Robert Orange
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 Pensee, 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 Pensee laughed also. Then they
wished each other goodbye, and parted.
CHAPTER XXII
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 of _family
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 being _affiche_, 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 to one 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 was _your_ meeting, 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's _savoir 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 were like 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.
CHAPTER XXIII
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,