CHAPTER XIII

CHAPTER XIII

Lady Sara had written to the Duke of Marshire, and so fulfilled, in part, her promise to her father. But, while she said much that was graceful, coquettish, and characteristic, the Duke felt unable to regard it as an acceptance of his offer. She was very kind with that kindness which has no sort of encouragement in it. Among other things, she begged for another week on the plea that "seven days furnished a very short speculation when the result might possibly decide the whole course of her life." In much anxiety, for his Grace was very much in love, he composed, after three hours of careful thought, a reply, and, having read the least tender but most sensible passages to his lawyer, he himself left the communication, together with a beautifully bound copy of "Lettres Choisies," by Madame de S�vign�, at St. James's Square. The parcel and the missive arrived when the young lady was reading and re-reading two other letters which she had received that morning from the North of France. One was from Lord Reckage; the other was from Pens�e Fitz Rewes. Their respective contents ran as follows:--

 MY DEAR SARA (I love the sweeter name of Val�rie: may I not use it
 sometimes?),--I shall never be able to get through all I have to
 say--no words can reflect the fulness of human nature in such
 suffering as it has been my privilege--and sorrow--to witness here.
 In doubt, they tell us, we must stand on the rule of authority. But
 for this principle I should find it hard to reconcile myself to
 this deplorable affair of parting two people who love each other,
 evidently, in an almost lyric sense. You, I know, will understand
 that this expression contains no sneer at a frame of mind
 altogether surpassing my own capacity for idealism. Are there many,
 or any of us nowadays, who feel that there are certain things which
 we must do, not do, or perish eternally? I have never detected this
 narrow, vindictive, inherently superstitious view in Orange. I am
 forced to the conclusion, therefore, that his truest happiness
 consists always in his submission to the Will (as he understands
 it) of God (as he understands Him). Men are like horses--unless
 they are born with staying powers in them, no amount of training
 can make them really stay. Robert is a born ecclesiastic--I have
 said so always. His conduct in this present crisis will be a slap
 in the face to those who insist that religion makes men timorous.
 Speaking for myself, I never entertained a moment's doubt of his
 acting in precisely the manner in which he has done; his worst
 time, however, is, alas! to come; he may have to wait till eternity
 for his recompense. That trial often embitters the most constant.
 The devil is never embarrassed, and where virtue is found
 superhuman, he takes every care to keep it on a sour--if
 ethereal--diet. You will beg for less comment and more facts. Let
 me give them. Orange himself, pale, restrained, haggard but superb,
 met us at the station on our arrival. He had been waiting for us at
 the hotel; Mrs. Parflete was at the Villa Miraflores. The two had
 discussed the situation and parted on the mere reading of my
 telegram. I cannot say that they might have acted otherwise, but
 only that they acted as they did. There must have been,
 nevertheless, a considerable scene. The idealist driven into
 squalid actualities deserves a martyr's crown. In one single
 misfortune he suffers all the calamities of the human race, and in
 one personal horror he sees the death, emptiness, and corruption of
 all human endeavours. In this exaggeration, these mystics show
 their genius; they suffer too much in order that ordinary people
 may suffer a little less. Poor Orange! He is certainly fine, for,
 even if I discard the _mannerisms_, the eccentricity, the possibly
 _natural_ self-sufficiency, all that is essential in his character
 remains and must remain undeniably chivalrous. It was an immense
 relief to find that he had decided, without suggestions on my part,
 on his course of conduct. I hate a fellow who tries to be more than
 friendly, and I dreaded making the experiment. I did venture to
 point out to him that there might be some way of annulling the
 Parflete marriage. But idealists abhor law-suits. Parflete, _not_
 being an idealist, may take some steps on his own account. I
 refrained from touching on that possibility, although I see much
 hope that way for our unhappy lovers. The world might cry out a
 little at first, but success justifies everything. Meanwhile,
 Robert and Mrs. Parflete have formed a resolution not to meet again
 for a year or more. After that, they hope to be on the unearthly
 terms of Laura and her Petrarch. It is magnificent, but is it love?
 I long to hear your views on the subject. I have no influence over
 you; I wish I had. I am the most sincere of all your friends. The
 others either care too little for you, or too much for themselves,
 to run the risk of giving you offence. But I would risk all, to
 gain even a little--where you are concerned. May I call on my
 return? Orange comes back with me. His own instinct tells him that
 there is a suggestion of the ridiculous--to the mere
 on-looker--about this interrupted honeymoon. He has determined to
 face it out in London, and resume his life on the old lines. He
 will finish his volume of French History, resume his post with Lord
 Wight, and take his seat in Parliament. If he can succeed in living
 down this absurdly tragic catastrophe, he will achieve a notable
 triumph. It gives me a cold feeling at the heart when I think of
 the dreary heroism he must display. Nothing picturesque, nothing
 striking. He must simply baffle the scoffers by an inscrutable
 endurance. Mrs. Parflete is a beautiful creature, but quite a
 child, and therefore weedy as to figure. I consider her far too
 young for marriage in any case. She is only seventeen--tall,
 slight, with a transparent skin, and something actually _babyish_
 about the eyes. Her dignity, in the circumstances, was wholly
 admirable. Perfectly self-possessed. Pens�e will describe the
 interviews far better than I could, so I will refer you to her for
 the details of our mission. Women, I have decided, in every
 disappointment always look for some future change of circumstances
 favourable to their wishes. No matter how nominal, shallow, and
 delusive this faith may be, it sustains them through the worst
 trials. Thus it is that when a woman sacrifices either her repose
 or the legitimate compensations of life to a great idea, she
 suffers far less than a man in similar conditions. The devout
 female sex drive a good bargain always: they manage somehow to
 obtain all the sentiment they require from both worlds. Men cannot
 be happy on sentiment alone; hence, therefore, the dreadful
 hesitations, self-doubts, and terror which assail so frequently the
 interior peace of all men drawn, like Orange, by certain qualities
 of temperament, toward the mortification of their humanity. Laying
 aside the proud idea of the independence, vigour, and
 spiritual-mindedness which this practice is held to secure, there
 is one drawback which, with a view to that class who are really
 willing to endure many afflictions for the sake of any one definite
 advantage, ought not to be overlooked. The weak, under such
 discipline, become sugary: the strong grow hard. Robert has
 backbone; he is a man of ability, perhaps even genius, but there is
 always a danger that, either from the accumulation of scruples or
 the want of romantic incentive, he may throw up the political game
 and bury himself in a monastery where his dreams may find their
 sole expression in prayer. Another point occurs to me. Will the
 rank and file ever trust a person so far above their comprehension?
 The very word "mystical" is a word of reproach in the mouth of the
 world. People continually ask questions about Robert. No questions,
 on the other hand, are asked about Aumerle. Aumerle lives like the
 rest of us: he does everything he ought not to do--he surprises
 nobody: he delivers his neighbours over to the absolute power of
 accomplished facts. (A way of saying that he doesn't care a rap
 about the fellow who falls among thieves.) Dear Val�rie! What a
 pleasure it is to write to you! I can utter my inmost thoughts. I
 am often suspected of callousness. This letter will show you how
 truly I feel the sorrows of my few real friends. I cannot bear to
 think that Orange should be beaten, as it were, by Parflete. A more
 fawning, wretched creature than Parflete one never saw. I shall
 not be set right in my own idea of the Divine Justice unless this
 battle, at any rate, is to the strong. Write to me. I don't want to
 whine, but I may tell you that I am not happy.

                    Your affectionate friend,

                            BEAUCLERK R.

Sara sat on a low, embroidered stool by the fender, and, as she studied each line of his lordship's despatch (for so he regarded it), she would dip her fingers from time to time into a blue satin sweet-box, select, after due consideration, a chocolate or a sugared-almond, and nibble it somewhat fastidiously, with an air of making concessions to her human side. The exercise of divining the many hidden meanings in Reckage's epistle was certainly purely intellectual. Nevertheless, as she read the last sentences, she smiled with malicious triumph, for did they not convey a declaration of strong friendship in a letter designed, beyond doubt, as an argument in disfavour of all merely sentimental ties between men and women, and as a frank confession of his own inability to sustain any relation of the kind? How often had he maintained an opposite opinion--seeming contemptuous, indolent, invulnerable, unconscious of her beauty, amused rather than attracted by her brilliant spirit. Every instinct of the coquette, jealous of her own power and wretched from the sterile suffering of wounded pride, resented bitterly the unpardonable ease which he had appeared to enjoy in her society. Now, however, that he appealed to her womanliness by a humble surrender, her better, more generous nature asserted itself. Some of the old affection she had long felt for him revived. Where there had once been love, a kind of desperate fidelity still lingered, and, although Robert Orange was the ideal passion of her heart, Reckage possessed a certain influence over her which was not the less powerful because it had its root and constant nourishment in their common memory of a childhood and first youth spent together in the same county, with the same friends and the same bores. She slipped his letter, with a sigh, into her belt, and turned her attention for the third time to Pens�e's tear-stained pages.

 MY DARLING SARA,--I can scarcely write. Although I know the mercy
 and wisdom hidden in these sad events, my heart is heavy. The best
 thing is to preach resignation _till_ you have it; and then,
 _because_ you have it, you _will_ preach it. Robert's love of
 Brigit makes little outward show, but I know that it is terribly
 real. We are never so near to our loved ones as when we have left
 them for God, but _nearness_ of that intangible, invisible kind
 amounts to agony. At least, I think so. Robert's self-restraint is
 killing me. When we first met, he shook from head to foot, his very
 face quivered, but he said nothing. I felt that he would never
 allow any one to speak of this trouble or offer him the least
 sympathy. In the necessary discussion of the legal aspects of the
 case, he was very calm, and seemed rather an adviser himself than
 the person chiefly concerned. It is not easy to understand him; yet
 I appreciate reserve. If everybody could understand us, what joy
 would there be in discovering our souls to those whom we love!
 Brigit has shut herself up in a room. She cries incessantly (she is
 so young) and is dreadfully changed. She wishes to go to Paris--for
 she has some idea of resuming her musical studies. Her voice is one
 of her great gifts, yet I can't imagine any one singing in such a
 tortured state of mind. I don't like to say that actually I fear
 for her reason, but she has, I see, far more heart, poor child,
 than I ever supposed. How wrong it is to attempt any judgment or
 estimate of another person's capacity for suffering! She is in a
 pitiable condition, unnaturally patient in a sense--for it is
 patience on the rack. Our Lord dreaded suffering and even feared
 it. Of course, one might easily say that an unhappy love affair is
 very common, that it is almost profane to compare such an ordinary
 trouble with the serious, exceptional trials of life. But although
 Lord Byron declared that "man's love was of man's life a thing
 apart," his own poems and his own career gave the lie absolutely to
 the statement (indeed, I am often tempted to believe that women
 exhibit, on the whole, greater strength of will in their affections
 than men). I must say, therefore, that the spectacle of a bride and
 bridegroom, devoted to each other, yet separated on their very
 wedding day, is quite as serious and sorrowful as (say) the death
 of a parent, or the loss of a child, or any other melancholy
 occurrence of everyday life. And what is worse, an atmosphere of
 _scandal_ penetrates this story--making it most shocking to all
 refined minds, and peculiarly so to temperaments of extraordinary
 delicacy. It will take every atom of _my_ courage and constant
 prayers to bear it _for_ them. What must it be, therefore, to
 themselves? I tremble at the appalling things in future for us. As
 for my uncle, I dare not read his letter yet. He must be so upset,
 so _horrified_. I have never before been called on for such a proof
 of friendship. It is quite dreadful to be mixed up in a kind of
 _cause c�l�bre_. The great justice of God is always mixed with
 great hardships, and is often executed by those worthy neither of
 confidence nor respect. I am sure that we shall all have to go
 through many humiliations before this matter is settled. I know,
 darling, that _you_ will say I am making a rather narrow-minded
 fuss. But I do hate publicity, and if it doesn't kill Robert
 outright, it will have some shattering effect upon his character
 and his health. Really, I am not thinking so much of myself. Your
 own _reckless_ bravery, however, would quail a little, I fancy, at
 the idea of having your most intimate feelings called out from the
 housetops and discussed in the streets. And remember, please, that
 Robert is a dreamer--a poet. Of course, in every _active_
 expedition there must be some few idealistic, Quixotic souls who
 have to suffer vicariously for the rest. He is such an one. But
 that sort of feeling of soreness which comes from the sense of
 martyrdom is not quite the same as a raw wound on one's own
 _personal_ score. I do hope I am clear. I try to look on the bright
 side, but there are days when the unseen world and its glorious
 realities become dubious. These are trials of faith, I know. If one
 could be wise, one would keep silent at such times. Now, dearest
 Sara, good-night.

                    Yours ever lovingly,

                            PENS�E.