The Catholic World, Vol. 20, October 1874‐March 1875

by Various

The Veil Withdrawn.

Translated By Permission, From The French Of Madame Craven, Author Of “A Sister's Story,” “Fleurange,” Etc.

XXX.

The portrait of Gilbert I have drawn is not incorrect. He was as noble as I have represented him, and it is certain that, in speaking to me as he did that day, he was very far from the thought of laying a snare for me, or even for himself. Whether he was absolutely sincere or not I cannot say, but probably as much so as I, at least during the few first days after this conversation. Thanks to the method of reasoning I have given above, and which I thought original, it seemed to me that this frequent intercourse with a man unusually superior to any one I had ever known, and who, very far from addressing me any silly flattery, almost invariably appealed to all that was highest in my nature, and, without alluding to the cause of my troubles, knew how to divert my mind completely from them—it seemed to me, I say, that this intimacy, this sort of imaginary relationship which I had accepted, was not only lawful, but beneficial, and I regarded it even as a just compensation for so many cruel deceptions. In a word, I had lost, through the frivolity of my recent life, that clearness of spiritual vision which is maintained by vigilance alone, and I was a long time without suspecting that this idle frivolity, with all the exuberant gayety that accompanied it, was a thousand times less dangerous than the long conversations, to which the perfect harmony of a kindred mind, and the contact with a soul so noble that it seemed to ennoble mine, lent such a charm, and gave to my life a new interest which I had never experienced before.

There was no apparent, or even real, difference in our interviews from what they were before, and any one might have heard every word he addressed me. And yet I felt that he by no means talked to me as he did to others, and I, on my side, conversed with him as I did with no one else. We were seldom alone together, it is true, but every evening, either in the drawing-room or on the terrace, he found an opportunity of conversing with me a few moments without witnesses. He did not conceal from me that he regarded these as the most precious moments of the evening; and as to this I scarcely differed from him. Occasionally, something inexpressible in his voice, his looks, and even in his silence, made me tremble, as if I felt the warning of some approaching danger. But as he never deviated a single word from the rôle he had taken, my torpid conscience was not aroused! Lorenzo was still absent, though the time fixed for his return had long gone by; and when I was expecting him the second time, I received a letter announcing a further delay, caused, as he said, by “a circumstance that was unforeseen and independent of his will.”

A flush of anger rose to my face [pg 447] while reading this letter, though I felt and acknowledged that the prolongation of his absence did not cause me the same chagrin it once would. I did not ask why. I took pleasure in recalling with a kind of complacency the aggravating wrongs I had repeatedly endured, and it seemed to me he had less right than ever to deny a heart he had so cruelly wounded any consolation whatever that remained.

The day this second letter arrived we were on the point of starting for Mt. Vesuvius, where, for a week, crowds of people had been going out of curiosity, as is the case at every new eruption. It was nearly night before we set out. My aunt and her two daughters were of the party, besides Gilbert, Mario, and Lando, as well as two foreigners who, from the time of the Carnival, had assiduously haunted the steps of my two cousins. One was a young Baron von Brunnenberg, an excellent dancer and a great lover of music; the other an Englishman, no less young, of fine figure and herculean proportions, whose name was Harry Leslie.

There was a certain embarrassment at our departure among the members of the party, caused by the simultaneous desire of several of them to avoid the calèche in which Donna Clelia had at once installed herself. I observed this hesitation, which was far from flattering to my poor aunt, and hastened to take a seat beside her. The young baron, who escorted her, then concluded to follow my example, and I made a sign to Lando to take the vacant place. He obeyed me less eagerly than usual. Stella, my two cousins, and the young Englishman took possession of the other carriage, which assumed the lead, followed with an envious eye by the baron as well as Lando, who, I remarked, seemed in a less serene frame of mind than usual. Gilbert and Mario came after in a carozzella, which formed our rear-guard.

At first everything went on pleasantly. My aunt was very fond of pleasure excursions, and she regarded this as one, particularly as we were all to take supper together at my house on our return. The conversation did not slacken an instant as far as Resina, where we arrived at nightfall. There we left the main road to take that which led directly to Mt. Vesuvius.

A new crater had this time been formed below the well-known cone from which the fire and smoke generally issued. It was like a large, gaping wound on the side of the mountain, which sent forth torrents of fire, ashes, and red-hot stones.

Consequently, instead of being obliged to climb to the summit in order to witness the eruption, we were able to drive so near the stream of lava that we only had to walk a short distance to see the terrible opening, which was approached more or less closely, according to the degree of boldness or curiosity with which each one was endowed.

But the spectacle presented an imposing appearance long before we saw it close at hand, and I was in the height of admiration when I heard a murmur beside me: “O Gesù, Gesù!... O Madonna santa!...” Turning around, I beheld my aunt, pale with fright, kissing the cross of the rosary she held in her hand.

Donna Clelia, as we are perfectly aware, knew how to brave danger when she found an occasion worthy of the trouble. We had a proof of this on the memorable day of the combat on the Toledo. But, as it [pg 448] has perhaps also been perceived, she was rather indifferent to the picturesque. Consequently, there was nothing at this moment to stimulate her courage, and I was alarmed at the condition in which I saw her.

“O Ginevrina mia!...” said she at last in a trembling voice, “non mi fido! No, I have not the courage to go any further.... Madonna!...”

This last appeal was caused by a stream of fire brighter than any of the preceding ones, and accompanied by a loud detonation.

“But merciful Lord! What folly!” she continued. “What caprice! What madness! How can you wish to rush into such a lake of fire while you are still alive!... Oh! no, not yet; no, never! O mamma mia! misericordia!...”

Each new stream of fire produced a more lively exclamation of terror. All at once she leaned her head on my shoulder, exclaiming:

“Ginevrina!... I feel I am going to have a papariello!”[106]

At this we stopped the carriage. It was evidently dangerous to take her any further. But what should we do?... Must we give up our excursion, and retrace our steps? We were not inclined to do this. Besides, the other carriage was some distance in advance, and could not be recalled. In this dilemma we were rejoined by the carozzella. Gilbert and Mario leaped from their carriage to ascertain what had happened to us.

“What is it, Zia Clelia?” said Mario, approaching the carriage, and perceiving my aunt in the attitude I have just mentioned. She raised her head.

“O Mario! figlio mio! It is because I cannot endure this storm of fire. It is the end of the world—the day of judgment!... How it oppresses me!... How it stifles me!... O my God! and the povere ragazze, dove sono?... O holy Virgin, lead us all back safe and sound to Naples, and I promise you that for nine days....”

She finished her vow mentally, for Mario at once decided on the only thing that could be done, and devoted himself to the task. He would take her back to Resina in the carriage, and there await our return.

The exchange was soon effected. My aunt did not require any insisting, after we promised to bring her daughters back without allowing them to incur any danger. In the twinkling of an eye she was placed beside Mario in the carozzella with her back to Mt. Vesuvius, while Gilbert took her place beside me, and we pursued our way as fast as possible, in order to make up for the time we had lost.

We soon arrived at the place where we were obliged to leave the carriage. Gilbert aided me in descending, and then gave me his arm, while Lando and the baron went in search of the other members of the party, who only had Mr. Leslie to protect them. They were soon out of sight, and Gilbert remained alone with me.

I will not repeat here what every one has seen or read concerning the eruptions of Mt. Vesuvius. I will merely say to those who have not had the experience, that this extraordinary spectacle, assuredly the most wonderful and at the same time the most terrific in the whole world of nature, causes a singular fascination which induces the spectator to approach continually nearer and nearer the fiery crater. It [pg 449] seems impossible to turn away his eyes. He keeps on, therefore, without looking to the right or left, without seeing where he is walking, stumbling at every step over heaps of lava scarcely cold, regardless of the rough path with its sharp, burning stones, the effect of which is afterwards seen on his garments and shoes, though he does not think of it while exposed to the danger, more apparent, perhaps, than real, but which indubitably exists, however, as is proved by the numerous accidents that occur at every new eruption.

Leaning on Gilbert's arm, I was too firmly supported to stumble, and was able to ascend to the top of a ridge of lava formed by preceding eruptions; and there, protected by an immense block on the very edge of the flaming abyss, I contemplated the awful, imposing spectacle! Gilbert did not utter a word, and I attributed his silence to the impression which likewise rendered me dumb in the presence of this terrific convulsion of nature. The burning lava, issuing, as I have said, from a crater on the side of the mountain, did not spring up to fall back again on the summit, as usual, but it advanced like a large river of fire over the heaped-up masses of cold, black lava, giving them the most singular, fantastic forms. It was like a city, not on fire, but of fire! It seemed as if one could see houses, towers, and palaces; and in the midst of these imaginary edifices moved the fiery stream! For lava does not flow. However steep the descent, it stops and goes no further as soon as the crater ceases to emit it. But it had not yet stopped. On the contrary, it pursued its slow, pitiless course, consuming vineyards, swallowing up houses, and burning the trees and bushes in its way.

It was a sight difficult to endure for a long time, and yet I could not turn my eyes away from so mysterious and terrible a spectacle.

“O my God!” I murmured, “this is truly la città dolente! We have before our eyes an exact representation of the last day of the world!...”

Gilbert made no reply. He was overcome by I know not what emotion more powerful than mine, and, looking at his face by the red light of the fire, I was alarmed at the change in his features and their unusual expression.

“Would that that day had arrived for me!” said he at length. “Would that this were really the last day of my life! Yes, I would like to be swallowed up in that flame! I would like to die here on the spot where I am—beside you—worthy of you....”

In spite of the terrific scene before me, in spite of the noise of the explosions and the sullen sound of the lava, the tone in which he spoke was distinctly audible, and made my heart beat with mingled emotion and fear.

“I am afraid you are becoming dizzy, Monsieur de Kergy,” said I in a trembling voice; “take care. Its effect, they say, is to draw one into the abyss.”

“Yes, Donna Ginevra,” replied he in the same strange tone, “you are right. I am dizzy. I am approaching the verge of an abyss, I know. I have rashly exposed myself to the danger. I have presumed too much on my strength.”

The look he fastened on me, as he uttered these words, gave them a meaning I could not mistake. It was no longer Gilbert who spoke—it [pg 450] was not he to whom I had accorded the rights of a safe and faithful friend. The veil with which I had wilfully blinded my eyes suddenly fell off, and the emotion I was seized with, the material flames that surrounded me, and the certain peril into which another step would have plunged me, gave an exact idea of the danger to which I had foolishly exposed my honor and my soul!

I covered my face a moment with my hands, but spoke as soon as I dared.

“Monsieur de Kergy,” said I in a supplicating tone, “cease to look at the fire around us. Lift up your eyes, and see how calm and beautiful the night is above this terrible inferno.”

In fact, a bright moonlight was diffused over this terrific scene, and the contrast between the earth and sky could not have been more striking.

Gilbert's eyes followed mine, and remained for some time fastened on those peaceful starry worlds, which seemed as far remote from the agitation of our hearts as they were above this frightful convulsion of nature. I felt in my soul the need of powerful assistance, and murmured in a low tone: “O my God, have mercy on me!” with a fervor that for a long time I had not felt in my prayers.

After a long silence, Gilbert said to me in a low, agitated tone:

“Will you pardon me, madame? Will you trust in me to take you away from this place?”

“Yes, I trust you. But let us make haste to leave so dangerous a spot. Do you not hear the frightful explosions? Do you not see the red-hot stones that are flying over our heads?...” And as I spoke a cloud of thick smoke added obscurity to all the other horrors of the place.

“Do not be alarmed,” said Gilbert in a tone once more calm and decided. “We must certainly hurry away, but there is no danger yet, unless from fear. Give me your hand.”

But I hesitated when he endeavored to take it, and made an involuntary movement, as if going to descend without his assistance.

“In the name of heaven,” said he rapidly, trembling with agitation and terror, “do not refuse my assistance in the danger we are in. You cannot do without it. You must give me your hand, madame.”

His agitated voice became almost imperious. I gave him my hand, and even complied when he told me to rest the other firmly against his shoulder.

“Now,” said he, “descend carefully. You need not be afraid. I will support you. In spite of this whirlwind of fire and smoke, I can clearly distinguish my way.”

He made no further observations, as we slowly descended; and as soon as we were in a place of safety, I left him, and leaned against a tree at some distance, trying to get breath. Besides the violent agitation of my heart, the suffocating air that surrounded us gave me a feeling of giddiness and faintness that was almost overpowering.

XXXI.

The stream of fire and smoke that obliged us to leave the place where we were standing had a like effect on all who were in the vicinity of the fiery current. We were therefore soon joined by Teresina [pg 451] and Lando, Mariuccia and the baron. But I felt extremely anxious at seeing nothing of Stella and young Leslie, who had left the others to go further below, in order to get a better view of the lava in its course to the plain. The fear lest some accident had happened to them began to chill the blood in my veins, but I was soon reassured by seeing them at last reappear with blackened faces and torn garments, while Stella was bareheaded, and her hair streaming in disorder.

“Good heavens! what has happened to you?”

“Nothing, nothing,” said Stella, out of breath. “We will tell you everything by-and-by.”

Here Mr. Leslie interposed, declaring that the Countess Stella was “the bravest woman he had ever met—a heroine, and an angel of goodness.”

“You are entirely mistaken,” said Stella, drawing up the hood of her cloak. “But I have lost my bonnet, and nearly destroyed my shoes also, I fear. Let us start immediately. We will relate everything afterwards.”

As she was there safe and sound, it was really much better to put off any further particulars till another time, and return to Naples as quickly as possible. We started, therefore, without any delay, only stopping at Resina long enough to take my aunt, who, having devoted the whole time of our absence to a siesta, was completely rested, and had quite recovered from her terror. Mario was less good-humored; but when, a little after midnight, we all assembled at last around the supper-table that awaited our return, every one seemed satisfied with the excursion we had made. I alone felt I had brought back a heart more agitated than at our departure.

Stella still refused to answer our questions, pretending to be too hungry to think of giving the account we were all so eager to hear; but Mr. Leslie was only too glad to assume the task, and at once proceeded to satisfy our curiosity.

“We were,” said he, “watching the lava, as it advanced with a dull sound resembling the distant report of grape-shot, when all at once we heard a succession of heart-rending groans a few steps off. At our approach we found a man lying on the ground. I endeavored to raise him. Impossible: he had broken his leg. Countess Stella questioned him, and the story he related was a sad one. Like so many of the other poor creatures, he had deferred leaving his house till the last moment. His wife was ill in bed, with a little boy of five or six years old beside her. He kept hoping the lava would stop before it could reach his dwelling—they all hope that! He went out two or three times an hour to see how far it had progressed, and finally saw all hope was vain. The lava kept on its course, regardless of any one. He had barely more than half an hour to save his wife and child, and then carry away what he could. He rushed towards the house; but in the haste with which he endeavored to make up for lost time, he had fallen from one of those black rocks you are so familiar with, on the spot where we found him, unable to rise. It was necessary to hasten; the lava was continually advancing. In less than a quarter of an hour it would reach his hut, and his wife and child were there!... I could not understand what he said,” continued the young Englishman with [pg 452] an expression of benevolence and courage which added to the effect of his narrative, “but while I was gazing at the devouring current that was advancing towards a house I supposed empty, I suddenly saw the countess dart forward without any explanation. I understood it at once, and followed her. Outrunning her, I was the first to arrive at the house, and had already taken the woman and mattress in my arms when the countess joined me. ‘Take the child!’ I cried. He was screaming, the poor thing; for, in taking up his mother, I had, without intending it, thrown him on the floor. He was a boy of about six years of age, and heavy to carry, I assure you. But kindness and courage gave strength. The countess picked him up as if he were a feather, and we hurried out of the house. The heat of the fire was already intolerable, and the earth under our feet heaved at every step. I thought a dozen times we had sacrificed our own lives in trying to save theirs. But no, thank God! we all succeeded—woman, child, and ourselves, with the mattress—in reaching the poor wounded man, whose cries of terror now gave place to those of joy. He had reason—the poor creature!—for we were hardly in safety before we heard a horrid sound, this time like the noise of cannon—it was the shock of the burning lava against the house we had just escaped from. What a sight! Good God!... But since it must have happened, I am not sorry I was there! The fiery stream first passed around the house, then rose, as if to wrap its red flame around it, and finally swept over the roof; and when everything was engulfed, it quietly continued its course. The poor people wept; but, after all, they were thankful to be alive, and kissed the hands of the Countess Stella, calling her an angel sent by the Madonna and a thousand other things of that kind. It was now time to call for assistance, and by the aid of two or three peasants we transported them all into a habitation, where they were received for the night. To-morrow I shall go and carry them some assistance. And now, Madame la Duchesse, you know how the Countess Stella lost her bonnet, and why we were so late.”

The effect produced by this account cannot be described. Gilbert eagerly raised his head, and I saw his eyes glisten as he listened. As for me, my heart leaped with a kind of transport, while my dear, noble Stella made fruitless efforts to stop the acclamations her courage drew even from those who were the least accessible to enthusiasm.

“What an absurdity!” exclaimed she as soon as she could make herself heard. “Who of you would not have done the same thing? Stop, I beg of you, or rather, listen to me. Let us all join in buying these poor people a cottage to replace the one they have lost.”

This proposition was of course acceded to with ardor and unanimity. My Aunt Clelia instantly plunged into the depths of her pocket, and had already opened her well-stocked porte-monnaie when Lando rose and exclaimed:

“Stop, Donna Clelia; put your gold back in your pocket—for the moment. I have an idea. Let us do as they do in Paris.”

“Oh! bravo!” exclaimed my two cousins in a breath.

“Yes,” said Teresina with enthusiasm, “as at Paris, I beg of you. But what? how? say!”

“Listen, all,” said Lando—“listen [pg 453] to my programme. It contains a rôle for us all. First, Donna Ginevra's is the easiest, but most indispensable. She must lend us one of her drawing-rooms where a small but select number can assemble. This réunion shall take place to-morrow, ... no, the day after to-morrow, when—pay special attention now, Monsieur le Comte de Kergy.”

Gilbert, hearing his name, looked up with surprise, while Lando stopped to say very swiftly in Italian to his neighbor, “You know he is celebrated for his eloquence,” then continued: “And then, the Comte de Kergy, here present, shall, at the opening of the meeting, make a brief discourse, in order to explain the object of the contribution we shall afterwards expect of each one. He will relate the account we have just heard, and add all he pleases about the excursion we have made together and the various incidents that have taken place. We shall depend on his omitting nothing that occurred. Poi, Donna Teresina and Donna Mariuccia will sing a duet, accompanied by the Baron von Brunnenberg; and if you wish for a general chorus, here we are, Mario, Leslie, and myself, ready to lend our assistance. Finalmente, we come to the most important; the Countess Stella will recite some poetry of her own choice, and you who have heard her know what is in reserve for those who are to hear her for the first time. After that is the moment to present your contributions, and you shall give me the result. Che ne dite!”

I could not have declined, even if I had had any serious objections against this proposition, which was unanimously received with even more enthusiasm than the first. Stella, though really endowed with the talent Lando was desirous of profiting by, seemed annoyed. Gilbert's face darkened, and he resumed the gloomy, preoccupied expression he had for an instant shaken off; but to protest or refuse was as impossible for them as well as me, and before separating, at two o'clock in the morning, the meeting was decided upon and appointed for the next day but one.

When I found myself alone, it was impossible to think of sleep, notwithstanding the advanced hour of the night. My chamber was at one end of the house, and opened on the lateral terrace opposite that of the drawing-room. I opened my window, and took a seat outside. There, in the imposing silence of that beautiful night, I sought calmness and the power of reflection. The uncommon courage Stella had just given a proof of produced a salutary effect on me. Her example reacted somewhat against a fatal enervation that was gradually diminishing my moral strength. I admired courage, and my soul, however enfeebled it might be, responded at this moment to her noble, generous impulse. With my eyes fastened on the flame that now lit up the whole horizon with its sinister gleam, I thought the sight ought to inspire Stella with a lofty emotion such as follows the accomplishment of an heroic deed; whereas I—it was with a shudder I thought of the contrast it suggested!... I tried to avoid dwelling on what had taken place. I wished to believe it was my imagination alone that disturbed and alarmed me; that nothing was changed; but I could not succeed, and at last I was forced to consider what I should do—what was the course prescribed by the new light to which I could no longer close [pg 454] my eyes? But as soon as this question was clearly placed before me, I experienced the most violent repugnance to solve it.

Gilbert's sweet, beneficent friendship alone had enabled me to endure the destruction of my happiness. Could I admit the necessity of renouncing it? What had he ever done till to-day to give me reason to regret my confidence in him? For an instant, it is true, and only for an instant, he had not seemed like himself, and my heart beat, in spite of myself, as I recalled his look and the accent of his voice; but did I not attach too much importance to words which, after all, were vague and incoherent? Should I not take time to reflect? Such were the questions I asked myself, in order to impose silence on my reason and the actual voice of my conscience. I succeeded so far as to defer the reply I was unwilling to listen to, and put off my decision, whatever it might be, till the following day.

It was late when I awoke, for I did not go to sleep till daylight; and I had not yet left my chamber when the following letter was brought me. It was dated the same day at three o'clock in the morning:

“Madame: A few hours ago I addressed you in a moment of delirium. What I said I know not. But what I do know is that you understood me, and, in order to regain your confidence and make you forget what I uttered, I should be obliged to declare what is false, and this I cannot do. No, I will not be false to myself, were I, by speaking the truth, to forfeit a happiness I ought to have courage enough to deny myself, and which I shall, at least, renounce if you require it.

“I only ask you not to condemn me without a hearing. For once allow me to speak plainly, though it be of myself; which is repugnant to me, as you may have perceived. But it is necessary to do this in order to throw light on the decision you will afterwards have to make.

“I believe I have a high idea of the use a man should make of his life, as well as a profound conviction he will have to render an account of the way he spends it. In a word, I adhere, thank God, to the faith of my mother, and desire to live as much as possible in accordance with this faith, and as it becomes an honest man and a Christian to live.

“To this end, I have given my activity every possible scope—long, fatiguing journeys, hard study, active concurrence in a multitude of enterprises that seemed to have an useful object. I have entered eagerly into everything that could absorb my mind and time, not so much out of disinterested zeal for doing good, as from a calculation that is allowable, I think; for it is founded on a distrust of myself, resulting from an exact knowledge of the shoals on which I might easily be wrecked.

“I dreamed of a happiness, common enough in many countries, but rare in ours—that of knowing, loving, and choosing the one I would make my own; but this is a difficult thing in France, and I had a strong repugnance to any other way of deciding my lot. I persistently refused to consent to any of those so-called chance encounters one is constantly drawn into by officious friends without number in Paris, who are always ready to take possession of any one who has the misfortune to be considered a bon parti.

“In avoiding these encounters I was spared other temptations still more dangerous, and I met with nothing to disturb my peace of mind till the day I saw you the first time, madame. I had no conversation with you on that occasion, but I observed you, I heard your voice, and listened to some of your remarks. I noticed your indifference to the homage that surrounded you, and the evident absence of vanity which your beauty rendered so strange, and I became afraid of you. Yes, I felt I must avoid you, and I did so resolutely. One day, however, you were, without my being aware of it, in the audience I addressed, and Diana afterwards presented me to you. The opinion of every one else immediately became indifferent to me. I only cared to know what you thought of my discourse, and to ascertain if there was any mental sympathy between us. I thought I discovered some in the few words we exchanged, and my resolution to avoid you only became the more fixed. I even resisted my mother's entreaties to join some of the excursions she made with you. Consequently, I only met you once, as you are aware, madame, and that was at home, where I could not avoid the happiness of being beside you.

“I perceived you were sad that evening, in spite of your charming smile and gayety of manner, which were no less dangerous to me than your tears. I saw it, and was terribly agitated. And when at last the time came to bid you farewell, I could not summon the resolution, but said instead ‘au revoir.’

“Nevertheless, I allowed long months to pass. I waited till time had somewhat effaced the vividness of my recent impressions, so I should no longer fear to meet you, and then I made an excuse to stop at Naples a few days on my way to Egypt. The day I arrived here, though I detest balls, I could not avoid attending that given by the French ambassador, and there I saw you once more!

“Shall I acknowledge it? When I saw you in all the splendor of your dazzling beauty, enhanced by your dress, and surrounded by adorers, I felt a momentary relief. I congratulated myself on having braved the danger of seeing you again. It seemed to me at that moment the image I had so cherished in my heart was effaced, and I was no longer in any danger. Alas! the next day you were no longer the same. I found you as you once were, but I had not the courage to fly from you. My stay was to be short, and I yielded to the happiness allotted me, persuading myself the habit of seeing you daily might diminish the effect of your influence.

“At length, madame, in good faith, as I thought, I ventured one day to ask you to regard me as a friend, and promised to be worthy of the favor. I firmly believed I promised you nothing beyond my strength. A single instant was sufficient to reveal to me, even more clearly than to you, the extent of my illusion. You see I make no attempt to conceal anything from you now. I no longer try to deceive you. But in spite of all I have said, I implore you not to bid me depart. In asking this I feel sure of never offending you again. I cannot hope for the return of your confidence. I no longer claim to be regarded as a friend. I even promise to speak to you henceforth but seldom. But I beseech you not to deprive me of the happiness of seeing you! Do [pg 456] not punish me so severely! Do not yet command me to go. That word would be an order I should at once obey, or rather a sentence I should submit to without a murmur; but there is no criminal who has not the right to petition for mercy, and that mercy I now implore at your feet.

XXXII.

My mother, in portraying the lineaments of my youthful soul, once spoke of a precious jewel hidden in its depths. She doubtless referred to the inclination for what is right and the lively horror of evil she discovered there. But does not this jewel exist with more or less purity and brilliancy in the depths of every human soul, requiring only a perverted will to crush it utterly, or a feeble, undecided will to tarnish its lustre and diminish its value? My life, though not very culpable in appearance, was now drawing me in its soft current into that state of sluggishness, inaction, and weakness which is a dissolvent of this supernatural jewel without any equal in the natural world.

Lorenzo, notwithstanding his jealous vigilance during the earlier period of our married life, did not hesitate to take me to all the theatres, and at Paris he placed in my hands some of the most celebrated romances of the day. This somewhat disturbed the equilibrium of my mind, and produced a certain agitation of soul, which is the natural consequence of an unhealthy interest in works to which genius and talent have the cruelty to lend their irresistible power. When we reflect on the value of these divine gifts, the source from which they emanate, and their power of diffusing light and awakening the mental faculties, we cannot help thinking how cruel it is to employ them in kindling everywhere a fire so destructive to the human soul—the only real, irrevocable death.

But, in spite of the inevitable effect spoken of above, the strong disgust and repugnance they speedily produced in my mind prevented their poisonous emanations from affecting me seriously. Now, after being so long exposed to influences doubtless less deleterious than those, but by no means strengthening, a more subtle snare was laid for me.... The letter I held in my hand was not an effusion that should instantly have aroused my conscience, which, though torpid, was not hardened; no, its language was such that I read and reread it, and allowed the sentiments it expressed to penetrate my very heart. And yet, what was the substance of this letter; what was its real signification? However noble and superior to other men Gilbert might appear in my eyes, of what avail was this nobleness, this superiority, this purity of his soul even, when he began to tread the lower path of common mortals with the vain thought that he could maintain a straight course better than others; ... that he could make me so decidedly explicit a declaration, and promise me an inviolable respect, which he immediately deviated from the first time he had the opportunity?...

But this truth did not at that time appear in the light in which I saw it at a later day, and a terrible struggle took place in my heart. Illusion was no longer possible. I [pg 457] could no longer say I had a sure, faithful friend whose attachment was allowable, and yet I could not decide to give it up. I tried to persuade myself, with all those arguments that present themselves as soon as one is ready to listen to them, that this sacrifice was unnecessary. In the bottom of my soul, however, another voice made itself heard, repeating more strongly the warning of the night before—a sweet, divine voice, scarcely audible in the midst of all this agitation, and, when heard, was not listened to!

That was the day I usually went to see Livia, but it was quite late before I remembered it. My first thought was to omit going for once, but as I had always been punctual at these interviews, in spite of every obstacle, and Saturday was the only day I could be received, after some minutes' hesitation I surmounted the temptation to remain at home.

During the whole period of frivolous gayety that marked the first months of my life at Naples, far from wishing to avoid seeing Livia, I took pleasure, on the contrary, in asking her advice, which I was by no means as afraid of, even in Carnival time, as my Aunt Clelia. I was something like a place besieged and almost surrounded by the enemy, but still not wholly inaccessible to the friendly power disposed to deliver it. As I have said elsewhere, Livia's voice always took a correct pitch, unmistakable to the ear, and I loved to listen to it, even when mine was too weak to sound the same note with like power and clearness.

But from the day of Lorenzo's departure, so doubly fatal, instead of the careless gayety I usually went to the convent to acknowledge and correct, I was filled with a sadness and anxiety Livia was not slow to perceive, and, instead of gently shaking her head, as she smiled at my account of the somewhat too gay a life into which I had been led by Lorenzo, she now fastened a grave, anxious look on me, to which I replied by pouring out all the bitterness of my fresh grievances without any restraint. After this explanation, which sufficiently accounted for the change she had remarked, I spoke no more of myself, and never once mentioned Gilbert's name. I was angry with myself for this reserve. I longed to overcome it, and tell her, as I had often told myself, that in Gilbert heaven had sent me a friend whose influence was delightful, salutary, elevated, pure, and so on. These words came to my lips, but I could not utter them before her.

Once (it was the Saturday before) there was a new change in the expression of my face—a change which reflected, I suppose, the insecure and dangerous happiness to which I had unscrupulously yielded. Seeing me appear with a smiling air and a calm, untroubled face, she at first seemed pleased, but, after observing me for some time, said:

“Has Lorenzo returned?”

“No.”

She looked thoughtful.

“Do you know when he will return?”

“I do not know,” said I bitterly; “and, in fact, I begin never to expect him, and almost not to wish him to return.”

I saw a slight movement of her clasped hands like a shudder. She raised her large eyes, and, looking me in the face, said:

“Take care.”

Her look and words greatly troubled me, and I did not recover from the impression till it was time for Gilbert to arrive in the evening, when his presence made me forget it. I thought of this to-day, and perhaps the remembrance added to the repugnance I felt to go to the convent. Perhaps it also caused the unusual emotion I experienced when I found myself once more in the parlor—the very parlor that filled me with so much terror the first time I entered it, but which I afterwards forgot, so different were the impressions that followed.

But whatever the joy, the trouble, the agitation, or, as to-day, the anguish, with which I came, a few minutes sufficed to put me in harmony with the inexpressible tranquillity that reigned around me. The pulsations of my heart diminished, and I experienced the effect a pure, vivifying air produces on one who has just come from a heavy, feverish atmosphere. The bare walls, the wooden seats, the extreme simplicity and austerity on every side, inspired me with a kind of attraction that would have surprised those who daily saw me in my sumptuous home, surrounded by all that wealth and the most refined taste could procure. This attraction, incomprehensible to myself, was like that vague perfume the traveller breathes when approaching some unknown shore which he does not yet perceive....

But on this occasion these things, instead of producing their usually beneficial, soothing effect, caused me a kind of uneasiness akin to remorse, and I soon found the solitude so difficult to endure that I had some idea of profiting by the interval that remained in order to leave the convent under some pretext without seeing my sister. But the strength of mind that, thank heaven, I still possessed prevented me from leaving the place, and I became absorbed in thoughts I dared not fathom, so utterly discordant were they with everything around me, and so different from what they seemed in the light by which I regarded them only an hour before.

At last the door opened, the curtain was drawn aside, and Livia made her appearance.

“You are late, Gina,” said she. “I was afraid I should not see you to-day.”

I stammered some excuse, as she gave me a scrutinizing look with her usual expression of extreme sweetness.

“You do not look so happy as you did last Saturday, Ginevra. You are agitated and excited to-day. Will you not tell me the reason?”

I was tempted to make her a thorough, sincere confession; but the moment I was about to begin I was struck with the impossibility of speaking in that angelic place of what seemed elsewhere only natural, excusable, and almost legitimate.

Seeing I made no reply, she gently said:

“Lorenzo has not yet come home. Of course his absence afflicts you. Be patient and forbearing, I conjure you, Ginevra.”

Her words caused me a kind of irritation, though I was glad to elude her previous question, and I hastily replied:

“Livia, you require too much of me. Some day I may become patient and forbearing, but at present it is impossible.”

“Gina, Gina, do not say so,” said she in the tone in which she used to correct the faults of my childhood.

“O Livia! your poor sister finds life hard, I assure you. How happy you are!...”

“Yes, I am happy,” she softly replied.

“Who would have said it, however,” I continued in an agitated tone, “when Lorenzo came to woo me with so many assurances of affection, so many promises of happiness?... That all this should prove false and illusory!... Oh! when I think of it, I no longer have the strength to....”

“Ginevra!” said Livia, suddenly interrupting me in a tone of authority, “it is useless to talk in that manner. You speak like a child!”

She seldom spoke to me in this way, and I stopped.

“At the time you are speaking of,” she resumed, “do you remember my telling you one day—it was only a short time before your marriage....”

I hastily interrupted her in my turn.

“I have not forgotten our conversation, Livia. That was the day you told me I was going to pronounce the most fearful vow there is in the world. But, sister, I was not the only one who made it.”

“No, certainly not. You mean to say that Lorenzo has violated the solemn vow that bound you together.... Yes, Gina, it is horrible, I acknowledge, but listen to me; if you continue to think more of your own wrongs than of God, whom he has offended a thousand times more; if you continue to complain and dwell on your injuries, the result will be, you will soon seek likewise to be released from the fidelity you vowed to him. And then (may God preserve me from ever seeing that day, when I shall be truly separated from you!) your fall will be speedy, rapid, and terrible. You will fall as low, perhaps, as you might now rise high.”

She saw me shudder at these words, and continued with her usual mildness:

“Now, my dearest Gina, may God and his angels watch over you!... It is growing dark. The bell is about to summon me away. I have only time for one word: Forget your heart, I implore you. Believe me, God will some day satisfy its cravings, if you cease to listen so weakly to them, longing to have them gratified at all costs. Forget your heart, I say, and think only of your soul!”

The bell rang while she was speaking. She raised her hand, and made the sign of the cross in the air. I bowed my head, and when I raised it again she had disappeared. But she had not spoken in vain. The clouds that obscured my reason began to disperse, my courage began to revive, and the jewel within to regain the brilliancy that had been obscured in the depths of my soul. The course I ought to pursue was set before me with painful distinctness, but I no longer turned my eyes away from it.

I was not happy when I left the convent. I did not even feel calm or consoled; but I had come to a decision.

It was so late when I arrived home that the garden was filled with moonlight. I walked there a long time, absorbed in my reflections, and sincerely endeavoring to strengthen a resolution whose fulfilment I did not yet dare to consider. I trembled as I asked myself if it was necessary to utter the decisive word before another day, or if I could wait till after the soirée organized by Lando, when it would be no longer possible to defer it.

I still hesitated as to this point. Though I had come to a decision, I did not cease to suffer, but I ceased to be weak. I was very far [pg 460] from the summit, but I resolved to attain it, instead of remaining as far below as I now stood. A circumstance, insignificant in itself, now occurred to confirm the change in my mind.

The door of Lorenzo's studio was open, and, wishing to shorten the way to my chamber, I entered it, and was proceeding towards the other door when I found myself face to face with the vestal of which I was the model. The moon threw so brilliant a light over it as to produce a striking effect. I stopped to look at it, and, while doing so, it seemed as if this statue of myself spoke to me in its own way, and in a language similar to that I had so recently been listening to.

And what was the idea which Lorenzo really intended to express in this vestal—the finest of his productions?

One of those ideas which, under the inspiration of genius, sometimes sprang from his soul, and seemed for an instant to show a sense of the good equal to that he had of the beautiful. This was, alas! only a transitory gleam of light, but it was sufficient to justify the ambitious hopes I once felt for a day—hopes so fatally illusory at the very time they were conceived!

Lorenzo's idea in choosing the ancient guardians of the sacred fire as his subjects was to represent under these two figures the woman who was true to her highest mission, and the woman who was untrue to it; the latter making use of the holy fire under her charge to kindle a flame that would end in destruction and woe; the other striving to keep this very fire alive, diffusing its clear, brilliant, beneficent light, not only over herself, but over everything around her.

Such was the idea he had not been able to embody, he said, till he had me for his model. All this was doubtless the dream of an artist; but while I stood contemplating what had resulted from it, the effect I experienced was so strange, the thoughts that came to my mind were so vivid, that they could only have been the whisperings of the voice that for an hour had spoken more and more clearly to my heart.

The statue, however idealized it might be by the genius of the sculptor, resembled me sufficiently for me to recognize the likeness. Flooded as it now was by a brilliant, unearthly light, I looked at it with an attention I had never done before. I observed its simple, dignified attitude; the head slightly inclined towards the symbolic flame that rose from the lamp she bore in her hands with so much ease, and yet with care and vigilance; and, finally, the mouth and eyes, in which it seemed to me no artist had ever expressed so clearly the gentleness, firmness, and purity he wished to depict. It was thus Lorenzo imagined the guardian of the divine fire which not only burned on the sacred altar, but kindled and fed the noblest inspirations of genius....

Yes, the conception was a beautiful one, and I felt proud and gratified that he had found me worthy of being the model to realize it!

All at once I was struck with a kind of terror, as it occurred to me, Shall this resemblance be merely external? Are not many things wanting in my nature which this statue seeks to express, and of which its beauty is only the reflection?...

O my God! I thank thee! Everything becomes an instrument [pg 461] in thy hand. It was thou, and not this marble, who didst suggest this thought, and it was through thy grace that, at that moment, quicker than I can express it, and as clearly as the eye beholds a picture placed suddenly before it, I all at once saw if Lorenzo were present, under the roof that was his, and Gilbert were also there—Gilbert, who called himself my friend and not his—there would exist at my fireside, there would be infused into my life, a perpetual lie, unmistakable treachery, and constant danger. I saw and realized that, though he might not apparently have anything to reproach me for, everything within and around me would henceforth continually reproach me. I saw if the sacred lamp did not actually fall from my hands, the purity of its flame would speedily be dimmed, and certainly end by being wholly extinguished....

All this became clearly visible and palpable, and in the presence of this voiceless marble, before the image of this pagan priestess, I renewed the tacit promise I had an hour before made to her who was the living Christian realization of this ancient ideal of a virtue pure and chaste.

XXXIII.

I went up to my chamber, not only startled at the vividness of the impression I had received, but decided as to my course. The words falsehood and treachery that came to my mind produced a powerful effect on me, and would, perhaps, have had the same effect on every woman who happened to be in a similar position, if she had the courage to call things in this way by their right names. It is pleasant and delightful to inspire and to experience those profound emotions sung by poets and exalted by writers of fiction, but it is not noble to be false. No poet has ever said so, no writer of fiction has ventured to insinuate it. Now, it is this falsity, so essential a feature in all these little dramas of the heart (real or fictitious), which ought, it seems to me, to disgust even those who do not act from any higher motive than those of the world. As for me, the mere thought that it would henceforth be impossible to speak of Gilbert's friendship without falsehood, and, at Lorenzo's return, that I should not have the same right as before to look him in the face—this thought, I say, was sufficient to inspire me at this moment with so much determination that I thought my irresolution at an end. It seemed as if I should have but little difficulty in accomplishing the task from which I no longer endeavored to escape. But in the evening, when, at a late hour, Gilbert arrived, I was somewhat moved at perceiving my outward calmness and animation made him suppose I acquiesced in his wishes; for, after looking at me an instant, he seemed suddenly relieved from a lively apprehension, and his eyes flashed with joy.

There was considerable company in the drawing-room that evening, and consequently a good deal of noise. They had a kind of rehearsal of what was to take place the following evening. My cousins were at the piano with the baron and Lando. Leslie, at a distance, was gazing at Stella, who, under the pretext of looking over a volume of Dante, in order to select something to recite, was seated apart, [pg 462] silent and absorbed. There was no one on the terrace, and I proceeded in that direction. I felt that Gilbert's eyes followed me; but he hesitated about joining me. I likewise felt some hesitation, but, fearing I might again become irresolute, and wishing at once to make it impossible to yield to the danger, I looked up, and motioned for him to follow me. In an instant he was at my side, and, as I remained silent, he said in an agitated tone:

“I hope you have pardoned me, madame.”

I was terribly moved on my part, but it would not do to manifest it.

“Yes,” I replied, “I forgive you; for you have been sincere, and that is worth everything else. But, Monsieur de Kergy, I must be sincere likewise. Let me therefore say to you, leave Naples. You ought to, and it is my wish.”

He was greatly agitated, but did not utter a word. I continued with a calmness that astonished me, though my heart beat with frightful rapidity:

“To-morrow, I know, every one will depend on hearing you speak, and I also. But do not remain in Naples beyond the following day, if you can possibly help it. And after you are gone; I am sure you will be glad you obeyed me.”

He made no reply.

“Who knows?” continued I gently. “The day will come, perhaps, when we can meet again—when we can be truly friends without deceit, without falseness in the real sense of the word. What is impossible now may not be always.”

While I was speaking he leaned against the wall with folded arms. He listened at first with his head bent down; but he now suddenly raised it, and I saw such a veil of sadness over his eyes and whole face that I had to make a violent effort to maintain my self-command.

At last he said:

“You are right. It was folly in me to come; it would be greater folly to remain. I will obey you, madame. I cannot complain, and I respect you as much as I....”

He stopped, for I made a deprecatory gesture. What I had to say was said, and I felt our interview ought not to be prolonged. I was about to leave the terrace when he detained me.

“A moment more, madame, I beg—only one, and the last; for who knows if you will grant me another, even to bid you farewell?...”

I stopped.

“Yes,” continued he slowly, “I would like to think, as you say, that I shall be permitted to see you again some day, and sincerely be your friend. Time will pass over my head and yours. You will not always be young and beautiful. Long years will doubtless pass. To enable me to endure the present, I must look forward to the time when I shall be no longer young, and can see you again, and resume without fear the title I ought not to claim, I acknowledge, while there is any danger of profaning it. I await that day.”

It was by no means with indifference I listened to his agitated, trembling voice; but I manifested nothing outwardly, and was even able to smile, as I replied:

“It will not be necessary to wait so long as you suppose, I assure you. Long before my hair grows white, what there is good and true in your friendship will be restored to me. For before that day some one, more beautiful than I (whom it [pg 463] will not be difficult to find), and, moreover, worthy of you, to whom you can give your whole heart, will have effaced the remembrance of the passing fancy I have caused without intending it, but which shall not be prolonged a single instant with my consent.”

I passed by him without looking up or giving him time to reply, and returned to the drawing-room. There I seated myself on a sofa in an obscure corner of the room, or rather, I fell on it, pale, faint, and exhausted by the effort I had made.

I did not believe a word of what I had just said to Gilbert. My duty was to send him away, and this duty was accomplished! But I by no means desired another should so soon efface my image. I said so to allay his regret and appear indifferent. I was proud of the courage I had manifested. When I compared myself with Lorenzo, I thought myself perfectly heroic, and I was about to have reason to think myself a thousand times more so.

Lando at that moment left the piano, where he had been stationed all the evening beside Teresina. The latter, it may be remarked en passant, had profited so well by his hints that her toilet had become irreproachable, and now added singularly to the effect of her beauty. Lando perceived it, and it was evident he also thought of my cousin's by no means despicable dowry among her other attractions, as a possible means of abridging his exile and returning to Paris before the two years had expired. When, therefore, I saw him coming with a grave air towards the place where I was seated, I thought I was about to receive a communication I had long been prepared for. I did not suspect what he had to say concerned me much more directly than himself.

“Cousin Ginevra,” said he in a low tone, as he took a seat beside me, “I have had news from Milan.”

I started involuntarily. He did not notice it, but continued:

“News which proves I was not mistaken the other day when I told you the beautiful Faustina would take good care to avenge you. Only, I did not think it would be so soon.”

Brought back so suddenly to the most painful reality of my life, I was the more startled and confounded at what he said. Lando's gossip was usually odious to me; but now, instead of imposing silence on him, I insisted, on the contrary, that he should conceal nothing from me.

“Well, then,” continued he, “it seems the fair Milanese, notwithstanding her belle passion for Lorenzo, had never been able to console herself for being deprived of the duchess' coronet on which she had depended. So while neglecting nothing to maintain the ascendency she had regained over him, she was not wholly indifferent to the homage of a certain potentate from the Danube who offered to share with her his principality and his millions. She was still hesitating, it seems, between ambition and love, when Lorenzo, who had some suspicion, and was on the alert, unexpectedly came upon his rival. Then there was a violent scene and high words, which ended in a challenge. They were on the point of fighting when the lady prevented the affair from going any further by declaring she would give her hand to the potentate!... So in a short time, I imagine,” continued [pg 464] Lando, rubbing his hands, “Donna Faustina will take her departure for the banks of the Danube. You will be delivered for ever from her, and we shall soon see Lorenzo come home in a terrible humor. But, frankly, it is good enough for him. This punishment is not the hundredth part of what he merits when he has a wife like you!”

“O merciful heaven! what a fate is mine! and what a husband I am obliged to immolate myself to!...”

Such was my first thought on hearing this account, and an hour after, when I went to my chamber, I had not yet overcome the bitterness and agitation it caused me. My temptation became stronger and more formidable than ever, and the desire again sprang up in my heart to retract the sentence I had so recently pronounced. To see him, hear him, sometimes speak to him, and meet his sympathetic glance—was all this really forbidden me? Would this be failing in my duty to the husband who had outraged me so publicly? No, no, it could not be.... No one yet knew Gilbert was to leave Naples. A line, a word, from me, would suffice to prevent his departure. The new life created by his presence would continue as if nothing had happened that ought to terminate it!... I had already seized my pen and written the word ... when suddenly there awoke in my memory the words of Livia: “Think of God, whom he has offended a thousand times more than he has you”; and afterwards these: “If you seek likewise to be released, your fall will be speedy, rapid, and terrible.”

The recollection of these words stopped me and made me shudder. I now perceived what gradations I had passed through within a month. I felt that Livia was right—should I descend from the height I had just attained, it would indeed be to fall lower than I was before, and perhaps to the lowest depths!

My sister in her quiet cell still aided me with her prayers, which doubtless augmented the increasing light in my soul. I tore up the note I had begun to write, and, again preparing myself to struggle and suffer more than ever, I calmly renewed the resolution I had been so near breaking. It seemed to me this slight victory, though it did not lessen my sadness, added to my strength, and made the jewel within gleam with a lustre somewhat brighter than before.

Another General Convention Of The Protestant Episcopal Church.

The late convention of the Protestant Episcopal Church has, we believe, disappointed everybody. With skilful care to avoid anything which might cause a rupture, the various factions of this large and respectable denomination have spoken to each other, and parted. The world is none the wiser, and we hardly think that they are. High-Churchmen have maintained their ground with smooth dignity; Low-Churchmen have gained some points, while they have lost others; and Ritualists have hidden themselves in silence. If neither party is suited, there is the consolation that no one is pleased; and from this universal negative we presume the conclusion comes to an universal affirmative that all are pleased. We have long ago foreseen this result, and they who, arguing from the defection of Bishop Cummins, expected to hear something decisive in the way of doctrine, have learned how peace may be maintained by simply abstaining from war. The Episcopal Church has no fixed creed. Its articles of faith contradict its offices. Its various members interpret both, so that from the Babel of conflicting opinions no certain sound can be heard. Thus it has been, and thus it will be to the end. There is only one thing on which Episcopalians unite—namely, hostility to the Catholic Church. With various degrees of ignorance or honesty, they are enemies of the only body which teaches with authority, whose forms they counterfeit by sad travesties or servile imitations.

The action of this convention, as far as it concerns the interior structure of the church, which they profess to have modelled after the American Constitution, has no particular interest for the world. Some improvement may have been made in the canons, of which we can be no judges. Legislation is one of the peculiarities of our day. If it be harmless, it is looked upon as a safe use of force and nerve which, expended in another direction, might have done damage. We proceed to notice a few things which are of importance, and they are the only acts of the convention which, on the reading of the journal, strike us as of any consequence.

We are happy to be able to congratulate our friends on the rejection of the provincial system. With them it would have worked very badly, because a province supposes some central government and a unit in authority. When a province separates from its parent state, it becomes independent. If there be no home government, there can be no province, properly so-called. The committee very learnedly explains the constitution of the primitive church, and concludes that it would not apply to them, and could not without injury be forced upon them.

“Your committee assume that the terms ‘provincial system’ are used in the resolution in their full ecclesiastical [pg 466]and primitive sense. In the early church there were: 1. the parish; 2, the diocese; 3, the province; 4, the patriarchate. The parish had its priest, the diocese its bishop, the province its archbishop, the patriarchate its patriarch. Among these, the dominant and most active power was the province with its archbishop. Speaking generally, we may say that it possessed the powers of this body and of the House of Bishops, and many of the powers of our diocesan councils. The provinces were disconnected and independent, except as, by very slender ties, they were united in the patriarchate. Such a system would dismember this church, and out of this now compact, now united body create five, or seven, or ten separate churches. The ties which may at first unite them will grow weaker and weaker. However similar they may be at the moment of dismemberment, at that moment the process of divergence will begin, and it will go on until the separation will be as great as that now existing between York and Canterbury. Those provinces now communicate with each other only informally.

“Any institution of provinces or provincial synods, with powers subject at all times to revocation by the General Convention, would be useless and illusory. The provinces, if invested with irrevocable powers, and discharged from the constant and necessary authority and supervision of the General Convention, certainly might, and probably would, soon diverge into widely differing practices and opinions, engendering ecclesiastical conflicts, threatening the unity of our church.”

Nothing could be plainer than this argument. In any Protestant organization, the least separation makes an independent church. It could not be otherwise where there is no infallible authority and no divine government to bind all the members to one head. It must be sad to the lovers of primitive purity to know how imperfect the constitution of the early church was. Everything tended to disintegration, and a more perfect system has been found out by the wisdom of modern days. In the mind of the committee, the hand of God had nothing to do with the primitive church; for there is only one author of confusion and disorder. These learned antiquarians never heard of the See of Rome, and do not know that our Lord said to Peter, “Thou art the rock, and on this rock will I build my church.” Viewing them, however, from their own standpoint, we are glad to note their acuteness, and to congratulate them that they have not divided themselves.

It appears also that there was some disposition to consider the American Episcopal Church as a province of the English, and to treat the Archbishop of Canterbury as a kind of patriarch. This disposition was rebuked by the convention. The following are among the remarks made in the House of Deputies which show that the quasi mission of the Bishop of Lichfield was fruitless:

“The right reverend gentleman who has taken so strong an interest in this subject has made a proposition, and the proposition is that we should become one great province, if you please, with the Archbishop of Canterbury as metropolitan of these United States for the nonce, and that in all these conferences the Archbishop of Canterbury, as the great metropolitan or patriarch, is to preside.

“I know that many are wont to call the Church of England the mother church. I hold that she is not. If so, I claim her to be nothing but a very poor stepmother. The church in this country never was perfected till she got her perfection by the consecration of Seabury from the bishops of Scotland; and if we acknowledge a mother other than the mother church of Jerusalem (which I am not prepared to acknowledge), we must acknowledge Scotland, not England.

“I could say a great deal more on this subject—full of it I am; but, under the circumstances, I think I have said enough to satisfy the members of this house that they had better let it alone, and wait till the bishops tell us what they think of it. [pg 467]They are the persons interested. They accepted the first invitation without asking us ‘with your leave’ or ‘by your leave.’ Now, after they have been bluffed, and this church, I would say, insulted as it has been by the Dean of Canterbury, and by the prearrangement of keeping out the very question which these gentlemen, at a large expense of time and money, went to attend to, why not leave them first to express their opinion? My word for it, from what I know of the self-respect of the members of that house, if you wait for that, you will wait to the end of the term.

“There are several parties to this movement, of different temperaments. One of them is the great apostolic prelate whom we have welcomed twice to this convention—the illustrious prelate, of whom I speak with the most unbounded admiration as a churchman, as a gentleman, as a historian, as a man. In every capacity in which I can know human nature, he deserves honor and affection. I do not enter into the motives of this movement, but I simply say that he is affirmatively moving, in my belief, to gratify what he has largely developed in his great nature—the power of organism. He does wish, I have no doubt, something like an organic union of the two churches of the two great English-speaking races. That movement, to a certain extent, is creditable and desirable, but to a certain other extent it is extremely dangerous and utterly inadmissible.”

The organic unity of the Anglican with the American Episcopal Church is as far from perfect as the union of provinces would prove if the primitive system, as stated by the learned committee, were adopted. The independence of the two churches is as complete as that of the Presbyterian or Methodist denominations in this country. Neither is bound by the doctrinal decisions of the other. This being the case, we hardly understand the full significance of the ceremony by which an “alms-basin” was presented by the General Convention to the Archbishop of Canterbury. The Bishop of Lichfield, explaining his part in the august rite, says:

“It was my happiness to present that alms-basin to the Archbishop of Canterbury in concert with one whose loss we all lament, who is now with God in his rest—Bishop McIlvaine, of Ohio, who, hand-in-hand with me, each of us holding the alms-basin by one hand and on bended knee, presented that alms-basin for the Lord's table in S. Paul's Cathedral, on the fourth of July, on that occasion.”

One of the members of the House of Deputies tells us that

“This basin was procured from the Messrs. Kirk, of the city of Baltimore. The price of it was one thousand dollars, and it is said to be the finest piece of work of silver and gold and precious stones combined that has ever been made upon our continent. It was sent through the hands of the Bishop of Lichfield, who presented it on bended knees to the Archbishop of Canterbury, to be placed upon the altar of S. Paul's Cathedral; and in this basin the bishops of the Church of England made their own offerings first. It is understood that the basin is to be preserved by the archbishop and transmitted to his successors, to be used in all future times at the consecration of English bishops and the opening of the Houses of Convocation, and upon all public and great occasions in which the Church of England is interested, and to be preserved as a pledge and token of unity and good-will between our own church and our mother Church of England.

“I may say here, too, that both Houses of Convocation, by resolution adopted unanimously, went in their scarlet convocation robes from their sittings in the chamber near Westminster Abbey, in solemn procession, to the celebration of the Holy Communion in S. Paul's Cathedral, especially to do honor to the American Church; and in this procession Bishop McIlvaine and the Lord Bishop of Lichfield carried our basin, and it was presented to the Archbishop of Canterbury in form.”

Why did these prelates kneel to the archbishop on this occasion, unless to do him homage? And what function does an “alms-basin” discharge in the consecration of bishops and the opening of the Houses of Convocation? We ask in [pg 468] all sincerity, because our knowledge of ecclesiology is imperfect in reference to these points.

While we praise the manly spirit of our American friends in not yielding to the spirit of toadyism before English prelacy, we confess we are somewhat pained at a seeming want of self-respect in their attempt to deal with the “Holy Orthodox Eastern Church.” This body, though having valid orders, holds all the doctrines condemned by the Thirty-nine Articles, and has plainly and openly anathematized Protestantism. Why will the Episcopalians consent to be snubbed and slapped in the face for the sake of an intercommunion which is utterly impossible? If they like it, we ought not to repine; yet, for the sake of our manhood, we protest against it. The Rev. Dr. Fulton, of Alabama, said:

“There is a great body of Christian people, constituting one of the three great bodies of the Holy Catholic Church, throughout the world, which to-day are not in visible communion, although they are in unity of spirit, and hope for a more clearly-defined bond of peace. Hitherto it has only been possible for these various bodies, or at least two of them—that is to say, the Anglican Church and the Holy Orthodox Eastern Church—to meet each other in courtesy. Now, arrangements have been made through the Archbishop of Canterbury by which the dead of our communion from England or this country can be buried by the Orthodox clergy, and other offices of courtesy and kindness can be performed. The Archbishop of Syra, representing the Holy Orthodox Eastern Church, lately visited the Church of England, and was there received with the greatest honor. Prelates of our own church and clergy of lower degree have likewise been received by the Eastern clergy. There are, in this city, with the approbation of the bishop of the diocese clergy of the Holy Orthodox Eastern communion. It is believed—in fact, it is known—that they are present now in this house; and, as a member of the Russo-Greek Committee, it was suggested to me that, in the general recognition of the clerical rank and character which these resolutions imply, these brethren should be likewise recognized. It touches not at all the doctrine of their churches; it touches not at all the doctrines of their church; it touches not at all their attitude toward us; it simply recognizes that they are clergy of a church toward which we hope that, in the providence of God, we may be drawn in love, without any sacrifice of our own principles.”

We doubt not that, when gentlemen meet, they treat each other with courtesy. Even Roman Catholic, whom Dr. Fulton would not invite to the convention, are courteous and polite. But this does not mean any compromise in questions of doctrine. If Dr. Potter approves of the presence of Rev. Mr. Bjerring in New York, we are quite sure that the Russian priest never dreams of acknowledging his authority. Is it not very much beneath the dignity of a large and respectable body to take mere politeness for any approach to unity in faith or communion? A letter of the Metropolitan of St. Petersburg was handed round among the deputies as a curiosity and a wonderful sign of Eastern favor to the Protestant Episcopal Church. We are not sure if the following is an exact copy of the letter. If so, it is a gentle rebuke, given as politely as could be done under the circumstances. We extract the letter and the comments thereon from a secular paper generally trustworthy:

“The Convention's Proposition Spurned By Orthodox Catholics.

“Apropos of the efforts of the Protestant Episcopal Church for a closer union and affiliation with the Orthodox Eastern Church, the following letter, translated from the Birzheviga Vedomosty, a Russian journal of a semi-official ecclesiastical status, will be interesting. It is a reply to the petition of the Protestant Episcopal Church for a more intimate union with [pg 469]the Russo-Greek Church, and is now for the first time published on this continent:

“ ‘To the Well-Beloved in Christ, and the Right Reverend Committee of the House of Bishops of the Protestant Episcopal Church in the United States of America:

“ ‘Your letter, addressed to his Excellency the Procurator General, Count Tolstoy, having been presented by him to the consideration of the Most Holy Governing Synod of Russia, together with the report and the concurrence of the House of Bishops, approved by the House of Clerical and Lay Deputies, in reference to the establishment upon a true catholic basis of a spiritual fraternity between the American and Orthodox Churches, especially in the Territory of Alaska, was received by the Most Holy Synod of all the Russias with the utmost pleasure, as a new proof of respect shown by the representatives of the Episcopal Church, and of their estimable purpose concerning the union of the churches. The Most Holy Synod, on their part, will make it an object of their constant care that a spirit of Christian tolerance and fraternal love and esteem, in accordance with the precepts and usages of our church, shall continue to pervade all the relations existing between the members of the Orthodox Church and those of the Protestant Episcopal Church in America, and particularly in the Territory of Alaska.

“ ‘As to the hypothesis of a reciprocal participation in the solemn performance of the sacrament of the Eucharist, the Eastern Church firmly adheres to the principles and convictions so clearly stated in the messages sent in 1723 by the Orthodox patriarchs of the East in reply to the Anglican bishops. It considers a previous agreement in faith as absolutely indispensable to the practical mutual participation in the sacraments, inasmuch as the first is the only possible ground-work or basis for the last. In order to attain this most desired end, a thorough study and investigation of the differences in the doctrine of both churches would be absolutely requisite; and to promote this, a great principle of co-operation will undoubtedly be found in the spirit of peace and charity which animates both churches, the Orthodox as well as the American, and in those prayers for the peace of the whole world and for the union of the holy churches of the Lord which arise to the God of truth and mercy from the Orthodox churches, and which are most certainly shared in by the American churches.

“ ‘Having been authorized by the Most Holy Governing Synod, I assume the duty of presenting their answer to the House of Bishops of the American Episcopal Church, and beg you to accept the assurance of the highest esteem of your brother and co-servant in Jesus Christ.

Isidore,

“ ‘First Presiding Member of the Governing Synod of all the Russias, and Metropolitan of Novgorod and St. Petersburg.’

“The only ecclesiastical representative of the Russian Church in this city, the Rev. N. Bjerring, has corroborated the facts set forth in this letter, and furthermore stated to the writer, in answer to inquiries, that the Orthodox Church seeks not exclusive affiliation with the Anglican and American Episcopal Churches, but desires to hold friendly relations with all Christian denominations; and in this spirit of fraternal love he receives in his own house, as personal friends, not only members of his own household of faith, but ministers and members of the Lutheran and Reformed Churches, Methodists, Baptists, Episcopalians, and Roman Catholics, with all of whom he maintains the most cordial relations. But he declares that there can be no such thing as sacramental union between his church and any other, unless there shall have been first complete agreement in dogmas and an unconditional acceptance on the part of the affiliating churches of the authority and acts of the first seven Œcumenical Councils. This is a conditio sine quâ non from which the Russian Church cannot move a step nor deviate one line from the dogmatic truth handed down to her from the apostolic church; nor can she at the same time permit anything to be added to these dogmas.”

The Eastern churches will never recognize the Episcopalians as anything but a sect of Protestants. They deny the validity of their orders, and condemn their articles of faith as heretical. Not one of their bishops or priests would be recognized as possessing any sacerdotal power, or could ever receive Holy Communion at the hands of the Greeks, [pg 470] whom they are inclined to receive with so much favor.

The following words of one of their leading agents in England are sufficiently decisive, though we fear not plain enough to convince our brethren who are so sensitive about their apostolic succession, which every one denies but themselves:

“No other Protestant church was ever so full of contradictions, so full of variegated heresy, as the English Church was and is, and will be to the end of her existence. With such an heretical church the Orthodox Eastern Church never would allow her bishops to transact.

“If Rome considered all ordinations by Parker and his successors—i.e., the whole present English episcopate and clergy—to be invalid, null, and void, and consistently re-ordained all those converts who wished and were fit for orders, the Eastern Church can but imitate her proceedings, as both follow, in this point, the same principles.

“The Anglo-Catholics are most decidedly no Catholics, but Protestants, although inclining hopefully towards Catholicism. It is astonishing how the zealous Intercommunionists dive into the depths of orthodox learning, rove in the remotest districts, compile the minutest arguments, while they overlook the chasm at their feet. They most ingenuously demand to dispense with ceremony, and to join hands all at once over the vast deep stretching out between them.”[107]

Very little has been done by this convention in the way of doctrinal decisions. The House of Bishops having solemnly declared that in baptismal regeneration, as the term is used in the Prayer-Book, no moral change is signified, the effort to drop the term altogether was voted down. Thus, in harmony with the customs of this church, a term is retained which has no real significance. Those who object to it can only console themselves by the conviction that it means nothing.

A former convention had quite plainly denied the real presence of Christ in the Holy Eucharist, and hence the condemnation of any adoration of the sacrament is quite natural. We are not certain that the Ritualists will see anything to startle them. They would hardly hear any voice, however loud it might be. Yet we think the rest of the world will be satisfied that no adoration can be paid to the elements of the Protestant Episcopal communion, for the reason that they are in their very nature and substance, and that Christ is not in them. An important canon on ritual was passed bearing chiefly on this subject. As it first received the votes of the House of Deputies, it condemned “the use of incense; the placing, carrying, or retaining a crucifix in any part of the place of public worship; the elevation of the elements in the Holy Communion in such manner as to expose them to the view of the people, as objects towards which adoration is to be made; and any act of adoration of or towards the elements, such as bowings, prostrations, or genuflections.” As amended by the House of Bishops, and afterwards passed by both houses, the use of incense and of the crucifix is not forbidden. One deputy explained that the Greek Church is in the habit of using incense, and that the Lutherans retain the crucifix. Perhaps these may be among the reasons for the action of the bishops. We conclude that while the crucifix may be placed in the church, and incense [pg 471] be used at the will of ministers or their people, no act of adoration can be allowed towards the Eucharist. The force of this canon will depend much upon the disposition of the bishop, who can wink at these observances or fail to know anything of them. The law, however, obliges him to examine the matter if any two of his presbyters complain, and, referring the subject to his standing committee, to admonish the offending minister. And if the minister disregard this admonition, he must be tried for a breach of his ordination vow. If this canon means anything at all, it will put a stop to all the practices of the Ritualists by which they endeavor to imitate the beauty of Catholic worship, and their whole ceremonial is at once excluded from any Episcopal church. Let us see if this law will be either respected or obeyed.

The rejection of Rev. Dr. Seymour, elected to the bishopric of Illinois, is a still further condemnation of any Eucharistic adoration. For chiefly for this adoration, which he was supposed to favor, was he refused the vote of the clerical and lay deputies. The majority against him was so great that hardly any one can doubt of the mind of the convention. He had been involved in the Confraternity of the Blessed Sacrament, either directly or indirectly, and this fact alone was sufficient to cause his rejection. It seems to us pretty evident that the Episcopal Church by her highest authority has denied both baptismal regeneration and the real presence of Christ in the Eucharist. Yet this denial will have little effect, because all Episcopalians will think as they please, and no doctrinal decision influences their faith. Creeds are with them written on paper, and have no further value. One would naturally expect the believers in these rather important doctrines to forsake a church which condemns them. But few will do so. They will talk of the primitive days and the hopes of better times, when the “three branches” of the Catholic Church shall come together. Until that time there is no authority for Anglo-Catholics. If the Protestant Episcopal communion should by synod deny the existence of God, we believe they would still remain in her, bearing their burden, persecuted by their own church, and with great self-denial waiting till the truth should revive in the hopeful mother that bore them. This new species of self-abnegation and of moral martyrdom by one's own church is the glory of Ritualistic confessorship. They have not learned that the first duty of a true church is to teach, and that the first step in holiness is to mortify self-will.

On the subject of education, the Protestant Episcopal Church has nearly taken a step forward, and we sincerely regret that the step was only half made. The Committee on Christian Education recommended the organization of “sisterhoods” and “brotherhoods” to supply teachers. They say:

“The great want will not be met until some method of organization be adopted, such as brotherhoods or sisterhoods, whose members make teaching their special work, and who therefore cultivate the teaching faculty, and acquire all the branches of useful learning, in order to do Christ's work for the young, under the direction and at the call of their bishops and pastors. And while an organized work seems to be the only one likely to meet our necessities, and while the religious motive is the only one powerful enough to draw men and women to such work for the best years of their lives, it should be borne in mind that the truths [pg 472]of the Gospel, and the Catholic faith, as this church hath received the same, have strength and vitality sufficient to furnish motive and method to such associations without exaggerations or additions in doctrine or practice, and without borrowing distinctive dress, nomenclature, or usages from the Church of Rome. In some of the schools or colleges at present belonging to us, such associations might be developed—teaching orders—Brothers of the Christian Doctrine, Sisters of the Holy Childhood—composed of men and women of sound judgment, moral force, thorough education, patient and winning ways, who would ask for no higher work than to train the minds and mould the characters of the young in accordance with the gracious teachings of the church, and with the sanction of, and in loyal submission to, the authority of those who are rulers in the same.”

In accordance with this recommendation, a canon to establish “deaconesses or sisters” was reported to the convention. It, however, failed to pass, and the words of the committee stand before the world on their own merits. Though there are grave difficulties in the establishment of communities where there is no religious rule or any unity in faith, yet we would like to see this imitation of Catholic life tried among our Protestant brethren. It might do good, and gradually lead the earnest and truly self-denying soul to the one home of all Christian life and zeal.

It is a disappointment to us, however, that this convention has done nothing in regard to parochial schools. Some years ago the language of the Episcopalian bishops led us to think that they realized the full importance of guarding the young from the dangers of an infidel education. Colleges and academies will very poorly meet this great evil. The children most exposed are those who every day go to our public schools, where no religion can be taught, and where a non-Christian system of instruction is equivalent to infidelity. The truth of this assertion needs no demonstration, for the facts of every day prove it, and the tide of unbelief is at our very doors.

The report of the Committee on the State of the Church dwells on some generalities, but yet admits a substantial decline during the three years past:

“But there are in these documents some facts that are not cheering or satisfactory. In 1871 there were 448 candidates for holy orders, and in 1874 but 301—decrease in three years, 147. In 1873 it is said there were no ordinations in 17 dioceses, and of the whole number of candidates only 60 or 70 were able to maintain themselves. Thus we have not only the supply of the ministry diminished, but the fact revealed that parents of pecuniary ability, elevated social position, and great culture, seemingly withheld their sons from the Lord's higher service. We have also had our attention called to the fact that, in many instances, the young novice is admitted to the diaconate and priesthood with such imperfect qualification that we are forced to the conclusion that there is great imperfection in our legislation, or they whose office and duty call them to decide upon the qualifications of candidates are too lenient in their admission of the applicants.”

We do not find any comparative table of communicants, but should be led to conclude that as the ministry diminishes in numbers, the members would decline in the same ratio. Perhaps a little more attention to schools and the training of the young would be advisable. If the Episcopal Church wishes to hold its own in this age and country, it will have to give more attention to the dangers of the public schools.

We do not know precisely what authority belongs to the address of the bishops at the end of the convention. It has not one word in regard to doctrine, and the allusions [pg 473] to any differences of opinion are so very general that no party could be offended. We do not even gather the precise meaning of the writer. We utterly fail to comprehend his idea of “the liberty of Christian faith,” or understand his notion of freedom in obedience. The pastoral was evidently written to offend no one, and in this we think it must have succeeded.

There are some good words on the subject of divorce, but we can hardly tell how far they go. Those “who put away an uncongenial wife or husband,” and marry again, taking advantage of the license of the civil courts, are condemned as adulterers, unless they do so for the cause of fornication. We do not know how to explain this. Is fornication or sin before marriage a reason for divorce? Is adultery after marriage considered sufficient to break the tie of matrimony, so that a new marriage is permitted? If the bishops mean to say this, we would earnestly recommend them to study the sacred scriptures of the New Testament. Their halfway protest against civil divorce is nevertheless something to be thankful for in these days.

Now, having rehearsed all the important points which we have been able to see in the doings of this General Convention, we would ask any person of honest mind who really believes in the divinity of Jesus Christ if there is in the Protestant Episcopal community any trace of the one true church which he established. It is to be found neither in the unity of faith nor in any consciousness of sacerdotal gifts. No conception of the fundamental idea of a church has any place in her councils, and the truth of Christ's presence in his adorable sacrament, which is the very life of his elect, is the constant object of assault. While they, against all facts and the testimony of all which they pretend to hold as the Catholic Church, assert the validity of their orders, they prove beyond all cavil that the grace of the priesthood is not theirs. For God never left that grace, even in heresy and schism, without the consciousness of its tremendous power. As a mere Protestant body, it may keep its exterior before the world. It has no interior life whatever, no heart and no soul, that we might mark it and distinguish it among the hosts of a divided Christianity. Nevertheless, there is light enough to guide the sincere to the one faith, and the plea of invincible ignorance will be a poor excuse for many in the dread day of account. Let us pray earnestly to God for these souls in the night of error. “What will it profit them to gain the world, and then to lose their souls?”

Assunta Howard. Concluded.

VI. Woman's Influence.

“And so I have you all to myself once more; no interference from cruel guardians on your side, and none from unreasonable husbands on mine. Joking apart, Assunta darling, I think God has been very good to me to give me such a compensation for Harry's long absence. Every trial seems to have a blessing in its train, by way of a set-off. And you are just the very dearest of blessings.” And Mary Lee moved her chair a little nearer to her friend, by way of showing her appreciation. Assunta looked up from her work with a bright smile, as she replied:

“You are not in the least changed from the dear Mary Percival of convent days—and happy days they were, too—while I feel twenty years older than I did the day I bade you good-by at the garden gate. But now you are mistaken. I am the one blessed, not blessing. For think what it is to me—a waif—to find awaiting me so kind a welcome and so pleasant a temporary home. God only knows what would have become of me without you.”

“Oh!” said Mary, “my only fear was that, with so many claimants for the honor, I should never succeed in carrying off the prize. I am sure, until it was decided, and I saw your trunks safely landed at my door, I looked upon Mrs. Sinclair as my deadly enemy.”

“Clara is very kind—much more so than I deserve,” said Assunta, while an expression of seriousness passed over her face; “but I should not have liked to accept her hospitality now. I think the present arrangement is more for the happiness of all parties.”

And the remembrance of a certain evening on board the steamer, when Mr. Sinclair, a married man, had dared to tell her, his wife's friend, that she had first possessed his heart, and that his love for her was still unchanged, made her shudder now involuntarily. He must indeed have strangely forgotten himself, when, after that, he added his entreaties to those of his unsuspecting wife that she would look upon their home as hers. Assunta felt as if the word love had indeed been profaned by the lips of George Sinclair. God is love; but she knew that he would not hesitate to take even that most holy name in vain. Why then scruple to profane the attribute? However, all this was a secret, known to herself alone.

“Mrs. Sinclair must have been a lovely bride,” said Mary musingly. “But, Assunta, why did Mr. Carlisle return at once to Europe? I should think he would be tired of travelling by this time, and would like to settle down for a while on his own place. I have heard it is so beautiful.”

“The habit of travelling grows [pg 475] upon one,” replied Assunta. “He only returned to Maryland to attend to certain matters in regard to his sister's property and mine. It was his intention to spend some time longer in Europe and the East.” Then, to change the subject, she continued: “But, Mary dear, when does your brother enter the seminary?”

“I do not know,” said Mrs. Lee. “I cannot understand Augustine at all. He seems just as good and earnest as ever, and yet something troubles him, I see it plainly. But he is unusually reserved with me; so that I feel a reluctance to question him. I wish you would ask him about the seminary. You can do it quite incidentally; and very likely he would tell you all about it.”

“I certainly will,” said Assunta. “He is your brother; so I almost feel as if he were mine too.”

“I do not think,” continued Mary, “that he is well. I am afraid his trip to the East may have done him more harm than good. He always protests that he is perfectly well, if I ask him; but I am sure he does not look so.”

“I have thought so myself, and I think we must look upon his case as our next duty.” And Assunta arose, as the clock struck eleven.

The opportunity to take the case in hand came much sooner than the fair conspirators had anticipated. The next afternoon, while Mrs. Lee had excused herself for a few hours, in order to pay the expected weekly visit to her mother-in-law, Mr. Percival joined Assunta, as she sat alone in the cosey library, finishing a garment for a poor child in whom she was already interested. Assunta noticed more than usual the paleness of the spiritual face she had always so much admired, and the weariness of its expression; but, with true feminine tact, she made no comment; only, as he seated himself beside the table, she looked up with a smile of welcome, as his sister might have done.

“Hard at work, as usual. I hope I do not interrupt you, Miss Howard?” said Mr. Percival, with an answering smile.

“Oh! no indeed. I am delighted to see you this evening. We have not had a good long talk since I came; and yet we have so many topics of mutual interest.”

Mr. Percival took from his pocket a little box, and, opening it, said:

“Miss Howard, I have ventured to bring you a souvenir of my travels, which I beg you will accept from Mary's brother, and because of the association.”

He placed in her hand a heart-shaped locket, plain but heavy, in the centre of which glowed a large crimson ruby, and around it were engraved the words, “Cor cordium.” Within, on one side, was a miniature painting of the Sacred Heart of Jesus; on the other side was set a tiny crucifix, carved from the olive-wood of Gethsemani by one of the monks of Jerusalem, and which had been laid upon the altar in the Chapel of the Holy Sepulchre.

“And I prayed for you in that sacred spot most fervently, you may be sure,” said Mr. Percival.

Assunta's eyes were still fixed upon the beautiful treasure which she held in her hand. Tears were in them, as she raised them at last, saying:

“Words are poor thanks for such a gift as this. You know, Mr. Percival, how much I shall value it. Indeed, I feel most unworthy to possess anything so precious; yet I shall accept it, as you said, from the brother of my dearest friend, [pg 476] who is to me truly a sister in affection.” And pressing her lips to the crystal which protected the crucifix, she carefully replaced the locket in its case.

“And so you did not forget those foolish, fanciful remarks I made by Shelley's grave. I had not dreamed they would have dwelt in your memory so long; still less did I imagine they would inspire so beautiful a design as this, which is, of course, your own.” Then she added after a little pause: “There is one greater gift even than this that I shall ask of you one of these days. It is one of your first Masses, when, as a priest, you are privileged to offer the Holy Sacrifice.”

“Miss Howard,” exclaimed Mr. Percival, with deep emotion, “that is a subject of which I cannot even think without suffering.”

“Forgive me,” murmured Assunta, surprised beyond measure. “It was indeed unpardonable in me to pain you by speaking of that which is between yourself and God alone. My only excuse is that I thought the matter had long been settled.”

Then followed a silence, so prolonged that Assunta began to wonder what kept that manly head bowed forward upon the table. Was it confusion, was it prayer, or had he perhaps fainted? At last he suddenly looked up, and fixed those fine, earnest eyes of his full upon Assunta's face; and even in that moment the thought struck her what pure, true eyes they were.

“Miss Howard, you are the last person on earth to whom I ought to speak on this subject, and I know not what impels me to do so now. Pray for me; for my salvation may depend upon it.”

Assunta tried to be calm, as she said gently, while she breathed a silent prayer for guidance:

“You must think of me as almost a sister.”

Mr. Percival went on:

“Even your image, true and beautiful and holy as it is, and pure as an angel's, should never have been allowed to come between me and the God to whose special service I was inclined. But believe me, Miss Howard, never for one moment have I cherished a hope that you might be to me other than you are; only, when I have striven to rise above all human feeling, and to give myself unreservedly to him who demanded the sacrifice, God help me! you seemed to fill his place in my soul. Forgive me and pity me! I am miserably weak.”

After a moment he continued:

“Ah! Miss Howard, you know what I mean. It is only because of my own weakness that I have found the memory of you an obstacle to my advance towards the perfection to which I aspired.”

“And to which you will still aspire.” And Assunta's voice was low and sweet, as she for the first time broke silence. “I had not dreamed of this, Mr. Percival, but I hope you will never have occasion to regret the confidence you have reposed, not in the ideal which has for a moment passed as a cloud of temptation between your soul and its high calling, but in one who, though full of faults, may yet offer you her sympathy and her prayers.”

“God bless you!” escaped from Mr. Percival's lips.

“I am too young and inexperienced,” continued Assunta, “to give you counsel; besides, I am a woman; but, with my woman's intuition, I think I see how all this [pg 477] has come about.... May I go on?”

“I beg you will; it is the sort of soul-wound that needs probing.”

Assunta smiled. “I do not think such severe treatment will be required—only an examination, perhaps, preparatory to healing. You met me in Rome—forgive me if I speak too freely of myself—surrounded by that atmosphere of beauty and poetry which steals into the soul, because it breathes from the very centre of Catholic faith and the glory of the church militant. But when you met me, I was with those whose hearts were not open to such influences; and it was very natural that you and I should feel drawn to each other by the attraction of a common faith and hope. Do you think I could have said those foolish words, which it seems you have remembered only too well”—and she glanced at the little case in her hand—“if I had not felt that you could sympathize with my thoughts, however poorly they were expressed? Believe me, it was a certain earnestness of faith in me, which your presence drew out into somewhat too free expression and which remained in your memory as an attraction; and the devil has ingeniously made use of that little opening to insinuate some subtle poison. But his power is at an end, thank God! He has, for me, overreached his mark. The very fact that you could speak of this to me proves that the danger is already passing. O my friend! think what a poor, miserable substitute is even the greatest human happiness for the life to which God calls you. Think of the reward! Heaven is the price! However, it is the Holy Spirit, not I, that should speak to your soul. Will you not give him the opportunity? Will you not, perhaps, go into retreat? Or rather, please do not listen to me, but go to your director, and open your heart to him. I can only give you a few words of sympathy and encouragement. He can speak to you as the voice of God.”

“You do not despise me, then, for having wavered?”

“Do not say that, Mr. Percival,” exclaimed the young girl earnestly. “What saint is there that has not suffered temptation? Despise you? I envy you, rather. Think of the vocation God has given you! If it proves to be the mountain of sacrifice, and you ascend it with the cross upon your shoulders, will you not be all the better priest from your likeness to Him who was at once both priest and victim!”

“Miss Howard, pardon me, but you speak as if the lesson of Calvary were not new to you; as if you, too, knew what it is to suffer—not, as I have done, through your own weakness—God forbid! That I could never think.”

“We each of us must bear some cross,” said Assunta hastily; and then, to give a lighter turn to the conversation, she added: “I am sorry that I should have proved to be yours.”

For the first time Augustine Percival smiled, as he said:

“But if, through you, I win my crown, you will not then regret it?”

“O that crown!” exclaimed Assunta; “let us both keep it ever in sight as an incentive. The way will not then seem so long or so hard. Mr. Percival, will you see your director to-night?”

“I will go to him now. It is what I have neglected only too long. God bless you, Miss Howard! But dare I now, after all that has passed, ask you to retain my [pg 478] trifling gift, that you may not forget to pray for me?”

“I shall prize it most highly,” said Assunta. “But I shall not need to be reminded to commend you very often to the Sacred Heart of our divine Lord, where you will find strength and consolation. I am sure the least I can do for you is to pray for you, having been the occasion of your suffering.”

“And of something more than that,” said Mr. Percival.

“And I shall still hope for the other greater gift,” said Assunta in pleading tones.

“Miss Howard,” replied Mr. Percival, almost with solemnity, “if I, unworthy as I am, should ever be permitted to offer the Holy Sacrifice, my first Mass shall be for you, God willing. But I dare not yet look forward with hope to such a possibility. Once more, God bless you! Pray for me.” And in a moment more he had left the house.

Assunta attended Mass daily at the cathedral. The next morning, as she was leaving the church, Mr. Percival joined her; but, without saying a word, he placed a note in her hand, and at the corner he turned, and took his way in the opposite direction. In her own room the young girl read these words:

“To-day I start for Frederick, where I shall make a retreat with the good Jesuit fathers. In solitude and prayer I hope that God may make known to me his will. Pray, that I may have light to see and grace to follow the inspirations of the Holy Spirit. The words you spoke last night are known to the loving Heart of Jesus. He will reward you. I can say no more now. Your brother in Christ,

A. P.”

“Thank God!” exclaimed Assunta.

After breakfast, Mary came to her, as she stood for a moment by the window, and, putting her arm about her affectionately, said:

“Darling, we need not make any more plans to entrap poor Augustine into a confession, for I do believe he is all right. He came here for a few minutes early this morning to say good-by, as he was going to Frederick. Of course that must mean a retreat; and a retreat is, of course, the first step towards the seminary.”

“I am very, very glad,” said Assunta, smiling. “Women are not always as bright as they think they are, you see.”

Three weeks from that day Augustine Percival sailed for Europe to enter upon his theological course in Rome. And two faithful hearts daily begged for him of Almighty God grace and fortitude with that happy confidence which seems almost a presage of answered prayer.

And five years passed away—long and often weary in the passing, but short and with abundant blessings in the retrospect—five uneventful years, and yet leaving a lasting impress upon the individual soul. Assunta's home was still with her friend, Mary Lee—an arrangement to which she most gratefully consented, on condition that she might, from her ample income, contribute her share towards the ease and comfort of the family. It thus became a mutual benefit, as well as pleasure; for Capt. Lee's pay as a naval officer was small and their only dependence. Assunta had won the hearts of all, even down to Mary's two little ones, who came bringing plenty of love with them, as well as adding much to the care and solicitude of the young mother and her younger friend.

They saw but little of Mrs. Sinclair during those years. She had [pg 479] become a thorough woman of the world—a leader of fashion in her own circle. She had lost much of the simplicity and naïveté of character and manner which had made her charming in the old Roman days. Her laugh had not the genuine ring which her own light heart used to give it. She was still beautiful—very beautiful as queen of the ball-room. But Mary Lee always insisted that she had the unmistakable look of one who has an interior closet somewhere which might reveal a skeleton; and Assunta thought—but her thoughts she kept to herself—that it was not very difficult to divine what that skeleton might be. She understood her, and pitied her from her heart; and she loved her, too, with the old affection. But their life-paths, once seemingly parallel, had now diverged so widely that she felt she could not help her. The consolation Clara sought was very different from anything her brother's ward could supply.

And that brother, Mr. Carlisle—did Assunta never think of him? Daily, before God, she remembered him; but it was not for her peace to allow him a place in her memory at other times. They were entire strangers now, and she had long since given up the hope of any return to the old friendship. He had dropped out of her life, and God alone could fill the place left vacant by the surrender of this human love. She prayed for him, however, still, but as one might pray for the dead. Her days glided quietly by, each one bearing a record of deeds of love and kindness; while the consciousness of duty fulfilled gave her a peace that it is not in the power of mere human happiness to bestow. The blessings of the poor followed her, and the blessing of God rested upon her soul.

Mary sometimes protested against this “waste of life,” as she called it.

“My darling,” she said one day, as she was rocking her baby to sleep in her arms, “you will be a nun yet.”

“I fear not,” replied Assunta. “I might have wished to enter religion, but it seems that God does not call me to that life.”

“Then, Assunta, why don't you marry? It would break my heart to lose you, darling; but, truly, it grieves me to have you settle yourself down to our stupid life and ways, and you so young and rich and beautiful. It is contrary to nature and reason.”

“Be patient with me, dear,” said Assunta. “I do not believe that you want to be rid of me. Some time we shall know what it all means. I am sorry to disappoint my friends, but my life is just as I would have it.”

“Well, you are a saint,” said Mary with a sigh; “and as I am the gainer, I am the last one to complain. But I wish you had a dear little bother of your own like my Harry,” And the maternal kiss had in it such a strength of maternal love that the baby-eyes opened wide again, and refused to shut.

Mary heard occasionally from her brother; and sometimes she heard of him in a way that filled her heart with joy. Austere, yet with wonderful sweetness, full of talent and a hard student, yet with touching humility, Augustine Percival, by a life of mortification and prayer, which his studies never interrupted, was preparing himself to do great things for God. A few words, uttered simply by a true-hearted Christian woman, had turned the scale for him; and God will [pg 480] receive so much the more glory. There will come a day which will reveal many such works, performed through the perhaps unconsciously-exercised influence of some noble woman, whose mission is none the less real because it is accomplished silently and out of the world's sight.

VII. Credo.

Five years had passed away, and their close found Mary Lee welcoming back to her home her long-absent brother, now a priest. Augustine Percival returned, the same, and yet changed. There was the same tender, earnest nature; but upon that nature grace had built up a superstructure of such strength and virtue that, in most respects, he was a different man—purified by suffering, sanctified by penance, and now consecrated by the sacrament of Holy Orders.

It was a happy circle that gathered around the blazing wood-fire on that cool October evening—so happy that they were almost subdued, and thought more than they talked. It was towards the end of the evening that Father Percival said quite incidentally:

“Mr. Carlisle returned in the steamer with me. I suppose he will soon pay his respects to the ladies.”

Assunta did not start. Why should she? Had the name of one long since dead been mentioned, it might have caused an emotion of tenderness; but that would have been all. Mr. Carlisle was dead to her, and every memory of him had long been buried. So, though her face became a shade paler, she went on with her work, and her hand did not tremble.

“Is he well?” asked Mary, continuing the conversation, “and is he as fine-looking as he used to be?”

“He is just recovering from a very severe illness,” replied her brother. “It has told upon him fearfully, so that you will find him much changed. Still, I hope his native air will restore him to health; and no doubt, Mary, his good looks will follow. He was already much better when I parted from him yesterday.” And then Father Percival questioned Mary about her absent husband and her children, and listened with interest to the young mother's enthusiastic description of Harry's brilliancy and the little Assunta's sweetness.

The next evening, as Father Percival was giving the two ladies an account of his last days in Rome, Mr. Carlisle's name was announced, and immediately he himself entered the pleasant drawing-room. He was indeed much altered, for the traces of sickness and suffering were only too visible. There was another change, perceptible to one who had known him well. In his bearing there seemed to be less pride than of old, and more dignity; in his face the expression of bitterness had given place to one more contented, more peaceful. Suffering had evidently done a work in that proud spirit. But as Mr. Carlisle extended his hand to Assunta, who greeted him with the frank simplicity so peculiar to her, the same old smile lighted up his thin, pale face, and he truly seemed her guardian once more. Assunta was for the moment surprised to see the cordiality with which Mr. Carlisle took the hand [pg 481] of the young priest, and held it in both his, as if a brother's affection were in the pressure, and which was returned as warmly. A comfortable arm-chair was placed near the fire for the guest; and while he seated himself, as if fatigued, he said:

“Augustine, have you kept my secret?”

“Most faithfully. I did not even betray that I had one, as a woman might have done.” And Father Percival glanced at his sister, who pretended indignation, but said nothing.

“Then,” said Mr. Carlisle, “I must tell my own story. Assunta, come and sit by me.” And he pointed to the vacant chair beside him, while Assunta obeyed at once, the words and manner were so like those of the old days.

“Forgive me,” Mr. Carlisle went on, “if I call you to-night by the familiar name. I could not say Miss Howard, and tell you what I have to tell. And, Mrs. Lee, if I seem to address myself too exclusively to your friend, I beg you will pardon me, and believe that, if my story interests you, I am more than glad that you should know all. Assunta, put your hand here.” And taking her hand in his, he laid it upon his brow. “In that Roman sickness it has often rested there, and has soothed and healed. Tell me, child, do you feel no difference now?”

Assunta looked at him wonderingly—still more so when she caught sight of a meaning smile on Father Percival's face.

“Mr. Carlisle, you puzzle me,” she said.

Again that peculiar and beautiful smile, as he continued:

“The sign of the cross has been there; do you understand now, my child? No? Then, in one word, I will explain all. Credo—I believe! Not yet? Assunta, you have, I know, prayed for me. Your prayer has been answered. I am a Catholic, and, under God, I owe all to Augustine Percival.”

Assunta could not speak. For a moment she looked in his face with those earnest blue eyes, as if to read there the confirmation of his words, and then she bowed her head upon her hands in silence. Mr. Carlisle was the first to break it.

“And so you are not sorry, petite, to welcome so old a sinner into the fold?”

“Sorry!” exclaimed Assunta at last. “Life will not be long enough to thank God for this happiness.”

“You are so little changed, child, after all these years, that I must look at myself to realize how the time has gone. But shall I tell you how all this has come about? Three months ago I was as miserable an unbeliever as ever lived.”

“Please tell us all,” murmured Assunta.

“All the story of these five years would be long and wearisome. Life to me has been simply an endurance of existence, because I dared not end it. I have travelled a great deal. I have stood, not kneeled, in the Chapel of the Holy Sepulchre, and have wandered as a sight-seer through the holy places in Jerusalem. I have been in almost every part of Europe. Need I tell you that I have found satisfaction nowhere? And all this time I was drawn, by a sort of fascination, to read much on Catholic subjects; so I sneered and cavilled and argued, and read on.

“At last, about four months since, the same uneasy spirit which has made a very Wandering Jew of me for the last five years possessed me [pg 482] with the idea of returning home, and I started for Paris. I engaged my passage in the next steamer for New York; and, though feeling far from well, left for Havre. I reached the hotel, registered my name, and went to my room for the night. The steamer was to sail the next morning. I knew nothing more for three weeks. Fortunately, I had fallen into good hands, or I should never have been here. They said it was brain-fever, and my life was despaired of. Assunta, child, you need not look so pale. You see it is I myself who have lived to tell it.”

Father Percival here rose, and, excusing himself on the ground of having his Office to say, left the room. As soon as he was gone Mr. Carlisle exclaimed:

“There is the noblest man that ever lived. No words can tell what he has been to me. It seems that, when I was beginning to give some hope of recovery, Father Percival arrived at the same hotel on his way to America. The landlord happened to mention the fact of the illness of a fellow-countryman, and showed the name upon his books. Father Percival at once gave up his passage, and remained to perform an act of charity which can only be rewarded in heaven.”

“You remember, Assunta,” said Mrs. Lee, “Augustine wrote that he was detained a few weeks by the illness of a friend.”

“Yes,” said Assunta; “but how little we dreamed who the friend was!”

“And a most ungrateful friend he was, too, at first,” said Mr. Carlisle. “When he came to see me, and I learned his name, and that he had become a priest, it was nothing but weakness that prevented my driving him from the room. As it was, I swore a little, I believe. However, with the tenderness of a woman he nursed me day and night; and even when I was better, there was still no word about religion, until one day I introduced the subject myself. Even then he said but little. I was too weak to have much pride, or that little would not perhaps have made the impression that it did. My pride has always been the obstacle, and it is not all gone yet, petite,” he added, looking at Assunta, who smiled in answer.

“One night, from what cause I do not know, I had a relapse, and death seemed very near. Then Father Percival came to me as priest. I can hear now the solemn tones in which he said: ‘Mr. Carlisle, I will not deceive you. I hope that you will recover, but you may not. Are you willing to die as you are now, unbaptized?’ I answered, ‘No.’ ‘Do you, then,’ he said, ‘believe the Catholic Church to be the infallible teacher of truth, and will you submit to her teaching?’ Here I paused. The question was a difficult one; the word submit was a hard word. But death was very near, and at last, with desperate energy, I said: ‘Yes; baptize me!’ He then knelt beside me, and made for me an act of contrition—for I seemed to be sinking fast—and in a moment more I was baptized, a Catholic. He then left me instantly, and went for the parish priest, who came and administered Extreme Unction to—as they supposed—a dying man. But the sacrament did its work for life, and not for death. From the moment of receiving it the scale turned. Of course much that I have told you I have learned since from Augustine. I was conscious only of the one act—the submission.

“And how mean a specimen of a man I have since felt myself to have been—resisting God year after year with all the strength of human pride and that most powerful auxiliary of the devil—pride of intellect; and then, when life was at its last gasp, and everything had slipped from under me but that one foothold—then to say, ‘Life is going; the world has already gone. I have lost everything else; now I, a sinner, will condescend to receive the portion of the saints—God and heaven!’ Do you think, Assunta, that the angels would have had much cause for rejoicing over such an addition to their bright company?”

“That is a genuine drop of your old bitterness, Mr. Carlisle,” replied Assunta, laughing, nevertheless, at his frankness.

“Oh! there is plenty of it left, petite. But to go on: when I found that I was to live, I was determined, before leaving for home, to make my profession of faith in the church, as a Christian should who is not ashamed of his colors. Augustine would do nothing official for me after the baptism, but he was ever the kindest friend, and I love him with a real David and Jonathan affection. Oh! child, how often have I thought of you and of how much you would have been amused to see me, Severn Carlisle, meekly receiving instruction in Catholic doctrine and practice from that simple French priest. Truly, I needed some one to identify me to myself. Well, to bring this long story to an end, the day before sailing I made my profession of faith and received Holy Communion in the quiet little parish church. And now I am here, the same proud, self-sufficient man as of old, I fear, but with a peace of soul that I have never known before.”

“How good God is!” exclaimed Assunta.

“What does your sister say?” asked Mrs. Lee.

“My sister? I do not think she took in the idea. Her thoughts would have to travel miles before they would approach a religious sentiment. Poor Clara! I find her much changed. I spent two or three hours with her this afternoon. She was very gay, even brilliant—too much so, I thought, for real happiness. She did not imagine how transparent her mask was, and I would not destroy her illusion. I did not see Sinclair at all. But,” exclaimed he, looking at his watch, and rising hastily, “it is eleven o'clock. I ordered the carriage for ten, and no doubt it has been waiting a long time. I owe you ladies many apologies for my thoughtlessness and egotism.”

“Mr. Carlisle,” began Assunta, placing her hand in his, as she bade him good-night; but the words would not come as readily as the tears.

Mrs. Lee had gone to summon her brother, so the two, so long parted, were left alone.

“My child,” said Mr. Carlisle in a low voice, “I know all that you would say, all the sweet sympathy of that tender, unchanged heart. I have much to say to you, Assunta, but not to-night—not in the presence of others.”

Then turning to Father Percival, who entered the room, “Augustine,” he said, “I am going for a few days to my place in the country for rest, and also that I may see how much it has suffered from my long neglect. Come and see me there. It will do me good, heart and soul.”

“I will try to arrange my plans so as to give myself that pleasure,” replied the priest, as he assisted Mr. Carlisle into the carriage.

What strange contradictions there are in human nature! How little can we account for our varying moods and the motives which influence our actions! And how often we seem to get at cross-purposes with life, and only see how far we have been wrong when a merciful Providence, overruling all, unknots the tangled thread and straightens the crooked purpose!

Excepting the visit of a few hours paid by Father Percival to his friend, two months passed by, and nothing was heard of Mr. Carlisle. Those two months were to Assunta longer, more wearisome, than the five years that had preceded them. We may talk of hopes that are dead, and may honestly believe them buried deep down in the grave which duty has prepared and time has covered. But hope is the hardest thing in this world to kill; and thank God that it is so! Let but a gleam of sunshine, a breath of the warm upper air, into that sepulchre, and the hopes that have lain buried there for years will revive and come forth with renewed vigor. It is much more difficult to lay them to rest a second time.

Assunta had borne her trial nobly; but, as she sat alone on Christmas Eve, and her thoughts naturally dwelt upon that happy return, and then the unaccountable disappearance of Mr. Carlisle, her courage almost failed her, and her brave heart sank within her, as she thought how dreary the future looked. She had excused herself from joining the others at a little family party, and for an hour she had sat idle before the fire—a most unwonted self-indulgence for one so conscientious as Assunta Howard.

A ring at the door and a voice in the hall made her start and tremble a little, as she had not done on that first evening of Father Percival's return. She had scarcely recovered herself when Mr. Carlisle entered the room.

“I have come to account for myself,” were his first words. “I hoped that I should find you alone to-night.”

“Mrs. Lee has gone to her mother's,” was the reply.

“Yes, I knew it. Assunta, what have you thought of me? Still more, what will you think of me now? I have suffered much in these two months; perhaps it is ungenerous in me to say this to you. Assunta, never for one moment have I been unfaithful to the love I told you of so many years ago; but I had given up the hope of ever possessing yours. Even when the obstacle you know of had been removed, I thought that I could bear to see you happy, as I believed you were, in a life in which I had no share. I felt that it would not be right even to ask you to marry one so much older than yourself, with broken health and darkened spirits. And your fresh beauty, still so girlish, so all-unchanged, confirmed my purpose. Ah! child, time, that has silvered my hair, has not dimmed the golden aureola which crowns your dear head. But in the many lonely hours that I have passed since my return, my courage has grown faint. I have longed for your sweet presence in my home, until an answering voice has urged me to come to you. Assunta, once, beneath the shadow of the cross, in the moonlit Colosseum, I offered you my love, and you put God between us. Again I urged my suit, [pg 485] and again you erected the same impassable barrier. To-night I am so selfish that, even as I have described myself to be, I come to you a third time with a love which years have but strengthened. My darling, God no longer comes between us; can I ever hope to win that true, brave heart?”

With a child-like simplicity and a true womanliness Assunta put her hand in his, and said:

“Mr. Carlisle, it has long been yours. ‘Unless he can love you in God,’ my mother said. I believe that the condition is now fulfilled.”

“And may God bless the love he sanctions!” said Mr. Carlisle solemnly. After a silence—for where hearts understand each other there is no need of many words—Assunta said in her own sweet tones:

“Do you regret now the decision of that night in Rome? Was I a true prophetess?”

“But we have lost so many years,” said Mr. Carlisle.

“Yes, lost for time, but gained for eternity.”

When Mrs. Lee returned, she greeted the guest with surprise, as well as pleasure; but both those emotions were lost in a still greater joy when Mr. Carlisle, drawing Assunta towards him, said:

“Mrs. Lee, this is my Christmas gift—a precious treasure, is it not, to be entrusted to one so undeserving?”

“Indeed it is a precious treasure,” echoed Mary enthusiastically; “but, Mr. Carlisle, there is not a man in the world in whose possession I would like to see it so well as in yours.”

“Bless you, Mrs. Lee, for your kind words! Petite, perhaps your taste is not so much in fault after all.”

“And, Mary,” said Assunta archly, “he may yet recover his good looks, you know.”

“Yes,” said Mr. Carlisle, “love and happiness are said to be great beautifiers. I have no objection to trying the experiment.”

One bright morning, soon after Easter, there was a nuptial Mass at the cathedral, celebrated by Father Percival, and after the ceremony and a quiet breakfast, Mr. and Mrs. Carlisle drove in their private carriage to the beautiful country residence which was to be their future home.

Just at sunset, as they entered the long avenue which with many windings led towards the house, Mr. Carlisle said:

“My darling, we are at home. I have waited, like Jacob, almost seven years for my Rachel. I cannot say, as he did, that the days have seemed few, though I believe my love has been no less.”

“And suppose,” replied Assunta, with the happy confidence of a loving wife—“suppose your Rachel should turn out a Lia after all?”

“In that case,” said her husband coolly, “I should insist that the description of that much-injured lady had done her great injustice. And I should consider myself a lucky fellow to have been cheated into the mistake, and be ready to wager my Lia against all the Rachels in the world. And now, my precious wife, welcome home!”

---

Ten years later. It is not always a pleasure to look in upon loved friends after a lapse of ten years. Sickness, sorrow, death, or disgrace may each do a mighty work in even fewer years, and, at the best, time itself brings about marked changes. But a glance at Carlisle Hall, on this tenth anniversary of that happy wedding-day, [pg 486] will only show that same happiness ripened into maturity. In a marriage like that of Severn and Assunta Carlisle, whatever life might bring of joy or sorrow would come to both alike, and nothing could divide them. Even death itself would but seem to part them, for their union was in God. In Assunta the added dignity of wife-hood and motherhood had taken nothing from the charm of earlier years; and, if the beauty of the young girl had faded somewhat, the ever-growing grace and purity of soul more than supplied its want, even in her husband's eyes. And Mr. Carlisle? Noble by nature, and possessing the finest qualities of mind and heart, his soul was now developed to the full stature of its manhood. He was a proud man still, but with a pride which S. Paul might have commended. He was so proud that he was never ashamed to kneel beside the poorest villager in the little church. In his pride he gloried in Jesus Christ, and him crucified. The beautiful church itself had been erected as a thank-offering, by Mr. Carlisle and his wife, in the factory village two miles from their home; and for some years Father Percival had been parish priest of the Church of the Assumption. And Carlisle Hall resounded with the merry voices of three children at the end of those ten years: Severn, the pride of his mother's heart; Augustine, Father Percival's godchild and special favorite, already destined for the priesthood by the wishes of the senior trio; and the baby, her father's darling, to whom he would give the name of Mary, and no other, “to show,” he said, “how he had progressed in Mariolatry since his first lesson in Sienna.”

Father Percival had been the only guest at this anniversary-dinner, except, indeed, the children, who must appear on this occasion, at no matter how great a risk of noise and accident. They had now returned to the nursery, but the others still lingered at the table.

“Father Augustine,” said Assunta—for she had learned to follow the little ones in their name for the priest they loved so well—“I received a letter yesterday from dear old Father Joseph. He is just as happy in our marriage to-day as he was when he first heard of it, and he blesses it, and us, and the children so sweetly and kindly. How much I should like to see him again!”

“I suppose,” said Father Percival, “he looks upon the marriage as a striking illustration of the wonderful ways and goodness of God, as it surely is. S. Ignatius ought to send Father Dupont here, to see for himself the result of his direction, and, I must add, of your generosity and faithfulness, Mrs. Carlisle.”

“I am so sorry, Severn,” said Assunta after a pause in the conversation, “that Clara would not come to us to-day. I think a glimpse of quiet country life might be a pleasant change for her.”

“I fear,” replied her husband sadly, “that poor Clara has much to suffer yet. It is my opinion that Sinclair has no intention of returning from Europe at all. But who could have made her believe, in those sunshiny days, that she would ever live to be a deserted wife? Petite, the subject is a very painful one. I am going to change it for one of which I am never weary. Augustine, it is not the custom, I believe, for a man to toast his wife on such an occasion, but I am going to be an exception to the rule [pg 487] to-day. Lord Lytton has in that grand work of his, My Novel, two types of women—the one who exalts, and the one who consoles. He probably had never seen the combination of the two types in one person. I now propose—and, my darling, you must drink and not blush—‘Assunta Carlisle: blessed be the woman who both exalts and consoles!’ And let me add that a happy man was I—unworthy—when, ten years ago, that woman became my wife.”