Robert Orange
call to some other vocation, Yes."
His heart was troubled, full of vague combinations. The events of the
day had seemed mechanical, foolish--a course of sorrowful attempting and
self-reproach.
"Both of your affirmatives are satisfactory," said Disraeli; "you are, I
see, what the Americans call a 'whole-hog man.' Now let us consider ways
and means. I saw Prince d'Alchingen this afternoon. He announces the
increased distress and reformation of Parflete. We must therefore
prepare for further villainy. Mrs. Parflete has confided to d'Alchingen
her desire to go on the stage. He encourages this ambition, and she has
accepted his invitation to Hadley Lodge, where she will recite in his
private _salle de comedie_."
Robert, though much taken by surprise, betrayed no sign of it.
"You cannot tell what she will do--until she does it," he answered. "She
may have great talents."
"Well, one forgets that when Voltaire said, '_Il faut cultiver notre
jardin_,' he was quoting, with sardonic irony, Saint Teresa! You cannot
be pleased at Mrs. Parflete's decision. The theatre in England is a
sport--not an art. In France it is an art, but," he added drily, "it
embraces more than one profession."
"Whether a woman be a saint, a queen, or an actress--once before the
public--she is exposed to severe discipline. And I don't fear for this
one. She will take her revenge on life by laughing at it."
"I daresay. D'Alchingen calls her _un peu etourdi_. She has the
audacity--she may have the fortune of despair. Confess--you have run a
little wild about her."
"I ran off the track, if you like," said Orange, smiling.
"Women fascinate the hearts, but they do not affect the destinies of
determined men," returned Disraeli. "If you have not won anything by
this affair, it would be hard to say what winning is. There is but one
feeling and one opinion about the really courageous stand you have
made."
"I must gain confidence all the same in my own ability to keep my
resolves when they are clear to me. I once prided myself in that ability
as the one gem in my character."
"You may laugh at yourself as much as you please. Beauty is as well
worth admiring as anything on earth, and the world is better lost for
love, than love for the world. At least, let us say so. I met Reckage at
the Travellers' yesterday, and had some talk with him about his
Association. I think it far better that Aumerle should not resign, as he
could, and probably would, be very mischievous as a freelance. Reckage
is all for shaking him off, but these things, in any circumstances,
should never be forced."
"I advised Reckage myself to sound each member of the Committee
privately. Then, at the general meeting, he could form some just
estimate of the difficulties in his way, and in their way."
"Reckage, though a mean fellow, might give you an opportunity to work a
strong Sub-Committee," suggested Disraeli. "One cannot calculate on the
course of a man so variable and impulsive. He proposes to get rid of
Aumerle, and make concessions to his set. It is an unhappy policy, and
always unhappily applied, to imagine that men can be reconciled by
partial concessions. I attribute much of Reckage's behaviour to his fear
of society. Society itself, however, does not practise any of the
virtues which it demands from the individual. It ridicules the highest
motives, and degrades the most heroic achievements. It is fed with
emotions and spectacles: it cries, laughs, and condemns without
knowledge and without enthusiasm. Pitiable indeed is the politician who
makes society his moral barometer."
"I have urged him to be firm. Christianity was never yet at peace with
its age. There is no other Faith whose first teacher was persecuted and
crucified. Viewed solely as a point of administration, it is disastrous
to cut religious thought according to the fashionable pattern of the
hour. This has been the constant weakness of English Churchmen. They try
to match eternity with the times."
"My opinion is that Reckage must act with considerable caution, or he
will find himself repudiated by every party. The English like a fellow
to stand by his guns. I come now to your own business. Will you do me a
favour? Before you reply let me define it. I have been asked to send
some good speaker to Hanborough. The occasion is the opening of a Free
Library. Remarks--of a laudatory nature--on the princely munificence of
Hanborough's mayor, Hanborough's corporation, Hanborough's leading
citizens, a eulogy of their public glories and private virtues--with a
little thrown in about Shakespeare, Scott, and the Lord-Lieutenant of
the county--would be adequately appreciated. The attendance will be
large: the nobility, gentry, and clergy of the neighbourhood will flower
about you on the platform; a banquet will follow in the evening, and in
the morning blushing girls will hand you bouquets at the railway
station. Can you refuse?"
"Not easily, I admit," said Robert, laughing; "but Reckage is rather low
and unhappy just now about his broken engagement. Wouldn't such an
adventure as this take him out of himself?"
"This is not an adventure--this is an opportunity," said Disraeli; "it
would be nursed into a stepping-stone. I know fifty men who are worrying
themselves to death to get it."
"You need not tell me that," replied Robert, with gratitude. "It would
be a great thing for me. But Reckage is always at his best in functions
of the kind. Hanborough might make much of him, and then his
Association would feel flattered by reflected honours."
"You invariably set your face against your own advantages, and I am
afraid I shall not live to see you where you ought to be. However,
Reckage shall have the invitation. Now, good-night. By the by, have you
heard that Castrillon is now in the marriage-market? His mistress has
given her consent, and the Prince has promised his blessing. Could
things look more auspicious? Good-night."
For the second time that evening Castrillon's name fell with a warning
note on Robert's ear. Disraeli, he knew, would not have mentioned him
out of sheer idleness. There was some danger threatening in that
quarter, and it was impossible to dissociate this from Brigit. The
Marquis of Castrillon had been with her in Madrid, and also at Baron
Zeuill's palace after the escape from Loadilla.
"Where is Castrillon now?" asked Robert.
"I understand he is in London," answered Disraeli; "at Claridge's Hotel.
D'Alchingen and he are on excellent terms."
"Good!" said Robert, tightening his lips. "You will find he has been
invited to Hadley."
"I haven't a doubt of it."
"Then I must contrive to see him first."
Early the following morning Orange presented himself at the house of an
old, very devout priest of his acquaintance.
"Father," said he, "this afternoon or to-morrow I may be in
circumstances of danger."
"What danger is this?" asked the priest.
"There is a man whom I may be compelled, in defence of my honour, to
challenge to a duel."
"To approach the Sacrament in such a frame of mind," said the old man,
"is not to prepare yourself for danger. For to come to confession with a
determination of taking vengeance is to put an obstacle to the grace of
the Sacrament. You must preserve your honour by some other way. Indeed,
the honour you think to preserve by this is not real honour, but merely
the estimation of bad men founded on bad principles."
"I know," said Orange, hotly; "it is impossible, however, to withdraw
now."
"If you should be beaten," returned the other, who had been in the army
himself as a youth, and could comprehend the worldly view of the
situation, "if you should be beaten, what becomes of the honour you wish
to defend? And if you should be killed in that state of soul in which
you go to the duel, you will go straight to hell and everlasting shame."
"I implore you, Father, to pray for me, and to hear my confession, if
you possibly can."
"Certainly, I cannot hear you," said the priest. "But this is what I
will do. Wear this _Agnus Dei_, and perhaps God will have mercy on you
for the sake of this, and afford you time for penance. Understand,
however, I do not give it to you in order to encourage you in your bad
purpose, but that you may wear it with all reverence and respect, and
perhaps be moved to obedience."
Robert thanked him, accepting the gift in a right spirit. His self-will,
however, was aroused. He had determined to fight Castrillon, and fight
he would.
CHAPTER XXI
Sara awoke that same morning with a foreboding heart. She wrote a letter
to Reckage postponing his call, and another to Pensee Fitz Rewes, asking
her to be at home that afternoon. At half-past two the young lady drove
up, in her brougham, to the widow's door in Curzon Street. The blinds
were down, and the house gave every indication that its owner was not in
London. Sara, however, was admitted, and Pensee received her in a little
room, hung with lilac chintz and full of porcelain, at the back of the
house. Pensee, wearing a loose blue robe, seemed over-excited and
sad--with that sadness which seems to fall upon the soul as snow upon
water. She was reclining on the sofa, reading a worn copy of Law's
_Serious Call_ which had belonged to the late Viscount, and bore many of
his pencil-marks. This in itself was to Sara a sign of some unusual
melancholy in her friend.
"Why," she said, kissing her soft, pale cheek, "why didn't you let me
know that you had returned? I thought you were still in Paris."
"My dear," said Pensee, sitting up with a sudden movement and
supporting herself on her two hands. "I am no longer my own mistress. I
have become a puppet--a marionette: a kind of lady-in-waiting--a person
to whom women talk when they have nothing to say, and to whom men talk
when they have nothing to do."
Sara chose a seat and studied the speaker with a new curiosity. She was
charming; vexation gave humanity to her waxen features, and the flash in
her eyes suggested hitherto unsuspected fires in her temperament, "She
has more spirit than I gave her credit for," thought Sara, and she
added, "Darling!" aloud.
"Darling, indeed!" said Pensee. "I can tell you I am tired of being a
darling. There are limits.... I have no patience with Brigit, and Robert
drives me to the conclusion that good men are fools--fools! I suppose he
told you that I was in town again?"
"Yes."
"Well, he won't come and see me himself because _she_ is here."
"That is merely a decision on principle. He longs to come."
"Quite so. But the girl does not deserve him."
Sara showed no astonishment; she maintained her thoughtful air, and
replied with tranquillity--
"He thinks she is perfect."
"I find no vulgar faults in her, myself, although there seems no foolish
thing left that she hasn't done. I am sure that every one will think
her light, worldly, and frivolous. Let me say what I have been through.
After the first terrible day and night at St. Malo, there was no more
crying. There was not another tear. We went to Paris. She spent all her
mornings at Notre Dame, all her afternoons with old Monsieur Lanitaux of
the Conservatoire, all her evenings at the theatre. She found many of
her mother's old friends. In the theatrical world I find much loyalty
toward those actually born in the profession. They treated her as though
she were a young queen. Lanitaux managed to get her privately before the
Empress Eugenie. She sang for the Empress: the Empress cried and gave
her an emerald ring."
"Then she has talent."
"Genius, I believe," said Pensee, solemnly. "This makes her hateful and
lovable at the same moment. She is determined to be an actress. She
never speaks of Robert, and she shuts herself up in her room reciting