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Lord Reckage had been carried through the hall of Almouth House, but not up the famous staircase of which he was so proud. He looked at it as they bore him to the library, and although he was still in a kind of stupor, the terrified servants could read in his eyes the certain knowledge that he would never behold the marble walls or the portraits of his ancestors again.
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."
He walked along toward Almouth House in a mood of many vexations, cursing the impudence of Bradwyn and Ullweather, wondering whether he had done wisely, after all, in engaging himself to the blameless Miss Carillon, sighing a little over a rumour which had reached him about Sara de Treverell and the Duke of Marshire, deploring the obstinacy of Robert Orange where Mrs. Parflete was concerned.
His Journal at that period contains two entries, however, which show that neither Lady Fitz Rewes nor Reckage were wrong in fearing he had received a mortal blow which no earthly influence could make endurable. Oct., 1869. I am once more at Almouth House. Beauclerk's consideration for me is almost more than I can bear. The rest is not borne.
He pointed to a corner on the third page, where she read in black, rough type: "Lord Reckage was thrown from his horse at Hyde Park Corner this afternoon. He was removed to Almouth House. His injuries are said to be of a very dangerous nature." She crushed the paper in her hand, and the two stood looking at each other, stupefied by the blow. "I am going to him," said Robert.
The nuptial mass had been fixed for eight o'clock, the wedding party were to breakfast at Almouth House afterwards, then the bride and groom were to leave by the mail for Southampton en route for Miraflores in Northern France. The two young men drove together to the chapel attached to the Alberian Embassy.
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. 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.
All the way, on their walk to Almouth House, he kept Reckage amused. Orange never once felt under the necessity to speak. He was able to dream, to hold his breath, to remember that he loved and was loved again, that he would see her to-morrow to-morrow quite early, and then, no more unutterable farewells, heart-desolating separations.
It was with these sentiments of fear for the one creature he believed in, and hostility toward the woman who had presumed to interfere with the progress of that clear spirit, that he found himself at Almouth House. The blinds of the dining-room were but partially down.
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