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ROBERT ORANGE
BEING A CONTINUATION OF THE HISTORY OF ROBERT ORANGE, M.P.
AND A SEQUEL TO THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS
By
John Oliver Hobbes
LONDON: T. FISHER UNWIN
PATERNOSTER SQUARE. MDCCCC
(All rights reserved)
CHAPTER I
One afternoon during the first weeks of October, 1869, while wind, dust,
and rain were struggling each for supremacy in the streets, a small
yellow brougham, swung in the old-fashioned style on cumbersome springs
and attached to a pair of fine greys, was standing before the Earl of
Garrow's town residence in St. James's Square. The hall clock within
that mansion chimed four, the great doors were thrown open by two
footmen, and a young lady wearing a mauve silk skirt deeply flounced, a
black cloth jacket embroidered in gold, and a mauve hat trimmed with
plumes--appeared upon the threshold. She paused for a moment to admire
the shrubs arranged in boxes on each window-sill, the crimson vines that
brightened the grey walls; to criticise the fresh brown rosette under
the near horse's ear; to bestow a swift glance upon the harness, the
coachman's livery, and the groom's boots. Then she stepped into the
carriage and gave her order--
"To the Carlton Club."
The groom climbed on to his seat, and the horses, after a brilliant
display of their well-disciplined mettle, suffered themselves to be
driven, at an easy pace, toward Pall Mall.
Lady Sara-Louise-Tatiana-Valerie De Treverell, only child of the ninth
Earl of Garrow, had been, since her mother's death, the mistress of his
house and his chief companion. Essentially a woman of emotions, she was,
nevertheless, in appearance somewhat dreamy, romantic, even spiritual.
The eyes were blue, bright as a cut sapphire, and shone, as it were,
through tears. Her mouth, uneven in its line, had a scarlet eloquence
more pleasing than sculpturesque severity. At the moment, she wore no
gloves, and her tapering fingers shared their characteristic with her
nose, which also tapered, with exquisite lightness of mould, into a
point. For colour, she had a gypsy's red and brown. The string of gold
beads which she fastened habitually round her throat showed well against
the warm tints in her cheek; her long pearl earrings caught in certain
lights the dark shadow of her hair--hair black, abundant, and
elaborately dressed in the fashion of that time. Passionate yet
calculating, imperious yet susceptible of control, generous yet given to
suspicion, an egoist yet capable of self-abandoning enthusiasm--she
represented a type of feminine character often recognised but rarely
understood.
On this particular afternoon in October she had some pressing matters on
her mind. She was considering, among other things, an offer of marriage
which she had received by post two days before from a nobleman of great
fortune, the Duke of Marshire. But Sara was ambitious--not mercenary.
She wanted power. Power, unhappily, was the last thing one could
associate with the estimable personality of the suitor under
deliberation.
"I must tell papa," she said to herself, "that it would never do."
Here she fell into a reverie; but as her expression changed from one of
annoyance to something of wistfulness and sentimentality, the question
of marriage with the Duke of Marshire had clearly been dismissed for
that moment from her heart. At intervals a shy smile gave an almost
childish tenderness to her face. Then, on a sudden, her eyelashes would
droop, she would start with a sigh, and, apparently caught by some
unwelcome remembrance, sink into a humour as melancholy as it was
mysterious. Quiet she sat, absorbed in her own emotions, heedless alike
of the streets through which she was passing and the many acquaintances
who bowed as she drove by. It was her daily custom, when in town, to
call at the Carlton Club for her father and take him for a short drive
round the Park before his tea. To-day he was already waiting on the club
steps as the brougham halted before the entrance. He smiled, joined Lady
Sara at once, and seating himself by her side in his usual corner,
maintained his usual imperturbable reserve. As a rule, during these
excursions he would either doze, or jot down ideas in his note-book, or
hum one of the few songs he cared to hear: "Go tell Augusta, gentle
swain," "Revenge, revenge, Timotheus cries," and "She wore a wreath of
roses." This time, however, he did neither of these things, but watched
the reflection of his daughter's face in the carriage window before him.
He had white hair, a dyed moustache and a small imperial--also dyed the
deepest black--just under the lower lip. In appearance he was, spite of
the false touches, good-looking, sensitive, and perhaps too mild. The
cleft in his rounded chin was the sole mark of decision in a countenance
whose features were curved--wherever a curve was possible--to a degree
approaching caricature. Temples, eyebrows, nostrils, and moustache, all
described a series of semi-circles which, accentuated by a livid
complexion and curling hair, presented an effect somewhat commonplace
and a little tiresome. He had spent his existence among beings to whom
nothing seemed natural which did not depart most earnestly from all that
nature is and teaches: he had always endeavoured to maintain the ideal
of a Christian gentleman where, as a matter of fact, Christianity was
understood rather as a good manner than a faith, and ideals were
prejudices of race rather than aspirations of the soul. Well-born,
well-bred, and moderately learned, he was not, and could never be, more
than dull or less than dignified. The second son of his father, he had
spent the customary years of idleness at Eton and Oxford, he had
journeyed through France, Italy, and Spain, contested unsuccessfully a
seat in Mertford, and thought of reading for the Bar. But at
four-and-thirty he became, through the influence of his mother's family,
groom-in-waiting to the Queen--a post which he held till his elder
brother's death, which occurred six months later. At this point his
Court career ceased. A weak heart and a constitutional dislike of
responsibility assisted him in his firm decision to lead the life of a
country nobleman. He retired to his estate, and remained there in
solitude, troubling no one except his agent, till a Russian lady, whom
he had first met and loved during his early travels on the Continent,
happened to come visiting in the neighbourhood. As the daughter of a
Russian Prince and Ambassador, she had considered her rank superior to
Lord Garrow's, and therefore felt justified, as she informed her
relations after he had succeeded to the earldom, in making the first
advance toward their common happiness. The marriage was soon arranged;
the alliance proved successful if not always serene; one
child--Sara-Louise-Tatiana-Valerie--was born, an event which was
followed, nine days later, by the death of the Countess.
Lord Garrow, a man of refined ideas rather than profound feelings,
displayed in mourning his wife's loss the same gentle, dispassionate,
and courteous persistency with which he had remained constant to his
first impression of her charms. She had been a beautiful, high-hearted
girl; she became a fascinating but wayward woman; she died a creature
of such mingled ferocity and sentiment that, had she not perished when
she did, she must have existed in misery under the storms of her own
temperament. As Garrow watched his daughter's face, he may have been
touched to a deeper chord than usual at the sight of her strange and
growing resemblance to his dead Tatiana. Did she too possess--as her
mother had possessed--the sweet but calamitous gift of loving? He
himself had not been the object of his wife's supreme devotion. Before
the child's birth she had given him an emerald ring which, she declared,
was all that she valued on earth. It was no gift of his; it had belonged
to a young attache to her father's embassy. Affection had taught Lord
Garrow something; he asked no questions; the jewel was placed, by his
orders, on her dead hand; it was buried with her, and with that burial
he included any jealousy of her early romance. He had been sincerely,
wholly attached to her; he had been proud of her graces and
accomplishments; he knew her virtue and honoured her pure mind; she was
the one woman he had ever wished to marry. He did not regret, nay, it
was impossible to regret, their marriage. But she had been ever an alien
and a stranger. Each had too often considered the other's heart with
surprise. True love must rest on a perfect understanding; at the first
lifting of the eyes in wonder there is a jar which by and by must make
the whole emotion restless. An unconquerable curiosity lay at the very
root of their lives. She thought him English and self-sufficient; he
thought her foreign and a little superstitious. This ineffable criticism
was constant, fretful, and ever nearing the climax of uttered reproach.
Sara had inherited all the amazement, but she owned, as well, its
comprehension. She adored passionately the mother she had never seen;
she loved her father, whom she knew by heart. After exchanging an
affectionate glance with his lordship, she began to draw on her gloves.
Whilst buttoning one she said--
"Have you seen him?"
"No," he replied; "but, in any case, I think he would have avoided me
to-day."
"Why?"
"From motives of delicacy. Henry Marshire is a man of the nicest
feeling. He is never guilty of the least mistake."
Sara smiled, and so disguised a blush.
"I did not mean Marshire," she said. "I was thinking then of Robert
Orange."
"Robert Orange," exclaimed Lord Garrow in astonishment.
"Yes, dear papa. Is he not sometimes at the Carlton with Lord Wight? He
seems to me a coming man; and so good-looking. We must really ask him to
dinner."
Some minutes elapsed before the Earl could utter any comment on a
suggestion so surprising, and at that particular moment so
inconsequent. Was his daughter not weighing--with prayer, he hoped, and
certainly with all her senses--the prospect of an alliance with the Duke
of Marshire? How, then, could she pause in a meditation of such vital
interest to make capricious remarks about a mere acquaintance?
"Does Marshire know him?" he asked at last.
"I hope so. He is a remarkable person. But the party is blind."
"My dear, the English are an aristocratic people. They do not forgive
mysterious blood and ungentle origins. While we have our Howards, our
Talbots, and our Poulets--to say nothing of the De Courcys and
Cliftons--it would surely seem excessively absurd to endure the
intrusion of French _emigres_ into our midst."
"How I hate the great world!" exclaimed Sara, with vehemence; "how I
dislike the class which ambition, wealth, and pride separate from the
rest of humanity! My only happiness now is found in solitude."
"Your mother, dear Sara, had--or fancied so--this same desire to shun
companionship and be alone. Her delicate health after our marriage made
her fear society."
"There are days when it seems an arena of wild beasts!"
"Nevertheless, my darling, at your age you must learn to live among your
fellow creatures."
"How can I live where I should be afraid to die?"
"Ought you to give way to these moods? Is it not mistaking the
imagination for the soul? Young people do this, and you are very
young--but two-and-twenty."
"I am double-hearted," said Sara; "and when one is double-hearted the
tongue must utter contradictions. I like my advantages while I despise
them. I wish to be thought exclusive, yet I condemn the pettiness of my
ambition. And so on."
"I fear," said Lord Garrow gravely, "that your mind is disturbed by a
question which you must soon--very soon, my dearest child--answer."
"Papa, I cannot."
"Surely you will gratify me so far as to take time before you object to
what might possibly be most desirable."
"It may be desirable enough, but is it right?"
"Right," repeated her father, with exasperation. "How could it be
otherwise than right to marry a man of Marshire's position, means,
stamp, and general fitness? You would be in possession of a station
where your interest would be as independent as your spirit. Nothing
could have been more brilliant, or flattering, or more cordial than his
offer. I argue against my natural selfishness for your welfare. I don't
wish to part with you, but I must consider your future."
He spoke with energy, and Sara knew, from the length and substance of
the speech, that the subject had been for some time very near his heart.
She resolved, on the instant, not to fail him; but as she foresaw his
crowning satisfaction, she permitted herself the luxury of prolonging
his suspense.
"I do not love him," said she.
"In marriage one does not require an unconquerable love but an
invincible sympathy."
"An invincible sympathy!" she exclaimed. "I have had that for certain
friends--for one or two, at any rate. For Robert Orange, as an example."
"That man again? Why do you dwell upon him?"
"He is interesting, he has force, and, as for origin, do people ever
repeat pleasant facts about a neighbour's pedigree? I believe that his
family is every bit as good as ours. His second name is de Hausee. No
one can pretend that we are even so good as a genuine de Hausee. We may
make ourselves ridiculous!"
"Let me entreat you to guard against these inequalities in your
character. To-day I could even accuse you of levity. Dearest Sara,
Marshire is hardly the man to be kept waiting for his reply."
"I am not well," said Sara, almost in tears. "There are hours when I
would not give my especial blessings for any other earthly happiness,
and then, a moment after, the things which pleased me most become
vexations, all but intolerable!"
"How little importance, then, should we attach to our caprices, when we
know, by experience, how short is the pleasure and displeasure they can
give," was the careful reply.
"Caprices!" said Sara, "yes, you are right. My mind gets weary,
disgusted, and dismayed. But the soul is never bored--never tired. Poor
prisoner! It has so few opportunities."
She sighed deeply, and her father saw, with distress, the approach of a
sentimental mood which he deplored as un-English, and feared as
unmanageable.
"What is this languor, this inability to rouse myself, to feel the least
interest in things or people?" she continued. "I am not ill, and yet I
have scarcely the strength to regret my lassitude."
"What does it mean?"
He put his hand upon her jacket sleeve.
"Is this warm enough?" he said. "The autumn is treacherous. You are
careful, I hope."
She glanced out of the window and up at the clouds which, grey, heavy,
and impenetrable, moved, darkening all things as they went across the
sky.
"I wish it would rain! I like to be out when it rains!"
"A strange fancy," said her father, "but tastes, even odd ones, give a
charm to life, whereas passions--" he put some stress upon the word and
repeated it, "passions destroy it."
"Marshire, at any rate, does not seem to possess either!"
"Well, a man must begin at some point, and, at some point, he must
change. He admires and respects you, my darling, so we may hardly
quarrel with his judgment."
Sara shrugged her shoulders and turned her glance away from the few
carriages filled with invalids or elderly women which were still
lingering in the Row.
"Some people," said she, "are driven by their passions, others, the
smaller number, by their virtues. Marshire has asked me to marry him
because it is his duty to choose a wife from his own circle. I have no
illusions in the matter. Nor, I fancy, has he. We have talked, of
course, of love and Platonism till both love and Platonism became a
weariness!"
"Very far indeed am I from thinking you just. I have had an extremely
kind note from the Duchess."
"An old tyrant! She wants a daughter-in-law who will play piquet with
her in the evenings, and feed her peacocks in the morning. She is tired
of poor Miss Wilmington. An old tyrant!"
"She hopes to hear soon when the marriage is to take place. I wish I
could tell her the day. I do so long to have it fixed."
"Dear papa," she said, with a charming smile, "you are anxious, I see,
to be rid of me. I will write to him to-night."
"And to what effect?"
"The wisest."
"That means the happiest, too?" he asked with anxiety.
"For you and him, I hope. As for me--am I a woman who could, by any
chance, be both happy and wise at the same moment?"
Her existence was very solitary. The flippancy of the lives around her,
the inanity of her relatives' pursuits, their heedlessness of those
inner qualities which make the real--indeed, the only considerable
difference between man and man, could but fret, and mortify, and abash a
heart which, in the absence of any religious faith, had, at any rate,
the need of it. Her father, who entertained clear views of "the right
thing" and "the wrong thing" in social ethics, was still too rigid a
formalist in the exposition of his theories to reach an intelligence
with whom the desire of virtues would have to come as a
passion--inspiring and inspired or else be utterly repudiated.
Utilitarianism, and the greatest happiness of the greatest number,
comfortable domestic axioms, little schemes for the elevation of the
masses by the classes, had, on their logical basis, no attraction for
this sceptical, wayward girl. To be merely useful was, in her eyes, to
make oneself meddlesome and absurd. The object of existence was to be
heroic or nothing. She could imagine herself a Poor Clare: she could not
imagine herself as a great young lady dividing her hours judiciously
between district visiting and the ball-room, between the conquest of
eligible bachelors and the salvation of vulgar souls. Marshire, she
knew, had sisters and cousins who did these things and were considered
patterns. No wonder then that she turned pale and became fretful at the
prospect of her views clashing inevitably with his.
"I cannot be wise and happy at the same moment," she repeated.
At that instant the carriage, which was then rolling toward Hyde Park
Corner, came to an abrupt standstill, and, on looking out, Lord Garrow
observed that the coachman had halted in obedience to a signal from a
gentleman who was galloping, at a hard pace, after their brougham.
"It must be Reckage," said the Earl; "I never knew a man so fond of
riding who rode so ill."
"What, I wonder, does he want now?" said Sara, flushing a little. "I
didn't know that he was in town."
By that time the pursuer, a handsome man with an auburn beard and very
fine blue eyes, had reached them.
"This," he shouted, "is a rushing beast of a horse;" but, before he
could explain his errand, the hunter, who was nearly quite thoroughbred
and a magnificent animal, dashed on, evidently determined to gain,
without delay, some favourite destination.
"Extraordinary!" said Lord Garrow. "Extraordinary!"
"But so like him," observed his daughter.
"And he has made us late for tea. What a stupid fellow!"
It was exactly five minutes past five when they reached St. James's
Square. The sun, a globe, set in thin lines of yellow light, shone out
above the trees, which were dull but not yet leafless. Grey and
sulphurous and gold-edged clouds floated in masses on the blue sky. It
had been a day of changes--yet it seemed to Sara, whose own moods had
been as various, the ordinary passing away of time.
"Upon my word," said his lordship, "it is too bad! They may say what
they please about Reckage, but I call him a spooney. That horse was a
noble horse--a most superior horse. He couldn't manage him. I wish he
would sell him."
"He would never do anything so much to his own advantage," was the dry
response. "Poor Reckage is a brilliant fool--he's selfish, and therefore
he miscalculates."
Sara was now talking mechanically--as she often did when she was with
those whom she loved or liked, but from whom she was separated in every
thought, interest, and emotion. The lassitude of which she had
complained at the beginning of their drive returned upon her. Sighing
heavily, she entered the house and mounted the long staircase to the
drawing-room, where the tea-table was already spread, the flame
quivering under the kettle, the deep pink china laid out on a silver
tray. But the homeliness of the scene and its familiarity had no power
to soothe that aching, distracted heart. Had she been a man, she
thought, she might have sought her refuge in ceaseless work, in great
ambitions, in achievements. This eternal tea-pouring and word-mincing,
this business of forced laughter and garlanded conversation was more
than she could endure. A low cry of impatience, too long and also too
loosely imprisoned, escaped from her lips.
"What is the matter?" asked Lord Garrow, who was following close upon
her heels.
"Life," she said, "life! That is all that ever does matter."
"Ain't you happy?"
"No, but I have it in me to be happy--an appalling capability. Let us
say no more about it. I must join myself to eternity, and so find rest."
"Well," said her father, who now felt that he had a right to complain,
"my poor uncle used to say, if women deserved happiness they would bear
it better. Few of them bear it well--and this is a fact I have often
brought before me."