CHAPTER V

The dinner, in the ordering of which the host had expended all his

gastronomical knowledge and much anxiety, seemed long. Orange found

himself opposite the famous portrait of "Edwyn, Lord Reckage of

Almouth," which represents that nobleman elaborately dressed, reclining

on a grassy bank by a spring of water, with a wooded landscape, a

sunrise, and a squire holding two horses in the distance. Robert

studied, and remembered always, every detail of that singular

composition. The warrior's shield, with its motto "_Magica sympathia_,"

his fat white hands, velvet breeches, steel cuirass, and stiff lace

collar remained for days a grotesque image before his mind. He traced,

too, a certain resemblance between Reckage and that ancestor--they both

wore pointed red beards, both were fair of skin, both had a dreaming

violence in their blue eyes.

"You must have some pheasant," said his lordship, at last. "You are

eating nothing. And that Burgundy, you know, is unique of its kind. It

was a present from the Emperor of the French to mamma. Her people were

civil to him when he was regarded as a sort of adventurer. And he never

forgot it. He's a very decent fellow. I dined with him at the

Tuileries--did I mention it?"

Robert replied that he fancied he had heard of the occurrence.

"Well," continued his friend, "I might have enjoyed that experience, but

I was feeling depressed at the time; a lot of the depression went under

the influence of frivolous talk, military music, and champagne. Yet, all

the same, do these things really count for much? I felt just as wretched

afterwards."

The glimpse he had obtained that afternoon of Sara de Treverell--Sara

flushed with agitation, very bright in her glance, exceedingly subtle in

her smile, had stirred a great tenderness he had once felt for that

young lady. The news, too, that she had been chosen as a bride by the

prudent, rich, and most important Duke of Marshire made his lordship

feel that perhaps he had committed a blunder in not having secured her,

during her first season, for himself. He feared that he had lost an

opportunity; and this reflection, while it lowered temporarily his

self-esteem, placed Sara on a dangerous eminence. She would be a

duchess--one of the great duchesses. Little Sara!

"She was looking extraordinarily handsome," he exclaimed. "Of course she

means to take him. But she liked me at one time. I am speaking of Sara

de Treverell. Marshire is by way of being a stick. Who could have

imagined him going in for a high-spirited, brilliant girl like Sara?"

Formerly he had always spoken of Sara as a clever little devil, but

Robert showed no surprise at the new adjective.

"Brilliant!" repeated his lordship. "Don't you agree?"

"Absolutely. She is the most brilliant girl in London."

"But heartless," said his lordship pathetically; "she hasn't one bit of

heart."

"There I don't agree with you. Of course she is strange and rather

wild."

"_Tete-montee._ And then the Asiatic streak!"

"True. The fiercest wind cannot take the angles out of the bough of a

tree an inch thick. You may break it, but you cannot destroy its angles.

That is so, no doubt, with one's racial tendencies. The girl is wilful

and romantic. It will be very bad for them both if there is no love on

her side. She is capable, I should say, of very deep affection."

"She did like me," said his lordship, with emphasis and

satisfaction--"she really did. And I wouldn't encourage it. I had no

notion then of marrying. Her singularity, too, made me cautious. I

couldn't believe in her. She talked like an actress in a play. I felt

that she was not the woman for me. Essentially she thought as I did,

and seemed to comprehend my embarrassment. The worst of it is now--I may

have been wrong."

"I doubt it. You may be sure, on the whole, that your instincts were

right."

"Still, there is a distinct misgiving. I was drawn toward her, and, when

I made up my mind to put an end to the matter, our friendship was

severely strained. But it was not broken. Something I saw in her face

to-day makes me sure that it was not broken."

While he was speaking the servant entered with a salver, and on the

salver was a note. The address showed Sara's large, defiant

hand-writing. Reckage, who had a touch of superstition in his nature,

changed colour and even hesitated before he broke the seal. The

coincidence seemed extraordinary and fatal. What did it mean? He read

the letter with an irresistible feeling of proud delight.

"20A, ST. JAMES'S SQUARE, W.

"MY DEAR BEAUCLERK,--Will you lunch with us to-morrow at two o'clock?

Papa has invited a friend--a dreadful, boring friend--who has been

absent from England for five years. Do you know the man? Sir Piers

Harding? But I want some one to encourage me. You? Do!

"Yours sincerely,

"S. L. V. DE TREVERELL.

"P.S.--I am so happy about you and Agnes. Be kind to her always? Won't

you?"

All his life he had found a difficulty in understanding women--the

significance of their words, the precise translation of their glances,

and their motives generally. He had nourished his experience on French

novels; he had corrected it by various friendships; he had crowned it

with the confession that one could never tell what the sex meant one way

or the other. But this fact remained--he was a coxcomb, and, whenever he

owned himself puzzled, it was on a single ground only--how seriously was

the lady at stake affected by his charms? Feeling, as he did, the

infinite inequality that existed between men, and conscious of his own

reputation as a leader among them, it was not in his conscience to

encourage any woman whom he did not find especially attractive or

useful. Why spoil her chances? Why make her discontented with the

average male creature? Had Sara written to him in ordinary

circumstances, inviting him, after some months of mutual coldness, to

lunch, he would have replied, with sorrowful dignity, that it was wiser

to leave things as they were. But the case had altered. The future

Duchess of Marshire was a personage. He made no secret of his admiration

for all people of high rank. They represented influence and traditions;

what was more, they could exercise a certain power, and introduce, when

necessary, the ideas upon which fresh traditions could be based. A

friend like Sara de Treverell with her new honours made life itself

more rich to him. When he remembered that she was young, handsome,

enthusiastic, and impulsive, his pleasure thrilled into something of

genuine passion. He told himself that he had always been fond of the

girl; that hundreds of times he had felt the hardness of his scrupulous

position where she was concerned. If he had been asked what especially

he conceived his own duty to be now, he would have said that it was not

for him to hang back when she showed a coming spirit. But this was not

all. He was a gamester; he was ambitious.

"This is very odd," said he, reading Sara's note for the second time,

"very odd. There's no harm in showing it to you, because there is

nothing in it."

He gave it to his friend, and ate, pleasantly, while Orange glanced down

the page. His soul's wish was to be left alone. The effort of forcing

himself--not to affect but honestly to feel--an interest in Reckage's

conversation had proved successful. He had indeed put aside his own

thoughts, and followed, with the exaggerated earnestness of a mind

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

encourage art without having any real enjoyment of it. Garrow is one of

those persons. But his daughter, Lady Sara, has a touch of genius. She's

a musician. You have heard her play, haven't you, Robert?"

"Yes."

Robert had, at that instant, observed upon the mantelpiece a letter

addressed to himself. It was from Brigit. He grew pale, and retired,

with the little envelope lightly written on, to a far corner of the

room. For some moments he could not break the seal. The sight of her

writing filled him with a kind of agony--something beyond his control,

beyond his comprehension. What did it mean--this tightening of the

heart, this touch of fear, and love, and fear again, so deep that the

whole web of life trembled and its strings grew confused one with

another, and all was anguish, darkness, self-renunciation, and a wild, a

dreadful mystery of human influence? At last he opened the letter.

"MY DEAREST," it began, "I can never say all that I wish to say,

because when I am with you I forget everything and watch your face.

When I am away from you I forget your face, and I long to see it

again in order that I may remember it more perfectly! It is so hard

not to think of you too often. But I have had a great deal of

sorrow, and everything I have in the world--except you--is a grief.

I know that we are not born to be happy, and so, I wonder, have we

stolen our happiness? If it is a gift--I know not what to do with

it. I cannot speak a happy language: the atmosphere is strange and

frightens me. Dear Robert, I am terrified, uncertain, but when we

meet to-morrow you will give me courage. And then, as we shall not

part again, I need never again be, as I am now, too anxious. Your

BRIGIT."

Reckage's voice broke in again.

"I do wish you would try this rum omelette. It is capital."

Orange laughed, but left the room. Rennes remarked that he had a

powerful face.

"Yes. He has a strong character. And he would never deceive another. But

he deceives himself hourly--daily."

"In what way?" asked Rennes.

"He doesn't know," said Reckage, "what a devilish fine chap he is! I

wish to God that I could prevent this marriage."

"Why?"

"I say nothing against Mrs. Parflete. She's a high-class woman and so

on. Awfully beautiful, too. As clever as they make 'em, and not a breath

against her. All the same, I am not very sweet on love matches for men

of Orange's calibre. They never answer--never."

"I don't agree with you there," replied the artist, "because I believe

that a love match--even when it dissolves, as it may, into a mistake--is

the best thing that can happen to any man."

After this they discussed bindings. Lord Reckage was the first amateur

authority on the subject.