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 Sevigne, 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

Pensee Fitz Rewes. Their respective contents ran as follows:--

MY DEAR SARA (I love the sweeter name of Valerie: 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. Pensee 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 Valerie! 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 Pensee'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 celebre_. 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,

PENSEE.