Robert Orange Part 40

"That gentleman is a priest, Madam," said the butler; "he will call again this evening. I told him that we expected you and her Ladys.h.i.+p about seven."

For some reason she felt alarmed. All that day and the night before she had been agitated by an inexplicable dread of strange tidings. She went to her room, but, without removing her travelling cloak or her hat, she sat down on the edge of her bed, waiting for some summons. Presently it came. Father Foster was in the library with Lady Fitz Rewes. Would Mrs.

Parflete see him? She went down, and Pensee stood watching for her at the open door.

"My poor child!" she said, with a sob in her voice, as she drew Brigit into the room. "My poor child," she repeated, "Father Foster has come to tell us that--that Mr. Parflete died last night."

The priest stepped forward with the decision, and also the stern kindness, of those accustomed to break hard messages.

"He was injured in a quarrel, and died from the effect of the wound. He declined to give any particulars of the affair, and I fear we must call it a mystery. He asked me to say that his last words to you were these: _Amate da cui male aveste_--Love those from whom ye have had evil."

He looked at her compa.s.sionately as he spoke, wondering, no doubt, how great the evil had been.

"Can I go to him?" asked Brigit; "where is he?"

"Where he died--in his room at the hotel."

"I will go with you," said Pensee. She held Brigit's hand, and exchanged a long glance with Father Foster.

"Did you say," she asked, "that he left any letters or papers?"

"He destroyed all his papers, but he has left one letter addressed to you. He wished me to say, in the presence of Mrs. Parflete, that this had reference to some false report about her visiting Mr. Orange's lodgings. Mr. Parflete saw the lady who went to Vigo Street, and he did not know who she was. One thing, however, he did know: he had never seen her before."

Brigit inclined her head, but remained motionless, where she first halted when she entered the room.

"Did he die in pain?" she asked.

"I am afraid he suffered greatly."

"Was his mind at peace?"

"I believe so--from my heart."

"He had less to fear from G.o.d than man."

"The justice of G.o.d is severe," said the priest, "but He can never make mistakes. The hardest cruelties in this life are the mistakes which we commit in judging others--perhaps in judging ourselves."

"The carriage is at the door," whispered Pensee, touching Brigit's arm.

"Shall we go?"

Nothing was said during the drive to the hotel near Covent Garden.

Brigit sat with closed eyes and folded hands while Lady Fitz Rewes, lost in thought, stared out of the window. At last the horses stopped.

"This is the place," said Father Foster.

A large gas-lamp hung over the entrance, and two Swiss waiters, with forced solemnity, ushered the party through the hall and up the staircase. They tapped at a door, listened, from force of habit, for an answer which never came, and then turned the handle. Parflete's bed had been moved to the centre of the room. There was a table covered with a white cloth, on which four candles burnt. By the window there was a chair littered with ill.u.s.trated newspapers.

"The nurse has just gone down to his supper," explained one of the waiters, "but _le mort est bien convenable_."

The dead man had been dressed in a rose-silk s.h.i.+rt embroidered with forget-me-nots. Upon his crossed arms lay a small ivory crucifix. In place of his wig he wore a black velvet skull-cap. The face was yellow: the features seemed set in a defiant, ironical smile. Hards.h.i.+p, terror, remorse, and physical agony had left their terrible scars upon his countenance.

Brigit, overcome at the sight of these awful changes, fell weeping on Pensee's shoulder.

"Thank G.o.d!" she whispered, "he has no more to fear from men."

When she grew calmer, she knelt down by the body, and told them that she would watch there that night.

"Madness!" exclaimed Lady Fitz Rewes.

"No, no! I wish to do it."

The priest stated a few objections, but she remained firm in her resolve.

"He was my father's friend," she said, quietly.

They both noticed that she never once referred to Parflete as her husband.

"If you stay, Brigit, I too will stay," said Pensee.

"That, dearest, you must decide for yourself. In any case, I cannot leave him. Tell the nurse not to come back. And let me be alone here for a little while."

Lady Fitz Rewes and Father Foster went downstairs to the coffee-room, and made a pretence of eating dinner. The two talked about the deplorable marriage, the Orange affair, Brigit's talents. Of course, she was very young. But Rachel--the great Rachel--made her first triumph at seventeen.

"One doesn't like to say it," observed Pensee, "but this death seems providential. If she marries Orange, she will give up the stage. Poor child! At last it really looks as though she might be happy--like other people."

"Like other people," repeated the priest, mechanically.

"I must send word to my housekeeper that I intend to remain here all night. And I should like our letters--I had no time to look at them."

A messenger was despatched, and they resumed their former conversation.

"I am afraid," said Pensee, "that poor Mr. Parflete was dreadfully wicked."

The priest sighed, and made some remarks about the dead man's intellectual brilliancy:

"He had great learning."

"Tell me, Father, with all your experience, do you understand life?"

asked Pensee, abruptly.

"Let me take refuge in a quotation--

_'Justice divine Mends not her slowest pace for pray'rs or cries.'_

I can understand that at least," answered the priest.

"How odd that you should speak of justice. Brigit was talking in the same strain only yesterday. It's a gloomy strain--for a young girl."

"I don't think so. One shouldn't sentimentalise. Life goes on, it doesn't halt: it's a constant development. I haven't much patience with----"