CHAPTER II

When Sara had prepared Lord Garrow's tea and cut the leaves of the

_Revue des Deux Mondes_, which he invariably read until he dressed for

dinner, she stole away to the further room, where she could play the

piano, write letters, muse over novels, or indulge in reverie without

fear of interruption. But as she entered it that afternoon its air of

peace seemed the bleakness of desolation. A terrible and afflicting

grief swept, like an icy breeze, through her heart, and, whether from

actual physical pain or the excitement of the last few hours, tears

started to her eyes, her cheeks flushed, and she fell to passionate

weeping. The smiling Nymphs painted on the ceiling above her head and

the rose leaves they were for ever scattering to the dancing Hours (a

charming group, and considered very cheerful), could not relieve her

woe. She cried long and bitterly, and was on the verge of hysterics when

the door opened and her most intimate woman friend, the Viscountess Fitz

Rewes, was announced. This bewitching creature--who was a widow, with

two long flaxen curls, a sweet figure, and the smile of an

angel--embraced her dear, dear Sara with genuine affection, and

pretended not to see her swollen eyelids. Sara possessed for Pensee Fitz

Rewes the fascination of a desperate nature for a meek one. The

audacity, brilliancy, and recklessness of the younger woman at once

stimulated and established the other's gentle piety.

They talked for fifteen minutes about the autumn visits they had paid,

the visits they would have to pay, and the visits which nothing in the

world would induce them to pay.

"I have been at home, at Catesby, most of the time," said Pensee; "a

very quiet, happyish time, on the whole. I had a few people down, but I

saw a great deal of a particularly nice person. She is a foreigner--an

archduchess really. Her father made a morganatic marriage. I am so glad

they don't have morganatic marriages in England. I don't like to be

uncharitable, but they seem, in a way, so improper. Madame de Parflete

is all one could wish. Her husband was a dreadful man."

"What did he do?" said Sara, who was a little absent.

"Oh, all kinds of things. He committed suicide in the end. And now--she

is going to marry a friend of mine."

"Who is he?"

"I never told you about him before," said Pensee, "but I am so miserable

to-day that you may as well know. He was a sort of brother, yet much

more. One didn't meet him often in our set, because he didn't and

doesn't care about it. Life, however, threw us together."

She covered her wan face with her hands.

"How am I to give him up?" she asked. "How shall I bear it? I get so

unhappy. I asked my little boy the other day what he did when I went

away from home. He said--'I gather chestnuts and feel lonely.' And I

asked my little girl what she did, and she said--'I cry till you come

back again.' There's the difference between men and women. I am like my

poor Lilian. You, Sara, if you could be wretched, would be more like the

boy."

"Do you think so?" said Sara.

"That wonderful passage in the New Testament--I often remember it! After

all the agony and separation were over, Simon Peter said to the

disciples, _I go a fishing_. He went back to the work he was doing when

our Lord first called him. What courage!"

"Go on," said Sara, "go on!"

"Of course, my heart has been taking an undue complacency in the

creature, and this seldom fails to injure. I have a wish to be free from

distress, and enjoy life. As if we were born to be happy! No, this world

is a school to discipline souls and fit them for the other. I must

forget my friend."

"Nonsense!"

"It will be very hard. I took such an interest in his career. If I

didn't mention him to you, or to other people, I mentioned him often to

God. And now--it is somewhat awkward."

"You little goose," said Sara, "you have a heart of crystal. Nothing

could be awkward for you."

"My heart," said Pensee, with a touch of resentment, "is just as

dangerous and wicked as any other heart! You misunderstand me wilfully.

I like prayer at all times, because it is a help and because it lifts

one out of the world. Oh, when shall every thought be brought into

captivity?"

"Listen!" said Sara, "listen! If there is an attractiveness in human

beings so lovely that it could call your Almighty God Himself from

heaven to dwell among them and to die most cruelly for their sakes, is

it to be expected that they will not--and who will dare say that they

should not?--as mortals themselves, discover qualities in each other

which draw out the deepest affection? I have no patience with your

religion--none."

"You are most unkind, and I won't tell you any more," replied Pensee,

who looked, however, not ungrateful for Sara's view of the situation.

"Let me tell you something about me," said her friend fiercely. "I never

say my prayers, because I cannot say them, but I love somebody, too.

Whenever I hear his name I could faint. When I see him I could sink into

the ground. At the sight of his handwriting I grow cold from head to

foot, I tremble, my heart aches so that it seems breaking in two. I long

to be with him, yet when I am with him I have nothing to say. I have to

escape and be miserable all alone. He is my thought all day: the last

before I sleep, the first when I awake. I could cry and cry and cry. I

try to read, and I remember not a word. I like playing best, for then I

can almost imagine that he is listening. But when I stop playing and

look round, I find myself in an empty room. It is awful. I call his

name; no one answers. I whisper it; still no answer. I throw myself on

the ground, and I say, 'Think of me! think of me! you shall, you must,

you do think of me!' It is great torture and a great despair. Perhaps it

is a madness too. But it is my way of loving. I want to live while I

live. If I knew for certain that he loved me--me only--the joy, I think,

would kill me. Love! Do you know, poor little angel, what it means?

Sometimes it is a curse."

Pensee, before this torrent, was shaking like some small flower in a

violent gale.

"You say things, Sara, that no one says--things that one ought not to

say. You must be quieter. You won't be happy when you are married if you

begin with so much feeling!"

"I am not going to marry that one," said Sara bitterly. "I am going to

marry Marshire."

Lady Fitz Rewes had too delicate a face to contain any expression of

the alarm and horror she felt at this statement. She frowned, bit her

lips, and sank back in her chair. What stroke of fate, she wondered, had

overtaken the poor girl? Was she sane? Was she herself? Pensee found

some relief in the thought that Sara was not herself--a state into which

most people are presumed to fall whenever, from stress or emotion, they

become either strictly candid or perfectly natural.

"It is a fancy. Fancies are in my blood," said Sara; "you need not be

anxious."

"But--but what feeling have you for Marshire?" murmured Pensee.

"I have a faint inclination not to dislike him utterly. And I will be a

good wife to him. If I say so, I shall keep my word. You may be sure of

that."

"I could never doubt your honour, Sara. Is the other man quite, quite

out of the question?"

"Quite."

"But perhaps he does love you."

"Oh no, he doesn't. He may think me picturesque and rather entertaining.

It never went deeper than that. I saw at once that his mind was fixed on

some other woman."

"I suppose one can always tell when a man's affections are really

engaged," said Pensee, with a sigh.

"Yes, beyond any doubt. You feel that they are comparing you at every

point, in a silent, cold-blooded way, to the bright particular star. I

envy you, Pensee; you, at least, were desperately loved by Lionel. But

I--never, never was loved--except once."

"Who was he?"

"He was a Russian, very good-looking, and a genius. But oh, I wasn't old

enough to understand him. When he died, I cried for half a day and seven

nights. And after that, not a tear. You see, I didn't understand myself

either."

"Do I know this other one ... the one, now?"

"I won't tell you his name. Perhaps, another time, when we are all very

old ... and he is dead ... or I am dying...."

"Oh, don't say that!" exclaimed Pensee, "don't say that! You are making

a lot of misery for yourself."

"Not at all. I am making the most of my one saving grace. There is

nothing very nice about me--except that. And he is a man. The only real

one among all our friends--the only one for whom I have the least

respect. If any woman had his love--how sure, how happy she could be! I

could work, and starve, and lay down my life for a man like that. If he

had loved me, I think I could have been almost a good woman, a downright

good one, a Saint Elizabeth of Hungary. But you see that wasn't to be.

And so I am just this----" She looked in the glass and pointed a white

finger, loaded with rings of black pearls, at her reflection. "I am just

this--a vain, idle fool like all the rest--except you, poor darling."

"Why don't you keep up your music?--your wonderful playing? Every one

says it is so wonderful. That's a great outlet for emotion. And your

languages--why not work an hour a day each at Italian, Spanish, German,

and French? That would kill four hours of the day straight off!"

"Bah!" said Sara, "I cannot play--unless there is some one to play for.

As for languages--I cannot talk alone. And as for reading--I cannot find

all my world between the covers of a book."

"But live for others, dear Sara."

"I want to live for myself. I have one inseparable companion--that is

myself. I want to suffer my own sufferings, and enjoy my own enjoyments.

This living for others is absurd. I hate second-hand emotions; they are

stale and dull. But, Pensee, you haven't told me the name of your

friend."

"I thought I had," said Pensee, simply; "you will see it in the marriage

notice the day after to-morrow. It is Robert Orange."

Sara stared for a moment. Then the string of gold beads which she wore

round her throat suddenly broke, and the shining ornaments fell all

about her to the floor.

"Dear me!" said Sara, kneeling down with a ghastly laugh. Pensee knelt

too, and they gathered the scattered necklace between them. "Dear me! I

was never more surprised--never; and yet I cannot think why I am

surprised. He is very handsome. Any woman would like him."

"I wonder," said Pensee, full of thoughts.

Sara proceeded to count her beads, lest one should be missing. But they

were all there, and she tied them up in her handkerchief.

"Pensee," she said, presently. "I will tell his name after all, because

you have been so frank with me. The one I ... love is Beauclerk

Reckage." As she uttered this lie, she cast down her eyes and blushed to

the very heart.

"Beauclerk!" exclaimed Pensee, in amazement. "Then there _is_ some hope

after all! There is, there must be! Beauclerk! He is engaged to Agnes

Carillon, of course. But all the same...."

The conversation flagged. Lord Garrow, who had heard a distant murmuring

but not their words, now, as their animation failed, came in.

"My little girl," said he, "has been moping. I am very glad that you

called ... very glad indeed. And Sara, my darling...."

"Yes, papa."

"Have you asked Pensee the name of that extremely pretty song she sang

for us when we all dined together at Lord Wight's? You remember the

evening?"

But Sara, with a wail, fled away. Pensee caught a glimpse of her white,

agonised countenance as she rushed past them, moaning, to her own room.

"This is dreadful," said Lord Garrow, horribly annoyed--"dreadful!"

"It is indeed," replied Lady Fitz Rewes gravely. "I suppose...."

She wanted to say that she hoped the Marshire-de Treverell alliance was

still undecided. But something in his lordship's air--a hardness she had

never thought to see in his regard--forbade any reference to the

subject. He conducted her to her carriage, wished her "Goodbye" in his

Court manner, and led her to understand, by an unmistakable glance, that

a certain marriage which had been arranged would, inasmuch as it was

entirely agreeable to the will of Providence, take place.