ORIGINAL.
THE GODFREY FAMILY;
OR, QUESTIONS OF THE DAY.
CHAPTER XIII.
HESTER GODFREY IN SEARCH OF PERFECTION.
"Papa,"' said Hester one morning, as she passed from the lawn into the library, and threw her arms round her father's neck, "papa, I am thoroughly resolved never to be married."
"Time enough, my darling, to think of that; but why this sudden resolved?"
"Because married women are so unhappy. Adelaide and Annie were has merry as crickets when they were single, and now how serious and unhappy they appear."
"Seriousness is not unhappiness. Age makes one sedate."
"Nay, but I am sure they are miserable, and I tell you I will not marry; so do not promise my hand to any one". And she put a very lovely one into her father's hand as she spoke.
"I will not, my dear Hetty; but you may live to alter your mind."
"I shall not, and I will tell you why. I have considered this matter very closely and I have discovered that a married woman is but a slave to a man. She must have no will of her own, no purse of her own, and though she has all the trouble and anxiety with the children, they are his—not hers—as soon as they begin to reason. I love freedom, papa; I will be no mere tool to any man. No art, no science, no refinement, no practical improvement can flourish in slavery; and the reason women have shown less aptitude for intellectual cultivation than men is, that they are mere slaves—domestic drudges, for the most part—with no higher interest than to procure food and clothing."
"Where did my Hester pick up Mary Wolstonecroft's writings?"
"Mary Wolstonecroft—who is she, papa?"
"A lady who advocates woman's rights, my love. I thought you had been reading her book."
"There is no need if all she says is that which I feel, namely, that all women are slaves. I learned this from simple observation. I wonder all women do not feel it so."
"Women are supposed to live in their affections; and those whom we love we serve willingly."
"Yes, but you know that soon becomes a mere supposition, even if it be not so at first. How snappish wives usually are! I notice it in the cottagers, in the tradesfolks; everywhere, where manners are not taught to enable one to sham before company. And the husbands are surly, unmanageable bears; there must be something wrong in marriage to produce these effects so frequently."
"And what remedy do you propose?" asked Mr. Godfrey, greatly amazed.
"Nay, that I have not considered. I only know that something is wrong now, and that I will not marry 'till it is set right."
"Wait 'till you fall in love, my dear."
"Fall in love, indeed! What a ridiculous thing to do! No, papa, I intend no fall; that is just why I will not marry. I might admire and respect a man as my equal; I might even venerate him as my superior, if he were my superior in mind; but bind myself to him as a slave I would not. No Grecian hero in all antiquity could inspire me with love enough to commit a moral suicide."
"The Grecian women claimed no equal rights," said Mr. Godfrey.
"No; I marked that well, papa. History is a treatise on men—on their deeds, their daring, their wisdom, their improvement or retrogression. Now and then, as if by accident, a woman's deeds were recorded, but very rarely. Why this has been, I cannot divine. Woman ought, could, should, and must rebel. This is the age of freedom. Does freedom concern only half of the human race?"
"No; it concerned the horde of women who forced their way into the royal apartments at Versailles. My Hester should have headed the procession?"
"Now, papa, that is not fair. You know well I do not wish to countenance rude and vulgar proceedings. Only I do not see why woman should not cultivate her intellectual and moral powers, and march onward in the career of perfectibility as well as man."
"What is that long word you used, Hester?"
"Now, papa, how provoking you are! Have you not yourself taught me to cultivate every faculty to perfection, as a duty? Have you not often said that the world has yet to learn the results of an equipoised, many-sided development? That hitherto too strong a bias has been given, and that a one-sided training has made a one-sided character?"
"I have said this. Hester, but what is this to the purpose?"
"Why, perfectibility must mean the tendency toward perfection produced by this equipoised, by this many-sided development; and woman must be the chief operator in effecting this equipoised development, because woman is the exclusive educator of the young of either sex; and it is when young, when very young, that the germs are laid of ideas which perish not. Physiologists say that though character is modified afterward, the form is, for the most part, given ere the seventh year has been attained."
"It may be so, but what of that?" asked the father.
"Why, I think, then, that woman's especial vocation is to the study of this perfectibility: that is, how to procure a due development—how to teach the race to aspire. It seems to me that, generally speaking, the aims of the world are very grovelling and sensual. If we could once fire the race with the desire of reaching the utmost perfection of which there nature is capable, methinks a glorious work would be begun, and after ages might be brought almost to doubt of the misery that now exists, their own position would be so different."
"It is a glorious project," said the father turning to the animated girl, "but a difficult one; the world is large, and every one thinks his own ideas the right ones."
"I know it; but I know, too that that thought must not check an inspiration. Individuals have changed the face of nations before now. Had they suffered their enthusiasm to be checked by dwelling on how little one [{475}] person can do, nothing would ever have been done. An individual who feels an intense interest in any subject, and a full conviction that such a subject is likely to benefit his co-patriots, is bound to carry forward his views to the utmost of his power."
"You may be right—nay, the principle is right; but what can my little Hester do?"
"She can study and think and experimentalize and observe and have the benefit of her father's advice through all, if only he will give it her, if only he will put it out of his head that every girl is born to be married, and that a girl cannot think and act for herself, and cherish ideas of philanthropy and work for the public good."
"Lycurgus would not sanction this, my little Spartan girl."
"Perhaps not, papa; but times have altered. Legislators used to seek for a numerous population. Now, Dr. Malthus says the world is over-peopled."
"Why, Hester, I did not think these were subjects that you cared for at all."
"But I do care for them, papa—more, much more than you think; and what I ask of you is to forget that I am a girl, and let me think and study everything—political economy, social economy, natural philosophy, ethics, and aesthetics. I want to know how each of these bears upon the condition the race, to see what man might be. I want to know why man is created—to what he tends."
"Man is created to enjoy life, my child."
"Then why are so many miserable? Why have we disease, plague, famine, war, and bloodshed?"
"'These are partly the result of man's ignorance."
"And yet man has existed nearly six thousand years, and every kind of experience and teaching has been his; and philosophers, sages, religionists, lawgivers have been trying to instruct him, and he is ignorant still."
"You forget, Hester, that every individual that is born into the world is born ignorant and helpless; and yet every individual must realize instruction ere ignorance can be banished. Where you have an educated people to work upon, you may propound improvements and be understood, and then you will find instruments who will co-operate with you; but now look at the population. Occupied in daily toil, as the price of life, how can they comprehend high theories, or study experimental philosophy. If they go into it at all, it must be to take upon trust a few ideas, and they are as likely to take the wrong ideas as the right ones, by that means."
"And is there no remedy for this? Is all this toil necessary? It seems to me as if a great deal of unnecessary work is always being performed. Spartan frugality would disapprove of much of modern luxury; and is not half the toil for luxury merely?"
"Some of it is; but Spartan pride refused all toil, even for necessaries. The laborers of the present day do the work of the helots in Sparta. To work was beneath the dignity of a Spartan."
"And we have no helots in England now," said Hester.
"Would you wish to have?" asked Mr. Godfrey.
"No! Why should one part of mankind be sacrificed to the happiness of the other? I would have no men slaves, no women slaves. Let all be free and equal. If there is work to be done, let all do a portion, and let all have a portion of rest, or rather of leisure, for the improvement of the mental faculties."
"No man will work, unless compelled, at hard, daily labor. Those who have property are not compelled. How will you compel them? For instance, my neighbor, the blacksmith, has a wife and six children to support. He works from twelve to fourteen hours daily. His wife keeps no servant; she scrubs, washes, cooks, and attends to all herself. Now, you [{476}] and I, being people of leisure, should do half their work for them. Suppose you go and help the wife, and I go and help the blacksmith half of every day; they might then study perfectibility the other half."
Hester laughed. "We might do worse than that," she said; "but that would only be helping two individuals, whereas I wish to place society on a right principle. I no longer wonder at the French revolution. Had I to toil hard and to live hard, seeing all the while some few privileged beings do nothing at all but revel in luxury, I should be a revolutionist too; only I should not know how to set the matter right. One thing is clear from all history, luxury is an injury to the individual who uses it, and all states have been weakened when luxury has become common; therefore, father, I will make myself hardy, that I may not be corrupted in my own proper person."
And true to her resolution, Hester, regardless of public opinion, became simple in her habits. A hard bed, plain diet, an uncarpeted room, with singular plainness of dress, distinguished this young aspirant after perfectibility. Her mother would willingly have seen her dress in a manner becoming her station; but Hester "did not choose to make herself a peg on which to hang dressmakers' fancies. Clothes were for two purposes," she said, "for warmth and decency; when these two objects were attained it was enough." Her mother's remonstrances availed nothing, and her father laughed: the eccentricities of the spoiled child amused him, and daily he became more accustomed to gratify every wish that she expressed.
Hester was in earnest. She founded schools, she formed societies in which adult laborers might receive instruction in the evenings; she established libraries and promoted the scientific associations afterward more fully developed under the name of "Mechanics' Institutes." Hester visited the lowly that she might form an estimate of their real position, observe their improveable points, and cultivate these latter to good purpose; but the intricacies thickened upon her. She heard complaints that the poor were improvident and wasteful.
"How can that be," said she, "when a man pays rent, and provides fuel, clothing, and food for himself, his wife, and four children, out of wages at twelve shillings a week? How much does our mere board cost? twenty times that sum at least, and mamma is called economical. Oh! it must be a miserable life they lead on such a poor pittance as that! Papa, a man must have food; he gets it from the ground: he must have shelter; a few trees chopped down will give him that: he must have clothes; these also he can grow: why not place man on land where they can get these, rather than let them half starve at home?"
"It is being done in or colonies; but an emigrant's life, my Hester, would scarcely assist your perfectible theories. Every moment is employed in drudgery of some kind. A large proportion of the emigrants die of hardship."
Hester turned round impatiently, "Ever, ever an obstacle! Yet I will not give up. There must be a way of improving mankind, and I will find it yet."
These discussions were frequently renewed, but with little better success. On one occasion Eugene was present, and he said with a smile, "So you, too, are seeking the philosopher's stone, sister? I doubt you will not find it in exterior relationships or in material circumstance; evil is in the world—evil to a larger amount than you have any conception of, and no exterior arrangement will suffice to banish it. Set man free, as you term it, from the restraint of overlabor, without awakening the interior impulse to realize a higher life, and the chances are that the ale-house or gin-shop will be his school."
"But will not education affect this awakening?"
"Education on a right basis would undoubtedly do much, but not education on a selfish basis; not if the highest aim is to improve in temporalities, not if virtue is proposed as the best policy to forward earthly views. This would be merely teaching a system of selfish calculation that would make man neither wiser nor better, and consequently not happier."
"And what other motive would you suggest, brother?"
Eugene glanced at his father and hesitated. After a moment's pause, he said: "Some philosophers, and among them the divine Plato, have thought that within man dwelt an essence called a soul, and that its culture furnished motives superior to all others in enlightening man. There are other theories respecting the soul worth studying too, I think. That which has influenced Europe during eighteen hundred years has been the religion of Christ. Have you ever studied that, Hester?"
"No! I thought it was a superstition akin to, though distinct from, the ancient pagan mythology."
"You will not find it so." rejoined her brother, "or rather you will find it the opposite. Paganism is the worship of self, of sensuality, of self-aggrandizement, and of physical power. Christianity is the worship of spirituality; it triumphs over selfishness by divine love, and elevates the soul by the same influence above the paltry views emanating from an exclusive adhesion to man's lower nature."
Mr. Godfrey's lowering brow betokened a rising storm. Eugene made his escape, and Hester laid her hand on her father's shoulder, and said coaxingly, "Did you not say I might study every influence, papa, that has affected humanity? Why not study this of which Eugene speaks?"
"Hester, there is a serpent in the East which has the power of fixing his eye on the bird he marks for his prey, and his fascination is such that by merely continuing to gaze he draws his victim straight into his mouth."
"What of this, father?"
"It is so of superstition also; it strikes a chord in the human heart, which, once awakened, becomes restless evermore. Let it but once attract your notice, it fascinates, monopolizes every faculty, and the strongest minds have fallen victims to its baneful power of concentrating the attention. Let it alone, my child."
CHAPTER XIV.
THE DEATH-BED OF THE DUKE OP DURIMOND.
The illness of the Duke of Durimond became more and more serious. Adelaide's friends offered to join her, but she said the duke's mind required peculiar treatment, and that more company in the house might annoy him. From the time of his leaving England the duke's associates had observed a great alteration in his manners and habits. Whereas he was formerly the gayest of the gay, he now shunned society. Soon after his arrival at Vienna he had engaged an Italian servant of seemingly unusual education and seriousness, and him he admitted into his confidence; to him he entrusted the direction of his private affairs. When he returned home, at those different intervals we have mentioned, this servant accompanied him, and was treated by the duke less as a humble dependent than as a valuable friend. The man held aloof from the other inmates of the castle, and was waited on in his own apartment by the duke's express order. Now, when the duke returned home, he was accompanied not only by this Italian gentleman or servant, whichever he might be, but by two other Italian valets, very serious for their state in life, who waited on the duke and on his friend to the exclusion of the English menials who had formerly access to the ducal apartments.
The duke was a prisoner in his own room, rarely could he ever leave his bed. Adelaide came at stated intervals to inquire after the state of his health, and in all formality took her seat at his side. Madame de Meglior often accompanied her, and to the surprise of both ladies a request was urgently preferred that Euphrasie might be induced to pay daily morning visits to the sick chamber, at a time when none were usually admitted.
The duchess looked her astonishment, but the duke took her hand with more kindness and less of ceremony than usual, and said:
"Nay, do not be surprised, your grace; I am a poor man, now about to appear before my Maker. I need all the assistance I can get, and I have faith in the prayers of Euphrasie. The hour named for her is the hour of prayer: if you will come also, believe me you will be welcome."
"Prayer, what prayer?"
"The most solemn prayer that can be offered, that which accompanies the most holy sacrifice of the new law."
As the duke spoke, M. Martigni, the man of business we have spoken of, pulled aside a curtain which had been hung before an alcove opposite to which the duke's bed had been placed, and there a beautiful little marble altar, appropriately adorned, became visible. Adelaide gazed in mute surprise.
"What am I to infer from this, your grace?"
"That at the last hour, I, a miserable sinner, dare to hope pardon from an outraged God, because he sent his Son to die on the cross for me! O Adelaide! the gods of this world, as your father so justly calls them—the gods of this world, pride, lust, sensuality, love of power, and ambition, but rise to reproach us when we draw near to our end. Long, too long did I resist my sweet Ellen's lessons! I felt, indeed, that something within me said we could not utterly die; but I was leading a life for self—I could not see the truth; but at last, late, too late I knew my duty. Adelaide, for two years past I have been reconciled to the Catholic church!"
"It is to attend Mass, then, I presume, that your grace desires Euphrasie's company?" said Adelaide.
"It is," replied the duke; "if any will accompany her, they will be welcome."
But this the duchess took especial care to prevent. She whispered to Madame de Meglior, as they quitted the apartment:
"The malady has touched his brain; say nothing of what has happened."
This was the cause of Adelaide's reluctance to have more company in the house. On this account she declined alike the visits of the duke's relatives and of her own. She wish the matter to be kept a profound secret from all; and though she permitted Euphrasie to comply with the duke's request, it was on the express condition of her keeping the fact unknown. But such precautions as these, though feasible for a time, are useless in the end. The duke's disorder was of a painful, lingering, and variable nature. Sometimes he would be confined to his room, and even to his bed for weeks together, then he would rally a little, go into the adjoining sitting-room, and once or twice even took an airing in his carriage. No excuse could be framed, then, for excluding relations so rigorously. Mr. Godfrey became annoyed at the attempt, and at length, suspecting some latent motive, sent Eugene to the castle to find out the secret, if there were one.
Eugene, on his entrance, met and recognized Martigni, and by him was introduced into the duke's apartment before Adelaide knew he was in the house. He found the duke propped up by pillows and seated near the window. He greeted the young man cordially, though with a half reproach that he did not come before.
"I have been very ill, Eugene" he said; "sometimes I hardly thought to be alive till morning, and I wished to say a few words to your father about my wife, but none of you came near me!"
Eugene looked, as his felt, surprised. "We were given to understand that a visit from us would not be agreeable to your grace" he said; "and being hurt at the intimation, especially as the exclusion lasted so long, I came to-day to ascertain the cause."
"I gave no such intimation, I wished for no such exclusion, rather the contrary; but perhaps Adelaide—I think I divine the cause; you must excuse your sister, Eugene. Perhaps she is more annoyed than she showed to me. To me she is ever polite, but doubtless she is annoyed; perhaps it is natural that she should be so," and the duke hesitated.
"Annoyed! At what, may it please your grace? You cannot think that 'annoyed' is a term applicable to my sister's feeling at your illness?"
"No! no! not at my illness, no! But, Eugene, I have spent a long life of vanity before the world, and ere I die I should like the world to know what perhaps the duchess would fain conceal, that I repent of my iniquities, that I thankfully before the chastising hand that has laid me low, that I prize my sufferings as the greatest blessing, as a token that God has not forsaken me, though for so many years I forsook him. Eugene, I am a Catholic!"
"God be thanked!" involuntarily escaped from the young man's lips, as his hand was clasped in that of the duke, and tears started to his eyes, "God be thanked!"
The door opened and the duchess entered. At one glance she understood all, and that her surmises of Eugene had also been correct.
"The duke is better to-day," she coldly said. "We have had a long time of anxiety, but perhaps even yet he may rally and be himself again."
"I dare not flatter you, sister," answered Eugene. "His grace's looks are not those of a convalescent."
"No! no!" said the duke. "No health for me again. Suffering, perhaps, for a long time yet, but no health; but I know not why my illness should induce your grace to lead so lonely a life as you have lately chosen. Let me beg of you to surround yourself with your family; Eugene says they wait but your bidding."
Adelaide colored. "I fear the disturbance will be too much for your grace's repose."
"Not at all, not at all; the house is large, many might be in it and I not hear a sound. I should be gratified by knowing that you had friends with you when I depart. Send for your friends, I beg of you. Eugene, perhaps you will write to Mr. Godfrey in my behalf, to inform him of my wishes?"
"I will, your grace."
And the family came; and still Adelaide tried to conceal from her father a secret which was already known to Eugene. She scarcely hoped to be able to do so long; but the annoyance to her was so excessive that she could not bring herself to speak of it, and she hoped others would decide, as she tried to decide in her own mind, that the duke's intellect was affected. But then Eugene! he was smitten with the same mania! She felt sure of that, though no words had ever passed on the subject.
* * * * *
"Mr. Godfrey," said the duke, when at length there was an interview between the two—"Mr. Godfrey, tell me what you wish me to do more for your daughter. A handsome jointure is secured to her; the estates are entailed; but tell me anything else I can do to promote her happiness, and it shall be done."
This was the spirit in which the invalid conversed, and in which he executed all that was proposed to him for Adelaide. She had no cause of complaint, and his manifest care of her softened that haughty heart a little. Had he not been a Catholic she could have been grateful to him; but she was the more irritated at this fact, that now she dared not set up the plea of imbecility to account for it, for that [{480}] plea would have invalidated the newly drawn up documents in her favor; all her hope consisted in concealment.
Eugene was often with the duke, who at length ventured to speak to him on a subject which caused him great mental anguish. He had never been able to trace Ellen, nor to transmit to her any pecuniary aid. He suspected, indeed, that the Catholic bishop could have afforded him information, but he was inflexible in refusing to do so. A considerable sum of money had been set apart for Ellen's use, and a fortune provided for the boy. "Perhaps," said the duke, "after my death the bishop might enable you, Eugene, to trace the mother and child, and induce them to accept the provision. Will you undertake the commission?"
"Most willingly," said Eugene.
"When I am dead, let it be," said the duke. "Ellen will take nothing from me living—when I am dead she will be more easily persuaded. I know she must wish a high education for her son. She will not, I hope, refuse assistance for that. But even if she does, I have settled his money separately, that he may be sure of getting it. Tell Ellen, too, that I died a Catholic; I know she has long prayed for this; and tell her that I rejoice now that I have no child save hers, my only son. Let strangers take the estate that had so nearly wrecked my soul. O Eugene! none but Catholics can understand the benediction pronounced by our Lord on poverty! The possession of power, of wealth, of glory, fan our egotistical feelings, and lead us more and more astray. I think I should not dare to trust myself with them again, had I still power to use them. And I thank God I have not the power, lest the temptation should again prove too strong for my virtue."
The duke lingered on for months, long months. How tediously did those months pass to the Godfrey family—to the duchess in particular—to all, save Eugene. In the sick-chamber he passed most of his time. To Adelaide's joy, her father had not yet discovered the fatal secret. He was so busy, acting for the duke, transacting business, arranging tenantry, etc.; and then he spent long hours in the glorious pagan temple, the gods of which he had taken care to secure as Adelaide's personal possession, and for the reception of which he was building a large hall at the jointure-house, that when the castle they now inhabited should pass to the heir-at-law, he might be able to take possession of these trophies of art at once.
Such was the friendship and delicacy of the man of the world! The summer passed, the winter came, and a wintry change came over the invalid. One evening he called his wife, his friends, his domestics, every inmate of the house, into his presence, and, one by one, begged their forgiveness for every uneasiness he had caused them, for every bad example he had set them, and begged of them to pray for him as for one who was about to appear before God, to give account of a mis-spent life. To Adelaide, and to her father, mother, and sister, this appeared like a well-acted scene; but the domestics, nay, even Madame de Meglior retired in tears.
Night came. An oppression was over the household. None cared to retire to rest, and yet none dared again approach the duke's apartment. Mrs. Godfrey sat in Adelaide's room that night while Hester was with Madame de Meglior. Euphrasie was missing, but, as usual, was forgotten. Even Mr. Godfrey partook in some measure of the excitement. He had asked the physician that evening more anxiously than usual, how the patient was; and though the response had been, "Somewhat better," he, with the household, did not give it credence.
He paced his chamber, lay down on a sofa, rose, and paced it again; looked at his watch—one, two, three, four o'clock; how long the hours were that night! He opened his door, walked out, and paused at the door of his daughter's room. He heard speaking, [{481}] gently he tapped, his wife opened the door to him; neither she nor the daughter had been in bed.
"Any news? whispered he.
"No! All is quiet in the duke's chamber."
"I will go and see," he said.
He passed through the whole retinue of domestics in the galleries. Not one had gone to bed, yet all were hushed; not one had ventured to make inquiries at the sick-room door.
Mr. Godfrey passed silently on, his foot-fall was scarcely heard. A dull sound as of low continuous speaking came from the duke's apartment. The door was not locked; he turned the handle gently and went in without rapping. What a scene met his view! Candles were lighted on the altar. Beside it, rapt in prayer, knelt Euphrasie. The stranger, Martigni, robed in the sacred vestments, was in the act of placing the Holy of Holies upon the tongue of the dying man, whom Eugene was tenderly supporting in his arms. The sick man sank back on the pillow as the priest left him, and the prayers continued; Mr. Godfrey paused. A sensation of wondering anger stole over him, yet he waited for the benediction of the priest. Eugene was on his knees by the bedside. The ceremony over, Mr. Godfrey approached him, shook him, and in a harsh whisper said:
"Boy, what mummery is this?"
Eugene rose. The sick man opened his eyes. A bright smile broke over his features. "No mummery," he faintly said.
Then again there was a pause, and a gasping for breath, and the eyes closed. They opened again: "Jesus have mercy; Mary help," were the last words he uttered, and he died.
It was no time for explanation. Mr. Godfrey retired. On leaving the chamber he became aware that imprudently the door he had left half open had partially revealed to the domestics, now assembled without the chamber, that something unusual was taking place within. To their questions, Mr. Godfrey replied: "He is dead." And instantly the chamber was filled with weeping mourners. Good, kind, and liberal had been the master they had lost, and he was much beloved. To their wonder they beheld the altar on which stood the unextinguished candles. Before it knelt the priest, chaunting, in a very low voice, the office for the dead, which was responded to by the Italian valets kneeling beside the bed. Euphrasie had disappeared, but on the bed lay the corpse, one hand grasping the crucifix. They stood rooted to the spot at the strangeness of the scene. They had not yet satisfied their wonder when the duchess entered. She cast one look on the bed; then approaching the priest, said:
"You will please to quit this chamber as soon as convenient, and disencumber the room of these useless toys."
Eugene sprang to her side. "Sister," said he, "in the name of Heaven, do nothing rashly. Leave these things to me; to me give your orders; on my honor they shall be obeyed."
The duchess bethought herself one moment. "Clear the room of these, then," she said, pointing to the wondering domestics.
Eugene obeyed.
"Now," said the duchess, "let there be an end of this foolery. In an hour I will send those hither whose duty it is to tend the dead. By that time let no vestige remain of this offensive foreign trumpery; and let these strangers quit the house."
The tone was too decided to be disputed; the commands were obeyed; and so successfully did Mr. Godfrey assist his daughter in giving the lie to the reports that were spread through the neighborhood, that it came at last to be considered as an established fact that the whole scene of the death-bed was got up by a concerted plan of the Italian valets, who hoped in this way to convert their master at his dying hour, and the duke himself being insensible made no opposition! Thus can the "great ones" of the earth oft condescend to lie, though they would [{482}] challenge a man to a duel who dared to question the nicety of their honor.
For many days the duke lay in state in his ancestral hall; from far and near crowds came to gaze on the gorgeously fitted up apartment, hung with emblazoned hatchments, encircled round with all the trappings of woe. Eugene had quitted the house at the time of the duke's decease, in company with the foreigners his sister had commanded to depart. He reappeared on the day of the funeral, and requested to speak with his mother. To his surprise he found her haggard and worn, and traces of excessive weeping were on her countenance. She greeted him kindly, made him sit down beside her, took his hand in hers and held it, but wept instead of speaking. Eugene was puzzled and alarmed, for all agitation was unusual with his mother. They were alone together, yet the silence was not broken. After awhile a servant came to say that the procession was forming for the funeral, he supposing that Eugene came expressly to attend it.
"Shall I go, mother?" said Eugene, but his mother held him fast, and shook her head.
"It would be better not," she said; "they might be bitter even on a day like this. No, Eugene, do not see your father yet. Go home, I will be there in a few days. We will talk matters over, and all will be right again. Your father and Hester will remain a short time with Adelaide. But you and I will go home. Do not stay here now, but meet me tomorrow at the post-house ten miles from this. I will be there at ten o'clock. I will stop the carriage for you to ride home with me."
Eugene wonderingly assented; and as she seemed anxious to get him out of the house, he left as soon as the vast cortege had disappeared.
Crowds of nobility, crowds of gentry, crowds of tenantry accompanied the corpse as it was borne to the family vault. A collation was afterward spread for the guests; they partook of it, went home, and in less than a month were eager in paying court to a new duke, and the late one was to them as though he had never been.
CHAPTER XV.
THE MOTHER AND SON.
It was a strange and certainly not a very pleasant feeling to Eugene to find himself thus secretly, as it were, in his mothers company. Her agitation, however, had subsided. During the journey she was even cheerful at times, and she made not the slightest allusion to the subject which had disturbed her. On their arrival at home she busied herself more than had ever been her wont in domestic and tenantry affairs, and kept Eugene occupied in many ways. There was, he fancied, a tenderness in her intercourse with him that he had rarely observed before, though she had ever been to him a most loving mother. Some weeks passed, and then a letter came which made Mrs. Godfrey turn pale as she read it. Eugene, alarmed, rose and placed himself beside her. "Is anything the matter, dearest mother?" he asked.
"Yes, no, yes! that is, they are coming home."
"And who are they who cause you this alarm?"
"Your father and Hester."
"My father! he has ever love you dearly! Mother, my dear mother, do explain yourself!"
The poor lady laid her head on Eugene's shoulder, and wept. Eugene tried in vain to soothe her. At length he said, "May I see the letter, mother?"
"No, no; you will know its contents but too soon. Now, Eugene, answer me: have I not loved you well? have I not been a good mother to you?"
"The best of mothers," said Eugene, caressingly.
"Then you love me somewhat—you would do something for me!"
"Anything in my power, dear mother. I would lay down my life for you."
"It is not your life I want you to relinquish, foolish boy, but your fancies. Your father has taken most serious offense at your religious demonstrations, and swears he will disinherit you unless you recant. Unfortunately, although some of the estate is entailed, much of it is not, and you will lose a princely fortune if you deny his wish."
"What does he wish?"
"That you renounce in toto, all Catholic friends and all Catholic opinions."
Eugene made no reply.
"Eugene, my only son, my best hope, my greatest joy, did it depend on me I would not shackle your freedom of action; Christianity, Mohammedanism, or any other ism, might be at your option. Your happiness is my desire, and whatever I might think of your creed, I would not let it stand between me and my love for you. But yet is not thus with your father. He will not suffer a Catholic in his house."
She paused; still Eugene replied not. She went on: "Eugene, you would not be the cause of my death! I feel you would not!"' and she threw her arms about him. "Yet these divisions will surely kill me; I dare not tell you how I have suffered during the last few weeks."
"I have seen it, dear mother, and though I only partly guessed the cause, I deeply sympathize with your unhappiness."
"Then you will remedy it?"
"I do not see how just yet. Thought must be free. I dare not bind myself to think at another's pleasure."
"But you need not declare your thoughts".
"Nay, mother, I must be free: free to think, free to act according to the dictates of my conscience. I learned this necessity from yourself, dear mother; do not now belie your own teachings. You told me ever to seek the truth, and to act upon it when found. I will not bind myself to follow another course, were a kingdom to be the purchase of the compromise."
"Or your mother's love, Eugene?"
"My mother will but love me better for practising the lessons that she taught me. I know my mother's principles, and I do not fear the loss of her love."
"Flatterer! but were it even so, your father is serious, Eugene. He will not see you again, unless you accede to his demand."
"When is he coming home?"
"On the day after tomorrow."
"Then I depart to-morrow; I will not encounter him in his present humor. Besides, I promised the late duke to execute a commission for him; it is time I set about it."
"And how will you live, rash boy?"
"Will he not continue my allowance to me?"
"I do not know, at least I do not want the question mooted just now. To prevent the necessity of it, I had a deed drawn up the other day which will supply you with necessaries till you return to reason." And Mrs. Godfrey took from her bureau a very business-like document, which proved to be a deed of gift of the principal part of the property settled upon herself and her heirs. "Use this," she said, "until right reason returns to you."
"My mother!"
"No words now; I did it to relieve my own mind, for I must consent to your departure. We will hope for better times, for I see I cannot change you at present."
The property thus settled on our young hero was but a modest portion for one educated as Eugene had been; yet to those numerous middle people who struggle daily with economy it would have seemed a fortune.
Eugene departed with a gloom upon his feelings certainly, yet not with hopelessness. He proceeded at once to call on the bishop, from whom he hoped to obtain tidings of Ellen; but the bishop was gone to Rome, and M. Bertolot with him, and they were not expected back till the spring. It was dull work spending that winter alone, for to return to Cambridge was not to be thought of. At last the spring advanced, and the buoyancy of youth restored hope to his spirit; he resolved to take a pedestrian tour through Wales while waiting the bishop's return. Several months had passed since he left his home. His mother often wrote to him, but no invitation to return came with her letters. Young, and desirous of knowledge, his projected expedition would have been acceptable to him but for this circumstance of domestic estrangement. However, he wandered on, with what courage he might, and found himself already on foot, with knapsack on his back, pursuing his travels. The rage for making tours was not at that time what it has since become. The scenes were comparatively untrodden and undescribed, so that the pleasure and the charms of novelty at least were Eugene's. He wandered on for some days, delighted with the picturesque scenery, and gathering health and vigor from his primitive mode of travelling.
One fine morning he rose particularly early, and had gone some miles, when he began to feel the need of some refreshment. He had neglected to inquire where this could be obtained, and began to wonder where he was likely to obtain any breakfast. Feeling somewhat impatient at the length of the road, he climbed a high bank on the right hand side, to gain a view of the country, and gladly perceived that immediately below lay a scattered village. It was the first of May, and children were carrying garlands from house to house. The morning was lovely, and every thing wore the aspect of happiness. Our traveller sprang down the bank, and made his way over fences into the village. He stopped at the first cottage he came to; it was the picture of neatness; the honey-suckle and sweet-brier climbed over the porch, and the little garden-plot in front was the very embodiment of beauty. All the early flowers were grouped in beds, most elegantly arranged. A dark-eyed boy stood in the porch, watching the garlands which the children were displaying. He caught sight of Eugene standing at the gate, and came forward. His open-heartedness was painted on his countenance.
"Can I serve you, sir?" said the boy. "You appear to be a stranger here."
"I am a stranger," replied Eugene, "that is, I am a traveller. Can you tell me where I may find rest and a breakfast?"
The boy opened the gate, and conducted Eugene into the porch, He then went to call his mother.
A middle-aged woman of superior manners came forward, and bade him welcome:
"You will find no inn, sir, nearer this than a mile or two; pray walk is and partake of such fare as our cottage affords."
Good tea, eggs, bread and butter were produced, and Eugene did them ample justice; but during the meal and after it was over, he could not help being struck with the air of both mother and son, and the appearance of the place altogether. The walls were only whitewashed, and the floor uncarpeted, but on the said walls hung paintings of a high order, and in a small recess stood a beautiful marble statuette of our Blessed Lady. The features of the boy, too, seemed those of a face familiar to him. A thought glanced through his mind as he gazed on the finely formed face. "Thank you warmly for your hospitality, young sir," said he, taking the boy's hand and drawing him nearer to him. "Now, please to tell me by what name I M to remember you?"
"My name is Henry Daubrey," said the boy.
"Daubrey" thought Eugene; "can that the her maiden name? I almost forgot. Ellwood was the name he gave her." He hesitated; then, turning to the lady, remarked, in a somewhat embarrassed manner: "Judging by these paintings, madam, I should imagine you, like myself, are almost a stranger here. These are no country daubs."
"Mamma did these herself," explained the boy. The lady signed to the boy to be silent. "She had not lived there always;" she said.
"Pardon my impertinence, madam," said Eugene, "but this young lad's features so strikingly resemble those of a friend I have lately lost, that I can but fancy he must be in some way related to him."
"What was your friend's name?"
"The Duke of Durimond."
The lady turned alarmingly pale, as she faltered forth, "And is the Duke of Durimond is dead?"
"He died in my arms, about four months ago."
There was a long pause, which no one seemed inclined to break. At length Eugene resumed: "The duke's life, latterly, puzzled many. He married, left his wife suddenly, went abroad, fell ill, for upward of two years suffered greatly, even tortures occasionally, which tortures he endured with the patience of a martyr, being even thankful for his sufferings. He died in the sentiments of the most perfect contrition, immediately after receiving the Holy Viaticum."
"The Viaticum! Was the duke a Catholic?"
"He came so latterly, though this is not made public; the family carefully conceal it."
A look of thanksgiving, with clasped hands, upraised, as it were, involuntarily, confirmed Eugene's presentiment. After awhile he continued: "When the duke was on his death-bed, he charged me to seek out a lady, for whom he entertained a high esteem. I have a letter for her in my knapsack. I will show it to you."
The letter produced was directed, "To Ellen, from Colonel Ellwood on his death-bed." The lady's hand closed on the lines. Eugene made no resistance. The lady retired to an inner apartment. The boy followed her. An hour elapsed; stifled sobs were heard, but the lady came not back. At length the boy returned with an open note. It contained these words:
"You have guessed rightly: return in a few days; I cannot see you now. When you return, ask for
"ELLEN DAUBREY."
"I will return on this day week, tell your mother so!" was the verbal message Eugene delivered to the boy.
"I will," said the boy; and Eugene departed.
* * * * *
Ellen's account of herself when Eugene did return, was, that she had made a very comfortable subsistence by the sale of her paintings, which she had disposed of to a London dealer, to whom she was introduced by the Comte de Villeneuve, who had watched over her interests with a zeal truly fraternal. She and her boy had dwelt together in seclusion, he giving her what help he could in the garden and in her domestic affairs, she, in return, instructing him to the best of her power.
"He loves learning, Mr. Eugene," she said, "and will soon be beyond my teaching; besides, he wishes to become a priest, but how to get him the necessary instruction in this most prejudiced country is a real enigma."
"The Abbé Martigni, who was the duke's private chaplain, and who is cognizant of all the facts connected with his position, would, I doubt not, take charge of his education, if you were willing," replied Eugene; "but how would you be able to bear the separation necessary in that case?"
"I should fix my abode near, and find some occupation for myself," said the mother. "God forbid my selfish affection should stand between my child and his vocation."
Ellen might have said that her occupation was already found, for wherever there was an act of kindness to do, there Ellen found work. Had she admitted Eugene to the inner room of her own cottage, he might have found an old paralytic woman, who, deserted by all her friends, was taken care of by this good Samaritan and tended with the affection of a daughter. The duke's legacy to her was now employed entirely in acts of mercy and of charity, offered up for the repose of his soul. Not one penny was appropriated to her own use, for she still lived on the product of her pencil. On the return of the bishop the Abbé Martigni was appointed to a mission, and Henry Daubrey resided with him as his pupil, preparatory to his being sent to the seminary, aiding his tutor in that semi-concealed fulfilment of his high duties which was then the characteristic mode of English Catholicity, induced by English semi-toleration of Catholic religious rites. The mother lived close by, and it was not long ere her house was known as a house of mercy, a refuge for the poor, a hospital for the sick, a haven of spiritual consolation to any who needed the kind offices practised beneath its roof. Penitents, lovingly attracted by her angelic sweetness, often came, as it were, by stealth to inquire of her the way to God, and by her were led back into the fold whence they had strayed while inquirers, touched by her life of self-denial, found the prejudices in which they had been brought up melt away, and many were led to embrace the saving truths which bind the children of the church together in the one fold of Christ, at the feet of one Lord, who gave us one faith, one baptism.
CHAPTER XVI.
FREEDOM OF CONSCIENCE AND LIBERTY OF ACTION.
When Eugene had fulfilled the commission of the late duke, and had made the arrangement for Henry Daubrey with the Abbé Martigni, spoken of in the last chapter, he bethought him of his own position. Whither should he bend his own steps? As long as he had been busied in Ellen's affairs, the excitement had in some measure kept him up, and prevented his realizing what it is to be homeless, to have relatives who wish your absence, loved ones to whom your presence causes annoyance, positive annoyance. To be alone in this wide world of sin, without the sanction of family ties; to be disowned, voted an encumbrance, or, worse, an absolute incubus, crushing vitality and joyousness in the home circle! what a feeling it produces! It requires a strong courage, a courage that is the child of faith, that is sustained by grace, to enable one to bear it bravely, working hard the while. Eugene did bear it bravely, though he felted most acutely. He determined to seek M. Bertolot, to take counsel respecting the future. His way lay past his sister Adelaide's present residents. The duchess was now settled in the jointure-house. Decidedly, had Eugene thought she was alone, or with those who to him were strangers, he would have passed quietly on his way; but Euphrasie, did not Euphrasie live with the duchess? At least he supposed so; and though with an effort he conquered his reluctance and announced himself at his sister's mansion.
The duchess received him coldly, almost haughtily. Still the young man waited, in the hope of seeing her for whom the visit was intended. A long two hours passed in painful and constrained conversation. Still neither Madame de Meglior nor her daughter appeared.
Eugene rose to take his leave; then, as if by a sudden impulse, exclaimed: "But, my aunt, Adelaide, and Mademoiselle de Meglior, I most not go without paying my respects to them. Will you not let one of your people tell them that I am here and wish to see them?"
"Neither the countess nor Mademoiselle Euphrasie are with me," replied the duchess.
"No! where are they, then? at Estcourt Hall?"
"I think not; they left me at Durimond Castle, before I came here at all. They went to Annie then; where they are now I do not know."
"Have they, then, left Annie?"
"Yes! Sir Philip took some exceptions Euphrasie's Jesuitical principles, and the ladies disappeared one day."
"Disappeared! where did they go to?"
"No one knows; truth to say, brother this is a very disagreeable subject; these quarrels about religion are terrible, and have brought much unhappiness to all of us; the less we say about it the better."
"But my aunt and Euphrasie?"
"I have already told you I do not know anything about them, and I must add, I do not wish to know."
"Sister!"
But Adelaide replied no more. Her stateliness and dignity, if they did not awe Eugene, repelled him. He left the house in disgust.
His next visit was to his sister Annie; but it would be more in order were we to relate the occurrences which had taken place with regard to Euphrasie and her mother since the duke's death. Immediately after that event, the two ladies experienced a great change of demeanor toward themselves in the persons of all by whom they were surrounded; even the menials caught the infection, and behaved with supercilious insolence toward the abetter of popery and the female Jesuit, as they termed the emigrant ladies. Madame de Meglior, mindful of Annie's former invitation, wrote to express her willingness to except it now, if Annie still desired their company. The answer was most favorable, and within a week of the duke's funeral Madame and Euphrasie had quitted his haughty and to them now unfriendly widow.
They had not been long at their new abode ere another source of uneasiness arose. Alfred Brookbank had always vehemently disliked Euphrasie, and observing the real pleasure that her company afforded the now too often desolate Lady Conway, he resolved to do his utmost to destroy that pleasure. The reason of the ladies' departure from the protection of the duchess was not indeed guessed; so secret had all transactions connected with the late duke's death been kept, the very word Catholic was suppressed where possible; it was not supposed, nor to be supposed, that they had been driven from so lofty a mansion. Still, Alfred Brookbank knew the religion of Euphrasie, and he deemed he could so use that knowledge as to spite Annie.
Sir Philip had at first been pleased with the new-comers: their history interested him, and native good feeling prompted him to show them kindness and hospitality as his wife's relatives; but Alfred soon worked on his horror of popery. Of all things, the worthy baronet detested a Catholic the most, and Euphrasie was, suggested the lawyer, a Jesuit in petticoats; an insinuating adventuress, one who would risk the downfall of a noble house to make a convert, even of a cook-maid.
Annie found great relief in the society of her guests. She sympathized with her aunt, and entertained her fondly; Euphrasie she had always liked, despite her taciturnity. She would gladly have induced them to prolong their visit to an indefinite period, and was greatly disappointed when she first became aware of Sir Philip's revulsion of feeling in their regard. This revulsion, indeed, soon mastered him so completely that he could scarcely bring himself to be civil to them in his outward demeanor.
Annie remonstrated that as her relatives, and as the relatives of the Godfrey family, they were at least entitled to respect.
"A respect that will place them at liberty to proselytize all the parish? No, no, my lady; private feeling must be sacrificed to public duty;" and the baronet drew himself up in a very Brutus-like fashion.
"But my aunt is not a Catholic that I am aware of," pleaded Annie; "and as for Euphrasie, she scarcely speaks, so how can she convert any one?"
"'Twere hard to tell, yet we know these silent people are the very ones to be dreaded. One thing I am determined on, she shall not remain here."
"But how can we turn them out of the house?"
"That is your business, my lady; you invited them, now get rid of them."
The speech was a cruel one, for although Sir Philip did not know they had already been ejected from the other part of the family, he knew that Mr. Godfrey and Hester were so taken up just now in establishing the duchess in her jointure-house and in removing thither the divinities of the far-famed pagan temple, that they could think of nothing else. Mrs. Godfrey was at home, but was said to be in delicate health, and Eugene was absent; none seemed to know where or why. A moment's reflection might have told Sir Philip that just then the unfortunate emigrant ladies had no home save the one in which they now found themselves; but he consulted only his own dogged temper, and tormented his wife at every private interview to get rid of them.
But Annie knew not how, and her obstinacy in not complying with his commands enraged him; Sir Philip had a high idea of his marital authority, though he knew not whence he derived it, nor, indeed, how to enforce it. In this latter particular, however, he sought counsel from his friend Brookbank, as he termed his lawyer, and this latter was not slow in using every advantage he could obtain over Annie.
"Prudence and patience. Sir Philip, will accomplish all things." said the lawyer; "it would be unwise, as you perceive, to incur the odium of turning those ladies out of doors, until the grounds of complaint become ostnsible; wait awhile, they will become so. From my knowledge of the amiable character of the lady, your wife, Sir Philip, I should be perfectly surprised at this resistance to your legitimate authority, did I not fear that my lady herself is somewhat infected with the opinions of the young French refugee. You, Sir Philip, are well aware, attachment to that baneful creed overcomes every other sense of duty."
"My lady Conway a Catholic!" ejaculated the now bewildered Sir Philip.
"Nay, I say not that—I think not that; only a favorer of her cousin's views. No open profession of Catholicity, only a secret inclination thereunto."
"They shall be separated this very day," thundered the baronet.
"Pardon me. Sir Philip; I have the utmost confidence in your judgment; your just antipathy to popish superstition fortifies my own. But if you will allow me one word which appears to differ, but in fact agrees with your opinion; may I be permitted to say, that it would be hardly prudent just now to give any air of martyrdom to this business. Weak women are flattered thereby. Your object is, of course, to detach Lady Conway from every Catholic idea. Your strong good sense and powers of reasoning will effect this, provided that you do not rouse the strong obstinacy of female nature. Wait till the visit ends in a natural manner, and then take measures to restore your lady wife to her senses."
Alfred knew well that in giving this advice he ran no risk of seeing it acted upon. The character of the man he addressed was too ungovernable for that; he had but roused into fiercer play the half-dormant passion, the half-latent suspicion. Sir Philip appeared [{489}] to acquiesce, but, as Alfred intended, all his faculties were now aroused to put and unfavorable construction on his wife's actions ions. His tone became more churlish, and even more authoritative then was its wont. Politeness and forbearance were at an end. To his two guests he scarcely behaved with decency.
Annie was too deeply hurt to feel all the indignation that this course would naturally have led her to manifest. She used all her endeavors to shield from actual insult the bereaved emigrants, and to compensate by her own assiduous attentions for the rudeness of her husband. She even mastered herself so as calmly to remonstrate with him on the subject, "Sir Philip," said she, "have you considered that the revolution of France cannot, from the very nature of things, be permanent; that these ladies are of the haute noblesse, and one day their estates will be restored to them?"
"I think not; nay, I hope not," said Sir Philip. "As the French people have had the good sense to banish priests, I hope they will also have wisdom enough to keep all Jesuits, male and female, at a distance. Your cousin is a female Jesuist, depend upon it. It would not surprise me to that she is in actual correspondence with the Pope, or connected with a second Guy Fawkes for the blowing up of this household. Get rid of her, my lady."
"But how? Just now they can go neither to Estcourt Hall nor to Adelaide. Where am I to send them to?"
In a towering passion, and in a thundering voice, the baronet replied: "I don't care a d—n where they go to; but I can't bear the sight of them here."
Annie's heart sank. The window was open, and as her husband spoke she became aware that the ladies in question were seated in an alcove near, partially screened from view by the green boughs of the shrubs that surrounded it. They must have heard the conversation. At this moment they rose, passed the window, bowing as they passed to Annie. There was something of melancholy compassion in that salute; at least Annie thought so. She longed to run after them, to throw herself into her aunt's arms, and weep out the bitterness of her soul; but her husband's eye was upon her, and he was watching her emotions with no friendly feelings. She turned back into the library with him and endeavored to master her oppression. The time passed drearily away as she awaited their return from their walk; but in vain she waited, they came not; one hour, two hours, three hours; dinner was served and they came not. The meal was taken silently; each one was too much absorbed in thought to speak. A long evening was gone through, and at length when Sir Philip went out to speak to his farm bailiff, Annie wandered in sadness on to the lawn. It was a fitful night, the clouds were chasing each other through the atmosphere, here and there revealing a star, now and then disclosing the moon. A feeling of desolation came over her, her grief was too great for tears; but when she approached the deep haw-haw that bounded the garden to the south, she felt as if she could willingly lie down therein and die. "Was the water there deep enough to destroy life? What is life? Is it something we hold in common with cows, horses, dogs? That is easily destroyed! Is man only an animal? If so, I at least had better die, for what happiness can I expect with such a mate as I have? But animal life cannot be all! What is it makes us so sure of this? O Euphrasie! where are you? You could answer this; why are you so happy, why am I se wretched? If it is not poverty that makes unhappiness, what does make it? What has Euphrasie more than I have? She is a wanderer, homeless, penniless, yet I feel satisfied she is to be envied even now."
Strange that in her vexation and utter mortification, Annie felt no intense anxiety respecting the fate of her guests. She had a sort of belief that Euphrasie bore a charmed life, and that under any circumstances she was ever the happiest person in the circle in which she might be placed. She thought her aunt privileged in having such a companion.
The deep night came, and Sir Philip, uneasy at Annie's prolonged absence, went to seek her. She was still leaning over a rail close to the water's edge. "What are you doing there?" he said, but his tone was softer than usual, for his wife was trembling with emotion; and her eyes were filled with tears. He took one hand in his, and passed one arm round her waist, to support her and draw her from her position. "Are you ill, Annie?" he asked.
Instead of replying, Annie asked in a faltering voice: "What has become of them?"
"It matters not; it was a providence that made them hear they were not welcome. It saved us both some uneasiness. They will be taken care of, never fear. There is a sort of free-masonry among such people. Only don't let me see my wife, Lady Conway, make herself miserable about a couple of papists: it would be too absurd."
Two days after, toward the evening, a stranger came, a poor Irishman, with a cart; he brought a note to Annie. It was from Madame: she thanked Annie cordially and affectionately for her good wishes and kind attentions; pleaded that a sudden emergency had arisen which prevented her profiting longer from them; excused her informal leave-taking by the same necessity, and begged Annie would forward to her whatever she had left behind. Annie fairly cried with vexation; she questioned the man as to where the ladies were, but the man had seen no ladies. A gentleman, whose name he had forgotten, had given him the note and two keys, which he said would unlock two trunks, which were to be packed and sent back. That was all he knew. The gentleman would meet him at the same place, and receive the trunks from him. But he was sure the gentlemen did not live there; he was going further on. Annie could make out nothing more. She packed the trunks herself, and enclosed a fifty pound Bank of England note, with a deprecating letter in one of the boxes. It was all the money she had at that moment in hand.
A week elapsed, and a letter came by a private hand; the bearer leaving the premises immediately on delivering it. The letter contained no address, but it returned the fifty pound note, "with thanks—it was not needed." Sir Philip was present when the letter was opened; his eyes were fixed on Annie, and he sternly demanded, "From whom?" There was no alternative native but to hand the letter to him and he exclaimed in a fury, "And is it thus you would waste my substance madam? To nourish vipers, Jesuits, beasts! I will take care from henceforth your means of doing this shall be lessened," and he stalked indignantly from the room, bearing the money and the letter with him. This was a manifest injustice, as the money was Annie's private property, by right of her marriage settlements; but when was prejudice ever just?
* * * * *
It was several weeks after this that Eugene made his appearance to inquire after the refugees. Annie would have greeted him warmly, but Sir Philip's haughty and distant manner plainly told him he was not welcome. Eugene waited till the baronet had quitted the apartment ere he inquired for his aunt and her step-daughter. He heard the tale relative to their withdrawal with undisguised indignation, and said:
"And you do not know what has become of them?"
"No!"
"And you say my father does not know?"
"No!"
"Will he let his own sister and the orphan daughter of his friend suffer for want?"
"They cannot be suffering, they refused the fifty pound note."
"That says nothing; or rather it says they preferred suffering to insult. O Annie! Annie! I had not dreamed you would lend yourself to persecution like this."
"Young man," said Sir Philip, who now entered the room, "I am master in my own house; I have heard your conversation with Lady Conway in regard to your protégé. I will have no papists here, nor any encouragement given to them; and the day that Lady Conway holds communication again with papists, or with suspected papists, without my sanction, that day she ceases to abide under one roof with me."
Annie looked as if she wished that day were already come, but she said nothing. Eugene was watching her and he whispered: "Wives must obey their husbands, Annie, in all that is not sin. Adieu, I blame you no longer; I see where the fault lies. Adieu once more." And Eugene hastened from the house without trusting himself to reply to the haughty speech of it's master.
The whisper had been observed; a frown darkened Sir Philips brow, "Your brother has forgotten the forms of good breeding," he said, "to enter a gentleman's house and treat him with contempt. Is that what the Catholic religion enjoins?"
"The Catholic religion! What do I know of the Catholic religion? How should that influence our actions?"
"You do not favor Catholics in your heart, I suppose, my lady?"
"Not as Catholics. My regard for Euphrasie had no reference to religion at all."
"A nice distinction, learnt of the Jesuits, I suppose."
"I never saw a Jesuit that I am aware of," said Annie.
And thus the pair parted, to meet again and jar, and live in jarring discord every day.
Had Annie been able to make Mr. Godfrey understand how unjustly she was treated, she would have applied for a separation; but Mr. Godfrey would not hear of such a thing. "He was glad, for his part," he said, "that Sir Philip took so sensible a view of Catholic influence. It had raised his son-in-law in his esteem, and if Annie showed any disposition to break through the salutary regulations laid down for her, it would be advisable rather to put her under restraint as a lunatic, than to emancipate her from marital control. Sir Philip had the legal power of locking her up in his own house; and if he did so for such a cause as that, Mr. Godfrey would hold him justified."
Mrs. Godfrey was in dismay. Her health visibly declined. A melancholy seemed to overspread her intellect, and at times to overpower her. All was changed at Estcourt Hall now. The once fond, indulgent husband, seemed to take but little notice of the ailments of his faithful partner. He dreaded her taking part with Eugene and Annie, if the subject were introduced, and he avoided all intimate conversation. Hester was too much wrapt up in her own ideas to watch her mother closely. She saw that the servants attended to her, that there was no fear of her suffering for want of care or nourishment; but unheedful of the power of affection and of sympathy, she gave her little personal attendance. Annie's case she thought a hard one, and once ventured to remonstrate with her father on the subject; but Mr. Godfrey justified his proceedings by painting to her the horrors of popery in glowing colors. He demonstrated to her that all sincere Catholics were fools, the wise ones hypocrites, of whom it might be predicted as it was of the soothsayers by Cicero, that it was a wonder how one priest could look another in the face without laughing together at their success in gulling the public mind. "Now," [{492}] said Mr. Godfrey, "the object of these priests and rulers being to subjugate the human will, and to level the human reason to their standard, in order that themselves may rule supreme, it becomes the duty of every thinking mind to war with the system on principle. You, my dear daughter," continued the fond father, for fond even to doting was Mr. Godfrey of this one child, "you, my dear daughter, would idolize the hero who fought and achieved his country's freedom—external freedom merely; should you not unite with those who would save the world from mental bondage of the most degrading order?"
"Yes, if papistry be really this," said Hester; "but that it is difficult to conceive it to be. But, grant that it is so, Annie does not seem to be in any way implicated in it. She disclaims all connection with it, and certainly she never used to manifest any religious propensities whatever."
"Even so, surely no harm can come of keeping her apart from papists for awhile. If this is all she has to complain of, her grievances are not great."
"I think the real grievance, father, is the shackling her liberty, denying her freedom of intercourse. Trampling on her freedom is no light matter."
"Hester, dear, listen: when two people are yoked together, and their interests differ, one must give way; law and custom say this one must be the wife. Now, if Sir Philip were thought to encourage Catholics, his political interests would suffer; therefore he must not encourage them; but if his wife encourage them, it would appear that the encouragement had his sanction; therefore his wife must not encourage them: and if reasonable means fail in teaching her this lesson, others may be resorted to. A wife is a wife, after all."
"I will never be a wife," said Hester.
"As you please," said her father. "but Annie is one, and must therefore submit. She has the less excuse for resistance, in that she had her own choice. No one was more surprised than myself when Sir Philip applied to me for her hand."
Meantime the cause of all these disagreements was altogether supposititious. Up to that time Annie had no acquaintance with the first principles of religion. Probably but for this annoyance she would ever have remained equally ignorant; but, driven from friendship, shut out from sympathy, her attention was naturally fixed on the subject; she began to meditate on Euphrasie's practices, to put together the ideas she had allowed to escape her. A copy of the Imitation of Christ had accidentally been left behind by Euphrasie; it was found under the pillow on which she had slept. It was a book of mystery to Annie, wonderfully enigmatical; yet this book and the New Testament were her constant companions for months, and she learned to cherish them as friends.
CHAPTER XVII.
EXPERIMENTS OF MORE KINDS THAN ONE.
"Papa," said Hester, "did I not hear you say those pretty farms in Yorkshire are about to change tenants?"
"You did, my dear."
"Have you any tenants in view for them?"
"No! Has any one applied to you for one, or all of them?"
"I want to be the tenant myself."
"You?"
"Yes, indeed; there are good coals beneath the surface; the district is well watered; I want to try these new steam engines on a large scale. I will set up factories and form industrial associations, governing them myself. I will establish them on the principle of mutual assistance in forming and promoting a wide-spread intelligence: my factories shall contain schools, reading-rooms, museums, observatories, everything that can assist the onward progression of the race."
"You will at least spend money, Hester?"
"Not more than if I kept race horses for Ascot, or frequented Crockford's, which you could well afford to let me do if I were a man. Not more then I might cost you if I insisted on taking a house house in town, and on becoming the belle of the season; this would the neither extravagant nor wonderful; and if I wanted diamonds and emeralds and sapphires and glittering toys, you would get them all for me, I know you would, for when did you refuse your Hester anything, dear father?" said Hester, throwing her white arms around her father's neck. "But now I want none of of these babyish fancies, I want to do good in my generation, and my father must help me. We do not spend half our income in our present mode of living, and money is like manure you know, it wants spreading. Think of the glory of aiding 'progress.' Think of reigning over a population emancipated from ignorance by your efforts. Think of forming a nucleus whence freedom and happiness shall spring, handing down your name as a benefactor throughout all time; it is a project well fitted to my father s noble mind."
Mr. Godfrey gazed on his darling, and felt that he could refuse her nothing; still he paused. "Supposing the necessary expenses incurred, my Hester, your buildings erected, your villages formed, you have forgotten one thing; your schemes might be suddenly interrupted, when you least expected it: those farms are all entailed."
"I forgot that," mused Hester. After awhile she said: "Could not some arrangement be made with my brother on this subject?"
"I do not know. Is he a likely one, think you, to consent to the catting off the entail?"
"He might be," said Hester; "he must be badly off now, though I suppose my mother helps him. Offer him a handsome allowance for life, from this time out, on condition that the entail be cut off: he might be induced to accept it."
"He would be a fool if he did," said Mr. Godfrey.
"Nay, father, that is not so certain, if you take into consideration his present position. He is likely to suffer poverty for many years. I think I would accept the alternative were I in his place."
Mr. Godfrey could deny nothing to Hester, so he replied:
"Well, I will think of it."
. . . . .
But what had Eugene been doing all this time? Eugene, after his interview with his sister, went straight to M. Bertolot to inquire after his aunt and Euphrasie. He was not mistaken in supposing that he knew where they were, but he would tell nothing more than that they were in good health and spirits. "I have no authority," he said, "to divulge their place of abode; in fact, I promised secrecy."
"But how do they live? They have no means!" said Eugene.
"How, but by their labor!"
"Labor! my aunt labor?"
"No, I was wrong in saying their labor; it is Euphrasie who does the work. Euphrasie gives lessons in French, music, and drawing, and waits on her mother. De Villeneuve has hopes of recovering their estates for them. He is now in France negotiating with the emperor to that effect. He took care of them when they left your sister's and procured Euphrasie the situation she required, as both she and Madame refused to live at his expense."
"And did he offer to support them?"
"Well, yes; it appears that he and Euphrasie's father were sworn brothers in friendship, and de Villeneuve made a solemn promise to the Comte de Meglior to watch over Euphrasie's well-being. This promise keeps him in Europe to this day, for he had always a misgiving that she would not be permanently happy among those not of her faith. We are expecting de Villeneuve very shortly."
"And if he succeeds, my aunt will go back to France?"
"Probably; but I am not so sanguine about their success as de Villeneuve is. Madame is an English-woman, and that will not help her cause with the emperor just now."
"And meantime Euphrasie works for her daily bread?"
"She does, and is happy in doing so. Euphrasie, my friend, is a practical Catholic; one whose delight it is to realize, to make her own, the life led by the holy family at Nazareth. I venture to say she is far happier in sweeping her mother's room and in cooking her mother's dinner than she would be in a glittering ball-room lit up with its brilliant chandeliers."
"And does she really descend to these menial offices?" asked Eugene, in a sort of stupefied amazement.
"Descend! Is it to descend when we aspire to imitate Jesus and Mary? You are a Catholic, my young friend. You must not look at these things with the eyes of the world: its false maxims are not the ones which may guide your ideas. Labor, actual manual labor, was imposed on man in penalty for sin; its acceptance is part of man's atonement for that undervaluing of grace which led to the commission of that sin: which still leads to the commission of daily sins. The avoidance of labor is a child of pride, one which has occasioned multitudinous disorders among mankind. But Jesus accepted labor—real, genuine labor: he worked many years at his father's trade, and Mary kept no servant in her house at Nazareth; she labored, for she felt that in lowly labor there is a sanctifying influence, and it is this thought that makes Euphrasie happy now."
"But she is so unused to actual toil!" said Eugene.
"Not so much as you may suppose," replied his friend. "The good nuns taught her much that was useful, and even when she was at Estcourt Hall and Durimond Castle she did much work that was unsuspected. The produce of her needle clothed the poor, fed the hungry, and many times defrayed the expense of a mission, when accident brought her in contact with poor Catholics to whom such ministrations were acceptable and profitable. All this was done so quietly that I suppose your family knew nothing about it."
"At least I never heard of it," said Eugene.
Our hero was much depressed by this interview, not merely because he could gain no clue to abode of his friends, but also because he was as yet too new to the practice of Catholic principles to acquiesce cheerfully in the idea of the refined, elegant, accomplished daughter of a French nobleman toiling for her daily bread, and performing all the menial services required in the household.
It was with right good-will that he greeted the Comte de Villeneuve on his return, in the hope through him of seeing something accomplished that would alter these circumstances. But the comte's embassy had been unsuccessful; all he had been able to effect was to leave the case with such other friends as should introduce it at a more favorable period. But he was not so reserved respecting his friends as M. Bertolot had been. He deemed that Eugene's position in his own family should plead exemption for him from the ban of exclusion, and willingly mediated to obtain an interview view for him with Madame. Euphrasie was not at home when he called; and Madame greeted him cordially, though she could not refrain from blaming him for running counter to his friends about religion.
"What a fuss about a matter of opinion," she said. "But perhaps in France, before the Revolution, a Protestant might have then as little acceptable to the aristocracy. They say, too, that this new man, this emperor, patronizes the Catholic religion also, so I shall not ask Euphrasie to become a proselyte to English notions; her faith is that of her country and of her kindred, and my brother ought to [{495}] have understood this; but why you, Eugene, should wish to adopt the French religion, I cannot divine."
"Perhaps religion is neither exclusively French nor English, aunt. There may be a faith necessary to every nation alike, if it be true that every man has a soul to save."
"Perhaps so; I do not meddle with these matters," replied the lady. "I think everyone had better let everybody alone; it must be bad to quarrel about religion; and as to saving the soul, we know so little about it that it is quite presumptuous for one person to dictate to another on that subject. I hope we shall all meet in heaven at last, though we go there by different roads; for my part, I keep nobody out."
The entrance Euphrasie prevent its the necessity of a reply. Euphrasie's greeting was that of one who appreciates high principal. There were respect and kindness in her manner, but no familiarity, no approach to intimacy. Eugene felt disappointed, though certainly there was nothing of which he felt he had a right to complain.
Eugene's visits to his aunt were now frequent, but never could he see Euphrasie alone; whether from design or accident she avoided receiving him, save in her mother's presence. Yet daily did his reverence for her increase. To see the young French girl now, the supporter of the household, the caterer for its wants, the tender minister to her mother's manifold demands, none would have dreamed that heretofore contemplation had absorbed her faculties, and that she was making to duty the greatest sacrifice she could make in thus exchanging the cherished practices of devotion for the active employments of life. She was so cheerful, so almost gay, so unusually animated when the state of her mother's spirits required it; a stranger might have concluded that all her life she had been accustomed to this manner of living.
Suddenly Eugene received a missive which had traced him to many places, requesting him to meet his father in London.
TO BE CONTINUED.