Robert Orange. John Oliver Hobbes
loved me—me only—the joy, I think, would kill me. Love! Do you know, poor little angel, what it means? Sometimes it is a curse.”
Pensée, before this torrent, was shaking like some small flower in a violent gale.
“You say things, Sara, that no one says—things that one ought not to say. You must be quieter. You won't be happy when you are married if you begin with so much feeling!”
“I am not going to marry that one,” said Sara bitterly. “I am going to marry Marshire.”
Lady Fitz Rewes had too delicate a face to contain any expression of the alarm and horror she felt at this statement. She frowned, bit her lips, and sank back in her chair. What stroke of fate, she wondered, had overtaken the poor girl? Was she sane? Was she herself? Pensée found some relief in the thought that Sara was not herself—a state into which most people are presumed to fall whenever, from stress or emotion, they become either strictly candid or perfectly natural.
“It is a fancy. Fancies are in my blood,” said Sara; “you need not be anxious.”
“But—but what feeling have you for Marshire?” murmured Pensée.
“I have a faint inclination not to dislike him utterly. And I will be a good wife to him. If I say so, I shall keep my word. You may be sure of that.”
“I could never doubt your honour, Sara. Is the other man quite, quite out of the question?”
“Quite.”
“But perhaps he does love you.”
“Oh no, he doesn't. He may think me picturesque and rather entertaining. It never went deeper than that. I saw at once that his mind was fixed on some other woman.”
“I suppose one can always tell when a man's affections are really engaged,” said Pensée, with a sigh.
“Yes, beyond any doubt. You feel that they are comparing you at every point, in a silent, cold-blooded way, to the bright particular star. I envy you, Pensée; you, at least, were desperately loved by Lionel. But I—never, never was loved—except once.”
“Who was he?”
“He was a Russian, very good-looking, and a genius. But oh, I wasn't old enough to understand him. When he died, I cried for half a day and seven nights. And after that, not a tear. You see, I didn't understand myself either.”
“Do I know this other one … the one, now?”
“I won't tell you his name. Perhaps, another time, when we are all very old … and he is dead … or I am dying. …”
“Oh, don't say that!” exclaimed Pensée, “don't say that! You are making a lot of misery for yourself.”
“Not at all. I am making the most of my one saving grace. There is nothing very nice about me—except that. And he is a man. The only real one among all our friends—the only one for whom I have the least respect. If any woman had his love—how sure, how happy she could be! I could work, and starve, and lay down my life for a man like that. If he had loved me, I think I could have been almost a good woman, a downright good one, a Saint Elizabeth of Hungary. But you see that wasn't to be. And so I am just this——“ She looked in the glass and pointed a white finger, loaded with rings of black pearls, at her reflection. “I am just this—a vain, idle fool like all the rest—except you, poor darling.”
“Why don't you keep up your music?—your wonderful playing? Every one says it is so wonderful. That's a great outlet for emotion. And your languages—why not work an hour a day each at Italian, Spanish, German, and French? That would kill four hours of the day straight off!”
“Bah!” said Sara, “I cannot play—unless there is some one to play for. As for languages—I cannot talk alone. And as for reading—I cannot find all my world between the covers of a book.”
“But live for others, dear Sara.”
“I want to live for myself. I have one inseparable companion—that is myself. I want to suffer my own sufferings, and enjoy my own enjoyments. This living for others is absurd. I hate second-hand emotions; they are stale and dull. But, Pensée, you haven't told me the name of your friend.”
“I thought I had,” said Pensée, simply; “you will see it in the marriage notice the day after to-morrow. It is Robert Orange.”
Sara stared for a moment. Then the string of gold beads which she wore round her throat suddenly broke, and the shining ornaments fell all about her to the floor.
“Dear me!” said Sara, kneeling down with a ghastly laugh. Pensée knelt too, and they gathered the scattered necklace between them. “Dear me! I was never more surprised—never; and yet I cannot think why I am surprised. He is very handsome. Any woman would like him.”
“I wonder,” said Pensée, full of thoughts.
Sara proceeded to count her beads, lest one should be missing. But they were all there, and she tied them up in her handkerchief.
“Pensée,” she said, presently. “I will tell his name after all, because you have been so frank with me. The one I … love is Beauclerk Reckage.” As she uttered this lie, she cast down her eyes and blushed to the very heart.
“Beauclerk!” exclaimed Pensée, in amazement. “Then there is some hope after all! There is, there must be! Beauclerk! He is engaged to Agnes Carillon, of course. But all the same. …”
The conversation flagged. Lord Garrow, who had heard a distant murmuring but not their words, now, as their animation failed, came in.
“My little girl,” said he, “has been moping. I am very glad that you called … very glad indeed. And Sara, my darling. …”
“Yes, papa.”
“Have you asked Pensée the name of that extremely pretty song she sang for us when we all dined together at Lord Wight's? You remember the evening?”
But Sara, with a wail, fled away. Pensée caught a glimpse of her white, agonised countenance as she rushed past them, moaning, to her own room.
“This is dreadful,” said Lord Garrow, horribly annoyed—“dreadful!”
“It is indeed,” replied Lady Fitz Rewes gravely. “I suppose. …”
She wanted to say that she hoped the Marshire-de Treverell alliance was still undecided. But something in his lordship's air—a hardness she had never thought to see in his regard—forbade any reference to the subject. He conducted her to her carriage, wished her “Goodbye” in his Court manner, and led her to understand, by an unmistakable glance, that a certain marriage which had been arranged would, inasmuch as it was entirely agreeable to the will of Providence, take place.
CHAPTER III
Lord Reckage, in the meantime, had not been able to draw rein until he reached Grafton Street, where the hunter, of its own will, stopped short at a door, half glass and half mahogany, before which a groom stood watching, evidently with some suspense, for their approach. At the first sight of the animal and its rider, he hastened forward, and, seizing the bridle, assisted his master to dismount. Once on the ground, the young man satisfied his spleen by hitting the horse several vicious cuts with his whip. Then he informed the servant that it was his intention to walk home, and, with an ominous scowl, watched the “rushing beast” led from his sight. No one, except himself, was permitted to occupy that saddle.
The house which he now entered had been the town mansion for three generations of the Hampshires, but, despised by its then owner, whose young duchess wanted an Italian villa on Piccadilly, or a French château in Park Lane, the lease had been sold to a syndicate of rising politicians who formed