Lord Garrow, under his daughter's command, had issued invitations for a dinner-party that same evening to a few friends, who, it was hoped, would support the Meeting which Reckage was endeavouring to organise as a protest against Dr. Temple's nomination. The guests included Reckage himself, Orange, Charles Aumerle, the Dowager Countess of Larch, Hartley Penborough, Lady Augusta Hammit, and the Bishop of Calbury's chaplain,—the Rev. Edwin Pole-Knox.

Sara, arrayed in white satin and opals, sat at the piano playing the Faust of Berlioz, and wondering whether she had really arranged her table to perfection, when the footman brought the following note—dashed off in pencil—from Lord Reckage:—

Almouth House.

An extraordinary thing has happened. Agnes has run away with David Rennes. She seems quite broken and her letter is too touching, too sacred to show. As for him, it is difficult to say what he could give, or what I would accept, as an excuse. She, however, has my full forgiveness, and perhaps good may come of so much sorrow and duplicity. I must see you after the others have gone to-night. My plan is to leave early—probably with Orange and Aumerle, but I will return later. I need your counsel. B.

Sara, who was always in league with audacity, clapped her hands at the tidings of Miss Carillon's bold move. She was not surprised, for, as we have seen, she had read the girl's character truly, and warned Orange that some event of the kind would happen. But the pleasure she took in this confirmation of her own prophetic gifts was alloyed by the fear that Reckage, now at liberty, would prove a masterful, jealous, and embarrassing lover. Nor were her forebodings on this score lessened when he arrived, evidently in a strange mood, a quarter of an hour before the appointed time. His eyes travelled over her face with a consuming scrutiny to which she was unaccustomed and for which she found herself unprepared. For a moment she experienced the disadvantages of a guilty conscience, and although she had, so far, merely considered various plans for using his devotion without peril to her own independence, she felt that the moment for deliberation was past, that the duel between them had begun.

“You have my note,” he said, “and I would rather not talk about Agnes to-night. On that point I am in a stupor. I can't realise the disaster at all. I might seem unfeeling, whereas I am insensible, or unconscious, or mentally chloroformed—anything you like to call it.”

“I can see that you have received a great blow,” answered Sara, looking down.

“I suppose so. And at present I am stunned. Wait a week, and I may be able to grasp the case—I won't say calmly, for I couldn't be calmer than I am at this very moment. But I will say, with understanding, with justice. Give me no credit yet for either. To be frank, I don't recognise myself in this crisis. As a rule, I have an impulse—more or less violent—to some extreme measure.... I saw d'Alchingen this afternoon,” he added, abruptly.

He did not add that the Prince had given several striking reasons for the Lady Sara's interest in Robert Orange. His Excellency, in so acting, may not have been aware that he was pouring such confidences into the ear of a jealous man, but he wished to divert gossip from himself, and he was becoming afraid lest his intimacy with the brilliant, dangerous girl might give rise to criticism. “She talks and writes incessantly about Orange,” he had said; “what a marriage it would be! I hope it may be brought about.” This suggestion drove Reckage's thoughts toward a fatal survey of the past year. He discovered, as he believed, irresistible proofs of Sara's infatuation, and, what was worse, clear evidence of Robert's sly encouragement of that weakness. Why else had he borne the severance from Mrs. Parflete with such astonishing fortitude? How else did he keep up his spirits in the face of a grotesque, if unfortunate, adventure? The answer was plain enough. Sara's sympathy and the reasonable hopes necessarily attached to so much kindness had sustained him through the bitterness of all his trials.

“Have you ever thought,” said Reckage, with pretended carelessness, “that Orange's serenity just now is somewhat unnatural? Is it all religion?”

“I believe that neither of us can form any conception of his capacity for suffering, or the support he finds in his Belief.”

“It points to fanaticism, no doubt. He is a Cardinal in petto. The Catholics want spirit everywhere, and Orange has got spirit. His vocation lies toward the Vatican. His morals are as good as his build—which is saying much. D'Alchingen was remarking how extraordinarily well set-up he is. He would have done well in the army. He cuts an effective figure.”

“He is distinguished; would one call him handsome?”

“There's a nobility about him, of course. I am wondering whether he is really so clever as many make out. He is learned and thoughtful; he has plenty of pluck and he's the best fellow in the world. But——“

“I wish I knew him better,” sighed the young lady; “I liked him and believed in him on the strength of your recommendation. That was an immense prejudice in his favour.”

She looked up with a sweet and trustful smile which would have satisfied a harder adversary than Reckage. He was not so hard, however, as he was egoistic, and it was not a question of softening his heart. Sara had the far more difficult task of soothing his tortured vanity.

“I don't know,” he said, losing caution, “that I want you to take him up quite so strongly! No one could call him a coxcomb, yet he, not aware of the real cause of your interest, might be over-flattered. He might, eventually, begin to hope——“

“What?” she asked, with burning cheeks.

“All sorts of things. He's a man, and you are beautiful. And I have heard him say a thousand times that so-called Platonics are possible for one of the two, but never for both. Doesn't this explain the many cases of unrequited love? You are vexed, I can see it. But I am not thinking of you. I am thinking of Robert.”

“He is not so sentimental as you imagine.”

“Isn't he? This affair with Mrs. Parflete was pure sentimentality from beginning to end—a poet's love. He would have another feeling for you—something much stronger. You are so human, Sara. I would far sooner kill you than write poetry to you. You are life—not literature. That little thing with shining hair and a porcelain face is for dreams. Of course, he will always love her—after a fashion. He might even compare you with her and find her your superior in every way—except as a woman. We may be at moments poets, at moments saints, but the greater part of the time, a man is a man. And you are no friend for a man. PensÉe Fitz Rewes might answer well enough; she has had sorrow, she has two children, she has a gentle, maternal air. But you——“

He threw back his head and laughed without mirth.

“You!” he repeated. “My God!”

“You are talking very foolishly, Beauclerk. Perhaps it is your odd way of making yourself agreeable. It doesn't please me a bit to be told that I am a siren. My mind is full of the Bond of Association and your Meeting at St. James's Hall. How shamefully Lord Cavernake has behaved, but dear Lord Gretingham has come out well. What a miserable set we have in the Lords just now!”

She was making these remarks as the clock struck the hour, and her father entered the room.

“Beauclerk came early, dear papa,” said she, “because he had something to tell us. His engagement is broken off.”

Lord Garrow looked the grief appropriate to the news, and disguised, as well as he could, his dismay at its probable development. He murmured, “Tut! tut!” a number of times, held up his hands, and nodded his head from side to side.

“I wish nothing said against poor Agnes,” observed Reckage; “her mistakes are those of a generous, impetuous girl. Don't judge her hastily. All, I feel certain, has happened for the best.”

“Tut! tut!” repeated his lordship.

“I am devoted to dear Agnes,” said Sara, “but I never, never thought that she was the wife for Beauclerk.”

Then she stepped forward to greet Lady Augusta Hammit, who was at that moment announced. Lady Augusta was a tall woman about thirty-five years of age, with a handsome, sallow face, a superb neck, beautiful arms, hair the colour of ashes, pale lips, and large, gleaming white teeth. Unmarried, aristocratic, ordinarily well-off, and exceptionally pious according to her lights, she was a prominent figure in all work connected with the Moderate Party in the Church of England. In her opinion, foreigners might be permitted the idolatries of Rome; as for the English, Wesley was a lunatic; Pusey, a weak good creature; Newman was a traitor; Manning, a mistake. The one vital force on whom she depended for her spiritual illumination and her life's security was the Rev. Edwin Pole-Knox. “Pole-Knox,” she said, “will save us yet.” This good and industrious young man, a few years her junior, had been chaplain—mainly through Lady Augusta's devoted exertions—to three bishops. He did every credit to his patroness, but hints were already in the air on the subject of ingratitude. Some said he lacked ambition; others murmured dark conjectures about his heartlessness. It was left to the Lady Augusta's fellow-labourers in the sphere of beneficence to blurt out, with odious vulgarity, that he would never marry her in this world. She entered the room that evening in her haughtiest manner, for Pole-Knox was following close upon her heels, and she wished to justify the extreme deference which he showed her so properly in public, and perhaps with morbid conscientiousness in tÊte-À-tÊte.

“I don't know how I shall get through the winter,” she observed, in reply to Lord Garrow's inquiries about her health. “I am working like a pack-horse.” Here she caught Pole-Knox's name and bowed mechanically, without seeing him, in his direction. The entire afternoon they had been looking together over the accounts of a Home for Female Orphans, and poor Lady Augusta had been forced to see that whatever fire and enthusiasm her protÉgÉ could display in tracking down the orphans' dishonest butcher, his respect where she was concerned verged on frigidity.

Lady Larch was the next arrival, and as she was famous for her smile, she used it freely, not fatiguing herself by listening to remarks, or making them. In her youth she had been called bonnie; she was still pleasant to look upon. She talked very little, and perhaps on this account her few sayings were treasured, repeated throughout society, and much esteemed. “Surely it is a mistake to give men the notion that all good women are dull” was one of her classic utterances. Another ran, “Those who are happy do not trouble about the woes of the human race.” Another, “The Dissenters belong essentially to a non-governing class—a vulgar class.” These will serve to show the scope of her observation and the excellence of her intentions. In fact, she was often found dull. She was not especially disturbed about the woes of humanity, and her maternal grandfather had been a Presbyterian cotton-merchant. She bore Pole-Knox away to a far corner and begged to be told all the latest details of Miss Carillon's abominable conduct.

“I do not exactly know,” said she, “the state of things. The poor dear Bishop must be in a dreadful state.”

Orange came in with Aumerle and Hartley Penborough. Lady Augusta, who was a kind, sincere woman, pressed his hand warmly, and showed with her eyes that she appreciated the difficulties of his position. He had aged, Sara thought, and he looked as though he suffered from sleeplessness; otherwise, in manner and in all ways, he was just as he had always been.

Sara looked at him, and, looking, she read the secret thoughts in his mind. Yes, she was to him, no doubt, the undisciplined, passionate girl who lived on admiration, excitement, and false romance. He owned her beauty; he excused her faults; he liked her. Of all this she was certain. Reckage's warning had encouraged her to believe that Orange's self-control was a hard achievement—by no means any matter of a disposition naturally cold. If it were merely to be a struggle of wills, her will would prove the stronger. She meant to have her way this time. Wasn't it the critical moment of his life? Every instinct had been roused—ambition, the love of adventure, the love of a woman. For a short while the means had been given him, humanly speaking, of gratifying these great passions. And then, at a stroke, he was once more poor and dependent, once more in a ridiculous position, and the woman he loved was further from his reach than ever. He still had the privilege of fighting and breaking his heart in the market-place. He could still enjoy some kind of a career. Yet the long, embittering struggle with poverty and disappointed affection could but appear to him now desolate indeed, barely worth the difficult prizes of success. Lady Sara was young, and she made the mistake, eternally peculiar to her sex, of placing love first, rather than last, among the forces in a strong nature. No powerful being ever yet either stood by the glory, or fell by the disasters, of a love-affair alone, uncomplicated by other issues. It does its work: it must touch, in many ways, the whole character; but it is, in the essence of things, a cause—not an effect. To Sara there was one only consuming interest in life—love. All her talents were directed to the gaining, understanding, and keeping of this wonderful human mystery. She wanted wild scenes and ungovernable emotions: she was beautiful enough to figure in such situations, and fascinating enough to indulge in such crises without offence to the artistic proprieties. But she had resolved that the hero of her existence must, at least, look his part. No one denied that Orange had a remarkable personality. Every one admitted that he was clever. These were the sternest estimates of his claim to social recognition. But she knew him to be a de HausÉe. She thought him superbly handsome. She had Disraeli's opinion that he was a genius. Here was a case where love would not have to be blind. Love, in this case, could defy the scornful and the proud. At last she could say, “My fate!” and call the whole world to witness her surrender. “Whether he loves me, or whether he hates me,” she thought, “I have chosen him.” SinÆtha, weaving spells by the moon, was not more determined or more irretrievably in love than Sara. The danger of such wild moods is as attractive to the very young as it is terrifying to the more mature. Perfectly conscious of her beauty, she felt able to defy, sue, and conquer at the same moment. Orange had never seen her to such brilliant advantage. The instant he entered the room and met her eyes, which shone with a most touching kind of timidity and a most flattering joy, he had to realise the need of strict discipline where constancy is a rule of existence. Sara's laugh, movements, way of talking, played a good deal on the heart, but even more upon the senses. Brigit's lovely face gained intensity only under the influence of sorrow. Then it became human. At other times it was merely exquisite. Now Sara's countenance had all the changing qualities of nature itself. She had, too, the instinctive arts of sympathy which are so much rarer than the actual gift. Far enough was Sara from the triumph which she was imagining; far enough was Orange from the least disloyalty; but he was fully alive to the danger of regarding her as a woman to be fought against. To fight in such cases is to admit fear of conquest.

“Those opals are beautiful,” said he, presently.

“I am glad you approve of—the opals.”

“But you put them to a disadvantage.”

“O! is that a compliment? The first you have ever paid me.”

“Do you care about them?”

“From you, yes. I was reading in Saint-Simon's Memoirs yesterday that your ancestor—Charles de HausÉe—was the first swordsman, the bravest soldier, the hardest rider, and the best judge of women in France. But let us be serious. Lady Larch is wearing her brightest smile!”

“Must we be very earnest this evening?”

“I am afraid so. You see, I have secured Pole-Knox. He has never been permitted to dine here before.”

“Why not?”

“Because I once told Lady Augusta that he was a man for the shortest part of the afternoon—not for evenings, at all. She couldn't forgive this.”

“Does she forgive it now?”

“Yes. She has reached the stage when one may criticise him.”

“That means a complete cure, I suppose.”

“Far from it—resignation to the worst that can be said of his character. There is no cure possible then.”

“Have you had any conversation with Reckage?” he asked.

Sara coloured and put her fingers to her lips.

“Hush!” said she. “There's a deceptive quiet about him which puzzles me. But I don't think he is sorry to be rid of Agnes. A regiment of relatives drove him into the engagement. Now it has come to an end—let us thank God!”

“Your own conscience is easy, I take it?”

“You have no right to ask such a question—none at all.”

“Some men, you know, can be laughed out of their loves,” he continued.

“Timorous men—yes! Is Reckage timorous?”

“You turned that most adroitly.”

“Thank you. Please sit between Lady Augusta and Aumerle at dinner.”

The dinner passed most agreeably. As little as possible was said about the Meeting; each talked to his or her neighbour, and although the separate dialogues may have been profound, the general effect produced was one of restful flippancy. Pole-Knox remarked over his fish that England had little to fear—unless through the corruption of her religion, whereupon Penborough declared that religion in the country was a School, not a Church. To this Lady Augusta rejoined that Rome's strength depended merely on Canterbury's weakness.

“Forcing a change is a very ticklish business,” said Aumerle, studying the menu, and regretting that his digestion was not all it had been.

Lord Garrow deplored the fact that Mr. Gladstone had embarked on a very vulgar and very false policy.

“But its vulgarity,” he sighed, “gives it a very easy reception.”

“He expects everything except docility,” said Penborough; “if the Opposition employ that means, they will embarrass all his calculations.”

Reckage, meanwhile, was confiding to Sara—

“I turned the horse round, rammed my spurs in, and put him at the rails again!”

One statement, made by Penborough, caused a flutter.

“If Catherine of Arragon had been immoral and Mary Stuart virtuous, the whole course of European History would have been different. The Reformation, for instance, would have found no favour in England.”

“That's very advanced,” murmured Lady Larch.

Sara, at dessert, tried to encourage a debate on the egoism of the Saints compared with the egoism of Montaigne.

“They were selfishly bent on pain and renunciation, he was selfishly bent on pleasure and indulgence. Isn't that the one difference between them, Mr. Orange?”

Orange refused to be drawn, but he promised to lend her the Acta Sanctorum of the Bollandists in sixty volumes in folio.

“After you have read them,” said he, “I will tell you my ideas about Montaigne.”

Many other remarks were probably more amusing; these, however, were the most characteristic.

When dinner was ended, Sara and the two ladies withdrew to the drawing-room, where they discussed with the utmost vehemence Orange's illegal marriage and Reckage's broken engagement.

The sum and substance of their investigations were as follows:—

Lady Larch wondered what the world was coming to.

Lady Augusta declared that no woman yet ever fathomed the heart of man.

Lady Sara maintained that it was a very good thing for both young men to have had such reverses before they finally settled down.

At this Lady Augusta forgot to sigh, and Lady Larch lost control of her smile.

“How,” exclaimed Augusta, “can they forget so soon? Can any settling down be in contemplation? Are no deep, sacred feelings left?”

Emmeline Larch, who was a widow, said she would never be hard on any one who tried to recover, for the sake of others, from a shattering bereavement.

“Dear Lady Larch!” exclaimed Sara.

The three women formed a picturesque group round the fireplace as the men entered. But the card-tables were already placed, and Sara lost no time in arranging a quartette for whist. Penborough had to leave for the Times office. Pole-Knox had to hurry back to Fulham. The young lady, who was known to detest all games, was thus able to choose Robert for her partner in a short conversation.

“Forgive me,” said she, “but—have you anything to tell me about Mrs. Parflete?”

“Yes; she is now with PensÉe.”

“May I call upon her? May I know her? Would she see me?”

“With pleasure, I am sure.”

“And you?” she asked.

“I don't see her,” he said quietly; “I don't hear from her. I don't write to her. And—I don't talk about her. But I should like you to know her. She needs true friends—who understand.”

“Have you been to Prince d'Alchingen's, or has he approached you in any way?”

“I am to dine with him to-morrow.”

“Has he said anything to you about the Marquis of Castrillon?”

“Not a word,” replied Robert, in surprise: “why should he?”

“I believe there is mischief in the air. Be careful, won't you? Reckage is watching us. I think he would like some music. He is so triste this evening.”

She moved away, and played delightfully on the guitar until the guests rose to leave. Then she found an opportunity to tell Lord Reckage not to come back again. She was tired, she said, and her papa would think it too odd.

“Then to-morrow morning,” said he.

She named an hour.