Robert Orange Part 22

"You have not half showed your capabilities yet," replied Agnes. "We have to look upon this world as the merest pilgrimage, but we can help each other. I have hope because I have faith. Sara de Treverell said the other day that, in men, experience often makes mere callousness of character. Is this true, David?"

"Not of me; you have saved me from the worst things. But it simply worries and almost exasperates me to hear religious talk from any one.

When I hear a sermon I feel an inclination always to say, 'My dear fellow, can't you put your case better?' I want good stuff about Divine and human nature--not this vagueness and plat.i.tude. Why don't they tell one something about the optimism of G.o.d, even before the spectacle of men's weakness? But, instead, we are told to moan about this vale of tears; we are promised chastis.e.m.e.nts, disappointments, woes, persecution. A philosophy of suffering makes men strong, but a philosophy of despair is bound to make a generation of pleasure-seekers."

"And why?"

"Because the veritable world, even on its bare merits, _is not so bad_.

It is full of beauty, and interest, and enjoyment. It is a lie to call it so many vile names. One's good sense revolts. Do you think, darling, that I could look at you, love you, be loved by you, and call life a bad joke?"

Since the beginning of time this logic has held its own against all scientific criticism. The two, being secure from observation, kissed each other and accepted the earth with perfect cheerfulness. They made some plans, and after the agony of parting till the next day, each went home to write the other a long letter. In the course of the afternoon Rennes pa.s.sed through Arlington Street four times in a hansom and twice on foot. Agnes was always at one of the windows innocently observing the weather. He thought her the loveliest thing created. He pitied, with benevolence, all other men, and he spent an hour at his solicitor's office, without begrudging the time, or chafing under the fatigue.

Two days later Lord Reckage received the following communication from Miss Carillon:--

MY DEAR BEAUCLERK,--

This letter will astonish and grieve you. I have written several.

None please me. All say too much and yet leave all unsaid. I must send this one and trust to your generosity. I am wholly to blame, wholly in the wrong. I am no actress but I have been acting a part--the part of a happy woman. My effort has deceived many--Papa, Mamma, and, I believe, you among them. Dear Beauclerk, you will think me ungrateful, false, weak. I don't excuse myself. As I have said, the blame is all mine, and the punishment must be all mine.

When you receive this I shall have left England with Mr. Rennes. He had arranged to go to the East for a long time. (This will show you how little he antic.i.p.ated any change in _my_ plans.) When I realised that I should have to say goodbye to him, probably for ever, I found myself unequal to the trial. I could not let him go alone. It is bad for me to dwell too much on my feelings. I ought to admit, however, that I have known all along, in a sort of way, that I should have to give in _if he put the matter before me_. I dislike the talk one hears so often about inevitability--much of it is made an excuse for appalling selfishness. At the same time, I understand what is meant and feel strongly, that, while I am using my own will--I cannot use it, _with a good conscience_, otherwise.

Can you follow this? In reality, I was disloyal to Mr. Rennes when I became engaged to you. I was impatient, wilful, blind. I did you both an irreparable--yes, an irreparable injustice. He must always think me fickle, and you will always condemn my weakness. I dare not ask you to forgive me. I dare not hope for contentment after such a bad beginning. One of Papa's favourite texts rings in my ears--"_Is it a small thing for you to weary men, but will ye weary my G.o.d also?_" I mustn't be insincere with G.o.d. But I do want you to see that my affection for Mr. Rennes has taken such a hold of my life that I simply cannot fight against it. I am not sentimental, as you know: I can be quite as sensible as other people about life and its obligations. I don't expect romance or joy. Had I, by any misfortune, met Mr. Rennes _after_ my marriage with you, I cannot bear to think what might have happened. It isn't nice of me to say this. It is a painful, humiliating reflection, and you won't like to think that you ever cared--even a little--for any one so unworthy. In your kindness you will say that this isn't like me.

But indeed it is the real me. You have known the _un_real, sham me. Every one of my friends will be surprised. I am not surprised.

And oh! the relief to be quite, quite natural and straightforward at last. Nothing to pretend, nothing to hide. I wish you had never known me. Your ideals are so n.o.ble, and you depended on me to realise a few of them. I think of the plans we made, the hopes we formed. Alas! they were not for me. I am going forward into the darkness. I don't see one ray of light. Yet I haven't one misgiving or the least fear, because I have the unalterable conviction that I am fulfilling my true destiny--whatever it may be, good or evil.

All will agree that you are well rid of me. This is my consolation.

You have been kind, considerate, affectionate, thoughtful always.

And I have failed you.

Forget me, and never judge other women by me. I have been exceptionally foolish.

Your wretched friend,

AGNES CARILLON.

His lordship's emotion on reading this letter was one of relief for himself--but pity and terror for the girl. He was sincerely fond of Agnes, and the defiant misery of her words filled him with forebodings.

But the sense of his own restored liberty soon dominated every other feeling; and his anxiety about Miss Carillon's future found complete a.s.suagement in the thought that character, under suffering, came out with an energy and intensity which made, indisputably, for progress.

When the news, after twenty-four hours, became known, Agnes's wish to place herself in the wrong, beyond sympathy, or hope of pardon, was freely gratified. No criticism seemed too harsh for her conduct. No voice was lifted in mitigation of her offence. Rennes was excused, because he was an artist, erratic and pa.s.sionate, and she was unfortunately beautiful. The poor old Bishop, however, rallied under the shock, preached more vigorously than ever, and showed a proud countenance to his daughter's adversaries. When he was able to announce to his friends--after a painful fortnight of suspense--that the young couple had travelled to Rome with Mrs. Rennes, and been married at the English Emba.s.sy there, he gave way to a little illness and indulged his grief. One could surrender to legalised folly; one could name it. But sin and scandal could only be faced by an implacable reserve. "I may die of dismay," said he to his wife, "but I will not die of disgrace."

CHAPTER XVII

Scandal, meanwhile, was collecting her eager forces for a great campaign against the Orange marriage. It was unanimously decided that the affair could not be hushed up. Sympathy--within wise limits--was on the side of the lovers, but sympathy, nevertheless, expressed a desire to hear fuller particulars. Society journalism was, at that time, just coming into vogue, and the weekly papers contained several references to the strange rumour of an approaching divorce. Hartley Penborough and the members of the Capitol Club were wondering what line they ought to take.

They intended to stand by Robert, but they did not wish to advertise their loyalty. The Carlton set were divided into two camps--those who thought Orange unlucky, and those who thought him an alien adventurer.

So far as these opinions touched his career, both were damaging. The friends of Lord Wight and Lady Fitz Rewes had always been jealous of the young man. They discussed him now with ferocious pity, announcing his ruin in every circle. Sara de Treverell's a.s.sociates were mostly of the Diplomatic Corps. These, well informed about Alberian affairs and Parflete's history, feared much mischief. The old Catholics were dismayed at the new convert's entanglement--especially as he had recently been elected to Parliament. The more timorous among them--in a panic--entertained unfounded doubts about his orthodoxy, and the rest deplored the injudicious attention bestowed on mere recruits to the Ancient Faith. Converts then were looked upon, in England, with a certain suspicion. At that period the magnificent services of Dr. Newman and Cardinal Manning were far more appreciated at Rome than they were in the drawing-rooms of English Catholic society. Orange, following his own instincts and the advice of Newman, avoided rather than sought the small group which attempted to make the Eternal Church a Select Committee of the Uncommonly Good. To one who had spent his youth in a great Catholic nation, and came himself from one of the princely families of France, the servitude necessarily involved by the fact of joining any _coterie_--no matter how agreeable--could possess no sort of attraction.

His Catholic friends were chiefly among the Jesuits, an order which, by devotion, genius, and courage, has excited that fear from all men which is the highest homage this world can offer to integrity. His personal sorrow, therefore, was not degraded by any foolish additional worry about the t.i.ttle-tattle of this, that, or the other personage. Tongues might wag; for himself, he could but do his duty and keep his account straight with G.o.d. He hoped that a public law-suit would be avoided.

Baron Zeuill was using his influence, so he declared, to arrive at some settlement with Parflete. Parflete's agent was now in communication with Robert's solicitors; he himself was known to be in London, and he had even been seen dining with foreigners at one of the small private hotels near the Strand. The Alberian Amba.s.sador informed Mr. Disraeli that there was nothing to fear because Parflete was not ambitious. "The corruption of egoism and the insatiable love of pleasure" had done its worst to a character never striking for its energy. He would "desert"

his wife again if she would give him a sufficient sum. Mrs. Parflete, Disraeli pointed out, was the last woman on earth to agree to such terms. She was also perfectly well aware, he added, that she was the legitimate daughter of the late Archduke Charles.

"But," said the Amba.s.sador, "surely she will love the glory of her country and the respect due to her Imperial father's memory far better than her own legal rights?"

"You can't narrow the question to a mere sentimental issue," said Disraeli. "It is no such thing. She has to defend her character. Orange must clear his reputation."

Disraeli had formed the opinion that Alberia--as represented by His Excellency--was by no means anxious to see Mrs. Parflete's innocence established; that, in fact, the whole disaster had been planned and executed in the sole design of compromising her status. All that had occurred, all that he had observed led him to this conviction more and more. It was decided that Brigit should be summoned at once from Paris to take up her residence at the Convent, where she had been well protected during the earlier part of the year.

"There is to be no appeal _ad misericordiam_," wrote Disraeli to Orange: "what you have done, you have done in good faith and perfect honesty. Parflete, beyond a doubt, will take some action.

His conscience provides him, in this difficulty, with the best means of self-advertis.e.m.e.nt he has yet found. He has consulted several Bishops, the Lord Chief Justice, all the amba.s.sadors, and most of the intelligent Peers. He wanders from one confessional to another: St. Philip, St. Teresa, St. Benedict, and St. Dominic are invoked perpetually for the disarmament of his scruples. Vanity blinds him to the danger of a.s.sa.s.sination. Alberia is in a red mood. _Carissime_, the dark, inevitable hour will come. Be prepared for it. Depend entirely now on the might of your religious belief.

Men cannot a.s.sist you. I have helped many, but no one has ever helped me. Political life must be taken as you find it, and it is neither in my disposition, nor, I am sure, in yours, to indulge in complaints of unkindness. I have reached a point now when I should like to quote Dante. Consider him quoted, and believe me,

"Ever yours,

"D."

The course of the intrigue may be followed most conveniently at this point in the doc.u.ment known as Mudara's Confession.

Mudara, it will be remembered, was in the Alberian Secret Service.[Footnote: See The School for Saints, p. 395.] He it was who confirmed the false news of Parflete's suicide, and did so much to hasten Orange's marriage. He says in his narrative:--

The death of the Archduke Charles--which occurred some weeks before it was antic.i.p.ated--put the Alberian Government to very grave embarra.s.sment.

1. It was impossible to deny the legitimacy of the Archd.u.c.h.ess Marie-Brigitte-Henriette (known as Mrs. Parflete). The rumour was officially denied, and every proper measure was taken for the suppression of a fact dangerous at all times and especially so during a national crisis. Had the Archd.u.c.h.ess been so ill-advised as to stand upon her legal rights, the case would have been very awkward for the Government. They intended, in any event, to plead ignorance, and had prepared every proof of their good faith in withstanding the claim.

2. It was clear, beyond a doubt, on the highest ecclesiastical authority, that, if application were made, the marriage between the Archd.u.c.h.ess and Parflete would be annulled at Rome. Parflete was regarded with great suspicion. He was capable of any treachery. He could not hold his tongue, and we know what that means at Court.

The one person he feared was the Archduke Charles, and now that death had removed His Imperial Highness, we understood what to expect from the disgraced Equerry.

3. The Government's Agents had formed a very high opinion of M. de Hausee (known as Robert Orange). It was considered by the Government's advisers that this gentleman would use all his influence to crush any foolish ambition on the part of the Archd.u.c.h.ess Marie-Brigitte. M. de Hausee was himself of too n.o.ble a family to care in the least for high-sounding t.i.tles or empty rights. M. de Hausee (whose mother was Scotch) had become a British subject, and had been elected to the English Parliament. He was under the protection of Mr. Disraeli, had every prospect of a brilliant political career as a Commoner, and he had too much good sense--in view of the very large fortune settled upon the Archd.u.c.h.ess--to diminish it by any imprudent insistence on a claim which, extremely valuable as a ground for some advantageous compromise, could only prove ruinous if pressed to any exact recognition. The Government's advisers, therefore, approved most highly of the marriage between M. de Hausee and the Archd.u.c.h.ess Marie-Brigitte-Henriette, and were disposed to hasten it on by every means. On the news, _properly authenticated_, of Parflete's suicide on Lord Soham's yacht, I visited England and had interviews with the Archd.u.c.h.ess herself, with M. de Hausee at Catesby, and with Baron Zeuill at Claridge's Hotel. The _proofs_ of Parflete's death were in perfect order, and the marriage between M. de Hausee and H.I.H. took place in the Chapel of the Alberian Emba.s.sy.

As I had made all the arrangements, I engaged the servants for the reception of the bride and groom at the Villa Miraflores. I was able to retain a small room at the back of the house for my own use. On the day of their arrival, I concealed myself, without difficulty, in the apartment where Mr. Orange and the Archd.u.c.h.ess had their _dejeuner_. It was an unfortunate circ.u.mstance that I did not destroy the telegram which I saw on the mantel-piece. But I supposed it contained some ordinary congratulations. A more vulgar prudence than mine would have read and burnt it in any case. My fault is, unquestionably, a most inopportune delicacy of feeling. I witnessed the whole scene between Mr. Orange and Her Imperial Highness. It brought tears to my eyes, but as evidence it was valueless for my purpose. She wept, stormed, and showed much feeling. I was reminded in many ways of her mother, Madame Duboc.

M. de Hausee, of purer blood, is like those players who, in spite of an air of indifference at great losses, feel them none the less.

I consider it my duty as a gentleman to say that his bearing through the ordeal did credit to his n.o.ble family and his personal character. The Archd.u.c.h.ess, who is foolhardy and insolent, does not deserve such a lover, and it is grievous to think that such a termagant should have so much power over such a man. I regard her as I would some poisonous reptile. Piety--which improves most women--only seems to render her the more defiant, and love--which softens most wills--makes hers the more hard. After parting with M.

de Hausee she swooned, and I thought what a merciful thing it would be for all of us if she never regained consciousness. This idea--which may have been an inspiration--was before me, when I heard a slight rustling behind the curtains. I pulled out my revolver (although I had no intention of firing), aimed it, and said, "Who is there?"

To my amazement, Parflete himself came out.

"For G.o.d's sake, don't shoot," said he, "it is I."

He cried bitterly at the sight of the Archd.u.c.h.ess--for she was looking extraordinarily beautiful. He cursed himself loudly, put me to terrible anxiety, and I repented of my recklessness in not getting rid of such a fool long ago. With great presence of mind I rang the bell, and we withdrew to my hiding-place while the servant came in, raised a hue and cry, and finally carried the insensible Archd.u.c.h.ess to a bedroom. When the coast was clear we emerged. I asked Parflete what he meant to do, why he was there, and how he had got into the house.

"To sound the soul of another," said he, still maudlin. "You must first have searched deeply your own. Remorse has brought me here.

My better nature rea.s.serts itself." And more to that effect. "There is nothing new under the sun!" he wound up.

"Why should there be?" said I, exasperated. "Come to the point."

"My wife is the purest, n.o.blest of beings!" said he.

"You will defend any jade on earth, provided she be handsome," said I, but seeing an ugly light in his eye, I added, "but H.I.H. is certainly respectable. To this we have both been witnesses."