Robert Orange / Being a Continuation of the History of Robert Orange

by John Oliver Hobbes

“I am so glad that you are friends. I want you to like him.”

“No doubt he thinks me mad. Politicians always regard artists as madmen.”

“But Beauclerk is considered very cultured. I hate the word. He is interested in art.”

“No doubt—as a means of investment, an educational influence, or a topic of conversation for light moments.”

“You are severe. Yet I like to hear you talk.”

She hoped that his talk would drown the singing in her heart, the whispering in her ears, the footsteps of doubt—doubt of herself, doubt of Reckage, coming nearer and nearer. She had been taught everything. She had discovered nothing. Love itself had come to her in the shape of a cruel code of responsibilities. Lately she had been dwelling with an almost feverish emphasis on the question of duty. She had wearied Reckage; she had exhausted herself by the tenacity of her mind toward that dull subject. And the real truth about much in life was forcing itself upon her. She was essentially a woman of affairs. Her face absorbed the poetry of her nature, just as a flower extracts every excellence from its surrounding soil, and, shining out for the sun, wastes no blossom underground. It had been her earliest ambition to marry a Member of Parliament and help him—by her prayers and counsel—on his conscientious career toward Downing Street. She had received an austere education, and even her native generosity of heart could not soften the indignation she had been trained to feel against any neglect of duty. Duty was a term which she applied to that science of things generally expedient which tradition has presented to us in the household proverbs and maxims of every nation. Early rising, controlling one's temper, paying one's debts, consideration for others, working while it is day, taking stitches in time—all these to that orthodox mind were matters of imperative obligation, if not Divine command. David's impulsive nature and self-indulgent habits filled her with overwhelming sorrow and dismay. She could not understand the rapid changes of mood, the disordered views, the storm and violence which are characteristic of every artist whose work is a form of autobiography rather than a presentment of impersonal forms and effects.

In Rennes there were two principles constantly at work: the David who acted, and the David who observed, criticised, and reproduced in allegorical guise, the inspiring performance. Agnes knew nothing of this common phenomenon in creative genius, and when her friend refreshed his imagination by appearing in a new rôle, she was as terrified as a child before some clever trick in experimental chemistry. From time to time he expressed opinions which startled her. She begged him once to paint a “religious” picture. He would not. A feeling that she had experienced some bitter disappointment weighed upon her spirit. Yet when she seemed to give that disappointment a cause, she was careful to leave it in obscurity. She would not permit herself to think, and, pale with suffering, she would check the painful questions which rose already answered. Her affection for Rennes was one of those serious passions which sometimes take root in an unsentimental nature, and derive a strength from philosophy which romantic considerations, pleasant as they are, can never bestow. Romance will add a magical delight to the pleasures of existence, but for the burden of the day one needs a sobriety of thought which would ring singularly flat in a love-lyric, which is certainly opposed to those emotions which produce what is commonly regarded as interesting behaviour. Agnes had not been drawn to Rennes at first sight, but rather by degrees and against her better judgment. She had found him unstable and affected; on the other hand, she admired his fine figure, his talent, his conversation, and the fire in his brilliant eyes. She told herself that she was deeply anxious about his soul, but, in a crowd, she watched for his broad shoulders and his handsome face. Such was her friendship, and she had known him for two years. Her first season had been a startling success. She had the misery of rejecting several suitors of whom her father fully approved—one was an Archdeacon. She had been drawn more than kindly toward a consumptive violinist whom she had met at a Saturday entertainment for the poor at Kensal Green. Not a single word of love ever passed between them. He called once or twice at her aunt's house in Chester Square, and they had played together some of Corelli's sonatas. Her aunt carried her away to Brighton, and no more was heard of the young violinist till a rumour reached them that he was drinking himself to death at St. Moritz. Agnes said many prayers for him. At last a second rumour reached her that the first was wholly incorrect. He had married a very nice girl with a lot of money and was building a villa at Cannes. Agnes told herself that she was thankful to hear it. The next year she became engaged to a young Member of Parliament with really fine prospects. She was not in love, but she liked him better than all her friends. She felt serene, and at last useful. Then a story reached her about another woman, and yet another woman before that one. The story was true and not at all pretty. The Bishop was obliged to support his daughter in her refusal to regard matters in what her betrothed described as a sane and reasonable manner. He had sinned and he was sorry, and what was more, he had every desire to reform. But Agnes remained firm, although she had probably never been so nearly in love with him as she was on the day when she returned all his charming letters and the ring and his photograph. It was a trying moment. She was ordered abroad, and she spent the winter at Rome, where she read ancient history and visited churches and excited a great deal of admiration. Mrs. Rennes and David were also at Rome. The three met at the house of an irreproachable Marchesa. They became friends. Miss Carillon's aunt, who was a maiden lady with means, succumbed to the fascinating eloquence of an amateur connoisseur of antique gems. In her new character of fiancée, she found it inconvenient to chaperon a young niece. She joined a widowed friend, and gladly assented to the suggestion that dear Agnes should visit Mrs. Rennes in Paris. The Bishop saw no impediment to the plan. He had been at Oxford with the late Archibald Rennes, an odd fellow but high-minded. Mrs. Rennes was the daughter of a General Hughes-Drummond. Every one knew the Hughes-Drummonds. They were very good people indeed. The Bishop hoped that Agnes would enjoy herself, give her kind friend as little trouble as possible, and come home fully restored in spirits. He forgot David. It may be that others omitted to mention him. The Bishop was not pleased when the rumour reached him that this artist was included in the party. What were his habits? What were his prospects? Were his artistic talents such that he might reasonably hope to become a Royal Academician and maintain an establishment? What class of pictures did he paint? Were they lofty in tone? Did they exalt and purify the mind? Would they make good engravings—such engravings as one might hang on one's walls? The correspondence and the questions were endless. David spent a week end at the Episcopal Palace, and behaved so well that he became frightened at his own capabilities for John Bullism. He was a little annoyed, too, to find himself at ease in a British home circle. The Bishop was, at all events, satisfied. Agnes was enchanted, and, transfigured by unconscious passion, looked more beautiful than ever. David enjoyed the services in the cathedral; he liked the quiet Sunday afternoon, he was impressed by Dr. Carillon's real earnestness in the pulpit. The visit was a great success. Before he left, he begged Agnes to write to him “when she could spare the time.” The young man had tried everything except a Platonic friendship with a lovely girl. He fancied that he found in Agnes Carillon that purity coupled with magnetism which makes such experiments attractive. They corresponded regularly, but they did not meet again for several months. When he returned, a little tired of platonism, letter-writing, intellectuality, and longing a great deal for the sight of her face, he found her engaged to Lord Reckage. So nature revenges itself. He detected a certain triumph and also a certain deep reproach in her gaze. She insisted that she was more than happy, but something under these words seemed to murmur—“You have spoilt our lives.” Her manner, nevertheless, never altered. She was invariably sympathetic, gracious, delicately emotional. In letters she signed herself, “Yours affectionately, Agnes Carillon.”

“How I should like to paint you in this light!” he said, all at once. “That is the dress I love best. Don't wear it often.” The remark was slight enough as a pretty speech within the bounds of flirtation, but the tone in which he uttered it meant more, and the girl's womanly instinct told her that the dangerous limit in their “friendship” had been reached. He saw her turn pale. She looked away from him, and swallowed thoughts which were far more bitter than any words she could have spoken.

“You never used to say these things,” she exclaimed at last; “why do you say them now?”

“I thought them—always,” he answered. “But I am a Pagan. I tried to keep my Paganism for others, and what you would call ‘the best in me’ for you. You may be able to understand. Anyhow, I made a mistake—a terrible mistake. It was a false position, and I couldn't maintain it. Now I don't even want to maintain it. Then it was a kind of vanity. I mean that time when I was at the Palace. I had been reading a lot of beautiful unreal stuff about the soul. I thought I had reached a very high place. Of course I had—because nothing is higher or purer than real human love. But I wouldn't call it love. So I went abroad, and wrote any amount of ‘literature’ to you. And all the time Reckage was here—asking you, wisely enough, to marry him. And you, wisely enough, accepted him.”