"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 h.e.l.l."
"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 pa.s.sion 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 G.o.ddess 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 pa.s.sions 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 s.n.a.t.c.h 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 rea.s.surance. 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."