d
remarkable only for his family and his fortune--had boldly, gladly
volunteered to carry out to the ultimate consequence. That glance
pierced his self-love, his pride, his will. After his long hesitations,
after the wearisome, interminable debates between his judgment and his
inclination, he decided suddenly, all at once, without further
reflection, that he no longer belonged to himself. He was the slave once
more of doubts, fears, and temptations. His excited nerves and troubled
senses asserted their right to be regarded as threads, at least, in the
web of destiny. From the hour of that chance encounter in the Park, till
he and Sara met at Lord Garrow's that day, he had not been able to
escape from the inexorable cruelty of an ill-used passion, once more, in
full command. Every individual has his rule--could one but find it
out--and a rule to which there are no exceptions. With Reckage it was
simple enough: he invariably followed the line of his own glory. The
distress he suffered--really, and not colourably--took its rise from the
intervention of Marshire. He felt as a racing man feels when he sees a
friendless horse, which he might have purchased, beat the Derby
favourite by some three lengths and a half. He winced at the suspicion
that he had committed an error in judgment, and lost a great
opportunity. The words of Sir Piers Harding on the subject of audacity
in love had fallen on his ears with startling force. It was an
illustration of that old saying--"The appetite, the occasion, and the
ripe fruit." Convinced now that his reputation, his career, and his
comfort depended on his conduct toward Sara, all hesitation left him. He
would have to drive Marshire, in confusion, from the field, and bear
away the prize himself. Pensee's observations with regard to Agnes had
cleared away most, if not all, of his difficulties in that particular
quarter. No one had ever accused him of cowardice. Whenever he took
refuge in procrastination or deceit, it was never because he was afraid,
but in order that nothing might interfere with the purpose he had in
hand. The growing miseries of the situation which he saw, already in
part, served only to augment the violence of his resolve. His vanity
forbade him to believe that Agnes would not suffer very much when he
told her, as he intended, that they had both mistaken a profound
esteem--based on reason--for love, which, as all the world admits, is
something remote indeed from one's will