Robert Orange
her life." In much anxiety, for his Grace was very much in love, he
composed, after three hours of careful thought, a reply, and, having
read the least tender but most sensible passages to his lawyer, he
himself left the communication, together with a beautifully bound copy
of "Lettres Choisies," by Madame de Sevigne, at St. James's Square. The
parcel and the missive arrived when the young lady was reading and
re-reading two other letters which she had received that morning from
the North of France. One was from Lord Reckage; the other was from
Pensee Fitz Rewes. Their respective contents ran as follows:--
MY DEAR SARA (I love the sweeter name of Valerie: may I not use it
sometimes?),--I shall never be able to get through all I have to
say--no words can reflect the fulness of human nature in such
suffering as it has been my privilege--and sorrow--to witness here.
In doubt, they tell us, we must stand on the rule of authority. But
for this principle I should find it hard to reconcile myself to
this deplorable affair of parting two people who love each other,
evidently, in an almost lyric sense. You, I know, will understand
that this expression contains no sneer at a frame of mind
altogether surpassing my own capacity for idealism. Are there many,
or any of us nowadays, who feel that there are certain things which
we must do, not do, or perish eternally? I have never detected this
narrow, vindictive, inherently superstitious view in Orange. I am
forced to the conclusion, therefore, that his truest happiness
consists always in his submission to the Will (as he understands
it) of God (as he understands Him). Men are like horses--unless
they are born with staying powers in them, no amount of training
can make them really stay. Robert is a born ecclesiastic--I have
said so always. His conduct in this present crisis will be a slap
in the face to those who insist that religion makes men timorous.
Speaking for myself, I never entertained a moment's doubt of his
acting in precisely the manner in which he has done; his worst
time, however, is, alas! to come; he may have to wait till eternity
for his recompense. That trial often embitters the most constant.
The devil is never embarrassed, and where virtue is found
superhuman, he takes every care to keep it on a sour--if
ethereal--diet. You will beg for less comment and more facts. Let
me give them. Orange himself, pale, restrained, haggard but superb,
met us at the station on our arrival. He had been waiting for us at
the hotel; Mrs. Parflete was at the Villa Miraflores. The two had
discussed the situation and parted on the mere reading of my
telegram. I cannot say that they might have acted otherwise, but
only that they acted as they did. There must have been,
nevertheless, a considerable scene. The idealist driven into
squalid actualities deserves a martyr's crown. In one single
misfortune he suffers all the calamities of the human race, and in
one personal horror he sees the death, emptiness, and corruption of
all human endeavours. In this exaggeration, these mystics show
their genius; they suffer too much in order that ordinary people
may suffer a little less. Poor Orange! He is certainly fine, for,
even if I discard the _mannerisms_, the eccentricity, the possibly
_natural_ self-sufficiency, all that is essential in his character
remains and must remain undeniably chivalrous. It was an immense
relief to find that he had decided, without suggestions on my part,
on his course of conduct. I hate a fellow who tries to be more than
friendly, and I dreaded making the experiment. I did venture to
point out to him that there might be some way of annulling the
Parflete marriage. But idealists abhor law-suits. Parflete, _not_
being an idealist, may take some steps on his own account. I
refrained from touching on that possibility, although I see much
hope that way for our unhappy lovers. The world might cry out a
little at first, but success justifies everything. Meanwhile,
Robert and Mrs. Parflete have formed a resolution not to meet again
for a year or more. After that, they hope to be on the unearthly
terms of Laura and her Petrarch. It is magnificent, but is it love?
I long to hear your views on the subject. I have no influence over
you; I wish I had. I am the most sincere of all your friends. The
others either care too little for you, or too much for themselves,
to run the risk of giving you offence. But I would risk all, to
gain even a little--where you are concerned. May I call on my
return? Orange comes back with me. His own instinct tells him that
there is a suggestion of the ridiculous--to the mere
on-looker--about this interrupted honeymoon. He has determined to
face it out in London, and resume his life on the old lines. He
will finish his volume of French History, resume his post with Lord
Wight, and take his seat in Parliament. If he can succeed in living
down this absurdly tragic catastrophe, he will achieve a notable
triumph. It gives me a cold feeling at the heart when I think of
the dreary heroism he must display. Nothing picturesque, nothing
striking. He must simply baffle the scoffers by an inscrutable
endurance. Mrs. Parflete is a beautiful creature, but quite a
child, and therefore weedy as to figure. I consider her far too
young for marriage in any case. She is only seventeen--tall,
slight, with a transparent skin, and something actually _babyish_
about the eyes. Her dignity, in the circumstances, was wholly
admirable. Perfectly self-possessed. Pensee will describe the
interviews far better than I could, so I will refer you to her for
the details of our mission. Women, I have decided, in every
disappointment always look for some future change of circumstances
favourable to their wishes. No matter how nominal, shallow, and
delusive this faith may be, it sustains them through the worst
trials. Thus it is that when a woman sacrifices either her repose
or the legitimate compensations of life to a great idea, she
suffers far less than a man in similar conditions. The devout
female sex drive a good bargain always: they manage somehow to
obtain all the sentiment they require from both worlds. Men cannot
be happy on sentiment alone; hence, therefore, the dreadful
hesitations, self-doubts, and terror which assail so frequently the
interior peace of all men drawn, like Orange, by certain qualities
of temperament, toward the mortification of their humanity. Laying
aside the proud idea of the independence, vigour, and
spiritual-mindedness which this practice is held to secure, there
is one drawback which, with a view to that class who are really
willing to endure many afflictions for the sake of any one definite
advantage, ought not to be overlooked. The weak, under such
discipline, become sugary: the strong grow hard. Robert has
backbone; he is a man of ability, perhaps even genius, but there is
always a danger that, either from the accumulation of scruples or
the want of romantic incentive, he may throw up the political game
and bury himself in a monastery where his dreams may find their
sole expression in prayer. Another point occurs to me. Will the
rank and file ever trust a person so far above their comprehension?
The very word "mystical" is a word of reproach in the mouth of the
world. People continually ask questions about Robert. No questions,
on the other hand, are asked about Aumerle. Aumerle lives like the
rest of us: he does everything he ought not to do--he surprises
nobody: he delivers his neighbours over to the absolute power of
accomplished facts. (A way of saying that he doesn't care a rap
about the fellow who falls among thieves.) Dear Valerie! What a
pleasure it is to write to you! I can utter my inmost thoughts. I
am often suspected of callousness. This letter will show you how
truly I feel the sorrows of my few real friends. I cannot bear to
think that Orange should be beaten, as it were, by Parflete. A more
fawning, wretched creature than Parflete one never saw. I shall
not be set right in my own idea of the Divine Justice unless this
battle, at any rate, is to the strong. Write to me. I don't want to
whine, but I may tell you that I am not happy.
Your affectionate friend,
BEAUCLERK R.
Sara sat on a low, embroidered stool by the fender, and, as she studied
each line of his lordship's despatch (for so he regarded it), she would
dip her fingers from time to time into a blue satin sweet-box, select,
after due consideration, a chocolate or a sugared-almond, and nibble it
somewhat fastidiously, with an air of making concessions to her human
side. The exercise of divining the many hidden meanings in Reckage's
epistle was certainly purely intellectual. Nevertheless, as she read the
last sentences, she smiled with malicious triumph, for did they not
convey a declaration of strong friendship in a letter designed, beyond
doubt, as an argument in disfavour of all merely sentimental ties
between men and women, and as a frank confession of his own inability to
sustain any relation of the kind? How often had he maintained an
opposite opinion--seeming contemptuous, indolent, invulnerable,
unconscious of her beauty, amused rather than attracted by her brilliant
spirit. Every instinct of the coquette, jealous of her own power and
wretched from the sterile suffering of wounded pride, resented bitterly
the unpardonable ease which he had appeared to enjoy in her society.
Now, however, that he appealed to her womanliness by a humble
surrender, her better, more generous nature asserted itself. Some of the
old affection she had long felt for him revived. Where there had once
been love, a kind of desperate fidelity still lingered, and, although
Robert Orange was the ideal passion of her heart, Reckage possessed a
certain influence over her which was not the less powerful because it
had its root and constant nourishment in their common memory of a
childhood and first youth spent together in the same county, with the
same friends and the same bores. She slipped his letter, with a sigh,
into her belt, and turned her attention for the third time to Pensee's
tear-stained pages.
MY DARLING SARA,--I can scarcely write. Although I know the mercy
and wisdom hidden in these sad events, my heart is heavy. The best
thing is to preach resignation _till_ you have it; and then,
_because_ you have it, you _will_ preach it. Robert's love of
Brigit makes little outward show, but I know that it is terribly
real. We are never so near to our loved ones as when we have left
them for God, but _nearness_ of that intangible, invisible kind
amounts to agony. At least, I think so. Robert's self-restraint is
killing me. When we first met, he shook from head to foot, his very
face quivered, but he said nothing. I felt that he would never
allow any one to speak of this trouble or offer him the least
sympathy. In the necessary discussion of the legal aspects of the
case, he was very calm, and seemed rather an adviser himself than
the person chiefly concerned. It is not easy to understand him; yet
I appreciate reserve. If everybody could understand us, what joy