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 "Buona^ la signoria d'Amore, per6 che trae lontendi- 
 mento del suo fedele da lutte le vili cose. . . . Nonbuona 
 e la signoria d'Amore, peroche quanto lo suo fedele piu 
 fede gli porta, tanto piu gravi e dolorcsi punti gli conviene 
 passare." — Dante, Vita Nuova XIII. 
 
 " The lordship of Love is good, in that it withdraweth 
 the inclination of his liegeman from all vile things. . . . 
 The lordship of Love is not good, because the more fidelity 
 his liegeman beareth to him, so much the heavier and more 
 grievous trials he must needs endure." — Vita Nuova. 
 
 Copyright, 1897, 
 By FREDERICK A. STOKES COMPANY 
 
 Copyright, 1897, 
 By the press PUBLISHING COMPANY 
 
 Olie New York World) 
 
 All rights reserved 
 
 C C I 
 
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 4615 
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 Robert Orange spent his childhood in an ancient for- 
 tress built high on a great rock on the northern coast of 
 France. When he grew to be a lad, he used to climb up 
 on the ramparts and look toward the land he had never 
 seen, yet which he knew well was his own country. The 
 stern, immutable building in which he lived had been, in 
 glorious days, the feudal stronghold of a grand Seigneur. 
 Its gabled roof and lofty chimneys, where pigeons built 
 their nests, towered above the town-walls, and frowned 
 at the rosy rising of the sun. Now it belonged to 
 Robert's god-mother — a banker's widow and a good soul — 
 who, it was said, had a large fortune and no heir-at-law. 
 She kept geraniums and marigolds on her balcony in the 
 spring-time, and her little salon, with its white panelling 
 and water-color 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 Jlfor/e d'ArlJnir, it seemed insipid. He 
 would steal away to a desolate lower chamber where the 
 dim drama on the fading tapestries passed into his own 
 experience and seemed his real life : that, lived in com- 
 pany, was, in comparison, a grotesque dream. On his 
 
 I 
 
 ^fX^^A/l
 
 2 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 
 
 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 jailers in a prison, and he had no 
 thought in common with his blessing friends. This sense 
 of alienation from those he wished to love produced a 
 melancholy as profound as it was inevitable. On the 
 morning after the festival, he went — although he was a 
 Protestant — to the Altar of Our Lady in the Cathedral, 
 and at her feet laid some hawthorn boup-hs 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 sur- 
 prised 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 ram- 
 parts. 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 neat- 
 ness 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
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 3 
 
 scolding of shrews and the crying of children, all mingled 
 together to give one hideous impression of humanity. 
 The town seemed a dungeon where his spirit suffered, 
 starved, and neither the azure sky nor the gilded sun-path 
 on the sea, nor the unmeasured yellow sands, nor the 
 remote grandeur of the great horizon, could distract his 
 mind from memories of the unillumined past. All things 
 presented themselves to his imagination in some forbid- 
 ding aspect. The Virtues were gaunt mothers, lean and 
 unloving. The Graces were harlots. The Muses were 
 spectral witches who taught madness. Then he remem- 
 bered the tales he had been told of the vast forests under 
 the sea reaching even to Spain — the forests which had 
 once been a kingdom. Wonderful story, and perhaps 
 all true ! For, not more than two centuries ago, at low 
 tide an old man had seen the very tree-tops. That mys- 
 terious 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 choir of birds in that forest under the sea? 
 They sang songs of the land, and the stars and earthly 
 love. And the singing mixed with the air till he seemed 
 to breathe it. 
 
 "What folly," he exclaimed at the notion; "what 
 folly ! " and laughed aloud. 
 
 Flushed and confused, he turned on his heel toward the 
 town, and there, standing in the path, he saw a little 
 strange old woman, with a pale luminous face and gray 
 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
 
 4 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 
 
 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 frovi London, a little place, 
 hut the pleasantest abode in all that land, in a wood by the 
 side of a mountain, stir 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. " (A ?nadis of Gaul. ) 
 
 "No," said he, drawing a long sigh. "I don't see Mira- 
 flores. " 
 
 " Yes, you do," she said; "it is where the trees are so 
 dense and the smoke is rising. Look again I " 
 
 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 some one made her sad, and so she sings no 
 more. She should have had more courage. For my 
 husband was drowned, and my three sons were drowned, 
 and I still make lace as I did when I was a girl, and I had 
 neither husband nor sons. So long as I have myself I 
 have not lost everything. One should not ask for too 
 much." 
 
 " Are you a lace-maker?" said Robert. 
 
 She nodded her head. 
 
 "I have sold a flounce to the lady at Miraflores," said 
 she. "I was twenty years making it, and it is as fine as 
 a mist. But now I have sold it I am lonely, for all the 
 thoughts I have thought, and all the love I felt, and all 
 the happiness I used to dream of, are there. And I wish 
 I could buy it back again. It will cure her sorrow, but I 
 shall die, monsieur. I am too old to sell life. For my
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 5 
 
 lace is my life — all spun out of my soul. There is no 
 time now for me to begin aiiother flounce like that. Oh, 
 it was so beautiful ! " 
 
 She closed her eyes, but unrestrainable, irrevocable 
 tears escaped and drenched her face. Without a further 
 word she passed on and crept down the stone stairs of 
 the ramparts into the close, dark market-place below, 
 where they were selling pigs. Robert found himself look- 
 ing with curiosity toward Miraflores. Who was this singer 
 who sane no more.'' What was her name.'' On the sand 
 beneath him a young fisherman whom he knew sat clean- 
 ing a boat. 
 
 " I will row to Miraflores," thought Robert. 
 
 *' The white entrance to the park of Miraflores stood " — 
 so we read in Orange's Journal — "at tlie 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 harbor. Its grounds 
 were rich with timber and pathless stretches of green, 
 where marguerites, feathery colza, red clover and a hun- 
 dred 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 forever sang, the sun forever 
 shone, the breeze was the perpetual honeyed 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 disappear like some enchanter's 
 tower, or melt like the radiant clouds which sometimes 
 lend a brief tenderness to the bleak crags of an everlasting 
 mountain. A small chapel surrounded by palm trees 
 stood in the wood not far from a cluster of magnificent 
 firs, in the centre of which one could suppose an altar had
 
 6 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 
 
 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 ter- 
 rify 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. Mira- 
 flores had no history — it was all new — all fresh ; each day 
 the sun seemed to rise for the first time on a just-created 
 earth. There were no yesterdays and no to-morrows. The 
 snow of former years, the lilies of years to come, could 
 neither bury laughter nor sweeten tears. Time seemed a 
 never-ending present, too bright-ethereal to need the radi- 
 ance of hope, or to be darkened by the forebodings of 
 experience. " 
 
 It was in the month of May when Robert came to 
 Miraflores. He rowed from the sea to the river, and, 
 mooring his boat to a post, climbed up the hill seeking he 
 knew not what. And after wandering through a wood, 
 he beheld, on the terrace far above him, a woman read- 
 ing. 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.
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 7 
 
 "Why did you come?" she asked; "are you a 
 stranger ? " 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "You may rest here," she said, "but it is well known in 
 the neighborhood 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 ? " 
 
 " IMy name is Robert." 
 
 "Robert— what?" 
 
 " Orange." 
 
 "Are we compatriots ? " 
 
 "In the City of God — yes."' 
 
 "Where is that?" 
 
 "The City of God is the world as God sees it ! " said 
 Robert. 
 
 She looked at him with deep amazement. 
 
 "What are you ? " she asked. 
 
 "Nothing," said Robert. 
 
 " What are you hoping to be? " 
 
 "A poet." 
 
 "The world wants a statesman," said the woman. 
 
 " I have thought of that, too." 
 
 "Then be a statesman," she said quietly. 
 
 "I have too small a fortune. I must make money 
 first." 
 
 " Why not marry it? That's much quicker." 
 
 He curled his lips. " I have certain ideals," said he. 
 
 " Lord 1 " said she, " so far as that goes I had 'em my- 
 self at your age. You are a dear silly boy, and I am 
 quite fond of you — because you are juGt like me. I
 
 S THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 
 
 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 can- 
 not afford hotels. But I went all over the palace. It is 
 splendid, glittering, regal. It is the architectural emblem 
 ot state-craft. It was built by a king for kings ; it is now 
 a holiday-house where any poor poet, or any good bour- 
 geois and his family, may enjoy their Sunday after- 
 noons." 
 
 "Clearly," said the woman, "you were born for 
 politics." 
 
 " But tell me about yourself," said Robert. 
 
 " I am older than you are," she said. " I am four-and- 
 twenty." 
 
 " Does that matter ? " said the boy. "I want to know 
 your name .? " 
 
 "My name is — " 
 
 She paused, and wrote something on a page which 
 •he tore from her book. She threw it over the railing
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 9 
 
 and it fell at his feet. Picking it up, he read the follow- 
 ing.— 
 " Henriette Marie-Joseph Duboc — known professionally 
 
 as Madame Duboc." 
 
 " 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, Inno- 
 cence.'' ' 
 
 " I do not know. She is dead." 
 
 " Do you live with your father ? " 
 
 "No — with my god-mother." 
 
 " And you are poor ? " 
 
 "I must work for my living." 
 
 " You must come again," she said, " and tell me more 
 about your ambition. I am always here." 
 
 " May I come to-morrow?" 
 
 "Perhaps." 
 
 "And are you always alone?" 
 
 "Alone — always." 
 
 " Ang-el ! " 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. 
 
 "I shall come to-morrow and to-morrow and to- 
 morrow ! " 
 
 "No, "she said, "no. You must not. lam not free." 
 
 "Not free?" 
 
 His look terrified her. She swayed and trembled :
 
 lo THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 
 
 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 
 otit." - 
 
 The calm scene, the quiet air, the murmuring of doves 
 in the distance, worked like a spell. It was not heaven 
 opening, but a vision of earth. He would have enjoyed 
 it irresponsibly — accepting it as a due. But to the 
 woman it was a promise — a blessing dependent on cer- 
 tain conditions. 
 
 " You must work," she said ; "for your age you have 
 done well. But you must do better." 
 
 " I hope so," said the youth. 
 
 "If you come to-morrow, when may I expect you?" 
 
 "At this hour." 
 
 " The view," she replied, "is even clearer in the morn- 
 ing." 
 
 ' ' 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 I " 
 
 " 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.
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. ii 
 
 " I am afraid of you," he said, at once. 
 
 •'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 dor- 
 mant, but in its place he felt that infinite vague longing 
 of the soul for an answering voice. What to him had 
 been the nightingale's note or the coming of May or the 
 blue pinions of a night in June ? What to him were rev- 
 eries at evening or the murmuring serenades of the sum- 
 mer sea? Had he not been alone and solitary — compan- 
 ionless, 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 unforgettable sweetness of love's first 
 rapture ? His happiness lay too deep for song ; even the 
 splash of his oars on the water disturbed the peace of that 
 enthralling hour. 
 
 It was late when he reached home. His god-mother, 
 as he entered the house, peeped, in her little frilled night- 
 cap, over the staircase.
 
 12 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 
 
 " I have put your supper by your bedside," said she ; 
 "but if you want cider you must fetch it from the 
 cellar." 
 
 He kissed his hand to her, and waited till he heard the 
 last echo of her footsteps in the corridor. Then he crept 
 noiselessly to bed, where, with a wild sob of supreme re- 
 lief, of a gladness so great that it weighed upon his heart 
 like grief, he fell asleep. He dreamt that he went to 
 Mirafiores 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 tran- 
 quil. He noticed that her eyes were not, as he had at 
 first supposed, dark blue. They were hazel. 
 
 For some moments neither of them spoke. They were 
 too happy. 
 
 "Of course," said Henriette, touching his face with her 
 fingers suddenly, "this cannot last." 
 
 "Why remind me of that?" he asked; "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 forever. Be philosophical." 
 
 "This is not philosophy — this is drifting." 
 
 "Then why not drift.?" 
 
 "Very well," said she. 
 
 " Would you be willing to live in England.-*" he ob- 
 served. 
 
 " With you— yes." 
 
 He took her hand, and again they plunged together 
 into silence. Presently he explained the simple scheme 
 of their perfect future. He wound up by saying, — 
 
 "What do you think.?" 
 
 " I agree with all you say." 
 
 "Darling! " 
 
 Her eyes filled with tears. "Oh, that it were possible !
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 13 
 
 But this is all mockery, dear love. We see each other as 
 we are not ; we talk of life as it can never be." 
 
 "This is not mockery, and it must be," he declared ; 
 " life is not what we find it, but what we make it." 
 
 She wept, shook her head and repeated, — 
 
 "Oh, that it were possible ! " 
 
 "Speak plainer, my heart. Why is it impossible.?" 
 
 "I am very sorry," she added quickly, "that I wore 
 my best clothes and sat on the terrace yesterday. None 
 of this need have happened. It is such a pity ! " 
 
 " We should not have met," said Robert, quietly, "if 
 it was all to end in bitterness or nothing. I can never 
 love any one 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 warn- 
 ing. 
 
 " 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
 
 14 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 
 
 every year, and there is love in every life ! But it is not 
 always summer, and it is not always the time to love ! " 
 
 "Oh, stay a little while longer!" sobbed Henriette, 
 and she walked weeping by his side to the boat. 
 
 " Oh, stay! " she said, and, stooping down, kissed each 
 oar. He pushed away from the shore. She waved her 
 handkerchief again and again and again. The salt breeze 
 kissed his face, and he woke with a cry. That dream 
 was over. 
 
 He looked around. He lay in his own little room 
 overlooking the quay. It was early morning, but the sun 
 did not shine. A gale was blowing hard, and the sea 
 laughed. Robert pressed Henriette's trinket closer to his 
 heart, and gained courage. What were dreams .-' She was 
 a real woman. He was to see her in a few hours' time. 
 He dressed, and hurried out on the ramparts to look 
 towards Miraflores. No smoke rose above the trees ; 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 1 She's a great cocotte." 
 
 " What is that? " asked Robert. 
 
 " Mo?i Dieu!" said the old woman, "have you never 
 met one ? "
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. ir 
 
 '' 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."
 
 x6 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 
 
 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 disdain- 
 ful 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 honor, and because he could neither 
 see himself betrayed, nor, having been betrayed, forgive 
 her. Why had she been so false ? He would cast himself 
 dying on her threshold, and tell her what a thing it was 
 to play with the souls of men. Perhaps in death he would 
 find great eloquence, and utter words that would sing in 
 her ears — (Oh, those little ears made to be kissed !) — 
 forever ! Then he thought that was perhaps too weak a 
 part to play. He would seek her out, accuse her of her 
 perjfidy, and slay her swiftly before she could woo him 
 into cowardice. The poor boy suffered as all young, 
 ardent, candid creatures must suffer when they make 
 mistakes and are deceived, not by life, but by their own 
 inexperience. Robert's intelligence was too pure in 
 quality to confound even this first overwhelming and ap-
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 17 
 
 parently inexplicable disappointment with any foolish 
 theory adverse to the wisdom of Divine Providence. A 
 sigh certainly escaped his lips that the discipline of life 
 should be so severe, but he never doubted that the trial 
 was a discipline, and a necessary one. He felt, too, that 
 he had deliberately sought an adventure by rowing to the 
 strange villa of Miraflores. Was God to blame because 
 the adventure had ended unhappily? Nay ; the example 
 of the knights of old had taught him a deeper philosophy 
 than the art of whining. He lifted up his head and bit 
 the sob which, in spite of his endeavors, 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 liestowed ; 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 IMarseilles 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 ? "
 
 i8 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 
 
 " I want to go away for a fortnight or three weeks." 
 
 "Where?" 
 
 "To Paris." 
 
 "What for.?" 
 
 " To see some one." 
 
 "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 m^. T cannot tell you 
 more than that." 
 
 Madame Bertin shrugged her shoulders. 
 
 " I will have no nonsense with girls," she said. 
 
 " This is no question of nonsense ; it is very serious." 
 
 Again she shrugged her shoulders. 
 
 ' ' They always say that. I do not care who the woman 
 is — she isn't worth it." 
 
 " Have I said it was a woman ? " 
 
 " Don't prove her bad influence, my dear Robert, 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 youhave 
 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, 
 opening a drawer, found it full of twenty-franc gold 
 pieces. 
 
 " Take one, "said Madame Bertin. "Pay for the gloves,
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 19 
 
 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 won- 
 dered whether she were vexed, and, as he reached the 
 door, he turned round to throw lier 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 interview 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 to Paris, flourishing a stick in 
 his hand, and barely conscious of the light knapsack 
 which he bore strapped across his shoulders. 
 
 He spent eight days on the road — walking some thirty 
 odd miles between each sunrise and sunset, and sleeping 
 at night under hayricks or in carts. He bought his food 
 from the peasants who worked in the fields, or from those 
 who were driving cattle to market. They thought him 
 an artist, and therefore treated him as though he were a 
 lost child roaming through the world at leisure. It was 
 infinitely touching to see the kindness and rough pity of 
 these toiling, tired souls for that lad whose troubles so far 
 had been but a gentle tuning-up of the heart strings. Of 
 pain, of poverty, of adversity, of disease and death he 
 knew nothing, He was eighteen ; he had seen a pretty 
 face, 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 drunk'
 
 20 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 
 
 enness by her side. We may imagine the egoism of this 
 vigorous, round-limbed boy as he tramped along, forget- 
 ting 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 mur- 
 mured a childish prayer — made in rhymes so that it 
 might be readily remembered ; sometimes he v^diistled 
 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 hght or two with some louts who inter- 
 fered with him ; he punched a few heads and received a 
 blow on his own nose. It must be owned that he en- 
 joyed himself thoroughly, and it was not until he saw the 
 lights ot 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 compara- 
 tively quiet. The rioting and gayety associated with every 
 great capital were within doors ; the theatres and music- 
 halls had not yet released their patrons ; the cafes were 
 deserted and the boulevards forlorn. Robert knew Paris 
 well. He had spent a year there when he was fifteen, 
 and he experienced none of the emotions which are 
 supposed to overwhelm the countryman when he enters, 
 for the first time, the most brilliant, the most beautiful, 
 the most compelling in its influence of all cities in the 
 world. Robert at that moment was blind to every sight, 
 and 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
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 21 
 
 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 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 Hen- 
 riette Duboc was appearing for one week only at Zes Pa- 
 pillons. His head swam : he read the name a dozen times. 
 He had never before seen it in print. It seemed as ter- 
 rible as the mysterious writing on the wall of King Bel- 
 shazzars palace — Madame Henriette Duhoc. Then, indeed, 
 he was able to swallow a little wine, if only to assure him- 
 self that he was not dreaming. He paid his bill, and, rush-
 
 22 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 
 
 ing 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 trem- 
 bling. What painful sensations surged in his breast ! what 
 piercing thoughts ! 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 dis- 
 appointed 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 understandings. So, without dwelling on each par- 
 ticular pang or each wild sad idea which tortured our sen- 
 sitive 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 Papillo?is. 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 1 
 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 — wick-
 
 THE SCHOOL l'(JR SAINTS. 23 
 
 edness. Les Papillons is the resort of every husband who 
 wishes to show his wife or her lady friends the tempta- 
 tions 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 discre- 
 tion. 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 Aniadis and Oriana. It was arranged by a 
 poet whose name was associated with that bloodless 
 effeminacy known to moderns as rnedicEvalism, yet wholly 
 alien to the genius of the Middle Ages. 
 
 "Surely," thought Robert, as he read the heroic names 
 oi Aniadis and Oriana, "surely this is Fate! Will they 
 give the scene at Miraflores .? But oh, what irony that 
 any one so faithless 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, endeavor 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 a^ed 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 liis 
 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 armor is seen bounding- 
 over the rocks. And what a warrior ! He wears a wig
 
 24 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 
 
 of long red hair, a helmet surmounted by nodding plumes ; 
 his girlish features are whitened ; his elongated legs are 
 padded into an unnatural symmetry. When the hermit 
 invites him to draw near, he trips toward him like a ballet 
 master. He touches his sword, glances upward in an at- 
 titude of devotion, and swears an inarticulate oath which 
 every spectator can readily believe means vengeance. 
 The orchestra again intervenes. The note this time shud- 
 ders and pipes. The hermit points to the left as a mon- 
 ster 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 
 carefully gracious attitudes, the green light and the slow 
 music, it is clear that they are the victims of some fell 
 enchantment. The warrior enters. He endeavors to 
 arouse the prisoners. He clasps his hands and shakes his 
 head with horror at their condition. A dreadful tinkling 
 of tambourines is heard. He looks. The back of the 
 grotto seems to melt into a golden cobweb ; the cobweb 
 expands ; the warrior draws his sword ; a woman is seen. 
 It is she ! It is Henriette ! Robert almost sprang from 
 his seat. She wears a robe of gold tinsel ; she shines with 
 a hundred false gems ; she smiles ; the warrior dashes 
 forward to thrust his sword into her white, too 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 SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 25 
 
 The "legend" bore no kind of resemblance to the 
 Amadi's of Gaul, and its falseness to the great original 
 marred, for Robert, even such merits as it may have pos- 
 sessed in the way of mere scenic effect. For the moment 
 it seemed to him that he had misread, not a book only, 
 but the whole universe. He doubted his own judgment, 
 his own feeling, his own sight ; even his ideals were de- 
 ceptions : 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 1 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." 
 
 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 ; "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."
 
 26 THE SCHOOT, FOR SAINTS. 
 
 "I know I am only a boy," said the lad, "but I know 
 what honor 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 be- 
 lieve you are much older than you pretend to be. To 
 stand there lecturing ! And I, like a fool, permit it ! 
 Mon Dieul is it conceivable? A little stupid peasant 
 takes an excursion ticket to Paris, and — " 
 
 "Pardon me," said Robert, "I walked here." 
 
 " Walked here ! " screamed Madame Duboc. ' ' Walked 
 here — on foot from Brittany — to see me.'' " 
 
 "Yes," said Robert, "to see you and tell you what I 
 think of you." 
 
 "But it is miles and miles." 
 
 "I was in no hurry, madame. It is no happiness to 
 me to say harsh things to you." 
 
 The accent in which he uttered these words was in it- 
 self 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 in- 
 nocent 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 sympathy, "that is what I, too, would have 
 said to some one 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 eyebrows and pinned a 
 false curl under her crown of false diamonds. 
 
 " How do I look } " she asked.
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 27 
 
 "You are always beautiful!" answered Robert, 
 choking. 
 
 " If 1 were so bad as you say 1 am, " she sighed, ' ' could 
 I look so nice? Of course not. Wicked people are al- 
 ways frightful. Just notice my mouth — these curves tell 
 something after all. They mean generosity. Oh, Ro- 
 bert, 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 shou Id be some one's princess, some one's ideal, 
 some one'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. 
 
 "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 fol- 
 lowed his one day of love. His heart trembled, and the 
 air seemed sweet with the perfume of the woods at Mira- 
 flores. Henriette's face — stained though it was by paint 
 — still retained something of that innocence, virginal and 
 innate, which is the one permanent charm of any counte- 
 nance. Robert longed to throw himself at her feet and 
 entreat her — to do what.'' He did not know.
 
 28 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 
 
 "It is not yet too late," he said ; " you are so young 
 and all this is so vulgar ! " 
 
 "Vulgar ? " she said, opening her eyes. " Vulgar ? " 
 
 "Yes. That tawdry dress, the false jewels, the false 
 sentiment, the caterwauling in the orchestra. It is abom- 
 inable ! " 
 
 "I like it," she said; it is gay. It amuses me, and 
 /amuse all the tired, overworked people in the audience. 
 Don't be so lamentably serious." 
 
 "But you don't understand. I do not love you for 
 what you appeared to be, but for what you really are. 
 You are too good for this." 
 
 "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 any one 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 under- 
 stand me ! "
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 29 
 
 She yawned. 
 
 "Everybody understands calf-love," said she. 
 
 His throat grew dry. 
 
 " I don't wish to be unkind," continued Madame Duboc, 
 "but I am too tired now to consider any one's feelings 
 except my own. You mustn't be stupid. You look as 
 white as a sheet and as cold as a gravestone. 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 ardor. 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 purgatory. 
 
 "Oh, Robert," she murmured, devouring his face with 
 her gaze, "wasn't it sweet at Miraflores. I can see 
 you now coming toward me — up that little path through 
 the trees. Do you remember .'' I thought you were a 
 wandering angel sent down from Paradise to call me to 
 repentance. And I was so unhappy that day. I had been 
 crying for hours and hours. I blessed you for coming, 
 I said prayers all that evening in my little chapel. And 
 about ten o'clock. ..." 
 
 " Your lover came," said Robert, gravely. His whole 
 nature w^as 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 ! "
 
 30 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 
 
 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 painted women, each with the same face, 
 the same smile, the same form, and all moving with a 
 terrible, inhuman precision, at the same moment, with 
 the same features, the same blandishments. 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 sensation 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 mo- 
 ments when the mind has a preternatural quickness of 
 comprehension — grasped at this knowledge, and that 
 divinitv within him which is — could we but realize it — in 
 all mortals, drew back disdainful from the commonness 
 of the merely human drama — the eternal duet of man the 
 lover, and woman the beloved. 
 
 " At Miraflores," said he, " we were like spirits in the 
 sunlight. God was there. But here it is hellish — 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 iriste and very rude." 
 
 Robert bowed, 
 
 " I am going now," said he. 
 
 " And v/hat will you do .'* " 
 
 ' ' Pray for you ! " 
 
 *' What.?" cried Henriette: "what?"
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 31 
 
 ' ' 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 mir- 
 ror, 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, al- 
 most sisterly affection. 
 
 " Pray if you like," she exclaimed; "T 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 favor. 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 abbe, although he worked 
 real miracles. Be a brave fool, and don't listen to any 
 one. Just continue your prayers, and — who knows? — 
 you may yet meet me in heaven,"
 
 32 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 
 
 During this speech she stood with her hands still rest- 
 ing on his shoulders, and her gaze fixed intently on his 
 face. 
 
 " We make a handsome couple," said she, " and if we 
 had wings — " 
 
 They heard a heavy step on the staircase without. 
 
 " You must go now," said Henriette. 
 
 The door opened, and a panting woman flounced into 
 the room. 
 
 " M. le Comte is coming," said she. 
 
 Madame Duboc's lips parted into a forced smile. 
 
 "Adieu, cher Robert," she murmured, "and repeat all 
 the pretty prayers you know. I want to be always 
 beautiful, always happy, and always loved. Adieu." 
 
 "Adieu," said Robert, white with sorrow. 
 
 He turned and left her. 
 
 Henriette re-powdered her neck and arms. 
 
 "Zg pauvre bete gar f on," said she, " // a dti cceur ei . . . 
 il est beau comrne tin petit amour I " 
 
 " A/ou Dieu !" said \iev /enime de chambre, handing her 
 the carmine, "is madame going to cry about a child.'" 
 
 Henriette's eyes were brimming over with tears. 
 
 "Platonic love," said she, "gets on my nerves. My 
 head aches."
 
 THE bCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 33 
 
 CHAPTER HI. 
 
 Robert groped his way down to the staircase, through 
 the narrow passage and into the theatre, where two 
 young women clad in brief skirts and enormous wigs 
 were dancing a breakdown. He went back 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 sum- 
 mer 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 vul- 
 gar 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 un- 
 premeditated 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 forever separated. Let 
 her be mine some day I " 
 
 The blood rushed into his cheeks, and, trembling be- 
 tween a vague longing and a deep dread, he rose from 
 his place and hastened from the auditorium, wholly 
 unable to restrain the tumult of sensations vvhich now 
 3
 
 34 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 
 
 possessed him. What if he should never see Henriette 
 again ? What if, humanly speaking, she were never to 
 be more than a woman whose shadow had fallen but 
 momentarily on his life? Had she not melted into his 
 existence and become an 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 presentiment 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 
 swinging felt 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 scene in 
 response to an enthusiastic recall, advanced toward him 
 with every sign of astonishment. 
 
 "Parflete I " said Robert, in a tone of dismay. 
 
 " C'esl hien lui ■' Robert, enfiji ■' " said Parflete, with 
 a disagreeable smile, which was half conciliatory and 
 half a menace, " depuis quand es-iu id r' Je sm's bien 
 heureux de te voir ■' " 
 
 "I wonder that you have not forgotten me!" an- 
 swered the boy. Parflete was one of his god-mother's 
 friends who had once visited her for a month in Brittany 
 when she had fled thither with her jewels and some price- 
 less reminiscences of the Court of Napoleon I. He was 
 a person who went everywhere and was acquainted with 
 every one, because he never stayed in any place too long, 
 nor attempted to know any one too well. He had been 
 the tutor of a royal duke till he inherited, from an unex- 
 pected source, a handsome property, when he became
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 35 
 
 instead the duke's best patron. He lived in Paris — if a 
 being so restless could be said to live in any quarter of 
 the globe — and he had shown himself kindly disposed 
 toward Robert during his schooldays in that capital. 
 
 The boy, however, had never responded to his interest, 
 and he felt now that there was something ill-omened in 
 this sudden encounter with a man whom, for some 
 reason, he had always tried to avoid. He found it im- 
 possible to affect any pleasure at the meeting, and shrank 
 back from the other's feigned cordiality. But he replied 
 to his eager questions when he was allowed the necessary 
 time for a reply. 
 
 "Let us sit down," said Parflete, dropping the theatrical 
 French which he usually adopted when he had no time 
 to be civil in his own tongue. He chose a red velvet 
 sofa at some distance from the string-band which was 
 playing in the/qyer. (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 ' Authors ' on a 
 novel cover, and they talk like a bad translation of the 
 Goncourts ! They become the solemn incarnation of 
 Le Petit Journal pour rire. They think Flaubert — that 
 sweet singer of artificial emotions — the greatest of the 
 prophets. They are always wondering why they were 
 not born either in the fifteenth century or the eighteenth 
 century. They cannot be certain whether Dante was or 
 was not a great poet. Shakespeare gives them the head- 
 ache. They like those authors best who had euphonious 
 names and who have left but few works ! In other
 
 36 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 
 
 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 himself, "this boy will 
 become famous. I must not lose sight of him, and I 
 must give him some advice." 
 
 *' When are you going to Oxford .? " he asked aloud. 
 
 "At the end of this year." 
 
 "It won't suit you. What you need is not Plato but 
 Bacon. Plato would play the devil with you. You arc 
 a visionary as it is. You must go to Cambridge and 
 read the Kozmm Organum. Bacon is a man's philosopher. 
 Plato is for demigods and criminals. Heavens ! how 
 you resemble your father in profile ! It was my good 
 forttme 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 ? " 
 
 "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,
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 37 
 
 though few indeed attain the grandeur of madness. To 
 be seriously mad is a fine thing ; it shows that the gods 
 have had somewhat to say to you. This morbid reluc- 
 tance to hear the truth and to face life is, however, both 
 silly and weak. Vou 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 spend- 
 ing a few days at the Embassy, and I can present you to 
 some valuable acquaintances. I also wish to give you 
 somethin<r for vour god-mother. A7< revoir. 1 have to 
 lake 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 coniite 
 — the Archduke Charles, the Comte de Brie, Lord Reek- 
 age, Henriette and myself. It is the birthday of Brigit — 
 la petite Brigittc ■' " 
 
 " 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 
 //lo/ tale of woe. An re^mr i\^?aw. Come to-morrow. Ati 
 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 Brittany to Paris in 
 
 *i^>k<L>i.4:
 
 38 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 
 
 the hope of saving her soul — a soul which all the world 
 knew and jeered at. And Parflete would grin and twist 
 the story into a good anecdote for his journal. In the 
 mortification of this thought, the lad's face grew scarlet. 
 He longed to escape into some desolate place where there 
 were neither men nor women, where there was no one — 
 no one save God, Who understood everything and never 
 laughed. His feeling for Henriette turned to hatred,' and 
 back again to love. Why should a last painful impres- 
 sion blot out his remembrance of that one perfect day at 
 Miraflores ? 
 
 "Alas!" he told himself, "she knows too well how 
 deeply I love her. Yet is that a reason why she should 
 deceive me and despise me?" 
 
 He dashed away the tears which sprang up to his 
 eyes, but as he wandered out into the street, he saw 
 nothing before him except Henriette's face and her fare- 
 well glance — ironical, wondering and compassionate. 
 He had not been unprepared for that news of the Arch- 
 duke Charles. He knew that there was a man ; his 
 name and rank mattered but little. The real blow came 
 from little Brigit, aged six, who was learning her cate- 
 chism ! 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 w'hat it lost in romance. Humor 
 took up the place of sentiment. He was able to smile at 
 himself, and, before he reached the little hotel in the 
 Avenue Carnot, where Madame Bertin would, did she 
 write at all, address his letters, he lost the rather oppress- 
 ive feeling that Henriette was his fate, his destiny by the 
 unalterable fiat of the gods ! He had made a mistake.
 
 THE SCHOOT. FOR SAINTS. 39 
 
 Clearly she was the fate of Wrexham Parfiete's frieiid, that 
 Archduke Charles. The discovery was at first humiliat- 
 ing — although he remembered that young Romeo, too, had 
 loved a Rosalind 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 knowledge of the invisible 
 God. It does not invariably follow that beings endowed 
 with this spiritual perception are outwardly holier, or in- 
 wardly more pure than those less favored. The men 
 who have seen, in rare moments of inspiration, the vision 
 of the Eternal, have not had fewer temptations, nor have 
 they sinned less deeply — less wilfully — than their blinder 
 brothers. 
 
 Robert, in his early boyhood, had been as inquisitive 
 after evil, as undisciplined in mind as any other lad, but 
 his heart had been quick to respond to great ideas. He 
 liked to think of himself as the player of a noble part. 
 He thought the thoughts of his favorite 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 be- 
 came, 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.
 
 40 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 
 
 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 ce»-re 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 ne.xt morning. 
 
 He rose early, and commenced a long letter to his god- 
 mother. The sentiment v.'hich existed between Madame 
 Bertin and himself was of too formal a nature to have 
 been particularly warm. She had always seemed to him 
 a woman who exacted — not merely from himself, but 
 from the whole world — every outward mark of considera- 
 tion, and, by exaggerating the visible courtesies he 
 sought to delude himself into the belief that he really 
 loved her. Perhaps he succeeded. Certainly he never 
 permitted himself to examine the bond which seemed to 
 unite their two lives. If it was slight, he preferred to re- 
 main in ignorance of its actual fragility. She was clever, 
 and when he was in correspondence with her, he found 
 it easy to express his thoughts in an intimate strain. 
 There was something manlike 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 stiiig 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
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 41 
 
 message from one solitude to another. Each led an inde- 
 pendent and isolated existence. The woman lived in the 
 past, the boy in his dreams ; but her sphere was peopled 
 with the dead, whereas Robert's held those brilliant, airy 
 creatures of the fancy who cannot die because they never 
 come to life. 
 
 In the news he now wrote, he made no reference to 
 Henriette Duboc, but he dwelt at some length on the 
 meeting with Parfiete, 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 circum- 
 stances, Robert felt that, since Parfiete 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 gener- 
 ation for an enchanting manner and remarkable literary 
 gifts. While he was never known to fail in his diplo- 
 matic duties, his house was a rendezvous, not for distin- 
 guished foreigners only, but for such of his own compa- 
 triots who had either brains or charm to recommend them. 
 He delighted the capricious French republic, while he 
 represented the best traditions of the English monarchy. 
 To snobs he was a prince, and a haughty one ; but to 
 men he was a man and a scholar. Not every visitor 
 who crossed his threshold was either a genius or a noble. 
 Not every woman whom he took into dinner was either 
 a beauty, a wit, or the incarnation of a pedigree ; but the 
 people who were welcome at the British Embassy dur- 
 ing 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,
 
 42 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 
 
 four fools, several thousand very clever persons, and 
 hundreds who were, at least, absurd. 
 
 At the moment of Robert's visit, the house-party was 
 smaller than usual. In addition to Parflete, there were 
 two male visitors only, Lady Locrine's nephews — sons 
 of the Earl of Almouth ; — Lord Reckage and his twin- 
 brother, Hercy Berenville, who was a cripple. Lady 
 Locrine's own son was an undergraduate at Oxford. Her 
 daughter Amy, however, was just nineteen, and enjoy- 
 ing 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 inter- 
 view 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 an harangue on Greek music. 
 
 " * The Greeks,' he was saying, ' regarded music as a natural 
 expression of sentiment; they wrote airs and simple themes. 
 They did not show their skill in counterpoint and ornamenta- 
 tion.' When he caught siglit of Parflete and myself, he blushed, 
 and made me feel quite happy by saying that he was ' boring 
 every one with his usual rot ! ' 
 
 " Lady Locrine wore a gray silk (I noticed this at once on 
 your account), and a few fine jewels. Her hair is white, her 
 eyes are black and piercing — not unkind, but certainly in search 
 of truth. She was most civil, and she has one of those agree- 
 able fatigued voices. Poor Hercy Berenville has five times his 
 brother's brains, but unhappily only half his leg ! I hear that 
 he was born so. Parflete tells me that he tried two terms at 
 Eton, but his health broke down. He has now four tutors at 
 home, and they are looking for a companion of his own age to 
 work with him. Reckage — his twin-brother — is an odd boy, 
 whose face shows a pretty even mixture of cunning and sincer- 
 ity. 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 
 
 * The story of Amy Locrine has been written by Robert Orange, but 
 the work may not yet be published as many of the personages involved 
 in it are still living.
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 43 
 
 think that he cares much about either, for his eyes were always 
 wandering to Lady Locrine's book table. Hercy, on the other 
 hand, fingered a curious reprint of the Fioretti, prattled about 
 the thirteenth century, and sat by the window craning his neck 
 to see every petticoat that passed. When he offered any re- 
 mark to his brother on the subject of horseflesh, it was always 
 an original, unexpected observation which showed knowledge 
 as opposed to Reckage's jargon — taken second-hand from 
 trainers, who, ol 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. It fortune should fail you, it would 
 be a calamity, but never let it be said that>'<?« have failed 
 fortune, for that would be an irretrievable dishonor.' 
 
 " 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 breakfast at the Embassy. 
 Lord Locrine is handsome in a curling way — his hair and his 
 beard, his eyelashes, his nostrils and his moustache all curl. 
 Once I nearly addressed him as Hyperion. His talk was equally 
 elegant and decorative. Each phrase he used was either/r/j-,?, 
 or ondule, and all were parfiime. He has the knack of utter- 
 ing 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 
 humor. Her laugh is hearty and unrestrained, but then she 
 looks well laughing. Laughter ruins many women. Hercy 
 Berenville was my neighbor 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."
 
 44 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 
 
 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 Hved, for the greater part of the time, at his moth- 
 er's dower-house in Hampshire. 
 
 "This," wrote Parflete at the conclusion of his letter, 
 ' • is the great opportunity of your life. " 
 
 Madame Bertin, on receiving Robert's news, telegraphed 
 her advice from Brittany : — 
 
 " Madness to refuse." 
 
 The boy himself needed no persuasion in the matter. 
 He accepted the situation, and, with Hercy, left Paris 
 for England early in the following week.
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 45 
 
 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 
 inspiration. We hear that both Hercy and himself be- 
 came 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 con- 
 fidential letters in all that time was Madame Bertin, and 
 she, to his sorrow, died before he had spent a month in 
 his altered circumstances. 
 
 He composed two novels, but if the events and persons 
 with which they deal bear any relation to his own im- 
 mediate 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 favor 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 the individual of whom he wrote is not the hero 
 of the romance, but a subordinate character — a certain- 
 Michael Crabbe.
 
 46 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 
 
 "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 color from the sky, and their un- 
 fathomable mystery tVom 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 gayety 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 
 tor two hours before the household or his schoolfellows stirred. 
 He was permitted a room to himself, and, in dark weather, he 
 studied by candle-light. He spent the greater part of his pocket- 
 money in candles and second-hand books. When, through 
 interruptions or fatigue, he failed to work twelve hours a day, 
 he would feel, for some reason, unfaithful, and he always made 
 good, by additional exertions, the lost time. What a change, 
 then, was his life in England ! At the Earl of Illingdale's man- 
 sion 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 lived the life of a king without 
 responsibilities, and his house was a court where there were 
 neither ceremonies, penalties, favorites, nor spies. In this 
 rippling, ever-widening circle of acquaintances, Crabbe found it 
 difficult to maintain his moral equilibrium. He has found, in a 
 measure, the realization of his early romantic fancies ; he was, 
 indeed, a dependent, but he shared in every pleasure and privi- 
 lege 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 
 gypsy. 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 tor 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 De- 
 bright — 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
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 47 
 
 love-affairs, and he was a dandy in his dress. His tailor's bill 
 was long, and his salary was barely sufficient for his bootmaker, 
 his hatter, and his shirts. He thought of entering the army. 
 He read all he could find about Sir Philip Sydney and Lord 
 Essex. Then he studied Beethoven, and wished to be a great 
 composer. He was supposed to play the violin with skill and 
 feeling. He read deeply in German metaphysic, Russian 
 politics, English art, Gothic architecture and the Fathers of 
 the Church. There was no limit to his interests and aspirations. 
 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 woman were a little to blame. They told him so, 
 and he swallowed it all — for a time, at all events. He soon 
 learnt to put more trust in his mirror. There were periods 
 when he became bitter at the comparison of his own poverty 
 and few advantages with the wealth and favors lavished upon 
 his associates. The thought that, even with the highest intel- 
 lectual gifts, he could but hope to end his life at the social point 
 froni which they — even as fools and incompetent — started, filled 
 him with something — remote, indeed, from jealousy, but very 
 near despair. • Poor men,' thought he, ' who succeed in public 
 life, are called, at best, adventurers ! It was not so in the age 
 of chivalry. The kingdom of Art is now the one realm where 
 might makes the king.' But his health was too sound to sup- 
 port, for any length of time, such enervating moods. His am- 
 bition soon centred itself on a more permanent object than 
 fashionable popularity. The phase of uncertainty and worldli- 
 ness 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 hu- 
 man beings. 
 
 "Second: — The love of Nature : a desire for solitude : the- 
 oretic sympathy with mankind in the past, — the heroes and 
 heroines of history. 
 
 " Third : — The love of humanity : a pleasure in Nature : a 
 right understanding of poetry : a firm faith in God's wisdom 
 and a fierce desire to take a manly part in the drama of life. 
 
 " In time he earned enough money by his pen to pay his debts, 
 but it was a slow and chastening business. It cost him the good 
 looks for which he had once taken, perhaps, too much thought." 
 
 It should be remembered, in reading the foregoing ex- 
 tract, that Orange, at middle-age, was looking back upon
 
 48 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 
 
 himself as a young man between eighteen and eight-and- 
 twenty. He was not one to spare his own weaknesses, 
 and the general tone of the composition will be found to 
 be, at all ])oints, ironical. In the Memoirs of Hercy 
 Berenville, we tind Orange described as being, at the age 
 of thirty, '"extraordinarily handsome, with a fine, erect 
 figure, and easy, though undemonstrative, manners. 
 When he chose to exert himself, few people could resist 
 his influence. His words were often severe, but his per- 
 sonal 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 quick- 
 ness 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 liter- 
 ary 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 Letnaitre, 
 which dealt in brilliant style with the adventures of a 
 voung politician, Robert was offered the post of secretary 
 t(^ Reckage, who was attempting to draw public attention 
 toward himself by making ^\•itty speeches in the House of 
 Conmions. 
 
 That Robert's own ambition should have soared intcj 
 nu>re dramatic scenes than the lonely path of literature 
 seems not to have occurred to his friends. In tlie cor- 
 respondence of Lord Reckage we find the greatest aston- 
 ishment expressed when '"Orange, a most able, learned, 
 but ascetic fellow," offered himself as a candidate to the 
 electors of Xorbet Royal,
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 49 
 
 Hercy, on the other hand, writes to Lady Locnne : — 
 
 " I have been expecting this for some time. It is the misfor- 
 tune 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 Par- 
 liament because he has a clear head and the gift of seeming — 
 when necessary — an untravelled Saxon, You would often sup- 
 pose that he shared our foolish national belief that the average 
 Briton's point of view is 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 com- 
 mand 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 this 
 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. 
 May 19. — To-day I was ascending the famous double staircase 
 4
 
 50 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 
 
 in the castle, when, hearing voices which reminded me most 
 painfully of my boyhood, I looked up, and saw Wrexham Par- 
 flete with a lady. I thought it was Henriette Duboc. She is 
 Parflete's wife ; they are on their honeymoon ; she is only six- 
 teen, and she is poor Henriette's daughter. She is more beau- 
 tiful 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 rest- 
 less. 
 
 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 griet, his futile resemblance to all the portraits 
 of Horace Walpole ! ' This, as a matter of fact, is true. It is 
 extraordinary. He then went on to say that, ' Macaulay never 
 understood Walpole. Poor Walpole's good spirits were as 
 forced as Gray's melancholy. Gray was by nature cheerful ; 
 that was why he composed an elegy. Walpole was sad, so he 
 wrote the wittiest letters in our language. Walpole was to his 
 (Parflete's) mind the greater man of the two. But the Saxons 
 always distrusted wit. It offended their moral pomposity, etc. , 
 etc' All this time his bride was waiting for him, and he had not 
 so much as presented us to her. Hercy and I both remained, 
 by a common instinct, with our heads uncovered ; there was 
 something in the child's whole bearing which seemed to demand 
 unusual signs of respect and deference. It was a shock to both 
 of us when he said, with a revolting smirk, ' This is my wife.' 
 He told Hercy later on, while I was showing Mrs Parflete the 
 room in which Moli^re gave Le Bourgeois Gejitilhomme, that 
 she was the daughter of Henriette Duboc and the Archduke 
 Charles. You must have seen her, la petite Brigitte. After the 
 Archduke's marriage and Henriette's death, Brigit was sent to a 
 convent at Tours. Parflete, by her mother's will, w-as appointed 
 sole guardian. The Archduke, to use Parflete's villainous
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 51 
 
 phrase, 'behaved well," and a handsome dot was settled on 
 the child. I absolve Parflete from mercenary motives in the 
 matter. His own iortune (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 tiie whole intrigue. It can but end m 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 mo- 
 ments 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 an- 
 other 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 it 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, 1 
 would have you like none of these, dear Beau.* 
 " More of this to-morrow. 
 
 '• Yours, R. O." 
 
 When Berenville arrived in Paris, two days after the 
 despatch of the foregoing, he was accompanied by the 
 Parfletes. 
 
 "Why have they come } " asked Robert, in great irrita- 
 
 * Lord Reckage's nickname was an abbreviation of Beauclerk.
 
 52 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 
 
 tion. " 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 Par- 
 flete. The situation is impossible. " 
 
 "He is all right." said Hercy, '• and as for me. I am 
 thankful to see that he is not uxorious. I couldn't stand 
 it. You must remember that he is a married bachelor. 
 Besides, you needn't talk to him. Talk to Mrs. She's 
 refreshing. " 
 
 Hercy was taking his usual rest on the sofa while 
 Orange was pacing the floor. The invalid fixed his eyes 
 on his former tutor's broad shoulders and fine figure, then 
 he hurled his own crutch across the room. 
 
 "I tell you," continued Robert, "the whole thing is un- 
 seemly. 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 I will bet you anything that 
 Mars was a god of no ideas. Education gives a man 
 ideas." 
 
 " But love alone can give true vitality," said Robert. 
 "With ideas and vitality there is little that men cannot 
 achieve. Parflete. however, is something not more but 
 less than a man .' '" 
 
 "We must make the best of him now. I have asked 
 them to dinner, and afterwards we are going to Les Pa- 
 pillons. " 
 
 " You will take her to Zes Papillons ? "
 
 THE SCHOOT. FOR SAINTS. 53 
 
 "Why not? Her mother made the fame of the place. 
 She must know all about her mother. I know what this 
 means. You have been reading one of those footling old 
 Fathers ! As Parflete said the other day — he is most 
 generous where you are concerned — as Parflete said, 
 'Orange has real learning and great abilities, but he is a 
 Platonist.' " 
 
 ' ' What is that ? " said Robert, grimh% 
 
 " 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." 
 
 " If a man is evil to himself to whom is he good? "said 
 Robert at once. 
 
 " He is a very decent, amusing fellow. He gave up a 
 great deal to marry the relation of a great man. But he 
 can't talk all day about samplers, and the bon Dieu and 
 the Blessed Lady ; and, at present, that is Mrs. P. 's great 
 line. You are a scholar yourself. How should you 
 amuse a wife of sixteen who cannot understand the least 
 of your thoughts? I don't know what you would have 
 done in Parflete's circumstances, but I can guess ! " 
 
 " Parflete ought never to have married ; but marriage, 
 when a crime, is a crime which it is criminal to repent of." 
 
 "He doesn't repent — he merely drinks a little more 
 cognac than usual.'' 
 
 "You grant that ? And what makes this man pecul- 
 iarly 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
 
 54 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 
 
 principles. What would 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 knownjyou." 
 
 " I do not forget that ; yet, w^hen 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 vi^as acting in every way to my advantage." 
 
 Hercy's face had undergone many changes during the 
 speech. It was not in his nature to own himself either 
 astonished or in the wrong. But he was conscious of a 
 deep disgust for Parflete and his methods. He made up 
 his mind to cut that gentleman forever — though, in per- 
 forming 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 conversation between 
 the allied wits of Europe."
 
 TlIK SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 55 
 
 "Yet you were pitying Parfiete ! " 
 
 " 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 cox- 
 comb with the enchanting young wife. It is enough to 
 give him la colique de Miserere ! When he quotes poetry 
 to her, I could howl ! " 
 
 "Madame Bertin had a pet toad which she kept in a 
 glass cage and fed on butterflies, " said Robert. ' ' Parflete 
 reminds me of that delicate reptile. I tell you I hate him, 
 and I don't see why I should like him. I think he must 
 be a diseased doll. Do I want him to run after his wife 
 with Provencal roses on his shoe and a guitar slung over 
 his shoulders .' Do I ask him to ape the boyish devotion 
 of Daphnis to Chloe .^ But his attitudes, and his epigrams, 
 and his curling little fingers — the wretched homunculus ! 
 As for the lady — she cannot like him — although virtuous 
 women are incomprehensible in their tastes. They will 
 cling to men whom the good Samaritan would scarcely 
 touch with the tongs. But, all other considerations apart, 
 if you have the heart to dine and laugh with a doomed 
 creature — knowing her to be doomed — I have not. To 
 me it is sacrilege. I may not help her. And to look on, 
 an idle, curious witness, — I cannot do it! " 
 
 " I haven't got your uncomfortable gift of prophecy ! " 
 said Hercy. 
 
 "You have just exactly that which I have,'' rejoined 
 Robert, "a knowledge of life and human nature. But 
 Parflete amuses you, and so you deliberately blind your 
 eyes to a character which, in your soul, you must despise. " 
 
 "Oh, do come off! " said Hercy, feeling himself cor- 
 rectly explained and becoming, in consequence, both 
 angry and depressed. " I never went in for minute self-
 
 56 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 
 
 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 — 1 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 ! " 
 
 " I would thou wer/ cold or hot," said Robert, "so be- 
 cause thou art lukewarm, I will spue thee out of my mouth." 
 
 "This is too much,'' exclaimed Hercy ; "you are furi- 
 ous about some imaginary falling-off or declension or 
 some such drivel which you think you have discovered 
 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 Reckage or myself. Reckage and I both know 
 it. We have noticed it again and again." 
 
 Hercy's countenance showed a very cunning expres- 
 sion, and Orange had to endure the mortifying reflection 
 that he had been studied and summed up by these two 
 contemporaries who had always seemed to him mere lads, 
 and, as it were, his pupils. He felt by so many years the 
 senior of both. He soon forgot the momentary prick to his 
 pride, however, in the thought that Hercy had probably 
 hit upon the truth. Certainly he had been much cast 
 down by his self-communings while alone in Paris and 
 after he had torn himself away from Chambord. He 
 started now at the phrase torn hwisel/ which now rose 
 spontaneously in his mind as he thought of the sudden 
 departure from his friends and the fixed plans of many a 
 week. He had abandoned Hercy, he had abandoned his 
 work, an historical treatise ; he had fled like a thief in the 
 night from a scene that was fair and a day that was 
 glorious. And the reasons which he gave to himself for 
 his conduct were these — a dislike of Wrexham Parflete 
 and a quarrel with Hercy. Some things must not be
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 57 
 
 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 neces- 
 sary to probe deeper into his feelings. 
 
 "I say," said Hercy, not caring for the stern silence 
 which had followed his last remark, "the Bfiau 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 Parfiete must look after his wife." 
 
 "This is most ungenerous," said Robert, with a dark 
 flush; "you know that I have never left you alone to 
 struggle through a crowd, or anywhere else. Aumerle 
 was with you at Chambord. He promised me never 
 to leave you. No one could be more thoughtful than 
 Charles Aumerle." 
 
 "I hate being shunted off on to good-natured other 
 people's people 1 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 knoiv it for a dead certainty, is the 
 thing plus fori que nioi.^' 
 
 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 recognized
 
 58 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 
 
 now, one overlooked motive in the rather tangled string 
 of circumstances which had led to his leaving Chambord. 
 He had striven to sever all connection between Hercy 
 and the Parfletes. Poor Berenville, as all invalids, took 
 violent and capricious fancies for new acquaintances, or 
 even for old acquaintances under new conditions ; yet, 
 as all invalids, also, he wanted to be quite sure that one 
 particular friend was always in the background to soothe 
 him when the new-comers proved unsympathetic, or to 
 help him away when their society palled. Robert knew 
 that he could effect his purpose only by his own with- 
 drawal from the field. Hercy would follow him to the 
 ends of the earth, but so long as Robert remained in 
 sight, no matter how vexed in spirit and severe of mien, 
 his charge would amuse himself 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 honor. It had been a question of instinct — 
 not close reasoning. 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
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 59 
 
 to all entreaties to return, immediately took to his heels 
 and darted off as though in pursuit of some enticing ob- 
 ject, 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. 1 was your friend then and 1 am your friend 
 still, unless you go on in this way and make it impossible 
 for me to remain one. You knew 1 did not Ifke 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 con- 
 fidence or break with me altogether. There must be 
 some common ground on which we can stand. We must 
 agree that certain things are right, and certain things are 
 wrong, otherwise, all is over between us. The vicious, 
 self-indulgent life which commends itself to Parflete, is, 
 to my mind, scandalous. If you, on the other hand, 
 think it a fine thing for a man to lose his own soul and 
 corrupt others by his example, all that is left to be said is 
 this — it is a parting of the ways. I must go my way — 
 you, yours. Now you know my mind on the matter. It 
 is a parting of the ways." 
 
 He had spoken simply and with great earnestness. To 
 Hercy he had never before seemed so resolute a character ; 
 he had never seemed so determined to himself. There is 
 perhaps no strength so great and abiding as that which 
 follows from a resisted temptation. Every dangerous
 
 6o THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 
 
 allurement is like an enchanted monster, which, being 
 conquered, loses all his venom and changes at once into 
 a king of great treasure, eager to make requital. Robert 
 felt a self-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. 
 
 ^* was Parflete's young wife.
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 6i 
 
 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. Parflete con- 
 fined hers very simply, and regardless of the fashion, in a 
 jeweled net. She kept to that mode all her life. Her 
 eyes were blue, unfathomably deep, and her features had 
 an irregularity which, while it destroyed her claim to any 
 classic beauty, gave her a most uncommon and distin- 
 guished 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,
 
 62 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 
 
 when all the worst was said and thought and known, had 
 died of grief in the Villa Miraflores, while the Archduke 
 Charles and his bride were sailing in the Imperial yacht 
 straight past her windows. Robert w^ondered whether 
 the child knew aught of that story. For she was a child 
 — a child in face which was younger than any poetic con- 
 ception of youthfulness, and a child in figure — clad as it 
 was in a pensionnaire's frock of white lawn made and 
 embroidered by the nuns in the Convent at Tours. 
 
 She remained there motionless, wnth one beautiful, un- 
 gloved hand resting on the chair she had refused, looking 
 down to the noisy Rue de Rivoli beneath the hotel 
 window. Robert seized the opportunity to give Beren- 
 ville, who \ras extraordinarily sensitive over such atten- 
 tions, his crutch. But the cripple was in a mood not un- 
 usual with him, which was just redeemed from vindictive- 
 ness by a certain elvish love of mischief for its own 
 sake. 
 
 " Where is Parflete .'' " he said, turning to Brigit. 
 
 " He is in the courtyard smoking," she replied. 
 
 Hercy threw Robert a defiant glance, sprang from the 
 sofa — as he could when he was sure of his prop — and in 
 two jumps was out of the room. Brigit and Robert were 
 thus left alone. 
 
 "He frightens me," said Brigit. "Where has he 
 gone? What am I to tell Mr. Parflete? He told me to 
 wait for an answer. He has not given one. " 
 
 "Pray sit down," said Robert. " He is very tired after 
 his long journey, and he is not himself to-day. " 
 
 "Do you think,'' she said, "I should have time to 
 fetch my book ? Mr. Parflete has given me Kenilworth.''' 
 
 " Hercy might return at any moment," replied Rob- 
 ert, smiling; "but, in the mean time — have you seen 
 this ? " 
 
 He gave her a small volume which was one of the
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 63 
 
 neglected twenty that he had bought in the fever of 
 mental unrest from which he had suffered on his arrival 
 in Paris. It was a French version of Browning's Men and 
 Women, a curious work, which, however, had not wholly 
 missed the spirit of the original. 
 
 "Ah!" cried Brigit, "that is M. Robert Browning." 
 She gave the name a French pronunciation. "One of 
 our nuns who knew English gave a lecture about him, 
 but the Mother Superior said he was too difficult. I 
 wrote a composition on his works." 
 
 " Had you read them ? " he asked in astonishment. 
 
 " Mais non ! But I had the notes from Sister Winifred's 
 lecture. She called him a great genius but with no sense 
 of form. Wasn't that right ? I said the same and so they 
 gave me the first prize. I was very pleased." 
 
 " Your life at the Convent must have been happy ? " 
 
 " Ah yes ! because I knew I should not be there 
 always." 
 
 " Then you would not care to be a nun yourself? " 
 
 " Oh, no ! " said Brigit, with dancing eyes. ' ' I wanted 
 to be married as mamma was. Did you ever see mamma .? 
 I remember her quite well. She had such beautiful dresses 
 and so many friends. They all brought me presents and 
 bonbons until she grew ill. Then, of course they stayed 
 away because she could not see them. But she used to 
 lie on a sofa all day telHng 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 ! II faut avoir de l' 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
 
 64 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 
 
 " He was with her when she died. She had her 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 next day they took 
 me away to the Convent, and they soon taught me not 
 to cry for any one so happy as poor mamma. But although 
 she was happy, they always said her name in the prayers 
 for the faithful departed. I want to live longer than she 
 lived. She must have forgotten the world by this time. 
 I should like to be here long enough to think of it all 
 when I am in Paradise. I love the world. It is so gay 
 and so 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 confidences to this handsome grim young man, who 
 had a dark beard and looked like some one 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. 
 
 " 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 
 Parfiete's wife.
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 65 
 
 " 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 color, 
 but the Sacred Heart is the same yesterday, to-day and 
 forever. 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 pendent, 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 Miraflores, 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 often years 
 those moments spent at Miraflores returned to Orange 
 with more than their first sweetness and none of that last 
 misery which had made them, for a longtime, a torturing 
 recollection. 
 5
 
 66 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 
 
 " 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 transcription. At last he decided that it 
 .should be written in a rare, old copy of Casaubon's 
 Marcus Aurelius (1634), which he had discovered by a 
 miracle the day before. 
 
 Brigit shook her head. Oh, no, she could not dream 
 of writing in such a precious book. Alas ! she made a 
 blot on its cover as she spoke. But Robert did not seem 
 vexed — a fact which to the bibliophile will tell its own 
 story. 
 
 So the words were eventually copied in accordance with 
 his wishes. 
 
 "Be very silent. Trust greatly in the Sacred Heart and 
 not much in anything below It ; least of all in friends, when 
 the sun goes in they change color, but the Sacred Heart is 
 the same yesterday, to-day and forever. May every bless- 
 ing 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 rea- 
 sons, 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.
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 67 
 
 "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 
 gayety. 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 Les 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." 
 
 "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 iowr^eozs." 
 
 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 irh extraordi- 
 naire with a direct look, and utter such defiant senti-
 
 t;8 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 
 
 merits as she could — under the inspiration of Puck — in- 
 vent. 
 
 "I see," said Robert, "that you are the pink of per- 
 versity." 
 
 " Not at all! My first desire is to be honest, yet it 
 would grieve me to quarrel with you." 
 
 "That could never happen," he said. "1 agree with 
 all you say. I, too, delight in the stage. I have wished 
 that theatre-going were a moral obligation, for then we 
 should have a highly critical audience, and, as a conse- 
 quence, good plays." 
 
 "Then why won't you come with us this evening? " 
 
 " Have you never heard of self-denial ? " 
 
 This was more than he had intended to say. Brigit's 
 manner, however, seemed to him maddening, because 
 she was flirting, not on principle, but by instinct. He 
 was filled with a blindingjealousy of the possible, average 
 man, who might have been standing in his shoes, and 
 on whom she would have smiled, and to whom she would 
 have spoken, and at whom she would have laughed, just 
 as she was smiling and speaking and softly laughing now. 
 It was no tribute to himself, nor did it show any reprehen- 
 sible weakness in Brigit. She was no angel — that was 
 all. A dangerous conclusion for even the most cautious 
 of mortals to arrive at when an argument has to be 
 demonstrated from premises. 
 
 "I have some work to finish," he added hastily. 
 "Nothing otherwise would give me greater pleasure than 
 to join the party. I hope you believe that." 
 
 Brigit looked long and thoughtfully at his face. 
 
 "I don't know," she said at length. " I should like to 
 believe you, but — " 
 
 "My word is not to be doubted I " 
 
 "You might wish to be polite." 
 
 "Politeness is no man's word; it is everybody's lie !
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 69 
 
 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 mater- 
 nal 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 ac- 
 cusation. You have placed my conscience in an unflat- 
 tering light ! '' 
 
 " How have you discovered these things .-* " said 
 Robert, at once, eager, delighted and astonished ; "you, 
 at your age ! "' 
 
 This sudden seriousness in a character which had been, 
 till that moment, remarkable chiefly for its unstudied can- 
 dor, seemed to add to Brigit's already sufficient attrac- 
 tions, the enigmatic fascination of the Sphinx. 
 
 " Vanity will make even the silliest creature occasion- 
 ally 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, unre- 
 strained and unsuspecting — touched his heart, which was 
 just then a little dry and weary from too much love of
 
 70 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 
 
 books. He had never been young himself. He had met 
 responsibility" at the very threshold of life. He imagined 
 himself — and rightly — as unlike men of his own age as he 
 had been, at an earlier period, unlike other children. 
 
 He could not remember a time when — even while sur- 
 rounded 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 unharmonized 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 influ- 
 ence. It was as though some rare musician had strayed 
 into a forgotten church and told a message from God 
 upon the organ keys. All that was deep in emotion, all 
 that was sublime in thought seemed to meet and blend in 
 one inspiring strain. Mortal desire and the insatiable 
 more subtle needs of the spirit seemed, not two opposing 
 voices, but one irresistible voice and its softer aerial echo. 
 His pulses trembled and the warning spirit within him 
 cried out in weeping, as it had cried before to a poet- 
 lover — Heu miser 1 quia freque7iter impedilus 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 no adventitious snares for the idealist's 
 soul or the dreamer's imagination. The sensuous delights 
 of blue sky and green land, of singing birds and scented 
 flowers were not here as they had been at Miraflores, 
 All the magic was in that slight, young figure clad in 
 white, in that animated girlish face set in a natural glory
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 71 
 
 of bright hair. He wondered — and hated himself for 
 wondering — whether she was even remotely conscious of 
 her power. The most honorable mind will often encour- 
 age itself in a conscientious insincerity. Robert still 
 showed a stubborn resistance to admit that the mysterious 
 exaltation which he felt, under the obscure medium of 
 philosophic thought, was, in reality, but the common pro- 
 cess 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 divmity ; and 
 if he was a monster — a wolf — was that her fault ? Did 
 that prove anything one way or the other ? In the ordi- 
 nary course of life, he was sane and even Homeric in his 
 straightforward views of the laws of attraction, but in the 
 present instance his accustomed simplicity was lost in an 
 irritating poetic vapor 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 a 
 relentless fate and a friend's malice. Once he had been 
 able to think, on the whole, rather highly of convent 
 schools. He now considered them barbarous forcing- 
 grounds where perfect wives were trained for the 
 Wrexham Parfletes. He had observed that selfish, coarse- 
 minded people usually married well. Men of the 
 Parflete type found angels, and shrewd, vixenish women 
 entrapped the very sons of God. The thought was sicken- 
 ingf. He grew more and more peevish at the general mis-
 
 72 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 
 
 management of human affairs, and even became enraged 
 against Biddy herself for seeming to acquiesce so cheer- 
 fully in a lot so unedifying. And yet it was just this 
 sunny health of mind which won him most. He ab- 
 horred la/enime incomprise — 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. 
 
 " Are you in trouble ? " said she, gently. 
 
 And what was his answer "i 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, perhaps, a little discontented. You 
 are not satisfied with your life. When I first saw you, I 
 asked myself, " Que diable allait-il faire da?is cette galere? " 
 You don't mind.'' . . . May I go on .'' I know that I have 
 no right to speak ; I have had so little experience. And 
 yet, while you have been out in the world, thinking of 
 many things, I have been in one small crowded corner 
 with more than forty other girls, and I have been in daily 
 intercourse with each member of that crowd. How could 
 I then — even if I would — be entirely ignorant of human 
 feelings .? Besides, before mamma died I travelled with 
 her ; we crossed the Atlantic twice. We went to London 
 and Berlin quite often ; all my memories are very clear 
 of the people we met and the places we saw. My husband 
 was surprised to find how well I remembered those far- 
 away times and journeys and conversations. So when I
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 73 
 
 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 ex- 
 plain except as a dull and gnawing ache. 
 
 "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 philosophic mind 
 is not told by the Hebrew prophets. Passionate invective ; 
 cries for vengeance ; lamentations and mourning and 
 woe ; threats of appalling punishment ; promises of earthly 
 recompense and the urging forward to worldly aims, 
 crowns and dignities — humanity, in fact, as opposed to 
 spirituality, is the great strain running all through the 
 godliness taught before the birth of Christ. One might be 
 perfectly virtuous in every human relation and yet possess 
 an irreligious soul. On the other hand, one might be 
 absolutely convinced of God's revelation of Himself and 
 yet sin against every canon of right conduct. The devil,
 
 74 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 
 
 for instance, must have a sure knowledge of God ; his 
 fault was treachery not disbelief. This thought has always 
 made me feel that the deepest of crimes is to sin against 
 light ; it has also helped me to understand why your 
 Church is so much more severe toward pride of intellect 
 than against the natural weaknesses of the heart. I think 
 it conceivable that God would forgive even Satan, if he 
 would but repent and love Him. Humanly speaking, 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 disposi- 
 tion. It seems to me unjust, therefore, to call any per- 
 son 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 con- 
 stantly ; I try hard not to forget them." 
 
 " Then, v^hy are you not one of us ? " asked Brigit. 
 
 "Because my sympathies are all with Rome," he an- 
 swered slowly ; "and on that ground I mistrust my reason 
 in the matter. Sentiment with me is so powerful a mo- 
 tive 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 sacra- 
 ments — if I may so speak — their sway over the intellect 
 and the emotions are, to me, the strongest argument
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 75 
 
 against them. I cannot allow myself to think that cere- 
 monies which bring such a glow of unspeakable, inhuman 
 happiness can be intrinsically right or pleasing to God. 
 It is an intoxication of the soul. . . . The capacity for 
 such intense feeling — whether in the mental or the sen- 
 suous life — seems to me a thing one should stifle — stifle 
 and forget. ... I am saying too much about myself; 
 forgive me ! " 
 
 People who have a taste for accurate scholarship, often 
 start on their researches, as it were, in quest of a forgot- 
 ten idiom, and they return enriched with a new language 
 — if not a new world. Robert had seemed, quite sud- 
 denly, to see the rest points towards which his reflections 
 and reading, for many months now had been directed. He 
 blushed, however, in the fear that he had been speaking 
 with that dogmatic assurance which all men dislike in 
 each other, which, nevertheless, no man, who is in earn- 
 est, may lack. Strong convictions alone can lead to 
 strong deeds, and a man who is timorous 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, leading to vain-glory and flattery. 
 
 The struggles of an ardent nature against a hard and 
 oppressive habit of thought, tell outwardly in a certain 
 irony of speech and a manner which, to the inconsiderate, 
 appears cold, even unfeeling. It requires the pure eyes 
 and unstained heart of a young unsophisticated mind to 
 penetrate through the depths of an outward appearance — 
 to reflect the hidden kindness under an icy look, firigit 
 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. "
 
 76 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 
 
 "You forget," said Brigit, "that Christ once showed 
 Himself as He was. Have you never read how, one 
 starry, August night, He went up on to the holy mount, 
 with the apostles He loved best, and was transfigured 
 before them. His sorrowful face was changed, it shone 
 as the sun ; His garments became white as snow, and 
 He was glorious with the splendor of God. Does that 
 not mean that He wanted them to know, that in wor- 
 shipping 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 moment- 
 ary yielding to a folly so passing sweet in its first enthu- 
 siasm — 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 SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 77 
 
 the land there would be useless even when gained. 
 " By no means," said he, "for, on the other side of the 
 North Pole, when you have once passed through the 
 regions of ice and snow, there is a beautiful country, 
 warm and fair, another Italy ! " 
 
 "It must be like my kingdom under the sea," said 
 Robert, smiling, "I will tell you about it some day." 
 
 Brigit sat down on the sofa, and folding her hands, 
 looked up at him with an expression of meek 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 lace- 
 maker whom he had met on the day after his eighteenth 
 birthday. He had never before spoken of that past to 
 any ears. 
 
 The first exchange of confidences between two minds 
 in sympathy makes a delightful moment, and it is, more- 
 over, a moment which, in various degrees of delightful- 
 ness, may be repeated so often as one finds a congenial 
 companion. But things can be told for the first time once 
 only. That experience must ever be unique. The sec- 
 ond telling renders the news less sacred ; at each repeti- 
 tion 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."
 
 78 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 
 
 "Why do you put it in that ungenerous way f " 
 
 "Because I want you to go with us." 
 
 " I thought I explained that I had work . . . unfortu- 
 nately ..." 
 
 "If you stay at home you will not work. I know 
 that. The true cause is this — you don't like my hus- 
 band I 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 any one 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 everything? 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."
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 79 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 Orange opened the door and Brigit, leading the way, 
 went out into the corridor with that light and swing- 
 ing step which was one of her peculiar characteristics. 
 Neither of them spoke, and, when they reached the top 
 of the staircase, both were relieved by the sight of Par- 
 flete and Hercy seated at a small table in the hall below. 
 
 Parflete, on observing his wife, stood up and went for- 
 ward to meet her. He looked the pattern of court equer- 
 ries, and, as he handed her to a seat, he quoted the well- 
 loved lines from Dante : — 
 
 * " Negli occhi porta la mia donna Amore ; 
 Per che si fa gentil cib ch'ella mira ; 
 Ov'ella passa, ogni uom vSr lei sigira, 
 E cui salutafa treniar lo core" 
 
 Robert had started with a resolve to fight what he in- 
 wardly called his own uncharitable spirit, but this greet- 
 ing 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 reitera- 
 tion of an active thought to the effect that Wrexham Par- 
 flete needed kicking. 
 
 Brigit, however, who was not suffering persecution 
 from the furies, acknowledged the pompous compliment 
 
 * " 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."
 
 8o THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 
 
 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 ad- 
 viser, and this thought, in itself, was disturbing to her sense 
 of what was loyal. She understood that coxcomb's mor- 
 bid 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 elabo- 
 rate paraphrase of his ideas, and his outward existence 
 was a travesty of the life within him. The unacted Par- 
 flete 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 glit- 
 tered and twinkled at the Court where he was a great 
 favorite with errant heirs-apparent who liked to sip in- 
 struction 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 ivitU a soul. " 
 
 "Of course you will have some more coffee," ex- 
 claimed Berenville, who was now eager for a reconcilia- 
 tion. " Gargon, 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 
 though it meant Miss Lucifer was in a four stone for the 
 Chester Cup. In my anxiety to learn more I nearly 
 broke my neck ! " 
 
 " The ivords of Mercury sound harsh after the songs of 
 Apollo," said Parflete, in his most ironical manner, "but 
 it was decreed that we should all meet at this table.
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 8i 
 
 Listen I Berenville and I were sitting here wondering 
 why we had been born — " 
 
 "Or," said Hercy, "whether we should toddle round 
 to the Cercle de I'Union for a little game of cards." 
 
 "When v^e 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 I " exclaimed Berenville. 
 
 "Mr. Disraeli!" said Parflete. "My astonishment 
 was great. He remembered me at once, and showed 
 surprise when I lold 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 Leniaitre. I said that you were a member of our 
 party." 
 
 He looked at Robert, whose discomfort had now 
 reached a culminating point. Parflete continued in a 
 slow strain, as though he were tasting his own words and 
 finding them pleasant to the 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 me to present you to him, 
 and I promised to do so. This is, without a doubt, the 
 second opportunity of your life. Disraeli is not in office, 
 and therefore he has great power behind the scenes. If 
 you could excite his interest for Reckage, it would be a 
 good day's work." 
 
 This last touch was skilful. Parflete was well aware 
 that Orange could never be induced to make an acquaint-
 
 83 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 
 
 ance 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 introduc- 
 tion 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 suc- 
 cess by favor, 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 overruled by the 
 thought, that, in speaking with the eminent politician, he 
 might be able to utter a word in Lord Reckage's be- 
 half. 
 
 " 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 com- 
 parison with Reckage's one speech on the Secularization 
 of Ecclesiastical Property. 
 
 " Robert, you must wake him up about Beau. You 
 might remind him that papa always supports him in the 
 House of Lords. He went up to town with his whole 
 back in plaster of Paris just to vote for — " 
 
 "Good God!" exclaimed Parfiete, under his breath. 
 " here he comes I What a proof of the man's kindness. 
 He has returned on purpose. Hereafter I shall always 
 defend him. This is an historic moment ! " 
 
 The statesman was walking slowly, but with rather long 
 strides, through the public drawing-room that faced them. 
 His worn and livid countenance had lost the romantic 
 beauty to which he owed much of his early fortune, 
 but neither illness nor anxiety had dimmed the piercing 
 brilliancy of his expression. It was impossible to see
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 83 
 
 him without observing the conspicuous details of a cos- 
 tume which was certainly not the least uncommon part 
 of his picturesque and amazing personality. He wore a 
 light overcoat, gray trousers, a white hat and lavender 
 gloves. When he saw Parflete advancing toward him, he 
 smiled as if he had fully intended to be met, and now ex- 
 pected 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 asso- 
 ciated with all the fussy trivialities of Court etiquette, and 
 Parflete's own account of the first moments of their inter- 
 view was probably a flattering sketch of what actually 
 took place. But the mention of Robert's name in connec- 
 tion with the novel Basil Lemaitre had stirred Disraeli's 
 interest, more particularly when he heard him described 
 as " the son of a Dominican apostate by a descendant in 
 the female line of Cromwell's friend. Lord Wharborough. 
 She was," to continue the Parfletean strain, " a beautiful 
 creature, as wilful as the devil and as great a Puritan as 
 Michal, the wife of David." 
 
 " And who was this lady ? " asked Disraeli. 
 
 " 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, dryly, " that your young 
 friend was in some danger of becoming a charlatan from 
 the sheer force of a sensational pedigree." 
 
 "But his education has been too severe," said Par- 
 flete. 
 
 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.
 
 84 THE SCHOOI. FOR SAINTS. 
 
 " He had remarkable tutors, sir — coming men them- 
 selves, in fact; Ledward taught them the classics, Grant- 
 ham put them on to general ideas."* 
 
 "Then I admit," said Disraeli, with his peculiar smile, 
 "that he ought to be, on the whole, a thoroughly decent 
 scoundrel." 
 
 But nevertheless his curiosity, which was not, as a rule, 
 easily excited, had received a stimulus. He expressed a 
 genuine wish to meet Mr. Parflete's "accomplished friend," 
 and this, considering his own rather irritable state of mind, 
 and his hardly concealed dislike of the gossipy Wrexham, 
 was a tribute to the latter's persuasiveness. 
 
 As he now came up to the table, he scanned the 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 congratulations 
 on her marriage — to the Gcvnaliel 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 conversation which followed, 
 she showed a dignity as simple as it was touching. Of 
 the four men surrounding her, Parflete himself was prob- 
 ably the most astonished at her ease of manner. She was 
 only then on her honeymoon, and had not yet mixed in 
 society. She had not yet been presented at the Court, 
 nor was she aware of the close relationship that she bore 
 toward the Archduke. 
 
 Robert thought her so delightful in this stately aspect 
 that he caught none of the remarks which passed — they 
 
 * In justice to Parflete's power of estimating worldly success, Led- 
 ward became, many years after, Bishop of Barchester, and G»-<*ntham 
 was made Professor of Mo'-'' Philosophy at Camford,
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 85 
 
 were doubtless unimportant — till he heard himself directly 
 addressed by Disraeli. 
 
 '• I am going to the Bibliotheque Imp^riale," he said; 
 " would you care to accompany me ? " 
 
 " Nothing would give me greater pleasure," replied 
 Robert, with perfect honesty. 
 
 •' But am I taking you from your friends? " 
 
 There followed an exchange of smiles and bows, com- 
 pliments 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 sun- 
 shine. I like the river. Have you ever thought of the 
 colors 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 writings of Plato which makes his mysticism forbid- 
 ding to my mind. But the mysticism in your hero was 
 religious — like Newman's. It was not coldly philosophi- 
 cal. At your age I was myself a dreamer of dreams. I 
 soon learned that I, was too imaginative to be useful any- 
 where except in a life of action." 
 
 "Surely," said Robert, "that, too, is a paradox." 
 "Possibly. But the greatest leaders have been men
 
 86 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 
 
 of the highest imagination. Shakespeare and Milton 
 expressed what Elizabeth and Cromwell imagined. I 
 have been an idealist always. Yet, while I am infinitely 
 yours in respect of your beliefs, my experience keeps me 
 separate from your impatient hopefulness. Hope is the 
 heroic form of despair. Such must have been the feeling 
 of the great Lawgiver, who, if you remember, sang as he 
 started for the Promised Land, and died in silence when 
 it was at last shown to him." 
 
 The sadness of his tone was so profound that Robert 
 felt it would have been an impertinence to offer any 
 remark. They walked on in silence till Disraeli spoke 
 again. 
 
 "What I feel now is this. We have reached the stage 
 when sentimentality and philosophism have taken up 
 the room of poets and philosophers. The new generation 
 in our educated classes seem to feel that nothing, save 
 money, is worth their while. On the other hand, in the 
 labor 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 revolution, with himself as its presiding spirit, does not 
 detract from its profound truth as a dictum ! A strong 
 personality, following on the beaten track, may, perhaps, 
 go a step or two farther than his guides, whereas, if he 
 seeks to cut out a path of his own, he will find himself 
 wandering in a painful circle outside the common starting- 
 point." 
 
 " Still," said Robert, "no great work was ever done 
 by a system, whereas systems arise out of individual 
 exertions." 
 
 " It is only the Church of Rome," said Disraeli, quietly, 
 •' which, as a governing body, has been able to encourage
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. S7 
 
 the great ideas of any one person without loss to its own 
 power, or without disaster to the person encouraged. I 
 speak of it, observe, purely as a governing body." 
 
 " I think that may be explained," said Robert, " on this 
 ground. Where the welfare of a State is concerned, the 
 heart is probably apprenticed to false gods, and the 
 greatest of false gods is expediency. A measure might 
 be advantageous for the moment only, yet, for the sake 
 of the momentary gain, a politician might refuse to con- 
 template 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 /o come, and the great ideas, whether in 
 the individual, or in the council as a body, all arise from 
 a common religious belief. '" 
 
 " I see," said Disraeli, smiling, "that you are not one 
 of those who hold that the Church of Rome apostatized at 
 Trent." 
 
 " No," replied Robert, shortly, " but I am not a Papist." 
 
 " Perhaps," said Disraeli, "some day you may arrive 
 at a compromise between Rome and Canterbury." 
 
 "Never," said Robert. 
 
 "At eight-and-twenty," said Disraeli, " I, too, thought 
 that compromises were nearly always immoral, as well 
 as dangerous, but, unless I am mistaken, you will find 
 that the best-ordered life is that which shows the largest 
 record of compromises. One need not be a monger of 
 principles — that is a vulgar trade, and always leads to 
 moral bankruptcy — but one can be, as it were, a worker 
 in principles and set one's mind as a piece of mosaic. 
 You have insight, but you should acquire flexibility. 
 Flexibility is the great thing. In your book it appeared 
 in the guise of cosmopolitanism. Cosmopolitanism is a 
 beautiful word, if it be vmderstood to mean liberty for
 
 88 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 
 
 all men : when, however, it means, as it seems to mean 
 in the case of a great Republic I could name, an indis- 
 criminate 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 
 •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 remembered one of these days." 
 
 "As I remember him now," said Disraeli, "his head 
 seems made without back windows ; it is all facade and 
 nothing else ! His private merits may be 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 pierc- 
 ing look. "You have sense, your book shows that. 
 You have ideals, and you have knowledge. My advice 
 would be that you should first essay your strength in the 
 reduction of some Liberal majority. I mistake if a chance 
 of the kind does not occur shortly at Norbet Royal. Van- 
 deleur'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."
 
 THE. SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 89 
 
 "You speak, sir, as though I were already there 1 " 
 
 "Why not?" said Disraeli. "Is the average intelli- 
 gence at the Talking I\Iill so high that you find my sup- 
 position over-flattering .'' The difificulty 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 pas- 
 sion — the least useful passion in public life — ^jealousy ! " 
 
 "I shall have little to fear at that rate, " said Orange, 
 who had a very modest opinion of his own ability. 
 
 "When I started," said Disraeli, putting his arm in 
 Robert's, "I was all for sedition ! Now you are all for 
 tradition ! Don't protest ; you will become a Roman 
 Catholic because you will find nowhere out of Rome, — 
 poetry and the spirit of democracy and a reverence for 
 authority all linked together in one irrefragable chain. 
 But I must warn you that such a step would prejudice 
 your whole political career. It would be throwing down 
 the gauntlet to Fortune herself." 
 
 "That," said Robert, flushing, "is the strongest argu- 
 ment you could bring forward in Rome's favor. It 
 seemed to me that I had everything to gain by acknowl- 
 edging her claims. Now you tell me — and I could ask 
 for no better judge — that it would mean a severe blow to 
 my worldly prospects my way seems clearer." 
 
 " The thing you mistook for a temptation begins to 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 quot»
 
 90 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 
 
 the example of Christ is to forget His divinity. I do not 
 see how we can, without descending into gross anthropo- 
 morphism, make Him a pattern in all human relations. 
 He had an unique mission to fulfil. Few, indeed, of us 
 can feel that we have even so much as a raisori 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 express service. What might be an act of splendid 
 obedience, sublime self-renunciation in a Newman, would 
 be presumption and folly in a lesser spirit. I hope you 
 agree. " 
 
 "Most thoroughly ; I have never doubted that my own 
 work, such as it is, is in the secular life." 
 
 " I believe," said Disraeli, with a certain slyness, " that 
 you think the secular life the harder of the two. You 
 regard marriage as a state of discipline ruled by a code of 
 somewhat stern responsibilities." 
 
 "Perhaps," said Robert, laughing. 
 
 "Your friend, Mr. Parflete, is an interesting fellow," 
 observed Disraeli ; "his young wife might be called the 
 Madonna's married sister ! There is all the sweetness, 
 with just the warmth of human peccability, possibly jeal- 
 ousy, possibly temper. I have traced the short upper lip 
 to its imperial archetype ! Her mother was a prettier 
 woman, but less spirited. It was an unhappy hour when 
 the Archduke's roving eye fell on Duboc's enchanting 
 face. But for a weak soul — she did much. He married 
 her." 
 
 " I never knew that," exclaimed Robert. 
 
 "Fortunately for history there is always one indiscreet 
 member of the College of Cardinals. He told me the 
 story. Duboc was married to the Archduke 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
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 91 
 
 trouble— a lot of trouble. This girl is perfectly legitimate 
 so far as the Recording Angel is concerned. Now, shall 
 we turn ? " 
 
 Robert felt too profoundly interested in the news he 
 had just learned, to trust himself far in making a reply. 
 
 "If this were generally known," he asked after a mo- 
 mentary hesitation, '"would it be of any advantage to 
 Mrs. Parfiete ? " 
 
 " 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, /e Capitaine Duhoc. It is better so. The con- 
 sciousness 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 accomplishments. 
 She was beautiful ; she was honorably born ; she was 
 virtuous." 
 
 "She belonged, however, to the race of wits and 
 mockers, an order of beings ever more popular in France 
 than elsewhere. You may remember what the Bishop of 
 Paris wrote to the French Court before the coming of 
 Henry VIII. and Anne Boleyn to Calais, ' Surtoui Je voiis 
 prie que vous osiez de la court ceux qui out la reputation 
 d'estre mocqueurs et gaudisseurs, car c'est bien la chose en 
 ce monde autant hate de ceste nation.' (Keep the wits and 
 mockers out of the Court, for the English detest all such 
 above all things.) 
 
 He was clearly thinking a little of his own reputation 
 for epigrams and satire, and, also, he may have intended
 
 gi THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 
 
 his words to convey some warning to his young com- 
 panion. 
 
 He talked on in the same strain, drifting apparently in an 
 illogical sequence from one subject to another, yet always 
 introducing some remark which had its right place in the 
 general scheme of advice. The conversation established 
 a firm understanding between the two men, and, when 
 they reached the hotel, Disraeli invited his new acquaint- 
 ance to join him at breakfast on the morrow. For the 
 result of these two interviews and several other matters, 
 which may, perhaps, not be without interest for the 
 reader, it would be better to take Robert's own account 
 given in the following letter to Lord Reckage : — 
 
 " What better illustration could be found of the extraordinary 
 laws of human economy than in my meetings with Parflete .' 
 For the second time in my life this man, whom I have sedu- 
 lously avoided and ever disliked, has been instrumental in chang- 
 ing tile whole course of my plans. When I came to Paris in 
 185 — , he presented 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 outsider. Disraeli's kindness 
 passes all belief I am to cross over to England with him to- 
 morrow. At the moment he, too, is writing a novel, some 
 chapters of which he has shown me. They are the most bril- 
 liant 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 sub- 
 ject. 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 learn- 
 ing. 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 e.xponent of my own theories 
 and beliefs. No, my allegiance to him is based on a stronger 
 feeling than flattered egoism, wrongly called sympathy. He
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 93 
 
 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 oiLothair, I could 
 never forget his magnificent attainments or his audacity. Last 
 evening I went with Hercy and the Parfletes to Les Papillons. 
 Parflete reminded me that you supped behind the scenes there 
 in 185 — with Madame Duboc, the Archduke Charles and the 
 child. Have you forgotten it .'' I was there the same night, but 
 I was not invited to the supper. The whole thing returned to 
 me ; every emotion, every thought, every word, every sight ; 
 and when I realized all that had happened since poor Hen- 
 riette's tragic death, my own selfish life, this marriage of 
 the little girl — who sat there, by-the-by, as happy and ob- 
 livious 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 etitr'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 mad- 
 ness, it is wrong to revisit old scenes. One might as well un- 
 earth 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 J 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 Parfietes, I hear, are going 
 also. She is a very young woman to be hurled into that dis- 
 solute society. The knock-knee'd Marquis de Chaumont has 
 given her some novels by Paul de Kock. To-night they are 
 taking her to the Jardin Mabille. And she has just left a con- 
 vent ! Yesterday, at dinner. De Brie entertained her with the 
 story of la Pomar6 — whose epitaph you may remember — 
 ' Pomare, queen of Mabille, princess of Ranelagh, grand- 
 duchess de la Chauniiere, by the grace of the polka, the can- 
 can, and other cachuchas !' Inasmuch as the same kind ot 
 thing was written about Henriette Duboc, I did not think his
 
 94 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 
 
 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 regarded as an 
 upstart, and it will soon take more than the Archduke's influence 
 to make them stomach him. But the Archduke himself is a 
 diminishing power in France — and perhaps elsewhere. Before 
 five years are gone, this country will be a Republic. The pres- 
 ent Government is too romantic : the Empress is too beauti- 
 ful ; there is a Salon des Fleurs in the Tuileries ; and this scent 
 of violets will soon be overpowered by the smell of gunpowder. 
 Victor Hugo has already said adieu to France, because she is 
 too great to be a nation. The Roman Empire, he declares, be- 
 came Christendom ; France will become — the world ! ' Rome 
 est devemie la chretienti ; toi, 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 colleagues, 'Surely,' said he, 
 •there is no fool so great as an untravelled Prime Minister who 
 has never tried the temper of his neighbors, or set foot on the 
 land of his allies.' Our foreign secretaries are, as a rule, but 
 parish beadles with a Garter ! — Your ever aflfectionate, 
 
 " R. O."
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 95 
 
 CHAPTER Vni. 
 
 After the Grand Prix, Parflete and Brigit went to the 
 Chateau de Vieuville (near P'ontainebleau), on a visit to 
 the Count de Brie. Wlien they had been there a fortnight, 
 word was received from the Alberian Court that the Arch- 
 duke 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 M'inning 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 High- 
 ness 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 noble- 
 men 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
 
 96 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 
 
 English. His position was in the highest degree pre- 
 carious ; 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 learned, by a second de- 
 spatch, that His Imperial Highness, on reaching Paris, 
 would proceed immediately to the Chateau de Vieuville, 
 where (as the order ran), M. Parflete was to receive him 
 on his arrival. 
 
 For some days, this gentleman had been conscious of 
 a certain estrangement between himself and his host. In 
 his confidential moments with Brigit, he expressed the 
 fear that he had outstayed his welcome, and the prospect 
 of remaining in a merely official capacity, where he was 
 no longer regarded as an acquisition to the company, 
 seemed to prey upon his mind. Brigit, however, had 
 been received with exceptional attentions, and was re- 
 garded — ostensibly because she was a bride — as the guest 
 of honor. Charles Aumerle, who was the one English- 
 man, besides Parflete, in the party, attributed the favor 
 shown her to another consideration, namely, her imperial 
 father. 
 
 Some of the haughtiest members of the French aristoc- 
 racy 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 en/ant. It was, therefore, difficult for 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 bedroom at three o'clock in the morning 
 (he played cards till the small hours every day), and wak- 
 ing her, burst into a terrible fit of crying. The poor child
 
 THE SCHOOr. FOR SAINTS. 97 
 
 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 ap- 
 prehension. 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. 
 "They have accused me! It was a cowardly attack ; 
 they set a trap for me. I could have put it all right with 
 the very next card. I had it ready, but the brutes would 
 not give me time. I challenged them ; not one of them 
 had the courage to accept my challenge. They dared 
 not fight. If you could have seen their faces : they were 
 like bloodhounds ! It was a plot against me. They are 
 jealous of me ; they think I am an intruder. They have 
 been waiting for years to come between myself and the 
 Archduke. If he believes this I shall be a ruined man. 
 I offered them all my winnings. I threw them at their 
 feet. They questioned me as though I were a criminal. 
 I don't know what I said, but I shall kill myself. Can I 
 live under such an accusation ? Would you wish me to 
 live? They will not even accept my challenge. I have 
 devoted my whole life to these people. I have amused 
 them and helped them through their scrapes, and lied 
 about them in order to keep them respected, and this is 
 the end of it all ! Insult, disgrace, 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 
 7
 
 98 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 
 
 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 than she had. He 
 likes to see spirit. Tell him that I have been kind to you. 
 Tell him that you are fond of me. Tell him that I don't 
 ask to be taken back to the Court. I will go quietly away 
 anywhere, where no one will know me. Tell him that 
 you will not 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." 
 
 *This seems to have been true, and Aumerle, in a private account of 
 the scandal, declares that every one was amazed at Parflete's barefaced 
 lying. He never surrendered.
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 99 
 
 "I swear to God," said he, "1 never did such a thing 
 before ! It was the first time. It meant one movement 
 and ten thousand francs in my pocliet, and I did not want 
 them for myself ! This all comes of thinking too much 
 about other people ! " 
 
 He clasped her hands. 
 
 "You won't desert me, will you ?" he said, "because 
 I am telling you everything? " 
 
 "No," said Brigit, " I shall not desert you." 
 
 Her voice failed, and presently, though not so soon 
 that he could feel himself despised, she stole softly away 
 into a little ante-room where she could pray for fortitude 
 and counsel. Then, knowing that if she did not sleep 
 she would be unequal to the day before her, she asked for 
 that gift, too, and it was granted. 
 
 Parflete went in to speak again to her and found her in 
 a deep slumber, yet with wet eyelashes. This time he 
 did not rouse her ; but he stooped down and kissed her 
 golden hair which shone out on the dark pillow of the 
 couch. The sunlight streamed in through the half-closed 
 shutter. He could hear the birds singing outside. Who 
 would describe the 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 undo- 
 ing. 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.
 
 100 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 
 
 The remembrance of his own disgrace and of the 
 hideous scene with his accusers, the knowledge of his cer- 
 tain banishment from the Court, which he loved and feared 
 with the frantic servility of the born favorite-in-waiting, 
 overwhelmed him as a flood from the burning lake. He 
 cowered, groaned and fled away to his room, driven be- 
 fore 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 de- 
 gree 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 room, 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 discuss the events of the preceding night. 
 When he ventured to remind her that her youth and in- 
 experience 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 honor was in ques- 
 tion, 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 wel- 
 come him on his arrival ; Brigit alone remained apart in 
 an ante-chamber till she was summoned. 
 
 An hour passed. She could hear, as she murmured her 
 prayers, the joy bells ringing and the horses prancing in 
 the court-yard. The sound of footsteps passing and re- 
 passing in the corridor, the rustle of women's silken skirts, 
 voices, laughter, hurried words of command, came con-
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. loi 
 
 stantiy to her ears, but no one entered to relieve her sus- 
 pense. A fear of missing the message when it came, 
 made it impossible 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 Impe- 
 rial Highness would see her in the private apartments 
 which had been reserved for his use during the visit. The 
 Count de Brie then conducted her to the royal rooms, and 
 she was received on the threshold by a young oiificer 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 
 crown — "His Imperial Highness will see you in a few 
 moments." 
 
 He then thrust his hands into his pockets, and with an 
 air which was intended to convey equal degrees of con- 
 tempt, patronage and admiration, lolled back against some 
 article of furniture. Brigit threw him a glance which 
 called some color 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 pres- 
 ence, 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
 
 102 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 
 
 forward to receive her, he seemed to be laboring under 
 some inexplicable emotion ; whether it was anger or pity 
 she could not decide. 
 
 " Do you remember me ? " he said. 
 
 The question at once brought the past to her mind. 
 
 "Sir," she said, " it would not be for me to speak to 
 your Imperial Highness of those laughing days." 
 
 ' ' Where is your husband ? " 
 
 "1 have come, sir, to explain his absence, but may I 
 beg to see your Imperial Highness alone? " 
 
 The Archduke made a motion to the young equerry, 
 who, with a very ill grace and a look of astonishment, 
 retired from the room. 
 
 "That fellow is new to his office," said Brigit, color- 
 ing. ' ' 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 im- 
 periousness, 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 re- 
 ligious sense of the reverence due to parents might have 
 kept her meek, but as she was wholly unaware of the 
 relationship, she treated him M'ith that ironical etiquette 
 which exists, on tormal 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 cards. I am his
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. loj 
 
 wife, and your Imperial Highness will forgive me if I am 
 too proud to attempt the vindication of his innocence. It 
 would ill become me to sit in judgment upon one whose 
 honor or dishonor must be as my own. But this, per- 
 haps, 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 gentle- 
 man who, toward his master at least, has never been 
 otherwise than faithful." 
 
 Her voice faltered, and it was with great difficulty that 
 she restrained a sob. 
 
 "You are not afraid," said the Archduke, dryly, "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.
 
 I04 1 HE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 
 
 "I wish you, sir, to defend my husband against his 
 persecutors." 
 
 " What is he to you .'* " said he, brutally. " He is years 
 older than you are, and you cannot care for him. You 
 cannot believe in him unless you are a fool ; and if you 
 are indeed your father's daughter, you cannot be a sim- 
 pleton. 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 pos- 
 sible, but tell him that I do not wish you to accompany 
 him. He will be hounded from place to place like a rat, 
 and I do not choose that any woman should share in his 
 existence." 
 
 ' ' My duty, sir," said Brigit, ' ' is in the hands of a higher 
 authority than a prince's. I shall follow my husband." 
 
 " You shall do what you are told to do," said the Arch- 
 duke. •' I never wish to see Parflete again. You may 
 tell him that if he attempts to address m.e, or hold any 
 communication with me, I shall take my own method o'f 
 dealing with the offence. As for you, you have forced 
 me to seem more severe than my intention. I will find 
 some appointment for you at the Court. At your age, and 
 with your appearance, and with your audacity, you will 
 need more than any common surveillance ! I shall see 
 that you are 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 fort- 
 une, I have my own dot left me by my father." 
 
 " He seems," said the Archduke, with a strange smile, 
 " to have been a remarkable person. Do you remember 
 him ? "
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 105 
 
 "No, sir,"' said Brigit ; "but my mother told me of 
 him often. He was brave : he was always kind to 
 women, and he feared no man in the world." 
 
 "And did your mother love him.?" said the 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 separated from Parflete ? " 
 
 Brigits face flushed at a question which cut her sensi- 
 tive nature to the quick. 
 
 "My father, sir," said she, "was perhaps 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 
 remain here when your husband has left. I will see that 
 you travel under a proper escort to Alberia. For the 
 present, you may go, but au revoir. If you think me 
 harsh, a day may come, when you are older, when you 
 will see my judgment in another light. You had best 
 make your preparations to leave the Chateau to-night. I 
 will send passports and further instructions to you by 
 Captain Kaste. " 
 
 "Sir," said Brigit, "I cannot promise to obey them. 
 My duty is toward my husband." 
 
 " 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
 
 io6 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 
 
 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
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 107 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 The Count de Brie, it may be remembered, 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 person 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 honor 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 bal- 
 anced by an equally frigid system of worldliness. His 
 intrigues were as studied as his piety, and the same 
 spirit which urged him to seem more devout than he felt, 
 induced him to affect habits of dissipation wholly at vari- 
 ance with his natural instincts. Of a cold, calculating 
 and rather morbid temperament, he chose companions of 
 a precisely opposite character, and by figuring on the 
 
 * 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 New- 
 man's Essays: Critical and Historical. Vol. i., page 138.
 
 io8 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 
 
 scene of their adventures he sought to share a little in 
 their reputation for gallantry. 
 
 He was, however, one who kept strictly faithful to 
 those maxims of prudence, which, in many characters, 
 are a substitute for principle. Convictions he had none, 
 but rules of conduct he had in plenty, and to break one 
 of these seemed to him a demonstration either of forget- 
 fulness or ignorance. He would have recoiled from using 
 a harder term. Among these rules the following were 
 especially important : — 
 
 ' ' Lying is had policy. " 
 
 " To desert a wotnan enlists unpopularity." 
 
 "Be true to some wotnaji and you will gain credit from 
 all men. " 
 
 " To cheat at cards is the last possible mistake.'' 
 
 It may be granted, then, that he had, on the whole, a 
 taste for what is commonly known as honor, 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 favorites all 
 come to sudden disaster," was another of his axioms. 
 Still, he would have preferred that the last scene in Par- 
 flete's social career had been acted elsewhere than at the 
 Chateau de Vieuville. As he now approached the Arch- 
 duke, the melancholy droop of his eyelids and mouth 
 seemed more marked than usual. Apart from his per- 
 sonal 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
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 109 
 
 courage is extraordinary, and I fear she may give trouble. 
 We might tell her that she is to join him — and gradually 
 prepare her mind for the — 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 Parfiete 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 your 
 Imperial Highness's irrevocable decision. First" — and he 
 checked each remark on his fingers — " that he was to con- 
 sider himself banished from Alberia and from your circle, — 
 partout : 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 prh. He was, perhaps, over-excited. His de- 
 votion to your Imperial Highness is, I think, sincere. I 
 pointed out that Madame Parfiete was dear to the Archduke 
 and that he could not bear to see her participate in a
 
 no THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 
 
 ruined life. I said much to the same effect, and, ulti- 
 mately, 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. " 
 
 "Where is it?" 
 
 "Here, sir." 
 
 "You may show it to her. He would not dare to dis- 
 obey me. Did you give him the money ? " 
 
 "Yes, sir. He desired his humble thanks — " 
 
 " I know, I know," said the Archduke, impatiently. 
 "I don't want to hear any more. He took it and he was 
 satisfied. He has a price for everything — but his wife 
 seems the least precious of his treasures ! We princes 
 surely see the meanest vices of 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, " saidhe. "She 
 desires to see your Imperial Highness." 
 
 He put a sarcastic stress on the word desires, as though 
 he wished the Archduke to understand that he was deliver- 
 ing the message in all its original informality. 
 
 " That is impossible," said Charles. "Tell her that I 
 am resting after my journey. If she can receive the Count 
 de Brie, he will wait upon her in her own apartments." 
 
 But, as he spoke, the door at the end of the room was 
 opened, and Brigit herself, unannounced, 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, Math a deep curtsey, " if I have no
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. m 
 
 manners, you must pardon me. I am treated as though 
 I were a slave without rights and without a soul, whereas 
 I am not even your subject. I am a Frenchwoman, and 
 I ask by what authority you step between myself and my 
 husband? Where have they taken him, and who is the 
 Count de Brie that he may imprison and insult gentlemen 
 at his caprice ? " 
 
 "Madame," said De Brie, coming forward, "if you 
 will allow me to explain — " 
 
 " A crime cannot be explained," saidBrigit; "nor will 
 I trespass upon your time, nor will I take you from your 
 guest. I ask to see my husband only." 
 
 "Give her his letter," said the Archduke, who was 
 watching her from under his deeply-lined and heavy eye- 
 lids. "Give her his note and leave her with me." 
 
 De Brie handed the half-fainting girl her husband's fare- 
 well letter, which was sealed very neatly with the Par- 
 flete 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 wretciied 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
 
 112 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 
 
 risen from his chair and stationed himself so near to her 
 that he could, at the critical moment, offer her his sup- 
 port. 
 
 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 Arch- 
 duke could only hear the words, — 
 
 "I cannot — cannot — I cannot ! " 
 
 He walked away, surveyed her from a distance, and 
 came back again to put his hand on her bowed head. 
 
 " Calme-toi, ?no7i en/ani," he said at last, ^' releve-toi el 
 icoute ! Ce 71 est pas convenable. It is ungrateful. We 
 have done the best for your husband. These things are 
 hard, but we must submit to them. I am always sorry 
 for wives. The whole world pities them. There was 
 never such a black scoundrel but some woman would 
 break her heart and wring ours by begging mercy for him. 
 We think that your husband's chief crime is his offence 
 against you. We allowed him to marry you because of 
 our high regard for him. He has deceived and betrayed 
 us all. He is 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. 1 am old — old — old — and I thought I should 
 be so happy. I had so many friends. Friends every- 
 where — everywhere friends ! Now, not a soul. And 
 what have I done to deserve this .'' I only wanted to do 
 right. You are all nothing to me — nothing. My husband 
 is suffering. Sorrow will not make him a better man, but 
 a desperate one. O God ! to whom shall I turn but to 
 Thee ? 1 have neither father, nor brother, nor husband — 
 and my mother is dead. O God ! take me away. I am 
 afraid ! " 
 
 Charles again walked away from her to the end of the 
 room, where his chair and writing-table stood.
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 113 
 
 "I thought you were brave," said he. 
 
 "I was once," said Brigit, holding her paints to her 
 aching eyes. "But you are all men, you are strong and 
 cruel ; and I am alone, and I see what is coming — dis- 
 aster 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 himself was moved. Their glance met. 
 Trembling, Brigit rose to her feet and walked slowly, as 
 though she were drawn toward him by some irresistible, 
 but torturing, influence. Her lips were parted as if in 
 terror, her gaze was fixed and panic-stricken, yet she ap- 
 proached 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 havtj 
 said to me — but — I am your father,"
 
 114 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 
 
 Brigit colored as though she had received a whip stroke 
 on each cheek. 
 
 "But my mother," she answered, "was good," and she 
 shrank away. 
 
 " Elle etait belle et douce." 
 
 "She was more," cried Brigit, passionately, "she was 
 good. They told me so at the Convent, and I know it" 
 
 ^' Tu as raison," rejoined the Archduke. " She was vir- 
 tuous 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 honor you. At present He seems to have forsaken 
 me, for every one 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 mar- 
 ried us. But princes may not love whom they will, and 
 the Church's law is not always the law of the State. Tu 
 es ma fille. Je t'aime bien, mais tu n as pas de droits. II 
 faut que tu saches ces choses Ih. II faut que tu restes 
 conime tu es aux jyeux du monde — la fille du Capitaine 
 Diihoc. 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
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 115 
 
 able to arrange a divorce, and I will find you another 
 husband — a young one — a handsome one — perhaps a 
 nobleman. Shed no more tears." 
 
 Brigit received this speech with profound 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 curtseyed, 
 kissed his hand, then, turning away, was seized with 
 another fit of crying, and rushed, like a frightened child, 
 to the one refuge left her — the little altar with the lamp 
 hanging before it, which she had arranged in an alcove of 
 her bedroom. 
 
 But neither prayers nor tears were left in Brigit. Her 
 head swam and her knees bent beneath her. She had 
 tasted no food since her first light meal in the morning, 
 and her bodily frame — in spite of her perfect health — was 
 still too immature to bear — without some special grace — 
 so prolonged a strain as she had suffered. It was not, 
 however, the moment for rest or hesitation. Hev one 
 desire was to escape from that perilous household l-efore 
 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, Parflete 
 would write, either to give some account of his own 
 movements, or to ask for tidings of Brigit herself. It 
 was even probable that, on leaving Fontainebleau, he
 
 ii6 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 
 
 would at once place himself in communication nith the 
 Reverend Mother, who, he knew, was kindly disposed 
 toward him, and a woman of great good sense. Thus 
 the girl reasoned. She would walk to Paris — for she felt 
 it would be imprudent to venture into the railway station, 
 where she could not hope to pass unrecognized. The 
 Archduke was too worldly-minded a man to suspect her of 
 fl3'ing to the Nuns, and, once in Paris and on her way to 
 Tours, she felt certain that she could defy his vigilance. 
 She examined the situation of her room. The Chateau 
 de Vieuville, which faced a superb avenue, one mile and 
 a half in length, stood in a park, set out in the English 
 taste, and crossed 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 sup- 
 ported on marble pillars. These lower rooms, she re- 
 membered, were used in the morning only. They were 
 never occupied after midday. It would have been just 
 possible to climb along the ledge until she reached the 
 dome above the servants' staircase. The descent from 
 thence to the ground looked like a matter of mere daring 
 and a sure foot. But, after a moment's consideration, 
 she decided that the better, if more audacious, course 
 was to brave the dangers of the hall and corridors, and 
 walk out as though she intended to stroll in the park. 
 She was a free woman, having wronged no one, and she 
 was her own mistress. She sought for her jewels, and 
 found that her mother's pearl rosary, diamond necklace, 
 bracelets and brooches were gone. Parflete alone knew 
 where they were kept. Had he taken them ? She hoped 
 so. He would need money for his flight. She had but 
 two hundred francs in her purse, and the few rings — fort- 
 unately valuable ones — which she happened to be wear- 
 ing on her fingers. These she tied up in her pocket-
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 117 
 
 handkerchief and thrust it, with lier 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 chamhre, who was dozing on a chair, by 
 a sleeping poodle, at the extreme end of the long corri- 
 dor. 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 stair- 
 case 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, child- 
 ish 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
 
 ii8 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 
 
 for the lights of the city, and meeting neither insults nor 
 adventures. But she was afraid of the blackness ; and 
 Psyche, journeying through the way of death, past the 
 castle of Orcus, and the river of the dead, toward the 
 house of Proserpine, did not suffer more piteously than 
 Brigit during that lonely march. The sky was sombre, 
 and, when the wind in a sudden gust drove the clouds 
 from the face of the moon, it shone out with an opales- 
 cent light that gave the very atmosphere the color 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 invis- 
 ible hands on her shawl, and, from time to time, a fiery 
 touch on her shoulder. The Prince of the Power of Dark- 
 ness was surely near. Yet she sped on and on, now sob- 
 bing from sheer exhaustion, now exhorting her weary 
 heart with the good words she had been taught : — 
 
 " If Thou wilt have me to be in darkness, be Thou Blessed ; 
 and if Thou wilt have me to be in light, Blessed be Thou again. 
 If Thou vouchsafest to comfort me, be 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 forever, nor blot me 
 out of the book of life, no tribulation that befalls me will hurt 
 me."
 
 BOOK II. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 Some ten days after Brigit's flight from the Chateau de 
 Vieuville, Orange was at work among his books, wonder- 
 ing 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' 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 Launcelot had been 
 lined and underlined 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 ot 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 existence could not again be what it 
 
 had been during the last ten years. He made no attempt 
 
 to disguise the cause of this change. Where women were 
 
 119
 
 120 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 
 
 concerned he had always been deeply impressionable. 
 Madame Bertin and the old lace-maker, and Henriette 
 Duboc were but the forerunners — each in her own way : 
 — the first as a Guardian, the second as a Witch, the third 
 as a Mistress — of a long series of feminine influences 
 similar in kind which permeated, while they never ruled, 
 his life. It was hard, indeed, for Robert to find a woman, 
 no matter what her age or history or temper, in whom he 
 cou,ld not discover some point of attraction — some hal- 
 lowing 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 fervor. Robert would have faced 
 death willingly for several ladies ; such was his intel- 
 lectual admiration for their graces of character, and his 
 passionate appreciation of their excellent beauty, but he 
 had never met one who made him eager to live. His 
 boyish ideal of eternal fidelity to one love had, under the 
 stress of material facts and civil laws, become an ac- 
 knowledged 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 forever. This, at least, was his 
 arid belief when he met Brigit, for the first time, at 
 Chambord. Then he learned that there was still an in- 
 fluence on this earth which neither doctrines of vanity, 
 nor the pride of life, could mar. And, whereas other in- 
 fluences, made for restlessness, dissatisfaction, a sort of 
 shame, and certainly much folly, this, on the contrary, 
 brought strength and a sense of heirship to the peace of 
 God. He obtained, too, his first clear and untroubled 
 vision of Time. He saw that, of a truth, a thousand 
 years were as one day, and one day was as a thousand 
 years — not in God's sight onlj'-, but in that School for 
 Saints which has been often called the way of the world.
 
 THE SClIonr. FOR SAIXTS. I2t 
 
 We read in his Journal that he was thinking thus of 
 eternity and immortality, and dreaming of love and sad- 
 ness {f'e so7igeais d'amour et de tn's/esse), when he was 
 given a letter, written in a hand which he feared to rec- 
 ognize — so painful was the happiness he felt in seeing it 
 once more. It was addressed from a Convent in London, 
 and it contained these words : — 
 
 " I am in great trouble, and 1 think you can help me — for you 
 are kind and you understand. Do you remember me ? My 
 name is Brigit Parflete. We met first at Chambord, where we 
 read together those two verses which Frangois 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 f 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 expression. 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 blend- 
 ing of shyness and independence, of inexperience and 
 womanly instinct, of candor and discretion. 
 
 The news of Parflete's disgrace had not yet reached his 
 few acquaintances in England. Friends he had none. 
 His family connections had always seemed to him too 
 obscure and inconvenient to be recognized, and if, now
 
 122 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 
 
 that he was in difficulties, he had seen fit to send them 
 any communication, their station in life was not such 
 that either any annoyance or their astonishment could 
 reach the ear of London gossip. Charles Aumerle was 
 still in Paris, and he seldom wrote letters. LordReckage 
 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 
 Avas 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 
 realized 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 remem- 
 brances 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 1 had inadvertently stepped into some Italian scene. I 
 waited there a few moments alone and examined, at my leisure, 
 the thick gray 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 lurnished with a 
 crucifix, oak-and-horsehair furniture and a small bookcase. 
 Here they left me. From the window, which was much over- 
 grown with ivy, I could see a triangular garden, cut up into
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 133 
 
 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 ai)out 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 Archduchess came in (ibr 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. 1 know 1 
 looked a fool. My feelings were indescribable. I wished 
 myself a thousand miles away, while 1 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 
 iurther. I know this — that, if I were e.xempt 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 amore sno — 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 he on this point. I dialogue thus with my con- 
 science all day and whole nights. . . . 
 
 " When she saw me. she held out both her hands and said, 
 wiiii lears in her voice, ' I thought of you because 1 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 011 to tell what wc already know of the
 
 124 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 
 
 facts in connection with Parflete's dismissal from the 
 Archduke's household. 
 
 " The task now," continues Robert, " is to find him. He is a 
 man whose nature may be said to make his destiny. It will be 
 till the end a contemptible fiasco. He has neither the self- 
 confidence of a true rascal nor the 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 labored 
 to feel that he was at once the greatest dandy, the greatest wit 
 and the most dangerous libertine on the Continent. He was a 
 bad actor and he knew it. Imagine, therefore, how exhausted 
 he must have been when he found it necessary to indulge in 
 soliloquy ! His wife 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 sanctimonious, but ever 
 mindful of the four last things — Death, Judgment, Hell and 
 Heaven. I have promised to help her. But I had rather see 
 her shut up in a Convent till the end of her mortal days than 
 living again with that husband." 
 
 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 impetuous, often intolerant, yet always 
 chivalrous man caught in the meshes of a false position. 
 We see, even in the abrupt conclusion of his letter, a state 
 of mind too raw to bear the light of reason. Something
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 125 
 
 irmsi grow out of the gray of thought and time, and foriH 
 obscurely over it, before he can bear to examine the 
 weakness. 
 
 Some days passed before he wrote again to Reckage. 
 This time he had other news : — 
 
 « My books sold far better than I expected. I hate 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 tirsl political candidate without fortune who had 
 not spol<en luminously with him on the subject of the Secret 
 Service money. • Every tongue-wagger thinks,' said he, 'that 
 the State should provide him with a handsome income and his 
 expenses ! ' He hinted, with great delicacy, that, in my case, 
 ' something might be done.' I thanked him. But I cannot 
 sell my independence. I have certain ideas of my own. They 
 may be wrong. Then they are not worth buying. If they 
 should be right, I cannot do better than invest in them myself, 
 I am selling my library ; my coat and my boots may follow. 
 All I ask is to keep my own soul and the monk's habit which 
 belonged to my father. Alas ! the paradox." 
 
 This, in the whole of Orange's correspondence, is the 
 solitary reference to his father's marriage. It was ever a 
 sensitive point, and his whole life was spent in the self- 
 dedicated task of doing penance for the blot on the family 
 word. It is quite certain that he accepted the many trials 
 of his career in a spirit wholly contrary to his proud and 
 combative nature. He resented persecution when it 
 came — as we shall shortly see it did come — but he fought 
 with the uncomplaining energy of those who view the 
 world as a field of battle, and not as a garden where one 
 may dream according to one's stomach. 
 
 What follows in the letter from which we have quoted 
 is still more remarkable : — 
 
 " Yesterday " (he sayS), " I was received into the Roman com- 
 munion. I went to a little chapel I know ot and made my pro- 
 fession to a simple parish priest— a Secular. He knows my 
 name, but nothing more of me. We have had a short corre-
 
 126 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 
 
 spondence, 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. 1 know the case against Rome by heart, and from 
 its accusers, I have learned its defence. Disraeli, who is not un- 
 sympathetic, 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 permitted the distinction of suffering for my creed. 
 
 In this respect he was too modest. Lord Reckage's 
 reply to his communication was a severe surprise. It 
 was long and elaborately worded. It contained many 
 line sentiments, and the tone was, perhaps, not so insin- 
 cere 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 
 candor by the merits or shortcomings of his literary style. 
 We say this because it seems inconceivable that a person 
 of Orange's discernment could have felt the deep affection 
 which he always held for Lord Reckage, if that nobleman 
 had been, in reality, the sham Crusader whom his own 
 letters seem to indicate, and whom his later critics do not 
 scruple to describe. 
 
 After ten pages of compliments to his Secretary's worth, 
 and much frank depreciation of himself, he winds up 
 thus : — 
 
 " You will see that, in becoming an Ultramontane, you have 
 made it very difficult for me to be associated with you in any 
 political sense. My trust in your conscience would be mistaken 
 for sympathy with your creed. I shall always count you among 
 my friends and depend upon the matchless wisdom of your pri- 
 vate counsel, but our public connection must, I fear, l)e 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 opmion of the son. He seems capa- 
 ble, willing and unpretentious. That I can ever find your equal 
 is a hope too preposterous to be entertained. Yet, after all, our
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 127 
 
 rupture will be a superficial one only. What is it but that con- 
 cession to aii]-)earances and the popular judgment which every 
 man, who seeks the popular confidence, must be ready, at the 
 sacritice of his personal wishes, to make ? Your own sense of fair- 
 ness, 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 en- 
 treated generosity did not fail, btit, 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 read- 
 ing. Yet it must have been kind also, because we find 
 the correspondence between the two continuing, for 
 many years afterwards, in the same intimate strain and 
 with the same regularity. The blow to Orange, however 
 was of the steely kind which affects a man's whole nature 
 till his blood itself grows permanently pale and his mar- 
 row partakes of metal. He found himself, at a critical 
 moment, deprived, at one stroke, of his chief ally and of 
 the main source of his income. With the prospect of par- 
 liamentary service before him, he could not hope to gain 
 much by his literary pen. No young man, in public or 
 artistic life, is able to save any considerable sum out of 
 his first earnings. He is exceptional, indeed, if he can 
 escape the chafing harness of debt. He finds himself 
 thrown into the society of those whose fortunes are de- 
 rived from ancient land grants or confiscated church prop- 
 erty, from commercial ancestors, 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 occtipied, and occupy, positions of public 
 trust with respect and occasionally genius. It is perse- 
 verance rather than ability that is uncommon. But one 
 thing is certain. Ambition and great talent, and even
 
 128 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 
 
 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 contest, 
 the Norbet Royal election. The unlooked-for withdrawal 
 of Reckage's support seemed ominous. Robert felt that 
 he must either obtain another Secretaryship or retire from 
 the scene until he could establish a reserve fund which 
 would enable him to exist through a year or two, at least, 
 of unpaid labor. 
 
 He went to Disraeli and explained the newly-soured 
 aspect of affairs. Disraeli was in a silent mood. He 
 offered neither comment nor advice. He promised to 
 write in a day or two. Orange received a note that same 
 night. 
 
 " There is a man " (it runs) " who would do. A Peer : 
 stupid : a thorough gentleman : certainly courageous : comes 
 rarely to the House of Lords : is partial to Mary of Scots : loves 
 water-color 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 difficulties. Disraeli's 
 kindness in the matter deserved no common response. 
 To refuse the introduction which he had offered would 
 look like ingratitude or silliness. Yet, on the other hand, 
 it was always a dangerous and unpleasant thing to be laid 
 under any obligation to a woman's good graces. Dis- 
 
 * Disraeli's full appreciation of Sir Robert Peel seems to date from 
 that great minister's exit from this world.
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 129 
 
 raeli's reference to the feminine influence in question con- 
 tained 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 vi'idow. She was 
 ' ' ethereal," as Robert himself had once said of her, ' ' from 
 the chin upwards." She did not flirt, except in the pres- 
 ence of her two young children, but she sang passionate 
 songs in a minor key, and talked the natural philosophy 
 of love with great refinement. Portraits of her at this 
 period show a pleasing oval face, and hair arranged in a 
 chignon, terminating in two long fair curls to the waist. 
 She signed herself Peiiske Fiiz Rewes. Her motto was — 
 Je me nourris de flayyinies (I feed on flame). She had the 
 rank and title of a Viscountess and her uncle was the Earl 
 of Wight and Man.* We hear, on the unimpeachable 
 authority of all Robert's opponents, that women consid- 
 ered 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 cor- 
 respondence with some unconscious or some admitted 
 desire. Robert was an ambitious man. This passion, 
 like a sleeping dragon, lay side by side with the unselfish 
 romance of his nature — a romance which had received 
 
 * The recent sale of this nobleman's collection of old lace and Italian 
 water-colors may be fresh in the minds of many readers. 
 
 9
 
 I30 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 
 
 the kiss of Gallic gayety as well as the thorn of mediaeval 
 asceticism. He who has even once subdued the flesh in 
 favor of the spirit can never again return in joy to carnal 
 things. Robert had resisted mundanity — not always, in- 
 deed, 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 exal- 
 tation 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 martyrs, and, while she de- 
 ceives the weak by flattery, she warns the strong, with a 
 candor even more dangerous than blandishments, that her 
 discipline is cruel, and her reward an ordeal. 
 
 Robert was stan.ding in the Library of Almouth House, 
 considering all these points and studying Disraeli's letter, 
 when Lord Reckage himself, unannounced and un- 
 expected, entered the room. For a moment both men 
 lost their countenance, and neither of them could speak. 
 Then they greeted each other as though nothing had 
 happened to disturb their friendliness. 
 
 Lord Reckage, ot 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 
 gray. His complexion was healthy and his blue eyes 
 had not the languor which is so often found in individuals 
 of such coloring. There was something Quixotic in the 
 shape of his face and the droop of his eyebrows. He had 
 the interesting air — without the misery — of a melancholy 
 mind. Though he presented an appearance of much 
 gentleness, he possessed a fierce and even cruel temper. 
 His manner had a grace which was all but feminine, yet
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. xp 
 
 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 frankness 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-humor — the alloy of unreality. Reckage was a 
 man who acted on opinions which, however contradic- 
 tory in themselves, he was never afraid to declare. There 
 was a total absence of self-consciousness in his mental 
 methods which made him at once confident and un- 
 reliable. 
 
 " lam 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 Govern- 
 ment. 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 appoint- 
 ment. 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, plottirng mischief against their 
 own Party. The very fact that John Stuart Mill lost his 
 seat will show you what the present Liberal crew is made 
 of And now they go about complaining that Gladstone 
 has no tact." 
 
 "It is a case," said Robert, "where God ynight he 
 ashamed lo he their God. " 
 
 * The present Duke of Devonshire.
 
 J 32 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 
 
 Reckage flushed a little. "What do you hear from 
 Dizzy ? " he asked. 
 
 Robert handed him Disraeli's letter. 
 
 "Does he mean Lady Fitz Rewes ? " said Reckage, 
 when he had read it. " She has always been busy about 
 you ! " 
 
 "I know her very slightly,'' said Robert. 
 
 "But why should you know her slightly.? She's a 
 nice woman and high-minded, and quite good-looking 
 enough. A gadding wife would be the devil, and a 
 pretty one is downright wear-and-tear ! I wish you 
 could love this one, although no man yet, I suppose, ever 
 loved under advice. But 1 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 forever. 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? It may." 
 
 "It may," said Reckage, "but in the mean time — " 
 
 "In the mean time," 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
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 133 
 
 a lover," said Reckage. "Love in some natures seems 
 to turn the blood of life to tears and fire. I want none 
 of it." 
 
 Robert made no reply. 
 
 " Take Pensee Fitz Rewes again," continued 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 .? " 
 
 " That is the worst bargain that any man can make ! 
 Thme, Lord, are all things that are in Heaven, a?jd that are 
 in earth. The devil can give us nothing. It is we who are 
 always making presents to the devil ! Success depends 
 — not on the devil at all — but on our natural talents. 
 Look at the dancing elephant — has he made any sacri- 
 fice to the spirits of evil } Not a bit of it. He was born 
 with a lii-ht foot — for his kind. And as for work ! See 
 how worldly people toil and scheme in order to gain 
 their treasure. When disappointments happen — they 
 become the jest of serving maids and lookers-on — food 
 for the crowd ! They perish from humiliation. If one 
 wants independence — one must keep on the side of the 
 angels ! That is mere prudence — quite apart from every 
 other thought." 
 
 " O yes — there is always one's immortal soul — and 
 one's eternal destiny. I believe in all that. I go a long 
 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 
 forgotten nowadays." 
 
 Reckage took out his note-book. 
 
 "I will work that idea into my speech," said he, "it 
 would interest a number of people — and perhaps do a lot 
 of good." 
 
 "Would any Christian gentleman venture to quote
 
 134 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 
 
 Scripture in the House of Commons ? " asked Orange, 
 dryly. 
 
 "As a rule," said Reckage, " it would be considered a 
 mark of bad taste. But all would depend on the oc- 
 casion. You don't want to shock people — do you ? I 
 wonder whether Disraeli's influence will make you reck- 
 less. I can't believe in him. He is laughing in his 
 sleeve at all of us. Every one says so. What is he — a 
 brilliant adventurer — a Jewish upstart — yet he wants to 
 lead the aristocratic party in England. The idea tickles 
 his sense of humor." 
 
 " You mistake him wholly. His pride of race is enor- 
 mous. 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 recognize 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 
 sympathy or courage." 
 
 "You may be right. But what do you say to his hint 
 about Lady Fitz Rewes ? " 
 
 " I think it a prudent and delicate test — that is all." 
 
 " What will you say to him ? " 
 
 " I intend to call on the lady first. And then — the rest 
 will be easy." 
 
 Lord Reckage began to hum a little air. 
 
 "If my mind had been free," said Orange, "all this 
 might have been well enough," 
 
 "I don't quite see how you reconcile this — devotion to 
 Mrs. Parflete with your other views," said Reckage, 
 bluntly. "I know you are ascetic, but a man is a man.
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 135 
 
 If you love a person — that means that you cannot live 
 naturally without them. You may put it 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 — Amore una passione 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 him- 
 self 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 senti- 
 ment rather than a passion. It is a spiritual rapture — a 
 mental thrill which wears away and kills the bodily life. 
 It bears no resemblance to the fire and fury of the South. 
 The Southern lover slays his rival, slays the object of his 
 passion. This Breton's sentiment slays only him who 
 feels it. No other race can show so .many deaths from 
 love ; suicide, indeed, is rare — they perish from a linger- 
 ing decline. One sees this constantly among the Breton 
 conscripts. Unable to find either pleasure or forgetful- 
 ness in vulgar and bought amours — they sink under some 
 indefinable grief. The h'ome-sickness is but an appear- 
 ance : the truth is that love with them is inseparably 
 associated with their native village, its steeple, the even- 
 ing Angelus, the familiar fields and lanes. Their imagi- 
 nation is filled with a desire alike beyond all common 
 needs and ordinary satisfactions. Idealism in all its de- 
 grees — the pursuit of some moral or intellectual end — 
 often wrong, always disinterested — is the first character- 
 istic of the Celt. Never was a race so unfit for the 
 industrial arts or commerce. A noble occupation is in
 
 136 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 
 
 their eyes that by which one gains nothing — for in- 
 stance, 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 char- 
 acter 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 in- 
 stincts 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.
 
 The school for saints. 137 
 
 CHAPTER 11. 
 
 The Viscountess Fitz Rewes, who lived in Curzon Street, 
 occupied what is sometimes called a maisonnetle. 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 affection- 
 ate. If one wanted a being ideally strong in love and 
 weak in argument — Pensee looked the incarnation of these 
 feminine virtues. When absent from sight, she remained 
 in one's memory — a gracious figure that floated — always 
 elegant and appropriate — into any fair scene which might 
 seem to require some infusion of humanity to make it — 
 in an earthly sense — perfect. She had written him, in the 
 course of their acquaintance, such little notes as may be 
 sent from a great lady of the 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
 
 138 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 
 
 them all equally? " And again, " What does her imagina- 
 tion 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 
 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, im- 
 pulsive, self-reliant. As a boy, wandering alone on the 
 rocks and sands of St. Malo, he had seemed to be ruling 
 his kingdom up.der 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, ab- 
 surdities 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 ardor 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 staircase at Chambord ! She had seemed 
 to him attired by all the angels and the graces ! Yet
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 139 
 
 what had she worn ? A brown silk dress and a straw 
 bonnet covered with pink ribbons. But it was she — the 
 promise of his youth — the mistress of his kingdom under 
 the sea. Most men had veiled portraits in their hearts. 
 Most men could close their eyes and see the sacred days 
 their lips might never tell of. Many a man had loved a 
 woman well, j'^et 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 advent- 
 urer. Such a marriage would clear at one short step full 
 twenty years of waiting and working. Twent)'' 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 — an heroic combat 
 to conquest or to the death. 
 
 "What, "he thought, "shall 1 forget that Thy way is 
 in the sea, and Thy path in the great waters ? Shall I 
 walk on the dryland and become a portion for foxes.'* 
 Lover and friend hast Thou put far from me, and mine 
 acquaintance into darkness — but among the gods there is 
 none like unto Thee ! " 
 
 After that he could meditate no longer on rich bountiful 
 ladies with blonde curls. 
 
 On arriving at the maisonnette, he was ushered into the 
 drawing-room. The Viscountess was not there. His 
 eyes, before she made her appearance, had leisure to ex- 
 amine the heavy gilding, the damask hangings, the glass 
 candelabra with their sparkling lustres, and the gay carpet 
 which represented large bouquets of pink roses on a grass- 
 green background. The Broadwood piano stood open. 
 Her ladyship had evidently been playing an "arrange-
 
 I40 THE vSCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 
 
 ment of airs from Rossini." A miniature of the late Vis- 
 count in a Iieart-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 
 immortelles trembled on the wall above. The corner 
 seemed consecrated to a gentle and resigned spirit of 
 hopeful mourning. 
 
 Robert heard a light step. The pretty lady entered. 
 
 She had just returned, it seems, from a wedding. She 
 wore, to use the words of the Post, which, the following 
 morning, contained a description of her costume, — 
 straight from Paris, — ''an under-robe, co?nprising high 
 corsage, tight fitting sleeves, and jupe of rose-colored taffeta. 
 Upper robe 7vith low corsage, open sleeves and paniers in 
 white foulard covered tm'th a small rose-bud pattern, and 
 bordered with a leaf-shaped ruche in apple-green taffeta. 
 Chapeau of greeti crepe with a diadem of moss, a single 
 rose posed on the left side, with a row of trailing Jlowers 
 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 pref- 
 erence. 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 «s. 
 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.
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 141 
 
 ' Doesn't it express him ? ' I said, ' How can you ! ' He 
 said, ' No change is so great as to be improbable." 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. Arent 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 ex- 
 perienced in pronouncing her r's, would have melted a 
 Xenocrates. The unhappy young man endeavored 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 mis- 
 takes and shortcomings," 
 
 " I like," said she, softly, as though she had not caught 
 the remark, "the Launcelot idea. It is most expressive." 
 
 "In what sense .'' " 
 
 " 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 faithful to me or to some one 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
 
 142 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 
 
 can do it. I am praying about your election. Do you 
 value a heretic's prayers ? Will you be a Papist always ? 
 You may come back to us some day. Bo !" 
 
 "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 any one 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 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."
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 143 
 
 "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. 
 
 "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 f " asked Pensee, quickly. 
 
 "She was as good as a Nun." 
 
 " Oh ! — then was she elderly — " 
 
 "A mere girl. Would you have ugly old women only 
 dedicated to God ? " 
 
 "Then she is a Nun." 
 
 " Did I say so .? The great point is this — she cared 
 nothing for the man. But he knew that he would never 
 love any one else, and so he took a solemn vow of fidelity 
 to this affection. Perhaps the vow was rash — but you 
 will think — you — with your high and delicate standard of 
 honor — 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 temptation — even if the 
 most beautiful of all women should seem near him to in- 
 spire him — " 
 
 "Poor man ! What a terrible position ! — You say that 
 he seldom meets the first woman ? "
 
 144 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 
 
 " 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 hu- 
 man ! Could one judge harshly in such a case? " 
 
 "One may recognize an allurement and so avoid it." 
 
 She grew pale to the lips. 
 
 "We can speak openly," said she. "I understand. 
 You mean yourself But why did you take that vow ? " 
 
 "I obeyed an early creed." 
 
 "But — is no release possible? In your Church are 
 there not ways and Dispensations? Would a Protestant 
 vow count ? " 
 
 "A vow is a vow in every Church." 
 
 "Oh, it was rash ! " 
 
 For a few moments neither of them spoke. 
 
 " I am sorry," she said, at last, "for the other poor 
 lady. But I suppose you must follow your conscience. 
 Will that mean that you can never marry ? " 
 
 "It comes to that." 
 
 "And now," she said, after another miserable silence, 
 "about my uncle. He is a celibate himself. He, too, 
 once loved unwisely. He is a lonely, sad old 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 fervor. 
 
 " How I love animals ! " she exclaimed : "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
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 145 
 
 tide of her heart, which had been ebbing 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 seamstress 
 who happened to be passing turned to look after his hand- 
 some face. 
 
 "What a brazen minx ! " thought her ladyship. " And 
 he gave her no encouragement. How can men keep 
 steady with such creatures about ! " 
 
 And the ponies, which had been kissed so tenderly, 
 
 felt the whip more than once during their exercise that 
 
 day. 
 10
 
 146 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 
 
 CHAPTER HI. 
 
 That same evening — before the dinner hour — Robert re- 
 ceived 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 poli- 
 tician, he put away his book and closed his eye-glasses. 
 
 ' ' Are you, " said he, with one of his piercing smiles, ' ' a 
 Manichean ? " 
 
 This salutation was certainly unexpected. 
 
 "Why do you ask that ? " said Robert. 
 
 "Are you forbidding marriage and commanding to ab- 
 stain from meats ? " 
 
 "By no means." 
 
 " But you will die a bachelor.? " 
 
 "I hope not." 
 
 "That is better — although I say nothing in disparage- 
 ment 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 compensa- 
 tions of his life. May I say one thing.? Is the situation 
 hopeless } " 
 
 "It is improbable," said Robert, flushing. 
 
 "Then," said Disraeli, kindly, "avoid all books on
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 147 
 
 love and when you hear sweet music say to yourself, 
 ' Twiddle, twaddle, twiddle, twaddle ! ' Wrap your soul 
 in the linsey-wolsey of morality and then you may order 
 your hair-shirts lined with silk ! You must get rid of all 
 this Medisevalism. The world judges of the present by 
 the present and not by the past. Great Pan is dead ; the 
 gods have gone and the Round Table too has vanished. 
 You may as well seek to found an order of Vestal Virgins 
 as to mould your life on the principles of Amadis and 
 Oriana. How charming they are too ! How touching ! 
 The modern passion for truth may perhaps be compared 
 to the quest of the Holy Grail — but what a difference ! " 
 
 " I don't see," said Robert, "why, at any epoch of 
 civilization, a man should marry one woman when his 
 mind is fixed on another ? " 
 
 ''And, in the morning, behold-' it was Leah-'" said 
 Disraeli dryly. " 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 mean while, make friends of the women. The sex 
 is dangerous, but it stands well in the Divine Favor ! 
 Read this letter from Lady Fitz Rewes, and then pray for 
 a good death." 
 
 It ran as follows : — 
 
 " My dear Mr. Disraeli, — Your interesting friend has 
 called upon me. P'ortunately I was at home. I feel sure that 
 lie 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 tlien he may perhaps yet find happiness. He is too young 
 and brilliant to have his life spoilt in this SHOCKING manner. 
 These things make one quite HATE the Papists. They set one 
 aloof from all human affection. Can this be right ? But Mr.
 
 148 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 
 
 Orange seems to be tied to some early rather fantastic attach- 
 ment. I am so sorry for him, and so glad that you mentioned 
 him to me. Uncle will be so grateful, although he has NEARLY 
 engaged Lord Sav^ernake'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. 
 
 " 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 
 humor. 
 
 "Nevertheless," said Disraeli, "you know what was 
 said of Ulysses — Vetula?n suam prcetidit Inimortalitati — he 
 preferred his old woman to immortality. Some men are 
 by constitution constant." 
 
 "True," said Robert, "you may therefore attribute 
 my folly, rather to my native constitution than to the 
 ideals of romance ! " 
 
 " By-the-by," 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
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 149 
 
 Was, at least, seeing each day as he saw it. Reserved in 
 the ordinary transactions of life, no one knew better than 
 Robert the right use of that easily abused quality known 
 as open-heartedness. He said nothing more, but he made 
 no effort to disguise the gloomy thoughts which were 
 now afflicting his soul. 
 
 " I fear there is much un happiness 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 con- 
 versation. They consider and discuss together every 
 unimportant detail of their lives. But when a serious 
 problem presents itself, men at once grow cautious, and, 
 at the ver)'- moment when advice or support is most 
 needed, every one resolves to thmk for himself. If I 
 know a little about anything," he added, "it is the 
 simplicity of the hidden life. Motives, excuses, argument 
 and philosophy belong to the things that are temporal. 
 They pass with the fashion or die in tlieir 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 I "
 
 ISO THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 
 
 " 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 I' idee 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 Sentimeiitale. You re- 
 member his hero's peculiar devotion to Madame 
 Arnoux?" 
 
 The novel in question — which had then recently been 
 published — lay on the table near his elbow. 
 
 "If we may believe this," he continued, touching the 
 yellow cover, "such friendships, in our century at least, 
 cannot be said to elevate the mind ! " 
 
 "I cannot help thinking that Flaubert will as little in- 
 fluence your views as he would mine. He has the morals 
 of a sick devil and the philosophy of a retired dancing 
 master ! " 
 
 "You young critics are very severe! I won't say, 
 however, that you are always wrong. Now let me show 
 you how well I understand Platonics ! The ordinary 
 marriage is sometimes regarded as a prefiguration of the 
 mystical union of souls. There are some beings, how- 
 ever, 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 impossibility ! Such beings are rare — though not 
 so rare as many would believe. They are seldom under- 
 stood. It is always unwise to quote them to the mass 
 of men and women. The counsels of perfection, as you 
 know, are fit only for those who are able to hear such 
 sayings. But I will own this : although it is the penalty 
 of saints and poets to suffer much more than vulgar 
 mortals, it is also given to them to experience joys of
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 151 
 
 which the ordinary creature is as ignorant as he is in- 
 capable. If I have admitted these things to your satis- 
 faction, tell me your story. If, on the other hand — " 
 
 "I will tell it at once," said Robert, "and you will 
 soon see that I make no claim to any mystical senti- 
 ments. It is a common case. I met Mrs. Parflete first 
 at Chambord. We spent two whole days 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 pos- 
 sible now — she and I talked very little, but I soon dis- 
 covered 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 two persons but one person. If she 
 had walked out alone, I am certain that, without so 
 meaning, I must have followed her and found her. 
 There is nothing new in all this. The everlasting hills 
 are but a few days older ! I did not find anything either 
 dishonorable or wrong in my state of mind. I realized, 
 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 appealed to me — 
 which most appeals to every man." 
 
 "True," said Disraeli ; "her modesty, her beauty and 
 good sense could not fail to make a very deep impres- 
 sion."
 
 152 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 
 
 "And then her tragic history," said Robert — "the help- 
 lessness of her position and that husband ! She would 
 have roused the spirit of a swineherd ! Her voice was 
 charming, and when she sang, all other earthly creatures 
 except herself seemed pests to me ! " 
 
 " How easy it is," observed Disraeli, " to be faithful to 
 a woman one loves ! " 
 
 " I left Paris. I came to London. I tried to banish 
 her from my thoughts. Then she wrote to me — as you 
 know, about her trouble. It fell to me to see her once 
 more. She seemed no longer young. 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 re- 
 ferred 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 thinkine 
 that the Summer was still to come ! With that remem- 
 brance of a happy day, her prettiness, like a swallow 
 when the Winter is past, flew back — and stayed. I re- 
 mained one hour with her, then the bell rang for Bene- 
 diction and I said good-bye. I have not seen her 
 since." 
 
 "Nor have you passed her Convent gates.?" asked 
 Disraeli. 
 
 "I have often passed them," said her 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 
 colored 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 common-
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 
 
 153 
 
 place enough — since I may not marry the woman 1 want, 
 
 I will remain single ! " 
 
 " I am really sorry for Lady Fitz Rewes ! " 
 
 " That reminds me that yon 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 Bojia 
 
 Mors, and it is held on tlie 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.
 
 154 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 In the mean time, 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 Erastia7iistn. His lordship's manuscript was spread 
 out on the library table. His blue books had been un- 
 packed. Some were strewn on the floor, others, scattered 
 on the chair and sofas, were laid open at marked places. 
 He was pacing the room with an old volume of Hansard 
 in his hand when a footman, bearing a card on a salver, 
 disturbed him. 
 
 A lady had called to see Mr. Orange. He (the servant) 
 had never seen the lady before. She was very young, 
 not too proud but rather haughty. She was, to his idea, 
 'iome one particular. She had given no name. She had 
 written Mr. Orange's name on the card — which was other- 
 wise blank. She had said that she could wait till he 
 came in. She was waiting, therefore, in the Red Saloon. 
 
 "The Red Saloon is depressing," said Lord Reckage, 
 who, where strange, young, proud and beautiful ladies 
 were concerned, was not without feeling. "Show her in 
 
 here ! " 
 
 He gathered his papers together, and then made as 
 though he were about to leave the library, when the visitor 
 entered. He raised his eyes respectfully. It was Par- 
 flete'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.
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 155 
 
 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 rep- 
 resent a part of the book-case. Brigit, who had at once 
 guessed his identity, thanked him and obeyed the invita- 
 tion. 
 
 "Here are some original drawings by Watteau," ex- 
 plained 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 thisCarpaccio. 
 The Tintoretto is a favorite. 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 civilized peoples ! This is 
 not a good day for the larger Claude. I hope you admire 
 him. All ladies admire Claude. He is a Romantic. I 
 prefer him to the gloomy fellows." 
 
 "Oh!" thought Brigit, "if he would not talk so 
 much ! " 
 
 " There is a new school coming in. Every line means 
 a lot, but there are not many lines. Some critics call it 
 humbug. I don't go so far. I should not mind having a 
 Whistler. I believe he has a future. He interests me. 
 Thafs 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
 
 156 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 
 
 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 Frenchman. 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 him- 
 self. The artist has caught his expression marvellously. 
 Observe the eyes. You would swear that he was defy- 
 ing the devil and all his works. Orange should have 
 been a priest — he's a born ecclesiastic ! The head is 
 most characteristic — and the chin ! " 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "I always look at Orange when I want a change of 
 century ! My aunt used to say that he ought to be 
 painted as St. Augustine. She says that he is better look- 
 ing 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,"
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 157 
 
 '* 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 por- 
 trait 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 in- 
 quisitive air. His curiosity did not go unrewarded. 
 Orange was paler than death. Brigit grew as white as 
 her gown. Reckage, with much reluctance, left them, 
 but they did not notice him as he went out.
 
 158 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 
 
 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. 
 
 " My dear Robert, — You are the one man in the world on 
 whom I can rely. I am worn away with grief and am become 
 a coffin of cares. Get my poor wife away from the Nuns. They 
 are kind blissful souls, but she can be of no use to me mewed up 
 in a Convent. The Archduke is prepared to behave in the most 
 handsome manner. He is proud of her. He is disappointed in 
 the Imperial children, and my wife is certainly a Princess in ten 
 thousand. She is far cleverer, too, than any one would suppose 
 and POLITICALLY she could have a great career. She is the very
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 159 
 
 woman that is wanted, but, unless we take prompt measures, 
 this religious atmosphere will ruin her mind and she will be fit 
 for nothing ! I know the Countess Des Escas with whom she 
 can live at Madrid, for the present, with the greatest advantage 
 to herself and me. Befriend her, Robert. She needs friends. 
 Would God that she could join me. In time all may yet be 
 justified. I am with the poor Viscount Soham. He drinks. 
 What a pity ! His parents (old acquaintances) have entreated 
 me to take him under my charge. We may be en voyage for 
 eighteen months. I am writing very fully to my wife. If I have 
 been able to help you to your present good fortune and position, 
 do not fail me now. — Yours ever affec, dear Robert, 
 
 " Wrexham Parflete." 
 
 " May I see it ?" asked Brigit, when he had finished. 
 
 " Do you wish to see it ? " 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 She took the letter, read it swiftly, and reddened to her 
 eyes. 
 
 "I will not go to Spain," said she, "nor could you ad- 
 vise me to go." 
 
 " I fear I must." 
 
 "What !" 
 
 "I fear I must. You cannot remain with the Nuns 
 against his will." 
 
 " 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
 
 i6o THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 
 
 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 Convent." 
 
 "True. But my life was different then. The world 
 was pleasant in those days. It would be pleasant still, 
 if I had a father I could own and a husband I could men- 
 tion. 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 birthright 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 recognize 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 1 ' 
 You look vexed. But I mean every word. I am wretch- 
 ed — beyond all telling, wretched — and through no fault
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. i6i 
 
 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 — because I had rather be thought worse than 
 I am than better than I am. Do not think well of me. 
 My light is all darkness. That I love God above every- 
 thing 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 weak sayings and ask God to forgive 
 them. But — if there should be no other world and if this 
 one is so desolate ! O, 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 
 II
 
 i6i THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 
 
 left the house together. He followed them all the way 
 till they reached their destination, but Brigit did not see 
 him. The time was Summer : the hour, nine in the even- 
 ing. Day, in the sky, was blushing her farewell, and 
 Robert remembered that the blue sea off Brittany would 
 be looking up with still impatience for the advent of the 
 stars. He paced the pavement outside the Convent all 
 that night until the dawn. There arc thoughts which are 
 companions having a language, and there are other 
 thoughts which rest in a painful sleep upon our souls till 
 the dumb weight of them brings us to dust. Grief, de- 
 spair, the desire of beauty, the sorrow of partings, the 
 thirst of ambition, the attachment to friends are not small 
 contemptible weaknesses. Va?iitas 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 exalt- 
 ing them. And that is no light achievement. The labor 
 of it is not until the evening only, but for the watches of 
 the night and the early morning and the noon-day and 
 for all the Seasons and for all the year and for all the 
 fasts and for all the Feasts.
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. lo^ 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 Robert's Journal, at this period, presents a blank. His 
 days at Almouth House were ended. That mansion, 
 pending Lord Reckage's courtship of the heiress, was 
 closed. The lady was capricious, and the upholsterers 
 waited, not idly, for the 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 situation by a curious 
 document — since found among the Orange MSS. — which 
 appears to have been addressed but never posted to Reck- 
 age. 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 confidence between Lord Reckage and 
 himself was no longer all that it had once been. So the 
 letter was not sent. It runs as follows : — 
 
 " i6b Vigo Street, 
 
 •• I have not yet told you that I followed the Lady to Spain in 
 order to assure myself that all was well. She did not know it. 
 I think she will never know it. From careful inquiries at Ma- 
 drid, I have learned that the Spanish Countess is a person of
 
 i64 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 
 
 some piety and many adventures. She has social influence, and , 
 so far, has not abused it. Existence in her household could be 
 neither dull nor constrained. But the Lady's mind is still fixed 
 on the Convent at Tours. I wish that she were there. The 
 cloistered life — in its perpetual protest against all that is mean 
 and feverish, might indeed be called monotonous, but it is the 
 monotony of the cry before the Throne — itself unchanging — 
 Sanctus, Sanctus, Sanctus, Dominus Deus omnipotens, 
 
 QUI ERAT, ET QUI EST ET QUI VENTURUS EST. — After leaving 
 
 Madrid, I journeyed on to Barcelona. From thence, I made a 
 pilgrimage to Manresa and the Benedictine Abbey at Mont 
 Serrat where St. Ignatius long ago hung up his sword. I had 
 no sword to offer, so I plucked out the wings of my soul and 
 left them on the altar steps and said — " Hereafter I will crawl. 
 Let this be a penance ! " 
 "But — 
 
 dcoiq fiEv Kav 6 fiTjdev uv ofiov 
 KpuTog naTaKT/jaaiT'.* 
 
 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 oi 
 an Horae, MS. on vellum, with miniatures, Saec. XV. Pf 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 
 CARCASE, my spirit — A DREAM, A SMOKE ; when I howled at 
 the cities of the earth — You are dust-heaps ! and to the Heavens, 
 You are ether ! I never meant it. No one ever does mean 
 these things. The pride of life and the desire of the eyes is 
 mighty in all men, and, while one is strong, the time is the time 
 of love. 
 
 " My room is not gay. Below, there is a lodger who sings. 
 His voice grows weaker every hour. A great Countess has 
 promised him an opportunity to amuse her guests — some night — 
 next month . . . probably. I hope he may live till then. We 
 
 * With the help of the gods, even a man who was no man, might 
 prove a conqueror. — Sophocles, Ajax, 767-8. 
 t It was purchased recently for ;^I24.
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 165 
 
 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 lor the first time this afternoon. Imagine 
 a fat man with an externally happy profile and a full face — be- 
 yond 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 to 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 eyelashes 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 vo- 
 cation. The true bent and the real struggle are shown in 
 that solitary pilgrimage to Mont Serrat, in his reflection 
 on the monastic life, his significant attachment to the 
 Horae — the sale of which might have saved a few at least 
 of his other books — and, finally, those words — half-de- 
 fiant and half a confession — " TJie pride of life and the de- 
 sire of the eyes are mighty in all men, and, while one is 
 strong, the time is the time of love." He could not bring 
 himself to utter the priestly vows. He could not sacrifice
 
 i66 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 
 
 the hope — thoug-h pale and mute — of marriage and honors, 
 nor could he renounce the vain expectation of that happi- 
 ness, which the young, and ardent, and impassioned do 
 ever think to be the sum of earthly prizes. It is true that 
 this last is never mentioned either in Robert's Journal or 
 in his correspondence. But we may be sure that it was 
 there — and with it a pride of birth almost amounting to 
 arrogance. His father came of the best blood in France. 
 His mother — of a haughty and rebellious stock — had been 
 disowned by her family. Robert felt that he must fight 
 for his birthright. 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 dis- 
 own one of its members. A name is a name and neither 
 curses nor disgrace can make the blood of one race the 
 blood of another. Robert was born of the House of 
 Hausde and the House of Wharborough. He was no ad- 
 venturer, no upstart. And he would vindicate his mother's 
 honor. Such was his argument.
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 165 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 The days were the days of the Irish Church Bill. Dis- 
 raeli, 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 
 Commons to remember the courtesy due to the Upper 
 House and to meet their Lordships "in a spirit of concili- 
 ation. " When he defined Propaganda as the most power- 
 fully disciplined Foreign oflice in the world — when he 
 called the Catholic priesthood a perfect organization against 
 which the Protestant Church in Ireland could not hope 
 to stand — when he described the Roman See as possess- 
 ing the advantages without the disadvantages of an Estab- 
 lishment, it did not require profound intelligence to see, 
 that, wherever his allegiance may have been, his admira- 
 tion did not rush forth spontaneously to the government 
 of the Church of England. He bore the final passing of 
 the Bill with honeyed resignation. '' Not for many years," 
 says 21ie Times of that date, " has there been such a sweet 
 interchange of good feeling. Tlie House of Commons yes- 
 terday afternoon might have been the Teynple of Harmony. 
 The conversation somewhat assumed the tone of the supper- 
 parties of our youth, or the later hours of a provincial ban- 
 quet when every one feels called upon to propose his neigh- 
 bor s health, or to testify to his excellent social and moral 
 qualities. " 
 
 Robert had avoided Disraeli and the political Clubs dur- 
 ing those memorable debates in July, 1869. Lord Reck-
 
 i68 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 
 
 age, however, whose interest in ecclesiastical questions 
 was making itself more manifest each day, had been ad- 
 dressing the serious-minded all through the country. He 
 gathered round his standard a small but dashing band of 
 Graduates and young clergy who clamored, in the lan- 
 guage of Prize Essays, for the Reformation principles of 
 Church and State. "The fear of God made England," was 
 their text, "and no great nation was ever made by any 
 other fear." The Roman Catholics could not deny this : 
 the 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 irreligi- 
 ous 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 vulgar," said he, "to 
 doubt." The motive of belief may not have been a 
 high one — but it touched many minds not readily acces- 
 sible to more exalted arguments. His party grew. He 
 saw himself regarded as a man of some consequence and 
 he honestly wished to give God the glory. No deliber- 
 ate 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 theologian. 
 
 On the last day of July, Orange was writing to Disraeli 
 to remind him of his promise to attend a service of that 
 Archconfraternity known as that of the Bo7ia Mors, when 
 Reckage presented himself at Vigo Street. His lordship
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 169 
 
 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 mysteri- 
 ous a person, this, of sitting next him in a Church of the 
 Jesuit Fathers, was by far the most picturesque and ex- 
 traordinary. 
 
 "Besides," said he to Orange, as they walked together 
 tov/ard Farm Street, "the service itself is no doubt inter- 
 esting. Very touching, too, I daresay. Who can deny 
 that Rome understands a ceremony better than we do — 
 at present ? But we shall have all these things in time. 
 A great many people have already given in about the 
 candles ! And that's a tremendous concession. The dif- 
 ference between the priest and the parson need not be so 
 great. Tell me more about Dizzy's manner. He bores 
 Salisbury. I wish he didn't bore Salisbury." 
 
 At that time, the West End of London and the Parks 
 did not present, on Sunday afternoons, the lively appear- 
 ance which is now their characteristic. The Zoological 
 Gardens were then the favorite promenade of such mem- 
 bers of society who were at once eminently distin- 
 guished for decorum yet not extravagantly Puritanical in 
 the matter of Sunday recreations. But the streets were 
 deserted. The houses might have been vast silent cata- 
 combs. There was not a face to be seen at any window. 
 Not a laugh or a word rose from any area. No caller 
 stood before any one of the many hundred doors. The 
 creaking wheels of a loitering cab or the heavier roll ot 
 an half-empty public conveyance disturbed, at rare inter- 
 vals, 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
 
 17© THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 
 
 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 
 were singing the last strains of the Salularis : — 
 
 Uni t7'iiioqtie Domiiio 
 Sit sempiter7ia gloria 
 Qui vitavi sine terfnino 
 N'obis donet i7i patria. 
 
 The service that followed was a devotion — the great 
 end of which is "to honor the Passion of our Lord Jesus 
 Christ and the Dolors of the Blessed Virgin Mary, trusting 
 thereby to obtain the grace of a happy death." It begins 
 with an appeal for mercy from the Lord Christ and then 
 a salutation to Holy Mary, the angels, archangels, pa- 
 triarchs, prophets, apostles, evangelists, martyrs, and to all 
 the holy ones and Saints of God — to which, at the inton- 
 ing of each name, the choir cries out, " Pray for us." 
 
 Then there is the incomparable prayer and adjura- 
 tion : — 
 
 From Thine anger 
 
 From a 71 evil death 
 
 From the pains of Hell 
 
 From all evil 
 
 From the power of the devil 
 
 By Thy Nativity 
 
 By Thy Cross a7id Passion 
 
 By Thy Death a7id Burial 
 
 By Thy glorious Resurrection 
 
 By the grace of the Holy Ghost the Comforter 
 
 In the Day of fudgment, 
 
 O Lord, deliver us.
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 171 
 
 Then, after some shorter prayers, there follows that 
 sublime commemoration of the Passion : — 
 
 O Jesus, Who, during Thy prayer to the Father in the 
 garden wast so filled with sorrow and anguish, that there 
 came forth from Thee a bloody sweat — 
 
 Have mercy o?i us, Lord : have mercy on us. 
 O 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 gar- 
 ment, in many ways derided, and overwhelmed with 
 reproaches — 
 
 Have mercy on us, 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 07i us, Lord : have mercy on us. 
 O Jesus, Who wast numbered among thieves, blas- 
 phemed and derided, made to drink of gall and vinegar, 
 and crucified in dreadful torment from the sixth to the 
 ninth hour — 
 
 Have mercy on us, Lord : have mercy on us.
 
 173 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 
 
 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, Lord : have mercy o?i 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, Lord : have mercy on us. 
 For He hath truly borne our sorrows — 
 
 A nd 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 pul- 
 pit 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 im- 
 agination of his listeners. They took part in the trial be- 
 fore 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 re- 
 cital 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.
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 173 
 
 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 building. It was followed by 
 another and yet another. Some of the women and chil- 
 dren 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 Sab- 
 bath. The violent gusts of wind and the drenching 
 shower made the thoroughfares impassable. Yet, as sud- 
 denly as the storm had broken, it ceased. In less than 
 an hour the Church was deserted — save for three. Orange 
 and Lord Reckage were watching for Disraeli. He had 
 been sitting, unknown and unperceived, apparently lost 
 in thought, in a remote corner of the side-aisle. He 
 came forward at last, but he hastened by the two young 
 men without a word. 
 
 " He could not have seen me ! " exclaimed Reckage, 
 a little hurt.
 
 174 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 
 
 CHAPTER Vni. 
 
 The nomination of the candidates for the Norbet Royal 
 election took place eleven days later when Parliament 
 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. Dis- 
 raeli gave him but few instructions. He had not even 
 suggested a heading or two for his first speech. Robert 
 had chosen to be a free agent, and, in the hour of trial, 
 he found himself alone. The diplomatist evidently 
 wished to try the mettle of his man by the most severe 
 tests possible. The fact that Orange had been brought 
 forward by the leaders of the Opposition without consul- 
 tation with the general body, coupled with the reappear- 
 ance of Mr. Vandeleur as a candidate, also in the Tory 
 interest, aroused great excitement and dissension. Van- 
 deleur had strong connections in the County. These 
 connections detested him, yet, they all wished, for the 
 family's sake, to see him once more in Parliament. He 
 was a plump sort of scoundrel with a certain gift for writ- 
 ing political pamphlets in agreeable English. To the 
 obscure learned, who worked for their living, he was 
 known as a "brain-picker." Sir Charles Bellingham, the 
 Gladstonian, had, for his chief's sake, the support of the 
 district. He was an excellent man but perhaps a shade 
 over-confident. The seat was a Liberal stronghold. He 
 felt like a king coming unto his own and he bore the hon- 
 ors of victory in advance.
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 175 
 
 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 ar- 
 rived 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 gar- 
 bage. Mr. Vandeleur had hired four hundred and seventy 
 "doves" to protect his possible voters. It afterwards 
 transpired that they received ^^192 for their refreshments 
 and loyalty. Another body of one hundred and four 
 "respectable " men, under the police, were endeavoring 
 to preserve — without favor — order and peace. Songs — 
 not too decent— were sung: pleasantries — of no milky 
 flavor — 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 rib- 
 bons, known as " Follow-me-lads," at Orange's feet. He 
 saluted her and tied the favor 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 introduction. Wisely, no reference was made to
 
 176 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 
 
 the candidate's literary career. Authors are not con- 
 sidered practical in worldly affairs. Robert had three 
 points in his favor. 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 vigor. Heads 
 were smashed. Robert himself was pelted with garbage. 
 Gross things M^ere said of the Papacy and the priesthood. 
 The note of blasphemy was not wanting. That fatal cry 
 of " Jesuit I " had worked, so it seemed, irretrievable 
 harm. " Blue" attacked "blue" and " yellow " turned 
 against " yellow." Bruised ears, battered noses and 
 blackened eyes, swollen cheeks and cracked teeth were 
 perhaps the worst outward signs of the struggle. A con- 
 stable had his arm broken, and a priest — who had rashly 
 ventured into the crowd — suffered afterwards from a dis-
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 177 
 
 located shoulder. A child was killed, a woman carr)^ing 
 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 
 exhibiting feats of skill with the whip. He had often seen, 
 as a lad, performances of the kind in Brittany. One es- 
 pecially 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 honor of the adversary. 
 Should he swear that the whip came too hard — no umpire 
 could decide to the contrary. In Brittany, however, the 
 strictest integrity seemed to prevail in the matter. Robert 
 found a spirit no less chivalrous among the Norbet Royal 
 carters. They were extremely rough, and they were not 
 of the kind that smarted easily. When one was stung — 
 he rounded on the pursuer and punched his head. This 
 was considered a just return. On the other hand, when 
 one was fairly caught — he would pick himself up with 
 meekness and chuck his halfpenny into the " pool." 
 As Robert stood watching — one of the fellows, who 
 seemed the bully of the party, dared him to take 
 his chance. The suggestion was received with roars of 
 laughter. 
 
 " Two to one on Bobby Lemon ! " said the chief wit. 
 " Rum-and-Bobby-Lemon ! Hell have his fine shanks 
 like a zebra at the circus ! 
 U
 
 178 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 
 
 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 champion whipster ; " that's the rule 
 true enough. B^ut hast thee got twenty shillun' ? " It 
 will cost thee every penny o' that, lad, and more too I " 
 
 This sally was received with cheers. 
 
 " Wold Jacob's got his answer for the best of 'em, "' ob- 
 served the first speaker. 
 
 " I can pay for all my cuts," said Robert, " but I will 
 not run till I myself cut a man." 
 
 "Canst thee throw a whip ?" said the champion — a 
 big lout with the lightest wrist in the county. 
 
 " Once I could, " said Robert, " and there's no harm 
 in trying again ! " 
 
 He was offered a choice of whips. 
 
 " Thee'st taken a ugly customer, " growled the cham- 
 pion : " 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 hap- 
 pened that the carters — who were rather clumsy at run- 
 ning — went at least six times round the course before they 
 tripped their prey. 
 
 The places were taken, the ground was cleared, the dis- 
 tance 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 ac- 
 quired 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 —
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 179 
 
 Robert contenting himself by cracking the whip — which 
 was also a feature of the game. 
 
 " He can crack as foiue as I ever heerd ! "said the pool- 
 keeper. " But what's cracking ? " 
 
 The fourth lap was made. At the fifth, Orange decided 
 to cast. He aimed. A shout went up. Sammie fell 
 down. 
 
 " Hast thee been stung, Sammie.? " 
 
 Sammie got up, scratched his head, and, starting over 
 to the pool, paid in — without a word — his halfpenny. 
 But when the applause was ended, they missed him. 
 
 " He's taken it to heart," said Jacob. " He've got the 
 tenderest skin of the lot. He've punched viva 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 fourpence 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 he," 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. 
 
 " Sammies made more by being beat," said he, " than 
 he's ever done by winning ! And I say — send more
 
 i8o THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 
 
 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 Sammy among them — were soon 
 quarrelling over the pool. 
 
 It was now about half-past six. The shops in the High 
 Street were not yet open, but every window, door, wall 
 and available space bore the name either of Bellingham, 
 Vandeleur, or Orange. 
 
 "Vote for Bellingham, the people's friend. Vote 
 FOR Bellingham, liberty, and probity. Vo/e for con- 
 science, St. George, and the British Lion. " 
 
 "Vote for VANDELEUR and the United Kingdom. 
 Property for all and the rights of property. Vandeleur a?id 
 the realm. Vandeleur and England's greatness. Vande- 
 leur and the gentlemen of Great Britain. " 
 
 " Vote for Orange, the protection of the poor, and the 
 faith of our fathers. Vote for Orange, a7id Merrie England 
 will be herself once more. Vote for Orange, peace and 
 plenty. " 
 
 These bills, composed by the respective agent of each 
 candidate, had been written "to meet the local wants." 
 Mr. Vandeleur had suggested a point or two on his own 
 account, but Robert had trusted wholly in the discretion 
 of the great Mr. Mawrenny, and Sir Charles had placed 
 no less reliance in his "valued friend," Mr. Paradil. 
 
 When Orange reached his quarters — the White Hart 
 Hotel — Sir Charles Bellingham was in the hall. The rival 
 candidates saluted each other pleasantly. One, with an 
 historic majority at his back, could well afford to be 
 magnanimous ; the other, perhaps, found it impossible 
 to do anything else but smile. Conscience, St. George
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. i8i 
 
 and the iBritish 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 uproar was so great 
 that the)'' could not, and several fights ensued. 
 
 Mr. Vandeleur, who, as his agent declared, was nearly 
 enough related to the Redford family to go into mourn- 
 ing on the death of the Duke, had taken up his quarters 
 with Lord Ravensworth. There he talked of greatness 
 in all the pleasure and safety of family life. Possibly out 
 of respect to his deceased and noble relative, he refrained 
 from addressing the mob from a commoner platform than 
 the Town Hall. Once and but once he ventured into the 
 street where he heard so many coarse remarks and rubbed 
 shoulders with so many vulgar people that he could only 
 rid himself of these disagreeable associations by entering 
 the post office and despatching confidential telegrams to 
 half the peerage. In fact, so much time passed in this 
 dignified and soothing occupation that he forgot many 
 ot his public engagements, and, it may even be assumed, 
 that the public in turn forgot him. 
 
 Orange, however, succeeded in pleasing the Mayor — a 
 man of few prejudices and a large family of 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. 
 
 " N'lma can no longer consult his Egeria in secret caves," 
 wrote an enthusiastic Tory editor in the local Organ. " He 
 has to go into the crowd to hear what people say of men and
 
 1 82 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 
 
 what will satisfy the greatest number. Mr. Orange has shown 
 himself a man of open mind who is ready not only to answer 
 questions but to ask them." 
 
 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 ad- 
 dresses 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 A'D^o?, oratory, distinction, and that 
 reserve inseparable from high breeding are still the char- 
 acteristics of a Tory gentleman, the aforesaid vegetable 
 or fruit has no claim to the title." 
 
 The scene on the polling day was but a repetition of 
 the skirmish at the time of the nomination. There was 
 much that Mr. Vandeleur would have described as "low." 
 The assistance of the military was applied for. Early in 
 the day the Liberals made a great display of strength. 
 Sir Charles Bellingham had his telegrams half written out, 
 quite ready for the congratulations which would inevi- 
 tably 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 Committee Rooms to 
 refrain from posting up the returns. At nightfall there 
 was much horse-play, many smashed heads, and several 
 broken limbs. More violent recriminations were reserved
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 183 
 
 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 as- 
 sembled 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 preceding Wednesday. Robert could not 
 take his seat that year. He had arranged to spend the 
 summer with Lord Wight in Scotland. His lordship had 
 spoken largely of Hebrew and house-parties. Lady Fitz 
 Rewes and her delightful children had been ordered 
 Northern air. She had agreed to accept her uncle's hos- 
 pitality 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.
 
 i84 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 About this time, young Legitimists in France and dash- 
 ing souls in England were roused to an interest in the 
 claim of Don Carlos — "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 for- 
 lorn as a cow made into shoe-leather." Nevertheless, it 
 suddenly revived. "Carlo Quinto, " worn out by war, 
 embittered by treacheries and disappointments, had died 
 in 1855. Dead, too, was his son, Montemolin. His 
 second heir, Don Juan of Bourbon, had signed away his 
 birthright. 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 bridegroom — described by his devoted partisans 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 wrapped in romance and linked 
 with all the tragedy, the fortunes, gifts, reverses and 
 follies of the House of Bourbon. This same bride — Dona 
 Margarita — who was called Queen "par la naissance et 
 par le cceur" — had a fair countenance which soft blue
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 185 
 
 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 combatants. Each 
 enthusiast went to destruction in his own way. It was 
 a case of "Vae Soli!" The Carlisls have a King: the 
 Isabellinos a Queen : the Alfonsisis a Prince : the U)nonists 
 a Duke {JSIonpensier), hut the Progressionists have neither 
 Dtike, Prince, Queeii nor King — so runs a contemporary 
 despatch. The Bourbons had been tried, it may be, too 
 long, and to the Republicans no man in his senses would 
 give even the chance of a trial. The 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 barbarous. 
 Don Carlos — in contrast to this — had issued orders that 
 the men who followed his standard were to be as dis- 
 tinguished for humanity as valor. 
 
 "Choose," said he, "such a twenty thousand that 
 there will not be found one coward among them all. But 
 in battle strike great blows, and let there be none to sing 
 ill-songs about us. For the King's right, one should 
 suffer all things, endure consuming heat and 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
 
 t86 the school FOR SAINTS. 
 
 and neglected nobility all over Europe. They went to 
 the soul of every man — whether peasant or aristocrat — 
 who preferred tradition to policy, courage to comfort, 
 and the magnificent thought of the Lord's Anointed 
 before the tangible if treacherous advantages of demo- 
 cratic government. Robert's new ally — Lord Wight, 
 resolved, in common with several other English gentle- 
 men, to go to Madrid. He seemed to be fighting the 
 fights, and thinking the thoughts of the fifteenth and six- 
 teenth 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. Seasickness and the August sun, the hardships 
 of travel and an insatiable greed of English cooking could 
 not diminish his determination to be of service. 
 
 " By God, Orange," said he, when the two left Eng- 
 land together, " after this, your spoonies at the House of 
 Commons will souiid like old maids at a kettle-drum. All 
 this commerce will be the death of Great Britain. Com- 
 merce — is the mother of liberty and eventually its de- 
 stroyer. 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 suspicions aroused by two men, 
 who, muffled in cloaks and carrying muskets, were lurk- 
 ing in the neighborhood of a fort near Loadilla. On 
 being challenged they ran oft and were eventually traced 
 to a house in a low quarter of Madrid. The pursuers 
 dared not enter it. But, concealing themselves, they
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 187 
 
 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 Fontainebleau. He was with General Elio in 
 Navarre. He was on the frontier. He was at La Man- 
 cha. 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 rumors. Nothing could 
 be known for certain : anything might be guessed, ex- 
 cept, 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 bedroom she could step into a tribune 
 which overlooked the Chapel. A balcony ran the entire 
 length of the building — from her state saloon to the 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 
 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
 
 i88 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 
 
 sentiment and superstition to be lightly tampered with. 
 Her husband had fallen in the cause of Don Carlos the 
 Fifth, but, after his death, she had devoted her interests 
 exclusively — so far as one could judge from appearances 
 — to the care of the sick, poor and aged. General Prim 
 Vi^as not the man to hesitate over any measure, but in the 
 question of arresting the Countess Des Escas he realized 
 that violent or even sudden methods would excite a 
 dangerous sympathy. She was not a poor woman — 
 although her numerous charities kept her purse slender. 
 But, faring abstemiously and dressing plainly — she main- 
 tained the dignity of her rank by keeping a large retinue 
 of men-servants. Her house had the atmosphere of an 
 official residence and the massive oak doors — heavily 
 carved and studded with iron — were guarded by a sentry 
 wearing the once famous uniform of the Des Escas 
 guards. The marble hall within was hung with old 
 armor 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. Gentlemen 
 and officers of her acquaintance would often ride by her 
 side, making an informal but impressive escort. 
 
 On the day after the arrest of the Marquis of Pezos, the 
 Countess drove out as usual accompanied by Brigit. The 
 two women presented a striking picture. The elder had 
 the ivory complexion of her race — with full black eyes 
 and a mass of snow-white hair dressed high above her 
 forehead. Other Spanish ladies of her degree followed 
 the fashion of the Imperial Court at Paris, which, at that 
 date, dictated chignons and ringlets, gaudy bonnets and 
 large crinolines. Marie-Joseph Des Escas, however, kept 
 faithfully to the old style, and many said that she was 
 clothed in heirlooms, dating mostly from the sixteenth
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 189 
 
 century. Brigit belonged to a more frivolous generation 
 and had inherited a livelier taste. Lilac was then con- 
 sidered the most elegant and distinguished of all colors. 
 She wore therefore a lilac silk, a black lace mantilla over 
 her shoulders, and a lilac plumed hat. She had a crino- 
 line 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 ex- 
 pression was of that brilliant, elusive kind which is the 
 distinctive quality of Frenchwomen. 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 creat- 
 ures in European society of that day. 
 
 The Countess, on this particular occasion, bowed as 
 usual to her acquaintances and exchanged commonplace 
 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 com- 
 posure, 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 
 gayety, the crowd, the voices, the richness of the ladies' 
 dresses, the splendor of the uniforms, the strains of the 
 band, the clatter of the horses' feet, the dust, the heat and 
 the emotion became confused into one overpowering 
 sensation of life, and it seemed like the beginning of a 
 second Spring. On some faces one read defiance, on 
 others hope, on others chagrin, on others contentment, 
 on some cruelty, on more mockery, on all — expectancy. 
 
 The Countess remained out as long as usual, but, as
 
 X90 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 
 
 she was on the point of driving homewards, one of the 
 many gentlemen who rode up to address her, sHpped a 
 small note into her hand. The action was too skilfully- 
 done to be perceived by any, and, after a few trivial re- 
 marks, 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 mo- 
 ment was one of grave danger and anxiety. It was im- 
 possible under the vigilance of a hundred jealous eyes to 
 read the communication which she had just received. 
 To wait until she reached home might mean, perhaps, a 
 loss of time so disastrous that many lives would have to 
 pay the forfeit. In this extremity her presence of mind 
 did not fail. Fortunately, it was not unusual for ladies, 
 particularly those of the old school, to visit the Chapel of 
 Our Lady of Atocha which stood at the extreme end of 
 the Prado. She gave her coachman a hurried order to 
 drive there. She alighted from her carriage with Brigit, 
 and the two entered the church, where several well- 
 known leaders of Madrid society were already 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 as- 
 sure 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 confes- 
 sional 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
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 191 
 
 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 blas- 
 phemy. 
 
 " Let me see him," said the Countess. 
 
 The poor fellow was lying on a pallet bed in a small 
 room with whitewashed walls which was usually occupied 
 by the sacristan. He pretended not to recognize his 
 visitors, but, on their approach, moaned heavily and 
 begged for a little wine and water. 
 
 " We will stay with him," said the Countess to the nun 
 who was with her. "Fetch him the wine." 
 
 "Ah, Luciano, " said she, when the Sister had passed 
 out of hearing, "what has happened to you?" Then she 
 leaned 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 uith my master's horses, but
 
 192 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 
 
 I was taken prisoner, and brought before the General. I 
 told him that I was neither a priest nor a Carlist, but only 
 a poor horse thief, so I begged him to spare my life and 
 let me join his army. I believe he would have taken me 
 too, if some beast there whh 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 conspirator 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 willbe worse things 
 coming." 
 
 " We must go to Loadilla to-night," said Brigit, speak- 
 ing 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 underground 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 dis- 
 guise 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
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 193 
 
 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 unrecognized without a 
 word. All was still in the house : no servant was there. 
 The sentry and his family slept in a lodge by the en- 
 trance. 
 
 The Countess and Brigit each took matches and went 
 swiftly from room to room setting light to the hangings. 
 
 " It burns 1 It burns ! " said Brigit. But the older 
 woman could not speak. They crept out by one of the 
 windows at the back and escaped through the garden 
 into the road, where, a mile or so distant, there was an 
 old wind-mill, long out of use. They reached this at last. 
 The ladder which led up to the loft was brittle and very 
 steep, but the two climbed up — always silent — and, from 
 the top loft of all, they watched the Villa burning in the 
 distance. 
 
 " Dogs ! dogs ! dogs ! " cried the Countess ; "we shall 
 beat them ! Wait till the flames reach the gunpowder ! " 
 
 At first they saw pale garlands of blue smoke winding 
 up toward the stars. Then the house seemed a black 
 caldron 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 taken alive, Brigit." 
 
 " No," said the girl. 
 13
 
 194 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 
 
 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. 
 
 " 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 v^'ith a match — ready at the first signal of attack — to 
 speed the work of destruction. Yet — even with death so 
 imminent — they had dragged a heavy board between 
 themselves and the wall, as some protection against the 
 enemy and the night air. 
 
 " Do you hear them ? '' asked Brigit. 
 
 "I think so," said the Countess. 
 
 Yet nothing came. 
 
 '* Hark ! " exclaimed the Countess. " They have come. 
 Be quick." 
 
 Each one struck a match — and yet waited. They were 
 obeying the set plans of many a week. There was noth- 
 ing to say — nothing to re-consider. The worst had hap- 
 pened — 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. 
 
 "Coax it," she said to Brigit. "Coax it." 
 
 The fire crept like thin snakes across the floor and 
 mounted higher and higher.
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 195 
 
 " 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 would only smoulder." 
 In her perplexity she put up her hand to her head and, 
 in doing so, touched her hair. There were some shears 
 hanging on the wall. She pointed to them and Brigit 
 understood the gesture. She took them from the hook 
 and waited while the Countess shook out her magnificent 
 white hair. It fell below her knees and covered her like 
 a veil of silver gauze. 
 
 "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 com- 
 panion's cheeks with a soft handkerchief. But what 
 was that .-' The shots 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
 
 196 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 
 
 stairway. 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 below. One danger 
 was past. There were still others. She saw a wild blaze 
 above her head. She heard the crash of falling wood- 
 work. Would the long worm-eaten ladder which led to 
 the ground bear the unaccustomed strain of that night .'* 
 
 "You go first," said Robert — for it was he — " there are 
 several waiting for you below. Have no fear." 
 
 She obeyed, and when she had reached the ground he 
 followed her — carrying the Countess. For the rest she 
 remembered only being held upon a horse — which gal- 
 loped she knew not where. There seemed a large num- 
 ber 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 after- 
 wards — and if four men in the rear of her escort had not 
 put the hunters off the scent by the stratagem of hang- 
 ing 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 suf- 
 fering were not given and offered in vain. The rest es- 
 caped with whole skins and reached a place of safety 
 ere the morning.
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 197 
 
 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 strucorled 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 watch-
 
 198 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 
 
 man hiding near or on guard in the distance. He re- 
 solved to crawl as best he might over the stubble till 
 he came to some hut or habitation. The field pos- 
 sibly belonged to some peasant- farmer or to the owner 
 of the burned mill. iVnd the working classes were notori- 
 ously 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." 
 
 "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 raid 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.
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 199 
 
 "And do you wander about alone — like this?" he 
 asked. 
 
 " I have a dagger and my pistols. And I am a Navar- 
 raise. " 
 
 "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 care- 
 fully placed on its cover. This she removed. Orange, 
 at her entreaty, descended first and then he lost conscious- 
 ness. The well was small — two could sit upright on the 
 bench which had been placed there, but when he fell for- 
 ward there was only standing room left for his companion. 
 She poured a little wine down his throat and then climbed 
 up to the field to gather some leaves from the hedges for 
 his wound. She found what she wanted and was return- 
 ing when, to her terror, she heard the sound of horsemen 
 in the road. She threw herself on a level with the earth, 
 but it was too late. She had been seen. An officer fol- 
 lowed by six riders leaped 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
 
 200 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 
 
 greeted Robert's reviving sense. Then he heard a w^oman's 
 cry of horror and the report of pistols. He sprang to his 
 feet and came out — he l<new 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 be- 
 hind him, they strapped them to his sides. He was in 
 great suffering, but the dead girl on the ground made all 
 other things seem light. They put him on a horse and led 
 him from the field to the high-road. 
 
 " And what will you do — with her .^ " asked Orange. 
 
 Those who were following, turned back, called her a 
 vile name and kicked her into the well. 
 
 "To the Fort !" said their Captain, impatiently. ''To 
 the Fort ! " 
 
 Robert leaned forward over the horse's neck, and so they 
 marched for three miles when they halted and gave him 
 some strong wine. For he was not to die — yet. The 
 General must see the prize and learn his story. This was 
 no common prey. At daybreak they reached the fort. 
 Orange was placed on a litter and carried into a cell where 
 a surgeon was soon in attendance. He had a certain 
 skill and he did his work well, if roughly. When he had 
 finished, he laughed. 
 
 "There are two things," said he, "an Englishman will 
 never learn — How to love, and how to groan ! You have 
 no feeling ! "
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. aoi 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 In the mean time, the Countess Des Escas, Brigit and 
 their protectors had found asylum in the palace of 
 a Brazilian banker of Jewish extraction — the Baron 
 Zeuill, who was held to be one of General Prim's 
 supporters. Officially, this may have been the case. 
 Secretly, he remained a loyal friend to certain members 
 of the Carlist conspiracy — to certain members, in fact, of 
 all the conspiracies. General Prim himself had not yet 
 fully resolved on his own course of action. There was, 
 perhaps, no especially safe play open to a political game- 
 ster 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 im- 
 prudently the eminent among any faction. The Baron 
 Zeuill's wealth was great, and, while Generals could be 
 banished and the impoverished nobility placed under 
 arrest, it was apparent alike to the Isabellist, the Unionist, 
 the Carlist, and the Progressionist that gentlemen who 
 had money to lend were best left with a free hand. 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 fugi- 
 tives. 
 
 On that memorable night in August, the Baron had be- 
 trayed more agitation of mind than was usual with him.
 
 i02 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 
 
 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 mul- 
 titude 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 eter- 
 nity and ten thousand hopes and fears. 
 
 When they reached a certain point, the Baron could 
 watch their progress no longer. A heavy wood inter- 
 vened 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 courtyard. 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 Mar- 
 shal Elio. Brigit rode similarly behind the Marquis of 
 Castrillon. These gentlemen — and the remaining four 
 were members of the "Royal Guard" of Don Carlos. 
 One of the horses on halting panted heavily and then 
 dropped dead. At this both women who, till that mo- 
 ment, had seemed petrified with terror, burst into tears. 
 
 " That is all right," said the Baron, "the poor beast 
 has saved their reason." 
 
 Brigit wept for the horse, but there was another cause 
 for the sharp grief which hurt more fiercely than all the 
 flames of the burning mill. She looked from one to the 
 other of those around her.
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 203 
 
 "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 
 strensfth. She refused all aid — save the Baron's arm — and 
 walked with a firm tread to the apartments which had 
 been prepared for her. On the threshold she paused, 
 looked in, and pressed Zeuill's hand. 
 
 " I did not think," she said, "that I should ever see this 
 room again." That was her sole reference to the perils 
 she had escaped. It would have seemed to her dis- 
 courteous 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 Hausee and three 
 volunteers — fine fellows — I forget their names — and well 
 mounted." 
 
 "Who is Hausee .'* " aked the Baron.
 
 204 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 
 
 " Hausee," said Castrillon. " is a mystery. He travels 
 with Lord Wight and looks like an Englishman." 
 
 "The Hausees," observed Zeuill, "have always stood 
 by the Bourbons. I thought I knew them all." 
 
 " This one is the son of Henri-Dominque de Hausde." 
 
 "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 I " said 
 Bodava. 
 
 "And the lady ? " said Zeuill. 
 
 "Dead — long ago. She was disowned." 
 
 "Adventurers 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. 
 
 "One thing troubles me," said Zeuill, with some
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS, 205 
 
 abruptness, "the name of Hausee does not appear in 
 any of my papers. It could not have escaped my at- 
 tention." 
 
 " I can explain that," said Rastro. ''When he offered 
 to join us he called himself Robert Orange and Dorre- 
 garay would not accept him. English volunteers 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 Legit- 
 imists anywhere. She is always on the side of usurpers 
 and rebels. She hates the Bourbons ; she hates all the 
 great dynasties. She would like to see every country in 
 Europe weakened by civil war. I know your cursed 
 policy.' Dorrdgaray 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 ques- 
 tion,' said he, ' or we must kill each other. But I am the 
 son of Henri-Dominque de Hausee, and if a Hausde may 
 not fight for Don Carlos — who may ? ' Dorrdgaray 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 Hausde 
 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 mean 
 time, 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
 
 2o6 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 
 
 him.' Here I was able to interfere. I called Dorr^- 
 garay aside and reminded him that Wight had given 
 a thousand pounds to the Cause. Dorre'garay was 
 deeply touched. He went over to Hausde and embraced 
 him. ' In these times,' said he, 'one cannot be too care- 
 ful. Volunteers come to us — more Catholic than the Pope 
 and more royalist than the King. It is an old story. 
 They demand more attention than Don Carlos himself 
 and they expect to be thanked all day. When the least 
 thing goes wrong, they set up a howl and call us 
 traitors. They send their whines to every newspaper, 
 and if I had my way — I would shoot them as the most 
 dangerous kind of spy. But I felt certain that you were 
 a true patriot and a true Hausde. 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 an 
 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. 207 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 Brigit received the Baron in a small saloon which 
 adjoined her bedroom. 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 
 M^hich faltered only under disgrace — such disgrace, for 
 instance, as her husband's dishonor and the humiliations 
 which she had experienced at the Chateau de Vieuville. 
 But danger and sorrow seemed to call out her finest traits, 
 and among them that capacity for devotion to imper- 
 sonal interests which is commonly held to be less rare in 
 men than m women. 
 
 ' ' I have just left the Countess, " she said, at once ; ' ' she 
 is sleeping." 
 
 " I am rejoiced to hear it," said the Baron, " and since 
 all goes so well here, it is a plainer duty to wonder how 
 matters may be going elsewhere. You know that four 
 members of the party are missing. One of them is Robert 
 de Hausee — to whom, I understand, we owe the success 
 of this night's expedition. If he has been taken alive, I 
 may be able to save him." 
 
 "If they have taken him at all, he must be dead or 
 nearly dead," answered Brigit. 
 
 " Do you know him well ? " 
 
 "My husband has known him always." 
 
 "Then I suppose the story is perfectly true. He is a 
 legitimate Hausee." 
 
 Brigit repeated Robert's history as she had heard it 
 from Parflete. She added, too, all she knew of his career 
 in England.
 
 2o8 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 
 
 "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 expres- 
 sion remained inscrutable. 
 
 " If we could say," he went on, "that he joined this 
 ride to-night rather out of friendship for yourself than for 
 any political motive, the excuse might be accepted. 
 Otherwise, we may have difficulties. Wait before you 
 reply. I cannot believe that in your own case, it is 
 wholly a matter of Carlist rights and wrongs. The 
 Countess Des Escas lost her husband in this cause. It is 
 her creed and the price of her blood. If she had ten 
 deaths to die she would give them for the King. But you 
 are not Spanish. You do not carry in your soul a terrible 
 inheritance of wrongs to avenge. The Seven Years' War 
 is not within your remembrance. I daresay that you 
 never heard it spoken of till you came to Madrid — a few 
 short weeks ago." 
 
 " How long does it take to know a just cause.? " asked 
 Brigit. 
 
 ^'A 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 magnificently, and I have seen nameless 
 blackguards die magnificently. All I have learnt from 
 them is this — Might may win many battles ; Might and 
 Right together can win most battles ; Right by itself — 
 without money and without friends — counts for nothing." 
 
 " What do you wish me to say .-' " asked Brigit. 
 
 " I would like you to trust me." 
 
 " I do that most heartily, dear Baron. Are we not here 
 — under your roof You are our protector — our friend,"
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 209 
 
 "Then answer one question. Did you know that 
 Robert de Hausee was a Carlist ? " 
 
 She hesitated for a moment, but so serenely that it was 
 impossible to infer anything from the pause. 
 
 "When I recognized his voice," she said, at last, "my 
 surprise was great," 
 
 "Did you think his presence — at such a moment — in- 
 explicable? " 
 
 "I thought of nothing. 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. 
 
 "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. 
 
 "Tliere 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 dan- 
 gerous." 
 
 Brigit looked up and it almost seemed as though a kind 
 of joy transfigured her face. Could it be that, in her 
 heart, she had no wish to live? Zeuill owned himself 
 perplexed and baffled. 
 
 "lam in communication with your father, " he said ; 
 " His Imperial Highness desires me to put a proposal 
 14
 
 2IO THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 
 
 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 as- 
 sume the title and rank of Countess Veuberg ; you will 
 consent to a divorce between yourself and the gen,tleman 
 who so abused the Archduke's confidence. Your life — 
 your girlhood, I should say, will begin afresh and more 
 appropriately. You are but seventeen. Let me entreat 
 you to listen to advice. In order to save you any un- 
 necessary pain, Mr. Parflete has owned his perfect readi- 
 ness to submit to your decision in tlie 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 igno- 
 miny. 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 Favor- 
 ite. Her reply, therefore, was the more amazing. 
 
 " My father means kindly," she said. " I owe him my 
 gratitude and affection. But I have a rank already — for 
 I am his lawful daughter born of a true marriage. I 
 promised him that I would never claim him publicly. 
 I will therefore take such a name and such a title only as 
 my husband can give me. No one, I suppose, would 
 dispute my claim to that." 
 
 " But it is the Archduke's wish — indeed, his 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 : —
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 21 1 
 
 " 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 proposals." 
 
 "Absolutely. If he wishes to think of me as the 
 Countess of Veuberg — let him first admit to the whole of 
 Alberia his marriage with my mother." 
 
 " You know, Madame, that you are making an impos- 
 sible request. As it is, His Imperial Highness must ad- 
 vance with great caution. It will be understood that you 
 have certain claims on his favor — you cannot, in reason, 
 ask him to publish the details of a painful and abiding. 
 . . . grief — associated with his early days in Paris. Hia 
 affection for you is real. It is an open secret that Lis 
 domestic affairs are far from happy. His one child it* a 
 disappointment — the Archduchesses, his sisters, are dis- 
 obedient and plain. He turns to you for solace. He 
 rememl)ers — in the bitterness and vexation of State affairs 
 — the sweet nature, the accomplishments, the love of 
 your incomparable mother. Would that generous and 
 noble creature wish you to repulse his kindness ? It may 
 be tardy, but it comes from a broken heart. I cannot 
 believe that your harshness will last. If it is wounded 
 pride, Madame, can you not remind yourself that he, too, 
 has suffered ? " 
 
 " 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 favor and sobbed herself out of it 1 I 
 have heard all the epigrams — or most of them — that XK'ere 
 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 jus- 
 tice by calling myself the Countess of Veuberg. I cannot
 
 212 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 
 
 do it. His Imperial Highness is kind, but I cannot 
 doit." 
 
 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 lifetime of in- 
 trigue. But to no purpose. 
 
 " Then," said he, at the end of a fruitless discussion 
 which had lasted two hours, " you refuse to accept the 
 title of Countess Veuberg because you regard yourself as 
 an Archduchess of Alberia ? You have a very clever and 
 a very charming head, but, in the eighteenth century, it 
 would have come surely enough to the block ! Your 
 claim, Madame, is romantic and untenable. It is only 
 right to tell you so." 
 
 " I make no claim. I obey my father most willingly 
 while he asks me to remain unknown and in seclusion. 
 It is now when he asks me to come forward and accept a 
 mean dignity that I must seem ungracious. I begged 
 him to let me retire to a Convent. He would not allow 
 that. What then does he wish ? To give me an honor 
 which insults my mother's name. I will not take it." 
 
 " Then you quarrel with the Archduke.?" 
 
 " I hope not. I would have him think of me as his 
 dutiful daughter. I have been faithful to the Countess 
 Des Escas and her cause. I have followed his instruc- 
 tions at every point. He may trust me to the death, and 
 he will not have reason to trust me less, I hope, because 
 I find no reward for my constancy in a silly title." 
 
 " Your words are meek enough, Madame, but your 
 spirit would not be understood. It puzzles the Archduke 
 himself Could he hear you now — he would doubt your 
 sincerity. 7 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
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 213 
 
 tnood to hear of such tales about Princes. The air is full 
 of revolution. The talk is not of rights but of impostures. 
 Where the King of France has fallen, the Emperor of the 
 French will also fall. Mind my warning and keep out of 
 all conspiracies. And now one further word — Can you 
 give me no message for M. de Hausde ? " 
 
 " 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 my- 
 self . . . but ... if cutting my heart from my body 
 would save him — it would be too little. Yet — and this 
 is the truth — that would not be because I want to see him 
 again. There is no happiness that way." 
 
 The Baron checked himself in a remark he felt tempted 
 to make on the subject of her divorce. He wished her a 
 good rest and then withdrew. Half an hour later he was 
 on the road to Loadilla — wondering vainly, no doubt, 
 which of three deadly things was the least dangerous — a 
 woman's tears, a woman's protesta:ions, 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 fatigue, 
 she had over-acted. In her anxiety to conceal her real de- 
 signs and anxieties, she had suddenly affected a violent 
 devotion for Robert de Haus^e. De Hausee was, no 
 doubt, in the train of her cavaliers. But, clearly, she 
 was too amiable to feel more than a passing kindness 
 toward a poor unacknowledged nobleman with little to
 
 214 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 
 
 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 complexion. The Archduke 
 had alienated himself from the traditional supporters of 
 the Imperial House. Rich adventurers were favored 
 at the Court to the exclusion of the old families and the 
 better class of his own subjects. The faithful rallied 
 round his young son — an unfortunate lad whose follies 
 and extravagance made loyalty a Quixotic virtue. The 
 discontented retired to their own estates to wait for the 
 downfall of a Prince of whom no man of honor could think 
 well and for whom even the creatures he encouraged felt 
 a secret contempt. The young Archduchesses were re- 
 bellious 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 peo- 
 ple. In his despair, the Archduke remembered Brigit. 
 Why should she not come to Alberia ? His Great Cham- 
 berlain 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.
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 215 
 
 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 him- 
 self, 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 aggrandize- 
 ment 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 struggl*^ be- 
 tween Jew and Gentile. ,
 
 3i6 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 
 
 CHAPTER Xni. 
 
 It was already past mid-day when the Baron reached 
 the fort near Loadilla. 
 
 He was permitted to drive into the barrack-yard — a large 
 piece of ground, inform 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, chat- 
 tering, or staring idly at a party of recruits who were exer- 
 cising in the court below. The vaulted arch througfh 
 which the Baron had driven ran the depth of the whole 
 building — from the fa9ade 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 him- 
 self that his impartiality in Spanish ]:)olitics 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 ovvn 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
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 217 
 
 dishes on the table before him gave testimony rather to 
 his love of display than his appetite. A band was dis- 
 coursing gay tunes loudly in an ante-chamber. The noise 
 of these brass instruments, the odor of the food, the ex- 
 treme heat, the numerous flies, the ostentation yet discom- 
 fort of the whole environment produced an impression on 
 Zeuill's mind of a state of thmgs not destined to endure. 
 
 "This cannot last," was his thought as he took a seat 
 at the table. In person, the Colonel was thin and sinewy : 
 in manner, nervous yet overbearing. He received Zeuill 
 with an air of immense preoccupation, and, as he listened 
 coldly to his opening remarks, he interrupted him from 
 time to time by 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 consequences." 
 
 " 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, dryly. 
 
 "There was another lady in the matter." 
 
 "You mean the French hJonde ? 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 everybody just 
 now — but don't make the favor 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 1 " 
 
 "Then he is badly wounded ? "
 
 2i8 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 
 
 " What did you expect? Our men do not go out to 
 capture singing birds for boudoirs ! " 
 
 " I am aware of that, yet I am surprised, nevertheless, 
 at the severity of your measures," 
 
 " Why ? " shouted the Colonel. "Severity is what we 
 need — we are as a rule too lenient. It is grotesque to 
 shoot the insurgents in one district and make treaties 
 with them in another, /am in earnest at any rate. You 
 know the fable of the two wolves who, meeting one dark 
 night, devoured each other and left nothing but the two 
 tails ? If one party 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 I " 
 
 "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," con- 
 tinued the Colonel, " and I don't mind telling you that if 
 I were in his place, I should direct things differently. 
 He is too amiable. He shoots a man, then invites the 
 mother of the corpse to dinner and tries to make a friend 
 of her. 'Have you another son, Madame?' says he; 
 'if so I will give him a good appointment.' That is his 
 policy in a nut-shell. He has no ambition. This is a 
 moment when such a man must sav to himself — 'There
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 319 
 
 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 contrary. He knows 
 that men do not kneel gracefully before a Monarch 
 hatched in a Committee-room ! He will give you a King 
 of the blood yet. This is a country of good Catholics, 
 and the Catholics, as may be seen anywhere, are obedient 
 to their lawful Princes." 
 
 "lam 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 
 mean time our Commander in Chief is going to take the 
 waters at Vichy ! " 
 
 The door was thrown open. The young officers who 
 had previously conducted Zeuill to the apartment re- 
 entered and announced a name. The Colonel rose to his 
 feet and bowed with a certain mock deference to a gen- 
 tleman, below the middle height, of small and slender 
 frame, followed by two aides-de-camp, who now ad- 
 vanced 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 particu- 
 larly frank : the high cheek-bones and jaundiced com- 
 plexion gave his large dark eyes a haunting — even terrible 
 — distinctness. But the countenance — 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
 
 220 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 
 
 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 disap- 
 pointed. His stern, uncommunicative lips promised a 
 friendship which might indeed be loyal, but which would 
 be too discriminating to attach itself to many. He 
 seemed to belong by riglit 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 imperishable." 
 
 As he came in, his glance fell pleasantly on both men, 
 but rather less so on the over-savory 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 prisoner.? " 
 
 "He is known as Robert Orange ; he is travelling with 
 the Earl of Wight ; he has excellent prospects in En- 
 yfland and is connected with the Hausees." 
 
 "That explains his imbecility," exclaimed the Colonel. 
 
 " He has chosen to fall in love and perform heroic 
 capers," continued Zeuill. 
 
 " The Countess Des Escasis 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 thib 
 good creature knows the difference between Don Carlos
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 221 
 
 and the Duke of Genoa. I wonder you take him seri- 
 ously. In the case of the Countess Des Escas — it is, I 
 grant you, a question of war. But as to that — " 
 
 All three men shrugged their shoulders. 
 
 " It is amateur politics ! " said Prim, pouring out for 
 himself a small glass of Manzanilla : "in these days it 
 costs money to effect a revolution 1 This matter was 
 arranged by priests, women and children. They had 
 about two hundred old flint muskets, and perhaps ten 
 thousaiid francs. Des Escas sold all her jewels long 
 ago. j\Iy wife bought them. As for our prisoner, the 
 English Frenchman, I have his passport. They found it 
 in his pocket — -with nothing else. And that, in my opinion, 
 is the way he arrived in Spain ! But 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 Manzanilla. 
 
 " The fact of Don Carlos's pedigree," said he. 
 
 "Unfortunately," said the Colonel, "it is not a question 
 of pedigrees. We want privileges not pedigrees." 
 
 Prim tapped him on the shoulder : — 
 
 "That sort of talk," said he, "crawls far — but it never 
 mounts high. Now show us your captive."
 
 233 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 Robert was lying in a dark hot room guarded by a 
 couple of soldiers whose whispered talk hissed through 
 his brief moments of uneasy sleep. The greater part of 
 the time he kept awake wondering about the fate of his 
 companions and seeking for some means of communi- 
 cation with Lord Wight. His own share in the adventure 
 had been wholly unpremeditated. The notion of joining 
 the Carlist insurrection had been as far from his thoughts 
 as a Jacobite conspiracy. In a letter written to Reckage 
 just before his departure from England, he says : — 
 
 " I am going abroad to restrain Wight's enthusiasm and 
 revive my own. Did you ever get up in the morning and say 
 to yourself — ' Man are you a prig ? ' It's a wholesome dis- 
 cipline. You become desperate. You say — ' If I can kill some 
 one 1 may escape this reproach. If I can kill a number of 
 person^ — my character will be saved.' As it is I have never 
 fought a duel : I have never compromised 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' "
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 223 
 
 A chain of accidents — or the dehberate play of destiny 
 - — brought Robert to Madrid at a critical hour. Event 
 had followed event with an inconsequence which exposed 
 men's little laws of life to ridicule. It showed once more 
 the eternal contrast between the thing that actually hap- 
 pens and the spectral thing that ought to have happened 
 — 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 inevi- 
 table 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 slack- 
 ened 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 ac- 
 complished 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 experience of sensations — as 
 opposed to sentiments — which makes all the difference in 
 one's living of life. The King Arthur, the Launcelot, the 
 Roltuid, the Arnadis, the Ignatius — all the adored figures 
 of his boyish fancy grew, some paler and some more 
 splendid — for his present suffering. He began to dis- 
 tinguish clearly between the facts of life and the affecta- 
 tions 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."
 
 324 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 
 
 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 indefensible. Why should she risk her life 
 for Don Carlos ? What a crazy plan to get up into that 
 mill. And who was Castrillon .'' Castrillon was an ass — 
 a turkey-chick. Castrillon had a very good time riding 
 off with her — a dashing person in all his best clothes and 
 without a burn. Where was the sense of such conduct ? 
 had Brigit lost her religion and grown frivolous ? It was 
 deplorable. What a fall ! what a shame ! what a tragedy ! 
 As for himself, he had no wish to live — none. But he 
 would live long enough, at any rate, to have a word or 
 two with Castrillon. . . . And then, the poor little girl 
 in the field ? . . . What were those hvo brutes talkijig 
 about P . . . Would 710 one be good enotigh to punch their 
 heads P Wliere was the surgeon ? He ivas not a bad /el- 
 low — that surgeon. He could jerk a shoidder aiiywhere. 
 . . . 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-humor revived. 
 He sprang out of bed, stood up, and bowed to foes and 
 friends alike with a high spirit which even the Colonel 
 found admirable. Robert said in reply to Prim's first in- 
 quiries, that his injuries were slight ; that he was fully 
 able and prepared to answer any questions relating to
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 225 
 
 himself ; that he was neither a spy nor a conspirator but 
 a prisoner of war. 
 
 "There is no war," said Prim, with some grimness : 
 "and there are no prisoners. But the Government is 
 suppressing a few traitors and criminals." 
 
 The General had no doubt made up his mind — from 
 antecedent investigations at Madrid — that Orange was 
 not a man of political importance to the Carlists. His 
 name did not occur in any of the fatal despatches found 
 on the Marquis of Pezos : he was merely the travelling 
 companion of a " fat fanatic, el Conde de Wight "-^and 
 fat fanatics were rarely dangerous. Prim who, when he 
 pleased, could show a rigor Avhich 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 every- 
 thing to ruin himself. He is not wanted in Spain. If 
 Spain wanted him, she would have him. No man — no 
 human policy could stop her. Those who seem most 
 devoted to Don Carlos do not like him, and doubt his 
 return. His army is the debris of the old regiments. 
 His loyal subjects belong chiefly to that idle and numer- 
 ous class of vagabonds who are ever ready to create dis- 
 turbances by which they hope to profit. They live rather 
 to rob their fellow-citizens than to defend them. If Don 
 Carlos puts any trust in these he is deceived. I am sorry 
 for that young man. He thinks that he has but to appear 
 in the field for all Spain to welcome him. It is a happy 
 imagination to believe that the whole nation longs for 
 his rule. If the whole nation expressed such a wish — I 
 should be the instrument to effect its desire. But that 
 wish will never be expressed by any majority of the 
 15
 
 2i6 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 
 
 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 burned her villa in order that 
 she may end her days in a madhouse." 
 
 He then glanced at the Colonel who, in a sharp 
 tone, began a string of questions on the subject of the 
 plot. 
 
 "lean tell you nothing," said Robert, "because I 
 know nothing." 
 
 " Then how did you join the party.'' " 
 
 "There are many well-known adherents to the Carl- 
 ist 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 the Colonel, "for 
 their chief industry is to betray each other ! That is why 
 we know so much about you." 
 
 "The more you know of me the better I shall be 
 pleased," answered Robert. 
 
 " How long have you enjoyed the acquaintance of the 
 Countess Des Escas ? " 
 
 "I think," said Prim, before Robert could reply, "that 
 M. de Hausee's interest does not lie in that direction 1 
 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 de- 
 cide whether their faces meant mischief or mercy. He 
 sat down on the edge of his bed while the two soldiers 
 who guarded him started singing a song about a con-
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 227 
 
 script who lay dying while his false love danced gay 
 dances with a boy that played guitars. And the refrain 
 went : — 
 
 " Ho 1 ho 1 ha ! ha 1 Do \oa need the sun to see a woman's deceit ? 
 
 Ho 1 ho 1 ha 1 ha 1 "
 
 2 28 THE SCHOOL FOR SAlNTa 
 
 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 bedroom 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 appari- 
 tion. Her features had taken a sharpness, her lips a pal- 
 lor, 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 indiffeient. 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
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 229 
 
 with papers enough in his pocket to destroy us all ? If 
 God has forsaken us and will suffer our ruin, I will end 
 nevertheless as I have begun. But this looks to me less 
 like the hand of God than human folly. " 
 
 Castrillon, whose voice was soft and melodious, then 
 spoke up. The absent Pezos was his own ''good 
 cousin. " 
 
 " Who could expect," said he, "such a brutal attack? 
 If people will write letters, some one must deliver them." 
 
 The four members of the Royal Guard nodded their 
 heads in support of this remark. 
 
 Joanna burst into angry tears. 
 
 ''We have lost two years," she said, "and all the 
 powder, tire-arms, bayonets, swords and cartridges. We 
 can never get so many together again. We have neither 
 the money nor the means. And I had planned it all so 
 well." 
 
 "As you have said," observed Bodava, "it will take 
 two years or more before we can attempt another ris- 
 ing." 
 
 " Does Dorregaray say that? " asked Joanna. 
 
 " What else could he say? " replied Bodava ; "some of 
 our strongest friends are in prison, some are murdered, 
 some are in exile. There is no more money." 
 
 " Men will do nothing now save for bribes and wages," 
 exclaimed the Countess ; " surely for soldiers and states- 
 men who desire to leave a name in history there can never 
 be a part more noble than to sacrifice everything to the 
 national good — to God, the country and the King I 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 honor 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
 
 230 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 
 
 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 thatliveth 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 passing from the 
 earth. She had always seemed an old, gaunt, terrible 
 shrew — a constant scourge to lovers of ease and pleasure. 
 Her fierce intellect, her impetuous genius and bitter 
 tongue were odious to her friends. The men she directed 
 and browbeat owned her power but hated her restless and 
 reproachful energy. They crept out of the room — leaving 
 her with Brigit and the waiting women vi^ho 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 sub- 
 ject.
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 231 
 
 Castrillon was the last to leave. He lingered on the 
 threshold for a long glance at Brigit. But she was kneel- 
 ing by the friend who had never been to her, or to any 
 creature in sorrow, other than gentle and most indulgent. 
 
 The women attendants — after their kind — began to 
 weep loudly. Two remained by the bed suggesting 
 remedies and ejaculatling 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 crawl- 
 ing 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 ! "
 
 i3^ THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 The death of the Countess Des Escas though piteous 
 enough in its circumstances came at the best moment for 
 herself and the party involved in her flight from Loadilla. 
 Had she lingered on to suffer banishment or to languish 
 in prison, her wrongs would have supplied an unwelcome 
 motive for action to the many half-hearted patriots who 
 were already longing to make some compromise. Ruined, 
 disappointed, and broken in health, her estates confiscated 
 and her authority gone, she would have remained an 
 angry voice, but no longer a power in the Carlist move- 
 ment. When the news of her death was told to the Mar- 
 quis 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 conver- 
 sation 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
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 233 
 
 down like a poisoned bird. Groundless as these sus- 
 picions were and foolish as they seemed even to those that 
 held them, they lent, nevertheless, a peculiar horror to 
 hours, already and of necessity, most wretched. Castril- 
 lon, whose light heart could resist all things save ennui, 
 found a guitar and played a while till he remembered that 
 there was death in the palace. " How tiresome," he 
 thought, and he next sought to amuse himself by torment- 
 ing some of the Baron's pet dogs. Brigit remained for a 
 long time in her own room. But the strain of refusing to 
 recognize 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 ap- 
 proach, 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 do you knit wool when you could knit souls ? " 
 asked the young noble. " I would do more for one 
 glance from your eyes than for all the gods, kings, and 
 countries ever preached ! A beautiful woman may look 
 politics but she should never speak of them." 
 
 " She should not meddle with them at all," answered 
 Brigit, "for political intrigues are worked neither by 
 words nor hearts, but by gold alone! Sentiment counts 
 for nothing." 
 
 "And you can say this after our ride last night? 
 Do you think I risked my life for the sake of Don Car- 
 los ? " 
 
 " 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
 
 234 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 
 
 strange. Have you never loved? Has the moon had 
 nothing to say to you ? " 
 
 " Too much," said Brigit, " only too much ! " 
 " Is there no one.? Who is this Robert de Hausee ? " 
 " My husband's friend." 
 
 " Ojo ! Is it so serious as that ? " exclaimed Castrillon, 
 half to himself. 
 
 " I fear he has been killed," said Brigit, pausing from 
 her work and meeting Castrillon's inquisitive gaze with a 
 long, proud glance. The young Marquis was extremely 
 handsome, and, in spite of his indolence, his foppery in 
 dress and his undisguised vanity, the type was not effemi- 
 nate. Brigit defied but she could not despise him. He 
 may have been a laggard in war. In affairs of the heart, 
 however, and in the pursuit of pleasure, he knew neither 
 fear nor fatigue. To look at him at all was to fall under 
 the spell of an audacious, passionate and crafty nature. 
 
 "Would you smile like that if /had been missing?" 
 he asked. 
 
 " O no ! " said Brigit, not without irony. 
 " Did he come, too, for love of you ? " 
 " I hope not." 
 
 " Perhaps, after all, he is happier than I am. If he is 
 dead, he has forgotten you." 
 
 The ball of worsted fell down from her lap and rolled 
 away toward young Antoniede 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 be- 
 tween them and the incident was full of meaning to every 
 one of the spectators present except Brigit, who, on 
 receiving the ball from Castrillon, tossed it back again in 
 play to Bodava. Of all her friends in Spain, she liked
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 235 
 
 him best. He had paid her respectful if sullen homage 
 ever since her first arrival in Madrid. He bore a certain 
 likeness to Robert, and, true to the perversity of her sex, 
 she showed more kindness to the possessor of that acci- 
 dental and slight resemblance, than she had ever permitted 
 herself to display toward the original. Castrillon now 
 thought that he detected in her air a secret passion fur 
 Bodava, who, while his mferior in social rank, was his 
 superior officer. 
 
 ' ' Colonel de Bodava, " said Brigit, ' ' has not opened his 
 mouth all day. He will not speak to me. I fear he is 
 tired." 
 
 " Not tired — but patient," replied the Colonel. 
 
 The gravity of his air and tone reminded her for some 
 reason of Joanna's death, and perhaps many other things 
 which she was laboring, with the full strength of her 
 soul, to forget. A sob sprang into her throat. She tried 
 to speak but her voice failed, and, in an agony of grief, 
 agitation, and hopelessness, she rose hurriedly from her 
 seat, forbade them by a gesture to follow her, and walked 
 away to the farthest end of the hall. Bodava, however, 
 once stirred was not soon daunted. He hastened after 
 her, and, with a stern face, watched the tears stream down 
 her cheeks. 
 
 " I must speak," he said. "I have been silent because 
 I have had so much to occupy my thoughts. Do you 
 realize the danger of your position in this house? The 
 Countess is dead. You are here alone among six men — 
 all of them devoted to you. That is as it should be. 
 Most of them, however, boast that they are devoted to 
 you. That is as it should not be. Your protector is dead. 
 Her presence might have silenced calumny. But the 
 world is neither romantic nor reasonable. It will see you 
 — young, attractive, responsible to God and yourself only. 
 The world will soon overlook God in the argument and
 
 236 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 
 
 reckon wholly on the devil. I am a soldier and I don't 
 use the language of ballads. But you must leave this 
 place. A vi^oman might be as pure as you are and yet she 
 could not afford to be seen with libertines. Snow once 
 soiled makes the blackest mud. There is not a man here 
 whose character would marry happily with any lady's 
 reputation." 
 
 Brigit knew the truth of this last remark. The General 
 in authority over the Carlist party in Madrid had chosen 
 such men for the adventure at Loadilla as were remark- 
 able rather for daring than loyalty. Had they perished 
 — their loss would not have affected the moral strength of 
 the Cause. They were neither rich nor powerful and the 
 confiscation of their estates would not have meant a 
 serious hindrance to the proposed war. It was com- 
 monly, and perhaps rightly said that Castrillon's debts 
 were the chief motive of his anxiety to see a revolution. 
 Rastro was a firebrand snatched from the Isabellists. 
 The others were cadets of good family for whom it was 
 at once a duty aiid a difficulty to find suitable commissions. 
 Bodava himself, however, had with trouble, obtained per- 
 mission to lead the enterprise. He was a young man of 
 proved energy and ability. His rapid promotion from 
 the position of a simple volunteer in the Carlist force to 
 the rank of Colonel had been, even in a service where 
 honors were scattered with a prodigal hand, an extra- 
 ordinary thing. At headquarters it was not thought well 
 that such a soldier should risk his life in a Avild escapade. 
 The Countess Des Escas — who was a rich, self-willed 
 woman — had played her all and lost. To desert her, they 
 agreed, would be a crime. But her day of usefulness was 
 past. She was to be saved — if possible. It was not 
 necessary, however, to waste heroes where adventurers 
 would answer the purpose equally well. Yet Bodava car- 
 ried his point He it was to whom, with Robert, Brigit
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 237 
 
 owed her present safety. His words, though kindly 
 meant, wounded her pride. It seemed to her that he had 
 presumed to question her prudence. She felt, too, the 
 cruel humiliation to which women must ever be exposed 
 when they venture into the harsh and perilous region of 
 political intrigue. 
 
 Bodava, with the instinct of a sincere affection, divined 
 her thoughts although he could not understand her feel- 
 ings. 
 
 " To meet men on a common ground, " said he, the 
 more roughly because he dared not be tender, "to meet 
 us in this way — or in commerce — is a bad matter. Beauty 
 is nothing to us then. Youth is nothing. Sorrow is 
 nothing. Virtue is nothing. It is merely a struggle for 
 power. We do not want women at these moments. We 
 tolerate them so long only as they may be used for 
 tools, dupes oj spies. I am a man and I know men. 
 For the love of God, Madame, believe me. Your enthu- 
 siasm, your devotion is out of place amongst us. Too 
 often we trade on your generosity and make calculations 
 on your love. I would have saved you from these hard 
 lessons — " 
 
 " Nevertheless," said Brigit, who was weeping bitterly, 
 " you teach them well ! I did not come here to help any 
 man. I did not risk my life for any man. I had 
 neither plotted nor conspired for any man. That the 
 cause of Don Carlos is the cause of the Church is all I 
 know and believe. My poor friend was a martyr and 
 God must have found that I was not worthy to die with 
 her. So I am here." 
 
 " It is as I thought," exclaimed Bodava, " it is all sen- 
 timentality. Qui veutlafin veut les moyens is a proverb for 
 men. Women think neither of means nor the end. They are 
 ruled by these two pretty ideas — to die with some one or 
 to live for some one ! Hozv they live or how they die
 
 338 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 
 
 does not matter so much till the time comes and then — 
 Bo hoo ■' — for whether they live or whether they die, it is 
 always a crying affair ! " 
 
 His peasant blood and homely humor had rendered him 
 detestable to the aristocratic ladies of the Carlist party. 
 The Countess Des Escas had always viewed him with re- 
 pugnance as an upstart. Brigit, who admired independ- 
 ence of character, had formed a wiser estimate of his 
 worth. But her temper was quick. She had been edu- 
 cated in a school where insolence under any form and in 
 all circumstances was held as an abomination. She mis- 
 took Bodava's burly kindness for familiarity. 
 
 " You go too far," she said, " you forget yourself. I 
 wish that all my own words to you might be recalled. 
 You could never understand me or any of my friends. Our 
 motives and our conduct must always remain a mystery to 
 you. And the more they bewilder you the««nore reason 
 shall we have to take pride in them ? " 
 
 Then, wiping the traces of tears from her face, she 
 looked back over her shoulder at Castrillon and called 
 him with her eyes. He was at least a courtier. He 
 never offered women a gift so uncouth as the plain truth. 
 He came up most readily and smiling. They began to 
 talk together as though Bodava were a lacquey in waiting 
 or a fly on the window pane. The conversation was 
 mere nonsense. It was a silly banter about knitting and 
 names for pet poodles. At the end of five minutes, Brigit 
 wished the company good-evening and withdrew to her 
 own rooms, having worked, as she soon feared when her 
 softer nature asserted itself, much trouble in a party 
 already ripe for strife and distracted by small jealousies. 
 
 She had indeed but passed out of earshot when Cas- 
 trillon called upon Bodava for an explanation of his con- 
 duct. Bodava's reply was a threat to report him for in- 
 subordination. The Marquis drew himself up.
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 339 
 
 "Neither my family, nor my rank, nor the honored 
 uniform I wear, " said he, ' ' permit me to see a lady rudely 
 treated. I do not deny the laws, civil and military. I 
 do not forget the duties imposed by our holy religion. 
 But I can accept only one reparation for this affront." 
 
 Both men were strong in hate and hot in blood. Both 
 were eager to satisfy, in some fair en counter, a mutual spite. 
 It would have been hard to decide which struck the 
 others cheek first. The rest of the foolish drama followed 
 all too swiftly. The whole party, at Bodava's command, 
 went down into the superb gymnasium which was one 
 of the underground wonders of Zeuill's palace. Bodava 
 permitted Castrillon to appoint his second. He himself 
 chose Rastro. The consultation between them was brief. 
 It was decided that there should be a duel a priynera 
 sangre, at ten paces and with pistols. The preliminaries 
 and preparations settled, the adversaries were placed op- 
 posite each other at a distance often yards. Bodava fired 
 and Castrillon answered. No harm was done. They were 
 then stationed nine yards apart. The firing was repeated. 
 Still there was no hit. They were then placed eight yards 
 apart. This time, at Castrillon's third shot, he saw Bodava 
 stagger backwards. The bullet had just missed his right 
 eye and lodged in the cheek bone. With blood streaming 
 down his face, he presented a terrible spectacle. Castrillon 
 grew so affected at the sight that his heart became like 
 water and his remorse claimed as much attention as the 
 Colonel's wound, which was no light injury. Not one mem- 
 ber of the horrified group was capable of giving medical aid. 
 It was unsafe, in the circumstances, to use the private 
 telelegraph wires between Zeuill's palace and Madrid. 
 What then could be done ? At last Rastro suggested that, 
 with so many valuable horses in the stable, there was no 
 doubt a veterinary surgeon at any rate attached to the 
 household. Castrillon offered to find him. He rushed
 
 240 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 
 
 out half in delirium and shedding tears. But he returned 
 shortly with the man whom he had sought, and, praying 
 hard, he himself supported Bodava while the bullet was 
 extracted. The farce — as ridiculous as it was ghastly — 
 thus came to an end, so far as the two male actors were 
 concerned. At Bodava's own request, the whole affair 
 was to be represented to the Baron, for the lady's sake, 
 as an accident. The young lady was alone, unprotected 
 and in a peculiarly hard situation. Each gentleman 
 swore to observe absolute secrecy on a matter so delicate. 
 They forgot, however, the surgeon to whom Castrillon, 
 in his agitation of mind, had clearly stated that the shot 
 had been fired in a duel. This surgeon was an English- 
 man — a man of the valet and spying class. Castrillon 
 made him a handsome present. It was the one thing 
 of value, in fact, which that spendthrift still possessed — 
 a massive gold chain that he wore, with a locket contain- 
 ing an Ag7ius Dei, under his shirt. 
 
 " What is your name? " said the Marquis. 
 
 " My name," said the surgeon, " is William Caffle. " 
 
 Castrillon then presented him with the chain, but he re- 
 tained its pendant, for that had been the gift of a fair kins- 
 woman who had taken the vows in order to pray the bet- 
 ter for his turbulent soul. 
 
 "I don't believe in charms and superstitions, "observed 
 Caffle, who, at one glance, had decided that the little 
 trinket was of small worth: " my profession is against 
 all that." 
 
 Then he bowed low and withdrew.
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 241 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 Baron Zeuill, meanwhile, was anxiously occupied at 
 Madrid. As a result of his mission, General Prim had in- 
 vited him to supper. But the question of Robert's release 
 remained unsettled. The supper hour was fixed for nine 
 o'clock. Zeuill had thus some little time before him for 
 the transaction of other business. He called at the Hotel 
 where Lord Wight was known to have rooms, and he ob- 
 tained an interview with the Earl by describing himself as 
 the bearer of news from Robert Orange. Wight received 
 him politely but with great caution. He had been led to 
 believe, by information received from aCarlist agent, that 
 Robert had escaped with the rest of the party. He felt 
 therefore that this was an occasion for the exercise of 
 those diplomatic arts, which, in solitude, he had so long 
 and carefully studied. 
 
 "I have heard rumors," said he, "of some distressing 
 fracas at Loadilla, and it would seem that Orange is in- 
 volved in it. He is certainly missing. I have communi- 
 cated with the British Minister, but at present he has no 
 official knowledge of the affair. I am an invalid as you 
 see." (He was propped up on several chairs.) "I can 
 take no active part in the search for my friend. My anx- 
 iety, therefore, is the more trying." 
 
 "I can relieve your anxiety," said Zeuill: "Mr. 
 Orange has declared himself a Carlist and he has been 
 placed under arrest." 
 
 Wight did not believe this statement and his smile, 
 
 which was natural enough in the circumstances, seemed 
 i6
 
 242 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 
 
 to Zeuill, who mistook it for mere acting, a highly credit- 
 able performance, 
 
 " The arrest is no laughing matter," said he. " General 
 Prim has revived the old martial law of 182 1." 
 
 " What is that ? " asked Wight. 
 
 "This : all conspirators against the Government taken 
 with arms in hand shall be tried by a council of war on 
 the spot, and executed within twenty-four hours. There 
 is an accident in Orange's favor. No arms were found 
 upon him at the time of his arrest. He was caught half- 
 stripped and seriously wounded. He is not well enough 
 yet to give a clear account of himself. " 
 
 "There is some mistake," said Wight, growing livid, 
 "some monstrous blunder. If it is a question of a fine 
 or a ransom, I will gladly pay it. Mr. Orange is my Secre- 
 tary — a young man of the highest promise and character 
 — the son of a French nobleman of very ancient name 
 whose wife died at the birth of this one child. He was 
 adopted by friends and it was a condition of his adoption 
 that his own name should be dropped, and he has 
 accordingly always borne that of Madame Bertin's 
 family. The facts of the case were unfortunate but not 
 illegal." 
 
 " I am acquainted with them," replied Zeuill, much to 
 the annoyance of his hearer, who liked all aristocratic 
 origins veiled in brilliant mystery from the vulgar eye. 
 " I understand, too, that Orange has been elected to rep- 
 resent Norbet Royal in your House of Commons. It is 
 a great pity that he has meddled with Spanish politics. 
 Neither a fine nor a ransom will meet the present emer- 
 gency — it is a case that will require all my influence. 
 Amateur enthusiasm is dangerous and it must be sup- 
 pressed with a high hand. Not that I wish to alarm 
 you." 
 
 "Sir," said his lordship, " I am not to be alarmed. An
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 243 
 
 Englishman may know indignation, but never, I trust, 
 fear." 
 
 Zeuill then spoke in a more conciliatory tone. 
 
 " My view of the situation, "said he, "is probably your 
 own. I don't wish to be indiscreet, but I feel sure that 
 Mr. Orange — or to be accurate, M. de Hausee — is more 
 interested in a certain young Senora than in the Throne 
 of Spain," 
 
 "I know nothing of his private affairs," said Wight ; 
 "your surmise, however, seems to me unlikely." 
 
 " Have you never heard him speak of Mrs. Parflete ? " 
 
 "I think your question improper. But I may reply 
 that the lady's name is wholly unknown to me. I have 
 never heard of such a person. If you were to say that 
 Orange had shown a chivalrous spirit out of devotion to 
 his Church, you might perhaps be nearer the mark." 
 
 Zeuill made no attempt to conceal his impatience. 
 
 "Let that report get bruited aboutand no influence in 
 Spain can save him," said he. 
 
 The Baron, apart from his friendship for the Countess 
 of Escas, gave no support to the Carlist cause. It was 
 closely allied with the See of Rome, and the whole matter 
 stood before his mind not as a question of rightful succes- 
 sion but as a question of policy. The return of the 
 Bourbons meant, to him, the restoration of the banished 
 religious orders, fresh strength to the Ultramontane diplo- 
 matists, and renewed power to the Catholic clergy. He 
 respected the sentiments of pious, high-born ladies, but 
 he dreaded, only a degree less than anarchy, the Papal 
 hand in political affairs. 
 
 "Sir," said Lord Wight, "is your business with me to 
 the advantage or the disadvantage of my Secretary ? 
 Your tone leaves me in considerable doubt on that 
 score. " 
 
 "I desire to save a young man — with whose family I
 
 244 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 
 
 have long been acquainted — from foolishness. Armies 
 are worked, not by sermons, but by pay. The Carlist 
 Cause is poor — it can never succeed. 
 
 "The Bourbons, sir, vt'ill reign again in Spain. I will 
 stake my life upon it, sir. And Mr. Disraeli — a gentle- 
 man of pretty considerable ability — is of my opinion. Nor 
 will I reconsider an opinion — which Christian faith and 
 Oriental prescience alike support. Sir, make my compli- 
 ments to General Prim and tell him that persecution for 
 an honest sympathy is unknown in England. It could 
 not happen." 
 
 "In England," replied Zeuill, "you have civilians at 
 the head of the Government. They prefer to wear out 
 their political opponents by interminable speeches. A 
 great military commander would employ briefer — perhaps 
 more heroic — measures ! But I have no desire to raise 
 invidious comparisons." 
 
 "Sir, you have already raised them." 
 
 "My lord, this is not the way to help your Secretary 
 out of his present difficulties." 
 
 "Sir, I could help no Englishman by joining in un- 
 worthy criticism of the British Government." 
 
 " M. de Hause'e is not an Englishman." 
 
 "Pardon me, sir, you labor under a misapprehension. 
 Mr. Orange became a British subject some years ago. 
 My health will not suffer me to prolong this discussion 
 further." 
 
 The interview thus came to an abrupt close, and Zeuill, 
 having offered an adieu with unruffled good nature, went 
 on to Prim's residence. 
 
 He found the General in an ill humor. His unbounded 
 confidence in himself had led him to make light of the 
 Conspiracy and Don Carlos "the Simple," but other con- 
 spiracies had come to light at Valladolid, at Pontevedra,
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 245 
 
 in Catalonia, Valencia, and Alicante. Nor were the Car- 
 lists so poor as they were commonly thought to be. 
 
 ' ' I hear from a good source, " said Prim, sullenly, ' ' that 
 Carlos has, at least fifteen millions of reals in Spain, and 
 property too in France and in England. A conquered 
 party will never be obedient for kindness. They must be 
 ruled by fear. And they shall have it," he added with a 
 grim laugh. 
 
 The two sat alone at supper, and the servants did not 
 remain in the room. Prim eat little, and his mien was 
 not promising. 
 
 ' ' This man Orange, " he said, suddenly, ' ' seems a mere 
 pawn. He knows nothing. You may have him. I will 
 give him a safe-conduct and he must leave the country 
 within twenty-four hours. But I shall want an exchange. 
 That little hell-kitten must have her neck wrung." 
 
 "Who is the hell-kitten ? " asked Zeuill, in his mildest 
 manner. 
 
 " Madame Parflete. She would destroy whole regi- 
 ments. Her husband, on the other hand, is a valuable 
 man. His last letter was a week late and has only just 
 reached me. A most unfortunate delay in every respect. 
 He knew much about all this last nonsense. But the wife 
 is deep. She tells him as little as possible." 
 
 "You will find that she, too, is a mere pawn. The 
 Countess Des Escas rules everything." 
 
 "Thank God she is dead," said Prim, 
 
 This startling news made the Baron as livid as his host, 
 
 " You didn't know that ? " continued Prim ; "I found 
 the blessed tidings waiting for me when I returned from 
 the barracks." 
 
 Zeuill was too discreet to ask the name of the General's 
 informant. There were spies everywhere, and, if Prim's 
 agents were in Zeuill's household, Zeuill's agents were 
 »lso about Prim,
 
 246 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 
 
 "This," said Zeuill, whose voice showed genuine emo- 
 tion, "is a real grief to me. I liked that woman. There 
 was greatness in her character. The Carlist cause will 
 sink with her death." 
 
 "It will rise again with mine," answered Prim. These 
 ominous words came from his own lips, yet, as he heard 
 them, he half-started from his seat, and, glancing about 
 him, displayed a nervousness wholly alien to his soldier 
 habits. He felt that dread, not of human foes, but of the 
 supernatural under which the stoutest heart turns sick. 
 
 "There is no one here," said Zeuill, 
 
 " What was I saying .? " asked the General, whose hands 
 had grown wet with a sudden sweat. 
 
 Zeuill replied that he could not remember. This was 
 the truth, but the incident and the forgotten sentence re- 
 turned to his mind with a horrid distinctness just one year 
 and four months later at that same hour of the evening, 
 half past nine — when Prim, murdered by six assassins, 
 paid the price of King-making and consummated his de- 
 votion to what he took to be the winning party in Spain. 
 
 For a few seconds neither of the men spoke. The room, 
 for all its closed doors, did not seem secret. There was 
 a body to the air, which, now hot and now icy, swept 
 through the sombre apartment. Each filled the other's 
 glass, and both, with haunted souls, drank a deep draught 
 of wine. 
 
 "What would you do with Mrs. Parflete.? " said Zeuill, 
 at last. 
 
 "If we are not careful," replied Prim, " Castrillon or 
 some one of her lovers will persuade her that she is the 
 Archduke's Heir Presumptive in Alberia. She could never 
 succeed, but she could inspire endless risings and insur- 
 rections among his Catholic subjects. Europe is swarm- 
 ing with Pretenders who have claims far inferior to those 
 she could put forward. They are very clear — so clear, in
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 247 
 
 fact, that Charles after Duboc's death, re-married his Arcl> 
 duchess privately. I have just heard that. Parflete never 
 throws all his cards on the table at once ! Among Prot- 
 estants, he says, in his letter, the first affair with Duboc 
 would of course he laughed at, hut the moment you call in 
 the priests, marriage becomes the devil and all hell. Par- 
 flete himself seems to brood more than a little over his 
 vi^ife's legitimacy ! " 
 
 " He is a man of whom I have no hesitation in saying 
 that I hold the very worst opinion possible. That young 
 woman's case has been in my mind all day. Pier ob- 
 stinacy and pride pass all belief. I saw her at close quar- 
 ters. Her beauty is astonishing. She looks like the pic- 
 ture of an Empress. If she were to stick her head out of a 
 window, every soldier's heart would be in his mouth. 
 England is the only safe place for a creature like that." 
 
 "Will she agree to the divorce from Parflete ?" asked 
 the General; "he mentions the matter to me in this same 
 despatch." 
 
 " There are easier things than a divorce," said Zeuill. 
 "If one made it worth Parflete's while, he would step 
 aside. The marriage was a mere form. It would be 
 sheer theology to call them husband and wife. And what- 
 ever it may be, the state of matrimony is not an abstract 
 relationship. I feel sure that Parflete would show good 
 sense. The Church can be counted out on this occasion." 
 
 He drummed with his finger on his knee as he spoke. 
 Prim presently answered him. 
 
 " I will consider what may be done," said he, "but we 
 must not give scandal." 
 
 "Even at the risk of giving scandal," replied Zeuill, 
 " you should act quickly. We can marry her to some 
 respectable Englishman who would plant her in a park, 
 make her the mother of twelve children, and add her face 
 to the family portraits ! I have a person in my eye and
 
 248 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 
 
 within reach who might well be employed in this busi- 
 ness ! 
 
 "The divorce must be disposed of before any fresh 
 marriage can be discussed," said Prim, tightening his 
 lips, " and in the mean time, I will undertake to keep her 
 out of mischief." 
 
 "As to that," said Zeuill, showing equal firmness but 
 a milder air, " I am under certain obligations to the Arch- 
 duke Charles. She must remain, for the present at all 
 events, my guest." 
 
 "Then, my dear Baron, I regret to say that your young 
 friend — M. de Hausee — must remain my prisoner, A 
 bargain is a bargain." 
 
 Zeuill, with perfect good humor, made a gesture of 
 acquiescence. 
 
 "So long as M, de Hausee is not shot and is decently 
 treated," said he, "I will not complain. He is now, 
 however, a shorn Samson and no longer dangerous. 
 You might give him back to Lord Wight — who is a silly 
 old gentleman suffering from dropsy and ideas. Other- 
 wise — here we are at a dead-lock. I am less than ever 
 in a situation to come forward. I can do little without 
 your co-operation. But if this Government is bent on 
 working its own destruction, all I have to do is to avoid 
 being buried under its ruins." 
 
 This speech, at once a concession and a menace, was 
 uttered in a silken tone. He understood Prim's high 
 spirit. Pressed too hard, the General was not without 
 resources. No threat could ever bring him to eat his own 
 words. As a way out of the difficulty, therefore, Zeuill 
 offered the suggestion that Orange should be delivered 
 up to the Earl of Wight. He saw that Prim was listening 
 with a favorable ear and he pursued his advantage. 
 
 " Possibly the Government no longer depends on one or 
 two hundred thousand pounds more or less," he continued,
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 249 
 
 "but it has many things claiming its time and its money. 
 Ought either to be wasted at this particular moment? 
 There is no credit to be lost — there is a great deal to be 
 gained — by giving this young man his freedom." 
 
 " What is he to you? " said Prim, abruptly. 
 
 " He has obliged me," answered Zeuill, "by appearing 
 on the scene at the right moment. And years ago, when 
 a Zeuill needed help, the Hausees were not backward. 
 Perhaps you would like to hear the story ? It happened 
 to my grandfather at the time of the Revolution in France. 
 He was flying from the mob and the Baronne de Hausee 
 gave him shelter at the risk — many say the cost — of her 
 own life for she was arrested not long afterwards and 
 guillotined. On being reproached by her friends for har- 
 boring my grandfather, she replied : " I can never forget 
 that our Blessed Lord was a Jew." She had, you see, 
 her prejudices and her act, therefore, was the more touch- 
 ing. It is a tradition of our house to support all those 
 who have ever helped us. We never desert old allies 
 and we pay our just debts." 
 
 He was trying to work on all Prim's passions at once. 
 He reached now, with a single stroke, the General's 
 Spanish instinct for romance, his no less Spanish worldly 
 prudence, and the piety which, even when inactive, is 
 seldom wholly extinct in a true Spaniard's heart. 
 
 " Are your obligations still greater to the Archduke?" 
 said Prim. 
 
 "That matter rests on quite another basis," replied 
 Zeuill. " It is a question of policy." 
 
 "Can you explain it?" 
 
 "Upon my word, I do not see why not. To begin 
 with, the Archduke is becoming devout. That is a bad 
 sign for all of us. He is fierce against his sisters. He 
 would do anything, in the name of religion, to spite and 
 humiliate them. He is refurbishing his young sentimen-
 
 250 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 
 
 tality for the Bourbons. Suppose, for argument's sake, 
 that he should take it into his mind to own this young 
 woman as his legitimate daughter? There is nothing to 
 prevent it. And what a bid for the old Ecclesiastics who 
 detested his second marriage with that Lutheran ! The 
 church at one time disturbs — at another time, strengthens 
 a government. So far Charles has cajoled the Liberals 
 only, and he is a little sick of their greed. Dying men 
 are desperate, and, if we are not careful, he vi'ill throw 
 such a hot brick into both baths, that the two parties will 
 be set kicking and splashing at one another for the next 
 sixty years ! Mrs. Parflete need not be injured, but she 
 must be placed beyond his reach. I think this can be 
 done. The Archduke is now laboring to get rid of Par- 
 flete. In that quarter, he M'ould be a more promising 
 agent than either of us. So there we may let him alone 
 for a little. After that—" 
 
 " But you say she is obstinate." 
 
 "So is young de Hausde. " 
 
 " What chance has de Hausde ? Castrillon and Colonel 
 Bodava have fought a duel about her this very day. You 
 have taken a bosom snake into your care." 
 
 Again, Zeuill was placed at a considerable disadvan- 
 tage. This was the second piece of news that Prim had 
 levelled at his elaborate calculations. But this time, the 
 Baron did not own his surprise. He maintained a smooth 
 countenance. 
 
 " Bodava," said he, lightly, " is a peasant. He would 
 jar on her pride. And Castrillon has been honored by 
 the love of too many jealous ladies. He would never 
 dare to marry. De Hausee has nothing to fear from 
 rivals of that stamp." 
 
 "Shall we send for him? " said Prim, dryly. "I had 
 him brought here for convenience' sake." 
 
 He touched a bell as he spoke and smiled, with a look
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 25X 
 
 of almost boyish amusement at the success ol" a ruse 
 which he had planned in order to discover to what a de- 
 gree the Baron Zeuill and Robert were acquainted. Such 
 was the treachery, the uncertainty of opinions on all sides, 
 that men could not trust their own— far less their friends' 
 loyalty.
 
 -'52 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 
 
 CHAPTER XVni. 
 
 When Robert received his summons to the General's 
 presence, he was waiting, under guard, in a fine apart- 
 ment furnished with every decoration that a taste for 
 splendor could suggest and a large fortune, supply. 
 The contrast between these new quarters and the squalid 
 cell of the Barracks seemed to justify his fullest hope of 
 regaining a speedy freedom. But his heart had grown 
 heavy and morose. Thoughts ofBrigitand what he took 
 to be her imprudence were working as a fever in his 
 brain. Hoiv is the gold become dim, how is the most fine 
 gold changed ! he thought. The devotion, which, while 
 absent from her personal influence, he had been able to 
 regard as a delicate supernatural friendship, now, under 
 the stress of danger, jealous)'', compassion and hot wrath, 
 showed itself as a desperate attachment not to be gainsaid 
 or conquered. His arms had been around her. He had 
 seen — for one instant — a thrilling happiness in the glance 
 of recognition that she gave across the flames of the 
 burning mill. Such a look — bestowed when death was a 
 nearer thing than any human love — could never be for- 
 gotten. He knew at that moment and from henceforth 
 that they were bound by an ardent and reciprocal affec- 
 tion. Yet his gnawing doubts would not be stilled. 
 Those who have loved, whether happily or the reverse, 
 will know well — without the telling — all that he suffered, 
 and those who have never loved could not believe the 
 extent and folly of his misgivings even if they were set 
 down in a catalogue. If he longed for liberty, it was in
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 353 
 
 the fierce desire to see Brigit at least once again and 
 deliver his mind from the spell of a reticence no longer 
 to be borne. From long restraint, his mood was the 
 more violent, and he seemed possessed rather by a fury 
 than any spirit of kindness. 
 
 When he entered the General's supper-room, both men 
 were struck by his altered appearance. The asceticism 
 of his countenance, which, more than all the evidence of 
 the secret police, had persuaded Prim that his captive was 
 no rogue — still remained. But it was an asceticism 
 gained by strong efforts and at a heavy cost. Robert's 
 real nature — turbulent, rebellious, full of troubles and 
 passions — was working plainly enough beneath the sur- 
 face. His boyish air had gone. The anguish of mis- 
 trusting the woman whom he loved had driven youth 
 forever from his face and from his character. A bitter 
 smile played about his lips. His eyes were hard with 
 the ice of unshed tears. Haggard, scarred, unshaven 
 and defiant, his shoulder bandaged in splints, and his left 
 arm in a sling, he did not appear a likely suitor to please 
 the caprice and tame the spirit of a haughty, ambitious, 
 self-willed and beautiful girl. But his step was resolute, 
 and even at such cruel disadvantages, Prim could find no 
 fault with his bearing. 
 
 " He is a man," muttered Zeuill, '' and a real seigneur 
 — for he does not attitudinize." 
 
 "M. de Hause'e, " said the General, " I think you will 
 find that red chair very easy. I shall not detain you 
 long. It is my hope to set you at liberty, under certain 
 conditions — " 
 
 "But when ? " said Robert. 
 
 Prim met his eyes with a curious smile, and, after a 
 certain deliberation, answered, — 
 
 " I feel that I cannot yet count you among my friends. 
 You are, however, a British subject and my sentiments
 
 2 54 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 
 
 toward your country are invariable and sincere. I will 
 not forget them unless you force me so to do. But you 
 are reserved and suspicious. You withhold your confi- 
 dence at the very point where we might become close 
 allies. I am treating you as I have never before treated 
 any political prisoner. I believe you are innocent of any 
 actual complicity in this puerile effeminate affair. You 
 had, I think, different and more manly motives for 
 action." 
 
 His tone had grown into one of affectionate admoni- 
 tion. He spoke as a father addressing a well-loved 
 son. 
 
 " I offer you," he continued, "this opportunity of de- 
 claring these motives. I wish you well, but I can go no 
 further. It is for you to advance now." 
 
 "What would you have me say.?" asked Robert. "If 
 I am innocent of this so-called conspiracy — on what 
 ground am I detained here ? " 
 
 "You interfered with my officer in the discharge of his 
 duty. You attempted to rescue two notoriously danger- 
 ous women who were proved iniriga^ites against the 
 Spanish Government. It is a serious charge. Say no 
 more about that, or we may not end so well as we started, " 
 he added, with a sudden flash of temper. "This is not 
 a moment for false delicacy. It is with reluctance that I 
 bring a lady's name into our conversation. But it must 
 be. I do not asked you whether you are a saint or a 
 chevalier. The great point is whether you are a wise 
 man or a fool. Trust me and I will give you my word 
 that j\Irs. Parflete shall not be compromised, but, on the 
 contrary, protected from the worst consequences of her 
 folly. I have two or three reports before me. One says 
 that she is a pretty woman with an indifferent reputation. 
 Another says that she is a prude in virtue but a martyr 
 to ambition. Can you tell me anything clearer.''"
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 255 
 
 "What have you to do with mc in the matter?" said 
 Robert. " I am here to answer for myself." 
 
 "We are satisfied of your honor," said the General, 
 "we wish now to be satisfied of Madame Parflete's. If 
 you are neither her dupe nor her accomplice you may be 
 her friend. At present she needs an advocate." 
 
 "What has she done?" asked Robert. 
 
 "A great deal. She is a young person for whom 
 epithets are not spared. She fancies that there is a piece 
 of royalty stitched up in her blood and she seems bent on 
 giving trouble. She is now shut up alone with six young 
 men in a palace in the country. Two officers — the Mar- 
 quis of Castrillon and Colonel de Bodava — have already 
 fought a duel about her. There is such a thing as army 
 discipline even among the Carlists and that scandal will 
 not drop." 
 
 Some seconds passed before Robert could reply and 
 then his voice — in spite of every effort — trembled. 
 
 " I cannot accept," said he, " such a story — or at least, 
 such a version of it. It is a monstrous calumny in- 
 vented by her political enemies. Other enemies she 
 could not have. But why should we talk of her — 
 here ? " 
 
 " I regret the necessity. When a lady sets at nought 
 the limits which are drawn round women for their own 
 protection, when she breaks down the barrier between 
 the sexes and unites with men in a conspiracy — she must 
 not whimper for that reverence which belongs only to 
 the innocent and harmless." 
 
 "Mrs. Parflete is a girl of seventeen, " said Robert, 
 "she thinks still as a child. These scoundrels take ad- 
 vantage of her position." 
 
 "Inexperienced as she is," said Prim, dryly, "she 
 must be aware that a beautiful young woman can have 
 but one male friend."
 
 256 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 
 
 "Nevertheless," said Robert, "her ignorance of the 
 actual world is so great that, while her modesty could 
 never be at fault, she does not know the usual rules of 
 life. Her manner is as frank as a boy's. She is quite 
 unconscious of her appearance. Immediately after her 
 marriage, she was thrown by her husband into a society 
 composed almost exclusively of young, rich, idle men. 
 She lacks that knowledge of human wickedness which 
 would enable her to estimate them at their proper value. 
 It would not require any vulpine cunning to deceive her. 
 As it is, she trusts each one of them as a good comrade, 
 and they in turn seek only the gratification of their van- 
 ity. She is cleverer — more carefully educated than most 
 of her sex — and to a nature so pure and courageous, the 
 ordinary manoeuvres of the drawing-room would but 
 seem insincere — if not worse. And so she is mis- 
 judged." 
 
 "It seems to me," put in Zeuill, speaking for the first 
 time, "that she is endowed with an understanding 
 which, in every scene of life, is calculated to distinguish 
 her. But I am also convinced that she was formed to 
 defy all control. In this instance she may have been 
 edged on by the late Countess des Escas — " 
 
 "The/a/e Countess ?" repeated Robert, stupefied at the 
 expression. 
 
 "She died from the shock and fatigues of her adven- 
 ture," said Prim. " I need not tell you the whole story 
 over again. We both know it ! " 
 
 "Then Mrs. Parflete is indeed alone," said Robert, 
 with an agitation he could not hide. "And — where ? " 
 
 "Is it possible that you do not know .? " asked Prim. 
 " Have you never heard of the Baron Zeuill .'' " 
 
 "I know him byname and repute," replied Robert. 
 " I have never met him. " 
 
 " Do you think she would be safe under his charge?"
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 257 
 
 "I have no reason to believe that he is other than 
 a man of high character. He may know her husband or 
 some of her relatives. The justice of God would not 
 leave her wholly unprotected, and if she has no visible 
 defenders, she will have those that are far stronger." 
 
 "I see," said Prim, ironically, "that you are on good 
 terms with heaven ! " 
 
 "My joy of this world has not been so great as to 
 reverse my reason," answered Robert. "I know that 
 there is a God above us and all our follies." 
 
 A new suspicion rushed into the General's mind. 
 
 "Are you a priest ? " said he, with some sharpness. 
 
 "Not yet," answered the young man. 
 
 "God take me presently if you are not more than half 
 one already ! You speak properly enough and like a 
 good Christian. You have given yourself too much 
 trouble on a poor account. But gentlemen, I think you 
 should become acquainted with each other. Baron 
 Zeuill, allow me to present M. de Hausee." 
 
 The Brazilian seemed as delighted as his host at Rob- 
 ert's astonishment. He exhibited the pleasantest smile 
 and shook the young man warmly by the hand. 
 
 " We must be good friends," said he. 
 
 Englishmen as a rule do not appreciate tricks of the 
 kind, and had Robert been less Celtic than Saxon, had 
 he been quick to resent any departure from English man- 
 ners and customs, the experiment might have proved un- 
 fortunate. But he met Zeuill's advance with unfeigned 
 courtesy. 
 
 "Am I to understand," he asked at once, "that Mrs. 
 Pariiete is at your house.'' " 
 
 The banker boM'^ed. 
 
 "I am in communication with her father," said he. 
 
 "In that case," replied Orange, "she should need no 
 better adviser. " 
 17
 
 258 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 
 
 "What are her relations with Alberia ! " said Prim, sud- 
 denly. 
 
 "You must be aware that Parflete was Equerry to the 
 Archduke Charles," was Robert's answer. 
 
 "But has she no ambition to cut a figure at the Court 
 on her own account ? " 
 
 "When I knev/ her," said Robert, "she wished to 
 spend the rest of her days in a Convent." 
 
 Both his hearers smiled at this remark. 
 
 "Would a nun," asked Prim, "care for the friendship 
 of Castrillon ? She has deceived you." 
 
 There was a pause and the General rose from his seat. 
 
 "You may go," said he, "and to-morrow you will be 
 your own prisoner again — no longer mine ! " 
 
 He rang the silver bell at his side. The two guards 
 re-entered and Robert, under their escort, took his dis- 
 missal." 
 
 "Well," exclaimed Prim, when the door had been 
 closed, " it is a happy thing to meet with good men. 
 And I know them when I see them. I would never waste 
 one on a trashy woman. It is a bad economy of force. 
 Can you find no commoner fellow for this business ? " 
 
 Zeuill, in the best of humors, replied that, " with the 
 help of soaring Bacchus he might think of a cheaper plan." 
 
 "But," he added, "you must not forget that we want 
 a succes fou. De Hausde has one supreme advantage 
 over all his rivals — he saved her life." 
 
 " And in return she will help him to lose his soul ! " ex- 
 claimed the General. 
 
 " How long, pray, have you taken an interest in souls .? " 
 asked Zeuill. 
 
 Prim forced a laugh, but his guest did not venture to 
 pursue the inquiry further. He shifted instead to the 
 subject of Robert's destination on the morrow. 
 
 " Will you permit him to rejoin Lord Wight — or, in view
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 259 
 
 of these other circumstances, may I invite him to spend 
 a few days first with me ? " 
 
 " I must consider that proposal. Come to me to-mor- 
 row morning at ten o'clock." 
 
 The interview then came to an end.
 
 26o THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 At a late hour the following- evening, Robert received 
 his release. He was escorted to Wight's lodgings at the 
 Hotel where he was told he might enjoy full liberty — 
 under surveillance. He could not yet be permitted to 
 leave the country. Of his reception by Lord Wight, we 
 find the following account in a letter to Reckage : — 
 
 " As I entered the room, I observed three figures sitting 
 on the balcony. The moonlight was unusually clear and 
 brilliant. I had no difficulty in recognizing the Earl. 
 The other two were women. One had her back turned 
 toward me. But I knew the small waist and the flaxen 
 curls. It was Lady Fitz Rewes. She stood up at the 
 sound of my step and faced me. Her eyes were full of 
 tears. She looked thoroughly tired. I never knew before 
 how much she owed to her vivacity of expression. The 
 second woman retired into the shadow. At first, I 
 thought I had made a mistake and imagined that I saw 
 her. I could not speak. I was absurdly weak and I 
 cannot believe that I was in full possession of my 
 senses. Wight's exclamation on seeing me was char- 
 acteristic, — 
 
 " * Thank God, you are safe ! I take all the blame. I 
 led you into it. I shall never forgive myself. Pensde, 
 where's the port } " 
 
 "She poured out some wine which I was glad enough 
 to swallow. Several minutes passed before another word 
 was uttered. It was painful to all of us to be ourselves
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 261 
 
 and see each other. There was so great a strain, so 
 severe a restraint, so much that would ever be inexplic- 
 able, so much that would ever rest untold, that, to be 
 natural was out of the question and to be artificial, a sheer 
 impossibility. I told them, however, as well as 1 could 
 of Prim's kindness, which, in the circumstances, was a 
 miracle. The ladies showed needless alarm over my 
 bandaged shoulder, and it was a relief when they bade 
 us good-night. I was longing for some explanation of 
 Mrs. Parflete's presence. She never gave it. I had never 
 seen her so haughty, so impassive. Moral courage is a 
 hidden thing that grows in silence and in silence, too, is 
 broken. The soul may be withered, wounded, slain, and 
 still keep an outward skin — strong enough to deceive at 
 least the cruel and curious. I sought vainly for any trace 
 of Mrs. Parflete's real thoughts. I almost persuaded my- 
 self that she was incapable of emotion. And so the brave 
 are always ill-used and worse-judged ; while weak women 
 — weak men for that matter — seem to get all the compas- 
 sion, all the help, all the love. I was ashamed of my 
 own unfairness in condemning a reserve which I should 
 have been the first to praise and understand. When the 
 ladies had gone, each to her own room, Wight wiped his 
 eyes — they were streaming — and half wrenched my one 
 sound arm out of its socket. 
 
 " ' I have been like a blind beggar without his dog," 
 said he. ' I telegraphed for Pensee the moment I missed 
 you. She started at once and arrived but a few hours ago. 
 I shall never forget the handsomeness of her conduct to- 
 ward me. I can trust her tact. I wished, as the French 
 say, to know sur quel pied daiiser. I hate all these 
 foreigners. This is a ruined and undone country. Every- 
 thing denotes the impropriety of remaining here a day 
 longer. My poor boy, when I think of all you must have 
 suffered from these liars and knaves ! '
 
 262 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 
 
 " Here he dropped his voice and peered cautiously about 
 the room — for we had left the balcony. 
 
 "'I was too happy to make Mrs. Parflete's acquaint- 
 ance/ said he, ' but, if I may ask the question, who is 
 she .'' She is here with that Jew — Baron Zeuill. The fel- 
 low called on me. His saucy pretensions knew no limit. 
 I should take it deeply to heart if you were offended at any 
 remark of mine. I am walking- in the dark, and may, 
 when I mean to do good, be doing the greatest harm. 
 The lady appears a very distinguished and highly-bred 
 person. No doubt she is. God forbid that she should be 
 otherwise. God bless you. But it was just a little 
 awkward for my niece.' 
 
 "He then went on to s^y, that, about a quarter of an 
 hour before my arrival, Mrs. Parflete appeared on the 
 balcony adjoining his own. 
 
 "'I was talking with Pens^e,' he went on, 'and we 
 were both much startled when this elegant-looking woman 
 — of whom we knew nothing — addressed us. She men- 
 tioned your name at once and asked at what hour we ex 
 pected you. She then gave me her card. I did not 
 know how to reply. I was never more uncomfortable. 
 Presently Zeuill came out — as if to show himself. I was 
 barely civil to him and I am glad to say that he 
 went in. But Mrs. Parflete sat on her side of the balcony 
 while we kept on ours. You will own that it was an ex- 
 traordinary proceeding. My niece exchanged a w'ord or 
 two with her. We did not, however, engage in conver- 
 sation. I don't see how we could have done so.' 
 
 "'When you hear Mrs. Parflete's explanation,' I re- 
 plied 'you will find that it was the best course she could 
 have adopted in the circumstances ! ' 
 
 " ' But is she really a friend of yours ? ' he asked. 
 
 " 'She is a lady,' I replied, ' for whom I have the most
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 263 
 
 profound respect. She would probably regard me as an 
 Equerry-in-waiting. ' 
 
 " He seemed struck by the expression, which I used 
 purposely, knowing my man. I then undertook to ex- 
 plain everything fully to Lady Fitz Rewes on the morrow. 
 As I said this, we were disturbed by a tap on the window- 
 pane. I looked out and saw Mrs. Parflete. She was on 
 the balcony and beckoning with her hand. She wore the 
 same glacial air that she had shown on my arrival, but 
 this time I thought I detected something like desperation 
 in her eyes. It was no moment to stand on strict et- 
 iquette. The straits to which she was driven were, I own, 
 compromising to the last degree. I would have given 
 ten lives sooner than have let her appear at that particular 
 moment in that particular way. I hastened to her. She 
 asked me if she might come into our sitting-room. I 
 helped her over the little barrier. Wight, offered her his 
 own chair, and then, with a delicacy which did infinite 
 credit to his instinct, he withdrew to a corner out of 
 earshot, but did not leave us alone. 
 
 "Our interview was so painful that I can scarcely de- 
 scribe it. 
 
 " 'Some day before I die,' said she, ' I shall hope to 
 write down a little of my gratitude, but I have not the 
 courage now to say a word. I must beg you to excuse 
 this intrusion on your friends. It could not be avoided.' 
 
 " Her beautiful voice, which was usually both soft and 
 clear, began to tremble. Her eyelashes were wet with 
 recent tears. She was dressed in black, and the aston- 
 ishing whiteness of her hands, the pallor of her cheeks, the 
 brightness of her hair made up a picture that I could not 
 — even if I would — forget. She seemed too slight a thing 
 to stand against the powers of this world. I could but think 
 of a little image of some saint set in the sands of Brittany 
 to beat back the sea. As a child, I had built altars around
 
 264 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 
 
 many such, and they are all under the waves now. She 
 read my fear and said, with a pathos that would have 
 touched the hardest, — 
 
 " ' Have no grief for me. God does not abandon those 
 who trust in Him and do their own part in helping His 
 good Providence.' 
 
 " ' Did Zeuill bring you here .'' ' I asked. 
 " 'Yes,' she answered, 'at my own entreaty. I wish to 
 join my husband. Do you know where he is ! He tells 
 me lies now. They all tell me lies. I can trust no one 
 but you. Take me to my husband. I must at least 
 seem to have a protector. I have had to suffer much 
 humiliation.' 
 
 " 'Those of us who would most wish to resent your 
 wrongs would do you most harm by coming forward,' I 
 said, ' O, try to understand ! ' . 
 
 "She flushed scarlet but, seeing that my embarrass- 
 ment was even greater than her own, she leaned forward, 
 and, with a gesture of exquisite kindness, touched my 
 arm. 
 
 " ' I do understand,' she answered. ' And I wish that 
 I had some women-friends. But they are all still at 
 school. I was the first to marry. Some of them, I re- 
 member, thought me fortunate to get my holidays before 
 the time ! Leonie d'Arglade, and Camille de Graville 
 and Caroline d'Etampes are still learning their lessons. I 
 am learning lessons, too. But of another kind. When I 
 next meet those children, I shall not know what to say to 
 them.' 
 
 " 'Surely they are of your own age.' 
 
 " 'Oh yes — in years. But we could never again be 
 girls together and laugh at nothing.' 
 
 " I saw that the sudden remembrance of happy and 
 untroubled days distressed her almost beyond endurance. 
 I returned to our main subject — which was at least a
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 2^5 
 
 familiar grief and one for which she ever held herself pre- 
 pared. 
 
 "*I cannot tell you where Parflete is,' said I, 'and, 
 in the meanwhile, could you not go to the Convent at 
 Tours ? ' 
 
 " Her whole face altered. She seemed like a creature 
 reprieved from some atrocious death. 
 
 "'I was praying that you would say that !' she ex- 
 claimed. 'You would never believe how I have longed 
 and longed just for the sight of the Convent. When I 
 was there I wanted to see the world and God showed it 
 to me. O take me away from these people. They are 
 stronger than I am and they frighten me. I feel my 
 weakness. While I am with them, I try to look bold and 
 clever. But my heart always trembles and I know that, 
 in the end, no matter how well I fight, I must lose the 
 day. They are not wicked from frailty, but by design, 
 by principle, by maxims. I am like a small bird on a 
 battle field. I am like a mouse among vultures. There 
 is no chance — no hope. I must not only die — but I 
 must be beaten first. And it will not be the death of 
 a martyr. It will be the death of one who was not strong 
 enough to live alone.' 
 
 " The idea flashed into my mind that Lady Fitz Rewes 
 might be induced to help this unhappy, friendless, and 
 inexperienced girl. It is a common belief with men that 
 women but add, when they can, to each other's sufferings, 
 and 1 have been forced, by observation, to endorse this 
 cynical estimate of female charity — in the rough. There 
 is, however, another sort of charity which is part of the 
 chivalrous spirit — and that, I have always thought, was 
 stronger in Lady Fitz Rewes than the little natural cruel- 
 ties which belong not to any one sex more than another, 
 but to human nature as a whole. I decided to make my 
 first essay in the matter with Mrs Parflete herself.
 
 2(56 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 
 
 "'Did you happen to notice Lord Wight's niece ?' I 
 asked. 
 
 " * A pretty creature but rather cold.' 
 
 " 'Ah, that is her EngHsh manner.' 
 
 " ' No doubt. If you lilce her, I am sure she must be 
 delightful' 
 
 " ' She is older than you are, and I believe you would 
 find her a kind, true friend.' 
 
 ' ' ' One cannot force friendships. . . . And do not re- 
 mind her that she is older than I am.' 
 
 "This did not sound promising." 
 
 ' ' ' Why ! ' said I, ' do two women about to meet always 
 assume that they will repulse each other.? ' 
 
 " ' It is an old grudge against Eve. Every woman — 
 until we know her — represents Eve.' 
 
 " 'There was a second Eve.' 
 
 " 'Ah, our Blessed Lady ! But she had no daughters.' 
 
 " It was pleasant to see even a momentary return of 
 her true courage and gayety. Despondency sat sick and 
 awkwardly upon her. She had been born for laughter 
 and fair gardens, summer days, bright nights, and scenes 
 of joy. She was a Princess for my Kingdom under the 
 sea. This world, I know, is the place of our exile and 
 not our country — not a continuing city. But how hard 
 it is to remember this. . . . Sometimes I fear that I do 
 wrong to think of her at all. There is no harm, however, 
 in dreaming. One may always dream. ... As I 
 watched her beautiful face, I must have lost mj'-self in 
 wondering — for she accused me of inattention. 
 
 " 'You do not hear what I am saying,' she said, 'or 
 else you will not hear. Lady Fitz Rewes does not care 
 for me. She thinks I am a foreigner. When I spoke to 
 Lord Wight and mentioned my name, she stared very 
 hard at my wedding-ring, as though I had stolen a hus- 
 band from some nice English woman ! '
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 267 
 
 "I could well imagine the glance. All aliens married 
 to Englishmen must submit to it. But it means no 
 malice. 
 
 " 'I feel certain,' I insisted, 'that you will understand 
 each other. There are many nations and many ways of 
 being foolish with strangers, but when it comes to a ques- 
 tion of heart, a lady is a lady in every language.' 
 
 " 'She has beautiful eyes,' said Mrs.Parflete. 
 
 " ' And surely something more.' 
 
 "' She was gentle with her uncle. . . . I thought her 
 smile very pretty. ... I liked her voice. . . . Her 
 step was light. ... Do you like her ? ' 
 
 " 'She has been the kindest of friends,' I replied. 
 
 " 'Then, of course, she is charmnig. She must be 
 charming.' 
 
 " ' Her husband died when she was little more than a 
 girl. She married at your age.' 
 
 " ' Poor child ! Had she, too, lost her mother ? ' 
 
 "The unconscious pathos of this question — spoken 
 without bitterness and in perfect simplicity — was as much 
 as I could bear. 
 
 ' ' ' She has had many sorrows,' I said, ' few people know 
 how many.' 
 
 " ' Did she love her husband ? ' 
 
 " ' I believe so — and very dearly.' 
 
 "'If marriage is not for Heaven,' she exclaimed, 'I 
 wonder why all its laws are made there ! On earth, when 
 two people are happy, one is soon taken and the mourner 
 is told not to weep — for they shall surely meet again here- 
 after. But when two people are wretched and their union 
 is a bondage, they are taught to endure each other patiently 
 in this world — which is brief — because they shall be sepa- 
 rated in the next — which is eternal ! ' 
 
 " In every woman, raillery is either a cutting business 
 directed towards the secret thoughts of other people, or
 
 268 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 
 
 else — that act of supreme treachery — the betrayal of her 
 own. The least trustworthy may be believed when she 
 indulges in this dangerous exercise of the wits — for, while 
 men are known by their friends, women are known by 
 their jests. For the first time, therefore, I realized the 
 great change that had taken place in Mrs. Parflete's char- 
 acter during her stay in Madrid. She had gained in fas- 
 cination, in knowledge, perhaps — if that were possible — 
 in beauty, but she had lost the peculiar reserve which I 
 admired even more than her appearance — that, after all, 
 is on the surface and for all eyes. She used to talk with 
 a certain difficulty, but now, probably from the example 
 of the Countess Des Escas and constant mixing with 
 society, she has an assurance and ease most winning, I 
 admit, and yet — You know that T have never liked 
 women of fashion. To say that Mrs. Parflete is anything 
 so hard would be unjust. She is my ideal of all that is 
 gentle. But when a girl is naturally tall and imperious, 
 when her features are of a proud cast and her expression 
 rather mocking than otherwise, she is better for a little 
 weakness in will and speech. 
 
 " ' You think,' she said, suddenly, " that it would be 
 well for me to lose no time on my way to the Convent ? 
 I feel here, in my heart, all the reproaches you will not 
 speak aloud. You wish me to show a blind submission 
 to whatever others may call the Most Holy Will of God. 
 Surel)'' there is much done in the world that is against 
 God's Will. He permits the devil's mischief, but we know 
 that it is odious in His sight. I cannot therefore sing 
 songs of thanksgiving for the plagues of Hell. I pray for 
 the strength to endure them. I cannot call suffering- a 
 joy, and corruption Heaven's good blessing. That would 
 be the language of hypocrisy — not resignation. O, what 
 a kind of life is this ! If Our Blessed Lord had not gone 
 before us and taught us the way of it, who would have 
 cared to follow ? '
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 269 
 
 "Then, with a strong effort, she changed her tone. 
 
 " 'Zeuill is in there,' she said, pointing toward the 
 next room, which was also a private saIo?i such as the one 
 we were then occupying. ' He knows that I am talking 
 to you. But he does not know that I wish to go to 
 Tours. ' 
 
 "'The one person who can help us.' I replied, 'is 
 Lady Fitz Rewes. ' 
 
 "'Till to-morrow then,' said she. 'At nine o'clock 
 — here. ' 
 
 " She touched my hand and bowed to Lord Wight who 
 was still in his corner. Before he could come forward, she 
 had passed through the window and disappeared, leaving 
 me in the deepest vexation and perplexity. The Earl 
 seemed to understand that he could best prove his trust 
 in me by wishing me, without more words, good-night. 
 He told me the number of my room. We took up our 
 candles in silence, lit them, and went each our own 
 way. I write all this down while it is fresh in my memory. 
 It contains everything that passed during the interview 
 between myself and Mrs. Parfiete. I send it to you be- 
 cause I have confidence in your discretion, and, should 
 anything ever happen to me, you would know how to de- 
 fend — in the event of misrepresentations — an innocent 
 woman. I am very tired. I hope to sleep. Your ever 
 affectionate. 
 
 "Robert De H. Orange," 
 
 While Robert was writing to his friend, the Baron Zeuill 
 was in close conversation with the Archduke's assent in 
 Madrid, a person who exercised ostensibly the trade of a 
 dealer in silks. He was thought to be of Polish origin. 
 His name was Mudara. His character was honest : he 
 lived humbly, troubling no man and exciting no woman's 
 curiosity. He kept to his own circle and was held in
 
 270 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 
 
 esteem by all his customers — among whom was included 
 during her lifetime, the Countess Des Escas. Zeuill and 
 this respected individual sat in the room from which Brigit 
 had stepped on to Wight's balcony. The windows were 
 now closed, the shutters fastened, the curtains drawn. 
 From a curious statement, written some years ago by 
 Mudara himself, we are enabled to form some idea of the 
 conversation that took place. The Baron lost no time in 
 coming to the point. He said that he saw no reason why 
 Parflete should not be regarded as dead — to society. He 
 could change his name and disappear. He might charge 
 any fair price for the inconvenience. Mudara, in reply, 
 saw difficulties in the path. Parflete, he declared, soon 
 grew tired of any game. He might agree to some scheme, 
 accept wages for carrying it into execution, and, when 
 the money was spent, work for higher pay — or merely for 
 variety's sake — in a wholly opposite direction. One could 
 place no reliance in him. He was not even consistently 
 mercenary. Bribes did not always tempt him. He had 
 more moods and caprices than a woman. 
 
 " What does that matter ? " said Zeuill : " let me once 
 hear that he is dead — and I will ask no more. He may 
 have a dozen resurrections afterwards." 
 
 But, so Mudara insisted, the Archduke Charles was 
 equally uncertain. He was now sending his thoughts to- 
 ward the next world. He had lately shown great civili- 
 ties to the Cardinal. It would be a dangerous business 
 to suggest — 
 
 "Suggest.''" interrupted Zeuill, "who would suggest 
 in such a matter.? The thing is to act. If you and I 
 cannot manage this alone, the Archduke had better en- 
 trust his affairs elsewhere. One need not run to him with 
 every trifling detail. In the distance, one cannot judge 
 correctly of reasons for or against a plan." 
 
 The conference went on until the dawn — Mudara always
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 271 
 
 showing himself cautious, Zeuill always showing himself 
 sanguine. Letters were drafted and destroyed. Calcula- 
 tions were made, amended, abandoned and again con- 
 sidered. At last, however, the two men came to an agree- 
 ment. Parflete was to be "approached." Mrs. Parflete 
 in the meanwhile was to be sent to England. The Arch- 
 duke was to be informed that, in all respects, his own 
 interests and his daughter's happiness were about to take 
 a more promising aspect.
 
 ^7? THE SCHOOL FOK SAINTS. 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 Early next morning, before the horizon had whitened 
 with the daylight, Lady Fitz Rewes was watching at 
 her window, wondering why the birds were so still (they 
 were twittering from every roof), and why there was no 
 breeze (it was blowing freshly) to cool the fever in her 
 cheeks. Neither imagination nor sentimental philosophy 
 had a part in her unhappiness which, as a child's grief, 
 had a clear cause and one which she had no wish or will 
 to disguise from herself. She loved and she was jealous. 
 She had a rival whose charm was far greater than her 
 own and who was also, by more than a few years, her 
 junior. Pensde could not reflect deeply on the subject 
 nor distract her heart by studying, after the manner of 
 moralizing ladies, the actual quality of her own anguish. 
 She could but suffer, tremble, weep and endure — forget- 
 ting her looks, unmindful of revenge, uncomplaining 
 against God, very miserable, yet, in her soul, as gentle 
 toward the world as some wounded pigeon fallen into a 
 thicket. She said her prayers and read — with her eyes at 
 least — the Lessons. She looked at the photographs of 
 her children and the miniature of the late Viscount. 
 Shedding tears over the latter, she recalled his excellent 
 virtues and many acts of kindness. He was such a good 
 man and he felt so much for everybody and he was 
 always nice to women. He suffered when he saw others 
 do wrong ; his view of Christianity was one of the finest, 
 warmest and most beautiful she had e\er, ever known. 
 His was a singularly delicate-minded, pure, true, unselfish
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 273 
 
 nature, so full of consideration for his family and friends, 
 so generous. O, to be worthier of such a husband ! 
 When he lay dying, she had knelt by his side and prayed 
 the Lord's Prayer for him. And afterwards he asked for 
 a Hymn and she and the two children tried to sing one 
 verse of "Abide with me." It was so touching— so 
 agonizing. His whole life had been consecrated to duty 
 — cheerfully and quietly carried out. But now he was 
 at rest, free from pain and from every evil to come, and 
 she could feel, for his sake, resigned. There were days, 
 however, which were harder than others, when solitude 
 was almost too much to bear. His loss was quite, quite 
 irreparable. God was very merciful in letting time 
 temper the sharpness of one's grief, but to her grave and 
 perhaps beyond the tomb she would carry this one 
 sorrow. Her tears gushed forth afresh and she sobbed 
 aloud, for, her children were not old enough to be the 
 companions of her loneliness and the friend she would 
 have chosen to guide and protect her was interested, dis- 
 astrously, elsewhere. She hoped the woman was a nice 
 woman — she was, in any event, un-English. 
 
 She was suddenly roused from this piteous state by 
 hearing a loud tap and seeing a note slipped under her 
 door. Was it for her? It was some mistake. What 
 could it mean ? How extraordinary ! Should she pay 
 the smallest attention ? But how impertinent ! It was 
 such an odd thing to do — at an Hotel, too, abroad where 
 one had to be so particularly careful. And yet — She 
 stooped down. The envelope bore her own name in 
 Robert's handwriting, and the letter within contained 
 these words : — 
 
 "May I see you soon P I have a great favor to entreat, 
 I will wait in Lord Wight's sitting-room dowristairs. 
 
 2i. or 
 18
 
 274 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 
 
 She read it once and tossed her head. She read it a 
 second time and ran^ for her maid. An hour and a half 
 later — followed by this servant — she descended the stairs. 
 It was barely six o'clock. Not a creature was stirring 
 and she could not hear her own steps for the blood 
 beating in her temples. When she reached the threshold 
 of her uncle's salon, she felt unable to proceed, or to as- 
 sume the habitual self-command which, in public, never 
 deserted her. She turned away, and on the pretext of 
 looking for a dropped brooch, retraced her steps. As she 
 re-entered her bedroom, she looked toward the ward- 
 robe. 
 
 "This brown dress is a little heavy," said she. "I 
 will wear my blue Indian silk with the fringe." 
 
 The gown was changed, more touches were bestowed 
 on her hair, and this time she did not falter on the way 
 but walked into Robert's presence with all her usual grace, 
 and even more than her accustomed calm. 
 
 He was alone in the room, and, although he had been 
 trying, for some time, to read, he was now pacing the 
 floor. He had been waiting there two hours. Each was 
 startled at the other's appearance. Robert paused to 
 look at Pensee before he could utter a word. Her dull 
 pallor and hollow eyes told of many a sleepless night, 
 and many hours of weeping. Her charming figure had 
 wasted into something less than slenderness. She found 
 him — by the morning sun — ill, plain and haggard — the 
 spectre of himself. The man v^as dismayed, chilled, to 
 see so serious an alteration in a face and form he had 
 once thought all but irresistibly pretty. The woman 
 loved her poor friend only the better for his disfigure- 
 ments, and grew tearful at the thought of the suffering, 
 bodily and mental, which could have produced such a 
 shocking change. 
 
 "This is so generous," he said at last. "I don't know
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 275 
 
 how to thank you ? I want your help in a great emer- 
 gency. You are my one hope.'' 
 
 " I often feel the want of going about and doing the 
 little good that is in my power. If I can render any real 
 service to you — I ought to thank you for giving me an 
 opportunity of being useful." 
 
 She knew now that she loved him ; loved him with all 
 the strength of her heart. And in meeting him again was 
 she not preparing for herself much wretchedness ? Was 
 it not too clear that, let the matter go how it would, her 
 love could never be returned. As a friend, no doubt, he 
 had it in him to be all that was kind, all that w^as affection- 
 ate. Did he not show kindness and affection to her 
 tiresome old uncle.? She bit her lips to keep herself from 
 sobbing. He was so much more interesting than any 
 other man of her acquaintance. Her favorite poem was 
 "Lady Geraldine's Courtship," and in comparing Robert 
 to Ber/ram, the poet, in that story, she felt that praise 
 could soar no higher. It was not the fault of her nature 
 — but the vulgarity of her times, which made her think 
 certain lines in the Courtship peculiarly applicable to her^ 
 self, such lines, for instance, as : — 
 
 " There's a lady — an earPs daughter ; she is proud and she is nolde. 
 
 And she treads the crimson carpet, and she breathes the perfumed air ', 
 And a kingly blood sends glances up her princely eye to trouble, 
 And the shadow of a monarch's crown is softened in her hair." 
 
 The idea of putting aside her " ermined pride" and 
 listening to words of wooing from a genius — self-edu- 
 cated, but very rich in virtues — one for whom she could 
 sacrifice her Norman prejudices without blushing — fell 
 pleasantly on her really modest soul. Orange, it was 
 true, came of no mean blood and the joy of "stooping" 
 could not enter into the question. But very few people 
 knew anything about his antecedents, and, so far as Lon-
 
 276 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 
 
 don and county opinion \veiit, he was certainly an obscure 
 person quite of the Bertram school. So Pense'e had 
 argued ; she had brought her arguments to a decision 
 and she was prepared to face every consequence of that 
 resolve. One thing only was wanting. The man was 
 indifferent to her. Unhappily, he had met another 
 woman first. That was the cruel accident. His cold- 
 ness sprang from loyalty. How splendid ! how nol)le ! 
 how very fine ! " 
 
 "I am going to beg your sympathy for some one who 
 is in great trouble," began Robert, " it is a woman." 
 
 "Yes," replied Pensee, looking grave. 
 
 "You saw her last night," he continued. " She may 
 not have appeared to advantage — for she was in a false 
 position and she is proud." 
 
 "Things often seem odd when one does not know 
 exactly how everything stands." 
 
 "That is what I hope to explain. You shall know as 
 much of the story as I do and judge for yourself" 
 
 " But don't you know all the story } " she asked. 
 
 He flushed — for the question cut more deeply than she 
 could have imagined. She had meant it as a mere 
 scratch — without bloodshed. But it made a wound, a 
 bad one, 
 
 "I believe I know it all," he said, looking well into 
 her soft blue eyes — eyes far more tender in expression 
 than Brigit's. Then he told, as simply as possible, the 
 tale of Mrs. Parflete's birth and misfortunes. Pensee 
 listened with a breathless interest. A passion for adven- 
 ture slumbers in the breast of every true English woman. 
 The escape from Loadilla and the midnight flight on 
 horseback across country appealed to her where the woes 
 of an unhappy marriage left her unmoved. She could 
 form no conception of a bad husband — or even of a thor- 
 oughly bad man. Her own life had been spent with
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 277 
 
 Christian gentlemen — gentlemen who often did those 
 things which they ought not to have done and who left 
 undone the things which they ought to have done — but 
 who were, on the whole, honest, chivalrous fellows, whom 
 women with an ounce of sense could love, honor and 
 obey quite easily. 
 
 "Of course," said Pensee, "it is a great pity that she 
 can't get on with her husband. Couldn't they be brought 
 together in some way? You see, he is really the proper 
 person to look after her and protect her and all that. I 
 think I can understand what you must feel, but, in such 
 a case, the comfort of trust in God, Who does all well and 
 for the best, is the only support. A divorce would be too 
 fearful a thing to contemplate, and as you say, she 
 wouldn't think of such a step. But surely her people must 
 have known a little about Mr. Parflete. Surely, they 
 made proper inquiries." 
 
 " Her people ! " exclaimed Robert, in a tone of reproach ; 
 "have I not told you that her mother died ten years ago 
 — that her father, the Archduke Charles, showed no inter- 
 est in her existence beyond giving her a large dot and 
 paying her Convent bill } This is not a common case, 
 nor are we speaking of an English family." 
 
 "It is very sad and most interesting. Mrs. Parflete 
 talks English without the least accent and seemed a sort 
 of person to like. It is hard to realize that she is a 
 foreigner and an Archduchess and all that. I am sorry 
 for her. I wish I could see my way to helping her. One 
 does not like to be mixed up in a scandal. I have to think 
 of my children. I am sure that she must be quite, quite 
 delightful, but, if you don't mind — and please don't think 
 me stiff, I am afraid I would so much rather not meet her 
 again." 
 
 She sat with her white hands tightly clasped and her 
 head bowed in an attitude of supplication.
 
 278 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 
 
 "I don't see how I can," she replied in answer to 
 Robert's silence. "Lionel would not have liked it." 
 (Lionel was the late Fitz Rewes.) " He was very English 
 in all his ideas. He did not care for foreigners — not even 
 for foreign Royalties." 
 
 " Nevertheless," said Robert, " I suppose he would not 
 have refused aid to an innocent woman in great sorrow 
 — no matter what her nationality. I have asked you to 
 befriend a girl — your equal certainly in social rank — 
 though less fortunate— by many degrees — than the poorest 
 creature on your estates." 
 
 "But you said that her real birth was kept a secret. 
 If one could call her quite openly an Archduchess, it 
 would be a different thing — though still difficult enough 
 in all conscience. Do me the justice to assume that I am 
 anxious to do my best in this — as in every other case. 
 But I am a widow, and, for a widow, young. Could I 
 be regarded as a chaperon } " 
 
 "You could at least be regarded as a lady (?f the 
 whitest reputation willing to comfort and shield another 
 lady — also of high character — but most ill-circumstanced." 
 
 "It is so very awkward. What does Uncle think.? 
 Why not refer the matter to Uncle .? I don't seem equal 
 to the responsibility of acting without advice. One can- 
 not be too careful. I know that if one always lives in the 
 exclusive circle of English society, one's good impulses 
 dry up — one gets rather unfeeling. And I am sure that 
 your poor friend is all — and even more — than you say. 
 I am so sorry for the poor thing. It is really enough to 
 make anyone cry just to hear of all that she has gone 
 through. I want to be nice and civil and obliging — I 
 really do. Why does not God in His mercy take that 
 dreadful man away } That would make it all so much 
 easier. And people — people whom you and I know, for 
 instance — hate mysteries and muddles. They take such
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 279 
 
 a time to explain. You know what I mean. Bourbons 
 in exile are all right. Every one feels for the Bourbons. 
 But Mrs. Parflete's mother was not of Royal blood. She 
 cannot be a real Archduchess — can she.'' It is one of 
 those unpleasant morganatic complications that come so 
 hard on everybody. And I can't at all see what it is that 
 you want me to do ! " 
 
 " Mrs. Parflete wishes to go to the Convent at Tours. 
 She cannot travel alone and she must not travel with 
 Baron Zeuill." 
 
 "I would gladly lend her my maid. I can manage to 
 do my own hair. I shan't mind in the least." 
 
 "That is kind," said Robert, "but not kind enousrh. I 
 want you to accompany her yourself." 
 
 "Me! I shall do nothing of the sort. What would 
 people think } " 
 
 " People would admire your goodness and bravery." 
 
 "I don't think that women are called upon to be brave 
 — except in a very quiet way — in bearing pain or unkind- 
 ness. '' 
 
 "But I implore you not to refuse your help. It may 
 be a matter of life or death to that poor child. Can't you 
 forget people and think a little about humanity .'' " 
 
 " It is against my better judgment — but to oblige you, 
 I will invite her to visit me in England : " and two shining 
 tears escaped from her eyes and rolled down her cheeks 
 — till she brushed them away with the back of her hand. 
 
 "You are an angel," exclaimed Robert : " the brightest 
 of them 1 " 
 
 "She won't care for English country life — it will seem 
 very dull after all this excitement. There's the Bishop's 
 Garden-Party and the County Ball and the Flower Show 
 and one or two other things, but the weeks betw^een are 
 endless. If she consents to come with me— I tell you 
 frankly, I will make it my duty to try and bring about a
 
 28o' THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 
 
 reconciliation with her husband. This informal separa- 
 tion won't do. She must have some respect — some 
 affection left for that horrid man ! " 
 
 " She probably has that pity for him which every high- 
 spirited woinan feels for an inferior male being. I could 
 not promise more." 
 
 "Still," continued Lady Fitz Rewes, "that is a basis 
 to work on. Girls are wilful and French girls are badly 
 brought up. Forgive me — but I don't think you are a 
 good judge of character. Hercy Berenville once told me, 
 that, when you and he were travelling together you used 
 to walk about listening to the birds, studying the colors 
 of the flowers, gazing at the clouds, the stars, the moon, 
 the mountains ! ' (9r^7?^^,' said he, ' would stare up at the 
 Cathedral spires — I watched the women passing in through 
 the Cathedral doors.' So leave Mrs. Parf^ete to me — " 
 
 "Most gladly," said Robert, astonished at her sudden 
 animation. 
 
 He remained silent for a moment, during which he 
 kissed her hand. He tried to read her face — which now 
 wore a lovely flush — the fleeting hue of a last hope. She 
 looked away, far beyond him, straight out of the window 
 and up at the sky ; striving to appear as though she was 
 the mistress of the occasion. But her heart was trembling. 
 What if all were not yet wholly lost ! The pining grief of 
 a disappointed woman gave place to the spirit of rivalry, 
 the love of a game — requiring skill — but perfectly fair. She 
 could not believe that she would like Mrs. Parflete ; she 
 would receive her, however, en tout bien, tout honneur, 
 advise her well, treat her with all conceivable generosity. 
 But women could love twice — had not she herself loved 
 Lionel? Did she not now love some one else.? And 
 men could love twice, too. Orange, no doubt, was much 
 interested in this surprising young person. She had come 
 in his way and he, being human, had grown fond of her.
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 281 
 
 What could be more natural ? Was he made of bronze ? 
 A smile came across her lips — which were red again with 
 joy — as she sat looking at the heavens, thinking of this. 
 Then her thoughts ran back to months gone by and settled 
 themselves on certain Midsummer days, in which she had 
 dreamed that Robert's heart was her very own— not 
 another's : that he loved her, Pense'e, and no one else. 
 
 "Tell me," she said, abruptly, "was Mrs Parflete the 
 cause of that strange vow vou made? I think I have a 
 right to ask the question. When I have your answer, I 
 may be a better friend to both of you." 
 
 "I am nothing to Mrs. Parflete," he replied, "nothing. 
 But she is all this world — and all the next — to me." 
 
 "Then you must be very unhappy — very unhappy 
 indeed. You ought not to see her." 
 
 "Do you suppose that I enjoy seeing her? Is there 
 any pleasure to be found in such a friendship ? I would 
 prefer the rack." 
 
 "Then why are you here— in Spain? Why have you 
 risked your life and forgotten every other friend — every 
 other duty — every consideration in order to be near her ? " 
 
 "She was in peril. I could not have done less for a 
 stranger in such a terrible extremity. When Lord Wight 
 came here, he presented me at once to his Carlist ac- 
 quaintances. On the very day following our arrival, we 
 heard that the Countess Des Escas and I\Irs. Parflete were 
 under suspicion. I flew to the head of affairs. With the 
 utmost difficulty, I prevailed upon him to accept my 
 services. He had refused many English volunteers. I 
 made the best use I could of my second name. This 
 helped matters. The Hausees have always been iden- 
 tified with the Legitimist Cause. I was then told that 
 the Countess had been warned of her danger — that she 
 would set fire to her Villa and, if necessary, take her 
 own life. The plot had been arranged with a cold-
 
 282 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 
 
 blooded desperation which one would think unimagi- 
 nable in these days. Each one in the terrible game 
 had his or her part to play and at all costs. Such 
 enthusiasm for an impersonal cause does not belong to 
 the egoism of our century. I confess, that, as I listened 
 — I felt no surprise — the whole thing seemed to my inex- 
 perience, a wild but unreal horror. Yet I insisted that 
 some effort, at least, should be made to save the two 
 women from their fate. I spoke as one does in a night- 
 mare. I could not hear my own voice. I don't know 
 what I said or how I said it. My soul was paralyzed. 
 But a rescue party was summoned. Courage was not 
 lacking among any one of them. We got horses and 
 God favored us. We managed to reach Loadilla in safety. 
 The Villa was already level with the ground. Then, 
 in the distance, we saw something like a beacon- 
 light. I took it for a sign and rode toward it, followed 
 by the others. Five minutes more and we must have 
 arrived too late. But I found her . . . Never ask me to 
 tell you this again. ' There are two zvoes : to speak, and 
 to behold ; — thou spare me one. 
 
 Lady Fitz Rewes said, " How painful ! Of course, we 
 won't speak of it. Poor Mrs. Parflete shall come with me 
 to Catesby Hall ... It is quiet there, and, among the 
 trees and the flowers and the dear children, I will talk to 
 her. If she has a strict sense of duty and of what is right 
 and wrong, she will soon make up her mind to act as a 
 high-minded woman should." 
 
 She tightened her lips and spoke with an irritation which 
 she could not conquer. 
 
 "Some things ought not to be said : a few cannot be 
 said at all," replied Robert ; "in this case, the impossible 
 word is the one which would seem to imply the smallest 
 doubt of Mrs. Parflete's loyalty to her husband. She never 
 left him : he abandoned her and received a large sum of
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 283 
 
 money for his act. She has offered again and again to 
 follow him into exile. But he puts her off with lies. He 
 is a spy and a villain and a traitor — the very scum of the 
 earth. " 
 
 ' ' How you hate him ! " 
 
 "I do — from the depths of my soul and with all my 
 strength and all my heart. Don't speak of him. He is 
 unspeakable." 
 
 " He' must be bad, or you would not feel so strongly. 
 But if his wife felt so, it would be shocking. I am glad 
 to hear that she doesn't. Could he not be w^on and re- 
 claimed by love ? " 
 
 "Would you yourself love such a scoundrel .-* " 
 
 "I am not called upon to love him. He is not my 
 husband." 
 
 " Love has no place in the question. Loyalty and for- 
 bearance and forgiveness she gives, and gives nobly." 
 
 " I shall know all this better after I have seen her," said 
 Lady Fitz Rewes : " but I admit that it is a sad case — a 
 very sad case." 
 
 "I am glad to hear you say so. You are good and 
 gentle and you know what it means when love has gone 
 out of one's existence. People who have lived self-in- 
 dulgent lives and loved many times in many ways, think 
 it no sacrifice to renounce all human affection. To them 
 it is a mawkish, disappointing thing. They leave it 
 gladly — perhaps, because love, long ago, left them. But 
 to strong pure hearts — hearts neither jaded, nor embittered, 
 nor made cheap by constant exchanges — love always 
 seems the most precious of life's gifts — the one gift, too, 
 which we may have on earth and in Heaven, also. Those 
 who belittle it, have first befouled it. You can always 
 be sure of that." 
 
 " I know what you mean," said Pensee.
 
 284 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 
 
 "Think then of the loneliness — the isolation of mind to 
 which she is condemned." 
 
 "I have thought of that and I want to be kind to her." 
 "May I ask her then to meet you here at nine? " 
 "Yes, but leave us alone together. We shall get on 
 far more happily if you are not present." 
 
 She rose, and moved toward the door, which he opened. 
 "Remember," said she, " that I do this for no other 
 reason than to oblige you : " then, with a graceful inclina- 
 tion of her head, she passed out into the corridor and so 
 on up the staircase to the floor above. He watched her 
 all the way, but he was conscious of feigning this interest 
 and he reproached himself for his ingratitude.
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 285 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 The story may now be better told in the following 
 letters from Brigit to the Reverend Mother of the Convent 
 of the Sacred Heart at Tours. 
 
 " Madrid, August, 1869. 
 
 " Again my plans are changed. Early this morning, I was 
 formally presented to Lady Fitz Rewes. She and I were to- 
 gether for a short time last night, while we were waiting for 
 Mr. Orange's return, and she did not then appear well disposed 
 toward me. She seemed lackadaisical and frigid — she might 
 have been a toy nightingale with a musical box in her breast, 
 and, whenever she opened her lips to say ' Yes ' or • No,' I 
 expected to hear the plaintive tinkle oi Au clair de la lune. 
 But to-day she was another creature — all smiles, and curls and 
 kindness. She may be ten years older than myself; she is very 
 blue round the eyes, a little hollow in the cheeks. Her figure 
 is graceful : she has quantities of flaxen hair, a pink-and-white 
 complexion, a foolish rather pretty mouth, and a chin like Mar- 
 tin Luther's. She dresses beautifully and her waist cannot 
 measure eighteen inches. I had no opportunity to observe her 
 closely, so I give you this impression — taken at a glance — for 
 what it is worth. It will at least present some idea to your 
 mind of the person to whom I am already indebted to an extent 
 beyond all ordinary gratitude. Her manner of receiving me 
 was, as I have said, a surprise in the happiest way. Mr. 
 Orange left us alone. She took both my hands, looked a long 
 time into my face, and then drew me beside her on the sofa. 
 
 " She said, ' You have my deepest sympathy ! How cruelly 
 you have suffered ! But you have shown ^r^rt/ ^/?<<:/^.' (Such 
 were her words.) ' May I help you ? ' 
 
 " ' I wish to rejoin my husband,' said I. 
 
 " This seemed to cause her some amazement. 
 
 " ' Do you know where he is ? ' she asked. 
 
 " • He is yachting in the Mediterranean with Lord Soham,' I 
 replied. • I must wait for hina at some port. But until I have
 
 286 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 
 
 more definite instructions, I want to go to the Convent — where 
 I was educated — in Tours.' 
 
 " ' Ah,' said she, ' I have another suggestion to offer. It 
 would give me so much pleasure, if you would spend some 
 weeks with me at my home in the country, in England. If you 
 care for books and flowers, I have an old-fashioned garden and 
 a good library. The society at Catesby v»'ould, I daresay, be 
 good if there were any. But there is none. It is very quiet 
 and restful. Do come." 
 
 " I was so touched by this generosity that I could not speak. 
 She took her answer from my tears. 
 
 " ' There are plain and simple duties,' said she, ' for which 
 we need not go far, but which are made nigh to us, which meet 
 us in our every-day path. Suffer we all must, whether things 
 in this world go what the world thinks well or what it deems 
 ill. But though God undo one by one the links which bind us 
 to this life, we shall, if we are wise, see them patiently unclasped ; 
 the objects of our affections, our strength, our health, we shall 
 resign them peacefully at His call : counting it the happy lot, 
 not to have but to lose ; to " sow in tears," if, by His mercy, we 
 may at last " reap in joy." Our lot, as Christians, is to be in 
 the world, yet we are not to be of it.' 
 
 " These words of true piety astonished and embarrassed me. 
 I had not looked for such sentiments from so much pale blue silk. 
 She spoke in a tone of solemnity as though she were reading a 
 sermon. I feel sure that she was sincere — and, it the speech 
 lacked the accent of really profound emotion, it v\-as because 
 the brook has not the same voice — nor the same storms — as the 
 sea. I told her that I did not ask to live free of all sorrows. 
 Could I look among crowds for that peace which is not to be 
 found even in solitude ? Should men and women give us what 
 God has already denied us ? 
 
 " ' But,' said I, ' it may be that the too-eager abandonment 
 of all natural hopes and affections comes from pride — -the am- 
 bition to be, while we are yet dust, like the angels of God. 
 And while I might be tempted to feel exalted at my resigna- 
 tion, God, Who cannot be deceived, would know that it came — 
 not from virtue, but from a cultured inhumanity ! Does Our 
 Blessed Lady in Heaven forget the song of rapture she sang at 
 Karem, or the bitter anguish — voiceless and never to be told — • 
 of Calvary ? I cannot say then, " Take my happiness. I do 
 not need it. I am better off without it. Before the year is past, 
 I shall have reason to be glad that it is no longer with me." 
 Oh, no ! But I can say, " Take it if it be Thy Will to take it. 
 It is my life. When it has gone, I may indeed be calm, because
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 287 
 
 my capacity for grief — or for any other feeling — will have gone 
 also ! " Self absorbed and self-sufficient, I, a clay thing, would 
 contain the ashes of my soul — ashes and ashes only ! ' 
 
 " I could see that she did not understand me. She quoted the 
 verse from St. Paul's epistle to the Hebrews : — 
 
 " ' Looking unto "Jesus, the Author aitd Finisher of Otir 
 Faith, Who, for the joy which was set before Him, endured 
 the Cross, despising the shame, and is set down at the right 
 hand of the throne of God.' 
 
 "These sublime words — uttered by that serene prosperous 
 creature who, from the day of her birth, through no fault but 
 also through no virtue of her own, has been watched over and 
 tenderly guarded, adored and indulged — seemed less a consola- 
 tion than a sacrilege. I could have laughed aloud — and cried, 
 too, at the contrast between the lives of the saints and the lives 
 of those who can lightly murmur — over a disappointing bonnet 
 or a love-letter too cold — their exhortations to martyrdom. 
 Lady Fitz Revves is a widow.I know, and she bears her lot with 
 dove-like meekness. But place her grief beside the fate of my 
 poor friend the Countess Des Escas, who lost husband, sons, 
 possessions, and finally her own life in a struggle for another 
 person's rights. That was a sacrifice — that, a true act of re- 
 nunciation, that was a heart offered up freely and voluntarily 
 neither for credit here nor crowns hereafter, but purely and 
 singly out of devotion to God, her king, and her country. Yet 
 she always read St. Paul, kneeling. Ah, dear Reverend 
 Mother, her example is a constant reproach to me, and when- 
 ever I find myself weeping (that happens sometimes) over my 
 own little miseries, I am filled with self-contempt at the thought 
 of her grandeur — and my poverty of spirit. My troubles — such 
 as they are — have been sent to me. They came against my will. 
 But she asked for hers — took them — and bore them because she 
 loved her Church and her true King. No such surrender was 
 ever made in vain, and although she died at a cruel hour when 
 defeat seemed the sole result of all her efforts, I still believe 
 that Don Carlos will come to reign over his own people, that 
 Spain and France will give back their old allegiance to the 
 Bourbons. 
 
 " I attempted no reply to Lady Fitz Rewes's text, for, to our 
 common relief, Mr. Orange re-entered the room. As a result 
 of the dreadful night at Loadilla, he is maimed, disfigured and 
 aged beyond recognition. His face, however, is one which does 
 not depend on his features — although they are, as a matter of 
 fact, good. A written description of his characteristics would 
 satisfy neither you nor myself — I can but say that he is consid-
 
 288 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 
 
 ered handsome. I have read your last letter frequently. I un- 
 derstand your fears and your warning. Believe me, you have 
 no cause for alarm. My esteem for M. de Hausee (as he is 
 sometimes called) is so far from a danger that it is my chief 
 safeguard. I find, in spite of every effort, that I keep the cour- 
 age to live — not so much for the love of God and the hope ot 
 Heaven, as for the desire to remain without dishonor in a world 
 where my friends are — separated though we may be by cruel 
 distances and circumstances. If I had not this thought to sus- 
 tain me, I do not know how I could bear the loneliness of my 
 journey on the frightful road to death. Death itself, when at 
 last we reach it, is probably not lonely — for solitude is only 
 oppressive during our waking hours. In sleep we do not feel 
 our solitariness. I speak my true thoughts, dearest Mother, 
 and while one can speak truth, one is not in the worst of 
 difficulties. ... I sit here with the heat, the dust, and the 
 noise rising up to my window from the street below, and I 
 think of the cool green Loire and its bank where we used to 
 walk and watch the roses — crimson, white, and yellow, and 
 pink, growmg over every wall and in every garden that we 
 passed. . . . Ah, si la jennesse savait . . . those were the 
 days of my joy ; these so longed-for, are the days of my trial. 
 
 "Let me tell you now what happened on M. de Hausde's en- 
 trance. Lady Fitz Rewes blushed a deep red. The bells were 
 chiming from every church in Madrid. I stepped on to the 
 balcony in order to distinguish more clearly the peals from the 
 Des Escas Convent. While I stood there, the two had a short 
 conversation. I do not know what passed, but when Madame 
 called me back. Monsieur was no longer there. 
 
 " ' He approves,' said she. ' He is so happy to think that 
 you can come to me. He is devoted to you. Do you know 
 that ? • 
 
 "'He would give his life for any one of his friends,' I an- 
 swered : ' we can all be sure of his devotion. He never fails.' 
 
 " • I agree with you. He is very noble. I often wonder what 
 will become of him. He ought to marry.' 
 
 " 'Why ? ' said I. 
 
 "'Bachelors in public life are at a disadvantage.' 
 
 " ' Then that is the fault of the women,' said I , ' for men do 
 not care whether another man is married or not married." 
 
 " ' But a wife is such a help,' said Lady Fitz Rewes. ■ Surely 
 you would like to see such a splendid fellow happily settled ? ' 
 
 " ' To be frank.' said I, • I have not given the matter a 
 thought. He seems contented as he is. It never occurred to 
 me that anything more was needed.'
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 289 
 
 " 'My dear, lie is poor and he is ambitious,' 
 
 " ' He is strong and he has abilities. Let him work.' 
 
 " 'Of course, but he over-works. You should have seen him 
 at the time of the election. It was heart-breaking.' 
 
 " • His own heart did not break,' said L 
 
 " < Yet what a tight it must have been,' she insisted, ' and 
 now he is merely at the starting post. Isn't it sorrowful ? ' 
 
 "'That's not sorrow,' said I. But I would add no more on 
 the subject, and, thanking her again for her goodness, I re- 
 turned to my own rooms. Baron Zeuill, for some reason, is 
 anxious that I should go to England, and I told him, without 
 loss of time, of Lady Fitz Rewes's invitation. He was — or he 
 affected to be — delighted. He has promised to get my pass- 
 port and, if it be God's Most Holy Will, I shall leave Madrid 
 to-night. My joy at this unlooked-for relief is indescribable. 
 I feel that you have been offering many prayers for me. Such 
 a miraculous turn of fortune does not come as my reward but 
 as answer to your entreaties. 
 
 "Lord Wight and M. de Haus^e have not yet received their 
 safe-conduct from General Prim. But Zeuill assures me that 
 the delay is a matter of days — that it is a little concession to 
 some of the officials ... I do not know when I shall see my 
 friend again. When he leaves Spain, he will go at once to the 
 north — to Scotland. And Catesby is in the South of England. 
 — I am, dear Reverend Mother, your devoted daughter in 
 Christ, 
 
 " Brigit." 
 
 In reading this, no one among us with any knowledge 
 of human character could feel that there was much con- 
 tentment, as the world understands it, in store for the 
 writer. The precocious intelligence, the occasional note 
 of sarcasm, the passionate desire for happiness, are symp- 
 toms all too plain of that wasting fever of the heart which, 
 in some cases, is the result of meeting sorrow, and in 
 others, of meeting love, too early in life. To every pure 
 and innocent young girl, love is a condition of mind, and 
 not a strain on the senses. The senses, once roused, 
 may be controlled, killed or indulged according to the 
 conscience or the strength of the individual. But when 
 the senses still sleep, and the spirit only is active, it is 
 19
 
 290 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 
 
 indeed difficult to impose a limit on tender interest, or to 
 define wherein excess of charity consists. Many women 
 — till the end of their lives, and no short lives either — 
 keep their affections so sacred from the taint of selfish 
 emotions, and so closely allied with the love of God that 
 it would seem an act of sacrilege to analyze a devotion 
 on which even angels might look with humility and learn 
 a lesson. To pretend, however, that no jealous thought 
 — no angry reproach would, under any provocation, 
 enter into a sentiment of this kind, would deprive it of 
 attributes certainly as much divine as human. Jealousy 
 may be noble — although it is often mean. Anger may 
 be just — although it is frequently cruel. But that is the 
 case with every power of the soul, and, because in some 
 of us those forces which make up spiritual greatness have 
 become degraded into sins, nothing could be falser 
 idealism than to assume that true perfection is composed 
 of negatives — that the best saint is the one with the 
 fewest feelings. Jesus Christ draws all humanity to Him, 
 not because while on earth He felt less, but because He 
 felt more than all the rest of mankind. And the purer the 
 heart, the greater its capacity for sorrow and joy — the 
 sweeter seems earthly blessings, the more humiliating 
 seems earthly pain. It was not easy for the Divine 
 Redeemer of the World to give a complete and irrevo- 
 cable acquiescence in God's mysterious decrees. Can 
 one read of the Agony at Gethsemane, and doubt that 
 even the smallest act of self-mortification in the least of 
 us has been sanctified by that ineffable victory over the 
 desire to escape death — whether of the will or in the 
 flesh ? 
 
 Brigit's will was her best gift. But, as in nature, the 
 sun that quickens the harvest must, if unrelieved by 
 other influences, also destroy it, so does a fine quality 
 become, in the human being, the source of disasters as
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 291 
 
 well as triumphs. Brigit wanted, to use the familiar 
 phrase, her own way. It was not an evil way — not a 
 way that could be found, by any judgment, other than 
 pleasing to God as He is known to us. How hard then 
 it must have been for that young impulsive heart to realize 
 that the path of her choice — though a good one — vvas not 
 the one which her Master wished her to tread. What be- 
 wilderment and dismay, what self-doubt and doubt of 
 all things assail even the wisest of mortals when they 
 find that the lawful is not always expedient, that a meas- 
 ure, blameless in itself, is not invariably the measure set 
 down by command. Among the countless problems pre- 
 sented to the mind, there is none more difficult than to dis- 
 tinguish clearly between the will of Providence and the 
 accidents, to be surmounted, of daily life, — to know when 
 one should submit to circumstances and when one should 
 rise in rebellion against them. This was Brigit's hard 
 position. The course before her was winding, full of ob- 
 structions, dense overhead, and, under her feet, stony. 
 Shall we wonder then if her letters should contain much 
 that is contradictory, much that is puzzling.? 
 
 "Catesby Hall, 1869. 
 
 <• My dear Reverend Mother, — I am once more in England, 
 and so strange is the effect oi this climate, my new surroundings, 
 and the calm, that, while I have not forgotten the past, the past 
 seems to have forgotten me. It never calls me. So I wait upon 
 the present. This Hall was once a Monastery. It is surrounded 
 by flat meadows and plantations. The meadows are often 
 covered by an azure mist which, they say, comes from the hills. 
 There is a gray mist also. That comes from the sea. And 
 then there is a white mist. That rises from the ground. I love 
 the lawn and the flower-beds, but, more than all, the splendid 
 trees. They cast strange shadows on the grass. I walk alone 
 among them and wonder what they mean. . . . My hostess does 
 not give parties, but she receives a number of visitors, to whom 
 I am always presented as Madame de Parjlete. How is it that 
 one meets charming people every day with whom it is, for some
 
 292 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 
 
 reason, impossible to exchange a thouglit ? We know nothing 
 about them : we realize that they have no desire to hear anything 
 about us : our feelings are not wounded by their indifference, 
 and they, on their part, are no less philosophic. We say good- 
 day and mean good-bye. We touch hands and pass on — each 
 on our way to eternity. . . . Lady Fitz Rewes assures me that 
 to be happy, a woman should have as many acquaintances and 
 as few friends as possible. Acquaintances are often useful, 
 whereas Iriends are a constant anxiety. I was surprised at this 
 selfish remark from so sweet a creature. It might have been 
 made by my husband. And yet, what is it but a crude expres- 
 sion of that rule of detachment which is the first principle of 
 a life consecrated to the service of God? I try to practise it, 
 and I am trainmg myself to think of things — not persons. The 
 greater part of the time my endeavors are successful. The 
 little son and daughter of this house are pretty delightful beings 
 with perfect manners. English children have the best breeding 
 imaginable. I cannot describe their many charming graces- 
 shyness, affection, candor, obedience, respect for their elders, 
 kindness toward the poor — these are but a few surface virtues 
 in hearts moulded, one would swear, after the old chivalrous 
 pattern. And yet — these very children — models to every mother 
 in the world, grow up into a race renowned for their barbarous 
 discourtesy — both to strangers and each other.* Toward their 
 social superiors they display a sad uneasiness which is shown 
 sometimes by a nervous familiarity, more often by a grotesque 
 awe. Their adoration of native titles is so great that, if they 
 could have their way, they would give a city knight precedence 
 over all or any of the monarchs of Europe. A country baronet 
 means much to them, but they can form no idea of a Spanish 
 grandee. The gloomiest English person will smile at the 
 mention of a French count or an Italian prince. Lady Fitz 
 Rewes herself laughs at these absurdities, and even repeated to 
 me a remark made by her uncle, to the effect that things were 
 different in the old days, when England had an aristocracy — but 
 • manners left her when she lost Calais' and ' Elizabeth flouted 
 the great nobles in order to hold a Cotirt for criminals, liars 
 and thieves.' This is very severe. But I am now reading the 
 works of Thackeray, and certainly he paints a sickening picture 
 oi his countrymen. Lord Byron, Shelley, and Carlyle are no 
 less bitter, and although Sir Walter Scott has a more flattering 
 pen, he writes ol other' ages than the present, and shows a 
 
 * It should be remembered that Brigit was visiting in 1869, when English manners, 
 particularly in provincial society, were very much more pompous than they are at the 
 present day— 1897,
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 293 
 
 desire to escape from facts immediately within his observation. 
 Speaking from my own experience, I can say that the kindness 
 of Pensde (she has asked me to call her by her Christian name) 
 more than outweighs the vulgarity of her neighbors — for whom 
 she cannot be held responsible. Let me give you an example 
 of the latter. For my own amusement, I teach the children 
 French and music. Their governess is absent for her holiday, 
 and so, as they associate me with lessons, they call me Made- 
 moiselle. The other day, some fresh callers hearing this, treated 
 me with immense condescension and, to my joy, left me to my- 
 self. The men, however, only ventured to address me when 
 the women were not looking — and this I found rather an insult 
 than an attention. The Bishop's wife — who had met me before 
 — must have noticed my resentment, for she observed in a loud 
 whisper to a Lady Harivale (she was waiting for her turn at 
 croquet) that • / was very highly connected and had a large 
 fortii7ie.' This remedy was worse than the offence. Yet I 
 suppose my well-meaning ally knew her generation, for the 
 talk was no longer carried on over my head. I was lifted, as 
 it were, into the circle. I was shown the most flattering 
 civilities. In fact, the same person who, a moment before, had 
 received cruel slights for her supposed poverty now received 
 whole garlands of smiles for her supposed wealth. Such a thing 
 could not have happened in France. My singing, which had 
 seemed but a monkey-trick for the entertainment of the guests, 
 became ' an enviable gift,' ' a glorious talent.' My awkward 
 failures at croquet— which had tilled my fellow-players with 
 undisguised annoyance — were now ' quite wonderful for a be- 
 ginner.' I had some difficulty in hiding my contempt, and I 
 left the group, as you may well believe, as soon as possible. At 
 dinner last night, Pensee was unusually sad. ' Do you wonder,' 
 said she, • why my poor Lionel died ? He thought it was his 
 duty to be civil to these horrid middle-class people, because of 
 his position in the county and all that. But no one could like 
 them. They are so pushing and such snobs. Once one could 
 turn them all loose into an annual garden-party and have done 
 with them. That doesn't satisfy them now. They expect me 
 to go to all their parties — and I would rather have them here 
 every week than do that.' She then told me that she had heard 
 from Mr. Orange. He has at last left Spain and is on his way 
 to Scotland with Lord Wight. Thank God ! 
 
 " I have had a further conversation with Pensee on the subject 
 of friends. She declares now that, for the future, she will not 
 entertain people for whom she has neither respect nor liking. 
 In this way she hopes to form a pleasant circle. We amused
 
 294 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 
 
 ourselves by making a little list of our favorites. It contained 
 seven names. ' I want to know what a man is,' said she. ' I 
 don't care what his father was. And I have the same idea 
 about women. Rank and temporal distinctions count for little 
 in these matters. Nature alone can produce the true aristo- 
 crat ! ' She is becoming quite bold in her notions. ' How can 
 God,' said she, ' love all His creatures ? Most of us are de- 
 testable.* • He loves us because He created us,' I answered. 
 •That thought is a great help,' said she. 'But all the same 
 I don't see why I should try to like that odious Augusta Hari- 
 vale ! ' Pensee, you will see, has a child-like charm which is 
 bewitching. Each day I become more fond of her. If I were 
 her own sister, she could not treat me with greater kindness. 
 We never speak now of Mr. Orange. She writes to him occa- 
 sionally, and I know that she loves him. A marriage between 
 them would be, in many respects, desirable. I do not yet pray 
 for it. . . . My indifference toward the future gives me a certain 
 happiness in the present. You say in your letter that affection 
 either grows or dies — that unchangeable sentiments are for 
 feeble natures only. This is, no doubt, true. I will now speak 
 more openly than I have yet been able to speak. My reserve so 
 far has not been due to cowardice but ignorance. I could not 
 understand my own feelings. There is in all of us a desire of 
 the eyes which seems to detach us from God — Who is Invisible 
 — and draw us toward sensible objects — the beings we see and 
 meet. The saints were not all spirit : the chiefest of sinners is 
 not all flesh : men and women are always and everywhere com- 
 posed of both elements. My soul loves its guardian angel ; my 
 heart could love a companion. But at present it seems well 
 satisfied to be alone. I find an unspeakable quiet happiness in 
 the society of Pensde and her children. Yet I believe that I 
 could part from them without a pang— so closely do I watch 
 my affections. I make this constant prayer, ' Let me love no 
 one too well — let me not give that devotion to mortals which is 
 due to Thee only.' I cannot thank you sufficiently, dear 
 Reverend Mother, for teaching me early in life the folly of all 
 intimate and violent friendships. To what regrets and mis- 
 placed confidences do they inevitably lead ? To what fierce 
 hatreds and irrevocable words ? To what sorrows and calam- 
 ities ? Pensge once endeavored to question me about my hus- 
 band. I told her that I could not discuss him. She has never 
 returned to the subject. ... I am at last resolved on one point. 
 If I am not to rejoin him, I shall take up my residence per- 
 manently in some Convent."
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 295 
 
 " Catesby Hall, September, 1869, 
 
 " Have you heard of Mr. Parflete's death ? It is either a lie or 
 he has met with foul play. My brain is on fire. Have they 
 murdered him ? He always lived in fear of treachery. God in 
 Heaven ! v^hat am I to think ? They tell me that I am. ill. O, 
 come to me." 
 
 This note — the last in the little packet — bears the 
 following addition written in Lady Fitz Rewes's hand : — 
 
 " I am thankful to say that there seems no ground for dear 
 Brigit's terrible suspicions. Lord Soham, with whom Mr. 
 Parflete was travelling, has sent a full account of his last illness, 
 which was the normal result of an intemperate life. He had 
 complained of insomnia lor some weeks, and, in a mood of 
 insane depression, jumped over-boaru during a calm night off 
 Genoa. It is all too shocking. Brigit has been at death's door 
 — we feared for her reason, I did not write to you because I 
 did not know whether she would wish me to write. She is so 
 extraordinarily reserved. The poor darling is better, but so 
 weak and desolate. I try to console myself with that beautiful 
 text, ' Therefore, behold, Iivill allure her and bring her into 
 the wilderness, and speak to her heart. I cannot bear to 
 think that her spirit — that proud, brave spirit — is broken. But 
 she is very still, and she has not shed one tear."
 
 296 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 
 
 CHAPTER XXn. 
 
 Robert happened to be in London at Wight House 
 when he received the news of Parflete's suicide. Lady 
 Fitz Rewes wrote the letter, and it seemed to him to 
 contain something- Uke an undercurrent of reproach — as 
 though she would have said, had she dared, " Now you 
 have got your will. ]\Iuch good may it do you ! " This, 
 he felt, was not merely vindictive but unjust. He could 
 have sworn, with a clear conscience, that his hopes had 
 never sought for nourishment in any open grave. Hope 
 — in the matter of love and marriage — had been so far 
 from him that he had even partially resolved to abandon 
 his political career and with it all those things which are 
 called the enjoyments of society. His mind went back 
 to its first education and the early prejudices he had 
 formed in favor of the military life. Forgetting the squalid 
 disillusions of a garrison town, the bugle once more 
 sounded sweeter in his ears than the lark's song, and, 
 to his eyes, theraggedest uniform appeared more glorious 
 than any great Civilians court livery. At Madrid his soul 
 liad been tinged, for the first time, with the red passion of 
 war and a brief indulgence of his fighting instincts — an 
 indulgence the more intoxicating because all his softer 
 feelings were dissatisfied — had roused in him that desire of 
 the sword which is not the less powerful because it is the 
 least censured of all lusts. He saw France and Spain 
 united under one King and forming one great Catholic 
 power. He dreamed dreams of a new Renaissance which
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 297 
 
 were not too wild to be prophetic visions, and, lost in the 
 golden atmosphere of these musings, he would often forget 
 the narrow question of his own future and the gray desola- 
 tion of his own heart. But the strongest will must seem 
 vacillating, weak and ineffective under that disease which 
 comes from an unavowed and unpermitted misery. And 
 so there were other times when Robert thought the Clois- 
 ter and austerities more alluring than the battle-field, 
 when he wished to live in an indissoluble alliance with 
 solitude — possessing nothing on this earth and desiring 
 nothing, waiting for nothing, hoping for nothing — dead to 
 love and dead to sorrow, yet rising in the watches of the 
 night to pray — to make supplications, intercessions and 
 thanksgivings for all men — that they might be saved and 
 come to the knowledge of the truth. He felt that his 
 taste for the world had gone. He was no longer able to 
 persuade himself that ambition was a duty. It had been 
 the chief pleasure of his existence. The old restless crav- 
 ing for power had vanished, like a quenched flame, into 
 the air. Public life had suddenly lost its charm, and the 
 striving for a nation's honors seemed but one degree more 
 foolish than the vanity of sorrowing under a nation's neg- 
 lect. He worked half the day on his History of the Duke of 
 Guise, and during the intervals of necessary rest made 
 long meditations on his disregard of fame. Is it possible 
 to be eight-and-twenty, hot-blooded, a lover and consist- 
 ent } We read the following passage in his Journal of 
 that date : — 
 
 " The immortal spirit can find no permanent content in pleas- 
 ures that must pass, no permanent despair in griefs that are 
 also transient although their flight be slower. Joy is a swal- 
 low ; woe, an eagle, but both have wings. The soul that is hid 
 with God may watch around these birds and wanderers whirl- 
 ing, drifting, darting around the ever-fixed Rock of Christ's 
 Church — away from which there is indeed no salvation either in 
 time or in eternity."
 
 298 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 
 
 These thoughts may have called to Robert as an an- 
 swer to his tortured mood. If they could not cure the ill, 
 they gave him at least the fortitude to endure it. He 
 turned his face toward the imperishable city, and swore 
 to throw no longing glances back into the Valley of 
 Shadows where most of us, in spite of all our wisdom, 
 love to linger. The news of Parflete's suicide, therefore, 
 proved less a relief than an appalling check. What was he 
 to think ? Was his sacrifice — now that he had shown 
 himself able to make it — rejected ? 
 
 " It is all for the best, " said Lord Wight, who was with 
 him when Pensde's letter arrived. 
 
 "I pray God it may be for the best," said Robert. A 
 worse thing than unhappiness had befallen him — and that 
 was uncertainty. 
 
 Men will own willingly the dangers, escapes, reverses 
 and fatigues that they have met or suffered in the body. 
 Such tales inspire the heart with courage and a hero is 
 found great in proportion to the desperation of his earthly 
 circumstances. But when we come to the adventures 
 of the spiritual world, the case is changed. Either 
 from pride or cowardice, it has become the fashion to 
 make light of those mental combats and perils by which, 
 after all, human action is determined and must ultimately 
 be judged. Men, who after many secret disasters have 
 attained to the apparent serenity of middle-age, will often 
 leave it to be inferred that they have never been other- 
 wise than sure of their own opinions, confident in their 
 own good sense, and unswerving in their duty toward 
 God, their neighbors and themselves. They ask what is 
 the meaning of temptation (beyond the common indis- 
 cretions of the table), and they feel certain that the soul 
 must be already in a bad way when Satan has the hardi- 
 hood to address it. As for them, they know nothing 
 about demons, and, while they have had, with the rest of
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 299 
 
 mankind, their ups and downs — these necessary shifts by 
 a special Providence, were never permitted to disturb their 
 reason's equilibrium. Now if these accounts were true, 
 it might well be said that the Gospel has been preached 
 in vain. But they are not true, and, in the same way 
 that we doubt the sportsman's tale of game too big for 
 the compass of an ordinary vision, we doubt these cheer- 
 ful pretenders to a moral infallibility beyond our hidden 
 — but no less real — experience of life. To err, we admit, 
 is human, but to confess the error belongs to the saint 
 alone. But whether we confess it or whether we deny it 
 — we all know that unless man has an infinite capacity 
 for being foolish, self-renunciation is not a victory and 
 faith is no virtue. The fact, then, of Brigit's freedom 
 seemed yet another difficulty in Orange's steep path. He 
 feared — ^just as she herself had feared — that some crime 
 had been committed. Zeuill's message proved nothing. 
 The evidence of Lord Soham — a tipsy imbecile — was 
 valueless. 
 
 •' Mr. Parflete left a farewell letter for his wife," wrote Lady 
 Fitz Rewes ; "she has allowed me to see parts of it. I cannot 
 feel that he was in full possession of his faculties. Such senti- 
 ments ! such impiety ! It is too dreadful. In view ot the 
 altered and peculiar circumstances, there is no reason why Mrs. 
 Parflete, on her recovery from the shock, should not come to 
 town for the opening of Parliament in February." 
 
 Robert thought the whole communication harsh and 
 tactless. He did not know that Pensde had shed tears 
 over the first three copies of that poor letter, and spoiled 
 two signatures by breaking down completely. Is it an 
 easy task for any woman to tell the man she loves that a 
 more delightful bride maybe his for the wooing.? This 
 question did not occur to Orange. With all his faults, he 
 was no coxcomb, and he could never believe that he was in 
 reality an object of lasting interest to the Lady Fitz Rewes. 
 She had so many admirers — rich men, handsome men,
 
 30O THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 
 
 men who deserved her — at her feet. How should she 
 care deeply for a dull fellow whom she rarely saw and 
 who was never, at any time, much to look at ? Her liking 
 was a mere caprice — nothing; more. 
 
 And so his reply was a severe surprise to the love-sick 
 mistress of Catesby Hall. 
 
 " Wight House, St. James's, September, 1869. 
 
 " My dear Lady Fitz Revves, — Your news is terrible and, 
 in spite of all the documents, I am not yet convinced that we 
 have the true story. Parflete was not a man to commit suicide. 
 He loved himself — in one sense — too well and felt dishonor so 
 little that it could not have affected his quite admirable brains. 
 I suspect some crime or else a trick. Mrs. Parflete must be on 
 her guard. When you tell me that she is well enough to read 
 letters, I shall write to her. I fear, however, that her illness 
 will be a long one. I understand her nature and this last cal- 
 amity must seem— to a mind so sensitive for others — the worst 
 of all. 
 
 " I leave London to-night with Lord Wight. Our destination 
 — Slatrach Castle.* He is tired of the Border. — Believe me, 
 my dear Lady Fitz Rewes, yours sincerely, 
 
 " Robert de H. Orange." 
 
 He was offended and he wished Pensee to know it. 
 He kept this answer in his pocket till the evening in order 
 to convince himself that he meant it as a well-considered, 
 perfectly kind rebuke. He posted it on his way to the 
 Capitol Club where he had an appointment to meet a new 
 acquaintance, Hartley Penborough, a Government clerk 
 of literary gifts, who founded, some years later, that ex- 
 cellent weekly journal called Jlie Sentinel, and who be- 
 came, eventually, a Permanent Under-Secretary of State. 
 He wrote, at this time (1869), an occasional leader for the 
 best Tory newspapers. But his father was an Admiral, 
 and his mother, a Dean's daughter, and he was at heart a 
 Whig under the influence of St. Peter. At the first sight 
 of Robert, he accused him of looking better. 
 
 * Lord Wight's shooting lodge in the Western Highlands.
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 301 
 
 " I am all right," said Robert. 
 
 " I hope you have given up the idea of leaving your 
 present line." 
 
 " I shall keep to it for a while at all events." 
 
 "I should think so. When we have commenced a 
 career, what stop is there but the grave ? If ambition has 
 once entered into a man there is no more rest for him 
 upon this earth." 
 
 "I can't agree with that. I can imagine the sacrifice 
 of ambition no less than the sacrifice of other passions 
 and appetites." 
 
 "Then there is more youthfulness in your imagination 
 than there is in all my being ! At my greenest period, 
 when I would have renounced home, country, women, 
 wine, wealth (perhaps because I was an ugly beggar), I 
 hugged my little hope of gaining glory. It was my 
 solitary possession. It is the one thing that a poor devil 
 can keep in spite of his enemies — or his virtues, his bank- 
 ing account or his wife. By-the-by, I see that Reckage 
 is engaged to an heiress with ten thousand a year." 
 
 "You mean Agnes Carillon ? " 
 
 "That's the girl — the daughter of Dr. Carillon, the 
 Bishop of Hartley. I have danced with her, but she 
 wouldn't remember me. ... I suppose it's a good match 
 on both sides." 
 
 " It couldn't be better. You know I believe in 
 Reckage." 
 
 " Do you ? " said Penborough, dryly. 
 
 " What do you think of his Church Party .? " 
 
 "The Bond of Association? I have never thought 
 about it ni my life. While there is such a thing as religion , 
 there will be rows and opportunities for action. But is 
 Reckage the man to lead ? Has he the three essentials 
 of a superior intelligence — genius, fortune and persever- 
 ance ? At present, we can only be certain of his income. "
 
 303 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 
 
 "Ah, he's a clever fellow. Look how he has pulled 
 his Society together — it is a force already. He tells me 
 that fresh men are joining every day. You must admire 
 his enthusiasm." 
 
 "He stuck at no lie to get followers, and he will stick 
 at no truth to keep them ! But he is certain to get a 
 hideous pommelling before long. In a year or two, the 
 Bond of Association will have but one feature in common 
 with earthly greatness — it will have fallen ! " 
 
 "That is nature's course. It plainly means that there 
 never can be a Church and State party in England." 
 
 "So long as the State is administered by Christian men, 
 its acts will be Christian," said Hartley in a cheerful 
 tone. 
 
 " But are they Christian men .>' " 
 
 " Well, how can you test them .? " 
 
 "Do they follow the truth so far as they know it ? do 
 they admit and accept truths higher than those which 
 they may have received in the first instance } finally, do 
 they die loving God more than all things and creatures .'* " 
 
 "I couldn't answer for any of 'em. There ain't two 
 Bishops of the same mind and if you ain't in with the 
 Bishops, you ain't in with the State — for the State appoints 
 them. And the Government is sometimes High and Tory, 
 sometimes Low and Whig. I wouldn't trust a Tory Broad 
 Churchman or a Tory Rationalist, and I wouldn't put my 
 money on a Whig High Churchman. That's confusion 
 worse confounded. And so, on simple lines, it is ' Here we 
 go up-up-iip. Here we go down-do7vn-doiv7i ' ; which is all 
 very well as a game, but it's a fool of a position if you 
 happen to be anxious about your immortal soul and want 
 a gun to stand by at the Judgment ! " 
 
 "Then you think that the Anglicans haven't got a 
 gun .? 
 
 "No, they have only got livings. And yet I don't know
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 303 
 
 a pleasanter thing- than to read in your paper of a morn- 
 ing- that some nice, good-hearted curate — who wants 
 to marry your sister — has been handsomely preferred ! 
 That's human weakness and family pride. It's scanda- 
 lous and you pray for yourself. But you go to the wed- 
 ding and hope that the bridegroom, like the blessed hea- 
 then, is a law unto himself ! When you come to the 
 great questions, however, the choice has to be made 
 between Nonconformity — the genuine Protestant — and 
 Rome. The Dissenters and the Romans are the really 
 religious-minded among us — they have to suffer for their 
 opinions. One is thought low-class and the other, cun- 
 ning.* I don't suppose that Reckage will turn Dissenter. 
 But if he has a spark of genius in him he will go over to 
 the Catholics. I leave honesty out of the question. As if 
 any man who respected his neighbor's intelligence could 
 pretend to stomach a co7ige d'elire as it is at present con- 
 ducted in the Church of England. Blasphemous humbug- ! 
 Yes, Reckage must turn Papist." 
 
 He glanced at Robert as he spoke for it was thought 
 that the Convert still exerted a certain influence over his 
 former pupil. 
 
 "Nothing would make me happier," answered Orange, 
 " although I never despair at the obstinacy of the Protes- 
 tant and the comparative fewness of our numbers. It is 
 God's pleasure that heresy should seem to prevail for a 
 season. And the enemies of the Church are astonished. 
 Unable to understand her life, they prophesy her death. 
 But we can afford to be patient. There is eternity before 
 us and what are a few hundred years in comparison with 
 the infinite and everlasting? " 
 
 " It is useful to hear eternity mentioned — for there is 
 nothing one so easily forgets. And I envy anybody who 
 can speak of God as though He were as really alive as the 
 
 * It must be remembered thai this conversation took place in 1869.
 
 304 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 
 
 Prince of Wales ! In these days men put on a false tone 
 and look canting hypocrites whenever they refer to the 
 Almighty. I do myself. I can't help it. How do you 
 manage it so naturally.? But your chances in the House 
 will be clean lost if it once gets rumored about that your 
 opinions have a touch of other-worldliness. They want 
 serious politicians ! " 
 
 " And what are they .? " 
 
 "Bumbles and Shallows — pompous asses full of self- 
 conceit — fellows that never look higher than the level 
 of mundane necessities ! They subscribe a pew rent to 
 God and consecrate their lives to furnaces and drains and 
 contracts and manure ! They succeed, however, and peo- 
 ple call 'em useful Public servants — which they are. But 
 you have never been identified with any great idea on 
 ventilation ! I hear, instead, gorgeous anecdotes about 
 your goings-on in Spain. That won't do at all. I swore 
 they were all lies. Your books are too romantic as it is 
 — it will take a lot of bad speeches to atone for 'em. Con- 
 sider Dizzy. He won't be fully appreciated till every man- 
 jack of this generation is dead. He's too brilliant — he 
 makes us all feel very dull dogs and very lame ducks. 
 And he isn't an Anglo-Saxon — another crime. To be sure, 
 we call him clever — infinitely clever, and we listen to his 
 wit — as we watch a comedian — with amusement, w^hich, 
 however, we should be sorry to derive from any one who 
 had better claims to our society ! We are so jealous of his 
 statesmanship that we wouldn't even govern Europe by 
 his influence. Lord ! how he must despise us ! That is 
 why I like him." 
 
 "Which do you think will be the urgent subjects next 
 Session } " asked Robert, anxious to soothe the thoughts 
 of his excitable companion. 
 
 "The»State of Ireland and the Education Bill," said 
 Penborough, "then, if there is time, they will hammer a
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 305 
 
 bit on the depression of trade. Some of them may begin 
 to consider the Working Man. But there wont be many- 
 opportunities for the private Member. Have you any 
 special trump to play ? " 
 
 " I am thinking of Ireland and our Foreign Policy and 
 India — " 
 
 " That will do to begin with," said Hartley. " I see 
 you have a little ambition left, after all ! " 
 
 Robert blushed. 
 
 "And now," said Penborough, "you can do me a kind- 
 ness. Will you give me a few points about the Archduke 
 Charles of Alberia.? You must have met him. You 
 have met everybody. I am writing an article on his 
 career. " 
 
 "But why?" 
 
 "Because he is dead and people want to know who 
 he was." 
 
 ' ' Dead ! " exclaimed Robert, who was fortunately in the 
 shadow where Penborough could not see his sudden 
 change of countenance. 
 
 " Dead of heart-disease. Haven't you seen this morn- 
 ing's papers .'' " 
 
 Orange, who had been too troubled to read the papers 
 that day, sat stunned at Hartley's piece of news. 
 
 "I say," said Hartley, aggrieved, "you ought to keep 
 pace with the Press. The Commons are strong for the 
 moment, but in fifty years' time the country will be 
 in the hands of the Lords and the Journalists. They 
 will settle everything between them. Bear that in 
 mind. The House will be as obsolete as the Tower ! " 
 
 Robert's thoughts were far away with Henriette Duboc 
 at Mirafiores when she sat there, rosy with love, in the 
 sunlight, and when she watched, with dying eyes, for a 
 last glimpse of all that made her live. And he remem- 
 bered Brigit — Brigit with her mother's face and voice and
 
 3o6 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 
 
 her father's sombre spirit — the heiress to woe and passions, 
 gayety and despair, pride and humiliation. . . . 
 
 "It is too strange to be true," he said, "I cannot 
 beheve it." 
 
 Penborough began to button up his coat. 
 
 "I am no fool," said he, "and I repeat — the House of 
 Commons will be, before the end of the next century, as 
 obsolete as the Tower." 
 
 "I wasn't thinking of that. I was wondering about 
 the Archduke." 
 
 "To be sure. Well — it's a slack time and I shall give 
 him three-quarters of a column. But it must be racy.'' 
 
 " Dies ircE, dies ilia, 
 Solvet strclmii in favilla. 
 Teste David cum Sibylla. 
 
 "Judex ergo ciun sedebit, 
 Quidquid latet, apparebit ; 
 Nil inultum remaiiebit. 
 
 " Quid sum miser tunc dicturus? 
 Quern patrotiuvi rogaturus 
 Cum vix Justus sit securus ? " * 
 
 " What are you muttering.'' " said Penborough. 
 "My part of the Archduke's obituary," said Robert, 
 
 * Nigher still mid still more iiigh 
 Draws the day of prophecy 
 Doomed to tnelt the earth and sky. 
 
 Nonv before the Judge severe 
 Hidden things tnust all appear ; 
 Nought can pass unpunished here. 
 
 fV/uit sfiall guilty I then plead ? 
 
 IVhofor me ■will mtercede 
 
 IVheti the saints shall cotn/ort need t
 
 THE SCIIUOr. FOR SAINTS. 307 
 
 chaptp:r XXIII. 
 
 Lord Wight owned, in the Highlands, a small Isle 
 which had formed part of his mother's dowry. Here, 
 near the ruin of an old fortress, he had built a shooting 
 lodge where it was his custom to spend the Autumn with 
 such friends as he could persuade to join him in so ex- 
 posed and desolate a region.* He could offer a warm 
 welcome, good grouse, plenty of hares, excellent whisky 
 and spring water, but the coast was stormy, wrecks were 
 not infrequent, and the guest, once landed, could not fix 
 his day of departure nor hope to get his letters — or de- 
 spatch them — with any regularity. More than all, his 
 lordship in spite — or perhaps because — of his wealth, kept, 
 in that district where town delicacies were rare and 
 always bad, a frugal board. He himself cared only for 
 pastry — the heavier the better — and his cook was a 
 simple old woman who owned, with Christian cheerful- 
 ness, that she had long lost her sense of taste. For these 
 reasons, the Earl's parties were usually composed of a 
 few fierce sportsmen without domestic ties, who, leaving 
 luxuries to the effeminate and large retinues for the 
 vulgar, could sleep well anywhere, eat thankfully what- 
 ever might be set before them, shave their own chins, 
 clean their own guns and prepare, if necessary, their own 
 birds for roasting. But this year his lordship did not in- 
 
 *The Island now is but too famous for its views. Steamers pass it all day long. It 
 has a Post Office, a Villa or so, several small farms and a population of one hundred 
 souls. One may attend the fortnightly sermon at the school-house, and pic-nic on the spot 
 where the shooting lodge stood in 1869. It was pulled down after the Earl's death in 
 obedience to a clause in his will.
 
 3o8 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 
 
 vite any one of his old companions, and his steward, a 
 man of many anxieties, was astonished to hear that 
 foreign visitors of high rank were expected — Prince Leit- 
 neritz of Bohemia, Prince Czestochowa of Poland, Don 
 Pedro de la Cerda, Duke of Mastrana, the Marquis de 
 la Suente, the Count de Lesmaissons and Colonel de 
 Bodava. 
 
 "My lord," said the steward, "where shall we put 
 their valets and suites? " 
 
 "They will leave their servants at home," said the 
 Earl, " for they travel incognito for a little rest and pleasure. 
 The Duke of Mastrana, however, will bring- his Chaplain 
 who, being a priest and a minister of God, must be shown 
 every attention possible. The rest can shift for them- 
 selves." 
 
 "Very good, my lord." 
 
 "They are all nobleman of such birth and quality that 
 their power makes their titles — and not their titles their 
 power. If their lands and honors were confiscated to- 
 morrow, they would still have a hand in the fortunes of 
 Europe — for, while man forgets, history and the fates 
 remember. Keep that in your mind, Glencorbie," 
 
 "Yes, my lord," said the steward, who was wonder- 
 ing what the foreigners would think when they found, 
 that, although Slatrach Castle had a brass cannon washed 
 ashore from the Armada, it did not possess a single feather 
 bed nor an eider-down quilt. 
 
 " It will be a privilege to see such gentlemen in the 
 flesh. They belong to a race fast diminishing." 
 
 "Yes, your lordship. And what will they eat and 
 drink } " 
 
 " Bless me ! wdiat an absurd question. They will drink 
 the wine of the country, and then there are the birds, and 
 hares, and rabbit pie and one thing and another. But 
 you may order some hams. "
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 309 
 
 "Yes, my lord. And what will they do? " 
 
 " Do ? They will hope to get some shooting. Do you 
 suppose they want to spend their time knocking ivory 
 balls around a table or driving long hours through vile 
 roads to look at tattered tapestry ? " 
 
 " You know best, my lord. So long as I give satisfac- 
 tion and do my duty, it's all one to me what happens." 
 
 Orange, on returning from the Capitol Club, joined 
 Lord Wight in time to catch the last words of the above 
 conversation and see Glencorbie, with a preoccupied air, 
 bow himself out in order to resume his preparations for 
 the journey that evening to the North. 
 
 The Earl, on his Secretary's entrance, opened a note- 
 book and begged to be told how to spell "Glencorbie is 
 a blockhead" in Spanish. " For he reads all my letters 
 and memoranda," said the kind-hearted gentleman, "and 
 I would not have him come across a line that might 
 wound his feelings. But really he is a fool. When one 
 is fatigued with shooting or missing grouse, one finds 
 whisky very palatable, and I have tasted rabbits at Slat- 
 rach which, in taste, were beyond a partridge for delicacy. 
 The canaille do not know what good eating means. But 
 what is the matter? You seem very distrait." 
 
 "I have heard some disquieting news. The Archduke 
 Charles is dead." 
 
 "Is it possible ! That's most unfortunate — for he had 
 one thumb on a new leaf, and, blessed be God, I believe 
 he would have turned it — although he was a bad Prince 
 and no one could pretend the contrary. I think ' speak 
 only good of the dead ' is a silly maxim. I had rather 
 speak ill of the dead than of the living. But how will 
 this loss affect Don Carlos ? Badly, I fear." 
 
 "No doubt. It even affects my own plans to a certain 
 extent. I cannot start for Slatrach to-night, I must go to 
 Catesby first. "
 
 3IO THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 
 
 "The lady is ill. You won't be able to see her." 
 
 "I can see Lady Fitz Rewes. The Archduke's death 
 will touch Mrs. Parflete's prospects materially." 
 
 He had never told Lord Wight the history of Brigit's par- 
 entaofe. The Earl was not a man to be trusted with a 
 secret of that kind. He did know, however, that Parflete 
 had held some confidential position at the Alberian Court, 
 and so, after a certain amount of grumbling, he resolved 
 to postpone his own departure for two days rather than 
 be deprived of his Secretary's company on the tedious way 
 to Scotland. 
 
 Orange left London for Catesby by the earliest train the 
 next morning, and, at this point, the story is best told by 
 his own narrative.* 
 
 September, 1869. 
 
 It was my first visit to Catesby. I sent a telegram to Lady 
 Fitz Rewes warning her of my intended call. Her carriage 
 was waiting for me at the station. There were few passengers, 
 and I was particularly struck by the appearance of a man not 
 much above the middle height, with high cheek-bones, an olive 
 complexion, and tranquil black eyes. The strange feature was 
 his white, abundant hair which was as fine as a woman's, and 
 formed a most distinguished setting for a countenance which 
 had otherwise nothing really remarkable except its sadness. He 
 looked a foreigner and his presence in that neighborhood at 
 that time roused my suspicions. I had been searching my con- 
 science in the train to find whether my sudden journey to Cates- 
 by was due to a prudent or a merely selfish motive. The sight 
 of this stranger cleared my doubts, and I felt that I had acted 
 wisely in coming. To my astonishment he asked the guard — 
 in fluent English, yet with a strong foreign accent — whether it 
 was a great distance to Lady Fitz Rewes's residence. The 
 groom, on hearing his mistress's name, stepped forward and 
 touched his cap. A moment later, I found the gentleman seated 
 opposite me in the waggonette, driving toward the Hall. His 
 expression was neither sinister nor ingratiating, but wholly 
 impenetrable. His clothes, though plain, were of good ma- 
 terial : his hands and feet showed no common breed. His 
 manner was perfectly collected but his temperament seemed 
 
 * Written, it is believed, for Mr. Disraeli.
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 311 
 
 suited rather to the transaction of affairs than the observance of 
 ceremonies. 1 decided that he was one of those men who are 
 constantly employed on diplomatic and difficult missions be- 
 cause they are of so little importance to the great world that 
 their successes need not be openly rewarded nor their failures 
 publicly made known. This surmise afterwards proved correct. 
 1 learned later that he was Lucas Mudara, the Archduke's agent 
 at Madrid. 
 
 As we drove along, we exchanged a few words about the 
 weather and the place. 
 
 Catesby harbor stands in a fine bay which, that day, was 
 bright with yachts — their flags flying, their crews — mostly in 
 white or blue jerseys and red caps, loitering about the quay. 
 Catesby town is three miles or so beyond the pier, and, 
 sheltered by high Downs, it is a little too well protected from 
 the wind. The Hall stands at the foot o( a green rounded hill, 
 sloping up from the sea where the beach, bleak and rocky, 
 makes, at low tide, a ragged boundary of the estate. The 
 house, which was once a Monastery, has no architectural 
 beauty. It is approached by a long drive that follows the 
 coast line, and, while there is at intervals a piece of pasture- 
 land or a hay-field between the water and the road, the trees are 
 on one side only and the house is never hid from sight. It is a 
 long low building with a stout oak door in the middle, and, for 
 its size, few windows. But it is covered with vines and it has a 
 curious garden of blue hortensias on its flat roof. A number of 
 parrots and cockatoos also are kept there — tied to their silvered 
 perches by light chains. The effect is startling and too fan- 
 tastic, but it redeems the house from an austerity over severe for 
 any dwelling not used as a place ot repentance and mortifica- 
 tion. When our carriage was some three hundred yards from 
 the entrance, the groom jumped down and asked us if we would 
 kindly walk the rest of the way as there was a visitor ill in the 
 house, and it was feared that the sound of wheels on the ground 
 would disturb her. I glanced at my companion to see whether 
 this news came as a surprise. He murmured some polite words 
 of regret, but his expression was like the waters of Lora at high 
 tide. One could not believe, that, under so calm a sheet, there 
 were whirlpools, swift falls, sharp rocks and a current fiercer 
 than the Furies. But presently I caught him watching me from 
 the corners of his eyes. I determined to take a straight course. 
 
 " Pardon the question," said I, " but have I the pleasure of 
 addressing a Castilian ? " Where I felt in such doubt of his 
 nationality, I thought it well to let my guess err on the side of 
 flattery.
 
 312 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 
 
 He seemed rather pleased than annoyed by the remark, but, 
 to my astonishment, he said, speakmg with an extraordinary 
 rapidity in perfect Spanish, — " I am glad to find that my birth- 
 right is so distinct. I hate your Cosmopolitan who is usually 
 proud of every country except his own, and that he avoids — lest 
 he should be called on to defend it." 
 
 " Spaniards, at any rate, have opportunities now to show 
 their patriotism." 
 
 " Alas, yes ! Misery must come to many ' that the nations 
 may know themselves to be but men.' " 
 
 " Do you take a gloomy view of the situation ? " 
 
 " The gloomiest. We have sold our souls for swords. And 
 the swords are filthy. They poison the wound and the hand that 
 inflicts it. We are a ruined people, and Spain must perish." 
 
 "You must have the courage of the past. When Anaxarchus 
 was being beaten to death, he said, ' Pound on. You can 
 pound the sheath of Anaxarchus, himself you cannot pound." 
 Nothing can destroy the spirit of Spain. Do you not feel what 
 an injury you are doing to the Church, our Mother, by your 
 predictions ? " 
 
 I said this purposely in order to discover to which party he 
 belonged. 
 
 "The Church," said he, "is at once perfect light and utter 
 darkness. She is like that miraculous cloud which guided the 
 children of Israel, and, at the same time, blinded their enemies." 
 
 This was a fine saying and true, but I saw that he meant it 
 half in irony and I knew then what to expect. 
 
 "The revolutionary party must inevitably come to destruc- 
 tion," said I ; " elections by the sword are dangerous. They 
 never endure. The military elections of the Roman Emperors 
 and in other nations proved fatal to the public peace and liberty. 
 Every bad end may be referred to a bad beginning. Men who 
 fight — pro arts ei focis — for religion, freedom, wives and lands 
 are full of courage. But godless, homeless, mercenary vaga- 
 bonds — whose trade is blood — have no just cause and therefore 
 no mettle. ' There is no king saved by the multitude of an 
 host.' There must be some soul of goodness among his legions." 
 
 " That is our unhappy position," said he. "The Revolution 
 in Spain is between the army and the people armed. It is now 
 a year ago since the two combined to drag Isabella's bust in the 
 mud. The Bourbons were declared to have forever forfeited 
 the throne, but there was not an evil done under the Bourbons 
 which has not increased a hundred-fold since the rebels have 
 come to misrule. Where there may have been a passing sick- 
 ness there is now mortal disease, disease in the Church, in civil
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 313 
 
 society, in the army, in the whole nation. Thousands of good 
 citizens and poor priests are emigrating to Biarritz and 
 Bayonne, to St. Jean de Luz and to the frontier. God i<nows 
 how they will all live 1 But their native land is no longer a 
 home for honorable creatures, and yet I cannot forget how short 
 a time has passed since my country was the greatest Power in 
 Europe." 
 
 The speech was uttered with a feeling certainly not feigned. 
 I felt the truth of every word. Nevertheless, I could not decide 
 to my satisfaction whetlier he was, in his sympathies, a Carlist. 
 
 " Nothing is done without the Law of Providence," said I, 
 "and when things seem to fall out contrary to justice, they 
 finish, notwithstanding, for the greater glory of God. That is 
 why it is right to say always — Fiat voluntas tua in ca'lo, et in 
 terra. It is mockery to pray thus and nourish a secret revolt." 
 
 "You are a young man," said he, "and perhaps you are 
 happy to-day. But I agree with you, althougli I have waited 
 longer for the millennium ! I think, too, that one should main- 
 tain unity of religion — being of Plutarch's opinion, that vari- 
 etas religionis, dissolutio religionis. Religion, however, should 
 keep on her rock, and not wander forth into the council-chamber 
 and the market-place." 
 
 " In fact," said I, " you want liberty not of worship but of 
 conscience. Let Church provide the Ritual and any devil the 
 sentiment that you take to it ! In other words, every man may 
 permit her ceremonies on his own terms. But a power that de- 
 pends on its subjects is not a power at all, it is a servitude. 
 Saint Louis of France showed his army that he could fight his 
 own battles, and thus he won respect from foe and follower alike. 
 Shall the Church be less than her own saints ? " 
 
 A sort of pallor showed under his olive skin, as though a mist 
 had crept over his blood. But his reply betrayed no resentment. 
 
 "You are zealous," said he, "and, for an Anglo-Saxon, you 
 show a great mterest in foreign affairs." 
 
 "There is French blood in our family." 
 
 " Ah I I have observed that the English take great pride in 
 a Norman descent. Yet England played a filial part in the 
 Netherlands while Marie Antomette was in hourly expectation 
 of the guillotine ? Your Government pretended, indeed, to assist 
 the Allies in restoring the Monarchy. She meant to pay herself 
 handsomely for the trouble, however, by taking the lion's share 
 of the French conquests, and dividing the noble kingdom into 
 parcels ! But that meanness was paid for at Austerlitz. Aus- 
 terlitz is written on Pitt's heart in letters of eternal fire." 
 
 He paused and spat upon the ground.
 
 314 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 
 
 " You will not find that there were many old Norman families 
 on the side of Mr. Pitt ! But my father was French," said I, 
 not choosing to make any fuller comment on the chapter of his- 
 tory to which he had referred. 
 
 " A Bonapartist ?" 
 
 " Never." 
 
 "And what, pray, would he have thought of my poor country 
 — her empire in tatters, her credit a jest ! " 
 
 " He would remember the Prophet, and say, 'The multitude 
 of all the nations that figlit against Ariel, even all that fight 
 against her and her stronghold, and that distress her, shall be as 
 a dream, a vision of the night.' " 
 
 His eyes filled with tears. I saw him strike his breast and 
 heard him murmur, "Hei mihi, Doniine, quia peccavi irimis in 
 vita mea. Quid faciain miser, iibi fugiam, nisi ad te Deits 
 tneus ? " 
 
 Unconsciously he gave these words that peculiar clerical in- 
 tonation which no layman, in reciting prayers or psalms, can 
 acquire or effect. I controlled my astonishment and looked away 
 from him. When he next spoke, it was in his ordinary voice — 
 guttural, but well-modulated. 
 
 " So you are not an Anglo-Sa.xon ? Thank God ! It was said 
 of Richelieu that the priest concealed the cavalier. In your case, 
 the cavalier conceals the priest I " 
 
 He bowed gravely. He gave me to understand that he meant 
 to convey an innocent, if high-flown compliment. But I felt 
 tolerably certain, that, in some way, he knew the story ot my 
 birth and my whole history. On the other hand, his remark 
 might have been purely accidental. While the doubt was possi- 
 ble, I could take no stand. I kept silent. 
 
 " The Emperor of France has been ill," he said, suddenly, as 
 though he wished to change the subject ; " and he is a long time 
 getting well. The Empress Eugenie, with her son, is visiting 
 the room in Ajaccio where Letitia Ramolino gave birth to the 
 first Napoleon ! Signs of the times, indeed. But a year ago, 
 General Prim was a proscribed Spanish patriot, driven from 
 France and Belgium. Now he is going to Vichy for his healtli 
 — attended as a king in state is attended. Sick Prim and the 
 sicker Emperor will have a little conference about Cuba. Cuba 
 is all but lost to us already. And what will become of our 
 Spanish emigrants under a Foreign Government ? Shall we 
 abandon them to suffer as the Irish and the Hmdoo ? Never — 
 while there is one thread of honor still running through our flag. 
 ' Death has come up into our windows,' but not yet shame. 
 The people — " he checked himself, then turned upon me with a
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 315 
 
 face distorted by passion—" What do young men of family care 
 about the people ? You talk about God, King- and country — 
 you tight well and spare neither your bones nor your blood. But 
 your devotion is for the shepherds and the pasture-land — the 
 poor sheep may perish." 
 
 " The poor sheep have grown into wolves since the Reforma- 
 tion," said I. "They have been trained to look upon the asser- 
 tion of a divine right as the last insult which a monarch may offer 
 his subjects. That a king should presume to govern is insolence 
 not to be tolerated. He is a State Doll to be brought out and 
 laid away at the pleasure of his humble Ministers ! And with 
 all this what have the people done for themselves ? Have they 
 ever enjoyed more comforts, straighter opportunities of advance- 
 ment, or safer protection than they did under the old Feudal 
 System ? But in those days this last false worship of Humanity 
 was unknown. Men now have neither gods nor kings nor idols. 
 They have sunk lower than the heathen — for the heathen has 
 never yet bowed down in adoration before his own individuality. 
 He chose something which at least seemed to him more power- 
 ful than himself. Prayer has been recently defined as a reference 
 to one" s higJier self! But one's ' higher self ' is the soul, and 
 the soul belongs to God — and a man must save his soul because 
 God will call him to account for it. Individuality is the new 
 soft name for our secret sins." 
 
 I spoke warmly and perhaps it was as well that we had reached, 
 by this time, the old Monastery door which, made in the twelfth 
 century, showed the marks of many a wild assault. Before we 
 could ring the bell, the bolt was drawn and a tootman, whose 
 face was familiar to me from my many calls and dinners at 
 Curzon Street, let me in. The elderly butler who stood near him 
 waiting to announce us smiled a benediction as he always did 
 on his mistress's friends. But he cast a dubious glance at the 
 Spaniard and asked him with grim respect whether he came 
 with me and what was his name. To the first question, Mudara 
 made no reply. As an answer to the second, he gave him a 
 card. Old Clayton, whose presence of mind deserved great 
 credit, asked us to rest a moment. He went into the great hall 
 — (we were standing in the vestibule without) — and presently 
 returned. He conducted Sefior Mudara to the drawing-room. 
 As the two turned the corner. Lady Fitz Rewes h^self — dressed 
 in flowered muslin — came out from the hall on tiptoe, put her 
 finger to her lips, and gave me her right hand which I kissed as 
 usual. It was a very pretty hand. I read displeasure in her 
 eyes, however, and I remembered that she must have received 
 that morning my letter of the day before. I was ashamed of it
 
 3i6 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 
 
 the moment I saw her face, which was flushed, and younger 
 than it had ever yet seemed to me. She did not speal< till we 
 had crossed the long, imposing salle, hung with magnificent 
 Gobelins, but rather gloomy — and entered a small, sunny room, 
 furnished in the modern taste, with quantities of china and chintz 
 and familiar miniatures. 
 
 " Who is that man ? " said she at once, " his name is unknown 
 to me. Here is his card — Lucas Mudara. There are no coro- 
 nets or things on it. He must be Brigit's man of business." 
 
 As she mentioned the word Brigit, she threw me a switt, 
 rather icy glance. 
 
 " That unhappy child's condition is deplorable," she continued. 
 "When she received the news of her husband's death, she went 
 straight out into the old chapel, but neither then nor since has 
 she been seen to shed one tear. She seems in a stupor. All 
 day long she is there among the graves, with her head resting 
 on her hand and her lips closed, as white and silent as a stone 
 monument." 
 
 She paused in order to give me the opportunity to ask some 
 question. But I could say nothing. The picture and the suffer- 
 ing she described had robbed me of the power of speech. There 
 was never a time in my life when I less saw my way before me 
 than at that moment — when I felt with such confusion the in- 
 adequacy, and also the danger, of words. Lady Fitz Rewes 
 proceeded, — 
 
 " I believe very great caution is necessary. This is no 
 common illness and our hope must be in earnest prayer. Brigit 
 has been obedient always, conquering her natural wishes at 
 every step. Surely none of us will ever lose any grace with 
 God from having submitted our own wills to that of our super- 
 iors in authority. I cannot believe it. She will be given some 
 measure of earthly happiness yet. It is not in the next world 
 only that goodness is rewarded." 
 
 1 dared not ask her to explain herself more clearly. Her 
 look and her trembling tone left no room for any doubt of her 
 unutterable fear. 
 
 " It is hard to say sometimes for what we mourn," she con- 
 tinued, " but a heart broken by grief cannot be calm. So I do 
 not think that her melancholy is wholly due to sorrow. I think 
 it is some otheff feeling — a horror of life, a weariness of its folly, 
 a desire to see an end of disappointments and all." 
 
 She could say no more, but broke down and wept as I had 
 never seen any woman weep before. I would not have believed., 
 from mere hearsay, that so fragile a creature was capable of so 
 niuch passion. Her very soul seemed to be dissolved in tears.
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 317 
 
 I knew the kindness of her nature, yet I was astonished to see 
 her so utterly overwhelmed by the thought of another's misfort- 
 unes. She was not without her faults, but, from that hour, I 
 forgot them all.* 
 
 " Dearest Pens6e,"said I — (for she seemed to me, as "the wings 
 of a dove covered with silver, and her feathers with yellow gold,") 
 — " there is no one like you. You are the best and truest of 
 friends. Do not cry. My task is already hard enough. I have 
 more news to tell, but it must be our secret till Madame is 
 stronger. The Archduke Charles is dead." 
 
 The sentence had barely passed my lips when I saw a shadow 
 on the lawn outside the open window. I hurried forward and 
 looked out. It belonged to Mudara who was standing there, 
 well within earshot, in perfect tranquillity, apparently watching 
 an immense flock of sea-gulls which had gathered in hundreds 
 on the wide beach below. I myself was fascinated by the un- 
 usual sight. Some were pluming themselves in the pools left by 
 the out-going tide : others were warming their breasts in the 
 sand, and seemed to be asleep — secure in the thought that six 
 patrols, each flying in a radius from the centre of repose, were 
 keeping watch in the air above them, ready to give the signals 
 of distress at the flrst approach of an enemy. I know not why, 
 but the scene struck me almost as a miraculous vision. My 
 heart grew lighter, and my thirsty faith received a fresh draught 
 of hope. I rubbed my eyes — the gulls did not vanish. Then I 
 looked again at Mudara. He must have heard every word of 
 my conversation with Lady Fitz Rewes, but he showed no em- 
 barrassment on being discovered an eavesdropper. On the 
 contrary, he smiled, came nearer, and, with the easiest air in 
 the world, looked over my shoulder at Pens^e. 
 
 " I walked round from the saloti," said he, " the open window 
 and the garden were irresistible. ' I had no intention of intrud- 
 ing. Madame la vicomtesse will pardon me ? " 
 
 Lady Fitz Rewes, at the first sound of his step, regained her 
 composure, but, with that simplicity which belongs to a really 
 proud nature, she made no attempt to conceal her former agita- 
 tion. She dried her eyes and wet cheeks at her leisure, then 
 stood up, and, disregarding Mudara's apology, asked him his 
 business. 
 
 " Your name conveys no idea to me," she added. 
 
 •' There is no reason why it should, Madame," said he ; " my 
 business is with Mrs. Parflete." 
 
 * Orange does not seem to have suspected that there may have been 
 more causes than one for Lady Fitz Revves's deep emotion.
 
 3i8 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 
 
 She made me a slight sign and I allowed him to pass into the 
 room. 
 
 " Mrs. Parflete is too ill to receive visitors," said Pens^e. 
 
 "No doubt. She has had to suffer a great loss in the death 
 of her husband, but broken hearts often find much consolation 
 in the pity which they inspire." 
 
 He bowed with profound respect, and was careful not to lift 
 his eyes again to her disfigured face. His remark, in the cir- 
 cumstances, showed considerable tact. It induced her to treat 
 him less severely — for by justifying her tears he had relieved 
 her at once from the strain of an inexplicable and painful situa- 
 tion. She blushed a little, and, motioning him for the first time 
 to a seat, said that if he preferred to talk in Spanish — although 
 his English was perfect — I could act as an interpreter. (She 
 referred to me as M. de Haus^e.) To my surprise, he fell in 
 with the suggestion, which she had made simply as a means of 
 including me in the conversation. He turned to me at once 
 and had the audacity to observe in his good, but very rapid 
 Castilian, — 
 
 " M. de Haus6e, I have had the honor of meeting, in times 
 past, many members of your distinguished family. This is a 
 good and charming lady. But her habits ot thought are child- 
 ish. If you have any friendship for Madame the half-sister 
 of His Imperial Highness, the present Archduke Albert of 
 Alberia, you will do all that you can to help me in my mission. 
 I was the private agent of the late Archduke Charles. His 
 daughter knows me well. I am her trustee. It is imperative that 
 I should see her. My cause is that of God and the Archduchess. 
 If the Archduchess fail — I trust in God, and on Him I must 
 wholly depend unless you aid me." 
 
 Now it had seemed to me, that, as a politician, he belonged 
 to that vast impotent crowd of educated beings who, while they 
 sympathize with the Cause of God as opposed to other causes, 
 do, on their own part, nothing to help it. But, in spite of his alter- 
 nate shifts of mood, I could not suspect him of absolute treach- 
 ery. He was no doubt an instrument in some intrigue, but to err 
 in over-much suspecting is the easiest made and hardest meniled 
 of all mistakes. I had no knowledge of Mrs. Parflete's affairs. 
 I feared that Parflete had spent the greater part of her fortune, 
 and it seemed but too probable that her father's sudden death 
 would leave her in an unstable — it not precarious — situation, 
 Parflete, on his honeymoon, had boasted of his wife's jewels, 
 which she had inherited from her mother, and which, from his 
 account, were of great value — some, unquestionably, being heir- 
 looms in the Imperial family. He mentioned, among other
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 319 
 
 things, a famous emerald which had belonged to the great Em- 
 press Maria-Teresa. I had never seen Mrs. Parflete in full- 
 dress, and I could not say, therefore, whether she still possessed 
 these ornaments. In any case, she did not seem to care greatly 
 for things of the kind. But, so far as her worldly comfort went, 
 they were of the highest importance. 1 felt that Mudara had 
 matters of real moment to communicate, and, acting out my 
 part of interpreter, I repeated the substance of his appeal, to- 
 gether with further entreaties on my own part, I knew that 
 the demands of business are, so far from a penalty, a godsend 
 in times when the mind is over-charged with emotion and wholly 
 at the mercy of every sentimental caprice or morbid impulse. 
 I urged the point with such persistence that Pens^e, after an 
 hour of wavering in her usual manner, finally agreed to co-oper- 
 ate in a plan which Mudara himself proposed. It was this. 
 Lady Fitz Rewes should first invite ^Madame to walk a little in 
 her favourite haunt — the chapel. Then she might be induced 
 to rest for a short time in the boudoir where we were then sit- 
 ting. That would be a f.uorable moment to show her Mudara's 
 card and ask her to receive him. 
 
 "She would never do it," said Pensee, at first : "she has re- 
 fused to see every one and she is too ill to talk." 
 
 " I know Madame," answered the Spaniard, in English " she 
 would not hesitate — she would grant me an audience at once. 
 It is one of the noblest intellects in Europe. Weak natures are 
 always firm when it is to their palpable advantage to show a 
 little pliancy. But the strong soul knows when to yield. 
 Madame is never unalterable at the wrong moment." 
 
 "I will do my best," said Lady Fitz Rewes, who then rose 
 and left us, promising to send us word ifher attempts at persua- 
 sion proved successful. 
 
 " It will be my painful duty," said Mudara, when she had 
 gone, "to inform the Archduchess of her father's death." 
 
 " I had hoped," said 1, " that this news might have been with- 
 held for the present." 
 
 For a moment he said nothing. Then he made an effort — 
 not to reply, but to interrogate, — 
 
 " Do you think that the loss will cause her much grief ? " 
 
 " I am sure of it. Can you suppose that she lacks natural 
 feelings ? " 
 
 "Certainly not," said Mudara. "Indeed, I always assume 
 that she has every human attribute — in its virtuous extreme, 
 be it understood. Therefore she is honorably ambitious. She 
 is the grand-daughter of an Emperor." 
 
 " That would be the last consideration to enter her mind."
 
 320 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 
 
 " The problems which time has ripened and which the future 
 evokes demand a bold solution," he replied. " Her Imperial 
 Highness must realize the duties of her station." * 
 
 I concealed my amazement, and, seeming to disregard these 
 strange observations, I asked him whether he could give me any 
 further details — than those already received through Baron 
 Zeuill and Lord Soham — ot Parflete's suicide. He replied that 
 he could not. I expressed, without paraphrase, my conviction 
 that the man still lived. He said that nothing was impossible in 
 the case of such a scoundrel — that he himself (Mudara) had 
 found the suicide story hard of digestion. " But," he added, 
 with ingenuousness, " we cannot get away from the proofs. 
 They are conclusive. They would satisfy any Court of Justice 
 in the world. He has made his death so clear, that, if he should 
 wish to come to life again, he would experience much difficulty 
 in establishing his identity ! We have nothing to fear one way 
 or the other." 
 
 " I was not thinking of fear but of fraud." 
 
 "Then that," said he, firmly, "is all imagination. Dispel 
 such an idea from your mind. He had everything to lose and 
 nothing to gain by giving out his death. He forfeits his pension, 
 and his wife may re-marry. These things do not matter when 
 one is in another world, but while one is here, they matter 
 greatly. I could believe that he might have a morbid wish to 
 read his own obituaries — he was so inordinately vain. Fraud, 
 however, is another affair. He was awkward when it came to 
 vulgar misdeeds. He had every vice, but he could always per- 
 suade himself that they were refinements — evidence of culture 
 and superiority of spirit. He drank to excess, yet no one ever 
 saw him drunk. The first time he cheated at cards, however, 
 he was found out. Parflete's whole history might be conveyed 
 in those two facts. Madame Duboc used to call him the bap- 
 tized satyr. Did you ever meet that charming and accom- 
 plished lady ? I believe she had not one true friend in the 
 world." 
 
 I told him that I had seen her on two occasions, and I spoke 
 of her extraordinary beauty. 
 
 " It was miraculous," said he, " and the Archduke's infatua- 
 tion could not be blamed. She was the sole love of his life, and 
 although he was a hard man, he remembered her till the end of 
 his days. And, after all, she was his canonical wife. No doubt, 
 her ancestors, too, could be found, if necessary, sufficiently noble ! 
 
 * It should be remembered that Orange was not then aware of the various intrigues at 
 the Alberian Court, nor of the late Archduke's determination to recognize his daughter 
 publicly* 
 
 f ♦
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 321 
 
 The time has come for her daughter to stand on her rights. 
 The marriage was and has ever been acknowledged by Rome, 
 and although His Holiness would no doubt prefer to maintain 
 silence on so disturbing a question, he could not, for all the 
 threats of Europe, de'ny her legitimacy." 
 
 All in a moment, through the gloom, I saw the color of his 
 dangerous schemes. 
 
 " A nobleman," said I — " or a country gentleman — who owns 
 even a small estate may exercise certain, if limited, powers, and 
 call himself master of his fate, but a prince reduced to a private 
 station is in a wretched state of dependence. He is useless in 
 politics, a burden to his country, and his title, separated from 
 royal or official duties, is an empty term. He is, in fact, a 
 spectacle of ruin or of scorn. Mrs. Parflete — whose one desire 
 is to live in retirement — would never care to excite public atten- 
 tion by asserting a dignity which would create a thousand 
 slanders — a thousand enemies, and give not a single privilege." 
 
 Here, with a candid yet piercing glance, he mterrupted me, — 
 
 " You forget one thing. The little Archduke, her half- 
 brother, is a sickly, half-witted boy." 
 
 "Sickly princes often live the longest." 
 
 "When they are virtuous — not otherwise. But this one is a 
 poor, eiTeminate lad, who dances, who has a room full of dolls 
 and plays on the fiddle two hours every day, more because he is 
 ordered to do so than from any taste for music ! " 
 
 His tone, I noticed, was more sorrowful than contemptuous, 
 and the accent of regret — inappropriate for words so bitter, made 
 an impression upon me. 
 
 " It comes to this, then," said I, " you wish Madame to de- 
 clare her claim to the Throne ? " 
 
 " It comes to that," said he, after a short pause. 
 
 My estimate of his sagacity did not allow me to think him 
 other than a liar in this last assertion. He must have known 
 that the course of action which he proposed could only recom- 
 mend itself to the enemy of all human happiness. Had he 
 seemed a vain person, I would have accused him frankly of 
 speaking in contradiction to his own obvious good statesmanship 
 — with more compliments to the same effect. To which, in his 
 anxiety to save his credit, he might have replied in such a way 
 as to betray his real sympathies. But he had too intelligent a 
 mind to be caught by bait so common, and indeed, everything 
 about him betokened fanaticism rather than rascality. He was, 
 perhaps, bound by an unscrupulous devotion to some person, 
 some cause, or some idea of duty. A peculiar hardness and self- 
 sufficiency about his whole being restrained, however, the notion 
 21
 
 322 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 
 
 that he was actuated by any especial affection for an individual. 
 He had, I decided, that form of egoism which renders a man 
 rebellious under authority, but a slave to his own private and 
 fantastic rules of conduct. He reminded me of those lawyers 
 who, well knowing a client to be a rogue, do their utmost, as a 
 point of professional honor, to prove the innocent party in the 
 wrong. An instinct warned me that he was acting m some 
 double interest — partly for the Archduchess and partly for the 
 young Archduke — that he had come to preach false doctrine in 
 order to be taught the true, I knew that a woman ofMadame's 
 high spirit and majestic character had nothing to fear in a 
 verbal duel with a man of his class. I answered him, therefore, 
 in such a way that he could not be certain whether I was in jest 
 or in earnest. 
 
 " Saul," said I, " went out to seek asses and found a kingdom, 
 but I have never yet heard of any man or woman who went out 
 for a kingdom and did not meet witii contempt ! " 
 
 He lifted his eyebrows in surprise and seemed at a loss for 
 the right reply. 
 
 " I grant," said he, at last, " that the question of the Throne is 
 remote and difficult. But she can form, in the mean time, some 
 alliance worthy of her blood. When the period of mourning 
 has elapsed, she will need a protector. Is she not alone m the 
 world ? " 
 
 "There is much in what you say, "said I. 
 
 " But surely you agree with me ? " he insisted, 
 
 " In such a matter, I could agree only with the lady herself. 
 If she saw fit to remain as she is, I should feel bound to honor 
 the decision. But if she resolved on marriage, I should think it 
 a wise step." 
 
 "Even supposing that her choice fell on the Marquis de Cas- 
 trillon ? He is poor, he is disreputable, but he is young, he is 
 handsome, and he is a grandee of Spain." 
 
 " But, admitting all these high qualifications," said I, "would 
 he still be thought sufficiently distinguished to form a party in 
 any alliance ? " 
 
 "You are a little satirical, Monsieur," said he, smiling. 
 "There are, however, but three families in Europe of so many 
 descents as the Hausees, and the house of Castrillon is not, I 
 own, one of those three." 
 
 This foolish remark was delivered with such an air of en- 
 couragement that it was impossible to ignore its meaning. I 
 laughed outright at his impudence, and said that Madame wss 
 not the woman to base her opi:.icn of a man on the empty fact 
 that he had a few descents more or less than another. But the
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 323 
 
 situation was becoming, I tliought, far too intimate. I knew no 
 more of Mudara than his card, his account of himself, and my 
 own instinct told me. I determined to change the subject and 
 I did so most abruptly — wishing to show him that I would dis- 
 cuss the Archduchess and her affairs no further. I had made up 
 my mind — in the face of his assertions and his consummate 
 mastery ot the Spanish tongue — that the Agent was no real 
 Spaniard. That haughty, reserved and chivalrous race does 
 not produce men of his calibre, and, when persons claiming 
 that country show dispositions opposed to the national char- 
 acter, it will be found that they have sprung from alien stock 
 and have neither the tissue nor the traditions of the superb 
 people whom they pretend to represent. Mudara, it is true, had 
 the presence and self-possession of one wljo had been born in no 
 ignoble state : he was a subordinate yet never an inferior ; he 
 could flatter without becoming servile ; his eye was fearless, his 
 features were clear ; every gesture, every e.xpression, showed, 
 unmistakably, pure blood. But of what kind ? Chivalry was 
 as far from him as vulgarity : he was not a gentleman in our 
 sense of the word : nor was he base. 
 
 " I suppose you have been often in Alberia ? " said I, " indeed, 
 a great traveller in all parts of the globe ? " 
 
 On his replying in the affirmative, I was able to drive the 
 conversation toward international politics, on which he expressed 
 himself promiscuously in French, Italian, and German, accord- 
 ing to the subjects under discussion. He spoke all three Ian- 
 gages with perfect fluency, but he acted them, also, borrowing 
 in each case the mannerisms which are associated respectively 
 with the French, Italian and German nations. He could have 
 passed, in ordinary circumstances, for a native of any one of 
 these countries. Half in fun, I addressed him, first in the meagre 
 Russian, and then in the less Turkish, at my command. His 
 Russian was too good for me. I begged him to stop. After a 
 certain hesitation, he answered my Turkish remark, and, for 
 the first time during our long interview, he became natural. 
 He was at last himself.* I was careful not to betray my dis- 
 covery, and, to his evident relief, I resumed the conversation 
 in Spanish. 
 
 * Lucas Mudara was a Turk who, either from conviction or interest, had professed in 
 his early youth the Christian faith. He received the greater part of his education in 
 Russia — where he was ordained priest in the Greek Church. Five years afterwards, he 
 quarrelled with his Bishop and fled to Alberia. There, in consequence of his talents, 
 his gift of languages, and his supposed sincerity, he was well received in every quarter. 
 Later on, he established himself as a silk merchant at Madrid, where, as h e was never 
 seen to observe any religious duties, his neighbors regarded him as a heretic.
 
 324 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 
 
 " Do you not think," said I, <■ that the great religious war of 
 the future will rest between the Christian, the Jew and the 
 Mussulman ? " 
 
 "Between the Church of Rome, the Jew and the Mussul- 
 man," said he ; " Christians outside the Church would merely 
 come like birds and beasts of prey— alter the battle ! They 
 talk about Jesus Christ, but they take their gospel from Vol- 
 taire. The Mussulman will fight for God and his prophet ; 
 Protestants will fight only for their purse. Prick that— and you 
 will find them as meek as the saints and as hardy as the martyrs." 
 I warned him that patriotism was not yet an extinct virtue 
 in any European country— whether Greek, Lutheran, Calvinistic, 
 or English in creed. 
 
 "True," said he, "but patriotism and religion have become 
 utterly dissociated in the policy of every Christian Government. 
 Patriotism itself is now a profitable name for commercial in- 
 terests, and State theology has degenerated into a mere science 
 of outward appearances. What Anglo-Saxon in his senses could 
 shed one drop of blood for the Church of England as it stands 
 at present 1 He would as soon go to the stake for the General 
 Post Office, or for the Lord Mayor and his Aldermen." 
 
 "There," said L unable to refrain from laughter, "you are 
 in error. English people love honesty and hate iniquity. 
 They may not be profoundly religious, and certainly they are 
 not well instructed in matters of faith and doctrine, but so long 
 as they can believe in a person or an idea, they will fight for 
 both with the courage of lions and a fidelity more than heroic. 
 Their clergy — as a body— are remarkable for uprightness of 
 character and every social virtue. Many of them have a fervent 
 piety. You could not read their writings nor hear their ser- 
 mons nor watch their lives and doubt it. I rarely meet one 
 but I feel that Church would be the stronger for such a son. 
 Once convinced and once given the courage of their convic- 
 tions — and that, when a man is bound and fettered by family 
 ties is no light thing — they w-ould carry the world before them. 
 They are fine fellows — a bold stroke more and they would be 
 fine priests." 
 
 "Nevertheless," said he, dryly, "your great Martyr, St. 
 Thomas Becket has not had many successors at Canterbury ! 
 But his mother was a Saracen ; he had the Oriental fervor in 
 his veins." 
 
 "That is a legend," I replied. ^ 
 
 " It has never been disproved," answered Mudara. 
 
 " I have never doubted it," said L 
 
 We were interrupted at this moment by the entrance of Lady
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 325 
 
 Fitz Rewes. Si e was pale, but whether from anger or from 
 grief I could not decide, and she spoke under her breath. 
 
 " Mrs. Parflete has gone to the chapel," she said, " if you 
 follow me you may be able to see her and judge tor yourselves 
 how little fit she is to be disturbed by strangers." 
 
 The idea of spying upon a lady in such distress seemed to me 
 detestable. I declined to go. 
 
 " But I insist," said Pensde ; " I can act no longer on my 
 own responsibility. It is right that Mr. Mudara should satisfy 
 himself of his ward's condition, and as for you — " 
 
 She looked at me and bit her lip — 
 
 " Will you not come," she asked, " as my friend ? " 
 
 She stepped out on to the lawn and we followed her. 
 
 It was now about four o'clock in the afternoon. The sea was 
 as tremulous as the trees on an Autumn day when they wait 
 for the windy scythe of Winter. As I beheld it, I seemed to be 
 looking at the reflection of my own heart. The conversation 
 with Mudara — slight as it was— had roused the old doubt, 
 which always slept lightly, that I was obedient to my true voca- 
 tion. And this, together with the joy and dread combined of 
 seeing Brigit once more, my terror at the possible effects of her 
 illness, the despair caused by my poverty — what had I to offer 
 her ? the piercing tear — certainty— uncertainty — that she cared 
 for me as a friend only — made me so dazed with wretchedness 
 that reason itself seemed a torment and a disease. There is 
 something, however, in the very p esence of the ocean with its 
 extent, its depth, its changeabler :;ss which lifts the soul to the 
 remembrance of that Divine Gr xe which changes not and is 
 so vast that Heaven above the sky cannot contain it. 
 
 I sent my hopes beyond thij land of the rustling of wings 
 where, to our short sight, all powers and emotions rest a mo- 
 ment only to flee the faster away. But, I know, that, in the 
 kingdom of God from Whom there is no hiding-place in heaven 
 or in hell, in the uttermost parts of the sea or in the darkness, 
 those, whose love has been found steadfast during the flying 
 days ol adversity, shall love forever in a fi.xed and perfect hap- 
 piness. Remembering this, I was able to collect myself and 
 throw aside despair. 
 
 We went through a grassy lane and then down into an under- 
 ground passage from which we finally emerged into a kind of 
 wood. Here, under the shade of some large beech-trees and 
 much over-grown by ivy, stood the ruins of an ancient Gothic 
 church. But tour w-indows — or rather clefts in the masonry 
 — and two crumbling walls preserved even a little of the original 
 design. The rest was broken into wide gaps and irregular
 
 326 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 
 
 arches through which we saw masses of foliage and gUmpses 
 of the sea. The floor was made up of moss-covered fragments 
 — some of them grave-stones, their names and inscriptions 
 wholly obscured by time. One corner, however, had apparently 
 been restored, for it was separated from the rest by a rusty gate 
 wrought in iron to represent a death's-head, cross-bones, and a 
 sand-glass, The treasure it protected was a dismal monument 
 erected to the memory of Hugo de Baskerville, eleventh Vis- 
 count Fitz Rewes — a nobleman who had been well distinguished 
 and thoroughly forgotten during the reign of Queen Anne. On 
 the wall just behind this granite tribute, some figures of women 
 in flowing drapery and with hands clasped in the attitude of 
 prayer were rudely carved. Even in the sunlight and under a 
 sky as blue as Italy's, it was a damp and melancholy spot. The 
 strong salt air rose from the marsh-lands beyond : jackdaws, sea- 
 gulls and curlews had made it their haunt : its sacredness had de- 
 parted and it'did not seem to me like hallowed ground. I was 
 able to observe all these details for Lady Fitz Rewes told us to 
 remain there and watch till Mrs. Parflete went into the Lady 
 Chapel. The passage between the Lady Chapel and the part in 
 which we stood, had, for some reason, been closed up. Ivy 
 now concealed what may have been visible of the brick-work, 
 and it was not until Pens^e drew our attention to a small window 
 — quite hidden under the leaves — that I fully realized the part 
 we were expected to play. 
 
 There could have been no question of Mudara's legal right to 
 assure himself of his ward's state of health and mind. Had he 
 refused to let that particular occasion pass, it would have shown 
 ordinary good feeling, no doubt, but at the cost of duty. Much 
 as this harsh consideration grated, I could not, in common justice, 
 cast it aside. Of Lady Fitz Rewes's friendship for the Arch- 
 duchess, of my portion in her welfare he had — he could have 
 had — not the smallest safe knowledge. That we were her wilful 
 enemies was hardly, in the circumstances, conceivable, but how 
 far our devotion was selfish or to what a degree it may have 
 been tinctured by motives contrary to her real interests, he could 
 not, by any human means, decide until he himself had seen and 
 conversed with Brigit herself. I sought in vain for an easier 
 solution of the difficulty than the one before me. I had, for a 
 moment, so stood that Mudara could not approach the window. 
 I stepped aside and walked away — leaving him to spy alone and, 
 so far as I was concerned, unobserved. 
 
 Lady Fitz Rewes followed me. 
 
 " Surely you wish to see her ? " said she. 
 
 I dared not trust myself to give an answer.
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 327 
 
 " O Robert ! " she exclaimed, "you are very cruel to me. 
 But you are more cruel to yourself. How you are suffering ! 
 Your eyes are full of blood." 
 
 Mudara called her and she glided back to him. Presently 
 they both joined me. I had formed such a violent hatred of the 
 Agent that I kept my glance from his face, so I do not know 
 how he looked. His tone, when he spoke, was contident. 
 
 " The Archduchess," said he, " seems ill and in grief, but I 
 am certain that she is mistress of all her faculties. The Arch- 
 duke, her father, was subject to these attacks of reticence. 
 They are a blessed gift. I must beg her to see me and without 
 delay. My business will not keep." 
 
 I cannot deny that these words gave me a great relief. When 
 he suggested that Lady Fitz Rewes should go at once to the 
 Chapel and inform Madame that he was waiting without, I sup- 
 ported his wish. Pens^e went away and, after a short time 
 which seemed to me interminable, came back. 
 
 " Mrs. Parflete will see you in there," she said : " that is the 
 path." 
 
 He received the message with an air of cold self-satisfaction, 
 bowed to both of us, and stole out in the direction Pens^e had 
 indicated. I commended my poor Lady to God, to our Lord 
 Jesus, to the Blessed Virgin, to her Guardian Angel and to all 
 the saints. But my friend unable, perhaps, to account for my 
 silence, struck me on the shoulder with all the little force of her 
 small, delicate arm. 
 
 " You are so stubborn," she cried, " and you are so unkind. 
 You do not understand me and you never will. I knew that 
 nothing would induce you to look through the window at Brigit, 
 but I could not do less than give you the opportunity. You 
 are longing to see her. I am sure of it. I have never known 
 such a case of infatuation. Yet you treat me like a stranger. 
 You deny me your confidence." 
 
 Full, to the utmost measure of her imagined ill-usage, she 
 indulged in a long scoldmg complaint made up of rhetorical 
 questions addressed to herself. Heaven, and me. God knew 
 this and God knew that. Had she not loaded my friend — solely 
 on my account — with kindnesses ? Had she not shown her the 
 most tender devotion and the love of a sister? Had she ever 
 denied her rare beauty, her virtue, her sweetness of disposition ? 
 Had she sought to make mischief between us ? Had she (Pens^ej 
 been as many other women in the same strange situation, she 
 would most certainly have done so. 1 could not get a word in 
 edgeways. She went on with great vehemence and at last — as 
 I had expected — burst into tears.
 
 328 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 
 
 " You go about," said she, " making everyone's life a burden 
 because no one knows how to take you ! You have reduced 
 Brigit to such wretchedness, that, although she has good sense 
 much beyond her years, she thinks she wants to be a Nun — a 
 life to which she is utterly unsuited. I would take the veil to- 
 morrow gladly. But her sorrow is not like mine. I have been 
 plunged in deep affliction. The only consolation I can have is 
 afforded me by the reflection that I tended Lionel in his last 
 hours, and that his latest breath was drawn when I was with 
 him ! No, her sorrow is not like unto my sorrow ! " 
 
 It was, no doubt, most natural that comparisons should arise 
 in her mind between the infamous Parflete and that perfect 
 knight Fitz Rewes, who, as Lord Wight frequently told me, 
 "was the most graceful and accomplished gentleman of the gen- 
 eration he adorned." Had his widow allowed me to speak, I 
 would have said all I could to show my profound sympathy. 
 But, without a pause, she continued reciting her string of griev- 
 ances and even went so far as to reproach me with the early 
 death of her parents which took place before I was born. One 
 moment she seemed to be making, to my infinite embarrass- 
 ment, a general confession : the ne.xt, she was accusing all her 
 friends of malign coldness and the blackest ingratitude. At 
 last, however. God in mercy restored her temper. She declared 
 it was my fault and began to smile as prettily as her consider- 
 able gifts in that direction permitted. 
 
 "Now let us be kind to each other," said she, " and talk affec- 
 tionately as brother and sister should ! " 
 
 As I had not opened my mouth once during the preceding 
 interview, I begged her pardon humbly for any remark and all 
 the remarks I had made. This she readily and most graciously 
 granted, but not without warning me that I ought to be more 
 careful of wounding people's feelmgs. She understood me and 
 was willing to make every allowance for my humors — for I had 
 shown a line sense of honor in truly hard circumstances. Yet 
 all the same it had been the Will of God to make a way out of 
 my perplexity and I was not at all thankful or nice. And 1 made 
 it most disagreeable and trying and a fearful strain for every 
 one concerned. 
 
 " What, after all, have I said ? " I exclaimed, by this time fairly 
 exasperated. 
 
 "You have hurt me very much indeed," she answered, "but 
 I lorgive and forget it now that you admit that you were in the 
 wrong and behaved badly ! But I should always forgive you in 
 any case, because I am fond of you and I am sure that you mean 
 well and wouldn't grieve me for worlds."
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 329 
 
 •« There," said I, " you are right." 
 
 " As if I had ever wronged you ! " she exclaimed, " as if I 
 could, dear Robert ! " 
 
 She spoke with angelic amiability and I was too grateful for 
 the change to quarrel with her reasons for reconciliation. 
 
 She leaned upon me, and we paced the narrow area circum- 
 scribed by the fallen walls. I was trying to imagine the inter- 
 view between Brigit and Mudara. My heart and my thoughts 
 were far away from the kuul, capricious creature by my side. 
 But she talked with vehemence about my future, and assured 
 me that I ought to marry, 
 
 " Ordinary rules," said she, " do not apply in extraordinary 
 cases. For once, dear Robert, listen to common sense. Be 
 guided by me. You both love each other very much. It is a 
 good and honorable love. I want you to be happy. And she is 
 all I could wish for you — she is, indeed." 
 
 She paused and glanced up into my face. 
 
 " I suppose you think I am unnatural," said she. 
 
 " Why unnatural ? " I asked. 
 
 " Not to be jealous.' 
 
 " Angels cannot be jealous." 
 
 She drew away and said, with great petulance, — 
 
 " I hate always being called an angel ! You never give me 
 credit for any nice feeling ! You seem to thmk that it requires 
 no effort to be a good friend. But it is an effort all the same." 
 
 " In some cases, certainly. In yours — never." 
 
 " Oh, very well. Have your own way. I am a trog then ! 
 I am quite different from all other human beings ! I am par- 
 ticularly anxious to give up every one I care for ! It gives me 
 perfect joy to step into the background and send some other 
 woman forward ! Of course ! I am like the poor doll who 
 loved to have pins hammered into her head ! Oh, how stupid 
 men are, and how foolish they can be ! " 
 
 She went on and on and on in the same strain till she seemed 
 to be a humming-bird with a lamenting, femmine, yet prettily 
 musical note. And although she herself was very near me, her 
 voice sounded far away. I would not have been alone — for her 
 presence was a help and a pleasure. Now and then I looked 
 down at her little foot, or remarked her soft, trans/.arent com- 
 plexion which flushed and paled with every passing whim. Her 
 flaxen curls fluttered in the wind. Once she stopped short in 
 the midst of an oration on " the Tomb," and exclaimed, — 
 
 " Aren't they ridiculous ? " 
 
 " What ?" said I. 
 
 " My curls ! " said she. " I wish they would go out of fashion.
 
 330 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 
 
 But they look so well on the Empress ! . . . Yes, I hope to be 
 buried, please God, beside Lionel." 
 
 Lionel's name was never long absent from her lips. When- 
 ever I heard it, I would say, " Poor darling ! what trouble you 
 have had ! " 
 
 " Haven't I," she would answer. " I have had a lot of sorrow, 
 haven't I, Robert ? " 
 
 Had it been possible, I believe she would have spent her life 
 gladly repeating over with me that same little dialogue — agam 
 and again — without a single variation.
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 331 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 Before proceeding further, it will be necessary to put 
 before the reader a few facts from Mudara's Confession — 
 a document to which reference has once already been 
 made. In this manuscript, it is clearly shown that the 
 Agent's visit to Catesby was of an odious sort. There is 
 a treachery that is knit up — partly from warped principles, 
 partly from motives, which, if never excusable, are always 
 comprehensible. But there is another kind, more rare and 
 certainly more dangerous, that is less a studied policy 
 than a disposition of mind — a habit of conduct to be exer- 
 cised impartially in all relationships and in every situation 
 of life, even at a heavy loss, even at the risk sometimes 
 of certain self-destruction. The need to deceive becomes 
 in fact a passion. Its slave must lie, must dissimulate, 
 must betray because his soul, by submitting to the bond- 
 age, has gradually lost the power to bring forth an honest 
 thought. That Mudara meant no deliberate malice toward 
 his ward is as evident as his own double-dealing. It is 
 probable that he hoped — from sheer amiability — that she 
 would come unharmed out of the snares he had himself 
 prepared for her ruin. But he wished to ascertain, let the 
 event be what it might, first, whether she was already 
 involved, or could be tempted to engage, in any conspiracy 
 against the Alberian Government ; secondly, how far she 
 was concerned in the Carlist movement. His third object 
 was to urge on, by all the means in his power, her mar- 
 riage with Robert de Hausee — commonly known as 
 Robert Orange. Parflete had been paid a large sum for
 
 S32 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 
 
 his feigned suicide, but he was a man of uncertain im- 
 morality. His remorseful return to the scene was, at any 
 hour, possible, and, although such inconvenient penitence 
 was to be held at bay by bribes and menaces so long as 
 either could move him, and by precautions so long as they 
 could be invented, both Zeuill and Mudara felt, that, there 
 was not a moment to be wasted in bringing about what 
 they were pleased to call /he De Hauske complication. All 
 their plots and efforts were directed towards preserving 
 every Lutheran — indeed, every Protestant power — from 
 the Catholic influence and the Legitimate Causes. No 
 claim, no party was so slight or so purely sentimental as 
 to seem unworthy of suppression. To crush the Papacy 
 was, no doubt, impossible. The heathen Emperors, the 
 Greeks of Constantinople, the barbarian hordes, the Lom- 
 bards, the Normans, the nobles of Rome, the Emperors 
 of Germany and France, the Kings of England and Spain 
 who had striven with the Pontiffs, had passed away, all 
 out of power and many out of remembrance. It had been 
 proved that " God made the nations for health: there is 
 no kingdom of hell upon the earth. " But if one could not 
 root out the Church, it was always easy to set up forces 
 against it, and, if one could not destroy the great Catholic 
 families, one might always observe that old tradition in 
 European diplomacy — "an alliance against the House 
 of Bourbon is the most desirable connection in the 
 world." For this last reason, even had there been none 
 other, Brigit, as a conspicuous adherent to the Carlist 
 Cause, would have been a marked figure for "manage- 
 ment." Modern refinement shrinks from crude methods 
 of persecution. It is eminently civil, well-meaning, a 
 little wiser, that is all, than its victim. We shall see the 
 method by which "superior wisdom," in the present case, 
 labored for expediency as opposed to "superstition." 
 Mudara, on leaving Pense'e and Robert, pursued the
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 333 
 
 path which led to the other side of the old ruin. The 
 walls of the Lady Chapel were so leafy with their own 
 dense vines, and the small structure, as a whole, stood so 
 sheltered by the beech and fir trees, that a stranger would 
 have passed it by without suspecting its existence. It had 
 often escaped, therefore, the cruel attention of Catesby's 
 many besiegers, and it had suffered chiefly from the in- 
 visible hands of time and neglect. Mudara found that 
 the path abruptly ceased. It had grown imperceptibly 
 narrower till, at last, it terminated in the long weeds and 
 waving grass. The footsteps of the two women who had 
 preceded him had left, however, slight traces here and 
 there. These he followed for a little distance, when they 
 stopped before a large impenetrable briar-bush. He tried 
 to peer between the branches, and, in so doing, felt it 
 yield. Pushing harder, he saw that it grew out of a box 
 attached to — and concealing — a low oaken door. This 
 stood ajar and led into a small stone vestibule at the end 
 of which hung a heavy velvet curtain — very faded yet 
 evidently placed there but recently. He drew this aside 
 and found himself in the Chapel. 
 
 The crumbling walls were still whole : the small and 
 glassless windows were dark with foliage ; and such 
 light as entered came in through the wide gaps in the 
 roof The altar and every trace of it had been swept 
 away, and a collection of rakes, hods, wheel-barrows, 
 spades, bottles and watering pots now stood where, for 
 five centuries or more, the Holy Sacrifice of the Mass 
 had been offered, and the faithful had knelt to receive the 
 the Sacred Host. Brigit, as the Agent entered, was sit- 
 ting in the furthest corner, dressed in a plain gray gown, 
 her hair concealed under a black lace veil, her hands 
 tightly clasped over an open Breviary which lay upon 
 her lap. The little that was visible of her face was ashen 
 and every feature seemed to have received the twist of
 
 334 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 
 
 woe. Grief has a harsher touch than death. Mudara, 
 who was by nature little disposed to pity, shuddered to 
 see so severe a change in a countenance once the symbol 
 of all those radiant essences which go to make the magic 
 of youth and gayety. But at the sight of the Agent, the 
 hue of life and blood swept into her cheeks. The sudden 
 emotion, the necessity for speech, the vivid remembrance 
 this man brought up of her days in Madrid, roused her 
 spirit to a more poignant sorrow — a keener realization of 
 the demand upon her courage. She rose to her feet : the 
 spell of an impotent yet blighting melancholy fell away. 
 She lifted the heavy veil : her bright hair shone out above 
 her brighter eyes, and what had seemed a vanishing 
 spectre of womanhood was once again the defiant, mys- 
 terious and beautiful girl whose character and fate alike 
 had inspired intrigue and baffled speculation. Mudara 
 knelt and kissed her hand, then rose, retired two paces, 
 and stood with a bent head in an attitude of extreme 
 deference. 
 
 "Madame," said he, " there are many pressing matters 
 to be considered. Your Imperial Highness must know — " 
 
 "This is a new thing. I don't care for it. My mother 
 was never so addressed." 
 
 "The circumstances are new, Madame. There can 
 never be too many good Catholic Princesses." 
 
 " I agree with you. But my life is not among Princes 
 and I am anxious to talk, without waste of time, about 
 my own affairs." 
 
 Mudara's self-control for a moment deserted him. A 
 suspicion that she, too, possessed more than ordinary 
 skill in dissimulation fanned his indifference into violent 
 antagonism. Enraged at his own inability to understand 
 a character which had so little in common with the vulgar 
 estimate of feminine weakness, and regarding her judg- 
 ment with that awe which soon develops into hatred, he
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 335 
 
 resolved to strike his worst blow at once and in the 
 roughest manner. 
 
 "These are your affairs, Madame," he said, his olive 
 face glowing with resentment. "There is a kingdom 
 waiting to be claimed. Will you demand your just rights 
 — a Divine Right— if it comes to that, or submit to any 
 and all indignities.? The Archduke, your father, is dead." 
 
 The wanton cruelty of this speech carried its own 
 antidote. Brigit's mental fortitude rallied and drew fresh 
 strength from the very insolence of the Agent's attack. 
 Her hands and lips tightened : the color deepened in her 
 eyes : she paced the Chapel floor for a few minutes without 
 speaking, but, when she finally turned to address Mudara, 
 he saw no expression except grief on her countenance, and 
 he listened in vain for any sign of inward agitation in her 
 
 voice. 
 
 "Then, if my father is dead," she said, "in whose 
 interest are you acting ? " 
 
 "In yours, Madame, if you will permit it." 
 
 "You should first learn, in that case, what my interests 
 are. If I have the smallest claim on my father's estate, I 
 renounce it gladly in favor of the Archduke Albert, my 
 brother, whom I do not know and who will never, in 
 this world, know me." 
 
 "Madame, it is my duty to point out certain facts of 
 which, apparently, you are quite ignorant. The Arch- 
 duke Charles, before his sudden and lamentable death, 
 was especially anxious that you should adopt a title 
 more in keeping with your position as the legitimate 
 daughter of His Imperial Highness." 
 
 She interrupted him, — 
 
 "I disposed of this matter weeks ago. Baron Zeuill 
 had my answer then and you must regard that as final." 
 
 " He offered, at that time, an insufficient distinction," 
 said Mudara. "And the case now is changed. The
 
 336 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 
 
 Cardinal has led me to infer that he is wholly on your 
 side. The Marquis of Castrillon and a very strong party 
 are only waiting your commands. I think, Madame, that 
 you take the situation too lightly. I can believe, that, 
 at your age and with your taste for a private life, you 
 shrink from the glory and dangers of a crown. But a 
 strong man fears neither God, nor his fellow-men, nor 
 himself He accepts all the consequences of his qualities, 
 good and bad. A strong woman should be the same. 
 And there is such a thing as duty. Imagine Alberia 
 under a Lutheran Regent, a crew of Lutheran officials, 
 and a child-Archduke who can barely comprehend the 
 difference between conscience and inclination. He is 
 sickly too in health. You are the next heir. Will you 
 toss away your birthright } " 
 
 "1 know," she answered, "that I am tlie lawful child 
 of the lawful marriage between my father the Archduke 
 Charles of Alberia and my mother, Madame Duboc. But 
 you misunderstand the Cardinal if you think that he 
 wishes me to stir up strife in my brothers kingdom. As 
 for the Marquis of Castrillon — he can lead his supporters 
 where they are wanted. I have no need of him or them. 
 Take no thought for me. I am in safety and my welfare 
 is not in the power of fortune. God alone has power 
 over me, I put my trust in Him — not in men nor in their 
 advice." 
 
 "Almighty God, no doubt, is a good Friend, Madame. 
 But why does He with His Omnipotence permit such in- 
 justice and so many horrors in the world? " 
 
 "He could make them cease. But at what a cost.? 
 No less than our Free Will, which, while it makes the mis- 
 ery — makes also the greatness of human nature." 
 
 "Madame is philosophic beyond her years ! Alberia 
 would be happy under the rule of so wise a Princess. 
 But I should be the last to advocate hasty measures even
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 337 
 
 to bring about that blessed consummation. The Arch- 
 duke Albert may live, marry, and have heirs — " 
 
 "Unless he, too, should die as suddenly as my hus- 
 band." 
 
 "Madame.?" 
 
 "I say, unless he, too, should die as suddenly as my 
 husband." 
 
 Mudara dropped his eyes. 
 
 "Such calamities," said he, "are always in the hands 
 of Providence. Who can tell how often or when they 
 will fall ? " 
 
 " Answer this, then," said Brig-it. "Why do you come 
 here to call me by absurd titles and talk about my birth- 
 right, when I do not yet know whether my husband's 
 bodv has been recovered and received burial ? " 
 
 " I feared to revive a painful subject. His body has 
 not been found, but every rite that is customary in such 
 cases will be observed ! " 
 
 " I believe that he was murdered," 
 
 "You have his own letter, Madame." 
 
 "It might be a forgery." 
 
 "These are romantic fears. Villany is only common 
 in story-books. Who, pray — except himself — would wish 
 to murder Mr. Parflete — a gentleman always described as 
 his own enemy .? Suicide was but the final step in a long 
 career devoted to self-injury." 
 
 "I know him and I deny it. There has been foul play 
 somewhere. 
 
 "To a pious mind — such a suspicion is, in reality, a 
 hope. Do you ask me to argue down the first instincts 
 of a true affection ? I will not attempt it. For your sake, 
 I could wish that he had been killed by other hands than 
 his own. Let me confess that I have even tried to think so. 
 You might then take some consolation in revenge. But 
 what then? He is still dead, and you are his widow — a girl 
 3?
 
 338 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 
 
 in years, alone in the world, yet, by the mercy of God, not 
 unprovided for. The Archduke has left you a fortune — half 
 a million of marks, the Villa Miraflores in Northern France, 
 and a large sum for the purchase of an estate — preferably 
 in England. Madame should have some fixed home. 
 Plants and trees may be trained for transplantation from 
 place to place, but they do not acquire a perfect form. 
 They take no root and they remain — until they fade — 
 TaQXQ appearances. Madame will not be happy nor truly 
 mistress of herself till she is settled in her own establish- 
 ment." 
 
 To weigh other minds by our own is the false scale 
 by which the greater number of us miscalculate all hu- 
 man actions and most human characters. Mudara had re- 
 gained his normal smoothness, and he was anxious to try 
 less direct appeals to Brigit's vanity than those he had so 
 unsuccessfully essayed at the beginning of their interview. 
 Strangely enough, it was his own cherished — and singu- 
 lar — ambition to be the owner of vast private lands. For 
 modern Kings and Princes he had a genuine contempt — 
 they seemed to him as so many hired oilficials. But he 
 envied his rich colleague the Baron Zeuill, who owned 
 great districts, and was, in fact, an absolute ruler over his 
 own domains. 
 
 It occurred to him, therefore, that Brigit, at the sudden 
 revelation of her wealth, would be led inevitably into the 
 betrayal — either by exclamation, look, tone, or manner, 
 or some ruling sentiment. 
 
 "My poor fathei ! " she said, able to command her 
 tears, but not her sorrow. "I need so little. Was my 
 mother's miniature buried with him "^ " 
 
 Mudara, thrown from his hope, still kept his purpose. 
 
 "Ah," he exclaimed, "if your mother were living, 
 would she not rejoice to see you come at last into your 
 just honors 1 Specie tua et pulchritudine iua intende, pros-
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 339 
 
 pereprocede, etregna. Propter veritatem, et mansuetudinem 
 et justitiam . . . et dediicet ie mirahiliter dextera iua. Audi 
 filia, et vide, et inclina atirem tuam. " * 
 
 This profanity but strengthened her distrust. 
 
 "Your mind runs so much on my royal honors," she 
 •^aid, "that I could almost think that you believe in them ! 
 1 have none. A Prince must reign either by Divine 
 Right, or by the right of conquest, or by the unanimous 
 will of his subjects. The Divine Right is now laughed 
 at. The right of conquest, in my case, is too absurd to 
 be discussed. And as I am unknown in Alberia and my 
 very existence unimagined, the unanimous wish of my 
 subjects could not come into the question." 
 
 "You seem, Madame, to have given some thought to 
 the matter." 
 
 "Naturally," she replied, "for, why not? I have not 
 less ambition than other women. You mistake me alto- 
 gether if you think I have no love of a great position. As 
 for responsibilities — they are inspiring. I have youth and 
 strength and health. I would like well to be acknowl- 
 edged my father's lawful daughter. Perhaps too well. 
 Who can say ? But it is more pleasing to God that I should 
 remain in a private station. And His Will is my happi- 
 ness. What ought He to have done for me, that He has 
 not done?" 
 
 " This is fatalism. It comes strangely from one who 
 would have given her life for the claims of Don Carlos." 
 
 " My conduct in each case had but one motive." 
 
 "And that?" 
 
 " Obedience," she answered, quietly. 
 
 * " In thy comeliness and thy beauty, go forward, fare prosperously 
 and reign. Because of truth, and meekness, and righteousness . . . and 
 thy right hand shall lead thee wonderfully. Hearken, O daughter, and 
 consider and incline thine ear."— Psalm xhv. The Roman Breviary. 
 Translated from the Latin by John, Marquess of Bute.
 
 340 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 
 
 "To whom ? " 
 
 "To my superiors. Don Carlos is the true King of 
 Spain, You are, I fear, among the scoffers who see in 
 the disasters of the vanquished the condemnation of their 
 cause. But those who know by what struggles and sacri- 
 fices, by what tears and blood, all victories of justice are 
 purchased — those who know this — keep their faith above 
 the bitterest reverses and discouragements. The Carlists 
 have right on their side, and some day, they must con- 
 quer." 
 
 "Optimist!" 
 
 "As for me," she continued, " I have no cause at all. 
 My father's first marriage was unwise and unequal. 
 There are higher duties than love. My mother was an 
 actress — what had she to do with archdukes? Surely 
 true pride consists in knowing one's own order and 
 abiding by it. She did know it. She neither thought 
 herself nor desired to be thought a great lady. She craved 
 no title. Her Baptismal name — HcnrieUe-Marie-Joseph — 
 that, and no more, is written on her grave-stone. In the 
 Court of the King of Kings, there is rank, but not as the 
 world sees it. If I am found worthy to stand even 
 within reach of her — I shall know then that I have, in- 
 deed, kept my birthright. That is my answer to Baron 
 Zeuill — to you." 
 
 "Very well. This is your promise for the moment. 
 But would you pledge yourself to that past all retreat.-* 
 Don John of Austria was the natural son of Charles V. 
 and a washerwoman. Yet he became a great Prince. 
 He had no foolish scruples.'' 
 
 " Do you think my scruples foolish ? " 
 
 " I will own, without any gasconade, that I had rather 
 see you less reasonable. It is in ordinary moments and 
 during peace that one should show prudence and fore- 
 thought. But this is a time for impulse, impetuosity,
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 341 
 
 feckless courage — fire ! To be candid, I detect in all you 
 say, the influence of M. de Hausee." 
 
 She colored deeply and made no response, 
 
 •'M. de Hausde," he continued, pressing what he 
 supposed was his first considerable advantage. "M. 
 de Hausee is an aristocrat of aristocrats. He has the 
 fanatical faith and all the prejudices of the ancient 
 Catholic nobility. His father — Henri Dominique, Count 
 de Hausee, as you may be aware, renounced his rank, 
 and exchanged the military for the ecclesiastical profes- 
 sion I We know the rest. A wild love, broken vows, 
 remorse, and penances — the most severe. M. Robert de 
 Hausde has inherited the priestly nature. His life is 
 spent in moral combats. He is not like these other 
 youths who go into Parliament without any political 
 training and without any decided resolution — unless to 
 make a speech and to become distinguished ! In order 
 to win others, he has resolved to conquer, first, himself I 
 He will have to triumph over many public adversaries. 
 Meanwhile, his face is pale with fasts and secret struggles. 
 As I looked upon him, I dropped my eyes in pity and 
 respect. I said to myself — ' It is a good Catholic — firm 
 in faith and righteous in action. He will have no hope — 
 except the hope of Heaven. He will love no woman 
 except with the love of Charity.' But there is another 
 passion in life — as strong and more enduring than the 
 others. I mean the love of domination. This he keeps. 
 He will win souls for God. He rules yours." 
 
 She listened calmly. When he had finished, she made 
 the following reply, — 
 
 "I have never discussed the question of my birth with 
 M. de Hausde. He would not attempt to influence me in 
 the conduct of my private affairs. We know each other, 
 in one sense, but distantly. I admire his fine character. 
 I should value his advice on any subject. It is a sincere
 
 342 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 
 
 pleasure to me to hear him praised. My husband held 
 him in the highest esteem. Have you anything further 
 to say to me ? " 
 
 Her self-possession commended Mudara's allegiance. 
 Innocence, integrity or vmselfishness were beyond his 
 imagination, but this delicate girl of seventeen struck 
 him, at last, as a marvel of coldness and cunning. He 
 owned that the further details of his business would be 
 communicated by letter. He begged, however, to be 
 told whether she intended to remain in England. Her 
 answer astonished him. She was going, she said, as 
 soon as she could travel, to the Convent at Tours. This 
 was the last thing he desired. Her large fortune would 
 be found equally dangerous whether consecrated to the 
 service of God, or squandered on Royalist politics. 
 
 "As M. de Hause'e is an old friend," he said, "you 
 will, no doubt, allow him, when you fix your date of 
 departure, to arrange the details of your journey. Per- 
 haps he is here to-day for that purpose." 
 
 "I will not trouble him. He is in Scotland with Lord 
 Wight." 
 
 " Pardon me. I have this moment left him. He is 
 with Lady Fitz Rewes. " 
 
 Brigit lifted her hand to her veil in such a way that 
 Mudara was unable to enjoy the first success of this 
 news. He could obtain no sight of the change which 
 his words had produced on her countenance. But he 
 saw, or fancied that he saw, her whole figure tremble. 
 
 "This is a great act of kindness on the part of M. de 
 Hausee," she said, after a short silence. " I hope they 
 told him that I was better." 
 
 "Will you not see him.? " asked Mudara, 
 
 "That," she answered, at once, "would be unneces- 
 sary at present. He would not expect it." 
 
 She stood up. Mudara felt bound to take his leave.
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 343 
 
 In going, however, he stole a glance backwards. She 
 had resumed her seat and had re-opened the Breviary. 
 Above the stillness, he heard her whispering words he 
 had himself recited often, — 
 
 "■ Levavi oculos nieos in monies, U7ide veniet mixiliuni 
 mihi. Auxiliu7n rneuni a Domino, qui fecit caelum ei ier- 
 ra?n, Non det in commotio?iem pedem tuum : neque 
 dormitet qui custodit te." ("I will lift up mine eyes unto the 
 hills, from whence cometh my help. My help cometh 
 from the Lord, who made Heaven and earth. He will not 
 suffer thy feet to be moved : He that keepeth thee will 
 not slumber.) * 
 
 Mudara, however, had by no means exhausted all his 
 resources. The reader, knowing that Mrs. Parflete had 
 no guilty passion to conceal and no dark purpose to 
 cover, will find nothing indicative of a devilish deceit in 
 the simple words she had used during the scene we have 
 described. But truth will often produce, on insincere 
 hearers, all the effects of a lie. The mirror must itself be 
 clear before it can reflect correctly a fair object. Mudara, 
 incapable of honesty, had never yet found his match among 
 scoundrels. He could lead them from falsehood to false- 
 hood till they perished in ridicule. But before the accent 
 of candor he stood bewildered, irritable, impotent. He 
 taxed his cleverness in explaining the phenomenon. He 
 could even find the generosity to own himself fairly out- 
 witted. And by what.'' The mere force of innocence .? 
 No : by superior treachery, f He saw, even in the waver- 
 
 * The Roman Breviary. Rendered into English by John, Marquess of 
 Bttte. 
 
 "■^ I have lifted Jip my eyes to the mountains from whence help shall come 
 to me. My help is from the Lord, 7vho made heaven and earth. May 
 he not suffer thy foot to be moved: neither let him slumber that keepeth 
 thee." — Douay version. 
 
 t As an illustration of this, the following fragment from his letter to 
 Baron Zeuill, may be quoted: — "At the news of Ue Hausee's presence
 
 344 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 
 
 ing color of Brigit's cheeks, the elaborate art of a con- 
 summate actress. Such coolness, he thought, could 
 be the effect only of a long training for some especial 
 mission. The Church of Rome had ever shown an 
 extraordinary genius in choosing, educating, and con- 
 trolling her servants. This girl had the blood of the 
 Carolingians and the beauty of a child of love. She had 
 been instructed in that exercise of self-mastery which the 
 Catholic faith alone seems able to teach. She was en- 
 dowed by nature with the power of winning hearts, and, 
 by her father's will, she had inherited a princely fortune 
 to support her inclinations. Such a being, surely, was 
 no mean prize for the net of any faction in society. 
 Mudara had called her a Judith. But the spell of Judith, 
 he reflected, had rested not less in her reputation for virtue 
 than in her bodily fairness. He saw at last, that, unless 
 discredit and substantial scandal could be cast on his 
 ward's character, she would remain, till the end of her 
 
 in Catesby, Madame's sullen indifference gave place to an ungovernable 
 agitation. She was so altered that I would not have known her for the 
 same woman. But all this was outward. What did our Judith say? 
 You will scarcely believe me when I tell you. 'This is a great act of 
 kindness on the part of M. de Hausee. Pray thank him. It will not 
 be necessary to see him.' Such audacity deserves to succeed. Of 
 course, they are in secret communication. I find much to detest in her, 
 but, on my honor, more to admire. Her self-recollection never fails. 
 She has an answer cut-and-dried for every question. She would as soon 
 die as live, or live as die. She knows no fear but the fear of God. 
 ' Her sandals ravish the eyes, her beauty makes the soul a captive, with 
 a sword she will cut off your head.' De Hausee is the ascetic to master 
 her. You are wrong, every one, about Castrillon. He is too pretty and 
 sensual for such a termagant. Our one hope is De Hausee. All his 
 interests are in England. He has been elected a Member of Parliament, 
 Disraeli is disposed to favor him. And Disraeli knows how to control 
 an enthusiast. She must marry De Hausee. But he, too, is a furtive 
 character. Prim believes that he is, at the very least, a deacon. I 
 hope to God, not."
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 
 
 345 
 
 days, a living power among the very forces he was most 
 eager to see damaged. As he considered his plan of 
 action he decided, that, in the simple nature of Lady Fitz 
 Rewes, he would find perhaps the most useful instrument 
 for his scheme. She exerted an influence — the more 
 cogent because it \vas unintended — over Brigit and also 
 over De Hausee. 
 
 Pensee and Robert were still waiting where Mudara 
 had left them. At the first sound of his returning steps, 
 they both went forward to meet him. His implacable 
 countenance could neither betray the sentiments he felt, 
 nor assume those which he did not feel. But with an 
 admirable manner, he assured Lady Fitz Rewes that her 
 friend was, if sorrowful, most prudent, and if ill, on a sure 
 way to recovery. Orange did not speak. The three re- 
 turned to the Hall in silence. It was not until they 
 reached the open windows of the morning-room that 
 Mudara found an opportunity to beg his hostess for the 
 favor of a private interview. A look passed between them. 
 He managed to throw a significant glance at Robert. 
 She understood. She bowed her head. A few minutes 
 later, as she stooped to admire a rose-bush, she said, — 
 
 " You must both remain to dinner." 
 
 Orange, she knew, was obliged to return that evening 
 to London. The carriage which was to take him to the 
 station stood, even at that moment, before the door. She 
 showed, therefore, no astonishment when he declined, 
 with deep regret, her invitation. But Mudara, to her 
 affected surprise, expressed the pleasure he would have in 
 availing himself of her kindness. He had, he said, some 
 important letters to write. Her farewell to Robert was 
 cold. She felt a sudden terror lest Mudara should divine 
 her secret — that poor, sad secret, her love for her uncle's 
 Secretary. The Agent's eyes were piercing and pitiless. 
 They devoured, with cynical hunger, the very tissue of
 
 346 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 
 
 her soul. He would never understand friendship or . . . 
 devotion . . . or . . . about Lionel. 
 
 "Good-bye, Mr. Orange," she said. "I suppose we 
 shall see you sometimes, in the Spring — when I come to 
 town." 
 
 There was thus nothing left for him save to make his 
 adieux, and depart with the best grace he could exhibit. 
 He concealed his reluctance, his consternation, his dis- 
 trust. For a cruel instant, he had been pierced by the 
 suspicion that Lady Fitz Rewes was playing him false. 
 But a noble mind will always resent, as a base temptation, 
 any doubt of a tried friend's fidelity. Robert would not 
 look again at her face. He remembered her as she always 
 seemed when they were alone. He bowed, he touched 
 her shrinking hand, and he was gone. 
 
 Lady Fitz Rewes beckoned to Mudara and led the way 
 into the large saloon from the windows of which he had 
 made his first intrusion on to the lawn. It was a stately 
 room furnished in the style associated with the reign of 
 Queen Anne. 
 
 "And now," said Pense'e, summoning up her haughti- 
 est air, " what is your business ? " 
 
 Mudara put the matter briefly. Mrs. Parflete, he said, 
 had been left with ample means but in a dangerous posi- 
 tion. She had no relatives. Her heroic nature exposed 
 her to the machinations of every religious or political 
 fanatic. Spain was in a state of revolution. France, 
 under the surface, was a witches' cauldron. Italy was 
 no better. For a lady so young, beautiful and wealthy as 
 Madame his ward, England was the safest — the one — re- 
 fuge. But she needed a lawful protector. To be plain, 
 she ought to marry. She was, of course, too high-minded 
 to display a marked preference for any particular gentle- 
 man in the large circle of her respectful admirers. M. de 
 Hausee, however — "
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 347 
 
 "The very man of all others who would deserve her," 
 exclaimed Lady Fitz Rewes, seizing the excuse to seem 
 disinterested. 
 
 "Then why not bring them to their senses? They 
 might be married privately. The fact need not yet be 
 made public. But I must feel that she has a defender. 
 The marriage with Parflete was an atrocious — a calamitous 
 — mistake. It broke the Archdukes heart. We must 
 make her happy this time." 
 
 "We must make two people happy," said Pensee. 
 "But you will see that the subject is very delicate. How 
 can one interfere .'' " 
 
 " Bring them together." 
 
 " He has gone to Scotland." 
 
 "Follow him to Scotland. Insist that she needs the 
 air." 
 
 "That might be managed, certainly." 
 
 "Manage it." 
 
 "I will do my best. I really feel sure that you are 
 right. There is no time to be lost." 
 
 "None. But one word — don't let her suspect that she 
 will meet M. de Hausee in Scotland, She is naturally 
 elusive. Use all your discretion." 
 
 "I will." 
 
 "Thank you. Then I need not trespass further on 
 your time. I will not stay to dinner." 
 
 He kissed her hand. She rang the bell, and he bowed 
 himself out, by no means dissatisfied with his day's work.
 
 348 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 Robert, as we have seen, had told himself that he had 
 perfect faith in Pensde's loyalty. Yet he could, without 
 injustice, feel small confidence in her wisdom. Hesita- 
 tion, where he was once resolved, had no part in his 
 character. He dismissed the phaeton before he had driven 
 half-a-mile. He told the coachman he preferred to walk. 
 He did walk, but not in the direction of the town. Plung- 
 ing into the plantations, he ran back unobserved, swiftly, 
 lightly, to the thick wood by the ruins of Catesby Church. 
 From this he made his way down to the Lady Chapel. 
 The door stood open. He entered, fearing horribly that 
 he would find it empty. But she was there. 
 
 "Brigit!" 
 
 "Robert!" 
 
 " Have I frightened you ? " 
 
 •' No. 1 knew you were coming." 
 
 "Why.?" 
 
 "Because you always come when I ask our Blessed 
 Lady to send you." 
 
 "Then this is a miracle." 
 
 ' ' What else ? Where shall we go ? " 
 
 "Will you come with me ? " 
 
 "Of course." 
 
 " But away from this place — to London ? " 
 
 ' •' I trust you in all things. " 
 
 ' ' Can you run ? " 
 
 "Like the wind." 
 
 "Then give me your hand."
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 349 
 
 "Put my Breviary in your pocket. Yes, you may l<iss 
 it first. It's a blessed book. It belonged to a Saint. 
 She wasn't canonized. Now wait till I take a long breath. 
 Oh, Robert ! I love to see you. But — are we to run to 
 London .? " 
 
 " No, angel, we must take a train." 
 
 "I am ready. Where shall we go when we get to 
 London .'' " 
 
 " I will take you to your Convent." 
 
 She clapped her hands : 
 
 " But, dear Pense'e ? What will she think ?" 
 
 " All is fair in war and — " 
 
 "Yes," she said, hastily, with a blush. " Mudara 
 means war. I will write Pensde a letter. That will do. 
 Which hand will you have.' " 
 
 "The left. Follow me." 
 
 They hastened out and ran — for their lives — not towards 
 Catesby, but, at Brigit's suggestion, toward Cottingden, 
 a village further inland where they might hire a carriage 
 and drive to the county town. 
 
 "There," she panted, "we can catch the London 
 express." 
 
 Darkness was fast approaching. They could see, in 
 the distance, the yachts at anchor off Catesby Harbor — 
 their lights burning brightly like large stars fallen from 
 the firmament above. The hills around, soft with a pur- 
 ple bloom, seemed like the spread pinions of a winged 
 host. A rich, Autumnal breeze — as strong as wine, as 
 pure as sheaves of wheat, swept through the silvery pop- 
 lars and sent the white-owl, screeching, to his mate. But 
 the owl's scream had no terror for the blissful fugi- 
 tives. 
 
 Once they paused to rest. 
 
 " I feared for your safety," said Robert. " Hereafter, 
 I will take care of you myself."
 
 350 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 
 
 She blushed and said nothing. 
 
 "And then," he added, half-laughing, " I think I must 
 kill a few people." 
 
 She showed pleasure but observed, gravely, — 
 
 " You must not affront God. I am afraid duels are 
 wicked." 
 
 "No, no. Don't say so." 
 
 "You might be wounded." 
 
 ' ' That decides me. Do you think I am a worse 
 swordsman than Castrillon .'' " 
 
 "Dear Robert! .... Did you ever see a lovelier 
 cloud ? The earth is very beautiful." 
 
 " Perfect. . . But Castrillon's fencing is nothing re- 
 markable. Besides, it is not a question of skill. It is a 
 question of honor. You must see that." 
 
 " I see you." 
 
 He looked at her, wistfully. 
 
 "I wish you didn't," said he. 
 
 "But you are quite handsome again. You are, truly. 
 { should say — even handsomer. " 
 
 "Dearest, I think we ought to go on." 
 
 "This is a happy time, Robert. Let us remember this 
 place always." 
 
 They resumed their journey and reached Cottingden 
 at half-past eight. There Robert hired a carriage, and, 
 as Brigit stepped into it, she said, — 
 
 "Dear Pensee ! She has been so kind to me. I wish 
 I could write to her now. But I suppose I must wait till 
 I get to London." 
 
 The village was a little cluster of white houses scattered 
 round a ditch and a green. 
 
 "What a charming place ! " exclaimed Brigit, as they 
 drove rapidly away. " I could stay there forever." 
 
 " So could I," said he, not troubhng to look back. 
 
 " With you — of course — " she added.
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 351 
 
 "Of course, with you," he said. 
 
 " Don't you miss, "she said, suddenly, " the little shrines 
 and crosses by the road-side? I have not seen one in 
 England. Let us come here some day, and buy a piece 
 of land, and build an altar to our Blessed Lady." 
 
 This, unhappily, reminded him that he was poor. But 
 he had courage. 
 
 "I shall hope, please God," said he, "to build many 
 — that is, in time." 
 
 " If I fall asleep, will you wake me up .? I have not 
 slept well for a longtime. 1 used to feel frightened. But 
 now you are with me, and everything is different. Shall 
 we say the Rosary .-• You begin — " 
 
 When it came to her turn to reply, she could just mur- 
 mur — '^ Sancta Maria, Maier Dei, ora pro nobis peccaiori- 
 biis, nunc et in hora mortis nostrcB. Amen!' 
 
 ^^ Ave Marie." said he, " gralia pletia : Dominus tecum. : 
 henedicta tu. ..." He whispered the rest. For the weary 
 girl had sunk into a deep slumber. Her head rested 
 against the side of the carriage. Her hands still clasped 
 her Rosary. Her little feet, touching each other, were 
 almost concealed by her long skirt. It is during sleep 
 that the human countenance will show its likeness to the 
 soul. Lines become luminous, and the tranquil features 
 yield the secret of their training. Watch a man, or a 
 woman, sleeping, and it will be your fault, not Nature's, 
 if you are deceived. Brigit's face in repose had the inno- 
 cence one sees rarely — even in young children. Her 
 mouth showed sadness and a certain self-repression. The 
 delicate cheeks were perhaps too hollow for perfect health. 
 Their tiush had a brilliancy too rare. As Robert watched 
 her, his heart suffered that strange agony which attends 
 all intense affection. To love is to know the sacrifices 
 which eternity exacts from life. 
 
 "Brio^it ! " he said, in sudden terror, " Brigit ! "
 
 352 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 
 
 He had forgotten the sound of her voice. Her words 
 came back to him, but their tone — the lovely, rippling 
 tone full of melody and pathos — was not to be recalled. 
 What if he should never hear it again ? 
 
 "Brigit!" 
 
 She opened her eyes, smiled and said, — 
 
 "Is this the station ? '" 
 
 "No," said he, "but — I wanted to hear you speak." 
 
 "Dear Robert ! Men are like children." 
 
 Her hand stole into his. 
 
 "Try and sleep, too," she said: "I will tell you my 
 little story about the pigeon. Once upon a time there 
 was a holy woman who — Or shall I sing? " 
 
 But she was too drowsy. The song slept on her lips. 
 
 Her head sank back against the carriage and a silent 
 sadness weighed once more upon her eyelids. Pres- 
 ently he heard her sob, and saw tears stealing down 
 her cheeks. 
 
 " Mon pauvre p6re est mort," she murmured, " priez 
 pour lui. II est mort a la pointe du jour. II me parlait, 
 puis il parlait aux anges. Priez pour lui." 
 
 Again, Robert called her. This time she woke fully. 
 
 " Oh, Robert ! " she said, " what was I saying in my 
 sleep ? " 
 
 " You said," he answered, " mon pauvre pere est 
 mort. Priez pour lui. II est mort a la pointe du jour. 
 II me parlait, puis il parlait aux anges. Priez pour lui." 
 
 "Was that all?" 
 
 "All." 
 
 "My mother, long ago, taught me that," she said. 
 "It always makes me cry. But you are sure I said 
 nothing else? " 
 
 " Quite sure." 
 
 She drew her veil closer, hesitated for a moment, and 
 then said, —
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 353 
 
 "Promise me never to ask any questions about my 
 father. Because I may not answer them." 
 
 " Dearest, I know the story. Your husband told me, 
 long- ago, when we first met." 
 
 "Then he knew .? I never guessed that." 
 
 Those who have substituted emotions of the blood for 
 emotions of the soul could never understand the anguish 
 of disappointed trust. Brigit was finding, one by one, 
 the many links of Parfiete's treachery. It seemed as 
 though that harassing chain would hang forever on her 
 life. 
 
 "I thought it was a secret," said the poor child: "I 
 promised my father that I w^ould never tell. Perhaps 
 my husband made no promise. ... At any rate, I 
 must not have hard and miserable feelings about him. 
 The issue of things is known to Our Blessed Lord. I am 
 going through what must be gone through. But I think 
 no one ever had such kind friends as I have. I am even 
 thankful, in one way, that Wrexham told you the story. 
 I have never wished there should be any reserve between 
 us — it is most repugnant to my nature to conceal things." 
 
 "That is why I thought it better to let you know that 
 you could speak openly with me." 
 
 "Thank you. It has always been a great burden on 
 my mind. Now it is gone." 
 
 She leaned forward, touched him softly, and looked up 
 into his face. 
 
 " But there is something else," she said. 
 
 "And that?" 
 
 " I want to write a letter to Pensee." 
 
 The carriage stopped. They had at last reached the 
 railway-station. Gayety had held her court in the little 
 town all day. The streets were lively with a laughing 
 crowd of lads and girls returning homeward, to different 
 parts of the country, from a gala. They pushed, and 
 23
 
 354 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 
 
 joked, and jostled each other, or enjoyed, with strained 
 cheeks, the lingering- inarticulate delight of sugar hulls 
 eyes. Others, more demure, sang in strong harsh voices 
 "Sweet Belle Mahone," and "The Gipsy's Warning," 
 and " The Death of Nelson." The crowd streamed into 
 the building, and over the bridge to the "Down" 
 platform. No one noticed the two travellers bound for 
 London.
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 355 
 
 CHAPTER XXVI. 
 
 Robert's resolution, winged with thoughts of Brigit's 
 possible danger, had never wavered. Yet he realized, 
 that, while acts of chivalry were daily done, they were 
 seldom indeed explained by a chivalrous method. In 
 addition to the careful narrative we have already seen, 
 he wrote a letter to Lord Reckage, in which he describes, 
 with much clearness, the whole fhght to town. He men- 
 tions that there were three other passengers in their com- 
 partment : — 
 
 A man, his wife, and another man, perhaps her brother. 
 Mrs. Parflete was exhausted, and slept till we reached our jour- 
 ney's end. The Convent, as you may remember, is some dis- 
 tance from Victoria. At nine, all the nuns retire to rest. 
 Nevertheless, we drove there. It was approaching midnight. 
 There was not a sound, nor a light in the whole building. We 
 rang several times. We could get no answer. Madame de- 
 clared that she would sit on the door-step till the morning. But 
 presently, I caught a pair of eyes looking out at us through the 
 grille. Madame spoke. A woman answered. 
 
 " Soeur Mane-Agnes ! " cried Madame, in an ecstasy of joy, 
 " ma soeur, c'est moi." 
 
 " Tiens, tiens ! C'est Madame Parflete. Tiens, tiens ! " 
 
 I heard the bars drawn back. The door was opened, and I 
 saw a fresh-faced nun half-asleep but smiling on Madame with 
 that ineffable bonte de casur for which we have, unfortunately, 
 no word. 
 
 There was, I thought, a certain angelic humor in her eyes 
 when she expressed her regret that the Convent could afford no 
 accommodation for Monsieur. Apparently, she inferred that I 
 was Parflete. Madame wished me good-night, and, in a 
 moment, happy nun and weary lady had both disappeared. 
 But Madame spoke to me through the grille. 
 
 " Thank you," said she. " I am so happy now. I shall write
 
 356 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 
 
 to Pens^e to-morrow. Dear Pens^e, T know she will be anxious. 
 But I need not tell her about you." 
 
 " Madame ! " said Soeur Marie-Agn^s ; " il est tard." 
 
 "I come, ma soeur. I come." 
 
 And that was all. . . . 
 
 What is to happen now ? I leave you to imagine my anxieties. 
 She is free. But I Iiave never yet been able to picture her free. 
 I have always seen her — there, and myself, miles distant and 
 oceans below, here. Her beauty promises to be extraordinary. 
 Think of her age ? Seventeen. Does the child know her own 
 heart ? Yet the indecency oj^suggesting marriage at this mo- 
 ment ! It is out of the question. I must be patient. ... I 
 walked home. 
 
 Poor Wight, in his dressing-gown and slippers, was waiting 
 up for me, with a whole company of his cronies. There were 
 old Fauconberg, and Mrs. St. Kentigern,* Dean Ethbin, Valen- 
 tine Vivian, and Penborough. They were discussing Disraeli. 
 Let me give you the talk. 
 
 "What I ask myself is this — "said the Dean, looking with 
 reverence at his own gaiters — " is the man sincere? " 
 
 "I know one thing," said Mrs. St. Kentigern. "The Duke 
 of Mercia can't stand him. The Duke is going to send in his 
 resignation to the Committee of the Capitol Club. He is simply 
 furious. He is going abroad." 
 
 "Where did you hear that ? " asked Valentine Vivian. 
 
 " The Duchess was at my milliner's this morning. " I want," 
 says she, " as soon as possible, a bright-looking bonnet : such a 
 bonnet as I could wear in Rome next month." There is proof 
 conclusive. She has never left the Duke in her life : she is going 
 to Italy as soon as possible : she wants a brigh t-lookinghoxiVioX. 
 If that does not spell resignation, I don't know English," 
 
 " Then the Duke's a bigger fool than I thought," said Wight. 
 
 "Not at all," said Mrs. St. Kentigern. "Where is the Tory 
 party ? It is nowliere. Toryism," she added, with a sigh of 
 profound desolation, " is now but the mere negation of 
 Whiggism." 
 
 " The landed interest will rise," said the Dean, lifting up his 
 voice as a ghostly comforter, "and the monied interest — the 
 great support of Whiggism — must decline." 
 
 "But first," said Penborough, "the Reformation must take 
 its full revenge ! The Abbeys which were given as bribes to 
 the nobility will be sold to the Railway Companies for Hotels. 
 
 * Mrs. St. Kentigern was Lord Wight's half-sister — by his mother's 
 second marriage.
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 357 
 
 Every great nobleman's country-seat will become an Hotel. 
 Since the people may not have their own with God, they will 
 take it without Him. Where there was once an Abbot, you will 
 soon find an obliging manager, and where there were holy 
 monks, there shall be Swiss waiters ! " 
 
 " How shocking ! " said Mrs. St. Kentigern. 
 
 " I dread flippancy," said the Dean. " It is the enemy of the 
 future. But I do not share in the new and hypochondriacal 
 sentimentality over ruined Abbeys and the like. A Monastery 
 was the Mediaeval type of our modern Club. The obligations 
 and duties, however, were subscribed, nominally, to God. 
 There were rule^ of discipline and certain vows incumbent on 
 each member. They lived in a comfortable house of supremely 
 beautiful architecture. They looked out upon picturesque land- 
 scapes, and enjoyed well-filled Libraries. They could spend 
 their time in prayer, in manual labor, in works of charity, in 
 tending the sick, in educating, aiter a fashion, the young. It is 
 notorious that many of the monks were unrivalled sportsmen. 
 I daresay there were often good, even sincere, men among 
 them. But I really cannot see why the ruins of some old Con- 
 vent should appear more sacred incur eyes than the nice clean 
 Athenaeum ! I really cannot. I have small sympathy with 
 these dismal young gentlemen who contrast romantic pictures 
 of ancient virtue with the supposed degeneracy of our own days." 
 
 Lord Wight, whenever I am present with him, in Protestant 
 society, always makes it a rule to speak of politics, dogs, horses, 
 or yachting — in order to keep the conversation free from any at- 
 tacks on the Catholic faith. He became most uneasy during the 
 Dean's harangue. 
 
 "I can't get over this news about the Duke," he exclaimed. 
 " He is sometimes noisy, but generally civil." 
 
 " I should have thought," said Fauconberg, " that he belonged 
 to the world of men who are content with a social in default of 
 a higher unity. It is always a pity to make a fuss. You don't 
 get anywhere. You only get out of everything." 
 
 " If one could only establish an opposition on another prin- 
 ciple of combination than that of Whig or Tory ! " sighed Mrs. 
 St. Kentigern. 
 
 " I heard a fellow describe Disraeli as the vilest rag that ever 
 fluttered on a garbage heap," said Valentine Vivian. 
 
 The Dean clasped his hands, "What came from the mouth 
 of a vulgar might pass in the mind of a better man ! " said he. 
 
 " I don't pretend to judge of Disraeli's politics,'' said Vivian, 
 "but I cannot stand his novels. Does one ever hear such talk 
 anywhere ? He has been in very good society, too. H« has
 
 358 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 
 
 met people. He knows the men and women we all know — in a 
 dim, dinner-party sort of way, it is true — but still he knows them. 
 That's the extraordinary part of the whole thing. So very odd." 
 
 " He's an idealist," explained Penborough, solemnly. 
 
 " I like my idealism in poetry — not when I want an hour's 
 light reading ! " said Vivian. " It's a nuisance in a novel." 
 
 " But Disraeli is a foreigner," said Mrs. St. Kentigern ; " he 
 is not one of ourselves, is he ? Now, if I were to write a novel 
 about English society, it would not be in the least like Coningsby, 
 would it ? " 
 
 We all shook our heads. 
 
 " 1 believe, all the same," said Fauconberg, "that Dizzy will 
 be the next Prime Minister." 
 
 This was too much for the Dean. He rose at once. It was, 
 in fact, the signal tor a general retreat. Each member of the 
 party expressed the wish that Lord Wight would enjoy himself 
 in Scotland. Penborough, in leaving, managed to whisper in 
 my ear, — 
 
 " Does Dizzy know that he was born solely to provide light 
 literature for Valentine Vivian's odd moments ? . . ." 
 
 I hope some of this may amuse you. But it seemed strange 
 to me after my long day of fierce temptations and anxiety. Yet, 
 such is the perversity of human nature, that the scene in that 
 close room, with Lord Wight swollen up with dropsy and Mrs. 
 St. Kentigern nodding in her wig, seemed real . . . and the 
 quiet Convent, and Madame's sweet beautiful face, and my love 
 and my unhappiness — and all my struggles — a dream. ... It is 
 one thing to cherish your ideals in solitude ; it is quite another 
 thing to keep even one of them in the turmoil and twaddle of 
 society. . . . Wight once told me that a big London dinner- 
 party — where one met every one and heard everything — was 
 quite enough to upset his theology for a month. I reminded him 
 that theology was not, perhaps, his strongest point. 
 
 " True," said he, •• but I even forget Mary Stuart . . . and 
 begin to think that Elizabeth and that villain Cecil were a sensi- 
 ble, good-natured pair, without any nonsense about 'em ! So 
 then I have to swim through Isaiah for a month or two — afin 
 de s avoir a quoi in en tenir." 
 
 I do not know whether this letter is sensible or legible. To- 
 day (it is already morning), Lord Wight and I leave London for 
 Slatrach Castle. 
 
 I have read this over. Miserable indeed is the fate of the 
 double-minded. Why do I pretend that the question of mar- 
 riage is, at this moment, impossible ? It may be inconvenient. 
 But my heart is set upon it. Men attach an undue importance
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 359 
 
 to this or that point in received notions of etiqicette. We hap- 
 pen to be placed in an age of the world which is conspicuous 
 for the decency of its manners. That is to say, so long as one 
 behaves what is called " decently," or " v;:th common prudence," 
 one need not trouble much about higher considerations. But 
 we are by nature what we are. We like, too, to be what we 
 are. I don't wish to reach that stage of self-suppression when 
 one becomes self-less. Till we have done something, we have 
 done nothing, and, so long as an act is not in itself sinful, 
 I cannot stay supinely wondering how much I may lose or 
 gain by attempting it. The great, the sole point, is this — have 
 I a decided wish in the matter ? have I any wish at all in the 
 matter ? Almighty God has given us two whole worlds, but 
 only one Faith — millions of fellow-mortals, and only Ten Com- 
 mandments. Our opportunities and liberties are thus enormous. 
 They were meant to be used. Now what is my present case .'' 
 The Parflete marriage was, in reality, a solemn betrothal — 
 nothing more. Parflete is now dead. This fact has now been 
 established beyond dispute. Madame — a girl of seventeen — is, 
 in etiquette, his widow. Custom would say, "Wait, at all 
 events, for a year or two." As if patience were the one thing on 
 earth to be remembered ! At that rate I shall tind obstacles for 
 every step in life. But again. A hasty marriage reflects rather 
 on the bride than on the bridegroom. That, I admit, is a real 
 difficulty. Yet even this becomes slight on examination. 
 Madame has no parents and not a relative. She is her own mis- 
 tress. She is in peculiar circumstances of some danger. She 
 needs a protector. Of course I do not deserve her. No man 
 could deserve her. But with women, thank God, it is never a 
 question of deserts. They are won, I think, rather by determin- 
 ation. I have made up my mind. I can exist, but I cannot /zV^, 
 without her. This is not a struggle for air. This is a struggle 
 for soul and body. And I mean to stand my ground. She is 
 impetuous, enthusiastic, superb. As for "courting" her — one 
 might as well try to court the North Wind. She is " a vapor of 
 the power of God." And I love her. And, right or wrong, 
 there's an end of it. 
 
 When he had finished this letter, he extinguished the 
 lamp, and found that the room was still light, but with 
 the morning. It was already time to dress for the journey 
 to Scotland.
 
 36© THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVn. 
 
 Lord Wight was already seated at the breakfast table 
 when Orange joined him. 
 
 " Poor Marion and old Ethbin and the rest are dear 
 people," said his lordship, "but they are getting on in 
 years, and I find them very tiresome. I am glad I didn't 
 ask them up to Slatrach. lis oni bien lies niiseres. Their 
 ailments seem inexhaustible. I have as much as I can 
 stand with my own dropsy. I won't be bored by Valen- 
 tine Vivian's perfectly unnecessary stomach. He says he 
 can eat nothing now but spoon-meat. As if that matters 
 to me. As if it could matter to anybody — except his cook. 
 How is Pensee } " 
 
 "She seemed well," said Orange : " she sent you her 
 love." 
 
 " And the children .? " 
 
 "I didn't see them." 
 
 "What a pity! The two — with their mother — make 
 such a pretty picture. Millais has promised to do them. 
 But I hope," he added, flushing a little lest he should seem 
 indiscreet, "I hope you found Madame de Parflete better ? " 
 
 "Much better. I fear, however, that her illness has 
 been a great anxiety to Lady Fitz Rewes." 
 
 "No ! no ! I feel sure she was only too happy to be 
 of the least service to the poor young widow. But that 
 fellow's suicide was a very good thing. He was wholly 
 unworthy of his wife. Pensde writes me that she is the 
 most charming creature — indeed, distinguished in every 
 way. Pens6e is grateful for a friend — she has had »o
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 361 
 
 much trouble, poor darling. Fitz Rewes was sucha loss. 
 As a bachelor he won every heart, but no man's man- 
 hood is thoroughly completed until he becomes che/de 
 tribu, the head of a home." He threw Robert a sly, exceed- 
 ingly cautious glance, to which the young man replied by 
 blushing to the eyes. 
 
 " Would you mind," he asked, "if I were to go by a 
 later train to-day ?" 
 
 "Mind.? It would upset everything. I must have 
 some one to talk to the Princes." 
 
 "But they are both very good talkers themselves. 
 Besides, you will have a set topic for discussion." 
 
 "Yes, but not all day. I cannot converse for any ex- 
 travagant length of time about Don Carlos. The sub- 
 ject is too agitating. . . . Don't throw me over." 
 
 " I will join you to-morrow." 
 
 Lord Wight looked incredulous. 
 
 " No, you won't," said he. "I have a presentiment 
 that you won't." 
 
 Orange colored again. 
 
 "I can't explain all the circumstances," he answered, 
 "but — the chances are that — things will go on just as 
 usual. I mean my plans for the future and so on. You 
 might perhaps guess — " 
 
 " I hate guessing. I won't do it. It always offends 
 people — particularly if you make a lucky hit ! " 
 
 "I have no reason — no particular reason that is to say 
 — to hope for any especial change in my life," said Robert, 
 now pale. "But I shall have to speak . . . because I 
 simply can't go on . . . wondering. That's too awful. 
 I have always tried to feel that I was — interested — as a 
 friend only. I didn't altogether succeed. Still, the effort 
 was made, and I pulled myself together, and I did man- 
 age to get the upper hand. I don't know how I did it, 
 either. Then I heard that she was free. And you would
 
 362 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 
 
 have thought that I had never struggled at all. I once 
 had a friend who built a fine wall on his estate in order to 
 keep back the sea. It answered for a while. But the 
 sea was not to be conquered. It rushed in — when its 
 time came — and the great stones went for nothing. It 
 was soon as though they had never been. And that was 
 my feeling when I heard of Parflete's death." 
 
 "Very natural, too, I am sure," said his lordship, "and 
 most extraordinarily comtne il faiit. If the story were 
 known — it would do you great credit. But it was to be 
 — I am quite certain of that. I wish you both every hap- 
 piness. There could not be a marriage more harmo- 
 niously assorted. I suppose, however, you won't be an- 
 nouncing the engagement for some time." 
 
 "I have not yet spoken to her. There is no engage- 
 ment." 
 
 "That," said the old man, smiling, "is but a matter of 
 the post — or do you intend to go down to Catesby again ? " 
 
 Robert dropped his glance for a moment, and then 
 looked up with his customary frankness. 
 
 " You shall know all about it," said he, " to-morrow." 
 
 "I don't want you to feel that I expect yow to tell me 
 anything about your private affairs," said Lord Wight. 
 " What has already happened in our past experience 
 surely is enough to assure you of this." 
 
 But his expression was dissatisfied. He arched his 
 eyebrows, and drew up his mouth in the peculiar smile 
 which he always assumed as an outward manifestation 
 of Christian forbearance. 
 
 " I relied on your help, you know," he went on, " and 
 that is one reason why I have asked this big party of 
 foreigners to Slatrach. You may say that you will follow 
 me to-morrow. But /say that, in the circumstances, you 
 won't be able to do so. I was once engaged myself, and 
 my plans have been unsettled ever since. That was forty
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 363 
 
 years ago. An engagement — whether it comes to mar- 
 riage or not — will change your whole life. // ne faut 
 arnais penser an honhenr, cela atlit-e le diahle. So don't 
 make any appointments or promises, till you have seen 
 the lady." 
 
 Orange sighed without replying. He was not thinking 
 of happiness, nor was he happy. The tumult in his soul 
 seemed a physical pain, and confused him. He felt like 
 a wolf with a sudden gift of wings, and the struggle 
 between the old paws on the ground, and the new pinions 
 in the air, was like the slow rending asunder of flesh and 
 spirit. 
 
 "I don't know what to say, I'm sure," he said, pres- 
 ently. 
 
 "Of course not," answered his lordship. "No one 
 ever does know what to say at such a crisis. One merely 
 thinks. And one's friends feel for one. And every one 
 is very much relieved when it is all over." 
 
 He rose from his chair and shuffled clumsily out of the 
 room. Orange dared not offer to assist him. Lord 
 Wight was too profound a sentimentalist not to resent 
 any spectator of his tears. He retired alone to his study, 
 where, with trembling fingers, he opened many books 
 and waited to hear Robert pass through the Hall — on his 
 way to the front-door. He did not listen long. The 
 strong, swift foot steps seemed to follow but too closely 
 on his own painful tread. He heard the door opened ; 
 and a sound of the streets, of wheels, traffic, the relentless 
 energy of a great-city, came loudly for a moment. Then 
 the door w-as closed with a noise that went through the 
 whole mansion, shaking the windows, and echoing 
 through the desolate apartments. Youth, and blood, the 
 pride of life and the desire of the eyes were once more 
 outside the house, and within there was only wisdom and 
 a great deal of disturbed dust.
 
 364 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 
 
 Lord Wight rang- the bell for his valet. Glencorbie had 
 already departed the day before in order to prepare the 
 Castle for its visitors. 
 
 " Eshelby," said his lordship, "have you packed my 
 Spanish Grammar, Rabelais, and Candide ? " 
 
 "Yes, my lord." 
 
 "Then take them out again. Putin Horace, the Vita 
 Nuova, and the latest volume of Mr. Froude's disgraceful 
 History ! I will take the Spanish Grammar in my pocket, 
 and see what I can make of it in the train. Mr. Orange 
 does not accompany us. He hopes to join us to-mor- 
 row." 
 
 "Yes, my lord." 
 
 "But I don't think that it looks much like it at pres- 
 ent." 
 
 The man, who was an old and confidential servant, 
 glanced up with a respectful reproduction of his master's 
 expression of countenance. 
 
 "I am sorry for that, my lord," said he: "but no 
 doubt Mr Orange will feel more settled before long ! He 
 hasn't been in his bed all night. It's my belief he keeps 
 Vigils, my lord." 
 
 "Poor young man ! Such a dear fellow ! Of course, 
 he finds it very lonely," observed Lord Wight. "A 
 man soon learns that independence is not the highest 
 good in life. Young people like each other's society — 
 especially of an opposite sex I It is very natural — very 
 natural, indeed. And old people ought to like old people, 
 but they never do. That is why every man — not a 
 priest — should marry and have a family. Sons and 
 daughters are so interesting. Ojeunesse / Jeunesse ! que 
 Je te regrelle ! Mais fai-je jamais connue P That is French 
 and it means, don't be morbid. . . . And. . . . Eshelby." 
 
 " Yes, my lord." 
 
 "How all this reminds me of '29 and Lady Sybil. I
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. J65 
 
 suppose I was quite as agitated and — extraordinary on 
 the night of that dinner at Madame de Lieven's ? " 
 
 "Every bit, my lord. Gentlemen are all the same, my 
 lord. So are men. Will your lordship take both hot- 
 water bottles? " 
 
 "Both."
 
 366 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVni. 
 
 Brigit, who had received a message from Robert early 
 that morning, was waiting in the Convent parlor when he 
 arrived. 
 
 The little room tjie wrote to Reckage) was very quiet, but, for 
 all its grayness, it seemed one of the stars — our own. There 
 was an image of the Mother of God on the mantel-piece, and a 
 large map of the Ancient World hanging on the wall. The 
 window was cut rather high — as if for a studio. One could see 
 the sky only, and the clouds were like white spirits set free, 
 moving upwards through the ^ther. But I noticed these things 
 later, when, on leaving, I looked back, not once, but many times. 
 You have seen Brigit ? Her loveliness now fairly catches your 
 breath. I gaze at her and am terrified at mv privilege. 1 fear 
 she will vanish. She seems to vanish. Yet she comes again 
 — the lovelier. She is still there — but only as an emblem 
 surely : — 
 
 Werd'ich zum Augenblicke sagen : 
 Verweile doch ! dii bist so schbn ! 
 Dann magst du rnich in Fessehi schlagen : 
 Dann will ich gern zu Grunde gehn. 
 
 Now let me talk with you, if I can, quietly. If there were not 
 another world, I would tear myself into shreds for the very first 
 disappointment I met with, in this. I could not bear it — the 
 humiliation, I mean. Nor the thought of death either. I would 
 leap, of my own free will, into the depths of misery. I would 
 say, " Not at your time, O Nemesis, but at my time. You shall 
 not call me at your pleasure : you shall not hunt about for me, 
 entice me into traps baited with happiness, find me, put me to 
 slow torture, pour me out at your will. No : I come myself 
 Tear ! curse ! burn ! wound ! but I first shall have bruised my 
 own flesh, cursed my own life, seared my own heart, spread out 
 my own soul, like a torn rag, on your pitch-fork." This is 
 the proud side of the philosophy of self-mortification — the human, 
 Pagan side. Pride says, " I will not eat the wafers made with 
 honey, and be sick afterwards, and perhaps be beaten into the
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS, 367 
 
 bargain." Pride says, " I will teach my mouth to loath honey, 
 and 1 will myself be a beater, beating myself. What better 
 brute ? " The mere strength of a man will declare that much — 
 if he can love anything well enough to feel the loss of it. Some, 
 of course, care nothing for things and persons, but are con- 
 cerned only with conditions. They will crawl from roof to roof, 
 and from root to root — forgetting the peach if they can find a 
 turnip, or foregoing the turnip if they may lap up the rinsings 
 of a sour-beer cask. But these are worms, and not men. For 
 us — who love once as we live but once — there is, under our feet, 
 the soliditas Cathedra' Petri. From this we see the other 
 world — indeed, the greater part of the time we may be said to 
 move in it. We may spend whole hours in the Very Presence 
 of the Living God. He is there in perpetuity : He is to be found. 
 He will come Himself, in the Blessed Sacrament of the Altar, to 
 the heart of the least of His worshippers. It is there and then 
 that pride, a weak force at best, becomes devotion — the mightiest 
 of all forces. The Lord Incarnate, Who laid the foundations of 
 the earth and shut up the sea with doors. Who commands the 
 morning and has caused the day-spring to know his place. Who 
 alone spreadeth out the Heavens, and bringeth out to light the 
 shadow of death— He, the Creator of the World and its Re- 
 deemer, is Himself a Sacrifice. To know this is to know all that 
 we need to know. But if the rest is not easy, we always feel 
 that we are not shadows with the gift of suffering, nor chained 
 Titans, nor petty deities, but nothing less than the sons of God 
 and joint-heirs with Christ. Oh, the splendor, the liberty of that 
 magnificent certitude ! Why do we ever forget it ? Why do 
 we sit in the ashes, counting the temporal things we have lost 
 or may lose, when we have inherited as our birthright all the 
 eternal fastnesses of Heaven ! You will not quarrel with these 
 thoughts, but you may ask, why do I have them now, at this 
 moment ? You are waiting to hear a tale in another strain. I 
 could perhaps send what you expect — yet it would not be a letter 
 from Me. It would be a manufactured thing from that sham 
 entity — the three Unities. I know the rules of effective compo- 
 sition — they are easily learnt. I could send you "a work of 
 art " — the real thing. First, the lady — described in a sharp, 
 cold-blooded, memorable way. Take one feature. Make much 
 of it. Homer did the same — after his old, lucid fashion. Then 
 the scene, lightly done. Nature then — rather heavy. Suggest 
 orchestration — if possible. Let the lady speak — but, above all 
 things, a short sentence. It cannot be too banal. A banalite 
 is always le juste mot. Then (with a fresh ink-bottle) set the 
 whole globe whirling for a couple of pages, and use long words
 
 368 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 
 
 — for the balance. Return to the human interest. Let your- 
 self speak — or, preferably, merely sigh. At this tremendous 
 point, use your sunset for all it is worth, and, plucking it from 
 the consuming Heavens, drag it down to the hem of the lady's 
 petticoat ! Who does not know the obscene plan ? So the dog 
 bays the moon, and returns to his own vomit. Shall I repeat 
 carefully what we each said, how we said it, how we looked, 
 how we each thought we looked ? Is there nothing to be kept 
 sacred on this earth ? Even Memory has its reserves. To be 
 honest, I do not even remember w^hat we said. Did I go forth 
 this morning to find an e.xperience, to tickle my soul into some 
 utterance — some squeal, bray, or crow which I could mimic 
 later, in words, for my bosom friend, or the public ? I have to 
 earn my bread by writing. I am a poor man — and as things 
 look now — I shall be poorer yet. Parflete, I feel sure, has 
 squandered every franc of Brigit's fortune. This I don't mind. 
 That dof must have had a curse upon it. But if I were starving 
 — I think \( s/ie were starving — I would never put to paper, or 
 repeat to any creature, for all the prizes of the earth, any ac- 
 count — fuller than this you know — of my own love, or of some 
 imaginary love. I go into these things now, because they have 
 a relevance greater than you would, at first, suppose. They are 
 brought to my mind by the thought that I must set my wits to 
 work at once, and produce something more profitable than a 
 little volume of French Hislory. I must provide a home for my 
 future wife. Grey wood will give me ;^20o for the Due de Guise, 
 and ;^iooo for a " pretty love tale." Well, "many bear the 
 thyrsus, but few are inspired by the god." I can at least do my 
 best — keeping these two rules before me : — i. No " portraits " 
 of my friends. 2. No love scenes in the " impersonal manner." 
 We shall marry with as little delay as possible. She tells me 
 that Baron Zeuill, her other trustee, should arrive in London to- 
 day. P'or some reason, he is well disposed toward me. He 
 would approve, she says, of our marriage. This being the case, 
 he will, I hope, give his countenance to the matter, and so re- 
 move every difficulty in the way of a Special Licence. 1 have 
 been to both Embassies. We must have all things in perfect 
 order. I have every reason to trust the Baron. She took shelter 
 in his Palace after the escape from Loadilla. To his influence 
 with Prim, I owe my present liberty — perhaps, my life. I have 
 not a doubt of his kindness. I^t is a relief unutterable to find 
 that I can act quite openly in the matter. I detest long engage- 
 ments. I could write whole volumes in folio against them. 
 They are immoral and destroying. I hate — and I have always 
 hated — the notion of a clandestine marriage. What does 'i{
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 369 
 
 mean ? A constant ground for scandal, misunderstandings, 
 curiosity and lies. I shall not see Brigit again till our wedding 
 day. I have already written to Zeuill. He is exjiected at Clar- 
 idge's this evening. I seem to feel that everything will go 
 smoothly now, and I am not at all anxious. Have I not her 
 promise .'' 
 
 This was a letter from his heart, and, in all his cor- 
 respondence and writing, there is not a passage which 
 brings out more clearly the two ruling motives of his life. 
 Which came first.'' Had he been asked, he would not 
 have known how to answer. It was the hidden, and 
 therefore the more powerful ; it was the one of which he 
 was the least conscious — the one he spoke of with the 
 greatest difficulty. It was not his atfection for Brigit. 
 His volume of sonnets — To Kallisle in Exile — tells all the 
 devotion of a young man deeply, most humanly, in love. 
 But can we forget, that, before he sent these sweet ad- 
 dresses to the adored " Kalliste," he had composed songs 
 as impassioned, if a little less tender, "To Henriette," 
 
 «'To A ," "To Tryphena," "To Cynthia," and a few^ 
 
 more } In each instance, the poet's state appears to be 
 carried to the extremest limit of possible versification. 
 He is utterly in earnest. His whole being — and nothing 
 short of it — heaven-high and hell-deep, is always irresist- 
 ibly attracted toward the subject of his entreating, re- 
 proachful, bitter, or rapturous lines. Orange could never 
 bring himself to laugh, at any time, at these early out- 
 pourings of an ardent mind quickly susceptible to the 
 spells of beauty, grace, or purity. " Kalliste," no doubt, 
 was the last of the goddesses — the perfect sun before 
 which all other lights were but day-shadows of the moon. 
 No other woman after her, could ever drive him even so 
 far as the rhyming dictionary. Nor, it should be said, 
 was the lady one who would have played, without a 
 word or two, the silent tragedy of Griselda dethroned. 
 24
 
 370 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 
 
 Yet the strongest attachment of his soul was, unques- 
 tionably, to God — to the Everlasting, to the All-Powerful. 
 His own strength sought the Source of all Strength ; his 
 desire of truth went forth to the One Unalterable Truth. 
 No one, and nothing, could separate him — he could not 
 separate himself — from his innate love of God. And next 
 to God, he loved literature, he loved books. He loved to 
 read them, he loved to see them, to handle them. He 
 was the born man of letters and libraries. Brigit stood 
 apart from both of these over-mastering, yet distinct 
 devotions. She permeated, she did not control, his exist- 
 ence. Her soul did not stand in his own soul's stead. 
 They were together, but identified. When a woman is 
 the first and chief consideration in a man's life, or when 
 a man becomes the first and chief consideration in a 
 woman's life — the end, in each case, will be always cruel 
 and foolish — always an insupportable disappointment to 
 one, or to the other, or to both. 
 
 It is true that Vv^hen Robert had finished his letter, and 
 while he w^as writing it, he moved in that trance of en- 
 chantment when the soul seems to be floating, like a 
 melody, into the air. To close his eyes was to see illim- 
 itable rosy aether : to open them was to behold, in seas 
 of bliss, worlds melting into worlds, and heavens dissolv- 
 ing into heavens. Mystery and vastness were around 
 him : it was as though he stood on the edge of the uni- 
 verse, and could leap — not down — but upwards into the 
 empyrean. He recognized the ecstatic mood, and won- 
 dered, for a moment, whether it was a blessing, or a 
 thorn, to possess a clear knowledge of one's spiritual 
 organization. Early in life, he had shaken his mind 
 through the Hegelian sieve, and, as a result, it was no 
 longer a whole mass, but a collection of particles — each 
 with a name. No one can study Hegel and remain un- 
 altered by that discipline, or see his fellow-creatures
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 371 
 
 quite as he saw them before. Orange loved madly, pas- 
 sionately, but he knew it. He was happy, but he knew 
 it. He was living- in a day-dream, but he knew it. And, 
 the intoxication, the folly of all such love, such happi- 
 ness, and such dreaming lies in the ?zo/-knowing, in the 
 mistaking them, in the spontaneous rushing-forth to them 
 as to the ultimate goal, and the extreme climax of all 
 things. "This," you must say with the moth, "is the 
 final, the undying, the star of stars." "This," you must 
 say with Orpheus, "is the last note, this is the supreme 
 gift." Robert could not say these things. The mellow 
 radiance of the Autumnal sun came through his window, 
 and fell upon the small bronze crucifix which was nailed 
 on the wall that faced him. He knelt before it. He laid 
 his flushed brow against the Pierced Feet. There, at all 
 times, he could find a reprieve from all torturing self- 
 doubts, all restless questionings. That was the Way and 
 the Life : that was the Abiding and Unchangeable. 
 There was not a splinter of the Holy Cross but had proved 
 adamant — yes — even through the ordeal of the Hegelian 
 sieve ! The young man's heart was overwhelmed. He 
 felt a longing — a need to remain there, as he was, on his 
 knees — not because, out of Pagan superstition, he feared 
 to be too happy, but because his happiness would not 
 have been happiness at all, without that Adored and Hal- 
 lowing Influence. 
 
 He heard, however, quick steps outside his door, and he 
 rose up with a sigh, as the door was thrown cautiously 
 open, and Lord Reckage, with an air of vindictive fatigue, 
 walked, unannounced, into the room. His hair and au- 
 burn beard had turned grayer. He was thinner, darker 
 round the eyes, and paler than Orange had ever known 
 him. 
 
 "I am thankful to find you," said he, waving his hand 
 to Robert and throwing himself on to the first seat — a sofa
 
 373 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 
 
 — in his way. " I wanted to see you. There are a thou- 
 sand things on my mind. In the first place, I am en- 
 gaged and it is all settled, I suppose you- saw the an- 
 nouncement in The Post. But that was premature." 
 
 "I thought so. That is why I didn't write." 
 
 "Well, it is Agnes at last ! She is charming and clever. 
 I worship her. I could say this to no one except yourself. 
 Most men would think it a pose, but you understand 
 me." 
 
 " I congratulate you," said Robert, stifling a doubt 
 of his friend's future contentment ; " I am sure you mu.st 
 be very happy." 
 
 " Ah ! " exclaimed Reckage, " that is precisely what I 
 am not ! I am far from happy. But I am interested. 
 Life for the moment interests me enormously. You know 
 what the French poet has said: ' Rassure toi, l' amour 
 viendra ; desole-toi, il nest pas T ideal de bonhetir que tu 
 penses.' When we ask for our daily bread, we mean our 
 daily deceptions. The terrible irony of life is the incon- 
 testable fact that we cannot exist without a number of in- 
 toxicating illusions. They are the wine by which we 
 defy the horrors of the slaughter-house ! " 
 
 "But surely there is a certainty — or two ! " said Robert, 
 unable to resist a quiet thrust at this newest pillar of the 
 Establishment. 
 
 "I want a pactical talk — not thai," said Reckage. 
 
 " What's the good of going into all that now } Some- 
 times one must look at things from the outside. Nature 
 is stronger than systems. And I am worried in every 
 sort of way. Of course, Agnes and I are close friends — 
 such friends that it would kill me if she were to marry 
 anyone else. My people are very pleased ; her people, 
 I fancy, are not so delighted. They are all serious-minded 
 and jaw — ^jaw, jaw — from morning till night about one's 
 duty. Agnes has inherited just a shade of the pulpit
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 37^ 
 
 manner. She approaches politics from the relig^ious point 
 of view. Of course that's my line, and I like her to feel 
 an intelligent interest in my work. But you don't want 
 your line following you everywhere — from your wife's bou- 
 doir to your heir's nursery ! We shall be as happy, no 
 doubt, as most married couples — perhaps happier than 
 most, because I enter matrimony with clear eyes. It is a 
 state of bondage — a deliberate chaining up of one's inde- 
 pendence. " 
 
 Orange knew that there was an essential brutality in 
 Reckage's composition which neither refined habits nor a 
 polished manner could totally disguise. Perhaps he read 
 Robert's thoughts. His sensitiveness to opinion was ex- 
 treme, and he was quick to perceive meanings, or glances, 
 when they seemed to have reference to himself. 
 
 " You think I am cold-blooded," he said, flushing. "I 
 can but say this — that whenever I look at the sky, or 
 whenever, I see flowers, whenever I enter a Church, or 
 whenever I hear music, I remember Agnes ! It would be 
 idle to pretend that I suffer from thrills and sleeplessness. 
 I have done with all that sort of thing — for I have made 
 up my mind to settle down. I was very fond of " — his 
 voice grew husky — " I was very fond of my cousin Amy. 
 She wasn't half so pretty as this one, but she had such 
 tact. If Amy had lived — oh, well, you know what Heine 
 said: ^ From my great sorrows,! made little songs.' This 
 shall be the motto for my married life. The ' little 
 songs' may, now and again, have a jarring note, but 
 nothing worse ! " 
 
 "When will the marriage take place ! " 
 
 "Early next year most probably." 
 
 "How lovely she is ! You are a lucky fellow. Beau." 
 
 Reckage drew a little miniature from his pocket and 
 surveyed it with a languid, half-grudging admiration
 
 374 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 
 
 which had something in it of vague annoyance — even an- 
 imosity. 
 
 " She zs lovely," he said, "and of course she is much 
 prettier than Amy was — even at her best. Poor lit- 
 tle Amy ! It is strange how differently trouble affects 
 different people. It makes some fellows melancholy. It 
 has made me hard." His eyes welled over with tears. 
 " I'm a fool, " he went on. " I am unstrung and tired 
 out and everything else. But I was simply awfully fond 
 of that one." 
 
 He plunged his head into the sofa-cushion, and the 
 miniature fell to the ground. 
 
 Orange picked it up. It showed the face of a young girl 
 about one-and-twenty. Her hair was brown, brushed 
 straight back over a cushion from the low brow, and 
 worn (it was the fashion of that day) in a chigno7i. Her 
 countenance, with its flower-like freshness of color and 
 deep gray eyes, had the health and purity which belong to 
 an intense yet unselfish nature. A curious charm, a 
 something irresistible, compelling yet wholly innocent, 
 seemed to emanate even from her presentment on cold 
 ivory. 
 
 "She is a beautiful creature," said Robert. 
 
 "She is perfect," groaned the bridegroom-elect. "I 
 am devoted to her. But can't you understand ? I don't 
 wish to dhiigrer my affection for Agnes, but she isn't 
 Amy — is she 1 And nothing will ever make her Amy. I 
 know that I'm a lucky fellow. Valentine Vivian says 
 that no one, since the Gunnings and the Sheridans, has 
 created such a sensation as Agnes. She has had any 
 amount of brilliant offers. I can't think why she accepted 
 me. I dislike being a woman's ideal. It makes you feel 
 such an unmitigated impostor. I was never Amy's ideal. 
 She would just come in and put her arms round my 
 neck, and say, 'I hate you ! ' That was so nice of
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 375 
 
 her. It was the most fetching thing you ever heard. 
 But I am not going to sit here reminding myself of Amy. 
 It isn't fair to Agnes. Let us drop the whole subject. . . 
 Have you heard from Hercy lately ?" 
 
 " His last letter — which I received many weeks ago — 
 was dated from Paris. " 
 
 "Well, he is now in London, and he is worrying me to 
 death. Half oi /his — is Hercy's fault. My nerves are all 
 quivering. He has suddenly, without a word of warning, 
 gone in for Art. He paints portraits. You never saw 
 such things — blots, and smears, and a regular mess. 
 They would make you sick. He calls them artistic. An 
 artist's strength is to be ajier bourgeois — a Philistine like 
 Velasquez or Millais. But Hercy does nothing but blether 
 about tones, and values, and the colors of sounds. He 
 says that Agnes has a pink voice, and he has painted her 
 voice. He has called it ' The Pink Voice.' Everything 
 about it is pink — except her face, and that is violet. He 
 says that he sees her that way. But if people see such re- 
 pellent monsters — ought they to paint them ? That is not 
 the worst, however. He has taken up with such a queer 
 set of friends. He goes everywhere now with an un- 
 savory looking dog called Mandeville. Mandeville is 
 by way of being a fiddler. And he has a wife — Flamma 
 Mandeville — a dreadful sort of woman, a foreigner. 
 Hercy has painted her as ' Jlie Purple Smile.' It looks 
 like a Tartan plaid — with all the dyes running into each 
 other. He is going to send it to the Academy. Papa is 
 frantic with annoyance. " 
 
 "I never heard of the Mandevilles. But if they are 
 really objectionable, Hercy will soon get tired of them. 
 So many men are degraded by their sympathies. They 
 have any amount of aspirations and would like to fly, but 
 they have not the courage to fly alone. So they prefer to 
 crawl — in company. It is natural enough."
 
 376 THE SCHOOL FOR SALNTS. 
 
 "But you should see the three together — Swinburne 
 and sherry at eleven o'clock in the morning, and no 
 proper breakfast. Brahms and onions and beer and Bach 
 at night. You know the kind of thing. I don't say that 
 there is the least harm in their nonsense. But it is so 
 bad for Hercy. Won't you come round with me to his 
 Studio ? " 
 
 "Has he got a Studio.? " 
 
 " Rather. And he has broken Papa's heart." 
 
 "But he may have genuine talent." 
 
 Reckage shook his head. 
 
 "Wait," said he, "till you have seen The Pmk Voice. 
 I believe he is going mad. And if there is insanity — 
 even latent — in our family, I must know it. Agnes's 
 people are beginning to look a little glum already. The 
 Bishop is not a man to take any risk, I can tell you. Of 
 course, I don't really believe that Flercy is mad." 
 
 "I should think not. He is brilliant. These rapid 
 changes of mood, the disordered vievvs, and the irregular 
 life are characteristic of every artist whose work is a self- 
 conscious form of autobiography. A vision so consti- 
 tuted that it is perpetually directed inward, egoistically, 
 and never outward, sympathetically, tempts its possessor 
 to produce — at every sacrifice — a certain amount of va- 
 riety in his own soul. Everything depends then on the 
 quality of the soul. But have you no mercy on youth } 
 Hercy's heart is all right." 
 
 "Well, be that as it may, I think he should defer his 
 antics till I am married, and so on. Every one hates 
 artists in his family. Do come and see him, and talk to 
 him. He may listen to you." 
 
 He paused a moment to look at his watch. 
 
 " I have to attend a Committee Meeting at six," said 
 he. " We are going to jump on the Vatican Council. . . . 
 You know it's a real trouble to me that you cannot see
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 377 
 
 the Papacy as I do. I hear on all sides what a crisis this 
 is. All the same I always dread an Appeal to our 
 Church. It is like a sickly person recovering. One can- 
 not be morally sure that it can stand — yet. As a matter 
 of fact, I don't think that relisjion ever has reached, or 
 ever will get hold of, the English mind and imagination. 
 No Englishman at any period has been able to paint either 
 a Christ, or a Holy Family. He can work up a sacred 
 picture for the Galleries, and he can copy the early Ital- 
 ians, but there is nothing spontaneous about his concep- 
 tions of Divinity. We are not a religious nation. It isn't 
 in us. It never was in us — we were never good Catholics 
 at our best. But," — he glanced at Robert with an air of 
 apology — "I haven't asked you about your own affairs? " 
 
 "I was just writing to you," said Robert, "when you 
 came in. I thought you were still with the Carillons." 
 
 " No, I couldn't stand the Palace any longer. It was 
 too much of a strain. Agnes alone is charming, and her 
 people alone are charming. I love the old Bishop. But 
 the whole of them in a bunch makes one feel rather lonely. 
 Give me that letter. I always like your letters. That's 
 all right. You are looking much better. Come along ! " 
 
 They descended the stair-case together, arm in arm, 
 Reckage leaning with genuine, unconscious affection on 
 the young man whom he liked to regard as his protege. 
 
 " By-the-bye," said he, "I never told you how pleased 
 I was about that Norbet Royal election. Wasn't it a 
 lucky fluke ? No one could understand it. But Disraeli 
 has any amount of influence, one way and another." 
 
 They took a cab, and drove toward an address in Chel- 
 sea. Reckage had regained his spirits, and he was now 
 wondering where he would go for his honeymoon, and 
 whether Framlingham would have a place in the next 
 Cabinet. 
 
 It was one of those clear days in the early Autumn
 
 37H THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 
 
 when the leaf, not yet fallen, still trembles, glorious in 
 dying, on the bough : when there are rosy clouds on the 
 russet sky, and when the songs and softness of the 
 Summer still linger in the air, 
 
 " It is so much better out here," exclaimed Reckage, 
 "everything looks different now. The Church is cer- 
 tainly in a wretched state, and people who think that it 
 must rest on the multitude — not the brains — of England, 
 are, of course, desponding. But I am going to make a 
 straight bid for the brains ! Pusey and these other fel- 
 lows talked too much about sin and the soul. That bores 
 people. Brains are the thing. A man is proud of his 
 brains. Very few are proud of their souls. Fellows who 
 talk about their souls are a flabby lot — as a rule. And 
 they behave like brutes in reality. I know there are ex- 
 ceptions. But what's the good of making for the Minor- 
 ity .' That is your ambition — not mine. I met Dizzy the 
 other morning, at Framlingham's, and managed to appear 
 at my worst. I am sure he must have thought me a fool. 
 I sometimes have stupid fits. But he knew who I was, 
 and seemed curious about me." 
 
 *'I am thinking about Hercy," said Robert, rousing 
 himself with a start. " I remember now that he always 
 had a wish to paint. It is absurd to say that we ought to 
 attempt nothing, but what we can do. We know not 
 what we can do, and what we cannot, till we have tried. 
 He may hope to find work easy. If it should prove a 
 great deal too much for him, he will have learned, at least, 
 how to respect failure." 
 
 " What an extraordinary way of looking at it ! I hate 
 failures myself. All the same I wrote Hercy as nice a 
 letter as ever I could. But I cannot describe the kind of 
 sickness I felt when he showed me his pictures. He is 
 my twin-brother, and yet he could produce those awful 
 things ! I blushed for them. Why should he not try to
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 379 
 
 revive the old qOo^ in Art? One could stand a fad of that 
 kind. There would be some dignity about that. I am 
 very fond of him. I would make any sacrifice for him, 
 but this new craze will embitter every occurrence of my 
 life." 
 
 " Hercy seldom expects one to make a sacrifice. He 
 wants your confidence." 
 
 "Yes, but that's the hardest thing on earth a fellow 
 can give him. I will try to keep myself cool ; but sup- 
 pose we find him with that vulgar woman ! She orders 
 him about as though he were a lady's maid — 7/zy brother ! 
 I can't bear to think of it. Let us get out and walk." 
 
 They dismissed the hansom and went together along 
 the Embankment. 
 
 "The thing beats me," said the young man, "it fairly 
 beats me," and, going the rest of the way in silence, they 
 looked at the river where a dark barge was slowly mov- 
 ing westward. 
 
 The house was soon found. There was a strip of garden 
 in front, newly planted with those full-grown trees which 
 one may see being borne along in carts, root exposed and 
 branches tied round with hay, for some temporary exhibi- 
 tion. A fountain played in the centre, the water spurting 
 forth from a gourd held high above the head of a stone 
 Msenad. The house door — made of oak, and glass, and 
 ivory, and bearing Hercy's name — 
 
 The Ho?i. Hercy Berenville, 
 
 in tortured characters — stood half-open. 
 
 " His servant has probably gone out for a moment," 
 said Reckage, entering the narrow hall. A strong odor 
 of pastilles and tobacco, roses and coffee, patchouli and 
 garlic sent both men staggering backward. 
 
 "My God ! " murmured his lordship.
 
 380 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 
 
 Robert heard the sound of a melodious unknown voice, 
 and then a shrill feminine laugh. 
 
 "The Mandevilles ! " said Reckage. 
 
 A dog- barked. 
 
 "Fiammetta ! Fiammetta ! " cried the lady, in a strong 
 foreign accent, " Fiammetta I do be quiet." 
 
 The other voice grew louder, and said, — 
 
 " Wilt Thou yet take all, Galilean ? but these Thou shall not take. 
 The laurel, the palms and the p(Ean, the breasts of the nymphs in the 
 
 brake ; . . • 
 And all the wings of the Loves, and all the Joy before death ; . . ■ 
 Thou hast conquered, O pale Galilean ; the world has grown gray from 
 Thy breath." 
 
 " Oh, dat is ve-ree fine ! " exclaimed the lady, although 
 the yapping of Fiammetta had made much of it inaudible ; 
 " and ve-ree true ! " 
 
 Reckage, followed by Orange, advanced into the studio 
 w^here Hercy was standing, on his crutch, in front of a 
 large canvas, with his back to the door. A young man, 
 who was evidently posing for his portrait, was reading 
 aloud. On the divan sat a woman, with red hair, smok- 
 ing a cigarette. She held a small Skye terrier in her lap, 
 and was the first to perceive the visitors. 
 
 "O la-la !" she exclaimed, without stirring, " Her-cee, 
 eet ees your brother-r, and a man." 
 
 The artist, who had been absorbed in his occupation, 
 turned round. Blushing scarlet, he showed, certainly, 
 more pleasure than annoyance at the surprise. But the 
 annoyance — or was it shame.? — was not the less evident. 
 
 " Robert ! " he cried, " you don't mean to say that it is 
 old Robert? How are you .' And Reckage ! Sit down, 
 old stick. How's Agnes.? I am as well as possible and 
 I am working — most awfully hard. None of them can 
 paint so well as T hope to paint! You may look at it — 
 but it is all wrong."
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 381 
 
 "It is rather alarming, I own," said Reckage, m a tone 
 of cruel contempt. 
 
 "Beau," said the artist, quivering, "is one of those 
 critics who think it the knowing thing to point out all the 
 faults. Any ass can see the faults. I can see them my- 
 self! But it isn't so bad as all that. I swear it isn't. " 
 
 "I like the color so much," said Robert. 
 
 "Of course. But you are a worker — you understand. 
 The color is all right — it's the beastly drawing now. But 
 that will come. The light here is very bad, especially as 
 this picture is rather deep in tone. And the nuisance is, 
 that whenever I have a good mood on, that infer- 
 nal chimney begins to smoke. And Flamma — er — er — 
 Mrs. Mandeville, cannot be expected to sit in a cold 
 room." 
 
 "The chimnee is re-allee awful," observed the lady. 
 
 "Let me introduce everybody," said Hercy, who now 
 seemed on the verge of hysterical tears; "Philip, this is 
 Orange. You know my brother. Robert, this is Mr. 
 Mandeville — er — er — What a fool I am ! I ought to 
 have introduced you first to Mrs. Mandeville. Flamma, 
 forgive me — er — er — Flamma, this is Mr. Orange." 
 
 Flamma extended her small, unpleasant hand to both 
 visitors. The sitter, who was a strikingly handsome 
 young man, with a delicate sullen face and an elaborate 
 resemblance to Alfred de Musset, stood up, came down 
 from the dais, and immediately seated himself by his 
 wife. He never spoke then, nor at any time during the 
 visit. 
 
 " Flamma," said Hercy to the lady, who was pouting, 
 "Flamma, you have often heard me talk about Robert. 
 We read his book together. You liked it so much." 
 "Oh, yes." 
 
 She laughed, and in so doing displayed a row of irreg- 
 ular, discolored teeth. Her lips were thin, purple and
 
 382 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 
 
 curiously withered. A dreadful e?inui brooded in her roll- 
 ing blue eyes. Her nose had the wide, disproportioned 
 nostrils which belong to a coarse nature. She was 
 vicious, discontented and untidy. She wore a soiled 
 lavender silk, and an Italian sash of many brilliant hues. 
 Her face was heavily powdered. Youth she still pos- 
 sessed, but it was a youth without charm and with very 
 little innocence. Hercy looked at her with an imploring 
 glance — the glance of a canary to a rat. He seemed to 
 be praying, " Do be nice to them." Then he picked up 
 his brush, and made fierce strokes on the sultry back- 
 ground of his canvas. 
 
 " We don't want to interfere with your work, Hercy ! " 
 said his brother. 
 
 Mandeville glided back to his seat on the raised plat- 
 form, and resuming his pose, a fine one, began to read 
 that morning's newspaper. 
 
 " Shall I show them your pictures, Hercy ? " said Mrs. 
 Mandeville. 
 
 " Thank you, Flam ma. That would be very kind." 
 
 She made a little grimace at Robert and shrugged her 
 shoulders. 
 
 "Lord Reckage always upsets him," she whispered. 
 " He gets on hees nerves." 
 
 His lordship had strolled away to the far end of the apart- 
 ment and was looking at the volumes in the book-case. 
 He had no desire to see any further examples of his 
 brother's aberrating vision. Flamma darted a look of 
 hatred at his back. She stared at Orange with the hunger 
 of some starving beast. No human power could have 
 made her a pleasant woman, or an attractive one ; she 
 was brutal and probably treacherous. Yet she presented 
 a picture of squalid woe past all description pitiful. As 
 she tottered on her high heels round the room, Robert 
 found himself following her with interest and even a cu-
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 383 
 
 nous sense of commiseration. She had the irresistible 
 magnetism of the wretched. 
 
 " Her-cee," she said, "has got ree-al talent — ree-al 
 gen-i-us. But he needs friends who have lajoie de vivre. 
 English people are so Northern, so Olympian, so unin- 
 spiring to his tem-per-a-ment. I know dem, and I under- 
 stand gen-i-us. Have you ever heard my husband play .' 
 Eet ees mar-vellous. Wagner says that eet ees wonder- 
 ful. Eet ees not a man — eet ees a spir-it. You are car- 
 ried away. You cry. You laugh. You sob. You go 
 mad. Eet ees not music. Eet ees death. Eet ees an- 
 gu-ish ! He P " 
 
 She broke into a dreadful laugh, and diving into a cup- 
 board, produced a little canvas. 
 
 "Dis is de best," said she, "quite — de best. Eet ees 
 veree good. Look at eet. Eet is me." 
 
 But Hercy sprang forward and snatched it from her 
 hand, 
 
 "You know that's the worst," he said, his face distorted 
 with passion. " I won't have it shown. It's a beast of 
 a thing." 
 
 Flamma laughed again, and yawned, and laughed. 
 
 Hercy threw down his palette with a sudden gesture of 
 despair. 
 
 "Who ever heard," he said, "of any man doing good 
 work at this hour of the day? It is preposterous. And 
 the whole idea of ' sittings ' is absurd, You should 
 study a face, and then paint it — all by yourself — without 
 a soul — from memory." 
 
 " And how lone-lee you would be, Her-cee ! Eet 
 would be awful. Poor Her-cee ! You would die — quite 
 heart brok-en. Come ! let us have a leetle game of 
 cards." 
 
 " Cards J " said Hercy. "What an inspiration ! " He 
 looked like a man under sentence of death.
 
 384 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 
 
 " But first," said Flamma, " won't you say good-bye to 
 your brother? He is an-xi-ous to go." 
 
 Reckage could not trust himself to speak. He bowed 
 to Mandeville, he bowed to the lady, and strode out. 
 Hercy hastened after him, and Orange, fearing a scene 
 between the brothers, thanked Mrs. Mandeville for her 
 attention, and followed also. 
 
 "Come out into the air," said Reckage. "I can't 
 stand this. Come out into the air ! " 
 
 The two young men were livid with disgust and anger. 
 Each saw in the other the embodiment of the qualities he 
 most detested in himself. Each was at war, as it were, 
 with his own weakness. Each beheld in the flesh, his 
 supposed worse nature. There was not too little — there 
 was too much — sympathy. 
 
 "What is the matter? " said Hercy, in a tone of frigid 
 politeness. They had reached the garden. " I must beg 
 you to be civil to my friends when you come to my 
 Studio. Your manner is impossible. You have offended 
 Mrs Mandeville." 
 
 "I beg your pardon. She practically ordered me out of 
 the house. She is an outrageous person. I have never 
 before met anything of the kind — anywhere ! " 
 
 "You have insulted a — lady for whom I have the 
 highest respect," repeated Hercy, doggedly. " And don't 
 imagine any Clytemnestra business, either. It's abso- 
 lutely Platonic." 
 
 ' ' You young fool ! I wasn't doubting that. I was only 
 wondering whether it was not ridiculous. It is so vulgar. 
 It is so revolting. It is so unspeakably fifth-rate ! " 
 
 "That will do. I don't want to hear any more." 
 
 " But as a duty, I tell you that you are ruining your 
 life." 
 
 "My life is my own." 
 
 " But you owe something to your family."
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS 385 
 
 '•lean change my name. I don't want it. . . . And 
 yet, I sha'n't drop it just to please you. Everyone says 
 that you are a prig. I wish I could get myself to believe 
 that this was a lie. But, on the contrary, I feel it 
 strongly." 
 
 " I have felt in you exactly what you feel in me." 
 
 "Then why don't you leave me alone? I shall always 
 hit back. You can depend on that, at any rate. I wish 
 you were dead. I never wish to see your face again. I 
 wish you were dead." 
 
 Reckage gave him one white look, and left him. 
 
 " He was to blame," said Hercy, turning to Orange. 
 " I swear he was to blame. He doesn't understand, and 
 he won't understand. He is most unfair to that poor 
 little woman. She is a spoilt child — that's all. One 
 cannot take her seriously. I know that her manners are 
 bad. But her mother died when she was born, and she 
 has knocked about a good deal in rather shady society. 
 Mandeville is very fond of her, but he is engrossed in his 
 Music. That is why I go out of my way to be kind to 
 her. Can't I try to make someone's life a little bit 
 brighter and happier without being . . . hounded off the 
 earth ? " 
 
 He nearly wept, but with an effort he controlled 
 himself. 
 
 " Besides," said he, "these people have got perceptions. 
 They see what I mean even when it isn't all put exactly 
 on the canvas. They know what I want to do. They 
 treat me as though I were an artist. And I am an artist. 
 My soul is an artist's soul." 
 
 "I am sure of that, Hercy." 
 
 "Then why don't Beauclerk see it .? lam unable to 
 
 exist without sympathy. And I love Art. I live for Art. 
 
 I get tired of our uninteresting, arid, departmental set. 
 
 They are only human when they want something material 
 
 25
 
 386 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 
 
 which they cannot have — a vacant Garter, good husbands 
 for the poor girls, or some such damnation nonsense. 
 Then they can show vitality enough for all Billingsgate. 
 I despise them. 1 reject them. Let them call me the 
 Philippe Egaliie of the family. I don't care. They 
 never understood me. I am sick of sitting on Gallery 
 stools copying 'old masters.' I want to think of beau- 
 tiful things. I want to get a little oilajoie de vivre." 
 
 " Her-cee ! " called Flamma from the window, "' Her- 
 cee, when you come back fetch me my cloak from the 
 hall, I am ver-ee cold. And Philip ees as-leep. He ees 
 tired of waiting." 
 
 "I must go," he said, hurriedly. "I must not forget 
 my other guests. Good-bye, Robert." 
 
 He shook Robert's hand, and limped back painfully 
 toward the narrow hall where the pastilles were still 
 burning. Once he glanced over his shoulder at his old 
 friend. 
 
 "Art," said he, with trembling lips, "Art is every- 
 thing . . . really." 
 
 And he went in. And the door closed. And Flamma's 
 dreadful laugh — like a jackal's — came out through the 
 Studio window. 
 
 Orange, on gaining the road, found Reckage waiting 
 for him. 
 
 "Before God, Bob," said he, passionately, "I can't 
 feel that I am in the wrong. It is too bitter. Here am I, 
 half-killing myself if the truth were known, in order to do 
 my duty, and all that. As for youth, ain't I young.? ain't 
 I Hercy's own agcf" couldn't I talk this nauseating slip- 
 slop about lajoie de vivre, and souls.? couldn't I go about 
 amusing myself with low standard ruffians, who put no 
 strain upon you in the way of keeping you up to the right 
 pitch.? don't I get tired sometimes of being with thoroughly 
 nice people .? It's so easy and comfortable to let yourself
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 387 
 
 drop, and be declassi. It's merely rolling down a soft 
 hill into a dung-heap. And shall I see Hercy go, and 
 never put a finger out to stop him ? Perhaps I haven't 
 got a tactful way of setting to work, but tact or no tact I 
 will do my duty, please God. I shall go home — after 
 this Committee Meeting, and write Hercy a letter that 
 will make him sit up. Even Mandeville and his wife have 
 a contempt for him. I saw it. ATy brother ! He is an 
 awful young fool, but he is an angel in comparison with 
 those sodden impostors. It is too bitter ! " 
 
 Robert, still under the horror of Hercy's final disap- 
 pearance, could think of nothing except a butterfly which 
 he had once seen flying, like a heart's-ease on the wing, 
 into a cage of two famishing toads. But Hercy, after 
 all, was not a butterfly. He was a man with a soul, and 
 an eternal destiny. 
 
 "And then those pictures," said Reckage, "those per- 
 fectly dreadful pictures ! I can say one thing for 'em — 
 they may be bad, but, I swear, they ain't vulgar. He 
 paints like a gentleman." 
 
 " He's a genius." 
 
 "Do you think so .? But we don't want any Byrons in 
 our family. They are no good. I have a feeling now 
 that Hercy will go out of my life for ever. This is one 
 of those rows that never come right. And I am very fond 
 of him. I love Hercy. He is my own brother. I can't 
 talk about it. He is done for." 
 
 "Oh, well — as to that," said Orange, "surely God is 
 still stronger than a little woman with painted eyes." 
 
 "Oh, yes, " said Reckage, "God . . . but ... I am 
 his brother. He ought to have listened to me." Then, 
 with every muscle of his face in anguish, he said that 
 he must pull himself together for the Committee Meet- 
 
 ing. 
 
 "And where are you going?" he asked Robert.
 
 3iiS THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTa 
 
 Robert blushed. 
 
 "I know," said Reckage, calling a cab, "I always 
 forget ! You are going to walk miles just to take one 
 more look at that Convent." 
 
 Forcing a smile, he sprang into the hansom and drove 
 away. He meditated on the selfishness of all men in 
 love, and recollected the headings of his Speech to the 
 Committee: — i. The necessity for concerted action. 
 2. Suggestions for the founding of some Theological 
 Society (on the lines of the Royal Society) for the discus- 
 sion of matters of Faith, Doctrine, and Discipline in the 
 Established Church. Laymen — with peculiar and ad- 
 mitted qualifications — to be permitted, in certain circum- 
 stances, to take part in the same. 3. A resolution to 
 destroy, if possible, the objectionable term High Church. 
 4. A resolution to speak on all occasions of The Holy 
 English Church Catholic — as opposed to all other heresies 
 in England, or out of it. 
 
 And when tears started to his eyes at the remembrance 
 of Hercy, he took out his note-book and drew a ground- 
 plan for a proposed Theological Seminary to be built — 
 at Oxford, or at Cambridge, or at York, or at Canterbury, 
 or in London, or — up the river. 
 
 Robert, led by habit to his favorite walk, went, at a 
 swinging pace, toward the Convent. But the undisguised 
 despair of Hercy, and the subtler discontent of Lord 
 Reckage, had driven every thought, except anxiety for 
 these friends, from his mind. At every turning he seemed 
 to see the Mandevilles. Their faces — one, with its 
 withered youth, the other, with its silly imitation of De 
 Musset — pursued him in the air. And, fainter than these, 
 he saw the sweet countenance of Agnes Carillon, and the 
 mocking eyes (not especially fine, either) of that dead, 
 that unforgettable "cousin Amy." It is always easy to 
 say of another's misfortune, "What does it matter to me,"
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 389 
 
 or "There must be these sentimental — these emotional 
 crises. They form the character. It is all for the best 
 — God is good! " All these things are true in substance ; 
 all these things occur invariably to the wise spectator of 
 hun-an fates. But more than wisdom— more than the 
 formal utterances of piety is sometimes required of us, 
 and, while a sleepless night for your neighbor's woe may 
 not assist him materially in his trouble, we know that the 
 Divine Economy permits nothing to be wasted. Every 
 unselfish thought sends a lasting fragrance into the whole 
 moral atmosphere of the world. Orange was not the 
 man to express his sympathies by those marked outward 
 signs and injudicious words which add so often but a 
 fresh irritation to the unhappy. It was a sympathy that 
 worked within on his own spirit till he became — no longer 
 the witness, but the partaker of his friend's sorrow. And 
 so, when he reached the Convent, he almost forgot his 
 reason for going there. He was still with Hercy, strug- 
 gling in pastilles and squalor for the realization of the 
 beautiful in theory. He was still with poor Reckage, 
 who was heroically willing to offer everything to God, ex- 
 cept his own family's idea of God. To this he clung insane- 
 ly, with the fatal persistence of a man who has one genuine 
 belief, and a number of opinions. He believed in the 
 noble family of Almouth: he found it hard— even vulgar 
 — to doubt the existence of a Divine Providence. His 
 very desire to escape vulgarity, had, however, something 
 vulgar in its essence. He was religious, in the way that 
 he wished Hercy to paint "like a gentleman." Robert — 
 while he winced a little — understood and appreciated this 
 particular taste. It made, at any rate, for chivalry. 
 Conscious refinement may not be wholly pleasing, but it 
 is an incomparably better thing than grossness, whether 
 conscious or unconscious. And then his lordship was 
 young — not yet thirty.
 
 390 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 
 
 "We must all get through a lot of whippings yet I* 
 thought Robert. 
 
 There stood the Convent, solemn and invincible, with 
 the glory of the evening sky coloring its windows, and 
 its austere walls glistening, as if with amethysts and • op- 
 per, in the sunset. It was the hour for the Rosary and 
 Benediction, and, as Orange passed, the organ notes came 
 sobbing through the air. He could hear the nuns' pure, 
 almost unearthly voices singing the beautiful Litany of 
 Loreto : — 
 
 Rosa Mystica, 
 Turris Davidica, 
 Turris Ehurnea, 
 
 Ora pro nobis. 
 
 And again, — 
 
 Sal'us infirmorum, 
 Re/ugiiini peccatorum, 
 Consolairix afflicUorutn. 
 
 Ora pro nobis. 
 
 He waited, listening till the end, pressing his Crucifix a 
 little closer, yet almost refusing the sudden happiness of 
 his mood, the unexpected miraculous lifting-up of his 
 heart. He feared to be selfish, and hastened on to Wight 
 House, hoping a little that Hercy might come in the even- 
 ing, if only to weigh arguments against his brother's con- 
 duct. 
 
 He found Lady Fitz Rewes sipping tea and eating 
 bread-and-butter in the Library. She had her little feet 
 on the fender : her gloves and umbrella were on the ground 
 by the side of her chair. Her veil, or Fall, was lifted 
 severely just to her eyebrows — showing her face, which 
 was pale, rather sharpened, yet as charming as ever. 
 The curls, however, were twisted up out of sight in her
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 391 
 
 chignon, and she was dressed in a dark stuff gown, a dark 
 shawl, and her gloomiest velvet bonnet. 
 
 "I find," said she, as Robert entered, "that I have 
 missed Uncle. But I was determined to see you. Let me 
 give you some tea. I came all the way from Catesby. I 
 brought my maid and my box. I was going on to Slat- 
 rach. I was, indeed. I feel that I have been treated very 
 shabbily. I have always been told quil njy a rieji de si 
 volage as a Frenchwoman. I can believe it. I am really 
 angry. Last night I was frantic." 
 
 " I saw Brigit this morning and — " 
 
 *' No doubt. I suppose she telegraphed to both of us. 
 But how madly she has acted ! Mudara seemed a re- 
 markably bad sort of person, yet surely she could feel safe 
 with me? I cannot forgive it. She always seemed so 
 true, so feeling, so practical." 
 
 "She was desperate. When I tell you all the circum- 
 stances — " 
 
 " No circumstances can give me back my hours of 
 agony last night. What was I to think.? I was filled 
 with a kind of shuddering horror. I must know where I 
 am with people. Brigit is delightful and dans le meilleur 
 genre : I liked her earnest desire of doing right. She has, 
 too, that don du del of never being de trop. I didn't re- 
 gard her in the least as a foreigner. She was always so 
 thoroughly well-bred — quite English, in fact, in all her 
 ways. And now, this ! 
 
 " I think you ought to wait till you hear all the facts of 
 the case. I am responsible for the whole thing. I — " 
 
 "And I have been so fond of her, and so kind to her." 
 
 "An angel! But if you will only listen, and be kind 
 a little longer. You remember your advice to me?" 
 
 "I have given you so much advice on so many sub- 
 jects, Robert." 
 
 " But your advice yesterday — about marriage."
 
 392 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 
 
 "Oh!" 
 
 " I have spoken to her." 
 
 "Not already?" 
 
 " Didn't you say that all the circumstances were 
 unusual ? " 
 
 Although there was no fire, she stretched out her hands 
 over the fire-place. 
 
 " I am so glad, " she said, at last. ' * I am toothachy and 
 tired to-day. I can't appear so pleased as I feel. Dear 
 Robert, I am quite, quite delighted. It is the best thing. 
 But I wish, somehow, that I could imagine you married. 
 You always look /e moins mari que possible. You have 
 got an ecclesiastical, anti-domestic air. I suppose you 
 love her very much. Beauty is such a power, isn't it ? " 
 
 " I am afraid it is." 
 
 "Love, I feel sure, has but one cause, and that cause 
 is beauty. The proudest, the coldest, the sternest, the 
 saintliest men have to submit to its influence." 
 
 "And why not.'' Are you still heretic enough to think 
 that only the manifestations of the devil are alluring? Has 
 God then made nothing fair? Can He show nothing at- 
 tractive ? Is all the loveliness, and joy, and ecstacy in 
 Babylon, and all the ugliness, and desolation, and pain 
 in the kingdom of God? " 
 
 "Oh, no; I never meant that. Don't we know that 
 Job, after his trial, was blessed by the Lord, and was 
 given, besides seven sons and an enormous amount of cat- 
 tle, three daughters? 'And in all the land,' we are told, 
 'were no women found so fair as the daughters of Job.' 
 In some creatures, therefore, beauty is clearly meant to 
 be a blessing. Brigit is a fortunate girl. Because I be- 
 lieve, too, you are the sort of man who would perhaps 
 love a woman, in the first place, for her appearance, and 
 afterwards, when it had gone, on principle ! Lionel was 
 the same. I hope my boy will grow up like him. He is
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 393 
 
 such a darling at present, and writes the cleverest essays, 
 full of Latin quotations. Isn't it nice for me ! And so 
 wonderful of his governess." 
 
 " Astonishing." 
 
 "You look as though you wished to ask me some- 
 thing." 
 
 " I want you to go and see Brigit. " 
 
 " At the Convent ? How interesting ! But I sha'n't go. 
 I don't see why I should. I am very cross with her. I 
 am much too fond of her to forgive her so easily." _ 
 
 " In that case, I won't urge you." 
 
 " It would be dear to see her, too ! What is she going 
 to be married in ? " 
 
 " Give her your advice." 
 
 " She wouldn't take it. Wait till you know her ! An 
 angel, but a mule. Yet I shall miss her horribly. Who 
 can fill up her place ? " 
 
 " Do go and see her." 
 
 She stood up, pulled down her veil, and waited for 
 Robert to kneel down for her gloves. 
 
 " I know how it will be," she said, taking them. "You 
 will both be very happy, and speak of me to each other 
 as 'that dear tiresome creature.' And I shall be expected 
 to adore your children. And I am such a fool that I shall 
 do it. And each time I meet you, I shall have to say, 
 'Brigit grows lovelier every year.' And I am such a 
 silly, that I shall say it, and think it, too. Of course, she 
 is quite too lovely. What hair ! what eyes I what a 
 fio-ure ! Never mind. Lionel admired me. God bless 
 you, dear Robert. You are always the same. One 
 pours out one's soul to yo\i, and one tells you everything, 
 and afterwards, one remembers that you have told, on 
 your part, nothing ! Lord Reckage and Berenville have 
 mentioned that peculiarity again and again. Before I 
 go, I have a little news for you. "
 
 394 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 
 
 " I long to hear it." 
 
 " Frainlingham has asked me to marry him." 
 
 " What impudence ! " 
 
 " Poor old Fram ! Brigit says that he simpers like a 
 cupid on a wedding-cake. I think he would be kind." 
 
 " You can't marry him unless you love him." 
 
 ' ' There you are — a Turk, like the rest. Oh, so selfish ! " 
 
 " But, I ask you, could you, calling him ' poor old 
 Fram,' marry him ? " 
 
 "How do I know? I get very lonely. Everyone 
 quotes the Queen. They say, ' Look at the dear Queen. 
 What a pattern ! ' But she is older than I am. Her 
 children are grown up." 
 
 "You mustn't marry Framlingham. It would be a 
 crime. " 
 
 " A crime, Mr. Jealous ? " 
 
 " You are much happier as you are." 
 
 " Yes, admiring you and Brigit. What greater joy 
 could I ask in life ? Don't get red. It is not my fault 
 that I understand men. Even Fitz Rewes, who was the 
 very image of King Arthur and the Prince Consort, loved 
 three other women — besides me, pretty well. He was 
 furious when they married — which they very sensibly did. 
 And he was godfather all round — which he hated. But 
 he managed to look like an archangel when he stood at 
 the Font. He had such control of his expression. Dear 
 Robert, I sha'n't marry poor Fram. Don't worry about it. 
 I hate his old barrack of a place in Shropshire. And I do 
 so dislike the back of his head. It is maddening. And 
 now put me in a four-wheeler. And choose the cabman 
 carefully — some nice, steady old thing, with a happy- 
 looking horse. You are looking very handsome, dear, 
 but not so free from cares as I could wish. I shall be 
 rather stiff with Brigit at first, because I am really cross. 
 Good-bye. God bless you ! "
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 395 
 
 These were her last words as she stepped into the cab, 
 Her eyes, under the Fall, were extraordinarily bright. 
 In driving away, she waved her hand from the window 
 with the childish grace which characterized all her move- 
 ments. Robert watched her out of sight, knowing well, 
 that when the vehicle reached the corner, she would look 
 forth again. 
 
 " Dear little soul ! " he was thinking. 
 
 Perhaps it was a little soul, but the smallest birds may 
 rise — though imperceptibly — to heights past humaii vision, 
 to the stars.
 
 396 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIX. 
 
 The year 1869, which had proved an eventful one for 
 Orange, was fast drawing to its close. He was at that 
 crisis in his life when young men, who are in earnest, 
 seem a little unsociable in comparison with those genial, 
 easy-going persons who manage, nevertheless, to disap- 
 point their fi lends when life at last has to be lived rather 
 than agreeably criticised. Few things are more pathetic 
 than the middle-age of one who, in his youth, has en- 
 joyed, by universal consent, a brilliant future. The actual 
 Future comes. It gives the lie to post-prandial prophets, 
 and "universal consent" always accommodating, tells 
 reminiscences of its poor dupe's brilliant I'as/, and 
 wonders why so charming a fellow made so little of his 
 opportunities. Orange, for his salvation, was never 
 what is called a popular man. His few very intimate 
 friends loved him devotedly, yet always listened, with 
 peculiar secret pleasure, to his detractors. He was, they 
 would admit, rather annoying at times, a trifle overbearing 
 perhaps, and lamentably dogmatic. He was generous to 
 a fault, a man without malice, torgiving injuries to the 
 point of insensibility, but, on matters of religious faith, or 
 literature, as great a despot as Sir Thomas More — a man 
 that would burn you and be beheaded himself sooner 
 then yield an inch. Robert — "dear old Robert" — was 
 never "one of themselves." He stood with them, yet 
 apart — a perplexing personality. Disraeli understood 
 him, but the great difference in their respective ages and 
 importance in the world, rendered any cl'^se companion-
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 397 
 
 ship between the two impossible. Orange was therefore 
 a solitary figure, and, but for Brigit, and Lady FitzRewes, 
 he would have been, during his early manhood, certainly, 
 a most unhappy one. 
 
 The night, after Pensde's visit to Wight House, we 
 find him writing thus to Brigit : — 
 
 I am going to compose a little book about you, dearest. I 
 have called it, " To Kalliste in Exile." This is its motto : — 
 
 Giu per lo mondo senza fiiie amaro, 
 e per lo tnonte, del cui bel cacnme 
 gli occhi della mia Donna mi levaro ; 
 e poscia per lo del, di lume in lume. 
 ho io appreso quel che, s'io ridico, 
 a molti fia savor di forte agrume; 
 e s'io at vera son tint id o amico, 
 temo di perder vita tra color o 
 che questo te7npo chiameranno antico.* 
 
 The book will not please me, but you will understand it, and 
 that will be everything. You will have seen Pens^e when you 
 receive this. Your letter — describing her, the meeting, the con- 
 versation ! Can 1 wait for the post ? Yet what a pure life it is 
 — it is like the finest string on some celestial harp. It can utter 
 just one — very delicate, very sweet — all but inaudible note. 
 Yet without it, all the music of one's life would suffer. What 
 she says never matters. I hold out my hand and expect her, 
 bird-like, to perch there. Make what you can, dear heart, of 
 these mixed metaphors. I would take out the last, but, as it is 
 true, I must leave it. I am interrupted. A caller. . . . 
 
 The caller was Baron Zeuill. He came himself in reply to 
 
 * Down through the world of infinite bitterness. 
 And o'er the mountain, from whose beauteous summit 
 The eyes of my own Lady lifted me ; 
 And afterwards through heaven, from light to light. 
 I have learned that which, if I tell again, 
 Will be a savor of strong herbs to many; 
 And if I be a timid friend to truth, 
 I fear lest I may lose my life with thos« 
 Who will hereafter call this time the olden. 
 
 Dante, Par. xvii. 112. Longfellow's translation.
 
 398 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 
 
 my letter. Zeuill, though of good abilities, is of so tortuous a 
 nature, that it is no easy matter to deal with him. He pro- 
 fessed the greatest pleasure at our news : he repudiated, with- 
 out a word from me, Mudara's insolence : he advised, in the 
 strongest terms, our early marriage. So far as I am concerned, 
 I have acted for what I thought the best, and after the consid- 
 eration of more than three days. But I confess that I am not 
 wholly satisfied with Zeuill's manner. He is well-meaning, and, 
 at the same time, insincere — also, disturbed in mind. He 
 would open his mouth, seem about to speak, and then check 
 himself. This was the rule during our interview. When he 
 did say anything, it was always the third or fourth thought, 
 never the first. He dwelt at some length on political matters, 
 and expressed a hope that you would never mix in them. 
 
 " I don't care how clever a woman may be," said he, " so long 
 as she keeps her knowledge to herself. The emotional sex can 
 excite enthusiasm, but they cannot control it. The good ones 
 are satisfied with nothing short of martyrdom, and the bad 
 ones will give you no rest till you become an assassin." 
 
 This was, in its way, true enough. He called Castrillon "a 
 vacant aristocrat," and returning again to the subject of Mudara, 
 he observed, — 
 
 " The personal character of that man is not such as I should 
 willingly choose for an associate in any delicate matter. He is 
 an apostate priest. I make no secret of my disapproval of the 
 Roman and Greek Churches, yet I never like any one the better 
 for leaving them — unless the Greek becomes a Roman." 
 
 At this point, he asked me, with a strange glance, whether I 
 had ever wished to take Holy Orders. 
 
 " The thought has often been in my mind," I answered, " but 
 it has never yet seemed a distinct vocation. That is why I am 
 a layman." 
 
 " Surely," said he, «• you are too philosophic to leave the solid 
 pleasures of this abused world, and exchange manly cares for 
 visionary burdens, responsibilities for the scourge, healthy sor- 
 rows for hysterical woes, and genuine happiness for the enervat- 
 ing imaginations of a starving stomach packed in a hair-shirt ! " 
 
 "If the Church taught philosophy only, the Catholic Faith 
 would not be a religion," said I ; " but have you ever tried 
 asceticism ? " 
 
 " As one man to another," said he, "no, I have not. What 
 makes you think so ? " 
 
 "I did not think so," I replied ; your description of the life 
 torbade the supposition. But devote — say a week — to the rule 
 of the Jesuits or the Carmelites or the Dominicans, one week
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 399 
 
 only, I ask for no more, and then you may be better fitted to 
 form an opinion of the men who give — not seven days — but all 
 their years to such discipline. Try it ! " 
 
 " I have the highest regard, M. de Haus6e," said he, " for the 
 courage and endurance of these ascetics, yet, I repeat, 1 have no 
 patience with their theories of life. Why should I make myself 
 wretched when I am blessed with health ? Why should I fast 
 when I have an excellent digestion .-* Shall I correct the wisdom 
 of Providence, and put what is orderly into complete disorder .'' 
 I speak neither as a Jew nor as a Pagan, but as a critic." 
 
 " Wait ! " said I, "you go too quickly. Ascetics, \n the first 
 place, do not make themselves wretched, nor are they wretched 
 in the sense you mean. A man may choose to abstain from 
 many lawful things as a satisfaction for sins — not necessarily 
 all his own. They may include yours, and mme, also ! Again : 
 what is needed in the service of God ? weak knees, weak backs, 
 and sickly minds ? No, the ascetic must learn endurance, 
 fortitude, and self-command. He has to bring his body not to 
 destruction, but into subjection. He must not lose his health, 
 but perfect it. Finally, he must be as unknown, yet well known, 
 as sorrowful, yet always rejoicing, as needy, yet making many 
 rich, as having nothing, and possessing all things. This is not 
 precisely the state of mind you just described, and, you will ad- 
 mit that St. Paul knew more about such matters than either 
 of us ! " 
 
 " Well, perhaps I spoke a little widely ! For all that, however, 
 what earthly lovers have suffered such misery as the saints ? 
 God, in all the prayers and colloquies of his elect, seems more 
 capricious than any human being — now kind, now unkind, now 
 with His disciples, now hiding the light of His countenance 
 from them, now showering graces, and now drenching them in 
 the waters of affliction. The Sorrows of IVerther are nothing 
 in comparison with the woes of Thomas a Kempis !" 
 
 " When it has been proved," said I, " that we have the right to 
 expect incessant happiness in any state on this earth, men may 
 justly wonder why the virtuous have ev^er uttered a single 
 lament. But, since a certain amount ofsuffering and impatience 
 is, with other things, our inevitable portion, I would rather com- 
 plain of the occasional silence of Almighty God than bemoan the 
 capers of some little minx ! " (Ah, via bien aimee ! But you 
 are not a little minx.) 
 
 " The occasional silence of God," said Zeuill, smiling. " Have 
 you ever heard Him, even out of the whirlwind ? " 
 
 " Often, and out of everything." 
 
 " To J'^^ God in everything — but principally in one's self — is
 
 400 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 
 
 what your English writers call the Higher Pantheism ! That 
 view is a harmless vanity. But to hear Him in everything is 
 but the first step to blind obedience. Humility of that kind is 
 not harmless. It is a great danger." 
 
 " A great force, no doubt, whereas vanity is a sort ot ocean 
 without water — a huge emptiness." 
 
 " Make my compliments to Madame," said he, " and tell her 
 she had better marry you at once, or Holy Church will call you, 
 and then — Adieu, ma mie ! How jealous is religion, and how 
 cruel ! " 
 
 "Once more," said I, " I must disagree with you. Religion is 
 the one thing which can keep men and women constant to their 
 ideals, and therefore constant in their human affections. All 
 our finest ideas of romantic chivalry are Roman Catholic. The 
 Church which you have called both "cruel and jealous ' has 
 told us that Marriage is a sacrament. She has ever labored to 
 inspire men with a reverence lor women. Do we not call Holy 
 Church herself our Mother ? Is not the Blessed Virgin our 
 gracious advocate, vita, dulcedo, et ipes nostra ? No true 
 Catholic husband or wife could ever fear the ' influence ' of 
 Catholicism. The fears would be for the influences of all the 
 putrid philosophy outside it." 
 
 One would have thought that he had never heard of these 
 things before. But he over-acted his ignorance. I am sure 
 that there was some hidden motive in every word he uttered. 
 This is why I repeat the conversation to you. I did not try to 
 change the topic. I made my remarks with perfect freedom, 
 without taking much trouble to choose the terms most pleasing 
 to heretic ears. It was not a case of • milk for babes,' but a 
 time to meet intelligent impudence with the elementary truths of 
 the penny Catechism. In regard to discussing such matters 
 with ' critics ' of Zeuill's calibre, I have invariably set my face 
 against it, and have never consented to it, or done it, even for 
 half-an-hour, in any instance. All that these people care about, 
 as a rule, is the display of their own wit, and how to carry on 
 the war against the Faith and the Holy See. They never at- 
 tend to an answer with an intention to weigh it, or sufficiently 
 to understand it, be it never so reasonable. But there is indeed, 
 no need to convince them, for, like evil spirits, they know too 
 well that they are at enmity with truth. I could not forget, 
 however, that I was under heavy obligations to the Baron. I 
 have a real regard for him, and, in the total absence of any 
 proofs against his smcerity, I must show the gratitude I 
 honestly feel for the kindness he has certainly shown to both 
 of us.
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 401 
 
 " I am acquainted with a number of Catholics," he said, 
 abruptly, "but I confess you seem to have a touch of the real 
 ecclesiastic. It is, no doubt, to some degree inherited." (I had 
 of course told him all I knew about my father's marriage.) 
 "Yet heredity does not explain all of this." 
 
 " Do we not all live always in a triple atmosphere — the at- 
 mosphere of God, the atmosphere of Nature, and the atmosphere 
 of humanity ? Some natures may feel any one of these three 
 influences in a predominant degree, and so we get what are 
 called differences in temperament. One man breathes in 
 humanity first, and God last. A second will put Nature last. 
 A third will put Nature first. A fourth will aspire to God be- 
 fore all things, and all creatures. But the three atmospheres 
 are ever with us, and make, in reality, one atmosphere. You 
 may toil through many volumes of Metaphysics, and you will 
 learn no higher truth than that." 
 
 " True. It is the Ego, Cosmos, and the Absolute," said he. 
 "These Germans are merely dishing up the Fathers of the 
 Church ! No sublime thmg comes from the North, or from the 
 Teutons. You get your God, your Scriptures, your inspiration, 
 your poetry, your vital ideas from the East.' 
 
 His whole face became transfigured. It was, for the moment, 
 really superb with an heroic contempt for the barbarians ot 
 Europe. But the mood soon passed, and, without a further 
 word on the subject of religion, he began to talk about the final 
 arrangements for our marriage. Wednesday next ? He re- 
 ferred to your fortune. I am selfish enough to feel sorry — deeply 
 sorry — that you have one. I could not discuss the point at all. 
 It was a great surprise. Let me forget it. . . . Yet why didn't 
 you tell me, dearest ? I remember now your asking me whether 
 I disliked rich women on principle, or from tyranny ? How 
 could I have guessed what you meant ? I said, ' I dislike all 
 rich people because I am poor and I want to build Cathedrals ! ' 
 I won't reproach you till I see you. And when I see you, I 
 sha'n't be able to reproach you. . . . Would you believe it ? 
 I am wondering at present how much Cathedrals cost? And 
 it \'s, your fortune ! If one could get some land in Westminster. 
 . . . Pray for it. . . . 
 
 As you wish me to go to Slatrach, I shall do so, but for one 
 day only, and after I have made everything right for Wednes- 
 day next. Prince Leitneritz may have some highly important 
 news. 
 
 In due course, the Special Licence was applied for, and 
 
 obtained. If Zeuill felt the least misgiving over the mat- 
 ?6
 
 402 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 
 
 ter, he did not betray it. We read, in Mudara's confes- 
 sion, that the Baron took great pleasure in the thought 
 that he was making '' two charming Christians innocently- 
 happy.' One thing, however, must, in common justice, 
 be remembered. We have to rely on Mudara only for 
 our knowledge of the miserable intrigue. It is Mudara 
 who insists on Zeuill's original responsibility for the over- 
 tures to Parflete. It is Mudara who paints himself as 
 overpersuaded, in the first instance, to such "extreme 
 measures." There is a possibility that Zeuill was, after 
 all, technically innocent. That is to say, he may have 
 believed that Parflete had probably committed suicide. 
 He may have expected some fraud, without precisely en- 
 tertaining the unwelcome idea. We do know, beyond 
 any doubt, that Zeuill was held in general respect as a 
 man of his word ; we also know, beyond any doubt, that 
 Mudara was a liar. The whole facts of the case will prob- 
 ably never come to light, but most of us may prefer to 
 feel that the fewer scoundrels in the story, the better. 
 The wedding day was fixed for October the 17th. 
 
 We find Robert writing to Brigit from Slatrach Castle on 
 October 12th: — 
 
 This ruin stands on a peak above one of the many small bays 
 of the Island of Gylen. It is protected by a natural battlement 
 formed by the steep irregular cliffs, which, crowned with ver- 
 dure on the level, present a bleak and adamant resistance to 
 the water, or, at low tide, a perilous ascent to any one who 
 might attempt to scale them. The surrounding land is broken 
 up into deep ravines and gorges, green valleys and steep hills a 
 little higher than the Castle. Larch, fir, and spruce are to be 
 found toward the centre of the Isle, but all along the coast it is 
 either marsh land where the rushes grow, or v/ide fields 
 of clover where the scream of the gull and the cry of the corn- 
 crake mingle with the incessant moaning of the sea breaking 
 itself upon the granite crags. On the night of my arrival here, 
 the old ruin was decked in all the splendor of the sunset : 
 lights were burning in every window of the shooting-lodge : 
 Glencorbie and the " household," consisting of the cook's three
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 403 
 
 sons, great giants with copper cheek-bones, were waiting to 
 receive me. 
 
 All the foreign visitors are here, and Wight is in the midst 
 of them talking Latin in four languages ! Of all the party, I like 
 best Don Pedro's Chaplain (a learned Dominican), and Prince 
 Czestochowa of Poland. This young man'sgrandfather was tak- 
 en as a hostage by the Empress Catherine of Russia. He was 
 treated with great distinction at the Russian Court, and became 
 the intimate companion of the young Grand-Duke Alexander, 
 afterwards the Emperor Alexander I. He was given, in time, 
 an important post in the Government, b'ut no consideration could 
 induce him to forget the wrongs of Poland, his own country. 
 The present Prmce is an intense patriot, consumed with sym- 
 pathy for Don Carlos, and well able to fight for him. Prince 
 Leitneritz is prepared to beggar himself for the same cause. 
 In fact, they are all enthusiasts, and they are all determined to 
 stand for God, and the rights of the most Catholic nation in 
 Europe. Such fine fellows are not easily crushed — even by Prims 
 and Bismarcks. But they see great troubles ahead. Prim, they 
 say, is plotting with Bismarck in one direction, and with the 
 Emperor of the French in another. Prim sees that Spain can 
 never be a Republic. He fears the Bourbons, but he would be 
 willing to offer the Crown to Montpensier. The Emperor, 
 however, will not have an Orleans on the Spanish throne. 
 ' Spain,' says Prim, with his tongue in his cheek, ' cannot per- 
 mit her election of a Monarch to become an international ques- 
 tion.' He ignores England. It was the unnecessary fear of 
 England that interfered with the marriage of Queen Isabella 
 and Montpensier. So Prim consults with Bismarck. A Prus- 
 sian shall occupy the throne of Charles V. The crown shall be 
 offered to Prince Leopold of Hohenzollern.* I leave you to 
 imagine the indignation, the resentment of the Legitimists. I 
 am thinking of the many thousand lives that must be sacrificed 
 before this outrage can be wiped out, Wight has aged about 
 twenty years since the news. Political troubles press upon 
 him more heavily than personal griefs weigh on the majority of 
 men. He has that prophetic soul rarely found in Saxons, who 
 
 * The reader will remember that, as a matter of fact, it was the event- 
 ual nomination of this Prince which led to the Franco-Prussian war in 
 1870, and, indirectly, to the loss of the Temporal power of the Pope. 
 During the war, the French troops were withdrawn from Rome, and, in 
 the absence of this protection, Victor Emmanuel annexed the Pontifical 
 States and its dependencies to the Constitutional Monarchy of Italy. 
 This meant no less than " the unlawful dispossession of an ancient and 
 legitimate Government held for one thousand years."
 
 404 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 
 
 too often mistake a brutal callousness for vigor of spirit. . . . 
 Dearest, it does not seem the moment to speak of our own hap- 
 piness. The Prince of the powers of darkness ir surely gather- 
 ing his forces together, and the cruellest struggle this world 
 has yet seen is still to come. Still, " who overcomes by force 
 has overcome but half his foe." I never doubt the ultimate 
 triumph of justice. Spain is indeed distressed, and yet I see 
 in England a prosperity more dangerous. Trouble makes 
 friends : insolence makes enemies. And what a noisy, barbaric, 
 sham insolence it is ! The men who struggle for the public 
 good die — either in battle or from over-work, while the sharks, 
 adventurers, and drones share in the results of victory with- 
 out having to pay for it, either in blood or by labor. Don 
 Pedro asked poor Wight whether he saw all the English news- 
 papers. " No," said he, " Gibbon's Decline and Fall of the Ro- 
 man Empire give.?, the safer information ! The daily papers are 
 written to keep the public misinformed on every point. I merely 
 read them now and again in order to learn the current Lie ! " 
 ... It is vain to hope that the British Government will take 
 an active interest in all these troubles. England associates 
 Spain with the wrecked Armada, and France with the down- 
 fall of Napoleon — who was not French. We have not had a 
 statesman since Bolingbroke who understood either of these 
 great nations. And Bolingbroke ? What was he at his best ? 
 A mind attached to a flunky. I long to see you. It is four 
 o'clock in the morning, very cold, and the sea seems to be 
 crawling over the land in search of prey. At five I leave for 
 London. . . . Oh, dear and beautiful, heart of life, are you 
 mine ? . . . 
 
 Robert was married to Mrs. Parflete on October 27th, 
 1869. The marriage, as the reader knows, was not legal, 
 for, while it was believed that the lady was a widow, 
 Parflete was still living. Infinite sorrow came, in after 
 years, from that hasty step. But in 1869, Brigit was 
 seventeen and Robert just eight-and-twenty. Haste, in 
 those days, seemed slowness. Lady Fitz Rewes and 
 Lord Reckage were present at the fatal ceremony. 
 
 " Everyone," wrote Pensde to her uncle, " was joyous. The 
 bride was a vision of loveliness. She is so tall and white and 
 angelic. Robert was dreadfully pale, but entranced. I cried 
 bitterly. It was so touching, and different from all other things
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS. 405 
 
 of the kind one has ever seen. It would have made a picture. 
 But no paint could express Brigit's whiteness and golden-ness. 
 You think of a lily in the sun, and then — that isn't it. God 
 bless them both." 
 
 Lord Wight read this as he sat on the cliff at Slatrach 
 looking- out at the sea. Don Pedro's Chaplain, the old 
 learned Dominican, stood by him. 
 
 "And where has De Hause'e taken his bride .?" asked 
 the old priest. 
 
 "To the Villa Mirafiores," answered the old bachelor. 
 
 " Where is that .=■ " 
 
 "It is near an ancient fortress, on a great rock on the 
 Northern coast of France." 
 
 "Well," said the Dominican, "we have rocks and the 
 
 sea here." 
 
 "Oh, yes," answered Lord Wight, "we have rocks 
 
 and the sea — " 
 
 "And the sky," added the priest, "and Almighty 
 
 God." 
 
 He looked up as he spoke to the heavens, where the 
 
 sun was not silent. 
 
 "True. But," said Lord Wight, looking with a sigh at 
 the grim ruins of Slatrach, " we have not the Villa Mira- 
 fiores. ..." 
 
 "Well," said the old priest, serenely: "they are as 
 happy as we are, mon fils ! For there, too, at Mirafiores, 
 is Almighty God 1 " 
 
 THE END.
 
 AUTHOR'S NOTE 
 
 The story of Orange's married life, of his literary and 
 political life in 1870-1880, of his friendship with Disraeli, 
 and of his career in the Church, will be told in a sub- 
 sequent volume.
 
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