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Updated: May 1, 2025
Marshire was the more desperate because he was less intelligent and had fewer interests; Reckage loved her with all the force of a selfish, vain, and spoilt nature. Such a passion she knew was not especially noble and certainly not ideal. But it was strong, and it made him submissive. "Sara," he said, "you have got to help me."
Had Sara written to him in ordinary circumstances, inviting him, after some months of mutual coldness, to lunch, he would have replied, with sorrowful dignity, that it was wiser to leave things as they were. But the case had altered. The future Duchess of Marshire was a personage. He made no secret of his admiration for all people of high rank.
They were white camellias sent that morning from the infatuated, still hopeful Duke of Marshire. "To whom else if not Pensée?" "I dare not answer such questions yet. Have patience and you shall see what you shall see. Much will hinge on the events of the next few days." "I will not believe," she insisted, "that Robert Orange has been deceived by that woman." "You may change your opinion.
Sara had spent the morning crying bitterly, in bed. Her letter to the Duke of Marshire was on the table by her side. From time to time she had taken it up, turned it over, shed fresh tears, and reproached herself for indecision. She held at bay every thought of Robert Orange, and formed the resolve of banishing him from her mind for ever.
Then he threw himself by the lonely grave which held the one creature on earth whom he seemed to have a right to love without scruple and without restraint. And there he remained till daybreak, weeping. Lady Sara had written to the Duke of Marshire, and so fulfilled, in part, her promise to her father.
Was his daughter not weighing with prayer, he hoped, and certainly with all her senses the prospect of an alliance with the Duke of Marshire? How, then, could she pause in a meditation of such vital interest to make capricious remarks about a mere acquaintance? "Does Marshire know him?" he asked at last. "I hope so. He is a remarkable person. But the party is blind."
Reckage started from his reverie. "How odd!" he exclaimed, surprised into candour. "I was thinking of her at that very moment." Pensée had read as much on his face, but she did not tell him so. "I feel for her very much," she observed instead. "She must be the greatest possible comfort to her father, although he may not realise it. Yet he is forcing on the engagement to Marshire.
"I must tell papa," she said to herself, "that it would never do." Here she fell into a reverie; but as her expression changed from one of annoyance to something of wistfulness and sentimentality, the question of marriage with the Duke of Marshire had clearly been dismissed for that moment from her heart. At intervals a shy smile gave an almost childish tenderness to her face.
I believe that his family is every bit as good as ours. His second name is de Hausée. No one can pretend that we are even so good as a genuine de Hausée. We may make ourselves ridiculous!" "Let me entreat you to guard against these inequalities in your character. To-day I could even accuse you of levity. Dearest Sara, Marshire is hardly the man to be kept waiting for his reply."
She was considering, among other things, an offer of marriage which she had received by post two days before from a nobleman of great fortune, the Duke of Marshire. But Sara was ambitious not mercenary. She wanted power. Power, unhappily, was the last thing one could associate with the estimable personality of the suitor under deliberation.
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