"My dear, why should I pretend anything? To tell the truth, I am surprised that Orange has noticed me. I saw Mrs. Parflete to-day. I understand his infatuation."
"I have always told you that she was a very pretty woman. But why is it that, no matter where we start, we always come back to Orange? I am getting sick of him. I dislike being _affiche_, as it were, to some one else. This marriage of his pursues me. If I go into a club, if I dine, if I ride, if I walk--ten to one if I am not pelted with questions about Mrs. Parflete, or Robert"s history, or his genius, or his future plans. I must drop him."
"Drop him?" she exclaimed.
"Yes. It doesn"t help me to appear so friendly with a Roman. I know he is very fine, but I have to consider my own position. They all say that it would be madness to take the chair now at his meeting."
"But it was _your_ meeting, Beauclerk."
"In the first place, perhaps. I thought, too, it might be a good, independent move. Disraeli"s invitation to Hanborough puts another complexion on affairs. It is the first formal recognition that he, as Leader, has ever given me. It is a reminder of my responsibilities. He is fond of Orange, I know, and he wouldn"t hurt his feelings, or seem to put a spoke in his wheel, for all the world. But Dizzy is subtle. He likes to test one"s _savoir vivre_."
"Shall you tell Orange that you intend to throw him over?"
"Not yet."
"Oh, you ought!"
"Why? I want the meeting to take place. It will be useful in its way--it may show us how public opinion is going."
Sara hid her contempt by rising from her chair and removing her hat.
Reckage watched the play of her arms as she stood before the mirror, and he did not see, as she could, the reflection of his face--sensual, calculating, and, stormed as it was for the moment by the meanest feelings of self-interest, repellent.
"How I hate him!" she thought; "how I despise him!"
Then she turned round, smiling--
"Hats make my head ache! So you think the meeting will be useful?"
"Emphatically. It did occur to me that I might drop a line to Robert--in fact, I was writing to him when you came in. Here"s the letter, as you see, signed and sealed."
"Do send it."
"No," he answered, putting it back into his pocket; "one could only get him on the platform just now by making him believe that such an action would, in some way, help me. You don"t know Robert."
"I daresay not, but I know that much."
"This being the case, why upset him at the eleventh hour?"
She made no reply, and before Reckage could speak again, the servant announced the arrival of his horse.
"I intend to ride like the devil, Sara," he said; "and I wish you could come with me. What rides we used to have--long ago! You were a larky little thing in those days, darling!"
He bent down and kissed her lips.
"You shall marry me--or no one," said he; "but you are cold: you are not very nice to me. I suppose it"s your way. You wouldn"t be yourself if you were like other women. You are not a woman, you"re a witch. Must I go now?"
Sara had opened the door.
"Yes, you know how Pluto hates to wait."
"That animal will be the death of me yet. Will you stand on the balcony and watch me till I am out of sight? Have pretty manners--for once."
"Very well."
She went on to the balcony, watched him mount, and ride away. He turned several times to gaze back at her picturesque figure, dim, but to him lovely in the gathering dusk.
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, b.a.l.l.s, 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 amus.e.m.e.nt, 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 circ.u.mstances 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 ingrat.i.tude 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 pa.s.sion 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 fort.i.tude 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 const.i.tution, and while he was able to persuade himself that his renunciation of all pa.s.sionate 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 pa.s.sion--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 pa.s.sed 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."