Robert, on leaving the house, drove to Grosvenor Gate, where he had an appointment with Disraeli. The ex-Minister was sitting, in a flowered dressing-gown, by the library fire. The blinds were not drawn, for the night was bright and starry; the moonlight streamed into the room, mingling strangely with the soft glow of the green-shaded lamp. There was a large bundle of documents on the table by Disraeli's side, and a pile of Continental newspapers on the floor. One of the latter he was reading, and, by the slight curl of his mouth and the gleam in his fine eyes, Orange saw that he was working out, to his amusement, some train of thought which gave full jurisdiction to his knowledge of humanity.
“Bismarck,” said he, “is the first German statesman who has not regarded newspapers as inconvenient lumber. He wishes the Press to advance his great ideas by assuming the place of the Universities in training public opinion, and the place of the Church in controlling it. He might as well strive to make the horse into the lion, the mule into the unicorn, a parrot into the soaring eagle! Any man who iswritten up into a place can be written down out of it. Our friend will learn this too late—probably about the time that we, in England, are adopting, with enthusiasm, his present error. Ah, my dear Orange, watch the sky and you will learn the hearts of men. Observe the changing light, the clouds driven by the wind, the glimpses of pure blue, the sudden blackness, the startling brilliancy, and then—the monotonous grey. They seem too hard for me, at times. The clash between ideas and interests makes our inheritance a grim battlefield, and there are moments of mortification when one may feel tempted to sell it—not for a mess of pottage, but for thepromiseof a mess of pottage. Tempted, I said. There is always a course left, if you have the courage to face it. It may avail you; I cannot insure you even that. But if I were in your place, I would try.”
“I could never do better, sir, than to follow your advice or your example.”
“Never betray, then, the least depression at disappointments or reverses, but seize the few joyful occasions of life for the indulgence of any accumulated melancholy and bitterness. By this simple rule you will escape the charge urged against all the ambitious, who are usually as intoxicated by success as they are cowardly in adversity. It delights me to see you in high spirits. Tell me the news, but first give me your opinion of this little paragraph which will appear in to-morrow'sTimes.”
He took from his pocket-book a slip of paper on which was written the following in Mrs. Disraeli's hand:—
Mr. Orange, the new Member for Norbet Royal, is the son of a French nobleman of very ancient lineage. It was a condition of his adoption by the late Admiral Bertin that his own name should be dropped, and he has accordingly always borne that of the Orange family. The circumstances of his birth were communicated to the Queen before his naturalisation as a British subject, and his presentation, by Mr. Disraeli, at Court.
Mr. Orange, the new Member for Norbet Royal, is the son of a French nobleman of very ancient lineage. It was a condition of his adoption by the late Admiral Bertin that his own name should be dropped, and he has accordingly always borne that of the Orange family. The circumstances of his birth were communicated to the Queen before his naturalisation as a British subject, and his presentation, by Mr. Disraeli, at Court.
“Was that necessary?” asked Robert.
“A public man must speak out, and this expedient occurred to me as a slight pull in your favour. The two things in life which are really gratuitous are the grace of God and one's pedigree! The rest depends upon ourselves. Now you can't think how much I am interested in every little detail of your mental experiences. I believe you will be a Jesuit yet. I have never concealed my respect for the Jesuits. When Spain and France expelled the Society of Jesus, they persecuted their truest allies. A terrible price, too, they paid for that crime. You see, then, that I understand staunch Catholics. If I could rouse an Imperial feeling in England which would at all correspond with the feeling of Catholics for their Church! Sometimes I dream this may be possible. Pope, the satirist, remained, in spite of his wit, a loyal son of the Faith, while many dull worthies whoshuddered at his epigrams were recanting daily either from fear or for some worldly advantage. In the same way, Robert, men who hate my novels because they contain a few truths, would sell England, if they could, to-morrow. I mentioned the fact about Pope to a gentleman who complains that you are by no means typical of your co-religionists in this country.”
“The very expression ‘typical Catholic’ is a paradox,” replied Robert, who always accepted adverse criticism with good humour; “there is one Spirit, but it has many manifestations. From the apostles, saints and martyrs to the rank and file, we have to recognise the individuality of each soul. In fact, sir, is not that the very essence of the Church's teaching?”
“So I have always understood. And we have not heard the last of the ‘law of liberty’; although I observe to my chagrin that many modern Papists depart from those great principles which they should take every opportunity of claiming as their own. In the freezing snows of the world's solitude, a prudent man does not try to make himself happy, but he is less than a man if he allows others to make him wretched. The flesh has its discomfort: the spirit, however, has its illimitable conjectures. When all else fails me, I may still find solace in conjectures. Does it strike you that they may have, nevertheless, a danger also?”
“This is your own way of asking me whether Iknow my own mind! If you mean, Have I put all sentiment resolutely from my thoughts, Yes. If you mean, Have I determined to continue in my present line till I have a call to some other vocation, Yes.”
His heart was troubled, full of vague combinations. The events of the day had seemed mechanical, foolish—a course of sorrowful attempting and self-reproach.
“Both of your affirmatives are satisfactory,” said Disraeli; “you are, I see, what the Americans call a ‘whole-hog man.’ Now let us consider ways and means. I saw Prince d'Alchingen this afternoon. He announces the increased distress and reformation of Parflete. We must therefore prepare for further villainy. Mrs. Parflete has confided to d'Alchingen her desire to go on the stage. He encourages this ambition, and she has accepted his invitation to Hadley Lodge, where she will recite in his privatesalle de comédie.”
Robert, though much taken by surprise, betrayed no sign of it.
“You cannot tell what she will do—until she does it,” he answered. “She may have great talents.”
“Well, one forgets that when Voltaire said, ‘Il faut cultiver notre jardin,’ he was quoting, with sardonic irony, Saint Teresa! You cannot be pleased at Mrs. Parflete's decision. The theatre in England is a sport—not an art. In France it is an art, but,” he added drily, “it embraces more than one profession.”
“Whether a woman be a saint, a queen, or anactress—once before the public—she is exposed to severe discipline. And I don't fear for this one. She will take her revenge on life by laughing at it.”
“I daresay. D'Alchingen calls herun peu étourdi. She has the audacity—she may have the fortune of despair. Confess—you have run a little wild about her.”
“I ran off the track, if you like,” said Orange, smiling.
“Women fascinate the hearts, but they do not affect the destinies of determined men,” returned Disraeli. “If you have not won anything by this affair, it would be hard to say what winning is. There is but one feeling and one opinion about the really courageous stand you have made.”
“I must gain confidence all the same in my own ability to keep my resolves when they are clear to me. I once prided myself in that ability as the one gem in my character.”
“You may laugh at yourself as much as you please. Beauty is as well worth admiring as anything on earth, and the world is better lost for love, than love for the world. At least, let us say so. I met Reckage at the Travellers' yesterday, and had some talk with him about his Association. I think it far better that Aumerle should not resign, as he could, and probably would, be very mischievous as a freelance. Reckage is all for shaking him off, but these things, in any circumstances, should never be forced.”
“I advised Reckage myself to sound each memberof the Committee privately. Then, at the general meeting, he could form some just estimate of the difficulties in his way, and in their way.”
“Reckage, though a mean fellow, might give you an opportunity to work a strong Sub-Committee,” suggested Disraeli. “One cannot calculate on the course of a man so variable and impulsive. He proposes to get rid of Aumerle, and make concessions to his set. It is an unhappy policy, and always unhappily applied, to imagine that men can be reconciled by partial concessions. I attribute much of Reckage's behaviour to his fear of society. Society itself, however, does not practise any of the virtues which it demands from the individual. It ridicules the highest motives, and degrades the most heroic achievements. It is fed with emotions and spectacles: it cries, laughs, and condemns without knowledge and without enthusiasm. Pitiable indeed is the politician who makes society his moral barometer.”
“I have urged him to be firm. Christianity was never yet at peace with its age. There is no other Faith whose first teacher was persecuted and crucified. Viewed solely as a point of administration, it is disastrous to cut religious thought according to the fashionable pattern of the hour. This has been the constant weakness of English Churchmen. They try to match eternity with the times.”
“My opinion is that Reckage must act with considerable caution, or he will find himself repudiated byevery party. The English like a fellow to stand by his guns. I come now to your own business. Will you do me a favour? Before you reply let me define it. I have been asked to send some good speaker to Hanborough. The occasion is the opening of a Free Library. Remarks—of a laudatory nature—on the princely munificence of Hanborough's mayor, Hanborough's corporation, Hanborough's leading citizens, a eulogy of their public glories and private virtues—with a little thrown in about Shakespeare, Scott, and the Lord-Lieutenant of the county—would be adequately appreciated. The attendance will be large: the nobility, gentry, and clergy of the neighbourhood will flower about you on the platform; a banquet will follow in the evening, and in the morning blushing girls will hand you bouquets at the railway station. Can you refuse?”
“Not easily, I admit,” said Robert, laughing; “but Reckage is rather low and unhappy just now about his broken engagement. Wouldn't such an adventure as this take him out of himself?”
“This is not an adventure—this is an opportunity,” said Disraeli; “it would be nursed into a stepping-stone. I know fifty men who are worrying themselves to death to get it.”
“You need not tell me that,” replied Robert, with gratitude. “It would be a great thing for me. But Reckage is always at his best in functions of the kind. Hanborough might make much of him, and thenhis Association would feel flattered by reflected honours.”
“You invariably set your face against your own advantages, and I am afraid I shall not live to see you where you ought to be. However, Reckage shall have the invitation. Now, good-night. By the by, have you heard that Castrillon is now in the marriage-market? His mistress has given her consent, and the Prince has promised his blessing. Could things look more auspicious? Good-night.”
For the second time that evening Castrillon's name fell with a warning note on Robert's ear. Disraeli, he knew, would not have mentioned him out of sheer idleness. There was some danger threatening in that quarter, and it was impossible to dissociate this from Brigit. The Marquis of Castrillon had been with her in Madrid, and also at Baron Zeuill's palace after the escape from Loadilla.
“Where is Castrillon now?” asked Robert.
“I understand he is in London,” answered Disraeli; “at Claridge's Hotel. D'Alchingen and he are on excellent terms.”
“Good!” said Robert, tightening his lips. “You will find he has been invited to Hadley.”
“I haven't a doubt of it.”
“Then I must contrive to see him first.”
Early the following morning Orange presented himself at the house of an old, very devout priest of his acquaintance.
“Father,” said he, “this afternoon or to-morrow I may be in circumstances of danger.”
“What danger is this?” asked the priest.
“There is a man whom I may be compelled, in defence of my honour, to challenge to a duel.”
“To approach the Sacrament in such a frame of mind,” said the old man, “is not to prepare yourself for danger. For to come to confession with a determination of taking vengeance is to put an obstacle to the grace of the Sacrament. You must preserve your honour by some other way. Indeed, the honour you think to preserve by this is not real honour, but merely the estimation of bad men founded on bad principles.”
“I know,” said Orange, hotly; “it is impossible, however, to withdraw now.”
“If you should be beaten,” returned the other, who had been in the army himself as a youth, and could comprehend the worldly view of the situation, “if you should be beaten, what becomes of the honour you wish to defend? And if you should be killed in that state of soul in which you go to the duel, you will go straight to hell and everlasting shame.”
“I implore you, Father, to pray for me, and to hear my confession, if you possibly can.”
“Certainly, I cannot hear you,” said the priest. “But this is what I will do. Wear thisAgnus Dei, and perhaps God will have mercy on you for the sake of this, and afford you time for penance. Understand, however, I do not give it to you in order toencourage you in your bad purpose, but that you may wear it with all reverence and respect, and perhaps be moved to obedience.”
Robert thanked him, accepting the gift in a right spirit. His self-will, however, was aroused. He had determined to fight Castrillon, and fight he would.
Sara awoke that same morning with a foreboding heart. She wrote a letter to Reckage postponing his call, and another to Pensée Fitz Rewes, asking her to be at home that afternoon. At half-past two the young lady drove up, in her brougham, to the widow's door in Curzon Street. The blinds were down, and the house gave every indication that its owner was not in London. Sara, however, was admitted, and Pensée received her in a little room, hung with lilac chintz and full of porcelain, at the back of the house. Pensée, wearing a loose blue robe, seemed over-excited and sad—with that sadness which seems to fall upon the soul as snow upon water. She was reclining on the sofa, reading a worn copy of Law'sSerious Callwhich had belonged to the late Viscount, and bore many of his pencil-marks. This in itself was to Sara a sign of some unusual melancholy in her friend.
“Why,” she said, kissing her soft, pale cheek, “why didn't you let me know that you had returned? I thought you were still in Paris.”
“My dear,” said Pensée, sitting up with a suddenmovement and supporting herself on her two hands. “I am no longer my own mistress. I have become a puppet—a marionette: a kind of lady-in-waiting—a person to whom women talk when they have nothing to say, and to whom men talk when they have nothing to do.”
Sara chose a seat and studied the speaker with a new curiosity. She was charming; vexation gave humanity to her waxen features, and the flash in her eyes suggested hitherto unsuspected fires in her temperament, “She has more spirit than I gave her credit for,” thought Sara, and she added, “Darling!” aloud.
“Darling, indeed!” said Pensée. “I can tell you I am tired of being a darling. There are limits.... I have no patience with Brigit, and Robert drives me to the conclusion that good men are fools—fools! I suppose he told you that I was in town again?”
“Yes.”
“Well, he won't come and see me himself becausesheis here.”
“That is merely a decision on principle. He longs to come.”
“Quite so. But the girl does not deserve him.”
Sara showed no astonishment; she maintained her thoughtful air, and replied with tranquillity—
“He thinks she is perfect.”
“I find no vulgar faults in her, myself, although there seems no foolish thing left that she hasn't done.I am sure that every one will think her light, worldly, and frivolous. Let me say what I have been through. After the first terrible day and night at St. Malo, there was no more crying. There was not another tear. We went to Paris. She spent all her mornings at Notre Dame, all her afternoons with old Monsieur Lanitaux of the Conservatoire, all her evenings at the theatre. She found many of her mother's old friends. In the theatrical world I find much loyalty toward those actually born in the profession. They treated her as though she were a young queen. Lanitaux managed to get her privately before the Empress Eugénie. She sang for the Empress: the Empress cried and gave her an emerald ring.”
“Then she has talent.”
“Genius, I believe,” said Pensée, solemnly. “This makes her hateful and lovable at the same moment. She is determined to be an actress. She never speaks of Robert, and she shuts herself up in her room reciting Marivaux and Molière. The d'Alchingens have invited her to Hadley next Saturday. They encourage her theatrical ideas. And why? They wish her to lose caste. She is an Archduchess, Sara, an Alberian Archduchess. What a living argument against unequal marriages!”
“Will she go to Hadley?”
“Yes—wholly against my advice. I don't trust Prince d'Alchingen.”
“How I wish I could see her!”
“She is in the library now. I will ask her to come down.”
Pensée left the room, and Sara paced the floor till she returned.
“She is coming,” said Pensée, “be nice to her—for Robert's sake!”
Sara nodded, and both women watched the door till the handle moved, and Mrs. Parflete entered.
She was dressed in violet silk without ornaments or jewels of any description. Her face was slightly flushed, and the colour intensified the pale gold diadem of her blonde hair. The expression—sweet-tempered, yet a little arrogant—of her countenance and its long oval form bore a striking resemblance to the early portraits of Marie Antoinette. Her under-lip had also a slight outward bend, which seemed an encouragement when she smiled, and contemptuous when she frowned. Her figure—though too slight even for a girl of seventeen—was extraordinarily graceful, and, in spite of her height, she was so well proportioned that she did not appear too tall. Youth showed itself, however, in a certain childlikeness of demeanour—a mixture of timidity, confidence, embarrassment, and, if one looked in her face for any sign of the emotions she had experienced, or the scenes in which she had played no feeble part, one sought in vain. Gaiety covered the melancholy, almost sombre depths in her character. And it was the gaiety of her Frenchmother—petulant, reckless, irresistible, giddy, uncertain. As a child, dressed up in ribbons and lace, with flowers in her hair, she had been the chief amusement and plaything of Madame Duboc—to be held on her lap, perched upon the piano, placed on high cushions in the carriage, and lifted on the table of the drawing-room, where she entertained a brilliant, if dissipated company, by her talk, her little songs, her laughter, her mimicry, and her dancing. She rarely danced now, yet all the seductive arts of perfect dancing seemed hers by right of birth. Each movement, each gesture had a peculiar charm, and her dark blue eyes, the more provocative for their lack of passion, were full of a half-mocking, half-tender vivacity. Sara, a beautiful young woman herself, surveyed this unconscious rival and recognised, with good sense, a fatal attractiveness which was stronger than time and far above beauty. It was the spell of a spirit and body planned for fascination and excelling in this indefinable power. Had she been born to ruin men? thought Sara. Had she been given a glamour and certain gifts merely to perplex, deceive, and destroy all those who came within the magic of her glance? History had its long, terrible catalogue of such women whose words are now forgotten, whose portraits leave us cold, yet whose very names still agitate the heart and fire the imagination. Was Brigit one of these?
She had nothing of the deliberate coquette who, eager to please, keeps up an incessant battery of airsand graces. Her enchantments depended rather on the fact that she neither asked for admiration nor valued it. Free from vanity, and therefore indifferent to criticism, the bitternesses which destroy the peace of most women never entered her mind. The man she had chosen gave her no cause for jealousy, and, while she enjoyed men's society, she had been so accustomed to it from her earliest days that she had nothing to fear from the novelty of their friendship, or the danger of their compliments. Not prudish, not morbid, not envious, not sentimental, and not indolent, she was perhaps especially endowed for the tantalising career which the stage offers to the ambitious of both sexes. Acting came to her as music comes to the true musician. She never considered whether she would become a great actress or a rejected one: the art in itself was her delight, and she found more happiness in reciting Molière and Shakespeare alone in her own room than she ever received, even at the height of her fame, from her triumphs before the world. There was, no doubt, a great craving in her nature for innocent pleasures and excitement. She loved gay scenes, bright lights, beautiful clothes, lively music, witty conversation. She had been born for the brilliant Courts of the eighteenth century when life in each class was more highly concentrated than is possible now—when love was put to severer tests, hatred permitted a crueller play, politics asked a more intricate genius, and art controlled the kingdom of the Graces.
The three women as they faced each other presented a remarkable picture. Pensée, the eldest, who alone knew the lessons of physical pain, had a pathetic grace which made her seem, in comparison with the others—radiant with untried health,—some gentle, plaintive spirit from a sadder sphere. Her clinging blue robe appeared too heavy for the frail body; her fair curls and carefully arrangedchignonwere too modish for the ethereal yet anxious countenance; the massive wedding-ring seemed too coarse a bond for the almost transparent hand which trembled nervously on the cover of theSerious Call. Sara, in black velvet and sable, with ostrich plumes and golden beads, with flashing eyes and a gipsy's flush, with all the self-command of a woman trained for society, living for it and in it, with all the self-assurance of a woman in an unassailable position, handsome, rich, flattered, spoiled, domineering, and unscrupulous, with all the insolence of an egoism which no human force could humiliate and no human antagonist terrify, Sara seemed the one who was destined to succeed superbly in the war of life. Mrs. Parflete—whose courage, determination, and powers of endurance were concealed by a face which might have been made of lovely gauze—seemed less a being than a poetical creation: a portrait by Watteau or Fragonard stepped from its frame, animated by pure fancy, and moving, without sorrow and without labour, through a charmed existence.
She made two steps forward when Sara advanced to meet her, holding out both hands and smiling with real kindness at the sight of a delightful apparition which looked too fragile to excite such a fierce emotion as jealousy.
“I believe we are to meet at Hadley,” said Sara. “I hear you are going to act.”
“Yes,” replied Brigit, with a slight note of irony in her musical voice. “I am going to act.”
“How charming! And what will you play?”
“I play the Marquise in one of Marivaux's comedies.”
“And who will play the Marquis?” asked Sara.
“There is no Marquis,” answered Brigit, laughing a little. “But,” she added, “there is a Chevalier and a Comte. One of Prince d'Alchingen's attachés will play the Comte. M. de Castrillon will play the part of the Chevalier.”
“Castrillon!” exclaimed Sara, in amazement.
“The Marquis of Castrillon!” cried Pensée, turning livid; “pray, pray put it off till you have heard from Baron Zeuill. Dear Brigit! for my sake, for Robert's——“
“It is for your sake and Robert's that I have accepted the invitation to Hadley. I wish you would understand. I must show them all that I mean what I say.”
“But Castrillon is a wicked wretch—a libertine.”
“We have already acted together in this very pieceat Madrid. Much depends on my playing well next Saturday. I am quite sure of his talent, and, in such a case, his private morals are not my affair. He is no worse than Prince d'Alchingen was, and most of his associates are.”
“You can't know what you are saying,” answered Pensée. “You will be so miserable when you find you have been madly obstinate. It is very hard, in a country like England, for a young woman to set herself in opposition to certain prejudices.”
“Are the Duke and Duchess of Fortinbras respectable?” asked Brigit.
“What a question!” said Pensée; “of course they are most exclusive.”
“Then if they are quite willing that their daughter Clementine should marry Castrillon, surely he may play the Chevalier to my Marquise.”
“I don't think, Pensée,” put in Sara, “that Castrillon is exactly tabooed. In fact, one meets him everywhere in Paris, and, beyond a doubt, the Fortinbrases and the Huxaters and the Kentons made a great fuss over him last season. But do youlikehim?” she said, suddenly turning to Brigit.
The question was skilful.
“I don't take him seriously,” answered Brigit; “he has the great science ofl'excellent ton dans le mauvis ton. You would say—‘he is vulgar in the right way.’ I feel sure he never deceived women. They may have been foolish but they must have beenfrail before they met him! He can be ridiculous in five languages, but he cannot be sincere in one of them. As for his wickedness, one must have more than bad intentions; one must have the circumstances. I have nothing to fear from M. de Castrillon. He knows me perfectly well.”
“I am simply wretched about you,” said Pensée; “of your future I dare not think. I try to besympathique, and your difficulties come very home to me because I have had such great sorrows myself. But I have little hopes of doing any good while you are so self-willed.”
“Dearest,” exclaimed Brigit: “trust me!”
“My child, you are ‘wiser in your own eyes than seven men that can render a reason.’ I implore you to abandon this mad scheme; I implore you to abandon these wrong—these dangerous ideas of the stage. I know how much I am asking, and how little right I have to ask anything, but I think you ought to listen to me.”
Brigit, with a sparkling glance at Sara, stroked Pensée's cheek, and pinched her small ear.
“Mon cher coeur,” said she, “I do not forget your goodness. And I needed it, for I have been so wretched and forsaken. My soul is weighed down with troubles, and grief, and anxiety: each day I expect some new misfortune: you are the one friend I may keep. But you would not know how to imagine the intrigues and falsehoods which surroundme on every side.O mon amie, I must prove to them that I want nothing they can give me—that I possess nothing which they can take away.”
“I know what she means, Pensée,” said Sara; “she has to show d'Alchingen that her interests are fixed on art—not politics. And, from her point of view, she is right. I must say so, although I don't wish to interfere. And so long as she knows M. de Castrillon, it is better taste to make her first appearance with him than with some strange actor engaged for the occasion. After all, Mario was well known as the Marchese di Candia before he adopted the operatic stage as a profession. As for gossip, how is anybody's tongue to be stopped?”
“I do not expect that people's tongues should be stopped,” rejoined Pensée.
“What the world says of me I have learned to disregard very much,” said Brigit: “if I vex my friends, I must nevertheless follow my vocation. It was good enough for my mother. I do not apologise for her existence, nor do I offer excuses for my own. She was an actress: I am an actress. She succeeded: I may not succeed. But if you fear for my faith and my character, it would be quite as easy to lose both in the highest society as in the vilest theatres! I foresee mistakes and difficulties. They must come. I shan't have a happy life, dearest Pensée: I don't look for happiness. Why then do you scold me?”
“I am not scolding,” said Lady Fitz Rewes: “I have never blamed you, never—in my heart. We shall get on better now that we have brought ourselves to speak out. How different it is when one judges for oneself or for another! I do believe in having the courage of one's convictions. But it was my duty to warn you——“
“This is all I wanted,” exclaimed Brigit; “that we should understand each other and stand close by each other. I am not on the edge of a precipice—I am at the bottom of it already!” Her eyes had grown calm from the mere force of sadness. “You mustn't ask me to look back,” she added: “you mustn't ask me to choose again. A simple, quiet life is out of the question now. I have to learn how to forget.”
She moved to the door, kissed her hand to Pensée, and bowed prettily to Sara.
“I must get back to my work,” she said, and so left them. The two women turned toward each other.
“There is no hope for Orange,” observed Sara drily: “no man would ever forget her.”
“He needn't forget her, but——“
“Yes, it would have to be sheer, absolute forgetfulness. I like her. I like all beautiful things—pictures, statues, bronzes, porcelains, and white marble visions! She is a white marble vision. And Orange will love her forever and ever and ever.And when she is dead, he will love her still more!”
She threw back her head and laughed—till Pensée laughed also. Then they wished each other goodbye, and parted.
When Sara reached home, she was dismayed to hear that Lord Reckage had called during her absence and was waiting for her return. The prospect of an interview with him seemed so disagreeable that she walked first to the library, and sat there alone, for some moments, before she could summon the presence of mind which every sense warned her would be required for the ordeal. At last, with a pinched heart, she went up the great staircase, and found Reckage writing at her own table in the drawing-room. He turned quickly, and jumped to his feet at the rustle of her dress. He was looking unusually handsome, she thought, very animated, very dashing.
“You will forgive these clothes,” said he, “but I have ordered Pluto round at four o'clock, and I am going for a long ride.”
“What a strange idea!” she answered, taking off her gloves. “Where are you going?”
“To Hampstead Heath. I need the air and the exercise. I have to compose a speech.”
“The speech for the Meeting?”
His brow darkened, and he pushed back with his foot a log which was falling from the open grate.
“No, not that speech. Another. Disraeli has asked me to go in his stead to Hanborough. I don't like to attach over-importance to the invitation, but he must mean it as an encouragement. Evidently, he wishes to show that Aumerle and the rest are without any shadow of right in their attacks. I have been above five years working up this society, and if, at the end of that time, I am president only by dint offamily interest, be assured the situation cannot be worth having. When I leave, it will go all to pieces.”
“But you don't intend to leave, surely?”
“Indeed, I do.”
“Have you hinted at resignation?”
“No, I sha'n't hint. Hints belong to the unconsidered patience of fools. I won't give them an inkling of my real tactics. Let them lollop along in their own wretched fashion to some final imbecility! I have other matters to think of, Sara. Doesn't Disraeli's action say, as delicately as possible, that I am wasting my time over small men? I have been altogether too easy of access. Simplicity and consideration are thrown away on the Snookses and the Pawkinses! With these gentry, one must be a vulgar, bragging snob, or they think one is not worth knowing.”
“But you owe it to yourself and to Orange to hold the Meeting to-morrow?” she said, anxiously.
“There is a way out of it,” he answered, avoiding her eyes. “We can talk of that presently.”
“Nothing interests me more.”
“That is not true,” he said, taking a chair near her; “there are many things which must interest both of us much, much more than that stupid Meeting.”
“I prefer not to speak of them now, Beauclerk.”
“I can't go on in this uncertainty. I am beginning to think I am a blundering fellow—where women are concerned. When we were together as children, I seem to remember, looking back, that I always did the wrong thing. And later—when you came out and I fancied myself a man of the world, it was the same. I don't know exactly what a girl is at eighteen, but I know that a fellow of twenty-five is an ass. He is probably well-meaning: he isn't hardened by ambition and he is pretty sentimental, as a rule. Yet he doesn't have fixed ideas. One day it dawned upon me that I was in love.”
“Now don't say that.”
“I repeat it. I am far from wishing to pose as a martyr, but whenever one is happy, all one's friends think that one is going to make some fatal mistake. I suppose no battle can be won without a battle. But life has always had a good deal of painfulness to me, and I hate opposition. It isn't lack of courage on my part—I can fight an enemy to the death. When it comes to quarrelling with relatives or those I care about—well, I own I can seldom see good reasons for keeping a stiff neck.”
“I am perfectly convinced of your spirit, Beauclerk; every circumstance serves to show it. There was never a time when you did the wrong thing—in my judgment.”
“You are generous, but I dare not believe you there. Much that I did and all that I left unsaid must have puzzled you. I wouldn't speak now, Sara, if I didn't feel sure that in spite of my faults, my stupidity, my want of self-knowledge, you saw that I was destined to love you.”
It was impossible to deny this fact. She had been well aware always of his affection, and the certainty had given a peculiar emotional value to every scene—no matter how commonplace—to every occasion, no matter how crowded, to every conversation, no matter how trivial—in which he figured or his name transpired. He and poor Marshire were the two men in the world who really loved her. 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.” He put his arm round her waist, and as she inclined her face ever so slightly toward his, he kissed her cheek.
“How can I help you?” she asked.
“Let us marry.”
“I don't wish to marry any one just yet, Beauclerk,” she said; “I like my liberty. I don't feel that I should make either a good wife, or a contented one, as I am now. I want to see more and think more before I give up my will to another.”
“I would not ask you to give up your will.”
“We should be utterly miserable if I didn't.”
“Believe me, it is the weak, effeminate creature who wishes to control women. Men of character respect women of character. These fellows who declare that they will be masters in their own house are masters nowhere else. I delight in your spirit. Orange and I have often agreed,” he added, with a searching look, “that you are the most brilliant girl in England.”
“Why do you quote Robert?” she said carelessly; “isn't your opinion enough for me?”
“Can you pretend that his opinion has no weight with you?”
She laughed, and stroked his arm.
“My dear, why should I pretend anything? To tell the truth, I am surprised that Orange has noticed me. I saw Mrs. Parflete to-day. I understand his infatuation.”
“I have always told you that she was a very pretty woman. But why is it that, no matter where we start, we always come back to Orange? I am getting sick of him. I dislike beingaffiché, as it were, to some one else. This marriage of his pursues me. If I go into a club, if I dine, if I ride, if I walk—ten toone if I am not pelted with questions about Mrs. Parflete, or Robert's history, or his genius, or his future plans. I must drop him.”
“Drop him?” she exclaimed.
“Yes. It doesn't help me to appear so friendly with a Roman. I know he is very fine, but I have to consider my own position. They all say that it would be madness to take the chair now at his meeting.”
“But it wasyourmeeting, Beauclerk.”
“In the first place, perhaps. I thought, too, it might be a good, independent move. Disraeli's invitation to Hanborough puts another complexion on affairs. It is the first formal recognition that he, as Leader, has ever given me. It is a reminder of my responsibilities. He is fond of Orange, I know, and he wouldn't hurt his feelings, or seem to put a spoke in his wheel, for all the world. But Dizzy is subtle. He likes to test one'ssavoir vivre.”
“Shall you tell Orange that you intend to throw him over?”
“Not yet.”
“Oh, you ought!”
“Why? I want the meeting to take place. It will be useful in its way—it may show us how public opinion is going.”
Sara hid her contempt by rising from her chair and removing her hat. Reckage watched the play of her arms as she stood before the mirror, and he did not see, as she could, the reflection of his face—sensual, calculating, and, stormed as it was for the moment by the meanest feelings of self-interest, repellent.
“How I hate him!” she thought; “how I despise him!”
Then she turned round, smiling—
“Hats make my head ache! So you think the meeting will be useful?”
“Emphatically. It did occur to me that I might drop a line to Robert—in fact, I was writing to him when you came in. Here's the letter, as you see, signed and sealed.”
“Do send it.”
“No,” he answered, putting it back into his pocket; “one could only get him on the platform just now by making him believe that such an action would, in some way, help me. You don't know Robert.”
“I daresay not, but I know that much.”
“This being the case, why upset him at the eleventh hour?”
She made no reply, and before Reckage could speak again, the servant announced the arrival of his horse.
“I intend to ride like the devil, Sara,” he said; “and I wish you could come with me. What rides we used to have—long ago! You were a larky little thing in those days, darling!”
He bent down and kissed her lips.
“You shall marry me—or no one,” said he; “but you are cold: you are not very nice to me. I suppose it's your way. You wouldn't be yourself if you werelike other women. You are not a woman, you're a witch. Must I go now?”
Sara had opened the door.
“Yes, you know how Pluto hates to wait.”
“That animal will be the death of me yet. Will you stand on the balcony and watch me till I am out of sight? Have pretty manners—for once.”
“Very well.”
She went on to the balcony, watched him mount, and ride away. He turned several times to gaze back at her picturesque figure, dim, but to him lovely in the gathering dusk.
Robert, after his interview with the priest, returned to his old lodgings in a top floor of Vigo Street—for he had left Almouth House, where Reckage's hospitality, kind as it was, suited neither his pride nor his mood. He was greatly in debt, and although his salary from Lord Wight and his literary earnings represented a sure income, it stood at what he called the “early hundreds.” The tastes, habits, and pursuits of those with whom he spent his time were delightful, no doubt, but they were costly. A box at the play; the cricket-match party, little dinners, and a rubber of whist, or a quiet game of vingt-et-un; the lunches here, the suppers there; the country houses where, in the winter, one could dine and sleep and hunt the next day, and, in the autumn, shoot, and, in the summer, flirt; the attendance at race-meetings, balls, and weddings; journeys to the Continent, civilities everywhere,—in fact, the whole business of society—no matter how modestly done—demands money. Most young men are naturally fond of brilliant, light-hearted companions, plenty ofamusement, and that indescribable treasure known as thejoie de vivre. Orange was no exception to this rule, and there were many hours when he tasted the bitterness of poverty, and felt the harsh differences between the outward gifts bestowed by Fate. It was not that he cared for luxuries, but it seemed hard that a horse should have to be counted among them, and that it was necessary to work for twelve hours a day in order to live at all, even as a dependent, among those with whom he was, by right of birth and ability, the equal, and to whom he was, in many cases, the superior. How many promising careers and brave hearts have fallen short under the strain of a position so mortifying and apparently so unjust! In public life, whether one joins the Church, the Camp, the Senate, or the Arts, the trials of strength and courage are most severe even to those who, in material circumstances at any rate, are favourites of fortune. Neither influence nor riches avail much in the terrific struggles for supremacy, for recognition, for mere fair play itself. What must the conflict be then for those who, with slight purses and few allies, find themselves pitted against the powerful of the earth? Discouragement, in weak natures, soon turns to envy, and the spectacle of human unkindness has driven many a reflective, delicate soul to say that the companionship of his fellow-men is unlovely, not to be admired, and difficult, at times, not to hate. In disgust of the world—where one has beenwounded, or where one has wounded others—(wounded vanity and remorse are alike bitter in their fruits), numbers, with a sort of despairing fatalism, retire from the campaign, cut themselves adrift from their people and their country, and, having failed in life, court death under strange skies in far-off lands. Robert, who looked rather for the triumph of ideas than the glory of individuals, was not easily dismayed. So long as the right was by some means accomplished, and good seeds brought forth a good harvest,—the burden and heat of the day, the changes of weather, the scantiness of the wage, the ingratitude and treachery of agents, the hardships, the toil—mattered little enough. Devoured by ambition in his early youth, he had never permitted himself the least doubtful means of attaining any object. He was not obliged, therefore, to affect an indifference to success in order to divert attention from his methods of arriving at it. No man, once bent upon a project, could be more resolute than Orange. None were more stern in self-repression and self-discipline. But in controlling, or subduing altogether, the softer possibilities in a character, there is always the danger lest uncharitableness, hardness of heart, or blind severity of judgment should take their place. Young people with strong natures can seldom find the middle course between extremes, and this one, in curbing a desire for power, will fairly crush his whole vigour, while that one, in revolt against the tyranny of love,will become the slave of pessimism. There were days, no doubt, and weeks when Orange found every counsel, a mockery, and every law, a paradox. The strife between the flesh and the spirit went on in his life as it does in all lives, but he was one who held, that, whatever the issue of it all might be, a man must be a man while he may—losing himself neither in the whirl of passion nor in the enervating worlds of reverie, but accepting the fulness of existence—its pains, vanities, pleasures, cares, sorrows,—with a fighter's courage and the fortitude of an immortal soul.
As he walked along toward Vigo Street in the cold, dark autumn morning, he felt more than able to hold his own against all adversaries. And this was not the insolence of conceit, but the just strength which comes from a vigorous conscience and perfect health. A soldier counts it no shame, but rather an honour, to die in battle, so Robert, surveying the chances before him, stood determined, in every event, to endure until the end, to fight until the end, to maintain his ground until the end. But if he had put sentiment from his path, it was not so easily weeded from his constitution, and while he was able to persuade himself that his renunciation of all passionate love—except as a bitter-sweet memory—was complete, he had to realise that the old grudge against Castrillon had grown into a formidable, unquenchable, over-mastering hatred. Where this strange obsession was concerned, no religious or otherconsideration availed in the least. Bit by bit, hour by hour, the feeling had grown, deriving vigour from every source, every allusion, and every experience. The books he read, the conversations he heard, the people he met—all seemed to illuminate and justify, in some mysterious way, his enmity against Castrillon. He may have believed that he was resigned to his ill-luck in love, but a sense that he had been defrauded haunted his thoughts always, and the longing to square his account with destiny was less a wish than a mute instinct. How great had been the temptation to defy all laws—human and Divine—where Brigit Parflete was in question, no one can know. In getting the better of it, the motive had not been, it must be confessed, the fear of punishment here or hereafter. This would not be a true history, nor a reasonable one, if it were not acknowledged that much of the victory in that situation had been due to the woman's youth and candid, sunny nature. No passion—far less a guilty one—he thought, could have had a place in that childlike heart. She was Pompilia—not Juliet, because, like the more ill-starred heroine, she had met sorrow before she met love, and the strong emotion which comes first in a young life makes the deep, the ineffaceable impression on its character. She had the strength to suffer undeserved woe, but the penalties of defiance and disobedience would surely kill her. The thought of any desperate step seemed impossible.
The question of love at that point in Orange's life had therefore been decided as much by conditions as it had by principles and conscience. But with the Castrillon difficulty, it was a question of hatred—not love. In hate, Orange was as little given to brooding as he was in other matters. He had never been able to forgive the duel at Loadilla which had occasioned so much scandal in Madrid, and brought Brigit's name into bad company. Robert, before his meeting with Mrs. Parflete, had fought several duels, and each of them about a different pretty face. Encounters of the kind form part of a youth's education on the Continent: such experiences are considered not romantic, not heroic, not striking, but merely usual and manly. It was impossible for one brought up in this view to feel that duelling—under certain provocation and fair conditions—was wrong. The custom was frequently abused, no doubt, yet the same could be said of all customs, and Orange, rightly or wrongly, held a conviction on the subject which no argument could affect. But, with a lover's unreasonableness, he had found the fight between Bodava and Castrillon an insult to the lady at stake. He suspected, too, that Castrillon had spoken lightly of her to General Prim, to Zeuill, perhaps to d'Alchingen. This was insufferable, and so, inasmuch as the mischief had been done, he would not and could not remain outside the combat. There seemed, also, a certain feeling at the Clubs where the Madrid scandal had become known,that Castrillon, on the whole, had proved a more dashing, and was probably the favoured, suitor. Orange, whose personal courage had been demonstrated too often to be called into doubt, had been criticised for an absence of moral, or rather immoral, courage with regard to Mrs. Parflete. Reckage's sly phrases about the ecclesiastical temperament; the sneers of some adventurous women on the subject of platonic affection; the good-natured brow-lifting of the wits and the worldly were not easy to bear for a man who was, by nature, impulsive, by nature, regardless of every sacrifice and all opinions while a strong purpose remained unfulfilled. Robert made up his mind that, come what might, whether his action was approved or blamed, or whether he won or lost, pick some quarrel he would, and see how Castrillon liked it, and thus settle the matter then and for always. Castrillon had received a military training; he was a most adroit swordsman and a notorious shot; he would not be one to make a quarrel difficult.
When Orange reached the house in Vigo Street, it was still early in the day. As he mounted the stairs, he noticed a fellow-lodger, still in his evening clothes, entering a room on the second floor. He did not see the man's face, but he was struck by something familiar in his build. This impression was not haunting, it passed almost immediately, and the young man settled down with resolution to his work. At one o'clock he went to Brookes's, had his lunch, meta few acquaintances who studied his face with curiosity, and a few colleagues who tried to persuade each other that he was a man who could play a deep game. He returned to his rooms and resumed work till about six o'clock, when his landlord informed him that a lady, who would not give her name, wished to see him. The lady was tall, handsomely dressed, darkly veiled. What, he thought, if it should be Brigit? What joy! What rashness! Robert went out into the hall to meet the strange visitor. She made a gesture signifying silence, and, on greeting her, he did not utter her name. It was Lady Sara.
She did not speak until she had entered the shabbily furnished sitting-room and closed the door.
“This is a mad thing on my part,” she said; “a mad thing. I know it. Of course, I might have asked you to come to me, but I couldn't wait so long. And I don't trust letters. Some news can't be written. It is not about Mrs. Parflete,” she added, hastily, “you need not fear that. It is about Beauclerk. He came to see me this afternoon. He is going to throw you over. He is going to fail you at the Meeting. You are to test public opinion while he sits under shelter—to profit by your experience. What do you think of that?”
“You are very good to come. But I hope you are mistaken all the same. He may throw me over. I am sure he will send me a word of warning.”
“That was his first intention. He gave it up,because he knew you wouldn't act without him. And he wants you to act—for the reason I have given. Oh, I'm so ashamed, so humiliated to think that any friend of mine could be such a traitor.”
She unpinned her veil, and seemed all the handsomer for her scornful expression and flashing eyes.
“You must be the first to retire,” she continued. “I won't have you treated in this contemptuous way: I won't endure it. I want you to write to the Committee at once—at once—without a moment's loss of time. This is why I have come here myself. You seem to have something in you which they take for weakness. You will stand anything. Oh, I know why well enough. You like to be a martyr—which means saying nothing and suffering a good deal. But I call it a mistake. I call it irritating, misleading, actually wrong. If I were a man I would kill people.”
“It is easy enough to kill.”
“So they say. Be more unscrupulous, dear friend. Give your nature full play now and again. You can't make me believe that you are ever natural.”
“Some can trust their natures. I don't trust mine.”
“Don't you see how much more power you would have over men if you were more emotional, more spontaneous, more human? Who gives you credit for self-control? No one. They say you are self-contained—a very different idea. They say you arecold. Now, I don't care what I do. I follow every impulse. I must follow them. I had to come here this evening. I had to tell you about Reckage. The landlord was odious. I met two men on the staircase. One actually tried to peer into my face. I have never submitted to such indignities. Heaven knows what they are thinking now. I shall remember their vile laugh as long as I live. But I was determined to see you. And here I am. Apparently I have not done much good by coming. You hardly believe me. You think me an indiscreet woman.”
“I think you are splendid.”
“I saw Mrs. Parflete to-day. She is beautiful. But she is indiscreet, too. All women worth considering are miracles of imprudence.”
“Haven't I always said so?”
“Then how can you expect us to like you when you are so—so wise?”
“I don't expect you to like me.”
She bit her lip and pretended to check a laugh.
“I suppose you enjoy this room?” she said, glancing round it till her eyes fell on a small crucifix which was nailed to the wall behind his chair; “it is so depressing. You are very perverse. And the odd thing is——“
“Well, what is the odd thing?”
“That you are attracted by Mrs. Parflete. Your style ought to be Saint Clare or Saint Elizabeth. But not at all. You prefer this exquisite, wayward, perfectly dressed, extremely young actress. You give your nature full play in yourtaste, at all events.”
“You can urge that much in my favour, then?”
“Yes, that much. Oh, she's pretty. But frivolous and light-hearted—as light-hearted as Titania. There! I have been wondering what I could call her. She is Titania in alabaster. Marble is too strong. At first, I thought it might be marble. I have changed my mind since. I suppose you know she will act in this comedy with Castrillon at the d'Alchingens?”
“So Disraeli has told me. Did you come to tell me that, also?”
She coloured, but met his angry glance without flinching. “Now,” she thought, “he is going to show temper.”
“I came to tell you that, also,” she repeated. “Pensée is opposed to the whole scheme. Mrs. Parflete stamped her very beautiful foot, and said, ‘I go.’ Do you approve?”
“I am to meet Castrillon to-night at the Prince d'Alchingen's,” he answered, evading her question.
“How you hate him!”
“What makes you think so?”
“I know your face. I never saw any love there for anybody, but just then there was a look of hate.”
“You are quite right. I do hate him.”
“You are actually trembling at the mention of his name. Then you have feelings, after all.” Sheclapped her hands, and leaving her chair walked toward him.
“Never hate me, will you?” she said, touching his arm. “Promise me that you will never hate me. Like me as much as you can.”
At that instant, they heard a tap at the door, and the landlord, carrying a few letters on a salver, entered the room. Sara pulled down her veil—a foolish action, which she regretted a moment later. Orange thanked the man for the letters and threw them on the table. The landlord, with a studied air of discretion, which was the more insulting for its very slyness, went, half on tiptoe, out.
“Does he always bring your letters upstairs?” she asked.
“As a rule—no,” said Orange.
“Then he came on purpose! He wanted to see me—what impudence! I am beginning to realise what one has to expect if one—if one takes an unconventional step.”
Her voice failed, and tears began to roll down her cheeks. Then she covered her face with her hands.
“Every courageous—every disinterested act is unconventional,” said Robert; “you are tired out—that's all.”
“You see,” she answered, with a note of harsh sadness in her voice, “I have had a strange day. The scene with Beauclerk was a great strain. I feel a kind of apprehensiveness and terror—yes, terror,which I cannot describe. It may be my nerves, it may be fancy. But I am too conscious of being alive. Every minute seems vital. Every sound is acute. This day has been one long over-emphasis. Look at my hand: how it trembles! Beauclerk called me a witch. Certainly, I am more sensitive to impressions than most people.”
“One of these letters is from Reckage. It is written on a sheet of your own note-paper.”
She dried her eyes, and looked at him with exultation, astonishment, and a certain incredulity.
“Then he must have listened to me. He posted it, after all, when he left the house. He is always impulsive. I remember now—that I saw him give something to the groom. Do read what he says.”
The letter, scrawled hastily on the pale lilac note-paper affected by Sara and bearing her monogram, ran as follows:—
“My Dear Old Fellow,—There are still some points of arrangement very material to consider with regard to this Meeting next week, and I hope it is not too late to go into them. The thing cannot be done away. But the circumstances have become, thank God, very different indeed. Mr. Disraeli has asked me to speak in his stead at Hanborough—an honour so wholly unexpected and undeserved that I am forced to see in it an especial mark of encouragement. I must admit at once that I feel greatly flattered. I am not now to be taught what opinion I am to entertain of those gentlemen whose narrow and selfish principles forced me to move against my inclination, myjudgment, and my convictions. I am persuaded that any additional public action—no matter how indirect on my part—in the Nomination of Temple would have at this juncture, the worse effect. It would savour of self-advertisement—an idea which I abhor. It would seem anover-doing, as it were, of my own importance. You will readily agree, I know, that I ought to keep perfectly quiet before, and for some time after, my Hanborough appearance. Not having in any degree changed my view upon this subject of the Association, I don't feel that my present decision is inconsistent. I think it will strike everybody as a sensible—the only sensible—course to follow.“When can you dine? Or if you won't dine, let me see you when you can spare half an hour.“Yours affectionately,”“Beauclerk.”
“My Dear Old Fellow,—There are still some points of arrangement very material to consider with regard to this Meeting next week, and I hope it is not too late to go into them. The thing cannot be done away. But the circumstances have become, thank God, very different indeed. Mr. Disraeli has asked me to speak in his stead at Hanborough—an honour so wholly unexpected and undeserved that I am forced to see in it an especial mark of encouragement. I must admit at once that I feel greatly flattered. I am not now to be taught what opinion I am to entertain of those gentlemen whose narrow and selfish principles forced me to move against my inclination, myjudgment, and my convictions. I am persuaded that any additional public action—no matter how indirect on my part—in the Nomination of Temple would have at this juncture, the worse effect. It would savour of self-advertisement—an idea which I abhor. It would seem anover-doing, as it were, of my own importance. You will readily agree, I know, that I ought to keep perfectly quiet before, and for some time after, my Hanborough appearance. Not having in any degree changed my view upon this subject of the Association, I don't feel that my present decision is inconsistent. I think it will strike everybody as a sensible—the only sensible—course to follow.
“When can you dine? Or if you won't dine, let me see you when you can spare half an hour.
“Yours affectionately,”
“Beauclerk.”
Orange turned to Sara and said, when he had finished reading—
“I am glad he wrote.”
“You knew him better than I did. He is still a poor creature, for, what does it all come to?—a rambling, stupid lie. The letter is sheer rubbish—a complete misrepresentation of the facts. But I need not have come. This always happens when women interfere between men,” she added, bitterly; “you don't want us. There's a freemasonry among men. You excuse and justify and forgive each other always.”
“You persuaded him to post this.”
“That is true. He might have done so, however, without persuasion. In future, call me the busybody! I must go now. I have made you late ford'Alchingen's dinner. What a lesson to those about to make themselves useful! And how right you were not to get bitter! I take things too much to heart. I must pray for flippancy. Then, perhaps, I may find no fault with this world, or with you, or with anybody!”
“I am bitter enough—don't doubt it.”
“No! no! let us assure each other that this is the best of all possible worlds—that Beauclerk shows cleverness and good sense, that no one tells lies, no one is treacherous, no one is unjust, malicious, or revengeful nowadays, that friends are friends, and enemies—merely divided in opinions! We must encourage ourselves in a cynical, good-natured toleration of all that is abject and detestable in mankind.”
“You are too impatient, Lady Sara. You want life concentrated, like a play, into a few acts lasting, say, three hours. Whereas, most lives have no dénouement—so far as lookers-on are concerned!”
“At last some one has been able to define me. I am ‘impatient.’ But you take refuge in that profound silence which is the philosophy of the strong; you don't struggle against the general feeling; you content yourself by going your own gait quietly. You have pride enough to be—nothing, and ambition enough to do—everything. Hark! what is that? They are calling out news in the street.”
“The current lie,” said Orange. “We don't want to hear it.”
Sara walked to the window and threw it open.
“I caught a name,” she exclaimed. “It is something about Reckage ... Listen ... Reckage!”
Above the din of the traffic, a hoarse duet rose from the street—voice answering voice with a discordant reiteration of one phrase—“Serious accident to Lord Reckage! Serious accident to Lord Reckage!”
“My God, what are they saying? What are they saying? It is my imagination. It can't be true. I am fancying things. What are they saying?”
Orange had already left the room and was in the road. When he returned, he gave her the newspaper and did not attempt to speak. But he closed the window in order to shut out, if possible, the hideous cry.
“Where is it? I can't see! In which column?” said Sara.
He pointed to a corner on the third page, where she read in black, rough type:—
“Lord Reckage was thrown from his horse at Hyde Park Corner this afternoon. He was removed to Almouth House. His injuries are said to be of a very dangerous nature.”
She crushed the paper in her hand, and the two stood looking at each other, stupefied by the blow.
“I am going to him,” said Robert.
“And I must go home,” whispered the girl. “He always said that Pluto would be the death of him.”
They went down the stairs together without exchanging a word. Orange walked with her to St. James's Square. Neither could speak. On parting, she faltered,—
“Let me know ... how he is....”