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, balls, 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 amusement, 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 circumstances 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 ingratitude 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 passion 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 fortitude 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 constitution, and while he was able to persuade himself that his renunciation of all passionate 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 passion—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 passed 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.”

“Haven't I always said so?”

“Then how can you expect us to like you when you are so—so wise?”

“I don't expect you to like me.”

She bit her lip and pretended to check a laugh.

“I suppose you enjoy this room?” she said, glancing round it till her eyes fell on a small crucifix which was nailed to the wall behind his chair; “it is so depressing. You are very perverse. And the odd thing is——“

“Well, what is the odd thing?”

“That you are attracted by Mrs. Parflete. Your style ought to be Saint Clare or Saint Elizabeth. But not at all. You prefer this exquisite, wayward, perfectly dressed, extremely young actress. You give your nature full play in your taste, at all events.”

“You can urge that much in my favour, then?”

“Yes, that much. Oh, she's pretty. But frivolous and light-hearted—as light-hearted as Titania. There! I have been wondering what I could call her. She is Titania in alabaster. Marble is too strong. At first, I thought it might be marble. I have changed my mind since. I suppose you know she will act in this comedy with Castrillon at the d'Alchingens?”

“So Disraeli has told me. Did you come to tell me that, also?”

She coloured, but met his angry glance without flinching. “Now,” she thought, “he is going to show temper.”

“I came to tell you that, also,” she repeated. “PensÉe is opposed to the whole scheme. Mrs. Parflete stamped her very beautiful foot, and said, ‘I go.’ Do you approve?”

“I am to meet Castrillon to-night at the Prince d'Alchingen's,” he answered, evading her question.

“How you hate him!”

“What makes you think so?”

“I know your face. I never saw any love there for anybody, but just then there was a look of hate.”

“You are quite right. I do hate him.”

“You are actually trembling at the mention of his name. Then you have feelings, after all.” She clapped her hands, and leaving her chair walked toward him.

“Never hate me, will you?” she said, touching his arm. “Promise me that you will never hate me. Like me as much as you can.”

At that instant, they heard a tap at the door, and the landlord, carrying a few letters on a salver, entered the room. Sara pulled down her veil—a foolish action, which she regretted a moment later. Orange thanked the man for the letters and threw them on the table. The landlord, with a studied air of discretion, which was the more insulting for its very slyness, went, half on tiptoe, out.

“Does he always bring your letters upstairs?” she asked.

“As a rule—no,” said Orange.

“Then he came on purpose! He wanted to see me—what impudence! I am beginning to realise what one has to expect if one—if one takes an unconventional step.”

Her voice failed, and tears began to roll down her cheeks. Then she covered her face with her hands.

“Every courageous—every disinterested act is unconventional,” said Robert; “you are tired out—that's all.”

“You see,” she answered, with a note of harsh sadness in her voice, “I have had a strange day. The scene with Beauclerk was a great strain. I feel a kind of apprehensiveness and terror—yes, terror, which I cannot describe. It may be my nerves, it may be fancy. But I am too conscious of being alive. Every minute seems vital. Every sound is acute. This day has been one long over-emphasis. Look at my hand: how it trembles! Beauclerk called me a witch. Certainly, I am more sensitive to impressions than most people.”

“One of these letters is from Reckage. It is written on a sheet of your own note-paper.”

She dried her eyes, and looked at him with exultation, astonishment, and a certain incredulity.

“Then he must have listened to me. He posted it, after all, when he left the house. He is always impulsive. I remember now—that I saw him give something to the groom. Do read what he says.”

The letter, scrawled hastily on the pale lilac note-paper affected by Sara and bearing her monogram, ran as follows:—

“My Dear Old Fellow,—There are still some points of arrangement very material to consider with regard to this Meeting next week, and I hope it is not too late to go into them. The thing cannot be done away. But the circumstances have become, thank God, very different indeed. Mr. Disraeli has asked me to speak in his stead at Hanborough—an honour so wholly unexpected and undeserved that I am forced to see in it an especial mark of encouragement. I must admit at once that I feel greatly flattered. I am not now to be taught what opinion I am to entertain of those gentlemen whose narrow and selfish principles forced me to move against my inclination, my judgment, and my convictions. I am persuaded that any additional public action—no matter how indirect on my part—in the Nomination of Temple would have at this juncture, the worse effect. It would savour of self-advertisement—an idea which I abhor. It would seem an over-doing, as it were, of my own importance. You will readily agree, I know, that I ought to keep perfectly quiet before, and for some time after, my Hanborough appearance. Not having in any degree changed my view upon this subject of the Association, I don't feel that my present decision is inconsistent. I think it will strike everybody as a sensible—the only sensible—course to follow.

“When can you dine? Or if you won't dine, let me see you when you can spare half an hour.

“Yours affectionately,”

“Beauclerk.”

Orange turned to Sara and said, when he had finished reading—

“I am glad he wrote.”

“You knew him better than I did. He is still a poor creature, for, what does it all come to?—a rambling, stupid lie. The letter is sheer rubbish—a complete misrepresentation of the facts. But I need not have come. This always happens when women interfere between men,” she added, bitterly; “you don't want us. There's a freemasonry among men. You excuse and justify and forgive each other always.”

“You persuaded him to post this.”

“That is true. He might have done so, however, without persuasion. In future, call me the busybody! I must go now. I have made you late for d'Alchingen's dinner. What a lesson to those about to make themselves useful! And how right you were not to get bitter! I take things too much to heart. I must pray for flippancy. Then, perhaps, I may find no fault with this world, or with you, or with anybody!”

“I am bitter enough—don't doubt it.”

“No! no! let us assure each other that this is the best of all possible worlds—that Beauclerk shows cleverness and good sense, that no one tells lies, no one is treacherous, no one is unjust, malicious, or revengeful nowadays, that friends are friends, and enemies—merely divided in opinions! We must encourage ourselves in a cynical, good-natured toleration of all that is abject and detestable in mankind.”

“You are too impatient, Lady Sara. You want life concentrated, like a play, into a few acts lasting, say, three hours. Whereas, most lives have no dÉnouement—so far as lookers-on are concerned!”

“At last some one has been able to define me. I am ‘impatient.’ But you take refuge in that profound silence which is the philosophy of the strong; you don't struggle against the general feeling; you content yourself by going your own gait quietly. You have pride enough to be—nothing, and ambition enough to do—everything. Hark! what is that? They are calling out news in the street.”

“The current lie,” said Orange. “We don't want to hear it.”

Sara walked to the window and threw it open.

“I caught a name,” she exclaimed. “It is something about Reckage ... Listen ... Reckage!”

Above the din of the traffic, a hoarse duet rose from the street—voice answering voice with a discordant reiteration of one phrase—“Serious accident to Lord Reckage! Serious accident to Lord Reckage!”

“My God, what are they saying? What are they saying? It is my imagination. It can't be true. I am fancying things. What are they saying?”

Orange had already left the room and was in the road. When he returned, he gave her the newspaper and did not attempt to speak. But he closed the window in order to shut out, if possible, the hideous cry.

“Where is it? I can't see! In which column?” said Sara.

He pointed to a corner on the third page, where she read in black, rough type:—

“Lord Reckage was thrown from his horse at Hyde Park Corner this afternoon. He was removed to Almouth House. His injuries are said to be of a very dangerous nature.”

She crushed the paper in her hand, and the two stood looking at each other, stupefied by the blow.

“I am going to him,” said Robert.

“And I must go home,” whispered the girl. “He always said that Pluto would be the death of him.”

They went down the stairs together without exchanging a word. Orange walked with her to St. James's Square. Neither could speak. On parting, she faltered,—

“Let me know ... how he is....”