Lady Sara had written to the Duke of Marshire, and so fulfilled, in part, her promise to her father. But, while she said much that was graceful, coquettish, and characteristic, the Duke felt unable to regard it as an acceptance of his offer. She was very kind with that kindness which has no sort of encouragement in it. Among other things, she begged for another week on the plea that “seven days furnished a very short speculation when the result might possibly decide the whole course of her life.” In much anxiety, for his Grace was very much in love, he composed, after three hours of careful thought, a reply, and, having read the least tender but most sensible passages to his lawyer, he himself left the communication, together with a beautifully bound copy of “Lettres Choisies,” by Madame de SÉvignÉ, at St. James's Square. The parcel and the missive arrived when the young lady was reading and re-reading two other letters which she had received that morning from the North of France. One was from Lord Reckage; the other was from PensÉe Fitz Rewes. Their respective contents ran as follows:—

My dear Sara (I love the sweeter name of ValÉrie: may I not use it sometimes?),—I shall never be able to get through all I have to say—no words can reflect the fulness of human nature in such suffering as it has been my privilege—and sorrow—to witness here. In doubt, they tell us, we must stand on the rule of authority. But for this principle I should find it hard to reconcile myself to this deplorable affair of parting two people who love each other, evidently, in an almost lyric sense. You, I know, will understand that this expression contains no sneer at a frame of mind altogether surpassing my own capacity for idealism. Are there many, or any of us nowadays, who feel that there are certain things which we must do, not do, or perish eternally? I have never detected this narrow, vindictive, inherently superstitious view in Orange. I am forced to the conclusion, therefore, that his truest happiness consists always in his submission to the Will (as he understands it) of God (as he understands Him). Men are like horses—unless they are born with staying powers in them, no amount of training can make them really stay. Robert is a born ecclesiastic—I have said so always. His conduct in this present crisis will be a slap in the face to those who insist that religion makes men timorous. Speaking for myself, I never entertained a moment's doubt of his acting in precisely the manner in which he has done; his worst time, however, is, alas! to come; he may have to wait till eternity for his recompense. That trial often embitters the most constant. The devil is never embarrassed, and where virtue is found superhuman, he takes every care to keep it on a sour—if ethereal—diet. You will beg for less comment and more facts. Let me give them. Orange himself, pale, restrained, haggard but superb, met us at the station on our arrival. He had been waiting for us at the hotel; Mrs. Parflete was at the Villa Miraflores. The two had discussed the situation and parted on the mere reading of my telegram. I cannot say that they might have acted otherwise, but only that they acted as they did. There must have been, nevertheless, a considerable scene. The idealist driven into squalid actualities deserves a martyr's crown. In one single misfortune he suffers all the calamities of the human race, and in one personal horror he sees the death, emptiness, and corruption of all human endeavours. In this exaggeration, these mystics show their genius; they suffer too much in order that ordinary people may suffer a little less. Poor Orange! He is certainly fine, for, even if I discard the mannerisms, the eccentricity, the possibly natural self-sufficiency, all that is essential in his character remains and must remain undeniably chivalrous. It was an immense relief to find that he had decided, without suggestions on my part, on his course of conduct. I hate a fellow who tries to be more than friendly, and I dreaded making the experiment. I did venture to point out to him that there might be some way of annulling the Parflete marriage. But idealists abhor law-suits. Parflete, not being an idealist, may take some steps on his own account. I refrained from touching on that possibility, although I see much hope that way for our unhappy lovers. The world might cry out a little at first, but success justifies everything. Meanwhile, Robert and Mrs. Parflete have formed a resolution not to meet again for a year or more. After that, they hope to be on the unearthly terms of Laura and her Petrarch. It is magnificent, but is it love? I long to hear your views on the subject. I have no influence over you; I wish I had. I am the most sincere of all your friends. The others either care too little for you, or too much for themselves, to run the risk of giving you offence. But I would risk all, to gain even a little—where you are concerned. May I call on my return? Orange comes back with me. His own instinct tells him that there is a suggestion of the ridiculous—to the mere on-looker—about this interrupted honeymoon. He has determined to face it out in London, and resume his life on the old lines. He will finish his volume of French History, resume his post with Lord Wight, and take his seat in Parliament. If he can succeed in living down this absurdly tragic catastrophe, he will achieve a notable triumph. It gives me a cold feeling at the heart when I think of the dreary heroism he must display. Nothing picturesque, nothing striking. He must simply baffle the scoffers by an inscrutable endurance. Mrs. Parflete is a beautiful creature, but quite a child, and therefore weedy as to figure. I consider her far too young for marriage in any case. She is only seventeen—tall, slight, with a transparent skin, and something actually babyish about the eyes. Her dignity, in the circumstances, was wholly admirable. Perfectly self-possessed. PensÉe will describe the interviews far better than I could, so I will refer you to her for the details of our mission. Women, I have decided, in every disappointment always look for some future change of circumstances favourable to their wishes. No matter how nominal, shallow, and delusive this faith may be, it sustains them through the worst trials. Thus it is that when a woman sacrifices either her repose or the legitimate compensations of life to a great idea, she suffers far less than a man in similar conditions. The devout female sex drive a good bargain always: they manage somehow to obtain all the sentiment they require from both worlds. Men cannot be happy on sentiment alone; hence, therefore, the dreadful hesitations, self-doubts, and terror which assail so frequently the interior peace of all men drawn, like Orange, by certain qualities of temperament, toward the mortification of their humanity. Laying aside the proud idea of the independence, vigour, and spiritual-mindedness which this practice is held to secure, there is one drawback which, with a view to that class who are really willing to endure many afflictions for the sake of any one definite advantage, ought not to be overlooked. The weak, under such discipline, become sugary: the strong grow hard. Robert has backbone; he is a man of ability, perhaps even genius, but there is always a danger that, either from the accumulation of scruples or the want of romantic incentive, he may throw up the political game and bury himself in a monastery where his dreams may find their sole expression in prayer. Another point occurs to me. Will the rank and file ever trust a person so far above their comprehension? The very word “mystical” is a word of reproach in the mouth of the world. People continually ask questions about Robert. No questions, on the other hand, are asked about Aumerle. Aumerle lives like the rest of us: he does everything he ought not to do—he surprises nobody: he delivers his neighbours over to the absolute power of accomplished facts. (A way of saying that he doesn't care a rap about the fellow who falls among thieves.) Dear ValÉrie! What a pleasure it is to write to you! I can utter my inmost thoughts. I am often suspected of callousness. This letter will show you how truly I feel the sorrows of my few real friends. I cannot bear to think that Orange should be beaten, as it were, by Parflete. A more fawning, wretched creature than Parflete one never saw. I shall not be set right in my own idea of the Divine Justice unless this battle, at any rate, is to the strong. Write to me. I don't want to whine, but I may tell you that I am not happy.

Your affectionate friend,

Beauclerk R.

Sara sat on a low, embroidered stool by the fender, and, as she studied each line of his lordship's despatch (for so he regarded it), she would dip her fingers from time to time into a blue satin sweet-box, select, after due consideration, a chocolate or a sugared-almond, and nibble it somewhat fastidiously, with an air of making concessions to her human side. The exercise of divining the many hidden meanings in Reckage's epistle was certainly purely intellectual. Nevertheless, as she read the last sentences, she smiled with malicious triumph, for did they not convey a declaration of strong friendship in a letter designed, beyond doubt, as an argument in disfavour of all merely sentimental ties between men and women, and as a frank confession or his own inability to sustain any relation of the kind? How often had he maintained an opposite opinion—seeming contemptuous, indolent, invulnerable, unconscious of her beauty, amused rather than attracted by her brilliant spirit. Every instinct of the coquette, jealous of her own power and wretched from the sterile suffering of wounded pride, resented bitterly the unpardonable ease which he had appeared to enjoy in her society. Now, however, that he appealed to her womanliness by a humble surrender, her better, more generous nature asserted itself. Some of the old affection she had long felt for him revived. Where there had once been love, a kind of desperate fidelity still lingered, and, although Robert Orange was the ideal passion of her heart, Reckage possessed a certain influence over her which was not the less powerful because it had its root and constant nourishment in their common memory of a childhood and first youth spent together in the same county, with the same friends and the same bores. She slipped his letter, with a sigh, into her belt, and turned her attention for the third time to PensÉe's tear-stained pages.

My darling Sara,—I can scarcely write. Although I know the mercy and wisdom hidden in these sad events, my heart is heavy. The best thing is to preach resignation till you have it; and then, because you have it, you will preach it. Robert's love of Brigit makes little outward show, but I know that it is terribly real. We are never so near to our loved ones as when we have left them for God, but nearness of that intangible, invisible kind amounts to agony. At least, I think so. Robert's self-restraint is killing me. When we first met, he shook from head to foot, his very face quivered, but he said nothing. I felt that he would never allow any one to speak of this trouble or offer him the least sympathy. In the necessary discussion of the legal aspects of the case, he was very calm, and seemed rather an adviser himself than the person chiefly concerned. It is not easy to understand him; yet I appreciate reserve. If everybody could understand us, what joy would there be in discovering our souls to those whom we love! Brigit has shut herself up in a room. She cries incessantly (she is so young) and is dreadfully changed. She wishes to go to Paris—for she has some idea of resuming her musical studies. Her voice is one of her great gifts, yet I can't imagine any one singing in such a tortured state of mind. I don't like to say that actually I fear for her reason, but she has, I see, far more heart, poor child, than I ever supposed. How wrong it is to attempt any judgment or estimate of another person's capacity for suffering! She is in a pitiable condition, unnaturally patient in a sense—for it is patience on the rack. Our Lord dreaded suffering and even feared it. Of course, one might easily say that an unhappy love affair is very common, that it is almost profane to compare such an ordinary trouble with the serious, exceptional trials of life. But although Lord Byron declared that “man's love was of man's life a thing apart,” his own poems and his own career gave the lie absolutely to the statement (indeed, I am often tempted to believe that women exhibit, on the whole, greater strength of will in their affections than men). I must say, therefore, that the spectacle of a bride and bridegroom, devoted to each other, yet separated on their very wedding day, is quite as serious and sorrowful as (say) the death of a parent, or the loss of a child, or any other melancholy occurrence of everyday life. And what is worse, an atmosphere of scandal penetrates this story—making it most shocking to all refined minds, and peculiarly so to temperaments of extraordinary delicacy. It will take every atom of my courage and constant prayers to bear it for them. What must it be, therefore, to themselves? I tremble at the appalling things in future for us. As for my uncle, I dare not read his letter yet. He must be so upset, so horrified. I have never before been called on for such a proof of friendship. It is quite dreadful to be mixed up in a kind of cause cÉlÈbre. The great justice of God is always mixed with great hardships, and is often executed by those worthy neither of confidence nor respect. I am sure that we shall all have to go through many humiliations before this matter is settled. I know, darling, that you will say I am making a rather narrow-minded fuss. But I do hate publicity, and if it doesn't kill Robert outright, it will have some shattering effect upon his character and his health. Really, I am not thinking so much of myself. Your own reckless bravery, however, would quail a little, I fancy, at the idea of having your most intimate feelings called out from the housetops and discussed in the streets. And remember, please, that Robert is a dreamer—a poet. Of course, in every active expedition there must be some few idealistic, Quixotic souls who have to suffer vicariously for the rest. He is such an one. But that sort of feeling of soreness which comes from the sense of martyrdom is not quite the same as a raw wound on one's own personal score. I do hope I am clear. I try to look on the bright side, but there are days when the unseen world and its glorious realities become dubious. These are trials of faith, I know. If one could be wise, one would keep silent at such times. Now, dearest Sara, good-night.

Yours ever lovingly,

PensÉe.