreeable experience. 

"And marriage, " said he, "will be the crowning point of these unbearabledays. In the present state of my feelings it would be awful. Agnes isvery kind and most conscientious, but she does not know what is in me, what was always and will always be there. Old reminiscences crowd roundme. They are very beautiful, although they are so sad. "

"What is one to do?" said Robert, "in the presence of fate and facts? Itis necessary to look the affair in the face. Do you, or don't you, wishto marry Miss Carillon?"

"I do, and I don't, " answered Reckage doggedly. "But I can't close myeyes to the circumstances of the case. I found myself hard bested fromthe very beginning. I knew that I was expected to marry her. I knew, too, that it was a suitable match in every way. But then every girl is, to some extent, accomplished, pious, virtuous, and intelligent. Ibelieve sometimes that my apparent indifference towards Agnes arisesfrom the fact that I respect her--if anything--too much. She seems tooremote--that is the word--for the ordinary wear and tear of domesticity. Other men--who might be called impassioned lovers--would be lessscrupulous. I maintain that devotion of that violent kind is worthabsolutely nothing. And I claim to know a little about life and love. "

"I should say, " said Orange, "that you knew more about mere physiology. "

Reckage laughed uneasily. 

"You keep your mediæval views!" said he. "Perhaps I envy you. I can'tsay. I don't think I envy any one. I am quite contented. "

"Then what are you driving at?"

"Oh well, a fellow must think. You see, Sara suits me, in a sense. I amnot afraid of her. Now a wife is a sacred object. You might as wellflirt with the Ten Commandments as fall in love with your wife. I say, never begin love-making with the lady you hope to marry. It will end indisaster. Because the day must come when she will wonder why you havechanged. No, a wife should be the one woman in the world with whom youcan spend days and weeks of unreproved coldness. "

They were now smoking, and the tobacco seemed to produce atranquillising effect upon his lordship. He closed his lips and amusedhimself by puffing rings of smoke into the air. When he next spoke, hesuggested a visit to the theatre. He had engaged a box for the newburlesque, "_The Blue Princess_. "

"It will be very good, and it will cheer us up, " said he. 

Orange was in no mood for the entertainment, but Reckage's evidentmisery seemed to require a fresh scene. The streets, as they left thehouse, were full of a deep purple fog, through which shone out, with adull and brazen gleam, the lights of lamps and passing carriages. Abovethem, the sky was but a pall or vapour; the air, charged with theemotions, the struggling energy, the cruelty, confusion, painfulness, and unceasing agitation of life in a vast city, was damp and stifling; anoise of traffic--as loud but not so terrible as a breakingstorm--destroyed the peace of night; there were foot passengers of everyage and description moving like rooks in the wind, over the pavement, and vehicles filled with men and women--an irremediable pilgrimagebound, for the greater part, on pleasure. Robert felt that he would havegiven gladly the treasures of a universe for just the time to think alittle while of his own love. So far that great attachment had broughthim aberrations, sorrow, and perplexities; all its sweetness had flown, moth-like, into his heart, there to be burnt--burnt yet left unburied:all its happiness had glorified his life against his will; all itsbeauty had been starved with a pitiless rigour. What then had remained?A certain state of mind--a passionate resignation to its ownindomitable cravings. And now on the eve of his marriage--a marriagenever so much as imagined, far less hoped for--he could not have theleisure to behold, through tears of relief, the complete transformationof his destiny--once so frightful, now so joyous. The theatre wascrowded, and when the two young men entered their box the burlesque wasat the beginning of the second act. The scene represented an orangegrove by moonlight, and a handsome girl in spangled muslin waswhispering loudly, to an accompaniment of harps, her eternal fidelity toa gesticulating troubadour. Both performers were immensely popular, andthe duet, with its refrain--

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

was repeated three times to the smiling, serene, and thoroughlyconvinced audience. Reckage, who attended public places of amusementsolely from the desire of exhibiting himself, gave but a side-glance atthe stage and turned his opera glass upon the auditorium. 

"Really, town is very full, " said he; "I suppose many of them are up forthe Hauconberg wedding. There's old Cliddesdon--just look at him. Didyou ever see such an infernal ass? Hullo! I thought that MillieWarfield wouldn't be far off. She's a perfect rack of bones. LadyMichelmarsh is getting rather pretty--it's wonderful how these dowdygirls can work up their profiles after a month or two in town. She was alump as a bride--a regular lump. You never met anything like it. Aumerleis talking to her now. He was at the Capitol this afternoon. He beginsto give himself airs. I can't stand him. In fact, I cannot understandthose fellows on my sub-committee. Sometimes they are--if anything--toocivil. A bit servile, in fact. Then they turn out and look as thoughthey would like to make their teeth meet in my backbone. They sulk, andwhisper in groups, and snicker. I am getting sick of it. I must get ridof them. By Jove! there's David Rennes, the painter. I thought he was atAmesbury--with the Carillons, doing Agnes's portrait. It can't befinished. She said distinctly in her letter this morning--"I may not addmore because I have to give Mr. Rennes a sitting while the light isgood. " Where's the letter? I must have left it on the breakfast-table. Anyhow that is what she said. I'll catch Rennes' eye and have him up. Heis not a bad sort. "

The act-drop had now descended, the lights were turned on to their fullpower, and Orange, following the direction of Reckage's gaze, saw, inthe last row of the stalls, a large man about nine-and-thirty with anemotional, nervous face, a heavy beard, and dense black hair. He wasleaning forward, for the seat in front of him was, at the moment, vacant; his hands were tightly locked, his eyes fixed on the curtain. Atlast Reckage's determined stare produced its effect. He moved, glancedtoward the box, and, in response to his lordship's signal, left hisplace. Two minutes later Orange heard a tap at the door. 

"That's right, " said Reckage, as Rennes entered, "take Orange's chair. He doesn't care a bit about the play, or anything in it. He is going toget married to-morrow. You know Robert Orange, don't you? You ought topaint him. Saint Augustine with a future. _Mon devoir, mes livres, etpuis ... Et puis, madame, ma femme. _"

The Emperor's burgundy, indeed, had not been opened in vain. Rennescould talk well, sometimes brilliantly, often with originality, and, with the tact of all highly sensitive beings, he led the conversationinto impersonal themes. He said Miss Carillon's portrait was not yetfinished, but he changed that subject immediately, and the evening, which had been to Orange a trial of patience, ended rather better thanit began. Lord Reckage invited Rennes to accompany them home. The artistdid not appear, at first, in the mood to accept that invitation. He, too, seemed to have many things he wished to think about undisturbed, and in the silence of his own company. His hesitation passed, however;the kindness in his nature had been roused by something unusual, haunting, ominous in Robert's face. 

"I will come, " said he. 

All the way, on their walk to Almouth House, he kept Reckage amused. Orange never once felt under the necessity to speak. He was able todream, to hold his breath, to remember that he loved and was lovedagain, that he would see her to-morrow--to-morrow quite early, and then, no more unutterable farewells, heart-desolating separations. Hesurprised himself by saying aloud--"I love you ... I love you. " The twomen, engrossed in talk, did not hear him. But he had caught the words, and it seemed as though he heard his own voice for the first time. 

"You must want some supper, " said Reckage--"a rum omelette. "

"No! no! I couldn't. "

He sat down to the table, however, and watched them eat. First theburlesque was discussed, then the actresses, the dresses, the dancing. 

"Russia is the place for dancing, " said Reckage, "I assure you. Therewas a dancer at Petersburg.... Something-or-other-_ewski_ was her name, and a fellow shot himself while I was there on her account. An awfulfool. I can tell you who painted her portrait. A Frenchman calledCarolus-Duran. I believe he has a career before him. What is youropinion of French art?"

Rennes had studied in Paris and was well acquainted with the artist inquestion. They talked about the exhibitions of the year and the pricespaid at a recent sale of pictures. 

"Old Garrow has some fine pictures, " said Reckage. "I would give a gooddeal for his Ghirlandajo. Do you know it? And then that noble Tintoret?There are so many persons whose position in life compels them toencourage art without having any real enjoyment of it. Garrow is one ofthose persons. But his daughter, Lady Sara, has a touch of genius. She'sa musician. You have heard her play, haven't you, Robert?"

"Yes. "

Robert had, at that instant, observed upon the mantelpiece a letteraddressed to himself. It was from Brigit. He grew pale, and retired, with the little envelope lightly written on, to a far corner of theroom. For some moments he could not break the seal. The sight of herwriting filled him with a kind of agony--something beyond his control, beyond his comprehension. What did it mean--this tightening of theheart, this touch of fear, and love, and fear again, so deep that thewhole web of life trembled and its strings grew confused one withanother, and all was anguish, darkness, self-renunciation, and a wild, adreadful mystery of human influence? At last he opened the letter. 

 "MY DEAREST, " it began, "I can never say all that I wish to say, because when I am with you I forget everything and watch your face. When I am away from you I forget your face, and I long to see it again in order that I may remember it more perfectly! It is so hard not to think of you too often. But I have had a great deal of sorrow, and everything I have in the world--except you--is a grief. I know that we are not born to be happy, and so, I wonder, have we stolen our happiness? If it is a gift--I know not what to do with it. I cannot speak a happy language: the atmosphere is strange and frightens me. Dear Robert, I am terrified, uncertain, but when we meet to-morrow you will give me courage. And then, as we shall not part again, I need never again be, as I am now, too anxious. Your BRIGIT. "

Reckage's voice broke in again. 

"I do wish you would try this rum omelette. It is capital. "

Orange laughed, but left the room. Rennes remarked that he had apowerful face. 

"Yes. He has a strong character. And he would never deceive another. Buthe deceives himself hourly--daily. "

"In what way?" asked Rennes. 

"He doesn't know, " said Reckage, "what a devilish fine chap he is! Iwish to God that I could prevent this marriage. "

"Why?"

"I say nothing against Mrs. Parflete. She's a high-class woman and soon. Awfully beautiful, too. As clever as they make 'em, and not a breathagainst her. All the same, I am not very sweet on love matches for menof Orange's calibre. They never answer--never. "

"I don't agree with you there, " replied the artist, "because I believethat a love match--even when it dissolves, as it may, into a mistake--isthe best thing that can happen to any man. "

After this they discussed bindings. Lord Reckage was the first amateurauthority on the subject. 

CHAPTER VI

At five the next morning Robert was writing letters. Then, as soon asthe gates of Hyde Park were open, he walked out. The recurrence offamiliar sentiments on the essentials that make up the condition knownas happiness would neither convince, nor inspire, the powers of animagination which, with all its richness, was, apart from the purelyartistic faculty, analytical and foreboding. Self-doubt, however, has nopart in passion. Of the many miseries it may bring, this, perhaps theworst of human woes, can never be in its train. Men in love--and womenalso--may distrust all things and all creatures, but their own emotion, like the storm, proves the reality of its force by the mischief itwreaks. Robert's spirit, borne along by this vehemence of feeling, caught the keen sweetness of the early air, not yet infected by theday's traffic. His melancholy--the inevitable melancholy produced bysustained thought on any subject, whether sublime or simple--wasdispelled. The Park, which was empty but for a few men on their way towork, and runners anxious to keep in training, had its great treesstill beautiful from the lingering glance of summer; the wide and mistystretches of grey grass were fresh in dew; the softness andhaze--without the gloom--of autumn were in the atmosphere. The pride oflove requited and the instincts of youth could not resist these spellsof nature. Robert remembered only that it was his wedding-day: thatevery throb of his pulse and every second of time brought him nearer tothe supreme joy of his life and the supreme moment. He had never usedhis nerves with bliss and tears, and he did not belong to the large armyof young gentlemen who own themselves proudly

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

This view of heroism was not possible to him, and he was too strong inmind and body to pretend to it. The two things which affect a careermost profoundly are religion, or the lack of it, and marriage--or notmarrying; for these things only penetrate to the soul and make what maybe called its perpetual atmosphere. The Catholic Faith, which ignores nosingle possibility in human feeling and no possible flight in humanidealism, produces in those who hold it truly a freshness of heart veryhard to be understood by the dispassionate critic who weighs characterby the newest laws of his favourite degenerate, but never by theprimeval tests of God. Robert, therefore, was thinking of his bride'sface, the pure curves of her mouth, her sapphirine eyes, her prettyhands, her golden hair, the nose which others found fault with, whichhe, nevertheless, thought wholly delightful. He wondered what she wouldsay and how she would look when they met. Would she be pale? Would shebe frightened? There had always been a certain agony in every formermeeting because of the farewell which had to follow. With all his habitsof self-control, he had never been able to feel quite sure that the wordtoo much would not be said, that the glance too long would not be given. Her own simplicity, he told himself, had saved him from disaster. Sheshowed her affection so fearlessly--with such tender and discerningtrust--that his worst struggles were in solitude--not in her presence atall. It was when he was away from her immediate peaceful influence thatthe fever, the restlessness, the torments and the desperation (has notold Burton summed up for us the whole situation and all the symptoms inhis "_Anatomy_"?) had to be endured and conquered. These trials now--foreven a sense of humour could not make them less than trials--were ended. The tragi-comic labour of walking too much and riding too much, workingand smoking too much, thinking and sleeping too little--the whole drearybusiness, in fact, of stifling any absorbing idea or ruling passion, would be no more. 

When he returned to Almouth House, Reckage was already dressed for hisofficial duties as "best man. " He felt an unwonted and genuineexcitement about Robert's marriage. He put aside the languor, _ennui_, and depression which he felt too easily on most occasions, and, that dayat least, he was, as his own servant expressed it, "nervous and cut-up. "

"I shall miss the swimming, the boxing, the fencing, and the pistolpractice, " he complained, referring to diversions in which Orange was anexpert and himself the bored but dutiful participant. "They nearlyalways drop these things when they marry. " The loss he really feared wasthe moral support and affection of his former secretary--advantageswhich a selfish nature is slow to appreciate, yet most tenacious of whenonce convinced of their use. The nuptial mass had been fixed for eighto'clock, the wedding party were to breakfast at Almouth Houseafterwards, then the bride and groom were to leave by the mail forSouthampton _en route_ for Miraflores in Northern France. The two youngmen drove together to the chapel attached to the Alberian Embassy. Not aword passed between them, but Reckage, under his eyelids, examined everydetail of his friend's attire. He wondered at its satisfactoriness onthe whole, inasmuch as Orange had not seen fit to consult him on thepoint. The church was small and grey and sombre; the flowers on thealtar (sent by his lordship) were all white; their perfume filled thebuilding. 

"They look very nice, " said Reckage, "and in excellent taste. Some ofthese old pictures on the wall are uncommonly good, and I particularlylike that bronze crucifix. Ten to one if it isn't genuine eleventhcentury. I will ask the old fellow afterwards. He's a dear. His Latin islovely. It's an artistic pleasure to hear him read the Gospel. I lookedin the other morning, just to get the run, as it were, of the place. ByJove! Here they are. "

Pensée Fitz Rewes came first--very graceful in lavender silk, andaccompanied by her little boy, who showed by an unconscious anxiety ofexpression that he felt instinctively his mother's air of contentmentwas assumed. Then Baron Zeuill, with Brigit on his arm, followed. TheBaron looked grave--too grave for the happy circumstances. Brigit seemedas pale as the lilies on the altar; she was less beautiful but moreethereal than usual. There was something frail, transparent, unsubstantial about her that day which Robert had never noticed before. Had the many emotional strains of the last year tried her delicate youthbeyond endurance? She seemed very childish, too, and immature. She tookOrange's hand when he met her, held it closely, and watched the otherswith a kind of wonder most pitiful to witness--as though she hadsuffered too much from her contact with life and could no more. Her eyesseemed darker than the sapphires to which Robert had so often comparedthem: this effect, he told himself, was due to the strong contrast givenby the pallor of her face. It was quite clear, however, that she wasnot under the influence then of any dominant thought. Her nerves andsenses were strained to that extreme tension resembling apathy, untilthe vibration given by some touch or tone sets the whole systemtrembling with all the spiritual and bodily forces which make themystery of human life. She spoke her responses, signed the register, andwalked out from the church on Robert's arm without a single change ofcountenance or token of feeling. As they drove away from the church, sheflushed a little and drew far back, with a new timidity, into hercorner. One look she gave of perfect love and confidence. She pressedhis hand and held it, for a moment, against her cheek. But neither ofthem spoke. And indeed, what was there to be said? The identification oftheir two minds had been full and absolute from the moment of theirfirst encounter long ago in Chambord. The accidental differences of sexand age, training, accomplishments, and education had not affected--andcould not affect--a sympathy in temperament which depended--not on thesimilarity of opinions--but on a similarity of moral fibre. Many formscan be cut, by the same hand, from the same piece of marble, andalthough one may be a grotesque and the other a cross, one a pursuinggoddess and the other an angel for a tomb, the same substance, light, touch, and colour will be characteristic of all four. Marriage, at best, could but give a certain crude emphasis to the strange spiritual bondwhich united these two beings. Practical as they both were in the commonaffairs of life, they shrank from anything which would promise tomaterialise the subtleties of the mind. Some thoughts, they felt, wereas impalpable as sounds, and, just as music ceases to be divine when itis poured out of some mechanical contrivance, so the mysteries of thehuman soul become mere bodily conditions--more or less humiliating--whendemonstrated, catalogued, and legalised. There is nothing modern noruncommon in this especial disposition. One may describe it as ascetic, anæmic, sentimental, hysterical, neurotic; but the men and women whopossess this fragile organism show, as a rule, powers of endurance and astrength of will by no means characteristic of the average sanguine andsensual creature who eats, drinks, fights, loves, and does his best in aworld which he calls vile, yet would not renounce for all the ecstasiesof Paradise. 

The carriage wheels rolled on--as swift and noiseless as the sand in anhour-glass. Why was the road so short? Why could they not be carriedthus for ever, tranquil with happiness, wanting nothing, seekingnothing, bound no-whither? Foolish questions and a foolish longing: yethappiness consists in being able to formulate wishes with the sereneknowledge that a better wisdom directs their fulfilment. Neitherpassers-by nor other vehicles, neither houses nor streets caught theentranced attention of these young lovers. The delight of being purelyself-absorbed is very great and intoxicating to those who areconstantly--either by desire or the force of circumstances--unselfish. Afaint flush swept into Brigit's face under the effect of an experienceso novel. Their twofold consciousness had all the pathos ofself-effacement, and all the thrill of satisfied egoism. Such instantscannot last, and they are shortest when one's habits of thought areantagonistic to such luxury. Brigit sighed deeply, and roused herselfwith a painful sense that the minute she wilfully cut short had been thesweetest in her life. 

"Pensée, " she said, "has been so kind to me. She gave me her room atWight House last night. She had the little dressing-room just off it. Did you notice her dress? She was very anxious that you should like it. "

"She seemed all right, " said Robert; "and wasn't Reckage splendid?"

Having spoilt their perfect moment, they became as mere mortals, more atease in this planet, where complete joy has an unfamiliar mien. Brigit'sactual physical beauty returned. The sunshine stole in at the openwindow and lit up her golden hair, which was half hidden by a hat withwhite plumes. She looked down at her hand with its new wedding ring, andwas pleasantly aware of Robert's admiration. 

"I am so glad, " she exclaimed, "that you think my hand is nice. BecauseI have given it to you for all time. And if you are ever tired, ordiscouraged, or unhappy, or lonely, and you want me, I shall come toyou. "

"But you will be with me now always. "

"Yes, " she answered. "Yes, Robert, always. "

They had now reached Almouth House. Her little foot, with its archedinstep, seemed too slight and delicate for the pavement. Robert knewthat her arm rested upon his, because he felt it trembling. They crossedthe threshold together. The doors closed after them. 

"And he never once kissed her on the way from church!" exclaimed thefootman. 

But the coachman did not think this very peculiar. "I don't hold withkissing, " said he; "to my mind there's nothing in it. Kissing is forboys and gals--not for men and wives. "

Baron Zeuill was unable to join them all at breakfast, but Pensée, andReckage, and David Rennes (who had been especially invited the nightbefore because he had proved so entertaining), did more than their dutyas friends by talking feverishly, eating immoderately, and affecting theconventional joyousness universally thought proper at such times. Penséeventured to make a reference to the forthcoming marriage of the "bestman, " and expressed the faltering hope that "dear Agnes would be ashappy as dear Brigit. " Reckage scowled. Rennes was seized with a fit ofcoughing. It was the one unlucky hit in the whole conversation, and itwas soon forgotten by every one present except Orange, who rememberedit frequently in later days. At last the hour for departure came. Pensée, weeping, kissed Brigit on both cheeks, looked into her graveeyes long and lovingly, put her arms around the slight, girlish formwith that exquisite, indefinable tenderness, unconscious, unpremeditated, and protective, which married women show toward veryyouthful brides. Robert handed his wife into the brougham, the order wasgiven "To Waterloo, " the horses started, rice and slippers were thrown. 

"They go into the world for the first time, " exclaimed Rennes. 

Then Pensée was assisted into the barouche, and drove homewards. 

"We shall meet again, " she said, as she parted from Reckage; "we meet atSara's at lunch. "

The two men were thus left alone. They decided to smoke, for they wereboth a little affected by the pathos of the situation. 

"Explain Robert, " said his lordship, as they returned to thedining-room, "explain that kind of love. You are an artist. "

"Well, it isn't my way, " rejoined the other, with a forced laugh, "butthere are many manifestations of personal magnetism. "

"This kind is very interesting, " said Reckage, "although it is, ofcourse, high-flown. Orange is romantic and scrupulous--he knows next tonothing of the sensual life; and that next to nothing is merely a sourceof disgust and remorse. You follow me?"

"Perfectly, " said Rennes. "It is a question of temperament. The wonderis that he has not entered, in some delirium of renunciation, thepriesthood. "

"That would mean, for his gifts, a closed career. It beats my wits toguess how this marriage will turn out. He is madly in love. He hassuffered frightfully. Too much moral anguish has a depraving effect inthe long run. "

"I am not so sure of that. "

"I think so, at any rate. Now many a decent sort of fellow can get alongwell enough--if he has a woman to his taste and wine which he considersgood. You observe I condense the situation as much as possible. ButOrange is different. "

"Not so different--except in degree, or experience. At present, heoscillates between the woe of love and the joy of life. You compared himto St. Augustine. St. Augustine never pretended that earthly happinesswas a delusion. He knew better. He said, 'Do not trust it, but seek thehappiness which hath no end. ' Personally, I can accept with gratitude asmuch as I can get. 'Is not the life of men upon earth all trial, withoutany interval?' This may be; yet it is something to learn how tosympathise with happiness. Our best men and women devote themselves tooexclusively to the diagnosis of misery. "

"You have thought a lot, I can see, " said Reckage. 

The artist gave him a quick, friendly glance. 

"I have played the fool, " said he. "I envy Orange. He will know thingsthat I can never know--now. I haven't lived up to my thoughts. I am notremorseful--I don't believe in remorse. It is a thing for thehalf-hearted. But if I am not sad, I am not especially gay. The middlecourse between sentimentality and gallantry seems to me intimatelyimmoral and ridiculous into the bargain. So I am an idealist withsenses. There are times when I hate life. And why? Because life is evil?By no means; but because we tell lies about it, and write lies about it, from morning till night. "

"You seem a bit depressed, " said Lord Reckage. "But, by the by, how isthe portrait going? My brother Hercy, who paints a little, alwaysdeclared that Agnes was unpaintable. Do you find her unpaintable?"

"No, " said Rennes; "oh no!"

CHAPTER VII

When Reckage asked Rennes whether he found Miss Carillon "unpaintable, "the artist was conscious of a swift, piercing emotion, which passed, indeed, but left an ache. And as the day advanced the smart of the woundgrew more intense. A visit to the National Gallery, a call at histailor's, an inspection of maps at his club, afforded little relief tothe indefinable misery. He was tortured by the disingenuousness of hisown mind. He had done so much, and thought so much, and read so much; hecould give so many scientific reasons for each idea and each movement ofhis mental and physical being, that the joy of life had been cut up inits machinery. He had lost the power of being natural either in hispains or his pleasures. He knew all the answers, but not one of thequestions which trouble youth. He had never wondered at anything. Wonder--the lovely mistress of wisdom--had taught him none of hersecrets. Dead certainty had dogged his steps from his first appearanceon this unknowable world. Once, when a very little boy, he admired avase full of pink roses. "They will keep twice as long, " said hisnurse, "in dirty water. It is such a waste to put fresh water on roses!"This remark--slight in itself--remained in his memory as the firsttruth--the Logos, in fact--from which all other truths generated. He wasnow nine-and-thirty: he had executed an abnormal amount of work, and hehad a just reputation as a portrait-painter. His technical skill wasconsidered unique. The something lacking was that mysteriousness whichbelongs to all great art, and is, essentially, in life. 

"Rennes, " said one of his friends, "can work for sixteen hours a day. Itis all taken from without. He gives nothing except his undividedattention. " The saying was not true; he gave himself absolutely--soul, brain, and heart--to his task, but the gift was too premeditated, too accurately weighed. There was no self-abandonment, norself-forgetfulness. His admiration for Miss Carillon had been of thiskind. Having added up her attractions, her figure, her face, her youth, her intelligence, her grace, he decided that she was exceptional in manyways. He found real happiness in her society--she was so sane, so clear, so unaffected. His attitude toward her had remained for some time one offraternal affection, partly by force of will, chiefly because hisrelations with other women were not so restrained. But the position waschanging. Certain forces in life were assuming for him a complicated andthreatening aspect. What if, after all, there was an incalculableelement in man?

"Now to be practical, " he said to himself. He had not seen his motherfor a fortnight. She lived in Kensington Square. "I must really go andsee my mother!" The cab drove quickly; the little grey house was soonreached. David opened the door with his latch-key and rushed upstairsinto the small drawing-room, furnished in white and green, with freshflowers on the mantelpiece, and many shelves of vellum-bound books. Abronze lamp hung from the ceiling, and its globe, covered in violetsilk, cast a light like that of the early dawn in hilly regions. A faintodour of lavender filled the air. In one corner of the room there was achess-table with its chessmen showing an interrupted game. A velvetfootstool, much indented by the pressure of a firm foot, stood in frontof the carved armchair in which Mrs. Rennes usually sat. Herwork-basket, lined with blue satin and shining with steel fittings, stood in its customary place on a gipsy stool near the fireplace. A fewold English prints hung on the walls, and between the windows there wasa Chippendale cabinet filled with Worcester and Crown Derby china. Theaspect of all things was restful, emotionless, and some of its calmseemed to overtake and soothe David's agitated spirit. He sat down atthe piano and played, with much passion, bits from Wagner's "_Tristan_, "the first performance of which he had seen at Munich. "Good Heavens!" hethought. "What a genius! What a soul! What a phrase!" Suddenly the dooropened and Agnes Carillon was ushered in. She hesitated a second, andthen recognised Rennes, who had his back to the light. Her firstinstinct was to retreat; her first feeling was a strange sensation ofpleasure and fear. His usually cold and wearied face took an expressionof controlled but unmistakable delight. She blushed, though not withresentment, yet she avoided, by appearing to have some difficulty withher muff, his outstretched hand. 

"I have called on your mother, " said she. "I thought you would be onyour way to Rome. "

Her lips were red and rather full: her cheeks were pink, her throat andbrows were white. Her demeanour was, while modest, neither shy norself-conscious. David was struck by her height and the extremeslightness of her figure. She wore a large Gainsborough hat with longplumes, a black gown, and a collar of old _point de Venise_. She hadcome up from the country, and her presence brought its freshness. 

"Why are you in town?" he asked abruptly. 

"I was bored at home. "

"And the trousseau?"

"The trousseau?" she said, lifting her eyes for the first time to his. 

"They say it is unlucky to try on your wedding-dress, " he continued, seeking relief in the very torture of reminding himself that the date ofher marriage with Lord Reckage was fixed. 

"I never think about luck, " she answered. 

"I met Reckage at the play last night. I lunched with him to-day, " saidRennes. 

"I am so glad that you are friends. I want you to like him. "

"No doubt he thinks me mad. Politicians always regard artists asmadmen. "

"But Beauclerk is considered very cultured. I hate the word. He isinterested in art. "

"No doubt--as a means of investment, an educational influence, or atopic of conversation for light moments. "

"You are severe. Yet I like to hear you talk. "

She hoped that his talk would drown the singing in her heart, thewhispering in her ears, the footsteps of doubt--doubt of herself, doubtof Reckage, coming nearer and nearer. She had been taught everything. She had discovered nothing. Love itself had come to her in the shape ofa cruel code of responsibilities. Lately she had been dwelling with analmost feverish emphasis on the question of duty. She had weariedReckage; she had exhausted herself by the tenacity of her mind towardthat dull subject. And the real truth about much in life was forcingitself upon her. She was essentially a woman of affairs. Her faceabsorbed the poetry of her nature, just as a flower extracts everyexcellence from its surrounding soil, and, shining out for the sun, wastes no blossom underground. It had been her earliest ambition tomarry a Member of Parliament and help him--by her prayers andcounsel--on his conscientious career toward Downing Street. She hadreceived an austere education, and even her native generosity of heartcould not soften the indignation she had been trained to feel againstany neglect of duty. Duty was a term which she applied to that scienceof things generally expedient which tradition has presented to us in thehousehold proverbs and maxims of every nation. Early rising, controllingone's temper, paying one's debts, consideration for others, workingwhile it is day, taking stitches in time--all these to that orthodoxmind were matters of imperative obligation, if not Divine command. David's impulsive nature and self-indulgent habits filled her withoverwhelming sorrow and dismay. She could not understand the rapidchanges of mood, the disordered views, the storm and violence which arecharacteristic of every artist whose work is a form of autobiographyrather than a presentment of impersonal forms and effects. 

In Rennes there were two principles constantly at work: the David whoacted, and the David who observed, criticised, and reproduced inallegorical guise, the inspiring performance. Agnes knew nothing of thiscommon phenomenon in creative genius, and when her friend refreshed hisimagination by appearing in a new _rôle_, she was as terrified as achild before some clever trick in experimental chemistry. From time totime he expressed opinions which startled her. She begged him once topaint a "religious" picture. He would not. A feeling that she hadexperienced some bitter disappointment weighed upon her spirit. Yet whenshe seemed to give that disappointment a cause, she was careful to leaveit in obscurity. She would not permit herself to think, and, pale withsuffering, she would check the painful questions which rose alreadyanswered. Her affection for Rennes was one of those serious passionswhich sometimes take root in an unsentimental nature, and derive astrength from philosophy which romantic considerations, pleasant as theyare, can never bestow. Romance will add a magical delight to thepleasures of existence, but for the burden of the day one needs asobriety of thought which would ring singularly flat in a love-lyric, which is certainly opposed to those emotions which produce what iscommonly regarded as interesting behaviour. Agnes had not been drawn toRennes at first sight, but rather by degrees and against her betterjudgment. She had found him unstable and affected; on the other hand, she admired his fine figure, his talent, his conversation, and the firein his brilliant eyes. She told herself that she was deeply anxiousabout his soul, but, in a crowd, she watched for his broad shoulders andhis handsome face. Such was her friendship, and she had known him fortwo years. Her first season had been a startling success. She had themisery of rejecting several suitors of whom her father fullyapproved--one was an Archdeacon. She had been drawn more than kindlytoward a consumptive violinist whom she had met at a Saturdayentertainment for the poor at Kensal Green. Not a single word of loveever passed between them. He called once or twice at her aunt's house inChester Square, and they had played together some of Corelli's sonatas. Her aunt carried her away to Brighton, and no more was heard of theyoung violinist till a rumour reached them that he was drinking himselfto death at St. Moritz. Agnes said many prayers for him. At last asecond rumour reached her that the first was wholly incorrect. He hadmarried a very nice girl with a lot of money and was building a villa atCannes. Agnes told herself that she was thankful to hear it. The nextyear she became engaged to a young Member of Parliament with really fineprospects. She was not in love, but she liked him better than all herfriends. She felt serene, and at last useful. Then a story reached herabout another woman, and yet another woman before that one. The storywas true and not at all pretty. The Bishop was obliged to support hisdaughter in her refusal to regard matters in what her betrotheddescribed as a sane and reasonable manner. He had sinned and he wassorry, and what was more, he had every desire to reform. But Agnesremained firm, although she had probably never been so nearly in lovewith him as she was on the day when she returned all his charmingletters and the ring and his photograph. It was a trying moment. Shewas ordered abroad, and she spent the winter at Rome, where she readancient history and visited churches and excited a great deal ofadmiration. Mrs. Rennes and David were also at Rome. The three met atthe house of an irreproachable Marchesa. They became friends. MissCarillon's aunt, who was a maiden lady with means, succumbed to thefascinating eloquence of an amateur _connoisseur_ of antique gems. Inher new character of _fiancée_, she found it inconvenient to chaperon ayoung niece. She joined a widowed friend, and gladly assented to thesuggestion that dear Agnes should visit Mrs. Rennes in Paris. The Bishopsaw no impediment to the plan. He had been at Oxford with the lateArchibald Rennes, an odd fellow but high-minded. Mrs. Rennes was thedaughter of a General Hughes-Drummond. Every one knew theHughes-Drummonds. They were very good people indeed. The Bishop hopedthat Agnes would enjoy herself, give her kind friend as little troubleas possible, and come home fully restored in spirits. He forgot David. It may be that others omitted to mention him. The Bishop was not pleasedwhen the rumour reached him that this artist was included in the party. What were his habits? What were his prospects? Were his artistic talentssuch that he might reasonably hope to become a Royal Academician andmaintain an establishment? What _class_ of pictures did he paint? Werethey lofty in tone? Did they exalt and purify the mind? Would they makegood engravings--such engravings as one might hang on one's walls? Thecorrespondence and the questions were endless. David spent a week end atthe Episcopal Palace, and behaved so well that he became frightened athis own capabilities for John Bullism. He was a little annoyed, too, tofind himself at ease in a British home circle. The Bishop was, at allevents, satisfied. Agnes was enchanted, and, transfigured by unconsciouspassion, looked more beautiful than ever. David enjoyed the services inthe cathedral; he liked the quiet Sunday afternoon, he was impressed byDr. Carillon's real earnestness in the pulpit. The visit was a greatsuccess. Before he left, he begged Agnes to write to him "when she couldspare the time. " The young man had tried everything except a Platonicfriendship with a lovely girl. He fancied that he found in AgnesCarillon that purity coupled with magnetism which makes such experimentsattractive. They corresponded regularly, but they did not meet again forseveral months. When he returned, a little tired of platonism, letter-writing, intellectuality, and longing a great deal for the sightof her face, he found her engaged to Lord Reckage. So nature revengesitself. He detected a certain triumph and also a certain deep reproachin her gaze. She insisted that she was more than happy, but somethingunder these words seemed to murmur--"You have spoilt our lives. " Hermanner, nevertheless, never altered. She was invariably sympathetic, gracious, delicately emotional. In letters she signed herself, "Yoursaffectionately, Agnes Carillon. "

"How I should like to paint you in this light!" he said, all at once. "That is the dress I love best. Don't wear it often. " The remark wasslight enough as a pretty speech within the bounds of flirtation, butthe tone in which he uttered it meant more, and the girl's womanlyinstinct told her that the dangerous limit in their "friendship" hadbeen reached. He saw her turn pale. She looked away from him, andswallowed thoughts which were far more bitter than any words she couldhave spoken. 

"You never used to say these things, " she exclaimed at last; "why do yousay them now?"

"I thought them--always, " he answered. "But I am a Pagan. I tried tokeep my Paganism for others, and what you would call 'the best in me'for you. You may be able to understand. Anyhow, I made a mistake--aterrible mistake. It was a false position, and I couldn't maintain it. Now I don't even want to maintain it. Then it was a kind of vanity. Imean that time when I was at the Palace. I had been reading a lot ofbeautiful unreal stuff about the soul. I thought I had reached a veryhigh place. Of course I had--because nothing is higher or purer thanreal human love. But I wouldn't call it love. So I went abroad, andwrote any amount of 'literature' to you. And all the time Reckage washere--asking you, wisely enough, to marry him. And you, wisely enough, accepted him. "

Agnes sat still, with her eyes down, cold, silent, forbidding. She didnot understand him. She had neither the knowledge of life, nor theimagination, which could make such understanding possible. But she sawin his look that he loved her, that he was unhappy. She knew thatReckage had never shown so much feeling. Yet had she not given her wordto Reckage? Was it not irrevocable? Was Rennes behaving well in speakingout--too late? Was it too late? A torrent of questions poured into hermind. She dragged off her gloves, and spread out her hands, which wereslim and white, and stared at her sapphire engagement ring. 

"A weak man submits to destiny, " said Rennes, "a strong one makes hisown. It is what we think of ourselves which determines our fate. If Iregard myself as a poor creature, I shall, no doubt, act the part of apoor creature. But, " he added, with an ironical smile, "it is never toolate to give up one's prejudices. I can't stand by and look on anylonger. I intend to leave England for some years. I hope we may nevermeet again. Don't answer me, because there is nothing for you to say. You have been perfectly kind, perfectly charming, perfectly consistent. You have never deceived me and you have never deceived yourself. "

She interrupted him:

"I hope not. Oh, I hope I have never deceived myself--or you. "

"I was grateful for your friendship, " he said. "I can't be grateful forit now. "

Agnes drew a long breath and murmured random words about the "time. " Wasit getting late?

"Yes, " replied Rennes, "too late. Did I ever tell you why my father, with all his prospects, became a drawing-master? He told me that he hadsuffered so much learning why he could never paint, nor hope to paint, that he was determined to devote his knowledge to the service ofapprentices. It seemed to him such an awful thing to mistake one'svocation. Now I feel that one of us--perhaps both of us, you and I, aredoing even a worse thing. We are deliberately throwing happiness to thedogs. "

"I don't think so, " said Agnes, in a trembling voice. "There is duty, you know; that is something higher than happiness, I believe. "

"Are you so sure?"

"Oh, yes!"

"I envy you. I don't even know what you mean by duty. It seems to meanother name for the tyranny of false sentiment. "

"Don't disturb my ideas, " she exclaimed, with an appealing gesture. "Don't say these things. They make me wretched. I can't afford to doubtand question. One must have a few permanent rules of conduct. "

"But if they are fantastic, capricious, insincere?"

"I can't argue. I am not clever. I will not change my views. I dare not. It would make me hate you. "

"You are the slave of convention. "

"That may be. That is safer, after all, than being the slave of someother will stronger than my own. Why do you try to disturb mylife--now--after so many really happy months of friendship?"

"Were they so happy? Agnes, were they happy?"

She hesitated. 

"Yes, " she said, at last; "relatively, yes. "

"It is quite true. Good women drive us to the bad ones. "

"Oh! what can you mean? Surely we are saying too much. We shall reproachourselves later. I live, again and again, through one conversation. Thephrases come into my mind with every possible shade of significance. "

She pushed back her hat, and pressed her hand to her brow, which wascontracting nervously as she spoke. 

"I don't wish to be altered by any change in principle, " she continued, "nor distracted, from my plain obligations, into other interests. Idaresay I sound quite heartless and odd. I daresay you won't like me anymore. " Her voice faltered, but her lips remained precise. "But one mustknow one's mind--one _must_. You don't know yours; that is the wholetrouble, David. "

She had never called him by his Christian name before, and now theforced sternness of her tone gave it almost the accent of a farewell. 

"Perhaps we have helped each other, " she went on; "at all events, youhave taught me how to look at things. You are clever and original andall that. I am rather commonplace, and I never have new or surprisingthoughts. The more I learn, the more I grow attached to the ordinaryways. Once you called me the ideal _bourgeoise_. You were right. "

"Not entirely, " said Rennes. "You think too much. "

"You taught me that. I never used to consider people or notions. Iaccepted them without criticism. "

"The madness of criticism has entered into you, " he said. "It is theworst, most destructive thing on earth. "

"How could I have accepted you--as my friend--without it?" she asked. "You puzzled me. I tried to understand you. No one had ever puzzled mebefore. No one, you may be quite sure, will ever puzzle me, in the samedegree, again. "

She gave him a long, tearful glance, in which defiance, reproach, determination, and a certain cruelty shone like iron under water. Hemade a movement toward her. The strength of his more emotional naturemight have made a final assault--not uselessly--on her assumed"reasonableness. " No appeal, no threat could have moved her from themental attitude she had decided on--the duty of keeping her word to LordReckage. But she might have been urged to the more candid course ofascertaining how far his lordship's true happiness was really involvedin the question. At that moment, however, Mrs. Rennes came into theroom. She gave a little cry of surprise when she saw her son. Then shekissed Agnes, and sat down, looking anxiously from one to the other withsomething not unlike grief, not unlike jealousy. 

Her life and habits of thought were simple, but she had been highlyeducated. She was an accomplished linguist, a good musician, a mostintelligent companion. Things which she could not comprehend she would, at least, accept on faith. There had never been the shadow of a quarrelbetween David and herself. But she felt, by intuition, that AgnesCarillon had, in some way, affected his life, his work, his wholenature. She could not blame her, because she knew nothing definite aboutthe understanding which existed, plainly enough, between her son andthis young lady. She had a horror, however, of flirtation and flirts. Itseemed to her that, under all this talk and correspondence on art, poetry, scenery, and the like, there was a strong under-current ofemotion. So she smiled upon Agnes with a certain reserve, as though shewere not quite sure whether she had any great reason to feel delightedat her call. At a glance from David, however, her look softened intoreal friendliness. 

"I was so surprised to see Mr. Rennes here, " said Agnes. 

"I am surprised, too, " said the older woman. 

A restraint fell upon all three. David walked about the room, lookingfor things he did not want, and asking questions he did not wishanswered, although he hoped they would interest his mother. But hisspirits soon flagged. The conversation became trivial and absurd. 

"Where are you staying?" asked Mrs. Rennes. 

"I am with Pensée Fitz Rewes, " said Agnes; "she has gone in the carriageto do a little shopping. She will send it here for me. "

The carriage was at that instant announced. David went down the stairswith Agnes and handed her in. He said nothing. Mrs. Rennes watched thepair from the window and nodded her farewell with much gravity. WhenDavid returned to her, he found her reading peacefully Trollope's lastnovel. It was for these graces that he loved her most. He scribbledletters at her writing-table for the next hour. Then he spoke--

"I am going, " said he, "to the East. I need a change. I suppose it willmean six months. "

"But how you will enjoy it!"

"And what will you do?"

"I live from day to day, my dear. I am quite contented. "

"This journey is not a mere caprice. I have been contemplating it forsome time, " he said. 

Mrs. Rennes' hair was white and her long, equine countenance, sallow. When her feelings were stirred, she showed it only by a cloudy pallorwhich would steal over her face as a kind of veil--separating her fromthe rest of mortals. 

"One has to get away from England, " continued Rennes: "one has to getaway from one's self. "

"And where is your self now?" she asked, not venturing to look at him. 

"With that girl, " he answered, suddenly; "with that girl. "

"Do you love her?"

"I don't know. I suppose I do. Oh! I would love her if I could ever beabsolutely sincere. But this I do know--I can't see her married to thatfellow Reckage. So I must go away. "

"I am afraid she is a coquette--a serious coquette, my dear boy. "

"She is nothing of the kind. She is a true woman. Don't talk abouther. "

CHAPTER VIII

Sara had spent the morning crying bitterly, in bed. Her letter to theDuke of Marshire was on the table by her side. From time to time she hadtaken it up, turned it over, shed fresh tears, and reproached herselffor indecision. She held at bay every thought of Robert Orange, andformed the resolve of banishing him from her mind for ever. When thetime came to dress for luncheon, she brightened a little, for theprospect of disguising her true feelings in the presence of Lord Reckageand Pensée appealed to that genius for mischief which animated the wholecurrent of her life. _To baffle the looker-on_ seemed not merely a greatscience, but the one game of wits which could never lose its interest. She was not insincere. She thought that lies, as a rule, were clumsyshifts, and abominable. Even in the moments when she was most thoroughlyconscious of her talent for misleading others, she had never broughtherself to think well of deception. She would have liked to feel thather heart was an open book for her friends to read. It would have beenpleasant, she believed, if all could have known always that shepractised a delicate art and played, consummately, fine comedy whenevershe found spectators. But a solitary, mismanaged childhood, and theconstant sense of being in many ways a foreigner, had taught her thepenalty of frankness where sympathy could not supply, from its ownknowledge, the unutterable half which makes up every confidence. Thebitter pleasures of a conscience which caresses its worst burden werethe only real ones of her daily existence. When she could say, at theend of the day, "I have fooled them all: they think I am happy, I amnot: they think Reckage amuses me, he doesn't. They think I delight inthese dull dinners and balls, I hate them, " a sort of exultation--thepride of a spirit singing under torture--would fill her whole being. Allyouth that is strong and thoughtful has much of this instinct ofdissimulation. The world--to a young mind--appears controlled byelderly, suspicious, hateful custodians ever on the alert to capture, orthwart, every high enterprise and every passionate desire. There seems avast conspiracy against happiness--the withered, dreary wiseacres inopposition to the joy, the daring, the beauty, the reckless vitality ofsouls still under the spell of spring. When poor Sara could escape fromtown into the country, mount her horse, and tear through a storm, theneighbours compared her to a witch on a broomstick, and, shaking theirheads, would foresee much sipping of sorrow by the spoonful in thefuture of Lord Garrow. To-day, however, the young lady assumed her mostdemure expression, and received the guests at luncheon as though she hadnever learnt the meaning of tears nor joined the gale in spirit. 

Sir Piers Harding was the last to arrive. He was a thick-set, livid manwith an unyielding smile and the yellow eyes of one whom rich dietrather than an angry god had rendered melancholy. 

"You haven't changed in the least, " he said, considering Lord Garrowwith some resentment. 

"Ah, well!" replied his lordship, "eleven years do not make muchdifference at my time of life. You, however, are decidedly greyer. Wherehave you been hiding yourself? I think you were foolish to leaveEngland. Gladstone was remarking but the other day, 'Harding was alwaysso cocksure. ' 'And wasn't he right?' said I. 'Of course, ' said he; 'andthat was the worst of him. He _was_ right. Who could stand it?' That'sthe world. It's devilish unappreciative of the truth. "

Reckage, much bored by the old men, stood by Pensée's chair, where hecould watch Sara and angle for her glance. When it happened that shesmiled at him a little--either in mere friendship or mockery--he felt akind of fire steal through his veins, and he told himself that she was adangerous woman--a woman who could get her own way in the long run. Thatshe was a girl--and, with all her shortcomings, a very innocentone--made her odd powers of fascination but the more insidious. Shewore a dress of wine-coloured silk which fitted plainly over her breastand shoulders and fell in graceful flounces from the waist. The warm, olive lines of her cheek and throat appeared the darker in contrast witha twist of white lace which she wore round her neck; and her black hair, dressed higher than usual, was held in place by a large ruby comb whichcaught the fire-light as she moved. Reckage was conscious, for the firsttime in his life, of a real embarrassment. He could not talk to her; hefelt tongue-tied when she addressed him. Ill at ease, yet not unhappy, he struggled to maintain some coherence in his conversation; but, ateach moment, his own ideas grew less certain and Sara's voice moreenchanting. It seemed to convey the lulling powers of an anodyne. Whenhe tried to rouse himself, the effort was as painful as the attempt towake from a dream within a dream. 

"You were at the wedding this morning?" she asked lightly. 

"No.... What a fool I am! Yes, of course. You mean Robert's wedding?"

She gave a little smile, and murmured, dropping her voice, "I meantRobert's wedding. "

Luncheon was then announced: the sliding doors which separated thedining-room from Lord Garrow's library were rolled back. They all walkedin--Pensée and Sara leading the way. 

"A sweet creature!" whispered his lordship behind their backs, indicating Lady Fitz Rewes. He sighed as he spoke. He could never feelthat there was not something deplorable in Sara's physical brilliancy. Her upper-lip that day had a certain curl which he had learnt to regardas a danger-signal. What would she do next? As he sat down at the tableand observed the sweep of her eyelashes toward Reckage, a presentimentof trouble clouded the new hopes he had formed for her career. 

"Who are your strong men now?" asked Harding suddenly, after a moment'scontemplation of Reckage, who sat opposite. 

"Our strong men?" faltered Lord Garrow. 

"Aren't most of 'em place-hunters and self-seekers?"

"You must meet Robert Orange, " said Pensée; "Mr. Disraeli believes inRobert Orange. "

"I never heard of him, " observed Sir Piers. "Who is he?"

"You may well ask, " said Lord Garrow. "He claims to be a de Hausée--onhis father's side. Reckage can tell you about him. Many have a highopinion of the fellow, and say that if he will stick to one branch ofpolitics, he may become useful. Personally, I don't call him a man ofthe world. "

"Not of our world, perhaps, papa. But there are so many other worlds!"

"Sara likes him. A lot of women like him, " said his lordship. He wasannoyed at her interruption and took his revenge by a feminine thrust. "The hero, " said he, "married some mysterious person this very morning. We may not hear so much about him in the future!"

"Dear Lord Garrow, " said Pensée, "his wife is a friend of mine--she isthe most charming person. "

Sara put out her hand and touched Reckage on the arm. 

"Do you think, " she asked, "that the wife will be an obstacle in hisway?"

"Who can tell? Of course she has means, and he likes to do everythingwell. "

"Speaking for myself, " said Harding, "I have always held that a man'scareer rests rather on his genius than his marriage. "

"But you, my dear fellow, " put in Lord Garrow, testily, "you retiredfrom political life because your theories could find no illustrationthere. "

"Pardon me, " said Sir Piers, with a grim laugh. "I retired because I hada faultless wife but unfortunately no genius. I shall therefore watchyour friend's triumph or failure--for his position would seem to beprecisely the reverse of my own--with peculiar sympathy. "

"Ah! I fear you are rather heartless, " exclaimed Sara. "For a man tohave gone so far as Orange, and to know that perhaps--I say, perhaps--hecan hope no higher because he made a fool of himself about a woman!"

"You speak as though it were a romantic marriage--a question of love. "

"Of course, " said the young lady softly. "It is a great passion. "

"Well, after all, " observed Harding, who was not insensible himself toSara's delightfulness, "the British public is absurdly fond of alove-match. They adore a sentimental Prime Minister. They want to seehim either marrying for love, or jilted in his youth for a richer man. These things enlist the popular sympathy. What made Henry Fox? Hiselopement with Lady Caroline Lennox. "

"To be sure, " said Reckage--"to be sure. That's a point. "

"It is a compliment to the sex, " continued Harding, "when a great man istaken captive by a pretty face. Men, too, rally round a Lochinvar. Suchan evidence of heart--or folly, if you prefer to call it so--is alsoan evidence of disinterestedness. So, on the whole, I cannot follow yourobjections to the new Mrs. Orange. "

"You have been away so long, " said Garrow fussily, "that you haveforgotten our prejudices. Orange himself, to begin with, has somethingmysterious in his origin. They say he is French--related to the oldFrench aristocracy; but the less one says in England about foreignpedigrees the better. All that of itself is against him, and Mrs. Orange, it seems, is more or less French, or Austrian, too. We can'thelp regarding them as foreigners, and I always distrust foreigners inpolitics. Why should they care for England? I ask myself. "

"Why, indeed?" said Harding, with irony. 

"Have I made myself clearer?" asked Garrow. "I can afford to speak. Myown wife was a Russian. But I was not in political life, and she was anAmbassador's daughter. "

"You think you would feel more sure of Orange's patriotic instinct if hehad chosen an Englishwoman?" said Reckage. 

"I am bound to say that he would have shown discretion in settling downwith one of our simple-hearted Saxon girls. "

"And who was Mrs. Orange before she married Orange?" asked Harding. 

"A widow--a Mrs. Parflete, " said Garrow. 

"Parflete!" exclaimed Harding. "Mrs. Parflete! But I have met her. Shemarried Wrexham Parflete, an extraordinary creature. He lived for yearswith the Archduke Charles of Alberia. People used to say that Mrs. Parflete was the Archduke's daughter. I ran across Parflete the otherday in Sicily. "

"But he is dead, " said Pensée, much agitated; "he drowned himself. "

"I cannot help that, " repeated Sir Piers. "I met him last week, and hebeat me at écarté. "

"Then it is not the same man, " said Reckage, "quite obviously. "

"Wrexham Parflete had a wife; I heard her sing at a dinner-party inMadrid. She was living with the Countess Des Escas; there was a row anda duel on her account. I never forget names or faces. "

"But this looks serious, " said Reckage. "Do you quite understand? It'sthe sort of thing one hardly dares to think. That is to say if you meanwhat I mean. The marriage can't be legal. "

The two women turned pale and looked away from each other. 

"I mean as much or as little as you like, " said Harding. "But Parfletewas alive last Monday. "

"But bigamy is so vulgar, " observed Lord Garrow. "You must be mistaken. It is too dreadful!"

"Dreadful, indeed! And a great piece of folly into the bargain. It isselling the bear's skin before you have killed the bear. "

Lady Fitz Rewes glanced piteously at the three men and wrung her hands. 

"Don't you see, " she exclaimed, "don't you see that if there is theleast doubt of Mr. Parflete's death, we ought to go to them. Some onemust follow them. "

"There is that touch of the absurd about it, " said Reckage, "which makesit difficult for a friend to come forward. To pursue a man on hiswedding journey----"

"It is no laughing matter, " put in Lord Garrow; "and if the woman hasdeceived the poor fellow, it's a monstrous crime. "

"Oh, she hasn't; she couldn't deceive him, " said Pensée. "I know herintimately. "

"She was considered very clever--at Madrid, " said Sir Piers, finely. "Toyou she may appear more to be pitied than she really is. "

"Don't say such things! I won't hear them. I love her very much. "

"Perhaps she is clever enough to appear stupid in public. "

"No, no!" Her voice trembled and tears gushed from her eyes. "You willregret these words. This news will kill her. "

"Something must be done, " said Sara. "Beauclerk, you ought to followthem and tell them. Pensée is right. "

"This will make a horrid scandal, " said Lord Garrow, who was appalled atthe prospect of being mixed up in so disagreeable an affair. "Why notleave it alone? It is not our business. "

"But it is Beauclerk's business, papa. Just put yourself in his place. Surely that is not asking too much. "

"We must avoid everything precipitate, " said Reckage; "we mustn't beover-hasty. "

Lady Fitz Rewes wiped her eyes, rose from the table, and began to drawon her gloves. 

"But we must be friends, " she said; "if you cannot go to them, I will. Do you realise the poor child's position? An illegal marriage! She isthe most gentle, beautiful person I ever saw, with the best head, thepurest heart. She professes _nothing_. I judge her by her actions. "

"But you must see, " said Reckage, "that I can't give Orange all thispain unless I have something more definite to go on. Sir Piers tells usthat he played cards with Wrexham Parflete last week. " He paused. 

"Wait a moment, " said Harding; "wait a moment. Does any one present knowParflete's handwriting?"

"I do, " said Pensée. "I saw his last letter to his wife. He wrote itbefore he committed suicide. "

Sir Piers took out his pocket-book, and, from the several papers itcontained, selected a three-cornered note. 

"By the merest chance, " said he, "I have this with me. "

The others unconsciously left their seats and looked over his shoulderwhile he smoothed out the sheet. It was dated plainly, "October 7, 1869, " and contained the acknowledgment of two £10 notes won at écarté. 

"That is the hand, " said Pensée. "One could not mistake it. "

"Then this is really very serious, " said Lord Reckage, with twitchinglips. "The whole story has had all along something of unreality aboutit. Robert seems fated to a renunciant career--colourless, self-annihilating. "

"What will you do?" murmured Pensée, with an imploring gesture. "Whatwill you do?"

"They leave Southampton at three o'clock, " said Reckage; "it is nowhalf-past two. The steamer goes twice a week only. I can send him atelegram and follow them overland--by way of Calais. "

"Then I must go also, " said Pensée firmly. "She will need me. I have hada presentiment of trouble so long that now I feel 'Here it is come atlast. ' I cannot be too thankful to God that it isn't worse. "

Nothing showed under the innavigable depths of Sara's eyes. She hadmoved to the fireplace and stood there holding one small foot to theblaze. 

"Are you cold?" asked her father anxiously. 

"I am ice, " she said, "ice!"

Reckage joined her and said, under his voice, "You think I ought to go, don't you?"

This question--given in a half-whisper--seemed to establish a freshintimacy between them. It was the renewal of their old friendship ondeeper terms. 

"Yes, you must go, " she answered; "and, Beauclerk, write to me and tellme how he bears it. "

"He is accustomed to a repressive discipline on these matters. Thephilosophic mind, you know, is never quite in health. Probably, he won'tshow much feeling. "

His gaze seemed to burn into her face. It was as though she had beenwalking in an arbour and suddenly, through some rift in the boughs, found herself exposed to the scorching sun. She felt dominated by aforce stronger than her own nature. A little afraid, she shrankinstinctively away from him, and as she dared not look up, she did notsee the expression of triumph, mingled with other things, which, for amoment, lit up Lord Reckage's ordinarily inscrutable countenance. Lately, he had been somewhat depressed by his encounter with refractorywills. His horse, his colleagues on the Bond of Association, his futurebride, had showed themselves fatiguing, perhaps worthless, certainlydisheartening and independent accessories to his life. Here, at last, was some one brilliant, stimulating, by no means self-seeking, Quixoticin enthusiasms. 

"Sara, " he said, obeying an impulse which surprised himself, "do youbelieve in me?"

This time she gave him a straight glance. 

"Yes, " she answered. "You might do a great deal if you could forgetyourself for a few months. "

Pensée, much troubled and full of thoughts, walked over to them. 

"Oh, Sara!" she said, "isn't it terrible? If you could have seen themboth this morning--she looked so beautiful, perfectly lovely--a sight Inever can forget. And now this blow! What man can teach men tounderstand the will of God?"

CHAPTER IX

Robert and Brigit were silent with happiness on their way toSouthampton. Side by side they watched the country through the carriagewindows. There had been a fog in London when they left, and the sun, atintervals, shone out like a live coal among dying embers. All wasobscured; the foot-passengers and passing vehicles seemed black strayingshadows in the atmosphere. But the express emerged at last from theclinging darkness into autumnal fields, some brown after the harvest, others studded with hay-ricks. At one point in the landscape theynoticed a flock of sheep drinking at a stream. The boy who guarded themwaved his cap at the train, and this little signal, coming, as it were, from human nature, gave them a reassurance of the day's reality. NearBishopstoke the clouds were white and dense, but, rippling in places, they disclosed blue stretches of the heaven which, in their masses, theyconcealed. Southampton began with small houses. One had a tatteredgarden, where a stone copy of the Medicean Venus stood on a patch ofsqualid turf near a clothes' line and against an ivy-grown wall. Thenthe green sands were reached. The sea, like liquid granite, sparkled inthe distance. Rows of dull dwellings, shops, public-houses, and hotelscame next. The train, with a shriek, rushed into the station. It wasstill too early for lunch, so they walked down to the pier, where theysaw several yachts and pleasure-boats at anchor in the harbour, and theNew Forest greenly outlined in the distance. These were the things whichengraved themselves on Brigit's mind. The impressibility of youth isretentive for outward objects, but the inner mood--the sensation andidea which make the mental state--lives unconsciously, and is recognisedonly in the long process of time. Brigit could have described the scene, but her emotions did not seem to her, emotions. Absorbed by them, and inthem, she neither abandoned herself to the hour nor asked herself whatthe hour held. She and the hour were one--a single note; and the joy shefelt at being with Robert, leaning on his arm and hearing his voice, wasso simple that, even if a psychologist of the deepest experience hadbeen able to probe into the workings of her mind, he would have foundnothing there to analyse. Hers was a child's affection--the first loveof a heart still immature, and not yet made suspicious of itself bycontact with others less innocent. Parflete had been too worldly-wisenot to guard and value--at its true price--a disposition so graceful inits very essence. She had a knowledge of affairs beyond her years, yether own instincts, her education, her few friendships, had kept hercuriously ignorant of evil, of much also that is neither good nor evil, but merely human. The sombre sentimentality which lurks in most younggirls of seventeen was not in her character at all, and in its stead shepossessed the gaiety and carelessness of feeling which belongs toimaginative rather than to sensuous natures. A boy-like spirit showeditself in all her words, movements, moods; her womanhood still slept, and thus, while her intelligence made her an unusual companion and herbeauty presented a constant appeal to all that is romantic, it wasinevitable that melancholy and reserve should enter largely into thepassionate love which Robert felt for her. He told himself that he wouldnot have her different. The glance of her eyes, which stirred himstrangely to the very depths of his being, never varied in its sweetnessnor its calm. When her lightest touch could sway his body and spirit, she, unconscious of her power, would press his hand against her cheekand talk about the geraniums in the convent garden or the chances of theCarlist war. It was all wonderful. It had seemed perfect. And yet--andyet. She was not cold, but was she unearthly? Was she, perhaps, somestraying angel--some fervid, bright spirit, flame-coloured andintangible, a being of the elfin race? As they stood together looking atthe distant coastline a depression which he could neither fathom norcontrol came over him. His bride seemed so much younger than he hadever realised. She cared for him--how could he doubt it? But was theindefinable, indispensable feeling absent?

"Do you remember our journey from Catesby?" she asked suddenly. "Islept. Wasn't I dull? Did you mind?"

No one could see them. He stooped and kissed her fragrant, animatedface. "I wish, " said he, "I wish that you were not quite such a child. "

The feeling of solitariness weighed upon his soul with a crushing weightunknown until that day--the day of days, his wedding day. Heretofore hehad craved for solitude because it had been full of her imaginedcompanionship. Now that she actually lived and talked by his side, thefancied image of her paled, vanished. The real creature was adorable, but, for some reason, maddening, and not, at all events, the being ofhis fancy. Their old relations--ethereal and exquisite, no doubt--nowseemed an empty mockery, self-deluding foolishness. He coloured at theremembrance of all that Disraeli had hinted, and Reckage had brutallydeclared, on the large topic of idealism in passion. A man, in spite ofall determinations to be uncomplaining, knows the How much and Howlittle that he may demand, merely as a man, from any given advantage ordisadvantage in existence. Robert, hating himself, condemning himself, was conscious, in spite of himself, that Brigit's affection for him wasnot love in the full human sense of the word. He had exchanged anordinary self-restraint for an impossibly false position. She couldinspire his life, but could she enter into it, be it, live it with himdaily? Would there not have to be great reservations, half statements, and, worst of all, a subtle kind of hypocrisy? He reproached himself forselfishness, yet the fear came and it remained. He had captured therainbow and married the goddess. Were there not many legendsillustrating this folly?--stories of men who had married divinities andperished, not because the divinities were at fault, but because mortalsmust wed with mortals. The sight of his wife's beauty caused a sudden, violent irritation. He wished she had none, for then, perhaps, hethought he would have been satisfied, more than content, in the placidconsideration of her charms of character. He found himself reduced tothe absurd predicament of deciding to banish her from his thoughts--alast sophism which showed him, all too clearly, how wretched he was. Their silence, which had been due in the first instance to thesufficient delight of being in each other's company, became that longpause which arises from an unutterable embarrassment. Brigit felt byinstinct some change in Robert's mood, but as she could not account forit then, her sympathy failed. The keen salt air filled her with its ownfree buoyancy; her delicate skin flushed in the wind; she forgot thenervous strain of the morning, the awfulness of the grey chapel, the newstate of things, griefs that were past, responsibilities that were tocome. She turned to Orange as a child would turn to its inseparablecomrade, and clapped her hands with amusement at an organ-grinder with amonkey and a dog whom she noticed sitting at the end of the pier, waiting, apparently, for one of the excursion steamers bound for theIsle of Wight. 

"Pennies for the monkey, Robert, " she cried; "a lot of pennies! And thenwe must have our lunch. May I have some chicken and one of those verydroll, very stupid, English rice puddings? Please let me have one.... And may I kiss the dog? It is a nice little dog--quite as nice asPensée's Fidelio. Now I am going to talk to the monkey. "

She ran toward the little animal, who was shivering, pathetic andgrotesque, in a military cap and red petticoat trimmed with yellowbraid. The dog, which was a young pug with excellent points, gaveBrigit, after many entreaties, his paw. She addressed the monkey inItalian, and laughed till she cried at its absurdities. Robert lookedon, consumed by a sensation which he recognised, with much shame, asjealousy. He thought the pug dull and the monkey revolting. Yet shekissed one, and showered heavenly smiles on both. 

"I did not know that you were so fond of animals, " he said, as theywalked to the hotel for lunch. 

"I am not, " she answered frankly, "as a rule. But when I am with you Ifeel so happy that I want to kiss everything--the ground, and thetrees, and chairs, and poodle dogs, and the whole world!"

"Then why not--me?"

She looked at him, blushed a little, and waited some moments before shereplied. 

"I don't know, " she said at last. "It must be because I am not in thehabit of doing so. I am not accustomed to you yet. I keep thinking 'Ishall wake up in a minute and he will be miles away. ' Can't youunderstand? So I am pretending to myself all the time that you are notreally here. "

"I see. "

"No, dearest, you don't quite understand; and you are a littledisappointed in me because I seem--I must seem--rather flippant. Idaren't be serious--I daren't. I daren't believe that I am your wife. "

"But why not?"

She shook her head, and her whole face became clouded by the old, terrible, unnatural sadness which he knew so much better than herlaughter. 

"I am not used to joy, " she said. "Perhaps, if we ever get to Heaven, our first impulse will be to run back again to Purgatory, where we aremore at home!"

"You have too much wit, darling, to be happy anywhere!"

"No! no! I don't ask to be conventionally happy, but I want you always. That is all ... You, always, on any terms--on a rag-heap, in a storm, with jackals howling at us!"

"What a picture!"

"My idea of unalloyed bliss, or, at least, the only one I have everpermitted myself. I can even believe that might be realised. " A smilehovered again about her lips, but she looked steadily ahead, as thoughshe were still resolved not to reassure herself, by any too-frequentglances, of his much-loved presence. 

The peculiar tenderness of her voice was in itself a charm againstill-humour. A rush of bitter self-reproach told Robert that hisdissatisfaction had been the inevitable result of too many blessings ona base nature. He tried to speak; he watched instead, with a desperate, eager gaze, the play of her expressive features. 

"I wonder, " she said, "what our life is to be? Not that I wish to pryinto the future, but, for some reason, I can never feel settled. Everymorning is a surprise. I think, too, about your character ... Yourcareer. Have I helped you, or have I been a hindrance? I am perverse, capricious--not an angel. No human influence can help me very much. Imust depend on the discipline of God. Oh, if I could know all that Hewants me to do!"

"Most of us have that desire, Brigit. At least it is better to bedamned, in the world's opinion, trying to do the will of God thansaved--doing nothing! One has to take a good many chances--even thechance of displeasing Him--if it comes to a crisis. "

"Many people would call that reckless. "

"Let them call it anything, " said the young man; "names do not matter. The ghastly, unspeakable dread is to be timorous, halting, the creatureof indecision. "

"We are too much alike, " she sighed. "Oh, Robert, if we did not sufferhorribly within ourselves when we do wrong, I believe we should bothdefy every law in the world! I am a born rebel. "

More than a note of her mother's insolence was in the speech, but thewhole spirit of the dead actress seemed to possess Brigit for thatmoment. Her being rippled, as it were, with the new disturbance, just asa pond will tremble to its edges at the mere dip of a swallow's wing. The artistic hatred of all restraint and the wild desire of liberty werethe imperious passions of her heart--more vehement than any otherfeeling--even her love for Orange. 

"I could fight, " she said, "a visible devil, but this struggle withmoods and tastes is deadening. "

"What are the moods and tastes?" he asked. 

"I cannot describe them well. But music calls me; I hear it trilling, and sobbing, and whispering everywhere; and sometimes it is so loud andso beautiful that I wonder why every one else doesn't stop to listen. They never do. So I sing back my answer. It is silent singing. You wouldonly wonder why I was so quiet all at once. "

"But I have heard you sing. "

"Not with my real voice, Robert. It is stronger than it used to be. "She checked herself and hesitated, stopped by a sudden scruple--a sortof delicacy. She thought nothing at all of her beauty and never of herfortune; but in giving Robert her voice, and the nameless ambitionswhich enveloped it, she was conscious that she had made, in some way, arenunciation. 

"Say what you were going to say, dearest?"

"I cannot forget, " she exclaimed desperately, "that mama was an actress. And I remember some of the nights at the theatre.... I liked thetheatre.... I believe I could act.... I have learned the whole of_Phédre_ and the whole of _Juliet_. That is why I live. "

This avowal of her secret over-ruling instinct set free the sanguinestrength which circumstances had imprisoned, but could not destroy, inher character. The constant effort of hiding from all observation theirrepressible yearnings of a talent that would not be denied, had givenher that quality of mysteriousness, of dreamy habits of thought, oflanguor, which, even to Robert, had looked as though she might find thisearth too rough to live on. But the despair which comes from fighting, unsuccessfully, the world, is not that appearance of weakness which isthe result of fighting--more or less effectively--one's own energy. Inthis latter issue the beaten foe joins forces obediently enough with theconqueror, till at last the opposing elements are directed, whether forgood or evil, by one will. 

"So you want to go on the stage, " said Orange quietly. 

She turned to him and saw, with anguish, the deep amazement his wordshad not expressed. 

"No, " she said, "no. I have you instead. I want to devote myself toyou--to exist for you. "

"Oh, don't you see, my dear child, that this is a kind of--of pity--ofanything you like, except the one thing----"

"I adore you, Robert. Oh, I can't get at what I want to say! Any talkabout love always sounds very stilted or hollow. I only know that I wantto live intensely in all that concerns you; that just to think of youmakes me perfectly happy. When I said that learning _Phédre_ and_Juliet_ was the reason I lived, I was thinking of the time when I hadno right to think of you. Of course I loved you always, from thebeginning. It began at Chambord when I first met you. I very seldom saythese things, and it is better that they should remain unsaid for themost part. But you must never doubt me, and I feel to-day, in spite ofall we know about each other and all we have suffered, that you aredoubting me now. You fear I don't know my own mind. Isn't this thetrouble?"

The intuition which comes to men and women through suffering has alwaysthe certain sharpness of a surgeon's knife. It may be a reassurance tohave the inmost thought plucked at by some loving spirit, and yet it isseldom that the touch can be given without inflicting agony. Orangecould not reply at once. In his resolve to be unselfish--to put asidethat personal equation which was nothing less than his whole nature--hehad to steel his heart to her, contradicting painfully, by curt, unfeltphrases, the promptings of a soul turned in upon itself, desolate andconfused. 

"I have been selfish and thoughtless, " he said abruptly; "a missedvocation is irreplaceable and it is also indestructible. You hear theecho of the call as long as you live--perhaps afterwards. At your ageyou could feel, but you could not wholly understand your talents. If youhad told me all this before----"

She laughed with real joyousness and clung more closely to his arm. 

"I didn't tell you, " she exclaimed, "because you would have said justwhat you are saying now. You are the one. All the rest is a means offorgetting you. It is something resembling happiness to be alone in theturmoil of the world with one unspoilt illusion. This illusion in mycase is a little idea that I could be a great actress--perhaps! Don'tlook grave, Robert. It makes you sad when I talk this way. "

"Those who can be disillusioned have no convictions. Disillusion is thefailure of a half-belief. I learnt that long ago. But I hate the veryword in your mouth. Woe to us both if we cannot be resolute now. Icould have waited--had I seen any reason to wait. Time could make nodifference in my love. As it is, I have stolen you from yourself. Butnow I have stolen you I will keep you. I cannot--cannot give you backagain to anything or anybody. "

He spoke with that almost mocking tenderness which dissembles itspassion. At the practical difficulty which now confronted him, all thatwas merely romantic and speculative in his soul took flight, as birdsthat are frightened from a quiet orchard by the yelp of dogs. He becameaware that he was bitterly independent of the joys he had once found inthe mere spectacle of the exterior world--the play of light and shade, the changing visions of the sky, the charm of the earth. His ownthoughts were now the sole realities, and the dulness which suddenlycame over his vision for outward things seemed to render it the moreacute and concentrated for the things of the mind. As distant hills andtree tops show most distinctly before a storm, so every possibilitywhich can arise from a conflict of duties stood out with a decisiveclearness for his consideration. He had married in haste a child-bride. There was no blinking the fact. She had the strenuous religious fibre, and with it real Bohemian blood. She was also at the yielding age, whena dominant influence could do much to divert or modify every naturaltrait. He could not doubt that he had this power over her then. How far, and to what purpose, should he exert it? For himself he wished todiscourage any hankering on her part for public life, and, most of all, public life behind the footlights, under an artificial sky. No one knewbetter than he that there are certain things of love, of nobility, oftemperament, of pride, in certain lives which the world at large wouldrather calumniate than comprehend. People in general clung to theiropinions not because they were true, but because they were their own, and among pretty general opinions--particularly in the year 1869--therewas a strong prejudice against handsome young women who went on thestage. It was not in him to consider--even as an egoistic reflection tobe put aside--how far Brigit's project, carried into action, couldeffect his own political career. His apprehensions were all for her andher own content. 

"Promise me, " he said, "that you will always tell me when the actingmood comes over you. Never fight it, never try to resist it, give it theliberty to die, but also the right to live. There is an old Hindooproverb: 'Find the flower which can bloom in the silence thatfollows--not that which precedes--the storm. ' This applies perfectly toa talent or a vocation. If the mood is there, in spite of fatigue, ordiscouragement, or other claims--happiness for that matter--you maydepend that it is the ruling motive of your life and not to bevanquished. You must follow the bent or you will suffer--suffer till youdie of it. "

"How? in what way?"

"Either in your vanity or your conscience; either by the world'sjudgment on your conduct or by your own estimate of your conduct. Youhave no vanity, so the world doesn't count. But you have a conscience, and that counts for all!"

He had not calculated, and he could not have foreseen, the effect of hiswords. Her eyes filled with tears. 

"My dearest, " she said, "don't you see how trivial everything is to mein comparison with you? But I dare not love you so much as I can! So Iencourage other enthusiasms--out of fear. Sometimes it seems as thoughthe extraordinary, impossible ideal would be to have you with me forever, and be an actress as well. But that is out of the question. And ifI had my choice--if I could be as great as Rachel or Mrs. Siddons, orlive with you on my dear rag-heap, with the jackals howling--do youthink that I would hesitate, that I could hesitate?"

"If I believed you I should be a dreadful coxcomb!"

"Risk the coxcomb, " she said. "I can!"

A clanging bell and the noise of traffic on the quay recalled them tothe moment. They had barely time to reach the steamer and get on board. A strong, cold breeze was blowing; the sun shone full on the sea, which, near the horizon, was as green as the sky on a summer evening. Butclouds were gathering in the north-west, and the peculiar brightnesswhich presages rain lent a fugitive brilliancy to the atmosphere. Thetown and its spires glittered; the water, frothing round thepaddle-wheels, sent its shining spray upon the brown boards of thewharf. Brigit kissed her hands toward France. 

"Soon, " she exclaimed, "soon I can kiss its ground. How I love mycountry and the place where you lived, Robert, as a boy!"

CHAPTER X

Lady Fitz Rewes had determined to prevent the marriage of Lord Reckagewith Agnes Carillon. She could not forget the dreadful scene with Sarawhen that poor girl was endeavouring to reconcile herself to the Duke ofMarshire's proposal. Pensée had studied each person concerned in thepossible tragedy. She saw that Agnes was by no means serene, that theportrait by Rennes somehow made no progress, that Reckage was feverishand excitable. His bearing toward Sara during the lunch confirmedPensée's suspicion that the love which had existed between them as boyand girl was still unextinguished on either side. He would have beenless than mortal, she thought, if he had not felt, with all thebitterness of a conscious fool, that he had missed his true destiny. Sara possessed the warmth and wealth of heart which were the complementshis own bleak nature required. Agnes Carillon, with her accurate, invariable beauty, had a prim disposition, wholesome enough for a man ofstrange, dark humours like David Rennes, but perilous always in itseffect on any frigid or calculating mind. And Reckage was known to besupremely selfish. It seemed to Pensée that Sara had behaved verynaturally, very touchingly, through the trying conversation on thesubject of rising men and their marriages. Her demeanour had beenunsurpassable. But it was not in nature that a woman who understood aman could look on, inactive and indifferent, while he fettered himselfwith some damaging influence. Perhaps her ladyship felt the situationthe more keenly, because, much as she loved Mrs. Parflete, she could notbring herself to think that she was the wife for Robert. She had spentmany weeks refusing admittance to this thought, yet prudence wasprudence, and, by virtue of its stability, it prevailed. The union, evenviewed in the most favourable light, had always seemed imprudent. It wastoo hurried. Shocking, mortifying as the possibility of its beingillegal was, Pensée's conviction that Almighty God ordered all thingsfor the best seemed less a faith and more a matter of pure reason thanwas usual in the ordinary run of hard cases which made demands upon herpiety. "Two diamonds do not easily form cup and socket, " was an oldsaying in her home circle. The more she had seen of Brigit Parflete themore she had been struck with her--struck with her moodiness, struckwith her contempt for received opinions, her vigour and independence ofwill. Was she the wife to further the advance of a man of extraordinaryability, already much handicapped on the world's course by a proudspirit, a reckless, impetuous disdain of creatures generally consideredthe pink of human excellence? He was passionately in love, and thestrength of this sentiment carried, for the time, every thought of hisbeing along with it. But love was not unalterable. The change wouldsurely come. The fever and folly, the exaltation and ardours would fadeinto a sacred affection--an instinctive tenderness; yet other interests, as vital, and in their season more absorbing, would flock into his life. What then?

Pensée and Reckage did not exchange many words till they foundthemselves alone, face to face, in the railway carriage bound for Dover. Then they looked with wonder at each other, stupefied at the errand onwhich they were bound, and the strangeness of the whole proceeding. Reckage noticed that his companion was attired so correctly and withsuch discretion that no one could have told she was a pretty woman. Herveil was not unusually thick, yet it disguised every charm of expressionand feature. He had bought her a novel, some papers, and a fewmagazines; she turned these over listlessly, and murmured, as the trainsped along--

"Of course, I had to come. No one will say a word when the circumstancesare known. I hope poor Renshaw is comfortable in the next carriage. "

Reckage replied--

"You have behaved like an angel!"

He probably but half understood Pensée's character: he underrated herintellect, and he misconstrued her friendship for Orange into a weakinfatuation. Agnes Carillon shared his view on this point, for, as heand his future bride could never be confidential with each other, theymanaged an appearance of intimacy by discussing with great freedom theprivate affairs of their friends. Agnes, in the fervour of godliness, had even seen much that was reprehensible in Lady Fitz Rewes's devotionto a man who had no idea of marrying her. She had declared that shecould not understand it--an attitude pleasing to her fancy andgratifying to her pride. Reckage had thought it was not quite clear thatthe danger was immediate. Such was his feeling now toward Pensée, although he was conscious of a certain curiosity with regard to hermotive in taking Brigit's part with such magnificent self-effacement. This seemed to him unnatural; and although she had impressed him withthe highest opinion of her kindness, he could not believe that a womanof genuinely tender sensibilities could have approached such analtruistic height. She was an excellent creature--as creatures went, hethought, but hard in a feeble way. Then he closed his eyes and called upthe elusive image of Sara de Treverell--very dark, very handsome, withher superb black hair reaching to her knees--as he had often seen itwhen she was a little girl--her blue eyes shining with a strange light, her lips smiling, her white arms held out.... 

"Sara may not be a happy girl, " said Pensée suddenly, "but she is aclever one. "

Reckage started from his reverie. 

"How odd!" he exclaimed, surprised into candour. "I was thinking of herat that very moment. "

Pensée had read as much on his face, but she did not tell him so. 

"I feel for her very much, " she observed instead. "She must be thegreatest possible comfort to her father, although he may not realise it. Yet he is forcing on the engagement to Marshire. She keeps up in themost courageous way, but she has ideals, and no persuasion will induceher to change them. "

He turned red, and said, looking out of the window--

"Ideals do no harm when, for some reason or other, we are unable tocarry them out. "

"I cannot imagine what she will do, or how she will bear her life ifthings continue as they are. "

"What things?"

"She is like a slave to Lord Garrow. She is with him constantly, readingto him, and doing everything for him. She will be a cruel loss to hishome when she marries. "

"I rather revel at the thought of the dismay which will attend her finalcapture of Marshire. "

"I used to hope that you perhaps----"

He glanced up and smiled with an air of satisfaction. 

"I don't like the appearance of measuring myself against Marshire.... But--but he certainly seems, in character, the culminating point ofmediocrity! In fact, Mr. Disraeli, whom I seldom quote, so describedhim. "

"What a husband for that brilliant, affectionate girl! She likes allthat is simple and grand. A real love--if it were a happy one--wouldmake her even more charming, and if it caused her suffering, it wouldmake her even more noble. But failing this, there will be a frightfulvoid in her life. "

Reckage, whose imagination began to play round this thought, repliedwith unusual seriousness--

"I should be horribly grieved to see any declension from her betternature. I think I am getting to think less of mere social power. I feelmore than I used to do that, if one could literally _live_ one'stheories on moral strength, it would be a complete refutation of theseideas about the influence of money or a big accidental position. OldHarding was right when he said at luncheon to-day that disinterestednesscounted very highly in the popular vote. The point about Henry Fox'selopement with Caroline Lennox was sound. "

"It would not have been sound, " said Pensée, "if Caroline Lennox hadbeen a third-rate woman. A man can be desperate so long as his choice, on the whole, justifies, either by her beauty, or her talents, orsomething uncommon, an extreme measure. Now, Robert may not have made awise choice, but it is certainly a distinguished one. It can beunderstood and it commands respect. "

"Oh, yes, his is a thorough-going emotion, and one couldn't find a faultwith its object. A strong man is always a man who feels strongly _and_who can carry his feeling into action. Robert, with all his mysticism, is never subject to the deep depressions of spirit which usually afflictmen of his gifts. He does not know what it is to be languid; or to haveinvincible indecisions. He will die game--even if he does know Germanmetaphysic backwards!"

She was astonished. 

"How well you understand him!"

He leant forward a little and adopted a more confidential tone--

"Sara spoke of him at lunch. Her judgment of men and affairs--for soyoung a woman--is nothing short of amazing. I attribute it to theAsiatic streak on her mother's side. It is a kind of second-sight. Whata wife for a Prime Minister! And Marshire, a fellow of middling abilityand no experience, has had the sense to perceive her qualities!... Myfeelings can't be easily defined, nor, indeed, is it necessary theyshould.... I have gone so far that I cannot see anything for it but togo on. "

"You mean--in your own marriage?"

He sighed profoundly, remained for several minutes silent, and finallyroused himself with a painful effort. 

"There are some griefs which can defy any consolation save that of time. Time ultimately cures everything. It is a matter of history that I wasonce very much attached to Sara. "

"I know, " murmured Pensée. "I know. "

He covered his eyes with one hand and looked through his fingers at herface, asking himself by what transition he could best arrive at a frankexposition of his embarrassed sentiments. It seemed to him that she wasintelligent as well as trustworthy, and he felt impelled to call in herassistance, being sure that, in any cause where love could be pleaded, she would show a judicious leniency. 

"If you have not observed that I am still--too interested, you have notobserved with your usual sagacity, " said he. 

"I think--if I may say so--that time seems only to deepen a sorrow ofthat kind. "

"Particularly when it is associated--as in this case--with a certainself-reproach. In times of trial my pen is my refuge. I could not writefor a year after I had decided--irrevocably as I believed--that Sara andI could not make each other happy. "

"Then you never actually proposed to her? There was never any tacitunderstanding?"

"Never. And if there be any part of my conduct in life upon which I canlook with entire satisfaction, it is my behaviour with regard to Sara. Idid not mislead her in any way. I was even over-scrupulous, andpurposely avoided opportunities of meeting. I say this in order that youmay know how very determined a man's will must be--if he does not wishto be selfish. A course of struggling is miserable indeed. I spared herany knowledge of my misery. "

"She might have been happier had she known of it! Last year she remainedentirely alone; and solitude is full of bad things--it is verydangerous, however much one is accustomed to it. "

"Poor girl! But I could not, in honour, suffer a false impression to beformed. As a matter of fact, my family wouldn't hear of the match. Thereis no denying that they were set on my marrying Agnes. "

At last he had been able to mention her. He leant back and relied on hiscompanion's tact to elaborate the theme. 

Pensée murmured--

"Dear Agnes! If there are storms, they won't come from her side. She isof a very elevated spirit----"

He winced, but she continued--

"Generous, sternly honest, greatly esteemed by every one. Neither piquenor passion nor petty feelings could ever influence her mind. She is themost angelic, good woman I ever met--she is one to whom one maycomplain, and be a bore. She has such utter patience!"

"You would not be impressed by professions, nor am I very clever atmaking them, " said he, "but you know, by sympathy, that my affection forher is--is the heroic feeling of devotion which has also a kind ofexclusiveness----"

He could not finish the sentence. 

"It leads you to imagine that you could never survive her loss, " saidPensée gravely. "But need you lose her--as a friend?" Something in hiscountenance encouraged her to pursue this train of thought. "Agnes hasthe deepest admiration for your qualities. No doubt, you truly realisethe high standard of character which she would hope for in one to whomshe gave her love. You have proved yourself worthy to call out her bestfeelings. "

Reckage was very touched by this tribute. 

"And _her_ best feelings, " said he, "ought to make us--at our best--veryhumble. "

Pensée lifted her veil just above her eyes, clasped her hands tightlytogether, and kept her earnest glance full upon his. 

"I believe, " she continued, "that if it were in man, or woman, tocommand the heart, you would have her entire affection. I believe she isunhappy. During the last week she has had many ups and downs. She haspassed with astonishing rapidity from the lowest despair to the heightof joy. She has tried to distract her mind by incessant occupation. Butyou know her manner--it is transparent near the surface, difficult tosound in its depths. "

"Yes, she has a childlike openness--up to a certain point. "

"I can only tell you, therefore, what I think, judging as a woman, byoutward signs. I seem to detect a sort of self-doubt--as though shefeared making some error. She has become of late strangely intense andvivid--she is fascinated by books, and drawn to music, as she never wasbefore. Perhaps she sees that you give her a priceless, beautifulfriendship which must indeed be flattering. Yet--yet in marriagefriendship is not enough. So she is acquiring a stock of interests whichare impersonal. "

Loyalty to Agnes forbade any reference to David Rennes. She had nointention of giving the least hint of her own private conviction on thesubject. She desired merely that Reckage should learn how the engagementmight be broken off without giving unimaginable grief to the young lady. The move under this aspect was skilful and successful. Reckage receivedher words as a subtle appeal to his honour and kindness. 

He said at once--

"I am glad you have told me this. I could bear my own mistakes. I couldnot bear hers. Let me look at the step which I have taken! The choice isfor life. Agnes is inflexibly conscientious and self-denying. Severalyears of attachment have tried us both. She knows my faults; I knowwhere her"--he paused for a moment--"her qualities might clash withmine. We spoke of this together; we considered every circumstance thatcould, by any remote chance, weigh against our common happiness. "

Pensée shook her head. 

"Of course, that was right, " she said doubtfully. 

"It is no easy matter to get a promise from Agnes, " he went on; "butwhen once given it is inviolate. This throws a grisly responsibilityupon me. I must risk everything, if I am to do anything. You haveexpressed a dread which I have been endeavouring to stifle. I am makingher wretched. "

"I don't say that _you_ are making her wretched; I say she seemsdisturbed and unsettled when she ought to be full of the brightesthopes. "

"Quite so. I fear the unsettlement is exceedingly great. A neutrality onyour part is all I could in reason expect; but your counsel in such agrave matter----"

Pensée summoned all her energy, and breathed a little prayer for thewell-being of the two women whose lives were at stake. 

"I saw Agnes this morning, " she said, speaking at a rapid pace; "shecame up for some shopping, and she returned home directly after tea. "

"She ought to have told me that she was in town, " he exclaimed. 

"My dear Beauclerk, you know her sweetness! She said, 'I don't wish totake up his time; an engagement ought not to be a servitude. ' That isthe reason why she did not tell you. "

"She ought to have told me, " he repeated. "Such extreme delicacy wasmost uncalled for. It wasn't even friendly. When we were old friends, and nothing more, she would have told me. "

"Yes, when you were friends. "

"I think she gave me a nasty rap in so acting; I do, indeed. One wouldinfer that I had failed in some ordinary attentiveness. It is a distinctreprimand. "

"You are quite wrong. She meant it in the noblest way. "

"Then it is a desperately near thing between noble conduct and adownright snub. I can't help lashing out about it. "

In Pensée's own private perception this outburst of temper was no badsign. It convinced her, at least, of the sincerity of his feelingstowards Agnes and his genuine desire to behave well at every point intheir relationship. 

"Don't you understand, " she said, "that Agnes _dares_ not love you. Thisbeing the case, I cannot see that she could go on in what might becalled a natural way. Will you bear with me, and, if I am indiscreet, forgive me? She wants all the sympathy and support she can get. She issuffering very much from want of courage. She trusts, perhaps, in herfriends' prayers. It seems as though something very momentous were goingon, but that she has nothing to do but to wait for it. I think theremay be a way out still; God may overrule people's hearts. "

She had never intended to say so much, and she trembled with anexcitement which she could not subdue. 

"I must admit, " said Reckage, "that for some time I have had aconviction, weaker or stronger, but, on the whole, constantly growing, that Agnes and I are unsuited to each other. I am too much accustomed tothis idea to feel pain at it. "

"O, it makes my heart ache--I mean so much painfulness for every oneconcerned!"

"This conviction must, sooner or later, lead me to action. The world isindulgent to the impetuous, because they appear strong; and it is mostsevere to those who hesitate, because hesitation is taken for a sign ofweakness. Lookers-on have no patience with moral combats--and least ofall in affairs of this kind. But no opinion will force me to do what Ido not think right. If our engagement is a mistake, I don't intend to'lump it, ' as they say. We must mend the evil. And, thank God, it is nottoo late. The merciful part is that in relieving my own mind I shallalso greatly relieve hers. It is clear she doesn't love me. This lastact proves the fact conclusively. "

Pensée did not agree with this, but she remained silent, fearing lest arash word should spoil her good work. 

"For a long, long time, " he continued, "my constant question has been, 'Can this last? is it a delusion?' But I do not shut my eyes now. I knewthey were all wrong at home when they made out that she was in love withme, and expected me to propose. We are both the victims of animpertinent, if well-meant, interference--what Robert calls 'thejabbering of the damned. ' Poor Robert, we are forgetting him. I amashamed to talk so much about myself. "

"In his case, I see no help but resignation to the will of God, " saidPensée. 

"But that resignation is an awful thing, " said Reckage. "It is a shadebetter than the atheism of despair; yet only a shade better. "

By degrees Pensée was learning why Robert had such a strong, tenaciousattachment to this man. He was always faithful to his mood. All he didand all he said represented accurately all he thought and all he felt. Some live a dual life--he lived but one; and, with his faults, peculiarities, and egoism, there was never the least dissimulation. Itwas true that, if occasion required, he could hold his tongue; but heabhorred tact and hated doctrines of expediency--everything, in fact, which put any restraint upon the "development of his inclinations. "

The train was now approaching Dover. He decided to put his own troublesaside, and, out of mere decency, concentrate his thoughts on the severetrial in store for Orange. 

"This business about Parflete, " said he, "is a great blow. One becomesindifferent to what is said of, or done to, one's self; but that allthis uncommon, saddening, sickening trouble should come upon Robert istoo bad. It seems a kind of hacking and hacking, bit by bit. "

"You are certainly very fond of him, " said Pensée. 

"Yes, I am. He's so dependable. "

Pensée engaged a private cabin for the crossing, and she retired therewith her maid. Too tired and over-strung to sleep, she lay down, closedher eyes, and lived again through the many fatiguing, agitating momentsof that day. Her affection for Orange had been so steeped inhopelessness from the hour, months before, when he told her of his lovefor Brigit, that the wedding of these two had been a relief rather thana final anguish. The agonising possibilities which had sometimes dartedinto her mind would never again surprise her: the questions which shehad always striven to prohibit were no longer even in existence. He hadtaken the unredeemable step: he was married. Jealousy had no part in hersuffering. Robert had never given her the smallest right to feelslighted, or neglected, or abandoned. Some women are jealous bytemperament, but the greater number are jealous only when their trust isinsulted or their dignity brought down to the humiliating struggle for alost empire. Empire over Orange she had never possessed or claimed: shecould feel no bitterness, therefore, at the thought of the small placeshe occupied in his destiny. The sorrow which cut and severed her heartwas loneliness. She felt that, after the wedding, she could hardly doanything or take interest in anything. It seemed as if the waters weregathered in heaps on either side; things, she thought, could not bebetter, or worse. God was with her still, and her children--her dearchildren--were with her still, but she could not disguise the greatnessof the loss. Her single wish, as far as she dared have a wish, had beento benefit Robert and to win his confidence. She had seen his mindworking in various directions, and although she was not, in the faintestsense, his fit companion intellectually, she had a knowledge andexperience of life which made her friendship valuable--a gift worthoffering to any man. She had been able to advise him. Brigit now hadeven this privilege also. "I shall seem an intruder, " thought Pensée, again and again. 

It was altogether a terrible crisis. How she should struggle through allthe parts of it, or what she should be when it was over, she could nottrust herself to say. The world seemed too heavy a burden to be foughtagainst. Yet with what thoughts and aspirations and earnest prayers shehad stood by Brigit's side at the altar rails. She had been given asupernatural strength for the marriage ceremony. She was by nature andbefore all things, from first to last, unalterably a good friend, and atthat moment of intensest difficulty the sight of Robert's happiness hadmade her oblivious to every other consideration. Glad tears had risen toher eyes. She had been swayed by one feeling--a deep, sincerethankfulness that his love-story, which had promised sorrow only fromthe very beginning, was ending, unexpectedly, so well. She might havefeared that he was changing one form of unhappiness for another, but sheknew his impatient spirit, and, knowing it, she could not imagine thatany earthly pain could try him so sorely as a lifelong separation fromthe one woman he loved--loved to the pitch of madness. 

And then--in one moment--the strange tidings came which drove her fromthe stupor of resignation to fevers of anxiety more consuming than anyshe had ever felt before. A great flame, successive flames, of terrorswept over her, as she feigned placid sleep in the little cabin, at thethought of the news poor Reckage would have to break on the morrow. Howwould Robert bear it? That he would act a noble and true part she couldnot doubt. But at a certain degree of suffering, the strongest man canthink of nothing except himself, and she felt already, in anticipation, the dumb torture she would have to endure in looking on, helpless andunnoticed, at an agony which she could neither share nor relieve. Thefear of losing him had been dreadful, but it was even more dreadful toknow that although she might have, after all, a certain right now tooffer him sympathy, she could never make him happy, that she could neverhope to learn the secret regrets, griefs, and torments, the unspokenbroodings which would surely enough prey upon his spirit. She picturedherself sitting at his side, or walking with him, for hours--he absorbedin his own sorrowful thoughts, she striving vainly to distract him by atinkling prattle on every topic except the one nearest his heart. Oh, how fearfully wide asunder they were! A sensation of the enormousdistance which can exist between two souls in daily companionship filledher with a sickening, shivering heaviness. She thought she would have tocry out because of the slow fire which seemed to scorch her dry andaching eyes. Robert would never really need her, never really care abouther. This new trouble would take him farther away than ever. He wouldburn all his ships, and any poor little tenderness he might have had inthe past for her, with them. Some great revulsion would take place inhis character; he would perhaps grow silent, reserved, enigmatic, hisface would show to the world the terrible, false, unknowable peace whichis the veil of the dead. It was useless to smooth her difficulties whichexisted. It was foolish and wrong to encourage herself in unreal ideasabout him. It was best always to be straightforward and admit thetruth--no matter how bitter. And yet he had been kind and helpful to herin a way in which scarce any one else could have been. She clung to thebelief that she would be able to do something to make his hour of trialless severe. The hope which insinuates itself into every unrequited lovestill lingered. He could at least always talk to her about Brigit: thatcommon memory would be a constant link between them. She had earned hisesteem, and perhaps with his esteem an affection deeper than he himselfrealised. Under the pressure of a sudden and tragical necessity, hewould turn to her with the certainty that she would not fail him. Shewas modest enough about her own powers. A remark she had once heardReckage pass, to the effect that religious women of devoted lives wereunhappily conspicuous, as a rule, for feebleness of mind and strength ofprejudice, 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 whohave the courage to maintain an unselfish attitude whether toward God orsome fellow-creature. But here she comforted herself by deciding thather utter isolation in this universe rested on the fact that she did notmuch deserve to be loved by anybody. This granted--not without apang--she felt the signs of weariness in her heart, but none ofwavering. She resolved to be foolish in the eyes of the self-satisfied. 

Lord Reckage meanwhile was pacing the deck. His conversation with Penséehad cast a darkness over his spirit. He had made up his mind, weeksbefore, that the marriage years of his life would be the best, the mostdistinguished, and most useful. With the utmost pains he had chosen awife. He had acted with the greatest caution in no weak or superficial, or haphazard, or fitful way. Nevertheless, the outlook was dismal. Thisfirst step in decline from his ideal caused him much pain andrestlessness, and led him to think cynically of many doctrines to which, in serene moments, he had unconditionally subscribed. He compared hisown case with Robert's. Robert, in his headstrong passion, had certainlyrattled up sleeping lions, heedless of all consequences, and in defianceof every warning. He had now met, poor fellow, with an appallingchastisement, but could any one pretend that he had not brought it, to agreat extent, upon himself? He (Reckage), however, had behaved, fromfirst to last, in an unexceptionable manner. He had studiously avoidedthe one girl of whom he was inclined to be immoderately fond. It wastrue that he had practised this restraint less in her interest than hisown. But this was because he feared--as every creature will fear byinstinct its mortal enemy--the power of an ardent attachment. His mindhad revolted in a panic at the thought of becoming dependent on awoman's humours. The noblest of the sex were capricious, and far andaway the best course was to select a partner whose unavoidable nonsensewould leave one, merely from indifference, undisturbed. Sara deTreverell, in the past, had been, by her vagaries, directly responsiblefor several sleepless nights, and a sleepless night was one of the fewthings he simply could not stand. Thoughts of her had seemed to unfithim for his work, to weaken his nerves, to act, in various ways, to hisdisadvantage. She had been exacting in her demands upon his nature. Theywere not uttered demands, or demands which he could formulate, but hehad been conscious of them always. He had been obliged to pause and askhimself 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 haddetermined to see her no more. Following the usual, most correct methodin such procedures, he went abroad. After a week of irritatingmeditations, furtive, all but unconquerable desires, after he had passedthe 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 spendriding with her in the Row, he felt as a convalescent after someexhausting malady--quiescent, dulled, possessed by a drowsy stupidity, inaccessible to any serious emotion. He was cured of his fancy, althoughno effort of will could protect the soreness of the bruise. He hadpersevered in his course of treatment--congratulating himself, at theend, on his escape from a dangerous obsession. The picture of Sara grewpaler and paler before his eyes--indeed, it seemed to fade all tooquickly, and, with the perversity of consistent egoism, he felt manytwinges of sadness to think that he had forgotten her so soon. Hisvanity would have preferred a longer combat--for even the most shallowadmit the romantic admirableness of an obstinate love. Still, what couldhe ask better than this triumph over a cruel, an obstructive memory? Hehad regained, so he believed, his old independence as the man of action, energetic, self-controlled, moved by one passion only, and that thefinest of all--ambition. In surveying once more the great design of hiscareer, he found it an effort to bring up--from the far recesses of hisexperience--the poor little sentimental episode, so insignificant andcommonplace, which, in a kind of aberration, he had taken for an affairof the heart. He returned to England. He threw himself with vigour intothe questions which were then disturbing Churchmen. He revived atouching acquaintance with Agnes Carillon, an acquaintance which waspeculiarly soothing to his preoccupied mind. Here was a girl, hethought, who could be a fit helpmate. She asked for nothing, absorbed nothing, and gave a great deal of gentle, kind companionshipwhen he wanted it. When he did not want it, she understoodperfectly--possessing, in an eminent degree, the rare domestic art ofbeing able to make herself scarce--alike in his thoughts and hisengagements. The truths did not occur to him that a woman in love couldnever have been so unnaturally prudent, or that a woman whom he lovedcould not have interested him so slightly. He took great pride in herperfect skin and hair and eyes, in her beautiful, graceful, and graciousmanners, but his soul never kindled at her approach, his pulse beat noslower at her departure. He requited her agreeableness with respect. Andso they had become engaged--to the unbounded gratification of all hisrelatives, amidst the congratulations of his friends. There seemed acertain shadowiness in his conception of their future existence togetheras man and wife: something which he recognised as an interior voicechimed in, from time to time, with provoking interrogations, mostlyunanswerable. A plaintive need of happiness, melancholy, obscure, butrecurrent, mixed in his fluctuating thoughts. Finally, it pursued him, haunted him, and caught him with the strange tenacity of an incorporealgrasp. Sara, now dethroned from her place of power, loomed in all hisdreams. Irresistibly, he was drawn toward the forbidden recollection ofher delightfulness. There seemed no longer any danger in these musings. He had entrusted his actual life to the safe-keeping of the nicest womanhe had ever known. Where then was the harm in harking back, merely inreverie, to the frivolous, amusing phantom of a renounced sentiment?Yet, after a reverie of the kind, why did he often wonder how he andAgnes could look in one another's faces and pretend to any sort of realintimacy? Sara knew him better than he knew himself. Her sympathy raninto a hundred sinuosities--she understood his silence as well as hisconversation. He was never conscious of the smallest strain, the leastdissimulation, in her society. Beneath their curious disparities anidentity seemed to unite them. There was an unrepenting quality in herconscience which braced and stimulated his moral courage. Agnes, on thecontrary, with her instinct of behaviour, made him over-cautious andencouraged the tendency to indecision which interfered with thecomfortable balance of his soul. And he wished his faculties to workwith astronomic punctuality. It is certain, however, that he would haveaccepted his choice as a thing settled beyond any readjustment, but forthe news of the Duke of Marshire's proposal, and the sight of Saraherself on the fatal afternoon when he was feeling especially forlorn. She had thrown him a glance in which defiance, disdain, and anindistinct affection were blended in one provoking dart. He was amoralist who believed that there is always, between men and women, thedormant principles of mistrust and hatred. He had discussed this theoryfrequently with Robert, who found the notion as repulsive as it wasfalse. But it seemed a truth beyond contradiction to Reckage, whopossessed, in his own mind, constant irrefutable testimony in support ofthe view. Sara had never before defied him. She had never before seemedto feel her power as a creature incomparably superior in brilliancy toall the other girls in their circle. She had never before seemed topity him as a man who had feared to do what Marshire--a being consideredremarkable only for his family and his fortune--had boldly, gladlyvolunteered to carry out to the ultimate consequence. That glancepierced his self-love, his pride, his will. After his long hesitations, after the wearisome, interminable debates between his judgment and hisinclination, he decided suddenly, all at once, without furtherreflection, that he no longer belonged to himself. He was the slave oncemore of doubts, fears, and temptations. His excited nerves and troubledsenses asserted their right to be regarded as threads, at least, in theweb of destiny. From the hour of that chance encounter in the Park, tillhe and Sara met at Lord Garrow's that day, he had not been able toescape from the inexorable cruelty of an ill-used passion, once more, infull command. Every individual has his rule--could one but find itout--and a rule to which there are no exceptions. With Reckage it wassimple enough: he invariably followed the line of his own glory. Thedistress he suffered--really, and not colourably--took its rise from theintervention of Marshire. He felt as a racing man feels when he sees afriendless horse, which he might have purchased, beat the Derbyfavourite by some three lengths and a half. He winced at the suspicionthat he had committed an error in judgment, and lost a greatopportunity. The words of Sir Piers Harding on the subject of audacityin love had fallen on his ears with startling force. It was anillustration of that old saying--"The appetite, the occasion, and theripe fruit. " Convinced now that his reputation, his career, and hiscomfort depended on his conduct toward Sara, all hesitation left him. Hewould have to drive Marshire, in confusion, from the field, and bearaway the prize himself. Pensée's observations with regard to Agnes hadcleared away most, if not all, of his difficulties in that particularquarter. No one had ever accused him of cowardice. Whenever he tookrefuge in procrastination or deceit, it was never because he was afraid, but in order that nothing might interfere with the purpose he had inhand. The growing miseries of the situation which he saw, already inpart, served only to augment the violence of his resolve. His vanityforbade him to believe that Agnes would not suffer very much when hetold her, as he intended, that they had both mistaken a profoundesteem--based on reason--for love, which, as all the world admits, issomething remote indeed from one's will and one's power. He was desirousto remain her friend, but he could not, without insincerity--and byGod's grace, he would not--continue longer in a position which was falsein itself and an injustice to each of them. He proposed to dwell veryfrankly, but in deep sadness, on the fact that although their engagementhad been a seeming success--outwardly--the success had been by no meansproved either to his satisfaction, or, he ventured to think, to hers. He would pray that she would not consider herself under any restraintin speaking freely to him, from her heart, at all times. He hoped thatthe inevitable criticism of malicious or ignorant persons would nevershake her faith in his unwavering loyalty, his singular desire for herhappiness. On the other hand, he did not wish to involve her injustifying his action to the world. There was no call for that. Shemight be assured that he would do as little as possible to protract theagony--he used the word advisedly--of their separation. He believed itwould be the best way--if God gave them the ability--not to meet untilthey had trained themselves to the peaceful, sweet relationship of theirfirst acquaintance. All this and more he composed and turned over in hismind as he paced the deck. His eyes frequently filled with tears, and hethought how little, how fearfully little, he had ever suspected thisseverance from a noble life with which he had wished most earnestly tojoin 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 ofthe innocent with the guilty. But guilt is in the intention, and hecould say, with truth, that he had never intended to give pain, or tomake trouble, in his life. 

CHAPTER XI

The Southampton steamer approached St. Malo about three o'clock on thefollowing afternoon. Robert and Brigit had spent the night on deck--itwas better than going below into the close, dreary cabin--and so theycounted the stars, and kept their gaze, through the vast reaches ofatmosphere, for the first sight of land. The moon, then at its fullstrength, 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 neverfollowed. On and on they sped, and, as their ears grew accustomed to themonotonous churning of the paddle-wheels, the silence seemed intense. The splendour of the night made sleep, to minds as passionate as theirstoward all manifestations of the world's beauty, impossible. Unconsciousof any particular thought, they shared a dreamless reverie which was soperfect in its rest and so complete in its still contentment that theydid not know that they were resting, nor could they realise that suchsweet hours, even as bitter ones, do not loiter in their passing or comeagain. Soon enough Robert saw himself very far gone from theundissembled sternness of his old resolutions. If he could but be rid ofthat altogether! He thought he had obtained a mystic recognition of theterrorless but uncommunicating Joy of life which while men live theypursue, desiring it with the one human craving which survives everymisfortune, every thwarted hope, all enslavement of the heart's smallfreedom--the thirst for happiness. Was man, whom God had made in Hisown Image, but a shadow on the unstable wind? Could it be true that hecame 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 andwithout influence on the decision of his own destiny? Yet he rememberedthe precept of Christ: "Whosoever will save his life shall lose it: andwhosoever will lose his life for My sake shall find it"--words which putforth a great mystery, perhaps a warning. Plainly, in all that a mancould 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 manythings perished because where life is, change must be. Immutable, permanent possessions were the gifts of God to men. But the gifts of mento God would always be imperfect--whether they offered the sacrifice oftheir wills or their imagined earthly happiness. Yet if thisimperfection were a mean one, something less grand than the immeasurablesanctity of Divine strength made human and therefore sorrowful, therefore not omnipotent, therefore liable to error--where then was themerit of renouncing a manhood already too squalid to be endured, friendsthat were phantoms, loves that were lies, joys that were void promisesinvented by the cruel for the disappointment of the foolish? He lookeddown at Brigit, who, wrapped in her furs, was stretched out by his side, her beautiful, child-like countenance turned toward him, smiling infaith and deep unspeakable tenderness. He could hear her tremulousbreath and catch the fragrance of her face, which, in the moonlight, seemed as white and delicate as a cloud. The knowledge that she belongedto him at last entered into his heart, his blood, his brain, histhoughts, became the very life within his life--an element which wasneither wholly love nor wholly passion, but a necessity from which hecould not depart and without which he would cease to be. All men need tohave near them, allied in close association with them, either a force tostrengthen their weakness or else a weakness which insists upon somedemonstration of their strength. In conceivable circumstances it mightbe a duty to dissever such a bond; it might be a duty to die ofstarvation rather than steal a loaf, and, as death would ultimatelyquench the craving stomach, so a broken soul, in time, would ceaselamenting for its maimed energy. Let heart-sickness pass beyond acertain bitter-point and the heart loses its life for ever. Had Robert'smarriage been impossible, had he decided, on that account, to go awayfrom Brigit's influence, had he vowed, in some paroxysm of despair, tosee her no more, to pluck out his eye--to forget her--what would havehappened? Would he have been able to say to himself at the end of threeyears, seven years, nine years, "I did my duty. I have my reward"? Is itso easy even to acquiesce in the great bereavements caused naturally, against our will, by death? Does one ever, in the hidden depths of themind, 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 certainmeasures on his own character. Indeed, if self-knowledge be not regardedas a sentinel to the judgment, its laborious acquisition would be worththe travail of no honest will. Gained, it remains like an interdict uponall undertakings, projects, ambitions, setting forth clearly all thatone may, or may not, attempt in common life, and, above all, inheroism--heroism understood truly, not the false ideals of idle, untaxedsentiment. Robert shrank from examining the sharpest nail of the severalwhich had been piercing his heart for weeks--from the day when he hadfirst received the news of Parflete's death. Had he not often suspected, until then, that, for some reason, he had been called to renounce thehope 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 hadbeen to remain single so long as he could not marry the woman of hischoice. Firmly enough he had taken his stand on that ground, realisingto the utmost every difficulty to be encountered, every interest to bethrown aside, from the exigencies of such a position. Themisunderstandings which would arise, the restraint, the loneliness, thepossible morbidity of his own feeling, the sure absence of charity inall outside criticism of his conduct, were not overlooked orunder-estimated by a man so versed as himself in the tariff of themarket-place. He had known full well that his decision, robbed of itsromantic and picturesque motives, would affect very seriously every stepin his career, and influence, as only violence to one's human affectionscan influence, his character, his mode of thought, his whole view oflife and his work in life. This he had known--known, that is to say, asmuch as anything may be known of a plan not yet executed and destined toa slow accomplishment which finds its final seal of success or failureneither in this existence nor in death, but beyond the grave. Now, however, that the exterior obstacles to a happier scheme were apparentlyremoved, the more formidable opposition of his own secret ideals stirredominously in his conscience. Men's designs are never so indefinite andconfused as when they meet with no outward resistance. A close attackhas proved the salvation of most human wills and roused the energy ofmany drooping convictions. It is seldom good that one should enter intoany vocation very easily, sweetly, and without strife. The bestapprenticeships, whether ecclesiastical or religious, or civil ormilitary, or political or artistic, are never the most calm. Whether westudy the lives of saints or the lives of those distinguished in anywalk of human endeavour where perfection, in some degree or other, hasbeen at least the goal, we always find that the first years of thepursuit have been one bitter history of temptations, doubts, despondencies, struggles, and agonising inconsistencies of volition. Tonatures cold originally, or extinguished by a false asceticism, manyseeming acts of sacrifice are but the subtle indulgence of that curiousselfishness which is not the more spiritual because it is independent ofothers, or the less repulsive because it is most contented in itsisolation from every responsibility. A renunciation means the deliberateputting away of something keenly loved, anxiously desired, or actuallypossessed; it does not mean a well-weighed acceptance of the lesser, rather than the greater, trials of life. When Orange had faced thedesolate road before him it was as though men ploughed into his heartand left it mangled. Submission to the severities of God whatever theymight be, obedience to authority, a companionless existence--these werethe conditions, he knew, of the meagre joy permitted to those who, fullof intellect, feeling, and kindness, undertook the rigorous disciplineof a solitary journey. The world seldom takes account of the unhappysensitiveness in devout souls; it thinks them insensible not onlybecause they know how to keep silent, but how to sacrifice their secretwoes. And what, after all, are the gratified expectations of any careerin comparison with its hidden despairs?

It may be a fact that love, in every imaginative mind, approachesmadness; on the other hand, the least imaginative are often not merelyattracted but carried away, without any sort of consent, by someover-mastering human magnetism. To love well is a quality intemperament, just as to preach well, or to conduct a siege well, or totend the sick well, or, in fact, to do anything well, is a specialdistinction, a ruling motive in the great pursuit of absolutefelicity--a pursuit which is the inalienable right of all humancreatures, whether fixed mistakenly in this world, or wisely in thenext. No calling can be obeyed without suffering, but as in the oldlegend each man's cross was found exquisitely fitted to his own back, soa vocation is found to be just when, on the whole, one has fewermisgivings that way than in any other. By the exercise ofself-discipline one may do much that is not repulsive only butsuicidal--a man may so treat his spirit that it becomes a sort ofpetrified vapour. When, however, he has dosed, reduced, tortured, andkilled every vital instinct in his nature till he is an empty shape andnothing more, he must not flatter himself that he has accomplished agreat work. Life is not for the dead, but for the living, and incrucifying our flesh we have to be quite certain that we are playing noghost's farce, inflicting airy penalties on some handfuls of harshdust. Robert could not feel that absorbing interest in himself whichenables so many to cut themselves adrift, painfully, no doubt, fromevery creature and all impersonal anxieties. If he wished for fame, power, wealth, it was that he might use them to the advantage of hisfriends, or for the reparation, in some degree, of his father's sin. Butall 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, theconfused, tyrannical, inexplicable, triumphant selfishness dormant inhim, as in all of us, began to assert its terrible power. He forgot theagonies, storms, and fevers of the past. Work had not always been ableto dominate his unrest. There had been times when he had been compelledto follow the beckoning dreams; when, in tightening his clasp about themockeries of his hope, he lost the pale happiness which he held already. Whole days had passed when some oppressive thought had spread its darkwings, as a bird of prey, over his whole being, crushing him graduallydown to the earth. Now the occasion, the solitude, the glory of thenight cast their spell over his soul. For the first time his emotion, solong 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, thepent-up eloquence of a latent habitual devotion long distrusted for itsvery strength and kept till that hour in strict silence, lest in thetorrent of feeling it should say too much. The love to which he had longsince surrendered himself now had complete possession of him. He spokeas he had never spoken before--as he never spoke again. The storm wasrestrained, subservient possibly still, but it was there, not to beforbidden, denied, or gainsayed. One has to be very strong in order tosupport the realisation of a long deferred, almost abandoned, hope. Affliction seems to intensify a personality, adding to it adistinctness, a power altogether commanding and irresistible, but evenin our purest happiness we lose something of ourselves, and become, momentarily at least, less our own masters, and more pliant to thereproof of chance, the sport of destiny. As Robert uttered hispassionate confession, he was conscious that much in him which had onceseemed strong was conquerable enough, and, in the torture of theindescribable variety of vague, menacing feelings which this suspicioncalled forth, he revolted against the influence which held him, whichleft him neither liberty, nor security; which, for a few days of madexultation, cost him a thousand bewildering, desolating fears. Did heguess that when one most eagerly desires happiness, one is most near toit? Already, he remembered, with a sudden pallor, and a sharpcontraction of the lips, that death, in time, would certainly claim bothof them, and his soul was pierced at the thought, for nothing seemedimaginably so perfect as the wild gladness of that poor human hour thengliding, with pitiless beats, toward the past. Already the moon hadceased to weave her magic; the sun rose over the unrebukable sea, andthe distant coast, obscured in a purple vapour, seemed but a line ofdarkness against the flushed horizon. The sky was grey, opalescent inthe north, tenderest green and azure in the east, while large, motionless clouds, as blue as vine-clad hills, shadowed in greatclusters the vast canopy. But if the dawn of day wrought a progressivedisenchantment of the dreamer, Robert felt with the recurrence of themorning the usual prayer rise to his lips in a long weeping, inarticulate cry to God--"Thou knowest that I love Thee: Thou knowestthat all my life is but a desire of Thee: Thy Will, not mine. " And heheard again the promise: "_Thou art My servant, I have chosen thee, andnot 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. _" Asthe silent disquietude of night gave place to the intense tranquillityof 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 thingbecause it passed? Did not sorrow pass also? If that sweet journey wasthe first and last in all his life, was it not still a miracle ofblessing, nay, every blessing, to have known even once the power ofmortal happiness?

"What are you thinking of?" asked Brigit suddenly, touching his arm withher hand. 

"I am thinking that there is but one way of resisting the woe oflife--the infinite must oppose the infinite. Infinite sorrow must be metby infinite love. "

"I suppose we have the sorrow, and the infinite love is God's. Wemustn'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 ismost insisted on has lived itself nearly three thousand years. Solomonhas given the lie to his own despair of being remembered. This is why Inever feel sad now when I think about the other fears which made himdiscontented. "

"Were they fears? I believe he wanted to conquer the world, which isstrong, 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 thedepths of his regrets. "

Again she put out her hand, but this time she took his, following theinstinct of a child who finds itself with a trusted companion in agloomy road. 

"Nothing unknown can be wished for, " she said gently, "and so, if somefew things did not last, we should not have this dissatisfaction at thethought of their perishing. But what is troubling you? The greatestcross is to be without a cross. You, dearest, are never at ease unlessyou are at least suffering tortures for some friend. "

"I am thinking of myself now--myself only. I can't forget that everysupreme blessing must be bought with long sadness, both before andafter, and now we are together, I am wondering what I should do--if--ifwe were separated. I must have the courage to face that thought. I can'tput it away because it has defied me, and when a thought defies me, Ihave to meet it fairly. I do not believe in denying its force, orrunning away in an opposite direction. I hear its argument and I try toanswer 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, Ishall soon follow you. It won't seem so very long. But if I should diefirst I should have to wait, because you would never yield, and yourgrief would cut sharply and slowly, a little more and a little more eachday. And although I might be with you, you could not see me. I shouldknow all your thoughts and yet I could say nothing. Almighty God is tookind to let me be so unhappy after I am dead. This is 'the confidencewherein I trust. ' This is why I have no fears now. We may have greattrials--how can we expect to be exempt from them? But we must help eachother to bear them and then they will seem more precious than joys. Yousee, 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 theother, so exclusively feminine or masculine, as the case may be, thattheir entire comprehension by both sexes is not possible. Intuition, imagination, sympathy may help a great deal; men and women will acceptmuch from each other which they cannot to their reasoning satisfactionaccount for, and, if the difference serves only to enhance, by itsmystery, the melodiousness of the eternal human duet, it also provesthat, while the singers may be in harmony, they are never in absoluteunison. 

"You know how much I love you, " said Brigit, "you know it. Yet there isan interior cloister of your mind which you keep wholly to yourself. Younever ask me there. I watch your face--it tells me nothing. You have notyet made me your friend. If you were in trouble you would go to Pensée, because she is older and she is used to responsibilities. But you hidethings 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 notinvite you into the 'interior cloister' of my mind. Nobody deliberatesto do what he cannot help. There is always something questioning withinme, and a truth is not to be set aside by any other truth whatever. Wecan only fix our jaws and grip our hands in useless wonder at thecontradictions 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 hehad 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 issomething in beauty--just as there is something in youth--which onefears to disturb, lest a change should alter, or mar, in the faintestdegree, the sufficient loveliness, the unconscious charm. Is it not forthis cause that many dependent natures find classic perfection cold, superb scenery unsympathetic, and the spectacle of careless happinessembittering? Others, of imaginative temperament, prefer that their idolsshould remain impassive, and, granted the inspiration arising from afair appearance, ask no more, but find their delight in bestowing, fromthe riches of their own gratitude, adorable attributes and endlessworship. Orange, as many other men of idealising tendencies, took hishuman solace for the discouragements, fatigues, and ordeals of life inthe mere existence of the woman he loved. He was at the moment ofhumility which is the first and last in all really great passions. Heasked for nothing; it was all too glorious even to have the privilege ofoffering gifts, of feeling the readiness to die ten deaths for her sake, of finding all the recompenses of eternity in the soft depths of herbright eyes. But as he was too much in earnest to analyse thesesentiments, he could neither gauge his own reticence nor justify it toBrigit herself. Nor could she, with all her tenderness and womanlyinstincts, help him in that matter--their one possibility ofestrangement. She lacked the knowledge which renders verbal confidencesunnecessary; she was too loving and too human to be happy as aninspiration and an inspiration only; she also had a great desire togive, to aid, to prove her devotion, to be the friend and thefellow-pilgrim. 

CHAPTER XII

Brilliant sunlight lit up the grey spires and threatening pinnacles ofSt. Malo. The back of the ancient fortress was hidden in white mist, butthe houses which rose above the battlements facing the harbour, and theshops and little taverns near the quay, shone out in brightness, theirwindows glittering under the sky where straying clouds, driven by thewind, 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 thesand, were covered with shining seaweed. The piercing note of themilitary bugle, the crack of the cabmen's long whips, the clatter ofwooden shoes, and the Angelus bells then chiming, made up a volume ofsound which fell on Robert's ears with all the poignant strangeness ofan old song heard again after many years. A hundred memories flockedinto his mind at the first distant view of that familiar scene: memoriesof his boyhood, its errors, its visions, its ambitions; his revoltagainst nature as he understood it, and his desire to keep his heartand soul and senses for the service of God, and the custody of his ownideals. The very centre of his thoughts was here: here he had found thefirst beginnings of his faith and love. How often he had walked aloneupon those ramparts with his New Testament and the _Morte d'Arthur_, striving, in the fervour of romantic sentiment, to combine the standardsof knightly chivalry with the austere counsels of the gospel. Thedivinity of Christ is the object of eternal contemplations, and at everyage--not of the world only, but of the individual--His Humanity, underour fresh knowledge, demands a different study and a fullerunderstanding. What changes, therefore, experience and suffering hadwrought in those early, untried speculations! The ideals remained, butthey made for swords, not peace; the sweetness of the dream had becomean inflexible law of conscience; the doctrine of a transcendent disdainof this world, accepted in solitude by the obscure youth brought up in aprovincial town, had exacted its tax to the uttermost farthing from theman who struggled now with the rich and powerful in a great city of thegreat universe of affairs.... He thought of his dead godmother, MadameBertin, with her still, pale face and beautiful hands--a cold, blamelesswoman who had treated him kindly and misunderstood him always. She hadbeen his father's friend; she had loved him, in her own stern, silentfashion, for his father's sake. O, if she might only know now how muchhe treasured every impression he had formed of her strong character!She had given him all the tenderness she had, and all the motherlyinfluence his childhood had received. What might his life have beenwithout that early association with a noble if somewhat restrictednature? But these and similar thoughts, while they went deep, passedswiftly and did not return again till a very different moment, when theycame with agony and remained for ever. 

He and Brigit were the last to leave the boat. They had been so happythere that, by an instinct, they lingered behind the others, unwillingto break the enchantment of their isolation from the land, andhalf-dreading the unknown trials, or joys, which awaited, surely enough, their first steps upon the soil. As they crossed the plank they lookedback, obeying a common impulse, at the deserted deck. Their chairs hadalready been moved away, and the leeward corner, which had seemed somuch their own, was filled up by a small group of sailors who werequarrelling about the division of _pourboires_. The drive to Mirafloresis long and winding, past several small villages, and approached finallythrough a large tract of fields and orchards. But for the changingcrimson of the vines, it might have been August weather. Robins, however, were singing, and the golden, brown, and russet butterflies ofautumn were floating languidly above the wayside hedges. The cawing ofrooks, the cooing of wood-pigeons, and the hum of insects invaded thestillness of the lonely farms which, at long distances, gave picturesqueevidence of the human toil expended on the careful, rather melancholycharm of that northern landscape. The Villa Miraflores--an elaboratereproduction of the celebrated Villa Madama near Rome--stood on a woodedhill rising out of a river, facing the rocky sea-coast. Built by theArchduke Charles of Alberia for his morganatic wife, Henriette Duboc, and pulled down since for the erection of a convent, it is nevermentioned in history, and it has been long forgotten by the fewinhabitants of the neighbourhood. But as the young couple entered thelodge gates that day, and drove along the stately avenue, the beautifulill-fated structure rose before them as some castle in the air broughtdown to earth by a magician's wand. Was this their home? They dared notspeak lest the vision should fade too soon. But Orange remembered itall--this was no dream. There were the winding alleys leading to peepsof water, land and sky; there was the path which he had followed, yearsbefore, in search of his destiny. He drew a long breath, drinking in theintoxicating strength of the fresh sea air wafted through pine-trees. The atmosphere was charged with the very madness of youth and joy. Whocould have hoped for such a miracle as this? Had the whole course offate a like to show? Did it not seem a triumph over life and itsthreatened deceptions? His own servant and Brigit's maid--whom they hadsent there some days before--were watching for them at the open door, and the sight of those well-known faces gave him a still furtherassurance of the scene's actuality. They crossed the hall withoutnoticing a small blue telegram on one of the malachite tables. Theywalked together through every room, wondering at their treasures, looking out of the windows, amazed, bewitched, gradually becoming usedto the fact of each other's company in such a solitude. What were thewoes and cryings of the outer world to them, lost in the impenetrablesilence of that retreat? A strange, double sensation of delight andforgetfulness surged in them both. All knowledge of disturbing humaninfluences, of the fret, and discord, and inquietude of common existenceseemed trivial and even false. They looked with confidence into eachother's eyes, as though they were the sole inhabitants of somebrilliant, inaccessible star set far above the earth and its evil. Theywere to remain there a month--one month at least--and after that wouldtrials, or labour, or sorrow deluge in bitterness the sweet, eternalrecollection of such days? A table had been set for them in one of thesmall pavilions leading on to a balcony. The scent of flowers, minglingwith the sunlight, came in through the open windows, bringing thegarden's freshness to the faded lilacs on the carpet and tapestry. Brigit went to the looking-glass, took off her hat, and apologised forher "frightful appearance. " She had thrown her veil and gloves on thesofa, and the mere sight of them there gave a homeliness to thatforsaken room which, with its rococo decorations, painted ceilings, andgilded doors, had something of the dead gaiety of an empty theatre. Brigit made the tea, following the English custom taught her by Pensée. Was the water boiling? Did he like sugar? How absurd not to know whetherone's husband took cream! The two had seen so little of each other indomestic surroundings that this little commonplace intimacy had anintoxicating charm. 

"Are you happy?" she asked suddenly. "Do you know that you are all Ilove 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 arehandsome. I saw them looking at you on the boat. And I was proud--oh, soproud to think that you were mine. "

When they had finished their meal, she opened the piano and struck outsome chords, which echoed with a kind of wail through the long corridorsoutside. The instrument was out of tune, and the strings seemedmuffled. 

"Something is inside, " she said. 

They looked and discovered a few sheets of music which had slipped downupon the wires. The sheets were dusty, stained with age, blurred bydamp, but one bore the name "Henriette" written in the corner in alarge, defiant hand. Joining the fragments, they found it was anarrangement 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 wavesbeating upon the sand, seemed to Robert an ominous accompaniment--half awarning, 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 influencein the room. He felt, unaccountably, that they were not alone. Lookinground for some confirmation of this strange instinct his eyes fell onthe small blue envelope which had been placed on the mantelpiece by hisservant. It was addressed to himself. Fortunately, whilst he was openingit, Brigit's attention was still riveted on the old song which she washumming over at the piano. She spoke to him three times before heanswered. 

"This telegram, " he said, at last, trying to control his voice, "is fromReckage. 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 herface, her eyes, her hair. 

"What is it, Robert?" she said, clinging to him, for she heard somethinglike 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 Penséeis coming with him and he says quite plainly that there is some legaldifficulty about our marriage. "

"Some legal difficulty!" she repeated. "What is the use of that now? Ican't leave you again. I'll die first. I can't bear it. O, Robert, I amso tired of the law. There are no laws for the birds, or for theflowers, or for the trees, or for any thing that is happy! Why should webe made so miserable--just to please the magistrates and mayors!"

"But it is more than that--I am certain. Suppose it has something to dowith Parflete?"

"With Wrexham? How could that be? He is dead. "

"He may not be dead. "

She sank down to the floor on her knees. 

"O my God! You know that he is living. "

"Reckage doesn't say so. But would he and Pensée come unless they feltwe should need them?"

"I need no one except you. I don't want to see them. I don't want tohear their news. They are killing you. You seem calm, but your face! youhave never looked like this before. O, darling, it can't be what youthink it is. "

He lifted her from the ground and took her in his arms again, as thoughhe could defy the cruel, invisible fate which had decreed theirseparation. 

"In any case, " he said, "I won't give you back--I cannot. It is too muchto ask. You are mine--you were never his--never. God is not unjust, andthis is unjust. As for other people and outside opinion, they have notmattered to me at any time, and least of all can they matter now. Iwon't give you back. "

She held him closer, already feeling, in spite of his words, the firstagony of their inevitable farewell. 

"You love me!" she said, "you must never leave me. Kiss me, and promiseme 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 onhers seemed to meet and blend in the one consuming thought that theybelonged to each other--that, in the awful struggle between the force ofcircumstances and the force of life--they might have to part. 

"Why should we two matter in so large a world?" she cried. "Surely weneed not suffer so much just for the discipline of our own souls? Icannot, cannot, cannot go away. I can't live without you. I can't diewithout you. I am tired of being alone. I am tired of trying to forgetyou. 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. Onemay 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, " shecontinued; "God will understand. He doesn't ask any one to be alone. Hewasn't even crucified--alone. He didn't enter into Paradise--alone. Askme 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 outyour 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 haveyou. "

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 onthe instant, without hesitation, doubt, or misgiving--a deliberatechoice between two courses. 

"You cannot return to Parflete, " he said quietly. "Don't despair. Yourmarriage with him may be annulled. That aspect of the question isrevolting, abominable; but we are both in such a false position now thatwe owe it as much to other people as we do to ourselves to puteverything 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 wholeabandonment of her attitude and the slight weight of her childish form, how little fitted she was physically for the squalid ordeal of thelaw-courts. If she could live at all through horrors of the kind, itwould have to be by a miracle. And has one the right to hope formiracles where the question of happiness or unhappiness in human love isthe egoistic point at stake? But, right or no right, there was in themboth 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 gardenoutside. How calm and still it seemed! Had he wandered there, yearsbefore, with a beating heart, in search of his destiny, merely to findit at last after the humiliation of a public scandal? Had his idyllic, almost mystical romance, with all its aspirations, grace, andunspeakable strength, been given to him just to be called from thehouse-tops and discussed in the streets? Was this the end of all sublimeideals? Did every delicate, secret sentiment have to endure, soon orlate, the awful test of degradation and mockery? Did it have tocome--this terrible day of trial when the Love which moves the sun andthe other stars had to pass through the common sieve with dust, ashes, and much that was infinitely viler? No, he told himself, no: tenthousand times, no. 

"Listen, " he said, "listen. You need not go back to him: he knows--everyone knows now that we love each other. We can't live together becauseour marriage is not a marriage. Your marriage with Parflete was not amarriage, but it appears so to the world. Is it worth while to undeceivethe world? When I think of the cost of such a proof--I say it is toogreat. But if you are courageous--and you will be for my sake--we candefy every one--on one condition. We must be sure of _ourselves_. Wemust know that we can depend on ourselves. We may have to separate nowfor some months--perhaps a year--perhaps longer; we must schoolourselves to look upon each other as friends--friends, nothing more. Itwill be very hard--for me, and it is on my account only that we mustseparate now. But you will accept this, even if you cannot understandit, because my life here depends on you. I don't say anything about myhappiness. I leave that out of the reckoning. But if I am to live--toget through the day's work, I must love you and I must see you. Lateron, we may be able to meet quite often. This will be something to whichI can look forward. All this has been in my mind always--ever since Ifirst met you. I feel now as though every thought, every hour, everyevent of the last five months has been a preparation for this moment. Onone point, however, I have never wavered. We can't desecrate our love bysome odious law-suit. If this life were all, it would be different. Butit isn't all. It seems as though we are not to be everything to eachother. Yet we can be more than everything--we can be one existence evenif we cannot be man and wife. We can help each other, we may see eachother--in time. "

"In time?" she repeated. The certainty that she would have to bedeprived of his presence for the greater part, at all events, of herlife came over her with intolerable anguish, and with it she felt apresentiment of the future struggle to be waged against the profoundinstinct 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 onebut you. You can't forsake me. You love me too much. I know you won'tleave me. "

Her innocence made the recklessness of her appeal the more compelling. The beseeching, intense affection of her soul transfigured her face withan almost unearthly sweetness. White, trembling, and despairing she laidher head upon his shoulder, holding him with both arms, and swaying fromthe agony of a grief without hope and without tears. 

"You must try to understand, " he said, "you must try. You are soyoung--such a child, but you do know that we can't live together, in thesame house, if our marriage is not valid. That would compromise yourhonour. 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 appearanceof evil. "

"They may say anything they please. I should be very proud if theymisjudged me for your sake. "

Then a thought suddenly pierced her. What would they say about hishonour? Would the world misjudge him? Her weakness became strength undercoercion of this new possibility; her cheeks burned at the light thrownupon her first selfish impulse. 

"O, why have I said such things?" she said, tearing herself away fromhim, "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 hadnever been tempted. And now I see how hard it is--how hard to fight. Itis 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 praytill I die for women who are unhappy. "

She pushed back the soft golden hair which had fallen a little over herface, brightening its sorrow. Every feature quivered under the invisiblecutting hand of cruel experience. In those last sharp moments ofintrospection she had gained such a knowledge of suffering that a fireseemed to have consumed her vision of life, reducing it to a frightfuldesert of eternal woe and unavailing sacrifice. Partially stunned, andpartially blinded by misery, she felt the awful helplessness and pain ofwhat is sometimes called the second birth, a crisis in all humandevelopment when the first true realisation comes that the soul is astranger, a rebel, strong as eternity, weak as the flesh, free as theillimitable air. 

"O, I do understand!" she said. "I have been pretending to myself thatwe could do impossible things. But I didn't want to speak my owndeath-warrant. No, don't come to me. Don't say one word to me. I know sowell now what must be done. We mustn't hesitate--we mustn't think. It issomething to know where you can't trust yourself. I can't trust my heartat this moment. So I must just depend on the things I have beentaught--things which I accepted, oh, so easily, when I applied them toother people. You must go away. You must leave me here with theservants. Esther is good and kind. Pensée chose her for me. You canleave me with her. "

She supported herself by holding, in a desperate grasp, the heavy silkdraperies by the window. The image of her, leaning against the fadedscarlet curtain, tall, fragile, yet resolute, with heaving breast, closed eyes, and pallid lips, remained before him night and day formonths, and though, in the process of time, the vividness of the picturewaned, 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 morethe glance which she felt must have called her to life had she beendead. 

"You will come in the morning?"

"Yes. "

Once more she held out her arms. He kissed her mouth, and eyes, and haironce more. Neither could speak, and both were tearless. Then she wentwith him to the door, opened it, and seemed to lead the way through thelong corridor, down some stone steps to the garden. She knew that hewould not leave the spot while she was in sight. So she walked back tothe house alone and mounted the steps, turning at each one to wave herhand. He saw her enter at last, and close the window. Then she fell andwas helpless till she was found by Esther. Robert watched till thelights were lit, and for some hours after they were finallyextinguished. The stars came out, and the moon made the languid nightseem white with beauty. Orange walked toward the town and the smallcemetery where Madame Bertin was buried. Then he threw himself by thelonely grave which held the one creature on earth whom he seemed to havea right to love without scruple and without restraint. And there heremained till daybreak, weeping. 

CHAPTER XIII

Lady Sara had written to the Duke of Marshire, and so fulfilled, inpart, her promise to her father. But, while she said much that wasgraceful, coquettish, and characteristic, the Duke felt unable to regardit as an acceptance of his offer. She was very kind with that kindnesswhich has no sort of encouragement in it. Among other things, she beggedfor another week on the plea that "seven days furnished a very shortspeculation when the result might possibly decide the whole course ofher life. " In much anxiety, for his Grace was very much in love, hecomposed, after three hours of careful thought, a reply, and, havingread the least tender but most sensible passages to his lawyer, hehimself left the communication, together with a beautifully bound copyof "Lettres Choisies, " by Madame de Sévigné, at St. James's Square. Theparcel and the missive arrived when the young lady was reading andre-reading two other letters which she had received that morning fromthe North of France. One was from Lord Reckage; the other was fromPensée Fitz Rewes. Their respective contents ran as follows:--

 MY DEAR SARA (I love the sweeter name of Valérie: may I not use it sometimes?), --I shall never be able to get through all I have to say--no words can reflect the fulness of human nature in such suffering as it has been my privilege--and sorrow--to witness here. In doubt, they tell us, we must stand on the rule of authority. But for this principle I should find it hard to reconcile myself to this deplorable affair of parting two people who love each other, evidently, in an almost lyric sense. You, I know, will understand that this expression contains no sneer at a frame of mind altogether surpassing my own capacity for idealism. Are there many, or any of us nowadays, who feel that there are certain things which we must do, not do, or perish eternally? I have never detected this narrow, vindictive, inherently superstitious view in Orange. I am forced to the conclusion, therefore, that his truest happiness consists always in his submission to the Will (as he understands it) of God (as he understands Him). Men are like horses--unless they are born with staying powers in them, no amount of training can make them really stay. Robert is a born ecclesiastic--I have said so always. His conduct in this present crisis will be a slap in the face to those who insist that religion makes men timorous. Speaking for myself, I never entertained a moment's doubt of his acting in precisely the manner in which he has done; his worst time, however, is, alas! to come; he may have to wait till eternity for his recompense. That trial often embitters the most constant. The devil is never embarrassed, and where virtue is found superhuman, he takes every care to keep it on a sour--if ethereal--diet. You will beg for less comment and more facts. Let me give them. Orange himself, pale, restrained, haggard but superb, met us at the station on our arrival. He had been waiting for us at the hotel; Mrs. Parflete was at the Villa Miraflores. The two had discussed the situation and parted on the mere reading of my telegram. I cannot say that they might have acted otherwise, but only that they acted as they did. There must have been, nevertheless, a considerable scene. The idealist driven into squalid actualities deserves a martyr's crown. In one single misfortune he suffers all the calamities of the human race, and in one personal horror he sees the death, emptiness, and corruption of all human endeavours. In this exaggeration, these mystics show their genius; they suffer too much in order that ordinary people may suffer a little less. Poor Orange! He is certainly fine, for, even if I discard the _mannerisms_, the eccentricity, the possibly _natural_ self-sufficiency, all that is essential in his character remains and must remain undeniably chivalrous. It was an immense relief to find that he had decided, without suggestions on my part, on his course of conduct. I hate a fellow who tries to be more than friendly, and I dreaded making the experiment. I did venture to point out to him that there might be some way of annulling the Parflete marriage. But idealists abhor law-suits. Parflete, _not_ being an idealist, may take some steps on his own account. I refrained from touching on that possibility, although I see much hope that way for our unhappy lovers. The world might cry out a little at first, but success justifies everything. Meanwhile, Robert and Mrs. Parflete have formed a resolution not to meet again for a year or more. After that, they hope to be on the unearthly terms of Laura and her Petrarch. It is magnificent, but is it love? I long to hear your views on the subject. I have no influence over you; I wish I had. I am the most sincere of all your friends. The others either care too little for you, or too much for themselves, to run the risk of giving you offence. But I would risk all, to gain even a little--where you are concerned. May I call on my return? Orange comes back with me. His own instinct tells him that there is a suggestion of the ridiculous--to the mere on-looker--about this interrupted honeymoon. He has determined to face it out in London, and resume his life on the old lines. He will finish his volume of French History, resume his post with Lord Wight, and take his seat in Parliament. If he can succeed in living down this absurdly tragic catastrophe, he will achieve a notable triumph. It gives me a cold feeling at the heart when I think of the dreary heroism he must display. Nothing picturesque, nothing striking. He must simply baffle the scoffers by an inscrutable endurance. Mrs. Parflete is a beautiful creature, but quite a child, and therefore weedy as to figure. I consider her far too young for marriage in any case. She is only seventeen--tall, slight, with a transparent skin, and something actually _babyish_ about the eyes. Her dignity, in the circumstances, was wholly admirable. Perfectly self-possessed. Pensée will describe the interviews far better than I could, so I will refer you to her for the details of our mission. Women, I have decided, in every disappointment always look for some future change of circumstances favourable to their wishes. No matter how nominal, shallow, and delusive this faith may be, it sustains them through the worst trials. Thus it is that when a woman sacrifices either her repose or the legitimate compensations of life to a great idea, she suffers far less than a man in similar conditions. The devout female sex drive a good bargain always: they manage somehow to obtain all the sentiment they require from both worlds. Men cannot be happy on sentiment alone; hence, therefore, the dreadful hesitations, self-doubts, and terror which assail so frequently the interior peace of all men drawn, like Orange, by certain qualities of temperament, toward the mortification of their humanity. Laying aside the proud idea of the independence, vigour, and spiritual-mindedness which this practice is held to secure, there is one drawback which, with a view to that class who are really willing to endure many afflictions for the sake of any one definite advantage, ought not to be overlooked. The weak, under such discipline, become sugary: the strong grow hard. Robert has backbone; he is a man of ability, perhaps even genius, but there is always a danger that, either from the accumulation of scruples or the want of romantic incentive, he may throw up the political game and bury himself in a monastery where his dreams may find their sole expression in prayer. Another point occurs to me. Will the rank and file ever trust a person so far above their comprehension? The very word "mystical" is a word of reproach in the mouth of the world. People continually ask questions about Robert. No questions, on the other hand, are asked about Aumerle. Aumerle lives like the rest of us: he does everything he ought not to do--he surprises nobody: he delivers his neighbours over to the absolute power of accomplished facts. (A way of saying that he doesn't care a rap about the fellow who falls among thieves. ) Dear Valérie! What a pleasure it is to write to you! I can utter my inmost thoughts. I am often suspected of callousness. This letter will show you how truly I feel the sorrows of my few real friends. I cannot bear to think that Orange should be beaten, as it were, by Parflete. A more fawning, wretched creature than Parflete one never saw. I shall not be set right in my own idea of the Divine Justice unless this battle, at any rate, is to the strong. Write to me. I don't want to whine, but I may tell you that I am not happy. 

 Your affectionate friend, BEAUCLERK R. 

Sara sat on a low, embroidered stool by the fender, and, as she studiedeach line of his lordship's despatch (for so he regarded it), she woulddip her fingers from time to time into a blue satin sweet-box, select, after due consideration, a chocolate or a sugared-almond, and nibble itsomewhat fastidiously, with an air of making concessions to her humanside. The exercise of divining the many hidden meanings in Reckage'sepistle was certainly purely intellectual. Nevertheless, as she read thelast sentences, she smiled with malicious triumph, for did they notconvey a declaration of strong friendship in a letter designed, beyonddoubt, as an argument in disfavour of all merely sentimental tiesbetween men and women, and as a frank confession of his own inability tosustain any relation of the kind? How often had he maintained anopposite opinion--seeming contemptuous, indolent, invulnerable, unconscious of her beauty, amused rather than attracted by her brilliantspirit. Every instinct of the coquette, jealous of her own power andwretched from the sterile suffering of wounded pride, resented bitterlythe unpardonable ease which he had appeared to enjoy in her society. Now, however, that he appealed to her womanliness by a humblesurrender, her better, more generous nature asserted itself. Some of theold affection she had long felt for him revived. Where there had oncebeen love, a kind of desperate fidelity still lingered, and, althoughRobert Orange was the ideal passion of her heart, Reckage possessed acertain influence over her which was not the less powerful because ithad its root and constant nourishment in their common memory of achildhood and first youth spent together in the same county, with thesame friends and the same bores. She slipped his letter, with a sigh, into her belt, and turned her attention for the third time to Pensée'stear-stained pages. 

 MY DARLING SARA, --I can scarcely write. Although I know the mercy and wisdom hidden in these sad events, my heart is heavy. The best thing is to preach resignation _till_ you have it; and then, _because_ you have it, you _will_ preach it. Robert's love of Brigit makes little outward show, but I know that it is terribly real. We are never so near to our loved ones as when we have left them for God, but _nearness_ of that intangible, invisible kind amounts to agony. At least, I think so. Robert's self-restraint is killing me. When we first met, he shook from head to foot, his very face quivered, but he said nothing. I felt that he would never allow any one to speak of this trouble or offer him the least sympathy. In the necessary discussion of the legal aspects of the case, he was very calm, and seemed rather an adviser himself than the person chiefly concerned. It is not easy to understand him; yet I appreciate reserve. If everybody could understand us, what joy would there be in discovering our souls to those whom we love! Brigit has shut herself up in a room. She cries incessantly (she is so young) and is dreadfully changed. She wishes to go to Paris--for she has some idea of resuming her musical studies. Her voice is one of her great gifts, yet I can't imagine any one singing in such a tortured state of mind. I don't like to say that actually I fear for her reason, but she has, I see, far more heart, poor child, than I ever supposed. How wrong it is to attempt any judgment or estimate of another person's capacity for suffering! She is in a pitiable condition, unnaturally patient in a sense--for it is patience on the rack. Our Lord dreaded suffering and even feared it. Of course, one might easily say that an unhappy love affair is very common, that it is almost profane to compare such an ordinary trouble with the serious, exceptional trials of life. But although Lord Byron declared that "man's love was of man's life a thing apart, " his own poems and his own career gave the lie absolutely to the statement (indeed, I am often tempted to believe that women exhibit, on the whole, greater strength of will in their affections than men). I must say, therefore, that the spectacle of a bride and bridegroom, devoted to each other, yet separated on their very wedding day, is quite as serious and sorrowful as (say) the death of a parent, or the loss of a child, or any other melancholy occurrence of everyday life. And what is worse, an atmosphere of _scandal_ penetrates this story--making it most shocking to all refined minds, and peculiarly so to temperaments of extraordinary delicacy. It will take every atom of _my_ courage and constant prayers to bear it _for_ them. What must it be, therefore, to themselves? I tremble at the appalling things in future for us. As for my uncle, I dare not read his letter yet. He must be so upset, so _horrified_. I have never before been called on for such a proof of friendship. It is quite dreadful to be mixed up in a kind of _cause célèbre_. The great justice of God is always mixed with great hardships, and is often executed by those worthy neither of confidence nor respect. I am sure that we shall all have to go through many humiliations before this matter is settled. I know, darling, that _you_ will say I am making a rather narrow-minded fuss. But I do hate publicity, and if it doesn't kill Robert outright, it will have some shattering effect upon his character and his health. Really, I am not thinking so much of myself. Your own _reckless_ bravery, however, would quail a little, I fancy, at the idea of having your most intimate feelings called out from the housetops and discussed in the streets. And remember, please, that Robert is a dreamer--a poet. Of course, in every _active_ expedition there must be some few idealistic, Quixotic souls who have to suffer vicariously for the rest. He is such an one. But that sort of feeling of soreness which comes from the sense of martyrdom is not quite the same as a raw wound on one's own _personal_ score. I do hope I am clear. I try to look on the bright side, but there are days when the unseen world and its glorious realities become dubious. These are trials of faith, I know. If one could be wise, one would keep silent at such times. Now, dearest Sara, good-night. 

 Yours ever lovingly, PENSÉE. 

CHAPTER XIV

Lord Garrow and Lady Sara left town the next day for a short visit atKemmerstone Park, the seat of Arabella, Marchioness of Churleigh. LadyChurleigh had a favourite nephew for whom she was extremely anxious "todo something. " Vague by nature, she had never been able to define herambition in more precise terms, but, as she entertained influentialpeople only, it was considered, in many circles, that she over-did hercivilities toward the mammon of unrighteousness. Those who were notinvited called her heartless; those who accepted her hospitality foundfault with her brains. All praised her cook, and no one ever thought ofher nephew. It was known that she could not leave him her money. Everypair of eyes read his name--Lord Douglas Hendlesham--on his bedroom doorat the top of the grand staircase, and visitors soon learnt to associatethis advertisement with a pale, haughty young man who appearedoccasionally at meals, or sometimes listened disdainfully to the musicafter dinner in the saloon. Distinguished persons, staying atKemmerstone for the first time, would ask a fellow-guest, "Who is themelancholy youth who looks so ill?" "That, " they would be told, "isDouglas Hendlesham, I _think_. "

Disraeli called him "a personified hallucination. "

The party, on this particular occasion, consisted of Agnes Carillon (whoattracted unusual attention as the _fiancée_ of Lord Reckage), theBishop of Hadley (her father), the Duke and Duchess of Bevensey, CharlesAumerle, and Mr. Disraeli. Lord Garrow lost no time in conveying hisversion of the Orange scandal to the ex-Minister's ears. It was a dampafternoon, and the two gentlemen marched up and down the smoking-roomtogether, talking so earnestly that the Duke (to his rage) dared notinterrupt them, and drove out instead with his Duchess and LadyChurleigh--who bored him beyond sleep. Disraeli had been opposed, fromthe first, to Robert's marriage with Mrs. Parflete, for, as otherdiplomatists, he preferred his own plans before those of Providence, andhe had wished to see his young friend wisely united to theunexceptionable Viscountess Fitz Rewes. 

"But, " he observed, shrugging his shoulders, "to talk expediency is nota safe way of opening the game with Orange. Many men have ability, fewhave genius, but fewer still have character. Orange has a rectangularwill and an indomitable character. _Character_ is the rarest thing inEngland. "

Lord Garrow stiffened his back. 

"I have been educated in a contrary belief, " said he. "Our nationalcharacter is our dearest possession. "

"That is because it is so rare. You mistake your education for yourexperience--a common error. By character I mean that remnant of a man'slife which is probably stronger than death, and ought to be strongerthan 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 allevents, has done for himself now. His merits seem to be more interestingthan respectable, and this marriage has furnished conversation for thewhole town--chiefly because Beauclerk Reckage was his best man. Onecannot 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 suchcircumstances, one doesn't want to tell a lie, and yet one doesn't wantto tell the truth. "

"Well, there are many duties and difficulties in life: there is but oneobligation--courage. "

He fixed his eyes on the fire blazing in the grate, and repeated theword with great emphasis--"Courage!"

"He will need it. An unpleasant suggestion has been put forward by thelawyers. "

"Divorce?" said Disraeli. 

"Yes. "

"A Bishop was telling me the other day that when one attacks theprinciple of divorce one forgets that it was originally a Divineinstitution! But I agree with you--it is unpleasant. You will find thatOrange 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 ofdanger, unconcerned with profit, takes up the cause of God against theworld, others may not follow, but they must admire him. Abstractsentiments of virtue do not charm me. Orange is a Roman Catholic, however, and therefore a practical idealist. The practical idealists ofEngland are the Dissenters--mostly the Methodists. John Wesley wasconsidered crack-brained by his contemporaries at Oxford; he was agreater mystic, in several ways, than Newman, but he was not such apoet. "

"I know nothing about Dissenters and that class. As for theCatholics--the few I am acquainted with are civil and sensible. "

"That is true. Most of the English Catholics imagine that St. Peter'sand the Vatican can be maintained on the policy of a parish church inMayfair! But one moment. There is Aumerle in the hall with a telegram. Iwonder if he has any fresh news about poor Derby. " [Footnote: Lord Derbywas then lying at the point of death. ]

With this unimpeachable excuse he left his noble companion, who, morecertain than ever that Disraeli could never be in touch with the upperclasses of England, retired to his own room and wrote down in a journalall he could remember of their conversation. 

Lady Sara, meanwhile, had invited Agnes Carillon to walk through thefamous gardens of Kemmerstone, and, as each girl was anxious to studythe other, they started on the expedition in that high pitch of nervousexcitement and generous animosity which one may detect in splendidrivals, or even in formal allies. Sara dressed more richly than was thefashion 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 plainlythan usual, was a little taken aback to find her remarkable acquaintancein brown cashmere, a cloth jacket, and a severe felt hat of the Tyroleanshape, which, poised upon her chignon, tilted far over her fine blueeyes. Both women, however, were so young and handsome that even thetrying fashions of the period could not destroy their brilliantappearance. The chagrin of the one and the ironical triumph of the othersoon gave way to more generous feelings. Each took her companion'smeasure 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 littleanxious about your shoes. Are they thick enough?"

Miss Carillon was above many vanities; she left her facial beauty totake care of itself. But her feet were uncommonly well moulded, and shewas careful not to disguise them in the hideous porpoise-hide boots withflat soles and no instep which found favour with her generation. 

"They look very nice, " continued Sara, "and I really think they areworth a slight cold. Take my arm, for then we can walk better. How noblyLord Reckage has behaved in this dreadful affair of Robert Orange! Youwon't think me strange for introducing the subject at once? It must beon both our minds, for you are naturally thinking of Reckage, and I amthinking of dear Pensée. "

"Beauclerk is very fond of Mr. Orange. "

"He must be. Do notice the autumn tint on those beech-trees. How I envyartists--although it is not their business to contend with Nature. Thegreat vice of the present day is _bravura_--an attempt to do somethingbeyond the truth. That reminds me--how does the portrait grow? DavidRennes 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. Ifind 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 conventionalthan we are. They are trained in batches, thousands are of onepattern--especially in society. But each woman has an individualbringing-up. She is influenced by a foreign governess, or her mother, orher nurse. This must give every girl peculiar personal views ofeverything. That is why men find us hard to understand. We don'tunderstand each other; we suspect each other: we have no sense ofcomradeship. "

"Perhaps you are right, " said Agnes, rather sadly. "Yet our troubles allseem to arise from the fact that we cannot manage men. It matters verylittle really whether we can manage women. With women, one need only benatural, straightforward, and unselfish. You can't come to grief thatway. But with men, it is almost impossible to be quite natural. As forbeing straightforward, don't they misconstrue our words continually? Andwhen one tries to be unselfish, they accuse one of hardness, coldness, and everything most contrary to one's feelings. Of course, " she addedquickly, "I speak from observation. I have nothing to complain ofmyself. "

"Of course not. Neither have I. I have grown up with most of my menfriends. I had no mother, and I exhausted dozens of governesses andmasters, I am sure I was troublesome, but I had an instinctive horror ofbecoming narrow-minded and getting into a groove. My English relationsbored 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 somuch interested in Robert Orange. We three are citizens of the world. "

"But English people who have lived, for any length of time, abroad arequite as sensible and tolerant as you are. Take Mr. Rennes, of whom weare just speaking. "

"To be sure. But artists and poets are like stars--they belong to noland. A strictly national painter or a strictly national poet is boundto be parochial--a kind of village pump. And you may write inscriptionsall over him, and build monuments above him, but he remains a pump by alocal spring. David Rennes is a genius. "

"I am glad you think so, " said Agnes, with flushing cheeks. "I wonderwhether 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 helpfeeling rather shy until one's opinions are officially endorsed. "

"How British!"

"I suppose it is my bringing-up. It sounds very feeble. I often feelthat if I once began--really began--to think for myself I wouldn't stickat 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. Yourlife 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 thesequalities do not affect the question of his duties toward them. "

"You express, better than I could, my own feeling. I fear they don'talways appreciate his motives. "

"Beauclerk, " said Sara slowly, "is impulsive. He is never afraid ofchanging his mind. Many people are called firm merely because theyhaven't the moral courage to own their second thoughts. "

Agnes drew a long sigh, slackened her pace, and stood looking at thestrange, autumnal lights in the sky, the martins flying over thepaddocks toward the wood, and the crescent moon which already shone outabove them. 

"I suppose it does mean lack of courage, half the time, " she said atlast; "and yet how disastrous it is to wonder about the wisdom of anydecision once arrived at, of any step once taken! I daresay every oneshrinks a little at first from the responsibility of undertaking anotherperson's happiness. "

"Not every one, " replied Sara; "the generous ones only. "

"You have known Beauclerk ever since he was a boy, haven't you?" askedAgnes. 

"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 haschosen me for his wife. But one thought is perpetually coming up in mymind: Shall I be able to make him happy? A girl, as a rule, seems tobelieve that she can make a man happy merely by loving him. Again andagain friends of mine have married in this idea. And the hope seldomanswers. "

She spoke very quietly, yet there was great feeling, even greatbitterness in her tone. She was thinking of David Rennes. Sara had acurious magnetism which attracted all those with whom she came intofriendly relations. Being imaginative, though never inquisitive, herquick sympathies rendered the most trivial interchange of ideas anemotional exercise. This power, which would have made her a successfulactress, found its usual outlet in her pianoforte playing, whichaffected her hearers as only extraordinary nervous and passionate forcecan affect people. She had neither the patience nor the sternness ofmental quality which is required in a creative genius: the little songsand poems which she sometimes composed were insipid to an astonishingdegree. Hers were the executant's gifts, and the fascination which sheexerted over men and women depended wholly on the natural charm of atemperament made up of fire and honey. Agnes had always regarded LadySara as an odd but chivalrous girl. The stories told in society abouther eccentric tastes, sayings, and doings were never to her heart'sdiscredit, no matter how much they puzzled, or dismayed, theconventional set into which she had been born. It was felt that shecould be trusted, and, although many were afraid of her brains, no onehad ever known her to betray a confidence, to injure another woman'sreputation, to show the least spite, or to insist upon an undue share ofmen's attention. The sex may, and do, pardon the first three sins, butthe last has yet to find its atoning virtue. All declared that Sara, with many shortcomings, was neither a poacher nor a grabber. Girlsconsulted her in their love troubles, and not a few owed their marriagesto her wise arbitration. She had the gypsy's spell. Thus it happened, therefore, that Agnes, who was habitually reserved, found herselfthinking aloud in the presence of this mysterious but not hostilepersonality. 

"When does Beauclerk return from the North of France?" asked Sara. 

"He is coming back with Mr. Orange next Wednesday. I had a letter thismorning. " Her voice grew husky, and with evident agitation she haltedonce more. 

"You know Beauclerk so well, " she said at last, "that I want to ask yousomething, and you must answer me truly--without the least dread ofgiving offence--because a great deal may depend on what you tell me. Doyou think he seems altogether settled in his mind?"

Sara guessed, from the nature of the question, that the truth in thiscase would be a relief--not a blow. 

"He doesn't seem quite himself--if you understand me, " she said, withouthesitation. 

Agnes caught her arm a little more closely and walked with a lighterstep. 

"I don't think we love each other sufficiently for marriage, " sheexclaimed; "his last letter was so affectionate and so full of kindnessthat it brought tears to my eyes. I saw the effort under it all. We aremaking 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. Hisfamily were pleased and so were mine. We seem to have pleased everybodyexcept ourselves. Not that I ever expected the joy and stuff, and inwardfeelings which one reads of. I am too sensible for that. But I wanted tofeel _established_--whereas we are both, in reality, rather upset. I amsure of this. "

"Perhaps when you see each other----"

"Our letters are far more satisfactory than our meetings. I know he isfond 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 itgives 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 hasnever asked me. Perhaps he took it for granted. As for me, I thoughtthat 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 cansuffer, we can endure, we can be resigned, we can be everything exceptuncertain, or luke-warm. Isn't that true?"

"Yes, " said Agnes, and she laughed a little. "It isn't my way, " she wenton, "to talk like this about myself. Yet I can't help seeing that allthis keeping silence, and disguising facts from one's own reason, isactually weak. I don't want to be weak. It isn't English. I don't wantto be supine. That isn't English either. I want to be just and squareall round--in my dealings with others and in my dealings with my ownconscience. Papa has always taught us a great deal about individualliberty, and freedom of will. I am beginning to wonder what libertymeans. "

"That's the first step toward a great change. "

The young girl set her lips, and looked steadfastly before her, asthough she would pierce the gathering twilight with her bright andcandid eyes. 

"I daresay you are right. Anyhow, our talk has been a help. When I mayseem to lack courage, it is because I lack conviction. Once convinced, Ican 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 Iwas with them, but I must have been influenced. "

The slight emphasis on the words _people_ and _them_ was too studied toescape Sara's trained hearing. She knew the force of a woman'srhetorical plural. 

"I believe you have your convictions now, at this moment, " she saidquietly. 

"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 havebeen 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 owndisappointment far better than I could bear theirs. Surely youunderstand?"

"Too well. "

They had now reached the house, and Agnes's habitual manner at oncere-asserted itself. Her voice, which had many rich notes, fell into theone unchanging tone she used in ordinary conversation. Her countenanceseemed as placid as a pink geranium under glass. 

"Thank you for a very pleasant walk, " she said to Sara. "I sha'n'tforget it. "

"Nor I. And, please, after this, always call me Sara. And may I call youAgnes? We have just time now to write a few letters before dinner. "

CHAPTER XV

Robert, accompanied by Lord Reckage, arrived in London the followingWednesday. Pensée and Brigit went from St. Malo to Paris, where theunhappy girl hoped to enter the Conservatoire. All had been arranged byRobert himself, and he had shown a calmness during the ordeal whichmight have deceived his two friends had they been even a littleinsincere themselves or a shade less fond. His Journal at that periodcontains two entries, however, which show that neither Lady Fitz Rewesnor Reckage were wrong in fearing he had received a mortal blow which noearthly influence could make endurable. 

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

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

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

The Journal ends abruptly at this point, and no more was added thatyear. His letter to Lord Wight has been preserved because his lordshipsent it to Pensée in some anger, begging her to explain suchcallousness. Pensée, being a woman, brought a gentler understanding tothe 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 youngwoman--with whom he is madly in love--was merely an accident of hiscareer. She has affected his character--yes. I suppose CardinalManning's wife had her influence in her day. But Robert will work betterthan ever after this. Whereas look at me, my dear. When I lost Sybil, Iwas completely done for. I tried to set up for myself, but I couldn't. Ihope 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'ttalk 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 replyin 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, shehad felt a presentiment of his call, and he found her, beautifullydressed in violet tints, copying some Mass music in the drawing-room. 

"I hoped you would come, " she said, when the servant had closed thedoor. "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 aneternity to sound the infinite. We won't talk of you: we can talk aboutother 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 withPensée, 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 thatsounds heartless. He has been so kind to me. But I love as I must--notas I ought. My dear friend, all the trouble in life is due to forcedaffection. Look at Beauclerk! Think of Agnes Carillon! What fieryfierceness of sorrow in both their hearts! Papa and I were at LadyChurleigh's last Sunday. Agnes was there, looking, believe me, lovely. No portrait does her justice. One finds marvellous beauty, now andagain, in the middle classes. She is an exquisite _bourgeoise_. She isnot clever enough to feel bored; she is too well brought up to befascinating; too handsome to insist on homage. Plain women are exactingand capricious--they make themselves _worth while_. _Il faut se fairevaloir!_ 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 methat in twenty years he had met but one deliberate hypocrite. You mustbe less cynical. Men, however, don't watch each other closely as a rulein sentimental matters. "

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

"Very few people are truly miserable. If this were not the case, theworld 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 spaceannihilated in order that we may be happy. We must be humorous studiesto those looking on, but we are, nevertheless, utterly desperate. Thisis true. Scold me now--if you can. Tell me what is to become of us--ifyou dare. "

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

"Tell me what is to become of us--if you dare, " she repeated, "becausemischief is certain. You belong to those who endure and fight goodfights, and keep the faith. Beauclerk and I are of another orderaltogether. We suffer without endurance, we fight without winning, andthe little faith we have is so little that it is taken away from us. Asfor Agnes--wait! She is encased, at present, in conventionalities. Butshe is gradually getting rid of these wrappings and trappings. She willsurprise 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 hisright to demand this. "

"A right is something independent of circumstances, and paramount tothem. But when you once talk of your rights and your wrongs in love, alllove 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 youchoose. Can't you see, plainly enough, that he is on the road todisaster?"

"No. One may easily be a long way from happiness and still be nowherenear disaster, " he said, checking a deep sigh. "Of course, if he feelsthat he cannot in honour remain in his present situation, he must act atonce. Men who are desirous to satisfy all their friends soon becomeirresolute 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, andyou are thinking of his duty. What is duty? It generally means thatwhich your acquaintances--for no reason and without warrant--expect ofyou. I take a larger view. "

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

"But Agnes is not a pretty, crying, fluttering creature who would excitecompassion. Who, for instance, could jilt Pensée? I don't wish Beauclerkto 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 saidproudly. "I did hope that you could appreciate motives for which theworld at large is slow enough to give credit. Beauclerk is weak, attractive, and in perplexity; I search my heart again and again, and Ifind nothing but friendship there--for him. I am careful of every word Ispeak, and every look, and every thought. My interest is unselfish. But, " she added, "what can any of us do, after all, toward raisingeither 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, yousee. "

"I know that. "

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

"I could almost pray, " she exclaimed at last, "that you didn't trusthim. Because--in spite of himself--he must disappoint every one. He isnot 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 shewas too young to dissemble perfectly. 

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

Sara began to disentangle some silk fringe on her skirt; she did notlook 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 veryconsiderably on the credulity of the members if one chose, and thesefellows on the Executive wish me to take a cautious line with regard toDr. 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 onTemple will be highly unpopular. We have sounded opinion in variousquarters, and we receive the unanimous reply--'Have nothing to do withit. ' There is a feeling in the clubs, too, that vapid, colourlessorthodoxy is not wanted in England. Healthy disagreement within limitssuits us. The question is, then: Ought I to go against this strong tideand get myself disliked?"

"Yes, " said Sara at once. 

"You think so?"

"Beyond a doubt. "

"Of course, " said his lordship, readily enough, "a combination indefence of any article of the faith is a noble thing. My original ideawas to get up a combination of High and Low and Broad Churchmen, andmake a stand on purely legal grounds. For instance, how can the bishops, _without previous explanation_, consecrate one lying under the censureof their House? That is all. There is nothing offensive in that. Wemerely ask for an explanation: we offer no judgment: we state noprejudice. If Dr. Temple intends to withdraw his paper from _Essays andReviews_--well and good. Personally, he bears the highest character. Hewould be, in many ways, an acquisition to the Church. But does hehimself 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, aredead against any proceedings at all. They think we ought to give ourAssociation a more secular character. They say we are hampered by toovehement a religious tone. They say that broad Christian principles aremore workable. Besides, the word Christian always attracts theNonconformists in spite of themselves. They are bound to support you ifyou stick to the line of a believer in Christ--irrespective ofparticular doctrines. And so on and so on. I prefer something more hardand fast myself. Yet they may be right. One must go with the times. "

He shifted his chair several times during this speech, looking first atOrange 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 ofaction is to avoid everything which demands even the possibility ofself-sacrifice or adverse criticism. "

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

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

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

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

"No other system can be now looked to as a substitute, " answered Reckageimpatiently. "The thing cannot be done away now, the danger is toonear. "

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

"I daresay. I hoped we might make such efforts as to fix a lastingimpression on both Houses that the State appointment of bishops, coupledwith the farce of a _congé d'élire_, is rank blasphemy. This outrage ongood taste ought to occupy the attention of every man. It is quiteenough to fill the minds of all. "

"It won't, " said Robert. "You must remember that whatever strikes themind of an average man, as the result of his own observation anddiscovery, makes always the strongest impression upon him. Now theaverage man is not engaged in studying Church government. He will notthank 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 whathe has to encounter. By dragging the clergy into the movement you makeit savour--to the popular intelligence--of professional jealousy. Bymaking Dr. Temple your example, you render those who respect hischaracter powerless to express their opinion. Given the system, he isunquestionably 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 notexactly square. He acts a trimming part. But now and again he sums up asituation. He says that the English people do not choose to keep up anEstablished Church which shall be independent of its Sovereign andLegislature. I have seen most of the bishops and archdeacons. They areagainst Temple; they say very little about the system. Even men withnothing to gain by it, " he added, ingenuously, "don't appear tocriticise 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 toshow England that she is her own mistress!"

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

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

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

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

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

"My love, " said Lord Garrow to Sara, "I met Miss Carillon on the stepsof the London Library, and I have brought her in to tea. But why do yousit 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 LordReckage. The two ladies greeted each other. All spoke, and then all weresilent. It was an awkward meeting for every one present. Lord Garrowrang the bell, and the small company sat there without a word, watchingthe footman light the gas in the glass chandelier. 

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

"I can't imagine, my dear, " said her father. "I am far too cross. I hatethese 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 discusssuch 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 lifeand 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 alittle as he said--

"We were not joking. New men will come in, not improbably with newideas. 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, toostirred to consider anything except the cause of their common agitation. 

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

"The clergy are doing their level best, by bigotry, to make Benson'sassertion 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 presentline, and give the whole Association to the best qualified hypocrite ofmy acquaintance. "

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

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

These words seemed to bear an ominous significance. Agnes herself, having uttered them, received one of those sudden inward illuminationswhich, in some natures, amount to second-sight. But she wasunimaginative and not especially observant, sensitive, or skilled indiscerning the signs of any psychological disturbance. She felt only, onthis occasion, that a crisis had been reached, that Reckage was vexedwith himself, with her, with life generally. She had a letter in herpocket from David Rennes--a beautiful, touching letter, full of longingfor a faith, a hope--love, he said, he possessed, alas! What adifference in the two men!

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

But misfortune had entered the room, and that wayfarer--onceadmitted--asserts her ill-will without let or hindrance. Agnes, barelytouching her tea, rose to say goodbye. Lord Garrow and Reckage escortedher to the hall. They helped her into a carriage (lent her for thatafternoon by the Duchess of Pevensey), and she drove away, trembling, tearful, afraid, not reminding her _fiancé_ that they were to meet atdinner in the evening. He walked homeward, but not until he had decided, after much hesitation, that he could scarcely go back again to LadySara. His thoughts were fixed now to one refrain--"I must have myfreedom. " Freedom, at that moment, had a mocking, lovely face, thedarkest blue eyes, and quantities of long, black hair. She wore a violetdress, her hands were white, and she talked like a Blue Book set tomusic by Beethoven. Yes, he must have his freedom and live. 

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

"Then you are to blame. "

A flush swept over her face. She looked bitter reproaches, but she madeno answer. 

"And why are you so interested in Anglican Orders?" he continued. "Howis 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 noreligion, but I come from a race of politicians and soldiers--on mymother's side. I must have an intellectual _pied à terre_, and I requirea good cause. Party politics are too parochial for me. So I am on theside 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 fromthe 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 youare 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, anddespair for flippancy. Isn't that the case?"

"One can be light and true as well as light and false. Now you arewitty, 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 isnot 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 withregard to the Meeting. Lord Garrow met him on the staircase. 

"I congratulate you on your election to Brookes's, " stammered hislordship, "but for Heaven's sake be cautious at play. Really, theyounger men there are trying to revive the worst traditions in gaming. The loo was rather high at Chetwynd's last night, " he added, with astudied air of guilt. "I won £500 from my host. I call that thelimit--even on old Cabinet Steinberg!"

He smiled, he waved his hand, feeling that he had displayed great tastein a situation of enormous difficulty. Something unusual, too, in theyoung man's face touched his heart. It seemed to him that here was onewho 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 afine countenance, and I am sure he is very much cut up by this painfulaffair. It's a pity he's a Catholic, for he would make such an excellentcanon for St. Paul's. He would _look_ the part so well. "

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

"She has passed a good many, " sighed his lordship. "But play me thatlovely air which Titiens sings in _Il Flauto Magico_. "

CHAPTER XVI

Agnes was too ill to appear at the Duchess of Pevensey's dinner thatevening. 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'stiresome 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 thanmost 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 anappearance of over-emphasis. 

Poor Agnes, however, could neither eat, nor sleep, nor rest. Her templesthrobbed, her eyes ached; every nerve was a barbed wire; her soul wasmanacled by promises; she would not use her reason; the fever in herveins was not to be quelled, and the one agitating relief to herphysical suffering was a constant perusal of David Rennes's letter. Itwas the first passionate love-letter she had ever received. Just as ariver may stream peacefully through pastoral lands till it joins the seaand becomes one with that vast element of unrest, so the little flame ofher girl's nature was absorbed at last into the great fire underlyingall humanity. Was she in love? she asked herself. When she was withRennes she became silent, incapable of conversation, of thought. All sheasked 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 itagain and again, to keep it under her pillow at night? Was it love tothink of him every moment of the day, to compare all others to him andfind them wanting, to see his face always before her eyes? Was it loveto know that if he called her, as he called her now, she would leavehome, father, mother, friends, all things, all people, and follow him tothe world's end, to the beginning of hell, or--further? Atone-and-twenty such questions need no answer. They belong to theinnocent 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 northe moon make reply, but youth has no doubts. The girl, weeping tears ofjoy over Rennes's perilous words, had but one clear regret in hermind--she could not see him for some hours. His declaration dispelledthe terrible bitterness, scepticism, and indifference to all sentimentwhich had gradually permeated, during their acquaintance, her wholeheart. Repulsed affection may turn to hatred in haughty, impatientsouls. But in Agnes it produced a moral languor--a mental indolence--thefeeling that no one was in earnest, and nothing ought to matter. Themore this feeling deepened, the more attentively did she observe themere outward etiquette of all that passes for seriousness, attendingscrupulously to the minor obligations of existence and exhausting hercourage in those petty matters which die with the day and yield noapparent fruit. How different now seemed the colourless, harsh fabricwhich she had mistaken for duty and wrapped--as a shroud--about hersecret hopes! She had held every aspiration implying happiness as a"proverb of reproach"; she had endeavoured to believe that allpoetry--except hymns--was false prophecy leading one to hardentanglements and grievous falls. 

And what had been the impoverishment of her soul under this grimdiscipline? How could she tell the many thoughts which had travelledunquestioned over the highway of her heart during that process ofdisillusion? But all was changed now, and all that had been difficult, painful or obscure in the world seemed perfect with the inexhaustibleglory of young passion. Rennes begged her to see him once more before heleft 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 fromthese associations. At any other time, however, the idea of aclandestine meeting with David would have been intolerable. To go nowwas misery, yet she dared not stay away. The sunny morning mixed withher mood, which was one of determination to risk all in order to winall. Driven by a sense of her capabilities for endurance, she faced, with a kind of exultation, the possible disaster or remorse which mightfollow her action. Was there not a possible joy also? For ten days nowshe had been ill in body as well as mind; she had suffered a hardstruggle. She knew now that she could not, could not, could not, nomatter what happened, become the wife of Lord Reckage. The result ofgreat self-delusion for so long a period was a condition of mind inwhich she was practically unable to distinguish between candour anddisingenuousness. Any appearance of deceit--which she regarded as wrongin itself--always excited her scorn, but desperation now urged a stepwhich might lead, she thought, to much good or much evil. That it couldlead to more evil than a loveless marriage was not, however, to befeared. She started from the house with feverish cheeks, a beatingpulse, and a new strange consciousness of power--power over herself, herfate, the world. 

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

"This is very wrong of me, " she said, blushing as Rennes advanced, hatin 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. Weneedn'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 beunhappy! When we take into account our scanty time together"--he grewpale at the thought--"and the danger we have just missed of losing eachother, perhaps for ever----" She caught his hand for a second and hekept it. 

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

"Darling, I know I have asked you to make an impossible sacrifice--tobreak off a most brilliant marriage, to marry me and share the despair, hardships, tortures of a life very different to any you have seen. Wellhas 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 awretched, desolate existence mine has been. Resignation is a miserablerefuge. They say work gives one contentment, but unless one is servileand gives in to the spirit of the age, it is rarely understood till oneis dead. And so the discouragement is perpetual. Even your sympathywould pain me at such times. I feel then--as I feel now--that I willgrasp Fate by the throat; it shall not utterly crush me. "

"But, " said Agnes, a little frightened at this outburst, "do you neverthink of God and His Will?"

He returned her anxious glance with gloomy, almost compassionateamazement. 

"Does God think of me?" he asked. "Really, I cannot feel that thesalvation of my soul is so important. Indeed, any idea of immortality isawful How could it ever be a consolation--except to a smug, veryself-satisfied egoism? Call it the burden--or the cross ofimmortality--if you call it anything. I wish it could be proved that weend 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 imagineone becoming penitent when the day of grace is over!"

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

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

Agnes, with parted, whitening lips, could find no response. Rennespainted her afterwards in the same attitude, and with all he rememberedof her expression, in his now famous picture, _Pilate's Wife_. 

"You will never be happy--never, " she murmured at last. "But perhaps noone is happy. "

"I can grant that the saints were always profoundly happy. Let me tellyou why. The state of the saint is one of dependence. His convictions, therefore, are enduring and unclouded. He accepts his trials asprivileges; he loses all sense of his own identity; his humanity ismerged in God; his ecstasies lift him up to heaven and bring him down toa transfigured earth. He has been bought with a ransom, and he is theco-heir with Christ. He is found worthy of suffering. But with artists, all is different. The saint is in search of holiness. The artist thinkschiefly of beauty. Holiness is a state of mind--it is somethingpermanent. Beauty, however, mocks one half the time--it may be adeception. Anyhow, one cannot define it, or keep it, or evensatisfactorily catch it. Our inspired moments, therefore, alternate witha miserable knowledge of our individual wretchedness. We learn that weare no stronger than our individuality. That is the barrier between usand our visions. The saint has God before his eyes, and he carries Himin his heart. The artist sees only himself and bears only the weight ofhis own incompetence. But these, darling, are not the things I meant tosay to you, although they may explain my life. The common run of peoplewouldn't understand all this in the least. "

"I want to hear all--I want to enter into all your thoughts, David. Ihave always known that those who devote themselves to the study of whatis sublime and beautiful suffer proportionately from the squalor ofactual facts. "

She quoted from one or her father's speeches which he invariably gavewith much earnestness at the opening of schools of art and similarinstitutions. 

"The world, " replied Rennes, "rewards the beautiful only inasmuch as itflatters the senses, and the sublime remains--so far as the generaltaste is concerned--altogether without response. "

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

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

"One often feels cast down without the least cause, " said he; "the truthis we all want more praise than we get. We are a vain lot, that's thetrouble. Let me paint myself in the blackest colours. You must know theworst--you must realise the bad bargain you may make. Reckage wouldnever 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 sittingon that gate looking across that deep valley at the bonfires? Wasn't itperfect? Look through these trees now--see the flames and smoke? Theyare burning dead leaves and twigs. I wish I could burn my past. This maybe a good omen for me. But I must not deceive you; that would be a badbeginning. "

"We must decide on some course, " said Agnes. "Your letter was quiteclear, but I suppose I am not going on as I ought to do. My presentposition 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 goodgrounds for carrying out my engagement to Beauclerk. The motives wouldnot bear examination. I intended to be patient till the way wasmercifully cleared for me. Even birds, in cold weather, grow tame fromdistress. So I waited in a dull, frozen way for what might happen. "

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

"I must put myself in the wrong with regard to Beauclerk, " she continuedquietly. "That is merely fair to him. Every one shall know that I havebeen weak and vacillating. May God forgive me and humble me--for I shallnot be understood, even by many good people. But the next worst thing tomaking 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 meto describe it. In a sense, giving Reckage up seems to uproot mealtogether from all my former life, and the future is only not a blankbecause it is such a mystery. I am sure, though, that sorrow is never inGod's ordinance the _whole_ law of life. These are great compensations. "

"Anything is better than to sit still and dream, " said Rennes. "I havedreamt too long. I find solitude oppressive. Yet you will admit howdreadful it is to live among those who don't know or don't care a bitabout 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 elseannihilation--splendid misery or splendid content--nothing between thetwo. "

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

"Not of me; you have saved me from the worst things. But it simplyworries and almost exasperates me to hear religious talk from any one. When I hear a sermon I feel an inclination always to say, 'My dearfellow, can't you put your case better?' I want good stuff about Divineand human nature--not this vagueness and platitude. Why don't they tellone something about the optimism of God, even before the spectacle ofmen's weakness? But, instead, we are told to moan about this vale oftears; we are promised chastisements, disappointments, woes, persecution. A philosophy of suffering makes men strong, but aphilosophy 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 callit 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 badjoke?"

Since the beginning of time this logic has held its own against allscientific criticism. The two, being secure from observation, kissedeach other and accepted the earth with perfect cheerfulness. They madesome plans, and after the agony of parting till the next day, each wenthome to write the other a long letter. In the course of the afternoonRennes passed through Arlington Street four times in a hansom and twiceon foot. Agnes was always at one of the windows innocently observing theweather. He thought her the loveliest thing created. He pitied, withbenevolence, all other men, and he spent an hour at his solicitor'soffice, without begrudging the time, or chafing under the fatigue. 

Two days later Lord Reckage received the following communication fromMiss 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 _un_real, sham me. Every one of my friends will be surprised. I am not surprised. And oh! the relief to be quite, quite natural and straightforward at last. Nothing to pretend, nothing to hide. I wish you had never known me. Your ideals are so noble, and you depended on me to realise a few of them. I think of the plans we made, the hopes we formed. Alas! they were not for me. I am going forward into the darkness. I don't see one ray of light. Yet I haven't one misgiving or the least fear, because I have the unalterable conviction that I am fulfilling my true destiny--whatever it may be, good or evil. 

 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 forhimself--but pity and terror for the girl. He was sincerely fond ofAgnes, and the defiant misery of her words filled him with forebodings. But the sense of his own restored liberty soon dominated every otherfeeling; and his anxiety about Miss Carillon's future found completeassuagement in the thought that character, under suffering, came outwith an energy and intensity which made, indisputably, for progress. 

When the news, after twenty-four hours, became known, Agnes's wish toplace herself in the wrong, beyond sympathy, or hope of pardon, wasfreely gratified. No criticism seemed too harsh for her conduct. Novoice was lifted in mitigation of her offence. Rennes was excused, because he was an artist, erratic and passionate, and she wasunfortunately beautiful. The poor old Bishop, however, rallied under theshock, preached more vigorously than ever, and showed a proudcountenance to his daughter's adversaries. When he was able to announceto his friends--after a painful fortnight of suspense--that the youngcouple had travelled to Rome with Mrs. Rennes, and been married at theEnglish Embassy there, he gave way to a little illness and indulged hisgrief. One could surrender to legalised folly; one could name it. Butsin and scandal could only be faced by an implacable reserve. "I may dieof 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 campaignagainst the Orange marriage. It was unanimously decided that the affaircould not be hushed up. Sympathy--within wise limits--was on the side ofthe lovers, but sympathy, nevertheless, expressed a desire to hearfuller particulars. Society journalism was, at that time, just cominginto vogue, and the weekly papers contained several references to thestrange rumour of an approaching divorce. Hartley Penborough and themembers of the Capitol Club were wondering what line they ought to take. They intended to stand by Robert, but they did not wish to advertisetheir loyalty. The Carlton set were divided into two camps--those whothought Orange unlucky, and those who thought him an alien adventurer. So far as these opinions touched his career, both were damaging. Thefriends of Lord Wight and Lady Fitz Rewes had always been jealous of theyoung man. They discussed him now with ferocious pity, announcing hisruin in every circle. Sara de Treverell's associates were mostly of theDiplomatic Corps. These, well informed about Alberian affairs andParflete's history, feared much mischief. The old Catholics weredismayed at the new convert's entanglement--especially as he hadrecently been elected to Parliament. The more timorous among them--in apanic--entertained unfounded doubts about his orthodoxy, and the restdeplored the injudicious attention bestowed on mere recruits to theAncient Faith. Converts then were looked upon, in England, with acertain suspicion. At that period the magnificent services of Dr. Newmanand Cardinal Manning were far more appreciated at Rome than they were inthe drawing-rooms of English Catholic society. Orange, following his owninstincts and the advice of Newman, avoided rather than sought the smallgroup which attempted to make the Eternal Church a Select Committee ofthe Uncommonly Good. To one who had spent his youth in a great Catholicnation, 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, bydevotion, genius, and courage, has excited that fear from all men whichis the highest homage this world can offer to integrity. His personalsorrow, therefore, was not degraded by any foolish additional worryabout the tittle-tattle of this, that, or the other personage. Tonguesmight wag; for himself, he could but do his duty and keep his accountstraight with God. He hoped that a public law-suit would be avoided. Baron Zeuill was using his influence, so he declared, to arrive at somesettlement with Parflete. Parflete's agent was now in communication withRobert's solicitors; he himself was known to be in London, and he hadeven been seen dining with foreigners at one of the small private hotelsnear the Strand. The Alberian Ambassador informed Mr. Disraeli thatthere was nothing to fear because Parflete was not ambitious. "Thecorruption of egoism and the insatiable love of pleasure" had done itsworst 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 suchterms. She was also perfectly well aware, he added, that she was thelegitimate daughter of the late Archduke Charles. 

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

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

Disraeli had formed the opinion that Alberia--as represented by HisExcellency--was by no means anxious to see Mrs. Parflete's innocenceestablished; that, in fact, the whole disaster had been planned andexecuted in the sole design of compromising her status. All that hadoccurred, all that he had observed led him to this conviction more andmore. It was decided that Brigit should be summoned at once from Paristo take up her residence at the Convent, where she had been wellprotected 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 thispoint in the document known as Mudara's Confession. 

Mudara, it will be remembered, was in the Alberian SecretService. [Footnote: See The School for Saints, p. 395. ] He it was whoconfirmed the false news of Parflete's suicide, and did so much tohasten Orange's marriage. He says in his narrative:--

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

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

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

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

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

 To my amazement, Parflete himself came out. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 I answered him sharply. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER XVIII

The Alberian Ambassador, Prince d'Alchingen, considered himself adiplomatist of the Metternich school. He had imagination, sentimentality, and humour: he preferred to attack the strength ratherthan the weaknesses of mankind, and in all his schemes he countedinconsistency among the passions, and panic among the virtues. He stillhoped that Orange might be tempted by the prospect of immediatehappiness to press for the nullity of the Parflete marriage. Parfletehimself was indulging in the most extravagant demonstrations of remorse. He behaved, as Disraeli said, more like a cunning woman than an ableman, and he was an agent of the kind most dangerous to hisemployers--irregularly scrupulous, fond of boasting of his acquaintancewith princes and ministers, so vain that he would rather have hadnotoriety without glory, than glory without notoriety. He had found themeans of ingratiating himself with many persons of high rank, and heknew how to avail himself, with each, of his influence with the others. Never did an intrigue require more urgently a sort of conduct quite outof the common routine. The Prince, therefore, was much perturbed inmind, and cast about him for a trustworthy associate. By an associate hemeant some one on whom he could test the quality of his deceit--in otherwords, he liked to try his sword on gossamer and granite before hestruck out at commoner materials. Among his friendships, he prosecutednone with such zeal as that with the Lady Sara de Treverell. As themember of a great Russian house, she was especially attractive toAlberian speculation, but her beauty and cleverness no doubt assistedthe Ambassador's determination to make himself agreeable. The twoconstantly exchanged letters, and, as the Princess d'Alchingen was aninvalid who devoted her hours to spiritual reading, she gladly permittedLady Sara's influence, realising--with the priceless knowledge of aspirit made reasonable through pain--that the girl was romantic and thePrince incurably old. His flaxen wig heightened the tone of a complexionmuch ravaged by gout and its antidotes. His nebulous eyes with twitchinglids were not improved by the gold-rimmed glasses which magnified theirinsignificance. He possessed a striking nose and chin, but, as thesefeatures were more characteristic than delightful, they offered his wifeno occasions for serious anxiety. Whenever His Excellency requiredfeminine advice, it was considered quite _en règle_ that Lady Sarashould be consulted. The Princess herself drove him to St. James'sSquare on the afternoon following Mr. Disraeli's call. She sent _millestendresses_ to her _chérie_, and bitterly regretted that she was notwell enough to leave the carriage. The Prince kissed her hand, bowedsuperbly, stood bareheaded in a draught till the brougham drove away (inthese matters he had no equal), and, having warned Sara of his intendedvisit by a special messenger, he had the pleasure of finding the younglady alone. Following her custom, she was appropriately dressed for theoccasion in prune-coloured velvet, which suggested dignity, and verybeautiful antique Spanish lace, which symbolized the long endurance ofthings apparently too delicate, subtle, and trifling for the assaults oftime. The Prince kissed both of her white hands, and lamented theobstacles which had kept them apart for so many insupportable weeks. Hehad 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 lesautres_, " 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 aloneto my hopes. I am not of those who discover rifts in their harness onlyon the morning of the battle! I prepare for all contingencies. First, then, let me put you through a little catechism. Do men ever believeevil reports about the women they love?"

"The _posse non peccare_ is not the _non posse peccare_, " said Saraquickly. 

"Do you mean that they can believe the evil, but, as a rule, theywon'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 adangerous woman whom he adores than with a good woman who adores _him_?"

"All men who desire love, deserve it, " said Sara. "The _means_ to thisare always, in a manner, certainties, the _end_ is always problematical. But those who want love could never be satisfied with merewelfare--never. "

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

No conversation or letter was ever exchanged between Sara and the Princewithout some emphatic tribute to the sanctity, prudence, and charm ofthe Princess. 

"The dear Princess!" murmured Sara. 

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

"What did Reckage say?"

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

Sara shivered a little and compressed her lips. 

"Reckage is fond of Orange, " she said, "yet there is a certainjealousy.... 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 difficultieswith the Bond of Association. A man who has no personal ambition, whodesires nothing that any one can give, who fears nothing that any onecan do, who lives securely in the presence of God, is a power we mustnot 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 hereyes and sudden clearness in her cheeks, the Ambassador felt that he hadreached a point where the emotions would have to be considered, eventhough they might not be counted on. 

"I have not time to tell you all the nonsense Reckage said, " heanswered. "So far as my own judgment can serve for a guide, I believethat 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 fromthe political sphere. If his words and actions are of a piece, he willcertainly work hard to attain this object. He is saying everywhere, 'Orange is a born ecclesiastic. Orange is a mystic. Orange is under theinfluence of Newman. Orange begins to see that marriage is not for him. 'Such remarks don't help outside the Church. Really, competition rendersthe nicest people detestable. "

Lady Sara could not conceal her agitation. But she baffled her companiona little by saying--

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

"The lady in question is certainly inopportune. I have never called heran Archduchess. I leave such audacities to her enemies! But tell me whatyou think of _Mrs. Parflete_?"

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

"Generally, there is nothing so fatal to a woman's success in the worldas an early connection with a scoundrel. I have odd accounts of Mrs. Parflete from Madrid--the Marquis of Castrillon and an upstart calledBodava fought a duel about her in Baron Zeuill's gymnasium. A man calledWilliam Caffle, who attended to their wounds, has given me fullestparticulars of the affair. I don't wish to injure the lady, but onaccount of eventualities which might arise, I am obliged to look alittle 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. WillOrange do nothing? It is wise to make peace whilst there is some faintappearance of choice left on the subject, so there is no time to bewasted. "

"What ought Orange to do?"

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

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

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

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

Prince d'Alchingen shrugged his shoulders, and continued--

"Parflete has a good back-stairs knowledge of Alberian politics. Wenever 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'sdaughter?"

"We meet the case by saying that the Archduke in his youth may not havebeen exempt from manly follies. And Duboc was irresistible--she droveone 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 givingtrouble. They say she is an angel. "

"You will find that she would far rather be an Archduchess! Orange maydiscover 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. TheMarquis of Castrillon is in London. Our friend Parflete will soon belabouring with copious materials for a divorce. "

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

"The imagination, " said His Excellency, "is always more struck bylikelihoods than the reason convinced by the examination of facts! Mydear friend, let us survey the position. Orange does not seem to havethe most distant idea of making Mrs. Parflete his--his _belle amie_. Well and good. But ought he, at his age, so handsome, so brilliant, somuch a man, to renounce all other women for the sake of a littleadventuress? Can nothing be done? If he could have some convincing proofof her treachery, would he not turn to others more beautiful, moreworthy----"

"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 hercanaries in their cage. Prince d'Alchingen leant forward to inhale theperfume of some violets in a vase near him. 

"Delicious!" he murmured, "delicious!"

"Mr. Disraeli, " said Sara, still gazing at the birds, "has always wishedfor the marriage with Lady Fitz Rewes. Yet what can we do? I cannot seethe 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 thensupport Mr. Orange, and wait for his own decision. I doubt whether wecould drive him to Lady Fitz Rewes. "

"To whom else?" asked Sara, fastening some flowers in her belt. Theywere white camellias sent that morning from the infatuated, stillhopeful Duke of Marshire. "To whom else--if not Pensée?"

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

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

"You may change your opinion. Come to Hadley Lodge next Saturday--I askno more. "

"Really, sir, " said Sara, with a mocking smile, "you frighten me. Am Iat 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 theoccasion and would not prove false to her Asiatic blood. 

"Mrs. Parflete and Castrillon are cut out for each other, " said he, "butOrange has no business in that _galère_. He is reserved for a greaterfate. "

"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 aReligious. 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 morestrong men in the Church just now. "

Sara agreed. She, too, was opposed to the Church. And she was glad ofthe excuse this thought offered for the pains she would take to saveOrange 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 hisdeparture. Sara, when the door was closed, paced the floor with swiftand desperate steps, as though she were encircled by thoughts which, linked together, danced round her way so that whether she retreated oradvanced, 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 adinner-party that same evening to a few friends, who, it was hoped, would support the Meeting which Reckage was endeavouring to organise asa protest against Dr. Temple's nomination. The guests included Reckagehimself, Orange, Charles Aumerle, the Dowager Countess of Larch, HartleyPenborough, Lady Augusta Hammit, and the Bishop of Calbury'schaplain, --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 hertable to perfection, when the footman brought the following note--dashedoff 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 thetidings of Miss Carillon's bold move. She was not surprised, for, as wehave seen, she had read the girl's character truly, and warned Orangethat some event of the kind would happen. But the pleasure she took inthis confirmation of her own prophetic gifts was alloyed by the fearthat Reckage, now at liberty, would prove a masterful, jealous, andembarrassing lover. Nor were her forebodings on this score lessened whenhe arrived, evidently in a strange mood, a quarter of an hour before theappointed time. His eyes travelled over her face with a consumingscrutiny to which she was unaccustomed and for which she found herselfunprepared. For a moment she experienced the disadvantages of a guiltyconscience, and although she had, so far, merely considered variousplans for using his devotion without peril to her own independence, shefelt that the moment for deliberation was past, that the duel betweenthem had begun. 

"You have my note, " he said, "and I would rather not talk about Agnesto-night. On that point I am in a stupor. I can't realise the disasterat 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, lookingdown. 

"I suppose so. And at present I am stunned. Wait a week, and I may beable to grasp the case--I won't say calmly, for I couldn't be calmerthan I am at this very moment. But I will say, with understanding, withjustice. Give me no credit yet for either. To be frank, I don'trecognise myself in this crisis. As a rule, I have an impulse--more orless violent--to some extreme measure.... I saw d'Alchingen thisafternoon, " he added, abruptly. 

He did not add that the Prince had given several striking reasons forthe Lady Sara's interest in Robert Orange. His Excellency, in so acting, may not have been aware that he was pouring such confidences into theear of a jealous man, but he wished to divert gossip from himself, andhe was becoming afraid lest his intimacy with the brilliant, dangerousgirl might give rise to criticism. "She talks and writes incessantlyabout Orange, " he had said; "what a marriage it would be! I hope it maybe brought about. " This suggestion drove Reckage's thoughts toward afatal survey of the past year. He discovered, as he believed, irresistible proofs of Sara's infatuation, and, what was worse, clearevidence of Robert's sly encouragement of that weakness. Why else had heborne the severance from Mrs. Parflete with such astonishing fortitude?How else did he keep up his spirits in the face of a grotesque, ifunfortunate, adventure? The answer was plain enough. Sara's sympathyand the reasonable hopes necessarily attached to so much kindness hadsustained 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 capacityfor suffering, or the support he finds in his Belief. "

"It points to fanaticism, no doubt. He is a Cardinal _in petto_. TheCatholics want spirit everywhere, and Orange has got spirit. Hisvocation lies toward the Vatican. His morals are as good as hisbuild--which is saying much. D'Alchingen was remarking howextraordinarily 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 isreally so clever as many make out. He is learned and thoughtful; he hasplenty 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 andbelieved in him on the strength of your recommendation. That was animmense prejudice in his favour. "

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

"I don't know, " he said, losing caution, "that I want you to take him upquite so strongly! No one could call him a coxcomb, yet he, not aware ofthe 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 haveheard him say a thousand times that so-called Platonics are possible forone of the two, but never for both. Doesn't this explain the many casesof unrequited love? You are vexed, I can see it. But I am not thinkingof 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 frombeginning to end--a poet's love. He would have another feeling foryou--something much stronger. You are so human, Sara. I would far soonerkill you than write poetry to you. You are life--not literature. Thatlittle thing with shining hair and a porcelain face is for dreams. Ofcourse, he will always love her--after a fashion. He might even compareyou with her and find her your superior in every way--except as awoman. We may be at moments poets, at moments saints, but the greaterpart of the time, a man is a man. And you are no friend for a man. Pensée Fitz Rewes might answer well enough; she has had sorrow, she hastwo 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 wayof making yourself agreeable. It doesn't please me a bit to be told thatI am a siren. My mind is full of the Bond of Association and yourMeeting at St. James's Hall. How shamefully Lord Cavernake has behaved, but dear Lord Gretingham has come out well. What a miserable set we havein the Lords just now!"

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

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

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

"I wish nothing said against poor Agnes, " observed Reckage; "hermistakes are those of a generous, impetuous girl. Don't judge herhastily. 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 thoughtthat she was the wife for Beauclerk. "

Then she stepped forward to greet Lady Augusta Hammit, who was at thatmoment announced. Lady Augusta was a tall woman about thirty-five yearsof 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 piousaccording to her lights, she was a prominent figure in all workconnected with the Moderate Party in the Church of England. In heropinion, foreigners might be permitted the idolatries of Rome; as forthe English, Wesley was a lunatic; Pusey, a weak good creature; Newmanwas a traitor; Manning, a mistake. The one vital force on whom shedepended for her spiritual illumination and her life's security was theRev. Edwin Pole-Knox. "Pole-Knox, " she said, "will save us yet. " Thisgood and industrious young man, a few years her junior, had beenchaplain--mainly through Lady Augusta's devoted exertions--to threebishops. He did every credit to his patroness, but hints were already inthe air on the subject of ingratitude. Some said he lacked ambition;others murmured dark conjectures about his heartlessness. It was leftto the Lady Augusta's fellow-labourers in the sphere of beneficence toblurt out, with odious vulgarity, that he would never marry her in thisworld. She entered the room that evening in her haughtiest manner, forPole-Knox was following close upon her heels, and she wished to justifythe extreme deference which he showed her so properly in public, andperhaps with morbid conscientiousness in _tête-à-tête_. 

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

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, ormaking them. In her youth she had been called bonnie; she was stillpleasant to look upon. She talked very little, and perhaps on thisaccount her few sayings were treasured, repeated throughout society, and much esteemed. "Surely it is a mistake to give men the notion thatall 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--avulgar class. " These will serve to show the scope of her observation andthe excellence of her intentions. In fact, she was often found dull. Shewas not especially disturbed about the woes of humanity, and hermaternal grandfather had been a Presbyterian cotton-merchant. She borePole-Knox away to a far corner and begged to be told all the latestdetails of Miss Carillon's abominable conduct. 

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

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

Sara looked at him, and, looking, she read the secret thoughts in hismind. Yes, she was to him, no doubt, the undisciplined, passionate girlwho lived on admiration, excitement, and false romance. He owned herbeauty; he excused her faults; he liked her. Of all this she wascertain. Reckage's warning had encouraged her to believe that Orange'sself-control was a hard achievement--by no means any matter of adisposition naturally cold. If it were merely to be a struggle of wills, her will would prove the stronger. She meant to have her way this time. Wasn't it the critical moment of his life? Every instinct had beenroused--ambition, the love of adventure, the love of a woman. For ashort while the means had been given him, humanly speaking, ofgratifying these great passions. And then, at a stroke, he was once morepoor and dependent, once more in a ridiculous position, and the woman heloved was further from his reach than ever. He still had the privilegeof fighting and breaking his heart in the market-place. He could stillenjoy some kind of a career. Yet the long, embittering struggle withpoverty and disappointed affection could but appear to him now desolateindeed, barely worth the difficult prizes of success. Lady Sara wasyoung, and she made the mistake, eternally peculiar to her sex, ofplacing love first, rather than last, among the forces in a strongnature. No powerful being ever yet either stood by the glory, or fell bythe disasters, of a love-affair alone, uncomplicated by other issues. Itdoes its work: it must touch, in many ways, the whole character; but itis, in the essence of things, a cause--not an effect. To Sara there wasone only consuming interest in life--love. All her talents were directedto the gaining, understanding, and keeping of this wonderful humanmystery. She wanted wild scenes and ungovernable emotions: she wasbeautiful enough to figure in such situations, and fascinating enough toindulge in such crises without offence to the artistic proprieties. Butshe had resolved that the hero of her existence must, at least, look hispart. No one denied that Orange had a remarkable personality. Every oneadmitted that he was clever. These were the sternest estimates of hisclaim to social recognition. But she knew him to be a de Hausée. Shethought him superbly handsome. She had Disraeli's opinion that he was agenius. Here was a case where love would not have to be blind. Love, inthis case, could defy the scornful and the proud. At last she could say, "My fate!" and call the whole world to witness her surrender. "Whetherhe loves me, or whether he hates me, " she thought, "I have chosen him. "Sinætha, weaving spells by the moon, was not more determined or moreirretrievably in love than Sara. The danger of such wild moods is asattractive to the very young as it is terrifying to the more mature. Perfectly conscious of her beauty, she felt able to defy, sue, andconquer at the same moment. Orange had never seen her to such brilliantadvantage. The instant he entered the room and met her eyes, which shonewith a most touching kind of timidity and a most flattering joy, he hadto realise the need of strict discipline where constancy is a rule ofexistence. Sara's laugh, movements, way of talking, played a good dealon the heart, but even more upon the senses. Brigit's lovely face gainedintensity only under the influence of sorrow. Then it became human. Atother times it was merely exquisite. Now Sara's countenance had all thechanging qualities of nature itself. She had, too, the instinctive artsof sympathy which are so much rarer than the actual gift. Far enough wasSara from the triumph which she was imagining; far enough was Orangefrom the least disloyalty; but he was fully alive to the danger ofregarding her as a woman to be fought against. To fight in such cases isto admit fear of conquest. 

"Those opals are beautiful, " said he, presently. 

"I am glad you approve of--the opals. "

"But you put them to a disadvantage. "

"O! is that a compliment? The first you have ever paid me. "

"Do you care about them?"

"From you, yes. I was reading in Saint-Simon's Memoirs yesterday thatyour ancestor--Charles de Hausée--was the first swordsman, the bravestsoldier, the hardest rider, and the best judge of women in France. Butlet us be serious. Lady Larch is wearing her brightest smile!"

"Must we be very earnest this evening?"

"I am afraid so. You see, I have secured Pole-Knox. He has never beenpermitted to dine here before. "

"Why not?"

"Because I once told Lady Augusta that he was a man for the shortestpart of the afternoon--not for evenings, at all. She couldn't forgivethis. "

"Does she forgive it now?"

"Yes. She has reached the stage when one may criticise him. "

"That means a complete cure, I suppose. "

"Far from it--resignation to the worst that can be said of hischaracter. There is no cure possible then. "

"Have you had any conversation with Reckage?" he asked. 

Sara coloured and put her fingers to her lips. 

"Hush!" said she. "There's a deceptive quiet about him which puzzles me. But I don't think he is sorry to be rid of Agnes. A regiment ofrelatives drove him into the engagement. Now it has come to an end--letus thank God!"

"Your own conscience is easy, I take it?"

"You have no right to ask such a question--none at all. "

"Some men, you know, can be laughed out of their loves, " he continued. 

"Timorous men--yes! Is Reckage timorous?"

"You turned that most adroitly. "

"Thank you. Please sit between Lady Augusta and Aumerle at dinner. "

The dinner passed most agreeably. As little as possible was said aboutthe Meeting; each talked to his or her neighbour, and although theseparate dialogues may have been profound, the general effect producedwas one of restful flippancy. Pole-Knox remarked over his fish thatEngland had little to fear--unless through the corruption of herreligion, whereupon Penborough declared that religion in the country wasa School, not a Church. To this Lady Augusta rejoined that Rome'sstrength depended merely on Canterbury's weakness. 

"Forcing a change is a very ticklish business, " said Aumerle, studyingthe menu, and regretting that his digestion was not all it had been. 

Lord Garrow deplored the fact that Mr. Gladstone had embarked on a veryvulgar and very false policy. 

"But its vulgarity, " he sighed, "gives it a very easy reception. "

"He expects everything except docility, " said Penborough; "if theOpposition employ that means, they will embarrass all his calculations. "

Reckage, meanwhile, was confiding to Sara--

"I turned the horse round, rammed my spurs in, and put him at the railsagain!"

One statement, made by Penborough, caused a flutter. 

"If Catherine of Arragon had been immoral and Mary Stuart virtuous, thewhole course of European History would have been different. TheReformation, for instance, would have found no favour in England. "

"That's _very_ advanced, " murmured Lady Larch. 

Sara, at dessert, tried to encourage a debate on the egoism of theSaints compared with the egoism of Montaigne. 

"They were selfishly bent on pain and renunciation, he was selfishlybent on pleasure and indulgence. Isn't that the one difference betweenthem, Mr. Orange?"

Orange refused to be drawn, but he promised to lend her the _ActaSanctorum_ of the Bollandists in sixty volumes in folio. 

"After you have read them, " said he, "I will tell you my ideas aboutMontaigne. "

Many other remarks were probably more amusing; these, however, were themost characteristic. 

When dinner was ended, Sara and the two ladies withdrew to thedrawing-room, where they discussed with the utmost vehemence Orange'sillegal marriage and Reckage's broken engagement. 

The sum and substance of their investigations were as follows:--

Lady Larch wondered what the world was coming to. 

Lady Augusta declared that no woman yet ever fathomed the heart of man. 

Lady Sara maintained that it was a very good thing for both young men tohave had such reverses before they finally settled down. 

At this Lady Augusta forgot to sigh, and Lady Larch lost control of hersmile. 

"How, " exclaimed Augusta, "can they forget so soon? Can any settlingdown be in contemplation? Are no deep, sacred feelings left?"

Emmeline Larch, who was a widow, said she would never be hard on any onewho tried to recover, for the sake of others, from a shatteringbereavement. 

"Dear Lady Larch!" exclaimed Sara. 

The three women formed a picturesque group round the fireplace as themen entered. But the card-tables were already placed, and Sara lost notime in arranging a quartette for whist. Penborough had to leave for the_Times_ office. Pole-Knox had to hurry back to Fulham. The young lady, who was known to detest all games, was thus able to choose Robert forher partner in a short conversation. 

"Forgive me, " said she, "but--have you anything to tell me about Mrs. Parflete?"

"Yes; she is now with Pensée. "

"May I call upon her? May I know her? Would she see me?"

"With pleasure, I am sure. "

"And you?" she asked. 

"I don't see her, " he said quietly; "I don't hear from her. I don'twrite to her. And--I don't talk about her. But I should like you to knowher. She needs true friends--who understand. "

"Have you been to Prince d'Alchingen's, or has he approached you in anyway?"

"I am to dine with him to-morrow. "

"Has he said anything to you about the Marquis of Castrillon?"

"Not a word, " replied Robert, in surprise: "why should he?"

"I believe there is mischief in the air. Be careful, won't you? Reckageis watching us. I think he would like some music. He is so _triste_ thisevening. "

She moved away, and played delightfully on the guitar until the guestsrose to leave. Then she found an opportunity to tell Lord Reckage not tocome back again. She was tired, she said, and her papa would think ittoo odd. 

"Then to-morrow morning, " said he. 

She named an hour. 

CHAPTER XX

Robert, on leaving the house, drove to Grosvenor Gate, where he had anappointment with Disraeli. The ex-Minister was sitting, in a flowereddressing-gown, by the library fire. The blinds were not drawn, for thenight was bright and starry; the moonlight streamed into the room, mingling strangely with the soft glow of the green-shaded lamp. Therewas a large bundle of documents on the table by Disraeli's side, and apile of Continental newspapers on the floor. One of the latter he wasreading, and, by the slight curl of his mouth and the gleam in his fineeyes, Orange saw that he was working out, to his amusement, some trainof thought which gave full jurisdiction to his knowledge of humanity. 

"Bismarck, " said he, "is the first German statesman who has not regardednewspapers as inconvenient lumber. He wishes the Press to advance hisgreat ideas by assuming the place of the Universities in training publicopinion, and the place of the Church in controlling it. He might as wellstrive to make the horse into the lion, the mule into the unicorn, aparrot into the soaring eagle! Any man who is written up into a placecan be written down out of it. Our friend will learn this toolate--probably about the time that we, in England, are adopting, withenthusiasm, his present error. Ah, my dear Orange, watch the sky and youwill learn the hearts of men. Observe the changing light, the cloudsdriven by the wind, the glimpses of pure blue, the sudden blackness, thestartling brilliancy, and then--the monotonous grey. They seem too hardfor me, at times. The clash between ideas and interests makes ourinheritance a grim battlefield, and there are moments of mortificationwhen one may feel tempted to sell it--not for a mess of pottage, but forthe _promise_ of a mess of pottage. Tempted, I said. There is always acourse left, if you have the courage to face it. It may avail you; Icannot insure you even that. But if I were in your place, I would try. "

"I could never do better, sir, than to follow your advice or yourexample. "

"Never betray, then, the least depression at disappointments orreverses, but seize the few joyful occasions of life for the indulgenceof any accumulated melancholy and bitterness. By this simple rule youwill escape the charge urged against all the ambitious, who are usuallyas intoxicated by success as they are cowardly in adversity. It delightsme to see you in high spirits. Tell me the news, but first give me youropinion of this little paragraph which will appear in to-morrow's_Times_. "

He took from his pocket-book a slip of paper on which was written thefollowing in Mrs. Disraeli's hand:--

 Mr. Orange, the new Member for Norbet Royal, is the son of a French nobleman of very ancient lineage. It was a condition of his adoption by the late Admiral Bertin that his own name should be dropped, and he has accordingly always borne that of the Orange family. The circumstances of his birth were communicated to the Queen before his naturalisation as a British subject, and his presentation, by Mr. Disraeli, at Court. 

"Was that necessary?" asked Robert. 

"A public man must speak out, and this expedient occurred to me as aslight pull in your favour. The two things in life which are reallygratuitous are the grace of God and one's pedigree! The rest dependsupon ourselves. Now you can't think how much I am interested in everylittle detail of your mental experiences. I believe you will be a Jesuityet. I have never concealed my respect for the Jesuits. When Spain andFrance expelled the Society of Jesus, they persecuted their truestallies. A terrible price, too, they paid for that crime. You see, then, that I understand staunch Catholics. If I could rouse an Imperialfeeling in England which would at all correspond with the feeling ofCatholics for their Church! Sometimes I dream this may be possible. Pope, the satirist, remained, in spite of his wit, a loyal son of theFaith, while many dull worthies who shuddered at his epigrams wererecanting daily either from fear or for some worldly advantage. In thesame way, Robert, men who hate my novels because they contain a fewtruths, would sell England, if they could, to-morrow. I mentioned thefact about Pope to a gentleman who complains that you are by no meanstypical of your co-religionists in this country. "

"The very expression 'typical Catholic' is a paradox, " replied Robert, who always accepted adverse criticism with good humour; "there is oneSpirit, but it has many manifestations. From the apostles, saints andmartyrs to the rank and file, we have to recognise the individuality ofeach soul. In fact, sir, is not that the very essence of the Church'steaching?"

"So I have always understood. And we have not heard the last of the 'lawof liberty'; although I observe to my chagrin that many modern Papistsdepart from those great principles which they should take everyopportunity of claiming as their own. In the freezing snows of theworld's solitude, a prudent man does not try to make himself happy, buthe is less than a man if he allows others to make him wretched. Theflesh has its discomfort: the spirit, however, has its illimitableconjectures. When all else fails me, I may still find solace inconjectures. Does it strike you that they may have, nevertheless, adanger also?"

"This is your own way of asking me whether I know my own mind! If youmean, Have I put all sentiment resolutely from my thoughts, Yes. If youmean, Have I determined to continue in my present line till I have acall to some other vocation, Yes. "

His heart was troubled, full of vague combinations. The events of theday had seemed mechanical, foolish--a course of sorrowful attempting andself-reproach. 

"Both of your affirmatives are satisfactory, " said Disraeli; "you are, Isee, what the Americans call a 'whole-hog man. ' Now let us consider waysand means. I saw Prince d'Alchingen this afternoon. He announces theincreased distress and reformation of Parflete. We must thereforeprepare for further villainy. Mrs. Parflete has confided to d'Alchingenher desire to go on the stage. He encourages this ambition, and she hasaccepted his invitation to Hadley Lodge, where she will recite in hisprivate _salle de comédie_. "

Robert, though much taken by surprise, betrayed no sign of it. 

"You cannot tell what she will do--until she does it, " he answered. "Shemay have great talents. "

"Well, one forgets that when Voltaire said, '_Il faut cultiver notrejardin_, ' he was quoting, with sardonic irony, Saint Teresa! You cannotbe pleased at Mrs. Parflete's decision. The theatre in England is asport--not an art. In France it is an art, but, " he added drily, "itembraces more than one profession. "

"Whether a woman be a saint, a queen, or an actress--once before thepublic--she is exposed to severe discipline. And I don't fear for thisone. She will take her revenge on life by laughing at it. "

"I daresay. D'Alchingen calls her _un peu étourdi_. She has theaudacity--she may have the fortune of despair. Confess--you have run alittle wild about her. "

"I ran off the track, if you like, " said Orange, smiling. 

"Women fascinate the hearts, but they do not affect the destinies ofdetermined men, " returned Disraeli. "If you have not won anything bythis affair, it would be hard to say what winning is. There is but onefeeling and one opinion about the really courageous stand you havemade. "

"I must gain confidence all the same in my own ability to keep myresolves when they are clear to me. I once prided myself in that abilityas the one gem in my character. "

"You may laugh at yourself as much as you please. Beauty is as wellworth admiring as anything on earth, and the world is better lost forlove, than love for the world. At least, let us say so. I met Reckage atthe Travellers' yesterday, and had some talk with him about hisAssociation. I think it far better that Aumerle should not resign, as hecould, and probably would, be very mischievous as a freelance. Reckageis all for shaking him off, but these things, in any circumstances, should never be forced. "

"I advised Reckage myself to sound each member of the Committeeprivately. Then, at the general meeting, he could form some justestimate of the difficulties in his way, and in their way. "

"Reckage, though a mean fellow, might give you an opportunity to work astrong Sub-Committee, " suggested Disraeli. "One cannot calculate on thecourse of a man so variable and impulsive. He proposes to get rid ofAumerle, and make concessions to his set. It is an unhappy policy, andalways unhappily applied, to imagine that men can be reconciled bypartial concessions. I attribute much of Reckage's behaviour to his fearof society. Society itself, however, does not practise any of thevirtues which it demands from the individual. It ridicules the highestmotives, and degrades the most heroic achievements. It is fed withemotions and spectacles: it cries, laughs, and condemns withoutknowledge and without enthusiasm. Pitiable indeed is the politician whomakes society his moral barometer. "

"I have urged him to be firm. Christianity was never yet at peace withits age. There is no other Faith whose first teacher was persecuted andcrucified. Viewed solely as a point of administration, it is disastrousto cut religious thought according to the fashionable pattern of thehour. This has been the constant weakness of English Churchmen. They tryto match eternity with the times. "

"My opinion is that Reckage must act with considerable caution, or hewill find himself repudiated by every party. The English like a fellowto stand by his guns. I come now to your own business. Will you do me afavour? Before you reply let me define it. I have been asked to sendsome good speaker to Hanborough. The occasion is the opening of a FreeLibrary. Remarks--of a laudatory nature--on the princely munificence ofHanborough's mayor, Hanborough's corporation, Hanborough's leadingcitizens, a eulogy of their public glories and private virtues--with alittle thrown in about Shakespeare, Scott, and the Lord-Lieutenant ofthe county--would be adequately appreciated. The attendance will belarge: the nobility, gentry, and clergy of the neighbourhood will flowerabout you on the platform; a banquet will follow in the evening, and inthe morning blushing girls will hand you bouquets at the railwaystation. Can you refuse?"

"Not easily, I admit, " said Robert, laughing; "but Reckage is rather lowand unhappy just now about his broken engagement. Wouldn't such anadventure as this take him out of himself?"

"This is not an adventure--this is an opportunity, " said Disraeli; "itwould be nursed into a stepping-stone. I know fifty men who are worryingthemselves to death to get it. "

"You need not tell me that, " replied Robert, with gratitude. "It wouldbe a great thing for me. But Reckage is always at his best in functionsof the kind. Hanborough might make much of him, and then hisAssociation would feel flattered by reflected honours. "

"You invariably set your face against your own advantages, and I amafraid I shall not live to see you where you ought to be. However, Reckage shall have the invitation. Now, good-night. By the by, have youheard that Castrillon is now in the marriage-market? His mistress hasgiven her consent, and the Prince has promised his blessing. Couldthings look more auspicious? Good-night. "

For the second time that evening Castrillon's name fell with a warningnote on Robert's ear. Disraeli, he knew, would not have mentioned himout of sheer idleness. There was some danger threatening in thatquarter, and it was impossible to dissociate this from Brigit. TheMarquis of Castrillon had been with her in Madrid, and also at BaronZeuill's palace after the escape from Loadilla. 

"Where is Castrillon now?" asked Robert. 

"I understand he is in London, " answered Disraeli; "at Claridge's Hotel. D'Alchingen and he are on excellent terms. "

"Good!" said Robert, tightening his lips. "You will find he has beeninvited to Hadley. "

"I haven't a doubt of it. "

"Then I must contrive to see him first. "

Early the following morning Orange presented himself at the house of anold, very devout priest of his acquaintance. 

"Father, " said he, "this afternoon or to-morrow I may be incircumstances of danger. "

"What danger is this?" asked the priest. 

"There is a man whom I may be compelled, in defence of my honour, tochallenge to a duel. "

"To approach the Sacrament in such a frame of mind, " said the old man, "is not to prepare yourself for danger. For to come to confession with adetermination of taking vengeance is to put an obstacle to the grace ofthe Sacrament. You must preserve your honour by some other way. Indeed, the honour you think to preserve by this is not real honour, but merelythe estimation of bad men founded on bad principles. "

"I know, " said Orange, hotly; "it is impossible, however, to withdrawnow. "

"If you should be beaten, " returned the other, who had been in the armyhimself as a youth, and could comprehend the worldly view of thesituation, "if you should be beaten, what becomes of the honour you wishto defend? And if you should be killed in that state of soul in whichyou go to the duel, you will go straight to hell and everlasting shame. "

"I implore you, Father, to pray for me, and to hear my confession, ifyou possibly can. "

"Certainly, I cannot hear you, " said the priest. "But this is what Iwill do. Wear this _Agnus Dei_, and perhaps God will have mercy on youfor the sake of this, and afford you time for penance. Understand, however, I do not give it to you in order to encourage you in your badpurpose, but that you may wear it with all reverence and respect, andperhaps be moved to obedience. "

Robert thanked him, accepting the gift in a right spirit. His self-will, however, was aroused. He had determined to fight Castrillon, and fighthe would. 

CHAPTER XXI

Sara awoke that same morning with a foreboding heart. She wrote a letterto Reckage postponing his call, and another to Pensée Fitz Rewes, askingher to be at home that afternoon. At half-past two the young lady droveup, in her brougham, to the widow's door in Curzon Street. The blindswere down, and the house gave every indication that its owner was not inLondon. Sara, however, was admitted, and Pensée received her in a littleroom, hung with lilac chintz and full of porcelain, at the back of thehouse. Pensée, wearing a loose blue robe, seemed over-excited andsad--with that sadness which seems to fall upon the soul as snow uponwater. She was reclining on the sofa, reading a worn copy of Law's_Serious Call_ which had belonged to the late Viscount, and bore many ofhis pencil-marks. This in itself was to Sara a sign of some unusualmelancholy in her friend. 

"Why, " she said, kissing her soft, pale cheek, "why didn't you let meknow that you had returned? I thought you were still in Paris. "

"My dear, " said Pensée, sitting up with a sudden movement andsupporting herself on her two hands. "I am no longer my own mistress. Ihave become a puppet--a marionette: a kind of lady-in-waiting--a personto whom women talk when they have nothing to say, and to whom men talkwhen they have nothing to do. "

Sara chose a seat and studied the speaker with a new curiosity. She wascharming; vexation gave humanity to her waxen features, and the flash inher eyes suggested hitherto unsuspected fires in her temperament, "Shehas more spirit than I gave her credit for, " thought Sara, and sheadded, "Darling!" aloud. 

"Darling, indeed!" said Pensée. "I can tell you I am tired of being adarling. There are limits.... I have no patience with Brigit, and Robertdrives me to the conclusion that good men are fools--fools! I suppose hetold you that I was in town again?"

"Yes. "

"Well, he won't come and see me himself because _she_ is here. "

"That is merely a decision on principle. He longs to come. "

"Quite so. But the girl does not deserve him. "

Sara showed no astonishment; she maintained her thoughtful air, andreplied with tranquillity--

"He thinks she is perfect. "

"I find no vulgar faults in her, myself, although there seems no foolishthing left that she hasn't done. I am sure that every one will thinkher light, worldly, and frivolous. Let me say what I have been through. After the first terrible day and night at St. Malo, there was no morecrying. There was not another tear. We went to Paris. She spent all hermornings at Notre Dame, all her afternoons with old Monsieur Lanitaux ofthe Conservatoire, all her evenings at the theatre. She found many ofher mother's old friends. In the theatrical world I find much loyaltytoward those actually born in the profession. They treated her as thoughshe were a young queen. Lanitaux managed to get her privately before theEmpress Eugénie. She sang for the Empress: the Empress cried and gaveher an emerald ring. "

"Then she has talent. "

"Genius, I believe, " said Pensée, solemnly. "This makes her hateful andlovable at the same moment. She is determined to be an actress. Shenever speaks of Robert, and she shuts herself up in her room recitingMarivaux and Molière. The d'Alchingens have invited her to Hadley nextSaturday. They encourage her theatrical ideas. And why? They wish her tolose caste. She is an Archduchess, Sara, an Alberian Archduchess. What aliving argument against unequal marriages!"

"Will she go to Hadley?"

"Yes--wholly against my advice. I don't trust Prince d'Alchingen. "

"How I wish I could see her!"

"She is in the library now. I will ask her to come down. "

Pensée left the room, and Sara paced the floor till she returned. 

"She is coming, " said Pensée, "be nice to her--for Robert's sake!"

Sara nodded, and both women watched the door till the handle moved, andMrs. Parflete entered. 

She was dressed in violet silk without ornaments or jewels of anydescription. Her face was slightly flushed, and the colour intensifiedthe pale gold diadem of her blonde hair. The expression--sweet-tempered, yet a little arrogant--of her countenance and its long oval form bore astriking resemblance to the early portraits of Marie Antoinette. Herunder-lip had also a slight outward bend, which seemed an encouragementwhen she smiled, and contemptuous when she frowned. Her figure--thoughtoo slight even for a girl of seventeen--was extraordinarily graceful, and, in spite of her height, she was so well proportioned that she didnot appear too tall. Youth showed itself, however, in a certainchildlikeness of demeanour--a mixture of timidity, confidence, embarrassment, and, if one looked in her face for any sign of theemotions she had experienced, or the scenes in which she had played nofeeble part, one sought in vain. Gaiety covered the melancholy, almostsombre depths in her character. And it was the gaiety of her Frenchmother--petulant, reckless, irresistible, giddy, uncertain. As a child, dressed up in ribbons and lace, with flowers in her hair, she had beenthe chief amusement and plaything of Madame Duboc--to be held on herlap, perched upon the piano, placed on high cushions in the carriage, and lifted on the table of the drawing-room, where she entertained abrilliant, if dissipated company, by her talk, her little songs, herlaughter, her mimicry, and her dancing. She rarely danced now, yet allthe seductive arts of perfect dancing seemed hers by right of birth. Each movement, each gesture had a peculiar charm, and her dark blueeyes, the more provocative for their lack of passion, were full of ahalf-mocking, half-tender vivacity. Sara, a beautiful young womanherself, surveyed this unconscious rival and recognised, with goodsense, a fatal attractiveness which was stronger than time and far abovebeauty. It was the spell of a spirit and body planned for fascinationand excelling in this indefinable power. Had she been born to ruin men?thought Sara. Had she been given a glamour and certain gifts merely toperplex, deceive, and destroy all those who came within the magic of herglance? History had its long, terrible catalogue of such women whosewords are now forgotten, whose portraits leave us cold, yet whose verynames still agitate the heart and fire the imagination. Was Brigit oneof these?

She had nothing of the deliberate coquette who, eager to please, keepsup an incessant battery of airs and graces. Her enchantments dependedrather on the fact that she neither asked for admiration nor valued it. Free from vanity, and therefore indifferent to criticism, thebitternesses which destroy the peace of most women never entered hermind. The man she had chosen gave her no cause for jealousy, and, whileshe enjoyed men's society, she had been so accustomed to it from herearliest days that she had nothing to fear from the novelty of theirfriendship, or the danger of their compliments. Not prudish, not morbid, not envious, not sentimental, and not indolent, she was perhapsespecially endowed for the tantalising career which the stage offers tothe ambitious of both sexes. Acting came to her as music comes to thetrue musician. She never considered whether she would become a greatactress or a rejected one: the art in itself was her delight, and shefound more happiness in reciting Molière and Shakespeare alone in herown room than she ever received, even at the height of her fame, fromher triumphs before the world. There was, no doubt, a great craving inher nature for innocent pleasures and excitement. She loved gay scenes, bright lights, beautiful clothes, lively music, witty conversation. Shehad been born for the brilliant Courts of the eighteenth century whenlife in each class was more highly concentrated than is possiblenow--when love was put to severer tests, hatred permitted a cruellerplay, politics asked a more intricate genius, and art controlled thekingdom of the Graces. 

The three women as they faced each other presented a remarkable picture. Pensée, the eldest, who alone knew the lessons of physical pain, had apathetic grace which made her seem, in comparison with theothers--radiant with untried health, --some gentle, plaintive spirit froma sadder sphere. Her clinging blue robe appeared too heavy for the frailbody; her fair curls and carefully arranged _chignon_ were too modishfor the ethereal yet anxious countenance; the massive wedding-ringseemed too coarse a bond for the almost transparent hand which tremblednervously on the cover of the _Serious Call_. Sara, in black velvet andsable, with ostrich plumes and golden beads, with flashing eyes and agipsy's flush, with all the self-command of a woman trained for society, living for it and in it, with all the self-assurance of a woman in anunassailable position, handsome, rich, flattered, spoiled, domineering, and unscrupulous, with all the insolence of an egoism which no humanforce could humiliate and no human antagonist terrify, Sara seemed theone who was destined to succeed superbly in the war of life. Mrs. Parflete--whose courage, determination, and powers of endurance wereconcealed by a face which might have been made of lovely gauze--seemedless a being than a poetical creation: a portrait by Watteau orFragonard stepped from its frame, animated by pure fancy, and moving, without sorrow and without labour, through a charmed existence. 

She made two steps forward when Sara advanced to meet her, holding outboth hands and smiling with real kindness at the sight of a delightfulapparition which looked too fragile to excite such a fierce emotion asjealousy. 

"I believe we are to meet at Hadley, " said Sara. "I hear you are goingto act. "

"Yes, " replied Brigit, with a slight note of irony in her musical voice. "I am going to act. "

"How charming! And what will you play?"

"I play the Marquise in one of Marivaux's comedies. "

"And who will play the Marquis?" asked Sara. 

"There is no Marquis, " answered Brigit, laughing a little. "But, " sheadded, "there is a Chevalier and a Comte. One of Prince d'Alchingen'sattachés will play the Comte. M. De Castrillon will play the part of theChevalier. "

"Castrillon!" exclaimed Sara, in amazement. 

"The Marquis of Castrillon!" cried Pensée, turning livid; "pray, prayput it off till you have heard from Baron Zeuill. Dear Brigit! for mysake, for Robert's----"

"It is for your sake and Robert's that I have accepted the invitation toHadley. I wish you would understand. I must show them all that I meanwhat I say. "

"But Castrillon is a wicked wretch--a libertine. "

"We have already acted together in this very piece at Madrid. Muchdepends on my playing well next Saturday. I am quite sure of his talent, and, in such a case, his private morals are not my affair. He is noworse than Prince d'Alchingen was, and most of his associates are. "

"You can't know what you are saying, " answered Pensée. "You will be somiserable when you find you have been madly obstinate. It is very hard, in a country like England, for a young woman to set herself inopposition to certain prejudices. "

"Are the Duke and Duchess of Fortinbras respectable?" asked Brigit. 

"What a question!" said Pensée; "of course they are most exclusive. "

"Then if they are quite willing that their daughter Clementine shouldmarry Castrillon, surely he may play the Chevalier to my Marquise. "

"I don't think, Pensée, " put in Sara, "that Castrillon is exactlytabooed. In fact, one meets him everywhere in Paris, and, beyond adoubt, the Fortinbrases and the Huxaters and the Kentons made a greatfuss over him last season. But do you _like_ him?" she said, suddenlyturning to Brigit. 

The question was skilful. 

"I don't take him seriously, " answered Brigit; "he has the great scienceof _l'excellent ton dans le mauvis ton_. You would say--'he is vulgar inthe right way. ' I feel sure he never deceived women. They may have beenfoolish but they must have been frail before they met him! He can beridiculous in five languages, but he cannot be sincere in one of them. As for his wickedness, one must have more than bad intentions; one musthave the circumstances. I have nothing to fear from M. De Castrillon. Heknows me perfectly well. "

"I am simply wretched about you, " said Pensée; "of your future I darenot think. I try to be _sympathique_, and your difficulties come veryhome to me because I have had such great sorrows myself. But I havelittle hopes of doing any good while you are so self-willed. "

"Dearest, " exclaimed Brigit: "trust me!"

"My child, you are 'wiser in your own eyes than seven men that canrender a reason. ' I implore you to abandon this mad scheme; I imploreyou to abandon these wrong--these dangerous ideas of the stage. I knowhow much I am asking, and how little right I have to ask anything, but Ithink you ought to listen to me. "

Brigit, with a sparkling glance at Sara, stroked Pensée's cheek, andpinched her small ear. 

"_Mon cher coeur_, " said she, "I do not forget your goodness. And Ineeded it, for I have been so wretched and forsaken. My soul is weigheddown with troubles, and grief, and anxiety: each day I expect some newmisfortune: you are the one friend I may keep. But you would not knowhow to imagine the intrigues and falsehoods which surround me on everyside. _O mon amie_, I must prove to them that I want nothing they cangive me--that I possess nothing which they can take away. "

"I know what she means, Pensée, " said Sara; "she has to show d'Alchingenthat her interests are fixed on art--not politics. And, from her pointof view, she is right. I must say so, although I don't wish tointerfere. And so long as she knows M. De Castrillon, it is better tasteto make her first appearance with him than with some strange actorengaged for the occasion. After all, Mario was well known as theMarchese di Candia before he adopted the operatic stage as a profession. As for gossip, how is anybody's tongue to be stopped?"

"I do not expect that people's tongues should be stopped, " rejoinedPensée. 

"What the world says of me I have learned to disregard very much, " saidBrigit: "if I vex my friends, I must nevertheless follow my vocation. Itwas good enough for my mother. I do not apologise for her existence, nordo I offer excuses for my own. She was an actress: I am an actress. Shesucceeded: I may not succeed. But if you fear for my faith and mycharacter, it would be quite as easy to lose both in the highest societyas in the vilest theatres! I foresee mistakes and difficulties. Theymust come. I shan't have a happy life, dearest Pensée: I don't look forhappiness. Why then do you scold me?"

"I am not scolding, " said Lady Fitz Rewes: "I have never blamed you, never--in my heart. We shall get on better now that we have broughtourselves to speak out. How different it is when one judges for oneselfor for another! I do believe in having the courage of one's convictions. But it was my duty to warn you----"

"This is all I wanted, " exclaimed Brigit; "that we should understandeach other and stand close by each other. I am not on the edge of aprecipice--I am at the bottom of it already!" Her eyes had grown calmfrom the mere force of sadness. "You mustn't ask me to look back, " sheadded: "you mustn't ask me to choose again. A simple, quiet life is outof the question now. I have to learn how to forget. "

She moved to the door, kissed her hand to Pensée, and bowed prettily toSara. 

"I must get back to my work, " she said, and so left them. The two womenturned toward each other. 

"There is no hope for Orange, " observed Sara drily: "no man would everforget her. "

"He needn't forget her, but----"

"Yes, it would have to be sheer, absolute forgetfulness. I like her. Ilike all beautiful things--pictures, statues, bronzes, porcelains, andwhite marble visions! She is a white marble vision. And Orange will loveher forever and ever and ever. And when she is dead, he will love herstill more!"

She threw back her head and laughed--till Pensée laughed also. Then theywished each other goodbye, and parted. 

CHAPTER XXII

When Sara reached home, she was dismayed to hear that Lord Reckage hadcalled during her absence and was waiting for her return. The prospectof an interview with him seemed so disagreeable that she walked first tothe library, and sat there alone, for some moments, before she couldsummon the presence of mind which every sense warned her would berequired for the ordeal. At last, with a pinched heart, she went up thegreat staircase, and found Reckage writing at her own table in thedrawing-room. He turned quickly, and jumped to his feet at the rustle ofher dress. He was looking unusually handsome, she thought, veryanimated, very dashing. 

"You will forgive these clothes, " said he, "but I have ordered Plutoround at four o'clock, and I am going for a long ride. "

"What a strange idea!" she answered, taking off her gloves. "Where areyou going?"

"To Hampstead Heath. I need the air and the exercise. I have to composea speech. "

"The speech for the Meeting?"

His brow darkened, and he pushed back with his foot a log which wasfalling from the open grate. 

"No, not that speech. Another. Disraeli has asked me to go in his steadto Hanborough. I don't like to attach over-importance to the invitation, but he must mean it as an encouragement. Evidently, he wishes to showthat Aumerle and the rest are without any shadow of right in theirattacks. I have been above five years working up this society, and if, at the end of that time, I am president only by dint of _familyinterest_, be assured the situation cannot be worth having. When Ileave, it will go all to pieces. "

"But you don't intend to leave, surely?"

"Indeed, I do. "

"Have you hinted at resignation?"

"No, I sha'n't hint. Hints belong to the unconsidered patience of fools. I won't give them an inkling of my real tactics. Let them lollop alongin their own wretched fashion to some final imbecility! I have othermatters to think of, Sara. Doesn't Disraeli's action say, as delicatelyas possible, that I am wasting my time over small men? I have beenaltogether too easy of access. Simplicity and consideration are thrownaway on the Snookses and the Pawkinses! With these gentry, one must be avulgar, bragging snob, or they think one is not worth knowing. "

"But you owe it to yourself and to Orange to hold the Meetingto-morrow?" she said, anxiously. 

"There is a way out of it, " he answered, avoiding her eyes. "We can talkof that presently. "

"Nothing interests me more. "

"That is not true, " he said, taking a chair near her; "there are manythings which must interest both of us much, much more than that stupidMeeting. "

"I prefer not to speak of them now, Beauclerk. "

"I can't go on in this uncertainty. I am beginning to think I am ablundering fellow--where women are concerned. When we were together aschildren, I seem to remember, looking back, that I always did the wrongthing. And later--when you came out and I fancied myself a man of theworld, it was the same. I don't know exactly what a girl is at eighteen, but I know that a fellow of twenty-five is an ass. He is probablywell-meaning: he isn't hardened by ambition and he is prettysentimental, as a rule. Yet he doesn't have fixed ideas. One day itdawned upon me that I was in love. "

"Now don't say that. "

"I repeat it. I am far from wishing to pose as a martyr, but wheneverone is happy, all one's friends think that one is going to make somefatal mistake. I suppose no battle can be won without a battle. But lifehas always had a good deal of painfulness to me, and I hate opposition. It isn't lack of courage on my part--I can fight an enemy to the death. When it comes to quarrelling with relatives or those I care about--well, I own I can seldom see good reasons for keeping a stiff neck. "

"I am perfectly convinced of your spirit, Beauclerk; every circumstanceserves to show it. There was never a time when you did the wrongthing--in my judgment. "

"You are generous, but I dare not believe you there. Much that I did andall that I left unsaid must have puzzled you. I wouldn't speak now, Sara, if I didn't feel sure that in spite of my faults, my stupidity, mywant of self-knowledge, you saw that I was destined to love you. "

It was impossible to deny this fact. She had been well aware always ofhis affection, and the certainty had given a peculiar emotional value toevery scene--no matter how commonplace--to every occasion, no matter howcrowded, to every conversation, no matter how trivial--in which hefigured or his name transpired. He and poor Marshire were the two men inthe world who really loved her. Marshire was the more desperate becausehe was less intelligent and had fewer interests; Reckage loved her withall the force of a selfish, vain, and spoilt nature. Such a passion sheknew was not especially noble and certainly not ideal. But it wasstrong, and it made him submissive. 

"Sara, " he said, "you have got to help me. " He put his arm round herwaist, and as she inclined her face ever so slightly toward his, hekissed her cheek. 

"How can I help you?" she asked. 

"Let us marry. "

"I don't wish to marry any one just yet, Beauclerk, " she said; "I likemy liberty. I don't feel that I should make either a good wife, or acontented one, as I am now. I want to see more and think more before Igive up my will to another. "

"I would not ask you to give up your will. "

"We should be utterly miserable if I didn't. "

"Believe me, it is the weak, effeminate creature who wishes to controlwomen. Men of character respect women of character. These fellows whodeclare that they will be masters in their own house are masters nowhereelse. I delight in your spirit. Orange and I have often agreed, " headded, with a searching look, "that you are the most brilliant girl inEngland. "

"Why do you quote Robert?" she said carelessly; "isn't your opinionenough for me?"

"Can you pretend that his opinion has no weight with you?"

She laughed, and stroked his arm. 

"My dear, why should I pretend anything? To tell the truth, I amsurprised that Orange has noticed me. I saw Mrs. Parflete to-day. Iunderstand his infatuation. "

"I have always told you that she was a very pretty woman. But why is itthat, no matter where we start, we always come back to Orange? I amgetting sick of him. I dislike being _affiché_, as it were, to some oneelse. This marriage of his pursues me. If I go into a club, if I dine, if I ride, if I walk--ten to one if I am not pelted with questionsabout Mrs. Parflete, or Robert's history, or his genius, or his futureplans. I must drop him. "

"Drop him?" she exclaimed. 

"Yes. It doesn't help me to appear so friendly with a Roman. I know heis very fine, but I have to consider my own position. They all say thatit would be madness to take the chair now at his meeting. "

"But it was _your_ meeting, Beauclerk. "

"In the first place, perhaps. I thought, too, it might be a good, independent move. Disraeli's invitation to Hanborough puts anothercomplexion on affairs. It is the first formal recognition that he, asLeader, has ever given me. It is a reminder of my responsibilities. Heis fond of Orange, I know, and he wouldn't hurt his feelings, or seem toput a spoke in his wheel, for all the world. But Dizzy is subtle. Helikes to test one's _savoir vivre_. "

"Shall you tell Orange that you intend to throw him over?"

"Not yet. "

"Oh, you ought!"

"Why? I want the meeting to take place. It will be useful in its way--itmay show us how public opinion is going. "

Sara hid her contempt by rising from her chair and removing her hat. Reckage watched the play of her arms as she stood before the mirror, andhe did not see, as she could, the reflection of his face--sensual, calculating, and, stormed as it was for the moment by the meanestfeelings of self-interest, repellent. 

"How I hate him!" she thought; "how I despise him!"

Then she turned round, smiling--

"Hats make my head ache! So you think the meeting will be useful?"

"Emphatically. It did occur to me that I might drop a line to Robert--infact, I was writing to him when you came in. Here's the letter, as yousee, signed and sealed. "

"Do send it. "

"No, " he answered, putting it back into his pocket; "one could only gethim on the platform just now by making him believe that such an actionwould, in some way, help me. You don't know Robert. "

"I daresay not, but I know that much. "

"This being the case, why upset him at the eleventh hour?"

She made no reply, and before Reckage could speak again, the servantannounced the arrival of his horse. 

"I intend to ride like the devil, Sara, " he said; "and I wish you couldcome with me. What rides we used to have--long ago! You were a larkylittle thing in those days, darling!"

He bent down and kissed her lips. 

"You shall marry me--or no one, " said he; "but you are cold: you are notvery nice to me. I suppose it's your way. You wouldn't be yourself ifyou were like other women. You are not a woman, you're a witch. Must Igo now?"

Sara had opened the door. 

"Yes, you know how Pluto hates to wait. "

"That animal will be the death of me yet. Will you stand on the balconyand watch me till I am out of sight? Have pretty manners--for once. "

"Very well. "

She went on to the balcony, watched him mount, and ride away. He turnedseveral times to gaze back at her picturesque figure, dim, but to himlovely in the gathering dusk. 

CHAPTER XXIII

Robert, after his interview with the priest, returned to his oldlodgings in a top floor of Vigo Street--for he had left Almouth House, where Reckage's hospitality, kind as it was, suited neither his pridenor his mood. He was greatly in debt, and although his salary from LordWight and his literary earnings represented a sure income, it stood atwhat he called the "early hundreds. " The tastes, habits, and pursuits ofthose with whom he spent his time were delightful, no doubt, but theywere costly. A box at the play; the cricket-match party, little dinners, and a rubber of whist, or a quiet game of vingt-et-un; the lunches here, the suppers there; the country houses where, in the winter, one coulddine and sleep and hunt the next day, and, in the autumn, shoot, and, inthe summer, flirt; the attendance at race-meetings, balls, and weddings;journeys to the Continent, civilities everywhere, --in fact, the wholebusiness of society--no matter how modestly done--demands money. Mostyoung men are naturally fond of brilliant, light-hearted companions, plenty of amusement, and that indescribable treasure known as the _joiede vivre_. Orange was no exception to this rule, and there were manyhours when he tasted the bitterness of poverty, and felt the harshdifferences between the outward gifts bestowed by Fate. It was not thathe cared for luxuries, but it seemed hard that a horse should have to becounted among them, and that it was necessary to work for twelve hours aday in order to live at all, even as a dependent, among those with whomhe was, by right of birth and ability, the equal, and to whom he was, inmany cases, the superior. How many promising careers and brave heartshave fallen short under the strain of a position so mortifying andapparently so unjust! In public life, whether one joins the Church, theCamp, the Senate, or the Arts, the trials of strength and courage aremost severe even to those who, in material circumstances at any rate, are favourites of fortune. Neither influence nor riches avail much inthe terrific struggles for supremacy, for recognition, for mere fairplay itself. What must the conflict be then for those who, with slightpurses and few allies, find themselves pitted against the powerful ofthe earth? Discouragement, in weak natures, soon turns to envy, and thespectacle of human unkindness has driven many a reflective, delicatesoul to say that the companionship of his fellow-men is unlovely, not tobe admired, and difficult, at times, not to hate. In disgust of theworld--where one has been wounded, or where one has woundedothers--(wounded vanity and remorse are alike bitter in their fruits), numbers, with a sort of despairing fatalism, retire from the campaign, cut themselves adrift from their people and their country, and, havingfailed in life, court death under strange skies in far-off lands. Robert, who looked rather for the triumph of ideas than the glory ofindividuals, was not easily dismayed. So long as the right was by somemeans accomplished, and good seeds brought forth a good harvest, --theburden and heat of the day, the changes of weather, the scantiness ofthe wage, the ingratitude and treachery of agents, the hardships, thetoil--mattered little enough. Devoured by ambition in his early youth, he had never permitted himself the least doubtful means of attaining anyobject. He was not obliged, therefore, to affect an indifference tosuccess in order to divert attention from his methods of arriving at it. No man, once bent upon a project, could be more resolute than Orange. None were more stern in self-repression and self-discipline. But incontrolling, or subduing altogether, the softer possibilities in acharacter, there is always the danger lest uncharitableness, hardness ofheart, or blind severity of judgment should take their place. Youngpeople with strong natures can seldom find the middle course betweenextremes, and this one, in curbing a desire for power, will fairly crushhis whole vigour, while that one, in revolt against the tyranny oflove, will become the slave of pessimism. There were days, no doubt, and weeks when Orange found every counsel, a mockery, and every law, aparadox. The strife between the flesh and the spirit went on in his lifeas it does in all lives, but he was one who held, that, whatever theissue of it all might be, a man must be a man while he may--losinghimself neither in the whirl of passion nor in the enervating worlds ofreverie, but accepting the fulness of existence--its pains, vanities, pleasures, cares, sorrows, --with a fighter's courage and the fortitudeof an immortal soul. 

As he walked along toward Vigo Street in the cold, dark autumn morning, he felt more than able to hold his own against all adversaries. And thiswas not the insolence of conceit, but the just strength which comes froma vigorous conscience and perfect health. A soldier counts it no shame, but rather an honour, to die in battle, so Robert, surveying the chancesbefore him, stood determined, in every event, to endure until the end, to fight until the end, to maintain his ground until the end. But if hehad put sentiment from his path, it was not so easily weeded from hisconstitution, and while he was able to persuade himself that hisrenunciation of all passionate love--except as a bitter-sweetmemory--was complete, he had to realise that the old grudge againstCastrillon had grown into a formidable, unquenchable, over-masteringhatred. Where this strange obsession was concerned, no religious orother consideration availed in the least. Bit by bit, hour by hour, thefeeling had grown, deriving vigour from every source, every allusion, and every experience. The books he read, the conversations he heard, thepeople he met--all seemed to illuminate and justify, in some mysteriousway, his enmity against Castrillon. He may have believed that he wasresigned to his ill-luck in love, but a sense that he had been defraudedhaunted his thoughts always, and the longing to square his account withdestiny was less a wish than a mute instinct. How great had been thetemptation to defy all laws--human and Divine--where Brigit Parflete wasin question, no one can know. In getting the better of it, the motivehad not been, it must be confessed, the fear of punishment here orhereafter. This would not be a true history, nor a reasonable one, if itwere not acknowledged that much of the victory in that situation hadbeen due to the woman's youth and candid, sunny nature. No passion--farless a guilty one--he thought, could have had a place in that childlikeheart. She was Pompilia--not Juliet, because, like the more ill-starredheroine, she had met sorrow before she met love, and the strong emotionwhich comes first in a young life makes the deep, the ineffaceableimpression on its character. She had the strength to suffer undeservedwoe, but the penalties of defiance and disobedience would surely killher. The thought of any desperate step seemed impossible. 

The question of love at that point in Orange's life had therefore beendecided as much by conditions as it had by principles and conscience. But with the Castrillon difficulty, it was a question of hatred--notlove. In hate, Orange was as little given to brooding as he was in othermatters. He had never been able to forgive the duel at Loadilla whichhad occasioned so much scandal in Madrid, and brought Brigit's name intobad company. Robert, before his meeting with Mrs. Parflete, had foughtseveral duels, and each of them about a different pretty face. Encounters of the kind form part of a youth's education on theContinent: such experiences are considered not romantic, not heroic, notstriking, but merely usual and manly. It was impossible for one broughtup in this view to feel that duelling--under certain provocation andfair conditions--was wrong. The custom was frequently abused, no doubt, yet the same could be said of all customs, and Orange, rightly orwrongly, held a conviction on the subject which no argument couldaffect. But, with a lover's unreasonableness, he had found the fightbetween Bodava and Castrillon an insult to the lady at stake. Hesuspected, too, that Castrillon had spoken lightly of her to GeneralPrim, to Zeuill, perhaps to d'Alchingen. This was insufferable, and so, inasmuch as the mischief had been done, he would not and could notremain outside the combat. There seemed, also, a certain feeling at theClubs where the Madrid scandal had become known, that Castrillon, onthe whole, had proved a more dashing, and was probably the favoured, suitor. Orange, whose personal courage had been demonstrated too oftento be called into doubt, had been criticised for an absence of moral, orrather immoral, courage with regard to Mrs. Parflete. Reckage's slyphrases about the ecclesiastical temperament; the sneers of someadventurous women on the subject of platonic affection; the good-naturedbrow-lifting of the wits and the worldly were not easy to bear for a manwho was, by nature, impulsive, by nature, regardless of every sacrificeand all opinions while a strong purpose remained unfulfilled. Robertmade up his mind that, come what might, whether his action was approvedor blamed, or whether he won or lost, pick some quarrel he would, andsee how Castrillon liked it, and thus settle the matter then and foralways. Castrillon had received a military training; he was a mostadroit swordsman and a notorious shot; he would not be one to make aquarrel difficult. 

When Orange reached the house in Vigo Street, it was still early in theday. As he mounted the stairs, he noticed a fellow-lodger, still in hisevening clothes, entering a room on the second floor. He did not see theman's face, but he was struck by something familiar in his build. Thisimpression was not haunting, it passed almost immediately, and the youngman settled down with resolution to his work. At one o'clock he went toBrookes's, had his lunch, met a few acquaintances who studied his facewith curiosity, and a few colleagues who tried to persuade each otherthat he was a man who could play a deep game. He returned to his roomsand resumed work till about six o'clock, when his landlord informed himthat a lady, who would not give her name, wished to see him. The ladywas tall, handsomely dressed, darkly veiled. What, he thought, if itshould be Brigit? What joy! What rashness! Robert went out into the hallto meet the strange visitor. She made a gesture signifying silence, and, on greeting her, he did not utter her name. It was Lady Sara. 

She did not speak until she had entered the shabbily furnishedsitting-room and closed the door. 

"This is a mad thing on my part, " she said; "a mad thing. I know it. Ofcourse, I might have asked you to come to me, but I couldn't wait solong. And I don't trust letters. Some news can't be written. It is notabout Mrs. Parflete, " she added, hastily, "you need not fear that. It isabout Beauclerk. He came to see me this afternoon. He is going to throwyou over. He is going to fail you at the Meeting. You are to test publicopinion while he sits under shelter--to profit by your experience. Whatdo you think of that?"

"You are very good to come. But I hope you are mistaken all the same. Hemay throw me over. I am sure he will send me a word of warning. "

"That was his first intention. He gave it up, because he knew youwouldn't act without him. And he wants you to act--for the reason I havegiven. Oh, I'm so ashamed, so humiliated to think that any friend ofmine could be such a traitor. "

She unpinned her veil, and seemed all the handsomer for her scornfulexpression and flashing eyes. 

"You must be the first to retire, " she continued. "I won't have youtreated in this contemptuous way: I won't endure it. I want you to writeto the Committee at once--at once--without a moment's loss of time. Thisis why I have come here myself. You seem to have something in you whichthey take for weakness. You will stand anything. Oh, I know why wellenough. You like to be a martyr--which means saying nothing andsuffering a good deal. But I call it a mistake. I call it irritating, misleading, actually wrong. If I were a man I would kill people. "

"It is easy enough to kill. "

"So they say. Be more unscrupulous, dear friend. Give your nature fullplay now and again. You can't make me believe that you are evernatural. "

"Some can trust their natures. I don't trust mine. "

"Don't you see how much more power you would have over men if you weremore emotional, more spontaneous, more human? Who gives you credit forself-control? No one. They say you are self-contained--a very differentidea. They say you are cold. Now, I don't care what I do. I followevery impulse. I must follow them. I had to come here this evening. Ihad to tell you about Reckage. The landlord was odious. I met two men onthe staircase. One actually tried to peer into my face. I have neversubmitted to such indignities. Heaven knows what they are thinking now. I shall remember their vile laugh as long as I live. But I wasdetermined to see you. And here I am. Apparently I have not done muchgood by coming. You hardly believe me. You think me an indiscreetwoman. "

"I think you are splendid. "

"I saw Mrs. Parflete to-day. She is beautiful. But she is indiscreet, too. All women worth considering are miracles of imprudence. "

"Haven't I always said so?"

"Then how can you expect us to like you when you are so--so wise?"

"I don't expect you to like me. "

She bit her lip and pretended to check a laugh. 

"I suppose you enjoy this room?" she said, glancing round it till hereyes fell on a small crucifix which was nailed to the wall behind hischair; "it is so depressing. You are very perverse. And the odd thingis----"

"Well, what is the odd thing?"

"That you are attracted by Mrs. Parflete. Your style ought to be SaintClare or Saint Elizabeth. But not at all. You prefer this exquisite, wayward, perfectly dressed, extremely young actress. You give yournature full play in your _taste_, at all events. "

"You can urge that much in my favour, then?"

"Yes, that much. Oh, she's pretty. But frivolous and light-hearted--aslight-hearted as Titania. There! I have been wondering what I could callher. She is Titania in alabaster. Marble is too strong. At first, Ithought it might be marble. I have changed my mind since. I suppose youknow she will act in this comedy with Castrillon at the d'Alchingens?"

"So Disraeli has told me. Did you come to tell me that, also?"

She coloured, but met his angry glance without flinching. "Now, " shethought, "he is going to show temper. "

"I came to tell you that, also, " she repeated. "Pensée is opposed to thewhole scheme. Mrs. Parflete stamped her very beautiful foot, and said, 'I go. ' Do you approve?"

"I am to meet Castrillon to-night at the Prince d'Alchingen's, " heanswered, evading her question. 

"How you hate him!"

"What makes you think so?"

"I know your face. I never saw any love there for anybody, but just thenthere was a look of hate. "

"You are quite right. I do hate him. "

"You are actually trembling at the mention of his name. Then you havefeelings, after all. " She clapped her hands, and leaving her chairwalked toward him. 

"Never hate me, will you?" she said, touching his arm. "Promise me thatyou will never hate me. Like me as much as you can. "

At that instant, they heard a tap at the door, and the landlord, carrying a few letters on a salver, entered the room. Sara pulled downher veil--a foolish action, which she regretted a moment later. Orangethanked the man for the letters and threw them on the table. Thelandlord, with a studied air of discretion, which was the more insultingfor its very slyness, went, half on tiptoe, out. 

"Does he always bring your letters upstairs?" she asked. 

"As a rule--no, " said Orange. 

"Then he came on purpose! He wanted to see me--what impudence! I ambeginning to realise what one has to expect if one--if one takes anunconventional step. "

Her voice failed, and tears began to roll down her cheeks. Then shecovered her face with her hands. 

"Every courageous--every disinterested act is unconventional, " saidRobert; "you are tired out--that's all. "

"You see, " she answered, with a note of harsh sadness in her voice, "Ihave had a strange day. The scene with Beauclerk was a great strain. Ifeel a kind of apprehensiveness and terror--yes, terror, which I cannotdescribe. It may be my nerves, it may be fancy. But I am too consciousof being alive. Every minute seems vital. Every sound is acute. This dayhas been one long over-emphasis. Look at my hand: how it trembles!Beauclerk called me a witch. Certainly, I am more sensitive toimpressions than most people. "

"One of these letters is from Reckage. It is written on a sheet of yourown note-paper. "

She dried her eyes, and looked at him with exultation, astonishment, anda certain incredulity. 

"Then he must have listened to me. He posted it, after all, when he leftthe house. He is always impulsive. I remember now--that I saw him givesomething to the groom. Do read what he says. "

The letter, scrawled hastily on the pale lilac note-paper affected bySara and bearing her monogram, ran as follows:--

 "MY DEAR OLD FELLOW, --There are still some points of arrangement very material to consider with regard to this Meeting next week, and I hope it is not too late to go into them. The thing cannot be done away. But the circumstances have become, thank God, very different indeed. Mr. Disraeli has asked me to speak in his stead at Hanborough--an honour so wholly unexpected and undeserved that I am forced to see in it an especial mark of encouragement. I must admit at once that I feel greatly flattered. I am not now to be taught what opinion I am to entertain of those gentlemen whose narrow and selfish principles forced me to move against my inclination, my judgment, and my convictions. I am persuaded that any additional public action--no matter how indirect on my part--in the Nomination of Temple would have at this juncture, the worse effect. It would savour of self-advertisement--an idea which I abhor. It would seem an _over-doing_, as it were, of my own importance. You will readily agree, I know, that I ought to keep perfectly quiet before, and for some time after, my Hanborough appearance. Not having in any degree changed my view upon this subject of the Association, I don't feel that my present decision is inconsistent. I think it will strike everybody as a sensible--the only sensible--course to follow. 

 "When can you dine? Or if you won't dine, let me see you when you can spare half an hour. 

 "Yours affectionately, "

 "BEAUCLERK. "

Orange turned to Sara and said, when he had finished reading--

"I am glad he wrote. "

"You knew him better than I did. He is still a poor creature, for, whatdoes it all come to?--a rambling, stupid lie. The letter is sheerrubbish--a complete misrepresentation of the facts. But I need not havecome. This always happens when women interfere between men, " she added, bitterly; "you don't want us. There's a freemasonry among men. Youexcuse and justify and forgive each other always. "

"You persuaded him to post this. "

"That is true. He might have done so, however, without persuasion. Infuture, call me the busybody! I must go now. I have made you late ford'Alchingen's dinner. What a lesson to those about to make themselvesuseful! And how right you were not to get bitter! I take things too muchto heart. I must pray for flippancy. Then, perhaps, I may find no faultwith this world, or with you, or with anybody!"

"I am bitter enough--don't doubt it. "

"No! no! let us assure each other that this is the best of all possibleworlds--that Beauclerk shows cleverness and good sense, that no onetells lies, no one is treacherous, no one is unjust, malicious, orrevengeful nowadays, that friends are friends, and enemies--merelydivided in opinions! We must encourage ourselves in a cynical, good-natured toleration of all that is abject and detestable inmankind. "

"You are too impatient, Lady Sara. You want life concentrated, like aplay, into a few acts lasting, say, three hours. Whereas, most liveshave no dénouement--so far as lookers-on are concerned!"

"At last some one has been able to define me. I am 'impatient. ' But youtake refuge in that profound silence which is the philosophy of thestrong; you don't struggle against the general feeling; you contentyourself by going your own gait quietly. You have pride enough tobe--nothing, and ambition enough to do--everything. Hark! what is that?They are calling out news in the street. "

"The current lie, " said Orange. "We don't want to hear it. "

Sara walked to the window and threw it open. 

"I caught a name, " she exclaimed. "It is something about Reckage ... Listen ... Reckage!"

Above the din of the traffic, a hoarse duet rose from the street--voiceanswering voice with a discordant reiteration of one phrase--"_Seriousaccident to Lord Reckage! Serious accident to Lord Reckage!_"

"My God, what are they saying? What are they saying? It is myimagination. It can't be true. I am fancying things. What are theysaying?"

Orange had already left the room and was in the road. When he returned, he gave her the newspaper and did not attempt to speak. But he closedthe window in order to shut out, if possible, the hideous cry. 

"Where is it? I can't see! In which column?" said Sara. 

He pointed to a corner on the third page, where she read in black, roughtype:--

"_Lord Reckage was thrown from his horse at Hyde Park Corner thisafternoon. He was removed to Almouth House. His injuries are said to beof a very dangerous nature. _"

She crushed the paper in her hand, and the two stood looking at eachother, stupefied by the blow. 

"I am going to him, " said Robert. 

"And I must go home, " whispered the girl. "He always said that Plutowould be the death of him. "

They went down the stairs together without exchanging a word. Orangewalked with her to St. James's Square. Neither could speak. On parting, she faltered, --

"Let me know ... How he is.... "

CHAPTER XXIV

Lord Reckage had been carried through the hall of Almouth House, but notup the famous staircase of which he was so proud. He looked at it asthey bore him to the library, and although he was still in a kind ofstupor, the terrified servants could read in his eyes the certainknowledge that he would never behold the marble walls or the portraitsof his ancestors again. 

"Are you in pain, my lord? is your lordship in pain?" sobbed thehousekeeper. His features were injured and his face was perfectlypallid--so much changed that he could not have been immediatelyrecognised. Four doctors--one of them a passer-by at the time of theaccident--had assembled. They found one shoulder was severely injured, and the right collar-bone broken. He complained of great pain in hisside. 

"Am I going to die, Sir Thomas?" said he. 

"Why should you die?" replied the distinguished surgeon. "But you havehad a nasty fall. "

"Pluto shied at something, " answered his lordship; "mind they don'tshoot him. I won't have him shot. "

Then, for a few moments, he lost consciousness. 

When Orange arrived, the physicians were looking very grave, andtelegrams had been despatched to all the young man's near relatives. 

"He has called for you several times, " said Sir Thomas; "and, " he added, dropping his voice, "is there any lady who could meet ... The family? Ifancy I caught a lady's name more than once. Could it have been----"

"Sara, " suggested Orange, to relieve his embarrassment. 

"It certainly sounded like Sara. "

"Then I will send Lord Garrow a note--she is Lord Garrow's daughter--alifelong friend. Is there no hope?"

"He may have a pretty good night. "

Robert bowed his head and asked no more. He sat by the dying man, whosesufferings, although they were a little alleviated by morphia, made himrestless. He moaned even in his snatches of sleep, and spokeoccasionally--always about the accident. Once he mentioned Agnes:

"Agnes will be sorry when she hears. "

Toward daybreak he turned to Orange, and said quite simply--

"You are different from the rest. You have the priest's element in you;there is an incessant struggle and toil to cut one another's throatamong us average men--all striving after success. You weren't built thatway. God bless you. "

In the morning his father and the near relatives arrived. The womencried bitterly. The aged peer looked on in stony grief--drinking in hisson's scarred faced and glancing, with despair, from time to time, atthe clock. 

"It isn't going, is it?" he asked. 

No, it had been checked; the tick disturbed his lordship, but there wasan hour-glass on the table. 

"How many hours do they think----?"

"Perhaps ten hours. "

When the sand had run down at the conclusion of the first hour, no onereversed the instrument. But Lady Margaret Sempton, the Earl's sister, sent a whispered message to the Bishop of Hadley, who was waiting, muchaltered by sorrow and anxiety, in the ante-room. Reckage had asked tosee him. He had always liked the good old man, and the rest withdrewduring their short interview. 

Meanwhile carriage after carriage drove up to the door; caller aftercaller appeared with cards, notes, and inquiries; name after name wasinscribed in the visitors' book; telegrams came from the Royal family, from all parts of the country and the Continent. 

"My poor boy. I didn't know he had so many friends, " said his father. "God forgive me, I used to think he wasted his time on fads. "

And odd people came also. Trainers, jockeys, and horse-dealers rubbedshoulders on the doorsteps with collectors of old furniture, missionaries, electioneering agents, ladies of the chorus, of the_corps de ballet_, shabby-genteel individuals of both sexes out of work, and the like; each had his degree of regret and an anecdote. 

"He was always very kind to me, " said this one, that one, and the other. 

Bradwyn, noting some of these unusual visitors, observed that Reckagehad a knack of pleasing the lower classes and half-educated personsgenerally. He heard a Bible-reader say to the footman: "_Take ye heed, watch and pray; for ye know not when the time is!_" and he shuddered atthis exhibition of bad taste. Lord Garrow had been unremitting in hispersonal inquiries, but Sara did not come till she received thefollowing from Orange--

"He is conscious, and he asks to see you. "

She reached the room as the Bishop of Hadley was coming out; tears werein his eyes and he did not notice the young lady who glided past him aslightly as a shadow. Poor Reckage recognised her step, however, andpulled the sheet half over his face lest she should be startled at itsharsh disfigurements. She threw off her hat and veil and fell on herknees by the side of his bed. 

"Speak to me, Beauclerk, speak to me; it is I--Sara. "

"I know you, " he whispered; "you are the one I loved the best. But Ihaven't been true to anybody. I only wish to goodness I had anotherchance. I'd be different--I'd show 'em ... I never meant ... " he tookher hand, her beautiful, tapering hand loaded with sapphires ... "likeyour eyes, old girl ... Don't cry ... And I say, I posted that ... Letter after all ... To please you. Are you ... Pleased?"

He spoke no more. 

 * * * * *

Action is the essence of political parties, and the members of theLeague had the ink barely dry on their telegrams of condolence beforethey despatched others, summoning a special meeting for theconsideration of future steps. Orange, who was regarded as a man devoidof ambition, was unanimously elected a member of the ExecutiveCommittee; he was a good speaker, he could mind his own business, henever pulled wires, and it was his rule to step aside when others behindhim showed any disposition to push toward the front. On the evening ofthe day on which Lord Reckage died, Aumerle and Ullweather called atVigo Street as a preliminary move in their new plan of campaign. ButRobert was not there. He sat all that night, a solitary watcher, in thechamber of death. His affection for his old pupil was something strongerthan a brother's love. Whether he saw him as others saw him, or whetherhe was aware of certain pleasant traits in that uncertain characterwhich escaped the common run of dull observers, his devotion had neverwearied in all the years of their acquaintanceship. 

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

"You and me, sir, always got on with his lordship, " she said, lookingdown, with Robert, at the still, marred face. "We understood him. Hewasn't all for self--as many thought. But his heart wanted touching. Ifyou could touch his heart, a kinder gentleman didn't live. And if it wasmy last breath, I'd call him the best of the lot--in spite of histantrums, and his changeableness, and his haughty way sometimes. Mark mywords, the glory of Almouth dies with him. Mr. Hercy will bring us downto rack and ruin. O, sir, I'm glad I'm old. I never want to see thesorrow that is sure to come to Almouth. "

But Orange was not thinking about the house of Almouth, or its fate. Histhoughts were with the soul of the young man who had enjoyed life sowell, and made so many plans, and cherished so many worldly hopes--ofthe young man who had existed apparently to indulge his own will, spendmoney, kill time, and fulfil a few rather showy responsibilities. Andyet what Robert remembered best was his laugh. He could hear it still. 

CHAPTER XXV

Prince d'Alchingen had been much put out of conceit with himself bydisappointment. The small dinner which he had carefully arranged forOrange and Castrillon took place, but Orange was not present. He hadsent word from Almouth House that he could not leave Lord Reckage. HisExcellency, therefore, was thoroughly annoyed, and Castrillon'spersiflage fell heavily upon his ears. He tried to think that thisnobleman's vivacity made him appear flippant, whereas he was, inreality, a Don Juan of the classic type--unscrupulous, calculating, anddamnable. When he remarked that it was _grande folie de vouloir d'êtresage avec une sagesse impossible_, the Prince's spirits rose--only tofall again, however, at a later pronouncement from the same lips to theeffect that virtuous women always brought tears to his eyes. 

"They tell me, " said the Prince, weighing each syllable with greatdeliberation (they carried on their conversation principally in Frenchand Spanish) "that Mrs. Parflete is an admirable actress. "

Castrillon kissed the tips of his fingers to the air, and ejaculated:"Adorable!"

"Does she resemble, in any way, I wonder, her good mother, MadameDuboc?"

No, she had her own style--although she was coquettish enough. Andpretty? Delicious. 

"This is better, " thought his Excellency, "much better. And do youthink, " he asked, aloud, "that she cares at all for Orange?"

Castrillon smirked and put his hand, half instinctively, to hisbreast-pocket. D'Alchingen inferred, from this quick movement, that hecarried a letter or two, or a keepsake, from the lady near the region ofhis heart. 

"She may need the tonic of some Platonic love in order to bear theburden of a solitary life, " said the Marquis; "but, all the same, I haveno especial reason to think that M. De Hausée is her ideal. "

"He is the ideal of several persons, " said Alchingen; "I don't know whatto make of him. "

But at this point Castrillon displayed a maddening discretion. ThePrince was glad when he took his departure, and he exhausted his stockof malice in wishing the young coxcomb to the devil. His Excellency wasbecoming more and more morose over his snuff and the last mail--whichwas longer and duller than usual--with a peculiarly sharp note from hisChief into the bargain--when Mudara was announced. 

Mudara bowed to perfection, and then, going forward, presumed to put hishand on the Ambassador's arm. 

"Your Excellency, " said he, "I have some important news. On the whole itis gratifying. It may make us cynical, but it is absurd to expect humannature to be Divine. Mrs. Parflete has been at Orange's lodgings thisafternoon. "

"You don't mean it?"

"Indeed, it is too true. When he moved to Vigo Street, I was fortunateenough to secure a room in the same house immediately under his. "

"Good!"

"I was sitting at my table, with the door just ajar, when I heard, atsix o'clock, a rustle of silk skirts on the stairs. I peeped out. I sawa tall lady, thickly veiled, following our landlord, Dunton, across thelanding. She caught sight of me, and started violently. "

"Was it Mrs. Parflete?"

"I could _swear_" he answered slowly, "that it was Mrs. Parflete.... Shereached Orange's door; Dunton tapped; Orange came out; the lady and heexchanged glances; they entered the room together, and he closed thedoor. Three-quarters of an hour later they came down the stairs and leftthe house. "

"You followed them?"

"Alas! I couldn't. I was not alone. Parflete himself was with me. Idared not trust him out of my sight. He, following his custom, grewfaint at the sight of Madame----"

"Then he, too, recognised her? This is excellent. "

"He recognised her height and her figure. Besides, whom else could ithave been--if not Mrs. Parflete? M. De Hausée has no sister, and we knowhis character. The caprice of fortune has honoured him with many faults, but gallantry is not among them. I have that from those who knew himwhen he was too young to disguise his true nature. He would not havebeen an _abbé malgré lui_, and he has, on the contrary, the mostecclesiastical soul I know. Rest assured, your Excellency, that this_canaille_ of a woman is determined to be his ruin, for she is abaptized serpent, --one of those creatures more dangerous to men than thedevil himself. "

The Ambassador smiled agreeably, put his tongue in his cheek, and noddedhis head with a movement which might have passed equally well for asympathetic reproof or sorrowful acquiescence. 

"What will Parflete do?" he asked. 

Mudara threw up his dark, sinewy, and powerful hands in genuine despair. 

"He is the vice of the situation, " he exclaimed; "at the very mention ofdivorce his teeth chatter, he gets a spasm of the heart, and he beginsto gabble like a sick monk about his soul and his conscience. Believeme, we are dealing with a madman. How can any end be attained in hispresent state of irresolution?"

"Happily it is not my business either to arrange or propose the means. "

The sly glance of the Prince encountered the sly glance of the Agent. 

"That is well understood, your Excellency, " said Mudara, with theinimitable accent of respect. "Let good be done and let evil be avoided, is the sum total of the Government's desires. But whenever I can seeclearly, I shall know how to act. When right and truth are plain, timeand experience are the best allies. We have at least sufficient evidenceto institute divorce proceedings. If Parflete will not file apetition----"

"You can do nothing. Unless you can be perfectly sure that he willfollow some reasonable course, he ought to be saved from himself. "

"Yes, he ought to be saved from himself. Something in my nature makes mefollow a certain kind of man as hounds track game. What is now to bedone is to meet force with force. "

"An armed diplomacy is good, " said d'Alchingen. 

"And also a scheme of alternatives, " replied Mudara. 

"I confess I very much prefer working through Castrillon, if possible, than de Hausée. Disraeli has implicit faith in this de Hausée. It seemstaken for granted that he is ascetic and intellectual. He is altogetherin the clouds, whereas Castrillon is wholly in touch with--withhumanity. "

"But de Hausée, like the Cardinal de Retz, fought duels when he was astudent. If I cannot work upon Parflete's jealousy, we must see what canbe done in that direction with de Hausée. We hear much of the soul'sawakening! Wait for the body's awakening now--it must come. Mrs. Parflete is a _Samaritaine_; we have to prove it somehow. Even thoughone invented stories about her, one would probably find that they were, approximately, true. "

"Keep me informed, " said the Prince, making a little bow, whichsignified that the audience was at an end. 

Mudara, according to his own Confession, left the Embassy and proceededat once to the small private hotel near Covent Garden where Parflete hadtaken up his abode. 

 Parflete's rooms, (_we read_) were en suite. He had bought a few rather beautiful prints and a number of exquisitely bound books. These last, with bowls and vases of flowers, were scattered over the various tables. The scent of the flowers mingled with the strange fumes of some Oriental incense. He had draped pieces of flame-coloured silk over the windows. Everything looked _bizarre_, and the atmosphere was sultry. When I entered he was not pleased to see me--in fact, he showed a disposition to sulk. I laboured to convince him that he would forfeit the respect of all honourable men unless he showed some just resentment at his wife's conduct. 

 "No one respects me as it is, " he answered; "nobody cares what I do one way or the other so long as I avoid the police. And as the police and I have nothing at all in common, I am not likely to give offence to my good friends in the Alberian Government. "

 I warned him that such sneers were unjustifiable, and I reminded him, with severity, of the Government's extraordinary forbearance. 

 He fixed his eyes unpleasantly upon me, and his fingers trembled as he played with the frogs of his lilac-velvet smoking-jacket. 

 "I wish, " said he, "that you would mind your own business. I have done everything to protect the appearance of your good faith all through this affair. Now leave me alone. Besides, I can't be sure that the lady we saw to-day was Her Imperial Highness. "

 My exasperation at his tone of defiance was all but uncontrollable. 

 "You know, " said I, "that we had no doubt of her identity. "

 "We didn't see her face nor the colour of her hair. In any case, I refuse to humiliate her. Kindly remember that she is my wife, and drop a conversation which I find insulting. "

 Hot words then passed between us. In my anger I may have uttered several truths which hit him too hard. Suddenly he sprang at me as though he were a wild cat. His eyes rolled, his face was convulsed beyond recognition. Men I have never feared; he seemed, however, not a man but some demoniac risen from hell. In self-defence I struck him with the small poniard which I have carried all my life. He staggered back, and the blood-letting seemed to relieve his temper. 

 "Go!" said he; "go while you can. I don't think the wound is mortal, but I don't wish any man hanged for murdering me. "

 It was in my will to strike him again. I was beside myself with contempt at what I took to be a fresh revelation of his cowardice. 

 I replied coolly enough, --"I would not murder you. Have no alarm on that score. But I can defend myself, I hope. "

 By this time he had reached the door and thrown it open. A waiter was passing at the time. 

 "Sir, " said Parflete, "I have the honour to wish you good-day. "

 The waiter heard this remark distinctly, and saw me bow as I parted from the wretched creature. 

 Parflete's appearance was ghastly, but I attributed this pallor to fright and not to pain, for I believed from my heart that the wound was no more than a slight prick. I left the hotel, took a cab to my lodgings, and after reading a light Spanish novel in order to change the current of my thoughts, I passed an excellent night, sleeping at least seven hours. 

CHAPTER XXVI

Lord Garrow, after much cautious consideration, had decided that LadySara could not absent herself from the d'Alchingens' party withoutexciting unfavourable comment, and so prejudicing her futurerelationship with the Duke of Marshire. His lordship, in his secretheart, was by no means sorry for Reckage's untimely death. An orthodoxfaith in a better, happier world assisted his conscience over the manydifficulties which afflict a strong sense of good manners. Good mannersdemanded some show of grief at the young man's melancholy end; but, ashis lordship pointed out to his weeping daughter, higher reflectionsought to triumph over the vulgar instincts of sorrow, and an etiquettealmost heathenish. "Let us be thankful, " said he, "that poor Beauclerkwas spared some lingering malady and the shattering disappointments of apublic career. He would not wish us to mourn. And indeed, any unduemourning on your part might give a very false impression in society. Youmust go to the d'Alchingens'. "

Hadley Lodge was built in the reign of George I. In design it resemblesa little the Vice-Regal Lodge in Dublin; two wings, containinginnumerable small rooms, are connected by corridors leading to theentrance hall. The chief rooms are in the centre, to which Princed'Alchingen himself added a miniature theatre, copied from the one atTrianon. When Sara arrived, the Prince and Princess were taking tea inthe gallery--an apartment so furnished with screens, sofas, writing-tables, divans, and arm-chairs that it had become the lounge, asit were, of the house. Less formal than the saloon, brighter than thelibrary, and more airy than the boudoir, the Princess spent the greaterpart of her day in a favourite corner where she could command a viewfrom four windows, enjoy the fire, see the best pictures, and hear thepiano pleasantly if any guest chose to play upon it. In person she wastall and rather gaunt, with high cheek-bones, and very dark hollowsunder her eyes. She had the air of a mourning empress, and seriousnesswas so natural to her countenance, that, although she could not smile, and had never been known to laugh, she was not depressing nor was she, accurately speaking, melancholy. The style of beauty--for she hadbeauty--was haggard, of the kind now familiar to all English people fromthe paintings of Sir Edward Burne-Jones. In 1869, however, this type wasstill highly uncommon and little appreciated. Journals and letters ofthe period contain references to "that fright, Princess d'Alchingen, " or"that poor creature who always looks so ill, " or "that woman who makesone think of a corpse. " Sara admired the Princess, and surprised allthe fashionable artists of that day by insisting on her paintableness. 

"How good of you to come, dear Sara!" she murmured, presenting hersallow cheek to the young girl with a touch of regal graciousness atonce designed and impulsive; "I should have been lost without you. Anselm has invited a large party, and, as you know, I cannot talk tothese dear people. I find them too clever, and they find me too stupid. The world is not willing to give me credit for that which I have done. "

"And what is that, dearest?" asked the Prince. 

"I married you!" she answered, with a quick flash of humour under hergravity. It was like the occasional sparkle in granite. "You may smileat the notion of my living on the reputation of what I might yet do, "she continued, resuming her languor. 

"Let us talk of pleasant things only, _chère amie_, " said the Prince, turning to Sara; "mind you, not a word about graves and epitaphs. Mrs. Parflete has arrived. Castrillon has arrived. You need not trouble aboutthe others. They are not--they cannot be--worth your while. But do watchCastrillon. I find that the greatest compliment he can pay to any womanis to sneer at her expense. He never permits himself the slightestepigram against those who have erred in kindness toward him. One wittybut frail lady once implored him to miss no opportunity of abusing herin public. 'Otherwise, ' said she, 'they will know all. ' Isn't that agood story?"

"Anselm!" sighed the Princess. 

"I wonder who that lady was?" said Sara. 

"I dare not guess, " said the Prince. 

Sara had recovered from the emotion called forth by Reckage's tragicfate, and she was living now in one of those taciturn reveries which hadbecome more and more habitual with her since the last interview withd'Alchingen. Every force in her passionate, undisciplined soul wasconcentrated in a wild love for Orange, and every thought of her mindwas fixed on the determination to win his affection in return. Therewere only two real powers in the world, she told herself; these weremoral force and money. Money could not affect Robert. But he wassusceptible to moral force. She resolved to display such an intrepidspirit, such strength of will, such devotion that Brigit would seem amere doll in comparison. 

"What do you think, " she said, turning to the Princess, "of Mrs. Parflete? Your opinion is worth everything. Orange is infatuated withher. His criticism is therefore useless. The Prince disapproves of herparentage. He is therefore prejudiced. I wish to be charitable. I, therefore, say what I hardly think. Pensée Fitz Rewes is an innocentlittle fool. She judges all women by herself. You, Princess, are anangel of the world. Your verdict, quickly. "

The Princess paused before she attempted any reply. Then she fixed herdeep, grey eyes on Sarah's excited face. 

"I like her, " she said, slowly. 

"Is that all?"

"I think she is immature for her age, and therefore reckless. She knowseverything about sorrow, and very little--at present--about happiness. So she doesn't seem quite human. She shows that indulgence toward otherswhich is perhaps the last degree of contempt for the follies ofhumanity. Those who take their neighbours seriously are almostinvariably severe. Mrs. Parflete, on the contrary, is all good-natureand excuses. I believe she has genius, and I am sure she will have anamazing career. "

The Princess, who had always insisted on a studious rather than anactive part in life, was consequently unlike the majority of her sex, who, in the bustle of social engagements, talk without ceasing, lettingwords take the place of ideas, and phrases serve for sentiments. Allthat she uttered showed a habit of thought opposed to the common methodof drawing-room conversation; she rarely said the expected thing, andnever, a welcome one. Sara, therefore, was disappointed at thisfavourable judgment of Mrs. Parflete. The jealousy which she had beenable to control by hoping, in the depths of her heart, that the youngactress would prove too light a creature to bind for long any masculine, stirring spirit, now saw some justification for vehemence. 

"And what do you think of Robert Orange?" she asked, breathing quickly. 

The Princess folded her hands, fixed her eyes again on the young girl, and answered in her usual even tones--

"He is a sentimentalist turned man of action. When this miracle can beaccomplished, you may expect a very decided, even implacable, character--because it is much more difficult to crush one's poetry thanto crush one's passions. The passions are more or less physical, theydepend on many material conditions or accidents; but poetry, ideals, romance and the like belong to the spirit. I find a great campaign isbeing waged everywhere against the soul. It is a universal movement--theonly things considered now are the pocket and the brain and the liver. "

"Delightful!" said Sara, trying to speak calmly; "and will Orange becomea liver-devotee?"

"You don't understand self-discipline, _chérie_, " answered the Princess;"that seems a sealed mystery to most people except the Catholics and theBuddhists. Protestants never speak of it, never think of it. Theireducation is all for self-concealment. If I read M. De Hausée rightly, he will become no colourless, emasculated being, but certainly a manwith a silent heart. When he has a grievance he will take it toGod--never to his friends. "

Prince d'Alchingen stifled a yawn and offered Sara a cigarette, whichshe refused, although she had acquired the habit of smoking during hervisits to Russia. 

"If you will both swear, " said he, "to keep a secret, I can tell youone. "

The old and the young lady flushed alike with delight at the prospect ofhearing some strange news. 

"It will come well, " he continued, "after my wife's prophetic remarks. Mrs. Parflete went alone to Orange's lodgings on Wednesday last at sixo'clock. "

"Is it possible?" exclaimed the Princess. 

Sara, feeling the Prince's dissecting glance burning into hercountenance, grew white and red by turns. 

"What a temperament! what jealousy!" thought d'Alchingen. 

"How do you know all this?" she asked, thrusting her hands, which weretrembling, into her ermine muff. 

"I know it for a fact. The question now is--How will Parflete enduresuch conduct? Her bigamy may have been innocent, or at least, anunavoidable accident. But the afternoon call--well, if he can swallowthat, his meekness runs a risk of being called cowardice, and hismagnanimity will bear an unpleasant resemblance to dishonour. "

"Yet surely--surely----" stammered Sara. 

In a second she grasped the mistake which had been made, and all itspossible disastrous consequences to herself. Loss of reputation, thefinger of scorn, and for what? Nothing, or at the worst, anindiscretion. Scandal, had there been a romantic cause, and loss ofreputation, had there been a great passion to make it more memorable asa sacrifice than a disgrace, would have seemed to her defiant mindsomething glorious. But here was a mere unbeautiful story--sordid, ifmisunderstood, and a little silly, if satisfactorily explained. And itcould not be satisfactorily explained. Sara knew life too well toencourage herself by supposing that the real truth about her foolishvisit to Orange's lodgings could ever be told or believed. Orangehimself would never betray her she knew. But what if she had been seenor recognised? The landlord, the men on the staircase--had they followedher home, or been able to pierce through her thick veil? She tried tocollect her thoughts, to appear extremely interested--that was all. Theeffort, however, was beyond her strength. She showed her agitation, and, while it was fortunately attributed by the d'Alchingens to a wrongreason, they were close observers of every change in her face, nor didthey miss the notes of alarm and nervousness in her voice. 

"It will probably mean a divorce, the social ruin of Orange, and thesuccessful _début_ of Madame as a comedian of the first rank, " said theAmbassador. 

"Does Orange know that she was seen that day?" asked Sara. 

"Not yet. He will know soon enough, never fear. "

"Are you sure--quite sure that it was Mrs. Parflete?" suggested thePrincess. 

"It must have been she, " replied the Prince. 

"It must have been she, " repeated Sara, mechanically. 

The lie seemed to come before she had time to think of it; it trippedoff her tongue as though some will, other than her own, controlled herspeech. But now that the untruth was spoken she determined to abide byit, so she repeated:--

"It must have been Mrs. Parflete. "

"And suppose, " said the Princess, "that she is able to prove that shespent the whole of Wednesday with Lady Fitz Rewes? No one could doubtthe evidence of Lady Fitz Rewes. "

D'Alchingen shrugged his shoulders. 

"In that event--which is unlikely, " he said; "M. De Hausée will have abad half-hour with Mrs. Parflete. The idyll will be spoilt for ever, andour pretty tale for angels about a Saint and a little Bohemian will sinkto its proper level. It always takes three to make a really edifyingPlatonic history. The third in this case is the lady who called at VigoStreet. _Dans le combat, il faut marchez sans s'attendrir!_"

"Who would live?" murmured the Princess, pressing a martyr's relic whichshe always wore on a chain round her neck. 

"Suppose, " continued d'Alchingen, enjoying his own cynicism, "that wehave a quartette in this instance. Madame has her Castrillon, M. DeHausée has his veiled lady. Each is a pious fraud to the other. Imaginethe double current of their thoughts, the deceit, the hypocrisy, thecolossal lie behind them both which makes the inspiring truth a fact! Itis an anecdote to be told in the Boccaccio manner--gracefully, withhumour, with much indulgence ... Otherwise, it might be the sort ofstory they tell in hell. "

"I am happy to say that I have no imagination, " said the Princess; "andnow I shall take Sara--who must be tired--to her room. "

She rose from her seat, and, drawing Sara's arm through hers, walkedfrom the gallery, through the hall, and up the staircase, talking, thewhile, of a new Romney which the Prince had recently purchased. 

Sara was now in her own room, but not alone, for her maid was unpacking, and the gown, petticoat, shoes, gloves, and flowers designed for thatevening were being spread out upon the bed. The girl was in no humour toenjoy the finery which she had chosen with so much delight. She turnedher back upon it all, and, pulling up the blind, gazed moodily out ofthe window till her maid's preparations were at an end. Romantic treesand a landscape, almost artificial in its prettiness, surrounded Hadley. The sun was setting in a fire, burnishing with enamel tints the longgreen hills which ranged as a natural fortification across the horizon, shutting out a whole country of flat fields beyond. The moon, in itsfirst quarter, shone out above a distant steeple where the eastern sky, already blue and opalesque, promised the dawn of another day inreparation for the one then dying in scarlet splendour. But to those whoare unhappy, to-morrow is a word without significance. Sara stretchedout her arms instinctively toward the coming night. She wanted darknessand she wanted sleep--not the stars of the morning, not the joy of noon. What should she do? Her mad love for Orange had reached a desperatepoint--a point where she realised all too clearly and with bitterness, that, so far from being a source of strength, it was a curse, a malady, a humiliation--driving her into that insatiable desire of solitude wherethe companionship of dreadful imaginations and gloomy thoughts can rendthe soul at their pleasure. As men are sometimes lured toward dangerousperils on land, or mountains, or by sea, and from thence to deeds, discoveries, and crimes unforeseen and unpremeditated, so she seemedborne along into a whirlpool of feelings which chilled the betterimpulses of her nature and accentuated, with acid and fire, everyelementary instinct. Animal powers and spiritual tendencies alike wereconcentrated into one absorbing passion which reasoned only in delirium, incoherently, without issue. She was wretched in Orange's companybecause every moment so spent showed her that his heart was fixed farindeed from her. But the wretchedness suffered that way was stifled inthe torments she endured when she wondered, miserably, in loneliness, what he was thinking, doing, saying; where he was, with whom he was, andhow he was. The despair of unrequited love was thrice intensified byjealousy. "Why did he like that little adventuress, that white chinaRahab?" she asked herself again and again. "It is just because she hasbewitched him. It is not real love--it isn't any kind of love. Shecannot care for him as I do. It isn't in her. O why, why does he fightso hard against me?"

Beautiful women seldom believe that their charms can be resisted withouta fierce struggle. It was, in fact, a tranquil consciousness of beautywhich gave audacity to Sara's words, and put the ordinary question ofpride out of the question. Was it not rather a case of the goddessputting on humanity, of the queen condescending to a subject. _La reines'amuse_ was the unuttered, constant motto on her heart of hearts. Theblood of Asiatic princes ran in her veins, and a sovereign contempt formanners, as opposed to passions and self-will, ruled her fierce spirit. But what should she do? A moment's reflection had shown her that Brigitcould have no difficulty in proving that she was not the mysterious ladywho visited Orange's lodgings. Having weighed all the disadvantages, Sara now directed her attention to the advantages she could snatch outof the dilemma. At last she hit on a bold plan. She rang a bell and ahousemaid answered the summons. 

"Is Mrs. Parflete in her bedroom?" asked Lady Sara; "and where is herbedroom?"

"Her bedroom is next to yours, my lady. She is in there now. "

"Thank you. "

Sara walked along the corridor till she reached an oak door on which wasa card bearing the name she sought. She tapped, and heard Brigit herselfreply--

"Come in. "

The young actress was lying, in a black silk dressing-gown, on the sofa. Her hair fell loosely to her shoulders, and she had evidently been fastasleep, for her cheeks were less pale than usual, her eyes were bright, and the happiness of some pleasant dream still lingered in theirexpression. 

"Lady Sara--how good of you to come!" she exclaimed; "I have been tryingto rest. I want to play well this evening. "

"You will play beautifully, of course, " said Sara, submitting, even inher jealousy, to the charm and grace of her unconscious rival. "I havecome on a difficult errand, " she added, abruptly; "you may notunderstand, but I hope--I believe--you will. "

She became so pale as she uttered these words that Brigit leant forwardwith a gesture of reassurance. In spite of her fragility she was, fromthe habit of self-control, a stronger spirit. 

"You may be sure that I shall understand, " she said. 

"Forgive me, then, but some enemy has circulated a report that you wentto Mr. Orange's rooms in Vigo Street last Wednesday. "

A deep flush swept over Brigit's face. 

"I was not there, " she said. 

"I know, " said Sara. "I know you were not there. They made a mistake. Itwas I they saw--not you--it was I. "

Brigit dropped her eyes but made no other movement. She seemed to growrigid, and the hand which had been playing with the fringe of her girdleremained fixed in its arrested action. 

"You? It was you? How ---- you?"

"I had to see him. So I went to him. Now he can easily deny that youwere there. But he won't betray me. People must think what they please. But I am telling you--because you, at least, ought to know the truth. "

"And yet it is not my business!"

"What do you mean? Not your business?"

"How can it be my business to ask what lady went to--to his lodgings?"

"But you would have wondered----"

"Yes, I should have wondered. I could not have helped that. "

"Mr. Orange and I have been friends, as you know, for some time. He knewme years ago before he--he met you. I was quite a little girl. Iremember I used to hold his hand when I walked in the gardens by hisside. "

"He has often spoken of you. "

"But all this does not help us now. If it were ever known that I--I wasthe one, the other day, --I should be ruined. "

"You may be sure that no one shall know. "

"I am not so selfish as I seem. I don't forget that this story willinjure him--injure him terribly. They will think him a kind of JosephSurface--a hypocrite. People expect him to be different from everybodyelse. A piece of gossip which they would have laughed at and taken as amatter of course from poor Beauclerk or Charles Aumerle--they wouldresent bitterly in Robert. The thing that grieves me, that torments me, is the fear lest this act of mine may injure him. "

"It won't injure him, " said Brigit. "Have no fear at all. And if youwent to see him, as you say, you must have had the best of reasons fordoing so. You may rely, I am sure, on his keeping your name a secret. You were kind to tell me--for he certainly would not have toldme--without your consent. We never see each other now, and we neverwrite to each other. "

Her voice trembled for the first time. 

"How does he look?" she asked, after a sharp struggle between her prideand a desire to hear more. 

"He looks ill and worn. He over-works. "

"He will suffer at Lord Reckage's death. "

"But he hides his feelings. He is always reticent. "

"O, to see him and talk with him--that would be such a joy for me. "

"You must be very sad, often, " said Sara, coldly. 

"Yes, often, " answered Brigit. "And I was so happy during the short timewe were together that now it seems no part of my life--no part of it. Isay this because I wish you to know that nothing can make us love eachother less--that all this misery and separation--which may last as longas we live--has made no difference and can make no difference to us. Andif I never see him again, or speak to him again, he will always becertain that I am his--unalterably, for ever his. "

"You are little more than a child. You have a great career beforeyou--who can say what may happen in the future? Women without careerschange their minds--their tastes. These things are out of one's owncontrol, and in your case----"

"My mind may change, but my soul cannot. I may dance, I may amusemyself, I may have friends. Make no mistake. I can tell you all that isin me. I find life beautiful. The theatre enchants me. I could workthere all day. I have no illusions about it--the paint, the machinery, the box-office, the advertisements--the vulgarity are familiar enough tome. But I find a box-office, and machinery, and vulgarity everywhere, though they are called by other names. "

Sara coloured and looked away. 

"I am getting stronger now, " continued Brigit. "I can lift up my headand see the world as it is. I like it--yes, with all its griefs and itshorrors--I like it. When one is ill or sentimental one hates it, becauseit wasn't made for the sick, and it was not created us a playground forlovers. One may love--yes, but one must work. I intend to love and workat the same time. "

"Many find that these two occupations clash! There is a time inlove--just as there is a period in life--when it seems enough in itself. It is independent of circumstances and persons. O, but that time soonpasses! As you learn more, you look for more. And work is no cure fordissatisfaction. If you can live through it you will just be a machinewith one refrain--'I know nothing! I have nothing! I am nothing!'"

The two young girls did not look at each other. Brigit could recognisean agitation of the soul in the imperceptible sadness of the voice, andshe guessed poor Sara's secret. 

"Yes, " she said quietly. "I must suffer all that. How can you be surethat I have not suffered it already? At any rate, I hope thisconfidence will increase your kindness toward me. "

"I have no kindness toward you--none at all, " said Sara. "I have nokindness toward any living creature. I should like to die and come to anend. I wasn't born to put up with make-shifts. Other women may beresigned to that paltry way of existing. If they can't have what theywant, they will take what they don't want; they will take what theyhate, and grin--yes, they will grin and bear it. And after a littlewhile, because they become gradually drunk with suffering, they begin tothink they are noble. They are not noble. They are fools, fools, fools!"

"I shan't accept make-shifts, " answered Brigit. "I intend to keep all myideals, but they are all unfinished at present. I have just the outlinesand beginnings of them--nothing else. "

"I am not talking about ideals. I am speaking of realities. I don't wantto be happy, but I do wish to be one of four things: either perfectlyalive, or perfectly, utterly dead; either a pure spirit, or a faultlessanimal. This dead-and-alive, body-and-soul mixture which passes for awell-disciplined human being is loathsome to me. It is a tissue of liesand hypocrisies. "

"Perhaps I should have that feeling, too, if I had no faith in God. Heassumed humanity--not despising it. "

"You know I do not believe that splendid story--so it doesn't help me. I compare life as I feel it with life as it is, and the inequality fillsme with disgust. The example of Christ is too sublime. He was human onlyin His sufferings. He bore our burdens and He shared our agonies. He wasdeceived, despised, rejected: the first torture and the firstfruits ofHis Passion was the treachery of a disciple. When I am sorrowful andwretched, He seems Real to me and vivid. But when I am well and wildlyhappy, He seems far away and unreal--an invisible God, watching mortalswith a certain contempt. Now the Pagans had a Divinity for every mood, so they never felt depressed or lowered in their own self-esteem. Wehave a God for two moods only, --great sorrow, and great exaltation. Forthe rest we have to beat our breasts and call ourselves miserablesinners. All the good people I know enjoy spiritual peace only--withoutany fear of remorse--when they are tired out or moaning with physicalpain. I don't say this to shock you; I should like to have a religion ifI could be convinced of it without fasting, without long illnesses, andwithout abandoning all hope of earthly, common joys. Most Christianstake a middle way, I know; they prattle about their immortal souls, andbehave as though they had nothing but bodies. I can't take part in sucha gross farce. "

Brigit sighed deeply, and did not reply at once. 

"It is all very hard, I know, " she answered; "but from the lowest abyssone can still see the sky overhead. People's hearts are touched by thespectacle of sin or the spectacle of suffering. Our Lord could not sin, therefore He reached our sympathies by His Death and Sorrows. Of course, if this life here were all, and this world were the only one, and wewere animals with less beauty than many of the inanimate things innature, and as much intelligence at best as the bees and birds andants--then the Pagan way might be quite admirable. But this isn't thecase, and so--and so----"

Sara laughed. 

"We are a grotesque compromise between gods and creatures, " she said;"those of us who find this out get a little impatient with the falseposition. You are less sentimental than I am. You take what I call thehard view. It is too frigid for me. But I am making you late. All goodluck to-night!"

She waved her hand, and, returning to her own room, realised that shehad missed the object of her conversation. The attempt to exciteBrigit's jealousy had failed. 

Nothing is so infectious as despair. Brigit sat quivering under the echoof Sara's last words: "You take what I call the hard view. " Was it, then, such an easy matter to bury love in perpetual silence, to letnature yield to fate, to stifle every human craving? The mention ofRobert's name and the news that he looked ill and careworn had stirredall the unshed tears in her heart; she could not think, she could notmove, she could but realise that she had no right to be with him. Andsorrow seemed her province. There, surely, she and he might meet, joinhands, and speak once more face to face. She had not written to himsince that parting at Miraflores. But she would write now. This was herletter--

 MY DEAREST LIFE--You are my dearest and you are my life--so let me say it now, even if I never say it again. I could be glad (if any gladness were left in me) at your grief for Lord Reckage's death, because it gives me an excuse for breaking my word and writing to you. This is selfish, but nobody knows how much I have suffered, or how much I suffer daily, hourly. I try to believe that it would have been worse if we had never owned our love, never met again after our first meeting. Darling, I can't be sure. Sometimes I wish I had been born quite numb. I dare not complain, and yet it is impossible to feel contented. Always, always there is a dreadful pain in my heart. Every moment is occupied, for when I am not working, I sleep, and when I wake, I work. I would rather spend one perfect day with you and die, than live on without you. This is the truth. If I had any choice that would be my choice. But I know you want me to be courageous, and I myself want you to see that a woman's love can be as strong as a man's. Women are supposed to make men weak--they are supposed to be chains and hindrances. This shan't be said of me. You wouldn't say it: you wouldn't think it: yet in history I find that while a few have been saved by women, more have been ruined by them. And where the women have saved the men they loved, it has been done by great renunciations and sacrifices--not at all by selfishness and joys. When I can remember this (I forget it too easily), I can almost persuade myself that I don't long to see you, to hear your voice, to be with you again on the boat--going on and on toward Miraflores. But I never persuade myself of this entirely--never, never. I do long to see you, Robert: I do want to be with you. I envy the servant in your lodgings, and the friends you meet. And I--who love you so dearly--may not go near you. I am going to act to-night--as if I were not acting all day, every day! I haven't said one word about you. But you couldn't be so wretched as I am, because _you_ have yourself, _you_ know what you are doing, saying, and thinking. Now if I could cease altogether and become, say, your hand or your foot, no one would expect you to renounce me. I might be useful, and it would certainly be no scandal if I accompanied you everywhere! I won't say any more. 

 BRIGIT. 

She addressed an envelope and sealed the letter within it. Then, withtears streaming down her cheeks, she read her part for the comedy thatevening. When Esther entered with her dressing-gown, she held up herhands in dismay. 

"O Madame, " said she, "I thought you were going to play an amusingpiece!"

"It will be very amusing, " said Brigit, "but this is the way to rehearseit. "

CHAPTER XXVII

The Marquis of Castrillon, meanwhile, was pirouetting sublimely beforethe long mirror in his dressing-room, while his valet, a sour-facedindividual, looked on in great but gloomy interest. The Marquis wassuperbly dressed in a Louis Seize costume--an exact reproduction of theone worn by that monarch on his wedding-day--and he presented a veryfine figure. In features, expression, colouring, and manner it wouldhave been difficult to find, or imagine, a more fascinating puppet. Anunsurpassable actor of noble parts, he seemed created to play the heroin deeds, the poet in thoughts, the lover on all occasions. Confident ofhis attractions, he appeared quite free from vanity: each fresh attitudebecame him better than the last: no light could do less than show theclassic beauty of his head and body. When he laughed, one could admirehis magnificent teeth; when he looked grave, one could enjoy thesplendid serenity of his brow and the passion in his deep brown eyes. Itwas said that his legs alone would have made the plainest man adangerous rival, that his well-cut mouth would have made a monsterirresistible. 

"So you don't think, " said he, as he executed a final bow and kicked offhis shoes because a buckle stuck into his instep--"so you don't think, Isidore, that Her Imperial Highness loves me?"

"I know she doesn't, " replied his man. "I am not going to say that I seemore than I see. "

"It may be that she cannot love, " said the Marquis, "and I don't thinkless of her on that account. These sentimental girls become verymonotonous and sickening. The women whom men love the longest are prim, stand-off women. Have you noticed that, Isidore?"

"No, I haven't noticed that. I haven't noticed much love lasting longfor any kind of person. "

"There's something in your stupidity which refreshes me. I have a strongnotion to marry Her Imperial Highness. I could make her happy. "

"Not you. "

"I tell you I could. She has the oddest effect upon me. No other womanhas ever affected me in such a way. I feel when I am with her as thoughwe were well matched. If I were a King, I would make her my Queen. Imight love others, but I should always say, 'Remember the Queen. TheQueen must be remembered, and honoured, and obeyed in all things. 'Sometimes I see myself--with her--at a kind of Versailles: every onestanding up as we enter: Her Majesty very pale and tall and wonderfulin a blue velvet robe and pearls, I would adore her with a passion asconstant as it was respectful. I should ask in return _une amitié laplus tendre_. Isidore, she is an angel. The sweetness of her soul is inher face--in the very sound of her voice. I am a little too material tobe so sublime in my sentiments as M. De Hausée, but I could be unusuallyfaithful to that charming, beautiful creature. Isn't there a creaseunder my left arm? Hold the glass for me. "

Isidore held the glass while Castrillon, with knit brows, studied theback view of his coat. 

"The coat is perfect, " said Isidore; "you have no heart or you wouldnever find fault with such a back. "

"Would you call me heartless?"

"I couldn't call you anything else, " replied the valet, bluntly. 

"Then why have you been with me, cat-fish, ever since I was born?"

The Marquis had a stock of names for his servant, none of which heemployed unless he felt in a good humour. Owl-pig, hog-mouse, ape-dog, rat-weasel, and cat-fish were the highest expressions of his amiabilitytoward the man who had been his ill-tempered, dishonest, impudent, andtreacherous attendant all the years of his life. 

"You know, mule-viper, " he continued, "that no one else would keep youfor five minutes. You are a liar, a thief, and a traitor. Yet I endureyou. I agree that I must be either heartless or an idiot to put up withsuch a rogue. "

Isidore grew livid, muttered blasphemies under his breath, and put pinkcotton-wool in the toes of his master's dancing-shoes. Castrillon thenkicked him into the adjoining room and resumed his gymnastic exercises. At the end of half an hour, the man re-entered carrying a notefastidiously between his left thumb and forefinger. 

"Is that for me?" asked the Marquis, who was in the act of turning adouble somersault with much agility. 

"It is for Monsieur. "

"Then read it aloud while I stand on my head. "

Isidore tore it open and began to read as follows:--

"_Do not misjudge me----_"

"Stop!" exclaimed Castrillon, falling upon his feet at once; "that isfrom a woman. Why didn't you say so?"

"It is from Madame Parflete, " replied Isidore. 

"Impossible!" said Castrillon, snatching it from his hand; "impossible!"

He read the letter, flushed to the roots of his hair, and kicked Isidorefor the second time. 

"You beast!" said he; "where did you get this? It is her writing, butshe never wrote it--never on God's earth! Where did you get it?"

"It was given to me by one of her servants. "

"Why the devil do you tell me such lies?" exclaimed the young man in afury; "it's some d----d practical joke in the most infernal bad taste, and, by God! I have a mind to shoot you. "

Castrillon was not given to the utterance of vain threats, and his angerwas so great that the wretched Isidore, shaking, whining, and cursing, edged round the room with his back to the wall and his eyes fixed on hismaster. 

"Stand still, will you?" continued the Marquis; "I want to hear a littlemore. How much were you paid for giving me this twaddle? Answer methat. "

"Two guineas!"

"Two? I'll bet you had twenty. Stand still, I tell you, or I'll kick youagain. Do you expect me to believe that Mrs. Parflete's servant gave youtwenty guineas?"

"No, I don't, " answered Isidore. "I don't expect you to believeanything. But if that isn't Madame Parflete's writing, whose writing isit?"

"That is just what I mean to find out, " replied Castrillon, "and that iswhy I won't shoot you till it suits my convenience. "

Isidore, who had a venomous attachment to the Marquis, burst into tears. For many generations their respective ancestors had stood in therelation, each to the other, of tyrant and dependent. Isidore's fatherhad robbed, cheated, deceived, and adored Castrillon's father; thefathers of these two reprobates had observed the same measure ofwhippings and treacheries, and so it had been always from the firstregistered beginnings of the noble and the slavish house. But an Isidorehad never been known to leave a Castrillon's service. The hereditary, easy-going forbearance, on the one hand, which found killing lesstedious than a crude dismissal, and the hereditary guilty conscience, onthe other, which had to recognise the justice of punishment, kept theconnection rudely loyal. 

"I detest you, " said Castrillon; "I hate the sight of you. "

Isidore blubbered aloud, and accepted the information as a turn for thebetter in the tide of his master's wrath. 

"Who gave you that letter?"

"Well, if you must know, it was Signor Mudara. "

"Mudara? Then Mudara wrote it. I'll wring his neck. "

"I'll wring his neck, too--if he has tried any of his games on me, "sobbed Isidore. "But it may not be a game. You are always so hasty. "

Castrillon read the letter through once more. 

"I can't believe that she wrote it, " he said. "I'll swear she didn't. "

"And why?"

"Because the style is not in keeping with her character, blockhead! Shedoes not ask me--or any one else--to visit her at two o'clock in themorning. "

A revolting smile made the valet's loose-hanging, sullen lips quiverwith emotion. 

"No, that is not Madame's style. She is too clever. But does that affectthe opportunity!"

"What opportunity?"

"You have the letter. It is for Madame herself to deny thehandwriting--not you. Why should you, of all people, think it a joke?Why not act upon it? Why not ask her what it means?"

"At two in the morning? I have no wish to compromise Madame--not theleast. She is too rich to compromise. She is the sort of lady onemarries. Tell Mudara, with my compliments, he must understand gentlemenbefore he can play successful tricks upon them. "

"I will take my oath that I am not sure it is a trick, " answeredIsidore. 

Castrillon studied the letter for a third time. 

"Here and there, " he said, "it has the ring of her voice, and the wordsare the words she uses. "

"With such a justification in my pocket, I know what I should do, "mumbled Isidore. 

"So do I. But you are the scum of the earth, and what you would, orwouldn't do, could only interest the hangman. "

The Marquis locked the note in his dressing-case, and handed his keys, with his usual simplicity, to Isidore. 

"I do not propose to tire myself with this nonsense before the play, "said he. "Get my raw eggs and milk. "

 * * * * *

At nine o'clock that evening, a brilliant company were gathered in theSalle de Comédie. Most of the Foreign Ambassadors, and about fiftyillustrious personages of great social importance, were present. Princed'Alchingen had resolved that the daughter of Henriette Duboc shouldhave every opportunity of making a successful _début_ in England. He hadsprinkled most judiciously among his guests a few accredited experts invarious departments of knowledge, and these he hoped would leadappreciation into the right channel by explaining, at fit intervals, just why Mrs. Parflete was beautiful and just where her art had itsespecial distinction. The play itself--_La Seconde Surprise del'Amour_--by Pierre de Marivaux, was quite unknown to the audience. Brigit and Castrillon had appeared in it at Madrid, and descriptions oftheir success were whispered through the room. The story of her birth, her unhappy marriage, her adventures in Spain, and her relations with DeHausée had quickened curiosity to the highest pitch. Was she really soyoung? was she really so pretty? was she going on the public stage, orwould she remain an accomplished, semi-royal amateur? No one referredopenly to the late Archduke Charles, but the facts that Madame Duboc hadbeen his Canonical wife, that Mrs. Parflete was the one child of theirunion, kept the whole aristocratic assembly thrilled with the sense oftaking part in something as distinguished as a Court function, asexciting as a Court scandal, and as bewildering as a Court conspiracy. Astring orchestra--conducted by Strauss himself--played French melodiesof the eighteenth century. Would there be any dancing? would she sing?Henriette Duboc had been compared, as a dancer, to La Guimard, said SirPiers Harding to the Duchess of Lossett. And who was La Guimard? askedthe Duchess. And was Mrs. Parflete at all like her mother? And did shebear the extraordinary resemblance, _of which so much had been made_, toMarie Antoinette? Sir Piers felt bound to own that the likeness wasremarkable. And this de Hausée--what of him? Had Sir Piers seen the oddannouncement, about his name and antecedents, in the _Times_? TheDuchess didn't know what to think. It was all so very odd, but mostinteresting, of course. Was M. De Hausée, by any chance, in theaudience? No. Well, perhaps it was better taste on his part to keepaway. The bell rang. All eyes turned toward the blue satin curtains;they moved: the lights were lowered; the violins played a languorousair: with a rustle--not unlike that caused by the movement of wings--thecurtains were drawn back and disclosed an empty garden. Then, followingthe stage direction, the Marquise entered "_tristement sur la scène_. "The entrance was made quietly, and, for a breathless second, no onerealised that the heroine of the evening had at last appeared. HerGrace of Lossett began to fear she felt a little disappointed when, inthe nick of time, a great poet, who sat near her, murmured, "Divine. "

But at this point we may quote from the _Memoirs_ of Lady JuliaBabington:--

 _Mrs. Parflete's personal appearance caused an immediate furore. Many disagreed about her claims to perfect beauty, but these hostile feelings did not last longer than five minutes. She was an extremely pretty woman; rather tall for her slight proportions, but elegant to a surprising degree. The extraordinary charm of her acting, her voice, her countenance, and her accent were delightful. It would have been impossible to display more grace, simplicity, and ingenuousness than she did: she gave several touches of pathos in a manner to make one cry, and to quite enchant all who bad taste enough and mind to appreciate her inimitable talent. _

And again in the Letters of Charlotte, Lady Pardwicke, we read:--

 _If Mrs. Parflete can be called handsome, it is certainly a _figure de fantasie_. She has a clear complexion, is young, tall; her manners are _doucereuses_, for, besides being a beauty, she has pretensions, I understand, to _bel-esprit_. The majority of those present were undeniably captivated by her peculiar fascination. _

Augustus Barfield has the following remarks in his famous Journal:--

 _There were no two opinions about the success of the _débutante_. We had been led to expect a good deal, but fortunately every description proved inaccurate, so, while she utterly failed to realise any single preconceived idea, she had the great advantage of appearing as some one wholly new. Rumour had prepared me equally for a St. Elizabeth, a Mademoiselle Mars, a Marie-Antoinette, a Récamier, or a Sophie Arnould. She resembled none of these ladies--being far more tragic in her nature than the rather sensual Queen of France, and she is clearly an uncommon individual in her own right. The women will squabble about her looks; the men will have views about her figure: all must agree that her fortune on the stage is assured. A more pleasing performance I never saw. Love, innocence, tenderness, grief, joy, petulance, uncertainty, modesty, despair--every feminine attribute, in fact, showed to admiration in her expressive features. Voice, bewitching. Gestures, exquisite. All, in fact, was truly enjoyable. I would not have missed the evening on any account. _

Orange, it is true, had not joined the general company. But Princed'Alchingen for reasons of his own, however, had offered the young man aseat in the one small box which had a gilded _grille_ before it and wasso made that it seemed part of the massive decoration. 

"You cannot be seen, " said the Prince; "I won't tell her that you arepresent; and I give you my word of honour that I won't tell anybody--noteven my wife. "

The temptation was irresistible. Robert accepted the invitation, and ashe watched the play, it seemed to him that he had never known Brigittill that evening. He had seen her in dreams--yes; and talked to her indreams, yes; but now at last she lived--a real creature. Lost in thepart, she was able to throw aside the self-restraint which had givenher always a cold, almost sexless quality. Her face betrayed a hundredchanging emotions: the youth, strength, and passion so severelyrepressed in her own life came out, though still controlled, with fulland perfect harmony in her art. It was one of those consummaterevelations of temperament which, in silent or inactive lives, nevercome till the last hours before death--when in one look or one utteranceall the time lost and all the long-concealed feelings take theirreparation from existence. But with those who may express their truecharacters through the medium of some creative faculty, the illuminatedmoment comes at a psychic crisis--not to enforce the irony of death butto demonstrate and intensify the richness of humanity. The knowledgewhich depends upon suffering, and, in a way, springs from it, is good, yet it must always be incomplete. Happiness has its light also, and inorder to get the right explanation of any soul, or to understand theeternal meaning of any situation, one must have had at least a few gladhours, felt the ecstasy of thoughtless joy, drifted a little while withthe rushing, unhindered tide. As Robert, behind the _grille_, watchedthe animated, beautiful girl who seemed to typify the very springtime ofthe world, he felt he had peered too long at love and life through bars. He would have to break them, get on the other side, and join in thedazzling action. How unreal and far-away seemed all grief, remorse, oranxiety from that brilliant scene! Brigit was laughing, singing, dancing--fulfilling, surely enough, her real vocation. What! atseventeen, was she to sit pale, silent, tearful, and alone? At his age, was he to look on--with a dead heart and unseeing eyes, murmuring wordsof tame submission to a contemptuous Fate? His whole nature rose up inrevolt, and the self he had once abdicated rushed back to him, howlingout taunts which were not the less bitter because they were false. Notpausing to wonder whether the present were a profanation of the past, orthe past an insipid forecast of the present, he was conscious only thata change--perhaps a terrible change--had taken place in his mind--achange so sudden and so violent that it had paralysed every power ofanalysis and reflection. Imaginative love--made up of renunciation andspirituality, gave way to the fierce desire to live, to silence theintolerable wisdom of the conscience, and learn folly for a space. Hewas madly jealous of Castrillon, who gazed into Brigit's eyes anduttered his lines with the most touching air of passionate devotion. Sheseemed to respond, and, in fact, their joint performance had thatdelicate, irresistible abandon--apparently unconscious andunpremeditated--which is only possible between two players who are notin love with each other. Where there is actual feeling, there is alwaysa certain awkwardness and want of conviction (partly caused by theinadequacy of the diagram in comparison with the reality), and thecharm, so far as art is concerned, is wholly lost. An acted love was theonly love possible between Brigit and Castrillon; hence its sincerity onthe stage, where, as a merely assumed thing, it harmonised perfectlywith its artificial surroundings--the canvas landscape, the paintedtrees, the mechanical birds, and the sunlight produced by tricks ofgauze and gas. But Orange did not stop to consider this. It was enoughand too much to see his "sad spirit of the elfin race" completelytransformed. Was this the child-like, immature being of their strangevisit to Miraflores? That whole episode seemed a kind of phantasy--aMidsummer Night's music--nothing more, perhaps something less. The verytitle of the play--_The Second Surprise of Love_--carried a mockingsignificance. Sometimes the soul speaks first, sometimes the sensesfirst influence a life, but the turn, soon or late, must inevitably comefor each, and the man or woman, sick of materialism, who begins tosuspect that the unseen world and its beauty is an inheritance morelasting and more to be desired than all the vindictive joys of thisprison-house, has no such bitterness as the idealist who finds himselfbrought into thrilling touch with the physical loveliness, the actualenchantment, the undeniable delight of certain things in life. Thequestions, "What have I missed? What have I lost? What birthright have Irenounced?" are bound to make themselves heard. They beat upon the heartlike hail upon the sand--and fall buried in the scars they cause. Things of the flesh may and do become dead sea fruit; but things of thespirit often become stale and meaningless also. What is more weary thana tired mind? What joys and labours are more exhausting than those ofthe intellect, and the intellect only? Does an idle week in summer everbeget more lassitude or such disgust of life as a month--alone withbooks--in a library? Dissatisfaction and satiety, melancholy and fatigueshow as plainly in the pages of à Kempis as they do in Schopenhauer, asthey do in Lucretius, as they do in St. Bernard, as they do inMontaigne, in Marcus Aurelius, in Dante, in St. Teresa. They are, indeed, the ever-recurrent cries in human feeling, the ever-recurrentphases in human thought. Uninterrupted contentment was never yet foundin any calling or state; the saints were haggard with combats; sleep, the most reposeful state we know, has its fearful sorrows, hideousterrors, pursuing uncertainties. Robert's spirit, stimulated byjealousy, played round these reflections, common enough at all times, but, as all common things, overwhelming at the first moment of theircomplete realisation. The original frame of his mind joined a defianceof formal precedent and an intense openness to every fine pleasure ofsense with an impatience of all that makes for secrecy and an abhorrenceof the substitutes which are sometimes basely, sometimes madly, acceptedin default of true objects. He could not desire the star and findsolace in the glow-worm--pursue Isolde and lag by the way with MollFlanders. It was true that he had resolved to put stars and Isolde alikefrom his life. It was true that he had bound himself to certain fairambitions beyond the determinations of calculation and experience. Itwas true that he had resolved to sacrifice this world to the next. Heknew the claims which the world to come has upon us. But did he know theworld he was renouncing? How that doubt opened the way to furtherdoubts! Was he a fool for his pains? Was an enfeebling and afflicting ofthe natural man so necessary to the exaltation of the soul? Was the soulin itself so weak that it could only rest decently in a sick body? Couldit only wish for something greater than this earth can give by beingartificially saddened?

Such questions have their answers, but they do not occur very readily toyoung men hopelessly in love and half out of their wits with jealousy. He might have taken refuge in prayer, but at that moment he did not wantto pray. He wanted to think about himself, to be himself throughout theentire reach of his consciousness, to lose himself in the tempest ofemotion which seemed to drive out, beat, and shatter every hindrance toits furious sweep. A smouldering fire is for a while got under, and yetby suppression is but thrown in, to spread more widely and deeply thanbefore. So his fatal affection, perhaps pitilessly fought down in thefirst instance--asserted its power--its power for evil. Not to love wasnot to live. He was dead while he lived. He could not find peace in aninvisible world of which he did not see any more even a shadow roundabout him. _Shall not the day of the Lord be darkness and not light?even very dark, and no brightness in it?_ He did not believe that. Whatmiserable scruples to torment, blind, and pollute the soul! Pascal haswritten that there are thousands who sin without regret, who sin withgladness, who feel no warning and no interior desire not to sin. Theydoubted, hated, loved, acted, felt, and thought just as they pleased. Perhaps they were not happy, but if they received the punishment ofwrong-doing, the wrong at least was committed out of fetters andjoyously. It is not until men find themselves assailed by a strong wishthat they perceive how very still and very small, all but inaudible, thestill, small voice can be. A moment comes when one ceases to think--onewills, and if one is able and the will is sufficiently determined, thepurpose is carried into effect. Temptations to steal, to lie, todeceive, to gamble, to excess in drink and the like cannot approach acertain order of mind. But the craving for knowledge and a fullerlife--either in a spiritual or the human way--is implanted ineradicablyin every soul, and while it may rest inert and seem nullified in a kindof apathy, the craving is there--to be aroused surely enough at somedangerous hour. And of all the dangerous hours in life, the hour ofdisappointed love is the most critical. Calm spectators of mortal follywho have been satisfactorily married for twenty years and more, who havesons to provide for and daughters to establish, cherish a disdain oflove-stories and boast that they have no patience with morbidity. Love--which put them into being and keeps the earth in existence--seemsto all such a silly malady peculiar to the sentimental in early youth. So they put the First Cause--in one of its many manifestations--in thewaste-paper basket, asking each other what will become of Charles if hecannot find a rich wife, and poor Alice, if she cannot entrap a suitablehusband. But there are others who look on life with some hope ofunderstanding it truly, in part, at any rate, and these know, perhaps byexperience, perhaps by sympathy, that whereas bodily disturbances maypass away leaving little or no effect upon the general health, allmental tumults are perpetual in their consequences: they never die outentirely, and they live, sometimes with appalling energy, sometimes withgnawing listlessness, to the end of an existence. Robert, in thejudgment of his intellect and his senses, had found his ideal. Brigitdid not belong to "the despised day of small things"; she was the womanof his imagination--the well-beloved, and having gained her, was he tosay--Farewell? It seemed so. Meanwhile, the graceful, swaying dialoguerippled between the players on the stage; the smiling audience, hushedwith interest, gazed at the delightful beings before them; theexquisite Marquise had uttered her two last speeches--

 "_Je ne croyois pas l'amitié si dangereuse. _"

and--

 "_Je ne me mêle plus de rien!_"

Lubin brought the performance to an end by the final utterance--

 "_Allons de la joie!_"

The curtain fell--to rise again a dozen times. Orange did not hear thedoor of the box being opened. Prince d'Alchingen came in and put a handon the young man's shoulder. 

"Would you like to see her?" he whispered. "I can arrange it. No oneneed know. "

But the training of a lifetime and constant habits of thought werestronger still than any mood. 

"No, " said Robert, shortly, "I won't see her. I must get back to Londonat once. "

CHAPTER XXVIII

The Prince looked at him in astonishment. 

"You can't get to London to-night, " said he; "there are no trains. "

"I can walk. "

"It is thirty-five miles. "

"I am accustomed to long walks. "

"At any rate you will have some supper first--in my littlebreakfast-room. Don't refuse, because I want you to meet Castrillon. "

"Castrillon! I should like to meet Castrillon. "

"Then I will tell him. You and he can take supper together. He doesn'twant to join the big party. He has the artist's detestation of thechattering mob. How well he plays! And what a triumph for--Madame!"

"A great triumph. "

"This corridor leads to my tiny cupboard--the merest cupboard! Followme. " They went through several doors and up several small staircasestill they reached a small apartment furnished in old blue damask, heavily fringed with tarnished gold and silver decorations. 

"A few souvenirs of my hereditary castle in Alberia, " explained thePrince; "they relieve my sense of exile. "

He walked across the floor and tapped on what appeared to be a portionof the wall. 

"We are here, " said he. 

The secret door was opened, and Castrillon, still wearing his costume asthe Chevalier, joined them. If one may believe Prince d'Alchingen'saccount of this unfortunate meeting, the young men greeted each otherwith composure. D'Alchingen declares that he studied Orange to thedepths of his soul, and he does him the justice to say that he did notmake a movement or utter a word which denoted the least emotion. Therewas not any sort of alteration in his countenance, and he led theconversation with a tranquillity and a gaiety really enchanting. Whenthe supper was served, His Excellency had no hesitation in leaving therivals together--so convinced was he that they would remain on goodterms. 

"M. De Castrillon, " said Orange, when the Prince had gone, "I cannot sitdown at supper with you. We have to settle an old score. "

Castrillon bowed:

"I am here to learn your wishes. I have heard from several sources thatyou wished to see me. If you have anything to say, pray say it quickly, because--I have an appointment with Mrs. Parflete. "

"Will you do me the favour to leave that lady's name out of thediscussion?"

"I see no reason why I should do you favours, M. De Hausée. But I amquite ready to atone for my indifference by any course of action whichcould satisfy the most scrupulous delicacy. "

"There is but one course of action open to us. "

"I shall be happy to have the honour of meeting you on your own terms. But, " he added, contemptuously, "we are both wasting our time over aworthless woman. She was seen leaving your lodgings on Wednesday last. Ihave just heard this. And I received, before the play began thisevening, a letter from her fixing a _rendez-vous_ for two o'clock. Ifyou doubt me I can show you the letter. I am as much disappointed as youare. She has fooled us both. Before God I could have sworn she was areligious and modest woman. "

His chagrin was so genuine that it was impossible to doubt his goodfaith. 

"It is a lie, " said Orange; "she was never at my lodgings. "

"I don't call _you_ a liar, M. De Hausée, but I can prove my words, whereas it might be difficult to prove yours. I can show you theletter. "

"She never wrote it. "

Castrillon sat on the edge of the table, and poured out some wine. 

"That is what I said, " he replied, "when I read it. So long as we aregoing to fight, let it be because we hate each other, and not because wehave both been deceived by the same prude. "

"In other words, " said Orange, quietly, "you wish to drive a goodbargain, knowing that whether you utter one insult or twenty, I can butfight you once. "

"_A l'outrance_, however, " answered Castrillon, dipping a biscuit intothe glass. 

"Yes, _à l'outrance_. "

"This being the case, let me tell you a few of my ideas. You find lifevery hard. I find it altogether amusing. I don't love a woman the lesswhen I cease to honour her. I don't honour a man the less when I detesthim. If you should kill me, M. De Hausée, it will be the mostrespectable occurrence in my immortality. But if I should kill you, itwill be the vile conclusion of an exemplary career. "

"Your conversation is most entertaining, Monsieur. I am, unhappily, inno mood to listen to it. May I ask you to meet me to-morrow with yoursecond at three o'clock at Calais? We can then go on to Dunkerque andsettle this difference. "

"I am perfectly agreeable. "

They arranged a few more details and parted. The interview, which tookplace in French, is not easily reproduced in English. Orange wrote oneaccount of the scene, and Castrillon confided another to Princed'Alchingen, and the above is probably as nearly as possible a faithfuldescription of what actually passed. 

Robert left Hadley Lodge, and plunged through the darkness towardLondon. He reached Vigo Street about seven o'clock in the morning. Itwas Sunday, and the streets were silent. He let himself into the housewith a latch-key, and groped his way up the creaking unlit staircase. Onentering his room, the draught between the open window and the door setall his papers whirling from his writing-table, and, by a strangeaccident, dislodged his crucifix from its nail. It fell to the ground, and when he picked it up, the small Figure was broken. This accidentseemed an ill omen, but he put it from his thoughts, and scrawled ahasty letter to Charles Aumerle, asking him to be his second. This hedelivered himself at Aumerle's chambers in St. James's Place, sayingthat he would call for an answer at nine. But Aumerle, ever fond ofadventures, was at Vigo Street at half-past eight. 

"If you are bent upon it, " said he, "I will do everything in my power tosee it through. I think you are quite right. Every one will say thesame. "

The two left for Calais by the first boat that morning. Castrillon, andIsidore, and a young Frenchman, M. De Lamoignon, were on board also. AtCalais the two seconds conferred, and the duel was arranged to takeplace in a field near Dunkerque on the following morning. On thefollowing morning, the four men met. The combatants were placed atfifteen paces from each other. They fired simultaneously and Castrillonfell--mortally wounded. 

CHAPTER XXIX

Brigit returned on Monday to Pensée at Curzon Street. It was theanniversary of Lord Fitz Rewes's death. The two women went to Catesby, where they visited his grave together, prayed together, and, in thequiet evening, sat by the library fire. 

"This is a great contrast for you after all the excitement on Saturdaynight, " said Pensée. "You are full of surprises, Brigit. Few younggirls, having made such a brilliant success, would care to spend theirtime with poor, dull women like me. They would naturally wish to enjoythe triumph. "

Brigit's eyes filled with tears. 

"I know what you mean, _cher coeur_, " she answered, "but there are notriumphs for any artist. We suffer and we work--sometimes we are able toplease. But we suffer and work because we must; whereas we please by themerest accident. "

"That is true, no doubt. One might as well speak of a successful saintas a successful artist. Every saint is not canonized, and every artistis not praised. But surely appreciation is a help. "

"Yes, dearest; and I am grateful for it. And it gives encouragement toone's friends!"

"Let us suppose that they had not cared for your acting, dear child. What then?"

"I should have known that it was my vocation just the same. Don'tbelieve that I shan't have my full share of doubts and struggles. Thislittle first step makes me the more anxious about my next. "

The older woman looked at her, and sighed deeply. 

"You are too young to know life so well! I am sure you have sufferedmore severely than any of us--who say more and cry more. Your face haschanged a good deal in the last day or two. In one way, it isn't sopretty as it was. "

"No one can look quite so plain as I can look, Pensée, " she answered, laughing. 

"Let me finish what I had in my mind! You are not so pretty--not so muchlike a picture. But when I see you now, I don't think about yourfeatures at all. I watch your expressions--they suggest the whole worldto me--all the things I have thought and felt. Rachel's face is likethat. I am sure now that you were meant to be an actress. I have beenvery stupid. How I wish I understood you better, and could be more of afriend. I don't understand Robert entirely. Do you?"

"Yes, I understand him. "

"I wonder how you came to love each other. I suppose it happened for thebest. But it seems such a pity"--she paused and then repeated thewords--"it seems such a pity that all doesn't come right--in theold-fashioned way. "

"It has come right, dear, " said Brigit; "perfectly right. "

"You try to think so. "

"I know it. His father sinned, and my father sinned. We were born forunhappiness. Unhappiness and misgivings are in our very blood. "

"But how unjust!"

"No, dearest, on the contrary, it is strict justice. The laws of theuniverse are immutable. You might as well ask that fire should only burnsometimes--that it may be water, or air, or earth to suit sentimentaloccasions. "

"I don't like to see you so sensible--it's--it's _unlikely_. "

Brigit smiled at the word--a favourite one with Pensée when persons andevents differed from the serene, unreasoned fiction which she called herexperience. 

"How can you call anything unlikely?" asked the girl. "I ought never tohave been born at all, and Life has made no provision for me. She isboisterous and homely--like a housekeeper at an inn. She doesn't knowme, and she has prepared no room for me. But I may rest on thestaircase--that's under shelter at least. "

"What whimsical ideas, darling!"

"Ah, to feel as I feel, you must have had my parents. You mustn'tsuppose that I woke up one morning and saw the reason for all mytroubles. The reason did not come as though it were the sun shining intothe room. Oh, no! I found no answer for a long, long time. But I feel itnow. My father could not take me into his world, and my mother'sworld--_I_ could not take. They wished to know that I was protected, sothey found some one who knew the story, and knew both worlds. I wasgrateful, because I didn't understand. And when I understood I was stillgrateful, but I couldn't accept the terms. My marriage was not soterrible as many marriages. Yet it was terrible enough. Don't let ustalk of it, Pensée. It is hopeless to quarrel with logic. Science iscalm--as calm as the hills. "

"And Robert?" said the older woman. "What about Robert?"

"His father was a Dominican. The Church will have her own again. Bequite sure of that!

 _'Thy justice is like the great mountains. Thy judgments are a great deep. '_

In God's way, all will come right. Every debt must be paid. "

Although they had arranged to journey back to London the following day, the woods and gardens looked so fair, the peace of that house was sogreat, that they lingered there till Wednesday. Brigit was unusuallysilent. She sat for hours at the library window looking across theChannel toward France, her countenance drawn and white, all itsloveliness departed. 

Once she spoke--

"I know that Robert is in sorrow. "

"Are you anxious? Shall I write?" asked Pensée, secretly troubled also. 

"No, I am not anxious. There is sorrow, but I am not anxious. "

Her room adjoined Pensée's, and, in the night, Pensée, sleepless, heardher walking to and fro, with even steps, till sunrise. When they met inthe morning, Brigit seemed to have aged by ten years. Her youthreturned, but the character of her face had altered for ever. She wasnever called pretty again. It was said that she varied and dependedwholly on her moods. She could make herself anything, but nature hadgiven her little more than a pair of eyes, a nose, and amouth--indifferent good. Lady Fitz Rewes was appalled at thetransformation. Remembering stories of the last dreadful touches ofconsumption, she feared for the girl's health. "She will die beforelong, " she thought. But death can occur more than once in one life. Thepassing away of every strong emotion means a burial and a grave, achange, and a resurrection. The tearful, dusty, fiery, airy process mustbe endured seventy times seven and more, and more again--fromeverlasting to everlasting. And the cause is nothing, the motives arenothing, the great, great affliction and the child's little woe passalike through the Process--for the Process belongs to the eternal law, whereas the rest is of the heart's capacity. 

The way to the city--through the beautiful south of England, beautifulat all seasons of the year and sad also at all seasons--broughtsomething which resembled calm to both their minds. Dwellings closelypacked together destroy, or disturb, the finer vision of the grandeur, sternness, and depth of life. At Catesby, the solitude and the wavesexercised their power over the spirit, diverting it from trivialspeculations to awe and wonder. There, where the unseen could movefreely and the invisible manifest itself on the perpetual rocks, thetowering trees, the still green fields, and the vast acres of the sea, one could hear the dreaming prophet proclaim the burden of the Lord; andthe voice of mirth and the voice of gladness, the voice of thebridegroom and the voice of the bride, the sound of the mill-stones andthe light of the candle mattered not. But the kingdom of all theworlds--the worlds and habitations not made with hands--rose up as thereal theatre of man's destiny and the fit measure of his achievements. It is that sense of the eternity of consequences--and that senseonly--which can satisfy the human heart. Time is too short, this planetis too small, and this mortal body is too weak for the surging thoughts, the unintelligible desires of the soul. Nothing less than infinity canhallow emotions: their passingness--which seems the rule in the feverand turmoil of city life--is not their abatement but their degradation. Change they must, but perish utterly they may not. 

The women travellers, as the lights of the capital grew more numerous, and the roar of the traffic louder and more constant, drew back withinthemselves, assuming, unconsciously, the outward bearing--fatigued, sceptical, and self-distrustful--of the town-bred. When they reachedCurzon Street, the two heaps of letters, the telegrams and cards on thehall-table symbolised crudely enough the practical side of dailyaffairs. One name--an unknown one--among the many engraved on the whitescraps caught Brigit's attention at once:

 _The Rev. J. M. Foster. _

"That gentleman is a priest, Madam, " said the butler; "he will callagain this evening. I told him that we expected you and her Ladyshipabout seven. "

For some reason she felt alarmed. All that day and the night before shehad been agitated by an inexplicable dread of strange tidings. She wentto her room, but, without removing her travelling cloak or her hat, shesat down on the edge of her bed, waiting for some summons. Presently itcame. Father Foster was in the library with Lady Fitz Rewes. Would Mrs. Parflete see him? She went down, and Pensée stood watching for her atthe open door. 

"My poor child!" she said, with a sob in her voice, as she drew Brigitinto the room. "My poor child, " she repeated, "Father Foster has come totell us that--that Mr. Parflete died last night. "

The priest stepped forward with the decision, and also the sternkindness, of those accustomed to break hard messages. 

"He was injured in a quarrel, and died from the effect of the wound. Hedeclined to give any particulars of the affair, and I fear we must callit a mystery. He asked me to say that his last words to you were these:_Amate da cui male aveste_--Love those from whom ye have had evil. "

He looked at her compassionately as he spoke, wondering, no doubt, howgreat the evil had been. 

"Can I go to him?" asked Brigit; "where is he?"

"Where he died--in his room at the hotel. "

"I will go with you, " said Pensée. She held Brigit's hand, and exchangeda long glance with Father Foster. 

"Did you say, " she asked, "that he left any letters or papers?"

"He destroyed all his papers, but he has left one letter addressed toyou. He wished me to say, in the presence of Mrs. Parflete, that thishad reference to some false report about her visiting Mr. Orange'slodgings. Mr. Parflete saw the lady who went to Vigo Street, and he didnot know who she was. One thing, however, he did know: he had never seenher before. "

Brigit inclined her head, but remained motionless, where she firsthalted when she entered the room. 

"Did he die in pain?" she asked. 

"I am afraid he suffered greatly. "

"Was his mind at peace?"

"I believe so--from my heart. "

"He had less to fear from God than man. "

"The justice of God is severe, " said the priest, "but He can never makemistakes. The hardest cruelties in this life are the mistakes which wecommit in judging others--perhaps in judging ourselves. "

"The carriage is at the door, " whispered Pensée, touching Brigit's arm. "Shall we go?"

Nothing was said during the drive to the hotel near Covent Garden. Brigit sat with closed eyes and folded hands while Lady Fitz Rewes, lostin thought, stared out of the window. At last the horses stopped. 

"This is the place, " said Father Foster. 

A large gas-lamp hung over the entrance, and two Swiss waiters, withforced solemnity, ushered the party through the hall and up thestaircase. They tapped at a door, listened, from force of habit, for ananswer which never came, and then turned the handle. Parflete's bed hadbeen moved to the centre of the room. There was a table covered with awhite cloth, on which four candles burnt. By the window there was achair littered with illustrated newspapers. 

"The nurse has just gone down to his supper, " explained one of thewaiters, "but _le mort est bien convenable_. "

The dead man had been dressed in a rose-silk shirt embroidered withforget-me-nots. Upon his crossed arms lay a small ivory crucifix. Inplace of his wig he wore a black velvet skull-cap. The face was yellow:the features seemed set in a defiant, ironical smile. Hardship, terror, remorse, and physical agony had left their terrible scars upon hiscountenance. 

Brigit, overcome at the sight of these awful changes, fell weeping onPensée's shoulder. 

"Thank God!" she whispered, "he has no more to fear from men. "

When she grew calmer, she knelt down by the body, and told them that shewould watch there that night. 

"Madness!" exclaimed Lady Fitz Rewes. 

"No, no! I wish to do it. "

The priest stated a few objections, but she remained firm in herresolve. 

"He was my father's friend, " she said, quietly. 

They both noticed that she never once referred to Parflete as herhusband. 

"If you stay, Brigit, I too will stay, " said Pensée. 

"That, dearest, you must decide for yourself. In any case, I cannotleave him. Tell the nurse not to come back. And let me be alone here fora little while. "

Lady Fitz Rewes and Father Foster went downstairs to the coffee-room, and made a pretence of eating dinner. The two talked about thedeplorable marriage, the Orange affair, Brigit's talents. Of course, shewas very young. But Rachel--the great Rachel--made her first triumph atseventeen. 

"One doesn't like to say it, " observed Pensée, "but this death seemsprovidential. If she marries Orange, she will give up the stage. Poorchild! At last it really looks as though she might be happy--like otherpeople. "

"Like other people, " repeated the priest, mechanically. 

"I must send word to my housekeeper that I intend to remain here allnight. And I should like our letters--I had no time to look at them. "

A messenger was despatched, and they resumed their former conversation. 

"I am afraid, " said Pensée, "that poor Mr. Parflete was dreadfullywicked. "

The priest sighed, and made some remarks about the dead man'sintellectual brilliancy:

"He had great learning. "

"Tell me, Father, with all your experience, do you understand life?"asked Pensée, abruptly. 

"Let me take refuge in a quotation--

 _'Justice divine Mends not her slowest pace for pray'rs or cries. '_

I can understand that at least, " answered the priest. 

"How odd that you should speak of justice. Brigit was talking in thesame strain only yesterday. It's a gloomy strain--for a young girl. "

"I don't think so. One shouldn't sentimentalise. Life goes on, itdoesn't halt: it's a constant development. I haven't much patiencewith----"

He stopped short. 

"Pray finish the sentence. "

"Well, I haven't much patience with those who want to linger, and lookback, and cheat time. One must get along. "

Pensée felt annoyed, and began to talk coldly about the housing of thepoor, and winters which she had spent in Florence. 

"Here are your letters, " exclaimed her companion suddenly. 

She turned them over with languid interest, murmuring unconsciously toherself the names of her correspondents. 

"From dear Ethel. Why is she in Edinburgh? I hope her father isn't illagain. Alice. Uncle. Mrs. Lanark. Mary Butler. Prince d'Alchingen. Thattiresome Miss Bates. Mr. Seward. " She paused and flushed deeply. "Robert. "

Then she turned to Father Foster with shining eyes. 

"This letter, " said she, "is from Mr. Orange. Don't you admire hishandwriting?"

"A beautiful hand, certainly. "

"I wonder what he has to say, and why he is abroad. Isn't that a foreignstamp?"

"The post-mark is Paris. "

"So it is. Will you excuse me if I read it. "

She broke the seal, and read the contents, while every vestige of colourleft her face. 

"I can't make it out, " she said; "there must be another letter forBrigit. Will you look?"

He untied the packet, and recognised presently Orange's handwriting onan envelope. 

"You seem rather displeased, " said Pensée; "you think this is all verystrange. It--it isn't a common case. "

"No case is common. "

"Well, you must help me to decide whether I ought to give her thisletter at once. I can't take so much responsibility. "

"Neither can I. She is a perfectly free woman now, at any rate. "

He did not approve of the situation, and he made no attempt to concealhis feelings. His face became set. Pensée thought she detected a certainreprimand in the very tone of his voice. 

"It isn't a common case, " she repeated again. "He says he is on his wayto Rome--to the Jesuits--for a long Retreat, if they will take him. Ifhe knew--what has happened--he might change his mind. "

"What! you would have him turn back?"

"Oh, don't be so hard. "

"I am not hard, " he added more gently. "But would this woman, if shereally loved him, wish him to turn back? And, if there is anything inhim, could he ever be happy in any stopping short of the fullestrenunciation--once resolved on that renunciation?"

"Ah, don't put it that way to her. She has had so much trouble already. Your Church seems so selfish. Forgive me, but I do resent these celibateviews. They are unnatural. "

"I shan't interfere. Take her the letter by all means. She must decidefor herself. "

Pensée rose from the table, and went up the stairs to the room whereBrigit still knelt by Parflete's dead body. 

"Dearest, " said Lady Fitz Rewes, "I think you ought to read this letter. I have had one also. Robert thinks of taking a great step, andperhaps----"

Her glance met Brigit's. 

"No, " said Brigit, under her breath: "no. "

Then, with trembling hands, she read the letter once, twice, threetimes. 

"Say something, " said Pensée, touching her. "Say something, Brigit. "

She smiled and held the letter to the candle flame. It caught fire andburnt away quickly while she held it. 

"Mind your hand--it will catch your hand. "

"I don't feel it, " said Brigit. She bore the scar of that burn always. 

"Say something, " implored Pensée. 

"He is on his way to Rome. He asks me not to write to him. Castrillon isdying. They fought a duel. "

"But of course you will write--now. You must write. "

"Hasn't my love done harm enough already? I will never see him again. Ishall never write to him again. "

"You can't mean that. You can't realise what you are saying. People willlike him all the better for fighting Castrillon. "

"Oh, it isn't the duel, Pensée. He sees his way clearly. He has alwaystried not to see it. I, too, have tried not to see it. But all that isat an end now. "

"And he will renounce his career. "

"Everything! Everything!"

Pensée threw up her hands, and left the room. Father Foster was standingunder a gas-jet at the end of the corridor reading his office. He lookedat Lady Fitz Rewes. 

"She won't stand in his way?" he asked quietly. 

"She won't stand in his way, " she answered. "I hope you realise whatthat means--to her. "

"I hope I can realise what it means to both of them, " said he. 

CHAPTER XXX

In 1879, a distinguished author who was engaged in writing a history ofthe Catholic Movement in England, begged Mr. Disraeli, then Earl ofBeaconsfield, for some particulars, not generally known, of RobertOrange's life. 

He replied as follows:--

 HUGHENDEN MANOR, _Nov. 28, 1879_. 

 MY DEAR F. , --You ask me for an estimate of Monsignor Orange. Questions are always easy. Let me offer you facts in return. The Castrillon duel was a nine days' wonder--much discussed and soon forgotten. Castrillon left a letter with his second, M. De Lamoignon, to the effect that he had offered Orange "intolerable insults" which "no man of honour" could have suffered. Mrs. Parflete's name did not transpire, but Prince d'Alchingen and others gave speculation no industry on the matter. We were at no loss to know the real cause of the quarrel. Orange applied for the Chiltern Hundreds and went into strict retreat for six months. During that time he saw no friends, wrote no letters, read none. I remember his conduct was severely criticised, because the death of Parflete opened out other possibilities of action. He was not a man, however, whom one could order to be this, that, or the other; still less could one reproach him for not being this, that, or the other. It was his faith to believe that salvation rests on the negation and renunciation of personality. He pushed this to the complete suppression of his Will, tenderly considered. I need not detain you on the familiar dogmas of Christianity with regard to the reign of nature and the reign of grace. Your view may be expressed thus:--

 "_Puis-qu'il aime à périr, je consens qu'il périsse, _"

 and you will think that Orange said of Mrs. Parflete, as Polyeucte of his wife:--

 _"Je ne regarde Pauline Que comme un obstacle à mon bien. "_

 This would be an injustice. Orange was, to me, a deeply interesting character. I saw little of him after he entered the priesthood, but his writings, his sermons, and the actual work he accomplished proved conclusively enough that he was right in following--and we were wrong in opposing--his true vocation. The Church received her own again. Rome did not smile at him at first. A de Hausée, however, never yet tapped long at any gate. The family--which had been stirred to fury by his father's trespass--welcomed the son as a prodigal manqué. His aunt, the Princess Varese, left him half of her large fortune. He lived himself in great seclusion and simplicity, and died, as you are aware, of over-work last year. The one friend he corresponded with and occasionally saw was Lady Fitz Rewes. Sara de Treverell did not marry the Duke of Marshire, but three years before Orange's death she took the veil, and is now a Carmelite nun. Many people were amazed at this, but I was not. Mrs. Parflete, Orange never saw again after the night of her performance at Prince d'Alchingen's. Her career continues. From time to time a rumour reaches me that she is about to marry a nobleman, an author, her manager, or an American millionaire. Quite a mistake. She, too, is a visionary, and, I should say, respectable. If you have not seen her act, seize the first opportunity. If you think of writing more than the merest sketch of Orange's strange career, may I suggest the following motto from the _Purgatorio_?--

 "_Cast down the seed of weeping and attend. _"

 Yours very sincerely, my dear F. , BEACONSFIELD. 

UNWIN BROTHERS, THE GRESHAM PRESS, WOKING AND LONDON. 

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AN OUTCAST OF THE ISLANDS

_Crown 8vo. , cloth_, 6s. 

"Subject to the qualifications thus disposed of (_vide_ first part ofnotice), 'An Outcast of the Islands' is perhaps the finest piece offiction that has been published this year, as 'Almayer's Folly' was oneof the finest that was published in 1895.... Surely this is realromance--the romance that is real. Space forbids anything but the merestrecapitulation of the other living realities of Mr. Conrad'sinvention--of Lingard, of the inimitable Almayer, the one-eyedBabalatchi, the Naturalist, of the pious Abdulla--all novel, allauthentic. Enough has been written to show Mr. Conrad's quality. Heimagines his scenes and their sequence like a master; he knows hisindividualities and their hearts; he has a new and wonderful field inthis East Indian Novel of his.... Greatness is deliberately written; thepresent writer has read and re-read his two books, and after puttingthis review aside for some days to consider the discretion of it, theword still stands. "--_Saturday Review. _

II. 

ALMAYER'S FOLLY

_Second Edition. Crown 8vo. , cloth_, 6s. 

"This startling, unique, splendid book. " Mr. T. P. O'CONNOR, M. P. 

"This is a decidedly powerful story of an uncommon type, and breaksfresh ground in fiction.... All the leading characters in thebook--Almayer, his wife, his daughter, and Dain, the daughter's nativelover--are well drawn, and the parting between father and daughter has apathetic naturalness about it, unspoiled by straining after effect. There are, too, some admirably graphic passages in the book. Theapproach of a monsoon is most effectively described.... The name of Mr. Joseph Conrad is new to us, but it appears to us as if he might becomethe Kipling of the Malay Archipelago. "--_Spectator. _

THE EBBING OF THE TIDE by LOUIS BECKEAuthor of "By Reef and Palm"

_Second Edition. Crown 8vo. , cloth_, 6s. 

"Mr. Louis Becke wields a powerful pen, with the additional advantagethat he waves it in unfrequented places, and summons up with it theelemental passions of human nature.... It will be seen that Mr. Becke issomewhat of the fleshly school, but with a pathos and power not given tothe ordinary professors of that school.... Altogether for those who likestirring stories cast in strange scenes, this is a book to beread. "--_National Observer. _

PACIFIC TALES by LOUIS BECKEWith a Portrait of the Author

_Second Edition. Crown 8vo. , cloth_, 6s. 

"The appearance of a new book by Mr. Becke has become an event ofnote--and very justly. No living author, if we except Mr. Kipling, hasso amazing a command of that unhackneyed vitality of phrase that mostpeople call by the name of realism. Whether it is scenery or characteror incident that he wishes to depict, the touch is ever so dramaticand vivid that the reader is conscious of a picture and impressionthat has no parallel save in the records of actual sight andmemory. "--_Westminster Gazette. _

"Another series of sketches of island life in the South Seas, notinferior to those contained in 'By Reef and Palm. '"--_Speaker. _

"The book is well worth reading. The author knows what he is talkingabout and has a keen eye for the picturesque. "--_G. B. Burgin inTo-day. _

"A notable contribution to the romance of the South Seas. "--T. P. O'CONNOR, M. P. , in _The Graphic_. 

PADDY'S WOMAN by HUMPHREY JAMES

_Crown 8vo. _, 6s. 

"Traits of the Celt of humble circumstances are copied with keenappreciation and unsparing accuracy. "--_Scotsman. _

" ... They are full of indescribable charm and pathos. "--_BradfordObserver. _

"The outstanding merit of this series of stories is that they areabsolutely true to life ... The photographic accuracy and minutenessdisplayed are really marvellous. "--_Aberdeen Free Press. _

"'Paddy's Woman and Other Stories' by Humphrey James; a volume writtenin the familiar diction of the Ulster people themselves, with perfectrealism and very remarkable ability.... For genuine human nature andhuman relations, and humour of an indescribable kind, we are unable tocite a rival to this volume. "--_The World. _

"For a fine subtle piece of humour we are inclined to think that 'AGlass of Whisky' takes a lot of beating.... In short Mr. Humphrey Jameshas given us a delightful book, and one which does as much credit to hisheart as to our head. We shall look forward with a keen anticipation tothe next 'writings' by this shrewd, 'cliver, ' and compassionate youngauthor. "--_Bookselling. _

A FIRST FLEET FAMILY: BEING A HITHERTO UNPUBLISHED NARRATIVE OFCERTAIN REMARKABLE ADVENTURES COMPILED FROM THE PAPERS OF SERGEANTWILLIAM DEW, OF THE MARINES by LOUIS BECKE and WALTER JEFFERY

_Second Edition. Crown 8vo. , cloth_, 6s. 

"As convincingly real and vivid as a narrative can be. "--_Sketch. _

"No maker of plots could work out a better story of its kind, norbalance it more neatly. "--_Daily Chronicle. _

"A book which describes a set of characters varied and so attractive asthe more prominent figures in this romance, and a book so full of life, vicissitude, and peril, should be welcomed by every discreet novelreader. "--_Yorkshire Post. _

"A very interesting tale, written in clear and vigorousEnglish. "--_Globe. _

"The novel is a happy blend of truth and fiction, with a purpose thatwill be appreciated by many readers; it has also the most excitingelements of the tale of adventure. "--_Morning Post. _

THE TALES OF JOHN OLIVER HOBBESWith a Frontispiece Portrait of the Author

_Second Edition. Crown 8vo. , cloth_, 6s. 

"The cleverness of them all is extraordinary. "--_Guardian. _

"The volume proves how little and how great a thing it is to write a'Pseudonym. ' Four whole 'Pseudonyms' ... Are easily contained within itsnot extravagant limits, and these four little books have given JohnOliver Hobbes a recognized position as a master of epigram and narrativecomedy. "--_St. James's Gazette. _

"As her star has been sudden in its rise so may it stay long with us!Some day she may give us something better than these tingling, pulsing, mocking, epigrammatic morsels. "--_Times. _

"There are several literary ladies, of recent origin, who have tried tocome up to the society ideal; but John Oliver Hobbes is by far the bestwriter of them all, by far the most capable artist in fiction.... She isclever enough for anything. "--_Saturday Review. _

THE HERB MOON by JOHN OLIVER HOBBES

_Third Edition, Crown 8vo. , cloth_, 6s. 

"The jaded reader who needs sauce for his literary appetite cannot dobetter than buy 'The Herb Moon. '"--_Literary World. _

"A book to hail with more than common pleasure. The epigrammaticquality, the power of rapid analysis and brilliant presentation arethere, and added to these a less definable quality, only to be describedas charm.... 'The Herb Moon' is as clever as most of its predecessors, and far less artificial. "--_Athenæum. _

THE STICKIT MINISTER AND SOME COMMON MEN by S. R. CROCKETT

_Eleventh Edition. Crown 8vo. , cloth_, 6s. 

"Here is one of the books which are at present coming singly and at longintervals, like early swallows, to herald, it is to be hoped, a largerflight. When the larger flight appears, the winter of our discontentwill have passed, and we shall be able to boast that the short story canmake a home east as well as west of the Atlantic. There is plenty ofhuman nature--of the Scottish variety, which is a very good variety--in'The Stickit Minister' and its companion stories; plenty of humour, too, of that dry, pawky kind which is a monopoly of 'Caledonia, stern andwild'; and, most plentiful of all, a quiet perception and reticentrendering of that underlying pathos of life which is to be discovered, not in Scotland alone, but everywhere that a man is found who can seewith the heart and the imagination as well as the brain. Mr. Crocketthas given us a book that is not merely good, it is what his countrymenwould call 'by-ordinar' good, ' which, being interpreted into a tongueunderstanded of the southern herd, means that it is excellent, with asomewhat exceptional kind of excellence. "--_Daily Chronicle. _

THE LILAC SUN-BONNET by S. R. CROCKETT

_Sixth Edition. Crown 8vo. , cloth_, 6s. 

"Mr. Crockett's 'Lilac Sun-Bonnet' 'needs no bush. ' Here is a prettylove tale, and the landscape and rural descriptions carry the exile backinto the Kingdom of Galloway. Here, indeed, is the scent of bog-myrtleand peat. After inquiries among the fair, I learn that of all romances, they best love not 'sociology, ' not 'theology, ' still less, openmanslaughter, for a motive, but just love's young dream, chapter afterchapter. From Mr. Crockett they get what they want, 'hot with, ' asThackeray admits that he liked it. "--Mr. ANDREW LANG in _Longman'sMagazine. _

THE RAIDERS by S. R. CROCKETT

_Eighth Edition. Crown 8vo. , cloth_, 6s. 

"A thoroughly enjoyable novel, full of fresh, original, and accuratepictures of life long gone by. "--_Daily News. _

"A strikingly realistic romance. "--_Morning Post. _

"A stirring story.... Mr. Crockett's style is charming. My Baronitenever knew how musical and picturesque is Scottish-English till he readthis book. "--_Punch. _

"The youngsters have their Stevenson, their Barrie, and now a thirdwriter has entered the circle, S. R. Crockett, with a lively and jollybook of adventures, which the paterfamilias pretends to buy for hiseldest son, but reads greedily himself and won't let go till he hasturned over the last page.... Out of such historical elements andnumberless local traditions the author has put together an exciting taleof adventures on land and sea. "--_Frankfurter Zeitung. _

_SOME SCOTCH NOTICES. _

"Galloway folk should be proud to rank 'The Raiders' among the classicsof the district. "--_Scotsman. _

"Mr. Crockett's 'The Raiders' is one of the great literary successes ofthe season. "--_Dundee Advertiser. _

"Mr. Crockett has achieved the distinction of having produced the bookof the season. "--_Dumfries and Galloway Standard. _

"The story told in it is, as a story, nearly perfect. "--_Aberdeen DailyFree Press. _

"'The Raiders' is one of the most brilliant efforts of recentfiction. "--_Kirkcudbrightshire Advertiser. _

THE GREY MAN by S. R. CROCKETT

_Crown 8vo. , cloth_, 6s. 

_Also, an Edition de Luxe, with 26 Drawings by SEYMOUR LUCAS, R. A. , limited to 250 copies, signed by Author. Crown 4to. , cloth gilt_, 21s. _net. _

"It has nearly all the qualities which go to make a book of thefirst-class. Before you have read twenty pages you know that you arereading a classic. "--_Literary World. _

"All of that vast and increasing host of readers who prefer the novel ofaction to any other form of fiction should, nay, indeed, must, make apoint of reading this exceedingly fine example of its class. "--_DailyChronicle. _

"With such passages as these [referring to quotations], glowing withtender passion, or murky with horror, even the most insatiate lover ofromance may feel that Mr. Crockett has given him good measure, wellpressed down and running over. "--_Daily Telegraph. _

A DAUGHTER OF THE FEN by J. T. BEALBY

_Second Edition. Crown 8vo. , cloth_, 6s. 

"It will deserve notice at the hands of such as are interested in theways and manner of living of a curious race that has ceased to be. "_Daily Chronicle. _

"For a first book 'A Daughter of the Fen' is full ofpromise. "--_Academy. _

"This book deserves to be read for its extremely interesting account oflife in the Fens and for its splendid character study of Mme. Dykereave. "--_Star. _

"Deserves high praise. "--_Scotsman. _

"It is an able, interesting ... An exciting book, and is well worthreading. And when once taken up it will be difficult to lay itdown. "--_Westminster Gazette. _

IN A MAN'S MIND by JOHN REAY WATSON

_Crown 8vo. , cloth_, 6s. 

"We regard the book as well worth the effort of reading. "--_BritishReview. _

"The book is clever, very clever. "--_Dundee Advertiser. _

"The power and pathos of the book are undeniable. "--_Liverpool Post. _

"It is a book of some promise. "--_Newsagent. _

"Mr. Watson has hardly a rival among Australian writers, past orpresent. There is real power in the book--power of insight, power ofreflection, power of analysis, power of presentation.... 'Tis a verywell made book--not a set of independent episodes strung on the threadof a name or two, but closely interwoven to the climax. " _SydneyBulletin. _

"There is behind it all a power of drawing human nature that in timearrests the attention. "--_Athenæum. _

NANCY NOON by BENJAMIN SWIFT

_Second Edition. Cloth_, 6s. 

Some Reviews on the First Edition. 

"'Nancy Noon' is perhaps the strongest book of the year, certainly byfar the strongest book which has been published by any new writer.... Mr. Swift contrives to keep his book from end to end real, passionate, even intense.... If Mr. Meredith had never written, one would havepredicted, with the utmost confidence, a great future for Mr. BenjaminSwift, and even as it is I have hopes. "--_Sketch. _

"Certainly a promising first effort"--_Whitehall Review. _

"If 'Nancy Noon' be Mr. Swift's first book, it is a success of anuncommon kind. "--_Dundee Advertiser. _

"'Nancy Noon' is one of the most remarkable novels of the year, and theauthor, avowedly a beginner, has succeeded in gaining a high position inthe ranks of contemporary writers.... All his characters are delightful. In the heat of sensational incidents or droll scenes we stumble onobservations that set us reflecting, and but for an occasional roughnessof style--elliptical, Carlyle mannerisms--the whole is admirablywritten. "--_Westminster Gazette. _

"Mr. Swift has the creative touch and a spark of genius. "--_ManchesterGuardian. _

"Mr. Swift has held us interested from the first to the last page of hisnovel. "--_World. _

"The writer of 'Nancy Noon' has succeeded in presenting a powerfullywritten and thoroughly interesting story. "--_Scotsman. _

"We are bound to admit that the story interested us all through, that itabsorbed us towards the end, and that not until the last page had beenread did we find it possible to lay the book down. "--_Daily Chronicle. _

"It is a very strong book, very vividly coloured, very fascinating inits style, very compelling in its claim on the attention, and not at alllikely to be soon forgotten. "--_British Weekly. _

"A clever book ... The situations and ensuing complicationsare dramatic, and are handled with originality and daringthroughout. "--_Daily News. _

"Mr. Benjamin Swift has written a vastly entertaining book. "--_Academy. _

MR. MAGNUS by F. REGINALD STATHAM

_Second Edition. Crown 8vo. , cloth_, 6s. 

Some Press Opinions on the First Edition. 

"One of the most powerful and vividly written novels of theday. "--_Nottingham Guardian. _

"A grim, terrible, and convincing picture. "--_New Age. _

"Very impressive. "--_Saturday Review. _

"Distinctly readable. "--_Speaker. _

"A remarkable book. "--_Standard. _

"Full of incident. "--_Liverpool Mercury. _

"One of the most important and timely books ever written. " _NewcastleDaily Mercury. _

"A vivid and stirring narrative. "--_Globe. _

"An exceedingly clever and remarkable production. "--_World. _

"A book to be read. "--_Newsagent. _

"A terrible picture. "--_Sheffield Independent. _

"One of the best stories lately published. "--_Echo. _

"Worth reading. "--_Guardian. _

"A sprightly book. "--_Punch. _

"The story is very much brought up to date. "--_Times. _

"Vivid and convincing. "--_Daily Chronicle. _

"The story is good and well told. "--_Pall Mall Gazette. _

"Ought to be immensely popular. "--_Reynolds' Weekly Newspaper. _

"A most readable story. "--_Glasgow Herald. _

"A brilliant piece of work. "--_Daily Telegraph. _

"The story should make its mark. "--_Bookseller. _

"Admirably written. "--_Sheffield Daily Telegraph. _

"The more widely it is read the better. "--_Manchester Guardian. _

"Will find many appreciative readers. "--_Aberdeen Free Press. _

"Exciting reading. "--_Daily Mail. _

"Can be heartily recommended. "--_Lloyd's Weekly Newspaper. _

"A well-written and capable story. "--_People. _

"Well written. "--_Literary World. _

MRS. KEITH'S CRIME by MRS. W. K. CLIFFORD

With a Portrait of Mrs. Keith by the Hon. John Collier. 

_Sixth Edition. Crown 8vo. , cloth_, 6s. 

"Is certainly the strongest book that Mrs. W. K. Clifford has given tothe public. It is probably too the most popular. "--_World. _

"It is charmingly told. "--_Literary World. _

"A novel of extraordinary dramatic force, and it will doubtless bewidely read in its present very cheap and attractive form. "--_Star. _

"Mrs. Clifford's remarkable tale. "--_Athenæum. _

"Will prove a healthy tonic to readers who have recently been taking acourse of shilling shocker mental medicine.... There are many beautifulwomanly touches throughout the pages of this interesting volume, and itcan be safely recommended to readers old and young. "--_Aberdeen FreePress. _

MASTERS OF MEDICINE edited by ERNEST HART, D. C. L. , Editor of "TheBritish Medical Journal"

_Large crown 8vo. , cloth_, 3s. 6d. _each_. 

 Medical discoveries more directly concern the well-being and happiness of the human race than any victories of science. They appeal to one of the primary instincts of human nature, that of self-preservation. The importance of health as the most valuable of our national assets is coming to be more and more recognised, and the place of the doctor in Society and in the State is becoming one of steadily increasing prominence; indeed, Mr. Gladstone said not many years ago that the time would surely come when the medical profession would take precedence of all the others in authority as well as in dignity. The development of medicine from an empiric art to an exact science is one of the most important and also one of the most interesting chapters in the history of civilisation. The histories of medicine which exist are for the most part only fitted for the intellectual digestion of Dryasdust and his congeners. Of the men who made the discoveries which have saved incalculable numbers of human lives, and which have lengthened the span of human existence, there is often no record at all accessible to the general reader. Yet the story of these men's lives, of their struggles and of their triumphs, is not only interesting, but in the highest degree stimulating and educative. Many of them could have said with literal truth what Sir Thomas Browne said figuratively, that their lives were a romance. Hitherto there have been no accounts of the lives of medical discoverers in a form at once convenient and uniform, and sold at a popular price. The "Masters of Medicine" is a series of biographies written by "eminent hands" intended to supply this want. It is intended that the man shall be depicted as he moved and lived and had his being, and that the scope and gist of his work, as well as the steps by which he reached his results, shall be set forth in a clear, readable style. 

The following is a condensed list of some of the earlier volumes. --

 AUTHOR. TITLE. 

 STEPHEN PAGET _John Hunter_ D'ARCY POWER _William Harvey_ H. LAING GORDON _Sir James Simpson_ JOHN G. MCKENDRICK _Hermann von Helmholtz_ SIR WILLIAM STOKES _William Stokes_ MICHAEL FOSTER _Claude Bernard_ TIMOTHY HOLMES _Sir Benjamin Brodie_ J. F. PAYNE _Thomas Sydenham_ C. L. TAYLOR _Vesalius_

WORKS BY MARTIN A. S. HUME F. R. H. S. , Editor of the "Calendar of SpanishState Papers of Elizabeth" (Public Record Office). 

THE COURTSHIPS OF QUEEN ELIZABETHWith Portraits

_Fourth Edition. Large crown 8vo. , cloth_, 6s. 

"It is undeniably an important addition to the history of theElizabethan period, and it will rank as the foremost authority on themost interesting aspect of the character of the Tudor Queen. "--_PallMall Gazette. _

"A clear and very interesting account. An excellent book. "--_Times. _

"A connected and consistent, though assuredly a most extraordinary, story.... A fascinating picture. "--_Standard. _

"A delightful book. "--_Daily Telegraph. _

THE YEAR AFTER THE ARMADA AND OTHER HISTORICAL STUDIES

_Second Edition. Illustrated. Demy 8vo. , cloth gilt_, 12s. 

"A most valuable and conscientiously written historicalwork. "--_Spectator. _

"The whole book is extremely interesting, and at once instructive andamusing. "--_Speaker. _

"Deserves a wide circulation, and we trust that a proper reward willfollow close upon its merits. "--_Literary World. _

"Major Hume has thrown the most curious and valuable light on the Armadaperiod. Full of delightful sketches of men and things. "--W. L. COURTNEYin _The Daily Telegraph_. 

"A work which adds many a fresh page to English, and one may say toEuropean history.... From first to last the volume is excellent reading, while the entertaining style in which the matter is presented and theundeniable authority of the writer ... Render the book of specialinterest and permanent value. "--_The Morning Post. _

"Quite as good as a novel--and a good deal better, too. The book is sobright and vivid that readers with the common dislike of history mayventure on its pages unafraid. "--ANDREW LANG in _Cosmopolis_. 

SIR WALTER RALEGHBeing Vol. I. Of the series entitled "Builders of Greater Britain, " eachvol. With photogravure frontispiece and map. 

_Large crown 8vo. , cloth_, 5s. _each_. 

"There is not a dull page in it, and, with his skilful telling of it, the story of Raleigh's life and of his times reads like aromance. "--_Pall Mall Gazette. _

SOME WORKS BY REV. E. J. HARDY_"The Murray of Matrimony, the Baedeker of Bliss. "_

HOW TO BE HAPPY THOUGH MARRIED

_Popular Edition, gilt edges, cloth, bevelled boards_, 3s. 6d. 

_Presentation Edition, white vellum, cloth, bevelled boards, gilt edges, in box_, 7s. 6d. 

"An entertaining volume ... The new guide to matrimonialfelicity. "--_Standard. _

"This charming volume ... Wit and wisdom abound in its pages; as for thegood stories, they are almost too plentiful. "--_Spectator. _

_Uniform in style and prices with the foregoing. _

THE FIVE TALENTS OF WOMANA Book for Girls and Young Women

THE BUSINESS OF LIFEA Book for Everyone

_Square imperial 16mo. , cloth_, 3s. 6d. --_Presentation Edition, bevelledboards, gilt edges, in box_, 7s. 6d. 

"Calculated to teach the art of happiness and contentment as well asmere exhortation can teach it. "--_Times. _

"Pleasant as well as profitable reading. "--_Literary World. _

"A host of social subjects are treated in a way at once wise and witty, and in a manner as delightful to read as they are pleasantly'improving. '"--_Daily Telegraph. _

THE SUNNY DAYS OF YOUTHA Book for Boys and Young Men

_Square Imperial 16mo. , cloth_, 3s. 6d. --_Presentation Edition, elegantly bound, bevelled boards, gilt edges_, 7s. 6d. 

"It is an excellent book for a serious-minded boy. "--_Scotsman. _

"The pleasantest reading possible ... This useful littlebook. "--_Educational Review. _

"As well written as it is unquestionably well-intentioned. "--_LeedsMercury. _

FAINT YET PURSUING

_Square Imperial 16mo. Popular Edition. Crown 8vo. , cloth_, 3s. 6d. 

"Will meet with an extensive recognition. "--_Morning Post. _

"Short and sensible ... They form fresh and breezy reading. "--_GlasgowHerald. _

"MANNERS MAKYTH MAN"

_Presentation Edition, imperial 16mo. , cloth, bevelled boards, in box_, 7s. 6d. ; _cloth_, 6s. --_Popular Edition, small square 8vo. , cloth_, 3s. 6d. 

"Good-natured, wholesome, and straightforward. "--_Saturday Review. _

"A really delightful volume, well adapted for familyreading. "--_Christian World. _

THE LOVE AFFAIRS OF SOME FAMOUS MEN

_Imperial 16mo. , cloth_, 3s. 6d. 

WORKS BY PROF. PASQUALE VILLARI

THE LIFE AND TIMES OF GIROLAMO SAVONAROLATranslated by LINDA VILLARI

_New and Cheaper Edition in one volume. Fully Illustrated. Cloth, largecrown_, 7s. 6d. 

"No more interesting book has been issued during the presentseason. "--_Pall Mall Gazette. _

"The most interesting religious biography that we know of in moderntimes. "--_Spectator. _

"A book which is not likely to be forgotten. "--_Athenæum. _

"By far the best book on Savonarola available for Englishreaders. "--_Standard. _

"Is perhaps _the_ book of the publishing season. "--_Star. _

"Sincere, complete, and, upon the whole, well-balanced andcandid. "--_Yorkshire Post. _

"A work of very great value. "--_Scotsman. _

"No more graphic view of the ecclesiastical and social life of ancientItaly has been opened up for us than this of Linda Villari. "--_MorningLeader. _

"As complete and trustworthy as care, judgment, and the fullestinvestigation can make it. "--_Dundee Advertiser. _

"A credit to the publisher. "--_Independent. _

THE LIFE AND TIMES OF NICCOLÒ MACHIAVELLI

_New and Cheaper Edition. Fully Illustrated. Large crown 8vo. , cloth_, 7s. 6d. 

"Indispensable to the serious student of Machiavelli, his teaching andhis times. "--_Times. _

"The fullest and most authoritative history of Machiavelli and his timesever given to the British public. "--_Glasgow Herald. _

"May be regarded as an authority on the times of which it treats.... Thebook is enriched with rare and interesting illustrations, and with somevaluable historical documents. "--_Daily Telegraph. _

BY FRANK HORRIDGELIVES OF GREAT ITALIANS

_Illustrated. Large crown 8vo. , cloth_, 7s. 6d. 

Opinions of the Press. 

"A poetical, romantic, and charmingly written book, which will bepopular with all who love their Italy. "--DOUGLAS SLADEN in _LiteraryWorld_. 

"Able, eloquent, and interesting. "--_Queen. _

Transcriber's Notes:

* Inconsistency in hyphenation is as in the original. 

* Three short footnotes have been moved into the main text, rendered as[Footnote: ... ]

* The layout of the advertising material has been standardised somewhat, and dashes inserted consistently between reviews and their source. (Inmost but not all cases, a dash was present if the source was on the sameline, but not if on a different line. This distinction is impossible topreserve in an e-text. )

* Two misprinted accents on the French have been moved onto the correctletter. 

* Page 161: the first word on the page has been changed from "or" to"for" (there is a gap, and this best fits the context). 

* Page 195: the name "Bevensey" has been changed to "Pevensey" to matchother occurrences in the book. 

* Page 201, first full paragraph: The comma after "masters" is possiblyincorrect (a period or semi-colon would be more grammatically correct)but the original has been retained. 

* Page 354: in the paragraph beginning "In that event", a colon aftersaid has been changed to a semi-colon, in accordance with normalpractice and all other occurrences in the book. 

* Page 376: a reference to "De Hausée" has been changed to "de Hausée"to match every other occurrence.