Robert Orange
would have to drive Marshire, in confusion, from the field, and bear
away the prize himself. Pensee's observations with regard to Agnes had
cleared away most, if not all, of his difficulties in that particular
quarter. No one had ever accused him of cowardice. Whenever he took
refuge in procrastination or deceit, it was never because he was afraid,
but in order that nothing might interfere with the purpose he had in
hand. The growing miseries of the situation which he saw, already in
part, served only to augment the violence of his resolve. His vanity
forbade him to believe that Agnes would not suffer very much when he
told her, as he intended, that they had both mistaken a profound
esteem--based on reason--for love, which, as all the world admits, is
something remote indeed from one's will and one's power. He was desirous
to remain her friend, but he could not, without insincerity--and by
God's grace, he would not--continue longer in a position which was false
in itself and an injustice to each of them. He proposed to dwell very
frankly, but in deep sadness, on the fact that although their engagement
had been a seeming success--outwardly--the success had been by no means
proved either to his satisfaction, or, he ventured to think, to hers.
He would pray that she would not consider herself under any restraint
in speaking freely to him, from her heart, at all times. He hoped that
the inevitable criticism of malicious or ignorant persons would never
shake her faith in his unwavering loyalty, his singular desire for her
happiness. On the other hand, he did not wish to involve her in
justifying his action to the world. There was no call for that. She
might be assured that he would do as little as possible to protract the
agony--he used the word advisedly--of their separation. He believed it
would be the best way--if God gave them the ability--not to meet until
they had trained themselves to the peaceful, sweet relationship of their
first acquaintance. All this and more he composed and turned over in his
mind as he paced the deck. His eyes frequently filled with tears, and he
thought how little, how fearfully little, he had ever suspected this
severance from a noble life with which he had wished most earnestly to
join his own. He was unhappy according to the measure of his capacity,
and he was genuine in so far as he regretted the necessary suffering of
the innocent with the guilty. But guilt is in the intention, and he
could say, with truth, that he had never intended to give pain, or to
make trouble, in his life.
CHAPTER XI
The Southampton steamer approached St. Malo about three o'clock on the
following afternoon. Robert and Brigit had spent the night on deck--it
was better than going below into the close, dreary cabin--and so they
counted the stars, and kept their gaze, through the vast reaches of
atmosphere, for the first sight of land. The moon, then at its full
strength, lit up the whole blue dome above them, and cast its glancing,
silver path upon the water--a path which the ship ever crossed but never
followed. On and on they sped, and, as their ears grew accustomed to the
monotonous churning of the paddle-wheels, the silence seemed intense.
The splendour of the night made sleep, to minds as passionate as theirs
toward all manifestations of the world's beauty, impossible. Unconscious
of any particular thought, they shared a dreamless reverie which was so
perfect in its rest and so complete in its still contentment that they
did not know that they were resting, nor could they realise that such
sweet hours, even as bitter ones, do not loiter in their passing or come
again. Soon enough Robert saw himself very far gone from the
undissembled sternness of his old resolutions. If he could but be rid of
that altogether! He thought he had obtained a mystic recognition of the
terrorless but uncommunicating Joy of life which while men live they
pursue, desiring it with the one human craving which survives every
misfortune, every thwarted hope, all enslavement of the heart's small
freedom--the thirst for happiness. Was man, whom God had made in His
own Image, but a shadow on the unstable wind? Could it be true that he
came in with vanity and departed in darkness, his soul bereft of God,
knowing not his time, finding not the work that is done under the sun,
born to companion worms in the dust? Should he remain unresisting and
without influence on the decision of his own destiny? Yet he remembered
the precept of Christ: "Whosoever will save his life shall lose it: and
whosoever will lose his life for My sake shall find it"--words which put
forth a great mystery, perhaps a warning. Plainly, in all that a man
could bring to the world, or take from it, there was vanity and death;
but many things were vain merely because they were not eternal, and many
things perished because where life is, change must be. Immutable,
permanent possessions were the gifts of God to men. But the gifts of men
to God would always be imperfect--whether they offered the sacrifice of
their wills or their imagined earthly happiness. Yet if this
imperfection were a mean one, something less grand than the immeasurable
sanctity of Divine strength made human and therefore sorrowful,
therefore not omnipotent, therefore liable to error--where then was the
merit of renouncing a manhood already too squalid to be endured, friends
that were phantoms, loves that were lies, joys that were void promises
invented by the cruel for the disappointment of the foolish? He looked
down at Brigit, who, wrapped in her furs, was stretched out by his side,
her beautiful, child-like countenance turned toward him, smiling in
faith and deep unspeakable tenderness. He could hear her tremulous
breath and catch the fragrance of her face, which, in the moonlight,
seemed as white and delicate as a cloud. The knowledge that she belonged
to him at last entered into his heart, his blood, his brain, his
thoughts, became the very life within his life--an element which was
neither wholly love nor wholly passion, but a necessity from which he
could not depart and without which he would cease to be. All men need to
have near them, allied in close association with them, either a force to
strengthen their weakness or else a weakness which insists upon some
demonstration of their strength. In conceivable circumstances it might
be a duty to dissever such a bond; it might be a duty to die of
starvation rather than steal a loaf, and, as death would ultimately
quench the craving stomach, so a broken soul, in time, would cease
lamenting for its maimed energy. Let heart-sickness pass beyond a
certain bitter-point and the heart loses its life for ever. Had Robert's
marriage been impossible, had he decided, on that account, to go away
from Brigit's influence, had he vowed, in some paroxysm of despair, to
see her no more, to pluck out his eye--to forget her--what would have
happened? Would he have been able to say to himself at the end of three
years, seven years, nine years, "I did my duty. I have my reward"? Is it
so easy even to acquiesce in the great bereavements caused naturally,
against our will, by death? Does one ever, in the hidden depths of the
mind, mistake the cinders of a consumed anguish for the stars of peace?
A man need not be a prophet in order to foresee the effect of certain
measures on his own character. Indeed, if self-knowledge be not regarded
as a sentinel to the judgment, its laborious acquisition would be worth
the travail of no honest will. Gained, it remains like an interdict upon
all undertakings, projects, ambitions, setting forth clearly all that
one may, or may not, attempt in common life, and, above all, in
heroism--heroism understood truly, not the false ideals of idle, untaxed
sentiment. Robert shrank from examining the sharpest nail of the several
which had been piercing his heart for weeks--from the day when he had
first received the news of Parflete's death. Had he not often suspected,
until then, that, for some reason, he had been called to renounce the
hope of marriage? True, he had never been certain of this, and,
certainly, the chain of events, even considered without prejudice,
seemed altogether favourable to an opposite view. His resolution had
been to remain single so long as he could not marry the woman of his
choice. Firmly enough he had taken his stand on that ground, realising
to the utmost every difficulty to be encountered, every interest to be
thrown aside, from the exigencies of such a position. The
misunderstandings which would arise, the restraint, the loneliness, the
possible morbidity of his own feeling, the sure absence of charity in
all outside criticism of his conduct, were not overlooked or
under-estimated by a man so versed as himself in the tariff of the
market-place. He had known full well that his decision, robbed of its
romantic and picturesque motives, would affect very seriously every step
in his career, and influence, as only violence to one's human affections
can influence, his character, his mode of thought, his whole view of
life and his work in life. This he had known--known, that is to say, as
much as anything may be known of a plan not yet executed and destined to
a slow accomplishment which finds its final seal of success or failure
neither in this existence nor in death, but beyond the grave. Now,
however, that the exterior obstacles to a happier scheme were apparently
removed, the more formidable opposition of his own secret ideals stirred
ominously in his conscience. Men's designs are never so indefinite and
confused as when they meet with no outward resistance. A close attack
has proved the salvation of most human wills and roused the energy of
many drooping convictions. It is seldom good that one should enter into
any vocation very easily, sweetly, and without strife. The best
apprenticeships, whether ecclesiastical or religious, or civil or
military, or political or artistic, are never the most calm. Whether we
study the lives of saints or the lives of those distinguished in any
walk of human endeavour where perfection, in some degree or other, has
been at least the goal, we always find that the first years of the
pursuit have been one bitter history of temptations, doubts,
despondencies, struggles, and agonising inconsistencies of volition. To
natures cold originally, or extinguished by a false asceticism, many
seeming acts of sacrifice are but the subtle indulgence of that curious
selfishness which is not the more spiritual because it is independent of
others, or the less repulsive because it is most contented in its
isolation from every responsibility. A renunciation means the deliberate
putting away of something keenly loved, anxiously desired, or actually
possessed; it does not mean a well-weighed acceptance of the lesser,
rather than the greater, trials of life. When Orange had faced the
desolate road before him it was as though men ploughed into his heart
and left it mangled. Submission to the severities of God whatever they
might be, obedience to authority, a companionless existence--these were
the conditions, he knew, of the meagre joy permitted to those who, full
of intellect, feeling, and kindness, undertook the rigorous discipline
of a solitary journey. The world seldom takes account of the unhappy
sensitiveness in devout souls; it thinks them insensible not only
because they know how to keep silent, but how to sacrifice their secret
woes. And what, after all, are the gratified expectations of any career
in comparison with its hidden despairs?
It may be a fact that love, in every imaginative mind, approaches
madness; on the other hand, the least imaginative are often not merely
attracted but carried away, without any sort of consent, by some