Robert Orange
"that seems a sealed mystery to most people except the Catholics and the
Buddhists. Protestants never speak of it, never think of it. Their
education is all for self-concealment. If I read M. de Hausee rightly,
he will become no colourless, emasculated being, but certainly a man
with a silent heart. When he has a grievance he will take it to
God--never to his friends."
Prince d'Alchingen stifled a yawn and offered Sara a cigarette, which
she refused, although she had acquired the habit of smoking during her
visits to Russia.
"If you will both swear," said he, "to keep a secret, I can tell you
one."
The old and the young lady flushed alike with delight at the prospect of
hearing some strange news.
"It will come well," he continued, "after my wife's prophetic remarks.
Mrs. Parflete went alone to Orange's lodgings on Wednesday last at six
o'clock."
"Is it possible?" exclaimed the Princess.
Sara, feeling the Prince's dissecting glance burning into her
countenance, grew white and red by turns.
"What a temperament! what jealousy!" thought d'Alchingen.
"How do you know all this?" she asked, thrusting her hands, which were
trembling, into her ermine muff.
"I know it for a fact. The question now is--How will Parflete endure
such conduct? Her bigamy may have been innocent, or at least, an
unavoidable accident. But the afternoon call--well, if he can swallow
that, his meekness runs a risk of being called cowardice, and his
magnanimity will bear an unpleasant resemblance to dishonour."
"Yet surely--surely----" stammered Sara.
In a second she grasped the mistake which had been made, and all its
possible disastrous consequences to herself. Loss of reputation, the
finger of scorn, and for what? Nothing, or at the worst, an
indiscretion. Scandal, had there been a romantic cause, and loss of
reputation, had there been a great passion to make it more memorable as
a sacrifice than a disgrace, would have seemed to her defiant mind
something glorious. But here was a mere unbeautiful story--sordid, if
misunderstood, and a little silly, if satisfactorily explained. And it
could not be satisfactorily explained. Sara knew life too well to
encourage herself by supposing that the real truth about her foolish
visit to Orange's lodgings could ever be told or believed. Orange
himself would never betray her she knew. But what if she had been seen
or recognised? The landlord, the men on the staircase--had they followed
her home, or been able to pierce through her thick veil? She tried to
collect her thoughts, to appear extremely interested--that was all. The
effort, however, was beyond her strength. She showed her agitation, and,
while it was fortunately attributed by the d'Alchingens to a wrong
reason, they were close observers of every change in her face, nor did
they miss the notes of alarm and nervousness in her voice.
"It will probably mean a divorce, the social ruin of Orange, and the
successful _debut_ of Madame as a comedian of the first rank," said the
Ambassador.
"Does Orange know that she was seen that day?" asked Sara.
"Not yet. He will know soon enough, never fear."
"Are you sure--quite sure that it was Mrs. Parflete?" suggested the
Princess.
"It must have been she," replied the Prince.
"It must have been she," repeated Sara, mechanically.
The lie seemed to come before she had time to think of it; it tripped
off her tongue as though some will, other than her own, controlled her
speech. But now that the untruth was spoken she determined to abide by
it, so she repeated:--
"It must have been Mrs. Parflete."
"And suppose," said the Princess, "that she is able to prove that she
spent the whole of Wednesday with Lady Fitz Rewes? No one could doubt
the evidence of Lady Fitz Rewes."
D'Alchingen shrugged his shoulders.
"In that event--which is unlikely," he said; "M. de Hausee will have a
bad half-hour with Mrs. Parflete. The idyll will be spoilt for ever, and
our pretty tale for angels about a Saint and a little Bohemian will sink
to its proper level. It always takes three to make a really edifying
Platonic history. The third in this case is the lady who called at Vigo
Street. _Dans le combat, il faut marchez sans s'attendrir!_"
"Who would live?" murmured the Princess, pressing a martyr's relic which
she always wore on a chain round her neck.
"Suppose," continued d'Alchingen, enjoying his own cynicism, "that we
have a quartette in this instance. Madame has her Castrillon, M. de
Hausee has his veiled lady. Each is a pious fraud to the other. Imagine
the double current of their thoughts, the deceit, the hypocrisy, the
colossal lie behind them both which makes the inspiring truth a fact! It
is an anecdote to be told in the Boccaccio manner--gracefully, with
humour, with much indulgence ... otherwise, it might be the sort of
story they tell in hell."
"I am happy to say that I have no imagination," said the Princess; "and
now I shall take Sara--who must be tired--to her room."
She rose from her seat, and, drawing Sara's arm through hers, walked
from the gallery, through the hall, and up the staircase, talking, the
while, of a new Romney which the Prince had recently purchased.
Sara was now in her own room, but not alone, for her maid was unpacking,
and the gown, petticoat, shoes, gloves, and flowers designed for that
evening were being spread out upon the bed. The girl was in no humour to
enjoy the finery which she had chosen with so much delight. She turned
her back upon it all, and, pulling up the blind, gazed moodily out of
the window till her maid's preparations were at an end. Romantic trees
and a landscape, almost artificial in its prettiness, surrounded Hadley.
The sun was setting in a fire, burnishing with enamel tints the long
green hills which ranged as a natural fortification across the horizon,
shutting out a whole country of flat fields beyond. The moon, in its
first quarter, shone out above a distant steeple where the eastern sky,
already blue and opalesque, promised the dawn of another day in
reparation for the one then dying in scarlet splendour. But to those who
are unhappy, to-morrow is a word without significance. Sara stretched
out her arms instinctively toward the coming night. She wanted darkness
and she wanted sleep--not the stars of the morning, not the joy of noon.
What should she do? Her mad love for Orange had reached a desperate
point--a point where she realised all too clearly and with bitterness,
that, so far from being a source of strength, it was a curse, a malady,
a humiliation--driving her into that insatiable desire of solitude where
the companionship of dreadful imaginations and gloomy thoughts can rend
the soul at their pleasure. As men are sometimes lured toward dangerous
perils on land, or mountains, or by sea, and from thence to deeds,
discoveries, and crimes unforeseen and unpremeditated, so she seemed
borne along into a whirlpool of feelings which chilled the better
impulses of her nature and accentuated, with acid and fire, every
elementary instinct. Animal powers and spiritual tendencies alike were
concentrated into one absorbing passion which reasoned only in delirium,
incoherently, without issue. She was wretched in Orange's company
because every moment so spent showed her that his heart was fixed far
indeed from her. But the wretchedness suffered that way was stifled in
the torments she endured when she wondered, miserably, in loneliness,
what he was thinking, doing, saying; where he was, with whom he was, and
how he was. The despair of unrequited love was thrice intensified by
jealousy. "Why did he like that little adventuress, that white china
Rahab?" she asked herself again and again. "It is just because she has
bewitched him. It is not real love--it isn't any kind of love. She
cannot care for him as I do. It isn't in her. O why, why does he fight
so hard against me?"
Beautiful women seldom believe that their charms can be resisted without
a fierce struggle. It was, in fact, a tranquil consciousness of beauty
which gave audacity to Sara's words, and put the ordinary question of
pride out of the question. Was it not rather a case of the goddess
putting on humanity, of the queen condescending to a subject. _La reine
s'amuse_ was the unuttered, constant motto on her heart of hearts. The
blood of Asiatic princes ran in her veins, and a sovereign contempt for
manners, as opposed to passions and self-will, ruled her fierce spirit.
But what should she do? A moment's reflection had shown her that Brigit
could have no difficulty in proving that she was not the mysterious lady
who visited Orange's lodgings. Having weighed all the disadvantages,
Sara now directed her attention to the advantages she could snatch out
of the dilemma. At last she hit on a bold plan. She rang a bell and a
housemaid answered the summons.
"Is Mrs. Parflete in her bedroom?" asked Lady Sara; "and where is her
bedroom?"
"Her bedroom is next to yours, my lady. She is in there now."
"Thank you."
Sara walked along the corridor till she reached an oak door on which was
a card bearing the name she sought. She tapped, and heard Brigit herself
reply--
"Come in."
The young actress was lying, in a black silk dressing-gown, on the sofa.
Her hair fell loosely to her shoulders, and she had evidently been fast
asleep, for her cheeks were less pale than usual, her eyes were bright,
and the happiness of some pleasant dream still lingered in their
expression.
"Lady Sara--how good of you to come!" she exclaimed; "I have been trying
to rest. I want to play well this evening."
"You will play beautifully, of course," said Sara, submitting, even in
her jealousy, to the charm and grace of her unconscious rival. "I have
come on a difficult errand," she added, abruptly; "you may not
understand, but I hope--I believe--you will."
She became so pale as she uttered these words that Brigit leant forward
with a gesture of reassurance. In spite of her fragility she was, from
the habit of self-control, a stronger spirit.
"You may be sure that I shall understand," she said.
"Forgive me, then, but some enemy has circulated a report that you went
to Mr. Orange's rooms in Vigo Street last Wednesday."
A deep flush swept over Brigit's face.
"I was not there," she said.
"I know," said Sara. "I know you were not there. They made a mistake. It
was I they saw--not you--it was I."
Brigit dropped her eyes but made no other movement. She seemed to grow
rigid, and the hand which had been playing with the fringe of her girdle
remained fixed in its arrested action.
"You? It was you? How ---- you?"
"I had to see him. So I went to him. Now he can easily deny that you
were there. But he won't betray me. People must think what they please.
But I am telling you--because you, at least, ought to know the truth."
"And yet it is not my business!"
"What do you mean? Not your business?"
"How can it be my business to ask what lady went to--to his lodgings?"
"But you would have wondered----"
"Yes, I should have wondered. I could not have helped that."
"Mr. Orange and I have been friends, as you know, for some time. He knew
me years ago before he--he met you. I was quite a little girl. I
remember I used to hold his hand when I walked in the gardens by his
side."
"He has often spoken of you."
"But all this does not help us now. If it were ever known that I--I was
the one, the other day,--I should be ruined."
"You may be sure that no one shall know."
"I am not so selfish as I seem. I don't forget that this story will
injure him--injure him terribly. They will think him a kind of Joseph
Surface--a hypocrite. People expect him to be different from everybody
else. A piece of gossip which they would have laughed at and taken as a