The School for Saints, etc

Front matter

a ' Buona _■ la signoria d 'Amore, peri che trae lontendi metUo del suo fedele da tutte le vili cose. . . . Non buona i la signoria if Amore, periclie quatito lo suo fedele piu fede gli port a, tanto piu gravi e dolorosi pnnti gli conviene passare.' — Dante, Vita Nuova XIII. ' Tke lordship of Love is good, in that it withdrazveth 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 muck the heavier and more grievous trials he must needs endure.' — Vita NuOVA. [AU Rights Resented.] PART OF THE HISTORY OF THE RIGHT HONOURABLE ROBERT ORANGE, M.P. BY JOHN OLIVER HOBBES Eonbrni T. FISHER UNWIN PATERNOSTER SQUARE Mdcccxcvii Æ5g tbe Same Butboc Uniform with this Volume Price 6_r. each The Herb-Moon.

Third Edition. The Tales of John Oliver Hobbes (consisting of Some Emotions and a Moral, A Study in Temptations, The Sinner's Comedy, and A Bundle of Life). Second Edition. Portrait. The Gods, Some Mortals and Lord Wickenham. New Edition. In the Pseudonym Library Paper _ js. 6d. each; cloth, zs. each Some Emotions and a Moral. Sixth Edition. A Study in Temptations. Fifth Edition. The Sinner's Comedy. Sixth Edition. A Bundle of Life. Second Edition. LONDON : T. FISHER UNWIN The School sor Saints

Chapter I

Robert Orange spent his childhood in an ancient fortress built high on a great rock on the northern coast of France. When he grew to be a lad, he used to climb up on the ramparts and look toward the land he had never seen, yet which he knew well was his own country. The stern, immutable building in which he lived had been, in glorious days, the feudal stronghold of a grand Seigneur. Its gabled roof and lofty chimneys, where pigeons built their nests, towered above the town-walls, and frowned at the rosy rising of the sun. Now it belonged to Robert's god-mother — a banker's widow and a good soul — who, it was said, had a large fortune and no heir-at law. She kept geraniums and marigolds on her balcony in the spring-time, and her little salon, with its white panelling and water-colour sketches, its gilt chairs and volumes of unread Lamartine, was called by priests and warriors a paradise.

But to the boy who loved Homer, and Amadis of Gaul, and Le Morte A d' Arthur, it seemed insipid. He would steal away to a desolate lower chamber where the dim drama on the fading tapestries passed into his own experience and seemed his real life : that, lived in company, was, in comparison, a grotesque dream. On his eighteenth birthday, his god-mother prepared a large oppressive supper of food out of season, to which all the rich, all the amiable and all the pious of her acquaintance were invited. The guests, who were mostly of ripe years, enjoyed the evening to excess, ate and drank with easy stomachs, and played cards till daybreak. They toasted the youth, and many brought him gifts ; but he felt that he was feasting with gaolers in a prison, and he had no thought in common with his blessing friends.

This sense of alienation from those he wished to love produced a melancholy as profound as it was inevitable. On the morning after the festival, he went — although he was a Protestant— to the Altar or Our Lady in the Cathedral, and at her feet laid some hawthorn boughs which he had gathered from the hedges, far outside the town, in silent lanes. He said a prayer and wept because he carried such a burden of ingratitude on his soul. An abbe surprised him in tears, and asked him the cause. ' I feel a stranger,' said Robert, ' and a fool ! ' 1 You must remember,' said the abbe, kindly, • that you are a poet.' He had read some of his verses. Then he passed on, for there was an old rich rascal waiting close at hand to make his confession. Robert left the church and walked out toward the ramparts.

The massive gateway and encircling walls struck a chill to his passionate soul. Once more he climbed the stony fortress and saw the sights, heard the sounds which had formed so far his sentimental education. Deeper than any dogma, stronger than his artistic craving for beauty, was the Puritan instinct for health and neatness which belonged to his English blood. The stifling streets, where poverty and un cleanliness festered into disease ; the parched malodor ous gardens ; the tawdry rooms disclosed here and there by a swaying shutter ; the garbage heaps ; the tinkling of untuned pianos ; the scolding of shrews and the crying of children, all mingled together to give one hideous impression of humanity. The town seemed a dungeon where his spirit suffered, starved, and neither the azure sky nor the gilded sun-path on the sea, nor the unmeasured yellow sands, nor the remote grandeur of the great horizon, could distract his mind from memories of the unillumined past.

All things presented themselves to his imagination in some forbidding aspect. The Virtues were gaunt mothers, lean and unloving. The Graces were harlots. The Muses were spectral witches who taught madness. Then he remembered the tales he had been told of the vast forests under the sea reaching even to Spain — the forests which had once been a kingdom. Wonderful story, and perhaps all true ! For, not more than two centuries ago, at low tide an old man had seen the very tree-tops. That mysterious kingdom was the dearest possession of the boy's heart. It was unknown, and, better than all, never to be known. But that day, as he stood wondering what he should do with the gift of existence, he seemed to hear a singing which mingled with the sound of the waves. Was there a quire of birds in that forest under the sea ?

They sang songs of the land, and the stars and earthly love. And the singing mixed with the air till he seemed to breathe it. ' What folly,' he exclaimed at the notion ; • what folly ! ' and laughed aloud. Flushed and confused, he turned on his heel toward the town, and there, standing in the path, he saw a little strange old woman, with a pale luminous face and grey hair. She dropped him a curtsey, and smiled. 'It is a beautiful country,' she said, pointing with her bony hand toward the open sea. The youth followed her gesture with his gaze, and stood looking with her at the great sheet of water before them, which rose and fell as though it lay on the sleeping heart of the universe. Presently she pointed to the west. ' Do you see Miraflores over there ? ' she asked. ' No,' said Robert, who was thinking of that castle of Miraflores ' about two leagues from London, a little place, but the pleasantest abode in all that land, in a wood by the side of a mountain, surrounded with orchards and gardens that abounded with fruits and flowers.

Fountains were there in the courts canopied with trees, that all the year round bore flower and fruit.' (Amadis of Gaul.) ' No,' said he, drawing a long sigh. e I don't see Miraflores.' ' Yes, you do,' she said ; 'it is where the trees are so dense and the smoke is rising. Look again ! ' He looked again. 'I see smoke rising,' he answered, 'and I see trees.' ' A lady lives there all alone,' said the old woman, ' a young, beautiful lady — the greatest singer, they say, in Europe. But someone made her sad, and so she sings no more. She should have had more courage. For my husband was drowned, and my three sons were drowned, and I still make lace as I did when I was a girl, and I had neither husband nor sons. So long as I have myself I have not lost everything. One should not ask for too much.' ' Are you a lace-maker ? ' said Robert, She nodded her head. ' I have sold a flounce to the lady at Miraflores,' said she. ' I was twenty years making it, and it is as fine as a mist.

But now I have sold it I am lonely, for all the thoughts I have thought, and all the love I felt, and all the happiness I used to dream of, are there. And I wish I could buy it back again. It will cure her sorrow, but I shall die, monsieur. I am too old to sell life. For my lace is my life — all spun out of my soul. There is no time now for me to begin another flounce like that. Oh, it was so beautiful ! ' She closed her eyes, but unrestrainable, irrevocable tears escaped and drenched her face. Without a further word she passed on and crept down the stone stairs of the ramparts into the close, dark market place below, where they were selling pigs. Robert found himself looking with curiosity toward Mira flores. Who was this singer who sang no more ? What was her name ? On the sand beneath him a young fisherman whom he knew sat cleaning a boat. 'I will row to Miraflores,' thought Robert. 'The white entrance to the park of Miraflores stood' — so we read in Orange's Journal — 'at the end of a long avenue of young oaks, on either side of which little cows of a delicate breed fed on wild flowers and verdure.

The villa stood on a pine wooded hill rising out of a river, facing the rocky sea-coast and a fair harbour. Its grounds were rich with timber and pathless stretches of green, where marguerites, feathery colza, red clover and a hundred waving grasses grew in miraculous plenty. There was no garden, but there were winding alleys through the park leading to peeps of sea, land and sky, which, seen through the framework of trees, seemed fairy visions. Surely the birds at Miraflores for ever sang, the sun for ever shone, the breeze was the perpetual honied breath of an eternal summer. To imagine Miraflores in a storm or in the winter was impossible : it were easier to believe that it might fade away and disappear like some enchanter's tower, or melt like the radiant clouds which sometimes lend a brief tenderness to the bleak crags of an everlasting mountain.

A small chapel surrounded by palm trees stood in the wood not far from a cluster of magnificent firs, in the centre of which one could suppose an altar had once burned to some Pagan deity. And near this was a levelled terrace in the Roman style, with stone benches, and a railing heavy with vines. What flattering hours could be spent there with the scent of pines and roses in the air, and at one's feet, flowing out to the sea, the cool blue river, where, like giant butterflies, boats with white sails floated idly or waited for the breeze. Here there were no memories of wild deeds done in the past to terrify the soul or make the evening shadows horridly vivid. No grave was sacred to the woe of unhappy loves ; no tree marked the spot where a hero met death, or a faithless mistress kept her tryst ; no ancient gateway told the tale of a siege ; no broken urn nor fallen tower nor moss-grown god brought dismal meditations to the mind.

Miraflores had no history — it was all new — all fresh ; each day the sun seemed to rise for the first time on a just-created earth. There were no yesterdays and no to-morrows. The snow of former years, the lilies of years to come, could neither bury laughter nor sweeten tears. Time seemed a neverending present, too bright-ethereal to need the radiance of hope, or to be darkened by the forebodings of experience.' It was in the month of May when Robert came to Miraflores. He rowed from the sea to the river, and, mooring his boat to a post, climbed up the hill seeking he knew not what. And after wandering through a wood, he beheld, on the terrace far above him, a woman reading. She was dressed all in white, with a lace fichu crossed over her breast, and her flaxen hair half hidden under a large straw hat.

Robert stood trembling — wholly unable to advance or to retreat : his tongue speechless, yet melodies ineffable in his heart. He looked at the vision and said to himself, — ' It is an apparition ! It will pass ! ' The woman spoke first. ' Why did you come ? ' she asked ; « are you a stranger ? ' ' Yes.' ' You may rest here,' she said, ' but it is well known in the neighbourhood that this place is a retreat. It belongs to a recluse.' ' I meant no intrusion,' he replied. ' It was an impulse. I will go away.' The woman smiled. ' You are a handsome boy,' said she ; ' you may stay a little while and talk to me. Who are you ? What is your name ? ' My name is Robert.' 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 ! ' said she, ' so far as that goes I had 'em myself at your age. You are a dear silly boy, and I am quite fond of you — because you are just like me. I couldn't marry money even now. I am one of those fools of women who go about falling in love first with this poor devil and then with that ! But don't listen to me — or any one of us. We give such bad advice. You must travel.' ' Where ? ' ' Everywhere.

This Old World is now mere literature — nothing else. It is the best of all possible libraries. But if you want drama — if you want to see the stuff that life and history are made of — you must cross the Atlantic. I have been eight times to the United States.' ' I was once in Paris,' said Robert. ' How did you spend your time there ? ' ' I used to walk out to Versailles.' 'Hear the little Cherub!' she exclaimed. 'But I love Versailles. When it has been forgotten for fifty years it will be perfect. I hope you went to the hotel, and had luncheon on the terrace. I have been there often.' ' I took my luncheon with me,' said Robert. ' I cannot afford hotels. But I went all over the palace. It is splendid, glittering, regal. It is the architectural emblem of state-craft. It was built by a king for kings ; it is now a holiday-house where any poor poet, or any good bourgeois and his family, may enjoy their Sunday afternoons.' ' Clearly,' said the woman, ' you were born for politics.' ' But tell me about yourself,' said Robert. ' I am older than you are,' she said. ' I am four and-twenty.' ' Does that matter ? ' said the boy. ' I want to know your name ? ' ' My name is — ' She paused, and wrote something on a page which she tore from her book.

She threw it over the railing and it fell at his feet. Picking it up, he read the following, — ' Henriette Marie-Joseph Duboc — known profes sionally 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, Innocence ? ' ' I do not know. She is dead.' ' Do you live with your father ? ' ' No — with my god-mother.' ' And you are poor ? ' 'I must work for my living.' ' You must come again,' she said, ' and tell me more about your ambition. I am always here.' ' May I come to-morrow ? ' ' Perhaps.' ' And are you always alone f ' ' Alone — always.' ' Angel ! ' he exclaimed ' Don't be foolish. I love sincerity. Flattery wounds me.' 1 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 ! ' i ' No,' she said, ' no. You must not.

I am not free.' ' Not free ? ' His look terrified her. She swayed and trembled : finally summoned all her power of truth in order to give him perfectly the lie he begged for. ' I mean — I am my own prisoner.' He threw his hat into the air and caught it, ' Never tell me again that you are not free. Not free — what ill-omened words ! We were predestined for each other before the beginning of the world. I have no doubt of it.' The calm scene, the quiet air, the murmuring of doves in the distance, worked like a spell. It was not heaven opening, but a vision of earth. He would have enjoyed it irresponsibly — accepting it as a due. But to the woman it was a promise — a blessing dependent on certain conditions. ' You must work,' she said ; ' for your age you have done well. But you must do better.' ' I hope so,' said the youth. ' If you come to-morrow, when may I expect you ? ' ' At this hour.' ' The view,' she replied, ' is even clearer in the morning.' 'Then I shall come in the morning.

But not to see the view.' ' Now you may go home and forget me. ' My destiny ! ' he cried, and held out his arms. ' If you follow that path,' she said, ' it leads up here ! ' ' There — where you are standing ? ' 'I think so.' ' It is quicker to climb.' ' There is plenty of time,' said Henriette. ' True. Why should an immortal soul be im patient ? There is all eternity before us ! ' He had now one foot on the railing. Another second, and he was standing by her side. But with this nearness he felt a fear. ' I am afraid of you,' he said, at once. ' Why,' asked Henriette. ' I don't know why.' She wore on a chain round her neck a little trinket. It was a single ruby set in pearls. ' Take this,' she said, ' and I belong to it. It means love and tears.' But before he could speak or thank her for that dear yet terrible gift, she glided away and he dared not follow.

In his boy's nature, passion still lay profoundly dormant, but in its place he felt that 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 reveries at evening or the mur muring serenades of the summer sea ? Had he not been alone and solitary — companionless, misunder standing and misunderstood ? But now it was all changed. It seemed as though his spirit had mixed and mingled with the sanguine springs and sacred flames of life. The emanations of ideal beauty which float upon the surface of the earth now seemed one with his own being. It was all his — all part of himself — the sunshine, the ecstasy, the illimitable illusions of land and ether. His soul was swayed by the music of the spheres ; and, swinging with the planets in their course, he saw the stars dance, he followed the eagle's flight.

He was no longer a stranger in the world — no longer a wandering outcast. Had he not heard the secret language of the gods, and tasted the unforgettable sweetness of love's first rapture ? His happiness lay too deep for song ; even the splash of his oars on the water disturbed the peace of that enthralling hour. It was late when he reached home. His god mother, as he entered the house, peeped, in her little frilled night-cap, over the staircase. ' I have put your supper by your bedside,' said she ; ' but if you want cider you must fetch it from the cellar.' He kissed his hand to her, and waited till he heard the last echo of her footsteps in the corridor. Then he crept noiselessly to bed, where, with a wild sob of supreme relief, of a gladness so great that it weighed upon his heart like grief, he fell asleep.

He dreamt that he went to Miraflores on the morrow. It seemed a still sunnier day. The sea and the river were dazzling ; the birds sang ; the path was pink with fallen hawthorn blossoms ; Henriette wore a rosy gown. She was beautiful, smiling and tranquil. He noticed that her eyes were not, as he had at first supposed, dark blue. They were hazel. For some moments neither of them spoke. They were too happy. ' 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 for ever. Be philosophical.' ' This is not philosophy — this is drifting.' ' Then why not drift ? ' ' Very well,' said she. 'Would you be willing to live in England?' he observed. 'With you — yes.' He took her hand, and again they plunged together into silence.

Presently he explained the simple scheme of their perfect future. He wound up by saying,— ' What do you think ? ' ' I agree with all you say.' ' Darling ! ' Her eyes filled with tears. ' Oh, that it were possible ! But this is all mockery, dear love. We see each other as we are not ; we talk of life as it can never be.' 'This is not mockery, and it must be,' he declared; ' life is not what we find it, but what we make it.' She wept, shook her head and repeated, — ' Oh, that it were possible ! ' ' Speak plainer, my heart. Why is it impossible ? ' ' I am very sorry,' she added quickly, ' that I wore my best clothes and sat on the terrace yesterday. None of this need have happened. It is such a pity ! ' ' We should not have met,' said Robert, quietly, ' if it was all to end in bitterness or nothing.

I can never love anyone else.' ' I believe you,' she said simply. In the joy of her presence he could not measure his desolation — his despair. ' I shall thank God every night and morning of my life hereafter for giving me the love of you,' said he. 'I shall love you for ever and ever, Henriette.' ' Why make rash vows ? You do not ask me to promise anything ? ' ' Be yourself — always.' He set his face toward the sea which called him hence — not with unkindness but with a solemn warning. ' No, no ! ' said Henriette, ' 1 cannot send you away! I cannot spare you ! I cannot say good bye ! ' She looked, as she spoke, not at him, but at the boat on the beach below. 'I cannot say good-bye,' she repeated, and sank down weeping bitterly. ' I can't ! I can't ! I have had so much trouble. Don't ask me to bear more.

I know this is a fairy tale, but I want it to last ! Oh, stay a little while longer ! ' ' Come,' sang the sea. ' Come ! There is a summer every year, and there is love in every life ! But it is not always summer, and it is not always the time to love ! ' ' 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. B ' Good day, monsieur,' said some one. He turned and saw the lace-maker. ' She has gone,' said she, with a wise smile; c she went to Paris this morning by the five o'clock train. Her lover returned, and he has gone away with her. And she wore my lace flounce on her under-petticoat. I saw her step out of the carriage, and she tore the lace, too — my beautiful lace. But that did not matter to her. She pinned it up and smiled. I felt the pin all over me — in my heart and in my eyes. Did I not prophesy that her luck would change. ? Her life is just beginning — that is all. She went away laughing and singing.

And she pointed over there and waved her handkerchief at the air again and again and again! She's a great cocotte.' ' What is that ? ' asked Robert. ' Mon Dieu ! said the old woman, ' have you never met one ? ' ' Never,' said the boy. ' They are very pretty, and they want money, and they tell lies. Why do you close your eyes, monsieur ? ' ' The glare is too strong,' said Robert. * I must go home.'

Chapter II

Blindly the boy looked homeward, and the prisonhouse now seemed the one corner in this great world where he could take his grief. His mind was suffering its first real disillusion, and all the tender exalted emotions which love had called forth now returned to him all the stronger for their flight ; but alas ! now bitter and disdainful from the fruitlessness of the journey. He longed to weep, but the pride of his soul forbade that sensual relief. His eyes might burn, and his heart might ache, and his limbs might fail, but the spirit within him retained its resolution. Yet what could he do ? Should he follow Henriette to Paris, challenge her lover, then kill him or perish in the attempt ? He would die gladly because he was jealous for her honour, and because he could neither see himself betrayed, nor, having been betrayed, for give her.

Why had she been so false ? He would cast himself dying on her threshold, and tell her what a thing it was to play with the souls of men. Perhaps in death he would find great eloquence, and utter words that would sing in her ears — (Oh, those little ears made to be kissed !) — for ever ! Then he thought that was perhaps too weak a part to play. He would seek her out, accuse her of her perfidy, and slay her swiftly before she could woo him into cowardice. The poor boy suffered as all young, ardent, candid creatures must suffer when they make mistakes and are deceived, not by life, but by their own inexperience. Robert's intelligence was too pure in quality to confound even this first overwhelming and apparently inexplicable disappointment with any foolish theory adverse to the wisdom of Divine Providence.

A sigh certainly escaped his lips that the discipline of life should be so severe, but he never doubted that the trial was a discipline, and a necessary one. He felt, too, that he had deliberately sought an adventure by rowing to the strange villa of 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 endeavours, reminded him of man's native frailty. He would seek out Henriette ; he would give her back the bauble she had so freely, so graciously bestowed ; he would show her the scorn of an upright and honest soul. At least she should respect him. When he reached home, his god-mother was not yet in the little salon.