“That is no answer at all. If you could read her heart and whole thought at this moment, what would you see there?”
“Unhappiness,” said Robert; “discontent.”
Reckage took the little sheet and folded it into his pocket-book.
“That's wonderful,” said he, “because the same things are in my mind, too. I wish I could describe my feelings about Agnes. She satisfies the æsthetic side of my nature. But there is another side. And Sara comes nearer to it than she. Mind you, I know my duty in the matter. There are things which one is compelled to do under tremendous penalties. I have chosen, and I must abide by my choice.”
Robert looked well at his friend, and saw, in his expression, all that he had known would inevitably, either soon or too late, work to the surface.
“Yet the old tremulous affection lies in me,” continued Reckage; “my nerves are in a kind of blaze. You couldn't tell anything about it, because you don't know.”
The Emperor's burgundy, no doubt, had warmed his spirit to communicativeness. He drew his chair closer to the table, and talked in a low voice about his ghastly solitude of soul. His engagement to Miss Carillon had not been an agreeable experience.
“And marriage,” said he, “will be the crowning point of these unbearable days. In the present state of my feelings it would be awful. Agnes is very kind and most conscientious, but she does not know what is in me, what was always and will always be there. Old reminiscences crowd round me. They are very beautiful, although they are so sad.”
“What is one to do?” said Robert, “in the presence of fate and facts? It is necessary to look the affair in the face. Do you, or don't you, wish to marry Miss Carillon?”
“I do, and I don't,” answered Reckage doggedly. “But I can't close my eyes to the circumstances of the case. I found myself hard bested from the very beginning. I knew that I was expected to marry her. I knew, too, that it was a suitable match in every way. But then every girl is, to some extent, accomplished, pious, virtuous, and intelligent. I believe sometimes that my apparent indifference towards Agnes arises from the fact that I respect her—if anything—too much. She seems too remote—that is the word—for the ordinary wear and tear of domesticity. Other men—who might be called impassioned lovers—would be less scrupulous. I maintain that devotion of that violent kind is worth absolutely nothing. And I claim to know a little about life and love.”