355 IC-NRLF i GIFT O ^55 S*~\ l The School For Saints JOHN OLIVER HOBBES AUTHOR OF "SOME EMOTIONS AND A MORAL" "THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS" is the book which first revealed to the world Mrs Craigie's full powers, and placed her in the very front rank of women novelists, unique alike in her knowledge of the world, her cosmopolitanism, her resplendent wit, her inbred distinction. No other writer could have treated as she has the character of Disraeli, or reproduced so brilliantly the social atmosphere of his day ; nor is the romantic element in the novel inferior to the political and historical, for the love of Robert and Brigit is told with an exquisite tender- ness, subtlety, and refinement, and with the profoundest insight into character. LONDON: T. FISHER UNWIN PRICE SIXPENCE ESTABLISHED 1861. 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[All Rights Rtsewed.\ 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 build- ing 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 d? Arthur, it seemed insipid. He would steal away to a de- solate lower chamber where the dim drama on the fading tapestries passed into his o^n experience and seemed his real Hie : 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 313667 common with his blessing friends. This sense of alienation from those he wished to love produced a melancholy as pro- found as it was inevitable. On the morning after the festival, he went al- though 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. An 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. 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 uncleanliness festered into disease ; the parched malodorous 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 3 TffE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 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 per- haps all true ! For, not more than .two centuries ago, at low tide an old man had seen the 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 mingled 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 sing- ing 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 tJte pleasantest abode i?i all that land, I'M a wood by the side of a mountain, sur- rounded with orchards and gardens that abounded with fruits and flowers. Fountains were there in the courts canopied with trees, that all the year round bore flower and fruit? (Amadis of Gaul) 1 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.' 1 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 to begin another flounce like that. Oh, it was so beautiful ! ' She closed her eyes, but unrestrain- able, 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 Miraflores. Who was this singer THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS who sang no more ? What was her name? On the sand beneath him a young fisherman whom he knew sat cleaning a boat. l l 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 Miraflores in a storm or in the winter was impossible : it were easier to believe that it might fade away and dis- appear like some enchanter's tower, or melt like the radiant clouds which some- times 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 flattering 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 faith- less 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 fir /t 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-ending present, too bright-ethereal to need the radiance of hope, or to be darkened by the fore- bodings 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 heart. He looked at the vision and said to himself, * It is an apparition ! It will pass ! ' The woman spoke first. ' Why did you come ? ' 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 ? ' ' My name is Robert.' 1 Robert what ? ' 1 Orange.' ' Are we compatriots ? ' ' In the city of God yes/ IO THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 1 Where is that ? ' * The city of God is the world as God sees it ! ' said Robert. She looked at him with deep amaze- ment. ' 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. 1 Lord ! ' 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?' '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.' f Does that matter ? ' said the boy. ' I want to know your name ? ' ' My name is ' 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 feet. Picking it up, he read the following, ' Henriette Marie-Joseph Duboc known professionally as Madame Duboc.' 1 But why Madame ? ' 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 ambi- tion. 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!' ' May I kiss your hand both your hands?' ' No.' She held them down. THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 1 1 'I shall come to-morrow and to- morrow and to-morrow ! ' * No,' she said, ' no. You must not. I am not free.' 1 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 irrespon- sibly accepting it as a due. But to the woman it was a promise a blessing dependent on certain condi- tions. ' 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.' ' 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 Henriette. 'True. Why should an immortal soul be impatient ? 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. 1 Why ? ' asked Henriette. ' 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 infinke 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 ? What to him were reveries at evening or the murmuring serenades of the summer sea? Had he not been alone and solitary companionless, misunderstanding 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 unforget- table 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 stair-case. 'I have put your supper by your bedside,' said she ; ' but if you want 12 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 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 ho crept noiselessly to bed, where, with a wild sob of supreme relief, of a gladness so great that it weighed 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. 1 Of course,' said Henriette, touching his face with her fingers suddenly, 'this cannot last.' ' Why remind me of that ?' he asked ; 1 you 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 ? ' 1 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. Pre- sently he explained the simple scheme of their perfect future. He wound up by saying, ' What do you think ? ' * 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, rny 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. ' No, no ! ' said Henriette, ' I cannot send you away ! I cannot spare you ! 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 summer, 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. THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 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 ; the leaves were pale. '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? 1 What is that ? ' asked Robert. ' Mon DieuT said the old woman, 1 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 suffering 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, forgive her. Why had she been so false ? He would cast him- self 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 made to be kissed !) for ever ! Then he thought that was perhaps too weak a part to play. He would seek her out, accuse her of her perfidy, and slay her swiftly before she could woo him into coward- ice. 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 intelli- gence was too pure in quality to confound even this first overwhelming and apparently inexplicable disappoint- ment 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 s< but he never doubted that thr trial was a discipline, and a necessary one. He felt, too, that he had deliberately sought an adventure by rowing to the villa of Miraflores. Was God to blame because the adventure had ended unhappily ? Nay ; the example 14 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 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 was able to climb the stairs to his room unobserved and unquestioned. He opened 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 ? ' ' To see someone. 1 1 Who ? ' 'A friend.' ' Can you afford the journey ? ' * Yes, if I walk both ways.' ' What a mad idea ! ' ' I must go.' ' Who is the friend ? ' ' It is a friend who has deceived me. I cannot tell you more than that.' Madame Bertin shrugged her shoul- ders. ' 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, by 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 Alexandrine's. You will find some money in that drawer.' He went to the little cabinet to which she pointed, and s 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 your walk ? ' ' At once.' ' Good-bye again.' ' 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 understand. It is not your fault that you are young and ridiculous. Another kiss! Adieu, cher enfant!' So that was all ! The dreaded inter- view was over. What a sensible woman she was ! How well she under- stood men ! In less than an hour he found himself following the railway line THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS to Paris, flourishing a stick in his hand, and barely conscious of the light knap- sack 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 there- fore 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, heard a thrilling voice; he had loved both, he had been deceived. Yet how much older and wiser he felt than Jacques, whose back was curved like the sickle he had used too long ; or Lise, who washed clothes in a muddy stream while 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 remembered ; some- times 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 patrons ; the cafe's 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 over- whelm 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 heedless 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 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 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 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 flaming 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 1 When one is 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 immediately 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 disappointed in a sublime belief. For to imagine excellence 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 under- standings. 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 longing. How beautiful she was ! how false ! He bought his ticket and hurried through the foyer, where a crowd of more or less respectable orderly persons were eagerly 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 appropriate 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, i surely this is Fate ! Will they give the scene at Miraflores? But oh, what irony that anyone so faithless THE SCHOOL FOk SAINTS should play the part of the most faith- ful, 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 instru- ments, endeavour to suggest the nightingale's note 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 ! 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 un- natural 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 atti- tude of devotion, and swears an inarti- culate oath which every spectator can readily believe means vengeance. 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 care- fully gracious attitudes, the green light and the slow music, it is clear that they are the victims of some fell enchant- ment. The warrior enters. He endeavours 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 cob- web ; 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 gleaming 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 Amadis 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 tym 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. 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, * to a falsehood. I have brought you back your locket.' A THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS Henriette dropped her eyelids, and affected a reverie. - ' Which locket ? ' said she. * The one that means love and tears, madame,' he answered. He held it out. ' I don't want the thing,' she said ; 1 and don't be so cross. I hate cross children even when they are hand- some, 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 I know what honour means and what loyalty means. And you have neither.' * 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 Dieu I 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.' I But it is miles and miles.' I 1 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 of 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 sym- pathy, ' 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, daubed on more rouge, re-pencilled her eye- brows and pinned a false curl under her crown of false diamonds. ' How do I look ? ' she asked. 1 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 someone'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 ! ' The strains of the orchestra, which was now playing, floated in through the door, and that giddy sound of per- verted sensuality seemed to Henriette the emotion in her own soul. 1 What dreams ! ' 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 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. Henriette's face stained though it was by paint still retained something of that innocence, virginal THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 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 cater- wauling in the orchestra. It is abominable ! ' ' 1 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.' 1 What 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.' '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 Dieu ! 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 understands calf-love/ said she. His throat grew dry. 'I don't wish to be unkind/ con- tinued 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 should 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 self-possession? His handsome countenance had 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 ? All women wish to see affection perpetually burning a straight and brilliant flame; when it flickers, they suffer what must surely be the sharpest pang in purga- tory. 'Oh, Robert/ she murmured, de- vouring 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 Para- dise 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 sentiment. 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 surrounded by a train of 20 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS painted women, each with the same lace, the same smile, the same form, and all moving 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 intimately 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 preternatural quickness of comprehen- sion grasped at this knowledge, and that divinity within him which is could we but realise it in all mortals, drew back disdainful from the common- ness of the merely human drama the eternal duet of man the lover, and woman the beloved. 'At Mirafiores,' said he, 'we were like spirits in the sunlight. God was there. But here it is hellish suf- focating ! 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.' Robert bowed. ' I am going now,' said he. 1 And what will you do ? ' f 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 affec- tion. '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 believe, 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 morning 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 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 abb, 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 stair- case 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, THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 21 '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. He turned and left her. Henriette re-powdered her neck and arms. 1 Le pauvre &2fe garfvn,' said she, '// a du cceur et . . . zY est beau comme un petit amour ! ' * Mon Dieu* said her femme de chambre, handing her the carmine, 'is madamc 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 enor- mous wigs were dancing a breakdown. He went back mechanically 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 praying 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 revelation 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 considerations which corrupt. But the last words of his prayer startled him ; they came unpre- meditated 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 long- ing and a deep dread, he rose from his place and hastened from the audi- torium, wholly unable to restrain the tumult of sensations which now pos- sessed 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 indissoluble 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 presenti- ment with regard to Madame Duboc, and, while he felt unhappy, 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 swingin doors leading thereto were thrown open, and a small foppish man about two-and-forty, who walked as though he were stepping on to the *ccne in response to an enthusiastic r advanced toward him with every sign of astonishment. ' Parflctc ! ' said Robert, in a tone of dismay. ' Ccst bien lui! Robert, enfinl* said Parflete, with a d >;e smile, which was half conciliatory and half 3, 22 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS menace, ' depuis quand es-tu ta? Je sift's bien hcurcux de te voir /' 'I wonder that you have not for- gotten me!' answered the boy. Par- flete 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 every- where and was acquainted with every- one, because 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 hand- some 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 re- sponded to his interest, and he felt now that there was something ill-omened in this sudden encounter with a man 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 dis- tance from the string-band which was playing in the 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 everything that is extravagant and therefore striking, ephemeral and there- fore 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 1 They become the solemn incarnation of Le Petit Journal pour rire. They think Flaubert that sweet singer of arti- ficial emotions the greatest of the pro- phets. They are always wondering why they were not born either in the fifteenth century or the eighteenth cen- tury. They cannot be certain whether Dante was or was not a great poet. Shakespeare gives them the headache. They like those authors best who had euphonious names and who have left but few works ! In other words, mon 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 him- self, ' 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 Or- ganum. 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. I shall never forget his extraordinary neatness such a dazzling white surplice ! such beautiful, nervous hands ! . . . Surely these things do not pain you? Why should they ? ' THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS * 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. Au 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 comite the Arch- duke Charles, the Comte de Brie, Lord Reckage, Henriette and myself. It is the birthday of Brigit la petite BrigitteT ' Who is she?' asked Robert. 'The daughter of Duboc and the Archduke Charles. She is six years old, and she begins to recite her cate- chism. 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. Au 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 companion. 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 Brit- tany 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 morti- fication 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 painful im- pression 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 farewell 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 mat- tered 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 senti- ment. He was able to smile at him- self, and, before he reached the little hotel in the Avenue Carnot, where Madame Berlin would, did she write at all, address his letters, he lost the THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS rather oppressive feeling that Henriette was his fate, his destiny by the unalter- able fiat of the gods ! He had made a mistake. Clearly she was the fate of Wrexham Parflete's friend, that Arch- duke Charles. The discovery was at first humiliating although he remem- bered 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 harassing years of moral experiments ; others, on the other hand, are born with so clear a sense of the divine Omnipresence that they doubt more readily the evidences of sight, than their instinctive know- ledge of the invisible God. It does not invariably follow that beings en- dowed with this spiritual perception are outwardly holier, or inwardly more pure ' f than those less favoured. The men who have seen, in rare moments of inspiration, the vision of the Eter- nal, 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 inquisitive after evil, as un- disciplined in mind as any other lad, but his heart had been quick to re- spond 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 be. Amadis in the romance was not more brave, more faithful, or more determined than the provincial 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 overlooked the courtyard, where, in the centre of some laurel bushes, a fountain played. He undressed by the light of the stars, and, overcome 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 particu- larly 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 exaggerating the visible courtesies he sought to delude himself into the belief that he really loved her. Perhaps he suc- ceeded. Certainly he never permitted 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 corre- spondence 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 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 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 meet- ing with Parflete, for whom Madame Bertin had always felt an inexplicable regard. She had an old silver box containing a small packet of that gentleman'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. 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 remarkable 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 re- public, 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 pedigree ; 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 dame, 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 under- graduate at Oxford. Her daughter, Amy, however, was just nineteen, 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, " re- garded music as a natural expression of sentiment ; they wrote airs and simple themes. They did not show their skill in counterpoint 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 un- kind, 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- brotheris 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 * 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 livinor. 26 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS either, for his eyes were always wander- ing to Lady Locrine's book table. Hercy, on the other hand, fingered a curious re- print 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 re- mark to his brother on the subject of horseflesh, it was always an original, un- expected 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 regarded him as a cross between a learned pig and a performing 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 damnation. . . . ' I have just returned from my break- fast 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 fris^ or ) and all wttparfumt. 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 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 con- clusion 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 persua- sion 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 were sources to him of unhappiness rather than inspira- tion. 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, THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 27 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 unex- pected, yet sound, as Hercy Berenville's remarks on horseflesh. There is one passage, however, in his last novel written when he had reached the 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 supposition, 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 tlu 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 unfathom- able 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 school-fellows 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 I At the Earl of {Uingdale'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 business. He live'd the life of a king without responsibilities, and his house was a court where there were neither cere- monies, 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 realisation 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 boot- maker, 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 distinguished. 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. 28 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS They told him so, and he swallowed it all for a time, at all events. He soon learnt to put more trust 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 king- dom 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 popu- larity. 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 under- standing 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 weak- nesses, and the general tone of the composition 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, ' extraordinarily handsome, with a fine, erect figure, and easy, though undemon- strative, manners. When he chose to exert himself, few people could resist his influence. His words were often severe, but his personal magnetism 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 Lemaitre, 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 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 himself 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 ecclesiastic. In the Roman Church he would find full scope, both for his political talents and his deeply religious 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 SCHOOL FOR SAINTS the observatory 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 fighting with the wild beasts at Ephesus. His real happiness and his tastes are for meditation, for retirement, 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 meeting 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. J/i/y 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 1'urflete with a lady. I thought it was Menriette Duboc. She is Parflete's wife; they are on their honeymoon ; she is only 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 Parflete, 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 extra- ordinary. 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 com- posed 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 bear- ing 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, "This is my wife." He told Hercy later on, while I was showing Mrs Parflete the room in which Moliere gave Le Bourgeois GcntilJiomme, 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 mothers will, was appointed sole guardian. The Arch- duke, to use Parflete's villainous phrase. TtfE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS " 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 bookseller'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 oratory. 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 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 affect 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. 1 Yours, R. O.' When Berenville arrived in Paris, two days after the despatch of the fore- * Lord Reckage's nickname was an abbrevia- tion of Beauclerk. going, 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 re- freshing.' 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.' ' 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 after- wards 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 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS Said the other day he is most generous where you are concerned 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. 'And how would Parflete describe himself?' he asked. ' I have often heard him admit that he has been his own enemy.' 1 If a man is evil to himself to whom is he good ? ' said Robert at once. 1 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 circum- stances, 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. Whatwould she have thought of Parflete, and his little suppers and his philosophy? ' We live in the kingdom of men,' he murmured again. ' Parflete is a good- natured ass, and, after all, if it had not been for him, I should never have known you* ' I do not forget that ; yet, when he was kind enough to present me to your aunt, I went 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 account 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 everyway to my advantage.' Hercy 's face had ^undergone many changes during the speech. It was not in his nature to own himself either astonished or in the wrong. But he was conscious of a deep disgust for Par- flete 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 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 widow, than any conversa- tion between the allied wits of Europe/ 1 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 coligue de Miserere I 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 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 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 al- though virtuous women are incompre- hensible 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 ! ' 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, feel- ing himself correctly explained and be- coming, in consequence, both angry and depressed. ' I never went in for minute self-analysis and all these scruples of conscience. 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 ! ' 1 1 'would thou wert cold or hot? said Robert, ' so, because thou art lukewarm, I will spue thee out of my mouth? ' 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 whole trouble. You badger and scourge yourself into a delirium and then you fly out like a lion at Reek- age or myself. Reckage and I both know it. We have noticed it again and again.' Hercy 's countenance showed a very cunning expression, and Orange had to endure the mortifying reflection that he had been studied and summed up by these two contemporaries who had al- ways 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 fromCham- bord. He started now at the phrase torn /iimsetf 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 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. I 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.' THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 33 * 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 Cham- bord. 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 mot. ' The corners of Hercy's sensitive mouth began to droop, and his voice had the plaintive accent which 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 circum- stances 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 him- self by over-drinking, over-smoking and gambling with Parflete 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 case of physical danger, is, without doubt, an ignominious 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 reason- ing. He had not permitted himself the enervating and sinful 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, finding 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, whereupon, 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 am your friend still, unless you go on in this way and make it impossible for me to r< one. You knew I did not like your manner at Chambord, therefore, 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 i her. There must be some common ground on which we can stand. We must agree that certain things are B 34 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS right, and certain things are wrong, otherwise, all is over between us. The vicious, self-indulgent life which com- mends itself to Parflete, is, to my mind, scandalous. If yon, 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 temptation. Every dangerous allurement is like an enchanted monster, which, being con- quered, loses all his venom and changes at once into a king of great treasure, eager to make requital. Robert felt a self-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 in- trusion 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 consideration 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 Par- flete 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 un- common 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 youthfulness and a child in figure clad as it was in a pension- naire's frock of white lawn made and embroidered by the nuns in the Con- vent at Tours. She remained there motionless, with one beautiful ungloved hand resting on the chair she had refused, looking down THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 35 to the noisy Rue de Rivoli beneath the hotel window. Robert seized the op- portunity to give Berenville, who was extraordinarily sensitive over such at- tentions, his crutch. But the cripple was in a mood not unusual with him, which was just redeemed from vindic- tiveness by a certain elvish love of mis- chief for its own sake. ' 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 Par- flete has given me Kenihvorth.'' 1 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 Kr owning? She gave the name a French pronunciation. ' One of our nuns who knew Knglish gave a lecture about him, but the Mother .Superior said he was too difficult. I wrote a composition on his works.' '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 happy ? ' ' All 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 .the 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 F 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. her when she died, couch wheeled to the window because she wanted to see the 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 all 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 ' He was with She had her THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 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 tl;e 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 Jong enough to think of it all when I am in Paradise. I love the world. It is so gay and so beautiful and every- one is so kind, and there are so many things to see.' Brigit found it most easy and pleasant to pour out her little confi- dences 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 woman or had ever loved one. He seemed so sad, grave and meditative. 1 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 ! " 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- 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 inexpres- sible joy which had first roused his soul to the sure and certain knowledge 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 Mira- flores 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 profoundly 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 affair. 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 transcrip- tion. 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. 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 SCHOOL FOR 'SAINTS 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 /' ' 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. 1 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 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 every- one 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 interfere with our plans for this evening. We are going to Lcs Papillons. I suppose 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 perfectly natural that you should like places of amusement.' 1 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 everything bourgeois. 1 Her eyes sparkled and her cheeks flushed from the pleasure of teasing this severe man of whom her 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 this jeune homme 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 perversity.' ' Not at all ! My first desire is to be honest, yet it would grieve me tc quarrel with you.' c 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 obliga- tion, for then we should have a highly critical audience, and, as a conse- quence, good plays.' 1 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 maddening, 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 spoker' .ad 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 weakness in Brigit. She was no angel that was all. A dangerous conclusion for even THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS the most cautious of mortals to arrive at when an argument has to be demon- strated 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. 1 1 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 lie ! 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 want 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 ! ' ' How have you discovered these things?' said Robert, at once, eager, delighted and astonished; 'you, at your age ! ' This sudden seriousness in a char- acter which 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 him- self 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 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 insati- able 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 f quia frequenter iinpeditus ero deinceps. (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 Till*. SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 39 no adventitious snares for the idealist's 1 soul or the dreamer's imagination. I 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 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 philo- sophic 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 straight- forward views of the laws of attraction, but in the present instance his accus- tomed 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 been driven by ;t relent! and a friend's malice. ( )n 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 Brigit 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 mccomprise that she-dragon of family life. ' Why don't you speak ? ' asked Brigit, suddenly. * Because,' he answered, ' there is nothing to say ! ' 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. 1 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 ! ' ' Oh, no,' said Brigit, ' that is not you at all. But I know that you are, per- haps, a little discontented. You are not satisfied with your life. When I first saw you, I asked myself, " Que diabk allait-il faire dans ccttc gn. 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, 1 have been in one small crowded corner with more than forty other girls, and I have been in daily int< member of that crowd. I low could I then even if I would 1> ignorant of human feelii mamma died I travelled with \tlantic I We went to London and Berlin quite often : all my mem of the i and the pla THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS saw. My husband was surprised to find how well I remembered those far- away times and journeys and conversa- tions. 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. 1 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 that 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 insist 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 philo- sophic mind is not told by the Hebrew prophets. Passionate invective; cries for vengeance ; lamentations and mourn- ing and woe ; threats of appalling pun- ishment; 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 a sure knowledge of God ; his fault was treachery not disbelief. This thought has always made me feel that the deep- est 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 accept- able than the virtues of those who treat us with neglect. I fully comprehend, therefore, why it should be a more vital necessity in the Christian 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. ' 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 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 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 f ' People who have a taste for accurate scholarship, often start on their re- searches, as it were, in quest of a for- gotten 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 timor- ous in uttering an 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, lead- ing 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 requires the pure eyes and unstained heart of a young un- sophisticated mind to penetrate through the depths of an outward appearance to reflect the hidden kindness 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 learned 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 be- came white as snow, and He was glori- ous 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 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 momen- tary 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 ! ' * 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 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 ! " '< 1 It must be like my kingdom under B 2 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 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 wistfulness 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 )ace-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, more- over, a moment which, in various de- grees of delightfulness, may be repeated so often as one finds a congenial com- panion. But things can be told for the first time once only. That experi- ence 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. 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 enchanted fleet borne upon that tide. . ' And yet,' said Brigit, when he had finished speaking, -'and yet . . . you won't come to Les Papillons with me to-night.' ' Why do you put it in that ungener- ous way ? ' ' Because I want you to go with us.' ' I thought I explained that I had work . . . unfortunately . . .' ' 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 ! 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 every- thing ? I have been dying to 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 swinging 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 Mercy 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 : * i Negli occhi porla hi mia donna A more; Per che si fa gentil cib cJfcJla inira; Ov'clla passa, ogni uom ver lei si gira. /'J fin' salutafa 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.' THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 43 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 suffer- ing 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 accomplishments, 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 to sip instruction through anecdotes. Ambassadors and states- men 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 sold.' 'Of course you will have some mure coffee,' exclaimed Herenville, who was now eager for a reconciliation. * Garfon, 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 ! ' said Parflete. in his most ironical manner, 'but ic 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 1'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 remem- bered me at once, and showed surprise when I told him of my marriage. He knew 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 dis- comfort 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, * I believe that he has found out that you are a Platonist ! He asked . 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. 44 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 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 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 cultivation of useful friends. He felt, too, that his own 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 over-ruled 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 Secular- ization 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 ' 1 Good God ! ' exclaimed Parflete, under his breath, ' here he comes ! What a proof of the man's kindness. He has returned on purpose. Here- after 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 counten- ance had lost the romantic beauty to which he owed much of 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 con- spicuous details of a costume which was certainly 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 advanc- ing 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 exhibited in a less striking degree during his conversation 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 Par- flete's own account of the first moments of their interview was probably a flatter- ing sketch of what actually took place. But the mention of Robert's name in connection with the novel Basil Le- maitre 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 Whar- borough. She was,' to continue the Parfletean strain, a beautiful creature, as wilful as the devil and as great a Puritan as Michael, the wife of David.' ' And who was this lady ? ' asked Disraeli. '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 pedi- gree.' 'But his education has been too severe,' said Parflete. He had then told how the young man had received his literary training while acting as companion and secretary to the sons of the Earl of Almouth. 'He had remarkable tutors, sir THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 45 coming men themselves, in fact ; Led- ward 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, con- sidering 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 group, and was immediately pleased at Robert's unpretentious, 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 congratu- lations on her marriage to the Gamaliel of Imperial Councils with the self- possession of a nature born rather to accept, than to pay, homage. She might have been a young princess in exile, and, during the short conver- sation which followed, she showed a dignity as simple as it was touching. Of the four men surrounding her Par- flete 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 relation- ship that she bore toward the Arch- duke. 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. * In justice to Parflete's power of estimating worldly success, Led \vanl l>ecame, many years after, Bishop of Barchester, and (irantluun was made Professor of Moral Philosophy at Cam- ford. ' 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? 3 There followed an exchange of smiles and bows, compliments and vague expressions of unfelt hopes with regard to further meetings. In a few moments Disraeli 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 heartlessness, however, in the writ- ings of Plato which makes his mystic- ism forbidding to my mind. But the mysticism in your hero was religious like Newman's. It was not coldly philosophical. At your age I was my- self 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 of the highest imagina- tion. Shakespeare and Milton ex- pressed what Elizabeth and Cromwell imagined. I have been an idealist always. Yet, while I am infinitely yours in respect of your beliefs, my ex- 4 6 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 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 pro- found 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 aggressive desire on the part of each unit to assert his or her individuality. Now it has always seemed to me that the gospel of Individuality is a doctrine of failure, whether in politics or art or in any other sphere. That Mazzini said this when he was urging a revolu- tion, 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 guides, whereas, if he seeks to cut out a path of his own, he will find him- self wandering in a pairiful circle out- side the common starting-point. 'Still,' said Robert, 'no great work was ever done by a system, whereas systems arise out of individual exer- tions.' ' 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 en- couraged. 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 concerned, the heart is probably apprenticed to false gods, and the greatest of false gods is expediency. A measure might be ad- vantageous 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 reli- gious belief.' ' I see,' said Disraeli, smiling, ' that you are not one of those who hold that the Church of Rome apostatized at Trent.' ' No,' replied Robert, shortly, ' but I am not a Papist.' ' Perhaps,' said Disraeli, ' some day you may arrive at a compromise be- tween Rome and Canterbury.' ' Never;' said Robert. 'At eight-and-twenty,' said Disraeli, 'I, too, thought that compromises were nearly always immoral, as well as dangerous, but, unless I am mis- taken, 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 Parliament ? ' ' I have thought of it,' said Robert, ' but as something remote and barely probable. But my secretarial work THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 47 brings me into close touch with the political problems.' 'To be sure,' said Disraeli ; ' I had forgotten that.' ' I should feel most grateful if you would give me your opinion of Lord Reckage.' * Reckage ! Do you mean Lord Almouth's eldest son ? I confess he has never occurred to me.' ' I think,' said Robert, with some warmth, 'he will have to be re- membered one of these days/ * As I remember him now,' said Disraeli, 'his head seems made with- out back windows ; it is all fagade and nothing else ! His private merits may be astonishing, 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. T 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 ! ' 'Why not?' said Disraeli. ' Is the average intelligence 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 now merely a question between aristocratic selfishness and well-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, put- ting his arm in Robert's, 'I was all for sedition ! Now you are all for tradi- tion ! 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 for- ward 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 temp- tation begins to 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, power, 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 descend- ing into gross anthropomorphism, make Him a pattern in all human rel; 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 themselves priestly vows must or ought to be sure that they are marked out for some e: What might be an ;t splendid obedience, sublime self-re- nunciation in a Newman, would be THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 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, with just the warmth of human peccability, possibly jealousy, possibly temper. I have traced the short upper lip to its imperial arche- type ! 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 indiscreet 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 legiti- mate 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, k capitaine Duboc. It is better so. The consciousness of royal blood works, in most cases of the kind, as a curse. Take for instance 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 Parflete's mother was no ordinary woman,' said Robert. ' She is not to be compared with the typical French milliner. She had great accom- plishments. She was beautiful ; she was honourably 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 re- member 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 out la reputation d'estre mocqueurs et gaudisseurs, car test 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 reputation 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 be- tween the two men, and, when they reached the hotel, Disraeli invited his new acquaintance to join him at break- fast 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 extraordinary laws of human economy than in my meetings with Par- flete ? For the second time in my life this man, whom I have sedulously avoided THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 49 and ever disliked, has been instrumental in changing the whole course of my plans. When I came to Paris in 185 , he pre- sented me to you and Hercy at the Locrines. Yesterday he introduced 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 con- stituency 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 out- sider. Disraeli's kindness passes all be- lief. 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 Sybil) 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 enthusiasm ; it might come less from an admiration of his genius than from the fact that he seemed the witty exponent of my own theories and be- liefs. No, my allegiance to him is based on a stronger feeling than flattered 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 attain- ments 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 for- gotten 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 per- formance 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 Estienne 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 young woman to be hurled in- to thatdissolutesociety. Theknock-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 ! Yester- day, at dinner, De Brie entertained her with the story of la Pomare whose epitaph you may remember " Pomare', queen of Mabille, princess of Ranelagh, grand-duchess de la Chattim'ere, 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 V Union and the Jockey Club. Parflete is welcome in neither place. He seems to be re- garded as an upstart, and it will soon take more than the Archduke's influence to make them stomach him. But the Arch- duke 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 over- powered 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, THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS became Christendom ; France will become the world ! " Rome est devenue la chre'tiente'; tot, France, deviens le monde!" But your true prophet usually predicts a downfall. 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 col- leagues, " Surely," said he, "there is no fool so great as an untravelled Prime Minister who has never tried the temper of his neighbours, 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 somewhat cast down at the royal command. His Imperial 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 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 was, 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 estrange- ment between himself and his host. In his confidential moments with Brigit, he expressed the fear that he had out- stayed 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. 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 malheureuse enfant. It was, therefore, difficult for THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS Brigit to appreciate the slights of which Parflete so bitterly complained. She tried, in vain, to understand the dis- tinction 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 bed- room 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 apprehension. 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 miserably into the eyes which had never doubted him. c 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 blood- hounds ! It was a plot against me. They are jealous of me ; they think I am an intruder. They have been wait- ing 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 aon'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, humiliation 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.' '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 show 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 nothing 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 thrm she had. He likes to see spirit. Teil 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. * This seems to have been true, and Aumerle, in a private account of the scandal, declares that everyone was amazed at Parikte's barefaced lying. He never sur- rendered. THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS fell him that you will not 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 thing before ! It was the first time. It meant one movement 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 every- thing ? ' ' 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 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 youthful 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 r^om, and that she herself would render the excuses for his absence to the Archduke. The Count was astonished at the firmness she used in declining to dis- cuss the events of the preceding 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 remember nothing of greater moment than the fact that she was his wife. Finding her deaf to all argument, he left the Chateau with 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 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 53 bells ringing arid the horses prancing in the court-yard. The sound of foot- steps passing and repasslng 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. 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 hen con- ducted 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 High- ness 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 speak. In her concern for her husband she had forgotten 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. 1 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.' 1 Where is your husband ? ' 'I 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 Brigit, 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 inten- tion 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 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 disgrace, and has been accused of cheating at 54 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS cards. I am his wife, and Your Imperial Highness will forgive me if I am too proud to attempt the vindica- tion 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 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 gentleman 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 hus- band against his persecutors.' f What is he to you ? ' said he, brutal- ly. ' 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 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 accom- pany 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 hus- band.' * 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 appoint- ment 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 protected 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 re- markable person. Do you remember him ?' 'No, sir,' said Brigit; 'but my mother told me of him often. He was THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 55 brave : he was always kind to women, and he feared no man in the world.' ' And did your mother love him ? ' said the Archduke. ' 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 separa- ted from Parflete ? ' Brigit's face flushed at a question, which cut her sensitive nature to the quick. * My father, sir,' said she, ' was per- haps too proud a man to have suffered insolence even from an Archduke. 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 unpleasant for you to re- main 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.' * 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 bow 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 remem- bered, had been one of the three guests who took supper with Madame Duboc and the Archduke at Les Papillons on Brigit's sixth birthday. He was a per- son who had moved in the four quarters of the moon and practised vanity in each. A member of the old nobility, 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 L'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 spirit which 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 * 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 man's Essays : Critical atid Historical. Vol. i, page 1 38. THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 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 re- putation for gallantry. He was, however, one who kept strictly faithful to those maxims of prudence, which, in many characters, are a substitute for principle. Convic- tions he had none, but rules of con- duct he had in plenty, and to break one of these seemed to him a demonstra- tion 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 unpopu- larity: ' 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 com- monly 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 dis- aster,' was another of his axioms. 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 melan- choly 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 extraordin- ary, and I fear she may give trouble. We might tell her that she is to join him and gradually prepare her mind for the disappointment.' 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 wish that my son had even half her spirit ! She might be more obedient if she were told everything.' ' 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 ? ' '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 Yourlmperial Highness's irrevoc- able 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 himself 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, ' A peu pres. He was, perhaps, over- excited. His devotion to Your Im- perial 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 consideration. He has left a letter for Madame Parflete.' THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 57 ' Where is it ? ' 'Here, sir.' 1 You may show it to her. He would not dare to disobey me. Did you give him the money?' ' Yes, sir. He desired his humble thanks ' ' I know, I know,' said the Arch- duke, impatiently. ' I don't want to hear any more. He took it and he was satisfied. He has a price for every- thing but his wife seems the least pre- cious of his treasures ! We princes surely see the meanest vices of mankind ! 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 Archduke 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 Arch- duke to understand that he was deliver- ing the message in all its original infor- mality. * 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 theend of the room was opened, and Brigit herself, unannounced, confronted 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 manners, you must par- don 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 for- ward, '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.' 1 Give her his letter,' said the Arch- duke, 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 familiar 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 encourage any system of cross-questioning. I do not complain. I may never see you again. It would not be fair. I may not ask you to share such misery as mine must be. 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 him- self 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. ' Calmc-toi, mon enfant,' he said at last, ' releve-toi et ecoute ! Ce n'cst pas THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 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 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. 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. 1 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 Archduke. ' 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 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 him- self 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, influence. 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. 4 But my mother,' she answered, ' was good,' and she shrank away. ' Elle etait belle et douce: ' She was more,' cried Brigit, passion- ately, 'she was good. They told me so at the Convent, and I know it.' ' Tu as raisonj rejoined the Arch- duke. ' 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 everything 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 SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 59 the State. Tit es ma file. Je faime bien, mais tu ri as pas de droits. II faut que tu saches ces choses la. II faut que tu restes eomme tu es aux yeux du monde 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 fighting ; but I shall never boast again. You may trust me well.' 'You will see now,' he said, not feeling her irony, ' why I cannot allow you to follow Parflete. I permitted 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 pro- found resentment. ' 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 bed- room. 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 without some special grace so prolonged ;i strain as she had suffered. It was not, however, the moment for rest or hesita- tion. 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 distrusted 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, Par- flete 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 impru- dent 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 situa- tion 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 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 remembered, were used in the morning only. They were never occu- pied after midday. 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 considera- tion, she decided that the better, if 6o THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 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 neck- lace, 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 a few rings fortunately valuable ones which she happened to be wearing on her ringers. These she tied up in her pocket-hand- kerchief 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 chair, by a sleep- ing 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 gaze intently on her book, and, although they uncovered 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 evening, when she bought some food, for she was on the road to Paris and needed all her strength. 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 ad- ventures. 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, to- ward 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 me to be in dark- ness, be Thou Blessed ; and if Thou wilt have me to be in light, Blessed be Thou again. If Thou vouchsafest to comfort me, be 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. 3 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 d 1 Arthur^ which had belonged to his mother, and which, as a boy, he had learned by heart. The passages which told of the life and death of Lanncelot had been lined and under-lined in red and purple and black inks, till the original print was wholly obscured, and Robert found himself repeating 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 Queen ; '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.' He felt that he himself was uttering some solemn promise, that his exist- ence 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 Berlin and the old lacemaker, 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 will- ingly for several ladies ; such was his intellectual admiration for their graces of character, and his passionate ap- preciation 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 impossible. 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, 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 6t 62 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 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 immor- tality, and dreaming of love and sad- ness (je songeais d? amour 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 ad- dressed 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 to- gether 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 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 ex- pression. The translation 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 independ- ence, of inexperience 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 in- convenient to be recognised, and, if, now that he was in difficulties, he had seen fit to send them any communica- tion, 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 Berenville 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 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 very quaint and so un- English that I felt as though I had inadvertently stepped into some Italian scene. I waited there a few 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 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS crucifix, oak-and-horsehair furniture and a small bookcase. Here they left me. From the window, which was much overgrown with ivy, I could see a tri- angular 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 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 feelings 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 aviore suo 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 cui mundus est patria" Ah ! that is it. She has said it. The world is our country, yet in every land we are exiles.' The letter goes on to tell what we already know of the facts in connection with Parflete's dismissal from the Arch- duke'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 guilelessness 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 consideration 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 great- est 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 implores 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, appearance and inexperience, I could not recommend a safer refuge. A woman who is neither with 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 sancti- monious, 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 6 4 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS Convent till the end of her mortal days than living again with that husband.' So the letter ends, and, as we can see, in no hopeful strain. Orange had given his word to seek for someone whom, in his heart, he could not wish to find. We may imagine this impetu- ous, often intolerant, yet always chival- rous 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 ex- pected. I hate parting 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 for- tune 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 para- dox.' 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 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 whc 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 remark- able : '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 noth- ing 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 suicidal. I replied that I could not flatter myself that I should be per- mitted the distinction of suffering for my Creed.' In this respect he was too modest. Lord Reckage's reply to his communi- cation was a severe surprise. It was long and elaborately worded. It con- tained many fine sentiments, and the tone was, perhaps, not so insincere as it was artificial. Treasure may be wrapped alike in tinsel or in cloth of gold, and it would be as unjust to judge of a parcel by its covering as to appraise a man's candour by the merits or shortcomings of his literary style. We say this because it seems inconceiv- able that a person of Orange's discern- ment 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 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS difficult for me to be associated with you in any political sense. My trust in your conscience would be mistaken for sym- pathy 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 confidence, 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.' 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 con- tinuing, 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 affects 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 in- come. With the prospect of Parlia- mentary service before him, he could not hope to gain much by his liter- ary pen. No young man, in public or artistic life, is able to save any con- siderable sum out of his first earnings. He is exceptional, indeed, if he can escape the chafing harness of debt. finds himself thrown into the society those whose fortunes are derived from ancient land grants or confiscated church property, from commercial an- cestors, or from flourishing industries, trades and city interests. Many, doubtless, of these licensed idlers could earn, 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 is uncommon. But one thing is cer- tain. Ambition and great talent, and even exhortations to poverty, can neither be demonstrated nor preached without the aid of money, and a great deal of money. Orange's position was, therefore, calamitous. In any case, he had no hope of winning, at the first con- test, the Norbet Royal election. The unlooked-for withdrawal of Reckage's support seemed ominous. Robert, felt that he must either obtain another Secre- taryship 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. Dis- raeli was in a silent mood. He offered neither comment nor advice. He pro- mised 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 gentle- man : 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 seri- ously. 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 and his spirit rebelled from the ' interest ' of any ' omnipotent lady.' He saw himself in fresh diffi- * Disraeli's full appreciation of Sir Robert Peel seems to date from that great minister's exit from this world. D 66 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS culties. 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 unpleas- ant thing to be laid under any obliga- tion to a woman's good graces. Dis- raeli'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 up- wards.' 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 chig- non, terminating in two long fair curls to the waist. She signed herself Pens'ee Fitz Rewes. Her motto was -Je me nonrris de flammes (I feed on flame). She had the rank and title of a Vis- countess and her uncle was the Earl of Wight and Man.* We hear, on the unimpeachable authority of all Robert's opponents, that women con- sidered him * extremely handsome.' When men 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 * The recent sale of this nobleman's collec- tion of old lace and Italian water-colours may be fresh in the minds of many readers. 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 mundanity 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 per- haps be power, there might perhaps be a little brief exaltation 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 a foolish act. But Folly no less than Wisdom has her mar- tyrs, 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, unannounced 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 hap- pened 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 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 67 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. To Robert, who loved frank- ness above all other things, this was 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 unreliable. 'I am sorry/ said he, 'that I 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 complain- ing that Gladstone has no tact.' ' 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. 1 She has always been busy about you ! ' * The present Duke of Devonshire. ' 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 sup- pose, 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, 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 ? // may} ' It may,' said Reckage, c 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 Pense'e Fitz Rewes again,' continued Reckage : * 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 ? ' 1 That is the worst bargain that any man can make ! Thine, O Lord, are all THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 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 I 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 dis- appointments happen they become the jest of serving maids and lookers- on food for the crowd ! 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 im- mortal soul and one's eternal destiny. I believe in all that. I go a long way 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 for- gotten 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 up- start yet he wants to lead the aristo- cratic 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 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 faithful supporters but in that respect he is eminently philosophic. His strength lies in his freedom of soul. He depends on no man either for sym- pathy or courage.' 'You may be right. But what do you say to his hint about Lady Fitz Rewes ? ' 1 1 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 unapassione in disianza? And, indeed, there was that in Robert's attitude of mind in this regard which could but be incomprehensible 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 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 69 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 con- stantly among the Breton conscripts. Unable to find either pleasure or forget- fulness in vulgar and bought amours they sink under some indefinable grief. The home-sickness is but an appear- ance : 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 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 made 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 Pense'e looked the incarnation of these femi- nine 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 best of all possible worlds to an obscure young man without fortune, in whom back- wardness 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 impress on THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 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 restraint, eager, impulsive, self-reliant. As a boy, wandering 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 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 presented 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 01. 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 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 insolence 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 acquaint- ance 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 candel- abra 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 evi- dently been playing an 'arrangement of airs from Rossini.' A miniature of the late Viscount in a heart-shaped frame had a small table adorned with a copy of The Christian Year and cut flowers in Church vases sacred to itself. A tiny wreath of yellow im- mortelles trembled on the wall above. The corner seemed consecrated to a gentle and resigned spirit of hopeful mourning. THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 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 morn- ing, contained a description of her costume straight from Paris ' an under-robe, comprising 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-sJiaped ruche in apple-green taffeta. Chapeau of green crepe with a diadem of moss, a single rose posed on the left side, 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. ' 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 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?' 5 I said, " How can you ! " He said, " No change is so great as to be impro- bable." He is always 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. Arerft 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 difficulty she experienced in pronouncing her rs, 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 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. 3 ' In what sense ? ' 1 He was so stern with 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 faith- ful 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 pray- ing 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 ! ' Why ? ' ' Because such a step may be prompted by one of four qualities restlessness, a desire for perfection, a THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 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, you have never loved in earnest ! ' ' 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 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. 1 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 Pense"e, 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. Per- haps the vow was rash but you will think you with your high and deli- cate 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 ! ' ' The temptations of life ' sighed Pensee. ' Oh, even under the strongest tempta- tion even if the most beautiful of all women should seem near him to inspire him ' 'Poor man! What a terrible posi- tion ! 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 ? ' THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS '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 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 ! ' said she, ' they want their sugar ! ' Robert and she descended the stairs together. She kissed the ponies' cheeks with fervour. 1 How I love animals ! ' she ex- claimed : ' they are all soul and no conscience ! The pets ! ' With consummate skill, she managed to evade shaking hands with Robert when he wished her good-bye. The tide of her heart, which had been ebb- ing away the whole afternoon, now began to flow in. The waves were dark and tumultuous and they cried with a loud voice. As Robert walked away, she noticed that a young seam- stress who happened to be passing turned to look after his handsome face. ' What a brazen minx ! ' thought her ladyship. ' And he gave her no en- couragement. 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 day. 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 politician, 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 unex- pected. '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 disparagement 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 ! But beware of the tyranny of a false ideal an ideal based on an unreal knowledge of human nature. It will sear 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 renunciation 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, flush- ing. ' Then,' said Disraeli, kindly, ' avoid all books on love and when you hear sweet music say to yourself, " 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 Mediaevalism. 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 principals of Amadis and Oriana. How charming they are too ! How touching ! The modem passion for truth may perhaps be compared to the i 74 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 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 morning, behold ! it was Leah /' 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 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 : 4 MY DEAR MR DISRAELI, Your IN- TERESTING 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 suspected that he had some SEVERE AND SECRET trouble preying 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 affec- tion. 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 men- tioned 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. 1 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 Vetulam suam prcetulit Immortalitati he preferred his old woman to im- mortality. Some men are by constitu- tion 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-hearted- ness. He said nothing more but he made no effort to disguise the gloomy thoughts which were now afflicting his soul. ' 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 con- sider and discuss together every unim- THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 75 portant 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, be- long 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. 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 possession a form of delusion a habit of thought which the French so well describe as Fidfa fixe. The familiar examples of Dante and Beatrice, of St Francis of Assisi and St Clare rise up before me. 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 con- tinued, 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 ! ' 1 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 re- garded as a prefiguration 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 would be not a fall only but an impossi- bility ! 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 : al- though it is the penalty of saints and poets to suffer much more than vulgar mortals, it is also given to them to ex- perience joys of which the ordinary creature is as ignorant as he is in- capable. If I have admitted these things to your satisfaction, tell me your story, {f, 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 sentiments. It is a common case. I met Mrs Parflete first at Chambord. We spent two whole days together. It fell usually to me to walk by her side for Parflete and the others were bent on card- playing 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 silent or in conversation, we should be together was the strong need. It seemed that we were not 7 6 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 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 ever- lasting hills are but a few days older ! I did not find anything either dis- honourable or wrong in my state of mind. I realised, nevertheless, 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 learned that she had every quality which most ap- pealed 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, 1 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. 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 conversation 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. 1 1 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!' ' Why ? ' asked Robert : ' my one point is commonplace enough since I may not marry the woman I want, I will remain single ! ' ' I am really sorry for Lady Fitz Rewes ! ' ' 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 manuscript 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 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 77 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, there- fore, in the Red Saloon. 'The Red Saloon is depressing,' said Lord Reckage, who, where strange, young, proud and beautiful ladies were concerned, was not without feel- ing. ' 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, offered 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!' But she followed him. '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 civilised 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 which stood on an easel at the end of the Gallery. ' That is a portrait of Orange.' 'Oh!' ' He is sitting for some new French- man. It promises to be a success.' 'I am no judge of pictures,' said Brigit, drawing back. 'From this distance I merely saw the outline. It seemed striking for the moment.' ' Come nearer. If you stand here it is Orange himself. The artist has caught his expression marvellously. 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 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS want a change of century ! 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. 'He'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 ?' ' 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 un- rewarded. Orange was paler than death. Brigit grew as white as her gown. Reckage, with much reluct- ance, 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.' ' Do I look strange ? Have I altered ? It is I.' 'Is it possible? . You!' ' But why do you think I came ? ' 'Why ? Because you were sent here.' ' How did you guess that ? My husband told me to call upon you with this letter. I do not know what he has written, 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 ? ' 'Very tired.' ' Poor Child ! ' ' Is the letter long ? ' ' 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. 'Mv DEAR ROBERT, You are the one man in the world on whom I can rely. I am worn away with grief and am be- come 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 child- ren and my wife is certainly a Princess in ten thousand. She is far cleverer, too, than any one would suppose and POLITIC- ALLY 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 Eacas 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 ! His parents (old acquaintances) have entreated me to take him under my charge. We may be en THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 79 voyage for eighteen months. I am writ- ing very fully to my wife. If I have been able to help yo.u to your present good for- tune and position, do not fail me now. Yours ever affec., dear Robert, 'WREXHAM PARFLETE.' ' May I see it ? ' asked Brigit, when he had finished. 4 Do you wish to see it ? ' I Yes.' She took the letter, read it swiftly, and reddened to her eyes. ' I will not go to Spain/ said she, 1 nor could you advise me to go. 7 I 1 fear I must.' ' What ! ' ' 1 fear I must. You cannot remain with the Nuns against his will.' 1 He is not here to protect me. He leaves me. I am alone : I have no home. There is no place for me but a Convent. Yet you, you O, you ! would 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 mistrust 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 own conscience. It is not his conscience, nor your conscience. It is mine. A Spanish Countess, indeed ! I want 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 Con- vent.' '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 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 recognise 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?' 'Because I want you to know that I am neither good nor patient be- cause 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 every one 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 8o THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS weak sayings and ask God to forgive them. But if there should be no other world and if this one is so deso- late ! 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 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 to- gether. 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 even- ing. Day, in the sky, was blushing her farewell, and Robert remembered that the blue sea of 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 idumb weight of them brings us to dust. Grief, despair, the desire of beauty, the sorrow of partings, the thirst of ambition, the attachment to friends are not small contemptible weaknesses. 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 morn- ing 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, pre : sents 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 pronouncement 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 Secretaryship 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 situa- tion by a curious document since found among the Orange MSS. which appears to have been addressed 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, perhaps, he remembered, when it was nearly finished, that the confi- dence between Lord Reckage and him- THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 81 self was no longer all that it had once been. So the letter was not sent. It runs as follows : ' i6B VIGO STREET, 1 1 have not yet told you that I followed the Lady to Spain in order to assure my- self that all was well. She did not know it. I think she will never know it. From careful inquiries at Madrid, I have learned 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 per- petual 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, DOMI- NUS DEUS OMNIPOTENS, QUI ERAT, ET QUI EST ET QUI VENTURUS EST. After leaving Madrid, I journeyed on to Barce- lona. 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 ft Hereafter I will crawl. Let this be a penance !" 'But 0ecus n /fpdros 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, MS. on vellum, with miniatures, Sasc. XV. ?f 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 fellow 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 CAR- * With the help of the gods, even a man who was no man, might prove a conqueror. Sophocles, Ajtuc, 767-8. It was purchased recently for CASE, 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 Rewes was present during the interview. She never spoke, but 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 already 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. E 82 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS The true bent and the real struggle are shown in that solitary pilgrimage to Morit Serrat, in his reflection on the monastic life, his significant attach- ment 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 confession 1 The pride of life and the desire of the eyes are mighty in all men, and, while one is strong, the time is the time of love." 1 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 happiness, 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 correspond- ence. 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 best blood in France. His mother of a haughty and rebel- lious 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 dispossessed, by force, of his position and to bear such injustice without protest was neither godly nor manly. It is not within the power of any family to disown one of its mem- bers. 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 Wharbor- ough. He was no adventurer, no up- start. And he would vindicate his mother's honour. Such was his argu- ment. 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 without unction. He spoke rather of manners than of measures. On the Lords sending back their Amendments, he entreated the Com- mons 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 organiza- tion against which the Protestant Church in Ireland could not hope to stand when he described the Roman See as possessing the advantages with- out the disadvantages of an Establish- ment, it did not require profound intelligence to see, that, wherever his allegiance may have been, his admiration did not rush frrth spontaneously to the government of the Church of England. He bore the final passing of the Bill with honied resignation. l Not for many years,' says The Times of that date, ' has there been such a sweet interchange 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 youth, or the later hours of a provincial banquet when everyone 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, whose interest in ecclesiastical questions was making itself more mani- fest 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 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS language of Prize Essays, for the Refor- mation 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 Nonconformists found the doctrine sound. Reckage began to be regarded, in a certain exclusive circle, as the second Wellington of a new 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 humblest person the grace of self- possession and dignity. Reckage knew that. How much more then, he argued, did it illumine those who had rank and talents and influence ? ' It is so vul- gar,' 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 re- garded 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 wayside 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 theo- logian. 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 Mors, when Reckage presented himself at Vigo Street. His lordship had long wanted an introduction 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 together toward Farm Street, ' the service itself is no doubt interest- ing. Very touching, too, I daresay. Who can deny that Rome understands a ceremony better than we do at pre- sent? But we shall have all these things in time. A great many people have 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 Lon- don and the Parks did not present, on Sunday afternoons, the lively appear- ance 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 ex- travagantly 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 win- dow. 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 kneeling 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 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 instruments 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 $4 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS were singing the last strains of the O Salutaris : Uni 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 salu- tation to Holy Mary, the angels, arch- angels, 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 adjuration : From Thine anger From an evil death From the pains of Hell From all evil From the power of the devil By Thy Nativity By Thy Cross and Passion By Thy Death and Burial By Thy gloriotts 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 commemora- tion 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. 6 Jesus, Who wast betrayed by the kiss of a traitor into the hands of the wicked, seized and bound like a thief, and forsaken by Thy disciples Have mercy on us, O Lord : have mercy on us. O Jesus, Who, by the unjust council of the Jews, wast sentenced to death, led like a malefactor before Pilate, scorned and derided by impious Herod Have mercy on us, O 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 Barabbas, rejected by the Jews, and unjustly condemned 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, Lord: have mercy on us. O Jesus, Who wast numbered among thieves, blasphemed and derided, made to drink of gall and vinegar, and cruci- fied 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 mercy on us, O Lord : have mercy 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. THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS For He hath truly borne our sorrows And 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 sub- ject, on this occasion, the crowning of our Lord with Thorns. It was not a sermon but an appeal to the imagina- tion 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 rite, blesses and sanctifies His people. One by one the lights upon the Altar were extinguished 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 build- ing. 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 Sunday had become a Witch's Sabbath. The violent gusts of wind and the drenching shower made the thoroughfares impass- able. 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 for- ward at last but he hastened by the two young men without a word. 1 He could not have seen me ! ' ex- claimed 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 Opposi- tion 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 Coun f y. 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 86 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS learned, who worked for their living, he was known as a ' brain-picker.' Sir Charles Bellingham, the Gladstonian, had for his chiefs 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 trans- pired that they received .192 for their refreshments and loyalty. Another body of one hundred and four * respect- able' men, under the police, were endeavouring to preserve without favour order and peace. Songs not too decent were sung : pleasan- tries 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 'Follow- 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 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 intro- duction. Wisely, no reference was made to the candidate's literary career. Authors are not considered 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 forward. His countenance was 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 recommenced 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, irretrievable harm. 'Blue' attacked 'blue,' and ' yellow' turned against ' yellow.' Bruised ears, battered noses and blackened eyes, THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS swollen cheeks and cracked teeth, were perhaps the worst outward signs of the struggle. A constable had his arm broken, and a priest who had rashly ventured into the crowd suffered afterwards 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 intervening days were for speeches and demonstrations. Early the next morning, Robert strolled into the Market-place, and there he met a whole company of carters in their picturesque dress of smocks and shorts who were exhibit- ing 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 ugh, and they were not of the kind t 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 1 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- AW 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. ' 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 cham- pion whipster : ' that's the rule true enough. But hast he got twenty shillun'? It will cost thee every penny o' that, lad, and more too ! ' This sally was received with cheers. I Wold Jacob's got his answer for the best of 'em,' observed the first speaker. I 1 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 traditional '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 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 ? ' 88 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 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. 1 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 ? ' 'He was the champion. But I believe 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. 1 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 wished him good-day and left the Market-place where the carters with Sammie 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 Bellingham, Vandeleur, or Orange. 'VOTE FOR BELLINGHAM, THE PEOPLE'S FRIEND. VOTE FOR BELLINGHAM, LIBERTY, AND PROBITY. Vote for conscience, St George, and the British Lion} 1 VOTE FOR VANDELEUR AND THE UNITED KINGDOM. Property for all and the rights of property. Vandeleur and the realm. Vandeleur and England's greatness. Vandeleur and the gentlemen of Great Britain? ' Vote for ORANGE, the protection of the poor, and the faith of our fathers. Vote 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 otherpleasantly. 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. Con- science, St George and the British Lion in one person were to be encountered only, one might think, in the week of three Saturdays. The day's fight began about ten o'clock. Bellingham and Orange both attempted to address their supporters from the hotel, but the noise and up- roar 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 talked of greatness in all the THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 89 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 sooth- ing 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 pleas- ing the Mayor a man of few prejudices and a large family of unmarried 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 Egeria in secret caves,' wrote an enthusi- astic 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 ques- tions but to ask them.' 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 "Cherry 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 KD&>, 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 con- gratulations 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 the three Com- mittee 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 returning officer, announced the numbers to be as follows : Orange, 3,602 ; Bellingham, 3,207; 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 preced- ing Wednesday. Robert could not take his seat that year. He had THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 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 accept 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 4 Charles VII., 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 Quinto,' worn out by \var, 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 Illyria (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, headstrong and inexhaustible he seemed the very figure to 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 Queen ' 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 ! ' 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 Carlists have a King; the Isabellinos a Queen: the Alfonsists a Prince: the Unionists a Duke (Monpensier), but the. Progres- sionists have neither Duke, Prince, Queen nor King so runs a contem- porary 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 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 supporters, both ill-advised and bar- barous. Don Carlos in contrast to this had issued orders that the men who followed his standard were to be as distinguished 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 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS things, endure consuming heat and unkind 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 was 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 Annointed 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 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 dimin- ish his determination to be of service. 1 By God, Orange, 5 said he, when the two left England together, 'after this, your spoonies at the House of Com- mons will sound like old maids at a kettle-drurn ! 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 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 protested that the 'Duke' was at Fontainbleau. 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 mighi 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 over- looked the Chapel. A balcony ran the entire length of the building from her state saloon to the first floor ward of the Hospital. She had the right to appoint her own priests, confessors and doctors. There were twenty-seven choir nuns and twenty-five lay sisters. At THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 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 appear- ances 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 danger- ous sympathy. She was not a poor woman although her numerous chari- ties 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 atmo- sphere 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 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. Gentle- men 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 com- plexion 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, however, kept faith- fully to the old style, and many said that she was clothed in heirlooms, dat- ing 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 distinguished 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 distinctive quality of French women, She had also the Austrian fairness of skin and clearness of feature. Though little known outside the Des Escas circle she was, beyond question, among the few extraordinarily beautiful crea- tures 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 SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 93 The Countess remained out as long as usual, but, as she was on the point of driving homewards, one 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 com- munication which she had just received. To wait until she reached home might mean, perhaps, a loss of time so disas- trous that many lives would have to pay the forfeit. In this extremity her pres- ence 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 praying before the famous image of the Blessed Virgin. The Chapel was dark. A dim light was blazing, however, 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 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 trembling fingers. It was written in cypher. She understood 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 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 white- washed 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, c 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. 94 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 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 told the General that he knew me to be no con- spirator but a thorough blackguard with 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 incriminating 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 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 unrecognised 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. c Dogs ! 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 : flames filled the sky and soon a tremendous explosion 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 tak 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 round, 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. " THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 95 'It will begin soon,' said the Countess. 'They 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 with 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 pro- tection against the enemy and the night air. ' Do you hear them ? ' asked Brigit. 1 1 think so,' said the Countess. Yet nothing came. ' Hark ! ' exclaimed the Countess. 1 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 burning,' 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. 1 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 off her coif it burnt but slowly. ' We want a blaze a quick blaze our clothes will 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 under- stood 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. ' 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 extraordinary 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 of the Carlist party. It was answered in a voice that Brigit knew well. Then her strength and the strong desire to live 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 be- low. One danger was past. There were still others. She saw a wild blaze above her head. She heard the crash of falling woodwork. 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 9 6 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 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 country 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 the fourth. was dangerously wounded and left in a ditch for dead. But the lives and the suffer- ing were not given and offered in vain. The rest escaped with whole skins and reached a place of safety ere the morn- ing. 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 unconsciousness 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 outline 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 somewhere near. Robert peered over the hedge. The 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 destruc- tion. 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 ear. And then he saw, moving toward him, the figure of a man. He 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.' THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 97 ' 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,' repeated 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 comes I hide in a hole in the ground. My brother is killed and I have taken his place. Can you crawl a little farther ? ' ' 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 ambush which proved to be a dry well, scarcely a man's height in depth, cut into the earth and concealed 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 returning when, to her terror, she heard the sound of horsemen 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 dismounted, 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 first sound that greeted Robert's reviving sense. Then he heard a woman's cry of horror and the report 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 all other things seems 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 w.s not to die yet. The Cn-ncral must see the 9 8 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS prize and learn 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. 1 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 con- spiracy 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 Zeu ill'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. 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, undistinguishable 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 intervened 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 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 c 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. THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 99 '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 deceptive 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 thres- hold she paused, looked in, and pressed Zeuill's hand. 'I did not think,' she said, 'that I should ever see this room again.' That w^s 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, excitement, 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 Hause'e and three volunteers fine fellows I forget their names and well mounted.' ' Who is Hause'e ? ' asked the Baron. 'Hause'e,' said Castrillon, 'is a mystery. He travels with Lord Wight and looks like an Englishman.' < The Hause'es,' observed Zeuill, 'have always stood by the Bourbons. I thought I knew them all.' 'This one is the son of Henri- Dominque de Hause'e.' '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 dis- owned.' ' 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 like 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 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. IOO THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS ( One thing troubles me,' said Zeuill, with some abruptness, 'the name of Hause"e 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 j 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 Hause"e, and 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." Dorregaray stood up. "Who is the Earl of Wight?" said he, "We know nothing about him." Here I was able to inter- fere. I called Dorregaray aside and reminded him that Wight had given a thousand pounds to the Cause. Dor- r^garay 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 atten- tion 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 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 ! We 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 length ; * 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. THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS loi 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 dishonour and the humilia- tions 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 Hause'e to whom, I understand, we owe the success of this night's ex- 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 per- fectly true. He is a legitimate Hause'e.' 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 inscrut- able. ' 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 of wrongs to avenge. The Seven Years' War is not within your remembrance. I dare- say 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 lifetime 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 magnifi- cently, 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 our protector our friend.' * Then answer one question. Did you know that Robert de Hause'e 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.' 102 THE: SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 'Did you thirk his pr^ence --- at such a moment inexplicable ? ' * I thought of notliing. It might have been a miracle I did not know. When he spoke to us, the Countess and I were waiting for death.' Zeuill could not restrain his curiosity. 1 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 documents 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 trans- figured 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. ' 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 Arch- duke'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. 1 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 there- fore 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.' 1 But it is the Archduke's wish in- deed, his command, that you should abandon that name. It is an offence a degradation to him.' ' 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 ; he knew, however, that I was his daughter.' 'Then you refuse both these pro- posals.' '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 associated 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 SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 103 the bitterness and vexation of State affairs the sweet nature, the accom- plishments, the love of your incom- parable 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 ? ' '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 fruit- less 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.' 1 1 make no claim. I obey my father most willingly while he asks me to re- main unknown and in seclusion. It is now when he asks me to come forward and accept a mean dignity that I must seem ungracious. 1 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 Arch- duke?' ' 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 con- stancy 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 Highness. 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 impos- tures. 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 for M. de Hause'e ? ' ' He may be dead.' * 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 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 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 incalcul- able 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 tatigue, 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 passing kindness toward a poor unacknowledged nobleman 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 complex- ion. The Archduke had alienated himself from the traditional supporters of the Imperial House. Rich adven- turers 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 down- fall 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 in rank. The Archduke'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 Brigit. Why should she not 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 considered inhuman and cold-blooded. Recklessness in love love under any aspect had never been associated 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 ultimate 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. THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 105 CHAPTER XIII IT was already past mid-day when the Duron 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 conducted 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 assassination. 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 over- bearing. 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 reprimanding 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 conse- quences.' 'Where is General Prim?' asked Zeuill. ' 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 impossible. 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 ! ' 1 1 am aware of that, yet I am sur- prised, nevertheless, at the severity of your measures.' io6 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS '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, meet- ing one dark night, devoured each other and left nothing but the two tails? If one party 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 ! ' ' 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 ! ' 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 nutshell. 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 ? ' ' 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 con- trary. 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 any- where, 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 ! 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 con- ducted Zeuill to the apartment 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 parti- cularly frank: the high cheek-bones and jaundiced complexion gave his large dark eyes a haunting even terrible distinctness. But the coun- tenance though fine as a whole was not, at a first glance, remarkable, and its expression of brilliant melancholy, which was accentuated by an 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 bearing 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 pro- mised a friendship which might indeed be loyal, but which would be too dis- criminating to attach itself to many. THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 107 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 receiving a challenge after the successful revolt against Isabella II. to tear off the crown which he still wore on his kepi 'The Queen alone has fallen : the Throne is imperish- able.' As he came in, his glance fell pleas- antly 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. 'What can you tell me,' said he, abruptly, 'about this English pris- oner?' ' 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,' ex- claimed 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 Primt pouring out for himself a small glass os Manzanilla : ' in these days it costs money to effect a revolution ! Thi 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 pass- port. They found it in his pocket with nothing else. And that, in my opinion, is the way he arrived in Spain ! But to save time, let us see him at once. It was kind on his part to endanger his life in order to convince us of a public fact ! } 'What fact?' asked the Colonel, with some tartness. Prim took a last sip of the Man- zanilla. ' 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.' ROBERT CHAPTER XIV )BERT 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 com- panions 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 insurrec- tion 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 : 4 1 am going abroad to restrain Wight's enthusiasm and revive my own. Did you ever get up in the morning and say to io8 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS yourself u Man are you a prig?" It's a wholesome discipline. You become des- perate. You say "If I can kill some one I may escape this reproach. If I can kill a "number of persons my char- acter 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 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. Per- haps my friends will say when I am dead : "Here lies the body ' of 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 de- liberate play of destiny brought Robert to Madrid at a critical hour. Event had followed event with an incon- sequence 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 hap- pened a contrast hung up between heaven and earth from everlasting 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 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 uncommon 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 tc sentiments which makes all the difference in one's living of life. The King Arthur, the Launcelot, the Roland, the Amadis, 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 in 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 headstrong : she was imprudent: her conduct was inde- fensible. 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 Brigit lost her religion and grown frivolous ? It was deplorable. What a fall ! what a shame ! what a tragedy ! As for himself THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 109 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 ? 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 re- vived. He sprang out of bed, stood up, and bowed to foes and friend alike with a high spirit which even 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 sup- pressing a few traitors and criminals.' The General had no doubt made up his mind from antecedent investiga- tions 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 re- turn. His army is the debris of the old regiments. His loyal subjects 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 wel- come 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 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 >lond, ' tor their chief indu no THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 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 ac- quaintance of the Countess Des Escas?' * I think,' said Prim, before Robert could reply, 'that M. de HauseVs 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 mis- chief 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 discarded 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 silence. The young Marquis of Castrillon worked his arched brows and his white hands but he said nothing. Bodava was moody and 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 neverthe- less 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.' 1 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, c it will take two years or more before we can attempt another rising.' * Does Dorrdgaray say that ? ' asked Joanna. ' What else could he say ? ' replied Bodava ; ' some of our strongest friends are in prison, some are murdered, some THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS are in exile. There is no more money.' 1 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. 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 have fought and I have failed.' Castrillon sprang forward to catch her swaying figure. ' She is very old,' whispered Bodava to a young 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 pass- ing 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 dis- turbance. That imperious summons would never be heard again. Don Carlos had lost his most vigilant subject. 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 re- mained 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!' 112 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS CHAPTER XVI THE death of the Countess Des Escas though piteous enough in its circum- stances 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 confis- cated and her authority gone, she would have remained an angry voice, but no longer a power in the Carlist movement. 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 melancholy. No fresh projects could be 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 with his own meditations and forebodings. When they all met at luncheon, it was with a sullen air. In conversation 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 unutterable 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, never- theless, a peculiar horror to hours, already and of necessity, most wretched. Castrillon, whose light heart could resist all things save cnnui> found a guitar and played a while till he remem- bered 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 pocket some worsted and knitting needles which she had borrowed from one of the maids. 'Why no 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 political intrigues are worked neither by words nor hearts 5 but by gold alone ! Senti- ment 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 th">e no one? Who is this Robert dc Hausce?' THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS S 4 My husband's friend.' ' Ojo ! Is it so serious as that ? ' exclaimed Castrillon, half to himself. * I fear he has been killed,' said Brigit, pausing from her work and meet- ing 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 auda- cious, passionate and crafty nature, ' Would you smile like that if / had been missing?' he asked. ' O no ! ' said Brigit, not without irony. 1 Did he come, too, for love of you ? ' ' I hope not.' 1 Perhaps, after all, he is happier than I am. If he is dead, he has for- gotten 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 for a quarrel and the occasion now presented itself. A few pointed words passed between them and the incident