Robert, on leaving the house, drove to Grosvenor Gate, where he had an appointment with Disraeli. The ex-Minister was sitting, in a flowered dressing-gown, by the library fire. The blinds were not drawn, for the night was bright and starry; the moonlight streamed into the room, mingling strangely with the soft glow of the green-shaded lamp. There was a large bundle of documents on the table by Disraeli's side, and a pile of Continental newspapers on the floor. One of the latter he was reading, and, by the slight curl of his mouth and the gleam in his fine eyes, Orange saw that he was working out, to his amusement, some train of thought which gave full jurisdiction to his knowledge of humanity.

“Bismarck,” said he, “is the first German statesman who has not regarded newspapers as inconvenient lumber. He wishes the Press to advance his great ideas by assuming the place of the Universities in training public opinion, and the place of the Church in controlling it. He might as well strive to make the horse into the lion, the mule into the unicorn, a parrot into the soaring eagle! Any man who is written up into a place can be written down out of it. Our friend will learn this too late—probably about the time that we, in England, are adopting, with enthusiasm, his present error. Ah, my dear Orange, watch the sky and you will learn the hearts of men. Observe the changing light, the clouds driven by the wind, the glimpses of pure blue, the sudden blackness, the startling brilliancy, and then—the monotonous grey. They seem too hard for me, at times. The clash between ideas and interests makes our inheritance a grim battlefield, and there are moments of mortification when one may feel tempted to sell it—not for a mess of pottage, but for the promise of a mess of pottage. Tempted, I said. There is always a course left, if you have the courage to face it. It may avail you; I cannot insure you even that. But if I were in your place, I would try.”

“I could never do better, sir, than to follow your advice or your example.”

“Never betray, then, the least depression at disappointments or reverses, but seize the few joyful occasions of life for the indulgence of any accumulated melancholy and bitterness. By this simple rule you will escape the charge urged against all the ambitious, who are usually as intoxicated by success as they are cowardly in adversity. It delights me to see you in high spirits. Tell me the news, but first give me your opinion of this little paragraph which will appear in to-morrow's Times.”

He took from his pocket-book a slip of paper on which was written the following in Mrs. Disraeli's hand:—

Mr. Orange, the new Member for Norbet Royal, is the son of a French nobleman of very ancient lineage. It was a condition of his adoption by the late Admiral Bertin that his own name should be dropped, and he has accordingly always borne that of the Orange family. The circumstances of his birth were communicated to the Queen before his naturalisation as a British subject, and his presentation, by Mr. Disraeli, at Court.

“Was that necessary?” asked Robert.

“A public man must speak out, and this expedient occurred to me as a slight pull in your favour. The two things in life which are really gratuitous are the grace of God and one's pedigree! The rest depends upon ourselves. Now you can't think how much I am interested in every little detail of your mental experiences. I believe you will be a Jesuit yet. I have never concealed my respect for the Jesuits. When Spain and France expelled the Society of Jesus, they persecuted their truest allies. A terrible price, too, they paid for that crime. You see, then, that I understand staunch Catholics. If I could rouse an Imperial feeling in England which would at all correspond with the feeling of Catholics for their Church! Sometimes I dream this may be possible. Pope, the satirist, remained, in spite of his wit, a loyal son of the Faith, while many dull worthies who shuddered at his epigrams were recanting daily either from fear or for some worldly advantage. In the same way, Robert, men who hate my novels because they contain a few truths, would sell England, if they could, to-morrow. I mentioned the fact about Pope to a gentleman who complains that you are by no means typical of your co-religionists in this country.”

“The very expression ‘typical Catholic’ is a paradox,” replied Robert, who always accepted adverse criticism with good humour; “there is one Spirit, but it has many manifestations. From the apostles, saints and martyrs to the rank and file, we have to recognise the individuality of each soul. In fact, sir, is not that the very essence of the Church's teaching?”

“So I have always understood. And we have not heard the last of the ‘law of liberty’; although I observe to my chagrin that many modern Papists depart from those great principles which they should take every opportunity of claiming as their own. In the freezing snows of the world's solitude, a prudent man does not try to make himself happy, but he is less than a man if he allows others to make him wretched. The flesh has its discomfort: the spirit, however, has its illimitable conjectures. When all else fails me, I may still find solace in conjectures. Does it strike you that they may have, nevertheless, a danger also?”

“This is your own way of asking me whether I know my own mind! If you mean, Have I put all sentiment resolutely from my thoughts, Yes. If you mean, Have I determined to continue in my present line till I have a call to some other vocation, Yes.”

His heart was troubled, full of vague combinations. The events of the day had seemed mechanical, foolish—a course of sorrowful attempting and self-reproach.

“Both of your affirmatives are satisfactory,” said Disraeli; “you are, I see, what the Americans call a ‘whole-hog man.’ Now let us consider ways and means. I saw Prince d'Alchingen this afternoon. He announces the increased distress and reformation of Parflete. We must therefore prepare for further villainy. Mrs. Parflete has confided to d'Alchingen her desire to go on the stage. He encourages this ambition, and she has accepted his invitation to Hadley Lodge, where she will recite in his private salle de comÉdie.”

Robert, though much taken by surprise, betrayed no sign of it.

“You cannot tell what she will do—until she does it,” he answered. “She may have great talents.”

“Well, one forgets that when Voltaire said, ‘Il faut cultiver notre jardin,’ he was quoting, with sardonic irony, Saint Teresa! You cannot be pleased at Mrs. Parflete's decision. The theatre in England is a sport—not an art. In France it is an art, but,” he added drily, “it embraces more than one profession.”

“Whether a woman be a saint, a queen, or an actress—once before the public—she is exposed to severe discipline. And I don't fear for this one. She will take her revenge on life by laughing at it.”

“I daresay. D'Alchingen calls her un peu Étourdi. She has the audacity—she may have the fortune of despair. Confess—you have run a little wild about her.”

“I ran off the track, if you like,” said Orange, smiling.

“Women fascinate the hearts, but they do not affect the destinies of determined men,” returned Disraeli. “If you have not won anything by this affair, it would be hard to say what winning is. There is but one feeling and one opinion about the really courageous stand you have made.”

“I must gain confidence all the same in my own ability to keep my resolves when they are clear to me. I once prided myself in that ability as the one gem in my character.”

“You may laugh at yourself as much as you please. Beauty is as well worth admiring as anything on earth, and the world is better lost for love, than love for the world. At least, let us say so. I met Reckage at the Travellers' yesterday, and had some talk with him about his Association. I think it far better that Aumerle should not resign, as he could, and probably would, be very mischievous as a freelance. Reckage is all for shaking him off, but these things, in any circumstances, should never be forced.”

“I advised Reckage myself to sound each member of the Committee privately. Then, at the general meeting, he could form some just estimate of the difficulties in his way, and in their way.”

“Reckage, though a mean fellow, might give you an opportunity to work a strong Sub-Committee,” suggested Disraeli. “One cannot calculate on the course of a man so variable and impulsive. He proposes to get rid of Aumerle, and make concessions to his set. It is an unhappy policy, and always unhappily applied, to imagine that men can be reconciled by partial concessions. I attribute much of Reckage's behaviour to his fear of society. Society itself, however, does not practise any of the virtues which it demands from the individual. It ridicules the highest motives, and degrades the most heroic achievements. It is fed with emotions and spectacles: it cries, laughs, and condemns without knowledge and without enthusiasm. Pitiable indeed is the politician who makes society his moral barometer.”

“I have urged him to be firm. Christianity was never yet at peace with its age. There is no other Faith whose first teacher was persecuted and crucified. Viewed solely as a point of administration, it is disastrous to cut religious thought according to the fashionable pattern of the hour. This has been the constant weakness of English Churchmen. They try to match eternity with the times.”

“My opinion is that Reckage must act with considerable caution, or he will find himself repudiated by every party. The English like a fellow to stand by his guns. I come now to your own business. Will you do me a favour? Before you reply let me define it. I have been asked to send some good speaker to Hanborough. The occasion is the opening of a Free Library. Remarks—of a laudatory nature—on the princely munificence of Hanborough's mayor, Hanborough's corporation, Hanborough's leading citizens, a eulogy of their public glories and private virtues—with a little thrown in about Shakespeare, Scott, and the Lord-Lieutenant of the county—would be adequately appreciated. The attendance will be large: the nobility, gentry, and clergy of the neighbourhood will flower about you on the platform; a banquet will follow in the evening, and in the morning blushing girls will hand you bouquets at the railway station. Can you refuse?”

“Not easily, I admit,” said Robert, laughing; “but Reckage is rather low and unhappy just now about his broken engagement. Wouldn't such an adventure as this take him out of himself?”

“This is not an adventure—this is an opportunity,” said Disraeli; “it would be nursed into a stepping-stone. I know fifty men who are worrying themselves to death to get it.”

“You need not tell me that,” replied Robert, with gratitude. “It would be a great thing for me. But Reckage is always at his best in functions of the kind. Hanborough might make much of him, and then his Association would feel flattered by reflected honours.”

“You invariably set your face against your own advantages, and I am afraid I shall not live to see you where you ought to be. However, Reckage shall have the invitation. Now, good-night. By the by, have you heard that Castrillon is now in the marriage-market? His mistress has given her consent, and the Prince has promised his blessing. Could things look more auspicious? Good-night.”

For the second time that evening Castrillon's name fell with a warning note on Robert's ear. Disraeli, he knew, would not have mentioned him out of sheer idleness. There was some danger threatening in that quarter, and it was impossible to dissociate this from Brigit. The Marquis of Castrillon had been with her in Madrid, and also at Baron Zeuill's palace after the escape from Loadilla.

“Where is Castrillon now?” asked Robert.

“I understand he is in London,” answered Disraeli; “at Claridge's Hotel. D'Alchingen and he are on excellent terms.”

“Good!” said Robert, tightening his lips. “You will find he has been invited to Hadley.”

“I haven't a doubt of it.”

“Then I must contrive to see him first.”

Early the following morning Orange presented himself at the house of an old, very devout priest of his acquaintance.

“Father,” said he, “this afternoon or to-morrow I may be in circumstances of danger.”

“What danger is this?” asked the priest.

“There is a man whom I may be compelled, in defence of my honour, to challenge to a duel.”

“To approach the Sacrament in such a frame of mind,” said the old man, “is not to prepare yourself for danger. For to come to confession with a determination of taking vengeance is to put an obstacle to the grace of the Sacrament. You must preserve your honour by some other way. Indeed, the honour you think to preserve by this is not real honour, but merely the estimation of bad men founded on bad principles.”

“I know,” said Orange, hotly; “it is impossible, however, to withdraw now.”

“If you should be beaten,” returned the other, who had been in the army himself as a youth, and could comprehend the worldly view of the situation, “if you should be beaten, what becomes of the honour you wish to defend? And if you should be killed in that state of soul in which you go to the duel, you will go straight to hell and everlasting shame.”

“I implore you, Father, to pray for me, and to hear my confession, if you possibly can.”

“Certainly, I cannot hear you,” said the priest. “But this is what I will do. Wear this Agnus Dei, and perhaps God will have mercy on you for the sake of this, and afford you time for penance. Understand, however, I do not give it to you in order to encourage you in your bad purpose, but that you may wear it with all reverence and respect, and perhaps be moved to obedience.”

Robert thanked him, accepting the gift in a right spirit. His self-will, however, was aroused. He had determined to fight Castrillon, and fight he would.