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;

"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

matter of course from poor Beauclerk or Charles Aumerle--they would

resent bitterly in Robert. The thing that grieves me, that torments me,

is the fear lest this act of mine may injure him."

"It won't injure him," said Brigit. "Have no fear at all. And if you

went to see him, as you say, you must have had the best of reasons for

doing so. You may rely, I am sure, on his keeping your name a secret.

You were kind to tell me--for he certainly would not have told

me--without your consent. We never see each other now, and we never

write to each other."

Her voice trembled for the first time.

"How does he look?" she asked, after a sharp struggle between her pride

and a desire to hear more.

"He looks ill and worn. He over-works."

"He will suffer at Lord Reckage's death."

"But he hides his feelings. He is always reticent."

"O, to see him and talk with him--that would be such a joy for me."

"You must be very sad, often," said Sara, coldly.

"Yes, often," answered Brigit. "And I was so happy during the short time

we were together that now it seems no part of my life--no part of it. I

say this because I wish you to know that nothing can make us love each

other less--that all this misery and separation--which may last as long

as we live--has made no difference and can make no difference to us. And

if I never see him again, or speak to him again, he will always be

certain that I am his--unalterably, for ever his."

"You are little more than a child. You have a great career before

you--who can say what may happen in the future? Women without careers

change their minds--their tastes. These things are out of one's own

control, and in your case----"

"My mind may change, but my soul cannot. I may dance, I may amuse

myself, I may have friends. Make no mistake. I can tell you all that is

in me. I find life beautiful. The theatre enchants me. I could work

there all day. I have no illusions about it--the paint, the machinery,

the box-office, the advertisements--the vulgarity are familiar enough to

me. But I find a box-office, and machinery, and vulgarity everywhere,

though they are called by other names."

Sara coloured and looked away.

"I am getting stronger now," continued Brigit. "I can lift up my head

and see the world as it is. I like it--yes, with all its griefs and its

horrors--I like it. When one is ill or sentimental one hates it, because

it wasn't made for the sick, and it was not created us a playground for

lovers. One may love--yes, but one must work. I intend to love and work

at the same time."

"Many find that these two occupations clash! There is a time in

love--just as there is a period in life--when it seems enough in itself.

It is independent of circumstances and persons. O, but that time soon

passes! As you learn more, you look for more. And work is no cure for

dissatisfaction. If you can live through it you will just be a machine

with one refrain--'I know nothing! I have nothing! I am nothing!'"

The two young girls did not look at each other. Brigit could recognise

an agitation of the soul in the imperceptible sadness of the voice, and

she guessed poor Sara's secret.

"Yes," she said quietly. "I must suffer all that. How can you be sure

that I have not suffered it already? At any rate, I hope this

confidence will increase your kindness toward me."

"I have no kindness toward you--none at all," said Sara. "I have no

kindness toward any living creature. I should like to die and come to an

end. I wasn't born to put up with make-shifts. Other women may be

resigned to that paltry way of existing. If they can't have what they

want, they will take what they don't want; they will take what they

hate, and grin--yes, they will grin and bear it. And after a little

while, because they become gradually drunk with suffering, they begin to

think they are noble. They are not noble. They are fools, fools, fools!"

"I shan't accept make-shifts," answered Brigit. "I intend to keep all my

ideals, but they are all unfinished at present. I have just the outlines

and beginnings of them--nothing else."

"I am not talking about ideals. I am speaking of realities. I don't want

to be happy, but I do wish to be one of four things: either perfectly

alive, or perfectly, utterly dead; either a pure spirit, or a faultless

animal. This dead-and-alive, body-and-soul mixture which passes for a

well-disciplined human being is loathsome to me. It is a tissue of lies

and hypocrisies."

"Perhaps I should have that feeling, too, if I had no faith in God. He

assumed humanity--not despising it."

"You know I do not believe that splendid story--so it doesn't help me.

I compare life as I feel it with life as it is, and the inequality fills

me with disgust. The example of Christ is too sublime. He was human only

in His sufferings. He bore our burdens and He shared our agonies. He was

deceived, despised, rejected: the first torture and the firstfruits of

His Passion was the treachery of a disciple. When I am sorrowful and

wretched, He seems Real to me and vivid. But when I am well and wildly

happy, He seems far away and unreal--an invisible God, watching mortals

with a certain contempt. Now the Pagans had a Divinity for every mood,

so they never felt depressed or lowered in their own self-esteem. We

have a God for two moods only,--great sorrow, and great exaltation. For

the rest we have to beat our breasts and call ourselves miserable

sinners. All the good people I know enjoy spiritual peace only--without

any fear of remorse--when they are tired out or moaning with physical

pain. I don't say this to shock you; I should like to have a religion if

I could be convinced of it without fasting, without long illnesses, and

without abandoning all hope of earthly, common joys. Most Christians

take a middle way, I know; they prattle about their immortal souls, and

behave as though they had nothing but bodies. I can't take part in such

a gross farce."

Brigit sighed deeply, and did not reply at once.

"It is all very hard, I know," she answered; "but from the lowest abyss

one can still see the sky overhead. People's hearts are touched by the

spectacle of sin or the spectacle of suffering. Our Lord could not sin,

therefore He reached our sympathies by His Death and Sorrows. Of course,

if this life here were all, and this world were the only one, and we

were animals with less beauty than many of the inanimate things in

nature, and as much intelligence at best as the bees and birds and

ants--then the Pagan way might be quite admirable. But this isn't the

case, and so--and so----"

Sara laughed.

"We are a grotesque compromise between gods and creatures," she said;

"those of us who find this out get a little impatient with the false

position. You are less sentimental than I am. You take what I call the

hard view. It is too frigid for me. But I am making you late. All good

luck to-night!"

She waved her hand, and, returning to her own room, realised that she

had missed the object of her conversation. The attempt to excite

Brigit's jealousy had failed.

Nothing is so infectious as despair. Brigit sat quivering under the echo

of Sara's last words: "You take what I call the hard view." Was it,

then, such an easy matter to bury love in perpetual silence, to let

nature yield to fate, to stifle every human craving? The mention of

Robert's name and the news that he looked ill and careworn had stirred

all the unshed tears in her heart; she could not think, she could not

move, she could but realise that she had no right to be with him. And

sorrow seemed her province. There, surely, she and he might meet, join

hands, and speak once more face to face. She had not written to him

since that parting at Miraflores. But she would write now. This was her

letter--

MY DEAREST LIFE--You are my dearest and you are my life--so let me

say it now, even if I never say it again. I could be glad (if any

gladness were left in me) at your grief for Lord Reckage's death,

because it gives me an excuse for breaking my word and writing to

you. This is selfish, but nobody knows how much I have suffered, or

how much I suffer daily, hourly. I try to believe that it would

have been worse if we had never owned our love, never met again

after our first meeting. Darling, I can't be sure. Sometimes I wish

I had been born quite numb. I dare not complain, and yet it is

impossible to feel contented. Always, always there is a dreadful

pain in my heart. Every moment is occupied, for when I am not

working, I sleep, and when I wake, I work. I would rather spend one

perfect day with you and die, than live on without you. This is the

truth. If I had any choice that would be my choice. But I know you

want me to be courageous, and I myself want you to see that a

woman's love can be as strong as a man's. Women are supposed to

make men weak--they are supposed to be chains and hindrances. This

shan't be said of me. You wouldn't say it: you wouldn't think it:

yet in history I find that while a few have been saved by women,

more have been ruined by them. And where the women have saved the

men they loved, it has been done by great renunciations and

sacrifices--not at all by selfishness and joys. When I can remember

this (I forget it too easily), I can almost persuade myself that I

don't long to see you, to hear your voice, to be with you again on

the boat--going on and on toward Miraflores. But I never persuade

myself of this entirely--never, never. I do long to see you,

Robert: I do want to be with you. I envy the servant in your

lodgings, and the friends you meet. And I--who love you so

dearly--may not go near you. I am going to act to-night--as if I

were not acting all day, every day! I haven't said one word about

you. But you couldn't be so wretched as I am, because _you_ have

yourself, _you_ know what you are doing, saying, and thinking. Now

if I could cease altogether and become, say, your hand or your

foot, no one would expect you to renounce me. I might be useful,

and it would certainly be no scandal if I accompanied you

everywhere! I won't say any more.

BRIGIT.

She addressed an envelope and sealed the letter within it. Then, with

tears streaming down her cheeks, she read her part for the comedy that

evening. When Esther entered with her dressing-gown, she held up her

hands in dismay.

"O Madame," said she, "I thought you were going to play an amusing

piece!"

"It will be very amusing," said Brigit, "but this is the way to rehearse

it."