Robert Orange
matter of course from poor Beauclerk or Charles Aumerle--they would
resent 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 you
went to see him, as you say, you must have had the best of reasons for
doing 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 told
me--without your consent. We never see each other now, and we never
write to each other."
Her voice trembled for the first time.
"How does he look?" she asked, after a sharp struggle between her pride
and 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 time
we were together that now it seems no part of my life--no part of it. I
say this because I wish you to know that nothing can make us love each
other less--that all this misery and separation--which may last as long
as we live--has made no difference and can make no difference to us. And
if I never see him again, or speak to him again, he will always be
certain that I am his--unalterably, for ever his."
"You are little more than a child. You have a great career before
you--who can say what may happen in the future? Women without careers
change their minds--their tastes. These things are out of one's own
control, and in your case----"
"My mind may change, but my soul cannot. I may dance, I may amuse
myself, I may have friends. Make no mistake. I can tell you all that is
in me. I find life beautiful. The theatre enchants me. I could work
there all day. I have no illusions about it--the paint, the machinery,
the box-office, the advertisements--the vulgarity are familiar enough to
me. 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 head
and see the world as it is. I like it--yes, with all its griefs and its
horrors--I like it. When one is ill or sentimental one hates it, because
it wasn't made for the sick, and it was not created us a playground for
lovers. One may love--yes, but one must work. I intend to love and work
at the same time."
"Many find that these two occupations clash! There is a time in
love--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 soon
passes! As you learn more, you look for more. And work is no cure for
dissatisfaction. If you can live through it you will just be a machine
with one refrain--'I know nothing! I have nothing! I am nothing!'"
The two young girls did not look at each other. Brigit could recognise
an agitation of the soul in the imperceptible sadness of the voice, and
she guessed poor Sara's secret.
"Yes," she said quietly. "I must suffer all that. How can you be sure
that I have not suffered it already? At any rate, I hope this
confidence will increase your kindness toward me."
"I have no kindness toward you--none at all," said Sara. "I have no
kindness toward any living creature. I should like to die and come to an
end. I wasn't born to put up with make-shifts. Other women may be
resigned to that paltry way of existing. If they can't have what they
want, they will take what they don't want; they will take what they
hate, and grin--yes, they will grin and bear it. And after a little
while, because they become gradually drunk with suffering, they begin to
think 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 my
ideals, but they are all unfinished at present. I have just the outlines
and beginnings of them--nothing else."
"I am not talking about ideals. I am speaking of realities. I don't want
to be happy, but I do wish to be one of four things: either perfectly
alive, or perfectly, utterly dead; either a pure spirit, or a faultless
animal. This dead-and-alive, body-and-soul mixture which passes for a
well-disciplined human being is loathsome to me. It is a tissue of lies
and hypocrisies."
"Perhaps I should have that feeling, too, if I had no faith in God. He
assumed 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 fills
me with disgust. The example of Christ is too sublime. He was human only
in His sufferings. He bore our burdens and He shared our agonies. He was
deceived, despised, rejected: the first torture and the firstfruits of
His Passion was the treachery of a disciple. When I am sorrowful and
wretched, He seems Real to me and vivid. But when I am well and wildly
happy, He seems far away and unreal--an invisible God, watching mortals
with a certain contempt. Now the Pagans had a Divinity for every mood,
so they never felt depressed or lowered in their own self-esteem. We
have a God for two moods only,--great sorrow, and great exaltation. For
the rest we have to beat our breasts and call ourselves miserable
sinners. All the good people I know enjoy spiritual peace only--without
any fear of remorse--when they are tired out or moaning with physical
pain. I don't say this to shock you; I should like to have a religion if
I could be convinced of it without fasting, without long illnesses, and
without abandoning all hope of earthly, common joys. Most Christians
take a middle way, I know; they prattle about their immortal souls, and
behave as though they had nothing but bodies. I can't take part in such
a gross farce."
Brigit sighed deeply, and did not reply at once.
"It is all very hard, I know," she answered; "but from the lowest abyss
one can still see the sky overhead. People's hearts are touched by the
spectacle 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 we
were animals with less beauty than many of the inanimate things in
nature, and as much intelligence at best as the bees and birds and
ants--then the Pagan way might be quite admirable. But this isn't the
case, 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 false
position. You are less sentimental than I am. You take what I call the
hard view. It is too frigid for me. But I am making you late. All good
luck to-night!"
She waved her hand, and, returning to her own room, realised that she
had missed the object of her conversation. The attempt to excite
Brigit's jealousy had failed.
Nothing is so infectious as despair. Brigit sat quivering under the echo
of 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 let
nature yield to fate, to stifle every human craving? The mention of
Robert's name and the news that he looked ill and careworn had stirred
all the unshed tears in her heart; she could not think, she could not
move, she could but realise that she had no right to be with him. And
sorrow seemed her province. There, surely, she and he might meet, join
hands, and speak once more face to face. She had not written to him
since that parting at Miraflores. But she would write now. This was her
letter--
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, with
tears streaming down her cheeks, she read her part for the comedy that
evening. When Esther entered with her dressing-gown, she held up her
hands in dismay.
"O Madame," said she, "I thought you were going to play an amusing
piece!"
"It will be very amusing," said Brigit, "but this is the way to rehearse
it."
CHAPTER XXVII
The Marquis of Castrillon, meanwhile, was pirouetting sublimely before
the long mirror in his dressing-room, while his valet, a sour-faced
individual, looked on in great but gloomy interest. The Marquis was
superbly dressed in a Louis Seize costume--an exact reproduction of the
one worn by that monarch on his wedding-day--and he presented a very
fine figure. In features, expression, colouring, and manner it would
have been difficult to find, or imagine, a more fascinating puppet. An
unsurpassable actor of noble parts, he seemed created to play the hero
in deeds, the poet in thoughts, the lover on all occasions. Confident of
his attractions, he appeared quite free from vanity: each fresh attitude
became him better than the last: no light could do less than show the
classic beauty of his head and body. When he laughed, one could admire
his magnificent teeth; when he looked grave, one could enjoy the
splendid serenity of his brow and the passion in his deep brown eyes. It
was said that his legs alone would have made the plainest man a