Robert Orange
would there be in discovering our souls to those whom we love!
Brigit has shut herself up in a room. She cries incessantly (she is
so young) and is dreadfully changed. She wishes to go to Paris--for
she has some idea of resuming her musical studies. Her voice is one
of her great gifts, yet I can't imagine any one singing in such a
tortured state of mind. I don't like to say that actually I fear
for her reason, but she has, I see, far more heart, poor child,
than I ever supposed. How wrong it is to attempt any judgment or
estimate of another person's capacity for suffering! She is in a
pitiable condition, unnaturally patient in a sense--for it is
patience on the rack. Our Lord dreaded suffering and even feared
it. Of course, one might easily say that an unhappy love affair is
very common, that it is almost profane to compare such an ordinary
trouble with the serious, exceptional trials of life. But although
Lord Byron declared that "man's love was of man's life a thing
apart," his own poems and his own career gave the lie absolutely to
the statement (indeed, I am often tempted to believe that women
exhibit, on the whole, greater strength of will in their affections
than men). I must say, therefore, that the spectacle of a bride and
bridegroom, devoted to each other, yet separated on their very
wedding day, is quite as serious and sorrowful as (say) the death
of a parent, or the loss of a child, or any other melancholy
occurrence of everyday life. And what is worse, an atmosphere of
_scandal_ penetrates this story--making it most shocking to all
refined minds, and peculiarly so to temperaments of extraordinary
delicacy. It will take every atom of _my_ courage and constant
prayers to bear it _for_ them. What must it be, therefore, to
themselves? I tremble at the appalling things in future for us. As
for my uncle, I dare not read his letter yet. He must be so upset,
so _horrified_. I have never before been called on for such a proof
of friendship. It is quite dreadful to be mixed up in a kind of
_cause celebre_. The great justice of God is always mixed with
great hardships, and is often executed by those worthy neither of
confidence nor respect. I am sure that we shall all have to go
through many humiliations before this matter is settled. I know,
darling, that _you_ will say I am making a rather narrow-minded
fuss. But I do hate publicity, and if it doesn't kill Robert
outright, it will have some shattering effect upon his character
and his health. Really, I am not thinking so much of myself. Your
own _reckless_ bravery, however, would quail a little, I fancy, at
the idea of having your most intimate feelings called out from the
housetops and discussed in the streets. And remember, please, that
Robert is a dreamer--a poet. Of course, in every _active_
expedition there must be some few idealistic, Quixotic souls who
have to suffer vicariously for the rest. He is such an one. But
that sort of feeling of soreness which comes from the sense of
martyrdom is not quite the same as a raw wound on one's own
_personal_ score. I do hope I am clear. I try to look on the bright
side, but there are days when the unseen world and its glorious
realities become dubious. These are trials of faith, I know. If one
could be wise, one would keep silent at such times. Now, dearest
Sara, good-night.
Yours ever lovingly,
PENSEE.
CHAPTER XIV
Lord Garrow and Lady Sara left town the next day for a short visit at
Kemmerstone Park, the seat of Arabella, Marchioness of Churleigh. Lady
Churleigh had a favourite nephew for whom she was extremely anxious "to
do something." Vague by nature, she had never been able to define her
ambition in more precise terms, but, as she entertained influential
people only, it was considered, in many circles, that she over-did her
civilities toward the mammon of unrighteousness. Those who were not
invited called her heartless; those who accepted her hospitality found
fault with her brains. All praised her cook, and no one ever thought of
her nephew. It was known that she could not leave him her money. Every
pair of eyes read his name--Lord Douglas Hendlesham--on his bedroom door
at the top of the grand staircase, and visitors soon learnt to associate
this advertisement with a pale, haughty young man who appeared
occasionally at meals, or sometimes listened disdainfully to the music
after dinner in the saloon. Distinguished persons, staying at
Kemmerstone for the first time, would ask a fellow-guest, "Who is the
melancholy youth who looks so ill?" "That," they would be told, "is
Douglas Hendlesham, I _think_."
Disraeli called him "a personified hallucination."
The party, on this particular occasion, consisted of Agnes Carillon (who
attracted unusual attention as the _fiancee_ of Lord Reckage), the
Bishop of Hadley (her father), the Duke and Duchess of Bevensey, Charles
Aumerle, and Mr. Disraeli. Lord Garrow lost no time in conveying his
version of the Orange scandal to the ex-Minister's ears. It was a damp
afternoon, and the two gentlemen marched up and down the smoking-room
together, talking so earnestly that the Duke (to his rage) dared not
interrupt them, and drove out instead with his Duchess and Lady
Churleigh--who bored him beyond sleep. Disraeli had been opposed, from
the first, to Robert's marriage with Mrs. Parflete, for, as other
diplomatists, he preferred his own plans before those of Providence, and
he had wished to see his young friend wisely united to the
unexceptionable Viscountess Fitz Rewes.
"But," he observed, shrugging his shoulders, "to talk expediency is not
a safe way of opening the game with Orange. Many men have ability, few
have genius, but fewer still have character. Orange has a rectangular
will and an indomitable character. _Character_ is the rarest thing in
England."
Lord Garrow stiffened his back.
"I have been educated in a contrary belief," said he. "Our national
character is our dearest possession."
"That is because it is so rare. You mistake your education for your
experience--a common error. By character I mean that remnant of a man's
life which is probably stronger than death, and ought to be stronger
than worldly considerations."
"Far be it from me to go into such subtleties," returned his lordship,
stealing a glance at Disraeli's powerful face. "Your friend, at all
events, has done for himself now. His merits seem to be more interesting
than respectable, and this marriage has furnished conversation for the
whole town--chiefly because Beauclerk Reckage was his best man. One
cannot help feeling sorry for him, but it is certainly a very bad thing.
How will he justify his rash conduct?"
"He may think it unwise to be detailed in self-justification."
"That is all well enough, and so far I am with you. In such
circumstances, one doesn't want to tell a lie, and yet one doesn't want
to tell the truth."
"Well, there are many duties and difficulties in life: there is but one
obligation--courage."
He fixed his eyes on the fire blazing in the grate, and repeated the
word with great emphasis--"Courage!"
"He will need it. An unpleasant suggestion has been put forward by the
lawyers."
"Divorce?" said Disraeli.
"Yes."
"A Bishop was telling me the other day that when one attacks the
principle of divorce one forgets that it was originally a Divine
institution! But I agree with you--it is unpleasant. You will find that
Orange won't hear of such a course. I see great dangers ahead for him,
but I see no honourable way of avoiding them. When a man, careless of
danger, unconcerned with profit, takes up the cause of God against the
world, others may not follow, but they must admire him. Abstract
sentiments of virtue do not charm me. Orange is a Roman Catholic,
however, and therefore a practical idealist. The practical idealists of
England are the Dissenters--mostly the Methodists. John Wesley was
considered crack-brained by his contemporaries at Oxford; he was a
greater mystic, in several ways, than Newman, but he was not such a
poet."
"I know nothing about Dissenters and that class. As for the
Catholics--the few I am acquainted with are civil and sensible."
"That is true. Most of the English Catholics imagine that St. Peter's
and the Vatican can be maintained on the policy of a parish church in
Mayfair! But one moment. There is Aumerle in the hall with a telegram. I
wonder if he has any fresh news about poor Derby." [Footnote: Lord Derby
was then lying at the point of death.]
With this unimpeachable excuse he left his noble companion, who, more
certain than ever that Disraeli could never be in touch with the upper
classes of England, retired to his own room and wrote down in a journal
all he could remember of their conversation.
Lady Sara, meanwhile, had invited Agnes Carillon to walk through the
famous gardens of Kemmerstone, and, as each girl was anxious to study
the other, they started on the expedition in that high pitch of nervous
excitement and generous animosity which one may detect in splendid
rivals, or even in formal allies. Sara dressed more richly than was the
fashion at that time among English unmarried ladies. Her furs, velvets,
laces and jewels were referred to an Asiatic, barbaric love of display.
Agnes, therefore, who had attired herself, in protest, even more plainly
than usual, was a little taken aback to find her remarkable acquaintance
in brown cashmere, a cloth jacket, and a severe felt hat of the Tyrolean
shape, which, poised upon her chignon, tilted far over her fine blue
eyes. Both women, however, were so young and handsome that even the
trying fashions of the period could not destroy their brilliant
appearance. The chagrin of the one and the ironical triumph of the other
soon gave way to more generous feelings. Each took her companion's
measure with a swift, intelligent, respectful glance.
"Shall we need umbrellas?" said Agnes.
"I have nothing on that will spoil," replied Sara, "but I am a little
anxious about your shoes. Are they thick enough?"
Miss Carillon was above many vanities; she left her facial beauty to
take care of itself. But her feet were uncommonly well moulded, and she
was careful not to disguise them in the hideous porpoise-hide boots with
flat soles and no instep which found favour with her generation.
"They look very nice," continued Sara, "and I really think they are
worth a slight cold. Take my arm, for then we can walk better. How nobly
Lord Reckage has behaved in this dreadful affair of Robert Orange! You
won't think me strange for introducing the subject at once? It must be
on both our minds, for you are naturally thinking of Reckage, and I am
thinking of dear Pensee."
"Beauclerk is very fond of Mr. Orange."
"He must be. Do notice the autumn tint on those beech-trees. How I envy
artists--although it is not their business to contend with Nature. The
great vice of the present day is _bravura_--an attempt to do something
beyond the truth. That reminds me--how does the portrait grow? David
Rennes is extremely clever."
"Beauclerk admires his work. He considers him finer than Millais."
"What does he think of the portrait?"
"He hasn't seen it yet. My people are much pleased with the likeness. I
find it flattering."
"Indeed!" said Sara thoughtfully. "Did you give him many sittings?"
"He knows my face pretty well. We are acquaintances of some years'
standing. Papa has a high opinion of him."
"And you?"