Robert Orange
plenty of amusement, and that indescribable treasure known as the _joie
de vivre_. Orange was no exception to this rule, and there were many
hours when he tasted the bitterness of poverty, and felt the harsh
differences between the outward gifts bestowed by Fate. It was not that
he cared for luxuries, but it seemed hard that a horse should have to be
counted among them, and that it was necessary to work for twelve hours a
day in order to live at all, even as a dependent, among those with whom
he was, by right of birth and ability, the equal, and to whom he was, in
many cases, the superior. How many promising careers and brave hearts
have fallen short under the strain of a position so mortifying and
apparently so unjust! In public life, whether one joins the Church, the
Camp, the Senate, or the Arts, the trials of strength and courage are
most severe even to those who, in material circumstances at any rate,
are favourites of fortune. Neither influence nor riches avail much in
the terrific struggles for supremacy, for recognition, for mere fair
play itself. What must the conflict be then for those who, with slight
purses and few allies, find themselves pitted against the powerful of
the earth? Discouragement, in weak natures, soon turns to envy, and the
spectacle of human unkindness has driven many a reflective, delicate
soul to say that the companionship of his fellow-men is unlovely, not to
be admired, and difficult, at times, not to hate. In disgust of the
world--where one has been wounded, or where one has wounded
others--(wounded vanity and remorse are alike bitter in their fruits),
numbers, with a sort of despairing fatalism, retire from the campaign,
cut themselves adrift from their people and their country, and, having
failed in life, court death under strange skies in far-off lands.
Robert, who looked rather for the triumph of ideas than the glory of
individuals, was not easily dismayed. So long as the right was by some
means accomplished, and good seeds brought forth a good harvest,--the
burden and heat of the day, the changes of weather, the scantiness of
the wage, the ingratitude and treachery of agents, the hardships, the
toil--mattered little enough. Devoured by ambition in his early youth,
he had never permitted himself the least doubtful means of attaining any
object. He was not obliged, therefore, to affect an indifference to
success in order to divert attention from his methods of arriving at it.
No man, once bent upon a project, could be more resolute than Orange.
None were more stern in self-repression and self-discipline. But in
controlling, or subduing altogether, the softer possibilities in a
character, there is always the danger lest uncharitableness, hardness of
heart, or blind severity of judgment should take their place. Young
people with strong natures can seldom find the middle course between
extremes, and this one, in curbing a desire for power, will fairly crush
his whole vigour, while that one, in revolt against the tyranny of
love, will become the slave of pessimism. There were days, no doubt,
and weeks when Orange found every counsel, a mockery, and every law, a
paradox. The strife between the flesh and the spirit went on in his life
as it does in all lives, but he was one who held, that, whatever the
issue of it all might be, a man must be a man while he may--losing
himself neither in the whirl of passion nor in the enervating worlds of
reverie, but accepting the fulness of existence--its pains, vanities,
pleasures, cares, sorrows,--with a fighter's courage and the fortitude
of an immortal soul.
As he walked along toward Vigo Street in the cold, dark autumn morning,
he felt more than able to hold his own against all adversaries. And this
was not the insolence of conceit, but the just strength which comes from
a vigorous conscience and perfect health. A soldier counts it no shame,
but rather an honour, to die in battle, so Robert, surveying the chances
before him, stood determined, in every event, to endure until the end,
to fight until the end, to maintain his ground until the end. But if he
had put sentiment from his path, it was not so easily weeded from his
constitution, and while he was able to persuade himself that his
renunciation of all passionate love--except as a bitter-sweet
memory--was complete, he had to realise that the old grudge against
Castrillon had grown into a formidable, unquenchable, over-mastering
hatred. Where this strange obsession was concerned, no religious or
other consideration availed in the least. Bit by bit, hour by hour, the
feeling had grown, deriving vigour from every source, every allusion,
and every experience. The books he read, the conversations he heard, the
people he met--all seemed to illuminate and justify, in some mysterious
way, his enmity against Castrillon. He may have believed that he was
resigned to his ill-luck in love, but a sense that he had been defrauded
haunted his thoughts always, and the longing to square his account with
destiny was less a wish than a mute instinct. How great had been the
temptation to defy all laws--human and Divine--where Brigit Parflete was
in question, no one can know. In getting the better of it, the motive
had not been, it must be confessed, the fear of punishment here or
hereafter. This would not be a true history, nor a reasonable one, if it
were not acknowledged that much of the victory in that situation had
been due to the woman's youth and candid, sunny nature. No passion--far
less a guilty one--he thought, could have had a place in that childlike
heart. She was Pompilia--not Juliet, because, like the more ill-starred
heroine, she had met sorrow before she met love, and the strong emotion
which comes first in a young life makes the deep, the ineffaceable
impression on its character. She had the strength to suffer undeserved
woe, but the penalties of defiance and disobedience would surely kill
her. The thought of any desperate step seemed impossible.
The question of love at that point in Orange's life had therefore been
decided as much by conditions as it had by principles and conscience.
But with the Castrillon difficulty, it was a question of hatred--not
love. In hate, Orange was as little given to brooding as he was in other
matters. He had never been able to forgive the duel at Loadilla which
had occasioned so much scandal in Madrid, and brought Brigit's name into
bad company. Robert, before his meeting with Mrs. Parflete, had fought
several duels, and each of them about a different pretty face.
Encounters of the kind form part of a youth's education on the
Continent: such experiences are considered not romantic, not heroic, not
striking, but merely usual and manly. It was impossible for one brought
up in this view to feel that duelling--under certain provocation and
fair conditions--was wrong. The custom was frequently abused, no doubt,
yet the same could be said of all customs, and Orange, rightly or
wrongly, held a conviction on the subject which no argument could
affect. But, with a lover's unreasonableness, he had found the fight
between Bodava and Castrillon an insult to the lady at stake. He
suspected, too, that Castrillon had spoken lightly of her to General
Prim, to Zeuill, perhaps to d'Alchingen. This was insufferable, and so,
inasmuch as the mischief had been done, he would not and could not
remain outside the combat. There seemed, also, a certain feeling at the
Clubs where the Madrid scandal had become known, that Castrillon, on
the whole, had proved a more dashing, and was probably the favoured,
suitor. Orange, whose personal courage had been demonstrated too often
to be called into doubt, had been criticised for an absence of moral, or
rather immoral, courage with regard to Mrs. Parflete. Reckage's sly
phrases about the ecclesiastical temperament; the sneers of some
adventurous women on the subject of platonic affection; the good-natured
brow-lifting of the wits and the worldly were not easy to bear for a man
who was, by nature, impulsive, by nature, regardless of every sacrifice
and all opinions while a strong purpose remained unfulfilled. Robert
made up his mind that, come what might, whether his action was approved
or blamed, or whether he won or lost, pick some quarrel he would, and
see how Castrillon liked it, and thus settle the matter then and for
always. Castrillon had received a military training; he was a most
adroit swordsman and a notorious shot; he would not be one to make a
quarrel difficult.
When Orange reached the house in Vigo Street, it was still early in the
day. As he mounted the stairs, he noticed a fellow-lodger, still in his
evening clothes, entering a room on the second floor. He did not see the
man's face, but he was struck by something familiar in his build. This
impression was not haunting, it passed almost immediately, and the young
man settled down with resolution to his work. At one o'clock he went to
Brookes's, had his lunch, met a few acquaintances who studied his face
with curiosity, and a few colleagues who tried to persuade each other
that he was a man who could play a deep game. He returned to his rooms
and resumed work till about six o'clock, when his landlord informed him
that a lady, who would not give her name, wished to see him. The lady
was tall, handsomely dressed, darkly veiled. What, he thought, if it
should be Brigit? What joy! What rashness! Robert went out into the hall
to meet the strange visitor. She made a gesture signifying silence, and,
on greeting her, he did not utter her name. It was Lady Sara.
She did not speak until she had entered the shabbily furnished
sitting-room and closed the door.
"This is a mad thing on my part," she said; "a mad thing. I know it. Of
course, I might have asked you to come to me, but I couldn't wait so
long. And I don't trust letters. Some news can't be written. It is not
about Mrs. Parflete," she added, hastily, "you need not fear that. It is
about Beauclerk. He came to see me this afternoon. He is going to throw
you over. He is going to fail you at the Meeting. You are to test public
opinion while he sits under shelter--to profit by your experience. What
do you think of that?"
"You are very good to come. But I hope you are mistaken all the same. He
may throw me over. I am sure he will send me a word of warning."
"That was his first intention. He gave it up, because he knew you
wouldn't act without him. And he wants you to act--for the reason I have
given. Oh, I'm so ashamed, so humiliated to think that any friend of
mine could be such a traitor."
She unpinned her veil, and seemed all the handsomer for her scornful
expression and flashing eyes.
"You must be the first to retire," she continued. "I won't have you
treated in this contemptuous way: I won't endure it. I want you to write
to the Committee at once--at once--without a moment's loss of time. This
is why I have come here myself. You seem to have something in you which
they take for weakness. You will stand anything. Oh, I know why well
enough. You like to be a martyr--which means saying nothing and
suffering a good deal. But I call it a mistake. I call it irritating,
misleading, actually wrong. If I were a man I would kill people."
"It is easy enough to kill."
"So they say. Be more unscrupulous, dear friend. Give your nature full
play now and again. You can't make me believe that you are ever
natural."
"Some can trust their natures. I don't trust mine."
"Don't you see how much more power you would have over men if you were
more emotional, more spontaneous, more human? Who gives you credit for
self-control? No one. They say you are self-contained--a very different
idea. They say you are cold. Now, I don't care what I do. I follow
every impulse. I must follow them. I had to come here this evening. I