This question—given in a half-whisper—seemed to establish a fresh intimacy between them. It was the renewal of their old friendship on deeper terms.
“Yes, you must go,” she answered; “and, Beauclerk, write to me and tell me how he bears it.”
“He is accustomed to a repressive discipline on these matters. The philosophic mind, you know, is never quite in health. Probably, he won't show much feeling.”
His gaze seemed to burn into her face. It was as though she had been walking in an arbour and suddenly, through some rift in the boughs, found herself exposed to the scorching sun. She felt dominated by a force stronger than her own nature. A little afraid, she shrank instinctively away from him, and as she dared not look up, she did not see the expression of triumph, mingled with other things, which, for a moment, lit up Lord Reckage's ordinarily inscrutable countenance. Lately, he had been somewhat depressed by his encounter with refractory wills. His horse, his colleagues on the Bond of Association, his future bride, had showed themselves fatiguing, perhaps worthless, certainly disheartening and independent accessories to his life. Here, at last, was some one brilliant, stimulating, by no means self-seeking, Quixotic in enthusiasms.
“Sara,” he said, obeying an impulse which surprised himself, “do you believe in me?”
This time she gave him a straight glance.
“Yes,” she answered. “You might do a great deal if you could forget yourself for a few months.”
Pensée, much troubled and full of thoughts, walked over to them.
“Oh, Sara!” she said, “isn't it terrible? If you could have seen them both this morning—she looked so beautiful, perfectly lovely—a sight I never can forget. And now this blow! What man can teach men to understand the will of God?”