Robert Orange
How else did he keep up his spirits in the face of a grotesque, if
unfortunate, adventure? The answer was plain enough. Sara's sympathy
and the reasonable hopes necessarily attached to so much kindness had
sustained him through the bitterness of all his trials.
"Have you ever thought," said Reckage, with pretended carelessness,
"that Orange's serenity just now is somewhat unnatural? Is it _all_
religion?"
"I believe that neither of _us_ can form any conception of his capacity
for suffering, or the support he finds in his Belief."
"It points to fanaticism, no doubt. He is a Cardinal _in petto_. The
Catholics want spirit everywhere, and Orange has got spirit. His
vocation lies toward the Vatican. His morals are as good as his
build--which is saying much. D'Alchingen was remarking how
extraordinarily well set-up he is. He would have done well in the army.
He cuts an effective figure."
"He is distinguished; would one call him handsome?"
"There's a nobility about him, of course. I am wondering whether he is
really so clever as many make out. He is learned and thoughtful; he has
plenty of pluck and he's the best fellow in the world. But----"
"I wish I knew him better," sighed the young lady; "I liked him and
believed in him on the strength of your recommendation. That was an
immense prejudice in his favour."
She looked up with a sweet and trustful smile which would have satisfied
a harder adversary than Reckage. He was not so hard, however, as he was
egoistic, and it was not a question of softening his heart. Sara had the
far more difficult task of soothing his tortured vanity.
"I don't know," he said, losing caution, "that I want you to take him up
quite so strongly! No one could call him a coxcomb, yet he, not aware of
the real cause of your interest, might be over-flattered. He might,
eventually, begin to hope----"
"What?" she asked, with burning cheeks.
"All sorts of things. He's a man, and you are beautiful. And I have
heard him say a thousand times that so-called Platonics are possible for
one of the two, but never for both. Doesn't this explain the many cases
of unrequited love? You are vexed, I can see it. But I am not thinking
of you. I am thinking of Robert."
"He is not so sentimental as you imagine."
"Isn't he? This affair with Mrs. Parflete was pure sentimentality from
beginning to end--a poet's love. He would have another feeling for
you--something much stronger. You are so human, Sara. I would far sooner
kill you than write poetry to you. You are life--not literature. That
little thing with shining hair and a porcelain face is for dreams. Of
course, he will always love her--after a fashion. He might even compare
you with her and find her your superior in every way--except as a
woman. We may be at moments poets, at moments saints, but the greater
part of the time, a man is a man. And you are no friend for a man.
Pensee Fitz Rewes might answer well enough; she has had sorrow, she has
two children, she has a gentle, maternal air. But you----"
He threw back his head and laughed without mirth.
"You!" he repeated. "My God!"
"You are talking very foolishly, Beauclerk. Perhaps it is your odd way
of making yourself agreeable. It doesn't please me a bit to be told that
I am a siren. My mind is full of the Bond of Association and your
Meeting at St. James's Hall. How shamefully Lord Cavernake has behaved,
but dear Lord Gretingham has come out well. What a miserable set we have
in the Lords just now!"
She was making these remarks as the clock struck the hour, and her
father entered the room.
"Beauclerk came early, dear papa," said she, "because he had something
to tell us. His engagement is broken off."
Lord Garrow looked the grief appropriate to the news, and disguised, as
well as he could, his dismay at its probable development. He murmured,
"Tut! tut!" a number of times, held up his hands, and nodded his head
from side to side.
"I wish nothing said against poor Agnes," observed Reckage; "her
mistakes are those of a generous, impetuous girl. Don't judge her
hastily. All, I feel certain, has happened for the best."
"Tut! tut!" repeated his lordship.
"I am devoted to dear Agnes," said Sara, "but I never, never thought
that she was the wife for Beauclerk."
Then she stepped forward to greet Lady Augusta Hammit, who was at that
moment announced. Lady Augusta was a tall woman about thirty-five years
of age, with a handsome, sallow face, a superb neck, beautiful arms,
hair the colour of ashes, pale lips, and large, gleaming white teeth.
Unmarried, aristocratic, ordinarily well-off, and exceptionally pious
according to her lights, she was a prominent figure in all work
connected with the Moderate Party in the Church of England. In her
opinion, foreigners might be permitted the idolatries of Rome; as for
the English, Wesley was a lunatic; Pusey, a weak good creature; Newman
was a traitor; Manning, a mistake. The one vital force on whom she
depended for her spiritual illumination and her life's security was the
Rev. Edwin Pole-Knox. "Pole-Knox," she said, "will save us yet." This
good and industrious young man, a few years her junior, had been
chaplain--mainly through Lady Augusta's devoted exertions--to three
bishops. He did every credit to his patroness, but hints were already in
the air on the subject of ingratitude. Some said he lacked ambition;
others murmured dark conjectures about his heartlessness. It was left
to the Lady Augusta's fellow-labourers in the sphere of beneficence to
blurt out, with odious vulgarity, that he would never marry her in this
world. She entered the room that evening in her haughtiest manner, for
Pole-Knox was following close upon her heels, and she wished to justify
the extreme deference which he showed her so properly in public, and
perhaps with morbid conscientiousness in _tete-a-tete_.
"I don't know how I shall get through the winter," she observed, in
reply to Lord Garrow's inquiries about her health. "I am working like a
pack-horse." Here she caught Pole-Knox's name and bowed mechanically,
without seeing him, in his direction. The entire afternoon they had been
looking together over the accounts of a Home for Female Orphans, and
poor Lady Augusta had been forced to see that whatever fire and
enthusiasm her _protege_ could display in tracking down the orphans'
dishonest butcher, his respect where she was concerned verged on
frigidity.
Lady Larch was the next arrival, and as she was famous for her smile,
she used it freely, not fatiguing herself by listening to remarks, or
making them. In her youth she had been called bonnie; she was still
pleasant to look upon. She talked very little, and perhaps on this
account her few sayings were treasured, repeated throughout society,
and much esteemed. "Surely it is a mistake to give men the notion that
all good women are dull" was one of her classic utterances. Another ran,
"Those who are happy do not trouble about the woes of the human race."
Another, "The Dissenters belong essentially to a non-governing class--a
vulgar class." These will serve to show the scope of her observation and
the excellence of her intentions. In fact, she was often found dull. She
was not especially disturbed about the woes of humanity, and her
maternal grandfather had been a Presbyterian cotton-merchant. She bore
Pole-Knox away to a far corner and begged to be told all the latest
details of Miss Carillon's abominable conduct.
"I do not exactly know," said she, "the state of things. The poor dear
Bishop must be in a dreadful state."
Orange came in with Aumerle and Hartley Penborough. Lady Augusta, who
was a kind, sincere woman, pressed his hand warmly, and showed with her
eyes that she appreciated the difficulties of his position. He had aged,
Sara thought, and he looked as though he suffered from sleeplessness;
otherwise, in manner and in all ways, he was just as he had always been.
Sara looked at him, and, looking, she read the secret thoughts in his
mind. Yes, she was to him, no doubt, the undisciplined, passionate girl
who lived on admiration, excitement, and false romance. He owned her
beauty; he excused her faults; he liked her. Of all this she was
certain. Reckage's warning had encouraged her to believe that Orange's
self-control was a hard achievement--by no means any matter of a
disposition naturally cold. If it were merely to be a struggle of wills,
her will would prove the stronger. She meant to have her way this time.
Wasn't it the critical moment of his life? Every instinct had been
roused--ambition, the love of adventure, the love of a woman. For a
short while the means had been given him, humanly speaking, of
gratifying these great passions. And then, at a stroke, he was once more
poor and dependent, once more in a ridiculous position, and the woman he
loved was further from his reach than ever. He still had the privilege
of fighting and breaking his heart in the market-place. He could still
enjoy some kind of a career. Yet the long, embittering struggle with
poverty and disappointed affection could but appear to him now desolate
indeed, barely worth the difficult prizes of success. Lady Sara was
young, and she made the mistake, eternally peculiar to her sex, of
placing love first, rather than last, among the forces in a strong
nature. No powerful being ever yet either stood by the glory, or fell by
the disasters, of a love-affair alone, uncomplicated by other issues. It
does its work: it must touch, in many ways, the whole character; but it
is, in the essence of things, a cause--not an effect. To Sara there was
one only consuming interest in life--love. All her talents were directed
to the gaining, understanding, and keeping of this wonderful human
mystery. She wanted wild scenes and ungovernable emotions: she was
beautiful enough to figure in such situations, and fascinating enough to
indulge in such crises without offence to the artistic proprieties. But
she had resolved that the hero of her existence must, at least, look his
part. No one denied that Orange had a remarkable personality. Every one
admitted that he was clever. These were the sternest estimates of his
claim to social recognition. But she knew him to be a de Hausee. She
thought him superbly handsome. She had Disraeli's opinion that he was a
genius. Here was a case where love would not have to be blind. Love, in
this case, could defy the scornful and the proud. At last she could say,
"My fate!" and call the whole world to witness her surrender. "Whether
he loves me, or whether he hates me," she thought, "I have chosen him."
Sinaetha, weaving spells by the moon, was not more determined or more
irretrievably in love than Sara. The danger of such wild moods is as
attractive to the very young as it is terrifying to the more mature.
Perfectly conscious of her beauty, she felt able to defy, sue, and
conquer at the same moment. Orange had never seen her to such brilliant
advantage. The instant he entered the room and met her eyes, which shone
with a most touching kind of timidity and a most flattering joy, he had
to realise the need of strict discipline where constancy is a rule of
existence. Sara's laugh, movements, way of talking, played a good deal
on the heart, but even more upon the senses. Brigit's lovely face gained
intensity only under the influence of sorrow. Then it became human. At
other times it was merely exquisite. Now Sara's countenance had all the
changing qualities of nature itself. She had, too, the instinctive arts
of sympathy which are so much rarer than the actual gift. Far enough was
Sara from the triumph which she was imagining; far enough was Orange
from the least disloyalty; but he was fully alive to the danger of
regarding her as a woman to be fought against. To fight in such cases is