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Updated: June 7, 2025
First the burlesque was discussed, then the actresses, the dresses, the dancing. "Russia is the place for dancing," said Reckage, "I assure you. There was a dancer at Petersburg.... Something-or-other-ewski was her name, and a fellow shot himself while I was there on her account. An awful fool. I can tell you who painted her portrait. A Frenchman called Carolus-Duran.
In the course of that year she had written several letters to Orange letters about books, new pictures, and new music. Once she had given him a little song of her own composition as something of which she "desired to hear no more for ever." The song was sentimental, and he locked it away, wondering at the time whether she really had an unfortunate affection for Lord Reckage.
Reckage was conscious, for the first time in his life, of a real embarrassment. He could not talk to her; he felt tongue-tied when she addressed him. Ill at ease, yet not unhappy, he struggled to maintain some coherence in his conversation; but, at each moment, his own ideas grew less certain and Sara's voice more enchanting. It seemed to convey the lulling powers of an anodyne.
Parflete would not waver or seem less exquisite under this discipline. Their dream of love would become unparadised. It would gain a sadness, a melancholy, a note of despair hard to endure and most difficult to repress. Reckage had no transcendentalism in his own philosophy: he divided men into two classes those who read, and those who could not stand, Dante.
Then they looked with wonder at each other, stupefied at the errand on which they were bound, and the strangeness of the whole proceeding. Reckage noticed that his companion was attired so correctly and with such discretion that no one could have told she was a pretty woman. Her veil was not unusually thick, yet it disguised every charm of expression and feature.
His merits seem to be more interesting than respectable, and this marriage has furnished conversation for the whole town chiefly because Beauclerk Reckage was his best man. One cannot help feeling sorry for him, but it is certainly a very bad thing. How will he justify his rash conduct?" "He may think it unwise to be detailed in self-justification."
A real love if it were a happy one would make her even more charming, and if it caused her suffering, it would make her even more noble. But failing this, there will be a frightful void in her life." Reckage, whose imagination began to play round this thought, replied with unusual seriousness "I should be horribly grieved to see any declension from her better nature.
"With that girl," he answered, suddenly; "with that girl." "Do you love her?" "I don't know. I suppose I do. Oh! I would love her if I could ever be absolutely sincere. But this I do know I can't see her married to that fellow Reckage. So I must go away." "I am afraid she is a coquette a serious coquette, my dear boy." "She is nothing of the kind. She is a true woman. Don't talk about her."
When the sand had run down at the conclusion of the first hour, no one reversed the instrument. But Lady Margaret Sempton, the Earl's sister, sent a whispered message to the Bishop of Hadley, who was waiting, much altered by sorrow and anxiety, in the ante-room. Reckage had asked to see him. He had always liked the good old man, and the rest withdrew during their short interview.
But I wouldn't call it love. So I went abroad, and wrote any amount of 'literature' to you. And all the time Reckage was here asking you, wisely enough, to marry him. And you, wisely enough, accepted him." Agnes sat still, with her eyes down, cold, silent, forbidding. She did not understand him.
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