part in passion. Of the many miseries it may bring, this, perhaps the

worst of human woes, can never be in its train. Men in love--and women

also--may distrust all things and all creatures, but their own emotion,

like the storm, proves the reality of its force by the mischief it

wreaks. Robert's spirit, borne along by this vehemence of feeling,

caught the keen sweetness of the early air, not yet infected by the

day's traffic. His melancholy--the inevitable melancholy produced by

sustained thought on any subject, whether sublime or simple--was

dispelled. The Park, which was empty but for a few men on their way to

work, and runners anxious to keep in training, had its great trees

still beautiful from the lingering glance of summer; the wide and misty

stretches of grey grass were fresh in dew; the softness and

haze--without the gloom--of autumn were in the atmosphere. The pride of

love requited and the instincts of youth could not resist these spells

of nature. Robert remembered only that it was his wedding-day: that

every throb of his pulse and every second of time brought him nearer to

the supreme joy of his life and the supreme moment. He had never used

his nerves with bliss and tears, and he did not belong to the large army

of young gentlemen who own themselves proudly

"Light half-believers of our casual creeds,

Who never deeply felt, nor clearly will'd....

Who hesitate and falter life away,

And lose to-morrow the ground won to-day."

This view of heroism was not possible to him, and he was too strong in

mind and body to pretend to it. The two things which affect a career

most profoundly are religion, or the lack of it, and marriage--or not

marrying; for these things only penetrate to the soul and make what may

be called its perpetual atmosphere. The Catholic Faith, which ignores no

single possibility in human feeling and no possible flight in human

idealism, produces in those who hold it truly a freshness of heart very

hard to be understood by the dispassionate critic who weighs character

by the newest laws of his favourite degenerate, but never by the

primeval tests of God. Robert, therefore, was thinking of his bride's

face, the pure curves of her mouth, her sapphirine eyes, her pretty

hands, her golden hair, the nose which others found fault with, which

he, nevertheless, thought wholly delightful. He wondered what she would

say and how she would look when they met. Would she be pale? Would she

be frightened? There had always been a certain agony in every former

meeting because of the farewell which had to follow. With all his habits

of self-control, he had never been able to feel quite sure that the word

too much would not be said, that the glance too long would not be given.

Her own simplicity, he told himself, had saved him from disaster. She

showed her affection so fearlessly--with such tender and discerning

trust--that his worst struggles were in solitude--not in her presence at

all. It was when he was away from her immediate peaceful influence that

the fever, the restlessness, the torments and the desperation (has not

old Burton summed up for us the whole situation and all the symptoms in

his "_Anatomy_"?) had to be endured and conquered. These trials now--for

even a sense of humour could not make them less than trials--were ended.

The tragi-comic labour of walking too much and riding too much, working

and smoking too much, thinking and sleeping too little--the whole dreary

business, in fact, of stifling any absorbing idea or ruling passion,

would be no more.

When he returned to Almouth House, Reckage was already dressed for his

official duties as "best man." He felt an unwonted and genuine

excitement about Robert's marriage. He put aside the languor, _ennui_,

and depression which he felt too easily on most occasions, and, that day

at least, he was, as his own servant expressed it, "nervous and cut-up."

"I shall miss the swimming, the boxing, the fencing, and the pistol

practice," he complained, referring to diversions in which Orange was an

expert and himself the bored but dutiful participant. "They nearly

always drop these things when they marry." The loss he really feared was

the moral support and affection of his former secretary--advantages

which a selfish nature is slow to appreciate, yet most tenacious of when

once convinced of their use. The nuptial mass had been fixed for eight

o'clock, the wedding party were to breakfast at Almouth House

afterwards, then the bride and groom were to leave by the mail for

Southampton _en route_ for Miraflores in Northern France. The two young

men drove together to the chapel attached to the Alberian Embassy. Not a

word passed between them, but Reckage, under his eyelids, examined every

detail of his friend's attire. He wondered at its satisfactoriness on

the whole, inasmuch as Orange had not seen fit to consult him on the

point. The church was small and grey and sombre; the flowers on the

altar (sent by his lordship) were all white; their perfume filled the

building.

"They look very nice," said Reckage, "and in excellent taste. Some of

these old pictures on the wall are uncommonly good, and I particularly

like that bronze crucifix. Ten to one if it isn't genuine eleventh

century. I will ask the old fellow afterwards. He's a dear. His Latin is

lovely. It's an artistic pleasure to hear him read the Gospel. I looked

in the other morning, just to get the run, as it were, of the place. By

Jove! Here they are."

Pensee Fitz Rewes came first--very graceful in lavender silk, and

accompanied by her little boy, who showed by an unconscious anxiety of

expression that he felt instinctively his mother's air of contentment

was assumed. Then Baron Zeuill, with Brigit on his arm, followed. The

Baron looked grave--too grave for the happy circumstances. Brigit seemed

as pale as the lilies on the altar; she was less beautiful but more

ethereal than usual. There was something frail, transparent,

unsubstantial about her that day which Robert had never noticed before.

Had the many emotional strains of the last year tried her delicate youth

beyond endurance? She seemed very childish, too, and immature. She took

Orange's hand when he met her, held it closely, and watched the others

with a kind of wonder most pitiful to witness--as though she had

suffered too much from her contact with life and could no more. Her eyes

seemed darker than the sapphires to which Robert had so often compared

them: this effect, he told himself, was due to the strong contrast given

by the pallor of her face. It was quite clear, however, that she was

not under the influence then of any dominant thought. Her nerves and

senses were strained to that extreme tension resembling apathy, until

the vibration given by some touch or tone sets the whole system

trembling with all the spiritual and bodily forces which make the

mystery of human life. She spoke her responses, signed the register, and

walked out from the church on Robert's arm without a single change of

countenance or token of feeling. As they drove away from the church, she

flushed a little and drew far back, with a new timidity, into her

corner. One look she gave of perfect love and confidence. She pressed

his hand and held it, for a moment, against her cheek. But neither of

them spoke. And indeed, what was there to be said? The identification of

their two minds had been full and absolute from the moment of their

first encounter long ago in Chambord. The accidental differences of sex

and age, training, accomplishments, and education had not affected--and

could not affect--a sympathy in temperament which depended--not on the

similarity of opinions--but on a similarity of moral fibre. Many forms

can be cut, by the same hand, from the same piece of marble, and

although one may be a grotesque and the other a cross, one a pursuing

goddess and the other an angel for a tomb, the same substance, light,

touch, and colour will be characteristic of all four. Marriage, at best,

could but give a certain crude emphasis to the strange spiritual bond

which united these two beings. Practical as they both were in the common

affairs of life, they shrank from anything which would promise to

materialise the subtleties of the mind. Some thoughts, they felt, were

as impalpable as sounds, and, just as music ceases to be divine when it

is poured out of some mechanical contrivance, so the mysteries of the

human soul become mere bodily conditions--more or less humiliating--when

demonstrated, catalogued, and legalised. There is nothing modern nor

uncommon in this especial disposition. One may describe it as ascetic,

anaemic, sentimental, hysterical, neurotic; but the men and women who

possess this fragile organism show, as a rule, powers of endurance and a

strength of will by no means characteristic of the average sanguine and

sensual creature who eats, drinks, fights, loves, and does his best in a

world which he calls vile, yet would not renounce for all the ecstasies

of Paradise.

The carriage wheels rolled on--as swift and noiseless as the sand in an

hour-glass. Why was the road so short? Why could they not be carried

thus for ever, tranquil with happiness, wanting nothing, seeking

nothing, bound no-whither? Foolish questions and a foolish longing: yet

happiness consists in being able to formulate wishes with the serene

knowledge that a better wisdom directs their fulfilment. Neither

passers-by nor other vehicles, neither houses nor streets caught the

entranced attention of these young lovers. The delight of being purely

self-absorbed is very great and intoxicating to those who are

constantly--either by desire or the force of circumstances--unselfish. A

faint flush swept into Brigit's face under the effect of an experience

so novel. Their twofold consciousness had all the pathos of

self-effacement, and all the thrill of satisfied egoism. Such instants

cannot last, and they are shortest when one's habits of thought are

antagonistic to such luxury. Brigit sighed deeply, and roused herself

with a painful sense that the minute she wilfully cut short had been the

sweetest in her life.

"Pensee," she said, "has been so kind to me. She gave me her room at

Wight House last night. She had the little dressing-room just off it.

Did you notice her dress? She was very anxious that you should like it."

"She seemed all right," said Robert; "and wasn't Reckage splendid?"

Having spoilt their perfect moment, they became as mere mortals, more at

ease in this planet, where complete joy has an unfamiliar mien. Brigit's

actual physical beauty returned. The sunshine stole in at the open

window and lit up her golden hair, which was half hidden by a hat with

white plumes. She looked down at her hand with its new wedding ring, and

was pleasantly aware of Robert's admiration.

"I am so glad," she exclaimed, "that you think my hand is nice. Because

I have given it to you for all time. And if you are ever tired, or

discouraged, or unhappy, or lonely, and you want me, I shall come to

you."

"But you will be with me now always."

"Yes," she answered. "Yes, Robert, always."

They had now reached Almouth House. Her little foot, with its arched

instep, seemed too slight and delicate for the pavement. Robert knew

that her arm rested upon his, because he felt it trembling. They crossed

the threshold together. The doors closed after them.

"And he never once kissed her on the way from church!" exclaimed the

footman.

But the coachman did not think this very peculiar. "I don't hold with

kissing," said he; "to my mind there's nothing in it. Kissing is for

boys and gals--not for men and wives."

Baron Zeuill was unable to join them all at breakfast, but Pensee, and

Reckage, and David Rennes (who had been especially invited the night

before because he had proved so entertaining), did more than their duty

as friends by talking feverishly, eating immoderately, and affecting the

conventional joyousness universally thought proper at such times. Pensee

ventured to make a reference to the forthcoming marriage of the "best

man," and expressed the faltering hope that "dear Agnes would be as

happy as dear Brigit." Reckage scowled. Rennes was seized with a fit of

coughing. It was the one unlucky hit in the whole conversation, and it

was soon forgotten by every one present except Orange, who remembered

it frequently in later days. At last the hour for departure came.

Pensee, weeping, kissed Brigit on both cheeks, looked into her grave

eyes long and lovingly, put her arms around the slight, girlish form

with that exquisite, indefinable tenderness, unconscious,

unpremeditated, and protective, which married women show toward very

youthful brides. Robert handed his wife into the brougham, the order was

given "To Waterloo," the horses started, rice and slippers were thrown.

"They go into the world for the first time," exclaimed Rennes.

Then Pensee was assisted into the barouche, and drove homewards.

"We shall meet again," she said, as she parted from Reckage; "we meet at

Sara's at lunch."

The two men were thus left alone. They decided to smoke, for they were

both a little affected by the pathos of the situation.

"Explain Robert," said his lordship, as they returned to the

dining-room, "explain that kind of love. You are an artist."

"Well, it isn't my way," rejoined the other, with a forced laugh, "but

there are many manifestations of personal magnetism."

"This kind is very interesting," said Reckage, "although it is, of

course, high-flown. Orange is romantic and scrupulous--he knows next to

nothing of the sensual life; and that next to nothing is merely a source

of disgust and remorse. You follow me?"

"Perfectly," said Rennes. "It is a question of temperament. The wonder

is that he has not entered, in some delirium of renunciation, the

priesthood."

"That would mean, for his gifts, a closed career. It beats my wits to

guess how this marriage will turn out. He is madly in love. He has

suffered frightfully. Too much moral anguish has a depraving effect in

the long run."

"I am not so sure of that."

"I think so, at any rate. Now many a decent sort of fellow can get along

well enough--if he has a woman to his taste and wine which he considers

good. You observe I condense the situation as much as possible. But

Orange is different."

"Not so different--except in degree, or experience. At present, he

oscillates between the woe of love and the joy of life. You compared him

to St. Augustine. St. Augustine never pretended that earthly happiness

was a delusion. He knew better. He said, 'Do not trust it, but seek the

happiness which hath no end.' Personally, I can accept with gratitude as

much as I can get. 'Is not the life of men upon earth all trial, without

any interval?' This may be; yet it is something to learn how to

sympathise with happiness. Our best men and women devote themselves too

exclusively to the diagnosis of misery."

"You have thought a lot, I can see," said Reckage.

The artist gave him a quick, friendly glance.

"I have played the fool," said he. "I envy Orange. He will know things

that I can never know--now. I haven't lived up to my thoughts. I am not

remorseful--I don't believe in remorse. It is a thing for the

half-hearted. But if I am not sad, I am not especially gay. The middle

course between sentimentality and gallantry seems to me intimately

immoral and ridiculous into the bargain. So I am an idealist with

senses. There are times when I hate life. And why? Because life is evil?

By no means; but because we tell lies about it, and write lies about it,

from morning till night."

"You seem a bit depressed," said Lord Reckage. "But, by the by, how is

the portrait going? My brother Hercy, who paints a little, always

declared that Agnes was unpaintable. Do you find her unpaintable?"

"No," said Rennes; "oh no!"