Robert Orange Part 18

"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-a.s.serted 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 gla.s.s.

"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."

CHAPTER XV

Robert, accompanied by Lord Reckage, arrived in London the following Wednesday. Pensee and Brigit went from St. Malo to Paris, where the unhappy girl hoped to enter the Conservatoire. All had been arranged by Robert himself, and he had shown a calmness during the ordeal which might have deceived his two friends had they been even a little insincere themselves or a shade less fond. His Journal at that period contains two entries, however, which show that neither Lady Fitz Rewes nor Reckage were wrong in fearing he had received a mortal blow which no earthly influence could make endurable.

_Oct., 1869._--I am once more at Almouth House. Beauclerk's consideration for me is almost more than I can bear. The rest is not borne. If it were not cowardly, I would go away alone, and brood at my leisure and yield to the appalling yet all but irresistible wretchedness which calls me, which I actually crave.

An effort not to depress or discourage others may be right and my duty. I cannot be sure of this. Sometimes I feel as though it would be wiser to meet the dark hours and make acquaintance with them....

And what is to become of her? The longing to see her--even in the distance....

To-night I talked with Reckage about his Bond of a.s.sociation. Most of the members feel toward him that insipid kind of hatred which pa.s.ses for friends.h.i.+p in public life. If he were naturally observant, he would see this; if he were given at all to self-doubt, he would feel it. But his way is to regard most men as ill-mannered and well-meaning.

_Tuesday._--Another day. I begin to see that I have been called to make every sacrifice--marriage, ambition, happiness, all must be abandoned: abandoned while I live, not after I have made myself, by years of self-discipline, indifferent to such considerations....

But for its piety, the _Imitation_ is, I think, the most pessimistic book in the world. The _Exercises_ of St. Ignatius (perhaps because he was a saint) produce quite an opposite effect upon me; they exhort us to hope, action, courage. They make one a citizen of both worlds. Merely to read him is a campaign in the open air against a worthy foe. I defy any man to go through the _Exercises_ with his whole heart, and even whine again. I have resolved to write willingly no more, to speak willingly no more, on the subject of my marriage. That page is turned for ever: there shall be no glancing back. Moods inevitably must come; spasms of despair are as little tractable as spasms of physical pain. But I can at least keep silent about their true cause. The first step toward the cure of egoism is to lock away one's Journal. I shall add no more to this till I have mastered my present state. And I wonder what that mastery will mean? Are some victories better lost?

The Journal ends abruptly at this point, and no more was added that year. His letter to Lord Wight has been preserved because his lords.h.i.+p sent it to Pensee in some anger, begging her to explain such callousness. Pensee, being a woman, brought a gentler understanding to the inquiry.

"Don't you see," she said, "that his heart is broken?"

"I see," returned his lords.h.i.+p drily, "he is a born R. C. ecclesiastic.

Religious instinct is the ruling pa.s.sion of Orange. That poor young woman--with whom he is madly in love--was merely an accident of his career. She has affected his character--yes. I suppose Cardinal Manning's wife had her influence in her day. But Robert will work better than ever after this. Whereas look at me, my dear. When I lost Sybil, I was completely done for. I tried to set up for myself, but I couldn't. I hope I am a Christian; G.o.d forbid that I should quarrel with His will.

Yet I cannot think I am a better man for my poor darling's death. Don't talk to me. Don't say anything."

The letter in question ran as follows:--

ALMOUTH HOUSE.

MY DEAR LORD WIGHT,--

The messages which you have sent by Lady Fitz Rewes have helped me where I most needed a.s.sistance. When I tell you this, it would be more possible for you to imagine my grat.i.tude than for me to express it--at least, in words, and for that matter I can't see how any act of mine could prove even a fraction of it. Shall I resume my work on the 28th? I have had to learn that one does not always choose one's vocation. It is sometimes chosen for us. May I beg you, as one more favour, never to talk to me about the events of the last fortnight? In one sense I am able--too able--to discuss them. This is why I must not indulge myself. In times to come I may find it, perhaps, a certain effort to speak of it all. Then I will tell you gladly anything your kindness may seek to know. But just now it is my duty to keep silent. One cannot fight the wild beasts, and describe them fairly, at the same hour. Either they seem more formidable than they are, or they are even more terrible than they seem. But the order has gone forth--"Face them."

Your affectionate and grateful,

ROBERT de H. ORANGE.

Robert himself, after he had written this final letter, decided to reply in person to a note which he had received that morning from Lady Sara.

He walked to St. James's Square wondering, without much interest, whether Fate would have her absent or at home. As a matter of fact, she had felt a presentiment of his call, and he found her, beautifully dressed in violet tints, copying some Ma.s.s music in the drawing-room.

"I hoped you would come," she said, when the servant had closed the door. "Nothing else could have shown me that you didn't mind my writing.

I had to write. I wrote badly, but indeed I understood. It takes an eternity to sound the infinite. We won't talk of you: we can talk about other people. Ask me what I have been doing."

All this time she held his hand, but in such sisterly, kind fas.h.i.+on, that he felt more at ease with her than it was ever possible to be with Pensee, who was timid, and therefore disturbing.

"Have you accepted Mars.h.i.+re?" he asked at once.

"No," she said, blus.h.i.+ng; "I do not love him sufficiently to marry him."

"How is this?"

"You know that I always fly from important mediocrities. You think that sounds heartless. He has been so kind to me. But I love as I must--not as I ought. My dear friend, all the trouble in life is due to forced affection. Look at Beauclerk! Think of Agnes Carillon! What fiery fierceness of sorrow in both their hearts! Papa and I were at Lady Churleigh's last Sunday. Agnes was there, looking, believe me, lovely.

No portrait does her justice. One finds marvellous beauty, now and again, in the middle cla.s.ses. She is an exquisite _bourgeoise_. She is not clever enough to feel bored; she is too well brought up to be fascinating; too handsome to insist on homage. Plain women are exacting and capricious--they make themselves _worth while_. _Il faut se faire valoir!_ That is why a man will often adore an ugly woman for ever, whereas an Agnes--an Agnes----"

She paused, gave him a glance, and laughed.

"Does Beauclerk adore Agnes?" said she.

"Can one man judge another in these questions?"

"If neither are hypocrites--yes."

"As for conscious hypocrisy, a priest of great experience once told me that in twenty years he had met but one deliberate hypocrite. You must be less cynical. Men, however, don't watch each other closely as a rule in sentimental matters."

"If that is a reproof, I thank you for it," she answered. "It may do me good. This wayward soul of mine is all wrong. Be patient with me. I can't help thinking that most men living are, at the bottom, wholly selfish and truly miserable."

"Very few people are truly miserable. If this were not the case, the world and all creatures must have perished long ago."