BEING A CONTINUATION OF THE
HISTORY OF ROBERT ORANGE, M.P.
AND A SEQUEL TO THE
SCHOOL FOR SAINTS
By
John Oliver Hobbes
LONDON: T. FISHER UNWIN
PATERNOSTER SQUARE. MDCCCC
(All rights reserved)
One afternoon during the first weeks of October,1869, while wind, dust, and rain were struggling eachfor supremacy in the streets, a small yellow brougham,swung in the old-fashioned style on cumbersomesprings and attached to a pair of fine greys, wasstanding before the Earl of Garrow's town residencein St. James's Square. The hall clock within thatmansion chimed four, the great doors were thrownopen by two footmen, and a young lady wearing amauve silk skirt deeply flounced, a black cloth jacketembroidered in gold, and a mauve hat trimmed withplumes—appeared upon the threshold. She paused fora moment to admire the shrubs arranged in boxes oneach window-sill, the crimson vines that brightenedthe grey walls; to criticise the fresh brown rosetteunder the near horse's ear; to bestow a swift glanceupon the harness, the coachman's livery, and thegroom's boots. Then she stepped into the carriageand gave her order—
“To the Carlton Club.”
The groom climbed on to his seat, and the horses,[2]after a brilliant display of their well-disciplined mettle,suffered themselves to be driven, at an easy pace,toward Pall Mall.
Lady Sara-Louise-Tatiana-Valérie De Treverell,only child of the ninth Earl of Garrow, had been,since her mother's death, the mistress of his house andhis chief companion. Essentially a woman of emotions,she was, nevertheless, in appearance somewhat dreamy,romantic, even spiritual. The eyes were blue, brightas a cut sapphire, and shone, as it were, through tears.Her mouth, uneven in its line, had a scarlet eloquencemore pleasing than sculpturesque severity. At themoment, she wore no gloves, and her tapering fingersshared their characteristic with her nose, which alsotapered, with exquisite lightness of mould, into apoint. For colour, she had a gypsy's red and brown.The string of gold beads which she fastened habituallyround her throat showed well against the warm tintsin her cheek; her long pearl earrings caught incertain lights the dark shadow of her hair—hair black,abundant, and elaborately dressed in the fashion of thattime. Passionate yet calculating, imperious yet susceptibleof control, generous yet given to suspicion, anegoist yet capable of self-abandoning enthusiasm—sherepresented a type of feminine character often recognisedbut rarely understood.
On this particular afternoon in October she hadsome pressing matters on her mind. She was considering,among other things, an offer of marriage[3]which she had received by post two days before froma nobleman of great fortune, the Duke of Marshire.But Sara was ambitious—not mercenary. She wantedpower. Power, unhappily, was the last thing onecould associate with the estimable personality of thesuitor under deliberation.
“I must tell papa,” she said to herself, “that itwould never do.”
Here she fell into a reverie; but as her expressionchanged from one of annoyance to something of wistfulnessand sentimentality, the question of marriagewith the Duke of Marshire had clearly been dismissedfor that moment from her heart. At intervals a shysmile gave an almost childish tenderness to her face.Then, on a sudden, her eyelashes would droop, she