d her. Of all this she was
certain. Reckage's warning had encouraged her to believe that Orange's
self-control was a hard achievement--by no means any matter of a
disposition naturally cold. If it were merely to be a struggle of wills,
her will would prove the stronger. She meant to have her way this time.
Wasn't it the critical moment of his life? Every instinct had been
roused--ambition, the love of adventure, the love of a woman. For a
short while the means had been given him, humanly speaking, of
gratifying these great passions. And then, at a stroke, he was once more
poor and dependent, once more in a ridiculous position, and the woman he
loved was further from his reach than ever. He still had the privilege
of fighting and breaking his heart in the market-place. He could still
enjoy some kind of a career. Yet the long, embittering struggle with
poverty and disappointed affection could but appear to him now desolate
indeed, barely worth the difficult prizes of success. Lady Sara was
young, and she made the mistake, eternally peculiar to her sex, of
placing love first, rather than last, among the forces in a strong
nature. No powerful being ever yet either stood by the glory, or fell by
the disasters, of a love-affair alone, uncomplicated by other issues. It
does its work: it must touch, in many ways, the whole character; but it
is, in the essence of things, a cause--not an effect. To Sara there was
one only consuming interest in life--love. All her talents were directed
to the gaining, understanding, and keeping of this wonderful human
mystery. She wanted wild scenes and ungovernable emotions: she was
beautiful enough to figure in such situations, and fascinating enough to
indulge in such crises without offence to the artistic proprieties. But
she had resolved that the hero of her existence must, at least, look his
part. No one denied that Orange had a remarkable personality. Every one
admitted that he was clever. These were the sternest estimates of his
claim to social recognition. But she knew him to be a de Hausee. She
thought him superbly handsome. She had Disraeli's opinion that he was a
genius. Here was a case where love would not have to be blind. Love, in
this case, could defy the scornful and the proud. At last she could say,
"My fate!" and call the whole world to witness her surrender. "Whether
he loves me, or whether he hates me," she thought, "I have chosen him."
Sinaetha, weaving spells by the moon, was