Robert Orange
be done in that direction with de Hausee. We hear much of the soul's
awakening! Wait for the body's awakening now--it must come. Mrs.
Parflete is a _Samaritaine_; we have to prove it somehow. Even though
one invented stories about her, one would probably find that they were,
approximately, true."
"Keep me informed," said the Prince, making a little bow, which
signified that the audience was at an end.
Mudara, according to his own Confession, left the Embassy and proceeded
at once to the small private hotel near Covent Garden where Parflete had
taken up his abode.
Parflete's rooms, (_we read_) were en suite. He had bought a few
rather beautiful prints and a number of exquisitely bound books.
These last, with bowls and vases of flowers, were scattered over
the various tables. The scent of the flowers mingled with the
strange fumes of some Oriental incense. He had draped pieces of
flame-coloured silk over the windows. Everything looked _bizarre_,
and the atmosphere was sultry. When I entered he was not pleased to
see me--in fact, he showed a disposition to sulk. I laboured to
convince him that he would forfeit the respect of all honourable
men unless he showed some just resentment at his wife's conduct.
"No one respects me as it is," he answered; "nobody cares what I do
one way or the other so long as I avoid the police. And as the
police and I have nothing at all in common, I am not likely to
give offence to my good friends in the Alberian Government."
I warned him that such sneers were unjustifiable, and I reminded
him, with severity, of the Government's extraordinary forbearance.
He fixed his eyes unpleasantly upon me, and his fingers trembled as
he played with the frogs of his lilac-velvet smoking-jacket.
"I wish," said he, "that you would mind your own business. I have
done everything to protect the appearance of your good faith all
through this affair. Now leave me alone. Besides, I can't be sure
that the lady we saw to-day was Her Imperial Highness."
My exasperation at his tone of defiance was all but uncontrollable.
"You know," said I, "that we had no doubt of her identity."
"We didn't see her face nor the colour of her hair. In any case, I
refuse to humiliate her. Kindly remember that she is my wife, and
drop a conversation which I find insulting."
Hot words then passed between us. In my anger I may have uttered
several truths which hit him too hard. Suddenly he sprang at me as
though he were a wild cat. His eyes rolled, his face was convulsed
beyond recognition. Men I have never feared; he seemed, however,
not a man but some demoniac risen from hell. In self-defence I
struck him with the small poniard which I have carried all my life.
He staggered back, and the blood-letting seemed to relieve his
temper.
"Go!" said he; "go while you can. I don't think the wound is
mortal, but I don't wish any man hanged for murdering me."
It was in my will to strike him again. I was beside myself with
contempt at what I took to be a fresh revelation of his cowardice.
I replied coolly enough,--"I would not murder you. Have no alarm on
that score. But I can defend myself, I hope."
By this time he had reached the door and thrown it open. A waiter
was passing at the time.
"Sir," said Parflete, "I have the honour to wish you good-day."
The waiter heard this remark distinctly, and saw me bow as I parted
from the wretched creature.
Parflete's appearance was ghastly, but I attributed this pallor to
fright and not to pain, for I believed from my heart that the wound
was no more than a slight prick. I left the hotel, took a cab to my
lodgings, and after reading a light Spanish novel in order to
change the current of my thoughts, I passed an excellent night,
sleeping at least seven hours.
CHAPTER XXVI
Lord Garrow, after much cautious consideration, had decided that Lady
Sara could not absent herself from the d'Alchingens' party without
exciting unfavourable comment, and so prejudicing her future
relationship with the Duke of Marshire. His lordship, in his secret
heart, was by no means sorry for Reckage's untimely death. An orthodox
faith in a better, happier world assisted his conscience over the many
difficulties which afflict a strong sense of good manners. Good manners
demanded some show of grief at the young man's melancholy end; but, as
his lordship pointed out to his weeping daughter, higher reflections
ought to triumph over the vulgar instincts of sorrow, and an etiquette
almost heathenish. "Let us be thankful," said he, "that poor Beauclerk
was spared some lingering malady and the shattering disappointments of a
public career. He would not wish us to mourn. And indeed, any undue
mourning on your part might give a very false impression in society. You
must go to the d'Alchingens'."
Hadley Lodge was built in the reign of George I. In design it resembles
a little the Vice-Regal Lodge in Dublin; two wings, containing
innumerable small rooms, are connected by corridors leading to the
entrance hall. The chief rooms are in the centre, to which Prince
d'Alchingen himself added a miniature theatre, copied from the one at
Trianon. When Sara arrived, the Prince and Princess were taking tea in
the gallery--an apartment so furnished with screens, sofas,
writing-tables, divans, and arm-chairs that it had become the lounge, as
it were, of the house. Less formal than the saloon, brighter than the
library, and more airy than the boudoir, the Princess spent the greater
part of her day in a favourite corner where she could command a view
from four windows, enjoy the fire, see the best pictures, and hear the
piano pleasantly if any guest chose to play upon it. In person she was
tall and rather gaunt, with high cheek-bones, and very dark hollows
under her eyes. She had the air of a mourning empress, and seriousness
was so natural to her countenance, that, although she could not smile,
and had never been known to laugh, she was not depressing nor was she,
accurately speaking, melancholy. The style of beauty--for she had
beauty--was haggard, of the kind now familiar to all English people from
the paintings of Sir Edward Burne-Jones. In 1869, however, this type was
still highly uncommon and little appreciated. Journals and letters of
the period contain references to "that fright, Princess d'Alchingen," or
"that poor creature who always looks so ill," or "that woman who makes
one think of a corpse." Sara admired the Princess, and surprised all
the fashionable artists of that day by insisting on her paintableness.
"How good of you to come, dear Sara!" she murmured, presenting her
sallow cheek to the young girl with a touch of regal graciousness at
once designed and impulsive; "I should have been lost without you.
Anselm has invited a large party, and, as you know, I cannot talk to
these dear people. I find them too clever, and they find me too stupid.
The world is not willing to give me credit for that which I have done."
"And what is that, dearest?" asked the Prince.
"I married you!" she answered, with a quick flash of humour under her
gravity. It was like the occasional sparkle in granite. "You may smile
at the notion of my living on the reputation of what I might yet do,"
she continued, resuming her languor.
"Let us talk of pleasant things only, _chere amie_," said the Prince,
turning to Sara; "mind you, not a word about graves and epitaphs. Mrs.
Parflete has arrived. Castrillon has arrived. You need not trouble about
the others. They are not--they cannot be--worth your while. But do watch
Castrillon. I find that the greatest compliment he can pay to any woman
is to sneer at her expense. He never permits himself the slightest
epigram against those who have erred in kindness toward him. One witty
but frail lady once implored him to miss no opportunity of abusing her
in public. 'Otherwise,' said she, 'they will know all.' Isn't that a
good story?"
"Anselm!" sighed the Princess.
"I wonder who that lady was?" said Sara.
"I dare not guess," said the Prince.
Sara had recovered from the emotion called forth by Reckage's tragic
fate, and she was living now in one of those taciturn reveries which had
become more and more habitual with her since the last interview with
d'Alchingen. Every force in her passionate, undisciplined soul was
concentrated in a wild love for Orange, and every thought of her mind
was fixed on the determination to win his affection in return. There
were only two real powers in the world, she told herself; these were
moral force and money. Money could not affect Robert. But he was
susceptible to moral force. She resolved to display such an intrepid
spirit, such strength of will, such devotion that Brigit would seem a
mere doll in comparison.
"What do you think," she said, turning to the Princess, "of Mrs.
Parflete? Your opinion is worth everything. Orange is infatuated with
her. His criticism is therefore useless. The Prince disapproves of her
parentage. He is therefore prejudiced. I wish to be charitable. I,
therefore, say what I hardly think. Pensee Fitz Rewes is an innocent
little fool. She judges all women by herself. You, Princess, are an
angel of the world. Your verdict, quickly."
The Princess paused before she attempted any reply. Then she fixed her
deep, grey eyes on Sarah's excited face.
"I like her," she said, slowly.
"Is that all?"
"I think she is immature for her age, and therefore reckless. She knows
everything about sorrow, and very little--at present--about happiness.
So she doesn't seem quite human. She shows that indulgence toward others
which is perhaps the last degree of contempt for the follies of
humanity. Those who take their neighbours seriously are almost
invariably severe. Mrs. Parflete, on the contrary, is all good-nature
and excuses. I believe she has genius, and I am sure she will have an
amazing career."
The Princess, who had always insisted on a studious rather than an
active part in life, was consequently unlike the majority of her sex,
who, in the bustle of social engagements, talk without ceasing, letting
words take the place of ideas, and phrases serve for sentiments. All
that she uttered showed a habit of thought opposed to the common method
of drawing-room conversation; she rarely said the expected thing, and
never, a welcome one. Sara, therefore, was disappointed at this
favourable judgment of Mrs. Parflete. The jealousy which she had been
able to control by hoping, in the depths of her heart, that the young
actress would prove too light a creature to bind for long any masculine,
stirring spirit, now saw some justification for vehemence.
"And what do you think of Robert Orange?" she asked, breathing quickly.
The Princess folded her hands, fixed her eyes again on the young girl,
and answered in her usual even tones--
"He is a sentimentalist turned man of action. When this miracle can be
accomplished, you may expect a very decided, even implacable,
character--because it is much more difficult to crush one's poetry than
to crush one's passions. The passions are more or less physical, they
depend on many material conditions or accidents; but poetry, ideals,
romance and the like belong to the spirit. I find a great campaign is
being waged everywhere against the soul. It is a universal movement--the
only things considered now are the pocket and the brain and the liver."
"Delightful!" said Sara, trying to speak calmly; "and will Orange become
a liver-devotee?"
"You don't understand self-discipline, _cherie_," answered the Princess;