I ',■""' 
 
 ''«'!<t;(i';iiirt'i:' ■.
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 UNIVERSITY Of CALIFORNIA 
 
 RIVERSIDE
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
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 ' Buona S la sigaoria cTAmore, peri eke trae lotttendi- 
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 i la signoria d'Amore, perbche qiiattto lo suo fedele piii 
 fede gli porta, tanto piu gravi e dolorosi punii gli conviene 
 passare.' — Dante, Vita Nuova XIII. 
 
 ' The lordship of Love is good, in that it withdraweth 
 
 the inclination of his liegeman from all vile things. . . . 
 
 The lordship of Love is not good, because the more fidelity 
 
 his liegejfian beareth to him, so much the heavier and more 
 
 grievous trials he must needs endure,^ — Vita Nuova. 
 
 \AU Rights Resetted.]
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR 
 SAINTS 
 
 PART OF THE HISTORY OF 
 THE RIGHT HONOURABLE 
 ROBERT ORANGE, M.P. 
 
 BY 
 
 ( JOHN OLIVER HOBBES , , "" \ 
 
 T. FISHER UNWIN 
 
 PATERNOSTER SQUARE 
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 A Bundle of Life. Second Edition. 
 
 LONDON : T. FISHER UNWIN
 
 The School for Saints 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 Robert Orange spent his childhood in an ancient 
 fortress built high on a great rock on the northern 
 coast of France. When he grew to be a lad, he 
 used to climb up on the ramparts and look toward 
 the land he had never seen, yet which he knew well 
 was his own country. The stern, immutable building 
 in which he lived had been, in glorious days, the feudal 
 stronghold of a grand Seigneur. Its gabled roof and 
 lofty chimneys, where pigeons built their nests, 
 towered above the town-walls, and frowned at the 
 rosy rising of the sun. Now it belonged to Robert's 
 god-mother — a banker's widow and a good soul — 
 who, it was said, had a large fortune and no heir-at- 
 law. She kept geraniums and marigolds on her 
 balcony in the spring-time, and her little salon, with 
 its white panelling and water-colour sketches, its gilt 
 chairs and volumes of unread Lamartine, was called by 
 priests and warriors a paradise. But to the boy who 
 loved Homer, and Amadis of Gaul, and Le Morte
 
 2 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 (V Arthur^ it seemed insipid. He would steal away to 
 a desolate lower chamber where the dim drama on the 
 fading tapestries passed into his own experience and 
 seemed his real life : that, lived in company, was, in 
 comparison, a grotesque dream. On his eighteenth 
 birthday, his god-mother prepared a large oppressive 
 supper of food out of season, to which all the rich, all 
 the amiable and all the pious of her acquaintance were 
 invited. The guests, who were mostly of ripe years, 
 enjoyed the evening to excess, ate and drank with 
 easy stomachs, and played cards till daybreak. They 
 toasted the youth, and many brought him gifts ; but 
 he felt that he was feasting with gaolers in a prison, 
 and he had no thought in common with his blessing 
 friends. This sense of alienation from those he wished 
 to love produced a melancholy as profound as it was 
 inevitable. On the morning after the festival, he 
 went — although he was a Protestant — to the Altar of 
 Our Lady in the Cathedral, and at her feet laid some 
 hawthorn boughs which he had gathered from the 
 hedges, far outside the town, in silent lanes. He said 
 a prayer and wept because he carried such a burden of 
 ingratitude on his soul, ^n abbe surprised him in 
 tears, and asked him the cause. 
 
 * I feel a stranger,' said Robert, ' and a fool ! ' 
 'You must remember,' said the abbe, kindly, *that 
 you are a poet.' He had read some of his verses. 
 Then he passed on, for there was an old rich rascal 
 waiting close at hand to make his confession.
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 3 
 
 Robert left the church and walked out toward the 
 ramparts. The massive gateway and encircling walls 
 struck a chill to his passionate soul. Once more he 
 climbed the stony fortress and saw the sights, heard 
 the sounds which had formed so far his sentimental 
 education. Deeper than any dogma, stronger than 
 his artistic craving for beauty, was the Puritan instinct 
 for health and neatness which belonged to his English 
 blood. The stifling streets, where poverty and un- 
 cleanliness festered into disease ; the parched malodor- 
 ous gardens ; the tawdry rooms disclosed here and 
 there by a swaying shutter ; the garbage heaps ; the 
 tinkling of untuned pianos ; the scolding of shrews 
 and the crying of children, all mingled together to 
 give one hideous impression of humanity. The town 
 seemed a dungeon where his spirit suffered, starved, 
 and neither the azure sky nor the gilded sun-path on 
 the sea, nor the unmeasured yellow sands, nor the 
 remote grandeur of the great horizon, could distract 
 his mind from memories of the unillumined past. All 
 things presented themselves to his imagination in 
 some forbidding aspect. The Virtues were gaunt 
 mothers, lean and unloving. The Graces were harlots. 
 The Muses were spectral witches who taught madness. 
 Then he remembered the tales he had been told of the 
 vast forests under the sea reaching even to Spain — the 
 forests which had once been a kingdom. Wonderful 
 story, and perhaps all true ! For, not more than two 
 centuries ago, at low tide an old man had seen the
 
 4. THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 very tree-tops. That mysterious kingdom was the 
 dearest possession of the boy's heart. It was unknown, 
 and, better than all, never to be known. But that day, 
 as he stood wondering what he should do with the gift 
 of existence, he seemed to hear a singing which 
 minded with the sound of the waves. Was there a 
 quire of birds in that forest under the sea ? They 
 sang songs of the land, and the stars and earthly love. 
 And the singing mixed with the air till he seemed to 
 breathe it. 
 
 ' What folly,' he exclaimed at the notion ; * what 
 folly ! ' and laughed aloud. 
 
 Flushed and confused, he turned on his heel toward 
 the town, and there, standing in the path, he saw a 
 little strange old woman, with a pale luminous face 
 and grey hair. She dropped him a curtsey, and smiled. 
 
 ' It is a beautiful country,' she said, pointing with 
 her bony hand toward the open sea. 
 
 The youth followed her gesture with his gaze, and 
 stood looking with her at the great sheet of water 
 before them, which rose and fell as though it lay on 
 the sleeping heart of the universe. 
 
 Presently she pointed to the west. 
 
 < Do you see Miraflores over there ? ' she asked. 
 
 ' No,' said Robert, who was thinking of that castle 
 of Miraflores ' about two leagues from London^ a little 
 place, but the pleasantest abode in all that land, in a wood 
 by the side of a mountain, surrounded with orchards and 
 gardens that abounded with fruits and f.owers. Foun-
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 5 
 
 tains were there in the courts canopied with treeSy that 
 all the year round bore Jiower and fruit^ (Amadis of 
 Gaul.) 
 
 ' No,' said he, drawing a long sigh. * I don't see 
 Miraflores.' 
 
 * Yes, you do,' she said ; ' it is where the trees are 
 so dense and the smoke is rising. Look again ! ' 
 
 He looked again, 
 
 'I see smoke rising,' he answered, 'and I see trees.' 
 
 ' A lady lives there all alone,' said the old woman, 
 ' a young, beautiful lady — the greatest singer, they 
 say, in Europe. But someone made her sad, and so 
 she sings no more. She should have had more courage. 
 For my husband was drowned, and my three sons 
 were drowned, and I still make lace as I did when 
 I was a girl, and I had neither husband nor sons. So 
 long as I have myself I have not lost everything. 
 One should not ask for too much.' 
 
 ' Are you a lace-maker ? ' said Robert. 
 
 She nodded her head. 
 
 'I have sold a flounce to the lady at Miraflores,' 
 said she. * I was twenty years making it, and it is as 
 fine as a mist. But now I have sold it I am lonely, 
 for all the thoughts I have thought, and all the love 
 I felt, and all the happiness I used to dream of, are 
 there. And I wish I could buy it back again. It 
 will cure her sorrow, but I shall die, monsieur. I 
 am too old to sell life. For my lace is my life — all 
 spun out of my soul. There is no time now for me
 
 6 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 to begin another flounce like that. Oh, it was so 
 beautiful ! ' 
 
 She closed her eyes, but unrestrainable, irrevocable 
 tears escaped and drenched her face. Without a 
 further word she passed on and crept down the stone 
 stairs of the ramparts into the close, dark market- 
 place below, where they were selling pigs. Robert 
 found himself looking with curiosity toward Mira- 
 flores. Who was this singer who sang no more ? 
 What was her name ? On the sand beneath him 
 a young fisherman whom he knew sat cleaning a 
 boat. 
 
 *I will row to Miraflores,' thought Robert. 
 
 *The white entrance to the park of Miraflores 
 stood ' — so we read in Orange's Journal — ' at the 
 end of a long avenue of young oaks, on either side 
 of which little cows of a delicate breed fed on wild 
 flowers and verdure. The villa stood on a pine- 
 wooded hill rising out of a river, facing the rocky 
 sea-coast and a fair harbour. Its grounds were rich 
 with timber and pathless stretches of green, where 
 marguerites, feathery colza, red clover and a hundred 
 waving grasses grew in miraculous plenty. There 
 was no garden, but there were winding alleys through 
 the park leading to peeps of sea, land and sky, which, 
 seen through the framework of trees, seemed fairy 
 visions. Surely the birds at Miraflores for ever sang, 
 the sun for ever shone, the breeze was the perpetual 
 honied breath of an eternal summer. To imagine
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 7 
 
 Miraflores in a storm or in the winter was impossible : 
 it were easier to believe that it might fade away and 
 disappear like some enchanter's tower, or melt like the 
 radiant clouds which sometimes lend a brief tenderness 
 to the bleak crags of an everlasting mountain. A 
 small chapel surrounded by palm trees stood in the 
 wood not far from a cluster of magnificent firs, in 
 the centre of which one could suppose an altar had 
 once burned to some Pagan deity. And near this was 
 a levelled terrace in the Roman style, with stone 
 benches, and a railing heavy with vines. What flatter- 
 ing hours could be spent there with the scent of 
 pines and roses in the air, and at one's feet, flowing 
 out to the sea, the cool blue river, where, like giant 
 butterflies, boats with white sails floated idly or waited 
 for the breeze. Here there were no memories of wild 
 deeds done in the past to terrify the soul or make the 
 evening shadows horridly vivid. No grave was sacred 
 to the woe of unhappy loves ; no tree marked the 
 spot where a hero met death, or a faithless mistress 
 kept her tryst ; no ancient gateway told the tale 
 of a siege ; no broken urn nor fallen tower nor 
 moss-grown god brought dismal meditations to the 
 mind. Miraflores had no history — it was all new — 
 all fresh ; each day the sun seemed to rise for the 
 first time on a just-created earth. There were no 
 yesterdays and no to-morrows. The snow of former 
 years, the lilies of years to come, could neither bury 
 laughter nor sweeten tears. Time seemed a never-
 
 8 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 ending present, too bright-ethereal to need the radiance 
 of hope, or to be darkened by the forebodings of 
 experience.' 
 
 It was in the month of May when Robert came 
 to Miraflores. He rowed from the sea to the river, 
 and, mooring his boat to a post, climbed up the hill 
 seeking he knew not what. And after wandering 
 through a wood, he beheld, on the terrace far above 
 him, a woman reading. She was dressed all in white, 
 with a lace fichu crossed over her breast, and her 
 flaxen hair half hidden under a large straw hat. Robert 
 stood trembling — wholly unable to advance or to 
 retreat : his tongue speechless, yet melodies ineffable 
 in his heartc He looked at the vision and said to 
 himself, — 
 
 * It is an apparition ! It will pass ! ' 
 
 The woman spoke first. 
 
 ' Why did you come r ' she asked ; ' are you a 
 stranger ? ' 
 
 ' Yes.' 
 
 ' You may rest here,' she said, ' but it is well 
 known in the neighbourhood that this place is a 
 retreat. It belongs to a recluse.' 
 
 ' I meant no intrusion,' he replied. ' It was an 
 impulse. I will go away.' 
 
 The woman smiled. 
 
 ' You are a handsome boy,' said she ; ' you may 
 stay a little while and talk to me. Who are you ? 
 What is your name ? '
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 9 
 
 ' My name is Robert.' 
 
 '■ Robert — what ? ' 
 
 ' Orange.' 
 
 ' Are we compatriots ? "'' 
 
 ' In the City of God — yes.' 
 
 ' Where is that ? ' 
 
 * The City of God is the world as God sees it ! ' 
 said Robert. 
 
 She looked at him with deep amazement. 
 
 ' What are you ? ' she asked. 
 
 ' Nothing,' said Robert. 
 
 ' What are you hoping to be ? ' 
 
 'A poet.' 
 
 ' The world wants a statesman,' said the woman. 
 
 ' I have thought of that, too.' 
 
 ' Then be a statesman,' she said quietly. 
 
 '1 have too small a fortune. I must make money 
 first.' 
 
 ' Why not marry it ? That's much quicker.' 
 
 He curled his lips. ' I have certain ideals,' said he. 
 
 ' Lord 1 ' said she, ' so far as that goes I had 'em 
 myself at your age. You are a dear silly boy, and I 
 am quite fond of you — because you are just like me. 
 I couldn't marry money even now. I am one of 
 those fools of women who go about falling in love 
 first with this poor devil and then with that ! But 
 don't listen to me — or any one of us. We give such 
 bad advice. You must travel.' 
 
 ' Where ? '
 
 10 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 * Everywhere. This Old World is now mere 
 literature — nothing else. It is the best of all possible 
 libraries. But if you want drama — if you want to 
 see the stuff that life and history are made of — you 
 must cross the Atlantic. I have been eight times 
 to the United States,' 
 
 '• I was once in Paris,' said Robert. 
 
 ' How did you spend your time there ? * 
 
 ' I used to walk out to Versailles.' 
 
 ' Hear the little Cherub ! ' she exclaimed. * But 
 I love Versailles. When it has been forgotten for 
 fifty years it will be perfect. I hope you went to 
 the hotel, and had luncheon on the terrace. I 
 have been there often.' 
 
 ' I took my luncheon with me,' said Robert. * I 
 cannot afford hotels. But I went all over the 
 palace. It is splendid, glittering, regal. It is the 
 architectural emblem of state-craft. It was built by 
 a king for kings ; it is now a holiday-house where any 
 poor poet, or any good bourgeois and his family, 
 may enjoy their Sunday afternoons.' 
 
 ' Clearly,' said the woman, ' you were born for 
 politics.' 
 
 ' But tell me about yourself,' said Robert. 
 
 * I am older than you are,' she said. '^ I am four- 
 and-twenty.' 
 
 * Does that matter ? ' said the boy. ' I want to 
 know your name ? ' 
 
 * My name is — *
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS ii 
 
 She paused, and wrote something on a page which 
 she tore from her book. She threw it over the railing 
 and it fell at his (eet. Picking it up, he read the 
 following, — 
 
 *Henriette Marie-Joseph Duboc — known profes- 
 sionally as Madame Duboc' 
 
 'But — why Madame f asked Robert, turning pale. 
 
 * That's nothing,' she replied briefly ; * but it is 
 more convenient — when one is travelling. I am not 
 married. . „ . Are you supposed to look like your 
 mother. Innocence ? ' 
 
 " I do not know. She is dead.' 
 ' Do you live with your father \ * 
 ' No — with my god-mother.' 
 ' And you are poor ? ' 
 *I must work for my living.' 
 ' You must come again,' she said, ' and tell me more 
 about your ambition. I am always here.' 
 ^ May I come to-morrow ? * 
 
 * Perhaps.' 
 
 ' And are you always alone ? ' 
 
 * Alone — always.' 
 
 * Angel ! ' he exclaimed. 
 
 * Don't be foolish. I love sincerity. Flattery 
 wounds me.' 
 
 * You are the most beautiful woman in the world ! ' 
 ' Hear him ! ' She appealed to heaven and the trees. 
 ' May I worship you — from afar ? ' 
 
 She smiled coldly and said, ' Ah, yes 1 *
 
 12 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 ' May I kiss your hand — both your hands ? * 
 
 ' No.' She held them down. 
 
 'I shall come to-morrow and to-morrow and to- 
 
 morrow 
 
 I 
 
 ' No,' she said, ' no. You must not. I am not 
 free.' 
 
 'Not free?' 
 
 His look terrified her. She swayed and trembled : 
 finally summoned all her power of truth in order to 
 give him perfectly the lie he begged for. 
 
 ' I mean — I am my own prisoner,' 
 
 He threw his hat into the air and caught it. 
 
 ' Never tell me again that you are not free. Not 
 free — what ill-omened words ! We were predestined 
 for each other before the beginning of the world. I 
 have no doubt of it.' 
 
 The calm scene, the quiet air, the murmuring of 
 doves in the distance, worked like a spell. It was not 
 heaven opening, but a vision of earth. He would have 
 enjoyed it irresponsibly — accepting it as a due. But 
 to the woman it was a promise — a blessing dependent 
 on certain conditions. 
 
 * You must work,' she said ; * for your age you 
 have done well. But you must do better.' 
 
 ' I hope so,' said the youth. 
 
 - If you come to-morrow, when may I expect you ? ' 
 
 ' At this hour.' 
 
 ' The view,' she replied, ' is even clearer in the 
 morning.'
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 13 
 
 'Then I shall come in the morning. But not to 
 see the view.' 
 
 ' Now you may go home and forget me. 
 
 ' My destiny ! ' he cried, and held out his arms. 
 
 ' If you follow that path,' she said, ' it leads up 
 here ! ' 
 
 * There — where you are standing ? ' 
 
 'I think so.' 
 
 'It is quicker to climb.' 
 
 ' There is plenty of time,' said Henrietta. 
 
 ' True. Why should an immortal soul be im- 
 patient ? There is all eternity before us ! ' 
 
 He had now one foot on the railing. Another 
 second, and he was standing by her side. But with 
 this nearness he felt a fear. 
 
 *I am afraid of you,' he said, at once. 
 
 ' Why,' asked Henrietta. 
 
 'I don't know why.' 
 
 She wore on a chain round her neck a little trinket. 
 It was a single ruby set in pearls. 
 
 ' Take this,' she said, 'and I belong to it. It means 
 love and tears.' But before he could speak or thank 
 her for that dear yet terrible gift, she glided away and 
 he dared not follow. 
 
 In his boy's nature, passion still lay profoundly 
 dormant, but in its place he felt that infinite vague 
 longing of the soul for an answering voice. What 
 to him had been the nightingale's note or the coming 
 of May or the blue pinions of a night in June ?
 
 14 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 What to him were reveries at evening or the mur- 
 muring serenades of the summer sea ? Had he not 
 been alone and solitary — companionless, misunder- 
 standing and misunderstood ? But now it was all 
 changed. It seemed as though his spirit had mixed 
 and mingled with the sanguine springs and sacred 
 flames of life. The emanations of ideal beauty which 
 float upon the surface of the earth now seemed one 
 with his own being. It was all his — all part of 
 himself — the sunshine, the ecstasy, the illimitable 
 illusions of land and ether. His soul was swayed 
 by the music of the spheres ; and, swinging with 
 the planets in their course, he saw the stars dance, 
 he followed the eagle's flight. He was no 
 longer a stranger in the world — no longer a 
 wandering outcast. Had he not heard the secret 
 language of the gods, and tasted the unforgettable 
 sweetness of love's first rapture ? His happiness 
 lay too deep for song ; even the splash of his oars 
 on the water disturbed the peace of that enthralling 
 hour. 
 
 It was late when he reached home. His god- 
 mother, as he entered the house, peeped, in her 
 little frilled night-cap, over the staircase. 
 
 * I have put your supper by your bedside,' said she ; 
 * but if you want cider you must fetch it from the 
 
 cellar.' 
 
 He kissed his hand to her, and waited till he heard 
 the last echo of her footsteps in the corridor. Then
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 15 
 
 he crept noiselessly to bed, where, with a wild sob 
 of supreme relief, of a gladness so great that it 
 v/eighed upon his heart like grief, he fell asleep. He 
 dreamt that he went to Miraflores on the morrow. 
 It seemed a still sunnier day. The sea and the 
 river were dazzling ; the birds sang ; the path was 
 pink with fallen hawthorn blossoms ; Henriette wore 
 a rosy gown. She was beautiful, smiling and tranquil. 
 He noticed that her eyes were not, as he had at 
 first supposed, dark blue. They were hazel. 
 
 For some moments neither of them spoke. They 
 were too happy. 
 
 * Of course,' said Henriette, touching his face with 
 her fingers suddenly, 'this cannot last.' 
 
 ' Why remind me of that ? ' he asked ; ' j^ou may 
 as well say it will rain some day. One knows 
 these things. They do not matter, The rain, on the 
 other hand, does not rain for ever. Be philosophical.' 
 
 * This is not philosophy — this is drifting.' 
 ' Then why not drift ? ' 
 
 ' Very well,' said she. 
 
 ' Would you be willing to live in England ? ' he 
 observed. 
 
 ' With you — yes.' 
 
 He took her hand, and again they plunged together 
 into silence. Presently he explained the simple 
 scheme of their perfect future. He wound up by 
 saying,— 
 
 ' What do you think ? '
 
 i6 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 ' I agree with all you say.' 
 ' ' Darling ! ' 
 
 Her eyes filled with tears. ' Oh, that it were 
 possible ! But this is all mockery, dear love. We 
 see each other as we are not ; we talk of life as it 
 can never be.' 
 
 *This is not mockery, and it must be,' he declared; 
 ' life is not what we find it, but what we make it.' 
 
 She wept, shook her head and repeated, — 
 
 ' Oh, that it were possible ! ' 
 
 * Speak plainer, my heart. Why is it impossible ? ' 
 
 * I am very sorry,' she added quickly, ' that I wore 
 my best clothes and sat on the terrace yesterday. 
 None of this need have happened. It is such a 
 pity ! ' 
 
 ' We should not have met,' said Robert, quietly, 
 ' if it was all to end in bitterness or nothing. I can 
 never love anyone else.' 
 
 ' I believe you,' she said simply. 
 
 In the joy of her presence he could not measure his 
 desolation — his despair. 
 
 ' I shall thank God every night and morning of my 
 life hereafter for giving me the love of you,' said he. 
 'I shall love you for ever and ever, Henriette.' 
 
 ' Why make rash vows ? You do not ask me to 
 promise anything ? ' 
 
 ' Be yourself — always.' 
 
 He set his face toward the sea which called him 
 hence — not with unkindness but with a solemn warning.
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 17 
 
 * No, no ! ' said Henriette, * I cannot send you 
 away! I cannot spare you I I cannot say good- 
 bye ! ' 
 
 She looked, as she spoke, not at him, but at the boat 
 on the beach below. 
 
 'I cannot say good-bye,' she repeated, and sank 
 down weeping bitterly. ' I can't ! I can't ! I have 
 had so much trouble. Don't ask me to bear more. 
 I know this is a fairy tale, but I want it to last ! Oh, 
 stay a little while longer ! ' 
 
 * Come^ sang the sea. * Come ! There is a summer 
 every year^ and there is love in every life ! But it is not 
 always su?nmer^ and it is not always the time to love I ' 
 
 ' Oh, stay a little while longer ! ' sobbed Henriette, 
 and she walked weeping by his side to the boat. 
 
 ' Oh, stay ! ' she said, and, stooping down, kissed each 
 oar. He pushed away from the shore. She waved 
 her handkerchief again and again and again. The 
 salt breeze kissed his face, and he woke with a cry. 
 That dream was over. 
 
 He looked around. He lay in his own little room 
 overlooking the quay. It was early morning, but the 
 sun did not shine. A gale was blowing hard, and the 
 sea laughed. Robert pressed Henriette's trinket closer 
 to his heart, and gained courage. What were dreams ? 
 She was a real woman. He was to see her in a few 
 hours' time. He dressed, and hurried out on the 
 ramparts to look towards Miraflores. No smoke rose 
 above the trees j the leaves were pale. 
 
 B
 
 1 8 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 * Good day, monsieur,' said some one. 
 He turned and saw the lace-maker. 
 
 ' She has gone,' said she, with a wise smile; ' she went 
 to Paris this morning by the five o'clock train. Her 
 lover returned, and he has gone away with her. And 
 she wore my lace flounce on her under-petticoat. I 
 saw her step out of the carriage, and she tore the lace, 
 too — my beautiful lace. But that did not matter to 
 her. She pinned it up and smiled. I felt the pin all 
 over me — in my heart and in my eyes. Did I not 
 prophesy that her luck would change. ? Her life is 
 just beginning— that is all. She went away laughing 
 and singing. And she pointed over there and waved 
 her handkerchief at the air again and again and again ! 
 She's a great cocotte^ 
 
 ' What is that ? ' asked Robert. 
 
 * Mon Dieu ! said the old woman, ' have you never 
 met one ? ' 
 
 ' Never,' said the boy. 
 
 ' They are very pretty, and they want money, 
 and they tell lies. Why do you close your eyes, 
 monsieur ? ' 
 
 ' The glare is too strong,' said Robert. * I must go 
 home.'
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 Blindly the boy looked homeward, and the prison- 
 house now seemed the one corner in this great world 
 where he could take his grief. His mind was suffer- 
 ing its first real disillusion, and all the tender exalted 
 emotions which love had called forth now returned to 
 him all the stronger for their flight ; but alas ! now 
 bitter and disdainful from the fruitlessness of the 
 journey. He longed to weep, but the pride of his 
 soul forbade that sensual relief. His eyes might burn, 
 and his heart might ache, and his limbs might fail, but 
 the spirit within him retained its resolution. Yet 
 what could he do ? Should he follow Henriette to 
 Paris, challenge her lover, then kill him or perish in 
 the attempt ? He would die gladly because he was 
 jealous for her honour, and because he could neither 
 see himself betrayed, nor, having been betrayed, for- 
 give her. Why had she been so false ? He would 
 cast himself dying on her threshold, and tell her what 
 a thing it was to play with the souls of men. Perhaps 
 in death he would find great eloquence, and utter 
 words that would sing in her ears — (Oh, those little ears 
 
 19
 
 20 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 made to be kissed !) — for ever ! Then he thought 
 that was perhaps too weak a part to play. He v/ould 
 seek her out, accuse her of her perfidy, and slay her 
 swiftly before she could woo him into cowardice. The 
 poor boy suffered as all young, ardent, candid creatures 
 must suffer when they make mistakes and are deceived, 
 not by life, but by their own inexperience. Robert's 
 intelligence was too pure in quality to confound even 
 this first overwhelming and apparently inexplicable 
 disappointment with any foolish theory adverse to the 
 wisdom of Divine Providence. A sigh certainly 
 escaped his lips that the discipline of life should be so 
 severe, but he never doubted that the trial was a 
 discipline, and a necessary one. He felt, too, that he 
 had deliberately sought an adventure by rowing to 
 the strange villa of Mirafllores. Was God to blame 
 because the adventure had ended unhappily ? Nay ; 
 the example of the knights of old had taught him a 
 deeper philosophy than the art of whining. He lifted 
 up his head and bit the sob which, in spite of his 
 endeavours, reminded him of man's native frailty. 
 He would seek out Henriette ; he would give her 
 back the bauble she had so freely, so graciously 
 bestowed ; he would show her the scorn of an 
 upright and honest soul. At least she should 
 respect him. 
 
 When he reached home, his god-mother was not yet 
 in the little salon. He v/as able to climb the stairs 
 to his room unobserved and unquestioned. He opened
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR Sx^INTS 21 
 
 his money-box, and found that he had just one 
 hundred francs. That would be enough for his needs, 
 if he were careful. He could walk to Paris. Pierre- 
 Joseph, the net-mender, had walked all the way to 
 Marseilles in order to speak his mind to an evil 
 daughter ; and he was far stronger than old Pierre- 
 Joseph. But what should he tell his god-mother ? 
 What excuse could he give for leaving home so 
 suddenly ? It was plainly his duty to consult Madame 
 Bertin in the matter. 
 
 He went to her boudoir, tapped at the door, and, 
 in reply to a soft, husky voice, entered the room. 
 
 Madame Bertin lay upon her sofa, with a light 
 falling in through the half-closed blinds upon her long 
 white hands — the one beauty still left to her. All the 
 rest was in shadow. The boy imagined her leaden 
 face, with its dim eyes and falsely patient smile. 
 
 * Well, Robert,' she said, * what do you want ? ' 
 
 * I want to go away for a fortnight or three weeks.' 
 
 * Where?' 
 « To Paris.' 
 
 ' What for r ' 
 
 * To see someone.' 
 
 * Who ? ' 
 
 ' A friend.' 
 
 * Can you afford the journey ? 
 
 * Yes, if I walk both ways.' 
 ^ What a mad idea ! ' 
 *I must 8;o/ 
 
 5 »
 
 22 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 ' Who is the friend ? ' 
 
 - ' It is a friend who has deceived me. I cannot tell 
 you more than that.' 
 
 Madame Bertin shrugged her shoulders. 
 
 ' I will have no nonsense with girls,' she said. 
 
 ' This is no question of nonsense ; it is very serious.' 
 
 Again she shrugged her shoulders. 
 
 ' They always say that. I do not care who the 
 woman is — she isn't worth it.' 
 
 ' Have I said it was a woman ? ' 
 
 ' Don't prove her bad influence, my dear Robert, 
 l-.y trying to deceive me. Of course it is a woman. 
 What does she look like ? How old is she ? ' 
 
 ' She told me she was four-and-twenty.' 
 
 ' In that case you may go and see her. She is old 
 enough to take care of herself. Where does she 
 live ? ' 
 
 ' I don't know.' 
 
 ' That's a comfort. Good-bye, my child. If you 
 have time, you might buy me some gloves at Alexan- 
 drine's. You will find some money in that drawer.' 
 
 He went to the little cabinet to which she pointed, 
 and, opening a drawer, found it full of twenty-franc 
 gold pieces. 
 
 'Take one,' said Madame Bertin. 'Pay for the 
 gloves, and bring me back the change. When do you 
 start on vour walk ?' 
 
 *- At once.* 
 
 ' Good-bye again.'
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 23 
 
 ' Good-bye.' 
 
 He paused for a moment as though he would have 
 said more, but his god-mother waved him away. He 
 wondered whether she were vexed, and, as he reached 
 the door, he turned round to throw her a conciliatory 
 glance. 
 
 ' It is all right,' said Madame Bertin ; ' I under- 
 stand. It is not your fault that you are young and 
 ridiculous. Another kiss ! Adieu, cher enfant ! ' 
 
 So that was all ! The dreaded interview was over. 
 What a sensible woman she was ! How well she 
 understood men ! In less than an hour he found 
 himself following the railway line to Paris, flourishing 
 a stick in his hand, and barely conscious of the 
 light knapsack which he bore strapped across his 
 shoulders. 
 
 He spent eight days on the road — walking some 
 thirty odd miles between each sunrise and sunset, 
 and sleeping at night under hayricks or in carts. He 
 bought his food from the peasants who worked in the 
 fields, or from those who were driving cattle to market. 
 They thought him an artist, and therefore treated him 
 as though he were a lost child roaming through the 
 world at leisure. It was infinitely touching to see 
 the kindness and rough pity of these toiling, tired souls 
 for that lad whose troubles so far had been but a 
 gentle tuning-up of the heart strings. Of pain, of 
 poverty, of adversity, of disease and death he knew 
 nothing. He was eighteen ; he had seen a pretty face,
 
 24 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 heard a thrilling voice ; he had loved both, he had been 
 deceived. Yet how much older and w^iser he felt than 
 Jacques, w^hose back w2ls curved like the sickle he had 
 used too long ; or Lise, vv^ho w^ashed clothes in a 
 muddy stream w^hile her husband lay dreaming in 
 drunkenness by her side. We may imagine the 
 egoism of this vigorous, round - limbed boy as he 
 tramped along, forgetting often the very object of 
 his journey in the mere bodily pleasure of exercise 
 in the fresh air, and the eye's delight in new scenes. 
 Sometimes he sang, sometimes he murmured a childish 
 prayer — made in rhymes so that it might be readily re- 
 membered ; sometimes he whistled tunes ; sometimes he 
 tried to imitate the birds he heard ; he barked at dogs ; 
 he mewed at cats ; he climbed trees ; he carved little 
 ornaments out of fruit stones ; he whittled sticks ; he 
 had a fight or two with some louts who interfered 
 with him ; he punched a few heads and received a blow 
 on his own nose. It must be owned that he enjoyed 
 himself thoroughly, and it was not until he saw the 
 lights of the metropolis in the distance that a cloud 
 came over his spirit. 
 
 She was there — the traitress, the enchantress, the 
 deceiver — Henriette Marie - Joseph Duboc. How 
 madly he had loved her ! how madly he loved her 
 still ! He reached Paris at an hour when the streets 
 are comparatively quiet. The rioting and gaiety 
 associated with every great capital were within doors ; 
 the theatres and music-halls had not yet released their
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 25 
 
 patrons ; the cafes were deserted and the boulevards 
 forlorn. Robert knew Paris well. He had spent a year 
 there when he was fifteen, and he experienced none of 
 the emotions which are supposed to overwhelm the 
 countryman when he enters, for the first time, the 
 most brilliant, the most beautiful, the most compelling 
 in its influence of all cities in the world. Robert 
 at that moment was blind to every sight, and heed- 
 less of every consideration save one. He looked into 
 every passing carriage — his heart beating wildly with 
 the fear, the hope, the certainty that Henriette would 
 be seated within one or another. This was she ! No. 
 Then that was she ! Again and again he hastened 
 after some womanly form which seemed in the 
 distance to resemble Henriette's. Several times he 
 thought he heard her footstep behind him. He 
 halted once or twice at the fancied sound of her 
 voice. He felt the delicious pressure of her hand on 
 his arm. 
 
 ' When I see her,' he thought, ' perhaps everything 
 will come right. I have judged her too hastily.' 
 
 He grew sick at the unconvincing suspicion that 
 he had been unjust. What did he know, after all ? 
 Had the lace - maker told him a lie ? What if 
 Henriette were ill ? What if she were dead ? At 
 the mere thought he felt a cold sweat on his brow. 
 He had not seen her for nine days. The whole 
 world could change in less time. He passed a kiosk, 
 and bought eight or nine newspapers, which he studied
 
 26 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 feverishly. He could find nothing. The pangs of 
 boyish hunger added ferocity to his disappointment. 
 He entered a quiet restaurant and ordered some dinner. 
 But, to his own surprise, when it was put before him 
 he found himself unable to eat a morsel. The soul 
 
 in spite of all scientific demonstrations to the 
 
 contrary — is even stronger than either youth or health. 
 So, while the roast chicken grew cold, and the 
 salad became sodden and the bottle of wine remained 
 untasted, Robert sat there, crumbling the bread with 
 his fingers, and drinking his own tears. 
 
 Suddenly, however, his eye was attracted by a flam- 
 ing theatre bill which, pasted on a kiosk outside the 
 window, announced, in black and red lettering, that 
 Madame Henriette Duboc was appearing for one week 
 only at Les Papillons. His head swam : he read the 
 name a dozen times. He had never before seen it in 
 print. It seemed as terrible as the mysterious writing 
 on the wall of King Belshazzar's palace — Madame 
 Henriette Duboc. Then, indeed, he was able to 
 swallow a little wine, if only to assure himself that he 
 was not dreaming. He paid his bill, and, rushing out 
 into the street, hailed a fiacre. How lucky it was that 
 he had kept the greater part of his money for Paris. 
 
 ' Drive to Les Papillons^' he told the driver. A 
 flick of the whip, and they started. The boy's pulse 
 throbbed ; he looked at the stars, and they, too, seemed 
 to be trembling. What painful sensations surged in 
 his breast ! what piercing thoughts ! When one is
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 27 
 
 young, high feelings about small things do not seem 
 ridiculous. And, after all, what are small things but 
 matters which appear great to those whom they im- 
 mediately concern ? Poor Robert was living through 
 an experience which is not the less bitter because it 
 may be common in psychology. And indeed it is a 
 question whether that mental suffering known as a 
 disillusion is so ordinary as it is frequently held to be. 
 Vulgar selfish minds are still the rule rather than the 
 exception in the human race, and neither vulgar souls 
 nor selfish souls can ever know what it is to be dis- 
 appointed in a sublime belief. For to imagine ex- 
 cellence and to love it — whether it may be real, as it 
 often is, or merely supposed, as it can be sometimes — 
 is not given to low understandings. So, without 
 dwelling on each particular pang or each wild sad idea 
 which tortured our sensitive young friend, let us be 
 patient for him, and say that physic is as needful for the 
 spirit as the flesh. 
 
 The famous music-hall for which he was bound 
 stands at a kind of cross-road. At night one can see 
 from three points of approach its name in large letters 
 of shivering gas — Les Papillons. As the fiacre halted 
 at the entrance, Robert saw a large photograph of 
 a woman in a gorgeous costume. It was Henriette ! 
 He thought his heart would burst for sorrow and long- 
 ing. How beautiful she was ! how false ! He bought 
 his ticket and hurried through th^foyer^ where a crowd 
 of more or less respectable orderly persons were eagerly
 
 28 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 scanning each other in the hope of discovering some 
 sign of unusual — or even usual — wickedness. Les 
 Papillons is the resort of every husband who wishes 
 to show his wife or her lady friends the temptations 
 to which bachelors are exposed. The amusement 
 provided there is of the most tedious description. 
 When Robert gained his place in the hall, a fat man 
 clad in pink hose, and described in the programme as 
 * Apollo,' was performing feats of strength. At the 
 end, he kissed his hands elegantly, and, screwing his 
 heavy lips into a smirk, knocked down some twelve 
 cannon balls which impeded his exit. The audience 
 applauded, yet not without discretion. The next item 
 on the bill was a ' legend ' in two tableaux, with appro- 
 priate music. Madame Henriette Duboc played the 
 part of the heroine. The name of the legend was 
 Amadis and Oriana. It was arranged by a poet whose 
 name was associated with that bloodless effeminacy 
 known to moderns as medievalism^ yet wholly alien to 
 the genius of the Middle Ages. 
 
 ' Surely,' thought Robert, as he read the heroic 
 names of Amadis and Oriana^ ' surely this is Fate ! 
 Will they give the scene at Miraflores ? But oh, 
 what irony that anyone so faithless should play the 
 part of the most faithful, most devoted and most 
 womanly of women ! ' 
 
 The first tableau represents the rocky entrance to a 
 hermit's cave. The orchestra, by means of wind in- 
 struments, endeavour to suggest the nightingale's note
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 29 
 
 and the sea-gull's shriek ; the drum rolls, the cellos 
 croak ; a large sunset illuminates the back of the stage. 
 An aged man enters. He has a long white beard, and 
 he walks to and fro with a laborious totter. At last 
 he lifts a hand to his ear, then he shades his eyes and 
 looks forth into the side-wings. The orchestra plays 
 louder, there is a thunder-clap, the old man wrings his 
 ever-useful hands ; lightning flashes into the sunset ; 
 the violins utter a terrific note : who is this ? A warrior 
 in steel armour is seen bounding over the rocks. And 
 what a warrior i He wears a wig of long red hair, a 
 helmet surmounted by nodding plumes ; his girlish 
 features are whitened ; his elongated legs are padded 
 into an unnatural symmetry. When the hermit invites 
 him to draw near, he trips toward him like a ballet 
 master. He touches his sword, glances upward in an 
 attitude of devotion, and swears an inarticulate oath 
 which every spectator can readily believe means venge- 
 ance. The orchestra again intervenes. The note this 
 time shudders and pipes. The hermit points to the 
 left as a monster bird, with black wings and eyes as big 
 as lamp-globes, approaches the warrior. This bird 
 leads the warrior to infer that he will conduct him to 
 his destination. And the warrior, with a magnificent 
 gesture of dauntless courage, follows him. The hermit 
 sinks down in prayer. 
 
 The curtain falls. 
 
 When it rises again, the scene is a grotto. A dozen 
 men or more lie fast asleep on the ground. By their
 
 30 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 carefully gracious attitudes, the green light and the 
 slow music, it is clear that they are the victims of some 
 fell enchantment. The warrior enters. He en- 
 deavours to arouse the prisoners. He clasps his hands 
 and shakes his head with horror at their condition. 
 A dreadful tinkling of tambourines is heard. He looks. 
 The back of the grotto seems to melt into a golden 
 cobweb ; the cobweb expands ; the warrior draws 
 his sword ; a woman is seen. It is she ! It is 
 Henriette ! Robert almost sprang from his seat. 
 She wears a robe of gold tinsel ; she shines with a 
 hundred false gems ; she smiles ; the warrior dashes 
 forward to thrust his sword into her white, too gleam- 
 ing breast. Yet he cannot strike. Three times he 
 makes the essay, and three times he sinks, overcome by 
 her beauty, on his knee. She smiles again, holds out 
 her arms ; he flings aside his sword, and falls captive at 
 her feet. 
 
 The curtain drops. 
 
 That was the end. 
 
 The ' legend ' bore no kind of resemblance to the 
 Amadh of Gaul^ and its falseness to the great original 
 marred, for Robert, even such merits as it may have 
 possessed in the way of mere scenic effect. For the 
 moment it seemed to him that he had misread, not 
 a book only, but the whole universe. He doubted his 
 own judgment, his own feeling, his own sight ; even 
 his ideals were deceptions : no one saw things as he 
 saw them, or felt things as he felt them.
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 31 
 
 He wrote his name on a slip of paper, and, handing 
 it to an attendant, asked him to give it to Madame 
 Duboc. Would she see him ? She sent back word 
 that he might come at once. 
 
 He followed his guide through a long, narrow 
 passage and up a steep staircase, at the top of which 
 a door stood partly open. 
 
 ^ Come in,' said a soft voice. 
 
 He entered. 
 
 Henriette sat before him, in all the radiance of tinsel 
 and sham jewels. He did not bow, nor did he seem 
 to notice her outstretched hand. 
 
 ' It is the little angel from Brittany,' said she ; 
 * but where are his manners ? ' 
 
 ' I cannot bow, madame,' said he, ' lO a falsehood. 
 I have brought you back your locket.' 
 
 Henriette dropped her eyelids, and affected a reverie. 
 
 ' Which locket r ' said she. 
 
 ' The one that means love and tears, madame,' he 
 answered. 
 
 He held it out. 
 
 'I don't want the thing,' she said ; *and don't be 
 so cross. I hate cross children — even when they are 
 handsome, and have splendid brown eyes full of — a 
 man's love. Oh, Robert, I could never resist brown 
 eyes. Sit down, kiss my hand and be kind.' 
 
 'I know I am only a boy,' said the lad, 'but 1 
 know what honour means and what loyalty means. 
 And you have neither.'
 
 32 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 * Hold your tongue ! ' cried Henriette, stamping her 
 foot, * how dare you ? You ought to be whipped ! 
 I believe you are much older than you pretend to be. 
 To stand there lecturing ! And I, like a fool, permit 
 it ! Man D'leu ! is it conceivable ? A little stupid 
 peasant takes an excursion ticket to Paris, and — * 
 
 ' Pardon me,' said Robert, ' I walked here.' 
 
 ' Walked here ! ' screamed Madame Duboc, ' Walked 
 here — on foot from Brittany — to see me ? ' 
 
 ' Yes,' said Robert, ' to see you and tell you what I 
 think of you.' 
 
 ' But it is miles and miles.' 
 
 ' I was in no hurry, madame. It is no happiness 
 to me to say harsh things to you.* 
 
 The accent in which he uttered these words was in 
 itself a caress. It was so tender, so courageous, so 
 frank, and accompanied by a glance as stern as it was 
 pitiful. It touched the woman, and reminded her of 
 her own innocent first passion, which, when a girl ot 
 sixteen, she had felt for a man of the world whose 
 soul she had hoped to save by offering prayers to the 
 Virgin, and working him slippers for his birthday. 
 
 ' Oh, my poor little Robert ! ' she exclaimed, with 
 a great thrill of sympathy, ' that is what I, too, would 
 have said to someone I loved.' 
 
 Her eyes grew dewy. She caught his cold hand, 
 and half-timidly stroked it. 
 
 ' Poor boy,' she said, ' how you will haVe to suffer ! ' 
 Then she sat down before the table of cosmetics,
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 33 
 
 daubed on more rouge, re-pencilled her eyebrows and 
 pinned a false curl under her crown of false diamonds. 
 
 ' How do I look ? ' she asked. 
 
 ' You are always beautiful ! ' answered Robert, 
 choking. 
 
 'If I were so bad as you say I am,' she sighed, 
 * could I look so nice .? Of course not. Wicked 
 people are always frightful. Just notice my mouth — 
 these curves tell something after all. They mean 
 generosity. Oh, Robert, I am very much in love, but 
 not with you, dear. He is middle-aged and selfish : 
 his heart is a mere salad of stale emotions. And I am, 
 for the moment, its sauce mayonnaise. Pity me, little, 
 kind, dear Robert. Once I thought I should be some- 
 one's princess, someone's ideal, someone's angel. I 
 thought we should live together — perhaps in a great 
 palace with golden gates, perhaps in a little, little 
 cottage all covered with roses and myrtle, and birds' 
 nests and things ; perhaps in a splendid hotel, where 
 the band would play all day, and one could ring bells 
 for anything one wanted. What dreams I ' 
 
 The strains of the orchestra, which was now playing, 
 floated in through the door, and that giddy sound of 
 perverted sensuality seemed to Henriette the emotion 
 in her own soul. 
 
 ' What dreams I ' she repeated, and stood entranced, 
 with her lips parted. ' What dreams ! ' 
 
 The music troubled and swept Robert's senses as 
 though they were young leaves stirred for the first 
 
 C
 
 34 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 time by the thrilling breezes of the spring. He 
 remembered the starry silence and the moonlit 
 night which had followed his one day of love. 
 His heart trembled, and the air seemed sweet 
 with the perfume of the woods at Miraflores. Hen- 
 riette's face — stained though it was by paint — still 
 retained something of that innocence, virginal and 
 innate, which is the one permanent charm of any 
 countenance. Robert longed to throw himself at 
 her feet and entreat her — to do what ? He did 
 not know. 
 
 ' It is not yet too late,' he said ; ' you are so young, 
 and all this is so vulgar ! ' 
 
 * Vulgar ? ' she said, opening her eyes. ' Vulgar ? ' 
 
 * Yes. That tawdry dress, the false jewels, the false 
 sentiment, the caterwauling in the orchestra. It is 
 abominable ! ' 
 
 *I like it,' she said ; 'it is gay. It amuses me, and 
 / amuse all the tired, overworked people in the 
 audience. Don't be so lamentably serious.' 
 
 * But you don't understand. I do not love you for 
 what you appeared to be, but for what you really are. 
 You are too good for this.' 
 
 * W^hat would you have me do, dear little Saint 
 Robert ? I may go again to Miraflores some day, 
 and then — and then — you must come and see me, and 
 we will talk less and perhaps learn more. Oh, I can 
 be very kind — kinder than anyone you ever met. 
 Take a long look into my eyes.'
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 35 
 
 ' No,' said Robert. ' I know all I wish to know of 
 them already. I don't love you that way. It is not 
 a question of looking into your eyes or not looking 
 into your eyes. It is altogether different. If you 
 were blind — if you lost all your beauty — if you were 
 pale and bent and withered, I should love you just the 
 same. It is you that I see — you ! ' 
 
 ' Of course,' said Henriette ; ' of course. Mon 
 Dicu ! If they pay me three thousand francs every 
 time I appear, I suppose I must be worth looking at.' 
 
 The boy's eyes filled with cutting tears. For a 
 moment he had tried to persuade himself that he was 
 perplexed, yet not wholly despairing. But despair 
 touches the soul as though it were some idle hand 
 mingling its fingers with the sea. 
 
 ' Oh, Henriette ! ' said Robert, ' you will never 
 understand me ! ' 
 
 She yawned. 
 
 ' Everybody vmderstands calf-love,' said she. 
 
 His throat grew dry. 
 
 ' I don't wish to be unkind,' continued Madame 
 Duboc, ' but I am too tired now to consider anyone's 
 feelings except my own. You mustn't be stupid. 
 You look as white as a sheet and as cold as a grave- 
 stone. Love shovild affect one pleasantly. You think 
 too much. Clever men think only when there is 
 absolutely nothing else to do.' 
 
 She glanced at him slyly. Where had he learnt 
 this gelf'possession ? His handsome countenance had
 
 36 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 -grown calm, not from indifference, but pride, and 
 Henriette grew jealous of its absent ardour. Had it 
 strayed away to some fair, intangible idea remote from 
 womanly flesh and blood, remote from the human, 
 withering influences of time and change and passion r 
 All women wish to see affection perpetually burnmg — 
 a straight and brilliant flame ; when it flickers, they 
 suffer what must surely be the sharpest pang in 
 purgatory. 
 
 'Oh, Robert,' she murmured, devouring his face 
 with her gaze, ' wasn't it sweet at Miraflores. I can see 
 you now coming toward me — up that little path through 
 the trees. Do you remember ? I thought you were 
 a wandering angel sent down from Paradise to call me 
 to repentance. And I was so unhappy that day. I 
 had been crying for hours and hours. I blessed you 
 for coming. I said prayers all that evening in my 
 little chapel. And about ten o'clock. . . .' 
 
 'Your lover came,' said Robert, gravely. His 
 whole nature was now in revolt against false senti- 
 ment. 
 
 A dark flush surged under the artificial pink and 
 white on Henriette's cheeks. 
 
 ' And why not ? ' said she ; ' and why not ? Surely 
 the angels need never be jealous of men ! ' 
 
 He was silent, but for the first time he glanced 
 about the room, which was lined with mirrors, and 
 reflected Henriette, from every side. He seemed sur- 
 rounded by a train of painted women, each with the
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 37 
 
 same face, the same smile, the same form, and all mov- 
 ing with a terrible, inhuman precision, at the same 
 moment, with the same features, the same blandish- 
 ments. And he saw himself also — ten distinct selves, 
 yet all the same. He could have cried out at the 
 horror of this illusion. It was phantasmal, gloomy : 
 a mockery of life — a mockery of the faith so precious 
 in the days of one's vanity that the little sum of 
 sensations which we call our own experience is in- 
 timately and especially our own — wholly dissimilar 
 from that of any other creature. But it is the 
 privilege, and perhaps the supreme agony of the gods 
 alone to feel unshared emotions. Robert — now in 
 one of those moments when the mind has a preter- 
 natural quickness of comprehension — grasped at this 
 knowledge, and that divinity within him which is— 
 could we but realise it — in all mortals, drew back dis- 
 dainful from the commonness of the merely human 
 drama — the eternal duet of man the lover, and 
 woman the beloved. 
 
 ' At Miraflores,' said he, ' we were like spirits in the 
 sunlight. God was there. But here it is hellish — 
 suffocating ! Your whole look has changed. When 
 I try to see you, there is a cloud between us.' 
 
 Henriette shrugged her shoulders. 
 
 ' You Protestants,' said she, ' are always thinking of 
 hell. You are never happy unless you can feel that 
 all your friends are damned. It is very triste and very 
 rude.'
 
 38 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 - Robert bowed. 
 
 ' I am going now,' said he. 
 
 ' And what will you do ? ' 
 
 ' Pray for you ! ' 
 
 ' What ? ' cried Henriette ; ' what ? ' 
 
 ' Pray for you.' 
 
 She lifted up her arms with a fine theatrical gesture 
 of amazement. 
 
 ' But why ? ' she asked. 
 
 ' Because I once caught a glimpse of your true self^ 
 and I loved you.' 
 
 She looked at the reflection of her own face in the 
 mirror, and addressed it. 
 
 ' Did you ever see such a funny boy as this ? ' Then 
 she sprang up, and, placing a hand on each of Robert's 
 shoulders, kissed him on both cheeks with a frank, 
 almost sisterly affection. 
 
 * Pray if you like,' she exclaimed ; ' I am quite sure 
 that no one has ever prayed for me before. When I 
 want a prayer, I pay five francs for a mass. And 
 that happens often — far oftener than you would be- 
 lieve, my little Saint Robert with the grave, grave eyes, 
 and the firm, firm mouth, and the square, square chin 
 and the moustache — a real moustache — just coming. 
 I think I even want you to pray for me. There ! I 
 ask it. I even beg it as a favour. Pray for me morn- 
 ing and evening. I believe in prayer. It is the one 
 irresistible force. All the clever men who come to 
 my little suppers admit that. So pray as much as you
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 39 
 
 can. The devil will try to hinder you. He will tell 
 you cruel, bitter things about me. He will make you 
 lose heart, and think it all useless. He will say, " She 
 is hopelessly wicked." Or he will say, " Don't waste 
 your time and energy." For if you pray well, there 
 is nothing more exhausting. I had a cousin who was 
 a priest. They say he used to faint after he had 
 prayed very earnestly for any poor soul. I can well 
 believe it — because he never lived to be an abbe, 
 although he worked real miracles. Be a brave fool, 
 and don't listen to anyone. Just continue your 
 prayers, and — who knows ? — you may yet meet me in 
 heaven.' 
 
 During this speech she stood with her hands still 
 resting on his shoulders, and her gaze fixed intently 
 on his face. 
 
 ' We make a handsome couple,' said she, * and if we 
 had wings — ' 
 
 They heard a heavy step on the staircase without. 
 
 ' You must go now,' said Henriette. 
 
 The door opened, and a panting woman flounced 
 into the room. 
 
 ' M. le Comte is coming,' said she. 
 
 Madame Duboc's lips parted into a forced smile. 
 
 'Adieu, cher Robert,' she murmured, *and repeat 
 all the pretty prayers you know. I want to be 
 always beautiful, always happy, and always loved. 
 Adieu.' 
 
 * Adieu,' said Robert, white with sorrow.
 
 40 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 He turned and left her. 
 
 Henriette re-powdered her neck and arms. 
 
 ' Le pauvre bete garpn, said she, ' // a du cceur ei 
 . . . il est beau comme un petit amour ! ' 
 
 ' Mon D'leu /' said her femme de chambre, handing 
 her the carmine, Ms madame going to cry about a 
 child ? ' 
 
 Henriette's eyes were brimming over with tears. 
 
 ' Platonic love,' said she, ' gets on my nerves. My 
 head aches,'
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 Robert groped his way down to the staircase, through 
 the narrow passage and into the theatre, where two 
 young women clad in brief skirts and enormous wigs 
 were dancing a breakdown. He went back mechani- 
 cally to his former seat, and sat there so absorbed in 
 thought that the music-hall, with its lamps and gilding, 
 might have been a field of graves, and the dancers 
 mere summer flies wantoning on epitaphs. He heard 
 nothing and saw no one, but remained there — pray- 
 ing wild entreaties for the soul of Henriette. He 
 did not ask himself whether he cherished any hope 
 of ever seeing her again. It was impossible, as 
 matters were, to find any happiness in her company. 
 He had no intention of fighting with the vulgar 
 throng of her admirers for a stray smile. 
 
 No, if it were to mean anything in his life, this 
 new-found intensity of emotion, this sudden revela- 
 tion of the greatest force in earth and heaven, he 
 would have to guard it well and keep it sacred 
 from the associations which destroy and the con- 
 
 4'
 
 42 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 siderations which corrupt. But the last words of 
 his prayer startled him ; they came unpremeditated 
 from his lips, as though a need stronger than his 
 will — more powerful than wisdom — had found a 
 voice. ' O God, do not let us be for ever separated. 
 Let her be mine some day ! ' 
 
 The blood rushed into his cheeks, and, trembling 
 between a vague longing and a deep dread, he rose 
 from his place and hastened from the auditorium, 
 wholly unable to restrain the tumult of sensations 
 which now possessed him. What if he should never 
 see Henriette again ? What if, humanly speaking, 
 she were never to be more than a woman whose 
 shadow had fallen but momentarily on his life ? Had 
 she not melted into his existence and become an in- 
 dissoluble part of his career ? Could he foresee a 
 future in which she had no share ? 
 
 ' Surely,' he thought, ' most of us have at certain 
 moments a prophetic divination of our fate. We feel 
 a sudden assurance that some things will inevitably 
 come to pass — that this or that person will affect our 
 destinies.' 
 
 He was conscious of such a presentiment with 
 regard to Madame Duboc, and, while he felt un- 
 happy, he lost that fever of unrest and indecision 
 which is so much harder to bear than a definite 
 sorrow. 
 
 He was already in sight of the entrance hall when 
 the swinging felt doors leading thereto were thrown
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 43 
 
 open, and a small foppish man about two-and- 
 forty, who walked as though he were stepping on 
 to the scene in response to an enthusiastic recall, 
 advanced toward him with every sign of astonish- 
 ment. 
 
 ' Parflete ! ' said Robert, in a tone of dismay. 
 
 ' Gest bien lui ! Robert, enfin ! ' said Parflete, with 
 a disagreeable smile, which was half conciliatory and 
 half a menace, ^ depuis quand es-tu icif fe suis bien 
 heureux de te voir ! ' 
 
 * I wonder that you have not forgotten me ! ' 
 answered the boy, Parflete was one of his god- 
 mother's friends who had once visited her for a 
 month in Brittany when she had fled thither with 
 her jewels and some priceless reminiscences of the 
 Court of Napoleon I. He was a person who went 
 everywhere and was acquainted with everyone, be- 
 cause he never stayed in any place too long, nor 
 attempted to know anyone too well. He had been 
 the tutor of a royal duke till he inherited, from an 
 unexpected source, a handsome property, when he 
 became instead the duke's best patron. He lived 
 in Paris — if a being so restless could be said to live 
 in any quarter of the globe — and he had shown 
 himself kindly disposed toward Robert during his 
 schooldays in that capital. 
 
 The boy, however, had never responded to his 
 interest, and he felt now that there was something 
 ill-omened in this sudden encounter with a man
 
 44 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 whom, for some reason, he had always tried to 
 avoid. He found it impossible to affect any pleasure 
 at the meeting, and shrank back from the other's 
 feigned cordiality. But he replied to his eager 
 questions when he was allowed the necessary time 
 for a reply. 
 
 *Let us sit down,' said Parflete, dropping the 
 theatrical French which he usually adopted when 
 he had no time to be civil in his own tongue. He 
 chose a red velvet sofa at some distance from the 
 string-band which was playing in \}[v^ foyer. (There 
 are two orchestras at Les Papillons^ one in front 
 of the stage, and one by the promenade.) 'Are 
 you in Paris for any length of time?' he asked. 
 ' Paris is preposterous this year. It is full of 
 young men who come here from some northern 
 home and imbibe from their new environment every- 
 thing that is extravagant and therefore striking, 
 ephemeral and therefore talked of. They catch the 
 taint of third-rate French literature. They begin 
 to look like the " Arthurs " on a novel cover, and 
 they talk like a bad translation of the Goncourts ! 
 They become the solemn incarnation of Le Petit 
 yournal pour rire. They think Flaubert — that sweet 
 singer of artificial emotions — the greatest of the 
 prophets. They are always wondering why they 
 were not born either in the fifteenth century or 
 the eighteenth century. They cannot be certain 
 whether Dante was or was not a great poet.
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 45 
 
 Shakespeare gives them the headache. They like 
 those authors best who had euphonious names and 
 who have left but few works ! In other words, 
 7non enfant^ they are — fools. But they will amuse 
 you — you who know France and the French so 
 well ! ' 
 
 All this time he was studying Robert's face. 
 
 'Good God!' he thought to himself, 'this boy 
 will become famous. I must not lose sight of him, 
 and I must give him some advice.' 
 
 ' When are you going to Oxford ? ' he asked 
 aloud. 
 
 ' At the end of this year.' 
 
 ' It won't suit you. What you need is not Plato, 
 but Bacon. Plato would play the devil with you. 
 You are a visionary as it is. You must go to 
 Cambridge and read the Novum Organuin. Bacon 
 is a man's philosopher. Plato is for demi-gods and 
 criminals. Heavens ! how you resemble your father 
 in profile ! It was my good fortune to be present 
 when he preached his last sermon in London. It was 
 a month before he startled the whole Order of St 
 Dominic by — -by marrying your entrancing mother. 
 His brilliant eyes and clear, white face ! He looked 
 like a Holbein — Holbein did manage to see one or 
 two handsome fellow-creatures. I stared at your 
 father and thought, "That man is meditating some 
 terrific step ! " I was but twenty at the time, and it 
 shows me that I was a judge of character even then.
 
 46 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 I shall never forget his extraordinary neatness — such 
 a dazzling white surplice 1 such beautiful, nervous 
 hands ! . . . Surely these things do not pain you ? 
 Why should they ? ' 
 
 ' They do, nevertheless,' said Robert. 
 
 ' Cher enfant^ faithful are the wounds of a friend. 
 I spoke for your good. It was a test. Do not 
 pamper a thin skin. I could swear that you were 
 destined for an uncommon career. You will make a hit 
 — but — for God's sake and your own, conquer this 
 feminine sensitiveness. When you were last here, 
 I often thought you were mad. But you were never 
 silly. Now, many boys are silly, though few indeed 
 attain the grandeur of madness. To be seriously mad 
 is a fine thing ; it shows that the gods have had some- 
 what to say to you. This morbid reluctance to hear 
 the truth and to face life is, however, both silly and 
 weak. You are a strong, vigorous lad. Don't shoot 
 tame canaries and think you are a sportsman. That 
 was the fault in charming, absurd, consumptive Keats. 
 Now come and see me to-morrow. I am spending a 
 few days at the Embassy, and I can present you to 
 some valuable acquaintances. I also wish to give you 
 something for your god-mother. Jii revoir. I have 
 to take supper with Henriette Duboc' 
 
 ' Do you know Madame Duboc ? ' asked Robert, 
 with burning cheeks. 
 
 ' Yes,' answered Parflete, with a grin, ' I am her 
 philosopher-in-waiting ! We sup to-night en petit
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 47 
 
 comtte — the Archduke Charles, the Comte de Brie, 
 Lord Reckage, Henriette and myself. It is the 
 birthday of Brigit — la petite Brigitte ! ' 
 
 ' Who is she ? ' asked Robert, 
 
 'The daughter of Duboc and the Archduke 
 Charles. She is six years old, and she begins to 
 recite her catechism. They christened her Brigit 
 because Duboc's mother was that lovely Irishwoman, 
 Bridget O'Malley, who eloped with — but I shall never 
 stop if I once begin that tale of woe. Au revoir again. 
 Come to-morrow. Ju revoir ! ' 
 
 And, waving his hand, he hurried away. 
 
 For a moment Robert could but hang his head and 
 think how dull, clumsy and ineffective he was in com- 
 parison with that brilliant, if unpleasant, personage. 
 Henriette, no doubt, found him an agreeable com- 
 panion. Perhaps he was her most intimate friend. 
 Perhaps she would amuse her guests at supper by 
 telling them of the little stupid peasant who walked 
 from Brittany to Paris in the hope of saving her soul — 
 a soul which all the world knew and jeered at„ And 
 Parflete would grin and twist the story into a good 
 anecdote for his journal. In the mortification of this 
 thought, the lad's face grew scarlet. He longed to 
 escape into some desolate place where there were 
 neither men nor women, where there was no one — 
 no one save God, Who understood everything and 
 never laughed. His feeling for Henriette turned to 
 hatred, and back again to love. Why should a last
 
 48 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 painful impression blot out his remembrance of that 
 one perfect day at Miraflores ? 
 
 'Alas ! ' he told himself, 'she knows too well how 
 deeply I love her. Yet is that a reason why she should 
 deceive me and despise me ? ' 
 
 He dashed away the tears which sprang up to his 
 eyes, but as he wandered out into the street, he saw 
 nothing before him except Henriette's face and her fare- 
 well glance — ironical, wondering and compassionate. 
 He had not been unprepared for that news of the Arch- 
 duke Charles. He knew that there was a man ; his 
 name and rank mattered but little. The real blow 
 came from little Brigit, aged six, who was learning 
 her catechism ! A child always brings a hallowing 
 influence. The repulsive picture of Madame Duboc 
 and her train of lovers gave place to the softer view of 
 a very young mother and a little girl — a little girl like 
 herself, with flaxen hair and violet eyes. This did not 
 cure him of his infatuation, but it took another hue. 
 It became chastened. It gained in philosophy what 
 it lost in romance. Humour took up the place of 
 sentiment. He was able to smile at himself, and, 
 before he reached the little hotel in the Avenue 
 Carnot, where Madame Bertin would, did she write at 
 all, address his letters, he lost the rather oppressive 
 feeling that Henriette was his fate, his destiny by the 
 unalterable fiat of the gods ! He had made a mistake. 
 Clearly she was the fate of Wrexham Parflete's friend, 
 that Archduke Charles. The discovery was at first
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 49 
 
 humiliating — although he remembered that young 
 Romeo, too, had loved a Rosaline before he died for 
 Juliet. The ideal he had set before himself for 
 accomplishment was that of fidelity to one Lord, one 
 purpose and one woman. Some natures attain the 
 condition of religious faith only after many and harass- 
 ing years of moral experiments ; others, on the other 
 hand, are born with so clear a sense of the divine Omni- 
 presence that they doubt more readily the evidences 
 of sight, than their instinctive knowledge of the 
 invisible God. It does not invariably follow that 
 beings endowed with this spiritual perception are 
 outwardly holier, or inwardly more pure than those 
 less favoured. The men who have seen, in rare 
 moments of inspiration, the vision of the Eternal, 
 have not had fewer temptations, nor have they 
 sinned less deeply — less wilfully — than their blinder 
 brothers. 
 
 Robert, in his early boyhood, had been as inquisi- 
 tive after evil, as undisciplined in mind as any other 
 lad, but his heart had been quick to respond to great 
 ideas. He liked to think of himself as the player 
 of a noble part. He thought the thoughts of his 
 favourite heroes, acted as he supposed they would 
 have acted had they been born in his circumstances, 
 and, by degrees, the habit, due in the first place to 
 vanity, passed into that higher realm, the imagination, 
 and from thence into his soul. He became, in reality, 
 that youth he had by artifice once merely seemed to
 
 50 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 be, Amadis in the romance was not more brave, 
 more faithful, or more determined than the pro- 
 vincial Robert, who had walked two hundred miles 
 to tell the woman he loved that she was unworthy.
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 The hotel in the Avenue Carnot was a house in a 
 square block of large white buildings. Robert was 
 given a small room on the fifth floor which over- 
 looked the courtyard, where, in the centre of some 
 laurel bushes, a fountain played. 
 
 He undressed by the light of the stars, and, over- 
 come by the fatigue and excitement of the day, soon 
 fell asleep, and had no further dreams till he awoke 
 next morning. 
 
 He rose early, and commenced a long letter to his 
 god-mother. The sentiment which existed between 
 Madame Bertin and himself was of too formal a 
 nature to have been particularly warm. She had 
 always seemed to him a woman who exacted — not 
 merely from himself, but from the whole world — 
 every outward mark of consideration, and, by ex- 
 aggerating the visible courtesies he sought to delude 
 himself into the belief that he really loved her. 
 Perhaps he succeeded. Certainly he never permitted 
 
 51
 
 52 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 himself to examine the bond which seemed to unite 
 their two lives. If it was slight, he preferred to 
 remain in ignorance of its actual fragility. She was 
 clever, and when he was in correspondence with her, 
 he found it easy to express his thoughts in an intimate 
 strain. There was something man-like in her nature, 
 which, though it forbade any display of tenderness, 
 kept her sympathies free from the taint of curiosity, 
 and her advice, from the feminine sting of reproach. 
 And she was never jealous. When Robert wrote 
 to his god-mother (and he sent her a letter every 
 day), he seemed to be sending a message from one 
 solitude to another. Each led an independent and 
 isolated existence. The woman lived in the past, 
 the boy in his dreams ; but her sphere was peopled 
 with the dead, whereas Robert's held those brilliant, 
 airy creatures of the fancy who cannot die because 
 they never come to life. 
 
 In the news he now wrote, he made no reference 
 to Henriette Duboc, but he dwelt at some length on 
 the meeting with Parflete, for whom Madame Bertin 
 had always felt an inexplicable regard. She had an 
 old silver box containing a small packet of that gentle- 
 man's letters — letters which she declared to be so 
 brilliant that they might have been written by Swift. 
 In these circumstances, Robert felt that, since Parflete 
 had been careful to say that he had something for 
 Madame Bertin, it was impossible to avoid a call at 
 the Embassy.
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 53 
 
 Her Britannic Majesty's ambassador was, at that 
 time, Lord Locrine— a peer who was pre-eminent 
 in his generation for an enchanting manner and re- 
 markable literary gifts. While he was never known 
 to fail in his diplomatic duties, his house was a 
 rendezvous, not for distinguished foreigners only, but 
 for such of his own compatriots who had either brains 
 or charm to recommend them. He delighted the 
 capricious French republic, while he represented the 
 best traditions of the English monarchy. To snobs 
 he was a prince, and a haughty one ; but to men 
 he was a man and a scholar. Not every visitor who 
 crossed his threshold was either a genius or a noble. 
 Not every woman whom he took into dinner was 
 either a beauty, a wit, or the incarnation of a pedi- 
 gree ; but the people who were welcome at the British 
 Embassy during his term of office were, for the 
 most part, intelligent or amusing, and often both. 
 His Excellency had once been heard to remark that, 
 in the whole course of his varied career, he had 
 met one grande da?ne^ two geniuses, four fools, several 
 thousand very clever persons, and hundreds who were, 
 at least, absurd. 
 
 At the moment of Robert's visit, the house-party 
 was smaller than usual. In addition to Parflete, there 
 were two male visitors only. Lady Locrine's nephews 
 — sons of the Earl of Almouth ;— Lord Reckage and 
 his twin-brother, Hercy Berenville, who was a cripple. 
 Lady Locrine's own son was an undergraduate at
 
 54 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 Oxford. Her daughter Amy, however, was just nine- 
 teen, and enjoying her first season at Paris.* 
 
 ' Parflete took me into the drawing-room,' we read in 
 Robert's letter to his god-mother, ' and I lost my dread 
 of a formal interview with the Locrines when I saw a 
 very handsome woman seated at a piano, an inoffensive 
 youth looking over her shoulder, and another youth, with 
 a crutch, standing in the middle of the floor delivering a 
 harangue on Greek music. 
 
 ' " The Greeks," he was saying, " regarded music as a 
 natural expression of sentiment ; they wrote airs and 
 simple themes. They did not show their skill in counter- 
 point and ornamentation." When he caught sight of 
 Parflete and myself, he blushed, and made me feel quite 
 happy by saying that he was " boring everyone with his 
 usual rot ! " 
 
 ' Lady Locrine wore a grey silk (I noticed this at once 
 on your account), and a few fine jewels. Her hair is white, 
 her eyes are black and piercing — not unkind, but certainly 
 in search of truth. She was most civil, and she has one 
 of those agreeable fatigued voices. Poor Hercy Berenville 
 has five times his brother's brains, but unhappily only 
 half his leg ! I hear that he was born so. Parflete tells 
 me that he tried two terms at Eton, but his health broke 
 down. He has now four tutors at home, and they are 
 looking for a companion of his own age to work with him. 
 Reckage — his twin-brother — is an odd boy, whose face 
 shows a pretty even mixture of cunning and sincerity. 
 His manner, however, is perfect, and I like him, in spite 
 of myself, rather better than Hercy, who, by a strange 
 paradox, seems a strong man playing the part of an invalid, 
 while the other seems an invalid playing the part of a 
 blood ! His talk was all about horses and dogs and pretty 
 women. I don't think that he cares much about either, 
 for his eyes were always wandering to Lady Locrine's 
 
 * The story of Amy Locrine has been written by Robert Orange, 
 but the work, may not yet be published as many of the personages 
 involved in it are still living.
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 55 
 
 book table. Hercy, on the other hand, fingered a curious 
 reprint of the Fioretti, prattled about the thirteenth 
 century, and sat by the window craning his neck to see 
 every petticoat that passed. When he offered any remark 
 to his brother on the subject of horseflesh, it was always 
 an original, unexpected observation which showed know- 
 ledge as opposed to Reckage's jargon — taken second- 
 hand from trainers, who, of course, have all the caution 
 of the vulgar mind where trade secrets are in question. 
 I never heard a trainer or a coachman tell the truth about 
 a horse. 
 
 ' Lord Locrine was not visible, but when I said good- 
 bye, Lady Locrine asked me to breakfast with them 
 to-morrow. Parflete came out with me into the hall and 
 called me into an ante-room, where he told me all I 
 know, at present, about Reckage and Hercy Berenville. 
 
 ' " You have made a good impression," said he. " Your 
 fate is now in your own hands. If fortune should fail 
 you, it would be a calamity, but never let it be said that 
 you have failed fortune, for that would be an irretrievable 
 dishonour." 
 
 ' He spoke solemnly, and I could not have believed that 
 he was capable of so much feeling. I had always re- 
 garded him as a cross between a learned pig and a per- 
 forming poodle. For the moment I liked him — perhaps 
 because I felt sorry for him. He has just enough soul to 
 be damned, and just enough heart to suffer under damna- 
 tion. . , . 
 
 ' I have just returned from my breakfast at the Embassy. 
 Lord Locrine is handsome in a curling way — his hair and 
 his beard, his eyelashes, his nostrils and his moustache 
 all curl. Once I nearly addressed him as Hyperion. His 
 talk was equally elegant and decorative. Each phrase he 
 used was either /r/V^, or ondule, and all were parfume. He 
 has the knack of uttering literature as though it were 
 conversation. The gift, too, is clearly natural ; he thinks, 
 I should say, in roundels. It is a real bird ; it trills 
 because it must. Lady Locrine is the best of listeners, 
 and she has, for her sex, an extraordinary sense of humour. 
 Her laugh is hearty and unrestrained, but then she looks
 
 56 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 .well laughing. Laughter ruins many women. Hercy 
 Berenville was my neighbour at table. He is swarthy, 
 and he might be an Italian. The face is pointed ; the 
 eyes are almond-shaped, very large, and like those of some 
 fine sagacious animal. He puzzles me a little, and yet 
 attracts me. ... I seem to have lived a hundred 
 years since I left you. I enclose a letter which I have 
 just received from Parflete. They have given me four 
 days in which to form my decision upon it.' 
 
 The letter in question contained the proposal that 
 Robert should accept the position of companion to 
 Hercy Berenville, at a salary of two hundred pounds 
 a year. He was to work with Hercy, travel with 
 Hercy, read with Hercy, and, in a word, be a 
 brother to Hercy. Hercy lived, for the greater 
 part of the time, at his mother's dower-house in 
 Hampshire. 
 
 * This,' wrote Parflete at the conclusion of his 
 letter, ' is the great opportunity of your life.' 
 
 Madame Bertin, on receiving Robert's news, 
 telegraphed her advice from Brittany : — 
 
 * Madness to refuse.' 
 
 The boy himself needed no persuasion in the matter. 
 He accepted the situation, and, with Hercy, left 
 Paris for England early in the following week.
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 Robert's life during the next ten years seems to have 
 been marked by passions of the mind rather than 
 passions of the heart. He had, it is true, a few love 
 adventures, but they vv^ere sources to him of unhappi- 
 ness rather than inspiration. We hear that both 
 Hercy and himself became accomplished scholars ; that 
 they travelled in the East, in America and all through 
 Europe ; that they became citizens of the world. 
 
 The one person to whom Robert would have sent 
 confidential letters in all that time was Madame 
 Bertin, and she, to his sorrow, died before he had spent 
 a month in his altered circumstances. 
 
 He composed two novels, but if the events and 
 persons with which they deal bear any relation to his 
 own immediate experience, they are so described and 
 disguised that it is impossible to regard them in any 
 other light than that of pure romance. They show, 
 however, a knowledge of the world and human thought 
 as unexpected, yet sound, as Hercy Berenville's re- 
 marks on horseflesh. There is one passage, however, 
 
 in his last novel — written when he had reached the 
 
 57
 
 58 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 -highest place in political life — which he is said to have 
 admitted to a friend was pure autobiography. The 
 internal evidence is in such strong favour of this sup- 
 position, that it may be taken, without doubt, as an 
 accurate analysis of his mind during his first years 
 in England. It should be stated that the individual 
 of whom he wrote is not the hero of the romance, 
 but a subordinate character — a certain Michael 
 Crabbe. 
 
 'Michael Crabbe,' so runs the extract, 'had spent his 
 youth on the coast of Brittany, where dreams take their 
 substance from the great rocks, their colour from the sky, 
 and their unfathomable mystery from the sea. Paris — 
 where he had been for a certain number of terms at 
 school — was to him a city of books, by the Cathedral of 
 Notre Dame ; the brilliant streets, the public buildings, 
 the life, sparkle and gaiety of France's capital were to 
 him but seemings, appearances and nothings — while he 
 could read of Ancient Greece and Rome in the masters 
 of literature. In winter and summer, he rose at five in the 
 morning and read for two hours before the household or 
 his schoolfellows stirred. He was permitted a room to 
 himself, and, in dark weather, he studied by candle-light. 
 He spent the greater part of his pocket-money in candles 
 and second-hand books. When, through interruptions or 
 fatigue, he failed to work twelve hours a day, he would 
 feel, for some reason, unfaithful, and he always made 
 good, by additional exertions, the lost time. What a 
 change, then, was his life in England ! At the Earl of 
 Illingdale's mansion on Piccadilly — the best, the greatest, 
 and also the most foolish society in London, streamed in 
 and out all day and half the night. When his lordship 
 retired to his country seat, the same society followed him, 
 but it stayed longer. He was rich, hospitable, inordinately 
 fond of hearing gossip, yet an adept at minding his own
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 59 
 
 business. He lived the life of a king without respon- 
 sibilities, and his house was a court where there were 
 neither ceremonies, penalties, favourites, nor spies. In 
 this rippling, ever-widening circle of acquaintances, 
 Crabbe found it difficult to maintain his moral equilibrium. 
 He has found, in a measure, the realization of his early- 
 romantic fancies ; he was, indeed, a dependent, but he 
 shared in every pleasure and privilege of his young charge, 
 the heir. The hours spent with tutors, masters of modern 
 languages, and professors of art and music, were snatched 
 from the serious time devoted to the table, the drawing- 
 room, the stable and the field. In his love for animals 
 and out-door life, he was less an English sportsman than 
 a gipsy. He was a bold rider and a good shot, but he 
 was happier aiming at bulls' eyes than birds. On the 
 other hand, he was a champion of duelling. He seemed 
 to have no scruple about killing a man for a just cause 
 in a fair fight, and he took pride in his reputation as 
 a fencer. He hated fishing. While others fished, he 
 wrote poems, or put the gloves on with Captain Debright 
 — one of the Earl's private secretaries — a great boxer in 
 his day. 
 
 ' From all this it will be seen that the earnest student 
 had become transformed into the courtier. He engaged 
 in several love-affairs, and he was a dandy in his dress. 
 His tailor's bill was long, and his salary was barely 
 sufficient for his bootmaker, his hatter, and his shirts. 
 He thought of entering the army. He read all he could 
 find about Sir Philip Sydney and Lord Essex. Then he 
 studied Beethoven, and wished to be a great composer. 
 He was supposed to play the violin with skill and feeling. 
 He read deeply in German metaphysic, Russian politics, 
 English art, Gothic architecture and the Fathers of the 
 Church. There was no limit to his interests and aspira- 
 tions. He wanted to be rich, powerful and distingushed. 
 He sighed for some princess who would love him for his 
 devotion and exploits. If he thought himself a fine, 
 handsome, devil of a fellow — the women were a little to 
 blame. They told him so, and he swallowed it all — for 
 a time, at all events. He soon learnt to put more trust
 
 6o THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 in his mirror. There were periods when he became 
 bitter at the comparison of his own poverty and few 
 advantages with the wealth and favours lavished upon 
 his associates. The thought that, even with the highest 
 intellectual gifts, he could but hope to end his life at 
 the social point from which they — even as fools and 
 incompetent — started, filled him with something — remote, 
 indeed, from jealousy, but very near despair. " Poor 
 men," thought he, " who succeed in public life, are called, 
 at best, adventurers ! It was not so in the age of chivalry. 
 The kingdom of Art is now the one realm where might 
 makes the king." But his health was too sound to support, 
 for any length of time, such enervating moods. His 
 ambition soon centred itself on a more permanent object 
 than fashionable popularity. The phase of uncertainty 
 and worldliness lasted about eighteen months. After 
 that he passed — in the natural course — through the 
 three common stages of mental growth : — 
 
 '■First : — The fanatic love of poetry and a contempt for 
 human beings. 
 
 '■Second: — The love of Nature: a desire for solitude: 
 theoretic sympathy with mankind in the past, — the heroes 
 and heroines of history. 
 
 ' Third : — The love of humanity : a pleasure in Nature : 
 a right understanding of poetry : a firm faith in God's 
 wisdom and a fierce desire to take a manly part in the 
 drama of life. 
 
 ' In time he earned enough money by his pen to pay 
 his debts, but it was a slow and chastening business. 
 It cost him the good looks for which he had once taken, 
 perhaps, too much thought.' 
 
 It should be remembered, in reading the foregoing 
 extract, that Orange, at middle-age, was looking back 
 upon himself as a young man between eighteen and 
 eight-and-twenty. He was not one to spare his 
 own weaknesses, and the general tone of the composi-
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 6i 
 
 tion will be found to be, at all points, ironical. In 
 the Memoirs of Hercy Berenville, we find Orange 
 described as being, at the age of thirty, ' extraordin- 
 arily handsome, with a fine, erect figure, and easy, 
 though undemonstrative, manners. When he chose 
 to exert himself, few people could resist his influence. 
 His words were often severe, but his personal mag- 
 netism was such that it seemed to attract every order 
 of mind, and what he said, though never so sharply, 
 mattered little. For general accomplishments, for 
 quickness of intellect and depth of knowledge he 
 stood out among the crowd of remarkable men who, 
 in those days, were constant visitors at my father's 
 house. It was felt that Robert Orange was cut out 
 for a distinguished literary career, — that he would be 
 a second Gibbon.' 
 
 In all such estimates some allowance must, of 
 course, be made for the prejudices of affection, yet, 
 while Robert did not become 'a second Gibbon,' 
 his life could not have been a disappointment to the 
 friends who first believed in his ability. 
 
 After the publication of his second book, Basil 
 Lemaitrey which dealt in brilliant style with the 
 adventures of a young politician, Robert was offered 
 the post of secretary to Reckage, who was attempting 
 to draw public attention toward himself by making 
 witty speeches in the House of Commons. 
 
 That Robert's own ambition should have soared 
 into more dramatic scenes than the lonely path of
 
 62 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 literature seems not to have occurred to his friends. In 
 the correspondence of Lord Reckage we find the 
 greatest astonishment expressed when ' Orange, a 
 most able, learned, but ascetic fellow,' offered him- 
 self as a candidate to the electors of Norbet Royal. 
 Hercy, on the other hand, writes to Lady 
 Locrine : — 
 
 ' I have been expecting this for some time. It is the 
 misfortune of Robert's life that he is not an ecclesi- 
 astic. In the Roman Church he would find full 
 scope, both for his political talents and his deeply 
 reliffious mind. He will succeed in Parliament 
 because he has a clear head and the gift of seeming 
 — when necessary — an untravelled Saxon. You would 
 often suppose that he shared our foolish national belief 
 that the average Briton's point of view is the observa- 
 tory of the entire human race — that London is the 
 Greenwich of the Universe ; and, that the average 
 Londoner is the average man — whether Hottentot or 
 Brahmin. This power of contraction would of itself 
 command an overwhelming majority of votes. In any 
 other man of equal genius and experience, I should 
 call that power by a harder name — insincerity. With 
 Robert, however, it is the Apostolic gift of sympathy — 
 " He is all things to all men that he may, by any 
 means, save some." I have never met so patient and 
 tranquil a soul. When the time comes for him to 
 enter the arena of public life, it will be a case of
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 63 
 
 fighting with the wild beasts at Ephesus. His real 
 happiness and his tastes are for meditation, for retire- 
 ment, for a cloistered activity.' 
 
 It is now known that there was a deeper cause for 
 Robert's sudden resolution than was imagined even 
 by the two men who were, in all but parentage, his 
 brothers. He had fallen in love. 
 
 In the May prior to his campaign at Norbet 
 Royal (which took place in the summer), he had 
 accompanied Hercy and a small party of friends on 
 an expedition to Touraine. They made Chambord 
 their headquarters, and stayed at the inn in the 
 magnificent park surrounding the chateau. The 
 journal, to which we are indebted for his minute 
 description of the Villa Miraflores and his first meet- 
 ing with Henriette Duboc, contains no word of the 
 finest palace in France, and but a few lines of reference 
 to a moment — perhaps the vital moment of his career. 
 
 It contains these three entries : — 
 
 Chambord^ May 18. — I hope to remain here for 
 many months. 
 
 May 19. — To-day I was ascending the famous 
 double staircase in the castle, when, hearing voices 
 which reminded me most painfully of my boyhood, 
 I looked up, and saw Wrexham Parflete with a lady. 
 I thought it was Henriette Duboc. She is Parflete's 
 wife ; they are on their honeymoon ; she is only
 
 64 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 sixteen, and she is poor Henriette's daughter. She 
 is more beautiful than her mother. 
 
 May 20.— The Parfletes lunched with us. I have 
 told Hercy that I must go on to Paris the day after 
 to-morrow. I feel restless. 
 
 After this there is a break of several weeks, and 
 the Parfletes are not mentioned again in his diary of 
 that year. He wrote, however, a letter to Lord 
 Reckage on his arrival on 25th May at Paris, and 
 this contained the following passage : — 
 
 ' I find it impossible to like Parflcte, and this marriage 
 with a child (who left her convent school on her wedding- 
 day) but increases my antipathy. I know that I owe him 
 much. I know, too, that you and Hercy have real 
 affection for him. To me he is frankly intolerable, even 
 as an acquaintance. He asked after you with the deepest 
 interest, and added that, "as for himself — he had but one 
 grief, his futile resemblance to all the portraits of Horace 
 Walpole ! " This, as a matter of fact, is true. It is 
 extraordinary. He then went on to say that, " Macaulay 
 never understood Walpole. Poor Walpole's good spirits 
 were as forced as Gray's melancholy. Gray was by nature 
 cheerful ; that was why he composed an elegy. Walpole 
 was sad, so he wrote the wittiest letters in our language. 
 Walpole was to his (Parflete's) mind the greater man 
 of the two. But the Saxons always distrusted wit. It 
 offended their moral pomposity, etc., etc." All this time 
 his bride was waiting for him, and he had not so much as 
 presented us to her. Hercy and I both remained, by a 
 common instinct, with our heads uncovered ; there was 
 something in the child's whole bearing which seemed to 
 demand unusual signs of respect and deference. It was 
 a shock to both of us when he said, with a revolting smirk,
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 65 
 
 "This is my wife." He told Hercy later on, while I 
 was showing Mrs Parflete the room in which Moliere gave 
 Le Bourgeois Ge/itilhomme, that she was the daughter of 
 Henriette Duboc and the Archduke Charles. You must 
 have seen her, la petite Brigitte. After the Archduke's 
 marriage and Henriette's death, Brigit was sent to a 
 convent at Tours. Parflete, by her mother's will, was 
 appointed sole guardian. The Archduke, to use Parflete's 
 villainous phrase, " behaved well," and a handsome dot was 
 settled on the child. I absolve Parflete from mercenary 
 motives in the matter. His own fortune (though much 
 impaired by gambling) is still considerable. But the 
 child's astonishing beauty on the one hand, and his 
 servile devotion to the Archduke on the other, explain the 
 whole intrigue. It can but end in disaster. The child, 
 for the moment, is amused by her deliverance from school, 
 and seems to regard Parflete in a purely fraternal light. 
 The relationship is extraordinary. I cannot call him an 
 attentive husband. He is, however, good-natured in 
 those rare moments when he can forget himself. . . . 
 His position at the Court is now established. He 
 has been appointed Equerry to the Archduke. My 
 plans are unsettled. Hercy joins me to-morrow. I 
 am spleeny, savage and useless. I am not on friendly 
 terms with myself. I have twenty unread books in my 
 room, all of which I have bought because I could not 
 live another day without them ! There they are, with 
 dancing letters, and I wish them all back at the book- 
 seller's. I went to the Louvre, and I nearly composed 
 a poem. Such stuff! I gazed long and blindly at the 
 Samothracian Victory. Once it would have thrilled me 
 with emotions of joy and hope ; but now it mocks me. 
 I am thinking much of your speech at Nottingham. Your 
 head is all right, so don't be afraid of showing your 
 heart. Davenport's resignation has left you a splendid 
 opening. Speak out, and don't worry about orator)'. 
 Demosthenes nowadays would be called an actor. The 
 Lords would complain of his vulgarity, the Commons of 
 his superiority, and the journalists of his perseverance. 
 Your style is unaffected, and if you can just manage to 
 
 E
 
 ee THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 conceal your knowledge of French literature, they will 
 find you a true patriot ! Politicians are now of three 
 kinds — the sugary, the soapy and the feathery. The 
 first cover their vile opinions with sweetness ; the second 
 afi^ect to keep other people's opinions clean ; the third 
 make their opinions so light of wing that they can fly 
 away at a moment's warning. I would have you like 
 none of these, dear Beau.* 
 
 ' More of this to-morrow. Yours, R. O.' 
 
 When Berenville arrived in Paris, two days after 
 the despatch of the foregoing, he was accompanied by 
 the Parfletes. 
 
 'Why have they come?' asked Robert, in great 
 irritation. ' Has that man no delicacy of feeling ? 
 He is on his honeymoon and if he does not find us 
 de trop^ he ought ! If Parflete will not leave us, we 
 must leave Parflete. The situation is impossible.' 
 
 ' He is all right,' said Hercy, ' and as for me, I am 
 thankful to see that he is not uxorious. I couldn't 
 stand it. You must remember that he is a married 
 bachelor. Besides, you needn't talk to him. Talk 
 to Mrs. She's refreshing.' 
 
 Hercy was taking his usual rest on the sofa while 
 Orange was pacing the floor. The invalid fixed his 
 eyes on his former tutor's broad shoulders and fine 
 figure, then he hurled his own crutch across the room. 
 
 ' I tell you,' continued Robert, ' the whole thing is 
 unseemly. When we are present, Parflete talks 
 incessantly about himself and pays no attention to 
 his wife.' 
 
 * Lord Reckage's nickname was an abbreviation of Beauclerk.
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 6"] 
 
 ^ He was never a carpet-knight.' 
 
 * Aristotle,' observed Robert, ' has remarked in his 
 politics, that the warlike nations are those who pay 
 the highest regard to women. And this, he suggests, 
 may have given rise to the fable of the love of Mars 
 and Venus ! ' 
 
 * Mars was not a highly-educated person. His 
 blood was red, and he did not know that the liver 
 was the seat of our heart-felt emotions ! I will bet 
 you anything that Mars was a god of no ideas. 
 Education gives a man ideas.' 
 
 * But love alone can give true vitality,' said Robert. 
 'With ideas and vitality there is little that men 
 cannot achieve. Parflete, however, is something not 
 more but less than a man ! ' 
 
 'We must make the best of him now. I have 
 asked them to dinner, and afterwards we are going 
 to Les Papillons^ 
 
 ' You will take her to Les Papillons ? ' 
 
 ' Why not ? Her mother made the fame of the 
 place. She must know all about her mother. I 
 know what this means. You have been reading one 
 of those footling old Fathers ! As Parflete said the 
 other day — he is most generous where you are con- 
 cerned — as Parflete said, "Orange has real learning 
 and great abilities, but he is a Platonist." ' 
 
 ' What is that ? ' said Robert, grimly. 
 
 ' A devilish hard fellow to live with ! ' 
 
 Robert threw back his head and laughed.
 
 68 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 - 'And how would Parfiete describe himself?' he 
 asked. 
 
 ' I have often heard him admit that he has been his 
 own enemy.' 
 
 * If a man is evil to himself to whom is he good ? ' 
 said Robert at once. 
 
 ' He is a very decent, amusing fellow. He gave 
 up a great deal to marry the relation of a great 
 man. But he can't talk all day about samplers, 
 and the bon Dieu and the Blessed Lady ; and, at 
 present, that is Mrs P.'s great line. You are a 
 scholar yourself. How should you amuse a wife 
 of sixteen who cannot understand the least of your 
 thoughts ? I don't know what you would have done 
 in Parflete's circumstances, but I can guess ! ' 
 
 * Parflete ought never to have married ; but marriage, 
 when a crime, is a crime which it is criminal to 
 repent of.' 
 
 ' He doesn't repent — he merely drinks a little more 
 cognac than usual.' 
 
 ' You grant that ? And what makes this man 
 peculiarly detestable is the fact that he knows 
 better. His early training left nothing to be 
 desired. He who has once put his hand to the 
 plough, to him it is not permitted to look back ! ' 
 
 '• We live in the kingdom of men,' muttered Hercy, 
 whose mother had been a pious woman of Evangelical 
 principles. What would she have thought of Parflete, 
 and his little suppers and his philosophy ? ' We live
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 69 
 
 in the kingdom of men,' he murmured again. ' Par- 
 flete is a good-natured ass, and, after all, if it had not 
 been for him, I should never have know^n you^ 
 
 ' I do not forget that ; yet, vi^hen he was kind 
 enough to present me to your aunt, I w^ent to the 
 Embassy not for myself, but to call, at his request, 
 for a present which he had for Madame Bertin. The 
 present turned out to be a letter asking for a large 
 loan. She lent it and it was never repaid. I found 
 the letter among her papers after her death. That 
 accovmt therefore stands square. I have never 
 mentioned this before. But you force the truth 
 from me. Parflete had the money which would 
 have gone for my expenses at the University and 
 for my income now. The money, it seems, was 
 my own, and settled upon me by my father. 
 Madame Bertin was the trustee only. No doubt 
 she was under the impression that she was acting 
 in every way to my advantage.' 
 
 Hercy's face had undergone many changes during 
 the speech. It was not in his nature to own him- 
 self either astonished or in the wrong. But he 
 was conscious of a deep disgust for Parflete and 
 his methods. He made up his mind to cut that 
 gentleman for ever — though, in performing that act 
 he would take time and study his own convenience. 
 He would have a little more fun with Mrs Parflete, a 
 few more games of cards, another dinner or two. 
 He would hear all Parflete's news and capital stories
 
 70 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 ' — then, wish him farewell. That would be the 
 way. 
 
 ' It is not in my power,' said Robert, after a long 
 pause, ' to protect the child he has married. 
 
 ' But,' suggested Hercy,' ' you can do the civil 
 thing. I had rather hear her little story of the 
 pigeon, who was an orphan and a widov/, than any 
 conversation between the allied wits of Europe.' 
 
 ' Yet you were pitying Parflete ! ' 
 
 ' I understand him. He is wretched just because 
 he cannot be happy with that divinely pretty 
 creature. His position must be hellish. Every 
 man congratulates him, envies him and prods him 
 — morally, at all events — in the ribs ! Wherever 
 he goes he is pointed out as the old coxcomb with 
 the enchanting young wife. It is enough to give 
 him la colique de Miserere ! When he quotes poetry 
 to her, I could howl ! ' 
 
 ' Madame Bertin had a pet toad which she kept 
 in a glass cage and fed on butterflies,' said Robert. 
 ' Parflete reminds me of that delicate reptile. I tell 
 you I hate him, and I don't see why I should like 
 him. I think he must be a diseased doll. Do I 
 want him to run after his wife with Provencal 
 roses on his shoe and a guitar slung over his shoulders ? 
 Do I ask him to ape the boyish devotion of Daphnis 
 to Chloe ? But his attitudes, and his epigrams, and 
 his curling little fingers — the wretched homunculus ! 
 As for the lady — she cannot like him — although
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 71 
 
 virtuous women are incomprehensible in their 
 tastes. They will cling to men whom the good 
 Samaritan would scarcely touch with the tongs. 
 But, all other considerations apart, if you have the 
 heart to dine and laugh with a doomed creature 
 — knowing her to be doomed — I have not. To 
 me it is sacrilege. I may not help her. And 
 to look on, an idle, curious witness, — I cannot do 
 it!' 
 
 * I haven't got your uncomfortable gift of prophecy 1 ' 
 said Hercy. 
 
 'You have just exactly that which I have,' rejoined 
 Robert, ' a knowledge of life and human nature. But 
 Parflete amuses you, and so you deliberately blind your 
 eyes to a character which, in your soul, you must 
 despise.' 
 
 ' Oh, do come ofF ! ' said Hercy, feeling himself 
 correctly explained and becoming, in consequence, 
 both angry and depressed. ' I never went in for 
 minute self-analysis and all these scruples of con- 
 science. Fellows don't. For priests and rum chaps 
 it may be normal enough. My health wouldn't 
 stand it. But if I began it — this hand-to-the-plough 
 business — I should be an awful hypocrite, and if I 
 dropped it, after I began it, I should feel a coward, 
 so I jolly well leave it alone ! ' 
 
 * / would thou tuert cold or hot^ said Robert, * w, 
 because thou art lukewarm^ I will spue thee out of 
 my mouths
 
 72 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 ' This is too much,' exclaimed Hercy ; ' you are 
 furious about some imaginary falling-ofF or declension 
 or some such drivel which you think you have dis- 
 covered in yourself and so you are pitching into me ! 
 It's a great shame ! That is the w^hole trouble. You 
 badger and scourge yourself into a delirium and then 
 you fly out like a lion at Reckage or myself. Reckage 
 and I both know it. We have noticed it again and 
 again.' 
 
 Hercy 's countenance showed a very cunning ex- 
 pression, and Orange had to endure the mortifying 
 reflection that he had been studied and summed up 
 by these two contemporaries who had always seemed 
 to him mere lads, and, as it were, his pupils. He 
 felt by so many years the senior of both. He soon 
 forgot that momentary prick to his pride, however, in 
 the thought that Hercy had probably hit upon the 
 truth. Certainly he had been much cast down by his 
 self-communings while alone in Paris and after he had 
 torn himself away from Chambord. He started now 
 at the phrase torn himself •which now rose spontaneously 
 in his mind as he thought of the sudden departure 
 from his friends and the fixed plans of many a week. 
 He had abandoned Hercy, he had abandoned his work, 
 an historical treatise ; he had fled like a thief in the 
 night from a scene that was fair and a day that was 
 glorious. And the reasons which he gave to himself for 
 his conduct were these — a dislike of Wrexham Parflete 
 and a quarrel with Hercy. Some things must not be
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 73 
 
 admitted even in the hidden sanctuary of the heart. 
 To own them is to grant them a kind of existence. 
 They may indeed be killed, but then a ghost will 
 remain. So Robert could still say that these reasons 
 held good ; they were strong enough to stand alone. 
 It was not necessary to probe deeper into his feelings, 
 
 ' I say,' said Hercy, not caring for the stern silence 
 which had followed his last remark, 'the Beau and 
 I always know that you are a brick, and as good as 
 a saint and all that.' 
 
 * Don't talk like some managing woman ! ' 
 Hercy began to sulk, 
 
 * Then you won't dine with us to-night ? ' said he, 
 pretending to feel a twinge in his weak limb. 
 
 * Certainly not. 1 wonder that you can repeat the 
 question.' 
 
 ' What is to become of me ? I can't fight my way 
 through crowds ! and Parflete must look after his wife.' 
 
 'This is most ungenerous,' said Robert, with a dark 
 flush ; ' you know that I have never left you alone to 
 struggle through a crowd, or anywhere else. Aumerle 
 was with you at Chambord. He promised me never 
 to leave you. No one could be more thoughtful than 
 Charles Aumerle.' 
 
 ' I hate being shunted ofF on to good-natured other 
 people's people ! It makes me feel a perfect nuisance. 
 I often suspect that I am a bore as it is ; but, to be 
 so placed that I must know it for a dead certainty, is 
 the thing plus fort que rno'i^
 
 74 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 The corners of Hercy's sensitive mouth began to 
 droop, and his voice had the plaintive accent w^hich 
 never failed to wring the heart of women and strong 
 men. 
 
 Robert owned a long experience of this manoeuvre, 
 but, nevertheless, he had to swallow something before 
 he could be sure of his own firmness. He recognised 
 now, one over-looked motive in the rather tangled 
 string of circumstances which had led to his leaving 
 Chambord. He had striven to sever all connection 
 between Hercy and the Parfletes. Poor Berenville, 
 as all invalids, took violent and capricious fancies for 
 new acquaintances, or even for old acquaintances 
 under new conditions ; yet, as all invalids, also, he 
 wanted to be quite sure that one particular friend 
 was always in the background to soothe him when 
 the new-comers proved unsympathetic, or to help 
 him away when their society palled. Robert knew 
 that he could effect his purpose only by his own with- 
 drawal from the field. Hercy would follow him to 
 the ends of the earth, but so long as Robert remained 
 in sight, no matter how vexed in spirit and severe of 
 mein, his charge would amuse himself by over-drink- 
 ing, over-smoking and gambling with Parflcte or 
 any other person whom he found for the moment 
 to be entertaining. 
 
 Most of us know what an intense feeling of relief 
 it brings to find that our motives, for a certain course 
 of action, were not wholly egoistic. Selfishness, in a
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 75 
 
 case of physical danger, is, without doubt, an ig- 
 nominious weakness ; but when there be spiritual 
 danger, it takes another complexion and becomes 
 a duty. Robert had fled from a situation which he 
 found destructive to his own ideas of honour. It 
 had been a question of instinct — not close reasoning. 
 He had not permitted himself the enervating and sin- 
 ful luxury of examining the transient emotions which 
 passed like clouds over his soul. They were but the 
 signs of a storm. He received them as such, and, 
 without further wondering, sought to escape from the 
 threatened calamity. That, in itself, was a sufficient 
 reason for his conduct ; but he had found another reason, 
 too — consideration for Hercy. He had acted on the 
 principle of the two boys at play, one of whom, find- 
 ing that his comrade was rushing toward a precipice 
 and deaf to all entreaties to return, immediately took 
 to his heels and darted ofF as though in pursuit of some 
 enticing object, v/hereupon, the lad by the precipice 
 turned too and ran after him, determined to see what 
 thing it was that had proved more interesting than 
 his own audacity. 
 
 * Where you are concerned, Hercy,' said Robert, 
 quietly, 'I have no self-reproaches. I left you with 
 Aumerle. I would leave you with him at any time, or 
 I would even leave you alone if I found, as I found at 
 Chambord, that you neither valued my advice nor 
 listened to my just objections to late hours, gambling 
 and brandy swilling. I was your friend then and I
 
 76 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 am your friend still, unless you go on in this way 
 and make it impossible for me to remain one. You 
 knew I did not like your manner at Chambord, there- 
 fore, why do you keep it up, unless you wish me to 
 be your friend no longer ? I am neither your 
 servant nor your dependent. We are equals, I have 
 nothing to gain from you ; you have nothing to 
 gain from me. No, you must either treat me with 
 confidence or break with me altogether. There 
 must be some common ground on which we can 
 stand. We must agree that certain things are 
 right, and certain things are wrong, otherwise, all 
 is over between us. The vicious, self-indulgent life 
 which commends itself to Parflete, is, to my mind, 
 scandalous. If you, on the other hand, think it a 
 fine thing for a man to lose his own soul and corrupt 
 others by his example, all that is left to be said is 
 this — it is a parting of the ways, I must go my 
 way — you, yours. Now you know my mind on the 
 matter. It is a parting of the ways.' 
 
 He had spoken simply and with great earnestness. 
 To Hercy he had never before seemed so resolute a 
 character ; he had never seemed so determined to 
 himself. There is perhaps no strength so great and 
 abiding as that which follows from a resisted tempta- 
 tion. Every dangerous allurement is like an en- 
 chanted monster, which, being conquered, loses all 
 his venom and changes at once into a king of great 
 treasure, eager to make requital. Robert felt a self-
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 77 
 
 trust, an exaltation of mind which seemed able to 
 defy all the powers of darkness. 
 
 'What with men not daring to venture upon 
 marriage and what with men wearied out of it,' 
 muttered Hercy, ' I begin to think that St Paul did 
 wrong to spare us his full information on the point ! ' 
 
 ' This is a parting of the ways,' repeated Robert for 
 the third time. 
 
 He heard a tap at the door. 
 
 ' Come in ! ' said Berenville. 
 
 It was Parflete's young wife.
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 She entered the sitting-room with a reluctant air, 
 and blushing deeply, rather from vexation than shyness, 
 held out toward Hercy a three-cornered note as though 
 that gesture would justify, far quicker than words, an 
 intrusion evidently made against her own judgment. 
 
 ' Mr Parflete told me to bring you this,' she said 
 in French, as she walked up to the invalid's sofa. 
 ' I believe there is an answer.' 
 
 She bowed to Orange, who looked pale. He 
 offered her a chair which she declined, and as they 
 both stood silent while Hercy read the note — which 
 was rather long and seemed to require much con- 
 sideration — Robert stole a glance at her face and 
 figure. Her resemblance to Madame Duboc was 
 such as one might suppose the purified spirit bears 
 to its earthly body. She was the same creature yet 
 all changed. Brigit was tall and slight. She was a 
 real blonde, with that soft, flaxen hair, which never 
 grows to a great length or in heavy masses, and 
 which is too fine to bear the weight of pins. Mrs 
 
 78
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 79 
 
 Parflete confined hers very simply, and regardless of 
 the fashion, in a jewelled net. She kept to that 
 mode all her life. Her eyes were blue, unfathomably 
 deep, and her features had an irregularity which, while 
 it destroyed her claim to any classic beauty, gave her 
 a most uncommon and distinguished appearance. 
 Although Robert had in his mind compared her to 
 a spirit she was neither ethereal nor ascetic. She 
 was obviously human enough and with a heart as 
 passionate as her mother's. Henriette Duboc, when 
 all the worst was said and thought and known, had 
 died of grief in the Villa Miraflores, while the Arch- 
 duke Charles and his bride were sailing in the 
 Imperial yacht straight past her windows. Robert 
 wondered whether the child knew aught of that 
 story. For she was a child — a child in face which 
 was younger than any poetic conception of youth- 
 fulness and a child in figure — clad as it was in a 
 pensionnaire's frock of white lawn made and em- 
 broidered by the nuns in the Convent at Tours. 
 
 She remained there motionless, with one beautiful, 
 ungloved hand resting on the chair she had refused, 
 looking down to the noisy Rue de Rivoli beneath 
 the hotel window. Robert seized the opportunity 
 to give Berenville, who was extraordinarily sensitive 
 over such attentions, his crutch. But the cripple was 
 in a mood not unusual with him, which was just 
 redeemed from vindictiveness by a certain elvish love 
 of mischief for its own sake.
 
 8o THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 ' Where is Parflete ? ' he said, turning to Brigit. 
 
 ' He is in the court-yard smoking,' she replied. 
 
 Hercy threw Robert a defiant glance, sprang from 
 the sofa — as he could when he was sure of his prop — 
 and in two jumps was out of the room. Brigit and 
 Robert were thus left alone. 
 
 * He frightens me,' said Brigit. ' Where has he 
 gone ? What am I to tell Mr Parflete ? He told 
 me to wait for an answer. He has not given one.' 
 
 ' Pray sit down,' said Robert. ' He is very tired 
 after his long journey, and he is not himself to-day.' 
 
 ' Do you think,' she said, ' I should have time to 
 fetch my book ? Mr Parflete has given me 
 Kenilworth.^ 
 
 'Hercy might return at any moment,' replied 
 Robert, smiling ; * but, in the meantime — have you 
 seen this ? ' 
 
 He gave her a small volume which was one of the 
 neglected twenty that he had bought in the fever of 
 mental unrest from which he had suffered on his 
 arrival in Paris. It was a French version of 
 Browning's Men and Women, a curious work, 
 which, however, had not wholly missed the spirit of 
 the original. 
 
 * Ah ! ' cried Brigit, * that is M. Robert Browning.^ 
 She gave the name a French pronunciation. ' One 
 of our nuns who knew English gave a lecture about 
 him, but the Mother Superior said he was too difficult. 
 I wrote a composition on his works.'
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 8i 
 
 ' Had you read them ? * he asked in astonishment. 
 
 ' Mais non ! But I had the notes from Sister 
 Winifred's lecture. She called him a great genius 
 but with no sense of form. Wasn't that right ? I 
 said the same and so they gave me the first prize. I 
 was very pleased.' 
 
 ' Your life at the Convent must have been happy ? ' 
 
 " Ah yes ! because I knew I should not be there 
 always.' 
 
 ' Then you would not care to be a nun yourself ? ' 
 
 * Oh, no ! ' said Brigit, with dancing eyes. ' I 
 wanted to be married as mamma was. Did you ever 
 see mamma? I remember her quite well. She had 
 such beautiful dresses and so many friends. They all 
 brought me presents and bonbons until she grew ill, 
 Then, of course they stayed away because she could 
 not see them. But she used to lie on a sofa all day 
 telling me fairy stories. And they always ended this 
 way. " She married the brave prince and lived happy 
 ever after ^'' When that part came I knew it was time 
 to clap my hands. She used to say, " Louder, 
 louder, clap louder ! // faut avoir de r esprit." Oh ! 
 I can hear her now ! ' 
 
 So could Robert. She had inherited every note of 
 her mother's bewitching voice and he looked away. 
 
 ' What else ? ' he asked, clearing his throat. 
 
 ' Mr Parflete was very kind to mamma,' said Brigit. 
 ' He was with her when she died. She had her couch 
 wheeled to the window because she wanted to see the 
 
 F
 
 82 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 Imperial yacht sail past. The Archduke Charles 
 and his Duchess were on board, and mamma said to 
 me, " Can you see him ? Does he look happy ? " I 
 knew him well, because when we were all in Paris, 
 and mamma was strong, he used to call often and 
 bring me dolls, but I could not see him that day 
 because the boat was too far away. And when the 
 boat sailed out of sight mamma said she believed that 
 she would go to Spain for the winter because she 
 wanted more sun. That is ail I remember. Mr 
 Parflete sent me to bed, and when I saw mamma 
 again she was in her coffin, and there were two nuns 
 watching over her and they told me to kiss her good- 
 bye. I cried very much, but the next day they took 
 me away to the Convent, and they soon taught me 
 not to cry for anyone so happy as poor mamma. But 
 although she was happy, they always said her name 
 in the prayers for the faithful departed. I want to 
 live longer than she lived. She must have forgotten 
 the world by this time. I should like to be here long 
 enough to think of it all when I am in Paradise. I 
 love the world. It is so gay and so beautifiil and 
 everyone is so kind, and there are so many things to 
 see.' 
 
 Brigit found it most easy and pleasant to pour out 
 her little confidences to this handsome grim young 
 man, who had a dark beard and looked like someone 
 between a king and a monk — Charles I., for instance, 
 and St Bernard. She wondered whether he loved any
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 83 
 
 woman or had ever loved one. He seemed so sad, 
 grave and meditative. 
 
 ' Were you married at the Convent ? * asked 
 Robert, abruptly. 
 
 He thought it a necessary discipline to remind 
 himself often, and without paraphrase, that this young 
 girl was Parflete's wife. 
 
 ' I was married in our chapel,' answered Brigit. 
 * The nuns made my gown ; the Mother Superior 
 herself pinned on my veil and gathered the flowers 
 for my wreath. She laughed and told me that she 
 had never dressed an earthly bride before. But she 
 cried at the wedding, and, when I went away she said, 
 " Be very silent, trust greatly in the Sacred Heart 
 and not much in anything below It ; least of all in 
 friends, when the sun goes in they change colour, but 
 the Sacred Heart is the same yesterday, to-day and 
 for ever. May every blessing be with you 1 " I wrote 
 it all down afterwards on a piece of paper and I wear 
 it as a charm. Here it is.' 
 
 She unfastened a small gold chain which she wore 
 round her neck, and placed it with its pendant, heart- 
 shaped locket in Robert's hands. 
 
 *Open it,' she said, 'and read it for yourself.' 
 
 The lines were written in an unformed but delicate 
 hand on a little slip of pink paper. Brigit looked over 
 his shoulder as he examined it. The words suddenly 
 seemed blurred, and, growing pale, Robert returned 
 it in silence. He was thinking of that day at Mira-
 
 84 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 flores, when Henriette Duboc gave him the little 
 pearl and ruby trinket which meant love and tears. 
 How it all came back ! The cooing of the doves ; 
 the little green lizard that crawled out upon the 
 stone bench where Henriette had been sitting ; the 
 scent of the pines ; the cool blue river winding out 
 toward the sea, and the deep inexpressible joy which 
 had first roused his soul to the sure and certain know- 
 ledge of its own immortality. It is a mental passion 
 only which can kindle such enthusiasm or bear such 
 imperishable memories. After the lapse of ten years 
 those moments spent at Miraflores returned to Orange 
 with more than their first sweetness and none of 
 that last misery which had made them, for a long 
 time, a torturing recollection. 
 
 ' Do you like the lines so much,' asked Brigit, 
 whose feminine instinct told her that he was pro- 
 foundly moved. 
 
 ' Yes,' he answered. ' I like them very much.' 
 
 ' Then I will copy them for you,' she exclaimed, 
 and ran to the writing-table. 
 
 That copying proved a great aff'air. A new pen 
 had to be found, and then a fresh bottle of violet ink 
 was opened. 
 
 Robert's leather portfolio contained no letter paper 
 worthy of the transcription. At last he decided that 
 it should be written in a rare, old copy of Casaubon's 
 Marcus Aurelius (1634), which he had discovered by 
 a miracle the day before.
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 85 
 
 Brigit shook her head. Oh, no, she could not 
 dream of writing in such a precious book. Alas ! 
 she made a blot on its cover as she spoke. But 
 Robert did not seem vexed — a fact which to the 
 bibliophile will tell its own story. 
 
 So the words were eventually copied in accordance 
 with his wishes. 
 
 ' Be very silent. Trust greatly in the Sacred Heart 
 and not much in anything below It; least of all in 
 friends^ when the sun goes in they change colour^ but 
 the Sacred Heart is the same yesterday^ to-day and 
 for ever. May every blessing be with you I ' 
 
 'You have not signed it,' said he. 
 
 Perhaps she had been agitated by her carelessness 
 in the matter of the blot — perhaps she was fearful 
 lest her signature should look larger than Robert's 
 own name at the top of the page, and in watching 
 to compare the two, became confused in her ideas ; 
 but, for one of these reasons, or for some unknowable 
 cause, she wrote herself down Brigit Orange^ and 
 never discovered the error. 
 
 Robert saw it. His heart was beating wildly. He 
 said nothing ; he hid the volume at once. It seemed 
 as though it held a leaf from the secret books of 
 Fate. 
 
 ' Mr Berenville does not come back,' said Brigit, 
 moving from the writing-table and walking over to 
 the window. 
 
 Her thoughts were flying rapidly in girlish fashion
 
 86 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 from one subject to another. The room was too 
 small for her roving mind, and she longed to be out 
 in the busy street where she could see all the shops 
 and the people and the gaiety. It seemed such a 
 waste of time to stand inactively behind dull, maroon 
 curtains talking of convents and wedding-days, when 
 the Spring sun was in a kissing mood and everyone 
 was driving toward the Bois. She wanted to walk 
 out, and she wanted to look at new hats. Mr 
 Parflete had generously promised her a hat from 
 Virot's. Why did he wait so long ? 
 
 * I do hope,' said Brigit, with a mournful glance, 
 ' that nothing will intefere with our plans for this 
 evening. We are going to Les Paplllons. I sup- 
 pose you are coming with us ? ' 
 
 * No ; oh, no ! ' he answered with such haste that 
 she felt it was scarcely gracious. 
 
 'You wonder why we care for anything so 
 foolish ? ' 
 
 * Don't misunderstand me,' he said. * It is per- 
 fectly natural that you should like places of amuse- 
 ment.' 
 
 'But, nevertheless, you could wish that I showed 
 wiser taste ! I must be truthful. I long for this 
 evening. You may frown at me, but I cannot be a 
 hypocrite. I love the theatre, and I delight in every- 
 thing bourgeois,^ 
 
 Her eyes sparkled and her cheeks flushed from the 
 pleasure of teasing this severe man of whom her
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 87 
 
 husband and Charles Aumerle and Hercy Berenville 
 certainly stood in awe. She was not afraid ! She 
 should say what she pleased ! She was a married 
 woman and had a perfect right to — Mr Parflete's 
 opinions ! The truly delightful thing would be to 
 hold thxs jeune honirne tres extraordinaire with a direct 
 look, and utter such defiant sentiments as she could — 
 under the inspiration of Puck — invent. 
 
 ' I see,' said Robert, ' that you are the pink of per- 
 versity.' 
 
 ' Not at all ! My first desire is to be honest, yet it 
 would grieve me to quarrel with you.' 
 
 * That could never happen,' he said. ' I agree with 
 all you say. I, too, delight in the stage. I have 
 wished that theatre-going were a moral obligation, 
 for then we should have a highly critical audience, 
 and, as a consequence, good plays.' 
 
 ' Then why won't you come with us this evening ? ' 
 ' Have you never heard of self-denial ? ' 
 This was more than he had intended to say. 
 Brigit's manner, however, seemed to him madden- 
 ing, because she was flirting, not on principle, but 
 by instinct. He was filled with a blinding jealousy 
 of the possible, average man, who might have been 
 standing in his shoes, and on whom she would have 
 smiled, and to whom she would have spoken, and at 
 whom she would have laughed, just as she was smiling 
 and speaking and softly laughing now. It was no 
 tribute to himself, nor did it show any reprehensible
 
 88 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 weakness in Brigit. She was no angel — that was all. 
 A dangerous conclusion for even the most cautious of 
 mortals to arrive at when an argument has to be 
 demonstrated from premises. 
 
 ' I have some work to finish,' he added hastily, 
 ' Nothing otherwise would give me greater pleasure 
 than to join the party. I hope you believe that.' 
 
 Brigit looked long and thoughtfully at his face. 
 
 'I don't know,' she said at length. 'I should like 
 to believe you, but — ' 
 
 ' My word is not to be doubted ! ' 
 
 * You might wish to be polite.' 
 
 ' Politeness is no man's word ; it is everybody's He ! 
 That is why I have a habitual contempt for 
 courtesy. You may have observed this.' 
 
 ' I think it is a pity,' said Brigit, with some dryness. 
 
 ' Then, in your opinion, I am brutal ! ' 
 
 ' Very difficult.' 
 
 ' I am sorry if I have offended you.' 
 
 ' Then, shake hands.' 
 
 His hand was cold — ice-cold. She exclaimed in 
 maternal accents, on touching it, — 
 
 ' Are we friends again ? ' she asked. 
 
 ' Have we ever been enemies ? ' 
 
 ' No, but you puzzle me. I think you v/ant to be 
 kind, but you don't understand a woman's idea of 
 kindness. To speak of self-denial is a reproach ; it 
 carries an accusation. You have placed my conscience 
 in an unflattering light ! '
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 89 
 
 ' How have you discovered these things ? ' saia 
 Robert, at once, eager, delighted and astonished ; 'you, 
 at your age ! ' 
 
 This sudden seriousness in a character w^hich had 
 been, till that moment, remarkable chiefly for its 
 unstudied candour, seemed to add to Brigit's already 
 sufficient attractions, the enigmatic fascination of the 
 Sphinx. 
 
 'Vanity will make even the silliest creature 
 occasionally thoughtful,' said Brigit, with a saucy 
 air. 
 
 Robert had never been so situated that he could 
 observe the working of a child's mind, nor had he 
 ever heard the profound truths which children utter 
 between the shouts, lamentations and laughs of play. 
 He had studied the adolescent and men and women, 
 but this experience was wholly new to him. For 
 the first time the charm of childhood — its trust, its 
 transparent guile, its careless wisdom, its pure humanity, 
 uncultivated, unrestrained and unsuspecting — touched 
 his heart, which was just then a little dry and weary 
 from too much love of books. He had never been 
 young himself. He had met responsibility at the 
 very threshold of life. He imagined himself — and 
 rightly — as unlike men of his own age as he had 
 been, at an earlier period, unlike other children. 
 
 He could not remember a time when — even while 
 surrounded by congenial and loved companions — his 
 mind had been otherwise than lonely. The effect
 
 90 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 of Brigit was overwhelming. His meeting with 
 Henriette Duboc had opened his eyes to the beauty 
 of the visible world and had turned his unharmonised 
 senses into unison with the great chords of Nature. 
 But to be in tune is not, of necessity, to be played 
 upon. He had never felt what he was feeling now. 
 Brigit seemed to touch every note in his being ; there 
 was not a longing nor a fear, not a nerve nor a 
 sentiment, not a hope nor a despair, not a virtue nor 
 a failing, but responded to that subduing influence. 
 It was as though some rare musician had strayed into 
 a forgotten church and told a message from God 
 upon the organ keys. All that was deep in emotion, 
 all that was sublime in thought seemed to meet and 
 blend in one inspiring strain. Mortal desire and the 
 insatiable more subtle needs of the spirit seemed, not 
 two opposing voices, but one irresistible voice and its 
 softer aerial echo. His pulses trembled and the 
 warning spirit within him cried out in weeping, as 
 it had cried before to a poet-lover — Heu miser ! quia 
 frequenter impedttus ero delnceps. (Woe is me ! for 
 that often I shall be disturbed from this time forth !) 
 
 The room in which Orange stood was bare and 
 dingy. Here there were no adventitious snares for 
 the idealist's soul or the dreamer's imagination. The 
 sensuous delights of blue sky and green land, of 
 singing birds and scented flowers were not here as 
 they had been at Miraflores. All the magic was in 
 that slight, young figure clad in white, in that
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 91 
 
 animated girlish face set in a natural glory of bright 
 hair. He wondered — and hated himself for wondering 
 — whether she was even remotely conscious of her 
 power. The most honourable mind will often 
 encourage itself in a conscientious insincerity. 
 Robert still showed a stubborn resistance to admit 
 that the mysterious exaltation which he felt, under 
 the obscure medium of philosophic thought, was, in 
 reality, but the common process known as falling in 
 love. He would have recoiled as violently from the 
 notion as the phrase. It could not be. It was 
 impossible. He could have knelt at Brigit's feet, 
 not because she was a beautiful young woman, but 
 because both her beauty and her womanliness had so 
 little in them of common sexuality. She was a 
 divinity ; and if he was a monster — a wolf — was that 
 her fault ? Did that prove anything one way or the 
 other ? In the ordinary course of life, he was sane 
 and even Homeric in his straightforward views of 
 the laws of attraction, but in the present instance his 
 accustomed simplicity was lost in an irritating poetic 
 vapour which hung about his soul just as a fog will 
 enwrap the morning. 
 
 The lovely minute had passed ; he came down from 
 the earthly heaven into which he had been caught for 
 a brief moment, and he found himself thinking in dull 
 words of plain things. He had a longing to quarrel 
 with someone — with everyone, preferably with the 
 fair, young creature into whose company he had
 
 92 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 been driven by a relentless fate and a friend's malice. 
 Once he had been able to think, on the whole, rather 
 highly of convent schools. He now^ considered them 
 barbarous forcing-grounds where perfect wives were 
 trained for the Wrexham Parfletes. He had observed 
 that selfish, coarse-minded people usually married well. 
 Men of the Parflete type found angels, and shrewd, 
 vixenish women entrapped the very sons of God. 
 The thought was sickening. He grew more and 
 more peevish at the general mismanagement of 
 human affairs, and even became enraged against 
 Biddy herself for seeming to acquiesce so cheerfully 
 in a lot so unedifying. And yet it was just this 
 sunny health of mind which won him most. He 
 abhorred la femme jnecotnp-'ise — that she - dragon of 
 family life. 
 
 ' Why don't you speak ? ' asked Brigit, suddenly. 
 
 'Because,' he answered, 'there is nothing to 
 sayl' 
 
 Brigit went up to him, laid her hand on his arm 
 and looked up into his face with the kindest eyes he 
 had ever seen in any human countenance. 
 
 ' Are you in trouble ? ' said she, gently. 
 
 And what was his answer ? He shrank back from 
 that light touch and turned away. 
 
 ' You are very good,' he said roughly, ' but it is my 
 nature to be brutish. When I sink into meditation I 
 am merely seeking whom I may devour ! Yes, that 
 is me — the real Me ! '
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 93 
 
 ' Oh, no,' said Brigit, ' that is not you at all. But 
 I know that you are, perhaps, a little discontented. 
 You are not satisfied with your life. When I first 
 saw you, I asked myself, "^«^ diable allalt-'il fa'ire dam 
 cette galere ? " You don't mind ? . . . May I go on ? 
 I know that I have no right to speak ; I have had so 
 little experience. And yet, while you have been out 
 in the world, thinking of many things, I have been in 
 one small crowded corner with more than forty other 
 girls, and I have been in daily intercourse with each 
 member of that crowd. How could I then — even 
 if I would — be entirely ignorant of human feelings ? 
 Besides, before mamma died I travelled with her ; we 
 crossed the Atlantic twice. We went to London and 
 Berlin quite often ; all my memories are very clear of 
 the people we met and the places we saw. My 
 husband was surprised to find how well I remembered 
 those far-away times and journeys and conversations. 
 So when I saw you, I thought of a man who, mamma 
 used to say, was a disciple without a master. Now, 
 if you are not too angry, may I say that I think 
 that is your trouble ? You have zeal and you have 
 courage, and you have loyalty and you have devotion, 
 but you have not yet been called by a voice you can 
 believe in ! * 
 
 Robert held his breath. How clearly she had 
 divined a state of mind which he himself had been 
 unable to explain except as a dull and gnawing 
 ache.
 
 94 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 * In what sense do you mean that ? ' he said at 
 last. ' Do you speak of a divine or a human call ? 
 The Divine Voice I have never doubted, but I 
 have often wished that I could hear it more plainly. 
 When it pleads from the Roman Church I am 
 deeply moved ; I am not, however, fully persuaded 
 th-^t I hear aright. When it threatens from the 
 Protestant pulpit, I am more nearly persuaded, but 
 I am not moved in the least. The Protestants in- 
 sist on the virtues — you must assume them if you 
 have them not — the Catholics lay more stress on 
 the sacraments. Now the virtues are, after all, the 
 product of philosophy. Jewish ethics, under the old 
 dispensation, were barbarous when we compare them 
 with the precepts taught by the Pagan moralists, who 
 had, nevertheless, no hope and were without God in 
 the world ! The philosophic mind is not told by the 
 Hebrew prophets. Passionate invective ; cries for 
 vengeance ; lamentations and mourning and woe ; 
 threats of appalling punishment ; promises of earthly 
 recompense and the urging forward to worldly aims, 
 crowns and dignities — humanity, in fact, as opposed 
 to spirituality, is the great strain running all through 
 the godliness taught before the birth of Christ. One 
 might be perfectly virtuous in every human relation 
 and yet possess an irreligious soul. On the other 
 hand, one might be absolutely convinced of God's 
 revelation of Himself and yet sin against every canon 
 of right conduct. The devil, for instance, must have
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 95 
 
 a sure knowledge of God ; his fault was treachery not 
 disbelief. This thought has always made me feel that 
 the deepest of crimes is to sin against light ; it has 
 also helped me to understand why your Church is so 
 much more severe toward pride of intellect than 
 against the natural weaknesses of the heart. I think 
 it conceivable that God would forgive even Satan, if 
 he would but repent and love Him. Humanly speak- 
 ing, so long as we feel that we are really loved we 
 can forgive much. The faults of those who love us 
 are more acceptable than the virtues of those who 
 treat us with neglect. I fully comprehend, therefore, 
 why it should be a more vital necessity in the Chris- 
 tian life to attend mass than to keep a stoic's temper. 
 Faith in God does not in itself alter the fundamental 
 characteristics of a man's disposition. It seems to 
 me unjust, therefore, to call any person a hypocrite 
 because, while in creed a Christian, he is in the 
 struggle for life, greedy, untruthful, malicious or 
 worse. Strive for the calm temper, by all means, if 
 you have not received it — as many have received it 
 just as some are blessed with good health, or fine 
 possessions, or a serene mind — but never suppose that 
 natural graces of character, or acquired stoicism or 
 Platonism, or any other ism without acts of devotion 
 to God will avail you at the judgment ! These are 
 the things I say to myself constantly ; I try hard not 
 to forget them.' 
 
 * Then, why are you not one of us ? ' asked Brigit.
 
 96 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 * Because my sympathies are all with Rome,' he 
 answered slowly ; ' and on that ground I mistrust my 
 reason in the matter. Sentiment with me is so 
 powerful a motive that I have to regard it as. I would 
 a besetting sin. I dare not yield to any thought when 
 I find myself attacked through the sentiments. The 
 very poetry of the sacraments — if I may so speak — 
 their sway over the intellect and the emotions are, to 
 me, the strongest argument against them. I cannot 
 allow myself to think that ceremonies which bring 
 such a glow of unspeakable, inhuman happiness can 
 be intrinsically right or pleasing to God. It is an 
 intoxication of the soul. , . . The capacity for 
 such intense feeling — whether in the mental or the 
 sensuous life — seems to me a thing one should stifle 
 — stifle and forget. ... I am saying too much 
 about myself ; forgive me ! ' 
 
 People who have a taste for accurate scholarship, 
 often start on their researches, as it were, in quest of 
 a forgotten idiom, and they return enriched with a 
 new language — if not a new world. Robert had 
 seemed, quite suddenly, to see the rest points towards 
 which his reflection and reading, for many months 
 now, had been directed. He blushed, however, in 
 the fear that he had been speaking with that dog- 
 matic assurance which all men dislike in each other, 
 which, nevertheless, no man, who is in earnest, may 
 lack. Strong convictions alone can lead to strong 
 deeds, and a man who is timorous in uttering an 
 
 /
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 97 
 
 opinion will be even weaker in his attempt to act 
 upon it. Orange was too young and over-austere 
 then to have practised persuasiveness as an art. 
 The winning quality was his by nature, and he 
 classed it with his sentiments, among wrong things, 
 leading to vain-glory and flattery. 
 
 The struggles of an ardent nature against a hard 
 and oppressive habit of thought, tell outwardly in a 
 certain irony of speech and a manner which, to the 
 inconsiderate, appears cold, even unfeeling. It re- 
 quires the pure eyes and unstained heart of a young 
 unsophisticated mind to penetrate through the depths 
 of an outward appearance — to reflect the hidden kind- 
 ness under an icy look. Brigit was not deceived by 
 the expression which Robert had drawn, as a veil of 
 stone, over his face. 
 
 * Catholicism,' he said, abruptly, 'has beauty that 
 we should desire it, and I have not so learnt 
 Christ.' 
 
 ' You forget,' said Brigit, * that Christ once showed 
 Himself as He was. Have you never read how, 
 one starry, August night. He went up on to the 
 holy mount, with the apostles He loved best, and 
 was transfigured before them. His sorrowful face 
 was changed, it shone as the sun ; His garments 
 became white as snow, and He was glorious with 
 the splendour of God. Does that not mean that 
 He wanted them to know, that, in worshipping 
 the spirit of truth they were also worshipping 
 
 G
 
 98 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 the spirit of perfect loveliness — perfect and 
 ineffable beauty ? ' 
 
 She spoke as only those can speak with whom 
 sacred thoughts are familiar things, to be declared 
 in fearlessness and simplicity. 
 
 Robert was startled by what seemed, to him, a new 
 light adroitly cast on his obscure difficulties ; but he 
 looked straight at the dingy walls, tightened his lips 
 and persuaded himself that he had to wrestle with 
 another most cruel temptation, namely, the force 
 of a personal influence in what should be a purely 
 religious question. It meant, in reality, placing faith 
 in an individual, and, when that individual fell short 
 of the expectations he raised, and who, being human, 
 can be otherwise than disappointing ? — one lost faith in 
 his doctrines— faith in his God. He prayed to be 
 delivered from any momentary yielding to a folly 
 so passing sweet in its first enthusiasm— so afflicting 
 in its last reproach. 
 
 ' You are very good,' he said ; * but no one can 
 help me 1 ' 
 
 *I will pray for your intention,' said Brigit, 
 smiling ; ' I 'will say the rosary for you every day. 
 That is much better than any argument. St 
 Monica prayed for her son, St Augustine ; she 
 never lectured him, and that is a lesson for all of 
 us. But you remind me of something a Jesuit Father 
 once told me. I asked him why men risked their 
 lives to find the North Pole. It seemed to me that
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 99 
 
 the land there would be useless even when gained. 
 " By no means," said he, " for, on the other side of 
 the North Pole, when you have once passed through 
 the regions of ice and snow, there is a beautiful 
 country, warm and fair, another Italy ! " ' 
 
 ' It must be like my kingdom under the sea,' 
 said Robert, smiling, 'I will tell you about it some 
 day.' 
 
 Brigit sat down on the sofa, and, folding her hands, 
 looked up at him with an expression of meek wistful- 
 ness which was quite unusual on her brilliant, mobile 
 face. 
 
 ' Tell me now,' said she. * Tell me everything.' 
 
 The appeal was irresistible. He began to talk about 
 his boyhood in Brittany, about Madame Bertin, about 
 his walks on the ramparts of St Malo and the old 
 lace-maker whom he had met on the day after his 
 eighteenth birthday. He had never before spoken of 
 that past to any ears. 
 
 The first exchange of confidences between two 
 minds in sympathy makes a delightful moment, and 
 it is, moreover, a moment which, in various degrees 
 of delightfulness, may be repeated so often as oije 
 finds a congenial companion. But things can be told 
 for the first time once only. That experience must 
 ever be unique. The second telling renders the news 
 less sacred ; at each repetition it loses its value for us. 
 Piece by piece it ceases to be ours, and finally it is 
 carried away into the great dead sea of gossip.
 
 loo THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 Robert, in talking to Brigit, did not hear the sound 
 of his own voice. He felt himself thinking, not 
 speaking. His memory and hers seemed to flow 
 together, and their common thoughts were an en- 
 chanted fleet borne upon that tide. . . . 
 
 ^ And yet,' said Brigit, when he had finished speak- 
 ing, ' and yet . . . you won't come to Les Papillons 
 with me to-night.' 
 
 * Why do you put it in that ungenerous way ? ' 
 ' Because I want you to go with us.' 
 
 *I thought I explained that I had work . . . un- 
 fortunately . . .' 
 
 ' If you stay at home you will not work. I know 
 that. The true cause is this — you don't like my 
 husband ! But if I like him — and I am his wife — 
 surely you can like him ? His heart is all generosity, 
 and I love to look at his beautiful coats ! Please like 
 him because he is so kind to me ! ' 
 
 ' How could anyone be otherwise than kind to 
 you ? ' 
 
 * Oh ! oh ! And you can dare to ask me that ? I 
 have never till now been made unhappy- — never ! 
 No one has ever refused me anything. And why ? 
 because I am perfectly reasonable. But you — you 
 won't look at me and you keep saying " no " to the 
 poor wall 1 The wall has not begged you to go to 
 the theatre. I was the one ! ' 
 
 ' Then, yes,' said Robert. ' Yes ! There ! why 
 should I give up everything ? I have been dying to
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS loi 
 
 say " yes." I could not believe that you could want 
 such a dull, prosing . . .' 
 
 ' How silly of you,' said Brigit, smoothing back a 
 lock of her hair. ' But now we can go downstairs to 
 the others. I am wondering where they are.
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 Orange opened the door and Brigit, leading the way, 
 went out into the corridor with that light and swing- 
 ing step which was one of her peculiar characteristics. 
 Neither of them spoke, and, when they reached the 
 top of the staircase, both were relieved by the sight of 
 Parflete and Hercy seated at a small table in the hall 
 below. 
 
 Parflete, on observing his wife, stood up and went 
 forward to meet her. He looked the pattern of Court 
 equerries, and, as he handed her to a seat, he quoted 
 the well-loved lines from Dante : — 
 
 * ' Negli occhi porta la mia donna Amore ; 
 Per che si fa gentil cio ch^ella mira ; 
 Ov^ella pas 5 a, ogni ucm ver lei si gira, 
 E cui saluta fa tremar lo core.' 
 
 * ' My lady carries love within her eyes; 
 All that she looks on is made pleasanter; 
 Upon her path men turn to gaze at her, 
 He whom she greeteth feels his heart to rise,' 
 
 I02
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 103 
 
 Robert had started with a resolve to fight what he 
 inwardly called his own uncharitable spirit, but this 
 greeting seemed to him to show so false a rapture that 
 his heart was set burning anew with all the fires of 
 disgust and jealousy. The religious calm which had 
 settled upon his mind was now disturbed by the frequent 
 reiteration of an active thought to the effect that 
 Wrexham Parflete needed kicking. 
 
 Brigit, however, who was not suffering persecution 
 from the furies, acknowledged the pompous compli- 
 ment by a blush that came, partly from a gentle 
 pleasure in her husband's praise, partly from a feeling 
 that the others ridiculed — or worse, misjudged him. 
 She, too, might have found it necessary to suppress a 
 smile at the dollish figure and the mincing utterance 
 of the Archduke's chief adviser, and this thought, in 
 itself, was disturbing to her sense of what was loyal. 
 She understood that coxcomb's morbid character, the 
 chief faults of which arose from an over-anxiety to 
 make himself agreeable, and an under-estimate of his 
 natural power to please. His talk was an elaborate 
 paraphrase of his ideas, and his outward existence was 
 a travesty of the life within him. The unacted 
 Parflete was a man of many hardly-won accomplish- 
 ments, and some genuine virtues, but the edition of 
 himself which he presented to the world was, if more 
 amusing, far less respectable than the original creature. 
 He glittered and twinkled at the Court where he was 
 a great favourite with errant heirs-apparent who liked
 
 I04 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 to sip instruction through anecdotes. Ambassadors 
 and statesmen remarked him with less pleasure, for the 
 former thought his influence unaccountable, and the 
 latter feared his wit. Bismarck had once described 
 him as ' a velvet buffoon^ Disraeli summed him up 
 more leniently as ' a goldfish with a soul.'' 
 
 ' Of course you will have some more coffee,' ex- 
 claimed Berenville, who was now eager for a recon- 
 ciliation. ' Gar^on^ two cups of coffee ! Parflete's 
 note, it seems, was a rigmarole about an opera box, 
 but it was written in such diplomatic, such courtly 
 language, that I thought it meant Miss Lucifer was 
 in at four stone for the Chester Cup. In my anxiety 
 to learn more, I nearly broke my neck ! ' 
 
 * The words of Mercury sound harsh after the songs of 
 Apollo I ' said Parflete, in his most ironical manner, 
 ' but it was decreed that we should all meet at this 
 table. Listen ! Berenville and I were sitting here 
 wondering why we had been born — ' 
 
 * Or,' said Hercy, ' whether we should toddle round 
 to the Cercle de I'Union for a little game of cards.' 
 
 'When we looked up and whom should we see 
 within five feet of us, of all men in the world, his 
 face a ruin and his mind, to all appearance, a howling 
 wilderness — but . . . ' 
 
 ' Old Dizzy ! ' exclaimed Berenville. 
 
 ' Mr Disraeli ! ' said Parflete. ' My astonishment 
 was great. He remembered me at once, and showed 
 surprise when I told him of my marriage. He knew
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 105 
 
 your mother, dearest ! But I made the grand coup 
 when, by the merest accident, I mentioned the author 
 of Basil Lemaitre. I said that you were a member of 
 our party.' 
 
 He looked at Robert, whose discomfort had now 
 reached a culminating point. Parflete continued in 
 a slow strain, as though he were tasting his own 
 words and finding them pleasant to his palate, — 
 
 ' Mr Disraeli at once observed that he had read 
 Basil Lemaitre with concern and pleasure — concern 
 for the author's career, and pleasure in his gifts of 
 poetical expression.' 
 
 ' Don't put it on too thick ! ' said the graceful 
 Hercy. 
 
 ' He laid such emphasis on the word poetical,' said 
 Parflete, undismayed, ' 1 believe that he has found out 
 that you are a Platonist 1 He asked me to present 
 you to him, and I promised to do so. This is, without 
 a doubt, the second opportunity of your life. Disraeli 
 is not in office, and therefore he has great power 
 behind the scenes. If you could excite his interest 
 for Reckage, it would be a good day's work.' 
 
 This last touch was skilful. Parflete was well aware 
 that Orange could never be induced to make an 
 acquaintance with a view to the possible advantage 
 which might accrue to himself from the encounter. 
 As a mere matter of good manners, he would have 
 shrunk from an introduction to Disraeli by any chance 
 out of the common order of things in social life. The
 
 io6 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 truest modesty is three parts pride. Robert had too 
 independent a spirit to seek success by favour, or to 
 strive to keep it, when gained, by the assiduous culti- 
 vation of useful friends. He felt, too, that his ov/n 
 achievements in literature were as yet so slight and 
 imperfect that it would have required nothing short 
 of insolence to think they could possess any pressing 
 claim upon the weary ex-minister's attention. But 
 these personal considerations were now overruled by 
 the thought, that, in speaking with the eminent 
 politician he might be able to utter a word in Lord 
 Reckage's behalf. 
 
 'I wish he would do something for Reckage,' said 
 Hercy, who, with the rest of their little clique in 
 England, thought that Orange's two romances were 
 as dust in comparison with Reckage's one speech on 
 the Secularisation of Ecclesiastical Property. 
 
 ' Robert, you must wake him up about Beau. 
 You might remind him that papa always supports him 
 in the House of Lords. He went up to town with 
 his whole back in plaster of Paris just to vote for — ' 
 
 ' Good God ! ' exclaimed Parflete, under his breath, 
 ' here he comes ! What a proof of the man's kind- 
 ness. He has returned on purpose. Hereafter I shall 
 always defend him. This is an historic moment ! ' 
 
 The statesman was walking slowly, but with rather 
 long strides, through the public drawing-room that 
 faced them. His worn and livid countenance had 
 lost the romantic beauty to which he owed much of
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 107 
 
 his early fortune, but neither illness nor anxiety had 
 dimmed the piercing brilliancy of his expression. It 
 was impossible to see him without observing the 
 conspicuous details of a costume which was cer- 
 tainly not the least uncommon part of his picturesque 
 and amazing personality. He wore a light overcoat, 
 grey trousers, a white hat and lavender gloves. 
 When he saw Parflete advancing toward him, he 
 smiled as if he had fully intended to be met, and 
 now expected to be amused. 
 
 If, in gaining his point with Orange, the equerry 
 had given evidence of his tact, it had not been ex- 
 hibited in a less striking degree during his conversa- 
 tion with Disraeli. That diplomatist had been rather 
 vexed than otherwise to find himself suddenly accosted 
 by a man whom he associated with all the fussy 
 trivialities of Court etiquette, and Parflete's own 
 account of the first moments of their interview was 
 probably a flattering sketch of what actually took 
 place. But the mention of Robert's name in con- 
 nection with the novel Basil Lemaltre had stirred 
 Disraeli's interest, more particularly when he heard 
 him described as ' the son of a Dominican apostate by a 
 descendant in the female line of Cromwell's friend, 
 Lord Wharborough. She was,' to continue the Par- 
 fletean strain, 'a beautiful creature, as wilful as the 
 devil and as great a Puritan as Michal, the wife 
 of David.' 
 
 * And who was this lady ? ' asked Disraeli.
 
 io8 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 ' She was disowned by her family,' had been the 
 reply. ' Her father broke his heart. I may not 
 mention the name, but he held a high position.' 
 
 ' I should think,' said Disraeli, drily, ' that your 
 young friend was in some danger of becoming a 
 charlatan from the sheer force of a sensational 
 pedigree.' 
 
 * But his education has been too severe,' said 
 Parflete. 
 
 He had then told how the young man had re- 
 ceived his literary training while acting as com- 
 panion and secretary to the sons of the Earl of 
 Almouth. 
 
 ' He had remarkable tutors, sir — coming men them- 
 selves, in fact ; Ledward taught them the classics, 
 Grantham put them on to general ideas.' * 
 
 'Then I admit,' said Disraeli, with his peculiar 
 smile, ' that he ought to be, on the whole, a thoroughly 
 decent scoundrel.' 
 
 But nevertheless his curiosity, which was not, as 
 a rule, easily excited, had received a stimulus. He 
 expressed a genuine wish to meet Mr Parflete's 
 'accomplished friend,' and this, considering his own 
 rather irritable state of mind, and his hardly concealed 
 dislike of the gossipy Wrexham, was a tribute to the 
 latter's persuasiveness. 
 
 As he now came up to the table, he scanned the 
 
 * Injustice to Parflete's power of estimating worldly success, Ledward 
 becnme, many years after, Bishop of Barchester, and Grantham was made 
 Professor of Moral Philosophy at Camford.
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 109 
 
 group, and was immediately pleased at Robert's un- 
 pretentious, yet manly, bearing. When his eyes fell 
 with a glance of almost tragic wonder upon Brigit, 
 she rose from her seat and dropped him a little 
 curtsey as she had been taught to do to dignitaries 
 of the Church, royalties and elderly persons. But she 
 listened to Disraeli's congratulations on her marriage — 
 to the Gamaliel of Imperial Councils — with the self- 
 possession of a nature born rather to accept, than to 
 to pay, homage. She might have been a young 
 princess in exile, and, during the short conversation 
 which followed, she showed a dignity as simple as it 
 was touching. Of the four men surrounding her 
 Parflete himself was probably the most astonished at 
 her ease of manner. She was only then on her 
 honeymoon, and had not yet mixed in society. She 
 had not yet been presented at the Court, nor was she 
 aware of the close relationship that she bore toward 
 the Archduke. 
 
 Robert thought her so delightful in this stately 
 aspect that he caught none of the remarks which 
 passed — they were doubtless unimportant — till he 
 heard himself directly addressed by Disraeli. 
 
 * I am going to the Bibliotheque Imperiale,' he said 
 ' would you care to accompany me ? ' 
 
 ' Nothing would give me greater pleasure,' replied 
 Robert, with perfect honesty. 
 
 ' But am I taking you from your friends ? ' 
 
 There followed an exchange of smiles and bows,
 
 no THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 compliments and vague expressions of unfelt hopes 
 with regard to further meetings. 
 
 In a few moments DisraeH and the young secretary 
 were walking toward the Rue Vivienne. 
 
 ' Let us go first,' said Disraeli, ' to the left and 
 quieter bank of the Seine. The ancient hotel of 
 Cardinal Mazarin is, perhaps, too noisy at this hour 
 in spite of its thick walls. My delight, after all, is 
 in the air and the sunshine. I like the river. Have 
 you ever thought of the colours of rivers ? There 
 is the verdant Loire, the yellow Tiber, the silvery 
 Thames, the ruddy Hudson, the purple Rhine, the 
 blue Danube, but the Seine — how should one describe 
 the Seine .? ' 
 
 ' It seems to me dusty,' said Robert, with his usual 
 bluntness. 
 
 ' Ah ! the dusty Seine ! I see you are alive rather 
 to the paradox than the beauty in things. Your book 
 led me to expect another order of perception. It 
 shows the influence of Plato. There is a heartless- 
 ness, however, in the writings of Plato which makes 
 his mysticism forbidding to my mind. But the 
 mysticism in your hero was religious — like New- 
 man's. It was not coldly philosophical. At your 
 age I was myself a dreamer of dreams. I soon learnt 
 that I was too imaginative to be useful anywhere 
 except in a life of action.' 
 
 ' Surely,' said Robert, ' that, too, is a paradox.' 
 
 ' Possibly. But the greatest leaders have been men
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS iii 
 
 of the highest imagination. Shakespeare and Milton 
 expressed what Elizabeth and Cromwell imagined. 
 I have been an idealist always. Yet, while I am 
 infinitely yours in respect of your beliefs, my ex- 
 perience keeps me separate from your impatient 
 hopefulness. Hope is the heroic form of despair. 
 Such must have been the feeling of the great Law- 
 giver, who, if you remember, sang as he started for 
 the Promised Land, and died in silence when it was 
 at last shown to him.' 
 
 The sadness of his tone was so profound that Robert 
 felt it would have been an impertinence to offer any 
 remark. They walked on in silence till Disraeli spoke 
 again. 
 
 ' What I feel now is this. We have reached the 
 stage when sentimentality and philosophism have taken 
 up the room of poets and philosophers. The new 
 generation in our educated classes seem to feel that 
 nothing, save money, is worth their while. On the 
 other hand, in the labour classes, there is an aggres- 
 sive desire on the part of each unit to assert his or 
 her individuality. Now it has always seemed to me 
 that the gospel of Lidividuality is a doctrine of failure, 
 whether in politics or art or in any other sphere. 
 That Mazzini said this when he was urging a 
 revolution, with himself as its presiding spirit, does 
 not detract from its profound truth as a dictum ! A 
 strong personality, following on the beaten track, 
 may, perhaps, go a step or two farther than his
 
 112 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 guides, whereas, if he seeks to cut out a path of his 
 own, he will find himself wandering in a painful 
 circle outside the common starting-point.' 
 
 * Still,' said Robert, ' no great work was ever done 
 by a system, whereas systems arise out of individual 
 exertions.' 
 
 ' It is only the Church of Rome,' said Disraeli, 
 quietly, ' which, as a governing body, has been able to 
 encourage the great ideas of any one person without 
 loss to its own power, or without disaster to the 
 person encouraged. I speak of it, observe, purely 
 as a governing body.* 
 
 * I think that may be explained,* said Robert, ' on 
 this ground. Where the welfare of a State is con- 
 cerned, the heart is probably apprenticed to false gods, 
 and the greatest of false gods is expediency. A measure 
 might be advantageous for the moment only, yet, 
 for the sake of the momentary gain, a politician 
 might refuse to contemplate a future which would 
 not come in his own time. In the policy of Rome, 
 however — and I, too, speak of it as a governing 
 body, the first consideration is for the eternal welfare 
 of the Church ; the whole point of view is fixed on 
 what is to come^ and the great ideas, whether in the 
 individual, or in the council as a body, all arise from 
 a common religious belief.' 
 
 ' I see,' said Disraeli, smiling, * that you are not one 
 of those who hold that the Church of Rome aposta- 
 tized at Trent.'
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 113 
 
 ' No,' replied Robert, shortly, ' but I am not a 
 Papist.' 
 
 * Perhaps,' said Disraeli, ' some day you may arrive 
 at a compromise between Rome and Canterbury,' 
 
 ' Never,' said Robert. 
 
 'At eight-and-twenty,' said Disraeli, ' I, too, thought 
 that compromises vi^ere nearly always immoral, as well 
 as dangerous, but, unless I am mistaken, you will find 
 that the best-ordered life is that which shows the 
 largest record of compromises. One need not be a 
 monger of principles — that is a vulgar trade, and 
 always leads to moral bankruptcy — but one can be, 
 as it were, a worker in principles and set one's mind 
 as a piece of mosaic. You have insight, but you 
 should acquire flexibility. Flexibility is the great 
 thing. In your book it appeared in the guise of 
 cosmopolitanism. Cosmopolitanism is a beautiful 
 word, if it be understood to mean liberty for all 
 men ; when, however, it means, as it seems to mean 
 in the case of a great Republic I could name, an 
 indiscriminate hospitality, you will find that the host 
 will wake one morning to find himself shivering in 
 nakedness on his own doorstep ! But tell me, have 
 you yourself never thought of going into Parlia- 
 ment ? ' 
 
 ' I have thought of it,' said Robert, ' but as some- 
 thing remote and barely probable. But my secretarial 
 work brings me into close touch with the political 
 problems.' 
 
 H
 
 114 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 ' To be sure,' said Disraeli ; ' I had forgotten that.' 
 
 ' I should feel most grateful if you would give me 
 your opinion of Lord Reclcage.' 
 
 ' Reckage ! Do you mean Lord Almouth's eldest 
 son ? I confess he has never occurred to me.' 
 
 ' I think,' said Robert, vv^ith some warmth, ' he will 
 have to be remembered one of these days.' 
 
 ' As I remember him now,' said Disraeli, ' his head 
 seems made without back windows ; it is all facade 
 and nothing else ! His private merits may be astonish- 
 ing, but I do not feel that the destinies are actively 
 engaged in fighting for his future. Why should you 
 bury your talent under a friend's hat ? ' he added, with 
 a piercing look. 'You have sense, your book shows 
 that. You have ideals, and you have knowledge. My 
 advice would be that you should first essay your 
 strength in the reduction of some Liberal majority, 
 I mistake if a chance of the kind does not occur 
 shortly at Norbet Royal. Vandeleur's conduct has 
 put scandal to the blush, and the angels of peace 
 themselves must have wept over his duplicity. But 
 while the English always have the knack to oppose 
 good men, they evince a touching loyalty for traitors. 
 Vandeleur will be returned to a certainty at the next 
 election. He will keep his seat till Government is 
 beaten ; that will be your opportunity. Your real 
 troubles will not begin till you are actually in the 
 House.' 
 
 ' You speak, sir, as though I were already there ! '
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 115 
 
 ' Why not ? ' said Disraeli. ' Is the average in- 
 telligence at the Talking Mill so high that you find 
 my supposition over-flattering ? The difficulty does 
 not lie in getting there, nor in keeping there, but in 
 gaining respect for being there ! As for parties — 
 as Manning once said to me, or as I may have said to 
 Manning — it is novi^ merely a question between 
 aristocratic selfishness and v^^ell-to-do selfishness. All 
 things hinge now on one passion — the least useful 
 passion in public life — ^jealousy ! ' 
 
 ' I shall have little to fear at that rate,' said Orange, 
 who had a very modest opinion of his own ability. 
 
 ' When I started,' said Disraeli, putting his arm in 
 Robert's, * I was all for sedition ! Now you are all for 
 tradition ! Don't protest ; you will become a Roman 
 Catholic because you will find nowhere out of Rome, 
 poetry and the spirit of democracy and a reverence for 
 authority all linked together in one irrefragable chain. 
 But I must warn you that such a step would prejudice 
 your whole political career. It would be throwing 
 down the gauntlet to Fortune herself.' 
 
 ' That,' said Robert, flushing, ' is the strongest 
 argument you could bring forward in Rome's favour. 
 It seemed to me that I had everything to gain by 
 acknowledging her claims. Now you tell me — and I 
 could ask for no better judge — that it would mean a 
 severe blow to my worldly prospects my way seems 
 clearer.' 
 
 ^ The thing you mistook for a temptation begins to
 
 ii6 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 look like a duty ! Certainly, the best test of any 
 belief is the sacrifice one is prepared to make for it. 
 Have you never thought of entering the priesthood ? ' 
 
 ' Never ! ' 
 
 ' The unmarried nature is, to my mind, incomplete. 
 It has great, even mystical, powder, so far as it goes ; but 
 its range and knowledge is necessarily limited. To 
 quote the example of Christ is to forget His divinity. 
 I do not see how we can, without descending into 
 gross anthropomorphism, make Him a pattern in all 
 human relations. He had an unique mission to fulfil. 
 Few, indeed, of us can feel that we have even so much 
 as a raison d'etre apart from the divine incomprehensible 
 desire to multiply souls. Men who take upon them- 
 selves priestly vows must — or ought — to be sure that 
 they are marked out for some express service. What 
 might be an act of splendid obedience, sublime self- 
 renunciation in a Newman, would be presumption 
 and folly in a lesser spirit. I hope you agree.' 
 
 ' Most thoroughly ; I have never doubted that my 
 own work, such as it is, is in the secular life,' 
 
 ' I believe,' said Disraeli, with a certain slyness, 
 ' that you think the secular life the harder of the two. 
 You regard marriage as a state of discipline ruled by a 
 code of somewhat stern responsibilities.' 
 
 ' Perhaps,' said Robert, laughing. 
 
 ' Your friend, Mr Parflete, is an interesting fellow,' 
 observed Disraeli ; ' his young wife might be called the 
 Madonna's married sister ! There is all the sweetness,
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 117 
 
 with just the warmth of human peccability, possibly 
 jealousy, possibly temper. I have traced the short 
 upper lip to its imperial archetype ! Her mother was 
 a prettier woman, but less spirited. It was an unhappy 
 hour when the Archduke's roving eye fell on Duboc's 
 enchanting face. But for a weak soul — she did much. 
 He married her.' 
 
 * I never knew that,' exclaimed Robert. 
 
 ' Fortunately for history there is always one in- 
 discreet member of the College of Cardinals. He 
 told me the story. Duboc was married to the Arch- 
 duke according to the rites of Holy Church. Of 
 course it was illegal — or, if you prefer it, morganatic — 
 but her death saved a lot of trouble — a lot of trouble. 
 This girl is perfectly legitimate so far as the Recording 
 Angel is concerned. Now, shall we turn ? ' 
 
 Robert felt too profoundly interested in the news 
 he had just learned, to trust himself far in making 
 a reply. 
 
 'If this were generally known,' he asked after a 
 momentary hesitation, ' would it be of any advantage 
 to Mrs Parflete ? ' 
 
 ' For the present,' said Disraeli, ' it should be kept 
 a secret. I gather from Parflete's remarks to me that 
 his wife knows nothing of her actual parentage. She 
 has been given to understand that her father was a 
 young officer, le Capitaine Duboc. It is better so. 
 The consciousness of royal blood works, in most 
 cases of the kind, as a curse. Take for instance
 
 ii8 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 the Countess Orzelska, who was the daughter of 
 August of Poland by a French milliner. Who would 
 dare to write her history ? Is there any language 
 obscure enough to clothe it ? ' 
 
 ' But Mrs Parfiete's mother was no ordinary 
 woman,' said Robert. 'She is not to be compared 
 with the typical French milliner. She had great 
 accomplishments. She was beautiful ; she was hon- 
 ourably born ; she was virtuous.' 
 
 ' She belonged, however, to the race of wits and 
 mockers, an order of beings ever more popular in 
 France than elsewhere. You may remember what 
 the Bishop of Paris wrote to the French Court before 
 the coming of Henry VIII. and Anne Boleyn to 
 Calais, " Surtout je vous prie que vous ostez de la court 
 ceux qui ont la reputation (Testre mocqueurs et gaudisseurs^ 
 car c est bien la chose en ce monde autant hate de ceste 
 nation^ (Keep the wits and mockers out of the 
 Court, for the English detest all such above all 
 things.) 
 
 He was clearly thinking a little of his own reputa- 
 tion for epigrams and satire, and, also, he may have 
 intended his words to convey some warning to his 
 young companion. 
 
 He talked on in the same strain, drifting apparently 
 in an illogical sequence from one subject to another, 
 yet always introducing some remark which had its 
 right place in the general scheme of advice. The 
 conversation established a firm understanding between
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 119 
 
 the two men, and, when they reached the hotel, 
 Disraeli invited his new acquaintance to join him 
 at breakfast on the morrow. For the result of these 
 two interviews and several other matters, which may, 
 perhaps, not be without interest for the reader, it 
 would be better to take Robert's own account given 
 in the following letter to Lord Reckage : — 
 
 ' What better illustration could be found of the extra- 
 ordinary laws of human economy than in my meetings 
 with Parflcte ? For the second time in my life this man, 
 whom I have sedulously avoided and ever disliked, has 
 been instrumental in changing the whole course of my 
 plans. When I came to Paris in 185 — , he presented me 
 to you and Hercy at the Locrines. Yesterday he intro- 
 duced me to Disraeli, with whom I have had two long 
 and, to me, memorable interviews. He has encouraged 
 me to think of entering Parliament; he has mentioned the 
 constituency of Norbet Royal. I believe, from all he said, 
 that I could be of greater service to you if I were actually 
 in the House than if I were a mere outsider. Disraeli's 
 kindness passes all belief. I am to cross over to England 
 with him to-morrow. At the moment he, too, is writing a 
 novel, some chapters of which he has shown me. They 
 are the most brilliant things of their kind in any language. 
 The book is to be called Lothair. Roman Catholicism 
 plays a great part in the plot, and it is delightful to hear 
 him utter his views on the subject. They have changed 
 a little since he wrote Sjbil^ whereas he was, in his 
 sympathies, Roman Catholic then, he is Pagan Catholic 
 now. He knows a lot; in fact, he possesses real learning. 
 It is more than a great mind; he is a great spirit. If I 
 agreed with him at all points I should distrust my en- 
 thusiasm; it might come less from an admiration of his 
 genius than from the fact that he seemed the witty ex- 
 ponent of my own theories and beliefs. No, my allegi- 
 ance to him is based on a stronger feeling than flattered
 
 I20 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 egoism, wrongly called sympathy. He has courage and 
 intellect, and if I found these qualities, even in an enemy, 
 my heart, in spite of me, would go out to him. I prefer a 
 brave foe before a weak ally. However much, then, I might 
 be tempted to quarrel with the author of Lothair, I could 
 never forget his magnificent attainments or his audacity. 
 Last evening I went with Hercy and the Parfletes to 
 Les Papillons. Parflete reminded me that you supped 
 behind the scenes there in 185 — with Madame Duboc, 
 the Archduke Charles and the child. Have you forgotten 
 it ? I was there the same night, but I was not invited to 
 the supper. The whole thing returned to me : every 
 emotion, every thought, every word, every sight ; and 
 when I realised all that had happened since poor 
 Henriette's tragic death, my own selfish life, this marriage 
 of the little girl — who sat there, by-the-bye, as happy 
 and oblivious of evil as her mother had been sad and full 
 of dread — it was almost more than I could bear. The 
 braying band and the painted dancers, the repulsive 
 buffoons and the pomatumed athletes seemed to have 
 undergone no change. It was the performance of 185 — 
 all over again, and these ten eventful years might have 
 been, as it were, an entr'acte. The one who was missing 
 — never more to return, and never more to be replaced — 
 was the loving, beautiful, heart-broken woman — Henriette 
 Duboc. She had played the part of an enchantress. It 
 is madness, it is wrong to revisit old scenes. One might 
 as well unearth the dead — ^just as the insufferable hero of 
 Dumas's romance dug up the corpse of his mistress — 
 Marguerite Gautier — in order to cure himself of grief. 
 But a love that could be so cured was more corrupt 
 at its best moment than any honest mass of dust and 
 worms could ever be. You will see my mood. ... I 
 have bought for a song a fine clean copy of Jansen's 
 Augustinus ; a Robert Estiennc New Testament (a gem) 
 and a Montaigne (1595) — which fairly beats anything 
 in your father's collection. Hercy, of course, returns 
 with me to-morrow. Aumerle will remain for the Grand 
 Prix, and after that he will visit De Brie at Vieuville. 
 The Parfletes, I hear, are going also. She is a very
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 121 
 
 young woman to be hurled into that dissolute society. 
 The knock-knee'd Marquis de Chaumont has given her 
 some novels by Paul de Kock. To-night they are taking 
 her to the Jardin Mabille. And she has just left a 
 convent ! Yesterday, at dinner, De Brie entertained her 
 with the story of la Pomare — whose epitaph you may re- 
 member — '■'■ Pomare, queen of Mabille, princess of Ranelagh, 
 grand-duchess de la Chaumiere, by the grace of the polka, 
 the can-can, and other cachuchas ! " Inasmuch as the 
 same kind of thing was written about Henriette Duboc, 
 I did not think his anecdote was in the best taste. . . . 
 I am glad to get Hercy away from the Cercle de 
 P Union and the Jockey Club. Parflete is welcome in 
 neither place. He seems to be regarded as an upstart, 
 and it will soon take more than the Archduke's in- 
 fluence to make them stomach him. But the Archduke 
 himself is a diminishing power in France — and perhaps 
 elsewhere. Before five years are gone, this country 
 will be a Republic. The present Government is too 
 romantic : the Empress is too beautiful ; there is a Salon 
 des Fleurs in the Tuileries ; and this scent of violets will 
 soon be overpowered by the smell of gunpowder. Victor 
 Hugo has already said adieu to France, because she is too 
 great to be a nation. The Roman Empire, he declares, 
 became Christendom ; France will become — the world ! 
 '■'■Rome est devenue la chretiente ; toi, France, deviens le 
 monde f'' But your true prophet usually predicts a down- 
 fall. Glory is like Cupid in the fable : it must not be 
 discovered. A war with Germany seems inevitable, and, 
 if one may believe Disraeli, there shall be other wars 
 also. They do not think of these things in England. 
 Dizzy made a remark, which might have been a hit at his 
 opponents, or at certain colleagues, " Surely," said he, 
 "there is no fool so great as an untravelled Prime 
 Minister who has never tried the temper of his neigh- 
 bours, or set foot on the land of his allies." Our foreign 
 secretaries are, as a rule, but parish beadles with a 
 Garter ! — Your ever affectionate, 
 
 'R. O.'
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 After the Grand Prix, Parflete and Brigit went to 
 the Chateau de Vieuville (near Fontainebleau), on a 
 visit to the Count de Brie. When they had been 
 there a fortnight, word was received from the 
 Alberian Court that the Archduke Charles was on 
 his way to Paris, and wished Parflete to form part of 
 his suite during his stay in France. The equerry, 
 who had been winning large sums of money at cards, 
 and wished to reserve the fund thus raised for the 
 Archduke's summer pleasures at Madama, was some- 
 what cast down at the royal command. His Im- 
 perial Highness was a costly, if impressive, fellow- 
 traveller, and Parflete, who had no family claim to 
 his post at Court, was well aware that he could hope 
 to retain it by the right only of a full and ready purse. 
 Already he had spent more than half of his property 
 in the inglorious struggle to keep a seat in that 
 enchanted merry-go-round, from which, should one 
 fall, he is not missed, and a hundred are ready to leap 
 into the vacant place. Parflete himself was, with all 
 
 122
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 123 
 
 his vanity, too well versed in human nature to blame 
 the Archduke for the faults of his retinue. Is the 
 flame guilty because moths rush into it ? The 
 equerry w^as, in certain respects, an adventurer. He 
 had elbowed his way through the little crowd of poor 
 noblemen who owned every right to stand in that 
 palace which their ancestors had defended at the cost, 
 in many cases, of life and fortune. He was regarded 
 justly enough as an intruder. He was neither of their 
 blood nor their class. His mother was an Alberian, 
 but his father was English. His position was in the 
 highest degree, precarious ; and, when his money 
 failed, he knew well that his day would go out in 
 laughter and contempt. What, then, was his chagrin 
 when he learnt, by a second despatch, that His 
 Imperial Highness, on reaching Paris, would proceed 
 immediately to the Chateau de Vieuville, where (as 
 the order ran), M. Parflete was to receive him on 
 his arrival. 
 
 For some days, this gentleman had been conscious 
 of a certain estrangement between himself and his 
 host. In his confidential moments with Brigit, he 
 expressed the fear that he had outstayed his welcome, 
 and the prospect of remaining in a merely official 
 capacity, where he was no longer regarded as an 
 acquisition to the company, seemed to prey upon his 
 mind. Brigit, however, had been received with 
 exceptional attentions, and was regarded — ostensibly 
 because she was a bride — as the guest of honour.
 
 124 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 Charles Aumerle, who was the one Englishman, 
 besides Parflete, in the party, attributed the favour 
 shown her to another consideration, namely, her 
 imperial father. 
 
 Some of the haughtiest members of the French 
 aristocracy were under that roof, and the gay 
 
 Duchesse de P , who was as eminent for good 
 
 nature as she was exalted in birth, was especially 
 kind to the ravissante et ?nalheureuse enfant. It was, 
 therefore, difficult for Brigit to appreciate the slights 
 of which Parflete so bitterly complained. She tried, 
 in vain, to understand the distinction which certainly 
 existed between the deference which was shown 
 toward herself and the manner adopted toward her 
 husband. 
 
 The night before the arrival of the Archduke, 
 Parflete came into her bedroom at three o'clock in 
 the morning (he played cards till the small hours 
 every day), and waking her, burst into a terrible fit 
 of crying. The poor child threw her arms round his 
 neck, and begged him to tell her his trouble. Many 
 moments passed before he could speak. Brigit had 
 never supposed that a man could either sob or shed 
 tears, and the sight was to her so appalling that her 
 own heart became frozen between fright and appre- 
 hension. She could but lay her cheek against his 
 haggard, distorted face and, breathing soft moans of 
 sympathy, wait for his words, 
 
 *They have accused me,' he said at last, looking
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 125 
 
 miserably into the eyes which had never doubted 
 hinio ' They have accused me ! It was a cowardly 
 attack ; they set a trap for me. I could have put it 
 all right with the very next card. I had it ready, but 
 the brutes would not give me time. I challenged 
 them ; not one of them had the courage to accept my 
 challenge. They dared not fight. If you could have 
 seen their faces : they were like bloodhounds ! It 
 was a plot against me. They are jealous of me ; they 
 think I am an intruder. They have been waiting for 
 years to come between myself and the Archduke. If 
 he believes this I shall be a ruined man. I offered 
 them all my winnings. I threw them at their feet. 
 They questioned me as though I were a criminal. I 
 don't know what I said, but I shall kill myself. Can 
 I live under such an accusation ? Would you wish me 
 to live ? They will not even accept my challenge. 
 I have devoted my whole life to these people. I have 
 amused them and helped them through their scrapes, 
 and lied about them in order to keep them respected, 
 and this is the end of it all ! Insult, disgrace, humilia- 
 tion piled upon humiliation ! ' 
 
 ' But the Archduke,' said Brigit ; ' he will know 
 better. He will defend you and despise them.' 
 
 ' He will be the first to kick me lower,' said Parflete, 
 * the first ! They have no right to keep me here as a 
 prisoner,' he exclaimed, changing his tone and looking 
 wildly round the room. ' They may poison me. This 
 is not England. I must get away before he comes.'
 
 126 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 ' Oh, no ! ' said Brigit. * You are too tired to 
 think now, but that would place you in the wrong, 
 whereas you are right. No, we must shov/ them that 
 we have nothing to fear.' 
 
 * You don't understand,' said the wretched man. 
 'They have four spies to swear against me. The 
 traitors ! the dastards ! Aumerle was the only one 
 who would have laothing to say one way or the other. 
 You must not think, because I break down here before 
 you, that I showed any fear to them.* I withstood 
 them to the death, but — I am too ill to face them 
 again. You must not ask me to face them again. 
 By God ! I have lost my nerve. It was six to 
 one ! ' 
 
 ' Sleep first,' said Brigit. ' Try to sleep.' 
 ' Oh ! how can I sleep ? You will have to meet 
 the Archduke. I cannot receive him with this charge 
 hanging over my head. He would never pardon such 
 an affront. No ; you see him, speak for me, insist on 
 seeing him. You may remind him of your mother. 
 He never spared her, but still you have more spirit 
 than she had. He likes to see spirit. Tell him that 
 I have been kind to you. Tell him that you are fond 
 of me. Tell him that I don't ask to be taken back to 
 the Court. I will go quietly away anywhere, where 
 no one will know me. Tell him that you will not 
 
 * This seems to have been true, and Aumerle, in a private account of 
 the scandal, declares that everyone was amazed at Parflete's barefaced 
 lying. He never surrendered.
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 127 
 
 mind the banishment. Go on your knees to him and 
 swear that you believe in me.' 
 
 Brigit dared not question her own misgivings. 
 She could have held her hands over her ears, or put out 
 her own eyes, in the agony of suspicion she now 
 experienced. 
 
 ' Then,' she whispered, ' it was — not a mistake.' 
 
 * I swear to God,' said he, ' I never did such a thino- 
 
 ' to 
 
 before ! It was the first time. It meant one move- 
 ment and ten thousand francs in my pocket, and I did 
 not want them for myself ! This all comes of 
 thinking too much about other people ! ' 
 
 He clasped her hands. 
 
 ' You won't desert me, will you : ' he said, ' because 
 I am telling you everything ? ' 
 
 * No,' said Brigit, ' I shall not desert you.' 
 
 Her voice failed; and presently, though not so soon 
 that he could feel himself despised, she stole softly 
 away into a little ante-room where she could pray for 
 fortitude and counsel. Then, knowing that if she 
 did not sleep she would be unequal to the day before 
 her, she asked for that gift, too, and it was granted. 
 
 Parflete went in to speak again to her and found 
 her in a deep slumber, yet with wet eyelashes. This 
 time he did not rouse her ; but he stooped down and 
 kissed her golden hair which shone out on the dark 
 pillow of the couch. The sunlight streamed in 
 through the half-closed shutter. He could hear the 
 birds singing outside. Who would describe the
 
 128 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 thoughts, sharper than death, which pierced his soul 
 as he stood there ? Perhaps Brigit owed her very- 
 existence to his treachery towards her mother. He 
 had assisted the Archduke in that cruel intrigue. 
 He had laid snares at every point for poor Henriette's 
 undoing. He had persuaded her into the marriage 
 which, none knew better than he, was but a vain form 
 in the eyes of the law. Yet her child — this child of 
 fatal love and extreme despair — was the one being on 
 earth who seemed to care for him and would now 
 have to suffer with him. 
 
 Yet these ideas, sharp as they must have been, must 
 also have soon passed, for remorse itself cannot be so 
 strong as the injured vanity of a profoundly selfish 
 heart. The remembrance of his own disgrace and of 
 the hideous scene with his accusers, the knowledge of 
 his certain banishment from the Court, which he loved 
 and feared with the frantic servility of the born 
 favourite-in-waiting, overwhelmed him as a flood from 
 the burning lake. He cowered, groaned and fled 
 away to his room, driven before the dreadful scourge 
 of his own shame and the mockery of a just doom. 
 
 Before the Archduke's arrival, Brigit dressed herself 
 in the plainest gown she possessed, which was but 
 one degree removed from a nun's habit. Her youth- 
 ful face showed traces of horror and weeping, but 
 otherwise she was calm, the mistress of all her 
 faculties. She informed the Count de Brie that her 
 husband was unable to leave his room, and that she
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 129 
 
 herself would render the excuses for his absence to 
 the Archduke. 
 
 The Count was astonished at the firmness she 
 used in declining to discuss the events of the pre- 
 ceding night. When he ventured to remind her that 
 her youth and inexperience were such that she would 
 be well advised not to meddle in a matter which was 
 best disposed of by men, she told him that where 
 her husband's honour was in question, she could re- 
 member nothing of greater moment than the fact 
 that she was his wife. 
 
 Finding her deaf to all argument, he left the 
 Chateau vi^ith two other gentlemen, of whom Parflete 
 was to have been one, in order to meet the Archduke 
 at the railway station. The guests assembled in the 
 great hall to welcome him on his arrival; Brigit 
 alone remained apart in an ante-chamber till she was 
 summoned. 
 
 An hour passed. She could hear, as she murmured 
 her prayers, the joy bells ringing and the horses 
 prancing in the court-yard. The sound of footsteps 
 passing and repassing in the corridor, the rustle 
 of women's silken skirts, voices, laughter, hurried 
 words of command, came constantly to her ears, 
 but no one entered to relieve her suspense. A fear of 
 missing the message when it came, made it impos- 
 sible for her to return even for a moment to Parflete, 
 who, she knew, was suffering unspeakable anguish of 
 mind. 
 
 I 
 
 1
 
 130 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 Two hours — three hours — passed. At the close of 
 the fourth hour she was informed by her host that 
 His Imperial Highness would see her in the private 
 apartments which had been reserved for his use during 
 the visit. The Count de Brie then conducted her 
 to the royal rooms, and she was received on the 
 threshold by a young officer of supercilious air, 
 who was in attendance, in Parflete's stead, on the 
 Archduke. 
 
 ' His Imperial Highness,' said he, casting his full 
 eyes over Brigit's distressed and beautiful face, and 
 plain serge gown — ' His Imperial Highness will see 
 you in a few moments.' 
 
 He then thrust his hands into his pockets, and, 
 with an air which was intended to convey equal 
 degrees of contempt, patronage and admiration, lolled 
 back against some article of furniture. Brigit 
 threw him a glance which called some colour into 
 his face, and although he did not change his attitude, 
 his expression lost its spirit : he clearly felt that he 
 had been guilty of an indiscretion. 
 
 When Brigit was finally admitted into her father's 
 presence, she saw, standing at the end of a tapestried 
 room, a tall imposing individual, with large strongly- 
 marked features, blonde hair, a blonde beard, and 
 a countenance of corpse-like pallor. His bearing was 
 soldierly, and the impression he gave was that of 
 a cold, tyrannical, but not malignant, man. 
 
 She dropped him a curtsey and waited for him to
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 131 
 
 speak. In her concern for her husband she had 
 foro-otten that the Archduke had known her mother, 
 or that, as a child, she herself had played at the princely- 
 knees. As he came forward to receive her, he seemed 
 to be labouring under some inexplicable emotion ; 
 whether it was anger or pity she could not decide. 
 
 'Do you remember me?' he said. 
 
 The question at once brought the past to her 
 mind. 
 
 ' Sir,' she said, * it would not be for me to speak to 
 your Imperial Highness of those laughing days.' 
 
 ' Where is your husband ? ' 
 
 * 1 have come, sir, to explain his absence, but may 
 I beg to see your Imperial Highness alone.' 
 
 The Archduke made a motion to the young 
 equerry, who, with a very ill grace and a look of 
 astonishment, retired from the room. 
 
 ' That fellow is new to his office,' said Erigit, 
 colouring. ' He should be taught how to receive 
 women, and he may yet be a credit to his Court.' 
 
 If there was a strong trait in her character, it was 
 imperiousness, and now, under the immediate and 
 exciting influence of the being from whom she had 
 inherited the quality, it gained a peculiar force. It 
 had been her intention to plead, and, although she 
 had prepared no speech, and had trusted to the 
 occasion and the help of God for her eloquence, she 
 had entered the Archduke's presence with the firm 
 wish to exhibit at least the humble spirit which it
 
 132 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 was her duty, rather than her pleasure, to feel. But 
 the prince found himself addressed by a spirit as 
 intrepid and as little disposed to beg for quarter as 
 his own. Had she known that she was his daughter, 
 her religious sense of the reverence due to parents 
 might have kept her meek, but as she was wholly 
 unaware of the relationship, she treated him with that 
 ironical etiquette which exists, on formal occasions, 
 between equals. 
 
 * My husband, sir,' said she, * did not venture into 
 his master's presence, because he is held to be in dis- 
 grace, and has been accused of cheating at cards. I 
 am his wife, and Your Imperial Highness will forgive 
 me if I am too proud to attempt the vindication of his 
 innocence. It would ill become me to sit in judgment 
 upon one whose honour or dishonour must be as my 
 own. But this, perhaps, I may be permitted to say : 
 he came here as a guest. He had every reason to 
 believe himself among friends. They played a trick 
 upon him, and, from the results of that trick, they 
 claim to have found him guilty of dishonesty. But 
 to have played that trick shows that they suspected 
 him ; and if they suspected him, why did they invite 
 him here to join in all their games ? Does a man 
 become a thief in one night ? He has known the 
 Count de Brie for years, yet this friend appointed a 
 man to accuse him openly before a room full of 
 acquaintances. He found himself attacked by each 
 of them save one, and, when they were all calling
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS' 133 
 
 out to him, the host himself joined in the outcry. I 
 think it an indignity offered, sir, to a member of the 
 imperial household, a member, too, who has never 
 once faltered in his devotion to the Archduke, who 
 is the most loyal and affectionate of all his servants. 
 It would be an act — not of mercy — but of justice, 
 if your Imperial Highness would show resentment at 
 the cruel and degrading treatment shown to a gentle- 
 man who, toward his master at least, has never been 
 otherwise than faithful.' 
 
 Her voice faltered, and it was with great difficulty 
 that she restrained a sob. 
 
 * You are not afraid,' said the Archduke, drily, ' of 
 speaking your mind.' 
 
 ' My father, sir,' she replied, ' was an officer who 
 died fighting. I hope I do him no discredit.' 
 
 A ghastly smile drifted across the Archduke's rigid 
 countenance. He turned his back upon her and paced 
 the room before he made a further remark. 
 
 ' What do you wish done ? ' he said at last. 
 
 * I wish you, sir, to defend my husband against his 
 persecutors.' 
 
 ' What is he to you ? ' said he, brutally. ' He is 
 years older than you are, and you cannot care for him. 
 You cannot believe in him unless you are a fool ; and 
 if you are indeed your father's daughter, you cannot 
 be a simpleton. The man is guilty. It is impossible 
 to doubt the evidence against him. I will have no 
 proved blacklegs in my service ; no, not even to
 
 134 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 please the child of my charming and beautiful friend — 
 Henriette Duboc. De Brie has no wish to persecute 
 your husband. It would be a revolting scandal, and 
 the affair must be hushed up. Parflete had better get 
 out of the country as soon as possible, but tell him 
 that I do not wish you to accompany him. He 
 will be hounded from place to place like a rat, and 
 I do not choose that any woman should share in his 
 existence.' 
 
 ' My duty, sir,' said Brigit, * is in the hands of a 
 higher authority than a prince's. I shall follow my 
 husband.' 
 
 *You shall do what you are told to do,' said the 
 Archduke. ' I never wish to see Parflete again. 
 You may tell him that if he attempts to address me, 
 or hold any communication with me, I shall take my 
 own method of dealing with the offence. As for you, 
 you have forced me to seem more severe than my 
 intention. I will find some appointment for you at 
 the Court. At your age, and with your appearance, 
 and with your audacity, you will need more than any 
 common surveillance ! I shall see that you are pro- 
 tected and provided for.' 
 
 ' Sir,' said Brigit, ' I thank you — but I am no beggar, 
 and if my husband's debts are greater than his own 
 fortune, I have my own dot left me by my father.' 
 
 ' He seems,' said the Archduke, with a strange 
 smile, ' to have been a remarkable person. Do you 
 remember him ? '
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 135 
 
 ' No, sir,' said Brigit ; * but my mother told me of 
 him often. He was brave : he was always kind to 
 women, and he feared no man in the world.' 
 
 ' And did your mother love him ? ' said the Arch- 
 duke. 
 
 ' They say, sir,* replied Brigit, ' that she died 
 because life was too desolate without him.' 
 
 ' Would you die so easily ? ' said the Archduke, 
 ' if you found yourself separated from Parfiete ? ' 
 
 Brigit's face flushed at a question, which cut her 
 sensitive nature to the quick. 
 
 ' My father, sir,' said she, ' was perhaps too proud 
 a man to have suffered insolence even from an Arch- 
 duke. If my husband has ever suffered it, my lot 
 could not be so hard as my mother's when she lost 
 not her protector only but mine ! ' 
 
 ' Well turned ! ' said the Archduke. * Well 
 turned ! I shall not forget you. It would be un- 
 pleasant for you to remain here when your husband 
 has left. I will see that you travel under a proper 
 escort to Alberia. For the present, you may go, 
 but au revoir. If you think me harsh, a day may 
 come, when you are older, when you will see my 
 judgment in another light. You had best make your 
 preparations to leave the Chateau to-night. I will 
 send passports and further instructions to you by 
 Captain Kaste.' 
 
 ' Sir,' said Brigit, * I cannot promise to obey them. 
 My duty is toward my husband.'
 
 I3& THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 * Your husband/ said the Archduke, grimly, * will 
 not venture to express a wish in this matter contrary 
 to my own. Now you may go,' 
 
 Brigit made a profound bov/ and went out of the 
 room. The Archduke looked after her and sat for a 
 long time in silence, biting his nails, then he rang for 
 his equerry. 
 
 ' Where is Parflete by this time ? ' he asked. 
 
 * He should be beyond Paris, sir,' replied the young 
 man, with a grin which he made but a feigned effort 
 to conceal. 
 
 ' Where is De Brie ? ' asked the Archduke. 
 *■ He is waiting in the next room.' 
 ' Show him in.' 
 
 Captain Kaste withdrew and presently returned 
 with the Count.
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 The Count de Brie, it may be remembered, had been 
 one of the three guests v/ho took supper with Madame 
 Duboc and the Archduke at Les Papillons on Brigit's 
 sixth birthday. He was a person who had moved in 
 the four quarters of the moon and practised vanity in 
 each. A member of the old nobiHty, he had received 
 his early political training under the leadership of the 
 Due de Broglie, but, as he possessed all the arrogance 
 without the ability of his pattern, he had not the 
 honour of being reckoned among the beaten when that 
 Minister and his party fell from power in 1835. As 
 a youth, De Brie had contributed several articles to 
 U Avenir^ but, in 1833, we find him on the side of 
 Montalembert in the rupture with Lamennais.* He 
 was among those who listened to Lacordaire's famous 
 Conferences de Notre-Dame^ and he figured for a time 
 as a mystic. But this formal religion, which deceived 
 himself rather than on-lookers, was balanced by an 
 equally frigid system of worldliness. His intrigues 
 were as studied as his piety, and, the same spirit which 
 
 * For a brief, yet vivid, account of the fall of De Lamennais, the reader 
 may be referred to the article on the subject in Cardinal Newman's 
 Essays: Critical anJ Historical, Vol. i. page 138.
 
 138 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 urged him to seem more devout than he felt, induced 
 him to affect habits of dissipation wholly at variance 
 with his natural instincts. Of a cold, calculating and 
 rather morbid temperament, he chose companions of a 
 precisely opposite character, and by figuring on the 
 scene of their adventures he sought to share a little in 
 their reputation for gallantry. 
 
 He was, however, one who kept strictly faithful to 
 those maxims of prudence, which, in many characters, 
 are a substitute for principle. Convictions he had 
 none, but rules of conduct he had in plenty, and to 
 break one of these seemed to him a demonstration 
 either of forgetfulness or ignorance. He would have 
 recoiled from using a harder term. Among these 
 rules the following were especially important : — 
 
 ' Lying is bad policy.^ 
 
 ' To desert a woman enlists unpopularity^ 
 
 '•Be true to some woman and you will gain credit from 
 all men^ 
 
 ' To cheat at cards is the last possible mistake.^ 
 
 It may be granted, then, that he had, on the whole 
 a taste for what is commonly known as honour, and 
 also a nice perception that this earth — if it is to be 
 conquered — can be conquered by fair means only. 
 His annoyance at Parflete's disgrace was so deep that 
 it almost reached sorrow. He disliked the man and 
 he had long expected to hear of his downfall. 
 
 ' Lion-tamers, snake-charmers, and royal favourites 
 all come to sudden disaster,' was another of his axioms.
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 139 
 
 Still, he would have preferred that the last scene in 
 Parflete's social career had been acted elsewhere than 
 at the Chateau de Vieuville. As he now approached 
 the Archduke, the melancholy droop of his eyelids 
 and mouth seemed more marked than usual. Apart 
 from his personal feeling in the matter, he had too 
 much breeding to appear otherwise than distressed at 
 the calamity which had befallen his royal visitor's 
 equerry. 
 
 ' What has been done ? * asked the Archduke. ' Who 
 will break the news to — Brigit ? ' 
 
 ' It will be a delicate mission,' said De Brie. ' Her 
 courage is extraordinary, and I fear she may give 
 trouble. We might tell her that she is to join him — 
 and gradually prepare her mind for the — disappoint- 
 ment.' 
 
 The Archduke remained silent for a few moments, 
 and then ordered Kaste to leave the room. 
 
 * It might be best, after all, to let her know the 
 whole truth,' said Charles. 'I am not ashamed of 
 her. I w'ish that my son had even half her spirit ! 
 She might be more obedient if she were told every- 
 thing.' 
 
 ' Sir, I could offer no advice on that point. Mon 
 Dieu ! is it conceivable that a man so bound as Parflete 
 was to consider his reputation and guard his character — ' 
 He could not finish the sentence, but lifted up his 
 hands in token of an amazement beyond speech. 
 
 * Did he give much trouble ? '
 
 140 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 ' Happily he was reasonable, I found him waiting 
 in his bedroom for his wife's return. I explained that 
 she had not yet seen you : that you intended to receive 
 her, but that it would be impossible for you to grant 
 the requests which she might make. I then informed 
 him of Your Imperial Highness's irrevocable decision. 
 First ' — and he checked each remark on his fingers — 
 'that he was to consider himself banished from Alberia 
 and from your circle, — par tout : that he was to make no 
 appeals to your friends : that he was to separate him- 
 self from Madame — your natural daughter.' 
 
 * What did he say to that ? ' 
 
 * I regret to say that he permitted himself a remark 
 about the morganatic marriage.' 
 
 ' Was it a threat ? ' 
 
 De Brie mouthed a little over his reply, — 
 
 ' J peu pres. He was, perhaps, over-excited. 
 His devotion to Your Imperial Highness is, I think, 
 sincere. I pointed out that Madame Parflete was 
 dear to the Archduke and that he could not bear 
 to see her participate in a ruined life. I said much 
 to the same effect, and, ultimately, he accepted 
 the terms. He had, after all, no choice, I thought 
 it but kind to indulge him in the little farce of con- 
 sideration. He has left a letter for Madame Parflete.' 
 
 « Where is it ? ' 
 
 * Here, sir.' 
 
 ' You may show it to her. He would not dare 
 to disobey me. Did you give him the money ? '
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 141 
 
 * Yes, sir. He desired his humble thanks — * 
 
 ' I know, I know,' said the Archduke, impatiently. 
 ' I don't want to hear any more. He took it and 
 he was satisfied. He has a price for everything— 
 but his wife seems the least precious of his treasures ! 
 We princes surely see the meanest vices of man- 
 kind ! It is difficult, indeed, for a king to find a 
 creature he can either trust or respect. As a boy, 
 I heard that often from my father.' 
 
 At that moment, they were both startled by the 
 sound of voices in the adjoining room. The Arch- 
 duke rang his bell, and Captain Kaste entered. 
 
 ' Madame Parflete has come back, sir,' said he. 
 'She desires to see Your Imperial Highness.' 
 
 He put a sarcastic stress on the word desires^ as 
 though he wished the Archduke to understand that 
 he was delivering the message in all its original 
 informality. 
 
 *That is impossible,' said Charles. *Tell her that 
 I am resting after my journey. If she can receive 
 the Count de Brie, he will wait upon her in her 
 own apartments.' 
 
 But, as he spoke, the door at the end of the room 
 was opened, and Brigit herself, unannounced, con- 
 fronted the three men. 
 
 She pressed one hand to her throat as though to 
 hold back the sob of despair which rose, stronger than 
 words, to her trembling lips. 
 
 *■ Sir,' she said, with a deep curtsey, ' if I have no
 
 142 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 manners, you must pardon me. I am treated as 
 though I were a slave without rights and without a 
 soul, whereas I am not even your subject. I am a 
 Frenchwoman, and I ask by what authority you step 
 between myself and my husband ? Where have they 
 taken him, and who is the Count de Brie that he may 
 imprison and insult gentlemen at his caprice ? ' 
 
 * Madame,' said De Brie, coming forward, 'if you 
 will allow me to explain — ' 
 
 ' A crime cannot be explained,' said Brigit ; ' nor 
 will I trespass upon your time, nor will I take you 
 from your guest. I ask to see my husband only.' 
 
 * Give her his letter,' said the Archduke, who was 
 watching her from under his deeply-lined and heavy 
 eyelids. ' Give her his note and leave her with me.' 
 
 De Brie handed the half-fainting girl her husband's 
 farewell letter, which was sealed very neatly with the ' 
 Parflete crest, and addressed * For my Wife ' in his 
 famiHar, graceful handwriting. She walked away to 
 the window, where they could no longer watch her 
 face, and then tore the envelope open. The page 
 trembled in her hands. She could scarcely grasp the 
 meaning of the few lines which met her eyes. 
 
 * My DEAREST, — Never forget me. It was a conspiracy. 
 But I will not make you more wretched than you must be. 
 The Archduke is right in his decision. Remember his 
 position. He could not act otherwise. He could not en- 
 courage any system of cross-questioning. I do not com- 
 plain. I may never see you again. It would not be fair. 
 I may not ask you to share such misery as mine must be.
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 143 
 
 They will treat me as though I were a leper. I know 
 them. Pray for me and think of me always, and, should 
 we ever meet, never let me read reproach in your eyes. 
 Your devoted and heart-broken husband.' 
 
 ' Oh, he wrote this ! ' exclaimed Brigit. ' He 
 wrote it ! ' 
 
 The man's nature cried out in every phrase. She 
 would have fallen if the Archduke, in his experience, 
 had not risen from his chair and stationed himself so 
 near to her that he could, at the critical moment, ofFer 
 her his support. 
 
 Her grief was unconquerable. She broke down 
 utterly, and, sinking to the ground, buried her face 
 in her two hands, weeping tears of bitter humiliation. 
 The Archduke could only hear the words, — 
 
 * I cannot — cannot — I cannot ! ' 
 
 He walked away, surveyed her from a distance, and 
 came back again to put his hand on her bowed head. 
 
 ' Calme-toiy mon enfant^ he said at last, ' releve-toi et 
 ecoute I Ce nest pas convenable. It is ungrateful. 
 We have done the best for your husband. These 
 things are hard, but we must submit to them. I am 
 always sorry for wives. The whole world pities them. 
 There was never such a black scoundrel but some 
 woman would break her heart and wring ours by 
 begging mercy for him. We think that your 
 husband's chief crime is his offence against you. We 
 allowed him to marry you because of our high regard 
 for him. He has deceived and betrayed us all. He is
 
 144 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 a vile fellow. Shed no more tears. You are too 
 young to cry.' 
 
 ' Young ! ' said Brigit. * I was young six weeks ago, 
 but not now. I am old — old — old — and I thought I 
 should be so happy. I had so many friends. Friends 
 everywhere — everywhere friends ! Now, not a soul. 
 And what have I done to deserve this ? I only wanted 
 to do right. You are all nothing to me— nothing. 
 My husband is suffering. Sorrow will not make 
 him a better man, but a desperate one. O God ! to 
 whom shall I turn but to Thee ? I have neither 
 father, nor brother, nor husband — and my mother is 
 dead. O God ! take me away. I am afraid ! ' 
 
 Charles again walked away from her to the end of 
 the room, where his chair and writing-table stood. 
 
 ' I thought you were brave,' said he. 
 
 'I was once,' said Brigit, holding her palms to her 
 aching eyes. ' But you are all men, you are strong 
 and cruel ; and I am alone, and I see what is coming 
 - — disaster and ruin.' 
 
 ' You need not lose your courage,' said the Arch- 
 duke. 'Your father has, perhaps, more power than 
 you dream of.' 
 
 ' But he is dead,' sobbed Brigit, ' and the dead 
 cannot help me.' 
 
 'Wait,' said the Archduke, 'wait ! Your father is 
 living. But would you know him if you saw him ? ' 
 
 Brigit looked up, with something of suspicion, at his 
 face. She was still crouching on the ground ; bowed
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 145 
 
 down to the earth with the weight of grief, too heavy 
 for youth to bear. 
 
 ' Would I know him ? ' she replied slowly. ' He 
 was noble, my mother said, and as handsome as the 
 sun-god, and always kind to women, and he feared no 
 man in the world. And she said that his eyes were 
 like agate — ' 
 
 There she stopped short. The moment of recognition 
 was near — a recognition in violent contradiction with 
 the sentimental evidence which had grown up and 
 flowered in the girl's mind from the hour of her first 
 remembrance. The Archduke himself was moved. 
 Their glance met. Trembling, Brigit rose to her 
 feet and walked slowly, as though she were drawn 
 toward him by some irresistible, but torturing, in- 
 fluence. Her lips were parted as if in terror, her 
 gaze was fixed and panic-stricken, yet she approached 
 nearer and nearer till they stood with the table only 
 between them. 
 
 ' Brigit,' he said, holding out his two hands. 
 ' I am not the sun-god, nor have I died fighting, 
 nor have I been always kind to women, if I may 
 believe all they have said to me — but — I am your 
 father.' 
 
 Brigit coloured as though she had received a whip 
 stroke on each cheek. 
 
 ' But my mother,' she answered, ' was good,' and 
 she shrank away. 
 
 ' Elle etait belle et douce* 
 
 K
 
 1+6 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 * She was more,' cried Brigit, passionately, ' she was 
 good. They told me so at the Convent, and I know 
 it.' 
 
 * Tu as rahon^ rejoined the Archduke. ' She was 
 virtuous to a fault ; but, nevertheless, I am your 
 father.' 
 
 'I cannot understand,' said the poor girl, bursting 
 into tears. * But I pray that God may bless you and 
 help me to honour you. At present He seems to have 
 forsaken me, for everyone now tells me lies, and every- 
 thing I once believed in is now proved false. I pray 
 God that this is all a dream and I may soon wake 
 up.' 
 
 The Archduke went round to her, bent down and 
 kissed her forehead. 
 
 'Your mother was good,' he said, 'and a priest 
 married us. But princes may not love whom they 
 will, and the Church's law is not always the law of 
 the State. Tu es ma fille. Je {aime hien^ mais tu 
 n as pas de droits. II faut que tu saches ces choses 
 la. II faut que tu restes coinme tu es aux yeux du 
 ?nonde — la fille du Capitaine Duboc. It is a secret 
 which you must keep for my sake. You must not 
 boast of me.' 
 
 A white smile passed over Brigit's face. 
 
 ' I was proud,' she said, sadly, ' of my father, the poor 
 officer who died fightmg ; but I shall never boast 
 again. You may trust me well.' 
 
 ' You will see now,' he said, not feeling her irony.
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 147 
 
 'why I cannot allow you to follow Parflete. I per- 
 mitted the marriage because he was your guardian, 
 and he never told me that you had so much beauty. 
 He knew your mother, and I felt that I could trust him. 
 But now trust is out of the question. If you are 
 patient, we may be able to arrange a divorce, and 
 I will find you another husband — a young one — a 
 handsome one — perhaps a nobleman. Shed no more 
 tears.' 
 
 Brigit received this speech with profound resent- 
 ment. 
 
 ' As I am not a princess,' she said, ' and as I have 
 no rights, I may remain true to my marriage vows. 
 The word divorce has no meaning for me. I am a 
 Catholic. I implore you to let me go, I have 
 heard too much to-day, and my heart can bear no 
 more.' 
 
 He followed her to the door and, at parting, stooped 
 down and kissed her forehead again. She curtsied, 
 kissed his hand, then, turning away, was seized with 
 another fit of crying, and rushed, like a frightened 
 child, to the one refuge left her — the little altar with 
 the lamp hanging before it, which she had arranged in 
 an alcove of her bedroom. 
 
 But neither prayers nor tears were left in Brigit. 
 Her head swam and her knees bent beneath her. 
 She had tasted no food since her first light meal in 
 the morning, and her bodily frame — in spite of her 
 perfect health — was still too immature to bear —
 
 148 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 without some special grace — so prolonged a strain as 
 she had suffered. It was not, however, the moment 
 for rest or hesitation. Her one desire was to escape 
 from that perilous household before the Archduke 
 could take steps to hinder her going, or to direct 
 her future destiny. A dreadful fear paralyzed her 
 heart and benumbed every other emotion. She dis- 
 trusted her own shadow, and, the stirring of the 
 leaves on the trees outside her window seemed the 
 iron whispers of armed men. The place of retreat 
 to which her mind turned by the united force of 
 affection and instinct, was the Convent at Tours. 
 There, undoubtedly, Parflete would write, either to 
 give some account of his own movements, or to ask 
 for tidings of Brigit herself. It was even probable 
 that, on leaving Fontainebleau, he would at once 
 place himself in communication with the Reverend 
 Mother, who, he knew, was kindly disposed toward 
 him, and a woman of great good sense. Thus the 
 girl reasoned. She would walk to Paris — for she felt 
 it would be imprudent to venture into the railway 
 station, where she could not hope to pass unrecognised. 
 The Archduke was too worldly-minded a man to 
 suspect her of flying to the Nuns, and, once in Paris 
 and on her way to Tours, she felt certain that she 
 could defy his vigilance. She examined the situation 
 of her room. The Chateau de Vieuville, which faced 
 a superb avenue, one mile and a half in length, stood 
 in a park, set out in the English taste, and crossed
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 149 
 
 by a large artificial lake of serpentine form. Brigit's 
 apartments were in a pavilion which formed the 
 right wing of the Castle, and the saloons on the first 
 floor were shaded by a modern glass roof supported 
 on marble pillars. These lower rooms, she re- 
 membered, were used in the morning only. They 
 were never occupied after mid-day. It would have 
 been just possible to climb along the ledge until 
 she reached the dome above the servant's stair-case. 
 The descent from thence to the ground looked like 
 a matter of mere daring and a sure foot. But, after 
 a moment's consideration, she decided that the better, 
 if more audacious course, was to brave the dangers 
 of the hall and corridors, and walk out as though 
 she intended to stroll in the Park. She was a free 
 woman, having wronged no one, and she was her own 
 mistress. She sought for her jewels, and found that 
 her mother's pearl rosary, diamond necklace, bracelets 
 and brooches were gone. Parflete alone knew where 
 they were kept. Had he taken them ? She hoped 
 so. He would need money for his flight. She had 
 but two hundred francs in her purse, and the few rings 
 —fortunately valuable ones — which she happened to be 
 wearing on her fingers. These she tied up in her 
 pocket-handkerchief and thrust it, with her money, 
 into the bosom of her gown. She put on her garden 
 hat, a light wrap, and, with trembling limbs, opened her 
 door. There was no one in sight save the Duchess 
 of Parma's femme de chambre^ who was dozing on a
 
 I50 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 chair, by a sleeping poodle, at the extreme end of 
 the long corridor. The poodle moved at the sound 
 of Brigit's light step. He barked inarticulately, and 
 did not so much as wake himself. She reached the 
 top of the grand staircase and looked down. There 
 were four lacqueys in the hall. She opened the 
 Breviary which she carried in her hand, and, with 
 her eyes fixed upon it, descended the stairs very 
 slowly, passed the servants without appearing to 
 notice them, and found herself in the courtyard. 
 Two of the guests were there — Charles Aumerle and 
 the young Marquis of Chaumont. She kept her 
 gaAe intently on her book, and, although they un- 
 covered their heads, they did not attempt to address 
 her. Presently, her feet seemed to touch a gravel 
 path — she was on the great avenue. How her heart 
 throbbed ! She still continued reading. Aumerle 
 looked after her till her slight, childish figure was 
 lost among the trees. 
 
 ' These convent habits stick,' he observed at last. 
 * She is saying her prayers ! ' 
 
 Brigit walked on and on, not daring to lift her 
 eyes. *Our Father in Heaven, help me! Help me, 
 Our Father in Heaven ! ' she cried in her soul. 
 But how long it was before she reached the common 
 highway ! She dared not look back at the great iron 
 gates of the Chateau, and the smile which she gave to 
 the concierge's pale daughter was the last that reddened 
 her lips for many a long day. She trudged on till
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 151 
 
 the evening, when she bought some food, for she 
 was on the road to Paris and needed all her streno;th. 
 All that night, taking strength from God and her 
 own despair, she kept on the road, always looking 
 for the lights of the city, and meeting neither insults 
 nor adventures. But she was afraid of the blackness ; 
 and Psyche, journeying through the way of death, 
 past the Castle of Orcus and the river of the dead, 
 toward the house of Proserpine, did not suffer more 
 piteously than Brigit during that lonely march. The 
 sky was sombre, and, when the wind in a sudden gust 
 drove the clouds from the face of the moon, it shone out 
 with an opalescent light that gave the very atmosphere 
 the colour of tears. The remembrance of all that 
 Robert Orange had told her of his walk from Brittany 
 cheered her a little when sharp flints pierced her thin 
 shoes, or a frog, hopping across the path, made her 
 fear the presence of some evil spirit. She never once 
 glanced behind her, for the steps and voices of pursuers 
 — either men or devils — seemed ever in her ears. She 
 felt the clutch of invisible hands on her shawl, and, 
 from time to time, a fiery touch on her shoulder. 
 The Prince of the Power of Darkness was surely near. 
 Yet she sped on and on, now sobbing from sheer 
 exhaustion, now exhorting her weary heart with the 
 good words she had been taught : — 
 
 ' If Thou wilt have mc to be in darkness, be Thou 
 Blessed; and if Thou wilt have me to be in light, Blessed 
 be Thou again. If Thou vouchsafest to comfort me, be
 
 152 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 Thou Blessed; and if it be Thy will that I should be 
 afflicted, be Thou always equally Blessed. Keep me from 
 all sin, and I will fear neither death nor hell. So only 
 Thou cast me not off for ever, nor blot me out of the book 
 of life, no tribulation that befalls me will hurt me.*
 
 BOOK II
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 Some ten days after Brigit's flight from the Chateau 
 de Vieuville, Orange was at work among his books, 
 wondering which volumes he could sell with the least 
 sorrow — the necessary sum for his election expenses 
 still lacked two hundred pounds — when he found the 
 old copy of Le Morte tV Arthur which had belonged 
 to his mother, and which, as a boy, he had learnt by 
 heart. The passages which told of the life and 
 death of Launcelot had been lined and under-lined 
 in red and purple and black inks, till the original print 
 was wholly obscured, and Robert found himself re- 
 peating the text from memory, although he had not 
 seen it nor thought of it for a long time. He reached 
 the last words of Launcelot to the ^een :— 
 
 'And therefore, lady, sithen ye have taken to perfection, 
 I must needs take me to perfection of right. For I take 
 record of God, in you I have had mine earthly joy. And 
 if I had found you now so disposed, I had cast me to have 
 had you into mine own realm. But sithen I find you so 
 disposed, I ensure you faithfully, I will ever take me to 
 penance. . . . Wherefore, madam, I pray you kiss me 
 and never no more.' 
 
 '55
 
 156 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 He felt that he himself was uttering some solemn 
 promise, that his existence could not again be what it 
 had been during the last ten years. He made no 
 attempt to disguise the cause of this change. Where 
 women were concerned he had always been deeply 
 impressionable. Madame Bertin and the old lace- 
 maker, and Henriette Duboc were but the forerunners 
 — each in her own way: — the first as a Guardian, the 
 second as a Witch, the third as a Mistress — of a long 
 series of feminine influences similar in kind which 
 permeated, while they never ruled, his life. It 
 was hard, indeed, for Robert to find a woman, no 
 matter what her age or history or temper, in whom 
 he could not discover some point of attraction — some 
 hallowing goodness. But he had never truly loved in 
 the perfect sense any one of his numerous idols, and 
 he was, in this respect, as a man convinced in matters 
 of doctrine, yet lacking spiritual fervour. Robert 
 would have faced death willingly for "Several ladies; 
 such was his intellectual admiration for their graces of 
 character, and his passionate appreciation of their 
 excellent beauty, but he had never met one who made 
 him eager to live. His boyish ideal of eternal fidelity to 
 one love had, under the stress of material facts and civil 
 laws, become an acknowledged illusion — fair, but im- 
 possible. A society which has admitted ' that there 
 be no causes to die for,' is not a society which produces 
 women whom men can passionately worship for ever. 
 This, at least, was his arid belief when he met Brigit,
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 157 
 
 for the first time, at Chambord. Then he learnt that 
 there was still an influence on this earth which neither 
 doctrines of vanity, nor the pride of life, could mar. 
 And, whereas other influences, made for restlessness, 
 dissatisfaction, a sort of shame, and certainly much 
 folly, this, on the contrary, brought strength and a 
 sense of heirship to the peace of God. He obtained, 
 too, his first clear and untroubled vision of Time. He 
 saw that, of a truth, a thousand years were as one 
 day, and one day was as a thousand years — not in 
 God's sight only, but in that School for Saints which 
 has been often called the way of the world. 
 
 We read in his Journal that he was thinking thus 
 of eternity and immortality, and dreaming of love 
 and sadness [je songeais (Tarnour et de tristesse)^ when 
 he was given a letter, written in a hand which he 
 feared to recognise — so painful was the happiness he 
 felt in seeing it once more. It was addressed from a 
 Convent in London, and it contained these words : — 
 
 ' I am in great trouble, and I think you can help me — 
 for you are kind and you understand. Do you remember 
 me ? My name is Brigit Parflete. We met first at 
 Chambord, where we read together those two verses which 
 Francois I. wrote on the window-pane of his room, — 
 
 " Souvent femme varie 
 Mai habil qui s'y fie." 
 
 Then we saw each other again in Paris, and you told me 
 of your kingdom under the sea, and I told you how my 
 mother died. In the evening we all went to Les Papillons. 
 Oh ! I know that you have not forgotten us. I have
 
 158 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 written all these other things in order to fill up the page, 
 because three lines look hurried, whereas, for six days, I 
 have been wondering what I should say to you. I do 
 not know how to address you, and now I do not know 
 how to explain myself. But I am in great trouble.' 
 
 She wrote in French, and of all modern languages it 
 is the one for which English, with all its richness and 
 strength, has no equivalent expression. The transla- 
 tion of Brigit's letter can give no notion of its grace, 
 but the sense, at least, is faithful; and, with that sense 
 before us, we may discern also her character, which 
 was a blending of shyness and independence, of inexperi- 
 ence and womanly instinct, of candour and discretion. 
 
 The news of Parflete's disgrace had not yet reached 
 his few acquaintances in England. Friends he had 
 none. His family connections had always seemed 
 to him too obscure and inconvenient to be recognised, 
 and, if, now that he was in difficulties, he had seen 
 fit to send them any communication, their station 
 in life was not such that either their annoyance or 
 their astonishment could reach the ear of London 
 gossip. Charles Aumerle was still in Paris, and he 
 seldom wrote letters. Lord Reckage was absent in 
 the country, paying court to an heiress and making 
 notes for an address on ' Erastianism.' Hercy Beren- 
 ville was in town with Orange (they were both 
 staying at Lord Almouth's), but on this particular 
 day he was spending the afternoon with some cousins 
 in Curzon Street. 
 
 Robert, having read Brigit's appeal, set out at once
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 159 
 
 for the address given on the first page of her note. 
 It was not until he reached the Convent gates that 
 he fully realised the delicacy of his position and also 
 its poignant, though indefinable, unhappiness. Until 
 that moment all thought on the subject had been lost 
 in the emotion caused by the mere sight of her letter 
 and the stirring remembrances it brought of her visible 
 presence. 
 
 He describes the interview at the Convent in a 
 letter sent that evening to Lord Reckage : — 
 
 ' A nun opened the grille and looked out at me. I asked 
 whether I might be allowed to see Mrs Parflete. She 
 retired, and after ten minutes came back again with a 
 second nun. They drew back the heavy bolt and turned 
 the great key. I was admitted into a covered court which 
 ran along a stone-paved yard, where a fountain played and 
 plants grew in red earthenware pots. There were even 
 one or two small orange trees. It was verj^ quaint and so 
 un-English that I felt as though I had inadvertently stepped 
 into some Italian scene. I waited there a fev/ moments 
 alone and examined, at my leisure, the thick grey walls 
 and the pavement, worn by the passing of many feet 
 through many centuries. At last the two nuns, both of 
 whom were old and more silent than spirits, conducted 
 me up a flight of stairs into a small sitting-room furnished 
 with a crucifix, oak-and-horsehair furniture and a small 
 bookcase. Here they left me. From the window, which 
 was much overgrown with iv)% I could see a triangular 
 garden, cut up into gravel paths and shaded by tall plane 
 trees. On the grass plot facing me I saw three or four 
 little graves : one was quite recent, and marked by a small 
 wooden cross and a wreath just fading. All this was fenced 
 about by a high stone wall. Above them was a pearly sky 
 — a sky which made me think of spring days by the Loire. 
 It was a relief to my spirits to hear the sound of young
 
 i6o THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 girls laughing. I inferred that they were pupils in the 
 Convent school. They seemed full of merriment. When 
 the Arch-duchess came in (for to call her less is to insult 
 her mother), I could not speak. She had greatly changed. 
 Her face was as a rose garden seen through the blinding 
 rain ; yet, so far from having lost her beauty, I found it 
 was more complete. Her mouth had always seemed a 
 shade disdainful ; it was now merely proud. As I tell 
 you, I was speechless. I know I looked a fool. My feel- 
 ings were indescribable. I wished myself a thousand 
 miles away, while I was, I believe, overjoyed to meet her 
 once more at least. Her face has looked out at me from 
 every page ever since that first day on the staircase at 
 Chambord. On walls and pavements, even on the sky 
 itself, I have seen it constantly. She has been a figure in 
 my heart and a seal upon my eyes. Why should I deny 
 it ? It was not a thing of my own will. If I think about 
 her it is but to remember that she and I are utterly 
 dissociated. To ask more is to ask what I have not in 
 my power to bestow. Other men may not be haunted 
 by impressions. But if a star shines on a weed, the weed 
 may not, even if it would, reject the brightness. I shall 
 have wretchedness and despair enough for all this. I do 
 not deceive myself. Wretchedness, however, is not 
 always an evil. In this case, I do not even think it a 
 misfortune. I accept it, calling it by its own name only 
 and teasing my poor wits no further. I know this — that, 
 if I were exempt from every outward ill under the sun, 
 I should still hammer out of my own heart, as out of a 
 flint, the sparks and flashings of misery. You will say 
 this is the Apologia pro a?nore sue — then let it be that, that 
 — or nothing less at all events. But it is not love in the 
 common sense. What is the common sense, pray ? Who 
 knows ? We all commonly lie on this point. I dialogue 
 thus with my conscience all day and whole nights. . . . 
 
 ' When she saw me, she held out both her hands and 
 said, with tears in her voice, " I thought of you because I 
 need help, and I am your countrywoman : Nos cut mundus 
 est patriaT Ah ! that is it. She has said it. The world 
 is our country, yet in every land we are exiles.'
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS i6i 
 
 The letter goes on to tell what we already know 
 of the facts in connection with Parflete's dismissal 
 from the Archduke's household. 
 
 'The task now,' continues Robert, 'is to find him. He 
 is a man whose nature may be said to make his destiny. 
 It will be till the end a contemptible fiasco. He has 
 neither the self-confidence of a true rascal nor the guile- 
 lessness of a true fool. I can well believe that he never 
 cheated at cards, save on that first, last, fatal occasion when 
 he was discovered. He is doomed to be ludicrous. The 
 real villain must be free from vanity, for vanity will keep 
 human beings straight when every heavenly or other con- 
 sideration would fail. Parflete had to deceive himself 
 before he could attempt to deceive other people. He 
 laboured to feel that he was at once, the greatest dandy, 
 the greatest wit and the most dangerous libertine on the 
 Continent. He was a bad actor and he knew it. Imagine, 
 therefore, how exhausted he must have been when he 
 found it necessary to indulge in soliloquy ! His wife im- 
 plores me to find him. Acting on advice given her at 
 Tours, she has come to London in the hope of meeting 
 her husband here. She is staying at the Convent because 
 she is alone, and because, so she assures me, she is happier 
 there than she would be at a hotel or in lodgings. I see 
 the wisdom of the decision, for, with her youth, appear- 
 ance and inexperience, I could not recommend a safer 
 refuge. A woman who is neither vdth her husband, nor 
 yet a widow, is better in the cloister. She seems to have 
 all the liberty she could reasonably demand, and she could 
 leave the Convent to-morrow did she so wish. . . . That 
 she can love Parflete is impossible. Respect is out of 
 the question. I trace much of her feeling to an alarm for 
 his soul. She is a Roman Catholic of the fine human sort 
 — not in the least sanctimonious, but ever mindful of the 
 four last things — Death, Judgment, Hell and Heaven. I 
 have promised to help her. But I had rather see her 
 shut up in a Convent till the end of her mortal days than 
 living again with that husband.'
 
 i6z THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 So the letter ends, and, as we can see, in no hope- 
 ful strain. Orange had given his word to seek for 
 someone whom, in his heart, he could not wish to 
 find. We may imagine this impetuous, often intoler- 
 ant, yet always chivalrous man caught in the meshes 
 of a false position. We see, even in the abrupt 
 conclusion of his letter, a state of mind too raw to 
 bear the light of reason. Something must grow out 
 of the grey of thought and time, and form obscurely 
 over it, before he can bear to examine the weakness. 
 
 Some days passed before he wrote again to Reckage. 
 This time he had other news : — - 
 
 * My books sold far better than I expected. I hate part- 
 ing with them. It seems too hard a sacrifice to make in 
 a mere attempt to reduce the Liberal majority ! Disraeli 
 remarked that I was the first political candidate without 
 fortune who had not spoken luminously with him on the 
 subject of the Secret Service money. " Every tongue- 
 wagger thinks," said he, "that the State should provide 
 him with a handsome income and his expenses ! " He 
 hinted, with great delicacy, that, in my case, " something 
 might be done." I thanked him. But I cannot sell my 
 independence. I have certain ideas of my own. They 
 may be wrong. Then they are not worth buying. If 
 they should be right, I cannot do better than invest in 
 them myself. I am selling my library ; my coat and my 
 boots may follow. All I ask is to keep my own soul and 
 the monk's habit which belonged to my father. Alas ! the 
 paradox.' 
 
 This, in the whole of Orange's correspondence, is 
 the solitary reference to his father's marriage. It was 
 ever a sensitive point, and his whole life was spent in
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 163 
 
 the self-dedicated task of doing penance for the blot 
 on the family word. It is quite certain that he 
 accepted the many trials of his career in a spirit 
 wholly contrary to his proud and combative nature. 
 He resented persecution when it came — as we 
 shall shortly see it did come — but he fought 
 with the uncomplaining energy of those who 
 view the world as a field of battle, and not as a 
 garden where one may dream according to one's 
 stomach. 
 
 What follows in the letter from which we have 
 quoted, is still more remarkable : — 
 
 ' Yesterday ' (he says), ' I was received into the Roman 
 Communion. I went to a little chapel I know of and 
 made my profession to a simple parish priest — a Secular. 
 He knows my name, but nothing more of me. We have 
 had a short correspondence, however, and the step is not 
 sudden. I have been meditating it for several years, and 
 my mind on that point is at last clear. I know the case 
 against Rome by heart, and, from its accusers, I have 
 learnt its defence. Disraeli, who is not unsympathetic, 
 admits, that, until a man is settled in his religious belief 
 one may never know what to expect from him ! But he 
 condemns my proceeding on the eve of a political contest 
 as suiciaal. I replied that I could not flatter myself that 
 I should be permitted the distinction of suffering for my 
 Creed.' 
 
 In this respect he was too modest. Lord Reckage's 
 reply to his communication was a severe surprise. 
 It was long and elaborately worded. It contained 
 many fine sentiments, and the tone was, perhaps, not 
 so insincere as it was artificial. Treasure may be
 
 164 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 wrapped alike in tinsel or in cloth of gold, and it 
 would be as unjust to judge of a parcel by its cover- 
 ing as to appraise a man's candour by the merits or 
 shortcomings of his literary style. We say this be- 
 cause it seems inconceivable that a person of Orange's 
 discernment could have felt the deep affection which 
 he always held for Lord Reckage, if that nobleman 
 had been, in reality, the sham Crusader whom his own 
 letters seem to indicate, and whom his later critics do 
 not scruple to describe. 
 
 After ten pages of compliments to his Secretary's 
 worth, and much frank depreciation of himself, he 
 winds up thus : — 
 
 * You will see that, in becoming an Ultramontane, you 
 have made it very difficult for me to be associated with 
 you in any political sense. My trust in your conscience 
 would be mistaken for sympathy with your Creed. I shall 
 always count you among my friends and depend upon the 
 matchless wisdom of your private counsel, but our public 
 connection must, I fear, be severed. I have a fellow in 
 my mind, who might, for the moment, take your place as 
 my secretary. He is already in Parliament, and his father 
 is a man of great commercial influence and blunt worth. 
 I should like your opinion of the son. He seems capable, 
 willing and unpretentious. That I can ever find your 
 equal is a hope too preposterous to be entertained. Yet, 
 after all, our rupture will be a superficial one only. What 
 is it but that concession to appearances and the popular 
 judgment which every man, who seeks the popular con- 
 fidence, must be ready, at the sacrifice of his personal 
 wishes, to make ? Your own sense of fairness, your own 
 common sense, will admit the necessity of this painful 
 course. My exculpation will find its clearest voice in 
 your own generosity.'
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 165 
 
 It was a plea from the timid to the strong. The 
 entreated generosity did not fail, but, unfortunately, 
 Orange's reply to his lordship is either lost or destroyed 
 — probably the latter. We may presume that its tenor 
 was ironical, that his cautious friend did not find it 
 comfortable reading. Yet it must have been kind 
 also, because we find the correspondence between the 
 two continuing, for many years afterwards, in the 
 same intimate strain and with the same regularity. 
 The blow to Orange, however, was of the steely 
 kind which aff'ects a man's whole nature till his blood 
 itself grows permanently pale and his marrow partakes 
 of metal. He found himself, at a critical moment, 
 deprived, at one stroke, of his chief ally and of the 
 main source of his income. With the prospect of 
 Parliamentary service before him, he could not hope 
 to gain much by his literary pen. No young man, 
 in public or artistic life, is able to save any considerable 
 sum out of his first earnings. He is exceptional, 
 indeed, if he can escape the chafing harness of debt. 
 He finds himself thrown into the society of those 
 whose fortunes are derived from ancient land grants or 
 confiscated church property, from commerical ancestors, 
 or from flourishing industries, trades and city interests. 
 Many, doubtless, of these licensed idlers couldearn, under 
 the pressure of necessity, a decent livelihood. Many 
 of them, from time to time, have occupied, and occupy, 
 positions of public trust with respect and occasionally 
 genius. It is perseverance rather than ability that
 
 1 66 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 is uncommon. But one thing is certain. Ambition 
 and great talent, and even exhortations to poverty, can 
 neither be demonstrated nor preached w^ithout the aid 
 of money, and a great deal of money. Orange's 
 position vi^as, therefore, calamitous. In any case, he 
 had no hope of winning, at the first contest, the 
 Norbet Royal election. The unlooked-for w^ithdrawal 
 of Reckage's support seemed ominous. Robert felt 
 that he must either obtain another Secretaryship or 
 retire from the scene until he could establish a reserve 
 fund which would enable him to exist through a year 
 or two, at least, of unpaid labour. 
 
 He went to Disraeli and explained the newly- 
 soured aspect of affairs. Disraeli was in a silent 
 mood. He offered neither comment nor advice. He 
 promised to write in a day or two. Orange received 
 a note that same night. 
 
 ' There is a man ' (it runs), ' who would do. A Peer : 
 stupid : a thorough gentleman : certainly courageous : 
 comes rarely to the House of Lords : is partial to Mary of 
 Scots : loves water-colour drawings and refuses to take 
 modern politics seriously. Nevertheless, he is on the 
 other side. You might win him over to us. His interest 
 in Mary looks a promising sign. Lead him " by easy roads 
 to Leicester." Speak of Zucchero and mean Peel.* If 
 you think it worth trying, I can promise you the berth. 
 A lady controls it. She is omnipotent : has the Stuart 
 complexion, and you interest her.' 
 
 Orange had no leaning toward little Queen Besses 
 
 * Disraeli's full appreciation of Sir Robert Peel seems to date from 
 that great minister's exit from this world.
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 167 
 
 and his spirit rebelled from the * interest' of any 
 * omnipotent lady.' He saw himself in fresh difficulties. 
 Disraeli's kindness in the matter deserved no common 
 response. To refuse the introduction which he had 
 offered would look like ingratitude or silliness. Yet, 
 on the other hand, it was always a dangerous and 
 unpleasant thing to be laid under any obligation to 
 a woman's good graces. Disraeli's reference to the 
 feminine influence in question contained a whole 
 policy in brief. It was impossible to doubt his 
 meaning. Orange had even a very shrewd suspicion 
 of the 'omnipotent lady's' identity. She was rich, 
 amiable, sufficiently young, and a widow. She was 
 'ethereal,' as Robert himself had once said of her, 
 'from the chin upwards.' She did not flirt, except 
 in the presence of her two young children, but she 
 sang passionate songs in a minor key, and talked the 
 natural philosophy of love with great refinement. 
 Portraits of her at this period show a pleasing oval 
 face, and hair arranged in a chignon, terminating in 
 two long fair curls to the waist. She signed herself 
 Pensee Fit-z, Rewes. Her motto was — ye me nourris 
 dejlammes (I feed on flame). She had the rank and 
 title of a Viscountess and her uncle was the Earl 
 of Wight and Man.* We hear, on the unimpeach- 
 able authority of all Robert's opponents, that women 
 considered him 'extremely handsome.' When men 
 
 * The recent sale of this nobleman's collection of old lace and Italian 
 water-colours may be fresh in the minds of many readers.
 
 1 68 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 called him an adventurer, the fair ones showed 
 'annoyance and, in some cases, genuine unhappiness,' 
 He was a brilliant figure at a time when, if we 
 may believe contemporary records and the memoirs 
 of the great, the social arena in London was crowded 
 with remarkable personalities. If, therefore, he had 
 excited interest in the love-lit mind of Lady Fitz 
 Rewes, it was not astonishing, and we need not be 
 so surprised, as he himself unquestionably was, at the 
 pregnant item at the close of Disraeli's letter. 
 
 The force of a temptation may be said to lie in 
 its correspondence with some unconscious or some 
 admitted desire. Robert was an ambitious man. 
 This passion, like a sleeping dragon, lay side by side 
 with the unselfish romance of his nature — a romance 
 which had received the kiss of Gallic gaiety as well 
 as the thorn of mediaeval asceticism. He who has even 
 once subdued the flesh in favour of the spirit can 
 never again return in joy to carnal things. Robert 
 had resisted mun'danity — not always, indeed, but often. 
 It now turned upon him, even as he seemed half- 
 willing to embrace it, and, with its very promise, it 
 breathed a curse. That way there might perhaps 
 be power, there might perhaps be a little brief exalta- 
 tion of the lower vanities, but there would be a 
 burning darkness in his soul which remorse could 
 not quench nor endurance lighten. It might seem 
 that a man, to whom Folly presented herself with a 
 crown of horrors, was in small danger of committing
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 169 
 
 a foolish act. But Folly — no less than Wisdom — 
 has her martyrs, and, while she deceives the weak by 
 flattery, she warns the strong, with a candour even 
 more dangerous than blandishments, that her discipline 
 is cruel and her reward, an ordeal. 
 
 Robert was standing in the Library of Almouth 
 House, considering all these points and studying 
 Disraeli's letter, when Lord Reckage himself, un- 
 announced and unexpected, entered the room. For 
 a moment both men lost their countenance, and 
 neither of them could speak. Then they greeted 
 each other as though nothing had happened to disturb 
 their friendliness. 
 
 Lord Reckage, of whom it might now be well to 
 give some description, was a slim, handsome man with 
 an auburn beard and darker hair prematurely tinged 
 with grey. His complexion was healthy and his blue 
 eyes had not the languor which is so often found in 
 individuals of such colouring. There was something 
 Quixotic in the shape of his face and the droop of his 
 eyebrows. He had the interesting air — without the 
 misery — of a melancholy mind. Though he presented 
 an appearance of much gentleness, he possessed a fierce 
 and even cruel temper. His manner had a grace 
 which was all but feminine, yet he lacked every 
 quality which makes for effeminacy. Tactful rather 
 than timid, superstitious rather than pious, calculating 
 rather than affectionate, artistic rather than refined, 
 he was never, it must be owned, deliberately insincere.
 
 lyo THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 To Robert, who loved frankness above all other things, 
 this w^as perhaps the commanding charm of Reckage's 
 society. Hercy, who was in every intellectual respect 
 his brother's superior, had a certain slyness which gave 
 even his conspicuous merits — such as patience and good- 
 humour — the alloy of unreality. Reckage was a man 
 who acted on opinions which, however contradictory 
 in themselves, he was never afraid to declare. There 
 was a total absence of self-consciousness in his mental 
 methods which made him at once confident and un- 
 reliable. 
 
 ' I am sorry,' said he, * that 1 have had to go against 
 you over this Catholic question. Do I care what you 
 are ? All the same, I don't believe in the Roman 
 claim, and if it is a true one, I don't want to know it ! 
 I have no great talent, so I must make the best use of 
 my faults ! I am set on getting a place in the next 
 Government. We shall soon turn these fellows out. 
 They are ready to tear each other in pieces. Among 
 other things, they say that Hartington * is too young 
 for his appointment. It ought to have been given to 
 some one of a dozen doddering old Peers, all of 
 whom are now raging up and down the Clubs, 
 plotting mischief against their own Party. The very 
 fact that John Stuart Mill lost his seat will show you 
 what the present Liberal crew is made of. And 
 now they go about complaining that Gladstone has 
 no tact.' 
 
 "■• The present Duke of Devonshire.
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 171 
 
 * It is a case,' said Robert, ' where God might be 
 ashamed to be their God^ 
 
 Reckage flushed a little. ' What do you hear from 
 Dizzy ? ' he asked. 
 
 Robert handed him Disraeli's letter. 
 
 ' Does he mean Lady Fitz Rewes ? ' said Reckage, 
 when he had read it. ' She has always been busy 
 about you ! ' 
 
 ' I know her very slightly,' said Robert. 
 
 ' But why should you know her slightly ? She's a 
 nice woman and high-minded, and quite good-looking 
 enough. A gadding wife would be the devil, and a 
 pretty one is down-right wear-and-tear ! I wish you 
 could love this one, although no man yet, I suppose, 
 ever loved under advice. But I believe she is fond of 
 you, and she doesn't seem to care who knows it.' 
 
 ' Which is a bore,' said Robert, * for, in that case, 
 every one knows more than I do ! ' 
 
 ' She isn't the first who has lost her time over you, 
 and more's the pity. What is the use of that other 
 affair ? It can't do you any good either in this world 
 or the next ! Parflete will live for ever. Will you 
 waste your best years on an incalculable hope ? ' 
 
 * You know what the Buddhists teach with regard 
 to the chances of a soul's escape from one of the hells ? ' 
 said Robert. * A man throws a yoke into the sea. 
 The winds blow it in different directions. In the 
 same sea there is a blind tortoise. After the lapse of 
 a hundred, or a thousand, or a hundred thousand years,
 
 172 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 the tortoise rises to the surface of the water. Will 
 the time ever come when that tortoise shall so rise up 
 that its neck shall enter that yoke and float to land ? 
 It may.'' 
 
 * It may,' said Reckage, ' but in the meantime — ' 
 
 * In the meantime,' said Robert, ' one boils in one's 
 iron pot, or one feeds on burning metal, or, one is 
 beaten with heavy rods ! ' 
 
 'Then I am glad that I am neither a Buddhist — 
 nor a lover,' said Reckage. ' Love in some natures 
 seems to turn the blood of life to tears and fire. I 
 want none of it.' 
 
 Robert made no reply. 
 
 'Take Pensee Fitz Rewes again,' continued Reck- 
 age : 'she is a great opportunity — if you wish to 
 succeed. Are nice women common ? Do I ask you 
 to sell your soul to the devil .'' ' 
 
 ' That is the worst bargain that any man can make ! 
 Thine^ O Lord^ are all things that are in Heaven and 
 that are in earth. The devil can give us nothing. It 
 is we who are always making presents to the devil 1 
 Success depends — -not on the devil at all — but on our 
 natural talents. Look at the dancing elephant — has 
 he made any sacrifice to the spirits of evil ? Not a 
 bit of it. He was born with a light foot — for his 
 kind. And as for work ! See how worldly people 
 toil and scheme in order to gain their treasure. 
 When disappointments happen — they become the jest 
 of serving maids and lookers-on — food for the crowd !
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 173 
 
 They perish from humiliation. If one wants inde- 
 pendence — one must keep on the side of the angels ! 
 That is mere prudence — quite apart from every other 
 thought.' 
 
 ' O yes — there is always one's immortal soul — and 
 one's eternal destiny. I believe in all that. I go a 
 long w^ay with you on that line. I believe in Hell.' 
 
 ' When most people speak of the soul — they mean 
 the five senses ! The real doctrine of immortality is 
 quite forgotten nowadays.' 
 
 Reckage took out his note-book. 
 
 * I will work that idea into my speech,' said he, * it 
 would interest a number of people— and perhaps do a 
 lot of good.' 
 
 'Would any Christian gentleman venture to quote 
 Scripture in the House of Commons ? ' asked Orange, 
 drily. 
 
 ' As a rule,' said Reckage, ' it would be considered 
 a mark of bad taste. But all would depend on the 
 occasion. You don't want to shock people — do you ? 
 I wonder whether Disraeli's influence will make you 
 reckless. I can't believe in him. He is laughing in 
 his sleeve at all of us. Every one says so. What is 
 he — a brilliant adventurer- — a Jewish upstart — yet he 
 wants to lead the aristocratic party in England. The 
 idea tickles his sense of humour.' 
 
 'You mistake him wholly. His pride of race is 
 enormous. If he is trying to lead the aristocratic 
 party, it is because he is himself an aristocrat and has
 
 174 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 the right to lead. Does a king chuckle when his men 
 muster round him ? No — he accepts allegiance as his 
 due. It is so with Disraeli. Your real impostor 
 always comes to grief, because he is essentially servile. 
 When Disraeli stands among his peers — you recognise 
 the Premier at a glance. He won't find many faith- 
 ful supporters — but in that respect, he is eminently 
 philosophic. His strength lies in his freedom of 
 soul. He depends on no man either for sympathy 
 or courage.' 
 
 ' You may be right. But what do you say to his 
 hint about Lady Fitz Rewes ? ' 
 
 ' I think it a prudent and delicate test — that is all.' 
 
 ' What will you say to him ? ' 
 
 ' I intend to call on the lady first. And then — the 
 rest will be easy.' 
 
 Lord Reckage began to hum a little air. 
 
 ' If my mind had been free,' said Orange, ' all this 
 might have been well enough.' 
 
 ' I don't quite see how you reconcile this — devotion 
 to Mrs Parflete with your other views,' said Reckage, 
 bluntly. ' I know you are ascetic — but a man is a 
 man. If you love a person — that means that you 
 cannot live naturally without them. You may put it 
 in any way : you may fast five days out of the seven, 
 and you may feel as though you had been dragged 
 through seven cities : you may wear a hair-shirt next 
 your skin : you may clothe yourself in iron chains — 
 but— but — Amor e una passione in disianza.''
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 175 
 
 And, indeed, there was that in Robert's attitude of 
 mind in this regard which could but be incompre- 
 hensible to one who was ignorant of certain traits in 
 the Breton character. Orange was, by his father's 
 blood and his own early associations, a Breton. Renan, 
 who was himself a native of Brittany, has said that all 
 the Celtic races have in their hearts an eternal source 
 of folly and that this very malady is their charm. 
 Love is with them a sentiment rather than a passion. 
 It is a spiritual rapture — a mental thrill which wears 
 away and kills the bodily life. It bears no resemblance 
 to the fire and fury of the South. The Southern 
 lover slays his rival, slays the object of his passion. 
 This Breton's sentiment slays only him who feels it. 
 No other race can show so many deaths from love ; 
 suicide, indeed, is rare — they perish from a lingering 
 decline. One sees this constantly among the Breton 
 conscripts. Unable to find either pleasure or for- 
 getfulness in vulgar and bought amours — they sink 
 under some indefinable grief. The home-sickness is 
 but an appearance : the truth is that love with them 
 is inseparably associated with their native village, its 
 steeple, the evening Angelus^ the familiar fields and 
 lanes. Their imagination is filled with a desire alike 
 beyond all common needs and ordinary satisfactions. 
 Idealism in all its degrees — the pursuit of some moral 
 or intellectual end — often wrong, always disinterested 
 — is the first characteristic of the Celt. Never was a 
 race so unfit for the industrial arts or commerce. A
 
 176 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 noble occupation is in their eyes that by which one 
 gains nothing — for instance, that of a priest, a soldier, 
 or a sailor, that of a true aristocrat who cultivates his 
 land according to the tradition of his ancestors, that of 
 a magistrate, that of a scholar who devotes himself to 
 the acquisition of learning for its own sake. 
 
 All this then was strongly developed in Robert's 
 character and formed its essence. Lord Reckage 
 was, in every fibre and emotion, Saxon. He could 
 indeed form some conception of that love of the 
 ^homme du Midi'' which must be driven out by the 
 whip and scourge: but his sympathies were allied with 
 those affections and instincts which should ever render 
 obedience to the voice of reason or the warnings of 
 propriety. 
 
 But such love as Robert's — at once so illusive and 
 yet so powerful in its sway — such love as that was 
 wholly beyond his knowledge.
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 The Viscountess Fitz Rewes, who lived in Curzon 
 Street, occupied what is sometimes called a maisonette. 
 It was a small house with a canary bird in a gilt 
 cage at each window of the dining-room, and a 
 number of vines and plants on the drawing-room 
 balcony. The widow received her friends every 
 afternoon between three and four. 
 
 As Orange walked on his way to her innocent 
 dwelling, he placed before himself the considerations 
 which m.ade the visit necessary. Lady Fitz Rewes 
 was a woman for whom he had a real liking. She 
 was gentle and affectionate. If one wanted a being 
 ideally strong in love and weak in argument — Pensee 
 looked the incarnation of these feminine virtues. 
 When absent from sight, she remained in one's 
 memory — a gracious figure that floated — always 
 elegant and appropriate — into any fair scene which 
 might seem to require some infusion of humanity 
 to make it — in an earthly sense — perfect. She had 
 written him, in the course of their acquaintance, such 
 little notes as may be sent from a great lady of the 
 
 M
 
 178 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 best of all possible worlds to an obscure young man 
 without fortune, in whom backwardness was but 
 respect, and silence, a sign of hopeless passion. 
 
 The situation was difficult in the extreme. When 
 will great — and other— ladies learn that audacity in 
 love is determined not by a man's deserts but by his 
 desires ? Diffidence springs less from humility than 
 indecision. 
 
 ' I could almost wish,' thought Robert, ' that 
 women were not so kind ! ' Then again, ' Why 
 cannot we adore them all equally ? ' And again, 
 ' What does her imagination see in me ? I wish 
 she had less imagination.' 
 
 Was the vision of a fair face — the soft remembrance 
 of a few spring days, to leave so permanent an im- 
 press on his life, that ambition, success, the counsel of 
 friends were but the dust of travel in comparison ? 
 In Robert the love of power was perhaps the ruling 
 passion. His was a dominant spirit, intolerant of re- 
 straint, eager, impulsive, self-reliant. As a boy, wan- 
 dering alone on the rocks and sands of St Malo, he 
 had seemed to be ruling his kingdom under the sea — 
 that mythical city of Is — so dear to the Bretons. There 
 was his splendid army, there, — his palace, there, — his 
 Queen. The humiliations, absurdities, and vulgarity 
 of the daily struggle were there unknown. All the 
 sorrows were grand and all the pleasures, noble. His 
 fancy, nourished on the stories of Saul and David, of 
 the Greeks, of Roland, of King Arthur, existed in
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 179 
 
 scenes before which the nervous modern of our days 
 is as the blind and deaf. 
 
 Robert's life had been, on the whole, both sad and 
 solitary. He lived in an isolation of soul which is hard 
 to be borne and indescribable. But the ardour of 
 study and the affairs of life had kept his mind from 
 melancholy, and, until the meeting with Brigit, he 
 had kissed loneliness gladly each morning on both her 
 icy cheeks. Suddenly, however, he had found pre- 
 sented to him, a mind and a nature in such complete 
 harmony with his own that it had seemed as. though 
 he were the words and she the music, of one song. 
 It was the coming of Esther — it was the fairest among 
 women, and, at the sight of her, he knew that — if a 
 man would give all the substance of his house for 
 love, it would utterly be contemned. 
 
 How often had he seen her as she had appeared that 
 first day on the stair-case at Chambord ! She had 
 seemed to him attired by all the angels and the 
 graces ! Yet what had she worn ? A brown silk 
 dress and a straw bonnet covered with pink ribbons. 
 But it was she — the promise of his youth — the 
 mistress of his kingdom under the sea. Most men 
 had veiled portraits in their hearts. Most men could 
 close their eyes and see the sacred days their lips 
 might never tell of. Many a man had loved a 
 woman well, yet married a name well, also. He 
 would not be the first dreamer of dreams who could 
 share a pillow with common sense. If Lady Fitz
 
 i8o THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 Rewes were his wife — he would no longer be held 
 as an alien and an adventurer. Such a marriage 
 would clear at one short step full twenty years of 
 waiting and working. Twenty years to the good ! 
 No more jostling with mean rivals. No more in- 
 solence from inferiors. No more dependence on 
 some employer's whims and frailties. No more 
 poverty, no more debts. No more vile cares for the 
 morrow. No more degrading anxieties for the 
 present. Henceforth, the fight would be on the 
 grand plan — a heroic combat to conquest or to the 
 death. 
 
 ' What,' he thought, ' shall I forget that Thy way 
 is in the sea, and Thy path in the great waters ? 
 Shall I walk on the dry land and become a portion 
 for foxes ? Lover and friend hast Thou put far from 
 me, and mine acquaintance into darkness — but among 
 the gods there is none like unto Thee ! ' 
 
 After that he could meditate no longer on rich 
 bountiful ladies with blonde curls. 
 
 On arriving at the maisonette^ he was ushered 
 into the drawing-room. The Viscountess was not 
 there. His eyes, before she made her appearance, had 
 leisure to examine the heavy gilding, the damask 
 hangings, the glass candelabra with their sparkling 
 lustres, and the gay carpet which represented large 
 bouquets of pink roses on a grass-green background. 
 The Broadwood piano stood open. Her ladyship 
 had evidently been playing an 'arrangement of airs
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS i8i 
 
 from Rossini.' A miniature of the late Viscount in 
 a heart-shaped frame had a small table — adorned 
 with a copy of The Christian Tear and cut flowers 
 in Church vases — sacred to itself. A tiny wreath 
 of yellow immortelles trembled on the wall above. 
 The corner seemed consecrated to a gentle and 
 resigned spirit of hopeful mourning. 
 
 Robert heard a light step. The pretty lady 
 entered. 
 
 She had just returned, it seems, from a wedding. 
 She wore, to use the words of the Post^ which, the 
 following morning, contained a description of her 
 costume — straight from Paris — ^ an under -rohe^ com- 
 prising high corsage^ tight-fitting sleeves^ and jupe of 
 rose-coloured taffeta. Upper robe with low corsage^ open 
 sleeves and paniers in white foulard covered with a 
 small rose-bud pattern^ and bordered with a leaf- 
 shaped ruche in apple-green taffeta. Chapeau of green 
 crepe with a diadem of mosSy a single rose posed on the 
 left sidcy with a row of trailing flowers falling loosely 
 half-way over the chignon.'' 
 
 The two blonde curls trickled down to her tiny 
 waist. When she held out her gracious hand and 
 smiled at Robert with her heavenly blue eyes, he 
 thought himself of all men the most unworthy of 
 this sweet angel's preference. She pressed his palm 
 and floated with him to a couple of ' occasional ' chairs 
 — not inconveniently near each other yet within 
 touching distance.
 
 1 82 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 ' Have your ears been burning ? ' she asked. But 
 she pitied his confusion and went on, — 
 
 'They look pale now. In fact, you are altogether 
 pale. Don't work so hard. We need you. Think 
 of us. I was speaking of you yesterday. Ah I I 
 see you know all about it. Men know everything. 
 Mr Disraeli said — May I tell you ? You won't 
 mind ? He calls you — Launcelot before the Fall ! 
 You are not angry. But he is too wicked. I asked 
 him what he meant. He said, " Doesn't it express 
 him ? " I said, " How can you ! " He said, " No 
 change is so great as to be improbable." He is al- 
 ways enigmatic. That was the only naughty thing 
 he said. The rest was wise. But I won't repeat 
 the wise things. You would exclaim "Flattery!" 
 I know you — don't I ? I never flatter men. Women 
 will flatter. I wonder why. Arcnt they tiresome ? 
 I tell them how wrong it is. I say — No, let men 
 flatter us : we are weak : we need encouragement. 
 But men are so gweat : they see through it.' 
 
 As she spoke, she sent a piercing shaft of flattery 
 from her eyes. This, coupled with the slight diffi- 
 culty she experienced in pronouncing her r'j, would 
 have melted a Xenocrates. The unhappy young 
 man endeavoured to concentrate his thoughts on 
 the ivory handle of her lace parasol. It had a 
 whip at the top. She drove a pair of ponies every 
 afternoon in the Park. The two children always 
 accompanied her — the boy in a sailor suit, the little
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 183 
 
 girl in white. She, too, had long fair curls. The 
 three made a ravishing group. The picture, inspired 
 by the parasol, rose before Robert. 
 
 ' One's best friends,' said he, ' tell one of one's 
 mistakes and shortcomings.' 
 
 ' I like,' said she, softly, as though she had not 
 caught the remark, ' the Launcelot idea. It is 
 most expressive.' 
 
 ' In w^hat sense ? ' 
 
 ' He v^^as so stern w^ith— women and yet so true to 
 — them.' 
 
 This use of the plural seemed to her a decorous 
 allusion to the story of Guinevere and her jealousies. 
 She watched Robert from under her long lashes and 
 thought, ' He is either faithful to me or to someone 
 else. No man could be such a saint unless his heart 
 were well satisfied. It isn't natural.' 
 
 * Revive the spirit of chivalry,' she entreated, 
 ' You can do it. I am praying about your election. 
 Do you value a heretic's prayers ? Will you be a 
 Papist always ? You may come back to us some 
 day. Do ! ' 
 
 ' Now I know,' he thought, ' why I cannot love 
 her.' 
 
 'If you think that possible,' said he, aloud, 'you 
 will agree with my strongest opinion.' 
 
 ' What is that ? ' 
 
 ' This. That anyone who has left one Church for. 
 another ought not to marry ! '
 
 iS4 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 'Why?' 
 
 ' Because such a step may be prompted by one of 
 four qualities — restlessness, a desire for perfection, a 
 spirit of inquiry, or a passion for truth. You will 
 admit that any one of these four things would make 
 marriage a hard matter.' 
 
 ' Ah, you have never loved in earnest ! ' 
 
 ' You think then, that, in the practice of life, nature 
 and philosophy alike must yield to fate ? ' 
 
 ' Ah, vou have never loved in earnest ! ' 
 
 ') 
 
 you 
 
 ' I believe that love is immortal.' 
 
 * Ah, you have never loved in earnest ! ' she repeated, 
 for the third time. 
 
 ' Do you mean that I should have known, in that 
 case, that it was not immortal ? ' 
 
 She bestowed on him a glance of exquisite patience. 
 
 ' Does it please you,' said she, ' to tease me ? ' 
 
 ' I know I am selfish.' 
 
 ' You will change at last, I hope.' 
 
 ' I fear not yet. I want your opinion on a 
 difficulty. Is there time to tell it ? ' 
 
 She gave him, from her belt, an enamelled watch, 
 a lovely jewel in the form of a pansy and studded 
 with gems. 
 
 ' It is yours,' said she, ' while you need it.' 
 
 ' Oh,' he thought, ' if I could love her, I would 
 worship her ! If I had not seen a woman even 
 more adorable, how happy I might have been at this 
 moment ! Do I wish that I had never met that
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 185 
 
 other woman ? No — on the contrary — I thank 
 God without ceasing for having shown me so much 
 beauty and virtue.' 
 
 Lady Fitz Rewes by a gentle sigh reminded 
 him of her presence. 
 
 ' You are too kind,' said he, and he permitted 
 himself to kiss her hand. 
 
 Tears sprang into her eyes. The kiss was so 
 cold and the season was Summer. 
 
 * The story is this,' said he. ' A man met a lady 
 who was beyond his reach. He seldom saw her. 
 He rarely spoke to her. She cared nothing for 
 him.' 
 
 * How did he know that ? ' asked Pensee, quickly. 
 ' She was as good as a Nun.' 
 
 ' Oh ! — then was she elderly — ' 
 *A mere girl. Would you have ugly old women 
 only dedicated to God ? ' 
 ' Then she is a Nun ? ' 
 
 * Did I say so ? The great point is this — she cared 
 nothing for the man. But he knew that he would 
 never love anyone else and so he took a solemn vow 
 of fidelity to this affection. Perhaps the vow was 
 rash — but you will think — you — with your high and 
 delicate standard of Honour — you — who ask me to 
 revive the spirit of chivalry — you will think that he 
 could not break that vow by so little as a regret I ' 
 
 ' The temptations of life — ' sighed Pensee. 
 
 ' Oh, even under the strongest temptation- — even if
 
 i86 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 the most beautiful of all women should seem near him 
 to inspire him — ' 
 
 ' Poor man ! What a terrible position ! — You say 
 that he seldom meets the first woman ? ' 
 
 ' He may never see her again.' 
 
 ' Ah ! But why did he take that fatal vow ? If he 
 saw that he was in some danger of — being inspired, 
 would not that amount to a — certain yielding ? It 
 would be so human ! Could one judge harshly in 
 such a case ? ' 
 
 ' One may recognise an allurement and so avoid it.' 
 
 She grew pale to the lips. 
 
 'We can speak openly,' said she. 'I understand. 
 You mean yourself. But why did you take that 
 vow ? ' 
 
 ' I obeyed an early creed.' 
 
 ' But — is no release possible ? In your Church 
 are there not ways and Dispensations ? Would a 
 Protestant vow count ? ' 
 
 * A vow is a vow in every Church.' 
 
 ' Oh, it was rash ! ' 
 
 For a few moments neither of them spoke. 
 
 ' I am sorry,' she said, at last, ' for the other poor 
 lady. But I suppose you must follow your conscience. 
 Will that mean that you can never marry ? ' 
 
 ' It comes to that.' 
 
 ' And now,' she said, after another miserable silence, 
 'about my uncle. He is a celibate himself. He 
 too, once loved unwisely. He is a lonely sad old
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 187 
 
 man full of regrets and gout and pretending to like 
 pictures ! You will be great friends. Promise me 
 that you will accept the berth. I will write the 
 rest and he shall write.' 
 
 She went to the window and looked down at 
 the pony-carriage which was waiting for her in the 
 street below. 
 
 ' The darlings 1 ' said she, ' they want their sugar 1 ' 
 
 Robert and she descended the stairs together. She 
 kissed the ponies' cheeks with fervour. 
 
 * How I love animals I ' she exclaimed : ' they are 
 all soul and no conscience ! The pets 1 ' 
 
 With consummate skill, she managed to evade shak- 
 ing hands with Robert when he wished her good-bye. 
 The tide of her heart, which had been ebbing away 
 the whole afternoon, now began to flow in. The 
 tvaves were dark and tumultuous and they cried with 
 a loud voice. As Robert walked away, she noticed 
 that a young seamstress who happened to be passing 
 turned to look after his handsome face. 
 
 ' What a brazen minx ! ' thought her ladyship. 
 'And he gave her no encouragement. How can 
 men keep steady with such creatures about ! ' 
 
 And the ponies, which had been kissed so tenderly, 
 felt the whip more than once during their exercise 
 that dav.
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 That same evening — before the dinner hour — 
 Robert received an urgent summons from Disraeli. 
 He obeyed it at once. When he was shown into 
 his great friend's study, he found him reading. At 
 the sight of the young pohtician, he put away his 
 book and closed his eye-glasses. 
 
 ' Are you,' said he, with one of his piercing smiles, 
 * a Manichean ? ' 
 
 This salutation was certainly unexpected. 
 
 ' Why do you ask that ? ' said Robert. 
 
 *Are you forbidding marriage and commanding 
 to abstain from meats ? ' 
 
 * By no means.' 
 
 ' But you will die a bachelor ? * 
 
 ' I hope not.' 
 
 'That is better — although I say nothing in dis- 
 paragement of a single life. Of the two men I 
 know who were most eloquent against the celibacy 
 of your priests — one was living with a lady not his 
 wife, and the other had been divorced I But beware 
 of the tyranny of a false ideal — an ideal based on 
 an unreal knowledge of human nature. It will sear 
 
 iS8
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 189 
 
 your will with hot iron and melt your soul like 
 wax over a flame. You are not a monk — you 
 are a layman. Don't make the monk's renuncia- 
 tion — when you have got neither the rules nor the 
 compensations of his life. May I say one thing ? 
 Is the situation hopeless ? ' 
 
 *It is improbable,' said Robert, flushing. 
 
 'Then,' said Disraeli, kindly, 'avoid all books on 
 love and when you hear sweet music say to your- 
 self, " Twiddle, twaddle, twiddle, twaddle ! " Wrap 
 your soul in the linsey-woolsey of morality and then 
 you may order your hair - shirts lined with silk ! 
 You must get rid of all this Medievalism. The 
 world judges of the present by the present and not 
 by the past. Great Pan is dead ; the gods have 
 gone and the Round Table too has vanished. You 
 may as well seek to found an order of Vestal Virgins 
 as to mould your life on the principles of Amadis 
 and Oriana. How charming they are too ! How 
 touching ! The modern passion for truth may per- 
 haps be compared to the quest of the Holy Grail 
 — but what a difference ! ' 
 
 ' I don't see,' said Robert, ' why, at any epoch of 
 civilisation, a man should marry one woman when 
 his mind is fixed on another ? ' 
 
 ' And^ in the mornings behold ! it was Leah I ' said 
 Disraeli drily. ' However, have your own way. We 
 have grave though possibly latent agreements in 
 principle ! It would never do for us to quarrel
 
 190 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 about non - essentials. In the meanwhile, make 
 friends of the women. The sex is dangerous but 
 it stands well in the Divine Favour ! Read this 
 letter from Lady Fitz Rewes and then pray for 
 a good death.' 
 
 It ran as follows : — 
 
 'My dear Mr Disraeli, — Your interesting friend has 
 called upon me. Fortunately I was at home. I feel sure 
 that he is the very person for poor uncle. I have known 
 Mr Orange, in a way, for months. This afternoon he told 
 me the sad story of his rash vow of celibacy or something. 
 He seems to regret it most bitterly. I have always sus- 
 pected that he had some severe and secret trouble prey- 
 ing upon his mind. His manner is sometimes utterly 
 UNNATURAL. I do wish that he knew the good Bishop. 
 He must come back to our Church and then he may 
 perhaps yet find happiness. He is too young and brilliant 
 to have his life spoilt in this shocking manner. These 
 things make one quite hate the Papists. They set one 
 aloof from all human affection. Can this be right ? But 
 Mr Orange seems to be tied to some early rather fantastic 
 attachment. I am so sorry for him, and so glad that you 
 mentioned him to me. Uncle will be so grateful, 
 although he has nearly engaged Lord Savernake's third 
 son — the sandy one. 
 
 ' What a mob and rabble at the F. O. last night ! Where 
 DO the Liberals find their women ? O, how uncharitable ! 
 I wish I had time to tear this up, but they are frumps, 
 aren't they ? Please forgive this stupid letter — much too 
 long. I never can write nicely to great men. They 
 frighten me out of my wits. Please don't say clever, 
 sarcastic, true, unkind things about poor little me ! — I am, 
 yours sincerely, Pensee Fitz Rewes.' 
 
 Neither of the two men could repress a smile at 
 this artful communication.
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 191 
 
 'Is she not a dear darling ?' said Disraeli. 'Could 
 the average natural man — unaided by grace — resist 
 her?' 
 
 ' No,' answered Robert, with the utmost good 
 humour. 
 
 ' Nevertheless,' said Disraeli, ' you know what was 
 said of Ulysses — Vetiilam suam pratulit Immortalitati 
 — he preferred his old woman to immortality. 
 Some men are by constitution constant.' 
 
 ' True,' said Robert, ' you may therefore attribute 
 my folly, rather to my native constitution than to the 
 ideals of romance ! ' 
 
 ' By-the-bye,' said Disraeli, 'I have received a 
 letter from Wrexham Parflete. He has gone on a 
 journey to the Canary Isles with an inebriate 
 Viscount ! He says nothing about his unfortunate 
 wife. Have you heard anything of her ? ' 
 
 ' She is living, for the present, at a Convent,' said 
 Robert. 
 
 He was greatly astonished at the news he had just 
 heard. He wondered whether Brigit had received any 
 message from her husband. In that case — would she 
 leave London ? It had been so much to know that 
 she was, at least, seeing each day as he saw it. 
 Reserved in the ordinary transactions of life, no one 
 knew better than Robert the right use of that easily 
 abused quality known as open-heartedness. He said 
 nothing more but he made no effort to disguise the 
 gloomy thoughts which were now afflicting his soul.
 
 192 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 ' I fear there is much unhappiness in store for that 
 poor lady,' said Disraeli. ' She, too, must make friends 
 of women — and her own virtues. No man can help 
 her.' 
 
 'I think that is clear,' replied Orange. 
 
 ' In trivial matters,' said Disraeli, ' friends are always 
 ready to consult each other. They make what they 
 are doing — or are going to do — a subject of frequent 
 conversation. They consider and discuss together 
 every unimportant detail of their lives. But when a 
 serious problem presents itself, men at once grow 
 cautious, and, at the very moment when advice or 
 support is most needed, everyone resolves to think for 
 himself. If I know a little about anything,' he 
 added, ' it is the simplicity of the hidden life. Motives, 
 excuses, argument and philosophy belong to the things 
 that are temporal. They pass with the fashion or die 
 in their utterance. They display the education of a 
 man — never the man's heart. Now you are a student 
 and a scholar. Your intellect has been trained to a 
 high pitch of technical excellence. Surely in the 
 present instance, if you trust me at all, you can give 
 me your confidence.' 
 
 It was impossible to resist an appeal so delicate and 
 yet so grave. 
 
 * I will be frank,' said Orange, at once. * I hate 
 talking about myself, yet I suppose there are occasions 
 on which one must express one's opinions or sink into 
 contempt. You are right. Mrs Parflete is the lady.
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 193 
 
 I may admit it because I know that her thoughts are 
 far indeed from me ! ' 
 
 ' But all this is fantastic,' said the older man, ' this 
 is an obsession. This is not the love that can be 
 cured by hunger, time, or the halter ! It is a posses- 
 sion — a form of delusion — a habit of thought which 
 the French so well describe as Pidee fixe. The 
 familiar examples of Dante and Beatrice, of St Francis 
 of Assisi and St Clare rise up beforeMne. Flaubert 
 has just given us a whole treatise on the subject in 
 his Education Sentimentale. You remember his hero's 
 peculiar devotion to Madame Arnoux ? ' 
 
 The novel in question — which had then recently- 
 been published, lay on the table near his elbow. 
 
 ' If we may believe this,' he continued, touching 
 the yellow cover, ' such friendships, in our century at 
 least, cannot be said to elevate the mind ! ' 
 
 ' I cannot help thinking that Flaubert will as little 
 influence your views as he would mine. He has the 
 morals of a sick devil and the philosophy of a retired 
 dancing master ! ' 
 
 ' You young critics are very severe ! I won't say, 
 however, that you are always wrong. Now let me 
 show you how well I understand Platonics ! The 
 ordinary marriage is sometimes regarded as a pre- 
 figuration of the mystical union of souls. There 
 are some beings, however, who seem to reach, at the 
 very outset, the ultimate condition of ideal happiness. 
 To them, the thought of any commoner relationship 
 
 N
 
 194 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 would be — not a fall only — but an impossibility ! 
 Such beings are rare — though not so rare as many 
 would believe. They are seldom understood. It is 
 always unwise to quote them to the mass of men and 
 women. The counsels of perfection, as you know, 
 are fit only for those who are able to hear such 
 sayings. But I will own this : although it is the 
 penalty of saints and poets to suffer much more than 
 vulgar mortals, it is also given to them to experience 
 joys of which the ordinary creature is as ignorant as 
 he is incapable. If I have admitted these things to 
 your satisfaction, tell me your story. If, on the 
 other hand — ' 
 
 ' I will tell it at once,' said Robert, * and you will 
 soon see that I make no claim to any mystical senti- 
 ments. It is a common case. I met Mrs Parflete 
 first at Chambord. We spent two whole days to- 
 gether. It fell usually to me to walk by her side — 
 for Parflete and the others were bent on card-play- 
 ing and the races. As I remember it all — and I 
 remember it as seldom as possible now — she and I 
 talked very little, but I soon discovered that I was 
 restless except when I found myself with her. 
 Although I was not always thinking of her — 
 although I was often absorbed in my work — although 
 my attention was frequently claimed by the other 
 members of the party, I was conscious that she 
 exerted an almost magical power of attraction over 
 me. To be near her was enough. That, whether
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 195 
 
 silent or in conversation, we should be together — 
 was the strong need. It seemed that we were not 
 two persons but one person. If she had walked out 
 alone, I am certain that, without so meaning, I must 
 have followed her and found her. There is nothing 
 new in all this. The everlasting hills are but a few 
 days older ! I did not find anything either dishonour- 
 able or wrong in my state of mind. I realised, never- 
 theless, that it was profoundly dangerous. I left 
 Chambord and I saw no hope then of ever meeting 
 her on earth again. But the event was against me. 
 She came with Parflete to Paris where I was. Again 
 we met each other constantly for several days. Again 
 I learnt that she had every quality which most appealed 
 to me — which most appeals to every man.' 
 
 ' True,' said Disraeli : ' her modesty, her beauty 
 and good sense could not fail to make a very deep 
 impression.' 
 
 ' And then her tragic history,' said Robert — ' the 
 helplessness of her position and that husband ! She 
 would have roused the spirit of a swineherd ! Her 
 voice was charming and when she sang, all other 
 earthly creatures except herself seemed pests to me ! ' 
 
 ' How easy it is,' observed Disraeli, ' to be faithful 
 to a woman one loves ! ' 
 
 ' I left Paris. I came to London. I tried to 
 banish her from my thoughts. Then she wrote to 
 me — as you know, about her trouble. It fell to me 
 to see her once more. She seemed no longer young.
 
 196 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 Care and fatigue had left such marks on her face, 
 that, for a moment, I felt she had lost all her 
 beauty. It made no difference. She was to me 
 the more perfect for the loss. We had a conversa- 
 tion — wholly about her husband. Once she referred 
 to an excursion we had made to St Cloud. She 
 spoke of the sunshine there and of our walk through 
 the trees, and how we had all sat on the Terrace 
 thinking that the Summer was still to come ! With 
 that remembrance of a happy day, her prettiness, like 
 a swallow when the Winter is past, flew back — and 
 stayed. I remained one hour with her, then the bell 
 rang for Benediction and I said good-bye. I have 
 not seen her since.' 
 
 ' Nor have you passed her Convent gates ? ' asked 
 Disraeli. 
 
 ' I have often passed them,' said the young man, 
 blushing — ' but she will never know that.' 
 
 ' You remind me,' observed Disraeli, ' of a French 
 priest I once knew who told me that he had not 
 risen at four o'clock in the morning for fifty years 
 in order to think like other people ! Your life has 
 been so coloured by your early meditations, that, 
 as I hear you talk, I seem to be living in the 
 Middle Ages 1 ' 
 
 'Why ? ' asked Robert : ' my one point is common- 
 place enough — since I may not marry the woman 
 I want, I will remain single ! ' 
 
 ' I am really sorry for Lady Fitz Rewes ! '
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 197 
 
 * That reminds me that you have asked me to 
 pray for a good death. Will you come with me 
 to a service given for that very purpose ? We call 
 it the Devotion of the Bona Mors^ and it is held 
 on the first Sunday of each month. It will mean 
 an hour of your time.' 
 
 *I will come with pleasure,' said Disraeli, and 
 they parted on the best terms.
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 In the meantime, Reckage was waiting at Almouth 
 House for Robert's return. They had arranged to 
 devote that evening to a prolonged consideration 
 of the speech on Erastianism. His lordship's manu- 
 script was spread out on the library table. His 
 blue books had been unpacked. Some were strewn 
 on the floor, others, scattered on the chairs and sofas, 
 were laid open at marked places. He was pacing 
 the room with an old volume of Hansard in his hand 
 when a footman, bearing a card on a salver, disturbed 
 him. 
 
 A lady had called to see Mr Orange. He (the 
 servant) had never seen the lady before. She was 
 very young, not too proud but rather haughty. She 
 was, to his idea, some one particular. She had given 
 no name. She had written Mr Orange's name 
 on the card — which was otherwise blank. She had 
 said that she could wait till he came in. She was 
 waiting, therefore, in the Red Saloon. 
 
 ' The Red Saloon is depressing,' said Lord Reckage, 
 who, where strange, young, proud and beautiful 
 
 19S
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 199 
 
 ladies were concerned, was not without feeling. 
 ' Show her in here ! ' 
 
 He gathered his papers together, and then made 
 as though he were about to leave the library, when 
 the visitor entered. He raised his eyes respectfully. 
 It was Parflete's wife. There could be no doubt 
 on that point. The height, the graceful carriage, 
 the imperious air, the pretty face were unmistakable. 
 Orange had described her well. 
 
 ' Pray do not allow me to disturb you,' said the 
 lady. Lord Reckage bowed, and halted. Brigit, 
 however, oiFered no further remark but sat down, 
 clasped her hands and sank into a reverie. 
 
 ' Perhaps,' said his lordship, ' it would amuse you 
 to see some of the pictures. The gallery is here.' 
 
 He opened a small door, which had been made 
 to represent a part of the book-case. Brigit, who 
 had at once guessed his identity, thanked him and 
 obeyed the invitation. 
 
 ' Here are some original drawings by Watteau,' 
 explained Reckage. * The Poussin and the two Claudes 
 are over there. Would you like to see them first ? 
 That is a Veronese — a fairly good example. I never 
 cared for the Titian, but I am very friendly indeed 
 with this Carpaccio. The Tintoretto is a favourite. 
 We lend it often.' 
 
 ' My thoughts are far from these,' thought Brigit. 
 ' I wish he would leave me 1 ' 
 
 But she followed him.
 
 200 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 ' Do you know the farm where Poussin lived on the 
 Flaminian Way — near Rome ? asked Lord Reckage. 
 
 ' I have never been to Rome.' 
 
 ' Pray go soon— before the Italians destroy it. They 
 are the least Roman now of all civilized peoples ! This 
 is not a good day for the larger Claude. I hope you 
 admire him. All ladies admire Claude. He is a 
 Romantic. I prefer him to the gloomy fellows.' 
 
 ' Oh ! ' thought Brigit, ' if he would not talk so 
 much ! ' 
 
 ' There is a new school coming in. Every line 
 means a lot but there are not many lines. Some 
 critics call it humbug. I don't go so far. I should 
 not mind having a Whistler. I believe he has a 
 future. He interests me. That's a great thing. 
 Then there is the Pre-Raphaelite School. That 
 is rather alarming. I think one should strike the 
 medium. Raphael himself, for instance, has what 
 I call a happy manner. After all, the chief aim of 
 art is to please.' 
 
 ' Who is that ? ' exclaimed Brigit, suddenly, with 
 much animation. ' What a fine head ! May I go 
 closer ? ' 
 
 She pointed to a canvas v/hich stood on an easel 
 at the end of the Gallery. 
 
 'That is a portrait of — Orange.* 
 
 'Oh!' 
 
 ' He is sitting for some new Frenchman. It 
 promises to be a success.'
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 201 
 
 ' I am no judge of pictures,' said Brigit, drawing 
 back. ' From this distance I merely saw the out- 
 line. It seemed striking — for the moment.' 
 
 ' Come nearer. If you stand here — it is Orange 
 himself. The artist has caught his expression mar- 
 vellously. Observe the eyes. You would swear that 
 he was defying the devil and all his works. Orange 
 should have been a priest — he's a born ecclesiastic ! 
 The head is most characteristic — and the chin ! ' 
 
 ' Yes.' 
 
 * I always look at Orange when I want a change 
 of century 1 My aunt used to say that he ought 
 to be painted as St Augustine. She says that he 
 is better looking than five Byrons. Poor Byron 
 got fat. Robert must never get fat. I am glad you 
 like the picture. The one above you is probably 
 a Romney — but we cannot prove its authenticity. 
 That is why we hang it rather high. Ah ! you are 
 still taken by Orange's portrait.' 
 
 ' Am I ? ' said Brigit. 
 
 ' Pie's a dear fellow.' 
 
 'Is the mouth quite right?' 
 
 'You see it is still unfinished.* 
 
 'I see.' 
 
 ' The pose is so good.' 
 
 ' Very good. But his shoulders are broader.' 
 
 'So they are — now you call my attention to it.' 
 
 ' And — don't you think his whole expression is 
 more commanding ? '
 
 202 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 ' Perhaps it does not convey his will. He has 
 a will of iron — but women, as a rule, do not know 
 that. He has a way with them.' 
 
 Brigit sighed. 
 
 * There is always to me something sad about the 
 portrait of a friend,' said she. 
 
 They heard a step on the gallery floor. 
 
 ' Here is the original,' said Lord Reckage, and he 
 watched the meeting between them with a frankly 
 inquisitive air. His curiosity did not go unrewarded. 
 Orange was paler than death. Brigit grew as white 
 as her gown. Reckage, with much reluctance, left 
 them, but they did not notice him as he went out.
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 ' Is it you ? ' said Robert, touching her hand. 
 
 ' Yes, it is I. Have you forgotten me ? ' 
 
 ' Then it is you.' Jl 
 
 ' Do I look strange ? Have I altered ? It is L' " 
 
 ' Is it possible ? You ! ' 
 
 ' But why do you think I came ? ' 
 
 ' Why ? Because you v^^ere sent here.' 
 
 ' Hovi^ did you guess that ? My husband told me 
 to call upon you vv^ith this letter. I do not knov^r 
 what he has w^ritten, but, in my instructions, he says 
 that you will arrange everything. He tells me I must 
 go to Spain. Is it a long journey ? ' 
 
 ' Not a very long journey. Are you tired I* 
 
 ' Very tired.' 
 
 ' Poor child ! ' 
 
 ' Is the letter long r ' 
 
 ' I will see,' he replied, breaking the seal. 
 
 ' I will be quiet while you read it,' said Brigit, and 
 
 her eyes wandered to the portrait on the easel. 
 
 This was the letter : — 
 
 * Off Gibraltar. 
 
 ' My dear Robert, — You are the one man in the world 
 on whom I can rely. I am worn away with grief and am
 
 204 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 become a coffin of cares. Get my poor wife away from 
 the Nuns. They are kind blissful souls, but she can be 
 of no use to me mewed up in a Convent. The Arch- 
 duke is prepared to behave in the most handsome 
 manner. He is proud of her. He is disappointed in 
 the Imperial children and my wife is certainly a Princess 
 in ten thousand. She is far cleverer, too, than any one 
 would suppose and politically she could have a great 
 career. She is the very woman that is wanted, but, unless 
 we take prompt measures, this religious atmosphere will 
 ruin her mind and she will be fit for nothing ! I know 
 the Countess Des Escas with whom she can live at Madrid, 
 for the present, with the greatest advantage to herself and 
 me. Befriend her, Robert. She needs friends. Would 
 God that she could join me. In time all may yet be 
 justified. I am with the poor Viscount Soham. He 
 drinks. What a pity 1 His parents (old acquaintances) 
 have entreated me to take him under my charge. We 
 may be en voyage for eighteen months. I am writing 
 very fully to my wife. If I have been able to help you 
 to your present good fortune and position, do not fail 
 me now. — Yours ever affec, dear Robert, 
 
 ' Wrexham Parflete.' 
 
 ' May I see it ? ' asked Brigit, when he had finished. 
 ' Do you wish to see it ? ' 
 
 * Yes.' 
 
 She took the letter, read it swiftly, and reddened 
 to her eyes. 
 
 ' I will not go to Spain,' said she, ' nor could 
 you advise me to go.' 
 
 ' I fear I must.' 
 
 ' What 1 ' 
 
 * I fear I must. You cannot remain with the 
 Nuns against his v/ilL'
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 205 
 
 ' He is not here to protect me. He leaves me, 
 1 am alone : I have no home. There is no place 
 for me but a Convent. Yet you, you — O, you ! 
 w^ould have me turn adventuress.' 
 
 * I say that you should obey your husband so 
 long as he does not ask you to do evil.' 
 
 'I can read as much in any little book ! To do 
 evil ! Do you think that man could tell me to do 
 anything good ? I begin to m.istrust him. Begin^ 
 did I say? How long can one lie to oneself? I 
 have tried to respect him. I cannot. I have tried 
 to think kindly of him, I cannot. I have tried 
 noon, night and morning to pray for him and I 
 cannot. He is a traitor. He tells falsehoods. I have 
 my ov^n conscience. It is not his conscience, nor 
 your conscience. It is mine. A Spanish Countess, 
 indeed ! I w^ant none of them. I shall remain 
 with the Nuns.' 
 
 ' You told me in Paris that you did not wish to 
 spend your life in a Convent.' 
 
 'True. But my life was different then. The 
 world was pleasant in those days. It would be 
 pleasant still, if I had a father I could own and a 
 husband I could mention. But it is not so, and I 
 must hide myself.' 
 
 ' You are too proud.' 
 
 ' You suffer, too,' she said. ' We have done 
 nothing, you and I. We have asked for no more 
 than to serve God and save our souls. And what
 
 2o6 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 has happened ? I have a birth-right I may not 
 claim. I must be looked on to the end of my days 
 with doubt and suspicion. Men will make foolish 
 faces at me. Women will ask to know my story.' 
 
 ' I have much to bear also,' said Robert. 
 
 ' In the other world,' said Brigit, abruptly, ' shall 
 we know one another ? ' 
 
 ' For certain.' 
 
 ' Then I will so live that I shall meet you there. 
 Do not look at me to-day. You might not recog- 
 nise me when you see me happy.' 
 
 'I would have you happy now.' 
 
 'That cannot be. No one is happy except God. 
 . . . When should I go ? ' 
 
 ' Where ? ' said Robert. 
 
 ' To Spain.' 
 
 'To-morrow or the next day.' 
 
 'I will take a servant with me, and, when I get 
 there I shall say, " I am come because a true friend 
 bade me go and not because of any obedience to 
 my husband ! " You look vexed. But I mean 
 every word. I am wretched — beyond all telling, 
 wretched — and through no fault of my own. Others 
 are glad — and for no virtue. I do not remember 
 Job. I will lament and mourn, and, no one — least 
 of all you — shall comfort me. Sorrow does not pass 
 away because you call " Farewell " to it.' 
 
 ' Why do you speak like this when you know 
 how little I can do to help you ? '
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 207 
 
 " Because I want you to know that I am neither 
 good nor patient — because I had rather be thought 
 worse than I am than better than I am. Do not 
 think well of me. My light is all darkness. That 
 I love God above everything and everyone is true, 
 but shall I lie to Him and say that my lot is not 
 bitter ? ' 
 
 'Are these the words you leave with me now when 
 we see each other, it may be, for the last time ? ' 
 
 ' I have no better things to offer. I cannot be 
 brave to-day. Forget my weak sayings and ask 
 God to forgive them. But^ — if there should be no 
 other world and if this one is so desolate ! Oh, 
 Robert, I have faith and, although I am a coward, 
 I would die for it ! Once I dreamt I was in 
 Heaven. It was not like this — and yet, I woke 
 up crying. Even in our sleep we must shed tears.' 
 
 She held out her hands. 
 
 ' Help me to go,' she said ; ' my heart for some 
 days now has been disloyal to me — for I am not 
 of those who draw back into servitude. Help me 
 to go — ' and she could add no more. 
 
 They both stood in silence for a little — looking 
 out of the window on to the Green Park opposite. 
 
 ' I have loved London,' sighed Brigit : ' I have 
 loved it better than all other cities. And next to 
 it I love your kingdom under the sea which, please 
 God, shall some time be dry land.' 
 
 They wished each other good-bye. He led the
 
 2o8 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 way to the Hall where her maid was waiting — half- 
 asleep — for her coming. Robert said no more and 
 the two women left the house together. He 
 followed them all the way till they reached their 
 destination, but Brigit did not see him. The time 
 was Summer : the hour, nine in the evening. Day, 
 in the sky, was blushing her farewell, and Robert 
 remembered that the blue sea off Brittany would be 
 looking up with still impatience for the advent of the 
 stars. He paced the pavement outside the Convent 
 all that night until the dawn. There are thoughts 
 which are companions having a language, and there 
 are other thoughts which rest in a painful sleep upon 
 our souls till the dumb weight of them brings us 
 to dust. Grief, despair, the desire of beauty, the 
 sorrow of partings, the thirst of ambition, the attach- 
 ment to friends are not small contemptible weak- 
 nesses. Vanitas vanitatum omnia vanitas is the cry 
 when we hear it in the market-place — not of wisdom 
 — but of weariness. It is uttered in the qualms of 
 satiety and disappointment : it does not come from the 
 great spirit of renunciation. A strong man has living 
 blood in his veins and he shows his character not by 
 despising — still less in denying his emotions — but in 
 exalting them. And that is no light achievement. 
 The labour of it is not until the evening only, but 
 for the watches of the night and the early morning 
 and the noon-day and for all the Seasons and for all 
 the year and for all the fasts and for all the Feasts.
 
 CHAPTER Vi 
 
 Robert's Journal, at this period, presents a blank. 
 His days at Almouth House were ended. That 
 mansion, pending Lord Reckage's courtship of the 
 heiress, was closed. The lady was capricious, and 
 the upholsterers waited, not idly, for the pronounce- 
 ment of their call. In the meanwhile, patterns of 
 silk brocade, in tender shades, were being ordered 
 from Paris. Reckage himself retired to a Villa on 
 the Thames. It may have been painful to him to 
 witness the straits of suspense and humiliation to which 
 his friend, a proud man, was reduced. Berenville, too, 
 left London. Robert engaged some lodgings on a top 
 floor in Vigo Street. The question of the Secre- 
 taryship remained, for some time, undecided. The 
 date was fast drawing near for the Norbet Royal 
 election. Some light is thrown on the difficulties of 
 the situation by a curious document — since found among 
 the Orange MSS. — which appears to have been ad- 
 dressed but never posted to Reckage. We may infer 
 that Robert sat down in loneliness one evening and 
 wrote in the old intimate strain to his friend. Then,
 
 2IO THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 perhaps, he remembered, when it was nearly finished, 
 that the confidence between Lord Reckage and him- 
 self was no longer all that it had once been. So the 
 letter was not sent. It runs as follows : — 
 
 ' I 6b Vigo Street, 
 
 ' I have not yet told you that I followed the Lady to 
 Spain in order to assure myself that all was well. She 
 did not know it. I think she will never know it. From 
 careful inquiries at Madrid, I have learnt that the Spanish 
 Countess is a person of some piety and many adventures. 
 She has social influence, and, so far, has not abused it. 
 Existence in her household could be neither dull nor 
 constrained. But the Lady's mind is still fixed on the 
 Convent at Tours. I wish that she were there. The 
 cloistered life — in its perpetual protest against all that is 
 mean and feverish, might indeed be called monotonous, 
 but it is the monotony of the cry before the Throne — 
 itself unchanging — Sanctus, Sanctus, Sanctus, Dominus 
 Deus omnipotens, qui erat, et qui est et qui venturus est. 
 — After leaving Madrid, I journeyed on to Barcelona. From 
 thence, I made a pilgrimage to Manresa and the Benedictine 
 Abbey at Mont Serrat where St Ignatius long ago hung 
 up his sword. I had no sword to offer, so I plucked out 
 the wings of my soul and left them on the altar steps and 
 said — " Hereafter I will crawl. Let this be a penance ! " 
 
 But— 
 
 6io7g fisv xotv 6 /juridh uv 6ju,ov 
 xpdroc Karaxrricair' J^' 
 
 Am I a slave to ambition or to pride ? I know not. If 
 one were to preach at me till his tongue grew worn to 
 the stump, I could not tell. But if you might see me 
 now, you would own that I was humbled. Of all my 
 books — six only remain. How many pounds of chops 
 would you think one could buy for the price of an Horae, 
 
 * "With the help of the gods, even a man who was no man, might 
 prove a conqueror. — Sophocles, Ajax, 767-8.
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS zii 
 
 MS. on vellum, with miniatures, Saec. XV.?* Must I 
 bring myself to take its equivalent in butcher's meat ? 
 The election will cost at least a thousand pounds. I have 
 the sum in the bank — a sacred treasure. People seem to 
 think that I am a silly fellov/ who has forgotten himself. 
 If I were not vain, I would not mind this. Now and 
 again, I think of the days when I mimicked the Stoics and 
 called my body — a vile carcase, my spirit — a dream, a 
 SMOKE ; when I howled at the cities of the earth — You 
 are dust-heaps ! and to the Heavens — You are ether ! I 
 never meant it. No one ever does mean these things. 
 The pride of life and the desire of the eyes is mighty in all 
 men, and, while one is strong, the time is the time of 
 love. 
 
 My room is not gay. Below, there is a lodger who 
 sings. His voice grows weaker every hour. A great 
 Countess has promised him an opportunity to amuse her 
 guests — some night — next month . . . probably. I hope 
 he may live till then. We have discovered that — before 
 chicken and turtle, we both prefer water biscuits and 
 Marsala. "A tenor," says he, " should have a slim waist." 
 "An author," says I, " should not clog his brain with 
 rich food ! " 
 
 I met Lord Wight for the first time this afternoon. 
 Imagine a fat man with an externally happy profile and a 
 full face — beyond all description, sad. He told me that — 
 if I would not urge him to give up eating pastry and if I 
 could assist him with his new translation (with notes) of 
 Solomon's Song — we should agree. He has hired a house 
 near the Border, for he connects the Love of the Canticum 
 Canticorum with Mary Stuart. " Was she not," said he, 
 " as fair as the moon and as terrible as an army with 
 banners ? " He would require my undivided devotion for 
 three full hours every morning. On waking, it is his 
 habit to hear six Psalms or so read aloud in Hebrew. 
 After that, he " potters among his books." I have accepted 
 his terms and I feel, on the whole, fortunate. Lady Fitz 
 Rcwes was present during the interview. She never spoke, 
 
 * It was purchased recently for ^^'24.
 
 2 12 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 hut she looked all the Beatitudes — more particularly the 
 fifth— 
 
 "blessed are the merciful : for they shall obtain 
 
 MERCY." 
 
 She is a pretty soul. I never saw longer eye-lashes than 
 hers, when she looks up, they fairly sweep the skies. 
 When she looks down, the whole world lies in shadow — ' 
 
 Here, the letter breaks off. It was never finished, 
 and, as we have ah'eady seen, it was never despatched. 
 That it contains a faithful transcript of Robert's mind 
 cannot be doubted. Although he had resolved to 
 enter political life, his will rather than his heart was 
 pledged to that vocation. The true bent and the 
 real struggle are shown in that solitary pilgrimage to 
 Mont Serrat, in his reflection on the monastic life, his 
 significant attachment to the Horae — the sale of which 
 might have saved a few at least of his other books — 
 and, finally, those words — half-defiant and half a con- 
 fession — ' The pride of life and the desire of the eyes are 
 inighty in all men^ and^ while one is strong^ the time is 
 the time of love.'' He could not bring himself to utter 
 the priestly vows. He could not sacrifice the hope — 
 though pale and mute — of marriage and honours, nor 
 could he renounce the vain expectation of that happi- 
 ness, which the young, and ardent, and impassioned do 
 ever think to be the sum of earthly prizes. It is true 
 that this last is never mentioned either in Robert's 
 Journal or in his correspondence. But we may be 
 sure that it was there — and with it a pride of birth 
 almost amounting to arrogance. His father came of
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 213 
 
 the best blood in France. His mother — of a haughty 
 and rebellious stock — had been disowned by her family. 
 Robert felt that he must fight for his birth-right. His 
 place was among the noblemen of any realm. A man 
 should strive to come unto his own. Afterwards — he 
 might — of his free will live as he pleased, and become, 
 for penance' sake, as a hired servant. But to be dis- 
 possessed, by force, of his position and to bear such 
 injustice v/ithout protest was neither godly nor manly. 
 It is not within the power of any family to disown 
 one of its members. A name is a name and neither 
 curses nor disgrace can make the blood of one race 
 the blood of another, Robert was born of the House 
 of Hausee and the House of Wharborough. He was 
 no adventurer, no upstart. And he would vindicate 
 his mother's honour. Such was his argument.
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 The days were the days of the Irish Church Bill. 
 Disraeli, as Leader of the Opposition, had indeed 
 delivered speeches against it, but they were given with- 
 out unction. He spoke rather of manners than of 
 measures. On the Lords sending back their Amend- 
 ments, he entreated the Commons to remember the 
 courtesy due to the Upper House and to meet their 
 Lordships 'in a spirit of conciliation.' When he 
 defined Propaganda as the most powerfully disciplined 
 Foreign office in the world — when he called the 
 Catholic priesthood a perfect organization against 
 which the Protestant Church in Ireland could not 
 hope to stand — when he described the Roman See as 
 possessing the advantages without the disadvantages 
 of an Establishment, it did not require profound 
 intelligence to see, that, wherever his allegiance may 
 have been, his admiration did not rush forth spon- 
 taneously to the government of the Church of 
 England. He bore the final passing of the Bill with 
 honied resignation. ' Not for many years^ says The 
 Times of that date, ' has there been such a sweet inter- 
 
 214
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 215 
 
 change of good feeling. The House of Commons yesterday 
 afternoon might have been the Temple of Harmony. The 
 conversation somewhat assumed the tone of the supper- 
 parties of our youthy or the later hours of a provincial 
 banquet when every one feels called upon to propose his 
 neighbour s health.^ or to testify to his excellent social and 
 moral qualities.^ 
 
 Robert had avoided Disraeli and the political Clubs 
 during those memorable debates in July 1869. Lord 
 Reckage, however, v^hose interest in ecclesiastical 
 questions wzs making itself more manifest each day, 
 had been addressing the serious-minded all through the 
 country. He gathered round his standard a small 
 but dashing band of Graduates and young clergy who 
 clamoured, in the language of Prize Essays, for the 
 Reformation principles of Church and State. 'The 
 fear of God made England,' was their text, ' and no 
 great nation was ever made by any other fear.' The 
 Roman Catholics could not deny this : the Noncon- 
 formists found the doctrine sound. Reckage began 
 to be regarded, in a certain exclusive circle, as the 
 second Wellington of a n&w Waterloo fought between 
 the powers of darkness and the sons of light. The 
 young man was in earnest. His sympathies were 
 frankly Ritualistic when Ritualism was by no means 
 popular. To be irreligious was, in his opinion, to be 
 ungentlemanly. To deny God and blaspheme was 
 the cad's part. True piety will give even the hum- 
 blest person the grace of self-possession and dignity.
 
 2i6 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 Reckage knew that. How much more then, he 
 argued, did it illumine those who had rank and talents 
 and influence ? ' It is so vulgar,' said he, ' to doubt.' 
 The motive of belief may not have been a high one — 
 but it touched many minds not readily accessible to 
 more exalted arguments. His party grew. He saw 
 himself regarded as a man of some consequence and he 
 honestly wished to give God the glory. No deliberate 
 hypocrite has ever yet succeeded even in the way- 
 side booths of public life. There must be a spark of 
 sincerity somewhere. And Reckage had more than 
 a spark of it. His Villa on the Thames was as the 
 abode of a Maecenas turned theologian. 
 
 On the last day of July, Orange was writing to 
 Disraeli to remind him of his promise to attend a 
 service of that Archconfraternity known as that of the 
 Bona MorSy when Reckage presented himself at Vigo 
 Street, His lordship had long wanted an introduc- 
 tion to the despised, feared, yet indispensable genius of 
 the Conservative party, and it had struck him, that, of 
 all ways of meeting so mysterious a person, this, of 
 sitting next him in a Church of the Jesuit Fathers, 
 was by far the most picturesque and extraordinary, 
 
 ' Besides,' said he to Orange, as they walked to- 
 gether toward Farm Street, 'the service itself is no 
 doubt interesting. Very touching, too, I daresay. 
 Who can deny that Rome understands a ceremony 
 better than we do — at present ? But we shall have all 
 these things in time. A great many people have
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 217 
 
 I 
 
 already given in about the candles ! And that's a 
 tremendous concession. The difference between the 
 priest and the parson need not be so great. Tell me 
 more about Dizzy's manner. He bores Salisbury. I 
 wish he didn't bore Salisbury.' 
 
 At that time, the West End of London and the 
 Parks did not present, on Sunday afternoons, the 
 lively appearance which is now their characteristic. 
 The Zoological Gardens were then the favourite 
 promenade of such members of society who were at 
 once eminently distinguished for decorum yet not 
 extravagantly Puritanical in the matter of Sunday 
 recreations. But the streets were deserted. The 
 houses might have been vast silent catacombs. There 
 was not a face to be seen at any window. Not a 
 laugh or a word rose from any area. No caller stood 
 before any one of the many hundred doors. The 
 creaking wheels of a loitering cab or the heavier roll of 
 an half-empty public conveyance disturbed, at rare 
 intervals, the strange tranquillity of the scene. The 
 very air seemed to have paused and the earth stood 
 
 still. 
 
 As the two young men crossed the threshold of 
 the Church, the sight which opened before them was 
 like a dream imprisoned in a rock. The dark stone 
 cavernous building, where shadowy forms were kneel- 
 ing in prayer and praise, seemed a hollow not made 
 with hands, and the light on the high altar shone 
 through the mist of incense as something wholly
 
 2i8 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 supernatural yet living and sacred. It seemed to 
 breathe and vibrate, and was, now a still blessing, and, 
 now a note of music too delicate to be told on instru- 
 ments or uttered by the human voice. It fell not 
 upon the senses but the heart, and the faint sound that 
 reached the ear was no more than the infinite soft 
 murmur of many small candle flames. The choir 
 were singing the last strains of the O Salutaris : — 
 
 Um trinoque Domino 
 Sit sempiterna gloria 
 Qui vitam sine termino 
 Nobis donet in patria. 
 
 The service that followed was a devotion — the great 
 end of which is 'to honour the Passion of our Lord 
 Jesus Christ and the Dolours of the Blessed Virgin 
 Mary, trusting thereby to obtain the grace of a happy 
 death.' It begins with an appeal for mercy from the 
 Lord Christ and then a salutation to Holy Mary, 
 the angels, archangels, patriarchs, prophets, apostles, 
 evangelists, martyrs, and to all the holy ones and 
 Saints of God — to which, at the intoning of each 
 name, the choir cries out, ' Pray for us.' 
 
 Then there is the incomparable prayer and adjura- 
 tion : — 
 
 From Thine anger 
 
 From an evil death 
 
 From the pains of Hell 
 
 From all evil 
 
 Fro7n the power of the devil 
 
 By Thy Nativity
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 219 
 
 By Thy Cross and Pas si 071 
 
 By Thy Death and Burial 
 
 By Thy glorious Resurrection 
 
 By the grace of the Holy Ghost the Comforter 
 
 In the Day of Judgment, 
 
 O Lord, deliver us. 
 
 Then, after some shorter prayers, there follows that 
 sublime commemoration of the Passion : — 
 
 O Jesus, Who, during Thy prayer to the Father in 
 the garden wast so filled with sorrow and anguish, 
 that there came forth from Thee a bloody sweat — 
 Have mercy on us, O Lord : have mercy on us. 
 O Jesus, Who wast betrayed by the kiss of a traitor 
 mto the hands of the wicked, seized and bound like a 
 thief, and forsaken by Thy disciples — 
 
 Have mercy on us^ Lord : have mercy on us. 
 O Jesus, Who, by the unjust council of the 
 Jews, wast sentenced to death, led like a male- 
 factor before Pilate, scorned and derided by impious 
 Herod— 
 
 Have mercy on us^ Lord : have mercy on us. 
 O Jesus, Who wast stripped of Thy garments, and 
 most cruelly scourged at the pillar — 
 
 Have mercy on us^ O Lord: have mercy on us. 
 O Jesus, Who wast crowned with thorns, buffeted, 
 struck with a reed, blindfolded, clothed with a purple 
 garment, in many ways derided, and overwhelmed 
 with reproaches — 
 
 Have mercy on us, O Lord : have mercy on us. 
 O Jesus, Who wast less esteemed than the murderer
 
 220 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 Barabbas, rejected by the Jews, and unjustly con- 
 demned to the death of the Cross — 
 
 Have mercy on us, O Lord : have mercy on us. 
 O Jesus, Who wast loaded with a Cross, and led to 
 the place of execution as a lamb to the slaughter — 
 Have mercy on us, O Lord : have mercy on us 
 O Jesus, Who v/ast numbered among thieves, 
 blasphemed and derided, made to drink of gall and 
 vinegar, and crucified in dreadful torment from the 
 sixth to the ninth hour — 
 
 Have mercy on us, O Lord : have mercy on us. 
 O Jesus, Who didst expire on the Cross, Who wast 
 pierced with a lance in presence of Thy holy Mother, 
 and from Whose side poured forth blood and water — 
 Have mercy on us, O Lord : have mercy on us. 
 O Jesus, Who wast taken down from the Cross, 
 and bathed in the tears of Thy most sorrowing Virgin 
 Mother— 
 
 Have ?nercy on us, O Lord : have Jiiercy on us. 
 O Jesus, Who wast covered with bruises, marked 
 with the Five Wounds, embalmed with spices, and laid 
 in the sepulchre — 
 
 Have mercy on us, O Lord : have mercy on us. 
 For He hath truly borne our sorrows — 
 j4nd He hath carried our griefs. 
 
 After this there was a pause. A sacred banner was 
 placed — as a veil — before the monstrance, and a form 
 of address, known as a Meditation, was given from the 
 pulpit by one of the Fathers. He had chosen for his
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 221 
 
 subject, on this occasion, the crowning of our Lord with 
 Thorns. It was not a sermon — but an appeal to the 
 imagination of his listeners. They took part in the 
 trial before Pilate, they heard the words of the 
 Accused and His accusers, the shouts of the mob, the 
 brutal jests of the soldiery. The whole tragedy was 
 enacted before their eyes : many wept : the hardest 
 were moved by the recital of woes so poignant and 
 so faithful to the human heart. The rest of the 
 service, as its commencement, is similar to the 
 Litany, which, translated and adopted from the Roman 
 Breviary, is one of the chief beauties in the English 
 Book of Common Prayer. At its conclusion, the 
 priest, mantled with the veil, makes the sign of the 
 cross with the monstrance over the worshippers 
 This Benediction is given in silence — to show that it 
 is not the earthly but the Eternal Priest Who, in the 
 fite, blesses and sanctifies His people. 
 
 One by one the lights upon the Altar were ex- 
 tinguished and the Church grew so dark that it was 
 impossible to discern the faces of the congregation. 
 A terrific clap of thunder shook the whole building. 
 It was followed by another and yet another. Some 
 of the women and children huddled themselves, like 
 frightened sheep, in the side-chapels. The men 
 looked out only to find the streets deluged with rain 
 and the skies frightful with lightning. Such a storm 
 had not been seen in London for years. It broke with 
 disastrous violence all over the City. The peaceful
 
 222 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 Sunday had become a Witch's Sabbath. The violent 
 gusts of wind and the drenching shower made the 
 thoroughfares impassable. Yet, as suddenly as the 
 storm had broken, it ceased. In less than an hour 
 the Church was deserted — save for three. Orange 
 and Lord Reckage were watching for Disraeli. He 
 had been sitting, unknown and unperceived, apparently 
 lost in thought, in a remote corner of the side-aisle. 
 He came forward at last but he hastened by the two 
 young men without a word. 
 
 ' He could not have seen me ! ' exclaimed Reckage 
 a little hurt.
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 The nomination of the candidates for the Norbet 
 Royal election took place eleven days later when Parlia- 
 ment was prorogued and the Session of 1869 came to a 
 close. Robert had no hope of winning the contest. He 
 was told to make for a decent show at the third place. 
 The mission was not glorious and scarcely inspiring. 
 Disraeli gave him but few instructions. He had not 
 even suggested, a heading or two for his first speech. 
 Robert had chosen to be a free agent, and, in the hour 
 of trial, he found himself alone. The diplomatist 
 evidently wished to try the mettle of his man by the 
 most severe tests possible. The fact that Orange had 
 been brought forward by the leaders of the Opposition 
 without consultation with the general body, coupled 
 with the reappearance of Mr Vandeleur as a candidate, 
 also in the Tory interest, aroused great excitement and 
 dissension. Vandeleur had strong connections in the 
 County. These connections detested him, yet, they all 
 wished, for the family's sake, to see him once more in 
 Parliament. He was a plump sort of scoundrel with a 
 certain gift for writing political pamphlets in agreeable 
 
 English. To the obscure learned, who worked for 
 
 22 q
 
 224 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 their living, he was known as a ' brain-picker.' Sir 
 Charles Bellingham, the Gladstonian, had for his chief's 
 sake, the support of the district. He was an excellent 
 man but perhaps a shade over-confident. The seat was 
 a Liberal stronghold. He felt like a king coming unto 
 his own and he bore the honours of victory in advance. 
 
 Ten thousand persons assembled in the Market-place, 
 and, amidst groans, cheers, yells, cat-calls, and the 
 pitching of carrots and stale eggs, the three candidates 
 were conveyed to the hustings. The High Sheriff 
 arrived at least half-an-hour after time, but the interval 
 of suspense was relieved from monotony by the oaths 
 of the wounded and the jests of the brave. ' Blue 
 doves' and * yellow doves' pelted each other with 
 mud and garbage, Mr Vandeleur had hired four 
 hundred and seventy ' doves ' to protect his possible 
 voters. It afterwards transpired that they received 
 ^^192 for their refreshments and loyalty. Another 
 body of one hundred and four ' respectable ' men, 
 under the police, were endeavouring to preserve — 
 without favour — order and peace. Songs — not too 
 decent — were sung : pleasantries — of no milky flavour 
 — were freely exchanged. Sir Charles Bellingham's 
 Wellington nose received more than its full measure of 
 attention. Mr Vandeleur's head was denounced as 
 ' fat.' A young factory girl threw her bow of long 
 ribbons, known as ' FoUow-me-lads,' at Orange's feet. 
 He saluted her and tied the favour on his arm. 
 
 The writ having been read and the usual formalities
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 225 
 
 disposed of, Lord Ravensworth proposed Sir Charles 
 Bellingham as a person of distinction, virtue, and 
 property. 
 
 A gentleman in the crowd then saluted him, in kind 
 terms, as ' Pretty Poll ! ' When Major Egerton Dane 
 rose to second the nomination, he was not heard. 
 
 Mr De Havers then proposed Mr Vandeleur, whose 
 name was received with hoots. 
 
 The Hon. Gerald Galloway seconded the motion. 
 
 Orange was then proposed by a friend of Lord Derby. 
 
 One of Disraeli's friends seconded the nomination. 
 Their speeches were short and were little more than a 
 mere introduction. Wisely, no reference was made to 
 the candidate's literary career. Authors are not con- 
 sidered practical in worldly affairs. Robert had three 
 points in his favour. He had a fine presence : he was 
 a bachelor : he was unknown in the constituency, and, 
 if he had no friends, he had no enemies in the crowd. 
 When it came to his turn to speak, the calm of 
 curiosity settled upon the hearers. What would he 
 say ? How would he say it ? He had been described 
 in the local prints of his opponents as a foreigner. 
 But he had been born in England and he had inherited 
 his mother's English features. His fine athletic figure, 
 his plain dress, his whole appearance was that of an 
 English gentleman of the true school. They waited 
 anxiously for the sound of his voice. Vegetables and 
 eggs were held in readiness for the first imperfection 
 in accent. He came forvi^ard. His countenance was 
 
 p
 
 226 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 eminently pleasing and his manner unaffected. He 
 spoke with some nervousness, but in language as clear 
 and simple as though, to quote a contemporary, he 
 had been addressing the very flower of Europe, or a 
 Vatican Council ! He was allowed to continue for 
 some minutes without interruption, till one of the 
 ' yellow doves,' at a glance from Mr Vandeleur, raised 
 the cry of 'Jesuit ! ' This was enough. The groans, 
 hisses and hoots — for the temporary lull — recom- 
 menced with double vigour. Heads were smashed. 
 Robert himself was pelted with garbage. Gross 
 things were said of the Papacy and the priesthood. 
 The note of blasphemy was not wanting. That fatal 
 cry of ' Jesuit ! ' had worked, so it seemed, irretriev- 
 able harm. ' Blue ' attacked ' blue,' and ' yellow ' 
 turned against 'yellow.' Bruised ears, battered noses 
 and blackened eyes, swollen cheeks and cracked teeth 
 were perhaps the worst outv/ard signs of the struggle. 
 A constable had his arm broken, and a priest — who 
 had rashly ventured into the crowd — suffered after- 
 wards from a dislocated shoulder. A child was killed, 
 a woman carrying an infant was knocked down, but 
 the rest escaped lightly. The scene, however, became 
 so wild that the Riot Act was read, and the mounted 
 police were permitted some rough riding. The poll 
 was eventually fixed for the Saturday. The interven- 
 ing days were for speeches and demonstrations. 
 
 Early the next morning, Robert strolled into the 
 Market-place, and there he met a whole company of
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 227 
 
 carters — in their picturesque dress of smocks and shorts 
 — who were exhibiting feats of skill with the whip. 
 He had often seen, as a lad, performances of the kind 
 in Brittany. One especially difficult game is to 
 pursue a running man and catch him by casting the 
 whip in such a way that it curls about his legs and 
 trips him up — but without stinging. If the whip 
 stings — it is badly thrown. The prowess is shown 
 by the lightness of touch. Now it will be seen at 
 once that much depends on the honour of the 
 adversary. Should he swear that the whip came too 
 hard — no umpire could decide to the contrary. In 
 Brittany, however, the strictest integrity seemed to 
 prevail in the matter. Robert found a spirit no less 
 chivalrous among the Norbet Royal carters. They 
 were extremely rough, and they were not of the kind 
 that smarted easily. When one was stung — he rounded 
 on the pursuer and punched his head. This was con- 
 sidered a just return. On the other hand, when one 
 was fairly caught — he would pick himself up with 
 meekness and chuck his halfpenny into the * pool.' As 
 Robert stood watching — one of the fellows, who seemed 
 the bully of the party, dared him to take his chance. 
 The suggestion was received with roars of laughter. 
 
 ' Two to one on Bobby Lemon ! * said the chief 
 wit. ' Rum-and-Bobby-Lemon ! He'll have his fine 
 shanks like a zebra at the circus ! ' 
 
 But they had not been drinking, and they were 
 disposed to show good-nature.
 
 228 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 ' What will thee put in the pool, Holy Peter, my lad ? ' 
 
 ' I'll put in when I'm caught,' said Robert, ' but 
 not a minute before.' 
 
 ' That's fair,' said the keeper of the stakes, and he 
 winked at their champion whipster : ' that's the rule 
 true enough. But hast thee got twenty shillun' ? ' It 
 will cost thee every penny o' that, lad, and more too ! ' 
 
 This sally was received with cheers. 
 
 ' Wold Jacob's got his answer for the best of 'em,' 
 observed the first speaker. 
 
 'I can pay for all my cuts,' said Robert, 'but I 
 will not run till I myself cut a man. 
 
 * Canst thee throw a whip ? ' said the champion — a 
 big lout with the lightest wrist in the county. 
 
 ' Once I could,' said Robert, ' and there's no 
 harm in trying again ! ' 
 
 He was offered a choice of whips. 
 
 * Thee'st taken a ugly customer,' growled the 
 champion ; * and thee won't catch no me wi' him.^ 
 
 The Market-place was a large square. The tradi- 
 tional 'start' was three lengths of the whip. It often 
 happened that the carters — who were rather clumsy at 
 running; — went at least six times round the course 
 before they tripped their prey. 
 
 The places were taken, the ground was cleared, the 
 distance was carefully marked off. 
 
 ' Now then — when I says voiir. Are ye ready ? 
 One — two — three — voiir ! ' 
 
 The chase began. The champion — Sam Pratt —
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 229 
 
 had acquired the trick of so running that, while he was 
 not swift, he threw up his heels in a way which made 
 lassoing extremely difficult. Thrice they went round 
 the course— Robert contenting himself by cracking 
 the whip — which was also a feature of the game. 
 
 ' He can crack as foine as I ever heerd ! ' said the 
 pool-keeper. ' But what's cracking ? ' 
 
 The fourth lap was made. At the fifth, Orange 
 decided to cast. He aimed. A shout went up. 
 Sammie fell down. 
 
 ' Hast thee been stung, Sammie ? ' 
 
 Sammie got up, scratched his head, and, striding over 
 to the pool, paid in — without a word — his halfpenny. 
 But when the applause was ended, they missed him. 
 
 ' He's taken it to heart,' said Jacob. ' He've 
 got the tenderest skin of the lot. He've punched 
 vive heads this morning. And who will go next?' 
 
 They had, however, seen enough of Robert's skill, 
 and, after shaking hands with him, they departed each 
 to his cart. But they watched old Jacob who still 
 held the pool in his cap. It amounted to four-pence 
 halfpenny. 
 
 ' How many men are there ? ' asked Robert. 
 
 ' There be ten men, two lads, and a galoot, and the 
 galoot is my own flesh-and-blood. I can't think who 
 he takes after.' 
 
 * And which was he ? ' 
 
 ' Sammie.* 
 
 ' The champion ? '
 
 230 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 ' He was the champion. But I behcve he's gone off 
 now and hanged himself.' 
 
 ' Shall I go after him ? ' said Robert. 
 
 ' Thee'st best leave a sick cat lie,' answered Jacob, 
 counting out the nine half-pence upon the stone step 
 beside him. 
 
 Orange added three gold pieces to the little sum, 
 at which the eyes of the old man grew hard and 
 thoughtful. 
 
 'Sammie's made more by being beat,' said he, 'than 
 he's ever done by winning ! And I say — send more 
 beaters — please God — pride or no pride. Let him 
 put 's pride in 's pocket ! ' 
 
 Robert v/ished him good-day and left the Market- 
 place where the carters — with Sammy among them — 
 were soon quarrelling over the pool. 
 
 It was now about half-past six. The shops in the 
 High Street were not yet open, but every window, 
 door, wall and available space bore the name either of 
 Bellinghani, Vandeleur, or Orange. 
 
 *VoTE FOR BeLI.INGHAM, THE PEOPLE's FRIEND. 
 
 Vote for Bellingham, liberty, and probity. 
 Vote for conscience J St George^ and the British Lion.'' 
 
 *Vote for vandeleur and the United 
 Kingdom. Property for all and the rights of property. 
 Vandeleur and the realm. Vandeleur and England's great- 
 ness. Vandeleur and the gentlemen of Great Britain.
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 231 
 
 * Fote for Orange, the protection of the poor^ and the 
 faith of our fathers, Fote for Orange^ and Merrie 
 England will be herself once more. Vote for Orange^ 
 peace and plenty^ 
 
 These bills — composed by the respective agent of 
 each candidate, had been written *to meet the local 
 wants.' Mr Vandeleur had suggested a point or two 
 on his own account, but Robert had trusted wholly in 
 the discretion of the great Mr Mawrenny, and Sir 
 Charles had placed no less reliance in his ' valued 
 friend,' Mr Paradil. 
 
 When Orange reached his quarters — the White Hart 
 Hotel — Sir Charles Bellingham was in the hall. The 
 rival candidates saluted each other pleasantly One, 
 with a historic majority at his back, could well afford 
 to be magnanimous ; the other, perhaps, found it 
 impossible to do anything else but smile. Conscience, 
 St George and the British Lion in one person were to 
 be encountered only, one might think, in the week of 
 three Saturdays, 
 
 The dav's fio-ht began about ten o'clock. Bellinp;- 
 ham and Orange both attempted to address their 
 supporters from the hotel, but the noise and uproar was 
 so great that they could not, and several fights ensued. 
 
 Mr Vandeleur, who, as his agent declared, was 
 nearly enough related to the Redford family to go 
 into mourning on the death of the Duke, had taken 
 up his quarters with Lord Ravensworth. There he
 
 232 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 talked of greatness in all the pleasure and safety of 
 family life. Possibly out of respect to his deceased and 
 noble relative, he refrained from addressing the mob 
 from a commoner platform than the Town Hall. 
 Once and but once he ventured into the street, 
 where he heard so many coarse remarks and rubbed 
 shoulders with so many vulgar people that he could 
 only rid himself of these disagreeable associations by 
 entering the post-office and despatching confidential 
 telegrams to half the peerage. In fact, so much time 
 passed in this dignified and soothing occupation that he 
 forgot many of his public engagements, and, it may 
 even be assumed, that the public in turn forgot 
 him. 
 
 Orange, however, succeeded in pleasing the Mayor 
 — a man of few prejudices and a large family of un- 
 married daughters. He lent the bachelor candidate a 
 fine blood mare, as bright as a star, and, riding through 
 the town on this beautiful animal, Robert made several 
 speeches in the teeth of the rioters. He spoke at the 
 Corn Exchange, in the market, in the band stand of 
 the public Park, at the Town Hall, at the Freemasons' 
 Tavern, at the Travellers' Inn, and, indeed, wherever 
 he could find even two hearers. 
 
 'Numa can no longer consult his Egeriain secret caves,' 
 wrote an enthusiastic Tory editor in the local Organ. ' He 
 has to go into the crowd to hear what people say of men 
 and what will satisfy the greatest number. Mr Orange 
 has shown himself a man of open mind who is ready not 
 only to answer questions but to ask them.'
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 233 
 
 On the other hand, we find in the Liberal Journal 
 this solemn warning : — 
 
 ' Let us be on our guard against the well known oiliness 
 of Jesuitical casuistry, and let us thoroughly realize, that, 
 when the Tory shows himself sympathetic, or concerned in 
 the wrongs and rights of the people, it is because he will 
 soon make the rights penalties, and the wrongs but fruitless 
 party cries — a case of "Cherr)' Ripe " and empty baskets.' 
 
 There is no reason to think that Robert's many 
 addresses were either brilliant or original. It was said 
 by Mr Vandeleur in a letter to his cherished friend 
 the Earl of Wencombe that ' the person named after 
 some vegetable has no idea of rhetoric. He has a 
 certain persuasiveness due, no doubt, to his Roman 
 Catholic training, and his voice is good, but, if Ki^Sog, 
 oratory, distinction, and that reserve inseparable from 
 high breeding are still the characteristics of a Tory 
 gentleman, the aforesaid vegetable or fruit has no 
 claim to the title.' 
 
 The scene on the polling day was but a repetition 
 of the skirmish at the time of the nomination. There 
 was much that Mr Vandeleur would have described as 
 'low.' The assistance of the military was applied for. 
 Early in the day the Liberals made a great display of 
 strength. Sir Charles Bellingham had his telegrams 
 half written out, quite ready for the congratulations 
 which would inevitably arrive in the course of the 
 evening. But, as the hours wore on, that superb 
 majority rapidly declined. It was considered wiser at
 
 234 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 the three Committee Rooms to refrain from posting 
 up the returns. At nightfall there was much horse- 
 play, many smashed heads, and several broken limbs. 
 More violent recriminations were reserved for the 
 morrow, a Sunday, when men, under the influence of 
 drink and leisure, confessed, or pretended to confess, 
 changes of opinion, and qualms of conscience. 
 
 On Monday, in a drizzling rain, a jaded crowd 
 assembled at the hustings, where the Mayor, as re- 
 turning officer, announced the numbers to be as 
 follows : — 
 
 Orange, 3,602 ; 
 Bellingham, 3,207 j 
 Vandeleur, 93 ; 
 
 and further declared Mr Robert Orange to be duly 
 elected to represent the city in Parliament, 
 
 As we have said, the Session had been brought to 
 a close on the preceding Wednesday. Robert could 
 not take his seat that year. He had arranged to 
 spend the summer with Lord Wight in Scotland, 
 His lordship had spoken largely of Hebrew and house- 
 parties. Lady Fitz Rewes and her delightful children 
 had been ordered Northern air. She had agreed to ac- 
 cept her uncle's hospitality for *some weeks.' Robert 
 was just beginning to wonder whether his prejudice 
 against blonde ringlets was not a little unjust when 
 all his plans received a sudden check.
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 About this time, young Legitimists in France and 
 dashing souls in England were roused to an interest 
 in the claim of Don Carlos — 'Charles VIL, Duke of 
 Madrid ' — to the throne of Spain. But a year before, 
 the Carlist cause had been pronounced by those in 
 power — ' as forlorn as a cow made into shoe-leather.* 
 Nevertheless, it suddenly revived. * Carlo Ouinto,' 
 worn out by war, embittered by treacheries and 
 disappointments, had died in 1855. Dead, too, was 
 his son, Montemolin. His second heir, Don Juan 
 of Bourbon, had signed away his birth-right. The 
 new Don Carlos was the son of this last by the 
 Austrian, Maria-Beatrice, Archduchess of Este. He 
 had been born in exile at Leybach in lUyria (now 
 Carmiola). He was, in 1869, a prince of one- 
 and-twenty, a bride-groom— described by his devoted 
 partizans as tall, slight, and eminently distinguished 
 in bearing. His large black eyes had the fire that 
 kindles love and the firmness that breeds fear. 
 Ardent, courageous, impulsive to a fault, head-strojig 
 and inexhaustible — he seemed the very figure to 
 
 235
 
 236 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 disturb the monotony of civic prudence and to 
 inspire the hearts of a passionate people. His 
 marriage with the young Princess Margaret of 
 Parma, the daughter of a murdered king, added 
 yet another touch of pathos to a life already wrapt 
 in romance and linked with all the tragedy, the 
 fortunes, gifts, reverses and follies of the House 
 of Bourbon. This same bride — Donna Margarita — 
 who was called Oueen ' par la naissance et par le 
 cceur' — had a fair countenance which soft blue 
 eyes, a charming smile and perfect manners made 
 trebly lovable. One hears of her — dressed all in 
 black — going from bed to bed among the wounded 
 in the Hospital — saying, ' They are all mine — for 
 they are Spaniards — whether for us or against us 1 ' 
 Spain itself was divided between two great forces — 
 the army and the people. Its fortunes were in the grasp 
 of the army and the army was under the guidance of 
 one mind — that of General Prim. The people, on 
 the other hand, had as many heads as it had com- 
 batants. Each enthusiast went to destruction in his 
 own way. It was a case of ' Vae Soli ! ' The Car- 
 lists have a King : the Isahcllinos a ^leen : the 
 Alfonsists a Prince : the Unionists a Duke (Mon- 
 pensier)^ but the Progressionists have neither Duke^ 
 Prince^ ^een nor King — so runs a contemporary 
 despatch. The Bourbons had been tried, it may 
 be, too long, and to the Republicans no man in 
 his senses would give even the chance of a trial.
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 237 
 
 The Carlists, however, stood for the traditions of 
 chivalry, for the Rolands and Olivers of the heroic 
 age. Prim's harshness was found, even by his sup- 
 porters, both ill-advised and barbarous. Don Carlos 
 — in contrast to this — had issued orders that the 
 men who followed his standard were to be as dis- 
 tinguished for humanity as valour. 
 
 'Choose,' said he, 'such a twenty thousand that there 
 will not be found one coward among them all. But 
 in battle strike great blows, and let there be none to 
 sing ill-songs about us. For the King's right, one 
 should suffer all things, endure consuming heat and un- 
 kind cold, lose life and limb. Let there be woe in the 
 heart of that man who is a coward in his stomach.' 
 
 He echoed the war-epic of France. It v/as the cause 
 of blood and romance against the encroachments of 
 flesh and reason. He was — when the worst was said 
 — the true heir. His wrongs appealed to the old, 
 dying and neglected nobility all over Europe. They 
 went to the soul of every man — whether peasant or 
 aristocrat — who preferred tradition to policy, courage 
 to comfort, and the magnificent thought of the Lord's 
 Anointed before the tangible if treacherous advantages 
 of democratic government. Robert's new ally — Lord 
 Wight, resolved, in common with several other 
 English gentlemen, to go to Madrid. He seemed 
 to be fighting the fights, and thinking the thoughts 
 of the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries. He carried 
 the miniature of Mary Stuart on his breast and an
 
 238 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 unfinished essay on the iniquities of Elizabeth^ in his 
 portmanteau. He spoke warmly of the gallant Don 
 John of Austria and of the brilliant, reckless Egmont 
 till one would have supposed that these heroes had 
 been the playmates of his youth. He was suffering 
 from the dropsy, and every step was torture. Sea- 
 sickness and the August sun, the hardships of travel 
 and an insatiable greed of good cooking could not 
 diminish his determination to be of service. 
 
 * By God, Orange,' said he, when the two left 
 England together, 'after this, your spoonies at the 
 House of Commons will sound like old maids at a 
 kettle-drum ! All this commerce will be the death of 
 Great Britain. Commerce — is the mother of liberty 
 and eventually its destroyer. God Almighty ! If I 
 were but twenty years younger ! * On that point 
 he refused to be comforted till his man reminded him 
 that he was a good shot. 
 
 The night of their arrival in Madrid was marked 
 by a tragic adventure. A patrol of volunteers in the 
 service of the government had their suspicion aroused 
 by two men, who, muffled in cloaks and carrying 
 muskets, were lurking in the neighbourhood of a 
 fort near Loadilla. On being challenged they ran 
 off and were eventually traced to a house in a low 
 quarter of Madrid. The pursuers dared not enter 
 it. But, concealing themselves, they watched for the 
 morning. At daybreak, the supposed conspirators 
 ventured out. The patrol fired. One of the men
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 239 
 
 fell dead : the other was dangerously wounded. 
 The wounded man was the Marquis of Pezos : the 
 young fellow lying dead was his servant. Despatches 
 were found upon both. There was a Carlist plot in 
 Madrid. Don Carlos himself was supposed to be in 
 hiding there. Vainly, the French Minister pro- 
 tested that the ' Duke ' was at Fontainebleau. He 
 was with General Elio in Navarre. He was on the 
 frontier. He was at La Mancha. He was at a port 
 of Guipuzcoa. He was in Austria. There was a 
 fluttering at every Legation. Party animosity 
 corrupted all information at its very source. The 
 Government represented the matter as slight, but 
 the air was sharp with rumours. Nothing could be 
 known for certain : anything might be guessed, 
 except, perhaps the actual truth. But arrests, it 
 was said, were to be made, and this time they 
 would mean more than banishment to the Canary 
 Isles ! Among the names of those involved was 
 that of Brigit's friend, Marie- Joseph -Joanna, the 
 Countess Des Escas. 
 
 The Countess had two residences — a house in 
 Madrid and a Villa at Loadilla — about fourteen 
 miles from the capital. Her town house formed 
 part of a large Convent and Hospital — both of 
 which were wholly under her own control. From 
 her bed-room she could step into a tribune which 
 overlooked the Chapel. A balcony ran the entire 
 length of the building — from her state saloon to the
 
 240 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 first floor ward of the Hospital. She had the right 
 to appoint her own priests, confessors and doctors. 
 There were tv/enty-seven choir nuns and twenty- 
 five lay sisters. At Loadilla — she had feudal power 
 over all the adjacent lands and villages. Her 
 privileges were extraordinary and her influence 
 among the working classes was too great and 
 incalculable — too deeply involved in popular senti- 
 ment and superstition to be lightly tampered with. 
 Her husband had fallen in the cause of Don 
 Carlos the Fifth, but, after his death, she had 
 devoted her interests exclusively — so far as one could 
 judge from appearances — to the care of the sick, 
 poor and aged. General Prim was not the man to 
 hesitate over any measure, but in the question of 
 arresting the Countess Des Escas he realized that 
 violent or even sudden methods would excite a 
 dangerous sympathy. She was not a poor woman — 
 although her numerous charities kept her purse 
 slender. But, faring abstemiously and dressing 
 plainly — she maintained the dignity of her rank 
 by keeping a large retinue of men-servants. Her 
 house had the atmosphere of an official residence 
 and the massive oak doors — heavily carved and 
 studded with iron — were guarded by a sentry wearing 
 the once famous uniform of the Des Escas guards. 
 The marble hall within was hung with old armour 
 and trophies of war, torn flags and battered shields. 
 The empty knights in mail formed a mournful
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 241 
 
 contrast to the powdered lacqueys with their plush 
 and cordings. Every afternoon the Countess drove 
 on the Prado in a carriage drawn by four mules. 
 Gentlemen and officers of her acquaintance would 
 often ride by her side, making an informal but 
 impressive escort. 
 
 On the day after the arrest of the Marquis of 
 Pezos, the Countess drove out as usual accompanied 
 by Brigit. The two women presented a striking 
 picture. The elder had the ivory complexion of 
 her race — with full black eyes and a mass of 
 snow-white hair dressed high above her forehead. 
 Other Spanish ladies of her degree followed the 
 fashion of the Imperial Court at Paris, which, at 
 that date, dictated chignons and ringlets, gaudy bonnets 
 and large crinolines. Marie -Joseph Des Escas, how- 
 ever, kept faithfully to the old style, and many said 
 that she was clothed in heirlooms, dating mostly from 
 the sixteenth century. Brigit belonged to a more 
 frivolous generation and had inherited a livelier taste. 
 Lilac was then considered the most elegant and dis- 
 tinguished of all colours. She wore therefore a lilac 
 silk, a black lace mantilla over her shoulders, and a 
 lilac plumed hat. She had a crinoline also, but from 
 the sketch of her by Millais (some of us may have 
 seen it), no one would be disposed to doubt that even 
 a crinoline can be worn with grace. Her expression 
 was of that brilliant, elusive kind which is the dis- 
 tinctive quality of French women. She had also the 
 
 Q
 
 242 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 Austrian fairness of skin and clearness of feature. 
 Though little known outside the Des Escas circle 
 she was, beyond question, among the few extra- 
 ordinarily beautiful creatures in the European society 
 of that day. 
 
 The Countess, on this particular occasion, bowed 
 as usual to her acquaintances and exchanged common- 
 place civilities with the various officers, who, from 
 time to time, rode up to her carriage, saluted her and 
 looked long looks at her young companion. It was 
 not her custom to talk to Brigit whilst driving and 
 they both sat in perfect composure, smiling at their 
 friends and the bright day. The Prado was lined 
 with vehicles. It had been announced a day or so 
 before that General Prim was about to leave Madrid 
 for Vichy, and every one of consideration in the city 
 had driven out for the last rally of the season. Two 
 large detachments of cavalry were exercising. The 
 gaiety, the crowd, the voices, the richness of the 
 ladies' dresses, the splendour of the uniforms, the 
 strains of the band, the clatter of the horses' feet, 
 the dust, the heat and the emotion became confused 
 into one overpowering sensation of life, and it seemed 
 like the beginning of a second Spring. On some 
 faces one read defiance, on others hope, on others 
 chagrin, on others contentment, on some cruelty, on 
 more mockery, on all — expectancy. 
 
 The Countess remained out as long as usual, but, 
 as she was on the point of driving homewards, one
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 243 
 
 of the many gentlemen who rode up to address her, 
 slipped a small note into her hand. The action 
 was too skilfully done to be perceived by any, and, 
 after a few trivial remarks, he turned his horse away 
 and was soon trotting at a rapid pace toward the 
 Casa del Ayuntamiento. The Countess was able 
 to conceal her agitation, yet the moment was one 
 of grave danger and anxiety. It was impossible 
 under the vigilance of a hundred jealous eyes to read 
 the communication which she had just received. To 
 wait until she reached home might mean, perhaps, 
 a loss of time so disastrous that many lives would 
 have to pay the forfeit. In this extremity her 
 presence of mind did not fail. Fortunately, it was 
 not unusual for ladies, particularly those of the old 
 school, to visit the Chapel of Our Lady of Atocha 
 which stood at the extreme end of the Prado. She 
 gave her coachman a hurried order to drive there. 
 She alighted from her carriage with Brigit, and 
 the two entered the church, where several well 
 known leaders of Madrid society were already pray- 
 ing before the famous image of the Blessed Virgin. 
 The Chapel was dark. A dim light was blazing, how- 
 ever, over one of the confessionals, but it was not 
 sufficient to read by unless one entered the box 
 itself. The Countess waited for some moments 
 in despair, when, to her relief, the priest left his 
 seat evidently to fetch something from the sacristy 
 or to consult his Superior. As though to assure
 
 244 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 any intending penitent that his absence would be 
 short, he turned the jet a little higher. As the 
 sound of his footsteps died away, Joanna slipped into 
 the confessional and opened the note with trem- 
 bling fingers. It was written in cypher. She under- 
 stood its meaning and burst into tears. The police 
 would be sent that night to take possession of her 
 villa at Loadilla. Pezos was not expected to live. 
 He was delirious and talking dangerous matter. 
 She rose from her knees, pressed her palms to 
 her eyes, and, with an unmoved countenance, 
 rejoined her companion. They both said a 
 prayer before leaving the church, and then, 
 with terror in their hearts, they drove homeward 
 through the splendid crowd, smiling with it and 
 upon it. 
 
 The Convent bell was ringing for some extra 
 service as they reached the house. The event was 
 not unusual, for the Sisters were often asked to 
 offer a special prayer for the sick and dying, the 
 tempted and distressed. Yet the Countess turned 
 pale. It seemed to her an ominous sign, and, 
 instead of driving to her own private entrance, she 
 went at once to the side door of the nunnery. 
 
 ' For whom are you ringing. Sister ? ' she asked 
 from the nun who answered her summons. She 
 was told that a patient had been brought there 
 who was too ill to be taken to the hospital. He 
 had been given a room to himself. His groans
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 245 
 
 were so loud and he uttered his prayers with such 
 fierceness that they sounded like blasphemy. 
 
 *Let me see him,' said the Countess. 
 
 The poor fellow was lying on a pallet bed in 
 a small room with whitewashed walls which was 
 usually occupied by the sacristan. He pretended 
 not to recognise his visitors, but, on their approach, 
 moaned heavily and begged for a little wine and 
 water. 
 
 * We will stay with him,' said the Countess to the 
 nun who was with her. 'Fetch him the wine.' 
 
 ' Ah, Luciano,' said she, when the Sister had passed 
 out of hearing, ' what has happened to you ? ' Then 
 she leant over him while he told his story : — 
 
 ' The Marquis told me to take a man and two of 
 the best horses to Loadilla. When I got to the 
 bridge I was stopped by Captain Avion. I had time 
 to give warning to my man and he rode off with 
 my master's horses, but I was taken prisoner, and 
 brought before the General. I told him that I was 
 neither a priest nor a Carlist, but only a poor horse 
 thief, so I begged him to spare my life and let me 
 join his army. I believe he would have taken me 
 too, if some beast there with him had not said — 
 " Vah ! he is one of Pezos's curs and the horses belong 
 to Pezos. He is a spy." So they took me out into 
 the yard, tied my hands and stood me to the wall 
 to shoot me. Then, by the mercy of God, the 
 Mayor, and some of his friends came up and he
 
 246 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 told the General that he knew me to be no con- 
 spirator but a thorough blackguard v/ith three wives. 
 So they gave me a lot of drink, robbed me of every 
 penny I had, broke many of my bones and kicked 
 me out into the road, where I was picked up for 
 a dead man. That was an escape, but there will 
 be worse things coming.' 
 
 ' We must go to Loadilla to-night,' said Brigit, 
 speaking for the first time. She breathed the rest 
 into Marie-Joseph's ear. 
 
 At the Villa, at Loadilla, there were not in- 
 criminating papers only, but a large secret store of 
 bayonets, swords, and ammunition for the next 
 Carlist rising. If these were found, the Countess 
 could not hope for mercy : it would mean death 
 or banishment. She grew pale at Brigit's whispered 
 counsel, but she seemed to give her assent, and, 
 leaving Luciano to the sisters, the two women 
 stole away by an under - ground passage to the 
 private cells — which they used during Holy Week 
 and at times of retreat, and where each kept a nun's 
 habit, coif and wimple in case of hard necessity. 
 They put on this disguise and crept out, unobserved, 
 through the Convent yard. It was not yet dusk 
 and they were obliged to walk by circuitous and 
 dirty streets to the railway station — where, jostled by 
 the crowd, they waited in an agony of apprehension for 
 the slow and over-due market-train bound for Loadilla. 
 On reaching their destination — they trudged to the
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 247 
 
 Villa. The hour was about ten. Above them the 
 sky was blue and starry : they could see the shadow 
 and smell the sweet fragrance of the pine woods. 
 Lay sisters were frequently sent on errands between 
 Loadilla and the Convent at Madrid. The sentry — 
 who stood before the high iron gates of the Villa 
 — permitted his mistress and Brigit to pass un- 
 recognised without a word. All was still in the 
 house : no servant was there. The sentry and 
 his family slept in a lodge by the entrance. 
 
 The Countess and Brigit each took matches and 
 went swiftly from room to room setting light to 
 the hangings. 
 
 ' It burns ! It burns ! ' said Brigit. But the older 
 woman could not speak. They crept out by one 
 of the windows at the back and escaped through 
 the garden into the road, where, a mile or so 
 distant, there was an old wind-mill, long out of 
 use. They reached this at last. The ladder which 
 led up to the loft was brittle and very steep, but 
 the two climbed up — always silent — and, from the 
 top loft of all, they watched the villa burning in 
 the distance. 
 
 ' Dogs 1 dogs ! dogs ! ' cried the Countess ; * we 
 shall beat them ! Wait till the flames reach the 
 gun-powder ! ' 
 
 At first they saw pale garlands of blue smoke 
 winding up toward the stars. Then the house 
 seemed a black cauldron of bright serpents :
 
 248 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 flames filled the sky and soon a tremendous ex- 
 plosion shook the earth. The roof of the Villa 
 fell in, and, stick by stick, the whole fabric was 
 levelled with the ground. For two hours they 
 watched without speaking. 
 
 'We must not forget,' said Marie- Joseph at last, 
 ' that they will come after us. Can you hear the 
 soldiers tramping ? We must not be taken alive, 
 Brigit.' 
 
 * No,' said the girl. 
 
 The wall of the mill-loft in which they stood, was 
 low, and suddenly they feared to look out through 
 the narrow windows for fear of receiving gunshot 
 in their eyes. And all the time, the mill was 
 slowly revolving in the wind, round and rovmd, 
 although there was no grain to be ground. The 
 one sound they could hear was the creaking of the 
 worn machinery. There may have been a hundred 
 men below — or none. 
 
 * It will begin soon,' said the Countess. ' Tiiey will 
 come without a word of warning. We shall be like 
 rats in a trap. But not live rats — never that.' 
 
 Each one made a little pile of hemp and sat 
 down before it v/ith a match — ready at the first 
 signal of attack — to speed the work of destruction. 
 Yet — even with death so imminent — they had 
 dragged a heavy board between themselves and 
 the wall, as some protection against the enemy 
 and the night air.
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 249 
 
 * Do you hear them ? ' asked Brigit. 
 'I think so,' said the Countess. 
 Yet nothing came. 
 
 * Hark ! ' exclaimed the Countess. *They have 
 come. Be quick.' 
 
 Each one struck a match — and yet waited. They 
 were obeying the set plans of many a week. There 
 was nothing to say — nothing to re-consider. The 
 worst had happened — that was all. 
 
 ' Do you really hear them ? ' asked Brigit. 
 
 ' A gypsy once told me that I should die by burn- 
 ing,' replied the Countess. She lit her flax. Brigit 
 did the same. 
 
 The Countess put her lips to the flame and 
 breathed upon it with all her strength. 
 
 * Coax it,' she said to Brigit. ' Coax it.' 
 
 The fire crept like thin snakes across the floor and 
 mounted higher and higher. 
 
 ' But the flax will soon be gone,' said the Countess. 
 'What can we burn next ? Oh, think of something.' 
 She tore oft her coif — it burnt but slowly. ' We 
 want a blaze — a quick blaze — our clothes would only 
 smoulder.' In her perplexity she put up her hand to 
 her head and, in doing so, touched her hair. There 
 were some shears hanging on the wall. She pointed 
 to them and Brigit understood the gesture. She took 
 them from the hook and waited while the Countess 
 shook out her magnificent white hair. It fell below 
 her knees and covered her like a veil of silver gauze.
 
 250 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 ' Quick — quick ! ' said she. It was all cut off 
 and thrown to the flames. How quickly it burnt ! 
 But it did its work. In a second the flames reached 
 the roof and the thatching. 
 
 ' Put your arms round me, Brigit,' said the 
 Countess. 'When we are dead we shall not be 
 forgotten. They will know that there is still some 
 royal blood in Spain.' 
 
 The tears that sprang to Brigit's eyes were 
 scorched before they could fall. 
 
 ' This is war. This is martyrdom,' said the 
 Countess. 
 
 Their faces were transfigured, and that extra- 
 ordinary exaltation which seems to fill the human 
 soul in moments of great peril, great joy, or great 
 despair had made them insensible alike to horror 
 and pain. The boards beneath their feet were 
 cracking, and, from time to time, a tongue of fire 
 darted out from the wall and singed the heavy 
 serge of their skirts. So intense was the heat that 
 Brigit — following a tender impulse, began to fan 
 her companion's cheeks with a soft handkerchief. 
 But what was that ? The shouts of men in the 
 road below. The Countess stepped nearer the 
 blaze. 
 
 ' Look ! ' said she. ' Look ! ' 
 
 The smoke was now blinding, but both women 
 could see the dark outline of a man's head appearing 
 above the stair-way. They uttered the pass-word
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 251 
 
 of the Carlist party. It was answered in a voice 
 that Brigit knew well. Then her strength and the 
 strong desire to Hve came back to her. 
 
 She carried Marie -Joseph — who was no longer 
 conscious — to the trap-door, where strong arms lifted 
 her — with her pitiful burden — to the small room 
 below. One danger was past. There were still 
 others. She saw a wild blaze above her head. She 
 heard the crash of falling wood-work. Would the 
 long worm-eaten ladder which led to the ground 
 bear the unaccustomed strain of that night ? 
 
 'You go first,' said Robert — for it was he — 
 'there are several waiting for you below. Have no 
 fear.' 
 
 She obeyed, and when she had reached the ground 
 he followed her — carrying the Countess. For the 
 rest she remembered only being held upon a horse 
 — which galloped she knew not where. There 
 seemed a large number of riders — all silent and 
 desperate, 
 
 Robert had placed the two women in front under 
 the care of those who knew the countrv better than 
 himself. Prim's soldiers were in pursuit — as Brigit 
 heard afterwards — and if four men in the rear of her 
 escort had not put the hunters ofF the scent by the 
 stratagem of hanging back and taking a side-road, 
 the whole band must have fallen into the hands of 
 the enemy. The gallant four were caught : three 
 were shot dead in their saddles : Orange — who was
 
 252 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 the fourth — was dangerously wounded and left in 
 a ditch for dead. But the lives and the suffering 
 were not given and offered in vain. The rest escaped 
 with whole skins and reached a place of safety ere 
 the morning.
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 When Robert came to his senses, he found himself 
 lying on moist ground — half-suffocated under a 
 weight so cold and unyielding, that, with his scarce 
 awakened reason still dreaming between unconscious- 
 ness and death — he fancied that it was a grave-stone. 
 He stirred, and knew then from the sharp agony in 
 all his limbs that, whether buried or abandoned, he 
 was yet alive. Again, he struggled to rise. This 
 time he succeeded. The weight was the dead body 
 of one of his three companions. The other two — 
 stripped of all save their shirts — were lying a little 
 farther on, face-downwards, in a pool which even the 
 moonlight could not make pale. He found himself 
 standing in a field of stubble divided from the road by 
 a low hedge. The scene was deserted : the grim out- 
 line of the fortress some miles beyond made a blot on 
 the deep-blue horizon : there was not a sound of bird 
 or insect and yet there seemed a sort of breathing in 
 the air as though live creatures were sleeping some- 
 where near. Robert peered over the hedge. The 
 
 253
 
 254 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 four horses had been secured by their reins to a tree 
 some yards higher up, and there, huddled together, 
 they were dozing as they stood. Any attempt to 
 ride back to Loadilla and from there to Madrid 
 would have been madness. Men were no doubt 
 even then on their way from the fort to fetch 
 the animals, which were valuable. The roads, too, 
 would be carefully guarded. Orange's arm hung 
 numb and lifeless at his side. His shoulder was 
 fractured. He had a wound in his leg. To stand 
 upright in that clear atmosphere was to make 
 himself a target for every watchman hiding near 
 or on guard in the distance. He resolved to crawl 
 as best he might over the stubble till he came 
 to some hut or habitation. The field possibly 
 belonged to some peasant-farmer or to the owner 
 of the burnt mill. And the working classes were 
 notoriously opposed to Prim. At any rate — there 
 was a little hope one way : the other way meant 
 inevitable destruction. With the maimed arm slung 
 between the fastening of his flannel shirt he crept 
 along — in pain so great that, but for his pride 
 and the love of freedom, capture in itself — even a 
 shooting-down — would have come as a relief. He 
 had advanced about fifty yards with his one free 
 hand, his face and his knees streaming with blood, 
 when a bullet whistled past his ears. This was 
 followed by two others in rapid succession : he lay 
 still — as yet untouched. A fourth bullet grazed his
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 255 
 
 ear. And then he saw, moving toward him, the 
 figure of a man. Ke felt for his own pistol. It 
 was gone. The figure halted and called out in a 
 boyish treble, — 
 
 ' Do you surrender ? I have ten others with me.' 
 
 *• Who are you ? ' said Robert, 
 
 ' I am a Lieutenant ! ' said the youth. 
 
 *I am an Englishman and I am wounded.' 
 
 ' Did I wound you ? ' 
 
 * Not you. Others.' 
 
 'I have ten great hulking fellows with me,' re- 
 peated the Lieutenant, drawing nearer. ' But — for 
 the love of God — don't faint. Are you for the 
 Government or for Don Carlos ? ' 
 
 ' For Don Carlos,' he said at once. 
 
 The Lieutenant burst into tears of joy. 
 
 ' So am I,' said he, ' but I have no one with me 
 and I'm not a Lieutenant. I am a girl ! ' 
 
 Robert looked at her small brown face and her 
 boy's clothes. 
 
 * And do you wander about alone — like this ? ' he 
 asked. 
 
 ' I have a dagger and my pistols. And I am a 
 Navarraise.' 
 
 * But what are you doing here ? ' 
 
 ' I am watching for a signal. Till it conies — I 
 hide in a hole in the ground. My brother is killed 
 and I have taken his place. Can you crawl a little 
 farther ? '
 
 256 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 ' Not much farther.' 
 
 * Do your best. I can make the ground easier.* 
 She pulled ofF her jacket and cast it over the stubble 
 till, in fearful torment, he had made his way over so 
 much land as it covered. Then he raised himself 
 a little on his right arm, she drew the jacket from 
 under him and spread it anew. This was repeated 
 eight times or more till he reached her place of am- 
 bush — which proved to be a dry well, scarcely a 
 man's height in depth, cut into the earth and con- 
 cealed by little squares of turf and stubble carefully 
 placed on its cover. This she removed. Orange, 
 at her entreaty, descended first and then he lost 
 consciousness. The well was small — two could sit 
 up-right on the bench which had been placed there, 
 but when he fell forward there was only standing 
 room left for his companion. She poured a little 
 wine down his throat and then climbed up to the 
 field to gather some leaves from the hedges for his 
 wound. She found what she wanted and was return- 
 ing when, to her terror, she heard the sound of horse- 
 men in the road. She threw herself on a level with 
 the earth, but it was too late. She had been seen. An 
 officer followed by six riders leapt over the hedge. 
 Without a question or further warning they fired. 
 Two bullets pierced her back. One of the men dis- 
 mounted, rolled her over and sent a third shot through 
 her heart. And so another life was sacrificed in the 
 King's Cause. The trampling of horses overhead was
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 257 
 
 the first sound that greeted Robert's reviving sense. 
 Then he heard a vi^oman's cry of horror and the re- 
 port of pistols. He sprang to his feet and came out — 
 he knew not how — from his shelter. The moon was 
 still so bright that it might have been the day. His 
 features could be plainly seen and the officer in charge 
 of the band must have decided at once that Orange 
 was neither a peasant nor a Spaniard. 
 
 ' I am not armed,' said Orange, ' and I am wounded.' 
 
 ' Are you for the Government ? ' 
 
 Orange looked down at the lifeless body of his poor 
 little friend. 
 
 * For Don Carlos ! ' said he. 
 
 The order of arrest was given. He was seized by 
 his fractured shoulder, and, as they could not tie his 
 arms behind him, they strapped them to his sides. 
 He was in great suffering, but the dead girl on the 
 ground made ail other things seem light. They put 
 him on a horse and led him from the field to the high- 
 road. 
 
 'And what will you do — with her ? ' asked Orange. 
 
 Those who were following, turned back, called her 
 a vile name and kicked her into the well. 
 
 ' To the Fort ! ' said their Captain, impatiently. 
 'To the Fort!' 
 
 Robert leant forward over the horse's neck, and so 
 they marched for three miles when they halted and 
 gave him some strong wine. For he was not to die 
 — yet. The General must see the prize and learn 
 
 R
 
 2S8 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 his story. This was no common prey. At day-break, 
 they reached the fort. Orange was placed on a litter 
 and carried into a cell where a surgeon was soon in 
 attendance. He had a certain skill and he did his 
 work well, if roughly. When he had finished, he 
 laughed. 
 
 * There are two things,' said he, ' an Englishman 
 will never learn — How to love, and how to groan ! 
 You have no feeling ! '
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 In the meantime, the Countess Des Escas, Brigit 
 
 and their protectors had found asylum in the palace of 
 
 a Brazilian banker of Jewish extraction — the Baron 
 
 Zeuill, who was held to be one of General Prim's 
 
 supporters. Officially, this may have been the case. 
 
 Secretly, he remained a loyal friend to certain members 
 
 of the Carlist conspiracy — to certain members, in 
 
 fact, of all the conspiracies. General Prim himself 
 
 had not yet fully resolved on his own course of action. 
 
 There was, perhaps, no especially safe play open to a 
 
 political gamester who boasted openly that he held 
 
 seven kings up his sleeve. He was ready, however, 
 
 to rally to the strongest party willing to accept him 
 
 as their chief; and, until that question was decided, 
 
 it seemed unwise to persecute imprudently the eminent 
 
 among any faction. The Baron Zeuill's wealth was 
 
 great, and, while Generals could be banished and the 
 
 impoverished nobility placed under arrest, it was 
 
 apparent alike to the Isabellist, the Unionist, the 
 
 Carlist, and the Progressionist that gentlemen who 
 
 had money to lend were best left with, a free hand. 
 
 259
 
 z6o THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 For this reason, the land within his gates enjoyed a 
 privilege which no altar, in those wild days, could 
 promise. It was the one patch of peaceful territory 
 in the whole of Spain. But the gates were always 
 barred, and those that passed the sacred boundary 
 came as guests — not as fugitives. 
 
 On that memorable night in August, the Baron 
 had betrayed more agitation of mind than was usual 
 with him. From the cupola above his private study, 
 he had watched alone the reddened sky above 
 Loadilla. His palace stood on an elevation, and, at 
 last he could discern moving specks upon the high- 
 road — sometimes lost to sight in the winding of the 
 way, and again re-appearing. Nearer and nearer 
 they came although they appeared to crawl — black, 
 undistinfruishable atoms with a whole Heaven and 
 its multitude of worlds above them and a great 
 country — to be conquered — stretched out beneath 
 their feet. Still they crept on — mere ants or little 
 toys in seeming — on and on — each with a life at 
 stake and a soul burdened with eternity and ten 
 thousand hopes and fears. 
 
 When they reached a certain point, the Baron could 
 watch their progress no longer. A heavy wood in- 
 tervened between them and his sight. But the wood 
 was within the charmed circle of his estate. He was 
 able to breathe more easily and the hard lines vanished 
 from his usually pliant mouth. 
 
 The sun was just rising when the fugitives — with
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 261 
 
 faces paler than the dust — galloped into the court-yard. 
 The Countess Des Escas had been strapped into a 
 saddle-seat behind Antonio de Bodava — a young officer 
 who became well-known two years later as an aide-de- 
 camp to Marshal Elio. Brigit rode similarly behind 
 the Marquis of Castrillon. These gentlemen — and the 
 remaining four were members of the ' Royal Guard ' 
 of Don Carlos. One of the horses on halting panted 
 heavily and then dropped dead. At this both women 
 who, till that moment, had seemed petrified with terror, 
 burst into tears. 
 
 * That is all right,' said the Baron, * the poor beast 
 has saved their reason.' 
 
 Brigit wept for the horse, but there was another 
 cause for the sharp grief which hurt more fiercely than 
 all the flames of the burning mill. She looked from 
 one to the other of those around her. 
 
 * Are we all here ? ' she asked. 
 
 * All,' said Bodava, ' except four ! ' 
 
 She covered her face with her hands, and the 
 women, who were waiting in attendance, lifted her 
 as though she were a child and bore her from the 
 scene. 
 
 ' We have had a hard journey,' said the Countess, 
 smiling. She had regained, during the ride, a decep- 
 tive strength. She refused all aid — save the Baron's 
 arm — and walked with a firm tread to the apartments 
 which had been prepared for her. On the threshold 
 she paused, looked in, and pressed Zeuill's hand.
 
 262 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 ' I did not think,* she said, * that I should ever see 
 this room again.' That was her sole reference to the 
 perils she had escaped. It would have seemed to her 
 discourteous to speak of political matters to a friend 
 who had to maintain at least an appearance of absolute 
 neutrality. The discretion was characteristic of the 
 woman and the times — when a man's foes were of 
 his own household and father was divided against son. 
 The Baron surrendered her to the female servants, and 
 returned to the officers who — full of youth, excite- 
 ment, information and content — were talking in the 
 dining-hall below. 
 
 * In five minutes those ladies would have been a 
 little heap of ashes,' said Captain Rastro, a little man 
 whose astonishing vivacity and bass voice made him 
 the orator of the group — ' the rescue was a miracle. 
 As for the Villa there was nothing left but this — ' he 
 drew from his pocket a small black and red banner, 
 bordered with silk and gold, bearing the portrait of 
 Carlos VII. 
 
 'I always look for an omen,' said he. 
 
 * And where are the four missing men ? ' said 
 Zeuill. 
 
 ' I don't know. They are young Hausee and three 
 volunteers — fine fellows — I forget their names — and 
 well mounted.' 
 
 * Who is Hausee ? ' asked the Baron. 
 
 ^ Hausee,' said Castrillon, ' is a mystery. He travels 
 with Lord Wight and looks like an Englishman.'
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 263 
 
 * The Hausees,' observed Zeuill, ' have always stood 
 by the Bourbons. I thought I knevv^ them all.' 
 
 * This one is the son of Henri - Dominque de 
 Hausee.' 
 
 ' The religious ? * said Zeuill, with a cynical 
 smile. 
 
 ' Yes. He apostatized and married a Protestant.* 
 ' Where is he now ? ' 
 
 * Doing penance at La Trappe.' 
 
 *I hope Pere Hyacinthe will soon join him!' said 
 Bodava. 
 
 * And the lady ? ' said Zeuill. 
 
 * Dead — long ago. She was disowned.' 
 'Adventures run in the family,' said Zeuill. 'I 
 
 wonder what has become of him ? ' 
 
 Rastro shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 ' He may be shot,' said he, * or he may be a 
 prisoner. But he rides hke four devils and he could 
 not have been taken easily.' 
 
 They were now eating and drinking. During 
 their flight — each man had been for himself — and 
 egoism once strained to passionate excess does not soon 
 relax into its normal form. They were all willing 
 enough to rush out and brave danger again. At a 
 word of command — they would have ridden back to 
 Robert's rescue, but the word had not been given 
 and so they drank, loosened their clothes and rested. 
 
 ' The affair has ended well,' said Zeuill, ' but it 
 was badly organized. Women — no matter how
 
 264 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 clever — are always for desperate measures. Suppose 
 now that you had reached them five minutes later.' 
 
 ' Horrible ! But while there are such women to 
 be saved — men do not arrive too late ! ' said the 
 gallant Bodava. 
 
 ' One thing troubles me,' said Zeuill, with some 
 abruptness, ' the name of Hausee does not appear in 
 any of my papers. It could not have escaped my 
 attention.' 
 
 ' I can explain that,' said Rastro. ' When he offered 
 to* join us he called himself Robert Orange and 
 Dorregaray would not accept him. English volun- 
 teers are a mere embarrassment. They are either 
 mercenaries or writers of memoirs or lunatics. Who 
 wants them ? But this fellow was determined. He 
 tried every argument. " We have yet to learn," said 
 Dorregaray — you know his style — "that England 
 is the friend of Spain or of Legitimists anywhere. 
 She is always on the side of usurpers and rebels. 
 She hates the Bourbons ; she hates all the great 
 dynasties. She would like to see every country 
 in Europe weakened by civil war. I know your 
 cursed policy." Dorregaray is not a man to sugar 
 the truth.' 
 
 * Go on,' said Zeuill. 
 
 *At this, the Englishman, who is a giant, brought 
 his fist down on the table, "Leave England out of 
 the question," said he, " or we must kill each other. 
 But I am the son of Henri-Dominque de Hausee, and
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 265 
 
 if a Hausee may not fight for Don Carlos — who may ? " 
 Dorregaray drew back. " If that is the case," he 
 answered, " I am enchanted but, pardon me, why do 
 you bear the name of Orange ? In Spain it does not 
 spell loyalty." I thought Hausee would die of rage. 
 " That is my business," said he, " but I am Robert de 
 Hausee and I can prove it." Dorregaray's moustache 
 went straight up. " When you have proved it," he 
 said, " you may come and see me again." I am 
 certain that Hausee would have fought him on the 
 spot if he had not resolved, plainly, to carry his point 
 at every cost. He answered very quietly. " We can 
 return to this matter on another occasion," said he, 
 " but in the meantime, I am travelling with a friend 
 who can identify me — the Earl of Wight." Dorre- 
 garay stood up. " Who is the Earl of Wight ? " said 
 he, "we know nothing about him." Here I was able 
 to interfere. I called Dorregaray aside and reminded 
 him that Wight had given a thousand pounds to the 
 Cause. Dorregaray was deeply touched. He went 
 over to Hausee and embraced him. " In these times," 
 said he, " one cannot be too careful. Volunteers come 
 to us — more Catholic than the Pope and more royalist 
 than the King. It is an old story. They demand 
 more attention than Don Carlos himself and they 
 expect to be thanked all day. When the least thing 
 goes wrong, they set up a howl and call us traitors. 
 They send their whines to every newspaper, and if I 
 had my way — I would shoot them as the most
 
 266 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 dangerous kind of spy. But I felt certain that you 
 were a true patriot and a true Hausee. You have the 
 family eye ! " After that they became as gay as 
 Easter ! VVe found, too, that he knew the young 
 Madame and all about the Countess Des Escas. 
 Poor young man ! I hope he was not killed. He 
 would have made a superb officer." 
 
 'If they took him alive,' said Zeuill, 'he will be 
 safe enough, for a few days at all events. You say 
 that he knows Madame Parflete.' 
 
 'Yes — he saved her life. He did very well' 
 Zeuill, at this piece of information, looked thoughtful. 
 
 ' She might be able to tell me about him,' said he, 
 at lena;th ; ' I must save him if I can. After all, he is 
 a Hausee. There are not many of such men left.' 
 
 He called up one of the servants as he spoke and 
 sent him with a message to Brigit. The answer 
 soon came back. 
 
 'If you will excuse me, gentlemen,' said the Baron, 
 ' I will leave you for a little.' 
 
 Two of them had fallen asleep. The rest — 
 including Rastro — were but half-awake over their 
 wine. These tried to rise as the Baron went out. 
 They succeeded in smiling.
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 
 Brigit received the Baron in a small saloon which 
 adjoined her bed-room. Neither grief nor agitation 
 nor fatigue had told upon her youth and splendid 
 health. Her cheeks were burning : her eyes shone. 
 Hers was a nature which faltered only under disgrace 
 — such disgrace, for instance, as her husband's dis- 
 honour and the humiliations which she had experienced 
 at the Chateau de Vieuville, But danger and sorrow 
 seemed to call out her finest traits, and, among them 
 that capacity for devotion to impersonal interests 
 which is commonly held to be less rare in men that 
 in women. 
 
 ' I have just left the Countess,' she said, at once ; 
 'she is sleeping.' 
 
 'I am rejoiced to hear it,' said the Baron, *and 
 
 since all goes so well here, it is a plainer duty to 
 
 wonder how matters may be going elsewhere. You 
 
 know that four members of the party are missing. 
 
 One of them is Robert de Hausee — to whom, I 
 
 understand, we owe the success of this night's ex- 
 
 267
 
 268 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 pedition. If he has been taken alive, I may be able 
 to save him.' 
 
 * If they have taken him at all, he must be dead or 
 nearly dead,' answered Brigit. 
 
 ' Do you know him well ? ' 
 
 'My husband has known him always.' 
 
 'Then I suppose the story is perfectly true. He 
 is a legitimate Hausee.' 
 
 Brigit repeated Robert's history as she had heard 
 it from Parflete. She added, too, all she knew of his 
 career in England. 
 
 'Then why,' said Zeuill, 'should he mix himself 
 in the uncertain fortunes of Don Carlos ? Family 
 tradition, I know, stands for much, but when it makes 
 for ruin — a man brings more distinction to his name 
 by establishing a new precedent.' 
 
 He watched Brigit's face as he spoke, but her 
 expression remained inscrutable. 
 
 ' If we could say,' he went on, ' that he joined this 
 ride to-night rather out of friendship for yourself 
 than for any political motive, the excuse might be 
 accepted. Otherwise, we may have difficulties. 
 Wait before you reply. I cannot believe that in 
 your own case, it is wholly a matter of Carlist rights 
 and wrongs. The Countess Des Escas lost her 
 husband in this cause. It is her creed and the price 
 of her blood. If she had ten deaths to die she would 
 give them for the King. But you are not Spanish. 
 You do not carry in your soul a terrible inheritance
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 269 
 
 of wrongs to avenge. The Seven Years' War is not 
 within your remembrance, I daresay that you never 
 heard it spoken of till you came to Madrid — a few 
 short weeks ago.' 
 
 'How long does it take to know a just cause?' 
 asked Brigit. 
 
 'A life-time is often too short a while,' said the 
 Baron. 'I am an old man, I have spent my days 
 among kings, ex-kings, and pretenders. I have seen 
 the flower of France die magnificently, and I have 
 seen nameless blackguards die magnificently. All 
 I have learnt from them is this — Might may win 
 many battles ; Might and Right together can win 
 most battles ; Right by itself — without money and 
 without friends — counts for nothing.' 
 
 ' What do you wish me to say ? ' asked Brigit. 
 
 'I would like you to trust me.' 
 
 *I do that most heartily, dear Baron. Are we not 
 here — under your roof. You are ctir protector — our 
 friend.' 
 
 'Then answer one question. Did you know that 
 Robert de Hausee was a Carlist ? ' 
 
 She hesitated for a moment, but so serenely that it 
 was impossible to infer anything from the pause. 
 
 ' When I recognised his voice,' she said, at last, ' my 
 surprise was great.' 
 
 ' Did you think his presence — at such a moment — 
 inexplicable ? ' 
 
 'I thought of nothing. It might have been a
 
 270 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 miracle — I did not know. When he spoke to us, the 
 Countess and I were waiting for death," 
 
 Zeuill could not restrain his curiosity. 
 
 ' But what an atrocious plan ! ' he exclaimed. ' Were 
 you afraid ? ' 
 
 'No.' 
 
 ' Surely you were glad to be rescued ? ' 
 
 Her eyes filled with tears. 
 
 ' I marvelled,' she replied, ' at the Mercy of God and 
 His Power. We had not hoped for life. It is just that 
 one or two should die for many. Our secrets were 
 burnt with the Villa. They can prove nothing 
 against our friends. 
 
 The Baron knit his brows and drew some docu- 
 ments from his pocket. 
 
 ' There is another matter,' he said, ' which must 
 be settled also. It concerns yourself and your own 
 safety. I do not wish to frighten you. But your 
 position is dangerous.' 
 
 Brigit looked up and it almost seemed as though a 
 kind of joy transfigured her face. Could it be that, 
 in her heart, she had no wish to live ? Zeuill owned 
 himself perplexed and baffled. 
 
 * I am in communication with your father,' he said ; 
 * His Imperial Highness desires me to put a proposal 
 before you. At this moment, it is one of the utmost 
 importance.' 
 
 A dark flush spread over her cheeks and throat, but 
 she made no response.
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 271 
 
 * Briefly,' continued Zeuill, ' it is this. You will 
 assume the title and rank of Countess Veuberg ; you 
 will consent to a divorce between yourself and the 
 gentleman who so abused the Archduke's confidence. 
 Your life — your girlhood, I should say, will begin 
 afresh and more appropriately. You are but seventeen. 
 Let me entreat you to listen to advice. In order to 
 save you any unnecessary pain, Mr Parflete has owned 
 his perfect readiness to submit to your decision in the 
 matter. He will be liberally provided for. His interests 
 — so long as he avoids Alberia — are to suffer in no way.' 
 
 The proud, sensitive and courageous girl who could 
 meet the peril of a cruel death with undaunted 
 resolution, cowered under this further revelation of 
 Parflete's ignominy. Zeuill, who had scanned her 
 face in vain for any sign of love for Robert de Hausee, 
 now, at all events, read plainly enough her feeling 
 toward the exiled Favourite. Her reply, therefore, 
 was the more amazing. 
 
 ' My father means kindly,' she said. 'I owe him my 
 gratitude and affection. But I have a rank already — 
 for I am his lawful daughter born of a true marriage. 
 I promised him that I would never claim him publicly. 
 I will therefore take such a name and such a title only 
 as my husband can give me. No one, I suppose, 
 would dispute my claim to that.' 
 
 *But it is the Archduke's wish — indeed, his com- 
 mand, that you should abandon that name. It is an 
 oftencc — a degradation to him.'
 
 ^^^^ THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 *■ He gave his consent to the marriage.' 
 
 * In the first place, yes. But he was unaware then — * 
 
 Brigit put up her hand : — 
 
 ' Forgive me. We can say no more on that 
 subject. He may have been deceived in certain 
 respects j he knew, however, that I was his daughter.' 
 
 'Then you refuse both these proposals.' 
 
 'Absolutely. If he wishes to think of me as 
 the Countess of Veuberg — let him first admit to 
 the whole of Alberia his marriage with my mother.' 
 
 ' You know, Madame, that you are making an 
 impossible request. As it is, His Imperial Highness 
 must advance with great caution. It will be under- 
 stood that you have certain claims on his favour 
 — you cannot, in reason, ask him to publish the 
 details of a painful and abiding . . . grief — asso- 
 ciated with his early days in Paris. His affection 
 for you is real. It is an open secret that his domestic 
 affairs are far from happy. His one child is a disappoint- 
 ment — the Archduchesses, his sisters, are disobedient 
 and plain. He turns to you for solace. He remembers 
 — in the bitterness and vexation of State affairs — 
 the sweet nature, the accomplishments, the love of 
 your incomparable mother. Would that generous 
 and noble creature wish you to repulse his kindness ? 
 It may be tardy, but it comes from a broken heart. 
 I cannot believe that your harshness will last. If 
 it is wounded pride, Madame, can you not remind 
 yourself that he, too, has suffered ? *
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 273 
 
 ' God knows well that I bear my father no malice. 
 My mother loved him so dearly that she died when 
 he left her: She died, too, with the laughter of 
 Paris in her ears : she was called a light woman who 
 had danced into the Archduke's favour and sobbed 
 herself out of it ! I have heard all the epigrams 
 — or most of them — that were made at the time. 
 They were amusing : they were lies that were almost 
 true ! And because they were almost true, they 
 killed her. Now you ask me to admit their justice 
 by calling myself the Countess of Veuberg. I 
 cannot do it. His Imperial Highness is kind, but 
 I cannot do it.' 
 
 Zeuill poured out his arguments afresh. He used 
 every force at his command — the skill, the knowledge, 
 the training, the diplomatic arts acquired in a life-time 
 of intrigue. But to no purpose. 
 
 ' Then,' said he, at the end of a fruitless discussion 
 which had lasted two hours, ' you refuse to accept 
 the title of Countess Veuberg because you regard 
 yourself as an Archduchess of Alberia ? You have 
 a very clever and a very charming head, but, in 
 the eighteenth century, it would have come surely 
 enough to the block ! Your claim, Madame, is 
 romantic and untenable. It is only right to tell 
 you so.' 
 
 'I make no claim. I obey my father most will- 
 ingly while he asks me to remain unknown and 
 in seclusion. It is now when he asks me to come 
 
 s
 
 274 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 forward and accept a mean dignity that I must seem 
 ungracious. I begged him to let me retire to a 
 Convent. He would not allow that. What then 
 does he wish ? To give me an honour which insults 
 my mother's name. I will not take it.' 
 
 * Then you quarrel with the Archduke ? ' 
 
 *I hope not. I would have him think of me 
 as his dutiful daughter. I have been faithful to 
 the Countess Des Escas and her cause. I have 
 followed his instructions at every point. He may 
 trust me to the death, and he will not have reason 
 to trust me less, I hope, because I find no reward 
 for my constancy in a silly title.' 
 
 *Your words are meek enough, Madame, but 
 your spirit would not be understood. It puzzles 
 the Archduke himself. Could he hear you now 
 — he would doubt your sincerity. / believe you. 
 Few men, I think, would do so. I yield to no 
 one in my admiration for Madame Duboc who was 
 certainly the canonical wife of His Imperial High- 
 ness. But she is dead and Europe is in no mood 
 to hear of such tales about Princes. The air is 
 full of revolution. The talk is not of rights but 
 of impostures. Where the King of France has 
 fallen, the Emperor of the French will also fall. 
 Mind my warning and keep out of all conspiracies. 
 And now one further word — Can you give me no 
 message tor M. de Hausce ? ' 
 
 *He may be dead.'
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 275 
 
 But if he should be living ? ' 
 
 ' Tell him that we cannot be grateful till we 
 know that he himself is out of danger.' 
 
 * I hope he will trust me more fully than you 
 do — or it will be hard to help him.' 
 
 At this reproach she burst into tears. 
 
 ' Good friend,' she said, with a sob, ' I know him 
 but distantly. I cannot say to you what I do not 
 say to myself . . . but ... if cutting my heart from 
 my body would save him — it would be too little. 
 Yet — and this is the truth — that would not be 
 because I want to see him again. There is no 
 happiness that way.' 
 
 The Baron checked himself in a remark he felt 
 tempted to make on the subject of her divorce. 
 He wished her a good rest and then withdrew. 
 Half an hour later he was on the road to Loadilla — 
 wondering vainly, no doubt, which of three deadly 
 things was the least dangerous — a woman's tears, 
 a woman's protestations, or her incalculable cunning 
 in affairs of love. 
 
 The very frankness of Brigit's last speech was, to 
 the Baron's mind, the one mistake in diplomatic play 
 of a high order. He decided that here, possibly 
 from fatigue, she had over-acted. In her anxiety to 
 conceal her real designs and anxieties, she had suddenly 
 affected a violent devotion for Robert de Hausee. 
 De Hausee was, no doubt, in the train of her cavaliers. 
 But, clearly, she was too ambitious to feel more than a
 
 276 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 passing kindness toward a poor unacknowledged noble- 
 man with little to gain and that still to be sought. The 
 necessity for her divorce and re-marriage was pressing. 
 Public affairs in Alberia were taking a sick com- 
 plexion. The Archduke had alienated himself from 
 the traditional supporters of the Imperial House. 
 Rich adventurers were favoured at the Court to the 
 exclusion of the old families and the better class of his 
 own subjects. The faithful rallied round his young son 
 — an unfortunate lad whose follies and extravagance 
 made loyalty a Quixotic virtue. The discontented 
 retired to their own estates to wait for the downfall 
 of a Prince of whom no man of honour could think 
 well and for whom even the creatures he encouraged 
 felt a secret contempt. The young Archduchesses 
 were rebellious and unbeautiful. The position of 
 Charles in Europe was not so secure that suitors of 
 distinction should come begging for his sisters 
 in marriage, and they were too haughty to admit 
 the advances of their inferiors ni rank. The Arch- 
 duke's project of bestowing one on his Great 
 Chamberlain and the other on the Keeper of the 
 Privy Purse was met with fury. Both of these 
 gentlemen were rich, and they were both impatient 
 to share the flickering glories of Imperialism. 
 Disappointment worked in them so strangely that a 
 touch would have driven their instincts back where 
 they belonged — to the people. In his despair, the 
 Archduke remembered Brio-it. Whv should she not
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 277 
 
 come to Alberia ? His Great Chamberlain was 
 human and beauty still went for something. Charles 
 could make her a Countess. People would not 
 think the worse of him for that. He was con- 
 sidered inhuman and cold-blooded. Recklessness in 
 love — love under any aspect — had never been asso- 
 ciated with his name. The one romantic episode in 
 his life had been concealed by his enemies — for fear 
 lest it should make him even a shade less obnoxious, 
 and by his friends — because they were not proud of 
 their part in the afFair, Democracy — with all its 
 faults — was on the side of injured women. Pathetic 
 stories — with a marriage ceremony in the argument 
 — were best left untold. The Archduke himself, 
 however, seemed bent on a course of action which, 
 had Brigit been a vain or a weak woman, must have 
 ruined them both. Zeuill saw in her refusal but the 
 policy of a bold nature making for the highest prize 
 or none. For himself, the issue of it all was a matter 
 of indifference. His passions and hopes were all fixed 
 on the aggrandizement of his own race and the ulti- 
 mate triumph of the chosen people. To him all Kings 
 and Emperors, Powers and Dominions were as pawns 
 in the great struggle between Jew and Gentile.
 
 CHAPTER XIII 
 
 It was already past mid-day when the Baron reached 
 the fort near Loadilla. 
 
 He was permitted to drive into the barrack-yard 
 — a large piece of ground, in form a parallelogram, 
 surrounded by high walls. These walls were pierced 
 by three rows of small windows at many of which, 
 soldiers, some in their shirt-sleeves and some without 
 shirts, were smoking, chattering, or staring idly at 
 a party of recruits who were exercising in the court 
 below. The vaulted arch through which the Baron 
 had driven ran the depth of the whole building — 
 from the facade to the yard. It was separated from 
 the high-road by ponderous oak doors, and divided 
 from the court by an iron gate. The ordinary guard 
 had no doubt been doubled ; the number of sentries 
 on duty looked ominous, and, as Zeuill heard the 
 door barred and the gate locked behind him, he had 
 reason to remind himself that his impartiality in 
 Spanish politics had, as yet, been too sincere to merit 
 the distrust of any one party. He was received with 
 
 every mark of politeness by two officers and con- 
 
 278'
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 279 
 
 ducted to the private apartments of the Colonel then 
 in command — a man who stood high in Prim's regard 
 and who had, with him, escaped an attempted assassi- 
 nation. He was young for his military rank, arrogant, 
 and burdened by an intolerably heavy sense of his own 
 importance. He was just finishing a meal. Four 
 private servants in livery stood behind his chair. 
 A dozen guards were stationed round the room. 
 Several wines and a number of elaborate yet untouched 
 dishes on the table before him gave testimony rather 
 to his love of display than his appetite. A band was 
 discoursing gay tunes loudly in an ante-chamber. 
 The noise of these brass instruments, the odour of 
 the food, the extreme heat, the numerous flies, the 
 ostentation yet discomfort of the whole environment 
 produced an impression on Zeuill's mind of a state of 
 things not destined to endure. 
 
 'This cannot last,' was his thought as he took a 
 seat at the table. In person, the Colonel was thin 
 and sinewy : in manner, nervous yet overbearing. He 
 received Zeuill with an air of immense preoccupation, 
 and, as he listened coldly to his opening remarks, 
 he interrupted him from time to time by reprim.and- 
 ing the servants, and giving unintelligible orders to 
 the men on guard. 
 
 ' We certainly have a prisoner here,' he said, at last, 
 in a harsh voice, 'a Pekin ! He has disturbed the 
 peace and he must abide by the consequences.' 
 
 ' Where is General Prim ? ' asked Zeuill.
 
 28o THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 *• General Prim will no doubt see you when he 
 arrives. At present, he is probably on his way here. 
 He wishes to examine the fellow himself.' 
 
 'The whole thing is a love afFair,' said Zeuill ; 'a 
 bit of gallantry.' 
 
 ' Marie- Joseph Des Escas is getting a little old for 
 Cupids of that kind,' replied the officer, drily, 
 ' There was another lady in the matter.' 
 'You mean the French blonde? I have never 
 seen her. But Englishmen don't risk their lives for 
 women. You must find a better story than that for 
 Prim. He would like to oblige you — he obliges 
 every body just now — but don't make the favour 
 unpossible. If this young fool has given all his money 
 to the Carlists, that — with the wounds he has got — 
 may be punishment enough. His blonde will find 
 his beauty spoilt a little ! ' 
 
 ' Then he is badly wounded ? ' 
 
 ' What did you expect ? Our men do not go out 
 to capture singing birds for boudoirs ! ' 
 
 'I am aware of that, yet I am surprised, never- 
 theless, at the severity of your measures.' 
 
 ' Why ? ' shouted the Colonel. ' Severity is what we 
 need — we are as a rule too lenient. It is grotesque 
 to shoot the insurgents in one district and make 
 treaties with them in another. / am in earnest at 
 any rate. You know the fable of the two wolves 
 who, meeting one dark night, devoured each other 
 and left nothing but the two tails? If one party
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 281 
 
 does not make a stronger move than the rest — there 
 will be nothing left of Spain but two tails ! The 
 Spanish people choose to throw down the dynasty 
 which once ruled them and constitute themselves into 
 a sovereign people. They exercise a right which no 
 one can dispute. They will not have the Bourbons 1 ' 
 
 * Prim knows my indifference in political matters.' 
 said Zeuill. ... 'He never talks in this strain to 
 me. Besides — would he take so extreme a view ? ' 
 
 ' If he is wise, he will take it,' replied the Colonel, 
 with a harsh laugh. ' The people are sick of Monarchs 
 and court menageries — sick I ' 
 
 The servants and the guards had not been ordered 
 out of the room during this interview. They stood 
 there, with ready ears and stoic faces, silent but by no 
 means heedless spectators of the scene. 
 
 * Prim will never succeed in pleasing every one,' 
 continued the Colonel, 'and I don't mind telling you 
 that if I were in his place, I should direct things 
 differently. He is too amiable. He shoots a man, 
 then invites the mother of the corpse to dinner and 
 tries to make a friend of her. " Have you another 
 son, Madame ? " says he ; " if so I will give him 
 a good appointment." That is his policy in a nut- 
 shell. He has no ambition. This is a moment 
 when such a man must say to himself — "There is 
 just room enough on the Throne for a person of 
 my build." Prim has the opportunity of a second 
 Napoleon. What will he make of it ? '
 
 282 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 * He may be a leader of revolutions, but he is not 
 a Republican,' replied Zeuill : 'he is at heart a 
 Royalist. Nothing will persuade me to the contrary. 
 He knows that men do not kneel gracefully before 
 a Monarch hatched in a Committee-room ! He will 
 give you a King of the blood yet. This is a country 
 of good Catholics, and the Catholics, as may be seen 
 anywhere, are obedient to their lawful Princes.' 
 
 ' I am glad you say lawful^ exclaimed the Colonel, 
 'because many hogsheads of devout blood must be 
 spilt before that particular question is decided 1 And 
 in the meantime our Commander in Chief is going 
 to take the waters at Vichy ! ' 
 
 The door was thrown open. The young officers 
 who had previously conducted Zeuill to the apart- 
 ment re - entered and announced a name. The 
 Colonel rose to his feet and bowed with a certain 
 mock deference to a gentleman, below the middle 
 height, of small and slender frame, followed by two 
 aides-de-camp, who now advanced into the room. 
 This new arrival was General Prim. 
 
 The Catalan hero was then in the fifty-fifth year 
 of his age. His features were regular. The brow 
 was particularly frank : the high cheek-bones and 
 jaundiced complexion gave his large dark eyes a 
 haunting — even terrible — distinctness. But the 
 countenance — though fine as a v/hole — was not, 
 at a first glance, remarkable, and its expression of 
 brilliant melancholy, which was accentuated by an
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 283 
 
 habitual frown, seemed to veil a nature prone rather 
 to self- questioning than self- encouragement. He 
 was one of those men of winning personality and 
 intricate motives, who, from time to time, leap into 
 the furious drama of historical crises to play the 
 part of God's agent or the devil's fool — it is rarely 
 given to contemporaries to decide which. In bear- 
 ing Prim was at once soldierly and courteous. Those 
 who sought to find in him the insolence of the 
 newest idol, and the glamour, were disappointed. His 
 stern uncommunicative lips promised a friendship 
 which might indeed be loyal, but which would be 
 too discriminating to attach itself to many. He 
 seemed to belong by right of mind — if not of birth 
 — to the old implacable type of Spanish Grandees. 
 .It would have been difficult to imagine a leader of 
 the people less likely to be swayed by tawdry ideals 
 of greatness, or so little in sympathy with vulgar 
 notions of democratic freedom. To look at him 
 was to remember the words he uttered on receiv- 
 ing a challenge — after the successful revolt against 
 Isabella 11. — to tear off the crown which he still 
 wore on his kepi — ' The Queen alone has fallen : 
 the Throne is imperishable.' 
 
 As he came in, his glance fell pleasantly on both 
 men, but rather less so on the over-savoury remains 
 of the young Colonel's repast. He went at once to 
 the window and looked up at the sky. Then he 
 turned to Zeuill.
 
 284 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 'What can you tell me,' said he, abruptly, 'about 
 this English prisoner ? ' 
 
 ' He is known as Robert Orange ; he is travelling 
 with the Earl of Wight ; he has excellent prospects 
 in England and is connected with the Hausees,' 
 
 ' That explains his imbecility,' exclaimed the 
 Colonel. 
 
 ' He has chosen to fall in love and perform heroic 
 capers,' continued Zeuill. 
 
 'The Countess Des Escas is a dangerous wild cat,' 
 said Prim, 'and her little mice are mostly rats ! ' 
 
 ' Do Englishmen as a rule know much of foreign 
 affairs ? ' said Zeuill. ' I doubt extremely whether 
 this good creature knows the difference between Don 
 Carlos and the Duke of Genoa. I wonder you take 
 him seriously. In the case of the Countess Des Escas 
 — it is, I grant you, a question of war. But as to 
 that—' 
 
 All three men shrugged their shoulders. 
 
 ' It is amateur politics ! ' said Prim, pouring out for 
 himself a small glass of Manzanilla : ' in these days it 
 costs money to effect a revolution ! This matter was 
 arranged by priests, women and children. They had 
 about two hundred old flint muskets, and perhaps ten 
 thousand francs Des Escas sold all her jewels long 
 ago. My wife bought them. As for our prisoner, 
 the English Frenchman, I have his passport. They 
 found it in his pocket— with nothing else. And that, 
 in my opinion, is the way he arrived in Spain ! But
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 285 
 
 to save time, let us see him at once. It was kind on 
 his part to endanger his life in order to convmce us of 
 a public fact ! ' 
 
 ' What fact ? ' asked the Colonel, with some 
 tartness. 
 
 Prim took a last sip of the Manzanilla. 
 
 'The fact of Don Carlos's pedigree,' said he. 
 
 * Unfortunately,' said the Colonel, 'it is not a 
 question of pedigrees. We want privileges not 
 pedigrees.' 
 
 Prim tapped him on the shoulder : — 
 
 'That sort of talk,' said he, 'crawls far — but it 
 never mounts high. Now show us your captive.'
 
 CHAPTER XIV 
 
 Robert was lying in a dark hot room guarded by 
 a couple of soldiers whose whispered talk hissed 
 through his brief moments of uneasy sleep. The 
 greater part of the time he kept awake wondering 
 about the fate of his companions and seeking for 
 some means of communication with Lord Wight. 
 His own share in the adventure had been wholly 
 unpremeditated. The notion of joining the Carlist 
 insurrection had been as far from his thoughts as a 
 Jacobite conspiracy. In a letter written to Reckage 
 just before his departure from England, he says : — 
 
 *I am going abroad to restrain Wight's enthusiasm and 
 revive my own. Did you ever get up in the morning and 
 say to yourself — " Man are you a prig ? " It's a whole- 
 some discipline. You become desperate. You say — " If 
 I can kill some one I may escape this reproach. If I can 
 kill a number of persons — my character will be saved." 
 As it is I have never fought a duel : I have never com- 
 promised a woman : I have never in my life been either 
 picturesque or dangerous. What is to become of me ? I 
 don't steal because buccaneering has always seemed to me 
 a shabby sport. I don't abduct proud beauties because 
 beauties nowadays are not proud. I am not a Tenor 
 
 286
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 287 
 
 because the whole idea of grand opera and squawking 
 one's emotions is, to me, preposterous. I am not in the 
 Army because I spent my boyhood in a garrison town. I 
 am not a priest because I love the world. I am too poor 
 to be a Blood with any sort of distinction. My health 
 is so good that artistic genius — any genius — is beyond my 
 prayers. In my early youth I wrote poetry : in my old 
 age I shall compose pamphlets. Perhaps my friends will 
 say when I am dead : — 
 
 " Here lies the body 
 
 Robert de Hausee Orange 
 who would have been a great sinner had he dared 
 
 and 
 who succeeded, in spite of his cowardice, in being a dull one." ' 
 
 A chain of accidents — or the deliberate play of 
 destiny — brought Robert to Madrid at a critical 
 hour. Event had followed event with an inconse- 
 quence which exposed men's little laws of life to 
 ridicule. It showed once more the eternal contrast 
 between the thing that actually happens and the 
 spectral thing that ought to have happened — a con- 
 trast hung up between heaven and earth from ever- 
 lasting to everlasting for all impious prophets of the 
 inevitable to mark and profit by. The very word 
 inevitable belongs to heresy, long sermons, and suicide. 
 It is silly and provoking. These and similar thoughts 
 — trite enough no doubt — passed through Robert's 
 mind whenever the pain in his shoulder and his 
 wounds slackened its fury. He had never before 
 felt acute physical anguish. He had never before
 
 288 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 taken part in a struggle for life and principle. He 
 had never seen deeds of blood. He had moved in 
 the -best society and met the most accomplished 
 people and talked of war in six languages with 
 highly distinguished diplomatists. He had travelled 
 in many lands, and read a vast number of books, 
 and was, in every respect, a young fellow of un- 
 common knowledge. Men liked him because he was 
 strong, and women liked him because — with the true 
 instinct of a priestly mind — he found the devout sex 
 dangerous. But with all this he lacked that experi- 
 ence of sensations — as opposed to sentiments — which 
 makes all the difference in one's living of life. The 
 King Arthur^ the Launcelot^ the Roland^ the Amadh^ 
 the Ignatius — all the adored figures of his boyish fancy 
 grew, some paler and some more splendid — for his 
 present suffering. He began to distinguish clearly 
 between the facts of life and the affectations of 
 literature. He found himself muttering m time to 
 the throbs of pain — ' It's all bosh —bosh — bosh. It's all 
 
 bosh but I should like to have had another jab — 
 
 another jab — another jab — at that filthy sergeant.' 
 
 The bit of sky which he could see through the 
 window did not conjure up immortal longings nor 
 send him dreaming about the peaceful bowers it 
 sheltered in other climes. He did not tease his brain 
 for rhymes to passion and despair. His melancholy 
 found its vent in a rage — compounded of jealousy, 
 anger and irritation — against Brigit. She was
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAIN fS 289 
 
 head-strong : she was imprudent : her conduct was 
 indefensible. Why should she risk her life for 
 Don Carlos ? What a crazy plan to get up into 
 that mill. And who was Castrillon Castrillon 
 was an ass — a turkey-chick. Castrillon had a very 
 good time riding off with her — a dashing person 
 in all his best clothes and without a burn. Where 
 was the sense of such conduct ? had Brio-it lost 
 her religion and grown frivolous ? It was deplorable. 
 What a fall ! what a shame ! what a tragedy ! 
 As for himself, he had no wish to live — none. But 
 he would live long enough, at any rate, to have 
 a word or two with Castrillon. . , . And then, 
 the poor little girl in the field ? . . . What were 
 those two brutes talking about ? . . . Would no one be 
 good enough to punch their heads ? Where was the 
 surgeon f He was not a bad fellow — that surgeon. 
 He could jerk a shoulder anywhere. . . ,- Hullo ! Here 
 are three swells, and one is the little beast I saw just now 
 . . . little beast. . . . 
 
 The young Colonel had been with Robert for 
 more than an hour that morning. As the three 
 men entered the room, Orange felt at once that 
 Zeuill, whom he had never seen before, came as 
 an intermediary, that Brigit and the Countess Des 
 Escas were safe. As this news flashed upon him, 
 his natural defiance and good humour revived. He 
 sprang out of bed, stood up, and bowed to foes 
 and friend alike with a high spirit which even
 
 290 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 the Colonel found admirable. Robert said in reply 
 to Prim's first inquiries, that his injuries were 
 slight ; that he was fully able and prepared to answer 
 any questions relating to himself; that he was neither 
 a spy nor a conspirator but a prisoner of war. 
 
 * There is no war,' said Prim, with some grimness : 
 'and there are no prisoners. But the Government 
 is suppressing a few traitors and criminals.' 
 
 The General had no doubt made up his mind — 
 from antecedent investigations at Madrid — that 
 Orange was not a man of political importance to 
 the Carlists. His name did not occur in any of 
 the fatal despatches found on the Marquis of Pezos : 
 he was merely the travelling companion of a ' fat 
 fanatic, el Conde de Wight ' — and fat fanatics 
 were rarely dangerous. Prim who, when he pleased, 
 could show a rigour which did not escape the charge 
 of cruelty, decided that, in the case before him, 
 a sermon would enforce a sounder lesson than a 
 bullet. 
 
 ' You seem to me,' said he, ' a young man whose 
 heart has got into his head. This Government has 
 done everything to save Don Carlos and he has 
 done everything to ruin himself. He is not wanted 
 in Spain. If Spain wanted him, she would have 
 him. No man — no human policy could stop her. 
 Those who seem most devoted to Don Carlos do 
 not like him, and doubt his return. His army is 
 the debris of the old regiments. His loyal subjects
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 291 
 
 belong chiefly to that idle and numerous class of 
 vagabonds who are ever ready to create disturbances 
 by which they hope to profit. They live rather to 
 rob their fellow-citizens than to defend them. If 
 Don Carlos puts any trust in these he is deceived. 
 I am sorry for that young man. He thinks that 
 he has but to appear in the field for all Spain to 
 welcome him. It is a happy imagination to believe 
 that the whole nation longs for his rule. If the 
 whole nation expressed such a wish — I should be 
 the instrument to effect its desire. But that wish 
 will never be expressed by any majority of the 
 Spaniards — either in my day or in yours, or in his. 
 Why then do you — an alien — take it upon yourself 
 to join in a ridiculous attempt to force an unpopular 
 cause upon an angry and outraged people ? These 
 bad jokes must come to an end. Men who persist 
 in playing them will be shot without trial. I regard 
 the Countess Des Escas as a fond, silly old woman 
 who has burnt her villa in order that she may end 
 her days in a mad-house.' 
 
 He then glanced at the Colonel who, in a sharp 
 tone, began a string of questions on the subject of 
 the plot. 
 
 'I can tell you nothing,' said Robert, * because 
 I know nothing.' 
 
 ' Then how did you join the party ? ' 
 
 'There are many well-known adherents to the 
 Carlist Cause living at present in Spain. One
 
 292 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 meets them daily in society. If their names do 
 not occur to you — it is not for me to remind you 
 of them. On that point, I decline to give the 
 least information. You have caught me. But I 
 shall not help you to catch more.' 
 
 ' Then you are not a Carlist,' said the Colonel, 
 ' for their chief industry is to betray each other ! 
 That is why we know so much about you.' 
 
 'The more you know of me the better I shall 
 be pleased,' answered Robert. 
 
 ' How long have you enjoyed the acquaintance 
 of the Countess Des Escas ? ' 
 
 'I think,' said Prim, before Robert could reply, 
 * that M, de Hausee's interest does not lie in that 
 direction ! But for the present this is enough.' 
 
 He looked at the Colonel and he looked at 
 Zeuill. He went out and they followed him. 
 Orange could not decide whether their faces meant 
 mischief or mercy. He sat down on the edge of 
 his bed while the two soldiers who guarded him 
 started singing a song about a conscript who lay 
 dying while his false love danced gay dances with 
 a boy that played guitars. And the refrain went : — 
 
 Ho ! ho ! ha ! ha ! Do you need the sun to see a woman's deceit ? 
 
 Ho ! ho ! ha ! ha ! '
 
 CHAPTER XV 
 
 To return to Brigit. 
 
 Zeuill had not passed the gates of his own Park 
 before the Countess des Escas summoned all the 
 members of her party to a council. They found her 
 seated at a writing-table in her bed-room with her 
 head bound up in a silk scarf and her burnt hands 
 swathed in bandages. The nun's dress had been dis- 
 carded for an old silk gown which had been lent her 
 by one of the women. It was too ample for her 
 spare figure and its bright hue made her face — which 
 had grown twenty years older for the night's enterprise 
 — a haggard, scarcely human apparition. Her features 
 had taken a sharpness, her lips a pallor, her eyes an 
 unanswerable despair that told without reserve for the 
 first time the deathly panics of a whole life spent in 
 loving a sick hope. She seemed to repulse affection, 
 forbid pity and exact fear. The men took their places 
 round the table in silenfce. The young Marquis of 
 Castrillon worked his arched brows and his white 
 hands — but he said nothing. Bodava was moody and 
 
 293
 
 294 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 ill at ease. The others were stolid — even indifferent. 
 Brigit, whose expression showed mingled sorrow and 
 audacity, felt her own courage rise as the men's so 
 perceptibly sank. But she trembled at the stillness 
 for she knew it was a bad sign for any cause when a 
 woman must speak the first word. 
 
 Joanna's glance passed swiftly from one to the 
 other- 
 
 ' To whose crime,' she asked, at last, * do we owe 
 all these disasters ? Why does Pezos wander about the 
 city with papers enough in his pocket to destroy us 
 all ? If God has forsaken us and will suffer our ruin, 
 I will end nevertheless as I have begun. But this looks 
 to me less like the hand of God than human folly.' 
 
 Castrillon, whose voice was soft and melodious, 
 then spoke up. The absent Pezos was his own * good 
 
 cousin.' 
 
 * Who could expect,' said he, ' such a brutal attack ? 
 If people will write letters, some one must deliver 
 them.' 
 
 The four members of the Royal Guard nodded 
 their heads in support of this remark. 
 
 Joanna burst into angry tears. 
 
 'We have lost two years,' she said, 'and all the 
 powder, fire-arms, bayonets, swords and cartridges. 
 We can never get so many together again. We 
 have neither the money nor the means. And I had 
 planned it all so well.' 
 
 * As you have said,' observed Bodava, ' it will take
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 295 
 
 two years or more before we can attempt another 
 rising.' 
 
 * Does Dorregaray say that ? ' asked Joanna. 
 
 ^ What else could he say ? ' replied Bodava ; ' some 
 of our strongest friends are in prison, some are 
 murdered, some are in exile. There is no more 
 money.' 
 
 'Men will do nothing now save for bribes and 
 wages,' exclaimed the Countess ; ' surely for soldiers 
 and statesmen who desire to leave a name in history 
 there can never be a part more noble than to sacrifice 
 every thing to the national good — to God, the 
 country and the King ! I do not reproach any one 
 present,' she added, quickly, *you have all done 
 well and bravely. But we stand alone against a 
 generation of hagglers and heretics. And a Jew gives 
 us shelter — a Jew. I honour his good heart and I 
 blush for the false hearts of our Catholics. As for 
 Prim, he is like Saul. He spares Agag but he hurls 
 the javelin at David. And, like Saul, his death shall 
 be cruel and bitter. Aye ! who lives shall see it. 
 Gentlemen, I do not thank you for saving my life — 
 you have but given me a day more in which to eat 
 my heart and pray vain prayers. God is angry with 
 us or these things could not be. The Cause is lost — 
 it is doomed.' 
 
 The speech had poured from her lips in a torrent. 
 Her voice had become a wail and she seemed to be 
 looking at forms that were invisible to her hearers.
 
 196 
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 She stood up and lifted her maimed and bandaged 
 hands above her head. 
 
 'What man is there that liveth and shall not see 
 death ? ' she cried ; * I am not afraid. Who says I 
 am afraid tells lies. I am not afraid. But teach me, 
 O God, to say, Behold I I have fought and I have 
 failed.' 
 
 Castrillon sprang forward to catch her swaying 
 
 figure. 
 
 'She is very old,' whispered Bodava to a yovmg 
 man with a scared face who sat next him : ' And 
 she has done too much ! ' 
 
 They all went to her assistance. They lifted her 
 on to her bed — and when they looked upon her as she 
 lay there weak, helpless and in a mortal stupor their 
 minds softened and they knew that a woman's soul 
 was passing from the earth. She had always seemed 
 an old, gaunt, terrible shrew — a constant scourge to 
 lovers of ease and pleasure. Her fierce intellect, her 
 impetuous genius and bitter tongue were odious to her 
 friends. The men she directed and browbeat owned 
 her power but hated her restless and reproachful 
 energy. They crept out of the room — leaving her 
 with Brigit and the waiting women who had been 
 called from an ante-chamber. Each man went away 
 to his own apartment to sleep at last without fear of 
 disturbance. That imperious summons would never 
 be heard again. Don Carlos had lost his most vigilant 
 subject.
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 297 
 
 Castrillon was the last to leave. He lingered on 
 the threshold for a long glance at Brigit. But she 
 was kneeling by the friend who had never been to 
 her, or to any creature in sorrow, other than gentle 
 and most indulgent. 
 
 The women attendants — after their kind — began to 
 weep loudly. Two remained by the bed suggesting 
 remedies and ejaculating prayers. The others drifted 
 about the room bound on purposeless errands. 
 
 ' Have you the shoe of Madame the Countess ? ' 
 said one. 
 
 * Which shoe ? ' said the other, with a sob. 
 
 ' Madame the Countess would not touch her supper,' 
 said a third ; ' this is exhaustion.' 
 
 'My brother's wife Christina died this way,' said 
 the first. 
 
 Another sob broke from a fourth who had been 
 crawling under the table. 
 
 ' I have found one shoe,' said she ; ' but Madame 
 the Countess will not need it now.' 
 
 Madame the Countess continued to breathe for 
 another half hour. Her cheek seemed warm to Brigit 
 whose own was pressed against it. But suddenly it 
 grew very cold and the girl — with a new strange 
 sensation of fear- — drew back. The women broke into 
 a loud wail and the oldest of them pulled Brigit from 
 the corpse. 
 
 ' Come away ! ' said she ; ' it is dead ! '
 
 CHAPTER XVI 
 
 The death of the Countess Des Escas though piteous 
 enough in its circumstances came at the best moment 
 for herself and the party involved in her flight from 
 Loadilla. Had she lingered on to suffer banishment 
 or to languish in prison, her wrongs would have sup- 
 plied an unwelcome motive for action to the many 
 half-hearted patriots who were already longing to 
 make some compromise. Ruined, disappointed, and 
 broken in health, her estates confiscated and her 
 authority gone, she would have remained an angry 
 voice, but no longer a power in the Carlist move- 
 ment. When the news of her death was told to 
 the Marquis of Castrillon, he dropped his eyes and 
 said, — 
 
 ' God is Wise.' 
 
 Brigit, who had grown to love her unhappy friend 
 with a deep afFection. winced at the cynical tone 
 underlying the Marquis's piety, but she felt the 
 truth of his words. 
 
 The day passed as all such days must pass — in 
 
 feverish melancholv. No fresh projects could be 
 
 298
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 299 
 
 formed till Zeuill returned from Madrid. Suspense 
 held each member of the little company aloof from 
 the other. A discretion which might have been 
 called distrust set every man busy w^ith his ow^n 
 meditations and forebodings. When they all met 
 at luncheon, it was with a sullen air. In conversa- 
 tion scarcely a sentence was finished. One would 
 begin to speak — then he would check himself. What 
 if Zeuill should betray them all ? This was the unut- 
 terable fear in every mind. Had they tried him too 
 far ? Strange things had been said and done lately. 
 The Countess had dropped down like a poisoned 
 bird. Groundless as these suspicions were and foolish 
 as they seemed even to those that held them, they 
 lent, nevertheless, a peculiar horror to hours, already and 
 of necessity, most wretched. Castrillon, whose light 
 heart could resist all things save ennui, found a guitar 
 and played a while till he remembered that there was 
 death in the palace. ' How tiresome,' he thought, 
 and he next sought to amuse himself by tormenting 
 some of the Baron's pet dogs. Brigit remained for 
 a long time in her own room. But the strain 
 of refusing to recognise the drift of her emotions 
 drove her — toward evening — to seek company. She 
 stole down the stairs into the great hall where the 
 men, taciturn and gloomy, were sitting, some at 
 chess, others at cards. At her approach, they stood 
 up and Castrillon offered her his own seat— the most 
 luxurious there. She accepted it and drew from her
 
 300 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 pocket some worsted and knitting needles which she 
 had borrowed from one of the maids. 
 
 'Why do you knit wool when you could knit 
 souls ? ' asked the young noble. ' I would do more 
 for one glance from your eyes than for all the gods, 
 kings, and countries ever preached ! A beautiful 
 woman may look politics but she should never speak 
 of them.' 
 
 * She should not meddle with them at all,' answered 
 Brigit, * for pohtical intrigues are worked neither by 
 words nor hearts, but by gold alone ! Sentiment 
 counts for nothing.' 
 
 ' And you can say this after our ride last night ? 
 Do you think I risked my life for the sake of Don 
 Carlos ? ' 
 
 ' No, I feel sure that you did not think of him 
 once.' 
 
 * I was thinking solely of you.' 
 
 ' I know it. That is why I am sad. I hoped you 
 were a patriot and I find you are merely a gallant ! ' 
 
 ' Strange woman ! And you are as cold as you 
 are strange. Have you never loved ? Has the moon 
 had nothing to say to you ? ' 
 
 * Too much,' said Brigit, * only too much ! ' 
 
 ' Is there no one ? Who is this Robert de 
 Hausee ? ' 
 
 *My husband's friend.' 
 
 * Ojo ! Is it so serious as that ? ' exclaimed 
 Castrillon, half to himself.
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 301 
 
 * I fear he has been killed,' said Brigit, pausing 
 from her work and meeting Castrillon's inquisitive 
 gaze with a long, proud glance. The young 
 Marquis was extremely handsome, and, in spite of 
 his indolence, his foppery in dress and his undisguised 
 vanity, the type was not effeminate. Brigit defied 
 but she could not despise him. He may have been 
 a laggard in war. In affairs of the heart, however, 
 and in the pursuit of pleasure, he knew neither fear 
 nor fatigue. To look at him at all was to fall under 
 the spell of an audacious, passionate and crafty nature. 
 
 ' Would you smile like that if / had been missing ? ' 
 he asked. 
 
 ' O no ! ' said Brigit, not without irony. 
 ' Did he come, too, for love of you ? ' 
 
 * I hope not.' 
 
 * Perhaps, after all, he is happier than I am. If he 
 is dead, he has forgotten you.' 
 
 The ball of worsted fell down from her lap and 
 rolled away toward young Antonia de Bodava who, 
 from a short distance, had been watching them both 
 as they talked, Bodava touched the ball first, but 
 Castrillon sprang up and snatched it from his hand. 
 The two men had long been seeking some cause fot 
 a quarrel and the occasion now presented itself. A 
 few pointed words passed between them and the 
 incident was full of meaning to every one of the 
 spectators present except Brigit, who, on receiving 
 the ball from Castrillon, tossed it back again in play
 
 302 
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 to Bodava. Of all her friends in Spain, she liked 
 him best. He had paid her respectful if sullen 
 homage ever since her first arrival in Madrid. He 
 bore a certain likeness to Robert, and, true to the 
 perversity of her sex, she showed more kindness to 
 the possessor of that accidental and slight resemblance, 
 than she had ever permitted herself to display toward 
 the original. Castrillon now thought that he detected 
 in her air a secret passion for Bodava, who, while his 
 inferior in social rank, was his superior officer. 
 
 ' Colonel de Bodava,' said Brigit, ' has not opened 
 his mouth all day. He will not speak to me. I fear 
 he is tired,' 
 
 * Not tired — but patient,' replied the Colonel. 
 
 The gravity of his air and tone reminded her for 
 some reason of Joanna's death, and perhaps many 
 other things which she was labouring, with the full 
 strength of her soul, to forget. A sob sprang into 
 her throat. She tried to speak but her voice failed, 
 and, in an agony of grief, agitation, and hopelessness, 
 she rose hurriedly from her seat, forbade them by 
 a gesture to follow her, and walked away to the 
 farthest end of the hall. Bodava, however, once 
 stirred was not soon daunted. He hastened after 
 her, and, with a stern face, watched the tears stream 
 down her cheeks. 
 
 *I must speak,' he said. *I have been silent 
 because I have had so much to occupy my thoughts. 
 Do you realize the danger of your position in this
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 303 
 
 house ? The Countess is dead. You are here alone 
 among six men — all of them devoted to you. That 
 is as it should be. Most of them, however, boast 
 that they are devoted to you. That is as it should 
 not be. Your protector is dead. Her presence might 
 have silenced calumny. But the world is neither 
 romantic nor reasonable. It will see you — young, 
 attractive, responsible to God and yourself only. 
 The world will soon over-look God in the argu- 
 ment and reckon wholly on the devil. I am a 
 soldier and I don't use the language of ballads. 
 But you must leave this place. A woman might 
 be as pure as you are and yet she could not afford 
 to be seen with libertines. Snow once soiled makes 
 the blackest mud. There is not a man here whose 
 character would marry happily with any lady's 
 reputation.' 
 
 Brigit knew the truth of this last remark. The 
 General in authority over the Carlist party in Madrid 
 had chosen such men for the adventure at Loadilla as 
 were remarkable rather for daring than loyalty. Had 
 they perished — their loss would not have affected the 
 moral strength of the Cause. They were neither 
 rich nor powerful and the confiscation of their estates 
 would not have meant a serious hindrance to the pro- 
 posed war. It was commonly, and perhaps rightly 
 said that Castrillon's debts were the chief motive 
 of his anxiety to see a revolution. Rastro was a fire- 
 brand snatched from the Isabellists. The others were
 
 30+ 
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 cadets of good family for whom it was at once a duty 
 and a difficulty to find suitable commissions. Bodava 
 himself, however, had with trouble, obtained permis- 
 sion to lead the enterprise. He was a young man of 
 proved energy and ability. His rapid promotion from 
 the position of a simple volunteer in the Carlist force 
 to the rank of Colonel had been, even in a service 
 where honours were scattered with a prodigal hand, 
 an extraordinary thing. At head-quarters it was not 
 thought well that such a soldier should risk his life in 
 a wild escapade. The Countess Des Escas— who was 
 a rich self-willed woman — had played her all and lost. 
 To desert her, they agreed, would be a crime. But 
 her day of usefulness was past. She was to be saved 
 — if possible. It was not necessary, however, to waste 
 heroes where adventurers would answer the purpose 
 equally well. Yet Bodava carried his point. He 
 it was to whom, with Robert, Brigit owed her 
 present safety. His words, though kindly meant, 
 wounded her pride. It seemed to her that he had 
 presumed to question her prudence. She felt, too, 
 the cruel humiliation to which women must ever be 
 exposed when they venture into the harsh and perilous 
 region of political intrigue. 
 
 Bodava, with the instinct of a sincere affection, 
 divined her thoughts although he could not under- 
 stand her feelings. 
 
 ' To meet men on a common ground,' said he, the 
 more roughly because he dared not be tender, 'to
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 305 
 
 meet us in this way — or in commerce — is a bad 
 matter. Beauty is nothing to us then. Youth is 
 nothing. Sorrow is nothing. Virtue is nothing. It 
 is merely a struggle for power. We do not want 
 women at these moments. We tolerate them so long 
 only as they may be used for tools, dupes or spies. I 
 am a man and I know men. For the love of God, 
 Madame, believe me. Your enthusiasm, your devotion 
 is out of place amongst us. Too often we trade on 
 your generosity and make calculations on your love. 
 I would have saved you from these hard lessons — ' 
 
 ' Nevertheless,' said Brigit, who was weeping 
 bitterly, ' you teach them well ! I did not come 
 here to help any man. I did not risk my life for 
 any man. I have neither plotted nor conspired for 
 any man. That the cause of Don Carlos is the 
 cause of the Church is all I know and believe. My 
 poor friend was a martyr and God must have found 
 that I was not worthy to die with her. So I am 
 here.' 
 
 'It is as I thought,' exclaimed Bodava, *it is all 
 sentimentality. ^i veut la fin veut les jnoyens is a 
 proverb for men. Women think neither of means 
 nor the end. They are ruled by these two pretty 
 ideas — to die with some one or to live for some one ! 
 How they live or how they die does not matter so 
 much till the time comes and then — Bo hoo ! — for 
 whether they live or whether they die, it is always a 
 crying affair ! ' 
 
 V
 
 3o6 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 His peasant blood and homely humour had rendered 
 him detestable to the aristocratic ladies of the Carlist 
 party. The Countess Des Escas had always viewed 
 him with repugnance as an upstart. Brigit, who 
 admired independence of character, had formed a 
 wiser estimate of his worth. But her temper was 
 quick. She had been educated in a school where 
 insolence under any form and in all circumstances was 
 held as an abomination. She mistook Bodava's 
 burly kindness for familiarity. 
 
 'You go too far,' she said, 'you forget yourself. 
 I wish that all my own words to you might be re- 
 called. You could never understand me or any of 
 my friends. Our motives and our conduct must 
 always remain a mystery to you. And the more 
 they bewilder you the more reason shall we have to 
 take pride in them ! ' 
 
 Then, wiping the traces of tears from her face, 
 she looked back over her shoulder at Castrillon and 
 called him with her eyes. He was at least a courtier. 
 He never offered women a gift so uncouth as the 
 olain truth. He came up most readily and smiling. 
 They began to talk together as though Bodava were 
 a lacquey in waiting or a fly on the window pane. 
 The conversation was mere nonsense. It was a silly 
 banter about knitting and names for pet poodles. At 
 the end of five minutes, Brigit wished the company 
 good -evening and withdrew to her own rooms, 
 having worked, as she soon feared when her softer
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 307 
 
 nature asserted itself, much trouble in a party already 
 ripe for strife and distracted by small jealousies. 
 
 She had indeed but passed out of earshot when 
 Castrillon called upon Bodava for an explanation of 
 his conduct. Bodava's reply was a threat to report 
 him for insubordination. The Marquis drew him- 
 self up. 
 
 ' Neither my family, nor my rank nor the honoured 
 uniform I wear,' said he, 'permit me to see a lady 
 rudely treated. I do not deny the laws, civil and 
 military. I do not forget the duties imposed by our 
 holy religion. But I can accept only one reparation 
 for this affront.' 
 
 Both men were strong in hate and hot in blood. 
 Both were eager to satisfy, in some fair encounter, a 
 mutual spite. It would have been hard to decide 
 which struck the other's cheek first. The rest of the 
 foolish drama followed all too swiftly. The whole 
 party, at Bodava's command, went down into the 
 superb gymnasium which was one of the under- 
 ground wonders of Zeuill's palace. Bodava per- 
 mitted Castrillon to appoint his secondc He himself 
 chose Rastro. The consultation between them was 
 brief. It was decided that there should be a duel 
 a primera sangre^ at ten paces and with pistols. The 
 preliminaries and preparations settled, the adversaries 
 were placed opposite each other at a distance of ten 
 yards. Bodava fired and Castrillon answered. No 
 harm was done. They were then stationed nine yards
 
 3o8 THE SCHOOL ¥0R SAINTS 
 
 apart. The firing was repeated. Still there was no 
 hit. They were then placed eight yards apart. 
 This time, at Castrillon's third shot, he saw Bodava 
 stagger backwards. The bullet had just missed his 
 right eye and lodged in the cheek bone. With blood 
 streaming down his face, he presented a terrible 
 spectacle. Castrillon grew so affected at the sight 
 that his heart became like water and his remorse 
 claimed as much attention as the Colonel's wound, 
 which was no light injury. Not one member of the 
 horrified group was capable of giving medical aid. It 
 was unsafe, in the circumstances, to use the private 
 telegraph wires between Zeuill's palace and Madrid. 
 What then could be done ? At last Rastro suggested 
 that, with so many valuable horses in the stable, there 
 was no doubt a veterinary surgeon at any rate attached 
 to the household. Castrillon offered to find him. He 
 rushed out half in delirium and shedding tears. But 
 he returned shortly with the man whom he had sought, 
 and, praying hard, he himself supported Bodava while 
 the bullet was extracted. The farce — as ridiculous as 
 it was ghastly — thus came to an end, so far as the two 
 male actors were concerned. At Bodava's own request, 
 the whole affair was to be represented to the Baron, 
 for the lady's sake, as an accident. The young lady 
 was alone, unprotected and in a peculiarly hard situa- 
 tion. Each gentleman swore to observe absolute 
 secrecy on a matter so delicate. They forgot, how- 
 ever, the surgeon to whom Castrillon, in his agitation
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 309 
 
 of mind, had clearly stated that the shot had been 
 fired in a duel This surgeon was an Englishman — 
 a man of the valet and spying class. Castrillon made 
 him a handsome present. It was the one thing of 
 value, in fact, which that spendthrift still possessed — 
 a massive gold chain that he wore, with a locket 
 containing an Jgnus Det\ under liis shirt. 
 
 'What is your name?' said the Marquis. 
 
 'My name,' said the surgeon, 'is William Caffle.' 
 
 Castrillon then presented him with the cham, but 
 he retained its pendant, for that had been the gift of a 
 fair kinswoman who had taken the vows in order to 
 pray the better for his turbulent soul. 
 
 ' I don't believe in charms and superstitions,' 
 observed Caffle, who, at one glance, had decided that 
 the little trinket was of small worth : ' my pro- 
 fession is against all that.' 
 
 Then he bowed low and withdrew.
 
 CHAPTER XVII 
 
 Baron Zeuill, meanwhile, was anxiously occupied at 
 Madrid. As a result of his mission, General Prim had in- 
 vited him to supper. But the question of Robert's re- 
 lease remained unsettled. The supper hour was fixed 
 for nine o'clock. Zeuill had thus some little time before 
 him for the transaction of other business. He called 
 at the Hotel where Lord Wight was known to have 
 rooms, and he obtained an interview with the Earl 
 by describing himself as the bearer of news from 
 Robert Orange. Wight received him politely but 
 with great caution. He had been led to believe, by 
 information received from a Carlist agent, that Robert 
 had escaped with the rest of the party. He felt there- 
 fore that this was an occasion for the exercise of those 
 diplomatic arts, which, in solitude, he had so long and 
 carefully studied. 
 
 ' I have heard rumours,' said he, ' of some distressing 
 fracas at Loadilla, and it would seem that Orange is 
 involved in it. He is certainly missing. I have com- 
 municated with the British Minister, but at present 
 
 he has no official knowledge of the affair. I am an 
 
 310
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 311 
 
 invalid as you see.' (He was propped up on several 
 chairs. ) ' I can take no active part in the search for 
 my friend. My anxiety, therefore, is the more trying.' 
 
 * I can relieve your anxiety,' said Zeuill : ' Mr 
 Orange has declared himself a Carlist and he has 
 been placed under arrest.' 
 
 Wight did not believe this statement and his smile, 
 v/hich was natural enough in the circumstances, seemed 
 to Zeuill, who mistook it for mere acting, a highly 
 creditable performance. 
 
 ' The arrest is no laughing matter,' said he. ' General 
 Prim has revived the old martial law of 1821.' 
 
 ' What is that ? ' asked Wight. 
 
 ' This : all conspirators against the Government 
 taken with arms in hand shall be tried by council of 
 war on the spot, and executed within twenty-four 
 hours. There is an accident in Orange's favour. No 
 arms were found upon him at the time of his arrest. 
 He was caught half-stript and seriously wounded. 
 He is not well enough yet to give a clear account 
 of himself.' 
 
 ' There is some mistake,' said Wight, growing 
 Hvid, 'some monstrous blunder. If it is a question 
 of a fine or a ransom, I will gladly pay it. Mr 
 Orange is my Secretary — a young man of the highest 
 promise and character — the son of a French noble- 
 man of very ancient name whose wife died at the 
 birth of this one child. He was adopted by friends 
 and it was a condition of his adoption that his own
 
 312 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 name should be dropped, and he has accordingly 
 always borne that of Madame Bestin's family.* The 
 facts of the case were unfortunate but not illegal.' 
 
 ' I am acquainted with them,' replied Zeuill, much to 
 the annoyance of his hearer, who liked all aristocratic 
 origins veiled in brilliant mystery from the vulgar 
 eye. 'I understand, too, that Orange has been 
 elected to represent Norbet Royal in your House of 
 Commons. It is a great pity that he has meddled 
 with Spanish politics. Neither a fine nor a ransom 
 will meet the present emergency — it is a case that 
 will require all my influence. Amateur enthusiasm 
 is dangerous and it must be suppressed with a high 
 hand. Not that I wish to alarm you.' 
 
 'Sir,' said his lordship, 'I am not to be alarmed. 
 An Englishman may know indignation, but never, 
 I trust, fear.' 
 
 Zeuill then spoke in a more conciliatory tone, 
 
 ' My view of the situation,' said he, ' is probably 
 vour own, I don't wish to be indiscreet, but I 
 feel sure that Mr Orange — or to be accurate, M. 
 de Hausee — is more interested in a certain young 
 Senora than in the Throne of Spain.' 
 
 ' I know nothing of his private affairs,' said Wight ; 
 ' your surmise, however, seems to me unlikely.' 
 
 * Have you never heard him speak of Mrs 
 Parflete ? ' 
 
 * Madame Bestin, the widow of Admiral Pertin of the French Navy, 
 v/as closely related to the Due of Orange and Vaucluse.
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 313 
 
 *I think your question improper. But 1 may 
 reply that the lady's name is wholly unknown to 
 me. I have never heard of such a person. If you 
 were to say that Orange had shown a chivalrous 
 spirit out of devotion to his Church, you might 
 perhaps be nearer the mark.' 
 
 Zeuill made no attempt to conceal his im- 
 patience. 
 
 ' Let that report get bruited about and no in- 
 fluence in Spain can save him,' said he. 
 
 The Baron, apart from his friendship for the 
 Countess of Escas, gave no support to the Carlist 
 cause. It was closely allied with the See of Rome, 
 and the whole matter stood before his mind not as 
 a question of rightful succession but as a question 
 of policy. The return of the Bourbons meant, to 
 him, the restoration of the banished religious orders, 
 fresh strength to the Ultramontane diplomatists, and 
 renewed power to the Catholic clergy. He respected 
 the sentiments of pious, high-born ladies, but he 
 dreaded, only a degree less than anarchy, the Papal 
 hand in political afrairs. 
 
 ' Sir,' said Lord Wight, ' is your business with me 
 to the advantage or the disadvantage of my Secretary ? 
 Your tone leaves me in considerable doubt on that score.' 
 
 ' I desire to save a young man — with whose family 
 I have long been acquainted — from foolishness. 
 Armies are worked, not by sermons, but by pay. 
 The Carlist Cause is poor — it can never succeed.'
 
 314 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 *The Bourbons, sir, will reign again in Spain. 
 I will stake my life upon it, sir. And Mr Disraeli 
 — a gentleman of pretty considerable ability — is of 
 my opinion. Nor will I reconsider an opinion — 
 which Christian faith and Oriental prescience alike 
 support. Sir, make my compliments to General 
 Prim and tell him that persecution for an honest 
 sympathy is unknown in England. It could not 
 happen.' 
 
 ' In England,' replied Zeuill, ' you have civilians 
 at the head of the Government. They prefer to 
 wear out their political opponents by interminable 
 speeches. A great military commander would employ 
 briefer — perhaps more heroic — measures ! But I have 
 no desire to raise invidious comparisons.' 
 
 ' Sir, you have already raised them.' 
 
 ' My lord, this is not the way to help your Secretary 
 out of his present difficulties.' 
 
 'Sir, I could help no Englishman by joining in 
 unworthy criticism of the British Government.' 
 
 'M. de Hausee is not an Englishman.' 
 
 ' Pardon me, sir, you labour under a misapprehension. 
 Mr Orange became a British subject some years ago. 
 My health will not suffer me to prolong this discussion 
 further.' 
 
 The interview thus came to an abrupt close, and 
 Zeuill, having offered an adieu with unruffled good 
 nature, went on to Prim's residence. 
 
 He found the General in an ill humour. His un-
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 315 
 
 bounded confidence in himself had led him to make 
 light of the Conspiracy and Don Carlos ' the Simple,' 
 but other conspiracies had come to light at Valladolid, 
 at Pontevedra, in Catalonia, Valencia, and Alicante. 
 Nor were the Carlists so poor as they were commonly 
 thou2:ht to be. 
 
 ' I hear from a good source,' said Prim, sullenly, 
 ' that Carlos has, at least, fifteen millions of reals in 
 Spain, and property too in France and in England. A 
 conquered party will never be obedient for kindness. 
 They must be ruled by fear. And they shall have it,' 
 he added, with a grim laugh. 
 
 The two sat alone at supper, and the servants did 
 not remain in the room. Prim ate little, and his 
 mien was not promising. 
 
 'This man Orange,' he said, suddenly, 'seems a 
 mere pawn. He knows nothing. You may have 
 him. I will give him a safe-conduct and he must 
 leave the country within twenty-four hours. But I 
 shall want an exchange. That little hell-kitten must 
 have her neck wrung.' 
 
 ' Who is the hell-kitten ? ' asked Zeuill, in his 
 mildest manner. 
 
 ' Madame Parflete. She would destroy whole regi- 
 ments. Her husband, on the other hand, is a valuable 
 man. His last letter was a week late and has only 
 just reached me. A most unfortunate delay in every 
 respect. He knew much about all this last nonsense. 
 But the wife is deep. She tells him as little as possible.'
 
 3i6 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 'You will find that she, too, is a mere pawn. The 
 Countess Des Escas rules everything.' 
 
 ' Thank God she is dead,' said Prim. 
 
 This startling news made the Baron as Hvid as his 
 host. 
 
 ' You didn't know that ? ' continued Prim ; ' I 
 found the blessed tidings waiting for me when I 
 returned from the barracks.' 
 
 Zeuill was too discreet to ask the name of the 
 General's informant. There were spies everywhere, 
 and, if Prim's agents were in Zeuill's household, 
 Zeuill's agents were also about Prim. 
 
 'This,' said Zeuill, whose voice showed genuine 
 emotion, ' is a real grief to me. I liked that woman. 
 There was greatness in her character. The Carlist 
 cause will sink with her death.' 
 
 ' It will rise again with mine,' answered Prim. 
 These ominous words came from his own lips, 
 yet, as he heard them, he half-started from his seat, 
 and, glancing about him, displayed a nervousness 
 wholly alien to his soldier habits. He felt that 
 dread, not of human foes, but of the supernatural 
 under which the stoutest heart turns sick. 
 
 ' There is no one here,' said Zeuill. 
 
 ' What was I saying ? ' asked the General, whose 
 hands had grown wet with a sudden sweat. 
 
 Zeuill replied that he could not remember. This 
 was the truth, but the incident and the forgotten 
 sentence returned to his mind with a horrid distinct-
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 317 
 
 ness just one year and four months later at that 
 same hour of the evening, half past nine— when 
 Prim, murdered by six assassins, paid the price of 
 King-making and consummated his devotion to 
 w^hat he took to be the vi^inning party in Spain. 
 
 For a few seconds neither of the men spoke. 
 The room, for all its closed doors, did not seem 
 secret. There was a body to the air, which, now 
 hot and now icy, swept through the sombre apart- 
 ment. Each filled the other's glass, and both, with 
 haunted souls, drank a deep draught of wine. 
 
 ' What would you do with Mrs Parflete ? ' said 
 Zeuill, at last. 
 
 ' If we are not careful,' replied Prim, ' Castrillon 
 or some one of her lovers will persuade her that 
 she is the Archduke's Heir Presumptive in Alberia. 
 She could never succeed, but she could inspire endless 
 risings and insurrections among his Catholic subjects. 
 Europe is swarming with Pretenders who have claims 
 far inferior to those she could put forward. They 
 are very clear — so clear, in fact, that Charles after 
 Duboc's death, re-married his Archduchess privately. 
 I have just heard that. Parflete never throws all his 
 cards on the table at once ! Among Protestants^ he 
 says, in his letter, the first affair with Duboc would of 
 course he laughed at^ hut the moment you call in the priests^ 
 marriage becomes the devil and all hell. Parflete 
 himself seems to brood more than a little over his 
 wife's legitimacy I '
 
 3i8 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 ' He is a man of whom I have no hesitation in 
 saying that I hold the very w^orst opinion possible. 
 That young w^oman's case has been in my mind all 
 day. Her obstinacy and pride pass all belief. I 
 saw^ her at close quarters. Her beauty is astonishing. 
 She looks Hke the picture of an Empress. If she 
 were to stick her head out of a window, every soldier's 
 heart would be in his mouth. England is the only 
 safe place for a creature like that.' 
 
 ' Will she agree to the divorce from Parflete ? ' 
 asked the General ; ' he mentions the matter to me in 
 this same dispatch.' 
 
 'There are easier things than a divorce,' said 
 Zeuill. ' If one made it worth Parflete's while, 
 he would step aside. The marriage was a mere 
 form. It would be sheer theology to call them 
 husband and wife. And whatever it may be, the 
 state of matrimony is not an abstract relationship. 
 I feel sure that Parflete would show good sense. 
 The Church can be counted out on this occasion.' 
 
 He drummed with his finger on his knee as he 
 spoke. Prim presently answered him. 
 
 * I will consider what may be done,' said he, ' but 
 we must not give scandal.' 
 
 * Even at the risk of giving scandal,' replied Zeuill, 
 ' you should act quickly. We can marry her to some 
 respectable Englishman who would plant her in a 
 park, make her the mother of twelve children, and 
 add her face to the family portraits ! I have a person
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 319 
 
 in my eye and within reach who might well be 
 employed in this business ! ' 
 
 ' The divorce must be disposed of before any fresh 
 marriage can be discussed,' said Prim, tightening his 
 lips, ' and in the meantime, I will undertake to keep 
 her out of mischief.' 
 
 'As to that,' said Zeuill, showing equal firmness 
 but a milder air, ' I am under certain obligations to 
 the Archduke Charles. She must remain, for the 
 present at all events, my guest.' 
 
 ' Then, my dear Baron, I regret to say that your 
 young friend — M. de Hausee — must remain my 
 prisoner. A bargain is a bargain.' 
 
 Zeuill, with perfect good humour, made a gesture 
 of acquiescence. 
 
 'So long as M. de Hausee is not shot and is decently 
 treated,' said he, ' I will not complain. He is now, 
 however, a shorn Samson and no longer dangerous. 
 You might give him back to Lord Wight — who is a 
 silly old gentleman suffering from dropsy and ideas. 
 Otherwise — here we are at a dead-lock. I am less 
 than ever in a situation to come forward. I can do 
 little without your co-operation. But if this Govern- 
 ment is bent on working its own destruction, all I 
 have to do is to avoid being buried under its ruins.' 
 
 This speech, at once a concession and a menace, 
 was uttered in a silken tone. He understood Prim's 
 high spirit. Pressed too hard, the General was not 
 without resources. No threat could ever bring him
 
 320 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 to eat his own words. As a way out of the difficulty, 
 therefore, Zeuill offered the suggestion that Orange 
 should be delivered up to the Earl of Wight. He 
 saw that Prim was listening with a favourable ear 
 and he pursued his advantage. 
 
 ' Possibly the Government no longer depends on 
 one or two hundred thousand pounds more or less,' he 
 continued, ' but it has many things claiming its time 
 and its money. Ought either to be wasted at this 
 particular moment ? There is no credit to be lost — 
 there is a great deal to be gained — by giving this 
 young man his freedom.' 
 
 * What is he to you ? ' said Prim, abruptly. 
 
 ' He has obliged me,' answered Zeuill, ' by appearing 
 on the scene at the right moment. And years ago, 
 when a Zeuill needed help, the Hausees were not 
 backward. Perhaps you would like to hear the story r 
 It happened to my grandfather at the time of the 
 Revolution in France. He was flying from the mob 
 and the Baronne de Hausee gave him shelter at the 
 risk — many say the cost — of her own life, for she was 
 arrested not long afterwards and guillotined. On being 
 reproached by her friends for harbouring my grand- 
 father, she replied : "I can never forget that our 
 Blessed Lord was a Jew." She had, you see, her 
 prejudices, and her act, therefore, was the more touch- 
 ing. It is a tradition of our house to support all those 
 who have ever helped us. We never desert old allies 
 and v/e pay our just debts.'
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 321 
 
 He was trying to work on all Prim's passions at 
 once. He reached now, with a single stroke, the 
 General's Spanish instinct for romance, his no less 
 Spanish worldly prudence, and the piety which, even 
 when inactive, is seldom wholly extinct in a true 
 Spaniard's heart. 
 
 'Are your obligations still greater to the Arch- 
 duke ? ' said Prim. 
 
 'That matter rests on quite another basis,' replied 
 Zeuill. 'It is a question of policy.' 
 
 ' Can you explain it ? ' 
 
 ' Upon my word, I do not see why not. To begin 
 with, the Archduke is becoming devout. That is a 
 bad sign for all of us. He is fierce against his sisters. 
 He would do anything, in the name of religion, to 
 spite and humiliate them. He is refurbishing his 
 young sentimentality for the Bourbons. Suppose, for 
 argument's sake, that he should take it into his mind 
 to own this young woman as his legitimate daughter ? 
 There is nothing to prevent it. And what a bid for 
 the old Ecclesiastics who detested his second marriage 
 with that Lutheran ! The church at one time disturbs 
 — at another time, strengthens a government. So far 
 Charles has cajoled the Liberals only, and he is a little 
 sick of their greed. Dying men are desperate, and, if 
 we are not careful, he will throw such a hot brick into 
 both baths, that the two parties will be set kicking 
 and splashing at one another for the next sixty years ! 
 Mrs Parflete need not be injured, but she must bq
 
 322 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 placed beyond his reach. I think this can be done. 
 The Archduke is now labouring to get rid of Parflete. 
 In that quarter, he would be a more promising agent 
 than either of us. So there we may let him alone for 
 a little. After that — ' 
 
 * But you say she is obstinate.* 
 
 * So is young de Hausee.' 
 
 ' What chance has de Hausee ? Castrillon and 
 Colonel Bodava have fought a duel about her this very 
 day. You have taken a bosom snake into your care.' 
 
 Again, Zeuill was placed at a considerable disad- 
 vantage. This was the second piece of news that 
 Prim had levelled at his elaborate calculations. But 
 this time, the Baron did not own his surprise. He 
 maintained a smooth countenance. 
 
 * Bodava,' said he, lightly, ' is a peasant. He would 
 jar on her pride. And Castrillon has been honoured 
 by the love of too many jealous ladies. He would 
 never dare to marry. De Hausee has nothing to fear 
 from rivals of that stamp.' 
 
 ' Shall we send for him ? ' said Prim, drily. * I had 
 him brought here for convenience' sake.' 
 
 He touched a bell as he spoke, and smiled with a 
 look of almost boyish amusement at the success of a 
 ruse which he had planned in order to discover to 
 what a degree the Baron Zeuill and Robert were 
 acquainted. Such was the treachery, the uncertainty 
 of opinions on all sides that men could not trust their 
 own — far less their friends' loyalty.
 
 CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 When Robert received his summons to the General's 
 presence, he was waiting, under guard, in a fine apart- 
 ment furnished with every decoration that a taste for 
 splendour could suggest and a large fortune supply„ 
 The contrast between these new quarters and the 
 squalid cell of the Barracks seemed to justify his fullest 
 hope of regaining a speedy freedom. But his heart had 
 grown heavy and morose. Thoughts of Brigit and 
 what he took to be her imprudence were working as 
 a fever in his brain. How is the gold become dim, how 
 is the most Jine gold changed ! he thought. The devo- 
 tion, which, while absent from her personal influence, 
 he had been able to regard as a delicate supernatural 
 friendship, now, under the stress of danger, jealousy, 
 compassion and hot wrath, showed itself as a desperate 
 attachment not to be gainsaid or conquered. His 
 arms had been around her. He had seen — for one 
 instant— a thrilling happiness in the glance of recog- 
 nition that she gave across the flames of the burning 
 mill. Such a look — bestowed when death was a nearer 
 thing than any human love — could never be forgotten. 
 
 323
 
 324 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 He knew at that moment and from henceforth that 
 they were bound by an ardent and reciprocal affection. 
 Yet his gnawing doubts would not be stilled. Those 
 who have loved, whether happily or the reverse, will 
 know well — without the telling — all that he suffered, 
 and those who have never loved could not believe 
 the extent and folly of his misgivings even if they were 
 set down in a catalogue. If he longed for liberty, it 
 was in the fierce desire to see Brigit at least once 
 again and deliver his mind from the spell of a reticence 
 no longer to be borne. From long restraint, his mood 
 was the more violent, and he seemed possessed rather 
 by a fury than any spirit of kindness. 
 
 When he entered the General's supper-room, both 
 men were struck by his altered appearance. The 
 asceticism of his countenance, which, more than all 
 the evidence of the secret police, had persuaded Prim 
 that his captive was no rogue — still remained. But 
 it was an asceticism gained by strong efforts and at 
 a heavy cost. Robert's real nature — turbulent, rebel- 
 lious, full of troubles and passions — was working 
 plainly enough beneath the surface. His boyish air 
 had gone. The anguish of mistrusting the woman 
 whom he loved had driven youth forever from his 
 face and from his character. A bitter smile played 
 about his lips. His eyes were hard with the ice of 
 unshed tears. Haggard, scarred, unshaven and defiant, 
 his shoulder bandaged in splints, and his left arm in a 
 sling, he did not appear a likely suitor to please the
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 325 
 
 caprice and tame the spirit of a haughty, ambitious, 
 self-willed and beautiful girl. But his step was 
 resolute, and even at such cruel disadvantages, Prim 
 could find no fault with his bearing. 
 
 ' He is a man,' muttered Zeuill, ' and a real 
 seigneur — for he does not attitudinize.' 
 
 ' M. de Hausee,' said the General, * I think you 
 will find that red chair very easy. I shall not detain 
 you long. It is my hope to set you at liberty, under 
 certain conditions — ' 
 
 ' But when ? ' said Robert. 
 
 Prim met his eyes with a curious smile, and, after 
 a certain deliberation, answered, — 
 
 ' I feel that I cannot yet count you among my 
 friends. You are, however, a British subject and 
 my sentiments toward your country are invariable and 
 sincere. I will not forget them unless you force me 
 so to do. But you are reserved and suspicious. You 
 withhold your confidence at the very point where we 
 might become close allies. I am treating you as I have 
 never before treated any political prisoner. I believe 
 you are innocent of any actual complicity in this 
 puerile effeminate affair. You had, I think, different 
 and more manly motives for action.' 
 
 His tone had grown into one of affectionate admoni- 
 tion. He spoke as a father addressing a well-loved son. 
 
 *I offer you,' he continued, 'this opportunity of 
 declaring these motives. I wish you well, but I can 
 go no further. It is for you to advance now.'
 
 326 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 ' What would you have me say ? ' asked Robert. 
 'If I am mnocent of this so-called conspiracy — on 
 what ground am I detained here ? ' 
 
 * You interfered with my officer in the discharge of 
 his duty. You attempted to rescue two notoriously 
 dangerous women who were proved intrigantes against 
 the Spanish Government. It is a serious charge. Say 
 no more about that or we may not end so well as we 
 started,' he added, with a sudden flash of temper. 
 ' This is not a moment for false delicacy. It is with 
 reluctance that I bring a lady's name into our conver- 
 sation. But it must be. I do not ask you whether 
 you are a saint or a chevalier. The great point is 
 whether you are a wise man or a fool Trust me and 
 I will give you my word that Mrs Parflete shall not 
 be compromised, but, on the contrary, protected from 
 the worst consequences of her folly. I have two or 
 three reports before me. One says that she is a pretty 
 woman with an indifferent reputation. Another says 
 that she is a prude in virtue but a martyr to ambition. 
 Can you tell me anything clearer ? ' 
 
 ' What have you to do with me m the matter ? ' said 
 Robert. ' I am here to answer for myself.' 
 
 ' We are satisfied of your honour,' said the General, 
 * we wish now to be satisfied of Madame Parflete's. If 
 you are neither her dupe nor her accomplice you may 
 be her friend At present she needs an advocate.' 
 
 ' What has she done ? ' asked Robert. 
 
 ' A great deal. She is a young person for whom
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 327 
 
 epithets are not spared. She fancies that there is a 
 piece of royalty stitched up in her blood and she seems 
 bent on giving trouble. She is now shut up alone 
 with six young men in a palace in the country. Two 
 officers — the Marquis of Castrillon and Colonel de 
 Bodava — have already fought a duel about her. There 
 is such a thing as army discipline even among the 
 Carlists and that scandal will not drop.' 
 
 Some seconds passed before Robert could reply and 
 then his voice — in spite of every effort — trembled. 
 
 'I cannot accept,' said he, *such a story — or at least, 
 such a version of it. It is a monstrous calumny in- 
 vented by her political enemies. Other enemies she 
 could not have. But why should we talk of her — 
 here ? ' 
 
 ' I regret the necessity , When a lady sets at 
 nought the limits which are drawn round women for 
 their own protection, when she breaks down the 
 barrier between the sexes and unites with men in a 
 conspiracy — she must not whimper for that reverence 
 which belongs only to the innocent and harm- 
 less.' 
 
 'Mrs Parflete is a girl of seventeen,' said Robert, 
 'she thinks still as a child. These scoundrels take 
 advantage of her position.' 
 
 'Inexperienced as she is,' said Prim, dryly, 'she 
 must be aware that a beautiful young woman can 
 have but one male friend.' 
 
 ' Nevertheless,' said Robert, ' her ignorance of the
 
 328 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 actual world is so great that, while her modesty could 
 never be at fault, she does not know the usual rules of 
 life. Her manner is as frank as a boy's. She is quite 
 unconscious of her appearance. Immediately after her 
 marriage, she was thrown by her husband into a society 
 composed almost exclusively of young, rich, idle men. 
 She lacks that knowledge of human wickedness which 
 would enable her to estimate them at their proper 
 value. It would not require any vulpine cunning to 
 deceive her. As it is, she trusts each one of them as a 
 good comrade, and they in turn seek only the grati- 
 fication of their vanity. She is cleverer — more carefully 
 educated than most of her sex — and to a nature so pure 
 and courageous, the ordinary manoeuvres of the drawing- 
 room would but seem insincere — if not worse. And 
 so she is misjudged.' 
 
 ' It seems to me,' put in Zeuill, speaking for the 
 first time, ' that she is endowed with an understanding 
 which, in every scene of life, is calculated to distinguish 
 her. But I am also convinced that she was formed to 
 defy all control. In this instance she may have been 
 edged on by the late Coimtess Des Escas — ' 
 
 ' The late Countess ? ' repeated Robert, stupefied at 
 the expression. 
 
 * She died from the shock and fatigues of her adven- 
 ture,' said Prim, ' I need not tell you the whole story 
 over again. We both know it ! ' 
 
 ' Then Mrs Parflete is indeed alone,' said Robert, 
 with an agitation he could not hide. ' And — where ? '
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 329 
 
 * Is it possible that you do not know ? ' asked Prim. 
 
 * Have you never heard of the Baron Zeuill ? ' 
 
 * I know him by name and repute,' replied Robert. 
 
 * I have never met him.' 
 
 ' Do you think she would be safe under his 
 charge ? ' 
 
 ' I have no reason to believe that he is other than a 
 man of high character. He may know her husband 
 or some of her relatives. The justice of God would 
 not leave her wholly unprotected, and if she has no 
 visible defenders, she will have those that are far 
 stronger.' 
 
 * I see,' said Prim, ironically, ' that you are on good 
 terms with Heaven ! ' 
 
 * My joy of this world has not been so great as to 
 reverse my reason,' answered Robert. * I know that 
 there is a God above us and all our follies.' 
 
 A new suspicion rushed into the General's mind. 
 
 ' Are you a priest ? ' said he, with some sharpness. 
 
 ' Not yet,' answered the young man. 
 
 ' God take me presently if you are not more than 
 half one already ! You speak properly enough and like 
 a good Christian. You have given yourself too much 
 trouble on a poor account. But gentlemen, I think 
 you should become acquainted with each other. Baron 
 Zeuill, allow me to present M. de Hausee.' 
 
 The Brazilian seemed as delighted as his host at 
 Robert's astonishment. He exhibited the pleasantest 
 smile and shook the young man warmly by the hand.
 
 330 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 ' We must be good friends,' said he. 
 
 Englishmen, as a rule, do not appreciate tricks of the 
 kind, and had Robert been less Celtic than Saxon, had 
 he been quick to resent any departure from British 
 manners and custom, the experiment might have 
 proved unfortunate. But he met Zeuill's advance 
 with unfeigned courtesy. 
 
 ' Am I to understand,* he asked at once, ' that Mrs 
 Parflete is at your house ? ' 
 
 The banker bow^ed. 
 
 * I am in communication vv^ith her father,' said he. 
 
 ' In that case,' replied Orange, ' she should need no 
 better adviser. 
 
 ' What are her relations with Alberia ? ' said Prim, 
 suddenly. 
 
 * You must be aware that Parflete was Equerry to 
 the Archduke Charles,' was Robert's answer. 
 
 ' But has she no ambition to cut a figure at the 
 Court on her own account ? ' 
 
 ' When I knew her,' said Robert, ' she wished to 
 spend the rest of her days m a Convent.' 
 
 Both his hearers smiled at this remarko 
 
 ' Would a nun,' asked Prim, * care for the friend- 
 ship of Castrillon ? She has deceived you.' 
 
 There was a pause and the General rose from his 
 seat. 
 
 * You may go,' said he, ' and to-morrow you will be 
 your own prisoner again — no longer mine ! ' 
 
 He rang the silver bell at his side. The two guards
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 331 
 
 re-entered and Robert, under their escort, took his 
 dismissal. 
 
 * Well,' exclaimed Prim, when the door had been 
 closed, ' it is a happy thing to meet with good men. 
 And I know them when I see them. I would never 
 waste one on a trashy woman. It is a bad economy 
 of force. Can you find no commoner fellow for this 
 business ? ' 
 
 Zeuill, in the best of humours, replied that ' with the 
 help of soaring Bacchus he might think of a cheaper 
 plan.' 
 
 ' But,' he added, * you must not forget that we want 
 a succ}s fou. De Hausee has one supreme advantage 
 over all his rivals — he saved her life.' 
 
 ' And in return she will help him to lose his soul ! ' 
 exclaimed the General, 
 
 ' How long, pray, have you taken an interest in 
 souls ? ' asked Zeuill. 
 
 Prim forced a laugh, but his guest did not venture 
 to pursue the inquiry further. He shifted instead to 
 the subject of Robert's destination on the morrow. 
 
 ' Will you permit him to rejoin Lord Wight — or, in 
 view of these other circumstances, may I invite him to 
 spend a few days first with me ? ' 
 
 ' I must consider that proposal. Come to me to- 
 morrow morning at ten o'clock.' 
 
 The interview then came to an end.
 
 CHAPTER XIX 
 
 At a late hour the followuig evening, Robert received 
 his release. He v^^as escorted to Wight's lodgings at the 
 Hotel vi^here he w^as told he might enjoy full liberty — 
 under surveillance. He could not yet be permitted to 
 leave the country. Of his reception by Lord Wight, w^e 
 find the foUov/ing account in a letter to Reckage : — 
 
 *As I entered the room, I observed three figures 
 sitting on the balcony. The moonlight w^as un- 
 usually clear and brilliant. I had no difficulty in 
 recognising the Earl. The other tvv^o w^ere women. 
 One had her back turned tow^ard me. But I knew 
 the small waist and the flaxen curls. It was Lady 
 Fitz Rewes. She stood up at the sound of my step 
 and faced me. Her eyes were full of tears. She 
 looked thoroughly tired. I never knew before how 
 much she owed to her vivacity of expression. The 
 second woman retired into the shadow. At first, I 
 thought I had made a mistake and imagined that I 
 saw her. I could not speak. I v/as absurdly weak 
 and I cannot believe that I was in full possession of 
 
 332
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 333 
 
 my senses. Wight's exclamation on seeing me was 
 characteristic, — 
 
 * " Thank God, you are safe ! I take all the blame. 
 I led you into it. I shall never forgive myself. 
 Pensee, w^here's the port ? " 
 
 *She poured out some wine which I was glad 
 enough to swallow. Several minutes passed before 
 another word was uttered. It was painful to all of us 
 to be ourselves and see each other. There was so 
 great a strain, so severe a restraint, so much that 
 would ever be inexplicable, so much that would ever 
 rest untold, that, to be natural was out of the question, 
 and to be artificial, a sheer impossibility. I told them, 
 however, as well as I could of Prim's kindness, which, 
 in the circumstances, was a miracle. The ladies 
 showed needless alarm over my bandaged shoulder, 
 and it was a relief when they bade us good-night. I 
 was longing for some explanation of Mrs Parflete's 
 presence. She never gave it. I had never seen her 
 so haughty, so impassive. Moral courage is a hidden 
 thing that grows in silence and in silence, too, is 
 broken. The soul may be withered, wounded, slain, 
 and still keep an outward skin — strong enough to 
 deceive at least the cruel and curious. I sought 
 vainly for any trace of Mrs Parflete's real thoughts. 
 I almost persuaded myself that she was incapable of 
 emotion. And so the brave are always ill-used and 
 worse-judged ; while weak women — weak men for 
 that matter — seem to get all the compassion, all the
 
 334 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 help, all the love, I was ashamed of my own un- 
 fairness in condemning a reserve which I should have 
 been the first to praise and understand. When the 
 ladies had gone, each to her own room, Wight wiped 
 his eyes — they were streaming — and half wrenched 
 my one sound arm out of its socket. 
 
 ' " I have been like a blind beggar without his dog," 
 said he. "I telegraphed for Pensee the moment I 
 missed you. She started at once and arrived but a 
 few hours ago. I shall never forget the handsomeness 
 of her conduct toward me. I can trust her tact. I 
 wished, as the French say, to know sur quel pied darner. 
 I hate all these foreigners. This is a ruined and 
 undone country. Everything denotes the impropriety 
 of remaining here a day longer. My poor boy, when 
 I think of all you must have suffered from these liars 
 and knaves ! " 
 
 ' Here he dropped his voice and peered cautiously 
 about the room — for we had left the balcony. 
 
 ' " I was too happy to make Mrs Parflete's acquaint- 
 ance," said he, " but, if I may ask the question, who is 
 she ? She is here with that Jew — Baron Zeuill. The 
 fellow called on me. His saucy pretensions knew no 
 limit. I should take it deeply to heart if you were 
 oiFended at any remark of mine. I am walking in the 
 dark, and may, when I mean to do good, be doing 
 the greatest harm. The lady appears a very distin- 
 guished and highly-bred person. No doubt she is. 
 God forbid that she should be otherwise. God
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 335 
 
 bless you. But it was just a little awkward for my 
 
 niece." 
 
 * He then went on to say, that, about a quarter of an 
 hour before my arrival, Mrs Parflete appeared on the 
 balcony adjoining his own. 
 
 ' " I was talking with Pensee," he went on, " and we 
 were both much startled when this elegant-looking 
 woman — of whom we knew nothing — addressed us. 
 She mentioned your name at once and asked at what 
 hour we expected you. She then gave me her card. 
 I did not know how to reply. I was never more 
 uncomfortable. Presently Zeuill came out — as if to 
 show himself. I was barely civil to him and I am glad 
 to say that he went in. But Mrs Parflete sat on her 
 side of the balcony while we kept on ours. You will 
 own that it was an extraordinary proceeding. My 
 niece exchanged a word or two with her. We did 
 not, however, engage in conversation. I don't see 
 how we could have done so." 
 
 '"When you hear Mrs Parflete's explanation," I 
 replied, " you will find that it was the best course she 
 could have adopted in the circumstances." 
 
 * " But is she really a friend of yours ? " he asked. 
 
 * " She is a lady," I replied, " for whom I have the 
 most profound respect. She would probably regard me 
 as an Equerry-in-waiting." 
 
 ' He seemed struck by the expression, which I used 
 purposely, knowing my man. I then undertook to 
 explain everything fully to Lady Fitz Rewes on the
 
 336 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 morrow. As I said this, we were disturbed by a tap 
 on the window-pane. I looked out and saw Mrs 
 Parflete. She was on the balcony and beckoning with 
 her hand. She wore the same glacial air that she had 
 shown on my arrival, but this time I thought I detected 
 something like desperation in her eyes. It was no 
 moment to stand on strict etiquette. The straits to 
 which she was driven were, I own, compromising to 
 the last degree. I would have given ten lives sooner 
 than have let her appear at that particular moment 
 in that particular way. I hastened to her. She asked 
 me if she might come into our sitting-room. I 
 helped her over the little barrier. Wight offered her 
 his own chair, and then, with a delicacy which did 
 infinite credit to his instinct, he withdrew to a corner 
 out of earshot, but did not leave us alone. 
 
 *Our interview was so painful that I can scarcely 
 describe it. 
 
 ' " Some day before I die," said she, " I shall hope to 
 write down a little of my gratitude, but I have not 
 the courage now to say a word. I must beg you to 
 excuse this intrusion on your friends. It could not 
 be avoided." 
 
 ' Her beautiful voice, which was usually both soft and 
 clear, began to tremble. Her eyelashes were wet with 
 recent tears. She was dressed in black, and the astonish- 
 ing whiteness of her hands, the pallor of her cheeks, the 
 brightness of her hair made up a picture that I could 
 not — even if I would — forget. She seemed too slight a
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 337 
 
 thing to stand against the powers of this world. 1 
 could but think of a little image of some saint set 
 in the sands of Brittany to beat back the sea. As a 
 child, I had built altars around many such, and they 
 are all under the waves now. She read my fear and 
 said, with a pathos that would have touched the 
 hardest, — 
 
 ' " Have no grief for me. God does not abandon 
 those who trust in Him and do their own part in 
 helping His good Providence." 
 
 ' " Did Zeuill bring you here ? " I asked. 
 
 ' " Yes," she answered, " at my own entreaty. I wish 
 to join my husband. Do you know where he is ? 
 He tells me lies now. They all tell me lies. I can 
 trust no one but you. Take me to my husband. I 
 must at least seem to have a protector. I have had 
 to suffer much humiliation." 
 
 * " Those of us who would most wish to resent 
 your wrongs would do you most harm by coming 
 forward," I said, " O, try to understand ! " 
 
 'She flushed scarlet but, seeing that my embar- 
 rassment was even greater than her own, she leant 
 forward, and, with a gesture of exquisite kindness, 
 touched my arm. 
 
 '"I do understand," she answered, "And I wish 
 that I had some women-friends. But they are all still 
 at school. I was the first to marry. Some of them, I 
 remember, thought me fortunate to get my holidays 
 before the time ! Leonie d'Arglade, and Camille de 
 
 Y
 
 338 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 Graville and Caroline d'Etampes are still learning 
 their lessons. I am learning lessons, too. But of 
 another kind. When I next meet those children, I 
 shall not know what to say to them." 
 
 ' " Surely they are of your own age." 
 
 ' " Oh yes — in years. But we could never again 
 be girls together and laugh at nothing." 
 
 ' I saw that the sudden remembrance of happy and 
 untroubled days distressed her almost beyond endur- 
 ance. I returned to our main subject — which was at 
 least a familiar grief and one for which she ever held 
 herself prepared. 
 
 ' " I cannot tell you where Parflete is," said I, "and, 
 in the meanwhile, could you not go to the Convent at 
 Tours?" 
 
 ' Her whole face altered. She seemed like a creature 
 reprieved from some atrocious death. 
 
 ' " I was praying that you would say that ! " she 
 exclaimed. " You would never believe how I have 
 longed and longed just for the sight of the Convent. 
 When I was there I wanted to see the world and God 
 showed it to me. O take me away from these people. 
 They are stronger than I am and they frighten me. 
 I feel my weakness. While I am with them, I try to 
 look bold and clever. But my heart always trembles 
 and I know that, in the end, no matter how well I 
 fight, I must lose the day. They are not wicked 
 from frailty, but by design, by principle, by maxims. 
 I am like a small bird on a battle-field. I am like a
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS -339 
 
 mouse among vultures. There is no chance — no 
 hope. I must not only die — but I must be beaten 
 first. And it will not be the death of a martyr. It 
 will be the death of one who was not strong enough 
 to live alone." 
 
 *The idea flashed into my mind that Lady Fitz 
 Rewes might be induced to help this unhappy, friend- 
 less, and inexperienced girl. It is a common belief 
 with men that women but add, when they can, to 
 each other's sufferings, and I have been forced, by 
 observation, to endorse this cynical estimate of female 
 charity — in the rough. There is, however, another 
 sort of charity which is part of the chivalrous spirit — 
 and that, I have always thought, was stronger in Lady 
 Fitz Rewes than the little natural cruelties which 
 belong not to any one sex more than another, but to 
 human nature as a whole. I decided to make my 
 first essay in the matter with Mrs Parflete herself. 
 
 '"Did you happen to notice Lord Wight's niece ?" 
 I asked. 
 
 ' " A pretty creature but rather cold." 
 
 *"Ah, that is her English manner." 
 
 ' " No doubt. If you like her, I am sure she must 
 be delightful." 
 
 ' " She is older than you are, and I believe you would 
 find her a kind, true friend." 
 
 ' " One cannot force friendships. . . . And do not 
 remind her that she is older than I am." 
 
 * This did not sound promising.
 
 340 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 ' " Why ! " said I, " do two women about to meet 
 always assume that they will repulse each other ? " 
 
 * " It is an old grudge against Eve. Every woman 
 — until we know her — represents Eve." 
 
 ' " There was a second Eve." 
 
 ' " Ah, our Blessed Lady ! But she had no daughters." 
 
 ' It was pleasant to see even a momentary return of 
 her true courage and gaiety. Despondency sat sick 
 and awkwardly upon her. She had been born for 
 laughter and fair gardens, summer days, bright nights, 
 and scenes of joy. She was a Princess for my King- 
 dom under the sea. This world, I know, is the place of 
 our exile and not our country — not a continuing city. 
 But how hard it is to remember this. . . . Sometimes 
 I fear that I do wrong to think of her at all. There is 
 no harm, however, in dreaming. One may always 
 dream. ... As I watched her beautiful face, I must 
 have lost myself in wondering — for she accused me of 
 inattention. 
 
 ' " You do not hear what I am saying," she said, " or 
 else you will not hear. Lady Fitz Rewes does not 
 care for me. She thinks I am a foreigner. When I 
 spoke to Lord Wight and mentioned my name, she 
 stared very hard at my wedding ring, as though I had 
 stolen a husband from some nice English woman ! " 
 
 ' I could well imagine the glance. All aliens married 
 to Englishmen must submit to it. But it means no 
 malice, 
 
 "'I feel certain," I insisted, "that you will under-
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 341 
 
 stand each other. There are many nations and many 
 ways of being foolish with strangers, but when it 
 comes to a question of heart, a lady is a lady in every 
 language." 
 
 ' " She has beautiful eyes," said Mrs Parflete. 
 
 ' " And surely something more." 
 
 ' " She was gentle with her uncle. ... I thought 
 her smile very pretty. ... I liked her voice. 
 . . Her step was light. . . . Do you like her ? " 
 
 ' " She has been the kindest of friends," I replied. 
 
 '" Then, of course, she is charming. She must be 
 charming." 
 
 ' " Her husband died when she was little more than a 
 girl. She married at your age." 
 
 ' " Poor child ! Had she, too, lost her mother ? ' 
 
 'The unconscious pathos of this question — spoken 
 without bitterness and in perfect simplicity — was as 
 much as I could bear. 
 
 * " She has had many sorrows," I said, " few 
 people know how many." 
 
 ' " Did she love her husband ? " 
 
 ' " I believe so — and very dearly." 
 
 '"If marriage is not for Heaven," she exclaimed, 
 "I wonder why all its laws are made there ! On 
 earth, when two people are happy, one is soon 
 taken and the mourner is told not to weep — for 
 they shall surely meet again hereafter. But when 
 two people are wretched and their union is a 
 bondage, they are taught to endure each other
 
 \) 
 
 342 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 patiently in this world — which is brief — because 
 they shall be separated in the next — which is 
 eternal ! " 
 
 'In every woman, raillery is either a cutting 
 business directed towards the secret thoughts of 
 other people, or else — that act of supreme treachery 
 — the betrayal of her own. The least trustworthy 
 may be believed when she indulges in this danger- 
 ous exercise of the wits — for, while men are known 
 by their friends, women are known by their jests. 
 For the first time, therefore, I realised the great 
 change that had taken place in Mrs Parflete's 
 character during her stay in Madrid. She had 
 gained in fascination, in knowledge, perhaps — if that 
 were possible — in beauty, but she had lost the 
 peculiar reserve which I admired even more than 
 her appearance — that, after all, is on the surface 
 and for all eyes. She used to talk with a certain 
 difficulty, but now, probably from the example of 
 the Countess Des Escas and constant mixing with 
 society, she has an assurance and ease most winning, 
 I admit, and yet — You know that I have never 
 liked women of fashion. To say that Mrs Parflete 
 is anything so hard would be unjust. She is my 
 ideal of all that is gentle. But when a girl is 
 naturally tall and imperious, when her features are 
 of a proud cast and her expression rather mocking 
 than otherwise, she is better for a little weakness 
 in will and speech.
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 343 
 
 '"You think," she said, suddenly, "that it would 
 be well for me to lose no time on my way to the 
 Convent ? I feel here, in my heart, all the reproaches 
 you will not speak aloud. You wish me to show a 
 blind submission to whatever others may call the 
 Most Holy Will of God. Surely there is much 
 done in the world that is against God's Will. He 
 permits the devil's mischief, but we know that it is 
 odious in His sight. I cannot therefore sing songs of 
 thanksgiving for the plagues of Hell. I pray for the 
 strength to endure them. I cannot call suffering a 
 joy, and corruption Heaven's good blessing. That 
 would be the language of hypocrisy — not resignation. 
 O, what a kind of life is this ! If Our Blessed Lord 
 had not gone before us and taught us the way of it, 
 who would have cared to follow ? " 
 
 ' Then, with a strong effort, she changed her tone. 
 
 ' " Zeuill is in there," she said, pointing toward the 
 next room, which was also a private salon such as the 
 one we were then occupying. " He knows that I 
 am talking to you. But he does not know that I 
 wish to go to Tours." 
 
 * " The one person who can help us," I replied, 
 "is Lady Fitz Rewes." 
 
 '"Till to-morrow then," said she. "At nine 
 o'clock — here." 
 
 ' She touched my hand and bowed to Lord Wight 
 who was still in his corner. Before he could come 
 forward, she had passed through the window and dis-
 
 344 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 appeared, leaving me in the deepest vexation and 
 perplexity. The Earl seemed to understand that 
 he could best prove his trust in me by w^ishing me, 
 without more w^ords, good-night. He told me the 
 number of my room. We took up our candles in 
 silence, lit them, and vi^ent each our own way. I 
 write all this down while it is fresh in my memory. 
 It contains everything that passed during the inter- 
 view between myself and Mrs Parflete. I send it to 
 you because I have confidence in your discretion, 
 and, should anything ever happen to me, you would 
 know how to defend — in the event of misrepresenta- 
 tions — an innocent woman. I am very tired I 
 hope to sleep. Your ever affectionate, 
 
 ' Robert De H. Orange.' 
 
 While Robert was writing to his friend, the Baron 
 Zeuill was in close conversation with the Archduke's 
 agent in Madrid, a person who exercised ostensibly 
 the trade of a dealer in silks. He was thought to 
 be of Polish origin. His name was Mudara. His 
 character was honest : he lived humbly, troubling 
 no man and exciting no woman's curiosity. He 
 kept to his own circle and was held in esteem by 
 all his customers — among whom was included, during 
 her lifetime, the Countess Des Escas. Zeuill and 
 this respected individual sat in the room from which 
 Brigit had stepped on to Wight's balcony. The 
 windows were now closed, the shutters fastened, the
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 345 
 
 curtains drawn. From a curious statement, written 
 some years ago by Mudara himself, we are enabled 
 to form some idea of the conversation that took place. 
 The Baron lost no time in coming to the point. He 
 said that he saw no reason why Parflete should not 
 be regarded as dead — to society. He could change 
 his name and disappear. He might charge any fair 
 price for the inconvenience. Mudara, in reply, saw 
 difficulties in the path, Parflete, he declared, soon 
 grew tired of any game. He might agree to some 
 scheme, accept wages for carrying it into execution, 
 and, when the money was spent, work for higher pay 
 — or merely for variety's sake — in a wholly opposite 
 direction. One could place no reliance in him. He 
 was not even consistently mercenary. Bribes did not 
 always tempt him. Fie had more moods and caprices 
 than a woman. 
 
 ' What does that matter ? ' said Zeuill : ' let me 
 once hear that he is dead — and I v/ill ask no more. 
 He may have a dozen resurrections afterwards.' 
 
 But, so Mudara msisted, the Archduke Charles was 
 equally uncertain. He was now sending his thoughts 
 toward the next world. He had lately shown great 
 civilities to the Cardinal. It would be a dangerous 
 business to suggest — ' 
 
 ' Suggest ? ' interrupted Zeuill, * who would suggest 
 in such a matter ? The thing is to act. If you and 
 I cannot manage this alone, the Archduke had better 
 entrust his affairs elsewhere. One need not run to
 
 h6 the school for saints 
 
 him with every trifling detail. In the distance, one 
 cannot judge correctly of reasons for or against a 
 plan.' 
 
 The conference went on until the dawn — Mudara 
 always showing himself cautious, Zeuill always show- 
 ing himself sanguine. Letters were drafted and 
 destroyed. Calculations were made, amended, 
 abandoned and again considered. At last, how- 
 ever, the two men came to an agreement. Parflete 
 was to be 'approached.' Mrs Parflete in the mean- 
 while was to be sent to England. The Archduke 
 was to be informed that, in all respects, his own 
 interests and his daughter's happiness were about to 
 take a more promising aspect.
 
 CHAPTER XX 
 
 Early next morning, before the horizon had whitened 
 with the day-light, Lady Fitz Rewes was watching at 
 her window, wondering why the birds were so still 
 (they were twittering from every roof), and why there 
 was no breeze (it was blowing freshly) to cool the 
 fever in her cheeks. Neither imagination nor senti- 
 mental philosophy had a part in her unhappiness 
 which, as a child's grief, had a clear cause and one 
 which she had no wish or will to disguise from herself. 
 She loved and she was jealous. She had a rival whose 
 charm was far greater than her own and who was also, 
 by more than a few years, her junior. Pensee could 
 not reflect deeply on the subject nor distract her heart 
 by studying, after the manner of moralizing ladies, 
 the actual quality of her own anguish. She could 
 but suffer, tremble, weep and endure — forgetting her 
 looks, unmindful of revenge, uncomplaining against 
 God, very miserable, yet, in her soul, as gentle toward 
 the world as some wounded pigeon fallen into a thicket. 
 She said her prayers and read — with her eyes at least 
 — the Lessons. She looked at the photographs of her 
 
 347
 
 348 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 children and the miniature of the late Viscount. 
 Shedding tears over the latter, she recalled his ex- 
 cellent virtues and many acts of kindness. He was 
 such a good man and he felt so much for everybody 
 and he was always nice to women. He suffered when 
 he saw others do wrong ; his view of Christianity was 
 one of the finest, warmest and most beautiful she had 
 ever, ever known. His was a singularly delicate- 
 minded, pure, true, unselfish nature, so full of con- 
 sideration for his family and friends, so generous. O, 
 to be worthier of such a husband ! When he lay 
 dying, she had knelt by his side and prayed the Lord's 
 Prayer for him. And afterwards he asked for a Hymn 
 and she and the two children tried to sing one verse of 
 ' Abide with me.' It was so touching — so agonizing. 
 His whole life had been consecrated to duty — cheer- 
 fully and quietly carried out. But now he was at rest, 
 free from pain and from every evil to come, and she 
 could feel, for his sake, resigned. There were days, 
 however, which were harder than others, when solitude 
 was almost too much to bear. His loss was quite, quite 
 irreparable. God was very merciful in letting time 
 temper the sharpness of one's grief, but to her grave 
 and perhaps beyond the tomb she would carry this 
 one sorrow. Her tears gushed forth afresh and she 
 sobbed aloud, for, her children were not old enough 
 to be the companions of her loneliness and the friend 
 she would have chosen to guide and protect her was 
 interested, disastrously, elsewhere. She hoped the
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 349 
 
 woman was a nice woman — she was, in any event, 
 un-English. 
 
 She was suddenly roused from this piteous state by 
 hearing a loud tap and seeing a note slipped under her 
 door. Was it for her ? It was some mistake. What 
 could it mean ? How extraordinary! Should she pay 
 the smallest attention ? But how impertinent ! It was 
 such an odd thing to do — at an Hotel, too, abroad 
 where one had to be so particularly careful. And 
 yet — She stooped down. The envelope bore her 
 own name in Robert's hand-writing, and the letter 
 within contained these words : — 
 
 ' May I see you soon ? I have a great favour to entreat. 
 I will wait in Lord Wight's sitting-room down-stairs. 
 
 'R. o: 
 
 She read it once and tossed her head. She read it a 
 second time and rang for her maid. An hour and a 
 half later — followed by this servant — she descended the 
 stairs. It was barely six o'clock. Not a creature was 
 stirring and she could not hear her own steps for the 
 blood beating in her temples. When she reached the 
 threshold of her uncle's salon, she felt unable to pro- 
 ceed, or to assume the habitual self-command which, 
 in public, never deserted her. She turned away, and 
 on the pretext of looking for a dropped brooch, retraced 
 her steps. As she re-entered her bed-room, she looked 
 toward the ward-robe.
 
 350 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 * This brown dress is a little heavy.' said she. * I 
 will wear my blue Indian silk with the fringe.' 
 
 The gown was changed, more touches were be- 
 stowed on her hair, and this time she did not falter on 
 the way but walked into Robert's presence with all her 
 usual grace, and even more than her accustomed calm. 
 
 He was alone in the room, and, although he had been 
 trying, for some time, to read, he was now pacing the 
 floor. He had been waiting there two hours. Each 
 was startled at the other's appearance. Robert paused 
 to look at Pensee before he could utter a word. Her 
 dull pallor and hollow eyes told of many a sleepless 
 night, and many hours of weeping. Her charming 
 figure had wasted into something less than slenderness. 
 She found him — by the morning sun — ill, plain and 
 haggard — the spectre of himself. The man was dis- 
 mayed, chilled, to see so serious an alteration in a 
 face and form he had once thought all but irresistibly 
 pretty. The woman loved her poor friend only the 
 better for his disfigurements, and grew tearful at the 
 thought of the sufi'ering, bodily and mental, which 
 could have produced such a shocking change. 
 
 'This is so generous,' he said at last. 'I don't 
 know how to thank you ? I want your help in a great 
 emergency. You are my one hope.' 
 
 *I often feel the want of going about and doing the 
 little good that is in my power. If I can render any 
 real service to you — I ought to thank you for giving 
 me an opportunity of being useful.'
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 351 
 
 She knew now that she loved him : loved him with 
 all the strength of her heart. And in meeting him 
 again was she not preparing for herself much wretched- 
 ness ? Was it not too clear that, let the matter go 
 how it would, her love could never be returned. As 
 a friend, no doubt, he had it in him to be all that was 
 kind, all that was affectionate. Did he not shew 
 kindness and affection to her tiresome old uncle ? She 
 bit her lips to keep herself from sobbing. He was so 
 much more interesting than any other man of her 
 acquaintance. Her favourite poem was ' Lady 
 Geraldine's Courtship,' and, in comparing Robert to 
 Bertram^ the poet, in that story, she felt that praise 
 could soar no higher. It was not the fault of her 
 nature — but the vulgarity of her times, which made 
 her think certain lines in the Courtship peculiarly 
 applicable to herself, such lines, for instance, as : — 
 
 ' There's a lady — an earFs daughter ; she is proud and she is 
 noble. 
 And she treads the crimson carpet, and she breathes the 
 perfumed air ; 
 And a ki?igly blood sends glances up her princely eye to trouble. 
 And the shadow of a monarch^ s crown is softened in her 
 hair^ 
 
 The idea of putting aside her ' ermined pride ' and 
 listening to words of wooing from a genius— self- 
 educated, but very rich in virtues — one for whom 
 she could sacrifice her 'Norman' prejudices without 
 blushing — fell pleasantly on her really modest soul.
 
 3 52 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 Orange, it was true, came of no mean blood and the 
 joy of 'stooping' could not enter into the question. 
 But very few people knew anything about his antece- 
 dents, and, so far as London and county opinion went, 
 he was certainly an obscure person quite of the Bertram 
 school. So Pensee had argued ; she had brought her 
 arguments to a decision and she was prepared to 
 face every consequence of that resolve. One thing 
 only was wanting. The man was indifferent to her. 
 Unhappily, he had met another woman first. That 
 was the cruel accident. His coldness sprang from 
 loyalty. How splendid ! how noble ! how very fine ! ' 
 
 ' I am going to beg your sympathy for someone 
 who is in great trouble,' began Robert, 'it is a 
 woman.' 
 
 ' Yes,' replied Pensee, looking grave. 
 
 ' You saw her last night,' he continued. ' She may 
 not have appeared to advantage — for she was in a 
 false position and she is proud.' 
 
 ' Things often seem odd when one does not know 
 exactly how everything stands ! ' 
 
 ' That is what I hope to explain. You shall know 
 as much of the story as I do and judge for yourself.' 
 
 ' But don't you know all the story ? ' she asked. 
 
 He flushed — for the question cut more deeply than 
 she could have imagined. She had meant it as a 
 mere scratch — without blood-shed. But it made a 
 wound, a bad one. 
 
 ' I believe I know it all,' he said, looking well into
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 353 
 
 her soft blue eyes — eyes far more tender in expression 
 than Brigit's. Then he told, as simply as possible, 
 the tale of Mrs Parflete's birth and misfortunes. 
 Pensee listened with a breathless interest. A passion 
 for adventure slumbers in the breast of every true 
 English woman. The escape from Loadilla and the 
 mid-night flight on horse-back across country appealed 
 to her where the woes of an unhappy marriage left 
 her unmoved. She could form no conception of a 
 bad husband — or even of a thoroughly bad man. Her 
 own life had been spent with Christian gentlemen — 
 gentlemen who often did those things which they 
 ought not to have done and who left undone the things 
 which they ought to have done — but who were, on the 
 whole, honest, chivalrous fellows, whom women with 
 an ounce of sense could love, honour and obey quite 
 easily. 
 
 ' Of course,' said Pensee, 'it is a great pity that 
 she can't get on with her husband. Couldn't they 
 be brought together in some way ? You see, he is 
 really the proper person to look after her and protect 
 her and all that. I think I can understand what you 
 must feel, but, in such a case, the comfort of trust in 
 God, Who does all well and for the best, is the only 
 support. A divorce would be too fearful a thing to 
 contemplate, and, as you say, she wouldn't think of 
 such a step. But surely her people must have known 
 a little about Mr Parflete. Surely, they made proper 
 enquiries.*
 
 354 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 ' Her people ! ' exclaimed Robert, in a tone of 
 reproach ; 'have I not told you that her mother died 
 ten years ago — that her father, the Archduke Charles, 
 showed no interest in her existence beyond giving her 
 a large dot and paying her Convent bill ? This is not a 
 common case, nor are we speaking of an English family.' 
 
 ' It is very sad and most interesting. Mrs Parflete 
 talks English without the least accent and seemed a 
 sort of person to like. It is hard to realize that she is 
 a foreigner and an Archduchess and all that. I am 
 sorry for her. I wish I could see my way to help- 
 ing her. One does not like to be mixed up in a 
 scandal. I have to think of my children. I am sure 
 that she must be quite, quite delightful, but, if you 
 don't mind — and please don't think me stiff, I am 
 afraid I would so much rather not meet her again.' 
 
 She sat with her white hands tightly clasped and 
 her head bowed in an attitude of supplication. 
 
 'I don't see how I can,' she replied in answer to 
 Robert's silence. ' Lionel would not have liked it.' 
 (Lionel was the late Fitz Rewes.) * He was very 
 English in all his ideas. He did not care for foreigners 
 — not even for foreign Royalties.' 
 
 * Nevertheless,' said Robert, ' I suppose he would not 
 have refused aid to an innocent woman in great sorrow 
 — no matter what her nationality. I have asked you 
 to befriend a girl — your equal certainly in social rank 
 — though less fortunate — by many degrees — than the 
 poorest creature on your estates.'
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 355 
 
 * But you said that her real birth was kept a secret. 
 If one could call her quite openly an Archduchess, 
 it would be a different thing — though still difficult 
 enough in all conscience. Do me the justice to 
 assume that I am anxious to do my best in this — 
 as in every other case. But I am a widow, and, 
 for a widow, young. Could I be regarded as a 
 chaperon ? ' 
 
 'You could at least be regarded as a lady of the 
 whitest reputation willing to comfort and shield 
 another lady — also of high character — but most ill 
 circumstanced.' 
 
 'It is so very awkward, What does Uncle think ? 
 Why not refer the matter to Uncle ? I don't seem 
 equal to the responsibility of acting without advice. 
 One cannot be too careful. I know that if one 
 always lives in the exclusive circle of English society, 
 one's good impulses dry up — one gets rather unfeeling. 
 And I am mre that your poor friend is all — and 
 even more— than you say. I am so sorry for the 
 poor thing. It is really enough to make anyone 
 cry just to hear of all that she has gone through. 
 I want to be nice and civil and obliging — I really do. 
 Why does not God in His mercy take that dread- 
 ful man away ? That would make it all so much 
 easier. And people — people whom you and I know, 
 for instance — hate mysteries and muddles. They 
 take such a time to explain. You know what I 
 mean. Bourbons in exile are all right. Everyone
 
 356 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 feels for the Bourbons. But Mrs Parflete's mother 
 was not of Royal blood. She cannot be a real 
 Archduchess — can she ? It is one of those unpleasant 
 morganatic complications that come so hard on every- 
 body. And I can't at all see what it is that you want 
 me to do ! ' 
 
 ' Mrs Parflete wishes to go to the Convent at 
 Tours. She cannot travel alone and she must not 
 travel with Baron Zeuill.' 
 
 ' I would gladly lend her my maid. I can 
 manage to do my own hair. I sha'n't mind in 
 the least.' 
 
 *That is kind,' said Robert, *but not kind 
 enough. I want you to accompany her yourself.' 
 
 * Me ! I shall do nothing of the sort. What 
 would people think ? ' 
 
 ' People would admire your goodness and bravery.' 
 
 'I don't think that women are called upon to 
 be brave — except in a very quiet way — in bearing 
 pain or unkindness.' 
 
 ' But I implore you not to refuse your help. It 
 may be a matter of life or death to that poor child. 
 Can't you forget people and think a little about 
 humanity ? ' 
 
 *It is against my better judgment — but to oblige 
 you, I will invite her to visit me in England : ' and 
 two shining tears escaped from her eyes and rolled 
 down her cheeks — till she brushed them away with 
 the back of her hand.
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 357 
 
 You are an angel,' exclaimed Robert : ' the 
 brightest of them ! ' 
 
 *She won't care for English country life — it will 
 seem very dull after all this excitement. There's 
 the Bishop's Garden-Party and the County Ball and 
 the Flower Show and one or two other things, 
 but the weeks between are endless. If she consents 
 to come with me — I tell you frankly, I will make 
 it my duty to try and bring about a reconciliation 
 with her husband. This informal separation won't 
 do. She must have some respect — some affection 
 left for that horrid man 1 * 
 
 'She probably has that pity for him which every 
 high-spirited woman feels for an inferior male being. 
 I could not promise more.' 
 
 'Still,' continued Lady Fitz Rewes, 'that is a basis 
 to work on. Girls are wilful and French girls are 
 badly brought up. Forgive me — but I don't think 
 you are a good judge of character. Hercy Berenville 
 once told me, that, when you and he were travelling 
 together you used to walk about listening to the 
 birds, studying the colours of the flowers, gazing 
 at the clouds, the stars, the moon, the mountains ! 
 " Orange" said he, " would stare up at the Cathedral 
 spires — / watched the women passing in through the 
 Cathedral doors." So leave Mrs Parflete to me — ' 
 
 ' Most gladly,' said Robert, astonished at her sudden 
 animation. 
 
 He remained silent for a moment, during which
 
 358 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 he kissed her hand. He tried to read her face — 
 v/hich now wore a lovely flush — ^the fleeting hue 
 of a last hope. She looked away, far beyond him, 
 straight out of the window and up at the sky ; striv- 
 ing to appear as though she was the mistress of 
 the occasion. But her heart was trembling. What 
 if all were not yet wholly lost ! The pining grief 
 of a disappointed woman gave place to the spirit 
 of rivalry, the love of a game — requiring skill — 
 but perfectly fair. She could not believe that she 
 would like Mrs Parflete ; she would receive her, 
 however, en tout bien, tout honneur^ advise her well, 
 treat her with all conceivable generosity. But 
 women could love tv/ice — had not she herself loved 
 Lionel ? Did she not now love some one else ? 
 And men could love twice, too. Orange, no doubt, 
 was much interested in this surprising young person. 
 She had come in his way and he, being human, 
 had grown fond of her. What could be more 
 natural ? Was he made of bronze ? A smile came 
 across her lips — -which were red again with joy — 
 as she sat looking at the heavens, thinking of 
 this. Then her thoughts ran back to months gone 
 by and settled themselves on certain Midsummer 
 days, in which she had dreamed that Robert's heart 
 was her very own — not another's : that he loved 
 her, Pensee, and no one else. 
 
 'Tell me,' she said, abruptly, *was Mrs Parflete 
 the cause of that strange vow you made ? 1 think
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 359 
 
 I have a right to ask the question. When I have 
 your answer, I may be a better friend to both of 
 you.' 
 
 'I am nothing to Mrs Parflete,' he replied, 
 'nothino;. But she is all this world — and all the 
 next — to me.' 
 
 ' Then you must be very unhappy — very unhappy 
 indeed. You ought not to see her.' 
 
 ' Do you suppose that I enjoy seeing her ? Is 
 there any pleasure to be found in such a friendship ? 
 I would prefer the rack.' 
 
 ' Then why are you here — in Spain ? Why have 
 you risked your life and forgotten every other friend 
 — every other duty — every consideration in order 
 to be near her ? ' 
 
 'She was in peril. I could not have done less 
 for a stranger in such a terrible extremity. When 
 Lord Wight came here, he presented me at once to 
 his Carlist acquaintances. On the very day following 
 our arrival, we heard that the Countess Des Escas and 
 Mrs Parflete were under suspicion. I flew to the 
 head of affairs. With the utmost difficulty, I prevailed 
 upon him to accept my services. He had refused 
 many English volunteers. I made the best use I 
 could of my second name. This helped matters. The 
 Hausees have always been identified with the Legitim- 
 ist Cause. I was then told that the Countess had 
 been warned of her danger — that she would set fire to 
 her Villa and, if necessary, take her own life. The
 
 36o THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 plot had been arranged with a cold-blooded despera- 
 tion which one would think unimaginable in these days. 
 Each one in the terrible game had his or her part to 
 play and at all costs. Such enthusiasm for an im- 
 personal cause does not belong to the egoism of our 
 century. I confess, that, as I listened — I felt no 
 surprise — the whole thing seemed to my inexperience, 
 a wild but unreal horror. Yet I insisted that some 
 effort, at least, should be made to save the two women 
 from their fate. I spoke as one does in a night-mare. 
 I could not hear my own voice. I don't know what 
 I said or how I said it. My soul was paralysed. But 
 a rescue party was summoned. Courage was not 
 lacking among any one of them. We got horses and 
 God favoured us. We managed to reach Loadilla in 
 safety. The Villa was already level with the ground. 
 Then, in the distance, we saw something like a beacon- 
 light. I took it for a sign and rode toward it, followed 
 by the others. Five minutes more and we must 
 have arrived too late. But I found her . . . Never 
 ask me to tell you this again. " There arc two woes : 
 to speak J and to behold ; — thou spare me one." ' 
 
 Lady Fitz Rewes said, ' How painful ! Of course, 
 we won't speak of it. Poor Mrs Parflete shall come 
 with me to Catesby Hall ... It is quiet there, and, 
 among the trees and the flowers and the dear children, 
 I will talk to her. If she has a strict sense of duty 
 and of what is right and wrong, she will soon make 
 up her mind to act as a high-minded woman should.'
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 361 
 
 She tightened her lips and spoke with an irritation 
 which she could not conquer. 
 
 ' Some things ought not to be said : a few cannot 
 be said at all,' replied Robert ; ' in this case, the 
 impossible word is the one which would seem to 
 imply the smallest doubt of Mrs Parflete's loyalty 
 to her husband. She never left him : he abandoned 
 her and received a large sum of money for his act. 
 She has offered again and again to follow him into 
 exile. But he puts her off with lies. He is a spy and 
 a villain and a traitor — the very scum of the earth.' 
 
 * How you hate him ! ' 
 
 'I do — from the depths of my soul and with all 
 my strength and all my heart. Don't speak of him. 
 He is unspeakable.' 
 
 ' He must be bad, or you would not feel so strongly. 
 But if his wife felt so, it would be shocking. I am 
 glad to hear that she doesn't. Could he not be won 
 and reclaimed by love ? ' 
 
 ' Would you yourself love such a scoundrel ? ' 
 
 'I am not called upon to love him. He is not 
 my husband.' 
 
 ' Love has no place in the question. Loyalty and 
 forbearance and forgiveness she gives, and gives nobly.' 
 
 ' I shall know all this better after I have seen her,' 
 said Lady Fitz Rewes : * but I admit that it is a sad 
 case — a very sad case.' 
 
 *I am glad to hear you say so. You are good 
 and gentle and you know what it means when
 
 362 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 love has gone out of one's existence. People who 
 have lived self-indulgent lives and loved many times 
 in many ways, think it no sacrifice to renounce 
 all human affection. To them it is a mawkish, 
 disappointing thing. They leave it gladly- — perhaps, 
 because love, long ago, left them, But to strong 
 pure hearts — hearts neither jaded, nor embittered, 
 nor made cheap by constant exchanges — love always 
 seems the most precious of life's gifts — the one 
 gift, too, which we may have on earth and in Heaven, 
 also. Those who be-little it, have first be-fouled 
 it. You can always be sure of that.' 
 
 ' I know what you mean,' said Pensee. 
 
 'Think then of the loneliness — the isolation of 
 mind to which she is condemned.' 
 
 'I have thought of that and I want to be kind 
 to her.' 
 
 ' May I ask her then to meet you here at nine ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, but leave us alone together. We shall get 
 on far more happily if you are not present.' 
 
 She rose, and moved toward the door, which he 
 opened. 
 
 ' Remember,' said she, ' that I do this for no 
 other reason than to oblige you : ' then, with a 
 graceful inclination of her head, she passed out into 
 the corridor and so on up the staircase to the floor 
 above. He watched her all the way, but he was 
 conscious of feigning this interest and he reproached 
 himself for his in2:ratitude.
 
 CHAPTER XXI 
 
 The story may now be better told in the following 
 letters from Brigit to the Reverend Mother of the 
 Convent of the Sacred Heart at Tours. 
 
 Madrid, August i86g. 
 
 Again my plans are changed. Early this morning, I 
 was formally presented to Lady Fitz Rewes, She and I 
 were together for a short time last night, while we were 
 waiting for Mr Orange's return, and she did not then 
 appear well disposed toward me. She seemed lackadaisical 
 and frigid — she might have been a toy nightingale with a 
 musical box in her breast, and, whenever she opened her 
 lips to say ' Yes ' or ' No,' I expected to hear the plaintive 
 tinkle of Au clair de la hine. But to-day she was another 
 creature — all smiles, and curls and kindness. She may be 
 ten years older than myself; she is very blue round the 
 eyes, a little hollow in the cheeks. Her figure is graceful: 
 she has quantities of flaxen hair, a pink and white com- 
 plexion, a foolish rather pretty mouth, and a chin like 
 Martin Luther's. She dresses beautifully and her waist 
 cannot measure eighteen inches. I had no opportunity to 
 observe her closely, so I give you this impression — taken 
 at a glance — for what it is worth. It will at least present 
 some idea to your mind of the person to whom I am 
 already indebted to an extent beyond all ordinary gratitude. 
 Her manner of receiving me was, as I have said, a surprise 
 in the happiest way. Mr Orange left us alone. She took 
 
 363
 
 364 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 both my hands, looked a long time into my face, and then 
 drew me beside her on the sofa. 
 
 She said, ' You have my deepest sympathy ! How 
 cruelly you have suffered ! But you have shown great 
 pluck.' (Such were her words.) ' May I help you ?' 
 
 ' I wish to rejoin my husband,' said I. 
 
 This seemed to cause her some amazement. 
 
 'Do you know where he is ? ' she asked. 
 
 ' He is yachting in the Mediterranean with Lord Soham,' 
 I replied. ' I must wait for him at some port. But until 
 I have more definite instructions, I want to go to the 
 Convent — where I was educated — in Tours.' 
 
 ' Ah,' said she, ' I have another suggestion to offer. It 
 would give me so much pleasure, if you would spend some 
 weeks with me at my home in the country, in England. 
 If you care for books and flowers, I have an old-fashioned 
 garden and a good library. The society at Catesby would, 
 I daresay, be good if there were any. But there is none. 
 It is very quiet and restful. Do come.' 
 
 I was so touched by this generosity that I could not 
 speak. She took her answer from my tears. 
 
 'There are plain and simple duties,' said she, ' for which 
 we need not go far, but which are made nigh to us, which 
 meet us in our everj-'-day path. Suffer we all must, 
 whether things in this world go what the world thinks 
 well or what it deems ill. But though God undo, one by 
 one, the links which bind us to this life, we shall, if we 
 are wise, see them patiently unclasped: the objects of our 
 affections, our strength, our health, we shall resign them 
 peacefully at His call: counting it the happy lot, not to 
 have but to lose; to "sow in tears," if, by His mercy, we 
 may at the last, " reap in joy." Our lot, as Christians, is 
 to be in the world, yet we are not to be of it.' 
 
 These words of true piety astonished and embarrassed 
 me. I had not looked for such sentiments from so much 
 pale blue silk. She spoke in a tone of solemnity as though 
 she were reading a sermon. I feel sure that she was 
 sincere — and, if the speech lacked the accent of really 
 profound emotion, it was because the brook has not the 
 same voice — nor the same storms — as the sea. I told her
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 365 
 
 that I did not ask to live free of all sorrows. Could I 
 look among crowds for that peace which is not to be found 
 even in solitude ? Should men and women give us what 
 God has already denied us ? 
 
 'But,' said I, 'it may be that the too-eager abandonment 
 of all natural hopes and affections comes from pride — the 
 ambition to be, while we are yet dust, like the angels of 
 God. And while I might be tempted to feel exalted at 
 my resignation, God, Who cannot be deceived, would 
 know that it came — not from virtue, but from a cultured 
 inhumanity ! Does Our Blessed Lady in Heaven forget 
 the song of rapture she sang at Karem, or the bitter anguish, 
 voiceless and never to be told— of Calvary ? I cannot say 
 then, " Take my happiness. I do not need it. I am 
 better off without it. Before the year is past, I shall have 
 reason to be glad that it is no longer with me." Oh, no ! 
 But I can say, "Take it if it be Thy Will to take it. It 
 is my life. When it has gone, I may indeed be calm, 
 because my capacity for grief — or for any other feeling — 
 will have gone also ! " Self-absorbed and self-sufficient, I, 
 a clay thing, would contain the ashes of my soul — ashes 
 and ashes only ! ' 
 
 I could see that she did not understand me. She 
 quoted the verse from St Paul's epistle to the Hebrews : — 
 
 ' Looking unto Jesus, the Author and Finisher of Our 
 Faith, Who, for the joy which was set before Him, endured the 
 Cross, despising the shame, and is set down at the right hand of 
 the throne of God^ 
 
 These sublime words — uttered by that serene prosperous 
 creature who, from the day of her birth, through no fault 
 but also through no virtue of her own, has been watched 
 over and tenderly guarded, adored and indulged — seemed 
 less a consolation than a sacrilege. I could have laughed 
 aloud — and cried, too, at the contrast between the lives of the 
 saints and the lives of those who can lightly murmur — over 
 a disappointing bonnet or a love-letter too cold — their 
 exhortations to martyrdom. Lady Fitz Rewes is a widow, 
 I know, and she bears her lot with dove-like meekness. 
 But place her grief beside the fate of my poor friend the 
 Countess Des Escas, who lost husband, sons, possessions,
 
 366 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 and finally her own life in a struggle for another person's 
 rights. That was a sacrifice — that, a true act of renuncia- 
 tion, that was a heart offered up freely and voluntarily 
 neither for credit here nor crowns hereafter, but purely 
 and singly out of devotion to God, her king, and her 
 country. Yet she always read St Paul, kneeling. Ah, 
 dear Reverend Mother, her example is a constant reproach 
 to me, and whenever I find myself weeping (that happens 
 sometimes) over my own little miseries, I am filled with 
 self-contempt at the thought of her grandeur — and my 
 poverty, of spirit. My troubles — such as they are — have 
 been sent to me. They came against my will. But she 
 asked for hers — took them — and bore them because she 
 loved her Church and her true King. No such surrender 
 was ever made in vain, and although she died at a cruel 
 hour when defeat seemed the sole result of all her efforts, 
 I still believe that Don Carlos will come to reign over his 
 own people, that Spain and France will give back their old 
 allegiance to the Bourbons. 
 
 I attempted no reply to Lady Fitz Rewes's text, for, to 
 our common relief, Mr Orange re-entered the room. As 
 a result of the dreadful night at Loadilla, he is maimed, 
 disfigured and aged beyond recognition. His face, how- 
 ever, is one which does not depend on his features — 
 although they are, as a matter of fact, good. A written 
 description of his characteristics would satisfy neither you 
 nor myself — I can but say that he is considered handsome. 
 I have read your last letter frequently. I understand 
 your fears and your warning. Believe me, you have no 
 cause for alarm. My esteem for M. de Hausee (as he is 
 sometimes called) is so far from a danger that it is my 
 chief safe-guard. I find, in spite of every effort, that I 
 keep the courage to live — not so much for the love of God 
 and the hope of Heaven, as for the desire to remain 
 without dishonour in a world where my friends are — 
 separated though we may be by cruel distances and 
 circumstances. If I had not this thought to sustain me, I 
 do not know how I could bear the loneliness of my 
 journey on the frightful road to death. Death itself, 
 when at last we reach it, is probably not lonely — for
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 367 
 
 solitude IS only oppressive during our waking hours. In 
 sleep we do not feel our solitariness. I speak my true 
 thoughts, dearest Mother, and while one can speak truth, 
 one is not in the worst of difficulties. ... I sit here with 
 the heat, the dust, and the noise rising up to my window 
 from the street below, and I think of the cool green Loire 
 and its banks where we used to walk and watch the 
 roses — crimson, white, and yellow, and pink, growing over 
 every wall and in every garden that we passed. . . . Ah, 
 si la jeunesse savait . . . those were the days of my joy : 
 these so longed-for, are the days of my trial. 
 
 Let me tell you now what happened on M. de Hausee's 
 entrance. Lady Fitz Rewes blushed a deep red. The 
 bells were chiming from every church in Madrid. I 
 stepped on to the balcony in order to distinguish more 
 clearly the peals from the Des Escas Convent. While I 
 stood there, the two had a short conversation. I do not 
 know what passed, but when Madame called me back, 
 Monsieur was no longer there. 
 
 'He approves,' said she. 'He is so happy to think that 
 you can come to me. He is devoted to you. Do you 
 know that ? ' 
 
 ' He would give his life for any one of his friends,' I 
 answered : ' we can all be sure of his devotion. He 
 never fails.' 
 
 ' I agree with you. He is very noble. I often wonder 
 what will become of him. He ought to marry.' 
 
 ' Why ? ' said I. 
 
 ' Bachelors in public life are at a disadvantage.' 
 
 ' Then that is the fault of the women,' said I; 'for men 
 do not care whether another man is married or not 
 married.' 
 
 ' But a wife is such a help,' said Lady Fitz Rewes. 
 'Surely you would like so see such a splendid fellow 
 happily settled ?' 
 
 ' To be frank,' said I, ' I have not given the matter a 
 thought. He seems contented as he is. It never 
 occurred to me that anything more was needed.' 
 
 ' My dear, he is poor and he is ambitious.' 
 
 ' He is strong and he has abilities. Let him work.'
 
 368 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 ' Of course, but he over-works. You should have seen 
 him at the time of the election. It was heart-breaking.' 
 
 ' His own heart did not break,' said I. 
 
 'Yet what a fight it must have been,' she insisted, 'and 
 now he is merely at the starting post. Isn't it sorrowful ? ' 
 
 ' That's not sorrow,' said I. But I would add no more 
 on the subject, and, thanking her again for her goodness, 
 I returned to my own rooms. Baron Zeuill, for some 
 reason, is anxious that I should go to England, and I told 
 him, without loss of time, of Lady Fitz Rewes's invitation. 
 He was — or he affected to be — delighted. He has promised 
 to get my passport and, if it be God's Most Holy Will, I 
 shall leave Madrid to-night. My joy at this unlooked-for 
 relief is indescribable. I feel that you have been offering 
 many prayers for me. Such a miraculous turn of fortune 
 does not come as my reward but as answer to your 
 entreaties. 
 
 Lord Wight and M. de Haus^e have not yet received 
 their safe-conduct from General Prim. But Zeuill assures 
 me that the delay is a matter of days — that it is a little 
 concession to some of the officials . . . I do not know when 
 I shall see my friend again. When he leaves Spain, he 
 will go at once to the north — to Scotland. And Catesby is 
 in the South of England. — I am, dear Reverend Mother, 
 your devoted daughter in Christ, Brigit. 
 
 In reading this, no one among us with any know- 
 ledge of human character could feel that there was 
 much contentment, as the world understands it, in 
 store for the writer. The precocious intelligence, the 
 occasional note of sarcasm, the passionate desire for 
 happiness are symptoms all too plain of that wasting 
 fever of the heart which, in some cases is the result of 
 meeting sorrow, and in others, of meeting love, too 
 early in life. To every pure and innocent young girl, 
 love is a condition of mind, and not a strain on the
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 369 
 
 senses. The senses, once roused, may be controlled, 
 killed or indulged according to the conscience or the 
 strength of the individual. But when the senses still 
 sleep, and the spirit only is active, it is indeed difficult to 
 impose a limit on tender interest, or to define w^herein 
 excess of charity consists. Many w^omen — till the end 
 of their lives, and no short lives either — keep their affec- 
 tions so sacred from the taint of selfish emotions, and 
 so closely allied with the love of God that it would 
 seem an act of sacrilege to analyse a devotion on which 
 even angels might look with humility and learn a 
 lesson. To pretend, however, that no jealous thought 
 — no angry reproach would, under any provocation, 
 enter into a sentiment of this kind, would deprive it of 
 attributes certainly as much divine as human. Jealousy 
 may be noble — although it is often mean. Anger 
 may be just — although it is frequently cruel. But 
 that is the case with every power of the soul, and, 
 because in some of us those forces which make up 
 spiritual greatness have become degraded nto sins, 
 nothing could be falser idealism than to assume that 
 true perfection is composed of negatives — that the best 
 saint is the one with the fewest feelings. Jesus Christ 
 draws all humanity to Him, not because while on 
 earth He felt less, but because He felt more than all 
 the rest of mankind. And the purer the heart, the 
 greater its capacity for sorrow and joy — the sweeter 
 seems earthly blessings, the more humiliating seems 
 earthly pain. It was not easy for the Divine Redeemer 
 
 2 A
 
 3/0 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 of the World to give a complete and irrevocable 
 acqviiescence in God's mysterious decrees. Can one 
 read of the Agony at Gethsemane, and doubt that even 
 the smallest act of self-mortification in the least of us 
 has been sanctified by that ineffable victory over the 
 desire to escape death — whether of the w^ill or in the 
 flesh ? 
 
 Brigit's vv'ill w^as her best gift. But, as in nature, 
 the sun that quickens the harvest must, if unrelieved 
 by other influences, also destroy it, so does a fine 
 quality become, in the human being, the source of 
 disasters as w^ell as triumphs. Brigit w^anted, to use 
 the familiar phrase, her own way. It was not an 
 evil way — not a way that could be found, by any 
 judgment, other than pleasing to God as He is known 
 to us. How hard then it must have been for that 
 young impulsive heart to realize that the path of 
 her choice — though a good one — was not the one 
 which her Master wished her to tread. What be- 
 wilderment and dismay, what self-doubt and doubt 
 of all things assail even the wisest of mortals when 
 they find that the lawful is not always expedient, 
 that a measure, blameless in itself, is not invariably 
 the measure set down by command. Among the 
 countless problems presented to the mind, there 
 is none more difficult than to distinguish clearly 
 between the will of Providence and the accidents, 
 to be surmounted, of daily life, — to know when one 
 should submit to circumstances and when one should
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 371 
 
 rise in rebellion against them. This was Brigit's 
 hard position. The course before her was winding, 
 full of obstructions, dense overhead, and, under her 
 feet, stony. Shall we wonder then if her letters 
 should contain much that is contradictory, much 
 that is puzzling ? 
 
 Catesby Hall, 1869. 
 
 My dear Reverend Mother, — I am once more in 
 England, and so strange is the effect of this climate, my 
 new surroundings, and the calm, that, while I have 
 not forgotten the past, the past seems to have forgotten 
 me. It never calls me. So I wait upon the present. 
 This Hall was once a Monastery. It is surrounded by 
 flat meadows and plantations. The meadows are often 
 covered by an azure mist which, they say, comes from the 
 hills. There is a grey mist also. That comes from the sea. 
 And then there is a white mist. That rises from the ground. 
 I love the lawn and the flower-beds, but, more than all, 
 the splendid trees. They cast strange shadows on the 
 grass. I walk alone among them and wonder what they 
 mean. . . . My hostess does not give parties, but she receives 
 a number of visitors, to whom I am always presented as 
 Madame de Parfilte. How is it that one meets charming 
 people every day with whom it is, for some reason, im- 
 possible to exchange a thought ? We know nothing about 
 them : we realize that they have no desire to hear anything 
 about us : our feelings are not wounded by their indiffer- 
 ence, and they, on their part, are no less philosophic. 
 We say good-day and mean good-bye. We touch hands 
 and pass on — each on our way to eternity. . . . Lady Fitz 
 Rewes assures me that to be happy, a woman should have 
 as many acquaintances and as few friends as possible. 
 Acquaintances are often useful, whereas friends are a con- 
 stant anxiety. I was surprised at this selfish remark from 
 so sweet a creature. It might have been made by my 
 husband. And yet, what is it but a crude expression of 
 that rule of detachment which is the first principle of
 
 372 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 a life consecrated to the service of God? I try to practise 
 it, and I am training myself to think of things — not 
 persons. The greater part of the time ray endeavours are 
 successful. The little son and daughter of this house are 
 pretty delightful beings with perfect manners. English 
 children have the best breeding imaginable. I cannot 
 describe their many charming graces — shyness, affection, 
 candour, obedience, respect for their elders, kindness to- 
 ward the poor — these are but a few surface virtues in 
 hearts moulded, one would swear, after the old chivalrous 
 pattern. And yet — these very children — models to every 
 mother in the world, grow up into a race renowned for 
 their barbarous discourtesy — both to strangers and each 
 other.* Toward their social superiors they display a sad 
 uneasiness which is shown sometimes by a nervous famili- 
 arity, more often by a grotesque awe. Their adoration of 
 native titles is so great that, if they could have their way, 
 they would give a city knight precedence over all or any 
 of the monarchs of Europe. A country baronet means 
 much to them, but they can form no idea of a Spanish 
 grandee. The gloomiest English person will smile at the 
 mention of a French count or an Italian prince. Lady 
 Fitz Rewes herself laughs at these absurdities, and even 
 repeated to me a remark made by her uncle, to the effect 
 that things were different in the old days, when England 
 had an aristocracy — but '•manners left her when she lost 
 Calais^ and ' Elizabeth flouted the great nobles in order to 
 hold a Court for criminals, liars and thieves^ This is very 
 severe. But I am now reading the works of Thackeray, 
 and certainly he paints a sickening picture of his country- 
 men. Lord Byron, Shelley, and Carlyle are no less bitter, 
 and although Sir Walter Scott has a more flattering pen, 
 he writes of other ages than the present, and shows a 
 desire to escape from facts immediately within his observa- 
 tion. Speaking from my own experience, I can say that 
 the kindness of Pensee (she has asked me to call her by 
 
 * It should be remembered that Brigit was visiting in 1869, when 
 English manners, particularly in provincial society, were very much 
 more pompous than they are at the present day — 1897.
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 373 
 
 her Christian name) more than outweighs the vulgarity 
 of her neighbours — for whom she cannot be held re- 
 sponsible. Let me give you an example of the latter. 
 For my own amusement, I teach the children French and 
 music. Their governess is absent for her holiday, and so, 
 as they associate me with lessons, they call me Made- 
 moiselle. The other day, some fresh callers hearing this, 
 treated me with immense condescension, and, to my joy, left 
 me to myself. The men, however, only ventured to address 
 me when the women were not looking — and this I found 
 rather an insult than an attention. The Bishop's wife — 
 who had met me before — must have noticed my resent- 
 ment, for she observed in a loud whisper to a Lady 
 Harivale (she was waiting for her turn at croquet) that 
 ' / zvas very highly connected and had a large fortuned 
 This remedy was worse than the offence. Yet I suppose 
 my well-meaning ally knew her generation, for the talk 
 was no longer carried on over my head. I was lifted, 
 as it were, into the circle. I was shown the most flatter- 
 ing civilities. In fact, the same person who, a moment 
 before, had received cruel slights for her supposed poverty 
 now received whole garlands of smiles for her supposed 
 wealth. Such a thing could not have happened in France. 
 My singing which had seemed but a monkey-trick for 
 the entertainment of the guests, became 'an enviable 
 gift,' ' a glorious talent.* My awkward failures at croquet 
 — which had filled my fellow-players with undisguised 
 annoyance — were now 'quite wonderful for a beginner.' 
 I had some difficulty in hiding my contempt, and I left 
 the group, as you may well believe, as soon as possible. 
 At dinner last night, Pensee was unusually sad. ' Do you 
 wonder,' said she, 'why my poor Lionel died ? He 
 thought it was his duty to be civil to these horrid middle- 
 class people, because of his position in the county and all 
 that. But no one could like them. They are so pushing 
 and such snobs. Once one could turn them all loose 
 into an annual garden-party and have done with them. 
 That doesn't satisfy them now. They expect me to go 
 to all their parties — and I would rather have them here 
 every week than do that.' She then told me that she
 
 374 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 had heard from Mr Orange. He has at last left Spain, 
 and is on his way to Scotland with Lord Wight. Thank 
 God! 
 
 I have had a further conversation with Pensee on the 
 subject of friends. She declares now that, for the future, 
 she will not entertain people for whom she has neither 
 respect nor liking. In this way she hopes to form a 
 pleasant circle. We amused ourselves by making a little 
 list of our favourites. It contained seven names. ' I 
 want to know what a man //,' said she. 'I don't care 
 what his father was. And I have the same idea about 
 women. Rank and temporal distinctions count for little 
 in these matters. Nature alone can produce the true 
 aristocrat ! ' She is becoming quite bold in her notions. 
 ' How can God,' said she, ' love all His creatures ? 
 Most of us are detestable.' ' He loves us because He 
 created us,' I answered. 'That thought is a great help,' 
 said she. ' But all the same I don't see why I should 
 try to like that odious Augusta Harivale ! ' Pensee, you 
 will see, has a child-like charm which is bewitching. 
 Each day I become more fond of her. If I were her 
 own sister, she could not treat me with greater kindness. 
 We never speak now of Mr Orange. She writes to him 
 occasionally, and I know that she loves him. A marriage 
 between them would be, in many respects, desirable. I 
 do not yet pray for it. . . . My indifference toward the 
 future gives me a certain happiness in the present- You 
 say in your letter that affection either grows or dies — that 
 unchangeable sentiments are for feeble natures only. This 
 is, no doubt, true. I will now speak more openly than I 
 have yet been able to speak. My reserve so far has not 
 been due to cowardice but ignorance. I could not under- 
 stand my own feelings. There is in all of us a desire of 
 the eyes which seems to detach us from God — Who is 
 Invisible — and draw us toward sensible objects — the 
 beings we see and meet. The saints were not all spirit: 
 the chiefest of sinners is not all flesh: men and women 
 are always and everywhere composed of both elements. 
 My soul loves its guardian angel ; my heart could love 
 a companion. But at present it seems well satisfied to
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 375 
 
 be alone. I find an unspeakable quiet happiness in the 
 society of Pensce and her children. Yet I believe that 
 I could part from them without a pang — so closely do I 
 watch my affections. I make this constant prayer, 
 ' Let me love no one too well — let me not give that 
 devotion to mortals which is due to Thee only.' I 
 cannot thank you sufficiently, dear Reverend Mother, 
 for teaching me early in life the folly of all intimate and 
 violent friendships. To what regrets and misplaced con- 
 fidences do they inevitably lead ? To what fierce hatreds 
 and irrevocable words ? To what sorrows and calamities ? 
 Pensee once endeavoured to question me about my hus- 
 band. I told her that I could not discuss him. She has 
 never returned to the subject. ... I am at last resolved 
 on one point. If I am not to rejoin him, I shall take up 
 my residence permanently in some Convent. 
 
 Catesby Hall, September 1869. 
 
 Have you heard of Mr Parflete's death ? It is either 
 a lie or he has met with foul play. My brain is 
 on fire. Have they murdered him ? He always lived 
 in fear of treachery. God in Heaven! what am I 
 to think? They tell me that I am ill. O, come 
 to me. 
 
 This note — the last in the little packet — bears the 
 following addition written in Lady Fitz Rewes's 
 hand : — 
 
 I am thankful to say that there seems no ground for 
 dear Brigit's terrible suspicions. Lord Soham, with whom 
 Mr Parflete was travelling, has sent a full account of his 
 last illness, which was the normal result of an intemperate 
 life. He had complained of insomnia for some weeks, 
 and, in a mood of insane depression, jumped over-board 
 during a calm night off Genoa. It is all too shocking. 
 Brigit has been at death's door — we feared for her 
 reason. I did not write to you because I did not
 
 376 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 know whether she would wish me to write. She is so 
 extraordinarily reserved. The poor darling is better, but 
 so weak and desolate. I try to console myself with that 
 beautiful text, ' Therefore, behold, I will allure her 
 and bring her into the wilderness, and speak to her hearth 
 I cannot bear to think that her spirit — that proud, brave 
 spirit — is broken. But she is very still, and she has not 
 shed one tear.
 
 CHAPTER XXII 
 
 Robert happened to be in London at Wight House 
 when he received the news of Parflete's suicide. Lady 
 Fitz Rewes wrote the letter and it seemed to him 
 to contain something like an under-current of re- 
 proach — as though she would have said, had she dared, 
 ' Now you have got your will. Much good may it do 
 you ! ' This, he felt, was not merely vindictive but 
 unjust. He could have sworn, with a clear conscience, 
 that his hopes had never sought for nourishment in 
 any open grave. Hope — in the matter of love and 
 marriage^had been so far from him that he had even 
 partially resolved to abandon his political career and 
 with it all those things which are called the enjoy- 
 ments of society. His mind went back to its first 
 education and the early prejudices he had formed in 
 favour of the military life. Forgetting the squalid 
 disillusions of a garrison town, the bugle once more 
 sounded sweeter in his ears than the lark's song, and, 
 to his eyes, the raggedest uniform appeared more 
 glorious than any great Civilian's court livery. At 
 Madrid his soul had been tinged, for the first time, 
 with the red passion of war and a brief indulgence of 
 
 377
 
 378 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 his fighting instincts — an indulgence the more intoxicat- 
 ing because all his softer feelings were dissatisfied — 
 had roused in him that desire of the sword which is 
 not the less powerful because it is the least censured 
 of all lusts. He saw France and Spain united under 
 one King and forming one great Catholic power. He 
 dreamed dreams of a new Renaissance which v/ere not 
 too wild to be prophetic visions, and, lost in the golden 
 atmosphere of these musings, he would often forget 
 the narrow question of his own future and the grey 
 desolation of his own heart. But the strongest will 
 must seem vacillating, weak and ineffective under that 
 disease which comes from an unavowed and unper- 
 mitted misery. And so there were other times when 
 Robert thought the Cloister and austerities more allur- 
 ing than the battle-field, v/hen he wished to live in 
 an indissoluble alliance with solitude — possessing 
 nothing on this earth and desiring nothing, waiting 
 for nothing, hoping for nothing — dead to love and 
 dead to sorrow, yet rising in the watches of the night 
 to pray — to make supplications, intercessions and 
 thanksgivings for all men — that they might be saved 
 and come to the knowledge of the truth. He felt 
 that his taste for the world had gone. He was no 
 longer able to persuade himself that ambition was a 
 duty. It had been the chief pleasure of his existence. 
 The old restless craving for power had vanished, 
 like a quenched flame, into the air. Public life had 
 suddenly lost its charm, and the striving for a nation's
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 379 
 
 honours seemed but one degree more foolish than the 
 vanity of sorrowing under a nation's neglect. He 
 worked half the day on his History of the Duke of 
 Guise^ and, during the intervals of necessary rest, 
 made long meditations on his disregard of fame. Is 
 it possible to be eight-and-twenty, hot-blooded, a 
 lover and consistent ? We read the following passage 
 in his Journal of that date : — 
 
 'The immortal spirit can find no permanent content in 
 pleasures that must pass, no permanent despair in griefs 
 that are also transient although their flight be slower. 
 Joy is a swallow^ ; woe, an eagle, but both have wings. 
 The soul that is hid with God may watch these birds 
 and wanderers whirling, drifting, darting around the ever- 
 fixed Rock of Christ's Church — away from which there 
 is indeed no salvation either in time or in eternity.' 
 
 These thoughts may have called to Robert as an 
 answer to his tortured mood. If they could not cure 
 the ill, they gave him at least the fortitude to endure 
 it. He turned his face toward the imperishable city, 
 and swore to throw no longing glances back into the 
 Valley of Shadows where most of us, in spite of all our 
 wisdom, love to linger. The news of Parflete's suicide, 
 therefore, proved less a relief than an appalling check. 
 What was he to think ? Was his sacrifice — now that 
 he had shown himself able to make it — rejected ? 
 
 ' It is all for the best,' said Lord Wight, who was 
 with him when Pensee's letter arrived. 
 
 ' I pray God it may be for the best,' said Robert.
 
 38o THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 A worse thing than unhappiness had befallen him — 
 and that was uncertainty. 
 
 Men will own willingly the dangers, escapes, 
 reverses and fatigues that they have met or suffered in 
 the body. Such tales inspire the heart with courage 
 and a hero is found great in proportion to the despera- 
 tion of his earthly circumstances. But when we come 
 to the adventures of the spiritual world, the case is 
 changed. Either from pride or cowardice, it has 
 become the fashion to make light of those mental 
 combats and perils by which, after all, human action 
 is determined and must ultimately be judged. Men, 
 who after many secret disasters have attained to the 
 apparent serenity of middle-age, will often leave it to 
 be inferred that they have never been otherwise than 
 sure of their own opinions, confident in their own 
 good sense, and unswerving in their duty toward 
 God, their neighbours and themselves. They ask 
 what is the meaning of temptation (beyond the 
 common indiscretions of the table), and they feel 
 certain that the soul must be already in a bad way 
 when Satan has the hardihood to address it. As for 
 them, they know nothing about demons, and, while 
 they have had, with the rest of mankind, their ups and 
 downs — these necessary shifts, by a special Providence, 
 were never permitted to disturb their reason's 
 eqviilibrium. Now if these accounts were true, it 
 might well be said that the Gospel has been preached 
 in vain. But they are not true, and, in the same way
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 381 
 
 that we doubt the sportsman's tale of game too big for 
 the compass of an ordinary vision, we doubt these 
 cheerful pretenders to a moral infallibility beyond our 
 hidden — but no less real — experience of life. To err, 
 we admit, is human, but to confess the error belongs 
 to the saint alone. But whether we confess it or 
 whether we deny it — we all know that unless man has 
 an infinite capacity for being foolish, self-renunciation 
 is not a victory and faith is no virtue. The fact, then, 
 of Brigit's freedom seemed yet another difficulty in 
 Orange's steep path. He feared — ^just as she herself 
 had feared — that some crime had been committed. 
 Zeuill's message proved nothing. The evidence of 
 Lord Soham — a tipsy imbecile — was valueless. 
 
 ' Mr Parflete left a farewell letter for his wife,' wrote 
 Lady Fitz Rewes ; 'she has allowed me to see parts of 
 it. I cannot feel that he was in full possession of his 
 faculties. Such sentiments ! such impiety ! It is too 
 dreadful. In view of the altered and peculiar circum- 
 stances, there is no reason why Mrs Parflete, on her 
 recovery from the shock, should not come to town for 
 the opening of Parliament in February.' 
 
 Robert thought the whole communication harsh 
 and tactless. He did not know that Pensee had 
 shed tears over the first three copies of that poor 
 letter, and spoilt two signatures by breaking down 
 completely. Is it an easy task for any woman to 
 tell the man she loves that a more delightful bride 
 may be his for the wooing ? This question did not 
 occur to Orange. With all his faults, he was no
 
 382 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 coxcomb and he could never believe that he was 
 in reality an object of lasting interest to the Lady 
 Fitz Rewes. She had so many admirers — rich men, 
 handsome men, men who deserved her — at her feet. 
 How should she care deeply for a dull fellow whom 
 she rarely saw and who was never, at any time, much 
 to look at ? Her liking was a mere caprice — nothing 
 more. 
 
 And so his reply was a severe surprise to the 
 love-sick mistress of Catesby Hall. 
 
 Wight House, St James's, September, 1869. 
 
 ' My dear Lady Fitz Rewes, — Your news is terrible 
 and, in spite of all the documents, I am not yet convinced 
 that we have the true story. Parflete was not a man to 
 commit suicide. He loved himself — in one sense — too 
 well and felt dishonour so little that it could not have 
 affected his quite admirable brains. I suspect some crime 
 or else a trick. Mrs Parflete must be on her guard. 
 When you tell me that she is well enough to read 
 letters, I shall write to her. I fear, liowever, that her 
 illness will be a long one. I understand her nature, and 
 this last calamity must seem — to a mind so sensitive for 
 others — the worst of all. 
 
 ' I leave London to-night with Lord Wight. Our de- 
 stination — Slatrach Castle.* He is tired of the Border. — 
 Believe mc, my dear Lady Fitz Rewes, yours sincerely, 
 
 ' Robert de H. Orange.' 
 
 He was offended and he wished Pensee to know 
 it. He kept this answer in his pocket till the 
 evening in order to convince himself that he meant 
 it as a well-considered, perfectly kind rebuke. He 
 
 * Lord Wight's shooting lodge in the Western Highlands.
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 383 
 
 posted it OH his way to the Capitol Club where he 
 had an appointment to meet a new acquaintance, 
 Hartley Penborough, a Government clerk of literary 
 gifts, who founded, some years later, that excellent 
 weekly journal called The Sentinel^ and who became, 
 eventually, a Permanent Under-Secretary of State. 
 He wrote, at this time (1869), an occasional leader for 
 the best Tory newspapers. But his father was an 
 Admiral, and his mother, a Dean's daughter, and 
 he was at heart a Whig under the influence of St 
 Peter. At the first sight of Robert, he accused 
 him of looking better. 
 
 'I am all right,' said Robert. 
 
 ' I hope you have given vip the idea of leaving 
 your present line.' 
 
 'I shall keep to it for a while at all events.' 
 
 ' 1 should think so. When we have commenced 
 a career, what stop is there but the grave ? If 
 ambition has once entered into a man there is no 
 more rest for him upon this earth.' 
 
 'I can't agree with that. I can imagine the 
 sacrifice of ambition no less than the sacrifice of 
 other passions and appetites.' 
 
 'Then there is more youthfulness in your imagina- 
 tion than there is in all my being ! At my greenest 
 period, when I would have renounced home, country, 
 women, wine, v/ealth (perhaps because I was an ugly 
 beggar), I hugged my little hope of gaining glory. 
 It was my solitary possession. It is the one thing
 
 384 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 that a poor devil can keep in spite of his enemies — 
 or his virtues, his banking account or his w^ife. By- 
 the-bye, I see that Reckage is engaged to an heiress 
 vv^ith ten thousand a year.' 
 
 * You mean Agnes Carillon ? ' 
 
 * That's the girl — the daughter of the Bishop of Had- 
 ley. I have danced with her, but she wouldn't remember 
 me. ... I suppose it's a good match on both sides.' 
 
 *It couldn't be better. You know I believe in 
 Reckage.' 
 
 * Do you ? ' said Penborough, drily. 
 
 ' What do you think of his Church Party ? ' 
 
 'The Bond of Association ? I have never thought 
 about it in my life. While there is such a thing as 
 religion, there will be rows and opportunities for 
 action. But is Reckage the man to lead ? Has 
 he the three essentials of a superior intelligence — 
 genius, fortune and perseverance ? At present, we 
 can only be certain of his income.' 
 
 'Ah, he's a clever fellow. Look how he has 
 pulled his Society together — it is a force already. 
 He tells me that fresh men are joining every day. 
 You must admire his enthusiasm.' 
 
 ' He stuck at no lie to get followers and he will 
 stick at no truth to keep them ! But he is certain to 
 get a hideous pommelling before long. In a year or 
 two, the Bond of Association will have but one feature 
 in common with earthly greatness — it will have 
 fallen ! '
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 385 
 
 *That is nature's course. It plainly means that 
 there never can be a Church and State party in 
 England.' 
 
 *So long as the State is administered by Christian 
 men, its acts will be Christian,' said Hartley in a 
 cheerful tone. 
 
 * But are they Christian men ? ' 
 
 ' Well, how can you test them ? ' 
 
 ' Do they follow the truth so far as they know it ? 
 do they admit and accept truths higher than those 
 which they may have received in the first instance ? 
 finally, do they die loving God more than all things 
 and creatures ? * 
 
 ' I couldn't answer for any of 'em. There ain't 
 two Bishops of the same mind, and if you ain't in 
 with the Bishops, you ain't in with the State — for the 
 State appoints them. And the Government is some- 
 times High and Tory, sometimes Low and Whig. 
 I wouldn't trust a Tory Broad Churchman or a 
 Tory Rationalist, and I wouldn't put my money on 
 a Whig High Churchman. That's confusion worse 
 confounded. And so, on simple lines, it is Here we 
 go up-up-up^ Here we go down-dovon-down ; ' which is 
 all very well as a game, but it's a fool of a position if 
 you happen to be anxious about your immortal soul 
 and want a gun to stand by at the Judgment ! ' 
 
 'Then you think that the Anglicans haven't got 
 a gun ? ' 
 *No, they have only got livings. And yet I don't 
 
 2 B
 
 386 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 know a pleasanter thing than to read in your paper 
 of a morning that some nice, good-hearted curate — 
 who wants to marry your sister— has been handsomely 
 preferi'ed ! That's human weakness and family pride. 
 It's scandalous and you pray for yourself. But you 
 go to the wedding and hope that the bridegroom, like 
 the blessed heathen, is a law unto himself ! When 
 you come to the great questions, however, the choice 
 has to be made between Nonconformity — the genuine 
 Protestant — and Rome. The Dissenters and the 
 Romans are the really religious-minded among us — 
 they have to sufFer for their opinions. One is 
 thought low-class and the other, cunning.* I don't 
 suppose that Reckage will turn Dissenter. But if he 
 has a spark of genius in him he will go over to the 
 Catholics. I leave honesty out of the question. As 
 if any man who respected his neighbour's intelligence 
 could pretend to stomach a conge d''elire as it is at 
 present conducted in the Church of England. 
 Blasphemous humbug ! Yes, Reckage must turn 
 Papist.' 
 
 He glanced at Robert as he spoke, tor it was 
 thought that the Convert still exerted a certain 
 influence over his former pupil. 
 
 ' Nothing would make me happier,* answered 
 Orange, 'although I never despair at the obstinacy 
 of the Protestant and the comparative fewness of our 
 numbers. It is God's pleasure that heresy should 
 
 * It mv.st be remembered that this conversation took place in 1S69.
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 387 
 
 seem to prevail for a season. And the enemies of the 
 Church are astonished. Unable to understand her 
 life, they prophesy her death. But we can afford to 
 be patient. There is eternity before us and what are 
 a few hundred years in comparison with the infinite 
 and everlasting ? * 
 
 'It is useful to hear eternity mentioned — for there 
 is nothing one so easily forgets. And I envy anybodv 
 who can speak of God as though he were as really 
 alive as the Prince of Wales ! In these days men put 
 on a false tone and look canting hypocrites whenever 
 they refer to the Almighty. I do myself. I can't 
 help it. How do you manage it so naturally ? But 
 your chances in the House will be clean lost if it 
 once gets rumoured about that your opinions have 
 a touch of other-worldliness. They want serious 
 politicians ! ' 
 
 ' And what are they ? ' 
 
 ' Bumbles and Shallows — pompous asses full of self- 
 conceit — fellows that never look higher than the level 
 of mundane necessities ! They subscribe a pew-rent 
 to God and consecrate their lives to furnaces and 
 drains, and contracts and manure ! They succeed, 
 however, and people call 'em useful Public servants 
 — which they are. But you have never been identi- 
 fied with any great idea on ventilation ! I hear, 
 instead, gorgeous anecdotes about your goings-on in 
 Spain. That won't do at all. I swore they were all 
 lies. Your books are too romantic as it is — it will
 
 388 tHE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 take a lot of bad speeches to atone for 'em. Consider 
 Dizzy. He won't be fuU)'^ appreciated till every man- 
 jack of this generation is dead. He's too brilliant — 
 he makes us all feel very dull dogs and very lame 
 ducks. And he isn't an Anglo-Saxon — another crime. 
 To be sure, we call him clever — infinitely clever^ and 
 we listen to his wit — as we watch a comedian — with 
 amusement, which, however, we should be sorry to 
 derive from anyone who had better claims to our 
 society ! We are so jealous of his statesmanship that 
 we wouldn't even govern Europe by his influence. 
 Lord ! how he must despise us ! That is why I like 
 him.' 
 
 ' Which do you think will he the urgant subjects 
 next Session ? ' asked Robert, anxious to soothe the 
 thoughts of his excitable companion. 
 
 ' The State of Ireland and the Education Bill,' 
 said Penborough, * then, if there is time, they will 
 hammer a bit on the depression of trade. Some of 
 them may begin to consider the Working Man. But 
 there won't be many opportunities for the private 
 Member. Have you any special trump to play ? ' 
 
 ' I am thinking of Ireland and our Foreign Policy 
 and India — ' 
 
 ' That will do to begin with,' said Flartley. ' I see 
 you have a little ambition left, after all ! ' 
 
 Robert blushed. 
 
 * And now,' said Penborough, ' you can do me a 
 kindness. Will you give me a few points about the
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 389 
 
 Archduke Charles of Alberia ? You must have met 
 him. You have met everybody. I am Vv^riting an 
 article on his career.' 
 ' But why ? ' 
 
 * Because he is dead and people want to know who 
 he was.' 
 
 * Dead ! ' exclaimed Robert, who was fortunately 
 in the shadow where Penborough could not see his 
 sudden change of countenance. 
 
 ' Dead of heart-disease. Haven't you seen this 
 morning's papers ? ' 
 
 Orange, who had been too troubled to read the 
 papers that day, sat stunned at Hartley's piece of 
 news. 
 
 ' I say,' said Hartley, aggrieved, ' you ought to keep 
 pace with the Press. The Commons are strong for the 
 moment, but in fifty years' time the country will be 
 in the hands of the Lords and the Journalists. They 
 will settle everything between them. Bear that in 
 mind. The House will be as obsolete as the 
 Tower ! ' 
 
 Robert's thoughts were far away with Henriette 
 Duboc at Miraflores when she sat there, rosy with 
 love, in the sun-light, and when she watched, with 
 dying eyes, for a last glimpse of all that made her 
 live. And he remembered Brigit — Brigit with her 
 mother's face and voice and her father's sombre spirit 
 — the heiress to woe and passions, gaiety and despair, 
 pride and humiliation. . . .
 
 39° 
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 ' It is too strange to be true,' he said, ' I cannot 
 believe it.' 
 
 Penborough began to button up his coat. 
 
 ' I am no fool,' said he, ' and I repeat — the House 
 of Commons will be, before the end of the next 
 century, as obsolete as the Tower.' 
 
 * I wasn't thinking of that. I was wondering about 
 the Archduke.' 
 
 ' To be sure. Well — it's a slack time and I shall 
 e;ive him three-quarters of a column. But it must be 
 
 racy. 
 
 " Dies irae, dies ilia, 
 Solvet saeclum in favilla. 
 Teste David cum Sibylla. 
 
 Judex ergo cum sedebit, 
 Quidquid latet, apparebii / 
 Nil inultum remanebit. 
 
 Quid sum miser tunc dicturus f 
 Quem patronum rogaturus 
 Cum vix Justus sit securus r*" ' * 
 
 'What are you muttering ?' said Penborough. 
 
 * My part of the Archduke's obituary,' said Robert. 
 
 * Nigher still and still more nigh > 
 
 Diaivs t/te day of prophecy 
 Doomed to melt the earth and sky. 
 
 Noiv before the Judge se-vere 
 Hidden things must all appear ; 
 Nought ean pass unpunished here. 
 
 What shall guilty I then plead? 
 
 Who for me ivill intercede 
 
 When the saints shall comfort need f
 
 CHAPTER XXIII 
 
 Lord Wight owned, in the Highlands, a small Isle 
 which had formed part of his mother's dowry. Here, 
 near the ruin of an old fortress, he had built a shoot- 
 ing lodge where it was his custom to spend the 
 Autumn with such friends as he could persuade to 
 join him in so exposed and desolate a region.* He 
 could offer a warm welcome, good grouse, plenty of 
 hares, excellent whisky and spring water, but the 
 coast was stormy, wrecks were not infrequent, and 
 the guest, once landed, could not fix his day of 
 departure nor hope to get his letters — or despatch 
 them — with any regularity. More than all, his 
 lordship in spite — or perhaps because — of his wealth, 
 kept, in that district where town delicacies were rare 
 and always bad, a frugal board. He himself cared 
 only for pastry^ — the heavier the better — and his cook 
 was a simple old woman who owned, with Christian 
 
 * The Island now is but too famous for its views. Steamers pass it 
 all day long. It has a Post Office, a Villa or so, stveral small farms and 
 a population of one hundred souls. One may attend the fortnightly 
 sermon at the school-house, and pic-nic on the spot where the shooting 
 lodge stood in 1869, It was pulled down after the Earl's death in 
 obedience to a clause in his will.
 
 392 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 cheerfulness, that she had long lost her sense of taste. 
 For these reasons, the Earl's parties were usually 
 composed of a few fierce sportsmen without domestic 
 ties, who, leaving luxuries to the effeminate and large 
 retinues for the vulgar, could sleep well anywhere, eat 
 thankfully whatever might be set before them, shave 
 their own chins, clean their own guns, and prepare, if 
 necessary, their own birds for roasting. But this 
 year his lordship did not invite any one of his old 
 companions, and his steward, a man of many anxieties, 
 was astonished to hear that foreign visitors of high 
 rank were expected— Prince Leitneritz of Bohemia, 
 Prince Czestochowa of Poland, Don Pedro de la Cerda, 
 Duke of Mastrana, the Marquis de la Suente, the 
 Count de Lesmaissons and Colonel de Bodava. 
 
 ' My lord,' said the steward, ' where shall we put 
 their valets and suites ? ' 
 
 'They will leave their servants at home,' said the 
 Earl, 'for they travel incognito for a little rest and 
 pleasure. The Duke of Mastrana, however, will 
 bring his Chaplain who, being a priest and a minister 
 of God, must be shown every attention possible. The 
 rest can shift for themselves.' 
 
 ' Very good, my lord.' 
 
 ' Thev are all noblemen of such birth and quality 
 that their power makes their titles — and not their 
 titles their power. If their lands and honours were 
 confiscated to-morrow, they would still have a hand 
 in the fortunes of Europe — for, while man forgets,
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 393 
 
 history and the fates remember Keep that in your 
 mind, Glencorbie.' 
 
 * Yes, my lord,' said the steward, who was wonder- 
 ing what the foreigners would think when they found, 
 that, although Slatrach Castle had a brass cannon washed 
 ashore from the Armada, it did not possess a single 
 feather bed nor an eider-down quilt. 
 
 * It will be a privilege to see such gentlemen in the 
 flesh. They belong to a race fast diminishing.' 
 
 * Yes, your lordship. And what will they eat and 
 drink ? ' 
 
 'Bless me! what an absurd question. They will 
 drink the wine of the country, and then there are the 
 birds, and hares, and rabbit pie and one thing and 
 another. Bat you may order some hams.' 
 
 * Yes, my lord. And what will they do ? ' 
 
 ' Do ? They will hope to get some shooting. Do 
 you suppose they want to spend their time knocking 
 ivory balls around a table or driving long hours through 
 vile roads to look at tattered tapestry ? ' 
 
 ' You know best, my lord. So long as I give 
 satisfaction and do my duty, it's all one to me what 
 happens.' 
 
 Orange, on returning from the Capitol Club, joined 
 Lord Wight in time to catch the last words of the 
 above conversation and see Glencorbie, with a pre- 
 occupied air, bow himself out in order to resume his 
 preparations for the journey that evening to the North. 
 
 The Earl, on his Secretary's entrance, opened
 
 394 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 a note-book and begged to be told how to spell 
 ' Glencorbie is a blockhead ' in Spanish, ' For 
 he reads all my letters and memoranda,' said the 
 kind-hearted gentleman, ' and I would not have him 
 come across a line that might wound his feelings. 
 But really he is a fool. When one is fatigued with 
 shooting or missing grouse, one finds whisky very 
 palatable, and I have tasted rabbits at Slatrach which, 
 in taste, were beyond a partridge for delicacy. The 
 canaille do not know what good eating means. But 
 what is the matter ? You seem very distrait.'' 
 
 ' I have heard some disquieting news. The Arch- 
 duke Charles is dead.' 
 
 ' Is it possible ! That's most unfortunate — for he 
 had one thumb on a new leaf, and, blessed be God, 
 I believe he would have turned it — although he was a 
 bad Prince and no one could pretend the contrary. I 
 think " speak only good of the dead " is a silly maxim. 
 I had rather speak ill of the dead than of the living. 
 But how will this loss affect Don Carlos ? Badly, 
 I fear.' 
 
 ' No doubt. It even affects my own plans to a 
 certain extent. I cannot start for Slatrach to-night. 
 I must go to Catesby first.' 
 
 ' The lady is ill. You won't be able to see her.' 
 I can see Lady Fitz Rewes. The Archduke's 
 death will touch Mrs Parflete's prospects materially.' 
 
 He had never told Lord Wight the history of 
 Brigit's parentage. The Earl was not a man to be
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 395 
 
 trusted with a secret of that kind. He did know, 
 however, that Parflete had held some confidential 
 position at the Alberian Court, and so, after a 
 certain amount of grumbling, he resolved to post- 
 pone his own departure for two days rather than 
 be deprived of his Secretary's company on the tedious 
 way to Scotland. 
 
 Orange left London for Catcsby by the earliest 
 train the next morning, and, at this point, the story 
 is best told by his own narrative.* 
 
 September 1869. 
 It was my first visit to Catesby. I sent a telegram to 
 Lady Fitz Rewes warning her of my intended call. Her 
 carriage was waiting for me at the station. There were 
 few passengers, and I was particularly struck by the appear- 
 ance of a man not much above the middle height, with 
 high cheek-bones, an olive complexion, and tranquil black 
 eyes. The strange feature was his white, abundant hair 
 which was as fine as a woman's, and formed a most dis- 
 tinguished setting for a countenance which had otherwise 
 nothing really remarkable except its sadness. He looked 
 a foreigner and his presence in that neighbourhood at that 
 time roused my suspicions. I had been searching my 
 conscience in the train to find whether my sudden journey 
 to Catesby was due to a prudent or a merely selfish motive. 
 The sight of this stranger cleared my doubts, and I felt 
 that I had acted wisely in coming. To my astonishment 
 he asked the guard — in fluent English, yet with a strong 
 foreign accent — whether it was a great distance to Lady 
 Fitz Rewes's residence. The groom, on hearing his 
 mistress's name, stepped forward and touched his cap. 
 A moment later, I found the gentleman seated opposite 
 me in the waggonette, driving toward the Hall. His 
 expression was neither sinister nor ingratiating, but 
 
 This was written, it is believed, for Mr Disraeli,
 
 396 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 wholly impenetrable. His clothes, though plain, were 
 of good material : his hands and feet showed no common 
 breed. His manner was perfectly collected but his 
 temperament seemed suited rather to the transaction of 
 affairs than the observance of ceremonies. I decided that 
 he was one of those men who are constantly employed 
 on diplomatic and difHcult missions because they are of so 
 little importance to the great world that their successes 
 need not be openly rewarded nor their failures publicly 
 made known. This surmise afterwards proved correct. 
 I learnt later that he was Lucas Mudara, the Archduke's 
 agent at Madrid. 
 
 As we drove along, we exchanged a few words about 
 the weather and the place. 
 
 Catesby harbour stands in a fine bay which, that day, 
 was bright with yachts — their flags flying, their crews — 
 mostly in white or blue jerseys and red caps, loitering 
 about the quay. Catesby town is three miles or so beyond 
 the pier, and, sheltered by high Downs, it is a little 
 too well protected from the wind. The Hall stands at 
 the foot of a green rounded hill, sloping up from the sea 
 where the beach, bleak and rocky, makes, at low tide, a 
 ragged boundary of the estate. The house, which was 
 once a Monastery, has no architectural beauty. It is 
 approached by a long drive that follows the coast line, 
 and, while there is at intervals a piece of pasture-land or 
 a hay-field between the water and the road, the trees are 
 on one side only and the house is never hid from sight. 
 It is a long low building with a stout oak door in the 
 middle, and, for its size, few windows. But it is covered 
 with vines and it has a curious garden of blue hortensias 
 on its flat roof. A number of parrots and cockatoos also 
 are kept there — tied to their silvered perches by light 
 chains. The effect is startling and too fantastic, but it 
 redeems the house from an austerity over severe for any 
 dwelling not used as a place of repentance and mortifi- 
 cation. When our carriage was some three hundred yards 
 from the entrance, the groom jumped down and asked us 
 if we would kindly walk the rest of the way as there was 
 a visitor ill in the house, and it was feared that the sound
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 397 
 
 of wheels on the ground would disturb her. I glanced at 
 my companion to see whether this news came as a sur- 
 prise. He murmured some polite words of regret, but his 
 expression was like the waters of Lora at high tide. One 
 could not believe, that, under so calm a sheet, there were 
 whirlpools, swift falls, sharp rocks and a current fiercer 
 than the Furies. But presently I caught him watching 
 me from the corners of his eyes. I determined to take a 
 straight course. 
 
 ' Pardon the question,' said I, ' but have I the pleasure 
 of addressing a Castilian ?' Where I felt in such doubt of 
 his nationality, I thought it well to let my guess err on 
 the side of flattery. 
 
 He seemed rather pleased than annoyed by the remark, 
 but, to my astonishment, he said, speaking with an extra- 
 ordinary rapidity in perfect Spanish, — ' I am glad to find 
 that my birthright is so distinct. I hate your Cosmopolitan 
 who is usually proud of every country except his own, and 
 that he avoids — lest he should be called on to defend it.' 
 
 ' Spaniards, at any rate, have opportunities now to show 
 their patriotism.' 
 
 'Alas, yes! Misery must come to many "that the 
 nations may know themselves to be but men." ' 
 
 ' Do you take a gloomy view of the situation ? ' 
 
 'The gloomiest. We have sold our souls for swords. 
 And the swords are filthy. They poison the wound and 
 the hand that inflicts it. We arc a ruined people, and 
 Spain must perish.' 
 
 'You must have the courage of the past. When 
 Anaxarchus was being beaten to death, he said, " Pound 
 on. You can pound the sheath of Anaxarchus, himself 
 you cannot pound," Nothing can destroy the spirit of 
 Spain. Do you not feel what an injury you are doing to 
 the Church, our Mother, by your predictions ?' 
 
 I said this purposely in order to discover to which party 
 he belonged. 
 
 'The Church,' said he, 'is at once perfect light and 
 utter darkness. She is like that miraculous cloud which 
 guided the children of Israel, and, at the same time, 
 blinded their enemies.'
 
 398 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 This was a fine saying and true, but I saw that he 
 meant it half in irony and I knew then what to expect. 
 
 'The revolutionary party must inevitably come to de- 
 struction,' said I; ' elections by the sword are dangerous. 
 They never endure. The military elections of the Roman 
 Emperors and in other nations proved fatal to the public 
 peace and liberty. Every bad end may be referred to a 
 bad beginning. Men who fight — pro aris et focis — for 
 religion, freedom, wives and lands are full of courage. 
 But godless, homeless, mercenary vagabonds — whose trade 
 is blood — have no just cause and therefore no mettle. 
 " There is no king saved by the multitude of an host." 
 There must be some soul of goodness among his legions.' 
 
 ' That is our unhappy position,' said he. 'The Revolu- 
 tion in Spain is between the army and the people armed. It 
 is now a year ago since the two combined to drag Isabella's 
 bust in the mud. The Bourbons were declared to have 
 for ever forfeited the throne, but there was not an evil done 
 under the Bourbons which has not increased a hundred- 
 fold since the rebels have come to misrule. Where there 
 may have been a passing sickness there is now mortal 
 disease, disease in the Church, in civil society, in the 
 army, in the whole nation. Thousands of good citizens 
 and poor priests are immigrating to Biarritz and Bayonne, 
 to St Jean de Luz and to the frontier. God knows how 
 they will all live ! But their native land is no longer a 
 home for honourable creatures, and yet I cannot forget 
 how short a time has passed since my country was the 
 greatest Power in Europe.' 
 
 The speech was uttered with a feeling certainly not 
 feigned. I felt the truth of every word. Nevertheless, I 
 could not decide to my satisfaction whether he was, in his 
 sympathies, a Carlist. 
 
 'Nothing is done without the Law of Providence,' said 
 I, 'and when things seem to fall out contrary to justice, 
 they finish, notwithstanding, for the greater glory of God. 
 That is why it is right to say always — Fiat voluntas tua in 
 ccslo, et in terra. It is mockery to pray thus and nourish 
 a secret revolt.' 
 
 'You are a young man,' said he, 'and perhaps you are
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 399 
 
 happy to-day. But I agree with you, although I have 
 waited longer for the millennium ! I think, too, that one 
 should maintain unity of religion — being of Plutarch's 
 opinion, that varietas religionis, dissolutio religiojiis. Re- 
 ligion, however, should keep on her rock, and not wander 
 forth into the council-chamber and the market-place.' 
 
 'In fact,' said I, 'you want liberty not of worship but 
 of conscience. Let Church provide the Ritual and any devil 
 the sentiment that you take to it ! In other words, every 
 man may permit her ceremonies on his own terms. But 
 a power that depends on its subjects is not a power at all, 
 it is a servitude. Saint Louis of France showed his army 
 that he could fight his own battles, and thus he won re- 
 spect from foe and follower alike. Shall the Church be 
 less than her own saints?' 
 
 A sort of pallor showed under his olive skin, as though 
 a mist had crept over his blood. But his reply betrayed 
 no resentment. 
 
 'You are zealous,' said he, 'and, for an Anglo-Saxon, 
 you show a great interest in foreign affairs.' 
 
 ' There is French blood in our familv.' 
 
 'Ah ! I have observed that the English take great 
 pride in a Norman descent. Yet England played a filial 
 part in the Netherlands while Marie Antoinette was in 
 hourly expectation of the guillotine ? Your Government 
 pretended, indeed, to assist the Allies in restoring the 
 Monarchy. She meant to pay herself handsomely for the 
 trouble, however, by taking the lion's share of the French 
 conquests, and dividing the noble kingdom into parcels ! 
 But that meanness was paid for at Austerlitz. Austerlitz 
 is written on Pitt's heart in letters of eternal fire.' 
 
 He paused and spat upon the ground. 
 
 ' You will not find that there were many old Norman 
 families on the side of Mr Pitt ! But my father was 
 French,' said I, not choosing to make any fuller comment 
 on the chapter of history to which he had referred, 
 
 ' A Bonapartist ? ' 
 
 'Never.' 
 
 'And what, pray, would he have thought of my poor 
 country — her empire in tatters, her credit a jest ! '
 
 400 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 ' He would remember the Prophet, and say, " The 
 multitude of all the nations that fight against Ariel, even 
 all that fight against her and her stronghold, and that dis- 
 tress her, shall be as a dream, a vision of the night." ' 
 
 His eyes filled with tears. I saw him strike his breast 
 and heard him murmur, ' Hei mihi, Dotnine, quia peccavi 
 nimis in vita mea. Quid faciam miser, ubi fugiam, nisi ad te 
 Deus me us ? ' 
 
 Unconsciously he gave these words that peculiar clerical 
 intonation which no layman, in reciting prayers or psalms, 
 can acquire or aftect. I controlled ray astonishment and 
 looked away from him. When he next spoke, it was in 
 his ordinary voice — guttural, but well-modulated. 
 
 ' So you are not an Anglo-Saxon ? Thank God ! It 
 was said of Richelieu that the priest concealed the cavalier. 
 In your case, the cavalier conceals the priest ! ' 
 
 He bowed gravely. He gave me to understand that he 
 meant to convey an innocent, if high-flown compliment. 
 But I felt tolerably certain that, in some way, he knew 
 the story of my birth and my whole history. On the 
 other hand, his remark might have been purely accidental. 
 While the doubt was possible, I could take no stand. I 
 kept silent. 
 
 ' The Emperor of France has been ill,' he said, suddenly, 
 as though he wished to change the subject ; 'and he is a 
 long time getting well. The Empress Eugenie, with her 
 son, is visiting the room in Ajaccio where Letitia Ramolino 
 gave birth to the first Napoleon ! Signs of the times, 
 indeed. But a year ago. General Prim was a proscribed 
 Spanish patriot, driven from France and Belgium. Now 
 he is going to Vichy for his health — attended as a king in 
 state is attended. Sick Prim and the sicker Emperor will 
 have a little conference about Cuba. Cuba is all but 
 lost to us already. And what will become of our Spanish 
 emigrants under a Foreign Government ? Shall wc abandon 
 them to suffer as the Irish and the Hindoo ? Never — while 
 there is one thread of honour still running through our flag. 
 "Death has come up into our windows," but not yet 
 shame. The people — ' he checked himself, then turned 
 upon me with a face distorted by passion — ' What do
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 401 
 
 young men of family care about the people ? You talk 
 about God, King and country — ^you fight well and spare 
 neither your bones nor your blood. But your devotion is 
 for the shepherds and the pasture-land — the poor sheep 
 may perish.' 
 
 ' The poor sheep have grown into wolves since the 
 Reformation,' said I. 'They have been trained to look 
 upon the assertion of a divine right as the last insult which 
 a monarch may offer his subjects. That a king should pre- 
 sume to govern is insolence not to be tolerated. He is a 
 State Doll to be brought out and laid away at the pleasure 
 of his humble Ministers ! And with all this what have 
 the people done for themselves? Have they ever enjoyed 
 more comforts, straighter opportunities of advancement, 
 or safer protection than they did under the old Feudal 
 System ? But in those days this last false worship of 
 Humanity was unknown. Men now have neither gods 
 nor kings nor idols. They have sunk lower than the 
 heathen — for the heathen has never yet bowed down in 
 adoration before his own individuality. He chose some- 
 thing which at least seemed to him more powerful than 
 himself. Prayer has been recently defined as a reference 
 to one's higher self! But one's "higher self" is the soul, 
 and the soul belongs to God — and a man must save his 
 soul because God will call him to account for it. ///- 
 dividtiality is the new soft name for our secret sins.' 
 
 I spoke warmly and perhaps it was as well that we had 
 reached, by this time, the old Monastery door which, made 
 in the twelfth century, showed the marks of many a wild 
 assault. Before we could ring the bell, the bolt was 
 drawn and a footman, whose face was familiar to me from 
 my many calls and dinners at Curzon Street, let me in. 
 The elderly butler who stood near him waiting to 
 announce us smiled a benediction as he always did 
 on his mistress's friends. But he cast a dubious glance at 
 the Spaniard and asked him with grim respect whether he 
 came with me and what was his name. To the first 
 question, Mudara made no reply. As an answer to the 
 second, he gave him a card. Old Clayton, whose presence 
 of mind deserved great credit, asked us to rest a moment, 
 
 2 c
 
 402 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 He went into the great hall — (we were standing in the 
 vestibule without) — and presently returned. He conducted 
 Seiior Mudara to the drawing-room. As the two turned 
 the corner, Lady Fitz Rewes herself — dressed in flowered 
 muslin — came out from the hall on tiptoe, put her finger to 
 her lips, and gave me her right hand which I kissed as 
 usual. It was a very pretty hand. I read displeasure in 
 her eyes, however, and I remembered that she must have 
 received that morning my letter of the day before. I was 
 ashamed of it the moment I saw her face, which was 
 flushed, and younger than it had ever yet seemed to me. 
 She did not speak till we had crossed the long, imposing 
 salle^ hung with magnificent Gobelins, but rather gloomy — 
 and entered a small, sunny room, finished in the modern 
 taste, with quantities of china and chintz and family 
 miniatures. 
 
 ' Who is that man ? ' said she at once, ' his name is 
 unknown to me. Here is his card — Lucas Mudara. 
 There are no coronets or things on it. He must be 
 Brigit's man of business.' 
 
 As she mentioned the word Brigit, she threw me a 
 swift rather icy glance. 
 
 'That unhappy child's condition is deplorable,' she 
 continued. ' When she received the news of her 
 husband's death, she went straight out into the old 
 chapel, but neither then nor since has she been seen to 
 shed one tear. She seems in a stupor. All day long she 
 is there among the graves, with her head resting on her 
 hand and her lips closed, as white and silent as a stone 
 monument.' 
 
 She paused in order to give me the opportunity to ask 
 some question. But I could say nothing. The picture 
 and the suffering she described had robbed me of the 
 power of speech. There was never a time in my life 
 when I less saw my way before me than at that moment — 
 when I felt with such confusion the inadequacy, and also 
 the danger, of words. Lady Fitz Rewes proceeded, — 
 
 ' I believe very great caution is necessary. This is no 
 common illness and our hope must be in earnest prayer. 
 Brigit has been obedient always, conquering her natural
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 403 
 
 wishes at every step. Surely none of us will ever lose any 
 Grace with God from having submitted our own wills to 
 that of our superiors in authority. I cannot believe it. 
 She will be given some measure of earthly happiness yet. 
 It is not in the next world only that goodness is rewarded.' 
 
 I dared not ask her to explain herself more clearly. 
 Her look and her trembling tone left no room for any 
 doubt of her unutterable fear. 
 
 * It is hard to say sometimes for what we mourn,' she 
 continued, ' but a heart broken by grief cannot be calm. 
 So I do not think that her melancholy is wholly due to 
 sorrow. I think it is some other feeling — a horror of 
 life, a weariness of its folly, a desire to see an end of 
 disappointments and all.' 
 
 She could say no more, but broke down and wept as I 
 had never seen any woman weep beford. I would not 
 have believed, from mere hearsay, that so fragile a creature 
 was capable of so much passion. Her very soul seemed to 
 be dissolved in tears. I knew the kindness of her nature, 
 yet I was astonished to see her so utterly overwhelmed by 
 the thought of another's misfortunes. She was not with- 
 out her faults, but, from that hour, I forgot them all.* 
 
 'Dearest Pensee,' said I — (for she seemed to me, as "the 
 wings of a dove covered with silver, and her feathers with 
 yellow gold,") — 'there is no one like you. You are the 
 best and truest of friends. Do not cry. My task is already 
 hard enough. I have more news to tell, but it must be 
 our secret till Madame is stronger. The Archduke Charles 
 is dead.' 
 
 The sentence had barely passed my lips when I saw a 
 shadow on the lawn outside the open window. I hurried 
 forward and looked out. It belonged to Mudara who was 
 standing there, well within earshot, in perfect tranquillity, 
 apparently watching an immense flock of sea-gulls which 
 had gathered in hundreds on the wide beach below. I 
 myself was fascinated by the unusual sight. Some were 
 pluming themselves in the pools left by the out-going tide : 
 others were warming their breasts in the sand, and seemed 
 
 * Orange does not seem to have suspected that there may have been 
 more causes than one for Lady Fitz Rewes's deep emotion.
 
 404 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 to be asleep — secure in the thought that six patrols, 
 each flying in a radius from the centre of repose, were 
 keeping watch in the air above them, ready to give the 
 signals of distress at the first approach of an enemy. I 
 know not why, but the scene struck me almost as a 
 miraculous vision. My heart grew lighter, and my thirsty 
 faith received a fresh draught of hope. I rubbed my eyes 
 — the gulls did not vanish. Then I looked again at 
 Mudara. He must have heard every word of my con- 
 versation with Lady Fitz Rewes, but he showed no em- 
 barrassment on being discovered an eavesdropper. On 
 the contrary, he smiled, came nearer, and, with the easiest 
 air in the world, looked over my shoulder at Pensee. 
 
 *I walked round from the salon^ said he, 'the open 
 window and the garden were irresistible. I had no 
 intention of intruding. Madame la vicomtesse will pardon 
 me?' 
 
 Lady Fitz Rewes, at the first sound of his step, regained 
 her composure, but, with that simplicity which belongs to 
 a really proud nature, she made no attempt to conceal her 
 former agitation. She dried her eyes and wet cheeks at 
 her leisure, then stood up, and, disregarding Mudara's 
 apology, asked him his business. 
 
 ' Your name conveys no idea to me,' she added. 
 
 'There is no reason why it should, Madame,' said he ; 
 'my business is with Mrs Parflete.' 
 
 She made me a slight sign and I allowed him to pass 
 into the room. 
 
 ' Mrs Parflete is too ill to receive visitors,' said Pensee. 
 
 ' No doubt. She has had to suffer a great loss in the 
 death of her husband, but broken hearts often find much 
 consolation in the pity which they inspire.' 
 
 He bowed with profound respect, and was careful not 
 to lift his eyes again to her disfigured face. His remark, 
 in the circumstances, showed considerable tact. It induced 
 her to treat him less severely — for by justifying her tears he 
 had relieved her at once from the strain of an inexplicable 
 and painful situation. She blushed a little, and, motion- 
 ing him for the first time to a seat, said that if he preferred 
 to talk in Spanish — although his English was perfect — I
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 405 
 
 could act as an interpreter. (She referred to me as M. de 
 Hausee.) To my surprise, he fell in with the suggestion, 
 which she had made simply as a means of including me in 
 the conversation. He turned to me at once and had the 
 audacity to observe in his good, but very rapid Castilian, — 
 
 ' M. de Hausee, I have had the honour of meeting, in 
 times past, many members of your distinguished family. 
 This is a good and charming lady. But her habits of 
 thought are childish. If you have any friendship for 
 Madame the half-sister of His Imperial Highness, the 
 present Archduke Albert of Alberia, you will do all that 
 you can to help me in my mission. I was the private 
 agent of the late Archduke Charles. His daughter knows 
 me well. I am her trustee. It is imperative that I should 
 see her. My cause is that of God and the Archduchess, 
 If the Archduchess fail — I trust in God, and on Him I must 
 wholly depend unless you aid me.' 
 
 Now it had seemed to me, that, as a politician, he belonged 
 to that vast impotent crowd of educated beings who, while 
 they sympathise with the Cause of God as opposed to other 
 causes, do, on their own part, nothing to help it. But, in 
 spite of his alternate shifts of mood, I could not suspect 
 him of absolute treachery. He was no doubt an instru- 
 ment in some intrigue, but to err in over-much suspecting 
 is the easiest made and hardest mended of all mistakes. 
 I had no knowledge of Mrs Parflete's affairs. I feared 
 that Parflete had spent the greater part of her fortune, and 
 it seemed but too probable that her father's sudden death 
 would leave her in an unstable — if not precarious — situa- 
 tion. Parflete, on his honeymoon, had boasted of his wife's 
 jewels, which she had inherited from her mother, and 
 which, from his account, were of great value — some, 
 unquestionably, being heirlooms in the Imperial family. 
 He mentioned, among other things, a famous emerald 
 which had belonged to the great Empress, Maria-Teresa. 
 I had never seen Mrs Parflete in full-dress and I could 
 not say, therefore, whether she still possessed these orna- 
 ments. In any case, she did not seem to care greatly for 
 things of the kind. But, so far as her worldly comfort 
 went, they were of the highest importance. I felt that
 
 4o6 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 Mudara had matters of real moment to communicate, and, 
 acting out my part of interpreter, I repeated the substance 
 of his appeal, together with further entreaties on my own 
 part. I knew that the demands of business are, so far 
 from a penalty, a godsend in times when the mind is 
 over-charged with emotion and wholly at the mercy of 
 every sentimental caprice or morbid impulse. I urged 
 the point with such persistence that Pensee, after an hour 
 of wavering in her usual manner, finally agreed to co- 
 operate in a plan which Mudara himself proposed. It 
 was this. Lady Fitz Rewes should first invite Madame to 
 walk a little in her favourite haunt — the chapel. Then 
 she might be induced to rest for a short time in the 
 boudoir where we were then sitting. That would be a 
 favourable moment to show her Mudara's card and ask her 
 to receive him. 
 
 'She would never do it,' said Pensee, at first ; 'she has 
 refused to see every one and she is too ill to talk,' 
 
 'I know Madame,' answered the Spaniard, in English, 
 'she would not hesitate — she would grant me an audience 
 at once. It is one of the noblest intellects in Europe. 
 Weak natures are always firm when it is to their 
 palpable advantage to show a little pliancy. But the 
 strong soul knows when to yield. Madame is never 
 unalterable at the wrong moment.' 
 
 ' I will do my best,' said Lady Fitz Rewes, who then 
 rose and left us, promising to send us word if her attempts 
 at persuasion proved successful, 
 
 'It will be my painful duty,' said Mudara, when she 
 had gone, ' to inform the Archduchess of her father's 
 death.' 
 
 ' I had hoped,' said I, ' that this news might have been 
 withheld for the present.' 
 
 For a moment he said nothing. Then he made an 
 efix)rt — not to reply, but to interrogate, — 
 
 'Do you think that the loss will cause her much grief?' 
 
 ' I am sure of it. Can you suppose that she lacks 
 natural feelings ? ' 
 
 ' Certainly not,' said Mudara. ' Indeed, I always assume 
 that she has every human attribute — in its virtuous extreme,
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 407 
 
 be it understood. Therefore she is honourably ambitious. 
 She is the grand-daughter of an Emperor.' 
 
 ' That would be the last consideration to enter her mind.' 
 
 'The problems which time has ripened and which the 
 future evokes demand a bold solution,' he replied. ' Her 
 Imperial Highness must realize the duties of her station.' * 
 
 I concealed my amazement, and, seeming to disregard 
 these strange observations, I asked him whether he could 
 give me any further details — than those already received 
 through Baron Zeuill and Lord Soham — of Parflete's 
 suicide. He replied that he could not. I expressed, 
 without paraphrase, my conviction that the man still 
 lived. He said that nothing was impossible in the case 
 of such a scoundrel — that he himself (Mudara) had found 
 the suicide story hard of digestion. ' But,' he added, with 
 ingenuousness, ' we cannot get away from the proofs. 
 They are conclusive. They would satisfy any Court of 
 Justice in the world. He has made his death so clear, 
 that, if he should wish to come to life again, he would 
 experience much difficulty in establishing his identity ! 
 We have nothing to fear one way or the other.' 
 
 'I was not thinking of fear but of fraud.' 
 
 'Then that,' said he, firmly, 'is all imagination. Dispel 
 such an idea from your mind. He had everything to lose 
 and nothing to gain by giving out his death. He forfeits 
 his pension, and his wife may re-marry. These things do 
 not matter when one is in another world, but while one is 
 here, they matter greatly. I could believe that he might 
 have a morbid wish to read his own obituaries — he was so 
 inordinately vain. Fraud, however, is another affair. He 
 was awkward when it came to vulgar misdeeds. He had 
 every vice, but he could always persuade himself that they 
 were refinements — evidences of culture and superiority of 
 spirit. He drank to excess, yet no one ever saw him 
 drunk. The first time he cheated at cards, however, he 
 was found out. Parflete's whole history might be con- 
 veyed in those two facts. Madame Duboc used to call 
 
 * It should be remembered that Orange was not then aware of the 
 various intrigues at the Alberian Court, nor of the late Archduke's 
 determination to recognise his daughter publicly.
 
 4o8 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 him the baptized satyr. Did you ever meet that charming 
 and accomplished lady ? I believe she had not one true 
 friend in the world.' 
 
 I told him that I had seen her on two occasions, and I 
 spoke of her extraordinary beauty. 
 
 ' It was miraculous,' said he, * and the Archduke's 
 infatuation could not be blamed. She v/as the sole love of 
 his life, and although he was a hard man, he remembered 
 her till the end of his days. And, after all, she was his 
 canonical wife. No doubt, her ancestors too, could be 
 found, if necessary, sufliciently noble ! The time has 
 come for her daughter to stand on her rights. The 
 marriage was and has ever been acknowledged by Rome, 
 and although His Holiness would no doubt prefer to main- 
 tain silence on so disturbing a question, he could not, for all 
 the threats of Europe, deny her legitimacy.' 
 
 All in a moment, through the gloom, I saw the colour 
 of his dangerous schemes. 
 
 'A nobleman,' said I — 'or a country gentleman — who 
 owns even a small estate may exercise certain, if limited, 
 powers, and call himself master of his fate, but a prince 
 reduced to a private station is in a wretched state of 
 dependence. He is useless in politics, a burden to his 
 country, and his title, separated from royal or official 
 duties, is an empty term. He is, in fact, a spectacle of 
 ruin or of scorn. Mrs Parflete — whose one desire is to 
 live in retirement — would never care to excite public 
 attention by asserting a dignity which would create a 
 thousand slanders — a thousand enemies, and give not a 
 single privilege.' 
 
 Here, with a candid yet piercing glance, he interrupted 
 me, — 
 
 'You forget one thing. The little Archduke, her half- 
 brother, is a sickly, half-witted boy.' 
 
 'Sickly princes often live the longest.' 
 
 'When they are virtuous — not otherwise. But this one 
 is a poor, effeminate lad, who dances, who has a room full 
 of dolls and plays on the fiddle two hours every day, more 
 because he is ordered to do so than from any taste for 
 music !'
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 409 
 
 His tone, I noticed, was more sorrowful than con- 
 temptuous, and the accent of regret — inappropriate for 
 words so bitter, made an impression upon me. 
 
 'It comes to this, then,' said I, 'you wish Madame to 
 declare her claim to the Throne ? ' 
 
 ' It comes to that,' said he, after a short pause. 
 
 My estimate of his sagacity did not allow me to think 
 him other than a liar in this last assertion. He must have 
 known that the course of action which he proposed could 
 only recommend itself to the enemy of all human happiness. 
 Had he seemed a vain person, I would have accused him 
 frankly of speaking in contradiction to his own obvious 
 good statesmanship — with more compliments to the same 
 effect. To which, in his anxiety to salve his credit, he 
 might have replied in such a way as to betray his real 
 sympathies. But he had too intelligent a mind to be 
 caught by bait so common, and indeed, everything about 
 him betokened fanaticism rather than rascality. He was, 
 perhaps, bound by an unscrupulous devotion to some 
 person, some cause, or some idea of duty. A peculiar 
 hardness and self-sufficiency about his whole being re- 
 strained, however, the notion that he was actuated by any 
 especial affection for an individual. He had, I decided, 
 that form of egoism which renders a man rebellious under 
 authority, but a slave to his own private and fantastic rules 
 of conduct. He reminded me of those lawyers who, well 
 knowing a client to be a rogue, do their utmost, as a point 
 of professional honour, to prove the innocent party in the 
 wrong. An instinct warned me that he was acting in 
 some double interest — partly for the Archduchess and 
 partly for the young Archduke — that he had come to 
 preach false doctrine in order to be taught the true. I 
 knew that a woman of Madame's high spirit and majestic 
 character had nothing to fear in a verbal duel with a man 
 of his class. I answered him, therefore, in such a way that 
 he could not be certain whether I was in jest or in earnest. 
 
 'Saul,' said I, 'went out to seek asses and found a 
 kingdom, but I have never yet heard of any man or 
 woman who went out for a kingdom and did not meet 
 with contempt ! '
 
 410 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 He lifted his eyebrows in surprise and seemed at a loss 
 for the right reply. 
 
 ' I grant,' said he, at last, ' that the question of the 
 Throne is remote and difficult. But she can form, in the 
 meantime, some alliance worthy of her blood. When the 
 period of mourning has elapsed, she will need a protector. 
 Is she not alone in the world ? ' 
 
 'There is much in what you say,' said I. 
 
 ' But surely you agree with me ?' he insisted. 
 
 ' In such a matter, I could agree only with the lady 
 herself. If she saw fit to remain as she is, I should feel 
 bound to honour the decision. But if she resolved on 
 marriage, I should think it a wise step.' 
 
 ' Even supposing that her choice fell on the Marquis de 
 Castrillon ? He is poor, he is disreputable, but he is 
 young, he is handsome, and he is a grandee of Spain.' 
 
 'But, admitting all these high qualifications,' said I, 
 'would he still be thought sufficiently distinguished to 
 form a party in any alliance? ' 
 
 ' You are a little satirical, Monsieur,' said he, smiling. 
 ' There are, however, but three families in Europe of so 
 many descents as the Hausees, and the house of Castrillon 
 is not, I own, one of those three.' 
 
 This foolish remark was delivered with such an air of 
 encouragement that it was impossible to ignore its mean- 
 ing. I laughed outright at his impudence, and said that 
 Madame was not the woman to base her opinion of a 
 man on the empty fact that he had a few descents more 
 or less than another. But the situation was becoming, I 
 thought, far too intimate. I knew no more of Mudara 
 than his card, his account of himself, and my own instinct 
 told me. I determined to change the subject and I did so 
 most abruptly — wishing to show him that I would discuss 
 the Archduchess and her affairs no further. I had made 
 up my mind — in the face of his assertions and his con- 
 summate mastery of the Spanish tongue — that the Agent 
 was no real Spaniard. That haughty, reserved and 
 chivalrous race does not produce men of his calibre, and, 
 when persons claiming that country show dispositions 
 opposed to the national character, it will be found that
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 411 
 
 they have sprung from alien stock and have neither the 
 tissue nor the traditions of the superb people whom 
 they pretend to represent. Mudara, it is true, had the 
 presence and self-possession of one who had been born in 
 no ignoble state; he was a subordinate yet never an in- 
 ferior; he could flatter without becoming servile; his eye 
 was fearless, his features were clear ; every gesture, every ex- 
 pression, showed, unmistakably, pure blood. But of what 
 kind ? Chivalry was as far from him as vulgarity : he was 
 not a gentleman in our sense of the word : nor was he base. 
 
 ' I suppose you have been often in Alberia ? ' said I, 
 'indeed, a great traveller in all parts of the globe ? ' 
 
 On his replying in the affirmative, I was able to drive 
 the conversation toward international politics on which he 
 expressed himself promiscuously in French, Italian, and 
 German, according to the subjects under discussion. He 
 spoke all three languages with perfect fluency, but he actea 
 them, also, borrowing in each case the mannerisms which 
 are associated respectively with the French, Italian and 
 German nations. He could have passed, in ordinary 
 circumstances, for a native of any one of these countries. 
 Half in fun, I addressed him, first in the meagre Russian, 
 and then in the less Turkish, at my command. His Russian 
 was too good for me. I begged him to stop. After a 
 certain hesitation, he answered my Turkish remark, and, 
 for the first time during our long interview, he became 
 natural. He was at last himself.* I was careful not to 
 betray my discovery, and, to his evident relief, I resumed 
 the conversation in Spanish. 
 
 ' Do you not think,' said I, ' that the great religious war 
 of the future will rest between the Christian, the Jew and 
 the Mussulman ? ' 
 
 * Lucas Mudara was a Turk who, either from conviction or interest, 
 had professed in his early youth the Cliristian faith. He received the 
 greater part of his education in Russia — where he was ordained priest in 
 the Greek Church. Five years afterwards, he quarrelled with his Bishop 
 and fled to Alberia. There, in consequence of his talents, his gift of 
 languages, and his supposed sincerity, he was well received in every 
 quarter. Later on, he established himself as a silk merchant at Madrid, 
 where, as he was never seen to observe any religious duties, his neighbours 
 regarded him as a lieretic.
 
 412 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 'Between the Church of Rome ^ the Jew and the Mussul- 
 man,' said he ; ' Christians outside the Church would 
 merely come like birds and beasts of prey — after the 
 battle ! They talk about Jesus Christ, but they take 
 their gospel from Voltaire. The Mussulman will fight 
 for God and his prophet ; Protestants will fight only for 
 their purse. Prick that — and you will find them as meek 
 as the saints and as hardy as the martyrs.' 
 
 I warned him that patriotism was not yet an extinct 
 virtue in any European country — whether Greek, Lutheran, 
 Calvinistic, or English in creed. 
 
 'True,' said he, 'but patriotism and religion have be- 
 come utterly dissociated in the policy of every Christian 
 Government. Patriotism itself is now a profitable name 
 for commercial interests, and State theology has degener- 
 ated into a mere science of outward appearances. What 
 Anglo-Saxon in his senses could shed one drop of blood 
 for the Church of England as it stands at present ? He 
 would as soon go to the stake for the General Post Office, 
 or for the Lord Mayor and his Aldermen.' 
 
 'There,' said I, unable to refrain from laughter, 'you 
 are in error. English people love honesty and hate 
 iniquity. They may not be profoundly religious, and 
 certainly they are not well instructed in matters of faith 
 and doctrine, but so long as they can believe in a person 
 or an idea, they will fight for both with the courage of 
 lions and a fidelity more than heroic. Their clergy — 
 as a body — are remarkable for uprightness of character 
 and every social virtue. Many of them have a fervent 
 piety. You could not read their writings nor hear their 
 sermons nor watch their lives and doubt it. I rarely meet 
 one but I feel that Church would be the stronger 
 for such a son. Once convinced and once given 
 the courage of their convictions — and that, when a man 
 is bound and fettered by family ties is no light thing — 
 they would carry the world before them. They are fine 
 fellows — a bold stroke more and they would be fine 
 priests.' 
 
 'Nevertheless,' said he, drily, 'your great Martyr, St 
 Thomas Becket has not had many successors at Canter-
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 413 
 
 bury ! But his mother was a Saracen : he had the 
 Oriental fervour in his veins.' 
 
 'That is a legend,' I replied. 
 
 'It has never been disproved,' answered Mudara. 
 
 * I have never doubted it,' said I. 
 
 We were interrupted at this moment by the entrance 
 of Lady Fitz Rewes. She was pale, but whether from 
 anger or from grief I could not decide, and she spoke 
 under her breath. 
 
 ' Mrs Parflete has gone to the chapel,' she said, ' if 
 you follow mc you may be able to see her and judge 
 for yourselves how little fit she is to be disturbed by 
 strangers.' 
 
 The idea of spying upon a lady in such distress seemed 
 to me detestable. I declined to go. 
 
 ' But I insist,' said Pensee ; ' I can act no longer on my 
 own responsibility. It is right that Mr Mudara should 
 satisfy himself of his ward's condition, and as for you — ' 
 
 She looked at me and bit her lip — 
 
 'Will you not come,' she asked, 'as my friend?' 
 
 She stepped out on to the lawn and we followed her. 
 
 It was now about four o'clock in the afternoon. The 
 sea was as tremulous as the trees on an Autumn day when 
 they wait for the windy scythe of Winter. As I beheld it, 
 I seemed to be looking at the reflection of my own heart. 
 The conversation with Mudara — slight as it was — had 
 roused the old doubt, which always slept lightly, that I 
 was obedient to my true vocation. And this, together 
 with the joy and dread combined of seeing Brigit once 
 more, my terror at the possible effects of her illness, the 
 despair caused by my poverty — what had I to offer her ? 
 the piercing fear — certainty — uncertainty — that she cared 
 for me as a friend only — made me so dazed with wretched- 
 ness that reason itself seemed a torment and a disease. 
 There is something, however, in the very presence of 
 the ocean with its extent, its depth, its changeableness 
 which lifts the soul to the remembrance of that Divine 
 Grace which changes not and is so vast that Heaven 
 above the sky cannot contain it. I sent my hopes 
 beyond this land of the rustling of wings where, to
 
 414 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 our short sight, all powers and emotions rest a moment 
 only to flee the faster away. But, I know, that, 
 in the kingdom of God from Whom there is no 
 hiding place in heaven or in hell, in the uttermost 
 parts of the sea or in the darkness, those, whose love 
 has been found steadfast during the flying days of 
 adversity, shall love for ever in a fixed and perfect happi- 
 ness. Remembering this, I was able to collect myself 
 and throw aside despair. 
 
 We went through a grassy lane and then down into an 
 under-ground passage from which we finally emerged into 
 a kind of wood. Here, under the shade of some large 
 beech-trees and much over-grown by iv)"-, stood the ruins 
 of an ancient Gothic church. But four windows — or 
 rather clefts in the masonry — and two crumbling walls 
 preserved even a little of the original design. The rest 
 was broken into wide gaps and irregular arches through 
 which we saw masses of foliage and glimpses of the sea. 
 The floor was made up of moss-covered fragments — some 
 of them grave-stones, their names and inscriptions wholly 
 obscured by time. One corner, however, had apparently 
 been restored, for it was separated from the rest by a rusty 
 gate wrought in iron to represent a death's head, cross- 
 bones, and a sand-glass. The treasure it protected was a 
 dismal monument erected to the memory of Hugo de 
 Baskerville, eleventh Viscount Fitz Rewes — a nobleman 
 who had been well distinguished and thoroughly forgotten 
 during the reign of Queen Anne. On the wall just 
 behind this granite tribute, some figures of women in 
 flowing drapery and with hands clasped in the attitude of 
 prayer were rudely carved. Even in the sunlight and under 
 a sky as blue as Italy's, it was a damp and melancholy 
 spot. The strong salt air rose from the marsh-lands 
 beyond : jackdaws, sea-gulls, and curlews had made it 
 their haunt : its sacredness had departed and it did not 
 seem to me like hallowed ground. I was able to observe 
 all these details for Lady Fitz Rewes told us to remain 
 there and watch till Mrs Parflete went into the Lady 
 Chapel. The passage between the Lady Chapel and the 
 part in which we stood, had, for some reason, been closed
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 4.15 
 
 up. Ivy now concealed what may have been visible of 
 the brick-work, and it was not until Pensce drew our 
 attention to a small window — quite hidden under the 
 leaves — that I fully realized the part we were expected to 
 play. 
 
 There could have been no question of Mudara's legal 
 right to assure himself of his ward's state of health and 
 mind. Had he refused to let that particular occasion pass, it 
 would have shown ordinary good feeling, no doubt, but at 
 the cost of duty. Much as this harsh consideration grated, 
 I could not, in common justice, cast it aside. Of Lady 
 Fitz Rewes's friendship for the Archduchess, of my portion 
 in her welfare he had — he could have had — not the 
 smallest safe knowledge. That we were her wilful 
 enemies was hardly, in the circumstances, conceivable, 
 but how far our devotion was selfish or to what a degree 
 it may have been tinctured by motives contrary to her 
 real interests, he could not, by any human means, decide 
 until he himself had seen and conversed with Brigit 
 herself. I sought in vain for any easier solution of the 
 difficulty than the one before me. I had, for a moment, 
 so stood that Mudara could not approach the window. I 
 stepped aside and walked away — leaving him to spy alone 
 and, so far as I was concerned, unobserved. 
 
 Lady Fitz Rewes followed me. 
 
 ' Surely you wish to see her ? ' said she. 
 
 I dared not trust myself to give an answer. 
 
 ' O Robert ! ' she exclaimed, ' you are very cruel to 
 me. But you are more cruel to yourself. How you are 
 suffering ! Your eyes are full of blood.' 
 
 Mudara called her and she glided back to him. 
 Presently they both joined me. I had formed such a 
 violent hatred of the Agent that I kept my glance from 
 his face, so I do not know how he looked. His tone, 
 when he spoke, was confident. 
 
 ' The Archduchess,' said he, ' seems ill and in grief, 
 but I am certain that she is mistress of all her faculties. 
 The Archduke, her father, was subject to these attacks of 
 reticence. They are a blessed gift. I must beg her to 
 see me and without delay. My business will not keep.'
 
 4i6 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 I cannot deny that these words gave me a great relief. 
 When he suggested that Lady Fitz Rewes should go at 
 once to the Chapel and inform Madame that he was 
 waiting without, I supported his wish. Pensee went away 
 and, after a short time which seemed to me interminable, 
 came back. 
 
 * Mrs Parflete will see you in there,' she said : ' that is 
 the path.' 
 
 He received the message with an air of cold self- 
 satisfaction, bowed to both of us and stole out in the 
 direction Pensee had indicated. I commended my poor 
 Lady to God, to our Lord Jesus, to the Blessed Virgin, 
 to her Guardian Angel and to all the saints. But my 
 friend unable, perhaps, to account for my silence, struck 
 me on the shoulder with all the little force of her small, 
 delicate arm. 
 
 ' You are so stubborn,' she cried, ' and you are so 
 unkind. You do not understand me and you never will. 
 I knew that nothing would induce you to look through 
 the window at Brigit, but I could not do less than give 
 you the opportunity. You are longing to see her. I am 
 sure of it. I have never known such a case of infatuation. 
 Yet you treat me like a stranger. You deny me your 
 confidence.' 
 
 Full, to the utmost measure, of her imagined ill-usage, 
 she indulged in a long scolding complaint made up of 
 rhetorical questions addressed to herself. Heaven, and 
 me. God knew this and God knew that. Had she not 
 loaded my friend — solely on my account — with kindnesses? 
 Had she not shown her the most tender devotion and the 
 love of a sister ? Had she ever denied her rare beauty, 
 her virtue, her sweetness of disposition ? Had she sought 
 to make mischief between us? Had she (Pensee) 
 been as many other women in the same strange situation, 
 she would most certainly have done. I could not get a 
 word in edgeways. She went on with great vehemence 
 and at last — as I had expected — burst into tears. 
 
 ' You go about,' said she, ' making every one's life a 
 burden because no one knows how to take you ! You 
 have reduced Brigit to such wretchedness, that, although
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 417 
 
 she has good sense much beyond her years, she thinks she 
 wants to be a Nun — a life to which she is utterly unsuited. 
 I would take the Veil to-morrow gladly. But her sorrow 
 is not like mine. I have been plunged in deep affliction. 
 The only consolation I can have is afforded me by the 
 reflection that I tended Lionel in his last hours, and that 
 his latest breath was drawn when I was with him ! No, 
 her sorrow is not like unto my sorrow ! ' 
 
 It was, no doubt, most natural that comparisons should 
 arise in her mind between the infamous Parflete and that 
 perfect knight Fitz Rewes, who, as Lord Wight frequently 
 told me, was the 'most graceful and accomplished gentleman 
 of the generation he adorned.' Had his widow allowed me 
 to speak, I would have said all I could to show my profound 
 sympathy. But, without a pause, she continued reciting 
 her string of grievances, and even went so far as to reproach 
 me with the early death of her parents which took place 
 before I was born. One moment she seemed to be making, 
 to my infinite embarrassment, a general confession : the 
 next, she was accusing all her friends of malign coldness 
 and the blackest ingratitude. At last, however, God in 
 mercy restored her temper. She declared it was my fault, 
 and began to smile as prettily as her considerable gifts in 
 that direction permitted, 
 
 'Now let us be kind to each other,' said she, 'and talk 
 affectionately as brother and sister should ! ' 
 
 As I had not opened my mouth once during the pre- 
 ceding interview, I begged her pardon humbly for any 
 remark and all the remarks I had made. This she readily 
 and most graciously granted, but not without warning me 
 that I ought to be more careful of wounding people's 
 feelings. She understood me and was willing to make 
 every allowance for my humours — for I had shown a 
 fine resignation in truly hard circumstances. Yet, all the 
 same, it had been the Will of God to make a way out of 
 my perplexity, and I was not at all thankful or nice. And 
 I made it 'most disagreeable and trying and a fearful strain' 
 for every one concerned. 
 
 ' What, after all, have I said ? ' I exclaimed, by this time 
 fairly exasperated. 
 
 2 D
 
 4i8 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 ' You have hurt me very much indeed,' she answered, 
 ' but I forgive and forget it now that you admit you were 
 in the wrong and behaved badly ! But I should always 
 forgive you in any case, because I am fond of you and I 
 am sure that you mean well and wouldn't grieve me for 
 worlds.' 
 
 ' There,' said I, ' you are right.' 
 
 ' As if I had ever wronged you ! ' she exclaimed, ' as if 
 I could, dear Robert ! ' 
 
 She spoke with angelic amiability and I was too 
 grateful for the change to quarrel with her reasons for 
 reconciliation. 
 
 She leant upon me, and we paced the narrow area 
 circumscribed by the fallen walls. I was trying to imagine 
 the interview between Brigit and Mudara. My heart and 
 my thoughts were far away from the kind, capricious 
 creature by my side. But she talked with vehemence 
 about my future, and assured me that I ought to marry. 
 
 ' Ordinary rules,' said she, 'do not apply in extraordinary 
 cases. For once, dear Robert, listen to common sense. 
 Be guided by me. You both love each other very much. 
 It is a good and honourable love. I want you to be happy. 
 And she is all I could wish for you — she is, indeed.' 
 
 She paused and glanced up into my face. 
 
 'I suppose you think I am unnatural,' said she. 
 
 ' Why unnatural ? ' I asked. 
 
 *Not to be jealous.' 
 
 'Angels cannot be jealous.' 
 
 She drew away and said, with great petulance, — 
 
 ' I hate always being called an angel ! You never give 
 me credit for any nice feeling ! You seem to think that it 
 requires no effort to be a good friend. But it is an effort 
 all the same.' 
 
 ' In some cases, certainly. In yours — never.* 
 
 ' Oh, very well. Have your own way. I am a frog 
 then ! I am quite different from all other human beings ! 
 I am particularly anxious to give up every one I care for ! 
 It gives me perfect joy to step into the background, and 
 send some other woman forward ! Of course ! I am like 
 the poor doll who loved to have pins hammered into her
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 419 
 
 head ! Oh, how stupid men are, and how foolish they 
 can be.' 
 
 She went on and on and on in the same strain till she 
 seemed to be a humming bird with a lamenting, feminine, 
 yet prettily musical note. And although she herself was 
 very near me, her voice sounded far away. I would not 
 have been alone — for her presence was a help and a 
 pleasure. Now and then I looked down at her little foot, 
 or remarked her soft, transparent complexion which flushed 
 and paled with every passing whim. Her flaxen curls 
 fluttered in the wind. Once she stopped short in the 
 midst of an oration on ' the Tomb,' and exclaimed, — 
 
 'Aren't they ridiculous ?' 
 
 ' What ? ' said I. 
 
 ' My curls ! ' said she. ' I wish they would go out of 
 fashion. But they look so well on the Empress Eugenie ! 
 . . . Yes, I hope to be buried, please God, beside Lionel.^ 
 
 Lionel's name was never long absent from her lips. 
 Whenever I heard it, I would say, ' Poor darling ! What 
 trouble you have had ! ' 
 
 'Haven't I,' she would answer. *I have had a lot of 
 sorrow, haven't I, Robert ? ' 
 
 Had it been possible, I believe she would have spent 
 her life gladly repeating over with me that same little 
 dialogue — again and again — without a single variation.
 
 CHAPTER XXIV 
 
 Before proceeding further, it will be necessary to put 
 before the reader a few facts from Mudara's Confession 
 — a. document to which reference has once already 
 been made. In this manuscript, it is clearly shown 
 that the Agent's visit to Catesby was of an odious 
 sort. There is a treachery that is knit up — partly 
 from warped principles, partly from motives, which, 
 if never excusable, are always comprehensible. But 
 there is another kind, more rare and certainly more 
 dangerous, that is less a studied policy than a disposi- 
 tion of mind — a habit of conduct to be exercised im- 
 partially in all relationships and in every situation of 
 life, even at a heavy loss, even at the risk sometimes of 
 certain self-destruction. The need to deceive becomes, 
 in fact, a passion. Its slave must lie, must dissimulate, 
 must betray, because his soul, by submitting to the bond- 
 age, has gradually lost the power to bring forth an honest 
 thought. That Mudara meant no deliberate malice 
 toward his ward is as evident as his own double-dealing. 
 It is probable that he hoped — from sheer amiability — 
 
 that she would come unharmed out of the snares he 
 
 420
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 421 
 
 had himself prepared for her ruin. But he wished to 
 ascertain, let the event be what it might, first, whether 
 she was already involved, or could be tempted to engage, 
 in any conspiracy against the Alberian Government ; 
 secondly, how far she was concerned in the Carlist 
 movement. His third object was to urge on, by all 
 the means in his power, her marriage with Robert de 
 Hausee — commonly known as Robert Orange. Parflete 
 had been paid a large sum for his feigned suicide, but 
 he was a man of uncertain immorality. His remorse- 
 ful return to the scene was, at any hour, possible, and, 
 although such inconvenient penitence was to be held 
 at bay by bribes and menaces so long as either could 
 move him, and by precautions so long as they could 
 be invented, both Zeuill and Mudara felt that there 
 was not a moment to be wasted in bringing about what 
 they were pleased to call the De Hausee complication. 
 All their plots and efforts were directed towards preserv- 
 ing every Lutheran — indeed, every Protestant power — 
 from the Catholic influence and the Legitimate Causes, 
 No claim, no party was so slight or so purely senti- 
 mental as to seem unworthy of suppression. To crush 
 the Papacy was, no doubt, impossible. The heathen 
 Emperors, the Greeks of Constantinople, the barbarian 
 hordes, the Lombards, the Normans, the nobles of 
 Rome, the Emperors of Germany and France, the 
 Kings of England and Spain who had striven with 
 the Pontiffs, had passed away, all out of power and 
 many out of remembrance. It had been proved
 
 422 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 that * God made the nations for health : there is 
 no kingdom of hell upon the earth.' But if one could 
 not root out the Church, it was always easy to set up 
 forces against it, and, if one could not destroy the great 
 Catholic families, one might always observe that old 
 tradition in European diplomacy — 'an alliance against 
 the House of Bourbon is the most desirable connection 
 in the world.' For this last reason, even had there 
 been none other, Brigit, as a conspicuous adherent to 
 the Carlist Cause, would have been a marked figure 
 for ' management.' Modern refinement shrinks from 
 crude methods of persecution. It is eminently civil, 
 well-meaning, a little wiser, that is all, than its victim. 
 We shall see the method by which 'superior wisdom,' 
 in the present case, laboured for expediency as opposed 
 to 'superstition.' 
 
 Mudara, on leaving Pensee and Robert, pursued 
 the path which led to the other side of the old ruin. 
 The walls of the Lady Chapel were so leafy with 
 their own dense vines, and the small structure, as a 
 whole, stood so sheltered by the beech and fir trees, 
 that a stranger would have passed it by without 
 suspecting its existence. It had often escaped, there- 
 fore, the cruel attention of Catesby's many besiegers, 
 and it had suffered chiefly from the invisible hands 
 of time and neglect. Mudara found that the path 
 abruptly ceased. It had grown imperceptibly narrower 
 till, at last, it terminated in the long weeds and wav- 
 ing grass. The footsteps of the two women who had
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 425 
 
 preceded him had left, however, slight traces here and 
 there. These he followed for a little distance, when 
 they stopped before a large impenetrable briar-bush. He 
 tried to peer between the branches, and, in so doing, 
 felt it yield. Pushing harder, he saw that it grew out 
 of a box attached to — and concealing- — a low oaken door. 
 This stood ajar and led into a small stone vestibule at 
 the end of which hung a heavy velvet curtain — very 
 faded yet evidently placed there but recently. He 
 drew this aside and found himself in the Chapel. 
 
 The crumbling walls were still whole : the small 
 and glassless windows were dark with foliage ; and 
 such light as entered came in through the wide gaps 
 in the roof. The altar and every trace of it had been 
 swept away, and a collection of rakes, hods, wheel- 
 barrows, spades, bottles and watering pots now stood 
 where, for five centuries or more, the Holy Sacrifice of 
 the Mass had been offered, and the faithful had knelt 
 to receive the Sacred Host. Brigit, as the Agent 
 entered, was sitting in the farthest corner, dressed in 
 a plain grey gown, her hair concealed under a black 
 lace veil, her hands tightly clasped over an open Breviary 
 which lay upon her lap. The little that was visible of 
 her face was ashen and every feature seemed to have 
 received the twist of woe. Grief has a harsher touch 
 than death. Mudara, who was by nature little dis- 
 posed to pity, shuddered to see so severe a change in 
 a countenance once the- symbol of all those radiant 
 essences which go to make the magic of youth and
 
 424 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 gaiety. But at the sight of the Agent, the hue of 
 life and blood swept into her cheeks. The sudden 
 emotion, the necessity for speech, the vivid remem- 
 brance this man brought up of her days in Madrid, 
 roused her spirit to a more poignant sorrow — a 
 keener realization of the demand upon her courage. 
 She rose to her feet : the spell of an impotent yet 
 blighting melancholy fell away. She lifted the 
 heavy veil : her bright hair shone out above her 
 brighter eyes, and what had seemed a vanishing 
 spectre of womanhood was once again the defiant, 
 mysterious and beautiful girl whose character and 
 fate alike had inspired intrigue and baffled speculation. 
 Mudara knelt and kissed her hand, then rose, retired 
 two paces, and stood with a bent head in an attitude 
 of extreme deference. 
 
 ' Madame,' said he, * there are many pressing 
 matters to be considered. Your Imperial Highness 
 must know — ' 
 
 'This is a new thing. I don't care for it. Mv 
 mother was never so addressed.' 
 
 'The circumstances are new, Madame. There 
 can never be too many good Catholic Princesses.' 
 
 'I agree with you. But my life is not among 
 Princes and I am anxious to talk, without waste of 
 time, about my own affairs.' 
 
 Mudara's self-control for a moment deserted him, 
 A suspicion that she, too, possessed more than 
 ordinary skill in dissimulation fanned his indifference 
 
 1
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 425 
 
 into violent antagonism. Enraged at his own in- 
 ability to understand a character which had so little 
 in common with the vulgar estimate of feminine 
 weakness, and regarding her judgment with that awe 
 which soon develops into hatred, he resolved to strike 
 his worst blow at once and in the roughest manner. 
 
 * These are your affairs, Madame,' he said, his olive 
 face glowing with resentment. ' There is a kingdom 
 waiting to be claimed. Will you demand your just 
 rights — a Divine Right — if it comes to that, or sub- 
 mit to any and all indignities ? The Archduke, your 
 father, is dead.' 
 
 The wanton cruelty of this speech carried its own 
 antidote. Brigit's mental fortitude rallied and drew 
 fresh strength from the very insolence of the Agent's 
 attack. Her hands and lips tightened : the colour 
 deepened in her eyes : she paced the Chapel floor for a 
 few minutes without speaking, but, when she finally 
 turned to address Mudara, he saw no expression except 
 grief on her countenance, and he listened in vain for 
 any sign of inward agitation in her voice. 
 
 'Then, if my father is dead,' she said, 'in whose 
 interests are you acting ? ' 
 
 'In yours, Madame, if you will permit it.* 
 
 'You should first learn, in that case, what my 
 interests are. If I have the smallest claim on my 
 father's estate, I renounce it gladly in favour of the 
 Archduke Albert, my brother, whom I do not know 
 and who will never, in this world, know me.'
 
 426 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 * Madame, it is my duty to point out certain facts 
 of v/hich, apparently, you are quite ignorant. The 
 Archduke Charles, before his sudden and lamentable 
 death, was especially anxious that you should adopt a 
 title more in keeping with your position, as the legiti- 
 mate daughter of His Imperial Highness.' 
 
 She interrupted him, — 
 
 ' I disposed of this matter weeks ago. Baron Zeuill 
 had my answer then, and you must regard that as 
 final' 
 
 ' He offered, at that time, an insufficient distinction,' 
 said Mudara. ' And the case now is changed. The 
 Cardinal has led me to infer that he is wholly on your 
 side. The Marquis of Castrillon and a very strong 
 party are only waiting your commands. I think, 
 Madame, that you take the situation too lightly. I 
 can believe that, at your age and with your taste for 
 a private life, you shrink from the glory and dangers 
 of a Crown. But a strong man fears neither God, 
 nor his fellow-men, nor himself. He accepts all the 
 consequences of his qualities, good and bad. A strong 
 woman should be the same. And there is such a 
 thing as duty. Imagine Alberia under a Lutheran 
 Regent, a crew of Lutheran officials, and a child- 
 Archduke who can barely comprehend the difference 
 between conscience and inclination. He is sickly too 
 in health. You are the next heir. Will you toss 
 away your birth-right ? ' 
 
 ' I know,' she answered, ' that I am the lawful child 
 
 J
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 427 
 
 of the lawful marriage between my father the Arch- 
 duke Charles of Alberia and my mother, Madame 
 Duboc. But you misunderstand the Cardinal if you 
 think that he wishes me to stir up strife in my 
 brother's kingdom. As for the Marquis of Castrillon 
 — he can lead his supporters where they are wanted. 
 I have no need of him or them. Take no thought 
 for me. I am in safety, and my welfare is not in the 
 power of fortune. God alone has power over me. I 
 put my trust in Him — not in men nor in their 
 advice.' 
 
 'Almighty God, no doubt, is a good Friend, Madame. 
 But why does He with His Omnipotence permit such 
 injustice and so many horrors in the world ? ' 
 
 ' He could make them cease. But at what a cost ? 
 No less than our Free Will, which, while it makes 
 the misery — makes also the greatness of human 
 nature.' 
 
 ' Madame is philosophic beyond her years ! Alberia 
 would be happy under the rule of so wise a Princess. 
 But I should be the last to advocate hasty measures 
 even to bring about that blessed consummation. The 
 Archduke Albert may live, marry, and have heirs — ' 
 
 ' Unless he, too, should die as suddenly as my 
 husband.' 
 
 ' Madame ? ' 
 
 ' I say, unless he, too, should die as suddenly as my 
 husband.' 
 
 Mudara dropped his eyes.
 
 428 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 ' Such calamities,' said he, ' are always in the hands 
 of Providence. Who can tell how often or when they 
 will fall ? ' 
 
 ' Answer this, then,' said Brigit. ' Why do you come 
 here to call me by absurd titles and talk about my birth- 
 right, when I do not yet know whether my husband's 
 body has been recovered and received burial ? ' 
 
 'I feared to revive a painful subject. His body has 
 not been found, but every rite that is customary in 
 such cases will be observed ! ' 
 
 ' I believe that he was murdered.' 
 
 ' You have his own letter, Madame.' 
 
 ' It might be a forgery.' 
 
 ' These are romantic fears. Villainy is only common 
 in story-books. Who, pray — except himself — would 
 wish to murder Mr Parflete — a gentleman always 
 described as his own enemy ^ Suicide was but the 
 final step in a long career devoted to self-injury.' 
 
 ' I know him and I deny it. There has been foul 
 play somewhere.' 
 
 * To a pious mind — such a suspicion is, in reality, 
 a hope. Do you ask me to argue down the first 
 instincts of a true affection ? I will not attempt it. 
 For your sake, I could wish that he had been killed 
 by other hands than his own. Let me confess that I 
 have even tried to think so. You might then take 
 some consolation in revenge. But what then ? He 
 is still dead, and you are his widow — a girl in 
 years, alone in the world, yet, by the mercy of
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 429 
 
 God, not unprovided for. The Archduke has left 
 you a fortune — half a million of marks, the Villa 
 Miraflores in Northern France, and a large sum 
 for the purchase of an estate — preferably in Eng- 
 land. Madame should have some fixed hofne. 
 Plants and trees may be trained for transplantation 
 from place to place, but they do not acquire a perfect 
 form. They take no root and they remain — until 
 they fade — mere appearances. Madame will not be 
 happy nor truly mistress of herself till she is settled 
 in her own establishment.' 
 
 To weigh other minds by our own is the false scale 
 by which the greater number of us miscalculate all 
 human actions and most human characters. Mudara 
 had regained his normal smoothness, and he was 
 anxious to try less direct appeals to Brigit's vanity 
 than those he had so unsuccessfully essayed at the 
 beginning of their interview. Strangely enough, it 
 was his own cherished — and singular — ambition to be 
 the owner of vast private lands. For modern Kings 
 and Princes he had a genuine contempt — they seemed 
 to him as so many hired officials. But he envied his 
 rich colleague the Baron Zeuill, who owned great dis- 
 tricts and was, in fact, an absolute ruler over his own 
 domains. 
 
 It occurred to him, therefore, that Brigit, at the 
 sudden revelation of her wealth, would be led in- 
 evitably into the betrayal — either by exclamation, 
 look, tone, or manner, of some ruling sentiment.
 
 430 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 ' My poor father ! ' she said, able to command her 
 tears but not her sorrow. ' I need so little. Was my 
 mother's miniature buried with him ?' 
 
 Mudara, thrown from his hope, still kept his 
 purpose. 
 
 *Ahj' he exclaimed, ' if your mother were living, 
 would she not rejoice to see you come at last into 
 your just honours ? Specie tua et pulchritudine tua 
 intende^ prospers procede^ et regna. Propter veritatem^ 
 et mamuetud'tnein et justitiam . . . et deducet te mira- 
 biliter dextera tua, Audi fiUa^ et vide^ et inclina aurem 
 tuam.^'^ 
 
 This profanity but strengthened her distrust. 
 
 * Your mind runs so much on my royal honours,' 
 she said, ' that I could almost think that you believe 
 in them ! I have none. A Prince must reign either 
 by Divine Right, or by the right of conquest, or by 
 the unanimous will of his subjects. The Divine 
 Right is now laughed at. The right of conquest, 
 in my case, is too absurd to be discussed. And as 
 I am unknown in Alberia and my very existence 
 unimagined, the unanimous wish of my subjects could 
 not come into the question.' 
 
 ' You seem, Madame, to have given some thoup-ht 
 to the matter.' 
 
 * ' In thy comeliness and thy beauty, go forward, fare prosperously and 
 reign. Because of truth, and meekness, and righteousness . . . and thy 
 right hand shall lead thee wonderfully. Hearken, O daughter, and con- 
 sider and incline thine ear.' — Psalm xliv. — The Roman Breviary. 
 Translated from the Latin by John, Marquesa of Bute.
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 431 
 
 * Naturally,' she replied, ' for, why not ? I have 
 not less ambition than other women. You mistake 
 me altogether if you think I have no love of a great 
 position. As for responsibilities — they are inspirmg, 
 I have youth and strength and health. I would like 
 well to be acknowledged my father's lawful daughter. 
 Perhaps too well. Who can say ? But it is more 
 pleasing to God that I should remain in a private 
 station. And His Will is my happiness. What 
 ought He to have done for me, that He has not 
 done ? ' 
 
 * This is fatalism. It comes strangely from one 
 who would have given her life for the claims of Don 
 Carlos.' 
 
 * My conduct in each case had but one motive/ 
 ■ * And that ? ' 
 
 ' Obedience,' she answered, quietly. 
 
 * To whom ? ' 
 
 * To my superiors. Don Carlos is the true King 
 of Spain. You are, I fear, among the scoffers who 
 see in the disasters of the vanquished the condem- 
 nation of their cause. But those who know by what 
 strusco-les and sacrifices, by what tears and blood, all 
 victories of justice are purchased — those who know 
 this — keep their faith above the bitterest reverses and 
 discouragements. The Carlists have right on their 
 side, and some day, they must conquer.' 
 
 ' Optimist ! ' 
 
 * As for me,' she continued, ' I have no cause at all.
 
 432 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 My father's first marriage was unwise and unequal. 
 There are higher duties than love. My mother was 
 an actress — what had she to do with Archdukes ? 
 Surely true pride consists in knowing one's own order 
 and abiding by it. She did know it. She neither 
 thought herself nor desired to be thought a great 
 lady. She craved no title. Her Baptismal name — 
 Henri ette-Marie-'J oseph — that, and no more, is written 
 on her grave-stone. In the Court of the King of 
 Kings, there is rank, but not as the world sees it. 
 If I am found worthy to stand even within reach of 
 her — I shall know then that I have, indeed, kept my 
 birth-right. That is my answer to Baron Zeuill — to 
 you.' 
 
 ' Very well. This is your promise for the moment. 
 But would you pledge yourself to that past all retreat { 
 Don John of Austria was the natural son of Charles V, 
 and a washerwoman. Yet he became a great Prince. 
 He had no foolish scruples.' 
 
 ' Do you think my scruples foolish ? ' 
 
 ' I will own, without any gasconade, that I had 
 rather see you less reasonable. It is in ordinary 
 moments and during peace that one should show 
 prudence and forethought. But this is a time for 
 impulse, impetuosity, reckless courage— fire ! To be 
 candid, I detect in all you say, the influence of M. de 
 Hausee.' 
 
 She coloured deeply and made no response. 
 
 ' M. de Hausee,' he continued, pressing what he
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 433 
 
 supposed was his first considerable advantage. ' M. 
 de Hausee is an aristocrat of aristocrats. He has the 
 fanatical faith and all the prejudices of the ancient 
 Catholic nobility. His father — Henri Dominque, 
 Count de Hausee, as you may be aware, renounced 
 his rank, and exchanged the military for the ecclesi- 
 astical profession ! We know the rest. A wild love, 
 broken vows, remorse, and penances — the most severe. 
 M. Robert de Hausee has inherited the priestly nature. 
 His life is spent in moral combats. He is not like 
 these other youths who go into Parliament without any 
 political training and without any decided resolution — 
 unless to make a speech and to become distinguished ! 
 In order to win others, he has resolved to conquer, 
 first, himself ! He will have to triumph over many 
 public adversaries. Meanwhile, his face is pale with 
 fasts and secret struggles. As I looked upon him, 
 I dropped my eyes in pity and respect. I said to 
 myself — " It is a good Catholic — firm in faith and 
 righteous m action. He will have no hope —except 
 the hope of Heaven. He will love no woman except 
 with the love of charity." But there is another passion 
 in life — as strong and more enduring than the others. 
 I mean the love of domination. This he keeps. He 
 will win souls for God. He rules yours.' 
 
 She listened calmly. When he had finished, she 
 made the following reply, — 
 
 ' I have never discussed the question of my birth 
 with M. de Hausee. He would not attempt to in- 
 
 2 E
 
 434 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 fluence me in the conduct of my private affairs. We 
 know each other, in one sense, but distantly., I admire 
 his fine character. I should value his advice on any 
 subject. It is a sincere pleasure to me to hear him 
 praised. My husband held him in the highest esteem. 
 Have you anything further to say to me ? ' 
 
 Her self-possession commended Mudara's allegiance. 
 Innocence, integrity or unselfishness w^ere beyond his 
 imagination, but this delicate girl of seventeen struck 
 him, at last, as a marvel of coldness and cunning He 
 ovv^ned that the further details of his business would be 
 communicated by letter. He begged, however, to be 
 told whether she intended to remain in England. 
 Her answer astonished him. She was gomg, she said, 
 as soon as she could travel, to the Convent at Tours. 
 This was the last thing he desired. Her large fortune 
 would be found equally dangerous whether conse- 
 crated to the service of God, or squandered on 
 Royalist politics. 
 
 * As M. de Hausee is an old friend,' he said, * you 
 will, no doubt, allow him, when you fix your date of 
 departure, to arrange the details of your journey. 
 Perhaps he is here to-day for that purpose/ 
 
 'I will not trouble him. He is in Scotland with 
 Lord Wight.' 
 
 ' Pardon me. I have this moment left him. He is 
 with Lady Fitz Rewes.' 
 
 Brigit lifted her hand to her veil in such a way that 
 Mudara was unable to enjoy the first success of this
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 435 
 
 news. He could obtain no sight of the change which 
 his words had produced on her countenance. But 
 he saw, or fancied that he saw, her whole figure 
 tremble. 
 
 'This is a great act of kindness on the part of M, 
 de Hausee,' she said, after a short silence. *I hope 
 they told him that I was better.' 
 
 * Will you not see him ? ' asked Mudara. 
 
 'That,' she answered, at once, 'would be un- 
 necessary at present. He would not expect it.' 
 
 She stood up. Mudara felt bound to take his leave. 
 In going, however, he stole a glance backwards. She 
 had resumed her seat and had re-opened the Breviary. 
 Above the stillness, he heard her whispering words he 
 had himself recited often, — 
 
 ' Levavi oculos meos in mojites^ unde veniet auxilium mihi. 
 Auxilium meum a Domino^ qui fecit caelum et terram. Non 
 det in commotionem pede?n tuum : neque dormitet qui custodit 
 teJ ('I have lifted up my eyes to the mountains from 
 whence help shall come to me. My help is from the 
 Lord, who made Heaven and earth. May He not 
 suffer thy foot to be moved : neither let Him slumber 
 that keepeth thee.')* 
 
 Mudara, however, had by no means exhausted all 
 his resources. The reader, knowing that Mrs Par- 
 flete had no guilty passion to conceal and no dark 
 purpose to cover, will find nothing indicative of a 
 
 * Douay l^ersion. See also the Roman Bre-viary translated out of Latin 
 into English by John^ Marquess of Bute.
 
 436 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 devilish deceit in the simple words she had used 
 during the scene we have described. But truth 
 will often produce, on insincere hearers, all the effects 
 of a lie. The mirror must itself be clear before it 
 can reflect correctly a fair object. Mudara, in- 
 capable of honesty, had never yet found his match 
 among scoundrels. He could lead them from false- 
 hood to falsehood till they perished in ridicule. But 
 before the accent of candour he stood bewildered, 
 irritable, impotent. He taxed his cleverness in ex- 
 plaining the phenomenon. He could even find the 
 generosity to own himself fairly out-witted. And 
 by what ? The mere force of innocence ? No : by 
 superior treachery.* He saw, even in the wavering 
 
 * As an illustration of this, the following fragment from his letter to 
 Baron Zeuill, may be quoted : — ' At the news of De Hausee's presence 
 in Catesby, Madame's sullen indifference gave place to an ungovernable 
 agitation. She was so altered that I would not have known her for the 
 same woman. But all this was outward. What did our Judith say ? 
 You will scarcely believe me when I tell you. " This is a great act of 
 kindness on the part of M. de Hausee. Pray thank him. It will not 
 be necessary to see him." Such audacity deserves to succeed. Of course, 
 they are in secret communication. I find much to detest in her, but, 
 on my honour, more to admire. Her self-recollection never fails. She 
 has an answer cut-and-dried for every question. She would as soon die 
 as live, or live as die. She knows no fear but the fear of God. " Her 
 sandals ravish the eyes, her beauty makes the soul a captive, with a 
 sword she will cut off your head." De Hausee is the ascetic to master 
 her. You are wrong, every one, about Castrillon. He is too pretty and 
 sensual for such a termagant. Our one hope is De Hausee, All his 
 interests are in England, He has been elected a Member of Parliament, 
 Disraeli is disposed to favour him. And Disraeli knows how to control 
 an enthusiast. She must marry De Hausee. But he, too, is a furtive 
 character. Prim believes that he is, at the very least, a deacon. I hope 
 to God, not.
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 437 
 
 colour of Brigit's cheeks, the elaborate art of a con- 
 summate actress. Such coolness, he thought, could 
 be the effect only of a long training for some especial 
 mission. The Church of Rome had ever shown an 
 extraordinary genius in choosing, educating, and con- 
 trolling her servants. This girl had the blood of 
 the Carolingians and the beauty of a child of love. 
 She had been instructed in that exercise of self- 
 mastery which the Catholic faith alone seems able 
 to teach. She was endowed by nature with the 
 power of winning hearts, and, by her father's will, 
 she had inherited a princely fortune to support her 
 inclinations. Such a being, surely, was no mean 
 prize for the net of any faction in society. Mudara 
 had called her a Judith. But the spell of Judith, 
 he reflected, had rested not less in her reputation for 
 virtue than in her bodily fairness. He saw at last, 
 that, unless discredit and substantial scandal could be 
 cast on his ward's character, she would remain, till 
 the end of her days, a living power among the very 
 forces he was most eager to see damaged. As he 
 considered his plan of action, he decided that, in the 
 simple nature of Lady Fitz Rewes, he would find 
 perhaps the most useful instrument for his scheme. 
 She exerted an influence — the more cogent because it 
 was unintended — over Brigit and also over De Hausee. 
 Pensee and Robert were still waiting where Mudara 
 had left them. At the first sound of his returning 
 steps, they both went forward to meet him. His
 
 438 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 implacable countenance could neither betray the senti- 
 ments he felt, nor assume those which he did not feel. 
 But with an admirable manner, he assured Lady Fitz 
 Rewes that her friend was, if sorrowful, most prudent, 
 and if ill, on a sure way to recovery. Orange did 
 not speak. The three returned to the Hall in silence. 
 It was not until they reached the open windows of 
 the morning-room that Mudara found an opportunity 
 to beg his hostess for the favour of a private interview. 
 A look passed between them. He managed to throw 
 a significant glance at Robert. She understood. She 
 bowed her head. A few minutes later, as she stooped 
 to admire a rose-bush, she said,— 
 
 'You must both remain to dinner,' 
 
 Orange, she knew, was obliged to return that even- 
 ing to London. The carriage which was to take him 
 to the station stood, even at that moment, before the 
 door. She showed, therefore, no astonishment when 
 he declined, with deep regret, her invitation. But 
 Mudara, to her affected surprise, expressed the pleasure 
 he would have in availing himself of her kindness. 
 He had, he said, some important letters to write. 
 Her farewell to Robert was cold. She felt a sudden 
 terror lest Mudara should divine her secret — that poor, 
 sad secret, her love for her uncle's Secretary. The 
 Agent's eyes were piercing and pitiless. They de- 
 voured, with cynical hunger, the very tissue of her 
 soul. He would never understand friendship or . , . 
 devotion . , , or . . . about Lionel.
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS ^39 
 
 ' Good-bye, Mr Orange,' she said * I suppose we 
 shall see you sometimes, in the Spring — when I come 
 to town.' 
 
 There was thus nothing left for him save to make 
 his adieus, and depart with the best grace he could 
 exhibit. He concealed his reluctance, his consterna- 
 tion, his distrust. For a cruel instant, he had been 
 pierced by the suspicion that Lady Fitz Rewes was 
 playing him false. But a generous mind will always 
 resent, as a base temptation, any doubt of a tried friend's 
 fidelity. Robert would not look again at her face. 
 He remembered her as she always seemed when they 
 were alone. He bowed, he touched her shrinking 
 hand, and he was gone. 
 
 Lady Fitz Rewes beckoned to Mudara and led the 
 way into the large saloon from the windows of v/hich 
 he had made his first intrusion on to the lawn. It was 
 a stately room furnished in the style associated with the 
 reign of Queen Anne. 
 
 ' And now,' said Pensee, summoning up her 
 haughtiest air, ' what is your business ? ' 
 
 Mudara put the matter briefly. Mrs Parflete, he 
 said, had been left with ample means but in a 
 dangerous position. She had no relatives. Her 
 heroic nature exposed her to the machinations of 
 every religious or political fanatic. Spain was in a 
 state of revolution. France, under the surface, was 
 a witches' cauldron. Italy was no better. For a lady 
 so young, beautiful and wealthy as Madame his ward,
 
 440 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 England was the safest — the one — refuge. But she 
 needed a lawful protector. To be plain, she ought 
 to marry. She was, of course, too high-minded to 
 display a marked preference for any particular gentle- 
 man in the large circle of her respectful admirers. M , 
 de Hausee, however — ' 
 
 *The very man of all others who would deserve 
 her,' exclaimed Lady Fitz Rewes, seizing the excuse 
 to seem disinterested. 
 
 ' Then why not bring them to their senses? They 
 might be married privately. The fact need not yet be 
 made publicc But I must feel that she has a de- 
 fender. The marriage with Parflete was an atrocious 
 — a calamitous — mistake. It broke the Archduke's 
 heart. We must make her happy this time.' 
 
 * We must make two people happy,' said Pensee. 
 * But you will see that the subject is very delicate. 
 How can one interfere?' 
 
 * Bring them together.' 
 
 * He has gone to Scotland.' 
 
 ' Follow him to Scotland. Insist that she needs 
 the air.' 
 
 ' That might be managed, certainly.' 
 
 * Manage it.' 
 
 ' I will do my best. I really feel sure that you are 
 right. There is no time to be lost.' 
 
 * None. But one word — don't let her suspect 
 that she will meet M. de Hausee in Scotland. She 
 is naturally elusive. Use all your discretion.'
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 441 
 
 'I will. 
 
 ' Thank you. Then I need not trespass further 
 on your time. I will not stay to dinner.* 
 
 He kissed her hand. She rang the bell, and he 
 bowed himself out, by no means dissatisfied with his 
 day's work.
 
 CHAPTER XXV 
 
 Robert, as we have seen, had told himself that he 
 had perfect faith in Pensee's loyalty. Yet he could, 
 without injustice, feel small confidence in her wisdom. 
 Hesitation, where he was once resolved, had no part 
 in his character. He dismissed the phaeton before he 
 had driven half-a-mile. He told the coachman he 
 preferred to walk. He did walk, but not in the 
 direction of the town. Plunging into the plantations, 
 he ran back unobserved, swiftly, lightly, to the thick 
 wood by the ruins of Catesby Church. From this he 
 made his way down to the Lady Chapel. The door 
 stood open. He entered, fearing horribly that he 
 would find it empty. But she was there. 
 
 'Brigit!' 
 
 ' Robert ! ' 
 
 ' Have I frightened you i ' 
 
 ' No. I knew you were coming.' 
 
 'Why?' 
 
 ' Because you always come when I ask our Blessed 
 Lady to send you.' 
 
 ' Then this is a miracle.' 
 
 •• What else ? Where shall we go ? ' 
 
 442
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 443 
 
 ' Will you come with me ? ' 
 
 * Of course.' 
 
 ' But away from this place — to London ? ' 
 
 * I trust you in all things.' 
 ' Can you run ? ' 
 
 ' Like the wind,' 
 
 ' Then give me your hand.' 
 
 ' Put my Breviary in your pocket. Yes, you may 
 kiss it first. It's a blessed book. It belonged to a 
 Saint. She wasn't canonised. Now wait till I take 
 a long breath. Oh, Robert ! Hove to see you„ But 
 — are we to run to London ? ' 
 
 ' No, angel, we must take a train.' 
 
 * I am ready. Where shall we go when we get to 
 London ? ' 
 
 * I will take you to your Convent.' 
 She clapped her hands: 
 
 ' But, dear Pensee ? What will she think r ' 
 
 ' All is fair in war and — ' 
 
 'Yes,' she said, hastily, with a blush. ' Mudara 
 means war. I will write Pensee a letter. That will 
 do. Which hand will you have ? ' 
 
 ' The left. Follow me.' 
 
 They hastened out and ran — for their lives — not 
 towards Catesby, but, at Brigit's suggestion, towards 
 Cottingden, a village farther inland where they might 
 hire a carriage and drive to the county town. 
 
 'There,' she panted, 'we can catch the London 
 express.'
 
 44i THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 Darkness was fast approaching. They could see, 
 in the distance, the yachts at anchor off Catesby 
 Harbour — their Hghts burning brightly like large 
 stars fallen from the firmament above. The hills 
 around, soft with a purple bloom, seemed like the spread 
 pinions of a winged host. A rich, Autumnal breeze — 
 as strong as wine, as pure as sheaves of wheat, sv/ept 
 through the silvery poplars and sent the white-owl, 
 screeching, to his mate. But the owl's scream had 
 no terror for the blissful fugitives. 
 
 Once they paused to rest. 
 
 ' I feared for your safety,' said Robert. ' Hereafter, 
 1 will take care of you myself.' 
 
 She blushed and said nothing. 
 
 *And then,' he added, half-laughing, *I think I 
 must kill a few people.' 
 
 She showed pleasure but observed, gravely, — 
 
 ' You must not affront God. I am afraid duels are 
 wicked.' 
 
 ' No, no. Don't say so.* 
 
 * You might be wounded.* 
 
 *That decides me. Do you think I am a worse 
 swordsman than Castrillon ? ' 
 
 * Dear Robert ! . . . . Did you ever see a lovelier 
 cloud ? The earth is very beautiful.' 
 
 ' Perfect. . . But Castrillon's fencing is nothing 
 remarkable. Besides, it is not a question of skill. 
 It is a question of honour. You must see that.' 
 
 * I see you.*
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 445 
 
 He looked at her, wistfully. 
 
 * I wish you didn't,' said he. 
 
 * But you are quite handsome again. You are, 
 truly. I should say — even handsomer.' 
 
 * Dearest, I think we ought to go on.' 
 
 'This is a happy time, Robert. Let us remember 
 this place always.' 
 
 They resumed their journey and reached Cottingden 
 at half-past eight. There Robert hired a carriage, 
 and, as Brigit stepped into it, she said, — 
 
 ' Dear Pensee ! She has been so kind to me. I 
 wish I could write to her now. But I suppose I 
 must wait till I get to London.' 
 
 The village was a little cluster of white houses 
 scattered round a ditch and a green. 
 
 ' What a charming place 1 ' exclaimed Brigit, as 
 they drove rapidly away. *I could stay there for ever.' 
 
 ' So could I,' said he, not troubling to look back. 
 
 ' With you — of course — ' she added. 
 
 * Of course, with you,' he said. 
 
 ' Don't you miss,' she said, suddenly, ' the little 
 shrines and crosses by the road-side ? I have not 
 seen one in England. Let us come here some dav, 
 and buy a piece of land, and build an altar to our 
 Blessed Lady.' 
 
 This, unhappily, reminded him that he was poor. 
 But he had courage. 
 
 ' I shall hope, please God,' said he, * to build many 
 — that is, in time.'
 
 446 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 ' If I fall asleep, will you wake me up ? I have not 
 slept well for a long time. I used to feel frightened. 
 But now you are with me, and everything is different. 
 Shall we say the Rosary ? You begin — ' 
 
 When it came to her turn to reply, she could just 
 murmur — ' Sancta Maria^ Mater Dei^ ora pro nobis 
 peccatorlbus^ nunc et in hora mortis nostra. Amen^ 
 
 ' Ave Maria^ said he, * gratia plena : Dominus tecum : 
 benedicta tu. . . .' He whispered the rest. For the 
 weary girl had sunk into a deep slumber. Her head 
 rested against the side of the carriage. Her hands 
 still clasped her Rosary. Her little feet, touching 
 each other, were almost concealed by her long skirt. 
 It is during sleep that the human countenance will 
 show its likeness to the soul Lines become lumi- 
 nous, and the tranquil features yield the secret of 
 their training. Watch a man, or a woman, sleep- 
 ing, and it will be your fault, not Nature's, if you 
 are deceived. Brigit's face in repose had the inno- 
 cence one sees rarely — even in young children. Her 
 mouth showed sadness and a certain self-repression. 
 The delicate cheeks were perhaps too hollow for 
 perfect health. Their flush had a brilliancy too 
 rare. As Robert watched her, his heart suffered 
 that strange agony which attends all intense affec- 
 tion. To love is to know the sacrifices which 
 eternity exacts from life. 
 
 ' Brigit ! ' he said, in sudden terror. * Brigit ! ' 
 
 He had forgotten the sound of her voice. Her
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 4+7 
 
 words came back to him, but their tone — the lovely, 
 rippling tone full of melody and pathos — was not to 
 be recalled. What if he should never hear it again ? 
 
 'Brigit !' 
 
 She opened her eyes, smiled and said, — 
 
 * Is this the station ? ' 
 
 ' No,' said he, 'but — I wanted to hear you speak.' 
 
 'Dear Robert ! Men are like children.' 
 
 Her hand stole into his. 
 
 ' Try and sleep, too,' she said r * I will tell you my 
 little story about the pigeon. Once upon a time there 
 was a holy woman who — Or shall I sing ? ' 
 
 But she was too drowsy. The song slept on her lips. 
 
 Her head sank back against the carriage and a silent 
 sadness weighed once more upon her eyelids, Pre- 
 sently he heard her sob, and saw tears stealing down 
 her cheeks. 
 
 ' Mon pauvre pere est mort,' she murmured, ' priez 
 pour lui, II est mort a la pointe du jour, II me 
 parlait, puis il parlait aux anges. Priez pour lui.' 
 
 Again, Robert called her. This time she woke 
 fully. 
 
 ' Oh, Robert ! ' she said, * what was I saying in my 
 sleep ? ' 
 
 * You said,' he answered, ' mon pauvre pere est 
 mort. Priez pour lui„ II est mort a la pointe du 
 jour. II me parlait, puis il parlait aux anges, Priez 
 pour lui.' 
 
 'Was that all.?'
 
 44-8 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 ' All.' 
 
 < My mother, long ago, taught me that,' she said. 
 'It always makes me cry. But you are sure I said 
 nothing else ? ' 
 
 * Quite sure.' 
 
 She drew her veil closer, hesitated for a moment, 
 and then said, — 
 
 * Promise me never to ask any questions about my 
 father. Because I may not answer them.' 
 
 * Dearest, I know the story. Your husband told 
 me, long ago, when we first met.' 
 
 ' Then he knew ? I never guessed that.' 
 Those who have substituted emotions of the blood 
 for emotions of the soul could never understand the 
 anguish of disappointed trust. Brigit was finding, one 
 by one, the many links of Parflete's treachery. It 
 seemed as though that harassing chain would hang for 
 ever on her life. 
 
 * I thought it was a secret,' said the poor child : * I 
 promised my father that I would never tell. Perhaps 
 my husband made no promise. ... At any rate, I 
 must not have hard and miserable feelings about him. 
 The issue of things is known to our Blessed Lord. I 
 am going through what must be gone through. But 
 I think no one ever had such kind friends as I have. 
 I am even thankful, in one way, that Wrexham told 
 you the story. I have never wished there should 
 be any reserve between us — it is most repugnant to my 
 nature to conceal things.'
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 449 
 
 ' That is why I thought it better to let you know 
 that you could speak openly with me.' 
 
 ' Thank you. It has always been a great burden on 
 my mind. Now it is gone.' 
 
 She leaned forward, touched him softly, and looked 
 up into his face. 
 
 ' But there is something else,' she said. 
 
 'And that?' 
 
 ' I want to write a letter to Pensee.* 
 
 The carriage stopped. They had at last reached 
 the railway-station. Gaiety had held her court in the 
 little town all day. The streets were lively with a 
 laughing crowd of lads and girls returning homeward, 
 to different parts of the country, from a gala. They 
 pushed, and joked, and jostled each other, or enjoyed, 
 with strained cheeks, the lingering inarticulate delight 
 of sugar bulls' eyes. Others, more demure, sang in 
 strong harsh voices ' Sweet Belle Mahone,' and ' The 
 Gipsy's Warning,' and ' The Death of Nelson.' The 
 crowd streamed into the building, and over the bridge 
 to the ' Down ' platform. No one noticed the two 
 travellers bound for London. 
 
 2 F
 
 CHAPTER XXVI 
 
 Robert's resolution, winged with thoughts of Brigit's 
 possible danger, had never wavered. Yet he realized, 
 that, while acts of chivalry were daily done, they were 
 seldom indeed explained by a chivalrous method. In 
 addition to the careful narrative we have already seen, 
 he wrote a letter to Lord Reckage, in which he 
 describes, with much clearness, the whole flight to 
 town. He mentions that there were three other 
 passengers in their compartment : — 
 
 A man, his wife, and another man, perhaps her brother. 
 Mrs Parflete was exhausted, and slept till we reached our 
 journey's end. The Convent, as you may remember, is 
 some distance from Victoria. At nine, all the nuns retire 
 to rest. Nevertheless, we drove there. It was approach- 
 ing mid-night. There was not a sound, nor a light in the 
 whole building. We rang several times. We could get 
 no answer. Madame declared that she would sit on the 
 dobr-step till the morning. But presently, I caught a pair 
 of eyes looking out at us through the grille. Madame 
 spoke. A woman answered. 
 
 ' Soeur Marie-Agnes ! ' cried Madame, in an ecstasy of 
 joy, 'ma sceur, c'est moi.' 
 
 'Tiens, ticns ! C'est Madame Parflete. Tiens, tiens ! ' 
 
 I heard the bars drawn back. The door was opened, 
 and I saw a fresh-faced nun half-asleep but smiling on 
 
 450
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 451 
 
 Madame with that ineffable bonte de cceur for which we 
 have, unfortunately, no word. 
 
 There was, I thought, a certain angelic humour in her 
 eyes when she expressed her regret that the Convent could 
 afford no accommodation for Monsieur. Apparently, she 
 inferred that I was Parflete. Madame wished me good- 
 night, and, in a moment, happy nun and weary lady had 
 both disappeared. But Madame spoke to me through the 
 grille. 
 
 'Thank you,' said she. 'I am so happy now. I shall 
 write to Pensee to-morrow. Dear Pensee, I know she 
 will be anxious. But I need not tell her about you.' 
 
 ' Madame ! ' said Soeur Marie-Agnes: ' il est tard.' 
 
 ' I come, ma sceur. I come.' 
 
 And that was all. . . . 
 
 What is to happen now ? I leave you to imagine my 
 anxieties. She is free. But I have never yet been able 
 to picture her free. I have always seen her — there, and 
 myself, miles distant and oceans below, here. Her beauty 
 promises to be extraordinary. Think of her age ? Seven- 
 teen. Does the child know her own heart ? Yet the 
 indecency of suggesting marriage at this moment ! It is 
 out of the question. I must be patient. ... I walked 
 home. 
 
 Poor Wight, in his dressing-gown and slippers, was 
 waiting up for me, with a w^hole company of his cronies. 
 There were old Fauconbcrg, and Mrs St Kentigern,* 
 Dean Ethbin, Valentine Vivian, and Penborough. They 
 were discussing Disraeli. Let me give you the talk. 
 
 'What I ask myself is this — ' said the Dean, looking 
 with reverence at his own gaiters — 'is the man sincere?'' 
 
 'I know one thing,' said Mrs St Kentigern. 'The 
 Duke of Mercia can't stand him. The Duke is going 
 to send in his resignation to the Committee of the Capitol 
 Club. He is simply furious. He is going abroad.' 
 
 ' Where did you hear that ?' asked Valentine Vivian, 
 
 ' The Duchess was at my milliner's this morning. " I 
 
 * Mrs St Kentigern was Lord Wight's half-sister — by his mother's 
 second marriage.
 
 452 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 want," says she, "as soon as possible, a bright-looking 
 bonnet : such a bonnet as I could wear in Rome next 
 month." There is proof conclusive. She has never left 
 the Duke in her life : she is going to Italy as soon as 
 possible : she wants a bright-looking bonnet. If that does 
 not spell resignation, I don't know English.' 
 
 'Then the Duke's a bigger fool than I thought,' said 
 Wight. 
 
 ' Not at all,' saidiMrs St Kentigern. ' Where is the Tory 
 party ? It is nowhere. Toryism,' she added, with a sigh 
 of profound desolation, 'is now but the mere negation of 
 Whiggism.' 
 
 ' The landed interest will rise,' said the Dean, lifting 
 up his voice as a ghostly comforter, ' and the monied 
 interest — the great support of Whiggism — must decline.' 
 
 'But first,' said Penborough, 'the Reformation must take 
 its full revenge ! The Abbeys which were given as bribes 
 to the nobility will be sold to the Railway Companies for 
 Hotels. Every great nobleman's country-seat will become 
 an Hotel. Since the people may not have their own with 
 God, they will take it without Him. Where there was 
 once an Abbot, you will soon find an obliging manager, 
 and where there were holy monks, there shall be Swiss 
 waiters ! ' 
 
 'How shocking !' said Mrs St Kentigern. 
 
 'I dread flippancy,' said the Dean. 'It is the enemy 
 of the future. But I do not share in the new and hypo- 
 chondriacal sentimentality over ruined Abbeys and the 
 like. A Monastery was the Medijeval type of our modern 
 Club. The obligations and duties, however, were sub- 
 scribed, nominally, to God. There were rules of dis- 
 cipline and certain vows incumbent on each member. 
 They lived in a comfortable house of supremely beautiful 
 architecture. They looked out upon picturesque land- 
 scapes, and enjoyed well-filled Libraries. They could 
 spend their time in prayer, in manual labour, in works 
 of charity, in tending the sick, in educating, after a 
 fashion, the young. It is notorious that many of the 
 monks were unrivalled sportsmen. I daresay there were 
 often good, even sincere, men among them. But I really
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 453 
 
 cannot see why the ruins of some old Convent should 
 appear more sacred in our eyes than the nice clean 
 Athenaeum ! I really cannot. I have small sympathy 
 with these dismal young gentlemen who contrast romantic 
 pictures of ancient virtue with the supposed degeneracy 
 of our own days.' 
 
 Lord Wight, whenever I am present with him, in Pro- 
 testant society, always makes it a rule to speak of politics, 
 dogs, horses, or yachting — in order to keep the conversa- 
 tion free from any attacks on the Catholic faith. He 
 became most uneasy during the Dean's harangue. 
 
 ' I can't get over this news about the Duke,* he 
 exclaimed. * He is sometimes noisy, but generally 
 civil.' 
 
 ' I should have thought,' said Fauconberg, ' that he 
 belonged to the world of men who are content with a 
 social in default of a higher unity. It is always a pity 
 to make a fuss. You don't get anywhere. You only 
 get out of everything.' 
 
 ' If one could only establish an opposition on another 
 principle of combination than that of Whig or Tory ! ' 
 sighed Mrs St Kentigern. 
 
 ' I heard a fellow describe Disraeli as the vilest rag 
 that ever fluttered on a garbage heap,' said Valentine 
 Vivian. 
 
 The Dean clasped his hands. ' What came from the 
 mouth of a vulgar might pass in the mind of a better 
 man ! ' said he. 
 
 'I don't pretend to judge of Disraeli's politics,' said 
 Vivian, ' but I cannot stand his novels. Does one ever 
 hear such talk anywhere ? He has been in very good 
 society, too. He has met people. He knows the men 
 and women we all know — in a dim, dinner-party sort of 
 way, it is true — but still he knows them. That's the 
 extraordinary part of the whole thing. So very odd.' 
 
 ' He's an idealist,' explained Penborough, solemnly. 
 
 'I like my idealism in poetry — not when I want an 
 hour's light reading ! ' said Vivian. ' It's a nuisance in 
 a novel.' 
 
 'But Disraeli is a foreigner,' said Mrs St Kentigern;
 
 454 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 'he is not one of ourselves, is he? Now, if I were to 
 write a novel about English society, it would not be in 
 the least like Coningsby, would it?' 
 
 We all shook our heads. 
 
 ' I believe, all the same,' said Fauconberg, ' that Diz2y 
 will be the next Prime Minister.' 
 
 This was too much for the Dean. He rose at once. 
 It was, in fact, the signal for a general retreat. Each 
 member of the party expressed the wish that Lord Wight 
 would enjoy himself in Scotland. Penborough, in leaving, 
 managed to whisper in my ear, — 
 
 'Does Dizzy know that he was born solely to pro- 
 vide light literature for Valentine Vivian's odd 
 moments? . . .' 
 
 I hope some of this may amuse you. But it seemed 
 strange to me after my long day of fierce tempta- 
 tions and anxiety. Yet, such is the perversity of human 
 nature, that the scene in that close room, with Lord 
 Wight swollen up with dropsy and Mrs St Kentigern 
 nodding in her wig, seemed real . . . and the quiet 
 Convent, and Madame's sweet beautiful face, and my 
 love and my unhappiness — and all my struggles — a 
 dream. ... It is one thing to cherish your ideals in 
 solitude ; it is quite another thing to keep even one of 
 them in the turmoil and twaddle of society. ... Wight 
 once told me that a big London dinner-party — where one 
 met everyone and heard everything — was quite enough 
 to upset his theology for a month. I reminded him that 
 theology was not, perhaps, his strongest point. 
 
 'True,' said he, 'but I even forget Mary Stuart . . . 
 and begin to think that Elizabeth and that villain Cecil 
 were a sensible, good-natured pair, without any nonsense 
 about 'em ! So then I have to swim through Isaiah for 
 a month or two — afin de savoir a quoi m^ en tenir^ 
 
 I do not know whether this letter is sensible or legible. 
 To-day (it is already morning). Lord Wight and I leave 
 London for Slatrach Castle. 
 
 I have read this over. Miserable indeed is the fate of the 
 double-minded. Why do I pretend that the question of 
 marriage is, at this moment, impossible ? It may be incon-
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 455 
 
 venient. But my heart is set upon it. Men attach an undue 
 importance to this or that point in received notions of 
 etiquette. Wc happen to be placed in an age of the world 
 which is conspicuous for the decency of its manners. 
 That is to say, so long as one behaves what is called 
 'decently,' or 'with common prudence,' one need not 
 trouble much about higher considerations. But we are 
 by nature what we are. We like, too, to be what we are. 
 I don't wish to reach that stage of self-suppression when 
 one becomes self-less. Till we have done something, we 
 have done nothing, and, so long as an act is not in itself 
 sinful, I cannot stay supinely wondering how much I 
 may lose or gain by attempting it. The great, the sole 
 point, is this — have I a decided wish in the matter ? have 
 I any wish at all in the matter ? Almighty God has 
 given us two whole worlds but only one Faith — millions 
 of fellow-mortals and only Ten Commandments. Our 
 opportunities and liberties are thus enormous. They 
 were meant to be used. Now what is my present case? 
 The Parflete marriage was, in reality, a solemn betrothal — 
 nothing more. Parflete is now dead. This fact has now 
 been established beyond dispute. Madame — a girl of 
 seventeen — is, in etiquette, his widow. Custom would 
 say, 'Wait, at all events, for a year or two.' As if patience 
 were the one thing on earth to be remembered ! At 
 that rate I shall find obstacles for every step in life. But 
 again. A hasty marriage reflects rather on the bride than 
 on the bridegroom. That, I admit, is a real difficulty. 
 Yet even this becomes slight on examination. Madame has 
 no parents and not a relative. She is her own mistress. 
 She is in peculiar circumstances of some danger. She 
 needs a protector. Of course I do not deserve her. No 
 man could deserve her. But with women, thank God, it is 
 never a question of deserts. They are won, I think, rather 
 by determination. I have made up my mind. I can 
 exist, but I cannot live, without her. This is not a 
 struggle for air. This is a struggle for soul and body. 
 And I mean to stand my ground. She is impetuous, 
 enthusiastic, superb. As for 'courting' her — one 
 might as well try to court the North Wind. She is
 
 456 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 'a vapour of the power of God.' And I love her. And, 
 right or wrong, there's an end of it. 
 
 When he had finished this letter, he extinguished 
 the lamp, and found that the room was still light, 
 but with the morning. It was already time to dress 
 for the journey to Scotland.
 
 CHAPTER XXVII 
 
 Lord Wight was already seated at the breakfast table 
 when Orange joined him. 
 
 * Poor Marion and old Ethbin and the rest are 
 dear people,' said his lordship, ' but they are getting 
 on in years, and I find them very tiresome. I am 
 glad I didn't ask them up to Slatrach. lis ont bien des 
 f/iiseres. Their ailments seem inexhaustible. I have 
 as much as I can stand with my own dropsy. I won't 
 be bored by Valentine Vivian's perfectly unnecessary 
 stomach. He says he can eat nothing now but spoon- 
 meat. As if that matters to me. As if it could 
 matter to anybody — except his cook. How is 
 Pensee ? ' 
 
 'She seemed well,' said Orange : 'she sent you her 
 love.' 
 
 ' And the children ? ' 
 
 *I didn't see them.' 
 
 'What a pity! The two — with their mother — 
 make such a pretty picture. Millais has promised to 
 do them. But I hope,' he added, flushing a little 
 lest he should seem indiscreet, 'I hope you found 
 Madame de Par/he better ? ' 
 
 457
 
 458 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 * Much better. I fear, however, that her illness has 
 been a great anxiety to Lady Fitz Rewes.' 
 
 ' No 1 no ! I feel sure she was only too happy to 
 be of the least service to the poor young widow. 
 But that fellow's suicide was a very good thing. 
 He was wholly unworthy of his wife. Pensee writes 
 me that she is the most charming creature — indeed, 
 distinguished in every way. Pensee is grateful for 
 a friend— she has had so much trouble, poor darling. 
 Fitz Rewes was such a loss. As a bachelor he won 
 every heart, but no man's manhood is thoroughly 
 completed until he becomes chef de trihu^ the head of 
 a home.^ He threw Robert a sly, exceedingly cautious 
 glance, to which the young man replied by blushing 
 to the eyes. 
 
 ' Would you mind,' he asked, * if I were to go by a 
 later train to-day ? ' 
 
 ' Mind ? It would upset everything. I must have 
 someone to talk to the Princes.' 
 
 * But they are both very good talkers themselves. 
 Besides, you will have a set topic for discussion.' 
 
 ' Yes, but not all day. I cannot converse for any 
 extravagant length of time about Don Carlos. The 
 subject is too agitating. . . . Don't throw me 
 over/ 
 
 * I will join you to-morrow.' 
 Lord Wight looked incredulous. 
 
 ' No you won't,' said he. ' I have a presentiment 
 that you won't.'
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 459 
 
 Orange coloured again. 
 
 ' I can't explain all the circumstances,' he answered, 
 *but — the chances are that — things will go on just as 
 usual. I mean my plans for the future and so on. 
 You might perhaps guess — ' 
 
 ' I hate guessing. I won't^o it. It always offends 
 people — particularly if you make a lucky hit ! ' 
 
 ' I have no reason — no particular reason that is to 
 say — to hope for any especial change in my life,' said 
 Robert, now pale. * But I shall have to speak . . . 
 because I simply can't go on . . . wondering. That's 
 too awful. I have always tried to feel that I was 
 — interested— as a friend only. I didn't altogether 
 succeed. Still, the effort was made, and I pulled 
 myself together, and I did manage to get the upper 
 hand. I don't know how I did it, either. Then I 
 heard that she was free. And you would have thought 
 that I had never struggled at all. I once had a friend 
 who built a fine wall on his estate in order to keep 
 back the sea. It answered for a while. But the sea 
 was not to be conquered. It rushed in — when its 
 time came — and the great stones went for nothing. It 
 was soon as though they had never been. And that 
 was my feeling when I heard of Parflete's death.' 
 
 ' Very natural, too, I am sure,' said his lordship, ' and 
 most extraordinarily cotmne il faut. If the story were 
 known — it would do you great credit. But it was to 
 be — I am quite certain of that. I wish you both 
 every happiness. There could not be a marriage more
 
 460 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 harmoniously assorted. I suppose, hov/ever, you won't 
 be announcing the engagement for some time.' 
 
 ' I have not yet spoken to her. There is no 
 engagement.' 
 
 ' That,' said the old man, smiling, ' is but a matter 
 of the post — or do you intend to go down to Catesby 
 again ? ' 
 
 Robert dropped his glance for a moment, and then 
 looked up with his customary frankness. 
 
 ' You shall know all about it,' said he, * to- 
 morrow.' 
 
 ' I don't want you to feel that I expect you to tell 
 me anything about your private affairs,' said Lord 
 Wight. ' What has already happened in our past 
 experience surely is enough to assure you of this.' 
 
 But his expression was dissatisfied. He arched his 
 eye-brows, and drew up his mouth in the peculiar 
 smile which he alv/ays assumed as an outward mani- 
 festation of Christian forbearance. 
 
 ' I relied on your help, you know,' he went on, * and 
 that is one reason why I have asked this big party of 
 foreigners to Slatrach. You may say that you will 
 follow me to-morrow. But / say that, in the cir- 
 cumstances, you won't be able to do so. I was once 
 engaged myself, and my plans have been unsettled 
 ever since. That was forty years ago. An engage- 
 ment — whether it comes to marriage or not — will 
 change your whole life. // ne faut ja?nais penser au 
 bonheur^ cela attire le diable. So don't make any
 
 ^HE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS +6i 
 
 appointments or promises, till you have seen the 
 lady.' 
 
 Orange sighed without replying. He was not 
 thinking of happiness, nor was he happy. The 
 tumult in his soul seemed a physical pain, and con- 
 fused him. He felt like a wolf with a sudden gift 
 of wings, and the struggle between the old paws 
 on the ground, and the new pinions in the air, was 
 like the slow rending asunder of flesh and spirit. 
 
 ' I don't know what to say, I'm sure,' he said, 
 presently. 
 
 'Of course not,' answered his lordship. *No one 
 ever does know what to say at such a crisis. One 
 merely thinks. And one's friends feel for one. 
 And everyone is very much relieved when it is 
 all over.' 
 
 He rose from his chair and shuffled clumsily out of 
 the room. Orange dared not offer to assist him. 
 Lord Wight was too profound a sentimentalist not 
 to resent any spectator of his tears. He retired alone 
 to his study, where, with trembling fingers, he opened 
 many books and waited to hear Robert pass through 
 the Hall — on his way to the front-door. He did not 
 listen long. The strong, swift foot-steps seemed to 
 follow but too closely on his own painful tread. He 
 heard the door opened ; and a sound of the streets, of 
 wheels, traffic, the relentless energy of a great city, 
 came loudly for a moment. Then the door was closed 
 with a noise that went through the whole mansion,
 
 462 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 shaking the windows, and echoing through the 
 desolate apartments. Youth, and blood, the pride of 
 life and the desire of the eyes were once more out- 
 side the house, and within there was only wisdom 
 and a great deal of disturbed dust. 
 
 Lord Wight rang the bell for his valet. Glencorbie 
 had already departed the day before in order to prepare 
 the Castle for its visitors. 
 
 * Eshelby,' said his lordship, ' have you packed my 
 Spanish Grammar, Rabelais^ and Candide f ' 
 
 * Yes, my lord.' 
 
 *Then take them out again. Put in Horace^ the 
 Fita Nuovay and the latest volume of Mr Froude's dis- 
 graceful History 1 I will take the Spanish Grammar 
 in my pocket, and see what I can make of it in the 
 train. Mr Orange does not accompany us. He 
 hopes to join us to-morrow.' 
 
 ' Yes, my lord.' 
 
 * But I don't think that it looks much like it at 
 present.' 
 
 The man, who was an old and confidential ser- 
 vant, glanced up with a respectful reproduction of his 
 master's expression of countenance. 
 
 ' I am sorry for that, my lord,' said he : ' but no 
 doubt Mr Orange will feel more settled before long ! 
 He hasn't been in his bed all night. It's my beliet 
 he keeps Vigils, my lord.' 
 
 ' Poor young man ! Such a dear fellow ! Of course, 
 he finds it very lonely,' observed Lord Wight. ' A man
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 463 
 
 soon learns that independence is not the highest good 
 in life. Young people like each other's society — 
 especially of an opposite sex ! It is very natural — 
 very natural, indeed. And old people ought to like old 
 people, but they never do. That is why every man — 
 not a priest — should marry and have a family. Sons 
 and daughters are so interesting. O jeunesse ! jeunesse! 
 que je te regrette ! Mais t'a'i-je jamais connue? That 
 IS French and it means, don't be morbid. . . . 
 And . . . Eshelby.' 
 
 * Yes, my lord.' 
 
 * How all this reminds me of '29 and Lady Sybil. 
 I suppose I was quite as — agitated and — extraordinary 
 on the night of that dinner at Madame de Lieven's ? * 
 
 ' Every bit, my lord. Gentlemen are all the same, 
 my lord. So are men. Will your lordship take both 
 hot-water bottles ? ' 
 
 < Both.'
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII 
 
 Brigit, who had received a message from Robert 
 early that morning, was waiting in the Convent 
 parlour when he arrived. 
 
 The little room (he wrote to Reckage) was very- 
 quiet, but, for all its greyness, it seemed one of the stars — 
 our own. There was an image of the Mother of God on 
 the mantel-piece, and a large map of the Ancient World 
 hanging on the wall. The window was cut rather high — 
 as if for a studio. One could see the sky only, and the 
 clouds were like white spirits set free, moving upwards 
 through the aether. But I noticed these things later, 
 when, on leaving, I looked back, not once, but many 
 times. You have seen Brigit ? Her loveliness now fairly 
 catches your breath. I gaze at her and am terrified at my 
 privilege. I fear she will vanish. She seems to vanish. 
 Yet she comes again — the lovelier. She is still there — but 
 only as an emblem surely : — 
 
 Werd'ich zum Augenblicke sagen : 
 Verweile doch ! du bist so schon ! 
 Dann magst du mich in Fesseln schlagen : 
 Dann will ich gern zu Gruiide gehn. 
 
 Now let me talk with you, if I can, quietly. If there 
 were not another world, I would tear myself into shreds 
 for the very first disappointment I met with, in this. I 
 could not bear it — the humiliation, I mean. Nor the 
 thought of death either. I would leap, of my own free 
 will, into the depths of misery. I would say, ' Not at 
 your time, O Nemesis, but at my time. You shall not 
 
 464
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 465 
 
 call me at your pleasure : you shall not hunt about for 
 me, entice me into traps baited with happiness, find me, 
 put me to slow torture, pour me out at your will. No : 1 
 come myself. Tear ! curse ! burn ! wound ! but I first 
 shall have bruised my own flesh, cursed my own life, 
 seared my own heart, spread out my own soul, like a torn 
 rag, on your pitch-fork.' This is the proud side of the 
 philosophy of self-mortification— the human, Pagan side. 
 Pride says, ' I will not eat the wafers made with honey, and 
 be sick afterwards, and perhaps be beaten into the bargain.' 
 Pride says, ' I will teach my mouth to loathe honey, and 
 I will myself be a beater, beating myself. What better 
 brute ? ' The mere strength of a man will declare that 
 much — if he can love anything well enough to feel the 
 loss of it. Some, of course, care nothing for things and 
 persons, but are concerned only with conditions. They 
 will crawl from roof to roof, and from root to root — for- 
 getting the peach if they can find a turnip, or foregoing 
 the turnip if they may lap up the rinsings of a sour-beer 
 cask. But these are worms, and not men. For us — who 
 love once as we live but once — there is, under our feet, 
 the soliditas Cathedra Petri. From this we see the other 
 world — indeed, the greater part of the time we may be 
 said to move in it. We may spend whole hours in the 
 Very Presence of the Living God. He is there in per- 
 petuity : He is to be found. He will come Himself, in 
 the Blessed Sacrament of the Altar, to the heart of the 
 least of His worshippers. It is there and then that pride, 
 a weak force at best, becomes devotion — the mightiest of 
 all forces. The Lord Incarnate, Who laid the foundations 
 of the earth and shut up the sea with doors. Who com- 
 mands the morning and has caused the day-spring to know 
 his place, Who alone spreadeth out the Heavens, and 
 bringeth out to light the shadow of death — He, the 
 Creator of the World and its Redeemer, is Himself 
 a Sacrifice. To know this is to know all that we need 
 to know. But if the rest is not easy, we always feel 
 that we are not shadows with the gift of suffering, nor 
 chained Titans, nor petty deities, but nothing less than 
 the sons of God and joint-heirs with Christ. Oh, the 
 
 2 G
 
 466 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 splendour, the liberty of that magnificent certitude ! Why- 
 do we ever forgot it ? Why do we sit in the ashes, count- 
 ing the temporal things we have lost or may lose, when we 
 have inherited as our birth-right all the eternal fastnesses 
 of Heaven ? You will not quarrel with these thoughts, 
 but you may ask, why do I have them now, at this 
 moment ? You are waiting to hear a tale in another 
 strain. I could perhaps send what you expect — yet it 
 would not be a letter from Me. It would be a manu- 
 factured thing from that sham entity — the three Unities. 
 I know the rules of effective composition — they are easily 
 learnt. I could send you 'a work of art' — the real 
 thing. First, the lady — described in a sharp, cold-blooded, 
 memorable way. Take one feature. Make much of it. 
 Homer did the same — after his old, lucid fashion. Then 
 the scene, lightly done. Nature then — rather heavy. 
 Suggest orchestration — if possible. Let the lady speak — 
 but, above all things, a short sentence. It cannot be too 
 banal. A banalite is always le juste mot. Then (with a 
 fresh ink-bottle) set the whole globe whirling for a couple 
 of pages, and use long words — for the balance. Return 
 to the human interest. Let yourself speak — or, preferably, 
 merely sigh. At this tremendous point, use your sun-set 
 for all it is worth, and, plucking it from the consuming 
 Heavens, drag it down to the hem of the lady's petticoat ! 
 Who does not know the obscene plan ? So the dog bays 
 the moon, and returns to his own vomit. Shall I repeat 
 carefully what we each said, how we said it, how we 
 looked, how we each thought we looked ? Is there 
 nothing to be kept sacred on this earth ? Even Memory 
 has its reserves. To be honest, I do not even remember 
 what we said. Did I go forth this morning to find an 
 experience, to tickle my soul into some utterance — some 
 squeal, bray, or crow which I could mimic later, in words, 
 for my bosom friend, or the public ? I have to earn my 
 bread by writing. I am a poor man — and as things look 
 now — I shall be poorer yet. Parfletc, I feel sure, has 
 squandered every franc of Brigit's fortune. This I don't 
 mind. That dot must have had a curse upon it. But if I 
 were starving — I think if she were starving — I would never
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 467 
 
 put to paper, or repeat to any creature, for all the prizes 
 of the earth, any account — fuller than this you know — of 
 my own love, or of some imaginary love. I go into these 
 things now, because they have a relevance greater than 
 you would, at first, suppose. They are brought to my 
 mind by the thought that I must set my wits to work at 
 once, and produce something more profitable than a little 
 volume of French History. I must provide a home for 
 my future wife. Greywood will give me ;^200 for the 
 Due de Guise, and _£iooo for a 'pretty love tale.' Well, 
 ' many bear the thyrsus, but few are inspired by the god.' 
 I can at least do my best — keeping these two rules before 
 me: — i. No 'portraits' of my friends. 2. No love 
 scenes in the 'impersonal manner.' 
 
 We shall marry with as little delay as possible. She 
 tells me that Baron Zeuill, her other trustee, should arrive 
 in London to-day. For some reason, he is well disposed 
 toward me. He would approve, she says, of our marriage. 
 This being the case, he will, I hope, give his countenance 
 to the matter, and so remove every difhculty in the way of 
 a Special Licence. I have been to both Embassies. We 
 must have all things in perfect order. I have every 
 reason to trust the Baron. She took shelter in his Palace 
 after the escape from Loadilla. To his influence with 
 Prim, I owe my present liberty — perhaps, my life. I have 
 not a doubt of his kindness. It is a relief unutterable to 
 find that I can act quite openly in the matter. I detest long 
 engagements. I could write whole volumes in folio against 
 them. They are immoral and destroying. I hate — and I 
 have always hated — the notion of a clandestine marriage. 
 What does it mean ? A constant ground for scandal, 
 misunderstandings, curiosity and lies. I shall not see 
 Brigit again till our wedding day. I have already written 
 to Zeuill. He is expected at Claridge's this evening. I 
 seem to feel that everything will go smoothly now, and I 
 am not at all anxious. Have I not her promise ? 
 
 This was a letter from his heart, and, in all his 
 correspondence and writings, there is not a passage
 
 468 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 which brings out more clearly the two ruling motives 
 of his life. Which came first? Had he been asked, 
 he would not have known how to answer. It was 
 the hidden, and therefore the more powerful ; it was 
 the one of which he was the least conscious — the 
 one he spoke of with the greatest difficulty. It was 
 not his affection for Brigit. His volume of sonnets 
 — To Kalliste in Exile — tells all the devotion of a 
 young man deeply, most humanly, in love. But 
 can we forget that, before he sent these sweet 
 addresses to the adored ' Kalliste,' he had composed 
 songs as impassioned, if a little less tender, ' To 
 
 Henriette,' ' To A ,' ' To Tryphena,' * To 
 
 Cynthia,' and a few more ? In each instance, the 
 poet's state appears to be carried to the extremest 
 limit of possible versification. He is utterly in 
 earnest. His whole being — and nothing short of 
 it — heaven-high and hell-deep, is always irresistibly 
 attracted toward the subject of his entreating, re- 
 proachful, bitter, or rapturous lines. Orange could 
 never bring himself to laugh, at any time, at these 
 early outpourings of an ardent mind quickly sus- 
 ceptible to the spells of beauty, grace, or purity. 
 'Kalliste,' no doubt, was the last of the goddesses 
 — the perfect sun before which all other lights were 
 but day-shadows of the moon. No other woman 
 after her, could ever drive him even so far as the 
 rhyming dictionary. Nor, it should be said, was the 
 lady one who would have played, without a word
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 469 
 
 or two, the silent tragedy of Griselda dethroned. 
 Yet the strongest attachment of his soul was, unques- 
 tionably, to God — to the Everlasting, to the All- 
 Powerful. His own strength sought the Source of 
 all Strength , his desire of truth went forth to the 
 One Unalterable Truth. No one, and nothing, 
 could separate him — he could not separate himself 
 — from his innate love of God. And next to God, 
 he loved literature, he loved books. He loved to 
 read them, he loved to see them, to handle them. 
 He was the born man of letters and libraries. Brigit 
 stood apart from both of these over-mastering, yet 
 distinct devotions. She permeated, she did not control, 
 his existence. Her soul did not stand in his own soul's 
 stead. They were together, but identified. When 
 a woman is the first and chief consideration in a 
 man's life, or when a man becomes the first and 
 chief consideration in a woman's life — the end, in 
 each case, will be always cruel and foolish — always 
 an insupportable disappointment to one, or to the 
 other, or to both. 
 
 It is true that when Robert had finished his letter, 
 and while he was writing it, he moved in that trance 
 of enchantment when the soul seems to be floating, 
 like a melody, into the air. To close his eyes was 
 to see illimitable rosy aether : to open them was to 
 behold, in seas of bliss, worlds melting into worlds, 
 and heavens dissolving into heavens. Mystery and 
 vastness were around him : it was as though he
 
 470 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 stood on the edge of the universe, and could leap — 
 not down — but upwards into the empyrean. He 
 recognised the ecstatic mood, and wondered, for a 
 moment, whether it was a blessing, or a thorn, to 
 possess a clear knowledge of one's spiritual organiza- 
 tion. Early in life, he had shaken his mind through 
 the Hegelian sieve, and, as a result, it was no longer a 
 whole mass, but a collection of particles — each with a 
 name. No one can study Hegel and remain unaltered 
 by that discipline, or see his fellow-creatures quite as 
 he saw them before. Orange loved madly, passion- 
 ately, but he knew it. He was happy, but he knew 
 it. He was living in a day-dream, but he knew it. 
 And, the intoxication, the folly of all such love, such 
 happiness, and such dreaming lies in the «o/-knowing, 
 in the mistaking them, in the spontaneous rushing- 
 forth to them as to the ultimate goal, and the ex- 
 treme climax of all things. 'This,' you must say 
 with the moth, * is the final, the undying, the star of 
 stars.' ' This,' you must say with Orpheus, ' is the 
 last note, this is the supreme gift.' Robert could 
 not say these things. The mellow radiance of the 
 Autumnal sun came through his window, and fell 
 upon the small bronze crucifix which was nailed on 
 the wall that faced him. He knelt before it. He 
 laid his flushed brow against the Pierced Feet. 
 There, at all times, he could find a reprieve from 
 all torturing self - doubts, all restless questionings. 
 That was the Way and the Life : that was the
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 471 
 
 Abiding and Unchangeable. There was not a 
 splinter of the Holy Cross but had proved adamant 
 — yes — even through the ordeal of the Hegelian 
 sieve ! The young man's heart u^as over-whelmed. 
 He felt a longing — a need to remain there, as he 
 was, on his knees — not because, out of Pagan super- 
 stition, he feared to be too happy, but because his 
 happiness would not have been happiness at all, with- 
 out that Adored and Hallowing Influence. 
 
 He heard, however, quick steps outside his door, 
 and he rose up with a sigh, as the door was thrown 
 cautiously open, and Lord Reckage, with an air of 
 vindictive fatigue, walked unannounced into the room. 
 His hair and auburn beard had turned greyer. He was 
 thinner, darker round the eyes, and paler than Orange 
 had ever known him. 
 
 * I am thankful to find you,' said he, waving his 
 hand to Robert and throwing himself on to the first 
 seat — a sofa — in his way. * I wanted to see you. 
 There are a thousand things on my mind. In the 
 first place, I am engaged and it is all settled. I 
 suppose you saw the announcement in The Post. 
 But that was premature.' 
 
 * I thought so. That is why I didn't write.' 
 
 * Well, it is Agnes at last ! She is charming and 
 clever. I worship her. I could say this to no one 
 except yourself. Most men would think it a pose^ 
 but you understand me.' 
 
 'I congratulate you,' said Robert, stifling a doubt
 
 472 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 of his friend's future contentment ; ' I am sure you 
 must be very happy.' 
 
 * Ah ! ' exclaimed Reckage, * that is precisely what I 
 am not ! I am far from happy. But I am interested. 
 Life for the moment interests me enormously. You 
 know what the French poet has said : " Rassure-toi, 
 Pamour viendra ; desole-toi^ il nest pas Videal de 
 bonheur que tu penses," When we ask for our daily 
 bread, we mean our daily deceptions. The terrible 
 irony of life is the incontestable fact that we cannot 
 exist without a number of intoxicating illusions. 
 They are the wine by which we defy the horrors 
 of the slaughter-house ! ' 
 
 ' But surely there is a certainty — or two ! ' said 
 Robert, unable to resist a quiet thrust at this newest 
 pillar of the Establishment. 
 
 ' I want a practical talk — not that^^ said Reckage. 
 ' What's the good of going into all that now ? Some- 
 times one must look at things from the outside. 
 Nature is stronger than systems. And I am worried in 
 every sort of way. Of course, Agnes and I are close 
 friends — such friends that it would kill me if she were 
 to marry anyone else. My people are very pleased ; 
 her people, I fancy, are not so delighted. They are 
 all serious-minded, and jaw — ^jaw, jaw — from morning 
 till night about one's duty. Agnes has inherited just 
 a shade of the pulpit manner. She approaches politics 
 from the religious point of view. Of course that's 
 my line, and I like her to feel an intelligent interest
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 473 
 
 in my work. But you don't want your line following 
 you everywhere — from your wife's boudoir to your 
 heir's nursery ! We shall be as happy, no doubt, as 
 most married couples— perhaps happier than most, 
 because I enter matrimony with clear eyes. It is a 
 state of bondage — a deliberate chaining up of one's 
 independence.' 
 
 Orange knew that there was an essential brutality 
 in Reckage's composition which neither refined 
 habits nor a polished manner could totally disguise. 
 Perhaps he read Robert's thoughts. His sensitive- 
 ness to opinion was extreme, and he was quick to 
 perceive meanings, or glances, when they seemed to 
 have reference to himself. 
 
 ' You think I am cold-blooded,' he said, flushing. 
 * I can but say this — that whenever I look at the sky, 
 or whenever I see flowers, or whenever I enter a 
 Church, or whenever I hear music, I remember 
 Agnes ! It would be idle to pretend that I suffer 
 from thrills and sleeplessness, I have done with all 
 that sort of thing — for I have made up my mind to 
 settle down. I was very fond of — his voice grew 
 husky — ' I was very fond of my cousin Amy. She 
 wasn't half so pretty as this one, but she had such 
 tact. If Amy had lived — oh, well, you know what 
 Heine said : " From my great sorrows^ I made little 
 songs." This shall be the motto for my married life. 
 The " little songs " may, now and again, have a 
 jarring note, but nothing worse 1 '
 
 474 'i^^E SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 ' When will the marriage take place ? ' 
 
 ' Early next year — most probably.' 
 
 ' How lovely she is ! You are a lucky fellow, Beau. 
 
 Reckage drew a little miniature from his pocket 
 and surveyed it with a languid, half-grudging admira- 
 tion which had something in it of vague annoyance — 
 even animosity. 
 
 'She is lovely,' he said, 'and of course she is much 
 prettier than Amy was — even at her best. Poor little 
 Amy ! It is strange how differently trouble affects 
 different people. It makes some fellows melancholy. 
 It has made me hard.' His eyes welled over with 
 tears. ' I'm a fool,' he went on. ' I am unstrung 
 and tired out and everything else. But I was simply 
 awfully fond of that one.' 
 
 He plunged his head into the sofa-cushion, and the 
 miniature fell to the ground. 
 
 Orange picked it up. It showed the face of a 
 young girl about one-and-twenty. Her hair was 
 brown, brushed straight back over a cushion from the 
 low brow, and worn (it was the fashion of that day) in a 
 chignon. Her countenance, with its flower-like fresh- 
 ness of colour and deep grey eyes, had the health and 
 purity which belong to an intense yet unselfish nature. 
 A curious charm, a something irresistible, compelling 
 yet wholly innocent, seemed to emanate even from her 
 presentment on cold ivory. 
 
 ' She is a beautiful creature,' said Robert. 
 
 'She is perfect,' groaned the bridegroom-elect. *I
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 475 
 
 am devoted to her. But can't you understand ? I 
 don't wish to denigrer my affection for Agnes, but 
 she isn't Amy — is she? And nothing will ever make 
 her Amy. I know that I'm a lucky fellow Valentine 
 Vivian says that no one, since the Gunnings and the 
 Sheridans, has created such a sensation as Agnes. She 
 has had any amount of brilliant offers. I can't think 
 why she accepted me. I dislike being a woman's 
 ideal. It makes you feel such an unmitigated im- 
 postor. I was never Amy's ideal. She would just 
 come in and put her arms round my neck, and say, 
 'I hate you ! ' That was so nice of her. It was the 
 most fetching thing you ever heard. But I am not 
 going to sit here reminding myself of Amy. It isn't 
 fair to Agnes. Let us drop the whole subject. . . . 
 Have you heard from Hercy lately ? ' 
 
 ' His last letter—which I received many weeks 
 ao-o — was dated from Paris.' 
 
 ' Well, he is now in London, and he is worry- 
 mff nie to death. Half of this — is Hercv's fault. 
 My nerves are all quivering. He has suddenly, with- 
 out a word of warning, gone in for Art. He paints 
 portraits. You never saw such things — blots, and 
 smears, and a regular mess. They would make you 
 sick. He calls them artistic. An artist's strength 
 is to be a fier bourgeois — a Philistine like Velasquez 
 or Millais. But Hercy does nothing but blether 
 about tones^ and values^ and the colours of sounds. 
 He says that Agnes has a pink voice, and he has
 
 476 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 painted her voice. He has called it " The Pink 
 Voiced Everything about it is pink — except her 
 face, and that is violet. He says that he sees 
 her that way. But if people see such repellent 
 monsters — ought they to paint them ? That is 
 not the worst, however. He has taken up with 
 such a queer set of friends. He goes everywhere 
 now with an unsavoury looking dog called Mande- 
 ville. Mandeville is by way of being a fiddler. 
 And he has a wife — Flamma Mandeville — a dread- 
 ful sort of woman, a foreigner. Hercy has painted 
 her as " The Purple Smile" It looks like a Tartan 
 plaid — with all the dyes running into each other. 
 He is going to send it to the Academy. Papa is 
 frantic with annoyance.' 
 
 'I have never heard of the Mandevilles. But 
 if they are really objectionable, Hercy will soon 
 get tired of them. So many men are degraded 
 by their sympathies. They have any amount of 
 aspirations and would like to fly, but they have 
 not the courage to fly alone. So they prefer to 
 crawl — in company. It is natural enough.' 
 
 *But you should see the three together — Swin- 
 burne and sherry at eleven o'clock in the morning, 
 and no proper breakfast. Brahms and onions and 
 beer and Bach at night. You know the kind of 
 thing. I don't say that there is the least harm 
 in their nonsense. But it is so bad for Hercy. 
 Won't you come round with me to his Studio ? '
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTb \']^ 
 
 * Has he got a Studio ? ' 
 
 *■ Rather. And he has broken Papa's heart.' 
 
 'But he may have genuine talent.' 
 
 Reckage shook his head. 
 
 ' Wait,' said he, ' till you have seen The Pink 
 Voice. I believe he is going mad. And if there 
 is insanity — even latent — in our family, I must 
 know it. Agnes's people are beginning to look 
 a little glum already. The Bishop is not a man 
 to take any risk, I can tell you. Of course, I 
 don't really believe that Hercy is mad.' 
 
 ' I should think not. He is brilliant. These 
 rapid changes of mood, the disordered views, and 
 the irregular life are characteristic of every artist 
 whose work is a self-conscious form of auto- 
 biography. A vision so constituted that it is 
 perpetually directed inward, egoistically, and never 
 outward, sympathetically, tempts its possessor to 
 produce — at every sacrifice — a certain amount of 
 variety in his own soul. Everything depends then 
 on the quality of the soul. But have you no mercy 
 on youth ? Hercy's heart is all right.' 
 
 *Well, be that as it may, I think he should defer 
 his antics till I am married, and so on. Everyone 
 hates artists in his family. Do come, and see him, 
 and talk to him. He may listen to you.' 
 
 He paused a moment to look at his watch. 
 
 ' I have to attend a Committee Meeting at six,' 
 said he. 'We are going to jump on the Vatican
 
 478 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 Council. . . . You know it's a real trouble to me that 
 you cannot see the Papacy as I do. I hear on all 
 sides what a crisis this is. All the same I always 
 dread an Appeal to our Church. It is like a sickly 
 person recovering. One cannot be morally sure that 
 it can stand — yet. As a matter of fact, I don't think 
 that religion ever has reached, or ever will get hold of, 
 the English mind and imagination. No Englishman 
 at any period has been able to paint either a Christ, or 
 a Holy Family. He can work up a sacred picture for 
 the Galleries, and he can copy the early Italians, but 
 there is nothing spontaneous about his conceptions of 
 Divinity. We are not a religious nation. It isn't 
 in us. It never was m us — we v/ere never good 
 Catholics at our best. But' — he glanced at Robert 
 with an air of apology — ' I haven't asked you about 
 your own affairs ? ' 
 
 'I was just writing to you,' said Robert, 'when 
 you came in. I thought you were still with the 
 Carillons.' 
 
 *No, I couldn't stand the Palace any longer. 
 It was too much of a strain. Agnes alone is 
 charming, and her people alone are charming. I 
 love the old Bishop. But the whole lot of them 
 in a bunch makes one feel rather lonely. Give 
 me that letter. I always like your letters. That's 
 all right. You are looking much better. Come 
 along ! ' 
 
 They descended the stair-case together, arm in
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 479 
 
 arm, Reckage leaning with genuine, unconscious 
 affection on the young man whom he liked to 
 regard as his protege. 
 
 ' By-the-bye,' said he, * I never told you how 
 pleased I was about that Norbet Royal election. 
 Wasn't it a lucky fluke ? No one could under- 
 stand it. But Disraeli has any amount of influence, 
 one way and another.' 
 
 They took a cab, and drove toward an address 
 in Chelsea. Reckage had regained his spirits, and 
 he was now wondering where he would go for 
 his honeymoon, and whether Framlingham would 
 have a place in the next Cabinet. 
 
 It was one of those clear days in the early Autumn 
 when the leaf, not yet fallen, still trembles, glorious in 
 dying, on the bough : when there are rosy clouds on 
 the russet sky, and when the songs and softness of the 
 Summer still linger in the air. 
 
 'It is so much better out here ' exclaimed Recknee, 
 * everything looks different now. The Church is 
 certainly in a wretched state, and people who think 
 that it must rest on the multitude — not the brains — of 
 England, are, of course, desponding. But I am going 
 to make a straight bid for the brains ! Pusey and 
 these other fellows talked too much about sin and the 
 soul. That bores people. Brains are the thing. A 
 man is proud of his brains. Very few are proud of 
 their souls. Fellows who talk about their souls are a 
 flabby lot — as a rule. And they behave like brutes
 
 4So THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 in reality. I know there are exceptions. But what's 
 the good of making for the Minority ? That is your 
 ambition — not mine. I met Dizzy the other morn- 
 ing, at Framlingham's, and managed to appear at my 
 worst. I am sure he must have thought me a fool. 
 I sometimes have stupid fits. But he knew who I 
 was, and seemed curious about me.' 
 
 ' I am thinking about Hercy,' said Robert, rousing 
 himself with a start. 'I remember now that he 
 always had a wish to paint. It is absurd to say 
 that we ought to attempt nothing, but what we can 
 do. We know not what we can do, and what we 
 cannot, till we have tried. He may hope to find work 
 easy. If it should prove a great deal too much for him, 
 he will have learnt, at least, how to respect failure.' 
 
 'What an extraordinary way of looking at it ! I 
 hate failures myself. All the same I wrote Hercy as 
 nice a letter as ever I could. But I cannot describe 
 the kind of sickness I felt when he showed me his 
 pictures. He is my twin-brother, and yet he could 
 produce those awful things ! I blushed for them. 
 Why should he not try to revive the old ridog in 
 Art ? One could stand a fad of that kind. There 
 would be some dignity about that. I am very 
 fond of him. I would make any sacrifice for him, 
 but this new craze will embitter every occurrence 
 of my life.' 
 
 ' Hercy seldom expects one to make a sacrifice. He 
 wants your confidence.'
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 481 
 
 *Yes, but that's the hardest thing on earth a fellow 
 can give him. I will try to keep myself cool ; but 
 suppose we find him with that vulgar woman ! She 
 orders him about as though he were a lady's maid — 
 7ny brother ! I can't bear to think of it. Let us get 
 out and walk.' 
 
 They dismissed the hansom and went together 
 along the Embankment. 
 
 ' The thing beats me,' said the young man, * it 
 fairly beats me,' and, going the rest of the way in 
 silence, they looked at the river where a dark barge 
 was slowly moving westward. 
 
 The house was soon found. There was a strip of 
 garden in front, newly planted with those full-grown 
 trees which one may see being borne along in carts, 
 root exposed and branches tied round with hay, for 
 some temporary exhibition. A fountain played in the 
 centre, the water spurting forth from a gourd held 
 high above the head of a stone Maenad. The house 
 door — made of oak, and glass, and ivory, and bearing 
 Hercy's name — 
 
 The Hon. Mercy Berenville^ 
 
 in tortured characters — stood half-open. 
 
 ' His servant has probably gone out for a moment,' 
 said Reckage, entering the narrow hall. A strong 
 odour of pastilles and tobacco, roses and coffee, 
 patchouli and garlic sent both men staggering back- 
 ward. 
 
 2 H
 
 4^2 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 ' My God ! ' murmured his lordship, 
 
 Robert heard the sound of a melodious unknown 
 voice, and then a shrill feminine laugh. 
 
 ' The Mandevilles ! ' said Reckage. 
 
 A dog barked. 
 
 ' Fiammetta ! Fiammetta ! ' cried the lady, in a 
 strong foreign accent, ' Fiammetta ! do be quiet.' 
 
 The other voice grew^ louder, and said, — 
 
 ^Wilt Thou yet take all, Galilean ? but these Thou shalt not 
 
 take. 
 The laurel, the palms and the pesan, the breasts of the 
 
 nymphs in the brake ; . . , 
 And all the wings of the Loves, and all the joy before 
 
 death; . . . 
 Thou hast conquered, O pale Galilean ; the world has grown 
 
 grey from Thy breath^ 
 
 * Oh, dat is ve-ree fine ! ' exclaimed the lady, al- 
 though the yapping of Fiammetta had made much 
 of it inaudible ; * and ve-ree true I ' 
 
 Reckage, follow^ed by Orange, advanced into the 
 studio w^here Hercy w^as standing, on his crutch, in 
 front of a large canvas, v^^ith his back to the door. 
 A young man, w^ho vv^as evidently posing for his 
 portrait, was reading aloud. On the divan sat a 
 woman, with red hair, smoking a cigarette. She 
 held a small Skye terrier in her lap, and was the 
 first to perceive the visitors. 
 
 * O la-la ! ' she exclaimed, without stirring, * Her-cee, 
 eet ees your brother-r, and a man.'
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 483 
 
 The artist, who had been absorbed in his occupa- 
 tion, turned round. Blushing scarlet, he showed, 
 certainly, more pleasure than annoyance at the sur- 
 prise. But the annoyance — or was it shame ? — was 
 not the less evident. 
 
 ' Robert ! ' he cried, * you don't mean to say that 
 it is old Robert ? How are you ? And Reckage ! 
 Sit down, old stick. How's Agnes ? I am as well as 
 possible and I am working — most awfully hard. None 
 of them can paint so well as I hope to paint ! You 
 may look at it — but it is all wrong.' 
 
 'It is rather alarming, I own,' said Reckage, in a 
 tone of cruel contempt. 
 
 * Beau,' said the artist, quivering, ' is one of those 
 critics who think it the knowing thing to point out 
 all the faults. Any ass can see the faults. I can see 
 them myself ! But it isn't so bad as all that. I swear 
 it isn't.' 
 
 ' I like the colour so much,' said Robert. 
 
 ' Of course. But you are a worker — you under- 
 stand. The colour is all right — it's the beastly 
 drawing now. But that will come. The light 
 here is very bad, especially as this picture is rather 
 deep in tone. And the nuisance is, that whenever 
 I have a good mood on, that infernal chimney begins 
 to smoke. And Flamma — er — er — Mrs Mandeville, 
 cannot be expected to sit in a cold room.' 
 
 'The chimnee is re-allee awful,' observed the lady. 
 
 ' Let me introduce everybody,' said Hercy, who
 
 4-84 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 now seemed on the verge of hysterical tears ; * Philip, 
 this is Orange. You know my brother. Robert, 
 this is Mr Mandeville — er — er — What a fool I 
 am ! I ought to have introduced you first to Mrs 
 Mandeville. Flamma, forgive me — er — er — Flamma, 
 this is Mr Orange.' 
 
 Flamma extended her small, unpleasant hand to 
 both visitors. The sitter, who was a strikingly 
 handsome young man, with a delicate sullen face 
 and an elaborate resemblance to Alfred de Musset, 
 stood up, came down from the dais, and immediately 
 seated himself by his wife. He never spoke then, 
 nor at any time during the visit. 
 
 ' Flamma,' said Hercy to the lady, who was pout- 
 ing, ' Flamma, you have often heard me talk about 
 Robert. We read his book together. You liked 
 it so much.' 
 
 < Oh, yes.' 
 
 She laughed, and in so doing displayed a row of 
 irregular, discoloured teeth. Her lips were thin, 
 purple, and curiously withered. A dreadful ennui 
 brooded in her rolling blue eyes. Her nose had the 
 wide, disproportioned nostrils which belong to a coarse 
 nature. She was vicious, discontented and untidy. 
 She wore a soiled lavender silk, and an Italian sash of 
 many brilliant hues. Her face was heavily powdered. 
 Youth she still possessed, but it was a youth without 
 charm and with very little innocence. Hercy looked 
 at her with an imploring glance — the glance of a
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 485 
 
 canary to a rat. He seemed to be praying, ' Do be 
 nice to them.' Then he picked up his brush, and 
 made fierce strokes on the sultry background of his 
 canvas. 
 
 'We don't want to interfere with your work, 
 Hercy ! ' said his brother. 
 
 Mandeville ghded back to his seat on the raised 
 platform, and resuming his pose, a fine one, began to 
 read that morning's newspaper. 
 
 * Shall I show them your pictures, Hercy ? ' said 
 Mrs Mandeville. 
 
 ' Thank you, Flamma. That would be very 
 kind.' 
 
 She made a little grimace at Robert and shrugged 
 her shoulders. 
 
 ' Lord Reckage always upsets him,' she whispered. 
 ' He gets on hees nerves.' 
 
 His lordship had strolled away to the far end of the 
 apartment and was looking at the volumes in the 
 book-case. He had no desire to see any further 
 examples of his brother's aberrating vision. Flamma 
 darted a look of hatred at his back. She stared at 
 Orange with the hunger of some starving beast. No 
 human power could have made her a pleasant woman, 
 or an attractive one ; she was brutal and probably 
 treacherous. Yet she presented a picture of squalid 
 woe past all description pitiful. As she tottered on 
 her high heels round the room, Robert found himself 
 following her with interest and even a curious sense
 
 486 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 of commiseration. She had the irresistible magnetism 
 of the wretched. 
 
 ' Her-cee,' she said, ' has got ree-al talent — ree-al 
 gen-i-us. But he needs friends who have la joie de 
 vivre. English people are so Northern, so Olympian, 
 so uninspiring to his tem-per-a-ment. I know dem, 
 and I understand gen-i-us. Have you ever heard my 
 husband play ? Eet ees mar-vellous. Wagner says 
 that eet ees won-derful. Eet ees not a man — eet ees 
 a spir-it. You are carried away. You cry. You 
 laugh. You sob. You go mad. Eet ees not music. 
 Eet ees death. Eet ees an-gu-ish ! Hef 
 
 She broke into a dreadful laugh, and diving into 
 a cupboard, produced a little canvas. 
 
 * Dis is de best,' said she, '• quite — de best. Eet ees 
 veree good. Look at eet. Eet is me.' 
 
 But Hercy sprang forward and snatched it from 
 her hand. 
 
 ' You know that's the worst,' he said, his face 
 distorted with passion. ' I won't have it shown, It's 
 a beast of a thing.' 
 
 Flamma laughed agam, and yawned, and laughed. 
 
 Hercy threw down his palette with a sudden 
 gesture of despair. 
 
 ' Who ever heard,' he said, ' of any man domg 
 good work at this hour of the day ? It is preposterous. 
 And the whole idea of ' sittings ' is absurd. You 
 should study a face, and then paint it — all by yourself 
 — without a soul — from memory.'
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 487 
 
 * And how lone-lee you would be, Her-cee ! Eet 
 would be awful. Poor Her-cee ! You would die — 
 quite heart brok-en. Come ! let us have a leetle 
 game of cards.' 
 
 ' Cards ! ' said Hercy. ' What an inspiration ! ' He 
 looked like a man under sentence of death. 
 
 ' But first,' said Flamma, ' won't you say good-bye 
 to your brother ? He is an-xi-ous to go.' 
 
 Reckage could not trust himself to speak. He 
 bowed to Mandeville, he bowed to the lady, and 
 strode out. Hercy hastened after him, and Orange, 
 fearing a scene between the brothers, thanked Mrs 
 Mandeville for her attention, and followed also. 
 
 ' Come out into the air,' said Reckage. ' I can't 
 stand this. Come out into the air 1 ' 
 
 The two young men were livid with disgust and 
 anger. Each saw in the other the embodiment of 
 the qualities he most detested in himself. Each was 
 at war, as it were, with his own weakness. Each 
 beheld, in the flesh, his supposed worse nature. 
 There was not too little — there was too much — 
 sympathy. 
 
 ' What is the matter ? ' said Hercy, in a tone 
 of frigid politeness. They had reached the garden. 
 ' I must beg you to be civil to my friends when 
 you come to my Studio. Your manner is impossible. 
 You have offended Mrs Mandeville.' 
 
 ' I beg your pardon. She practically ordered me 
 out of the house. She is an outrageous person. I
 
 488 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 have never before met anything of the kind — any- 
 where ! ' 
 
 ' You have insulted a — lady for w^hom I have the 
 highest respect,' repeated Hercy, doggedly. ' And 
 don't imagine any Clytemnestra business, either. It's 
 absolutely Platonic' 
 
 ' You young fool ! I wasn't doubting that. I 
 was only wondering whether it was not ridiculous. 
 It is so vulgar. It is so revolting. It is so un- 
 speakably fifth-rate ! ' 
 
 ' That will do. I don't want to hear any more.' 
 
 ' But as a duty, I tell you that you are ruining your 
 life.' 
 
 ' My life is my own.' 
 
 * But you owe something to your family.' 
 
 ' I can change my name. I don't want it. . , . And 
 yet, I sha'n't drop it just to please you. Everyone 
 says that you are a prig. I wish I could get myself 
 to believe that this was a lie. But, on the contrary, 
 I feel it strongly.' 
 
 ' I have felt in you exactly what you feel in me.' 
 
 ' Then why don't you leave me alone ? I shall 
 always hit back. You can depend on that, at any 
 rate. I wish you were dead. I never wish to see 
 your face again. I wish you were dead.' 
 
 Reckage gave him one white look, and left him. 
 
 ' He was to blame,' said Hercy, turning to Orange. 
 * I swear he was to blame. He doesn't understand, 
 and he won't understand. He is most unfair to that
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 489 
 
 poor little woman. She is a spoilt child — that's all. 
 One cannot take her seriously. I know that her 
 manners are bad. But her mother died when she was 
 born, and she has knocked about a good deal in rather 
 shady society. Mandeville is very fond of her, but 
 he is engrossed in his Music. That is why I go out 
 of my way to be kind to her. Can't I try to make 
 someone's life a little bit brighter and happier without 
 being . . . hounded off the earth ? ' 
 
 He nearly wept, but with an effort he controlled 
 himself. 
 
 ' Besides,' said he, ' these people have got perceptions. 
 They see what I mean even when it isn't all put 
 exactly on the canvas. They know what I want to 
 do. They treat me as though I were an artist. 
 And I am an artist. My soul is an artist's 
 soul.' 
 
 ' I am sure of that, Hercy.' 
 
 ' Then why don't Beauclerk see it ? I am unable 
 to exist without sympathy. And I love Art, I Kve 
 for Art. I get tired of our uninteresting, arid, de- 
 partmental set. They are only human when they 
 want something material which they cannot have — 
 a vacant Garter, good husbands for the poor girls, 
 or some such damnation nonsense. Then they can 
 show vitality enough for all Billingsgate. I despise 
 them. I reject them. Let them call me the 
 Philippe Egalite of the family. I don't care. They 
 never understood me. I am sick of sitting on Gallery
 
 490 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 stools copying " old masters." I want to think of 
 beautiful things. I want to get a little of la joie 
 de vivre^ 
 
 ' Her-cee ! ' called Flamma from the window. 
 ' Her-cee, when you come back fetch me my cloak 
 from the hall. I am ver-ee cold. And Philip ees 
 as-leep. He ees tired of waiting.' 
 
 * I must go,' he said, hurriedly. ' I must not forget 
 my other guests. Good-bye, Robert.' 
 
 He shook Robert's hand, and limped back painfully 
 toward the narrow hall where the pastilles were still 
 burning. Onccohe glanced over his shoulder at his 
 old friend. 
 
 ' Art,' said he, with trembling lips, ' Art is every- 
 thing . . . really.' 
 
 And he went in. And the door closed. And 
 Flamma's dreadful laugh — like a jackal's — came out 
 throuo-h the Studio window. 
 
 Orange, on gaining the road, found Reckage 
 waiting for him. 
 
 * Before God, Bob,' said he, passionately, ' I can't 
 feel that I am in the wrong. It is too bitter. Here 
 am I, half-killing myself if the truth were known, in 
 order to do my duty, and all that. As for youth, ain't 
 I young ? ain't I Hercy's own age ? couldn't I talk 
 this nauseating slip-slop about la joie de vivre, and 
 souls ? couldn't I go about amusing myself with low 
 standard ruffians, who put no strain upon you in the 
 way of keeping you up to the right pitch ? don't I get
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 491 
 
 tired sometimes of being with thoroughly nice people ? 
 It's so easy and comfortable to let yourself drop, and 
 be declasse. It's merely rolling down a soft hill into 
 a dung-heap. And shall I see Hercy go, and never 
 put a finger out to stop him ? Perhaps I haven't got 
 a tactful way of setting to work, but tact or no tact, 
 I will do my duty, please God. I shall go home — 
 after this Committee Meeting, and write Hercy a 
 letter that will make him sit up. Even Mandeville 
 and his wife have a contempt for him. I saw it. My 
 brother ! He is an awful young fool, but he is an 
 angel in comparison with those sodden impostors. It 
 is too bitter 1 ' 
 
 Robert, still under the horror of Hercy's final dis- 
 appearance, could think of nothing except a butterfly 
 which he had once seen flying, like a heart's-ease on 
 the wing, into a cage of two famishing toads. But 
 Hercy, after all, was not a butterfly. He was a man 
 with a soul, and an eternal destiny. 
 
 ' And then those pictures,' said Reckage, ' those 
 perfectly dreadful pictures ! I can say one thing for 
 'em — they may be bad, but, I swear, they ain't vulgar. 
 He paints like a gentleman.' 
 
 * He's a genius.' 
 
 ' Do you think so ? But we don't want any Byrons 
 in our family. They are no good. I have a feeling 
 now that Hercy will go out of my life for ever. This 
 is one of those rows that never come right. And 
 I am very fond of him I love Hercy. He is my
 
 492 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 own brother. I can't talk about it. He is done 
 for.' 
 
 ' Oh, well — as to that,' said Orange, ' surely God is 
 still stronger than a little woman with painted eyes.' 
 '- Oh, yes,' said Reckage. ' God ... but ... I am 
 his brother. He ought to have listened to me' Then, 
 with every muscle of his face in anguish, he said that 
 he must pull himself together for the Committee 
 Meeting. 
 
 ' And where are you going ? ' he asked Robert. 
 Robert blushed. 
 
 ' I know,' said Reckage, calling a cab, ' I always 
 forget ! You are going to walk miles just to take 
 one more look at that Convent.' 
 
 Forcing a smile, he sprang into the hansom and 
 
 drove away. He meditated on the selfishness of all 
 
 men in love, and recollected the headings of his Speech 
 
 to the Committee : — i. The necessity for concerted 
 
 action. 2. Suggestions for the founding of some 
 
 Theological Society (on the lines of the Royal Society) 
 
 for the discussion of matters of Faith, Doctrine, and 
 
 Discipline in the Established Church. Laymen — with 
 
 peculiar and admitted qualifications — to be permitted, 
 
 in certain circumstances, to take part in the same. 3. 
 
 A resolution to destroy, if possible, the objectionable 
 
 term High Church. 4, A resolution to speak on all 
 
 occasions of The Holy English Church Catholic — as 
 
 opposed to all other heresies in England, or out of it. 
 
 And when tears started to his eyes at the remem-
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 493 
 
 brance of Hercy, he took out his note-book and drew 
 a ground-plan for a proposed Theological Seminary to 
 be built — at Oxford, or at Cambridge, or at York, 
 or at Canterbury, or in London, or — up the river. 
 
 Robert, led by habit to his favourite walk, went, 
 at a swinging pace, toward the Convent. But the 
 undisguised despair of Hercy, and the subtler dis- 
 content of Lord Reckage, had driven every thought, 
 except anxiety for these friends, from his mind. At 
 every turning he seemed to see the Mandevilles. 
 Their faces — one, with its withered youth, the 
 other, with its silly imitation of De Musset — 
 pursued him in the air. And, fainter than these, 
 he saw the sweet countenance of Agnes Carillon, 
 and the mocking eyes (not especially fine, either) of 
 that dead, that unforgettable 'cousin Amy.' It is 
 always easy to say of another's misfortune, 'What 
 does it matter to me ? ' or, ' There must be these 
 sentimental — these emotional — crises. They form 
 the character. It is all for the best — God is Good ! ' 
 All these things are true in substance ; all these 
 things occur invariably to the wise spectator of 
 human fates. But more than wisdom — more than 
 the formal utterances of piety is sometimes required 
 of us, and, while a sleepless night for your neighbour's 
 woe may not assist him materially in his trouble, 
 we know that the Divine Economy permits nothing 
 to be wasted. Every unselfish thought sends a 
 lasting fragrance into the whole moral atmosphere
 
 494 
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 of the world. Orange was not the man to express 
 his sympathies by those marked outward signs and 
 injudicious words which add so often but a fresh 
 irritation to the unhappy. It was a sympathy that 
 worked within on his own spirit till he became — 
 no longer the witness, but the partaker of his 
 friend's sorrow. And so, when he reached the 
 Convent, he almost forgot his reasons for going 
 there. He was still with Hercy, struggling in 
 pastilles and squalor for the realisation of the 
 beautiful in theory. He was still with poor 
 Reckage, who was heroically willing to offer every- 
 thing to God, except his own family's idea of God. 
 To this he clung insanely, with the fatal persistence 
 of a man who has one genuine belief, and a number 
 of opinions. He believed in the noble family of 
 Almouth : he found it hard — even vulgar — to doubt 
 the existence of a Divine Providence. His very 
 desire to escape vulgarity, had, however, something 
 vulgar in its essence. He was religious, in the way 
 that he wished Hercy to paint, Mike a gentleman.' 
 Robert — while he winced a little — understood and 
 appreciated this particular taste. It made, at any- 
 rate, for chivalry. Conscious refinement may not be 
 wholly pleasing, but it is an incomparably better thing 
 than grossness, whether conscious or unconscious. 
 And then his lordship was young — not yet thirty. 
 
 'We must all get through a lot of whippings 
 yet 1 ' thought Robert.
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 4.95 
 
 There stood the Convent, solemn and invincible, 
 with the glory of the evening sky colouring its 
 windov/s, and its austere w^alls glistening, as if w^ith 
 amethysts and copper, in the sunset. It vi'as the 
 hour for the Rosary and Benediction, and, as 
 Orange passed, the organ notes came sobbing 
 through the air. He could hear the nuns' pure, al- 
 most unearthly voices singing the beautiful Litany 
 of Loreto : — 
 
 Rosa Mystica^ 
 Turris Davidica, 
 Turris Eburnea^ 
 
 Ora pro nobis. 
 
 And again, — 
 
 Salus infirjnorum^ 
 Refugium peccatoriun^ 
 Comolatrix afflict or um. 
 
 Ora pro nobis. 
 
 He M^aited, listening till the end, pressing his 
 Crucifix a little closer, yet almost refusing the sudden 
 happiness of his mood, the unexpected miraculous 
 Hfting-up of his heart. He feared to be selfish, and 
 hastened on to Wight House, hoping a little that 
 Hercy might come in the evening, if only to weigh 
 arguments against his brother's conduct. 
 
 He found Lady Fitz Rewes sipping tea and eating 
 bicad-and-butter in the Library. She had her little feet
 
 A0j6 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 on the fender : her gloves and umbrella were on the 
 ground by the side of her chair. Her veil, or Fall, w^as 
 lifted severely just to her eyebrows — showing her face, 
 which was pale, rather sharpened, yet as charming as 
 ever. The curls, however, were twisted up out of 
 sight in her chignon, and she was dressed in a dark 
 stuff gown, a dark shawl, and her gloomiest velvet 
 bonnet. 
 
 'I find,' said she, as Robert entered, 'that I have 
 missed Uncle. But I was determined to see you. 
 Let me give you some tea. I came all the way from 
 Catesby. I brought my maid and my box. I was 
 going on to Slatrach. I was, indeed. I feel that 
 I have been treated very shabbily. I have always 
 been told quil ny a rien de si volage as a French- 
 woman. I can believe it. I am really angry. Last 
 night I was frantic' 
 
 ' I saw Brigit this morning and — ' 
 
 ' No doubt. I suppose she telegraphed to both of 
 us. But how madly she has acted ! Mudara seemed 
 a remarkably bad sort of person, yet surely she could 
 feel safe with me ? I cannot forgive it. She always 
 seemed so true, so feeling, so practical.' 
 
 'She was desperate. When I tell you all the 
 circumstances — ' 
 
 ' No circumstances can give me back my hours of 
 agony last night. What was I to think ? I was 
 filled with a kind of shuddering horror. I must know 
 where I am with people. Brigit is delightful and
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 497 
 
 dans le meilleur genre : I liked her earnest desire of 
 doing right. She has, too, that don dii del of never 
 being de trap. I didn't regard her in the least as a 
 foreigner. She was always so thoroughly well-bred — 
 quite English, in fact, in all her ways. And now, 
 this I 
 
 ' I think you ought to wait till you hear all the 
 facts of the story. I am responsible for the whole 
 thing. I — ' 
 
 ' And I have been so fond of her, and so kind 
 to her.' 
 
 ' An angel ! But if you will only listen, and be kind 
 a little longer. You remember your advice to me ? ' 
 
 *I have given you so much advice on so many 
 subjects, Robert,' 
 
 ' But your advice yesterday — about marriage.' 
 
 *Oh 1' 
 
 ' I have spoken to her.' 
 
 ' Not already ? ' 
 
 * Didn't you say that all the circumstances were 
 unusual ? ' 
 
 Although there was no fire, she stretched out her 
 hands over the fire-place. 
 
 ' I am so glad,' she said, at last. ' I am toothachy 
 and tired to-day. I can't appear so pleased as I feel. 
 Dear Robert, I am quite, quite delighted. It is the 
 best thing. But I wish, somehow, that I could 
 imagine you married. You always look le mains rnari 
 que possible. You have got an ecclesiastical, anti- 
 
 2 I
 
 498 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 domestic air. I suppose you love her very much. 
 Beauty is such a povi^er, isn't it ? ' 
 
 ' I am afraid it is.' 
 
 * Love, I feel sure, has but one cause, and that 
 cause is beauty. The proudest, the coldest, the 
 sternest, the saintliest men have to submit to its 
 influence.' 
 
 ' And w^hy not ? Are you still "heretic enough to 
 think that only the manifestations of the devil are 
 alluring ? Has God then made nothing fair ? Can 
 He show nothing attractive ? Is all the loveliness, 
 and joy, and ecstasy in Babylon, and all the ugliness, 
 and desolation, and pain m the kmgdom of God ? * 
 
 ' Oh, no ; I never meant that. Don't w^e know that 
 Job, after his trial, was blessed by the Lord, and was 
 given, besides seven sons and an enormous amount of 
 cattle, three daughters ? " And in all the land," we 
 are told, " were no women found so fair as the 
 daughters of Job." In some creatures, therefore, 
 beauty is clearly meant to be a blessing. Brigit is a 
 fortunate girl. Because I believe, too, you are the 
 sort of man who would perhaps love a woman, in the 
 first place, for her appearance, and afterwards, when it 
 had gone, on principle ! Lionel was the same. I 
 hope my boy will grow up like him. He is such a 
 darling at present, and writes the cleverest essays, full 
 of Latin quotations. Isn't it nice for me ^ And so 
 wonderful of his governess.' 
 
 'Astonishing.'
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 499 
 
 ' You look as though you wished to ask me some- 
 thing.' 
 
 ' I want you to go and see Brigit.' 
 
 ' At the Convent ? How interesting ! But I 
 sha'n't go. I don't see why I should. I am very 
 cross with her. I am much too fond of her to for- 
 give her so easily.' 
 
 ■^ In that case, I won't urge you.' 
 
 *It would be dear to see her, too ! What is she 
 going to be married in ? ' 
 
 '■ Give her your advice.' 
 
 ' She wouldn't take it. Wait till you know her ! 
 An angel, but a mule. Yet I shall miss her horribly. 
 Who can fill up her place ? ' 
 
 ' Do go and see her.' 
 
 She stood up, pulled down her veil, and waited for 
 Robert to kneel down for her gloves. 
 
 ' I know how it will be,' she said, taking them. 
 ' You will both be very happy, and speak of me to 
 each other as " that dear tiresome creature." And I 
 shall be expected to adore your children. And I am 
 such a fool that I shall do it. And each time I meet 
 you, I shall have to say, " Brigit grows lovelier every 
 year." And I am such a silly, that I shall say it, and 
 think it, too. Of course, she is quite too lovely. 
 What hair ! what eyes ! what a figure ! Never 
 mind. Lionel admired me. God bless you, dear 
 Robert. You are always the same. One pours out 
 one's soul to you, and one tells you everything, and,
 
 Soo THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 afterwards, one remembers that you have told, on your 
 part, nothing ! Lord Reckage and Berenville have 
 mentioned that peculiarity again and again. Before I 
 go, I have a little news for you.' 
 
 ' I long to hear it.' 
 
 ' Framlingham has asked me to marry him.' 
 
 ' What impudence ! ' 
 
 ' Poor old Fram ! Brigit says that he simpers like 
 a cupid on a wedding-cake. I think he would be 
 kind.' 
 
 * You can't marry him unless you love him.' 
 
 * There you are — a Turk, like the rest. Oh, so 
 selfish ! ' 
 
 ' But, I ask you, could you, calling him " poor old 
 Fram," marry him ? ' 
 
 ' How do I know ? I get very lonely. Everyone 
 quotes the Queen. They say, " Look at the dear 
 Queen. What a pattern ! " But she is older than I 
 am. Her children are grown up.' 
 
 ' You mustn't marry Framlingham. It would be a 
 crime.' 
 
 ' A crime, Mr Jealous ? ' 
 
 ' You are much happier as you are.' 
 
 * Yes, admiring you and Brigit. What greater 
 joy could I ask in life ? Don't get red. It is not 
 my fault that I understand men. Even Fitz Rewes, 
 who was the very image of King Arthur and the 
 Prince Consort, loved three other women — besides 
 me, pretty well. He was furious when thev married
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 501 
 
 — which they very sensibly did. And he was god- 
 father all round — which he hated. But he managed 
 to look like an archangel when he stood at the Font. 
 He had such control of his expression. Dear Robert, 
 I sha'n't marry poor Fram. Don't worry about it. 
 I hate his old barrack of a place in Shropshire. And 
 I do so dislike the back of his head. It is maddening. 
 And now put me in a four-wheeler. And choose the 
 cabman carefully — some nice, steady old thing, with 
 a happy-looking horse. You are looking very hand- 
 some, dear, but not so free from cares as I could wish. 
 I shall be rather stiff with Brigit at first, because I am 
 really cross. Good-bye. God bless you ! ' 
 
 These were her last words as she stepped into the 
 cab. Her eyes, under the Fall, were extraordinarily 
 bright. In driving away, she waved her hand from the 
 window with the childish grace which characterised 
 all her movements. Robert watched her out of sight, 
 knowing well, that when the vehicle reached the 
 corner, she would look forth again. 
 
 ' Dear little soul ! ' he was thinking. 
 
 Perhaps it was a little soul, but the smallest birds 
 may rise — though imperceptibly — to heights past 
 human vision, to the stars.
 
 CHAPTER XXIX 
 
 The year 1869, which had proved an eventful one 
 for Orange, was fast drawing to its close. He 
 was at that crisis in his life when young men, who 
 are in earnest, seem a little unsociable in com- 
 parison with those genial, easy-going persons who 
 manage, nevertheless, to disappoint their friends when 
 life at last has to be lived rather than agreeably 
 criticised. Few things are more pathetic than the 
 middle-age of one who, in his youth, has enjoyed, 
 by universal consent, a brilliant future. The actual 
 Future comes. It gives the lie to post-prandial 
 prophets, and ' universal consent,' always accommo- 
 dating, tells reminiscences of its poor dupe's brilliant 
 Past^ and wonders why so charming a fellow made 
 so little of his opportunities. Orange, for his salva- 
 tion, was never what is called a popular man. His 
 few very intimate friends loved him devotedly, yet 
 always listened, with peculiar secret pleasure, to his 
 detractors. He was, they would admit, rather 
 annoying at times, a trifle over-bearing perhaps, 
 and lamentably dogmatic. He was generous to a 
 fault, a man without malice, forgiving injuries to 
 
 502
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 503 
 
 the point of insensibility, but, on matters of religious 
 faith, or literature, as great a despot as Sir Thomas 
 More — a man that would burn you and be be- 
 headed himself sooner then yield an inch. Robert — 
 ' dear old Robert ' — was never ' one of themselves.' 
 He stood with them, yet apart — a perplexing per- 
 sonality. Disraeli understood him, but the great 
 difference in their respective ages and importance 
 in the world, rendered any close companionship 
 between the two impossible. Orange was therefore 
 a solitary figure, and, but for Brigit, and Lady Fitz 
 Rewes, he would have been, during his early man- 
 hood, certainly, a most unhappy one. 
 
 The night, after Pensee's visit to Wight House, we 
 find him writing thus to Brigit : — 
 
 I am going to compose a little book about you, dearest. 
 I have called it, ' To KalUste in Exile.' This is its motto : — 
 
 Giu per lo mondo icnza fine amaro, 
 e per lo monte, del cut bel cacume 
 gli occh'i dtlla mia Dcnna mi le-varo ; 
 e poscia per lo del, di lume in lume. 
 ho 10 appreso quel eke, s'io ridico, 
 a moltifia sa-vor di forte agrtime ; 
 e s'io al vera son timido amico, 
 temo di perder -vita tra colcro 
 che questo tempo chiameranno antico. 
 
 Down through the world of infinite bitterness. 
 
 And o'er the mountain, from whose beauteous summit 
 
 The eyes of my own Lady lifted me 5 
 
 And afterwards through heaven, from light to light. 
 
 I have learned that which, if I tell again. 
 
 Will be a savour of strong herbs to many ; 
 
 And if I be a timid friend to truth, 
 
 I fear lest I may lose my life with those 
 
 Who will hereafter call this time the olden. 
 
 Dante, Par. xvii. 112. Longfellow's translation.
 
 504 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 The book will not please me, but you will understand 
 it, and that will be everything. You will have seen 
 Pens^e when you receive this. Your letter — describing 
 her, the meeting, the conversation ! Can I wait for the 
 post? Yet what a pure life it is — it is like the finest 
 string on some celestial harp. It can utter just one — very 
 delicate, very sweet — all but inaudible note. Yet without 
 it, all the music of one's life would suffer. What she 
 says never matters. I hold out my hand and expect her, 
 bird-like, to perch there. Make what you can, dear heart, 
 of these mixed metaphors, I would take out the last, 
 but, as it is true, I must leave it. I am interrupted. A 
 caller. ... 
 
 The caller was Baron Zeuill. He came himself in 
 reply to my letter. Zeuill, though of good abilities, 
 is of so tortuous a nature, that it is no easy matter to 
 deal with him. He professed the greatest pleasure at 
 our news : he repudiated, without a word from me, 
 Mudara's insolence: he advised, in the strongest terms, 
 our early marriage. So far as I am concerned, I have 
 acted for what I thought the best, and after the con- 
 sideration of more than three days. But I confess that 
 I am not wholly satisfied with Zeuill's manner. He is 
 well-meaning, and, at the same time, insincere — also, 
 disturbed in mind. He would open his mouth, seem 
 about to speak, and then check himself. This was 
 the rule during our interview. When he did say 
 anything, it was always the third or fourth thought, 
 never the first. He dwelt at some length on political 
 matters, and expressed a hope that you would never 
 mix in them. 
 
 'I don't care how clever a woman may be,' said he, 'so 
 long as she keeps her knowledge to herself. The emo- 
 tional sex can excite enthusiasm, but they cannot control 
 it. The good ones are satisfied with nothing short of 
 martyrdom, and the bad ones will give you no rest till 
 you become an assassin.' 
 
 This was, in its way, true enough. He called Castrillon 
 'a vacant aristocrat,' and returning again to the subject of 
 Mudara, he observed, —
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 505 
 
 ' The personal character of that man is not such as I 
 should willingly choose for an associate in any delicate 
 matter. He is an apostate priest. I make no secret of 
 my disapproval of the Roman and Greek Churches, yet I 
 never like any one the better for leaving them — unless 
 the Greek becomes a Roman.' 
 
 At this point, he asked me, with a strange glance, 
 whether I had ever wished to take Holy Orders. 
 
 'The thought has often been in my mind,' I answered, 
 ' but it has never yet seemed a distinct vocation. That is 
 why I am a layman.' 
 
 'Surely,' said he, 'you are too philosophic to leave 
 the solid pleasures of this abused world, and exchange 
 manly cares for visionary burdens, responsibilities for the 
 scourge, healthy sorrows for hysterical woes, and genuine 
 happiness for the enervating imaginations of a starving 
 stomach packed in a hair-shirt ! ' 
 
 ' If the Church taught philosophy only, the Catholic 
 Faith would not be a religion,' said I ; ' but have you 
 ever tried asceticism ? ' 
 
 ' As one man to another,' said he, ' no, I have not. 
 What makes you think so ? ' 
 
 ' I did not think so,' I replied ; ' your description of 
 the life forbade the supposition. But devote — say a week 
 — to the rule of the Jesuits or the Carmelites or the 
 Dominicans, one week only, I ask for no more, and then 
 you may be better fitted to form an opinion of the men 
 who give — not seven days — but all their years to such 
 discipline. Try it ! ' 
 
 'I have the highest regard, M. de Hausee,' said he, 
 'for the courage and endurance of these ascetics, yet, I 
 repeat, I have no patience with their theories of life. 
 Why should I make myself wretched when I am blessed 
 with health ? Why should I fast when I have an 
 excellent digestion ? Shall I correct the wisdom of 
 Providence, and put what is orderly into complete 
 disorder ? I speak neither as a Jew nor as a Pagan, 
 but as a critic' 
 
 'Wait !' said I, 'you go too quickly. Ascetics, in the 
 first place, do not make themselves wretched, nor arc they
 
 So6 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 wretched in the sense you mean. A man may choose to 
 abstain from many lawful things as a satisfaction for sins 
 — not necessarily all his own. They may include yours, 
 and mine, also ! Again : what is needed in the service 
 of God ? weak knees, weak backs, and sickly minds ? No. 
 the ascetic must learn endurance, fortitude and self-com- 
 mand. He has to bring his body not to destruction, but 
 into subjection. He must not lose his health, but perfect 
 it. Finally, he must be as unknown, yet well-known, as 
 sorrowful, yet always rejoicing, as needy, yet making many 
 rich, as having nothing, and possessing all things. This 
 is not precisely the state of mind you just described, and, 
 you will admit that St Paul knew more about such matters 
 than either of us ! ' 
 
 'Well, perhaps I spoke a little widely! For all that, 
 however, what earthly lovers have suffered such misery as 
 the saints ? God, in all the prayers and colloquies of his 
 elect, seems more capricious than any human being — now 
 kind, now unkind, now with His disciples, now hiding 
 the light of His countenance from them, now showering 
 graces, and now drenching them in the waters of affliction. 
 The Sorrows of Wertker are nothing in comparison with 
 the woes of Thomas a Kempis ! ' 
 
 ' When it has been proved,' said I, ' that we have the 
 right to expect incessant happiness in any state on this 
 earth, men may justly wonder why the virtuous have ever 
 uttered a single lament. But, since a certain amount of 
 suffering and impatience is, with other things, our in- 
 evitable portion, I would rather complain of the occasional 
 silence of Almighty God than bemoan the capers of some 
 little minx ! ' (Ah, ma bieii aimee ! But you are not a 
 little minx.) 
 
 'The occasional silence of God,' said Zeuill, smiling. 
 ' Have you ever heard Him, even out of the whirlwind ? ' 
 
 ' Often, and out of everything.' 
 
 'To /^f God in everything — but principally in one's self 
 — is what your English writers call the Higher Pantheism! 
 That view is a harmless vanity. But to hear Him in every- 
 thing is but the first step to blind obedience. Humility of 
 that kind is not harmless. It is a great danger.'
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 507 
 
 ' A great force, no doubt, whereas vanity is a sort of 
 ocean without water — a huge emptiness.' 
 
 'Make my compliments to Madame,' said he, 'and tell 
 her that she had better marry you at once, or Holy Church 
 will call you, and then — Adieu, ma mie ! How jealous is 
 religion, and how cruel ! ' 
 
 ' Once more,' said I, ' I must disagree with you. 
 Religion is the one thing which can keep men and 
 women constant to their ideals, and therefore constant in 
 their human aiFections. All our finest ideas of romantic 
 chivalry are Roman Catholic. The Church which you 
 have called both " cruel and jealous " has taught us 
 that Marriage is a sacrament. She has ever laboured 
 to inspire men with a reverence for women. Do we 
 not call Holy Church herself, our Mother ? Is not 
 the Blessed Virgin our gracious advocate, vita, dulcedo, 
 et spes nostra ? No true Catholic husband or wife could 
 ever fear the "influence" of Catholicism. The fears 
 would be for the influences of all the putrid philosophy 
 outside it.' 
 
 One would have thought that he had never heard of 
 these things before. But he over-acted his ignorance. I 
 am sure that there was some hidden motive in every word 
 he uttered. This is why I repeat the conversation to you, 
 I did not try to change the topic. I made my remarks 
 with perfect freedom, without taking much trouble to 
 choose the terms most pleasing to heretic ears. It was 
 not a case of ' milk for babes,' but a time to meet in- 
 telligent impudence with the elementary truths of the 
 penny Catechism. In regard to discussing such matters 
 with 'critics' of Zeuill's calibre, I have invariably set 
 my face against it, and have never consented to it, or done 
 it, even for half-an-hour, in an^ instance. All that these 
 people care about, as a rule, is the display of their own 
 wit, and how to carry on the war against the Faith and 
 the Holy See. They never attend to an answer with an 
 intention to weigh it, or sufficiently to understand it, be 
 it never so reasonable. But there is indeed, no need to 
 convince them, for, like evil spirits, they know too well 
 that they are at enmity with truth. I could not forget,
 
 5o8 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 however, that I was under heavy obligations to the Baron. 
 I have a real regard for him, and, in the total absence of 
 any proofs against his sincerity, I must show the gratitude 
 I honestly feel for the kindness he has certainly shown to 
 both of us. 
 
 'I am acquainted with a number of Catholics,' he 
 said, abruptly, ' but I confess you seem to have a touch of 
 the real ecclesiastic. It is, no doubt, to some degree 
 inherited.' (I had of course told him all I knew about 
 my father's marriage.) ' Yet heredity does not explain all 
 of this.* 
 
 'Do we not all live always in a triple atmosphere — 
 the atmosphere of God, the atmosphere of Nature, and 
 the atmosphere of humanity ? Some natures may feel 
 any one of these three influences in a predominant 
 degree, and so we get what are called differences in 
 temperament. One man breathes in humanity first, 
 and God last. A second will put Nature last. A 
 third will put Nature first. A fourth will aspire to 
 God before all things, and all creatures. But the three 
 atmospheres are ever with us, and make, in reality, 
 one atmosphere. You may toil through many volumes 
 of Metaphysic, and you will learn no higher truth 
 than that.' 
 
 'True. It is the Ego, Cosmos, and the Absolute,' 
 said he. 'These Germans are merely dishing up the 
 Fathers of the Church ! No sublime thing comes from 
 the North, or from the Teutons. You get your God, 
 your Scriptures, your inspiration, your poetry, your vital 
 ideas from the East.' 
 
 His whole face became transfigured. It was, for the 
 moment, really superb with an heroic contempt for the bar- 
 barians of Europe. But the mood soon passed, and, without 
 a further word on the subject of religion, he began to talk 
 about the final arrangements for our marriage. Wednesday 
 next ? He referred to your fortune. I am selfish enough 
 to feel sorry — deeply sorry — that you have one. I could 
 not discuss the point at all. It was a great surprise. Let 
 me forget it. . . . Yet why didn't you tell me, dearest ? I 
 remember now your asking me whether I disliked rich
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 509 
 
 women on principle, or from tyranny ? How could I have 
 guessed what you meant ? I said, 'I dislike all rich people, 
 because I am poor and I want to build Cathedrals ! ' I 
 won't reproach you till I see you. And when I see you, I 
 sha'n't be able to reproach you. . . . Would you believe it ? 
 I am wondering at present how much Cathedrals cost ? And 
 it is your fortune ! If one could get some land in West- 
 minster. . . . Pray for it. . . . 
 
 As you wish me to go to Slatrach, I shall do so, but for 
 one day only, and after I have made everything right for 
 Wednesday next. Prince Leitneritz may have some highly 
 important news. 
 
 In due course, the Special Licence was applied for, 
 and obtained. If Zeuill felt the least misgiving over 
 the matter, he did not betray it. We read, in 
 Mudara's confession, that the Baron took great 
 pleasure in the thought that he was making ' two 
 charming Christians innocently happy.' One thing, 
 however, must, in common justice, be remembered. 
 We have to rely on Mudara only for our knowledge 
 of the miserable intrigue. It is Mudara who insists on 
 Zeuill's original responsibility for the overtures to 
 Parflete. It is Mudara who paints himself as over- 
 persuaded, in the first instance, to such 'extreme 
 measures.' There is a possibility that Zeuill was, 
 after all, technically innocent. That is to say, he 
 may have believed that Parflete had probably com- 
 mitted suicide. He may have expected some fraud, 
 without precisely entertaining the unwelcome idea. 
 We do know, beyond any doubt, that Zeuill was 
 held in general respect as a man of his word : we
 
 5IO THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 also know, beyond any doubt, that Mudara was 
 a liar. The whole facts of the case will probably 
 never come to light, but most of us may prefer to 
 feel that the fewer scoundrels in the story, the 
 better. The wedding day was fixed for October 
 the 17th. 
 
 We find Robert writing to Brigit from Slatrach 
 Castle on October 12th : — 
 
 This ruin stands on a peak above one of the many 
 small bays of the Island of Gylen. It is protected by a 
 natural battlement formed by the steep irregular cliffs, 
 which, crowned with verdure on the level, present a bleak 
 and adamant resistance to the water, or, at low tide, a 
 perilous ascent to anyone who might attempt to scale 
 them. The surrounding land is broken up into deep 
 ravines and gorges, green valleys and steep hills a little 
 higher than the Castle. Larch, fir, and spruce are to be 
 found toward the centre of the Isle, but all along the 
 coast it is either marsh land where the rushes grow, or 
 wide fields of clover where the scream of the gull and the 
 cry of the corn-crake mingle with the incessant moaning of 
 the sea breaking itself upon the granite crags. On the 
 night of my arrival here, the old ruin was decked in all 
 the splendour of the sunset : lights were burning in 
 every window of the shooting-lodge : Glencorbie and 
 the 'household,' consisting of the cook's three sons, 
 great giants with copper cheek-bones, were waiting to 
 receive me. 
 
 All the foreign visitors are here, and Wight is in the 
 midst of them talking Latin in four languages ! Of all 
 the party, I like best Don Pedro's Chaplain (a learned 
 Dominican), and Prince Czestochowa of Poland. This 
 young man's grandfather was taken as a hostage by the 
 Empress Catherine of Russia. He was treated with great 
 distinction at the Russian Court, and became the intimate 
 companion of the young Grand-Duke Alexander, after-
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 511 
 
 wards the Emperor Alexander I. He was given, in time, 
 an important post in the Government, but no considera- 
 tion could induce him to forget the wrongs of Poland, his 
 own country. The present Prince is an intense patriot, 
 consumed with sympathy for Don Carlos, and well able to 
 fight for him. Prince Leitneritz is prepared to beggar him- 
 self for the same cause. In fact, they are all enthusiasts, 
 and they are all determined to stand for God, and the 
 rights of the most Catholic nation in Europe. Such fine 
 fellows are not easily crushed — even by Prims and Bis- 
 marcks. But they see great troubles ahead. Prim, they 
 say, is plotting with Bismarck in one direction, and with 
 the Emperor of the French in another. Prim sees that 
 Spain can never be a Republic. He fears the Bourbons, 
 but he would be willing to offer the Crown to Mont- 
 pensier. The Emperor, however, will not have an Orleans 
 on the Spanish throne, ' Spain,' says Prim, with his tongue 
 in his cheek, 'cannot permit her election of a Monarch to 
 become an international question.' He ignores England. 
 It was the unnecessary fear of England that interfered 
 with the marriage of Queen Isabella and Montpensier. 
 So Prim consults with Bismarck. A Prussian shall 
 occupy the throne of Charles V. The crown shall be 
 offered to Prince Leopold of Hohenzollern.* I leave you to 
 imagine the indignation, the resentment of the Legitimists. 
 I am thinking of the many thousand lives that must be 
 sacrificed before this outrage can be wiped out. Wight 
 has aged about twenty years since the news. Political 
 troubles press upon him more heavily than personal griefs 
 weigh 'n the majority of men. He has that prophetic 
 soul rarely found in Saxons, who too often mistake a brutal 
 callousness for vigour of spirit. , . . Dearest, it does not 
 
 * The reader will remember that, as a matter of fact, it was the 
 eventual nomination of this Prince which led to the Franco-Prussian 
 war in 1870, and, indirectly, to the loss of the Temporal power of 
 the Pope. During the war, the French troops were withdrawn from 
 Rome, and, in the absence of this protection, Victor Emmanuel 
 annexed the Pontifical Slates and its dependencies to the Constitu- 
 tional Monarchy of Italy. This meant no less than 'the unlawful 
 dispossession of an ancient and legitimate Government held for one 
 thousand years.'
 
 512 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 seem the moment to speak of our own happiness. The 
 Prince of the powers of darkness is surely gathering his 
 forces together, and the cruellest struggle this world has 
 yet seen is still to come. Still, " who overcomes by force, 
 hath overcome but half his foe." I never doubt the 
 ultimate triumph of justice. Spain is indeed distressed, 
 and yet I see in England a prosperity more dangerous. 
 Trouble makes friends : insolence makes enemies. And 
 what a noisy, barbaric sham insolence it is ! The men 
 who struggle for the public good die — either in battle or 
 from over-work, while the sharks, adventurers, and drones 
 share in the results of victory without having to pay for it, 
 either in blood or by labour. Don Pedro asked poor Wight 
 whether he saw all the English newspapers. ' No,' said 
 he, ' Gibbon's Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire gives 
 the safer information ! The daily papers are written to 
 keep the public misinformed on every point. I merely 
 read them now and again in order to learn the current 
 Lie !' ... It is vain to hope that the British Government 
 will take an active interest in all these troubles. England 
 associates Spain with the wrecked Armada, and France with 
 the downfall of Napoleon — who was not French ! We 
 have not had a statesman since Bolingbroke who understood 
 either of these great nations. And Bolingbroke ? What 
 was he at his best ? A mind attached to a flunky. I long 
 to see you. It is four o clock in the morning, very cold, 
 and the sea seems to be crawling over the land in search 
 of prey. At five I leave for London. . . . Oh, dear and 
 beautiful, heart of my life, are you mine ? . , . 
 
 Robert was married to Mrs Parflete on October 
 17th, 1869. The marriage, as the reader knows, was 
 not legal, for, while it was believed that the lady was 
 a widow, Parflete was still living. Infinite sorrow 
 came, in after years, from that hasty step. But in 
 1869, Brigit was seventeen and Robert just eight- 
 and-twenty. Haste, in those days, seemed slowness.
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 513 
 
 Lady Fi'cz Rcwes and Lord Reckage were present at 
 the fatal ceremony, 
 
 '■Everyone^ wrote Pensee to her uncle, *was joyous. 
 The bride was a vision of loveliness. She is so tall and 
 white and angelic. Robert was dreadfully pale, but en- 
 tranced. I cried bitterly. It was so touching, and diiFerent 
 from all other things of the kind one has ever seen. It 
 would have made a picture. But no paint could express 
 Brigit's whiteness and golden-ness. You think of a lily 
 in the sun, and then — that isn't it. God bless them 
 both.' 
 
 Lord Wight read this as he sat on the clifF at 
 Slatrach looking out at the sea. Don Pedro's 
 Chaplain, the old learned Dominican, stood by 
 him. 
 
 ' And where has De Hausee taken his bride ? ' 
 asked the old priest. 
 
 'To the Villa Miraflores,' answered the old 
 bachelor. 
 
 ' Where is that r ' 
 
 ' It is near an ancient fortress, on a great rock on 
 the Northern coast of France.' 
 
 'Well,' said the Dominican, 'we have rocks and 
 the sea here.' 
 
 ' Oh, yes,' answered Lord Wight, ' we have rocks 
 and the sea — ' 
 
 'And the sky,' added the priest, 'and Almighty 
 God.' 
 
 He looked up as he spoke to the heavens, where 
 the sun was not silent. 
 
 2 K
 
 514 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 
 
 'True. But,' said Lord Wight, looking with a 
 sigh at the grim ruins of Slatrach, 'we have 
 not the Villa Miraflores.' . . . 
 
 ' Well,' said the old priest, serenely : ' they are as 
 happy as we are, mon fih ! For there, too, at Mira- 
 flores, is Almighty God I '
 
 AUTHOR'S NOTE 
 
 The story of Orange's married life, of his literary 
 and political life in 1870-1880, of his friendship with 
 Disraeli, and of his career in the Church will be told 
 in a subsequent volume.
 
 Colston <5r» Coy. L hniied, Printers, Edinburgh.
 
 DATE DUE 
 
 JAN 4 
 
 1972 
 
 
 
 
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