Robert Orange
determined on self-sacrifice, every word his companion had uttered. The
spirit invisible wears the laurel of mental victories, but the body has
to bear the exhaustion, the scars, and the soreness. He was tired, but
he stirred himself again to consider Sara's note. In the course of that
year she had written several letters to Orange--letters about books, new
pictures, and new music. Once she had given him a little song of her
own composition as something of which she "desired to hear no more for
ever." The song was sentimental, and he locked it away, wondering at the
time whether she really had an unfortunate affection for Lord Reckage.
But in reading her note that evening he decided against his original
fear. Women did not write in that strain to men whom they loved, or had
ever loved ... even passably well. He returned it to the owner with this
comment--
"A woman, you know, is like your shadow: run away from her and she
follows you; run after her and she flies from you. That's an old saying.
It is true so long as she does not love the man. And when she loves the
man--well, then she ceases to be a shadow. She becomes a living thing."
"That is no answer at all. If you could read her heart and whole thought
at this moment, what would you see there?"
"Unhappiness," said Robert; "discontent."
Reckage took the little sheet and folded it into his pocket-book.
"That's wonderful," said he, "because the same things are in my mind,
too. I wish I could describe my feelings about Agnes. She satisfies the
aesthetic side of my nature. But there is another side. And Sara comes
nearer to it than she. Mind you, I know my duty in the matter. There are
things which one is compelled to do under tremendous penalties. I have
chosen, and I must abide by my choice."
Robert looked well at his friend, and saw, in his expression, all that
he had known would inevitably, either soon or too late, work to the
surface.
"Yet the old tremulous affection lies in me," continued Reckage; "my
nerves are in a kind of blaze. You couldn't tell anything about it,
because you don't know."
The Emperor's burgundy, no doubt, had warmed his spirit to
communicativeness. He drew his chair closer to the table, and talked in
a low voice about his ghastly solitude of soul. His engagement to Miss
Carillon had not been an agreeable experience.
"And marriage," said he, "will be the crowning point of these unbearable
days. In the present state of my feelings it would be awful. Agnes is
very kind and most conscientious, but she does not know what is in me,
what was always and will always be there. Old reminiscences crowd round
me. They are very beautiful, although they are so sad."
"What is one to do?" said Robert, "in the presence of fate and facts? It
is necessary to look the affair in the face. Do you, or don't you, wish
to marry Miss Carillon?"
"I do, and I don't," answered Reckage doggedly. "But I can't close my
eyes to the circumstances of the case. I found myself hard bested from
the very beginning. I knew that I was expected to marry her. I knew,
too, that it was a suitable match in every way. But then every girl is,
to some extent, accomplished, pious, virtuous, and intelligent. I
believe sometimes that my apparent indifference towards Agnes arises
from the fact that I respect her--if anything--too much. She seems too
remote--that is the word--for the ordinary wear and tear of domesticity.
Other men--who might be called impassioned lovers--would be less
scrupulous. I maintain that devotion of that violent kind is worth
absolutely nothing. And I claim to know a little about life and love."
"I should say," said Orange, "that you knew more about mere physiology."
Reckage laughed uneasily.
"You keep your mediaeval views!" said he. "Perhaps I envy you. I can't
say. I don't think I envy any one. I am quite contented."
"Then what are you driving at?"
"Oh well, a fellow must think. You see, Sara suits me, in a sense. I am
not afraid of her. Now a wife is a sacred object. You might as well
flirt with the Ten Commandments as fall in love with your wife. I say,
never begin love-making with the lady you hope to marry. It will end in
disaster. Because the day must come when she will wonder why you have
changed. No, a wife should be the one woman in the world with whom you
can spend days and weeks of unreproved coldness."
They were now smoking, and the tobacco seemed to produce a
tranquillising effect upon his lordship. He closed his lips and amused
himself by puffing rings of smoke into the air. When he next spoke, he
suggested a visit to the theatre. He had engaged a box for the new
burlesque, "_The Blue Princess_."
"It will be very good, and it will cheer us up," said he.
Orange was in no mood for the entertainment, but Reckage's evident
misery seemed to require a fresh scene. The streets, as they left the
house, were full of a deep purple fog, through which shone out, with a
dull and brazen gleam, the lights of lamps and passing carriages. Above
them, the sky was but a pall or vapour; the air, charged with the
emotions, the struggling energy, the cruelty, confusion, painfulness,
and unceasing agitation of life in a vast city, was damp and stifling; a
noise of traffic--as loud but not so terrible as a breaking
storm--destroyed the peace of night; there were foot passengers of every
age and description moving like rooks in the wind, over the pavement,
and vehicles filled with men and women--an irremediable pilgrimage
bound, for the greater part, on pleasure. Robert felt that he would have
given gladly the treasures of a universe for just the time to think a
little while of his own love. So far that great attachment had brought
him aberrations, sorrow, and perplexities; all its sweetness had flown,
moth-like, into his heart, there to be burnt--burnt yet left unburied:
all its happiness had glorified his life against his will; all its
beauty had been starved with a pitiless rigour. What then had remained?
A certain state of mind--a passionate resignation to its own
indomitable cravings. And now on the eve of his marriage--a marriage
never so much as imagined, far less hoped for--he could not have the
leisure to behold, through tears of relief, the complete transformation
of his destiny--once so frightful, now so joyous. The theatre was
crowded, and when the two young men entered their box the burlesque was
at the beginning of the second act. The scene represented an orange
grove by moonlight, and a handsome girl in spangled muslin was
whispering loudly, to an accompaniment of harps, her eternal fidelity to
a gesticulating troubadour. Both performers were immensely popular, and
the duet, with its refrain--
"Love, I will love thee always,
For ever is not too long;
Love, e'en in dark and dreary days,
This shall be my one song,"
was repeated three times to the smiling, serene, and thoroughly
convinced audience. Reckage, who attended public places of amusement
solely from the desire of exhibiting himself, gave but a side-glance at
the stage and turned his opera glass upon the auditorium.
"Really, town is very full," said he; "I suppose many of them are up for
the Hauconberg wedding. There's old Cliddesdon--just look at him. Did
you ever see such an infernal ass? Hullo! I thought that Millie
Warfield wouldn't be far off. She's a perfect rack of bones. Lady
Michelmarsh is getting rather pretty--it's wonderful how these dowdy
girls can work up their profiles after a month or two in town. She was a
lump as a bride--a regular lump. You never met anything like it. Aumerle
is talking to her now. He was at the Capitol this afternoon. He begins
to give himself airs. I can't stand him. In fact, I cannot understand
those fellows on my sub-committee. Sometimes they are--if anything--too
civil. A bit servile, in fact. Then they turn out and look as though
they would like to make their teeth meet in my backbone. They sulk, and
whisper in groups, and snicker. I am getting sick of it. I must get rid
of them. By Jove! there's David Rennes, the painter. I thought he was at
Amesbury--with the Carillons, doing Agnes's portrait. It can't be
finished. She said distinctly in her letter this morning--"I may not add
more because I have to give Mr. Rennes a sitting while the light is
good." Where's the letter? I must have left it on the breakfast-table.
Anyhow that is what she said. I'll catch Rennes' eye and have him up. He
is not a bad sort."
The act-drop had now descended, the lights were turned on to their full
power, and Orange, following the direction of Reckage's gaze, saw, in
the last row of the stalls, a large man about nine-and-thirty with an
emotional, nervous face, a heavy beard, and dense black hair. He was
leaning forward, for the seat in front of him was, at the moment,
vacant; his hands were tightly locked, his eyes fixed on the curtain. At
last Reckage's determined stare produced its effect. He moved, glanced
toward the box, and, in response to his lordship's signal, left his
place. Two minutes later Orange heard a tap at the door.
"That's right," said Reckage, as Rennes entered, "take Orange's chair.
He doesn't care a bit about the play, or anything in it. He is going to
get married to-morrow. You know Robert Orange, don't you? You ought to
paint him. Saint Augustine with a future. _Mon devoir, mes livres, et
puis ... et puis, madame, ma femme._"
The Emperor's burgundy, indeed, had not been opened in vain. Rennes
could talk well, sometimes brilliantly, often with originality, and,
with the tact of all highly sensitive beings, he led the conversation
into impersonal themes. He said Miss Carillon's portrait was not yet
finished, but he changed that subject immediately, and the evening,
which had been to Orange a trial of patience, ended rather better than
it began. Lord Reckage invited Rennes to accompany them home. The artist
did not appear, at first, in the mood to accept that invitation. He,
too, seemed to have many things he wished to think about undisturbed,
and in the silence of his own company. His hesitation passed, however;
the kindness in his nature had been roused by something unusual,
haunting, ominous in Robert's face.
"I will come," said he.
All the way, on their walk to Almouth House, he kept Reckage amused.
Orange never once felt under the necessity to speak. He was able to
dream, to hold his breath, to remember that he loved and was loved
again, that he would see her to-morrow--to-morrow quite early, and then,
no more unutterable farewells, heart-desolating separations. He
surprised himself by saying aloud--"I love you ... I love you." The two
men, engrossed in talk, did not hear him. But he had caught the words,
and it seemed as though he heard his own voice for the first time.
"You must want some supper," said Reckage--"a rum omelette."
"No! no! I couldn't."
He sat down to the table, however, and watched them eat. First the
burlesque was discussed, then the actresses, the dresses, the dancing.
"Russia is the place for dancing," said Reckage, "I assure you. There
was a dancer at Petersburg.... Something-or-other-_ewski_ was her name,
and a fellow shot himself while I was there on her account. An awful
fool. I can tell you who painted her portrait. A Frenchman called
Carolus-Duran. I believe he has a career before him. What is your
opinion of French art?"
Rennes had studied in Paris and was well acquainted with the artist in
question. They talked about the exhibitions of the year and the prices
paid at a recent sale of pictures.
"Old Garrow has some fine pictures," said Reckage. "I would give a good
deal for his Ghirlandajo. Do you know it? And then that noble Tintoret?
There are so many persons whose position in life compels them to