CHAPTER XIV

Lord Garrow and Lady Sara left town the next day for a short visit at

Kemmerstone Park, the seat of Arabella, Marchioness of Churleigh. Lady

Churleigh had a favourite nephew for whom she was extremely anxious "to

do something." Vague by nature, she had never been able to define her

ambition in more precise terms, but, as she entertained influential

people only, it was considered, in many circles, that she over-did her

civilities toward the mammon of unrighteousness. Those who were not

invited called her heartless; those who accepted her hospitality found

fault with her brains. All praised her cook, and no one ever thought of

her nephew. It was known that she could not leave him her money. Every

pair of eyes read his name--Lord Douglas Hendlesham--on his bedroom door

at the top of the grand staircase, and visitors soon learnt to associate

this advertisement with a pale, haughty young man who appeared

occasionally at meals, or sometimes listened disdainfully to the music

after dinner in the saloon. Distinguished persons, staying at

Kemmerstone for the first time, would ask a fellow-guest, "Who is the

melancholy youth who looks so ill?" "That," they would be told, "is

Douglas Hendlesham, I _think_."

Disraeli called him "a personified hallucination."

The party, on this particular occasion, consisted of Agnes Carillon (who

attracted unusual attention as the _fiancee_ of Lord Reckage), the

Bishop of Hadley (her father), the Duke and Duchess of Bevensey, Charles

Aumerle, and Mr. Disraeli. Lord Garrow lost no time in conveying his

version of the Orange scandal to the ex-Minister's ears. It was a damp

afternoon, and the two gentlemen marched up and down the smoking-room

together, talking so earnestly that the Duke (to his rage) dared not

interrupt them, and drove out instead with his Duchess and Lady

Churleigh--who bored him beyond sleep. Disraeli had been opposed, from

the first, to Robert's marriage with Mrs. Parflete, for, as other

diplomatists, he preferred his own plans before those of Providence, and

he had wished to see his young friend wisely united to the

unexceptionable Viscountess Fitz Rewes.

"But," he observed, shrugging his shoulders, "to talk expediency is not

a safe way of opening the game with Orange. Many men have ability, few

have genius, but fewer still have character. Orange has a rectangular

will and an indomitable character. _Character_ is the rarest thing in

England."

Lord Garrow stiffened his back.

"I have been educated in a contrary belief," said he. "Our national

character is our dearest possession."

"That is because it is so rare. You mistake your education for your

experience--a common error. By character I mean that remnant of a man's

life which is probably stronger than death, and ought to be stronger

than worldly considerations."

"Far be it from me to go into such subtleties," returned his lordship,

stealing a glance at Disraeli's powerful face. "Your friend, at all

events, has done for himself now. His merits seem to be more interesting

than respectable, and this marriage has furnished conversation for the

whole town--chiefly because Beauclerk Reckage was his best man. One

cannot help feeling sorry for him, but it is certainly a very bad thing.

How will he justify his rash conduct?"

"He may think it unwise to be detailed in self-justification."

"That is all well enough, and so far I am with you. In such

circumstances, one doesn't want to tell a lie, and yet one doesn't want

to tell the truth."

"Well, there are many duties and difficulties in life: there is but one

obligation--courage."

He fixed his eyes on the fire blazing in the grate, and repeated the

word with great emphasis--"Courage!"

"He will need it. An unpleasant suggestion has been put forward by the

lawyers."

"Divorce?" said Disraeli.

"Yes."

"A Bishop was telling me the other day that when one attacks the

principle of divorce one forgets that it was originally a Divine

institution! But I agree with you--it is unpleasant. You will find that

Orange won't hear of such a course. I see great dangers ahead for him,

but I see no honourable way of avoiding them. When a man, careless of

danger, unconcerned with profit, takes up the cause of God against the

world, others may not follow, but they must admire him. Abstract

sentiments of virtue do not charm me. Orange is a Roman Catholic,

however, and therefore a practical idealist. The practical idealists of

England are the Dissenters--mostly the Methodists. John Wesley was

considered crack-brained by his contemporaries at Oxford; he was a

greater mystic, in several ways, than Newman, but he was not such a

poet."

"I know nothing about Dissenters and that class. As for the

Catholics--the few I am acquainted with are civil and sensible."

"That is true. Most of the English Catholics imagine that St. Peter's

and the Vatican can be maintained on the policy of a parish church in

Mayfair! But one moment. There is Aumerle in the hall with a telegram. I

wonder if he has any fresh news about poor Derby." [Footnote: Lord Derby

was then lying at the point of death.]

With this unimpeachable excuse he left his noble companion, who, more

certain than ever that Disraeli could never be in touch with the upper

classes of England, retired to his own room and wrote down in a journal

all he could remember of their conversation.

Lady Sara, meanwhile, had invited Agnes Carillon to walk through the

famous gardens of Kemmerstone, and, as each girl was anxious to study

the other, they started on the expedition in that high pitch of nervous

excitement and generous animosity which one may detect in splendid

rivals, or even in formal allies. Sara dressed more richly than was the

fashion at that time among English unmarried ladies. Her furs, velvets,

laces and jewels were referred to an Asiatic, barbaric love of display.

Agnes, therefore, who had attired herself, in protest, even more plainly

than usual, was a little taken aback to find her remarkable acquaintance

in brown cashmere, a cloth jacket, and a severe felt hat of the Tyrolean

shape, which, poised upon her chignon, tilted far over her fine blue

eyes. Both women, however, were so young and handsome that even the

trying fashions of the period could not destroy their brilliant

appearance. The chagrin of the one and the ironical triumph of the other

soon gave way to more generous feelings. Each took her companion's

measure with a swift, intelligent, respectful glance.

"Shall we need umbrellas?" said Agnes.

"I have nothing on that will spoil," replied Sara, "but I am a little

anxious about your shoes. Are they thick enough?"

Miss Carillon was above many vanities; she left her facial beauty to

take care of itself. But her feet were uncommonly well moulded, and she

was careful not to disguise them in the hideous porpoise-hide boots with

flat soles and no instep which found favour with her generation.

"They look very nice," continued Sara, "and I really think they are

worth a slight cold. Take my arm, for then we can walk better. How nobly

Lord Reckage has behaved in this dreadful affair of Robert Orange! You

won't think me strange for introducing the subject at once? It must be

on both our minds, for you are naturally thinking of Reckage, and I am

thinking of dear Pensee."

"Beauclerk is very fond of Mr. Orange."

"He must be. Do notice the autumn tint on those beech-trees. How I envy

artists--although it is not their business to contend with Nature. The

great vice of the present day is _bravura_--an attempt to do something

beyond the truth. That reminds me--how does the portrait grow? David

Rennes is extremely clever."

"Beauclerk admires his work. He considers him finer than Millais."

"What does he think of the portrait?"

"He hasn't seen it yet. My people are much pleased with the likeness. I

find it flattering."

"Indeed!" said Sara thoughtfully. "Did you give him many sittings?"

"He knows my face pretty well. We are acquaintances of some years'

standing. Papa has a high opinion of him."

"And you?"

"I am no judge. Women can know so little about men."

"I don't agree with you there. They are far more conventional

than we are. They are trained in batches, thousands are of one

pattern--especially in society. But each woman has an individual

bringing-up. She is influenced by a foreign governess, or her mother, or

her nurse. This must give every girl peculiar personal views of

everything. That is why men find us hard to understand. We don't

understand each other; we suspect each other: we have no sense of

comradeship."

"Perhaps you are right," said Agnes, rather sadly. "Yet our troubles all

seem to arise from the fact that we cannot manage men. It matters very

little really whether we can manage women. With women, one need only be

natural, straightforward, and unselfish. You can't come to grief that

way. But with men, it is almost impossible to be quite natural. As for

being straightforward, don't they misconstrue our words continually? And

when one tries to be unselfish, they accuse one of hardness, coldness,

and everything most contrary to one's feelings. Of course," she added

quickly, "I speak from observation. I have nothing to complain of

myself."

"Of course not. Neither have I. I have grown up with most of my men

friends. I had no mother, and I exhausted dozens of governesses and

masters, I am sure I was troublesome, but I had an instinctive horror of

becoming narrow-minded and getting into a groove. My English relations

bored me. My foreign ones made my dear papa jealous and uncomfortable."

"Then you liked them?" said Agnes at once.

"Enormously. You see, I am always an alien among English people."

Agnes, following an instinct of kindness, pressed her arm and murmured,

"No, no."

"Yes, my dear, yes. And this is why I am devoted to Mr. Disraeli, and so

much interested in Robert Orange. We three are citizens of the world."

"But English people who have lived, for any length of time, abroad are

quite as sensible and tolerant as you are. Take Mr. Rennes, of whom we

are just speaking."

"To be sure. But artists and poets are like stars--they belong to no

land. A strictly national painter or a strictly national poet is bound

to be parochial--a kind of village pump. And you may write inscriptions

all over him, and build monuments above him, but he remains a pump by a

local spring. David Rennes is a genius."

"I am glad you think so," said Agnes, with flushing cheeks. "I wonder

whether he will ever be an Academician?"

"Would you feel more sure of his gifts--in that case?"

There was a slight note of sarcasm in the question.

"It is stupid of me, I know," said Agnes frankly, "but one can't help

feeling rather shy until one's opinions are officially endorsed."

"How British!"

"I suppose it is my bringing-up. It sounds very feeble. I often feel

that if I once began--really began--to think for myself I wouldn't stick

at anything."

"That is British, too," said Sara, laughing. "You are a true _Jane_

Bull! But as you are going to marry a public man, that is as well. Your

life will have many absorbing interests."

"Oh yes," returned Agnes; "I hope to help Beauclerk in his constituency,

and with the members of his Association."

"So far as I can make out they are a weak, selfish lot, but these

qualities do not affect the question of his duties toward them."

"You express, better than I could, my own feeling. I fear they don't

always appreciate his motives."

"Beauclerk," said Sara slowly, "is impulsive. He is never afraid of

changing his mind. Many people are called firm merely because they

haven't the moral courage to own their second thoughts."

Agnes drew a long sigh, slackened her pace, and stood looking at the

strange, autumnal lights in the sky, the martins flying over the

paddocks toward the wood, and the crescent moon which already shone out

above them.

"I suppose it does mean lack of courage, half the time," she said at

last; "and yet how disastrous it is to wonder about the wisdom of any

decision once arrived at, of any step once taken! I daresay every one

shrinks a little at first from the responsibility of undertaking another

person's happiness."

"Not every one," replied Sara; "the generous ones only."

"You have known Beauclerk ever since he was a boy, haven't you?" asked

Agnes.

"Yes. He was such a handsome lad, and he has always been the same."

"I am devoted to him," said Agnes. "I am proud to think that he has

chosen me for his wife. But one thought is perpetually coming up in my

mind: Shall I be able to make him happy? A girl, as a rule, seems to

believe that she can make a man happy merely by loving him. Again and

again friends of mine have married in this idea. And the hope seldom

answers."

She spoke very quietly, yet there was great feeling, even great

bitterness in her tone. She was thinking of David Rennes. Sara had a

curious magnetism which attracted all those with whom she came into

friendly relations. Being imaginative, though never inquisitive, her

quick sympathies rendered the most trivial interchange of ideas an

emotional exercise. This power, which would have made her a successful

actress, found its usual outlet in her pianoforte playing, which

affected her hearers as only extraordinary nervous and passionate force

can affect people. She had neither the patience nor the sternness of

mental quality which is required in a creative genius: the little songs

and poems which she sometimes composed were insipid to an astonishing

degree. Hers were the executant's gifts, and the fascination which she

exerted over men and women depended wholly on the natural charm of a

temperament made up of fire and honey. Agnes had always regarded Lady

Sara as an odd but chivalrous girl. The stories told in society about

her eccentric tastes, sayings, and doings were never to her heart's

discredit, no matter how much they puzzled, or dismayed, the

conventional set into which she had been born. It was felt that she

could be trusted, and, although many were afraid of her brains, no one

had ever known her to betray a confidence, to injure another woman's

reputation, to show the least spite, or to insist upon an undue share of

men's attention. The sex may, and do, pardon the first three sins, but

the last has yet to find its atoning virtue. All declared that Sara,

with many shortcomings, was neither a poacher nor a grabber. Girls

consulted her in their love troubles, and not a few owed their marriages

to her wise arbitration. She had the gypsy's spell. Thus it happened,

therefore, that Agnes, who was habitually reserved, found herself

thinking aloud in the presence of this mysterious but not hostile

personality.

"When does Beauclerk return from the North of France?" asked Sara.

"He is coming back with Mr. Orange next Wednesday. I had a letter this

morning." Her voice grew husky, and with evident agitation she halted

once more.

"You know Beauclerk so well," she said at last, "that I want to ask you

something, and you must answer me truly--without the least dread of

giving offence--because a great deal may depend on what you tell me. Do

you think he seems altogether settled in his mind?"

Sara guessed, from the nature of the question, that the truth in this

case would be a relief--not a blow.

"He doesn't seem quite himself--if you understand me," she said, without

hesitation.

Agnes caught her arm a little more closely and walked with a lighter

step.

"I don't think we love each other sufficiently for marriage," she

exclaimed; "his last letter was so affectionate and so full of kindness

that it brought tears to my eyes. I saw the effort under it all. We are

making a tragic mistake. We drifted into it. We were such good friends,

and we felt, I daresay, that it was our duty to love each other. His

family were pleased and so were mine. We seem to have pleased everybody

except ourselves. Not that I ever expected the joy and stuff, and inward

feelings which one reads of. I am too sensible for that. But I wanted to

feel _established_--whereas we are both, in reality, rather upset. I am

sure of this."

"Perhaps when you see each other----"

"Our letters are far more satisfactory than our meetings. I know he is

fond of me."

"You couldn't doubt that. It is worship."

"I can say, at any rate, that I am so sure of his affection that it

gives me no pain--not the least--to miss the--the other quality."

"My dear, you are not in love with him, or you couldn't be so resigned."

"I suppose you are right. I have never told him that I loved him. He has

never asked me. Perhaps he took it for granted. As for me, I thought

that the respect and esteem I felt would do."

Sara shook her head.

"Not for us. We are different, I know, but we have hearts. We can

suffer, we can endure, we can be resigned, we can be everything except

uncertain, or luke-warm. Isn't that true?"

"Yes," said Agnes, and she laughed a little. "It isn't my way," she went

on, "to talk like this about myself. Yet I can't help seeing that all

this keeping silence, and disguising facts from one's own reason, is

actually weak. I don't want to be weak. It isn't English. I don't want

to be supine. That isn't English either. I want to be just and square

all round--in my dealings with others and in my dealings with my own

conscience. Papa has always taught us a great deal about individual

liberty, and freedom of will. I am beginning to wonder what liberty

means."

"That's the first step toward a great change."

The young girl set her lips, and looked steadfastly before her, as

though she would pierce the gathering twilight with her bright and

candid eyes.

"I daresay you are right. Anyhow, our talk has been a help. When I may

seem to lack courage, it is because I lack conviction. Once convinced, I

can depend upon myself."

"When did these ideas come to you?" asked Sara.

"They have been coming for some time. I have been abroad a good deal,

and I have been meeting people who make opinions. I never gave in when I

was with them, but I must have been influenced."

The slight emphasis on the words _people_ and _them_ was too studied to

escape Sara's trained hearing. She knew the force of a woman's

rhetorical plural.

"I believe you have your convictions now, at this moment," she said

quietly.

"No--not in the final shape."

"But you can predict the final shape?"

"One more day and then I will decide irrevocably."

"Why do you hesitate?"

"For this reason--I must grieve papa and disappoint my mother."

"Still, both these things have to be done. Some of the best men have

been obliged to displease their parents in choosing a vocation. Women,

in their marriages, are often driven to the same sad straits."

"I know, but the prospect is most painful. I feel I could bear my own

disappointment far better than I could bear theirs. Surely you

understand?"

"Too well."

They had now reached the house, and Agnes's habitual manner at once

re-asserted itself. Her voice, which had many rich notes, fell into the

one unchanging tone she used in ordinary conversation. Her countenance

seemed as placid as a pink geranium under glass.

"Thank you for a very pleasant walk," she said to Sara. "I sha'n't

forget it."

"Nor I. And, please, after this, always call me Sara. And may I call you

Agnes? We have just time now to write a few letters before dinner."