CHAPTER III.
“SOWING THE WIND.”
The cottage where the Geralds lived was almost the entire inheritance that had fallen to Miss Pembroke from those large estates which, it seemed, should have been hers; but her wishes were submitted to her circumstances with a calmness that looked very like contentment. Mother Chevreuse called it Christian resignation, and she may have been at least partly right. But it was contrary to Miss Pembroke’s disposition to fret over irreparable misfortunes, or even to exert herself very much to overcome difficulties. She liked the easy path, and always chose it when conscience did not forbid. She made the best of her circumstances, therefore, and lived a quiet and pleasant, if not a very delightful, life. Mrs. Gerald was friendly; their little household was sufficiently well arranged and perfectly homelike; they had agreeable visitors, and plenty of outside gaiety. On the whole, there seemed to be no reason why anything but marriage should separate the owner from her tenants.
Of marriage there was no present prospect. Several gentlemen had made those preliminary advances which are supposed to have this end in view, but had been discouraged by the cool friendliness with which they were received. The wide-open eyes, surprised and inquiring, had nipped their little sentimental speeches in the bud, and quite abashed their killing glances. Miss Pembroke had no taste for this small skirmishing, in which so many men and women fritter away first what little refinement of feeling nature may have gifted them with, and afterward their belief in the refinement of others; and not one true and brave wooer had come yet.
People had various explanations to give for this insensibility, some fancying that the young woman was ambitious, and desirous to find one who would be able to give her such a position as that once occupied by Mrs. Carpenter; others that she had a vocation for a religious life; but she gave no account of her private motives and feelings, and perhaps could not have explained them to herself. She certainly could not have told precisely what she did want, though her mind was quite clear as to what she did not want. Mr. Lawrence Gerald’s real or imaginary love for her did not, after the first few months, cause her the slightest embarrassment, as it did not inspire her with the least respect. The only strong and faithful attachment of which he was capable was one for himself, and his superficial affections were so numerous as to be worthy of very little compassion, however they might be slighted.
Sweet-brier Cottage, as it was called, might, then, be called rather a happy little nest.
Nothing could be prettier than the apartment occupied by the owner of the house, though, since she had her own peculiar notions regarding the relative importance of things, many might have found the mingling of simplicity and costliness in her furnishing rather odd. An upholsterer would have pronounced the different articles in the rooms to be “out of keeping” with each other, just as he would have criticised a picture where the artist had purposely slighted the inferior parts. The deal floors were bare, save for two or three strips of carpeting in summer, and sealskin mats in winter; the prim curtains that hung in straight flutings, without a superfluous fold, over the windows, around the bed, and before the book-case, just clearing the floor, were of plain, thin muslin, plainly hemmed, and had no more luxurious fastenings than brass knobs and blue worsted cords to loop them back; but a connoisseur would have prized the few engravings on the walls, the candlesticks of pure silver in the shrine before the prie-dieu, and the statuette of our Lady that stood there, a work of art. In cleanliness, too, Miss Pembroke was lavish, and one poor woman was nearly supported by what she received for keeping the draperies snowy white and crisp, and wiping away every speck of dust from the immaculate bower. No broom nor brush was allowed to enter there.
“It is such a pleasure to come here,” Mother Chevreuse said one day when she came to visit Honora; “everything is so pure and fresh.”
“It is such a pleasure to have you come!” was the response; and the young woman seated her visitor in the one blue chintz arm-chair the chamber contained, kissed her softly on the cheek, removed her bonnet and shawl, placed a palm-leaf fan in her hand, then, seated lowly beside her, looked so pretty and so pleased that it was charming to see her. These two women were very fond of each other, and in their private intercourse quite like mother and daughter. Theirs was one of those sweet affections to which the mere being together is delightful, though there may be nothing of importance said; as two flames united burn more brightly, though no fuel be added. It might have been said that it was the blending of two harmonious spheres; and probably the idea could not be better expressed. The sense of satisfying companionship, of entire sympathy and confidence, the gentle warmth produced in the heart by that presence—these are enough without words, be they never so wise and witty. Yet one must feel that wit and wisdom of some kind are there. There is all the difference in the world between a full and an empty silence, between a trifling that covers depth, and a trifling that betrays shallowness.
Our two friends talked together, then, quite contentedly about very small matters, touching now and then on matters not so insignificant. And it chanced that their talk drifted in such a direction that, after a grave momentary pause, Miss Honora lifted her eyes to her friend’s face, and, following out their subject, said seriously: “Mother, I am troubled about men.”
But for the gravity that had fallen on both, Mother Chevreuse would have smiled at this naïve speech; as it was, she asked quietly: “In what way, my dear?”
“They seem to me petty, the greater part of them, and lacking in a fine sense of honor; lacking courage, too, which is shocking in a man.”
“Oh! one swallow does not make a summer,” said Mother Chevreuse, thinking that she understood the meaning of this discouragement. “You must not believe that all men fail because some unworthy ones do.”
“It is not that at all,” was the quick reply. “You think I mean Lawrence. I do not. He makes no difference with me. I mean the men from whom one would expect something better; the very men who seem to lament that women are not truer and nobler, and who utter such fine sentiments that you would suppose none but a most exalted and angelic being could please them or win their approval. I have heard such men talk, when I have thought with delight that I would try in every way to improve, so as to win their admiration, and be worthy of their friendship; and all at once, I have found that they could be pleased and captivated by what is lowest and meanest. It is disappointing,” she said, with a sigh. “It is natural that women should wish to respect men; and I would be willing to have them look down on me, if they would be such as I could look up to.”
“Has any one been displeasing you?” Mother Chevreuse asked, looking keenly into the fair and sorrowful face before her. She suspected that this generalizing sprang from some special cause. But the glance that met hers showed there was at least no conscious concealment.
“These thoughts have been coming to me at intervals for a good while,” Miss Pembroke answered calmly. “But, of course, particular incidents awaken them newly. I was displeased this morning. I met a lady and gentleman taking a walk into the country, and I did not like to see them together.”
“But why should you care, my dear?” asked Mother Chevreuse, with a look of alarm. She understood perfectly well that the two were Mr. Schöninger and Miss Carthusen.
The young woman answered with an expression of surprise that entirely reassured her friend: “Why should I not care for this case as well as another? He is a new-comer, and all my first impressions of him were favorable. I had thought he might prove a fine character; and so it is one more disappointment. But I am making too much of the matter,” she said, with a smile and gesture that seemed to toss the subject aside. “I really cannot tell why I should have thought so much about it.”
She bent and gaily kissed her friend’s hands; but Mother Chevreuse drew her close in an embrace that seemed by its passion to be striving to shield her from harm. She understood quite well what Honora did not yet know: that the nature which the Creator defined from the beginning when he said: “It is not good for man to be alone,” had begun to feel itself lonely.
“I would try not to think of these things, my dear,” she said earnestly. “Trust me, and put such thoughts away. There are good men in the world, and one day you will be convinced of that; but it is never worth while to look about in search of some one to honor. Think of God, and pray to him with more fervor than ever. Add a new prayer to your devotions, with the intention of keeping this useless subject out of your mind. Remember heaven, work for the poor, and the sinful, and the sick, and, above all, do not fancy that it is going to make you happy though you should be acquainted with the finest men, or win ever so much their esteem. It isn’t worth striving for, even if striving would win it. Nothing on earth is worth working for but bread and heaven.”
Miss Pembroke looked a little disappointed. She had expected sympathy and reassurance, and had received instead a warning. “I hope, mother, you do not think me bold in speaking on such a subject,” she said, dropping her eyes; and then Mother Chevreuse knew that she had better have spoken lightly.
“Certainly not!” she answered, laughing. “Do you think I fear you are going to lecture on woman’s rights?”
And so the little cloud passed over; and, when her visitor went away, Honora had quite dismissed the subject from her mind. There were her simple household duties to perform; then Lawrence came home to take an early luncheon and dress to go to Annette Ferrier’s, where there was to be a musical rehearsal; and, as soon as lunch was over, who should come in but F. Chevreuse!
Lawrence had a mind to escape unseen; but the priest greeted him so cordially, pointing to a chair close beside his own, that it would have been rude to go. And having overcome the first shyness that a careless Catholic naturally feels in the presence of a clergyman, he found it agreeable to remain; for nobody could be pleasanter company than F. Chevreuse.
“I beg unblushingly,” he owned with perfect frankness, when they inquired how his collecting prospered. “To-day, I asked Dan McCabe for a hundred dollars, and got it. He looked astonished, and so does Miss Honora; but he showed no reluctance. At first blush, it may seem strange that I should take money that comes from gambling and rumselling. My idea is this: Dan is almost an outlaw; no decent person likes to speak to him, and he has got to look on society and religion as utterly antagonistic to him. He is on the other side of the fence, and the only feeling he has for decency is hatred and defiance. He takes pride in mocking, and pretending that he doesn’t care what people think of him. But it is a pretence, and his very defiance shows that he does care. It is my opinion that to-day Dan would give every dollar he has in the world, and go to work as a poor man, if he could be treated as a respectable one. He is proud of my having spoken to him, and taken his money, though I dare say he will pretend to sneer and laugh about it. You may depend he will tell of it on every opportunity. Better than that, he will feel that he has a right to come to the church. Before this, he had not, or at least people would have said he had not, and would have stared at him if he had come. Now, if he should come in next Sunday, and march up to a front seat, nobody could complain. If they should, he would have the best of the argument, and he knows that. Then, once in the church, we have a chance to influence him, and he a chance to win respectability. He isn’t one to be driven, nor, indeed, to be clumsily coaxed. The way is to assume that he wishes to do right, then act as if he had done right. He never will let slip a bait like that. He will hold on to that if he should have to let everything else go, as he must, of course. I knew, when I saw him look ashamed to meet me, that he wasn’t lost. While there’s shame, there’s hope. So much for Dan McCabe. Am I not right, Larry?”
Lawrence stooped to pick up F. Chevreuse’s hat, which had fallen, and by so doing escaped the necessity of answering. One glance of the priest’s quick eyes read his embarrassment, and saw the deepening color in Honora’s face.
“I am sure you are quite right, father,” Mrs. Gerald said hastily, with a tremor in her voice. “Perhaps Dan would never have been so bad if too much severity had not been used toward his early faults. And so your collecting goes on successfully. I am so glad.”
The priest, who perceived that he had, without meaning it, stirred deep waters, resumed the former subject briskly:
“Yes, thank God! my affairs are looking up. But there was a time when they were dark enough. I have been anxious about Mr. Sawyer’s mortgage. He is not so friendly to us as he was, or else he needs the money; for he would grant no extension. Well, I raked and scraped every dollar I could get, and I knew that, before next week, I couldn’t hope to collect above one or two hundreds in addition; and still it did not amount to more than half of the two thousand due. So I wrote off to a friend in New York who I thought might help me, and set my mother praying to all the saints for my success. For me, I don’t know what came over me. Perhaps I was tired, or nervous, or dyspeptic. At all events, when the time came for me to receive an answer to my letter, all my courage failed. I was ashamed of myself, but that didn’t help me. While Andy was gone to the post-office, I could do nothing but walk to and fro, and shake at every sound, and watch the clock to see when he would be back. I always give the old fellow half an hour. I wasn’t strong when he went. In ten minutes I was weak, in fifteen minutes I was silly, in twenty minutes I was a fool. ‘I can’t wait here in the house for him,’ I said; ‘I’ll take to the sanctuary, and, whatever comes to me there, it can’t kill me.’ So I left word for Andy to bring my letters to the church, and lay them down on the altar steps, and go away again without speaking a word; and out I went, and knelt down by the altar, like an urchin who catches hold of his mother’s gown when somebody says bo! to him. By-and-by, I heard Andy coming. I knew the squeak of his boots, and the double way he has of putting his feet down—first the heel, then the toe, making a sound as though he were a quadruped. Never had he walked so slowly, yet never had I so dreaded his coming. I counted the stairs as he came up, and found out that there were fifteen. For some reason, I liked the number; perhaps because it is the number of decades in the rosary. I promised in that instant that, if he brought me good news, I would climb those stairs on my knees, saying a decade on every stair in thanksgiving. Then I put my hand over my face, and waited. He lumbered in, panting for breath, laid something down before me, and went out again. I counted the fifteen steps till he was at the bottom of them, then snatched up my letter, and broke the seal; and there was my thousand dollars! When I saw the draft, I involuntarily jumped up, and flung my barrette as high as I could fling it, and it came down to me with a mash that it will never get over. But, my boy,” he said, turning quickly, and laying his hand on Lawrence Gerald’s knee, “that your hat may never be mashed in a worse cause!”
Lawrence had been listening intently, and watching the speaker’s animated face; and, at this sudden address, he dropped his eyes, and blushed. Alas for him! his hat had more than once been mashed in a cause little to his credit.
“And now,” continued F. Chevreuse, with triumph, “I have at home in my strong desk two thousand dollars, lacking only fifty, and the fifty is in my pocket. After this, all is plain sailing. There will be no difficulty in meeting the other payments.”
The ladies congratulated him heartily. In this place, the interests of the priest were felt to be the interests of the people. Making himself intimately acquainted with their circumstances, he asked no more than they could reasonably give; and they, seeing his hard and disinterested labors, grieved that they could give so little.
Presently, and perhaps not without an object, F. Chevreuse spoke incidentally of business, and expressed his admiration for pursuits which one of the three, at least, despised.
“There is not only dignity but poetry in almost any kind of business,” he said; “and the dignity does not consist simply in earning an honest living, instead of being a shiftless idler. There is something fine in sending ships to foreign lands, and bringing their produce home; in setting machinery to change one article into another; and in gathering grainfields into garners. I can easily understand a man choosing to do business when there is no necessity for it. I have just come from a sugarstore down-town, where I was astonished to learn that sugar is something besides what you sweeten your tea with. It was there in samples ranged along the counter, from the raw imported article, that was of a soft amber-color, to lumps as white and glittering as hoar-frost. Then there were syrups, gold-colored, crimson, and garnet, and so clear that you might think them jewels. I remembered Keats’
‘Lucent syrops, tinct with cinnamon.’
They asked me if I would like to taste these. Would I taste of dissolved rubies and carbuncles? Why not I as well as Cleopatra? Of course I would taste of them. And how do you suppose they presented this repast to me? On a plate or a saucer, a stick or a spoon? By no means. The Ganymede took on his left thumb a delicate white porcelain palette, such as Honora might spread colors on to paint roses, heliotropes, and pinks with, and, lifting the jars one by one with his right hand, let fall on it a single rich drop, till there was a rainbow of deep colors on the white. When I saw that, the sugar business took rank at once beside the fine arts. And it is so with other affairs. If I were in the world, I would prefer, both for the pleasure and the honor of it, to be a mechanic or a merchant, to being in any profession.”
When the priest had gone, Lawrence Gerald went soberly up to his chamber, thinking, as he went, that possibly an ordinary, active life might, after all, be the happiest. The influence of that healthy and cheerful nature lifted for a time, if it did not dispel, his illusions, as a sudden breath of west wind raises momentarily the heavy fogs, which settle again as soon as the breath dies. For one brief view, this diseased soul saw realities thrusting their strong angles through the vague and feverish dreams that had usurped his life. On the one hand, they showed like jagged rocks that had been deceitfully overveiled by sunlighted spray; on the other, like a calm and secure harbor shining through what had looked to be a dark and weary way.
He opened a handkerchief-box, and absently turned over its contents, rejecting with instinctive disdain the coarser linen, curling his lip unconsciously at sight of a large hemstitching, and selecting one that dropped out of fold like a fine, snowy mist. A faint odor of attar of roses floated out of the box, so faint as to be perceptible only to a delicate sense. The same rich fragrance embalmed the glove-box he opened next, and the young man showed the same fastidious taste in selecting.
It appeared trivial in a man, this feminine-daintiness; yet some excuse might be found for it when one contemplated the exquisite beauty of the person showing it. It seemed fitting that only delicate linen and fine cloth should clothe a form so perfect, and that nothing harsh should touch those fair hands, soft and rosy-nailed as a woman’s. Yet how much of the beauty and delicacy had come from careful and selfish fostering, who can tell? Physical beauty is but a frail plant, and needs constant watching; it loses its lustre and freshness in proportion as that care is given to the immortal flower it bears. Both cannot flourish.
“I wouldn’t mind doing business after it was well established,” he muttered, carefully arranging one lock of hair to fall carelessly over his temple, in contrast with its pure whiteness. “It is the dingy beginning I hate. I hate anything dingy. People mistake when they fancy me extravagant, and that I like show and splendor. I do not like them. But I do like and must have cleanliness, and good taste, and freshness, and light, and space.”
What he said was in some measure true; and “pity ‘tis, ‘tis true” that simple good taste can, in the city at least, be gratified only at an extravagant price, and that poverty necessarily entails dinginess.
He glanced about the room, and frowned with disgust. The ceiling was low, the paper on the walls a cheap and therefore an ugly pattern, the chairs and carpet well kept, but a little faded. Plain cotton blinds, those most hideous and bleak of draperies, veiled the two windows, and an antiquated old mahogany secretary, the shape of which could have been tolerable only when the prestige of new fashion surrounded it, held a few books in faded bindings.
The young man shrugged his shoulders, and went toward the door. As he opened it, the draught blew open another door in the entry, and disclosed the shaded front chamber, with its cool blue and snowy white, its one streak of sunshine through a chink in the shutter, and its wax candle burning before the marble Madonna.
“That is what I like,” he thought, and passed hastily by. Annette would be waiting for him.
The sensible thoughts inspired by F. Chevreuse lasted only till the quiet, shady street was passed. With the first step into South Avenue, and the first glance down its superb length, other feelings came, and cottages and narrow ways dwindled and were again contemptible. The high walls, and cupola, and spreading wings of his lady’s home became visible, and he could see the tall pillars of Miss Ferrier’s new conservatory, which was almost as large as the whole of the house he lived in. The fascination of wealth caught him once more, and the thought of labor became intolerable.
Miss Ferrier was indeed on the lookout, and, brightening with joyful welcome, came out to the porch to meet her visitor as he entered the gate. He had so many times forgotten her invitations that she had not felt sure of him, and the pleasant surprise of his coming made her look almost pretty. Her blue-gray eyes shone, her lips trembled with a smile, and a light seemed to strike up through her excessively frizzled flaxen hair. If it had only been Honora! But, as it was, he met her kindly, feeling a momentary pity for her. “Poor girl! she is so fond of me!” he thought complacently, feeling it to be his due, even while he pitied her. “But I wish she wouldn’t put so much on. She looks like a comet.”
For Miss Ferrier’s pink organdie flounces streamed out behind her in a manner that might indeed have suggested that celestial phenomenon. She had, however, robbed Peter to pay Paul; for, whereas one end of her robe exceeded, the other as notably lacked.
“Mamma has not yet come back from her drive,” she remarked, leading the way into the drawing-room. “It is astonishing what keeps her so long.”
“Oh! it’s one of her distribution days, isn’t it?” Lawrence asked, with a little glimmer of amusement that brought the blood into his lady’s face.
Two mornings of every week, Mrs. Ferrier piled her carriage full of parcels containing food and clothing, and drove off into some of the poorest streets of the town, where her pensioners gathered about her, and told their troubles, and received her sympathy and help. The good soul, being very stout, did not once leave her carriage, but sat there enthroned upon the cushions like some bountiful but rather apoplectic goddess, showering about her cotton and flannels, and tea and sugar, and tears and condolences, and perhaps a few complaints with them. It is more than probable that, under cover of this princely charity, Mrs. Ferrier had a little congenial gossip now and then. Among these poor women were many no poorer than she had once been, and they were much nearer to her heart and sympathies than those whom Annette brought to her gorgeous drawing-rooms. Mrs. Ferrier was far from wishing to be poor again, but for all that she had found wealth a sad restriction on her tastes and her liberty. To her mind, the restraints of society were worse than a strait-jacket, and it required all Annette’s authority to keep her from defying them openly. But here she was at home, and could speak her own language, and at the same time be looked on as a superior being. Jack and John could leave the carriage, and step into the little ale-house at the corner; and, if one of them should bring her out a foaming glass, the simple creature would not resent it. There was always an idle urchin about who was only too proud to stand at the horses’ heads while Mrs. Ferrier had a chat with some crony, who leaned toward her over the carriage-steps.
Miss Annette was sometimes troubled by a suspicion that her mother did not always maintain with her protégées as dignified a distance as was desirable; but she was far from guessing the extent of the good lady’s condescension. Her hair would have stood on end had she seen that glass of ale handed into the carriage, and the beaming smile that rewarded John, the footman, for bringing it. Her misgivings were strong enough, however, to make her blush with mortification when Lawrence spoke of the distribution days. The pleasure with which she had anticipated a short tête-à-tête with her intended husband died away, and she seated herself in a window, and anxiously watched for her mother’s coming.
She was not kept long in suspense. First there appeared through the thickly flowering horse-chestnut trees a pair of bright bays so trained and held in that their perpendicular motion equalled their forward progress; then a britzska that glittered like the chariot of the sun. In this vehicle sat Mrs. Ferrier in solitary state. One might have detected some apprehension in the first glance she cast toward the drawing-room windows; but, at sight of the young man sitting there beside her daughter, she tossed her head, and resumed her self-confidence. She had a word to say to him.
Jack brought his horses round in so neat a curve that the wheels missed the curbstone by only a hair’s breadth; and John descended from the perch—whence during three hours he had enjoyed the view of a black-leather horizon over-nodded by the tip of Mrs. Ferrier’s plume of feathers—and let down the step.
We are obliged to confess that Mrs. Ferrier descended from her carriage as a sailor descends the ratlines, only with less agility. But, what would you? She was already of a mature age when greatness was thrust upon her, and had not been able to change with her circumstances. Moreover, she was heavy and timid, and subject to vertigo.
“I’m much obliged to you, John,” she said, finding herself safely landed. “Now, if you will bring that parcel in. I’d just as lief carry it myself, only....”
A glance toward the drawing-room window finished the sentence. Of course, Miss Annette would be shocked to see her mother waiting on herself; and, in all matters relating to social propriety, this poor mother stood greatly in awe of her daughter, and, indeed, led quite a wretched life with her.
As the lady walked through the gate and up the steps, with a half-distressed, half-defiant consciousness of being criticised, one might find a slight excuse for the smile that showed for an instant on the lips of her intended son-in-law; for it must be owned that in decoration Mrs. Ferrier was of a style almost as Corinthian as her house-front. A rustling green satin gown showed in tropical contrast with a yellow crape shawl and a bird-of-paradise feather; she had curls and crimps, she had flounces and frills, she had chains and trinkets, she had rings on her fingers, and we should not be surprised if she had bells on her toes.
“O mamma!” cried Annette, running out into the hall, “what made you go out dressed like a paroquet?”
“Why, green and yellow go together,” mamma replied stoutly. “I’ve heard you say that they make the prettiest flag in the world.”
The young woman made a little gesture of despair à la Française. “Of course, colors can’t help going together when they’re put together,” she said. “The question is whether they are in good taste. And cannot you see, mamma, that what is very fine for a banner isn’t proper for a lady’s dress? But no matter, since it cannot be helped. And now, I have something to tell you. I read in a book this morning that fleshy people could make themselves thinner by giving up vegetables and sweets, and living on rare beef and fruits, and using all the vinegar they could on things. That’s worth your trying.”
“But I don’t like raw beef and vinegar,” cried the mother in dismay.
“It is not a question of liking,” replied the young woman loftily. “It is a question of health, and comfort, and good looks. It certainly cannot be to you a matter of indifference that the whole neighborhood laugh behind their blinds to see you back down out of the carriage.”
“Let ‘em laugh,” said the mother sulkily. “They’d be willing to back out of carriages all their lives if they could have such as mine.”
Annette drew herself up with great dignity: “Mamma, I do not consider anything trivial when it concerns the credit of the family. To keep that up, I would starve, I would work, I would perform any hardship.”
To do the girl justice, she spoke but the truth.
“You might take claret with lemon in it, instead of vinegar,” she added after a moment. “And, by the way, I have ordered dinner at half-past four, so as to be through in time for an early rehearsal. Mr. Schöninger is engaged for the evening, and they are all to be here by half-past five. Do be careful, ma. Mrs. Gerald is coming up.”
“I don’t care for ‘em!” Mrs. Ferrier burst forth. “I’m tired of having to mince and pucker for the sake of those Geralds. What are they to me? All they want of us is our money.”
Annette hushed her mother, and tried to soothe her, leading the way into a side room; but, having begun, the honest creature must free her mind. “You’ve had your say, and now I want to have mine,” she persisted, but consented to lower her voice to a more confidential pitch. “I’m going to have a talk with Lawrence to-day when dinner is over. I sha’n’t put it off. If company comes before I get through, you must entertain them. My mind is made up.”
“Oh! gracious, mamma!” cried Annette, turning pale.
“There are some things that you know best, and some that I know best,” the elder woman went on, with a steady firmness that became her. “I give up to you a good deal, and you must give up to me when the time comes. I shall talk to that young man to-day; and, if you know what is best for you, then say no more about it. You are not fit to take care of yourself where he is concerned, and I’m going to do it for you. No matter what I want to say to him. It is my place to look out for that. All you have to do is to be quiet, and not interfere.”
Annette was silent; and, if you had looked in her face then, you would have seen that it by no means indicated a weak character. She was looking at facts sharply and bravely, considering which of two pains she had better choose, and swiftly coming to a decision. Strong as was her will in that province where she ruled, it was but a reed compared with the determination her mother showed when her mind was made up. The daughter would sometimes yield rather than contend, and she was always ready with reasons and arguments to prove herself right. But the mother had none of that shrinking, on the contrary, took pleasure in having a little skirmish now and then to relieve the tedium of her peaceful existence; and, not being gifted in reasoning, was wont to assert her will in a rather hard and uncompromising manner. Moreover, having once said that she would or would not act in any certain manner, she never allowed herself to be moved from that resolve. This was so well known to her family and intimates that they took care not to provoke her to a premature decision on questions that affected their interests.
“Well, mamma,” Annette said, looking very pale as she yielded, “you must do as you please. But don’t forget that Lawrence has not been used to rough words. And now it is time for you to change your dress.”
At these words, the sceptre changed hands again. Mrs. Ferrier sighed wearily, remembering the happy days when she could put on a gown in the morning, and not take it off till she went to bed at night.
John, the footman, sat in the hall as the two ladies came out of the library, and, instead of going directly up-stairs as her daughter returned to the drawing-room, Mrs. Ferrier made a little pretence of looking out through the porch, to learn the cause of some imaginary disturbance. When at length she went toward the stairs, she was fumbling in her pocket, and presently drew out a small parcel, which she tossed down over the balusters to John, standing under. The paper unfolded in falling, and disclosed a gorgeous purple and gold neck-tie, which the footman at once hid in his pocket.
“Do you like the colors, John?” she asked, leaning over the rail, and smiling down benignantly.
He nodded, with a quick, short answering smile, which shot like lightning across his ruddy face, disturbing for only an instant its dignified gravity.
“Ma, are you going up-stairs?” called Annette’s sharp voice from the drawing-room.
“Yes; if you’ll give me time,” answered “ma,” hastening on.
There was no reason why she should not buy, now and then, a little gift for her servants, and there was no need of proclaiming what she had done, and so making the others jealous. Or perhaps John had asked his mistress to exercise her taste in his behalf, himself paying for the finery. He was a very sensible, independent man, and did not need to be pecuniarily assisted.
At the head of the stairs, the mistress of the house met Bettie, the chambermaid, who had been a witness to this little scene.
“How do you get along, Bettie?” the lady asked, trying to patronize.
The girl turned her back and flounced away, muttering something about some folks who couldn’t get along so well as some other folks, who could go throwing presents over the balustrade to other folks.
Poor Bettie! perhaps she envied John his neck-tie.
The rich woman went into her chamber, and shut the door. “I declare, I’m sick of the way I have to live,” she whimpered, wiping her eyes. “I don’t dare to say my soul’s my own. I’m afraid to speak, or hold my tongue, or move, or sit still, or put on clothes, or leave ‘em off, or to look out of my eyes when they’re open.” She wiped the features in question again. “And now I’m likely to be starved,” she resumed despairingly; “for, if Annette sets out to make me do anything, she never lets me rest till I do it. I was happier when I had but one gown to my back, and could act as I pleased, than I’ve ever been with all the finery, and servants, and carriages that are bothering the life out of me now. It’s all nonsense, this killing yourself to try to be like somebody else, when what you are is just as good as what anybody is.”
Which was not at all a foolish conclusion, though it might have been more elegantly expressed.
She stood a moment fixed in thought, her face brightening. “I declare,” she muttered, “I’ve a good mind to—“ but did not finish the sentence.
A wavering smile played over her lips; and as she sat on the edge of the sofa, with a stout arm propping her on either side, and her heavily jewelled hands buried in the cushions, Mrs. Ferrier sank into a reverie which had every appearance of being rose-colored.
When she was moderately pleased, this woman was not ill-looking, though her insignificant features were somewhat swamped in flesh. Her eyes were pleasant, her complexion fresh, her teeth sound, and the abundant dark-brown hair was unmistakably her own.
She started, and blushed with apprehension, as the door was briskly opened, and her daughter’s head thrust in. What if Annette should know what she had been thinking of?
“Ma,” said that young woman, “you had better wear a black grenadine, and the amethyst brooch and ear-rings.”
Having given this brief order, the girl banged the door in her energetic way; but, before it was well shut, opened it again.
“And pray, don’t thank the servants at table.”
Again the Mentor disappeared, and a second time came back for a last word. “O ma! I’ve given orders about the lemons and claret, and you’d better begin to-day, and see how you can get along with such diet. I wouldn’t eat much, if I were you. You’ve no idea how little food you can live upon till you try. I shouldn’t be at all surprised if you were to thin away beautifully.”
At last she departed in earnest.
Mrs. Ferrier lifted both hands, and raised her eyes to the ceiling. “Who ever heard,” she cried, “of anybody with an empty stomach sitting down to a full table, and not eating what they wanted?”
This poor creature had probably never heard of Sancho Panza, and perhaps it would not much have comforted her could she have read his history.
We pass over the toilet scene, where Nance, Miss Annette’s maid, nearly drove the simple lady distracted with her fastidious ideas regarding colors and shapes; and the dinner, where Mrs. Ferrier sat in bitterness of soul with a slice of what she called raw beef on her plate, and a tumbler of very much acidulated claret and water, in place of the foaming ale that had been wont to lull her to her afternoon slumber. These things did not, however, sweeten her temper, nor soften her resolutions. It may be that they rendered her a little more inexorable. It is certain that Mr. Gerald did not find her remarkably amiable during the repast, and was not sorry when she left the dining-room, where he and Louis Ferrier stopped to smoke a cigar.
She did not leave him in peace though, but planted a thorn at parting.
“I want to see you in the library about something in particular, as soon as you have got through here,” she said, with an air that was a little more commanding than necessary.
He smiled and bowed, but a slight frown settled on his handsome face as he looked after her. What track was she on now? “Do you know what the indictment is, Louis?” he asked presently, having lighted a cigar, turned his side to the table, on which he leaned, and placed his feet in the chair Annette had occupied. “Milady looked as though the jury had found a bill.”
Louis Ferrier, whom we need not occupy our time in describing, didn’t know what the row was, really; couldn’t tell; never troubled himself about ma’s affairs.
Lawrence smoked away vigorously, two or three lines coming between his smoothly-curved eyebrows; and, as the cigar diminished, his irritation increased. Presently he threw the cigar-end impatiently through an open window near, and brought his feet to the floor with an emphasis that made his companion stare.
“If there is anything I hate,” he cried out, “it is being called away into a corner to hear something particular. I always know it means something disagreeable. If you want to set me wild, just step up to me mysteriously, and say that you wish to speak to me about something particular. Women are always doing such things. Men never do, unless they are policemen.”
Young Mr. Ferrier sat opposite the speaker, lolling on the table with his elbows widespread, and a glass of wine between them, from which he could drink without raising it, merely tipping the brim to his pale little moustache. He took a sip before answering, and, still retaining his graceful position, rolled up a pair of very light-blue eyes as he said, in a lisping voice that was insufferably supercilious: “Ma never does, unless it’s something about money. You may be pretty sure it’s something about money.”
The clear, pale profile opposite him suddenly turned a deep pink, and Lawrence looked round at him with a sharp glance, before which his fell. The little drawling speech had been delivered with more of a drawl than that habitual to Mr. Ferrier, perhaps, and it seemed that there was a slight emphasis which might be regarded as significant. Gerald had not taken any great pains to conciliate his prospective brother-in-law, and Louis liked to remind him occasionally that the advantages were not all on one side.
Lawrence rose carelessly from the table, and filliped a crumb of bread off his vest. “I say, Louis,” he remarked, “do you know you have rather a peculiar way of putting your head down to your food, instead of raising your food to your mouth? Reminds one of—well, now, it’s a little like the quadrupeds, isn’t it? Excuse me, that may be taken as a compliment. I’m not sure but quadrupeds have, on the whole, rather better manners than bipeds. Grace isn’t everything. Money is the chief thing, after all. You can gild such wooden things with it. I’m going to talk about it with your mother. Good-by! Don’t take too much wine.”
He sauntered out of the room, and shut the door behind him. “Vulgar place!” he muttered, going through the entries. “Worsted rainbows everywhere. I wonder Annette did not know better.” A contrasting picture floated up before his mind of a cool, darkened chamber, all pure white and celestial blue, with two little golden flames burning in a shady nook before a marble saint, and one slender sun-ray stretched athwart, as though the place had been let down from heaven, and the golden rope still held it moored to that peaceful shore. The contrast gave him a stifled feeling.
As he passed the drawing-room door, he saw Annette seated near it, evidently on the watch for him. She started up and ran to the door the moment he appeared. Her face had been very pale, but now the color fluttered in it. She looked at him with anxious entreaty.
“Don’t mind if mamma is rather ... odd,” she whispered hurriedly. “You know she has a rough way of speaking, but she means well.”
He looked down, and only just suffered her slender fingers to rest on his arm.
“I would help it if I could, Lawrence,” she went on tremulously. “I do the best I can, but there are times when mamma won’t listen to me. Try not to mind what she may say ... for my sake!”
Poor Annette! She had not yet learned not to make that tender plea with her promised husband. He tried to hide that it irritated him.
“Upon my word, I begin to think that something terrible is coming,” he said, forcing a laugh. “The sooner I go and get it over, the better. Don’t be alarmed. I promise not to resent anything except personal violence. When it comes to blows, I must protect myself. But you can’t expect a man to promise not to mind when he doesn’t know what is going to happen.”
A door at the end of the hall was opened, and Mrs. Ferrier looked out impatiently.
“‘Anon, anon, sir!’” the young man cried. “Now for it, Annette. One, two, three! Let us be brave, and stand by each other. I am gone!”
Let us stand by each other! Oh! yes; for ever and ever! The light came back to the girl’s face at that. She no longer feared anything if she and Lawrence were to stand together.
Mr. Gerald walked slowly down the hall. If his languid step and careless air meant fearlessness, who can tell? He entered the library, where Mrs. Ferrier sat like a highly colored statue carved in a green chair, her hands in her lap (her paws in her lap, the young man thought savagely). She looked stolid and determined. The calm superiority which he could assume with Annette would have no effect here. Not only was Mrs. Ferrier not in love with him, which made a vast difference, but she was incapable of appreciating his real advantages over her, though, perhaps, a mistaken perception of them inspired her at times with a sort of dislike. There is nothing which a low and rude mind more surely resents and distrusts than gentle manners.
The self-possessed and supercilious man of society quailed before the ci-devant washwoman. What would she care for a scene? What shrinking would she have from the insulting word, the coarse taunt? What fine sense had she to stop her at the point where enough had been said, and prevent the gratuitous pouring out of all that anger that showed in her sullen face? Lawrence Gerald took a strong hold on his self-control, and settled instantly upon the only course of action possible to him. He could not defy the woman, for he was in some way in her power. He could marry Annette in spite of her, but that would be to make Annette worse than worthless to him. Not one dollar could he ever hope to receive if he made an enemy of Mrs. Ferrier; and money he must have. He felt now with a new keenness, when he perceived himself to be in danger of loss, how terrible it would be to find those expectations of prosperity which he had been entertaining snatched away from him.
Mrs. Ferrier looked at him glumly, not lady enough to point him to a seat, or to smooth in any way the approaches to a disagreeable interview. There was no softness nor delicacy in her nature, and now her heart was full of jealous suspicion and a sense of outraged justice, as she understood justice.
The young man seated himself in a chair directly in front of her—he would not act as though afraid to meet her gaze—leaned forward with his arms on his knees, looked down at the eyeglasses he held, and waited for her to begin. A more polite attitude would have been thrown away on her, and he needed some little shield. Besides, her threatening looks had been so undisguised that an assumption of smiling ease would only have increased her anger.
The woman’s hard, critical eyes looked him over as he waited there, and marked the finish of his toilet, and reckoned the cost of it, and snapped at sight of the deep purple amethysts in his cuff-buttons, not knowing that they were heir-looms, and the gift of his mother. He was dressed quite like a fine gentleman, she thought; and yet, what was he? Nothing but a pauper who was trying to get her money. She longed to tell him so, and would have expressed herself quite plainly to that effect upon a very small provocation.
“I want to know if you’ve broken that promise you made me six months ago,” she said roughly, having grown more angry with this survey. “I hear that you have.”
“What promise?” he asked calmly, glancing up.
“You know well enough what I mean,” she retorted. “You promised never to gamble again, and I told you what you might depend on if you did, and I mean to keep my word. Now, I should like to know the truth. I’ve been hearing things about you.”
A deep red stained his face, and his lips were pressed tightly together. It was hard to be spoken to in that way, and not resent it. “When I make a promise, I usually keep it,” he replied, in a constrained voice.
“That’s no answer to my question,” Mrs. Ferrier exclaimed, her hands clenching themselves in her lap. “I’ll have the truth without any roundabout. Somebody—no matter who—has told me you owe fifteen hundred dollars that you lost by gambling. Is it true or not? That is what I want to know.”
Lawrence Gerald raised his bright eyes, and looked steadily at her. “It is false!” he said.
This calm and deliberate denial disconcerted Mrs. Ferrier. She had not expected him to confess fully to such a charge; neither, much as she distrusted him, had she thought him capable of a deliberate lie if the charge were true—some sense of his better qualities had penetrated her thus far—but she had looked for shuffling and evasion.
He was not slow to see that the battle was at an end, and in the same moment his perfect self-restraint vanished. “May I ask where you heard this interesting story?” he demanded, drawing himself up.
Her confusion increased. The truth was that she had heard it from her son; but Louis had begged her not to betray him as the informant, and his story had been founded on hints merely. “It’s no use telling where I heard it,” she said. “I’ll take your word. But since you’ve given that, of course you won’t have any objection to giving your oath. If you will swear that you don’t owe any gambling debts, I’ll say no more, unless I hear more.”
He reddened violently. “I will not do it!” he exclaimed. “If my word is not good, my oath would not be. You ought to be satisfied. And if you will allow me, I will go to Annette now, unless you have some other subject to propose.”
He had risen, his manner full of haughtiness, when she stopped him: “I haven’t quite got through yet. Don’t be in such a hurry.”
He did not seat himself again, but, leaning on the back of a chair, looked at her fully.
“I wish you would sit down,” she said. “It isn’t pleasant to have you standing up when I want to talk to you.”
He smiled, not very pleasantly, and seated himself, looking at her with a steady gaze that was inexpressibly bitter and secretive. She returned it with a more piercing regard than one would have thought those insignificant eyes capable of. She had not been able to understand his proud scruple, and her suspicions were alive again.
“If all goes right,” she began, watching him closely, “I’m willing that you and Annette should be married the first of September. I’ve made up my mind what I will do for you. You shall have five hundred dollars to go on a journey with, and then you will come back and live with me here two years. I’ll give you your board, and make Annette an allowance of five hundred a year, and see about some business for you. But I won’t pay any debts; and, if any such debts come up as we have been talking about, off you will go. If this story I’ve heard turns out to be true, not one dollar more of mine do you ever get, no matter when I find it out.”
“I will speak to Annette about it,” he said quietly. “Is that all?”
She answered with a short nod.
Annette was anxiously waiting for him. “What is it?” she asked, when she saw his face.
He snatched his hat from the table. “Come out into the air,” he said; “I am stifling here.”
She followed him into the gardens, where an arbor screened them from view. “Did you know what your mother was going to say to me?” he asked.
“No!” It was all she had strength to utter.
“Nothing of it?”
“Nothing, Lawrence. I saw that she did not mean to tell me, so I would not ask. Don’t keep me in suspense.”
He hesitated a moment. Since she did not know, there was no need to tell her all. He told her only her mother’s plans regarding their marriage.
“You see it’s a sort of ticket-of-leave,” he said, smiling faintly. “We are to be under surveillance. Hadn’t you better give me up, Annette? She will like any one else better.”
The sky and garden swam round before her eyes. She said nothing, but waited.
“I only propose it for your sake,” he added more gently, startled at her pallor. “In marrying me, you run the risk of being poor. If that doesn’t frighten you, then it’s all right.”
Her color came back again; but no smile came with it. These shocks had been repeated too many times to find her with the same elasticity.
“This cannot go on a great while,” she said, folding her hands in her lap, and looking down. “Mamma cannot always be so unreasonable. The best way now is to make no opposition to her, whatever she proposes. I may be able to influence her as we wish after a while. You may be sure that I shall try. Meantime, let us be quiet. I have learned, Lawrence, never to contend unless I can be pretty sure of victory. It is a hard lesson, but we have to learn it, and many harder ones, too. The best way for you is to laugh and seem careless, whether you feel so or not. The one who laughs succeeds. It is strange, but the moment a person acts as if he felt humiliated, people seem to be possessed of a desire to humiliate him still more. It doesn’t do in the world to confess to any weakness or failure. I have always noticed that people stand in awe of those who appear to be perfectly self-confident and contented.”
Lawrence Gerald looked at her in surprise as she said this in a calm and steady way quite new to him. Some thought of her being strong and helpful in other ways besides money-bringing glanced through his mind. “You know the world at least, Annette,” he said, with a half-smile.
No smile nor word replied. She was looking back, and remembering how she had learned the world. She, a poor, low-born girl, ignorant but enthusiastic and daring, had been suddenly endowed with wealth, and thrown upon that world with no one to teach her how to act properly. She had learned by the sneers and bitterness, the ridicule and jibes, her blunders had excited. Mortification, anger, tears, and disappointments had taught her. Instead of having been led, she had been spurred along the way of life. She had seen her best intentions and most generous feelings held as nothing, because of some fault in their manifestation; had found the friendships she grasped at, believing them real, change to an evasive coldness with only a surface-froth of sweet pretence. Strife lay behind her, and, looking forward, she saw strife in the future. As she made this swift review, it happened to her as it has happened to others when some crisis or some strong emotion has forced them to lift their eyes from their immediate daily cares; and as the curtain veiling the future wavered in that breeze, they have caught a glimpse of life as a whole, and found it terrible. Perhaps in that moment Annette Ferrier saw nothing but dust and ashes in all her hopes of earthly happiness, and felt a brief longing to hide her face from them for ever.
“Your company are coming,” Lawrence said. He had been watching her with curiosity and surprise. It was the first time she had ever disregarded his presence, and the first time he had found her really worthy of respect.
She roused herself, not with a start, as if coming back to a real present from some trivial abstraction, but slowly and almost reluctantly, as though turning from weighty matters to attend to trifles.
“Can you be bright and cheerful now?” she asked, smiling on him with some unconscious superiority in her air. “These little things are not worth fretting for. All will come right, if we keep up our courage.”
As she held out her hand to him, he took it in his and carried it to his lips. “You’re a good creature!” he said most sincerely.
And in this amicable frame of mind they went to join the company.
Crichton was eminently a musical city. In the other arts, they were perhaps superficial and pretentious; but this of music was ardently and assiduously cultivated by every one. Wealthy ladies studied it with all the devotion of professional people, and there were not a few who might have made it a successful profession. Among these was Annette Ferrier, whose clear, high soprano had a brilliant effect in bravuras or compositions requiring strong passion in the rendering. All this talent and cultivation the Crichton ladies did not by any means allow to be wasted in private life. Clubs and associations kept up their emulation and skill, and charitable objects and public festivals afforded them the opportunity for that public display without which their zeal might have languished. The present rehearsal was for one of these concerts.
They were to sing in the new conservatory, which was admirable for that purpose. It was only just completed—an immense parallelogram joined to the southwestern corner of the house, with a high roof, and tall pillars making a sort of porch at the end. No plants had yet been arranged, but azaleas and rhododendrons in full bloom had been brought in and set in a thicket along the bases of the pillars, looking, in all their airy roseate flush of graduated tints, as if a sunset cloud had dropped there. Against this background the benches for the singers were ranged, and Annette’s grand piano brought out for Mr. Schöninger, their leader. Sofas and arm-chairs were placed near the long windows opening into the house for a small company of listeners.
“I wish Mother Chevreuse could have come,” Mrs. Ferrier said, surveying the preparations with complacent satisfaction.
Mother Chevreuse was employed much more to her own liking than she would have been in listening to the most excellent music in the world: she was waiting for her son to come home from his collecting, and take tea with her in her cosy little parlor. If the day should prove to have been successful to him, then he could rest a whole month; and, in expectation of his success, she had made a little gala of it, and adorned her room and table with flowers. The curtains next the church were looped back, to show a group of sunlighted tree-tops and an edge of a bright cloud, since the high walls hid the sunset from this room. The priest’s slippers and dressing-gown were ready for him, and an arm-chair set in his favorite place. He must rest after his hard day’s work. The evening paper lay folded within reach.
Mother Chevreuse looked smilingly about, and saw that all was ready. The green china tea-set and beautiful old-fashioned silver that had been preserved from her wedding presents made the little table look gay, and the flowers and a plate of golden honeycomb added a touch of poetry. Everything was as she would have wished it—the picture beautifully peaceful and homelike.
“What would he do without me?” she murmured involuntarily.
The thought called up a train of sad fancies, and, as she stood looking out toward the last sunny cloud of evening, long quivering rays seemed to stretch toward her from it. She clasped her hands and raised her eyes, to pray that she might long be spared to him; but the words were stopped on her lips. There was a momentary struggle, then “Thy will be done!” dropped faintly.
At this moment, she heard a familiar step on the sidewalk, the street door opened and banged to again, and in a moment more F. Chevreuse stood on the threshold, his face bright with exercise and pleasure.
“Well?” his mother said, seeing success in his air.
He drew himself up with an expression of immense consequence, and began to declaim:
“‘Dick,’ says he,
‘What,’ says he,
‘Fetch me my hat,’ says he,
‘For I will go,’ says he,
‘To Timahoe,’ says he,
‘To the fair,’ says he,
‘To buy all that’s there,’ says he.”
“You’ve made out the whole sum!” was her joyful interpretation.
“Yes; and more,” he answered. “I am rich, Mother Chevreuse. All the way home, my mind has been running on golden altar-services and old masters.”
Mother Chevreuse seated herself behind the tea-tray, set a green and gold cup into its appropriate saucer, and selected a particular spoon which she always gave her son—one with a wheat-ear curling about the quaint, half-effaced initials; he, insensible man that he was, unconscious whether it was silver or tin.
“While you have a resting-place for the Master of masters, you need not give much thought to any other,” she said. “But I own that my thoughts often run on a golden altar-service. Only to-day I was reckoning that what I possess of my own would buy one.”
“O vanity!” laughed the priest. “You want to make a show, mother. Instead of being content to help with the brick and mortar, or the iron pillars, you must approach the very Holy of Holies, and shine in the tabernacle itself. Fie, Mother Chevreuse!”
“I mentioned it to F. White,” she said, “and he almost reproved me. He said that there was more need of feeding the hungry than of buying golden altar-vessels. I told him that gold endures, but bread is soon eaten; and he answered that, if the eating of bread saved from theft or starvation, and put hope into a breaking heart, it was making finer gold than could be wrought into a chalice. A good deal of grace may be found in a loaf of bread, said F. White.”
“That’s true,” answered the priest cheerfully. “F. White has sense, though he grudges me a gold chalice. I’ll remember that when he comes here begging for his organ. F. White, says I, it’s sheer vanity to talk of organs when there are suffering poor in the world. A tobacco-pipe is better than an organ-pipe, when it stops an oath in the mouth of a poor hod-carrier who has no other comfort but his smoke. Much grace may be found in a clay pipe, F. White, my darling.”
Merry, foolish talk, but innocent and restful.
“And, by the way,” resumed the priest, “that same F. White has gone away, and I must go and attend a sick call for him. I got the telegram as I came along.”
“Not to-night!” the mother exclaimed.
“Yes, to-night. I sent word that I would come. The man is in danger. Besides, I could not spare time to-morrow forenoon. I can drive the five miles before ten o’clock, stay the rest of the night there, and come home in the morning in time to say Mass at six o’clock. That is the best plan. I don’t care to be out very late.”
“It is the better way,” she said, but looked disappointed. “I don’t like to have you out late at night, it gives you such headaches.”
“Headache is easier to bear than heart-ache, mother,” said the priest brightly, and went to the window to give Andrew his order for the carriage. “Have it ready in front of the church at a quarter before nine o’clock,” he said. “And, Andrew, light the gas in the sacristy.”
Mother Chevreuse anxiously served her son, urged him to take a muffler, lest the night air should prove chilly, poured a second cup of tea for him, and, when he was ready to start, stood looking earnestly at him, half in pride of his stalwart manliness, half in tender, motherly anxiety lest some accident should befall him on the long, lonely drive.
“Hadn’t you better take Andrew with you?” she suggested.
“And why should I take Andrew with me?” the priest asked, putting a stole in his pocket.
“Why ...” she hesitated, ashamed of her womanish fears.
“An excellent reason!” he laughed. “No, madam; I shall take no one with me but my good angel. My buggy holds but two. Good-night. Sleep soundly, and God bless you!”
She stood with her lips slightly parted, watching him earnestly, as if fearful of losing some slight word or glance; but his cheerful talk woke no smile in her face.
He would not appear to notice anything unusual in her manner, and was going out, when she stopped him.
“Give me your blessing, dear, before you go,” she whispered, and fell on her knees before him; and, when he had given it, she rose and tried to smile.
The priest was disturbed. “Don’t you feel well to-night, mother?” he asked.
“Yes, quite well,” she replied gently. “Perhaps I am foolish to be so nervous about your going. It seems a lonely drive. Go now, or you will be late.”
She followed him to the door, and stood there till she saw him come out of the church, step into his buggy, and drive away.
“Good-night! good-night!” she said, listening till the last sound of his carriage-wheels died into stillness; then, breathing a prayer for his safety, she went back to her own room.
Jane had cleared away the table, drawn the curtains, and lighted a lamp, and had gone down to her company in the kitchen.
“What does make me so lonely and fearful?” exclaimed the lady, wringing her cold hands.
She busied herself in little things, trying to drive the trouble away; refolded the paper her son had not found time to read, pushed his arm-chair nearer the table for herself, and, discovering a flake of smooth-pressed clay which his boot had left on the carpet, took it up, and threw it into the fireplace. That homely little service brought a faint smile to her face.
“The careless boy!” she said fondly. “He never could remember to wipe his boots on coming in, even when he was a mere lad. I can see his bright face now as it looked when he would argue me out of scolding him. His mind was occupied with lofty matters, he said; he could not bring it down to boots and mud. It sounded like a jest; but who knows if he might not even then have been about his Father’s business!”
Dropping into his chair, she sat thinking over the old time and her boy’s childhood. How happy and peaceful their life had been! Half chiding herself, as if she knew he would have called it folly, she went into her bedroom, and brought our a little trunk, in which were preserved souvenirs memorable in her life and his.
There was his christening-robe. She shook out the length, and pushed two of her fingers through the tiny embroidered sleeve.
“How little we dream what the future is to be!” she murmured. “I wonder how I would have felt if, when I was embroidering this, there had risen before my eyes the vision of a chasuble hanging above it? But I couldn’t have been prouder of him than I was. He was a fine healthy boy, and had a will of his own even then. When he was baptized, he got the priest’s stole in his baby fist, and I had to pull it away finger by finger, the little fellow clinging all the time.”
There were boyish toys, schoolbooks adorned with preposterous pencil-drawings, in which the human figure was represented by three spheres set one over the other, and supported on two sticks; there were letters written his mother while he was away from home, at school or college, and a collection of locks of hair cut on successive birthdays, till the boy had laughed her out of the custom. She placed these side by side now, ranging them according to their dates, and studied the gradual change from the silken-silvery crescent of a curl cut from the head of the year-old babe, through deepening shades, to the thick brown tress cut on his twentieth birthday. Every little lock had its story to tell, and she went over each, ending with a kiss, in fancy kissing the child’s face she seemed again to see. And as she sat there conning the past, memory struck every chord of her heart, from the sweet, far-away vibration when her first-born was placed in her arms, and coming down through deepening tones to the present.
She lifted her face, that had been bent over these mementos. “Now he is Father Chevreuse, and I am an old woman!” she said; and, sighing, rose and put the souvenirs all away. “We have had a glad and prosperous life; how little of sorrow, how little of adversity! I never before realized how much I have to be thankful for.”
Presently she put a veil over her head, and went out through the basement into the church to say her prayers. She always said her evening prayers before the altar; and now she had double cause to be scrupulous. She must atone for past unthankfulness, and pray for her son’s safe return.
By ten o’clock, the house was closed for the night, and the inmates had all gone to their quiet slumber. Mother Chevreuse’s uneasiness was all gone, and, after devotions of unusual fervor, she felt an unwonted peace. “Father, into thy hands I commit my spirit!” she said, and sank to sleep as soon as her head touched the pillow.
About midnight, she started up, wide-awake, and listened. There was a low, stealthy sound, as of a door being softly opened. Could her son have changed his mind, and come home again? Some one was certainly in his room. She stepped out of bed, and listened keenly. There was a faint noise like the rattle of a latch or lock, and then a soft step retreating.
“It is he come back!” she thought joyfully; and, even in thinking so, was smitten by a wild and sudden fear. She slipped on a dressing-gown and sandals, and hurried toward the door. “My son!” she said breathlessly as she opened it.
Faintly seen in the dim light, a man’s form was leaving the room by the entry. A shawl or cloak wrapped him from head to foot, and he held a little chest in his hand. In that chest F. Chevreuse kept his money.
All personal fear deserted his mother’s heart at that sight. She thought only that the fruit of her son’s long labors was being carried away under her eyes, and that, after the brief joy of his success, he would come home to bitterness and disappointment.
She ran after the retreating figure, and caught it by the arm. “Shame! shame!” she cried. “It is the money of the poor. It belongs to God. Leave it, in God’s name.”
The man bent down, and wrapped his form still more closely from recognition, as he wrenched himself loose. But while forced to let go his arm, she caught at the casket he held, and clung with all her strength, calling for help.
“Let go!” he said, in a hoarse whisper. “Let go, or I shall do you harm!”
As she still clung and cried for help, they stood at the head of the stairs leading to the basement of the house. Steps were heard below, and Jane’s voice calling Andrew, and screaming from the window.
The man made one more fierce effort to free himself. Drawing back from the stairs, he turned quickly, and threw himself forward again. There was a sharp cry, “My son!” and a fall. Then a fainter cry, “My God!” and then silence.
[TRAVELLERS AND TRAVELLING.]
What does one gain by travelling? says some old wiseacre, with a shake of the head. Better the man that settles down and grows with his native or adopted dwelling-place. “The rolling stone gathers no moss,” is a venerable saying. Men who stay only a short time in one place can never be sufficiently known or loved by any people, and hence their credit and fortune cannot increase.
What does one not gain by travelling? says the boy who is just old enough to relish Robinson Crusoe, whose natural curiosity is feverish for knowledge. For him, all countries are more interesting than his own. He longs to climb the hill that bounds his native plain, to see what lies beyond. No one for him so interesting as the soldier or sailor come back from foreign lands, and he asks, with deep, attentive inquiry, “if there are boys in such places, too, and whether they are born there, or if they also went away from here?” Power, wealth, beauty, have no charm for him. Money he values merely because it opens his path to distant lands; and his instinctive desire to know is the passion of his youth. This is the story of all of us, at least all of us boys. It is only when our curiosity is satisfied either by personal experience or by credible hearsay, when we meet members of the whole human family, and find them seeking in our country that peace and beauty which we used to ascribe to theirs—it is then we realize that life is not poetry; that one’s native land is generally happiest for him; and that the best thing for one to do is to choose a spot thereof, and, as “H. G.” used to say, “to settle down and rise with it.”
Between the sturdy proverb of the oldest inhabitant and the boundless dream of the boy exists the medium wherein we shall find the uses of travel. There is nothing which may not be abused, and travelling may degenerate into a passion in individuals; but the strength of the ties of country, home, and family, whereby nature has bound us, forbids any but solitary instances of men who have wandered, useless vagabonds on the earth, trespassing on all countries, and aiding none; while, if the Holy Ghost call forth some apostle from his kindred to sound the trump of faith among many peoples, the Lord, who gives him an extraordinary mission, will endow him with special grace, and the world will gain by his vocation. This is the greatest traveller: who goes forth, not to his own gain, nor to further his nation’s weal, but to extend the kingdom of God on earth; to enlighten those who sit in darkness, and bring them to the knowledge of the truth.
Why do people travel? People travel for health, for pleasure, for business, and for knowledge. Some fifty thousand Americans travelled in Europe last summer with one or other of these objects in view. Have they all gained by their trip? Has the nation profited? Are they healthier, happier, richer, wiser, for their tour in Europe? A general answer to these questions cannot be given. All depends on the character of the individuals who composed that large army. Their particular circumstances and characteristics may have caused some to gain, others to lose, both when there is question of health, as well as when we speak of enjoyment, riches, and useful knowledge. I was one of that invading army that descended on Europe last year, and will try to make others partakers of whatever is communicable of the advantages derived from the trip which under advice I took to the other hemisphere. We will see who are they that lose by going abroad, what danger and damage they incur, and the reasons why. We will also find what persons profit by the excursion, what dispositions are required for this; and, by contrasting and comparing each, we shall be enabled to conclude how much of loss and how much of gain there is in travel, how the one is avoided, and the other achieved. All this I will make bold to illustrate from my own experience.
A change of air is well known to influence one’s health very much; for a man lives as much on good air as on what are commonly considered the elements of sustenance. I heard a gentleman state that the change from Newburg to New York in summer had caused him to gain eleven pounds in a fortnight. It was all in the change. A citizen flying from this pent-up atmosphere to the expanded vision and pure breezes of that delightful town could hardly have gained more in the same period. Hence the doctors prescribe change of air so frequently. An English physician says: “It is undoubted, explain it how we may, that a change of air, diet, and scene rouses the faculties, improves the appetite, and raises the spirits. When you set out for France, then, on your little trip of twenty-five miles across the channel, pray Heaven you may get thoroughly sea-sick, that nothing old or vitiated may make a bad foundation for the new man you are going to build up.” People from the plain gain by a change to the mountains; people from the mountain by visiting the plains. People from inland by going to the sea-shore, and those from the beach by retiring to the meadows. As with the body, so with the mind. Our faculties become as it were choked up and stagnant by continual monotony; even the most brilliant conversation, music, the best jokes of a friend, fail at last to please or rouse the spirit. Activity and exercise are necessary for the mind and soul as well as for the body, and are obtained by seeking contact and conflict with new ideas, sights, and wonders to move the imagination; and the consequent enlivening of the spirits acts at once on the body, and does more to restore physical power than any material food. It is by visiting foreign places; seeing strange customs which excite our curiosity; wondering at Alpine heights and Rhenish castles; sympathizing with the decayed glories of Venice and old Rome; confronting ourselves with the soul-entrancing beauty of the Bay of Naples and the awe of that burning mountain which stirs the depths of the spirit—it is thus we produce that friction, that reaction requisite for rousing soul and body from tepidity and the stagnancy of hypochondria and disease. Our spirits rise, the circulation is quickened by the winds of France and the music of Italy, the strange cuisine of other lands start all our organs into activity, and happiness and health are the result.
There are those, however, who travel, and yet gain neither in spirits nor in health. What often makes the difference, other things being equal, is the bigotry and contrariety of certain individuals. Some persons are so ignorant, and therefore so bigoted, that they will never tolerate customs different from their own, hold all who think otherwise than they in profound contempt, and will persist in following their own ways no matter where they go, and although the habits and opinions of an entire nation are opposed to them. Such persons never gain good spirits; for they will not open the windows of their miserable little souls, to let in the rays of happiness in which the people about are basking. An Englishman of fifty years ago, for instance, sets out with the notion that whatever is not English is contemptible. Hence, he is disgusted with the pleasant sounds of the French tongue; the agreeable politeness of the lady in the restaurant irritates him—perhaps he feels angry that a Frenchwoman should be so much at ease in his presence; the play he despises, because his taste is too debased to rise to its enjoyment, or because Parisians applaud it. He will have his beefsteak in the morning and his heavy slices of bread, no matter though the whole French nation should think a light breakfast more healthful. Hence, it is impossible that this man’s health should improve. Instead of getting mentally sea-sick (he can’t help getting bodily so; and the prouder he is, the more amusing his appearance then), and throwing off prejudice, he keeps in his mind a bile that jaundices his views, and corrodes every healthy idea that may possibly enter his soul. He follows his own notions at the table; and, as the food and habits of his northern isle do not suit southern latitudes, of course he gains nothing in health, and often becomes sick, and returns home disgusted with dons and messieurs, signors and mynheers, and tells you “there’s no use in travel—he tried it.” The first requisite, then, is, when you go to Rome, to do as the Romans do. The customs of a place show what its inhabitants prefer; and it is silly in any man to set his own little ideas against the experience of a whole people.
My friend and I had the misfortune to meet one of this class on setting out on our trip, and thrown together as we necessarily were on an ocean steamship, it caused us a great deal of inconvenience. The poor man was actually yellow from dyspepsia and bigotry. I am sorry to say he passed for an American. Whether his bigotry caused that viselike fastening up of his better nature, and, reacting on his body, ruined his digestion, as might easily be, or whether the desperate state of his chylopoetic fluids produced a corresponding straitness in his soul, which we assumed as the more charitable supposition, I can’t say; but certainly all the benefit of new and entertaining society, all the advantages of sea air, change of diet, etc., were lost, necessarily lost to him. What was the cause of his old-fogyism? One dreadful incubus—you might call it a standing evil, a nightmare (diurnal as well as nocturnal)—was the presence at the same table, and in the willing association of those whom he also preferred, and whose company he courted, of us two priests. The man could not look us in the face, could not accept the salt at our hands, would not “do us the pleasure of wine,” as they say on English ships; in fact, his bigotry stood between him and his own enjoyment and good appetite, rendered our position disagreeable, caused the rest of the company (Protestants themselves) to condemn his behavior in the strongest terms on deck, and ruined the pleasure of our voyage, at least during the time spent at table. One of his acquaintances was a whole-souled, honest, generous gentleman, a Methodist from Brooklyn. He, on his part, took every opportunity to throw sunshine about him, and to be polite to us especially, as if to make up for the fellow’s savageness; and one day, when the dyspeptic was complaining to the waiter as bitterly as if he were being flayed alive, the other turned to him, and said aloud: “Ebenezer, if I was an undertaker getting up a funeral, I’d hire you for chief mourner.” John invited us to his cabin, and the other turned away from its door when he saw us within. John proposed to take his cheerful, amiable wife to Ireland first; Ebenezer declared his abhorrence of the Irish and his contempt for Killarney. “He wouldn’t advise anybody to go to Ireland; he’d been there three times, and there was nothing to see but beggars.” John took him up before the company: “Why did you go there the second and third time, Eben?”—a question which disconcerted the dyspeptic, and caused intense amusement to the passengers. Such an one had no use to go travelling for health or anything else. You must open the windows of your soul, slacken the risible muscles of your face, and reduce yourself to a soft, pliable, impressionable condition, if you want to benefit by change of air, scenery, and society. Dry, hard wax does not receive the impression of the seal. But let a man set out with proper dispositions, leave care and prejudice behind, be ready to speak of men and things as he will find them, let no thought of business come up for a while, but move along easily and quietly through the scenes and people of other lands, and he will experience the advantages of travelling for health.
Another motive for travel is business. The post and the telegraph afford wonderful facilities for carrying on commercial relations between different firms and branches of the same house in different countries; but many circumstances render personal visits and interviews often necessary. Hence, the number of travellers on business is very large. Many New York houses send trusty men to Europe annually or oftener to buy the stuffs and to inspect and select the styles which fickle fashion imposes on her votaries.
The American is not satisfied with looking through foreign eyes, for he knows that short or long-sightedness is often the defect of even business men in those old countries. Hence, he goes to see and inspect for himself, and commonly finds an opening where the Frenchman, the German, even the Englishman, did not suspect its existence; throws a bridge over a chasm which to them seemed impassable; works his way through difficulties they thought unsurmountable; and pushing on over precipices and untrodden ways, “that banner with the strange device, Excelsior,” in his hands, astonishes the natives, and secures the trade of the world. Thus Singer, the sewing-machine man, goes to the ancient mediæval city of Nürnberg, amongst other places—a city seemingly so dead as to have recently erected another monument to Albrecht Dürer, the artist, the only statue in the town; as if the last man of push and note they produced was dead 350 years. Singer goes to this sleepy old city, and, in spite of the depth and inflexibility of the old channels in which trade had been running for a thousand years, attempts to revolutionize it all at once with his sewing-machine. In spite of the opposition of the tailors, which similar endeavors in parts of Great Britain failed to overcome, he succeeds; for, instead of hiring a plain office, in the simple manner of the country, and cautiously investing a little capital at the outset, the American, with characteristic enterprise and self-approved wisdom, spends hundreds in advertising and thousands in erecting a building the most imposing and expensive of its kind in the venerable city, astonishes the slow Bavarians while attracting them by the employment he gives, makes them believe that he is indeed the bringer of the great good he claims, obtains their trade, and, while filling his own pockets, is a herald of his country’s genius and enterprise. Another instance: while sailing down the Rhine last October in one of those steamers which approach nearest to the graceful beauties of our own rivers, and which are therefore most highly praised by tourists, we were a little surprised and considerably proud at seeing “Lent’s Floating American Circus” (like a vast floating bath) paying a visit to one of the cities of that noble stream, up and down whose banks it for ever roves, catering for the amusement and instruction and picking up the loose thalers of Fatherland with as much sang-froid as Dan Rice on our Mississippi. When the people of the Continent behold the Americans coming three thousand miles over the sea, passing inside England, from whom we learnt these very institutions, whose child our nation was, they naturally form a very high opinion of the superior enterprise and skill of the republic, so that our democratic institutions gain respect and our flag honor, while English influence gradually decays. Thus George Pullman goes over and steps in before John Bull, and secures the sleeping-car business on the Continent. Nay, it is only now that, roused by his aggressive boldness, England begins to adopt our great improvements in travel, afraid of being left still more shamefully behind. Thus does the business traveller, while making his own fortune, advance his country’s name and influence; and his successful policy is always that of generosity, accommodation, and politeness.
A class of men called commercial travellers is very numerous in England and Ireland. They are a relic of the period preceding this great advertising age, and go about from town to town soliciting orders and selling goods of which they carry samples. Many of them are peddlers also, and sometimes carry great value in money, jewelry, etc., and offer story-tellers an attractive field for wild tales of robbery on lonely roads, and murder in wayside inns. They all have some story of this kind to relate. In Ireland, a room in every hotel is set apart, called the commercial room, for the exclusive use of these men, whose business transactions and responsibility require special care and convenience, and where they can deposit their valuables without danger of loss or damage. I was in a car once with one of these lonely gentlemen, and he told me he travelled from the 1st of January to the 23d December.
The company of a wife is not considered conducive either to economy or to profit; but their life must be a dreary one, especially in Ireland, where the accommodation on the railroads and in some of the country hotels is not only very poor, but even dangerous to health. In England even, they have just begun to heat their cars, which are far below those on the Continent; and in Ireland, at least in winter, I have had to sleep in a room with a quarter inch of mildew dank and dark upon the walls. Persons travelling for pleasure, however, are not generally subjected to this last inconvenience, as the localities frequented by tourists are furnished with whatever is needful for their comfort.
Pleasure is, doubtless, the object of most travellers; but it includes much more than the word in its usual acceptance might imply. The wealthy English travel in the mild, genial climates of southern Europe during the prevalence at home of that indescribably abominable weather which sits on London like a plague during the autumn and winter. Some of them also go abroad because they cannot afford to reside at home. They revel in the atmosphere of Rome and Naples—so mild that oranges bloom and flowers deck the walls all through the wintry season. The sun is bright, while the weather is not so mild as to interfere with balls, parties, concerts, etc.; and hunting the fox, the wild boar, and the deer, with the intoxicating pleasures of the carnival, and visits to the interesting monuments of pagan and Christian times, make up a round of diversion and entertainment peculiar to Italy.
The American tourist partakes of the same enjoyments, only that his pleasure is sometimes interrupted and marred by the workings of his practical and ever-active brain. I heard of one of our countrymen paying a moonlight visit to that noblest of ruins, the Coliseum, in company with a party composed of various nationalities. While they gazed in silent, entranced contemplation at its dark majesty, with the rays of the pale planet making its black recesses visible by contrast; while they pictured to themselves 100,000 fair women and brave men seated in its circuit, witnessing the bloody tragedy of the dying gladiator or the triumphant martyr of Christ, the Yankee was asked his impressions, and replied, on reflection, that “it was rayther large, but money might be in the concern if ‘twas only roofed in and whitewashed!”
I need not go to great length to show the pleasure which travelling affords; the delight which all take in seeing new and strange places, customs, works of art, ruins of antiquity, cataracts, mountains, rivers, etc.—all of which have a wonderful charm in lightening one’s heart, wearied by care; in purifying and strengthening the brain, dimmed and dizzied by labor, and filling us with pure and exquisite delight. Besides, many find in travel a refuge from the routine of fashion, and the prospect of that lingering pain which follows her severe, artificial, often painful enjoyments. In other countries you do as you please. You are not criticised if you be not absolutely en rapport with the usages of the tyrant fashion at home, because she has stayed there; nor with the ways of her sister abroad, because no one extages pects you to be au fait in customs not your own. Moreover, you can live more cheaply, and your health is benefited by the change. Hence, families broken down often leave England and go abroad for economy’s sake, thus obtaining freedom by their apparent misfortune.
The student of history and the classics is the one who finds most pleasure in visiting foreign lands. Every town, every river, plain, mountain range, and country, has an indescribable attraction for him, and he gazes still charmed upon scenes which may very soon sate the curiosity of others. His pleasure is one which, if you are a reader, you will appreciate; and, if not, it would be impossible for me to make you understand. See one of these visiting Lake George. His imagination covers the water with the three hundred boats in which Montcalm advanced to the siege of Fort William Henry. He sees Leatherstocking and Uncas plodding through the forest on their war-path, dropping silently down the stream by night, and putting up their heads from under the water for a stolen breath of air, while the bushes on the bank are filled with savages watching for their scalps; stopping to eat and drink in the middle of the forest at what we now call the Congress Spring at Saratoga. Let him gaze for the first time on the coast of Ireland—what an interest has that venerable and lovely land for him! He at once looks out for the ruined castles of her decayed nobility; he seeks thirstingly a sight of those round towers which stand old but fresh monuments of that time “when Malachy wore the collar of gold which he won from the proud invader”; and he remains alone, apart on the deck, recalling in sad satisfaction the scene that presented itself long ago, when abbeys, churches, and schools crowned the fair hill-tops of Erin. Let him stroll companionless through London’s busy streets—he is not alone. David Copperfield, Pickwick, Micawber, Sim Tappertit, Agnes, Little Dorrit, Bill Sykes, and Fagin are always passing and repassing; acting their parts for his entertainment. Let him view the tall, white cliffs of Dover, and he sees Cæsar’s fleet approaching to the conquest of Albion. Calais recalls the days of Catholic England’s greatest military glory. Every spot of France, Germany, Italy lives again for him in one short space its life of two or three thousand years; for all the events of its history, all the heroes of its glory, are present to his memory and imagination even more than their present phases to his vision to-day. He sees the tradesmen of Flanders, the butchers, bakers, weavers, smiths, combining for the liberation of their country at the battle of the Golden Spurs, so called from the immense number of these articles found on the field, representing the number of professional soldiers of knightly rank slain by these bold democrats, whose liberties they came to invade. He feasts his eyes upon the “vine-clad hills of Bingen, fair Bingen on the Rhine,” which his boyish imagination had pictured and laid back in the most loving recesses of his heart. In Switzerland, the mountain-passes are crowned for him by the native heroes, sons of Tell, and of those others who, in the days of Catholic Switzerland, rose against the Austrian despot, and in a band of 1,300 patriots defeated 60,000 hirelings of tyranny at the battle of Morgarten. At Innsbruck, he venerates the soil consecrated by the deeds of the citizen-soldier and martyr of liberty, Andreas Höfer; at Venice, he recalls the glories of the republican queen of the seas; while his interest and pleasure reaching their height in the city of the popes, he pursues a boundless career of enjoyment as he gazes on the monuments, walks over the localities, peoples again the streets and forums, making all the heroes, poets, and great women of royal, republican, imperial, and Papal Rome live their lives and do their great deeds over again, and all for him, all for him. No amount of reading or meditation at home can supply the pleasure derived from visiting the famous places of history, while the previous reading creates the desire and predisposes for the pleasure. Hence it is that all students like so much to travel, and to travel on foot.
Those who travel expensively lose a great deal of the benefit and interest of travel. The magnificent hotels are filled with English and Americans, principally those who affect that rank and demand that obsequiousness abroad to which they could not aspire at home. Many of them are very ignorant, and the waiters, for their sake, speak a mongrel kind of English, which is simply unbearable when it is not absolutely needed. The latter affect English ways; and, though you may desire to practise your college French, German, or Italian, they insultingly reply in your own tongue, as if to spare you any further exhibition of your ignorance, and because their avarice makes them more anxious to learn English than that you should acquire a foreign tongue. I asked one of these servants once how much I was to pay the hackman. My question was in German, his answer in English; but I was on the point of paying thirty-six cents for the lesson I gave him in our language, as he told me to give the man eighty-four kreutzers instead of forty-eight, because he didn’t know how to translate acht und pfierzig. The tourist who, through his ignorance of the language or his desire of display, frequents these English hotels, learns nothing of the languages, nothing of the customs of the people, scarcely anything of the cuisine, but becomes a target for the attacks of interpreters, guides, lying ciceroni, and a host of hangers-on, who impose on him in proportion to his ignorance, and palm off falsehoods on him suited to his bigoted preconceptions on every subject. In the drawing-room and at the table, he may as well be at home in London or New York, as far as language, habits, etc., are concerned, and he often leaves a country with less real knowledge of it than he had before he came.
The artist, the student, the gentleman bachelor, who stroll about for their own pleasure, and pay no unnecessary homage to fashion or humbug—these are the ones who derive genuine pleasure from the novelty and constant surprises of new customs, languages, and people. I have seen such persons, some of them men of independent fortune, travelling in omnibus or on foot about Germany, Switzerland, and Italy. They send their trunks on to some known hotel in a place fifty miles off, and then, carrying simply a knapsack with necessaries for a few days, take a stick and perhaps a pencil and paper, and leisurely walk along the fine roads of those countries, meeting a village every few miles, where they can take some refreshment, or stay over night. This is seeing a country, and knowing its language, customs, people, by personal observation, and not through the uncertain medium of hotel guides. And who would compare the restrained formality of fashionable moving about to the glorious freedom of this? The students of the English College at Rome used to travel thus two or three together during vacation, and spend the time delightfully.
When visiting the ancient, interesting city of Nürnberg last August—its old castle where the peace of Westphalia was signed, and where many of the Western emperors resided; its curious walls and fortifications; its old mediæval houses, with six stories, under an oblique roof; its curious fountains; and the residence of Albrecht Dürer—I entered a magnificent temple of old Catholic times, that of S. Lawrence, now devoted to Lutheran worship. All the crucifixes, pictures, and statuary with the altars still remain; for Luther was a much more intelligent man than many who imitated his rebellion. I was admiring the tabernacle of marble tracery, which reaches from the pavement seventy feet up to the roof along one of the pillars, and is the most exquisite piece of poetry in miniature stone I ever saw, when my attention was drawn to two students, boys of sixteen or seventeen, who were likewise visiting the church. They were very plainly dressed; for the old Catholic universities are free in Europe, and good conduct only is required as a condition of membership. On their backs, they had knapsacks with straps coming over the shoulders, and containing doubtless a change of clothing, while the long German pipe was seen stuck into the bundle. They carried sticks in their hands, and one had a guide-book, and was reading therefrom, and pointing out to his companion the objects of interest existing in the church. I watched the boys with great interest, and felt how happy they were in their simple manners and pure friendship—happy in the possession of knowledge more than if they had the Rothschilds’ wealth or Bismarck’s power; they were in love with and betrothed to wisdom, and independent of the world. Walking about afterwards round the great moat and curious turreted walls of this famous town, I came across my two friends, seated on a bench in the shaded, turf-set promenade which girds part of the city, taking their frugal meal of the inevitable sausage and brown bread of the country. Thus they strolled about from town to town, living plainly and simply as their means—the gift, perhaps, of some patron—required, but happy in the banquet which their own erudition and friendship provided. I have seen many travellers, and they have remained longer or shorter in my memory; but the picture of the two students of Nürnberg will remain with me always.
Among those who travel we may include that class so numerous in our own day in proportion to the increase of the enemies of the supernatural—those who, to satisfy their devotion, visit holy places. The sight of persons or localities associated with supernatural events or with the lives of those whose heroic sanctity we venerate, impresses us beings of half spiritual, half corporeal formation in a wonderful degree. I need not dilate on this. It is the reason why, in all ages, such multitudes have traversed land and sea, spent years even of their lives in visiting the Holy Land, Rome, Loretto, Compostella. That they obtained pleasure and sensible satisfaction you may easily imagine; and that they aided the faith by supplying constant information relative to the locality of sacred events, and thus kept up the strength of tradition, cannot be denied; but I would console those whose responsible care of family or office, whose want of means or leisure, prevent their assuming the pilgrim’s scrip and staff, with the words of Thomas à Kempis: Qui multum peregrinantur, raro sanctificantur.
There is so much to distract one in the strangeness and novelty of foreign places, so much disturbance of order in one’s manner of life, that, as a rule, one is likely to come home less single-minded and less edifying than when he set out. However, I must bear witness to an exception, though it is not calculated to be an example for any one here. It is that of a Frenchman, a youth of twenty, dressed in the national blouse (as a duster in the cars over a decent suit of black), whom I met on the way to the famous shrine of Lourdes. His faith was so simple, his modesty so perfect, his tongue so straight (to use an Indian idiom), that I felt that the true Christian is gentlemanly no matter to what class of society he may belong. I was confounded and ashamed when I compared my faith and hope with his, and knew that for the first time I addressed a man who had never breathed the atmosphere of heresy and unbelief, who had never felt a doubt or recognized a difficulty regarding the truths of religion or the pious beliefs of Catholics. Reflecting on the difference between what is termed “the world” in all the conceitedness of its ignorance, and the class whom he represented, I could not wonder that God should show his preference for the simple, truthful people even by the most stupendous miracles. However, he was still in France. Were he on an American railroad-car, he might have allowed some of the mire of the world to adhere to his garments.
I will not rest long on the subject of the Lourdes pilgrimage, as the entire press has been forced to notice it, and has given full reports of the appearance of the shrine, the gatherings of pilgrims, and the wondrous works. Although the people of the village are said to be gradually losing their simple, amiable qualities, on account of the enlivened trade and the continual distraction consequent on the arrival and departure of perhaps a thousand strangers daily in a village of 2,000 inhabitants, yet we could not help remarking the piety of the matrons, the modesty of the maidens, and the straightforwardness of the men—characteristics more refreshing to us than the breezes coming down from the passes of the Pyrenees. It is delightful to get out of an artificial state of society, and to see men and women as God made them. I will have occasion to refer to this subsequently when I speak of the Irish people. The peasantry of Lourdes, whom God chose for this manifestation, are poor but not slovenly, simple but not uncouth, comparatively illiterate but not ignorant. Education is not at all incompatible with ignorance of reading and writing; while barbarism is not seldom found united with these accidental accomplishments.
One evening, having prayed at the famous grotto, which was most exquisitely decorated with candles supplied by the pilgrims, we strolled toward a farm-house, and, seeing some peasants just finishing their day’s labor, stopped and addressed them. Lord Chesterfield would have been charmed to see the ease and grace with which the farmer rose from his task, and inquired our pleasure. His conversation was pure, straight, and full of faith. He spoke of things miraculous just as he did of other events, evidently not thinking how people can question God’s power, or wonder at his goodness. He had been one of that 20,000 who at times witnessed the ecstasies of Bernadette; and, after describing what he saw, he concluded: “Ah! sirs, who ever visits that grotto treads blessed earth.” My friend complimented him on the purity of his language, and the politeness he had shown us, and which, indeed, we strangers scarce expected from one in his dress and employment. “Why,” said he, “gentlemen, if you take kindness and good grace out of the world, after all, what is there worth living for?” We were charmed. There spoke a Frenchman—one of those who made some one say: “They are a nation of gentlemen.” We visited his poor habitation, and were still more pleased with his filial and conjugal affection, as evidenced by his regard for his wife, and care of his bedridden mother.
A propos of this subject of travelling for pleasure, it was very beautiful to watch from a height the pilgrims, 1,500 in number, winding around the road, crossing the bridge, and going down the hillside to the grotto. First came the cross-bearer with the crucifix shining in the sun, then the women and children in the dark dresses which distinguish the inhabitants of the region. Some of them bore lighted candles; others carried baskets on their arms and heads; others had jars containing wine for their lunch, or intended to be filled with the miraculous water. They sang the Litany of Loretto, some priests along the ranks directing, as they walked in double file. After these came the men; then the altar boys in full dress, and thirty or forty in number; then the clerics, priests, and canons in their robes; and finally the Bishop of Perpignan, in sacred vestments, who had thus come with his people to visit the spot favored by the Immaculate Virgin. I never before saw the expression, “The bishop and his flock,” more perfectly illustrated.
We were particularly struck by the behavior of these people in the church—a beautiful marble structure built on the rock, under the side of which the waves of the passing river had formed the grotto. They had none of the superstitious reverence of Mahometans nor the cold decency of Protestants; but acted with that quiet respect, alike remote from fear and levity, which characterizes well-reared children in their father’s house and presence. After performing their devotions with intense faith and childlike fervor, they sat down before the grotto, on the sweet level bank of the river which skirts the rock, and, in a spirit of Christian recreation, began their frugal lunch.
So familiar are fervent Catholics with the wonderful works of God that they who can talk and laugh when the communion thanksgiving is ended found no difficulty in innocent relaxation after paying their respects and perhaps witnessing miracles at the shrine consecrated by the apparition of Mary. They reminded me of the αγαπη of the first Christians, and of the feast we school-boys used to have long ago, after closing our retreat with receiving the body of Jesus Christ; and I could not but acknowledge that these people were most likely to be favored with supernatural manifestations by him who said: “Unless you become as little children, you shall not enter into the kingdom of heaven.”
TO BE CONCLUDED IN OUR NEXT NUMBER.
[THE CANADIAN PIONEERS.]
FROM THE FRENCH OF M. L’ABBE CASGRAIN.