No one answered. Lady Vaughan stole a meaning glance and smile at Irene, but there was no touch of embarrassment or flush of colour on that fair, serene, rather plaintive face.
“He always went into things with such terrible closeness, did El-Râmi,—” said Sir Frederick after a pause—“No wonder his brain gave way at last. You know you can’t keep on asking the why, why, why of everything without getting shut up in the long run.”
“I think we were not meant to ask ‘why’ at all,” said Irene slowly—“We are made to accept and believe that everything is for the best.”
“There is a story extant in France of a certain philosopher who was always asking why—” said Strathlea—“He was a taciturn man as a rule, and seldom opened his lips except to say ‘Pourquoi?’ When his wife died suddenly, he manifested no useless regrets—he merely said ‘Pourquoi?’ One day they told him his house in the country was burned to the ground,—he shrugged his shoulders and said ‘Pourquoi?’ After a bit he lost all his fortune,—his furniture was sold up,—he stared at the bailiffs and said ‘Pourquoi?’ Later on he was suspected of being in a plot to assassinate the King,—men came and seized his papers and took him away to prison,—he made no resistance,—he only said ‘Pourquoi?’ He was tried, found guilty and condemned to death; the judge asked him if he had anything to say? He replied at once ‘Pourquoi?’ No answer was vouchsafed to him, and in due time he was taken to the scaffold. There the executioner bandaged his eyes,—he said ‘Pourquoi?’—he was told to kneel down; he did so, but again demanded ‘Pourquoi?’—the knife fell, and his head was severed from his body—yet before it rolled into the basket, it trembled on the block, its eyes opened, its lips moved, and for the last time uttered that final, never-to-be answered query ‘Pourquoi?’!”
They all laughed at this story, and just then the carriage stopped. The driver got down and explained in very bad French that he could go no farther,—that the road had terminated, and that there was now only a footpath which led through the trees to the little monastic retreat whither they were bound. They alighted, therefore, and found themselves close to the ruin supposed to have once been the “Temple of Venus.” They paused for a moment, looking at the scene in silence.
“There must have been a great joyousness in the old creeds,” said Strathlea softly, with an admiring glance at Irene’s slight, slim, almost fairy-like figure clad in its close-fitting garb of silky white—“At the shrine of Venus for example, one could declare one’s love without fear or shame.”
“That can be done still,” observed Sir Frederick laughingly, “And is done, pretty often. People haven’t left off making love because the faith in Venus is exploded. I expect they’ll go on in the same old abandoned way to the end of the chapter.”
And, throwing his arm round his wife’s waist, he sauntered on with her towards the thicket of trees at the end of which their driver had told them the “refuge” was situated, leaving Strathlea and Madame Vassilius to follow. Strathlea perceived and was grateful for the opportunity thus given, and ventured to approach Irene a little more closely. She was still gazing out to the sea, her soft eyes were dreamy and abstracted,—her small ungloved right hand hung down at her side,—after a moment’s hesitation, he boldly lifted it and touched its delicate whiteness with a kiss. She started nervously—she had been away in the land of dreams,—and now she met his gaze with a certain vague reproach in the sweet expression of her face.
“I cannot help it—” said Strathlea quickly, and in a low eager tone—“I cannot, Irene! You know I love you,—you have seen it, and you have discouraged and repelled me in every possible way,—but I am not made of stone or marble—I am mere flesh and blood, and I must speak. I love you, Irene! I love you—I will not unsay it. I want you to be my wife. Will you, Irene? Do not be in a hurry to answer me—think long enough to allow some pity for me to mingle with your thoughts. Just imagine a little hand like this”—and he kissed it again—“holding the pen with such a masterful grip and inditing to the world the thoughts and words that live in the minds of thousands,—is it such a cold hand that it is impervious to love’s caress? I cannot—I will not believe it. You cannot be obdurate for ever. What is there in love that it should repel you?”
She smiled gravely; and gently, very gently, withdrew her hand.