Robert Orange
contains two entries, however, which show that neither Lady Fitz Rewes
nor Reckage were wrong in fearing he had received a mortal blow which no
earthly influence could make endurable.
_Oct., 1869._--I am once more at Almouth House. Beauclerk's
consideration for me is almost more than I can bear. The rest is
not borne. If it were not cowardly, I would go away alone, and
brood at my leisure and yield to the appalling yet all but
irresistible wretchedness which calls me, which I actually crave.
An effort not to depress or discourage others may be right and my
duty. I cannot be sure of this. Sometimes I feel as though it would
be wiser to meet the dark hours and make acquaintance with them....
And what is to become of her? The longing to see her--even in the
distance....
To-night I talked with Reckage about his Bond of Association. Most
of the members feel toward him that insipid kind of hatred which
passes for friendship in public life. If he were naturally
observant, he would see this; if he were given at all to
self-doubt, he would feel it. But his way is to regard most men as
ill-mannered and well-meaning.
_Tuesday._--Another day. I begin to see that I have been called to
make every sacrifice--marriage, ambition, happiness, all must be
abandoned: abandoned while I live, not after I have made myself, by
years of self-discipline, indifferent to such considerations....
But for its piety, the _Imitation_ is, I think, the most
pessimistic book in the world. The _Exercises_ of St. Ignatius
(perhaps because he was a saint) produce quite an opposite effect
upon me; they exhort us to hope, action, courage. They make one a
citizen of both worlds. Merely to read him is a campaign in the
open air against a worthy foe. I defy any man to go through the
_Exercises_ with his whole heart, and even whine again. I have
resolved to write willingly no more, to speak willingly no more, on
the subject of my marriage. That page is turned for ever: there
shall be no glancing back. Moods inevitably must come; spasms of
despair are as little tractable as spasms of physical pain. But I
can at least keep silent about their true cause. The first step
toward the cure of egoism is to lock away one's Journal. I shall
add no more to this till I have mastered my present state. And I
wonder what that mastery will mean? Are some victories better lost?
The Journal ends abruptly at this point, and no more was added that
year. His letter to Lord Wight has been preserved because his lordship
sent it to Pensee in some anger, begging her to explain such
callousness. Pensee, being a woman, brought a gentler understanding to
the inquiry.
"Don't you see," she said, "that his heart is broken?"
"I see," returned his lordship drily, "he is a born R. C. ecclesiastic.
Religious instinct is the ruling passion of Orange. That poor young
woman--with whom he is madly in love--was merely an accident of his
career. She has affected his character--yes. I suppose Cardinal
Manning's wife had her influence in her day. But Robert will work better
than ever after this. Whereas look at me, my dear. When I lost Sybil, I
was completely done for. I tried to set up for myself, but I couldn't. I
hope I am a Christian; God forbid that I should quarrel with His will.
Yet I cannot think I am a better man for my poor darling's death. Don't
talk to me. Don't say anything."
The letter in question ran as follows:--
ALMOUTH HOUSE.
MY DEAR LORD WIGHT,--
The messages which you have sent by Lady Fitz Rewes have helped me
where I most needed assistance. When I tell you this, it would be
more possible for you to imagine my gratitude than for me to
express it--at least, in words, and for that matter I can't see how
any act of mine could prove even a fraction of it. Shall I resume
my work on the 28th? I have had to learn that one does not always
choose one's vocation. It is sometimes chosen for us. May I beg
you, as one more favour, never to talk to me about the events of
the last fortnight? In one sense I am able--too able--to discuss
them. This is why I must not indulge myself. In times to come I may
find it, perhaps, a certain effort to speak of it all. Then I will
tell you gladly anything your kindness may seek to know. But just
now it is my duty to keep silent. One cannot fight the wild beasts,
and describe them fairly, at the same hour. Either they seem more
formidable than they are, or they are even more terrible than they
seem. But the order has gone forth--"Face them."
Your affectionate and grateful,
ROBERT de H. ORANGE.
Robert himself, after he had written this final letter, decided to reply
in person to a note which he had received that morning from Lady Sara.
He walked to St. James's Square wondering, without much interest,
whether Fate would have her absent or at home. As a matter of fact, she
had felt a presentiment of his call, and he found her, beautifully
dressed in violet tints, copying some Mass music in the drawing-room.
"I hoped you would come," she said, when the servant had closed the
door. "Nothing else could have shown me that you didn't mind my writing.
I had to write. I wrote badly, but indeed I understood. It takes an
eternity to sound the infinite. We won't talk of you: we can talk about
other people. Ask me what I have been doing."
All this time she held his hand, but in such sisterly, kind fashion,
that he felt more at ease with her than it was ever possible to be with
Pensee, who was timid, and therefore disturbing.
"Have you accepted Marshire?" he asked at once.
"No," she said, blushing; "I do not love him sufficiently to marry him."
"How is this?"
"You know that I always fly from important mediocrities. You think that
sounds heartless. He has been so kind to me. But I love as I must--not
as I ought. My dear friend, all the trouble in life is due to forced
affection. Look at Beauclerk! Think of Agnes Carillon! What fiery
fierceness of sorrow in both their hearts! Papa and I were at Lady
Churleigh's last Sunday. Agnes was there, looking, believe me, lovely.
No portrait does her justice. One finds marvellous beauty, now and
again, in the middle classes. She is an exquisite _bourgeoise_. She is
not clever enough to feel bored; she is too well brought up to be
fascinating; too handsome to insist on homage. Plain women are exacting
and capricious--they make themselves _worth while_. _Il faut se faire
valoir!_ That is why a man will often adore an ugly woman for ever,
whereas an Agnes--an Agnes----"
She paused, gave him a glance, and laughed.
"Does Beauclerk adore Agnes?" said she.
"Can one man judge another in these questions?"
"If neither are hypocrites--yes."
"As for conscious hypocrisy, a priest of great experience once told me
that in twenty years he had met but one deliberate hypocrite. You must
be less cynical. Men, however, don't watch each other closely as a rule
in sentimental matters."
"If that is a reproof, I thank you for it," she answered. "It may do me
good. This wayward soul of mine is all wrong. Be patient with me. I
can't help thinking that most men living are, at the bottom, wholly
selfish and truly miserable."
"Very few people are truly miserable. If this were not the case, the
world and all creatures must have perished long ago."
"Well, I can tell you of three wretches at any rate."
"Three--against the world and all the planets and heaven?" said he.
"Yes. They are Beauclerk, and Agnes and I. We want time and space
annihilated in order that we may be happy. We must be humorous studies
to those looking on, but we are, nevertheless, utterly desperate. This
is true. Scold me now--if you can. Tell me what is to become of us--if
you dare."
She stood up. She clenched her small hands, set her lips, and grew so
pale that the pearls around her neck seemed dark.
"Tell me what is to become of us--if you dare," she repeated, "because
mischief is certain. You belong to those who endure and fight good
fights, and keep the faith. Beauclerk and I are of another order
altogether. We suffer without endurance, we fight without winning, and
the little faith we have is so little that it is taken away from us. As
for Agnes--wait! She is encased, at present, in conventionalities. But
she is gradually getting rid of these wrappings and trappings. She will
surprise you all yet."
"I can believe that. She is a woman, and a good one. All the surprising,
inconceivable things are done by good women."
"And most of the wicked things, too."
"Possibly."
"Let me tell you then that, if it is possible in the circumstances,
Agnes ought to give Beauclerk his release. It would be no more than his
right to demand this."
"A right is something independent of circumstances, and paramount to
them. But when you once talk of your rights and your wrongs in love, all
love is gone, or going. I hope it hasn't come to that--with Reckage!"
"You have great knowledge of him and know how to press it home when you
choose. Can't you see, plainly enough, that he is on the road to
disaster?"
"No. One may easily be a long way from happiness and still be nowhere
near disaster," he said, checking a deep sigh. "Of course, if he feels
that he cannot in honour remain in his present situation, he must act at
once. Men who are desirous to satisfy all their friends soon become
irresolute on every occasion. That is all I shall say upon the subject,
and this, perhaps, may be saying more than I ought."
"Another reproof! So be it. But I am thinking of his contentment, and
you are thinking of his duty. What is duty? It generally means that
which your acquaintances--for no reason and without warrant--expect of
you. I take a larger view."
"People of Beauclerk's stamp are so constituted that they can rarely
find contentment by defying a general opinion."
"But Agnes is not a pretty, crying, fluttering creature who would excite
compassion. Who, for instance, could jilt Pensee? I don't wish Beauclerk
to jilt anybody, however. I want Agnes to take the step."
"Why?" he asked.
"Because he will break his heart and die--if she doesn't. There!"
"Then it will be your fault."
"Mr. Orange!"
"You know it, and I mean it."
She smiled at him and shrugged her shoulders.
"Do you think I would ever take the commonplace course?" she said
proudly. "I did hope that you could appreciate motives for which the
world at large is slow enough to give credit. Beauclerk is weak,
attractive, and in perplexity; I search my heart again and again, and I
find nothing but friendship there--for him. I am careful of every word I
speak, and every look, and every thought. My interest is unselfish.
But," she added, "what can any of us do, after all, toward raising
either dead bodies or dead souls?"
"Dead souls?"
"Yes. Beauclerk might have been something once; he is still very clever;
he will soon be a man for occasional addresses. I believe in him, you
see."
"I know that."
She was smiling, yet almost in tears, and her voice trembled. He wished
to speak, if only to break the sudden, oppressive silence which followed
her last words; but neither of them could find a thought to offer. They
sat facing each other, lost in following out unutterable conjectures,
fancies, and doubts, each painfully aware of a certain mystery, each
filled with a sure premonition of troubles to come.
"I could almost pray," she exclaimed at last, "that you didn't trust