Action is the essence of political parties, and the members of the League had the ink barely dry on their telegrams of condolence before they despatched others, summoning a special meeting for the consideration of future steps. Orange, who was regarded as a man devoid of ambition, was unanimously elected a member of the Executive Committee; he was a good speaker, he could mind his own business, he never pulled wires, and it was his rule to step aside when others behind him showed any disposition to push toward the front. On the evening of the day on which Lord Reckage died, Aumerle and Ullweather called at Vigo Street as a preliminary move in their new plan of campaign. But Robert was not there. He sat all that night, a solitary watcher, in the chamber of death. His affection for his old pupil was something stronger than a brother's love. Whether he saw him as others saw him, or whether he was aware of certain pleasant traits in that uncertain character which escaped the common run of dull observers, his devotion had never wearied in all the years of their acquaintanceship.
The old housekeeper crept into the room when the bereaved family had retired, and she was on her way to bed.
“You and me, sir, always got on with his lordship,” she said, looking down, with Robert, at the still, marred face. “We understood him. He wasn't all for self—as many thought. But his heart wanted touching. If you could touch his heart, a kinder gentleman didn't live. And if it was my last breath, I'd call him the best of the lot—in spite of his tantrums, and his changeableness, and his haughty way sometimes. Mark my words, the glory of Almouth dies with him. Mr. Hercy will bring us down to rack and ruin. O, sir, I'm glad I'm old. I never want to see the sorrow that is sure to come to Almouth.”
But Orange was not thinking about the house of Almouth, or its fate. His thoughts were with the soul of the young man who had enjoyed life so well, and made so many plans, and cherished so many worldly hopes—of the young man who had existed apparently to indulge his own will, spend money, kill time, and fulfil a few rather showy responsibilities. And yet what Robert remembered best was his laugh. He could hear it still.
CHAPTER XXV
Prince d'Alchingen had been much put out of conceit with himself by disappointment. The small dinner which he had carefully arranged for Orange and Castrillon took place, but Orange was not present. He had sent word from Almouth House that he could not leave Lord Reckage. His Excellency, therefore, was thoroughly annoyed, and Castrillon's persiflage fell heavily upon his ears. He tried to think that this nobleman's vivacity made him appear flippant, whereas he was, in reality, a Don Juan of the classic type—unscrupulous, calculating, and damnable. When he remarked that it was grande folie de vouloir d'être sage avec une sagesse impossible, the Prince's spirits rose—only to fall again, however, at a later pronouncement from the same lips to the effect that virtuous women always brought tears to his eyes.