THE FAIREST FAIR.
(FROM ST. JOHN OF THE CROSS.)
"My beloved is the mountains,
The solitary wooded valleys."
—St. John of the Cross.
I.
Mountains, that upward to the clouds arise,
Odorous with thyme, whereon the wild bees linger,
Jewell'd with flowers of a thousand dyes.
Their petals tinted by no mortal finger;
How solemn in their gray-worn age they stand,
Hills piled on hills in silent majesty!
Lofty and strong, and beautiful and grand:
All this and more is my belov'd to me.
II.
Come forth into the woods,—in yonder valley.
Where rippling waters murmur through the glade;
There, 'neath the rustling boughs of some green alley,
We'll watch the golden light and quivering shade:
Or couch'd on mossy banks we'll lie and listen
To song-birds pouring forth their vernal glee.
Wave on, ye woods; ye faery fountains, glisten:
But more, far more is my beloved to me.
[{319}]
III.
Know ye the land where fragrant winds awaken
In spicy forests hidden from the eye:
Where richest perfumes from the boughs are shaken,
And flowers unnotic'd bloom and blush and die?
Sweet is th' eternal spring that there reposes
On wondrous isles that gem the sunny sea,
And sweet the gales that breathe o'er beds of roses:
But sweeter far is my belov'd to me.
IV.
The roaring torrents from the ice-cliffs leaping—
I see them foaming down the mountain side,
Through the green dells and valleys onward sweeping,
They fill the hollows with their mighty tide:
Their voice is as the voice of many waters;
Onward they rush, exulting to be free;
But ah! their thunder fails, their music falters:
Far more than this is my belov'd to me.
V.
A gentler sound wakes in the hush of even.
The whisper of a light and cooling breeze;
It stirs when twilight shades are in the heaven,'
And bows the tufted foliage of the trees;
It fans my cheek; its music softly stealing
Speaks to my heart in loving mystery.
Ah, gentle breeze! full well thou art revealing
The joy that my beloved is to me.
VI.
Night comes at last, in mystic shadows folding
The nodding forest and the verdant lawn,
Till the day breaks, and Nature starts, beholding
The golden chariot of the coming dawn:
Then on each bough the feathered chanters, waking,
Pour forth their music over bush and tree.
Cease, cease your songs, ye birds; my heart-strings breaking
Lack words to say what Jesus is to me.
VII.
Yea, all the fairest forms that Nature scatters.
And all melodious sounds that greet the ear;
The murmuring music of the running waters.
The golden harvest-fields that crown the year,
The crimson morn, the calm and dewy even,
The tranquil moonlight on the slumbering' sea,—
All are but shadows, forms of beauty given
To tell what my beloved is to me.
THE GODFREY FAMILY;
OR, QUESTIONS OF THE DAY.
CHAPTER IX.
RELIGION—PHILOSOPHY: WHICH IS THE TRUTH?
But we must return to Cambridge. Eugene made inquiries respecting his late visitor, M. Bertolot, and finding that he taught his own language as a means of subsistence, he applied to him for instruction, not indeed to learn the language, which he knew how to read already, but, as he said, for practice in speaking and so forth.
"I will come to you," said Eugene, "for lessons in your philosophy; you shall give them to me in French. I will write them down, you will correct the phraseology, and thus I shall improve in two departments at once."
"I will teach you French, if you desire it, my young friend," said M. Bertolot, "and by conversation, or any other mode you may desire; but to enter on moral or mental philosophy is quite another affair, and might lead to results unexpected on your part. I am not quite prepared to promise formal instructions on these subjects at this early stage of our acquaintance; my views might shock your preconceived ideas."
"Fear not for that," said Eugene, "my preconceived ideas, if ever they were definite, are now confused; that mind acts upon mind, irrespectively of matter, seems the only clear thought I have on the subject. Further than this all is blank. The mesmeric agencies of which we hear so much, and the appearances of spirits, in some instances well attested, seem to prove mental rinses to be direct; but what more do they prove? I have sometimes fancied that the nursery tales may be true, and that it is possible that angels of light and demons of darkness do exist, and that we are operated upon at times by spiritual agencies not detected by our senses."
"Some of the wisest of the earth, even among the pagans, have held this opinion," replied M. Bertolot, "and, as I told you in our first interview, the traditions of the fallen angels were handed down to the Jews, and dealings with any one of them prohibited. Sorcery and witchcraft were considered 'sins' in the Mosaic law, although the generation of the present day scouts such ideas as beneath the dignity of the human intellect, and ascribes every discovery in knowledge to the progress of human intelligence alone."
"Yet," said Eugene, "history might teach all students that the best-laid schemes have often been overset by apparently inadequate exterior causes. The pagan doctrine of the 'Fates,' which evidently exercised a vast influence over men's minds, must have originated from their perception of the fact, that human wisdom cannot absolutely dispose events; preordination or the counteracting influence of invisible agencies, has formed more or less an ingredient in every rational belief, ancient as well as modern. But does it follow from this that supernatural agencies are at work? may it not be a delusion in principle as well as in form; for that the form was erroneous in heathenism at least, I suppose we must acknowledge, since heathenism is exploded now.
"I suspect," said M. Bertolot, "that instead of originating, as you have supposed, from human observation of facts, that the doctrine of the 'Fates' is but a corruption of the doctrine of divine providence handed down by primitive tradition. When paganism is considered at first sight, it seems strange to modern ideas, that we term it an invention, or a growth, or material embodiment of our abstract deduction from reasoning on observation. But what if it were none of these things? What if it were simply a perversion of the primitive traditions? A materializing, so to speak, of spiritual doctrine? It has often been asserted that beneath the veil of all myths, positive knowledge might be discovered by a thinking soul. If this be true, as, to a certain extent, facts seem to warrant our acknowledgement, then in the latent truths that are supposed to be hid beneath the mystic words, we may faintly trace the ancient pristine traditions, defaced first by the material shape they wear, but more, much more, by their fixing the attention of the world on animalism and materialism, as the true ends of existence."
"I do not quite understand you," said Eugene.
"I will explain by reference to Bible history," said M. Bertolot. "Man's first sin of disobedience appears to have disturbed the relationship of his soul previously held with superior intelligences, nay, to have disordered his own organization, and to in the sway to inferior appetites rather than to the superior part of the soul, which primarily subjected these inferior appetites to its control. The primal order united the soul to God, and necessarily then all his faculties were equipoised and his passions held in subjection. That union destroyed, the passions rose, fierce and uncontrollable; first man having become a rebel, begot the second, who was a murderer through envy of his brother's spiritual superiority. Since then tradition says that only through violence done to the disordered passions, by humility and patience and long toil, can the pristine order be restored and the primal supremacy of soul regained. This is the office of true spirituality. Paganism also treats of good lost—and of well-being to be acquired through prayer to the immortal gods; but the good it supposes lost, is that of bodily gratification, or of power, or grandeur, and its gods are propitious only when they avert the sufferings which should discipline the soul and prepare it for the reception of the regenerative truth."
"Something of this," said Eugene, "I have heard Euphrasie say; but she would not explain her words, and they came to us like enigmas which we could not solve."
"The solution cannot be comprehended by all," said M. Bertolot; "a preparation of mind is necessary ere we can solve the enigmas of history; and melancholy, indeed, are the facts presented. Look at the first events. Piety, which is another word for the endeavor to seek reunion with God, was renewed in the race of Seth, and, through them the pristine traditions were preserved. But soon these sons of God looked on the daughters of men and saw that they were fair, and again spirituality was overpowered, and the race lost itself in sensuality, and was destroyed by the flood. To the eight who survived, of course, the traditions were known, and Noah, priest, patriarch, king of the new race, lived three hundred and fitly years after the flood, to bear a long testimony to their truth. But the perversity of the human inclination was too strong. Man's choice had been to know good and evil; evil could only be known by separation from God, and it would seem as if he were fated to have his choice gratified; it was inevitable at any rate, if he must know evil. Accordingly we find that even one hundred and thirty-three years before the death of Shem, who had witnessed the deluge, and who lived five hundred years after it, in order to perpetuate the memory of it in the minds of men, it was necessary to set apart Abraham, by special provision, to keep intact the spiritual [{322}] meaning of the traditions of true religion. Already had the creature again taken the first place in human affection, to the neglect of the Creator. Already impersonations of human passion had arisen and mixed themselves with the traditions they received from their fathers. These traditions they hid under the false imagery that stole into their hearts; but perverted and debased though they may be, they form the basis of whatever truth may be discoverable under the garb of my theology, and the peopling the world with invisibly acting spirits is one of these notions which the heathens did not invent, but only perverted."
"I think I see what you mean," said Eugene; "but tell me if your philosophy has discovered why man himself is such an enigma, such a compound of loftiness and meanness, so grand in idea and so poor in execution? Why is truth so difficult, seeing that it is so necessary to him?"
"Man is a fallen being," mournfully responded the mentor. "The divine spark once inbreathed, though dimmed and clouded, still prompts to high hopes and high deeds; but severed from God, he can effect nothing to satisfy himself. That reunion is in fact the sole aim and object of existence. None other can satisfy the inward yearning. How that reunion is to be accomplished revelation comes to tell us, for human philosophy was at fault, and the first step I have already pointed out is prayer."
"There are many religions," said Eugene, "and how is the true one to be known?"
"Nay, that question is beyond philosophy, and philosophy was to be the subject of our interviews. I will assist you in distinguishing the functions of the mental faculties, but at the present stage of the inquiry I will not forestall your conclusions. We have already seen that the nature of man is compounded, and that his physical nature is the inferior portion of that compound, his moral and spiritual nature the highest. Intellect is the servant of one or the other, according as to which is accorded the predominance, and it is because that predominance is so often given to the inferior part of our being that we must be so surely on our guard against an undue bias; not but that even our spiritual and moral qualities need also to be watched, for pride and egotism corrupt even these. In fact, man's life here is the only that of an exile consequent his being born, severed from truth, his true end of being, but the consequences of that severing causes his life to be one struggle to replace his faculties in their pristine equilibrium, and to accord to each its fitting office. As for instance, when giving to the spiritual that precedence which is due to it we must beware lest we employ it to any other purpose than the worship of 'The True.' There is a spurious spirituality as well as a spurious morality."
"But why do you distinguish morality from spirituality? Will not one term comprehend both?"
"Scarcely, since morality means the relationship of man to man: spirituality, his relationship to God. The law of God may and does regulate man's morals in those persons who acknowledge that law; but were man to live without God, as is too often the case, he must have laws to regulate his intercourse with his kind; that is the spiritual man necessarily acknowledge the moral law, but the moral man does not necessarily acknowledge the spiritual law."
"And what, then, is the sanction of the moral law?" asked Eugene.
"Apart from the spiritual law, it must be regulated by reason," returned his friend.
"But," said Eugene, "reason differs in different minds; nat, in different localities. Turkey sanctions what England condemns, and ancient Sparta taught her children to practice what all Europe would now punish them for doing."
"Probably; but that only proves that there is no absolute certainty for man, when relying on his own unassisted light. Nevertheless, law does exists, and must exist, to keep society together, and to protect life and property. To be consistent, it should propose itself a definite purpose, and frame its rules to meet that purpose. As persons are not agreed on spiritual matters, and as life and property can be protected without their so agreeing, modern lawgivers incline to leave out of the question the higher law appertaining to the interior life, and to legislate purely on materialistic principles; provided they do not by legislation contravene that higher law or compromise its principles in any degree, no mischief can come of such a course; but, unfortunately, a neutral position is a difficult one to uphold. Unconsciously, as it were, man infringes the conditions sooner or later, and the anomaly of enforcing the worship of 'reason' at the point of the bayonet is enacted again and again?"
"And what part does reason take in religion?" asked Eugene.
"A most important one," said his friend, "since reason is a direct gift of God to man, and all natural gifts, when unperverted, have a direct co-relation to a spiritual gift. Man's nature is not changed by spiritual Grace, it is sanctified, purified, elevated, replaced in the position of grace in which Adam was created, or rather in the superadded grace of the redemption. Reason, consequently, must examine the evidences concerning the truth of facts presented to her—must demand by what authority they are assumed to be facts—must compare them with other facts—examine, prove, judge. But remember, reason does not create facts, and may not ignore them when proved, however contrary in the ordinary course of our experience. The Eastern despot caused the traveler to be strangled because he asserted that he had seen water in a solid form. So, many a man strangles the evidence of a fact, because he assumes the fact itself to be beyond belief."
"Can you give me any rules respecting the exercise of reason?" asked Eugene.
"Beware, in the first place, of confounding it with actual experience. Experience is, having personal evidence of fact, as true history is having our neighbor's evidence of the same. But the facts must be ascertained before we can reason upon them, otherwise we may draw conclusions from false premises. But in sifting evidence regarding facts, beware of rejecting any on the sole ground that they are not of ordinary occurrence, or of a class within the personal experience of yourself or your neighbor. Incredulity is as great a folly as credulity: let each question rest on its individual merits, and receive the investigation due to its importance. In the second place, remember that the process of establishing a fact is essentially different from reasoning on that fact when established. The latter is common to all, but the evidence which establishes facts acts differently on minds of different dispositions. Thirdly, a certain series of facts already assumed to be established, often appears to throw light upon and render probable, or even self-evident, another series of facts which, without their precursors, would be of doubtful authority. But that which it is most difficult to realize is, that certain states of the mind render it easier to admit the probability of certain facts than certain other states; so that ere we proceed to the investigation of foreign ideas, we must, as far as in us lie, examine ourselves as to the impartial state of our dispositions, divest ourselves of any prepossessions founded on the lower principles of our being."
"As for example?" said Eugene.
"As for example, my young friend, we take the proposition already discussed this evening: 'Man is a fallen being!' This is either an historical fact or a falsity. Now some men persist in rejecting all agency that is not in accordance with the ordinary [{324}] consequences observed to occur in the material portion of the creation, consequently they deny the primary fact as matter of history, though compelled by experience to admit that man often falls de facto. This, they say, is in consequence of his non-observance of nature's laws, the knowledge of which provided he acted on that knowledge would remedy this weakness. The knowledge of physics is, then, to these minds, a necessary and important ingredient in what to them constitutes virtue, while physical ignorance must, by the same theory, bring with it vice and misery."
"The history of the creation given by Moses is to such persons a sublime myth, conveying no other idea than that it presents a splendid manifestation of beauty, power, and grandeur. The aim and object of these men is necessarily materialism—the contentment of animal existence; and while this is their aim, their mental vision cannot see the doctrine of the fall of man from spiritual life. Convince these men, however, of their own inherent spiritual affinities, which, though now in abeyance, are ready to be called into operation if only they will that they should be so called—let them experience the yearning for higher life, which now lies dormant if not dead within them, then will the cloudy myth become reality, and the falls de facto be viewed as the necessary result of the original fall from spiritual unity. A new vigor will be infused into the frame, and a desire to re-establish the pre-existing supernatural relationships will become the absorbing interest. The rationalist will become a Christian, not by force of human reasoning, but because a change has taken place in his disposition, in his aspiration."
"But does the reception or apprehension of truth, then, depend on human disposition?" asked Eugene. "Should not truth be self-evident, or be at least demonstrable to those whom it concerns?"
"To pure natures doubtless it is so," said M. Bertolot, "but I need not point out to you that facts of every-day occurrence show us that man's nature is no longer pure, and therefore is it that he is blinded by prejudice and five bent of his inclination. Few have been found willing to lay aside the pride of rank, the demands of human comfort, and the conceit of human learning, and come like little children to be taught by the inspired angel of truth."
"I, at least, would like to try," said Eugene. "Would that the angel of truth were to be found!"
"Pray! and you may find him yet!" replied M. Bertolot.
"Prayer is your constant theme, I perceive," said Eugene, smiling.
"It is man's most constant friend, and the powerful preserver of his soul," replied M. Bertolot. "Man's soul is by its origin aspirative, panting after reunion with God, even when ignorant of the cause of his disquietude. The soul has faculties which need gratification, and can be gratified only in God. These faculties are nourished by prayer, and to prayer is annexed the promise of being heard; but then we must accept and fulfil the conditions."
"And what are those conditions?" asked Eugene.
"The prayer must be humble," said his friend, "diffident of self, confident in God; and it must be accompanied by a firm resolve to let no private bias, no motive of interest, interfere with the inspirations sent in answer. The influences exercised over us by the exterior world, with all the empire of physical enjoyment, must be ready to give way as soon as they interfere with the recognition of the divinity speaking to our souls, as this interference is most fatal; for the 'fall of man' in the first place, the rise of paganism in the second, and in the third place the failure of the Jews in recognizing the spiritual character of our Lord's kingdom, all arose from this undue empire of self-love, of private interest, latent or patent, in the human soul. And this empire must be subdued ere we can hope to regain our position as 'sons of the eternal and essentially spiritual God.'"
"And yet," said Eugene, "we are of flesh as well as of the spirit, and the demands of the flesh are loud and manifold."
"Yes, and to a certain extent they must be gratified, or life would fail. Only, let the body be the servant and not the master of the soul. Let the object of existence be reunion with God, not the mere gratification of animalism. This aspiration, or this object—and, I may say, this alone—forms the distinctive mark between paganism and true religion. It is not the outer idol that injures the soul, but the inward feeling that is directed to false worship; that accords to beauty, glory physical power, and animal gratification, the inward adoration due alone to God, the creator, redeemer, sanctifier. Have I made myself understood?"
"I think so," said Eugene; "and by this measure, the great mass of population must be as essentially, pagan as they were in the days of Mars, Jupiter, Bacchus, and Apollo."
"I fear many will be found so," said M. Bertolot. "Men appear to be more eager than ever they were for exterior improvements; they are fast losing hold of the aspirations of the past; they have destroyed old theories, and substituted new philosophies and new remedies for evil that our sapping the very foundations of spiritual truth in men's minds. Yet man cannot utterly stifle his inward yearnings, nor annihilate his spiritual affinities. The soul who rejects the true worship bows, although unconsciously, to inferior agencies, and animal magnetism and spirit-rappings provide their poisoned food for the sickly appetite, and exercise their baneful empire ever the craving souls who reject the hallowing operations of religion. Meantime the world is in a miserable state of trouble and confusion."
"Yes," said Eugene, "but modern philosophy ascribes this state to ignorance, and says a proper educational development would obviate all. If so, what becomes of the fall of man?"
"If so! rather a large if," said M. Bertolot. "The world is nearly six thousand years old, and is it but now to begin to discover truth? and is that beginning to be the laying aside of all received traditional lore? Well! it is a new era, and everything will wear a new aspect soon. It is as though it were in the councils of the Most High, that every form of man's folly and self-seeking should have full development. Good, if he learn at last that from God alone, by supernatural means, comes true light to the soul. Good, if when all other means have been tried and found to fail, he seek it there at last. Good, if at length he recognizes the fact, that the soul's proper sphere is divine, is supernatural; that it is a consequence as legitimate for the purified soul to tower above, to command matter, as it is for heat to melt ice. Good, if he become aware that from the Eternal alone proceeds light and warmth and power and due action, and that the human soul, the proper recipient of these graces, cannot exercise its own proper vitality (so to speak) without these gifts from God, which form at once its nutriment and its stimulus. Now, the unbeliever uses not the means, consequently feels not the divinity stir within him; and that positive inertia of his spiritual existence is the great cause of his remaining an unbeliever. It is as though a man were to refuse to believe that equal proportions of sulphuric acid and of water, being mixed together at the temperature of fifty degrees, the compound will immediately acquire a temperature as high as boiling water, and not believing it possible, he refuses to test it, and so remains unconvinced. Nevertheless, the rise of temperature in this case is as certain a fact in chemistry as the fact in theology is certain, of the rise in the soul, when it approaches God by the means he himself has appointed."
"But," said Eugene, "if I understand you theologians aright, it is the prayer of faith that pierces the clouds. How am I to attain this faith?"
"Begin with the graces which you have already: I mean that of a sincere desire of truth, and that of the consciousness that you have not truth in actual possession yet. These two facts of your mind are gifts immensely great. Follow them closely and in simplicity, and greater results will follow. They contain already the germs of faith, and if you are true to their teachings you will be led to throw yourself, in child-like abandonment, into the arms of God, and contentedly follow where he leads. Your yearning for truth will then be gratified."
"And how am I to discover which historic facts are true? By divine light also?"
"Divine light will aid you even here. Yet in this case you must use the best human means you can command. You must study the evidences, examine the prophecies, and contemplate the manner in which these prophecies have been fulfilled. You must endeavor to penetrate the spiritual meaning of all the types, of all the allusions. You must mark well the connection between the old law and the new law, and distinguish the essential differences between what revelation from God is, and that which is simply man's idea of what a revelation from God should be. Study the developments of heathenism, modern as well as ancient; you will find more similarity than at first appears on the surface: and you will also easily trace therein, the divine truth, borrowed from the first traditions, and from the developments of revelation, which mingled with their perversions form the basis of their system, a system which is built on a materialized version of a spiritual teaching, which, parted from the centre of good, went astray by following its own fancies, relying on its own unassisted judgment. Finally, meditate sedulously the truths of the religion taught at the foot of the cross. Do not wait till you believe ere you do this, but learn what religion is as taught by Christian apostles; then, if you reject Christianity, you will at least know what you reject, and if you embrace it you will find many of your difficulties melt away, as if the very atmosphere dissolved them. But through every process, 'pray.'"
"I will," said Eugene, "certainly I will; until I have found the truth it is but reasonable that I should submit to your guidance. Yes, for a while I will study, meditate, pray, and endeavor to keep my mind unbiassed." Mentally he added, "Yes, Euphrasie, I will endeavor for a while to forget all that could bias me—even you."
CHAPTER X.
SCENE IN THE CASTLE CHAPEL
So absorbed, indeed, did Eugene continue to be in these pursuits, that home influences and home affairs seemed to have passed from his mind altogether. The long vacation he spent at the lakes, studying works which certainly college authorities did not put into his hands, and which his father would scarcely have sanctioned. On his return to Cambridge he found M. Bertolot absent for a considerable time, so his studies continued unaided in the theological direction. This enabled him the better to elude the eyes of observation, and as his father's so was one of the least likely to be affected by "superstition" of any kind, his peculiar mode of passing his time passed unnoticed, only the surprise seemed to be that in the classes he did attend he took so very slight an interest; in fact, he passed for an indolent young man, while in fact reading hard and meditating deeply on themes forbidden by the University regulations. From these dreams of his own fashioning he was one day unpleasantly awakened to a sense of his connection with the outer world by a letter from Mr. Godfrey, detailing in a somewhat bitter [{327}] spirit, the transactions we have related in a previous chapter, and requesting him take an early opportunity of visiting Adelaide. Mr. Godfrey stated that himself, Mrs. Godfrey, Annie, and Hester were about to return home, but that Adelaide declined to return with them; she wished neither to be pitied nor wondered at, when the duke's absence should become publicly known. She felt equal to keeping up the state becoming her rank, and had invited her aunt and Euphrasie to domesticate themselves with her for some months to come, which arrangement her friends deemed a very suitable one.
Eugene was deeply moved, for family ties had ever been strongly felt by him and to the transient disgust excited by his sister s conduct in consenting to marry the duke, now succeeded warm sympathy for the annoyance and mortification she endured. Indignation against the cause of it was, however, useless. The duke was gone, and Eugene would have felt some difficulty in reconciling a "call of honor" under the form of a duel with the new philosophy upon which he was so intent: so it was well for him to be out of the way of temptation. His agitation did not, however, escape the observation of his friend, who being just returned from his trip, happened to call on him on the same morning on which he received Mr. Godfrey's letter. Briefly, and in strict confidence, Eugene explained the cause.
"Nay, take it quietly, my young friend," said M. Bertolot. "It is a grievous misfortune, I grant, but let us leave the result in God's hands; good may come of it yet."
"I think I ought to go and see Adelaide."
"Without doubt; and your aunt, too, will welcome you."
"And will you not accompany me also? Your presence would be most acceptable to Euphrasie and to her mother."
"Why—if I thought I should not be intruding—"
"I will ascertain that," said Eugene; and he wrote to his sister of his proposed visit, and of his desire to bring a friend with him.
The return of post brought a cordial invitation to both. Accordingly, they set out for the castle together, and received a most flattering welcome from the inmates. For many days all went happily—very happily. Eugene's natural disposition was gay and joyous, and this ever made him an agreeable companion. At all times every member of the family had been fond of this representative of a gentle house; but at this particular juncture his unaffected cheerfulness rendered him especially acceptable to the duchess.
Yet, when the first excitement was over, there were many things about him which puzzled, even while they interested her. She began to feel uncertain as to whether she understood him. That which seemed a joke, en passant, on reflection appeared to contain some hidden meaning. The castle itself was a continual theme with him. The number of its large, unoccupied chambers, which he bade her find inhabitants for among those whose dwellings were so scant of room that they could not even observe the decencies of life: the vast grounds, almost untrodden by human feet, among which he was always pretending to seek for concealed hermitages; then the retinue of gentlemen and ladies who were called servants, but whose principal occupation, Eugene insisted, was to make work for others;—these were a never-failing source of raillery. All these things, which flattered Adelaide's pride, seemed to him but subjects of mere banter, and certainly did not excite that reverence for the "state" in which she lived which she expected and desired. Then there was M. Bertolot, a poor French teacher, nowise elated by the condescension with which she, one of the greatest ladies in the land, entertained him. Calm, self-possessed, he received her attentions with as much [{328}] quiet dignity as if he were her equal. Certainly he did not pay her homage; and as homage was precisely that for which she had married, she could scarcely avoid feeling a little aggrieved on the subject, or feeling as if she had been defrauded of something that was her due; though her natural good sense forbade her from showing her sensitiveness to her guests.
The castle was very large—so large, in fact, that Adelaide had never entered all the chambers. More than half of it had been dismantled, and was generally kept locked. An old steward who kept the keys alone knew all the intricacies of that part of the house, which he asserted had, in ancient times, lodged a large body of retainers, and that it could now, in case of necessity, accommodate whole regiments of soldiers.
One day, in a merry mood, Eugene proposed to his sister to escort her through her own house on a tour of discovery. She assented. The house was in the form of a quadrangle, enclosing a flower garden of considerable size. In the midst was a reservoir, into which a water-god, exquisitely sculptured in marble, was pouring a continual jet of water. Marble pillars supported the upper story of the mansion, forming beneath an arched and cloistered walk round three sides of the garden. Already had Eugene spent hours here in meditation, for it was ever cool, shady, and sequestered; and it being understood that here the family alone were admitted, the servants consequently kept aloof.
"Beautiful cloisters those would make," said Eugene. "When you exchange your ducal coronet for a nun's veil, Adelaide, and your jewelled chain for a rosary, you can come here and tell your beads. Your convent is provided already."
"What an absurd idea!" said the duchess.
"Nay," said Eugene, "such things have been, and may be again."
"Nonsense! this age is too wise for that"
They passed on. Even Eugene was surprised at the extent of accommodation in the furnished and inhabited part of the building. The old duke had so divided the place that he and his duchess had had their separate establishments under one roof, without being cognizant even of each other's proceedings. For the last years of their lives they had met only on state days and on state occasions.
Adelaide now inhabited suite of rooms occupied by the former duchess. Until to-day she had never entered those set apart for the duke.
A shudder ran through her veins as as she traversed them, for something seemed to whisper her, that here, to another duke would die like the former—married, yet wifeless—and that the entailed dwelling, with its vast grounds and cherished heirlooms, would pass away from her altogether.
Eugene saw his sister turned pale, and guessing something of what was passing in her thoughts, led her hastily down a narrow staircase, on the opposite side to which he had entered. He opened another door, which brought them into a secluded shrubbery, which he had never before observed. They walked a few yards, and then came to a low, vaulted archway. They entered, for the key was in the lock; and though the door turned somewhat heavily on its rusty hinges, they easily pushed it open. Another door presented itself, and that, too, was unlocked. Wondering, they entered. Stealthily, yet scarcely knowing why they were so hushed, they moved forward, and found themselves in a small, deserted chapel Stained glass was in the windows; the stone altar yet remained; fluted pillars marked the aisles; a large cross was wrought in one of the walls, in stone work; but the seats and ornaments were gone. A damp, earthy smell pervaded the place. Adelaide was chilled and drew back.
"Nay, stay one moment," pleaded Eugene. "I will open the window. Let us see what this place is."
They approached, but suddenly they perceived Euphrasie on her knees, in a niche formed in the wall, while M. Bertolot, seated on a step beside her, seemed in the very act of raising his and over her in benediction.
Adelaide started as if an adder had stung her. She suppressed a shriek and hastily turned away. Eugene followed and reverently closed the door.
The duchess was too much annoyed to speak. She was moody for the rest of the day, but made no remark on the subject which occupied her thoughts. The day after, Eugene was reading near her, while Euphrasie was seated by the window, employed in working embroidery, when the duchess began, in a somewhat bitter tone:
"Well, Eugene, in one thing you have disappointed me. You used to the so fond of art; and your visits to the Pantheon have have been so very few, and so very short, that I wonder what is the matter with you. What objection can you have to what all the world terms master-pieces?"
"None at all—indeed none, my dear sister. Your statuary is magnificent, unrivaled." This was said in a deprecating tone, for Eugene earnestly wished to avoid discussion. "There can be no fault to find with the Pantheon. It is I who am to blame. I am out of taste just now. Jupiter and Mars have ceased to interest me. My taste for paganism has had its day, I presume. We cannot always be wrapt up in the same things."
But the duchess was not satisfied with this answer. It rather increased her annoyance, and she replied in the same bitter tone:
"I marvel to hear you and Euphrasie condemn idolatry, while she is on her knees before an image for hours together, and you see no idolatry in that."
"Mademoiselle de Meglior does not worship images that I am aware of," said Eugene, somewhat startled at this burst, "though to keep her mind concentrated on one idea, she may possibly make use of them."
"And what is that but idolatry?" said his sister; "how many of the pagans, think you, would mistake a statue of Minerva for Minerva herself? Their statues were but types to recall ideas."
"Yes, but the ideas themselves were false; Paganism was the worship of physical power, the deification of materialism. True religion is the direct converse of this. It is the elevation of the soul to spirituality, the recognition of a spiritual God, who created man for his own glory, endowed him with spiritual life, for the express purpose of keeping him strictly united to himself. The centre of the one system is self or concupiscence. The worship rendered is the worship of fear, or for the promotion of self-gratification. The centre of the other system is God, by whom all things are made, in whom they still exist, and for whom they should exist in will, as well as in act. One is paganism, the other is Christianity."
"And what may you mean by concupiscence, most learned Theban?" asked the duchess.
"Concupiscence is such a love of self as prevents us from making God the first object of our love," responded Eugene.
"And you, in sober earnest, profess to think it possible to love God more than yourself?"
"I think men have done so," said Eugene, "though they have been but few, when compared to the world's masses."
"Men have loved their whims and fancies to an astonishing degree, I know," said the duchess; "fanaticism has abounded on the earth, but fanaticism is, after all, only a species of madness; I know not whether it be curable or not."
"Do you, then, think it a sort of madness to endeavor to find the true and living God, and having found, to worship him? That, surely, is not your grace's meaning?" There was a slight contempt in Eugene's tone as he said this; his sister was nettled and answered coldly:
"Man's spirit is naturally superstitious, I think: that is the secret of all this nonsense about worship. He is ignorant, and fears and trembles. Enlighten him, and he will walk upright and rely on himself alone."
"And what is man, that he should rely on himself alone?" responded Eugene; "a being weaker than the lower animals, needing even more protection than they do to defend him from the inclemency of the weather, and obliged to labor to provide food sufficient for himself, while the food of calves and goats grows beneath their feet. When young, man is powerless; when sick, powerless; when old, powerless; nay, without aid he is usually powerless."
"But man generic," said the duchess, "can aid this greatly. Combinations might be formed which would remedy this individual powerlessness. Such, they tell me, are in contemplation; and when formed, superstition will be crushed under the chariot-wheels of improvement in man's physical condition."
"It might," said Eugene, "if any degree of mere animal enjoyment could content man, but it cannot. Let man surround himself with luxury to the highest possible degree, there will still be the feeling that a higher life exists for him. Man's soul, the divine spark inbreathed by God, can rest only in God. Glimpses of high destinies still float around us, and in our unsatisfied longings—unsatisfied when most provided for—we find the pledge that we were made for higher things."'
"Mere Platonic crudities these, my dear brother," said the duchess, with a smile. "Beware! you are on a dangerous path; themes like these have misled many a noble mind. And look! Euphrasie is smiling an assent to your mysticisms; she thinks you are already half-way on the road to Catholicity."
"No matter by what road we are led, provided we arrive at truth," responded Eugene. "But you are mistaken in your conjecture; I have not been studying Platonism but Christianity."
"It may be Christianity is but a form of Platonism," said the duchess: "at least many learned men have so asserted. What Christianity was intended to be by its founder I can hardly make out; but it seems to have borrowed largely from the mystics as it travelled through philosophy."
"Nay," said Eugene, "to me that appears a gratuitous assumption. That to a superficial observer there may be some grounds of resemblance between the ideas of spirituality, abstractly considered, entertained by the mystics and by the Christians. I grant—as also that, to a certain extent, man may be capable of deducing these abstract ideas from observation of nature's workings. Nature is a manifestation of the spirit of God, consequently there always must exist a certain correlative teaching in nature corresponding to a higher spiritual teaching, though man's blindness will not always perceive it; but this is only an exterior relationship. The spirit of Christianity enfolds a principle which natural philosophy does not touch."
"A principle which is the mere creature of human imagination." said the duchess; "nay, I might say it is the offspring of discontent. Man is dissatisfied with his lot, and frames a heaven for the future. He were more wisely employed in remedying the present evil."
"If it were possible, you should say, sister. How many evils can man avert? Do we not suffer, from natural predisposition, diseases of various kinds? Do we not suffer in our affections from the misconduct of others? And do not the majority suffer an enforced toil, which absorbs their time, and leaves them neither energy nor leisure for speculative thoughts? They must work or die. Now, philosophy would but render a man discontented with this state of things—a state which leaves the toil to one, and the enjoyment, supposititious perhaps, but still [{331}] apparent enjoyment to another. Force can compel it—the force of unsatisfied nature; but Christianity hallows it—sanctifies it—by teaching how all apparent hardships may nourish virtue and unite the soul to God."
"Nay, I do not dispute that religion is necessary for the vulgar," said Adelaide.
"And are the vulgar to have the highest portion? Christianity is the exaltation of the soul—paganism, the worship of the body. In that case, I would rather cast in my lot with the vulgar."
"If it were but true," said Adelaide.
"Become poor, lofty lady, and you will feel its truth. Perchance luxury is a kind of anodyne to a human being, so that he does not feel his soul when under its influence. Become poor; toil, day after day, for a scanty pittance, and you will find yourself asking if man is only a laboring animal. Become poor, and the soul will speak to you of power and aspiration, and ask why is this sense of loftiness unused. It will ask you why every faculty has its legitimate sphere in which to act, and the soul alone remain without a sphere. Perhaps we need something of this experience before we can feel the stirrings of the divinity within us—before we are prepared to comprehend the truths of religion. Certain it is that the gospel was sent peculiarly to the poor, and that the refined trifles which occupy the minds of the rich, prevent their attending to the inward voice of the spirit."
"Why, Eugene! you are qualified be a Methodist preacher. This is mere rant and cant. Religion takes no such exalted standing in the minds of the vulgar. The Methodist has some pet theory to save his soul, without troubling himself about good works at all; and the Catholic tells his beads and sets up his images in the very style of paganism. They say that at Rome the adoration of the Virgin Mary has taken the place of the worship of the goddess Venus—where is the gain there?"
"The patroness of purity in exchange for the goddess of lasciviousness! Nay, surely, sister, that exchange must be a blessed one. What I have been trying to express all along is, that all that makes us do homage to the animal nature—all that worships the merely physical—is paganism; while all that represses carnality, promotes purity, and leads us out of ourselves to unite us to God, is Christ's. The union of the saints in Christ is not idolatry; it is but an additional means of glorifying God by showing forth, in united prayer, the triumph of Christianity over death itself."
"Do hold your tongue, Eugene. Let us have no more of this. Sometimes you are a Catholic, sometimes a Methodist; but in either character you will be disowned as my father's son. The idea of your disgracing a line of philosophers by such stale trumpery!"
Eugene laughed; and as he saw no other way of closing the debate he quitted the room, which Madame de Meglior was just then entering. But the duchess, seriously annoyed, turned sharply round upon Euphrasie.
"I suppose," said she, "you have been putting these foolish notions into the boy's head. Beware, if you make a Catholic of him you will destroy the peace of a whole family; but that, I suppose, is a secondary consideration to making a convert."
"Indeed, your grace—" replied Euphrasie.
"Nay, do not deny it, whether by words or looks or acts, 'tis all the same; there was no Catholicity in the family until you came into it, and now I clearly see some means must be used to prevent its spreading."
"But," said Madame de Meglior, "in this instance you have forgotten that Eugene is almost always at Cambridge; how does my daughter's religion influence him there?"
"I do not know, but you see it has; the boy was well brought up, was rational and intelligent; and now to adopt these follies! He, the representative of my father's house, too!"
Madame de Meglior was now vexed, but she ventured no reply; it was impolitic to offend the duchess. She liked Durimond Castle better than Estcourt Hall; secretly she hoped that Euphrasie had made an impression on Eugene's heart. She would like to have seen them married, and she well knew that Euphrasie would not marry one out of the pale of the church. Religion was, to madame herself, nothing. She was a no-thinker, not an unbeliever: she had lived nearly all her life in France, among people who sometimes went to mass for form's sake, and who called themselves Catholics, and she could not comprehend the bitter feeling with which her countrymen regarded the Catholic Church. She thought children should be taught religion; it made them dutiful, and for her part she did not see that her husband's daughter was inferior to her nieces. She, however, smothered her vexation, as she said:
"You think too much of these vagaries, my dear niece. This is the age of tolerance; we must be lenient to youthful folly."
"This is a serious folly, aunt," replied the duchess. "It would make a commotion throughout the kingdom, were my father's heir to turn Catholic."
"Yet the wars of the Pretender are long since at an end. Europe scarcely knows whether a representative of the Stuart line is living. It is time these feuds should cease. I thought 'freedom of thought' was the watchword of the Godfrey family."
"What freedom of thought is there in Catholicity?" asked the duchess.
"Nay, that I know not; but I think freedom of thought means that each one may be of the religion he thinks best."
"He must not be a Catholic," said the duchess; "at least, not outwardly. He may think as he likes, of course; no one can hinder that."
"Is that the toleration of England, may it please your grace?" said Madame de Meglior, banteringly.
"It is. Why should he be allowed to destroy the political influence of the family, to mar the marriage of my sister, to bring a slur on a respectable name?"
"I had not thought of that," answered madame; and for the first time she pondered whether it was really an evil that Euphrasie should be a Catholic.
After this conversation, slight as it was, Euphrasie became more and more resolved; till then, though scarcely to be called intimate, she had been at least friendly with Eugene Godfrey. Now she avoided him when she could do so without positive rudeness. The Countess de Meglior, who began to watch her closely, could only perceive that her passion for solitude was ever on the increase, but her obedience to herself never faltered. Madame de Meglior, though but little given to reflection, now discovered that this was a very convenient disposition for her step-daughter to cherish; for, had she wished to be brought forward in the great world of fashion, like other girls of her age, madame's pride would have been wounded at not being able to do this in the proper form for her, as the daughter of a French nobleman. She felt glad, then, that, considering how matters stood, the girl had not forgotten her convent education, and resolved for the present to let her pray and meditate unmolested, feeling sure that, when their estates were restored to them, Euphrasie would become like the rest of the world among whom they moved. As for Eugene, she had penetration enough to discover that Euphrasie's bashfulness rather tended to fan his flame than to extinguish it.
M. Bertolot, who was also watching the young people with much interest, did his best, on the contrary, to induce Euphrasie to open her mind to Eugene; but in this he experienced so much difficulty at first, that he began to think he must abandon the design, when accident came most unexpectedly to his aid.
The period drew near when their visit was to conclude, and on the day previous to the one fixed for their departure, the duchess, who had recovered her good humor, proposed a pleasant party to a ruined monastery some few miles distant. There were many Young people of the party, and they dispersed themselves in groups about the grounds. M. Bertolot gave his arm to Euphrasie, and began to explore the ruins after a methodical fashion. The walls were of great extends, many of the rooms remained entire, and much of the plan could be trace; they made out the site of the community room, the chapel, refectory, bakehouse and so forth, and were descanting on the probable locality of other apartments when Eugene joined them. "This must have been a magnificent place," said he.
"History says it was large and well endowed," said his friend. "What say you Euphrasie," he continued, "shall we rebuild it for your friends?"
"It is too large," said Euphrasie.
"Nay, we will suppose an indefinite number of nuns, and the enclosure wall shall be placed wherever you direct."
"Even then it would be too grand, too magnificent for the votaries of St. Clare."
"You will not accept it, then?"
"No; unless I might build on another scale. Our holy foundress loved to seem poor as well as to be poor."
"And yet," said Eugene, "there are some magnificent convents in the world."
"Yes", said Euphrasie; "some orders have them exteriorly grand, but St. Clare loved everything to be plain and poor, even the church."
"And why?" asked Eugene, "surely a magnificent church is a great adjunct to religion. St. Peter's at Rome is the glory of the world."
Euphrasie looked as if about to reply, but she checked herself.
M. Bertolot, however, observed the movement, and said, "Nay, tell as your thoughts, Euphrasie."
"I am not sure they are correct," she replied.
"Leave us to judge of that. Speak them as they are."
"If I should scandalize you," said Euphrasie.
"Scandalize? Nonsense! Tell us your idea."
"Well, then," said the young lady, "although splendid edifices have often been erected by the piety of the faithful, and though in all ages it has been accounted a good work to adorn the House of God, I believe that our holy foundress, who was ever watchful over the interior spirit, thought there might be danger of exciting vanity even in that respect, and on that account desired poverty for her daughters in every arrangement. Our own dear reverend mother often inculcated upon us the remembrance of the words of God, 'I will not give my glory to another,' and it seems as if there were a special temptation to man to indulge vain-glory when undertaking any vast exterior work for religion. The most splendid temple that the world ever saw, that of Solomon, lasted barely four hundred years; its founder fell into idolatry, and the worshippers were carried into captivity in punishment for their sins. The second temple had been built scarcely six hundred years when the frequenters of that temple, urged on by the priests, crucified the Lord of Life. It seems dangerous for man, in this his fallen state, to deal personally with magnificence of his own creation; he is too easily puffed up to render it safe for his soul. Therefore is the first beatitude for the poor in spirit, who desire no grandeur."
"Thus thinking, you disapprove of St. Peter's at Rome!" add M. Bertolot.
"Disapprove! nay, reverend father, you well know I should not dare to disapprove of aught that the church has sanctioned. The church has every kind of disposition to deal with, and [{334}] in her wisdom follows St. Paul's advice, in becoming innocently all things to all men, that she may gain some to Christ. I was merely referring to our own dear community, who strive after the spirit of our great foundress. Among these, I have seen some weep when the desecrations have been described to them of heretics taking luncheon baskets within the very walls of St. Peter's, and using the place as a lounging apartment or gossiping room. Again, I have seen others to whom that magnificent church of Rome would bring most saddening thoughts, to whom it appeared as a monument of the great schism which rent the seamless garb of Christ into nameless divisions; where not only the shade of Luther haunts the fancy, but that of the monk Tetzel also, who paltered with the doctrine he was sent to preach."
M. Bertolot shook his head. "You view these matters too strictly," he said; "all men are not like the good nuns, accustomed to practise interior recollection so perfectly they can dispense in a measure with exterior aids; to most souls, exterior appliances are useful and necessary accessories to devotion. The mass of mankind must not be judged of by likening them to the inmates of a convent; there is a wider gulf between than you have any idea of."
"Nay, I remember my father's death," said Euphrasie, mournfully; "but, reverend father, was it not you who told me that, in those terrible disturbances, the riches of the church attracted the wolves to the sheepfold, and that the treasures of the religious houses occasioned the thieves to enter and take possession?"
"True! Too true! my child; yet will the piety of the worshipper ever seek to adorn the house of God, and the richness of the shrine be an indication of the fervor of that piety. It is alike the pleasure and the duty of the votary thus to enrich the house of God."
"But," interrupted Eugene; "Mademoiselle Euphrasie speaks of herself as if belonging in a convent already. If not indiscrete, may I be allowed to say that I presume we are not to take that supposition 'au pied de la lettre?'"
Euphrasie blushed and looked at M. Bertolot, as if asking him to speak for her; but he only said, in and kind of half-whisper:
"Speak for yourself, my child; it is necessary to be explicit."
"Then," said Euphrasie, "I believe you may receive the in fact literally. I was brought up with the dear nuns, and have always believed myself called to be one of them. I still cling to the hope of seeing them again."
"But in this country," said Eugene, "how can you be a nun?"
"I do not know; but when it was certain our convent was to the broken up, the superioress said to us: 'As the habit does not make the none, so dear children, neither does the abode. For his own wise purposes Divine Providence now separates us; but the spirit of prayer, the spirit of recollection, of obedience, of meekness, of chastity and poverty, you all can sedulously cherish still; and if it seems to you that the circumstances are unfavorable, remember that God seeth not as man seeth, and he knows best what will most contribute to his glory and our sanctification. Remember, too, that, to a soul living in God, exterior circumstances are has nothing; so, still, wherever you are, be faithful to God and to St. Clare.'"
"But you surely are not a vowed nun, mademoiselle?"
"No, but my resolution is taken, and I feel that it will never change."
Eugene's brow clouded, and he felt a heaviness at the heart which oppressed him greatly. Moodily he walked by their side until they joined the rest of the party, but for the rest of the day he was as silent as Euphrasie herself was wont to be.
The duchess wondered what had come over him, but no remark was made on the subject. The next day he and M. Bertolot returned to Cambridge.
CHAPTER XI.
THE DUKE AND DUCHESS BEFORE THE WORLD.
The Godfrey family had returned home depressed and saddened. Over Mrs. Godfrey's spirit, in particular, a shade seemed cast, which but deepened as time passed on. She was a true mother, and worldly as were her ideas, her affections were very deep. Attached to her husband, attached to her children, she felt Adelaide's position even more than Adelaide herself appeared to do, for the affections of the young bride were by no means of so fervent a character as were those of her mother, and her pride and haughtiness were incomparably greater. Indeed, it were difficult to prove that the young duchess was a great sufferer at the present time. She exercised despotic way over the vassals (as she proudly termed them) of her lord's domains, was generous, and in return was much beloved and gladly greeted with that homage which was dearer to her than aught else.
At the end of six months the duke returned. He resided chiefly in town, but when in the country he occupied the suite of apartments fitted up for the former duke. He presented his wife at court, stayed with her, and assisted her in doing the honors during the festivities of a London season; behaved to her in public with the most respectful attention, listened to every suggestion, and gratified to the best of his power every wish she expressed. Nothing, in fact, could be better than his conduct to his wife before the world; and whatever that world might conjecture, the polite and dignified behavior of both the parties concerned gave it little to talk about. To Mr. Godfrey the duke gave full authority in the settlement of all matters in which his daughter was concerned; and as she appeared contented, who could have a right to find fault? After remaining a few months at home, the duke again departed on the business of the embassy, and this time he stayed much longer abroad. But as Adelaide did not complain, the remarks made were soon hushed into silence.
CHAPTER XII.
THE PRINCIPLE OF SOCIAL EQUALITY PUT TO THE TEST.
Madame de Meglior continued to reside with her niece, and made herself so agreeable, that the arrangement promised to become permanent.
Euphrasie continued to exhibit the same impassive exterior; in appearance she was but the slave of her mother's will. The duchess regarded her as almost a nonentity, at least after the fears excited by Eugene's religious tendencies had in some measure subsided.
But Annie! "a change had come o'er the spirit of her dream." She, always disposed to romance, was unguarded now. Formerly, Adelaide had acted as a check upon Annie's fondness for equality, fraternity, liberty. Now that that restraint was withdrawn, she imprudently allowed Alfred Brookbank to treat her more and more as an equal. It is doubtful whether, even if she had reflected, she would have foreseen the consequences, for in her most republican moods, she never forgot that she was a Miss Godfrey of Estcourt Hall; and though to amuse herself and pass away the time, she was willing enough to discuss equality and the "rights of man," she certainly expected to receive full credit for the condescension in allowing to an inferior the privilege of such "free discussion" with herself. Home was dull, her sister gone, and her cousin gone too: her mother was always ailing now, and her father, ever newly absorbed by some pet plan, kept his darling Hester [{336}] constantly at his side. Annie was alone, and somewhat desolate: Alfred Brookbank always on the look out for an excuse to bear her company and amuse her. Annie was becoming accustomed to his attentions, without attaching any more definite meaning to them than she would to the attentions of any one of the numerous dependents of her father's house, when, one day, he took advantage of a private interview to make a formal profession of love. This was indeed a surprise; for, though any one else might have expected it, Annie had never once thought of such a probability. Marriages in her family had always been conducted so differently. Besides, she had never looked on Alfred as other than patronized. She had not dreamt of such presumption, though she had allowed him freely to broach in her presence his doctrine of the "inherent equality" of such individuals as are of equal calibre of intellect, and of the right of all mankind at large to freedom and equality. Her manner of receiving this declaration was certainly not very flattering; for she drew herself up in a somewhat haughty manner, and replied that the proceeding was so unexpected, so uncalled for, that she did not know how to answer it, for Mr. Alfred must be aware that the difference in their social position rendered such a proposal unanswerable.
"To one of ordinary mind, perhaps," said Alfred, somewhat chafed; "but to one like yourself, endowed with an understanding above the petty conventionalities—"
"I am not above recognizing my duty to my family, Mr. Alfred, and you must be aware that no one member of it would consent to this."
"Nay, if you only allowed me to hope I had any interest in you, I am sure Mr. Godfrey would not refuse your wishes."
"I have no wish to trouble him on the subject," was the cold rejoinder, somewhat haughtily expressed.
"I may not hope then—"
"You may hope nothing on this subject whatever. Let it be dropped now and forever. If I can aid your prospects—"
"You will patronize me. Thank you, Miss Annie, but patronage from you would suit my temper badly. I had thought there was one being in the world superior to the influences of prejudice, of conventional distinctions; but you, too, deem me an inferior, because I boast not of paltry wealth or of gentle descent. Inferior as you deem me, you shall yet feel my power—yes, my power!"
His language and his told were those of a madman, and his flashing eyes gave him a frenzied appearance. Trembling with rage, the quondam lover left the presence of his adored, meditating in bitterness the most direful revenge.
Had Annie put any faith in his professions of love to herself, she would have been undeceived by this burst of rage. Love had not animated him—that was apparent enough; his disappointment was but a foiled ambition; yet after permitting upward of two years' attentions, conscience told her he should have met with a less haughty rebuff. The retrospect showed her she had encouraged him. She had then partly drawn upon herself a merited rebuke. She could but acknowledge this, and, humiliated, Annie would willingly have done her part in repairing the evil she had occasioned by promoting his advancement in life but this was beyond her power. The next news she heard was that Alfred Brookbank had prevailed on his father to advance him a large sum of money, and had set sail for America.
Time passed on. Estcourt Hall became duller every day, and beyond the arrival of a new family in the neighborhood there was nothing of interest outside. This family consistent of a dowager Lady Conway, her son and daughter. They had purchased "a place" near the sea for the benefit of Lady Conway's health. Their own estates, or rather the son's estates, were in a neighboring shire. They [{337}] were not intellectual, but they were wealthy and of good family, and in time an intimacy sprang up between them and the Godfreys, none knew how or why, and in a few months after, to the surprise of every one, "The Morning Post" announced that Sir Philip Conway, Bart., had led to the altar Miss Annie Godfrey, second daughter of E. Godfrey, Esq., of Estcourt Hall.
The marriage was strictly private. Eugene left Cambridge for a day or two to be present at it, but he soon returned to college. Of the nature of his studies no one guessed. He did go in for honors, as his father would have wished. Nevertheless his tutors made a good report of him, and the secluded life he led made many suppose that he was pursuing very deeply some pet hobby of his own.
Indeed, this was partly true; for although at his first return to Cambridge he was much dejected, he soon began to reflect that Euphrasie was very young; that she not only was now completely dependent, but that she was likely to continue so; and that the most unlikely thing that could happen, was the gratification of her wish to enter a convent. He trusted to time to teach her this, and a new hope sprang up within him, and that, too, at the very moment that his friend M. Bertolot, began to hope he had mastered his feelings for Euphrasie, and become reconciled to the inevitable separation.
Eugene spoke not of his love, but with renewed ardor he addressed himself to study the most important relationships that can exist for man. Guided by the counsels of M. Bertolot, he mastered the evidences of Revelation and then assured himself that that revelation, once given, was divinely protected: that that which was intended to shed light on the human soul, darkened by sin, was not a dubious ignis fatuis, subject to human vagaries, but an unerring guide and an unfailing lamp. We will not follow him through his arguments now, as we shall have occasion to make him speak for himself on a future occasion.
Time passed on. Annie had been married a year or more. Truth to say, she was somewhat ennuyée at present. Her husband resided chiefly on his estate, and this was at some distance from Estcourt Hall. There was little society in the neighborhood, and Sir Philip's tastes corresponded very little with her own.
The young baronet was perfectly well-intentioned, but neither refined nor cultivated. The society of his farm-bailiff, the walk to the fatting-stalls, the talk about the respective fattening qualities of turnips and mangold-wurzels, the speculations on the relative value of farm-yard manure, of guano, or of soot, and dissertations whether each or all should be applied as top-dressing or should be worked into the soil; such were his occupations, and sooth to say, he excelled in the pursuits he had adopted. No beasts at Smithfield could show finer points than Sir Philip's: no farm was in finer model order: his tanks, his barns, his under-drainings, and his irrigations, together with his prize cattle of every description, were the admiration of the agricultural world. He was truly a "lord of the animal creation," and he prided himself on being so. Of intellectual culture he had small appreciation; but as he had great ideas of order, and deemed himself master by right of "the masculine being the most worthy gender," (which was the only idea he retained from his Latin grammar, that had been vainly endeavored to be flogged into him at school,) he would ill have brooked interference with his rights. To him, a wife was a necessary appendage, nothing more; as to allowing a woman to dictate to him, the thing was absurd. He was "a lord of creation," and though he wished the world to pay due respect to Lady Conway, because she was his wife, yet it is questionable whether he himself would have allowed a woman a voice on any [{338}] subject beyond those connected with domestic economy, and even here he reserved to himself the power of veto. He loved his wife, certainly, because he thought it was a part of his duty to do so; besides, he really had some sort of animal affection for her. Annie was well-made, of good birth, well-educated; to say the least, he was as proud of her as he had been of the animal which had won him the first prize at the Smithfield cattle-show. It was part of his system to have the best specimens of animal existence domesticated on his estate, and Annie did not disgrace his other stock.
But Annie; poor Annie! She was alone in the world, though surrounded by everything that could procure bodily ease or bodily enjoyment. She had horses to ride, she had a carriage to ride in, she had gardens and hot houses, plantations and shrubberies; but to her cultivated mind where was the response? To the poetry that strove within her for expression, where was the listener?
"The thought that cannot speak Whispers the o'erfraught heart, and bids it break!"
But Annie's was not a spirit to be easily broken. Naturally expressive, she would have sought interest even among the cottagers, had not her husband's jealousy forbidden it. He was a magnifico, and he liked not that his wife should be more popular than himself. He wished to gain the name of being a liberal benefactor to his laborers and cottagers, and would not share his reputation even with the being to whom he had plighted his faith for life. Annie was thus thrown on her own resources. Brought up intellectually, she found a resource in books; and though at times cast down, she rallied again, for youth is buoyant, elastic, hopeful, and a literary taste carries in itself a wonderful power of compensation. But Annie was no dreamer, and the ideas that suggested themselves demanded action, which as yet they were denied: yet Annie read on, and thought on. The time for action will one day surely come, she thought.
"Lady Conway," said Sir Philip one day at the breakfast table, "do you know any thing of a Mr. Alfred Brookbank?"
Annie almost started; she certainly changed color, but Sir Philip was not observing her; so she answered, "Yes—no—yes; that is, Sir Philip, the family lived at Estcourt, and sometimes visited at the Hall."
"He has bought old Gordon's land, and is about to become our dear neighbor."
"Indeed! How did he get the money? He was poor when I knew him."
"He has made very fortunate speculations in America; besides which he succeeds to his father's property".
"Is Dr. Brookbank dead?"
"He is, and has left a considerable sum behind him; he economize unknown to his family, it seems."
"But even so, there is an Elder brother."
"No, he died in America; of this there is certain news."
"In America!" said Annie. "I did not know he was ever there".
"No? Well, it seems he ran off with a neighbor's wife, took her to America, got tired of her, left her, and went off to the woods. There he lived some time, but one day was found at the foot of some rapids, drowned."
"But how did his family know this?"
"Some stranger to that district identified the body and gave evidence before the presiding magistrate, after which they searched the shanty in which the man had lived, and found papers corroborative of his being Walter Brookbank, and these papers, with sundry articles, they sent home to his family, according to the address given by the stranger, and they were found to have belonged to Walter."
"Strange concurrence of events! Who was the stranger?"
"He gave his name as William Jones."
"Jones! I suppose Smith, Brown, or White would have served his purpose equally as well?"
"Why do you suppose that Jones was not the man's name, my lady?"
"I do not know, only it seems to me a most improbable tale."
"Improbable! Why, the family believe it, at any rate."
"And the second son is to be established in the neighborhood?"
"Yes; he intends to occupy himself in superintending land. I have some thoughts of employing him myself."
"I thought you said he inherited considerable property."
"Yes, but he has determined to let his mother enjoy the income arising from the paternal estate, and has also promised to care for his sisters' fortunes. Dr. Brookbank died intestate, it seems, but this young man says that shall make no difference. He appears to be actuated by very high principle".
Annie did not answer. She was uneasy; especially at the idea of Alfred's managing her husband's affairs. She feared some sinister motive. Her husband noticed the discontented expression of her countenance.
"Do you not like Mr. Alfred Brookbank?" He asked.
"Well, I hardly know," said Annie; "but at least I do not consider him a man of business. He was not when I knew him; besides, he is young for an agent; an older man might suit you better, Sir Philip."
"I am not sure of that; old men are apt to be obstinate and to have plans of their own; I choose to look into my affairs myself, and to make my own arrangements; so that his inexperience signifies but little, provided he is industrious, and that his American success proves him to be."
Annie knew not what objection to offer, and a dark foreboding came over; was this in any way diminished when, some few weeks afterward, Mr. Brookbank was announced, and Sir Philip, instead of receiving him in his library according to his wont with gentlemen visitors, directed him to be shown into the parlor, in which he and Lady Conway were sitting. Annie would have escaped had it been practicable, but as her departure would have attracted Sir Philip's observation, she thought it more prudent to remain.
Alfred entered, and his bearing was so respectful, so distant, that Annie would have been reassured, had she not felt that at intervals, when Sir Philip was not looking, Alfred fixed his eyes upon her with the gaze of a basilisk; and once when she chanced to look at him she thought the expression of his features perfectly demoniacal. What she had to fear she knew not, but that she did fear something was certain.
It was not only Alfred that had come to reside in the neighborhood; his mother and two sisters accompanied him. The rectory of Estcourt had passed to another, and there was no mansion on the paternal acres suited for the refined tastes of the family, so they had come to reside with Alfred in his newly purchased dwelling. A certain degree of visiting between the families would have been necessary for old acquaintance sake, but more soon became inevitable from the ascendency which Alfred shortly obtained over the mind of Sir Philip. He flattered himself into the baronet's good graces, and made himself so agreeable that Sir Philip began to think it impossible to live without him. Annie tried in vain to stem the torrent of intimacy, that threatened almost to domesticate Alfred in her house. Sir Philip was far too wise a man to be governed by his wife, so he listened to none of her remonstrances; and at times there was a look of triumph, as well as of hatred, in Alfred's features, that made her almost tremble in his presence. Annie was naturally strong-minded, yet she could not overcome this sensation, which was almost a martyrdom, particularly as she suspected Alfred was aware of the torment she underwent. She wrote to [{340}] her aunt, who was still at Durimond Castle, to request that she and Euphrasie would come and spend some time with her, hoping to gain courage in their society, and perhaps protection; but the answer was unpropitious:
"The Duke of Durimond had returned home seriously unwell, and at that moment it would be improper and unkind to leave the duchess without society."
Annie must, then, endure life as best she could. Alfred found himself visiting at Sir Philip's on terms of apparent equality, and often a party was made up of such society as the neighborhood afforded, expressly for the purpose of introducing the family so obnoxious to Annie. Nay, she was in a manner compelled to take her turn in visiting them, repugnant as it was to her feelings.
On these occasions Annie behaved with condescension and politeness, but with nothing more. She received Alfred with the most formal courtesy; he returned her salute with one of apparently the most profound respect. Few more words were interchanged than were absolutely necessary.
It was the current opinion that Lady Conway liked not the society of her inferiors, and Sir Philip, participating in the idea, strove to combat it, although he was no leveller in general; but in Alfred's case he thought the prejudice she entertained ought to yield to such superior merit.
One evening a social party met at Sir Philip's. Singing and dancing were going on; but Alfred was unusually dull, he could not be prevailed upon to join in any amusement. The baronet, fancying his wife's coldness might have had some influence in producing this effect, said to her in the hearing of all the party:
"My lady, was Mr. Brookbank so dull when he visited at Estcourt Hall? Did he never sing to you there?"
"Mr. Brookbank has a very fine voice," was the reply; "I have often heard him sing beautiful melodies."
"Nay, then, call upon him, in memory of 'Auld lang syne,' to sing for you, my lady; no other has the power to arouse him to-night."
Annie turned to Alfred and said in a dignified manner, "You here Sir Philip's request, Mr. Brookbank; will you consider it mine?"
Alfred started, looked at her, and bowed. He answered in a tone so low that only she could hear its purport:
"You have asked for a madman's song, my lady; what else can memory produce?"
Declining the offer of an accompaniment, he seated himself at the piano, and drew forth notes so wild, so terrific, that the whole party were electrified; then assuming the mien and gesture of one crazed in his intellect, his loud and clear voice gave full force to the following:
Oh! bid me not recall the past,
Though calm appear my features now
Hid though from sight the fevered blast,
That caused the spirit's overthrow.
'Tis not in mortal power again
Youth's buoyant transport to recall;
'Tis hushed—forever hushed—the strain
That could with Schilling the heart enthral.
Visions of truth have passed me by,
Mocking the sense, with shapes unreal,
Filling each pulse with melody,
Thrilling the heart with joys ideal.
And freedom, independence, love.
In dreams have risen to my sight—
In dreams essayed my heart to prove.
They vanished at return of light.
And earth is all unholy now.
Venal its joys!—its highest bliss
To lay that false ideal low—
To crush the hope of happiness.
Love gone! one wish doth yet remain—
One thought the maddened brain to whet:
Joy vanished! Its fell rival—pain—
Forbids the spirit to forget.
Pain, pain triumphant, speaks of power
To seize the serpent's foulest sting.
Therewith to bid the tyrant cower.
Back to return the poisoned spring.
Yes! I'll unveil those mocking forms,
Those shapes of grace, all seat from hell;
I will reveal the latent storms
That 'neath the placid surface dwell.
Thus proudly I'll unveil deceit;
Thus fearfully I'll stifle pain—
The mask torn off—made known the cheat—
Ne'er shall the false one rest again!
With trust destroyed, with pleasure gone,
Earth yields the soul no fitting mate;
But standing fearless and alone
The vengeful spirit lives—to hate.
The emphasis that was given to this wild song struck terror to the hearts of the hearers, especially as the singer himself seemed frantic with excitement When it was finished a pause ensued, as if all present wanted to take breath; and Sir Philip found voice to say:
"Why, where on earth, Brookbank, did you learn such a ditty as that? You have absolutely frightened the young ladies; they think you half mad, yourself."
"It is the lay of a madman in good earnest," said Alfred, "he who composed it was crazed by disappointed love; I sing it now and then as a warning to young ladies not to be too cruel."
He looked round the room for Annie as he spoke; but Annie was no longer there; every line of that song had spoken volumes to her, in telling her what a bitter enemy she had raised, and as the last word vibrated on the singer's lips, she left the apartment. When she returned she was very pale. She felt conscious that Alfred was watching her every movement, and that feeling made her miserable.
TO BE CONTINUED.