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 assisted 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, chÈre 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 passionate, 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. PensÉe 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 sex, 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 passions. The passions 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, chÉrie,” 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 HausÉe 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 God—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 muff.

“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 passion 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 dÉbut of Madame as a comedian of the first rank,” said the Ambassador.

“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.

“It must have been she,” replied the Prince.

“It must have been she,” repeated Sara, mechanically.

The lie seemed to come before she had time to think of it; it tripped off her tongue as though some will, other than her own, controlled her speech. But now that the untruth was spoken she determined to abide by it, so she repeated:—

“It must have been Mrs. Parflete.”

“And suppose,” said the Princess, “that she is able to prove that she spent the whole of Wednesday with Lady Fitz Rewes? No one could doubt the evidence of Lady Fitz Rewes.”

D'Alchingen shrugged his shoulders.

“In that event—which is unlikely,” he said; “M. de HausÉe will have a bad half-hour with Mrs. Parflete. The idyll will be spoilt for ever, and our pretty tale for angels about a Saint and a little Bohemian will sink to its proper level. It always takes three to make a really edifying Platonic history. The third in this case is the lady who called at Vigo Street. Dans le combat, il faut marchez sans s'attendrir!”

“Who would live?” murmured the Princess, pressing a martyr's relic which she always wore on a chain round her neck.

“Suppose,” continued d'Alchingen, enjoying his own cynicism, “that we have a quartette in this instance. Madame has her Castrillon, M. de HausÉe has his veiled lady. Each is a pious fraud to the other. Imagine the double current of their thoughts, the deceit, the hypocrisy, the colossal lie behind them both which makes the inspiring truth a fact! It is an anecdote to be told in the Boccaccio manner—gracefully, with humour, with much indulgence ... otherwise, it might be the sort of story they tell in hell.”

“I am happy to say that I have no imagination,” said the Princess; “and now I shall take Sara—who must be tired—to her room.”

She rose from her seat, and, drawing Sara's arm through hers, walked from the gallery, through the hall, and up the staircase, talking, the while, of a new Romney which the Prince had recently purchased.

Sara was now in her own room, but not alone, for her maid was unpacking, and the gown, petticoat, shoes, gloves, and flowers designed for that evening were being spread out upon the bed. The girl was in no humour to enjoy the finery which she had chosen with so much delight. She turned her back upon it all, and, pulling up the blind, gazed moodily out of the window till her maid's preparations were at an end. Romantic trees and a landscape, almost artificial in its prettiness, surrounded Hadley. The sun was setting in a fire, burnishing with enamel tints the long green hills which ranged as a natural fortification across the horizon, shutting out a whole country of flat fields beyond. The moon, in its first quarter, shone out above a distant steeple where the eastern sky, already blue and opalesque, promised the dawn of another day in reparation for the one then dying in scarlet splendour. But to those who are unhappy, to-morrow is a word without significance. Sara stretched out her arms instinctively toward the coming night. She wanted darkness and she wanted sleep—not the stars of the morning, not the joy of noon. What should she do? Her mad love for Orange had reached a desperate point—a point where she realised all too clearly and with bitterness, that, so far from being a source of strength, it was a curse, a malady, a humiliation—driving her into that insatiable desire of solitude where the companionship of dreadful imaginations and gloomy thoughts can rend the soul at their pleasure. As men are sometimes lured toward dangerous perils on land, or mountains, or by sea, and from thence to deeds, discoveries, and crimes unforeseen and unpremeditated, so she seemed borne along into a whirlpool of feelings which chilled the better impulses of her nature and accentuated, with acid and fire, every elementary instinct. Animal powers and spiritual tendencies alike were concentrated into one absorbing passion which reasoned only in delirium, incoherently, without issue. She was wretched in Orange's company because every moment so spent showed her that his heart was fixed far indeed from her. But the wretchedness suffered that way was stifled in the torments she endured when she wondered, miserably, in loneliness, what he was thinking, doing, saying; where he was, with whom he was, and how he was. The despair of unrequited love was thrice intensified by jealousy. “Why did he like that little adventuress, that white china Rahab?” she asked herself again and again. “It is just because she has bewitched him. It is not real love—it isn't any kind of love. She cannot care for him as I do. It isn't in her. O why, why does he fight so hard against me?”

Beautiful women seldom believe that their charms can be resisted without a fierce struggle. It was, in fact, a tranquil consciousness of beauty which gave audacity to Sara's words, and put the ordinary question of pride out of the question. Was it not rather a case of the goddess putting on humanity, of the queen condescending to a subject. La reine s'amuse was the unuttered, constant motto on her heart of hearts. The blood of Asiatic princes ran in her veins, and a sovereign contempt for manners, as opposed to passions and self-will, ruled her fierce spirit. But what should she do? A moment's reflection had shown her that Brigit could have no difficulty in proving that she was not the mysterious lady who visited Orange's lodgings. Having weighed all the disadvantages, Sara now directed her attention to the advantages she could snatch out of the dilemma. At last she hit on a bold plan. She rang a bell and a housemaid answered the summons.

“Is Mrs. Parflete in her bedroom?” asked Lady Sara; “and where is her bedroom?”

“Her bedroom is next to yours, my lady. She is in there now.”

“Thank you.”

Sara walked along the corridor till she reached an oak door on which was a card bearing the name she sought. She tapped, and heard Brigit herself reply—

“Come in.”

The young actress was lying, in a black silk dressing-gown, on the sofa. Her hair fell loosely to her shoulders, and she had evidently been fast asleep, for her cheeks were less pale than usual, her eyes were bright, and the happiness of some pleasant dream still lingered in their expression.

“Lady Sara—how good of you to come!” she exclaimed; “I have been trying to rest. I want to play well this evening.”

“You will play beautifully, of course,” said Sara, submitting, even in her jealousy, to the charm and grace of her unconscious rival. “I have come on a difficult errand,” she added, abruptly; “you may not understand, but I hope—I believe—you will.”

She became so pale as she uttered these words that Brigit leant forward with a gesture of reassurance. In spite of her fragility she was, from the habit of self-control, a stronger spirit.

“You may be sure that I shall understand,” she said.

“Forgive me, then, but some enemy has circulated a report that you went to Mr. Orange's rooms in Vigo Street last Wednesday.”

A deep flush swept over Brigit's face.

“I was not there,” she said.

“I know,” said Sara. “I know you were not there. They made a mistake. It was I they saw—not you—it was I.”

Brigit dropped her eyes but made no other movement. She seemed to grow rigid, and the hand which had been playing with the fringe of her girdle remained fixed in its arrested action.

“You? It was you? How —— you?”

“I had to see him. So I went to him. Now he can easily deny that you were there. But he won't betray me. People must think what they please. But I am telling you—because you, at least, ought to know the truth.”

“And yet it is not my business!”

“What do you mean? Not your business?”

“How can it be my business to ask what lady went to—to his lodgings?”

“But you would have wondered——“

“Yes, I should have wondered. I could not have helped that.”

“Mr. Orange and I have been friends, as you know, for some time. He knew me years ago before he—he met you. I was quite a little girl. I remember I used to hold his hand when I walked in the gardens by his side.”

“He has often spoken of you.”

“But all this does not help us now. If it were ever known that I—I was the one, the other day,—I should be ruined.”

“You may be sure that no one shall know.”

“I am not so selfish as I seem. I don't forget that this story will injure him—injure him terribly. They will think him a kind of Joseph Surface—a hypocrite. People expect him to be different from everybody else. A piece of gossip which they would have laughed at and taken as a matter of course from poor Beauclerk or Charles Aumerle—they would resent bitterly in Robert. The thing that grieves me, that torments me, is the fear lest this act of mine may injure him.”

“It won't injure him,” said Brigit. “Have no fear at all. And if you went to see him, as you say, you must have had the best of reasons for doing so. You may rely, I am sure, on his keeping your name a secret. You were kind to tell me—for he certainly would not have told me—without your consent. We never see each other now, and we never write to each other.”

Her voice trembled for the first time.

“How does he look?” she asked, after a sharp struggle between her pride and a desire to hear more.

“He looks ill and worn. He over-works.”

“He will suffer at Lord Reckage's death.”

“But he hides his feelings. He is always reticent.”

“O, to see him and talk with him—that would be such a joy for me.”

“You must be very sad, often,” said Sara, coldly.

“Yes, often,” answered Brigit. “And I was so happy during the short time we were together that now it seems no part of my life—no part of it. I say this because I wish you to know that nothing can make us love each other less—that all this misery and separation—which may last as long as we live—has made no difference and can make no difference to us. And if I never see him again, or speak to him again, he will always be certain that I am his—unalterably, for ever his.”

“You are little more than a child. You have a great career before you—who can say what may happen in the future? Women without careers change their minds—their tastes. These things are out of one's own control, and in your case——“

“My mind may change, but my soul cannot. I may dance, I may amuse myself, I may have friends. Make no mistake. I can tell you all that is in me. I find life beautiful. The theatre enchants me. I could work there all day. I have no illusions about it—the paint, the machinery, the box-office, the advertisements—the vulgarity are familiar enough to me. But I find a box-office, and machinery, and vulgarity everywhere, though they are called by other names.”

Sara coloured and looked away.

“I am getting stronger now,” continued Brigit. “I can lift up my head and see the world as it is. I like it—yes, with all its griefs and its horrors—I like it. When one is ill or sentimental one hates it, because it wasn't made for the sick, and it was not created us a playground for lovers. One may love—yes, but one must work. I intend to love and work at the same time.”

“Many find that these two occupations clash! There is a time in love—just as there is a period in life—when it seems enough in itself. It is independent of circumstances and persons. O, but that time soon passes! As you learn more, you look for more. And work is no cure for dissatisfaction. If you can live through it you will just be a machine with one refrain—‘I know nothing! I have nothing! I am nothing!’”

The two young girls did not look at each other. Brigit could recognise an agitation of the soul in the imperceptible sadness of the voice, and she guessed poor Sara's secret.

“Yes,” she said quietly. “I must suffer all that. How can you be sure that I have not suffered it already? At any rate, I hope this confidence will increase your kindness toward me.”

“I have no kindness toward you—none at all,” said Sara. “I have no kindness toward any living creature. I should like to die and come to an end. I wasn't born to put up with make-shifts. Other women may be resigned to that paltry way of existing. If they can't have what they want, they will take what they don't want; they will take what they hate, and grin—yes, they will grin and bear it. And after a little while, because they become gradually drunk with suffering, they begin to think they are noble. They are not noble. They are fools, fools, fools!”

“I shan't accept make-shifts,” answered Brigit. “I intend to keep all my ideals, but they are all unfinished at present. I have just the outlines and beginnings of them—nothing else.”

“I am not talking about ideals. I am speaking of realities. I don't want to be happy, but I do wish to be one of four things: either perfectly alive, or perfectly, utterly dead; either a pure spirit, or a faultless animal. This dead-and-alive, body-and-soul mixture which passes for a well-disciplined human being is loathsome to me. It is a tissue of lies and hypocrisies.”

“Perhaps I should have that feeling, too, if I had no faith in God. He assumed humanity—not despising it.”

“You know I do not believe that splendid story—so it doesn't help me. I compare life as I feel it with life as it is, and the inequality fills me with disgust. The example of Christ is too sublime. He was human only in His sufferings. He bore our burdens and He shared our agonies. He was deceived, despised, rejected: the first torture and the firstfruits of His Passion was the treachery of a disciple. When I am sorrowful and wretched, He seems Real to me and vivid. But when I am well and wildly happy, He seems far away and unreal—an invisible God, watching mortals with a certain contempt. Now the Pagans had a Divinity for every mood, so they never felt depressed or lowered in their own self-esteem. We have a God for two moods only,—great sorrow, and great exaltation. For the rest we have to beat our breasts and call ourselves miserable sinners. All the good people I know enjoy spiritual peace only—without any fear of remorse—when they are tired out or moaning with physical pain. I don't say this to shock you; I should like to have a religion if I could be convinced of it without fasting, without long illnesses, and without abandoning all hope of earthly, common joys. Most Christians take a middle way, I know; they prattle about their immortal souls, and behave as though they had nothing but bodies. I can't take part in such a gross farce.”

Brigit sighed deeply, and did not reply at once.

“It is all very hard, I know,” she answered; “but from the lowest abyss one can still see the sky overhead. People's hearts are touched by the spectacle of sin or the spectacle of suffering. Our Lord could not sin, therefore He reached our sympathies by His Death and Sorrows. Of course, if this life here were all, and this world were the only one, and we were animals with less beauty than many of the inanimate things in nature, and as much intelligence at best as the bees and birds and ants—then the Pagan way might be quite admirable. But this isn't the case, and so—and so——“

Sara laughed.

“We are a grotesque compromise between gods and creatures,” she said; “those of us who find this out get a little impatient with the false position. You are less sentimental than I am. You take what I call the hard view. It is too frigid for me. But I am making you late. All good luck to-night!”

She waved her hand, and, returning to her own room, realised that she had missed the object of her conversation. The attempt to excite Brigit's jealousy had failed.

Nothing is so infectious as despair. Brigit sat quivering under the echo of Sara's last words: “You take what I call the hard view.” Was it, then, such an easy matter to bury love in perpetual silence, to let nature yield to fate, to stifle every human craving? The mention of Robert's name and the news that he looked ill and careworn had stirred all the unshed tears in her heart; she could not think, she could not move, she could but realise that she had no right to be with him. And sorrow seemed her province. There, surely, she and he might meet, join hands, and speak once more face to face. She had not written to him since that parting at Miraflores. But she would write now. This was her letter—

My Dearest Life—You are my dearest and you are my life—so let me say it now, even if I never say it again. I could be glad (if any gladness were left in me) at your grief for Lord Reckage's death, because it gives me an excuse for breaking my word and writing to you. This is selfish, but nobody knows how much I have suffered, or how much I suffer daily, hourly. I try to believe that it would have been worse if we had never owned our love, never met again after our first meeting. Darling, I can't be sure. Sometimes I wish I had been born quite numb. I dare not complain, and yet it is impossible to feel contented. Always, always there is a dreadful pain in my heart. Every moment is occupied, for when I am not working, I sleep, and when I wake, I work. I would rather spend one perfect day with you and die, than live on without you. This is the truth. If I had any choice that would be my choice. But I know you want me to be courageous, and I myself want you to see that a woman's love can be as strong as a man's. Women are supposed to make men weak—they are supposed to be chains and hindrances. This shan't be said of me. You wouldn't say it: you wouldn't think it: yet in history I find that while a few have been saved by women, more have been ruined by them. And where the women have saved the men they loved, it has been done by great renunciations and sacrifices—not at all by selfishness and joys. When I can remember this (I forget it too easily), I can almost persuade myself that I don't long to see you, to hear your voice, to be with you again on the boat—going on and on toward Miraflores. But I never persuade myself of this entirely—never, never. I do long to see you, Robert: I do want to be with you. I envy the servant in your lodgings, and the friends you meet. And I—who love you so dearly—may not go near you. I am going to act to-night—as if I were not acting all day, every day! I haven't said one word about you. But you couldn't be so wretched as I am, because you have yourself, you know what you are doing, saying, and thinking. Now if I could cease altogether and become, say, your hand or your foot, no one would expect you to renounce me. I might be useful, and it would certainly be no scandal if I accompanied you everywhere! I won't say any more.

Brigit.

She addressed an envelope and sealed the letter within it. Then, with tears streaming down her cheeks, she read her part for the comedy that evening. When Esther entered with her dressing-gown, she held up her hands in dismay.

“O Madame,” said she, “I thought you were going to play an amusing piece!”

“It will be very amusing,” said Brigit, “but this is the way to rehearse it.”