Robert Orange Part 29

"_Mon cher coeur_," said she, "I do not forget your goodness. And I needed it, for I have been so wretched and forsaken. My soul is weighed down with troubles, and grief, and anxiety: each day I expect some new misfortune: you are the one friend I may keep. But you would not know how to imagine the intrigues and falsehoods which surround me on every side. _O mon amie_, I must prove to them that I want nothing they can give me--that I possess nothing which they can take away."

"I know what she means, Pensee," said Sara; "she has to show d'Alchingen that her interests are fixed on art--not politics. And, from her point of view, she is right. I must say so, although I don't wish to interfere. And so long as she knows M. de Castrillon, it is better taste to make her first appearance with him than with some strange actor engaged for the occasion. After all, Mario was well known as the Marchese di Candia before he adopted the operatic stage as a profession.

As for gossip, how is anybody's tongue to be stopped?"

"I do not expect that people's tongues should be stopped," rejoined Pensee.

"What the world says of me I have learned to disregard very much," said Brigit: "if I vex my friends, I must nevertheless follow my vocation. It was good enough for my mother. I do not apologise for her existence, nor do I offer excuses for my own. She was an actress: I am an actress. She succeeded: I may not succeed. But if you fear for my faith and my character, it would be quite as easy to lose both in the highest society as in the vilest theatres! I foresee mistakes and difficulties. They must come. I shan't have a happy life, dearest Pensee: I don't look for happiness. Why then do you scold me?"

"I am not scolding," said Lady Fitz Rewes: "I have never blamed you, never--in my heart. We shall get on better now that we have brought ourselves to speak out. How different it is when one judges for oneself or for another! I do believe in having the courage of one's convictions.

But it was my duty to warn you----"

"This is all I wanted," exclaimed Brigit; "that we should understand each other and stand close by each other. I am not on the edge of a precipice--I am at the bottom of it already!" Her eyes had grown calm from the mere force of sadness. "You mustn't ask me to look back," she added: "you mustn't ask me to choose again. A simple, quiet life is out of the question now. I have to learn how to forget."

She moved to the door, kissed her hand to Pensee, and bowed prettily to Sara.

"I must get back to my work," she said, and so left them. The two women turned toward each other.

"There is no hope for Orange," observed Sara drily: "no man would ever forget her."

"He needn't forget her, but----"

"Yes, it would have to be sheer, absolute forgetfulness. I like her. I like all beautiful things--pictures, statues, bronzes, porcelains, and white marble visions! She is a white marble vision. And Orange will love her forever and ever and ever. And when she is dead, he will love her still more!"

She threw back her head and laughed--till Pensee laughed also. Then they wished each other goodbye, and parted.

CHAPTER XXII

When Sara reached home, she was dismayed to hear that Lord Reckage had called during her absence and was waiting for her return. The prospect of an interview with him seemed so disagreeable that she walked first to the library, and sat there alone, for some moments, before she could summon the presence of mind which every sense warned her would be required for the ordeal. At last, with a pinched heart, she went up the great staircase, and found Reckage writing at her own table in the drawing-room. He turned quickly, and jumped to his feet at the rustle of her dress. He was looking unusually handsome, she thought, very animated, very dashing.

"You will forgive these clothes," said he, "but I have ordered Pluto round at four o'clock, and I am going for a long ride."

"What a strange idea!" she answered, taking off her gloves. "Where are you going?"

"To Hampstead Heath. I need the air and the exercise. I have to compose a speech."

"The speech for the Meeting?"

His brow darkened, and he pushed back with his foot a log which was falling from the open grate.

"No, not that speech. Another. Disraeli has asked me to go in his stead to Hanborough. I don't like to attach over-importance to the invitation, but he must mean it as an encouragement. Evidently, he wishes to show that Aumerle and the rest are without any shadow of right in their attacks. I have been above five years working up this society, and if, at the end of that time, I am president only by dint of _family interest_, be a.s.sured the situation cannot be worth having. When I leave, it will go all to pieces."

"But you don't intend to leave, surely?"

"Indeed, I do."

"Have you hinted at resignation?"

"No, I sha'n't hint. Hints belong to the unconsidered patience of fools.

I won't give them an inkling of my real tactics. Let them lollop along in their own wretched fashion to some final imbecility! I have other matters to think of, Sara. Doesn't Disraeli's action say, as delicately as possible, that I am wasting my time over small men? I have been altogether too easy of access. Simplicity and consideration are thrown away on the Snookses and the Pawkinses! With these gentry, one must be a vulgar, bragging sn.o.b, or they think one is not worth knowing."

"But you owe it to yourself and to Orange to hold the Meeting to-morrow?" she said, anxiously.

"There is a way out of it," he answered, avoiding her eyes. "We can talk of that presently."

"Nothing interests me more."

"That is not true," he said, taking a chair near her; "there are many things which must interest both of us much, much more than that stupid Meeting."

"I prefer not to speak of them now, Beauclerk."

"I can't go on in this uncertainty. I am beginning to think I am a blundering fellow--where women are concerned. When we were together as children, I seem to remember, looking back, that I always did the wrong thing. And later--when you came out and I fancied myself a man of the world, it was the same. I don't know exactly what a girl is at eighteen, but I know that a fellow of twenty-five is an a.s.s. He is probably well-meaning: he isn't hardened by ambition and he is pretty sentimental, as a rule. Yet he doesn't have fixed ideas. One day it dawned upon me that I was in love."

"Now don't say that."

"I repeat it. I am far from wishing to pose as a martyr, but whenever one is happy, all one's friends think that one is going to make some fatal mistake. I suppose no battle can be won without a battle. But life has always had a good deal of painfulness to me, and I hate opposition.

It isn't lack of courage on my part--I can fight an enemy to the death.

When it comes to quarrelling with relatives or those I care about--well, I own I can seldom see good reasons for keeping a stiff neck."

"I am perfectly convinced of your spirit, Beauclerk; every circ.u.mstance serves to show it. There was never a time when you did the wrong thing--in my judgment."

"You are generous, but I dare not believe you there. Much that I did and all that I left unsaid must have puzzled you. I wouldn't speak now, Sara, if I didn't feel sure that in spite of my faults, my stupidity, my want of self-knowledge, you saw that I was destined to love you."

It was impossible to deny this fact. She had been well aware always of his affection, and the certainty had given a peculiar emotional value to every scene--no matter how commonplace--to every occasion, no matter how crowded, to every conversation, no matter how trivial--in which he figured or his name transpired. He and poor Marshire were the two men in the world who really loved her. Marshire was the more desperate because he was less intelligent and had fewer interests; Reckage loved her with all the force of a selfish, vain, and spoilt nature. Such a pa.s.sion she knew was not especially n.o.ble and certainly not ideal. But it was strong, and it made him submissive.

"Sara," he said, "you have got to help me." He put his arm round her waist, and as she inclined her face ever so slightly toward his, he kissed her cheek.

"How can I help you?" she asked.

"Let us marry."

"I don't wish to marry any one just yet, Beauclerk," she said; "I like my liberty. I don't feel that I should make either a good wife, or a contented one, as I am now. I want to see more and think more before I give up my will to another."

"I would not ask you to give up your will."

"We should be utterly miserable if I didn't."

"Believe me, it is the weak, effeminate creature who wishes to control women. Men of character respect women of character. These fellows who declare that they will be masters in their own house are masters nowhere else. I delight in your spirit. Orange and I have often agreed," he added, with a searching look, "that you are the most brilliant girl in England."

"Why do you quote Robert?" she said carelessly; "isn't your opinion enough for me?"

"Can you pretend that his opinion has no weight with you?"

She laughed, and stroked his arm.