Lord Garrow and Lady Sara left town the next day for a short visit at Kemmerstone Park, the seat of Arabella, Marchioness of Churleigh. Lady Churleigh had a favourite nephew for whom she was extremely anxious “to do something.” Vague by nature, she had never been able to define her ambition in more precise terms, but, as she entertained influential people only, it was considered, in many circles, that she over-did her civilities toward the mammon of unrighteousness. Those who were not invited called her heartless; those who accepted her hospitality found fault with her brains. All praised her cook, and no one ever thought of her nephew. It was known that she could not leave him her money. Every pair of eyes read his name—Lord Douglas Hendlesham—on his bedroom door at the top of the grand staircase, and visitors soon learnt to associate this advertisement with a pale, haughty young man who appeared occasionally at meals, or sometimes listened disdainfully to the music after dinner in the saloon. Distinguished persons, staying at Kemmerstone for the first time, would ask a fellow-guest, “Who is the melancholy youth who looks so ill?” “That,” they would be told, “is Douglas Hendlesham, I think.”

Disraeli called him “a personified hallucination.”

The party, on this particular occasion, consisted of Agnes Carillon (who attracted unusual attention as the fiancÉe of Lord Reckage), the Bishop of Hadley (her father), the Duke and Duchess of Pevensey, Charles Aumerle, and Mr. Disraeli. Lord Garrow lost no time in conveying his version of the Orange scandal to the ex-Minister's ears. It was a damp afternoon, and the two gentlemen marched up and down the smoking-room together, talking so earnestly that the Duke (to his rage) dared not interrupt them, and drove out instead with his Duchess and Lady Churleigh—who bored him beyond sleep. Disraeli had been opposed, from the first, to Robert's marriage with Mrs. Parflete, for, as other diplomatists, he preferred his own plans before those of Providence, and he had wished to see his young friend wisely united to the unexceptionable Viscountess Fitz Rewes.

“But,” he observed, shrugging his shoulders, “to talk expediency is not a safe way of opening the game with Orange. Many men have ability, few have genius, but fewer still have character. Orange has a rectangular will and an indomitable character. Character is the rarest thing in England.”

Lord Garrow stiffened his back.

“I have been educated in a contrary belief,” said he. “Our national character is our dearest possession.”

“That is because it is so rare. You mistake your education for your experience—a common error. By character I mean that remnant of a man's life which is probably stronger than death, and ought to be stronger than worldly considerations.”

“Far be it from me to go into such subtleties,” returned his lordship, stealing a glance at Disraeli's powerful face. “Your friend, at all events, has done for himself now. His merits seem to be more interesting than respectable, and this marriage has furnished conversation for the whole town—chiefly because Beauclerk Reckage was his best man. One cannot help feeling sorry for him, but it is certainly a very bad thing. How will he justify his rash conduct?”

“He may think it unwise to be detailed in self-justification.”

“That is all well enough, and so far I am with you. In such circumstances, one doesn't want to tell a lie, and yet one doesn't want to tell the truth.”

“Well, there are many duties and difficulties in life: there is but one obligation—courage.”

He fixed his eyes on the fire blazing in the grate, and repeated the word with great emphasis—“Courage!”

“He will need it. An unpleasant suggestion has been put forward by the lawyers.”

“Divorce?” said Disraeli.

“Yes.”

“A Bishop was telling me the other day that when one attacks the principle of divorce one forgets that it was originally a Divine institution! But I agree with you—it is unpleasant. You will find that Orange won't hear of such a course. I see great dangers ahead for him, but I see no honourable way of avoiding them. When a man, careless of danger, unconcerned with profit, takes up the cause of God against the world, others may not follow, but they must admire him. Abstract sentiments of virtue do not charm me. Orange is a Roman Catholic, however, and therefore a practical idealist. The practical idealists of England are the Dissenters—mostly the Methodists. John Wesley was considered crack-brained by his contemporaries at Oxford; he was a greater mystic, in several ways, than Newman, but he was not such a poet.”

“I know nothing about Dissenters and that class. As for the Catholics—the few I am acquainted with are civil and sensible.”

“That is true. Most of the English Catholics imagine that St. Peter's and the Vatican can be maintained on the policy of a parish church in Mayfair! But one moment. There is Aumerle in the hall with a telegram. I wonder if he has any fresh news about poor Derby.”[Lord Derby was then lying at the point of death.]

With this unimpeachable excuse he left his noble companion, who, more certain than ever that Disraeli could never be in touch with the upper classes of England, retired to his own room and wrote down in a journal all he could remember of their conversation.

Lady Sara, meanwhile, had invited Agnes Carillon to walk through the famous gardens of Kemmerstone, and, as each girl was anxious to study the other, they started on the expedition in that high pitch of nervous excitement and generous animosity which one may detect in splendid rivals, or even in formal allies. Sara dressed more richly than was the fashion at that time among English unmarried ladies. Her furs, velvets, laces and jewels were referred to an Asiatic, barbaric love of display. Agnes, therefore, who had attired herself, in protest, even more plainly than usual, was a little taken aback to find her remarkable acquaintance in brown cashmere, a cloth jacket, and a severe felt hat of the Tyrolean shape, which, poised upon her chignon, tilted far over her fine blue eyes. Both women, however, were so young and handsome that even the trying fashions of the period could not destroy their brilliant appearance. The chagrin of the one and the ironical triumph of the other soon gave way to more generous feelings. Each took her companion's measure with a swift, intelligent, respectful glance.

“Shall we need umbrellas?” said Agnes.

“I have nothing on that will spoil,” replied Sara, “but I am a little anxious about your shoes. Are they thick enough?”

Miss Carillon was above many vanities; she left her facial beauty to take care of itself. But her feet were uncommonly well moulded, and she was careful not to disguise them in the hideous porpoise-hide boots with flat soles and no instep which found favour with her generation.

“They look very nice,” continued Sara, “and I really think they are worth a slight cold. Take my arm, for then we can walk better. How nobly Lord Reckage has behaved in this dreadful affair of Robert Orange! You won't think me strange for introducing the subject at once? It must be on both our minds, for you are naturally thinking of Reckage, and I am thinking of dear PensÉe.”

“Beauclerk is very fond of Mr. Orange.”

“He must be. Do notice the autumn tint on those beech-trees. How I envy artists—although it is not their business to contend with Nature. The great vice of the present day is bravura—an attempt to do something beyond the truth. That reminds me—how does the portrait grow? David Rennes is extremely clever.”

“Beauclerk admires his work. He considers him finer than Millais.”

“What does he think of the portrait?”

“He hasn't seen it yet. My people are much pleased with the likeness. I find it flattering.”

“Indeed!” said Sara thoughtfully. “Did you give him many sittings?”

“He knows my face pretty well. We are acquaintances of some years' standing. Papa has a high opinion of him.”

“And you?”

“I am no judge. Women can know so little about men.”

“I don't agree with you there. They are far more conventional than we are. They are trained in batches, thousands are of one pattern—especially in society. But each woman has an individual bringing-up. She is influenced by a foreign governess, or her mother, or her nurse. This must give every girl peculiar personal views of everything. That is why men find us hard to understand. We don't understand each other; we suspect each other: we have no sense of comradeship.”

“Perhaps you are right,” said Agnes, rather sadly. “Yet our troubles all seem to arise from the fact that we cannot manage men. It matters very little really whether we can manage women. With women, one need only be natural, straightforward, and unselfish. You can't come to grief that way. But with men, it is almost impossible to be quite natural. As for being straightforward, don't they misconstrue our words continually? And when one tries to be unselfish, they accuse one of hardness, coldness, and everything most contrary to one's feelings. Of course,” she added quickly, “I speak from observation. I have nothing to complain of myself.”

“Of course not. Neither have I. I have grown up with most of my men friends. I had no mother, and I exhausted dozens of governesses and masters, I am sure I was troublesome, but I had an instinctive horror of becoming narrow-minded and getting into a groove. My English relations bored me. My foreign ones made my dear papa jealous and uncomfortable.”

“Then you liked them?” said Agnes at once.

“Enormously. You see, I am always an alien among English people.”

Agnes, following an instinct of kindness, pressed her arm and murmured, “No, no.”

“Yes, my dear, yes. And this is why I am devoted to Mr. Disraeli, and so much interested in Robert Orange. We three are citizens of the world.”

“But English people who have lived, for any length of time, abroad are quite as sensible and tolerant as you are. Take Mr. Rennes, of whom we are just speaking.”

“To be sure. But artists and poets are like stars—they belong to no land. A strictly national painter or a strictly national poet is bound to be parochial—a kind of village pump. And you may write inscriptions all over him, and build monuments above him, but he remains a pump by a local spring. David Rennes is a genius.”

“I am glad you think so,” said Agnes, with flushing cheeks. “I wonder whether he will ever be an Academician?”

“Would you feel more sure of his gifts—in that case?”

There was a slight note of sarcasm in the question.

“It is stupid of me, I know,” said Agnes frankly, “but one can't help feeling rather shy until one's opinions are officially endorsed.”

“How British!”

“I suppose it is my bringing-up. It sounds very feeble. I often feel that if I once began—really began—to think for myself I wouldn't stick at anything.”

“That is British, too,” said Sara, laughing. “You are a true Jane Bull! But as you are going to marry a public man, that is as well. Your life will have many absorbing interests.”

“Oh yes,” returned Agnes; “I hope to help Beauclerk in his constituency, and with the members of his Association.”

“So far as I can make out they are a weak, selfish lot, but these qualities do not affect the question of his duties toward them.”

“You express, better than I could, my own feeling. I fear they don't always appreciate his motives.”

“Beauclerk,” said Sara slowly, “is impulsive. He is never afraid of changing his mind. Many people are called firm merely because they haven't the moral courage to own their second thoughts.”

Agnes drew a long sigh, slackened her pace, and stood looking at the strange, autumnal lights in the sky, the martins flying over the paddocks toward the wood, and the crescent moon which already shone out above them.

“I suppose it does mean lack of courage, half the time,” she said at last; “and yet how disastrous it is to wonder about the wisdom of any decision once arrived at, of any step once taken! I daresay every one shrinks a little at first from the responsibility of undertaking another person's happiness.”

“Not every one,” replied Sara; “the generous ones only.”

“You have known Beauclerk ever since he was a boy, haven't you?” asked Agnes.

“Yes. He was such a handsome lad, and he has always been the same.”

“I am devoted to him,” said Agnes. “I am proud to think that he has chosen me for his wife. But one thought is perpetually coming up in my mind: Shall I be able to make him happy? A girl, as a rule, seems to believe that she can make a man happy merely by loving him. Again and again friends of mine have married in this idea. And the hope seldom answers.”

She spoke very quietly, yet there was great feeling, even great bitterness in her tone. She was thinking of David Rennes. Sara had a curious magnetism which attracted all those with whom she came into friendly relations. Being imaginative, though never inquisitive, her quick sympathies rendered the most trivial interchange of ideas an emotional exercise. This power, which would have made her a successful actress, found its usual outlet in her pianoforte playing, which affected her hearers as only extraordinary nervous and passionate force can affect people. She had neither the patience nor the sternness of mental quality which is required in a creative genius: the little songs and poems which she sometimes composed were insipid to an astonishing degree. Hers were the executant's gifts, and the fascination which she exerted over men and women depended wholly on the natural charm of a temperament made up of fire and honey. Agnes had always regarded Lady Sara as an odd but chivalrous girl. The stories told in society about her eccentric tastes, sayings, and doings were never to her heart's discredit, no matter how much they puzzled, or dismayed, the conventional set into which she had been born. It was felt that she could be trusted, and, although many were afraid of her brains, no one had ever known her to betray a confidence, to injure another woman's reputation, to show the least spite, or to insist upon an undue share of men's attention. The sex may, and do, pardon the first three sins, but the last has yet to find its atoning virtue. All declared that Sara, with many shortcomings, was neither a poacher nor a grabber. Girls consulted her in their love troubles, and not a few owed their marriages to her wise arbitration. She had the gypsy's spell. Thus it happened, therefore, that Agnes, who was habitually reserved, found herself thinking aloud in the presence of this mysterious but not hostile personality.

“When does Beauclerk return from the North of France?” asked Sara.

“He is coming back with Mr. Orange next Wednesday. I had a letter this morning.” Her voice grew husky, and with evident agitation she halted once more.

“You know Beauclerk so well,” she said at last, “that I want to ask you something, and you must answer me truly—without the least dread of giving offence—because a great deal may depend on what you tell me. Do you think he seems altogether settled in his mind?”

Sara guessed, from the nature of the question, that the truth in this case would be a relief—not a blow.

“He doesn't seem quite himself—if you understand me,” she said, without hesitation.

Agnes caught her arm a little more closely and walked with a lighter step.

“I don't think we love each other sufficiently for marriage,” she exclaimed; “his last letter was so affectionate and so full of kindness that it brought tears to my eyes. I saw the effort under it all. We are making a tragic mistake. We drifted into it. We were such good friends, and we felt, I daresay, that it was our duty to love each other. His family were pleased and so were mine. We seem to have pleased everybody except ourselves. Not that I ever expected the joy and stuff, and inward feelings which one reads of. I am too sensible for that. But I wanted to feel established—whereas we are both, in reality, rather upset. I am sure of this.”

“Perhaps when you see each other——“

“Our letters are far more satisfactory than our meetings. I know he is fond of me.”

“You couldn't doubt that. It is worship.”

“I can say, at any rate, that I am so sure of his affection that it gives me no pain—not the least—to miss the—the other quality.”

“My dear, you are not in love with him, or you couldn't be so resigned.”

“I suppose you are right. I have never told him that I loved him. He has never asked me. Perhaps he took it for granted. As for me, I thought that the respect and esteem I felt would do.”

Sara shook her head.

“Not for us. We are different, I know, but we have hearts. We can suffer, we can endure, we can be resigned, we can be everything except uncertain, or luke-warm. Isn't that true?”

“Yes,” said Agnes, and she laughed a little. “It isn't my way,” she went on, “to talk like this about myself. Yet I can't help seeing that all this keeping silence, and disguising facts from one's own reason, is actually weak. I don't want to be weak. It isn't English. I don't want to be supine. That isn't English either. I want to be just and square all round—in my dealings with others and in my dealings with my own conscience. Papa has always taught us a great deal about individual liberty, and freedom of will. I am beginning to wonder what liberty means.”

“That's the first step toward a great change.”

The young girl set her lips, and looked steadfastly before her, as though she would pierce the gathering twilight with her bright and candid eyes.

“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-asserted 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 glass.

“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.”