Robert Orange
would pain me at such times. I feel then--as I feel now--that I will
grasp Fate by the throat; it shall not utterly crush me."
"But," said Agnes, a little frightened at this outburst, "do you never
think of God and His Will?"
He returned her anxious glance with gloomy, almost compassionate
amazement.
"Does God think of me?" he asked. "Really, I cannot feel that the
salvation of my soul is so important. Indeed, any idea of immortality is
awful How could it ever be a consolation--except to a smug, very
self-satisfied egoism? Call it the burden--or the cross of
immortality--if you call it anything. I wish it could be proved that we
end when we die. But physicians dissect _dead_ bodies to find the soul.
It would not be a soul if they could find it in the dead. And imagine
one becoming penitent when the day of grace is over!"
"I keep Clement's words before me, '_The Lord who died for us is not our
enemy_.' Surely that is a splendid thought against final despair."
"Many thoughts are splendid," he replied, "if we could believe them now
as the early Christians did in the first centuries."
Agnes, with parted, whitening lips, could find no response. Rennes
painted her afterwards in the same attitude, and with all he remembered
of her expression, in his now famous picture, _Pilate's Wife_.
"You will never be happy--never," she murmured at last. "But perhaps no
one is happy."
"I can grant that the saints were always profoundly happy. Let me tell
you why. The state of the saint is one of dependence. His convictions,
therefore, are enduring and unclouded. He accepts his trials as
privileges; he loses all sense of his own identity; his humanity is
merged in God; his ecstasies lift him up to heaven and bring him down to
a transfigured earth. He has been bought with a ransom, and he is the
co-heir with Christ. He is found worthy of suffering. But with artists,
all is different. The saint is in search of holiness. The artist thinks
chiefly of beauty. Holiness is a state of mind--it is something
permanent. Beauty, however, mocks one half the time--it may be a
deception. Anyhow, one cannot define it, or keep it, or even
satisfactorily catch it. Our inspired moments, therefore, alternate with
a miserable knowledge of our individual wretchedness. We learn that we
are no stronger than our individuality. That is the barrier between us
and our visions. The saint has God before his eyes, and he carries Him
in his heart. The artist sees only himself and bears only the weight of
his own incompetence. But these, darling, are not the things I meant to
say to you, although they may explain my life. The common run of people
wouldn't understand all this in the least."
"I want to hear all--I want to enter into all your thoughts, David. I
have always known that those who devote themselves to the study of what
is sublime and beautiful suffer proportionately from the squalor of
actual facts."
She quoted from one or her father's speeches which he invariably gave
with much earnestness at the opening of schools of art and similar
institutions.
"The world," replied Rennes, "rewards the beautiful only inasmuch as it
flatters the senses, and the sublime remains--so far as the general
taste is concerned--altogether without response."
"But one would think," said Agnes, "that you were a disappointed or an
unsuccessful man, whereas every one admires your genius."
He laughed at her practical bent, which seemed the more fascinating
because of her picturesque appearance.
"One often feels cast down without the least cause," said he; "the truth
is we all want more praise than we get. We are a vain lot, that's the
trouble. Let me paint myself in the blackest colours. You must know the
worst--you must realise the bad bargain you may make. Reckage would
never bore and tire you in this way. How can you care for me?"
"It _is_ hard!" she said, smiling.
"Darling! Do you remember the white violets at Woodbridge, and sitting
on that gate looking across that deep valley at the bonfires? Wasn't it
perfect? Look through these trees now--see the flames and smoke? They
are burning dead leaves and twigs. I wish I could burn my past. This may
be a good omen for me. But I must not deceive you; that would be a bad
beginning."
"We must decide on some course," said Agnes. "Your letter was quite
clear, but I suppose I am not going on as I ought to do. My present
position is that of a person telling a lie to people. Before you wrote,
however, I had made up my mind to _some_ change. I could give no good
grounds for carrying out my engagement to Beauclerk. The motives would
not bear examination. I intended to be patient till the way was
mercifully cleared for me. Even birds, in cold weather, grow tame from
distress. So I waited in a dull, frozen way for what might happen."
He remembered, with a pang of remorse, that he had once called this
devoted woman an accomplished, incurable Philistine.
"I must put myself in the wrong with regard to Beauclerk," she continued
quietly. "That is merely fair to him. Every one shall know that I have
been weak and vacillating. May God forgive me and humble me--for I shall
not be understood, even by many good people. But the next worst thing to
making an error is to abide by it. Dear David, try to follow my feeling.
It has all passed in my mind in such a way that it is impossible for me
to describe it. In a sense, giving Reckage up seems to uproot me
altogether from all my former life, and the future is only not a blank
because it is such a mystery. I am sure, though, that sorrow is never in
God's ordinance the _whole_ law of life. These are great compensations."
"Anything is better than to sit still and dream," said Rennes. "I have
dreamt too long. I find solitude oppressive. Yet you will admit how
dreadful it is to live among those who don't know or don't care a bit
about art."
"But there are other interests equally engrossing."
"Not to me. And even Epicurean advice is only the way to ignominious,
contemptible happiness. I must have an ideal life or else
annihilation--splendid misery or splendid content--nothing between the
two."
"You have not half showed your capabilities yet," replied Agnes. "We
have to look upon this world as the merest pilgrimage, but we can help
each other. I have hope because I have faith. Sara de Treverell said the
other day that, in men, experience often makes mere callousness of
character. Is this true, David?"
"Not of me; you have saved me from the worst things. But it simply
worries and almost exasperates me to hear religious talk from any one.
When I hear a sermon I feel an inclination always to say, 'My dear
fellow, can't you put your case better?' I want good stuff about Divine
and human nature--not this vagueness and platitude. Why don't they tell
one something about the optimism of God, even before the spectacle of
men's weakness? But, instead, we are told to moan about this vale of
tears; we are promised chastisements, disappointments, woes,
persecution. A philosophy of suffering makes men strong, but a
philosophy of despair is bound to make a generation of pleasure-seekers."
"And why?"
"Because the veritable world, even on its bare merits, _is not so bad_.
It is full of beauty, and interest, and enjoyment. It is a lie to call
it so many vile names. One's good sense revolts. Do you think, darling,
that I could look at you, love you, be loved by you, and call life a bad
joke?"
Since the beginning of time this logic has held its own against all
scientific criticism. The two, being secure from observation, kissed
each other and accepted the earth with perfect cheerfulness. They made
some plans, and after the agony of parting till the next day, each went
home to write the other a long letter. In the course of the afternoon
Rennes passed through Arlington Street four times in a hansom and twice
on foot. Agnes was always at one of the windows innocently observing the
weather. He thought her the loveliest thing created. He pitied, with
benevolence, all other men, and he spent an hour at his solicitor's
office, without begrudging the time, or chafing under the fatigue.
Two days later Lord Reckage received the following communication from
Miss Carillon:--
MY DEAR BEAUCLERK,--
This letter will astonish and grieve you. I have written several.
None please me. All say too much and yet leave all unsaid. I must
send this one and trust to your generosity. I am wholly to blame,
wholly in the wrong. I am no actress but I have been acting a
part--the part of a happy woman. My effort has deceived many--Papa,
Mamma, and, I believe, you among them. Dear Beauclerk, you will
think me ungrateful, false, weak. I don't excuse myself. As I have
said, the blame is all mine, and the punishment must be all mine.
When you receive this I shall have left England with Mr. Rennes. He
had arranged to go to the East for a long time. (This will show you
how little he anticipated any change in _my_ plans.) When I
realised that I should have to say goodbye to him, probably for
ever, I found myself unequal to the trial. I could not let him go
alone. It is bad for me to dwell too much on my feelings. I ought
to admit, however, that I have known all along, in a sort of way,
that I should have to give in _if he put the matter before me_. I
dislike the talk one hears so often about inevitability--much of it
is made an excuse for appalling selfishness. At the same time, I
understand what is meant and feel strongly, that, while I am using
my own will--I cannot use it, _with a good conscience_, otherwise.
Can you follow this? In reality, I was disloyal to Mr. Rennes when
I became engaged to you. I was impatient, wilful, blind. I did you
both an irreparable--yes, an irreparable injustice. He must always
think me fickle, and you will always condemn my weakness. I dare
not ask you to forgive me. I dare not hope for contentment after
such a bad beginning. One of Papa's favourite texts rings in my
ears--"_Is it a small thing for you to weary men, but will ye weary
my God also?_" I mustn't be insincere with God. But I do want you
to see that my affection for Mr. Rennes has taken such a hold of my
life that I simply cannot fight against it. I am not sentimental,
as you know: I can be quite as sensible as other people about life
and its obligations. I don't expect romance or joy. Had I, by any
misfortune, met Mr. Rennes _after_ my marriage with you, I cannot
bear to think what might have happened. It isn't nice of me to say
this. It is a painful, humiliating reflection, and you won't like
to think that you ever cared--even a little--for any one so
unworthy. In your kindness you will say that this isn't like me.
But indeed it is the real me. You have known the _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.