CHAPTER XXVIII

Such questions have their answers, but they do not occur very readily to young men hopelessly in love and half out of their wits with jealousy. He might have taken refuge in prayer, but at that moment he did not want to pray. He wanted to think about himself, to be himself throughout the entire reach of his consciousness, to lose himself in the tempest of emotion which seemed to drive out, beat, and shatter every hindrance to its furious sweep. A smouldering fire is for a while got under, and yet by suppression is but thrown in, to spread more widely and deeply than before. So his fatal affection, perhaps pitilessly fought down in the first instance—asserted its power—its power for evil. Not to love was not to live. He was dead while he lived. He could not find peace in an invisible world of which he did not see any more even a shadow round about him.Shall not the day of the Lord be darkness and not light? even very dark, and no brightness in it?He did not believe that. What miserable scruples to torment, blind, and pollute the soul! Pascal has written that there are thousands who sin without regret, who sin with gladness, who feel no warning and no interior desire not to sin. They doubted, hated, loved, acted, felt, and thought just as they pleased. Perhaps they were not happy, but if they received the punishment of wrong-doing, the wrong at least was committed out of fetters and joyously. It is not until men find themselves assailed by a strong wish that they perceive how very still and very small, all but inaudible, the still, small voice can be. A moment comes when one ceases to think—one wills, and if one is able and the will is sufficiently determined, the purpose is carried into effect. Temptations to steal, to lie, to deceive, to gamble, to excess in drink and the like cannot approach a certain order of mind. But the craving for knowledge and a fuller life—either in a spiritual or the human way—is implanted ineradicably in every soul, and while it may rest inert and seem nullified in a kind of apathy, the craving is there—to be aroused surely enough at some dangerous hour. And of all the dangerous hours in life, the hour of disappointed love is the mostcritical. Calm spectators of mortal folly who have been satisfactorily married for twenty years and more, who have sons to provide for and daughters to establish, cherish a disdain of love-stories and boast that they have no patience with morbidity. Love—which put them into being and keeps the earth in existence—seems to all such a silly malady peculiar to the sentimental in early youth. So they put the First Cause—in one of its many manifestations—in the waste-paper basket, asking each other what will become of Charles if he cannot find a rich wife, and poor Alice, if she cannot entrap a suitable husband. But there are others who look on life with some hope of understanding it truly, in part, at any rate, and these know, perhaps by experience, perhaps by sympathy, that whereas bodily disturbances may pass away leaving little or no effect upon the general health, all mental tumults are perpetual in their consequences: they never die out entirely, and they live, sometimes with appalling energy, sometimes with gnawing listlessness, to the end of an existence. Robert, in the judgment of his intellect and his senses, had found his ideal. Brigit did not belong to “the despised day of small things”; she was the woman of his imagination—the well-beloved, and having gained her, was he to say—Farewell? It seemed so. Meanwhile, the graceful, swaying dialogue rippled between the players on the stage; the smiling audience, hushed with interest, gazed at the delightful beings before them;the exquisite Marquise had uttered her two last speeches—

“Je ne croyois pas l'amitié si dangereuse.”

and—

“Je ne me mêle plus de rien!”

Lubin brought the performance to an end by the final utterance—

“Allons de la joie!”

The curtain fell—to rise again a dozen times. Orange did not hear the door of the box being opened. Prince d'Alchingen came in and put a hand on the young man's shoulder.

“Would you like to see her?” he whispered. “I can arrange it. No one need know.”

But the training of a lifetime and constant habits of thought were stronger still than any mood.

“No,” said Robert, shortly, “I won't see her. I must get back to London at once.”

The Prince looked at him in astonishment.

“You can't get to London to-night,” said he; “there are no trains.”

“I can walk.”

“It is thirty-five miles.”

“I am accustomed to long walks.”

“At any rate you will have some supper first—in my little breakfast-room. Don't refuse, because I want you to meet Castrillon.”

“Castrillon! I should like to meet Castrillon.”

“Then I will tell him. You and he can take supper together. He doesn't want to join the big party. He has the artist's detestation of the chattering mob. How well he plays! And what a triumph for—Madame!”

“A great triumph.”

“This corridor leads to my tiny cupboard—the merest cupboard! Follow me.” They went through several doors and up several small staircases till they reached a small apartment furnished in old blue damask, heavily fringed with tarnished gold and silver decorations.

“A few souvenirs of my hereditary castle in Alberia,” explained the Prince; “they relieve my sense of exile.”

He walked across the floor and tapped on what appeared to be a portion of the wall.

“We are here,” said he.

The secret door was opened, and Castrillon, still wearing his costume as the Chevalier, joined them. If one may believe Prince d'Alchingen's account of this unfortunate meeting, the young men greeted each other with composure. D'Alchingen declares that he studied Orange to the depths of his soul, and he does him the justice to say that he did not make a movement or utter a word which denoted the least emotion. There was not any sort of alteration in his countenance, and he led the conversation with a tranquillity and a gaiety really enchanting. When the supper was served, His Excellency had no hesitation in leaving the rivals together—so convinced was he that they would remain on good terms.

“M. de Castrillon,” said Orange, when the Prince had gone, “I cannot sit down at supper with you. We have to settle an old score.”

Castrillon bowed:

“I am here to learn your wishes. I have heard from several sources that you wished to see me. If you have anything to say, pray say it quickly, because—I have an appointment with Mrs. Parflete.”

“Will you do me the favour to leave that lady's name out of the discussion?”

“I see no reason why I should do you favours, M. de Hausée. But I am quite ready to atone for my indifference by any course of action which could satisfy the most scrupulous delicacy.”

“There is but one course of action open to us.”

“I shall be happy to have the honour of meeting you on your own terms. But,” he added, contemptuously, “we are both wasting our time over a worthless woman. She was seen leaving your lodgings on Wednesday last. I have just heard this. And I received, before the play began this evening, a letter from her fixing arendez-vousfor two o'clock. If you doubt me I can show you the letter. I am as much disappointed as you are. She has fooled us both. Before God I could have sworn she was a religious and modest woman.”

His chagrin was so genuine that it was impossible to doubt his good faith.

“It is a lie,” said Orange; “she was never at my lodgings.”

“I don't callyoua liar, M. de Hausée, but I can prove my words, whereas it might be difficult to prove yours. I can show you the letter.”

“She never wrote it.”

Castrillon sat on the edge of the table, and poured out some wine.

“That is what I said,” he replied, “when I readit. So long as we are going to fight, let it be because we hate each other, and not because we have both been deceived by the same prude.”

“In other words,” said Orange, quietly, “you wish to drive a good bargain, knowing that whether you utter one insult or twenty, I can but fight you once.”

“A l'outrance, however,” answered Castrillon, dipping a biscuit into the glass.

“Yes,à l'outrance.”

“This being the case, let me tell you a few of my ideas. You find life very hard. I find it altogether amusing. I don't love a woman the less when I cease to honour her. I don't honour a man the less when I detest him. If you should kill me, M. de Hausée, it will be the most respectable occurrence in my immortality. But if I should kill you, it will be the vile conclusion of an exemplary career.”

“Your conversation is most entertaining, Monsieur. I am, unhappily, in no mood to listen to it. May I ask you to meet me to-morrow with your second at three o'clock at Calais? We can then go on to Dunkerque and settle this difference.”

“I am perfectly agreeable.”

They arranged a few more details and parted. The interview, which took place in French, is not easily reproduced in English. Orange wrote one account of the scene, and Castrillon confided another to Prince d'Alchingen, and the above is probably as nearly as possible a faithful description of what actually passed.

Robert left Hadley Lodge, and plunged through the darkness toward London. He reached Vigo Street about seven o'clock in the morning. It was Sunday, and the streets were silent. He let himself into the house with a latch-key, and groped his way up the creaking unlit staircase. On entering his room, the draught between the open window and the door set all his papers whirling from his writing-table, and, by a strange accident, dislodged his crucifix from its nail. It fell to the ground, and when he picked it up, the small Figure was broken. This accident seemed an ill omen, but he put it from his thoughts, and scrawled a hasty letter to Charles Aumerle, asking him to be his second. This he delivered himself at Aumerle's chambers in St. James's Place, saying that he would call for an answer at nine. But Aumerle, ever fond of adventures, was at Vigo Street at half-past eight.

“If you are bent upon it,” said he, “I will do everything in my power to see it through. I think you are quite right. Every one will say the same.”

The two left for Calais by the first boat that morning. Castrillon, and Isidore, and a young Frenchman, M. de Lamoignon, were on board also. At Calais the two seconds conferred, and the duel was arranged to take place in a field near Dunkerque on the following morning. On the following morning, the four men met. The combatants were placed at fifteen paces from each other. They fired simultaneously and Castrillon fell—mortally wounded.

Brigit returned on Monday to Pensée at Curzon Street. It was the anniversary of Lord Fitz Rewes's death. The two women went to Catesby, where they visited his grave together, prayed together, and, in the quiet evening, sat by the library fire.

“This is a great contrast for you after all the excitement on Saturday night,” said Pensée. “You are full of surprises, Brigit. Few young girls, having made such a brilliant success, would care to spend their time with poor, dull women like me. They would naturally wish to enjoy the triumph.”

Brigit's eyes filled with tears.

“I know what you mean,cher coeur,” she answered, “but there are no triumphs for any artist. We suffer and we work—sometimes we are able to please. But we suffer and work because we must; whereas we please by the merest accident.”

“That is true, no doubt. One might as well speak of a successful saint as a successful artist. Every saint is not canonized, and every artist is not praised. But surely appreciation is a help.”

“Yes, dearest; and I am grateful for it. And it gives encouragement to one's friends!”

“Let us suppose that they had not cared for your acting, dear child. What then?”

“I should have known that it was my vocation just the same. Don't believe that I shan't have my full share of doubts and struggles. This little first step makes me the more anxious about my next.”

The older woman looked at her, and sighed deeply.

“You are too young to know life so well! I am sure you have suffered more severely than any of us—who say more and cry more. Your face has changed a good deal in the last day or two. In one way, it isn't so pretty as it was.”

“No one can look quite so plain as I can look, Pensée,” she answered, laughing.

“Let me finish what I had in my mind! You are not so pretty—not so much like a picture. But when I see you now, I don't think about your features at all. I watch your expressions—they suggest the whole world to me—all the things I have thought and felt. Rachel's face is like that. I am sure now that you were meant to be an actress. I have been very stupid. How I wish I understood you better, and could be more of a friend. I don't understand Robert entirely. Do you?”

“Yes, I understand him.”

“I wonder how you came to love each other. I suppose it happened for the best. But it seems such apity”—she paused and then repeated the words—“it seems such a pity that all doesn't come right—in the old-fashioned way.”

“It has come right, dear,” said Brigit; “perfectly right.”

“You try to think so.”

“I know it. His father sinned, and my father sinned. We were born for unhappiness. Unhappiness and misgivings are in our very blood.”

“But how unjust!”

“No, dearest, on the contrary, it is strict justice. The laws of the universe are immutable. You might as well ask that fire should only burn sometimes—that it may be water, or air, or earth to suit sentimental occasions.”

“I don't like to see you so sensible—it's—it'sunlikely.”

Brigit smiled at the word—a favourite one with Pensée when persons and events differed from the serene, unreasoned fiction which she called her experience.

“How can you call anything unlikely?” asked the girl. “I ought never to have been born at all, and Life has made no provision for me. She is boisterous and homely—like a housekeeper at an inn. She doesn't know me, and she has prepared no room for me. But I may rest on the staircase—that's under shelter at least.”

“What whimsical ideas, darling!”

“Ah, to feel as I feel, you must have had my parents. You mustn't suppose that I woke up one morning and saw the reason for all my troubles. The reason did not come as though it were the sun shining into the room. Oh, no! I found no answer for a long, long time. But I feel it now. My father could not take me into his world, and my mother's world—Icould not take. They wished to know that I was protected, so they found some one who knew the story, and knew both worlds. I was grateful, because I didn't understand. And when I understood I was still grateful, but I couldn't accept the terms. My marriage was not so terrible as many marriages. Yet it was terrible enough. Don't let us talk of it, Pensée. It is hopeless to quarrel with logic. Science is calm—as calm as the hills.”

“And Robert?” said the older woman. “What about Robert?”

“His father was a Dominican. The Church will have her own again. Be quite sure of that!

‘Thy justice is like the great mountains.Thy judgments are a great deep.’

In God's way, all will come right. Every debt must be paid.”

Although they had arranged to journey back to London the following day, the woods and gardens looked so fair, the peace of that house was so great, that they lingered there till Wednesday. Brigit wasunusually silent. She sat for hours at the library window looking across the Channel toward France, her countenance drawn and white, all its loveliness departed.

Once she spoke—

“I know that Robert is in sorrow.”

“Are you anxious? Shall I write?” asked Pensée, secretly troubled also.

“No, I am not anxious. There is sorrow, but I am not anxious.”

Her room adjoined Pensée's, and, in the night, Pensée, sleepless, heard her walking to and fro, with even steps, till sunrise. When they met in the morning, Brigit seemed to have aged by ten years. Her youth returned, but the character of her face had altered for ever. She was never called pretty again. It was said that she varied and depended wholly on her moods. She could make herself anything, but nature had given her little more than a pair of eyes, a nose, and a mouth—indifferent good. Lady Fitz Rewes was appalled at the transformation. Remembering stories of the last dreadful touches of consumption, she feared for the girl's health. “She will die before long,” she thought. But death can occur more than once in one life. The passing away of every strong emotion means a burial and a grave, a change, and a resurrection. The tearful, dusty, fiery, airy process must be endured seventy times seven and more, and more again—from everlasting to everlasting.And the cause is nothing, the motives are nothing, the great, great affliction and the child's little woe pass alike through the Process—for the Process belongs to the eternal law, whereas the rest is of the heart's capacity.

The way to the city—through the beautiful south of England, beautiful at all seasons of the year and sad also at all seasons—brought something which resembled calm to both their minds. Dwellings closely packed together destroy, or disturb, the finer vision of the grandeur, sternness, and depth of life. At Catesby, the solitude and the waves exercised their power over the spirit, diverting it from trivial speculations to awe and wonder. There, where the unseen could move freely and the invisible manifest itself on the perpetual rocks, the towering trees, the still green fields, and the vast acres of the sea, one could hear the dreaming prophet proclaim the burden of the Lord; and the voice of mirth and the voice of gladness, the voice of the bridegroom and the voice of the bride, the sound of the mill-stones and the light of the candle mattered not. But the kingdom of all the worlds—the worlds and habitations not made with hands—rose up as the real theatre of man's destiny and the fit measure of his achievements. It is that sense of the eternity of consequences—and that sense only—which can satisfy the human heart. Time is too short, this planet is too small, and this mortal body is too weak for the surging thoughts, the unintelligible desires of the soul. Nothing less than infinity can hallow emotions: their passingness—which seems the rule in the fever and turmoil of city life—is not their abatement but their degradation. Change they must, but perish utterly they may not.

The women travellers, as the lights of the capital grew more numerous, and the roar of the traffic louder and more constant, drew back within themselves, assuming, unconsciously, the outward bearing—fatigued, sceptical, and self-distrustful—of the town-bred. When they reached Curzon Street, the two heaps of letters, the telegrams and cards on the hall-table symbolised crudely enough the practical side of daily affairs. One name—an unknown one—among the many engraved on the white scraps caught Brigit's attention at once:

The Rev. J. M. Foster.

“That gentleman is a priest, Madam,” said the butler; “he will call again this evening. I told him that we expected you and her Ladyship about seven.”

For some reason she felt alarmed. All that day and the night before she had been agitated by an inexplicable dread of strange tidings. She went to her room, but, without removing her travelling cloak or her hat, she sat down on the edge of her bed, waiting for some summons. Presently it came. Father Foster was in the library with Lady Fitz Rewes.Would Mrs. Parflete see him? She went down, and Pensée stood watching for her at the open door.

“My poor child!” she said, with a sob in her voice, as she drew Brigit into the room. “My poor child,” she repeated, “Father Foster has come to tell us that—that Mr. Parflete died last night.”

The priest stepped forward with the decision, and also the stern kindness, of those accustomed to break hard messages.

“He was injured in a quarrel, and died from the effect of the wound. He declined to give any particulars of the affair, and I fear we must call it a mystery. He asked me to say that his last words to you were these:Amate da cui male aveste—Love those from whom ye have had evil.”

He looked at her compassionately as he spoke, wondering, no doubt, how great the evil had been.

“Can I go to him?” asked Brigit; “where is he?”

“Where he died—in his room at the hotel.”

“I will go with you,” said Pensée. She held Brigit's hand, and exchanged a long glance with Father Foster.

“Did you say,” she asked, “that he left any letters or papers?”

“He destroyed all his papers, but he has left one letter addressed to you. He wished me to say, in the presence of Mrs. Parflete, that this had reference tosome false report about her visiting Mr. Orange's lodgings. Mr. Parflete saw the lady who went to Vigo Street, and he did not know who she was. One thing, however, he did know: he had never seen her before.”

Brigit inclined her head, but remained motionless, where she first halted when she entered the room.

“Did he die in pain?” she asked.

“I am afraid he suffered greatly.”

“Was his mind at peace?”

“I believe so—from my heart.”

“He had less to fear from God than man.”

“The justice of God is severe,” said the priest, “but He can never make mistakes. The hardest cruelties in this life are the mistakes which we commit in judging others—perhaps in judging ourselves.”

“The carriage is at the door,” whispered Pensée, touching Brigit's arm. “Shall we go?”

Nothing was said during the drive to the hotel near Covent Garden. Brigit sat with closed eyes and folded hands while Lady Fitz Rewes, lost in thought, stared out of the window. At last the horses stopped.

“This is the place,” said Father Foster.

A large gas-lamp hung over the entrance, and two Swiss waiters, with forced solemnity, ushered the party through the hall and up the staircase. Theytapped at a door, listened, from force of habit, for an answer which never came, and then turned the handle. Parflete's bed had been moved to the centre of the room. There was a table covered with a white cloth, on which four candles burnt. By the window there was a chair littered with illustrated newspapers.

“The nurse has just gone down to his supper,” explained one of the waiters, “butle mort est bien convenable.”

The dead man had been dressed in a rose-silk shirt embroidered with forget-me-nots. Upon his crossed arms lay a small ivory crucifix. In place of his wig he wore a black velvet skull-cap. The face was yellow: the features seemed set in a defiant, ironical smile. Hardship, terror, remorse, and physical agony had left their terrible scars upon his countenance.

Brigit, overcome at the sight of these awful changes, fell weeping on Pensée's shoulder.

“Thank God!” she whispered, “he has no more to fear from men.”

When she grew calmer, she knelt down by the body, and told them that she would watch there that night.

“Madness!” exclaimed Lady Fitz Rewes.

“No, no! I wish to do it.”

The priest stated a few objections, but she remained firm in her resolve.

“He was my father's friend,” she said, quietly.

They both noticed that she never once referred to Parflete as her husband.

“If you stay, Brigit, I too will stay,” said Pensée.

“That, dearest, you must decide for yourself. In any case, I cannot leave him. Tell the nurse not to come back. And let me be alone here for a little while.”

Lady Fitz Rewes and Father Foster went downstairs to the coffee-room, and made a pretence of eating dinner. The two talked about the deplorable marriage, the Orange affair, Brigit's talents. Of course, she was very young. But Rachel—the great Rachel—made her first triumph at seventeen.

“One doesn't like to say it,” observed Pensée, “but this death seems providential. If she marries Orange, she will give up the stage. Poor child! At last it really looks as though she might be happy—like other people.”

“Like other people,” repeated the priest, mechanically.

“I must send word to my housekeeper that I intend to remain here all night. And I should like our letters—I had no time to look at them.”

A messenger was despatched, and they resumed their former conversation.

“I am afraid,” said Pensée, “that poor Mr. Parflete was dreadfully wicked.”

The priest sighed, and made some remarks about the dead man's intellectual brilliancy:

“He had great learning.”

“Tell me, Father, with all your experience, do you understand life?” asked Pensée, abruptly.

“Let me take refuge in a quotation—

‘Justice divineMends not her slowest pace for pray'rs or cries.’

I can understand that at least,” answered the priest.

“How odd that you should speak of justice. Brigit was talking in the same strain only yesterday. It's a gloomy strain—for a young girl.”

“I don't think so. One shouldn't sentimentalise. Life goes on, it doesn't halt: it's a constant development. I haven't much patience with——“

He stopped short.

“Pray finish the sentence.”

“Well, I haven't much patience with those who want to linger, and look back, and cheat time. One must get along.”

Pensée felt annoyed, and began to talk coldly about the housing of the poor, and winters which she had spent in Florence.

“Here are your letters,” exclaimed her companion suddenly.

She turned them over with languid interest, murmuring unconsciously to herself the names of her correspondents.

“From dear Ethel. Why is she in Edinburgh? I hope her father isn't ill again. Alice. Uncle. Mrs. Lanark. Mary Butler. Prince d'Alchingen. Thattiresome Miss Bates. Mr. Seward.” She paused and flushed deeply. “Robert.”

Then she turned to Father Foster with shining eyes.

“This letter,” said she, “is from Mr. Orange. Don't you admire his handwriting?”

“A beautiful hand, certainly.”

“I wonder what he has to say, and why he is abroad. Isn't that a foreign stamp?”

“The post-mark is Paris.”

“So it is. Will you excuse me if I read it.”

She broke the seal, and read the contents, while every vestige of colour left her face.

“I can't make it out,” she said; “there must be another letter for Brigit. Will you look?”

He untied the packet, and recognised presently Orange's handwriting on an envelope.

“You seem rather displeased,” said Pensée; “you think this is all very strange. It—it isn't a common case.”

“No case is common.”

“Well, you must help me to decide whether I ought to give her this letter at once. I can't take so much responsibility.”

“Neither can I. She is a perfectly free woman now, at any rate.”

He did not approve of the situation, and he made no attempt to conceal his feelings. His face became set. Pensée thought she detected a certain reprimand in the very tone of his voice.

“It isn't a common case,” she repeated again. “He says he is on his way to Rome—to the Jesuits—for a long Retreat, if they will take him. If he knew—what has happened—he might change his mind.”

“What! you would have him turn back?”

“Oh, don't be so hard.”

“I am not hard,” he added more gently. “But would this woman, if she really loved him, wish him to turn back? And, if there is anything in him, could he ever be happy in any stopping short of the fullest renunciation—once resolved on that renunciation?”

“Ah, don't put it that way to her. She has had so much trouble already. Your Church seems so selfish. Forgive me, but I do resent these celibate views. They are unnatural.”

“I shan't interfere. Take her the letter by all means. She must decide for herself.”

Pensée rose from the table, and went up the stairs to the room where Brigit still knelt by Parflete's dead body.

“Dearest,” said Lady Fitz Rewes, “I think you ought to read this letter. I have had one also. Robert thinks of taking a great step, and perhaps——“

Her glance met Brigit's.

“No,” said Brigit, under her breath: “no.”

Then, with trembling hands, she read the letter once, twice, three times.

“Say something,” said Pensée, touching her. “Say something, Brigit.”

She smiled and held the letter to the candle flame. It caught fire and burnt away quickly while she held it.

“Mind your hand—it will catch your hand.”

“I don't feel it,” said Brigit. She bore the scar of that burn always.

“Say something,” implored Pensée.

“He is on his way to Rome. He asks me not to write to him. Castrillon is dying. They fought a duel.”

“But of course you will write—now. You must write.”

“Hasn't my love done harm enough already? I will never see him again. I shall never write to him again.”

“You can't mean that. You can't realise what you are saying. People will like him all the better for fighting Castrillon.”

“Oh, it isn't the duel, Pensée. He sees his way clearly. He has always tried not to see it. I, too, have tried not to see it. But all that is at an end now.”

“And he will renounce his career.”

“Everything! Everything!”

Pensée threw up her hands, and left the room. Father Foster was standing under a gas-jet at the end of the corridor reading his office. He looked at Lady Fitz Rewes.

“She won't stand in his way?” he asked quietly.

“She won't stand in his way,” she answered. “I hope you realise what that means—to her.”

“I hope I can realise what it means to both of them,” said he.

In 1879, a distinguished author who was engaged in writing a history of the Catholic Movement in England, begged Mr. Disraeli, then Earl of Beaconsfield, for some particulars, not generally known, of Robert Orange's life.

He replied as follows:—

Hughenden Manor,Nov. 28, 1879.My dear F.,—You ask me for an estimate of Monsignor Orange. Questions are always easy. Let me offer you facts in return. The Castrillon duel was a nine days' wonder—much discussed and soon forgotten. Castrillon left a letter with his second, M. de Lamoignon, to the effect that he had offered Orange “intolerable insults” which “no man of honour” could have suffered. Mrs. Parflete's name did not transpire, but Prince d'Alchingen and others gave speculation no industry on the matter. We were at no loss to know the real cause of the quarrel. Orange applied for the Chiltern Hundreds and went into strict retreat for six months. During that time he saw no friends, wrote no letters, read none. I remember his conduct was severely criticised, because the death of Parflete opened out other possibilities of action. He was not a man, however, whom one could order to bethis, that, or the other; still less could one reproach him for not being this, that, or the other. It was his faith to believe that salvation rests on the negation and renunciation of personality. He pushed this to the complete suppression of his Will, tenderly considered. I need not detain you on the familiar dogmas of Christianity with regard to the reign of nature and the reign of grace. Your view may be expressed thus:—“Puis-qu'il aime à périr, je consens qu'il périsse,and you will think that Orange said of Mrs. Parflete, as Polyeucte of his wife:—“Je ne regarde PaulineQue comme un obstacle à mon bien.”This would be an injustice. Orange was, to me, a deeply interesting character. I saw little of him after he entered the priesthood, but his writings, his sermons, and the actual work he accomplished proved conclusively enough that he was right in following—and we were wrong in opposing—his true vocation. The Church received her own again. Rome did not smile at him at first. A de Hausée, however, never yet tapped long at any gate. The family—which had been stirred to fury by his father's trespass—welcomed the son as a prodigal manqué. His aunt, the Princess Varese, left him half of her large fortune. He lived himself in great seclusion and simplicity, and died, as you are aware, of over-work last year. The one friend he corresponded with and occasionally saw was Lady Fitz Rewes. Sara de Treverell did not marry the Duke of Marshire, but three years before Orange's death she took the veil, and is now a Carmelite nun. Many people were amazed at this, but Iwas not. Mrs. Parflete, Orange never saw again after the night of her performance at Prince d'Alchingen's. Her career continues. From time to time a rumour reaches me that she is about to marry a nobleman, an author, her manager, or an American millionaire. Quite a mistake. She, too, is a visionary, and, I should say, respectable. If you have not seen her act, seize the first opportunity. If you think of writing more than the merest sketch of Orange's strange career, may I suggest the following motto from thePurgatorio?—“Cast down the seed of weeping and attend.”Yours very sincerely, my dear F.,Beaconsfield.

Hughenden Manor,Nov. 28, 1879.

My dear F.,—You ask me for an estimate of Monsignor Orange. Questions are always easy. Let me offer you facts in return. The Castrillon duel was a nine days' wonder—much discussed and soon forgotten. Castrillon left a letter with his second, M. de Lamoignon, to the effect that he had offered Orange “intolerable insults” which “no man of honour” could have suffered. Mrs. Parflete's name did not transpire, but Prince d'Alchingen and others gave speculation no industry on the matter. We were at no loss to know the real cause of the quarrel. Orange applied for the Chiltern Hundreds and went into strict retreat for six months. During that time he saw no friends, wrote no letters, read none. I remember his conduct was severely criticised, because the death of Parflete opened out other possibilities of action. He was not a man, however, whom one could order to bethis, that, or the other; still less could one reproach him for not being this, that, or the other. It was his faith to believe that salvation rests on the negation and renunciation of personality. He pushed this to the complete suppression of his Will, tenderly considered. I need not detain you on the familiar dogmas of Christianity with regard to the reign of nature and the reign of grace. Your view may be expressed thus:—

“Puis-qu'il aime à périr, je consens qu'il périsse,

and you will think that Orange said of Mrs. Parflete, as Polyeucte of his wife:—

“Je ne regarde PaulineQue comme un obstacle à mon bien.”

This would be an injustice. Orange was, to me, a deeply interesting character. I saw little of him after he entered the priesthood, but his writings, his sermons, and the actual work he accomplished proved conclusively enough that he was right in following—and we were wrong in opposing—his true vocation. The Church received her own again. Rome did not smile at him at first. A de Hausée, however, never yet tapped long at any gate. The family—which had been stirred to fury by his father's trespass—welcomed the son as a prodigal manqué. His aunt, the Princess Varese, left him half of her large fortune. He lived himself in great seclusion and simplicity, and died, as you are aware, of over-work last year. The one friend he corresponded with and occasionally saw was Lady Fitz Rewes. Sara de Treverell did not marry the Duke of Marshire, but three years before Orange's death she took the veil, and is now a Carmelite nun. Many people were amazed at this, but Iwas not. Mrs. Parflete, Orange never saw again after the night of her performance at Prince d'Alchingen's. Her career continues. From time to time a rumour reaches me that she is about to marry a nobleman, an author, her manager, or an American millionaire. Quite a mistake. She, too, is a visionary, and, I should say, respectable. If you have not seen her act, seize the first opportunity. If you think of writing more than the merest sketch of Orange's strange career, may I suggest the following motto from thePurgatorio?—

“Cast down the seed of weeping and attend.”

Yours very sincerely, my dear F.,

Beaconsfield.

unwin brothers, the gresham press, woking and london.

PUBLISHED BYT. FISHER UNWIN,11, PATERNOSTER BUILDINGS,LONDON, E.C....

Effie Hetherington.ByRobert Buchanan. Second Edition.An Outcast of the Islands.ByJoseph Conrad. Second Edition.Almayer's Folly.ByJoseph Conrad. Second Edition.The Ebbing of the Tide.ByLouis Becke. Second Edition.A First Fleet Family.ByLouis BeckeandWalter Jeffery.Paddy's Woman,and Other Stories. ByHumphrey James.Clara Hopgood.ByMark Rutherford. Second Edition.The Tales of John Oliver Hobbes.Portrait of the Author. Second Edition.The Stickit Minister.By S. R.Crockett. Eleventh Edition.The Lilac Sunbonnet.By S. R.Crockett. Sixth Edition.The Raiders.By S. R.Crockett. Eighth Edition.The Grey Man.By S. R.Crockett.In a Man's Mind.By J. R.Watson.A Daughter of the Fen.By J. T.Bealby. Second Edition.The Herb-Moon.ByJohn Oliver Hobbes. Third Edition.Nancy Noon.ByBenjamin Swift. Second Edition. With New Preface.Mr. Magnus.By F.Reginald Statham. Second Edition.Trooper Peter Halket of Mashonaland.ByOlive Schreiner. Frontispiece.Pacific Tales.ByLouis Becke. With Frontispiece Portrait of the Author. Second Edition.Mrs. Keith's Crime.By Mrs. W. K.Clifford. Sixth Edition. With Portrait of Mrs. Keith by theHon. John Collier, and a New Preface by the Author.Hugh Wynne.By Dr. S.Weir Mitchell. With Frontispiece Illustration.The Tormentor.ByBenjamin Swift, Author of “Nancy Noon.”Prisoners of Conscience.ByAmelia E. Barr, Author of “Jan Vedder's Wife.” With 12 Illustrations.The Gods, some Mortals and Lord Wickenham.New Edition. ByJohn Oliver Hobbes.The Outlaws of the Marches.ByLord Ernest Hamilton. Fully illustrated.The School for Saints:Part of the History of the Right Honourable Robert Orange, M.P. ByJohn Oliver Hobbes, Author of “Sinner's Comedy,” “Some Emotions and a Moral,” “The Herb Moon,” &c.The People of Clopton.ByGeorge Bartram.

Effie Hetherington.ByRobert Buchanan. Second Edition.

An Outcast of the Islands.ByJoseph Conrad. Second Edition.

Almayer's Folly.ByJoseph Conrad. Second Edition.

The Ebbing of the Tide.ByLouis Becke. Second Edition.

A First Fleet Family.ByLouis BeckeandWalter Jeffery.

Paddy's Woman,and Other Stories. ByHumphrey James.

Clara Hopgood.ByMark Rutherford. Second Edition.

The Tales of John Oliver Hobbes.Portrait of the Author. Second Edition.

The Stickit Minister.By S. R.Crockett. Eleventh Edition.

The Lilac Sunbonnet.By S. R.Crockett. Sixth Edition.

The Raiders.By S. R.Crockett. Eighth Edition.

The Grey Man.By S. R.Crockett.

In a Man's Mind.By J. R.Watson.

A Daughter of the Fen.By J. T.Bealby. Second Edition.

The Herb-Moon.ByJohn Oliver Hobbes. Third Edition.

Nancy Noon.ByBenjamin Swift. Second Edition. With New Preface.

Mr. Magnus.By F.Reginald Statham. Second Edition.

Trooper Peter Halket of Mashonaland.ByOlive Schreiner. Frontispiece.

Pacific Tales.ByLouis Becke. With Frontispiece Portrait of the Author. Second Edition.

Mrs. Keith's Crime.By Mrs. W. K.Clifford. Sixth Edition. With Portrait of Mrs. Keith by theHon. John Collier, and a New Preface by the Author.

Hugh Wynne.By Dr. S.Weir Mitchell. With Frontispiece Illustration.

The Tormentor.ByBenjamin Swift, Author of “Nancy Noon.”

Prisoners of Conscience.ByAmelia E. Barr, Author of “Jan Vedder's Wife.” With 12 Illustrations.

The Gods, some Mortals and Lord Wickenham.New Edition. ByJohn Oliver Hobbes.

The Outlaws of the Marches.ByLord Ernest Hamilton. Fully illustrated.

The School for Saints:Part of the History of the Right Honourable Robert Orange, M.P. ByJohn Oliver Hobbes, Author of “Sinner's Comedy,” “Some Emotions and a Moral,” “The Herb Moon,” &c.

The People of Clopton.ByGeorge Bartram.

“Subject to the qualifications thus disposed of (videfirst part of notice), ‘An Outcast of the Islands’ is perhaps the finest piece of fiction that has been published this year, as ‘Almayer's Folly’ was one of the finest that was published in 1895.... Surely this is real romance—the romance that is real. Space forbids anything but the merest recapitulation of the other living realities of Mr. Conrad's invention—of Lingard, of the inimitable Almayer, the one-eyed Babalatchi, the Naturalist, of the pious Abdulla—all novel, all authentic. Enough has been written to show Mr. Conrad's quality. He imagines his scenes and their sequence like a master; he knows his individualities and their hearts; he has a new and wonderful field in this East Indian Novel of his.... Greatness is deliberately written; the present writer has read and re-read his two books, and after putting this review aside for some days to consider the discretion of it, the word still stands.”—Saturday Review

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