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,

plenty of amusement, and that indescribable treasure known as the _joie

de vivre_. Orange was no exception to this rule, and there were many

hours when he tasted the bitterness of poverty, and felt the harsh

differences between the outward gifts bestowed by Fate. It was not that

he cared for luxuries, but it seemed hard that a horse should have to be

counted among them, and that it was necessary to work for twelve hours a

day in order to live at all, even as a dependent, among those with whom

he was, by right of birth and ability, the equal, and to whom he was, in

many cases, the superior. How many promising careers and brave hearts

have fallen short under the strain of a position so mortifying and

apparently so unjust! In public life, whether one joins the Church, the

Camp, the Senate, or the Arts, the trials of strength and courage are

most severe even to those who, in material circumstances at any rate,

are favourites of fortune. Neither influence nor riches avail much in

the terrific struggles for supremacy, for recognition, for mere fair

play itself. What must the conflict be then for those who, with slight

purses and few allies, find themselves pitted against the powerful of

the earth? Discouragement, in weak natures, soon turns to envy, and the

spectacle of human unkindness has driven many a reflective, delicate

soul to say that the companionship of his fellow-men is unlovely, not to

be admired, and difficult, at times, not to hate. In disgust of the

world--where one has been wounded, or where one has wounded

others--(wounded vanity and remorse are alike bitter in their fruits),

numbers, with a sort of despairing fatalism, retire from the campaign,

cut themselves adrift from their people and their country, and, having

failed in life, court death under strange skies in far-off lands.

Robert, who looked rather for the triumph of ideas than the glory of

individuals, was not easily dismayed. So long as the right was by some

means accomplished, and good seeds brought forth a good harvest,--the

burden and heat of the day, the changes of weather, the scantiness of

the wage, the ingratitude and treachery of agents, the hardships, the

toil--mattered little enough. Devoured by ambition in his early youth,

he had never permitted himself the least doubtful means of attaining any

object. He was not obliged, therefore, to affect an indifference to

success in order to divert attention from his methods of arriving at it.

No man, once bent upon a project, could be more resolute than Orange.

None were more stern in self-repression and self-discipline. But in

controlling, or subduing altogether, the softer possibilities in a

character, there is always the danger lest uncharitableness, hardness of

heart, or blind severity of judgment should take their place. Young

people with strong natures can seldom find the middle course between

extremes, and this one, in curbing a desire for power, will fairly crush

his whole vigour, while that one, in revolt against the tyranny of

love, will become the slave of pessimism. There were days, no doubt,

and weeks when Orange found every counsel, a mockery, and every law, a

paradox. The strife between the flesh and the spirit went on in his life

as it does in all lives, but he was one who held, that, whatever the

issue of it all might be, a man must be a man while he may--losing

himself neither in the whirl of passion nor in the enervating worlds of

reverie, but accepting the fulness of existence--its pains, vanities,

pleasures, cares, sorrows,--with a fighter's courage and the fortitude

of an immortal soul.

As he walked along toward Vigo Street in the cold, dark autumn morning,

he felt more than able to hold his own against all adversaries. And this

was not the insolence of conceit, but the just strength which comes from

a vigorous conscience and perfect health. A soldier counts it no shame,

but rather an honour, to die in battle, so Robert, surveying the chances

before him, stood determined, in every event, to endure until the end,

to fight until the end, to maintain his ground until the end. But if he

had put sentiment from his path, it was not so easily weeded from his

constitution, and while he was able to persuade himself that his

renunciation of all passionate love--except as a bitter-sweet

memory--was complete, he had to realise that the old grudge against

Castrillon had grown into a formidable, unquenchable, over-mastering

hatred. Where this strange obsession was concerned, no religious or

other consideration availed in the least. Bit by bit, hour by hour, the

feeling had grown, deriving vigour from every source, every allusion,

and every experience. The books he read, the conversations he heard, the

people he met--all seemed to illuminate and justify, in some mysterious

way, his enmity against Castrillon. He may have believed that he was

resigned to his ill-luck in love, but a sense that he had been defrauded

haunted his thoughts always, and the longing to square his account with

destiny was less a wish than a mute instinct. How great had been the

temptation to defy all laws--human and Divine--where Brigit Parflete was

in question, no one can know. In getting the better of it, the motive

had not been, it must be confessed, the fear of punishment here or

hereafter. This would not be a true history, nor a reasonable one, if it

were not acknowledged that much of the victory in that situation had

been due to the woman's youth and candid, sunny nature. No passion--far

less a guilty one--he thought, could have had a place in that childlike

heart. She was Pompilia--not Juliet, because, like the more ill-starred

heroine, she had met sorrow before she met love, and the strong emotion

which comes first in a young life makes the deep, the ineffaceable

impression on its character. She had the strength to suffer undeserved

woe, but the penalties of defiance and disobedience would surely kill

her. The thought of any desperate step seemed impossible.

The question of love at that point in Orange's life had therefore been

decided as much by conditions as it had by principles and conscience.

But with the Castrillon difficulty, it was a question of hatred--not

love. In hate, Orange was as little given to brooding as he was in other

matters. He had never been able to forgive the duel at Loadilla which

had occasioned so much scandal in Madrid, and brought Brigit's name into

bad company. Robert, before his meeting with Mrs. Parflete, had fought

several duels, and each of them about a different pretty face.

Encounters of the kind form part of a youth's education on the

Continent: such experiences are considered not romantic, not heroic, not

striking, but merely usual and manly. It was impossible for one brought

up in this view to feel that duelling--under certain provocation and

fair conditions--was wrong. The custom was frequently abused, no doubt,

yet the same could be said of all customs, and Orange, rightly or

wrongly, held a conviction on the subject which no argument could

affect. But, with a lover's unreasonableness, he had found the fight

between Bodava and Castrillon an insult to the lady at stake. He

suspected, too, that Castrillon had spoken lightly of her to General

Prim, to Zeuill, perhaps to d'Alchingen. This was insufferable, and so,

inasmuch as the mischief had been done, he would not and could not

remain outside the combat. There seemed, also, a certain feeling at the

Clubs where the Madrid scandal had become known, that Castrillon, on

the whole, had proved a more dashing, and was probably the favoured,

suitor. Orange, whose personal courage had been demonstrated too often

to be called into doubt, had been criticised for an absence of moral, or

rather immoral, courage with regard to Mrs. Parflete. Reckage's sly

phrases about the ecclesiastical temperament; the sneers of some

adventurous women on the subject of platonic affection; the good-natured

brow-lifting of the wits and the worldly were not easy to bear for a man

who was, by nature, impulsive, by nature, regardless of every sacrifice

and all opinions while a strong purpose remained unfulfilled. Robert

made up his mind that, come what might, whether his action was approved

or blamed, or whether he won or lost, pick some quarrel he would, and

see how Castrillon liked it, and thus settle the matter then and for

always. Castrillon had received a military training; he was a most

adroit swordsman and a notorious shot; he would not be one to make a

quarrel difficult.

When Orange reached the house in Vigo Street, it was still early in the

day. As he mounted the stairs, he noticed a fellow-lodger, still in his

evening clothes, entering a room on the second floor. He did not see the

man's face, but he was struck by something familiar in his build. This

impression was not haunting, it passed almost immediately, and the young

man settled down with resolution to his work. At one o'clock he went to

Brookes's, had his lunch, met a few acquaintances who studied his face

with curiosity, and a few colleagues who tried to persuade each other

that he was a man who could play a deep game. He returned to his rooms

and resumed work till about six o'clock, when his landlord informed him

that a lady, who would not give her name, wished to see him. The lady

was tall, handsomely dressed, darkly veiled. What, he thought, if it

should be Brigit? What joy! What rashness! Robert went out into the hall

to meet the strange visitor. She made a gesture signifying silence, and,

on greeting her, he did not utter her name. It was Lady Sara.

She did not speak until she had entered the shabbily furnished

sitting-room and closed the door.

"This is a mad thing on my part," she said; "a mad thing. I know it. Of

course, I might have asked you to come to me, but I couldn't wait so

long. And I don't trust letters. Some news can't be written. It is not

about Mrs. Parflete," she added, hastily, "you need not fear that. It is

about Beauclerk. He came to see me this afternoon. He is going to throw

you over. He is going to fail you at the Meeting. You are to test public

opinion while he sits under shelter--to profit by your experience. What

do you think of that?"

"You are very good to come. But I hope you are mistaken all the same. He

may throw me over. I am sure he will send me a word of warning."

"That was his first intention. He gave it up, because he knew you

wouldn't act without him. And he wants you to act--for the reason I have

given. Oh, I'm so ashamed, so humiliated to think that any friend of

mine could be such a traitor."

She unpinned her veil, and seemed all the handsomer for her scornful

expression and flashing eyes.

"You must be the first to retire," she continued. "I won't have you

treated in this contemptuous way: I won't endure it. I want you to write

to the Committee at once--at once--without a moment's loss of time. This

is why I have come here myself. You seem to have something in you which

they take for weakness. You will stand anything. Oh, I know why well

enough. You like to be a martyr--which means saying nothing and

suffering a good deal. But I call it a mistake. I call it irritating,

misleading, actually wrong. If I were a man I would kill people."

"It is easy enough to kill."

"So they say. Be more unscrupulous, dear friend. Give your nature full

play now and again. You can't make me believe that you are ever

natural."

"Some can trust their natures. I don't trust mine."

"Don't you see how much more power you would have over men if you were

more emotional, more spontaneous, more human? Who gives you credit for

self-control? No one. They say you are self-contained--a very different

idea. They say you are cold. Now, I don't care what I do. I follow

every impulse. I must follow them. I had to come here this evening. I

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...."