Robert Orange
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 your _taste_, 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. "Pensee 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." She clapped 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, my judgment, 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 an _over-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 for
d'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 denouement--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...."
CHAPTER XXIV
Lord Reckage had been carried through the hall of Almouth House, but not
up the famous staircase of which he was so proud. He looked at it as
they bore him to the library, and although he was still in a kind of
stupor, the terrified servants could read in his eyes the certain
knowledge that he would never behold the marble walls or the portraits
of his ancestors again.
"Are you in pain, my lord? is your lordship in pain?" sobbed the
housekeeper. His features were injured and his face was perfectly
pallid--so much changed that he could not have been immediately
recognised. Four doctors--one of them a passer-by at the time of the
accident--had assembled. They found one shoulder was severely injured,
and the right collar-bone broken. He complained of great pain in his
side.
"Am I going to die, Sir Thomas?" said he.
"Why should you die?" replied the distinguished surgeon. "But you have
had a nasty fall."
"Pluto shied at something," answered his lordship; "mind they don't
shoot him. I won't have him shot."
Then, for a few moments, he lost consciousness.
When Orange arrived, the physicians were looking very grave, and
telegrams had been despatched to all the young man's near relatives.
"He has called for you several times," said Sir Thomas; "and," he added,
dropping his voice, "is there any lady who could meet ... the family? I
fancy I caught a lady's name more than once. Could it have been----"
"Sara," suggested Orange, to relieve his embarrassment.
"It certainly sounded like Sara."
"Then I will send Lord Garrow a note--she is Lord Garrow's daughter--a
lifelong friend. Is there no hope?"
"He may have a pretty good night."
Robert bowed his head and asked no more. He sat by the dying man, whose
sufferings, although they were a little alleviated by morphia, made him
restless. He moaned even in his snatches of sleep, and spoke
occasionally--always about the accident. Once he mentioned Agnes:
"Agnes will be sorry when she hears."
Toward daybreak he turned to Orange, and said quite simply--
"You are different from the rest. You have the priest's element in you;