Robert Orange Part 12

"Risk the c.o.xcomb," she said. "I can!"

A clanging bell and the noise of traffic on the quay recalled them to the moment. They had barely time to reach the steamer and get on board.

A strong, cold breeze was blowing; the sun shone full on the sea, which, near the horizon, was as green as the sky on a summer evening. But clouds were gathering in the north-west, and the peculiar brightness which presages rain lent a fugitive brilliancy to the atmosphere. The town and its spires glittered; the water, frothing round the paddle-wheels, sent its shining spray upon the brown boards of the wharf. Brigit kissed her hands toward France.

"Soon," she exclaimed, "soon I can kiss its ground. How I love my country and the place where you lived, Robert, as a boy!"

CHAPTER X

Lady Fitz Rewes had determined to prevent the marriage of Lord Reckage with Agnes Carillon. She could not forget the dreadful scene with Sara when that poor girl was endeavouring to reconcile herself to the Duke of Marshire's proposal. Pensee had studied each person concerned in the possible tragedy. She saw that Agnes was by no means serene, that the portrait by Rennes somehow made no progress, that Reckage was feverish and excitable. His bearing toward Sara during the lunch confirmed Pensee's suspicion that the love which had existed between them as boy and girl was still unextinguished on either side. He would have been less than mortal, she thought, if he had not felt, with all the bitterness of a conscious fool, that he had missed his true destiny.

Sara possessed the warmth and wealth of heart which were the complements his own bleak nature required. Agnes Carillon, with her accurate, invariable beauty, had a prim disposition, wholesome enough for a man of strange, dark humours like David Rennes, but perilous always in its effect on any frigid or calculating mind. And Reckage was known to be supremely selfish. It seemed to Pensee that Sara had behaved very naturally, very touchingly, through the trying conversation on the subject of rising men and their marriages. Her demeanour had been unsurpa.s.sable. But it was not in nature that a woman who understood a man could look on, inactive and indifferent, while he fettered himself with some damaging influence. Perhaps her ladyship felt the situation the more keenly, because, much as she loved Mrs. Parflete, she could not bring herself to think that she was the wife for Robert. She had spent many weeks refusing admittance to this thought, yet prudence was prudence, and, by virtue of its stability, it prevailed. The union, even viewed in the most favourable light, had always seemed imprudent. It was too hurried. Shocking, mortifying as the possibility of its being illegal was, Pensee's conviction that Almighty G.o.d ordered all things for the best seemed less a faith and more a matter of pure reason than was usual in the ordinary run of hard cases which made demands upon her piety. "Two diamonds do not easily form cup and socket," was an old saying in her home circle. The more she had seen of Brigit Parflete the more she had been struck with her--struck with her moodiness, struck with her contempt for received opinions, her vigour and independence of will. Was she the wife to further the advance of a man of extraordinary ability, already much handicapped on the world's course by a proud spirit, a reckless, impetuous disdain of creatures generally considered the pink of human excellence? He was pa.s.sionately in love, and the strength of this sentiment carried, for the time, every thought of his being along with it. But love was not unalterable. The change would surely come. The fever and folly, the exaltation and ardours would fade into a sacred affection--an instinctive tenderness; yet other interests, as vital, and in their season more absorbing, would flock into his life.

What then?

Pensee and Reckage did not exchange many words till they found themselves alone, face to face, in the railway carriage bound for Dover.

Then they looked with wonder at each other, stupefied at the errand on which they were bound, and the strangeness of the whole proceeding.

Reckage noticed that his companion was attired so correctly and with such discretion that no one could have told she was a pretty woman. Her veil was not unusually thick, yet it disguised every charm of expression and feature. He had bought her a novel, some papers, and a few magazines; she turned these over listlessly, and murmured, as the train sped along--

"Of course, I had to come. No one will say a word when the circ.u.mstances are known. I hope poor Renshaw is comfortable in the next carriage."

Reckage replied--

"You have behaved like an angel!"

He probably but half understood Pensee's character: he underrated her intellect, and he misconstrued her friendship for Orange into a weak infatuation. Agnes Carillon shared his view on this point, for, as he and his future bride could never be confidential with each other, they managed an appearance of intimacy by discussing with great freedom the private affairs of their friends. Agnes, in the fervour of G.o.dliness, had even seen much that was reprehensible in Lady Fitz Rewes's devotion to a man who had no idea of marrying her. She had declared that she could not understand it--an att.i.tude pleasing to her fancy and gratifying to her pride. Reckage had thought it was not quite clear that the danger was immediate. Such was his feeling now toward Pensee, although he was conscious of a certain curiosity with regard to her motive in taking Brigit's part with such magnificent self-effacement.

This seemed to him unnatural; and although she had impressed him with the highest opinion of her kindness, he could not believe that a woman of genuinely tender sensibilities could have approached such an altruistic height. She was an excellent creature--as creatures went, he thought, but hard in a feeble way. Then he closed his eyes and called up the elusive image of Sara de Treverell--very dark, very handsome, with her superb black hair reaching to her knees--as he had often seen it when she was a little girl--her blue eyes shining with a strange light, her lips smiling, her white arms held out....

"Sara may not be a happy girl," said Pensee suddenly, "but she is a clever one."

Reckage started from his reverie.

"How odd!" he exclaimed, surprised into candour. "I was thinking of her at that very moment."

Pensee had read as much on his face, but she did not tell him so.

"I feel for her very much," she observed instead. "She must be the greatest possible comfort to her father, although he may not realise it.

Yet he is forcing on the engagement to Marshire. She keeps up in the most courageous way, but she has ideals, and no persuasion will induce her to change them."

He turned red, and said, looking out of the window--

"Ideals do no harm when, for some reason or other, we are unable to carry them out."

"I cannot imagine what she will do, or how she will bear her life if things continue as they are."

"What things?"

"She is like a slave to Lord Garrow. She is with him constantly, reading to him, and doing everything for him. She will be a cruel loss to his home when she marries."

"I rather revel at the thought of the dismay which will attend her final capture of Marshire."

"I used to hope that you perhaps----"

He glanced up and smiled with an air of satisfaction.

"I don't like the appearance of measuring myself against Marshire....

But--but he certainly seems, in character, the culminating point of mediocrity! In fact, Mr. Disraeli, whom I seldom quote, so described him."

"What a husband for that brilliant, affectionate girl! She likes all that is simple and grand. A real love--if it were a happy one--would make her even more charming, and if it caused her suffering, it would make her even more n.o.ble. But failing this, there will be a frightful void in her life."

Reckage, whose imagination began to play round this thought, replied with unusual seriousness--

"I should be horribly grieved to see any declension from her better nature. I think I am getting to think less of mere social power. I feel more than I used to do that, if one could literally _live_ one's theories on moral strength, it would be a complete refutation of these ideas about the influence of money or a big accidental position. Old Harding was right when he said at luncheon to-day that disinterestedness counted very highly in the popular vote. The point about Henry Fox's elopement with Caroline Lennox was sound."

"It would not have been sound," said Pensee, "if Caroline Lennox had been a third-rate woman. A man can be desperate so long as his choice, on the whole, justifies, either by her beauty, or her talents, or something uncommon, an extreme measure. Now, Robert may not have made a wise choice, but it is certainly a distinguished one. It can be understood and it commands respect."

"Oh, yes, his is a thorough-going emotion, and one couldn't find a fault with its object. A strong man is always a man who feels strongly _and_ who can carry his feeling into action. Robert, with all his mysticism, is never subject to the deep depressions of spirit which usually afflict men of his gifts. He does not know what it is to be languid; or to have invincible indecisions. He will die game--even if he does know German metaphysic backwards!"

She was astonished.

"How well you understand him!"

He leant forward a little and adopted a more confidential tone--

"Sara spoke of him at lunch. Her judgment of men and affairs--for so young a woman--is nothing short of amazing. I attribute it to the Asiatic streak on her mother's side. It is a kind of second-sight. What a wife for a Prime Minister! And Marshire, a fellow of middling ability and no experience, has had the sense to perceive her qualities!... My feelings can't be easily defined, nor, indeed, is it necessary they should.... I have gone so far that I cannot see anything for it but to go on."

"You mean--in your own marriage?"

He sighed profoundly, remained for several minutes silent, and finally roused himself with a painful effort.

"There are some griefs which can defy any consolation save that of time.

Time ultimately cures everything. It is a matter of history that I was once very much attached to Sara."

"I know," murmured Pensee. "I know."

He covered his eyes with one hand and looked through his fingers at her face, asking himself by what transition he could best arrive at a frank exposition of his embarra.s.sed sentiments. It seemed to him that she was intelligent as well as trustworthy, and he felt impelled to call in her a.s.sistance, being sure that, in any cause where love could be pleaded, she would show a judicious leniency.

"If you have not observed that I am still--too interested, you have not observed with your usual sagacity," said he.

"I think--if I may say so--that time seems only to deepen a sorrow of that kind."

"Particularly when it is a.s.sociated--as in this case--with a certain self-reproach. In times of trial my pen is my refuge. I could not write for a year after I had decided--irrevocably as I believed--that Sara and I could not make each other happy."

"Then you never actually proposed to her? There was never any tacit understanding?"

"Never. And if there be any part of my conduct in life upon which I can look with entire satisfaction, it is my behaviour with regard to Sara. I did not mislead her in any way. I was even over-scrupulous, and purposely avoided opportunities of meeting. I say this in order that you may know how very determined a man's will must be--if he does not wish to be selfish. A course of struggling is miserable indeed. I spared her any knowledge of my misery."