CHAPTER XIX

Lord Garrow, under his daughter's command, had issued invitations for a

dinner-party that same evening to a few friends, who, it was hoped,

would support the Meeting which Reckage was endeavouring to organise as

a protest against Dr. Temple's nomination. The guests included Reckage

himself, Orange, Charles Aumerle, the Dowager Countess of Larch, Hartley

Penborough, Lady Augusta Hammit, and the Bishop of Calbury's

chaplain,--the Rev. Edwin Pole-Knox.

Sara, arrayed in white satin and opals, sat at the piano playing the

_Faust_ of Berlioz, and wondering whether she had really arranged her

table to perfection, when the footman brought the following note--dashed

off in pencil--from Lord Reckage:--

ALMOUTH HOUSE.

An extraordinary thing has happened. Agnes has run away with David

Rennes. She seems quite broken and her letter is too touching, too

sacred to show. As for him, it is difficult to say what he could

give, or what I would accept, as an excuse. She, however, has my

full forgiveness, and perhaps good may come of so much sorrow and

duplicity. I must see you after the others have gone to-night. My

plan is to leave early--probably with Orange and Aumerle, but I

will return later. I need your counsel. B.

Sara, who was always in league with audacity, clapped her hands at the

tidings of Miss Carillon's bold move. She was not surprised, for, as we

have seen, she had read the girl's character truly, and warned Orange

that some event of the kind would happen. But the pleasure she took in

this confirmation of her own prophetic gifts was alloyed by the fear

that Reckage, now at liberty, would prove a masterful, jealous, and

embarrassing lover. Nor were her forebodings on this score lessened when

he arrived, evidently in a strange mood, a quarter of an hour before the

appointed time. His eyes travelled over her face with a consuming

scrutiny to which she was unaccustomed and for which she found herself

unprepared. For a moment she experienced the disadvantages of a guilty

conscience, and although she had, so far, merely considered various

plans for using his devotion without peril to her own independence, she

felt that the moment for deliberation was past, that the duel between

them had begun.

"You have my note," he said, "and I would rather not talk about Agnes

to-night. On that point I am in a stupor. I can't realise the disaster

at all. I might seem unfeeling, whereas I am insensible, or unconscious,

or mentally chloroformed--anything you like to call it."

"I can see that you have received a great blow," answered Sara, looking

down.

"I suppose so. And at present I am stunned. Wait a week, and I may be

able to grasp the case--I won't say calmly, for I couldn't be calmer

than I am at this very moment. But I will say, with understanding, with

justice. Give me no credit yet for either. To be frank, I don't

recognise myself in this crisis. As a rule, I have an impulse--more or

less violent--to some extreme measure.... I saw d'Alchingen this

afternoon," he added, abruptly.

He did not add that the Prince had given several striking reasons for

the Lady Sara's interest in Robert Orange. His Excellency, in so acting,

may not have been aware that he was pouring such confidences into the

ear of a jealous man, but he wished to divert gossip from himself, and

he was becoming afraid lest his intimacy with the brilliant, dangerous

girl might give rise to criticism. "She talks and writes incessantly

about Orange," he had said; "what a marriage it would be! I hope it may

be brought about." This suggestion drove Reckage's thoughts toward a

fatal survey of the past year. He discovered, as he believed,

irresistible proofs of Sara's infatuation, and, what was worse, clear

evidence of Robert's sly encouragement of that weakness. Why else had he

borne the severance from Mrs. Parflete with such astonishing fortitude?

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

to admit fear of conquest.

"Those opals are beautiful," said he, presently.

"I am glad you approve of--the opals."

"But you put them to a disadvantage."

"O! is that a compliment? The first you have ever paid me."

"Do you care about them?"

"From you, yes. I was reading in Saint-Simon's Memoirs yesterday that

your ancestor--Charles de Hausee--was the first swordsman, the bravest

soldier, the hardest rider, and the best judge of women in France. But

let us be serious. Lady Larch is wearing her brightest smile!"

"Must we be very earnest this evening?"

"I am afraid so. You see, I have secured Pole-Knox. He has never been

permitted to dine here before."

"Why not?"

"Because I once told Lady Augusta that he was a man for the shortest

part of the afternoon--not for evenings, at all. She couldn't forgive

this."

"Does she forgive it now?"

"Yes. She has reached the stage when one may criticise him."

"That means a complete cure, I suppose."

"Far from it--resignation to the worst that can be said of his

character. There is no cure possible then."

"Have you had any conversation with Reckage?" he asked.

Sara coloured and put her fingers to her lips.

"Hush!" said she. "There's a deceptive quiet about him which puzzles me.

But I don't think he is sorry to be rid of Agnes. A regiment of

relatives drove him into the engagement. Now it has come to an end--let

us thank God!"

"Your own conscience is easy, I take it?"

"You have no right to ask such a question--none at all."

"Some men, you know, can be laughed out of their loves," he continued.

"Timorous men--yes! Is Reckage timorous?"

"You turned that most adroitly."

"Thank you. Please sit between Lady Augusta and Aumerle at dinner."

The dinner passed most agreeably. As little as possible was said about

the Meeting; each talked to his or her neighbour, and although the

separate dialogues may have been profound, the general effect produced

was one of restful flippancy. Pole-Knox remarked over his fish that

England had little to fear--unless through the corruption of her

religion, whereupon Penborough declared that religion in the country was

a School, not a Church. To this Lady Augusta rejoined that Rome's

strength depended merely on Canterbury's weakness.

"Forcing a change is a very ticklish business," said Aumerle, studying

the menu, and regretting that his digestion was not all it had been.

Lord Garrow deplored the fact that Mr. Gladstone had embarked on a very

vulgar and very false policy.

"But its vulgarity," he sighed, "gives it a very easy reception."

"He expects everything except docility," said Penborough; "if the

Opposition employ that means, they will embarrass all his calculations."

Reckage, meanwhile, was confiding to Sara--

"I turned the horse round, rammed my spurs in, and put him at the rails

again!"

One statement, made by Penborough, caused a flutter.

"If Catherine of Arragon had been immoral and Mary Stuart virtuous, the

whole course of European History would have been different. The

Reformation, for instance, would have found no favour in England."

"That's _very_ advanced," murmured Lady Larch.

Sara, at dessert, tried to encourage a debate on the egoism of the

Saints compared with the egoism of Montaigne.

"They were selfishly bent on pain and renunciation, he was selfishly

bent on pleasure and indulgence. Isn't that the one difference between

them, Mr. Orange?"

Orange refused to be drawn, but he promised to lend her the _Acta

Sanctorum_ of the Bollandists in sixty volumes in folio.

"After you have read them," said he, "I will tell you my ideas about

Montaigne."

Many other remarks were probably more amusing; these, however, were the

most characteristic.

When dinner was ended, Sara and the two ladies withdrew to the

drawing-room, where they discussed with the utmost vehemence Orange's

illegal marriage and Reckage's broken engagement.

The sum and substance of their investigations were as follows:--

Lady Larch wondered what the world was coming to.

Lady Augusta declared that no woman yet ever fathomed the heart of man.

Lady Sara maintained that it was a very good thing for both young men to

have had such reverses before they finally settled down.

At this Lady Augusta forgot to sigh, and Lady Larch lost control of her

smile.

"How," exclaimed Augusta, "can they forget so soon? Can any settling

down be in contemplation? Are no deep, sacred feelings left?"

Emmeline Larch, who was a widow, said she would never be hard on any one

who tried to recover, for the sake of others, from a shattering

bereavement.

"Dear Lady Larch!" exclaimed Sara.

The three women formed a picturesque group round the fireplace as the

men entered. But the card-tables were already placed, and Sara lost no

time in arranging a quartette for whist. Penborough had to leave for the

_Times_ office. Pole-Knox had to hurry back to Fulham. The young lady,

who was known to detest all games, was thus able to choose Robert for

her partner in a short conversation.

"Forgive me," said she, "but--have you anything to tell me about Mrs.

Parflete?"

"Yes; she is now with Pensee."

"May I call upon her? May I know her? Would she see me?"

"With pleasure, I am sure."

"And you?" she asked.

"I don't see her," he said quietly; "I don't hear from her. I don't

write to her. And--I don't talk about her. But I should like you to know

her. She needs true friends--who understand."

"Have you been to Prince d'Alchingen's, or has he approached you in any

way?"

"I am to dine with him to-morrow."

"Has he said anything to you about the Marquis of Castrillon?"

"Not a word," replied Robert, in surprise: "why should he?"

"I believe there is mischief in the air. Be careful, won't you? Reckage

is watching us. I think he would like some music. He is so _triste_ this

evening."

She moved away, and played delightfully on the guitar until the guests

rose to leave. Then she found an opportunity to tell Lord Reckage not to

come back again. She was tired, she said, and her papa would think it

too odd.

"Then to-morrow morning," said he.

She named an hour.