Robert Orange
effect on any frigid or calculating mind. And Reckage was known to be
supremely selfish. It seemed to Pensee that Sara had behaved very
naturally, very touchingly, through the trying conversation on the
subject of rising men and their marriages. Her demeanour had been
unsurpassable. But it was not in nature that a woman who understood a
man could look on, inactive and indifferent, while he fettered himself
with some damaging influence. Perhaps her ladyship felt the situation
the more keenly, because, much as she loved Mrs. Parflete, she could not
bring herself to think that she was the wife for Robert. She had spent
many weeks refusing admittance to this thought, yet prudence was
prudence, and, by virtue of its stability, it prevailed. The union, even
viewed in the most favourable light, had always seemed imprudent. It was
too hurried. Shocking, mortifying as the possibility of its being
illegal was, Pensee's conviction that Almighty God ordered all things
for the best seemed less a faith and more a matter of pure reason than
was usual in the ordinary run of hard cases which made demands upon her
piety. "Two diamonds do not easily form cup and socket," was an old
saying in her home circle. The more she had seen of Brigit Parflete the
more she had been struck with her--struck with her moodiness, struck
with her contempt for received opinions, her vigour and independence of
will. Was she the wife to further the advance of a man of extraordinary
ability, already much handicapped on the world's course by a proud
spirit, a reckless, impetuous disdain of creatures generally considered
the pink of human excellence? He was passionately in love, and the
strength of this sentiment carried, for the time, every thought of his
being along with it. But love was not unalterable. The change would
surely come. The fever and folly, the exaltation and ardours would fade
into a sacred affection--an instinctive tenderness; yet other interests,
as vital, and in their season more absorbing, would flock into his life.
What then?
Pensee and Reckage did not exchange many words till they found
themselves alone, face to face, in the railway carriage bound for Dover.
Then they looked with wonder at each other, stupefied at the errand on
which they were bound, and the strangeness of the whole proceeding.
Reckage noticed that his companion was attired so correctly and with
such discretion that no one could have told she was a pretty woman. Her
veil was not unusually thick, yet it disguised every charm of expression
and feature. He had bought her a novel, some papers, and a few
magazines; she turned these over listlessly, and murmured, as the train
sped along--
"Of course, I had to come. No one will say a word when the circumstances
are known. I hope poor Renshaw is comfortable in the next carriage."
Reckage replied--
"You have behaved like an angel!"
He probably but half understood Pensee's character: he underrated her
intellect, and he misconstrued her friendship for Orange into a weak
infatuation. Agnes Carillon shared his view on this point, for, as he
and his future bride could never be confidential with each other, they
managed an appearance of intimacy by discussing with great freedom the
private affairs of their friends. Agnes, in the fervour of godliness,
had even seen much that was reprehensible in Lady Fitz Rewes's devotion
to a man who had no idea of marrying her. She had declared that she
could not understand it--an attitude pleasing to her fancy and
gratifying to her pride. Reckage had thought it was not quite clear that
the danger was immediate. Such was his feeling now toward Pensee,
although he was conscious of a certain curiosity with regard to her
motive in taking Brigit's part with such magnificent self-effacement.
This seemed to him unnatural; and although she had impressed him with
the highest opinion of her kindness, he could not believe that a woman
of genuinely tender sensibilities could have approached such an
altruistic height. She was an excellent creature--as creatures went, he
thought, but hard in a feeble way. Then he closed his eyes and called up
the elusive image of Sara de Treverell--very dark, very handsome, with
her superb black hair reaching to her knees--as he had often seen it
when she was a little girl--her blue eyes shining with a strange light,
her lips smiling, her white arms held out....
"Sara may not be a happy girl," said Pensee suddenly, "but she is a
clever one."
Reckage started from his reverie.
"How odd!" he exclaimed, surprised into candour. "I was thinking of her
at that very moment."
Pensee had read as much on his face, but she did not tell him so.
"I feel for her very much," she observed instead. "She must be the
greatest possible comfort to her father, although he may not realise it.
Yet he is forcing on the engagement to Marshire. She keeps up in the
most courageous way, but she has ideals, and no persuasion will induce
her to change them."
He turned red, and said, looking out of the window--
"Ideals do no harm when, for some reason or other, we are unable to
carry them out."
"I cannot imagine what she will do, or how she will bear her life if
things continue as they are."
"What things?"
"She is like a slave to Lord Garrow. She is with him constantly, reading
to him, and doing everything for him. She will be a cruel loss to his
home when she marries."
"I rather revel at the thought of the dismay which will attend her final
capture of Marshire."
"I used to hope that you perhaps----"
He glanced up and smiled with an air of satisfaction.
"I don't like the appearance of measuring myself against Marshire....
But--but he certainly seems, in character, the culminating point of
mediocrity! In fact, Mr. Disraeli, whom I seldom quote, so described
him."
"What a husband for that brilliant, affectionate girl! She likes all
that is simple and grand. A real love--if it were a happy one--would
make her even more charming, and if it caused her suffering, it would
make her even more noble. But failing this, there will be a frightful
void in her life."
Reckage, whose imagination began to play round this thought, replied
with unusual seriousness--
"I should be horribly grieved to see any declension from her better
nature. I think I am getting to think less of mere social power. I feel
more than I used to do that, if one could literally _live_ one's
theories on moral strength, it would be a complete refutation of these
ideas about the influence of money or a big accidental position. Old
Harding was right when he said at luncheon to-day that disinterestedness
counted very highly in the popular vote. The point about Henry Fox's
elopement with Caroline Lennox was sound."
"It would not have been sound," said Pensee, "if Caroline Lennox had
been a third-rate woman. A man can be desperate so long as his choice,
on the whole, justifies, either by her beauty, or her talents, or
something uncommon, an extreme measure. Now, Robert may not have made a
wise choice, but it is certainly a distinguished one. It can be
understood and it commands respect."
"Oh, yes, his is a thorough-going emotion, and one couldn't find a fault
with its object. A strong man is always a man who feels strongly _and_
who can carry his feeling into action. Robert, with all his mysticism,
is never subject to the deep depressions of spirit which usually afflict
men of his gifts. He does not know what it is to be languid; or to have
invincible indecisions. He will die game--even if he does know German
metaphysic backwards!"
She was astonished.
"How well you understand him!"
He leant forward a little and adopted a more confidential tone--
"Sara spoke of him at lunch. Her judgment of men and affairs--for so
young a woman--is nothing short of amazing. I attribute it to the
Asiatic streak on her mother's side. It is a kind of second-sight. What
a wife for a Prime Minister! And Marshire, a fellow of middling ability
and no experience, has had the sense to perceive her qualities!... My
feelings can't be easily defined, nor, indeed, is it necessary they
should.... I have gone so far that I cannot see anything for it but to
go on."
"You mean--in your own marriage?"
He sighed profoundly, remained for several minutes silent, and finally
roused himself with a painful effort.
"There are some griefs which can defy any consolation save that of time.
Time ultimately cures everything. It is a matter of history that I was
once very much attached to Sara."
"I know," murmured Pensee. "I know."
He covered his eyes with one hand and looked through his fingers at her
face, asking himself by what transition he could best arrive at a frank
exposition of his embarrassed sentiments. It seemed to him that she was
intelligent as well as trustworthy, and he felt impelled to call in her
assistance, being sure that, in any cause where love could be pleaded,
she would show a judicious leniency.
"If you have not observed that I am still--too interested, you have not
observed with your usual sagacity," said he.
"I think--if I may say so--that time seems only to deepen a sorrow of
that kind."
"Particularly when it is associated--as in this case--with a certain
self-reproach. In times of trial my pen is my refuge. I could not write
for a year after I had decided--irrevocably as I believed--that Sara and
I could not make each other happy."
"Then you never actually proposed to her? There was never any tacit
understanding?"
"Never. And if there be any part of my conduct in life upon which I can
look with entire satisfaction, it is my behaviour with regard to Sara. I
did not mislead her in any way. I was even over-scrupulous, and
purposely avoided opportunities of meeting. I say this in order that you
may know how very determined a man's will must be--if he does not wish
to be selfish. A course of struggling is miserable indeed. I spared her
any knowledge of my misery."
"She might have been happier had she known of it! Last year she remained
entirely alone; and solitude is full of bad things--it is very
dangerous, however much one is accustomed to it."
"Poor girl! But I could not, in honour, suffer a false impression to be
formed. As a matter of fact, my family wouldn't hear of the match. There
is no denying that they were set on my marrying Agnes."
At last he had been able to mention her. He leant back and relied on his
companion's tact to elaborate the theme.
Pensee murmured--
"Dear Agnes! If there are storms, they won't come from her side. She is
of a very elevated spirit----"
He winced, but she continued--
"Generous, sternly honest, greatly esteemed by every one. Neither pique
nor passion nor petty feelings could ever influence her mind. She is the
most angelic, good woman I ever met--she is one to whom one may
complain, and be a bore. She has such utter patience!"
"You would not be impressed by professions, nor am I very clever at
making them," said he, "but you know, by sympathy, that my affection for
her is--is the heroic feeling of devotion which has also a kind of
exclusiveness----"
He could not finish the sentence.
"It leads you to imagine that you could never survive her loss," said
Pensee gravely. "But need you lose her--as a friend?" Something in his
countenance encouraged her to pursue this train of thought. "Agnes has
the deepest admiration for your qualities. No doubt, you truly realise
the high standard of character which she would hope for in one to whom
she gave her love. You have proved yourself worthy to call out her best
feelings."
Reckage was very touched by this tribute.
"And _her_ best feelings," said he, "ought to make us--at our best--very
humble."
Pensee lifted her veil just above her eyes, clasped her hands tightly