Robert Orange Part 34

"Go!" said he; "go while you can. I don't think the wound is mortal, but I don't wish any man hanged for murdering me."

It was in my will to strike him again. I was beside myself with contempt at what I took to be a fresh revelation of his cowardice.

I replied coolly enough,--"I would not murder you. Have no alarm on that score. But I can defend myself, I hope."

By this time he had reached the door and thrown it open. A waiter was pa.s.sing at the time.

"Sir," said Parflete, "I have the honour to wish you good-day."

The waiter heard this remark distinctly, and saw me bow as I parted from the wretched creature.

Parflete's appearance was ghastly, but I attributed this pallor to fright and not to pain, for I believed from my heart that the wound was no more than a slight p.r.i.c.k. I left the hotel, took a cab to my lodgings, and after reading a light Spanish novel in order to change the current of my thoughts, I pa.s.sed an excellent night, sleeping at least seven hours.

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 a.s.sisted 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 pa.s.sionate, 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 s.e.x, 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 pa.s.sions. The pa.s.sions 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 G.o.d--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 m.u.f.f.

"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 pa.s.sion 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 Amba.s.sador.

"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.