“That means the happiest, too?” he asked with anxiety.
“For you and him, I hope. As for me—am I a woman who could, by any chance, be both happy and wise at the same moment?”
Her existence was very solitary. The flippancy of the lives around her, the inanity of her relatives' pursuits, their heedlessness of those inner qualities which make the real—indeed, the only considerable difference between man and man, could but fret, and mortify, and abash a heart which, in the absence of any religious faith, had, at any rate, the need of it. Her father, who entertained clear views of “the right thing” and “the wrong thing” in social ethics, was still too rigid a formalist in the exposition of his theories to reach an intelligence with whom the desire of virtues would have to come as a passion—inspiring and inspired or else be utterly repudiated. Utilitarianism, and the greatest happiness of the greatest number, comfortable domestic axioms, little schemes for the elevation of the masses by the classes, had, on their logical basis, no attraction for this sceptical, wayward girl. To be merely useful was, in her eyes, to make oneself meddlesome and absurd. The object of existence was to be heroic or nothing. She could imagine herself a Poor Clare: she could not imagine herself as a great young lady dividing her hours judiciously between district visiting and the ball-room, between the conquest of eligible bachelors and the salvation of vulgar souls. Marshire, she knew, had sisters and cousins who did these things and were considered patterns. No wonder then that she turned pale and became fretful at the prospect of her views clashing inevitably with his.
“I cannot be wise and happy at the same moment,” she repeated.
At that instant the carriage, which was then rolling toward Hyde Park Corner, came to an abrupt standstill, and, on looking out, Lord Garrow observed that the coachman had halted in obedience to a signal from a gentleman who was galloping, at a hard pace, after their brougham.
“It must be Reckage,” said the Earl; “I never knew a man so fond of riding who rode so ill.”
“What, I wonder, does he want now?” said Sara, flushing a little. “I didn't know that he was in town.”
By that time the pursuer, a handsome man with an auburn beard and very fine blue eyes, had reached them.
“This,” he shouted, “is a rushing beast of a horse;” but, before he could explain his errand, the hunter, who was nearly quite thoroughbred and a magnificent animal, dashed on, evidently determined to gain, without delay, some favourite destination.
“Extraordinary!” said Lord Garrow. “Extraordinary!”