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.”