Robert Orange
Brigit. Will you look?"
He untied the packet, and recognised presently Orange's handwriting on
an envelope.
"You seem rather displeased," said Pensee; "you think this is all very
strange. It--it isn't a common case."
"No case is common."
"Well, you must help me to decide whether I ought to give her this
letter at once. I can't take so much responsibility."
"Neither can I. She is a perfectly free woman now, at any rate."
He did not approve of the situation, and he made no attempt to conceal
his feelings. His face became set. Pensee thought she detected a certain
reprimand in the very tone of his voice.
"It isn't a common case," she repeated again. "He says he is on his way
to Rome--to the Jesuits--for a long Retreat, if they will take him. If
he knew--what has happened--he might change his mind."
"What! you would have him turn back?"
"Oh, don't be so hard."
"I am not hard," he added more gently. "But would this woman, if she
really loved him, wish him to turn back? And, if there is anything in
him, could he ever be happy in any stopping short of the fullest
renunciation--once resolved on that renunciation?"
"Ah, don't put it that way to her. She has had so much trouble already.
Your Church seems so selfish. Forgive me, but I do resent these celibate
views. They are unnatural."
"I shan't interfere. Take her the letter by all means. She must decide
for herself."
Pensee rose from the table, and went up the stairs to the room where
Brigit still knelt by Parflete's dead body.
"Dearest," said Lady Fitz Rewes, "I think you ought to read this letter.
I have had one also. Robert thinks of taking a great step, and
perhaps----"
Her glance met Brigit's.
"No," said Brigit, under her breath: "no."
Then, with trembling hands, she read the letter once, twice, three
times.
"Say something," said Pensee, touching her. "Say something, Brigit."
She smiled and held the letter to the candle flame. It caught fire and
burnt away quickly while she held it.
"Mind your hand--it will catch your hand."
"I don't feel it," said Brigit. She bore the scar of that burn always.
"Say something," implored Pensee.
"He is on his way to Rome. He asks me not to write to him. Castrillon is
dying. They fought a duel."
"But of course you will write--now. You must write."
"Hasn't my love done harm enough already? I will never see him again. I
shall never write to him again."
"You can't mean that. You can't realise what you are saying. People will
like him all the better for fighting Castrillon."
"Oh, it isn't the duel, Pensee. He sees his way clearly. He has always
tried not to see it. I, too, have tried not to see it. But all that is
at an end now."
"And he will renounce his career."
"Everything! Everything!"
Pensee threw up her hands, and left the room. Father Foster was standing
under a gas-jet at the end of the corridor reading his office. He looked
at Lady Fitz Rewes.
"She won't stand in his way?" he asked quietly.
"She won't stand in his way," she answered. "I hope you realise what
that means--to her."
"I hope I can realise what it means to both of them," said he.
CHAPTER XXX
In 1879, a distinguished author who was engaged in writing a history of
the Catholic Movement in England, begged Mr. Disraeli, then Earl of
Beaconsfield, for some particulars, not generally known, of Robert
Orange's life.
He replied as follows:--
HUGHENDEN MANOR, _Nov. 28, 1879_.
MY DEAR F.,--You ask me for an estimate of Monsignor Orange.
Questions are always easy. Let me offer you facts in return. The
Castrillon duel was a nine days' wonder--much discussed and soon
forgotten. Castrillon left a letter with his second, M. de
Lamoignon, to the effect that he had offered Orange "intolerable
insults" which "no man of honour" could have suffered. Mrs.
Parflete's name did not transpire, but Prince d'Alchingen and
others gave speculation no industry on the matter. We were at no
loss to know the real cause of the quarrel. Orange applied for the
Chiltern Hundreds and went into strict retreat for six months.
During that time he saw no friends, wrote no letters, read none. I
remember his conduct was severely criticised, because the death of
Parflete opened out other possibilities of action. He was not a
man, however, whom one could order to be this, that, or the other;
still less could one reproach him for not being this, that, or the
other. It was his faith to believe that salvation rests on the
negation and renunciation of personality. He pushed this to the
complete suppression of his Will, tenderly considered. I need not
detain you on the familiar dogmas of Christianity with regard to
the reign of nature and the reign of grace. Your view may be
expressed thus:--
"_Puis-qu'il aime a perir, je consens qu'il perisse,_"
and you will think that Orange said of Mrs. Parflete, as Polyeucte
of his wife:--
_"Je ne regarde Pauline
Que comme un obstacle a mon bien."_
This would be an injustice. Orange was, to me, a deeply interesting
character. I saw little of him after he entered the priesthood, but
his writings, his sermons, and the actual work he accomplished
proved conclusively enough that he was right in following--and we
were wrong in opposing--his true vocation. The Church received her
own again. Rome did not smile at him at first. A de Hausee, however,
never yet tapped long at any gate. The family--which had been
stirred to fury by his father's trespass--welcomed the son as a
prodigal manque. His aunt, the Princess Varese, left him half of her
large fortune. He lived himself in great seclusion and simplicity,
and died, as you are aware, of over-work last year. The one friend
he corresponded with and occasionally saw was Lady Fitz Rewes. Sara
de Treverell did not marry the Duke of Marshire, but three years
before Orange's death she took the veil, and is now a Carmelite nun.
Many people were amazed at this, but I was not. Mrs. Parflete,
Orange never saw again after the night of her performance at Prince
d'Alchingen's. Her career continues. From time to time a rumour
reaches me that she is about to marry a nobleman, an author, her
manager, or an American millionaire. Quite a mistake. She, too, is a
visionary, and, I should say, respectable. If you have not seen her
act, seize the first opportunity. If you think of writing more than
the merest sketch of Orange's strange career, may I suggest the
following motto from the _Purgatorio_?--
"_Cast down the seed of weeping and attend._"
Yours very sincerely, my dear F.,
BEACONSFIELD.
UNWIN BROTHERS, THE GRESHAM PRESS, WOKING AND LONDON.
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